#the second image was the first image no filters on it at all

[100ceruleaneyes]

What I imagine frogs eat

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ roommate!sukuna is, deep down, probably the biggest, most lovesick fool you know. he's also a massive pervert. and since he’s utterly shit at actually saying how he feels, he defaults to being a complete fucking creep in ways no normal person ever would.

he likes to stare, for starters. you can feel it whenever you walk past him – his eyes lock onto the curve of your hip, your ass, whatever part of you happens to be passing.

he tracks the sway of your hips like a predator, leaning back against the wall, maybe dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. he's not even subtle about it. if you catch him, his gaze doesn't waver.

"what?" he'll snort, all arrogance. "someone's gotta appreciate the view. consider it a public service." heat flares on your cheeks, but you just shoot him a glare, refusing to give him more reaction than that.

sukuna also likes to test boundaries with your belongings. you always thought it was weird that laundry was the one chore he never bitched about. sometimes, he even offers to do yours, which should’ve been the first red flag.

inevitably, he'll accidentally mix things up, making you sift through his boxers and worn shirts when you’re just trying to find your own stuff. then, later, you’ll find him lounging on the couch, casually inspecting a pair of your underwear you didn't even realize was missing.

"sukuna!" you hiss, snatching them back. his fingers brush yours, a fleeting contact he clearly savors.

"nice pair," he nods, eyes glinting with amusement at your blush. "i like the cartoon mice. don't blush. i'm sure they look great on you. or, off." and no, he doesn't bother mumbling that last part.

he also just happens to be wherever you are in the apartment. convenient for him, annoying as hell for you. if you're cooking, he'll suddenly need something from the cupboard right above your head, pressing his body flush against your back in a half-assed excuse of reaching.

he presses close enough you can feel the unmistakable ridge of him against your lower back through his thin sweats.

jesus, is he hard? you think, trying not to jolt away as he lingers just a second too long. (he probably thinks it's your fault; your ass just feels that good against him.)

more often than not, he pads around the apartment fresh from the shower, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. hair damp, ink stark against damp skin, water droplets tracing paths down the hard planes of his chest and abs…

god, those abs. enough to make your brain short-circuit right in the middle of a work zoom call. yes, zoom, because he has zero issues barging into your room half-naked, pretending he absolutely needed something that couldn't possibly be in there.

then, there are the nights you bring guys over. not often, but often enough to wind him up tight. the walls are paper-thin, your room right next to his. hearing you is unavoidable.

sukuna scoffs into his pillow, knuckles white where he grips the sheets. as if that panting loser could make you feel half as good as he could. he grits his teeth, the sounds filtering through the wall – your sounds – a raw torment.

closing his eyes, he forces the image: not that pathetic asshole touching you, but him. his cock sliding deep inside you, feeling that tight clench instead of the friction of his own fist. he imagines those choked whimpers and sharp cries are for him, ripped from your throat by his touch, his length filling you up.

he clenches his jaw, trying to stay quiet even as his hips start an involuntary rhythm against the mattress. fuck that, this is his place too. why should he have to be quiet when you clearly aren't bothering?

slick pre-cum coats his fingers as his eyes squeeze shut. his wrist picks up speed, jerking down his hardening dick, pulling hushed, rough groans past his lips.

it never takes long when it’s the thought of you, even with the distraction of that rat squeaking alongside you. he tries to time it, always tries to match his peak with the crescendo he hears through the wall.

a ragged groan leaves from his throat, followed by your name, broken and low, "oh, fucking hell," thick ropes of heat spurt over his knuckles, coating his lower stomach and thighs in sticky white.

his breathing slowly evens out, chest rising and falling as he tips his head back against the headboard, spent.

and hey, you're definitely not an idiot. sukuna might be, though. as you finally shove the latest disappointment out your door, you allow yourself a faint smile. your pervert roommate isn't nearly as quiet as he thinks he is.

besides, can he really not tell the difference between genuine moans and the over-the-top, fake-as-fuck performance you've been putting on lately?

one of these days, you hope he'll finally get the hint. or just grow a pair and do something about it. if you're going to be living with a creep, you'd rather live with a creep who actually has the balls to make a move.

[fushitoru]

ranking types of hugs he'd be comfortable with another guy giving his gf! a nanami kento fic / drabble

cw: nanami kento x reader, a little suggestive maybe, established relationship, fluff, nanami is a green flag but he's just a man, light jealousy / posessiveness, crack, based off this (instagram link). gojo ver here

general masterlist

"Ranking types of hugs I'd be comfortable with another guy giving my girlfriend." 

Kento’s not the type to aimlessly scroll on his phone --- he prefers to be in the present, not deplete “his reserves of dopamine” too quickly, but right now he’s bored. You’ve yet to come from work---you’d texted him you were running late, buying some groceries---so Kento’s laid on the couch looking at his phone. Even though he hates using social media and the rabbit holes that result from said use, he answers your reels and TikToks religiously. After all, he values everything you have to say, even though they are a bit silly.

But just before he could respond to the baby fever videos you sent him----he does have to admit, it’s a bit cute---his screen auto scrolls onto the next piece of 30-second content, and with that, he’s hooked, observing the slots of rankings the filter auto generates for the guy on his screen.

For a bit, he multitasks on looking at the video and reading the comments, then frowns at how possessive they seem. 

catcher hug is 1000 bodies 😭😭

No one is hugging my girl

PUT EVERYTHING AT 11 CUH

a/n lmaoo these are real comments on the link above honestly i love when men are pathetic

Surely, it can’t be that bad … right?

Kento prides himself on being an emotionally mature and secure man. It’s not to say he doesn’t have his own flaws, but while it seems the rest of his gender has fallen to the gym bro gurus and alpha male podcast bros, he’s involved himself in constant communication with you and makes sure to educate himself. 

And yet. He doesn’t know he’s going to almost be on the brink of tears as he opens the filter to try it out by himself.

The filter shuffles, presenting the first option: A back hug.

Kento exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t immediately react, but there’s a flicker of something in his gaze. He ranks it a nine.

Then, the next: A slow dance hug.

His jaw tightens. The thought of you in someone else’s arms, swaying under dim lights, your cheek resting against another man’s chest—it’s enough to make something unpleasant curl in his stomach. Ten.

The filter shuffles again. One-armed hug. He sighs through his nose, rubbing his temple. Three. Acceptable. Barely.

e waits, trying to keep his thoughts level, but when the next option rolls in, his grip on his phone tightens. A slow catcher hug.

His face is blank. He blinks once. Twice.

Then, a deep, audible sigh fills the room as he drags a hand down his face, thumb and forefinger pressing against the bridge of his nose.

The image is unwelcome, vivid—someone else catching you, your legs wrapping around their waist, the ease, the familiarity.

His phone clatters onto his chest, and he stares at the ceiling. The muscles in his jaw are taut, his lips pressed in a firm line. A moment passes. Then another.

And that’s how you find him—lying on the couch, stiff as a board, staring blankly upwards like he’s contemplating the meaning of life itself.

“Sweetheart?” you call, stepping closer. You set down your groceries, taking in his unusually tense form. He doesn’t immediately acknowledge you, just continues his thousand-yard stare.

“What’s wrong?” you press, now more concerned. “Are you feeling sick?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, still staring at the ceiling. Then, in a voice that’s a little too measured, he finally speaks.

“If another man so much as thinks about catching you in his arms, I’ll break both of them.”

You freeze. Blink.

“… What?”

Finally, he turns his head to look at you, eyes dark and serious, but there’s something almost resigned in his expression—like he knows he’s being ridiculous but can’t bring himself to care. You’re surprised at the turn of events to---it’s unlike him to be so…possessive and droopy. It’s actually really cute---he reminds you uncharacteristically of a wet, droopy dog.

“I don’t like that filter.” His voice is calm, but his fingers twitch slightly where they rest on his stomach. “I don’t like thinking about other men touching you.”

It’s so unlike him—so openly possessive—that you’re momentarily stunned into silence. Then, amusement bubbles up in your chest.

“Did you just get jealous over a TikTok filter?” you tease, stepping closer.

He exhales, slow and long, closing his eyes briefly before muttering, “I was curious. I regret it.”

You bite back a smile, reaching down to brush your fingers against his jaw. He leans into the touch, almost instinctively, before sighing again.

“You’re the only one I want to touch me, Kento.” you reassure, and his lips finally quirk at the edges—barely, but it’s there.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “But if I ever see a man standing with his arms open around you…” He exhales one final time, shaking his head before murmuring, “… I can fight.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to his cheek before moving to put away the groceries, leaving him lying there, still brooding.

As you walk away, you hear him mutter under his breath, just loud enough to catch:

“Slow catcher hug… ridiculous.”

general masterlist

a/n first time writing for nanami kinda nervous :') i have def areas to improve upon but for the meantime pls accept this <3 thank you for the req cutie !! @girlyuuta choso ver is going to come too :3

[ssahotchnerr]

okay I don’t know how to make this idea I have in my head make sense but here it goes: imagine reader spending time with the team and knowing that Aaron has kind of a stoic image when it comes to the team but then he’s a cinnamon roll at home and the reader tries not to embarrass him with the team and Aaron ends up thinking that the reader is mad or upset because she’s not being as touchy or flirty with him as she normally is but really she’s just trying not to ruin his image??? Did that make sense? I hope that made sense

let loose

it makes perfect sense cw; fem non bau!reader, established relationship, touch starved aaron <3, angst if you squint, fluff and some ending spice ❤️‍🔥 wc; 1k

This was the second time you'd met Aaron's team.

The first was a few weeks ago; you'd brought Aaron a case file he'd forgotten at home. Multiple pairs of eyes latched onto you as you stepped into the bullpen, looking a bit lost until Aaron departed his office to greet you.

When he’d introduced you, only the briefest of pleasantries had been exchanged. Tonight - a small party at David Rossi's - proper acquaintances were finally made.

Your initial shyness was to be expected; getting used to their dynamics, their quirks, fearing you were invading the 'family' they had created.

Aaron's done what he thought would make you more comfortable; staying in close proximity, offering subtle reassurances - a hand on your knee, silent check-ins - and involving you in conversation. He had no doubts the team would make every effort to be welcoming, but he was also well aware that they could come off as intimidating without meaning to be.

But as the night went on, your reservation was directed more at him.

You strayed away from his touch, meeting his eyes with uncertainty, clasping your own hands together instead of intertwining with his. Such detachment was in complete contrast to your typical behavior; normally, you were wrapped around him any chance you got.

Not to mention, you had been all over him back at home. Prolonging your departure by having him pressed against the door, kissing him senseless. You’d almost been late to the time Dave had stated dinner would begin. 

And now, Aaron was left wondering what he could've done wrong in such a short amount of time.

"Are you enjoying yourself, sweetheart?" He asked when a private moment between the two of you finally presented itself, finding you in the kitchen. The others had filtered out to Dave’s patio.

"Yeah, your team is great." You flashed him a quick smile as he neared, busying yourself with the charcuterie board JJ had brought. "You never told me how fun they are."

"They have their moments," his hand found your back, pressing a kiss behind your ear. His actions caused you to tense, only proving his suspicions further. Something was wrong.

"Honey?"

"Hm?" You glanced towards the doorway before looking up at him, your cheeks flushed. You took a small side step away, creating some distance. Anxiety bubbled in his chest.

"Did I do something wrong? You've barely touched me all night. If I upset you somehow, I’m sorry."

"No, no you haven't done anything. I just..." You turned your head away again, timidly and quietly admitting, "didn't know if you wanted me to."

His eyebrows quirked in confusion, you continued.

"This is your team. I know you have an image you want to maintain, and I respect that, so I didn't want to do anything that could potentially embarrass you, with me being as touchy as I am. I panicked, I didn't want to cross a line without knowing."

Oh. His eyes softened in understanding, as yours displayed inner conflict, your heart and head being pulled in different directions.

"Well, I do want you to. Please do."

"Are you sure?"

"Within reason." He offered you a sly smile, not insinuating he wanted hot and heavy actions in front of his colleagues. "But I want you on my arm. Holding my hand. Being your affectionate and loving self. It's what I love about you, and it's meant to be shared."

In fact, it was the one thing he was looking forward to about tonight. He felt more possessive than usual, a state that might have concerned him if not for the pride that came with it. You were his, and he wanted everyone to know how lucky he was.

And selfishly, he wanted the others to know he was worthy of love, (given, he was still trying to believe the same). That there was more to him than Aaron Hotchner, the BAU Unit Chief. He was needed, and not in the professional way he was used to, where his value was measured in results and responsibilities. But rather, being a doting and deeply loving partner.

A smile slowly made its way onto your face, grabbing his hands and lacing your fingers with his before guiding them to your waist, wrapping both his arms around you yourself.

"This may sound pathetic, but within the two hours we've been here, I've missed you."

You laughed gently at his whining, clinging onto his arms. "It's not pathetic at all. If you think you were having a rough time... I had no idea how hard it is to keep my hands off you."

"Good thing there's an easy solution for that. Don't restrain yourself."

"In that case," this time, you didn't glance towards the door, in fear of being caught by one of Aaron's team members. You grabbed his face, your lips meeting his in a kiss.

He immediately reciprocated, a breath of relief escaping him as well; needing this, needing you, the lack of contact throughout the night excruciating. His mouth moved on yours with seamless urgency, as though instinct guided every touch.

The kiss quickly grew heated and messy. Aaron's arms tightened around your waist, backing and picking you up onto the counter, stepping in between your legs. His hands pulled at your hips in desperation of getting you closer. Your breath heavily picked up, assisting him by pressing your chest into his.

Aaron couldn't help but smile against your lips - for a number of reasons. The all-consuming love he had for you, being with you - being close to you - with the team just steps away. Feeling much the same, a giddy giggle escaped you.

"You know..." you mumbled between kisses, your fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt. "You look sexy tonight. Absolutely irresistible."

A breathless chuckle shook through his chest. "We should head out. They'll come looking for us," he teased back, his fingers digging into your hips - a silent cue that he had no intention of actually joining them.

You hummed softly in response, undoing his top button. You stopped there; as it was, you’d only undone the button to get a reaction out of Aaron. It worked, a heavy, trembling breath leaving him. "Let them."

[dakusan]

S U R P R I S I N G S K Z O N T O U R — B A C K S T A G E

stray kids ot8 x reader | post-show sweat. backstage chaos. and the person they missed more than sleep.

🌙 synopsis: they’ve been gone for weeks—sweating under stadium lights, screaming into mic stands, hearts beating to the rhythm of a thousand voices. they’ve given everything. every night. to everyone. and then—it’s you. standing in the hallway. soft smile. no warning. no cameras. just you. and suddenly, the lights aren’t the brightest thing in the room anymore. this isn’t just a surprise. it’s home. it’s you.

💌 a/n: welcome to Tender Tuesday™. yes i made sure it's tuesday this time not like last time!!! this was written under the influence of 1 delusional daydream in a dressing room mirror and the mental image of Han Jisung tripping over his own mic pack trying to hug you. p.s. reblog this like you’re the one showing up in their hoodie p.p.s. drink water or bang chan will fly home and force-feed you oranges p.p.p.s. do yourselves a favour and go listen to the song. it’s disgustingly cute. if you somehow haven’t heard it yet—first of all, how dare you. second of all, fix that. also. watch skz react to their own mv for it. it’s unhinged. they are unwell. you will be too. you're welcome ♡

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎧 » Your Eyes — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan // 방찬

The show ends in a blur of lights, sweat, and deafening screams. Chan’s still catching his breath, chest rising and falling beneath the drenched tank top clinging to his body, mic still clipped to his jaw. The rest of the boys are collapsing into couches or toweling off, high on adrenaline and crowd energy.

Chan’s scanning the staff in the hallway with that ever-present leader instinct—checking on everyone, nodding at sound techs, offering quick praise to dancers. He turns the corner near the dressing rooms.

And stops. Like, full stop.

Because you’re standing there.

In his hoodie. Holding a bottle of water. Smiling like you belong here. Which you do. But he wasn’t expecting you for another week.

“…No way.”

He blinks twice. Looks behind him, like maybe you’re a mirage conjured by exhaustion. Then his whole face shatters into the softest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Wait—no, wait—no way.”

You laugh, arms opening before he even moves.

And then he runs.

No hesitation. No chill. Just full-speed Chan, sweaty, glowing, chest heaving, launching himself into your arms like gravity gave up on him the second you appeared. His arms lock around your waist instantly, head tucked into your neck, and he just holds you.

Tight. So tight it’s like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“You—” his voice cracks, and he laughs into your shoulder, breathless and slightly delirious. “You’re really here.”

You nod, arms around him. “Surprise.”

“Are you kidding?” he whispers, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes wide, glassy. “That was the best surprise of my entire life.”

You brush his hair off his sweaty forehead. “You killed it out there.”

“I missed you out there,” he says, no filter, no hesitation.

And then he kisses you. Hard. Fast. Desperate. Like he doesn’t have time to say everything he feels and this is the only language he has left. When he pulls back, he presses your foreheads together and murmurs, “Don’t leave. Not yet. I need you right here.”

So you stay. In the hallway. Wrapped in each other. As the rest of the world continues spinning—but he’s only looking at you.

Lee Know // 리노

He’s calm. Collected. Leaning against a wall backstage post-show, sipping from a water bottle and nodding along as someone from staff debriefs him on the schedule. Typical Minho—quiet confidence, unreadable eyes, dancer precision. He just performed for 30,000 people and still looks mildly bored.

Until his gaze shifts. And lands on you.

For a second, he doesn’t react at all. Just stares. Like you short-circuited his brain. Eyes flicking from your shoes, to your hoodie (his), to your soft little smile like:

No. No no no. That’s not real. She’s not supposed to be here—

Then—

“…You’re kidding.” His voice is flat, but his ears are bright red.

You open your arms casually, like this isn’t the most romantic ambush of his life. He blinks. Slowly. Then glances at the staff member, mutters a distracted, “Sorry, I gotta go fall apart real quick,” and walks straight into you.

No running. No drama. Just quiet urgency. Hands on your waist. Forehead against your shoulder. Breathing you in like you’re oxygen and he’s been holding his breath the entire tour.

“I hate you,” he mumbles.

You smile into his hair. “No you don’t.”

He squeezes you tighter. “I really do.”

You laugh. “Why?”

“Because you showed up looking like that and now I have to pretend I’m fine when I’m actually thinking about skipping every stop on this tour just to drag you home.”

Your heart stutters. And then, softer—

“…I missed you.”

He doesn’t say it loud. Doesn’t need to. It’s in the way he won’t let go. The way his jaw’s clenched and his fingers are shaking slightly. The way he presses a kiss to your neck like it’s instinct. He pulls back just enough to look at you, and for the first time in a while—he actually smiles. That rare, real one. The one he only gives you.

“You could’ve warned me,” he says.

You shrug. “Wouldn’t have been as fun.”

He rolls his eyes. Then leans in, whispers in your ear, voice low and warm: “…You’re not sleeping alone tonight. Not after this.”

And you know. Under all the chill, the deadpan sarcasm, the perfect stage face—he’s shaken. And he’s so happy you’re here.

Changbin // 창빈

He’s pacing.

Shirt stuck to his back. Sweat dripping from his neck. Still riding the post-show high—wired, panting, glowing. He’s halfway through retelling a moment from the encore to a staff member, hands flailing, voice slightly hoarse—

Then he sees you.

And it’s over.

The world tilts. The noise dies. And his eyes go wide—like someone hit the brakes on his heart.

“…No way. NO WAY—”

He stumbles forward like his feet can’t decide whether to walk or run. His arms are already out. You barely get a breath in before he scoops you up into the most chaotic, all-consuming bear hug of your life. Your feet leave the floor. Your lungs get crushed. He spins you in a full circle before collapsing against a wall with you still in his arms.

“You—” he breathes, “I’m gonna cry. I swear. I’m not joking.”

You laugh into his neck. “Cry, then.”

“I might! I literally—what the hell. You were supposed to be in another country! You lied to me!”

You look up at him, grinning. “Yeah. And I’d do it again.”

He stares at you, eyes shining with disbelief and affection and something deeper that lives in his chest just for you. And then, he kisses your forehead. Slow. Grateful.

“I missed you so much it physically hurt,” he mumbles, voice cracking.

Then, a beat later: “You’re not leaving. You hear me? You’re staying with me ‘til tour’s over. I don’t care what we have to cancel.”

He presses his forehead to yours, and for a second, he’s not Changbin from Stray Kids. He’s just Binnie. Yours. Sweaty, shaky, and so, so in love.

Hyunjin // 현진

He’s sitting in front of the dressing room mirror. Still in his stage outfit. Still glowing. Still breathing fast. His head is bowed, fingers twitching over his knees, lost in the afterglow of a stage that nearly tore his heart out.

And then—

He looks up. Sees the door open. And sees you. Standing there. Wearing his hoodie. Eyes glassy with emotion, like you’ve been watching him the whole time.

At first, he doesn’t move. Just stares. And then—his whole body shatters. He’s up. Fast. But not loud. Not running. More like a storm gathering itself—slow, trembling, dangerous in how much it feels.

You whisper, “Hi, baby.”

And he’s in front of you before you can finish the breath. Hands cradling your face. Eyes searching yours like you’re not real.

“You—” he whispers, voice hoarse, “—you came?”

You nod. “I couldn’t stay away.”

And his lips part like he wants to say something profound, poetic, worthy of the art you are to him—but instead, all that comes out is:

“…I missed you.”

Then he pulls you in and hugs you like a drowning man grabbing the surface. One hand fisting your shirt. The other buried in your hair. His body shakes.

You feel his breath hitch once. Then again.

“Jinnie,” you whisper, “are you crying?”

He laughs through it, wet and shaky. “Shut up.”

You hold him tighter.

“You always do this to me,” he murmurs against your ear. “You always show up and make me feel like I’m seventeen again. Like love isn’t terrifying. Like I deserve it.”

You cup his cheeks, wipe the tears from under his eyes with your thumbs.

“Because you do.”

And he kisses you. So softly. Like a secret he wants to keep safe. Like he’s terrified this is a dream he’ll wake up from.

Han // 한

He’s still bouncing. Literally. Post-show adrenaline, sweat-drenched tank top, mic still clipped, rambling to whoever will listen about the crowd’s energy like—

“Bro, when the beat dropped in ‘Topline’? I almost exploded. Did you hear them? They were SCREAMING—”

Then he sees you.

You’re standing near the monitors. Hidden behind a stack of towels and staff gear. You’re just smiling, waiting. No cameras. No dramatic intro. Just you, soft-eyed and glowing in his hoodie.

He stares. And then? Absolutely. Freaking. Explodes.

“NO. WAIT—WHAT. WHAT—?!”

He screams. Actually screams. Everyone turns. Staff flinches. Someone drops a water bottle.

“YOU’RE HERE?!!” His voice cracks mid-yell. “YOU LIED TO ME!! YOU ABSOLUTE—ANGELIC—GENIUS—LIAR!!”

He’s running toward you now, full anime-level sprint, and crashes into you like a human wrecking ball. Arms tight, body buzzing, face buried in your neck like he needs to smell you just to prove this is real.

You’re laughing. “Hi, Ji—”

“Don’t talk to me,” he sobs. “You’re not real. I’m dreaming. I died on stage. This is heaven.”

“You’re sweaty.”

“I’m in love.”

You giggle and hug him tighter. He pulls back just enough to cup your face, eyes wide, pupils dilated, voice very serious: “Do you realize what you’ve done? You just caused an actual chemical reaction in my body. Like—my heart rate? THROUGH THE ROOF.”

“You okay?”

“No. Absolutely not. This is the most romantic moment of my entire life. I’m gonna need to sit down or I’ll propose by accident.”

You lean in and kiss the tip of his nose. He melts. Literally folds in half. “I’m keeping you,” he mumbles. “Like. Forever. Tour wife. This is happening. Don’t fight me.”

Felix // 필릭스

He’s glowing.

Skin glistening, hair damp, cheeks flushed from the encore. There’s glitter on his shoulders and stars in his eyes. He’s still catching his breath, thanking staff one by one with the kind of gentle sincerity only Felix knows how to give.

And then he turns the corner and stops breathing entirely.

Because you’re there. Backstage. In his hoodie. Hands behind your back. Smile blooming like spring.

He freezes. No words. No movement. Just a single, whispered—

“Angel…?”

You nod, eyes already brimming with tears. “Hi, sunshine.”

And that’s it. His body moves before his brain catches up. He walks toward you slow, almost reverently—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks. Then suddenly you’re in his arms. Pressed flush to his chest, arms wrapped tight, face buried in your shoulder as he sighs. Not out of relief—out of pure emotional collapse.

“I missed you so much,” he whispers. “Like—so much. Like every night I looked for you and had to pretend I was fine.”

Your hand runs through his hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face, cupping your cheeks with both hands like you’re made of porcelain and sunlight.

“You’re real. You’re here. You’re mine.”

And then—he kisses you. Soft. Long. Like he has nothing to rush. Like he’s home. When he pulls back, he giggles through a sniffle.

“Okay. No one tell the others but… this is the best part of tour.”

Seungmin // 승민

He’s standing by the water cooler, towel around his neck, completely sweat-soaked and still glowing with that quiet Seungmin-brand confidence. He’s mid-sip when he spots you—half-hidden behind some gear cases, just… watching him.

For a full three seconds, he doesn’t react. Just blinks. Tilts his head. Tries to process. Then you wave. And he chokes on his water. He coughs. Clears his throat. Wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Then squints like you have some explaining to do.

You walk toward him slowly, smiling like you didn’t just shatter his entire emotional equilibrium.

“You—what? You were—” He frowns. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“That’s the point,” you say softly.

He goes quiet. Eyes flicking over your face, your outfit (one of his shirts, because of course), the little hopeful twitch of your mouth. And something in him just… cracks. “...That’s really mean,” he mutters, eyes glassy. “I could’ve emotionally prepared. Now I look stupid.”

You smile, stepping into his space, hands finding his waist. “You look perfect.”

He scoffs. “Sweaty. Smells like a wet dog.”

“Still perfect.”

And that’s when he lets out the tiniest, tiniest sigh. Like all the fight went out of him. He tugs you into a hug, arms wrapping around your back, his chin resting lightly on your head. “Don’t let go,” he mumbles. “I’m not doing the rest of tour without this. Just so you know.”

You smile into his chest. “Noted.”

Then, softer, a whisper you almost miss:

“...Thanks for coming back to me.”

I.n // 아이엔

He’s doing his post-show ritual—sitting on the dressing room floor with his legs stretched out, sipping his drink, cheeks flushed from dancing and screaming, trying to act cool even though his adrenaline is still going crazy.

He’s giggling at something a member says when the door creaks.

He looks up. And freezes. Because it’s you. Peeking in, eyes soft, fingers curled around the doorframe like you were nervous to interrupt.

“...Hi, baby,” you whisper.

His jaw actually drops. He blinks once, twice, like his brain needs buffering time.

“…You’re joking,” he finally says.

You step inside slowly. “Not a joke.”

You expect him to run. Cry. Scream. But instead—

He just sits there, completely still. Like his soul left his body for a minute. “…You really came?” he asks, voice small.

You kneel in front of him, taking his face in your hands. “Of course I did.”

And that’s when it happens.

His whole body slumps forward and he buries his face in your neck—arms wrapping around your waist in this desperate, trembling hold like he’s afraid to break you. “I missed you,” he says, so quietly it makes your chest ache. “So much. It’s been so hard.”

You stroke his hair. “You’re doing amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

And then? He starts sniffling. “Noooo don’t say that, I’m gonna cry,” he mumbles, voice cracking. “I was literally fine five seconds ago. This is so unfair.”

You laugh gently. “Cry, Jeonginnie. It’s okay.”

He pulls back, eyes watery, lips trembling into a smile. “I love you,” he blurts out. “A lot. Just—so much.”

And then he hugs you again. Tighter. Softer. Like now that you’re here, nothing else matters. Like home isn’t a place—it’s you.

[alygator77]

❥ masked affairs—sold to desire

℘pairing. au dom rich! satoru x fem! reader

℘summary. it's a lavish charity masquerade, and you find yourself under satoru gojo’s spell once again. tonight, he’s playing a dangerous game—a discreet, remote-controlled toy designed to tease and torment you—hula beads. as the night unfolds, you walk the fine line between obedience and defiance, but testing him could be your undoing—satoru is unforgiving, and he holds the key to your pleasure.

℘tags/warnings. nsfw 18+, smut, fluff, established relationship, billionaire satoru, reader is rich too, satoru controls/dominates you with a sex toy during a charity auction, jealous/possessive satoru, public foreplay, public sex, lots of worship and praise, penetration, creampie.

℘wc. 15.1k

℘a/n. happy spooky season ya'll 👻 this oneshot is heavily inspired by fifty shades darker. check out the mood board here. the song for this fic is 'infinity' by james young, listen here. enjoy 💕

In a room full of masks, you’ve perfected the art of wearing one—long before you ever stepped into Satoru Gojo’s world.

The lace mask lying on your vanity is almost like a second skin to you now. After all, you’ve spent years working in your profession, hiding behind smiles and carefully measured words. It’s a flawless poise required of someone in your line of work—the PR world demanded it—dealing with the rich and powerful, controlling the narrative, making sure their perfect, untouchable image remains intact.

A skill you’ve long since mastered.

And as the soft hum of the city buzzes outside your penthouse window, with the glow of the skyline filtering through the room—it serves as a quiet reminder of how far you’ve come, and where you are now.

Standing at the top.

But the weight of that truth has never really faded, has it? You—entrenched in this world—one that always demands more than it gives.

A faint smile tugs at your lips as you lift the mask from the vanity, turning it over between your fingers. Ironic, really, that someone who has built a career on managing the chaos of others, controlling every detail, would find herself unraveling in ways she hadn’t expected.

Unraveled by him.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the quiet creak of the door, and you glance up at the mirror just in time to see him lean against the doorframe.

Satoru Gojo.

It had been two years since that fateful night—the night you met him at the very same event you are both to attend, yet again. But when he had first walked into that ballroom two years ago, confident and untouchable, you hadn’t been impressed… at first—and why would you be? Men like him, with their money and their charm, were a dime a dozen in your world. You knew exactly how to handle them.

But not Satoru Gojo.

And tonight, he looked every bit his part—a presence so magnetic, so effortless—dressed in a sleek black tuxedo, tailored perfectly to his tall, athletic frame. His white hair falling in its usual tousled disarray, yet somehow, even that looks intentional—perfectly imperfect, just like him.

Ah, but it’s his eyes—those striking, icy blue eyes—that always manage to captivate you immediately. And this time, as his gaze sweeps over you slowly, you catch sight of the predatory glimmer underneath, lingering on every curve as he drinks in the sight of you.

There is a weight to his gaze, and oh, you revel in it. That’s the thing—you know exactly how to unravel him, just as easily as he can unravel you.

Taking your time, you set the lace mask down carefully—knowing full well that his eyes haven’t left you for a second, and you smooth your gown, feeling the delicate, luxurious material slide under your fingers.

The dress was a statement—sophisticated with a touch of allure. The deep sapphire-blue fabric, silky and shimmering in the dim light, hugs your curves with a neckline plunging just low enough to tease. It features a high slit running up one leg, adding a sensual edge but still maintaining an air of elegance.

And you know—oh, you know—that every detail of it is driving him crazy.

His breath catches as he finally speaks, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Wow. You’re going to make it impossible for anyone else to concentrate tonight.”

You smirk, turning just enough to catch his eyes fully.

“Good. I didn’t plan on letting anyone else have your attention tonight.”

“Mmm, funny,” he muses, stepping toward you with slow, deliberate strides.

His hands slowly slide down your arms—a touch so feather-light, it sends a shiver of anticipation through you as he leans in, his breath is warm against your ear. “Especially considering it’s been two years since you walked into that gala and made me work for your attention.”

“Work?” you chuckle softly and tilt your head slightly. “I think you enjoyed the chase more than you’re willing to admit.”

Pulling himself closer to you—you feel his lips brush softly against your neck, underlined with a low growl.

“Oh, I enjoyed it,” his voice deepens with each word. “But catching you...” he places a lingering kiss just beneath your ear. “That was my real reward.”

You inhale as his warm breath fans your skin, and you desperately try not to give away just how much your body is already responding to him.

Why? Because you love making him chase you—even to this day.

“Is that so?” you challenge.

“Mhm,” he hums.

Exhaling again, you feel his hands slide lower, resting just above the curve of your hips as his lips trail down the side of your neck, placing slow, deliberate kisses.

“You still seem a little worked up for someone who’s already caught me.” You keep your voice measured—your growing desire masked underneath a teasing edge.

He chuckles darkly.

“Can you blame me?”

Before you can respond, his words are punctuated with a slow, deliberate press of his hips, and you gasp softly as you feel the unmistakable erection pressing into your backside. Biting your lip, you suppress a moan as the sensation sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

“You feel that, don’t you?” rolling his hips, he sounds so desperate, and it’s impossible to ignore. “That’s what you do to me.”

“You’re awfully needy tonight,” you whisper, breathily.

He drops his head, placing a tender kiss on your shoulder—trailing up to the shell of your ear where you are met with a deep chuckle.

“Needy?” a shiver rakes down your spine as his voice dips lower—darker, more dangerous. “Oh, sweetheart… you haven’t seen needy yet.”

His hand slides from your waist with an agonizing slowness until it rests on the curve of your hip, and you feel his fingers trace the edge of your dress—teasingly close to the slit exposing your thigh—a touch so light is makes you shiver with anticipation.

“I’ve got something for you,” he murmurs, meeting your gaze in the vanity mirror.

Your eyes widen as you feel something cool and smooth brush against your bare thigh—small, sleek, unmistakable.

Hula beads.

Well, fuck—what a menace. With him holding the remote, you know he’ll have full control over your pleasure—completely discreet and utterly torturous.

“Just a little gift to keep things… exciting,” he grins. “I know these events can be so… mundane for you.”

Your mouth goes dry as you hold his gaze, already sensing where this was going.

“Satoru—”

“Two years,” he interrupts, dark and commanding now. “Two years since you walked into my life, and I decided I wasn’t going to let you go.” His eyes lock onto yours in the mirror, and for a moment, all you can do is stare back at his reflection, captivated by his intensity.

Slowly, his expression softens—his thumb brushing tenderly over your skin.

“Tonight’s special, love,” he says affectionately. Leaning in closer, his lips brush against your ear, and before you can react, he captures your earlobe gently between his teeth. “I want you to feel that baby.”

A gasp escapes your lips. He knows how to get under your skin—how to make every inch of you burn with need. His dominance, wrapped in tenderness—the perfect combination that drives you wild.

“I want you to wear these for me tonight.”

The heat between your thighs intensifies at his words. Swallowing hard, you nod slowly. Finally managing to speak, barely a whisper.

“Okay.”

Satoru’s smirk deepens, his eyes darkening with satisfaction as his grip on your waist tightens.

“Good. Now bend over the dresser.”

The command in his voice is unmistakable, and it sends a thrill straight to your core, making your legs tremble slightly as you obey. Slowly, you lean forward, your palms resting on the cool surface of the dresser.

“So obedient,” his hands glide up your hips, bunching the fabric of your dress around your waist. “Such a good girl for me.”

His praise makes your breath hitch, and you bite your lip as his hands move lower, spreading your thighs slightly—positioning you just the way he wants you.

Satoru’s fingers hook into the delicate fabric of your lace panties, tugging them down your legs in one smooth, possessive motion. As you brace yourself against the dresser, his touch drifts lower, tracing the sensitive skin of your thighs before circling back up—brushing softly around the curve of your ass. But your body aches for more, and finally, your entrance welcomes the light, deliberate pressure of his digit.

It's not enough though.

Fucking hell. The anticipation is coiling tight in your stomach—you were already growing wet. He was always like this—making you wait, making you want him even more.

“Satoru,” you plea, barely above a whisper.

Pausing for a moment, he chuckles—then, he allows his fingers to brush over you again, this time with a little more pressure. He lets out a low hum of approval as he feels the undeniable heat between your legs.

“Well, look at that,” he murmurs, full of satisfaction as his fingers trace over your slickness. “You’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

Your body trembles and the heat intensifies further as he acknowledges your arousal.

“I was going to prep you,” his voice drips with amusement as he pushes deeper—two fingers curling in—just enough to make you gasp. “But… I don’t think that’s necessary anymore, do you?”

He pulls his fingers out—leaving you aching and breathless. You let out a disappointed whine, your body protesting against the sudden loss of contact.

You wanted him. Now.

The desire burning throughout you is almost unbearable, and he knows it—he was going to make this night torture for you.

He chuckles again—a hand sliding up your spine, tracing the curve of your back as he leans in closer to press a tender kiss on your shoulder.

“Needy girl. I’m not done with you yet. Stay still.”

Your breath hitches, and before you can respond, you feel something cool and smooth press against your entrance—the unmistakable touch of the Hula Beads.

“Let’s make this night memorable, hmm?”

He slowly, deliberately, pushes it inside you.

Unable to suppress the soft moan that escapes your lips, he doesn’t stop until the beads are seated deep within you. The sensation is foreign, but undeniably arousing as your core clenches around them—a fullness that builds between your thighs, making your knees tremble.

You’re already aching for more, and he hasn’t even turned them on yet.

Satoru pauses for a moment, letting you breathe as he admires you—a small, knowing smirk tugging upon his lips. With careful precision, he hooks his fingers into the delicate fabric of your panties and pulls them back up.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, smoothing your dress back down. “Now, stand up.”

Standing upright feels like a challenge—your legs tremble slightly as you push yourself up from the dresser, adjusting to the pressure inside you. He steps behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

“You’re going to behave tonight, aren’t you?” His free hand reaches up, fingers gently brushing through your hair, caressing you as his eyes lock with yours in the mirror—a comfort and a reminder of the control he holds. “I’ll know exactly what’s going on inside you, and no one else will have a clue. But you’ll behave for me, won’t you, sweetheart?”

“I’ll try…” you respond, breathy, but teasing—a spark of defiance in your tone, knowing full well what his reaction might be.

Satoru’s smirk deepens, his grip on your waist tightening for just a second.

“Try?” he repeats, full of amusement. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re already testing me, and we haven’t even left the room yet.”

His warning sends a shiver through you as you hold his gaze with a playful challenge—but then, he pecks your cheek and steps back. Straightening his jacket, he adjusts his bowtie as if nothing unusual has happened between you. It’s a movement so smooth and controlled, an epitome of poise—but the smirk on his lips and the glint in his eyes tell you that he’s anything but composed on the inside.

Oh, he’s playing with you… and he’s loving every second of it.

“Behave,” he casts you a sideways glance, accompanied with a wink, full of mischief. “Because I’m going to have so much fun with you tonight, princess.”

❥

“Ah, there they are!” a familiar voice rings from behind, and you turn just in time to see Shoko approaching—her mischievous smile tugging at her lips, the lace mask adorning her face barely concealing that sparkle in her eyes. “y/n, Satoru—you two certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Before you can respond, she pulls you into a warm embrace—the scent of her perfume faint and comforting as you relax into her familiar touch.

“Gosh, it’s been too long,” she murmurs before stepping back to look you over with an approving nod. “You look incredible.”

Satoru jumps in—his arm slipping slightly around your waist, pulling you closer as he leans in with a low chuckle.

“Doesn’t she?” His voice is rich with affectionate pride, and his fingers lightly trace circles on your hip absentmindedly. “It’s almost unfair, isn’t it?”

The warmth of his words lingers in the air, and you can’t help but feel the flutter of butterflies in your chest as his gaze holds yours with an intensity.

Shoko’s dramatic groan breaks the spell. She rolls her eyes with exaggerated flair—crossing her arms over her chest as a playful grin tugs at her lips.

“Ugh, you two are too cute together—it’s almost sickening.”

You let out a soft laugh, glancing sideways at Satoru with a knowing smirk.

“Mmm... well, we try.”

Satoru’s smirk only widens as he holds you even tighter.

“Do we?” he teases. “I wasn’t aware we were being watched.”

Shoko rolls her eyes again, clearly unimpressed with his feigned ignorance.

“Oh, please,” she drawls sarcastically, lightly flicking a hand toward the both of you. “It’s hard not to notice when you two waltz in looking like you own the place.”

You can’t help but grin in response, shaking your head at her comment.

“Oh, come on. Says the woman who makes even casual elegance look like high fashion.”

Shoko’s smirk grows as she readjusts the shawl draped elegantly around her shoulders—her burgundy gown hugging her figure perfectly—each detail carefully chosen. She straightens up, standing a little taller as she takes in your compliment.

“Mmm…what can I say? Guess I’m a natural,” she adds with a playful wink.

Before anyone can add anything further, Suguru’s smooth voice cuts in from behind, joining the conversation as he steps up beside her.

“You’re always so modest, aren’t you, Shoko?”

His calm presence and easygoing smile blend seamlessly in the group—almost as natural as the way he drapes an arm casually over Shoko’s shoulders, while his other hand pushes back a few stray tousles of his long raven hair.

As his gaze shifts toward Satoru for a moment, a playful spark flickers in his eyes.

“But… let’s not downplay the real showstopper,” Suguru’s attention slides over to you, lingering with an appreciative glance. “y/n,” he murmurs, “you’re absolutely breathtaking tonight.”

You can’t help but blush lightly—feeling the warmth and sincerity of his compliment. You manage a soft smile.

“Aww, thanks… you’re too kind, Suguru.”

Suddenly the atmosphere shifts—Satoru’s arm tightens around your waist, and the low, unamused hum that rumbles through his chest makes his feelings on the exchange very clear.

“Kind, hm?” His gaze slides from you to Suguru, narrowing with a protective edge. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Suguru’s grin widens, clearly savoring the reaction he’s drawing out from his friend. There’s a certain satisfaction in the way his lips curl upward—knowing full well the tension he’s provoking.

“What?” He tilts his head to the side, feigning innocence. “I’m just calling it like I see it. And believe me, everyone’s seeing it tonight. y/n’s drawing the most attention.”

For a moment, the air between the two men thickens, and Satoru’s hand tightens ever so slightly around you.

“Mhm… she always does.”

Suguru raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained with Satoru’s reaction, and without missing a beat, he saunters over—casually draping an arm over Satoru’s shoulders—a gesture that both diffuses and provokes in the same motion. Pulling his friend in slightly, he shakes him playfully with an unwavering grin.

“Oh yes, of course,” Suguru replies smoothly. “I mean, some people just have that natural charm. I’m sure half the room is probably wondering ‘who is that stunning woman on your arm.’”

Ah… the familiar dynamic between them is at play. It’s almost like clockwork—the way Suguru knows how to needle Satoru without truly ruffling his feathers. Their friendship has always been this way—filled with teasing, and light jabs—but under it all, there’s a solid foundation of trust.

Suguru is his best friend, after all.

Rolling his eyes, the grin tugging at the corners of Satoru’s lips betray him. He shrugs Suguru’s arm off his shoulders—giving him a light shove.

“Yeah, well... they can wonder all they want,” Satoru quips, casual but pointed. He shifts, and before you can react, he takes your hand, guiding you toward him in one fluid motion. Holding you close, he presses a tender kiss to your temple—the warmth of his lips sending a flutter of butterflies through your chest. “Doesn’t change the fact that she’s with me,” he murmurs.

Suguru leans back slightly, clearly amused by how things are playing out, and his smirk widens—he can’t resist throwing in one last comment.

“Ahh… but if you’re not careful… someone might just steal her away.”

The words hang in the air, and for a brief second, everything feels charged—like a storm on the horizon. You can feel Satoru’s body tense ever so slightly, his fingers tightening on your waist. Suguru’s teasing is nothing unusual, but tonight... tonight it feels different. The thought of testing Satoru right now seems almost… dangerous.

Maybe it’s the setting, the way you’re dressed, or maybe it’s the fact that you both know he’s holding more than just your hand tonight.

The remote.

Fucking hell…Suguru may think he’s getting under Satoru’s skin, but you know better. Tonight is not the night to test Satoru’s patience.

Before the tension can build further, Shoko, ever the master of diffusing, steps in with a smirk and a light nudge to Suguru’s side.

“Well, it’s good to see nothing’s changed,” she remarks, full of playful exasperation. “Still managing to get under his skin, I see.”

Suguru chuckles, his smile widening as he throws his hands up in mock surrender. “It’s a gift,” he says with an exaggerated shrug.

Satoru’s grip on your waist loosens, the tension that had been simmering, melting away like snow under the sun from Shoko’s well-timed comment.

Oh, Shoko. You could kiss her right now—tonight, of all nights, you really needed that—needed her.

Satoru hums in response, the sound low and laced with mock approval as his gaze flickers between Suguru and you—his lips curving into a teasing smile.

“If by gift, you mean an annoyance, then sure,” he murmurs.

“Eh. Same thing,” Suguru shrugs, smiling—not phased in the slightest by Satoru’s retort.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head in mock disapproval at the two of them.

“You two are impossible…” you murmur.

Before anyone can say more, a gentleman in a sharp suit approaches Satoru—tapping him lightly on the shoulder.

“Mr. Gojo, I believe the event coordinator needs a word with you about the auction details.”

Satoru’s eyes flicker briefly with irritation at the interruption, but ever the charmer, he covers it with a polite smile.

“Of course,” he responds smoothly. Before stepping away, he turns to you—lifting your hand gently into his own. His lips brush against your knuckles in a tender, lingering kiss, sending a soft warmth radiating through your chest. “I’ll be back in just a moment, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You manage a smile as you watch him walk away, and as soon as Satoru is out of earshot, Shoko leans in closer to you—her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Sooo, how are things really?” her eyes gleam with playful curiosity. “Satoru keeping you on your toes?”

Well… that’s one way to put it—if only she knew half of it. You take a small breath, glancing briefly at Satoru as he moves across the room.

“Yeah…” a soft, fond smile spreads across your face. “You could say that…”

“Well,” she chuckles, patting your arm gently, “I’ll give you this—two years with Satoru? You deserve a medal,” she teases. “I can’t believe it’s been that long. Seems like just yesterday we were all at this gala, two years ago. Remember?”

“How could I forget?” you murmur, your voice dropping slightly as you recall that night, still so vivid. “It was... intense.”

Shoko grins, her eyes bright with recollection.

“Intense?” She shakes her head. “You two practically set the room on fire. The way he looked at you that night? I swear… I thought the whole world was going to stop spinning.”

Her words bring a slight flush to your cheeks, and you can’t help but smile at the memory.

“And now, look at you…” Shoko continues, her tone softening with affection. “Two years in, and he’s still completely wrapped around your finger.”

You bite your lip, feeling a warmth flutter in your chest.

“Well…he’s persistent, I’ll give him that,” you admit, your fingers absentmindedly twisting the ring on your hand—a gesture you do without thinking.

Ah…but it’s not the ring you want it to be.

Shoko notices the subtle movement, her eyes flicking to your hand before she gives you a knowing smirk.

“Oh, please,” she teases, flicking a hand toward you with a playful roll of her eyes. “Persistent? The man’s practically obsessed. Not that I blame him, of course.” She gestures to your gown—the fabric shimmering under the soft lights. “Seriously. You do look stunning, as always.”

You chuckle softly at her compliment—shaking your head. “Thanks, Sho.”

From the side, Suguru, who had been quietly watching the exchange, finally steps forward, his smile soft and genuine.

“Man… two years already, huh?” he remarks, rich with sincerity—his gaze shifting between you and where Satoru had gone. “You and Satoru... I never would’ve guessed it back then, but now? It just makes sense.”

You tilt your head slightly, genuinely intrigued by his words. “What do you mean?” you ask, meeting his gaze.

Suguru chuckles, a warm, low sound.

“I mean… you balance him out. He needs someone like you—someone who can handle him and keep him grounded. You keep him on his toes, but you also... well, you make him better.”

His words catch you off guard—you feel your heart swell and a faint blush paint your cheeks.

“I never thought about it like that,” you admit, offering him a soft smile.

“Well, it’s true,” Suguru replies, his smile widening as he casually shoves his hands in his pockets. “Look, I know he’s not the easiest guy to deal with, but with you? He’s found someone worth changing for.”

You blink, his words sinking in, and you feel the weight of the compliment settle in your chest. It’s not often people see beyond the surface of Satoru and his larger-than-life persona, but Suguru always had a way of getting to the heart of things.

“Thanks, Suguru. That... that means a lot.”

Shoko, sensing the tender turn of the conversation, steps back in with her usual playful demeanor—her smirk returning in full force.

“Alright, alright,” she interjects with a mock sigh, “Enough of this heart-to-heart. I’m off to find a drink before this turns into a therapy session,” she jokes, giving your arm a light squeeze before she starts sauntering off toward the bar.

You and Suguru are left standing there as you watch her go—his head shaking slightly with amusement.

“She’s always like that…” he murmurs, half to himself.

You’re about to respond, to make some lighthearted comment in return, when the world around you suddenly shifts—tilts, really, in a way that sends a jolt of warmth radiating through your core. It’s subtle, barely noticeable at first, but your body betrays you—stiffening as a wave of unexpected pleasure coils low in your stomach. Your breath catches, and before you can even process what’s happening, a soft gasp slips past your lips.

Oh, no. No, no, no. Not now.

Suguru, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice the sudden change in your demeanor—he continues talking, oblivious to the soft hum of the Hula beads that have sprung to life inside you. But you know. You know exactly what’s happening.

Satoru.

The soft, torturous vibrations pulse through you, teasing, building in intensity just enough to make your legs wobble slightly. It’s maddening—the way the beads twist and hum with perfect, controlled precision, sending sharp, undeniable shocks of pleasure through your core—the kind that makes your knees want to give out if you’re not careful.

You swallow hard, desperately trying to maintain your composure, nodding along to whatever Suguru is saying. God… what is he even saying? His words are little more than background noise to the mounting pressure building inside of you.

Fucking Satoru.

You’ve been left alone for all of two minutes, and he’s already playing with you. Already reminding you who’s in control tonight.

Your pulse races as you glance around the room, frantically searching for him—and there he is, across the room, casually speaking with someone. His white hair catches the soft light, making him stand out even in the crowd, and his gaze is focused on the conversation—until it’s not. His eyes flick over to you, locking with yours in a way that feels like a tether between you both.

And then he smirks.

The kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Your chest tightens as the vibrations inside you shift—deeper, more intense—and you have to bite your lip to suppress a whimper. You want to scream, to curse him from across the room, but you can’t. Not with Suguru standing right here.

“y/n?” Suguru asks softly, concerned. “You alright?”

Oh God…are you obvious?

You swallow hard, nodding quickly. “Y-yeah,” you stammer, clearing your throat. “Just… the room���s a bit, erm… warm.”

Warm? That’s the best you could come up with?

Suguru raises an eyebrow, clearly sensing that something’s off, but too kind to push it. Instead, he gives you a soft, reassuring smile—his hand coming to rest gently on your arm. It’s a simple touch that would normally be comforting, but right now, it only heightens your awareness of the relentless pulses inside you—and Satoru’s own relentlessness.

Because then, without warning, the Hula beads kick up in intensity.

The sudden surge of vibration hits you like a shockwave, and you nearly double over from the sensation as it reaches your clit. Your knees almost give out, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to gasp aloud. The vibrations aren’t just subtle anymore; they’re deep, insistent, pushing you closer and closer to the edge with each agonizing pulse.

Fuck.

Your breath hitches, and you have to dig your nails into your palms to keep yourself grounded. The wet heat building inside you feels like it’s going to explode. You glance back at Satoru—catching sight of his unwavering gaze—and in that brief, charged moment, he mouths the words to you slowly, deliberately:

You’re mine.

Your cunt drips. Oh God… he’s doing this because of Suguru—reminding you that no matter who you’re talking to, no matter who you’re with, you belong to him.

A flush of heat spreads through your cheeks, and you quickly turn your attention back to Suguru, hoping to hide the storm brewing inside of you. He continues speaking, but you barely hear him. Every nerve in your body is too focused on the pulsing hum—on the way your body reacts involuntarily to every shift in vibration.

Oh, Shoko—you could strangle her.

If she hadn’t left you alone with Suguru, maybe you wouldn’t be standing here on the brink of losing control, struggling to keep your legs from buckling under the pressure of the relentless pleasure surging through you.

Your gaze snaps to Satoru, and for a brief, charged moment, he meets your eyes. His hand slips into his pocket, his expression infuriatingly smug, as if to say, Remember who’s in control.

The vibrations surge even more—your entire body tensing. It’s too much.

You’re so close—too close. Your pussy quivers as you teeter on the edge of release, and all you can do is bite your lip to stifle the whimper that’s threatening to escape.

But just as the pressure coils and the pleasure peaks—right when you’re about to fall over the precipice—everything stops. The vibrations cease entirely, leaving you trembling and breathless—your body screaming for a release that’s been snatched away.

You blink in shock—your legs weak as your slick drips down your thigh—the sudden loss of sensation leaving you reeling.

Ready to shoot Satoru a glare, the moment you look in his direction you barely register the fact that he’s already moving towards you and Suguru with long purposeful strides—and in seconds, he’s standing beside you.

“So sorry to interrupt,” his hand slips around your waist—pulling you flush against him as his thumb brushes lightly over your hip. “But I think I’ll be stealing her away now.”

Suguru chuckles, unaware of the game Satoru’s been playing—or just how close you came to unraveling right in front of him.

“Tch… already?” he tilts his head, grin widening. “We barely had a chance to catch up.”

Satoru doesn’t miss a beat, his gaze flicking from Suguru to you—eyes dark with intent.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll all have time for that later…” his tone is casual, but there’s a hidden edge beneath the surface, and when his eyes meet yours, there’s a dangerous glint—a silent promise that makes your breath hitch and a shiver run down your spine. “Right now,I need her,” he smirks.

Suguru raises an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over you—lingering a moment too long as if noticing the flush of your cheeks, the way you’re clinging to Satoru’s arm a little more tightly than usual.

With a theatrical sigh, he shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Guess I’ll go find Shoko then, so I don’t have to be the third wheel.” As he takes a step back, he gives you one last playful glance. “But don’t hog her all night, Satoru,” he warns teasingly even as he steps away. “I expect to get at least one dance later.”

Satoru chuckles dismissively—his focus already shifting entirely to you as Suguru fades out of existence. “Yeah, right… not happening,” he mutters under his breath.

The moment Suguru’s out of earshot, Satoru tightens his grip on your waist, pulling your body flush against his. A slow smirk tugs at his lips the moment you feel the unmistakable evidence of his arousal—his cock, hard and unyielding, pressing into you.

“You looked like you were about to fall apart back there, sweetheart,” his lips brush your ear as he tenderly trails his fingers through your hair. “Tell me… you were so close, weren’t you?”

Your breath stutters as his hand slides slowly, possessively down your back. The heat of his touch seeps through the fabric of your dress, making your body shudder as he lingers just above the curve of your hips. Your cunt aches for the release he denied you.

“Satoru…you’re... so unfair.”

“Unfair?” he chuckles, pulling back slightly and running his thumb tenderly across your lower lip—watching your breath hitch at his touch. “Oh, princess… if only you knew…” His voice drops lower—lips ghosting over yours as he whispers, “I want to drag you away and show you just how unfair I can be.”

You bite your lip, stifling a moan—the heat pooling between your legs. Your hand instinctively rests against his chest, fingers brushing the smooth fabric of his tuxedo—feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat mirroring your own. Your lips part as you take in a shaky breath.

“Take me somewhere right now… I don’t care where, just… please don’t make me wait any longer.”

Your voice is breathless, desperate, and the moment the words leave your lips, you see the shift in his expression—his cock twitches in his pants and his eyes darken with raw desire. He clenches his jaw and breathes sharply through his nose, almost as if he’s trying to regain control. As he lowers his forehead against yours, you feel his hand drop from your hair to grip your hips possessively.

“Fuck...” he growls softly, “You have no idea how hard you have me. Every time you look at me like that...” he exhales, his fingers pressing harder into you as his gaze drops to your lips. “…I just want to take you right here.”

His touch slides lower, fingers trailing over the curve of your hip before they begin to glide back up, slipping teasingly over the small of your back. It’s an innocent enough motion to anyone watching—but the way his fingers linger, the way his body presses into yours, it sends a tingling wave of heat to your pussy.

“If we weren’t in public right now…” his voice rumbles against your skin as he nuzzles into the delicate curve of your neck, “I’d have you on your knees, begging for me. I’d make you scream my name so loud, the only thing you’d be able to think about is how much you fucking need me.”

Your knees nearly give way at the intensity of his words, but his strong arm tightens around you, steadying you. You whine as his fingers rise up to weave through your hair again, tugging gently as his other hand returns to your waist, trailing down slowly before gripping your hip again.

“Mmm… but not yet,” he whispers, dripping with control. “Not here.”

You let out a soft, frustrated groan, leaning into his chest, craving more—craving him. His infuriating smirk brushes against your skin, and he hums in amusement. He pulls you back to look at you, his hand coming up the tenderly cup your cheek.

“Come now,” he murmurs affectionately, “You’ll behave for me, won’t you, sweetheart?”

You exhale heavily, rolling your eyes despite the tight knot of desire twisting inside you.

“Yes...” you mumble.

His eyebrow arches as he leans in, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes… I’ll behave,” you huff in frustration.

A slow, satisfied smirk tugs at Satoru’s lips as he pulls back. He caresses your hair once more and presses a gentle, lingering kiss to your temple.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, the words wrapping around you like a promise. “Because if you don’t… I’ll fucking ruin you later.”

Oh, you know he will—and you’ll love every second of it.

❥

The night was going smoothly. The opulent charity gala had everything: fine champagne, crystal chandeliers, and the hum of soft conversation drifting through the ballroom. Satoru had barely left your side, his hand lingering on your waist, warm and magnetic—making you feel like the queen of the event, and every glance from the elite in attendance told you the same thing.

Together, you were commanding the room.

But then… she walked in.

Mei-Mei.

Her entrance was nothing short of dramatic—icy beauty wrapped in a form-fitting, silk gown that shimmered with every step and clung to her every curve. Heads turned, conversations quieted, and the air in the ballroom seemed to shift as she sauntered through the crowd with effortless grace.

Mei-Mei was made for these kinds of events. She exuded money, and it wasn’t just in her attire; it was in her entire demeanor—the confidence of someone who wouldn’t hesitate to buy anything she desired—including people. And more than anything, that’s exactly what she wanted to project.

Her sharp, catlike eyes scan the room slowly, as if weighing its worth, and you can instantly feel the moment her gaze lands on you—and on Satoru.

Once upon a time, long before you entered his life, Mei-Mei had been Satoru’s girlfriend. And her interest in him? Well… it had never been about love.

No, Mei-Mei was a woman who measured people by their value—their status, their influence, and most importantly, their wealth. Satoru had checked all the boxes—he was power personified, and she loved the way that power elevated her—until she overplayed her hand and Satoru had walked away.

The façade had cracked—once Satoru had realized what she was truly after, how she valued his bank account more than anything else, he was through. He had never spoken much about their prior relationship, but you’ve heard enough through whispers in social circles.

But Mei-Mei? She’d never forgiven him for it—he had stolen away the life she had always dreamed for herself.

Now, as her eyes flick over you and Satoru, you catch sight of the challenge forming behind her sharpened smile as she immediately changes her course.

You can feel Satoru’s arm instinctively tighten around your waist, his body leaning slightly into yours—he’s noticed her too. You glance up at him, offering a soft smile—your silent way of telling him, you’re fine.

She’s not going to rattle you. Not tonight.

Her heels click in rhythmic precision against the marble floor as she approaches, and once she finally reaches you, her lips curl into a smile—sharp and precise—designed to appear friendly but lacking any warmth.

“Ah, y/n, dear,” she began, smooth as silk but dripping with condescension. “You look... cute tonight.” Her gaze flicks to Satoru for a fraction of a second before landing back on you. “I suppose Satoru always did have a thing for... simplicity.”

Oh… she wants to play?

Fine. You meet her eyes without hesitation—your unwavering smile poised and steady.

“Simplicity?” you echo, letting a carefree laugh slip through. “Oh, darling… simplicity is what makes elegance effortless. I suppose that’s a skill not everyone can master, hmm?”

For just a fraction of a second, you see it—her mask slips. Her smile falters, her jaw tightens, and her eyes narrow just a little too much. It’s quick, but you catch it.

Got her.

But Mei-Mei doesn’t like being outmaneuvered. Especially not by you.

Her eyes flick away from yours, turning to Satoru with a renewed smile—wider, as if trying to reclaim control. But you see through the charm; there’s bitterness behind it.

“Well,” she continues, voice dripping with false nostalgia, “Satoru and I were quite the power couple once, weren’t we?” her gaze flicks back to you. “I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten.”

As her voice drops, like a private whisper shared between ex-lovers, you feel Satoru tense beside you. His grip on you tightens as though he’s silently urging you to ignore her. But nah—you aren’t about to back down. Not tonight.

Letting your hand trail slowly down the front of Satoru’s tux, your fingertips graze the fabric teasingly as you glance up at him, offering a soft, playful smile. His eyes soften immediately, and he pulls you a little closer.

“Mmm… but memories have a funny way of fading when you’ve found something far more fulfilling.”

Satoru responds immediately, his gaze melting into yours, the tension in his shoulders easing as his fingers squeeze your waist slightly—a silent declaration of where his loyalties lie. Your voice is sweet, affectionate, and though your words are for Satoru, they’re aimed squarely at Mei-Mei.

You catch sight of her reaction in the corner of your eye—the way her fingers clench around her designer clutch a bit too tightly—a crack of frustration leaking through her forced smile.

“You know,” she starts again, this time more pointed, “men like Satoru tend to... wander. He’s incapable of settling down, so I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.”

The jab hangs in the air, and you feel Satoru stiffen beside you. He’s clearly irritated now, but it’s not her words that bother you—it’s the audacity.

How dare she throw shade at him?

Your eyebrow arches, and a light, almost dismissive laugh escapes your lips. The sound slices through her words, gentle but cutting.

“Oh, Mei-Mei…” you coo, her name slipping off your tongue with a mix of sweetness and pity. “You see, some men wander when they’re searching for something they don’t have. But when they’ve found what they truly want? They stay.”

Your words hit her like a slap disguised as a caress, and you see the moment it lands—underneath the lacy mask resting on the bridge of her nose, her eyes flash, and her smile tightens. Despite her best efforts, she tries to remain composed.

“I suppose we’ll see how long that lasts.”

You smile serenely, unbothered, and tilt your head slightly, like you’re humoring a child.

“Yes, well. Satoru’s never been one to settle for anything less than what he deserves. I suppose that’s why he left you.”

The subtle shift in her demeanor tells you everything you need to know.

You’ve won.

The frustration beneath her surface bubbles to the top, and it’s barely hidden behind the sharp scoff that escapes her lips. Her exit is quick, muttering some vague excuse before turning on her heel and sauntering away with stiff shoulders. Ahh… her movements are a bit too rigid for someone who’s pretending not to care.

Your heart swells pridefully with the satisfaction of standing your ground as you watch her go—not just for yourself, but for Satoru too. Your Satoru.

You feel his grip on you tighten the moment Mei-Mei disappears from view, and before you can even process what’s happening, he's pulling you flush against him—his body warm, firm, and incredibly close.

The heat radiating from him feels almost electrifying, and his breath ghosts against the shell of your ear.

“Fuck… do you have any idea how hot that was?”

You bite your lip—the victory was sweet, but the fire in his words make it even sweeter. A wave of heat spreads through your core.

“You were incredible,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “God you’re perfect… so fucking perfect.”

His praise stokes the fire that’s already building within you, and you’re keenly aware of every inch of him pressed firmly on your hip—his cock twitching against you.

“Yeah…?” you grin, snaking your arms around his neck and brushing your fingers through his hair. “Do I finally get my reward?”

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, and he pulls back just enough to hover his lips over yours, teasingly close.

“Oh, sweetheart... you deserve so much more than a reward. I want to take you apart, piece by fucking piece.”

The intensity of his gaze and the hunger in his voice sends your mind spinning and your cunt dripping, but just as your lips part, ready to respond, the moment is shattered.

“Oi, lovebirds!” Shoko’s teasing voice cuts through the haze of desire, her playful smirk and a raised eyebrow unmistakable as she approaches with Suguru right behind her. “Auction’s about to start. Unless you two plan on putting on a show for the whole room?”

Satoru lets out a frustrated growl, his forehead pressing against yours as he takes a slow, steadying breath. His grip on your waist lingers for a moment before he reluctantly loosens his hold.

“Perfect fucking timing,” he mutters under his breath, casting a mock glare at Shoko and Suguru.

“Save it for later, Satoru,” Suguru chimes in with a chuckle, reveling in his annoyance. “There’ll be plenty of time for you two to... ‘catch up,’ after the auction, right?”

Satoru rolls his eyes but can’t help the grin that tugs at the corner of his mouth. Leaning down, he places a lingering kiss upon your lips.

“Later, kay?” he murmurs, “This is far from over.”

❥

The atmosphere in the room shifts as the auction begins—the hum of conversation fading to a soft murmur. A dim glow washes over the ballroom, casting a warm light that bounces off the crystal chandeliers and reflects in the glasses scattered across the elegantly decorated tables. You sit comfortably beside Satoru, feeling the warmth of his hand resting casually on your thigh beneath the table—his thumb rubbing lazy circles against your skin.

There’s a soft hum of anticipation as the auctioneer takes the stage, microphone in hand—his voice cutting through the ambient noise with practiced ease.

“And now, for our first item for the evening,” the auctioneer announces with an air of ceremony. “We have something truly special—a limited-edition necklace from the Gojo Jewelry Collection. This timeless piece showcases the elegance of infinity, adorned with rare, precious sapphire jewels, designed exclusively for this event.”

Satoru sits up a little straighter, his hand tightening slightly on your thigh. The rest of the room seems to follow his gaze as the spotlight shifts to the display case. And there it is—the necklace.

It gleams under the warm lighting, the infinity pendant catching the rays in a way that makes the jewels shimmer like stars. The design is breathtaking, a perfect balance of boldness and grace, simplicity and luxury.

You’ve always admired Satoru’s designs, but this one feels particularly special. It’s more than just a piece of jewelry; it’s a statement, a testament to his creativity and craftsmanship.

You can’t help but lean in closer to Satoru, admiration bubbling within as the pendant slowly spins on its pedestal, casting tiny flecks of light across the room.

“It’s gorgeous,” you breathe.

Satoru’s lips curve into a self-satisfied smirk, his eyes glinting with pride.

“Mmm, told ya it’d turn some heads,” he murmurs. “Definitely one of my favorites.”

Your gaze sweeps across the room to gauge the crowd’s reaction, and then you see her—Mei-Mei—sitting at one of the prime tables, posture immaculate, her sharp eyes already fixed on the necklace with a look of pure, calculated hunger.

Of course.

Of course, she’d want his necklace—because it’s not just about the necklace itself—it’s the prestige of wearing something tied to Satoru, a statement that she could have something rare, exclusive, and coveted.

“This necklace represents timeless elegance and endless love,” the auctioneer says smoothly, offering a subtle nod toward Satoru. “And, as a limited edition, we are thrilled to offer this piece. It’s truly one of a kind, created exclusively for tonight’s event.”

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that.

Oh? Is that what it represents?

Well then—who are you to let Mei-Mei walk away with it? The idea of her winning something tied to Satoru, of her flaunting that connection, fuels a competitive spark in you.

The bidding starts, and unsurprisingly, Mei-Mei is quick to raise her paddle, her face smug with satisfaction as she bids confidently.

“Six thousand!” the auctioneer calls out, voice booming through the ballroom.

Leaning back slightly in your chair, your fingers casually brush over Satoru’s hand on your thigh. He looks at you, his curious gaze meeting yours as you offer him a knowing smirk, and he quirks an eyebrow, clearly intrigued as you lazily raise your paddle.

“Seven thousand,” a soft smile graces your lips.

Satoru’s grip tightens slightly on your thigh, and you feel the low hum of approval rumbling from him. Mei-Mei’s eyes snap toward you, narrowing in disbelief—she clearly hadn’t expected you to join in. But there it is—that flicker of annoyance. Her paddle goes up again, just as you knew it would.

“Ten thousand,” Mei-Mei counters.

The auctioneer nods in her direction. “Ten thousand! Do I hear twelve?”

Without missing a beat, you lift your paddle once more, your smile growing. “Twelve thousand.”

Satoru’s eyes glitter with amusement as he watches the subtle tension building between you and Mei-Mei. His hand slides a little higher on your thigh, fingers pressing with a bit more intent as he leans in—breath warm against your ear.

“Fuck… this is seriously turning me on way more than it should…” he mutters. “You’re going to make her lose her mind.”

You bite back a grin. “Mmm, well, that’s the plan.”

The bidding continues, but now Mei-Mei hesitates, the confidence in her posture starting to falter.

“Fifteen thousand,” you say smoothly, your paddle already raised.

Mei-Mei’s lips press together into a thin line. Her eyes flash with frustration as she debates whether to push higher. After a tense moment, she raises her paddle again, but her voice lacks its earlier bravado.

“Sixteen thousand,” a hint of uncertainty creeps into her tone.

You don’t even flinch.

“Twenty thousand.”

Satoru’s fingers tighten on your thigh again, his breath hitching slightly as he leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“God, you’re so damn hot when you’re like this,” he growls, shifting slightly in his seat from his growing erection.

Your heart races with satisfaction as your eyes lock on Mei-Mei’s once more, daring her to keep going. But the resolve in her eyes wavers. Slowly, with a barely concealed pout, she lowers her paddle.

“Twenty thousand, going once… going twice… sold to the lovely lady in the elegant gown!” The auctioneer’s gavel comes down with a decisive crack, and the room erupts into polite applause.

As the ripple of applause moves throughout the room, it’s Mei-Mei’s sour expression that you relish in most. Ah, victory feels sweet.

You lean back in your chair, turning to Satoru with a playful, victorious smile.

“Well… that was fun.”

He’s practically beaming, eyes dark with pride and something more as his hand slips up your thigh—teasingly close to your core now.

“I swear to God… I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the rest of this auction without pulling you into the nearest empty room and fucking you.”

His words make your pussy drip, but before you can respond, the auctioneer’s voice booms once again, drawing your attention back to the stage.

“And now, we have something special for the next event. This is one of our unique auction segments—where attendees have the chance to bid for a dance with one of our lovely participants. All the proceeds will go to tonight’s charity, of course.”

There’s a murmur of interest from the crowd, a few amused chuckles as people begin to sit up a little straighter. You, however, remain mostly unbothered, still riding the high from outbidding Mei-Mei— and the arousal of Satoru’s fingers caressing your thigh underneath the table.

But then, something pulls your attention back to the stage—a faint thread of confusion beginning to weave through your thoughts as you hear the list of names being read out.

Did you… just hear your name? Wait… what?

You whip your head toward Satoru—and his expression mirrors your confusion, eyebrows raising slightly. But before you can fully register what’s happening, you catch sight of Suguru across the table—grin wide, eyes glinting with mischief.

Oh no…

Your mind scrambles, replaying the events of earlier in the night. Suguru had been chatting with you, something about the auction—while you were busy being thoroughly distracted by Satoru's relentless teasing with the Hula beads. The memories blur together, but now you realize…

Oh god… you’d been so focused on the pleasure that you barely even processed Suguru’s words. Did you accidentally agree to this?

Before you can react, the auctioneer is already moving forward, inviting the women participating in the dance auction to step on stage. And there it is—your name again, clear as day, listed among them.

Satoru stiffens beside you, his grip on your thigh tightening as he whips his head toward Suguru. A pointed look flashes across his face, but Suguru, oh, Suguru—he’s practically glowing with amusement. Leaning back in his chair, his arms cross over his chest as if enjoying every second of this unfolding chaos.

“Suguru…” Satoru hisses under his breath. “Was this your doing?”

Suguru shrugs, his smirk widening in response to the clear irritation radiating from Satoru.

“What?” he says with faux innocence. “y/n agreed to it.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow and his grip on you tightens. There’s a moment of tension as you feel him lean in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear as he growls, “…you agreed to this?”

Your mind scrambles for an explanation, but before you can respond, Suguru’s voice cuts in again.

“It’s for charity,” Suguru adds with a playful lilt. “It’ll be fun.”

His words hang in the air like a taunt, and Satoru’s eyes narrow at Suguru—his possessive grip tightening on your plush thigh as his jaw clenches.

“C’mon Satoru. Let’s see how much your girl is worth.”

As the auctioneer repeats your name over the microphone, drawing the crowd’s attention to you, you feel every pair of eyes in the room turning in your direction. Satoru leans in closer—his breath warm against your ear.

“Fine then… I hope you’re ready for this, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the teasing edge in his voice betraying the simmering tension beneath it.

Your stomach flips from the intensity of his gaze, and you hesitate for a moment—glancing between the stage and Satoru. Uh oh… the heat is rolling off him in waves—it’s clear he’s not thrilled with the idea of you being up there for everyone to bid on, but… what is that mischievous glint in his eye?

That’s a bit… unsettling.

Reluctantly, you stand—your heart racing as you smooth down your dress and make your way toward the stage. The spotlight warms your skin, and the auctioneer welcomes you with an enthusiastic gesture. But before you can fully settle into the moment, you feel it—a soft, familiar pulse deep within you.

Fucking hell. Here?

The vibrations start low, teasing, but enough to make your knees wobble slightly as you stand in front of the crowd. You glance down at Satoru, who remains seated, his eyes locked onto you with an almost predatory gleam. His lips curve into a slow, knowing smirk as his fingers tap lightly against his thigh—a silent admission that he’s the one behind the sudden wave of pleasure coursing through your body.

He is cruel—doing this while you’re on stage.

The auctioneer wastes no time, diving right into the event as he begins introducing each woman on stage, one by one. The crowd’s attention is fixed on the participants as the bids for each woman slowly climb higher, some reaching $5,000 before being closed off with a cheerful crack of the auctioneer’s gavel.

But as you stand there—your heart thudding in your chest as you wait for your turn—the vibrations pulsing deep inside you are a constant, teasing reminder of Satoru’s hold over you.

“And now, for our next participant—y/n!” The auctioneer’s voice rings out, and the crowd’s attention immediately shifts to you. A murmur ripples through the ballroom as you stand in the spotlight, trying to maintain your composure—but the slow, torturous vibrations leave you dripping in front of everyone.

You swallow hard as the auctioneer begins at a low price, and before anyone else can react, Satoru’s hand shoots up.

“Five thousand,” he calls out, voice steady, eyes locked on you.

Before you can process it fully, another voice cuts in, smooth and confident—Suguru.

“Seven thousand,” his gaze flickers briefly to Satoru—daring him to up the stakes.

Satoru clenches his jaw, but his gaze never leaves yours. His hand goes up again.

“Ten thousand.”

Your breath hitches—this bidding is escalating so quickly it’s making your head spin, and the relentless vibrations are driving you wild.

Suguru chuckles as he raises his paddle, enjoying every second of this. “Twenty thousand,” he smirks, leaning back in his chair.

The crowd murmurs, a few gasps here and there, but no one dares interrupt this battle of wills between the two men. You bite your lip, feeling the pulse of the beads inside you grow stronger. Fuckfuckfuck… your body reacts involuntarily, and a soft gasp escapes your lips.

Satoru notices immediately and the corner of his lips twitch up slightly. His gaze darkens, and without missing a beat, he raises his paddle once more. “Fifty thousand.”

The room falls silent, and your heart drums in your chest, racing alongside the vibrations tormenting your body. Shifting your weight slightly, your pussy hums in pleasure under the spotlight—struggling to hold yourself together.

Suguru, leans back, arms crossing over his chest as he studies Satoru, clearly impressed by his boldness. Then, just as it looks like he’s about to raise his paddle again, Satoru leans forward and his voice drops even lower.

“One hundred thousand.”

The crowd gasps. The entire ballroom seems to shift—stunned by the sheer audacity of the number.

Raising an eyebrow, Suguru lets out a low amused whistle. Then, with a smirk, he raises his hands in mock surrender, chuckling under his breath. “Well, well, Satoru… looks like you win.”

As Suguru places his paddle down, the grin plastered upon his face makes it painfully obvious –he’s thoroughly enjoyed how far this has gone, and the auctioneer, momentarily speechless, quickly attempts to recover.

“One hundred thousand, going once… going twice…” he slams his gavel down with a sharp crack. “Sold to Mr. Gojo for one hundred thousand dollars!”

The applause that follows feels distant—entirely drowned out by the overwhelming sensations coursing through your wet cunt. This is torture. Your legs are weak, your pulse racing, and Satoru’s eyes are locked on you, burning with intensity.

Leaning back in his chair, a slow possessive smirk spreads across his lips.

He’s told the entire room—and you—that you belong to him.

❥

The applause disappears into background noise as Satoru grabs your hand—a grip that’s firm and relentless. There’s no time for conversation, no time for teasing words—he’s already pulling you away from the auction, weaving through the crowd with purposeful strides.

The way his body is practically humming with urgency, tells you everything—it’s an urgency that matches the pulsing throb still lingering in your clit from his playful torture during the auction.

You stumble slightly to keep up as he moves through the dim lights of the ballroom—everything blurring together as he maneuvers through tables. Once you reach the edge of the room, he guides you into one of the shadowy hallways leading away from the event.

“Satoru…” the moment his name leaves your lips, he shoots a glance back at you, dark and filled with unbridled need.

“Not a fucking word,” his grip tightens on your hand as he pulls you along. “If you say another word…” his breath hitches, “I’ll fuck you right here, against this wall. I don’t care who sees.”

Oh, he’s barely restrained—it’s a hunger that’s been building all night.

Everything fades into the background as he guides you down the empty corridor, and the moment he reaches a single door hidden at the end, he’s shoving it open and dragging you inside.

The room is dimly lit, but he doesn’t give you the time of day to take in your surroundings—no—he’s on you in an instant.

“I can’t fucking wait any longer,” kicking the door shut with his foot, his hands immediately find your waist as he presses you up against the nearest wall. “Fucking finally…” he growls, rolling his erection against you, making you gasp. “Feel that?” his lips brush against your ear as his hands slide lower, gripping your ass tightly. “That’s what you’ve done to me all night.”

“Satoru—” he cuts you off with a bruising kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips with an intensity that leaves you breathless.

Your head spins as his hands rampantly roam your body. He’s desperate for you—grunting as he pins you—the wall against your back, his cock between your legs. His forceful friction makes your body arch, and you can feel his smug smirk curling against your lips as you let out a soft, needy moan.

He pulls away—his lips grazing your jawline as he trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

“Do you know how fucking hard it was for me to sit there,” he accentuates his words with a ruthless thrust, “seeing you squirm, knowing you were soaking wet and no one else could tell?”

His lips crash back into yours, devouring you before he pulls away again.

“…watching you tell Mei-Mei off, knowing you’re mine,” his cock twitches at the memory as he grinds into you again, “fuck when you outbid her…all I could think about was bending you over that damn table to fuck you right in front of her.”

The filthy image he paints in your mind sends a surge of heat through your body, “fuck, that’s so hot…” you let out a breathless moan, your legs trembling as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “Need you, now.”

Another bruising kiss follows, his teeth grazing your lower lip, biting down gently before releasing it. He pulls away, and your cunt drips the moment he commands,

“Turn around.”

You oblige—moving on instinct as you spin around. Your palms press flat against the cool wall and your back arches just slightly as you present yourself to him.

Completely at his mercy—exactly how you both want it.

“Fuck, you look so perfect like this."

You hold your breath as his fingers purposefully slide over your ass, and the moment his hands find the hem of your dress, he gathers the fabric in his fists and urgently bunches it up your thighs, allowing the cool air to hit the wet fabric between your legs.

“Look at you,” he coos, tugging the dress up higher. “You’re fucking dripping, baby,” your heat intensifies as his fingers trace an outline on your pussy. “Jesus, you’re fucking soaked… wearing these beads all night… so wet for me.”

As he tugs your drenched panties down in one fell swoop, his fingers trace the slickness of your cunt—curling between the thin string of the Hula beads.

“You took them so well… now let me show you what comes next.”

You shudder as he slowly, torturously starts to remove them—the device dragging against your sensitive core, making your knees tremble. He hums in approval as the last of the Hula beads slip out.

But as you exhale shakily, Satoru doesn’t give you a moment to recover.

“—‘toru!” his hands grip your hips firmly as he forcefully guides to towards a nearby vanity—positioning himself behind you as he pushes you down in front of the mirror.

“You’ve had your fun baby, but now it’s my turn,” as the words leave his lips, you hear the unmistakable clink of his belt buckle, followed by the sound of his zipper sliding down—the urgency is evident in the way his hands work to release himself. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk straight.”

You gasp the moment his free cock presses against your bare skin, and your pussy grows more wet from the sound of him stroking himself, mixed with the shallow breaths escaping his lips.

Once you catch sight of his reflection in the mirror—cock in hand, eyes dark with lust, jaw clenched with restraint—fuck you know. He was feral.

His weeping tip lines up against your entrance.

“Look at you, trembling already…” he coos, rubbing your combined slick with his dick. “So desperate for it, aren’t you?”

Your head drops down and your legs quiver as he teases your entrance—fucking hell what is he waiting for? It’s maddening. You want to be filled, to finally feel the sweet release you’ve been tortuously denied all night.

Glancing up, you catch sight of his infuriating smirk in the reflection.

“Satoru, please hurry up,” you whine as his cock brushes against your clit.

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Patience princess.”

You can’t wait.

Without his permission, you rock your hips back, and he slides in effortlessly as you take him in with one swift motion. A sharp gasp escapes your lips as his thick cock becomes soaked in your wetness, stretching you full.

Satoru sucks in a sharp breath—his grip on your hips tightening as he struggles to hold back the urge to burst inside you the very moment he bottoms out, right then and there. Your cunt is too fucking good.

"Fucking—wait, wait, wait," he hisses through clenched teeth—his cock twitching and his eyes fluttering shut as he quickly tries to steady himself.

You bite your lip, trembling as you watch his reaction in the mirror—the way he’s flexing…shuddering… oh god. How can you wait?

“Satoru… nngh,” your hips roll against him in slow deliberate motions, “haa—can’t wait anymore.”

His eyes snap open at your words, watching your reflection as his jaw clenches with unbridled restraint. He pursues his lips and exhales through his nose—and in that instant, there’s an immediate shift in him—a moment of pure unadulterated lust.

“Needy little thing…” his grip is, forceful, bruising as he growls, “goddamn it, princess…you couldn’t fucking wait. Fine.”

Oh, you’ve done it now.

Pulling back, he removes his dick just enough to slam forward with a brutal force that makes you cry out in pleasure. You drop your head on the vanity surface, gasping as he buries himself deep inside you.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

He sets a brutal pace, each thrust harder as your pussy stretches around his thick pulsing cock—it’s too much, too perfect. The pleasure courses through your veins like fire as he drives into you with a relentless ferocity, leaving you shaking.

The vanity dresser rattles under his force, and the mirror reflects every delicious second of it—your body arching, your mouth falling open, the glazed-over look in your eyes as he ravishes your cunt. But most of all, the way Satoru watches you fall apart for him—possessive and proud.

His hand moves from your hips, sliding up the curve of your body to grip your chin. You whimper as he shifts deeper, leaning forward and forcing your gaze to peer directly in the mirror.

“C’mon now, look at yourself,” he pants, ragged as his hips slam into you with an unrelenting force. “Look how fucking pretty you look taking me like this.”

The pressure coils tight between your legs and your body hums as the pleasure becomes immeasurable. You don’t even realize how your eyes begin to flutter shut—not until his grip tightens on your chin, directing it forcefully to stare at your own reflection.

“No, no. Don’t you dare look away,” he slips two fingers in your mouth and you whimper at the intrusion. “Want you to see what a good girl you are for me.”

God, your head is spinning—the sight of watching him fuck you was so… erotic.

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smirk as he takes in the sight of you completely fucked out—desperate, needy, sucking his fingers as you try to keep your eyes open, teetering on the edge of bliss—oh his cock twitches inside you.

“Haa—yesss… that’s my good girl…so fucking pretty. Takin m’ so well.”

The rhythm of his hips becomes erratic, his thrusts harder and deeper, each one sending jolts of ecstasy rippling through you. His breath becomes labored as his chest heaves against your back, and you can tell—yes, you can feel it—you’re both so close. So fucking close.

Each plunge pushes you further toward the edge, and your moans are muffled against his fingers. The coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter until you can hardly breathe.

“This what you wanted?” his fingers slip out of your mouth, a thin string of saliva connecting them before he brings his hand down, wrapping around your throat. “Tell me,” he pants, “say how fucking good I feel inside you.”

“—haa, so good…” you gasp, “’toru I’m—"

Your words are cut off by a shuddering cry as your body spasms, the intense pleasure crashing over you like a violent wave as your orgasm slams into you. Your walls tighten around him, coating his cock with your sweet slick as your body trembles uncontrollably in bliss.

“Fuuuck—that’s it, yes baby… squeeze me just like that,” his grip tightens on your throat as his hips slam into yours with reckless abandon. “So tight… fuck, you’re so fucking tight.” He’s panting, his chest pressed against your back as the wet slaps of skin against skin fills the room.

His pace quickens and the overstimulation pushes you further, prolonging your orgasm. You feel your legs begin the weaken as you can barely hold yourself up against the vanity—his cock relentlessly hitting that spot deep inside you.

“’toru—fuck,” you cry, reeling from your climax, “need you to cum… please—”

His jaw clenches, and his breath shudders as he tries to hold back, but the sight of you, completely undone and begging drives him absolutely wild. With a low deep groan, his hands grip your hips as he rapidly chases his own release.

“God—fuck—anything for you… just for you, baby,” he rasps as the tension coils tight in his gut. “Shit—I’m gonna fill you up… fuck, take it all.”

His cock twitches violently as he buries himself deep with one final, brutal thrust. Your name falls from his lips in breathless broken murmurs as he erupts inside you—warm sticky cum filling you to the brim and painting your walls white.

“Haaa—yess… good girl… good fucking girl,” his hips stutter erratically and his head falls forward, eyes squeezed shut.

You feel his grip on your hip loosen as he finally comes to a stop, and for a moment, neither of you move, and neither of you speak—just the sound of your heavy breathing as his chest rises and falls heavily against your back.

His fingers begin to gently brush against your waist, tracing slow soothing patterns—a touch so tender compared to that relentless grip he held on you just moments before, and a warm shiver shoots through you as you feel his lips brush against your shoulder in a soft, lingering kiss.

“I fucking love you, y’know that?” he murmurs affectionately.

A warmth blooms deep in your chest, spreading outward from his words.

“I love you too,” there is both exhaustion and endearment in your voice as you turn your head slightly to meet his gaze, wearing a grin.

His still heavy-lidded eyes lock onto yours and a lazy, adoring smile spreads across his lips.

“Y’know…” he leans down to press a kiss to the curve of your neck, “I dunno what I did to deserve you but…” he nuzzles into your neck and his arms wrap around you, “I’m never letting you go.”

You lean into his touch and hum pensively, “Good. Cause you’re stuck with me.”

He chuckles softly, holding you close and basking in the moment. Then, he grunts as he lifts himself up—wincing slightly as he finally pulls his spent cock from you. The sensation makes you both involuntarily shudder.

You sigh, leaning forward on the vanity, and with a surprising tenderness, he leans down and uses his handkerchief to begin cleaning you up carefully—wiping away the evidence of your shared pleasure.

But as his fingers brush delicately against your still oversensitive sex, a small whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it. He smirks at the sound and his eyes glint with amusement, clearly pleased by your reaction.

“Sensitive, huh?” he teases, though his touch remains gentle.

Rolling your eyes, you try to hide the smile tugging at your lips by burying your face into your arms—resting against the vanity.

“Well, what’d you expect?” you huff with mock exasperation—breath unsteady as he finishes cleaning you. “After the way you were teasing me all night?”

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest as his fingers linger a moment too long on your inner thighs, grazing dangerously close to where you’re still tender.

“Couldn’t help it,” he murmurs, his voice dropping a register. "You make it impossible to keep my hands off you…"

You suck in a sharp breath and glance back, giving him a playful but pointed look.

"Careful," you warn. "Or we’ll never make it back."

That devilishly charming grin curls upon his lips as his hands slide up and down your legs. “Mmm… well maybe I don’t want to make it back.”

Your breath hitches as his fingertips graze your skin one last time—then, he reaches down for your panties, and you watch through the mirror how he pockets them before finally smoothing down your bunched-up dress.

You glance back and shoot him a look, earning you a wicked grin.

“You’re hopeless…” you mumble, shaking your head as you straighten up, but before you can fully stand, his chest presses against your back, and you feel his strong arms wrap around you, pulling you close.

A soft sigh escapes him as he buries his face in your hair, inhaling your scent deeply.

“It’s not fair... I don’t wanna go back,” he whines. “I just want to hold you… keep you all to myself tonight.”

"We’ll have all night after this," you murmur, turning to kiss his cheek softly. "C’mon… just a little longer and I’m all yours."

He groans, and you try to break the embrace, but suddenly he spins you around and his hands drift to your hips, pulling you even closer against him.

"But I dunno if I can behave for that long…" he whispers, tenderly caressing your cheek. "You say that… but I’m already thinking about sneaking you away again. Can’t help myself."

Stifling a smile, you roll your eyes as you place a hand on his chest, gently pushing him back so you can get a better look at him.

"You're lucky I love you," you say with a mock sigh, reaching up to fix the collar of his shirt and smoothing down the wrinkles in his tux.

He watches you with that same lazy, adoring smile.

"Lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it, princess."

❥

As the gala comes to a close, the party moves to the outside garden, with the warm autumn night wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. The chatter of guests mingles with the soft rustling of the trees, and the leaves have started turning shades of orange and red, but there’s still that lingering hint of summer in the air—a warmth that keeps the chill at bay.

There is a sense of awe in the way that the string lights twinkle above the garden, casting a soft glow over the crowd—and you stand beside Satoru amongst the masses, the warmth of his hand in yours.

But… for some reason there’s a certain energy radiating from him—something… different. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet during this last hour—a muted tension, almost like he’s… distracted?

“Satoru,” you ask softly, giving his hand a little squeeze. “You okay?”

He blinks, pulled out of whatever thoughts were clouding his mind, and turns to you with a soft smile.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” leaning in, his lips peck your temple, “just thinkin’.”

You raise an eyebrow, curiosity bubbling up inside you.

Thinking about what?

But before the words can leave your lips, the auctioneer from earlier approaches you, a bright smile on his face.

“Ah, Miss y/n, there you are,” he begins. “I hope you’ve been enjoying the event this year. I just wanted to personally congratulate you on your win tonight. Here is your necklace—it truly is one-of-a-kind.”

He holds out a sleek black box, and your eyes light up as you take it from him.

“Oh, thank you! I’ve been looking forward to this.”

You accept the box eagerly, your fingers moving quickly to open it, and the moment the necklace comes into view, your eyes widen. The jewels glimmer under the soft glow of the garden lights—with the intricately delicate curves and sparkling stones exuding an elegance that immediately captivates you.

“It’s even more stunning in person,” you breathe out, running your fingers over the smooth, polished metal.

Satoru peers down at the necklace in your hand, his lips curling into a subtle smirk.

“Mmm… well you fought well for it,” he teases lightly.

The auctioneer chuckles, nodding in agreement. “It was quite the bidding war. Congratulations once again, Miss y/n.” With a courteous nod, he steps back into the crowd, leaving you and Satoru alone under the twinkling garden lights.

As you turn to face Satoru, a victorious grin tugs at the corner of your lips. Holding the necklace up, you boast proudly.

“Told ya Mei-Mei didn’t stand a chance”

You’re relieved how the comment seems to make your typical Satoru return—his lips curl into a deep smirk and amusement dances in his bright eyes.

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow, “You certainly went to war for this, huh?”

“Absolutely,” you playfully huff, lifting your chin proudly. “But, let’s be honest—you did an amazing job designing it. So of course, there was no way I was letting it go. It was all mine from the start.”

He hums softly, and just as quickly as it appeared, his cocky edge easily fades into something more tender. His gaze lingers on you, making your heart skip a beat.

“Yeah well… what can I say?” he tilts his head, “I know my girl’s taste.”

My girl.

You can’t help the gentle smile that breaks across your face, your heart swelling

“You do,” you whisper softly. “I love it.”

For a moment, the world fades away as you hold his gaze—a tenderness swirling in the familiar blue depths of his eyes. Then, he takes a small step closer.

“Here,” he murmurs, taking the necklace from your hand, “let me help you put it on.”

You nod as he moves behind you, and you hold your breath as his fingers delicately brush your skin—gathering your hair to one side. A soft shiver shoots down your spine from his touch, and he lingers while fastening the clasp around the nape of your neck. The cool metal of the necklace settles against you, but it’s the warmth of his hands that hold your attention.

After fastening the clasp with a quiet focus, his breath fans lightly over your ear as he leans in.

“There. It’s perfect.”

You raise your hand, lightly touching the pendant now resting against your collarbone, and turn to face him. His eyes aren’t on the necklace though—they’re entirely on you.

He takes a moment, letting his gaze travel over your face before meeting your own.

“You’re absolutely stunning,” he says softly, “I think it looks even better on you than I imagined.”

Your heart flutters wildly and his fingers tuck a stray lock of your hair gently behind your ear. Leaning in slightly, you melt as he pulls you in for a tender kiss. The warmth of his lips moves slowly, languidly against yours, and your hand comes up to rest against his chest—feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

Just as your lips part, your eyes flicker up to meet his. There is an intensity in his gaze that catches you off guard, making your breath hitch.

Why? Why does it feel like there is something simmering beneath the surface with him tonight?

But before you can sit on that thought any more, the speakers crackle to life, breaking the quiet intimacy and drawing your attention back to the event.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for your incredible generosity tonight!” the announcers voice echoes through the garden. “I’m thrilled to announce that this year’s charity gala has raised an astounding amount—thanks to your support, we’ve reached over two million dollars to benefit our causes!”

Applause erupts from the crowd below, and you turn your head, listening, but your eyes flicker back to Satoru, whose demeanor shifts ever so slightly as he listens. His jaw tightens, and his gaze turns distant for a moment. It's like he’s suddenly lost in thought.

What is up with him tonight?

“And now,” the announcer continues, “to wrap up this wonderful evening, we invite you to stay and enjoy the grand firework show, which will begin in just five minutes. Thank you again for attending, and have a magical night!”

The speakers cut off with a soft crackle, and the garden fills with clapping and cheers. Yet, as you glance at Satoru, he remains in his own world. Just as you’re about to open your mouth, Suguru suddenly swings into view, his arm draping casually over Satoru’s shoulder—oblivious to the lingering tension.

“There you are!” he chimes in with a grin. Satoru clears his throat, and they exchange a quick knowing glance between each other and your brow furrows as a subtle tension begins to crackle between them.

“Mind if I steal Satoru for a quick minute?” he turns, grinning to you—but there’s an undercurrent of something more serious beneath his demeanor.

Okay… is there something going on? Whatever it is, it feels like you’re being left out of the loop.

“Uh, yeah… sure,” you watch them step a few paces away, murmuring quietly to one another—catching glimpses of their expressions. Satoru looks unconventionally nervous as Suguru’s lips move quickly. Unusual…whatever they’re discussing, it’s clearly important to have Satoru on edge.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow as you watch the two of them.

What on earth are they plotting now?

After a few moments, they return. Satoru’s still got that charged energy, but there’s a determination in his eyes. Suguru, on the other hand, is grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“What’s going on?” you ask, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Oh, y’know, charity event stuff. Nothing too serious.” Suguru shrugs.

Riiiight… he’s clearly not going to give you any more information.

You narrow your eyes at him but before you can press further, Satoru reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. Suguru, catching the subtle tension, clears his throat and flashes you both a wide grin.

"Well, see you guys around," he says casually, waving flippantly. "I’m gonna grab one last drink before the fireworks start."

As he turns on his heel and walks away, Satoru’s hand gently tugs at yours, pulling you in the opposite direction—away from the crowd, away from the noise.

"C’mon," he murmurs, voice soft, almost hesitant.

You follow him, his hand gently guiding you towards a quiet stairwell that leads up to the venue’s balcony. But just as you approach the stairs, an event organizer steps into your path, clipboard in hand. She looks frazzled, her brow furrowed with stress.

"Oh! Mr. Gojo," she says, breathless, walking right up to the two of you. "Sorry to interrupt, but we’re finalizing some last-minute details regarding the auction earlier, and we really need—"

Before she can finish, Shoko appears seemingly out of nowhere, sliding up beside the woman with a smooth grin.

“Ah, don’t worry about them,” Shoko interrupts flawlessly, throwing an arm around the woman’s shoulders. “I’ve got it handled.”

The event organizer blinks, clearly taken aback, but Shoko doesn’t give her a moment to protest. Instead, she steers the woman gently back toward the crowd, already launching into some topic you can’t hear.

As they walk away, Shoko glances back at Satoru, giving him a subtle nod and mouthing “go” before disappearing into the crowd.

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can process the exchange, Satoru’s lips twitch into a smile as he tugs on your hand, already leading you up the stairs.

“What was that about?” you ask, glancing back down at Shoko’s retreating figure.

“Oh y’know… Shoko being Shoko,” he chuckles with a shrug, but there’s a nervousness to his laugh—something you’ve never heard from him before.

You narrow your eyes playfully, about to ask more, but the view from the top of the balcony cuts off your train of thought—leaving you breathless.

It’s draped in soft, glowing lights, casting a warm amber hue over the garden stretching out below. Elegant vines with autumn-colored leaves weave through the steel railings, and a gentle breeze carries with it the scent of the distant garden flowers—chrysanthemums, marigolds, and asters—a lingering warmth of late summer giving way to autumn.

The night sky sprawls out before you like an infinite canvas—stars twinkling faintly—but it's the stillness and beauty of this shared moment that makes your heart flutter. Then, the first firework shoots up into the air with a soft whistle.

It arcs gracefully against the night sky before erupting into a dazzling cascade of golden sparks, raining down like glittering stardust. You marvel how the garden below transforms into a dreamscape of warm, glowing embers. Then, another follows, this time a burst of deep red. The colors ripple and shimmer, fading into soft blues and purples, mixing like watercolors against the canvas of the night sky.

But as you stand there, entranced by the beauty of the fireworks, you slowly begin to realize that Satoru isn’t watching the sky at all.

He’s watching you.

You shift, turning your attention to him now, and suddenly, you feel strangely nervous at the way he’s looking at you. Your breath hitches as he steps closer, taking your hand into his own. He lifts it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Why aren’t you watching the fireworks?” you murmur.

The sound of the next firework shoots into the sky, cutting the quiet between you and painting the night in a burst of blue. He lowers your hand from his lips and his thumb brushes over your knuckles in a slow, deliberate motion—as if memorizing the feel of you.

“Because they’re not what I want to see tonight.”

The weight of his words makes your heart swell, and the softness in his voice sends a shiver through you—but before you can respond, he reaches into his pocket, and your eyes widen as he pulls out a small velvet box.

Just as he drops to one knee, another firework explodes in the sky behind him, casting a colorful hue of violet and silver over his features.

“y/n…” he smiles steadily, eyes fixed only on you. “I know I mess around a lot, and I don’t always take things as seriously as I should, but this… this is the one thing I’ve never been more sure about in my life.”

Your breath catches as he opens the small velvet box—revealing a ring inside that is nothing short of breathtaking. The centerpiece is a brilliant-cut diamond—flawless, sparkling, and catching the light from the fireworks above—shimmering in a thousand dazzling directions. The diamond is set within a delicate band of platinum, but what makes it truly special is the intricate design surrounding it.

The band curves into an elegant, infinity loop—symbolizing the eternal bond you share. Small diamonds are delicately embedded along the loop, creating a river of light and wrapping around your finger like a never-ending promise. But the Gojo family’s infinity design isn’t just in the band—it’s in the very shape of the setting, which cradles the diamond in a way that feels both secure and limitless, a perfect balance between strength and grace.

It’s more than a ring—it’s a reflection of your love, infinite and unbreakable, meant to last forever.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve loved you from the moment we met, and every day since has been better than the last because you’re by my side. I can’t imagine my life without you, and I don’t want to.”

Your chest tightens and tears begin to well up in your eyes, blurring your vision. As his words sink into your heart, time seems to slow.

“So…” he takes a deep breath, his smile widening, “will you marry me?”

Another firework explodes overhead, filling the sky with shimmering gold and blue, but you barely hear it.

The only thing that matters in this moment is him.

Your tears spill over as you choke out the words, nodding quickly.

“Yes… yes, of course.”

And in that moment, the joy that spreads across his face is radiant—a pure, unfiltered happiness that lights up his entire expression. His hands, normally so steady, tremble ever so slightly as he slips the ring onto your finger.

With the ring in place, Satoru stands, and before you can say a word, he pulls you into his arms—lifting you off your feet and spinning you around in celebration. The sky explodes with bright colors as your shared laughter sings alongside the symphony of lights.

Your face buries into his shoulder as you laugh through the happy tears spilling down your cheeks—overwhelmed by the sheer joy of it all as you cling to him—as if nothing else in the world matters.

“I love you,” you whisper, muffled by his shoulder.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes shimmer with emotion. Then, his smile softens, and a thumb comes up to gently brush away a tear still clinging to your cheek.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, “for infinity.”

The words wrap around you like a promise, as real as the ring now on your finger. His lips find yours, and the rest of the world fades away. The fireworks are coming to an end, and while the final bursts fill the sky behind you, painting the horizon in brilliant shades of color—it’s the warmth of Satoru’s arms, his love, and the promise of forever, that truly lights up your world—like none other.

a/n. i feel like i went through all the emotions writing this fic lol! i was in a very smutty mood, but also in a very fluffy mood 🥰 anyways, this was super fun to create—it's not entirely halloween-esque but i guess it kind of is at the same time? 😛 i do wanna thank my amazing friend @strychnynegirl for sparking all the inspiration and helping me with this 💕 she's amazing and this fic wouldn't exist without her. thanks so much for reading ya'll ✨

tags: @fushitoru @lovebittenbyevans @genshingeeksworld @myahfig4

[ivorivet]

Fellowship Cloak Weaving Draft

Hi all! I've been kind of quiet on this blog, but I have something really exciting to share today: after six years, I FINALLY figured out the weaving draft for the Fellowship cloaks from Lord of the Rings.

This is a problem I've been trying to figure out since shortly after I made my Legolas cosplay in 2018. The cloaks that the nine members of the Fellowship receive in Lothlórien look like a nondescript gray fabric from far away, but zoom in and you'll see a very complex pattern of horizontal and vertical bars of dark gray and white.

(First image from Alleycatscratch, second is a photo of the scarf of the same fabric I bought from Stansborough where I was attempting to trace the pattern repeat with orange thread)

This is going to be a long post, so I'm just going to lead with the completed draft:

Imagine me Will Smith wife posing at this for the last 24 hours.

It's got the correct size of pattern repeat! It's got the five individual ripples! It's got that dumb little pattern break in the middle that breaks up the center of the leaf motif! I am OVER THE MOON about figuring this out, especially starting out with very little knowledge about weaving drafts in general. More ramblings about this type of draft and my thought process below:

This particular pattern is known as "shadow weave," a subset of color-and-weave where the pattern is created from the interplay of different warp and weft colors plus the weaving draft itself. To get an idea of how that works, let's start by looking at plain weave in one color:

The solid purple bar at the top indicates the color of the warp threads, and the solid purple bar at the right indicates the color of the weft threads. So far we've got our basic under-over-under-over pattern in a single, solid color (purple). But what if we add an additional color (green) to the warp, and alternate those colors? Then we'd get a speckled fabric like this:

The visual effect looks pretty much identical regardless of if you start with green or purple. However, if you also alternate purple and green in the weft, it produces a very different effect depending on if you start with purple or green (note the differences in the bar on the right):

So cool, now we can make either vertical or horizontal stripes! If you double up on the colored threads in some areas, you can even flip between the two and start dividing the fabric into "blocks," like so:

Note that with all these changes, the only thing we've been doing is changing the order of the colors in the warp and weft. The actual weave structure itself is still just regular ol' plain weave. The pattern that we've created in the pictures above is called "log cabin," which you can read about here. But similar effects can be created by skipping shafts/picks in the weaving draft as well. So how do we get from log cabin into the more complicated and general category of shadow weave?

It's weird to describe how to convert a given pattern into shadow weave. There are multiple very good books with chapters on shadow weave as well as books entirely dedicated to it. Despite my best efforts, all these explanations still got so technical so fast it feels like, to me at least, asking a 6 year old to recite an entire Shakespeare play verbatim immediately after confirming that they can, in fact, sing the alphabet song. So I'm going to give my best shot at explaining it, and if it doesn't make sense, just blame it on me and check out some of the linked books above if you're really curious.

Think of shadow weave as a beauty filter for a black and white drawing. If you create a pattern out of black and white blocks/pixels/whatever, the shadow weave "filter" can be applied to it to create a similar pattern that preserves the shapes in the original, but makes them out of vertical/horizontal lines instead of solid color blocks. So in some of these books you'll find mention of converting a twill or an overshot pattern into shadow weave - that's what this is referencing. The original pattern (usually designated with light yarn) gets a secondary shadow pattern (in dark yarn) inserted into in between every other thread (also called an "end" when referencing warp yarns).

I got stuck at this point for literal years. I could find examples of weaving drafts using shadow weave, but couldn't figure out how to generate ones of my own. I imported some of the drafts I found in books into weaving software and poked around to see if I could push the patterns in the direction I wanted by changing individual elements. My experiments in changing individual warp ends and weft picks always ended up looking like stretched or compressed versions of the original pattern (when I was being careful), or incomprehensible garbage (when I was being daring). I even bought a sample of the fabric from Stansborough in the form of a scarf, thinking I could brute force it by using a magnifying glass to figure out the interlacements. I was able to figure out how large the pattern repeat was (approximately 160 x 80 ends), but otherwise I got nothing but eye strain. I ended up tabling the project and coming back to it every couple years, banging my head against it until I gave up.

Until one day last week when I was flipping through the Strickler book and saw this page:

And I was like

HOLD UP

IT'S HER

...or at least a close cousin of her. BUT IT WAS A START.

So the first step was to identify what about this pattern needed to change in order to make this look like the Fellowship cloak. Overall, the main differences were:

Pattern repeat on Strickler 304 was too small - it was 42 x 42 ends and I needed it to be somewhere in the ballpark of 80 x 80 before altering the repeat.

The Fellowship pattern has a weird vertical dividing line that runs down the middle of the leaf motif, effectively doubling the width of the repeat by creating two similar looking but different leaves. This was the change I was least concerned about, as flipping between vertical and horizontal lines is pretty a straightforward process as shown above with the log cabin draft.

Strickler 304 also has a different number of waves (peaks and valleys, or whatever you want to call them) compared to the Fellowship pattern. There are 3 waves in Strickler and 5 in Fellowship. Figuring out how to add these extra waves was the biggest obstacle for me to address.

And finally, a couple of things I didn't need to care about for the weaving draft: 1) the Fellowship pattern is elongated in the warp direction, but this has more to do with a little extra spacing between weft picks as compared to the warp threads. When weaving this you'd just need to make sure you don't beat it very hard and you'll get that tall rectangle shape instead of a square repeat. 2) Both patterns have mirrored symmetry around a diagonal line drawn through the center, meaning that for treadling I could "tromp as writ" or basically just mirror the threading diagram to get the treadling instructions. For reasons I can't figure out, the Strickler pattern isn't exactly tromp as writ but looks close enough to it that the effect is still there. But I don't really care enough to figure out why - the important thing is that it gives us a threading diagram to start with!

So to start with, here's what Strickler 304 looks like in my weaving software:

(By the way, this is Fiberworks PCW Bronze. The trial version is free, and the only difference between that and the paid version is that the save/print options are disabled. I'm not sure they know about screenshots, bless their hearts.)

This is a design for 8 shafts and 8 treadles, thus the 8x8 square in the upper right corner. And you can see in the threading diagram (upper horizontal bar) and treadling diagram (right bar) that the curvature of the waves takes a similar shape to the curves of the final pattern. We just have to figure out why. And since I had already tried changing individual warp ends and treadling patterns without much success, I needed to approach in a different way.

What ended up helping me see the forest for the trees was de-shadowifying the pattern. It's relatively easy to get the black-and-white version of the pattern from the threading draft - you just need to delete the shadow, which means removing every other warp end. This is what deleting all the dark ends from the warp and light ends from the weft looks like:

We can also see with a little more detail how the threading diagram is similar to the curve in the pattern. The pattern is 21 pixels tall, but it's been chopped up to repeat over 8 shafts, like so:

OKAY COOL COOL COOL. EVERYTHING'S COMIN' UP MILHOUSE IVORIVET. From this green squiggly line we know two things:

The final number of warp ends in the shadow weave pattern is double whatever the height of the squiggle is. In the case of the Strickler pattern, we're going from 21 to 42. Since we know that we need our final height for the Fellowship pattern needs to be 80, the squiggle for that pattern needs to be around 40 pixels tall.

We needed to stitch three repeats of the Strickler threading diagram together in order to see the full squiggle. How many waves does the Strickler pattern have? Three. How many waves does the Fellowship pattern need? Five. How many shafts do we have to work on? Eight. What is 5 x 8? 40!!!

So how about we make a NEW squiggle, only 40 pixels high instead of 21? (We're gonna drop the pixels in blue, since threading diagrams won't work if you put a single end through two shafts.)

Next, we're going to chop up that squiggle and use it to create a new threading diagram in Fiberworks. I'm also using "tromp as writ" here to create the treadling pattern.

LOOK AT THAT. IT'S GOT MORE WAVES!! FIVE OF THEM!

And then we add back in the shadow by creating a space for a new end between each existing end:

And then add in the shadow. I'm using 4 as my number for the shadow offset since we're using 8 shafts. So shaft 1 shadows to shaft 5, shaft 2 shadows to shaft 6, etc.

And we're going to apply tromp as writ again to get:

AYYYYYY WE'RE GETTING CLOSE! I'm fairly certain that the reason why the Strickler treadling wasn't exactly tromp as writ had something to do with centering the pattern repeat a little more than this, but I don't really care about that so I'm going to leave this treadling the way that it is.

From here out, we need at add that weird vertical dividing line that chops up the center of the leaves. So we double the pattern repeat along the horizontal axis, and offset a 40 pixel section in the middle of the threading diagram by 1 pixel. I've also colored in the differences between the dark and light ends to help differentiate the original and shadowed curves a little bit more. (I also tried offsetting the colors of the warp ends by 1 as well like what we did in the log cabin example, but I ended up liking the way that this looked more.)

THERE SHE IS!!! MY PRECIOUS!!

From here on out, there is still a ton of work I need to do if I actually want to weave this cloak from scratch. I did buy roving in quantities that could be used to spin both the dark and light yarn (dark gray Gotland for the dark yarn, and dove gray merino + white alpaca for the light yarn), but there's still the matter of, like, handspinning a cloak's quantity of extremely fine yarn. I did start spinning the Gotland several years ago as fine as I could possibly manage, and got through maybe 20 ounces of it. However, I'm a much better spinner now and I'm not sure if the my skeins from several years ago would be suitable for weaving, or if it would be worth replicating what I did back then vs. just starting over with a new standard. There's also the possibility of just... buying weaving yarn if I want to skip that step, which would definitely save me a significant amount of time.

Anyway, thanks for reading this far and I hope it helped break down why this was so exciting for me!

[1nk20ul]

Jonathan Sims ALIVE?? I Believe I Have Proof.

(Spoilers for The Magnus Protocol!)

You heard that right. And if you've listened to TMP 39 - Dependents, you've heard it too. Not only can I prove without the shadow of a doubt that not one, but two Archivists are roaming TMA's London, but I can also prove with spectrogram + phonetical analysis exactly what Jon is saying.

Let me prove it to you.

First, let's start with an unedited audio sample, taken at 16:30:

Did you catch it? If you didn't, I don't blame you. There's a lot happening here. Let's check the official transcript for more context about what we're hearing.

So, what we're hearing is definitely the Archivist. It's evident that it's whispering something, but the specifics are currently hidden under layers of reverb, static, and tape winding. Let's clean it up a bit to get a better listen. I pitched the audio down 30%, reduced the background noise, and ran it through a few frequency filters to make the speech more prominent.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Yeah, that's definitely Jon.

At the very least, we know this is obviously not Beth Eyre, who voices [ERROR]. Since the transcript states that this audio has to come from an Archivist, that really only leaves us with one other possibility.

But let's assume you still don't believe me. I took the liberty of isolating the vocals entirely and running them through a linguistics analysis programme called Praat (which is fantastic + free by the way!). This way, we can analyse the speech all the way down to the position of the Archivist's mouth when speaking.

Here's the new sample we're working with:

I admit, the speech is a tad more muffled in this version. However, the lack of background noise makes the spectrogram much easier to read, which is what we are aiming for here. We're far past the point of just using our ears.

Behold the Spectrogram:

Looking at this diagram, we can conclude that there are four words being spoken here. (The second word is the gap in the middle part. Note the density shift at around 1000Hz. We know this word must be free of any sharp consonants.) More importantly, the formants provided can be compared to samples of Jon's RP dialect to determine if there's a match. If the frequencies match, it's the same voice. If we get the wavelengths to match, it's the same word.

Let's start with the first word. I'll skip the specifics, as explaining every minute detail would take forever and bore everyone to death. The left image was extracted from the spectrogram above. The right photo? That's Jon saying the word "this."

Note how both waveforms are split into two halves, low then high. Note how the high half trails off at the end. Take into account the similar placement of the red formants. This is the same word, pronounced in the exact same dialect, with the exact same frequency. It is Jon.

Let's do that again with the second word.

Again, the formants line up in the exact same order. The audio on the right is a bit louder, which is why the waveforms have a higher contrast.

What did this word happen to be? World.

Here is the original spectrogram in Audacity. The two bright spots on the right-hand side are easy. It's the same sound as the end of the first word as well. (Notice the frequencies are the same.) These are an easy Letter S. I then fact-checked this using methods like before.

Finally, we have clear, undeniable proof:

"This world isn’t yours."

Edit: thank you to @thestrangepoet for correcting “is” to “isn’t!” The presence of the letter T was a bit inconclusive, but it makes so much more sense in this context.

Now, what does that actually mean? Well, he’s likely referring to Sam. The extent of what he actually knows I’m uncertain of. Feel free to theorise and let me know! I have an idea about how this affects the overall story, but that's a post for another day.

I furthermore checked every single instance [ERROR] spoke for occurrences like this, and what did I find? Nothing. There was a bit of whispering in TMP 10 that I couldn't manage to isolate, but the voice was definitely Beth Eyre's. The only other time an Archivist audibly appeared in this fashion was... Oh, Hello. The TMP series teaser with Jon and Martin. Brilliant.

Now I just have to hope that nothing gets debunked by tomorrow. I'm crossing my fingers, TMP 40.

Thank you to Rusty Quill for sending me down this rabbit hole! The details added to all corners of the production bring so much life to the Magnus mystery. I'm glad I could dig deep and analyse this - We love you!

[cheriecoke]

˚₊‧꒰ა GIRL'S NIGHT OUT ! — bucky barnes

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you go out for a girls night with yelena and ava, drink more than you can handle, and remember how much love you have in your life.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. f!reader, avenger!reader, takes place between thunderbolts and post credit scene, new avengers, found family, tower fic adjacent let’s goooo, established relationship, references to depression, reader is the same age as yelena, very light moments of angst but mostly fluff, pet names (baby, sweetheart), alcohol, non-descriptive scene of vomiting, drunk!reader who is kind of a lightweight lol, bucky (+ the others hehe) take care of her, honestly idk what this is it’s kind of silly goofy — 8.3k words

𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒. making my official comeback to the mcu after a few years, i am a bit rusty pls be nice to me <3 reader is based off my self-insert/oc, who was taken in by tony when she was a teenager and he’s like her older brother. so there are mentions of that, as well as being in the og avengers. also references to her having powers but feel free to imagine them as whatever you want :) also thank u to my lovely aimsies for reading over it for me mwah!! <33

You blinked down at your glass, feeling your vision already beginning to go in and out of focus, a camera trying to capture a moving image. But the longer you stared down at the alcohol, the more uncertain you became that the liquid was actually sloshing around the rim — the ice seemed rather stagnant. 

Perhaps it was just your head that spun.

You weren’t sure how you’d already drank enough to feel so disoriented. It was still early in the night. Moonbeams filtered through the few windows, but they were fresh, luminescent balls of light that had only just arrived. 

The club, wherever it was that Yelena had chosen to take the three of you, was obnoxiously loud, a heavy rhythm playing over the speakers. Although you’d never really minded the way music drowned out your own thoughts, the flashing, hazy lights made it difficult to focus on anything at all. 

A hand curled around your bicep, dragging your attention away from the drink below you, back towards the face of your friend. 

“Come on,” Yelena said, a laugh bubbling up out of her, choppy from the alcohol. Her accent sounded thicker, sticking harder to the syllables, as the words left her lips. “Don’t tell me you’re quitting already.” 

You made a face, but before Yelena could criticize your inability to hold your liquor any further, Ava had already interjected. 

“Right, so unlike you, the rest of us don’t consider Vodka to be our closest companion,” Ava snorted, rolling her eyes. Always getting a jab in, even though, half the time, she didn’t really mean the unkind words. She just couldn’t help herself. 

Yelena smiled, but there was sarcasm dripping from the corners of her lips, her eyes squinting with annoyance. She lifted her hand, flipping Ava off, as her rings reflected the neon lights of the interior. Then, without looking away, she took another shot. 

It made you laugh – the sound of your own humor was already beginning to grate at your ears, loud and off-putting. It said enough — you were tipsy, if not edging past it. 

Despite your strengths, of which there were many, you were not good at drinking. A talent that did not seem to improve upon with time, nor did it impress Yelena.

At the sound of your laughter, Yelena turned, and made a face, one that seemed dark and overdramatized in the blue tint of the club. “It wasn’t that funny,” she said, though it was without any surprise. “Bucky wasn’t kidding when he said you were a lightweight.” 

You pouted. “I’m not.” The objection was weak, even to you, and an exaggeration, at best, to the other two. “It’s just…” For a few, long seconds, you tried to think up an excuse, but nothing came. Straightening, you sobered your face, and took the shot in front of you. “Forget it.” 

“Okay,” Yelena snorted, drawing out the first syllable. “You’re a wonderful liar. Remind us to rely on you next time we’re in a bind.” 

The damn alcohol was already infecting your brain, and where you normally could muster up a witty remark, you felt slow, and horribly incompetent. “I’ve helped you out plenty of times,” you said, humming, “like…” 

You drummed your fingers against the counter, trying to think of a time where you’d actually needed to lie on a mission. Even before you’d become the New Avengers, your face was too recognizable, too famous, for you to be undercover in any capacity. 

“Give her some time. I’m sure she’ll think of something tomorrow,” Ava said, amused. “You two are already giving me a headache. I’m getting another drink.” 

“Is that it?” Yelena spared a quick glance at the glass in Ava’s hands, one which was only halfway empty. “Or are you going to go flirt with the bartender?” 

That sent you into another fit of giggles, to which Ava glared, her expression souring. “Well, we can’t all be lucky enough to be in happy, loving relationships, now can we?”

This was directed at you, and you only smiled in return, gesturing her away with the back of your palm. 

“Good luck!” Yelena called, smiling to herself. “Let us know if you need any help!” 

“I’ll manage,” Ava said, mouth in a thin line, before she disappeared into the crowd, a few people out of your line of sight. 

“Wonderful. I’m sure we’ll have to break up a fight soon.” Yelena’s face fell into resignation, as she sighed. “As usual. I don’t know why we ever invite Ava, anyway.” 

Ava’s attempts at flirting were usually laced with the undertone of sarcasm and cruelty, and though you had learned to see the fondness wrought within her words, it wasn’t something many accepted easily. 

Most people – men, in particular – reacted to it with a shade of aggression, one Ava never seemed to like. Nights like this often ended with you and Yelena intervening in tense interactions, gently reminding Ava that she was now a public figure, whether she liked it or not. 

“Well, we are your only friends,” you said, softly teasing Yelena as you leaned against her, already starting to become clingy in your intoxicated state. 

You weren’t sure why the alcohol brought that out of you – normally, you held everyone at a distance, awkward with physical contact.

Maybe what you really wanted was to be closer to them all, you just let yourself when you were drunk. 

“Besides, I think Ava invites herself half of the time. Better than hanging out with John and Alexei.” 

Yelena eyebrows raised, like she hadn’t considered the alternative. “You’re right. I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone,” she said, suddenly serious. “Come on, we should go dance.” 

You laughed, and stumbled after her, grabbing her wrist, in an attempt not to lose her in the crowd. 

The music, paired with the alcohol in your bloodstream, made you feel lighter, like you were walking on a cloud. It infected every ounce of your being, rattling your brain, energizing you in a way so different from the adrenaline you normally felt on missions. 

There’d been a point, in recent years, where fun had been a foreign word to you, perhaps, as it had, with Yelena. But, being friends with her, even for a short while, had brightened some part of you that had dimmed. 

In other ways, before, you’d been fulfilled; whole, even. You loved Bucky, loved him more than you’d ever thought you’d be capable of loving anyone. You loved your job, most of the time. You loved yourself, on occasion. 

That was more than you could’ve asked for, after everything with Thanos had happened. 

Yet, you’d lost most of your friends, some of the people you’d called family, and that had left a gaping hole inside of you that you had ignored, for months. 

Pepper, who had always been there for you, tried her best. But she was a grieving wife, and a mother to a child who would never see her father again — she couldn’t be what you needed anymore, and you didn’t want to bother her, even if you had lost Tony, too. 

So, perhaps it was because Yelena understood, that had caused you to form a fast friendship. She’d lost someone who wasn’t quite her family, but was the only family she’d ever had. 

Whether you’d known it or not, you both had needed your friendship more than anything.

For a while, the two of you danced, letting your worries drift away, catch on the wind and leave the club behind. 

The air was smoky, the scent stagnant in the air, along with the smell of sweat that continued to accumulate. A song played, then another, and after a few more, you’d begun to feel more sober, no longer as light on your feet as you’d once been. 

“I’m going to get another drink!” you yelled to Yelena, over the music, and she gave you a thumbs up, glancing over at you for just a moment. A song she liked was on, and she was in her own world. 

You smiled, and pushed your way through people, hoping Yelena wouldn’t drift too far from where she was. It might be impossible to find her later, if she let the crowd carry her deeper into the dancefloor. 

As you made your way to the bar, you couldn’t tell if you were stumbling, or if people were just that clumsy, as you knocked into one after the other. A young woman nearly spilled her drink on you, apologizing profusely. 

You laughed it off and righted her carefully, before reaching the bar, and ordering the first thing you could think of. 

The bartender gave you a look — she recognized you, but couldn’t quite place you. But she didn’t comment on it, instead, turning back around to the bottles. 

As you waited, chin tucked into your palm, you felt someone come up beside you, far too close for comfort. The cologne on his collar was heavy, curling around you in a suppressive cloud, nearly making you cough. 

You did your best to ignore him, and it worked, for a few moments. Until a hand crept up on your back, gently brushing your shoulder, and you jerked away, shooting your gaze over to the man, a mix of surprise and disgust. 

“Woah,” he said, hands held up in surrender, though he looked anything but guilty. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was trying to get your attention, but I guess you didn’t hear me.” 

He was older — much older than the majority of people here. His beard was grey, trimmed nicely, but there was something unkempt about him. The clothes he wore were expensive, but they fit poorly, and his watch was far too flashy for the rest of his attire. His smile was bright, teeth all the color of a shiny pearl, but he reeked of sharp whiskey and the overabundance of aftershave.

You held your tongue; as much as you would’ve loved to tell him you’d been ignoring him on purpose, he didn’t seem like the type of person who would take that very kindly. You didn’t feel like getting in a fight, tonight. 

“I guess not,” you said, coldly, instead. “Can I help you?” 

The bartender came over, placing the drink in front of you, before sliding her eyes between you and the man beside you. 

Gently, you smiled, assuring her you had everything under control. She really must not have recognized you, if she thought he would be an actual threat to you.

The man looked at your drink, voice going lower. “I just wanted to talk. Buy you a drink. You looked lonely over here.” 

“My friend is waiting for me,” you smiled, tightly, though a hint of poisoned sweetness seeped through. Although Yelena had a tab running, and you weren’t planning on leaving soon, you slid a card out of your wallet, wanting to make a point. “I’ll take care of the drink. Thanks for the offer.” 

You turned to the bartender, beginning to hand your card over to her. “You can close out the tab–” you said, but the stranger stopped you, a large, hot hand curling around your wrist tightly. 

It burned where he touched you, the grip tight and possessive, even though he had no claim on you. A sour taste swelled up in your mouth, anger flashing hot in your chest. 

“Come on, I insist. A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t have to pay for her own drinks.” 

Your jaw tightened, and you yanked your hand away, eyes cold. Although you’d been content to play nice, he wasn’t making things easy for you. “I’m not,” you said. “It’s my fiancé’s card.”

While your connection to Tony Stark meant you had, and would always have, more money than probably everyone in the club, you thought pulling the fiancé card might deter the man. Instead, he seemed to enjoy playing the game. His grin widened, like you were merely teasing him.

“Well, don’t you think your fiancé would appreciate having someone else take the bill off his hands?” The man placed his hand on top of your own, trapping the card beneath your palm, where you’d tried to slide it across the countertop.

Exhaling hot air through your nose, you looked up at him, narrowing your eyes.

“Hey, man, she’s not interested–” The bartender began, but quickly, you cut her off, not wanting the man to turn any anger onto an innocent employee, who was only trying to help. 

“I really don’t think he’ll mind,” you said, shrugging with indifference. “He used to be in Congress, up until recently. It was a whole mess. Not really his fault.” You stopped yourself before you could go any further, waxing poetry about your beloved. “Anyway. I’m sure he won’t even notice the charges.” 

With that, you gave him a satisfied smile, noticing that the comment ruffled his feathers, if only marginally. Men like that always hated when their material possessions did little to impress others. 

“Congress, huh?” He tried his best to remain unfazed, indifferent. “What’s his name?” 

You brightened. 

It was almost too easy, getting him to fall right where you wanted him. You supposed you could’ve gone the easy way, the I’m an Avenger way, the You know Tony Stark? way. But, you loved Bucky Barnes with every ounce of your being, and a part of you was always just waiting for the opportunity to bring him up 

“James Barnes – Bucky. Do you know him?” 

The man laughed, loud and exaggerated, a gut reaction without any thought. He pressed his hand to his stomach and shook his head, waiting for the punchline. “Hilarious. The Winter Soldier?” 

You tilted your head to the side, blinking up at him innocently. “What’s funny about that?” 

“Nothing. It’s just… That would mean–” Then, he squinted, regarding you carefully, eyes flitting from your irises to the curl of your lip, from ear to ear, down your body. Within a second, horror began to bloom in his dark eyes, even as he tried his best to subdue it. “Oh. Oh, shit–”

Maybe all those ridiculous superhero movies were right – putting someone in a baseball cap and glasses really could hide you from the world. You’d only done your makeup and hair differently this evening. It was hardly enough to look like a new person, but for some reason, people were finding it difficult to place you without your usual uniform. 

“Hey, is everything okay here?” Yelena came up behind you, eyebrows pinched together as she looked between the three of you. 

“Oh. Fuck. I’m– Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Shit.” The man was still rambling like a fool, before he looked at Yelena, then back at you, combing his hand through his hair. His cheeks were flushed, visible even in the dim light of the club. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you.” 

“Clearly,” you said, frowning as you leaned against the counter. “Lucky for you, I’m not in a bad mood tonight. I’ll let it slide.” 

You thought it would be enough to encourage him away, but for a moment longer, he stood where he was, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

Yelena, beside you, looked annoyed with the entire ordeal. It wasn’t the first time you’d been forcefully hit on, and it usually went something like this. 

“You’re not gonna– you’re not gonna send someone after me, are you?” 

You frowned. “Why would I do that? You think I can’t pick my own battles?”

“Oh, here we go,” Yelena said, under her breath. 

“No!” He said quickly, his voice growing louder. “I didn’t mean that. I just… You know…” The man stuttered through the words, afraid to say what you knew he was thinking. 

You narrowed your eyes. The pull of your powers swirled in your chest as you stared into the frightened gaze of the stranger. Fear curled around him, a chill sliding up his spine as he remained frozen in place, gaze locked onto yours. 

“First of all, I would never send someone else to do my dirty work,” you said, pointing a finger square into his chest. “The only person you should be worried about coming after you, is me.”

He nodded, his hands up in surrender, lips sealed together; a promise that he would leave you alone, after all this. It didn’t give you as much satisfaction as you would’ve liked.

Sighing, you deflated, a frown taking over your features. “Secondly,” you said, feeling fiercely protective, “Bucky doesn’t do that. I wouldn’t ask him to do that.” 

No matter how many years passed, no matter how many things changed, there would always be people who still hated Bucky for the things he could not control. Maybe he had accepted that, acknowledged that he couldn’t change everyone’s opinion, but you never would. 

“I-I know. Of course not. I’m sorry.”

“You are now,” you said, huffing. “Not that it matters.” 

The man opened his mouth, jaw going slack as he fumbled for something more to say. But you’d already grown bored of the conversation, and Yelena could tell. 

Swiftly, she cut in, patting the man on the shoulder, ushering him away with a few quick, steely words. 

Finally, he was gone.

“So dramatic,” Yelena said, rolling her eyes. “Can we be normal anywhere we go? You could’ve just punched him and been done with it.” 

Ignoring her, you slid the card back into your wallet, exhaling wearily. “You don’t actually have to close the tab,” you said to the bartender, apologetically. “Sorry for the trouble. I might need something stronger than what I ordered, though.” 

The bartender laughed. “Don’t apologize. I’ll get you something else – on the house. Not because you’re an Avenger, by the way, but that is pretty cool that you came here.” 

“Thank you.” 

You smiled as she turned away, but it was small, sad, as it formed on your lips. 

Still being an Avenger, using that title – it’d never felt right, not with half of your original team dead or gone. How many times would you see The Avengers rise and fall? How many people would die, and you’d still be alive? 

Yelena called your name, snapping you out of your haze, and you glanced over, right into her knowing eyes. She was like your reflection, sometimes. All the loved ones you’d lost, all the emotions you shared, all right in the glass of her dark eyes, shining back onto you. 

You shook your head, putting the smile back onto your face. “I’m okay,” you promised, squeezing her hand. “Come on, let’s dance.” 

It was hard to pinpoint the moment you went from being tipsy, to nearly throwing-up on the dance floor. 

You’d never been good at drinking in moderation, nor were you good at pacing yourself. You weren’t good at a lot of things which included alcohol, if you were being honest with yourself, and yet, you were too stupid to stay away from the stuff. 

Yelena, unlike you, had noticed when a queasy look had begun to form on your face, and had taken you outside before you could spill your dinner down the front of her shirt.

“Alright, we’re done,” she said, pushing you towards the door. “Time to go home.”

“I don’t wanna leave,” you complained, whining softly, but Yelena ignored you, too busy searching for something on her phone. You stumbled along with her outside, unwilling, and yet, complacent, as she sat you down on the curb. 

“Stay right there,” she said, a finger outstretched, like she was scolding a child. 

You frowned, but couldn’t think of the right words to say, and gave up. 

Yelena’s voice was hushed as she spoke into the phone, taking a few steps further down the sidewalk, to peek back inside the club. Aimlessly, you stared across to the other side, where a few people kept to themselves, blowing smoke out their lips. They paid you no attention. 

It felt like only moments you’d sat there, when Ava emerged from the doors, and Yelena said. “Finally. Bob’s here.” She shoved her phone back in her pocket, squinting down the street. “That was fast.” 

“Too fast,” Ava said, flatly. “I almost would’ve rather you called John. At least he could get us back in one piece.” 

“Well, I could’ve called Alexei.” Yelena’s voice grew closer as she bent over, grabbing one of your arms and throwing it over her shoulder. “None of our options are great.” 

You’d been zoning in and out, until she lifted you, pulling you to your feet. The conversation, though muddled, slowly but surely reached your ears, as you leaned against Yelena, letting her take most of your weight.

“You could’ve called Bucky,” you said, slurring your words together.

“Hmm,” Yelena said, huffing, as she practically carried you down the street. “He’s not home.” 

“Really?” you frowned, blinking heavy eyelids at her. That was news to you. “Where did he go? He didn’t tell me.”

“Emergency,” Ava said, waving it off. “Pointless meeting. Don’t worry about it.”

It didn’t make sense, but nothing really made sense then, with your brain so blissfully empty. You were certain that you’d talked to Bucky just minutes ago, sending him a mess of letters that probably spelled nothing, but neither of them seemed concerned about it, so you decided you wouldn’t be either. 

“Okay,” you shrugged, walking alongside the two of them, lazily. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”

“You just said you wanted to stay.” 

“I don’t anymore.” 

Yelena gave you an appraising look. “Well, trust me. We’re going home.” A pair of headlights blinked. “See, there’s Bob. Let’s go.”

You followed her and Ava, finally pushing off of Yelena to walk on your own, even if it was mostly stumbling. She remained just inches away, in case you tripped over your own feet. Which it took all of fifteen seconds to do. 

Another loud laugh escaped you as you grabbed Ava’s wrist, catching your fall. The two of them had both jumped for you, arms outstretched, which was even more ridiculous, considering you had powers. 

You didn’t need their help, even if you had almost landed face-first.

“Please don’t crack your head open,” Yelena said, lips pursed. “That would be such a mess.”

“Like Humpty Dumpty,” you said, pointing to your head with a wide, lazy grin. 

Yelena just blinked at you, preparing a response, though whatever she was planning on saying fell away, as Bob pulled up to the curb, idling beside the three of you. 

“Hi Bob!” you shouted, waving enthusiastically at him, your voice much louder than you’d meant it to be. “Look, it’s Bob, Yelena!” 

She shushed you, even though there was no one else on the street, and pushed you forward, towards the car. 

“Very observant,” Yelena’s words were full of sarcasm that you missed completely.

Stupidly unaware, you smiled back, proud of yourself. 

Bob stuck his head out the window, dark waves of hair falling onto his cheeks. “Hi,” he said, watching as you waved again, with even more enthusiasm. A few, slurred phrases of nonsense left your lips, and Bob’s eyebrows raised, eyes wider. “Oh, wow. How much did you drink?” 

“Not as much as you’d think,” Yelena answered for you. “Come on, in you go.”

Ava opened the back door, and the two of them practically pushed you into the car, causing you to land on the seat, flat on your face. It was cold, and the leather was rough against your skin, but you still laughed, rubbing your cheek as you righted yourself. 

Another loud sigh came from Ava, as she climbed in next to you. 

“You made it look easy,” you said, blinking at her as you slumped down, resting your head on her shoulder. The hint of a soft, sweet perfume still lingered on Ava’s skin, even under all the layers of sweat and grime from the club.

Ava stiffened, but then relaxed, humming to herself. “What, getting in the car?” 

You nodded, slowly, your cheek pressed into her shoulder.

“Well, it’s not exactly rocket science.” 

Yelena slammed the door behind you, shocking you back to attention. You watched as she made her way around the front of the car, into the passenger seat next to Bob. 

“Okay,” Bob said, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. “Does everyone have their seatbelts on?” 

“Just drive, Robert,” Ava said, rolling her eyes. 

Bob hesitated as he looked at you through the mirror, concern flashing through his eyes. “Are you sure she’s okay? She looks like she might be sick.” 

“She’s fine,” Ava snapped, exhaustion becoming evident in her voice. “And if she throws up, it’ll be all over me. Just drive.” 

“No need to be so rude. Bob came to pick us up out of the kindness of his heart,” Yelena said, fumbling with the music, intent on picking the perfect song, even for such a short distance. 

Outside, New York became a blur as you began to move, and you returned your attention to the front of the car, watching Bob focus on each turn and stoplight.

“That’s so nice, Bob,” you said, each syllable being drawn out carefully, slowly. “You’re such a good friend.” 

The words hung in the air. It made you emotional, all of the sudden. A wave of sadness washed over you, dousing you in an ice bath that brought you back to a semblance of sobriety. There was a time, once, when it would have been Tony’s shoulder you rested on, Natasha adjusting the radio, Steve driving you home. 

Now, they’re all dead. 

An ache, like a blade piercing straight through your chest, carved out that empty, lonely part of your heart. You’d offered it to the other three, not a replacement for your old friends, but something new, something different. A risk, to be so vulnerable, but not one without the greatest reward.

“Oh,” Yelena said, and it was the softness of her voice, her eyes pinned on you with understanding, that made you realize tears were streaming down your cheeks, coating Ava’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” 

“You’re all good friends,” you wailed, rubbing your eyes. “It’s nice… to have friends again.” The words hung there, before you were bursting into tears, profusely scraping at them like a child, apologizing over and over again. 

Ava put a soft hand on your forehead, brushing the stray hairs away from your face, sticking to your skin from your tears. As hard as she was on the outside, there was kindness, underneath it all, cased in the armor that had been crafted by a hurt girl who hadn’t had the chance to love. 

“You’re a good friend too,” Yelena promised, leaning over the backseat to squeeze your hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.” 

She was understanding like that, so caring and warm, even when she thought she wasn’t. It only made you cry more, which made you feel more guilty, and had you curling in on yourself, shrinking away from the others. 

Drinking was always fine, until it wasn’t. Bucky would have never swayed you from doing anything you wanted to do, but he had reminded you, gently, that all the emotions you tended to bottle up were released when you mixed them with alcohol.

You probably should’ve listened to him. After all, he knew you better than anyone. 

“It’s stupid. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m sorry. I’m ruining everything.” The optimistic evening had been lit on fire, burning into a pile of ash that wouldn’t die out with your tears, which only kept flowing, even as you tried your best to suppress them. 

“It’s okay,” Bob said, looking at you through the rearview mirror. He offered a self-deprecating smile, face wrinkling at the edges. “Remember when I had a bad day and made half of New York disappear? That was ruining the evening.” 

Despite yourself, you laughed through your tears, a hiccup erupting from your chest. Ava squeezed your arm, the most affectionate embrace she could offer you. 

“But now we’re all–” you choked through your own tears, “friends.” 

“Exactly.” 

You thought there was a message in there, somewhere, hidden beneath the letters strung together to make the word. But exhaustion was wearing on you, and your sadness had drained you, leaving you a mopey mess to seek comfort in Ava’s subtle embrace.

“Hey, Bob?”

“Hmm?” 

“Where’s Bucky? Ava said he had a–” you pinched your face together, trying to remember what she had said. Something… about a, “meeting. When will he be home?” 

“What? Bucky’s not–” Bob began, confused, before Yelena slapped him on the bicep, effectively shutting him up. They shared a glance, one you didn’t understand, before he exhaled, and continued. “Oh. A meeting. Right. I’m sure he’ll be back. It’s late now, anyway.” 

“Okay,” you said, satisfied. At some point, you’d stopped crying. What a relief. “I miss him.”

“You saw him, like, three hours ago.” Yelena wore a barely-contained grin. 

“Well. It feels like a long time,” you frowned, dramatically, your lips pulling down in a curve. “Maybe I can call him. Do you think he’ll answer?” You started to pull out your phone, though it was caught, somewhere in between you and Ava, wedged far enough into the seat that you quickly gave up. “I can’t reach my phone.” 

“We’ll get it when we get out,” Ava promised. 

“But I want to call Bucky,” you said, trying again for your phone. “Tell him I love him.”

“I think he knows, darling.” 

“What if he doesn’t? What if he thinks I went to the bar to find someone else.” A burst of panic sprouted in your chest, matched with an endless sadness that alcohol seemed to free in you. “What if he hates me?” you said, squeezing Ava’s arm, nails forming small, crescent indents. “What if–”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Bucky would rather die than leave you. You don’t need to worry about that,” Ava grabbed your hand, the one digging between the seats, almost stuck, as you searched for your phone. “Just – close your eyes.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. I’m always right.”

For a moment, you considered arguing more, but she was so stern in her words that the fight died out of you quickly. “Okay, fine. I believe you.”

You weren’t sure when Ava, of all people, had gotten so soft, but she seemed to have something in her heart that had latched onto you, in the way Yelena had with Bob. 

“You know, I love all of you too,” you mumbled, quietly. For not sharing an ounce of blood with Tony, you sure shared the Stark gene of being unable to effectively shut up. “You’re like my family, now. My best friends.” 

None of them replied, but you could feel the heavy blanket of emotion that settled over the car, a gift that came with the knowledge that they were loved.

You did, in fact, fall asleep on the ride back to the tower, and when you awoke, you were groggy and disoriented, all of the past few minutes a blur. All you wanted was your bed, yet it felt so far and out of reach.

“Alright. Here we go,” Yelena groaned, yanking you out of the car with all her strength. 

Bob helped her haul you up, the three of them lugging you into the tower. 

“Maybe you should stop her earlier, next time,” Bob mumbled, as your head lolled against his bicep, feet clumsily going in a jagged line. 

A small crowd of guards watched the four of you, but didn’t move a muscle as Yelena glared daggers at them, daring them to comment on your drunken state. 

Finally, the elevator stopped at your level, and you climbed into it, taking the ride to the top floor. 

Within seconds, the elevator dinged, and you were graced with a view of Manhattan glittering beneath you. You stumbled out, doing your best to hold up your own weight. With the three of them hovering around you, though, it was hard to move at all. 

It was still bright on the floor, but the lights had been dimmed, leaving an atmospheric glow to the room. John was sitting in front of the television, the images casting shadows on his face when he paused it, causing the room to go quiet.

Amused, he watched the three of you return home in a miserable state. “Jesus,” John said, laughing loudly as he leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “Did you drink the whole bar? You look like shit.” 

Of course, the shit in question was you, but you were too dazed to realize who he was talking to. 

“Shut up, Walker,” Ava scowled. “You can thank Yelena for that.” 

That, for some reason, resonated in your brain. You looked up, smiling, before saying in a quick, clipped succession, “Thanks, Yelena.” Another fit of laughter erupted from your chest.

John’s eyebrows lifted. “That was rhetorical, genius.” 

“Rhetorical…” you frowned, trying to sound out the syllables. “That’s a long word.”

“Is it? I never noticed.” 

“Fuck off, Walker. If you’re not going to be useful, I’ll start a fire under your ass to make you evacuate the room.” Ava guided you to the couch, pushing you down into the cushion, right as John stood, regarding you with a thinly veiled uncertainty.

“Always resorting to violence.” John tucked his phone into his pocket, watching you move to lay down on the cushions, still warm from where he’d been sitting. “I’ll go get the lover boy. Surprised he wasn’t waiting by the door.” 

You perked up. “Bucky’s here?” 

John snorted. “Yeah, he’s been here all night.” He ignored Ava and Yelena’s gestures at him to stop. “They didn’t call him because they didn’t want to get in a crash – which would happen because you try to make out with him, in front of us, every time you’re drunk.”

“I don’t.” 

“Yes, you do.”

You frowned, but you were too relieved at the prospect of your fiancé being home that you forgot to be mad at your friends for lying. “Hm. I’ll go with you.” 

As you started to stand, the blood rushed to your head, and you took one step forward, knocking into the coffee table, before you nearly fell onto it, catching yourself.

“I think you should stay right there,” John said, amused, as a small smirk pulled at his lips. 

“But–” you knocked something off the table, then something else, glass shattering by your feet. “Oh no. I’m sorry,” your frown deepened, the frustrated tears rising to the surface again. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t move,” Bob screeched, grabbing your wrist before you could reach for the glass. “It’s okay. It’s just water. Not a big deal.” 

“I’m sorry, Bob,” you frowned. “I’m–”

“It’s okay,” he promised again, trying to force you back onto the couch. “We’ll clean it up.” Bob turned to the other three, his smile helpless. “Can one of you just go get–”

The elevator dinged again. 

“Hey, Walker, have you heard from–” Bucky stepped off the elevator, dressed in casual clothes, a pair of dark sweatpants and a regular t-shirt. He was freshly washed from a shower, wet strands pushed out of his face, falling around his jaw. There were a few damp spots around the neck of his shirt, droplets dripping from his hair. “Oh.” 

He looked at the floor, the mess of water and glass, then back up to your tear-streaked face, hazy eyes. 

“Jesus. Yelena, I told you.”

“Hey, it isn’t my fault!” Yelena said, defensively, hands raised. “She bought her own drinks.” 

“I’m sorry,” your lip stuck out, eyes blinking back the tears. “It was an accident. Are you mad?”

“What?” Bucky stared back, confused, before he realized you were talking about the glass – or maybe the state of your intoxication, and shook his head quickly, beside you in a second. “No, of course not, baby. It’s fine. Just a glass. Are you okay?” 

You nodded, slowly, as he came around the side of the couch, guiding you away from the mess of glass and into his arm. The scent of his body wash, still lingering from the recent shower, relaxed you immediately, evaporating your tears as you fell against him. 

“I’m okay. Tired,” you mumbled into his chest. “Love you. Did you know that?” You tilted your head, making to kiss him, but you missed his lips completely, landing somewhere between his cheek and his chin. “I wanted to tell you on the phone, but Ava said that was stupid, because you already know.” 

Bucky laughed, his eyes so soft as he smiled at you. How lucky you were, to still have the brilliant smile that took over his face, even after everything he’d suffered through. 

He took your head in his hands, thumbs gently caressing your cheekbones. One warm against your skin, the other, cool metal. “I do know. Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it again.”

“Okay. I love you,” you drawled out, extenuating the letters, satisfied by his reaction. 

You stood tall to kiss him again, but that time, he dodged it on purpose, kissing your forehead instead as he pulled you back into him.

“Gross,” Yelena said behind you, but you could hear the affection in her voice, happy to see the two of you so in love.

Bucky laughed again, a small one this time, as he took your hand and kissed it. “Come on, pretty. You can barely stand up.”

“I’m fine,” you slurred, but you let him lift you anyway, one arm under your knees, the other against your back. “I can walk.” 

“I’m sure you can,” he agreed, but made no move to put you down. 

Bucky kissed the top of your head again, unable to keep his lips from pecking you gently, with a warmth that spread across your body. He said a few more words to Yelena, something about cleaning up the glass, but she promised she didn’t mind, and sent the two of you away, back down to the floor you shared. 

Technically, Bucky had his own floor – a product of Valentina’s ridiculous idea to discourage the two of you from acting like a normal couple. 

The Watchtower might have been your workplace, but it was also your home. It had been before, when it was Stark Tower, Avengers Tower, and now it was again, after it’d been renamed and renamed. 

Despite the challenges that never stopped coming, you weren’t going to keep yourself away from the man you’d loved for years, just because Valentina thought it would cause problems.

“Maybe I should buy the tower back,” you said, not to anyone in particular. “Tony would want that.” 

“Do you want that?” Bucky seemed unsurprised by the question. You’d mentioned it in passing, a few times, when Valentina had tried to enforce rules you didn’t approve of, paired with frustrated remarks of, “How could Tony sell it to her?” 

You’d already made a few deals with Valentina, all but forcing her to let you take over renovations, return some of the suites to exactly how they’d been before. You couldn’t bring Tony back, but you wouldn’t forget about him, any of them, just because it hurt.

“Yeah. I think so.”

At first, you’d wanted to stay far from the tower and the memories that haunted these walls, darkened by the lives that had been lost. Now, though, there were new ones, and it didn’t seem so scary to live in a place that had always, really, belonged to you. 

Bucky hummed, thoughtful. “How about we talk about it when you’re sober?” 

“Okay.” You made a face, uncertain if he was just humoring you. “I’m not kidding. I’m being serious.”

He smiled. “Oh, I know. I’m not going to try and talk you out of it.”

You searched his face for any hint of a lie, and when you found none, you relaxed back against him, satisfied. A peaceful calm began to wash over you, and you closed your eyes, the edges of rest reaching for you.

“Anyone hit on you at the bar?” Bucky asked, an effort to keep you from falling asleep in his arms. 

You opened your eyes, processing the question, before thinking hard on your answer. It had just been a couple hours ago, but it felt like a long time. “Just one person. An old man–”

“Hmm. Older than me?”

You laughed again, girlishly, as your grip around his neck tightened. “No one’s older than you.” A kiss landed on his cheek – somehow, some of your lipstick still remained, and it smeared on his skin. “I told him I was getting married. He didn’t care.” You yawned. “I scared him away, though.”

“I can imagine.” You’d never been good at accepting criticism of your relationship, or your lover, from anyone. Bucky had never thought he was worth all the trouble, but time was beginning to convince him otherwise. “You sure you still wanna marry me? I’m sure he’d forgive you if you called him, let him know you dumped your boyfriend.”

“You’re not funny, Bucky.” 

“No? I think I’m a little funny.” 

You hadn’t noticed that you’d gotten into your apartment until Bucky was sitting you down on the sink, kissing your forehead one more time. “I’ll be right back. Stay there, okay?” 

“Why?” You said, stumbling after him, rubbing your eyes. “I’m tired.” 

“Because you’re going to kill me tomorrow if I let you pass out like this.” Bucky lifted you back onto the counter, pushing you forward until you rested against the mirror. His eyes narrowed, serious. “Will you please listen? I’ll be right back.”

You glared at him, but felt too lazy to move, letting your head drop against the mirror. “Fine,” you relented, without much of a fight at all. Then, feeling stupidly childish, you stuck your tongue out at him.

Bucky rolled his eyes, before turning back around, leaving you. 

Exhausted, your eyes closed once you rested against the mirror. For a moment, you waited, attention fading in and out, before the room started to feel a little tilted, and your stomach lurched. 

You stumbled off the sink, suddenly feeling awful, before you covered your mouth quickly and took the two, quick steps to the toilet. It was only a moment before you were spilling the contents of your stomach, all the alcohol you’d drank, out into the toilet, head bent over your forearm as you heaved. 

A hand roamed over your back, pulling your hair away from your face as you waited a few more seconds, before you vomited again, tears pricking at your eyes from the taste. 

“Sorry,” you said, perhaps for the last time, the word tasting familiar on your tongue. “This is gross.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve seen a lot of gross things — this is nothing. I’m impressed you made it to the toilet,” Bucky’s expression was completely neutral, unfazed, when you tilted your head to look at him. “Feel better?” 

You nodded, a small movement, with wide, sparkling eyes, despite the disgust lingering from your actions. Every day, you thought it was impossible to love him any more, and yet, here you were, falling for him all over again. 

Bucky took a few squares of toilet paper, wiping your mouth before he flushed the toilet. When he stood, your head fell onto his thigh, the muscle hard against your cheek. 

“Come on,” he said, dragging you to your feet. “Back to the sink.” 

This time, you let him pull you along wherever, his hands gentle against your hips, as he settled you back down on the countertop. The granite was cool against your skin, a nice feeling after the hot flash that had come from spilling your insides. 

You slumped down, running on fumes of energy as you watched Bucky squeeze toothpaste onto a toothbrush, before attempting to poke it between your lips. 

Your eyes widened, and you swatted him away, groaning, even as he insisted. “I don’t want to,” you said, falling forward, in an attempt to sneak past him. 

But Bucky was stronger than you, and you were barely able to hold yourself up. He blocked your movements easily, releasing a heavy sigh. “Would you just let me help you?” 

“I’m not a baby,” you started to say, but the minute you’d opened your mouth, he’d stuck the bristles against your teeth, scrubbing quickly, worried you might reject the movements altogether.  

“I know you’re not, but you’ll feel better in the morning,” he promised, focusing on his task as he placed a thumb on your chin, gently forcing your mouth open a little wider. Reluctant, you let him, and he smiled, caressing your jaw affectionately. “Thank you.” 

You endured the toothbrush in your mouth for a solid thirty seconds, before you finally swatted him away, spitting in the sink next to you. Amused, Bucky handed you a glass of water, which you also fought, but managed to swallow down a few sips. 

“You were supposed to–” He stopped himself, giving up. “You know what, never mind. Drink the rest of it.” 

Bucky rinsed off the toothbrush and the sink, before reaching over to a drawer and pulling a singular wipe from a violet-covered package. He dragged it against your skin, careful not to scrub too hard, but made sure he got as much makeup off as possible. 

“Are you done now?” you asked, blinking at him, feeling dizzy and off-kilter. 

Your fiancé threw the cloth away, assessing your appearance before he yielded to your requests. “Alright. Come on.” 

Finally, you thought, as you hopped off the counter, practically falling into him as you staggered on your feet.  

Bucky let you rest against him as he slid a cool, metal hand down your back, unzipping your dress. It fell around your ankles in a pool of dark, burgundy tones, one he helped you step right out of. With a look of endless adoration, he pressed his lips to your shoulder, dipping around your collarbone, before slipping a soft, black t-shirt over your head, one that was warm and smelled like him.

“There,” Bucky said, kissing you, for the first time all evening, on the mouth. “All done.” 

You chased after his lips, but he didn’t indulge you as he dragged you to the bedroom, making a comment about how you were far too gone to do anything more than sleep. The sheets had already been pulled down, the pillows organized exactly how you wanted them.

Without another thought, you fell on the mattress, eyes closing as soon as your head hit the pillow.

The bed dipped beside you. Bucky slipped off both your heels, his lips lingering around your ankle. “My gorgeous girl,” he said against your leg, the words tickling your skin.

You hummed softly to yourself, feeling like you were floating on a cloud as he squeezed your calf, before retreating back into the bathroom.

Bucky was only gone for a few minutes, organizing the mess you’d left behind, before the lights went out, and he was back in the bed beside you, pulling you into his chest. You went easily, tucking your head under his chin, one arm draped across his stomach. 

Although sleep called for you, you were kept awake by a lingering regret that you’d spoiled the evening by being such a mess. You tilted your head, propping your chin up on his chest, before whispering his name in the darkened room.

Bucky made a small sound, barely an acknowledgement. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” 

This time, he cracked open his eyes, sharply blue in the moonlight, before sighing. “What can you possibly be sorry about now?” 

“I feel bad.” It was difficult to form the right words for the horrible ache that struck your chest at that moment.

Bucky shifted, a warm palm resting on your cheek as he turned his head to face you. The tip of your nose brushed his own. “Why?”

“I’m… stupid.” 

His eyebrows raised, and then he laughed, hot breath ghosting the bridge of your nose. “Well you’re not stupid, you’re just drunk, and no one gives a shit about that. Pretty sure they all just think it’s funny.” 

Somehow, that calmed you. It must have been exactly what you needed to hear, the words soothing over that anxious knot in your mind. “And you?” 

Bucky’s face softened, knowingly, like this wasn’t the first time you’d had this conversation. “Yeah, it’s funny, but I also think it’s nice that you trust me so much – and them.” He squeezed your hand that was lodged between the two of you. “Besides, we’ve been through a lot worse than this, and I still asked you to marry me, didn’t I?”

“I guess,” you said, mumbling, but you were running out of arguments that he couldn’t refute.

Your stomach was beginning to ache, a weird feeling in your gut, paired with a growing headache that was a mixture of exhaustion and the effects of intoxication. A few more incoherent words left your lips, and Bucky listened for a while longer, blinking back in exhausted confusion, before he finally pressed one last kiss between your brows.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he said, closing his eyes wearily. “You can tell me in the morning.” 

Despite another anecdote on your tongue, you gave into the wave of exhaustion that rolled over you, your mind finally beginning to still. You let the heavy wave of rest curl around you, a blissful comfort, before, at last, you were asleep.

thank you so much for reading! please consider leaving a or reblog if you enjoyed it ❤︎ feedback is greatly appreciated!!!

[hyunjinsmuze]

Forget Me, Gently

warnings: Slight smut (one scene), car crash, head trauma, coma, memory loss

contains: Angst, light smut, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft romance

summary: They fell in love deeply, messily, completely. But after the crash… she forgot. And he’s willing to love her all over again, even if it breaks him.

words: 5.5k

pairing: Hyunjin x Reader

It was the sort of afternoon that hung in the air like a held breath—cloud-filtered sunlight and the faint scent of cinnamon and roasted beans drifting through the small café tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore. Y/N liked this one for its quiet corners and how the baristas never tried to rush you, even when you spent three hours rereading the same page of a sketchbook. The café was warm, lived-in, imperfect in the way real places are. Familiar.

She didn’t notice him at first. Not until the crash happened.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

Her world jolted. The warmth of her just-bought vanilla latte spread across the front of her hoodie, soaking through in seconds. She gasped, startled more than anything, blinking up at the tall figure before her. He looked horrified. Apologetic. And annoyingly… beautiful.

“I didn’t see you, seriously, I’m so sorry.” He grabbed too many napkins, probably, but pressed a few into her hands with a desperation that almost made her laugh.

“I—it’s okay,” she said, more out of instinct than truth. “It was an accident.”

He nodded quickly, eyes scanning the mess he’d made, the liquid soaking into her sketchbook on the table. That made her flinch.

“Oh—your book,” he said, frowning like he’d just watched a kitten fall off a windowsill. “God, I’ll replace it. I swear, I’ll, can I… buy you another coffee?”

She raised an eyebrow, half amused. “You want to repay me by getting me another coffee after ruining my first one?”

A beat passed. His lips twitched into a crooked smile. “And I’ll even sit with you while you drink it. If you let me.”

She looked at him properly now—tall, fair-skinned, with soft dark eyes and a mouth that looked like it belonged in a painting. Something about him was too delicate to be real but not fragile. No, not fragile. Something else. Like art that knew it was meant to be looked at slowly.

“I’m Y/N,” she said, voice lighter than she expected.

He smiled. “Hyunjin.”

“Okay, Hyunjin. You’re forgiven. Buy me coffee.”

They stood in line together. Her hoodie was ruined, the sketchbook damp, her day derailed but she couldn’t quite stop the curl of interest low in her stomach. He had this way of being intensely present, even in silence.

As they waited, he glanced at her, then at her sketchbook. “Do you draw?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes. Mostly for myself.”

A soft hum. “I paint. A little.”

Her heart skipped. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “mostly oils or charcoal. But I’ve never really shown anyone. It’s more of a… thing I do to breathe.”

She nodded like she understood. Because she did.

When their drinks arrived, Hyunjin’s phone buzzed. He winced. “I have to be somewhere, but… can I text you? Maybe make up for the sketchbook with a proper coffee?”

She hesitated—only a little before handing him her phone.

He grinned as he typed, “See you.”

And just like that, he was gone, a gust of spring air with a paint-stained soul.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

It had been a few days since that unexpected moment, the spilled coffee, the nervous apologies, the way his eyes had looked at her like she was something fragile and important all at once. Y/N found herself replaying it over and over, the image of him lingering in her mind more vividly than anything she’d seen in weeks.

The little café had become more than just a quiet refuge; it now held the echo of his voice, the warmth of his smile. Even the smell of cinnamon and roasted beans seemed to carry a new meaning, as if the ordinary had somehow become extraordinary.

She was sketching there again when her phone buzzed, breaking her concentration. She glanced down, not expecting much. But then she saw the name.

Hyunjin.

A sudden flutter warmed her chest. Her fingers hesitated, then she tapped out a reply, the simple act feeling like a bridge stretching between two worlds.

‘Hey, how’s it going?’

His answer came quickly, and she felt her heart lift.

‘I wanted to ask you something.’

She blinked at the screen, a small smile playing on her lips.

‘What’s up?’

‘Would you like to come to an art studio with me? he asked. We could draw together. Just for fun.’

Her breath hitched. Drawing together. The idea was sweet, simple, yet it carried an unspoken promise of closeness. She imagined him, paintbrush in hand, his eyes steady and focused as he captured the light in a moment or the curve of a smile. Somehow, she thought, he would see her in ways no one else did.

‘I’d love that, she typed back, cheeks warming.’

Great. I’ll send you the details. Can’t wait, his message appeared, and a small thrill ran through her.

That night, Hyunjin sat alone in his room, his phone screen glowing softly in the dim light. The thought of Y/N smiling at the idea of drawing with him made his chest tighten with something tender and new.

He wondered how someone could feel so significant in such a short time. There was something about her her quiet strength, the way she looked at the world that made him want to show her all the colors he kept hidden beneath the surface.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

When Y/N arrived at the art studio a few days later, the soft hum of music and the rich scent of oils filled the air. The space buzzed quietly with creativity. At first, she felt a little out of place, unsure about her own drawing skills among all the paint and brushes. But the light pouring through the large windows made everything look warm and inviting, like a safe little sanctuary.

She wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. Hyunjin had only mentioned his art in passing, over texts, but she’d never seen it for real. The idea of standing next to him, sketching together, made her nervous in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

She wandered deeper inside, her shoes soft against the wooden floor. Then she spotted him—sitting on a stool near a blank canvas, pencil in hand, eyes focused like he was already imagining what the drawing would become. His dark hair fell in gentle waves over his forehead. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up in a way that made her stomach flutter.

“Hey,” he said, standing quickly. “So, you actually came.”

She smiled, feeling the warmth in his gaze. “You invited me.”

He motioned around the room. “This is where I come when I need to get away from everything. It’s peaceful here.”

She nodded slowly. “It really feels like a sanctuary.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment, she saw something vulnerable in him—a side he didn’t usually show. “What’s your favorite thing to draw?”

“Flowers,” she said, smiling at him.

“Okay,” he said, a small grin forming. “Let’s draw each other’s favorite flower.”

Her heart jumped. “That sounds perfect.”

She learned his favorite flower was a black rose. She told him hers were tulips.

They sat down, sketchbooks in their laps. Hyunjin’s pencil moved with practiced ease. Every line was fluid and graceful, capturing the delicate beauty of the flowers with surprising depth. Watching him, Y/N felt mesmerized—not just by the art but by the calm way he worked. It wasn’t about being perfect; it was about the process, the flow.

She felt that same calm slowly settle inside her.

“How did you get into art?” she asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Hyunjin didn’t look up right away. His breath slowed, and she saw him gathering his thoughts.

“I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t drawing,” he said finally. “It started as a way to escape. My family was always moving, always busy, and it was hard to find something that felt like mine. Art… it was always there. It helped me breathe.”

Y/N felt her chest tighten. He was sharing a part of himself he didn’t often show.

“That’s why I love it,” he continued, still avoiding her gaze. “It’s one of the only things that makes sense to me. The only thing that lets me really be myself.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say but feeling the weight of his words. “I get that.”

They worked quietly for a while. Occasionally, their eyes met and a soft smile passed between them small, genuine moments that said more than words.

Hyunjin stretched, breaking the silence. “How’s your drawing coming?”

She looked down at her sketch and smiled. “It’s coming along. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“You’re good,” he said softly, meaning it.

She blushed, her heart fluttering. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer. “I mean it. You have something special, Y/N. You always have.”

After his words hung softly between them, she realized how much she wanted this—this slow, fragile connection that felt like it could break or bloom at any moment.

When they finally packed up hours later, the energy between them had shifted. They were still the same two people who had met by chance, but something new had begun—a closeness that neither could yet put into words.

As they stepped outside into the warm evening light, Hyunjin glanced sideways at her, his expression unreadable for a second.

“Thanks for coming,” he said quietly. “I really enjoyed this.”

Y/N smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Me too. I didn’t realize how much I missed creating with someone.”

He nodded, and for a moment, they just stood there letting the quiet words hang between them like the last golden rays of the setting

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

A few days had passed since their last meeting, but Hyunjin and Y/N found themselves texting and calling more than either expected. It wasn’t planned more like a song that plays unexpectedly, yet somehow stays with you.

That night, they were on FaceTime, their faces softly lit by the glow of their separate rooms. Y/N leaned back against her pillows, fighting the heaviness of her eyelids as the night stretched on. Hyunjin sat on his bed, casual in a plain white shirt, his hair tousled but still perfectly styled.

“I still can’t believe you’re a K-pop idol,” Y/N said softly, disbelief coloring her tone. “Like, that kind of idol.”

Hyunjin chuckled quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… it’s kind of hard to believe sometimes. I don’t really look the part, do I?” His laugh was light but tinged with uncertainty.

She smiled, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No, it’s not that. You just seem so normal.” She flushed as soon as the words slipped out. “I mean, not that you’re not special—just... you don’t have that superstar vibe. You’re just you. And honestly, that’s nice.”

There was a pause as Hyunjin absorbed her words, his eyes softening. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, thoughts drifting. She had a way of making everything seem effortless. She didn’t try to impress. She simply was. And that was captivating.

“Well, that’s the hard part sometimes,” he said quietly, the playful tone gone. “People expect perfection when you’re in the spotlight. But I’m just me. And sometimes... that doesn’t feel like enough.”

Y/N blinked, surprised by the raw vulnerability in his voice. “I get it. You’re more than what people see on stage. You’re a person. And that’s more than enough.”

His smile was soft, almost shy, eyes briefly flicking away before meeting hers again. “Thanks, Y/N. You’re one of the few who makes me feel that way.”

Her chest tightened at the honesty. How much of his life was public, and how little of himself he could share? And here, in this quiet moment, they were sharing pieces of their true selves.

She smiled gently. “I’m glad. You’re really important, Hyunjin. To a lot of people.”

His smile lingered, something unspoken passing between them—tender, intense. He wanted to say more but let the silence hold the space.

As the night deepened, Y/N grew sleepy. Her eyes drooped, struggling to stay open. Hyunjin noticed, his smile deepening.

“Y/N,” he said softly, voice low and soothing, “are you getting tired?”

She yawned, sheepishly. “Yeah... I’m sorry. I just can’t stay awake. You’ve kept me up too late.” She giggled quietly.

His lips curved in an affectionate smile, eyes soft. “It’s okay. You don’t have to stay up for me.”

She shifted under the covers, surrendering to the sleepiness. “I’m fine. I’m just really glad we’re talking.”

His smile softened even more, intimate. “Me too, Y/N. I’m really glad you’re in my life.”

And with that, she finally gave in. Her eyes fluttered closed as he watched her breathing slow. The sound of her soft sighs filled the quiet. She was asleep.

For a moment, Hyunjin stayed still, watching her peaceful face on the screen. His chest tightened with something unfamiliar but familiar all at once.

He reached for the sketchbook beside him, part of his nightly routine when his mind was too full. He hadn’t planned to draw her. Not consciously. But as his pencil met the paper, her image began to form.

He sketched her as he saw her—delicate features, lips parted gently in sleep, soft hair framing her face. There was a beauty in her letting go, a calm he admired. The more he drew, the deeper his feelings revealed themselves in every line and shadow.

He’d never drawn anyone like this before. It was like he could see her in a way words never could. She was warmth, light, and a breathtaking kind of beauty.

When he finished, he leaned back, staring at the sketch as if it held a secret. His heart ached with the truth it showed—his feelings for her, laid bare.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Days passed before they saw each other again. Though they spoke daily, a quiet tension lingered, something unspoken between them.

One afternoon, they sat together on a blanket at the Han River, the city skyline stretching beyond. The only sound was the gentle rush of water. The moment felt suspended in time, just for them.

Hyunjin watched her, a gentle smile playing on his lips, but his eyes held something else a hesitation, an unspoken question.

Y/N noticed and tilted her head. “What’s on your mind, Hyunjin?”

He blinked, shaking off the momentary trance. “I was just thinking about... how much I like being with you.”

Her heart skipped. She smiled warmly. “I enjoy spending time with you, too.”

They sat quietly before Y/N spoke again, curiosity flickering in her voice. “You never really showed me one of your songs. You talk about them, but you’ve never played me any.”

His expression softened. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been avoiding that. But... maybe you can hear one now.”

He handed her his headphones, their fingers brushing lightly, sending a shiver through her. She slipped them on, adjusting the volume as he pressed play.

Soft acoustic guitar filled her ears, followed by his smooth, tender voice.

The song was slow and full of emotion. His raw honesty felt like it was meant just for her—not flashy or loud, but lingering deep in the soul.

As the lyrics played, Y/N held her breath, her heart quietly hoping the song was about her.

“I don’t need anything but you,

I don’t need anything but you.”

The song ended. She took off the headphones, heart racing, looking at him.

“I... don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “That was... beautiful.”

He smiled softly, though his eyes held a guarded look. “I’m glad you like it.”

Her heart fluttered again. “Is it... about someone?”

He shook his head, brushing hair from his face. “Maybe... who knows.”

She nodded, hope quietly blossoming inside. Maybe it was her—the song, the feelings, the quiet confession.

Later, as the sun dipped and painted the sky pink and orange, Hyunjin drove her home. The car was filled with peaceful silence, heavy with unspoken words.

“I had fun today,” she said, turning to him.

He nodded, eyes flickering between her lips and eyes. “Yeah. I always have fun with you. You’re just... special.”

The silence grew thick, electric.

Neither knew who leaned in first, but their lips met—slow, deliberate, a kiss that didn’t last long but held everything.

They pulled apart, faces still close.

Hyunjin looked at her with a softness that made her heart thud painfully.

“Y/N... I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, voice low and serious. “The kiss... I—”

She blinked, surprised by the apology. “Hyunjin... you don’t have to apologize.”

He bit his lip. “I don’t want to mess things up. I don’t want to rush anything.”

She smiled faintly, voice gentle. “We don’t have to talk about it. It’s okay.”

He nodded, relief flickering in his eyes. Leaning in once more, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Hyunjin.”

And just like that, he was gone—leaving her standing with a full heart and the quiet promise of something beautiful beginning between them.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The next night, the apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. Hyunjin stood in the center of his bedroom, taking in the scene he’d carefully prepared. Candles flickered along the windowsill, casting a warm glow that danced across the walls. A bouquet of fresh flowers sat on the nightstand, their scent blending with the subtle vanilla from the candles. On the bed, his carefully arranged snacksthe ones he knew were her favorites—waited.

He glanced at the clock. She would be here any minute now. His heart pounded with anticipation, mixed with a flutter of nerves. Tonight was special. He’d planned every detail, wanting to create a safe, intimate space just for them.

When the doorbell rang, he hurried to open it. There she was smiling brightly, eyes wide as she took in the scene.

“Hyunjin, this is beautiful,” she whispered, turning to look at him.

He smiled, feeling a soft blush rise to his cheeks. “I wanted tonight to be special.”

They settled on the bed, wrapped in the warm candlelight, and started watching a K-drama. But Hyunjin found himself distracted by her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled—it all held him captive.

After a while, he turned to her, heart beating fast. “Y/N,” he said, voice a little shaky, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

She looked at him, curious and maybe a little nervous.

“I… I really enjoy spending time with you,” he admitted, searching her eyes. “You mean more to me than I ever thought possible. And I just wanted you to know… I like you. A lot.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was tender, full of everything neither had said out loud. They pulled back slowly, foreheads resting together.

“I feel the same way, Hyunjin,” she whispered.

Their lips met again, this time deeper, more hungry but still gentle. He pulled her close with such tenderness it made her chest ache. His hands smoothed over her back as he lifted her onto his lap, their bodies fitting together like two missing pieces of a quiet dream.

Slowly, he helped her out of her sweater, eyes never leaving hers.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, like speaking any louder might break the moment.

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she reached for him, tugging gently at the fabric of his shirt until it slipped off his shoulders. Her palms traced over the warm skin of his chest, learning him every curve and line.

They kissed again, deeper now. More sure. Hyunjin’s mouth moved down her jaw, over her throat, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses like he was memorizing every inch of her skin. She shivered beneath his touch as his hands roamed her waist, fingers curling around the waistband of her shorts, sliding them down slowly.

Everything about him was careful. Intentional.

No rush. No pressure. Just the quiet rhythm of two people choosing each other.

When they were finally bare, skin against skin, he paused forehead resting against hers, breath shallow, lips barely brushing.

“If you want to stop—”

“I don’t,” she whispered. “I want you.”

He eased her back into the pillows, kissing her slowly, deeply, as he moved over her. His body slid against hers in a rhythm as natural as breathing, every movement slow, unhurried, like they were writing a love letter with their touch.

He stayed still after he bottomed out, holding close, waiting for her permission to move.

She nodded. His thrusts were slow, making sure she felt everything—and she did. Her legs curled around him, anchoring him to her, hands spread across his back as he moved inside her.

“Hyunjin… close,” she moaned, nails raking down his skin.

“Me too… it’s okay, let go,” he whispered, steady and reassuring.

She gasped his name softly into the warm space between their mouths. He kissed her through it, whispering promises how good she felt, how beautiful she was, how much she meant to him.

The pressure built slowly, rising like a tide, until they both unraveled together—quiet, breathless, trembling—holding onto each other like they never wanted to let go.

Afterward, they stayed still.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, brushing her hair back.

She nodded, pressing a kiss to his skin. “I’ve never felt more safe.”

He closed his eyes, holding her tighter.

In that moment, there was no past to fear, no future to chase—just this.

Just her.

He didn’t say “I love you.” Not yet.

But the way he held her said everything.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the candlelight casting gentle shadows around them.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Their days blended into shared moments cooking together, late-night talks, spontaneous adventures. Hyunjin treasured every second, feeling more complete than ever before.

She loved him. She couldn’t imagine life without him. Even during practice, she would sit quietly in the studio, eyes always on him, watching him dance.

Over time, she grew close to the other members too. They welcomed her with open arms, sharing jokes and stories, making her feel like family.

He loved her more than words could say. She was his world, his muse, his everything.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

One evening, they went out for dinner. Afterward, under the shimmering city lights, they hailed an Uber and slipped into the backseat, hands intertwined.

“I can’t believe how happy I am,” Hyunjin said, turning to her. “These past few months have been the best of my life.”

She smiled, squeezing his hand. “Me too.”

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I love you so much.”

Suddenly, a blinding light filled the car, followed by screeching tires and a deafening crash.

She didn’t understand what was happening—one minute everything hurt, the next, everything went black.

Chaos surrounded him. The world spun. Pain seared through his body. He tried to move, to reach for her, but his limbs were heavy, unresponsive.

“I can’t see her... I can’t move... I can’t hear her...” panic flooded his mind.

Summoning all his strength, he shouted her name into the darkness before exhaustion took over.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the hospital room as Hyunjin slowly opened his eyes.

The lights were too bright. The sheets too white. Everything too clean, too cold. His throat felt like sandpaper, his chest heavy, as if something invisible was pressing down on it.

He blinked slowly, groggy, and turned his head a little too fast. Pain ricocheted behind his eyes and down his spine. A nurse rushed over, her hand steadying his shoulder to keep him from moving too quickly.

“You’re awake,” she said softly, her voice fragile, like she was afraid he might break. “You’ve been unconscious for two days.”

Two days?

Panic thundered through him sharp, immediate.

“The car—Y/N,” he rasped. “Where is she? Is she okay?”

The nurse hesitated. Her eyes dropped, like she couldn’t meet his gaze. “She’s in a coma,” she said carefully. “There was head trauma. The doctors are doing everything they can… but it’s unclear if she’ll wake. And if she does, there’s a chance her memory may not return.”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest. His stomach dropped. Everything blurred the beeping monitors, the cold walls they all tilted around him.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no. She—she was laughing. She was right there. She can’t—”

Tears came without warning. Hot, violent. His hands trembled as he pulled at the blanket, as if getting up seeing her would make this unreal.

But it was real.

And the guilt blossomed deep in his gut sharp, vile, unrelenting.

He was released from the hospital two days later with a few stitches on his forehead and a bruised rib. But he didn’t go home.

He went to her.

Every day.

Room 413. The numbers etched themselves into his memory, more permanent than any lyric he’d ever written.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t speak.

But Hyunjin did.

He sat by her bedside, holding her hand like it was the only real thing left.

“Hi, angel,” he whispered one day, voice raw. “It’s me again. You probably know that by now.” His voice cracked. “You always said I talked too much—that I’d ramble and never shut up. So maybe this will make you wake up, just to tell me to be quiet again.”

He chuckled through tears. “I’d take anything, Y/N. Anything at all.”

He brought her tulips—her favourite and set them by the window, even though she couldn’t see them. Played their favorite songs. Talked about the café, the night they painted each other’s favorite flowers. Told her their life’s story in color, hoping it would reach her.

One night, he brought his sketchbook and drew her lying there—so still, so quiet. Then he tore the page out and burned it.

Because that wasn’t her.

That wasn’t the girl who danced around his kitchen in socks, laughing until she cried. That wasn’t the girl who teased him about his dramatic monologues or traced his collarbone with sleepy affection.

That wasn’t his Y/N.

So he drew her again. This time as he remembered her in motion, laughing, eyes wide and bright. Alive.

Hyunjin pressed the sketchbook to his chest, exhaling shakily. “The doctors said… they said your memory might never come back. That if you wake up, you might not know me.”

His heart clenched. He’d played the thought over and over, but it still tore him apart.

“I don’t care,” he said suddenly, tears streaming. “You can forget every moment, every laugh, every look. I’ll remind you. I’ll do it all again. Just… stay. Please.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead gently, afraid even that was too much.

“I’ll forever love you.”

And he meant it.

The day she woke, he almost didn’t believe it.

He’d been sitting beside her bed, head bowed, sketching the curve of her wrist when he felt the slightest pressure on his fingers.

He froze.

Then her hand twitched.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Y/N?” His voice was fragile, barely a whisper.

Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips parted as she took a shallow, shuddering breath.

Then her eyes opened.

Confused. Cloudy. Empty.

“Who… who are you?” she whispered.

Hyunjin’s world cracked in two.

He felt his soul quietly tear apart.

But still, he smiled.

He smiled through the ache, through the heartbreak that tasted like blood and salt.

“I’m Hyunjin,” he said softly. “Your boyfriend.” His heart broke with the words. “I’m the boy who loves you so much…”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

She didn’t remember their first coffee date.

Or the painting studio.

Or the night he lit candles in his room and nervously asked her to be his girlfriend.

But she remembered the feeling of safety when he sat beside her. She remembered how her chest felt lighter when he smiled. How his laugh stirred something inside her something buried beneath the fog of forgetfulness.

He told her everything. Bit by bit.

The café. The way she teased him about his awful sock choices. Their picnic at Han River. The song he wrote for her.

He showed her pictures. Videos. Paintings.

Each one was a love letter.

Though she smiled, giggled sometimes, and leaned her head on his shoulder, something behind her eyes always flickered with sadness.

She was falling for him again.

But she didn’t remember falling the first time.

And that haunted her.

“I’m not her,” she said one day, voice cracking. “I’m not the girl you fell in love with.”

“You’re still you,” he whispered. “You laugh the same. You tilt your head the same when you’re curious. You care. That’s you. That’s always been you.”

“But I can’t remember loving you,” she said. “And it hurts to see how much you love me. Because I’m still trying to learn your name.”

They cried together that day.

Held each other like it was all they had.

She asked him to move on.

He refused.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve tried imagining life without you, and it’s just noise. You’re the only melody I’ve ever really known.”

That day, Hyunjin had to go to practice for the first time in weeks. The weight of leaving her alone tore at him, but she smiled and said she’d be fine.

“I’ll be here,” she promised.

He sent her a message before rehearsal: I’ll be at the hospital in 20. Bringing your favorite snacks. I love you.

But when he arrived, Room 413 was empty.

He blinked, stepped back into the hallway, and asked the nurse.

“She checked herself out about an hour ago,” the woman said gently. “She didn’t leave a number. Just said she needed time.”

Time.

Time had already taken so much.

His steps faltered as he returned to the room. He collapsed onto the bed, still holding the shape of her body.

There, on the pillow, was a photograph of the two of them. The one he kept in his wallet—the one they’d taken outside the bookstore, tulips in her hands, his arm around her.

Beside it, folded carefully, was one of the paintings he’d done of her. The one where she was smiling, eyes closed, bathed in golden light.

She took nothing else.

She didn’t say goodbye.

His knees buckled. He sank to the floor, clutching the photo and the painting to his chest as sobs tore through him.

“She left,” he choked out. “She left.”

The walls didn’t answer. The world didn’t stop.

He cried until his voice was gone.

Until his heart felt hollow.

Until all that remained was her scent, faint on the sheets, and the cruel echo of silence.

His love.

His muse.

His everything.

Gone.

[pin-k-ink]

MUSCLE MEMORY ⋆✦⋆ miya osamu

synopsis ➸ he was drunk when you called, but he sobered up the second he heard your voice. you said it was a mistake, that you didn’t mean to dial him—but he was already on his way. six months later, he’s still in your living room, dragging out every screw and instruction manual like it’ll keep you from asking him to leave.

tags ➸ exes to lovers, divorce, mutual pining, angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of alcohol, mentions of night terrors, making out, pda, dry humping, breèding kínk, hand job, unprotected sèx, nípple play, riding, praise kínk, dírty talking, creámpie

wc ➸ 12.4k

The sandpaper rasp of the wrench twisting into place sawed through Osamu's mental haze. He paused, squinting down at the befuddling array of components fanned out across your living room floor. What the hell was he even working on now? A dresser maybe? Or was this the start of that ludicrously ornate entertainment center you'd ordered last week?

With a frustrated grunt, he raked a meaty palm down his face, grinding the heels into his eye sockets until stars burst across his vision. Didn't matter what useless hunk of IKEA crap it was - the process remained the same damn song and dance every time. You'd call him in a mild panic over being hopelessly lost, he'd show up grumbling insults about your household incompetence under his breath, then inevitably succumb to staying and handling the entire assembly from start to finish.

All because of that one fateful night nearly six months ago when you'd called without thinking, voice soft and contented in a way that gutted Osamu completely.

"Hey babe, think you could come over and help me put this new coffee table together?"

The endearment had slipped out so effortlessly, luring images of the thousands of other mundane evenings he'd reported for wifely summons over the years. How many times had you greeted him just like that after work, beckoning him over to lend his hands to whatever domestic task needed handling while you puttered around your warm, chaotic little home?

He'd frozen with the phone still cradled against his ear, a penny whiskey and lingering self-loathing temporarily displaced by blinding white confusion. That single careless "babe" ricocheted through his alcohol-addled senses like a gunshot. Osamu replayed the words over and over, hunting for any hint of mockery or jest in your gentle tones. But there was none to be found - only the breezy assumption that he would, of course, be heading your way like always when called upon.

"...Osamu?" Your hesitant inquiry several beats later had him flinching violently, nearly dropping his glass in the process. Somehow you'd already sensed your mistake, uncertainty creeping into your voice. "Oh god, I shouldn't have just—we're not—I mean, I know you're not my husband anymore, forget I asked..."

But he hadn't forgotten. Hadn't processed or responded at all, really - just let the stunned inertia carry him forward for once instead of railing instinctively against it. His body moved on autopilot while your clumsy apologies filtered through the dense cotton shrouding his mind. Keys plucked from the dish. Jacket shrugged on over his rumpled sweats. The rote motions of preparing to head out and placate your helplessness all over again, divorce papers be damned.

The words finally came in a gruff rush only after Osamu was already pulling his truck out onto the main road.

"Just send me yer address. Be there soon."

He had no justification for the abrupt decision, no reasoned explanation. Maybe it was sheer impulse driven by a lifetime of conditioning to provide for you. Or perhaps there was some profoundly deeper current swirling beneath his dependably cynical surface that wouldn't allow the separation to sever such intrinsic responses completely. Either way, Osamu was powerless to resist its undertow - and he found he didn't want to fight it as he steered towards your place with a hollow ache spreading through his chest.

That first visit was supposed to be an outlier, the exception to shut down any further relapses in domesticity. Yet somehow, it had quickly spiraled into a new normal. Every time you inevitably dialed his number with a hapless plea for assistance, he reflexively found himself throwing on shoes and grabbing his toolbox without preamble. Often he was already halfway to your door before bothering to rationalize it or talk himself out of enabling this pathetic pattern you'd lapsesd into.

Week after week, month after month, the excuses and pretenses became flimsier and flimsier. At first, he told himself it was pure ego driving him to show up - that he derived some sick satisfaction from giving you hell about being so helpless on your own without him around to pick up the pieces. Look at your dumb ex-wife, can't even follow basic IKEA diagrams!

But the more jobs he completed with that same well-worn song and dance, the less weight the cruel taunts carried. His insults grew increasingly toothless, more like ingrained preambles out of sheer habit than any genuine derision. Until finally, Osamu was forced to confront the awful truth clawing at his ribcage each time he walked back into your space:

He simply couldn't resist the unconscious pull of being your husband again, even briefly and in this limited scope of handyman duties. Maybe it was masochistic, allowing himself to sink back into those waters of domesticity he used to drown in daily before everything went to shit between you. Or maybe he was just weak in ways he'd never admit - still not fully untangled from the intoxicating gravity of your combined existence.

Whichever justification rang truest, the outcome was the same. Osamu let himself become utterly unmoored by the mindless allure of being summoned to your side again, no matter how much he pretended it was an unwanted imposition. Because in those moments of cursing and hammering and careful assemblage, everything felt temporarily right in a way it hadn't for what felt like eons. Just him, sweat gathering along his hairline as he handled tools with a familiar easy cadence. And you, pottering nearby with a ready supply of beverages and off-hand encouragement to keep his steady rhythm flowing.

It was all so painfully, disarmingly unchanged whenever he willingly shed his lone wolf persona and stepped back into his vacated role at your side. That fact alone should have stripped Osamu of any lingering delusions - the harrowing intimation that perhaps he hadn't actually let go of being your partner in all the ways that mattered most, no matter how many years or court proceedings stated otherwise.

Yet whenever he found himself standing before your disheveled array of particle-board and scattered allen wrenches, Osamu couldn't resist the same tired refrain from echoing across his brooding inner monologue:

"Gonna take me at least a few weeks to get this mess put together proper. Might as well get comfortable, sweetheart..."

The endearment slipped out unconsciously, as natural as breathing. Osamu didn't even flinch at it anymore - just accepted the treacherously effortless backslide into old habits wherever you were concerned. Because in reality, this ramshackle plywood monstrosity wouldn't take him longer than a few hours, max, to fully assemble and have operational.

He was lying through his teeth about the projected timeline, and you both knew it. But you never called him on the flimsy ruse, just accepted each revised delay with a bemused look and fresh supply of cold barley tea awaiting Osamu's eventual break. As if you inherently understood that he was grasping at straws to prolong these rare interludes of domesticity for as long as possible.

The first time you'd moved to fetch your purse and peel off some cash to compensate him for his troubles, Osamu hadn't even thought - just reacted. One large, calloused palm engulfed your smaller one before it could fully withdraw from your bag. He drew it towards his chest, splaying your fingers over the steady thrum of his heartbeat through the thin cotton barrier.

"Don't even think about it, dummy," he'd rasped, the gentle admonishment at odds with the gruff delivery. "Ya know damn well I ain't here for money."

The words hung pregnant with unspoken depths between you, a fragile tension replacing the usual playful bickering. For a fleeting moment, Osamu thought you might draw away, might finally put a stop to this peculiar pattern of his with a soft yet firm rebuke.

Instead, you simply watched him with those infinitely familiar eyes that still gutted him regularly - open and searching and far too understanding for his liking. Then you nodded once, just slightly, and allowed your hand to linger against the frantic cadence of his pulse until he released you.

Since that evening, a sort of tenuous equilibrium had settled over your strange arrangement. You never moved to leave Osamu to his own devices anymore when he played dumb about needing "more time" with a project. Just accepted his continued presence hovering around your space with all the routinized nonchalance of a spouse moving through their own home.

He, in turn, no longer fought the subtle shifts that pulled him deeper and deeper into the reassuring gravities of old patterns. Like watching you haphazardly toss off your mismatched fuzzy socks in a meandering trail from doorway to kitchen before puttering about with whatever domestic task you pleased. Or the easy silence that embraced you both as Osamu worked, punctuated only by his quiet curses or the clinking of a fresh beverage being deposited within his reaching range.

Some nights, the easiness extended even into your kitchen as he prowled barefoot through the cramped galley, fully re-immersed in the role of putting together a meal for you both. Not out of any sense of obligation or guilt, but simply because the mindless ritual of cooking for your household came as second nature after so many years' practice.

Osamu couldn't resist sneaking glances over his shoulder to watch you curled up on the sofa, bare feet tucked beneath you and attention divided between whatever book or video you had playing and the soothing sounds of him working nearby. In those flickering moments illuminated by the soft glow of lamps and candles, everything felt so oppressively, deliriously right - like stepping directly back into the warm embrace of the past in a way Osamu hadn't experienced since your world was upended.

Some nights, he let himself pretend none of it had ever changed. That walking through the front door wouldn't eventually mean a jarring return to his cavernously empty apartment and the ever-encroaching loneliness lately. That this suspended illusion of being your partner again could simply stretch on indefinitely, leaving him gloriously unmoored.

Denial was a hell of a drug, as they said. But Osamu had always been a hopeless addict when it came to you.

The vanity's cumbersome weight settled onto the bedroom floor with a muted thud, scuffing pale marks into the worn hardwood. Osamu straightened, rolling his shoulders to work out the lingering knots as he surveyed his handiwork. Not too shabby, all things considered - the ornate piece looked damn near regal set against the soft blue-grey walls.

He blew out a low whistle, dragging his arm across his sweat-beaded brow as he pivoted to scope out the rest of your bedroom for the first time. Despite all the weeks and odd jobs he'd tackled around your new place, this particular sanctuary had remained off-limits until now. Part of him had unconsciously avoided crossing that line out of respect for boundaries, no matter how blurred they'd become elsewhere.

But now that he stood amidst the intimately personal space, hints of your essence seemed to permeate every particle. The delicate woven throw draped artfully across the overstuffed armchair in the corner. The collection of well-loved books haphazardly stacked on the nightstand, their cracked spines and dog-eared pages testaments to being revisited often. Even the subtly floral fragrance woven through the summer-breezy air unmistakably belonged to you.

Osamu inhaled deeply, letting the soothing familiarity of it all momentarily envelope him as he dragged his analytical gaze across each detail, cataloging and filing away the pieces of you on display. That's when his sweeping perusal stuttered to a halt, brow furrowing slightly as realization struck like an anvil weight in his gut.

There was no bed.

He did another slow pivot, eyes roving every inch of the spacious room as if expecting the absence of something so fundamental to materialize out of sheer obstinate scrutiny. But no matter which way he turned and looked again, the bare reality remained - no bed, no mattress, nothing more than the solitary armchair and vanity occupying the wide-open floorspace.

A harsh slew of curses broke from Osamu's lips before he could rein them in. Of course...of fucking course you didn't have a proper bed set up yet. He was peripherally aware of your sleeping situation - if the ramshackle state of your living room sofa quilted with ratty blankets and travel pillows was any indication. But standing here confronted by the harsh truth amidst these walls meant to be a sanctuary hurtled the implication home with stunning finality.

He raked a hand through his disheveled hair, mouth twisting bitterly as flashes of repressed memories flickered across his mindscape. Of you curled up in the dead of night, whimpering and shaking, whole body quivering from the thrall of another night terror. How you'd instinctively burrowed against him for safety, for the solid reassurance of his bulk and soothing murmurs easing you back from the brink. Neither of you had ever acknowledged those visceral moments of vulnerability, but he knew - knew how terrified you were of the dark and of sleeping alone with only your unquiet mind for company.

That was just the first of a whole cavalcade of realizations rapidly crashing over Osamu in waves of nauseous comprehension. With no bedframe, there was no tucking you in each night and drawing you close, surrounding your slight body with his familiar warmth and protective embrace until your racing heart calmed. No nuzzling your sleep-tousled hair and breathing in those first soft, earthy exhalations in the morning before extracting himself and padding off to put on a fresh pot of coffee. The way you'd always loved waking up to its rich aroma wafting from the kitchen no matter how early Osamu rose.

No more startling upright at the smallest creak or groan of your home settling around you, every noise an intruder until Osamu made a sweeping check and eased you back down with a reassuring murmur that it was just the house, just the old frame contracting with the night's chill. No more of him lumbering up in the darkness to find the latest unfortunate creepy-crawly invader and dispatch of it before returning to tuck you securely back under the covers, soothing your shudders with warm palms and featherlight kisses until you drifted off again.

Just...no more intimacies and routines and domesticities that had shaped so much of Osamu's purpose for well over a decade, now unceremoniously stripped away by your separation.

The realization left him feeling as though all the air had been forcibly drawn from his lungs in one punishing exhale. He doubled over with the force of it, knuckles blanching against the glossy vanity's sleek countertop as he struggled to draw breath. Of course he'd been aware of the changes, the rifts now severing what had once been such an intrinsic part of sharing your lives. But coming face-to-face with this empty bedroom and how bereft of true comfort it clearly was for you sliced right through to something primal and protective deep in Osamu's psyche.

"Hey, dinner's ready whenever you're done brooding over there!"

Your lighthearted call shattered through the spiraling vortex of Osamu's troubled thoughts. He straightened abruptly, disoriented for a beat before the rich, homey scents wafting in from the kitchen reoriented him. Right, you'd mentioned putting together a meal for the both of you once he finished up for the evening.

Dragging in a deep, steadying breath, Osamu willed his turbulent emotions into an infinitesimal box to be violently suppressed for now. He couldn't allow the anguished maelstrom of domesticity's absence to show on his face, not when you were so close and oblivious to his inner torment. With a few raking swipes of his palms down his sweat-damp face, he drew himself up to his full imposing height and turned towards the doorway.

The sight that awaited him in the cramped kitchen archway very nearly unraveled Osamu's hard-won composure all over again.

There you stood in your usual cooking attire - one of his old oversized t-shirts from high school, the faded cotton bunched up around your hips and showcasing your bare legs all the way down to those ridiculous mismatched fuzzy socks you always insisted on wearing. Your hair was piled in a messy topknot, loose tendrils framing your face and catching the soft evening light in a glowing halo.

You looked...so achingly familiar. So reminiscent of the thousands of other evenings Osamu had returned home from the restaurant or the gym or wherever to find you pottering around your shared living space in that same casually intimate state of undress. Completely comfortable and unguarded in a way very few ever got to witness - the purely domestic you that he'd committed to loving and cherishing until the end of his days.

And now here you were, existing in that same warm cocoon of homemaker contentment but utterly bereft of his steadying presence as the other counterweight. The gorgeous tableau you made standing there stirring something on the stovetop with your bare feet tucked up under you felt hauntingly, tragically incomplete in a way that put Osamu's throat in a vise.

His gaze roamed over the flex of your arms as you lifted the spoon to your lips for a taste, the elegant curve of your spine as you shifted your weight from foot to foot - all the tiny, quotidian details he'd once memorized so thoroughly they felt like extensions of his own body. Little snapshots of life and movement he'd once gotten to observe and admire as freely and unguardedly as he pleased, because you had belonged irrevocably to one another.

Now that simple pleasure - the artless intimacy of basking in each other's natural state - was forbidden him apart from these fleeting glimpses stolen under the pretense of being your handyman. Osamu felt reality crashing back down in waves of visceral grief sharpened by the purgatory of never fully losing this aspect of you, yet constantly having it daringly daunt just beyond his yearning reach.

A lump swelled in his throat as images began flickering through his mind, each one more haunting than the last. Of you succumbing to winter's vicious chills with no one there to wrap you in fortifying layers and nourishing soup broth to fight off illness. Of slipping and taking a nasty spill down the narrow staircase without his steadying arm to cling to, lying there helpless and alone until you could drag yourself to a phone for emergency assistance. Of bolting awake in the dead of night with your heart jackhammering from some terror-soaked nightmare, hands scrabbling for purchase and finding nothing but empty sheets and darkness to compound the panic.

Worst of all were the flashes of you simply...existing in a state of isolated loneliness, surrounded by this hollow house that was supposed to be a sanctuary but instead formed yet another reminder of Osamu's absence. Of his failure to be there for you the way he'd once sworn to the farthest stars.

Before he could spiral entirely, your melodic voice anchored him back to the present moment at hand.

"Earth to Osamu?" You grinned over your shoulder, luminous eyes sparkling with a gentleness that sucker-punched him squarely in the gut. "You getting that broody look again cause something's too complicated for those big strong hands of yours?"

The teasing lilt was feather-light and lilting - so fondly familiar that for a single delirious heartbeat, Osamu could actually convince himself nothing had changed between you. That this was all just another evening unfolding like the millions preceding it throughout your long history together.

Then reality came crashing back down, that infinitesimal box of suppressed emotion cracking open until acidic undertows were lapping at his ribs with every inhale. Osamu sucked in a harsh breath through his nostrils, jaw clenching hard enough to grind enamel as he struggled to reign himself back in.

"Very funny," he managed at last, aiming for nonchalance but hearing the ragged edges fringing his tone nonetheless. "You got a mouth on you tonight, that's for sure."

Rather than rising to the bait and firing off another salvo of playful barbs, you simply hummed thoughtfully before turning back to your cooking endeavors. Osamu watched, feeling increasingly disoriented by the casual domesticity, as you deftly transferred portions to waiting dishes and carried everything to the small dining table in the adjacent room.

"Well c'mon then, no need to make yourself a stranger!" you called over your shoulder with a grin. "That vanity won't be ready to use until you've refueled for the night."

The lilting words wrapped around Osamu's senses, both grounding and disorienting him further into a dizzying vortex of memories and yearning and desperate, crippling fear.

Dinner proved to be even more torturous than Osamu could have anticipated. Seated across from you at the cramped little dining table, he found himself repeatedly clenching his jaw and fists to restrain from simply reaching out and clasping your hand in his. To twine those deft fingers with his own calloused ones and revel in the featherlight caress of your pulse fluttering against his wrist.

You carried on with breezy conversation, utterly oblivious to the brutally visceral war he was waging to keep from shattering every pretense between you. With each lilting anecdote and bright peal of laughter, Osamu's resolve fractured further - hairline cracks spiderwebbing outwards from his restraint's foundations. By the time you rose to start clearing dishes, his composure hung by a few bare threads.

He watched with bated breath as you padded around the kitchen, hips swaying in that unconsciously hypnotic rhythm he'd admired for over a decade. The column of your throat worked with each swallow, clavicles casting distracting shadows that drew Osamu's heated stare like a magnet. Resisting the overwhelming urge to simply cross the scant distance separating you and wrap himself around your pliant form was swiftly becoming an exercise in agony.

You paused by the sink, back to him as you efficiently rinsed the first plate. The soft sounds of running water and your quiet humming curled around the nape of Osamu's neck, sending goosebumps rippling across his flesh. His fingertips twitched with yearning to reach out and ghost along the elegant inward curve of your waist, palms settling possessively on the flare of your hips to tug you snug against his chest. He could perfectly envision nuzzling into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, lips skating across the hammering pulse point as you shivered and instinctively arched back into his embrace...

Osamu's throat clicked with a muffled groan as he abruptly shoved away from the table, scattering the remaining dishes in his haste to create distance before he could surrender to the impulse clawing at his ribcage. The harsh screech of wood on tile finally made you turn, blinking owlishly at him.

"Everything okay?" The words were innocent enough, but Osamu flinched like he'd been struck. Didn't you realize what you were doing to him with even the slightest movement or vocal caress?

"I—yeah. Just...gonna get a head start cleaning up the rest of that mess." He gestured vaguely at the half-assembled vanity parts still strewn in the living room to divert your questioning stare. You hummed in acknowledgment before returning your focus to the sink and dishwater.

It took every ounce of Osamu's waning self-restraint not to immediately retreat right then as planned. Instead, some masochistic impulse rooted him to the spot, gaze helplessly drinking in every curve and subtle shift of your body at work. The nearly irrepressible compulsion to wrap you up in his arms and relearn each dip and swell with hands and mouth was becoming a physical ache, radiating from the cradle of his hips.

By the time the final dish clattered into the drying rack, Osamu felt positively feverish - a maelstrom of need and desperation simmering beneath his clenched jaw and white-knuckled fists. He watched with rapt hunger as you turned towards him once more, swiping loose tendrils of hair back from your flushed cheeks. At the first glimpse of your softened features and those infinitely gentle eyes regarding him, a tremor shivered through Osamu's broad frame.

"So..." you began, seemingly unaware of the storm roiling behind his rigor-tight exterior. "That should just about do it for assembling everything I needed help with, yeah?"

Your words were like the death knell, reverberating through Osamu in waves of wretched comprehension. Whatever dizzying spiral of domesticated bliss he'd spun himself into was about to end. This illusion of being your husband and provider again, however fleeting, would shatter permanently the instant he returned to the barren, yawning silence of his own empty apartment. And some small, wretched part of him wasn't sure he would survive the transition emotionally intact a second time.

Osamu tried and failed to formulate a response around the steadily constricting vise encircling his throat. He simply stared at you mutely, gut clenching with all the farewells and protestation scalding at the back of his tongue. Don't make me leave. Don't eject me from this little world we've reconstructed and straight back into the bone-deep loneliness, not yet. I'm not ready—

"Hey." Your soft murmur coaxed Osamu's awareness back to the present just as you'd begun tentatively closing the distance between you. Your palms cupped his bristled cheeks with infinite tenderness, calloused thumbs sweeping in gentle arcs. "This was...really, really amazing of you, you know. Coming through for me again and again like this despite everything. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to properly thank you for—"

The gentleness in your tone and the exquisite warmth of your touch against his skin proved to be Osamu's ultimate undoing. With a harsh rumble torn from the depths of his sternum, he surged forward and engulfed you in the circle of his arms - swift and utterly inescapable. You made a soft sound of surprise quickly swallowed by the solid wall of his chest as he crushed you against his painfully rigid frame.

"Don't..." Osamu rasped out the single syllable with such gruff vehemence that you instinctively froze in his unrelenting embrace. He squeezed his eyes shut, savoring the feel of you - so achingly familiar yet electrically new after weeks of deprivation. The scent of your hair, the pliant curves yielding to his unyielding musculature, the stutter of your startled inhalations puffing against the bare skin of his throat. It was intoxicating, dizzying, devastating in equal measure.

"Don't you dare thank me," he managed at last in a low rasp against the crown of your head. His words vibrated into the very marrow of you with their quiet intensity. "Like I'm some stranger doin' you a favor instead of..."

Instead of what? His wife, his partner, his entire goddamn world until the cosmos decided to twist the knife a little deeper? The sentiment clung bitterly to the back of Osamu's tongue, sullen truth cloying in his throat until he swallowed hard against it. No words could adequately capture the depths of what you were to him in this moment, wholly encompassed in his arms once more.

With a shuddering inhale against your hair, Osamu simply allowed himself to sink further into the comforting abyss of holding you so intimately. This was what he'd been so desperately aching for all along - not the mere ability to lend his capable hands in putting together inanimate pieces of your new life, but the privilege of simply being present as a visceral part of it once more. Of slipping so seamlessly back into being your steadying anchor, your shelter against the world's crueler contradictions that you fought so admirably to rise above.

Time seemed to melt and blur around the two of you frozen together in the dimly lit kitchen as a galaxy of contradictions warred behind Osamu's eyes. He breathed you in with every lungful, each molecule of your essence searing straight through to scorch his withered soul. Memories flickered like dying embers - thousands of other embraces shared over countless evenings, each as mundane and life-alteringly significant as this one.

Yet in the same breath, this felt profoundly and irrevocably unprecedented between you - the first time since your legal separation that Osamu had dared clutch you with such brazen, unguarded yearning. As if enveloping your pliant form was the only talisman still binding him to reality, to whatever remnants of purpose and identity were inextricably tethered to simply...being yours. And you his, despite the distance contrived to render the notion dead letters on a decree.

The thud of Osamu's rabbit-kicking pulse reverberated through every inch of his suffocating embrace. Each hammering cadence seemed to scream the same lament - Never leave me again, don't make me surrender you and this world we've only just reconstructed. I can't, I won't, don't ask me to—

His silent inner turmoil must have vibrated outwards, bleeding into the aura of frantic desperation enveloping you both. For you made another small, unintelligible sound against Osamu's heaving chest that sparked like a livewire to his nerve endings.Instinctively, he stiffened his arms into unforgiving bands until you were utterly subsumed within him. As if the slightest allowance of space would mean your immediate, irrevocable loss forever more.

Then, with a ragged exhalation escaping his gritted teeth, Osamu reluctantly dragged his lashes apart and allowed his forehead to drop against yours. Your faces hovered achingly close, close enough for your trembling breaths to mingle and eyes to blur together into a universe of their own making. Little more than a hairsbreadth separated your primed lips, Osamu's gaze fixated on the infinitely delicate swell of their petal-soft flesh as you unconsciously swiped your tongue over the seam in a devastating swipe.

A low, gravelly keen vibrated up from the confines of his ribs as feverish compulsion took over. Osamu found himself leaning infinitesimally forward without conscious thought or restraint, magnetic and undeniable. He angled his head just enough to allow your noses to brush in the faintest caress as your lips...your lips were suddenly so impossibly close his entire being vibrated with the need to surge across that final searing distance and—

Your trembling fingers found purchase against the taut cords of Osamu's nape, digits splaying wide to anchor him in place. He shuddered at the scorching brand of your touch, gut clenching in anticipation of either being pulled infinitely closer or utterly severed from your tempting orbit.

But you didn't relinquish the tenuous connection thrumming between you. If anything, the barest hint of pressure from your palms coaxed Osamu to sway another infinitesimal fraction nearer until the whisper-soft swell of your lips hovered an exquisite hairsbreadth from his own.

A tremor rippled through his whole body at the first searing brush of your breath fanning hotly against his mouth. Osamu's lids slipped to half-mast without conscious thought, transfixed by the plump blush of your lower lip as your tongue swiped out to wet them with devastating intent.

He was already leaning in, succumbing to the magnetic draw, when you surged upwards to crash against him in a searing collision of velvet heat.

A deep, guttural keen reverberated from the depths of Osamu's chest as your mouths melded with urgent insistence. He swayed dangerously on the precipice of his restraint for all of a heartbeat before surrendering completely. With a harsh rumble of pure visceral need, his arms constricted around your pliant body until not an inch of space remained between you.

Then, like a starving man who'd glimpsed an oasis after years of deprivation, Osamu simply allowed himself to indulge without hesitation. To sate the endless aching hollow that had steadily consumed him since last he'd sampled your essence so intimately.

His lips moved with hungry, devouring strokes - licking into the searing cavern of your mouth with relentless undulations that stoked the wildfire rapidly engulfing your entwined frames. You arched helplessly against the scorching heat of his broad palms spanning your lower back, fingers splaying wide to knead against the flexing muscles working just beneath the surface of your skin.

When the first desperate keen spilled from between your kiss-bruised lips, Osamu wasted no time in coaxing it into a resonant moan that buzzed against his stinging mouth. He canted his hips with purposeful pressure, pinning you immobile as he ground his rapidly stiffening cock into the softness of your pelvis with deliciously torturous friction.

It wasn't until the two of you were both trembling and gasping into one another that Osamu found the iron-willed strength to slowly disengage. He gentled the devouring sweeps of his tongue, teeth scraping in a lush caress as he gradually coaxed the tempo into something slower and infinitely more searing. Each excruciatingly tender glide of your mouths was a convulsive give and take - a tantalizing farewell embrace soaked in poignancy and desperate longing.

Finally, with a ragged groan torn from somewhere primal, Osamu tore himself free. Only to sway there gasping as if punched in the gut, foreheads pressed flush and lungs heaving in ragged synchronicity. His chest still cradled yours, hard ridges and sweat-dewed flesh sealed as one.

You whimpered first - a soft, infinitely vulnerable sound that fractured straight through to Osamu's very marrow. It took every ounce of restraint still lurking in his hollowed bones not to immediately surge back in and silence the anguish with his lips and tongue and wretched, yearning soul.

Instead, he found his hands drifting upwards until his palms cradled your feverish cheeks with infinite tenderness. Osamu drank in every precious detail of your features through a sheen of unshed desperation. The frantic flutter of your lashes against freshly kissed skin. The lush, swollen contours of your mouth that panted in time with his own.

"Let's get you a fuckin' bed already," he rasped out at last, the sudden gravel of his voice making you shiver anew against him. A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of Osamu's mouth, underscored with a hundred different roiling emotions barely restrained behind it. "Can't have my wife spendin' another night on that worn-out sofa, now can I?"

The endearment slipped free before he could bite it back, weighted with layers of yearning and promise and a profoundly deeper intimacy than simple words could convey. But from the way your breath hitched and crystalline eyes sharpened to laser focus entirely on him, Osamu knew you heard every one of those unspoken depths loud and clear.

He didn't look away or attempt to backpedal — simply held your searching stare with that same molten intensity even as his thumb stroked tenderly across the upswept beauty mark below your parted lips. An anchor, a tether, a binding vow of intent all shored up in one infinitesimal caress.

You held Osamu's piercing stare for a long moment, feeling pinned in place by the smoldering promise flickering behind those gunmetal irises of his. Finally, you gave a slow nod. "Okay...let's go get a bed then."

The drive to the local furniture showroom passed in a weighty hush, punctuated only by the occasional burst of evening traffic and sideways glances you stole at Osamu's grim profile. He kept his eyes locked on the road ahead, forearms tensed against the steering wheel with hands gripping tight enough to strain the knuckles. You couldn't begin to fathom the cyclone of thoughts and emotions warring behind that brutally calm facade.

Eventually, you pulled into the dimly lit parking lot and climbed out without a word. Osamu fell into step beside you, radiating that aura of surly disquiet you'd grown so familiar with in recent weeks. Yet there was an undercurrent thrumming between you now - a new vibrating frequency wrought from the lingering echoes of your impassioned embrace and whatever fragile agreement you'd stumbled upon.

Once inside the cavernous showroom, you felt some of the leaden tension release its vice grip enough for you to draw a deeper breath. Almost instinctively, you found yourself gravitating towards the furthest display of luxurious mattresses and bed frames, fingers trailing along the opulent fabrics and polished woods as you passed.

"I've always liked the look of the sleigh beds," you commented idly over one shoulder, watching Osamu steadily approaching through your periphery. "With the curved headboards and footboards, you know? They feel so sturdy and supportive without being too overbearing."

He hummed noncommittally as you came to a halt before an incredibly lavish mid-century piece. Despite its grand presence, the subtle embellishments and deep coffee wood stain exuded warmth and familiarity in a way you found immensely appealing. Beckoning, even.

You sank down onto the plush mattress with a contented murmur, feeling the high-quality memory foam contouring to your weight and cupping your curves enticingly. Almost without conscious volition, you leaned back onto your elbows and stretched out — shameless in your indulgence to test the comfort and support in your usual sleeping position.

From the corner of your eye, you watched Osamu's throat work in a harsh swallow as his gaze raked over the lines of your body. There was a weighted heat searing behind those slate irises of his, a predatory promise reminiscent of your fervent embrace only an hour earlier. The memory of his unyielding frame pinning yours into searing compliance made an insistent fluttering erupt low in your abdomen.

"Not bad," was his only terse assessment after a prolonged pause. You watched, mesmerized, as he slowly circled the bed like a wolf scenting its prey. Each unhurried footfall felt charged with blistering tension and roiling intent.

When Osamu reached the footboard, he braced both hands against the smoothly curved wood with enough force to whiten his knuckles further. His shoulders tensed and released as he inhaled a measured breath before pivoting to pin you with that loaded stare once more.

"Lots of space to stretch out," he remarked in that same low, thrumming rasp. "Seems sturdy enough, too. Built to take on a lotta...friction without fallin' apart."

The blatant insinuation curled around your nerves like physical caresses. You bit the inside of your cheek sharply to smother the whimper threatening to break free at the spark of liquid heat pooling between your thighs.

Perhaps sensing your body's visceral reaction, Osamu's mouth curved into a smug facsimile of a smirk as he leaned forward incrementally. Until his weighty presence consumed your periphery, obliterating every other stimulus apart from the sandalwood-musk cologne and smoldering promise radiating off his solidmuscular frame in waves.

"You think it'll do, babe?" His gravelly rumble was pitched for your ears alone, dripping with dark promise that liquefied your bones. "This the kinda bed you want me puttin' you through your paces on every night?"

A violent shudder ripped through you at the mental images his words conjured — of slick flesh trailing scorching paths across rumpled sheets, sinuous bodies arching and rocking in unbridled ecstasy. Osamu's smirk deepened into something utterly ravenous at whatever he glimpsed flickering across your features. He opened his mouth to undoubtedly ratchet up the torment further when a discreet cough from across the showroom shattered the lascivious fog wreathing you both.

You startled, eyes swiveling guiltily to find a middle-aged saleswoman regarding you with a look of polite incredulity. Clearly she'd witnessed enough of Osamu's provocative stance looming over your prone form to gauge the situation accurately. Heat flooded your cheeks as you scrambled upright, surreptitiously tugging your skirt back into proper place.

Osamu simply leveled the hapless employee with one of his signature inscrutable looks, not bothering to extricate himself from his position caging you against the mattress. If anything, he seemed to lean in fractionally closer - a barely perceptible assertion of dominance that had your pulse skittering anew.

The poor saleswoman cleared her throat again, shifting awkwardly. "My apologies for interrupting...I simply wanted to let you know we'll be closing the showroom in about fifteen minutes if you need any assistance with your, er, selection this evening."

"We're good, thanks," Osamu responded gruffly, not even bothering to glance her way as he continued pinning you with that incendiary stare.

You studiously avoided the employee's surprised look until she gave a jerky nod and retreated towards the front offices. Only then did you realize you'd been holding your breath, letting it escape in a shuddering rush as your shoulders sagged infinitesimally.

"So..." You swallowed hard against the unexpected burst of uneasiness now seizing your nerves. Tentatively, you raised your eyes to meet Osamu's heated regard head-on. "We're really doing this again? Uh, g-getting...a bed together, I mean?"

His expression didn't so much as flicker, maintaining that composed intensity that somehow felt more loaded in the wake of your question. You fought against a sudden urge to squirm under the weight of that smoldering appraisal, abruptly regretting the wobble of uncertainty now coloring your tone.

For several beats, the silence stretched unbearably taut between you. Then, just when you thought you might shatter from the stifling tension, Osamu leaned in until you were practically cross-eyed from his proximity. Until you could make out every subtle shift of gunmetal and amber swirling through his irises, every calloused ridge scoring the seam of his lips as they parted to murmur:

"Baby, if you think I'm gonna put us both through that fresh hell of gettin' separated again...well then, you must be confusin' me with some sorta moron. Because I already updated my life insurance policy. Listed you as the sole beneficiary again. You know, just in case I accidentally choke to death on any more crappy pickup lines I might try on you from now on."

The words were spoken with such dull candor, so utterly devoid of humorous inflection or levity of any kind. Yet the sheer unexpectedness of Osamu's customary deadpan delivery combined with the saccharine endearment and sappy-as-hell promise slammed into you with startling impact.

You stared at him, feeling your lips twitch as incredulous euphoria bubbled up from your core. Osamu's brows furrowed in apparent consternation at your lack of verbal response. But you were powerless to fight against the rising tide as it crested, expelling in a sudden peal of loud, uninhibited laughter that echoed freely through the cavernous showroom.

"You—" You gasped out between wheezing guffaws, clutching at your midsection. "You absolute sap! Did you...really...just say that...with a straight face?"

Osamu's expression remained utterly impassive as you gradually descended into intermittent hiccuping giggles. If anything, his severe features seemed to sharpen even further in affront at having the solemn weight of his declaration demolished so thoroughly.

"Yeah, and what about it?" he growled at last, the underlying gravel of his tone only serving to rekindle your mirth. "That's you spoken for, end of story. I ain't goin' through losin' my goddamn mind again just cause you can't wrap your brain around a simple fact."

His eyes fairly smoldered into yours, lips thinning into a mulish line that should have been intimidating yet only struck you as unutterably endearing in that moment. You reached up without conscious thought, palms cradling the prickly warmth of his jawline as a fresh bubble of giggles escaped on a sigh.

"My big ol' grumpy bear," you murmured through your smiling stupor, thumbs stroking across the sharp ridges of his cheekbones.

Osamu's carefully cultivated scowl faltered infinitesimally as the searing intensity in his gaze transmuted to something softer, more vulnerable. Like he'd just been robbed of his last defenses against the rising swell of cautious optimism blooming between you.

With a low growl that rumbled straight through to your bones, he surged forward and crushed his mouth against yours in a searing reclamation of heated devotion.

The apartment felt almost cavernously silent in the aftermath of your laughter at the furniture showroom. You sank back against the worn cushions of your living room sofa with a contented sigh, the last few giddy giggles tapering off into the warm evening quiet.

Osamu settled in beside you without preamble, one thick arm draped along the back of the couch as his frame angled bodily to face yours. You watched, transfixed, as his piercing slate eyes slowly carved a path from the crown of your head down to your bare toes and back again in one unhurried sweep.

The weighted regard made your skin prickle with rising heat that had nothing to do with the temperature. You recognized that look - the same dark, hungry simmer he used to level your way when you were still newlyweds and Osamu couldn't seem to get enough of simply...observing you existing around him.

"C'mere," he rumbled at last, voice rough as flintstone in a way that liquefied your bones. Without a second's hesitation, you leveraged yourself up and swung one knee over to straddle Osamu's solid thighs, knees sinking into the frayed upholstery on either side of his hips.

His spine straightened at the sudden change in proximity, those brooding steel irises darkening further with naked want. You could actually feel the scorching brand of Osamu's stare skating across the swell of your breasts now devastatingly close to his line of sight, unconsciously squirming a little closer at the intoxicating sensation.

Thick cords of muscle flexed and jumped beneath the sleeves of Osamu's shirt as his hands drifted up to bracket your waist, thumbs stroking idle patterns against the jut of your hipbones. His palms felt like searing manacles as his fingers splayed possessively, fingertips just grazing the soft undercurve of your ass to tug you infinitesimally nearer still.

A throaty sound of pure satisfaction rumbled up from Osamu's barrel chest as your bodies melded flush together, his thick thighs cradling your hips in a scorching vee. You could feel the rapid kick of his pulse stuttering against the notch of your breastbone where it was sealed to his own swiftly rising and falling with quickened breaths.

"Fuck, I missed this..." he rasped in a gruff undertone, the words more felt than heard with how intimately you were entwined. Osamu's knuckles traced the elegant inward curve of your spine through the thin cotton barrier of your shirt. "Missed gettin' to look my fill whenever I wanted, no matter how greedy it made me."

Your nails scored lightly against the nape of his neck, noses brushing in an achingly delicate caress as your mouths hovered infinitesimally apart. "Well you've got your chance now, don't you?" you whispered in return, stomach clenching at the rasp of Osamu's harsh exhale ghosting across your sensitized lips. "All the time in the world to drink your fill again."

His eyes slipped to half-mast, pupils swallowing up nearly all the quicksilver irises in a look of pure, unguarded yearning that stole the air from your lungs. With purposeful leisure, Osamu's broad palms mapped every dip and flare of your torso in slumbering strokes before reversing course. His gaze followed the journey, hooded and predatory, like a man committing every intimate landscape to indelible memory after nearly being rendered sightless.

You found yourself hopelessly captivated in turn by the minuscule changes flickering across Osamu's ruggedly beautiful features as he absorbed you in. The way his jaw tended to tick subtly whenever your upper bodies brushed together with each shared breath. How his brow pinched when large hands found a new swell of softness to reverently mold and explore. And most distractingly, the steady darkening of those piercing grey eyes until you felt pinned and utterly claimed beneath their singularly focused weight.

It wasn't until you felt the first wayward tear searing a path down your flushed cheek that you realized the gravity of what was unfolding between you. More followed in their wake, hot and silent, prompting a low keen of alarm from somewhere deep in Osamu's broad chest.

You smothered the wounded sound with your mouth before he could give voice to his concern, lips parting on a desperate whimper as they crashed together in a searing tangle. Your tears continued unabated even as your bodies writhed and strained closer, cradling Osamu's whiskered jaw between your palms while his calloused digits dug in with bruising possession.

Neither of you pulled back until breathing became a secondary need to sating this newly rekindled inferno raging between your fused frames. Chests heaving in ragged unison, you simply clung to one another through the aftermath - foreheads sealed, noses brushing, lips so closely aligned that the softest whispers could be savored with searing intimacy.

"We're really doin' this for good, aren't we?" Osamu murmured at last, the usually gruff rasp nearly inaudible but rippling through you with sledgehammer impact. You felt his hands - those powerful, work-roughened appendages you'd once admired in daily reverence - tenderly cup the hinge of your jaw. "You and me, all chips in and no more runnin' the second shit gets sideways again..."

Somehow, you managed a jerky nod through the fresh swell of tears rapidly clouding your vision. Osamu drank in the silent confirmation with undisguised adoration and soul-deep longing painted across his chiseled features, thumbs brushing away the molten salt streaking down your cheeks with exquisite tenderness.

"Good," was his only graveled response before tugging you back into another searing, desperate kiss that seared you both straight through to your very marrows.

You surrendered wholly to the scorching tempers of Osamu's questing mouth, fingertips digging harsh furrows into the dense cords of muscle spanning his shoulders and back as you clung on for purchase. The room seemed to tilt and spin dizzyingly in your periphery until the only stable anchors were the unyielding planes of his body and the ravenous sweeps of his tongue claiming you in rough strokes.

Eventually, oxygen deficiency began to pound thick drums in your skull. You tore away with a shuddering gasp, lungs heaving in great draughts of air that did little to steady your racing pulse. Osamu simply watched you through half-lidded eyes, lips curved in a smugly satisfied slant as he dragged the back of his knuckles down your flushed cheek.

"Who'da thought the mighty [Y/N] would be such a crybaby after all these years?" he rasped, black depths glinting with teasing amusement despite his own labored breathing.

You blinked at him owlishly for a moment, still struggling to comprehend anything beyond the electrifying aftershocks of his kisses ricocheting through your nerve endings. "What...?"

The raspy chuckle that rumbled up from Osamu's broad chest vibrated through you in delicious waves, prompting fresh tingles to erupt across your skin. "Don't act like ya don't know what I'm talkin' about, babe," he goaded, leaning in to brush the words directly against the swell of your kiss-bitten lips. "You bawlin' yer pretty eyes out over the dumbest little things. Like that time ya got so hysterical over the snowglobe I gave ya for our first Christmas..."

Recognition instantly dawned, rapidly giving way to a fierce burn of arousal and indignation in equal measure. You immediately attempted to pull back, twisting your torso away from Osamu's heated vicinity as the memories resurfaced with embarrassing clarity.

"Don't you dare bring that up again, Miya!" you huffed, chin jutting mulishly even as mortified tears began prickling the corners of your eyes anew. "It was a sweet, thoughtful gift and the timing couldn't have been more meaningful! I was allowed to be a little emotional over it..."

But Osamu simply crooned in a low tone of unbridled satisfaction, strong arms banding around your waist with sublime indifference to keep you trapped against the scorching brand of his frame. "Sure, bawlin' for a solid hour while puttin' a dent in the couch cushions from hidin' your face was totally proportional to the occasion..."

You attempted to cut him off with a fierce shake of your head, but he easily overpowered your squirming until your bodies were melded together in a seamless wall of unyielding muscle and feverish, tingling softness. Emboldened by your tearful indignation, Osamu simply smirked and pressed his advantage - ducking to brush his whiskered jawline along the fragile tendons straining in your throat.

"Or what about the time yer favorite shitty boyband dropped a new album right before finals week?" he practically purred against your hammering pulse point, teeth grazing wildly sensitive flesh just enough to make you shudder violently. "Pretty sure I had to pick ya up off the floor when ya got so overwhelmed ya passed right the fuck out from blubberin'..."

"Stop it!" you cried in a watery burst, chest hitching with miserable laughter even as you feebly swatted at Osamu's questing hands and wicked mouth. "You're such an ass, bringing up all that ancient history like it means anything!"

But even as you scolded, your thighs instinctively parted to grant him deeper access, spine arching to present your vulnerable throat in clear supplication. Osamu rumbled deep in his chest again - this time a low sound of pure masculine satisfaction that skated like a physical brand across your nerve endings. His broad palms found purchase on the undercurve of your backside, fingertips digging in with delicious urgency until your hips were rocking in a slow, salacious grind against the formidable bulge rapidly taking shape beneath the snug denim.

"So what's got ya cryin' this time?" he growled against the fragile hollow just beneath your ear, trailing heavy open-mouthed kisses downward. "Me finally puttin' a baby in that pretty belly of yours after all these years? Can't think of a better reason to get those waterworks flowin' again if ya ask me..."

The sheer audacity of his words - the carnal filth as much as the undisguised insinuation that this reunion was only the opening salvo to so much more - punched a startled keen of pure, searing need from your very marrow. You twisted with renewed urgency, mouth finding his in a souling embrace of slick heat and tangling tongues as the desperate flames licking between you swiftly roared into an inferno once more.

Osamu kissed you back feverishly, his thick tongue delving deep to taste every corner of your mouth. His large, calloused hands roamed over your body, squeezing and caressing. He broke the heated kiss with a ragged gasp, lips trailing open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck.

"God, I've missed you..." he rasped against your skin, voice dripping with raw need. "Missed the way you taste, the way your body feels against mine."

You shivered at his words, nails digging into the firm muscles of his back as you arched against him wantonly. Osamu groaned deep in his chest, the bulge in his jeans grinding against your core. His hands grasped your hips, guiding you into a slow grind that had you both panting harshly.

"Spent so many fuckin' nights after we divorced just lying there, remembering what it felt like to be inside you," Osamu confessed in a low, gravelly tone. "So deep I couldn't tell where you ended and I began. Thinkin' about it drove me crazy with how much I wanted you back."

A desperate whine spilled from your lips at his words. You hastily pushed his shirt up, desperate to feel his heated skin under your palms. Osamu aided your efforts, quickly stripping the garment off and tossing it aside. His eyes burned with molten intensity as your hands mapped every ridge and muscle of his powerful torso and shoulders.

"Wanted to feel you wrapped so tight around me again," he growled, the rough timbre of his voice sparking liquid heat in your veins. "To get so deep in that velvet pussy until we were both lost to everything but being joined."

You swallowed thickly, body thrumming with need at his filthy words. You knew exactly what he meant - the feeling of being utterly filled and completed by him in the most carnal sense until the world faded away.

Osamu captured your lips in another bruising kiss, all clashing teeth and tangling tongues. His hands roamed over your clothes, desperate to bare more of your feverish skin to his ravenous touch. When you finally parted, you were both panting harshly.

"It felt like I could breathe again when you first called after the divorce," he admitted in a rough rumble, steel-grey eyes boring into yours intensely. "Even though it was just asking for help with some dumb furniture, it was like...like I was still yours when you said my name like that."

You made a choked sound at his confession, heart clenching at the rawness in his tone. Osamu didn't give you a chance to respond, claiming your mouth in another searing kiss that had you melting against his solid frame. His hands found their way under your shirt, calloused palms mapping every inch of newly exposed skin as the kiss turned messy and frantic once more.

Finally, he tore his lips away to mouth hot, open kisses along your jaw. "Soon as I heard your voice, I was already moving without even thinking about it," he panted roughly against the hinge of your jaw. "Out the door and in my car before I could second-guess just like all the other times you needed me."

You gasped shakily in understanding, fingers tunneling through his hair to hold him close. You vividly recalled that first fateful call and Osamu showing up without hesitation, just like he had done a thousand times before when you were still married. Despite the legal separation, some intrinsic part of him was still bound to answer your summons without question.

Osamu pulled back slightly, eyes blazing as he cradled your face in his big palms. "Never stopped being yours, no matter what kinda shit happened between us," he stated simply, calloused thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks. "Always gonna come runnin' when you call, woman. You hear me?"

His raw declaration hung heavy in the charged air between you. You searched his ruggedly handsome features, taking in the grim set of his jaw, the intense heat smoldering in those gunmetal irises. Osamu meant every single word - you could feel the solemn truth behind them down to your bones.

You let out a shaky exhale, fingers splaying against the solid planes of his chest. His heart thundered beneath your touch, a rapid cadence you knew matched your own racing pulse.

"Osamu..." you began, then halted uncertainly. So much still lay unspoken between you beyond the heated admissions of desire and longing. Questions and doubts flickered like candle flames, threatening to undermine the fragile foundation you'd reconstructed.

Sensing your hesitation, Osamu's calloused thumb stroked your cheekbone soothingly. "Just say it," he rasped in that deep timbre that never failed to make you shiver. "Whatever's goin' through that big brain of yours. We're layin' it all out on the table here."

You drew in another fortifying breath, leaning into the solid warmth of his palms cradling your face so tenderly despite the rough calluses scoring your skin. When you finally met his piercing stare again, you found yourself talking without conscious thought.

"I want to try again," you stated plainly, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. "You and me, for real this time. No more separating or letting things fall apart between us."

Osamu's jaw ticked subtly, but he remained silent and impassive, letting you forge ahead unfettered.

"But I need to know you're all in," you continued, willing your voice not to waver. "That you're not just going to take off again if things get tough or we hit another rough patch. Because I can't..." You broke off, blinking rapidly against the burning swell of tears. "I can't survive that a second time, Osamu. Losing you nearly destroyed me."

The anguished admission seemed to reverberate between you, cracking the simmering tension briefly. Osamu's brow creased, eyes softening imploringly as he pulled you flush against his body once more. You went willingly, savoring the steadying anchor of his solid frame and familiar, intoxicating scent.

"Baby, I ain't goin' nowhere," he murmured gruffly against your hairline, one big palm cradling the back of your head. "Should never have left in the first place, no matter how bad shit got between us. That was the biggest mistake of my damn life."

You squeezed your eyes shut at the regret saturating his gravelly rumble, fingers flexing against his skin where they rested against his chest. After a steadying moment, you felt Osamu pull away just enough to lock eyes with you again. His gaze was open and earnest, burning with an intensity that stole your breath.

"I'm all in here," he vowed simply, stroking the pad of his thumb over the swell of your cheekbone. "No more runnin', no more wastin' time apart when we both know there ain't nothin' for me without you by my side. We're gonna make this thing between us work this time, you hear? Even if I gotta spend every day for the rest of my life provin' it to you..."

His words trembled through you with the weighty promise behind them. You searched Osamu's stormy gaze for any hint of prevarication or doubt, but found only steadfast resolution burning there. A dawning smile tugged at the corners of your lips as the vice of uncertainty unclenched around your ribs.

"Well, you'd better get started then," you murmured, shifting to wind your arms around his neck and bring your foreheads together. "Because I'm going to keep putting you through your paces until I'm absolutely certain you're not going to flake out again, Miya Osamu."

Osamu's deep chuckle rumbled against your body, the vibration sending tingles skittering across your sensitized nerves. "Gettin' my ass put through the wringer every day for the rest of forever?" His calloused palms roamed soothingly over the dip of your waist and flare of your hips. "Sounds like my kinda livin' hell, babe."

Unable to resist any longer, you closed the scant distance and sealed your mouths together in a slow, drugging glide of velvet heat. Unlike before, this unhurried press of your lips and tangled tongues spoke to something deeper - a resounding connection and intimacy born from years spent in each other's orbit. It was a familiar kiss that nevertheless sparked fresh flames of passion and hunger, igniting the dormant fire between you with all the raw power and promise of a phoenix rising.

Osamu's broad palms gripped and molded every inch of you they could reach, stoking the building flames further with each hungry sweep and caress. You responded in kind, dragging your fingertips through his silken, ash-brown locks and raking across his scalp with just enough force to make him groan. Your tongues curled and twined as you savored the wet heat and tangling strokes, bodies pressed close enough to feel the thundering cadence of his heart racing against your breastbone.

A sudden surge of impatient desire had you tearing at Osamu's jeans, desperate to feel him fully bared and pliant beneath your wandering palms. He helped you shuck his belt and shove the snug denim down his hips, boxers quickly following until his cock sprang free - swollen and heavy, pulsing with every rapid throb of his hammering pulse. You hummed appreciatively at the sight, wrapping your fingers around the familiar weight and length and giving a few loose, languid pumps.

"Fuck, that's good, baby," Osamu grunted, eyes slipping shut in pleasure. His head fell forward to rest against yours, breath ghosting hot and quick over your flushed cheeks. "Been too long since I felt those pretty little hands on me, missed you so damn much."

Your own eyelids fluttered shut, drinking in the husky, graveled rasp of his voice and the feel of his thick cock twitching against your palm. "I've missed this, too," you murmured, swiping a bead of pre-cum from his tip and using it to slick your hand as you began stroking him with intent. "Missed the feel of you, how good you always made me feel. How perfectly we fit together."

Osamu let out a guttural sound, his hips bucking involuntarily into your touch. He quickly recovered, though, deftly working the fly of your jeans open and pushing them down over the generous curve of your hips. His mouth sought yours again, swallowing your moans as he palmed the generous swell of your ass and squeezed, grinding his rock-hard erection against your belly.

"Let me get my mouth on you, baby," he begged between messy kisses, tongue sweeping deep into the cavern of your mouth. "Wanna taste that pretty pussy of yours, feel you comin' apart on my tongue."

Your entire body jolted at the carnal filth spilling from his kiss-swollen lips. You'd always had a weakness for his wickedly talented mouth, and the prospect of it licking and devouring you like some succulent feast had you instantly slick and throbbing. But tonight, you wanted something else entirely.

"Later," you breathed against the corner of his mouth, nipping his bottom lip sharply before pulling back. Osamu's pupils were blown wide with desire, his gaze burning hotter than the sun as he stared at you uncomprehendingly. You couldn't help the wicked smirk curling the edges of your mouth.

"Tonight, I want you buried inside me," you declared bluntly, delighting in the way his eyes went hazy with lust. You let go of his cock long enough to wiggle out of the confining denim and kick the jeans aside, then immediately grasped his hand and guided it between your legs.

"Want you filling me up, fucking me until I'm sore and aching," you continued, biting your lip as his fingers parted your slick folds. The first teasing brush against your clit had your entire body bowing and thighs clenching, but you forced yourself to meet Osamu's scorching stare once more. "Making sure I'm thoroughly bred, so I can never forget who I belong to ever again."

For a moment, all Osamu could do was gape at you in mute astonishment. Then his nostrils flared, pupils blown so wide the blackness nearly eclipsed the steel-grey of his irises entirely. A low, animalistic growl ripped from his chest, and the next thing you knew, his mouth was slanted over yours and his thick fingers were pumping into your molten core.

"Fucking hell, woman, what're ya tryin' to do to me?" he snarled between biting, desperate kisses. His free hand found purchase on the swell of your breast, squeezing roughly before rolling and pinching your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt. "Gonna be the goddamn death of me with that dirty mouth."

You arched into his touch, panting heavily as he worked you higher. His long, thick fingers stroked and rubbed your sensitive inner walls, coaxing wave after wave of slick honey from your throbbing channel. You writhed against him, hands scrabbling for purchase on the corded muscles of his shoulders.

"Please, Samu, I need you inside me," you moaned, hips bucking against his hand. He cursed harshly, fingers stilling inside you for a moment. Then he withdrew, making quick work of the buttons on your blouse before yanking it down your arms and tossing the garment aside. He followed up with your bra, leaving you bare before him save for your panties.

"Look at you, all soft and pliant, ready to take me," Osamu growled, calloused hands skating reverently over the curve of your belly and hips. "Finally gonna make me a daddy, huh?"

He dipped his head, latching onto the supple flesh of your breast and suckling deeply. Your hands found their way into his hair again, fingers digging into his scalp as you moaned wantonly. When he finally released your breast, he blew gently over the stiff peak, causing it to pucker even more.

"You know you can never go back once you have my baby," he continued, trailing open-mouthed kisses across the valley of your breasts and up the column of your throat. "No other man would ever measure up after that. You'd be ruined for anyone else, just like I was the first time I was inside you."

You keened sharply at his possessive, primal words, head falling back to grant him better access. "Good," you gasped, nails scoring the planes of his back and shoulders. "Because I've never wanted anyone else, Samu. It's only ever been you."

He groaned against the shell of your ear, grinding his thick, heavy length against the damp fabric still concealing your aching core. "You're damn right, and it's always gonna stay that way."

One powerful hand found purchase on the back of your neck, holding you firmly in place as he devoured your mouth with bruising, punishing kisses. At the same time, his other hand slipped between you, ripping away the final barrier separating your bodies. The shredded material was summarily discarded, and you barely had a chance to draw breath before he was lining up and plunging home.

"Ride me, sweetheart. Just like you used to."

The command was a deep, resonating purr against your feverish skin, one that sent a shiver dancing down the notches of your spine. A whimper escaped your throat, fingers flexing against Osamu's muscular back. You could already feel his length pulsing inside you, stretching and filling you to the brim with that familiar, delicious ache.

"Fuck, that's perfect," Osamu hissed between his teeth, his head tipping back and eyes slamming shut as you began to roll and undulate against him. You were already impossibly wet and aching, his thick, swollen shaft bottoming out with each fluid pump and grind of your hips. He was seated so deep and full inside you, it felt as though there wasn't a single molecule of space between your bodies.

You couldn't help but agree.

"You feel so good," you moaned, eyes fluttering closed at the delicious stretch. You shifted slightly, finding the best angle to allow the bulbous head of his cock to graze and stroke the sensitive cluster of nerves hidden deep within your slick channel. "So big and hard inside me, splitting me open. Like you were made for me."

Osamu's rough chuckle vibrated against your chest. He dropped a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of your throat, teeth grazing the tender flesh. "Damn straight, I'm made for you," he affirmed, voice muffled against your skin. "Just like you were made for me. Fuckin' perfect, we are."

You sighed in contentment, arching into his touch. Your hands skated over the rippling muscles of his back and shoulders, reveling in the familiar sensation of his solid, warm frame and the taut lines of his body moving against yours. The scent of his skin - that intoxicating, masculine musk and subtle hints of spice and citrus - enveloped you completely, filling your senses and flooding every corner of your mind.

The room quickly filled with the slick, obscene sounds of your coupling - the wet squelch of your joined bodies, the breathy sighs and ragged grunts as you both raced toward the edge. Your bodies were in perfect sync, instinctively attuned to each other despite the years apart. Every roll and thrust, every shift and cant of your hips, was matched and amplified by his.

It wasn't long before the coil of pleasure in the pit of your stomach began winding tighter and tighter, threatening to snap. Your breath was coming in short, gasping pants, nails digging into the taut sinews of Osamu's shoulders as you clutched him tighter. He sensed the subtle shift in the air, and a low growl rumbled in his chest.

"My beautiful girl," he murmured, calloused palms cradling the sides of your neck and jaw. His piercing stare was focused entirely on you, the intensity of his gaze making your heart trip over itself. "Never knew what I did to deserve a woman like you, but I'll spend every day of my life tryin' to live up to it."

The raw vulnerability in his deep, graveled rumble tugged sharply at your heartstrings. A trembling breath spilled from your lips, eyes prickling with sudden emotion. You reached up, mirroring his hold as you gently cradled his rugged features.

"You don't have to be anyone other than who you are, Osamu," you assured him, voice thick with the swell of emotions roiling in your chest. "Just...just be with me. That's all I've ever needed."

A beat of silence passed between you, a suspended moment that seemed to stretch an eternity. Then, like a thread snapping, Osamu's expression crumbled, and he crushed his mouth to yours. The kiss was desperate, hungry, conveying everything unsaid with a ferocity that threatened to consume you whole.

"I love you, Y/N," he panted roughly between biting kisses, calloused palms roaming restlessly over the bare expanse of your back and shoulders. "Fuck, I love you so goddamn much."

Tears pricked your eyes, the lump in your throat thick and hot. "I love you, too," you choked out, kissing him again and again. Your bodies never faltered, the slick slide and pump of his thick cock still pistoning in and out of your molten core.

When Osamu finally pulled back, his pupils were blown wide and black with hunger. "Come for me, beautiful," he urged, thumb slipping between you to circle and rub your swollen clit. "Need to feel you milkin' my cock, wanna feel you cum all over me."

The tension in your belly snapped, white-hot pleasure surging through you like lightning. You cried out, the sound swallowed up by his ravenous mouth. Your cunt spasmed around him, gripping his pulsing shaft and wringing him dry.

Osamu came with a guttural snarl, his body seizing and jerking against yours as his hips pistoned erratically. Thick ropes of seed splashed against your womb, painting your walls and filling every nook and cranny. He kept pumping through his climax, drawing out both your orgasms for as long as possible.

You were both boneless and panting when it was over, limbs tangled together and foreheads pressed close. The heat of the moment was slowly dissipating, replaced by the steady thud of your hearts and the soothing warmth of his bare skin against yours.

Osamu's thumb brushed the swell of your cheek, calloused pads smoothing the lingering tracks of tears. "What's the verdict, babe?" he murmured, dark brows pinching together slightly.

Your own lips twitched in a small smile. "I think you've made a pretty compelling argument so far, Miya," you quipped lightly, then leaned in to kiss him. "But you know, they say it takes a few rounds to really make sure a job's done right."

He chuckled, a low, husky rumble that made the heat stirring in the pit of your belly flare to life once more. His mouth curved into a crooked smirk, the glint in his eyes promising wicked delights and the fulfillment of many, many desires.

"Guess we'll just have to keep tryin' until it takes then, yeah?"

[binhourly]

[230425] — .ᐟ

word count: 1255 | member: lino

“I BLAME you for this,” you say to Hyunjin—or rather, to the kitchen countertop you’ve rested your forehead against—the hangover from last night’s partying making the sun filtering through the window feel like your brain is swelling past your skull.

The freshly buzz-cut boy sharply exhales through his nose, before continuing his reign of terror on your migraine by slamming the cabinet doors shut as hard as possible to grab your attention. “That’s sad,” he starts, waving off your scowl with an equally bratty lip scrunch and a single eyebrow raised. “With how much alcohol you were downing, I thought you’d be cool enough to at least brag about it.”

“No, I can’t,” you tell him, melting instantly at the sight of your favourite Snoopy mug being filled with freshly brewed coffee. So on brand for Hyunjin. One second he’s terrorising you, while simultaneously doing something so tooth-achingly sweet. “What I did yesterday was embarrassing and potentially fatal. And can I say it’s really annoying that I’m like this—" you motion vaguely at yourself—"and you’re just... fine!”

Hyunjin's smile tilts crookedly, leaning forward before splaying his very sleeveless arms out on the kitchen counter. “It’s the protein, baby. I’m so jacked up with it, it basically makes me bulletproof.” He gives you his best alpha-male impersonation, adding the obvious bicep flexing to piss you off further.

Despite your daily hatred for your best friend, Hyunjin still manages to pull the first laugh out of you that morning, before settling back into a peaceful cycle— you sipping your drink, him humming some song he’ll probably file away on his phone with all the other hidden gems.

“Do you even remember what you did after we got home?” the blonde boy questions, his dazed expression practically giving away his lack of paternal instincts last night–assuming that once he got the chance to shove his shoes off, one toe against the heel of the other at the entry door, Hyunjin basically called it quits and let you run wild in the apartment you shared with your other roommates until you tire yourself out. Naturally.

You squint at him, racking your memory folder. “I…” you trail off, snapping your fingers once a cohesive image starts forming behind your eyes. “I went to kiss the cats goodnight.”

“Dude, do you just choose to forget how much Minho hates it when you do that?” Hyunjin argues, never letting his irritation falter as he smooths a hand behind his back to stretch out the bed kinks in his shoulder. “Your lipstick stains their fur. Like, I’m sure it defeats the whole ‘animal cruelty’ aspect of the product.”

This was another reason why no one should ever advocate for a drink to be put in your hands. While alcohol seemed to settle some people, the sour bite of it ripped away every bit of confidence you carried during the day, leaving you flinging head first to affection as proof that people actually wanted you around.

It was partially the reason why you only went out drinking with Hyunjin. The man had been a constant reassurance in your life, so the overwhelming feeling barely crept up on you. Minho was different. He was an extension of Hyunjin (a close friend from his dance crew) which meant it was inevitable that your two worlds would collide, but somehow he never felt inclined to open up the same way Hyunjin could.

And it sucked more than you liked to admit. Soon, with enough accidental run-ins around the living room or squeezed bathroom times in the morning, you found yourself holding onto every small detail about the black-haired man. Until the practice of seeking acceptance wasn’t just a drunk habit—you were already doing it sober.

“But they’re so cute! If they don’t want to be loved, then they shouldn’t be the size of babies — it’s misleading,” you muse, swivelling the kitchen chair around, fingers protruding out in the ready position to coax a cat to come to you.

Right on time, the first cat, Dori, pads into the kitchen, his stomach smothering closer to the ground with clear signs of his future refusal of pick-ups or any form of affection. With his coat obviously dark, there’s no indication of your lipstick marks on him.

Then, a few beats later, Doongie trots in—the obnoxious white patch amongst his layering orange tint still fluffy and perfectly lipstick-free. Odd. Hyunjin rounds the corner, equally confused. “Huh? Maybe Soonie got the short end of the stick.”

You sit up straighter, flicking your gaze towards the long hallway where Minho’s bedroom occupied the first door. Soonie definitely was the victim. You didn’t like to vocalise this often, especially in front of the feline brothers, but he’d always been your favourite. And when the familiar orange-to-white ratio cat appears, you're almost celebratory—until you realise, tail high, strutting in insecure, maybe aware of the many eyes on his newly licked coat—that not a single smear of lipstick is on him either.

Nothing. Clean.

“What the fuck.” Hyunjin’s brows furrow, his increased stress levels making his hands find his hair, running them up and down against the short bristles. “Did you make out with the wall again?”

“No,” you start, smacking his side to shut him up, catching a sliver of skin from his deep-cut muscle tee. “I remember kissing something. It was really soft and it kept moving around—”

The door flings open, and the soft bare feet cushioning the cold floor makes you so flustered it almost stops your heart dead in your chest. “I’m not going to repeat myself again.” His voice is naturally sultry, like his speaking cords are meant to be washed with a glass of champagne rather than gargled water, and the shift wasn’t all the more subtle in the peakest of mornings where it drops so low. “I closed my door on purpose because the cats get hyper at night. I understand you guys were drinking, but fuck, maybe drink enough to abolish your fine motor skills.”

Hyunjin keeps cutting his eyes back and forth between Minho and you, like the answer might magically evolve itself in the space between. But you’re stuck staring at the man who plagued every part of your brain. And if this were a game of Spot the Difference, the version of him you kept tucked away in your mind just got a full rebrand.

The Minho in your head was clean-cut. Every edge is sharp and emotionally unavailable. But Minho standing in front of you now? He looked kissed within an inch of his life.

It starts at his T-zone, the close-knit shape that’s undoubtedly your mouth giving away just how desperate you were in taking him in—some marks deep and damning, others smudged like you’d lost focus halfway, paying close attention to the corners of his lips that were not salvaged in your reckoning. And following along his jawline, there’s a loving beeline down to the curve of his neck, the shape less puckering and more open-mouthed.

You were absolutely mortified. So the softness you recounted was really Minho’s skin, and the animalistic movement was just from Minho shimmying around in his sleep under you.

An incomprehensible noise escapes Hyunjin this time, which could best be categorised as something between a yell and a manic laugh. Either way, it’s obnoxious enough to yield Minho to stare at the wall mirror beside him, catching what was on the other end of the buzz-cut boy’s pointed finger.

“Oh… so, not a cat.”

[ note: ] wrote this under 10 minutes after being inspired by this meme. please know lino is unravelling lowkey in the best ways, he's just awkward with feelings.

[natsaffection]

Innocence. pt 2 | N.R

Older!Sargent!Natasha × Younger!Soldier!Reader

Warnings: Gore, description of death, dismemberment, injury’s, explosion, blood

Word count: 7,4k

A/N: Penultimate chapter, until we get to the end. All images used are my own (except the Natasha icon)!! So please ask if you want to use them! :)

Part 1

Sleep didn’t come easy.

You lay on your back, staring at the dull ceiling of the container, the small fan above you creaking as it rotated with a lazy, rhythmic whine. Outside, the desert wind whispered against the walls — dry, soft, constant. You’d stripped down to your undershirt, your dog tags resting cool against your collarbone, your hands folded on your stomach like you were already in a coffin.

Your mind wouldn’t shut off. Tomorrow was the day.

Your first real mission. Not a drill. Not a simulation. No instructor with a stopwatch waiting to yell “reset.” This was boots-on-ground, civilians bleeding, enemies possibly lurking in the shadows kind of mission.

You didn’t know if you were scared or excited. Maybe both. Probably both. Rae had passed out hours ago, breathing softly on the other side of the room, still wearing one sock and half-hugging a med bag like a teddy bear. You had smiled at the sight, but now, hours later, you’d stopped smiling.

Every time you closed your eyes, you imagined what you might see. A child missing limbs. A man screaming. A woman with glass embedded in her skin. The unknown made your bones ache. Eventually, exhaustion won.

The alarm hit like a slap. You bolted upright, breathing hard, heart thudding. Your eyes were dry, your mouth dryer. It felt like you’d only closed your eyes five minutes ago. You didn’t speak. Didn’t think. Just moved.

Boots. Vest. Gloves. Radio. Helmet. Sidearm. Canteen. Dog tags tucked. Every motion was mechanical now. Your hands trembled just once, zipping your pack, and then steadied. Rae was already up, tying her hair back. She looked at you, nodded once. You didn’t speak. No one needed to. You both knew what the day was.

You stepped out into the pale early morning light. It was cooler than expected, but the wind carried dust that clung to your lips and lashes. At the rally point, the vehicles were already prepped, dusty, armored trucks fitted with mounted comms and open hatches. Soldiers moved around them in silence. No jokes today. No banter.

This was real.

Natasha stood near the first vehicle, arms crossed, headset slung low on her neck. She gave a quick signal. No speech. No send-off.

Just: “Mount up.”

You climbed into the second vehicle with Rae, Martinez, and two others you hadn’t trained closely with. You slid into your seat, back pressed against the hot metal interior, helmet secure. The hatch slammed shut behind you.

And then, you were moving. The base vanished behind you, replaced by the open sprawl of desert and broken earth. No trees. No grass. Just wind, sand, and the occasional distant shape, twisted wreckage, forgotten fences, lone figures moving slowly with the horizon.

You passed a small cluster of homes, if they could be called that. Shacks built from sheet metal and stone, half-collapsed, windows covered in fabric. Children ran alongside the vehicles, barefoot and thin, laughing like they didn’t notice the rifles pointing past them. One girl waved at you. Just waved. Big smile, missing two front teeth.

You blinked, stunned, and instinctively waved back. Rae elbowed you gently. “First time seeing them?”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Some just want to feel safe,” Rae said. “Others want answers. Some don’t even know who we are.”

You watched a woman carrying two plastic buckets stacked with water. Another walked with a child on her hip and two more trailing behind her, eyes wide and sunburned.

Through the vehicle comms, a calm voice filtered through, “Convoy One, approaching high ground. Eyes open. Light movement on the north ridge.”

“Copy. Looks like shepherds.”

“Shepherds don’t carry scopes.”

Your chest tightened. Your grip on your rifle increased but nothing happened. The convoy moved forward. Just tension. Just silence.

After 30 minutes the vehicle slowed. And when the hatch opened, the smell hit you first. Burnt wood. Rot. Blood. Ash. The air was thick with heat and the copper tang of death.

You stepped down from the vehicle, boots crunching into the dirt. What had once been a village was now a battlefield without bullets. Collapsed homes. Charred trees. Rubble scattered like the aftermath of a god’s tantrum.

White medical tents flapped in the wind like ghosts. The red cross barely visible beneath layers of dust and smoke. And then the sounds started.

A man screaming. A child sobbing for someone who wasn’t there. The bark of a medic yelling for supplies. The squelch of blood-soaked bandages being changed.

You stood there, frozen. A body lay just fifteen feet away, partially covered in a sheet. Bare feet, darkened with soot. A hand poked out, fingers curled. A fly buzzed around the exposed skin.

You turned slightly, and saw more. A boy, maybe ten, holding the limp hand of his younger sister while a medic worked on a burn across her face. Another man had a gaping wound across his thigh, shrapnel still visible. His leg was blackened with dead tissue.

Some just sat. Still. Staring at nothing. One woman, blood on her arms, cradled a bundle wrapped in white cloth and didn’t look up as the soldiers passed. You didn’t want to know what was inside. But your gut already did.

Over comms, Natasha’s voice came through:

“Echo 9, this is command. Secure perimeter and begin patrol grid. Keep your distance from civ medical tents unless requested. Watch for movement past the east road. We’ve had reports of looters.”

You looked up and saw her. Natasha stood arms crossed, headset tilted, watching everything like it was a chessboard. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

You were supposed to be watching the eastern trail. But your eyes kept drifting back to the field. It wasn’t the smoke, or the tents, or the scorched buildings that held you there.

It was the people.

This was your first time seeing real pain. Not a training scenario. Not a documentary. Not blurry footage edited for public consumption. This was raw, loud, undeniable.

You had seen pain before, bruised ribs in hand-to-hand, blood on the sim floor, a dislocated shoulder during drills. But it had always come with the safety of structure. A start. A stop. A reset.

This had none of that. This was endless. Then, the sound of engines. You turned in time to see another convoy pulling in, three trucks, armored, each marked with the red insignia of a partnered med relief group. They rolled into the center field, tires kicking up dirt.

The back of the lead truck opened with a groan, and a stretcher was pulled out, fast, desperate. Two medics barking words you didn’t understand over each other. Blood soaked the sheet. It trailed behind them, painting the dirt with a thick, dark smear.

The man on the stretcher wasn’t moving. One leg was gone from the knee down. His eyes were open. But he wasn’t seeing.

You turned your head, you stomach tightening. You stared at the horizon instead. Squinting against the sun. This is real, you thought. This is what it looks like when someone’s body gives out before their soul knows how to leave.

You felt something shift inside you. A quiet part of yourself shrinking. And time passed like syrup.

You hadn’t moved much, only rotated position once, now stationed at a higher vantage where you could see the slope leading out of the village. Your comms buzzed faintly, distant voices, check-ins, status updates.

“Report from Bravo-3: local dispute broke out west sector, perimeter holding. One potential hostile removed.”

“Copy that. Civilians reacting erratic, no threat yet.”

“Randals started west of the crater site, looters maybe.”

Your posture stiffened. Your back went straight, your stance shifting slightly, fingers tightening on the grip of your rifle.

Randals. Looters. Opportunists. Or worse.

Your eyes scanned faster now, no more blank stares. Just tight, mechanical sweeps across the road, the rooftops, the edges of the ruins. You saw movement, just a man at first, standing near a torn wall where a roof used to be. Alone. Not near the med tents. Not walking. Just standing.

He was watching you. Your eyes met. Even with the distance between you, something about his stare sent cold sliding down your back. His face didn’t shift. No scowl. No grin. Just locked, unreadable stillness.

Your fingers curled tighter around your rifle. You didn’t lift it. Not yet. But you didn’t look away either. Your pulse tapped faster at your throat. You heard the crunch of boots behind you.

“Easy.” came a voice. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. She came up beside you, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the same man. Her presence was like armor.

“He’s not moving.” Natasha added. “Not armed. Not stupid.”

Still, she looked at you now, a glance, sharp and assessing. “How are you holding up?”

Her tone wasn’t soft. It never was. But it wasn’t ice either. You hesitated, then answered. “Still standing.”

Natasha gave a single nod. Like that was the only acceptable answer. Then she reached into her vest and held out a plastic bottle of water. You took it without a word and unscrewed the top, drinking half in a few quick gulps. You hadn’t realized how dry your throat was. How dry everything was.

“You’re processing.” Natasha said after a moment. “That’s normal.”

Your jaw clenched. “I didn’t freeze.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“But I looked away.”

“Only once.” Natasha replied. “And then you kept watch.”

You looked at her, not quite challenging, but asking something you couldn’t put into words. Natasha didn’t flinch.

“You’re not here to be desensitized. You’re here to act. There’s a difference.”

A pause. The wind carried a scream from somewhere back at the tents. A child crying.

“First missions don’t leave you.” Natasha added, her voice quieter now. “They shape you. That’s the point. Let it hurt. Just don’t let it stop you.”

You blinked, and nodded. Then Natasha turned, her radio already clicking to life again as she walked back toward the main road, her voice low and command-clear. You looked back to the man by the wall.

He was gone.

10 hours later

You stirred awake to the gentle shake of a hand on your shoulder.

“Your shift.” Rae murmured. You blinked, disoriented for half a second. The tent canvas above you rustled with the wind, shadows flickering from the med lights in the distance. Your body ached, but there was no sharp pain, just the dull, heavy kind that came from a long day of watching people bleed.

You rolled out of your cot, boots already halfway on from when you collapsed into sleep earlier.

“Thanks.” you muttered.

Rae just nodded and lay down. You geared up in silence. Vest, helmet, comm clipped to your collar, rifle slung across your back. The routine movements steadied you, anchoring you in something normal.

You stepped outside. And froze.

Out here, far from cities and light pollution, the stars were alive. Not just visible, blazing. Endless pinpricks scattered across the sky like shattered glass. The Milky Way hung thick across the dark like a brushstroke. You tilted your head back, mouth parted slightly, breath caught in your throat.

You’d never seen it like this. Not even on base. The desert was silent. Just the low hum of equipment. The occasional distant cough or rustle. No gunfire. No screaming.

Just… stillness.

You reached your watch point, a small hill with sandbags and a rusted bench set up behind a camo net. From here, you could see the edge of the village. The lights were still on in the med tents. People moved like shadows, dim shapes working through the night.

The pain doesn’t sleep, you thought. You didn’t sit at first. Just stood. Watching. Breathing.

Then, a presence. No footsteps. No noise. But suddenly, someone was there. You turned slightly. Natasha sat down on the low bench beside you like she’d been conjured from the air. No helmet, just her standard fatigues, her braid falling over one shoulder, her face unreadable in the low light.

You tensed. Not because you were scared. Because this was the first time you’d been alone with her. Really alone. No training. No shouting. No commands. Just… a desert, a shared silence, and stars.

Natasha didn’t speak right away. She looked out over the same view, elbows resting on her knees, fingers loosely laced.

“First time overseas?”

Her voice was quiet. Not cold. Not soft, either. Neutral. You took a beat too long to answer. “No. It’s my third.”

That made Natasha turn her head. Just slightly. You didn’t look at her. Kept your eyes forward.

“Third?” she echoed. A note of surprise beneath the calm.

You nodded.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

A pause. Natasha blinked slowly. “You enlisted young.”

“Nineteen. Straight out of school.”

“You volunteered for this deployment?”

You looked down at your gloves. Then, after a beat, “No.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I wanted another unit. Echo-One.” A faint, humorless smile pulled at your lips. “Didn’t make the cut.”

There was no judgment in Natasha’s face. Just quiet understanding. “Why them?”

“They were the best..” you said simply. “At least… that’s what I thought. It felt like the fast track. Like everything I worked for led there.”

“And when you didn’t get it?”

“I was crushed.” you admitted. “Then they handed me your file. Said echo 9 wanted me. I didn’t know if it was a pity assignment, or a joke.”

Natasha actually huffed, a very soft laugh under her breath. “Believe me..” she said, “I don’t do pity.”

You glanced at her. Natasha’s gaze was fixed ahead, but her mouth turned ever so slightly upward. “You’re doing good.” she added. “Better than you think.”

Your chest tightened. It wasn’t praise shouted across a drill yard. It wasn’t encouragement forced from a superior. It was just truth, said in the calm of night.

“…Thank you.” you said quietly.

The silence after was comfortable. For the first time, it didn’t feel like command sitting beside you. It felt like Natasha. You hesitated. Then bit your lip. Then, because the quiet gave you courage:

“Can I ask you something?”

Natasha turned to look at you. Not hard. Just direct. “You can ask.”

You flushed a little. “It’s kind of personal.”

Natasha didn’t move.

“Was yours like this?”

Natasha turned to you again. “What do you mean?”

“Your first time outside. Was it like… this?”

A beat. Then Natasha smiled, just barely. “No. Mine was worse.”

You blinked.

“It wasn’t a humanitarian op..” she continued. “We weren’t guarding medics. We were the medics. Improvised evac from a collapsed tunnel system. No command. No backup. I was the youngest.“

You studied her. There was no brag in her tone. No drama. Just.. fact.

“We’re you scared?”

“Of course.” Natasha said, almost gently. “I still am. That’s the job. You just learn how to breathe through it.”

You had imagined her as cold steel. Untouchable. Sharp edges and closed doors. But now…you could feel the history in her voice. Not brokenness, but survival.

“Do you ever…wish you’d done something else?” you asked.

Natasha’s eyes flicked back down. And then..softly, she smiled.

“Every day.” she said. “And none of them.”

Then, without a word, she reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a slim, scratched phone. The kind soldiers carried overseas. Secure. Tough and personal.

You watched in stunned silence as Natasha unlocked it and pulled up a photo. She turned it slightly, offering it to you.

A girl. Maybe eleven. Dark hair, same sharp eyes. Laughing in a backyard with a dog chasing her.

“My niece.” Natasha said. “She lives with my sister.”

“She’s beautiful.” you whispered. “She looks like she laughs a lot.”

“She does.”

You smiled a little. Then swallowed thickly. Your fingers twitched at your thigh, the photo was still being held toward you, but what made you freeze wasn’t the picture.

It was the way Natasha was watching you. Not casually. Not with suspicion. With…confirmation. Her gaze was fixed on you, steady and analytical. Like she was adding another bullet point to a mental file she kept locked behind her eyes.

“You get soft when you see kids.” Natasha said, not accusing. Just…naming it. You tensed slightly, the smile slipping from your face. “Is that bad?”

“It’s human.” Natasha replied. “But out here… softness gets turned into leverage.”

She turned the phone screen off, not like she was hiding it, but like the moment was over. Then she leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees again, voice shifting lower, not sharp, but serious.

“You need to be aware of what this place can do.”

You nodded slowly. Natasha didn’t flinch. “You know what children are used for in places like this?”

You blinked, the answer cold on your tongue. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

You swallowed. “Cover. Distraction. Suicide ops if they’re trained.”

Natasha gave a single, sharp nod. “Or they don't know. You can’t forget that. Doesn’t mean you stop feeling, it means you never let the feeling override your judgment.”

You didn’t look away. “I understand.”

Romanoff studied you for a moment longer, then her posture softened just slightly. She pulled her phone back. With a few taps, she flicked through a few more pictures and showed you a new one.

Same niece, maybe a year younger. Sitting on Romanoff’s lap in a living room cluttered with pillows, a birthday cake half-cut on the table.

“She thinks I’m boring.” Natasha said.

You laughed. Quietly. “You? Boring?”

“I don’t talk about superheroes or animals enough.”

“I mean…valid critique.”

Natasha smirked..barely. Then she said something that surprised you both.

“She reminds me of you.”

You blinked. “Me?”

Natasha didn’t backpedal. Just shrugged, eyes back on the screen.

“You both have that same thing. That softness under all the armor. Most people out here…they build walls. You came here with doors still open.”

Your breath hitched. Not from flattery. From truth. Because it was you. And no one had ever said it like that.

“You sound like you think that’s bad.”

“I think it’s dangerous.” Natasha said softly. “But powerful. If you survive it.”

You looked back out at the desert, letting the words settle.

“I don’t want to lose it.” you admitted. “The softness, I mean.”

“Then don’t.” Natasha replied. “Just protect it better.”

Another silence, but this one felt different. Like something had clicked. You kept talking after that, not about tactics or protocol or pain. Just…life.

Natasha showed you a few more pictures, a snowy street in St. Petersburg, a blurry photo of her sister holding a wine bottle triumphantly, a candid of Romanoff in civilian clothes, smiling like she wasn’t aware the camera was on her.

You couldn’t believe you were seeing any of it. And Natasha watched you see it, like she was testing how much she could give before it felt like too much. You talked about music. About food you missed. About things you’d do after this deployment, even if neither of you believed in the word after.

“You’ll make it through this.” she said. “Just keep that door guarded.”

Silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t awkward.

Then Natasha stood. The spell didn’t break. It shifted. Stretched. She looked down at you, “You’re doing fine, Y/l/n.” she said. “Don’t overthink. Just watch. Breathe. Stay present.”

You nodded, mouth dry. Then Natasha reached into her vest and pulled out another bottle of water. She placed it beside you without a word.

And left.

The mission had ended hours after. But the mission inside your head hadn’t. You were pacing. Still half-geared, your helmet tossed onto your cot, your comm still clipped to your collar. You ran a hand through your hair and stopped at the small table in the center of the container.

Rae sat on her bunk, unwrapping a ration bar, watching you with an amused expression that bordered on knowing.

“…and she said it just like that..” you were saying. “Not soft, not cold, just there. Like she meant it. Like she could see straight through me and still…I don’t know. Trusted me?”

Rae smirked, took a bite of her bar, and spoke through the chew. “You’re quoting Romanoff now?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“You just said it again. That line. About the door.”

You flushed a little and looked down at your hands.

“She said…” your voice dropped, quieter now. “‘You’ll make it through this. Just keep that door guarded.’”

There it was again. The echo of Natasha’s voice. Burned into your memory like it had been spoken under your skin, not just into your ears.

Rae raised a brow. “Damn. That’s kind of poetic, honestly.”

You sat down on the edge of your bunk and unlaced one boot. “It stuck with me.”

“It tattooed itself onto your soul, you mean.”

You threw the boot at her. Lightly. She caught it midair and dropped it with a thud, grinning.

“I’m just saying…” Rae leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’ve never talked about anyone like this. Ever. You’re doing the whole starry-eyed, quiet-smile, soft-voice routine.”

You snorted. “I am not.”

“You are, and it’s adorable.”

You tried to hide your grin, but it crept up anyway. Rae tilted her head. “So. Are we thinking it’s admiration? Respect? Or, and hear me out..!” she wagged her bar like a pointer, “..a possibly hopeless crush on the unit’s most terrifying woman?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then buried your face in your hands with a groan. “Oh my God.”

“That’s a yes.”

“It’s not.”

“It so is.”

You sat up and threw a small towel at her this time. “She’s my commanding officer!”

“Mmhm.”

“She’s literally trained to kill people with a spoon!”

Rae nodded, chewing. “Hot.”

“Rae!”

“What?! I get it! She’s intense. Brilliant. Completely unreadable. Gives you the kind of attention that makes your skin feel electric.”

You froze. “…okay, how do you know that?”

Rae just grinned wider. “Because you’ve been acting different ever since she talked to you. And you’re not the only one who notices. Martinez saw her hand you water and practically wrote a fanfiction about it.”

You laughed, loud and sudden, falling back onto your cot. A pause. Then you added, quieter, more honest: “She even showed me pictures of her niece..”

That made Rae blink. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” You turned your head, staring at the ceiling. “And then she told me to be careful about getting too soft out here. That kids get used for weapons. That…I needed to be more aware.”

Rae nodded slowly. “Classic Romanoff. Emotional intimacy, followed by a lesson in emotional survival.”

“I guess.” You exhaled. “It felt like… like she was trying to prepare me. Not scare me. Like she’s letting me in, but still making sure I know the cost.”

Rae didn’t tease now. She just looked at you, softer. “She’s watching you.” Rae said. “Not like a boss. Like someone who’s already chosen whether you’re worth something.”

Your chest tightened. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” Rae said. “Just… keep showing up. Keep earning it.”

You sat in the silence for a moment. Just the creak of the wind against the container walls. The hum of a generator in the distance.

Then Rae grinned again. “But if you two do run off into the sunset together, just know I’m totally raiding your locker for snacks.”

“RAE—”

Five Weeks In

You sat inside one of the lead vehicles, knees drawn up slightly, rifle rested across your lap. The sun filtered through the slits in the armor plating, casting long lines of light across the cabin.

Rae sat to your right, gear rattling softly. Across from you, two others from the unit: Martinez and Gage, looked half-awake, the kind of tired that lives in your bones after five straight weeks in the heat.

And next to the comms, facing you all with one boot braced against the bench, was her. Sleeves rolled up. Vest spotless. Gun strapped over her shoulder. She leaned forward, pointing at the map pinned to the wall behind her.

“We reach the collapsed checkpoint, set perimeter, and assist in clearing wreckage. Eyes open, if they hit it once, they could do it again.”

You watched her speak, and something inside you warmed. The tone. The calm precision. The way Natasha’s voice cut through dust and static like it was sharp enough to split tension in half. You found yourself liking it. Not just the words, but the sound of her. The way she took up space without shouting. You didn’t even realize you were staring, not really, until the next moment shattered everything.

A blast. No warning. No time.

The vehicle lifted. A guttural roar of metal shrieked through the cabin as the truck tipped, hard, thrown to its side like a kicked toy. Your shoulder slammed into Rae. Equipment flew. Dust and sand poured through the cracks. The world became a storm of sound and pain. The vehicle hit the ground again with a metallic scream.

Your ears rang. Your helmet had tilted sideways. Your ribs screamed. Someone was coughing. The radio hissed, voices cutting in and out.

“…Echo 9, come in—copy, copy—what’s your—”

“—Vehicle down, IED—no follow-up fire—stand by—stand by—”

Natasha’s voice sliced through the chaos, harsh and controlled. “Status check! Everyone sound off!”

Rae groaned, “I’m good, I’m..fuck, bleeding, but it’s surface!”

Martinez coughed. “Here. Damn, I hit my head..”

“Y/l/n?” Natasha called.

You blinked again, pushing yourself upright. Your side screamed at you. “I’m okay!”

Natasha twisted toward the radio again, tone crisp. “Command, Echo 9. We’ve hit a device. No secondary detonation. No hostile contact visible. Requesting drone recon for eyes on. Holding position.”

A long beat. Then she turned back toward the others. “Everyone out. Stay low until the drone confirms we’re clear.”

You moved with the others. Rae kicked the door, and it slid open with a groan. Heat and dust poured in. You crawled out, coughing, brushing dirt off gear, checking your weapon. Your legs were shaky, boots slipping in the loose gravel. Every step sent pain lancing through your side. You bit down hard, jaw clenched, blinking spots from your eyes.

You planted your feet outside the vehicle, stood up straight, and Natasha’s eyes locked on you. Not a second of hesitation. Not a flicker..She knew.

“Y/l/n.” Natasha barked, stepping closer, her boots crunching into the dust. “You’re holding yourself wrong.”

“I’m fine.” you said automatically, sucking in breath through your teeth.

“No, you’re not.”

You didn’t respond. Natasha’s eyes narrowed, then flicked to the others. “Rae, Gage, gear a 360. Martinez, eyes on that ridge. Move.”

They obeyed instantly. Then it was just you and Natasha, standing there in the heat, the wrecked vehicle beside you and silence pressing in from every direction.

“Where.” Natasha said, not asking, stating.

You swallowed. “Ribs..”

She stepped in, close. “You breathe tight. You’re protecting your side.”

“I said I’m okay.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but her voice dropped half a tone. “You don’t get to lie to me about injuries.”

You flinched. Not from the voice, from what it meant. Natasha’s eyes flicked down.

“Give me your rifle.”

“What?”

“Your weapon, Y/l/n.” she repeated, sharp. “Now.”

You stared at her. “I-I’m not supposed to handing over my gun-”

She stepped back just enough to unsling her own rifle, lowering it carefully to the ground. Then her sidearm. Her vest still on. She looked up.

“Now give me yours.”

The unspoken message was clear: This is not about trust in weapons. It’s about trust in me. You slowly unslung your rifle. Handed it over. She set it gently next to hers in the dirt. Then stepped in again.

“Arms up.”

You hesitated. Then lifted your arms. Natasha’s fingers went to the vest clasps. Quick. Efficient. Tactical. She unhooked the buckles, sliding the gear off your chest with practiced care, and as she did, you let out a breath that sounded too much like pain.

Then she touched your shirt. You flinched. “Easy.” she said. Not gently, but low..She lifted the edge of your shirt, just enough.

And there they were. Bruises. Deep purple shadows already blooming across your ribs, like a storm trapped under skin. Not broken, not life-threatening, but they’d ache like hell. Every breath. Every turn.

She stared at them. Then exhaled through her nose. “Damn lucky.” she muttered. “If that blast was two feet closer, we’d be dragging you out in pieces.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. For a moment, there was no sound but wind and the soft buzz of radio static from the wreck.

Then, “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked. Still low. Still unreadable.

“I didn’t want to be a problem.” you answered honestly. “I wanted to keep moving.”

Her eyes flicked up to yours. “You’re not a problem.” she said. Then, quieter: “But you’re not immortal either.”

She stepped back, letting your shirt fall back into place. She reached down, handed you your rifle. Picked up her own.

“You’re off combat rotation for the rest of the day. Command it as injury management if anyone asks.” You opened your mouth to protest. Natasha just stared and you closed it. And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel reprimanded.

The sound of boots crunching through gravel snapped you out of the haze of pain. The others had returned from securing the area, rifles still slung, dust smeared across every inch of gear. No more movement. No threats. Just the ghost of a blast and the burn of adrenaline slowly draining.

Natasha stood near the overturned vehicle, already speaking into her comm. “Echo 9, requesting ground evac. We’ve got wounded, non-critical. Vehicle disabled. No hostiles in the area. Copy?”

The answer crackled through within seconds: “Copy, Echo 9. Evac in fifteen. Sit tight.”

You stood stiffly, arms hugged around your midsection without realizing it, pressure holding the ache in place. Natasha walked past you, crouched beside the wreck, and started unstrapping gear, one pack, then another, and yours.

She didn’t say anything. Just clipped it over her shoulder with her own like it was nothing.

You took a step forward. “Sargent, I can carry it-”

“No.” she cut in, not sharply, but with finality.

“I’m fine. I can-”

“You’re not fine.” she said, standing now, boots planted in the dirt, her voice quiet but unshakable. “And this isn’t about proving anything. You’re not a burden. You’re a soldier who just walked away from a detonation. Let me carry it.”

Something in your chest cracked, just a little, not from pain. From the care tucked inside the command.

“…Yes, Sargent.” you said softly.

Fifteen minutes felt longer when the world had gone sideways. Rae checked your pulse just in case. Martinez kept rubbing the back of his head. No one really spoke. It wasn’t needed.

When the evac truck pulled up, loud, armored, dust blooming behind it, Natasha helped load gear and guided everyone in without a word. You moved slowly, one hand pressed against your ribs. Natasha walked behind you like a shadow.

Once inside, the door slammed shut, and the world became metal and vibration. She sat across from you, arms crossed, eyes scanning. Always working. Always watching. You hated how it made you feel: weak. Exposed. Like you were wasting everyone’s time.

You shifted your weight, and of course, she noticed.

“You’re not deadweight.” she said suddenly, voice low so only you could hear.

You blinked. “I didn’t say any-”

“You didn’t have to.”

Your eyes met. And in that moment, you saw something different. Not softness. Not warmth.

Just…truth. That she meant it. And somehow, that meant more than sympathy ever could. The gates opened, and the vehicle rolled to a halt near the med tent. The second the doors opened, the heat surged in again, and with it, movement.

Medics were waiting, already briefed. Rae climbed out first, joking with the first responder about “light trauma and one badass bruise.” Martinez waved off help but got pulled anyway. Gage limped a little, grunting, but fine.

You hesitated. Your hand hovered over the wall of the truck before you pushed yourself upright and stepped down. Natasha, already waiting at the foot of the ramp, holding both your packs.

She handed off her own to a supply officer without looking. Then, she looked at the medic. “Possible rib trauma. Checked for internal signs. Minimal distress response.”

The medic nodded, gesturing you toward the tent. You didn’t move right away and Natasha stepped closer. “Go. Get checked. I’ll hold your gear.”

“…Sargent-”

“It’s an order.”

You sighed, and finally moved, ducking into the med tent, your heart pounding harder than it had during the blast. And behind you, you didn’t have to look to know..She was still watching.

You sat on the field cot, back straight, hands clenched in your lap. Sweat clung to your lower back despite the chilled air blowing through the tent. The sounds around you were all soft: a pair of boots pacing on the canvas floor, the rustle of a clipboard, the distant hum of a generator.

“Name?” the medic asked, a pen poised over your file.

“Y/l/n.” you answered hoarsely.

“Last four?”

You rattled them off. The medic nodded, jotting.

“Pain scale?”

“…Five.”

The medic gave you a glance that said: You’re full of shit. You exhaled. “Seven. Maybe.”

He crouched in front of you, pulled up your shirt with permission, and pressed gently at the bruises on your right side. Your jaw locked. His fingers were clinical, impersonal and fast, but the second he hit the impact point, your whole body flinched.

“No fracture.” he murmured. “Just deep bruising. Pulmonary signs are clear, no coughing blood, no fluid. You lucked out.”

He stood, marked something down. “I’m clearing you for limited movement only. No drills, no fieldwork, no gear for four days. Compression wrap, painkillers if you want them, rest. Understood?”

You nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The medic handed you a printed sheet, already signed. “Dismissed.”

You didn’t ask questions. You just grabbed your jacket and left the tent. Inside your container, you leaned against the door for a long moment. The silence was suffocating. Your gear was still off. Your skin was sticky with sand and dried sweat. Your ribs ached.

You paced. Sat. Stood. Sat again. Your hands wouldn’t stop fidgeting, twitching against your thighs. You kept hearing the boom. Kept feeling the side of the vehicle lifting, the brief, weightless moment before impact.

What if it was closer?

What if it wasn’t just bruises?

What if-?

Your breath hitched when someone knocked at your door. You swallowed, stood quickly. “Rae?” you called, half-expecting the familiar teasing voice.

But it wasn’t. When you opened the door, your stomach dropped.

Natasha.

Still in uniform. Hair tied back, boots dusty, jaw tense. She held your gear in one hand, the pack, the vest, your weapon, cleaned and locked.

“I figured you’d want your stuff.” she said quietly.

You blinked. “I-I was gonna grab it later-”

“You didn’t,” she said. “So I did.”

You stepped back, unsure of yourself. “Right. Thanks.”

She entered. Her presence filled the room without effort. She set the gear down at the foot of your cot, then looked around briefly, checking, scanning. Habit.

“How’re the ribs?”

“Bruised. Four days off.”

She nodded once. “Could’ve been worse.”

You let out a quiet laugh that didn’t sound right. “Yeah, I figured.” Your jaw tensed. “I keep thinking…what if it was worse?”

Silence.

“I mean-” you shook your head. “If the blast was stronger, if I wasn’t sitting how I was, if I didn’t grab the frame in time?”

Your chest rose sharply. “I keep picturing it. Over and over. My body crushed. Legs gone. Bleeding out. Rae screaming.”

You pressed your hand against your sternum. The panic was rising now, hot and fast. “I can’t stop it. It just keeps looping. And I know it’s over, but it doesn’t feel over, and-“

Natasha crossed the space between you before you could finish. “If it was worse.” she said flatly, “you’d be zipped into a body bag right now.”

You froze. Breath stopped. She didn’t blink. “You’d be cold. On a gurney. Covered head to toe. With someone else writing your death report while they washed blood off the walls of a truck.”

The words were brutal, but her voice softened.

“But you’re not.”

Your hands were shaking. “You’re breathing. You’re sore. But you’re here. And that means you get the choice to recover.”

She didn’t touch you. But she didn’t leave, either. Your body trembled again, and your knees nearly gave out. You braced yourself on the edge of the cot, tears welling, not from pain, not exactly. From shock. From survival.

“I’m sorry..” you whispered.

“No.” she said sharply. “Don’t apologize. You’re reacting like a human. That’s allowed.”

You pressed your fist to your mouth. She crouched then, not to her knees, but just enough to be eye-level.

“You’re not weak.” she said. “You’re processing. That’s what happens when you realize how close you were.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Your eyes were glassy. Then, slowly, she reached to her own side. Pulled her vest away. Unclipped the top buttons of her uniform, just slightly.

And there, beneath the collarbone, was a jagged, faded scar. Long, pale, old.

“I got this in Fallujah.” she said, voice even. “Close quarters. My partner went down. I hesitated.”

She paused.

“I watched someone die because I wasn’t fast enough. And I almost joined them.”

You stared.

“I have twelve scars like that. Some you can see. Some you can’t.”

Silence, then, “Why are you telling me this?”

Her eyes didn’t leave yours. “Because I don’t want you to think fear makes you less of a soldier.”

Your lip trembled. You looked down at the floor, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

She didn’t say anything. She just sat beside you on the cot. The quiet sat heavy between you. You hadn’t spoken for a few minutes. Not since the scar. Not since the cot shifted slightly under your weight and your ribs throbbed, reminding you you were alive, and maybe that was the worst part.

You weren’t sure what pulled your eyes to Natasha’s hands, still resting against her knees, knuckles scuffed, veins taut under pale skin, but you stared. Until your gaze climbed up again. Until your eyes met.

And stayed. Your voice broke the silence. “You weren’t supposed to stay.”

Natasha’s brow twitched. “What?”

“with all due respect..You weren’t supposed to check in. Bring my gear. Sit here. Talk like this.” Your throat tightened. “You’re not here for me. You’re not supposed to be.”

Natasha’s face didn’t move. But something behind her eyes flickered. “You want me to leave?”

The silence between you curled tight. Natasha didn’t stand. Didn’t move an inch. Just stared at you with a kind of weight you could feel pressing against your skin.

“No.” you said finally, breath catching.

Natasha’s shoulders eased, barely. Her voice dropped, low and even. “Then don’t ask me to.”

The air between you shifted. Hot and thick. Your ribs ached, but you barely noticed. You were still sitting so close. Shoulders brushing. Legs almost touching. And your eyes..Didn’t move.

Your heart thudded. Your breath shook. Your mind screamed don’t, but something else, something deep in your chest..whispered do it.

And you leaned in. Not fast or dramatic. Just drawn. Like gravity pulling you into a space you didn’t fully understand. Your lips parted. You could feel Natasha’s breath. Your foreheads almost touched. Your fingers twitched against the cot.

The container door burst open. “Y/N, YOU HAve-”

You and Natasha jumped apart like you’d been struck by lightning. Rae stopped dead in the doorway, half-crouched like she expected to see an ambush or a rat. Her eyes scanned the room-

And landed squarely on Natasha. “…oh shit.” Rae blurted, going rigid. Her hand shot up into a textbook salute. “Sargent-!”

Natasha stood, fast. Smooth. Like nothing had happened. Her face locked down so fast it was like flipping a switch. “At ease.”

Rae dropped her hand, but her eyes were massive.

“Sorry, I didn’t.. I thought- I was just-“

“It’s fine.” Natasha said coolly. “I was just leaving.”

She looked at you one more time, just a flicker. Something unreadable in her eyes. Then she was out the door before either of you could speak.

The door clicked shut behind her. Silence. You sat there, stunned.

“Oh my god..!” Rae hissed.

You turned slowly. “Don’t.”

“No. No, no, no- do not tell me I just walked in on you about to kiss the actual, living, breathing, deadly Natasha Romanoff.”

You groaned. “Rae-”

Rae pointed dramatically. “YOU. And HER. Two seconds closer and I would’ve walked in on a war crime.”

“We didn’t even-”

“Oh please, you were inhaled.”

You threw a pillow at her. Rae caught it mid-air like a grenade.

“I need answers.” she said, flopping down beside you. “I want timelines. Did she smell good? Did your knees go weak? Did you black out?!”

You buried your face in your hands. “She brought my gear and I was having a moment..”

“Oh honey, she was the moment.”

You groaned again. And Rae just grinned, vibrating with uncontainable delight. “God, I love this deployment.”

The evening air was cooler now, desert heat giving way to a quiet stillness that only came at night. The stars were just beginning to claim the sky. Someone had dragged a crate and a few foldable chairs into a loose circle, cards already being shuffled by Martinez while Johnson argued with Rae over something dumb.

You sat a little stiffly, one arm curled around your ribs, the dull ache still lingering, manageable now. Rae had all but dragged you out of the container after your Natasha-escape scene with a look that said you’re not hiding from this.

And maybe Rae was right. You needed normal. So now you sat, legs stretched, an energy drink in your hand, trying to laugh at Martinez’s awful bluff and ignore the way your heart still hadn’t calmed.

“You in or what?” Gage asked, grinning.

You blinked. “Yeah. Deal me.”

Cards slapped the crate. Talk flowed. Rae kept giving you that I know what you almost did smirk every time your eyes met. You elbowed her once. Not that it helped.

And then, Boot-steps and low voices. Two shadows joined the edge of the circle. Natasha and Maria Hill - Sergeant of Unit 3.

Hill had her sleeves rolled, casual but sharp-eyed, a cigarette tucked behind her ear. Natasha looked the same as always: unreadable. Confident. Steady. Her gaze flicked across the group once before settling, briefly..on you. You felt it like a pin pushed into skin.

Hill smirked. “What, no invite?”

Johnson scrambled. “Always room at the table, ma’am.”

The group shifted, made space. Hill pulled up a chair. Natasha took one beside her.

Rae nearly vibrated next to you, nudging you under the crate with her boot. You gave her the look of death and pretended you weren’t aware of anything except the five of hearts in your hand.

The game went on.

Talk drifted between units. Some mission banter. Some teasing. Gage bragging about a shot he definitely didn’t make. Hill cursing about someone in command. Natasha barely said anything, just played her hand cleanly, collecting wins without reaction.

You tried to be normal. Tried to breathe. You even cracked a joke about Johnson’s poker face, which earned a real laugh from Maria. But Natasha… Natasha didn’t laugh. She just watched you for a second too long.

One by one, people started heading out. Hill was first, clapping Natasha’s shoulder. “I’m gonna grab rounds with the command team. You staying?”

Natasha just nodded. Rae followed not long after, mouthing good luck to you like this was a goddamn battlefield. And then, it was just the two of you.

You and Natasha. The cards. The stars. The low hum of distant base activity. And a silence that grew thick.

You played in it. Two more hands. Quiet shuffles. Hands folded. Cards drawn-

“I made you uncomfortable.”

You looked up. Natasha wasn’t looking at you. She was adjusting her cards.

Your chest tightened. “What?”

“Earlier. In the container.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Natasha glanced at you, quick, sharp. But not cold.

“You don’t have to explain. But I saw it.”

You looked down at your hand. Queen, seven, ace. Crap..

“I wasn’t uncomfortable.” you said. And Natasha didn’t speak.

“I was…” You exhaled. “Caught off guard. And you’re..” Your voice dropped. “You’re you.”

Natasha set down her hand slowly. King, ten. Beat you easily. “I’m not used to getting that close with anyone out here..” you added.

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “That makes two of us.”

The words landed like a stone dropped in water. You sat with it. Then she picked up the deck, started shuffling again. Not looking at you. Hands steady.

“I don’t let people in easily.” she said, quiet now. “Especially not soldiers I’m responsible for. It complicates things.”

You swallowed. “So…earlier was a mistake?”

A long pause. Natasha looked up. Eyes steady. Locked on yours.

“No.”

Your breath caught. “But it’s not something we can rush. Or take lightly.”

You nodded. You understood that. All of it. The chain of command. The danger. The risk.

Still.. “I didn’t want you to leave.”

Natasha’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Good.”

You played one more round in silence. And when Natasha finally stood, gathering her cards, she paused. Looked down at you.

“Get some rest.” she said softly. And then added, just for you, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And you? You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips.

-

-

-

-

(Original picture of the vehicle who drove on a deterniation)

[sunrizef1]

Lost in Japan

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader

Warnings: None, cursing

Authors Note: I was almost done with a max fic and this song overtook my mind until I finished this. Also trust, I will be using bear as a nickname for Oscar in every fic from now on.

Summary: Lost in Japan by Shawn Mendes

Word Count: 5.1k (this was supposed to be short)

Oscar was bored. Lando was off celebrating a successful weekend somewhere out in the city of Shanghai while Oscar was sat alone in his hotel room waiting for the flight McLaren has organized to get him back to England. He hadn’t won. He hadn’t even gotten a podium. So there wasn’t much for him to be exactly thrilled about. So instead, he was just scrolling through his phone, checking various social media apps before he finally landed on Instagram.

He clicked on the first Instagram story at the top of his page, which happened to be Lando’s. He ignored the pictures of him celebrating at some party, tapping through the various shots of him getting more and more inebriated. He was with Max and Charles at the party so Oscar wasn’t too concerned. He clicks through a few more people stories before landing on a specific one that makes him slow down.

Oscar stares at his phone screen, eyes glazing over your Instagram story. He’s clicking through passively, pausing as he gets to one of you at dinner the night before. He lets it play out but quickly clicks back when he notices the Tokyo, Japan tag that you’ve placed near the top of the screen.

As Oscar stares at the picture, trying to take in every detail, he’s struck by an idea. He clicks out of the app, opens up his messages and navigates to your contact, already standing up from his hotel room bed to grab his already packed suitcase.

It didn’t look like he’d be using that plane ticket back to England after all. He clicks the call button under your name, holding the phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he grabs his things, exiting the room after he slides his backpack on.

The phone rings for a bit too long, making Oscar slightly worried that you wouldn’t pick up but it does eventually connect and Oscar is met with the sound of your voice filtering through the phone speaker. The door shuts with a soft click behind the Aussie as he steps into the hallway.

“Hello, Oscar,” you hum through the phone. Oscar can practically hear the smirk on your lips even through the low quality iPhone speaker.

Oscar huffs a laugh at your tone, dragging his suitcase behind him as he walks down the hall, “Hi, y/n.”

"What can I do for you?” you ask and Oscar can hear shuffling from your end of the call. As the words leave your lips, he reaches the elevator, tapping the button on the wall to call it to his floor.

“Do you have plans tonight?” Oscar reaches the point quickly, trapping the phone back between his shoulder and ear as the elevator opens and he steps in, tapping the lobby button.

You pause for a second, proccessing the question and contemplating your answer, “Besides falling asleep in a few hours? Nope.”

Oscar hums, pulling the phone into his hands and typing impatiently into google as you speak. He finds the soonest, and nicest, flight to Japan he could, purchasing the ticket without a second thought.

“Why?”

Oscar freezes for a moment, looking up from the ticket he'd just bought to narrow his eyes at the elevator door, “I saw you're in Japan-”

“Oh, so you're stalking me now?” Oscar rolls his eyes as you laugh through your question, painting the image of your grinning face in the Aussies mind.

“Shut up, no, anyway-,” Oscar sighs, dragging his suitcase out of the elevator as it reaches the lobby, “Im in Shanghai, I thought I'd fly over to see you.”

Your silence on the other end of the line is deafening. Oscar even checks to make sure the call is still connected due to how quiet you were. Taking your lack of response as a bad sign, Oscar starts to ramble, hoping to do a bit of damage control, “Just because I'm only a couple hundred miles away and the race is over and I'm bored. Its just been so long since we were so close, especially during the season and I miss y-”

“When does your flight leave?”

Oscar, who’d frozen on the sidewalk outside the hotel, unfreezes to gesture for a taxi. It was only a five-minute drive to the airport from the place Mclaren had been staying so he hoped this wouldn't take too long. He mutes for a moment to tell the driver to take him to the airport. The driver nods, pulling away from the curb.

“Uhhhh-” Oscar navigates through his phone to check his flight details as he sits back in his seat, “Half an hour?”

“Ooh, you better hurry then,” You hum, a playful tone laced through your words, “Dont want to miss it.”

Oscar laughs happily, just glad to hear you joking along. He does find some reality in your words though, doing the math to see if he even had enough time to make his flight. He was honestly running on hopes and prayers at this point.

“What made you suddenly so inclined to fly to Japan on a random Sunday?” Your voice pulls Oscar out of his thoughts and he pauses, smiling abashedly as the answer comes to his head.

“Just can't get you off my mind.”

Oscar can’t see you. But if he could, he'd see a warm smile carved onto your face due to the warmth his statement had caused.

“I don't know Osc, I'm actually pretty tired. Might just head to bed,” Oscar rolls his eyes as you try and stifle your giggle.

“Do I need to convince you to stay awake, then?”

You huff a laugh, humming in affirmation, “I’d love to hear it.”

“Well,” Oscar starts, racking his mind for some suggestions of what to say to get you to agree to this, “You don't miss me?”

“I never said that,” You reply quickly. Oscar raises an eyebrow, head falling back against the seat as he trys not to groan.

“So you do miss me?”

You hum quietly, the sound almost too low for Oscar to hear it through the phone, “Maybe a little bit.”

The Aussie chuckles, “I thought so.”

“Can you blame me? It's been a while. I miss my favourite koala bear,” Oscar gets the sense that the words were meant to come out teasing but he can't help but notice how genuine they sound. He laughs nonetheless.

He's about to respond when the cab comes to a sudden stop and he looks out the window to see the airport in front of him.

“Shit, I'm here.”

Oscar swings his backpack onto his shoulders, rifling through a pocket to find enough cash to hand to the driver, not really considering an exact amount and, instead, just asking the driver if that was enough. When the driver tries to hand change back, Oscar leans away, grasping the door handle to swing the door open to get out. He grabs his suitcase as well, leaning down to shout back into the car.

“Keep the change, thanks mate!” Oscar shuts the door, dragging his suitcase behind him as the cab drives away.

“Such a gentleman, I take it you're at the airport now?” you tease him, a genuine questioning tilt laced in your words.

Oscar nods before remembering you can't see him, “Yeah, just got out of the car.”

Oscar rushes through the large door, holding it open for an older woman to walk through before he steps in past her. He glances around the room, trying to find airport security so he could get to his gate.

“You gonna make your flight?” you seem to be finding a lot of amusement in his frantic rushing.

Oscar huffs, pinning his phone between his cheek and shoulder to check his watch. He still had about twenty-five minutes to get to his plane.

“Twenty minutes,” he responds, walking quickly down the hall when he spots a sign directing him that way.

“Ooh! Ah, I have faith in you. If you're anywhere near as fast as you are on the track I'm sure you'll be fine.”

Oscars eyes trail over the hall, locking onto the security gates and causing him to walk a little quicker, “You watch the race today?”

You don't respond for a few minutes but when you do, your voice is a lot more calm than it had been a few moments before, “Mhm. You did good Os.”

Oscar lets out a sigh, shaking his head as a grin fights its way into his lips, “Thanks, I'm glad you think so.”

Oscar steps into the security line, grateful for the fact that there are only a few people in front of him. He ignores the weird glance the old lady in front of him sends his way as he rushes to a stop behind her, replying with a tight smile.

“Its not just me, Osc,” you reply, sensing his disdain for the days race through the phone, “Everyone thinks you did well.”

Oscar hums, stepping up a few steps as a couple of people pass through, leaving just the old lady in front of him. As he reaches the bag scanners, he pins his phone on his shoulder again to lift his bag up onto the conveyor belt, tossing his bag down beside it.

“One second,” Oscar responds, muting his phone to drop it into a bowl along with his airpods, sending them through along with his bags.

After he's put all his things on the belt, he steps away, walking through the metal detector when the agent signals for him to go.

It takes a few moments for the agents to check his bags but when they come through he pulls the suitcase off and sets it beside him, turning back to slide his backpack over his shoulders. He slides his AirPods into his hoodie pocket and picks up his phone, unmuting the call before walking away, his suitcase in tow.

“Im back,” Oscar clicks away from the call for a few seconds to check his flight details before putting the phone back to his ear.

“Did I just get sent through a security scanner?” you sound amused and Oscar can practically see your smirk just from the tone of your voice.

“Didnt want to hang up,” he grumbles, searching the signs above him for his gate, walking quickly when he spots it. A clock on the wall indicates that he's still got 15 minutes to get to his flight. He thinks about it for a few moments, quickly realizing that it was 15 minutes until scheduled takeoff and boarding would actually end in five minutes.

“Im honored-”

“Fuck!” Oscar cuts you off, too busy now sprinting down the airport corridor to think about that fact, “Shit! I'm gonna miss it!”

You don't respond for a few seconds but you eventually do, a loud laugh echoing from your throat as you take in his situation.

“Oh my god, are you late for boarding? Osc!” you laugh, the image of the driver sprinting down the hall engrained in your head.

He doesn't reply, the phone now down near his hip as he runs to his gate. The run feels like an hour but, in reality, was only actually a few minutes, the clocks on the walls ticking down as if mocking the Aussies poor planning.

He finds some kind of respite, though, as he finally gets to the gate, slowing down as he steps up to the gate agent. The lady seems surprised to see him run up but she doesn't turn away, instead glancing him up and down with a concerned look before responding.

“Hi! Do you have your ticket?” the woman is surprisingly kind about the question, especially considering she had been preparing to leave as he'd rocked up.

Oscar nods, still trying to catch his breath. He pulls his phone open to navigate to the ticket, facing the QR code forward for the agent to scan. She does so before nodding politely and leading him down the path toward the plane.

Oscar lets out a sight of relief and lifts the phone back up to his face, “I made it.”

Your laugh has calmed down but you snort at his almost war-torn sounding voice, his strife obvious due to his lack of breath, “Congrats, man.”

He gets lead onto the plane, thanking the woman who'd brought him and smiling at the flight attendants as he walks a few steps past them. He finds his seat, dropping his phone onto it to lift his phone and stow it away in the overhead bin. He grabs his phone and sits down, relaxing into the seat after setting his backpack on the ground.

“I’ll be in Japan in a few hours,” He says, running hand over his face, “See you there, yeah?”

You hum, “See you there, bear.”

Oscar ignores the nickname, pretending it didn't make him smile, “Im gonna hang up now, promise you won't be asleep when I land?”

You laugh, “I promise, Oscar. I'll even go get a red bull for some extra energ-”

“Yeah, nope. Goodbye.” Oscar interrupts before you can endorse the rival team.

“Bye koala bear,” you respond and the phone clicks softly as you hang up. Oscar sets the phone down to pull his airpods out of his pocket, connecting them in order to watch some movie for the flight.

The flights only a few hours long but it feels a lot longer than that to Oscar. It's a haze of random Netflix shows and bagged pretzels, the monotony of the flight boring Oscar out of his mind.

He's relieved when the plane touches down, his proximity to the front of the plane allowing him to stand up and grab his things fairly quickly. Its about 9 pm local time, the sky outside not shedding any light through the plane windows.

Oscar walks out into the airport, grateful to be off the cramped plane and finally move his legs again. He stops at one of the few shops still open to buy an overpriced bottle of water, pausing as he spots a bag of those haribo peach rings you like so much. He doesn't think much as he grabs the bag, throwing it onto the counter beside his bottle and offering the cashier a polite smile.

After paying, he grabs the bottle and the bag, grasping them in the same hand as he pulls his suitcase along with the other one.

He strolls through the airport, trying to rid himself of the fatigue from the race and the plane ride. The only thing keeping him from falling asleep was the thought of seeing you again.

Speaking of you, Oscar doesn't realize he has no idea where you were staying or where you were until he's stepped out of the airport doors, standing on the sidewalk with his suitcase sat next to him. He tries to recall if you'd told him anything about your Japan trip or even if he'd seen anything on your story but he comes up empty.

He clicks on your contact, pressing the phone to his ear as the call rings. He frowns as you decline, confused as to why you'd hang up.

He's just about to walk back inside to wait when a car horn honks, causing Oscar to look up in front of him.

His eyes widen as they lock onto an orange Mclaren 570s Coupe, the car shining beautifully under the street lights. As he stands and admires the car ahead of him, the window closest to him rolls down and he sees your head duck down to lock eyes with him.

“You getting in?”

He laughs incredulously, opening the passenger side door and carefully sliding his suitcase into the small storage space behind the seats.

He sets his backpack on the floor below him, flopping back into the sear and sliding his seatbelt on. He sets his water down and tosses the bag of peach rings into your lap, “Nice car.”

“Thanks,” you reply brightly, eyes widening as you observe the bag of candy before moving it into your hoodie pocket, “Thought id go all out with the rental for the few days I'm here.”

Oscar hums, glancing around the nice car, coincidentally a Papaya McLaren. He refused the urge to ask you if you'd been thinking of him when you'd picked the vehicle.

After you make sure his seatbelts on, you pull away from the airport terminal and navigate onto the main road, pressing play on your playlist to let music filter quietly through the speakers.

The car glides smoothly down the streets of Tokyo, bright lights reflecting off the sides of your face. Oscar looks your way, completely aware that your attention was locked on the road, giving him the free pass to admire you.

Your eyes dart around the road in front of you, neon lights reflected in your irises. Your teeth dig at your lower lip, chewing lightly as turn the car. You’ve got one hand on the wheel, the other one moving around between the center console and the fraying edge of your shorts. You're wearing a quadrant hoodie and Oscar can't tell if its his or if you both just owned the same hoodie. The fit didn't help, he knew you bought your hoodies oversized anyway.

You glance over as you come to a stop at a red light, grinning when you see his eyes on you.

“What?” You ask, laughing slightly as you lean back from the wheel, splitting your attention between the road and Oscars face.

Oscar shakes his head with a small smile, his own attention turning out the window as you drive through the green light.

“Have you eaten?”

Oscar shakes his head, “Nah.”

You nod, taking the next turn to pull into a parking lot, stopping the car after you find a spot. You step out and Oscar takes this as his cue to get out as well, shutting the car door gently behind him.

When Oscar gets around the car, he finds you leaning against the edge, your feet crossed as you wait for him. He steps to your side and you push off the car, the familiar beep of it locking ringing out as you walk away.

As you both walk toward the restaurant, you step into Oscar's side and he’s quick to swing an arm over your shoulder. You wrap an arm around his torso, reaching the other up to tangle your fingers with his.

He's only slightly disappointed when you have to drop his hand in order to open the door. But you keep your hand against his ribs and he keeps his arm around your shoulders, not ready to let you go yet.

The second his feet pass the threshold of the building, he's hit with some of the most delicious scents he'd smelled in his life. This late at night there isn't much action apart from a few stragglers who Oscar assumes had just gotten off work and needed a bite to eat.

An older man swings around the corner from the kitchen, faint food stains gracing his otherwise white apron. He has a huge grin on his face and it only increases when he sees you. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, wiping off the steam that had accumulated on the lenses.

“Ah! You're back again!” The man calls out to the pair of you. Although his words do make Oscar assume the man was mostly talking to you, “And you brought your boyfriend!”

You don't correct the man and after seeing the grin on your face, Oscar doesn't either.

“Yeah, he just got in from Shanghai. Haven't had dinner yet.”

“Go, go,” the man smiles, pointing toward the dining room, “Sit where you want, ill get to you in a second.”

The man waves you both toward the tables and you step out of Oscar’s grasp. He doesn't have to be disappointed for long as you wrap your hand in his to lead him through the restaurant, stopping at a booth before sliding in. Oscar slides in the seat opposite of you, his legs knocking against yours under the table.

Quickly, the man, who Oscar now assumes is the owner, comes over to the table, setting down two glasses of water and a pair of menus in front of the both of you.

“You know what you want?” The man grins as he gestures toward you, seemingly familiar to you. Oscar takes a sip of his water, letting the coop liquid run down his throat.

You nod happily, “Yeah, I think so.”

The man pulls out a small notebook to write down whatever you say and you continue by saying a few different dishes, the only one Oscar having had before being sushi. He doesn't say anything, knowing that you knew more about this place and the menu than he did.

After you're done ordering, the man walks away and strolls into the kitchen, handing the order to the woman behind the counter before placing a small kiss on her cheek.

Oscar looks back to you, a small smile on his face after seeing the couple who seemed to be running the restaurant themselves, “You’ve been here before, then?”

You nod, leaning over to take a sip from your glass, “Yeah, came here yesterday for lunch.”

Oscar hums, glancing out of the booth to look around the room. Paintings and neon signs decorate the walls and what seems to be photographs taken in the restaurant all line the wall by the entrance. Oscar can vaguely see that the photos of are different people posing, all with happy looks on their faces. He huffs a breathy laugh when he sees one of you with your friends.

The time spent waiting for your food is filled with casual conversation, Oscar asking a lot of questions about how your Tokyo trip had been so far.

You don't ask about the race. There's some kind of unspoken understanding that Oscar had run to Japan to get away from racing for once. Here, with you, Oscar wasn't Mclaren racing driver, Oscar Piastri, he was just Oscar. Or “Bear”, as you called him. A nickname that you seemed unable to let go of. Oscar pretended to be annoyed every time you said it but he couldn't deny the smile that formed every time he heard the Australia-themed moniker.

“Bear?” There it is. Oscar looks up with a raised eyebrow, deducing that you'd asked a question he hadn't answered.

“I asked if you're staying with me tonight.”

Oscar snorts before smirking, shaking his head as he locks eyes with you, “Yeah, wouldn't dream of being anywhere else.”

You blush, looking down toward the table, past meals having left vague food stains on the wood.

Before you can respond, the man returns, plates and bowls balancing in his hands. You look up politely, smiling as the man starts to place the food on the table, “Thank you so much.”

The man grins as he places down the last plate, “Of course. Enjoy.”

He walks away and you turn toward Oscar who stares vaguely at the food in front of him, “Dig in.”

You make a move for your chopsticks, looking over the food before taking a bite of whatever is immediately in front of you. Oscar glances around, not sure where to start.

Noticing his hesitancy, you pick up a piece of what you'd been eating and bring it up toward his lips, pulling back after Oscar bites into it.

“What is this?” Oscar asks as he chews, covering his mouth as he speaks. Whatever it is, it's pretty good, having a light and slightly sweet flavour. Its also a bit more rubbery than chicken, but its pretty good nonetheless.

You swallow your own bite, having scooped up some rice along with it, “Unagi. Grilled eel.”

The only indication of Oscar's surprise is his widened eyes but after a few seconds, he reaches over to take another bite, humming as he chews on the eel. You smile, moving on to grab some kind of skewer.

You slowly move through the foods, explaining each one to Oscar as he tries them.

They're all good but Oscar's favourite is the yakitori, the skewers of grilled chicken. By the time you've finished the food on the table, Oscar is about ready to pass out.

So you pay as soon as you can, Oscar grumbling about his inability to pay for the meal, lacking the proper currency. He does Venmo you when you put your phone down, though.

The owner makes playful conversation with you, thanking you for coming around and telling you you're welcome back anytime. Oscar just stands with his head on top of yours, trying not to fall asleep.

You're about to leave when the man calls you back and you turn around to see him holding a camera in his hands, “For the wall? Need to remember the happy couple.”

You laugh, glancing around to see the many many photos of various friend groups on the wall behind you, turning back around with a soft look as you nod. You lean into Oscar who wraps an arm around you, tilting his head toward you. You tangle your hand with the one on your shoulder, holding up a peace sign with your other one.

The familiar click of a camera sounds and the man smiles warmly, waving you both out the door, “Have a great time! Thank you for coming!”

You wave goodbye, stepping out of the restaurant and pulling out your keys to unlock the car. Oscar untangles from you to walk to the passenger's side and step in. You drop in as well, setting your phone down in the centre console. Oscar is staring out the window when he feels something drop in his lap and he glances down to see the bag of peach rings he'd bought you.

“Can you open that?” You ask, starting the car and putting it in reverse. You glance over your shoulder as you pull backward, one arm behind Oscars seat and the other on the wheel.

Oscar, at risk of getting caught staring, turns his attention to the candy, ripping the edge and grabbing a few pieces to throw in his mouth.

Once you've got onto the main road, you hold out a hand and Oscar drops a couple pieces which you proceed to eat.

The drive is quiet, the both of you feeling the exhaustion of the day catch up to you. You eventually pull up to the hotel, stopping the car and stepping out. Not before grabbing more candy from Oscar, though.

Oscar leans over to grab his suitcase, stepping out of the car and sliding his backpack on. He grabs his water bottle from the airport, stuffing it into the bottle compartment on the side of the bag. He looks up and starts walking, stepping by your side as you enter the hotel. You stroll through the lobby, leading both of you to the elevator.

As the elevator starts moving up, you both lean against the wall, letting the quiet music be the only sound beside a couple yawns.

The elevator dings as it passes each floor. Oscar watches as you dig your key card out of your pocket, running your fingers along the edge absently.

The doors slide open, leading you to walk out, Oscar in tow. You drift down the hall, humming along to whatever song was playing in your head. Oscar vaguely recognizes it as Taylor Swift.

When you reach your room, you scan your card and push the door open, holding it to let Oscar pass through.

He does, pushing his suitcase next to the far side of the bed. He can hear you setting your things down, the familiar clink of keys on glass ringing out in the otherwise quiet room.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” he says lowly, sliding past you and into the attached bathroom. He can hear you hum in affirmation just before he shuts the door.

When he emerges, you're sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling off your shoes before tossing them on the floor. You’ve taken off your hoodie (or Oscars) and its not lain over the chair across the room.

You glance up, smiling as you see the Aussie walk out, “Hi.”

Oscar huffs amusedly, sliding off his own shoes as he walks toward you, “Hi.”

You hum, looking up as he walks closer to you before leaning slightly to angle his face toward yours. You both pause for a few moments, waiting to see who'd break the stand-off first.

It ends up being you, as you pull his face down towards yours, your kiss almost searing. The kiss feels like it lasts a lifetime and Oscar almost wishes it could. He does pull away, though, just to move you away from the edge of the bed, smiling when he hears your laugh ring out after he's practically tossed you onto the mattress.

He moves up as well and before he can even get his bearings, you're pulling him back down again, hands in his hair and your lips on his.

The next morning, Oscars awoken by the sound of your quiet laugh. He rolls over with a tired groan, wrapping his other arm around your torso.

“What are you laughing at?” he grumbles, tiredness clear in his voice.

You turn to face him, looking impossibly beautiful for having just woken up. You hold your phone toward him and Oscar glances down at the screen before looking back up at your face with a questioning glance.

“Lando sent me a video this morning,” you start, closing your phone and tossing it aside to grasp his tired face between your hands, “Its quite funny.”

“What was it?” Oscar mumbles, leaning to press a small kiss on your forehead.

You lean back, looking him in the eyes and seemingly trying to hide your smirk, “It's a video of his teammate sprinting through the Shanghai airport.”

Oscar groans, trying to ignore your warm laugh, “Fuck.”

He's not really mad, not when the video was the source of your happiness right now.

There were a lot worse sights to wake up to than your happy face beside him.

——————————————————

Tags: @casperlikej @evie-119

[twstowo]

Their Magicam Accounts[Twst]

♡︎How I think their Magicam Accounts would look and what they do in them.

♡︎This was been catching dust in my drafts for months now. Crazy

♡︎Includes: NRC, RSA and Rollo

⋆⋅☆Riddle: Owns two accounts on Magicam. The first one is only used to like or comment on posts from friends, Carter set up this account against Riddle’s will. He once accidentally posted a picture of the two of you and had a heart attack trying to delete it. The second account is a secret one where he only posts hedgehog pictures.

⋆⋅☆Trey: Has one account where most of his posts showcase his cakes, including pictures from unbirthday parties and moments of you cooking with him. His profile picture is him with that dog filter, you can’t change my mind.

⋆⋅☆Carter: Literally Owns Magicam, posting pictures every time he does something or is with someone. #Thevoicesarewinning. Comments on every post and totally knows that Riddle owns the hedgehog account. He also has a side account for stalking people. Changes his profile picture daily.

⋆⋅☆Ace: Initially only posted embarrassing pictures of people and would only take them down if they paid him. Got suspended quickly from Magicam. The second account is more relaxed, where he shares random content whenever he feels like it. He’s also the type to edit group pictures to make everyone look bad except himself, just to annoy everyone.

⋆⋅☆Deuce: Was the one who reported Ace’s first account since most pictures were of him. Has Shaky pictures, the best picture he has is one of him, Ace, and you together. Probably uses social media mostly for chatting with friends. Also, he, Ace, and you have one of those quirky couple profile pics.

⋆⋅☆Leona: Owns an account with no posts, profile picture, comments, or followers. Rarely uses Magicam, but he occasionally checks your posts.

⋆⋅☆Ruggie: Uses Magicam for selling stuff. Created a group for selling second-hand items and pins all his stuff to ensure faster sales than everyone else.

⋆⋅☆Jack: Gym pictures? Nah, I feel he’d be too shy for that. Probably has one image that he uses everywhere else just to identify himself.

⋆⋅☆Azul: Opened an account to promote Mostro Lounge, daily posts feature new dishes, prices, menus, and sales. He also has a personal account but doesn’t post (doesn’t think he looks nice in pictures).

⋆⋅☆Jade: Mushroom account, has so many followers who share his fascination. Their conversations are all about their mushroom hikes and can last for hours. Makes really aesthetically pleasing posts filled with detailed information about different types of mushrooms.

⋆⋅☆Floyd: For legal reasons I won’t say why, but his account got suspended after one week of its creation.

⋆⋅☆Kalim: Sends party invitations through Magicam, Jamil had to create a group to prevent Kalim from sending individual invitations constantly. Enjoys capturing pictures of the sky. Once posted a picture of Jamil, after it was deleted, he didn't post anything for a whole month, I wonder what happened.

⋆⋅☆Jamil: Similar to Leona, but he often checks Trey’s account for his cake posts. When he saw a picture of you and Trey together, he invited you over to cook with him but didn’t have the courage to ask for a picture of the two of you.

⋆⋅☆Vil: Posts frequently, sharing about himself and his daily routine, always looking impeccable. Regularly receives barking comments, he spends hours deleting all of them.

⋆⋅☆Rook: We all know he has a fan account for Neige. Likes posts of all the celebrities he adores. Writes extremely lengthy comments whenever he finds someone beautiful. He's been blocked so many times he's lost count.

⋆⋅☆Epel: Initially tried taking cute pictures following Vil’s advice but got annoyed as he looked too feminine. Instead, he started promoting stuff from his farm back home.

⋆⋅☆Idia: Uses an account with a weird name to hide his identity, posts about games and occasional activities. Engages in lengthy debates with anyone who disagrees with his new hyperfixation. Has a different notification ring for your posts.

⋆⋅☆Ortho: Shares many pictures of you and him and others doing silly things, sometimes posts gossips and causes huge scandals with them, to the point he decided to create an account with only gossip info. (Azul is literally taking notes.)

⋆⋅☆Malleus: This man owns a Nokia 3310.

⋆⋅☆Lilia: Creates posts about the Doramas he watches, managing a fan page to discuss them with others. Shares pictures of Silver, Sebek, and Malleus, although the latter two get embarrassed, leading Lilia to take down their pictures.

⋆⋅☆Silver: Posts images of nature and cute animals. There's only one picture of him – you took it while he was sleeping and posted it. He didn't have the heart to delete it, knowing it was you.

⋆⋅☆Sebek: Shaky hands #2. Takes pictures of his paintings of Malleus; if you scroll long enough, you might see an accidentally posted painting of you.

⋆⋅☆Che’nya: Shares pictures of people's scared faces, taken while invisible when the flash goes off.

⋆⋅☆Neige: Lost track of his posts; like Vil, he has many followers. Captures moments with the dwarfs and shares funny stories about his day in every picture.

⋆⋅☆Rollo: Has one account filled with pictures of Fleur City. His profile picture used to be a croissant, but he removed it since it looked dumb. He was blocked every magic user, except for you. Yet.

[etheraltides]

Of Tears and Triumphs

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summarize: A quiet morning at the Cameron estate becomes a turning point as the reader grapples with anxiety and a relapse in her eating disorder journey . Rafe, noticing the distress, offers comfort and support, reminding her that nothing is ever lost.

Warning(s): Eating disorders (compulsive eating), body dysmorphia, anxiety, emotional distress (shame, guilt), mental health struggles (depression, self-image issues), substance abuse (reference to past drug use).

A/N: To anyone reading this who is struggling right now, I want you to know that you are not alone. It's okay to feel lost, to feel overwhelmed, and to not have everything figured out. Healing is a journey, and it doesn’t happen overnight. Be kind to yourself, even when it feels impossible. You are so much more than your struggles.

Remember, reaching out for help is a sign of strength, not weakness. There are people – therapists, counselors, loved ones – who can support you through this. You don't have to face it alone, and you deserve to find the peace and healing that’s waiting for you. Please, take the first step towards getting the help you deserve. You are worth it. 💙

The sun had just begun to creep over the horizon, casting a gentle, golden glow over the Cameron estate. Everything was deceptively perfect: the ocean's rhythmic crashing in the distance, the birds that chirped from the tree canopies, and the soft rustle of leaves carried by the morning breeze. Yet beneath this serene surface, a storm brewed in your chest.

You sat on the edge of the bed, legs folded underneath you, the light duvet twisted in your restless fingers. Rafe's side of the bed was empty, the indentation of his head still fresh on the pillow. He'd gone out for an early surf with Kelce and Topper, leaving you alone with your thoughts – a dangerous place to be.

The room felt stifling, the silence pressing into your ears like cotton. You glanced at the old Polaroid on the nightstand. In it, you and Rafe were beaming, arms slung around each other at some summer bonfire weeks before. Your hair was wild from the salt water, and his grin was as reckless as ever. It was weeks after your steady recover, before you tripped and the weight of guilt and shame began pressing down on you like lead.

Yesterday had started normally. You’d woken up with the soft glow of the sun filtering through the curtains, feeling almost optimistic. It wasn’t until you scrolled through Instagram that the first thread of anxiety wove itself around your chest. A picture from a girl you used to know, toned and confident in her bikini, had appeared at the top of your feed. The caption read “Hard work pays off.”

Your thumb froze mid-scroll, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Memories of skipped meals and endless calculations surfaced like unwelcome ghosts. A voice in your head, sharp and familiar, whispered, Why can’t you be like that?

The feeling followed you through the day, clinging like a second skin as your whole algorithmic seemed to sense your mind and show you all the gorgeous and thin girls in your feed. By the time afternoon came, the anxiety had grown into a suffocating mass that sat heavy in your chest. You paced the kitchen, each footstep echoing in your head. The silence was unbearable, the ticking of the clock like a countdown to something inevitable. You knew you weren’t going to settle down or forget until you did it.

The pantry door creaked as you opened it. Your fingers hovered over the neatly stacked items, trembling. Just a little, you told yourself, reaching for a handful of crackers. Just a few so I can cover this awful feeling – some good, old food comfort. But one taste turned into two, and soon, control slipped through your grasp like sand.

You moved on autopilot, the familiar numbness settling in as you grabbed chocolate bars, chips, anything you could find. Each bite was frantic, fueled by desperation and self-loathing. The last spoonful of ice cream melted on your tongue, its sweetness turning bitter as regret surged up, hot and suffocating.

When you came to, the evidence surrounded you: wrappers crumpled like discarded dreams, smudges of chocolate on your hands, the tub of ice cream half-melted on the counter. The kitchen, once a place of comfort, had become a cage, and you were the only prisoner.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you sank to the floor, hugging your knees to your chest. The weight of shame pressed down, crushing and relentless.

This morning, the mirror was your jury, and it was merciless. You tugged at your shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin as if conspiring against you. Your eyes, usually bright with laughter, were rimmed with red, dull and haunted. The internal monologue was relentless:

You’re weak. You’ve ruined everything. How could you let it happen again?

The silence in the house was shattered by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Rafe's voice echoed through the hallway, carefree and light. “Babe? You here?”

You didn’t respond, the shame was too raw, too close. You pulled your knees tighter to your chest, staring blankly at the mirror as if it would offer some kind of reprieve.

Footsteps approached and then paused at the threshold. The room was drenched in the soft, fading sunlight, but it did nothing to lift the heavy atmosphere.

“Hey.” Rafe’s voice softened when he saw you, the smile fading from his lips. Concern clouded his eyes as he took in your hunched form, your tear-streaked cheeks. He set down his phone without a word, crossing the room in three long strides.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low and gentle. He knelt beside you, resting a warm hand on your knee. The weight of his gaze was heavy but not suffocating, it was grounding.

“I messed up.” You whispered, voice breaking. “I messed up so bad.”

Rafe’s brows knitted, and he took a breath, steady and patient. “Talk to me, baby.” he coaxed. When you didn’t reply, he shifted to sit beside you on the floor, pulling you closer.

“I ate. I ate everything yesterday. I couldn’t stop.” you admitted, the words spilling out in a rush. Your voice trembled with the weight of confession. “And now I can’t stand to look at myself or… or to look at food again.”

His jaw clenched, not out of anger but out of a protective frustration. “Hey, hey” he whispered, turning to face you fully. His hands found yours, fingers weaving together with tender insistence. “Listen to me. You are not defined by one moment, alright? Not by yesterday, not by what happened.”

Tears welled up again, and you looked down, unable to meet his eyes. Rafe reached out, tilting your chin up so that you had no choice but to look at his blue eyes. “You were there for me, remember?” he said, his voice thickening. “Every time I messed up, every time I felt like I couldn’t crawl out of that pit with coke. You pulled me through. Don’t you dare think I’m not going to do the same for you. For however long it takes.”

The room stilled, the truth of his words settling into the spaces between the pain and you couldn’t help the sob that escaped your lips. You felt pathetic and mess, and yet Rafe was being understanding and loving – he was treating you like you should treat yourself.

He took your hand, placing a kiss to your palm as his eyes watched you tenderly. “Why don’t you take a nice bath?” he suggested, his voice gentle but firm. “It’ll help you feel a little better.”

You blinked at him, the exhaustion and emotional weight making it difficult to argue. Reluctantly, you nodded, and with a small smile, Rafe guided you to the bathroom, making sure you were settled before stepping out quietly, having lighten up your favorite eucalyptus scented cantle on the way out.

As the warm water wrapped around you, easing the tension in your muscles, Rafe was already in the kitchen, brow furrowed as he watched a YouTube video on his phone, the volume low so you wouldn’t hear. The video was one of those wholesome, comforting cooking channels, and he paid close attention, following each step precisely. He wanted this to be a surprise, a moment where he could make you feel seen and cared for like you had made him feel when he was struggling to keep clean.

Half an hour later, you slipped into one of Rafe’s sweaters, not wanting any fabric hugging your body. The scent of simmering herbs greeting you as you opened the bedroom’s door. Your curiosity piqued, and you made your way to the kitchen to find Rafe standing over the stove, a look of focused concentration on his face as he stirred a pot.

“Rafe?” you called, the sound soft, hesitant.

He turned, a sheepish grin spreading across his face as he caught your surprised expression. “Hey, I thought you could use something warm and comforting.”

“You didn’t have to—” you started, but he interrupted with a warm look.

“Yes, I did,” he said firmly. “It’s just a light soup to warm your stomach and keep you up. Something gentle to help you feel a little more settled.”

A few minutes later, he ladled the soup into a bowl, sliding it in front of you with a spoon. “This is going to be the best soup you’ve ever had.” He promised with a wink.

“And if you can’t eat much, that’s okay but you just gotta try, alright.” He pulled a chair, his arm sneaking around your waist as he brought you to his lap. His hand on your hip brushing a soft pattern under the fabric.

“Thank you.” you whispered, the tightness in your chest easing a little as you blinked a tear away.

Rafe pressed a kiss to the side of your head. “Always,” he said, his voice unwavering. “And remember, we’re in this together. Every single step.”

The first bite was warm and soothing and you felt your cheeks burning as he guided the spoon to your lips but his gentle whispers distracting you from feeling ashamed. He watched, eyes hopeful and patient. “It’s… really good.” you said, a small, genuine smile breaking through.

“Told you.” he grinned proudly, his lips moving to the bare skin on your shoulder. “And if we have to go through this a hundred more times, we will. We’re in this together, okay?”

You nodded, the knot in your chest loosening, replaced with something warm and steadfast. Hope didn’t feel so far out of reach.

“Tomorrow, we’re booking an appointment with the best therapist in Charleston. We’ll find someone who can help, okay? Someone who can give you the support you need.”

The sincerity in his voice brought fresh tears to your eyes. It felt like an embrace, even though he hadn’t moved further.

“You can do this, baby. You’re my tough girl, remember?” He whispered, his hand running up and down in a soothing rhythm on your back as he pressed a kiss to your lips.