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mandoalorian · 2 days ago

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lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson one: kissing

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: after thinking you've met the man of your dreams, you're ready to take things to the next level. one problem: you've never even kissed a guy before. so, you knock on your best friend's door with a proposition, and ask him to teach you everything there is to know about sex. no strings, no feelings, just lessons. but the closer he gets, the harder it is to pretend it's only practice.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ male masturbation, making out, unspoken feelings, pining, a smidge of angst, bucky has a fear of rejection/not being good enough, virgin!reader, experienced!bucky, reader drinks alcohol, mentions of politics, reader is dating a jerk and doesn't know it.

word count: 8.0k

ෆ series masterlist | next part

You stepped out of your apartment at the exact moment Bucky Barnes unlocked his own across the hall.

It wasn’t the first time your mornings had lined up like this. He knew it wasn’t coincidence, not really. He’d long since memorised the sounds you made while getting ready—the soft shuffle of your feet, the hum of a hairdryer, the clink of a mug meeting the counter. Some mornings, he stood by his door with his hand on the knob, pretending to fumble with keys just to run into you like this.

And there you were. Hoodie three sizes too big, hair still damp, yawning into your sleeve. His favourite version of you.

“Morning, doll,” he said casually, holding up your mail like a prize. “The latest threat to your bank account has arrived.”

You blinked, slow and groggy, then narrowed your eyes when you saw the Bloomingdale’s logo on the catalogue. “Bucky, did you read my mail again?”

He gasped, hand to his chest. “I would never.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was protecting your financial well-being,” he insisted, voice going mock-serious. “You nearly cried over that suede coat last month. I’m acting in your best interest.”

“You’re acting like a nosy neighbour, again,” you muttered, taking the mail from his hand.

He let you, though he didn’t quite let go right away.

And you didn’t notice. Or maybe you just didn’t think twice about it.

You never did.

He watched you leaf through the envelope lazily, eyes soft with sleep and trust. The kind of trust he still didn’t think he deserved. But you gave it to him anyway—effortlessly. Like handing him your heartbeat.

“Come on,” you said, already walking toward the stairs. “Coffee?”

“Obviously,” he replied, falling into step beside you.

He didn’t have to ask where you were going. He never did. You always went to the same quaint little café on Saturday mornings, always shared the same slice of raspberry coconut loaf, always sat at the table by the window with the wobbly leg. And Bucky loved a routine, even if he never said it out loud.

Especially one that involved you.

The building creaked softly as you descended together, your steps a little too light, his a little too heavy. When the sun touched your skin through the glass entryway, you tilted your face toward it and smiled.

That smile—God, that smile.

You didn’t know what it did to him. How it made something ancient and restless inside him go perfectly still.

You pushed through the front door and into the street, the early morning light gold and sleepy. A dog barked somewhere. A bike rolled past. You reached for his arm without warning, slipping your hand into the crook of his metal elbow like it belonged there.

Like you belonged there.

He swore his breath caught for a second.

It was always like that. You touched him so freely—so fearlessly. You held his metal hand when you were tipsy, tugged on the plates when you needed his attention, rested your cheek against the cool surface like it was nothing. Like the arm hadn’t killed people. Like it hadn’t nearly killed him.

And every time, it undid him a little more.

“God, I’m starving,” you groaned, leaning into him. “Do you think they still have that raspberry loaf?”

“I think you single-handedly keep them in business with how often you order that thing.”

“It’s so good, Buck. You can’t deny it.”

“I wouldn’t know, every time I order a slice to try, you end up stealing it from my plate.” Bucky smirked.

You gasped, scandalised. “I share with you.”

“You leave me crumbs. Literal crumbs.”

You bumped your hip into his as you walked. “I’m just a girl. I need sugar.”

You’re sweet enough already, he wanted to say. But instead, he didn’t answer. Just smiled, the tight kind, the kind he had to control.

You didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered on you—on the light catching in your eyes, on the way your hoodie slipped off one shoulder, revealing just enough skin to make Bucky’s heart yearn. You didn’t see the quiet hunger behind his eyes, the ache that lived just under the surface.

He wanted to memorise everything. The sound of your laugh, the curve of your knuckles, the way you pointed your toe out when you walked. Every piece of you. Etched into memory.

But you were his friend. Just his friend.

And he could live with that.

Because if friendship was the only way he got to keep you close, he’d take it. Even if it hollowed him out a little more every time you smiled at him like he was just Bucky Barnes, your neighbour. Your best friend.

Not the man who watched you like you hung galaxies from your fingertips.

Not the man who would burn the world down just to keep you safe.

You tightened your hold on his arm as you turned the corner. “You’re paying, by the way.”

“Wasn’t aware I wasn’t paying.”

“You’re my favourite sugar daddy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You grinned up at him, mischief in your eyes. “You love it.”

Bucky couldn’t resist the smile tugging at his lips.

The two of you walked slowly, like you had nowhere to be — and you didn’t, not really. That was the beauty of Saturday mornings. No Congress meetings. No global threats. Just coffee, a shared slice of cake, and the one person on Earth who made him forget what the rest of his life had looked like before this.

You tilted your head toward the nearest tree, watching sunlight filter through its leaves, and Bucky watched you instead.

“This neighbourhood’s changing,” you murmured, pointing across the street. “That used to be a laundromat, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. You used to drop your delicates there and then come over to my place to complain about how everything smelled like lavender.”

You laughed. “I still hate lavender.”

He smiled softly. “I know.”

You looked up at him at that. Something flickered in your expression, brief but curious, like you hadn’t expected him to remember something so small.

But he remembered everything.

Like the way you always brought a spare hair tie but never used it. The way you couldn’t walk past a bookstore without wandering in. The way your lips pressed together when you were trying not to say something too honest.

You kicked a little rock on the sidewalk and it skipped ahead of you.

He filed that away too. He always did. Like collecting evidence of the person he couldn’t have but would’ve worshipped if you’d only let him.

You stopped at the corner where the café sat, all old bricks and chipped blue paint and hand-drawn chalkboard menus. He reached for the door and held it open without thinking. You paused just before walking in, brushing your hand against his stomach briefly—just a friendly touch, just something easy and natural—but it burned like a brand.

Inside, the place smelled like roasted espresso beans and sugar. The usual barista waved at you both.

You smiled at her and then up at him. “Iced latte. Two shots. Oat milk. No syrup.”

“You think I don’t know your order by now?”

“I like to keep you on your toes.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. Just warmth. Just a quiet affection he’d never let himself name.

You drifted toward the back table—the one with the wobbly leg—and pulled out your favourite chair, the one with the chipped white paint and the tiny carved heart in the corner that you'd pretended to hate but never actually swapped out.

He stepped up to the counter and ordered your drinks, adding the raspberry and coconut loaf without hesitation. They gave him the biggest slice because they knew it was for you.

By the time he joined you at the table, you’d already folded your arms on the tabletop and rested your chin on them like a kid, watching him with lazy amusement.

“You know,” you said, “if I were a stranger, I’d assume we were dating.”

His chest tightened. But he managed a smirk.

“If we were dating, you’d let me eat more than a third of the cake.”

“If we were dating, we'd live together, and you wouldn’t keep stealing my mail,” you fired back.

“You love it when I steal your mail.”

You grinned.

God, he wanted to reach across the table and tuck that loose strand of hair behind your ear. Not because it was in the way—just because he could.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he pushed the raspberry loaf toward you and watched you light up like you’d been handed a gift.

You broke off a corner and handed it to him without thinking. He took it with a faint smile, letting your fingertips brush.

He wondered—again—if you noticed how often you touched him. If you knew how he soaked up every second of it like a starving man.

You sipped your coffee and hummed in satisfaction. “They made it strong today.”

“Good. You get bitchy when you’re tired.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you get soft when you’re around me.”

He looked at you. Really looked. And for one terrifying moment, he wanted to say something real.

I do. I get soft. I get stupid. I’d say yes to anything you asked me, even if it tore me up inside.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair and said, “That’s your influence. You’re corrupting me.”

You didn’t deny it.

You just smiled, eyes bright with affection, and reached for another piece of cake.

And Bucky Barnes, hardened soldier, century-old weapon, killer turned Congressman turned best friend—sat there, letting you have the bigger half, just like always.

The coffee shop hummed with weekend ease — low music from the speakers, baristas laughing behind the counter, the soft hiss of steamed milk. Your fork tapped against the plate as you divided the final bite of raspberry loaf without asking, pushing the smaller piece toward him.

He gave you a look.

“Don’t fight it,” you said lightly. “You’ve had enough.”

“I paid for it,” he muttered, but still took the bite.

You laughed, sipping your drink. Your lips were pink from the berry glaze, and you wore that tired little smile — the one you always had when you’d slept like shit but tried to hide it. He noticed it all. Of course he did.

Your phone buzzed on the table beside your latte. You glanced down and grinned.

That grin made his stomach turn, but he didn’t know why yet.

“Who’s that?” he asked, casually enough.

“Oh.” You picked up the phone and typed quickly, still smiling. “Congressman Blake.”

His chest tightened before his brain even caught up. “The one from judiciary?”

“Mhm.” You looked up, eyes still sparkling. “He’s taking me to dinner tonight.”

It hit him like a punch.

You. Dressed up for someone else. Smiling like that for someone else. Letting someone else close enough to ruin you.

His jaw locked before he could stop it. “Blake’s—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off before he even said it, tone playful but warning. “Don’t do the overprotective big brother thing.”

He tried to keep his voice even. Tried not to let anything show. “I’m not. Just… Blake? Really?”

“What’s wrong with Blake?”

He’s a sleaze. He cheats. He brags about interns behind closed doors. He’s not safe. But he couldn’t say any of that. Not without sounding like a jealous asshole.

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “Just didn’t realise he was your type.”

You tilted your head. “And what’s my type, Barnes?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when every version of your type in his mind looked a hell of a lot like him.

You sipped your drink again and shrugged, clearly brushing it off. “He’s nice. He’s… ambitious. Confident. And he actually asked.”

That part stung. You’d never said it before, but it was true. Bucky had never asked. He hovered. Protected. Lingered too long when you hugged him, always brushed his thumb along your lower back when he walked you home. But he never crossed the line.

You leaned back in your chair, looking suddenly shy. “Anyway. I think it’s time.”

“Time for what?”

You looked down at your hands, fiddling with your straw wrapper. “To… take that step. You know.”

He went still. “What step?”

You hesitated, then looked him dead in the eye. “I want to have sex with him, Buck.”

He froze.

There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, and for a second, the café blurred at the edges.

You kept talking, like you hadn’t just detonated a nuclear bomb on his morning.

“I know it’s stupid. I know I should’ve done it sooner or—whatever. I mean, we’ve been seeing each other for a week and a half, and I’m not used to this sort of thing. To be honest, I wonder if it's a little fast. But Blake keeps making moves, and I think tonight will maybe be the night? I mean, he’s hot, and he wants to, and I want to, I guess.”

Bucky blinked. “You want to have sex with Congressman Blake?”

You flushed instantly, but nodded. “Well, yeah. Bucky, were you just listening to a word I said?”

He sat back, stunned. You. Sweet. Soft. Letting someone like Blake touch you?

The metal fingers on his left hand flexed beneath the table.

You rushed to fill the silence. “I just think… I don’t want to mess it up. And he’s… I don’t know, experienced. I want to be good. I want to be enough.”

That last part did something awful to him.

“Don’t say that,” he said sharply.

You blinked. “Say what?”

“That you’re not enough. That you need to impress him.”

You gave him a look, somewhere between touched and confused. “Buck…”

But he couldn’t let it go. Not now.

“You don’t need to prove anything to him,” he muttered, jaw tight. “He should be lucky you’re even giving him the time of day.”

You went quiet. The warmth from earlier cooled around you.

“You sound mad,” you said softly.

He looked at you then — really looked. You, sitting across from him with your heart cracked wide open, trusting him with this truth. And all he could feel was helpless. Furious and heartbroken and helpless.

“I’m not mad,” he said, quieter now. “Just… surprised.”

You tried to smile. “You thought I’d die alone?”

“No,” he said instantly. Then softer: “I just didn’t think he deserved you.”

Your smile faltered.

For a second, you just stared at him, eyes wide and unreadable. But then your phone buzzed again, and the moment passed. You reached for it like nothing had happened.

“Anyway,” you said lightly, “I’ve gotta go and do some errands. He’s picking me up at eight. Think I’ll wear that little pink dress. You know the one I wore for my cousin’s wedding?”

Bucky nodded numbly.

He was your date to your cousin’s wedding last year, after you’d begged and pleaded with him. You told him you only wanted him there so your family would stop asking inappropriate questions about your love life. And wow, you played the part of girlfriend so well. That was the night when he’d nearly told you the truth.

You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and leaned down to kiss his cheek.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you whispered. “You’re my favourite.”

Then you walked out, leaving him alone at the table, heart sinking to the floor, and an empty plate with few coconut flakes and a smear of raspberry frosting.

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Bucky stared at the ceiling.

Then he stared at the floor.

Then he paced to the window, looked out at your door across the hallway, and paced back again.

And again.

His hands were in fists. Then on his hips. Then raking through his hair.

He couldn’t sit still.

You’d smiled when you said it. You’d meant it. It wasn’t some joke, some hypothetical. You really wanted to have sex with that asshole.

Fuck.

He muttered it under his breath and stopped in front of the counter, where he’d pulled up a dozen tabs on his phone for raspberry loaf recipes and hadn’t committed to any of them.

“This is stupid,” he mumbled to no one.

But still, he preheated the oven.

It wasn’t even about the cake. It was just—something. A thing to do with his hands that didn’t involve punching walls or texting you thirty times with half-written apologies and I didn’t mean to sound like a jealous jackass, I just—

He scrolled through the ingredients list again and set out what he had. Flour. Eggs. Sugar. Raspberries. Coconut milk — because you didn’t like regular milk, said it made your stomach feel weird. He always remembered the little things.

His thumb hesitated over the coconut flakes. Too much? No. He added them. You liked the texture.

He cracked eggs too hard. Spilled flour on the counter. Burned his finger on the pan and didn’t even flinch. All he could think about was you.

Your smile. Your laugh. The way you’d touched his arm at the café and leaned against him like you weren’t afraid of him at all. The way you kissed his cheek and told him he was your favourite right before walking out the door to go on a date with Blake.

He growled under his breath, rubbing flour into his temples.

The phone on his kitchen island lit up.

He stared at it for a long time, then tapped Sam’s contact. One ring. Two.

Sam picked up, slightly out of breath. “Bucky Barnes, to what do I owe the pleasure? This phone call isn’t therapist mandated, is it?”

“No. I stopped seeing Dr Raynor,” Bucky replied, eyeing up the mess in his kitchen and grabbing a towel with his empty hand.

“And so now you’re calling me because… you miss me?” Bucky could practically hear Sam’s smirk on the other end of the line.

Bucky sat heavily on the barstool, elbows on the counter. “Sam I need help. It’s Y/N. She’s going on a date tonight.”

“Okay… and?” Sam deadpanned.

“She wants to have sex with Congressman Blake.”

There was a beat of silence. “Damn, is that politician who voted against women’s reproductive rights? Or was it the one who got those sustainability protestors arrested at Capitol Hill? Wait— is this the guy you pushed into the vending machine that one time?”

Bucky leaned back, eyes closed. “All the same guy.”

“Fucking super villain,” Sam muttered. “She needs to stay clear from him.”

“She kept calling him hot and— and I just sat there like a fucking statue while she told me she was giving herself to that slimeball.”

“You know you’re allowed to tell her how you feel, right?”

“No,” he said immediately. “I’m not.”

“Buck—”

“She’s my best friend.”

“She’s not a child.”

“She trusts me. I’m not gonna break that.”

Sam sighed. “Then why are you pacing?”

Bucky stopped in his footsteps, cheeks burning. “I’m not.”

“You’re lying again.”

There was a long pause.

“I’m baking.”

“You’re baking,” Sam repeated, a little dumbfounded by the confession.

“She loves raspberry coconut loaf,” Bucky muttered finally. “Figured I’d… I don’t know. Drop one off.”

Sam made a sound between a laugh and a groan. “You’re hopeless.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

“Do you want her to be with that guy?” Sam asked quietly.

Bucky’s chest caved in. “No.”

“Then say something.”

“Sam, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she deserves soft,” he whispered. “She deserves first kisses and safe hands. Not a guy with a kill count.”

“And Congressman Blake is the guy who has that? I don’t think so Buck,” Sam replied. “She knows you and she knows your past. She’s not afraid of you, and she certainly wouldn’t want you to dote on her like this. Now, go finish up this cake and if you can’t tell her how you feel, at least wish her luck on her date. God knows she’ll need it.”

The oven beeped. The cake was done. And the conversation ended not long after that.

“Thank you Sam,” Bucky said, reaching for the oven handle.

“Love you, buddy,” Sam replied before ending the call.

He took the cake out with trembling hands, set it on the cooling rack, and stared at it like it might offer answers. It looked a little crooked. One corner had cracked.

Didn’t matter.

He was still going to knock on your door in twenty minutes, warm cake in hand, and apologise for everything — even if he couldn’t say the one thing he really wanted to.

When Bucky finally managed the confidence, you opened the door in a rush of perfume and warmth, barefoot but otherwise fully dressed. Too dressed. Dressed like sin in a silk wrap dress the colour of blush wine. Your eyes were lined, lashes fluttering, cheeks glowing. And Bucky?

He forgot how to breathe.

“Hey,” you said brightly, clutching a delicate little purse in one hand. “Oh my god, is that—?”

He held out the loaf cake like an apology wrapped in parchment paper.

Your whole face lit up.

“You baked for me?” You took it from him with both hands, like it was something precious. “Bucky, this is—thank you! You didn’t have to. I’m really sorry about earlier, by the way. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay,” he muttered, eyes darting anywhere but your cleavage. “I was kind of an ass.”

“No, you were just being protective. You always are.” You gave him that soft smile that always disarmed him. That made him feel seen. “I’m just… I really like Blake, you know?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped into your apartment when you gestured for him to follow.

“I’m happy for you.” A bare face lie; but he knew he wanted to at least get to a place where he could be happy for you, his best friend. He hated the way he seethed with jealousy.

You twirled around once and held your hair up. “Can you zip me up?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The back.” You turned around and revealed the bare expanse of your back, smooth and soft, the dress gaping where the zipper ended halfway. “I couldn’t get it myself.”

His fingers shook. He hoped you didn’t notice.

The zipper whispered upward slowly, every inch of skin sealed off like a secret he wasn’t meant to know. You smelled like lavender and coconut, something sweet and warm and home. You looked over your shoulder and smiled at him.

“Thanks, Buck.”

He cleared his throat. “You look… nice.”

Nice. That’s what he landed on. Not breathtaking. Not beautiful. Not like my heart was carved out and put in a dress just to mock me. Just nice.

You beamed like you hadn’t noticed his agony at all.

“I really want this to go well,” you said, turning toward your mirror to fix your lip gloss. “He’s not perfect, I know, but he’s charming. And hot. And I don’t know, there’s just something exciting about him. Like he knows what he’s doing.”

Bucky’s stomach turned.

“And I want to be good for him,” you went on, dabbing something shimmery onto your cheekbones. “Like… I want to know what I’m doing. I’m tired of being the clueless one. All my friends lost their virginity ages ago, and here I am, still fumbling in the dark.”

You turned to him then, a half-laugh on your lips, like you expected him to laugh too.

But he didn’t.

Your smile faltered. “What?”

“You’re a virgin?” he asked before he could stop himself. His voice came out lower than he meant, rougher.

You blinked. “Uh… yeah.”

He stared at you. Of course you were. Of course you waited. Of course you were soft and good and didn’t give yourself away to someone who didn’t deserve it—

“I mean, it's not typically something I announce at parties. I just…” you shifted, suddenly shy, “I want to be ready. For him. I want it to be good, you know? But I don’t want to go in completely blind.”

He didn’t speak.

You bit your lip. Then looked up at him with a spark of something hopeful. Something dangerous.

“That’s actually kind of why I was hoping you’d come by. I was thinking about what you said, about not trusting Blake, and I get it. He’s a little unconventional. But you’ve always looked out for me. Always been honest. And I trust you more than anyone.”

He stepped back, wary of the way your voice softened.

“So…” you stepped closer, eyes wide, tone casual but far too sincere. “I was wondering… if maybe you’d help me.”

His brow furrowed. “Help?”

“With learning,” you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Like… teach me.”

The words landed like a thunderbolt.

You laughed nervously when he didn’t respond right away. “Not everything at once, obviously. Just the basics. Kissing. Touching. Whatever you think I should know. I mean, who better to learn from than someone I already trust, right?”

Bucky was silent.

Then: “You want me to teach you how to—”

“—how to have sex, yeah.” You said it quickly, breathless. “But like… in stages. Slow. You don’t have to if you think it’s weird, I just—I really want my first time to be good, and I figured if I have to learn, I’d rather it be with someone who makes me feel safe.”

Someone who makes me feel safe.

Not loved. Not wanted. Not the man you’ve been quietly obsessed with for years who would rip the world in half to protect you.

Just safe.

“Bucky?” you said softly, your voice a little nervous now. “You don’t have to say yes. I just thought—”

“I’ll do it.”

You blinked.

He said it again, quieter this time. “I’ll help you.”

Relief bloomed in your expression. You surged forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, hugging him like you always did — like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t make his heart splinter.

“Thank you,” you murmured into his chest. “You’re the best, Buck. Really.”

He held you gently. Let himself have the moment.

One more second. One more breath of your perfume. One more illusion of something he could never really have.

“Tomorrow night?” you asked brightly, pulling away. “We can start simple. Just kissing.”

He nodded, throat dry.

“Great! I’ll bring wine.” You smiled again, radiant and entirely unaware of the devastation you’d just left in your wake. “Wish me luck with Blake?”

He forced a smirk. “Break a leg.”

Then you were gone — slipping into your heels, grabbing your purse, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and floating out the door like a dream wrapped in silk and naiveté.

Bucky was left stood in your living room, alone, with a sinking heart and raspberry cake crumbs on his shirt.

──── ୨୧ ────

The restaurant was dimly lit and swanky, tucked into the corner of a cobblestone street in SoHo. You were seated at a private table beside the window, candlelight flickering between you and Blake.

He looked good. Too good. Slicked-back hair, watch glinting under his cuff, shirt crisp and expensive. He grinned like a man who had never been told no, and flirted like it was second nature.

"You clean up well," he said, eyes raking over your body with a smirk. "Though I gotta admit, you looked pretty damn good when I saw you on Thursday. That little T-shirt situation you had going on in the hallway? Dangerous."

You flushed, laughing a little despite yourself. "Yeah, sorry about that. It was laundry day and I didn’t expect company."

"I didn’t mind." He winked, then flagged down the waitress with a pointed glance and a once-over that lingered just a second too long.

You watched him, brows lifting subtly.

She walked away after taking your drink order — a sweet rosé for you, bourbon neat for him — and Blake leaned in with that megawatt smile.

"So," you said, twirling your straw, "do you know my neighbour? Bucky Barnes?"

His smile faltered.

"Yeah," he said after a beat. "Guy’s… around."

You blinked. "You’ve worked with him?"

“Sure. He’s kind of a dinosaur, honestly.” Blake shrugged, reaching for the breadbasket. “Weird loner type. Barely speaks in meetings. Creeps people out, to be honest. All that staring and brooding. Makes everything heavier than it needs to be.”

Your jaw tightened.

“He’s a good man,” you said quietly, the edge in your voice unmistakable. “Sometimes, I can’t believe he even chose a career in politics but he really wants to help people. He fights for change.”

Blake chuckled, caught off guard. “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers, sweetheart. You’re right. He’s… loyal. I’ll give him that. But Congressman Barnes and I don’t align on the same things.”

You weren’t sure what he meant by that, and didn’t dare ask. “How come you’re in politics?”

“Fortune, I guess. Power. The ability to get anything I want with a snap of a finger. My dad was a Senator so I’m following in his footsteps.”

You nodded, feigning an attempt to understand, but the glow you’d come in with dimmed a little.

Still, Blake recovered fast. He leaned forward and complimented your eyes, your dress, your laugh — all with a polish that should’ve made you melt. And it almost did. His voice was smooth, his words practiced but alluring, and when he touched your hand across the table, you felt your pulse stutter.

“You know,” he said softly, tracing a lazy circle against your wrist with his thumb, “You are so stunning up close.” His eyes dropped to your mouth. “This is unfair.”

You smiled bashfully, biting your lip.

Dinner arrived — steak for him, something creamy and pasta-based for you — and conversation flowed. Kind of. He liked to talk about himself, but you didn’t mind much. It made you feel like you were in the presence of someone powerful. Someone who wanted you.

At one point, his hand landed on your leg under the table. Light at first. Harmless. But then it inched higher. And higher.

You jumped slightly, thighs tensing under his touch.

Blake raised his eyebrows, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Too fast?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t be sorry,” he cut in quickly, drawing his hand back. “You’re worth the wait.”

You stared at him, breath caught in your throat.

“I mean that,” he added, his tone softening. “Look at you. Smart, funny, beautiful. Not like the usual girls I take out. You’ve got something extra.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

When dessert was offered, he waved it off and paid in full, leaving a cash tip with a wink at the waitress (which you pretended not to notice). Then he walked you out, hand brushing your back possessively.

“Tomorrow night?” he asked, opening the car door for you.

You blinked. “You want to go out again tomorrow?” You remembered your plans with Bucky, and wondered if you could fit in another date around them.

“Of course I do.” He smiled, leaning closer. “Assuming you don’t have plans with your broody neighbour.”

You forced a laugh. “He’s not broody.”

“Mhm. I’ll text you, darling, and we can arrange plans.”

He kissed your cheek — too close to your mouth — and you slipped into the backseat with a flurry of nerves and butterflies.

As the car pulled away, you clutched your purse in your lap and thought about his hand on your leg. How it had made your stomach flip. How you hadn’t known what to do with yourself.

And tomorrow, he’d want more. Probably much more.

You weren’t ready. But you wanted to be.

──── ୨୧ ────

The silence in the apartment building was deafening.

You’d gone hours ago. Dressed in that slinky blush dress, eyes sparkling like precious gems, perfume sweet like vanilla clinging to the hallway even after you left. And Bucky hadn’t been able to sit still since.

He’d paced from the kitchen to the living room, rearranged the throw pillows twice, turned the oven on and off. Every creak of the floorboards made him glance at the door, hoping—praying—you’d forgotten something and come back.

You didn’t.

Instead, he’d stared at his phone like a man possessed, checking the time, the weather, the news. Anything. Everything. Just not you.

He should’ve turned the TV on. Maybe put on a record. But all he could do was think—think about the way Blake might have looked at you. Might have touched you. His stomach churned at the thought. Instead he tried fixating on you. The way your lips parted when you laughed. The way you’d asked him to tie the back of your dress, turning around so trustingly while he tried not to breathe too hard behind you.

God, he was a fucking mess.

You were out with a man who didn’t deserve you, and Bucky had stood there in your apartment holding a damn loaf cake like a second-place ribbon. All he could do now was imagine that guy’s hand on your leg, his mouth on your skin, and he had to get up again. Pacing. Rubbing at his face.

He didn’t want to know what was happening. But God, did it kill him not to.

So when your name lit up his phone at 11:32 PM, he nearly dropped it fumbling to unlock the screen.

you: home now 🥱 you: date was okay. he talks a lot

His stomach unclenched slightly.

You were home. You were texting him. You weren’t in Blake’s bed. You weren’t sending that same message to someone else.

bucky: Glad you’re back safe. bucky: He say anything weird?

He watched the typing bubble bounce.

you: just weird little comments. like he’s used to people hanging on his every word you: but he said I’m worth the wait 💀 you: so I guess I’m irresistible

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. A crooked smile threatened the corner of his mouth, even as he shook his head.

bucky: Obviously. bucky: Glad he didn’t try anything.

You replied a beat later.

you: he tried. I just… wasn’t ready.

His heart twisted. Part relief, part ache.

bucky: Good. bucky: I mean not good that you weren’t ready. bucky: 😆 bucky: Sorry I didn’t mean to press that. bucky: Slippy fingers. bucky: You don’t have to rush anything for some guy who can’t even respect your space.

There was a pause.

you: I know you: that’s why I’m asking you for help

His mouth went dry. He stared at the screen like it might combust in his hand.

you: tomorrow night okay? you: wine + lesson 1? you: blake’s taking me out again around 8, so maybe like… 6?

Bucky had never typed faster.

bucky: My place at 6.

Another pause.

you: you’re the best buck

His chest constricted.

bucky: Not even close, doll bucky: But I’ll try to be.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky had cleaned the apartment twice.

He didn’t mean to. He’d done the usual once-over in the morning, vacuumed, wiped the counters. But by 3pm he was scrubbing the inside of the microwave, reorganising the bookshelf, folding and refolding the blanket on the couch like the way it sat would change the course of fate.

You were coming over. For… lessons. Intimacy lessons. A phrase that had been echoing in his brain on loop since your texts last night. He’d barely slept, barely thought about anything else.

You trusted him with this. You chose him.

He stood in front of the mirror at 5:53pm, staring himself down. Fresh grey T-shirt. Jeans that fit just a little too well. Hair tied back into a man bun because it just wasn’t sitting right. A faint dab of cologne he hadn’t touched in years. Nothing too heavy. Just enough to make your heart skip if you leaned in close.

He looked like he wasn’t trying too hard. He looked like a liar.

At exactly 6:00pm, you knocked on the door.

Bucky practically tripped over his own feet getting there. He paused, steadied himself, then opened it.

And nearly forgot how to breathe.

You stood there in comfy joggers and a slouchy cardigan, wine bottle tucked under your arm, your hair tied up loosely like you hadn’t overthought it at all. You looked beautiful. Effortless. Like home.

“Hi,” you smiled, stepping in past him like you’d done a hundred times before. “You clean for me, Barnes?”

He rolled his eyes, shutting the door behind you. “You wish.”

You grinned, walking into the kitchen. “Liar. It smells like pine cleaner in here.”

He smiled despite himself, watching you drop your bag on the counter like you lived here. The sight made his chest ache. He wondered if you could hear how hard his heart was beating.

“You want me to pour this?” you asked, holding up the wine bottle. “Or are we going in dry?”

He choked. “Jesus, doll.”

You just laughed. “Sorry. I’m nervous.”

He joined you at the counter and took the bottle from your hands. “You’re nervous?”

“I’ve never done this before, remember?” you teased. “I nearly kissed a guy in ninth grade, but uh, that’s it.”

“What happened?” Bucky asked, popping open the bottle of wine.

“I ran away,” you replied bashfully and something in Bucky softened. “I have been doing research, though. Watching movies. Notting Hill. Pretty Woman. And I noticed, when the characters kiss, they always do something with their hands. And I’ve never even considered that before. Made me realise there’s a lot more to kissing than just, lips.”

Bucky tried not to picture where he wanted your hands. He tried really, really hard. “I guess.”

He poured two glasses, handed you one, and tapped the rim of his to yours.

“To lesson one,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s the title?”

You grinned. “Making Out. Advanced level. With tongue.”

He nearly dropped the glass.

You walked over to the couch and plopped down with a cozy sigh, folding your legs beneath you. “You coming?”

Bucky followed, sitting beside you with a casual ease that was anything but. You turned to face him, sipping your wine once more before setting it aside.

“So… how do we start?”

He swallowed hard. “Well. Usually people don’t talk about it this much.”

“I like to be prepared,” you said sweetly, shuffling closer. “C’mon. It’s me. We’ve done worse together.”

Not like this, Bucky thought.

But he nodded. Let himself lean in.

You tilted your head up to meet him.

The first kiss was soft. Simple. Barely there. A graze of your lips against his, similar to the innocent brush of hands you’d share when you slipped past him, or the quick hugs you’d greet him with.

You pulled back a fraction, eyebrows lifting. “That was it?”

Bucky scoffed a laugh. “It’s not a race, doll.”

You grinned. “Okay, okay. Again?”

He nodded once.

You kissed him this time — a little longer, lips pressing to his with more certainty. Your hand landed gently on his thigh and he almost forgot to breathe. He kissed you back, slowly, savouring it, like his entire world was ending and he was memorising the taste of the last good thing.

Your lips parted.

Tongue brushed.

You both gasped.

You pulled away with wide eyes. “That felt… weird.”

He blinked. “Bad weird?”

“No,” you whispered. “Good weird.”

And then you kissed him again.

This time, Bucky cupped your cheek — warm hand tilting your face up, cold metal fingers brushing against your jaw. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pause. You just melted.

Your hand slid up his chest. You moaned — soft and surprised — into his mouth, and he made a noise so low it shocked even him.

You pulled back, breathless.

“Was that okay?” you asked.

Bucky’s pupils were blown wide. “Yeah. That was—yeah.”

You shifted closer, nearly straddling his thigh. “I feel like I could kiss you for hours.”

God, don’t say things like that, he thought.

But all he said was, “I’m not stopping you.”

You kissed again. Again. Deeper this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that curled your toes and made your brain go static. Bucky let you tug his shirt lightly, your fingers curling in the fabric as your body moved closer. You were pressing into him, soft chest brushing against his, and his whole body was buzzing.

Then you pulled back, blinking up at him, lips red and swollen.

“I feel kinda drunk,” you whispered.

He smirked. “You only had half a glass.”

You looked at his mouth again. “No, like… from that.”

And Bucky, with all the restraint he had left, cleared his throat and nodded. “That’s… that’s normal.”

Your mind was a haze and God, you loved the feeling. You kissed him again, and again, relishing the way his short beard grazed over your skin and how soft his lips felt.

There was no hesitation anymore — not on your part, anyway. Your lips moved over his with practiced ease, like kissing Bucky was something you'd always known how to do. It wasn’t rushed, or awkward. You just melted into him like you belonged there.

But your hands… your hands weren’t quite sure where to go.

First, you cupped his face. Gentle, sweet. Your fingers brushed his stubbled jaw, thumb tracing the edge of his cheekbone. He could hardly breathe.

But then, uncertain, your hands moved — dragging down to his broad shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. You squeezed, a soft appreciative sound leaving your throat, and Bucky nearly groaned.

“You okay?” you mumbled against his mouth.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “You?”

You nodded against him. “Just… don’t know where to put my hands.”

He laughed under his breath, breath hitching as your hands began to roam again — this time down the curve of his chest. His heart stuttered.

“Here’s good,” he murmured, voice low as his hand found yours, pressing it gently over his sternum. “So’s here…” He guided you to rest your palm against his stomach, where his muscles jumped beneath your touch.

You slid your hand down further on your own.

Down his abdomen. Over his waistband.

Then down, across his thigh.

He tensed under your touch. The muscle in his jaw ticked. You didn’t notice — or maybe you did, and just thought he was nervous like you. But your hand stayed there, warm and soft, fingers lightly brushing over denim.

Dangerously close to where he was already hard. Achingly hard.

Bucky’s stomach tightened. His breath hitched against your lips.

You pulled back, blinking up at him innocently. “Is this okay?”

His voice cracked. “Yeah—yeah, it’s fine, sweetheart, just—”

But then your thumb brushed just a little too close. And he flinched. Subtle. Barely a shift. But you felt it.

Your brows furrowed, concerned. “Bucky?”

Shit.

He pulled back a little, drawing in a shaky breath. His hand moved from your waist to gently cup your cheek again — thumb brushing along your jaw to soothe you, even though he was the one falling apart.

“You’re doin’ perfect,” he murmured. “Just—let’s slow down for tonight, okay?”

You blinked, flustered. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. No, not at all.” He smiled — soft, tender, reassuring. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You smiled at that, a little dazed. “You think?”

“I know,” he said, and the way he said it made your whole chest flutter. “If this was your first lesson, I’m kinda scared of what you’ll do to me by lesson five.”

You grinned, cheeks flushed. “Five whole lessons, huh? You planning on surviving that long?”

He snorted. “Not sure.”

You looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him. And he wondered if you could see it. The hunger he was trying to hide. The ache in his chest. The ache somewhere lower.

But you just leaned in, pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek, and whispered, “Thanks, Buck. I feel a lot better now. I should probably head back to my place, Blake is picking me up soon and I still gotta get ready.”

“Anytime, doll,” he said quietly.

You stood, stretching your arms above your head, and Bucky tried not to stare at the sliver of skin that peeked out beneath your hoodie. He watched you walk to the door, watched you turn back for one last smile before slipping out into the hall.

And then he sat there on the couch, alone in the dim light, still tasting you on his lips and aching in his jeans.

──── ୨୧ ────

Bucky hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.

The apartment was dark now — just the dim lamp in the corner casting long golden shadows over his living room. Your lip balm still lingered faintly on his mouth, vanilla-sweet and haunting. His hoodie still smelled like you. The blanket you’d been curled under was bunched on the couch, warm where you’d left it.

And he was still sitting there.

Hard as a fucking rock.

He leaned back against the cushion, ran a hand over his face, then down through his hair. He exhaled shakily. Tried to think about anything else.

Didn’t work.

Because it wasn’t just the kiss. Not really. It was the sound of your breath hitching when he touched your waist. It was your tiny moan when his tongue slid over yours. It was your hand—fuck, your hand—dragging down his chest, his stomach, to his thigh. So damn close to where he was straining in his jeans he thought he might’ve blacked out for a second.

You didn’t even notice what you were doing to him.

Or maybe you did.

And maybe that made it worse.

He stood, finally, and walked slowly to the bathroom — like his body weighed double. He flicked on the light. Avoided his reflection. His jaw was tense. Lips kiss-bitten and swollen. His jeans still painfully tight.

He let out a breath, then unzipped them. Freed himself with a hiss.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, bracing one hand on the cold sink as the other wrapped around his cock. Already leaking. Already aching.

He tried not to think about you.

But your voice was there, soft and breathy in his ears. “You think I’m good at this?” Your fingers ghosting over his thigh. Your body curled into his on the couch. Your mouth, warm and open against his.

“Jesus,” he groaned, jaw clenched, head falling back.

He started slow, fist pumping with deliberate pressure, teasing himself the way he imagined you might. He imagined your hand instead of his. The curious way you'd look at him while learning. The way you’d giggle softly when he moaned. How wide your eyes would go when you saw him like this for the first time.

“Yeah,” he muttered to no one, breath hitching. “Just like that, doll…”

He jerked harder now, breaths coming quick, thighs flexing, hips twitching. His back hit the cold wall behind him and he let it happen, let his legs shake as he chased the thought of you — you with your pretty lips and shy smile and warm eyes, the way you’d whispered “thanks, Buck,” like you had no fucking clue what you were doing to him.

You were so sweet. So good.

Too good for him.

But God, he wanted you anyway.

He came with a low, desperate groan, biting down on a whimper as heat spilled over his knuckles. His metal hand smacked against the tile wall. Breath ragged. Heart racing. His name on your lips still echoing in his ears — imagined, but real enough to ruin him.

Bucky leaned his head against the wall, eyes fluttering closed.

Lesson one was over. And Bucky Barnes was absolutely, completely fucked.

──── ୨୧ ────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan @allhailbuckybarnes

Lessons In Love taglist: (let me know if you want to be added!) @sebastians-love @sweetserendipity65 @sangsterizada @mrsalexstan @alpinescoowner @buckyslqve @morganfullaaa

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #congressman bucky #thunderbolts #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #Sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fic #fic series #marvel #mcu

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cno-inbminor · 19 hours ago

Text

zayne x non-mc!fem reader -- married, but you worry it's only because mc (emcee) had left and was never sure on when she'd return. six years later, emcee moves back to linkon, and you feel your worst nightmares start to fester. self-indulgent angst (tw: miscommunication), mentions of alcohol and getting drunk , use of Y/N wc: 5.4k | part 1

a/n: thank you to everyone who has interacted with and enjoyed part 1! i sincerely hope that this final part does not disappoint. stay safe and hydrated, and i hope you all are well <3

You can do this for as long as you need to, no matter how draining it may be.

When you wake in the morning, you find yourself tucked into your blanket the way that Zayne would often do if he felt the material wasn’t doing enough to keep you warm. A pang of guilt makes itself known when you come to the realization, and it’s clear that Zayne had to leave early again. The side of his bed is cool beneath your fingers, but after a single grip of the cotton, you fling the blanket off your figure and get up to start your morning routine.

It’s a tiny hassle to make your own coffee and figure out a quick breakfast without Zayne – tiny in the sense that you had done it yourself before having moved in with him, and you shouldn’t be so reliant on a partner whose schedule is as crazy as his. There had been a time when things were more consistent and regular, but ever since Emcee returned…

Like clockwork, you step on the scale in your shared closet, letting the device gather all the numbers it needs. It gives you a chance to observe the sorry state of your feet. The bandaids that you slapped on are worn at the edges, your toenails looking a little rough, wrinkles and blisters decorating other parts of your toes. You feel the roughness on the balls and arches underneath. When you step off the scale, you move towards the counter and lean back against it so you can lift a foot up and get a better look at the backs of your heels.

The sight of them makes you wince internally, bloodied and skin peeling. Once pristine, the cotton pads of the bandaids are splotched with crimson, paint from yours truly. You take little care in replacing the bandages and dolloping some antibiotic ointment on them to make you feel like you’re doing something at least. After getting dressed, brushing your teeth, and deciding to buy coffee on the way instead, you’re out the door in your most comfortable pair of work flats.

As you walk towards the nearest bus station, your phone vibrates, and the music in your earbuds softens before returning to its original volume. The notification tone sends a spike of anxiety through your system, your fingers shaking as they push things around and fish your phone out from your bag.

Husband 💙: Have you left for work yet? I can come back and drop you off.

It’d be rude not to reply.

You: I have, so no need. Thank you though.

An immediate reply.

Husband 💙: Don’t walk around too much today, and replace those bandaids when you’re on your lunch break.

You: Okay, I’ll try.

Needless to say, you don’t – more like, you can’t. No one in your office has bandaids for some reason, nor can they remember where the first-aid kit is. To be fair, you hadn’t planned on changing them had Zayne not said anything.

The hours tick by, and your boss stops by your desk to ask if everything was okay yesterday. You thought you could fake it, but your voice is telling when you reply, “Oh yeah, everything’s just fine. We’re fine.” Your boss cocks an eyebrow at your tone, and you assume a facial expression that screams, “Really, we’re not fine but there’s nothing you can do about it, so thank you for even asking.”

Just as you’re putting your stuff away to leave work for the day, your phone buzzes.

Husband 💙: Don’t forget to eat dinner. I have a late surgery. Also, kettle corn is not a meal.

You can’t help but quirk a smile at his words, as they rarely fail to elicit a reaction from you. But you’re tired, still feeling the effects of everything that happened yesterday, and you type out a quick response.

You: Okay. Good luck.

In another part of the city, a man with hazel eyes reads his phone for a little too long, his eyes squinting slightly as they circle around those three words. Your bland, unfeeling response is highly unusual and unsettles him. But he has to toss it aside somewhere in his mind so that he can focus wholeheartedly on saving this upcoming patient.

You, on the other hand, have decided to camp out at the bookstore again until late. Unable to hide forever, you slip back outside and are greeted by a slight chill in the air. It seeps through your thin blouse, and it isn’t until your head hits your pillow that it is, in fact, the middle of a hot summer.

Zayne has texted you more this week than he has in the last month.

At first, you thought things may be returning to a sense of normalcy, and that whatever you heard come out of his mouth that fateful day was just a fluke. But when he mentioned offhandedly that Emcee was gone for a week or two because of a mission a few hours away, you deflated and berated yourself for even hoping.

The second choice, weren’t you?

Every day, there is something. A reminder to change your bandaids, dry humor, some slightly snarky comment about the highly incompetent doctor in the neurology department that he swears must’ve bought his way to become board-certified, the occasional picture of his makeshift meals, general questions about your day – you don’t know how to feel about all of it. Because what happens when Emcee comes back?

What happens when you can no longer be the priority again?

The very question makes you throw a shot of soju back at this company dinner to celebrate someone’s promotion. You had taken it as a chance to, once again, stay away from your actual sanctuary, while also getting a free meal. A win in your books, right?

Even in your drunken haze, when your phone, face down, vibrates on your table by your chopsticks, you know immediately who it is. When you flip your phone over, your husband’s face greets you, and you have a slight moment of panic. Did you ever get around to telling him you were at a work dinner tonight?

“Fuck,” you murmur before nonchalantly swiping up the green circle.

“Hello?” you quietly answer, your voice already a little heavy.

Zayne seems to pick up on it almost immediately. “Is everything okay?”

Before you can answer, a crowd roars at some drinking game happening two tables down, and your phone cannot be bothered to filter it out.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“Work dinner,” you reply while trying to step away from your table and towards somewhere quieter.

“Was it an impromptu dinner?”

“No,” you say, tone sheepish and sluggish, much like your steps towards the bathroom. “I think I forgot to tell you about it.”

“Do you need me to pick you up? I’m about to leave the hospital.”

You pull your phone back and search for the time. Was it already 10:30PM?

“You don’t have to, it’s late. You should go home and get some sleep.”

Several miles away, a tiny layer of ice decorates Zayne’s right hand.

“I can’t imagine you need to be there any longer. Surely your boss would understand. Where are you?”

For the life of you, you could not recall the name of the restaurant. Looking around, you hum, almost lackadaisical, until you catch sight of a flashy sign. “I think it’s called Chodang? Korean barbeque.”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

“No,” you nearly whine, “it’s okayyy.”

There are the jingling of keys and two quick beeps in the background. “Y/N.”

His voice is final, stern, and sobers you just a tiny bit.

“Thank you,” you surrender with the cadence of an apology, your tone sheepish.

“Wait inside. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t forget to gather all your things.”

“Yessir,” and fingers mock salute to no one before hanging up. Well, at least you can finally be done with this event. If you’re lucky, you won’t have a hangover in the morning.

When you start grabbing your jacket and bag, your coworkers ask if you’re leaving, and you have to pretend that you don’t want to. “My husband’s picking me up.”

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about that then. See you tomorrow!”

You wave goodbye to everyone and do your best to remain as steady as possible. The warm summer night is a nice contrast to the aircon that had no business blasting as hard as it did. Your mind drifts off into another world as you stare off at nothing, eyes unfocused and slightly glazed over. Without any warning, you find yourself thrown back to the day you walked aimlessly around the park.

“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-ifs.”

That was not a “what-if” you could ignore. How could you, you think to yourself, a half-sob sitting lodged in your throat. Would you even be here in this position now, waiting for Zayne, your husband, to pick you up late at night out of love and concern? Would you have been a spectator at their wedding instead of his bride? Everything that you had built with him would be nonexistent – a life devoid of love, hazel eyes, tender care, and icy hands that could be so warm.

A sleek car pulls up in front of you with a gentle purr of its engine, causing you to blink and remove yourself from your stupor. How interesting, that’s the same color as Zayne’s car. And make. What are the odds?

Oh, the person even looks like your husband, too. What a coincidence.

Are you forgetting something important?

“Y/N,” the person says as they approach you. How do they know your name?

Cold hands hold you by your upper arms in an attempt to steady you. But your vision blurs, and you feel the desperate need to hide. You drop down to a crouch which is not wise in your dress, but there’s very little else you can do at the moment.

“I have a husband, and he’s coming to pick me up,” you announce with false bravado, voice barely loud enough for the person to hear because you have your head tucked against and your arms wrapped around your knees. To further bolster your argument, you throw up your left hand and turn it so your ring is visible. “See?”

The person in front of you lets out a deep sigh as if they’ve been dealt with the most cumbersome inconvenience possible, which makes you frown because how dare they display exasperation when they, themselves, of their own volition, approached a drunk person. A rustle of clothes, a shadow overcast, and against better judgment, you peek over your crossed limbs. The person is now crouched in front of you to meet you at eye level, which must be painful for someone so tall. However, it is not the time to feel sorry.

“I do see. In fact, I gave you that ring.”

You splutter and fail to scoff. “No, you didn’t. My husband gave me that ring, and I don’t even know who you are!” you argue and whine, failing to pull back when a cold hand rests against your head to pat down stray hairs.

“You’re telling me I don’t look familiar?”

With a pout, you shake your head, petulant and stubborn. “Nobody can really look like Zayne. He’s suuuper handsome, and no one,” you emphasize before wagging a finger in front of you, “can compare.”

Zayne’s eyes sparkle with mirth and affection, and he can’t help but indulge himself just a little bit more.

“Is that so? Anything else I should know about this…Zayne?”

Your eyes remain closed as you turn to the side, resting a cheek against your forearms. “He’s really, really sweet, which is funny because he’s – hiccup – like, obsessed with sweets. Annddd, he’s the best car–, cardi–, cardia–, heart doctor in the whooolleee world. Zayne saves lots and lots of lives all the time.”

“And what if I told you I was a cardiologist as well?”

“Doesn’t matter, because Zayne is the best. No one is better than Zayne. He’s really funny, and he makes me laugh a lot. He’s…he’s the best person I know.”

And he is. He really, truly is. The fondness brings you back to the earlier existential dread that you had been spiraling down before this man appeared in front of you. It’s the alcohol, you tell yourself as your eyes begin to water, and you can’t help the sniffle that ensues.

The sound sends Zayne into a world of panic. He has long been able to differentiate between your crying sniffles and runny-nose-flu sniffles, and he knows you’re not usually an emotional drunk.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” – sniff – “and if he…if he ever left me, I know exactly who he’d leave me for.” Your voice warbles and shakes more and more with each word before you’re thrown into a fit of sobs. “And I wouldn’t blame him be – hic – because,” you try to elaborate before pausing, “because..”

Oh god, you can’t even get yourself to say it. The thought plagues you as the cries plague your chest, leaving you defenseless with no other option but to let it all out. It’s the last thing you do before you proceed to pass out from exhaustion.

Zayne catches you just in time and brings your barely conscious body home with a heavy heart. Any other day, he would’ve found your groggy voice and minor complaints on the way home to be endearing. But now? He doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do besides taking off your shoes, changing you into your pajamas, and tucking you into bed. He doesn’t know what to do besides feeding you honey water by the mouthful because you refuse to drink from a cup like a sober person. He doesn’t know what to do when you so readily accept his kisses and the soothing liquid in your sleepy state.

When he finally lays beside you, all he does know is that you two urgently need to talk.

(He hears the last few grains of sand start to trickle through the neck of his glass timer.)

And soon.

Your eyes shoot open the next morning, and after recalling everything you word-vomited last night, you want nothing more than to plant yourself six feet under and turn into a tree. That way, you would never have to see Zayne again without being riddled with guilt, stress, and disbelief in your boorish behaviors. You two can never talk about this.

Zayne is this close to stabbing a cadaver from the nearby medical school’s anatomy lab with a scalpel in a manner that would laugh maniacally in the name of science. What does a man need to do to have just one – one, whole, uninterrupted – day to spend with his wife?

It has to be karma, at this point. He must’ve done something horrific to have emergencies land in his lap at the most inconvenient times possible. After all, it seemed that at every available opportunity, something unavoidable called for his attention. Whether it be an urgent consult, some patient code, nurses knocking urgently at his door, covering for someone at the last minute, Yvonne paging him, literally anything –

At this very moment, one could find Zayne leaning down in surrender at his desk – back hunched over, elbows on the glass, forehead resting against intertwined hands, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples, glasses cast aside atop a messy pile of folders in a haphazard fashion – all while muttering to himself, “I just need to talk to my wife, for the love of Astra.” After a long sigh, he rubs his eyes and looks up, his fingertips now meeting over the bridge of his nose. In his peripheral vision, a glass sand timer sits. To anyone else, it is an innocent decoration – but to him, its very existence now mocks him.

A cherished gift from you, despite its simplicity. But as he reaches over in a daze to turn it on its axel, he cannot help but wonder if it meant anything deeper. When you gifted this to him two years ago, was it supposed to remind him that time with you was finite?

“It’s a three-minute sand timer,” you had said, bouncing in excitement on your feet as you stood in front of his desk and watched him open the box. “I know you’re endlessly busy, but you should at least be able to have a few minutes to yourself when you want or need it.”

Zayne’s vision focuses on the grains of sand trickling through the neck and into the bottom bulb. As usual, he is mildly fascinated by its unique frosty blue hue, its looks more akin to snow gently piling up in a pristine tundra. He remembers the cheeky smile spread across your lips, the adoration in your eyes, the way your hands were crossed behind your back. He remembers holding out his hand, gently gripping yours when it had found its home in his, and pressing his lips against your knuckles as a gesture of gratitude, love, and respect.

“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”

Grayson’s words had unnerved him more than one could realize.

Zayne had never questioned his marriage before. Though there had been some hesitancy in moving on from Emcee and acknowledging that he felt some type of affection for you, the one he hadn’t been enamored with for many years, he learned to love you. It was easy, in hindsight, and it still is. Even when Emcee had come to the wedding, Zayne had felt nothing but appreciation that she had made it all the way out there despite her busy and chaotic schedule.

But what if she had stayed? What if she never moved across the country?

He groans and leans back in his chair, his head slightly hanging over the top edge. His shoulders protest, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders ache. If there was anything he could wish for at this very moment, it would be your presence behind him, your fingers kneading methodically to relieve him of his discomfort. “You’re too good to me,” he would say, and you would chuckle. “Nonsense,” you’d reply quietly. “If anyone is too good to me, it’s you.”

“See, that’s nonsense,” he’d argue and look over his shoulder, a hand reaching back to cover yours. And you would laugh before placing a tender kiss on his forehead, almost Spiderman style. He would relish in the tiny gesture, so wonderful and full of pure bliss, and know that he could make it through the rest of the day.

The pride in his gait as he has you on his arm during awards ceremonies, the peace in his eyes as he watches you snore in deep sleep, the reverence in his touch when he keeps a hand on the back of your neck as he kisses you with all abandon, the trained ear to hear your voice in a noisy crowd – every moment, every memory, every bit of life that he has lived with you, he would never trade it for the world. It doesn’t matter what would’ve happened if Emcee had stayed put six years ago.

And he really, really, wishes he had told Grayson that.

Zayne wakes his computer screen and pulls up his calendar to see what his schedule looks like for the afternoon and tomorrow. It’s relatively light compared to the last few months, and he feels like he can finally breathe. Reaching into his whitecoat pocket for his phone, and without looking, he uses your speed dial – 2, and only because 1 is occupied by his voicemail inbox. Each dial tone causes his anxiety to spike, but somebody must be answering his prayers because you answer right before it’s forwarded to your voicemail.

“Yes, Zayne?”

“Do you have any meetings tomorrow?”

“Oh, umm,” you hum, and he can hear the faint mouse clicks in the back, “there’s nothing urgent. What is it?”

“Take the day off tomorrow,” he suggests in a gentle tone. “Call in sick, and spend the day with me.”

Zayne receives a few moments of silence, and he can practically hear the gears grinding in your brain, even miles away.

“I miss you,” he adds, his voice like a confession, and you cannot mistake his tone for anything but pure, genuine longing.

“...I miss you, too,” you reply, your own tone just as yearning as his. “I’ll do it.”

Zayne’s absolutely thrilled, already logging into his employee portal to submit his sick day absence. “We’ll sleep in, cook something together. Is there anywhere you want to go or do?”

“Not that I can think of right now.”

Good. That’s what he was hoping for.

“Then I’ll see you tonight. Let me know if you want me to pick you up from work.”

“Will do. I’ll see you later.”

“One more thing, Y/N.”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“...I love you, too.”

“Goodbye, dear.”

“Bye, A-Shen.” Call ended chime.

Despite the selfish desire to keep you on the phone until it’s time to leave work, he cannot help but smile at the use of his Chinese nickname. You’ve always said it so affectionately, so full of care and tenderness. His heart rate never fails to spike and simultaneously melt at the sound of it, even after all these years.

Who knew that, to get one free day with his wife, it takes one drunken rant, the impatience of a toddler, and two individuals playing hooky?

Part of you wishes you never have to wake up. You have a very, very bad feeling about this day off, seeing as Zayne, of all people, was the one to propose such a day. For the first time in months, you feel his presence as soon as you awaken. You stir, and lithe fingers brush away a few baby hairs with precision and care. Your eyes stay shut. You desperately beg yourself to fall back asleep, to deny reality for just a few more hours.

But Zayne has other plans – he kisses you on the cheek before moving slightly to murmur in your ear, “Good morning, dear.”

Fuck.

“G’morning,” you mutter. At the very words, your eyes flutter open. His smile is incredibly gentle and so rife with adoration that you find it almost…blinding.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

God, even the thought of eating makes you nauseous. “It’s okay, I’m not hungry.”

Zayne frowns. “But–”

You take an abrupt turn and roll out of bed. “Let me start the coffee and whip up something for you.” Anything to get you away from him, or you might just combust.

A few minutes later, you definitely are.

Zayne has caught up to you now, arms wrapped around your middle as you poke some eggs frying in a pan. His chin rests on your left shoulder, and you’re panicking. It has been so long that your body barely has the muscle memory to act at this moment. Do you remain slightly stiff? Do you relax in his hold? Do you nuzzle your cheek against his? Do you turn to kiss him on the cheek? Do you start light conversation and exchange sweet nothings?

“When was the last time we had a day like this?” Zayne asks, his voice soft against your ear.

“It‘s been a while,” you reply and attempt to mask the bitterness in your tone.

“I know,” he sighs and squeezes you a little tighter. “The hospital has been occupying too much of my time.”

Amongst other things…and people.

Your hands tremble slightly as one lifts the pan and the other uses the spatula to push the eggs onto the empty plate next to the stove. Right on time, two pieces of wheat toast pop out from the toaster, and you place them with the eggs. Zayne reluctantly unlatches himself as you grab the plate without a word and walk them to the round dining table. You place it at his usual seat, a silent gesture for him to sit and wait as you grab a knife, fork, and cup of coffee with a little too much sugar and cream. The best you can do is send him a half-smile before retreating to the sink and busying yourself with the dirty dishes. Washing a frying pan should not take long, but your motions never stray from slow, thoughtful, and methodical.

There’s a part of you that never wants this day to end – but the other part wants it to end now. You’re not ready for this conversation that you bet he’s trying to have.

Usually, Zayne would give you some time to settle before sitting down and having serious talks. But today? He’s restless, abuzz.

The two of you are cuddling on the couch with a random documentary on, his fingers tracing patterns across the length of your arm. They leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and Zayne takes it as a sign to drape the blanket from the back of the couch over both of you, but mainly your legs and lower torso. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“Better?” he murmurs in question.

You hum and nod, allowing yourself to snuggle just a bit further.

Several minutes pass before Zayne bites the bullet.

“Do you…remember that work dinner you had last week?”

You gulp, and it’s not exactly subtle.

“Mhmm.”

“Do you remember what happened when I picked you up from the restaurant?”

Well shit. “Umm…it’s a bit fuzzy…”

Zayne hums, his fingers now running through your hair. “You said something to me.”

“Did I?”

He stays silent before grabbing the remote, pausing the show, and turning to look you in the eye.

“I think you’ve been avoiding me,” he lets out, his gaze sweeping over every inch of your face and studying every little reaction of yours, “and I think it has something to do with what you said that night.

“Well first, there’s the situation where you couldn’t even recognize me, but I also understand that inebriation can greatly affect one’s vision. What concerned me the most was,” he pauses before continuing, “this idea you had in your head that I would leave you for someone else.”

Zayne lifts his free hand to softly grasp your chin between his thumb and index finger – not too harshly, but not soft enough that you could escape him.

You watch all pretenses fall from his face, and something in his eyes breaks.

“Why,” Zayne starts, his voice gravelly and raspy with disbelief now, “would you ever think that?”

Is he serious?

“Have I done something, Y/N? To make you doubt me?”

You snap, “Think for maybe five seconds about that before you ask me again. You know I wouldn’t be irrational enough to be upset with you over nothing.”

Zayne’s eyebrows furrow, the crease between them becoming more and more pronounced. “I…”

Perhaps there was no use to beating around the bush. Your voice trembles as you confess, “I heard what you told Grayson in your office a couple weeks ago.” Even as Zayne’s eyes seem to widen, you push through, “I was going to drop off lunch, but then I heard him ask about Emcee, and if anything would’ve happened between you two had she stayed all those years ago.

“And you said, ‘Perhaps’, Zayne.”

Even in the most harrowing surgeries, his hands could remain stable. But now they shake as they move to cradle your face, and you push yourself completely off the couch. “Tell me, Zayne Li. Tell me what things would be like if Emcee never took that job six years ago. Would we still be here today?”

“Of course we would–”

“Then why?!” you yelled, whirling on him with fresh tears tracking down your cheeks. “Why would you say that to Grayson if it weren’t true?! Obviously, there’s some truth to it!”

“Please, listen to me–” he begs, but you cut him off once more.

“How can you sit there and lie to me? You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it, Zayne. You are rarely, if ever, unintentional in your words. So, the fact that ‘perhaps’ even slipped out of your mouth means something.”

“I,” he starts then pauses, his brain fighting for the right words. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

His words trigger a sharp pain in your chest, and your cries begin to worsen. The feeling like you’re on the verge of hyperventilating draws closer and closer. “You still love her, don’t you?”

“No!” Zayne immediately fires back. “Not in the way you’re thinking, and not in the way that I love you.”

“She was your first love, Zayne, and it wasn’t the kind of first love that anyone can easily brush off. You,” your lungs scream for air in between your words, “you only went out with me because she left. Had she not…”

Zayne shakes his head with vigor. “No, I would still be here. With you.”

“Then why–”

“Even if she had stayed, if anything had happened between me and her,” Zayne interjects, looking straight at you. It takes everything in him not to crack at the sight of your grief-ridden gaze. “I firmly believe that I’d still end up here with you. I meant what I said to Grayson when I said there was no use in dwelling on the what-ifs. The words didn’t come to me at the time, but I said it because I knew that no matter what, I would still be married to you.

Always encased in subtle pride and unwavering willpower, Zayne slides off the couch and plants his weight on buckled knees. He takes hold of your hands and is beyond relieved when you don’t pull away. There is no way to count the number of times he has held your hands with love and reverence – but he hopes, he prays, that this is the only time he will ever need to hold them in repentance, a sinner seeking divine forgiveness.

“Please believe me,” he implores, and you’d have to be deaf and blind to miss the desperation in his grip, tone, and eyes. “I love you, Y/N,” Zayne professes. “I told you on our wedding night that there isn’t a single moment when I’m not thinking of you, and that hasn’t changed at all. Astra permit, that will never change.”

Your silence terrifies him, but at least he hasn’t been greeted by an onslaught of fresh tears from you. “You were promised the world from me, and I have failed you,” he said softly, almost drowning in self-disappointment. “I’ve neglected you these past few months, and I am so, so sorry.”

Zayne can’t bear to look at you and drops his head in your hands. He presses venerating kisses on your fingertips and palms as he waits for your answer.

You can’t look at him either, begging on his knees like he would be nothing without you. It’s hard to imagine that of someone as established and renowned as him, but…

The sunlight that pierces through the blinds catches just right on a sliver of your diamond ring that hasn’t been covered by his hands.

You take a quivering breath, another, and then another.

“If you ever,” and Zayne lifts his head with the speed of light, “give me reason to seriously doubt what we have ever again…”

His heart pounds, and he waits with bated breath. God, is this what they feel like in all those romance movies?

“...I’m dragging you to marriage counseling, and if you refuse to cooperate with even one of those sessions, I will leave.”

A torrential wave of relief passes over, causing him to release all the tension in his bones. “Thank you,” he whispers against your hands, “and I understand. You will never be taken for granted – never in this life or the next.”

And when your fingers are running through his sweaty strands, his face pressed against your stomach, his arms wrapped around you, his hands grasping firmly onto your shirt – really it’s his, but everything of his belongs to you and you only – you allow yourself to forget the insecurity that has laid dormant within you for all these years.

Zayne did not settle for you.

#lads zayne #zayne x reader #zayne x non mc #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace #lnds zayne #zayne lads #doctor zayne #zayne angst #zayne li #tw: miscommunication #tw: alcohol #zayne x you

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em1i2a3 · 20 hours ago

Text

You Caught The Light

Pairing: The Sentry/The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After all the partying and celebrations, you’re finally able to share your wedding night with the love of your life, but there’s one last thing that needs to happen before everything can commence.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluffy goodness, Reader and Bob got married (this is the aftermath of that lol), Sentry has his own little surprise for the Reader and he definitely shows some possessive vibes within that little surprise, After Wedding Shenanigans, Is There Plot Here? Yeah…For the most part. Did I absolutely lunge myself at the idea when it popped into my head the other day? Heeeeeeeck yeah, Already Established Relationship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in.V Sex (y’all wrap it up.), Soft Dom Sentry Vibes! Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Fingering, References to Reader Being Off Birth Control, Praise/Worship Kink, Dirty Talk, Breeding Kink (Reader is not on Birth Control), Biting/Marking/Scratching, Breast Play, Spitting, Drooling, Messy Sex, Possessiveness Kink?, Begging, Breath Play (Deep Breathing=Lightheadedness :)), Teasing, Use of ‘Good Girl,’, Finger Sucking, Aftercare

Author’s Note: Jesus Christ, this was so. Fun. To. Write. Possessive Sentry? Sweet Jeeeezus��Also the amount of times I needed to step away from my keyboard and yell at the dialogue I was coming up with was insane lol. ✨that’s one of the only moments of excitement I get in my life✨ (also bless this GIF. Good Lord)

Word Count: 12,403

The string lights over the vineyard flickered soft and gold, their warm glow casting long, syrupy shadows across the lawn. They swayed gently in the breeze, catching on the rims of half-empty champagne flutes abandoned on tables draped in crumpled linen, the glass glinting like candlelight on water. Someone's heels lay forgotten beneath a chair, their straps tangled like the aftermath of a dream. The music had slowed to a lazy drift, something jazzy and low, echoing out from the speakers like a fading memory. Most of the guests had said their goodbyes. The party was finally winding down.

But you and Bob were still lively and awake. Still buzzing.

You stood side by side at the bar–hands brushing, bodies humming with a quiet, electrified kind of anticipation–as the bartender cracked open two Red Bulls with a soft hiss of carbonation. The both of you had decided early in the evening to skip the temptation of the open bar. Settling on the single glass of champagne that was given when Bucky had led a congratulations toast for the both of you.

You reached for your can with a soft smile, and Bob’s fingers met yours for a split-second on the aluminum before pulling away. He had barely let you go all night.

HIs sit jacket was off now, folded neatly over one arm. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled to his forearms, and the top button had come undone hours ago. His golden tie–chosen to match the glints in your dress–hung slightly loosened around his neck, the knot imperfect in a way that made him look impossibly soft. He stood so close you could smell him beneath the summer air and faint sugar of spilled cocktails–clean skin, salt, and a faint trace of his iris and patchouli aftershave that was still clinging to his collar. His hand drifted to your waist, fingers lightly brushing over the soft tulle layers of the skirt of your dress, like he couldn’t stop reminding himself that you were real and standing right beside him. That you were now his completely, just like he was yours.

You sipped from your can, lips tingling from the carbonation, and tilted your head to smile at him, “Still awake?” His eyes–blue and quiet and full of lust, love and affection–landed on you like a promise.

”For you?” He rubbed his thumb over your waist again, slow and distracted, “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep all night…Or for the rest of the week.” You smiled at him, but before you could say anything back a small cluster of footsteps approached across the lawn, crunching in the grass. The both of you turned your attention to the noise, seeing the rest of you team filtering toward you–Yelena barefoot, carrying her heels in one hand; Alexei looking flushed and exhausted but cheerful; Ava with a half-eaten cupcake from the tower you ordered in replacement for a wedding cake; Bucky with his tie slung over his shoulder and his jacket missing entirely. Walker was nowhere to be found though, you assumed he was preoccupied with one of your bridesmaids who he had been drinking with for the entire reception–which took everyone by surprise.

Yelena leaned into you and gave you a brief but surprisingly sincere hug, “You both looked so perfect tonight…” You smiled at Yelena, your heart swelling with that dizzy, glowing gratitude that came from being this deeply seen by people who once felt like strangers, now family.

“Thank you, Lena.” Her eyeliner had smudged just slightly from the heat of the dance floor and the occasional wipe of emotion–though she’d never admit to that part. She gave your arm one last squeeze and stepped back, slipping her heels onto one finger like a hooked fish.

Bob took a sip from his can beside you, the aluminum catching a glint of string-light as he tilted it. The heat of his palm pressed steadily against the small of your back, a warm anchor in the cool night. It was like he’d forgotten how to let go of you–like the vows had activated something ancient and instinctive in him.

Ava licked frosting from her thumb with an unapologetic swipe and grinned. “So we’re not gonna see either of you for the next week, huh?”

You smirked, unable to help it. “That’s the plan.”

You tried not to sound too excited–tried not to let on just how much you’d been thinking about it all night. The cottage. The way Bob had looked at you when you’d stepped inside. The dirty things he’d whispered against your neck when no one else was looking that made you heat up. You were ready to settle into bed with him for the night to consummate the rest of your lives together.

“Val really went all out with the cottage,” Bucky added. He tipped his head toward Bob, with a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Nice and secluded. And it’s right on the lake…Plenty of places to…Explore.” Bob made a strangled sound mid-sip and coughed, turning slightly to the side as he swallowed too quickly. His ears flushed a deep, traitorous red, and he fumbled to adjust the jacket in his arms, avoiding eye contact like it might burst him into flames.

“Yeah…” He rasped, clearing his throat, “We got to look at it when we dropped our bags off be-before the reception. It’s…It’s breathtaking.” Your eyes flicked to him. The way he said that made your stomach flip. You weren’t sure if he meant the view from the deck or the way you’d looked standing in the bedroom doorway when the both of you stared at the bed together, resisting the temptation that burned through your bloodstream.

Alexei, unbothered by the conversation, clapped Bob on the back hard enough to make him flinch slightly, “You two earned it. Now go enjoy next seven days not thinking about world.” There was a beat of quiet, the warm kind–the kind only people who love you leave behind.

Then Bucky added, “Also make sure to not break the bed…Val won’t be getting that deposit back if you do.”

You laughed outright at that, pressing your hand to your mouth. Bob groaned beside you, ducking his head and muttering, “Jesus Christ.”

Yelena rolled her eyes but was smiling as she said, “In all seriousness though please, get it out of your system now. If I have to live through another month of hearing the two of you go at it like teenagers, I swear–”

”It’s not my fault that Bob has Super Soldier Stamina.” He looked down at the grass like he wanted to melt into it.

”You are all menaces,” He murmured, but there was affection in it. He leaned into you again, his lips pressing against the side of your temple, “But…Thank you. All of you. For putting up wi-with our crazy planning.” Yelena nodded.

”No need to thank us…Now go before someone decides to give another toast to keep you two here longer…We all know where you two actually want to be right now.” And that was it. That was the moment it shifted–from celebration to departure.

You said your goodbyes with long hugs and whispered promises to check in when you got to the cottage. The gravel crunched softly underfoot as you and Bob walked toward the rented SUV you booked, the night air still warm and alive with the scent of grapevines and faraway bonfire smoke. The string lights behind you were beginning to dim, their glow softening into memory–but the buzz in your blood hadn’t dulled in the slightest.

As your heels clicked lightly against the gravel, Bob slowed his pace and gently reached down to lift the delicate train of your gown, gathering it in careful hands so it wouldn’t drag through the dust and scattered pebbles.

You looked back over your shoulder, giggling quietly at the sight of him–your six-foot-something husband with sleeves rolled to his forearms, suit jacket slung over one arm, and the full, soft layers of your wedding dress gathered like spun sugar in his grip.

“What?” He asked, smirking at your expression.

“Nothing,” You said, cheeks already aching from how much you’d been smiling. “You’re just…Perfect.” Bob shook his head and huffed a bashful little laugh, his ears turning red again as he followed you to the passenger side of the SUV. He opened the door smoothly, stepping close to help you in. His palm skimmed the back of your thigh–barely there, like a promise–as you settled into the seat. He tucked the fabric of your dress carefully onto your lap, making sure not even the edge brushed the ground.

The door clicked shut with a soft thunk, and you stared down at your hands. Your engagement ring–vintage gold, wrapped around a soft-set diamond–and the brand-new wedding band now nestled against it, caught the glow of the dash lights and shimmered like something unreal.

You were someone’s wife. His wife.

Bob climbed into the driver’s seat a moment later, exhaling a long, quiet breath as he settled in and dropped his suit jacket into the back. His profile was illuminated by the soft ambient light from the center console–his jaw slightly tense, lips parted like he was about to say something, eyes flickering with want.

Then he turned to look at you, and it was like every ounce of restraint he’d been practicing all night dissolved at once.

He leaned across the center console, one hand cupping your cheek, the other braced on the seat beside you–and kissed you.

Hard.

It started warm, firm–his lips crashing against yours like a wave he couldn’t hold back anymore–and then it melted into something messier, hungrier. You moaned into his mouth as his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you in closer, deeper, like he needed to taste you or he’d lose his mind. His tongue brushed yours, slow and hot and deliberate, and you felt your whole body lean into him–gown and all–your hand fisting in the soft cotton of his dress shirt where it stretched across his chest.

By the time he pulled back, his eyes were glassy and his breathing ragged, forehead nearly pressed to yours.

“I can’t wait to get to that damn co-cottage,” He murmured, his voice rough, low, almost wrecked.

You gave a breathless laugh, your lips brushing his. “Hopefully the ride is quick.” Bob let out a small, choked laugh and dropped another kiss to your cheek–quick, grateful, possessive–before straightening. He turned the key in the ignition, the engine growling to life beneath you both. With one hand on the gearshift, he reached blindly for yours.

Your fingers slid together like it was instinct. Like you’d been doing it for years.

The drive was only thirty minutes, but it felt like the air between you thickened by the second. The windows were cracked to let in the night breeze, your dress spilling over your lap in soft folds, and Bob’s hand rested firmly on your thigh now–his thumb stroking in slow, grounding circles that made your breath catch every time he reached just a little too high.

You watched him as he drove. The way his fingers curled around the wheel. The way his jaw flexed every time you shifted your thighs or adjusted your dress. You could feel how aware of you he was. How hard he was trying to focus on the road.

And maybe he could feel your eyes on him too, because without even looking away from the road, his fingers gave your thigh a soft squeeze and he said, “You’re gonna kill me before we even ma-make it to the front door.” Your bottom lip slipped between your teeth as you leaned in close–close enough for your breath to warm the shell of his ear. You felt him tense, barely resisting the urge to shiver beneath your whisper.

“I’m not even planning on us making it to the bed.” His breath hitched. His fingers twitched against the wheel.

Then his hand squeezed your thigh–harder this time earning a little gasp of surprise from you. His knuckles flushed white, the pads of his fingers digging into the silk hidden beneath the folds of your dress.

“God…” He muttered, the word wrecked. “That deposit isn’t going to be given ba-back to Val…”

You both laughed, quiet and breathless, your amusement laced with heat–laced with tension that had been building all night. All week. Hell, for as long as you’d been waiting for this moment. And then some.

You were about to say something else–something filthy, something dangerous–but then you saw it.

The trees had thinned, and the winding dirt road curved gently uphill. Just over the ridge, soft golden light spilled out through the tall windows of the cottage, glowing like a warm secret in the darkness. A few small lanterns lit the stone path leading up to the porch, casting flickering shadows on the wild grass and lavender bushes that bordered the entrance. The lake shimmered just beyond the treeline, silvered and still beneath the moonlight, and the reflection of the cabin lights glittered faintly across the surface.

It looked like something from a painting. A place untouched by the rest of the world. Yours alone.

The cottage itself was two stories, rustic and beautiful–weathered wood siding, climbing ivy across the front, and a wide wraparound porch with a gently creaking swing. The French doors were cracked slightly open, gauzy curtains drifting on the breeze like soft sighs. A single bottle of chilled sparkling cider rested in a silver bucket by the front door, a small card tucked beside it with Val’s signature on the front–the one you had seen when the both of you dropped your bags off before the reception.

It looked romantic. Secluded. Private. But all you could think about was getting inside and crawling into Bob’s lap before the front door even had a chance to close.

“Pull in there,” You whispered, your voice thick. “Right by the porch.” Bob obeyed instantly, turning the wheel and easing the SUV up the short gravel drive. The tires crunched as he slowed to a stop, engine rumbling low before he killed it with a twist of the key. Silence fell like velvet.

The cabin glowed before you like a promise. You unbuckled your seatbelt and turned toward him, but he was already looking at you–his hand still on your thigh, eyes drinking you in like he hadn’t been doing it all night already.

“I don’t think I’ve ever wa-wanted anything more,” He murmured, voice low. “You. This. Right now.” Your chest ached with the heat of it. Of how much love and want lived in that single breath. You leaned in slowly, pressing your forehead to his, your hand sliding over the one still gripping your thigh.

”Then let’s go in there and start the rest of our lives off right, hmm?” He moved before you could blink–out of the car, around to your side, opening the door and lifting your dress so it wouldn’t drag through the gravel. You stepped out slowly, the fabric rustling like whispers around your legs as he helped you down, his hands steady at your waist.

For a moment, you just stood there together on the gravel drive–stars overhead, the lake shimmering nearby, the cabin glowing warm and golden behind you. His hands gripped your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go. Like the tension was going to snap if you didn’t get inside immediately.

You turned toward the porch, and he followed close behind, hand never leaving your body. You didn’t even look at the welcome note, didn’t touch the cider. You just reached for the door, and pushed it open slowly.

It swung open on soft hinges, revealing the golden glow of the honeymoon cottage interior–warm amber light spilling across wide-planked wooden floors and up along the stone fireplace that stood like a quiet sentinel in the center of the room. The open-concept space was flooded with soft shadows and intimate corners, the kind of place that felt like it had always existed, just waiting for the two of you to find it. The scent of cedar and distant lakewater clung to the air, grounding you as the door clicked shut behind you.

You’d barely taken a step forward before Bob’s hands were on your waist again–turning you gently, carefully, like he couldn’t wait another second. Your breath caught as your back met the wall, the soft scrape of your gown whispering against the wood panels.

He leaned in close, brushing his lips over your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple, peppering the areas with featherlight kisses.

His voice trembled as he spoke against your skin.

“Sentry…Has a su-surprise for you.”He whispered, not being able to contain it, “But I promise I’ll be back in the morning,” He continued. “He hasn’t been out in so long. And it’s really im-important to him that he does this ” His lips brushed your earlobe, his hand cradling your jaw now, steady and careful.

“Is it okay if he comes out?” You didn’t hesitate. Your hand slid up his chest, fingers curling gently against the side of his neck, thumb grazing his throat where you could feel his pulse fluttering wildly beneath the skin.

”Of course it is.” You replied back, stroking his soft skin “I love you so much…And thank you for the most amazing day of my life.” Bob’s breath hitched. He smiled softly, almost shakily, and kissed you again–slow and warm and full of every ounce of devotion he never quite had the words for.

“You’re welcome…And I love you too.” He whispered. There was a long pause. Just the two of you breathing in sync, foreheads pressed together, his nose brushing yours as the moment lingered and deepened. Then, slowly, his eyes fluttered open–and you saw it.

That telltale shimmer.

Liquid gold bloomed across his irises like sunlight spilling through clouds, bright and sudden and infinite. He let out a long, careful sigh, the kind that filled the entire room with stillness, and as he pulled back–just slightly–you felt the complete shift. He straightened his spine and rolled his shoulders, moving away from you a bit to let his gaze fall on you like he was beholding a miracle.

His eyes flicked down your body, across the glinting accents woven into your gown–the way the gold thread shimmered in the low light, catching like flame at the swell of your hips and the arc of your neckline. He exhaled slowly, and it shook.

“My god…” He breathed, voice deep and low, “You look absolutely divine…” Heat flooded your cheeks instantly as you reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his with a smile draped over your lips. His grip was strong and steady and full of warmth, like sunlight was melting straight into your skin.

”You like the gold?” You asked softly, teasingly, motioning to the tulle. He huffed a breathy laugh, dipping his head slightly.

“It’s a beautiful touch, my love,” He murmured, stepping forward again. He cupped your cheek, and kissed you with a gentleness that devastated. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even greedy. It was deliberate–like Sentry wanted to take his time to savour the feeling of being reunited with you. The kiss felt like time was stretching across the ether, and all you wanted to do was cling to him and fall in deeper, but he pulled back slowly.

“I haven’t seen you in two months…I’ve missed you so much, I never want to be away that long ever again.” He whispered. You kissed him again–your hand squeezing his gently, while the other pressed right over his beating heart.

”I promise that won’t happen again…Bob and I had to focus on the wedding planning and you’re a certified distraction for me so…He needed to suppress you.” He let out a small laugh, and nodded.

”Well it’s good to know it was done with good intentions.” You smirked, feeling his hand slide down to your waist, his thumb brushing the corset ribbon in the back of your dress.

”I’ve got something for you upstairs…Something I want to give you before we make up for all the lost time.” You smiled up at him, breath catching.

”Is it a gift?” He grinned. Not the shy, sweet smile Bob gave you when he blushed, or the soft, amused tilt of his mouth when the world seemed too loud–but something deeper. Slower. Like he was absorbing you with every blink, like each detail of your face was a memory flooding back into his body. His eyes drank you in with that golden glow still shimmering bright in his irises, and then they dropped to your mouth–then lower.

His voice was low and warm as honey, “Mmm, you’ll see.” You barely had time to question it before he took a step back, still holding your hand, tugging you gently toward the stairs. The soft creak of the steps underfoot broke the silence in rhythm with your breathing, but he paused just at the base of the staircase.

And without warning, his hands swept beneath your thighs.

You yelped in surprise as he lifted you with zero effort, bridal-style, cradling you close to his chest. Your arms wrapped instinctively around his neck, laughter bubbling out as he carried you up like you weighed nothing at all. His touch was careful but possessive, fingers spread wide along your side and thigh, holding you like he’d finally gotten his treasure back.

He didn’t say anything–didn’t need to.

He pushed open the bedroom door with one shoulder.

And the room…Was magic.

The lights had already been dimmed, golden sconces glowing along the walls and bathing the space in soft, flickering warmth. The bed was king-sized, low and wide, with gauzy cream linens spilling across it like waves of cloud. The headboard was carved wood, intricate and ancient-looking, with woven patterns that reminded you of something celestial. Framed constellations hung on the walls, starlight maps etched in gold leaf. The curtains, sheer and flowing, stirred gently with the breeze coming in through the open window–the lake beyond just visible in the distance, still and silver in the moonlight.

He set you down at the foot of the bed, lips grazing your forehead.

“Wait here and close your eyes.” You nodded, doing as you were told, your lashes fluttering closed. Your breath came soft and slow, your hands resting gently on your lap, fingers twitching in anticipation as the silence behind your eyelids shifted. You heard the low thud of his bag being set down, the sound of a zipper slowly tugged open. Fabric rustled. Something weighted was lifted. The air thickened–suffused with warmth and presence–and then there was a faint creak. A box. Wooden hinges. Something carefully being opened.

And then…There was silence. The kind of silence that felt sacred. You could feel him standing in front of you again, the heat of his body close–just a breath away. Your pulse picked up.

“Okay,” He whispered, voice molten. “You can look now.”

You opened your eyes.

And your heart stopped.

There, cradled in a velvet-lined obsidian box, was a golden collar–not jewelry, not in the traditional sense at least. It wasn’t dainty or cold or sterile. It was divine.

The band itself was thick but smooth, sculpted from celestial-grade gold–matte in some places, luminous in others, like it had been kissed by starlight and shadow. The edges weren’t harsh or clean-cut; they flowed in soft, organic curves, like the rhythm of waves or the spiral of nebulae. Etched faintly along the inside were tiny, nearly invisible constellations–like his memories of you mapped in starlight. But what made it impossibly his were the fingerprints–melted into the surface in swirling, imperfect ridges, pressed deeply into the metal in purposeful patterns.

They weren’t scattered.

They formed a ring around the front–his thumbs. One on either side of where the collar would rest over your pulse. As if he’d touched it just there, just once, and left a mark that would never fade.

You were utterly speechless as he stepped closer, pulling it out of the box–his fingers curling around the edges like he was lifting a crown to you.

”I made it myself,” He murmured, his voice unsteady with emotion, “Forged it in my hands. Shaped it over days. Touched it every night while thinking of you.” You stared, lips parting like you were going to try to say something but nothing managed to come out.

”I wanted it to be one of a kind,” He continued, “Because there’s only one you.” Your throat tightened.

”Sentry…” You finally choked out, “It’s beautiful.” His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if that alone made the universe worth preserving. Then he looked at you again–like you were gravity, divinity, home.

”I wanted this to be…My version of a wedding band for you. Something eternal.” You watched, frozen in awe, as he slowly sank to his knees before you, gold shimmering in his eyes, bright and glowing. “It’s to show our devotion…Not just to the love we have for each other but to the existence of it. To the fact that we found each other–out of all the galaxies, all the timelines. You are mine, and I am yours, and this…” He lifted the collar up to your view again, his golden eyes molten, “…Would be the seal of that eternity.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because Sentry always had a way with words and every time he spoke you felt like you were on the brink of passing out. Tears stung the corners of your eyes, overwhelmed by the power of his words, the way his gaze burned through you and worshipped you all at once.

Your hand reached out before your voice could catch up.

Fingertips grazed the edge of his jaw, trembling slightly, and then steadied as your palm cupped his cheek. His skin was warm–so warm–radiating the soft gold that pulsed through him now like a heartbeat. The glow from the collar shimmered up his arms, reflected in the whites of his eyes, danced along his collarbones like divinity in motion.

You held his gaze.

Then let it drop again–just for a moment–your eyes fixed on the collar in his hands.

The weight of it. The gravity of it.

Something forged by hands that could rend galaxies apart, shaped not with force but with all the tenderness and care he had in his being. Melted into existence with the memory of you pressed into its core. A vow made of metal. An oath made of gold. He spoke again, voice thick with longing, threaded with the barest thread of need.

“Will you wear it for me?” He asked, breath shallow. “And let me mark you as mine… forever?” Your lips parted. A soft smile pulled at the corners of your mouth, trembling with joy.

“Of course, Sentry…” You whispered, voice catching on your own heartbeat. “Of course I will.”

His expression crumbled–just for a breath. As if that one sentence had cracked something inside him wide open. He turned his head slightly and pressed a gentle kiss into your palm. The heat of it lingered long after his lips left your skin.

Then he looked back up at you. Golden eyes–twin novas–so full of love it almost hurt.

“Kneel with me,” He instructed.

You didn’t hesitate.

With your free hand, you reached behind and carefully adjusted the soft folds of your dress, the tulle rustling like wind through tall grass. And then, in a single slow movement, you lowered yourself down.

Onto your knees before him.

The fabric pooled around your legs like water, a sea of ivory and gold at the feet of a god. The wood beneath you was warm from the light. He still knelt taller than you–broad, radiant, impossibly steady–but you didn’t mind. You’d never minded.

He kissed your forehead.

Then your cheeks.

Then your lips–slowly, gently, like he was drinking from something sacred.

And when he pulled back, your hands were still tangled in his shirt and your eyes had gone glassy with the weight of everything that was happening.

He smiled brightly.

“Hold still, okay?” You nodded, breath shivering against the stillness of the air.

“Okay.” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, and yet it vibrated through the space between you like a promise. Like surrender.

Sentry inhaled slowly, deeply, as though grounding himself–centering every inch of his being around this one moment. You felt it before you saw it: the heat gathering at the edge of his palms, golden light kindling across the skin like a forge blooming to life. You could see it dancing across the veins in his hands, threading between his fingers, burning hotter with each passing second–but never too hot for you. Not with how carefully he held you.

His eyes never left yours.

Then he brought the collar around your neck.

The gold was soft, pliable in his hands–but only for him. It shimmered like liquid starlight, the edges glowing bright and molten, yet somehow it never touched you directly. His palms cupped the edges, shielding you completely. A living barrier between the burn of divine fire and your fragile mortal skin.

“I’ve got you,” He whispered.

And you believed it with every part of yourself.

Your pulse fluttered beneath the collar thrumming against the metal, and he felt it–his breath hitched. You watched his expression shift as he began to mold it, guiding the softened edges together like a craftsman with ancient knowledge in his bones. Like he wasn’t just fitting you with gold, but shaping something ancient into permanence. The air thickened. Time slowed.

The collar came together at the back of your neck.

Then his hands pressed in.

There was no sound, only a faint hiss of melted gold sealing shut–and a sudden, impossible warmth.

Not painful. Not even hot. Just alive.

The metal pulsed once like a heartbeat syncing with your own. Then the glow began to fade, soft and slow, until all that remained was the faint shimmer of cooling gold and the soft breath of his exhale washing across your cheek.

He didn’t let go right away. He kept his hands there, cradling the sides of your neck, letting the collar settle. Letting the moment settle. You could feel the weight of it now. Not heavy. Not oppressive. But grounding. Certain. Final.

When he finally moved, he pulled back only a few inches, letting his gaze drop to the curve of your throat. His thumbs swept lightly across the edges of the collar, tracing the melted seams, the constellation map hidden inside, the thumbprints that were perfectly aligned over your pulse.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N…It’s beautiful on you.” You couldn’t find words to say back to him, so you just smiled, slow and warm and aching, as you raised your hand to touch the new accessory you would be wearing for the rest of your life. Your fingers skimmed over the metal, over the still-warm curve that sat perfectly against your skin, and you let out the tiniest breath of a laugh as your fingertips met the place where his fingerprints sat, sunken and permanent.

You let your thumb glide over it once. Twice.

“It…” You started, then stopped–overwhelmed again, before looking up into his golden irises, “…It feels like you’re still touching me.” His eyes searched yours with such tenderness that it made your throat tighten again.

”That’s the whole point…” He murmured, “You’ll always have me with you…And everyone will know you’re mine even when I’m not there.” You leaned in, your forehead pressing against his, the collar cool now against your neck but still pulsing with memory.

“I love it so much, Sentry…” You whispered, barely able to get the words out through the thickness in your chest.

His hands slid up slowly, cupping your cheeks with a gentleness that didn’t match the size or power of him. His thumbs swept softly beneath your eyes, and you felt the smooth weight of his wedding band where it rested against your skin–warm, steady, real. The contrast of it, metal and gold and mortal love, made you ache.

“I’m glad,” He said softly, and then he kissed you again.

It started delicately. Just his lips against yours, pressing his love into every part of your mouth. But it deepened quickly, building with every second like he was letting everything he felt bleed into the space between you. His tongue slid against yours, slow and warm and devastating, his hands cradling your face like something holy. He groaned into the kiss–just barely–but the sound alone made your knees feel weaker than they already were.

When he pulled back, you could see the spark in his eyes now, that burning edge starting to thread through his golden glow, darker, needier. His chest rose with steady, deliberate breaths, and his hands didn’t fall from your face.

“Now…” He whispered, his voice molten and thick, “…I want to take off that dress of yours so I can reunite with your body.” You nodded slowly, your eyes wide and warm with emotion–but you reached up and caught his wrist before he could start to move.

“I have to tell you something before we do that though,” You said, your voice barely above a whisper. He froze. The flicker of hunger in his eyes softened instantly, replaced by that deep and immediate concern that only ever lived in Sentry’s gaze when it came to you.

“Is everything okay?” You nodded quickly, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand where it hovered near your cheek.

”Yes…Yes, everything is fine. I just…” You drew in a breath, heart thudding against your ribs, “Bob and I decided that it was time we start trying…” Sentry blinked in shock, like he was waiting for the words to come out of your mouth to fully confirm what he was thinking.

”I’m off my birth control now.” You stated. The silence in the room changed–snapped tight, taut, electric.

You watched it happen.

The way his pupils dilated instantly, black bleeding outward like eclipses devouring suns. The golden glow around his irises flared and then seemed to tremble–threatening to burst into full godhood. His breath hitched hard, lips parting as he stared at you like you’d just whispered a prayer meant only for him. He gulped like he needed to physically swallow down the growl threatening to claw its way up his throat.

”I really…” He began, voice rough with restraint, “Really don’t want to ruin that beautiful dress of yours by ripping it off you…But if I don’t get it off soon…” His eyes dropped to the curve of your waist, where the corset hugged your form like a second skin, “I’m going to lose every last ounce of self-control I have left.” A breathless, disbelieving laugh escaped your throat, and your whole body flushed with heat at the sound of his voice.

“I thought you might like that little surprise,” You whispered, smugly, tilting your head just enough to meet his blown-out gaze. He growled this time, then rose to his full height in front of you, golden and godlike and utterly wrecked with devotion. He reached for you instantly, gripping your hands to help you up from the floor. The second you were on your feet again, he tugged you closer–your chest brushing his, your breath caught between his parted lips and yours.

”Oh, Y/N…” His hands slid up your arms, slow and trembling with awe, until they rested gently at your shoulders, “You don’t understand what kind of animal you’ve triggered inside me now that you’ve told me this…” His lips brushed your temple, his voice hot against your skin, “It’s the best surprise I’ve ever received in my lifetime.” You barely had time to breathe before his hands slid to your waist, then around your back. One palm settled at the base of your spine, the other skimming higher, up between your shoulder blades. His fingers tracing the intricate lacing of the corset.

“Now…” He said, voice deepening again into something dark and delicious. “Turn around for me…So I can undo the corset.” Your legs trembled as you turned in his arms, the collar around your throat shifting gently with the motion. You felt his breath catch behind you as his hands fell to your hips–broad, warm palms sweeping down the curve of your waist like he was touching something sacred. His fingertips glided across the fabric, slow and intentional, preparing to peel back each layer like he was unwrapping a celestial relic. Then–

A kiss.

Soft. Warm. Right at your shoulder.

The contact sent a shiver through you, and your fingers curled reflexively at your sides. You heard him exhale against your skin, felt the heat of it ghost down your spine. And then, with painstaking care, he reached for the lacing of your corset.

One pull. Then another.

The ribbons loosened.

You exhaled shakily as he continued–fingers working slowly, like he was teasing himself, exposing more and more of your bare back to him with each tug. The delicate lace whispered down your skin like a promise, and when the last tie gave way, the fabric slackened entirely.

And you felt it.

The breath he took when he saw you.

The weight of his silence.

He ran a hand–hot and shaking–up the length of your spine, fingertips grazing vertebrae like a prayer, before he pressed his lips between your shoulder blades. Then lower. Then lower still. He kissed every inch of skin that was unveiled to him, until he reached the edge of the gown pooled at your waist.

His hands slid to your hips, and he knelt behind you without a word.

The fabric rustled as he eased it down, past your thighs, letting it pool at your feet like fallen starlight.

And then…He groaned.

Loud. Open. Worshipful.

“I can smell you from here…” He breathed, completely wrecked, “I’m gonna die a happy man tonight.” He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you gently back against his chest. You could feel the heat of his skin through the thin veil of your white lace underwear–feel the tremble in his breath, the ache in his grip. His palms splayed across your stomach, fingertips brushing the soft curve just above your navel. His hair tickled against the small of your back as his mouth trailed kisses over your skin. Slow. Devotional. Like he was remembering the sweetness of you, the saltiness that lined your body. You felt him breathe you in, the inhale trembling as it settled into his lungs. Then he paused, hands tightening slightly on your hips before he turned you to face him.

He stayed kneeling, still wrapped around your legs, his golden gaze dragging upward until it landed on your chest–bare now, your nipples perked from the cool air. His eyes darkened. His jaw slackened. You watched his breath catch again, like just seeing you like this was enough to level him.

“God…” He rasped, voice low and reverent, “You’re so fucking beautiful.” His fingers flexed against your hips, trembling with restraint. Then he leaned in and pressed a warm, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach. You felt the sharp little nip of his teeth–a teasing bite just above your navel–and you gasped softly, your fingers finding their way into his thick hair, tugging instinctively. He kept his eyes on yours. Didn’t break the contact, not even once, even as he sucked a dark mark into the soft skin of your belly–branding you with the same worship he forged into the collar.

“You’re perfect,” He murmured, his breath hot against the fresh love bite, “Every single part of you is absolutely perfect.” When he finally rose to stand again, you felt yourself automatically reach for him, palms smoothing over his chest. The kiss-drunk haze in your eyes shifted into something hungrier as your fingers found the first button of his dress shirt. He watched you, lips parted, golden eyes hooded with heat as you worked each one open.

One by one.

Each exposed inch of skin made your breath catch.

Freckled shoulders. Honey-dusted clavicle. That broad, warm chest that you’d pressed your face into countless times before–but never like this. Never as his wife. Never with eternity hanging in the space between your bodies. Your eyes traced the way the light brushed across his pale skin turning it amber, illuminating his pecs, the freckles that scattered over his chest like constellations. His wedding band gleamed at the edge of your vision as he reached up and helped shrug the shirt from his shoulders. It hit the floor next to your dress with a soft sigh of fabric.

You didn’t even have time to admire before his hands were on you again–lifting you with effortless strength, your legs curling instinctively around his waist. You giggled, breathless and stunned from the sheer awe of it all as he carried you toward the bed. He set you down gently at the edge of the mattress, as if you were made of glass, then crouched in front of you again with a look that nearly undid you completely.

His large hands reached for your white heels, fingers brushing your ankle delicately as he undid the tiny buckles. His touch was careful. Worshipful.

“You’ve been in these all day…” He pointed out, voice thick with both concern and observation, “Let me take care of you…” The moment the first shoe slipped off, he brought your foot into his hands and began to massage it–his thumbs pressing slowly into your aching arch, working small circles that had your head tipping back slightly in pleasure. His fingers swept over the ball of your foot, your heel, then moved up–kneading gently at the delicate hinge of your ankle. You whimpered softly.

“I love you like this,” He whispered. “Soft and open and glowing.”

He removed the other shoe with the same care, letting it drop beside the bed. Then his thumbs slid up your calves, pressing into the muscle just enough to make you moan. Your thighs trembled as he kept touching, soothing, exploring.

“Sentry…” You breathed, your fingers curling into the comforter behind you, “You’re gonna make me cry…” He looked up at you then, catching your gaze as his lips parted in a shaky smile.

“That’s the idea,” he whispered. “I want you to cry from how good it feels. From how loved you are. How wanted.” His hands slid higher, fingers spreading across your thighs, thumbs pressing slow circles against your inner skin–so close to where you throbbed for him. He inhaled sharply as your legs parted for him, your thighs easing open just a few inches–an invitation, an offering. Sentry’s eyes darkened as he leaned forward again, kneeling between them.

The first kiss landed soft and molten on the inside of your right knee. Then the left. His warm breath ghosted over your skin, lips brushing featherlight circles against the sensitive flesh. You trembled under the weight of it–his worship, his restraint, the barely concealed hunger in the way he moved.

Then he stood.

His broad form loomed over you, golden light gilding every line of his body, casting shadows beneath the curve of his jaw, the slant of his collarbones. He reached for the buckle of his belt, fingers deft and precise. You watched the motion like it was sacred–hypnotized as the leather slid through the loops with a soft, deliberate hiss. Your eyes dropped lower.

He was already hardening beneath the fabric of his dress pants. Not fully–but undeniably aroused. The evidence of his need, swollen and pushing against the front of his slacks, made your breath catch in your throat. His control–the sheer effort it took not to devour you whole–was staggering.

You dragged your gaze back up just as he pushed his pants off his hips. They dropped to the floor with a soft whisper of fabric. He stepped out of them with grace, leaving him in nothing but black boxer-briefs that clung to his frame, and a gaze that burned.

Then his hand reached for your face again.

His fingers cupped your cheek. His thumb–warm and trembling slightly–dragged across your bottom lip. You parted your mouth for him without hesitation, your tongue flicking against the pad instinctively.

And then you sucked.

Soft and slow.

His breath shuddered. His body stilled. And for a long, delicious moment, he just stared down at you with his thumb in your mouth like he was trying not to melt into a puddle of gold on the spot.

Then, gently, he pulled it free with a wet pop.

His gaze dropped to your chest, where your nipples were already tight from the air and his attention, and he dragged that glistening thumb across one of them–slowly–painting your skin with your own saliva. You let out a little hum of pleasure at the sensation.

”Be a good girl…” He murmured, his voice low and devastating, “….Scoot back for me then lay down.” You shuffled back on trembling hands, letting your hips glide toward the gentler of the mattress, your skin kissed gold by the amber lighting. You lowered yourself slowly, the gauzy sheets cool against your bare back. He followed the movement with a gaze that could shatter stars.

Your thighs fell open more, soft and willing. And that was when he saw it.

The soaked lace between your legs.

Ruined.

His breath left him like it had been punched from his lungs. His hands flexed at his sides. His throat bobbed.

“Oh…my god,” He whispered, barely holding himself back as he moved between your legs. “You’re already wet for me, my sweet girl? Already soaked through your pretty little wedding lace?”

You bit your lip and nodded, breath shaky, heart slamming behind your ribs.

“I can smell how badly you need me,” He groaned, one palm bracing beside your hip on the bed, the other reaching up to cup your thigh and push it wider. “Look at you…Laid out for me on our wedding night…So beautiful, so perfect, so mine.” He settled between your thighs like a man taking his rightful place before an altar, eyes fixed to your body like a god studying a celestial map. His broad frame eclipsed everything else. And as his palms slid along the outside of your thighs–warm, steady, glowing faintly gold–he pressed the softest kiss to your belly.

Then another.

And another.

You gasped as his mouth opened fully on the next one–his tongue dragging slow and wet across your skin, leaving a glistening trail behind. Drool collected at the corner of his mouth, smearing slightly as he nuzzled into your stomach and groaned.

“God, I missed this,” He rasped, his voice husky with restraint and want, lips grazing the curve of your navel as he breathed you in. “You taste like warmth…Like skin and sweetness…Like a dessert.”

More saliva welled and dripped down, glistening in the golden lamplight as he dragged his mouth across the low slope of your belly–devotional, messy, claiming. He kissed a stripe up your abdomen, then licked it clean. His mouth opened again, tongue flattening as he lapped at the heat pooling just above your lace waistband.

You whimpered when his breath hit that sensitive edge, hips twitching upward.

He chuckled softly.

“So sensitive tonight,” He murmured, almost to himself, tracing his thumbs under the thin waistband of your underwear. “So ready…”

You bit your lip, nodding in anticipation, chest rising with shallow breaths.

“Can I take these off?” He asked softly, already kissing the delicate band at your hip.

“Yes,” You whispered. “Please.”

He leaned back just enough to get a proper grip, then hooked his fingers gently beneath the lace. You lifted your hips for him–offering yourself–and he groaned again as he peeled the soaked fabric down your thighs in one slow, aching pull. Your legs stayed lifted, graceful and obedient, helping him guide the lace down past your knees and off in a single, smooth motion.

He held them for a moment.

Balled them up.

And brought them to his face.

The sound he made was obscene–nearly feral. A ragged inhale, like the scent alone could make him come undone.

“Fuck,” He whispered, voice low and reverent. “You smell like heaven.” His nostrils flared slightly as he ran his thumb across the soaked patch and held it there–before tossing them to the side so they weren’t blocking his view.

Then his gaze dropped to your core.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

You were glistening. Dripping. Spread open in the golden light. Your folds were slick, flushed, glimmering in the warm air–and the sight of it unraveled something in him. He pressed your thighs wider–big hands guiding them apart like he was revealing a divine secret. Then he just stared.

“You’re so wet for me already…So fucking pretty like this. I could look at you forever.” You moaned softly, hips twitching, desperate for his mouth. But he wasn’t done worshipping you. He leaned in again, kissing your inner thigh with that same reverent heat. Then higher. Then higher.

Each kiss left wetness behind. Saliva. Passion. Devotion.

He bit gently next, teeth grazing the soft skin, then soothed it with his tongue. His hands never left your legs–palms sliding up and down, grounding you, holding you in place as he licked and sucked his way up the tender curve of your thigh, kissing every inch he could claim.

You writhed beneath him.

“Sentry, please…”

He didn’t stop. He reached the place where your inner thighs met, just shy of your center. He paused there. His nose brushed your slick folds, and your hips lifted reflexively–seeking contact, chasing heat. But he didn’t give it. Not yet.

He exhaled slowly against your core. The cool breeze of his breath hit your soaked core, and you gasped–shivering as your arousal throbbed, muscles clenching

“Beg me,” He whispered, his voice thick, guttural. “Beg me for my mouth, Y/N…I want to hear you.” His lips hovered. Just there. His breath ghosting against your skin. So close. So unbearably close. You whimpered–your body twitching, your thighs trembling, your hands curling in the sheets.

“Sentry please,” You panted, nearly sobbing. “Please, I need you to–fuck–I need your mouth. I need you to taste me. I need your tongue, your lips, your–god–just please, please, I want it so badly, I need it…” Your hips lifted again–offering. Desperate.

“Tell me it’s mine,” He growled, keeping himself in control from touching you, panting through clenched teeth as your need threatened to consume him.

“It’s yours,” You gasped, voice cracking, “All of me is yours. Forever. Please Sentry…Please I need your mouth. I need you to devour me.” His golden eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide, hunger crashing through every line of his body.

Sentry leaned forward and pressed his mouth to you–open, wet, and groaning. His tongue flattened against your slick folds with an immediate need that made your hips buck, made your back arch off the bed. He groaned again, louder this time, the vibration dragging through your soaked skin as he licked a slow, devastating stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring every inch.

“F-fuck…” You gasped, hands flying to his light brown hair, gripping tight as your thighs threatened to close around him–but his palms were already bracing you wide open. His fingers dug into your flesh possessively, keeping you spread for his mouth like you were a feast he’d waited lifetimes for.

He didn’t rush.

He lapped at you slowly, methodically, tongue swirling around your clit before dragging it down again, collecting your slick like it was meant only for him. You heard him swallow–and then moan.

“God, you’re dripping for me, sweetheart…” He rasped, pulling back just far enough to spit against your folds. The warm drool slid down between your lips and made you twitch, made you whimper. “You’re making such a fucking mess…I could drown in you.” Then he pressed back in. Deeper this time. Messier.

His mouth devoured you, tongue flicking and curling with slow, practiced control as he sucked your clit into his mouth, letting it slide free only to do it again, and again, and again. Wetness smeared across his chin, dripped down his jaw. He nuzzled deeper, grinding the bridge of his nose against your mound as he sucked and licked like he was starved–like this was the only thing that could satisfy centuries of longing. You choked on a moan, trembling beneath him, one hand flying to your mouth to muffle the broken sounds spilling out. Your thighs flexed, stomach fluttering, and he groaned again–loud, desperate–when your hips bucked against his face.

Then he paused. Just a breath. Just enough to pull his slick mouth back and pant against your heat, his lips swollen and wet, chin glistening with your arousal.

And he looked up at you, eyes smoldering.

“You taste like something I was made to worship,” He said, voice rough velvet. “I’d stay between your thighs every night for the rest of eternity if you let me.”

Your chest was heaving now, nipples peaked, slick coating your thighs and the sheets beneath you, and still, you needed more.

But he wasn’t finished.

“I want you to breathe deeply for me now,” He whispered, dragging two fingers up through your slick folds, watching them glisten. “In through your nose, slow…Deeper…” You obeyed.

“And again,” he said, slipping his fingers just barely into your entrance, teasing. “Keep going. I want you to do it until you get lightheaded… then stop. Absorb that fucking feeling.”

You took another breath–long and full–and the edges of your vision started to shimmer. Your body trembled. He was so close. Too close.

And then–

He pushed two fingers inside.

Your mouth dropped open with a gasp as the stretch filled you perfectly, his fingers slow, deep, curling just enough to make your vision blur. He twisted them slightly, angling just right, and your walls clenched around him instantly.

“Thaaat’s it,” He groaned, licking a hot stripe back up to your clit. “You’re so tight, baby. So fucking soft. You’re already trying to pull me in. You gonna come for me?” You whimpered, nodding frantically as your hips rocked in rhythm with his thrusts.

“I need you to,” He said, lips brushing your clit between wet kisses. “Need to feel you lose it on my fingers before I fill you up with something even better.” He dipped lower again, lips and tongue working your clit in perfect counterpoint to the slow curl of his fingers. Each pump sent fire licking up your spine. Each flick of his tongue made your whole body seize with tension.

“Can’t wait to fuck this pretty little pussy of yours. Can’t wait to know that I fucked a baby into you.” He whispered into your core.

And your orgasm hit like lightning.

Your whole body snapped tight around his fingers, your thighs shaking, cries muffled by the hand you slapped over your mouth as pleasure ripped through your core and shattered you wide open.

Sentry moaned into your climax, fingers still working you through it, tongue never once letting up. He licked you through the aftershocks, slow and possessive, drinking down every drop of your slick like it was holy.

Only when your thighs finally trembled too hard to hold you open did he slow.

He kissed your inner thigh once. Then again. And only then did he pull back, face soaked, eyes molten with devotion and lust.

“You’re fucking perfect,” He whispered. His breath was still ragged against your inner thigh when he finally rose, his face soaked in your slick, jaw glistening in the dim amber light as he crawled up the length of your trembling body. You felt the heat of him everywhere–his palms dragging up your thighs, his chest brushing yours, his mouth hovering just above your skin as he loomed over you.

Then he lowered himself again.

His lips found your left breast–warm and reverent–as he mouthed around your nipple, tongue circling it slowly before he sucked. Your hips arched into him with a sharp gasp as he groaned deep in his chest, like just the taste of your skin could unravel him. His free hand braced your waist while the other cupped your other breast, fingers spreading wide, thumbing gently at the untouched peak as he sucked harder.

Wet heat. A pop. Then teeth.

He pulled off with a slick sound and immediately dragged his mouth to the other nipple, biting down just enough to make your breath stutter, then laving over it with his tongue to soothe the sting. His mouth worked you like worship, like this moment had been carved into his memory before it ever happened. And you writhed beneath him–gasping, moaning, curling your fingers into the sheets–completely undone by the way he devoured you like a starving god.

“Sentry–” You whimpered, the sound half-shattered.

He hummed around you again, vibrating through your nipple, and when he finally pulled back, both peaks were spit-slick, bitten, red, and achingly hard.

Then he looked up at you–hair mussed, lips swollen, chin gleaming.

And he climbed.

He slid his body flush against yours, hips grinding slow between your open thighs, his cock straining hot and soaked through the front of his boxers. You felt it drag against your skin, wetness smearing your thigh, and it made you whimper. His face hovered just above yours now, lips parted, breath ghosting over your cheek.

“God, look at you,” He whispered, reverent and hungry. “Laid out like a dream come true.”

And then he kissed you.

Messy. Starving. Tongue deep.

You could taste yourself on him–thick and sweet, laced into every swipe of his tongue. The kiss wasn’t gentle anymore. It was possessive, devastating. He groaned when you bit his lower lip, and then he shoved his tongue back into your mouth like he couldn’t get deep enough.

And then–mid-kiss–he pulled back just barely, lips hovering above yours.

His mouth opened.

And he spit into yours.

Slow. Sensual. Controlled.

The warm weight of it slid across your tongue, and you swallowed it without hesitation, moaning as your eyes fluttered closed.

“Fuck,” He growled, his forehead pressed against yours, panting, “You’re gonna ruin me tonight…”

You reached down and grabbed at his hips, trying to grind against the heat trapped between you, but he grunted softly and rutted against your thigh instead–still clothed, still leaking through the front of his briefs.

The pressure made you keen.

“Sentry…” You gasped, nearly sobbing, “Please…I need you so fucking bad. I need you to fuck me so good I feel it tomorrow morning–please, I want it. I want you.” He groaned–loud, guttural–and pushed his hips into yours again, the friction of his cock grinding through your slick making both of you shiver.

Then he rose up just enough to push his boxers down. They caught briefly around his thick thighs before sliding to his knees. And you saw him–bare, flushed, heavy and leaking, thick with the kind of need that only came from centuries of yearning.

He stroked himself slowly, precum glistening across the flushed head.

“This is what you want?” He asked, voice low and breathless, running his thumb over the slit. The thick head gleamed with slick, his knuckles flexing as he gave himself one long pump from base to tip.

“Yes,” You gasped. “Yes, I want it so bad…”

His golden eyes burned down into yours, and then–slowly, torturously–he leaned forward and dragged the head of his cock through your folds.

Your slick clung to him immediately, coating him with wetness as he rutted once, then again–gliding through the heat of you, smearing precum and arousal across your swollen entrance.

He groaned low in his throat.

“Fuck…You’re so wet for me, baby…So messy, just from my mouth and my fingers…Look at you, already begging for more.” He teased the head of his cock against your entrance, not pushing in–just dragging it back and forth, pressing slightly, then retreating, letting your bodies rub together in thick, soaked friction.

Your hips rocked up instinctively.

“Sentry,” You whimpered, “Please, I need to feel you.” He leaned in, his cock poised right at your entrance, pulsing.

“You’re gonna take every inch of me, sweetheart,” He whispered against your lips, “And I’m gonna make sure you feel me leaking out of you when you wake up tomorrow.” His cock dragged one last slow pass through your soaked folds, and you whimpered beneath him–hips lifting, thighs trembling, your whole body vibrating with want.

Then–finally–he pushed in.

The head stretched you first. Thick and blunt and perfect. The slowest, most delicious pressure blooming through your core as your core gave way around him inch by aching inch. You gasped, body arching, hands grabbing at his arms as your walls clung to him, pulsing at the intrusion. He groaned deep in his throat, forehead falling to your shoulder as he stilled halfway in, breath shaking against your skin.

“Fuck, you’re always so tight…And so fucking warm…” He hissed, golden eyes fluttering closed. “You’re pulling me in like a siren.” He pushed deeper, hips pressing forward as you moaned beneath him, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, dragging him closer. The stretch stung and sang in equal measure. But it wasn’t pain–it was pressure, fullness, the incredible, sacred ache of being opened by someone who worshipped you.

And Sentry did. Every breath he took said it. Every inch he gave you. He leaned in and kissed your neck–right above the collar he’d sealed around your neck–his lips hot and trembling. Then he kissed your jaw. And then, finally, your mouth.

It was messy. Open. Devotional.

You whimpered into his lips as he finally bottomed out–one long, slow push until his hips were flush to yours and his cock kissed the very edge of your cervix. You cried out at the sensation, clinging to him, your fingers digging into his back.

“Oh my god,” You whispered, your body pulsing helplessly around him. “You’re so deep…” He didn’t move right away. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting your body flutter and tighten around him, letting your warmth sear every inch of him. And then he pulled back–just barely–and began to thrust.

Slow and deep.

A rhythm that felt like prayer.

Each stroke made you keen beneath him. Each grind of his hips pressed the head of his cock right against that sensitive spot inside you that made your vision blur. You locked your ankles behind him, meeting each roll of his body with a soft gasp and a shudder.

“Fuck,” He groaned, voice strained, “You’re so good for me…so warm…so wet…I can feel you squeezing me.” Your nails dragged down his back–leaving red streaks in your wake–and he hissed, hips jerking into yours just a little rougher. His hand shot to yours immediately, grabbing it, gripping it, and pressing it flat to the pillow above your head–his palm locking yours there, grounding you beneath his body.

“Easy, sweetheart…” He murmured, “I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.” You moaned again–your voice shaking as he pressed in deeper.

“Please…Sentry…” You gasped, “I want you to fuck a baby into me.” His grip on your hand tightened against the pillow, palm flat against yours, fingers laced like he was anchoring himself to your body–to your soul–as his hips kept rolling into you with aching, deliberate depth. Each thrust drove him farther, each grind made you cry out beneath him, a trembling, desperate wreck clinging to his warmth and weight and power.

“Yeah?” He rasped, his voice wrecked and golden, each word punched out with a slow, deep thrust that made your legs shake. “That’s what you want, hmm? You want to grow my light inside you?” You sobbed beneath him, your body writhing, the collar cool now against your flushed throat as your back arched off the mattress in surrender. Your other hand clawed at his shoulder, dragging down through the heat of his freckled skin.

“Yes,” You gasped, “Please…Oh my god–I want it so bad–I want you to fill me with your cum, I want it to take–I want your light, Sentry–please give it to me.” His growl tore through the air like thunder.

His hips snapped forward. The rhythm shifted–slower now, but brutal. Deeper. His cock dragged thick through your soaked walls with every thrust, pushing so far inside you that your vision went blurry, your breath stuttered. Your body answered him with every roll of your hips, every squeeze of your core milking him for more. You were soaked–dripping down his cock, slick smearing across your thighs, between your ass cheeks, coating the sheets beneath you like the proof of devotion it was.

He leaned in, his forehead pressed to yours, panting open-mouthed into your kiss-slick lips. The sound of his thrusts filled the room–filthy, wet, sacred. The slap of skin. The groan of the bed.

His golden eyes never left yours.

“I’m gonna cum,” he growled against your lips, his voice a broken promise. “I’m gonna fuck it into you, baby–so deep you won’t be able to keep it from taking. You’re gonna feel it leaking out of you all night. You’re gonna sleep with my cum dripping from you and my collar around your throat.” You whimpered, already so close to the edge you could feel it blooming again, the pressure cresting in your belly.

“Please, Sentry,” You begged, voice high and shaking, “Give it all to me–please, I want it, I need it…Don’t hold back. Mark me.” That broke him. With a strangled moan, he slammed into you–hips grinding deep, his cock driving as far as it could possibly go–and he came.

Hot.

Violent.

Endless.

You could feel it. The way his cock twitched inside you. The way his whole body shuddered and went still, pressing every last drop into your core like a gift from the sun itself. Thick pulses of heat flooded you, spurting straight against your cervix. You cried out, mouth open, the sensation too much and not enough all at once, your walls clenching greedily around him, milking him for more.

And above you–Sentry moaned. A sound so deep, so devastated, it echoed through the whole room. His face crumpled with it, his chest shaking, his body trembling like his godhood was splintering beneath the weight of it all.

And then–

The lights flickered off like the universe had momentarily short-circuited from the sheer force of what he’d given you. his body collapsed slowly–like a falling star caught in the gravity of its own devotion.

His forehead came to rest on your shoulder, damp with sweat, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. You could feel the rapid flutter of his chest pressed to yours, his ribs expanding with every desperate inhale. His cock throbbed gently where he was still buried deep inside you, and the warmth of his cum began to leak out around his softening length, slick and thick between your thighs.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

You simply laid there, trembling beneath him, his weight blanketing you, grounding you. One of his hands cradled your thigh, still slung loosely around his hip. The other found your palm, lacing your fingers together where they rested above your head.

The collar was still cool against your throat–but you could feel it now like a second heartbeat. A brand of light. A bond sealed in gold.

After a few long breaths, he kissed your shoulder.

Then again, slower.

And when he pulled his lips away, his voice was wrecked with softness and satisfaction.

“If it doesn’t take tonight…” He murmured, his words featherlight, lips brushing your collarbone as he spoke, “We’re going to be fucking like rabbits the entire week to make sure it does.”

You laughed gently, breath hitching as you tilted your head toward his.

“I agree.”

He smiled into your skin. The kind of smile that made his body melt a little more into yours. The kind that lit the inside of your ribs on fire.

He stayed there for a while longer, letting your breathing sync again, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours. You curled your arms around him, fingers combing through the mess of his hair, smoothing the strands where sweat had made them stick to his neck. He groaned softly, leaning into your touch.

Eventually, he propped himself up with a little grunt, cock slipping out of you with a wet, slow stretch. You winced at the loss, gasping softly at the warm trail that followed in his wake–his cum spilling down your folds and onto the sheets.

His eyes dropped to your core, pupils dilating again at the sight.

“You’re dripping,” He said quietly. You could only nod, too dazed to speak.

He reached up and brushed your hair from your face, then kissed your cheek, your lips, your temple.

“I’m gonna grab a warm towel and get you cleaned up,” He whispered, his voice velvet. “Stay right here. Don’t move.”

He pulled on his boxers again, tucking himself in, and padded off barefoot toward the bathroom. The sound of water running low and steady reached your ears as you lay back on the sheets–still flushed, thighs sticky, heart fluttering.

You touched the collar at your throat.

You traced the sunken swirl of his fingerprints. It hummed faintly against your pulse, like it was alive. Like it was listening.

A few moments later, he returned. He knelt beside the bed, a small towel in his hand, steam still curling from it. His movements were slow, deliberate. Gentle. He started at your thighs, dabbing away the slick that had smeared along the insides, careful not to press too hard on your sore muscles. His other hand braced your knee, thumb stroking little circles as he worked.

You watched his face the whole time.

How focused he was. How tender.

He cleaned between your legs next, murmuring soft apologies when your body twitched from oversensitivity. His touch was reverent. Thorough. Patient. He wiped away every trace of cum that had spilled out of you, making sure no part of you felt anything less than cherished. He even pressed a soft kiss to your knee when he finished, like a final seal of care.

Then he tossed the towel aside and rose to his feet again, gently lifting you into his arms with ease.

You curled into him instinctively–head against his chest, arms looped loosely around his neck–and he carried you into the ensuite bathroom.

Steam fogged the mirror. The scent of cedar and lavender drifted up from somewhere, and the overhead light had been dimmed to a soft amber glow.

He set you down on the closed toilet seat, grabbing another towel and wetting it with cooler water this time. He knelt again, dabbing at your chest, wiping the sheen of sweat from your breasts, your stomach, your collarbone. He kissed each area as he cleaned it–little presses of his lips that felt more like blessings than affection.

When he was done, he dried you off slowly. Then stood and disappeared for a moment–returning with one of his oversized black t-shirts.

“I want you to wear this,” He said softly, “Just for tonight. I want you covered in something that smells like me.”

You smiled. “You’re getting possessive again.”

His golden eyes darkened as he pulled the shirt gently over your head, helping you slip your arms through the sleeves.

“I made a collar for you, remember?” He said, brushing your hair out from where it had caught in the fabric. “I’m not possessive. I’m devoted.”

You melted.

He helped you to your feet, kissed you again, then turned off the bathroom light.

Back in the bedroom, the sheets had been straightened. A bottle of water waited on the nightstand beside a small chocolate you didn’t remember seeing earlier. Sentry climbed into bed first–laying on his back, broad chest rising and falling steadily. He reached for you instantly.

You curled up against him, one leg slung over his, your arm draped across his stomach. His arm slid beneath you, cradling your shoulders, his other hand drifting up to find the collar around your throat.

He rested his palm there. Flat. Warm.

And he didn’t move it.

“I love you,” He whispered.

“I love you too,” You breathed back, your voice full of sleep and satisfaction.

He kissed your forehead one last time, then let his eyes close.

You drifted off like that–wrapped in his arms, the collar gleaming faintly at your throat, and the slow, steady weight of his palm reminding you that you were safe, you were loved, and you were his.

Forever.

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broomsticks · 3 hours ago

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So, I would ask you, is it not time to do some of the hard things for yourself, to begin to ask some of the difficult questions of yourself? Is it not time to learn who you are and to come to know what you believe in? If you are like the rest of us, you won't like some of what you see in the mirror. But, so what - they're saving perfection for us in the next life.

Right now we've got to get along with the bumps and pimples, the bad habits, the weaknesses, the failings, the ugly little aspects of our character that we'd rather be without but that seem to stick to us like tar. Right now we, all of us, need to get on better terms with ourselves so that, despite our imperfections, we can get going with what is good and valuable and worthwhile and learn to stop hurting ourselves and those we love. It will not come as chilling news to you that no one gets out of this life alive and that, while we are here, we need something to believe in to keep us going. I don't know what this needs to be for you or where you will find it, but I know that if you will but look you will find something, something worth living for, some reason to put one foot in front of the other until a better day arrives. I will confess and share with you that some of the longest therapy hours I have spent have been with suicidal people who were utterly convinced that their lives were essentially finished and the only thing left that needed doing was to get the dying over with. They could not, despite all their efforts and mine, find a way in which to feel good about staying alive. But, because they didn't quit and I didn't quit, we made it through. And, in time, things got sorted out and we (and I mean we) survived. I will tell you what I have often told others who were in the midst of a suicidal crisis and who were searching for some reason to go on. They, maybe like you, felt lost and hopeless and as if nothing held any promise for them. They did not have a faith in some higher power to sustain them. And, despite how much I would like to have infected them with my zest for living and my philosophy of life, this is not an easy thing to do. Because for all the reasons a person enters a suicidal crisis, it is not a state of mind easily switched around by another's optimism. And so, as a way to find a common ground to bide the time, I have told this story. It is as if we are two people on a ship that is lost at sea and, so far as we can know, the captain has fallen overboard and no one is at the helm. The radio is out. There is a heavy fog all around us and no one can see where we are bound. We can see no beacon of light from a friendly shore. We can hear no sound of a rescue ship. One of us is terribly frightened. The other of us (me), is also frightened - but a bit less. I am a little less frightened because I have something to do to keep me busy. I have a job to do. My job is to give comfort until we are found or until the fog clears away and we can both see clearly again. This is the nature of our relationship. For me to feel good about giving support and comfort and encouragement, I need you to be willing to hang on and not to jump overboard because your terror of the unknown is greater than your fear of the here and now.And so, together, we will share our fear. And in this sharing we will come to know each other. We will talk and joke and tell stories and be kind to each other. We may not soon be rescued and may never be, but while we are lost, we will be together and, together, our fears will subside and we will find purpose in our being

A few years ago while trying to find ways to commit suicide as painlessly as possible, I came across a PDF of Dr. Paul Quinnett's The Forever Decision. Thinking it might go into actual methods of suicide (I read an article once that actually did that and was trying to find it again) I started to read it, and I think I only got about two pages in before I was crying too much to actually see the words.

I downloaded the PDF to my hard drive and I open it again whenever I'm feeling too suicidal to do much else, but not enough to start booking a ride to the hospital. And every time without fail I only go up to a few pages before backing off and choosing to live another day just because suicide suddenly seems even more unbearable than whatever the hell upset me in the first place.

All the book really does is [I'm pulling a summary from GoodReads here as, again, I've read no more than 5 pages] "discusses the social aspects of suicide, the right to die, anger, loneliness, depression, stress, hopelessness, drug and alcohol abuse, the consequences of a suicide attempt, and how to get help."

But it also starts with the author kindly asking the reader to complete the book before going through with anything, and for some reason I'm compelled to really just try to read it all before finalizing everything. Despite not yet completing it (hopefully never will) I think I can safely say it's saved my life at least a few times now.

It's intentionally legal to copy and redistribute this book to keep it as accessible as possible, and it's very easy to find, but here's a link for it anyways.

#stay stay stay #misc mental health stuff tag #this saves my life a little

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lascvitae · 2 days ago

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NO GUIDANCE ✵ YU JIMIN

I DON’T WANNA PLAY NO GAMES, PLAY NO GAMES

FUCK AROUND GIVE YOU MY LAST NAME .ᐟ

ᝰ.ᐟ you haven’t seen her in weeks. so when your long distance girlfriend shows up at your door, it’s hard for either of you to have any restraint.

ᝰ.ᐟ pairing. g!p!karina × fem!reader ᝰ.ᐟ genre. smut (18+) ᝰ.ᐟ warnings/tags. cursing, dom!karina, praise && degradation, you give her a blowjob, facefucking, fingering, breeding kink, begging, multiple creampies (use condoms kids), hair pulling, light choking, cockdrunk reader, pet names (baby, my girl, angel, pretty girl), lmk what i missed!

ᝰ.ᐟ wc 3.6k

ᝰ.ᐟ katty freaky ass request… this fic was supposed to be named smth else but i wanted to save it for another fic 😪

(🎧) now playing — no guidance by chris brown.

masterlist.

YOUR APARTMENT FEELS STUPIDLY QUIET. you can hear your heartbeat and every hitch of your breath, and it feels as if everything around you has an echo.

you stare at the photo of you and jimin at that bookstore in atlanta. her hair was much longer then and you were still in your fall semester. she had her hand on your lower back, face tucked into your neck like she couldn’t help herself.

you were smiling. you both were. but now, you’re frowning at your phone like you need to be put into a boxing ring with it.

the shared folder you made months ago tilted “us <3” is full of screenshots, videos, blurry selfies, and multiple pictures of her asleep on your bed like you had all the time in the universe. you wished that you did.

you scroll past a screen recording of a video she sent you last month, voice low and breathy in a hotel bed while whispering that she misses your hands, mouth, and everything in between.

your thighs press together and you let out a groan before you can stop yourself.

“you suck. i hate you.” you mumble to the photo of her mid laugh, head thrown back and shirt half tucked.

obviously, you don’t. you love her. it’s just that it’s been exactly fifty three days since you last saw her in person. i mean, not that you’re counting or anything. not that your phone calendar has pasted heart emojis on all the days she was supposed to visit and didn’t.

soon, she keeps saying.

soon, baby. i’m sorry. i miss you so much.

you bite your lip and scroll all the way back to your one year anniversary. the day she sent you flowers and a long voicemail and said “if i were there, i’d spend the whole day making you smile.”

but you already cried into your pillow. now you’re just sulking. frustrated and overheated. your body keeps buzzing because it knows what time it is, and you’re too stubborn to do anything about it. you wanted her. only her. and she’s—

KNOCK KNOCK.

your heart stops. you sit up and blink.

knock knock knock.

you move without thinking, walking across the room in her shirt and socks, heart climbing up to your esophagus. you check the peephole and see black hair. a turquoise suitcase with shinchan stickers scattered over the material.

no fucking way.

you open the door and jimin is standing there, hair slightly disheveled from the wind. her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are soft when they land on you.

she lifts her hand in a shy little wave. “hey.”

you stare at her like she’s a hallucination.

“i’m dreaming.” you say.

“nope. definitely here.” she smiles and it’s tired and real and so pretty that it makes your chest ache.

“you’re supposed to be at work.”

“yeah. i skipped.”

you stare harder.

she shifts her weight, cheeks turning a deeper shade of red. “can i come in? or are you gonna leave me out here with my very, very heavy suitcase?”

you yank her inside and wrap your arms around her neck without another word.

she catches you like she’s been waiting to. her lips press to your cheek, your jaw, your hair. everywhere. her hands slide under your shirt to find your waist.

you cling harder and breathe her in. “you said soon.”

she laughs breathlessly against your neck. “surprise. i meant now.”

you give her a second to drag in her suitcase and then you’re back on her. but this time, you don’t let go. not even after she closes the door behind you.

she walks you both backwards with her arms around your waist, nose brushing your cheek. her breath is warm when she exhales softly, and then she’s pulling back just enough to look at you.

“your hair is longer.” she says.

you roll your eyes. “took you long enough.”

she grins. “you’re still the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen.”

“you’re tired.”

“not important.”

you exhale and her forehead tips into yours like it’s second nature. it always takes a second for you two to settle when she’s here again, like your body doesn’t believe it until you’re giggling under the pressure of the shower head.

you don’t realize your fingers are still holding the hem of her shirt until she leans back and glances around the space. then her eyebrows lift.

“…it’s so clean in here.”

you raise a brow. “thanks?”

“i’m just saying. you usually have like… three hoodies and snacks somewhere on the coffee table.”

you huff. “i cleaned before i started crying. it was too sad.”

that earns you a laugh. she presses a kiss to your cheek then another to your temple.

“are you eating properly?”

you shrug and she gives you a look.

“yes. kind of. why?” you lie.

“‘cause. everything’s clean. and you’re holding onto me like this.”

your lip trembles. you try to blink it away.

jimin softens immediately.

“did you miss me?”

you bury your face in her chest.

“yeah. missed you so bad i was being mean to your selfies.” you whisper.

she laughs again, wrapping her arms tighter around you.

“come here.” she walks you to the couch, dragging you with her like she’s afraid you might disappear next. then she sinks down and pulls you onto her lap.

you straddle her hips without thinking, arms around her neck again with muscle memory like your brain forgot any other way to exist. she grabs the remote and flips through your streaming apps with one hand, settling on some random movie. it’s something with explosions. you don’t care.

she tucks you closer. you bury your nose in her neck, and for a while, you stay like that.

she leaves soft kisses to your hairline. her fingers trace lazy shapes under your shirt, and her cock hardens slowly against your thigh without even meaning to. your thighs clench without realizing it.

she presses a soft kiss to your jaw.

then another. right under your ear.

then one to the corner of your mouth.

you turn your head just slightly and your lips catch.

and then the kiss that follows is slow, so slow. like she’s trying to remember how your lips taste. you shift, arms tightening around her. her hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer into her lap. her tongue brushes yours and you both sigh into it.

it’s soft. but it’s not innocent.

you break for breath but she doesn’t move far.

“i missed you. i missed you so much.” she murmurs, lips still brushing yours.

you nod with a shaky breath. “kiss me again.”

and she does. her lips move against yours like she forgot how to stop.

the second kiss is hungrier and messier. your noses bump once. your teeth clash softly. but neither of you care.

your fingers slide into her hair, tugging just enough to make her sigh into your mouth. she kisses you like she’s making up for lost time. like every second you spent apart is stored in her body and now that she’s finally here, she’s humming with it. everywhere.

you grind forward without meaning to. just a little. but she feels it. you know because her hands go tight at your waist.

you gasp into her mouth and she swallows it like it’s the first sound she’s ever heard from you.

her hands slip under your shirt, her shirt, dragging along your bare waist, back, and stomach. her thumbs settle right under your chest, but she doesn’t push further. not yet.

she pulls back. barely. her lips are red and her breathing’s uneven. her eyes search yours like they’re asking a question that you already answered.

“baby… did you get this wet just from kissing me?” she murmurs, voice lower now.

your cheeks flush hot. your thighs twitch around her hips as you try to come up with a lie, but then she shifts slightly and presses her thigh between your legs.

the moan that slips from your lips is soft. embarrassing.

her eyes darken immediately.

“oh my god.” she whispers more to herself than to you.

then she leans forward again and kisses you slower this time. her tongue swipes along yours, grip on your waist tightening as you rock forward, grinding down on her leg in short, little motions.

“you’re already soaked.” she says against your mouth. “fuck. how long have you been like this?”

you whimper. “a while.”

she groans before pulling you closer, like that answer flipped something in her chest. you feel her dick twitch under her pants, thick and pulsing between your bodies. your hips move without thought.

you want her. you want her so bad it’s making you dizzy.

“please.” you whisper.

she noses down your jaw, voice shaking slightly. “please what, baby?”

“kiss me. touch me. anything.”

jimin stares at you for a moment too long. like you just gave her permission to completely lose her mind.

then her voice drops. “anything?”

“anything.”

her grip tightens on your waist. “then get on your knees, baby.”

you slide down without hesitation, eyes locked on hers the whole way. you’re already trembling, high off of the sound of her voice and the weight of her stare.

you hook your fingers into her waistband. “can i?”

she leans back, nodding slowly. “yeah. take it off. want you to show me how much you missed it.”

you drag her pants and briefs down her thighs. her cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking.

you go still and she smirks. “something wrong, baby?”

you shake your head. “it’s just been a while. and you’re already so hard.”

“yeah. because i walked in and saw you in my shirt with no panties and—” she murmurs, but you cut her off once you moan softly and wrap your hand around her. her cock is warm in your palm, tip sticky with precum.

“fuck.” she breathes, hips flexing just barely. she grabs her base with one hand and taps her tip against your tongue. once. twice. then again, a little harder.

wet sounds echo in the room as her cock slaps your tongue, precum smearing across your lips and chin. you moan for it, eyes fluttering as your jaw goes slack.

“fuck, look at you. tongue out for me like a good little slut.” she groans.

you nod and slowly lick a stripe up her shaft, letting your tongue swirl around the head before leaving a soft and open mouthed kiss. she curses under her breath.

“tease.” she mutters.

you hum and take her in deeper.

the first moan that leaves her is low. you feel it vibrate all the way down to your toes.

“fuck, that’s it. just like that, baby.” she moans, sliding her hand into your hair.

you take more of her in, slow and steady, until your nose brushes the base and she groans.

“shit— missed this mouth so bad. been jerking off for weeks thinking about how wet you get this dick.” she pants, barely holding still.

you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, taking more of her with every pass. your eyes flutter closed and your free hand trails down your own body. you’re soaked. aching, even. you slip two fingers inside yourself and moan around her length.

her head tips back. “oh my god. you’re fingering yourself?”

you whimper in response.

“shit— shit, baby, don’t stop. fuck— yeah, just like that—”

her voice is a mess, slipping between moans and praise and panting curses. her hips jerk every time your throat tightens around her.

you start moving faster, spit dripping down your chin. your fingers speed up in your cunt and you’re whining around her dick, hips grinding against nothing.

“fuck, baby— you love this dick, don’t you?” she groans.

you nod with glazed eyes, cockdrunk and desperate.

“shit, angel— look at me. you’re so fucking pretty like this.” she grips your chin, pulling you up slightly. her cock slides halfway out of your mouth.

you try to take her back in, but she stops you. you whimper in protest.

then she pushes your head back down, slow and steady, and fucks your mouth. soft at first, then rougher, like it’s been too long without you and she can’t control it. you moan around her and her whole body shudders.

“i need to be inside you.” she says suddenly, pulling you off with a wet pop. your lips are swollen, hand still shamelessly buried between your legs. she drags you up into her lap and kisses you hard. she bites your lip she wants her cock back in your mouth but needs it in your cunt more.

“please. fuck me, jimin.” you beg.

she exhales hard through her nose then grabs you under the thighs and lifts you up a bit, pushing you back onto the couch until you’re flat. your legs bend over her lap, shirt riding up your waist. she slides off your underwear in one go, carelessly tossing them across the room.

“begging like that. you don’t even know what you’re asking for.” she breathes, standing up on one knee.

“i do— i want it. want you—” you gasp.

she groans deep in her chest and grabs the base of her length, angling it against your slick entrance but not pushing in. she drags the head up and down your soaked folds, tapping it right against your clit.

you bite your lip. “fuck, jimin..”

“you missed this dick that bad?” she asks, slapping the tip against your cunt again. you nod frantically, fingers digging into her arms.

“please, put it in, i need it so bad—”

“say it louder.” she breathes.

“missed you, baby. need you to fill me up. need to feel you inside me, please—“

she strokes herself once then lines up and presses the tip to your entrance. her eyes stay locked on yours the whole time as she sinks in. all the way.

your jaw drops open on a moan. she fills you so deep and slow it almost hurts. your walls clench tight around her, and her hands go to your waist like she needs to hold you steady or she might lose it.

“shit. you’re fucking soaking.” she moans.

“because i— fuck, jimin— i missed you so much.” you whimper as she bottoms out.

“yeah? this needy over my dick, baby? you’ve been waiting like this?” you nod fast.

“i’ve been— all month. thought about you every night—”

she pulls out halfway then slams back in. you arch, clutching the cushions.

“every night? did you touch yourself thinking about me filling you up?” she pants, pace already picking up.

“yes— fuck, yes—”

“let me hear it, baby. let the whole building hear how good i make you feel.”

you cry out when she starts to fuck you rougher, hips moving in sharp thrusts that punch moans out of your throat. her hands slide under your knees, pushing your legs up and wider. you’re splayed open, dripping around her cock. the wet sound of your cunt is so obscene it makes her curse.

“taking me so good. you’re so fucking pretty— fuck.” she huffs.

your eyes roll back, back arching. “yes— fuck, jimin!”

you’re dizzy with it. the way she’s stretching you, how good the pace feels, and she leans down and kisses you hard even when you can barely breathe.

then she stops.

you whine, panicking, until she grins. her hand slides down your back as she flips you over onto your stomach.

you don’t even have time to react. she grabs your hips and pulls you up to your knees, then she’s sliding back in from behind in one thrust.

you sob into the couch.

“oh my god— baby—!”

“shh. you wanted this. keep your legs open. let me fuck you how you need it.” she moans in your ear.

you nod, drooling on the cushion, thighs shaking.

her thrusts are deep and brutal, length dragging along your g-spot so good you can’t do anything but moan and take it. her hand finds your wrists, yanking them behind your back.

then she firmly grabs both and holds them there with one hand while the other anchors your waist.

she starts fucking you harder. deeper. your body jerks forward with every stroke, but her grip keeps you right where she wants you.

“say it. say whose pussy this is.” she demands. the couch is creaking.

“yours— fuck, jimin— yours, yours—”

“so fucking good for me. god, you’re so sexy.”

you feel her lean over you, chest pressed to your back, length still slamming into you while her mouth brushes your neck.

“want me to fill you up, baby?” she whispers.

“yes, please! need it so bad—“

“yeah? you want me to breed you, huh?” she pants.

your jaw falls open and your legs tremble, unable to keep holding you up. “fuck— fuck!”

you cum like that. hands bound while you’re bent over, crying out her name into the couch cushions as you clench around her. she’s not far behind.

she curses, losing her rhythm before she thrusts deep one last time and stays there. her cock pulses as she cums inside you with a moan so hot you clench and almost cum again.

you both stay there, panting.

she doesn’t let go of your wrists right away or pull out either. she rests her cheek against your back and hums like she finally feels complete again.

then you grind your ass against her hips.

“fuck, baby. you wanna go again?” she mumbles, still buried in your soaked cunt.

“y-yeah.” you hum greedily, turning your head to look at her.

she groans, slapping your ass. “yeah? you want it?”

you grind harder, yelping and nodding quickly as she sits up again. “yeah— fuck me. fuck me ‘til i can’t walk.”

jimin laughs under her breath, almost disbelieving. “you’re insane.” she murmurs, but her voice is low, wrecked with how much she wants you. “my girl’s gone fucking stupid on dick already.”

“mhm.” you hum, dizzy and cockdrunk, eyes fluttering as you push back against her again, needy and desperate. “so fuckin’ dumb for you. please, jimin. please.”

she groans and pulls out, the wet drag making you shudder. then she’s standing, grabbing your jaw, tilting your face back with fingers still trembling from how tight you were.

you don’t know how long it’s been. minutes? maybe hours? time stopped meaning anything after your third orgasm.

but you got exactly what you asked for.

you’re bent over the kitchen counter now, one leg lifted onto the cool marble, cheek pressed to your forearm while jimin rails you from behind like she’s trying to fuck the sanity out of you.

your throat is hoarse from moaning. your cunt is drenched. the marble underneath you is smeared with slick.

“f-fuck— fuck, jimin—” your voice breaks on a sob.

“so fucking tight, baby.” she breathes behind you, voice low and fucked out. “so good— you’re creaming all over me.”

her thrusts don’t let up. her length is dragging against your walls like she’s trying to ruin you, hips slapping into your ass with a rhythm so brutal you can’t keep your moans in. you’re shaking under her, legs rendered completely useless.

“you said— said you wanted this, right?” she pants, one hand digging into your hip, the other sliding up your spine to press between your shoulders and arch your back deeper. “said fuck you til you can’t walk. you meant it?”

you nod frantically, walls clenching around her cock. “yes— yes— i meant it—”

“fucking filthy girl. been thinking about this pussy for weeks. been dreaming about this— fuck— every night.” she groans and you feel her lean over you, chest pressing into your back as she grinds in deep.

you whimper, drool smeared across your arm. “shoulda called me— would’ve let you hear me cum.”

“don’t say that shit or i’ll fucking lose it.” she groans, slamming into you harder.

you cry out, knees buckling.

“shit, baby. you’re making a mess on the counter, dripping down your fucking legs. this pussy missed me that bad?” she mutters like she’s in awe.

“needed you— been needy for you all month, jimin, please—” your voice is wrecked.

“yeah? you needed me to fill you up?” she pants, hand sliding down to your stomach.

you sob, nodding like your life depends on it. “please— fill me again— wanna cum with you inside—”

“fuck. say it again.” her hips stutter like she can’t get enough of hearing you say that.

“fill me up, jimin. please. wanna be full of you. want your cum dripping out of me—”

she moans deep in her chest and grabs your jaw, yanking your head back so she can kiss you sideways. her other hand stays at your hip, steadying you while her cock pounds up into your cunt.

you moan into her mouth and she pulls back with a gasp. “gonna knock you up, baby. shit, you’re shaking.”

“i’m close.” you cry, thighs trembling violently.

“cum on my dick then, baby. make a mess on it.”

and your orgasm hits you. you’re loud, sobbing and shaking. you clench so tight around her she curses, eyes slamming shut as she fucks you through it.

“fuck, fuck— baby— gonna cum— gonna fill this pretty pussy up—“ she pants, hips jerking.

you push back onto her cock desperately. “please, jimin— wanna be leaking all night—”

her eyes roll back and she cums with a broken groan, cock buried to the hilt as she unloads inside of you. her hips grind through the aftershocks like she’s high on the feeling of you.

you both go still, panting and trembling.

then she pulls out slowly, and it’s wet. her cum spills out and her hand strokes over your ass once, then slides back between your legs to spread you open and watch more of it drip.

“fuck. wanna fuck you again just to push it deeper.” she whispers.

you whimper and look back at her. “then do it.”

jimin smirks. “kitchen’s not the only room in this apartment.”

“then fuck me in every single one.”

taglist @saysirhc @blissfulflw @yuyuy90 @1luvkarina @lafortezalover

#no guidance — yjm #aespa #aespa imagines #aespa karina #karina x fem reader #karina x reader #karina smut #g!p karina #wlw

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rosiesweets · 3 days ago

Text

and i'd give myself to you (every time) - two

synopsis: azzi should’ve really thought about how one of the first traits anyone in her life would describe her with is indecisive. now she’s on a show where she makes about thirty decisions a night. she really is a maker of her own misery. oh, and paige is going to buy this strawberry chapstick she stole from nika in bulk.

a/n: welcome to night one! as always, thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts with me. would give me a giggle to see what type of one on one you think paige should go on, if you want to share. as always, will come back to edit another time. xo, chiara.

and in your kiss i taste home (and strawberry chapstick)

there is sweat gathering at the small of azzi’s back as she stands to meet the twelfth? thirteenth?, who knows at this point, contestant. it’s been almost three hours and azzi thinks her feet have gone numb. she really needs to get a grip though she thinks to herself. given she’s five-ten, she isn’t even wearing that high of heels. also, she’s doing the easy part.

she remembers sitting in the limo last year surrounded by five girls that seemingly shimmered from everywhere- their gowns, their eyes, their teeth - and thinking to herself, i am absolutely going home tonight. the worry of not only making a good first impression in your allotted twenty to thirty seconds but making a better, more memorable one than people who looked like they should sell expensive moisturizer, almost froze her enough to not step out of the limo at all that night. she does have to give herself credit though, she had a really cute opener. she remembers not wanting to be given some insane prop like a vintage car or whatever so she brought one. she made one those hand fortune tellers, colors on the four top pieces, numbers written pink glitter gel pen. when james pointed to the number three she opened the open flap and read “tonight you will give me a kiss” and hey, she ended up predicting the future and with the first impression rose.

azzi shakes her thoughts away from that night. three months ago it burned in her chest whenever it came up without her wanting. she used to sit and replay everything, starting with that night. she used to ask herself if she should’ve done anything differently. not to ultimately win james, but to stop the feeling of inadequacy that used to fill her so completely she felt like at any point she’d drown from underneath it. it’s a hard thing to stand in front of someone and say please, pick me. out of all these beautiful, glimmering souls, i can love you the best.

she did that for eleven weeks. and with each one, the hope blossomed. until the end, when azzi knew she was meant for devastation. she knew a life with james wasn’t the life she actually wanted but she did love him. thought to herself when she didn’t want to admit the truth, that they would have a nice life together. quiet and honest. it wouldn’t be all that incredibly exciting, but it would theirs. and if azzi was being honest with herself, all she’s ever wanted was a love that was hers. azzi wanted to intertwine her hands with someone and say look at this home we built. that our love built.

azzi recognizes she has been given the chance to meet thirty people solely focused on her, and be entirely selfish in her decisions, at least this very first night. she gets to sit and ask does this person fit me? there is not outside real world context that is asking her to make sacrifices, to fold and filet herself to fit someone. that’s a luck not many are given. so she stands there, uncomfortable under the harsh production lights and gives each contestant her individual attention. she stands through cringe one liners, someone in a lion onesie, and one of the guys, isaac she thinks, throwing a baseball about half a inch off from her face (they redo this entrance about five times before giving up on the baseball entirely). ultimately azzi is grateful. all these people making a fool of themselves in an attempt to make her laugh. at the same time, she worries to herself as each person passes by that she is never going to get any of their names correct and please, boy parents come with a name other than matt.

finally, the first looks are over, but the night has just begun. before she’s supposed to make her entrance to the mansion and start the very first cocktail hour, caroline pulls her aside to check in (and begin plotting, she’s a producer after all). she asks who is the front runner right now and azzi honestly says no one, because how could she have a front runner after only saying about five to ten words to each person?

“come on, there has to be someone that took your breath away,” caroline pushes. and azzi thinks to herself, blonde hair, blue eyes, and an accent she can’t quite place calling her princess. she keeps it to herself though. she knows how this works and she doesn’t think she wants to give the producers anymore meddling fuel than necessary. she assures caroline that everyone is still in the running for the first impression rose, and with butterflies of both excitement and nerves, makes her way in to begin the night.

—

of course, she meets a matt first. she’s been told to pull him away and she’s trying to make strategic decisions of when she does and doesn’t listen to the production team. she doesn’t remember much, granted she is going on hour five without food, but she remembers walking away thinking he was kind and sweet and for today, that should be enough to go forward.

there’s a girl, lina, that makes her keel over with laughter. she’s a social media manager of some small brand that should not have followers in the six figures on tik tok but does because lina is creative and funny and entirely too chronically online. azzi thinks that she’ll definitely take her on a one on one soon. laughing with lina sounds like the perfect way to spend a day.

many of the rest blur around her. there’s murmurings of an argument brewing in the background as she sits on a bench swing outside in a rare moment alone. she contemplates asking caroline what’s going on but decides mitigating an argument on the very first night is really not something she wants to do unless she has to.

suddenly there’s a presence in front of her and she looks up taking in cool brown loafers, linen pleated trousers, and a white short sleeve button down with a lethal four buttons open. dylan, azzi’s sleep deprived brain provides. “is this seat taken?” azzi shakes her head and gently moves to the right. dylan’s warm green eyes meet hers and she asks her how she’s doing. azzi takes a sweep of dylan’s freckles that dance across her nose before answering, “if i’m honest, i’m tired and i really wish they let me eat anything in this dress.” and before dylan can reply, azzi quickly adds, “but really i’m grateful, everyone seems so kind and interesting, i can’t wait to get to know everyone.” dylan laughs replying “you know for a main character of a reality tv show, you might try being more selfish. i don’t want to tell you what to do, but you should be able to complain without qualifying it. you look stunning in this gown, but i mean really, would a chicken finger threaten it?” and azzi, for the second time this night lets out her full, genuine smile. “thank you, i really needed to hear that. and i know right, isn’t there tv editing they can do anyway?”

azzi spends the next ten minutes learning about dylan. learns they’re both currently living in dc. hears about dylan’s family back in southern california. big and chaotic. summers spent on the beach trying and failing to catch waves in the pacific. drives up and down the california coast. there’s an ease to their conversation that makes azzi picture them in a car, top down, wind her curls, and dylan in the driver seat.

before azzi’s imagination can run wild she hears the same voice from earlier that raised the hairs on the nape of her neck. “mind if i steal her away?” and there she is, paige bueckers.

azzi does not live under a rock. she knows who she is. she’s been to many mystics games, where paige had been on visiting side. she doesn’t know if she should mention it, but she went to uconn the same time as paige. went to their home games and watched her incredible senior run to the national championship. she thinks maybe spending four years on the same campus as paige, running in parallel lines, to having her stand in front of her on a set in la, hand gently reaching out for hers, is what the kids these day call invisible string. she shakes the thought away, uconn is a school of almost thirty thousand after all, and she was just one of what she was sure thousands of english majors in the stands.

she misses what dylan says, entirely focused on taking paige’s hand and being guided to room inside the mansion. paige’s fingers interlock with hers, strong and secure, as paige navigates the mansion like she’s lived here for ten years. suddenly they’re in a small parlor that has the fire place roaring and a small green love seat. paige sits them down and azzi folds her legs under herself, body positioned entirely toward paige.

before paige can say anything, azzi opens with “so do you try to impress all the pretty girls with cocky one liners?” paige smirks, one arm casually along the back of the loveseat, just a hair away from brushing against azzi’s shoulder. the other wrapped cooly around a cocktail glass, “cocky? or confident?” and before azzi’s brain can catch up to her mouth, the words come tumbling out “ah yes, best rizz in the world is it?”

azzi wants to kill herself. fuck. paige’s eyes light up in recognition. azzi has watched her in interviews. and azzi begins to stutter “i mean … uh … i” but paige’s smile, while absolutely huge, isn’t demeaning. carries no weight of someone who thinks of themselves as famous. instead it opens to say “oh so you were just going to keep being a women’s basketball fan all to yourself?” azzi’s relief is palpable. “i actually used to play.” and now paige’s smile softens as she asks her what made her stop. “i got injured, sophomore year of high school. tried to come back after the first acl tear, but the second happened so quickly time wasn’t on my side. i watched everyone in my recruit class pass me by, i,” and azzi looks just left of paige’s eyes as she says this, she doesn’t even know why she’s going into so much detail, but she thinks it’s because she knows paige will get it, get her. “there’s a part of me that thinks i could’ve recovered and made it back to at least be decent in college but if i’m honest at that point it felt like it was killing me. the resentment of my bad luck, the envy that grew inside as i watched my friends play on without me, and a rotting feeling inside that i couldn’t trust my own body anymore. i don’t know, it all just made me feel so ugly. i needed to stop before i hated myself to a point where i couldn’t come back.” azzi’s feels like she’s just said that all in one breath and she hesitantly looks back in paiges eyes, which haven’t left her face since the moment they sat down. paige says nothing at first, just looks at her with a quiet understanding. then, after a moment, says “i think basketball is the most beautiful game in the world. but also the most cruel. i’m really glad you had the courage to put yourself first. i don’t know many who would do that.”

and fuck if that’s not the perfect answer. azzi should kiss her. there’s not a response really better than that. but it’s early and azzi hasn’t kissed anyone tonight. she had in her mind that she wouldn’t, not unless it really felt right. dylan was the closest she got before, but this, the yearning to lean in close instead of having to speak about the worst part of her life any further almost pulls her body in before she can second guess it.

instead, she lets out a simple “thank you.” paige, sensing she’s done speaking about this for now, blessedly changes the subject. they talk about and at the surface level things you’d mention on the first date. friends, hobbies, families. paige mentions how her little brother has money on her going out on the first night, so she really needs to at least make it to tomorrow. “are you sure that doesn’t count as inside trading?” and paige cooly replies “don’t worry princess, it’ll stay between us.”

and there’s that name again. azzi thinks out of anyone else it would cringe, but it’s paige so instead it just sits inside azzi, stirring something she doesn’t want to acknowledge yet.

paige, never one to stay silent too long it seems, changes the subject again and goes “not to be a dumb jock, but what even is copy editing?” and azzi laughs again, full bodied and pure. “basically i edit other people’s writing. not only for grammar but the correct usage of terms of art etc. i actually work in the sports section of the ap. i think soon though, i want to start moving into writing more on my own. gain the courage to at least start drafting a few stories.” paige looks impressed and azzi thinks she going to need to start preparing ahead of time for paige’s unrelenting eye contact every time they speak.

“so what i’m hearing is you can write my biography,” and azzi pushes paige’s shoulder. the motion brings her slightly off balance, moving slightly too forward too fast, and paige gently catches her wrist. their faces are close, too close and azzi whispers in the inches between them “you’re so annoying.” paige doesn’t respond, just leans in closer.

their mouths are a breath away from each other when paige stops. eyes questioning. she wants me to decide azzi thinks. and azzi, notoriously indecisive, closes the gap softly.

honestly, in the first seconds, it’s a little awkward. azzi’s head is bit too to the left and there’s a camera about seven feet from their faces. but paige’s lips are warm and taste like strawberry chapstick. and soon azzi’s legs are side saddle over paige’s and paige has one hand on her thigh, another cradling her face with such reverence azzi can’t help but sigh a little deeper. paige’s mouth moves smooth and sure against hers, catching azzi’s top lip in perfect pressure, and azzi happily follows along. each press of their mouths together last longer than the last and thankfully paige hadn’t tried to shove her tongue in her mouth right away like almost every man she’s ever met. instead, paige kisses her like she has time. like there’s nothing else she’d rather do. like she’s planning to spend the rest of the night just like this, mouths and bodies pressed together. and really paige must be cutting azzi’s oxygen off because just as she’s contemplating pushing herself into paige’s lap completely, the sound of the door opening shatters the soft perfect bubble they created.

“sorry, can i cut in?” comes from behind them. and really, azzi knows this is how this works, she’s said that exact line before, but she at least had the decorum to not say it mid kiss. paige, seemingly on her best behavior, pulls away with a gentle laugh and whispers in her ear “see you soon beautiful.” and with one last kiss to azzi’s cheek, more of a brush than a kiss, she steps away. azzi can feel the pink of her cheeks deepen, and she’s certain the warmth from paige’s hand gently holding her face will last well through the night.

shit she thinks to herself. she already misses her.

—

azzi returns to caroline after listening to another man talk about his finance job and how much he loves his mom and sister. that was not worth leaving the couch with paige at all. caroline tells her it’s time to decide who she is sending home and give her first impression rose out.

“so you can go pull paige now for the first impression rose and then we’ll file everyone into the large room down the left for the rose ceremony.” caroline says while looking down at her clipboard. azzi immediately goes “wait since when did i say i was giving the first impression rose to paige?” and caroline scoffs, “azzi she’s the only person you’ve kissed tonight.” azzi’s eyes scrunch together, eyebrows knitting “yeah, but, that doesn’t mean anything.” caroline, again not looking up from whatever is on her incredibly thick packet of papers just answer with “you sure?”

azzi sits there and thinks to herself. it’s true, paige is the only one she kissed tonight, she doesn’t regret that. kissing paige felt perfect for the moment. and that’s what azzi wanted to do, make honest decisions about how she felt in the moment and not over think herself in circles. but here she was, probably doing just that. she’s tried so convince herself she probably would’ve kissed others too. if she had more time with them. lina for one, a nice nurse named mark that endeared her with tales of the children he’s treated, and dylan for sure. (azzi is not sure, azzi wants to be sure but she’s not because that’s not what happened). just because she kissed paige doesn’t mean paige left the best first impression. azzi doesn’t even think the first impression rose should mean that much. just “i really felt like we had a lovely initial connection, i want to explore that more.” nothing more, nothing less. giving it to paige tonight, after spending the most time with her and kissing her feels like she’s already tunneling in on the most famous person here. azzi hates that she thinks about the optics of this.

while she spirals caroline gently lets her know she needs to make a decision in the next five minutes. they don’t care who it is, but she needs to make it.

so azzi grabs the rose, walks into the parlor and listens as the room quiets down. hm that’s going to take getting used to she thinks to herself. she’s never had a room silenced by just her presence. it makes her feel both important and entirely too much like an imposter. she clears her voice and looks toward dylan, “dylan, do you mind if we go somewhere to chat?”

—

later when everyone is lining up for the rose ceremony, she doesn’t mean to but she finds paige. she watches for the split second as paige looks over at dylan already standing to her right, rose in hand. she sees something flash in paige’s eyes, it looks like confusion, hurt, and disappointment.

oh no, azzi thinks. i think i’ve already made a wrong decision.

#pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #aigmty

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vxnillabxn · 2 days ago

Note

You write Zaynie so well hehe! Can you write one where Zayne doesn’t want reader to leave. Reader is over at Zayne’s house they are cuddling after eating dinner and she realizes it’s late so she has to go. Zayne holds her and begs her to stay with him for the night and possibly forever in his mind. Thinking he should propose to her so she can be with him forever. 🥺

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne x gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluffiest fluff! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚this blog is slowly becoming zayne's, and i'm not complaining at all (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ thank you for the request! and i'm honestly so relieved to know i'm keeping him true to his character, because i'm so scared of messing his complex personality up :((

it soon became a ritual, week after week.

he'd come back from work to find you there, waiting for him to share takeout, make dinner together, or simply keep him company.

today, you waited for him with delicious pasta, and after enjoying dinner, you two went upstairs to seek each other's warmth.

a little kiss here, a soft caress there, and those green eyes, holding forests upon forests yet focused only on you… it was all you needed to reset.

of course, time is cruel, and soon it was time for you to go back home. he knew you didn't want to, the moment your eyes narrowed as you checked your phone.

“ah, it's 1 a.m. already. i should really leave.”

you said quietly, kissing him one last time. you tried to sit up, but his arms stayed firm around you, unwavering.

“zayne…”

he pulled you closer, letting out a quiet grunt as he buried his nose in your hair. you simply smiled.

did he not want you to leave?

“stay.”

he murmured.

it was faint, but you caught the tiniest bit of desperation in his voice. almost like a child clinging to a beloved plush before it goes into the washing machine for what feels like an eternity.

“zaynie, i wish i could, but it's late.”

you tried to reason. usually, it was easy to do so with the man of facts himself.

but he gently shook his head, tracing his fingers along your arm.

“please.”

ah… who were you kidding? he didn't really need to beg, not when you wished to stay just as much.

but another part of you wanted to hear him say it. to voice what he really wanted.

“zaynie, love… we both have to work tomorrow. i don't have spare clothes with me, i have to go b—”

he grunted again, pulling you closer —something you didn't think was humanly possible.

“i'll drive you back tomorrow morning,” he said, and it sounded final.

“but—”

he pulled back, looking at you. his gaze was soft, though his brows furrowed slightly.

“bring spare clothes with you next time. i refuse to let such a small nuisance keep you from staying with me.”

you looked at him, a bit surprised by his bluntness, but your lips soon curved into a smile.

“i will.”

he visibly relaxed, though he still wouldn't let go.

“good. now stay. stay the night.”

he pulled you back into his arms, and you both curled under the covers.

your phone is forgotten, the minutes kept passing by, and your house quietly slipped into becoming just another brief stop on your daily routine, because zayne expected, wanted, needed you to stay more and more with him.

as you finally relaxed into the warmth of each other, accepting this new outcome, he kissed your forehead gently.

you couldn't tell, but behind his seemingly calm expression, his mind was racing.

he needed a long-term solution. and the only way that made sense to him was to have you officially by his side, under his roof.

he'd have you bring spare clothes bit by bit.

he'd let you decorate and fill his place as if it were yours —which, in his heart, it always had been.

he'd welcome your chaos among his order, or, if you preferred to keep things neat, he'd let you add your own touch to every corner.

because he wanted to be surrounded by your scent, your warmth, your thoughtfulness, your creativity…

by you.

and he refused to let something so small keep him from you.

what had once seemed like a beautiful plan for the future was quickly turning into a necessity:

to become yours, and make you his, through engagement.

and he would wait, patiently, until those eyes of yours reflected the same need, the same yearning, the same certainty —which wouldn't take long, because you were just as in love as he was.

but until then, he'd keep asking you to stay the night.

he'd make room for you in his closet, in his room, in every part of his life.

because more than anything, he wanted you to stay.

always stay.

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vamp-ress · 2 days ago

Text

Just to make things even funnier (NOT) it's probably authors who think asking readers for donations who will in the same vein prohibit other fanfic authors from using any of their OCs. Because do as I say, not do as I do or some such.

Really. For someone who was around when Anne Rice was scaring a large portion of the fanfic community with her antics (and I say this as an Anne Rice fan) it is mind-boggling to me how people can come to fandom spaces with a) a total disregard and desinterest of what came before them and b) an absolute lack of common sense.

(As an aside, Diana Gabaldon was a similar case. She felt that the idea of fanfic was inherently wrong and immoral. That was back in the day when authors still felt they had to address the issue.)

To make this clear: If you are writing fanfic, you are stealing. You are stealing someone else's property - their characters, their settings, their ideas. If you steal an apple from the grocery store you'll get a fine. You won't get a fine for stealing characters from an author because the people who came before you fought long and hard to establish the idea of fanfiction as a cultural phenomenon that happens under the fair-use-clause. As both Anne Rice and Diana Gabaldon showed, this wasn't always the case. Copyright holders pushed back on fanfiction, trying to "protect" their property. Fanfiction was under (legal and moral) duress for the longest time. Time and time again there were attempts to get rid of it, to ban it or to push it into illegality. Just because you come to fandom now and find a very comfortable bed on AO3 doesn't mean it's always been like this. How do you think the archive came about in the first place?

You do not profit from fanfic. Ever. If you do, you're not a fan, you're simply someone stealing intellectual property from someone else. The currency of fandom is reviews, is comments, is shared squeeing over your OTP. The currency of fandom is community, not financial gain.

And if you need money, here's an idea: Write a story with your own characters in a world you came up with and see where that gets you. Publishing has never been as easy as it is today. But leave fandom spaces alone, will you!

I'm so glad to see AO3 making it absolutely clear that none of these things are allowed to even be HINTED at.

Here's some of the language from the new post about AO3's police on commercial promotion:

There is a wide variety of things that are not allowed under AO3's non-commercialization rules.

Any other language which one might interpret as requesting or having requested financial contributions, whether for yourself or others. This covers indirect references, euphemisms, or other language intended to get around the TOS. Some examples of this include:

Thanks for the coffee!

My ☕ username is the same as my username here

This chapter is brought to you by my patrons

You know where to find me if you want early or bonus chapters

Check out my Twitter to learn how you can donate to me since I'm not allowed to discuss it here

If you want to hear more about my ideas, talk about fandom, or find more of my stuff for a coin, visit my Tumblr

Solicitation is not allowed, whether it's for yourself or on behalf of someone else.

#fanfiction #fandom #ao3 #archive of our own #anne rice #diana gabaldon #fandom history #sunday scribbles

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angstama · 1 day ago

Text

03 ; spaces between us | l.jn

pairing: dad!lee jeno x f!reader (ft. na jaemin)

genre: angst, slight fluff

synopsis — three years after divorcing jeno, you've found a careful rhythm in co-parenting your son jun. the old fights about his work schedule and emotional distance have faded into polite exchanges and shared custody arrangements. but when small moments of connection start to feel like second chances, you begin to hope that maybe you could try again. though, it all falls apart when jeno asks to introduce jun to his new girlfriend. suddenly, you're forced to confront a devastating truth: the man who claimed he "wasn't good at relationships" during your marriage has apparently learned how to love properly—he just needed someone else to do it with.

a/n: hey lovelies~ this isn't really proof read but i promise i'll edit the errors as i re-read it on my flight to seoul :")))) this chapter was mainly inspired by day6's 'still there'🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️ it's one of my favourite tracks of all time and imo jeno and y/n's ost tbh🙂‍↔️ thank you guys SO SO MUCH for the support this series have been receiving and im so excited to start on the next chapter (i have so many idea panned out omg). as i'll be away supporting dreamies on tds4 for all 3 concert days, i ask for your patience to give me some time to complete chapter 4~ i promise i'll have them up asap!!!!! once again, THANK YOU SO MUCH for the lovely messages and comments <33333 and please keep them coming because it motivates writers like me to continue writing!!!!! i love you guys so muchhhhhh~~

chapter music: still there - DAY6

sbu m.list | previous | next chapter

“if everything looks correct, you can sign here.” chen le’s voice was gentle, almost too gentle — wrapped in the kind of clinical calm only someone in his position could master. it was the practiced neutrality of a man who had watched too many love stories unravel in rooms just like this one.

but even he faltered for a beat.

because this? this was a love story he never imagined would end like this. he had seen you both through the storm and the sun — had celebrated your wedding from the third row, had stayed late at your apartment during the nights you fought but still chose to stay. he’d laughed with you at housewarmings and babysat jun once when you both were too tired to keep your eyes open.

he had seen your love endure.

until now.

and though his tone remained even, his eyes lingered on you with something quieter. something that almost looked like grief.

he tapped the dotted line with his pen, a faint click against paper that somehow echoed louder than it should have. you stared at it. the inked void where your name was supposed to go haunting you instantly almost like a quiet reminder of what you were about to let go.

your fingers tightened around the pen, knuckles white against the smooth silver and feet planted on the ground, like your body needed to anchor itself against the weight of this moment.

but your hand wouldn’t move.

how could it?

how do you sign the end of your life as you knew it?

across from you, jeno didn’t hesitate. no falter. not a single pause. just the smooth sweep of his signature bleeding across the page. as if eight years of marriage were just a formality. as if twelve years of loving each other from awkward teenage beginnings to building a home, to raising a son could be condensed into a line of ink and left behind without ceremony.

you couldn’t look at him. not when he looked like stone, like he had already mourned something you were still clinging to and you wondered if it meant less to him?

or if he had simply gotten better at hiding the hurt.

because surely, you couldn’t be the only one sitting in this quiet, airless room, staring down at the ruins of a life you built together — desperately rewinding every memory like a broken tape, trying to catch the exact moment things began to slip.

the nights you stayed up waiting. the mornings you carried the weight of both your worlds. he times you swallowed your pride, softened your voice, reached across the silence between you just to try.

you had given so much — so much of yourself, your time, your patience — to fix the cracks before they split wide open.

so how could it be that you were the only one still clinging to the pieces?

how could he sit across from you like this calm, collected — while you were still mourning the end of your relationship?

you finally signed the paper. it was just ink. but it might as well have been blood.

“is this really what you want?” your voice cracked on the last word, shame blooming in your chest. you hated how small you sounded. how vulnerable. but you asked anyway. because part of you still needed him to say no.

jeno didn’t flinch. he just looked down at the paper between you both and nodded, slow and solemn. “it’s what we need.”

you let out a bitter laugh, incredulous. “what we need?”

“y/n—”

“no.” your voice rose, sharp and shaking. “you don’t get to say that like we’re doing something brave. like this is noble. you just signed away twelve years of us, and you didn’t even blink.”

jeno’s jaw tensed. but he stayed quiet.

“and jun,” you continued, voice breaking again. “what about him, jeno? what happens the next time he asks why we aren’t a family anymore? do you have a perfect answer lined up for that too?”

“i think about him every damn day,” he snapped, the words finally cutting through the air like a blade. “don’t act like i don’t.”

“then why are you giving up?”

“because we’re already gone, y/n. you just can’t admit it.” jeno huffed, his words hitting you like a slap, causing you to stagger back in your chair, the wind knocked clean from your chest.

he lowered his gaze, hands clenched tightly in his lap. “we’ve been gone for a while. and you know it.”

and maybe, somewhere deep down, you did.

but knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

knowing didn’t make it okay.

tears welled in your eyes, hot and blurring the edges of the world. you pressed your fingers to your mouth to keep the sob from slipping out. but it came anyway.

you tried to be strong. you tried not to beg.

but your voice was a whisper when you asked, “how did we get here?”

jeno didn’t answer, simply looking at you with the saddest eyes you’d ever seen — like maybe he wanted to take it all back, but didn’t know how to anymore. like maybe he had already accepted being the villain in the story just so you could both finally rest.

"i don't know."

you never truly got over the day your marriage with jeno ended.

no matter how much time passed, it lingered — a shadow stretched long behind you. you remembered every detail with unbearable clarity: the cold press of the pen between your fingers, the silence that rang louder than anything said, and the way jeno looked when he signed the papers.

it sat at the back of your mind like a weight you never stopped carrying — surfacing in every disagreement, every quiet exchange about jun. it gnawed at you in the moments between, when the house was quiet and you had no one to be strong for.

sometimes, you still hear your own voice from that day — cracking under the weight of heartbreak, begging him not to go. begging him to love you.

telling him you could do more. be more.

but jeno still looked you in the eye and decided he couldn’t do love with you.

and that broke something inside you.

not just your heart — but your sense of self.

because how could you not hate yourself, even just a little, for not being enough for the person who once swore you were everything?

you hadn’t planned to bring it up today — not like this.

but as soon as jeno showed up at your door, right on time, cap tucked under his arm and a smile that feels too normal for how not-normal things have felt lately, you knew you couldn't let it slide.

"hey," he says easily, glancing past you. "jun ready?"

"not yet," you replied, not moving aside for him to enter your home like usually do. "can we talk for a minute?"

you nod towards the small bench near your door. walking out as he follows you out and sits, hands folded loosely between his knees, waiting.

“you introduced him to her,” you say. no preamble, no patience.

jeno blinks, thrown. “what?”

“soomin,” you bite, your voice trembling. “jun told me. she gave him a lollipop. said hi to him by name. you already introduced them.”

jeno exhales, shoulders slumping slightly. “look, it wasn’t—”

"wasn’t like what, exactly?" you snapped, eyes narrowing. "you didn’t think I deserved to know that my son met the woman you want to build a life with? the woman you think is important enough to take him camping with?"

"you’re twisting it."

"am i?" your voice cracked despite your best efforts. "jeno, he called her lollipop auntie. that means he remembers her. he’s met her. he likes her. and you let that happen without even talking to me."

jeno opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, jaw clenching. he looked away for a second, like he couldn’t face you, like it was easier to aim his guilt at the sidewalk than at your eyes.

“she was leaving when we got back. it wasn’t planned,” he said finally. “she just gave him a lollipop. that was it.”

you stared at him, disbelief and disappointment bubbling under your skin like something volcanic.

"that was it to you," you said, stepping closer. "but not to him. and not to me. it’s not just about the lollipop, jeno — it’s about the principle. we agreed, didn’t we? that we’d talk about things like this first?"

"yeah, well, maybe i didn’t want another fight," he muttered. and then, under his breath, "i’m tired of feeling like i need your permission for every move I make."

you blinked. stunned. “excuse me?”

jeno looked up at you then, frustration surfacing behind his usually calm expression. “i’m trying, okay? i’m trying to make this work — the co-parenting, the balance, the split holidays and the monthly family days like we’re still whole. but we’re not. we’re not whole, and i’m doing the best i can.”

your throat burned, but you swallowed the tears before they could rise. "you don’t get to make me the bad guy for wanting to be included in our son’s life. i didn’t leave, jeno. you did. and now you want to rewrite the script like you’re the one who’s been hurt?"

jeno flinched at that. he exhaled hard, looking like he wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came.

you took a step back, pressing a hand to your chest like that could quiet the way your heart was shattering all over again.

"you could’ve told me. that’s all i wanted. to be told. to not be the last to know something important about our son. i’m not trying to control you — i’m trying to be his mother."

“that’s not fair—”

“no, what’s not fair is you putting her in jun’s life before we talked. what’s not fair is asking me to agree to the camping trip with her when you already knew they’d met. like it was my choice. like i had a say.”

you let out a shaky breath. “you said soomin was important. but did you ever stop to think about who’s important to me? what it feels like to be treated like an afterthought in my own child's life?”

jeno’s shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he looked impossibly small. but you didn’t wait for him to apologize. you didn’t even wait for him to catch his breath.

you just turned around and walked away — because if you didn’t, you might break again in front of the very person who once promised never to let you.

you sent jun off as per your usual weekly routine, waving him off with the brightest smile you could muster despite where you've left off with jeno.

the documents in your hands crinkled slightly, betraying the grip you didn’t realize had tightened since you left the apartment.

you were still thinking about it — jeno’s voice, the way his jaw clenched when you called him out, how his silence somehow hurt more than if he’d just yelled back. the ache lingered like smoke in your chest. and now, here you were, trying to will it all into the background as you made your way towards jaemin's office as per the instructions he's texted you.

the city pulsed around you, a little too fast, too bright, too indifferent. every honk, every hurried step of the strangers brushing past, felt like the world moving on without waiting for you to catch your breath.

then you looked up. the skyscrapers loomed above you, cold and gleaming as if a mirror to everything you once gave up for the life you thought would last forever. somewhere between chasing stability and building a home for jun, you had tucked away the version of yourself who once dreamed of standing in buildings like these, in rooms that smelled like coffee and ambition, with sharp minds and sharper tongues — and winning.

jaemin’s office was tucked on the fifty-seventh floor of a building that screamed sleek money and generational power. you had to sign in at the lobby, ride the elevator in silence next to someone wearing a watch that probably cost more than your rent, and rehearse in your head that you belonged here too.

you did, right?

the elevator doors slid open with a sterile chime. you stepped into the corridor, clutching your folder like a shield, heart still reeling from the confrontation with jeno earlier.

jaemin looked up from the table as you approached, his usual smirk halfway formed before it softened. maybe it was the stiffness in your shoulders or how you didn’t offer your usual sarcastic jab in greeting — either way, he noticed.

“hey,” he said, a little too gently for your liking.

“hey.” you slid into the chair, setting your folder down with more force than intended.

his eyes flicked to the paper, then back to your face. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you replied too quickly, flipping open your notepad. “just… long morning.”

jaemin doesn't press further, instead he slides you the cup of orange cold brew from that tucked away cafe from your old dormitory he remembered you loved back in university and swore that you couldn't live without it. "i hope your tastebuds haven't changed much."

you glanced down at the drink, the citrus-sweet scent wafting up to meet you. for a moment, it almost disarms the ache in your chest — almost. “you remembered,” you murmur, fingers curling around the condensation-damp cup. you don’t say thank you, but the way you held the drink — like it’s something precious — says enough.

jaemin just shrugs, settling back into his chair like it was nothing. but it wasn’t nothing. not really.

hours slipped away unnoticed as the two of you immersed yourselves in strategising, the world outside fading into the background. you sat curled up on jaemin's office office couch, sleeves rolled, pen tapping against your lip as your eyes scanned a paragraph for the fifth time.

“if we start by subpoenaing their quarterly disposal logs, we’ll see just how far back the discrepancies go,” you said, tapping your pen against the margin of the report. “but if they’re smart — and they usually are — they’ve already scrubbed them clean.”

jaemin leaned back in his chair, one ankle hooked over his knee, his fingers steepled thoughtfully beneath his chin. “which is why we go for the suppliers first. small contracts, subcontracted transport routes. someone always cuts corners, and someone always talks when their name’s not on the million-dollar invoice.”

you nodded slowly, the wheels already turning. “i can draft the outreach list for depositions. we can start local, where the impact was worst.”

“and we lean on the class action angle,” jaemin added. “emotional damages, long-term health risk assessments. those reports from the labs could back us if we play it right.”

“you’re not bad at this,” you muttered, feigning reluctance as your pen scribbled a note.

jaemin smirked. “and you’re still terrible at giving compliments.”

“not a compliment. just an observation,” you quipped, eyes on the file.

your eyes finally drifted to the clock perched on Jaemin’s desk, and the hands told you it was already 9 p.m. jaemin glanced up as well, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "huh it's already 9pm. do you have to go back to jun?" he asked.

you shook your head, pushing your chair back. “nope. he’s with his dad tonight.” you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, surprised by how freeing the thought felt. “i'm on my own.”

jaemin leaned forward, folding his hands on the tabletop. “then… would you like to grab dinner? my treat.”

the invitation hung in the quiet room, warm and unexpected. you studied his face—tired, but hopeful. “dinner?” you repeated, letting the word roll around. you realised you hadn’t eaten more than a handful of granola this afternoon. “where?”

“there’s a little ramen place a few blocks away. my go-to after late nights.”  he grinned, the familiar spark returning.

before you could answer, jaemin stood up excitedly, gathering his laptop. “come on. you'll love it.”

you followed him towards the door without much protest, surprising yourself with how easily you slipped into step beside him. "are you sure you're not gonna poison me?"

"if i wanted to i would've already done so earlier." he scoffed.

it was a small ramen shop tucked into the quiet corner of a side street, almost hidden beneath the shadow of towering skyscrapers. the signboard was weathered, its paint chipped and lettering faded with time, but the warm glow spilling from the windows gave it a charm that stood resilient against the sleek sterility of the city. inside, the air was thick with the scent of rich broth and slow-cooked spices, the kind of place that felt less like a restaurant and more like a secret haven—quiet, unassuming, and comforting in all the ways that mattered.

“wait—so you’re telling me you haven’t dated anyone since graduation?” you laughed, the sound bubbling out of you as you slammed your empty sake cup on the table a little too enthusiastically. “—not even for sex?” you asked, incredulous, as if jaemin had just revealed he’d been living on a mountaintop in celibacy for the past decade.

he looked mildly amused, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you spiral. “that’s your follow-up question?”

“i'm just saying!” you said, voice rising a little with the sake and disbelief. “you’re—like—you... aren't you rich?"

your cheeks were warm, not just from the ramen broth but from the sake steadily loosening the stiffness in your shoulders. you’d lost track of how many shots you’d had—three? five? more? all you remembered was suggesting a bottle of sake to shake off a long day of hard work and somewhere between pouring the second glass and slurping your noodles, the conversation had veered into personal territory.

jaemin, of course, hadn’t touched his drink. his cup sat perfectly untouched in front of him, condensation beading against the ceramic. he didn't say much after your little rant—didn’t confirm, didn’t deny. just leaned back against the booth, eyes on you, that familiar half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. it was the kind of smile that said he was entertained. not by the conversation itself, but by you.

you, slumped just slightly forward with your elbow propped on the table, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the sake. you, asking wildly inappropriate questions like it was a courtroom cross-examination. you, so unfiltered in your tipsiness, so openly curious and bold. and maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just how long it had been since you both sat across from each other like this, but you didn’t hold back—not your voice, not your laughter, not the way you squinted at him like he was some puzzle you were determined to solve.

“you’re seriously not gonna answer?” you challenged, lifting your brows, sake cup in hand like you were about to swear an oath.

jaemin shrugged, still saying nothing, but there was a soft gleam in his eyes—fond, maybe. amused, definitely.

jaemin had his fair share of entanglements — fleeting connections, one-night stands, and the kind of half-hearted situationships that never made it past surface level. nothing ever stuck. not because he couldn’t commit, but because he never wanted to stay long enough to try. he always left before things could mean anything.

but sitting across from you now, watching the way your eyes crinkled with amusement and exhaustion, he found himself unwilling to let you know any of that. because for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be seen as the man who never took love seriously.

not with you.

you narrowed your eyes. “you're enjoying this.”

he gave a slow, deliberate nod. “a little.”

“a little?” you echoed. “wow, what a thrill it must be to be inside that mysterious, non-committal brain of yours.”

he tilted his head, lips curving just a little more. “you’re cute when you’re drunk.”

that made you freeze, sake cup halfway to your mouth. “excuse me?”

“tipsy,” he corrected smoothly, reaching for his water. “tipsy and opinionated. same thing.”

you blinked at him, mouth falling open for half a second before you recovered. “you’re deflecting.”

“i’m choosing peace,” he said, sipping his iced water calmly. “unlike someone.”

“peace is overrated.” you scoffed.

"what about you?” he said instead, quieter now. “why did you and jeno split?”

your breath caught. his dodge was smooth, clean. too clean. and now, the air between you shifted.

it wasn’t playful anymore. it was real. real enough that your throat tightened.

you looked away first, eyes settling on the rim of your empty sake glass, fingers absently tracing the ring of condensation. there was a strange comfort in avoiding his gaze — like if you didn’t meet his eyes, maybe the truth wouldn’t sound so raw coming out of your mouth.

“it wasn’t one thing,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, as if saying it too loud might make it crack. “we didn’t blow up. we didn’t cheat. we just… eroded.”

jaemin stayed silent, his elbows now resting on the table, body leaning slightly toward you like he was bracing for a tide.

“i gave up a lot for us. for the life we were building. and he did too. but somewhere along the way, it started to feel like i was the only one still holding onto it.” you laughed, but there was no humor in it. “i kept thinking if i worked harder, gave more, forgave more… he’d come back to me. but he didn’t. he just got busier. colder. and i got tired.”

you bit the inside of your cheek. “i asked him to fight for us. he didn’t.”

jaemin’s fingers drummed lightly against the table once, then stopped. “you asked him to love you, and he said no.”

the words hit more softly than you expected — like they’d been living under your skin, waiting for someone else to say them out loud. you gave a small nod, your throat thick.

“i told him i could change. do more. anything.”

you paused, throat tightening.

“and he told me he couldn’t do love with me anymore.”

the silence stretched, heavier now.

“and now?” he asked.

“now,” you exhaled, “we co-parent. we try to be civil. we try not to break each other in front of jun.”

a pause.

“but it still hurts?”

you blinked a few times, the heat of the sake crawling back up your chest. “every time he makes a decision without me. every time jun asks me why daddy’s not around more. every time i remember how hard i begged him to stay.”

“he was a fool,” he said finally, and this time, he meant it without a trace of smugness. you let out a breath — not quite a laugh, but close. “don’t say that. he’s still jun’s dad.”

“being a dad and being a husband aren’t the same thing,” jaemin replied, tone even. “and being one doesn’t excuse how badly he handled the other.”

you didn’t answer. maybe because part of you still wanted to defend jeno — or maybe because hearing someone else say what you’ve been trying not to admit was hitting too close to bone.

persistent throb at your temples. your mouth was dry, your head foggy, and the unfamiliar ceiling above you was definitely not your own.

you blinked a few times, trying to remember. the ramen bar. the sake. jaemin. too many shots. too many questions.

for a moment, you weren’t sure where you were. the sheets beneath you were impossibly smooth. high thread count. expensive. and the faint scent in the air wasn’t yours — something between cedarwood and expensive laundry detergent, subtle but unmistakably masculine.

you sat up slowly, head pounding, temple throbbing from the aftermath of the sake shots you so confidently downed last night. your eyes scanned the unfamiliar room — impossibly tall ceilings, soft grey walls, and sleek built-ins that looked like they belonged in an interior design magazine.

no clutter. no mess. not even a wrinkle out of place.

the windows spanned from floor to ceiling, flooding the room with soft daylight and a sweeping view of the city skyline. you’d never been here before — you were sure of it.

your phone buzzed violently on the nightstand beside you.

15 missed calls – jun's appa

and one message:

jun's appa: can you pick jun up this morning? something came up. urgent.

you groaned, pressing a palm to your forehead. your mind spun, rewinding through hazy fragments of the night before: ramen, sake, you asking too many inappropriate questions, jaemin smirking at you from across the table.

and then — blackout.

wait.

your eyes narrowed at the decor again.

is this...?

before you could even finish the thought, you heard footsteps coming your way.

you looked toward the door just as jaemin appeared, dressed in a plain white tee and dark sweatpants, his hair still a little tousled from sleep. he was holding a bowl of something steaming, and a glass of water in the other hand.

“morning,” he said casually, like this was something the two of you did every sunday.

“...where am i?” you asked, your voice dry and a little hoarse.

he raised an eyebrow. “you’re at my place.”

you blinked.

“why am i—?”

“because you passed out,” he said, setting the bowl down on the coffee table near the couch. “i didn’t know where you lived and calling jeno wasn’t exactly on my to-do list.”

you stared at him. “so you just… brought me here?”

“don’t flatter yourself,” he smirked. “you drooled on my shoulder the entire cab ride and then face-planted into my pillow. zero sex appeal involved.”

your face burned hot as you buried it in your hands, muffling a groan. “god.” of all the people to unravel in front of, it had to be na jaemin. it was one thing to be a mess — but to be that kind of mess in front of him? reckless, unfiltered, and utterly humiliated?

suddenly, the memory of the fifteen missed calls crashed into you like cold water. your stomach twisted with panic as you shot upright, the blanket slipping off your lap.

“shit,” you muttered, scrambling for your phone on the nightstand. your fingers trembled as you unlocked the screen — fifteen missed calls, three texts from jeno, and a voice note you didn’t dare press play on.

“i need to go,” you said frantically. “jeno’s been trying to call me all morning,” you shook your head. “i was supposed to pick jun up. there’s something urgent— i don’t know, i didn’t see the texts—”

“hey, hey—breathe,” jaemin set the mug down and walked over, holding the bowl out gently like a peace offering. “drink this first. it’ll help the headache. then i’ll drive you.”

you hesitated, eyes flicking between the soup and your phone. “it’s not your responsibility.”

“neither was carrying your unconscious body into my apartment last night,” he said dryly, crossing his arms. “but here we are.”

you gave him a tired glare. “you’re not funny.”

“not trying to be.”

he nudged the bowl towards you again.

“you’re no good to jun if you pass out mid-pickup,” he added. and that was what made you sit back down.

you picked up the spoon again with a shaky hand, sipping slowly. jaemin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you but not hovering. after a few more bites, you exhaled.

“thanks,” you said, still not looking at him.

“don’t mention it,” he replied, walking off towards living room. “i’ll grab my keys.”

// to be continued

taglist: @chaoticstrawberryland @bbykaixx @strawberrytyong @desiree-lee @mybearcollective @dilflover44 @kangshinwoolovin

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t4kalcvr · 2 days ago

Text

THE TWIN SIN — 𝖩𝖨𝖭𝖴 𝖲𝖠𝖩𝖠

WORD COUNT. 4,802 GENRE. dark romance, erotic romance, tragedy, && drama. CONTENT CONTAINS. suggestive, twin conflict, betrayal, distress, && reader & rumi are twins. PART ONE ! PART TWO ! PART THREE ! PART FIVE COMING SOON !!

𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯

it’s been a week since everything crumbled.

since rumi’s voice cracked the foundation of your shared world — not with screams, but with the kind of betrayal that doesn’t need volume to echo. seven days since she found out. seven days since jinu touched you like you were the only thing that ever made sense, only to vanish like smoke the moment everything caught fire.

the house has been different since. not too cold, but cautious. filled with soft avoidance and silence that has said more than words ever could. rumi hasn’t spoke to you in any way either. not directly. not in sentences. not in questions. she’s made herself a shadow, appearing only when you’re out of sight, like you’re both performing a silent dance of grief. every door closes quietly. every movement is careful. even your footsteps feel too loud.

you stopped trying to force anything by day three. the guilt made your body feel heavy. it slowed your breathing and twisted your thoughts until even blinking felt like betrayal. so you stayed in your room, under blankets that smelled like a memory you weren’t brave enough to bury, waiting for her to yell again, or cry, or knock. but she didn’t.

until day four.

you stepped out into the hallway, groggy and unsure, and she was there — walking past, not fast, not angry. just… existing in the same space again. and she didn’t flinch. didn’t flee. didn’t even look at you. but she didn’t run.

it was enough.

by day five, something changed again. you came out late, after hearing the clatter of pots and pans, and found the stove still warm. a small pot of your favorite stew — spicy, just the way you like it — left with the lid halfway open like it had been waiting. rumi’s cooking. the kind she only makes when she’s in a good headspace, when she’s trying to take care of people. you didn’t cry right away. you just stood there, hand trembling on the counter, watching steam rise like ghosts. when mira entered the kitchen and asked if you were okay, you nodded too quickly. she didn’t believe you — not really — but she didn’t push either. just gave you a look that said: i know. and i’m still here.

because they all knew. mira. zoey. everyone. your silence hadn’t been enough to mask what happened. your swollen eyes, your late nights, the way jinu hadn’t stepped foot in the house again — it all said enough. but still, they never treated you differently. they didn’t pity you, didn’t ice you out, didn’t whisper. they didn’t coddle you either. and that, somehow, hurt even more. like they were already waiting for the fallout. like they always knew this would end with something broken.

by day six, rumi didn’t avoid you when you passed in the hallway. she didn’t leave the room just because you were in it. she even told you to clean up your coffee mug, rolled her eyes when you played music too loud in the morning. she didn’t smile, not yet, but she wasn’t hiding anymore. her presence felt real again. like a sister. like her.

and now — day seven — she’s in the kitchen, humming something old under her breath as she stirs a pan on the stove. you walk in slowly, expecting her to go quiet. she doesn’t. she just glances over and gestures to a plate, already made for you. you sit. you eat. she doesn’t talk, but her being there is loud enough. it’s a ritual. a language. one you’ve spoken since you were little girls — the way rumi feeds the people she forgives.

the house feels more like home again.

your heart should feel lighter. your bones should ache less. this should feel like healing.

but jinu hasn’t come back.

not once.

not a text. not a call. not even a shadow outside your window.

you tell yourself it’s better this way. that his absence is the only reason you and rumi are on speaking terms again. that things are repairing themselves because he’s not here. and maybe that’s true. maybe he was the fracture. maybe his touch made everything worse.

but in the quiet, you wonder.

is he a coward?

was that all you were — a thrill, a mistake, a way to ruin what he couldn’t reach directly?

or worse: did he win? did he come into your lives just to set the match and walk away while it burned?

you try not to believe that. but you do.

and then you don’t.

because the memory of his touch is too soft to be malicious.

his voice too reverent.

his eyes too real when he told you he loved you.

you shake the thoughts off and watch rumi sip her tea from across the couch. she doesn’t look angry. not today. and that should be enough.

she’s here.

she’s humming.

and for the first time in days, she tells you: “you can pick the movie.”

and you smile.

because maybe — just maybe — that’s something close to forgiveness.

a few minutes in, and you don’t even realize you’ve zoned out.

rumi’s talking — something about the way mira forgot to lock up after practice, and how zoey nearly blew up half the weapons room over it. her voice is soft, the edges of her sentences rounded now. no more jagged pauses. no more brittle restraint. it feels like before.

you sip your tea and nod when you’re supposed to, but your mind is slipping.

because no matter how much warmer things feel now — how quiet the storm has grown — there’s still one thought that won’t die.

what if you saw him again?

not in a memory. not in a dream. not behind closed eyes where it’s safe to pretend he never touched you that way.

no — what if jinu walked through that door?

what would you say?

would you scream? hit him? would your body betray you all over again?

would you let him touch you?

your fingers tighten around the cup in your hands, and the heat nearly stings your skin.

you don’t know.

you don’t trust yourself to know.

because no matter how much guilt you’ve swallowed, no matter how deeply you’ve buried his name, there’s still that part of you — that soft, treacherous ache in your chest — that wants him to explain himself.

you want to ask him why he left. you want to hear if it meant anything. you want to know if he’s been hurting too.

and maybe… maybe you want him to say he missed you.

but that’s not reality.

you know that.

you’ve been telling yourself that for a week.

and then — as if the thought itself was a curse — the air changes.

you feel it before you see it. like static. like a shift in gravity. like all the warmth in your spine goes still.

you turn your head toward the hallway.

and there he is.

jinu.

standing just a few feet away, half in shadow, half lit by the soft golden hue of the living room light. his hair is a little messier than usual. his mouth is slightly open. his eyes — god, those eyes — are locked on you like he’s just seen something breakable.

and worse…

he looks sorry.

not performative. not fake.

not smug or charming or slick.

just — sorry.

you don’t say a word.

your mouth opens like it wants to, like maybe your body already knew this moment would come and has prepared a thousand things to scream, to demand, to cry.

but none of them come out.

your chest is too tight. your ribs too loud. your hands tremble against your cup.

he doesn’t move.

he just stands there, swallowing like it hurts, shoulders slightly drawn in, like he’s finally feeling the weight of what he’s done.

and all you can think is:

why now?

why did he come back?

why does your heart feel like it’s beating in your throat?

and why — after all this — do you still want to run to him?

your body is burning.

not from fever — not really — but from something hotter and crueler: the way jinu’s eyes found yours across the room and made every breath catch, every nerve tighten. he didn’t speak. didn’t move. he just stood there, like a haunting. a memory with a pulse.

and you felt everything inside you unravel.

you grip your cup too tightly, your knuckles aching, your mouth suddenly too dry. you can’t let rumi see this. can’t let her sense the quake building under your skin. your sister is sitting so close, her voice still soft from before, her body relaxed in a way that hasn’t happened in days — and you refuse to destroy that.

not again.

so you make yourself breathe. slow. shallow. controlled. you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth to stop it from trembling. then — with the lightest shake to your voice — you murmur, “i don’t feel so good…”

rumi’s head snaps toward you, immediate concern flaring in her eyes. “what’s wrong?”

you let your shoulders dip, fingers ghosting over your temple like you’ve only just noticed it. “dizzy. little warm. might just be a bug.” you manage a weak smile, biting the inside of your cheek to stop your voice from cracking. “could you maybe… make me some more tea? i think i just need to lay down for a while.”

she’s already rising from her seat before you finish, coming to crouch in front of you and pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “you’re warm,” she says, voice low and laced with worry. “why didn’t you say something earlier?”

you shrug, playing the part. “didn’t feel it until now.”

she sighs, already turning toward the kitchen. “go. i’ll get the tea. i’ll make stew too — the ginger kind, it helps with fevers.”

you nod and try not to look too eager to leave. “thank you,” you whisper.

and just as you step toward the hallway, you let out a small, dry cough. twice. light enough to sound real. not enough to raise alarm.

rumi glances over her shoulder, mouth drawn tight in a frown. “get in bed,” she orders, voice softer now. “i’ll bring everything.”

you nod again, more grateful than she could ever know — and head for the hallway, heart pounding like a war drum.

he’s still there.

jinu stands like a statue just around the corner, where light from the kitchen dies into shadow. his gaze follows you as you approach, mouth parting like he might say something — apologize, explain, beg — but there’s no time for any of it.

you reach for him without thinking.

your hand wraps around his arm — not harshly, but with purpose — and you tug him behind you, through the darkened hallway. your grip tightens once you’re out of sight. your steps are fast. deliberate. no time for second-guessing.

your door closes behind you with a quiet click, and for a moment… silence.

you don’t face him yet.

your hand is still on his arm.

your breathing’s uneven.

your skin is still flushed, but not from fever.

you can feel him watching you.

like he doesn’t know whether to speak or disappear.

and part of you doesn’t know what you’ll say either.

but you do know this: you couldn’t let him walk away. not again. not without something.

you finally look at him.

his expression is unreadable. part shame, part confusion, part something else entirely — something dangerous. something yearning. his lips part like he’s going to say your name, and that alone makes your stomach twist. because the way he says it has always been a weakness. because the way he looks at you has always been a trap.

“you—” his voice breaks the silence first, sharp and too loud. he cuts himself off and lowers it into a whisper, a whisper still laced with fire. “you shouldn’t have pulled me in here.”

your jaw clenches. “you shouldn’t have shown up at all.”

his mouth opens. shuts. his gaze falls to the floor, then back to you. “i had to see you.”

“now?” your voice cracks, but it stays quiet, harsh and brittle like cracked glass. “you disappear for a week — nothing, not even a text — and now you show up while she’s finally starting to forgive me?”

jinu steps forward, just once. not threatening. not dramatic. but close enough that you can smell him again — that maddening mix of heat and sweetness, danger and something almost holy. it makes your heart stutter.

“i didn’t know what to say,” he whispers. “i didn’t know if i should.”

you scoff, bitter and soft. “you think i did?”

his hand twitches at his side. you watch it like it might strike. it doesn’t.

instead, he swallows hard and hisses through clenched teeth, “i missed you.”

your whole body flinches.

because no matter how low he says it, it lands like thunder.

you shake your head. “you don’t get to say that.”

“why not?”

“because you left. because you let me sit in the middle of everything you caused. because i had to look my sister in the eye and watch her fall apart because of us.”

his voice rises before he can stop it. “i didn’t make you sleep with me.”

you shove his chest, not hard, but hard enough that he stumbles a step back.

“no,” you breathe, voice shaking, “but you made it easy. and you made it feel like it meant something. and then you left like it was nothing at all.”

his hands are clenched now. his jaw tight. you know that look — the one where he’s trying not to explode. the one where his control is slipping.

“it did mean something.”

“then why the hell did you leave?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

the silence stretches.

you can still hear rumi in the kitchen. humming to herself. moving gently. blissfully unaware.

and in here, in this room, you feel like you’re suffocating in everything you never said.

finally — jinu’s voice drops again, to something almost broken.

“because if i stayed… i would’ve said it out loud. and if i said it, it’d make it real. and if it was real, i couldn’t go back.”

you stare at him, stunned still.

he takes one more step toward you, slow this time. deliberate. close enough now to whisper it right against your cheek.

“and baby, i think i want to spend my life with you.”

you stare at him like the words could somehow be undone.

like if you stand still long enough, they’ll fold into the walls and disappear — unspoken. untrue.

but they don’t.

they linger.

“i want to spend my life with you.”

your lips part in disbelief. your lungs squeeze tight. and all you can manage is a whisper — broken, panicked, soft but burning:

“no.”

he frowns, confused. hurt. “what do you mean no?”

“you can’t feel that,” you snap back, but it’s still hushed, still trembling behind your teeth. “you don’t get to feel that.”

“why not?” he takes a half step forward.

“because we were wrong from the start,” you say, voice catching on the truth. “we started this in shadows. in silence. with guilt all over our skin. you had a girlfriend. my twin. and i let you touch me. we let this happen. and now you want to talk about a lifetime?”

his jaw tightens, but his voice stays low. still urgent. still raw. “and what if we fix it? what if we take the mess and make something real out of it?”

you shake your head. “we built something on rot, jinu. it doesn’t matter how many flowers you plant on top — it’s still poison underneath.”

his eyes flicker. “so that’s it? after everything?”

“i slept with you again,” you breathe, “because i thought maybe… maybe that would help me understand what the hell i’m feeling. but it didn’t make this right. it just made it harder to walk away.”

“i don’t want to walk away,” he hisses.

“maybe you should.”

you’re both too close now. the kind of close that makes regret harder to breathe through. you can feel his heartbeat in the space between you, his mouth twitching like he’s about to argue again.

but then—

“hey, i’m bringing your stuff in now,” rumi’s voice calls out from down the hall, casual and close.

your soul drops.

you and jinu whip around at the same time, panic splitting through your veins like cold lightning. he glances at the window, the bathroom, the door.

“where do i go?” he whispers harshly.

“closet or under the bed— now!”

you shove him toward the closet. he slips in just in time, barely making a sound. you adjust the blankets on your bed, swipe your mouth in case it looks kissed, and sit down right as the door creaks open.

rumi steps in with a folded blanket, a small heating pad, and the bottle of tea you left behind.

she gives you a small, sincere smile. it doesn’t reach her eyes, not yet. but it’s the closest to peace she’s worn in a week.

“thought i’d drop these off,” she says, placing them gently on your bed. “tea’s still hot. and you’ll want this for your stomach if it gets worse.”

you nod. your throat is thick. “thank you.”

she sits beside you for a moment, not saying much. the air is full of unsaid things, but none of them sharp. just soft, tired understanding.

rumi pulls you into a side hug, her arm warm and familiar around your shoulders.

“if you need anything,” she says gently, “just let me know, okay? i’m inviting the girls over — mira and zoey — but we’ll keep it quiet.”

you nod again. “thanks.”

she pulls back and looks at you, something soft in her gaze. “rest. we can talk more later.”

and just like that, she leaves.

you don’t move until the sound of her door clicks closed again. and even then, your chest is still rising and falling like you’ve just escaped a trap.

you walk to the closet. open it slowly.

and there he is. breathless. heart pounding. eyes wide.

“you were right,” he whispers, hoarse. “we’re not gonna last like this.”

but his next breath?

“so tell me how to make it right.”

it’s the kind of question that should make your heart leap.

but it sinks.

you cross your arms. not to protect yourself from him — you’re long past that — but to hold yourself still. because every part of you wants to shake. to cry. to let him make it right.

but you’ve carried the truth too long. and it’s heavier than the want.

“you can’t,” you say, voice low. “you can’t make this right.”

his brows draw together instantly. “why not?”

“because it’s already broken.”

he exhales hard through his nose. “that’s not an answer. that’s an excuse.”

you hold your ground. “no. it’s the truth.”

“truth?” he laughs — quiet and bitter. “whose truth? yours? hers? mine?”

“all of ours.”

he steps toward you, close again, and you don’t move away this time.

his voice drops into a whisper — low, harsh, furious but not loud. “you keep acting like i planned this. like i set out to hurt her. like i set out to ruin you. i didn’t. i was just… trying to breathe. and you were the only person who made it feel like i could.”

you shake your head, but he keeps going.

“i didn’t fall in love with you out of spite. i didn’t sneak around because it thrilled me. i did it because you looked at me like i was something worth burning for. and god help me, i let you.”

you blink hard, trying to steel yourself — but your voice is breaking now. “then why did you leave me to hold all of it? why disappear when you knew i’d be the one stuck facing her every day? why—”

“because if i didn’t leave, i would’ve stayed,” he snaps, jaw tight. “and if i stayed, i would’ve told you what i’m telling you now — that you’re it for me. that if there’s a soul i want next to mine for the rest of this fucked-up eternity, it’s yours. not hers.”

you flinch at the mention of her.

rumi. your twin. the one who would give everything to protect you, if only you hadn’t been the one who needed protecting from.

you try to push the thought away, but guilt drags it back like seaweed at your ankles. “she’ll never forgive me.”

“maybe not,” he says. “but are you really gonna give this up just to keep hating yourself?”

you blink again, hard. your voice a whisper now. “this isn’t love. this was built on cheating. on shame. on—”

“on survival.” jinu cuts in, breathing hard. “on being trapped in something we didn’t know how to leave until we found each other. and if you’re gonna stand here and pretend none of that was real, then go ahead. but don’t expect me to lie to myself with you.”

you stare at him, speechless, trembling from the inside out.

and just then—

footsteps.

followed by rumi’s voice, muffled but unmistakable.

“hey, i’m bringing more stuff in right quick.”

you both freeze.

your eyes flick wildly around the room, and jinu moves faster than thought — diving back toward the closet, slipping in just as you pull the blanket back over your legs and swipe your fingers under your eyes to kill any shine.

rumi’s knock is soft. the door opens without waiting.

she walks in carrying another blanket and medicine, followed by more tea, her face calm. tired. but gentle.

“thought you might want the extra stuff,” she says, setting it down beside you. “some cough drops.”

you nod, heart slamming against your ribs. “thanks.”

she sits beside you, just for a moment, and you feel the warmth of her shoulder against yours — the same warmth you grew up with. the same warmth you betrayed.

“you okay?” she asks.

you force a smile. “i think so.”

rumi reaches over, pulls you into a soft hug. a full one this tums. and as her arms wrap around you, your eyes flick toward the closet door.

he’s in there. hiding. listening.

burning.

and still, rumi pulls back and says, “just wanted to check in again. the girls are here now, let me know if we’re too loud, i’ll leave you alone now, i promise.”

you nod. “thank you.”

she stands. smiles once more.

and leaves.

the door closes with a whisper.

you don’t move. not for a long breath. not until the silence settles again and the guilt rises with it.

then jinu’s voice, muffled but clear through the closet:

“still think we’re too broken?”

you move without realizing it.

your body pulls itself across the floor before your thoughts catch up — like your soul’s already decided what your mind is still afraid to say. each step feels heavy, pulled down by everything you’ve been carrying for days. but it’s heavier when you’re standing still. heavier when you’re pretending you don’t want him.

you reach the closet.

open the door.

and there he is.

folded into shadows, breathing like it hurts.

eyes lifted to you like he was praying for this moment — but didn’t think you’d come.

your hands move to his face slowly. trembling. fingertips brushing the sides of his jaw like you’re afraid he might vanish. and before he can speak, you press your lips to his.

the kiss is soft. too soft. it’s almost nothing — the kind of kiss that doesn’t bruise or bite or breathe fire. it’s the kind that holds.

the kind that says, this might destroy me, but i still want to feel it first.

when you finally pull away, your hands are still cupping his face. your voice comes out raw.

“if we do this… if we end up together… it’s going to hurt.”

jinu doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. just breathes through the space between you and whispers, “i know.”

“it’s going to be messy.”

“i’ve been messy since the day i met you.”

you blink, throat thick. “people will talk.”

“they already do.”

“she’ll hate me.”

he nods. “but i won’t.”

your heart stutters. your hands fall to his chest, and he steps out of the closet fully now, standing in front of you like he never left.

his hands find your waist.

they always do.

his touch is careful — reverent, even now — but firm enough to anchor you. he leans in, presses his lips to your neck. then just beneath your jaw. the kind of kisses that don’t ask permission because the answer’s already written all over you.

you try to hold onto your last thread of resistance, but it’s fraying fast.

“you’re gonna have to prove it,” you murmur, the words catching on your breath. “that you love me. that this isn’t just about… this.”

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes — a smirk ghosting his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“damn,” he whispers, “gonna make me work for it?”

“not everything can be solved with sex,” you tease, though it sounds more like a warning.

he exhales through a laugh, head dropping to your shoulder for a second like he’s catching himself. “you think i don’t know that?”

his voice is muffled. honest.

“i know,” he adds. “i just don’t know any other way to make you feel it yet. but i’ll learn.”

his hands slip up your spine. his breath fans against your collarbone.

“just… don’t shut the door on me before i get the chance.”

then you hesitate — just for a breath, just long enough to wonder if it’s a mistake again — and then let go.

your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, and you pull him down with a gentle tug that leaves no room for confusion. his lips find yours before he even has time to breathe, and the kiss that follows is nothing like the one you gave him in the closet.

this one is heat. hunger. a crash of want that’s been simmering under guilt and grief and denial for far too long.

his hands grip your waist like he’s terrified you might change your mind. your body presses flush against his, and for the first time in a week, you feel like you’re not drowning. you’re burning — and god, it’s a relief.

his mouth moves against yours like a confession — deep, slow, and devastating. teeth scrape. tongues tease. your fingers thread through his hair and tug, and he groans into your mouth like you just pulled his soul from between his ribs.

he kisses you like he’s starving. like he doesn’t need food or sleep or forgiveness — just you, and the heat between your thighs, and the way your breath catches when his hands trail beneath your shirt.

and for a moment, you let him.

you let his hands roam. you let his kisses get messier, more urgent. your back presses to the edge of your bed, and you feel his leg slide between yours, like instinct — like destiny. the tension is so thick it could shatter if you spoke too loud.

he tries to lift your shirt.

and that’s when you stop him.

not harshly. not even coldly.

you simply press two fingers to his chest and pull your mouth away, your lips swollen and your breath shaky. your forehead rests against his for a long, quiet moment — the two of you panting like you just ran through hell and back.

his eyes open slowly, and he gives you a half-smile that’s far too cocky for how wrecked he looks. “what?” he whispers, voice thick with frustration and laughter. “now you’re the tease?”

you swallow your grin, but the smirk on your face betrays you. “i said you had to prove your love.”

“i thought i was.”

you tap his chest once. “not like this.”

he groans dramatically, dropping his head to your shoulder like the weight of your resistance might kill him. he didn’t think you meant now. “you’re evil.”

“i’m patient.”

“you’re testing me.”

you raise your eyebrows, proud. “and you’re failing.”

he laughs into your neck, the sound warm and unfiltered, and for the first time in what feels like forever — it’s light between you. not heavy. not soaked in shame or guilt or secrets.

just laughter.

just lips swollen from kissing, hands still tangled in each other’s shirts, chests pressed close enough to hear every skipped beat.

you feel his smile against your skin.

“fine,” he murmurs. “i’ll prove it. just… fair warning…”

he pulls back to look at you, something soft and dark glinting in his eyes.

“once i do, you’re never getting rid of me.”

💬, EEEEE guys jinu is so fine ugh, ALSO SOMEONE TOLD ME MY QUESTIONS WERENT ON BUT THEY ARE NOWWW LOL SORRY GUYS !!! so you guys can make anon requests neowww without having to message me 😛 ANYWAYS ENJOY THIS READ LOL IM SO GLAD YOU GUYS LIKE THIS SERIES !!! also i do leave these on cliffhangers purposely, so if you guys wanna imagine the rest OR if you guys want another part, i luvvvv giving you guys what you want lol SO NOW I’LL WORK ON MIRA CANT KNOW PART FOURRRR !!!!! ALSO ALL OF YALLS COMMENTS ARE REALLY MOTIVATING ME, I LUV SEEING YALLS OPINIONS AND THOUGHTS FOR MY WRITINGS AND YALL ARE JUST SO SWEET WITH IT TOO, IM TRYING MY BEST TO REPLY TO ALL OF YALL 🥹🫶🏼

UPDATE : PART FIVE REQUESTED 😭😭😭

ko-fi 🎧

look here for more reads 📚!!

🔖: @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @haloangelfics @valentique @invinciblewaffles @smileysunshinesworld @pariahsparadise @chiharuhashibira @loreleis-world @theshadowsden @dainsleif-when-playable

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equius · 1 day ago

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i come from the midwest, smack dab in the middle of the bible belt, and gun laws are fairly lax out there, especially when it comes to gun owners and open carry policies. it was not uncommon for me to see holstered guns at people's hips at places like the gas station, walmart, or even just walking around my small hometown.

when you're a kid, you don't think too much about it. when you get older, you start to notice more. you learn about gun violence, you see news about school shootings and deaths from firearms and you start to get paranoid. you become hyper-aware of people who are carrying weapons openly, and then later on, you start to worry about people who have conceal-carry licenses. people who could have a gun in their backpack, who could sneak it into a movie theater, library, or a church. you think about it a lot and you worry about it. i know i have had my fair share of this kind of fear. let me tell you what really helped me to overcome this fear.

my mom has always been extremely conservative. i'd wager that she'd be down the qanon rabbit hole by now if i hadn't forced her to stop using instagram and engaging in facebook groups. i told her that she needed a hobby, something to get her out of these internet spaces. did not expect her to turn to firearms as a hobby. given her political views, her conservative beliefs, and the kind of circles she had been running with for years, i thought the worst of her hobby. i assumed that she was now just a gun-toting maniac who would shoot a gay person or something. but i was wrong. she started working at a local gun range, and got involved in women's shooting groups where she met lots of women from different backgrounds; it's actually more common than you'd think for leftist/progressive women and lgbt folks to be part of women's gun groups. they often seek the means to defend themselves, and groups like these welcome them with open arms. my mom did, too. as time passed, she became even more involved, and wanted to get certified as a firearms instructor. she has always loved teaching things, and she worked hard to obtain whatever certificates she needed that allowed her to host classes and teach people about gun safety and things.

and then one day she asked me to come visit the gun range with her. she wanted to show me her hobby. at first i was extremely against the idea, guns scared me and i wanted nothing to do with them. however, i had to remind myself that she is a certified instructor, and that she would never let anything harm me. so i went. i met her coworkers at the range; they're all openly carrying, and they were very kind people. we spent a couple hours in the range together; it was very loud and overwhelming, but i paid attention as best i could. she spent a lot of time teaching me basic gun safety, letting me use a practice gun before i was able to use a real one to fire at paper targets. i did better than i thought i did. it was actually kind of fun.

i'm not saying that my opinions of guns changed overnight. but it did help to go to an environment where it was nothing but guns, and learning how to use them safely made me realize that basically everyone out there also knows gun safety. the majority of people who open-carry in public, whether it's able to be seen on their hip or concealed in a backpack, are usually just regular-ass people. people like my mom and my stepadad who just enjoy guns and want to be able to protect themselves, or should a situation arise, be able to protect others. yeah, there's a guy in franklin, indiana, who carries an AR-15 or some shit who parades it around downtown and acts exactly like that stereotypical insane gun person, and it's important to understand that even in that conservative town where probably over 50% of the residents have guns, that guy gets made fun of by everyone. they think he's acting a fool, and that he's giving gun enthusiasts and owners a bad name. most people you will meet who carry guns are not going to be like that guy. if they are conceal-carry people, you won't even know that they have one. they're not waiting for the moment to use it; they're carrying it for the event that they might need to.

regardless of how you choose to feel about guns, just remember that one, there is genuinely nothing you can do to stop people from carrying them. all the laws in the world could be passed to forbid people from carrying them, but people would still do so. what i would suggest is that you familiarize yourself with the gun laws in the area that you live in. see what's permissible and what isn't. think about what you're truly afraid of in regards to firearms, and pinpoint what you could do or research to alleviate yourself of that fear. gun laws exist for a multitude of good reasons; people like criminals, gang members, and other unsavory characters will always have access to firearms and will always carry them no matter what; gun laws allowing normal people like you and i to carry them ourselves is what can protect us from people like that.

look into local firearm groups. look for women's shooting clubs. visit a gun range and just look around; you don't even have to do anything there. ask questions from the employees; they're all very autistic about guns and would love to talk to you and answer your every question. someone would also be thrilled to teach you about gun safety and even instruct you how to shoot.

taking ownership of this very real fear is something that i would mandate for everyone who also has this fear. i have been there myself, and i have since then worked on my fear and have done more to educate myself about firearms, researched my town's gun laws, and met a good handful of gun owners who were also very sane, normal people. it really helped to readjust my mindset, and helped me learn that not every gun owner is an insane maniac just itching to shoot up a place somewhere.

and if you don't want to do any of that, i would suggest therapy. because all of that extreme fear and paranoia you're experiencing is not healthy in any way, and i sincerely hope that you can find a way to assuage it someday. please feel free to dm me if you have any questions about anything, i'm happy to answer what i can, and my mom would be happy to answer what i can't.

Americans - how do you function in daily life knowing there could be a gun on the same street / in the same bus / in the same Walmart as you? At any given moment? Like how do you not go insane with fear? I am genuinely asking.

#long post

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birdofwildness · 1 day ago

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⋆°·☁︎Dreambound part 3

⋆°·☁︎Morpheus x underworld princess!reader

Summary::You adjust to the life in the Dreaming — your husband is rather absent.

Warnings::Emotional repression,angst,hints of death

It had been a week.

Seven full days since you had stood before all realms, bound by ancient rites and spoken vows, watched by gods and monsters and dreams alike. A week since the ring had slipped onto your finger ,sealing a fate you hadn’t chosen — and yet had accepted with your chin raised and your spine unbowed.

You hadn’t expected a love story. You weren’t naïve. But still you had expected something else.

The Dreaming was a realm of wonders, yes — endless halls that shimmered like stardust, libraries where the books whispered secrets to one another, skies that changed color with your moods. But it was also strangely empty, hauntingly silent. Especially in the castle. Especially where and when it mattered.

You saw him only in passing — the King. Your husband. Always dressed in black, always composed, always distant. If he wasn’t vanishing into the echoing corridors, he was locked away in that great obsidian chamber he called a throne room, speaking to ravens, to ghosts, to nothing at all.

And when you did speak it was only ever formalities.

“Good evening.”

“Do you require anything?”

“Sleep well.”

You tried to answer in kind at first. But politeness has a weight to it when it stretches too long, too thin. It becomes a silence all its own.

You’d imagined tension, maybe even resentment. Not absence.

Even when he was in the same room, he felt a thousand miles away. A shadow draped in melancholy, eyes like collapsing stars that never looked at you long enough to leave a mark. Sometimes he didn’t even acknowledge your presence. Not cruelly. Just as though he was afraid of something.

You had been married for seven days.And you had never felt more like a stranger in someone else’s kingdom.

And yet, the strangest part — the one you didn’t say out loud — was that you wanted to know him.

You didn’t understand it, not really. He wasn’t warm. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t trying. And still, something in you kept drifting toward him.Maybe it was the loneliness in him, quiet and bone-deep, that mirrored your own.

You found yourself hoping, more than once, that he might one day look at you — not through you. Speak to you — not just past you. Maybe even sit beside you, not because the gods demanded it, but because he chose to.

But hope is a dangerous thing for a woman.Still, it refused to die.

Aside from Morpheus — who still treated you like a distant obligation — you had surprisingly built something resembling a life in the Dreaming.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t what you expected when they shoved a ring onto your finger and called it fate. But it was structure.You started building a routine. It was simple, silent and yours.

Every morning, after dressing yourself in whatever soft, flowing thing the attendants insisted on calling “ceremonial comfort,” you left the shared suite through the quieter door — the one Morpheus never used — and let your feet guide you through the endless, shifting corridors.

You knew your destination – the library.

Lucienne was always there, already seated with two cups of tea on a small table between tall shelves. You never asked how she knew you’d come. You never had to.

She greeted you with a nod and a dry, knowing glance. You answered with a raised brow and the smallest of smirks — the kind you reserved for people who didn’t feel the need to ask how you were.

Most mornings, the two of you spoke of books. Sometimes philosophy. Sometimes politics. Once, dreams of cats.It was the closest thing to ease you had in this kingdom.

And though Lucienne never said it aloud, you could tell that she knew you were trying to fit in.

Lucienne didn’t need to ask what was on your mind.She could read it between your pauses, in the way your fingers drummed softly against the teacup, how your eyes wandered the rows of ancient tomes without ever focusing on a single title.

"You seem distracted today," she said, calmly. She never pried. That was something you appreciated.

You lifted your gaze, offering a dry smile. “I’m married now. Isn’t distraction part of the deal?”

Lucienne gave a small breath of amusement and turned a page in the book resting on her knees. “I thought you’d be more curious.”

“About what? My brooding husband, who disappears before I wake up and says five words a day?”

“You’re exaggerating,My Lady. He says at least six.”

You actually laughed — a short, rough sound that surprised you more than it did her.

Lucienne adjusted her glasses and added gently, “He’s trying, in his own way.”

“He could try with words. That’d be refreshing.” you huffed.

There was a pause, filled only by the quiet ticking of some invisible clock.Lucienne’s voice softened. “I know you didn’t ask for this.”

You looked at her then — properly. No sarcasm in your voice this time. “No. But I also didn’t expect to feel like a shadow in my own home.”

Lucienne’s expression didn’t change much, but you saw it — the flicker of sympathy. The kind she didn’t show often.“Give him time,” she said. “He doesn’t know how to be close to people. He barely knows how to be around them.”

You stared into your tea. The steam curled up, delicate and warm.“I don’t need him to be close,” you murmured. “Just... human.”

Lucienne tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s not human. And he is lonely.” You didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the tea a little longer.

Then, finally you answered.“Yeah. I know the feeling.”

Lucienne rested the book in her lap, adjusting her glasses thoughtfully. She looked at you from the corner of her eye, as though weighing something, then chose a different path entirely.“By the way, did you ever finish The Hollow Sovereign?��

You groaned dramatically. “Unfortunately. Three hundred pages of a guy staring out of windows and making cryptic remarks. Riveting.”

“I happen to think it’s an excellent character study,” Lucienne said evenly. “The way the Sovereign distances himself to keep his realm intact—how much he sacrifices, how utterly alone he is—”

You cut in with a wry smile. “Oh, spare me the tragic martyr speech. He’s a control freak with trust issues who pushes people away and then acts shocked when nobody stays.”

Lucienne’s eyebrows rose. “Or maybe he’s someone burdened by responsibilities you and I couldn’t even begin to understand. Maybe isolation is the only way he knows how to survive.”

You shrugged. “How utterly pathetic. You see too much in him.”

Lucienne narrowed her eyes. “You’re being unfair.”

You shrugged. “I’m being realistic. The whole time, everyone keeps offering him kindness, loyalty, love even—and he builds walls instead of doors. I don’t call that noble. I call that fear. And what about his poor wife? He doesn't even look at her.”

Lucienne’s fingers paused mid-turn of a page. She blinked slowly. “Uhm...Your Majesty,he doesn't have a wife in the story”

Your lips parted, then pressed back together in a tight line. You blinked, once. “Right,” you said flatly. “No wife. Of course.”

Lucienne tilted her head. “I assume you were thinking of someone else?”

You scoffed. “Well, obviously.” You placed your teacup down with deliberate care. “I was talking about—” You paused. There was no salvaging it. “Oh for heaven's sake, yes, I was talking about him — about my husband.”

Lucienne’s mouth twitched ever so slightly, but her eyes stayed patient. “I thought as much.”

You leaned back with a huff, tossing your hands up. “Gods. I can’t believe I just emotionally projected on a fictional man out loud in a library in front of a librarian.”

She folded the book and closed it gently. “It happens more often than you’d think.”

You pointed at her. “That was judgmental and I felt it.” you exhaled sharply, eyes rolling. “Fine. Yes. My husband has the emotional range of a stone statue. Yes, I’m bitter. And yes, apparently I’m now channeling that bitterness through tragic royal protagonists.”

Lucienne gave a thoughtful nod. “At least you’re self-aware.”

“I’d rather be less aware and more married,” you muttered under your breath.She pretended not to hear that one.

You pushed your chair back with a soft scrape, rising to your feet as if the weight of your own commentary had finally exhausted you. “Alright. That’s enough public self-reflection for one morning.”

Lucienne gave a quiet smile. “It was hardly public.”

“Well, you were here,” you said, gathering your shawl with a theatrical flick. “And you count. You're terrifyingly observant.”

“It's part of the job,” she replied mildly.

You turned toward the towering doorway, already mentally preparing yourself for the next social challenge. “I'm going to see how the kingdom’s favorite dysfunctional brothers are doing. With any luck, Cain’s only tried to kill Abel once today.”

Lucienne arched a brow. “They’ve actually been unusually quiet.”

You squinted. “Now that’s alarming.”

You paused in the doorway and turned back, leaning one arm against the stone arch, head tilted. “Thanks for the tea. And the passive-aggressive therapy session.”

Lucienne merely inclined her head. “Any time. And...Your Majesty” You looked over your shoulder.

“You’re not wrong about him. But walls can be dismantled... if someone is willing to keep knocking.”

You exhaled, slowly. The words hit somewhere inconvenient. “Yeah. Next time I'll bring Thor's hammer.”

Lucienne said nothing more. She simply returned to her reading, but the weight of her gaze followed you until you slipped out into the winding halls of the castle once more.

You muttered to yourself as your boots clicked softly against the stone. “Fantastic. I came for tea and left with metaphors.”

...

The winding paths of the Dreaming never looked the same twice.One day they curved like rivers, the next like veins. Today, they straightened just enough to lead you to Cain and Abel’s little patch of madness—past a dead tree that was somehow always blooming, and a mailbox that occasionally barked if you didn’t knock properly.You made sure to knock.

Cain opened the door with his usual dramatic flourish, brow raised like he expected bad news or an apology—possibly both. “Ah. Your Highness.”

Behind him, Abel’s head popped out from behind a curtain, face lighting up. “Your Highness! You’re just in time, we were—Cain was—well, there was tea, before someone knocked it over. And the biscuits—though Cain says they were actually poisoned.”

“They were experiments,” Cain corrected. “Also, possibly cursed.”

You raised both brows. “You two are the definition of hospitality.”

Cain stepped aside, with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Enter, Princess of Pity.”

You strolled past him like the royal title was official, nodding regally. “Why, thank you, Duke of Delusion.”

The inside of their cottage looked like a library had exploded and been partially stitched back together with bad decisions. Scrolls, books, maps, things in jars—some of which blinked at you.

You took your usual spot on the sagging couch, careful to avoid the corner that had tried to eat your cloak last time.

“Tea or water?” Abel offered hopefully.

“Water,I already had tea. And I’ll take the non-cursed kind,” you said.

Abel brightened. “As you wish.”

Cain muttered, “Asskisser.”

“Anyway,” you sighed, settling in. “Distract me. Please. Pretend I’m not in an arranged marriage with a man who talks less than my fork.”

Cain poured you a glass of water and handed it over. “You knew what you were getting into.”

“No, actually, I didn’t,” you replied,lifting the glass. “I assumed brooding and mysterious had an off-switch. Or at least a personality somewhere under all the silence.”

Abel sat beside you, hands fiddling nervously. “You seem unhappy.”

You paused then smiled, dry and thin. “No. I just had expectations. You know, like maybe my husband would say good morning once in a while without looking like it physically pains him.”

Cain took a loud sip of his tea, eyeing you over the rim. “He’s been like this for eons. You’re not special.”

You smirked. “Thanks for the reality check.”

“But,” Abel added gently, “you might be the first person to ever try anyway.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Not here. You let it stretch, your eyes drifting across the cluttered room—at the frayed books and crooked paintings and Abel’s hopeful little birdhouses lining the windowsill.This was chaos. But at least it was warm.

...

You found Mervyn Pumpkinhead sitting on a crumbling stone wall near the outskirts of the castle, puffing a cigar and looking like the embodiment of 'I don't get paid enough for this.'

Matthew was perched nearby, wings fluffed up against the slight breeze, watching something that may or may not have been real scuttle across the clouds.

“Look who survived another week in the royal mausoleum,” Merv grunted as you approached.

You crossed your arms, raising a brow. “I thought you’d be proud.”

“Of what? That you haven’t snapped and turned him into a toad yet? Sure. Gold star, sweetheart.”

Matthew gave an exaggerated sigh. “Don’t listen to him, he’s been extra grumpy lately. Something about Lucienne reorganizing the storage scrolls.”

“They were in order,” Merv muttered darkly.

You sat down beside them, legs crossed at the ankle, gaze wandering toward the distant towers of the castle. “You know… I’m starting to think he really is made of fog and bad decisions.”

“Boss ain’t that bad,” Matthew said gently. “Just, y’know… emotionally constipated.”

You huffed a laugh. “Charming.”

“He doesn’t hate you, y’know,” Matthew continued, tilting his head. “He’s just… old. Set in his ways. And people—feelings—they’re not something he navigates well.”

Merv grunted. “Understatement of the millennium.”

You stared down at your hands. “He barely talks to me.”

“He doesn’t talk to anyone,” Matthew said. “Well, except Lucienne. And sometimes me. If I pester him enough.”

You glanced up. “So the trick is pestering?”

“No,” Merv chimed in. “The trick is effort. Which, sorry, princess, you haven’t exactly been overflowing with.”

You shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

“Look, I’m not saying it’s your fault,” Merv shrugged, smoke curling from his mouth. “But the guy is made of shadows and regrets. You don’t knock, he’s not opening. That’s just how it is.”

You leaned your hip against the side of the wall, arms crossed. “Right. So it’s on me to keep knocking, even if the door’s clearly sealed shut with ancient cosmic trauma.”

Merv gave you a lopsided grin, ash falling from the end of his cigar. “Now you’re gettin’ it.”

Matthew ruffled his feathers on your shoulder. “I mean, not entirely on you. The boss has his issues, sure. But he also listens, even if it looks like he’s not. You ever notice how he remembers everything?”

You did. It was almost unsettling. You’d mentioned offhandedly once that you liked jasmine tea — and without a word, that’s what had appeared in your cup the next morning. The problem wasn’t inattention. It was distance. Controlled, suffocating distance.

You sighed. “You think I should...what? Bake him a cake? Write him a poem? Casually cry in his general direction until he processes something?”

Matthew squawked a laugh. “God, no. Just... show up. Be around. Let him see you trying.”

“And what if I stop trying and he doesn’t even notice?” you asked, quieter than before. “What if it wouldn’t make a difference?”

Merv’s eyes softened, just for a blink. “Then at least you’ll know you gave a damn. And that counts for something.”

The silence stretched between the three of you. Not heavy, but thoughtful. Merv puffed again, and Matthew stretched one wing.

You straightened up. “Alright. That’s enough emotional vulnerability for one day. I’m off to emotionally pace somewhere dramatically.”

Matthew chuckled as you started walking away. “That’s the spirit.”

“Try not to overthink it,” Merv called after you. “He already does enough of that for the both of you.”

...

It had been a long day.Not dramatically so—just full of small, persistent irritations. Too many polite smiles. Too many glances that lingered a little too long. Too much silence from the one person who technically mattered most.So you went for a walk.

You weren’t looking for him.But as you rounded the edge of the gardens, there he was your husband — Morpheus, sitting alone on a stone bench beneath a slender tree that barely offered shade. Elbows on knees, hands folded, staring out into some distance only he could see.

Your first instinct was to turn around.The second said, no—enough of this.You approached, arms crossed. “Greetings,Dream.”

He looked up. No smile—but no sharpness either. “Greetings”

"What are you looking for?"

“I was seeking quiet.” he answered simply.

“And did you find it?”

He paused for a second before deciding to answer. “Until you arrived.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Charming. Can’t wait to hear your anniversary toast.”

Something in his expression flickered. Not quite a smile—but something almost like appreciation. He shifted to the side slightly, a silent offer. You took the seat beside him, leaving a few respectful inches between.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The sky above the Dreaming was a strange shade of twilight: too blue to be night, too shadowed to be day.

Then, unexpectedly, he said, “I’ve heard from the others... that you’ve been adapting well.”

You shrugged. “Wasn’t that hard.”

He didn’t respond to that. Just stared straight ahead, fingers flexing slightly in his lap.“And you?” he asked, softly. “How do you find it here?”

You glanced at him, surprised. It was the first time he’d asked you anything that wasn’t a logistical formality.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Sometimes it feels like I’m just... visiting. Like everyone’s being polite because no one actually believes I’ll be here long enough to matter.”

He nodded slowly. “The Dreaming adapts slowly. Not just its inhabitants... the realm itself. But I don’t regret that you’re here.”

That landed heavier than you expected.

You tilted your head. “That’s the longest sentence you’ve said to me since our wedding.”

A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. Tired and wry. “It may be.”

He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head slightly.“I owe you an apology,” he said. His voice was low, but steady. “I’ve neglected you. Not out of cruelty. Only... because I don’t always know how to begin.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just listened,that seemed to matter.

“I have... responsibilities,” he continued, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Things that weigh heavily, often invisibly. But it isn’t just that. I struggle with this—connection. Conversation. I know it must seem as though I’m pushing you away.”

You let the silence settle a moment before answering. “I get it.”He finally turned to look at you.

“I mean it,” you said, smiling softly. “It’s okay if you’re quiet. Some people just are. The right company doesn’t need noise to be good company.”

His expression didn’t shift much, but there was something different in his eyes now. Less distance and more thoughtfulness.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You gave a light shrug, teasing. “Well, try not to vanish for another week and we’ll call it progress.”

A breath left him—maybe not quite a laugh, but something warm enough to count.Morpheus sat still for a moment, long fingers resting on his knees as though holding the weight of something unseen. The sky over the Dreaming had shifted into shades of dusky lavender, the castle casting elongated shadows across the quiet grounds. You didn’t say anything at first. You didn’t need to. The silence between you had a shape of its own—wary, tentative, but not unkind.

Finally, his voice broke through it. Low. Careful.“There is something I did not tell you.”

You glanced sideways. “Well, this should be fun.”

He didn’t smile, but he didn’t pull away either.“My brother,” he said quietly. “Destiny.”

You raised a brow. “The one with the big book and zero sense of humor?”

A faint exhale through Morpheus’s nose. Not quite a laugh, but close. “Yes. That one. Some time ago… he spoke of a fall. A great fall. One of the Endless would fall. A king.”

Your heart stilled for a second, breath caught between one moment and the next.He didn’t look at you—just stared ahead into the twilight.

“He did not say who. Only that it would be soon. And final.”

You swallowed. “And you think it’s going to be you.”

“I do,” he said simply. “And if that is true… then there was little point in trying to build something I would not be here to protect. To preserve.”

You didn’t speak right away. There was a dull ache behind your ribs, and for once, it wasn’t just frustration—it was something heavier. Something more fragile.

“That’s not fair,” you said finally, voice quieter. “That’s not your choice to make alone.”

“I did not wish to give you false hope. Or waste what little time you might have in peace.”

You turned toward him fully, searching his face. He looked tired, like the stars themselves had worn him down from the inside out. But beneath the distance, the restraint—there was fear.

“Well,” you said softly, “then I hope Destiny’s wrong.”

He turned to you, and for once, didn’t look away.“And if he’s not?” he asked.

“Then I’ll be at your side when it happens,” you replied, firm but not cold. “ I’ll fight with you.”

Something loosened in his shoulders, just slightly.He tilted his head.

“I do not deserve your loyalty,” he said after a beat, voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

You scoffed lightly. “That’s not really your call, is it?”

A long silence stretched between you. Not cold. Just full of things unsaid. But not forever.“I should return,” he murmured, finally rising to his feet with the slow, unhurried grace of someone carved from shadow and time. “There are matters I must attend.”

You nodded, standing as well, brushing the imaginary dust from your skirts. “Of course. Dream King duties and all that.”

He looked at you again—longer, this time.And then he was gone,but it felt different now. Not like a door closing,but more like the beginning of a hallway finally opening.

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