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myfictionaldreams · 2 months ago

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⁀➷Ours to Keep // BatBoys (acotar) x F!Reader

Summary: Three mates. Three date nights. Three very different ways to love you—and ruin you.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, vulnerable batboys, overstimulated, subspace, rough sex, size kink, angst, fluff, worshipping, dom/sub, oral (f + m receiving), fingering, restrained, dacryphilia, possessive, pain kink

Words: 5.4k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

AZRIEL

Many questions were tumbling through your mind. The first being: where was he taking you?

Azriel is typically quiet, even to his mates. He could go days without uttering a word, only sharing his emotions with touches and looks. Tonight, you were unsure which side of Azriel you were going to be blessed with: the brooding, secretive mate or the worshipping, praising mate.

It tended to be intense when it was your date night with the Shadowsinger himself. Pent-up emotions were not spoken through words but through actions. The underlying theme was that he never truly felt he deserved you, but now that he has you, he’s never going to let you go, and he shows that through worshipping.

So far, he had been even more silent than usual, leaving your questions unanswered, not even a reassuring hand squeeze as he gently guided you through a narrow, rocky path that wound into the mountains surrounding Velaris. The sounds of the children playing on the streets had long been deafened, so only your steps and breaths could be heard echoing off the cave walls. Azriel, though, was as silent as his training had taught him to be; even the movement of his wings as he bent his body to the narrowing path made no noise.

His icy fingers tightened in protectiveness as his shadows slipped from his wrist and around yours, like the two of them were working in tandem, checking that you were still there.

“If you’re taking me to those god-awful worms, Azriel, I’m not going to speak to you for a week”, you muse with little to no amusement in your tone, trying to cover your anxiety with humour and failing in doing so.

Without a backwards glance, he murmurs, “Trust me”.

You trust him with your life. With your soul. So, as silent an answer as he would give you, your fingers tightened in his grasp.

After what feels like forever, you step through a gap in the rocks and stop dead.

Before you lies a hidden cavern lit by faint bioluminescent moss and the glittering reflection of the moonlight through a narrow crack from above. In the centre, a natural hot spring steams, the water clear and rippling, surrounded by smooth stone.

It was like something from a dream, the sight momentarily taking your breath away.

“Az, it’s beautiful.” Your admiration in your voice would never describe how truly stunning the view was. It was a secret, a place for you and Azriel.

Arms slide around your waist as he draws your body back against his chest. “Not as beautiful as you”, he whispers, voice low and rough against the shell of your ear.

Your lips twitch at the corners as you relax into his hold, “Smooth talking, my love”, you muse.

Shivering and not from the chill in the air, Azriel begins to guide you down to the water's edge. Once more, the two of you fell into a silence, more comfortable than the walk to the springs. With careful touches, Azriel’s scarred fingers begging to unbuckle your jacket, helping you remove your clothes with painstaking care.

You stand there, naked as the day you were born, and wait patiently for Azriel’s clothes to be removed until you’re left staring at the hard, scarred planes of his body.

When you’re both bare, he steps into the steaming water first until it is waist height, his hands held up, coaxing you forward.

A deep groan leaves your lips as you step into the water, the heat wrapping around you instantly, soothing and intoxicating. With the height difference, the water lapped around your breasts. Easing backwards, there’s a small ledge beneath the water, which gives Az the opportunity to sit and pull your body into his lap, your thighs straddling his, hands resting against his shoulders.

Chest to chest, you admire his handsome face from how his night-black hair flops across his forehead, giving him a softness compared to the edginess of the rest of him. The shadows capture your attention next, but only because they’re persistent with their touches.

For the most part, you can spot the shadows surrounding the pool, flickering ever so slightly between the dark patches of the room, like they’re keeping watch while their master unwinds.

The other shadows, though, were brushing along your thighs and hips, featherlight touches that made you squirm and keen on Azriel’s touch.

Az watches you move with a slight, knowing smirk. “You like it when they touch you, don’t you?” he asks, voice pure sin.

Losing any courage, your eyes drop submissively, an automatic response to his tone, before you look back up at him through your lashes, nodding breathlessly.

Your face is pulled towards his with a single finger tipped beneath your chin. Azriel claims your mouth with a slow, deep kiss that leaves you dizzy. Those shockingly cold hands roamed over your heated body, relieving the way you were overheating. His touches were painfully tender, as if memorising every inch of your naked body. Then there were his shadows, joining in, teasing along your breasts, your belly, lower.

When a flicker of a touch grazes between your thighs, you can’t help but gasp against his mouth, clutching painstakingly tight to his muscular shoulders.

“You’re so sensitive for me”, he growls, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth down your neck. “So sweet”.

It was always like this with Azriel. The job he provides the night court is physically and mentally draining, but it’s something he will do until his last breath, so when he has even a moment alone with you, it’s all about control. The lack of words was made up for with touches, desperate and clinging like he’s scared you’ll slip away with a blink of an eye.

With careful touches under your thighs, you’re gently lifted out of the water and onto the smooth stone at the edge of the spring. With his chest pushing against yours as he continues to kiss your lips, you’re coaxed to lie on your back with Az’s body between your thighs.

The contrast between the coolness of the rock beneath your back and the heat of his mount on your skin makes your head spin as your fingers glide over the wet skin of his back.

A wisp of pressure wraps around your wrists, lifting them high above your head and holding you down. Glancing up, the two of you admire the way the shadows pin your wrists to the stone. Another set slithers down your thighs, spreading them wide.

You gasp, helpless, heart pounding, realising that his shadows have left you completely tied. Wriggling your wrists to see how much movement you have, you realise there’s none whatsoever. It’s almost like your limbs have been set into stop with how well the darkness consumes you. It doesn’t hurt; it feels more as if time has stopped.

Azriel’s hazel eyes flick back to your face, observing the curious glances you’re giving his shadows. As much as your mating bond had claimed Azriel, his shadows had claimed you. Always.

Lowing his body, his eyes never leaving yours, you hardly even blink as he lowers, kneeling between your spread legs. The vast length of his wings flares as his face lowers to where you want him most. The hazel of his eyes is almost entirely consumed in the darkness of his pupils as he gives you a nearly feral look with hunger.

“You’re mine”, he says, voice a rasp of possession.

Azriel absolutely fucking devoured you. Worshipping you with his mouth, hands, and the occasional caress of the shadows. Your writhe against the stone, trying to move your pussy against his face, matching the lick of his tongue but the shadows have a firm hold of you.

The pleasure is relentless as he groans at the taste of you, licking, slurping, biting, his nose pressing against your clit so hard you’re a sobbing, gasping mess. He doesn’t stop - not when you cum once, not even when you come twice.

Azriel worships you over and over. You’re delirious, no longer admiring the way he moans your name against the skin of your thighs. You’re so deep within pleasure that even the sound of your screaming is drowned out by the heavy thumping of your heart rate in your ears.

There’s a point where you’re overstimulated, swollen, your body now coated in sweat and squirt puddling between your thighs, but Azriel keeps going. His fingers soon finding their home in your pulsing cunt. One finger, two, three, curling and pounding, his tongue circling and sucking on your clit.

You’re barely even aware when the shadows finally release your wrists and thighs, when Azriel scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing.

Your body trembles relentlessly against him, oversensitive and pliant, every nerve ending thrumming. You’re not about to think, or do anything but cling to him, tears of overstimulation slipping silently down your cheeks.

Azriel notices instantly. His mouth, swollen from the pleasure he’d delivered to you, rested against your ear, his voice coarse, “I’ve got you, sweet girl. I’ve got you”.

He gently carries you back into the hot spring, cradling your limp body against his chest as he wades into the soothing water. His hands stroke through your hair and down your back, occasionally holding your hand, grounding you.

“I’m so proud of you”, he whispers. “You’re everything to me. Everything”.

Floating in a daze, your every last thought started and ended with him. Needing, wanting, begging for him.

When he presses inside of you, it’s slow, so achingly slow, as if he’s trying not to overwhelm you more than you already are, even as you try and lower yourself with more urgency.

The gentle light soon disappears as his wings are wrapped around your back, cocooning the two of you. “You’re mine,” he breathes, his forehead pressing against yours. You always have been.”

The length of his cock rocks tenderly into your cunt, dragging perfectly against your still clenching walls, drawing soft whimpers from your lips. Even with your weakened state, you can fist his hair, whimpering his name.

Falling apart one more time, he follows you over the edge, the entire length of his cock pulsing and spilling into your cunt. Azriel doesn’t let go. Not even for a second.

The once crystal clear water begins to blur as he begins to slip out of you, being careful not to move too fast. You feel completely weightless in his arms, safe. With wings still protectively around your back, he begins to carry you out of the pool.

“You did so good for me, sweet girl. So perfect. So beautiful,” he breathes, pressing kisses across your damp temple. The words, the touches, the steady hum throbbing through your body leave you feeling completely and utterly sated, happy, wanted, and loved.

The feeling of Azriel helping you into his leathers was a slight discomfort, wishing to remain naked with how sensitive your skin was feeling, but as you draw in a deep breath, you’re consumed by the smell of him.

Then you’re weightless once more, the world blurring beneath your body as Azriel cradles you to his naked chest as he flies the two of you through the gap in the ceiling. The calm wind on your damp skin was soothing as your eyes closed, leaning into his protective hold.

When Azriel touches down lightly on the balcony at the house of wind, standing naked and proud with his sated mate in his arms, Rhysand greets him. The violet eyes twinkle at the sight, and a towel appears in his arms as he wraps it around Az’s waist.

Cassian lounges nearby in front of the fire, holding a book and a crystal glass half filled with dark liquor. The usual cocky grin wiped clean from his face. Instead, there’s only fierce protectiveness, always struggling to see you in this state.

“She good?” Cassian rumbles, his legs twitching like he’s fighting, storming over to your side.

Azriel notes, tightening his hold, causing your head to roll on his shoulder. “She’s perfect”.

Azriel’s gaze turns towards his high lord, knowing that out of both of them, he’s the one who would and has started a fight, having thought Azriel had pushed you too far, even though it was just what you wanted.

Rhysand’s gaze lingers on your face, noting the peaceful look naturally set in your sleeping expression. “Sleep well, little love. You deserve the stars themselves”.

And with that, Azriel continues to walk inside, carrying you to the shared bedroom to finally join you in the peaceful realm of sleep.

RHYSAND

Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, waits for you at the entrance to the Sidra Riverwalk, dressed like sin incarnate. He wears a black tailored jacket and a deep navy shirt, which is open enough at the base of his throat for the dark swirls of his tattoos to peek out beneath his collarbone. He looks beautiful, effortlessly so, but it is the wicked glint in his violet eyes that has anticipation bubbling in your stomach.

No matter the years that passed, the time spent with either of your mates still felt new and fresh, and the "I can’t believe you’re mine" feeling never seemed to fade.

“Good evening, little love,” he purrs, his fingers curling around yours, lifting your hand to brush a gentle kiss against your knuckles. You are looking ravishing as always. How are you feeling? Not too sore from Azriel's affection, I hope.”

The bond hums between you, heat deepening across your neck and cheeks as you playfully roll your eyes.

Yes. You were still aching, even three days later, but Caulron, you wouldn’t trade it for anything. Rhysand’s smirk deepens, as if he senses your very thoughts through the bond, but rather than taunting, he offers the crook of his elbow.

“Come. Let’s see if I can make you fall in love with me all over again”.

A laugh bursts from your lips as your arm hooks through his, holding onto him tightly.

The night is a whirlwind. Hand in hand along the riverside, tasting pastries from thankful vendors, slipping into the amphitheatre to watch the opera's end, followed by after-hours snooping around your favourite bookstores - one of the positives of being mated to the high lord.

Everywhere the two of you go, people greet Rhysand, whether it's a nod from across the street, a shout of love from a window or a trembling handshake quickly swooped into hugs. Rhysand is praised and adored by the people of Velaris. Their High Lord. Their protector and friend.

The weight of the entire Court balanced on his well-groomed shoulders.

He hides it well, behind that easy smile, behind the playful winks and steady waves.

Rhysand might be a daemati, but you could read his thoughts as easily as he could yours. You always see it. The way his shoulders tense, the smile that falters when the public turns their backs, the flicker of his heartbeat in his wrist that your fingers press against when holding his hands.

Rhys was a good actor. Hiding his exhaustion, the nightmares, the screams that echo behind the steel wall in his mind. And so, later, you take charge when he flies you both to a private rooftop garden high above the city, draped in silks and lanterns and the scent of night-blooming flowers.

Admiring the beautiful spot, you take his hand and pull him towards the cushioned divan, gently pushing on his shoulders until he slumps onto it. Straddling his lap, your fingers caress his soft cheeks.

“My beautiful, strong High Lord”, you muse, lips kissing the crease between his brows. “You carry so much. Let me carry you for a while.”

The breath he releases stutters, a shiver brushing through him. His hands rest heavily against your hips, thumb stroking carefully over your clothing as he takes a moment to think of his response, the first sign that he’s starting to show his vulnerabilities.

“You already do, darling. More than you could ever know. This night, it’s not about me, I want to look after you, my Queen, my mate, my love”. You’re staring so intensely into his eyes that you feel mesmerised. Your mate was strong, but he was always so quick to be selfless, and you wanted him to feel appreciated, more than this, to believe what these people have been saying is true, that he would believe what they say.

“I am yours, Rhysand, and you are mine. MINE. I want you to believe you deserve my love.” His mouth opens, ready to be defensive and retort to what you say, so your fingers quickly cover his lips. “No, I don’t want to hear it. No more, Rhys. Just let me love you, let me take away some of your pain. Please, let go for me, just for tonight.”

That was it. That was what caused his eyes to drop, along with his shoulders, as he gave in, leaning heavily against your chest.

Taking your time, your fingers comb through his hand, massaging his scalp until he’s leaning into the touch. Tipping his head back, you gaze down at his handsome face again. Pressing your lips to him in a slow, loving kiss, you breathe him in. Distracting him with your mouth, your fingers make their way to undo the buttons of his crisp shirt.

With his shirt as open as his jacket, your lips move away from his to trail sweetly over the tattoos etched into his golden-brown skin. The hands still holding your hips tremble as he restrains himself.

Giving over control was still something that he was adjusting to, and you could feel his tension beginning to rise again with the need to be in charge. Pulling back, you cupped his face, “Rhys, you’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Inching off his thighs, you kneel, fingers undoing the belt and button of his trousers. Rhys’ hands drop to the cushions at his side, gripping them as he takes a deep, steadying breath.

Working him open, your fingers ease beneath his clothing to grip his firm length. Your eyes are wide as you take in every gasp, the flex of his abdominal muscles, and just how desperate he was for his mate. It made you feel powerful and unbelievable horny as wetness pooled in your underwear, but your pleasure could wait.

Easing him from the confines of his trousers with slow worshipful strokes, your lips wrapped around the head of his cock. Licking the drips of precum, already gathering at his tip, you savour his unique taste for a moment before taking him deeper.

Rhysand releases broken sounds from his lips, every shuddered breath from his lungs. He’s still holding back though, knowing what he sounds like when he truly lets go, you firm your grasp of the base of his cock and move up and down with more motivation.

A throb pulses violently through your shared bond, causing your whimper to seem from your throat, constricting further around his cock.

“Fuck, darling”, Rhys gasps, his head tipping back and his hips lowering as he relaxed further into the cushion, his thighs spreading further. “You’re going to ruin me”.

You pull off him with a lewd pop, your fist continuing to move up and down his length as you look up at him with glassy, bright eyes. “Good, you deserve to be ruined by my mouth, High Lord”.

He shifts forward, his hands moving beneath your arms, but you’re already moving, having the same thoughts as him as you move to straddle his lap. “Help a girl out, won’t you?” you say, glancing at your fully clothed body.

With a simple snap of his fingers, both yours and his clothes disappear, and now it’s your turn to be shivering in his hold from how hot his skin felt against yours.

Reaching between your bodies, with fierce eye contact, you guided him inside with a slow, aching slide that makes you both groan in tandem. The stretch is intense. Rhys is thick, even more so after Azriel’s date night, which left you hypersensitive. It’s perfect. He’s perfect.

Rocking your hips in slow up and down movements, his arms clutch around your his, helping your movements.

Those gentle lips of his move down the slope of your neck as you both make love beneath the stars. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve this.”

“You deserve everything good, everything soft, all the love, Rhys.” Your lips work their way from his cheekbone to his mouth, kissing with such fierce desperation that your nails dig into his muscle, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

The pleasure builds achingly slowly, not frantic or punishing, but overwhelming in how intimate it is. Every gasp and moan is like a personal vow to one another. And when you cum, it’s with only his name from your lips. And Rhys, Cauldron, he cums intensely with a strangled groan, pressing his forehead to your chest, directly over your heart.

Hours stretch by, filled with gentle strokes, caresses, and licks. Rhys, ever needing some form of control had you on your back with his fingers pushing his cum back inside your cunt and playing until you’re finding release once more. Then he’s inside of you, your leg over his shoulder, his thrusts steady and deep.

You don’t move for a long while, because you’re sure the sun will rise soon over the mountains and yet the two of you remain curled into each other. Rhys cradles the back of your head against his chest in one hand, and the other draws idle circles down the length of your spine.

It’s when his fingers are still that you know something is wrong, as your face snaps up to his. But he’s smirking, staring off into space before seemingly drawing out of his mind.

“Cassian demands that you be returned home. He says it’s past his bedtime, and he can’t settle until you’re home.” You can’t help but tip your head back and let out a laugh, imagining the tone of Cassian’s voice through Rhys’ head.

“Sometimes I worry that Cassian thinks he’s a giant dog,” you muse while standing with Rhys's help.

With pyjamas magically produced by Rhys, you’re gathered into his arms, wings flaring wide against the star-speckled sky. The flight is silent, tender, with your fingers twirling through the hair at the nape of his neck.

When you both land lightly on the River House balcony, you find Cassian and Azriel already waiting, lounging not so casually on the garden chairs.

“Well, don’t you two look thoroughly and well-fucked”, Cassian muses with a whistle. Azriel smirks, his shadows racing across the path to tickle lazily across the tips of your feet.

Rhys grins lazily, his swagged easily slipping back into place now that he is with others. Pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, he carefully lowers you to the floor. Cassian’s arms are immediately around your waist, hoisting you up and over his shoulders with a startled cry.

“She’s tired. Take care of her for me”, Rhys voices with a stark tenderness.

Cassian falters in his steps towards the house, glancing back at his High Lord. “Why don’t you come and take care of her yourself, Rhysie?”

And just like the four of you are wandering into the house, the family and love are humming happily in the shared bond.

CASSIAN

The evening starts chaotically, and there’s one reason for that: Cassian.

Sometimes you wonder how he can look as graceful as he does when he’s fighting, like it’s a warrior dance with the steady steps and careful swing of his arms. Well, that was not how your evening starts with him barging into the bedroom, the door cracking against the wall as he begins there with a cocky grin on his handsome face.

He has a single rose in one hand, and in the other is a costly bottle of Illyrian wine that he has undoubtedly stolen from Rhysand's private collection. The thing about Cassian is that he doesn’t need a hidden hot spring or a fancy rooftop. No, that man could woe you with a flash of his goofy smile and a flex of his bicep, and the Illyrian knew it.

“Trust me, Sweetheart”, he’s still grinning like an idiot as his arms sweep your body off the floor and the two of you fly into the skies over Velaris. You end up on a cliffside overlooking the sea, the salty spray misting your skin.

With his wings tucked in closely, Cassian sets up a small campfire. The fire instantly warms your hands as you hold them out until he ungracefully pulls your body into his lap.

Drinking the wine straight from the bottle, sharing it between laughs and teasing kisses, you savour every breath and touch from the man wrapped around you.

The stories coming out of him from his youth growing up with Rhys and Az have you howling with laughter until you're clutching your stomach. It doesn’t go unnoticed the way he watches your every move or the feeling of his arms tensing like you’re going to roll out of his arms and off the side of the cliff.

The two of you eventually fall into a comfortable silence as the stars begin to glitter in the darkening sky, yet the fire continues to blaze. Maybe it was the bottle of wine shared between the two of you, but there’s something off, and it’s only when Cass’ hands drift idly over your thighs restlessly that you notice it's him.

Tilting your face back to look up, you can see him contemplating something.

“I’m not like them, “Cassian eventually speaks, his voice rough. He coughs slightly to clear his throat and shifts on the spot. Rhys is all charm and smooth edges. Az has his shadows, his deadly skill. Even when they’re not trying, they’re so.” He shakes his head roughly, trying to find the right words. “Refined. Perfect. “

Letting out a harsh breath. “And then there’s me. Brute force. Loud, messy. The bastard born from nothing.” Your heart aches at the rawness in his voice as you turn your body more towards him in his lap, causing his saddened gaze to shift to you. “I look at you, and all I can think is, how the fuck did I ever get this lucky? Someone like you, kind, beautiful, good, how did you end up with someone like me?”

The pad of his thumb brushes against your cheek, wiping away one of the tears that now drips down. “I wish I was softer for you,” he continues, his voice thick and hoarse. I wish I was better, gentler, the way you deserve.”

Shaking your head to clear the sad fog hovering over your thoughts, you’re quick to turn completely, straddling his lap and hands linking behind the back of his head. “You are everything I want, Cassian. I don’t want soft, or perfect, or gentle. I want everything you have, I want all of you!”

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, Sweetheart”, he growls lowly, looking conflicted between pissed off and wanting to tear your clothes off.

You just smile - soft and challenging. “I do. Now show me, Cassian. Be mine. Now!”

Your back hits the dirt before you can clutch onto his shoulders. Cass’s hand cups the back of your head, softening your fall.

The kiss. The fucking kiss is deadly. Like a starving man. Rough, claiming, devastating. There’s nothing careful about it, just the heat of his tongue, the bite of sharp teeth, the low rumble of his growls against your skin as he pins you to the ground with his hips.

There’s no steady removing of clothes or magic to aid him. There’s only the tear of the material as it’s ripped from your body until you’re naked beneath him, your back rubbing into the dirt.

The warrior is so much bigger than you, from his broad shoulders, powerful arms and thick thighs, pushing your thighs further apart to make room for him. Much like Azriel and Rhys, when you’re in his arms like this, the main feeling that comes to mind is safe.

Cassian isn’t even fully undressed yet, only just shoving his leathers low enough to free himself, heavy and throbbing and so thick it makes your mouth water. He grits his teeth, like he’s fighting a war inside himself, his big hands trembling as they grip your thighs.

“Are you sure about this, Sweetheart?” he rasps, voice laced with desperation.

“Don’t be gentle with me. I want all of you, Cassian. Give me everything.”

He doesn’t need telling against as you feel the heavy pressure of his cock at your entrance as he begins to push inside.

The stretch is immediate. Sharp and burning. Your head falls back with a strangled moan, exposing the length of your throat as he drives deeper, stretching your aching cunt to its very limit.

It’s almost too much - almost - but you want it, need it, and your body relaxes enough for him to inch his way inside. Cassian's shaking above you, forehead pressing against yours.

“You’re always so fucking tight”

“And you’re always so fucking big”, you groan as he finally settles as deep as he can go. It’s still not his entire length but there’s only so much cock you can fit before you’ve reached your limit.

Cassian grunts a laugh as he licks the length of your throat before beginning to rock his hips. Brutal and deep thrusts that have your whole world tilting and shuddering. Every thrust as you cry out in pleasure with a throb of beautiful pain, always the perfect mix.

The overwhelming urge to cry suddenly prickled at your eyes, not only from the intensity but also from how full you felt and how much you loved this beautiful soul of an Illyrian.

Cassian notices the tears; he always notices everything about you. His hips stop, and you do everything to try to roll your hips, needing him to keep going. His hands grip your hips tightly to stop your movements as he checks in with you.

“Too much?” he grits out.

“Never”, you gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist, fingers reaching behind him to stroke down the sensitive membrane of his wing, causing a full-body shiver and grunt. “Please, Cassian, don’t stop. I need it, I need you”.

Whatever control he had been holding onto shatters. He fucks you. Rough and filthy. It’s like a flip has switched in his mind, whether it be the bond pulsing with love and desire, or he truly was listening to your words, because he became almost feral with his possessiveness.

“You’re mine, this beautiful fucking body, it’s all mine. Do you understand?”

You can’t even answer with a cry because you’re suddenly orgasmnig, hard, your pussy squeezing his cock in pulses. You can feel it from the tip of your head to the ends of your toes, entirely and utterly destroying you.

Cassian, unable to deal with his cock being strangled by your cunt, follows with a broken roar, his face nuzzling into your neck as his cums as deep as your body will allow him to go.

He doesn’t let you go, just remains inside of you as your body collapses to the floor, trying to catch your breath.

The gentleness he displays afterwards always proves that he can do things softly. It always draws a knowing smirk to your lips, but you never say anything because you love the burning throb between your legs, even if it is uncomfortable to walk.

Giving you the shirt off his back, you’re enveloped in his warmth and smell once more before he lifts your body into his arms. “I love you”, he says with a slight hint of uncertainty.

Grinning at him, your fingers curl a strand of his shoulder-length hair behind his rounded ear. “I love you so much and for what it’s worth, you’re also MINE.”

You fall into a peaceful sleep by the time Cassian flies you home, completely and utterly relaxed and thoroughly fucked enough that you were sure you were going to sleep for a week. One minute you’re high above Velaris with Cassian continuing his reministant stories, and the next you’re on a soft mattress, face pressed against Rhysand’s naked chest, Cassian’s heavy body thrown over your legs like he’s an oversize dog keeping his owners feet warm, and your hand tucked safely beneath Az’s head from where he lay next to Cass.

A kiss to your temple informs you that Rhys is still awake as you snuggle closer.

Everything about this felt right. You, with your mates, always.

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mononijikayu · 2 months ago

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sumire — ryomen sukuna.

(happy mother's day concubine reader)

the other woman masterlist

ryomen sukuna had always believed even ever so quietly, ever so instinctively that you were born to be someone’s loving and kind mother. it wasn’t something he thought about often. not when the world demanded blood and grit from his hands. not when he had buried softness under centuries of survival. but then he saw you with chiharu.

he watched the way your arms curved instinctively around her small frame little by little, the way your own voice softened as you brushed back strands of her luscious long hair, your thumb tracing ever so kindly behind the shell of her ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.

she wasn’t yours. you knew as much, he knows just as well. she was not your own blood. she was not yours by birth. not even by any bond you had asked for. he had given the child to your care well enough, that was for certain.

you could have let the girl live in the comforts of your household without the luxury of your touch, or your care or your affections. you had more than enough to let her be educated by the maids of your household, to be cared for by the strangers that took care of you too.

after all, his scarlet eyes were perceptive enough to see. enough to see the very essence of your soul, to see the very essence of your face, that face which held the face of a ghost he longed for. he knew that you resented living with the ghost of ryomen hiromi well enough.

yet, instead of the frown on your lips when you look at the looking glass, you smiled at his little daughter. you smiled at her like it didn’t matter that she was a living ghost left behind by the one ryomen sukuna had long loved and grieved.

for the longest time, he had pondered all about it. you had not spoken to him about it. and he did not have the gall to ask. curiosity was enough and he was not willing to let it eat him whole and take root of him.

still, he allowed that curiosity to remain. and to let it be a fond echo that reflects when he looks at you laughing as you and chiharu played in the autumn leaves together.

but he felt like he had seen something that made him understand that day as you both played together in the bright expanse of the manor. it had been the first time she ran to you after scraping her knee.

as she stumbled toward you, tears streaming down her face, ryomen sukuna saw something flicker in your expression. it had felt almost something beyond him. something so unknown, something so ancient, a tenderness that rose within you like a quiet, instinctual force, older than any word, older than language itself.

“mama, it hurts!” chiharu sobbed, her small hands clutching at her knee.

without a second thought, the grandeur of your bright red silk did not matter to you. nothing else had mattered. not the possibility of the dirt, not the possibility of his displeasure that he could later notice the unkempt creasing through your skirts. yet you did not care.

you quickly dropped to your knees, your caring hands moving swiftly to pull every inch of her small frame into your arms, cradling her with a tenderness that seemed to come from somewhere beyond this world. this moment felt so unique to him. to a god who couldn’t have ever had a mother.

“shh, it’s okay, little flower.” you murmured softly, your voice gentle, soothing, as you pressed your cheek to her temple. “it’s just a little scratch, sweetheart. i am here.”

the words fell from your lips like a lullaby, and the god named sukuna watched, transfixed. it was more than just comforting a child. there was something about the way you held her, something in the depth of your gaze, that made it clear.

it was as if you had known this moment long before it happened. it was as though she had once been curled inside your womb, your bond not formed in this lifetime but some quiet place in a world long past.

“i’m sorry, mama.” chiharu whimpered, her tiny hands clutching at your kimono. “i wasn’t careful! a–and now your skirt is wrinkly!”

“don’t apologize. that does not matter to me at all.” you whispered, brushing her hair back, the softness in your touch betraying the strength of the love you had already wrapped around her. “what matters is that you’re safe now, hm? I’m here for you.”

sukuna stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. he didn’t know why, but in that moment, something inside him shifted. this child, who wasn’t his, wasn’t even yours by blood. she was a piece of another world, another time.

but somehow, she had become yours in a way that left no room for doubt. he watched you cradle her with such tenderness, such absolute certainty that she was yours to protect, and for the first time, he felt a pang of something unfamiliar. of loss, of wonder, of something more fragile than even the weight of his grief.

“you never flinched.” ryomen sukuna’s voice broke the silence, though his words were barely above a whisper. the flickering candle light dancing against the wind. you did not look up to him as you drank your bounty of sake. “not even when she called you mama.”

you glanced up at him then, your eyes soft, but something still raw behind them. “why would i, my lord?” you replied, your voice steady but quiet, the question hanging in the air between you.

he shook his head slightly, still unable to fully grasp the depth of it. "she's not yours by blood, little one." he said, the words rougher than intended.

“no, she is not, my lord. you and i both know so.” you agreed, looking down at chiharu as you continued to stroke her back. “but you had tasked me to care for her. and such tenderness….it doesn’t need blood to make it real.”

"i should suppose it does not." he murmured, his gaze flickering from you.

“i hope you will allow me to continue to care for her." you tell him. "that is....my only request, my lord."

he swallowed, fighting the lump in his throat. he turned to the small bowl of sake and drank it himself. your answer had merits in his eyes. after all, he knew very well what it was like to know that. he who was once human, an adoptive son of the ryomen.

and for a fleeting second, he wondered if he could ever understand how such love, such quiet, unspoken devotion, could take root in a heart as hard as his. a god has no use for love, after all. yet still, he found fondness still remained. for all the parts of him that could remember what it was like to be human.

he could only think that such feeling was reserved for ryomen chiharu, his only daughter. hiromi’s beloved little daughter. hiromi, whose name still lingered in the hollow places of his memory, whose laughter sometimes echoed faintly in chiharu’s giggles. the shape of her nose. the tilt of her head when she was being stubborn. the brightness of her smile.

all of those were all hiromi. and sukuna thought that when he would take her to you that those echoes of your anguish might make you pull away as she teared up, as she laughed, as she dreamed, as she breathed. but you didn’t. not once had you done so.

he had expected it. and he wouldn’t have blamed you. years and years of misery. and he had broken it into you. he had forced a world that was never yours for you to suffer carrying, like some unholy punishment. years later, he had added more. her, that little girl. that ghost of hiromi left in her blood, in her flesh. in everything.

you saw the ghost in her face and didn’t flinch. you didn’t chase it out or smother it in jealousy. you made room for it. for her. for all of it. and when he came to you one evening, scarlet eyes lowered in guilt he could not name, he tried to ask for the first time. he tried to press the weight of his remorse into words. but a god was not good at such words.

“i never meant to bring this onto you, little one.” he murmured, the sentence fragile and foreign on his tongue. perhaps it was the sake talking. “yet i have.”

“there was nothing to be done when you had brought her to me.” you say to him, almost as if it was a matter of fact. “she is a child. she cannot do much on her own just yet, after all. you know that well enough......she needed someone, my lord.”

“you think that i cannot be that one for the child?”

you could feel a bellowing laughter blossom to your lips, perhaps more graceful than anything else. “my lord, you live to be a god. how can a god love so thoroughly without contradicting himself?”

you only looked up at him from where you sat on the floor, chiharu asleep on the edge of your knees, the soft fabric of your new kimono becoming a comfortable canvas for her little head. your fingers gently combing through her hair.

“and….she’s not a burden, my lord.” you said simply, a small ghostly smile on your lips. “she is a comfort…..in my gilded cage.”

he was quiet for a long time after that, the silence stretching between you like the hush after a storm. his scarlet eyes were on the sleeping child curled in your lap, the rise and fall of her breath steady against your silk. he watched the way your fingers moved through her hair, careful, unhurried, as if you were weaving something sacred into each strand.

“a gilded cage, little one?” he echoed, voice low, almost bitter. almost as if this was not the thing he had expected to hear from you. “is that what this place is to you?”

you tilted your head slightly, considering. “it is beautiful here. soft food. silk beds. still gardens. a hundred rooms and a thousand silences. but it is still a place where i am kept.”

he said nothing.

he merely stared.

he let it simmer in.

“but it is not a cruel cage, my lord.” you added gently. “not always. it is just… one you built for yourself, and then placed me inside when you thought it might ease the ache.”

his jaw flexed. “i did not mean to make you stay, little one.”

“If you say so, my lord.” you said, a tight smile beckoning on your lips. perhaps tighter than the ribbons that adorn your hair. “but you never gave me a door either. as always, i am a twittering bird who can never fly.”

your words were not angry. there was no fire behind them. only the low, enduring warmth of someone who had long made peace with something difficult. someone who had learned to live inside the quiet, instead of fighting it. as if you had resigned to living such a life like this.

“and yet, little one…..” he said finally, eyes meeting yours. “you stayed.”

you gave a small shrug, cradling chiharu a little closer. “where else would i go? and….she needs me. i need her too.”

he looked away then, as though the weight of your honesty was too much to meet. his voice was tight when he spoke. “do you resent me for it, little one?”

you hesitated, not because you didn’t know, but because the truth was fragile, and you did not wish to wound him with it. not more than he already had been. your husband may have been a god, but he still liked to hear flowering words. perhaps more than most mortals would.

“.......i do not know for certain, my lord.” you said at last, more honest than before. “however, i think…..i can only resent the way you grieve. the way you think pain must be carried alone. as if to let anyone help would tarnish the memory of what came before.”

sukuna’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the tremble in his knuckles barely noticeable. “you speak as though you knew her.”

“no, my lord. i dare not encroach upon that.” you whispered. “but i know you. and sometimes… that is enough to see the shape of the one who came before.”

he looked at you then, truly looked for a moment. he looked at you like a man drowning who hadn’t known it until just now. like someone seeing light in the corner of a cave he thought would never end.

“she would have liked you, i should think.” he said hoarsely. he lets the alcohol become stale. “and perhaps that’s the worst thing of all.”

you gave a sad smile. “i would have liked her too……that’s the tragedy of it, my lord.”

chiharu stirred in your lap, shifting in her sleep with a soft sigh. your hand came to rest over her back, soothing her with no words at all. “does she haunt you when you look at chiharu?”

sukuna was silent for a moment. you like to think he would not ever speak. but when he does, it surprises you. “mayhaps.”

“and me?” you asked quietly. “do i remind you of her?”

he didn’t answer right away once again. he lets his hardened eyes linger to your face, the essence of that ghost, the love he had longed to see. a crestfallen darkness falls in the corner of his eyes. he purses his lips in a flat line.

“a face is nothing to the soul, little one.” he said finally. “you are nothing like her. you never truly will be. and that… is why it hurts less, when i look at you. it is better to have less regrets. and….less ghosts roaming about.”

you nodded slowly. perhaps that was the kindest thing he had ever said to you. “i see.”

“that is for the better, do you not think, little one?”

“.....perhaps it is.” you said, more to yourself than to him, the words hanging in the air like soft thread waiting to be tied.

the silence that followed was not cruel. it was not the kind that was punished, not the kind that once wrapped itself around your throat in the early days of knowing him. it was something else now. something closer to understanding, or at the very least, to resignation.

sukuna let out a long breath through his nose, steadying the storm behind his ribs. he looked at the pale cup of sake near his hand, untouched since his confession. then he looked at you again, perhaps more honestly this time.

he did not look at you the way he looked at others, those who were truly below him. not with suspicion or calculation or hunger. but as if you had become something still and holy, wrapped in moonlight and child–breath.

“you are… softer than i remember you being, little one.” he said at length, and the words startled even him.

you blinked. “.....that is surprising to hear from your lips, my lord.”

he gave a strange, low sound. it was part sigh, part scoff. “you think i would let anyone raise my daughter without remembering every line of their face?”

a pause, thick like honey. “but you didn’t know me then, my lord.” you said, almost gently. “at least not truly. not as you do now.”

“no, i do not suppose so, little one.” he agreed. “and even now, i wonder if i truly do.”

you glanced down at chiharu again, whose little hand had curled into the fold of your kimono like a bloom seeking warmth. you could feel the breath leave you in shaky bits as you looked up to your husband.

“i am no great mystery, my lord. only a woman with two hands and a heart full of borrowed grace.”

he looked at the child, and then back at you. “and yet you carry her as though she were born of you, little one.” he murmured.

you smiled. “children do not care for blood, my lord. only warmth. and safety. and someone who will stay when night comes.”

he was silent again. there was a kind of stillness to him now, almost like a mountain after thunder. like an old wolf sitting at the edge of his cave, watching snowfall for the first time in many years.

“you will stay, then?” he asked suddenly, voice quiet, but firm.

you blinked once. then again. “you never gave me a door to this cage, my lord.”

a flicker of something passed through his expression. perhaps remorse, maybe, or something more ancient. grief shaped like guilt. you want to shake off the feeling of it. that was not your husband. you don’t think that is him.

“would you walk through it, if i gave you one, little one?” he asked, almost too sincerely.

you turned your gaze to him fully. “.....i do not have anything beyond this life, my lord. perhaps….perhaps, i would not walk through it at all.” you said, honest and unafraid.

“i see.”

“but….” you say, before stopping yourself. “it is kinder to be given the choice.”

his head bowed slightly, as if he were accepting judgment from some unseen god. perhaps it was you. perhaps it had always been. outside, the wind shifted through the garden trees.

inside, ryomen chiharu’s breath deepened. the moonlight painted your face silver, and sukuna, this man of fire and wrath and blade and destruction, merely sat in the hush beside you, quiet as prayer.

“then stay, little one.” he said again.

the words came softer this time. it was not a command, not a plea, but something stranger. gentler. as though he were offering something not even he fully understood. something raw and trembling beneath the weight of all he had ever lost.

you could not look at him when he said it. your gaze stayed fixed on the child in your lap, her breath rising and falling in a rhythm so steady, so innocent, it made your chest ache.

you watched the tiny curl of her fingers against your kimono, the way she had unknowingly claimed you with such trust. the moment felt suspended. it was left fragile and swollen, as if even breathing too deeply might shatter it.

you couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. you didn’t want to see the truth in them, even the ones you can only lead yourself to believe to be drunken ones. the grief, the weariness, the quiet terror of someone who had lived too long and loved too little.

you didn’t want to see him asking something of you he didn’t know how to name. because you feared, maybe, that you would give it. so you said nothing. not a yes. not a no. only silence. the kind of silence that spoke of everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say.

but you stayed.

not because he asked.

not because you were bound.

but because the child in your arms had curled into your warmth like she had known you before she ever learned to speak. because the night was long and the world outside was cruel, and someone had to carry the softness of it all. someone had to stay when everyone else had gone.

you stayed because love does not always bloom with fireworks or fever. sometimes it creeps in quietly, like ivy up the walls of a ruin. the tenderness, persistence, patience. and most of all, the foolishness. the foolishness of the other woman who loves.

the next morning, the hush of dawn settled over your manor like a breath held too long. outside, the sky was barely pink, the sleeping world still blurred at the edges with sleep.

the massive paper screens of vermillion hall filtered the morning sun into soft amber streaks across the floor. the kind of light that asked for quiet. that seemed to say: let things lie, just for a while longer.

chiharu was still curled beside you, her small body warm and heavy with sleep. one hand clutched the edge of your sleeve, even now, as though in her dreams she was still afraid you might vanish.

you brushed a few strands of hair from her cheek, gentle as falling ash, and began to sit up slowly. you wanted to be careful. it was best not to wake her before the sun was up in the sky.

and then you saw it. your husband, he was gone. the space he’d occupied last night was empty, blankets pulled back, the weight of his body gone from the world beside you. no footsteps. no voice. no warning.

just the flowers.

a small bundle of the finest flowers. you could remember the name almost instantly. it was sumire, you think to yourself. bright and fresh sumire.

it was resting neatly at the edge of his side of the futon. they weren’t wrapped in silk, weren’t tied with care. just a single length of red thread, likely torn from his own sleeve.

their vibrant purple petals were slightly crushed from where he must have held them too tightly. damp still from the mountain air. imperfect. wild. real. they were hard to find, you knew that too well. in this season, in these mountains.

your hand moved without thought. fingertips grazing over their delicate shape. soft. trembling a little. you sighed for a moment. not heavily, but deep. it was a sound from the chest, from your heart. it was like something exhaled that had been caged inside for far too long.

because this wasn’t just a gesture. not for him. he hadn’t left with silence this time. he hadn’t vanished into grief or guilt or the excuse of war. he had left something behind. something beautiful, in its own clumsy way. you slowly allowed yourself to let your lips flicker upwards.

at first, it was real. it was wide and warm and a little surprised. because it was so like him to do the most tender thing in the least expected way. because somewhere between the blood on his hands and the weight of his past, he had still chosen to say thank you.

then, slowly, the smile turned softer. sadder.

like a leaf curling at the edges with the coming cold.

because you knew what those flowers meant.

they were a confession in the only language he trusted. they were an apology not for what he had done, but for what he had never learned how to be. for the way he loved in crooked, fumbling pieces. too proud to speak it, too broken to hold it the way you deserved.

you brought the flowers to your chest and closed your eyes. “you’re trying, aren’t you?” you whispered. “you….you never cease to make a mess of me, my lord.”

not with bitterness. not with expectation. just the quiet truth of it. and that for a man like ryomen sukuna was a kind of miracle. it was a miracle for a god to let such thought ever come across.

chiharu stirred beside you, a soft, slow rustling beneath the layers of the futon. her breath caught a quiet yawn as her fingers flexed around the fabric of your sleeve, and then you heard it.

“...mama?”

the word was slurred with sleep, fragile as a moth’s wing. hesitant, as though she wasn’t quite sure if she was still dreaming. your heart caught. it always did when she called you that.

not because it wasn’t true, not in the way that mattered. but because it reminded you how easily love could take root in the spaces grief left behind. even when you were broken. even in a gilded cage, you could still love.

you turned to her, placing the sumire flowers gently to the side, as if they, too, needed to rest. then you smiled. soft and immediate. like sunlight spilling over a quiet room.

“good morning, little flower.” you murmured, reaching for her.

she blinked up at you, herr lashes still wet from sleep, her cheeks flushed with warmth. when you brushed her hair from her face, she leaned into your touch without hesitation. in this light, she looked like ryomen hiromi too well. almost identical to the stone in the audience hall. in the koi ponds. in the forestry.

“you’re still here, mama.” she whispered.

“of course i am, silly flower.” you replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “where else would i be? you slept in my chambers last night.”

“did i?” she questioned, her tone still slurring from the sleepiness.

you laughed slightly. “yes. you had too much fun yesterday, did you not?”

“yes….i think i did.”

“then i’m glad.” you say, embracing her close.

she didn’t answer, only curled closer, tucking herself into the space beside your body like she had always belonged there. and maybe, in some quiet, secret way, she always had.

you held her for a moment longer, the scent of the sumire still clinging faintly to your skin. and even though the bed was emptier than it had been last night, your heart didn’t feel quite as hollow. not this morning. not with her. and perhaps....not with the sumire tight by his sleeves.

433 notes · View notes

daegudrama · 2 months ago

Text

Title: Suck It Part 2

Pairing: Reader/Jung Hoseok

Summary: What starts as lingering glances and offhand touches turns into something neither of you can ignore. You're not supposed to fall for someone on tour, especially not him. But between stolen moments and rising tension, it's only a matter of time before everything changes.

Word Count: 18.7k

Part 1

You leave the next morning and fly straight to San Antonio. You link up with the rest of the dancers at the hotel, and Yunjin is as bubbly as ever, telling you about her friend’s dog and the late-night tacos they found near their place.

It’s almost comforting, how normal everything seems.

Until show day.

You spot Hoseok again in the chaos of the arena. His hair is done, outfit already set for act one. He’s standing across the room when you walk in, adjusting an earpiece. For a second, you think maybe, just maybe, he’ll say something.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even look at you.

Backstage buzzes with pre-show energy, and no one seems to notice the space between you. You smile when you’re supposed to. Laugh when someone tells a dumb joke, but your stomach churns every time he walks by without a word.

And when it’s time for your duet, the difference is impossible to ignore.

Your bodies move in perfect sync, like they always have, but something’s shifted. There's no eye contact. No spark. Just precise movement and silence. It’s technically flawless, maybe even breathtaking, but it feels hollow. Like a beautiful shell with the soul scooped out.

The crowd doesn’t notice. They scream just the same. But you do, and when the lights go down and the applause echoes, it’s not adrenaline you’re feeling.

It’s heartbreak.

You’re backstage, towel pressed to your neck, still catching your breath from the final number. Everyone around you is glowing with cheeks flushed, laughing, buzzing from the high of another successful show.

But you feel…muted.

You walk through the corridors of the arena with your head down, avoiding the spot where you and Hoseok usually high-five after the duet. He’s not there anyway. You’re not sure he even waited. Maybe he slipped away as soon as the curtain closed.

In the dressing room, you sit on the floor near your bag, trying to convince yourself that you're being dramatic. It was just a kiss. One kiss. People kiss all the time. People make mistakes all the time. It shouldn’t be this heavy. But the problem is, it didn’t feel like a mistake. Not when it was happening.

You close your eyes, forehead pressing against your knees, and you can still feel the warmth of his hand on your back. The way he tilted your chin. The breath you both shared just before everything tilted into something electric.

It was real. You know it was real.

His hand had trembled. Just slightly. You hadn’t imagined that.

And the things he said, you're so pretty, and funny, and smart, those hadn’t felt like some throwaway excuse. They’d felt honest. Emotional. Like they’d been building up in him for a while and just finally cracked the surface.

You sigh. Hard. Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe you are just another dancer to him. Maybe he panicked and backpedaled because he realized he’d crossed a line. But then why look at you like that? Why kiss you like he didn’t want it to end?

You blink quickly, throat tightening as you hear laughter echo down the hallway from the others.

You’re not new to crushes. You’ve had your share of infatuations. But this…this is different. It feels different. It felt like something blooming, and now it's just silence.

You whisper to yourself, “God, I’m so stupid.”

But deep down, a voice you can't silence murmurs, No. You’re not. Because that kiss meant something.

A security guard appears in the hallway just as you're zipping up your warmup jacket. You're still reeling from the performance which was technically solid, but emotionally dull. Something’s missing, or rather, someone.

“Come with me,” the guard says, voice low.

You frown, confused, especially when the rest of the dancers glance your way with subtle side-eyes. You feel the heat of their curiosity even after you fall into step behind the guard. You open your mouth to ask where you're going, but he doesn’t answer until you’re a good distance away from the others.

“Hoseok’s dressing room,” he finally says under his breath.

Your heart trips over itself. You don’t say anything, just nod and try to keep your face neutral, though your thoughts are anything but. Is he going to pretend the kiss never happened again? Is this damage control?

The security guard knocks twice and then opens the door, gesturing you in. Hoseok is already inside. He’s alone, sitting on a couch, bent over with his elbows on his knees and his hands tangled in his hair. He looks up when you enter, eyes bloodshot and heavy, like he hasn’t slept.

He stands quickly. “Thanks,” he mutters to the guard, who nods once and pulls the door shut behind you.

Silence stretches, tense and uncertain. You stand there awkwardly, trying to read his expression. He’s not smiling. He’s not even looking directly at you.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, voice rough. “For kissing you.”

You flinch. That stings more than it should.

But then he adds, “Kissing you was not a mistake. But it was inappropriate.”

You blink at him, mouth slightly open.

He runs a hand through his hair again. “I wanted to kiss you. God, I wanted to—but I shouldn’t have. Not with the power dynamics. Not when we were both a little buzzed. I’m your boss, and that was out of line. Especially in the middle of a tour.”

You stare at him, stunned. Not just by the words, but by how much it seems to be tearing him up.

“That’s it?” you say softly. “You wanted to kiss me, but now it’s just…what, buried?”

“I don’t want this to affect the rest of the tour,” he says, voice gentle now, almost pleading. His eyebrows are knitted together. “You’ve worked too hard. I’ve worked too hard. We can’t let a kiss throw all of that off course.”

Your chest tightens. “But it wasn’t just a kiss. It meant something. At least…it did to me.”

His face twists like that hurts him, and you keep going before you lose your nerve.

“I wanted to kiss you too, Hoseok. That wasn’t just you getting carried away. That kiss…it made me feel something I haven’t felt in a really long time. It made me feel good. Alive.” You step forward. “And I want to do it again.”

He looks like he’s caught between wanting to bolt and wanting to reach for you.

And then you add, voice a whisper, “Do you?”

His lips part like he’s about to argue again. “That doesn’t make it right. Just because we both wanted it doesn’t mean—” He stops short when you slowly cross the room and sit beside him on the couch.

Close, but not quite touching.

He turns his head toward you, and you see the war in his eyes. The way his jaw tightens like he’s trying to hold the boundary in place with sheer willpower. But you also see the hesitation crack under the weight of how much he wants to just give in.

He tries again, quieter this time, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. “I’m supposed to set an example. There’s a line—”

You tilt your head and meet his gaze. “I think you’ve been setting one. You’ve been kind. You’ve been professional. You’ve taken care to make sure I’m comfortable. Even when I was bleeding under my costume.”

He swallows hard at that.

“I’m not asking for anything dramatic,” you say. “I’m just saying…you kissed me, I kissed you back, and neither of us regretted it. That doesn’t have to ruin everything.”

Hoseok exhales shakily and looks down at his hands, like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“I’m terrified,” he murmurs.

You blink. “Of what?”

He finally looks up again, voice barely above a whisper. “That I already care more than I should.”

Your breath catches.

There’s silence for a moment as your heart thuds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. Then, slowly, gently, you reach over and cover his hand with yours. Neither of you speaks. He doesn't pull away, and you can feel the exact second he stops resisting the pull between you.

He turns his hand over and threads his fingers through yours.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The green room is buzzing with the usual pre-show energy, laughter, final stretches, a couple dancers running counts in the mirror. You’re finishing your warmup near the benches, tying the last lace on your sneakers when it happens.

Mina walks by, just close enough to catch your foot with hers. You stumble forward with a sharp gasp and catch yourself on your hands, the thud of your body hitting the floor cutting through the noise in the room.

Everything goes quiet for a beat. People freeze mid-stretch, mid-laugh.

Then Mina has the audacity to scoff. “God, you’re such a klutz,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Still not sure how you ended up on this team.”

You push yourself up slowly, heart pounding. Not from the fall, but from the humiliation blooming hot and fast under your skin, but before you can say anything, a low voice cuts through the room like a blade.

“Mina,” Hoseok says.

Everyone turns.

He’s standing by the door with a water bottle in one hand, his jaw locked tight, eyes burning. There’s a tense silence as he walks into the room, the shift in energy is immediately charged.

“I’ve overlooked your attitude for weeks because I wanted to believe you could rise to the occasion,” he says, his tone cool, measured, but unmistakably angry. “But this?” He gestures slightly toward where you’re still crouched on the floor. “I saw you. You tripped her on purpose. Just like I know you’re the one who dug your nails into her during the Mexico City show.”

Mina opens her mouth, probably to deny it, but he doesn’t give her the chance.

“I’m not interested in excuses,” he says, now fully standing between the two of you, shielding you without even touching you. “This isn’t just unprofessional. It’s dangerous. You could’ve seriously injured another member of this team.”

There’s a sharp inhale from someone nearby, and Mina’s face drains of color.

“If you think getting her out of the way would earn you the duet, you’re wrong,” Hoseok continues, voice hard. “Even if she were gone, you wouldn’t be next. You are not talented enough to be acting like this.”

The silence is deafening.

“Please leave,” he says. “And pack your things.”

Mina stares at him, stunned, her face flashing through disbelief, anger, then something that almost looks like embarrassment. She waits for someone, anyone, to step in on her behalf.

No one does. Finally, she huffs and storms out, slamming the door behind her. The green room stays quiet for a long beat. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until Hoseok looks down at you, expression softening instantly. He crouches beside you, voice much quieter now.

“You okay?” he asks, gently.

You nod, slowly. Still stunned. Still reeling. But okay.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, you feel safe.

The show that night feels like flight.

From the second the lights dim and the roar of the crowd rolls through the arena like a wave, something inside you unknots. You aren’t looking over your shoulder. You’re not bracing yourself for a stray elbow or a bruising grip disguised as part of the routine. You don’t have to shrink yourself to avoid drama, you just get to dance.

The stage is yours.

Every movement flows smoother than it ever has, like your body finally trusts the space it occupies. The dancers move together in tight synchronicity, and for once, no one’s energy is off. No side-eyes. No petty tension dragging things down. Just pure rhythm and trust.

When the crowd screams during your first formation, your pulse spikes with something electric, not anxiety, not dread, joy. You smile without thinking, and when you glance at Yunjin, she grins back like hell yeah. You feed off that, let it power you.

By the time you hit the duet, you're flying.

The opening notes cue in, and Hoseok appears beside you in the wings. Just his presence is enough to ground you and set your blood humming. He gives you the briefest glance, not quite a smile, but something almost more intimate. Like a promise.

You take the stage together, and it’s magic.

No missed beats. No second-guessing. Every touch, every shift in weight, every perfectly-timed breath is effortless. When he spins you and catches you again, his hand rests just below your ribs, close to where the wounds once were but not close enough to hurt. Just enough to feel. The crowd eats it up. The screams swell louder with every pass and lift, the flashing lights painting the moment in glittering gold. It’s not just that the show is good, it’s that you feel alive. Untethered and whole.

When the final pose hits and the lights cut to black, you’re breathing hard, grinning through the sweat, your chest heaving. Hoseok’s palm is still pressed against your back, steadying you. You don’t even look at him, but the warmth of his hand is enough.

The crowd roars.

And for the first time since the tour began, you know exactly who you are up there, you, not someone tiptoeing around someone else’s bitterness. Just a dancer. Just you.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The hotel room is quiet except for the soft shuffle of Yunjin rifling through her suitcase. She’s dressed to the nines in heels, leather pants, glitter along her cheekbones. She looks incredible and she knows it.

"You’re seriously not coming?" she asks, turning to face you with one hand on her hip. "We just got rid of the drama queen. You’re telling me you don’t want to celebrate a little?”

You laugh, flopping back onto the bed with an exaggerated groan. “Yunjin, my feet are screaming. I just want to sit in silence, drink water, and maybe cry about how good that show felt.”

She sighs dramatically. “Fine. But you owe me tomorrow night. I expect glitter, heels, and tequila.”

“I promise,” you say, holding up a tired pinky. “Have fun tonight, though. Be chaotic in my honor.”

She grabs her purse, gives you an air kiss, and heads out the door, calling, “Don’t fall asleep in your makeup again!”

You're halfway through digging through your bag, looking for your charger, maybe a snack, who knows, when you see it: a folded square of paper tucked between your spare hair ties and a travel-sized lint roller.

It’s his handwriting. You’d recognize it anywhere after seeing him scribble choreography notes a hundred times.

Text me sometime. - H. xxx-xxx-xxxx

Your heart skips like a scratched CD.

For a few seconds, you just stare at it. Then, with a deep breath and fingers that don't feel entirely your own, you type out a message.

you: hey. it’s me, yn.

The read receipt pops up immediately. Then the typing bubble. Then—

hoseok: hey you wanna come over?

You blink. Your stomach flips.

Your thumbs hover over your screen as you glance toward the door, waiting to make sure Yunjin is really gone. You give it a few minutes just in case she forgot something.

Only after the silence stretches long and certain do you type out:

you: yeah. give me 15

Fifteen minutes of chaos ensue. You brush your hair, freshen up your face, change into something casual but…strategic. A thin tank top that hugs your curves and soft short shorts that ride just a little higher than necessary. You swap out your regular underwear for the nice pair. Not lingerie, but close enough. You glance in the mirror. Presentable. Chill. Not trying too hard.

Totally trying hard.

Your heart pounds the entire walk to his room. When you knock, there’s a beat of silence, and then the door swings open. Hoseok stands there in nothing but a hotel robe, collarbone still glistening. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, flicking down your frame and back up again.

"Hey," he says, soft and slightly breathless, like maybe he wasn’t expecting you to actually show.

Your breath catches.

“Hey,” you say back, trying not to stare.

Then he steps aside, holding the door open a little wider. “Come in.”

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the hotel robe tied loosely at his waist, revealing a smooth stretch of his collarbone and just a hint of his chest. His hair is damp, like he’s recently showered, and it curls slightly at the ends. The lighting is soft, gold and low, the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows over his features.

You step inside and let the door shut softly behind you, the click oddly loud in the quiet. Hoseok’s room is warm, quiet, and carries the faint scent of his cologne and whatever fabric softener the hotel uses. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the hotel robe tied loosely at his waist, revealing a smooth stretch of his collarbone and just a hint of his chest. His hair is damp, like he’s recently showered, and it curls slightly at the ends. The lighting is soft, gold and low, the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows over his features.

“I wasn’t sure you’d find the note,” he says, his voice barely above a murmur, like he's not sure if this moment is real. “I felt silly writing it. Kept rewriting the same line, over and over.”

You smile, stepping forward with the easy confidence of someone who’s nervous but determined not to show it. “Of course I found it. You have very recognizable handwriting.” You pause, giving him a once-over, your gaze deliberately slow and teasing. “And I mean…I couldn’t just ignore a personal invitation from someone who looks this good in a bathrobe.”

That earns a soft laugh from him, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. But then his expression softens, the amusement fading into something a little more vulnerable. “You’re beautiful,” he says, and it feels like more than just a compliment. It lands somewhere deeper. “I’ve been trying not to say that all tour.”

He reaches out and takes your hand, his fingers warm against yours. When you let him guide you, he pulls you gently between his legs, his knees parting so you’re standing right in front of him. The height difference is stark like this, and he tilts his head slightly to look up at you, his eyes tracing your face, your lips, the line of your neck.

For a moment, he just rests his hands on your waist, thumbs brushing along the hem of your tank top, like he’s grounding himself. Then slowly, with almost reverent intent, he leans in and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft at first, exploratory. His mouth moves against yours like a question, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away, but you don’t. Instead, your hands settle on his shoulders, and you press in closer.

He exhales through his nose, deepening the kiss, one of his hands sliding up your spine and the other resting at the small of your back, fingers splayed wide. He pulls you in until your hips are flush against his legs, and the robe parts slightly where your thighs meet his knees. His hand trails down from your spine, skimming the soft fabric of your shorts before curving around to rest again at your waist.

Your body responds instinctively. Melting into him, craving the warmth of his skin, the way his lips shift between gentle and hungry. His other hand leaves your back to tuck a few strands of your hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

He breaks the kiss only to mouth along your jaw, then down to your neck, and the soft sounds you let out seem to spur him on. But still, it’s unhurried like he’s taking his time, like he wants to memorize you.

“God, you feel so good,” he breathes against your collarbone, his voice hoarse and low. “I’ve wanted this for longer than I should admit.”

Your fingers curl into the loose fabric of his robe, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately, one arm wrapping firmly around your waist, the other sliding under your tank top, his hand warm against your skin, splayed out over your back like he’s trying to hold you in place. You feel him press a kiss just below your ear, then rests his forehead against yours.

When he kisses you again his lips move against yours with slow, deliberate care, but there's a quiet urgency beneath it, too like he’s been holding back for too long and now that he has you here, he doesn’t want to waste a second. You melt into the kiss, fingers curling loosely around the collar of his robe, and when your bodies touch more fully, there’s an electric awareness that crackles just beneath your skin.

His hands trace the curve of your waist, a path he’s followed before on stage, adjusting you during a lift, steadying you mid-turn. But here in the hush of the room, without choreography or lights or a thousand watching eyes, the same touch feels charged. Possessive, even. There’s no need to act like it means nothing anymore.

You gasp softly when his thumb brushes the edge of your shorts, his hand skimming the bare skin of your hip. That’s where he’s held you in rehearsals before, fingers firm, guiding your body into alignment. But this? This is slower. Softer. His fingertips dip beneath the fabric like he’s searching for something sacred there. “Familiar,” he murmurs against your jaw, his lips grazing your skin with each word, “but…different.”

You nod without thinking, breath stuttering as he kisses a line down your throat. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

He hums against your skin, his mouth curving into a smile. “Of course you were. We’re always in sync, huh?”

You laugh, but it’s breathless and unsteady because his hands are already moving again, sliding up your sides, fingers brushing the swell of your chest through the thin fabric of your tank top. He’s careful, almost reverent, but every touch burns. Your whole body aches with the difference between the person who’s caught you mid-air, who’s held you through complex choreography, and the man touching you now with such quiet desire.

“You’ve had your hands on me a hundred times,” you whisper, eyes locking with his, “but it’s never felt like this.”

His lips return to yours, firmer now, more certain. You can feel the moment something shifts in him. The way he deepens the kiss, the way his fingers tighten just a little on your waist, pulling you closer so you’re flush against him. The fabric of his robe parts slightly, and your hands slide beneath it, finding the bare skin of his chest.

You trace the lines of muscle you’ve seen only in glimpses before, during rehearsals, and backstage costume changes, but now, you touch without hesitation, without boundaries. His breath hitches at your touch, and when you glance up at him, his pupils are blown wide, dark and wanting.

He leans his forehead against yours, voice husky. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You smile, fingers drifting lower down his stomach. “Good.”

He laughs, a soft, husky sound, and kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands wandering, retracing the paths of muscle and memory. The tension between you winds tighter with every slow, deliberate brush of skin. It’s not hurried. It’s not messy. It’s two people who’ve touched a thousand times under the guise of professionalism, finally learning what it means to really touch.

And it’s the most alive you’ve ever felt.

His robe slips lower on his shoulders as you tug gently, palms flat against the warm, bare skin of his chest. The tension hums low and hot between you, and Hoseok’s breath brushes your lips as he breaks the kiss just enough to look at you.

“Still feels a little like a dream,” he murmurs, fingertips ghosting along your spine beneath your tank top, sending shivers through you.

You smile, a little breathless, running your hand slowly down his arm. “Then don’t wake up yet.”

That earns you a crooked smile, boyish and beautiful in a way that makes your stomach flutter. He kisses you again, slow and deep, but his hands move with more confidence now, like he’s no longer asking permission with every pass of his fingers, just learning and memorizing. When he skims the edge of your shorts again, this time it’s with the intention of pulling you closer, pressing you fully between his knees. Your thighs bracket his as his hands slip under your top, feeling the skin he’s only ever glimpsed when costuming ran late or rehearsal left you in a sweat.

He exhales softly, forehead resting against your chest for a moment, his voice muffled as he says, “You’re so soft. So warm. I don’t know how I kept my hands to myself for this long.”

You tilt his chin up, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You were professional,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “But you don’t have to be right now.”

His gaze darkens, hands tightening slightly on your waist. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I think I already have.”

He kisses you again, more eagerly this time, like your words gave him permission to let go, just a little. His hands explore with purpose now, sliding under your top fully, dragging upward along your ribs. The sensation is dizzying. His palms rough from years of dancing, his touch familiar and brand new all at once.

You gasp softly when his thumbs skim just under the swell of your breasts, not quite touching , just teasing. “Hobi,” you breathe, and he lets out a shaky exhale like the sound of his name from your lips does something to him he wasn’t ready for.

“This okay?” he asks, voice thick, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

You nod, fingers tangling in the open edges of his robe. “Yes. Please.”

That’s all it takes and his mouth is back on yours, hungry now, and you match his pace, letting him tip you back slightly as he shifts higher on the bed, your bodies aligned and pressed close in all the right places. His hands finally cup your chest, drawing a soft whimper from you, and he kisses the sound from your lips, swallowing every sigh like a promise.

Every touch is a contrast. Where he used to be precise and calculated, here he’s bold and greedy. Where his hands used to steady your center of gravity in a spin, now they explore like he wants to find your edges, and where his body used to move with yours in perfect timing for the audience, now it moves for you and only you.

It’s messy. It’s sweet. It’s slow but burning.

And when he finally pulls back for air, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen from kissing, he whispers, “You’ve always been art. I just never thought I’d get to trace the lines this way.”

Your heart stutters. You press your forehead to his and whisper back, “Then don’t stop.”

His breath hitches at your words, not just from the way you say them, soft and sure, but from the way your hands frame his face like he’s something precious. He swallows hard, his eyes flickering over yours like he’s searching for doubt and finding none.

“I won’t,” he murmurs, and then he kisses you again. Deeper this time, not in a rush, but with that same aching certainty that you both feel thrumming beneath your skin.

The kiss grows, building slowly, like a rhythm only the two of you know. His hands trace every dip and curve of your body, familiar landmarks from choreography but now explored with reverence and curiosity. Where his grip once corrected your alignment or steadied your turns, now it’s a slow slide down your back, the press of his palm on the small of your waist drawing you in closer, until there’s no space left at all.

You shift slightly, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his legs, straddling him with ease, your fingers slipping beneath the robe to rest on his bare shoulders. He’s warm beneath your touch, and you lean into it, noses brushing, foreheads nearly touching again.

“This feels… different,” you say quietly, heart pounding.

His thumb brushes over the skin just above the waistband of your shorts. “Because it is.”

He doesn’t say more, but he doesn’t have to. You can feel it in the way he holds you, like he’s afraid this might slip through his fingers if he rushes it. You tilt his face up again, kissing the corner of his mouth, then just below his jaw, and when he exhales, it comes out shaky, his hands fisting lightly in the fabric of your tank top like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

Your lips find him again, slower this time, testing, tasting, and he responds with equal care. Like he’s learning you, not just touching you. His hands roam again, but never in a way that feels rushed or impatient. They settle on your hips, tugging you gently into a deeper kiss that leaves you gasping, flush with want and warmth.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he murmurs into your mouth, words barely there. Are you leaving him so speechless that’s all he can say? Hoseok the incredible lyricist?

You smile against his lips, catching his bottom one gently between your teeth before letting go. “Good.”

He laughs under his breath, soft, breathy, a little disbelieving. “You’ve been driving me crazy since rehearsal one.”

You tilt your head, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Since the first rehearsal, huh?”

He nods, eyes dropping to your lips again. “You walked in like you weren’t even trying to impress anyone. And then you danced like you had nothing to prove. That confidence?” He presses a kiss just beneath your ear. “It wrecked me.”

Your breath catches, and you lean into him, fingers threading through his hair. “You hid it really well.”

He chuckles, hands gripping your hips a little tighter. “Did I? Because I was struggling.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, full and warm and he kisses you again like he wants to capture that sound, that spark between you. It's intimate in a way that makes your pulse race, not just because of the nearness or the tension. But because for the first time, you're seeing Hoseok not just as the dancer, the choreographer, the professional, but as a man who wants you. Who sees you.

Your fingers drift down, slipping beneath the edge of his robe as your mouth trails after them. You press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, then another just above his collarbone. His breathing deepens, one hand sliding to your thigh, the other threading lightly into your hair.

You pull the robe apart a little more, exposing the smooth plane of his chest, the curve of muscle beneath warm, flushed skin. You kiss along his collar, slow and teasing, until you reach the center of his chest. You feel his heart racing beneath your lips.

His hand tightens gently in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself as your mouth moves lower. You shift slightly in his lap, your tongue flicking against the skin just below his sternum. His head tips back a little, jaw tense, a low sound catching in his throat.

“This okay?” you murmur against his skin, voice breathy but sure.

He nods without hesitation, his voice rough when he says, “Yeah. Yeah, it’s more than okay.”

You continue, slow and unhurried, kissing your way down the defined lines of his torso. Your lips trail lower, slow and deliberate. His skin is warm beneath your mouth, smooth and slightly tense like he’s holding himself back. You smile against him, exhaling softly as you kiss just above the line where his robe parts.

He shifts beneath you, his breath hitching when your fingers ghost along the edges of the fabric, following the trail of faint hair that disappears beneath the soft tie at his waist. Your lips press to that line, just below his navel, feeling the way he twitches at the contact, the way his hand tightens lightly in the bedsheets beside him.

You glance up, catching the dazed look in his eyes. “Still okay?” you ask, your voice a whisper.

He nods, his voice low and rough. “Yeah. You’re…driving me crazy.”

With slow fingers, you untie the knot of his robe, easing it open. He lets you, lifting slightly so you can slip it off completely. Beneath it he is wearing…nothing.

The robe pools at his sides and your eyes take him in, heart hammering at the sight of him laid out for you like this so open, so bare. You kiss along the line of his happy trail, teasing, not rushing, letting him feel the heat of your breath and the care in your touch.

You let your hands explore him with slow confidence, tracing the lines of his hips and the curve of his thighs as if you’re memorizing him by touch alone. He leans back on his elbows, eyes heavy-lidded, watching you with a look that’s equal parts wonder and heat. You’ve danced with him, felt his body move against yours night after night, but this is different. This isn’t choreography, it’s instinct. It’s want.

The gasp that leaves his mouth when you finally wrap your fingers around his cock is truly music to your ears. Your lips follow your hands, pressing soft kisses across his skin, taking your time. The way he breathes, shallow, and uneven, lets you know just how much he’s feeling every light stroke. You test the waters trailing your fingers across his thigh while you add slight pressure to your grip on his girthy length. You’re attentive, learning what makes him gasp, and what makes him whisper your name like it’s a secret too sacred to speak too loud.

You sink to your knees between his legs. He is beautiful like this, unguarded and flushed, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes burning with something that feels like awe. You meet his gaze as you lean in, letting your lips ghost over the sensitive skin of his lower stomach, closer, lower, until you hear the smallest hitch in his breath.

When your mouth finally wraps around him, his whole body jerks despite his effort to relax. His hands fly out gripping the sheets. You take your time, slow and attentive, letting every flick of your tongue, every hollow of your cheeks, every soft hum say what you can’t out loud: that you want him to feel good, to feel cared for, to feel wanted.

One of his hands finds your hair and he doesn’t push, just holds on grounding himself. With ease, despite his size, you take his entire length in your mouth. Hoseok throws his head back against the bed when his tip touches the back of your throat. You sink down further swallowing around his tip until you can feel he’s nearing his peak.

With quick movements you work your mouth up and down his length, his fingers tightening in your hair. His hips lift off the mattress accompanied by a slew of grunts and breathy moans.

“YN, I’m so close. Suck it, please!” He whines, as you continue sucking his cock.

Hoseok tenses as his high approaches and it only takes one more expert hollow of your cheeks before he’s spilling into your mouth. You swallow every drop without a thought making sure he’s looking into your eyes as you do so.

After everything settles, the room feels warmer, quieter. The hum of the city outside is muffled, and the only sounds are the soft breaths you both take. Hoseok’s hand is resting gently on your side, his fingers tracing light, absent patterns on your skin. You both lie there, side by side, the weight of everything that’s passed hanging in the air but not needing to be said.

You feel the heat of his body beside yours, the closeness, the tenderness of the moment. Hoseok shifts a little, pulling you closer, his arm wrapping around you protectively as he tucks you against his chest. It feels easy, natural, like this is where you both are meant to be, even if the world outside might be a little more complicated.

“I wasn’t sure how to do this,” he admits softly, his voice still thick with emotion. “I wasn’t sure if it was the right time, or if you’d even want to...but I couldn’t help it. Being around you, it just feels different.”

You smile gently, resting your head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart against your ear making everything feel so much more real. “I get it,” you whisper back, your fingers lightly tracing the outline of his hand on your skin. “Sometimes, it’s hard to know when the right moment is. But this…this feels right.”

His breath hitches slightly, and he squeezes you just a little tighter. The way he holds you, it’s not just out of physical desire. It’s soft, like he wants to protect you, keep you safe in this quiet bubble of understanding.

“I’m glad,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to mess things up. I don’t want to make things weird between us.”

“You haven’t,” you say quickly, lifting your head to meet his eyes. The vulnerability in them makes your heart flutter. “We’re good, Hobi. Whatever this is, it’s good.”

His lips curl into a smile, the relief obvious in his eyes. “You’re something else, you know that?” His voice is light now, teasing but with an underlying affection that’s impossible to ignore.

You chuckle softly, resting your hand on his chest. “I’m just being honest,” you reply with a playful smile, tracing a small patch of skin near his collarbone. “But...I’m glad you feel the same way. We don’t have to rush anything.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, his thumb brushing gently over your arm. “No rush.”

The two of you stay like that for a while, the intimacy between you speaking volumes in the silence. There’s no pressure, no expectation, just the warmth of the moment and the comfort of being together.

Hoseok tilts his head, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m happy you’re here,” he whispers.

You smile, your heart feeling fuller than it has in a long time. “Me too, Hobi. Me too.”

The quiet stretches on, peaceful and warm, until the soft glow of the TV catches your eye.

“Is that…Run BTS?” you ask with a laugh, glancing at the paused screen. Hoseok grins sheepishly.

“I was watching it before you came over. Helps me unwind.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Watching yourself unwind helps you unwind?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, reaching for the remote. “It’s not like that. I like the chaos, and the editing always surprises me. Want to watch?”

You nod, shifting so your head rests more comfortably on his chest, legs tangled beneath the blankets. He presses play, and the familiar jingle rings out, drawing an immediate smile from both of you. It’s one of the older episodes—something chaotic involving fruit, blindfolds, and Seokjin’s scream echoing in the background.

You’re both laughing within minutes.

Hoseok pauses the show every so often to add commentary, who was actually terrified, what didn’t make the cut, the ridiculous inside jokes that carried on for weeks afterward. You soak up each detail, loving the way he lights up with every memory.

At one point, you’re laughing so hard you have to cover your face with the blanket, and Hoseok just watches you, totally enchanted. He doesn’t even try to hide it. When the episode ends and the screen fades to black, the room softens again, quiet and intimate.

You’re lying face-to-face now, close enough to share breath. The way he looks at you, soft, unguarded, pulls the air from your lungs.

“I was thinking…” he begins, voice quiet. He hesitates, then exhales, brushing his fingers along your wrist.

“What?”

“Come to Oakland early. With me.”

You blink. “Early?”

“Yeah. The others aren’t flying in for a few days, but I have a window. I know a house we can rent, somewhere quiet. Just us. We don’t have to hide or explain anything to anyone for a little while.”

You stare at him, stunned, but not in a bad way. Just trying to catch up with how fast your heart is racing.

“Just us?” you ask softly.

He nods, the corner of his mouth pulling into a hopeful smile. “Just us.”

The idea settles in your chest like sunlight through a window, warm, daring, and unfamiliar in the best kind of way.

You nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”

He lets out a breath you didn’t realize he was holding and threads your fingers together. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, over and over again, like he can’t believe you’re really saying yes.

“Okay,” he echoes, quieter this time. “Then it’s a plan.”

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other and something that feels dangerously close to hope. The TV glows quietly in the background, but you’re already dreaming of something more.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You slip quietly into your hotel room in San Antonio, trying not to make any noise, but Yunjin’s already wide awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed in her pajamas, arms crossed.

“Where the hell have you been?” she asks, her tone a perfect mix of concern and suspicion.

You freeze, a bit caught off guard, but keep your cool. “I ran into an old friend,” you lie smoothly, setting your bag down by your suitcase. “They realized I was in San Antonio, so we met up.”

Yunjin narrows her eyes, skeptical. “An old friend?”

You nod too quickly. “Yep.”

She stares at you, her brow arching higher when she spots you opening your suitcase and starting to pack. “Okay, and why are you packing? We’re not leaving for like, three more days.”

“I am,” you say, tossing a few shirts in. “I’m flying out early. Gonna spend a couple days with my cousin Soobin in the Bay before we hit Oakland.”

Yunjin’s eyes light up. “Wait—hot cousin Soobin?”

You groan out loud. “Why does everyone call him that?”

“Because he’s hot,” she says plainly, flopping back into the pillows. “Also tall. Didn’t he model for that skincare brand one time?”

“Briefly,” you mutter, trying to keep a straight face while stuffing a pair of jeans into your duffel.

She props herself up on one elbow and watches you for a beat. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You so are, and don’t think I didn’t notice how you didn’t answer any of my texts last night.”

“I was catching up. Lost track of time.”

Yunjin doesn’t press, but her knowing smile lingers. “Fine. Go see Hot Soobin, but if you fall in love with your cousin, I’m not helping you sort through that emotional damage.”

You throw a sock at her.

She cackles and waves you off. “Have fun, don’t get sunburned, and text me if you’re coming back with a whole secret boyfriend.”

You just smile, a little too tight, and zip up your bag. “I’ll let you know.”

As you walk out the door, heart hammering, all you can think about is Hoseok, Oakland, and how you’re suddenly living a secret in plain sight.

You take separate cars to the airport, just like he asked, low-key, no attention, no reason for anyone to suspect anything. The sun is barely up, the horizon still soft with the color of sleep as your rides pull up on opposite ends of a small private terminal just outside of San Antonio.

You clutch your overnight bag a little tighter as you step onto the tarmac. Then you see him. Hoseok, standing just outside the sleek jet with sunglasses on and a coffee in hand, looking like he’s walked straight out of a daydream. The wind tousles his hair a little, and he grins when he sees you, flashing a dimple like a secret meant just for you.

Your steps slow as you take it all in, the shine of the jet, the gentle hum of the engines, the flight crew giving polite nods and treating you like you belong here. You’ve never flown like this before. You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to it.

Hoseok meets you halfway, offering his hand to help you up the stairs. “Good timing,” he says. “We’ll be in the air before the rest of the city’s even awake.”

You glance back over your shoulder at the runway stretching out behind you, still trying to ground yourself in the moment. “This is...wow.”

He squeezes your fingers. “It’s just a plane.”

You shoot him a look. “You say that like it’s a taxi.”

He chuckles and leads you up into the jet, stepping aside so you can get the full view.

It’s pristine. Minimalist luxury. Soft cream leather seats, dark wood paneling, warm lights dimmed to a golden glow. Everything feels quiet. Private. Safe.

There’s no one else aboard, just you, Hoseok, and the pilots, tucked away behind a closed door with frosted windows. It hits you then: this is intentional. This is his way of giving you space, time, and privacy.

You turn slowly, drinking it all in, and when you meet his eyes again, he’s watching you like he’s trying to memorize this moment too.

“Just us?” you ask.

“Just us,” he confirms softly, voice low, warm.

You walk to the plush bench-style seating along the side, setting your bag down and sitting. He follows, sliding in beside you, his knee brushing yours. There’s no press, no rush, just the slow awareness settling in your chest that for the next few hours, it’s only you and him in the sky.

You look out the small oval window, then back at him. “Is it always this quiet?”

“Not always,” he says. “But I wanted this one to be.”

You smile, heart thudding in your throat. “I like it.”

His fingers brush over yours again, gentle, unspoken, and your pulse spikes all over again.

The plane begins to taxi, a soft rumble underfoot as the engines build to a quiet roar. You feel the subtle shift of momentum as it lifts off the runway, climbing into the sky. Hoseok reaches for your hand as the pressure kicks in, fingers intertwining with yours naturally, like they’ve done it a hundred times before.

You glance over and catch him looking at you, his eyes dipping briefly to your neckline before flicking up again with a soft, guilty smile. The air between you grows warmer despite the cool hum of the cabin’s climate control. You settle in beside him on the wide bench, legs curling beneath you slightly, and his arm comes to rest along the back, fingers brushing the top of your shoulder.

“Comfy?” he asks, voice low and full of a private sort of amusement.

You smirk. “Very.”

It’s quiet for a beat. The low hum of the jet, the occasional ding from the cockpit, the softest sound of your breathing.

Then Hoseok shifts a little closer, his thigh pressed to yours now, warm and solid through your skirt. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this relaxed on a flight,” he murmurs, turning toward you more fully. His fingers move to your shoulder, tracing down your arm in a light touch that leaves goosebumps in its wake.

Your breath hitches slightly. “Guess I have that effect.”

He laughs quietly, a rich sound, and then his hand stills just above your knee. “You really do.”

The touch is familiar and new all at once, like the memory of his hands on your waist during rehearsals, guiding your movements with careful precision, except now it’s different. Now there’s no audience. No choreography. Just curiosity and want.

You look at him, caught in the warmth of his gaze and the gentle pull between you. “This isn’t like rehearsal,” you say, voice soft.

“No,” he agrees, his thumb brushing slow circles against your bare thigh. “It’s not.”

He leans in, just slightly, close enough for you to feel the breath of his words on your skin. You tilt your head and your noses nearly brush, the tension stretching and coiling sweetly between you. When his lips finally touch yours, it’s soft and lingering, a slow exploration that deepens by degrees.

The kiss is unhurried but full of promise. His hand slips behind your neck, anchoring you gently as your fingers slide up the front of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath. Every inch you touch earns you a quiet, contented sigh that rumbles low in his throat.

You shift a little closer, fitting against him as his other hand traces the outside of your thigh, slow and reverent, like he’s still memorizing the shape of you. When you part again, barely, your foreheads rest together as you catch your breath.

“I could get used to this,” he whispers.

You smile. “We’ve got a few hours.”

You curl in a bit closer to him, your legs draped gently across his lap now, and his arm loops behind your waist like it’s meant to be there. The plane hums steadily around you, but up here, everything feels suspended, like time has slowed just for the two of you.

Hoseok brushes his lips against your forehead and then rests his chin atop your head for a beat. “I don’t think I’ve ever done anything like this before,” he admits quietly.

You glance up at him, curious. “You mean flying a girl out?”

He chuckles softly. “I mean…this. Being this impulsive. Letting myself have something I want.”

Your heart trips a little. “Sooo you wanted this?”

He turns his head slightly so your eyes meet again, and the answer is all over his face before he even speaks. “I’ve wanted you for a while,” he says, voice low and sincere. “But I didn’t know if I was allowed to.”

There’s a slight ache in your chest, something tender and fluttery. You lift a hand to brush your fingers through the hair at his temple. “And now?”

His smile is slow, but sure. “Now I’m trying not to think about rules. Just…what feels right.”

You nod, letting his words settle between you, your fingers tracing lazy patterns across his collarbone. “I’ve never done anything like this either,” you admit softly. “Running off with someone. Especially someone like you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

You smirk. “Charming. Famous. A little too good at body rolls.”

That earns a bright laugh from him, full and warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I swear I wasn’t body rolling to seduce you.”

“Mmm, I beg to differ.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “You’re dangerous.”

You lean up, brushing your lips against his again, slow and teasing. “Takes one to know one.”

His hand tightens a little at your hip, grounding you. There’s something unspoken in the air, something bigger than desire. You both feel it. For a long moment, you just sit there like that, tangled up in each other, the outside world forgotten. No stylists. No tour. No rehearsals. Just skin and breath and softness.

Then he murmurs, almost absently, “What do you want this to be?”

You pull back just enough to really look at him, surprised by the question.

“I mean,” he continues, his thumb brushing soothingly against your side, “we don’t have to define it now. I just..want to know how to show up for you.”

Your chest feels tight again, but in a good way this time. Full. Warm.

“I don’t know yet,” you admit honestly. “But I want to find out.”

His smile is quiet but bright. “Yeah. Me too.”

And with that, he pulls you in again, your laughter muffled by another kiss, his hands skimming your back like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every breath. His other hand moves to your thigh, tracing slowly, reverently, until he reaches the edge of your skirt.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your own gaze, a quiet answer, a soft yes. You take his hand and guide it gently beneath the hem of your skirt, skin warming everywhere he touches. Then, with a whisper of a smile, you kiss him again. Deeper this time, needier.

His fingers slide higher, finding the lacy edge of your panties. A sharp exhale leaves his lips against yours when he feels how soft you are. He squeezes the curve of your hip, then your ass, drawing you forward until your chest is flush against his, the heat between you undeniable.

You gasp softly at the pressure, your arms wrapping tighter around his neck, your lips never quite leaving his. Hoseok slips a hand between you quickly dipping his hand into your panties. You grasp his shoulder, sighing against his neck, as his fingers find where you so desperately want him to touch.

He takes his time shifting his touch, not rushed, but exploratory, learning you by feeling alone. Every breath you take turns heavier, every quiet sound you make draws him in further, like he’s intoxicated by the way your body responds to him. Hoseok’s name escapes your lips in a whisper, as he slips long fingers inside of you. His free hand finds the back of your head, stroking your hair, all while continuing to kiss you.

Your breath stutters when at the same moment his lips trail down your jaw, his thumb finds your clit drawing soft, slow circles. You bury your face in his shoulder, and he leans in closer, his hot breath against your ear.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, his voice rough. “You feel like a dream.”

His fingers continue to trace delicate circles that make your body arch instinctively toward him, and his hand slides down to your shoulder blade gripping you just slightly tighter.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he murmurs between soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, your neck. “Every time you look at me like that, every time you move with me onstage, I swear I almost forget the choreography.”

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you, your heart clenching at the mix of heat and sweetness in his voice. He grips your hip encouraging you to ride his fingers. Of course, you would do anything for him. You roll your hips forward and he makes an appreciative sound.

“I’ve wanted this,” he admits, almost like a confession. “You. Just like this. For longer than I’ll ever admit out loud.”

Your eyes meet, breathless and warm. You lean in to kiss him again and he hums against your lips, deep and content. Losing yourself in the feeling of his fingers deep inside you is easy. You can’t help the soft noises that fall from your lips encouraging him to keep going. The pleasure is building much quicker than you thought it would. It usually takes your partners quiet some time but with him even looking in his direction makes you feel as if you could—

“God, you’re incredible,” he breathes.

Hoseok lifts your shirt exposing your breasts so he can lay soft kisses on them. He continues this in tandem with his never relenting fingers building and building and building your pleasure. After several minutes he sucks a dark purple mark low on your breast and the absolutely delicious feeling sends you over the edge. Shaking, and whimpering from just how good he feels, Hoseok holds you against his chest. He pats your head and whispers how beautiful you are and that you are so good.

The cabin is quiet except for the low hum of the plane and the muffled sound of your heartbeat still echoing in your ears. You press one last kiss to Hoseok’s jaw before slipping off his lap, smoothing your skirt down with shaky hands. He watches you with a soft, contented smile, one that lingers even as you murmur something about needing the bathroom and disappear behind the narrow door.

Inside, the overhead light is too bright. You stare at your reflection for a long moment, cheeks flushed, hair slightly mussed, lips kiss-bitten. You look…different. Like you’ve crossed some invisible line you can’t uncross. You turn on the faucet, cupping cool water in your palms, pressing it gently to your face. The cold sting helps, but only a little. It doesn’t stop the thoughts from creeping in.

Why you?

It’s not the first time you’ve wondered. Hoseok is well, Hoseok. World-famous. Charismatic. Effortlessly talented. Gorgeous in that infuriating, unfair way. Yet he kisses you like you are the only person who has ever mattered. Touches you like you are something rare.

But the doubt digs in anyway.

Maybe it is just a moment. Maybe it didn’t mean what you want it to mean. Maybe he is just caught up in the tension of the tour, the thrill of secrecy. Maybe this is just another city, another stop—and you’re just part of the scenery.

You grip the edge of the small sink tighter.

No, you think, forcing yourself to breathe. He looked at you like he meant it. He asked what you wanted this to be. He brought you here.

But still…the questions simmer beneath the surface.

What if you get hurt? What if this is temporary for him? What if you're just the distraction?

You dry your hands slowly, your heartbeat steadier now but your chest still heavy. When you finally open the bathroom door, you find Hoseok waiting, already looking up.

“Hey,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice that makes your pulse trip again. “You okay?”

You nod, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just…needed a second.”

His brow furrows, just slightly. “You sure?”

You hesitate.

Do you tell him? Or do you keep pretending it’s nothing?

You manage a small smile and nod again, this time more gently. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Hoseok doesn’t press. He just reaches out a hand and tugs you back toward the plush couch, guiding you to sit beside him again. You curl into his side, your cheek resting against the familiar warmth of his chest. His arm wraps around your shoulders, easy and natural, like he was always meant to hold you like this.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The low rumble of the plane is steady, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat in the background. You feel his fingers stroke absently along your arm, tracing lazy shapes that make your skin hum. He smells like something faintly spicy and clean, and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to smell it again without thinking of this exact moment.

Still, your thoughts won’t quiet down.

His thumb grazes your shoulder, and you think, Why me?

You’ve been asking yourself since the moment his mouth first met yours. Since the moment he looked at you like he was seeing something precious.

He could have anyone. Absolutely anyone. People throw themselves at him. Beautiful, glamorous, famous people. And yet…here you are. On his private plane. Wrapped in his arms. Feeling like the luckiest person in the world and the most uncertain one at the same time.

You close your eyes, trying to memorize the weight of his arm around you, the steadiness of his breath against your temple. Part of you wants to sink into it completely, to let yourself believe this could be real, that it could mean something. But another part stays curled up inside your chest, tight with the fear that maybe you’re just temporary.

He doesn’t say anything and just holds you closer, brushing his lips against the top of your head so softly it feels like a question. You don’t answer. Not yet. You just breathe him in and try not to get too lost in what it feels like to be chosen…and wonder why it’s so hard to believe you deserve it.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The car pulls up to a small house nestled in a quiet neighborhood just outside Oakland, the kind of place with winding roads and wildflowers sprouting through the cracks in the pavement. It’s unassuming, painted in soft earth tones with a wide front porch and ivy curling along the railings, but there’s something comforting about it. Hidden. Safe. Like the world can’t touch you here.

As soon as the driver opens the trunk, you’re reaching for your suitcase when suddenly—

“Hey!” you squeal, laughing as Hoseok sweeps you into his arms.

He’s already halfway up the steps by the time you protest. “Hobi, seriously! Put me down.”

“Nope,” he grins. “I’m making a memory.”

“You’re being dramatic!”

“I’m being romantic,” he corrects with a wink, nudging open the front door with his hip before stepping inside. “There’s a difference.”

The inside is just as cozy as the outside promised, light wood floors, soft neutral walls, and wide windows that let the golden late-afternoon light spill through. The air smells faintly like lavender and something clean, like freshly laundered sheets.

Hoseok carries you straight to the couch and lowers you gently onto the cushions with a little flourish. “Your chariot has arrived, my lady.”

You laugh again, breathless, as he dashes back out to grab your bags. While he’s gone, you kick off your shoes, pull a throw blanket over your lap, and flip through the streaming options until you land on a movie that’s easy and warm, something nostalgic. By the time he returns, lugging both your suitcase and his into the primary bedroom, you’ve already curled up with a pillow and settled in.

He reappears a few minutes later, a little tousled from the effort, his hoodie slouchy and his hair flopping into his eyes. There’s no makeup, no stylist, no flash or stage lighting—just him. And somehow, it makes your breath catch a little. This is a version of Hoseok the world rarely gets to see. Softer. Gentler.

He drops onto the couch beside you, then shifts so his head lands easily in your lap, one hand reaching for the blanket to tug it over both of you.

“Comfy?” you ask, threading your fingers through his hair.

He hums, low and content. “Mmhmm. You make it comfy.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms anyway. His eyes are half-lidded as he watches the screen, but every now and then, you catch him glancing up at you instead. Just watching. Like he still can’t believe you’re really here.

And even with all the noise still stirring in the back of your mind, wondering what this means, you let yourself smile and run your fingers gently through his hair again.

Later you are in the kitchen, which is small but charming, with terracotta tile floors and wooden shelves lined with mismatched mugs and little jar of herbs. You both settle easily into the rhythm of cooking, moving around each other, bumping hips in the narrow space, laughing when Hoseok fumbles with the garlic press like it’s a foreign object.

“You don’t cook much, do you?” you tease, nudging his elbow as he squints down at a recipe on his phone.

“I cook!” he defends, brandishing a wooden spoon. “I just…delegate garlic duty.”

You giggle and reach for the cloves, brushing your fingers against his in the process. He doesn’t pull away. In fact, he lets his hand linger just a second too long. You feel the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth again. He’s not subtle about the way his eyes slide down your neck when you lean forward to stir the pasta, or how he rests a hand on your waist as he steps around you to reach for the olive oil.

It’s warm. Easy. Intimate.

Dinner turns out surprisingly good, cacio e pepe with a simple salad, and you carry your plates to the small round table by the window. There’s soft music playing from his phone, and the sky outside has dimmed into that dusky shade of blue that always feels a little like magic.

You’re halfway through your plate when the lightness starts to unravel inside you. That nagging thread of doubt that’s been tugging at your chest ever since the plane.

Hoseok looks up when you go quiet, chewing slowly. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

“Hey,” he says gently, setting his fork down. “You’re not fine.”

You sit there a moment, twisting your napkin in your lap. Then, before you can stop yourself—

“I just…” Your voice falters. “I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what I am to you. I know you said we’d figure it out but…”

He doesn’t speak right away, and that makes your stomach twist harder.

You press on, needing to let it out. “I can’t keep pretending everything’s perfect when part of me is scared you’re just…using me. That I’m some tour fling. That you’ve done this a million times before and I’m just…convenient.”

Silence.

Then, softly, he stands and moves around the table, pulling his chair closer until his knees touch yours. He takes your hands in his, eyes steady and open.

“If all I wanted was sex,” he says slowly, “I could’ve had that in Mexico City. You were right there. We were alone. No one would’ve known.”

Your breath catches, but he squeezes your fingers gently.

“But when I kissed you that night…” He exhales a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. “I swear to god, it took my breath away. I didn’t expect it to feel like that. And right after I knew, one kiss wasn’t going to be enough. Not with you.”

Your throat tightens.

He leans forward, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “I didn’t fly you out here so we could hook up in a rental house. I did it because I wanted time with you. Away from everything. I care about you. Really care about you. I admire how passionate you are, how hard you work, how you move when you dance. I see how everyone on tour looks at you, how they light up because you’re around.”

You blink fast, trying not to cry.

“I haven’t done this a million times,” he adds, voice softer now. “I’ve never done this before.”

The words hit you like a weight and a balm all at once. He could’ve gotten upset at what you suggested but instead he wiped away any worry plaguing your brain.

Slowly, you reach for his face, cradling his jaw as you lean in. He closes his eyes at your touch, like he’s savoring it.

“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” you whisper.

“Then don’t,” he says. “We’ll figure it out together.”

He pulls you into a hug. It’s tight, grounding, real, and in his arms, the knot in your chest finally begins to loosen.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

After dinner, the kitchen is left in a charming disarray, plates in the sink, a few pasta shells on the counter, and a bottle of wine half-finished beside the stove. You both say you’ll clean up later, but neither of you moves.

Instead, you wander into the living room together, where the couch is still warm from earlier and the movie you put on before dinner is paused on the title screen. Hoseok grabs a blanket from the back of the couch, tossing it over the two of you as you settle in.

He lets you curl up beside him first, and then gently shifts so his head rests in your lap again, just like before. You run your fingers lightly through his hair as the movie begins to play, but your attention never really settles on the screen.

It’s on him. On the way his lashes fan against his cheeks. On the way he hums in contentment when you scratch lightly behind his ear. On the way he looks up at you like you’ve hung the stars.

“You’re staring,” he says eventually, cracking one eye open with a teasing smile.

You smile back. “So are you.”

He grins, then shifts to sit upright, sliding an arm around your waist to bring you closer. You both sit there, curled into each other, the quiet hum of the film in the background and the soft rhythm of your breathing syncing up.

You talk about small things. Favorite comfort foods. Embarrassing stories from rehearsals. The time he almost face-planted during a dance break and saved it with a dramatic spin. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

Later now tangled up on the couch, legs across his lap, your fingers absentmindedly thread through his hair as a soft song plays low from his phone speaker. The world feels far away.

He shifts beneath you, one hand gliding along the bare skin of your thigh, just beneath the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. His thumb moves in slow, teasing circles.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, voice low, gaze on your face like he’s reading every thought.

You hesitate. “Just thinking.”

He waits. Doesn’t press. Just touches you, light as air, patient.

“I guess…” You draw in a breath. “I’m wondering, why me? I mean—” your voice falters as his fingers skim a little higher, “—you could have anyone.”

Hoseok's brows knit together. He shifts so you’re facing him more directly, his hand settling at your waist. “Don’t say that.”

“No,” he says firmly, leaning in, his nose brushing yours. “If I just wanted sex, I wouldn’t have waited. I wouldn’t have brought you here.”

His hand slips under your shirt, splaying warm over your lower back.

“When I kissed you in Mexico City…” His voice drops, almost reverent. “It did something to me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

Your breath catches, your body already reacting to his words, to the heat in his eyes.

“I flew you here because I wanted you, not a moment. Not a fling. Just…you.” he reassures you.

He kisses you then. It is slow, deliberate, claiming. His mouth moves with aching sweetness against yours, and it makes you dizzy. You shift in his lap instinctively, needing more of him, and his hands tighten on your hips.

Your shirt rides up as he pulls you closer, his lips finding the curve of your jaw, then down your neck. He murmurs against your skin, “You’re beautiful. You’re everything.”

You whimper as he mouths over your collarbone, one of his hands sliding higher beneath your shirt, fingers tracing the edge of your bra, teasing but not rushing.

“You’re not just anyone,” he says, voice rough. “You’re the one I can’t stop wanting.”

And in the way he touches you, slow and reverent, in the way his breath hitches when your hips roll into his, it feels true. Real. Like something neither of you expected but are both terrified to lose.

Your fingers curl into Hoseok’s shirt as his mouth returns to yours, this time more urgent, more intent. The kind of kiss that says I’ve wanted this all day. His hands roam with purpose now, one tracing your thigh while the other cradles the back of your neck, pulling you even closer.

He stands, lifting you with him like it’s nothing, and you gasp against his lips. “Hobi—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “Come here.”

You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to him as he carries you toward the bedroom. You’re breathless, laughing softly against his neck until—

You both freeze in the doorway.

Dangling from one side of the headboard are fuzzy pink handcuffs.

You blink. “Um…do your rental people always provide accessories?”

Hoseok sets you down gently on your feet, eyes wide with mock offense. “Absolutely not. I did not tell them to put those there.”

You smirk, reaching out to give one a little tug. “Mmhmm. Sure you didn’t.”

His hands find your waist again. “I didn’t!”

You glance over your shoulder, giving him a playful smile. “Well…I wouldn’t mind using them.”

His eyes darken instantly, hands tightening on your hips. “Is that so?”

You turn back, wiggling your brows, but before you can say another word, he smacks your ass, firm, fast, and just sharp enough to make you gasp.

“Hey!” you laugh, spinning to face him again.

He just grins. “Keep teasing me like that and you’ll find out exactly how serious I am.”

Your heart skips a beat. The air between you goes molten.

You back toward the bed slowly, never breaking eye contact. “Then maybe you should come show me.”

His mouth twitches, trying not to smile, but it’s hopeless. He steps closer, backing you until your knees hit the mattress and you fall back onto it with a little bounce. You pull him down with you, and the next kiss is nothing like the ones before.

It’s heat and hunger and hands everywhere, his fingers tugging your shirt over your head, your hands sliding beneath the hem of his. You’re both stripping off layers, skin meeting skin, the weight of him pressing into you as he settles between your legs. He leaves momentarily to put on protection then returns.

You gasp into his mouth as his hips settle fully between yours, the heat of him radiating through every place your bodies touch. Seeing him before is nothing compared to the feeling of him against you. His hand slips under the curve of your back, pulling you even closer until there’s not an inch of space left. Kissing him alone has turned you on so much that he slips inside of you easily.

“You feel so good,” he groans against your neck. “So perfect.”

You arch into him, nails dragging along his back. “Don’t stop…”

“I won’t,” he promises, kissing you again—slow and deep, like he’s trying to write it into your bones. “Not tonight.”

The world has narrowed to this bed, this moment and his breath hot against your neck, the rasp of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your collarbone. The motion of his hips is slow, he is letting you feel every inch without needing to rush. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been thinking about this? About you?”

Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips trail down your chest, pausing to look up at you, his eyes darker now, pupils blown wide with heat. He looks down watching himself push in and out of you before he tilts his head back closing his eyes as he relishes in the feel of you. You bite your bottom lip, already hot from the tension strung tight between you.

“I think about you all the time,” he says, voice low and rough. “The way you laugh. The way you move. That little smirk when you know you’re getting under my skin…”

He thrusts harder and you arch against him involuntarily, and he groans, mouth dragging back up to yours like he can’t stand to be apart for even a second. He feels so good.

“Hobi,” you whisper, trembling under the weight of everything he’s making you feel. “I want this. I want you.”

His hand slides up your thigh again, slowly, memorizing the way your skin feels under his touch.

“You have me,” he says simply. “You’ve had me since the first time you looked at me like you saw something more.”

Hoseok sits up gripping your thighs as he quickens the pace of his strokes pulling sweet moans from your lips. His face is full of expressions you’ve never seen before. Facial expressions that are just for you. His hands wander exploring the beautiful curves of your body.

After several minutes you speak up knowing if you don’t you might not get all that you want. You grip his biceps until he looks into your eyes, halting his motion.

“Please handcuff me to the bed.”

His expression shifts in an instant. His eyes lock on yours, his jaw tightening a bit.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, squeezing your thigh absentmindedly.

You nod, your voice steady. “Please. I trust you.”

His lips curve into something wicked and sweet all at once. Hoseok slips out of you, leaving you with an empty feeling. “Lie back, baby.”

You lie back slowly, heart pounding with anticipation as Hoseok rises from the bed to unclip the handcuffs from the bedpost. The sound of the metal clinking lightly in his hands sends a thrill through your chest. He arranges the pillow around you for support.

He returns to your side, eyes locked on yours with a seriousness that makes your breath catch.

“If anything feels off, you tell me. Right away,” he says, voice low but firm, his fingers brushing your cheek in a way that makes you melt.

You nod, unable to speak just yet, so overwhelmed by the moment, by him. “I will.”

His expression softens just a little. “Good.”

Then his hands are guiding your wrists above your head, the fur-lined cuffs cool against your skin. He fastens them with care, double-checking the fit, and kisses the inside of each wrist as he does.

“You look so good like this,” he murmurs, running a hand down your side, slow and deliberate. “Completely mine.”

You gasp softly, your body arching toward him on instinct, craving more of his touch, his weight, his warmth.

His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly, followed by a trail of kisses. One hand strokes your hip, the other braced near your shoulder like he’s anchoring you both.

Every look, every movement, is full of reverence but there’s fire in it too, restrained only by his iron self-control. And even though you’re the one restrained, you don’t feel powerless. You feel wanted and craved, adored, devoured by his gaze alone. He ducks between your thighs pushing them against the side of his head for a moment before he licks a bold strip along your folds. Your thighs involuntarily squeeze and he moans against your pussy.

His tongue flicks your most sensitive area and he holds you down, stopping you from arching off the bed. You tug against the cuff wanting to pull his hair but having no way to do so. Being completely at his will is lighting a fire deep inside you. Hoseok licks, kisses and sucks you like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever done.

You shift beneath him, trying to get closer, but your arms don’t budge, caught in the gentle hold of the cuffs. The sensation only heightens your need, every touch, every breath shared between you feeling more intense, more intimate.

He slides back up, settling his weight over you, forearms braced on either side of your head. His nose brushes yours as he whispers, “Tell me what you want.”

You part your lips to answer, but he steals the breath from you with another kiss, deep and slow and consuming, leaving you gasping when he finally pulls back.

“Say it,” he urges, voice rough, “and it’s yours.”

“Make me cum with your mouth, please.”

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before doing as you so nicely asked. He comes back with a new vigor, letting you arch off the bed into his face. Hoseok lets you rub your pussy across his tongue bringing you to new levels of pleasure that sends a shiver up your spine. He hooks your legs over his shoulders, squeezing your soft ass as he brings you to the brink of an orgasm. Then he chuckles looking up at you.

“Hoseok! Please, don’t stop!” You beg, batting your eyelashes at him as you struggle against your restraint. Somehow not being able to touch him is making this far more exhilarating.

He dives back in, lapping his tongue across you until you are shaking and overwhelmed. Once again, he laughs, kissing your thighs before moving beside you. His fingers graze your breasts playing with your nipple for a moment before he sits back against the headboard and unlocks your hands.

Immediately you grab his face pulling him in for a heated kiss as you straddle him, sinking down onto his waiting cock. You don’t give him a second to get acclimated rolling your hips until you earn the sounds you are so desperate to hear. Hoseok grabs your ass after a few seconds holding on while he finds the right rhythm to fuck into you.

“You feel so good.” Hoseok mumbles against your chest.

His lips skim over your chest, slow and deliberate, every kiss sending a jolt of heat spiraling through your core. The steady rhythm of your bodies moving together has you spiraling, the pleasure climbing higher than you ever expected. You’d imagined what it would feel like to be with him, late at night, alone, tangled in sheets, but nothing prepared you for this.

Every movement is purposeful. He reads your body like a language only he understands, every roll of your hips met with a low groan that rumbles in his throat. You use his shoulders for balance, adjusting your angle until you hit that perfect spot that makes your whole body hum. He notices immediately and his breath stutters, his hands tightening on your waist as he murmurs a quiet, “That’s it, just like that.”

Hoseok buries his face against your chest, arms wrapping around you to hold you close. You feel the full strength of him in every motion, every flex of muscle as he drives into you, deep and slow at first, then faster, more urgent. Your hands slide into his hair, desperate to anchor yourself to something, someone, as your breath quickens and your moans fill the air.

“That’s right, baby,” he says between heavy breaths. “You can be as loud as you want here. No one’s around. Just me. Just us.”

When he lifts you slightly, you whimper at the loss, but his eyes are locked on yours, dark and serious in a way that sends your pulse racing. “Turn around.”

You do, your body moving on instinct. Knees sinking into the mattress, you rest your head against the sheets and arch your back, presenting yourself for him without hesitation. It’s bold, it’s vulnerable, but it feels right.

His hands trail down your spine, a gentle graze that makes your breath hitch. Then his fingers slide inside you again, slow, rhythmic strokes that draw soft gasps from your lips, building you up all over again. When he finally presses into you, deeper than before, a shiver runs through your entire body.

The sensation is overwhelming in the best way. This angle hits different. Fuller. More consuming.

“God, you feel…” he doesn’t even finish the sentence, just lets out a deep, unrestrained groan that sets you alight.

“Hoseok,” you moan into the blankets, unable to hold it in. “You feel so good.”

He grips your hips tighter, his rhythm picking up, bodies crashing together in a storm of need and connection. Your breath stutters, your thoughts scatter and in that moment, there’s only this. The heat. The rhythm. The overwhelming sense that something inside you is coming undone, only to be rebuilt by his hands.

The rhythm builds, fast and relentless, until every part of you is burning. Hoseok’s grip on your hips tightens, guiding you back into every deep thrust, your bodies colliding in perfect sync. Your moans mix with his ragged breathing, the sounds echoing in the room like a shared song, raw and unfiltered.

He groans, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back. His hand slides up your spine, slow and possessive, until he’s got a firm grip in your hair. Not pulling, just holding, grounding you both.

You arch back into him, chasing every spark he’s setting off inside you. “Don’t stop,” you gasp. “Please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He buries himself deeper, hips snapping against yours, his mouth finding your shoulder to press kisses between quiet curses.

Then his hand slides down your stomach, between your thighs, and the way he touches you there, gentle but purposeful, pulls a strangled cry from your lips. “That’s it,” he murmurs in your ear, lips brushing your skin. “Just like that. Let me take care of you.”

The heat coils tighter, pleasure building at a blinding pace. Your whole body trembles as you near the edge, and Hoseok knows, of course he does. He can feel it in the way you tighten around him, in the way your cries get sharper, breathless.

“Come for me,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

That’s all it takes.

Your whole body seizes with pleasure, white-hot and all-consuming. You fall apart around him, and he follows, hips faltering as he groans your name against your shoulder, holding you like he never wants to let go.

When it’s over, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest, both of you still breathless, skin slick with sweat, hearts racing in unison.

Neither of you speaks at first. There’s no need. The silence between you is soft, full, peaceful in a way that makes your chest ache.

Eventually, he presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder and murmurs, “Still think this is just about sex?”

You laugh, quiet and warm, and turn your head to look at him. “Maybe just really amazing sex.”

He grins. “I’ll take it.”

You rest your forehead against his. “And maybe…something more.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, and the way he looks at you then—like you’re the only thing he wants to see—says it all.

The world feels quieter now.

Your bodies are still tangled together, limbs draped without care, his arm a heavy and comforting weight across your waist. Hoseok’s breathing evens out slowly, his chest rising and falling against your back as he presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, then nestles in closer, like he can’t quite get enough.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, voice soft and a little hoarse.

You nod, still catching your breath. “More than okay.”

He hums, pleased, and nudges his nose into the curve of your neck. “Good.”

You lie there like that for a while, just existing in the same space, letting the buzz in your veins quiet into something calm. Your fingers trace idle patterns along his forearm, and his thumb strokes your hip under the sheet in a lazy rhythm, like he’s drawing invisible circles of reassurance.

Eventually, you roll onto your side to face him, and he shifts to accommodate you, tucking a hand beneath your cheek and brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. He looks different like this, softer in the warm lamplight, eyes heavy-lidded but shining, a little smile tugging at his lips.

“You always this cuddly after?” you tease, voice light.

He chuckles, nudging your nose with his. “Only with you.”

That makes your heart flutter. You glance down at your fingers curled against his chest, at the way his hand rests so easily on your hip. It feels like something sacred, like maybe this isn’t just a fling or a few stolen nights. It feels like something you might be able to hold onto.

“I like this,” you say quietly. “Just…us.”

His smile grows, slow and tender. “Me too.”

You nuzzle into his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. He pulls the blanket up around you both and hooks a leg around yours like he’s trying to cocoon you in. It’s safe here. It’s simple.

And as your eyes begin to flutter shut, you feel his lips press one last kiss to your temple. “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You wake slowly, the golden morning light spilling in through the curtains. Everything smells faintly of sunshine and sleep, warm skin, fresh sheets, and something delicious drifting in from the kitchen.

You stretch, a little sore in the best way, and sit up just as the bedroom door nudges open. Hoseok walks in with a tray balanced in his hands, wearing nothing but a pair of soft grey sweats that hang low on his hips and a boyish grin.

“Morning, beautiful,” he says, setting the tray on the bed. “I didn’t know your exact coffee order, so I made three different kinds just in case.”

You blink at the mugs, the little stack of pancakes, and the cut-up fruit that looks suspiciously like he arranged it by color. “You’re insane.”

He just laughs and leans over to kiss your forehead. “I’m thorough.”

You giggle and pull him onto the bed beside you, letting your legs tangle beneath the sheets again. He feeds you a strawberry with a dramatic flourish, and you nearly snort your coffee laughing when he pretends to swoon from how cute you are.

“Berry, berry, strawberry.”

You shift the tray so it’s balanced more securely between you and Hoseok, legs tucked beneath the blankets, his thigh pressed warm against yours. He hands you a fork with a little flourish and a wink, like he's your personal chef instead of the global superstar you watched dance under stadium lights just days ago.

“Try that one,” he says, gesturing to the fluffiest stack of pancakes you’ve ever seen. “I added cinnamon and a little nutmeg. Might’ve gone a bit wild.”

You take a bite, still a little dazed by how natural this all feels. “It’s actually insane how good you are at this.”

He raises an eyebrow, grinning. “Cooking?”

“Being perfect,” you mutter around a mouthful of syrupy heaven, cheeks heating slightly.

That makes him laugh, low and warm, and he leans in to kiss the corner of your lips, syrup and all. It’s sweet in every sense. You melt into him a little, like butter under sunlight, your body still buzzing from last night but your heart stealing the show.

Hoseok’s hand slides under the blanket to find your thigh, fingers drawing gentle circles as he rests his head back against the headboard. He closes his eyes, smiling like he’s finally at peace.

“This,” he murmurs, “feels dangerous.”

You glance at him, startled. “Dangerous?”

He opens one eye and looks at you. “Yeah. Like...if I let myself want this too much, I won’t ever want to let it go.”

Your breath catches. The fork stills in your hand.

“Hobi…”

He turns toward you fully now, sitting cross-legged on the bed. The tray gets pushed aside, forgotten for the moment. His eyes are soft but steady, locked on yours.

“I know this started fast. Intense,” he says. “But I don’t want it to be temporary. Not if you don’t.”

The room goes still except for the birds outside and the hum of your own heartbeat.

“I don’t either,” you admit, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know what it looks like, but…I want more mornings like this. More of you.”

Hoseok reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the backs of his fingers brushing your cheek. “Then we’ll make it happen. One quiet, messy, beautiful morning at a time.”

Later you're curled into Hoseok’s side on the couch, your legs tangled together beneath the throw blanket, the quiet hum of the movie long forgotten. At some point, you remember your phone’s been face-down on the coffee table since you arrived and curiosity wins. You reach for it and unlock the screen.

Three missed messages from Yunjin.

Yunjin: how’s everything with your “cousin” soobin 👀 did you guys go hiking? or were you too “tired” from traveling 🤭 also, me rn (attached is a selfie—she’s glowing, with a flirty pout and a peace sign, captioned: “bored and pretty”)

You stifle a laugh, nudging your phone closer to your chest so Hoseok can’t see. “Yunjin thinks I’m visiting my cousin Soobin.”

Hoseok smirks. “Oh, right. Soobin. What a cool guy. Bet he doesn't kiss you like I do.”

You elbow him lightly, trying not to smile too wide. “Gross.”

“I’m just saying.” He leans in to press a kiss just below your ear. “You’re not fooling anyone. You look way too happy to be hanging with your cousin.”

Before you can tease him back, his phone buzzes on the table. It’s lighting up with an incoming video call: Jungkook.

Hoseok’s whole face brightens as he reaches for it. “Jungkookie!”

He answers immediately, barely giving you time to sit up a little straighter.

Jungkook’s face fills the screen with short hair, a bit flushed, military uniform visible. “HYUNG!” he yells. “Did you tell that dancer you have a crush on that you like her?”

The sound is loud enough for you to hear it crystal clear.

You freeze, mouth slightly open, and slowly turn to look at Hoseok.

He pauses for a beat, then, very calmly, tips the phone so Jungkook can see you sitting beside him.

Jungkook blinks.

Then he grins. “OOOOOH. NO WAY.”

Hoseok groans and scrubs a hand over his face. “Jungkook, why are you like this?”

“I’m just saying!” Jungkook’s practically bouncing in the frame. “You wouldn’t shut up about her after Mexico City. I was starting to think you were gonna write a love letter like it’s 2010 or something.”

You cover your mouth, giggling behind your hand. “This is kind of adorable.”

Jungkook gasps, beaming. “SHE’S COOL TOO?! Hyung, marry her.”

“Bye,” Hoseok says flatly, and hangs up with one dramatic tap.

You both burst out laughing, the tension melting away in an instant.

“So,” you say, poking at him with a smirk. “You have a crush on me?”

He turns to you, eyes soft but playful. “I think that part’s pretty obvious now.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The rest of your time at the rental house slips by like a dream, lazy mornings tangled in warm sheets, late nights filled with laughter, movies you barely finish, and takeout eaten cross-legged on the couch. You cook a few meals together, make a mess in the kitchen, steal kisses between stirring and seasoning, and somehow everything tastes better just because it’s shared.

There are countless kisses, some slow and sleepy, others heated and desperate, and sex that leaves you both breathless and grinning, limbs aching in the best way. But it’s not just the physical closeness. It’s the way Hoseok watches you when you talk, the way he pulls you into his chest during quiet moments, the way you catch yourselves smiling for no reason.

It’s comfort. It’s connection. It’s something neither of you say aloud, but it pulses between you like a secret song.

When it’s finally time to pack up and head to the hotel in Oakland, the mood shifts. You don’t want to let go of this version of yourselves. The one that exists only here, in this quiet, hidden place.

As the car pulls away, Hoseok reaches for your hand and holds it tightly, even though you both know that once you step into the hotel, the rest of the world comes rushing back in. And for now, neither of you says a word about it. You just sit there, fingers intertwined, pretending you can stretch the moment a little longer.

By the time the car pulls up to the hotel, the weight of reality settles in. Hoseok gives your hand one final squeeze before letting go, and you both wordlessly fall into your roles again.

To avoid suspicion, you head out first, slipping through the lobby with your hoodie up and sunglasses on, acting like you just got back from a walk or an errand. Hoseok stays behind to give it some time, knowing he’ll follow later through a different entrance. The shift back into secrecy is jarring. It feels colder somehow, even though the air hasn’t changed.

When you reach your room and push open the door, Yunjin is already inside, sprawled across your bed with a big bottle of iced tea and her phone in hand. The second she sees you, she bolts upright.

“There you are! Oh my god, I’ve been texting you! I thought you got kidnapped or something,” she blurts. “So? How’s Soobin?” She puts extra emphasis on the name, waggling her brows. “And what do you mean you ‘might be off-grid for a bit’? Spill!”

You force a laugh, heading toward your suitcase like you’re just tired. “It was fine,” you say casually. “I’m just exhausted, that’s all.”

But Yunjin is sharp, and you know she won’t be satisfied with vague answers for long.

You start changing into something more comfortable, peeling off your top facing her, and that’s when it happens.

“Hold up.” Her voice cuts through the air like a blade. “What is that?”

You freeze.

“What?” you ask, like you don’t know exactly what she’s talking about.

“That,” she repeats, hopping off the bed and pointing toward your chest. “On your boob! Is that a—ew, is that a hickey?!”

Your eyes widen, and you instinctively cover the mark with your hand, spinning back around. “Yunjin—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” she says, holding up her hands dramatically. “You said you were with Soobin. Your cousin. So how the hell did you end up with a love bite there?!” She squints, then fake-gags. “Oh my god, please tell me you’re not—”

“I wasn’t with Soobin,” you cut in, laughing awkwardly. “Okay? I wasn’t.”

She pauses, staring at you like she’s trying to read the truth straight off your skin. “Then where were you? And who the hell gave you that?”

You hesitate, mouth opening, then closing again.

Yunjin sighs dramatically. “Oh my god, this is so juicy and you’re not telling me anything! You’re killing me!”

You flop onto the bed with a groan, covering your face with a pillow. “I can’t tell you right now.”

She flops beside you, grinning like a cat who just caught a bird. “So you are going to tell me. Just not now.”

“Maybe.” You peek at her from under the pillow, giving her a weak smile. “I’ll let you know when I can.”

She squeals, kicking her feet. “This is so much better than your cousin. I knew something was up. I can’t believe I missed it. But whoever it is…that hickey? Respect.”

You groan again, but you're smiling. Just a little.

Because even with all the chaos, it feels good to be back and to know someone’s still in your corner, even if she doesn’t know the whole truth yet.

Rehearsal at Oakland Arena is intense, but in a good way.

The crew is buzzing with energy, eager to polish every step before showtime. Everyone’s focused, and for the first time in a while, it feels like the entire cast is moving in sync. No drama. No tension. Just the music and the movement.

Well…mostly.

Because Hoseok is different.

Not just in his dancing, which is, as always, razor-sharp and fluid, but in the way he carries himself. There’s a new lightness in him, a softened edge, as though something inside has clicked into place. He’s smiling more. Laughing more. Cracking inside jokes with backup dancers and playfully ribbing the choreographer like he’s got a secret no one else knows.

Everyone notices. You notice most of all.

And it’s torture.

You’re back to being professional, back to pretending your skin doesn’t burn every time he brushes past you. There’s no more lounging on couches or sneaking kisses in the kitchen. You can’t reach for his hand or fall asleep tangled together anymore. Now it’s just side glances and stolen seconds.

During your duet, his hand lingers at your waist just a heartbeat longer than necessary, just long enough to make your breath catch. No one comments on it, but you swear the moment is loaded with all the things you’re not allowed to say anymore.

You catch Hoseok watching you a few times throughout the run-through, his eyes soft and full of something that looks an awful lot like longing. But every time, he looks away before it becomes too obvious.

It doesn’t help that Yunjin’s watching you like a hawk either.

You don’t think she suspects the full truth, but she’s putting pieces together, closer with each passing hour.

Still, not everything is hard. Surprisingly, the mood backstage has shifted since Mina’s departure. There’s a lot less walking on eggshells, and the clique that used to trail after her now floats around with a different energy. It’s more open. Warmer.

After a water break, two of the girls, Eunchae and Yoonchae, pull you aside near the back hallway.

“Hey,” Eunchae says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We, uh…wanted to say something.”

You raise an eyebrow, unsure where this is going.

“We were kind of—” Yoonchae starts, then sighs. “No, we were total jerks before and it wasn’t cool.”

Eunchae nods. “Mina had a way of…influencing people. But that’s not an excuse.”

You’re too stunned to speak at first.

“We just wanted to say sorry,” Yoonchae finishes. “You didn’t deserve that. And honestly…we’re glad you stayed. You’re killing it out there.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in their voices. “Thanks,” you say slowly. “That means a lot.”

The two girls smile and retreat back to their spots, leaving you standing there with a mix of surprise and cautious relief blooming in your chest.

You glance across the stage where Hoseok’s already looking at you. He smiles softly, and for just a second, it feels like you’re both back in that rental house again. Untouched by the outside world.

After the rehearsal wraps up, Hoseok pulls you aside, his hand brushing lightly against your arm as he leans in with a quiet urgency. "Meet me in my room after Yunjin falls asleep," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. There's an unmistakable intensity in his eyes, a silent promise that makes your pulse quicken. "I’ll wait for you."

You nod, your mind racing as you try to focus on the rest of the night. You’ve always had a knack for keeping things under control, but right now, everything feels a little more thrilling. The quiet anticipation in the air is enough to make your heart race in your chest. You can’t deny the pull between you two, even if it’s something neither of you has fully explored yet.

Once rehearsal is over, you head out with the rest of the dancers, keeping it casual as you chat and laugh with them. Dinner is fun, the laughter light, but your thoughts are always drifting back to Hoseok. You eat your fill, savoring the food, but it’s hard to ignore the excitement bubbling under your skin.

Later, after you've said your goodbyes and made your way back to the hotel, you slip into the bathroom for a long, calming shower. The warm water helps soothe the tension that’s built up in your muscles, but it’s not enough to wash away the anticipation. As the steam fills the bathroom, you quickly dry off, then slip into your cutest pajamas, something comfy but still just a little bit sexy.

Feeling a playful thrill, you send Hoseok a cheeky picture of yourself in your pajamas, sending a playful wink his way. It’s a small gesture, but it feels like a promise, a silent communication between the two of you.

His reply comes quickly: "Can't wait to see you."

Hoseok answers the door in a plush white robe, the soft fabric framing his collarbones and falling open just enough to tease bare skin underneath. His eyes light up the second he sees you, and before you can say a word, he pulls you inside, shutting and locking the door behind you in one swift motion.

The second the latch clicks into place, you’re against the door with his hands on your waist, his mouth finding yours like he’s been holding his breath all day just waiting for this moment. The kiss is hungry, messy, full of days of restraint unraveling all at once. His hands slide under your shirt as his lips move with purpose, like he’s trying to make up for every second he has to pretend like you are just another dancer on stage.

“I missed you,” he whispers when he finally pulls back for air, his voice husky and low against your lips.

Your breath catches, heart thudding in your chest. “We were just together this morning,” you say with a laugh, fingers curling into the collar of his robe.

He smirks, brushing his nose against yours. “Doesn’t matter. The second you walked away, I missed you. It’s pathetic.”

You’re about to tell him it’s not that you feel the same way, but he keeps going, his words tumbling out like he can’t stop them now.

“You have no idea how hard it was, watching you today and not being able to touch you. Not being able to kiss you or pull you into my lap between rehearsals. I can be professional, yeah,” he says, sliding a hand up your spine, “but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about you the entire time.”

The intensity in his gaze makes your knees weak. “What were you thinking about?” you ask, voice quiet, teasing.

A groan rumbles in his chest as he presses you harder into the door. “The way you looked in rehearsal. The way you moved with me. That moment during the duet when you smiled at me like you forgot the whole world existed. I wanted to kiss you right then and there.”

His hands grip your hips, guiding you back toward the bed, step by step, never breaking eye contact. “But I didn’t. Because I know how to behave,” he adds with a grin, leaning in to kiss along your jaw. “Even if every part of me was screaming not to.”

Your heart races as you reach for the belt of his robe, tugging gently. “What about now?”

“Now?” he repeats, voice low and rough. “Now, I don’t have to behave at all.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Every night, without fail, the two of you find your way back to each other. Whether it's slipping out after lights-out or sneaking past quiet hallways, you always end up wrapped in one another—sharing beautiful, sensual moments that leave you breathless. But it's not just physical. You talk for hours, learning the little things that make each other tick, the stories that shaped you, the hopes you’re almost too shy to say out loud.

During the day, it’s all professionalism and poise, but backstage and in quiet corners, you find ways to talk more, flirty words exchanged in passing, small touches behind curtains, kisses stolen in locked rooms when no one’s looking. It’s fun, it’s thrilling, and it’s yours. And through it all, you and Hoseok are happier than you’ve been in a long time.

After the final tour stop in LA, everyone celebrates together, the energy electric and hearts full. The night stretches into the early hours of the morning, laughter spilling out of rooms and echoing down hallways. When it’s finally just the two of you again, you end up in his hotel room, tipsy and glowing.

You dance around the room, music low and lights soft, your movements loose and joyful. Hoseok twirls you clumsily, both of you laughing until you fall into each other’s arms, dizzy with wine and everything you feel.

His arms wrap tightly around you as you stumble into him, your laughter caught between your lips as Hoseok’s mouth finds yours. The kiss is deep and unhurried, a slow burn that says everything words can’t. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the way you taste, like he doesn’t want the night to end.

Your hands wander instinctively, fingers weaving into his hair, tugging him even closer. The music hums in the background, something mellow and dreamy, but all you can hear is the sound of your breath mingling with his, the low rumble of his voice when he whispers your name between kisses.

“God, I missed this,” he murmurs against your lips. “Even when you’re right there…I miss having you like this.”

Your heart flips at the confession, raw and real. You press your forehead to his, nodding, too caught up in the heat between you to form a proper reply. Your hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt, warm skin meeting yours. He helps you pull it over his head in one smooth motion before lifting you off the floor, carrying you toward the bed with ease.

You giggle against his neck, pressing playful kisses along his jaw until he lays you down gently, hovering above you, eyes dark with adoration. His fingers trace slow patterns down your sides, lingering where your skin is most sensitive. Every touch is intentional, teasing, like he’s savoring every second.

“I really care about you,” he says softly, cupping your cheek. “So much.”

You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest as you look up at him. “I care about you too,” you whisper back, letting your hands roam down his back, grounding yourself in the moment.

He kisses you again, slower this time, like the words you just exchanged have shifted something between you. There's nothing rushed about the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand cradles your face like you're something precious.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, your bodies aligning with practiced ease. The air between you thickens, charged with everything you’ve both been holding back in public, all those moments stolen behind locked doors. His skin is warm beneath your fingertips, his breath hitching when your nails lightly trail along his spine.

“You drive me crazy,” he breathes, voice low and wrecked, brushing his nose against yours. “In rehearsals, on stage, backstage, every time I see you and can’t touch you, it makes me want you even more.”

His words light you up from the inside out. You arch up to meet him, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whisper, “Then touch me now.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hands move over you slowly, like he’s trying to map every curve, every sigh. He slips your pajama top over your head, tossing it aside before pausing, eyes roving over you with quiet reverence. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and it sends a rush of heat straight through you.

The next kiss is all heat, more urgent, more needy, teeth grazing lips and breath mingling in shared gasps. You lose yourselves in each other, in the slow grind of hips and the friction that makes you both tremble. Every touch stokes the fire between you, building the tension higher and higher.

But even in the heat of it all, there’s a tenderness underneath, fingers tangled, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked as though nothing else exists. He slows, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw, then to your collarbone, then your shoulder. His voice is barely above a whisper when he finally says, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The world quiets.

You blink up at him, heart thudding. Your hand finds his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin as you whisper, “I think I already have.”

He exhales a shaky laugh, full of disbelief and something like wonder. And then he kisses you like he’s saying it again with his mouth, his hands, his whole body.

For a long moment, the only sound is the soft flutter of your combined breaths, as if the world outside has faded into a distant memory. Then, as if drawn by an unspoken promise, you both smile a soft, soulful smile filled with the secret of this precious night.

Slowly, you shift closer, your arms wrapping around him as he holds you even tighter. The heat between you transforms into a quiet, radiant glow that neither time nor distance can dim. There are no promises made aloud, no declarations to the rest of the world just the two of you, sharing a sacred space where passion meets tenderness.

In that moment, everything becomes clear: despite the miles, the rehearsals, and even the challenges of living two lives on stage and off, this connection is real. Unspoken yet undeniable, it’s the start of a love that feels both unexpected and perfectly meant to be.

#suck it #bts fanfic #jung hoseok #jung hoseok fanfic #jung hoseok fic #hoseok fic #hoseok smut #jhope fic #jhope smut #jhope x reader #jhope x you #hoseok x you #hoseok x reader #bts x reader #bts smut #bts imagines #bts fic #kpop fic #kpop smut

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kefahfamily · 9 months ago

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Imagine with me...

a whole year in which you hear missiles, shells and explosions without stopping for a single minute.

I swear to you that our ears, our body, our soul, and everything in us is tired

Isn't it time for the war to end?

My kids and I are tired of this hell please help us

Click here.. Donate...or share the link, maybe someone can help us

#free gaza #free palestine #children #gaza #gaza strip #save children #help #free use kink #save rafah #send help

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topsmirae · 11 days ago

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🔮 Pick a Pile: What Is Your Future Husband Like?

Take a deep breath. Center yourself. Which pile/emoji pulls you in? 💙🔥🎨 🎲🪵 🌙

💙 Pile 1

Your future husband is the kind of man who makes you feel safe just by being near. He may not be loud or flashy, but his presence is incredibly calming. He has a quiet strength that shows up in the way he listens, the way he notices when something’s off, and the way he always knows how to comfort you without needing to be asked. He’s likely someone who’s had to grow up fast or take care of others, and now that instinct shows in how deeply he loves. He might work in a healing or service-oriented field—like healthcare, counseling, or even something hands-on like being a vet or teacher.

He’s very in tune with emotions, but he’s not overbearing about it. He believes in partnership, not control. He doesn’t want someone to complete him; he wants someone to walk beside him. He might enjoy slow mornings, staying in with a cozy blanket, and making you tea when you’re stressed. This is the kind of man who remembers your favorite snacks, how you take your coffee, and the way you like to be held after a long day.

Love language: Acts of service, quality time. Vibe: Warm sweater weather, comfort food, quiet loyalty

🔥 Pile 2

Your future husband is bold, driven, and magnetic. When he walks into a room, people notice—not because he demands attention, but because his energy is undeniable. He’s confident, charming, and knows exactly what he wants in life—and in love. This is the man who will pursue you with intensity. He loves the thrill of the chase, not to conquer you, but because he sees you as his equal, his partner, his fire. He’s ambitious, likely career-focused, and he wants to build a life where you both thrive. He may be an entrepreneur, manager, creative director, or someone in a leadership role where he shines.

This is the kind of man who will stand up for you without hesitation. He might be a little protective, sometimes even possessive, but never in a way that dims your light. He wants you to shine—because your power turns him on. Arguments with him may be heated, but so are the make-ups. He doesn’t do anything halfway. He loves loudly, lives passionately, and will challenge you to grow just as much as he’s growing.

Love language: Physical touch, words of affirmation. Vibe: Candlelit dinner, late-night debates, passionate kisses.

🎨 Pile 3

Your future husband is a deep, intuitive soul. He sees the world through colors, through rhythm, through metaphor. He might be an artist, musician, writer, or simply someone with a beautifully creative mind. Conversations with him never stay surface-level—he wants to talk about your dreams, your fears, the things that shaped you. He listens intently and always makes you feel seen. He’s romantic in subtle, meaningful ways. Think handwritten notes, playlists made just for you, sketching your silhouette while you sleep.

He’s a bit of a dreamer, and sometimes that means he forgets the “real world” details—but he makes up for it with the way he loves. He believes in soulmates. He might be the kind of man who talks about fate or the universe bringing you together. He’s emotionally open, even if he has a bit of an introverted shell. With him, love feels like art—beautiful, vulnerable, expressive. Your relationship might go through poetic highs and intense moments of reflection, but it’s always genuine.

Love language: Gifts with meaning, deep conversation, emotional intimacy. Vibe: Slow dancing in the living room, vintage records, rainy days spent inside painting or reading.

🎲 Pile 4

This man is unpredictable—in the best way. Your future husband is adventurous, funny, and has a magnetic chaos about him that draws people in. He probably has a bit of a rebellious streak and doesn’t like to follow traditional rules. He might be in an unconventional career or live a lifestyle that most wouldn’t expect. He’s curious about everything, from culture to philosophy to whatever weird documentary he found at 3AM. He’s spontaneous—he could take you on a last-minute weekend road trip or decide to learn how to cook Thai food just because he saw a recipe on TikTok.

He might seem like a flirt or a player at first, but when he falls in love, he falls hard. He’s fiercely loyal once committed, and he brings excitement into your life like no one else. There will be laughter—so much laughter. And yes, there will be chaos, but it’s the kind that breaks up monotony. He challenges you to be bold, take risks, and stop waiting for the “right time.” With him, love is a constant adventure.

Love language: Quality time, playful teasing, thrill-seeking together. Vibe: Road trips, late-night ice cream runs, passionate arguments followed by even more passionate kisses.

🪵 Pile 5

Your future husband is solid, grounded, and deeply dependable. He may not always say the right thing, but he always shows up. He’s not about flash or performance—he believes in loyalty, hard work, and providing stability. There’s a quiet nobility to him. He doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone, and that self-assurance is sexy as hell. He might be a little more traditional or old-fashioned in the way he loves—opening doors, fixing things around the house, paying close attention to your needs.

He’s probably not one to post emotional captions or show public displays of affection—but in private, he’s gentle, warm, and affectionate in his own way. He will always make sure you're taken care of, even if he doesn’t always talk about how he feels. He might be a little slow to open up emotionally, but once he does, it’s deep and lasting. He’s a rock. He gives you peace. And he’ll stand by you when the world feels unsteady.

Love language: Acts of service, loyalty, physical presence. Vibe: Clean sheets, Sunday mornings, deep hugs that say everything.

🌙 Pile 6

Your future husband is someone whose presence feels healing. He’s deeply spiritual or introspective, even if he doesn’t always show it outwardly. He might be into meditation, astrology, psychology, or simply someone who questions everything and constantly seeks inner growth. He’s likely been through a personal transformation that shaped him into who he is today. He’s calm, wise beyond his years, and has this energy about him that makes others feel safe and understood.

This is the type of man who wants a relationship that’s more than just romance—it’s a spiritual partnership. He’s interested in your mind, your soul, your childhood wounds. He’ll ask questions like, “What makes you feel most alive?” or “What are you still healing from?” and mean them. He’s compassionate, intuitive, and tuned into energies most people ignore. He probably loves nature, deep talks under the stars, or cozy nights with incense burning and a good book nearby. With him, love feels like growth, like peace, like coming home to yourself.

Love language: Emotional connection, spiritual intimacy, understanding. Vibe: Soulful eye contact, moonlit walks, healing hands.

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muletia · 2 months ago

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Please oh great one, I beg of thee to give merform deception crumbs. I want to tease the big evil fishies. I want to bite merformer Megatron affectionately and then pretend to be oblivious to it, I want to be spoilt by mer Knockout and spoil him back with pretty shells, I want to tame merform Starscreams tsundere ass and scratch n pet his helm till he's whining affectionatly

mer!megatron x human!reader mer!knockout x human!reader x mer!breakdown mer!starscream x human!reader no specified iteration

Fuck it, I caved in, merformers content. Somewhere in the world it must be May first already, right?

Also, everyone is soft-bodied because that's my guilty pleasure

Megatron (axolotl, based on this concept)

Huge, powerful arms covered in scales wrap around your waist, shielding most of your back, holding you tightly against the stomach of the massive mer and grounding you against him. Every attempt to pull away, to increase the distance even by a single milimeter ends in failure when a warning, guttural growl paralyzes your body, commanding you to stay. Right here. With him. After all, you left your lonely, proud axolotl for two weeks — now it’s time to pay him back for making him wait, for taking away his only source of comfort in this forsaken place, this lake of despair in the middle of nowhere.

And Megatron needs to make sure you understand why he’s "punishing" you this way. What kind of agony your absence threw him into, even if he was already used to deadlier stretches of time without contact with another soul. You shifted his thresholds of tolerance, and now you had to pay. He just happened to take advantage of your closeness, feeling his resentment toward you wash off of him as easily as water. He couldn’t stay mad at you for long. Not anymore.

Annoyed, though — that, yes. A sudden, subtle bite to his bicep pulls him out of the bliss of closeness. A single growl sends a warning, continuing to test the fragile string of his nerves might not end too kindly for you, but when red optics glance at you inquisitively, you pretend you did nothing. That the pathetic little bite wasn’t your doing, which almost offends him. Do you really think he’s a fool? Your naivety also holds a delicious flavor for him, and he’s not about to let it slide.

"You send me an invitation to mate, and now you act all innocent?" he says, knowing full well you can’t understand him, not yet, but he intends to hammer his intentions into your mind with a low, husky tone, which apparently works judging by your flustered reaction. "Let me show you what love bites really look like," he adds, opening his maw to reveal two rows of razor-sharp predator teeth. He wastes no time sinking into your neck, leaving behind his affection.

Knockout (lionfish) + Breakdown (blue shark)

Perched on a large rock close to the shore, the red mer watches from the corner of his optic as you wander nearby, head lowered and eyes fixed intently on the flawlessly clear water. His helm rests on crossed forearms, tracking your movements for some time now, trying to decipher your strange little human game. It didn’t look interesting, and frankly, he couldn’t care less, but with nothing better to do while Breakdown went out hunting, Knockout decided to indulge you with his presence. He hoped you’d return the favor and shower him with your full attention, but you had your boring plans. He barely holds back an annoyed click of his tongue. Boring! Dreadfully boring!

"Heeey, couldn’t you do something more exciting? Like, I don’t know, me?" he calls out to you, but all he gets in response is a quick smile. You go right back to whatever it is you were searching for.

Offended by your lukewarm reaction, he huffs and rolls his optics, returning to sunbathing with no real purpose, keeping one optic on your movements. His tail, streaked with white and red smears of scales, slaps the surface of the water a few times.

Only after a while does the quiet of nature break with your excited squeal. Knockout lifts his helm from his arms and watches you rush toward him, splashing the water awkwardly with your feet. In your hands, you’re holding a giant conch shell that perfectly matches the colors of his scales. A strange glint flashes in his red optics, but you don’t notice it through your excitement.

"For me?" Knockout asks, pointing a claw at himself. Only when you nod enthusiastically does he take the conch from you and briefly admire it before purring with delight. "Thank you, darling. And since you’re already so close, allow me to take advantage."

Before you can blink, his free arm wraps around your back and pulls you in, completely ignoring your startled squeak, rubbing his conveniently dry helm against your head, grateful that you saved him from his boredom. He couldn’t wait to show your find to Breakdown and for the two of them to show you just how grateful they were that you began your courting.

Starscream (sailfish)

The growl escaped him by accident, a primal instinct urging him to defend his mate from danger. The problem was that you weren’t his mate (yet), and there was no danger. He just didn’t like how close that harmless fish got, breaking his sweet little idyll of you stroking his helm. When you pulled your hand back, startled by his sudden reaction, it left behind a strange emptiness that gnawed at his spark. Your touch had been pleasant, soothing. It belonged where it was — on his helm. Worshipful and adoring.

Starscream wants more of what he is owed.

"Bring that weird human hand back here," he demands and grabs your wrist, pulling it back onto his helm. Apparently a bit too forcefully, because you almost tumble into the lagoon he was currently submerged in up to the waist, but Starscream wasn’t about to apologize, even as your accusatory glare burns into him. "Worship me, human," he commands, and you obey, even without understanding his shrill chirps.

You stroke the top of his helm, and Starscream melts under your touch, sinking down into the sand and purring in contentment. "You are surprisingly fit to be my mate," he sighs, webbed servos kneading the sand in bliss like a happy, relaxed cat pawing at a cushion.

You take that as an invitation to move a bit lower, running the edge of your hand along his faceplate until you reach his chin, which you begin to gently scratch, right before Starscream accuses you of slacking off.

"W-what are you doing?!" he cries out, but it’s a bluff, the initial shock caused by the overwhelming joy of an unknown sensation of chin scratches. His tail starts swaying gently on its own, stirring the surface of the water, and a sweet little whine escapes his intake, begging you not to stop. Starscream doesn’t even notice your wide, satisfied smile, hypnotized by the addictive power of your touch.

#muletia writes #merformers x reader #merformers #megatron x reader #knockout x reader #breakdown x reader #starscream x reader #btw if you ever noticed that my writing style is hella inconsistent #it's because it is lmao #i like to experiment with the way i construct sentences #and where i put commas and such #maybe someday i will be satisfied with my writing style enough not to change it every fucking time

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ivyyisbored22 · 4 months ago

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𝐁𝐈𝐆 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞—𝘓𝘦𝘦 𝘒𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘹 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A Stray Kids drabble

Synopsis: Look what wearing that little skirt got you to...

Warnings: SMUT🔞. Overstimulation, squirting, use of a vibrator, mean!Minho, pet names, slight choking(?), name calling (slut. But only once).

Minors do not interact!!!

Note: Just a quick random drabble that came to my mind when I was bored in class. No plot really, just smut lmfao.

If this isn't your thing, you're more than welcome to skip it. Reblogs, likes, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

Word count: 0.8k

𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Lee Know has never questioned anything you do, especially your wardrobe. He lets you wear whatever you want because every time he says, “If anyone dares to look in your direction, I’ll make him regret his existence.”

Which he has.

But. Wearing that little skirt was a BIG mistake. Thinking that you could have him wrapped around your finger was another BIG mistake. And being stupid enough to show off that skirt as if you weren’t already owned by him—mind, body and soul—in front of his friends to make him a little jealous was the BIGGEST mistake of all.

Because now look at you, sitting with your back pressed flush against him, legs open, hands tied behind, his hand around your neck and your pussy being abused by your favourite vibrator.

Oh, and wearing nothing but that little skirt.

“Minh— please—” you whined, trying to regain your lost voice while you were shaking, writhing, the intense buzzing of the vibrator only increasing by the second.

But he didn’t care for your pleas or your cries. “If you’re gonna act like a bratty slut, I’ll treat you like one honeypie,” he cooed, the nickname falling out of his mouth teasingly.

He was mean and ruthless, letting the buzzing wand continue its assault while he stroked your swollen, tender clit with agonizing pressure that had you squealing. Your juices have soaked the sheets beneath you, he pulled one orgasm after another, without giving you time to breathe or process it, you even lost count of it.

Your body trembled, pussy throbbing and thighs shaking against him as he kept you spread open, completely at his mercy.

A pleased hum rumbled against your ear, his breath warm as he pressed his lips to your flushed cheek. His fingers trailed up your belly, featherlight, teasing, setting every nerve on fire. “You wanted my attention so bad, and now you can’t even use your words?”

A strangled whimper left your lips, your wrists pulling helplessly against the restraints behind your back. His grip on your throat tightened just slightly, making your head spin.

“You know, for someone who put on a whole show in this little skirt, you’re awfully quiet now,” he mused, his tone dripping with menace and pinched your peaking nipple. “Where’s that confidence, baby? Thought you could have me wrapped around your little finger?”

You shook your head rapidly, your back arching against him as another wave of pleasure hit you like a crashing tide. “I— I was wrong, Minho,” you gasped out, your voice wrecked.

Minho chuckled lowly, and the deep, indulgent sound made your toes curl. “Good girl. Have you learned your lesson?” he murmured, kissing the shell of your ear before biting down gently, making you shudder.

His hand skimmed down to your thigh after teasing your sensitive nipples, gripping it firmly as he finally—finally—turned the vibrator down just a fraction, letting you breathe. You sagged against him, your head falling back onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering.

But the reprieve was brief.

With a flick of his wrist, the vibrations surged back to full intensity, making you jolt in his grasp, a sharp cry leaving your lips.

“Ah, ah, not yet,” he tutted, his fingers tightening and digging onto your soft skin as he kept you locked against him.

Tears leaked out of your eyes as you squirmed, his fingers pressing against your puffy clit in tight, deliberate circles. The pressure was unbearable, the dual stimulation sending shockwaves through you.

The overwhelming sensation tipped you over the edge again and again, yet left you teetering just out of reach. He was so mean, so unbearably cruel, but you couldn't have it any other way.

“m’sens—sensitive, Minho please—”

You sobbed his name, barely able to form words anymore, completely undone in his hold.

A new wave of release climbed up your spine and left you reeling, your back arched when the knot snapped, the vibrator left your sloppy hole and a gush of liquid spasmed out of you.

You couldn't hold back the loud cathartic cry and Minho's grip softened completely as he watched you come hard and crumble against him, so utterly spent, it felt like you had nothing more left in your body.

You fell limp over Minho, chest heaving and feeling a pulse beat everywhere.

“Oh, honeypie,” he cooed, his voice dripping with faux sympathy as he pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of your head, his fingers stroking your swollen, pulsing pussy and then untied your wrists.

“All that attitude, and now look at you. My poor, dumb baby.”

His arms wrapped around you securely, pulling you flush against his chest. His fingers traced lazy circles along your spine, his touch suddenly turning gentle and soothing.

You whimpered softly, too exhausted to form words, only able to nuzzle deeper into his warmth.

Minho smirked, feeling the damp trails of tears still clinging to your cheeks. With a sigh, he tilted your chin up, pressing sweet, featherlight kisses along your temple, brushing away the tear stains on your cheeks and ghosted over your lips.

Your lashes fluttered as he wiped away the remnants of your tears with his thumb, his gaze hooded but affectionate.

“Next time,” he murmured, his lips curving into a lazy grin, “think twice before trying to make me jealous, yeah?”

You barely managed a weak nod, too lost in the warmth of his embrace and the lingering buzz between your legs, your limbs tangled with his.

Minho only chuckled, holding you closer. “That’s my girl.”

Enjoyed this drabble? Consider checking my masterlist for more. Requests? Check 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 (& 𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜)

Thank you for reading!

xx,

Ivyy

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mattsundaes · 6 months ago

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hair down!karasu

“you’re so distracting,” you grouse as you feel your roommate’s chin come to rest on top of your head, your fingers stilling over your keyboard mid-sentence.

“‘m bored,” karasu sighs. “and ya spelled specific wrong.”

tilting your head upward, you glare up at him while whacking the backspace key more aggressively than necessary with your middle finger, “because you distracted me!”

he stands back up, chuckling to himself and sauntering off into the kitchen to inevitably make more noise while you sacrifice what remains of your late-semester soul to the research paper gods.

to be fair, the issue of him being a distraction is less about his shuffling and tittering about the apartment in boredom and moreso just about…him.

well, a very specific part of him.

you’ve been friends with karasu for years, you’re close. exceptionally close, you’d argue. and when the entire first floor of your dorm building flooded out last week, he offered you the spare room in his apartment—no questions asked.

it’s a temporary arrangement, so really, it should pose no risk to the neat and tidy little drawer that you keep your attraction to him shoved into the dark corners of. spending a few weeks underfoot with his warm accent, pretty eyes, dry humor, and gravely laugh shouldn’t kill you.

you’re been compartmentalizing it all like a champ for years, after all.

if subterfuge of unrequited pining was an olympic sport—

but you underestimated one tiny issue that you hadn’t quite thought out the consequences of when presented with the opportunity to cohabitate with karasu tabito.

one little thing—

his hair.

his at home hair.

his i’m not leaving the house or seeing anyone today hair.

his clean, completely product-free, ridiculously attractive hair—which falls softly across his forehead, tickling the bridge of his nose. which flits along the shell of his ears and rests against the back of his neck.

(which makes you want to run for the hills and jump into his arms and flee the country and kiss him until you can’t breathe and—)

it’s funny, really, when you think about it. the fact that you’ve actually never seen karasu without styling wax in his hair somehow. it feels somewhat ridiculous thinking it out loud.

but restricted exposure throughout the duration of your friendship thus far was clearly for the better, given the way you haven’t been able to stop glancing over at him every two minutes since he got out of the shower three hours ago. since he padded into the living room in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and plopped down on the other end of the couch, idly scrolling through his phone and entirely unaware of the crisis he’d unknowingly thrust upon your unsuspecting, fragile mind.

because here’s the thing—on a normal day, you can squash them down, these inconvenient feelings of attraction. the way your heart flutters feebly against your ribcage at the sound of his voice, at the curve of his lips when you say something ridiculous that makes him smile.

at the way he says your name, how you always seem to be the first person he calls after games. how he falls asleep with his head in your lap when you watch movies, the way he doesn’t even have to ask what you want when you’re ordering food or getting coffee because he just knows.

but this.

this.

he’s sitting on the other end of the couch again, lazily running a hand through his hair and blowing it out of his eyes every so often while he taps away at a game on his phone.

and yeah, you’ve never been quite so attracted to him as in this moment.

it’s not even just the fact that his hair is down, even though the back of your neck has yet to stop burning at the sight of it.

it’s the undeniable domesticity of it all that has your heart racing in your chest.

that has your fingers itching to toss your laptop aside, to crawl across the expanse of cushions and into his lap—

“please tell me you’re almost done,” karasu interrupts your treacherous train of thought.

you find him on his hands and knees in front of where you’re seated sideways against the arm of the couch, positioned between your lazily spread legs with one hand hovering over the lid of your laptop, which he’s slowly pushing closed.

“hey!” you choke out, both startled by the way your body reacts to his sudden proximity and the fact that you haven’t saved your document in fifteen minutes.

hastily, you do just that, and the laptop snaps shut with a resounding click that seems to echo off of the walls of the apartment like a beacon while karasu stares back at you for a beat.

a slow grin of victory spreads across his face when he uses one hand to transfer your laptop to the coffee table, but he makes no move to get off of you.

“otoya and hiori wanna get dinner,” he tells you by way of explanation.

it’s not fair how much more attractive his stupid, cute little mole looks with dark strands of hair falling against it—

“and?” you ask carefully.

you just want to reach out and touch—

“and you gotta eat, too, so i’ve been waitin’ on you, princess.”

fucking pet names. one goddamn crisis at a time.

your ribcage is on the verge of becoming a triage center.

“well, don’t you—shouldn’t you go and get ready, at least?” you do your best not to sound completely and entirely rattled as you gesture toward his hair.

he looks up with just his eyes, as if he’s only just now noticing the origin of your afternoon’s torture. “what, does it look that bad?”

is he serious?

he smirks, and—oh. your breath hitches in your throat as you try to figure out when he got so close, when he shifted even higher to cage you in entirely between his tall, muscled frame and the plush, worn-in couch cushions.

it makes you feel dizzy, being beneath him like this.

karasu smells like the strawberries he was eating earlier, and your throat goes dry as you think about the way he’d outright fed one to you instead of handing it to you like a normal person when you asked. the way his fingertips had briefly touched your lips—

he smells like the fabric softener he’s used for years, and it’s seemingly the last remaining lifeline left to ground you in this moment. you grasp at it, almost desperately.

you end up unconsciously fisting a hand in the fabric of his shirt instead.

he leans in a little closer, close enough that his hair brushes against your forehead.

it tickles.

warmth blooms hot in your gut, petals of heat caressing your spine.

“does it look bad?” he asks again.

you can feel his breath skirt against your lips.

“maybe,” you whisper, voice almost hoarse. because you need some sort of an upper hand here.

he huffs, eyes locked on yours. “liar.”

“you’re distracting,” you tell him again for the—you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve said it today.

one of his knees is slotted dangerously between your legs, and you try not to think about the way his thighs look in his kit. how often you have to tear your eyes away from the sight of them when you’re watching his games.

fucking footballers.

“am i?”

you nod slowly, and you wonder what his lips taste like. how he kisses. if they’re as warm as the body heat that’s blanketing you while he keeps you bracketed beneath him.

if he’d methodically break you down like he does to his opponents on the field—if he’d call you some other endearing thing in that pretty accent of his while your legs are wrapped around his waist, while you’re carding your fingers through his hair and parting your lips and gasping his name.

you wonder if he’d take it slow and drag his nose down your cheek before sliding his lips along the curve of your jaw.

if he’d kiss you long and deep, licking his way into your mouth with one hand splayed against your throat and another curled around your hip.

if he’d—

“you’re distracting, too, ya know,” he whispers.

“what?” your heart’s pounding so loudly in your chest, you’re not sure if you heard him right.

karasu taps your chin lightly with his pointer finger. “ya read out loud, and ya sing to yourself while you’re cookin’ and cleanin’.”

embarrassment washes over you as you begin to realize what a bothersome house guest you’ve probably unintentionally become over the past few days. “i’m sorry, i’m just so used to living alone, and—“

he cuts you off abruptly, “i said you’re distracting, not that i didn’t like it.”

you blink up at him owlishly, and your chest tightens in confusion as you breathe out what seems to be one of the few last remaining words in the wasteland of your mental dictionary, “what?”

“you have a pretty voice,” he murmurs, thumb ghosting over the edge of your bottom lip. “i like hearin’ it.”

you feel breathless when you exhale the only other thing you can think to say, “karasu.”

his eyes fall shut for a moment, and he smiles. “i love the way you say my name.”

your tongue dances impatiently against the back of your teeth as you swallow, testing the weight of three different syllables—

“tabito,” you whisper.

he opens his eyes suddenly, and he stares down at you with an expression that has your toes curling against the couch cushions.

“you should only say that if ya want me to kiss ya,” he rasps.

your fingers tremble slightly as you reach up and touch his hair, slowly brushing the tips across his mole. he catches your hand when you go to pull away, keeping it there.

“tabito.”

karasu’s mouth crashes into yours.

#karasu tabito #karasu tabito x reader #dee writes #blue lock #rambling: t. karasu

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divinepoints · 12 days ago

Text

save our souls

pairing: bob reynolds x reader

summary: With the Book of Vishanti destroyed and your soul slowly but surely tearing itself apart, Stephen Strange searches for a way to stitch it back together. As it turns out, there’s a distinct chance that answer is Bob Reynolds.

word count: 9.5k

warnings: vague violence and gore and i think that's it other than emotional distress

a/n: bob reynolds soulmate au <333

heavy liberties taken w the void encounter from the movie

reader has both witchy type powers and also trained in the mystic arts. it’s probably a cliche but this is a soulmate au so clearly you can pry cliches from my cold, dead hands.

also i finished and am posting this at literally 4 in the morning so it has not been edited/beta'd so there are probably errors but shit happens man. ending is a little goofy but idk guys i just like to have fun.

Though it was not a truly physical thing, you now knew where the human soul resided. You had never truly wondered, but were now sure it slotted itself somewhere between stomach and lungs. You knew this because yours was being slowly shredded and you could feel dull, throbbing ache of it every minute of every day.

What bothered you most was not the physical pain, but the way you could feel everything you cared about slipping through your fingers like water. Nothing pleased you much, anymore. You used to smile when America made progress with her own sorcery, under the watchful eyes of you and Strange, but now it barely made your lips twitch upward. You were not yet a full shell of your former self, but you could feel it creeping in. Eventually, you would be empty.

It had happened through no fault of your own, truly. Really it had been no one’s fault at all, but Stephen was taking it on as his own and you did not have enough in you to fight it. He was running himself ragged trying to both mentor America and find a cure for you all at the same time. Flatly, you had commanded him to stop, but he had only looked at you with sharp eyes that told you he was going to do whatever it took. It almost seemed to be tearing him apart more than you, but you supposed that came with the territory of being able to feel without inhibition.

Emotion was a double-edged sword. When you did feel it, which was rarely now, it only served to pain you further, like you were being torn apart faster as punishment for humanity. So, mostly, you avoided it. You avoided people you knew you cared about, or had cared about, just to escape the small chance you might feel a twinge of anything at all.

Stephen was a problem about it. He sought you out almost daily, spellbooks in hand and his mind full of theories on how to piece you back together. Once, he had suggested an ancient binding ceremony that would tie you to him for the rest of your lives. You’d felt a knife-like presence in your chest and heat behind your eyes and that had been the day you decided you could no longer stay at Kamar-Taj, lest he suggest or try something far more radical than he already had. He cared too much, and you knew it would only kill you faster.

That being said, you weren’t sure if you were truly dying or just emptying. It was a far more ancient magic than either Stephen or Wong had ever encountered that had afflicted you, and neither knew exactly what the end would be. The two most likely options were that one day you would die, or one day you would be a shell of yourself wandering the Earth until your physical body gave way. You could not be certain which would be worse.

Wong caved and allowed you to call New York Sanctum home for whatever remaining balance of time you had. Though it was still Stephen’s domain, even he swore he would only make an appearance if strictly necessary. Still, it was hard to be there all alone with no powers or Mystic Arts to call upon. It appeared along with your soul, all of your abilities both inherent and learned were leaving you too. Thus, you spent much of your time wandering the streets of New York where it wasn’t so hard to be soulless. Almost everyone else was too, in a way.

Perhaps that was why, on one cool, breezy day when the darkness took you, you were not scared or surprised. At least, not until pure shadow turned into an unfamiliar cold, steely, and sterile lab that you had never seen before. Abandoned workstations, collections of half-broken beakers and rusted metal components. Shadow distilled down into marks on the walls and a man with pinprick white eyes looking through you.

His head cocked each way several times as the pure white bored into you. Cold creeped down your through like ice, but nothing more. He was somehow nothing and everything as he took you in silently, as though deliberating. You were not sure if he was truly a person or not, or if this was your adventure into some kind of afterlife and he was the Grim Reaper come to collect.

Time was uncertain and unfamiliar wherever you were, but he spoke after some measure of it. “You’re empty.”

You decided then that he must have been trying to collect a soul you did not have. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He continued as though you had not spoken at all. Circled you like a shark. Assessing. “I don’t know what to do with you. Where to put you.”

Had your tongue not frozen to ice in your mouth, you might have offered a few suggestions simply for the sake of speeding things along. You did not enjoy lingering in your strange Limbo with your odd man of pure shadow who behaved like he had never encountered someone in your condition. You wished he had a face for you to analyze as he was yours. Wished he was more than a black hole of nothing while all you had left was laid bare. If this was how you were dying, you would have liked to see your ferryman.

The room before you flickered so briefly you might have thought you hallucinated it if he’d not let loose a hum that sounded like a wicked smile. For a moment, you saw Titan. Stephen at your side dusting and leaving you behind. Someone begging, pleading that he didn’t want to go. Tony Stark’s haunted face. It was gone the next instant. The cold in your chest turned to fire and ache. Your throat closed around the memory you never wanted to relive.

Your ferryman’s frustration returned as it vanished. “Let me help you. You’re almost there.”

So, that’s what it was. He wasn’t here to gather your soul, he wanted to ruin what was left of it. It was almost a comfort. The end was here. No more avoiding, no more slowly wasting away. If he wanted to break you, you were going to let him. You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and waited. A hand closed around your wrist. You expected to be sucked away from everything and into nothing at all, but it only remained there heavy, freezing, and with a softer grasp than you’d have anticipated.

You wanted it, but you would not beg. You would not ask to die, you could still feel enough pride for that. Ice snaked through your blood and seeped into your bones but still you remained. He wasn’t draining you, but freezing you. You wondered if this was the true end of your curse, not dead and not fully empty but half-alive and frozen until the end of time, your only company a man of pure shadow. If you had it in you to cry you might have, but you were also sure the tears would freeze before falling.

What you assumed was his forehead pressed against the side of your face. “Why do I know you?”

His confusion in turn confused you. Until now, you had assumed this was employment or cosmic purpose for him. Now you wondered if he was just as frozen in limbo as you were. Maybe to him, you were shadow too. Your eyes and mouth opened simultaneously, but a great many things happened in quick succession. Before you could manage words, you were no longer alone together. He froze behind you, entirely unmoving.

An unfamiliar woman uttered, “I’ve been here before.”

You recognized the voice of the next man who spoke because the very same one had just been whispering in your ear. “This is where it all started.”

You were beyond confused now, and turned to look at the group that had invaded your purgatory. You recognized none of them except for Bucky Barnes. It took him a moment to put your puzzle pieces together. You looked different now, sunken in and void of light after your months of being put through the mystical garbage disposal. He surged forward as though intent on grabbing you, but the room expanded almost exponentially right in front of your eyes. Shadows held you firm.

The same voice spoke to you from two places, one muttering in your ear that you belonged here, that he was trying to help you. The other came from across the room, apologizing, nearly begging, telling you he had only wanted to do better, be better. Someone else asked who you were, Bucky responded so low you couldn’t hear him. You were sure whatever explanation he was offering was wrong.

“I know her,” the simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar one muttered. He looked at you then, muted blue eyes that sent a shiver down your spine. “I— I know you from somewhere.” He moved on from your eyes to his counterpart. “Let her go.”

“No.”

The room gave a great shudder as metal ripped and wound itself around everyone in the room except for you, the shadow man, and the very real flesh-and-blood version of him. Adrenaline coursed through you, but you were held fast by an impossibly strong arm wound around your middle. Breath became a near-impossibility but you had grown used to pain.

The blonde woman who had spoken before said urgently, “Bob.”

The sweater-clad man in front of you looked back at her for a moment. Bob. An unassuming name for who you once might have figured to be an unassuming man. You were learning differently, though. He drug his eyes away from her and spoke more firmly to the man holding you. “Let them go.”

You heard the shriek of metal as it wound tighter.

“You think they care about you?” spoke the shadow.

His hold on you released but you still stood firmly rooted to the spot. You knew deep down you should have tried something. Anything. But what could you do? What would sparks to do an entity who had crushed, at the very least, a known super-solider with metal beams and had held you so tightly you almost couldn’t breathe? You were functionally useless, just an audience for the chaos in front of you.

“You don’t matter to anyone.”

“That’s not true—”

She, the most vocal of them all, was nearly garroted in the next instant. A violent energy seemed to pulse through the room. You could feel it rattle your bones. Bucky called your name, and he met the same fate.

“Stop,” you said, uselessly, fatally. You would have assumed your plea fell on deaf ears if they had not both looked at you.

It seemed for a moment they had simultaneously decided you were the most interesting thing in the room. You had no clue where to look, but you settled for the antagonist of the situation. You began to see the similarities even when one was pure silhouette. A negative of the same man commanding for his friends to be left alone.

“He’s you,” you said, barely a breath. It was almost astounding. You’d have assumed some sort of astral form if not for the feeling of his hands on you.

“I’m sorry,” Bob said. Real, physical Bob. Not the shadow-self you had been first introduced to. “I’m stronger than him, I’m—”

“We’ll see about that,” his other-self nearly demanded.

Flesh, blood, and bone was on the echo of himself in the next moment. The violence thrummed not just inside the room but inside you. Dread settled deep in your gut. You were feeling, without pain, more deeply than you had in months. It was a great wonder and horror all at once. There was a part of you who wished you could spend the rest of your life here if only just to feel real. The part of you that had made some semblance of a hero before knew you wouldn’t. Your fingers sparked, feeling deeply unfamiliar after months of absence.

The room expanded impossibly once more, distancing you from the war waged only in selves. Metal groaned your way and your hands flew up, stopping it in its tracks. It burned away with some effort, oddly stenchless, but you supposed natural rules did not apply in such a space. Nothing more flew your way, so you set off running. Perpendicular to you, the seemingly very nimble woman was dodging flying desks with the same intent.

Darkness was crawling up the very real Bob’s body. He was destroying himself. Spitting mad and throwing punches wherever they could land, not realizing he was only satisfying the embodied emptiness. He was still being taunted, but you couldn’t tell if he was really hearing at all.

You reached them—him—first. Your hand slammed into his shoulder, something that should have shoved his astral form out of his body, but nothing happened. He rocked briefly backwards at it, but continued to shred his own knuckles trying to harm himself. It seemed even with your powers you were useless here.

“You have to stop,” you commanded, trying to be firm, trying to not sound like you were begging. But you were, and you knew it. Because he was going to kill himself and trap them all in eternity.

She joined you then, eyes flickering only briefly to yours before she was trying to physically pull at him. She muttered something so quietly you could not hear, right in his ear. He ignored that too, just like he had you.

“Please,” you said, joining the effort to remove him from himself with force. “You’re tearing yourself apart.” You pushed while she pulled, but it seemed all for naught. “He’s part of you. Your soul. You have to stop.”

Everyone else had pulled free of their restraints too, rushing to Bob’s aid. You still talked incessantly, not thinking of most of your words. You knew what it was to be torn apart from the inside out, even if you had not watched it in front of your eyes. You were a lost cause, unable to stop what was happening in you, but Bob was not. Bob was not yet consumed into whole darkness, still had light and, it seemed, very real friends to fight for.

“Just let go,” you told him, still pushing at his shoulders with all your might, wrists aching every time he drew back to bully on himself again. “You’ll be okay. You can stop this.”

You looked into impossibly wild blue eyes once more and then you were falling. Tumbling. Forward and forward. Right into a mouthful of New York City concrete.

⊛

Bucky Barnes appeared on your doorstep five days later. Since your last meeting, he had been branded a New Avenger, and you’d begun to have nightmares. A particularly impressive feat given you’d not dreamt at all, happily or otherwise, since the day you’d been cursed.

“Bob keeps asking about you,” he said, without preamble. You both appreciated and cringed at his directness. You had been trying to ignore and forget about the entire debacle. “Everyone keeps nagging me because I’m the only one that knows you.”

Except you don’t really, you wanted to point out. You’d spent a grand total of maybe two hours together, in battle and out. Thanos for the second time. Tony’s funeral. You chose not to include what you had ambiguously dubbed The Incident.

You stood silent, gripping onto the door. You weren’t sure if you were going to invite him in or slam the door in his face. He looked different than you had known him to, both from before and from his incredibly brief stint as a politician. And, given what he’d walked into at your last meeting, you weren’t sure you much cared to know what he and his rag-tag group of mostly-not-superheros were up to.

“Five minutes,” he bargained quickly. “All I need.”

A little busy, you wanted to say. It was mostly true. Before he’d begun to knock incessantly at the door, you’d been trying to coax Stephen away from tomes and scrolls and into at least a nap. You’d accidentally sent him into a spiral when you revealed you were having nightmares and you were certain he’d not slept in three days. Unfortunately, your valiant efforts to interrupt his intense research were mostly met with him locking you out with magic you were currently incapable of undoing.

“I can wait here all day,” Bucky pointed out.

He meant it, and you knew it was true regardless. You had witnessed him tireless in battle, so you had to imagine he could handle a doorstep for more than a few hours. He entered as soon as you pushed the door aside, slipping through just as you’d withdrawn your arm.

“Don’t waste my time,” you chided as he admired the architecture. “You’re on a clock. Five minutes.”

Bucky turned back to you, looking almost amused. Like he knew you had both an unlimited amount of time but also none at all. It, in turn, did not amuse you. It would likely not have amused you even with a full breadth of emotion available to you. You didn’t often like people invading your personal space and time without notification or reason.

“Bob’s been asking about you,” he repeated. He was trying to whittle at you, that much was clear. He intended to goad you into asking why, into perhaps revealing some secret card he must have expected you were carefully hiding in some secret pocket. You offered him nothing, mostly because you had nothing but also because you did not appreciate games.

“So you said,” you acknowledged. “Would you like to waste your five minutes on repetition?”

His eyes narrowed at you. Challenging, but also curious.

“He doesn’t remember it,” he continued cautiously. “The Void.”

So, that was what they were calling it. An apt descriptor for the complete nothingness of Bob’s other self and the hell-like dimension he’d taken you to.

“Has no clue what went on in there, but remembers you clear as day. Enough to ask who you are. How I know you.”

It might have been smarter to deflect. It might have been wiser to make a smart comment about being memorable, or saying you had that affect on people. Instead you remained in steely silence, letting it sink in. He’d called you familiar. Said he knew you. Now you were the only thing he remembered from what should have been a particularly harrowing experience that should have left you only a minor detail.

Bucky continued after you met him with silence, “Coming from someone whose brain’s been in a blender, I can tell you it takes quite the person to break through all of that.”

“What is this?” you asked finally. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“I don’t know much about your mojo,” he admitted. “I’m just wondering if you might’ve done something in there. Something that can keep helping him.”

Ah. So that was it. He thought you’d left a mark on Bob magically or mystically. Perhaps something that could prevent him from going full Void again. It teetered on amusing. He’d witnessed how utterly useless you had been even with your magic, you wondered what he’d think when he found out you were without it.

“I’m afraid I won’t be much help,” you explained. “I’m somewhat… indisposed, at the moment.”

You were expecting disappointment and instead met with suspicion. You couldn’t blame him. Something about the Void had shifted things, made you more useful than in the real world. It had breathed power right back into you for your short stint. In response to his raised eyebrow, you offered him the barest of sparks from your fingers. They fizzled sadly into nothing before even falling to the floor.

“I’m not being obstinate. I truly have nothing to offer you.”

“That’s not,” Bucky began, choosing his words very carefully. “It’s not the only reason I’m here.” You nodded, urging him to continue. “He wants to meet you. Bob. He says… he says he’s been dreaming about you.”

Well. That was certainly interesting. You opened your mouth to respond, but Stephen appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He looked haggard. Harried. Frantic. He ushered Bucky away through a hastily conjured portal that slammed closed in your face the second you tried to follow. You were left alone and vaguely frustrated.

You didn’t have it in you to seethe, so you made yourself too much coffee just to feel something and waited semi-patiently for them to return. The ticking of the clock was almost soothing. Metronomic as you sipped your hot beverage and allowed it to burn at your palms. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty.

At minute twenty-eight a portal reappeared in front of you and Stephen reappeared with Bucky and two additional guests. Bob, looking absolutely awe-struck at what was happening in front of him, and, glued to his side, the woman you recognized from the Void.

“Hello,” you said, mostly pleasantly. You weren’t thrilled at having Bucky whisked away mid-conversation only to be further intruded upon thereafter, but you allowed Stephen his reasons. After all, he was practically killing himself trying to save your soul.

Bob stepped forward first, directly between Bucky and Stephen like they hardly mattered. The portal closed as soon as his companion followed. He was looking at you, drawing closer and closer like he was going to reach out just to make sure you were real. You retreated as far into your plush chair as you could. You watched the realization of his mistake flicker in his eyes. Literally. The blue that seemed suddenly so familiar flickered into hot gold and then back again.

“Hi,” he said, straightening. His companion watched him worryingly. “I’m—”

“Bob,” you interrupted. “I know.” Your gaze flickered to the woman at his side. “You, I don’t.”

“Yelena,” she offered simply, not divulging further. You didn’t blame her. She seemed about as uncertain about this entire situation as you did.

Stephen looked at you pointedly. “You’ve been keeping secrets.”

Not really. Sure, you might not have divulged that you ran into the former Captain America’s best friend in a seemingly alternate dimension controlled by a deeply unstable shadow-self, but you’d given him the barest details. The relevant details. The rest of it seemed unnecessary. It wasn’t like you could take him back to the scene of the crime, so to say. After all, when you’d come to with a broken nose and a mouthful of blood there were no New Avengers to be seen.

“Hardly,” you responded. He was not amused.

But he gave you a look that suggested it was your best bet not to argue, so you didn’t. He took the opportunity to explain that he and Bucky had talked it out. (Yelena seemed to sour at that, but also did not open her mouth to plead any case.) Apparently, it was for everyone’s best interests that you return to Kamar-Taj to see why your ailment had suddenly seemed to improve. (You wanted to argue that it certainly had not, but admitted that a nightmare was a dream even if an unpleasant one.) Furthermore, he thought it was for the best that Bob come along for the ride, lest he turn New York to shadow again.

You were with him only mostly against your will until that last part. Something thudded through you. A knife in the middle of your chest. You were not risking bringing a volatile, half-shadow to the mostly-stable home that America finally had. It spilled out of you like fire and blood both. Cutting through your ribcage and twisting your stomach into deeply unpleasant knots.

“No,” you said. You meant it with crying rage, but pain had stolen air from your lungs and it came out wholly flat.

Stephen looked unamused. “I’m not asking you for permission.”

You opened your mouth to argue again. Bob beat you to speech. “It’s not normally like… that. They told me what happened. In there. But normally it’s all…” He tapped a finger against the side of his head. “All in here. Unless I touch someone.”

Really, you weren’t sure what that was supposed to mean.

“We’ve kind of figured out it was different for you,” Bucky added. “Somehow.”

They explained to you the interconnected shame rooms that had plagued them all. Or, explained the concept. Neither of them seemed keen on going into detail, and you couldn’t blame them. But still, it slotted together some things in your mind. The flash of Titan, Bob’s other-self declaring eerily that he wasn’t sure where to put you. The shame had been shredded right out of you, leaving you only him.

None of it was any comfort. You still didn’t like the idea of taking him there, especially not in the aftermath of Wanda’s attack. Not with America there. But you had never been in charge, and even if you had been you certainly weren’t now.

“I still think this is a very bad decision.”

Your protests fell on deaf ears.

⊛

Bob was consistently fascinated by your humanness. You were a novelty surrounded by those who could still wield power and, to your great surprise, a man who apparently held the force of a thousand exploding suns. Everyone had really buried the lede there. You often found his eyes on you when they ought not to have been, but he seemed to take the hint that you weren’t interested in him. Not really.

It wasn’t fear. You’d have thrown yourself to his metaphorical wolves in an instant probably just to finally end your own emptiness. In fact, the great pit in your center seemed to sometimes call for him. Sometimes, you swore you heard the call of the Void in your own mind. What bothered you was the constant, searing, knifing-pain in your chest from the last dregs of worry you could scrounge up. It was the reason you didn’t outright tell him off.

There were two final hanger-on emotions inside you. Worry for America, worry for Bob. Entirely against your own will, you sometimes watched him back and wondered what it was like to live always teetering on the edge of great power and destruction. While Wong worked with America at your request, Stephen had taken up the Herculean task of trying to teach Bob to control abilities no one understood. As anyone could imagine, it was not going swimmingly.

Darkness always seemed to surge forward within him whenever he tried to use any power of the Sentry. Hesitance would turn to overconfidence, then to self-loathing whenever he failed to harness abilities at all or failed to control them. Luckily, it seemed to have proven impossible to truly turn the mirror dimension into any version of the Void. Of course, that was not to say it didn’t weigh on Stephen.

It must have become clear to Bob too, because you found him one night packing with the intent to flee like a bad one night stand. Part of you screamed to let him. The other, quieter, most still-human part of you knew he was going to flee not to his friends in New York, but straight into isolation. You could practically see it on him, the heaviness.

“You’re not a prisoner, you know,” you told him, leaning on the frame of his open door. “You do not need to flee in the dead of night.”

Caught red-handed, he dropped the clothing he had been holding. All Bob seemed to own fit in a duffle bag, and most of it you recognized seemed to be from his time at Kamar-Taj anyway. But really, you should have expected that. You knew only the vaguest details of his life, but you knew that he had given himself over for medical experimentation for a reason. Though you weren’t necessarily a betting woman, you were fairly certain a happy, stable life was not what led someone to such things.

“I thought it might be easier this way.”

That was the other thing. Bob seemed incapable of lying to you. You were sure that it was not a literal affliction of his, but moreso a complete mental block that seemed to occur whenever you did deign to speak to him.

“Easier for who?” you asked. He didn’t respond. “I’m going to level with you Bob.” You heard him mutter please, so you stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind you. “It’s obvious you’re not planning on going to New York, which is the only other place in the world you should be.”

He shook his head. “No. I shouldn’t be there. Not after— You were there. You saw what he— what I did.”

A twinge. A knife. The hurt of it sawed at your ribs. “It might have been you, but it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t ask for your darkest days to be given superpowers.”

His lips twitched. “Didn’t I?”

Stephen would have parroted something about informed consent, but you had long ago coaxed him into getting adequate sleep instead of wasting more of his time on the lost cause you had become. Still, it would have been a good point to make. Bob had not signed the dotted line on a paper that indicated he might end up with the ability to plunge people into their own personal hells just by a brush of skin.

“I don’t think so. Sounded like you just wanted to be… better. I know what that’s like. I just had the better luck of landing here.”

You had been a child, had just discovered you had abilities beyond your wildest imagination, and you’d been running from SHIELD. The Ancient One had found you, whether by fate or pure coincidence, and had become the mentor you needed to control not just what you were born with, but what she had wielded herself.

He was squinting then, searching in the depths of his own mind. “That was the… the bald one, right? She found you.” Bob looked at your face, took in something that must have read clear as day. You’d never told him about that, and she was long dead before he’d even stepped foot on the continent. “Sorry, I—”

“When Bucky said,” you began, then trailed off. It was hard to summon your thoughts. He’s been dreaming about you. You had thought it all memory of his own, the part you played with Void repeating over and over in his head on loop. You’d not anticipated he was seeing your past. “I didn’t think he meant like that. He said you were dreaming about me but I…”

Bob grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“Well,” you said heavily, “we should have guessed you might be able to see into people like that.”

He shook his head at that. “Not people. Just you.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Impossible to break. Impossible to breathe through. Just you. Somehow, Bob was combing through just your memories in his dreams. Whether he was watching a supercut of your worst moments, of which there were many, or if he was seeing all the good too, it struck you as odd. Borderline scary. You wondered exactly how much of you was laid bare for him to see.

“Sorry,” he apologized again. A habit you were beginning to tire of. One that had been hard broken in yourself years ago. “I know it’s weird, but I don’t know how to stop it.”

Your mouth felt try, tongue heavy, throat swollen around nothing, lungs in a vice. The emotion itself hurt. The punishment for feeling it was only double. You forced speech past aching vocal cords. “Did you tell Stephen?” Bob shook his head again. You tried to scramble back to the absence of emotion. “You should… we should. First thing in the morning.”

Your only goal in the moment became a mad dash to exit his room. He was apologizing again, reaching out to try and cling, to make you listen. You didn’t have it in you to soothe his anxiety when your own was fighting out of you and turning your insides to ribbons. But his grip was stronger than you figured he intended it to be when it landed on your shoulder. It practically burned through your shirt, not just from the pressure but from his body heat. You had expected ice like before, but he was all fire now.

“It’s okay,” you managed, though it was not. You placed your own palm on his hand both in the hopes he might take the hint to withdraw and to try and make your words seem that much truer. “It’s fine. First thing, okay?”

Bob just nodded again.

You would likely have been ashamed to admit that you slept outside his room that night just to make sure he stayed, but there was no admission needed. The wake-up call you received was Stephen shaking you awake and looking at you as though you’d lost your mind. You offered him no explanation. Instead, you’d surged up with sudden energy and knocked a little too loud on Bob’s door. He opened it so quickly you nearly knocked directly on his chest next.

Much to his chagrin, Stephen was not allotted any time for such blasé things as morning coffee or breakfast. You, jittery with anxiety though suspiciously knifeless feeling, moderated a particularly intense discussion between him and Bob about what exactly such dreams might have meant. To your great frustration, Stephen seemed to make a point to keep a strict poker face the entire time. You could not have told anyone who asked if he was horrified, mesmerized, or somewhere in between. Even when Bob finished his explanation with great hesitation and a not-insignificant degree of mortification that had him blushing from the base of his neck all the way up to his forehead, Stephen said nothing of note.

I’ll look into it.

And then he left like it was nothing of concern. You stared open-mouthed at the place he’d previously taken up. You could not have felt more frustrated if you tried. Bob was apologetic once more, taking your silence as opportunity to plead your forgiveness at the great invasion of privacy that neither of you had asked for. You just slumped, forehead to table, and found to your immense astonishment that you were nearly experiencing frustrated tears, all without the added pain from the inside out.

You shot out of your seat and left Bob with no explanation, chasing Stephen down the hall. He was walking at a leisurely pace. Waiting for you. He was a rat bastard and you were going to kill him. Another emotion you were experiencing without blinding pain in your chest. You grasped at him, stopping him in his tracks as you looked at him furiously. Still, somehow, you felt lighter than you had in months.

Not a question, but a fact. “You knew.”

“I had my suspicions,” he stated. “Needed you both here to know for sure.”

“Well,” you began, tears welling once more. You had seemingly become ill-equipped to handle any emotion at all in your months without much of it availed to you. Still, you feared there would come a rip through center mass, severing all of your organs as punishment for feeling anything at all. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

It had been the very first, most ancient suggestion of them all. The first answer anyone had found that seemed it would cure you completely. You still remembered it, clear as day. The earliest days where you could still feel mostly like real people did, when it only hurt a little to laugh or to cry. When it was no more than a prickle in the very center of your being. This one says you just need to find your soulmate, Stephen had said to you. You had cackled in his face and responded, What am I, a Disney princess?

Back then, neither of you had taken your affliction too seriously, assuming that with time you would find a more suitable answer. He’d brought it up again when you got worse, a more serious suggestion this time. There were ways you could try. He suggested that America might punch him into several hundred universes until he found someone you seemed to consistently fall for. When you shot that down, he’d suggested a dream journal where you meticulously recorded every man you came across, looking for a statistical likelihood, and you’d broken the news you weren’t dreaming at all anymore. Even then, he’d moved onto more serious ideas. Now he was telling you he really thought that was what would put you back together. The real-life, flesh and blood counterpart of a near-demonic shadow you’d met shortly before eating concrete on fifteenth avenue.

Still, you were horrified. It was not the suggestion of a soulmate. It was not even the suggestion of Bob being yours. Instead, it was the suggestion that you’d be asking a man who’d been through so much to stitch your soul whole.

“I can’t,” you said. “I can’t do that to him.”

Stephen sighed frustratedly at that. “So self-sacrificial.” He looked you straight in the eyes, hands braced on the sides of your arms. “It all seems to be proximity. He only needs to be nearby, as far as I can tell. There’s no saying it needs to be anything more than what it already is.”

Wasn’t there? The implications of soulmates were clear. Under normal circumstances, it might not have meant making you truly whole, but all the myths were clear: his soul would call for yours, and yours his. Like calls to like, you’d heard before. Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same. All rooted in hundreds and thousands of years of myth, legend, and folklore. All implying that Bob might not just repair what was broken in you, literally, but that he also might be the love of your life.

“It can be whatever you want it to be,” Stephen insisted. Ironic from the man who you’d watched utter the words I love you in every universe. “But between you and I, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to be loved the way you deserve.”

Things were not so simple. If you had once avoided Bob in general, you now avoided him like the plague. You weren’t sure how to look a man in the face and explain that you were afflicted by an ancient curse and he was seemingly the only cure. It was impossible to swallow the idea that you were destined to love someone who you’d hardly even felt a twinge of friendship for. In another, better version of events, you might have found yourself accidentally cured long after you’d already fallen for him. Instead, you seemed to perhaps do things in reverse order, even for how much Stephen insisted it did not need to be that way.

Unfortunately, word had reached both America and Wong via the way of Stephen’s loose lips, and they both had begun to interfere. Portals appeared out of nowhere, sending you crashing straight into him, leaving you floundering for an explanation after the third or fourth time it happened. To his credit, he was taking it like a real champ. He cracked a confused smile most of the time, not questioning why you were suddenly unable to form any meaningful sentence. Still, it was impossible to miss the vague air of disappointment that settled every time you found a new excuse to head in the opposite direction.

He smiled tightly through it until the seventh time you’d found yourselves transported to each other. You had been in the library, manually combing through to find any books that even seemed to mention the vague notion of soulmates when you took one wrong step and ended up smashing into him, sending volumes tumbling to the floor. He looked at them curiously, which would have likely been fine if one particularly recent book was not simply titled Soulmates in the Modern Era. You heated from head to toe and wondered if he could feel it.

“Research,” you chirped quickly, reaching to take it. He jerked back before you could even brush the spine, reading the cover and then flipping it open one-handed.

He skimmed the table of contents with great interest, then looked at you. “Interesting research.”

“Yeah,” you admitted, hoping he would just hand it over. “I have this… thing.”

You waved it away like it was nothing, like you weren’t actively trying to sever your connection to spare him from having to fix you. From being stuck with you. Maybe then he wouldn’t be plagued with your memories as dreams, and you could quietly slip back into the abyss you had grown so accustomed to.

“Doctor Strange said you were sick, is this…?”

Though you cringed at both at the revelation and the way Bob referred to Stephen, you nodded. “It’s related research, yes.”

He looked at you like he was trying to read into your very bones and you were not entirely assured he wasn’t. Still, you staunchly resolved that you were not going to elaborate. It appeared Stephen had already been loose-lipped enough for the both of you. It was meant to be a push, you bet. You were sure the cogs had turned in that insufferable brain of his, and he had determined that if Bob learned the truth he would resign to it. Which, of course, was the complete opposite of what you wanted.

Bob still had a firm grasp on the book, though it was now tucked safely behind his back. It would take a tank or some magic for you to get it back. Unfortunately, you had no access to the former and had only just begun refamiliarizing yourself with the latter. He didn’t seem to be playing keep away to frustrate you, but you certainly thought it was a ploy of some sort, you just weren’t sure what.

“Is it infectious?” he asked, quietly. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me? Because I can’t get sick, I think. Not anymore.”

If that didn’t crack you in two, you weren’t sure what would. It wasn’t like you had assumed he hadn’t noticed, but you didn’t know it had been whittling at him so badly he had resorted to hypothesizing.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, it’s not that.” The speed with which you had responded seemed to cut equal to the answer. “I’m just— I’m really busy with all the research.”

“Oh,” he said thoughtfully. “For a cure?”

You tried your best to fake a very convincing smile. “Something like that.”

“Sorry,” he said, retreating to apology again. “I’m being… I feel like I know you, even though I don’t. All the dreams.”

It wasn’t that you had forgotten about them. You knew he’d had them, you knew he was still having them. But you hadn’t considered the fact that someone viewing your life while sleeping might get to feeling like you were a friend. A piece of them, even. You hadn’t considered that, especially for someone who seemed to be destined for you, it might be a version of waking hell to wake up and feel like the meant nothing at all.

“Don’t apologize,” you said, sharper than intended. He almost winced at it. You softened immediately. “I just— you’re right. You’ve been forced to know me, and I know almost nothing at all about you. I forget, sometimes.”

You watched him almost apologize again, but he seemed to catch himself.

“I think maybe I would like to get to know you,” you added. “Once my research sorts itself out.”

Bob smiled. You thought you might drown in it.

⊛

You stopped avoiding him far earlier than anticipated, both intentionally and unintentionally. Your research had stalled out. There was nothing you could find that even suggested a way to severe that type of connection. You needed more time, which meant you needed Bob. Proximity, and all. It felt dirty to use him in that way, made you feel sick to your stomach because his mere presence allowed you to feel at all. Unintentionally, you found he was a very good cure to boredom and a truly fascinating individual, even pre-Sentry project.

It hurt getting to know him, knowing what your intentions were. It hurt to learn his every expression, hurt to watch him strain with every fibre of his being to try and coax his abilities into being helpful instead of harmful. The irony of feeling so deeply only at his allowance was not lost on you. If he pulled away, decided he was done with your constant push-and-shove, it would be the most fatal double-edged sword you ever encountered.

Weeks had passed since your last manufactured collision, after which you’d promptly chewed both America and Wong out so bad they’d ceased immediately. You had buried yourself in your research after, only to stall out after mere days. Since, then you had been nearly glued to Bob’s side entirely of your own volition. Horribly, he seemed to enjoy it, which made everything all the more crushing.

There was a strange comfort in failing together, though. Bob had still made essentially no progress with his abilities since arriving, and you were no closer to your own answer than when you’d begun. Just a couple of abject failures wandering around the most mystical place on the planet, learning together everything except what they should have.

Stephen had nearly lost interest in Bob, now that he’d solved the real problem he’d been gunning at. Really, you should have expected it. He was fascinated with what he was fascinated with, cared about what he cared about, and could not be bothered for much else. If Bob became a real threat, he might bring himself to actually be concerned, but for the moment he seemed unamused. He held on for your sake, because of the sharp look you gave him whenever he became exasperated, but you knew that Bob was catching on too.

He admitted it to you finally after a particularly grueling three hours trapped in the mirror dimension. Stephen had stalked off like the toddler he so frequently behaved, Bob had found you reading under a large tree and you immediately recognized the look on his face. It was the same one you had seen the first night you truly talked to him, when he thought he’d escape to anywhere but here or New York. Resignation. A bone-deep tired. He laid down next to you and stared straight up at the sun, a habit you would have chastised him for if it had actually mattered.

“Jealous,” you muttered, nudging his foot with yours. “We lesser beings can’t do that.”

“Not much to see,” he said. “Just habit.” Then, after a deep breath. “You sure there’s not a spell for that, anyway?”

If there was, it was the furthest thing from your mind. “Maybe. Might be my next project.”

But you knew there would be no other projects, and you sensed that he was coming around on that fact too. He nudged the cover of the book you were reading, only to be met with some long-dead language he couldn’t hope to understand.

“How’s this one?”

“Hopeless,” you admitted, slamming it closed and tossing it to the side. A less bitter you might have been worried about how such an old book would fare on the grass, but you were feeling particularly spiteful. Powerfully spiteful, thanks to extended and close-quartered exposure to your deeply affectionate medication. “No closer than I was when I started.”

It seemed to surprise him. “You seem better, though.”

That was one particular thing you didn’t know how to truly explain, so you simply said, “You know, magic.”

He reached over you for the book despite all concepts of it being lost on him. All he really knew was that you were buried in the same subject you always were. Soulmates. You never told him why, never told him that it was the opposite of a cure you were looking for. He was fascinated all the same, despite how in the dark you kept him. Usually, it was enough to placate him when you just declared you were getting nowhere, but as of late he’d been getting more and more interested.

“What is it with soulmates anyway?” he asked, flipping through the book as though it was a question he was only asking casually. Certainly a hard thing to do when you knew damn well he had no clue what he was looking at.

“What do you mean?”

“All of the research,” he said. “How does it help you? Are you just trying to find them before you…”

Bob had been concerned about you dying, as of late. You guessed that Stephen was dropping more and more hints in the hopes of escaping the vague mentor-mentee thing they had going on. If that taught you anything, it was that you needed to get Bob back into the hands of the New Avengers quickly if you ever did succeed in finding a way to cut your fated thread. You shuddered to think what might happen if you succumbed and Bob was still at Kamar-Taj. Stephen would reveal everything you had been intent on hiding, whether from rage that Bob had not worked it out himself, or out of spite at you. And Bob… you were beginning to think something like that might really cause another New York level incident.

“No,” you said, fighting to keep your tone light and breath even. “No, I— It’s more complicated than that.”

It ultimately became clear he had been pushing you even when he already knew the answer. Your blood ran cold at the phrase I had a dream. Something surged in your ears and you missed much of his next sentence. He only caught on that you either were not listening or could not listen when you looked at him with an anxiety-ridden expression and said nothing. But then you were also beginning to think it must not have been the memory you were worried about, because he was not looking at you like a bomb had been dropped on his head.

“You were laughing,” he said, once you had sat up. He followed suit. “So I wasn’t sure if it was really a suggestion, but if you’re doing all this research it must be real, right?”

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” you said quietly, pulling up blades of grass. Bob didn’t say anything, only urged you to continue with eyes alone. “It’s not supposed to be a thing that fixes you. It’s not— that’s not how it works, for most people.”

“So you don’t think,” Bob began, then cut himself off. He looked pointedly at his shoes. “You don’t think something like that would fix me?”

The very breath was punched out of your chest. You wanted to reach out for him but that hurt you too. It always did. It was not the Void that scared you away from any brush of skin with Bob, it was the very idea that one day you would never want to stop. You ached for him in a way that you were beginning to think extended far beyond the simple repair of your actual soul. Some days, you thought your blood, bones, and every nerve ending sang for it. Each day, you denied them. But it was different when now it seemed like it was for him, like he was the one who needed it.

Heat and static radiated though your fingertips and down your arms when you guided his face to just look at you. “I don’t think you need fixing.” You recognized a yearning in his face that you had seen mirrored in yours before. “And it’s not— it’s an awful feeling to want someone, even in part, just because you know it might fix something in you.”

“But wouldn’t they want to?” he asked. “Isn’t that the whole point? Someone who wants you, all put together or not?”

You didn’t have an answer for that, and you had the very sobering thought that you were getting far too close for comfort. So, you let your hand fall away from his face and began to plan a very heart-wrenching escape route from the grave you’d dug too deep.

At your lack of an answer he said, “Is there any other way for you? I’ll do it, whatever it takes.”

The problem was that this echoed a very similar conversation with Stephen that you had adamantly refused to take any further. The problem was that your heart wanted to stutter to a stop and give out entirely at the thought that Bob was telling you he would do anything, and you were spending all your time trying to find a way to make sure he couldn’t.

“Please don’t,” you all but gasped out, pushing yourself up and out his reach. “Please don’t say things like that. Please.”

It was foolish to think you could move faster than him. He was grasping at you. Not hard, but firm. Rooting you in place. A furnace against you, tears glistening in his eyes. “I can’t lose you, don’t you get that? I want to be what you need, so tell me there’s some magic way to make it happen.” From his mouth, your name sounded more like an invocation than anything. It took everything you had not to fall apart right there. “You’re all I dream about. You’re all I want to dream about.”

“Bob, I—”

“I’m in love with you,” he said. “Can’t that be enough?”

He was searing against you and you lost all capability for human language. His forehead against yours, eyes shut, holding you like he thought he could keep you tethered to life just with his own force. But it was as far as he allowed himself to go, even with the so-obvious ache you could see on his face. The smallest twitch of his lips from the effort of keeping himself from pressing them against yours. You damned yourself for it, but you did the work for him. You felt the full body warmth of him. It felt all at once like there was not a centimeter of your body he wasn’t touching. You were surrounded by him entirely.

“It feels right,” he said, still so close you could feel his lips move to form the words. “Why isn’t it?”

“It is,” you promised. “Of course it is. I’m sorry.”

He was on you again, all heat. It clicked inside your chest full and heavy, just like a puzzle piece slotting into place.

⊛

“To recap,” John Walker said, looking simultaneously fascinated and annoyed, “you were literally wasting away, killing yourself trying to destroy the one thing you needed to keep living, all because you didn’t want to be a burden?”

You nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”

He rounded on Bob. “And you, you were ready to do, and I quote, whatever it took, to save her and you didn’t stop to think for one second that you were actually soulmates?”

“Also yes,” Bob admitted.

John slumped back on the couch like he’d just taken a beating. “I think I hate you both. And I mean that genuinely.”

“I think it’s downright adorable,” Ava remarked, but you were fairly certain that was just to piss John off.

Yelena was digesting the information and unnecessary commentary, stroking her pet guinea pig the entire time. Bucky, several minutes ago, had thrown his hands up in exasperation and decided he was done listening to the story of the two of you hopelessly pining like idiots. Alexei, to his credit, was enraptured and taking nonsensical notes the entire time.

“So, basically,” Yelena began, and you nearly groaned at what you assumed was going to be another unnecessary recap, “you are mystically married now?”

It was not the question you had been expecting.

“Oh,” Bob said. “Yeah, that too.”

“It’s a binding ceremony, actually,” you added. “A little more involved. Quite literally tying our life forces together. But sure, I guess you could call it that.”

“Outstanding,” Alexei remarked. “Would make fascinating rom-com.”

Frustrated still, John exclaimed, “Did you even learn anything about your actual superpowers?”

Bob shook his head. “No. Still can’t be the Sentry without the other guy.”

“My god,” John dramatized, “I think you’re giving me a stroke. I’m a super-soldier and I think you’re giving me a stroke.”

Everyone else ganged up on him, from threatening to actually call 911 just to make a fool of him or actually somehow inducing a very real stroke. You leaned back into Bob, muttering lowly, “I love you, but are you sure you don’t want to go back to Kamar-Taj?”

“I like them, unfortunately.”

#robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #thunderbolts fanfiction #bob reynolds soulmate au #robert reynolds soulmate au

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