#THE BIRDS ARE ALREADY MAKING PREPARATIONS

[helaintoloki]

Promises

part of the Winter Flower universe

pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader, platonic!Steve x reader, platonic!Natasha x reader

warnings: angst, themes of grief and loss, mentions of depression, fluff, events of endgame included

notes: i’ve been wanting to further expand on these characters for a while now, and an anon requested i delve into the impact of the events of IW/endgame on Bucky and reader so i was very excited to write this!

summary: you finally make a life for yourselves in Wakanda only for everything to come crashing down with a single snap. to keep yourself sane, you turn to Steve for remnants of Bucky’s past and a semblance of connection to your missing half

The outskirts of Wakanda are peaceful as you prepare lunch for your family while Bucky tends to the goats outside. Birds chirp serenely by your window, and you can hear the faint laughter of your daughter as she chases after the older children in the grass. You smile faintly at the sound, reminded that here in your new home you are safe. There’s no more hiding, no more running from Hydra or those who wish to tear you and your husband apart, and you can take a breath knowing the worst is finally over.

Your stay in Wakanda has been pivotal to the process of healing the physical and mental wounds left by your captors. Bucky has finally been freed of the Winter Soldier, and your fear of losing him again no longer grips your heart like it once had at every waking moment. Though the serum will always be a part of you both, you know deep in your heart that it isn’t a biological attachment that keeps you together. You were meant to find each other, meant to stay together, and meant to love one another for the rest of time.

If only it was really that simple.

Bucky lifts a bale of hay with a grunt before tossing it into the feeding pen. The activity is tedious considering he can only complete the chore with one hand, but it keeps him busy and content. He likes to contribute what he can to those he will forever be indebted to for taking in his family and offering them asylum. Rosie, having long since tired from playing, sleeps wrapped securely against his back the way the women of the village had taught him to do. Her steady breathing brings a comfort to the man as he works, but it is quickly interrupted by the arrival of the King and his General.

Their demeanors are serious, and he’s able to detect right away that they aren’t here for a friendly visit. His movements falter, his muscles immediately tensing as a guard hastily sets a gilded case down before him and opens the latch. A brand new appendage is presented to him, the metal gleaming under the sunlight and nearly blinding him. Bucky is filled with a sense of dread, and he slowly trails his unnerved gaze up towards T’Challa with unease.

“Where’s the fight?” He prompts solemnly, lips pulling into a thin line and heart beginning to pound in his ribcage. Rosie stirs against him and he feels his chest tighten with agony at the mere possibility of her life being in danger.

“Already on its way,” the King replies gravely. “Ready yourself. Have y/n gather what she needs for herself and your daughter. We must return to the palace quickly.”

Bucky shifts his gaze towards your home and swallows harshly as he pictures you lovingly carrying out the domestic chores with a sense of peace that had once evaded you for years. He doesn’t have the heart to shatter your bubble of happiness, but your life of tranquility has quickly come to an end.

“I can’t do this to her,” He says despairingly, his voice thick with emotion.

“You must,” Okoye insists gravely. “Your time of rest is over, and the safety of your family depends on this battle.”

When Bucky finally wills himself to set foot in your home he finds you setting the table for lunch. Your features are calm and content as you hum a quiet melody, completely oblivious to the fact that your world is about to come crashing down. He swallows harshly and softly calls your name, prompting you to meet his gaze with a smile. However, your face immediately becomes crestfallen as you detect the change in his demeanor.

“James? Is everything alright?” You press gently. He looks away guiltily.

“There’s something coming, and it’s not safe for you here anymore. We have to go.”

“What? What do you mean it’s not safe?” You stammer uncertainly, fear and panic already beginning to settle within you as you frantically look to your husband for answers. “T’Challa said we’d be safe here, that no one would come looking for us-”

“I know,” Bucky shushes you gently while taking your trembling hands in his own, “but this is different. You and Rosie need to get to safety, and I need to stay back and fight…”

“No…” you murmur despairingly. Tears begin to well in your eyes and Bucky feels his heart ache at having to do this to you. He’d broken another promise, put you in danger again, and there was nothing he could do to make it better. “You promised me. You promised.”

“I know,” he whispers in defeat, shamefully refusing to meet your gaze.

“You said no more running.”

“I’m sorry,” he expresses, tears of his own beginning to form as he silently pleads for you to understand. He presses a trembling kiss to your forehead in penance and releases his hold on your hand. “Grab your things. I’ll pack a bag for Rose.”

You aren’t given a chance to argue further as Bucky hastily makes his way towards the nursery to gather your daughter’s belongings. Despite the dread that’s pooling in your stomach, you force yourself to move quickly and pack the essentials you’ll need while away from home. Your husband isn’t sure how long you’ll be kept in hiding, so you take enough supplies to last you at least three days. Your heart is pounding, and everything feels like a blur as you’re quickly ushered out of your home and taken to the palace.

The last time you had roamed these great halls Rosie was just learning to walk, her chubby hands eagerly reaching across the way for an ecstatic Princess Shuri who had become a dear friend during your stay. Bucky was slowly but surely erasing all the damage Hydra had done to his mind, and you were undergoing your own psychological counseling to work through the trauma you’d endured. You joined him back in the village once the Winter Soldier had been deemed completely removed, and you thought your troubles had finally come to an end.

“Y/n,” Bucky calls gently, breaking you out of your reminiscent daze as you finally reach your destination. “Ayo is going to take you and Rosie to Queen Ramonda. She’s offered to bring you both with her to a safe house away from the fight.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky answers truthfully, “but I promise I’m not going to let anything happen to either of you.”

“What about you?” You ask tearfully, a shuddering breath escaping you as you rest a careful hand upon his cheek. “Will you come back for us?”

“I always do,” he reminds you earnestly before leaning down to meet you in a tender kiss. He pours all of his love and adoration for you into this single embrace, savoring the feeling of your lips against him like it’s the last time. You don’t want to voice it aloud, but it almost feels like he’s saying goodbye.

“I can’t lose you again,” you breathe after finally parting. Bucky smiles faintly though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You won’t,” he avows solemnly before pressing one more kiss to your lips. “I love you.”

You hold back a sob as he hands you your sleeping daughter, making sure to push back her hair and press a kiss to her forehead before he’s quickly rushed off by Okoye and T’Challa to prepare for battle. You watch him disappear into the palace before allowing Ayo to guide you in the opposite direction.

Something deep within tells you that Bucky will breaking his promise to you, and you don’t know if you can handle another heartache, but you know you have to be strong for your daughter. Your mission is to keep her safe, so you must do your job while Bucky does his.

You just hope you’ll both be able to see this all through.

~~~

The ground rumbles beneath you as you shut your eyes and take a deep breath, counting down slowly from ten like your therapist had taught you to help alleviate your nerves. You’ve been locked in the safe house for hours now with no contact to the outside world, and you have no idea what’s happening or if your husband is safe. Your entire body feels on edge with worry, but you refuse to let your fear show in front of your daughter.

Rosie sits a few feet away happily displaying her collection of dolls to Ramonda, completely unaware of the fact that her father is currently fighting against a mad Titan and his alien army. The Queen has assured you that the walls of the safe room are impenetrable and the guards are fully equipped to keep you safe, but her words do little to quell your anxiety. You hate the not knowing, not being able to speak to Bucky and ask him what’s going on out there, if your friends are okay.

“Mommy,” Rosie whines from across the way, snapping you out of your daze, “I’m hungry.”

“I know, honey,” you coo gently, opening your arms for her as she throws herself against your chest for comfort. “I forgot to bring your snacks, but we can eat soon.”

“When daddy comes back?” She snivels, her wide eyes peering up at you innocently. You feel your chest tighten at the mention of James, but you will yourself to put on a smile as you gently brush her hair back behind her ear and press a kiss to her head.

“When daddy comes back,” you affirm warmly. The ground beneath you finally stills, causing you to swallow nervously as you look over to Ramonda with uncertainty.

“Has it finally ended?” She murmurs with apprehension. She looks to the guards and gives them orders in Xhosa, and you watch unnerved as they rush out of the room to conduct surveillance of the area. “They are going to see if it is safe for us to leave this dreadful place.”

The world feels unnervingly still, and you’re unable to determine whether that’s a good sign or a bad one. Goosebumps prickle along your skin, your instincts screaming at you that something isn’t right. Your blood suddenly goes cold and you gasp for breath as if someone has just knocked the wind out of you. There’s an unbearable pain deep within your chest, and it feels like a part of you has been severed. You feel chillingly empty, and your eyes widen in shock as you come to a dreadful realization.

You can’t feel Bucky anymore.

The serum keeps you in tune with one another, minds and bodies connected even when you’re apart, but instead of his warmth all you feel is a suffocating emptiness.

“Mommy?” Rose calls again. “I feel funny…”

“What?” You breathe out shakily, turning your attention towards her just in time to see her begin to fade away. In what feels like agonizing slow motion, you watch as her tiny figure begins to disappear into dust. You feel like you can’t breathe, hands desperately grasping after her only to feel the air around you. She’s gone in the blink of an eye, and you’re left completely alone.

“No, no, no…” you gasp in shock, falling onto your hands and knees as the panic begins to overtake you. “This-This doesn’t make any sense. Where did she go?! Where’s Natalia?!”

You break into an ugly fit of sobs, gasping for air as you curl in on yourself and scream in agony for your daughter who had just been in your arms mere seconds ago. Ramonda’s words of comfort fall upon deaf ears as you clutch your chest in an attempt to get some sort of relief from the pain of your broken heart. Everything hurts, and all you want is for this nightmare to end.

You don’t know how long you spend curled up on the floor crying to the point of exhaustion, but at some point a pair of hands comes to rest upon your arms and a familiar voice is calling your name as you’re lifted off the ground. You peer up through wet lashes to see Steve kneeling beside you, features contorted with worry and guilt. He looks drastically different from the last time you’d seen him, more rugged and less clean shaven, but in spite of this the sight of him brings you comfort.

“Steve,” you manage to get out, collapsing against his chest as you weep. Your fingers dig into his biceps to ground yourself, to seek some sense of comfort, but it doesn’t work. He isn’t your James, the serum running through his bloodstream is unfamiliar to your own, and it’s all the more isolating. “Rosie… She’s-She’s gone.”

You watch his face fall into quiet despair and hopelessness at the news, his hold on you tightening to keep you from seeing the way his eyes begin to well with tears. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it.”

“James… Is he- did he?”

A heavy pause settles in the air, but Steve’s silence is enough to give you your answer.

“I’m sorry.”

Your grief stricken wails echo throughout the safe house as Steve holds you against his chest and slowly rocks you back and forth. Chills run down his spine, sobs of his own begging to be released, but he holds it together for your sake. He’d lost his best friend, but you had lost your entire family.

You were alone once more, and once again the Captain felt responsible for you in the absence of Bucky. You had worked so hard to move on from the past, to get out of the isolating loneliness you’d endure after being freed from Hydra, only to land back in the darkness.

You were Flower once more.

~~~

Light pours into the dark bedroom as Natasha gently opens the door and settles her gaze on your still figure in bed. You haven’t moved from that spot since returning to the compound from Wakanda, and she’s rightfully worried about your emotional state.

It’s been a week since you’d watched your daughter turn to dust in your arms and learned that your husband had suffered the same fate. Your chest feels hollow and you can’t bring yourself to do anything other than lay in bed. You want nothing more than to close your eyes and hope that somehow you’ll fade away into nothing just as they had. At least then you could be with them once more.

“Hey,” her voice calls gently as she seats herself on the edge of your bed and carefully runs her fingers along the expanse of your arm. “You haven’t eaten anything today. We need to change that.”

“I’m not hungry,” you reply faintly, voice hoarse from misuse. “I wouldn’t be able to keep it down, anyway.”

“Still nauseous?” She hums softly, earning a barely visible nod of your head in response. “Maybe it’s time you see Bruce in the infirmary. At the very least he could get some fluids in you.”

“Nat,” you urge her desperately, “I know you mean well, but I just want to be left alone.”

“I know,” she breathes glumly, “but I can’t do that. Steve and I, we made a promise to Barnes that we’d look after you if anything were to happen to him. And it did. So I’m keeping that promise even if you don’t want me to.”

The mention of Bucky has your breath catching in your throat, a fresh wave of tears forming that you fight to keep at bay. You know she’s worried, and you can’t fault her for caring so deeply about you. She’d been by your side through some of your darkest moments, and it made sense that she was adamant to be there once more for you.

“I don’t know how to live without them,” you snivel, your shoulders beginning to tremble as tears begin to roll down your cheeks. “It’s like I’ve been ripped in half, and there’s nothing I can do to make it feel better.”

“I swear to you we’re doing everything we can to figure out a way to bring them back,” she avows solemnly. She tenderly brushes away your tears before resting a hand on your cheek. “We’re going to fix this, but for now, you need to take care of yourself for Rose and for James. I’m sure they’d hate to see you like this. Can you do that?”

You hesitate for a moment before slowly nodding your head in agreement. Your body aches from disuse as you sluggishly lift yourself out of bed with Natasha’s help. She assists you in picking out fresh clothes for a shower, helps you brush your hair, and walks you down to the infirmary for a checkup.

No part of you wants to do any of this, but the small sliver of hope that your family could be brought back to you is enough to keep you going. You’d hate to be in disarray when they return, for them to see you so depressed, so you will yourself to keep moving forward.

You have to.

~~~

A gentle breeze rustles through the grass as you stare down at the gravestone in front of you. There were no bodies left to bury, but the psychologist Natasha urged you to speak with had to suggested it might be good if you had something tangible for your mourning process. Tony had arranged for the tombstone to be made and settled into the garden of the compound before he’d left for good, and now you were left with a place to go when the loneliness became too much to bare.

You stare intently at the names etched into the stone- James Buchanan Barnes and Natalia Rose Barnes: Beloved husband and daughter, now together in eternity. You suppose the notion that they’re somewhere together is comforting, but it doesn’t ease the ache in your chest or lessen the blow of being left behind. You wish Thanos had taken you instead.

The grass crunches softly as a new presence joins your side, and you don’t have to look to guess who it is. Steve has been avoidant with you ever since he’d failed to bring your family back like he’d promised, failing to make eye contact and excusing himself from rooms you reside in. You know his guilty conscience eats him alive every time he looks at you, his entire being full of shame for breaking yet another promise to you, but you don’t fault him for that. You may have lost your husband, but Steve had lost his best friend after fighting tooth and nail to get him back. It was personal for him too.

“You know,” Steve speaks suddenly, abruptly ending the quiet you had found yourselves in, “my Mother died when I was young, and I thought I’d never get over it. I don’t think I ever would have if it hadn’t been for Buck. He refused to leave my side at the funeral and every day after that. That’s just the kind of friend he was.”

“I don’t blame you,” you tell him faintly, removing your gaze from the gravestone to meet his solemn blue eyes. “I know you did everything you could.”

“I could have done more.”

“Would it have really made a difference?” You ask with a somber laugh, and he knows you’re right.

“Bucky loved you with his entire being.“

“I know,” you hum with a faint smile, eyes beginning to well with tears.

“I can’t bring them back or even begin to try and fill his shoes, but I want you to know I’m here for you,” Steve professes in earnest. “Whatever you need, whatever you want, I’ll be there.”

“Thank you,” you utter quietly, allowing him to pull you into his side as the two of you look down at the gravestone once more. “You know, he talked about you all the time. He really loved you.”

“I know.”

~~~

“Încă o apăsare.”

“She says one more push,” Bucky translates for you, tenderly brushing away sweaty strands of hair from your face before pressing a kiss to your temple. “One more push and she’ll be here.”

You suck in a breath and tightly squeeze his glove covered metal hand before letting out a guttural cry of pain. You’ve been in agonizing labor for hours, dotted on by nurses and doctors while making Bucky sick with worry. You’re past the point of exhaustion, but you do as the midwife says and use all of your remaining energy for one last push.

Your head falls back against the pillows with a groan, and the sterile hospital room is soon filled with the shrill cries of your newborn baby. You let out a tearful laugh, peering up at Bucky who seems almost frozen in shock. His eyes never leave your child as they quickly wipe away the grime from her tiny little body before placing her down against your chest. She’s breathtakingly beautiful, her cries stopping almost immediately once she senses your presence, and you feel that all the pain you’ve been through was worth it for this one moment.

“She’s gorgeous,” Bucky breathes quietly, tears silently rolling down his feel as he gingerly reaches out to stroke his fingers along her smooth cheek. He wishes he could feel her skin beneath his fingertips, but he had worn the gloves to the hospital as a precaution to prevent anyone from detecting his metal appendage and uncovering his identity.

“Our little Natalia Rose,” you coo sweetly.

“I love you,” Bucky expresses while stealing a kiss from your lips. “I love you so much. She’s perfect.”

You give him a watery smile and press a kiss to her tiny forehead as your little family enjoys a moment together in the cramped hospital room. The circumstances of your pregnancy had not been ideal, but you wouldn’t change a single thing now. You were happy to finally be living a life of your own free from Hydra in Bucharest, and you would do whatever it took to keep your daughter safe and happy.

“I will protect you both,” Bucky assures you as the baby begins to cry once more. You believe him, and his words leave you with a sense of peace as you coddle your daughter on her first day of life. “I will keep you safe until my dying breath. I love you, y/n.”

You cradle a stuffed animal in your arms instead of your baby, her scent still lingering on its fur. It’s dwindled over time, but you cling to one of the only things you have left of her and hope it will somehow ease the ache within your chest.

It never does.

It’s been over a year since the snap, and Rosie would have turned four today if not for Thanos. You should be celebrating, circled around a cake with your closest friends while she blows out her candles. Instead, you sit alone in the entertainment room of the compound and clutch her stuffed bear tightly to your chest.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Steve’s voice calls, rupturing your ruminative state as he takes a tentative seat beside you. “It’s okay if you’re not up for it, but Nat got a cake and some candles. It might be nice to celebrate.”

“That sounds nice,” you agree faintly while burrowing your nose deeper into the teddy bear. “I just need another minute or two.”

“Of course,” he affirms with a careful smile. “Whatever you need, we’re here.”

You don’t think you’d be able to survive without the support of Steve and Natasha, the people who had been by your side through it all, but their presence doesn’t always make it easier, and the ache within you persists.

“I don’t know if Bucky ever told you this,” Steve starts to say, causing you to shift your gaze towards him with interest, “but he had a younger sister.”

“Rebecca,” you recall with a nod, still uncertain of where this conversation is going.

“He loved being a big brother. As much as he hated to admit it, he was a softie when it came to her. He’d go after any guy that broke her heart, give her the clothes off his back if she needed them, be her shoulder to cry on, her protector. She meant the world to him. I think he was meant to have a little girl. One he could love and spoil endlessly. He would have done the same for Rosie.”

Steve manages to get your first real smile of the day out of you as he recounts the story. You knew how much Bucky adored your daughter, and you liked to imagine what life could have been like if they hadn’t been snapped away. You think Steve is right about the kind of father Bucky would have grown into had he been given the chance, and the thought manages to bring you some semblance of comfort.

“Can I ask a weird question?” You say suddenly.

“Anything,” Steve answers with sincerity.

“Could you tell that story again so I can record it?” You ask, almost embarrassed by your own request. “It’s just… the way you talk about James, it’s almost like he never went away. It makes me feel closer to him, and I like that feeling. I want to hold on to it for as long as I can. Maybe I’m not making any sense.”

“No, no, you make perfect sense,” he assures you with a fond smile. “I think that’s a great idea.”

You give him an appreciative grin before pulling out your phone and opening up your audio recorder. Setting your device down in between you both, you give him a nod to confirm you’re ready for another story about the younger days of your husband.

“Tell me more.”

~~~

It’s been three years since the snap, and life has slowly gotten easier. The cloud of grief still hangs over your head most days, but you’ve learned to live with it. You carry on in their honor and try to make the best with what life has thrown your way.

With encouragement from Natasha you’d renewed your cosmetology license and gone back to styling hair. The last few years cutting Bucky’s hair had been good practice, and you fell back into it with ease. You got your own place, your own routine, and stuck to it to keep you from going insane.

You’re setting out your styling kit on the table when a knock at the door catches your attention. You quickly hurry over and open it with a smile at the sight of a familiar face.

“You made it,” you exhale before opening the door and allowing him to enter.

“I’m a little early,” Steve says apologetically while hanging his coat by the door.

“My favorite type of client,” you tease with a playful wink before guiding him into the living room. “Do you want anything before we get started? Something to drink?”

“I’m alright, y/n/n,” he assures you. Phone set on the table to record, you put on your apron and grab your comb as he takes a seat in the designated chair. Your fingers are mindful as you drape a cloak around his shoulders to prevent any hair from littering his clothes, and you work almost as if on autopilot. The muscle memory from doing this with Bucky so many times allows you to work with practiced ease, and it brings a strange sense of warmth to your chest.

“Just a trim, Cap?”

“Exactly right,” he replies with a reminiscent sigh. “Bucky attempted to cut my hair once. I didn’t have money for a barber and he was convinced he’d seen his mom cut his father’s hair enough times to do it himself.”

“And did he?” You ask with a quiet laugh as you carefully begin to snip the ends of his hair.

“Oh, he certainly did,” Steve answers with a wry chuckle. “I had to wear a hat for weeks.”

“Well, I promise you won’t have to wear a hat after I’m done,” you assure him with an amused giggle. “I loved cutting Bucky’s hair, but I think I loved cutting the Winter Soldier’s hair even more.”

“You did?” He asks, features clearly perplexed as he tries to understand your sentiments.

“It was one of the few moments of peace Hydra allowed us, a rare instance of intimacy where we could both be relaxed even with guards watching over us. I was gentle with him, and he trusted me with his entire being. It also gave me some sort of hope- They hadn’t taken everything from me because even though I didn’t know my own name or the life I lived before that I still remembered how to cut hair. Muscle memory is funny like that.”

“I’m glad he had you then,” Steve swallows thickly, clearly moved by your story. You’re not the only one that benefits from these memory swaps, and he appreciates your perspective more than you’ll ever know. “It’s nice to know someone was there to care for him. Someone loved him.”

“I did,” you hum faintly, lightly brushing away the hair from his neck before setting down your scissors. “You’re all done, Captain. Did I do a good job?”

“Much better than Bucky’s handiwork, that’s for sure,” he jests with a chuckle before fondly meeting your gaze. “Thank you.”

But it’s not the haircut he’s thanking you for.

~~~

You’re sitting on your couch listening to an audio recording of Steve recalling his trip to Coney Island with Bucky when a rapid knock sounds at your door. You startle, fumbling for your phone to pause the clip and quickly throwing on your husband’s old sweater over your tank top to make yourself decent for whoever is waiting on the other side. You aren’t expecting any visitors or clients considering it’s your day off, so the sudden disruption has you feeling unnerved.

You open the door to find Natasha and Steve on the other side, their features solemn yet full of determination like you’ve never seen before. Your eyes widen in quiet surprise at their presence, but you allow them entry without protest.

“Nat? Steve? I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t call ahead, but this couldn’t wait,” he says apologetically while shutting the door behind him.

“You guys are scaring me,” you tell them with a troubled frown. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve figured out a way to bring them back,” Natasha answers bluntly, bringing you into a stunned silence as you stare at her with your mouth partly agape. It takes you a moment to process the weight of her words and what they mean to you, and you aren’t sure what emotion to feel right now.

“What?” You breathe out quietly, fingers tightly clutching the ends of your sleeves against your palms. “That’s… That’s impossible. You said he destroyed the stones.”

“He did, but we realized the stones still exist in the past,” Steve explains carefully. “If we get the stones and bring them back here to the present we can undo the snap.”

“I’m sorry, are you suggesting time travel?” You retort in disbelief.

“I know it sounds crazy-“

“Look, I know you guys did everything you could to stop Thanos, and I know you did everything you could to bring them back, but I can’t handle any more broken promises,” you express remorsefully, eyes already beginning to well with tears as you’re reminded of all the disappointments you’ve endured. “It’s taken me five years to come to terms with the fact that they’re not coming back. I can’t go through this again.”

“I’d never get your hopes up like that,” Steve urges you softly, gently taking your hands in his own and giving them a reassuring squeeze. “I know just how much pain you’ve been through, and I wouldn’t be here telling you this if we weren’t absolutely sure of it.”

“We’re doing this,” Natasha affirms with a faint smile, obvious trepidation clear on her face despite her confident demeanor. “Whatever it takes. We’re going to bring everyone back.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth and silently evaluate the weight of her words. Natasha has always been honest with you for as long as you’ve know her, and she wouldn’t be here now if she wasn’t sure of her promise. You give them a single nod.

“Okay,” you utter quietly. “Bring them back.”

A single tear slides down your face before Natasha pulls you into her arms for the tightest embrace you’ve ever received from her.

You’ll later wish you could have known that would be the last time you’d ever see her again.

~~~

Your room is frigid and uncomfortably cold when he returns from his mission. Your frail body trembles beneath the thin sheets, a sight that’s enough to make the soldier’s chest tighten with complete love and adoration and frustration. You don’t deserve this life, and he doesn’t deserve you, but these are the cards life has dealt you both, and you play them to the best of your abilities.

The Winter Soldier carefully removes his muzzle and sets it aside on the single table in the room. He removes his gloves and his tactical vest then disrobes himself of the bloodied clothes that stick with sweat to his skin. He’s vowed never to taint you with the work he does outside of these four walls, and his meticulous process is his way of keeping you innocent and clean.

His bruised knuckles gently stroke the expanse of your cheek and savor the feel of your skin against his own. It’s lost some of its color from being kept out of the sun, but you are still by far the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on. He’s glad the mission was a success today. Hydra doesn’t have a reason to hurt you, to litter your body with bruises- he’s kept you safe.

The feel of his touch has your eyes fluttering open. Your brows furrow in quiet confusion before you focus your hazy gaze on his tender face. His smile is sweet and eyes gentle as he leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m home, Flower,” he coos quietly so as to not disrupt your state of peace. You smile, and it’s the sweetest sight he’s seen after a day filled with gore and destruction.

“Winter,” you hum sleepily, arms reaching out for him.

“I’m here now,” the soldier assures you while carefully pushing back the hair from your face. “I will always come back for you.”

Days have passed since you last spoke to Steve and Natasha, and the radio silence leaves your stomach in constant knots. You try to keep yourself busy by sticking to your normal routine and living your life as if there isn’t a chance it might drastically change at any given moment. You refrain from calling them in fear of causing a distraction or interrupting their mission, so you instead use Steve’s recordings as a lifeline to keep you sane.

It’s evening, just a little after sunset where the light no longer bleeds through your curtains. Captain American’s voice sounds gently throughout your apartment from your phone that rests on the coffee table, and you’ve managed to doze off after a stressful day at the salon. Your world is quiet and still, and in spite of that you fail to hear the sound of your front door slowly creaking open.

You dream of your Winter and the feel of his gentle caresses against your skin. Your lashes flutter as you remember his warmth and the tenderness in his eyes, the feel of his lips pressing against your forehead. You hum appreciatively in your sleep and nuzzle against the hand that cups your cheek in your dream as if he’s there with you.

And he is.

Metal fingers gently brush themselves across your cheek before moving to comb through your hair. His chest is tight with longing and agony at the sight of you. These last five years have changed you- your hair is shorter, face more matured yet somehow even more beautiful, skin soft to the touch. You’ve lived half a decade without him, and he’s missed five years of your life. He’s afraid to wake you and find out if you’ve changed or if you’ve outgrown him now that you’ve started over.

“Y/n,” he utters quietly while tenderly trailing his fingers up and down your arm to rouse you from sleep. “Open your eyes.”

The sensation of cool metal along your arm wakes you from your slumber, causing you to let out a quiet groan as you stretch out your limbs and slowly pry your eyes open to survey your surroundings. Bleary eyes meet a pair of watery blue ones. His warm smile and trembling lips greet you, and you feel your heart stop with shock as you struggle to process the man kneeling beside the couch.

“Hi, honey,” he says bashfully, a watery chuckle escaping him at the sight of your surprised face.

“James?” You breathe out quietly, almost afraid that you’re still dreaming.

“I told you I’d come back for you.”

You sob, throwing yourself into his arms and clinging to him like a cat to a tree. Your tears stain his neck as you soak in the feel of his skin against your own, inhale his scent that you’ve missed so much, dig your fingers into his strong biceps to keep you grounded. His metal hand gently cradles the back of your head while the other finds its place on your lower back, holding you like he never wants to let you go.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” you weep softly, pulling out of the hug to cup his face in your hands so you can admire the man you’ve missed so much. He looks exactly like he had when he’d said goodbye to you, and your heart aches at the thought of how much time you’ve lost with him. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I’m here now,” he reassures you with a watery smile. “I’m home.”

“Oh, Bucky,” you breathe before passionately crashing your lips against his own. Your mouths meld together in a heated kiss as you savor the taste of him after being deprived of it for five years. Your blood feels like it’s on fire, but you don’t care. You’ve wanted this so bad, and now the hole you’ve carried in your heart for years has finally been filled.

You part with a breathless smile, laughing at the clearly flustered look on your husband’s face and granting him one more kiss on the lips. Suddenly, your eyes widen as you come to a realization. “Where’s Rosie?”

“Downstairs with Steve,” he reassures you. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you so I came up first. Do you want to see her?”

“Please,” you nod eagerly, eyes already beginning to well with tears as he helps you up from the couch and tightly takes your hand in his own.

“My brave girl,” Bucky coos, adoration clear in his eyes as he gently brushes the back of his hand against your cheek. You’ve endured so much in his absence, changed and grown into your own person, and managed to pick up the pieces when your family had been ripped away from you. He’s in complete admiration of your strength and courage, and he loves you more than you could ever possibly imagine.

You go downstairs to reunite with your daughter and bring your family together, and life is whole once more.

~~~

The funeral of Tony Stark is a somber affair.

You know the complicated history Bucky shares with the man and the guilt he feels at not being able to make amends before his passing, but you also know he’ll forever be indebted to the hero for sacrificing his life so that your family can be together again.

Though you’d gotten Bucky and Rose back, grief still hung heavy over your head. Natasha was gone. Steve told you how she sacrificed her life for the soul stone, deciding the fate of the world outweighed the cost of her own life. You were devastated to learn the woman who had become your best friend was gone- you wished you would have held her tighter, told her you loved her, and thanked her for all she’d done for you the last time you’d seen her alive. It was because of her you had your daughter back, but she would never be able to watch her grow or help raise her.

The funeral ends, and those that remain quietly discuss what the next move is now that Thanos has finally been defeated. Bucky and Steve find themselves standing together on the porch, both of their gazes focused on your figure in the distance. You stand by the lakeside and watch over Morgan and Natalia as they play. Your features are solemn, but a faint smile plays upon your lips as they giggle and pick dandelions in the grass. You look breathtakingly beautiful, and both men take notice.

“I haven’t had a chance to thank you,” Bucky notes quietly, prompting Steve to shift his focus towards his friend.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I do,” he says with a firm nod. “You took care of her when I was gone, gave her stability and a shoulder to cry on. You and Natasha made sure she was never alone, and I’ll forever be grateful for that.”

“I just did what you would have done if it were the other way around,” Steve answers truthfully. “Besides, I think being around her helped me deal with my own feelings of grief and loss. All we ever did was talk about you, and it helped having someone who knew you like I did. We understood each other, and it made things easier.”

“I’m glad she had you,” Bucky voices thoughtfully.

“I’m glad I had her,” Steve answers honestly. “But it was never meant to be that way. She needed you, and thanks to Tony and Nat she has you and Rose again. You guys can finally get the chance to live the life you deserve, which means my work here is done.”

Bucky falters, shifting his gaze towards the blond with uncertainty.

“Why does that sound so final?”

“Because it is,” Steve explains solemnly, guiltily avoiding his friend’s gaze. “You have a gorgeous wife and a beautiful daughter, both of whom love you with their entire being. I’m happy for you, Buck, but now that all is said and done I think I want that too.”

“So what are you saying?” He asks unsurely, his entire being suddenly filled with trepidation. Rosie laughs in the distance, and it brings a warm smile to Steve’s face as he settles his gaze upon you once more. You turn your head just in time to meet his stare and offer a warm smile that prompts his chest to tighten with longing.

“I want to give up the shield.”

Bucky’s mouth parts in quiet shock, and he isn’t exactly sure what to say or do with the bombshell Steve has chosen to drop on him without warning. His entire face feels hot and his stomach feels the way it had when they’d first ridden the Cyclone at Coney Island all those years ago, but he isn’t given the chance to come up with a response as you make your way up onto the porch with a sleeping Natalia in your arms.

“Nap time already?” Steve asks playfully in an attempt to alleviate the obvious tension that hovers over the two men.

“She passed out in the grass,” you explain with a fond smile while adjusting her form on your hip. “I don’t blame her though. I can’t imagine what these last few days have been like for her, having to deal with so much change and meeting so many new faces.”

“She’s tough,” Bucky notes absently, prompting you to detect the shift in his demeanor.

“I wonder where she gets it from,” Steve muses while shooting you a wink. Natalia begins to stir in your grasp, and Bucky is quick to carefully take her from your hold to give your arms a break.

“Pepper offered us Morgan’s room to set her down if we’d like,” you inform him, comfortingly rubbing his back the way you know he likes.

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“Want me to come with you?” You ask only for him to shake his head.

“No, it’s alright. I need a minute,” he explains with a careful shake of his head before excusing himself from the conversation and making his way into the cabin.

“What’s going on?” You ask as soon as your husband disappears inside, clearly having sensed the shift in his mood. Bucky had been understandably melancholic since your arrival to the funeral, but this felt different.

“I’m leaving,” Steve answers truthfully.

“To return the stones,” you acknowledge with furrowed brows, clearly not grasping the weight of his words. “James told me.”

“I’m not just returning the stones, y/n. I’m returning myself back to the life I missed out on.”

“You mean you’re not… you’re really not coming back?”

“I’ve done everything I can as Captain America. Thanos is gone, and the people I care about most are safe now. You and Buck can finally get the fresh start that was withheld from you for years. You don’t need me anymore.”

“Are you kidding? We’ll always need you,” you insist with a bewildered shake of your head. You sigh, stopping yourself from going on a tangent and instead firmly meeting his gaze. “You’ve done so much for us, and I’ll never be able to repay you for that. But I also know that you deserve to be happy, Steve. Even if that means leaving us behind.”

“I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t think Bucky would be okay without me,” he professes in earnest. “I know he doesn’t fully believe in himself yet, but I do. And I know he won’t be alone because he has you. You’re the best thing for him. You always have been.”

“Oh, Steve,” you murmur softly, thickly swallowing back the lump in your throat before wrapping your arms around the man in a tight embrace. “You do what you need to do. We’ll be okay.”

“Thank you,” he breathes in relief, a weight lifted off his shoulders at your acceptance. He holds you tightly for what will be the last time, and you’re grateful for the fact that at least you get the chance to say goodbye.

You make your way inside shortly after your talk with the Captain and find Bucky sitting quietly on the sofa. You wordlessly join his side and take his metal hand in your own, offering him comfort and support when he needs it most.

“He’s serious, isn’t he?” Bucky asks despondently. You give him a small nod. “He’s really leaving.”

“Are you okay?” You press carefully, a faint frown pulling at your lips and eyebrows creasing with worry. He carefully raises your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles, offering you a single nod and tender squeeze of your hand.

“I will be,” he answers knowingly, “so long as I have you.”

And he means it with his entire being.

~~~

It’s been one month since the funeral, and so much has changed since then.

Steve is gone, Sam has the shield, and Bucky is trying to ease his way back into society after years of living as fugitive. Your five years of experience makes it easier to help him adjust, but that isn’t to say it’s not a slow and gradual process.

It’s a quiet Saturday morning, and you find yourself enjoying your time away from work with your family. Rosie sits patiently in front of you as you carefully brush her hair, a task that brings you endless joy and warmth after being deprived of it for so long. Though you’re not exactly sure how to navigate having a three year old daughter who’s technically almost eight according to her birthdate, you’re managing the best you can. Her innocent naivety has allowed her to cope well with such big changes in her world, and you’re endlessly grateful for that.

You just wish you could say the same about Bucky.

“Are we visiting Auntie Nat today?” Her curious voice sounds, breaking you out of your thoughts.

“We are,” you respond with a careful smile. You tried your best to gently explain all that had occurred within the last five years and the sacrifice Natasha had made to reunite your family. She couldn’t fully comprehend the details, but she understood that the woman was a hero, and ever since she’d insisted upon being called by her first name so she could proudly boast her connection to the Black Widow.

“Did she get to meet me?” Natalia asks while fidgeting with the end of her blouse.

“She did,” you reassure her while carefully tying her hair back into a ponytail. “She was there the first time you kicked in my tummy, and she used to take me to all of my doctor’s appointments to see you. She even met you when you were just a little baby.”

You feel your chest tighten as you fondly recall all you’d been through with Natasha by your side, but you do your best to keep your emotions at bay for the sake of your daughter. You never want her to worry or sense your pain for fear of hindering her adjustment to her new life.

You set your brush down and press a careful kiss to the crown of her head before helping her jump off the stool. “Why don’t you draw a picture for Aunt Natasha before we go? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Okay, mama!” Natalia chirps happily, immediately scurrying off in search of her crayons and leaving you to your own devices once more. You let out a long sigh you didn’t realize you’d been holding and decide to venture out into the garden in search of your husband.

As expected, you find him brooding quietly from his place on the porch swing. His features are solemn and eyes swimming with turmoil as you silently seat yourself beside him. He wordlessly opens his arms to you and allows you to fall into place against his chest, secure and safe in his protective hold. His eyes immediately flutter shut at the feel of your body pressed against his own, his tense muscles finally beginning to relax at your touch. It certainly hasn’t been an easy month for Bucky, but you’re doing your best to help him move forward in spite of all that has happened. You and Natalia are the only things in life keeping him together, but the absence of Steve has done a number on your husband’s mental state.

“Do you think he’s happy?” He says suddenly, prompting you to shift in his hold so you can meet his steely gaze.

“I think he is.”

Bucky sighs, and you gently take his metal hand in your own to intertwine your fingers together.

“What’s on your mind?” You press quietly.

“I just can’t wrap my head around why he did what he did,” he admits guiltily. “Why couldn’t he stay? What if… what if he’s wrong about me?”

You frown. “He’s not wrong about you, James. You’re a good man deserving of a second chance, and you’ve worked so hard to overcome everything you’ve been through. Steve wouldn’t have left if he didn’t think you’d be okay here without him.”

“I don’t know if I am,” he replies sullenly, eyes beginning to water with tears he refuses to let fall. “Just because I got rid of the Winter Soldier doesn’t mean everything he did was magically erased.”

“Bucky…”

“Am I really worth all of this trouble?” he asks you desperately, eyes shining with pain and uncertainty. You swallow thickly to keep your own emotions at bay despite the pain you feel in your heart at seeing your husband so petrified about his own place in life.

“I think there’s something you should hear,” you inform him with a pained smile before reaching into your pocket for your phone. He watches with apprehensive curiosity as you quickly work to unlock your device and begin scrolling for your desired piece of media.

“Honey,” he starts to say only for you to interrupt him with a quick shake of your head.

“Just listen,” you beg with earnest, and it isn’t until he gives you a single nod of encouragement that you press play on the audio file.

“I went to see a movie once the day before Bucky was shipped off to England,” Steve’s voice sounds from your phone’s speaker, prompting Bucky’s eyes to go wide with recognition and shock. He never thought he’d get to see his friend again let alone ever hear the sound of his voice, yet here he was recounting an old memory that Bucky could hardly recall.

“Was it a good movie?” Your voice utters with quiet interest. Steve laughs.

“Couldn’t tell you. Some loudmouth wouldn’t stop shouting nonsense during a war advert about our men overseas. I had the smart idea of telling him to shut up, but you could imagine how well that went for me once I saw the guy was twice my size. He took me out back and nearly beat me to a pulp- probably would have if Bucky hadn’t shown up.”

“It wasn’t his fight, but he never let anyone talk down to me or treat me as less than for being weaker than the average guy. That’s the kind of man Bucky always was. A friend that would be with you until the end of the line. He believed in what was right and stuck to it. He was a fighter, a protector, and he never gave up on the people he cared about. I saw that side of him shine through most when he talked about you. Hydra may have tried to change him, but they could never take away the part that makes him so selfless and brave, because that’s the man James Barnes is.”

The audio clip ends, leaving the two of you to sit in solemn silence as a stray tear manages to slide down his cheek. A million thoughts race through his mind, his watery eyes looking from the phone to your face in search of the answers for questions he isn’t sure how to vocalize. Your features are gentle and warm despite the tears that quietly fall down your face, and he takes it upon himself to tenderly wipe them away.

“When did he tell you that story?” He prompts you quietly. You sniffle.

“Steve and I liked to swap old memories when you were gone, and I made sure to record each and every one of them. It made me feel closer to you, like you were still here in a way. He fought tooth and nail to bring you back to me because he knew if you were in his position you’d do the same. He wasn’t wrong about you James,” you say in earnest. “You are a good man.”

“I miss him,” he admits bitterly, a mix of sadness and resentment clear in his tone. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next or how I can be the man you deserve after I’ve already put you through so much.”

“Hey,” you utter tenderly while resting a hand upon his cheek and carefully guiding his face to meet your gaze. “I lived five years without you and it felt like I’d been ripped in half. You’re everything to me, Bucky. I love you, and you don’t have to worry about whatever happens next because I know we’ll get through it together just like we always have. No matter what.”

Though you can tell his faith hasn’t completely shifted, your words are able to alleviate some of his doubts as he allows himself to slump over and rest his head on your shoulder. There’s still so much work to be done when it comes to his healing, but if someone as gentle and kind as you can still love him despite all you know about him and all you’ve endured by his side, then there is hope that he can still make the changes necessary to be a better man for your sake and his own.

“I love you,” he breathes into your neck. “I’m going to be the man you and Natalia deserve.”

“You already are,” you assure him before he gently guides your face towards him and presses his lips upon your own in a kiss.

Your tender moment allows Bucky’s mind a moment of peace as he’s distracted from the loss of his best friend and the fear of starting over again. Despite the removal of the trigger words and his separation from the Winter Soldier, he still has a long way to go on his path to inner peace and acceptance. In spite of this, he knows that he is capable when he has you and Natalia cheering him on from the sidelines. He won’t let Steve’s sacrifice go to waste, and he will spend every waking moment keeping you safe and content just as he always vowed to do.

After the long five years you’d endured, you know for certain you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[shaniacsboogara]

a little shout-out to all the watchereenies going to the chicago show today!!! i couldn't make it out there myself, but have the SILLIEST TIME (and tell me everything 😈)

[energeticpoltergeist]

Part 1: Mad King's War

Prologue: Diverged History(pages 17-21)

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[readwritealldayallnight]

The men working on his crew today are too loud, too boisterous, too young, too content to stand around blabbering, taking the piss instead of doing their actual jobs

Getting into construction work following retirement from the SAS wasn’t exactly the idyllic image of sipping a daiquiri on the beach that his thick stack of discharge papers had painted in his head

But it kept his hands occupied and his mind busy, his daily stressors having shifted from cleaning blood out of his gear and patching broken bones every other day, to instead complaining about the rising price of lumber and pulling splinters out on occasion

Trading in his AR for a nail gun, swapping his tac vest for a tool belt, even turning in his skull mask for a hard hat, was surprisingly an easier adjustment than he’d predicted, the long hours and physical work meant he was too exhausted by the time he got home to spend much time doing anything other than preparing for the next day, a never ending cycle that kept him from being still for too long

It might have been some time since Simon Riley was on a battlefield, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still play the hero every once in a while

He’s stood at the top of a ladder, wiping the sweat off his brow as his other hand pats agains this tool belt, searching for the one tool he’s certain he forgot to bring up with him

“Pass me the claw head hammer will y-” Simon cuts himself off from asking the lad stood below him, when he notices he’s only talking to himself. Squinting through the glare of the afternoon sun shining in his eyes, he glances around the job site until he spots most of his crew gathered near the front gates

He rolls his eyes to himself as he begins making his way back down to solid ground, having spotted what had the men so distracted : a pretty bird stood on the other side of the fence

Simon can admit to himself, even he likes to partake in the occasional bird watching, he is just a man at the end of the day, but not when there’s work to be done, and they’re already more than a week behind on this job

“Alright you tossers, back to it!” He shouts to be heard over the group of men, a chorus of groans and grumbles echoing out before they’re slowly dispersing

“Ach, we were jus’ helpin ‘er out, sir!” A man who sounds like he’s been smoking all his life croaks out as he walks by

“Here, miss. He’s the one that might be able to give you an answer.” One of the younger men on the crew says, pointing a gloved hand in Simon’s direction

He follows the younger man’s gaze, expecting to find another curious bystander peeking at the work, perhaps a nosy neighbour who wants to know why such a mess is being made, hell maybe even one of the hens from the nearby college stopping by for a quick flirt

He’s prepared to offer a professional nod, maybe even a begrudging ‘Alright?’ if it appeases them, before he’ll be excusing himself back to the job, uninterested in getting home any later tonight than he already has to just to entertain some stranger

But of course, he doesn’t end up doing so, does he? Not when his hand comes up to block out the sun, his gaze peering through the chain link fence, and it’s you that his eyes land on

You, with your wide eyes fighting to appear confident, though the controlled panic running through them is clear to see from where Simon stands a few feet away from you

Your body tense as you push a small pram in place back and forth, back and forth, your attention jumping between the men and whoever must be tucked up under a pile of blankets in the stroller, presumably also the reason for your enticingly large cleavage, he allows himself think for a split second before averting his gaze

Simon sends the younger man away with a quick jut of his chin, before he’s taking a careful step towards you

“Wha’ can I help you with?” He tries in vain to mask the usual harshness in his tone, but with such a quick switch in his emotions it doesn’t come out sounding quite how he’d hoped, yet you don’t flinch away from him either

“I know-” you let out a frustrated breath, readjusting your grip on the pram’s handle as you steady yourself, locking eyes with his once again with a new vigour behind them this time around. “I know this is so silly of me, and I’m sure you’ve had lots of people botherin’ you, so uh, sorry for bein’ one of ‘em, but here I am.”

You let out a small chuckle to yourself, more self deprecating than anything else, but Simon finds himself offering the slightest bit of a smile in return, if only to ease your nerves

“Anyways, I can imagine you’re probably not allowed to tell but, uh, people have been saying this might be a daycare you’re building here.”

He knew what your question was going to be long before you’d opened your pretty mouth- everyone and their mother had been asking about the project

Limited childcare in the area meant that as soon as the first whispers of a new daycare being built had started to spread, parents and even parents to be had been poking their noses before shovels had even hit the ground

Opening his mouth to give you the same answer he’d given everyone before you, Simon finds the words dying on his tongue as the unmistakable sound of an upset baby comes from the pram, and a very small baby at that

“Shh, shh darling. It’s okay, baby. You’re alright, shh.” He can’t find it in himself not to step closer until he’s practically got his nose poking through the fence to get nearer to you both, eyes glued to the way your lips formed the sweet soothing words, peering towards the increasingly squirming bundle tucked away in the pram

“Tha’s a tiny one.” Simon practically whispers to himself, though he knows you’ve heard him when your eyes glance up to meet his. “Can’t be very old.” He remembers how small his nephew had been when he’d been born, and recognized that distinct newborn cry instantly.

“Just turned eight weeks.” You answer with a ghost of a proud smile dancing across your lips quickly as you gaze at your bundle of joy, a tidbit of information you would expect a new parent would be all too happy to talk about, though the elation quickly disappears from your face. “Unfortunately my job is uh, I have to go back to work soon, I’ve just really been needing to find a spot for her somewhere.”

“Have you told your boss to sod off?” He asks, biceps bulging as he crosses his arms and leans a shoulder against the fence. He doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like the idea of a pretty little bird being all worked up and stressed about finding her new little baby bird somewhere to stay because her job is trying to force her to come back so soon

He also recognizes the fact that he doesn’t know you, that you’ve been a stranger to him up until about 60 seconds ago, and that he shouldn’t go involving himself in things that don’t regard him, but there’s something about this, something about you, that has him asking more questions that he should

Simon hardly realizes the corners of his mouth trying to smile along when you let out a small chuckle at his question, before your answer has him set back into his usual scowl. “No, I wish it were that simple.” you try to laugh again, though the sound doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you push some hair out of your eyes, Simon’s fingers twitching at his side

“No, they’re not forcing me to come back, it’s more of a- I need to work again. Money doesn’t exactly make itself, and it’s just me and her so…” you trail off, offering a meek shrug before you avert your gaze from his and go to fiddle with the baby blankets. “There- there just aren’t any daycare spots anywhere, and the waiting lists are months if not years long. And she and I just don’t pass through this neighbourhood often, so I’m worried that once that sign goes up announcing this is a daycare, that the spots are going to be taken up before I even have a chance to-”

“S’alrigh, s’alright.” Simon interrupts your rambling, a hand raised slightly in the air as though you were a spooked animal he hoped to calm. having heard everything he needed to hear. You look up at him with such sincerity in your eyes, he can tell you would do anything for that baby, that you likely aren’t above begging and pleading at this point, alone with a baby and short on options, he knows what he’ll do. Had pretty much made up his mind soon as he saw you, but now he’s decided.

“Just you and her, you said?” He asks quietly, absentmindedly nodding along with you when you confirm his question. “Well, I mean, I can tell ye that yes, this is meant to be a daycare ‘ere.” He speaks hesitantly, watching as the hope builds in your eyes at his words. He brings a sweaty palm up to rub the back of his neck as he breaks the news to you.

“But I couldn’t tell ye anythin’ about who we’re buildin’ for, love.” He continues, the term of endearment slipping past his lips unconsciously. “They just give us the blueprints and we do our part. Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout what or who’s takin ownership.” He watches that same sliver of hope that had started to grow quickly be snuffed out as you take in what he means.

“Oh. Well, I guess it makes sense.” You reply, evidently disappointed but too kind to push, too used to the recent defeats to expect anything else. “Thank you anyways, really. I appreciate you-”

“I’ll find out.” Simon says quickly, preventing you from bidding him whatever goodbye you were about to give him, keeping you here just a little longer.

“W-what?”

“I’ll find out. Who we’re building for. I’ll find you a name.”

“I- I- I don’t even- you really don’t have to do that!”

“Doesn’t matter what I have to do. I want to. So I will.”

He watches your face carefully now, seeing how you glance up at him with a different sort of apprehension in your gaze, almost like you’re truly taking him in for the first time, discovering something you weren’t expecting to find in him.

“Well, thank you. Truly.” You tell him, a smile so genuine gracing your lips that Simon finds himself choosing to smile back at you. The moment doesn’t last long however, when the baby starts to fuss again, your attention being drawn back to her. “I know baby, I know. I’ve got to feed you soon.”

Simon can’t help the deep blush that creeps up his neck and across his cheeks, unsure if it’s the way he enjoyed hearing you say ‘I know baby, I know’ a little too much or the idea of his own lips helping to ease that heavy ache in your swollen breasts that has him momentarily flustered.

“Maybe I could-” he clears his throat, pointedly avoiding looking at your chest and maintaining eye contact instead. “Maybe I could get your number or email or somethin’, to get back to you that is.”

“Oh! Yes of course! Here,” you say, digging through your pockets until you fish out a wadded up receipt. Simon pulls the pencil that’d been resting over his ear down and gently slips it through the fence over to you, watching with rapt attention as you bring the tip to the paper and write down what might be the most important numbers Simon ever learns. “There’s my number.”

He takes the pencil back from you and carefully accepts the paper you hand him, looking down at the name and smiley face you’ve left as well, whispering your name to himself before meeting your eyes once more. Before he can change his mind, Simon is tearing off the end of the receipt that’s still blank, and begins writing down his own name and number on it.

“If I don’t get back to you by the end of the week, you use tha’ to knock some sense into me, alrigh’?” He asks, slipping you the paper. He knows there isn’t a chance in hell he would forget about reaching out to you, about following through on this, but again, there’s something about you he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Thank you, Simon.” You answer, reading the name off the note he’s just given you, a small chill running down his spine at the sound of his name leaving your lips, the way you say it like it’s a name worth knowing. “Seriously, I can’t even tell you wha-”

The both of you can’t help but chuckle together when the baby’s cries cut you off again, you offering a sheepish smile in apology along with a small shrug of ‘what can you do?’.

“I’ll let you go, someone needs you more.”

“Well, we’re both very grateful to you, Simon.”

He stands there longer than he really should, watching the two of you walk off until you’re out of sight. The note you slipped him though? Well, that he holds onto until he’s clocking out, and maybe on the drive home as well, and maybe it’s the first thing to ever be hung up on his fridge in his flat, that little smiley face reminding him why a little bird watching isn’t so bad after all

I dunno ladies is this something???

Edit : you all decided this was something so here’s part 2

[oporotheca]

The Sweetest Struggle

synopsis: up early with your toddler, Satoru endures the sweet struggle of letting you sleep in a little longer - much to his daughter's chagrin.

tags: MDNI, pure domestic bliss, fluff, satoru gojo loooves his wife and daughter, no plot just fluff <3 notes: find a prequel of sorts to this fic here <3

6:00 a.m. in the Gojo household, and despite the fact that the sun was only just barely winking upon the horizon, two voices could be heard above the slowly awakening crickets and early birds.

Uncoordinated clapping - palms only just barely meeting and with scarcely any force behind them - accompanied whispered words, stifled yawns, and breathless chuckles.

"Oh, c'mon, princess... you're just handing the applause out now, I didn't even do anything."

Satoru complained softly down to the child in his arms - his daughter, just shy of a year old - making no effort to hold back the smile that was tugging at the corners of his lips.

In response, she babbled happily, complete nonsense spilling from her lips as she squirmed with delight, gazing up at her father with wide, shining eyes - as if he had hung the moon and stars just for her.

He adored that look, not just because it made him feel like the luckiest man in the world, but because he was certain, beyond even a shadow of a doubt, that she had learned it from the way he looked at you.

And speaking of you -

"Mamamamama..."

The little one droned on, her baby babbles fading into that familiar word she was so very fond of using. Satoru couldn't really blame her though; not with the way your whole face lit up whenever you heard it. If he were in possession of such a power, he was certain he'd abuse it too.

"Yeah, yeah..."

He chuckled, rolling his eyes as he pinched at his daughter's soft, sleep-warmed cheek, trying to draw her attention away from the brief glimpse she had gotten of you still fast asleep in bed as he'd quietly shut the door on his way past after scooping her from her crib.

"Let my wife sleep, you precious little leech."

His tone was pure adoration even if his words teased.

After all, he'd be lying if he said he didn't get where his little girl was coming from.

The sight of you in bed that morning, all wrapped up in the thin covers you'd only recently swapped the winter set out for, hair mussed and expression oh so peaceful, had made it almost impossible to leave once he'd heard the telltale sound of shuffling coming from the monitor he'd moved from your bedside table to his the night before.

His baby girl was an early riser, after all, always up at the crack of dawn, bright-eyed and ready to go... much to her parents' exhaustion...

But there was no way he’d let you be the one to get up with her again for the sixth time that week — not after all those mornings he’d missed, slipping out to work before the sun had even shown its face.

Not to mention how small you’d looked in that big bed of yours, the one meant for two...

Yeah. He really couldn’t blame his daughter.

In fact, he probably wanted to wake you up even more than she did - he just had more self control...

Marginally.

"C'mon sweetheart."

He murmured, adjusting the 11-month-old on his hip as he started to prepare breakfast for her, eggs already out and on the counter, rice cooker humming beside them, and pan warming up on the stove.

"Lets make you something to eat, hmm? We can go see Mama after."

And when he looked down to check his little girl's reaction, only to be greeted by the sight of her adorable smile - the one she had inherited from you - he felt his heart swell with adoration.

So, if he just so happened to wake you up a little bit earlier than he'd planned...

Well, who could blame him?

After all, the little girl on his hip was far too persuasive to resist.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Unhinged Feral Boyfriends

The whole Batfam is under the assumption that Damian is the feral child. The assassin, the wild one, the demon brat that bites and stabs. Jason usually takes the second place, what with guns, heads in the duffelbag, and being a crime lord.

But Tim? Come on, even Duke is more feral than him. Tim is a nerd, and he keeps to his own devices most of the time, and, sure, sometimes he is plenty unhinged. But he's okay. Seventh place on the unofficial List of Feral Bats.

He's got a boyfriend lately, have you heard? Tim hadn't brought him to the manor for dinner yet, but each and every Bat and Bird have already seen the guy - in person or through the surveillance cameras or background checks, doesn't matter. Either way, Daniel Fenton is quite literally a ray of sunshine.

They look very cute together.

That is, until one day, they witness Danny and Tim rip Joker's ribcage out of his chest.

Nothing could have prepared them for it. It was just another patrol, just another night of fighting crime, nothing out of the ordinary. Sure, Joker was on the loose, but so far, no one has tracked the Clown down or seen any of his goons.

But then, Red Robin's tracker went offline. The Bats started searching for him immediately - his last recorded location, his trackers, his route, everything. But when they managed to find him...

Well.

They didn't only find him in that warehouse.

They found Joker, choking on the ground and clawing at his own neck, like trying to force some air inside his lungs. Over him, Danny was squatting on the ground, his eyes thoughtful and not worried in the slightest, tapping on his chin. And, just a step behind him, Red Robin is holding a fucking ribcage in his hands, studying it with calm curiosity.

"Should we put it back now?" Tim asks, relaxed and easy, like they are speaking about whether they should or should not get another box of cereal in a store.

Danny shrugs, "I mean, if you want to. It's not like he's gonna die in the next ten or so minutes, you've got time."

And then, as Batman makes the slightest of noises, Danny's head snaps to him, and the boy smiles, cheerful and bright. Like the ray of sunshine he is.

"Hi, Bats!" Then he blinks and looks down to Joker, who is already frothing at the mouth, "Oh, don't worry about him, he won't die. Red's just putting a tracker in his manibrium."

"I figured it'd be easier to find him next time if he can't get the tracker out," Tim nods, unbothered, as he is tinkering with the ribcage in his hands before passing it back to Danny, "Okay, done. Put it back."

Danny takes the ribcage and presses it to Joker's chest. And, before they know it, the bones sink inside the man, like a hand in a bowl of sand.

Danny wipes his hands on his jeans and stands. Tim smiles at the Bats, none of whom know what to say and where to start.

The next day, Joker is back at Arkham with a tracker in his sternum, Danny is invited to dinner in the manor, and Tim takes the first place of the Feral List, with a note 'never leave unattended when Danny is nearby'.

[kannady]

ever, ever after

pairing: sylus x non-mc reader

summary: sylus didn't love you. how could he when she was around? but would he come look for you if you willingly step into EVER's boundaries?

word count: 2.6k

a/n: ehhhh just a random idea. not too proud of it. listening to cinnamon girl prompted me to write this. ive never written or read anything angsty. its not great, just my first attempt. lemme know your thoughts! would you wanna read more?

I

The hallway stretched before you, dim and silent except for the muffled creak of the floorboards beneath your boots. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and something sharper, gun oil, maybe. You exhaled slowly, your breath barely disturbing the stillness.

And then you heard it.

A laugh, bright and effortless, ringing through the house.

You froze.

You didn’t need to follow the sound. You didn’t need to see her draped over Sylus’s arm, her fingers curled around a wine glass, her lips parted in amusement. You knew. You had always known.

Sylus had loved her long before he’d known you. Not in this life, perhaps, but in another, one where they were bound by something deeper than reason. You had sensed it the moment you first saw them together, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, the way his voice softened when he spoke her name.

And you? You had been careful.

You never let your hands tremble when you handed him reports. Never let your voice waver when he stood too close, his presence like a storm pressing against your skin. You were smarter than that. You had to be.

The file in your hand suddenly felt heavy. You set it down on the side table, the sound swallowed by the thick silence of the house. 

A few steps farther, and there he was. Mephisto, perched on his stand like a sentinel, his feathers catching the faint glow of the hallway sconces. Sylus’s ever-watchful spy. 

Your fingers closed around the bird’s body before you could second-guess yourself. Cold metal bit into your palm as you twisted its neck, pressing the hidden switch beneath its wing. A faint click, and the red light in its eyes flickered out.

No more watching. No more recording.

You didn’t walk to your room so much as you drifted there. The corner by the window looking welcoming, the floorboards smooth beneath your knees where you had sat so many nights before. You didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Just waited, as if some foolish part of you still expected.

But no. Of course he didn’t come.

Why would he? You were just an asset. A tool. And tools don’t warrant concern when they go quiet. They’re replaced.

The realization settled over you like a weight.

You stood. Your bag was already half-packed from some forgotten mission, duffel shoved beneath the bed, dust clinging to its straps. You yanked it free, tossing in the essentials: cash, a knife, the forged papers you’d been smart enough to prepare months ago. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

You didn’t bother with stealth. Didn’t tiptoe past his study, didn’t glance toward the wing where her laughter still curled through the air like smoke.

He wouldn’t notice you were gone.

***

Two years. 

Two years since you'd walked out of that gilded prison with nothing but a half-packed duffel bag and the clothes on your back. Your plan had been absolute in its simplicity: vanish from the N109 Zone completely. Disappear into some forgotten corner of the world, someplace so remote and inaccessible that not even Sylus with his vast resources would think to look.

But you were never naive enough to believe it would be that easy.

In the silent hours before dawn, when the city outside your new apartment windows hummed ever so softly, the truth would wrap around your throat like cold fingers. If Sylus ever truly wanted to find you, he would. No amount of running, carefully constructing false identities, calculating distance would stop him. 

The realization should have terrified you. Instead, it settled into your bones like an old scar, familiar, aching, but no longer sharp. So you did the only thing you could: you became invisible. Not by hiding, but by thriving in the last place anyone would expect to find you.

EVER Group. Those gleaming letters embossed on every lab door, every piece of correspondence, every business card that now bore your name. Eternity Vanquishes Evolution Restraint. A name as pretentious as it was accurate. They didn't recruit through job postings or career fairs. They hunted. For minds like yours. Sharp, adaptable, willing to dance on the edge of ethics if it meant progress. 

And when they'd found you six months after your disappearance, when they'd slid that first offer across the table with promises of resources beyond imagination and challenges worthy of your mind, you'd said yes without hesitation.

Your new title, Human Augmentation Engineer, rolled off the tongue with clinical precision. The work suited you in ways you hadn't anticipated. Your days were spent in sterile white labs where the air smelled faintly of ozone and disinfectant, your fingers dancing across holographic displays as you designed biomechanical enhancements that pushed the boundaries of human limitation. 

Cardiac regeneration systems that could theoretically keep a heart beating forever. Neural interfaces that blurred the line between human thought and machine precision. 

The ethical implications would have kept a lesser person awake at night. For you, it was just another equation to solve.

The irony wasn't lost on you. EVER was, by any reasonable standard, monstrous. Their research ventured into territories that would terrify most people. Resurrection protocols, memory extraction, experiments that could theoretically stop death. And yet, for the first time in longer than you could remember, you were happy.

Mornings began with the quiet ritual of coffee brewed exactly how you liked it, black with a single sugar, sipped while reviewing data from your latest prototypes. Your colleagues greeted you by name, their respect earned through competence rather than fear. Meetings were lively debates rather than tense performances, your ideas were met with genuine interest rather than dismissal. There was a birthday celebration for you, a real one, with terrible store-bought cake and off-key singing.

Your apartment, small but yours, became a sanctuary. The couch was worn in just the right places, the kitchen stocked with foods you actually enjoyed rather than what was expected. Evenings were spent curled up with research journals or trashy novels, the city lights painting shifting patterns across your walls.

No more straining to hear footsteps in the hallway. No more rehearsing conversations in your head, measuring every word before it left your lips. No more choking on the sound of her laughter ringing through the halls like wind chimes.

You thought about him, of course.

It was impossible not to.

Sometimes when you passed a certain shade of crimson in a shop window, his colour, your breath would catch just for a moment. The scent of expensive bourbon would still make you turn your head. And on rare nights, when sleep eluded you, you'd find yourself wondering. Did he still keep that ridiculous collection of antique pistols? Had he replaced you immediately, or had he waited out of pride, if not sentiment? Was she still there?

But the thoughts came less frequently now. When they did surface, you’d forget about them after a moment or two. Did it hurt? You weren't sure. More importantly, you didn't care enough to find out. This life, this messy, complicated, gloriously ordinary life, was yours by choice. Every late night at the lab, every terrible office party, every quiet evening alone was a decision you'd made for yourself.

And you didn't regret a single second of it.

The past was a closed door.

***

Two years.

Two years of silence.

Two years of waking up expecting to see you in the study, bent over reports with that familiar furrow between your brows. Two years of catching himself turning to make some dry remark, only to remember that there was no one there to hear it. 

He had to admit. You'd outsmarted him.

The realization still tasted like broken glass.

Sylus sat in his office, the glow of a dying fire casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. The room smelled of leather and gun oil, of expensive bourbon left untouched in its crystal decanter. His fingers traced the edge of a file, your file. The one he kept locked in the bottom drawer despite having memorized every word.

Page 37 showed your favorite café, the one with the terrible coffee you pretended to enjoy because the owner reminded you of your grandfather. Page 89 mentioned your habit of humming off-key when working late. Page 203 contained the little notes he’d leave for you around the house. He knew you loved his handwriting. He’d known the moment you asked him to write down everything he needed done instead of telling you. 

He snapped the folder shut.

Mephisto had been his masterpiece. Programmed to follow you silently if you ever left unannounced, to watch over you when he couldn't. A safeguard. A gift, in his own twisted way. But you'd known. Of course you'd known. The way you'd manually shut the bird down with the sole purpose of running away from him, haunted him more than any ghost ever could.

He'd searched every corner of the N109 Zone. Burned through favors, called in debts, even risked venturing into rival territories himself. Nothing. No whispers in the underground, no sightings in the usual haunts. Just empty leads and dead ends piling up like corpses.

His fingers tightened around the glass.

He'd been a fool.

All those carefully calculated moves, every strategic play, and he'd still managed to lose the only piece that ever truly mattered. Standing too close under the guise of examining your work. Leaning down just to catch your scent, ink, gunpowder and something faintly floral. Asking you to move in like some lovesick idiot instead of just saying it.

What kind of boss invites a mere employee to live with him?

The answer burned in his chest.

One who couldn't admit he'd rather die than watch you walk out that door.

His fingers found the scar along his collarbone. Four precise lines from when you'd stitched him up after a job gone awry. You'd been furious he'd gotten shot, even after seeing him heal himself, you still insisted on medical care. Your hands steady but your voice trembling as you told him exactly how stupid he'd been. That was the moment, if he was honest with himself. When he'd known.

Then, a knock came at 2:17 AM.

He didn't bother looking up. "If this is another dead end, don’t bother coming in."

The door creaked open, revealing two familiar silhouettes, tall, lean, their features obscured by those masks they never removed. Even in the dim light, he could tell them apart instantly.

Neither spoke.

Sylus set his glass down with deliberate precision. "Well?"

They exchanged glances, Luke's mask tilting just slightly left, Kieran's right hand twitching toward his hip holster. A full three seconds of silence.

The decanter shattered against the wall behind them.

"Where is she?"

Kieran didn't flinch at the spray of glass. "EVER Group's Bioengineering Division. Senior augmentation specialist." His voice was flat, but the way his thumb rubbed against his index finger.

A long silence. The ticking of the grandfather clock.

The name hit like a bullet. The irony was almost poetic. His brilliant, cautious girl hiding in the belly of the beast itself. His laughter cut through the silence, sharp and humorless. "Of course she is."

Luke’s gaze shifted from Sylus to his brother. Then, all of a sudden he blurted out, "She's happy."

Sylus' cufflink caught the light as he reached for his pistol case.

“Get the car.”

***

The alarm screamed at 5:00 AM.

Your hand slapped over it before the third shrill could shatter the fragile peace of your apartment. For three breaths, you lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling where dawn’s first light painted watercolor streaks through the stained-glass window. The sheets smelled of lavender detergent. Real lavender, not the synthetic crap they pumped through EVER’s ventilation systems.

The shower scalded just shy of painful, steam curling around the bullet scar on your left hip. You scrubbed with a lemon-scented soap, the odour sharp enough to cut through the chemical fog that clung to your skin after long days in the lab. 

The mirror fogged over, but not before you caught sight of the woman staring back. Nearly unrecognizable from the ghost who fled N109 Zone. Your hair was now cropped into a sharp bob, your cheekbones pronounced from actually remembering to eat. Only your hands remained the same. Steady, scarred, capable of both delicacy and breaking a man’s wrist in three places.

You dressed methodically. Black tailored slacks with the hidden knife slit in the right seam, a white blouse buttoned to the collarbones, a lab coat starched stiff as a corpse’s shroud. The ridiculous 3-inch Louboutins Luke stole for your birthday pinched near the pinky toe, but you wore them anyway. The coffee brewed strong enough to dissolve spoons, poured into the chipped World’s Okayest Engineer mug Kieran gifted after your first successful mission.

The elevator to Sublevel 7 smelled like antiseptic and ozone. You balanced the coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, scrolling through today’s schedule when Dr. Cho’s voice interrupted.

“Dr. (reader)!”

He clutched a sealed dossier to his chest like it contained nuclear codes, sweat beading along his receding hairline under the fluorescent lights. “You are reassigned,” he blurted. “Effective immediately.”

The coffee turned to acid in your throat.

Conference Room B smelled like, well, cool, clean air.

Twenty-seven faces stared back as Cho announced Project HDS-7213, EVER’s first live-subject augmentation trial. Your promotion to Lead Biomedical Engineer. The way his voice hitched on live sent a tremor down your spine.

“Congratulations,” Mara whispered, nudging a thicker dossier across the table. “You earned this.”

The file weighed more than it should’ve. Page 1: Subject M-7. Male. 28 years old. Page 3: Evol Classification: Energy Manipulation (Class VIII, potentially IX). Page 9: Containment Protocols: Electromagnetic shackles. Sedation drip. Two cranial failsafe implants.

Your thumb left a smudge on the surveillance photo, a blurred figure in black attire. “Why bother with a photo?” Mara commented.

“Mara,” you murmured, tapping the Evol classification. “We never worked with anyone above Class IV.”

Her knee pressed against yours under the table. “Remember those Tesla-looking monstrosities they brought in last week? Turns out they are portable suppression fields.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Nothing to worry about. I guess.”

Frowning, you turned your gaze back to the file. Your mission was clear cut. Suppress the subject’s Evol to null and transfer it to another subject. You gulped. Wouldn’t that kill him? What had you gotten yourself into?

The walk to Lab 7 took exactly 4 minutes and 37 seconds. You counted each step, each sip of now-cold coffee, each erratic heartbeat as clearance doors hissed open before you. The file revealed another horror. Subject resisted standard sedation (they switched to a veterinary elephant tranquilizer).

The final door required retinal scan and voiceprint.

“Dr. (reader), authorization code Rose-9-White.”

The locks disengaged with a sound like bones breaking.

Lab 7 was colder than the morgue.

Your heels clicked against frosted glass flooring as you approached the observation window. The suppression field hummed at a frequency that made your teeth ache. Coffee sloshed over the rim of your mug as your hands betrayed you.

On the other side of the glass was a man. Not just a subject.

Chained in a chair that looked more like a medieval torture device, his bare torso marked with fresh burns where the electrodes bit into flesh. Blood crusted along his split lip. Silver hair matted with sweat and something darker near the temple. His head lolled forward, chin nearly touching chest, but you could see the rise and fall of ragged breathing.

Then, as if sensing your presence he looked up.

Crimson eyes locked onto yours through the glass. Not the dull gaze of a sedated prisoner. Not the wild glare of a feral test subject.

Your mug shattered on the lab floor.

Because the man strapped to that chair, the man whose file now trembled in your hands, was Sylus.

[btdemaru]

Hello~ can I plz request Saja Boys separately react to having a small argument with their girlfriend before she hits them with the: "That's it, no sex for a week!" So in conclusion, tries to put them on a sex ban because she's upset with them. Dom! Saja boys plz.

NO NUT. ALL NERVE — THE SAJA BAN.

You put your foot down and said "no sex" after an argument out of impulse. Bad idea. Now? They're reacting in their own devastating ways.

Pairings - Jinu x reader, Abby x reader, Romance x reader, Mystery x reader, Baby x reader

Type - seperate | 5.3k words

Warning - cunnilingus, oral, pussydrunk abby, squirting, semi public (mystery), mean!baby, sixtynine, creampies, petnames, curse words, messy, whimpering.

JINU SAJA — LOVE STRATEGIST

It wasn’t your most mature idea.

But after Jinu’s comment about your 'questionable impulsive management,' or whatever it is that he blabbed about— you decided to take action. Swift, decisive, a very absolutely most petty action you've ever done.

"No sex," you said, arms crossed, perched on the bed in nothing but one of his oversized shirts. "You’re officially banned."

He looked up from his tablet slowly, the dim lamp behind him making his cheekbones look sharper than usual. One brow raised.

"Banned," he repeated flatly.

You nodded with complete smugness as if you won something.

"Until further notice. Strategic retaliation." You added, trying to be just a little bit in control more than he was.

There was a long, quiet pause. "You do realize," he murmured, setting his tablet down with care, "that I could win this in a single move, right?"

You blinked.

He got up.

You blinked faster.

Jinu approached in a calm, methodical manner and sat on the edge of the bed like a man preparing a chessboard. His voice was low, coaxing.

"You’re simply ruffled—" he spoke before you cut him off with an offended expression . "Ruffled? What am i? A bird?" Jinu sighs with a gentle smile that teetered on the edge of smirking, "crabby? grouchy? either way that’s when you say things like this."

He leaned in slightly. "But you forget something, love."

You narrowed your eyes.

"What?"

He touched nothing. Only let his breath brush your cheek as he spoke "i’m a strategist."

You swallowed.

"And you’re an idiot if you think I won’t outlast you," you replied, though your voice wobbled slightly.

He chuckled softly but it was obvious how confident he is. "I’m not trying to break the rules, love. I’m trying to make you reconsider them."

His hand rose slow, slow but stopped just beside your face, not quite touching.

"Look, I'll play by your rules. I won’t kiss you. I won’t touch you." Raising both his hands in the air in fake defeat. "But I’ll talk to you like this. I’ll stand close enough for you to remember.. everything. I’ll brush by with my cologne and never look back."

You inhaled sharply.

He grinned. Devilish. Beautiful.

"You want to play with restraint, sweetheart? You forget who you’re up against."

And maybe he's right, because on day three you were already losing.

Two days were easy, busying yourself with everything you could.

Every glance he gave you came wrapped in velvet and challenge. He’d whisper praise in your ear while you brushed your teeth. Bring you coffee in bed shirtless, just shirtless enough to be suspicious. Read next to you on the couch, legs touching just enough to remind you what he wasn’t doing.

You tried to hold out.

You failed spectacularly.

You found him in the living room, halfway through some dry nonfiction book he's not even actually reading.

He didn’t even look up when you stood in front of him, arms folded. "You smug bastard." You barked.

Jinu closed a page with a saved bookmark. "Hmm?"

"You know what you’re doing." Trying to at least catch a glimpse of his facade faltering. But he stayed.

He placed down the book gently and finally met your gaze.

"Do i?"

You stepped closer. Straddled his lap nothing more than a flimsy oversized white plaid shirt with no panties. No nothing. Perhaps he'll give in.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you.

"Say it," he murmured.

You frowned. "Say what?"

"Say the ban is over." It was more of a demand.

You huffed. Looked away.

He leaned closer, voice silk

"Say it, or I’ll stop." He could smell your arousal, could see the way your pink folds were tacky and slick with your desire. It made his mouth water, made his cock jerk and leak in his pants as he gazed at the feast laid out before him.

Swiping two long digits from the bottom to upwards, grabbing as much as he could. Parting his fingers creating a glossy web and your composure shattered. "Fine," you muttered. "Ban’s over."

"Louder." He plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into your cunt, pumping them in and out of your velvet walls, stretching you open, preparing you for what was to come. His thumb rubbed relentless circles over your clit.

You glared. "Jinu—"

Tilting his head, looking entirely too pleased.

He curled his fingers just right, rubbing against that G-spot, making your back arch off the bed and your hips buck wildly against his hand.

"Shit, i said—" trying your best to utter the words, "the ban is o-over."

Big palms reached down and gripped his thick shaft, aligning the broad head with your soaked, fluttering entrance. Slowly, torturously, you sank down, feeling your silky walls parting for him, welcoming him inside.

Inch by inch, you took him in, your eyes fluttering closed in bliss as you felt yourself being split open, stuffed so full that you swore you could feel him in your fucking throat.

"So fucking good f'me, missed this pussy s'much." Jinu was no better, mumbling nonsense as he lost himself the second your folds rested on his balls.

With a moan, you began to move, lifting your hips until just the tip of his shaft remained inside you, before slamming back down, taking him to the hilt once more. You set a steady rhythm, your hips undulating as you rode him with wanton abandon, lost in the pleasure of being so deliciously full.

every ridge and vein of his huge cock dragging along your sensitive walls as you fucked yourself on him, could feel the way he jerked and throbbed with each bounce, as if he was fighting not to just flip you over. "So good— oh fuck- so good n pretty."

Walls began to flutter and clench around his pistoning shaft, gripping him like a silken fist as your orgasm approached.

"Fuck, can feel you squeezing me..." Jinu grunted, his eyes squeezing shut as he battled to hold back his own release, determined to make you come undone first.

you screamed his name, your voice raw and ragged as your orgasm finally crashed over you, your vision going white as lightning zapped up your spine. Your pussy clenched down hard on his plundering cock, the walls rippling as you came all over his shaft.

As much as you hate to admit, he won.

ABBY SAJA — TOUCH DEPRIVED?!

"You banned me?!"

Abby stood in the kitchen doorway like you’d just slapped out of his hand. His jaw dropped, one sock sliding slightly off his foot from how fast he’d run in after hearing your declaration.

"No kisses. No touching. And definitely no sex" You crossed your arms with dramatic finality.

He blinked. "Wait, wait, wait— back up." Quickly rambling on as he panicked, "That’s like, the whole relationship combo meal?!" Face turned even paler than a canvas. "Babe, be serious."

You arched a brow and picked up your mug with the calmness of a god exacting divine punishment.

"You said I overreacted to a ‘small thing’—aka, you forgetting to tell me about that super important interview until literally-" You jabber at him before dropping the nuke, "two hours before leaving for OUR DATE."

Abby winced. "Okay, yeah. That was... okay. Look, I suck at dates! And calendars! And remembering things unless they scream!"

"Well I’m screaming now," you said sweetly, sipping your tea.

Abby let out a sound like a wounded seal. "But i'll starve! I could never last a day let alone a week without your—"

Groaning at Abby's annoying excuses, "Should’ve thought of that before you tried to hug me mid-fight and said, 'C’mon babe, we can argue later after some rounds'"

"I WAS NERVOUS." he yelled, then shrunk immediately.

But nonetheless he still had to put up with the no sex ban for quite awhile, promising himself he'll last just so it wouldn't upset you.

An hour later however, he was in full breakdown mode.

You were curled up on the pool lounger just outside the Saja's penthouse, peacefully ignoring the way Abby was flopping dramatically over furniture nearby.

Every five minutes "This ban is ruining my mental health."

Another five minutes "I will disintegrate if I can't have you right now."

For the tenth time "Is cockwarming banned too or can I at least kiss you?"

He dragged the pool lounger that was near to combine with yours before collapsing next to you with a sad little sigh. "I miss my favorite food, 'm hungry" he said mournfully, eyes wide and childlike.

You resisted. Oh, you tried. But when he peeked up at you through messy hair, face pouty and boyish and full of unsaid apologies as his bulky arms peel your legs apart, your heart cracked.

And just when you were about to give in

"Wait—" he said quickly, holding a finger up. "Is the ban officially lifted? Or are you just weak for my stupidly handsome god given face?"

You grabbed your towel to smack him, only for him to place it under your hips.

"You’re lucky your stupid face is cute." Palming his face trying to block it away from melting your guards down.

'So that’s a yes?" he said, grinning way too fast.

"One," you warned.

"Then I’m making it COUNT." His tall frame folding like a house of cards, movements clumsy and uncoordinated. With all the restraint he had left putting your legs on his broad patterned shoulder. Too warm. Too eager.

You gasped as his tongue finally made contact, the slick, hot muscle parting your slick folds and delving deep into your dripping hole. Abby let out a loud, messy slurp as he began to eat you out with wild abandon, his tongue plunging in and out of your clenching channel, lapping up your fragrant juices like a man starved.

"So- mfff so fuckin' sweeeet." Drool dripped down his chin and onto your thighs as he sucked and slurped noisily, too drunk on you to care about finesse. His sharp eyes fluttered shut in bliss as he savored your tangy essence, addicted to your unique flavor that danced on his tongue. "Can eat you all mpff day, y'know?"

"C-can't get enough of this fucking pussy," he slurred, his words punctuated by fat, open-mouthed kisses pressed against your sopping wet slit.

Sucking the sensitive nub between his lips as he lashed at it with the rough pad of his tongue. At the same time, he plunged two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your dripping hole, pumping them in and out of your clenching channel at a brutal pace.

Your back bowed off the lounger, your tits heaving as you gasped for air as your first orgasm crashed over. He continued to pump his fingers in and out of your cunt, making a mess of the lounger and the pool deck, marking his face and hair with streaks of your essence.

Abby just grinned like the fucking fool he was, drunk on pleasure and pussy juice, eagerly swallowing every drop he could catch. "You 'kay?" He smooched your pussy folds as if he's talking to it.

The moment you nod a simple 'okay' it's as if you've grant him infinity. He was already diving back in for more, his tongue lapping into your abused hole.

"Abby 's too much— oh god" you whimpered, squirming on the lounger, your body hypersensitive from the intense pleasure. But Abby was too far gone to hear your feeble protests, too consumed by his own desperate need to keep tasting you, to keep pushing you to the very edge of your limits.

The wet, obscene squelches and schlicks of his fingers plunging into your soaked flesh filled the air as your second orgasm crashed. ""I...I can't..." you sobbed, your fingers fisting in his hot pink hair, trying desperately to pull him away "yes you can, baby.. c'mon please just one more."

One more, then another, third, fourth.

He's gonna make it count.

ROMANCE SAJA — ONLY READY.

You didn’t mean to yell. Not at him. Not like that.

See, the argument had started small. A forgotten detail, a missed plan, something he said offhandedly that rubbed your tired nerves the wrong way.

You were exhausted. Overwhelmed. Your words sharper than they needed to be.

"Maybe if you actually listened to me when I talk—"

He'd gone quiet at that, like always. Letting you burn hot while he stood calm in the smoke.

"You’re right," he’d said. That was the thing about Romance. He never raised his voice. Never pushed back when you were hurting.

That only made it worse.

So you’d said it — a line flung out in the heat of frustration.

"No sex. Just not until you're off the hook."

And Romance blinked once. That was all. A gentle pause like he was giving space for a retraction. But when none came, he just nodded.

"Alright," he murmured. "Whatever you need, love."

You thought it would feel like a win.

Instead, it felt like sleeping in a bed missing its gravity.

He didn’t touch you that night. Didn't kiss your shoulder like he always did before falling asleep. Didn't slide a lazy hand over your hip, or breathe slow against your neck.

Just silence. Gentle and full of distance.

You turned your back on him. But it didn’t help.

Because even with the space, you could feel him.

Romance wasn’t gone. He was just holding back. Out of respect. Out of love.

The next morning, you tried not to show how sorely you missed him. You brushed past his hand when he offered you your coffee. Mumbled thanks. Kept your tone even.

He didn’t push. He didn’t even pout. That somehow made it so much worse.

Romance was domestic in the quietest ways — a hand on your back when you passed, little shoulder squeezes in the kitchen, resting his chin on your head when you were in the fridge too long.

And now? He was a ghost. A warm, visible ghost who would not touch you until you asked him to.

It was excruciating.

By the second day, you were crawling out of your skin.

You tried to bait him. A sleep shirt that was just his own oversized tee. A casual stretch while reaching for something high, back arching in that way he used to immediately notice.

He didn’t take the bait.

"Want me to help with the dishes?" he asked softly behind you that evening.

"No," you said. "I’ve got it."

He leaned a hip against the counter but didn’t move closer.

"I can still touch to you, can’t I?" he asked, voice low and careful.

You swallowed. "Of course."

"Just making sure." His voice dipped. " Sex is off the table, but touches isn’t."

His words were tender, but his presence? Devastating. He smelled like the warm fabric of your sheets and honey soap. He didn’t look mad. Just patient. Infuriatingly patient.

You dropped a sponge in the sink with a frustrated huff.

"You’re really not going to- y'know, fuck me?"

"No." His tone was soft as rain. "Because you said not to."

You turned to him, finally looking up — and his eyes were there, waiting. Soft. Patient. But glowing with affection so thick you could feel it from where you stood.

And you snapped.

"You always make it hard to stay mad at you," you muttered, glaring at the tile.

"I love you," he said, wrapping his arms around your waist. "I can’t undo the things I miss. But I can honor your boundaries, and wait. That’s what I’ve been doing."

You stared at his chest, hand curling into the hem of his shirt.

"...You’re such a cheat," you whispered.

He chuckled, low and warm, and leaned close enough for his breath to kiss your cheek. "You always break before I do."

And you did.

Fingers fisting in his shirt, you pulled him close and finally, finally kissed him.

Not like you were angry. Not like you were desperate.

Like you were coming home

Soft. Leisurely. No urgency — just the kind of reverent touch he gave only when the world had quieted.

"Still mad at me?" he whispered into your temple.

"No," you breathed, lips brushing his collarbone. "Still mad at myself, though."

His fingers curled into your waist.

"You’re allowed to be angry. But don’t punish yourself for feeling."

You kissed his throat, slow and warm.

"Does this mean the ban’s lifted?" he asked, all amusement and silk.

"It’s… under review," you mumbled.

He laughed, low and deep. "Then I’ll keep proving I’m worth parole."

And with that, he flipped you gently onto your back lifting those pathetic excuses for clothes "you're absolutely breathtaking," Romance murmured, his deep, velvety.

He leaned down, peppering your shoulder from behind with soft, open-mouthed kisses, his lips lingering on your skin like he was tasting the finest delicacy.

His hands, strong and warm, skimmed up your sides, his fingers trailing lightly over the swell of your breasts, teasing the underside of your hardened nipples. He cupped the soft globes, kneading the pliant flesh gently.

Romance slid his hands down to grip your ass, his fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he held you in place, trapping his cock against your dripping slit. He kneaded and squeezed the globes, pulling them apart slightly before squeezing them back together, the motion making your pussy lips flutter and your juices drip down "look at her, all giddy f'me.."

A needy cry left your lips, "please—"

The musky scent of your arousal permeated the air, filling his nostrils, he rutted his wetting cock onto your folds, collecting as much lubricant as he could. The mushroomy top nudging against your clit leaving electric pleasures.

"Inside.. need— ah fuck- please" and he wasted no time. How can he deny his girl? That wouldn't be romantic.

Romance gripped the base of his shaft, stroking himself slowly as he nudged the engorged head through your drenched entrance pressing forward, letting just the crown breach your tight opening.

A guttural moan tore from his throat, "perfect, so p- perfect." he hissed through clenched teeth, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he began to move, withdrawing until just the tip remained inside you before slamming back in, impaling you on his shaft over and over.

Each thrust striking your cervix, his heavy balls slapping lewdly against your ass as he fucked into you with long, purposeful strokes. "Fit just- for me, so filthy n' tight" The kitchen filled with the erotic symphony of flesh meeting flesh, your wanton moans and cries of pleasure punctuated by the wet, obscene squelches plap plap plap as his heavy balls drawing up tight to his body as his orgasm built in intensity. But he was determined to make you come first, Romance slammed into you and ground his pelvis against yours, his pubic bone rubbing against your throbbing clit as his thick shaft pulsed deep inside you. At the same time, he pinched your clit hard between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and rubbing the sensitive nub "cum, come on- ahh s'so fucking tight i cant— come with me."

Your juices gushed out around his pistoning shaft, flooding your channel and dripping down onto the marble countertop below.

His hips jerked erratically as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his shaft throbbed and jerked inside you filling to the brim like such a thick creamy gloop.

Kissing your temple gently with soft loving words easing in "Mm.. I'll take it as I'm forgiven."

MYSTERY SAJA — WINNERS, LOSERS.

He came home at 2:47 a.m., the way he always did — quietly, like fog slipping under a locked door. You didn’t hear the front door creak. You didn’t hear his boots. Just the shift of air pressure and the way your spine instinctively knew he was in the room.

You didn’t turn around. Didn’t greet him.

You just curled deeper into the side of the bed he hadn’t touched in four days.

Your voice broke the silence. Cold. Controlled.

"Don’t even think about touching me."

He paused in the dark. You could feel it, the way the stillness rippled, how even the shadows seemed to hold their breath.

You turned to look at him finally, eyes narrowing against the hallway light he’d accidentally let spill through the door.

"I mean it," you said, sitting up. "No touching. No kissing. No sex. I’m not doing this anymore. You disappear whenever you want, and then just show up like nothing happened—like I’m the one waiting for you to breathe life into the room again."

He stood in the doorway, tall and still, the collar of his coat damp with rain.

He didn’t say a word.

He never did.

You expected him to leave again.

Instead, Mystery entered the room.

Slow. Controlled. Silent.

He peeled off his coat first — rain-slick and heavy — draped it over the back of the chair. Then the gloves. Then the harness. All quiet. Methodical.

You could feel the tension in his movements, the restraint in every inch of his body. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. Didn’t try to justify his absence.

He simply walked toward the bed deliberate, firm.

You straightened.

"I said—"

But you cut yourself off when his body leaned over you slowly putting his cheek on your shoulder, nuzzling himself.

It was a silent plea, Mystery lived off of physical touch, he barely talks but every single damn time he wants to communicate its through actions. Refraining him from doing so it's like cutting him off entirely.

He tilted his head, just slightly. Something in your heart softened. Like the way storm clouds break apart before they cry.

His free hand reached up — knuckles brushing your cheekbone, Voice almost unheard, "don't.. ban."

"You can’t just leave and come back and expect me to open up like nothing happened."

His fingers finally grazed your arm. Light. Testing

"I'm sorry."

It was how he spoke when he meant it.

You looked up at him, throat tight.

"If you’re sorry, then stay. Stay here. Stay in this bed. Stay when I need you."

He met your gaze. Unflinching.

Then, in a whisper so low it felt like velvet against your skin. "...I will."

Cunningly enough, he changed subtly for the whole week.

It started subtly.

A hand brushing your lower back when you walked by. A lingering graze along your arm as he handed you your coffee. The way he sat next to you on the couch, knees pressed to yours, thigh warm against your skin, thumb lazily tracing circles against your leg through the blanket.

You glared at him the first few times.

You didn't know how he could be so physically close and still keep his promises.

He wasn’t breaking the ban, no.

He was letting you break it.

Mystery became more present, always near. Always humming something under his breath. Always watching you with a patience that feels like a trap.

You want him to be distant, cold, retreating.

Instead, you get cooked dinners, soft shoulders to lean on, long silences that feel just too comfortable.

It was just irritating, now he wants to spend time with you on the rooftop calling it a 'date'.

You were becoming restless. He knew.

You broke first. He grinned.

You reached up and dragged him down by the collar of his shirt, crashing your mouth to his — rough, hungry, angry.

He groaned into the kiss. Not loud. Just low and wrecked.

Mystery moved with intent. Slow, devastating control. "Still banned?" he rasped against your neck, finally speaking his voice a rare, broken thing, like thunder that doesn’t know how to whisper.

"Yes," you breathed.

He hummed, pressing his hips against yours in a slow roll that made your ban feel like a lie. "Are you sure?" He cocks.

He let you undo him piece by piece, shirt sliding from his shoulders, his breath shallow, his restraint cracking at the seams.

He let you take charge.

He let you use him.

Or at least for now.

"You set stupid rules to see if I'll break 'em." One hand released your breast to slide down your belly, his fingers skimming over your navel before delving between your thighs. He cupped your mound possessively, his middle finger pressing against your slick slit, feeling the wetness that had gathered there.

"Nnngh... you're fucking drenched," Mystery groaned, his voice a low, eerily rumble.

Mystery's long, deft fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, and with a sharp tug, he yanked them down your thighs, baring your dripping slit to his hungry gaze. He drank in the sight of your glistening folds, swollen, just begging to be devoured. Tossing the ruined lace aside, "look at you, putting up a fight when i could've taken care of this." He purred while the thick head of his cock parting your slick petals. "Now.. tell me how much you want this? lift that useless.. rule."

You gasped, trembling.

"Fuck— its lifted i want it." Meeting his smug grin "need.. you, plea—"

he slammed forward, burying every rigid inch of his thick shaft inside you with one brutal thrust. A guttural groan tore from his throat as your silken walls clenched down around him,

Reaching down and pressed his thumb roughly against your sensitive, aching clit. "ohfuckohfuckohfuck!" Wailing at how good you feel around him.

He could feel it, you could feel it. Just before he reached his peak, he abruptly pulled out, his curvy cock slick with your juices. "please cum— with me ohh feels so go-ohd!" fist flying over his thick length as he chased his rapidly building release as he aimed the swollen, leaking tip at your sensitive clit.

Pearly ropes of cum erupted from the tip, splattering lewdly across your oh so sweet cunt, coating your lower abdomen in his hot, sticky seed.

Moonlight casting a glow on both skins, his pale ones almost translucent due to the sleek sweat coating him. Mumbling sorry's and love you's as he desperately nuzzles himself, head spinning high.

BABY SAJA — NO? FINE. ROT WITH IT.

You’d said it on impulse.

"You’re not getting anything tonight. Or tomorrow. Or until I say so."

Baby had stilled mid-step, mid-breath, mid-whatever sarcastic retort he’d had locked and loaded.

And then he just… smiled.

Not a nice one.

The kind that made your spine stiffen and your thighs clench in the same second.

Baby thrives on chaos, so if you, his lover, suddenly bans him from sex, he’s not taking it with quiet grace. Not even close.

He's sarcastic.

He’s petty.

He’s not above throwing a tantrum—but his kind of tantrum is the mean, smug, backhanded compliment-filled type that leaves you wanting to strangle him and kiss him at the same time.

"Ohhh," he drawled, clapping slowly. "How *terrifying."

You scowled. "I’m serious."

"Oh, I know. That’s the funniest part." He turned on his heel, dramatic as always, walking off toward the bedroom with his arms raised like he’d been wrongly imprisoned.

"I hope your moral high ground keeps you warm tonight, sugar." he called over his shoulder. "Because i won’t be giving you allllll this.”

Good. That was the point. Right?

Right?

Days after and Baby was… unbearable.

He still talked to you. Laughed around you. Sat beside you on the couch.

But he weaponized everything.

He’d come out of the shower shirtless and towel-drying his hair, stopping to stretch right in front of you.

"Oh, whoops —didn’t mean to give you a show. Not that it matters. This body’s banned, remember?"

He’d casually flop onto your lap and sigh dramatically.

"God, I’d kill for some stress relief right now. Shame my girlfriend thinks I should suffer."

He’d even sneak a hand on your thighs in the movie theater, "You’re lucky I have restraint, sweetheart. Old me would've had you here already."

You gritted your teeth. "Then maybe I should ban you longer."

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear with that smug little lilt in his voice. "Then maybe I should stop pretending to behave."

It was a big day for the Saja boys, performing up against the Huntrix. All of them were inside their dressing rooms and like a routine, you were in Baby's dangling your feet listening to their music waiting on the tiny touch.

And Baby walks in like a storm.

Pulls the headphones out. Tosses your phone aside. Climbs on top of you, knees on either side of your thighs, bracing his hands by your head.

His eyes—dark. Unamused.

"You done punishing me for shit I didn’t do?"

You blink, speechless.

"No? Great. Then I’m done pretending it doesn’t bother me."

He dips down, face inches from yours.

His voice lowers, pure venom-laced honey. "I could’ve had you crying on my tongue by now. Instead I’m sitting here listening to you pretend you’re fine."

Your throat tightens."You’re not fine. You’re stubborn. And maybe I like that. But it's getting annoying,"

He finally leans down, dipped his head, burying his face between your thighs as he inhaled your scent, groaning at the intoxicating aroma of your arousal.

You whined pushing his head nesr your aching core but he held back. "Now it wouldn't be fair if you get what you want now.. right?."

It happend with a snap of a finger, Baby's laying down the couch with you on top him, ass up near his face just how he loves it. The typical sixty fuckin' nine.

Blowing air onto your folds before he taps it "hurry up, get to work. apologize."

His tongue delved deeper, plunging into your soaked, clutching heat as he feast on your dripping slit. He could feel your walls fluttering and clenching around the slick intrusion.

You were crumbling. But so was he.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you wider open to him, allowing him to bury his face deeper into your aching core.

At the same time, Baby guided your hand to his rigid shaft, wrapping your fingers around the throbbing length. He groaned against your dripping folds as you began to stroke him, your fist gliding up and down his thick, pulsing cock. "Ohh yeah, easy ain't it?" The sensation of your soft hand around him and your tongue swirling around the sensitive crown of his erection made his hips buck and jerk, fucking into the tight channel of your fist as he ate your pussy with single-minded intensity. "Bein' such a brat with that ahnn shit- stupid ban."

your pleasured gasps and moans vibrating against his own aching flesh as you lapped and suckled at his swollen balls, your fingers pumping faster along his shaft in response to the building ecstasy. "Ba-ahmp! Baby- mpf"

The show starts in five.

Redoubled his efforts, sucking hard on your throbbing clit as he thrust two fingers knuckle-deep into your spasming sheath, stroking that mushy spot with ruthless precision. "There we go, c'mon- ahk dont suck so hard—"

Your thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clenched down hard on his fingers, your velvety walls rippling and fluttering "yes yes yes tha's it th'pfff.. tha's it sugar."

Balls-deep in the tight, slick heat of your throat, his shaft jerking and shuddering as thick ropes of scalding cum erupted from the swollen tip. He pumped jet after jet of his potent essence directly down your gullet, "mpff- show mwuch..!?" Gagging hard as cums dribbles out.

His body shuddering and convulsing with the force of his release.

Muffled scream of ecstasy was met by your greedy gulps and swallows, your throat muscles milking his pulsing cock for every last drop of his creamy load as you both rode out the aftershocks of your intense, mind-blowing orgasms.

"Gotta keep the show.. y'know- oh feels s'so empty n good." He grinned, mouth slathered in your.

Tapping his tongue on your folds "let's continue after show yeah? 'least i can focus on stage."

note : i personally liked it, but ngl it is just a little bit rushed. but i hope u still enjoy it, reblogs and likes r lovely!!

[arolesbianism]

Tiphereth suppression finally complete babeyyyy

[cbeargyu]

assigned to you

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

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

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

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

wc: 19,1k

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

hope you guys enjoy it!! 🫶

everything begins the day you turn twenty.

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

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

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

love is banned unless sanctioned by the state.

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

and yet—there is no other choice.

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

“please return home and prepare for assignment.”

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

sometimes you wonder if any of them are happy.

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

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

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

assigned partner: choi yeonjun. age: 20.

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

you stare.

he’s... beautiful.

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

your throat feels dry.

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

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

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

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

a boy you’ve never met.

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

you’re early.

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

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

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

and then the door opens.

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

it’s hard to breathe.

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

choi yeonjun.

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

you feel like you’re being auctioned off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then, the mediator clears her throat.

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

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

and just like that, you are alone with him.

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

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

“wow,” he says. “that was intense.”

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

“you don’t talk much, huh?”

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

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

he smiles. “that’s fair.”

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

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

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

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

your brows knit together, surprised.

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

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

and you look at him then, really look.

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

"you’re used to this,” you murmur.

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

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

you swallow, throat tight.

“i didn’t want this,” you admit.

he nods. “me neither.”

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

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

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

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

you blink.

he waits.

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

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

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

and he listens. attentively. sincerely.

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

two weeks later.

the wedding is on a thursday.

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

you wear beige.

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

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

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

and that’s when you finally cry.

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t answer.

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

your boxes are already inside. so are his.

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

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

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

but now, days pass like fog.

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

you go to the hospital together a week later.

the nurse greets you by your couple ID number.

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

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

yeonjun speaks for you when you freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

and again—there it is.

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

nights are the hardest.

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

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

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

now, there’s only silence.

until one night, a knock.

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

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

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

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

you swallow. your throat feels raw.

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

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

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

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

that’s a first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“so you don’t catch a cold.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the question feels heavy. you stare into your cup.

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

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

“i did,” he says finally.

your heart stirs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you hate her a little.

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

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

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

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

the silence after that is heavy, electric.

you don’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, even though your stomach feels hollow.

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

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

you hate that it lingers.

you hate that it hurts.

that night, the rain starts late.

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

the first clap of thunder makes you freeze.

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

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

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

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

you don’t think. you just move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“nothing’s going to break tonight.”

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

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

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

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

you slept like a baby.

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

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

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

and now you realize why.

yeonjun’s arms are around you.

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

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

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

but instead you stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

neither of you moves.

there’s a pause where his eyes search your face, slow and unreadable. and then, with a sleepy smile tugging at his lips, he lets out a soft breath.

“you didn’t run away in the middle of the night. that’s a good sign.”

you laugh quietly, your cheeks burning. “i slept too well to even think about moving.”

he hums, pleased. “me too. i usually toss around like crazy, but i guess… you were a good influence.”

you want to joke. to deflect. but instead you find yourself whispering something real.

“i felt safe.”

his eyes soften.

you don’t say anything else. you just lie there a while longer, not moving, not rushing. there’s a peace in the way your bodies still fit together, in how neither of you seems quite ready to let go.

but the world, eventually, pulls you back. responsibilities, the clock ticking louder in your head. breakfast. classes. life.

yeonjun stretches lazily and finally pulls back, giving you space without question, his smile sleepy but kind. “i’ll make us coffee.”

you nod, watching him slip out of bed, hair tousled, shirt riding up slightly at the back. you press your hand to where his body had been, still warm, and you sit there a little longer, your thoughts spiraling in slow, confused circles.

because even though last night was about fear and storms… this morning feels like the beginning of something else entirely.

the waiting room smells like antiseptic and soft lavender, a strange combination that doesn’t manage to calm your nerves. you sit side by side with yeonjun on a sleek government-issued bench, your fingers clasped tightly on your lap, trying not to let your knee bounce with the anxiety pressing into your chest.

he seems more composed than you are—back straight, hands relaxed, legs slightly spread in his usual confident posture—but when you glance sideways, you notice how he keeps licking his lips, how his jaw clenches just a little every few seconds.

the appointment with the planning officer had been scheduled right after your wedding—clinical, efficient, emotionless, like everything else in this system. you hadn’t talked about it. hadn’t even wanted to think about it. but now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to hide.

“choi yeonjun. choi y/n,” a nurse calls softly from the doorway, clipboard in hand. “follow me.”

you walk side by side into a white, spotless office where a woman in a pale beige suit greets you from behind a desk. she looks to be in her forties, composed, direct, her nametag reading ms. kang – reproductive health officer.

you sit across from her. the air feels heavier now.

“so,” she begins, smiling in that polite, unyielding way government workers do, “you’re about a month into your union. how’s the adjustment been?”

you blink, unsure how to answer. yeonjun speaks first.

“we’re getting used to it. slowly.”

“good,” she nods, tapping something on her tablet. “you’ve both passed the health screenings, no genetic flags or fertility concerns. so the next step is to begin trials of compatibility-based conception.”

you shift in your seat. trials.

“have you already begun your sexual relationship?” she asks, her tone calm, like she’s asking about the weather.

your breath catches. your eyes widen slightly, and your face goes hot. “uh—no. not yet,” you manage, your voice too soft, almost guilty.

yeonjun straightens a little, eyebrows twitching, his tone sharper. “we’ve only been married a few weeks. there hasn’t been time.”

ms. kang doesn’t flinch. she only nods and types something on her screen. “i see. while it’s natural for some couples to take time, we recommend initiating intimacy soon. it will help establish the rhythm of your connection and allow us to track progress for planning interventions if necessary.”

your ears are burning now. her words play back in your head like static: initiate intimacy, track progress.

you glance at yeonjun without meaning to, and he’s already looking at you—but his expression is unreadable. his jaw is tight again.

“we’ll… take that into consideration,” he says curtly.

the rest of the appointment passes in a blur. you nod and agree to things you barely hear, accept pamphlets on fertility monitoring and hormonal optimization. by the time you walk out of the clinic, your skin feels too tight for your body.

you don’t speak on the way home.

you sit beside him on the train, trying to focus on the passing buildings outside the window, but your thoughts keep circling the same place. the way she said it. the expectation of it. and worse—the idea of it.

because the thing is… you’ve thought about it. even before this meeting, in the quiet moments, in the space between shared breakfasts and brushing past each other in the kitchen, in that night you slept in his arms like you belonged there.

you’ve wondered what his mouth would feel like pressed to your neck.

you’ve wondered how his hands would move if he weren’t just offering comfort.

you’ve wondered how his voice would sound if it wasn’t so composed—if it cracked with want.

but that was all private. safe in your imagination. not something stamped into paperwork. not something tracked by government programs and fertility logs.

and now you can’t not think about it.

when you finally get home, it’s too quiet. you move around each other like magnets unsure if they should attract or repel. you both pretend you’re just tired. that it was just a long day.

but the silence drips between you, thick and unspoken.

you head to your room without a word, tossing the clinic folder on your desk like it burns. you try to sleep. but the image of yeonjun, tense and handsome in the cold clinic light, won’t leave your mind. his voice, defensive. his fingers, twitching on his knee. and most of all, the memory of his arm around your waist from that night—the heat of his skin under your palm.

an hour passes. maybe two.

you shift in bed, restless. you toss the blanket off. put it back on. stare at the ceiling. you hear footsteps in the hall.

a soft knock at your door.

you sit up, heart hammering. “come in.”

yeonjun stands there, messy hair and hoodie half-zipped, eyes unreadable in the dim light. he doesn’t come in right away. just leans against the doorframe and runs a hand through his hair.

“sorry,” he says after a moment. “about earlier. the clinic.”

you nod. “it’s okay.”

he looks at you then, longer, and something flickers in his expression—something caught between curiosity and hesitation.

“they make it sound like it’s supposed to be… mechanical,” he murmurs, crossing the room slowly. “but it’s not, right? it’s not supposed to be.”

your breath catches.

he stops by your bed. close enough for you to see the flutter of his lashes, the nervous line between his brows. close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body.

you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s both of you at the same time. but suddenly, the space between you disappears.

his hand brushes your cheek, soft and hesitant, and you lean into it without thinking.

“i don’t want it to be just… a task,” he says quietly, voice barely a breath now. “not with you.”

you don’t answer. you just let your forehead rest against his chest, your heart beating too loudly, your breath catching in your throat. and when he wraps his arms around you again—warm and strong and familiar—you feel the storm rising again.

but this time, it’s not outside.

it’s you. it’s him.

and it’s not fear anymore.

it’s something else entirely.

you don’t kiss that night.

you could’ve. maybe you almost do. there’s a moment where his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth and your eyes lift to meet his, and you feel it—that shift, like the world holds its breath. but then he steps back, gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and says goodnight in a voice that’s too soft, too careful.

he leaves your door cracked open behind him. and somehow, that’s worse than closing it.

after that, the tension lingers—thick and quiet like smoke.

in the mornings, you find yourselves together more often than not. your coffee mugs sit side by side now. sometimes you forget whose is whose. he steals sips from yours and you pretend to scowl, but your heart trips every time your fingers brush when you both reach for the sugar at the same time.

you fall into a rhythm. not romantic. not domestic. but something else. something intimate in a quiet way.

when the job placement emails come through, you sit together on the couch, scrolling through them on your shared government-issued tablet. yeonjun lands a spot as an assistant at a community cultural center downtown—flexible hours, reasonable pay. you get placed in a local library, part-time shelving and cataloguing.

it’s not exciting. it’s not your dream. but it’s… stable.

“at least we won’t starve,” yeonjun says one evening, his arm slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you. “thanks, government.”

you snort. “maybe next year they’ll assign us a kid and a dog, too.”

he laughs—really laughs, loud and full—and something about the sound makes your chest ache. it makes you want to say something dumb just to hear it again.

but what sticks with you, what haunts you, is that night after the storm. not because of what happened—because of what didn’t.

and what happened at the clinic. what the officer said. what yeonjun said after.

you think about it too much. think about him too much.

and you think about her.

the girl he loved once. the one he talked about in that quiet, midnight voice, when the rain had softened and you were wrapped in his hoodie like armor.

you remember how his gaze turned distant as he spoke of her, how he confessed that he truly believed she’d be the one assigned to him. that he waited. that he hoped.

how the disappointment burned when he found out she wasn’t.

and you shouldn’t feel anything about it. it’s in the past. he told you that.

but sometimes, when you catch him staring into space or fiddling with that little leather bracelet he always wears, your chest twists a little. and you don’t know why.

you’re not in love.

you’re not supposed to fall in love.

yet it keeps slipping in—quiet and slow. like water through cracks.

one evening, it rains again. not a storm, just a steady drizzle that makes the air smell clean. you’re both tired from work and university, but neither of you wants to be alone in your room.

you sit on the windowsill together, knees touching, sharing a bowl of strawberries yeonjun bought on the way home. the fruit is sweet and cold against your tongue.

“i used to love the rain,” he murmurs, watching it trail down the glass. “when i was a kid, i’d sit on the porch for hours just listening. it felt like… everything else stopped for a while.”

you glance at him. his profile is soft in the dim light, his hair falling slightly over his eyes.

“it used to scare me,” you admit quietly. “storms, i mean. as you may know...”

he smiles without turning to you. “you were scared.”

“yeah.”

there’s a pause.

“you weren’t scared the other night,” he says. “not with me.”

you shrug. “you made it easy not to be.”

the silence that follows is gentle. not awkward. just… full.

“do you think it’s still possible?” he asks suddenly. “to fall for someone? even with all of this?” he gestures vaguely, and you know he means the system, the laws, the matching algorithms and fertility checkups and pre-written life paths.

you don’t answer right away. you don’t know how to.

“i think we’re not supposed to,” you say after a long pause. “but maybe… that doesn’t stop it from happening.”

his eyes find yours then, and they don’t look away.

your heart stumbles.

neither of you speaks. the air feels like it’s crackling again—not with lightning, but with something just as dangerous.

the next night, you fall asleep on the couch together. not planned. not anything.

you were watching something. you don’t even remember what. but you woke up with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, heartbeat steady against your ear.

you don’t move. you can’t move.

it feels too good. too right.

his shirt smells like laundry soap and skin. his fingers shift in his sleep, brushing lightly along your back. it makes you shiver. it makes you think about things you shouldn’t.

you stay there until the sun begins to rise.

you pretend to be asleep when he finally stirs and lifts his head slightly, blinking at your face. you feel the weight of his gaze.

but he doesn’t move either.

and neither do you.

because something’s changing. you both feel it.

you just don’t say it. not yet.

not until it’s too loud to ignore.

and maybe that moment is coming faster than either of you is ready for.

you try not to overthink the moments.

you try.

the accidental sleep on the couch becomes less accidental. the next week, it happens again—this time during a shared late-night study session. you're both exhausted, papers and notebooks strewn across the coffee table, half-finished cups of coffee gone cold.

you wake up tucked under the same blanket, the light off, the tablet blinking low battery on the floor. yeonjun is beside you, his legs tangled with yours, his breathing soft against the crown of your head.

he doesn’t say anything when you open your eyes. he’s already awake, watching you, and when he sees you stir, he whispers a faint “morning” like it’s a secret.

you nod, throat dry. “morning.”

neither of you moves.

and maybe it’s the silence. maybe it’s the way his hand is resting lightly on your hip, not possessive, not bold—just there.or maybe it’s because of the way your name sounds in his voice lately—gentler, more familiar, too intimate for two people who were supposed to be strangers made spouses.

whatever it is, it roots itself deep in your chest, wraps vines around your ribs, and refuses to let go.

but things are still complicated.

you remember the appointment at the family planning center far too clearly. how the sterile walls and uncomfortable chairs felt like a sentence being handed down. the woman at the desk, clipboard in hand, speaking in clinical terms while smiling too much. the questions.

“have you two begun sexual relations yet?”

your body stiffened so fast it hurt. you’d shaken your head, cheeks burning.

“no,” you said, barely above a whisper.

and then yeonjun.

his voice didn’t waver. didn’t shrink. but there was a hint of something—offense, maybe, or just discomfort buried beneath practiced calm.

“not yet.”

not yet.

those words echoed for hours after.

the woman nodded, unbothered, flipping her pen in one hand.

“you should consider beginning soon,” she said, checking off a box. “intimacy will help strengthen the emotional bond and allow us to begin identifying which fertility path will suit your needs. the government recommends couples begin within the first ninety days of union.”

you had never wanted to disappear more.

the walk home was silent.

yeonjun didn’t mention it. you didn’t either.

but it sat between you like a stormcloud, buzzing with electricity, waiting to crack open.

you catch him watching you more after that. not in a bad way. not in a way that makes you feel unsafe. no—it makes you feel too safe, and that’s somehow worse.

he’s careful. always. but he’s still a boy. and you’re still you. and your bodies know things your minds are afraid to say.

the small space you share only makes things more dangerous.

his cologne clings to your pillows. your lotion starts appearing on his arms. he hums the songs you listen to in the shower. he buys your favorite snack without asking.

you start wearing his shirts to sleep without realizing. you only notice the third time it happens—when he stops in the hallway and his eyes dip, linger, then flick back up with a quiet clearing of his throat.

“is that mine?”

you glance down at yourself. it’s an old oversized gray tee. soft. worn. familiar. his scent baked into the fabric like sunlight.

“uh… yeah. sorry. it was just on the chair and—”

“keep it,” he says, not letting you finish. “looks better on you.”

you go to bed that night with your skin buzzing.

and things only build from there.

he starts cooking more, pulling you into the kitchen with an easy “help me” that really means just stand here while i talk to you. you lean on the counter while he cuts vegetables, while he stirs sauces, while he tells you about his classes and how boring statistics is, how he almost fell asleep mid-lecture. you laugh and call him dramatic. he grins and tells you it’s your fault for not waking him up when he left.

“you’re supposed to be my wife now. you have responsibilities.”

he says it like a joke. you laugh like it is one.

but your heart stutters anyway.

one night, it rains again. not a storm, just heavy and constant, soft thunder echoing in the distance. you find yourself awake at midnight again, restless, curled on the couch in the living room with your knees tucked to your chest.

yeonjun finds you there.

he doesn’t say anything—just sits beside you, close but not touching, and watches the rain drip down the windows.

“can’t sleep?” he asks.

you shake your head. “not really.”

“you okay?”

you nod, even though you’re not sure.

the air between you hums. it’s familiar now. this closeness. this heavy, unsaid thing growing slowly between shared silences and sidelong glances.

you lean your head on his shoulder, unsure why. maybe it’s because the rain feels lonelier tonight. maybe it’s because it feels like something is shifting again.

his breath hitches almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t move away.

“do you think they’re watching us?” you ask softly. “the government, i mean. checking how fast we fall in love. how fast we sleep together.”

he’s quiet for a moment.

“maybe,” he says finally. “but they can’t measure the parts that matter.”

“like what?”

he tilts his head toward yours. “like this.”

you feel the words like fingertips down your spine.

you close your eyes, and his shoulder under your cheek feels like solid ground.

this is the moment where maybe everything could change.

but you don’t kiss. not yet.

you breathe in together.

and for now, that’s enough.

the power cuts out a little after ten. it happens suddenly—an abrupt flicker, followed by darkness swallowing the apartment whole.

you blink, heart skipping, your body already tightening with reflex from the sound, from the silence that follows too quickly.

then the soft sound of rain begins again.

but unlike the last time, this one is gentle. no thunder, no flashes of light through the windows. just rain, steady and calm like fingers tapping against glass. it’s the kind of rain that makes the night feel softer than usual. quieter.

yeonjun lights a candle he keeps in the drawer near the kitchen, its flame swaying in the center of the living room table, casting shadows on the walls. he brings it over to the couch where you sit curled up under a blanket, your knees pressed to your chest, already waiting.

he joins you without asking.

“guess we’ll have to pretend we’re in the 1800s,” he murmurs, glancing at the candle.

you laugh softly. “at least you’re not reading me poetry.”

“don’t tempt me,” he grins.

the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it rarely is now. something about the rain, the flicker of light, the way you’re seated side by side with your shoulders barely touching, it all feels… close.

your gaze drifts to the window, where the raindrops race each other down the glass. and before you can stop yourself, your thoughts start circling again. you’ve been doing that more and more—ever since that night. ever since yeonjun told you about her. the girl he loved in high school. the one he thought would be assigned to him.

you swallow. your chest tightens, not with pain exactly—more like an unfamiliar ache. something raw you haven’t named yet.

“can i ask you something?” you say, voice quiet.

yeonjun hums, eyes still on the candlelight. “of course.”

“i haven’t stopped thinking about her.”

he turns to you, brows faintly furrowed. “who?”

“the girl you were in love with.”

his expression doesn’t change much. he just blinks slowly, watching you. “why?”

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “i don’t know. maybe because… i’m jealous of her.”

that makes him laugh—soft, surprised. “jealous?”

you nod, heart pounding. “yeah. i guess it’s stupid. but… she got to be your first love. she got all of you when it meant something. and now, i’m just—”

“my wife?” he cuts in, still smiling, trying to lighten the air. “you’re my wife now. kind of a win, don’t you think?”

but you don’t smile back.

you turn to face him, the dim light catching on your lashes, your jaw tight. “it’s not the same,” you say softly. “i know this is supposed to be a marriage, but it doesn’t feel right… hearing about your past like that. it’s not fair. it’s not fair that i have to be the one who came after.”

yeonjun’s smile fades. the playfulness drains from his face, replaced by something heavier. something slower. he looks at you like he’s really seeing you now—like maybe he’s been seeing you all along but didn’t know how close you were to unraveling.

“hey,” he says quietly, voice low and careful. “you’re not after anyone.”

you try to look away, but he catches your chin between two fingers, guiding your eyes back to his.

“she’s the past,” he murmurs. “but you—you’re the present. you’re the one who’s here. who sleeps beside me. who leaves hair ties on the bathroom sink and wears my shirts and steals my side of the bed.”

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“don’t do that to yourself,” he whispers. “don’t compare. it’s not the same because this is real. and growing. and you—”

he leans closer.

“you make me forget her name.”

you blink, breath catching. the air feels different now. the candlelight flickers between you, but you can barely see it. all you can see is him—his face inches from yours, his voice warm and deep and trembling just enough to make your pulse race.

“yeonjun…”

“can i kiss you?” he breathes.

you nod.

slowly, his hand slides to your jaw, his thumb brushing the soft skin beneath your cheekbone. he closes the space between you inch by inch, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. you lean in.

when his lips finally meet yours, it’s not fireworks. it’s gravity.

you sink into it, into him, into the warmth and tenderness of it. it’s careful, at first—testing, soft, a question asked in the silence. but then you tilt your head, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and he answers with a deeper kiss, one that pulls a sound from the back of your throat you didn’t expect.

it’s too much. it’s not enough. it’s everything all at once.

when you finally part, you’re breathless.

he presses his forehead to yours. the candle crackles gently nearby. the rain keeps falling.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

“don’t be,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “i should’ve known. i should’ve said something sooner.”

you shake your head. “no. i needed to feel it. to say it. i think i’ve been holding everything back since this marriage started.”

“me too.”

you both fall quiet again, but this time, it’s different.

you’re not two strangers trying to survive a system anymore.

you’re two people finally reaching across the space that was never meant to last.

and outside, the rain sings soft lullabies to the city, and the candle flickers like a heartbeat, and in his arms, you no longer feel like a second choice.

you feel chosen.

the next morning, something has changed.

it’s subtle. nothing overt. not at first.

you wake up earlier than him and find yourself just… watching him for a moment. the soft rise and fall of his chest. the curve of his lashes against his cheek. how he frowns slightly in his sleep, like he’s still half in a dream. you should look away—you’ve always looked away before—but now your eyes linger.

when he stirs, blinking against the light, he sees you watching. he doesn’t flinch. he just smiles, sleep-warm and real, and your heart does something uncomfortable and sweet in your chest.

“morning,” he murmurs, voice rough.

“morning,” you whisper back, your voice catching a little.

he reaches out lazily, his fingers brushing your arm beneath the blanket, and even though it’s nothing, just that, your breath hitches. you tell yourself it’s the closeness. the aftermath of the kiss. but the warmth in your chest says something else.

and then the day goes on—but not quite the same.

at breakfast, he sits closer than usual. your elbows touch when you both reach for the sugar. he doesn’t apologize like before. doesn’t pull away. just grins and bumps your shoulder on purpose this time.

you roll your eyes. “you’re annoying.”

“you kissed me last night,” he says, way too casually. “you don’t get to call me annoying anymore.”

“you asked first.”

“still counts.”

the banter is light, teasing, familiar. but under it, there’s a new current. an awareness. every glance feels heavier. every touch lingers a second longer than it should. when he hands you a dish, his fingers brush yours, and neither of you lets go right away.

the silence between you becomes something else entirely. no longer filled with obligation or awkwardness. now it feels like a question that neither of you is brave enough to answer out loud.

until it happens again. in the kitchen, late at night, as you’re washing dishes and he comes up behind you. at first it’s innocent—he says something dumb, you laugh—but then his hand finds the small of your back, and you freeze, not because it’s wrong but because it’s not. it feels too good. too natural.

you turn, slowly, water dripping from your hands, and he’s already looking at you like he wants to kiss you again.

he doesn’t. not yet. he just leans in and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers graze your cheek, his eyes drop to your lips, and then—he walks away.

you stand there for a moment, heart pounding, wondering how the hell he keeps doing this to you.

a few days later, you’re invited to visit your family.

it’s your first time back since the marriage. your parents had called to check in, of course, had even video called once or twice, but nothing replaces being home. your mother’s cooking. your father’s quiet warmth. your brother’s chaotic energy.

the moment you walk through the door, your mom pulls you into a hug so tight you almost cry again. your dad claps yeonjun’s shoulder, awkward but trying. your brother, now twelve, looks like he’s grown taller.

he eyes yeonjun up and down, squints a little, then smirks at you.

“so, are you pregnant yet?”

you freeze.

your dad chokes on his tea. your mother lets out a gasp so sharp it could cut metal. yeonjun’s eyes go wide—like someone just yanked the floor out from under him.

“yoonho!” your mom yells, already reaching for the nearest dish towel like it’s a weapon. “you can’t ask that!”

“what?” your brother yells as he runs from her, laughing like a maniac. “i just wanted to know if the government system’s working!”

your dad is still coughing. you’re standing there redder than a tomato. burning with mortification.

yeonjun, after a stunned beat, laughs. really laughs. full chest, head-tilted-back laughter that’s so contagious you can’t help but giggle through your hands.

“don’t encourage him,” you say, smacking his arm lightly.

he grins down at you, eyes sparkling. “i’m sorry, that was—really something.”

“he’s an idiot,” you mutter, still mortified.

“he’s your idiot,” he says, voice softer now.

you glance up at him and smile, something warm spreading in your chest. it surprises you, just how much that smile feels like home.

and even after the chaos settles, even after your mom manages to drag your brother back by the collar to apologize properly, even when you sit around the table laughing and eating and telling stories—there’s a small, secret current running beneath it all.

the way yeonjun’s hand grazes your lower back when he leans past you to grab a dish. the way you lean into him just slightly when your mom starts talking about your childhood, and he listens like he wants to know everything.

and when the night ends, and you both return to your apartment, it’s quieter—but it’s a good quiet. that kind of peace you only feel when someone’s truly, finally getting under your skin.

the drive back home is quiet, but not in a bad way. it’s the kind of silence that lingers after too much laughter, after too much emotion crammed into too little time. the windows are fogged slightly from your breaths, and the hum of the road is the only sound between you. outside, the city lights blur in soft halos, the streets wet from the rain earlier in the day, reflecting neon and moonlight.

you’re leaning against the car door, eyes heavy, body full from dinner, from memories, from everything. your family had insisted you stay the night, but you knew it would’ve made leaving harder. too emotional. too permanent. so you thanked them, smiled through the tightness in your throat, and left.

and now, here you are, beside him. yeonjun’s one hand is on the wheel, the other resting between the seats, fingers tapping idly against the console. you glance at it once. then again. his profile is calm, a faint curve to his lips like he’s still smiling at your brother’s chaos.

you break the silence first.

“sorry about today… my family can be a lot.”

he lets out a soft chuckle. “i liked it.”

you turn to him, a little surprised.

“really?”

he nods. “they’re… warm. chaotic, yeah, but it felt real. like they love you so much they don’t even try to hide it.”

you press your lips together, looking down at your lap, suddenly blinking back something stinging in your eyes. you weren’t expecting that answer. or maybe you were, but not the way it made your chest ache so gently.

“thanks,” you whisper.

you don’t realize you’re still staring at him until he speaks again, this time softer.

“and your brother…” he smirks a little. “i can’t believe he said that.”

you groan, hiding your face in your hands. “please don’t remind me.”

“i’m serious,” he laughs, and then looks over at you, his gaze lingering longer this time, “you were so red.”

“because it was embarrassing,” you shoot back, but your voice is lighter, warm with the trace of a smile.

his eyes flick down to your lips.

“you’re cute when you blush,” he murmurs, and it’s so quiet you’re not even sure he meant to say it out loud.

your breath catches. your heart stutters. suddenly the space between you feels smaller. the console is no longer an arm’s length—it’s a breath. the air is thicker. hotter.

you look at him, really look at him—his jaw sharp in the glow of passing streetlamps, the tendons in his neck tense, his grip on the wheel a little tighter now. he looks back, just briefly, but it’s enough. something electric pulses between you.

and then he pulls over.

not far from your building, not quite home yet—but enough to be alone. enough to pause. the engine hums low, a steady heartbeat in the silence. he doesn’t look at you right away, just stares forward, fingers tightening, loosening, tightening again on the wheel.

you feel your pulse in your throat.

“i…” he starts, then stops. he turns to you, eyes darker than before. clearer. “can i ask you something?”

you nod, heart racing.

“why did it bother you?” he asks quietly. “about the girl i told you about.”

you stare at him. that familiar heat returns to your chest, crawling up your neck. you bite the inside of your cheek before answering.

“i don’t know,” you lie at first. but then, you sigh. “maybe because it was real for you. maybe because… you had someone you wanted, once. and i never did. and now i’m supposed to just… live with that. pretend like i’m not wondering if she would’ve made you happier.”

he watches you for a long moment, expression unreadable. then, finally, he leans a little closer, voice low.

“do you think i’m not happy?”

your throat dries.

“are you?” you whisper.

he exhales slowly, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s about to do this. and then he shifts, fully turning toward you. his fingers reach up, brushing lightly against your chin, lifting your face to his.

“you’re not her,” he says. “you’re you.”

and then, without waiting, without asking again—he kisses you.

it’s not urgent. not rough. it’s slow, deliberate, tender with something sharp hidden beneath. like he’s been holding it back for too long and now that it’s happening, he’s pouring everything into it. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. your lips part before you even realize, and his tongue grazes yours, soft, testing, like he’s still asking if this is okay even now.

you melt into it.

your hand slides up his arm, gripping his bicep, grounding yourself as heat spreads through your veins. your bodies don’t move much, still confined by seatbelts and space, but it’s intimate. intense. and when he finally pulls back, breathing harder than before, he rests his forehead against yours.

“you’re not her,” he whispers again. “and thank god for that.”

you sit there, breaths mingling, skin flushed, hearts racing in tandem. your hand is still on his arm. his thumb is still tracing your cheek.

and this time, neither of you says a word. because you both know—something just changed again.

you’re not lovers. not yet.

but your hands brush again on the way to bed. he holds your gaze a little longer. and when you lie down, back to back, you find yourself pressing closer, just enough that your spine feels the heat of his chest.

you fall asleep like that.

and neither of you says a word.

you both had an appointment early in the morning. the ministry of civil labor had sent a formal notice last week, listing the available part-time positions for couples still enrolled in university, and now you were seated across from an administrative worker who barely looked up from her screen as she explained the contracts. yeonjun was placed in a logistics department for a government-run supply chain—something with inventory and system inputs. you were assigned to a small local archival center where they'd digitize old birth and marriage records, which felt ironic in a way that made your stomach twist.

“you’ll receive your first schedule by the end of the week,” the woman said without emotion, and you both nodded, signing at the bottom of the page, pens scratching the paper in tandem.

walking out of the building, yeonjun nudged your shoulder with his and whispered, “look at us. signing contracts like a real married couple.” and you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips.

“you mean we weren’t real before?” you asked, raising a brow.

he smirked, unlocking the car and opening your door. “we were married on paper. now we’re married... and employed.”

you both laughed, climbing into the vehicle, and the warmth lingered even after the engine hummed to life. it was a quiet kind of happiness, soft and simple, like the feeling of your bare thighs against the leather seat, like the sun warming the dashboard. you wore a dress that day—casual, nothing too fancy, but it clung lightly to your frame in the breeze when you walked out earlier, and you caught the way yeonjun had looked at you from the corner of your eye. not blatant. just... noticing.

the road was mostly empty. the hum of tires on pavement filled the silence as the laughter faded, replaced by something thicker. something weightier.

at a red light, he stopped the car smoothly, one hand still on the steering wheel. the other lifted, slowly, casually, and without looking at you, he placed it on your thigh.

he didn’t squeeze. he didn’t slide his fingers higher. just let his palm rest there, warm and firm, like it belonged.

your breath hitched.

you tried not to move, tried not to tense up, but the sensation crawled up your spine like wildfire. it was such a simple touch, so ordinary, but it landed somewhere deep in your belly—hot, twisting, coiling. your skin tingled where his fingers barely pressed into the flesh, and your thighs felt suddenly, achingly aware of how little separated them from him.

he said nothing.

neither did you.

but your body betrayed you—the way your chest rose a little faster, the way your knees shifted slightly, as if trying to find an answer to the question that touch had asked.

the light turned green.

he drove on.

his hand didn’t move.

the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was charged. heavy with something that neither of you dared name yet.

you exhaled, slow and shaky, and he glanced at you briefly, lips curving—not into a smirk, but something softer. something fond. he rubbed his thumb in a slow arc, barely there, and your fingers curled around the hem of your dress to keep from shaking.

by the time you got home, the tension had woven itself into your skin like a second layer. you both stepped out of the car and walked toward the apartment quietly, but the air buzzed with every step.

inside, the routine resumed—shoes off, bags down, water poured into glasses—but your thoughts were nowhere near the surface. every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence more than you saw him. every brush of his hand, every graze of his arm felt like a firestarter.

you stood near the sink, rinsing the cups, when he came up behind you. didn’t touch you. just stood close enough that you felt the heat of his chest on your back, close enough that your breathing stuttered.

“need help?” he murmured, voice low, mouth near your ear.

you shook your head, but your body leaned slightly into him anyway. traitorously.

his hands didn’t move—not yet—but his presence surrounded you, a quiet pressure that built with every second. you turned your head slightly to glance at him, and the proximity was enough to make you both pause. your lips weren’t touching, but they could’ve. your noses almost brushed.

and then he reached for the cup beside you, taking it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing yours. your breath caught again.

“thanks,” he said, voice still low.

you watched him walk away, your hands trembling under the water, and you knew—tonight, you wouldn’t be able to pretend this tension didn’t exist. it was burning its way into your bones.

that night, everything felt like it was humming. the silence between you wasn’t really silence—it was full of what hadn’t been said, of what hadn’t been done but nearly was. the ghost of yeonjun’s hand on your thigh still lingered, burned into your skin. your legs still tingled from the pressure, the weight, the heat. and when he brushed past you in the kitchen again after dinner, it felt deliberate. or maybe you just wanted it to be.

your heart hadn’t settled since the drive home.

later, after you’d both changed into your sleep clothes, you met again in the hallway, the light above you casting a golden hue that made his skin look warm and soft. you paused at the same time, eyes locking. your breath caught in your throat, because he wasn’t just looking at you—he was seeing you. seeing the hem of your shirt, the way it clung slightly to your waist. seeing the bare stretch of your legs, your collarbone, the fine line of your neck.

you thought he’d say something.

he didn’t.

he just stepped past you, heading to the shared living room like usual. the storm from earlier had passed, leaving a cool breeze in its wake. you followed, drawn to him like always. you both sat on the couch, feet tucked beneath you, shoulders close but not quite touching. it was dark. the power had gone out temporarily again, only the soft blue emergency lights casting faint shadows across his face.

“you’re quiet,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“just thinking,” he replied, his tone low, almost distant.

you turned your head toward him. “about what?”

he hesitated. “about earlier... the car. and how it felt.”

you sucked in a soft breath. “me too.”

silence again.

and then, slowly, as if guided by instinct, he reached over and touched your hand. fingers brushing the back of yours. the contact was small. barely anything. but it was enough to pull the air from your lungs. you turned your palm and laced your fingers with his.

it felt dangerous.

he looked at your joined hands like he didn’t recognize his own, and then back at you—his eyes darker than usual, hooded, like he was holding back a tide. you weren’t sure who moved first. maybe it was him. maybe it was you. but one second you were sitting apart, and the next your bodies were angled toward each other, your knees brushing, your breaths tangled. his hand cupped your jaw gently, fingers trembling against your skin, and he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly grazed yours.

your pulse roared in your ears.

his mouth touched yours like a whisper—featherlight, testing.

you responded before you could think, lips parting for him, heat blooming low in your stomach like wildfire. the kiss deepened slowly, wet and slow and dizzying. his tongue brushed yours, cautious at first, then more certain, like he needed to taste you, like he was starved. your hand curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groaned softly into your mouth, deep and breathless.

his hand slid down your side, fingers skating over the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, and you gasped when they reached your hip. he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling him, bodies pressed together too close to ignore. the heat between you crackled—your hips shifted without thinking, and you felt the hardness of him, solid and hot beneath you.

his lips broke from yours for a second, his breathing rough. “fuck... y/n...”

his hands gripped your thighs, sliding up, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. you whimpered, pressing closer, grinding down gently. it was heady. dizzying. perfect.

and then—

his phone rang.

the sound shattered the moment like glass.

you both froze.

you were on his lap, panting, trembling, your lips swollen from the kiss, your heart pounding like a war drum. he didn’t move for a second. then he cursed under his breath and gently lifted you off him, muttering a strained apology as he reached for the phone. his voice cracked when he answered, trying to sound normal.

you stood there, stunned, breathing hard, still tasting him on your tongue.

after the call, which only lasted a few seconds, he didn’t look at you.

“i think... i’ll sleep in my room tonight,” he said quietly.

you blinked. “oh.”

he didn’t explain.

he just walked away.

and something cold settled in your chest.

you crawled into your bed alone, wrapping the blanket around yourself tightly, but you couldn’t sleep. not when you still felt the ghost of his hands on your body. not when your lips were still tingling from the kiss. not when he had looked at you like he needed you, and then walked away without a word.

you turned over. again. again. and again. your heart ached with confusion. was it too much? did he regret it? had you done something wrong?

you couldn’t take it anymore.

you got up, padded down the hall to his room, and raised your fist to knock.

but then you froze.

because you heard it.

soft, muffled sounds, irregular breathing. your eyes widened.

a low groan, deep and drawn out.

then a quiet, wet sound—rhythmic, unmistakable.

your breath caught.

you didn’t mean to listen. but you couldn’t move.

then, you heard it.

“y/n...”

your name, moaned out—quiet but desperate. raw. like a confession.

your knees weakened.

another moan, louder this time, almost a whimper.

and then—your name again, breathless, almost broken, followed by the sound of skin slapping softly against skin, faster now.

he was close.

he was touching himself.

thinking of you.

you pressed your palm to your mouth, trying not to make a sound, cheeks burning, body trembling. you shouldn’t be here. you shouldn’t hear this. but your legs wouldn’t move. your breath came in shaky gasps, your heart thundering as heat rushed between your thighs, pooling heavy and hot.

you didn’t know what this meant.

but you knew one thing.

he wanted you.

and now, you didn’t think you could ever look at him the same again.

you didn’t mean to lean closer.

you didn’t mean to press your ear too tightly against the door.

but your balance faltered—just a second too long standing on your toes, your weight shifting, your breath too shallow—and suddenly your foot slipped on the edge of the smooth hallway floor. a soft, startled sound escaped your throat as your body tilted sideways, your hand fumbling for the wall, failing.

and then—thud.

a soft crash, your hip hitting the floor, your palms slapping down just in time to soften the fall. you gasped and quickly clamped your hand over your mouth, praying he hadn’t heard, that you hadn’t been loud enough—but inside, panic bloomed like fire. your chest heaved as you tried to stay perfectly still, your cheeks on fire, the oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt—riding high around your waist from the fall.

then you heard the shuffle. footsteps. hurried. a sudden rush from the other side.

“y/n?” his voice was sharp. worried. confused.

before you could react, the door swung open.

and there he was.

yeonjun.

bare-chested, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his hair disheveled, lips swollen and flushed, his hand still adjusting the waistband of his boxers as if he hadn’t had time to fix himself. and then he saw you.

on the floor.

his shirt up around your waist.

your bare thighs. your panties exposed.

your hand covering your mouth, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

time froze.

he stared at you, blinking once, then again. his mouth parted, but no words came out. his gaze dropped—just for a heartbeat—but you saw it. the flicker. the hunger. the tension that snapped into existence like a spark to gasoline.

you scrambled to tug the shirt down, cheeks burning, breath caught.

“i—i slipped, i wasn’t—i mean—”

“were you listening?” his voice came out low. rough.

you opened your mouth, then shut it. your throat tightened. your heart was pounding so violently you felt it behind your eyes.

“y/n…” he whispered, stepping closer.

your breath hitched.

“i heard you,” he said, his voice strained now. “outside the door. you… you heard me too, didn’t you?”

you nodded slowly, like it was all you could manage.

he knelt beside you without thinking, his hands hovering for a moment before one slid to the small of your back, the other cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin gently, eyes searching yours. “you heard me… say your name.”

you couldn’t speak.

“fuck,” he whispered. “i didn’t mean for you to know. i tried to walk away because i couldn’t control it. i thought... if i gave us space—”

“why?” your voice cracked. “why did you walk away after kissing me like that?”

his jaw clenched. “because i wanted more. i wanted too much.”

your lips trembled. “me too.”

something inside him snapped.

he surged forward, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that was no longer restrained. this wasn’t careful. this wasn’t gentle. this was weeks of stolen glances and soft touches and building need exploding all at once. his mouth was hot, possessive, his hand slipping to your thigh, then gripping, pulling you into him as you moaned against his lips.

you tasted everything—desperation, desire, the salt on his skin from sweat, the sound of his breath ragged and wild. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his bare shoulders as he leaned you back slowly onto the hallway floor, his body covering yours, fitting against you perfectly. your thighs opened for him without thought, welcoming the pressure of his hips between them, the hardness of him pressing directly against the wet heat soaking your panties.

“fuck, y/n,” he groaned against your mouth, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

his hand slid beneath the hem of the shirt—his shirt—the one you wore to sleep every night, the one that smelled like him. his palm caressed your waist, your ribs, then cupped your breast softly over the fabric of your bra, his thumb teasing the sensitive peak until you whimpered, arching up into him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, but didn’t stop. “i’m trying so hard to do this right. to be careful.”

“then don’t,” you whispered back, your voice broken, needful. “don’t be careful.”

his eyes burned into yours.

his lips kissed down your jaw, your neck, biting softly at the tender skin just below your ear. “you’re gonna make me lose it,” he growled.

“maybe i want you to.”

his hand slipped lower, over your stomach, fingers grazing the band of your panties—when suddenly—

a sharp knock on the front door shattered the moment.

you both froze.

his chest rose and fell against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

another knock. then a voice from outside.

“government delivery. lights restored. system check.”

“fuck,” he hissed.

he helped you sit up, both of you breathing like you’d just run miles.

you looked at each other.

your lips swollen. your skin flushed. your bodies aching.

you wanted to scream.

but instead you swallowed it down, tugged the shirt over your thighs, stood on shaky legs. he followed you in silence, running a hand through his messy hair, still visibly hard, still clearly affected.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered.

you didn’t respond.

because you weren’t sure you wanted him to be.

you weren’t sure what you expected when you whispered, maybe i want you to. maybe you thought he would pull away, maybe he’d laugh and tell you to go to bed, that you were just talking nonsense, caught up in the tension of it all. but he didn’t. instead, the room stayed still, save for the thrum of the rain against the windows and the sound of his breathing, which was slow, deep, heavier now, as he looked down at you with something dark and burning in his eyes.

his voice was low, but not soft. "do you know what you're saying?" he asked, barely above a whisper. you nodded, your throat too tight to speak. you could feel his body, warm and solid, pressed against yours as he leaned in again, and this time the kiss wasn’t tentative. it was hungry, deeper, drawn out, and you could taste the restraint in him, the way he held himself back even as his hand gripped your waist tighter.

you barely noticed how he guided you back onto the mattress until your head hit the pillow. your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, the same one you'd stolen from him to sleep in, and now it was twisted between your hands as he kissed you again and again, lips trailing down the line of your jaw, the hollow of your throat, your pulse fluttering under his mouth.

every touch was slow, deliberate. when his hands slid under the hem of the shirt you wore, it wasn’t rushed—it was reverent. he looked at you like you were something sacred, something he’d been aching for, something forbidden and now finally his. his fingers traced the line of your hip, the soft skin just beneath your navel, pausing just above the waistband of your panties. you shivered beneath him, your body responding before your mind could catch up.

"tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. you shook your head immediately, a breathy no escaping your lips before you could second guess it. and something in him broke. or maybe it snapped into place. he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his hands roaming, learning the shape of you, the softness of your thighs, the arch of your back as you gasped under his touch.

he took his time. he whispered how beautiful you were, how long he had wanted you like this, how the thought of you in his bed had driven him insane since that first night the storm pushed you into his arms. every kiss lower was met with a pause, a glance, asking, confirming, cherishing. his hands didn’t fumble; they explored, gentle and firm, his mouth hot against your skin.

you had never felt like this before. it was more than arousal—it was a kind of unraveling, a melting of all the fear and restraint you had carried for so long. the rules, the systems, the cold logic of the world outside—none of it existed here. here, in his arms, you were just a girl wanting a boy. no laws. no assignments. no duties.

just him. just you.

and when he finally touched you, really touched you, the moan that escaped you was soft, stunned, your fingers digging into his shoulder as he kissed the side of your neck. you were wet, aching, needy in a way you hadn’t even known your body could feel, and yeonjun seemed to know exactly how to handle you—teasing, stroking, whispering your name like it was a prayer.

his own self-control was fraying at the edges. you could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his voice broke when he groaned your name against your collarbone, the way his hips rocked against your thigh without even realizing it.

"you make me crazy," he whispered, biting gently at your shoulder. "since that kiss. since that first night. fuck—i think about you all the time. you wearing my shirt, you laughing in the kitchen, you sleeping next to me—"

"yeonjun," you gasped, your back arching as his fingers slid beneath your panties, finally, finally touching you where you needed him most. he cursed under his breath, kissing you again as your legs parted naturally for him.

he kept you on the edge, slow, patient, as if he was memorizing every sound you made, every breath you took. he didn’t rush to have you—not yet. this was still the prelude, the first taste, the careful unraveling. but you were close. too close.

and then.

he leaned over you again, lips brushing your ear, his voice hoarse. "can i make love to you?"

you nodded, heart pounding. "yes. please."

every movement after that was reverent, every sigh swallowed into a kiss, every tremble in your limbs steadied by his hands. he helped you out of your panties, gently, and shed his own clothes with a kind of urgency that was quiet, controlled, but full of need. when he settled between your legs, he paused, eyes meeting yours with a question so full of tenderness it made your chest ache.

his hand wrapped around himself, and your breath caught in your throat. he was thick, long—too much. your eyes widened without meaning to, and he noticed, chuckling softly as he kissed the corner of your mouth.

“it’s okay,” he whispered, but your voice came out shaky when you murmured. “it won’t fit…” he hushed you gently, his palm stroking down your thigh.

“we’ll go slow,” he promised, though the way his jaw clenched told you even he was struggling to hold back.

the stretch was new, unfamiliar, but he moved slowly, letting you adjust, kissing you through the discomfort, murmuring praises against your lips. he held you like you were fragile, like the world would stop spinning if he hurt you, and when you finally relaxed around him, he moved with a rhythm that spoke of restraint and reverence, yet underneath it burned a fire he could barely contain.

it was gentle, yes, but not shy. it was soft, but not without heat. the way he groaned when your nails scraped down his back, the way he whispered your name like it anchored him—it was everything. his hands never stopped touching you, his mouth never far from yours, and the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

the pace picked up only slightly, but the angle shifted when he gently maneuvered your body, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before whispering, “turn around for me, baby.” your heart skipped as you obeyed, rolling onto your stomach, your cheek resting against his pillow, flushed and dazed, breath hot against the fabric. he settled behind you, large hands caressing the curve of your hips, his voice low and rough against your ear. “you look so good like this… fuck, i could lose my mind.”

you felt him guide himself back in, slower this time, deeper, and the gasp that left you was nothing short of a whimper, your back arching instinctively. the new position had him hitting that spot—the spot—with a precision that made your eyes roll back, your mouth dropping open against the pillow. “yeonjun—oh my god—” you choked, voice muffled, and he groaned above you, one hand gripping your waist as the other gently turned your face just enough so he could kiss your parted lips. “look at you,” he breathed, panting, watching your blissed-out expression with dark, desperate eyes. “you feel so fucking good—so tight around me… you were made for me, weren’t you?”

your voice came out broken, shaking. “it feels s-so good… i can’t—yeonjun, i—” but you didn’t need to finish. he could feel it. your body clenching around him with every slow, deep thrust. he bent over you, chest pressed to your back, skin to skin, and whispered filth in your ear in between kisses down your spine. “such a good girl,” he rasped, “taking me so well… fuck, i’m close. i can’t—i need to pull out…”

you nodded weakly, barely able to breathe, trembling as he gave one more thrust, then another—and with a strangled moan of your name, he pulled out and spilled his release onto the dip of your lower back, hot and heavy against your skin, dripping down to your ass. he groaned, his forehead against your shoulder, panting hard as he tried to come down from the high. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, voice ragged. “so fucking perfect.”

when he collapsed beside you, he didn’t pull away. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, both of you still catching your breath. the rain still tapped gently against the windows, the room now full of the scent of sweat and skin, of something new, something sacred.

"i’ve wanted you for so long," he murmured against your hair.

"i know," you whispered back, curling into him.

and for once, you didn’t feel cold. you didn’t feel alone. you didn’t feel like someone forced into something by a cruel system. you felt wanted. chosen.

his.

yours.

the morning came too quickly, the sun bleeding gently through the curtains, casting a golden warmth across the tangled sheets. your body still ached in the most delicious ways, and your skin was marked with soft reminders of his mouth, his hands, the way he held you like you were breakable and wanted all at once. you hadn’t said much when you woke. yeonjun had only kissed your forehead, helped you get dressed, and now you were sitting in the waiting room of the ministry’s planning clinic, the air sterile and overly bright.

the doctor, a warm-looking woman with gentle eyes and an enthusiastic tone, greeted you both like old friends. “ah! newlyweds,” she smiled, scanning her clipboard. “i see you’ve finally started your sexual life together. that’s wonderful news!”

your cheeks flamed immediately, and beside you, yeonjun coughed, suddenly fascinated by a poster about prenatal vitamins on the wall. “uh, yeah,” you mumbled, barely able to meet her gaze.

“good, good,” she said brightly, motioning for you to follow her behind a curtain for a quick checkup. “we need to make sure everything’s healthy and progressing normally. it’s still early, but we want to optimize for fertility, yes?”

you nodded, letting her guide you onto the examination table. her hands were professional, but the whole thing still made your stomach twist. you were sore—still a little tender—and she noticed, humming under her breath.

“you’re fine,” she reassured you, adjusting her gloves. “some sensitivity is natural after a first experience. but you’re healthy, everything looks good.” she smiled. “do you track your cycle, darling?”

you nodded slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “yes… i keep a calendar.”

“perfect. when was your last period?”

you told her, and she did some quick math on her tablet before her smile brightened. “then your most fertile window should be starting in about four days. if you’re trying to conceive—and you should be, of course—it’s best to be active every other day during that period. that increases the chances significantly.”

you wanted to sink into the floor. “o-oh.”

“don’t be shy. this is natural.” she patted your knee, then stood. “you’re young and healthy. your compatibility score is ideal. You just need to be consistent now. and relaxed. it should be something enjoyable.”

you weren’t sure what your face looked like when you stepped out, but yeonjun blinked and stood instantly. the doctor gave him a little wink and whispered something about keeping the environment fun, and you could practically feel the tension coil between your ribs as you exited the building together.

the ride home was quiet for a while. the hum of the engine, the soft buzz of traffic, the way your thighs were pressed together beneath your dress. he tapped the wheel with his fingers, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

finally, you exhaled. “she said i’m entering my fertile window soon.”

his hands stilled on the steering wheel.

“in four days,” you added, your voice too high, too soft.

“oh.”

another silence.

“and she said we should—uh—every other day. during that window. for higher chances.”

“right.” he adjusted his grip again. “makes sense.”

but neither of you looked at each other. because the thing was, last night hadn’t felt like a scheduled duty. it hadn’t felt like a requirement, or a step in a plan designed by the state. it had felt messy, desperate, slow, sweet, and hungry. it had felt human.

and now the idea of doing it again, like you were just checking off boxes on a clinical list, felt… weird.

“does it feel weird?” you blurted, staring out the window.

yeonjun looked at you, startled. “what?”

“this. talking about it. like it’s a chore or something. when last night—” you trailed off, cheeks heating.

he nodded slowly. “it feels weird because it wasn’t just about the system. it was… about us.” his voice was quiet, unsure, but honest.

you twisted your fingers in your lap, the weight of his words settling between your thighs like the lingering ache from last night. you didn’t know how to act now—how to go from that kind of vulnerability to pretending you were just following instructions.

“i want to do it again,” you admitted, so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. “but not because of the calendar. because… i liked how it felt. with you.”

his knuckles tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching as he looked at you again. something in his eyes flickered—warm, molten, restrained. “good,” he said roughly. “because i haven’t stopped thinking about it since i woke up.”

your breath caught.

the red light ahead turned green, but neither of you were breathing normally anymore.

this wasn’t just about reproduction.

not anymore.

and neither of you knew how to navigate that yet—but the thought of exploring it again?

set your blood on fire.

you didn’t even make it past the front door.

as soon as it clicked shut behind you, he turned to you like something had snapped loose inside him—like the silence in the car, the weight of what had been said at the clinic, the image of you squirming in your seat all flushed and embarrassed, had pushed him past the edge. his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in with a force that made your breath stutter, his lips crashing into yours with none of the hesitation from the night before. it was need—pure, undiluted need—and you melted into it like you’d been waiting all day.

your back hit the wall, your fingers clawing at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his abs while he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. his hands found your thighs, lifted you slightly, pressing your hips together in a rhythm already too hungry for the softness of conversation.

you moaned into his mouth, and that was it—he growled low in his throat, carrying you the few messy steps to the living room, collapsing with you onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and breathless gasps. you straddled him instinctively, the dress you wore bunching at your hips, and the way you ground down against him made him curse under his breath, hands tightening on your waist.

"fuck, baby, you're driving me insane," he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging the straps of your dress off your shoulders as his thumbs traced soft, dizzying circles into your skin.

"then do something about it," you whispered, breathless, rocking your hips again just to feel him buck up into you, so hard already it made your mouth go dry.

he didn't need more encouragement.

he kissed down your chest, taking his time, pulling down the top of your dress to reveal more skin, his mouth hot and greedy as he licked and sucked at your breasts, tongue flicking over your nipple until you were gasping his name. his fingers pushed the fabric higher, baring your panties and the damp patch growing darker by the second, and he groaned, burying his face between your thighs like he needed to taste you just to stay sane.

you cried out, your hands tangled in his hair, legs shaking as his tongue worked slow, devastating circles against your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with the edge of release only to pull away. “so wet for me already,” he whispered, voice thick, lips glistening. “you’ve been thinking about this since the car, haven’t you?”

you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewarded you by sucking harder, his fingers slipping inside to stretch you just right, his other hand holding your hips down while you rode the edge again and again until you whimpered, begging, thighs trembling.

“please, yeonjun… i need you, now.”

he didn’t make you ask twice.

he pulled you onto his lap again, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his lips. and then he stood, shifting you onto the couch, turning your body gently, hands guiding your knees onto the cushions, your chest pressed to the armrest, your ass up for him—offered, exposed, throbbing.

"you’re so fucking perfect like this," he whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other gripping your hip as he positioned himself behind you, dragging the tip of his cock along your slit, teasing, wet and hot.

you whimpered, pushing back slightly, and when he slid in, inch by inch, you gasped—eyes rolling back, the stretch sharp and addictive all over again.

“fuck, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, sinking in all the way until your ass met his hips. “you’re gonna ruin me.”

he started to move slowly, the position letting him hit deeper, every thrust punching little moans from your lips. the slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, his hands gripping your waist, your thighs, your hair. and still, he kissed your spine, leaned over you, whispered filth against your neck.

“you like this, baby? you like being fucked like this?”

“yes—yes, fuck, yeonjun—it feels so good—”

he reached around, rubbed slow circles against your clit as he fucked into you deeper, faster, making you cry out into the pillow, your body arching under him, thighs shaking again.

"let me see your face," he panted, one hand turning your head slightly so he could kiss you, so he could see your expression—your flushed cheeks, your lips parted, eyes unfocused.

“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he growled. “you’re gonna make me come just looking at you.”

you felt it building again, heat coiling low in your belly, your body tightening, trembling, your moans turning desperate as he kept you right on the edge, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over.

“yeonjun—i’m gonna—”

“me too—fuck—i need to pull out—”

but you reached back, grabbing his hand, voice shaking. “don’t. please. come inside.”

he choked on a moan, hips stuttering, and then he was spilling into you with a groan so deep it made your toes curl, holding you tight as he filled you completely, shaking from the force of it. your own climax hit just seconds later, white-hot and blinding, and you collapsed onto the couch, boneless, his body draped over yours, both of you gasping for air.

his come dripped slowly down your thighs, warmth spreading between them, and he didn’t move—just pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, your back, your spine, whispering your name like it was the only word he knew.

neither of you said anything for a long time.

but you both knew.

there was no going back.

the following days slipped into a blur of aching need and restless nights. you both tried to keep the doctor’s advice in mind, to space out your moments, to give your bodies time to recover, but desire doesn’t listen to calendars or rules. every morning, before you left for university, you found yourselves tangled together, breathless and desperate, fingers tracing familiar curves as if memorizing every inch again and again. afternoons after classes weren’t any different; the moment you closed the door behind you, yeonjun’s hands were already on your waist, pulling you close, his lips claiming yours with the same fierce hunger that never dulled.

the days were a patchwork of stolen touches and whispered promises, of quick, heated moments before rushing to your part-time jobs—him with the university’s cultural center, tutoring students in language and literature, and you at a small café nearby, pouring coffee and smiling through the haze of exhaustion and longing. you came home exhausted but your body still hummed with anticipation, the ache of missing him settling low and deep, urging you back into his arms. your skin grew sensitive, your senses sharper; even the smallest brush of fingers sparked a fire beneath your skin.

and every time he pulled you close, you let him come inside you—every time—forgetting the cautious rhythm the doctor had suggested, letting your bodies rewrite the rules in the heat of the moment. the cool logic of planning was swallowed whole by your hunger, your need to be closer, to feel him deeper, to lose yourselves entirely in the mess and sweetness of this forbidden, stolen intimacy.

sometimes you’d catch yourself wondering if the doctor would be surprised—or scandalized—to know how little control you really had, how much your hearts raced and how your bodies begged for more. but in those moments, all that mattered was yeonjun’s warm breath against your neck, the way his hands shaped you like a secret only he was meant to know, and the way your own voice trembled when you whispered his name.

it was messy, it was frantic, but it was yours. and for the first time since everything began, it felt like freedom.

you were wiping down the counter when one of your coworkers, a woman named hana, leaned over with a gentle smile. she was older than you, maybe 35, and had a quiet confidence about her that made people listen. she lowered her voice just a little, as if sharing a secret.

“you know, i was assigned a husband too. i thought it would be awful, honestly. i was scared. but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. at first, i wasn’t sure if i could love him, or if he even cared. but slowly, i saw who he really was. and now, i’m so happy. we have two kids, and we’re thinking about a third. it’s scary, getting older, but i go to family planning a lot, trying to make sure it’s possible. the government even recognized me for wanting to keep repopulating. it’s strange, isn’t it? how these arrangements can lead to something real.”

you nodded, the thought settling deep inside your chest. could yeonjun and you be like that someday? sure, you cared for him. he was your husband, your partner in this harsh world. you pictured mornings waking up next to him, the soft light catching his face, the two of you building a life, maybe even raising children together. but love — real love? you had never felt it before, not like this. the feeling was foreign, like a story you’d read but never lived. still, yeonjun was everything to you, and that was enough for now.

later that day, when your shift ended, yeonjun was waiting by the door like always, leaning casually against his car. you slipped inside and immediately started talking about your day, the small victories, the tiring moments. he listened, eyes bright, then shared his own stories, laughter in his voice. the rhythm of your lives syncing quietly, comfortably.

and then, on a quiet street, just as the light ahead turned red, you suddenly blurted out, “do you love me?”

the car jerked slightly as yeonjun slammed on the brakes, both of you moving forward with the momentum. the question hung between you, heavy and unexpected.

he was silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the road ahead, and you could almost see the weight of the thought pressing on him. love was a strange word, loaded with promises and fears. but then his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, steady and sure.

“i do,” he said slowly, voice low but certain. “maybe not like the stories you hear — wild and all-consuming — but i love you. from the moment i saw you, from that first kiss in the storm, from every day since. every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment. it’s real. and it will only grow.”

your heart fluttered in a way that was both new and familiar, and when the light turned green, he eased forward, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter.

back at the apartment, the world outside disappeared as yeonjun pulled you close. the night was gentle but full of fire, his hands exploring with a tenderness that spoke of trust and deep desire. lips brushed your skin with reverence, soft whispers mingling with quiet moans. you traced the curve of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. every touch was a promise, every kiss a new discovery.

he took his time, patient and caring, making sure you felt cherished, safe. the moments stretched between you, slow and delicious, as if the world had paused just for this — for the two of you, tangled in sheets and warmth, sharing something sacred.

and as you finally melted into him, the love he had spoken of filled the space between your bodies, unspoken but undeniable.

“congratulations,” the doctor said, her voice warm, glowing even, as if she had just handed you the entire sky. “you’re pregnant.”

the world stilled.

you blinked, lips parting, heartbeat stuttering in your chest. yeonjun, who had just stepped inside the room after waiting anxiously outside, froze beside you. his eyes darted from your stunned face to the doctor and back again, like he was trying to make sure he’d heard correctly.

“what?” you breathed, voice barely there.

the doctor smiled, gentle and knowing, like this was her favorite kind of moment to deliver. “you’re about six weeks along. everything looks good so far. the symptoms you’ve been experiencing — the nausea, the cravings, the mood swings — they all point to a healthy early pregnancy. we’ll begin prenatal care from today.”

you felt yeonjun’s fingers slip into yours, holding tight, like he needed to anchor himself. like you were both floating. he didn’t say anything right away — his throat worked around words he couldn’t seem to find — but his hand trembled slightly in yours.

the tears came slowly, not from fear or sadness, but from something else entirely. wonder. disbelief. awe.

a baby.

your baby.

with him.

“i…” you started, then shook your head with a small, breathless laugh. “i thought it was just stress. i didn’t want to hope.”

“and yet, here we are,” the doctor said kindly. “your next steps will be regular checkups, nutrition monitoring, and continued intimacy when you feel comfortable. you’re doing great already.”

you could hardly focus after that — her voice faded to a background hum as your eyes lifted to meet yeonjun’s. he was already looking at you, completely undone. his gaze was soft, watery, reverent. like you were something holy.

he squeezed your hand. “we’re going to be parents,” he whispered, like saying it out loud would make it real.

and it did.

you nodded, blinking away fresh tears. “we’re going to be a family.”

the drive home was quiet, but not empty. yeonjun kept stealing glances at you at every stoplight, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real — like he couldn’t believe the little life beginning inside you was real. his hand never left yours on the console between you, thumb tracing absent-minded circles over your knuckles.

when you stepped into the apartment, he didn’t let go. he guided you gently to the couch, like you might break if he wasn’t careful. and then he was kneeling in front of you, both hands now on your stomach, even though there was nothing visible yet — just warmth. just possibility.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for this. for you. for everything.”

you touched his hair, carding your fingers through the soft strands, heart swelling. “i didn’t do this alone, junnie.”

he leaned forward, lips brushing your still-flat belly, and then rested his forehead there, breathing slow and deep. “i’m gonna do everything i can to be good to you. to them. we didn’t choose this world, but i’ll choose you every day in it.”

you’d never felt more seen. more loved.

later that night, he held you closer than ever in bed, your back to his chest, one hand cradling your stomach, the other tangled with yours. the rain tapped gently against the window again, just like it had the night everything between you shifted.

and now it had shifted again.

you weren’t just husband and wife anymore.

you were parents.

you were a beginning.

and wrapped in his arms, with his heartbeat pressed against your spine, you let yourself dream — not of what the government wanted, not of duty or numbers, but of soft mornings and tiny fingers, of lullabies and laughter echoing through the walls.

of a future you hadn’t dared imagine.

but now, it was here.

growing inside you.

growing between you.

and it was love.

the apartment smelled of cake and laughter. pink balloons were tied to every chair, streamers hung slightly lopsided from the ceiling, and tiny frosting handprints decorated the corners of the tablecloth. your baby girl — chaeyeon — had turned one.

she was currently asleep in your arms, a little drool soaking into your blouse, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. you'd never seen her smile so much in one day, or so determined to wobble around on her chubby legs while everyone clapped for her.

your parents had cried. yeonjun’s mother had brought enough food to feed an entire village. your brother had looked absolutely horrified when asked to hold chaeyeon and had instead stood frozen like she was made of glass. yeonjun’s older brothers had been more relaxed — juggling their own kids, swapping parenting tips with you and yeonjun, their wives giggling over how much yeonjun had softened in just a year.

it was a blur of love. of family. of a happiness you never expected from a life that had once felt forced upon you.

now it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

when the door closed behind the last guest, you let out a long breath and leaned against it. yeonjun was on his knees collecting bits of wrapping paper and cupcake crumbs, his sleeves rolled up and his hair a bit messy from carrying hana all afternoon.

“i think i have frosting in places i didn’t know were possible,” he muttered.

you giggled and padded over, gently placing a hand on his head. “she’s finally asleep. like… deep asleep. miracle of miracles.”

he looked up at you and smiled, slow and soft. “we survived our first birthday party.”

“barely.”

you both laughed, exhausted but giddy, and after tidying up the last of the chaos, you shuffled into your shared bedroom — the one that now held a rocking chair, a baby monitor, and the scent of lavender oil and baby lotion.

you sat on the bed, back against the headboard, and looked at yeonjun as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. his skin glowed faintly from the sweat of the day, and his eyes were crinkled with something tender when he looked at you.

“hard to believe we’ve made it here,” you murmured.

“i know.” he crawled onto the bed beside you, resting his head against your shoulder. “long time ago we were just trying to figure out how to be in the same room without losing our minds.”

“or jumping each other.”

he snorted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “that too.”

you fell quiet for a moment, fingers brushing through his hair. “when they told me we were being assigned… i hated it. the system felt so cruel. mechanical. like love didn’t matter.”

“me too,” he admitted, voice low. “i kept wondering who you’d be. if you’d hate me. if i’d hate you.”

“and now… i can’t imagine waking up without you next to me.” you turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “you’ve become everything.”

he lifted his head, eyes dark with something more than just love. “you gave me a family. you gave me her.”

“we gave her to each other,” you whispered, lips brushing his.

he kissed you then — slow, deep, familiar in a way that made your toes curl. and when he pulled back, eyes half-lidded, he murmured, “i need you.”

“then take me,” you breathed.

you barely finished speaking before he was on you, lips claiming yours again, more urgent this time, tongue teasing, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. you gasped, arching into his touch as he rolled a thumb over your nipple.

“fuck, i love how sensitive you still are,” he muttered against your neck, biting softly before soothing the skin with kisses. “you get wet the second i touch you, don’t you?”

you nodded, already trembling as he dragged your panties down your thighs, fingers grazing your slick folds. “you make me like this… only you.”

he groaned, dipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his thumb circling your clit until your hips were grinding against his hand.

“look at you,” he said, voice rough, “needy little wife. always so eager for me. i could fuck you for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough, would it?”

“never enough,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulders. “please, junnie—”

he flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until you were on all fours, head turned into the pillow. “you know what this does to me, seeing you like this,” he growled, running the head of his cock through your folds before slowly pushing in. “fuck, still so tight for me.”

you moaned, face burying into the pillow as he filled you to the hilt, rocking his hips with slow, brutal precision. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you back to meet each thrust, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

“tell me how good i make you feel,” he said through gritted teeth, fucking you deeper.

“so good—oh god, junnie—right there,” you whimpered. “you fuck me like you own me.”

“because i do,” he hissed. “you’re mine. every inch. every breath. and this pussy? fuck—this was made for me.”

your cries were muffled into the pillow, tears prickling at your eyes from the pleasure building impossibly fast. he bent over you, pressing kisses to your back, your shoulder, your neck, never stopping his rhythm.

“gonna come, baby?” he whispered in your ear. “cream on my cock like you always do?”

you nodded desperately, clenching around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a strangled moan.

he followed right after, cursing low and dark, emptying himself inside you with a final thrust. “fuck—gonna fill you up again. maybe give chaeyeon a little sibling.”

you both collapsed onto the bed, boneless and breathless, his arms wrapping tight around you from behind.

and in that moment, as the warmth of him settled over your back and your heartbeat steadied with his, you smiled.

because this was the life you never asked for — and yet, it was everything.

and now, there was no one else you’d rather be loved by.

[sweetpianoxoxo]

I love the idea of small-town brown bear shifter John Price and a new resident spotted doe reader who is a horticultural technician and now runs the plant nursery on the outskirts of town.

Thinking about how, customary to bear courtship rituals, Price would stalk around the Doe, make sure she was safe, (without her knowledge of course) he would scent the trees surrounding her workplace, and when he found out they lived in the same neighborhood? Her whole property smelt strong of bear.

Of course, stupidly, he didn't consider how terrifying that would be for a Doe. Predator and Prey dynamics in hybrids weren't as strong as it might be in nature, but that didn't mean an overwhelming bear scent following her everywhere wasn't terrifying.

The deer had come to this town for a reprieve. She lived in the city where it was bustling, and there was nowhere for her to graze or two into any instincts. She didn't even know any other deer in the city she lived in, just birds, dogs, cats, rodents, etcetera. She just wanted to be a deer in peace.

She would think that this bear was trying to run her out of town. She didnt know why, just terrified of running into this bear face to face.

Johns attempts of courtship weren't working, and now he was just interested. He started asking every cervidae creature in town. What were the courtship rituals for a deer? What was customary for her?

Almost everything he was told either crossed over with what he was already doing or had to do with antlers. He doesn't have antlers. What does he do?

And so he took the human approach. He spent two or so days prepping his backyard to house a variety of fruits and veggies. He generally wasnt a fan, but deer were so he may as well be prepared. Once he had a garden made, he took his truck down to her nursery.

He waited down the road for almost an hour for her shop to open, but he could smell her, putting around in the actual greenhouse. When the time hit '10', he began driving into the property.

A bell jingled as he opened the door, and he was met with the smell of his deer, and also the most exquiste, earthy, sweet smells from all the flowers and fruits. Nobody was behind the counter, and John took the opportunity to look around.

"Ill be out in a minute!"

He saw daylilies, pansies, violets, morning glory, grapes, lettuce, spinach. All flowers and fruits and veggies deers liked. There were some other plants he didnt know the names of, lots, actually.

When the doe finally came to the counter, she tensed, and her smelt went sour. "Please i just want to live here in peace." The adrenaline pouring off her body almost made Price want her more.

"Relax, sweet'art. Not trynna run you out of town. Quite the opposite, actually." He took a cautious step forward, with his hands up for effect. "Smelt your sweet scent as soon as you entered town." Maybe it was still just her fear waring to shock, or maybe she was starting to understand the situation.

When a male meets their mate, they can smell them, and other males can sense the difference, but the frmales dont. They can't scent a male until the male nips their scent glands. This was something eugenics produced over years of women dying before breeding age due to an overwhelming amount of scents or alphas trying to claim them.

(This is not to say females can't smell a male generally, just not as deep and harsh. For example, doe can tell that there's a strong bear following her, she doesn't know he's her mate)

The deer started to become antsy, nervously shaking her fingers and swaying from side to side. "Come on now, dearie," the irony wasn't lost of Price either as he stepped even closer to the counter. "I know you start cleaning up at 6. I'll be coming back then, and we can have a nice dinner at Joanie's and talk about our situation."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't an invitation. It was firm command. She'd be taken out on a date by her grizzly bear mate, whether she wanted to or not.

Edit: PART TWO

[illumeew]

varka x reader. the grandmaster is coming back home to mondstadt, so what better way to welcome him than with a soul-snatching hug with his two most favorite people in the world?

includes: established relationship (you're married!), established family (parental figures to bennett), tooth-rotting fluff. version 5.6 livestream spoilers (varka character design)!

the letter came at sunrise.

you’d just finished feeding the birds outside your window when a falcon swept down with a scroll tied neatly to its leg, stamped with the knights of favonius seal and smelling faintly of wind and steel.

you fed it pigeon and waved goodbye as it flew back to its owner. you unrolled the letter, eyes scanning the familiar, bold scrawl.

to my better half,

by the time this reaches you, we should be making our final camp just beyond windwail. i’ll be home before sunset tomorrow if the winds favor me, and they usually do, when you’re at the other end of them.

i’ve missed you more than words will let me say, so i won’t waste parchment trying. i hope you’re well. i hope you haven’t burned the house down trying to fix the stove again. i hope you’ve been taking care of yourself half as well as you’ve always taken care of me.

more importantly, how’s benny? is he still the same? has he grown taller? i hope not as tall as his old man. hahahaha!

every time i saw the sun rise, i always thought of the two of you. it’s strange out here, with all the frost and fury of archons who knows, though it wasn’t the monsters or the maps i found myself thinking of at night. it was that kid’s laugh. that clumsy, firecracker spirit of his. and you, of course, always there, steady as a rock, no matter what storm we’re caught in.

there’s something i need to talk to you about regarding him when i get back. nothing bad, so don’t go pacing the floor to tear and wear just yet, but i’ve been thinking, and i want us to have the talk in person. just the two of us first, then all three of us together.

you don’t need to worry. he’s a good kid. you made sure of that.

… alright, alright. i can already hear you teasing me about getting sentimental. let’s blame it on the wind, yeah? damn thing’s been up my ass since i left.

i’ll be home soon. get the stove hot. i’ll take care of dinner this time.

yours always,

varka

and your heart swooned.

“he’s coming back?!”

bennett was halfway into his boots with a fork still in one hand when you told him. his breakfast lay forgotten as he practically leapt over the table, eyes bright with his face lit up like a pyro slime.

“tomorrow?! that’s, like, super soon! do we have any balloons? do grandmasters like balloons? should i polish my boots?!”

you laughed, catching the back of his scarf before he ran out the door.

“slow down, my dear! he’s not expecting a parade, it’ll just be us.” you ran a delicate hand through his white locks.

he insists, leaning closer to your touch, giggling. “but we are the parade!”

you spent the rest of the day preparing in the only way you knew how: tidying the house (a little), burning the stew (a little, just how your boys liked it), and making sure bennett didn’t blow anything up in the path of his excitement.

you barely slept, and by the time the first light hit the mondstadt gates, you and bennett were already waiting, standing just outside the city, the wind tousling your hair and a basket of slightly lopsided sandwiches made by the two of you slung over your arm.

and then, there he was.

varka strode up the path, just as massive and joyful as ever, with his cloak whipping in the breeze, greaves dusty, and that unmistakable grin splitting his face like a battle cry.

“there’s my favorite pair of troublemakers!”

“dad!” bennett sprinted forward first, nearly tripping over himself in the grass.

laughter caught in your throat as you watched him run.

varka swept the boy up in a single arm like he weighed nothing, twirling him once. you weren’t far behind, crashing into his other side. your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, the smell of steel and pine overwhelming your senses.

“and you,” he said, lowering his forehead to yours, voice warm and rough, “are still the most beautiful thing mondstadt’s ever seen.”

you smacked his shoulder, caught between laughing and crying. “you’ve been back for thirty seconds and already flirting with me?”

“can’t help myself,” he winked.

bennett squirmed between you. “hey, hey! hug quota not filled yet!”

“oh? then brace yourself!”

varka lifted you both off the ground like it was nothing. you shrieked, bennett whooped, and varka just laughed, spinning the three of you once before planting his boots firmly back on mondstadt soil.

it was a hug big enough to make the wind hush.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, whispering into it, “welcome home.”

he held you tighter. “it always was.”

was i the only one who envisioned varka with chestnut brown hair, facial hair and scarring? this lowkey has me wanting to go back to playing just to see them in-game :(

[neellscapsule]

a ceo, a wedding . . . a robin?

summary | your brother's wedding was always quite expected by you. not so much like the petition your son has.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic dick grayson x kent!reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, reader and bruce kiss so lovely in this it makes my heart explode, dick is the cutest child

word count | 4.3k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 6. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippindots @sirlovel @aixaingela @pjmgojo @antixsocialx2 @nisarelle @realiliumfr @gojoswaterbottle @connnn @jjoppees @yall-imhere @sabrinaoppositee @nekotaetae @wendee-go @idiomaticpunk @fandomlover1235 @nommingonfood

TWO YEARS PASS AS FAST AS THE FLASH WHITING A BLINK.

You don’t even see it coming. One moment, you’re peeling Dick off the carpet of your office, cradling his puffy face after he declared you “mom” to a screaming supermodel. The next, you’re watching him tie a tie by himself in front of the long mirror in the hallway of Wayne Manor, his hair a little longer and his face a little leaner, like he’s already trying to stretch toward something bigger.

Ten years old now. He’s ten.

Double digits. Growing fast. Almost reaching your chest, which he proudly announced to Alfred last week with a finger pointed directly at your collarbone. And though he still sleeps curled between you and Bruce on the nights the wind howls or the manor creaks just right—those moments are rarer now.

He’s still your baby bird. But he’s also becoming someone. Someone good.

And the three of you live under the same high, gothic roof. The Wayne Manor, timeless and tall, with more windows than your entire hometown and a history that still gives you chills when you walk through the old library. But it’s home. Truly.

Because of them. Because of him. Because of all of you.

You spend most mornings waking at dawn. Bruce rises earlier—he always has—but he stays in bed long enough to kiss your forehead, press his face to your collarbone, murmur something sleep-warm about staying in with you for five more minutes. Dick drags himself out of bed only after Alfred threatens to remove the curtains, and you all manage breakfast together more often than not.

It’s quiet. Domestic. Real.

Which is why, when the papers start referring to you as the youngest executive director Wayne Enterprises has ever seen, you don’t flinch.

You don’t have time to flinch.

You’re too busy preparing your own morning meetings. Signing contracts. Rerouting wasteful divisions and restructuring outreach initiatives. Because Bruce did what Bruce always does—he saw you, he trusted you, and he handed you more power than anyone expected. Not out of sentiment. Out of truth. You earned it.

You still remember the day he gave you the title.

“CEO,” he said casually, flipping through paperwork in his office. “It fits you better than secretary.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

He looked up. “Of course.”

You sat back. “That’s… that’s huge.”

“You’ve been doing the work for months,” he said. “All I’m doing is making it official.”

You reached for his hand across the table. “I’m still wearing your ring, you know. You don’t need to give me a company to keep me.”

He smirked. “It’s not for you. It’s for the world. So they see what I already know.”

So you stepped into the role, high heels clicking across marble floors, all warmth in the middle of steel. You work harder than ever. But you’re fuller too. Of purpose. Of pride.

Of love.

But not every part of your life is centered on your life. No, no. You spend time on your friends as well: Diana and Selina, both so different yet so important to you. Although they are both very occupied persons, they reserve some time for you.

Well . . . Diana sees you whenever she's not training, or fighting against something terrible dangerous, which is not as much time as you would expect. But when you see her, you share a good tea, with a table full of food — because God knows that your friend has a stomach the volume of your own brother's — and laughing that attracts attention, despite that that may be because of how good the both of you look.

Motherhood sits you nice, what can you say?

Selina has a lot more free time . . . when she is not stealing from rich, old men . . . or being Catwoman. Because, yes, not only your husband, brother and best friend are people of the night, heroes, but your other best friend is a fantastical anti-hero type of vigilante.

But yeah, she spends quite more moments with you: at the office — snatches bites of your lunch, winks at your interns —, at the Manor, even going outside to simply share a coffee. Recently, she brought along a new friend.

A green friend that you very much know, but you prefer to keep quiet about the other identity.

It's not fair that Ivy is so interesting!

And, while you very much know about their whole relationship with Harley Quinn as well, you much keep outside of it, not wanting to get as close with Joker's girlfriend. You wouldn't do that to Bruce, not if she kept by that side.

You know better than to reach for someone who still dances too close to the Joker’s shadow.

Still, life is good.

You have your job. Your home. Your son.

And today, you have a wedding.

You grinned. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“Because I am!”

Lois’s hair was pinned in a perfect low bun. You helped her finish it yourself—quietly brushing, wrapping, then fixing a few strands when the hairstylist got a call halfway through. Her dress was classic—off-white satin with a soft curve at the shoulders and a wide, structured skirt that hugged her waist. She looked gorgeous. Radiant. And also a bit like she might leap out the nearest stained-glass window.

“Lois,” you said gently, “it’s Clark.”

“I know it’s Clark!”

“You’ve been together for over five years.”

“Exactly.”

You blinked. “You’re losing me.”

“That’s a long time to be with someone and still not be sure if you’ve properly traumatized them or not.”

You laughed and walked behind her, straightening her veil as it draped over her shoulders.

“Lois, he’s literally Superman.”

She sighed. “Yeah. Exactly. I don’t want to ruin Superman.”

You leaned down, pressing your cheek to hers, voice soft.

“You could never ruin him.”

She blinked quickly. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you said. “And I know because I’ve seen him fly straight into fires, fight aliens, take on the League of Shadows and Lex Luthor all before breakfast—but he gets mushy the second you call.”

Lois sniffed, clearly trying not to cry. “I don’t want mushy. I want stability.”

You handed her a tissue. “Then trust that you’re it.”

She dabbed under her eyes and nodded. “Okay. Okay.”

Then she paused.

“I didn’t forget to write my vows, but I forgot where I put them.”

“Top drawer,” you said without looking.

Lois gasped and opened the drawer. There they were.

You shrugged. “I know how you think.”

“You’re scary.”

You smiled. “I’m a mom.”

She leaned over and hugged you tight, her voice warm and fond against your shoulder. “You’re also my best friend. Thanks for not letting me implode.”

“Anytime,” you said, squeezing her back. “Now sit down and let me make sure your shoes aren’t going to kill you halfway through the aisle.”

The fabric shimmered—nothing showy, just enough to catch the light in delicate folds. The bodice was structured, elegant, sharp in a way only Lois could pull off.

“You look stunning,” you whispered. “Clark’s going to forget how to speak.”

“He already does that around me,” she muttered, gripping your hand tightly. “This time, it’ll be because I’m going to murder him if he bolts.”

“He’s not bolting.”

“You sure?”

“I helped pick the ring. He’s not bolting.”

She blinked, biting her lip.

You softened. “He loves you, Lois.”

“I know.”

 You kissed her cheek, told her you’d be back in five, and slipped out into the corridor.

The groom’s room was quieter, in that unnaturally still way men’s rooms always were before weddings—no nervous laughter or shrieking, just muffled movement, the sound of cufflinks, and Bruce’s deep voice talking softly to someone down the hall.

Clark sat by the window, eyes cast outward, fingers loosely pressed together.

You knocked gently before entering. “Hey.”

He turned instantly, smiling the second he saw you. “Hey yourself.”

You stepped in, shutting the door behind you.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“She’s threatening to flee. I think that’s a good sign.”

He laughed softly. “Classic Lois.”

You walked toward him, careful not to wrinkle your dress—long navy blue, open-backed, soft satin that hugged your figure in a way that had made Bruce audibly grunt when you’d stepped out that morning.

Clark stood as you neared. His suit was hanging by the window. He was shirtless, his hair slightly damp from a nervous shower, and there was a tie discarded on the floor like it had tried to strangle him.

You raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t exactly the image of a Kryptonian groom I had in mind.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“Uh huh. Look at me.”

He did.

“Lois loves you. You love her. You’ve already done the impossible together. This is the easy part.”

He swallowed. “What if I screw it up?”

“You already did,” you said with a grin. “And she still wants to marry you.”

He laughed—soft, real. You kissed his cheek. 

“You’re gonna be the best husband.”

Clark pulled you into a hug, arms tight. Familiar. Like home.

“You’re gonna make me cry on my own wedding day,” he murmurs.

“Then we’re even,” you whisper. “I already cried twice this morning.”

Sneaking off with your not-soon- to be husband is easy.

Bruce found you just before the ceremony, in the hallway outside the kitchen pantry. You raised your eyebrow as he pulled you in by the waist.

“This isn’t our wedding,” you whispered as he shut the door behind you.

“Which is why I thought it’d be safe to sneak a minute with my fiancée.”

You laughed as he backed you into the shelves, hands steady against your hips.

“You’re very inappropriate today,” you said, trying not to grin.

His hands slid down your back, catching at your waist, pressing you gently against the shelf. His mouth met yours like he hadn’t seen you all morning. Like two years of shared mornings and shared toothbrushes hadn’t dulled the sharp, desperate need between you.

He kissed your neck softly. “It’s your dress.”

You hummed. “You picked it.”

“Exactly.”

You turned and kissed him, long and slow, one hand curled around his tie. His lips moved lazily against yours, like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t. But Bruce always kissed like that when he was content.

When he pulled back, his thumb grazed your cheek.

“You’re glowing,” he murmured.

“You’re soft,” you teased.

He grinned. “Only for you.”

The old pantry cupboard is small, dusty, barely big enough for two grown adults—especially when one of them is built like a Greek statue and the other refuses to stop clinging.

“I’ve been watching you all day,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You light up every room you walk into.”

Your chest tightens, warm and full. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm. And you’ve somehow become even more beautiful since I last kissed you.”

You grin, pressing your forehead to his. “That was seconds ago.”

“Too long.”

The ceremony was beautiful.

Soft strings played as guests settled in.

Bruce sat with Dick beside him, both dressed in tailored navy. Dick’s jacket had a tiny robin pin you’d bought for him in secret—a quiet nod. He tapped it twice for luck before heading down the aisle with a little velvet box in his palm.

You watch him from your place beside Lois, heart clenching with pride as he focuses on every step, holding the rings like they’re sacred. When he makes it to the altar, Clark gives him a grateful wink, and Dick puffs up like a balloon about to burst.

He grinned wide when he saw you standing by the bride, mouthing, “You look so pretty, mom.”

You blew him a kiss. He pretends to catch it, then slips his hand into Bruce’s.

Lois was radiant. Clark was teary-eyed.

You watched your brother and best friend say their vows in front of friends and family, promising forever with laughter and love. And when they kissed, when the room erupted in cheers, when your father wiped a tear and your mother squeezed your hand—there was a glow in your chest that burned soft and golden.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way Clark looked at Lois when they kissed.

It’s the kind of look you’ve only ever seen once before—on Bruce’s face, the first time he watched you walk barefoot through the Manor’s rose garden, a glass of wine in your hand, laughing at something Alfred said. 

There’s something in it that strips away time, space, history. It’s not awe. It’s not even reverence. It’s something deeper. Something more anchored. It’s knowing. The kind of knowing that doesn’t shake, even when the world around it does.

The ceremony fades into the glow of golden-hour congratulations—tight hugs, kiss-stained cheeks, overexcited relatives taking blurry pictures with disposable cameras they barely know how to use. Someone pulls out a guitar. Someone else is already uncorking the second bottle of champagne. Kids chase each other through the wildflowers. The air smells like clover and frosting, and there’s something deeply sacred about it all, like time decided to stand still just for today.

And then the music starts.

Ma had insisted on hiring a local band. Clark helped with the sound setup early this morning, careful not to scorch the cables with heat vision. You remember watching him work with Dick on his shoulders, both of them laughing as they hung fairy lights around the barn door. Now, that very same barn has been transformed into a dance floor—strings of lights overhead, long folding tables lined with mason jars, centerpieces full of sunflowers and wild daisies. 

It’s not Gotham. It’s not Metropolis. 

It’s better.

It’s home.

The speeches come in between. Some of their colleagues talk first, your parents are next, and, finally, it's your turn. You rise slowly, smoothing your dress as you step onto the little platform. The string lights catch your hair and your smile, and for a second, you see yourself as everyone else does. 

Not just a Kent. Not just a Wayne executive. But a woman standing in her home soil, proud and strong, with her family in the crowd and the man she loves watching her like she’s the sun.

You clear your throat, voice steady.

“When we were kids,” you begin, “Clark used to read to me at night. I’d crawl into his bed with my stuffed bunny, and he’d pull out a book—sometimes fairy tales, sometimes Ma’s old college novels—and he’d do all the voices. He always made sure the hero saved the day. He always made sure the villain had a chance to be redeemed.”

You pause. The crowd leans in.

“I used to think those stories were just stories. But then I grew up. And I realized Clark was never reading them for me. He was reminding himself that the world could still be kind. That love could still win. That happy endings were worth fighting for.”

Lois’s lip wobbles. Clark’s head is down, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand.

You smile. “And now, I get to watch my big brother marry the love of his life. Someone who sees his shadows and calls them beautiful. Someone who doesn’t need saving—but lets him save her anyway, because she knows that’s how he loves. Lois, Clark… thank you. For giving us a fairytale. For letting us believe in it.”

You step down to thunderous applause. Bruce is already reaching for you as you return to your seat, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“You have a gift,” he whispers.

You smile. “So do you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You motion to the dance floor, which is now being cleared for the first dance. “You’re about to show me whether you can dance without stepping on my toes.”

Bruce smirks, but he stands.

“I accept the challenge.”

The first slow dance feels like honey.

You fit against Bruce like you were made for this—his hand at your lower back, your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder, your fingers tangled in his. The music swells around you, soft and rich, the kind of song you don’t know the name of but never want to end.

“I missed this,” he murmurs against your hair.

“We danced two weeks ago at the Wayne Gala,” you tease.

“That was for investors,” he counters. “This is for us.”

You tilt your head up, just enough to look at him. “So what does this mean, then?”

He smiles. It’s small, but the kind that reaches his eyes.

“It means,” he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead, “that I hope one day we’re on a dance floor like this, and it’s you in white.”

Your heart skips.

“I hope it’s you beside me,” you whisper, stunned by how much you mean it. “Always.”

Dick is spinning in circles on the edge of the floor, laughing with two of your younger cousins. He catches your eye and waves, cheeks flushed with joy.

Bruce leans in. “He’s going to sleep all the way home.”

“If he doesn’t pass out in the car,” you chuckle.

The music shifts again. A slow waltz. Ma cuts in to dance with Clark. Jonathan takes Lois’s hands with the gentleness only a father-in-law can muster. Couples rotate, change partners, laugh. The whole yard glows.

After a while, Dick taps your hip. “Can I have this dance, ma'am?”

You gasp, hand to your heart. “Sir! I would be honored.”

You and Dick dance slowly, swaying more than anything. He leads for the first few seconds, proudly trying to mimic what he’s seen grown-ups do. But when he missteps and nearly trips over your foot, he starts giggling uncontrollably, and you both fall into a rhythm of bouncing more than dancing.

His little hands are warm in yours, his smile endless.

“I did good today, didn’t I?” he asks.

“You were perfect,” you reply. “You brought the rings like a pro.”

“I practiced with Alfred,” he grins. “He made me walk up and down the hallway until I got it right.”

“I’ll thank him later.”

He grins, dimples deep. “Dad said I looked like a real gentleman.”

“You are a real gentleman,” you say softly, voice warm. “The best kind.”

Dick looks up at you. “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

He shifts, suddenly a little more serious. “Do you think… do you think someday I’ll be like Uncle Clark? Like… good?”

You stop moving. You crouch down so you’re eye-level.

“Dick,” you say carefully, taking both his hands. “You are already good. You’ve got the strongest heart I’ve ever seen. You care so much about people. You try every day. That’s what makes you a hero.”

He swallows hard. “Even when If I mess up?”

“Especially then,” you whisper. “Because you keep going. And that’s what makes you strong.”

He throws his arms around your neck, hugging you tight. Bruce watches from a distance, expression unreadable—but his eyes are soft.

You scoop Dick into your arms and twirl him once before setting him down.

“Now go get some cake before it’s all gone,” you grin.

He dashes off. Bruce steps beside you.

“He needed to hear that,” he says quietly.

“So do you, sometimes,” you reply.

He chuckles, but there’s something weighty in the way he slides his hand into yours.

And you—

You let the world blur. You danced. You smiled.

You existed, happily, in the moment where your brother had finally married the woman he loved, where your son had carried the rings like a knight, and where your heart—your big, aching heart—was full.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Dick tugged your fingers and asked if he could dance with Aunt Diana.

You nodded. “Be polite, bug . . . And try not to step on her feet.”

He ran off. You turned back to Bruce, who was still watching you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Ready to make our wedding the next one?” you asked, jokingly.

He smiled. “I already said yes two years ago.”

It started with silence.

The kind of silence that was too careful. Too constructed.

You noticed it when you came down from the upstairs study after three full hours of reviewing Wayne Enterprises expansion contracts. The clock had struck nine. The night air curled in through the windows in lazy waves, bringing the soft scent of pine from the woods, a trace of lavender from the garden.

The manor was still.

Too still.

You paused at the foot of the stairs, one hand brushing the carved railing. Alfred had retired early to sleep. Bruce had gone down to the cave to finish running forensics on a weapons cache recovered near Crime Alley. And Dick?

You hadn’t seen Dick since dinner.

You glanced toward the drawing room. Sure enough, there was a glow behind the partially cracked door. Soft. Sneaky. Suspicious.

You knocked with the same voice you used to ask if someone had broken a lamp.

“Sweetheart?”

A pause. Then the shuffle of socks on hardwood.

“It’s open,” came the voice of your ten-year-old son.

You stepped inside.

Dick was on the floor, lying on his stomach, blueprints and sketches spread around him like a storm of colored paper. There were rulers, string, an old math compass, duct tape, a flashlight, and what looked like Bruce’s grappling gun partially disassembled next to a cereal bowl.

You blinked once. Twice.

“Baby,” you said slowly, “why does this room look like a Gotham PD evidence board?”

Dick sat up cross-legged, cheeks flushed, notebook in his lap.

“I have a proposal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A proposal.”

He nodded firmly. “For you. And Dad.”

You crossed your arms. “Does it involve dismantling stolen Batcave tech?”

“No,” he said quickly. Then, “… not just that.”

“Uh huh.”

He stood up, cleared his throat, and held up a makeshift pamphlet.

It had a stick figure with a mask on the cover. It read: Sidekick Sttrategic Plan — Dick Grayson, Age 10 (almost 11).

You blinked again.

“… Okay. Go on.”

He straightened his shoulders, like he was preparing for a shareholder pitch.

“I want to be Dad’s sidekick.”

You stared at him.

He pressed on.

“I’ve done the research. And the training. You know I’ve been in the gym almost every night after homework. I can do fifty pushups. In a row.”

“I’ve seen you,” you said carefully. “They’re very impressive.”

“I read all of Dad’s old case files. The redacted ones. Well, except the ones with too much blood. Alfred said no.”

“Smart man.”

“I already know how to use the comms and the grid,” he continued, flipping pages. “And I’ve been practicing my flips. I’m faster than Bruce was when he was my age. And I can help.”

His voice cracked a little.

You softened.

He set the notebook down.

“Mom,” he said, suddenly quiet, “I don’t want to just watch anymore. I want to be a part of it. I want to protect people.”

You moved closer, kneeling in front of him. Your hands found his, warm and a little sweaty from nerves.

“Honey,” you murmured, “you’re already a part of it. You’re part of this family. You don’t have to throw punches to matter.”

“I know,” he said. “But I want to help. Really help. You and Dad do so much. You save people. You make Gotham safer. I want to do that too.”

Your heart tugged.

There was so much of Bruce in him now. But there was also so much of you. That stubborn conviction. That desperate need to make things right, even when the world didn’t ask it of you.

“You know it’s dangerous,” you said softly.

He nodded.

“And scary.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

He looked up at you, blue eyes clear and wide. “But I’m not.”

You exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.

“Does your father know about this?”

He shuffled guiltily. “… No.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was gonna talk to him after you,” he mumbled.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your mouth.

“I’m the warm-up act?”

“You’re the boss,” he said sweetly. “If you say no, there’s no point in asking him.”

You reached up, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Don’t butter me up,” you warned gently.

“I’m not!”

“You totally are.”

He smiled. Then, like it was sacred, he added, “You always tell me I’m brave. And I wanna be brave. Like you. And Dad. But I want to be useful too.”

“Dickie,” you said, cupping his cheek, “you’re the reason we even try.”

He leaned into your palm. You sighed, letting silence fall. And then, quietly, with a dry laugh you couldn’t hold in, you said:

“You look like a little robin when you puff your chest up like that.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Red sweater. Pointy elbows. All full of conviction and fluff.”

He stared at you. Then he lit up.

“Robin.”

You froze.

“No.”

“Robin! That’s it! That’s my name!”

“Oh, no, I was being poetic.”

“Mom,” he said breathlessly, “you named me!”

“That’s not what—”

“I’m gonna be Robin!”

You stood, both amused and horrified. “I’ve made a mistake.”

He tackled you around the middle. “I’m gonna be Robin! I gotta go tell Dad!”

“Wait, wait, wait!” you called after him as he bolted out of the room. “At least fix your spelling on ‘strategic’ first—!”

You found Bruce half an hour later in the Batcave.

He was hunched over a new cowl prototype, but the moment you stepped down the final stairs, he looked up.

“He’s very convincing,” he said dryly, setting his tools down.

You sighed and walked toward the console, arms folded.

“I should’ve known you were listening.”

“You were in the drawing room. The walls aren’t soundproof.”

You slumped into the nearest chair.

“He’s serious, Bruce.”

“I know.”

“He made pamphlets.”

Bruce arched a brow. “So did I. At twelve.”

You blinked. “What.”

“For my first pitch to Alfred.”

“… You made a business case for being a vigilante?”

“Yes.”

You sighed into your hands. “Of course you did.”

He leaned back, watching you.

“Do you want to say no?”

You looked up at him.

“Of course I want to say no. He’s a baby. He’s our baby. The idea of him dodging bullets and jumping off rooftops makes me want to throw up.”

Bruce nodded slowly.

“But?” he asked.

“But,” you exhaled, “I know him. He won’t let it go.”

“No,” Bruce agreed. “He won’t.”

“And if we say no… he might try anyway.”

Bruce didn’t answer. Because that was the truth. Dick Grayson, age ten, almost eleven, was already fearless.

And you couldn’t protect him by shutting him out.

So you stood, walked over to Bruce, and leaned against him with your head on his shoulder.

“If we do this,” you whispered, “we do it our way.”

“Absolutely.”

“No solo missions. No real combat until he’s ready. No special exceptions.”

“Agreed.”

You glanced up at him.

“You’re really okay with this?”

Bruce’s hand found yours.

“I’m terrified,” he said.

Then he smiled.

“But I think our little Robin just took flight.”

Dick insisted on a ceremony. Not a big one—just the four of you.

He had a fairly well-made costume, made of sturdy fabric, sewn by Alfred stitch by stitch.

You held back your laughter with the short pants.

But you still couldn't help but tear up a little, smoothing down the yellow cape that flew behind him with each turn. You caressed the R sewn on his chest—the one you'd put there, sitting cross-legged on the couch while Dick beamed beside you.

You took a photo. He posed like a champion.

And when the sun set, and the moon was high, and Gotham once again stirred in its shadows…

Robin joined the family business.

And your world—already full of love—somehow stretched even wider.

[rawme-price]

What about harpy eagle!reader and macaw!gaz....

When price mentioned a new avian joining the team, gaz knew there were hundreds of possibilities to expect. He just hasn't prepared for you being a fucking harpy eagle.

Youre large and imposing, easily as big as ghost with massive wings and plumage. You smile wide when you glance over everyone before landing on gaz, a look in your eyes makes him shiver.

It becomes clear youre obsessed with him, following gaz around whenever you get the chance. He doesnt mind, even if the bird in his brain screams at having a predator species so close. Its honestly part of the fun. Youre big, every movement commanding attention, the air pressure of rooms shifting to fit your presence.

So when you hunt gaz down and press him into the wall of some empty hallways after a pretty physical sparring session, can you really blame him for the flustered squeak? Your taloned hand can hold his chest against the tile easily, head dipping down to give him a teasing hiss. "You're feathers are ruffled, sargeant. You got someone to fix it?"

When he shakes his head, you only grin further. You end up taking him to your nest, bigger than his, clearly accommodating your wingspan. You dont waste times, tossing him chest first into ur nest and crawling over him to settle on the back of his thighs. Oh god, hes not gonna walk out of this room with any dignity left. There's something about having the weight of a large bird looming over him that has gazs face heating even as he tucks it into and elbow.

The way you manhandle him where you need him, pressing sharp talons against his joints followed by a soothing pet has his mind foggy before you even touch him. When you finally get ur hands in his feathers? Hes a mess, unable to stifle his appreciative groan even if he wanted.

You laugh condescendingly at him, raking hands over his back in appreciation of the red feathers. He starts trying to buck into the mattress halfway through, boxers already sticky with cum, so you have to press a forearm to his nape "settle down, birdie. Im not done." His body goes limp, instinctual, but now hes moaning openly at everything you do.

By the end of its hes panting and whining beneath you, wings trembling whenever you even breath on the delicate feathers. Hes blissed out, and while you really would love to jump his bones after essentially listening to audio porn for two hours, you hold back.

Instead you tuck him into ur nest and tell him to sleep. You'll have plenty of fun with him when he wakes up :)

[fallenbratfiction]

Bambi ~ Part one

series masterpost here pedro pascal masterlist

a/n: this is quite long, I hope it keeps you fed while I prepare the next part!! feedback is always welcomed!! i will be gnawing at the bars of my enclosure ok bye!

mentions: post-outbreak / apocalyptic setting, dubcon/coercion themes, blood mention, obsession/possessiveness, power imbalance, reader is of age (above 18), naive reader (soft/innocent/inexperienced), fingering, non-explicit violence & threats, gun use, manipulation & emotional control, possessiveness, praise kink, possible other kinks, punishments,, “daddy” kink, shared reader (Joel x Reader x Tommy), pet names (Bambi, sweet girl, good girl, our girl), domestic elements turned dark, mental confusion & emotional overwhelm, morally gray to fully unhinged dark Miller brothers

Reader discretion strongly advised. Dark themes throughout. Minors DNI ❌ This is a work of fiction and does not reflect healthy or ideal relationships!!! 

Do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own. 

⟡━━━ ✦ 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗳𝗶𝗰 ahead ✦ ━━━⟡

The forest is quiet at night, too quiet for its own sake. There used to be more life out here. Crickets chirping. Frogs croaking. Birds or bats darting through the dark sky. Now there’s nothing. Just still trees and dead air, like the whole forest is holding its breath.

“You know what I miss the most about the woods?” Joel asks, voice low as he walks beside his brother, their shotguns slung across their backs.

 Tommy turns to him and huffs, waiting for his brother to respond to his question.“Deers” Tommy hums in approval, “Used to see ‘em all the time, this time of night.” 

“You miss watchin’ ‘em or huntin’ ‘em?”  Tommy snorts, Joel huffs a quiet laugh—

—and then it happens.

A sudden flash of motion cuts through the trees. Small, fast. Barely there.

Both of them stop. 

Silence. 

Alert. 

They are quick to grab their shotguns and scan the shadows with their guns pointed, expecting another movement. Eyes sharp, bodies tensed. 

Joel’s voice drops, almost amused. “Well, speak of the devil…”

Tommy steps forward, eyes narrowed. “You saw that?”

Joel is already scanning the brush. “Yeah. Could’ve been a rabbit. Could’ve been somethin’ else.”

Another motion. Left this time. Farther.

They both turn, guns half-lifted.

Joel mutters, “Whatever it is, it’s movin’ smart.”

Tommy nods. “Too smart.”

A beat passes. Then Joel speaks.

“Split?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, already turning to flank. “We circle the woods. If it’s still out here—we’ll find it.”

They part in silence, each splitting through the trees like they already know the drill, they’ve done this a hundred times by now. 

Joel moves through the right,  slow and deliberate, each of his steps deliberate. Meanwhile, Tommy veers to the other direction; his steps are lighter and his eyes cut through the dark like a blade, scanning everything in sight.

You’re out there moving fast, barefoot and running out of air. Your legs are tired and bruised from all the times you’ve tripped. You don’t know how far you’ve gotten by now, but you can’t risk it, you can’t risk being found by him. 

You’re trying your best, but panic keeps you clumsy, and every snap of a branch is louder than it should be. The leaves rustle with every move you make, which guides Joel closer to your location. 

You don’t know they are close. 

They don’t know if you’re a wild animal, a person, or just an illusion. 

They’re not here to hurt you, but you don’t know that. They are just as curious as you, and just as cautious. 

They keep circling you, it’s like a never-ending game. They move, you move, they move again. Joel on one side, Tommy on the other. Each move draws the noose tighter, but they don’t know how close they are yet; they just feel it. 

You’re not trying to be found, but you’ve been on the run for long enough now. Your body aches, and your vision is blurry from the adrenaline and the fact that, along the way, you had lost your glasses. You weave through the trees, ducking under branches and trunks of trees, your hands in front of you leading the way until your foot catches around thorns. 

You don’t scream or cry, but it’s evident you’ve fallen due to the solid thud of your body hitting the ground. The game is over; they’ve found you. Joel turns and runs in your direction. Tommy, though a bit further, hears the sound as well and freezes. 

Branches hit Joel’s body as he pushes forward through the forest, deeper into the darkness, with only his flashlight in hand, his shotgun lowered in his other hand. 

And that's when he finds you curled on the ground, legs smeared with dirt as well as your clothes, and your hair is a tangled mane with leaves. You stare at the figure of Joel like a deer caught in the headlights. Your eyes are wide, frozen. 

He just stands there looking at you, neither of you says a word. A part of him relaxes, you’re just a girl. His eyes then trail over your shape, too small, too soft, too human. 

“Huh, not exactly what I expected to find.” He murmurs mostly to himself. 

Joel keeps the flashlight on your face just enough to keep you stunned, your eyes don’t leave the light, too afraid to move, and quite honestly, too blinded to know what to do next, but your body remains tense, muscles twitching like you’re ready to bolt and run in any direction.

You watch him as he moves two fingers close to his mouth and lets out a specific whistle, alerting someone else that he has found you. Low and controlled, he repeats it for Tommy to hear and waits for his response. 

Tommy whistles back as he makes his way to Joel, and to you now as well. 

Joel crouches slowly as if he were face to face with a wild, wounded animal. You don’t move at all. You don’t know who or what he is or what his intentions are. Joel is checking to see if you were infected. Thankfully, your short dress allowed him to inspect your body without getting too close. He’s seen enough infected people by now to know what to look for and how they look alike. He also looks to check if you carry any weapons on you, investigating what kind of girl you are. 

Were you a savage? 

Were you running from danger? 

Were you lost? 

“You gon bite me if I touch you?” he asks in a low voice. You don’t answer, just shake your head, barely breathing. “Alright then, let’s see what you are.” 

He gets slightly closer now, you can feel his breathing close to yours, and the warmth that radiates from his body. Joel kneels right in front of you, flashlight set on the ground gently. He scans your body, not touching yet. 

“Were you hurt?” he asks softly, afraid to scare you off. “Can you tell me your name? Where you come from?” 

You don’t make a sound, just blink up at him slowly, your chest rising and falling like the adrenaline is coming down. He watches your face, tight with fear and filthy with dirt, and he reaches out to you with his arm slowly. His fingers are rough, but he remains gentle nonetheless. 

He moves the hair from your face, gently cradles your chin as he looks into your eyes, before lowering his sight to check for scratches.

Your eyes are clear. Not infected, checked. 

Lips are dry, but no blood or foam in sight. 

No signs of a bite. 

Joel shifts closer, now checking your arms, elbows, and shoulders as he scans for any wounds or shivers. You don’t move at all the whole time. Too scared to try anything or make him think you would do something. 

“My name is Joel,” he says, meeting your eyes again, “I’m not here to hurt you, understand me?” 

You stare at him for a beat too long, Joel wonders if you can even speak at all. 

You nod once, small but enough for him to catch. 

Joel exhales like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. Encountering you feels like an encounter with a deer, wide-eyed, silent, frightened and too delicate for this kind of world.

Yet still alive, and perhaps willing to be led. 

The moment is interrupted by the appearance of Tommy. 

Branches crack under his boots as he pushed through the brush, eyes sharp and his gun still raised. His flashlight lands on Joel, then on you. 

“What the hell?” 

Joel lifts a hand. “Easy. Put it down Tommy” 

Tommy doesn’t move at first, his gaze set on your dirt smeared wide eyes as you stare back at him. 

“She infected?” he asks, voice low. 

“No” Joel says “Not infected, not hurt either. I checked” 

Tommy hesitates and Joel asks him to put down the gun again. He obligues, slow and careful like defusing a bomb. 

Joel turns back to you “C’mon sweetheart, let me help you up” 

He reaches for you, carefully. You hesitate and after a pause you take his hand.

Tommy watches your legs tremble as you rise, body sluggish, muscles weak from exhaustion but you don’t stumble. It’s like watching Bambi trying to stand. 

You move behind Joel. 

Your hand curls tight around the fabric of his sleeves, fingers digging into his forearm enough to anchor yourself. You watch Tommy as you hide behind Joel’s shoulder. 

Joel doesn’t flinch but Tommy watches you closely. 

“You trust him already?” he asks. 

You don’t respond, but Joel does. 

“She doesn’t know me,” 

Yet still you stand right there, behind a man you just met.

Joel feels the way your figure warms his back, looking for warmth yourself, your fingers digging into his arm and hears your staggering breaths. 

You don’t know him at all, but you know he’s not the one you’re running from. Neither is Tommy, although you’re just as skeptical as him. Your nose twitches slightly catching smells. The men scent, wood, sweat, trees and dirt.

They smell like the woods, like safety in a way that confuses you. 

You don’t know why you lean into trusting them, but you do. 

“Well shit, what did we just find?” Tommy mutters finally “What do we do about her?” 

Joel doesn’t answer. His hand rises, steady and low and rests over yours on his arm. You feel the calloused rough palm set on top of your frozen hand. 

It’s not spoken, but they both seem to have agreed to take you back to their cabin. 

They lead you through the forest path, Joel at your side while Tommy walks behind watching the two of you. His gun is still lowered but his arm remains tense. 

The flashlight leads the way and cuts forward, flickering over roots and moss. The arm that’s not gripping Joel presses against trees, guiding yourself through your senses like you don’t trust the flashlight enough. 

Joel keeps a close eye on you, glancing over in case your legs give out and he has to carry you himself at any given moment. The two of you are silent, but Tommy though, he’s certainly not quiet. 

“So where do you come from?” he starts, voice firm as he asks a thousand questions. “You got family out here? Camp nearby? You run off from someone?” 

You turn your head to look at him, your lips parted but you don’t emit an answer. You neither shake or nod your head. 

Tommy keeps asking questions. 

“Why were you running?” Still nothing. “You look like you’ve been out here for a while, someone chasing you?” 

You swallow hard, your steps falter and you almost trip. 

You turn your head forward, focusing on your steps that you barely see. 

“I’m talkin’ to you” Tommy says now louder. 

You flinch at the tone of his voice. Head ducking and your body curling to Joel’s looking for a sense of protection. 

“I–” you don’t remember a single thing, memories blur as you try to think of what to say. “I– I don’t know” 

“You don’t know?” He scoffs and stops walking. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You don’t know?” 

You shrink back instantly. His tone, the pressure of his questions and the rapid fire of them banging at the door. If you weren’t holding yourself so tightly to Joel right now, you’d flee like a scared deer. 

“Enough questions now, Tommy” Joel cuts in, exhausted from the scene. “Let’s get her inside and we can keep going at this there” 

“Oh so we’re bringing complete strangers into the cabin now. That’s great” 

“Tommy–”

“What if this is a trap, huh? What if she’s not alone? What if there’s a group of people expecting for us to be at the door and storm in? What if they’re waiting for us to drag her inside?” 

Joel hesitates. 

He doesn’t want to believe a word he says, he doesn’t think any of it its true. 

They both turn to you. You’ve gone silent again with the tone of Tommy’s voice. 

Their flashlight catching your face again. 

Lips parted. Eyes glossy filled with fear. Trembling breaths.

Not the kind of fear you feel from hiding something, rather the kind of fear when you’re about to break. 

You’re a deer caught in the headlights. Too scared to breathe, lie or even run away.

If you knew anything or had any kind of information, you’d spill the second they push harder. 

“Let’s just get her inside first.” 

The door creaks open and you step into a bubble of warmth. Your leggs stutter as you cross the threshold. Fire crackles somewhere in the corner, inside a black box. 

Their scent is so much stronger inside the cabin, it smells of pine, smoke and whiskey. 

There’s a couch sitting under a large window, it’s covered with a few worn in blankets and a jacket lays in the arm rest. There’s a small kitchen good enough for both of them to make use of it  and a wooden table with four chairs. 

Tommy shuts the door behind you and stays near it. Joel on the other hand, moves slowly, guiding you over to the couch. 

“You can take a seat” he offers “You’re safe” 

You hover over to the couch but you don’t sit just yet. You’re not sure what to do with all this warmth, the cushions, the blankets. 

Joel sighed and heads to the kitchen, you watch as he takes a can and sets it on the surface. He pours into a bowl and brings it back to you. The smell of stew becomes more intense with every step he takes in your direction. 

You stare at the bowl in his hands like it’s a test. What even is it? Is it really for you?

“You should eat something” he says gently. 

You look up at him, then back at the bowl, then at him again before taking the bowl from his hands slowly. 

Tommy watches the whole scene and mutters under his breath. “Yeah, totally not suspicious” 

“Tommy” Joel shoots him a look, “She’s probaby  in shock” 

“She’s in something”

You flinch again and Joel catches it. He takes the bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table in front of the couch. 

“Alright, you can eat when you’re ready” he murmurs “We will give you space.” 

He backs away, nodding toward the kitchen. Tommy hesitates, then follows—just a few meters, not far. Not out of earshot. Definitely not out of sight.

Joel opens the fridge with a soft creak, pulls out two beers, and offers one wordlessly. Tommy takes it, eyes never leaving you as he brings the bottle to his lips.

No one speaks.

The fire crackles quietly, casting dancing shadows along the floor. Somewhere outside, the wind brushes against the cabin walls like a whisper.

You hear your own breath, and then – your stomach growls. Loud. Desperate.

The sound feels foreign, you hadn’t heard it in a while and it seemed your body just remembered it needs something. 

Legs folding beneath you as you sink onto the edge of the couch, cautious and unsure. Your fingers reach for the bowl Joel left behind. 

You inspect the bowl before you take a bite, stirring the thick mixture—bits of potato, carrot, some kind of meat. You don’t care what any of it is. The stew hits your tongue, a warm salty flavour that seems to wake up a memory. It’s so distant in your mind that you can’t reach it. 

They both watch you as you eat from the bowl, Tommy leans on the counter, his expression unreadable. Joel is less obvious as he drinks his beer.

You finish the last bit of stew and the spoon clinks softly against the bowl. You set it back on the table and Joel takes it as a signal to move closer, perhaps you’re ready to talk now. 

You clean your mouth with the back of your hand and rest it on your lap, anchoring yourself to the couch. 

Joel’s boots step closer, slowly through the wooden floor. He crouches down beside you at eye level while Tommy watches from the kitchen. He’s still suspicious—but something in his gaze shifts. Just a little. Less predator. More puzzled. Curious.

“You remember anything yet?” 

You stay in silence and shut your eyes tightly. As if you could squeeze the memories, look through your skull for any piece of information. And it does, but its not what you want. It’s far too painful to open that door inside your memory lane. 

There’s a shotgun, your mother screaming, crying in pain and lots of blood. And then running endlessly. Your breath tearing through your lungs, your barefeet raw agains stone and soil. Your glasses fall somewhere in the middle of the road. 

You gasp and your eyes open – wide and glassy. 

Joel doesn’t move an inch. 

Tommy straightens, his jaw tightens. 

“What was it?” he asks gently. You shake your head. 

“I don’t…I don’t know” you whisper, your voice hoarse from not having spoken in so long. 

“Try” Tommy says from the kitchen, you both turn your heads to him and you nod. 

“There was…blood. And someone crying. I think—I think it was my mom” 

Joel’s gaze darkens but his voice stays at the same level as before. “You remember a name? Yours? Hers?”

You shake your head again, frustrated at the lack of memory. 

Tommy shifts his weight and rubs his hand along the back of his neck. “Jesus, what happened to you?” 

You look down at your lap, Joel interrupts. “You’re safe now, that’s what matters”

But are you really safe? With them? 

You want to feel safe, a part of the warmth allows you to. 

But there’s something left unsaid, something you quite haven’t figured out yet. 

Joel takes the blankets without saying a word and moves slowly over you. You’ve curled yourself on your side, he set a cushion under your head. He tucks the edges so the blanket doesn’t slip when you turn. 

You don’t move at all. 

Not when his hand pauses near your shoulder, not when he lingers too long watching your face in the soft flicker of firelight. Joel pulls back, leaving you alone on the couch and you heard the floorboards creaking under his boots. He turns to Tommy and signals to go outside to talk in private.

You can’t sleep. 

You should be exhausted due to all the running and the adrenaline rush, but your body remains alert. You hear them talking somewhere near the window, their voices low like the things they’re saying are not meant for your ears. 

Your eyes stay shut, breaths slow and steady. 

“What are we going to do with her?” Tommy murmurs. 

Joel doesn’t answer right away. 

“You saw her,” he says after a beat “She’s got no one. Not a memory, not even a name” 

“Yeah, not even a single survival instinct” he scoffs. Joel nods slow, agreeing with Tommy. 

The silence stretches long enough for both of them to sigh. 

“We’re keeping her” Joel says after a beat. 

“You serious?” Tommy turns to him “Joel, this isn’t some dog we found in the woods” 

“No, it’s not a dog, it’s a deer if anything. You saw her wide-eyes staring at our flashlights like a deer caught. She’s lucky we found her first” 

Your chest tightens as you listen to Joel’s voice. 

“The way she followed me, grabbed my arm. Like i was hers, like i was her anchor if something bad were to happen” he pauses “It means everything” 

“You like her?” Tommy turns to Joel, their eyes meet. Joel doesn’t answer. “I do too”

More silence. 

“We’ll take care of her” 

Joel flicks ash off his cigarette and says nothing, he turns to look at the cabin as if you could hear them through the walls. He wishes you could. 

You curl deeper under the blanket. The fabric still smells like firewood and soap and something faintly like him.

And behind your eyelids, all you can see is that shotgun again. The blood. Your mother’s scream.

And their voices now too. 

Eventually your body gave out. Not from safety but pure exhaustion that had clawed its way through your body. You didn’t dream of anything. Didn’t make it to the edge of a nightmare. 

Just completely blacked out. But before sleep took you, you’d felt them. 

The cabin door opened and you could hear quiet steps across the floor. You remained still with your eyes closed. Joel stood near you, close enough to feel. Then Tommy did as well. Neither of them touched you but you could feel their gaze before they each went to their rooms. 

Next morning 

You wake up to the smell of bacon. 

Salt and smoke and something almost sweet. Maple perhaps? Your eyes flutter slowly, vision still clouded with sleep. 

Joel is in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, a pan sizzling in front of him. The morning light cuts through the window in long slats casting a golden color over the room. 

Tommy is already awake. He’s sitting at the table, leaned back in the chair, a mug in hand. He’s not drinking, just holding it. Watching you. 

You sit up slowly and the blanket slips off your shoulder, pooling down your side. His eyes follow and look at your bare skin. He doesn’t look away, just looks harder. He’s not being subtle in the slightest and he knows it. 

Your throat tightens and you shift, you pull the blanket back like an armor and Tommy watches as you do. 

Joel glances over his shoulder as he serves the bacon in three different plates. “She’s up” 

“She sure is” Tommy’s gaze lingers for a moment before taking a sip. 

You feel uneasy, not unsafe but the way he’s staring at you like he could eat you right there and then was disturbing.Just yesterday, he didn’t want to let you inside the cabin. Now, you can feel it in his silence:He wouldn’t be able to let you out.

Joel, on the other hand, moves like nothing’s wrong.

He sets two plates on the table, one in front of the empty seat—yours. He nods at it casually, then looks down at you with a faint, unreadable smile.

“Here you go, Bambi.”

Your brows pull slightly. “What?”

“Figured since you don’t remember a name,” he says, setting down a mug of something warm—tea surely—“we might as well call you somethin’.”

You blink at him. Bambi. You should protest. But you don’t.

“That alright with you?” Tommy smiles at you. 

You just nod, slow, your stomach fluttering in ways you can’t explain.

The nickname clings to you like smoke. Innocent, sweet—and completely theirs.

You pull out the chair with a soft scrape and sit down, directly across from them. Tommy starts eating his plate of bacon while you stare down at yours as if trying to figure out what it is. 

“So we talked last night,” Joel starts as he takes a seat and relaxes back into the chair, chatting like its an everyday breakfast. You glance up at him, his voice is warm and calm.

 “You’re going to be staying with us,” he adds “if you want to, of course.” 

He lets the words sit there, lets you feel the kindness in them. Like you have a say.

But the truth seeps in anyway.

Where would you go?

Who would you find out there? Would you have food? A warm place to sleep? Would anyone keep you safe the way they would?

You hesitate.

Not because you’re unsure of the answer.

But because you know you’ve already lost the choice.

Joel watches you with a steady, comforting gaze—like he knows you’re working it all out. Like he’s giving you time to accept the truth.

And then Tommy speaks.

His voice is quieter this time. Measured. Different from the way he barked at you in the woods.

“Look,” he says, leaning slightly forward, elbows braced on the table. “I know I was... rough yesterday.”

You don’t meet his eyes.

He notices. He softens further.

“I get it. You’re scared. That’s fair.”

Tommy’s voice is lower now, softer than you’ve ever heard it. No edge, no sharpness—just quiet understanding. He offers the faintest smile. 

Trying to shape himself into something gentle. Something safe.

“But you don’t gotta be scared of us,” he says, eyes fixed on yours. “Ever.”

You glance away, uncertain.

He leans in just a little, voice dropping further—soothing, almost tender.

“We just want you to feel safe. That’s one of the many things we can offer you, if you let us.”

You swallow.

The words settle deep. Deeper than you want to admit. There’s no threat in them—but somehow, they still hold weight.

If you let us.

As if there’s a choice.

As if you haven’t already been folded into the center of their world without even realizing it.

Joel stays quiet, letting Tommy do the talking. But his eyes are on you, steady. 

The air feels thick.

You grip your fork tighter. Your eyes burn, but not with tears—just heat, tension, exhaustion.

And still—something in you wants to believe him. Wants to believe it could be that simple.

You nod, barely.

And your voice—quiet, hoarse, uncertain—slips out before you can stop it.

“...Okay.”

Just one word.

But Joel shifts when he hears it.

His eyes flick toward Tommy, then back to you. There’s something unreadable in his expression—something settled.

Tommy leans back slightly in his chair, but not far. Like he’s giving you space, but not too much.

Like he’s proud of himself.

Joel speaks next, quieter than before.

“Good, Bambi,” Joel says, voice low and easy. “Happy to have you on board.”

You give him a small smile—tight, unsure. But you offer it anyway.

And that’s more than enough.

He sees it. Feels it.

That flicker of willingness, of trust—however faint—is all he needs.

His hand brushes his thigh as he stands. “Why don’t you finish your breakfast,” he says, gesturing to your full plate, “and we’ll find you something clean to wear.”

You glance down at your clothes—mud-streaked, torn at the hem, dried blood in places you don’t want to think about.

You nod, quiet again. “Okay.”

Tommy stands too, stretching his arms, voice light. “Reckon we got some stuff she can use in the back. Closet’s got a few things.”

Joel takes his and Tommy’s plate and heads to the sink to clean up while you dive into your bacon and eggs. 

“How’s the taste, Bambi?” he asks, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You pause, blinking at him. Chewing.

“It’s good,” you say softly, then add—because it feels expected—“Thank you.”

His smile deepens. Not smug. Not proud. Just… satisfied.

“Good girl,” he murmurs under his breath as he turns back to the sink.

You’re not sure if he meant for you to hear that. But you do. And it settles deep.

Tommy returns from the hallway with a modest pile of clothes in his arms—folded, clean, and smelling faintly like cedar and something deeper beneath it.

“There weren’t many options,” he says, setting them down neatly on the couch, “but it’s more than I thought we had.”

You glance at the stack. An old flannel. A plain black hoodie. Two shirts. Pants. Sweatpants. Even a pair of underwear—too big, but clean.

You blink. It’s more than you expected. More than you’ve had in a long time.

Tommy takes a step back and gives you a quick once-over—not leering, but assessing. His gaze lingers just enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Think you might wanna get cleaned up first,” he says, tone still easy. “When’s the last time you took a shower?”

You look down at yourself—dirt-streaked skin, dried blood on your arms, your clothes stiff with sweat and earth. Your face grows hot.

You’ve been so focused on their scent. So taken by the safety, the fire, the comfort of not being alone—

You forgot your own.

Do you stink?

You shift in your seat, suddenly self-conscious. You don’t meet his eyes. You just shake your head slowly.

Tommy nods once and gestures down the hallway. “Bathroom’s the first door on the right. Hot water still works. Use whatever you need.”

Joel speaks up from the sink. “We’ll keep your breakfast warm.”

You stand, hands curling around the blanket at your chest.

Still watching. Still being watched.

The hallway is dim, the floor cool beneath your bare feet as you move toward the door Tommy pointed out. You clutch the pile of clothes against your chest, the blanket slipping away behind you.

The bathroom is small but clean. A mirror above the sink, fogged slightly from earlier use. You can still smell them in here—soap, cologne, cedarwood.

You lock the door.

Not because you think they’ll barge in.

But because it’s the first time since arriving that you’re alone.

You exhale shakily and set the clothes on the edge of the sink. There’s a towel waiting for you, neatly folded on a stool. A bar of soap. A bottle of shampoo that smells vaguely like pine and smoke. And draped carefully over the hook behind the door— a shirt.

Too big. Soft cotton. Joel’s, clearly.

You know it before you even touch it. You’ve smelled it on him, in the air, in the kitchen. It's clean, yes—but it carries him.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the hem of your shirt. You strip slowly, peeling away the days-old clothes, layer by layer, like skin that no longer belongs to you.

You avoid the mirror.

You don’t want to see yourself like this—hollow-eyed, bruised, thin.

You step into the shower.

When the water hits you—hot, real—it almost breaks you. You brace a hand on the wall, forehead pressed to cool tile, body trembling under the weight of heat and memory.

You don’t cry.

You just breathe. Shallow, shaky. Like you’re still hiding in the woods.

When you finish, you dry off and reach for the clothes. You pull on the underwear—too loose. The sweatpants—soft, drawstring pulled tight. And then…

Joel’s shirt.

It slips over your body, down past your thighs, sleeves hanging low. You wrap your arms around yourself instinctively, inhaling the scent baked into the fabric.

You step out of the bathroom, warm skin wrapped in softness—Joel’s shirt, pulled from the hook behind the door. It’s not the one Tommy had folded for you. It’s not even one either of them offered.

You just… took it.

It hangs loose over your frame, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Paired with the sweatpants—drawstring cinched tight at your waist—you feel strangely small. Hidden. Safe.

You walk barefoot into the main room, fingers tucked into the hem of the shirt. Your hair is still damp, clinging to your neck.

Tommy’s sitting at the table, lacing up his boots. Jacket already on. About to leave.

Joel is leaning back in his chair, cradling a mug in one hand. His gaze finds you the moment you walk in—and stays there.

Not moving. Not blinking.

Tommy glances up at the sound of your footsteps. 

You hesitate, arms tightening around yourself just slightly. “It’s… all a bit big but…” you say quietly, eyes flicking to him. “Uhm… thank you, Tommy.”

His gaze dips over the outfit—familiar fabric. Joel’s shirt. “No problem, Bambi,” he says with a soft smile. “We’ll find you proper clothes real soon.”

Joel doesn’t say anything.

But you feel his attention settle on the shirt. The way it drapes over your frame. The way you picked his without being told. Something shifts in his eyes, he’s got that look again—like you’re already his, and now you’ve confirmed it.

He sets his mug down and rises to his feet slowly.

“You hungry?” he asks, voice calm. “We kept your plate.”

You nod.

And when he walks past you to reheat the food, his hand brushes gently along your back. Barely there.

You eat slowly, the warmth of the food grounding you more than you expect.

The cabin feels quiet this morning. Still. The kind of stillness that hints at routine, at repetition. You watch as Tommy zips up his jacket, slings a rifle over his shoulder like it’s second nature.

He moves with practiced rhythm. Comfortable. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.

And you wonder—what is this?

What do they do all day?

How far do they go?

Where do you fit into that rhythm?

You swallow your bite, fingers tightening slightly around your fork.

“Tommy?” you ask, voice quiet, gentle—like it’s not even your place to know where he goes. 

He turns, halfway to the door. “Yeah?”

You hesitate for a moment.

“Where are you going?”

He pauses, then lets out a small breath, turning fully to face you.

“Just out on a run,” he says. “Checkin’ the perimeter, makin’ sure the traps are still set. Gotta keep this place safe.”

You nod, looking down again.

It’s not the answer that matters. It’s the fact that you asked.

Joel glances at you from across the room, something flickering in his expression. You don’t see it—but Tommy does.

“Joel’ll stay with you,” Tommy adds after a beat. “You’ll be alright.”

You nod again, smaller this time.

Joel, still watching, sets your reheated plate down in front of you and murmurs, “You can ask things like that, y’know.”

You blink up at him.

Joel’s voice is warm. Steady. But there’s a weight under it.

“You live here now, Bambi,” he says. “That makes this your place too.”

And something about that… feels final.

The door clicks shut behind Tommy, and for the first time since last night—it’s just you and Joel.

The quiet returns, thicker now. It settles in the cabin like fog.

Joel clears his throat as he moves to the sink, rinsing your empty plate. “You eat good?”

You nod. “Yeah. Thank you.”

He glances at you over his shoulder. “You’re polite. That’s good.”

You don’t know how to respond to that.

He dries his hands and leans against the counter, just watching you for a moment. Not in a way that makes you shrink—more like he’s thinking something he’s not saying.

Then, his voice lowers slightly. “You look better.”

You blink up at him.

“In clean clothes,” he adds, gesturing to the shirt you took. “In mine.”

Your face warms. You hug your arms across your stomach.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to take it.”

He shakes his head, stepping toward you. “Don’t be sorry. I like it.” 

Joel’s closer now, only a few feet away.

The fire cracks gently. Rain starts tapping at the windows. The outside world dulls, disappears.

“You tired?” he asks.

You shrug. “A little.”

Joel nods toward the couch. “Wanna rest? I’ll sit with you a while. Won’t talk if you don’t want me to.”

You hesitate.

But you nod.

He sits first, leaning back on the cushions, legs spread. He pats the space beside him.

“C’mere.”

You sit beside him slowly, careful not to brush too close. But the couch is small, and your shoulder rests against his bicep.

His warmth seeps into you.

His scent as well.

You don’t speak. You just sit there, soaking in the quiet.

And then—Joel shifts slightly.

His hand lifts. Not fast, not forceful. Just rises and curls gently over the back of your neck. His thumb brushes the edge of your jaw.

You turn your head slightly, looking up at him.

“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now. Almost a whisper.

You nod. “Mhm.”

And you mean it.

For the first time in a long time, you feel okay.

Joel leans in just enough that you feel his breath against your temple.

“You don’t ever have to be scared with me.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. Barely.

And it lingers longer than it should.

Joel's hand remains at the back of your neck, thumb brushing absentmindedly at your hairline, slow and steady. The kind of touch meant to soothe. But it does more than that.

It roots you. Tethers you. Pulls you closer to something you don’t quite understand yet.

You don’t think about it when you shift. Just a soft movement—turning into him, resting your temple against his chest.

You didn’t mean to invite anything.

But Joel took it as one. 

Then his arm wraps around your waist, firm and deliberate, pulling you the rest of the way in until you’re practically in his lap.

Your thighs straddle his. His palm spreads across the small of your back.

You freeze for a moment—not out of fear, but surprise. Your hands rest flat on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath them.

Joel doesn’t move.

He just watches you. His eyes low. Lidded. Dark.

“You okay?” he asks again, voice like gravel and smoke.

You nod, slower this time.

“Good,” he says.

His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. His gaze flicks across your face—your lips, your throat, your lashes. He’s not pretending to be subtle anymore.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You swallow.

His fingers trail along your jaw, then down to your collarbone—his shirt hanging off one shoulder, slipping just enough to expose skin.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t push, but his grip on your waist tightens.

And when he leans in again—closer this time, his nose brushing your cheek—he whispers,

“Feel good, don’t it? Bein’ taken care of?”

You nod before you realize you’re doing it.

Joel smiles at that, knowing what he’s causing you while you’re sitting on him. The second your body suddenly starts reacting, he clocks it. 

Not to mock you or shame you. He uses it to train you. 

You feel… safe. Anchored.

But also— Something else.

A pressure. A warmth that’s begun to build under your skin. Between your thighs. Inside you.

You shift again, just a little.

And that’s when you feel it.

Him.

Hard. Solid beneath you.

Your breath hitches, and your thighs instinctively press together over his. Your body feels strange—hot, sensitive, like it’s humming. And you don’t understand it fully. But it’s there.

Joel doesn’t move. 

His voice cuts through the silence,  his voice—low, rough around the edges- curls into your ear like smoke. “Somethin’ bothering you, Bambi?”

You blink slowly, your brow furrowing.

You don’t want to lie.

So you nod. Just once. Tiny.

Joel hums quietly as his palm strokes slowly down your spine.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I thought so.”

You shift again, uncomfortable, but not wanting to leave. Wanting something else. Something you don’t have a name for.

Joel tilts his head, eyes dragging over your flushed cheeks, parted lips.

“Need me to take care of that, Bambi?”

You glance up, eyes wide, searching his face for the answer—because you’re not sure what’s happening to your body, only that it feels overwhelming.

You’re hoping he knows the answer.

Because you surely don’t.

So you nod again, causing Joel to smile.

He takes your hand gently and guides it down, resting it over the hard line straining beneath his jeans. The heat of him throbs through the fabric, solid and undeniable.

“Feel what you do to me?” he asks, voice low, roughened with restraint.

You blink, fingers twitching slightly against the pressure. You can’t speak. You just look at him—uncertain, dazed.

Joel’s hips roll up, slow and heavy, grinding against your palm as his grip tightens on your wrist.

You gasp—sharp and surprised—and immediately drop your gaze, cheeks burning.

He catches your chin with two fingers, tilting your face back to his.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs. “No shame in that.”

You look up at him, breath shaky, and he smiles again—gently, reassuring.

“Your body’s reactin’ the same way to me. That’s a good thing, baby.”

His hand drifts lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers tracing over your bare stomach. Then lower past the waistband of your sweatpants.

“You’re not doin’ anything wrong. You’re just learnin’. I’ll teach you everything—nice and slow.”

He moves slowly. 

And when his fingers slip past the edge of your panties, you tense—not from fear, but from something deeper. Something pulling.

“Shhh,” he soothes. “That’s it. Just let me.”

His hand finds the warmth between your legs—already sticky, slick, and aching. And he groans under his breath.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You really needed this, didn’t you, Bambi?”

You whimper. Your hips twitch without your permission.

He strokes you slowly, just enough to build the pressure. Drawing circles with enough pressure.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he whispers against your temple. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

Your hands clutch his shoulders, and your voice breaks on a breathy plea:

“Please—Joel—please…”

And god, he loves it.

His lips curl against your skin.“There she is,” he murmurs, picking up the pace just enough to make your thighs shake. “Beggin’ so sweet. Didn’t even have to teach you.”

You press your face against his neck, trying to stay quiet, but every touch burns. Every movement tightens something inside you that you didn’t know was waiting.

Joel keeps whispering.

“That’s it, Bambi. Doing so good for me” 

His fingers slide lower—slick, wet, so sensitive that your hips jolt. He strokes you slowly, gently, like he’s memorizing your every twitch.

“There you go, baby,” he whispers, “You just stay with me. Let me feel how good you are.”

You make a sound, quiet and shaky at first. But when his fingers circle just right, a soft moan escapes before you can stop it.

Joel groans at the sound. “Goddamn.”

You press your face against his neck, biting your lip, but the sounds keep slipping out—wet, breathless, desperate little whimpers that only make him touch you deeper, slower.

And outside—

Tommy freezes halfway up the porch steps.

He hears it.

Muffled, but clear.

Your voice.

High and soft and needy.

A moan. Then another. The kind of sound no one makes unless someone’s got their hand deep between their legs—and Tommy knows exactly what Joel is doing with you

He stands there, jaw tight, heart pounding. Heat spreading beneath his ribs… and lower.

Joel beat him to it.

He fucking knew it would happen. Knew Joel was soft on you the moment you stepped out in his clothes, all wide eyes and soft thank-yous. But he didn’t think Joel would take it this soon.

And now, standing on the other side of the door, Tommy hears you cry out softly again.

He presses a hand against the wall beside the door. Breath heavy. His cock throbs behind the zipper of his jeans.

Fucking Joel.

A growl curls in his chest, low and frustrated. He wants to be the one inside. He wants to see your face. He wants to hear you say his name like that.

And next time— He will.

⟡──────────────⟡

Guess next time it's Tommy's turn...

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[nighttimealone]

Cw: Nsfw (141 x fem!reader, live together)

Beside you, Kyle is the first to wake up in the morning. He’ll pad towards the kitchen, enjoying the sight of you making your morning drink silently, before moving to stand right behind you, arms wrapped around your waist as he grinds he bulge lazily against your ass. He just wants to feel your warmth, how nice your soft flesh press against his cock.

“Just want to feel you, baby. It’s so cold out here.” He’ll unabashedly slip his hands under your pajamas shirt, kneading your breasts and tugging at those sensitive buds, forcing you to stop brewing your drink because you might spill the liquid.

Kyle just want to get an orgasm from you, a gift for you two morning birds, he claims before succumbing to sleepiness and tuck himself back under the duvet, fully content with being the first man making you come undone everyday, and sleeps in 5 more minutes.

You know Johnny will drag you into the shower with him whenever he comes back from his morning jog. You chide him before he engulfs you in his embrace, lightheartedly calling him a stinky man and shush him to go shower first.

So his solution is hug you despite your protest, then pull you inside the bathroom together, stripping off your pajamas and his sports wear impatiently before jumping into the shower with you.

“We’re both stinky now, jus’ thought ye might need a shower too.” Johnny grins when you glare at him, shamelessly pretends he’s just ‘looking out for ye’ while his hands traveling across your body, groping and preparing you for his cock with his hard dick prodding at the small of your back. He’ll never hurt you, but as soon as you’re wet enough for his girthy shaft, he’ll pick you up, stretching you deeply and completely with the help of your weight, groans and growls at how good you are, how your precious pussy takes him so good, ignoring Ghost’s noise complaint coming from the other side of the bathroom door as he fucks you fast and feral, making you unable to care about suppressing your moans and cling onto him, let him keep scooping you in his arms and thrust into you till he empty his balls in your good little cunt.

Finally getting Kyle and Johnny pass out from the alcohol, John and Simon manhandle them back to the bedroom before entering the living room again. 00:13, a glance at the clock telling you it’s late in the night, but it’s just the start for the three of you. Retrieving a bottle of fine rum, John seats you between him and Simon, thighs touching with theirs as you all sip on the wine and chat quietly. “The boys will chug the rum like it’s some cheap beer, they can settle with those just fine.” John chuckles lowly and comments on the awful taste and drinking habit of Kyle and Johnny.

“Those bonkers will stick to your side the whole day and complain if they find out, old man.” Simon chimes in after huffing out a laugh at John’s words.

You snicker along with them, feeling fully content and relaxed with squished between two of your lovers, joking about the other two men you loved while the rum flows smoothly down your throat. Soon your composure slips after few nips of the wine, whining cute and groggily as Simon ravish in the kiss with you, tongues dance and tangle with each other in a slow pace, let him drink down all your syrupy moans and coos in rare gentleness, so John can slickens up your pussy with his lips and your juices, making sure you can accommodate their fat cocks later, and you can’t expect or plead him to sink his cock into you already until him and Simon can see your juices dripping down your soaked folds, praying them to fill you up.

The two men will treat you so well, worshipping their dearest girl in the world. Simon’s fingers and lips are always on you when John squeeze his fat tip into your entrance, gliding in and out slowly and heavily, so all those spongy spots of yours that can make you chant his name like a mantra aren’t missed out. When he put a load in you with a husky groan, passing you onto Simon’s lap and let you lean back on his chest, he’ll plant tiny kisses on your shoulder, murmur about how they love you—will protect you and keep you safe and sound—against your skin. Simon allows him to indulge in the heat and tightness of your pussy, grunting and praising you as he fuck John’s cum back inside you, making sure you take each drops of John’s seeds, like the reliable lieutenant he always is for his captain. The base of his length has formed a creamy froth the time he nips down slightly on your shoulder to muffle his moan, drenching your messy cunt with every bit of his release. “Atta girl.” His croon is added with John’s soothing voice “Yeah, been so good for us, princess.”

They both pick up the glass once again to finish the remaining rum, with you already drifting between your slumber and consciousness, listening to their small chatters as your own lullaby. You don’t know when they’ll finish drinking, or if one of them will nestle their cock inside your pussy again, just to feel your walls clenching down subconsciously, but you let yourself slip into a dream, because they’ll take good care of you, always do and always will.