sbnslver

[sbnslver]

Misunderstanding

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader

warnings/notes: angst, reader is described as timid/shy, fluff

a/n: this prompt was sent in as a request! hope you all enjoy <3

summary: you accept Bucky’s invitation to attend Tony’s charity gala as his date, but your night quickly turns sour when you find out about his bet with Natasha

Your hands tremble as you raise the gun towards your target and fixate your aim on the bullseye. You’ve never handled a weapon like this before, but your novice status in the shooting range isn’t what has you feeling so nervous.

“Relax your arms a bit,” Bucky suggests, his hands gently resting on your biceps as he positions them in the correct form. His chest is pressed against your back, strong arms encasing you against him while he uses his leg to gently nudge your own into the proper stance. His metal hand comes to rest on yours and adjust your aim so that it’s aligned with the target across the way from you both. You hope he can’t hear the rapid beating of your heart or feel the growing perspiration resulting from being so close to the man, and you hope he doesn’t take notice of the fact that your powers are slowly manifesting themselves around you in result of your emotions.

You’ve been an Avenger for a few months now, having joined the team after they’d been sent to investigate an environmental disturbance in a quiet California town. You had just developed your powers after becoming an unwilling test subject for your father’s experiments and had little to no control over your ability to manipulate the flora around you. The city had been turned into your own arboretum overrun with a multitude of different plants, some more dangerous than others, and it was only with their help had you been able to clean up the mess.

Your first months training had been spent solely focusing on controlling your powers, managing your emotions to prevent plants from popping up in places they didn’t belong, but this was easier said than done. Your abilities still had the tendency to activate even when you didn’t want them to, but you were doing much better now with practice. Your regime had slowly begun to include more practical elements like hand-to-hand combat, stealth, and weaponry. That’s how you ended up alone in the shooting range with Bucky who had been more than happy to help you learn.

“Now when you’re ready, pull the trigger,” his encouraging voice sounds in your ear.

You clicked with Bucky almost immediately after joining the team. As a victim of scientific experimentation himself, he understood the trepidation you held towards your abilities and the loss of autonomy you were experiencing. He was a calming presence that provided you with comfort every time you felt like your body was turning against you, and it wasn’t long before he decided to take you under his wing. You’d become fast friends in no time, and it was a rare occurrence at the tower to see one of you without the other.

Calming your nerves, you let out a slow exhale before pulling the trigger. You watch anxiously as the bullet flies out of the barrel and hits your target dead on.

“Right on the mark!” Bucky compliments proudly before removing himself from you. You find yourself already missing the closeness, but you play it cool by flashing him a bashful smile. Your joy has already begun to present itself as tiny daisies bloom at your feet, but the super soldier doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. “See, wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I just got lucky,” you admit with a sheepish shrug. Bucky laughs before giving you an encouraging pat on the back.

“You just need some practice. I’m sure you’ll be able to start shooting at moving targets in no time.”

“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” A third voice chimes. You turn your heads to find Natasha standing in the doorway, a knowing smile on her face as she greets you two with a nod before settling her gaze on Bucky. “Steve’s asking for you. Wants to talk strategy for the mission you two were assigned.”

“Right,” Bucky sighs before turning to you. “I’m going to be gone for a few days. Will you be alright without me?”

“I’ll manage,” you joke with a halfhearted smile that Bucky is quick to match. Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest from the way his blue eyes stare down at you, and you hope neither he nor Natasha can pick up on your nerves.

“Don’t worry, Barnes,” Natasha quips as she comes to wrap an arm around your frame, “she’ll be in good hands while you’re gone.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he affirms with a nod, bidding you both a goodbye before making his way to Steve.

You’d been holding back your powers for as long as you could in Bucky’s presence, so once the man is gone you let out a sigh of relief and finally release the tension within you. Red carnations bloom in a circle around you before quickly wilting once you will them away with a wave of your hand. You wish your abilities weren’t so intertwined with your thoughts, and you wish you weren’t so infatuated with your teammate.

“Rough day of training?” Natasha prompts with a raised brow.

“Just overwhelmed, I guess,” you offer with a weak shrug before gesturing to your surroundings, “and a bit intimidated by all of this.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” she assures you with a faint smile. “It just takes time.”

You settle into a comfortable silence as you begin to clean up the mess left behind from your training session. Natasha simply watches on in silence, but you can tell by the look on her face that she’s heavily contemplating her next words.

“So you and Barnes?” She finally prompts, acting as inconspicuously as possible. You stiffen slightly at the question but immediately regain your composure as you unload your gun.

“What about me and Barnes?” You retort as nonchalantly as possible, though the mere mention of the man has your heart skipping a beat.

“You guys have gotten awfully close these last few months.”

“He’s a good friend,” you retort defensively, but it’s clear that Natasha isn’t buying your story. Her gaze suddenly becomes fixated on your head, and you watch with uncertainty as she reaches forward and lightly plucks something out of your hair. You blanch at the sight of the rosebud in her hand and try to avoid her knowing stare.

“You like him, don’t you?” She says with a coy smile.

“God, please don’t tell anyone,” you beg her in earnest while snatching the flower away, eyes full of panic and desperation. You thought you were doing well at hiding your little crush on Bucky, but you should have known better than to think an amateur like you could fool a top agent like Natasha.

“My lips are sealed, but even if I wanted to tell I think these flowers would end up blowing your cover before I could.”

“I can’t help it!” You exclaim in exasperation. “Wanda has been helping me learn to control my thoughts, but it’s like that all goes out the window whenever I’m with him.”

“Have you ever considered telling him?” She asks with a raised brow as if it’s the most obvious solution.

“Are you crazy? I think I’d rather die.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she scoffs with an amused roll of her eyes. “What’s the harm in playing the field?”

“I doubt there’s any part of him that sees me as more than the new teammate he has to babysit,” you denote woefully, clearly having already accepted defeat in your predicament. “Why risk making things horribly awkward for everyone?”

“It’ll only be horribly awkward if he actually rejects you,” Natasha reminds you thoughtfully, “and he won’t. But, Bucky also won’t make the first move either, so you have to.”

“Fat chance,” you murmur under your breath before turning to the armory to return your gun. You miss the look of determination that flashes across her features as she mulls over your conversation. It’s clear to her that your feelings for Bucky aren’t something that can just be swept under the rug, and she’s well aware of the fact that you won’t be able to muster up the courage to voice your feelings.

It seems it’ll be up to her to make the first move on your behalf.

~~~

“Y/n, just the person I wanted to see!” Tony’s voice calls, prompting you to halt in your tracks and remove your headphones. You’d just finished a workout session with Thor and were dying to let your aching muscles relax under a hot shower, but it seems your teammate had other plans.

“What is it?” You press gently while slowing your brisk pace so that Tony can walk alongside you in the hall. You watch with piqued interest as he pulls an envelope out of his pocket and hands it over to you.

“This, my dear, is an invitation to your very first charity gala,” he replies proudly. “I’ve already taken the liberty of RSVPing for you, so consider this as more of a formality than anything.”

“Charity gala?” You retort with a raised brow.

“Stark Industries throws one every year to raise money for good causes around the world, and it’s customary that every Avenger attends.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl nervously, already anxious at the thought of a huge party full of random strangers who know you as the girl that almost turned the state of California into an uninhabitable forest.

“You’re an Avenger now, sweetheart,” Tony reminds you thoughtfully, “and this will be a great way to introduce our newest member to the public and let them get to know you more. You wouldn’t say no to charity, would you?”

“No,” you sigh in defeat, clearly bested by Tony’s guilt tripping. You will yourself to open the envelope and take in the extravagant detailing on the card listing the time and date for the event. You’re not exactly the most extroverted person on the team, but you figure if you can fight world ending threats with no problem then you should be able to stomach one night of being paraded around like a show pony. “I guess I better find something to wear.”

“There’s the spirit,” Tony grins cheekily, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet before producing his credit card. “You know what, since this is your first event why don’t you take my card and buy something new. Sky’s the limit.”

You look at him stunned before hesitantly pocketing the card and thanking the man for his generosity. You never imagined that one day you’d be able to have access to Tony Stark’s credit card, but then again, you also never imagined you’d be living under the same roof as Captain America and Black Widow.

After your conversation with Tony, you finally make your way back to your own room and step into the shower to freshen up. You spend most of it anxiously mulling over the upcoming gala and worrying about how you’re going to present yourself. You hate being perceived by strangers, but you suppose that’s what happens when you become a public figure.

Once you make yourself presentable again, you roam the tower in search of Wanda to seek out some guidance for your attire. You make your way through the hallways hoping to run into her after finding her bedroom empty, but you instead stumble upon a hushed conversation taking place in the kitchen. You falter slightly at the sound of Natasha’s voice, and though you can’t make out what she says you’re curious to know what she could be speaking so secretively about. Not wanting to eavesdrop, you make your presence known by rounding the corner only to be met with the startled faces of Nat and Bucky.

“Bucky?” You retort in surprise, stomach already twisting with nerveous knots the moment you meet his eyes. “I didn’t know you were back.”

“Just got back an hour ago,” he explains with a tired smile, but you don’t miss the way he subtly shoots a glance at Natasha before returning his gaze to you. The two look suspicious, almost as if you’d caught them in the middle of something you weren’t mean to be privy of, and though you tried to ignore it you felt unnerved. You didn’t think your teammates capable of keeping secrets from you, especially not Bucky or Natasha, but it seemed apparent that they knew something you didn’t and intended to keep it that way.

“I’m glad you made it back safe,” you offer with a timid smile, swallowing down your nerves to keep your powers at bay. You can feel the itchiness on your palms resulting from a flower attempting to bloom and decide it’s best to make your exit as quickly as possible. “I, uh… I guess I’ll leave you two alone now.”

“You don’t have to go,” Bucky assures you with a frown, but you quickly shake your head and already begin making your exit before he can argue further.

“I have to find Wanda,” you answer almost breathlessly. You quicken your pace before either of them can stop you, your heart pounding in your chest and thorn covered vines trailing in your wake at the sudden emotional discomfort you’re experiencing.

You can’t help but to think you’d accidentally walked in on an intimate moment between the two and perhaps discovered a secret bond they shared. Your stomach flipped violently at the thought. Surely Bucky and Natasha weren’t involved romantically, were they? You knew she could be harsh, but you don’t think she’d be cruel enough to fill your head with encouragement to pursue Bucky just to end up pursing him herself.

You give up on your plans to find Wanda and instead shut yourself into your room for the remainder of the evening to wallow in your ruminative overthinking. You’re left to your own devices for a good hour before a knock sounds at your bedroom door.

“Come in,” you call out quietly. You watch on in interest as your door slowly creeps open so Bucky can peek his head inside.

“You got a minute?” He asks with a bashful smile that makes it impossible to deny him. You give him a small nod and watch as the man makes his way into your room before timidly seating himself on the edge of your bed. “I wanted to talk to you earlier but you sort of just bolted out of there.”

“Sorry,” you reply with a meek smile, eyes glancing away towards the floor. “I was feeling a little overwhelmed about Tony’s charity gala. Plus, it looked like you and Natasha were having a pretty intense conversation…”

“Right, that,” Bucky says with a sigh.

You muster up the courage to peek over at him and ask, “Are you two…?”

“What? No, of course not,” he quickly interjects, and despite the subtle guilt that arises within you, you feel relieved to hear him say this. “I know it might have looked suspect, but I was actually talking to her about you.”

“Me?” You repeat in surprise, shifting closer to the soldier and hanging onto his every word. A fond smile washes over him as he sets his eyes upon you and carefully reaches for your hand.

“I wanted to know if I’d have a shot at being your date to Tony’s charity gala,” Bucky admits with a charming grin. Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest, and you can’t help the sudden triggering of your powers as bushes of roses plant themselves around your bed. Your face heats with embarrassment at the display, but the giddy smile on your face says otherwise as you look to Bucky with wide eyes.

“You want to be my date?” You repeat in disbelief, nearly swooning when Bucky carefully picks a rose from beside him and hands it to you.

“I’d be honored if you’ll have me,” he utters sincerely, voice gentle and eyes full of admiration as he gazes upon your flushed face.

“Of course I’ll have you!” You exclaim, all inhibitions thrown out the window as you fling yourself into his arms and tightly embrace the super soldier. He lets out a soft laugh before gently wrapping his arms around your figure and encasing you against him. You never would have dreamed that Bucky would be hugging you so tightly in your room, that you’d ever be going to a charity gala as his date, or that he’d ever return your affections so sweetly as he was now. You’re overjoyed, a multitude of colorful flowers blooming around you much to Bucky’s amusement.

You suddenly find that you’re not so nervous now about Tony’s party.

~~~

“Hold still,” Wanda scolds lightly as she carefully swipes the makeup brush across your eyelids.

“I can’t help it, it tickles!” You retort defensively only for the witch to roll her eyes in amusement.

The night of the gala had finally arrived, and you were grateful for the fact that Wanda had been more than thrilled to handle your makeup for you. You worried your nerves would prevent you from creating a flawless look, and you entrusted her steady hands much more than your own trembling ones. You had purchased the perfect dress and jewelry to match, and all you were missing was a pair of heels to go along with it.

“I found them,” Natasha’s voice announces as she enters the room with the shoes she’d offered to lend you. “These should fit perfect for you.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you gush in earnest, earning a pleased smile from her in response.

“Barnes is going to lose his mind when he sees you tonight,” she compliments with a wink.

“I had a feeling about you two,” Wanda adds teasingly as she puts the finishing touches on your makeup. “I’ve caught him thinking about you when you’re not around. He’s smitten.”

You smile bashfully at the floor in response to their comments and nervously rub your arm as you think about Bucky. You’ve been waiting for this night for weeks, and now that it’s here you couldn’t be more excited. You were finally going to spend a romantic evening with the man you’d harbored feelings for since joining the team, and you had high hopes that the night would end with your friendship becoming something more.

After Wanda finishes your makeup and Natasha helps you learn how to balance in the heels, you make your way downstairs where Bucky waits patiently in his best suit and tie. His eyes brighten when they land on you, and you let out an embarrassed laugh when he releases a long whistle at the sight of you.

“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he compliments in earnest before taking your hand in his own and prompting you to twirl. “Come on, give me a little spin.”

You do as requested and giggle in delight at the attention you’re receiving. You always thought yourself to be fairly pretty, but Bucky makes you feel like you’re the most gorgeous woman on the planet. His eyes rake over your figure and admire every detail of your ensemble while still managing to be respectful of your person. You never thought the man who always appeared so solemn and reserved on the outside could be so romantically sweet.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” You ask meekly, somewhat apprehensive about your look. This isn’t how you’d typically style yourself, and though you enjoy the glamour and excitement that come with attending the gala you’re worried about how the public will perceive your image as the newest Avenger.

“I think you look perfect,” Bucky assures you before opening your door and helping you into the car. The drive is filled with quiet conversation as he informs you on what to expect at a Stark party and how to expertly avoid nosy reporters. You’re absolutely enamored by the Winter Soldier, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt as secure as you do now alongside Bucky.

Just as Bucky had warned you, a gaggle of journalists surround your car as you arrive at the party. You feel the nerves beginning to overtake you, but Bucky’s gentle touch against your arm brings you back down to earth as he assures you he’s got your back. He helps you out of the car and allows you to take his arm before guiding you up the stairs into the building. You’re blinded by the flash of cameras and overwhelmed by the multitude of voices that try to get your attention, something Bucky can sense by the way your grip on his arm tightens.

“Don’t worry,” he assures you, leaning in close enough for you to feel his breath fan against your ear as he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

You feel your heart nearly burst from the gentleness of the words and the way he lovingly gaze down at you. Everything around you seems to melt away when your eyes meet his own blue ones, and all your mind can comprehend is Bucky- the smell of his cologne, the way the corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile, the softness of his touch. You’re completely enamored, and you hope he feels as strongly as you do.

Despite your initial apprehension towards the charity gala, the night almost seems to go seamlessly for you and the Avengers. Tony is able to secure generous donations from his richest guests, your teammates are able to relax for a rare night of festivities, and since gaining your powers you’re finally able to feel comfortable in your own skin.

Halfway through the party you end up on the dance floor with Bucky, your head resting against his shoulder as he holds you close and gently sways you in time to the slow song being played by the band. Despite the excitement you feel, you’ve been able to keep your powers at bay the entire night.

“You having a good time?” Bucky asks after twirling you on the dance floor. You smile as he immediately pulls you back into his arms, finding solace in him as you drape your arms around his neck.

“It’s not as scary as I thought it would be,” you admit with a sheepish smile. “I was afraid I’d mess it all up, but Tony says the journalists loved me.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Bucky says adamantly. “You’re sweet and funny and so strong.”

“You really mean that?”

“Course I do,” he assures you with a charming wink. You let out a quiet laugh and bashfully look away only for Bucky to gently grab your chin and redirect your gaze back to his own. “You’re the prettiest girl in this entire room, and I’m the luckiest guy to get to have you on my arm tonight.”

You swallow nervously as you meet his intense stare, unused to having him look upon you in such a way. Bucky had always been sweet on you, but you assumed his kindness was a result of platonic affection and understanding for the new girl on the team. You were vulnerable and alone when you first joined the Avengers, and you assumed the extra care he gave you was merely him trying to smoothen your transition into the life of a hero. But now, with eyes boring into your soul while his metal hand gently presses against the small of your back to bring you closer to him, it seems as if your hopes for his affection are finally coming true.

“Bucky?” You murmur softly, stomach twisting itself into nervous knots.

“Yeah, doll?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you that I… well, I-“

“Mind if I cut in?” A voice interrupts, startling you both out of the moment as you turn to meet Natasha’s expectant gaze. She looks between you both with a raised before asking, “Did I interrupt something?”

“No, not at all,” you quickly interject before Bucky can answer. You look to the man with an apologetic smile in search of approval. “I’ll find you after this dance, okay?”

“Sure,” he relents with an understanding nod, “I’ll get us some drinks in the meantime.”

You watch his figure disappear into the crowd before allowing Natasha to pull you in for a dance. You shamelessly let her take the lead as she guides your steps to match with hers, and she wears a knowing smirk on her face as she looks to you. “I didn’t mean to interrupt the moment, but I wanted to see how things were going.”

“I’m kind of glad you did,” you offer with a despondent sigh. “I almost told him how I feel.”

“What? That’s great!” Natasha retorts, confusion clearly etched on her features. “I feel like you should be more upset with me than you are right now.”

“I’m just afraid of the possibility that I could be reading it all wrong. I mean, I know he asked me to be his date, but what if this is just a one-night only type of deal? Steve said Bucky was a charmer back in his day, so maybe he’s just trying to be nice and show me a good time.”

“Wow,” the redhead breathes out with a shake of her head. “You really are dense.”

“Natasha!” You exclaim in offense only to receive an eye roll in response.

“If you can’t see how completely enamored that man is with you then I can’t help you,” she states bluntly. In a gentler tone now, Natasha gives your hip an encouraging squeeze before continuing, “I have never seen you as sure or confident in yourself as you’ve been tonight, so don’t be so quick to revert back to doubting your worth. You deserve to get what you want.”

Despite the initial harshness of her words, you know that Natasha is right. You’ve worked hard these last few months to earn your spot on the team, to prove your capabilities, and to force yourself out of your protective shell. Gaining your powers and overrunning an entire city with plants had been terrifying but you’d gotten through it, so there was no reason to believe you couldn’t handle putting yourself out there and sharing with Bucky the feelings you’d been harboring for him. His actions tonight were clear indicators that the possibility of him viewing you in more than a platonic lens was real, and if a woman like Natasha who’d been trained to easily read others could clearly see his interest in you, then you shouldn’t have any ounce of doubt left within you.

“You’re right,” you utter undauntedly with a firm nod of your head. “I should just get over my fears and tell him how I feel.”

“There’s the spirit,” Natasha retorts with a proud smirk. She releases you once your dance is over and sends you off with a wink, watching on proudly as you leave to search for Bucky. “Good luck!”

You manage to push your way through the crowded banquet halls towards the bar, but Bucky isn’t there. Your eyes anxiously scan the room for any sign of your date, and you’re barely able to catch sight of him stepping out onto the patio with Steve and Sam. You smile in relief before briskly making your way over to him. You’re not as nervous as you thought you’d be, and your body feels as if it’s vibrating with the exhilaration you feel at finally taking charge in your life for once. You don’t want to be the shy or timid Avenger your teammates know you as any longer; you want to be seen as someone who knows what she wants and is sure in her ability to achieve it, and you hope that after tonight you’ll be able to prove that.

The cool night air sends immediate shivers across your bare arms as you reach the doorway to the patio. The three men have their backs turned to you as they converse amongst one another away from the crowded party, enjoying a moment of peace free of reporters and fanatic guests. You know that you should make yourself known instead of eavesdropping, yet you can’t help but falter when you hear your name arise in the conversation.

“So you and y/n?” Steve prompts with a pleased smile. “You two looked like you were having a lot of fun out on the dance floor.”

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Bucky voices, admiration present in his tone. You feel your heart swell with bliss at hearing the way he talks so fondly of you when he thinks you’re not around, and it only makes you more sure of your decision to tell him how you feel.

“I like you two together,” his friend says with sincerity. “I think you’ve both helped each other come out of your shells.”

“Not to mention she makes you less grumpy,” Sam notes with a playful smirk. “I just can’t believe you managed to pull off getting her to agree to come as your date tonight. She’s gorgeous and clearly way out of your league.”

You muffle your quiet laugh with your hand and decide that now is probably a good time to reveal yourself to save Bucky from Sam’s teasing, but his next words have you stopped dead in your tracks.

“Well, it wasn’t really my idea,” he explains while uncomfortably running a hand through his hair. “Natasha put me up to it.”

You can practically feel your heart sinking in your chest as the words settle into your mind. Your lips part in quiet shock and your stomach tightens in disgust at the reality you’re met with.

“Natasha?” Steve retorts with a raised brow. Bucky nods.

“We made a deal that she’d take over my next field assignment for me if I got y/n to be my date to Tony’s party.”

You slowly shake your head in disbelief and begin to back away as the weight of his confession sinks down onto your mind. You thought that Bucky was finally beginning to see you the way you see him, that he meant it when he said how lucky he was to have you on his arm tonight, that you were finally crossing over from being platonic friends to something more.

But it had all been a lie.

Sam turns to set his glass on a nearby table only to freeze when he sees you standing there. He takes in your trembling figure and wide eyes and is quickly able to piece together the fact that you’d heard everything.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, garnering the attention of both men as all three now turn to find you lingering in the doorway. Bucky’s face falls as he makes contact with your glossy eyes and trembling lips.

“Y/n,” he utters remorsefully, taking a step towards you only for you to step back.

“I can’t believe you,” you manage to get out in a quivering voice, holding back a sob before quickly turning and making your exit.

You’re overwhelmed by the music that now feels like it’s blaring in your ears and the suffocation that overtakes you as you push through the crowded hall. You feel like you can’t breathe, and all you want is to get out of this party as fast as possible so you can return to the tower.

“Y/n, wait!” Bucky’s voice calls after, garnering the attention of a few onlookers who pause their conversations to watch the super soldier chase after you. He finally catches up to you once you make it to the front room away from the party, gently grasping onto your hand to halt your frenzied escape. “Doll, let me explain-“

“Explain what?” You spit harshly despite the tears that fall down your cheeks. “That you lied to me? That you only brought me here because of some stupid bet?!”

“It’s not like that,” he insists only for you to yank your hand away with a frustrated groan.

“Really? Because that’s what it sounded like to me,” you utter in quiet disbelief. “I can’t believe I actually fell for it.”

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Bucky pleads gently before carefully reaching out for your arm. His words only infuriate you further, prompting thorns to sprout from your skin and protect you from his touch.

“Oh, right, because that makes it better,” you retort sarcastically. “I actually thought that you could like me the way I like you… I let you make me believe that I was the prettiest girl in the room and that you could actually want to be with me.”

Your shoulders tremble as you let out a quiet sob, and Bucky can only watch on in despair as he tries to remedy the situation he’d created. He never meant to hurt you, and he hated to see you cry as a result of his own actions.

“Y/n, come on,” he urges you softly, now using his metal hand to try and reach for you. “Let me fix this, let me explain everything and I promise-“

“You want to fix this?” You interrupt in a shaky voice, swallowing down another sob that threatens to fall before backing away from the man. “Then leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you.”

“Y/n…”

“Congratulations on winning your bet,” you utter despondently before slamming the doors shut behind you and leaving Bucky to ruminate in the mess he’d created.

It was never supposed to be like this.

~~~

You haven’t left your room since returning from the party last night.

Your evening of glamour and excitement had come crashing down after your argument, and once you got home you immediately rid yourself of all remnants of the charity gala. You initially had been filled with anger and rage, but all you felt now was an embarrassing sadness. Natasha had filled your head with fantasies and gotten your hopes up about Bucky only for you to end up humiliated. A rational part of you knew she must have meant well by bribing Bucky into taking you to the charity gala as his date, but you wished she never would have meddled in the first place.

You don’t think you can ever stand to be around him let alone even look at him after hearing him talk about your night as if it was something less tedious to be done in comparison to being sent out into the field. You thought you were worth more to him than a stupid bet to be made, but his words had clearly proven you wrong.

No one has attempted to enter your room since last night, though it’s not like they could even if they tried considering you’d barricaded your door with a wall of prickling vines and thorn bushes to block their path. You didn’t want to see or speak to anyone, even if you knew that eventually you’d have to face your teammates at some point.

As you try to pass the time by tending to the plants littered around the room, a knock at the door interrupts the peaceful atmosphere you’ve created. You’re honestly surprised someone had managed to pull it off considering the multitude of thorns should have stopped them from doing so, but you make no move to answer it.

“Y/n, it’s me,” Bucky’s voice sounds, prompting you to bristle with unease. The thorns on the outside grow larger, but this does not deter the super soldier who uses his metal arm to knock against them. “Please talk to me. You have no idea how much this is killing me.”

“I told you I want nothing to do with you,” you shout back wrathfully. “Leave me alone!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that doll.”

“Why don’t you go make another deal with Natasha and bet you can get me to open the door,” you retort sarcastically much to Bucky’s dismay. The quiet and timid girl he’d been so used to was nowhere to be found now, and you weren’t about to let him win you over again with charming flatteries.

Bucky groans in frustration, moving to walk away only to halt in his steps and turn back towards your door. He’s determined to get through to you, and despite the cold shoulder you’re giving him he’s not going to give up until you hear him out.

“Fine, you don’t have to open the door,” he says calmly, hands raised in surrender as he ceases his pounding. "I’ll just talk to you from here.”

You roll your eyes at his statement and try to block out his voice as you water your plants, but you can’t help the part inside of you that desperately wants to know why he would ever stoop so low to use you as leverage in a bet. You adored him, but he’d broken your heart, and you felt you did deserve an answer even if you didn’t want to hear it. You don’t respond to his proclamation, but you also don’t interrupt him, and Bucky takes this as a sign to keep going.

“I know I screwed up, and I shouldn’t have agreed to making that deal, but you have to understand that I didn’t ask you out just to get out of a field assignment,” Bucky says earnestly, prompting you to pause your ministrations and set your watering can aside as you slowly make your way closer to the door. “I worded it all wrong when I was telling Steve and Sam, and you didn’t give me the chance to explain myself.”

“When I came home from my mission with Steve, Natasha cornered me in the kitchen to talk to me about Tony’s charity gala. I had no plans to attend whatsoever until she warned me that if I didn’t go, some other guy would get the chance to sweep you off your feet instead. And I realized… I realized I didn’t want that to happen.”

Your eyebrows raise slightly at his confession before furrowing in confusion. You recalled the night you’d stumbled upon him with Nat in the kitchen, and you remember he had explicitly told you they’d been discussing you. You hadn’t been able to hear anything said between the two, and you were now finally learning for the first time what they’d been so secretively conversing about.

“She said I didn’t have the guts to man up and ask you out,” he says quietly, features forlorn as he leans back against the wall. “She bet I’d be too scared to ever make the first move, and I wanted to prove her wrong. I didn’t make that deal because I thought it would be an easy way to get out of work or to humiliate you. I did it because I like you, and I would hate for Natasha to be right about me letting some other lucky guy win you over all because I was too scared to open my mouth and tell you how I feel.”

A heavy silence fills the hallway as Bucky stands with bated breath before your door and waits for any sort of response from the other side. A part of him fears that you hadn’t heard a word he’d said, or even worse, had heard everything and simply chose to ignore it. However, just when he feels like giving up and finally leaving you alone, the vines guarding your room slowly begin to rescind until there’s nothing left. The door slides open and reveals your hesitant figure standing on the other side. Neither of you speaks at first, too nervous to make the first move, but after a moment you finally work up the nerve to talk.

“You said you wanted to tell me how you feel,” you utter softly, taking a nervous swallow before continuing, “so tell me.”

Bucky can’t help but to smile after finally being able to see you again, and you watch in uncertainty as he takes a step towards you and carefully takes your hands in his.

“I’ve had feelings for you since the day you touched my metal arm and accidentally made daises bloom around it,” he voices with an affectionate grin. “You make me want to be a better man every time I’m around you, and I know that if you gave me the chance I’d do everything in my power to be the guy you deserve.”

You bite back the tears that begin to well at his confession, a smile playing upon your trembling lips as you listen to Bucky say the words you’ve only ever dreamed about hearing. You can see the sincerity swimming in his eyes and know that he isn’t lying to make you feel better. What he says is real, and he means it with every fiber of his being.

“I believe you,” you relent quietly, “and I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to apologize.”

“I’m the idiot who should be apologizing,” Bucky avows with a chuckle while giving your hands a gentle squeeze. “I shouldn’t have needed a bet to tell you how I feel. Will you still have me, doll? Even after how stupid I’ve been?”

You giggle quietly as you pull him closer and prompt him to wrap his strong arms around your figure. You peer up to meet his loving gaze while gently placing a hand on his cheek, heart thrumming rapidly in your chest when he immediately melts at the feel of your touch. “Of course I’ll have you.”

Bucky bites back a smile, holding you close as he leans down to meet your lips in a kiss. Your arms find their way around his neck while his hands press against your back to hold you tightly against him as if he never wants to let you go again. The doorway once covered in thorns now blooms with beautiful roses, signifying your reconciliation with the man you adore.

Maybe that bet wasn’t so bad after all.

[sbnslver]

all the little moments 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: so, so much fluff

summary: bucky tries to remember the moment he fell for you—but it wasn’t just one. it was every laugh, every late night, every quiet second beside you. and he finally realises, he’s been falling all along.

word count: 4.7k

author's note: hi my loves! i absolutely loved writing this! thank you @buckyismysafehaven for your request 💓 i hope i got it right! thank you guys for reading!! love ya guys and stay safe out there! requests are open!

The bedroom is quiet.

Not silent, the low hum of the ceiling fan stirs the air, the soft buzz of the city seeps through the walls, but quiet in the way that wraps around you. It was gentle, familiar and safe.

Outside, the moon is high and full, casting its silver glow through the parted curtains. It spills across the sheets in soft waves of light, catching in your hair, brushing the curve of your cheek. Painting you in silver.

And Bucky—he’s lying there beside you, unmoving, watching you breathe.

He should be asleep.

The day had been long. A mission brief that dragged on, the kind of sparring session that left his muscles aching, a too-quick dinner with the team where he had barely touched his food. He should be out cold.

And he is—just not in a way that lets him rest.

His arm is draped loosely over your waist, the dip of your back pressing into the warmth of his chest. He can feel the steady pull of your lungs, the rise and fall of your breathing, even and peaceful. A little hitch in every inhale, like your body forgets it’s safe and has to relearn the rhythm. 

He knows that feeling. A little too well. 

You make a quiet sound in your sleep, something between a sigh and a murmur. and it knocks the air from his chest. A fragile, instinctive kind of sound that’s so you it aches. Like your soul is brushing against his without even knowing it.

It never gets easier—loving you.

Not because you’re difficult to love. God, no. 

You’re the easiest thing he’s ever known. That’s what scares him. That’s what keeps him awake tonight, blinking into moonlight and trying to gather the pieces of a feeling that’s far too big to hold.

Because it crept in quietly, and it stayed loud.

Sometimes, like now, he finds himself trying to trace it. Trying to find the precise moment it all shifted, the second everything inside him stopped running, and turned toward you.

There had to be a moment. Right? One blink. One breath. One laugh. One look.

Where something inside him softened, where the walls cracked just wide enough for you to slip through. Where you reached him, not the soldier, not the weapon, not the caution-taped pieces of a man, but him. 

The part no one else could seem to find.

Was it when you touched him like he wasn’t fragile? Like your hands already knew how to hold what everyone else had dropped?

Was it when you argued with him about The Princess Bride at 3 in the morning, eyes bright, voice sharp, utterly unafraid of him?

Was it when he realised he wanted to argue with you forever, just to keep hearing you talk?

He doesn’t know. Not really.

But the question sits heavy in his chest tonight. Settles into the quiet like a second heartbeat.

When did he fall for you?

He looks at you again.

The moonlight makes you glow, not in some poetic metaphor, but really. Soft skin and warm breath and shadows curving at your jawline like you were carved for this moment. 

There’s a crease between your brows, like you’re dreaming of something that doesn’t quite sit right. He wants to smooth it away with his thumb. Wants to take whatever burden you’re carrying and hold it himself.

But he doesn’t move. Just watches.

And maybe that’s what love really is.

Not always doing. Just being. Being the one who notices the little things.

How your lip quirks when you’re about to wake. How you press your face into the pillow when the wind howls. Or how you always keep one arm out of the blanket, even when you’re freezing.

His fingers twitch, aching to touch, memorise and hold you.

He breathes in slow, careful. Like if he’s too loud, he might wake you.

And again—

When did he fall?

It isn’t loud. It doesn’t echo. It’s not a scream or a cry or a revelation. It’s just there. Steady. Present. Just like you.

Maybe it wasn’t one moment at all.

Maybe it was a thousand tiny ones, the quiet seconds, split between laughter and comfort and breathless stares, that slipped past him before he ever realised how deeply they mattered.

Maybe he’s still falling. Even now.

He exhales, a soft breath ghosting past your ear, and shifts closer. His arm tightens slightly around your waist, not possessive. Just something quieter. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to your shoulder. Barely there. 

You don’t wake. But you shift in your sleep, inching back into him, like your body knows the shape of his even in dreams.

And Bucky closes his eyes, chest full, heart aching in the best way.

Mind already drifting—

To the first time he laughed wholeheartedly. To the night you stayed up talking.

To all the pieces that led to this moment.

It started with the smoke alarm.

Loud, relentless and shrill enough to pierce vibranium.

Bucky was halfway down the hall when he smelled it—burnt sugar, maybe?

Burnt something. The scent clawed at his throat. He picked up his pace, boots heavy against the tile as the shrieking alarm dragged on.

By the time he burst into the kitchen, it looked like the aftermath of a food fight staged in a war zone.

Yelena stood frozen near the stove, oven mitt dangling from her fingers, smoke curling from a tray of what used to be croissants.

John was shouting something about protocol and “fire triangle theory,” which no one was listening to.

Alexei was on his knees in front of the smoke detector, swatting at it with a spatula like it had insulted his mother. Ava was holding a fire extinguisher in one hand and a coffee mug in the other like it was a normal Thursday.

You were leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a bowl of batter still in front of you. Perfectly calm.

And then—

The tray slipped from Yelena’s hands. It hit the stove with a loud clang. A poof of flour shot up like an airbag.

Alexei screamed. Loudly. Dramatically. “MY EYES—”

And amidst all of it—no panic. No drama. Just your voice, clear and dry, like it had been waiting for the perfect moment to land.

“This is why we don’t get invited to normal places.”

Dead silence.

Then chaos—again, but different.

Yelena cracked first. Let out a wheeze so sharp it echoed through the room. John burst into laughter so hard he had to brace himself against the fridge. Alexei wheezed through smoke and tears. Ava didn’t even try to hide it, just laughed into her mug, bright smile on her face.

And Bucky?

He broke.

It started slow—just a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Then a laugh. And then another. He bent forward, hand braced against the island, the sound torn straight from his chest like it had been waiting for this moment.

Not the polite kind of laugh he’d give politicians, not the guarded kind.

It was full-body. Shoulder-shaking. Head-tilting-back kind of laugh.

Because it wasn’t just what you said—it was how you said it.

Like you weren’t even trying. Like the disaster unfolding around you didn’t faze you anymore. Like you knew the team too well, and this exact kind of chaos was just another Tuesday.

You didn’t even flinch when they all looked at you, faces red and breathless, wiping tears and coughing from the smoke.

You just raised your brow and added,

“Honestly guys, this is better than last week. No stitches this time.”

Yelena doubled over.

John made a choked sound, grin on his face as he sighed.

Alexei, wiping flour off his face mumbled “she right”

And Bucky—he couldn’t stop laughing. 

He didn’t want to. Not yet.

Because for once, the heaviness in his chest had cracked wide open. And inside it, there was nothing but light. Laughter. And you.

He watched you move through the chaos—grabbing a towel, waving smoke away from the oven, nudging Yelena gently out of her daze.

You weren’t flustered. You weren’t demanding praise.

You were just holding them all together like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And god, you were funny. Not in a loud, performative way. You didn’t crack jokes for the sake of attention.

You just saw the absurdity and named it. Softly. Calmly. With perfect timing. And somehow, that made it so much worse—for his composure.

Later, when the kitchen had been aired out, when the croissants had been buried in the trash like fallen comrades, and everyone had migrated to the common room to recover, he sat beside you on the couch.

Not too close. But close enough.

You were reading something, feet tucked beneath you, hair still dusted with flour.

He watched you for a long time before he spoke. Then, quietly:

“You always that calm in a crisis?”

You didn’t look up. “What, like emotionally or logistically?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. Shook his head. “Both.”

You finally glanced over at him, eyes warm, the smallest tug of a smirk at the corner of your mouth.

“It’s a talent.”

He was quiet for a second. The team had settled into the kind of silence that comes after shared laughter — breathless and soft, like they’d all needed it and didn’t even know.

Then he said it. Low. Honest.

“I haven’t laughed like that in years.”

You turned to face him fully then. The teasing gone. Smile still there, but quieter now—softer, edged in something that looked a lot like understanding.

You didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. Just held his gaze and said:

“Then I’m glad I got to be the one.”

And for a moment, he couldn’t speak.

Because that was it, wasn’t it?

That warmth. That steadiness. That way you made everyone feel like they belonged — even him.

Especially him.

The memory drifted, softened— —and now, here he was.

The quiet of your shared room, the soft rustle of blankets as he shifted onto his back, careful not to wake you.

You were curled against him, one leg tangled with his, your hand resting gently against his chest like it had always belonged there.

He lied beside you in the dark, the bedroom quiet except for the steady sound of your breathing. Moonlight poured through the half-open curtains, painting silver across your cheek, the slope of your shoulder.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched. And thought about that moment. 

“I think it started then,” he thought, “when you made me feel like I could laugh again," he admitted to himself.

Because it wasn’t just the joke. It was you.

And all it took was one fire, one broken croissant tray, one perfectly timed line, and he’d started to fall.

It came to him out of nowhere.

One moment, Bucky was lying in the dark beside you, still, warm, breathing in the quiet. And the next, his mind wandered.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the curl of your fingers resting gently against his ribs, the safe, rhythmic hush of the night—it pulled him under. 

And suddenly, he wasn’t in the bedroom anymore. He was somewhere else.

A kitchen. A memory.

Not a loud one, just something small and steady. One of those moments that pressed itself into the shape of him when he wasn’t looking.

The music had been low—some oldies playlist shuffled into a classic. Something bright and brassy. The kind of beat you couldn’t ignore if you tried. He couldn’t even remember the song now, just the way it had felt: light and loose and alive.

And you—you were dancing.

Wearing one of his shirts that he had lent you and never got back. Too big, too soft, the sleeves stopped at your elbows and the hem just barely covered your thighs. Bare feet on the kitchen tiles. A wooden spoon in your grip like a microphone as you swayed and spun.

He’d only meant to get water. But the second he stepped into the room, he stilled.

You hadn’t seen him. Not yet. You were lost in the music, mouthing the lyrics like they belonged to you, hips moving with the kind of ease that couldn’t be faked. The stove hissed quietly behind you, some sauce or soup still bubbling. Alpine wove around your legs, tail flicking, like she’d been part of the choreography all along.

Bucky leaned against the frame and watched.

You danced like no one had ever told you not to. Like the world didn’t weigh on you. Like there was still magic left in the mundane.

You twirled again, laughing as your spoon nearly slipped from your hand. The music glitched—just for a beat—but you didn’t stop. Just clicked your tongue and spun again, sliding across the floor like you owned it.

His chest ached.

He hadn’t realized he was smiling until his face hurt. Hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he let it out on a soft exhale that didn’t sound like his own.

There was a light in you.

Not flashy, not bright like a star. But steady. Warm. Like a candle left in a windowsill, stubborn against the wind.

You moved like someone who had known darkness—but chose not to live there. Someone who had every reason to be bitter and decided to choose joy instead. It wasn’t performative, it wasn’t naive, it was real.

And it gutted him.

That warmth bloomed in his chest again now, in the present—slow, consuming. The same one he’d felt. Familiar and still somehow too big to name.

The song ended. You turned, startled, a little breathless, eyes wide.

“Oh my god,” you gasped. “How long have you been standing there?”

He crossed his arms, leaning casually. "Long enough to question your multitasking skills."

You flushed, stirring the pot without meeting his gaze. “You’re lucky these aren’t burnt.”

“I’d eat them anyway.”

The way you looked at him, then—surprised, soft, like something shifted in the air.

The silence between you held.

You turned back to the stove. “You want some?”

He hesitated. “In a minute.”

The moment passed—but it stayed

And now, in the hush of the bedroom, with your hand curled over his chest and your breath warm against his skin, Bucky thought about it again, felt that moment again.

That light. That laughter.

The ache that wasn’t pain at all—just a kind of fullness that made him feel like maybe he could be more than just what the world had left behind.

And now, Bucky wondered:

"Was it then? When you were just... dancing like the world hadn’t broken you?"

Because maybe that’s when it started.

When you had slowly weaved through the cracks of his walls and into his heart.

Bucky sighed as he turned to look at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. You were still fast asleep beside him, breath soft against his shoulder. The next memory played before he could stop it.

It came back to him on a night that had crept in colder than most.

The compound's heater had broken down days ago, and despite the team’s best efforts, namely John wrestling with the thermostat and Alexei threatening it with a wrench, it hadn’t come back to life. 

Blankets had been hoarded, socks pulled up over sweats, and everyone resigned themselves to the kind of chill that sank into the bones.

Bucky hadn’t minded at first. Cold didn’t bother him the way it used to. 

Not really. 

But tonight—it was more than the cold. His thoughts had been loud. Restless. The kind of noise he couldn’t drown out, not with sparring, not with long walks through snow-covered paths around the compound. They followed him, nipping at his heels, dragging him into a version of himself he was always trying to stay ahead of.

By the time he made it to the common room, his breath puffed out in faint clouds. His sweatshirt hung heavy on his frame, damp at the collar from the wind. His shoulders ached. And all he wanted was quiet—the kind that didn’t echo.

And then, he saw you.

Curled into the corner of the couch like a storybook illustration, knees tucked beneath you, wrapped in that oversized knitted throw you always stole from the armchair. A book was open in your lap, pages bent slightly from how long you’d been holding it, your eyes locked on the words like they held the entire world.

The fire Alexei had finally gotten going crackled low in the old fireplace in the corner casted flickering gold across your features. Outside, the wind howled. Inside, it was quiet, peaceful.

And Bucky…he stopped.

Stopped in the doorway. Stopped breathing, maybe. Just for a moment.

Because there was something in that image—something so quietly lovely it rooted him to the spot.

You were frowning slightly at the page, brows furrowed, lips parted like whatever twist had just hit the plot caught you off guard. 

Your whole body was slack with comfort, one arm burrowed beneath the blanket, the other resting on the back of the couch as if it had always known that spot. 

Like you belonged there. Like you always had.

He didn’t want to disturb you. He didn’t want to move at all.

Eventually, though, you looked up. Caught him standing there, halfway between the hall and you.

You smiled.

It wasn’t big or showy. Just soft. Familiar.

“Hey,” you murmured. “You look cold.”

He was, now that you mentioned it. He just hadn’t felt it before.

You lifted the blanket wordlessly, just a small shift of your hand, a space made beside you.

A quiet offer.

And Bucky—he crossed the room like he always meant to. Sat down. Let the weight of the day and the cold and everything else fade when the blanket draped over both of you.

The heat of you soaked into him slowly. Your thigh pressed into his. Your arm settled back across the couch, fingers brushing his shoulder like a second thought.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

You just turned another page.

He leaned back, let the fire crackle, let your presence ground him.

Time passed like that. He didn’t keep track. Didn’t care to, he just sat with you. In the warmth you created.

He didn’t even know the book. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was how peaceful you looked. How easily you shared your quiet with him. 

No expectations. No forced conversation. 

Just… space. 

Yours. His.

Shared.

Now, lying beside you in bed, your hand warm against his chest and your breath soft against his neck, Bucky thought of that moment again.

The space you made for him without asking why he needed it.

And he thought, "maybe it was then. When you gave me quiet without asking for anything in return."

Because love hadn’t broken down his door. It hadn’t come with grand gestures.

It had arrived in a soft smile and a space made beside you.

And he’d been falling ever since.

He’d already fallen for you. Bucky knew that now, as clearly as he knew his own name. He didn’t remember when it had started—not exactly.

Maybe it had crept in slowly, like water seeping through old stone, maybe it had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to be noticed.

But it was that night, that quiet, aching night—somehow made it undeniable.

It didn’t just confirm what he felt for you, it was carved into him.

It was one of those nights, the kind that made sleep feel impossible.

The storm outside had rolled in sometime past midnight, all low rumbles and steady rain, tapping against the windows like a lullaby with no melody. 

Thunder growled like it had bones to pick with the sky, and the wind sighed through the corridors of the compound, long and low. Not quite violent. Just persistent. Just enough to keep the restlessness in Bucky’s bones humming.

He hadn't even tried to sleep. Not really. His body ached, not from pain, but from presence—that awful, too-familiar feeling of being in it. In his own skin, in his own mind, too aware of the quiet, too aware of the weight in his chest that never quite left. There were nights when it dulled. Nights when he forgot. But tonight, it sat there, aching.

So he drifted.

Down the halls, past the rooms with closed doors and quiet breathing. Until he found himself in the common room, drawn by the dim glow of a flickering emergency light and the faint shuffle of movement.

You were there.

Blanket draped over your legs. One arm cradled around a cup of tea, the other curled beneath your head. The couch sagged gently beneath your weight. You looked up when he entered, eyes soft, tired—but not surprised.

“You too?”

He nodded. “Storm’s loud.”

You didn’t say anything for a beat. Then, “Or maybe our minds are louder.”

That made him huff a quiet sound. Not a laugh, exactly. But close.

You gestured at the couch. “Come sit? Might as well not sleep together.”

He blinked, and you immediately made a face. “You know what I meant.”

He chuckled under his breath and took the spot beside you. You shifted to make room, the blanket spreading to cover both your legs. The warmth of you hit him slowly, like a tide instead of a flame. No rush. No pressure. Just there.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The quiet stretched—but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt full. Like a space that had been waiting for the both of you to fill it.

You were the first to break it.

“Okay. Worst date you’ve ever had.”

He blinked. “What?”

You looked at him, mouth tugged in a sleepy grin. “Worst date. Everyone’s got one. Don’t say you don’t.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the couch. “Alright. ‘42. This dame fell asleep halfway through the movie. Woke up, asked who I was.”

You snorted. “Wow.”

“Yeah. I think she thought I was someone else the whole time.”

Your laugh was soft, real. “That’s kind of impressive.”

“Your turn.”

“Blind date. The guy said he ran a startup. Which turned out to be code for unemployed. Also wore crocs to our date. Bright yellow ones.”

He winced. “That’s worse.”

You nodded. “And I stayed for the entire dinner. So really, I lost.”

He laughed. You did too. It bloomed between you—gentle, quiet joy. The kind you didn’t have to earn. The kind that just happened.

The storm rumbled again. But it didn’t feel so loud now.

“Steve used to love nights like this,” Bucky said, almost absentmindedly.

You turned slightly, your smile fading into something softer. “Yeah?”

He nodded, eyes on the ceiling. “We’d sneak out of camp sometimes. When we could. We would sit on rooftops and talk about what we would do when the war was over.”

You didn’t interrupt. You let him go on.

“He always said he’d find a place with a porch, you know the real quiet ones. Said he wanted peace, but not too much of it. The kind that makes you grateful.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Did you ever find a place like that?”

His throat worked. “Not really.”

“Maybe not a porch,” you said, gently. “But you found the peace part. Or you’re getting there.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And something in him shifted.

You leaned forward slightly, knees brushing his. “I miss her,” you said. “Nat. I still hear her voice sometimes when I train, telling me to keep going, that I always had it in me.”

“Bet she’d be proud,” he said softly.

“I hope so. She always saw more in people than they saw in themselves.”

You were looking at him when you said it. Not pointedly. Just… truthfully.

His hand was resting on the couch between you. Yours wasn’t far.

The room felt warmer now. Not from the storm. Not from the tea. Just you. Sitting close. Speaking like it was safe. Like the night wasn’t so long. Like maybe this was the kind of quiet Steve had meant.

You nudged his foot gently with yours. “We’ve both lost a lot.”

He nodded. “Yeah. But… I’m starting to think not everything is gone.”

Your fingers touched. Neither of you moved.

You looked down at them—just barely brushing. Then up at him again.

“Do you ever think about the moments that change everything?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“I think this might be one of them.”

And there it was.

That ache in his chest that wasn’t painful. That warmth that was too big to name.

He didn’t kiss you. You didn’t kiss him.

But your faces were inches apart, your breaths mingling. You leaned your head onto the couch cushion. He turned to face you, his eyes steady on yours.

The silence returned—but it wasn’t empty. It was full.

Of everything unsaid. Of everything still coming.

You fell asleep like that. Fingers laced. Breaths in sync. Noses almost touching.

And Bucky stayed awake a little longer.

Just to look at you. Just to be there.

Because something about that night—the laughter, the closeness, the weightlessness—felt like more than a memory.

It felt like a beginning.

Was it that night? he wondered, when I didn’t want to fall asleep because I didn’t want to stop looking at you?

Maybe.

Maybe that’s when it started.

Or maybe he’d been falling long before.

But this? This was the moment he knew.

The room was quiet. Not silent—just full of the kind of stillness that came when everything had settled. The kind that felt earned. The kind that made you want to breathe softer, like even sound might disturb it.

Bucky lay there beside you, his chest rising slow, your body warm against his. You were curled toward him, fingers tucked near your chin.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just… looked at you.

And thought about all the moments that had led here.

The burnt croissants. The laughter. Your laughter. The way you danced in his old t-shirt like nothing in the world had ever broken you. The nights you let him talk about Steve, about the war, about the things he’d lost without flinching. Without pity. Just… listening. Staying.

And that night on the couch when your fingers had found his in the dark, and you’d fallen asleep inches apart like it had always been meant to happen like that.

He thought about all of it.

And this ache bloomed in his chest, not the sharp kind. Not the kind that clawed. But a full ache. Heavy and thick and alive. Like love had taken root somewhere behind his ribs and grown too big to contain.

Because he knew. He knew.

It hadn’t been just one moment. It had been all of them.

A quiet accumulation of grace. Of breathless laughter and wordless comfort, of light handed to him again and again, until he finally believed it was his to hold.

Every glance, every silence, every shared second where you just let him be, all of it had been falling. Quiet and certain. Like gravity, like truth.

He didn’t know how to carry something this soft. This good. But god, he wanted to try. He wanted to hold it right. Carefully. Like it was something sacred.

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. You stirred, just barely, and leaned into him, like your body knew his touch even in sleep. 

Like something in you had decided that he was the one..

He pressed his forehead to yours.

Closed his eyes.

"It was always you," he whispered, voice low and raw. 

And it was true.

He hadn’t just fallen in love with you—he had unraveled into it. Slowly. Completely. Like warmth spreading through frostbitten limbs. Like air returning to lungs that didn’t know they’d been holding.

He loved you.

So deeply it scared him. So honestly it steadied him.

Not in grand gestures, but in quiet knowing. In the way your presence never demanded anything from him. 

He kissed your temple, slow and steady, and the weight in his chest didn’t crack this time. It settled.

"I love you," he said, softer now. 

Like it had always been true. Like it would always be.

Just a twitch of your mouth. Just enough to let him feel it again, that bloom. That quiet, endless warmth.

He stayed like that, forehead against yours, hand cradling your waist almost as if you were something precious. 

Someone he'd never stop choosing.

Because for once, Bucky wasn’t afraid of loving someone this much.

a/n: i had so much fun writing this!! i hope this love finds all of us! 💖

[sbnslver]

Can you write a Bucky x reader fic that has the red string of fate/invisible string soulmates theory? I haven’t seen anyone write these and I think it could be kinda angsty and fluffy

Hello there, dear! I loved this idea, very unique. I think this turned out more angst than fluff, but I can definitely write additional follow ups to include more fluff later on! Hope you enjoy it and thank you for the request! Happy reading!!!

Tangled Threads

Summary: You’ve always felt the red string of fate for better or worse, but when it finally leads you to Bucky Barnes; both of you avoid each other, too afraid of ruining the other. Over time, the unspoken tension wears you both down until a forced confrontation finally brings the truth out. (Soulmate AU! | Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 3.4k+

Main Masterlist

You’d never believed in soulmates.

Not really. Not the way some people did, anyway. Like the ones who walked around with hearts in their eyes and poetry in their throats. The ones who would obsess over the faint, red threads that sometimes coiled around their pinkies like destiny’s leash. Or those who made dating decisions based on whether the string tingled or tugged, like a compass spinning toward fate.

You didn’t have the luxury of romantic idealism. Not when your string had spent the better part of a decade ruining your life.

Every time you tried to date someone or every time you flirted with a guy in a bar, went out for drinks, or even let someone kiss you, the string would pull. Tug. Burn. Like it was punishing you. And worse than the pain, worse than the guilt that bloomed inexplicably in your chest, was how it always ended the same way.

Knots. Tangles. Snaps.

The relationship would basically implode. The person would leave, or you would. One guy had even blamed you for making him feel “haunted.” He said he felt like there was always someone watching him when he was with you. Another girl you tried to date had burst into tears during dinner and said she couldn’t stop thinking about someone else, someone she’d never even met.

You didn’t know who your soulmate was and honestly, you didn’t want to. It wasn’t romantic, this invisible leash tied around your soul. It was exhausting. Unrelenting. And frankly? It made you bitter.

So you stopped dating. You stopped looking entirely and threw yourself into work.

As fate would have it, that’s when you were recruited to work logistics for the Avengers.

It was supposed to be your fresh start. You handled team schedules, mission support, resource allocation, and emergency routing. You kept your head down, did your job, and ignored the fact that the red string on your finger never stopped humming faintly.

But then came James Buchanan Barnes, arriving late on a Thursday, trailing quiet steps and old guilt. You watched his arrival from the corner of the control room, fingers curled around a lukewarm coffee mug. He didn’t smile and he barely spoke. He was all shadow and silence, hunched shoulders and downcast eyes. You tried not to look. Tried not to care.

But the moment he entered the building, your string flared. It was like someone had grabbed it from the other end and yanked.

You had gasped as the mug fell from your hand and shattered on the tile.

Everyone turned toward the sound, but you didn’t see them. Your vision had narrowed to the throb in your finger, to the ache in your chest, to the man who hadn’t even looked your way. A stranger. A storm in a suit. You turned and fled the room before anyone could stop you.

That night, you stared at your ceiling, wide-eyed, red string pulsing faintly under your skin. You knew what it meant. Knew it in your gut. Knew it the way birds know where to fly in winter.

Your soulmate had arrived. However, you told yourself it was just a coincidence.

The red string pulsing against your finger? It was reacting to stress. Nothing more. You’d been tired lately, maybe spent too many long nights in the compound and dealing with too many high-stakes missions on the board. That had to be it.

But that lie didn’t hold when Bucky walked by you for the third time that week in the hallway, his steps heavy, his eyes fixed straight ahead; and still, the string pulled.

And it wasn’t subtle. Not the kind of whispering ache you were used to. No, this was worse. The thread practically yanked toward him like it knew him, like it had been waiting years to be close again. Every time he got near, your body reacted before your brain could stop it. Your heart would race. Your lungs would freeze. And that thread would burn under your skin like fate was trying to dig itself out.

So you kept your distance.

You shifted your schedule. You took your lunch breaks earlier. You stopped using the gym after hours and switched to morning training, even though you hated mornings. You turned the other way when you heard his boots in the hallway, and when you had to be in the same room whether it be for briefings, tech updates, or field intel, you sat at the opposite end of the table. Silent and still.

You didn’t speak to him. You didn’t even look at him. Not that he noticed anyways. Or so you thought.

What you didn’t realize and what you couldn’t see, was that Bucky was avoiding you too.

He had noticed you the moment he arrived, even if he hadn’t looked. Not directly. Not openly. But he’d seen you. You were the one in the back of the room with the broken mug, eyes too wide, mouth set in a line too tight for a casual expression.

And then you’d vanished like a ghost.

He felt… off after that. There was a sensation in his chest he couldn’t name. A quiet wrongness. Something half-forgotten and buried deep.

So he started walking different routes through the compound. Skipping meals he didn’t want just to stay out of the kitchen when you were there. Ducking out of gym sessions early. He didn’t speak to you either. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. He didn’t know why he felt so tense around you, so hyperaware, but it made him feel cornered.

And afraid.

He’d spent years under control, under programming, under orders. Soulmates were a fairytale. A luxury. Not something made for someone like him, someone HYDRA had hollowed out and filled with blood.

And still… the red string that had dulled during his Winter Soldier days now hummed faintly every time you passed. He refused to look at his hand, refused to follow the string. And maybe you mistook that for indifference. Maybe he mistook your silence for hatred.

So the two of you danced around each other like gravity and defiance, orbiting but never colliding.

But the string? The string never gave up. It tangled tighter. It pulled harder. And it waited for one of you to give in first.

-

When you weren’t avoiding Bucky, you did get to meet a lot of the people you worked with and for. Of course, you weren’t close to many people at the compound.

But Sam?

Sam Wilson had a way of sneaking into your life like sunlight through blinds. He didn’t try to crack you open or ask too many questions. He just showed up.

You bonded over coffee at first. Both of you were early risers, though for very different reasons: you, out of anxious insomnia; Sam, out of habit built in warzones and battles. Eventually, those quiet mornings became more than just caffeine. They became small check-ins. Casual jokes. Breakfasts shared across mission briefings. Banter that made you feel less like background noise and more like a person.

He never pushed. But he noticed. Especially when it came to Bucky.

At first, Sam chalked it up to coincidence.

The way you’d leave a room the moment Bucky entered. The way Bucky’s shoulders would tense whenever he sensed you nearby. How neither of you ever looked at each other, even when seated at the same table. At first, Sam thought maybe something had happened between you like an argument, a disagreement, or maybe even a past mission gone bad.

But then he started noticing the timing.

The way Bucky took the long route to the gym. The way you checked the corridors before turning into them. The way your fingers would twitch toward your covered hand like something itched beneath the skin. The way Bucky kept glancing at his hand when he thought no one was watching.

That was when Sam’s brow started furrowing.

Because he’d seen the red string of fate work before. He’d seen it between two agents back in his SHIELD days, an unspoken bond visible only under certain lights, but always felt. He remembered the tension, the ache, the gravitational pull people fought even as it dragged them closer.

And he saw that same tension between you and Bucky, but worse.

Because you weren’t just soulmates avoiding each other. You were ghosts haunting each other. Two people pretending not to bleed from the same wound.

Even Steve noticed too.

The Captain didn’t say anything outright, he rarely did honestly, but he lingered longer in rooms where you both occupied opposite ends. His gaze flicking subtly between you. He frowned when Bucky avoided eye contact. He narrowed his eyes when you left too quickly, your knuckles white around your clipboard.

Natasha, on the other hand, didn’t bother pretending.

“You’re not subtle,” She told you one evening, arms crossed as you reviewed intel in the common room.

You blinked at her. “About what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “About him.”

You flushed. “I’m not… there’s nothing-“

Nat cut you off with a shrug. “You can lie to yourself. Just don’t expect it to fool anyone else.”

And then she walked off, leaving you burning with the realization that the others weren’t just noticing, they were waiting. Waiting for the moment the string snapped or finally pulled taut enough to bring you both crashing into each other.

However, it was Sam who decided he was done waiting.

You hadn’t noticed how often he brought Bucky into conversations with you. It started off casual at first, asking your opinion on mission tech when Bucky was in the room, suggesting both of you work on the same security drill. You kept dodging it. Sidestepping the awkwardness. Swallowing your discomfort. But Sam wasn’t blind.

One morning over coffee, he finally leaned in across the table and said, “You know… you can’t outrun a red string.”

You stiffened before slowly looking up.

Sam didn’t smile. He just looked at you in a calm and unbothered way, but his expression was knowing.

“Is that what this is?” You asked quietly. “You think he’s…?”

“I don’t think,” Sam said. “I see.”

You looked down at your hand, hidden under your sleeve.

“It’s been burning since the day he arrived,” You whispered.

Sam’s voice gentled. “Then maybe it’s time to stop pretending it’s not there.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

So Sam just nodded once and added, “If you won’t say something, I will.”

You thought he was bluffing so you changed the conversation and let it go.

-

Meanwhile, Bucky was having a considerably hard time as well. He didn’t mean to notice, but he did.

He noticed everything, really. Supersoldier senses, it was a curse he couldn’t shake, a leftover from too many years being trained to sense threats before they moved. But you? You weren’t a threat. Not to anyone but maybe him.

You were the one person he hadn’t been able to read. Not because you were guarded, though you were, but because being near you made something in him short-circuit. Your presence wasn’t like anyone else’s. It was too still. Too loud in a way that had no sound. Like something had been missing in him for years, and you were the reminder of it.

So he continued to avoid you, but he didn’t stop watching.

He noticed how often you sat with Sam in the mornings, how the two of you laughed over quiet jokes and mismatched mugs. He noticed the way you let your shoulders relax around Wilson. Like relax, in a way you never did around Bucky. Not when you saw him. Not when you passed each other in the hall and he kept his eyes on the floor.

You looked safe with Sam.

And it twisted something in Bucky’s chest that he didn’t like to name.

He told himself it was good. Better, even. That you should be around someone like Sam who was someone stable, someone warm. Someone who hadn’t been forged into a deadly weapon like him. You deserved easy mornings and easy friendships. You deserved a soulmate who didn’t have a kill list longer than your entire history. You deserved someone who wasn’t haunted.

He told himself the ache in his ribs every time you laughed with Sam was just guilt. That it wasn’t jealousy. But the thread on his finger tightened every time.

And when he caught the way Sam looked at the space between you and Bucky; the unspoken one, the thread-pulled one, he knew.

Sam knew.

But Bucky still wouldn't do anything about it. Because if he acknowledged it, if he gave in, what then?

What if you hated him for it? What if the string only existed to remind you both that fate was cruel? That the universe thought it was funny to pair a bruised heart like yours with someone who'd broken a hundred others with his bare hands?

So he didn’t speak, didn’t reach out, nor explain why he left every room you were in like it was on fire.

But the rest of the team saw it all. And Bucky could feel the confrontation coming. Like thunder in the distance.

-

It was Sam who finally shattered the stalemate.

You were in the tech wing, running diagnostics on the quinjet for tomorrow’s mission. The lab was quiet, humming with low light and LED glow, and you were just beginning to enjoy the silence when the door hissed open and you heard his voice.

“I thought this hangar was clear.”

Bucky’s voice. Dry, flat, and instinctually distant.

Your head snapped up and there he was. Standing in the doorway, a tablet in one hand, brow furrowed in that perpetually tired way of his. His eyes met yours for half a second before you looked away.

“Sorry,” You muttered. “I’ll finish later.”

You started to pack your tools, but Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t walk in but he didn’t walk out either.

Then, suddenly:

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Both of you turned, just as Sam Wilson stormed through the opposite door.

He looked between you like a fed-up parent catching two stubborn kids refusing to apologize.

“I knew it,” He muttered, pointing a gloved finger between you both. “You two. You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” You asked sharply, far too quickly.

Sam gave you the flattest look imaginable. “That ‘I’m avoiding him but also vibrating like a tuning fork every time he enters the damn room’ thing. You’ve been doing it for weeks.”

“I haven’t-“

“Yes, you have.”

He turned to Bucky. “And you. Man, you’ve been walking the long way around the building just to dodge someone you haven’t even spoken to.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t-“

“Don’t.” Sam cut him off. “You two are tied together like moths to a flame and it’s getting real uncomfortable to watch. Just talk. Ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Sam was already stepping out the door. The door closed behind him like a gavel.

Silence followed, thick and immovable. You didn’t dare move as you were still gripping the edge of the diagnostics console like it could anchor you, but it couldn’t stop the sting behind your eyes.

You could feel him.

Even with your back turned, you knew Bucky hadn’t left. You could sense him, feel him, just like always. That subtle magnetic pull low in your gut, the electric hum at the edge of your skin. The red string wasn’t just glowing now.

It was buzzing.

You didn’t need to look to know it arced across the space between you like a live wire. Still, you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because you weren’t ready to hear what he might say. That this wasn’t real. That he didn’t want it. That you weren’t enough.

“…I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” He said, voice rough.

The sound of it broke something open in you.

Your throat tightened. “You didn’t. I just…” You swallowed, still not turning around. “I figured you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “That’s not it.”

You turned slowly.

He was standing near the wall, not quite meeting your eyes. His shoulders were tense, jaw set like he was bracing for a punch. Your voice came out in a whisper.

“…You feel it too?”

God, your voice. It hit him like a bomb shell.

He nodded slowly. “Since the moment I saw you.”

You flinched, like that was worse. Like it made things harder, not easier.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel it again,” He said quietly. “HYDRA… what they did to me, whatever magic’s in this string, it… it went silent for a long time. I thought it broke. I thought I broke it.”

You stepped closer, the red between you pulsing brighter. Bucky’s chest ached with the way your eyes held sorrow instead of hope.

“It came back when I showed up,” You stated, not a question. A fact.

He nodded again. “And I ran from it. From you.”

“Why?”

He looked away.

Because I don’t deserve a soulmate, he thought. Because I’ve hurt too many people to believe someone could be mine. Because if I touched you and you pulled away, I think it would kill me.

“I thought…” He exhaled shakily. “I thought the universe was playing a joke. Giving me something good just to watch me ruin it.”

Your gaze softened. That pain in your eyes, that was familiar. Too familiar. He saw himself in it. All the years of pretending you didn’t need the thread. All the little heartbreaks you must’ve carried in silence.

“I thought the same thing,” You said quietly.

You stood inches from him now. The string was glowing full-force, twisting gently between you like it had been waiting years for this moment. You could both feel it pulsing like your hearts hammering in your chests.

You lifted your hand. So did he. And then, finally, you both touched.

It wasn’t magic. Not really. There were no sparks or flashes of light. But the moment your fingers brushed in that slow, hesitant, gentle way, everything settled. The ache. The noise. The burning uncertainty.

It went quiet.

The thread between you pulsed once, deeply, and then simply rested as though it had been holding its breath this entire time.

You exhaled. So did he.

“Hi,” You said softly.

His voice broke around the answer. “Hi.”

Neither of you moved at first. Your fingers were gently wrapped around Bucky’s, his calloused palm tentative against yours, like he wasn’t sure if holding you would make the thread vanish or knot tighter. You half-expected to feel overwhelmed. But instead… everything in your chest finally stopped clenching.

Even though you felt peace, still, you hesitated.

“Just because we’re connected…” You began quietly, eyes flickering to the thread that now glowed with an even, steady rhythm between your hands, “…doesn’t mean we have to do anything. We don’t owe it anything… or each other.”

Bucky’s eyes lifted slowly to meet yours. You expected resistance, or maybe guilt. But instead, he gave you the smallest nod.

“I know.”

You blinked. “You do?”

His jaw worked for a moment like he was chewing on the words before speaking them aloud.

“I’ve had enough of people making decisions for me. I’m not gonna do that to you.” He swallowed. “If you want to take it slow—or walk away, I won’t stop you.”

You could see it, feel it in him. That deep, worn-in belief that letting go was the only good thing he had to offer. The way he held your hand like he expected you to pull away at any second.

But you didn’t.

“I don’t want to walk away,” You said. “I just… want to breathe for once. And not feel like I’m ruining something just by existing.”

That caught him off guard. He flinched, not from your words, but from the echo of them.

“Yeah,” He whispered. “Me too.”

And the thread didn’t demand anything. It didn’t pull you closer or tighten like a leash. It just existed as a steady tether, a presence, like the quiet hum of a heart still beating after the worst of it has passed. Still glowing. But content, now. Patient.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” You admitted quietly.

“Me neither.”

You hesitated. “But I’d like to figure it out.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. But after a long moment, he held your hand a little tighter almost as a confirmation. You gave him a small smile, finally feeling like you didn’t have to rush toward something. You could just… sit in it. Let the connection exist without a name. Without pressure. Without promises you weren’t ready to make.

The string between you flickered once. Steady and. Not binding. Not demanding. Just waiting. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid to wait with it.

[sbnslver]

The New Girl (Fluff Version)

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: When new SHIELD agent Clara Voss monopolizes your time, you misinterpret Bucky Barnes' glares as a crush on her, pulling away from your close-knit partnership. Unbeknownst to you, Clara's teasing Bucky about “stealing” you, sparking comedic chaos and heartfelt revelations. A fluffy tale of miscommunication and a sweet, romantic resolution.

📎Genre: Romantic Comedy | Fluff

You and Bucky Barnes were a unit. Late nights in the SHIELD compound’s kitchen, you’d perch on the counter, sipping coffee while he leaned nearby, vibranium arm glinting under the fluorescent lights.

“This instant crap again?” you’d tease, eyeing his mug. He’d smirk, tossing a dish towel at you.

“Better than your sugar soup, doll,” he’d fire back, dodging when you flicked coffee grounds at him. “Hey, watch the arm!” he’d laugh, pretending to shield it.

On missions, you were seamless, your quick thinking covering his six, his steady aim saving yours.

After a close call with HYDRA, he’d pulled you into a fierce hug, his voice low. “Don’t do that again.”

You’d chuckled, heart racing, but his warmth lingered, a quiet promise in the chaos.

Those moments felt sacred, like you’d carved out a corner of the world just for the two of you.

You’d banter over mission reports, him grumbling about paperwork while you doodled smiley faces on his notes. “You’re gonna get us fired,” he’d mutter, but his lips twitched upward.

Once, you’d fallen asleep on the couch during a movie night, waking to find a blanket tucked around you and Bucky pretending he hadn’t done it. “Wasn’t me,” he’d said, eyes soft despite the gruff tone.

And then...

The next morning, the briefing room buzzed. Clara Voss, the new agent, strode in, her dark hair in a neat ponytail, her smile warm. She shook hands, her charm disarming. When she reached you, her eyes lit up.

“You’re the one keeping Barnes in check,” she said, grinning. “Heard you took down three guys solo. Teach me your secrets?”

You blinked, caught by her warmth. “Just practice. Welcome aboard.”

“Thanks!” she laughed, bright and genuine. “Coffee later? I need tips to survive this place.”

Her kindness was impossible to resist. You nodded, “Sure.” During the briefing, she whispered, “Your aim’s insane—saw your range scores. Got pointers?”

Clara noticed Bucky's stares at her, not the romantic type of stare but the "Get away from her or I'll kill you" type of stare. Clara grinned and had a bold idea. Operation: Make Bucky confess.

Behind your back, she’d sidle up to Bucky during breaks, smirking. “You’re losing her, Barnes,” she’d tease, her voice low and playful. “Keep glaring like that, and I’ll just steal her for good.” Bucky’s response was always a growl, his vibranium arm twitching like he was one taunt away from tossing her into the next room.

He kept thinking, he didn’t like you that way, did he? But Clara’s relentless jabs about “stealing” you were driving him up the wall. He wasn’t staring at her because he liked her. He was staring because he wanted his partner back.

Later, in the cafeteria, Clara slid you a tray of chocolate chip cookies. “Heard these are your favorite. My treat.” Her smile was so warm, you felt guilty for the envy stirring inside.

The next day, she found you in the locker room, tying your boots. “Hey, I’m struggling with knife throws,” she said, sitting beside you. “You’re a pro, can you show me after training? I owe you big time.”

Her earnestness disarmed you. “Yeah, no problem,” you said, forcing a smile.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, squeezing your arm. “Seriously, you make this place feel like home. I’m so glad you’re here.”

You nodded, throat tight. Why is she so nice? Her warmth made your jealousy feel petty, but the image of her with Bucky burned.

You, oblivious to the undercurrent, started noticing things.

Clara’s laughter when she talked to Bucky, the way she’d nudge him during team meetings, the way he’d scowl but never quite walk away.

It looked like flirting. It felt like flirting. And every time you saw it, your heart sank a little further. You’d thought you and Bucky had something, maybe not a romance, but a bond, a closeness that was yours alone.

Now, it seemed like Clara was sweeping in, and Bucky’s lingering looks only confirmed it. So, you did what any rational person would do, you pulled back.

You stopped lingering in the kitchen after missions. You paired up with Sam or Natasha instead of Bucky. You kept your distance, forcing a smile when Clara dragged you off, pretending it didn’t hurt to see Bucky’s eyes follow her instead of you. But Bucky noticed. Oh, he noticed. And it was driving him insane.

One evening, after a particularly grueling mission, you were in the compound’s lounge, nursing a cup of tea and trying not to watch Clara and Bucky across the room.

She was laughing, leaning in close to him, and he was staring at her with that same intense look. Your stomach twisted, and you decided you’d had enough. You stood, ready to slip out, when Bucky’s voice cut through the air.

“Clara, enough,” he snapped, loud enough that you froze mid-step. Everyone in the lounge—Sam, Natasha, even Tony, turned to look. Clara just grinned, undeterred.

“Oh, come on, Barnes,” she said, her tone teasing. “You’re just mad because I’m winning.”

“Winning what?” you blurted before you could stop yourself, your voice sharper than you intended. All eyes were on you now, and you felt heat creep up your neck.

Clara’s grin widened, and she glanced between you and Bucky like she’d just won the lottery. “Oh, you know,” she said airily, “just stealing you away from Mr. Grumpy here. He’s not a fan.”

Bucky’s face was a storm cloud, but your brain was stuck on her words. “Stealing... me?” you said slowly, confusion knitting your brows. “What are you talking about?”

Clara laughed, a bright, mischievous sound. “Oh, come on! You think I’m after him?” She jerked a thumb at Bucky, who looked like he was seriously considering yeeting her out a window. “I’ve been messing with him because he gets all pouty when I take you away. It’s hilarious.”

You blinked, your mind reeling. “Wait. So you’re not... you and Bucky aren’t...?”

“God, no,” Clara said, waving a hand. “He’s not my type. Too broody. Besides, he’s only got eyes for one person, and it sure as hell isn’t me.”

Your gaze snapped to Bucky, whose ears were turning pink. He was glaring at Clara, but there was something softer in his eyes when they flicked to you, something vulnerable. Your heart did a weird little flip.

“Clara,” Bucky growled, his voice low and dangerous, “you’re gonna regret this.”

She just winked at him, then turned to you. “Look, I’m sorry if I caused a misunderstanding. I just like riling him up. You two need to talk.” With that, she sauntered off, leaving you and Bucky in a charged silence.

The lounge was emptying out, Natasha dragged Sam away, muttering something about “giving them space,” and Tony made a quip about “teen drama” before vanishing. You stood there, clutching your tea, unsure what to say. Bucky finally broke the silence.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. He stepped closer, and you could feel the warmth radiating from him, even with that vibranium arm. “Why?”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “I thought... I thought you liked Clara,” you admitted, feeling foolish now that the words were out. “The way you kept looking at her, I figured you were... you know.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, and then he let out a low, disbelieving laugh. “You thought I—? Doll, I was glaring at her because she kept dragging you away from me. I don’t like her. I don’t even know her. I just...” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I missed you.”

Your heart stuttered. “You... missed me?”

He looked at you like you’d just asked if the sky was blue. “Yeah. You’re my partner. My... person. I don’t like it when you’re not around.”

The admission hit you like a warm wave, washing away the ache you’d been carrying for weeks. You set your tea down, stepping closer to him. “Bucky, I thought I was losing you to her. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“Get in the way?” He shook his head, a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “You’re not in the way. You’re the whole damn point.”

Your breath caught, and before you could overthink it, you closed the distance, wrapping your arms around him. He stiffened for a split second, old instincts, maybe, but then he melted, pulling you close with both arms, his vibranium one cool against your back. You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and coffee, and felt him rest his chin on your head.

“Clara’s gonna pay for this,” he muttered, but there was no real venom in it. You laughed, the sound muffled against his shirt.

“She’s just a menace,” you said, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. “But maybe we owe her one. I wouldn’t have known you felt like this otherwise.”

His smile softened, and he brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle. “Guess I’m not great at saying it. But I’m not letting her steal you again. Or anyone else.”

You grinned, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks. “Deal. But you’re buying me coffee tomorrow to make up for all this drama.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Only if you stop running off with Agent Chaos.”

“Done,” you said, and when he leaned down to press a soft, hesitant kiss to your forehead, you knew you weren’t misinterpreting anything this time.

From across the room, Clara peeked around the corner, giving Natasha a triumphant thumbs-up. “Told you it’d work,” she whispered. Natasha just rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

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[sbnslver]

I Noticed

Bucky x reader

Summary: You and Bucky are good friends, but you didn't realize he knew practically everything about you...

Word Count: 4,779

The conference room was unusually quiet for a Tuesday afternoon meeting. Everyone was already seated – Steve flipping through a tablet, Natasha sipping coffee, Sam looking like he was seconds away from falling asleep with his head propped on one hand.

You were seated toward the middle, elbow on the table, cheek in your palm, staring at the clock.

"Ugh," you groaned softly. "I'm already thirsty. I should've brought water."

Sam cracked one eye open. "Rookie mistake."

You gave him a half-hearted glare. "Thanks, Sam. So helpful."

Then your stomach growled and you sighed again. "I should've brought snacks, too. I have a bag of those garlic parmesan Dot’s pretzels in my room – they’re my favorite. I was gonna bring 'em but I forgot. They would've been perfect right now."

"Garlic pretzels in a closed room? Bold choice," Natasha quipped, smirking over her mug.

"They’re elite. You wouldn’t understand."

Just as you finished your sentence, the door opened and in walked Bucky, casual as ever, looking like he hadn’t rushed at all despite being a solid five minutes late.

"Hey," he said to the room before walking over to your seat.

Without saying anything else, he placed a bottle of water and a Ziploc bag full of garlic parmesan Dot’s pretzels in front of you, then sat down beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You blinked at the items.

So did everyone else.

Steve’s mouth parted. Natasha looked genuinely surprised. Sam sat up straighter, eyebrows raised. Even Tony, who’d just entered behind Bucky, paused mid-step.

You looked at the bag. Then the water. Then at Bucky.

"...You literally just brought me exactly what I said I wanted like ten seconds ago."

Bucky blinked at you. "Yeah? I figured you’d be thirsty – you never bring water to meetings. And you usually get hungry around this time, so I brought snacks."

There was a beat of silence.

And then it hit.

"Oh my God," Sam laughed, pointing dramatically. "They’re not even dating and he knows her snack schedule."

Steve covered a smile with his hand. "That’s...actually kind of impressive."

Natasha leaned forward. "You even brought her favorite flavor?"

Bucky frowned slightly, confused. "Well, yeah. She likes the garlic parmesan ones."

"HE KNOWS THE FLAVOR, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," Tony declared like a ring announcer. "WE’VE GOT A SOFTIE IN THE WILD."

You buried your face in your hands, cheeks burning. "Oh my God, you guys–"

Bucky just shrugged, annoyingly unbothered. "What? She gets grumpy when she’s hungry."

And somehow that only made it worse.

Or better.

Depending on who you asked.

You hadn’t even opened the bag of pretzels yet. They just sat there in front of you, taunting you while your face turned redder by the second.

And Bucky? Completely calm. Like being a walking encyclopedia on your habits was not wildly incriminating.

That is, until Sam leaned forward with a grin.

"Okay, Barnes. Pop quiz."

Bucky gave him a suspicious side-eye. "Why?"

"Because," Tony chimed in, "you just demonstrated an alarming level of girlfriend knowledge for someone who's allegedly not dating her."

"We're not–!" you started, but Natasha held up a finger to silence you.

"This is more fun."

She turned to Bucky. "Favorite coffee order. Go."

"Caramel iced latte, extra ice."

Your jaw dropped slightly. "That’s–"

"Correct," Sam cut in, smirking. "Alright, alright – shampoo and conditioner brand?"

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. "Pantene – the coconut scent."

You whipped around to stare at him. "How the hell do you know that?!"

He looked at you like it was obvious. "Because your bathroom always smells like coconut. And that one time you stayed at my place after a mission, you complained that I only had 2-in-1."

Natasha bit back a laugh. "We’re logging that for future teasing."

"Okay, okay," Tony leaned on the table like he was hosting a game show. "Let’s make this harder. Favorite snack that's not garlic parmesan pretzels?"

"Peanut M&M’s. But she picks out the brown ones and eats them last because she says they taste the most ‘chocolatey.’"

You slapped a hand over your mouth. "Are you keeping notes somewhere?!"

Bucky just shrugged like it was no big deal. “You talk a lot when we hang out.”

"My heart can’t take this," Steve said, dramatically clutching his chest.

"Mine either," Sam added. "This is some Hallmark level slow burn stuff and I didn’t even know I wanted it."

"Do you know her favorite hoodie too?" Natasha asked.

He glanced at you, then pointed without looking. "That light grey one she stole from me? Wears it three times a week, minimum."

You gaped at him. "...You let me steal that."

"You think I didn’t notice?" he said, and you caught the tiniest curve of a smirk on his lips.

The room collectively lost it.

"Okay, this is criminal," Tony declared. "I’ve seen actual married couples who know less about each other."

"You’re clearly in love with her," Sam added helpfully.

Bucky’s smirk dropped slightly, and for a split second, something unreadable flickered in his expression as he glanced at you – soft, unsure, and maybe a little too earnest.

You froze.

So did he.

And then Natasha cleared her throat. "Well, this meeting is officially a disaster, but I’m emotionally invested now."

Steve gave you both a look. "Anything either of you wanna share with the class?"

You made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, covering your face with your hands again.

Beside you, Bucky just leaned back in his chair and said, “Can we please talk about the mission now? Before they start planning our wedding?”

But even as he said it, you felt his knee brush against yours under the table.

--

The meeting finally wrapped up after an hour of mission briefings, supply checklists, and Tony trying to convince Steve to let him name the next Quinjet The Iron Bus. Everyone stood, gathering their things, but the tension in the room wasn’t about the mission at all – it was about you and Bucky.

You had barely pushed your chair back before Sam clapped his hands once and turned to Bucky with renewed mischief in his eyes.

"Alright, now that the boring stuff’s out of the way – round two."

Bucky blinked. "Seriously?"

"You thought we forgot? That whole time I was pretending to care about drone placements, I was building a list."

"I was also building a list," Natasha added, already pulling out her phone.

Steve sighed but didn’t stop them. “I mean…I am kind of curious now.”

Tony grinned. “This is the best part of my day.”

You groaned. “Oh my god, guys–”

“Nope,” Sam said. “Too late. Barnes, what’s her favorite candle scent?”

“Vanilla,” Bucky said without pause.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Okay, but how do you know that?”

“You lit one in my kitchen once. Said it was ‘elite cozy vibes.’”

Tony choked on a laugh. “He even quoted her. This is so real.”

Natasha stepped in next. “Alright – what color does she always pick for her nails?”

“Soft pink. Unless she’s in a mood, then it’s that dark reddish-purple color…what’s it called? ‘Black Cherry?’”

You squinted. “Okay, that’s either creepy or impressive–”

“Impressive,” Sam decided. “Definitely impressive.”

Steve raised a brow. “What about her go-to song when she’s in a bad mood?”

Bucky smiled a little. “idontwannabeyouanymore by Billie Eilish.”

You blinked. “Wait, how do you even know that?”

“You played it on repeat for like four days after that one mission with the HYDRA facility. I asked you if you were okay and you said, ‘I’m fine, I just need to cry and hydrate.’”

Natasha was actually laughing now. “He’s got quotes, too.”

Tony raised a finger like he was conducting an interview. “Okay, Bucky – final round. What’s her go-to breakfast when she’s had a rough night?”

Bucky leaned back casually. “Scrambled eggs with pepperjack cheese, hot sauce, two slices of toast, and coffee with oat milk and a tiny bit of cinnamon.”

Everyone turned to you like you’d just been caught in 4K.

You stared at him. “You remembered all of that?”

He shrugged. “I’ve made it for you before.”

Sam fake-fainted onto the conference table.

“I can’t take this,” Steve said, rubbing his temples. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s domestic,” Natasha corrected. “And I love it.”

You groaned again and dropped your head onto your crossed arms. “Can the floor swallow me now?”

Bucky leaned over and murmured, “I think they’re just jealous.”

You peeked up at him. “Of what?”

He gave you that tiny smirk again. “That I pay attention.”

You sat up and shoved the bag of pretzels toward Bucky with a flustered laugh. “Here. Take these back. You’ve earned them.”

Bucky just grinned and tossed one in his mouth. “They taste better when I’m right.”

--

Eventually, the room emptied out. Steve wrangled Tony into actually submitting a mission report, Nat headed to the gym, and Sam left muttering about needing a nap.

You lingered, still sitting in your chair, picking at the label on your water bottle while Bucky packed up his notes. The teasing had died down, but your heart hadn’t quite stopped doing somersaults.

He was halfway to the door when you said, softly, “Hey, Buck?”

He paused, looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

You motioned for him to come back. “Can I ask you something?”

His brows rose, but he came back over, folding his arms as he leaned against the edge of the table beside you. “You wanna quiz me now?”

“Maybe.” You tilted your head, watching him. “I just wanna see how far this weird…psychic Barnes ability goes.”

He gave a lazy grin. “Alright. Hit me.”

You took a breath. “Okay. Pads or tampons?”

He blinked once. “Both.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Details?”

He scratched his jaw, not missing a beat. “You use the regular tampons most days, but you always keep a pack of those thin pads with the wings in your bathroom drawer – orange wrapper, right? You said the combo makes you feel less paranoid about leaks when you’re out on missions.”

Your jaw dropped a little.

Bucky’s smirk faded, growing a little more serious when he saw your expression. “I wasn’t, like, digging through your stuff or anything. You asked me to grab painkillers once while you were curled up on the couch, and I saw the pack when I opened the drawer. And you mentioned the tampon thing that one time when we got stuck waiting in that safe house for hours and you were grumpy.”

You swallowed. “Okay…uh. Chocolate preference?”

“Milk chocolate when you’re just craving sugar, milk chocolate with caramel when you’re on your period.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t stop. “When I cry, what do I want someone to do?”

“Sit with you. Don’t talk unless you ask. You like quiet comfort.”

You were fully staring at him now, unable to find any words, so he filled the silence gently.

“I know you get really overwhelmed when you feel like someone’s watching too closely while you’re upset. You hate feeling...exposed. So I don’t stare. I just stay close.”

You blinked fast, chest tightening with something way bigger than embarrassment now.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a whisper. “Why do you pay attention like that?”

Bucky shrugged one shoulder, not meeting your eyes at first. “Because you matter to me. And…when someone matters, you notice things. The important stuff. The things that make them feel seen.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, overwhelmed. “No one’s ever paid attention like that. No one’s ever noticed.”

Finally, he looked at you again. And this time, there was no smirk, no teasing grin – just something quiet and sure in his eyes.

“I noticed.”

After a moment, you smiled faintly. “What’s my favorite place to be when I’m sad?”

“Anywhere I am,” he said without missing a beat.

And this time, you didn’t even try to hide the way your heart skipped.

--

Later that evening, the compound was quieter – mission prep done, sparring sessions wrapped up, and the post-meeting teasing finally done.

You’d snuck off for a hot shower, hoping to wash away the lingering flush in your cheeks from earlier. The Avengers had been relentless, and even though Bucky hadn’t said anything else since the conference room, his words still echoed in your head.

I noticed.

You exhaled under the spray and tried not to think about it too hard.

Meanwhile, in the common room, the chaos was still quietly unfolding.

Tony strolled in with a tablet in hand, looking far too pleased with himself. “Alright, children, it’s that magical time – takeout vote. We've got Thai, Indian, tacos, pizza, sushi, and that weird little vegan place Bruce likes.”

“I swear to God, if you put seaweed bowls on the menu again–” Sam started.

“Focus,” Tony cut him off, tapping the screen. “We’ll tally up votes. Bucky, where’s your girl?”

Bucky, sprawled comfortably on the couch with one leg slung over the side, didn’t even flinch at the phrasing. “Showering.”

“Wow,” Natasha muttered. “Didn’t even blink at that.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “And you’re voting for her too, I assume?”

Bucky nodded, nonchalant. “Two for Indian.”

Steve looked up from his book. “Did she say that?”

“Nope.”

Sam smirked immediately. “So we’re guessing now?”

“I’m not guessing,” Bucky replied evenly. “She’s not in a pizza mood today.”

Tony looked at him like he was a contestant on a game show. “So you're locking in Indian for the both of you. No communication. No signals. No magic powers?”

Bucky shrugged. “Yep.”

“I’m starting a betting pool,” Sam announced, pulling out his phone.

“I want in,” Natasha said, crossing her arms.

“She loves pizza,” Steve reminded. “Are we sure about this?”

“She does love pizza,” Bucky agreed, arms folded behind his head. “But not tonight.”

Sam grinned wide. “Alright, let’s take some bets. Five says she picks pizza. Anyone else?”

Money and pride were quickly thrown around – half the team convinced Bucky’s luck had to run out eventually, the other half wary because…well. It was Bucky. And somehow he just knew things about you.

Five minutes later, you wandered into the common room in fresh clothes, hair damp and rubbing moisturizer into your face with zero awareness of the quiet, expectant tension in the air.

“Hey,” you said casually, “what’s going on?”

Tony cleared his throat, playing it cool. “Just figuring out dinner. Got a few options – Thai, Indian, tacos, pizza, sushi, and Bruce’s vegan sadness bowls. What sounds good?”

You made a face, thinking. “Hmm, not really in the mood for pizza today. Indian.”

The room exploded.

“NO WAY,” Nat yelled.

“Unbelievable,” Steve said.

Sam stood and threw his arms in the air. “THIS IS RIGGED.”

Tony shouted over the chaos, “I CALL WITCHCRAFT.”

You froze, blinking at everyone, confused.

“Did I miss something?” you asked slowly.

Bucky just sat there calmly, like he hadn’t just won the mind-reader Olympics. “Told them you’d want Indian.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Did you spy on me in the shower or something?”

“Nope,” he said, looking smug. “Just know you.”

The team descended into chaos again – some demanding their money back, others insisting on a rematch next week.

You just grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and chucked it at Bucky’s chest.

He caught it, laughed, and tossed it back. “I’m undefeated.”

--

The food arrived about twenty minutes later, the smell of warm spices and garlic naan instantly filling the common area. Tony called out a triumphant “Dinner’s here!” like he’d made it himself, and everyone swarmed the table to claim their orders.

You padded over a little slower, then Bucky turned from the table and held up a hand.

“I got your plate,” he said casually, already balancing two in his hands.

You paused. “Wait, I didn’t even tell you–”

“I know.” He handed it over without fanfare.

You looked down.

Your favorite combo – chicken tikka masala, a scoop of basmati rice (but not too much), a piece of garlic naan torn in half, some cucumber raita on the side, and a few spoonfuls of that tangy chickpea salad you always liked when you weren’t in the mood for something too heavy.

You stared at the plate like it had been conjured by sorcery.

He turned and headed for the couch like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just read your mind again. And behind you, the rest of the team was once more staring – some with mouths open, others quietly shaking their heads.

Sam muttered, “Alright, I’m starting to believe he’s just a very hot, brooding psychic.”

Natasha leaned toward Tony. “We should run a brain scan.”

Tony looked vaguely offended. “Trust me, I already tried. He’s just…annoying.”

You followed Bucky to the couch and sat beside him, setting your plate on the coffee table before sinking into the cushions.

“You keep doing that,” you said after a second, still looking at your dinner.

“Doing what?” he replied, tearing off a piece of naan without looking at you.

“Knowing what I want. Before I even know what I want.”

That made him glance over. His voice was quiet now, just between the two of you. “Is it weird?”

You thought about it. “It’s…not. I mean, it should be. But it’s not. It’s actually kinda–”

Your voice caught, the word sitting there, unsaid.

Comforting.

Bucky nodded like he already knew.

Then, like he wanted to shift the moment before it got too close to something you couldn’t take back, he leaned in a little with a smirk. “Don’t act too impressed. I just paid attention. And you’re kinda predictable.”

You nudged his arm with your elbow. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.” He bumped his knee gently against yours. “Still right, though.”

The rest of dinner passed in a cozy haze – soft laughter, shared food, everyone gradually settling into their usual spots. But the way Bucky’s knee stayed resting against yours, neither of you moving – it felt like something new.

--

A while later, plates were cleaned, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table, and stomachs full enough that no one was in the mood to move much – perfect conditions for the sacred Avengers tradition: movie night.

“Alright,” Tony called out from where he was already draped dramatically over the recliner. “What are our options tonight?”

Okay, we got The Godfather, Jaws, Tangled, Mission Impossible, 21 Jump Street, and John Wick,” Sam read off the screen.

You stood, stretching. “I’ll be right back. Don’t vote without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve said, even though everyone absolutely would.

The second the bathroom door clicked shut, Tony sat up like a meerkat. “Alright. Let’s go. What’s your pick, Barnes?”

“John Wick,” Bucky said, without even looking up from where he was idly spinning the empty naan container on the table.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Nat whipped her head around. “You’re not choosing Tangled?”

“Nope.”

“She just said the other day that she wanted to watch it,” Nat reminded him, pointing dramatically. “Like, word for word, ‘I wanna rewatch Tangled soon.’ You’re telling me you’re going against that?”

Bucky just shrugged, totally unbothered. “I know what she wants tonight.”

Tony looked at Sam, eyes narrowed. “This is the beginning of the fall of House Barnes. The man’s gotten cocky.”

“I give him one more round,” Sam muttered, already pulling out his wallet. “Five bucks says she picks Tangled.”

“Ten says 21 Jump Street,” Clint called from the kitchen. “I say she’s in a comedy mood.”

“I’m going full chaos,” Nat added, grinning. “Twenty on Jaws.”

Steve, ever neutral, just raised his eyebrows. “You really think she wants an action movie right now?”

Bucky finally looked up. “She’s tired. Mentally wiped. Tangled is comfort, yeah, but she wants to zone out, not cry over animated lanterns.”

Tony blinked. “You’re playing 4D chess.”

“She’s playing checkers,” Bucky replied calmly. “I just know the board.”

The room was a barely contained mess of betting and bickering by the time you reappeared.

You sat back down, cozying up with the blanket you’d left on the couch. “We vote yet?”

“We were just about to,” Steve said, way too quickly.

They went around the room, collecting votes with forced casualness.

Then, all eyes turned to you.

You paused, lips pursed in thought. “Hmm…”

The silence was deafening.

You tapped your chin. “Not really in the mood for Disney right now, actually…”

Someone gasped.

“…Let’s do John Wick.”

The room erupted.

“WHAT?!”

“No way – NO WAY–”

“Check her room for bugs!”

“ARE YOU TWO SECRETLY DATING?!”

Tony was pacing, Sam collapsed dramatically onto the rug, and Nat looked like she was genuinely questioning reality.

Meanwhile, Bucky just leaned back, arms crossed, as calm as ever.

You blinked at the chaos. “Did I…do something?”

“Oh, you did something,” Sam groaned, flopping backward.

“You broke them,” Bucky muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear, his voice full of quiet amusement.

You looked over at him, fighting back a smile. “You knew I’d pick it.”

He met your gaze, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Course I did.”

And somehow, in the middle of popcorn-throwing accusations and Tony trying to demand a federal investigation, your heart started beating just a little faster.

--

The next morning started like any other: coffee, early training, then hitting the showers.

You stretched your arms behind your head, grimacing. “I’m starving. I want eggs. Like, five eggs.”

“Go shower, Egg Queen,” Sam called. “We’ll save you a spot.”

You flipped him off over your shoulder, already headed toward your room.

Once you disappeared around the corner, the rest of the group started trickling toward the kitchen. Bucky walked in with Steve, Nat, and Sam, still towel-drying his hair, when the teasing immediately resumed.

“So,” Nat said, leaning against the counter with a smirk, “you gonna make her eggs now, Barnes? Scrambled? Sunny side up? Whole omelet situation?”

Bucky gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Would. But she’s not gonna want eggs anymore.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “She literally said the word ‘eggs’ like two minutes ago.”

“Yeah,” Sam added. “Plural. With intention.”

“She’s gonna change her mind,” Bucky said calmly, reaching for the pancake mix.

There was a beat of silence.

“…You’re kidding,” Clint said, appearing behind them and already suspicious.

“Nope.”

Nat crossed her arms. “Alright. What is she gonna want?”

“Chocolate chip pancakes,” Bucky said, pulling ingredients from the cabinet. “Light layer of peanut butter on top. Not spread thick. Just enough.”

“And syrup?” Steve asked, deadpan.

“Just a little. Thin drizzle over the top, not drowning.”

“Drink?” Sam challenged, narrowing his eyes.

“Chocolate milk.”

At that, no one said anything for a second. They just stared. Nat was already pulling out her phone.

“I’m documenting this. If you’re wrong, I’m sending the video to every group chat we have.”

“Do it,” Bucky said, already whisking batter like a man with zero fear of failure.

Ten minutes passed. Pancakes were golden, peanut butter spread lightly, and the chocolate milk was already poured in your favorite mug.

And then, you walked in, hair damp and pulled back, hoodie sleeves half covering your hands. You opened the fridge, still blinking from the heat of the shower.

“Hey,” Bucky said without turning around. “Want me to make your eggs?”

You stared into the fridge for a beat. “Mm…no, actually. I think I want pancakes.”

The room went dead silent.

You didn’t notice. “Do we have chocolate chips?”

Still silence.

“Oh, and chocolate milk,” you added, pulling the fridge door closed. “You know, that sounds really good actually.”

You turned.

The plate was already sitting on the counter.

Your chocolate milk was already in your mug.

You blinked. “Wait. Did you–”

“Yeah.” Bucky slid the plate toward you with a casual smile. “Figured you’d want pancakes.”

You looked down at it, then back up. “Okay, that’s…insane.”

“I’m used to you changing your mind,” he said with a little shrug. “I listen.”

And then, the room exploded.

“NOPE – NOPE, I’M OUT!” Sam stormed out of the kitchen.

Nat was filming again. “I hate how calm he is. Like he didn’t just perform witchcraft again.”

“I’m convinced,” Clint muttered. “They’re telepathically bonded.”

Steve just looked vaguely disturbed. “I don’t even know my own favorite pancake setup that well.”

You blinked at Bucky again, who was completely unfazed, like this wasn’t the millionth time in twenty-four hours he’d rearranged reality by knowing you a little too well.

You took a bite of the pancake, still warm and soft and perfect.

“…Okay,” you mumbled with your mouth full. “This is actually kinda amazing.”

He leaned against the counter, smug as ever. “Told you.”

--

The others slowly trickled out of the kitchen after breakfast, muttering in stunned tones, still trying to recover. Nat was rewatching her own footage like it was evidence in a conspiracy theory. Tony was threatening to install surveillance.

But eventually, it was just you and Bucky, the clink of your fork on the plate and the hum of the fridge the only sounds left behind.

You took another bite, slower this time. It was still warm.

You glanced at him, leaning back on the counter across from you, arms crossed, looking completely at ease – like this wasn’t the weirdest thing in the world, like he hadn’t just predicted your entire breakfast down to the drizzle of syrup.

“��How do you do that?” you asked, finally, voice soft in the quiet.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

You gave him a look, the corners of your mouth twitching. “Bucky.”

He smirked a little, then pushed off the counter and walked over to you, grabbing a clean mug and pouring himself some coffee. He didn’t answer right away.

“I just pay attention,” he said eventually, voice quieter now. “That’s all.”

You swallowed the last bite and leaned forward on your elbows. “Yeah, but…it’s more than that. You don’t just notice, like, big stuff. You know all these little things about me. Things most people don’t even think to remember.”

He looked over at you, gaze steady but warm. “Well, most people don’t really look at you the way I do.”

You blinked.

“Not in a creepy way,” he added quickly, a hint of a smile breaking through. “Just…I notice things.”

He sat across from you, wrapping his hands around the coffee mug. “You start craving chocolate when you're stressed. You say you want eggs, but if you’ve just showered, you usually go for something sweet instead. You hum when you’re thinking. And when you’re overwhelmed, you get really quiet – not annoyed, just kind of…floaty. Like your brain’s stuck buffering.”

Your breath caught a little, something fluttering deep in your chest.

“And you always drink chocolate milk when you feel safe,” he added, softer this time. “Not just when you’re hungry.”

You looked down at your mug. You hadn’t even realized that.

Silence fell between you again, but this time it felt heavier – comfortable, but with something unspoken stretched between you.

“…Why?” you asked, finally.

He looked up.

You met his eyes. “Why do you notice all that?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you for a moment, like he was deciding how honest to be.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper: “Because you make it easy to care.”

You didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

He took a breath, eyes flicking down to the table, then back up.

“I’ve had to watch my back for a long time. I notice things – it’s how I survive. But you…” He gave a quiet laugh, like it surprised even him. “You’re the first person who made me want to notice the good stuff. The small stuff. Just so I could take care of it.”

That flutter in your chest turned into a full-blown ache.

You stared at him, unsure what to say, heart pounding.

But before either of you could say another word, Sam’s voice yelled from the other room:

“Hey, Barnes! If you’re done being a walking love song, can you bring the remote?!”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Every time.”

You were still looking at him, a soft smile pulling at the corner of your lips. “You’re kind of a sap.”

He grinned at that, his eyes flicking to yours with a spark. “Only for you.”

And then he got up, grabbed the remote, and tossed a wink over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

Leaving you alone in the kitchen.

With your perfect pancakes.

And a heart that wouldn’t stop racing.

--

Masterlist

Bucky Taglist: @winchestert101 @herejustforbuckybarnes @avengemepercy @buckyslove1917 @nelachu2423 @iyskgd

[sbnslver]

by a string

summary: Yeonjun’s got a lot on his plate. Not only does he have to worry about being a star student, but he also has to be the city’s web-slinging hero. And a lab intern. And a semi-decent roommate. And a little bit in love with you.

pairings: yeonjun x fem!reader

word count: 18.9k

tags: fluff, smut (mdni), some angst, spiderman!yeonjun, his webs shoot from his actual wrists like tobey maguire’s spiderman, college au, yeonjun is a cute awkward charming nerd, inaccurate science stuff sorry, blood, physical violence, lots of spidey shenanigans, campy weird action scene teehee, small arguments

smut tags: making out, heavy petting, webs as cuffs LOLLL, thigh riding, edging, fingering, praise, unprotected sex, cum eating, oral (f rec.), yeonjun is so playful and such a tease

notes: omg she’s finally here!!! i am so excited to get this out to u guys hehe<3 tysm for all the love on the teaser, i hope spideyjjun steals ur heart. enjoy the fic !!!

Saving the city can suck sometimes. Homework sucks significantly more. If Yeonjun had the option to zip through the city chasing some bad guys instead of sitting here trying to finish his calculus assignment, he’d be flying out his window in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, responsibility is a virtue, and Yeonjun cannot swing through the city for no good reason.

The one good thing about this tedious, awful calculus homework is that if it’s hard enough, he always gets a text from you. His body springs to life when he hears his phone buzz, rushing to pick it up and check the notification.

[you] have u done the calc homework

[you] how do you solve #4 :(

Do most of your conversations revolve around your shared class? Yes. Does Yeonjun ever get tired of teaching you the concepts? No, never. In fact, he stretches out his explanations as long as possible to keep you talking to him longer. Yeonjun never knew before that math talk could make his heart flutter.

“So, does that make sense?” he asks after a long-winded explanation. He’s almost out of breath after spewing out so much math jargon, but being on a call with you for ten minutes has similarly breathtaking effects.

“Yeah. Thanks, Yeonjun.” He bites back a giggle upon hearing your words. “You should seriously be teaching this class,” you say with a laugh.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t—I mean, I’m—I’m more of a science guy,” he stammers out, lips tightening into a thin line at the embarrassment of stumbling over his own sentence. “Our professor’s pretty cool, too,” he adds as if that saves him at all.

“Is he? Maybe I should start going to his office hours,” you muse.

Oh. Well in that case, your professor sucks. Yeonjun can’t have you stop coming to him for math help; you’d never talk to him at all if it came to that!

“He’s not that cool,” Yeonjun says. You laugh, and he huffs out a short chuckle too.

“Noted. I’m gonna go now, but thanks for helping me. You’re the best.” Your praise goes straight to Yeonjun’s head, making him feel like the greatest man to ever live. He doesn’t even feel this accomplished after going out on his little spidey-missions.

He’s a beat too late to say goodbye or good night to you, the call already hanging up as he opens his mouth to speak. He melts into a puddle over his desk, sighing out as he plays back his conversation with you in his head. He thinks you have the prettiest voice he’s ever heard. You’re so smart, too. He never has to over exert himself to get you to understand, though he would happily do that for you.

He jolts up as his roommate walks into his dorm. Yeonjun glances at him quickly as he straightens out his posture, picking his pencil back up and returning to his homework.

“Hey,” his roommate, Soobin, greets quietly. Yeonjun didn’t know Soobin prior to this semester, but he’s been pretty nice. He’s very quiet, but very respectful of Yeonjun’s space. It’s much appreciated, considering Yeonjun’s hiding a few of his red and blue spandex suits in his closet.

“Hey. How was your day?” Yeonjun asks, only half-interested in the conversation.

He watches Soobin shrug from his peripheral as he slides off his shoes. “Normal,” he answers.

Yeonjun nods. “Cool.” The conversation kind of dies after that, which is fine. Soobin isn’t the most extroverted person, and Yeonjun doesn’t push him to talk more than he’s willing to. He sometimes forgets he even has a roommate with how quiet it gets in the room.

Yeonjun regains his focus a minute into the silence. His eyes widen when he realizes that there’s now a doodle of your face on his calculus homework—when did that get there..? His face heats up as he grabs an eraser from his desk’s drawer. Thank god he didn’t do this assignment in pen.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Yeonjun’s not really paying attention to the professor, finding more interest in taking quick glances at you. You’re wearing a different bracelet today. It’s really pretty—maybe he should compliment you on it. Is it weird to lean in and tell you that? Are you close enough where he can compliment you without looking weird and creepy?

He rests his head in his hand and starts doodling in his notebook, mindlessly scribbling on the page while he waits for the lecture to end. He thinks of quick conversational things to say, something to discuss in a few minutes when it’s time to pack your bags and leave. Interesting class, right? Who would’ve thought—Yeonjun looks up at the projector to see the professor’s notes—the shell method… would be so cool… Maybe he shouldn’t say that, actually.

He’s honestly better off not trying to strike up a conversation with you at all; the chances of it leading to total and utter embarrassment lean greatly towards one hundred percent. He just wishes he had a little more spine, or that he was naturally a little cooler. The only interesting thing about him is something he can’t even talk to you about, or with anyone at all.

Yeonjun barely registers it when the professor dismisses class. He steals one last glance toward you, lips parting like he finally built up the courage to speak, but the words build up in his throat and die on his tongue. He seals his lips and focuses his gaze back on his own things, closing his notebook and shoving it in his bag. It’s not worth it. He decides he’ll just keep his mouth shut.

“Hey Yeonjun?”

Yeonjun almost jumps out of his seat, and he has to fight away his nerves as he turns to you. You’re packing your things back into your bag, not even looking at him. A part of him thinks he might be hearing things until your eyes meet his, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah?” he responds, voice coming out strained. He clears his throat.

“We’re friends, right?” you ask. He blinks, feeling like this is some kind of trick. He analyzes your face, making sure there’s nothing snide or teasing hidden in your question. You look honest enough, which puts him at ease.

“Yeah, for sure.”

“I hope that’s not sarcasm,” you say, getting up from your seat and adjusting your bag over your shoulders.

“It’s not! Really, we’re friends,” he reassures. You walk past him and he follows, leaving the classroom and entering the busy hallway.

“Well, good. I wanted you to go with me somewhere.” Your statement is wildly cryptic, and it leaves Yeonjun’s mind whirling with the possibilities of what you might offer.

“Right now?” he asks. “I-I have class…” As much as he likes you, he really can’t risk dropping his grade due to missed attendance.

You laugh, “No, tonight. There’s this party, and I”—you keep talking, but Yeonjun barely registers it. He’s never partied in college before. What would he even do at a party? He can’t handle his drinks well, and he’s not sure how well he’d blend into that kind of environment. He’s scared he’d make a fool of himself.

As you leave the academic building, you turn to Yeonjun, raising a brow in question. You must have asked him for his confirmation. Yeonjun forces his brain to rack up a response.

“Could you text me the details..?” Yeonjun asks. You relax a little at his words, nodding happily. You pull out your phone, ready to text him now. Yeonjun feels his heart pounding. He catches sight of the time on your phone, noticing he’s only got five minutes until his next class. The hall he’s supposed to be in is at least a three minute walk from here.

“There,” you say, awarding Yeonjun with a grin so bright that being late to class might just be worth it. “I really hope to see you there.” You tilt your head a little, and Yeonjun feels starstruck.

“You will,” he promises mindlessly.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Yeonjun feared he might’ve been in trouble when his professor asked him to stay after class. Turns out, it’s something much worse.

“Yeonjun, do you think you could help in the lab later today?”

Yeonjun doesn’t think much before he nods. “Yeah, of course, how much later?”

“Around 6 this evening,” his professor answers. Yeonjun’s heart drops. That would be perfectly fine any other day, but he promised to go out with you today. Of course the party would start at the same time Yeonjun’s professor wants him to stop by the lab.

“I’m not sure I have the time,” Yeonjun says quickly, suddenly fidgety and feeling antsy to leave the room. “I’ve got this… thing to do.” His professor doesn’t look too convinced. Yeonjun wants to facepalm himself. Yeah, great excuse.

The professor sighs, but Yeonjun starts up again before his professor can say anything. “I can come in earlier! I’m free right now, so I could just go over after this.”

“The cells we’re working with need a full 24 hours in culture for the sake of our research. Are you sure you can’t push your plans forward? Or back?” he asks.

Yeonjun’s stomach twists with guilt. He knows he shouldn’t let his professor down. Yeonjun’s kind of counting on him to write his recommendation letter for a graduate program, too.

“I’ll push the plans back,” Yeonjun says, giving in. He hopes the dejection isn’t too evident in his voice. His professor smiles and pats Yeonjun’s shoulder in thanks. He half-listens as his professor gives him the usual rundown of what to do during and after the process, nodding along and holding back the frown that tries to tug at his lips.

When Yeonjun finally leaves the building, he lets out the heaviest sigh of his life. His shoulders sag, and he feels like he might be the unluckiest person in the world. You finally give him attention outside of just asking for homework help, and the universe just had to intervene. This is laughable. It’s also stupid. Annoying. Frustrating.

There’s a pout etched onto Yeonjun’s face as he walks back to his dorm. He’s got a couple hours until he needs to go to the lab, so maybe he can take a nap or tidy up his room a little. His head hangs low, gaze transfixed on the sidewalk, kicking along a small pebble that keeps him company on the way.

He only picks his head back up as he walks past a certain field of grass, one he often finds you sitting in. Sometimes you’re on your laptop, sometimes you’re taking notes in a textbook, but most of the time you’re just lounging and doing nothing. It’s almost inspiring. Yeonjun would probably benefit from relaxing and decompressing more.

You’re there, sitting cross-legged on the grass, peaceful and silent. You look up suddenly, making eye contact with Yeonjun. His face flushes, but before he can turn his head in embarrassment, you raise your hand and wave. Yeonjun almost stops in his tracks. You’re waving at him, acknowledging his existence yet again.

He smiles and waves back, failing to tame his heartbeat as he takes the sight of you in. He’s forced to look away when he nearly stumbles over the pebble he’s been kicking around—“Oh, shit!” he utters, quietly enough to not draw attention to himself.

He glances back at you casually, making sure you didn’t witness him tripping. Fortunately, you’re on your phone, no longer paying him any mind.

Back at his dorm, Yeonjun stands by his closet, contemplating what exactly to wear tonight. He also has to make sure his outfit is lab-friendly, so the loose sweater he’d been eyeing is a no-go. He sighs, looking at himself in the mirror. Maybe the t-shirt and jeans he’s wearing now will suffice.

Time passes slowly, slow enough for Yeonjun to clean his half of the room, make himself a small meal in the communal kitchen, and even read a chapter ahead in his calculus textbook. He almost feels relieved when his alarm sets off to go to the lab, eager to get his work over with.

He’s determined to get this done quickly enough to still see you tonight. The thought of letting you down the one time you ask him to hang out is almost painful. He imagines the frown you’d wear next time he sits next to you in class. He can’t let that happen; he has to make sure he gets to you.

He throws on his lab coat and adjusts the goggles to fit onto his face. He sighs as he grabs containers of various chemical compounds from the cabinet, leaving them on the counter as he fetches the other materials he needs. With everything set out in front of him, he grabs the petri dish of cells and glances at the procedural note his professor left.

Yeonjun’s done this enough times to get into the swing of things, so he’s not too concerned with double checking his every move. His bigger priority is getting this done as fast as possible so that he can get to you. Lab work is never particularly fun or interesting, so he passes the time thinking about you.

The smell of the chemicals burns Yeonjun’s nose a little, and he wonders for a second if he’d been zoning out too much. He picks up the procedural note and glances over the measurements again, making sure he’s been adding the right amounts of everything. If he does something wrong and messes with the cell culture, he risks not being allowed back in the lab. He should probably slow down a bit, even if it means making you wait longer.

He’s more careful throughout the rest of the process, pushing back the worries that he might’ve messed something up. He continues to reassure himself that everything’s okay as he finishes up his work, placing the lid back on the petri dish and storing it away. He writes the date and time on a piece of tape that he sticks onto the lid, then finally lets his body relax as he steps back.

He cracks his knuckles to alleviate the stiffness that had been building there and rolls his shoulders back, groaning at the soreness of his muscles. All the fine motor movements from working in a lab does a number on his arms and fingers.

He hears a rattle, and he turns quickly to make sure he didn’t knock anything over in his haste. His eyes scan the room, but nothing looks amiss. He shakes the feeling and sheds himself of his lab gear, eager to head to you at the party already.

It’s been over an hour, and the thought of you waiting so long for Yeonjun’s arrival strikes guilt inside his chest. He opens his phone to find the path he needs to walk to get to the house the party’s being held in, eyes bugging out when he sees that it’s a twenty minute walk from the lab. Shit, by then you’ll have been waiting an hour and a half for him to show up!

He groans, trying to think if there’s a better way to get to you. The buses around campus don’t stop at the street he needs to get to, and it’s not like he has one of those electric bicycles or scooters that everyone seems to love. He wonders now if it might be a worthy investment. He pouts and throws his head back, totally drained from everything happening today. His eyes land on the tops of the academic buildings and the tall trees overhead. Maybe there is another way to get there after all.

No, he shouldn’t. That would be way too reckless. He’s already gone through the whole power and responsibility spiel, and he’s not in the mood to get himself in trouble for acting rashly. But if no one sees…

He turns his head and scans for people in each direction. No one’s around. No one would know, and he really needs to get to the party before he makes himself look like an asshole. He checks for anyone one last time, then aims his wrist towards the sky.

“Yeonjun! What’s up!”

Yeonjun startles and brings his arm back to his side hastily. He whips around to see who’s talking to him and lets out a breath when he sees his friend who had just exited the lab building. “Taehyun, hey man,” he says, ignoring the anxious pounding of his heart. That was way too close. Lesson learned.

“Didn’t catch you at the physics meet last week. Everything alright?” Taehyun asks. Yeonjun really hopes this conversation doesn’t take too long. The last thing he needs is another ten minutes piled on top of how late he already is.

“I’m good, I was just”—controlling a fire set by some idiot arsonist, then trapping said arsonist with his webs until the cops arrived—“uh, kind of sick.”

Taehyun hums and nods. “Well, we missed you bro, hope you’re feeling better. I’ll see you around!” Yeonjun waves and returns the smile his friend gives him, then walks as fast as he can to the location you sent him. He manages to get there in fifteen minutes instead of twenty, only at the expense of heavy breathing like he just finished a marathon.

When he gets to the entrance, there’s two men Yeonjun has never seen in his life guarding the door. He almost scoffs. What is this, some kind of nightclub?

“You got the money?” one of the guys ask.

“What?” Yeonjun scrunches his brows and leans his head forward a little, thinking he might have misheard him.

“No money, no entrance,” the other man says.

“Dude, come on!” Yeonjun whines.

“House rules. Stop wasting our time and get out of line.”

“No, no, I’ll”—Yeonjun sighs, reaching into the back pocket of his pants to fetch out his wallet. “How much?” he asks. The men tell him, and he bites back the complaints that almost push past his lips. Yeonjun slaps the bills into the guy’s open palm. They finally open the door for him, and Yeonjun steps inside.

He’s taken aback by how many people are cramped into this place. The house is pretty big, but there’s at least a hundred people mingling around, which makes space tight. He squeezes past the crowd with muttered apologies, but no one seems to pay him any mind. He scans every room for you, but it’s a little hard to do it efficiently when there’s so many faces to check. A part of him fears you might’ve left already.

He pulls out his phone, ready to text you and ask, before he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns at the action and smiles when he’s met with your pretty face. “Hey, you!” you exclaim. “I thought you bailed on me.” There’s no real bite to your words, but it still makes Yeonjun frown.

“I’m sorry. I had to do this lab thing, and”—

“It’s alright, don’t explain. You’re here now!” you say. “Did you have anything to drink?”

Yeonjun shakes his head. “I don’t drink much.”

“Me either,” you say. You look out the window, then grab onto Yeonjun’s hand. His brain short-circuits, and he has to stop his eyes from going all dumb and wide. “It’s kinda stuffy in here. Let’s go outside.”

Yeonjun puts up no fight as you lead him out the back door, walking out into the yard. There’s almost as many people out here as there are inside, but the lack of walls means there’s more space to move. It’s much more breathable.

He takes quick glances at your face, trying to decipher what you’re staring so hard at. Your gaze is fixed on a small group of people just sitting and laughing. All the guys have girls in their laps, and a few girls stand around them, sipping their drinks. They all look happy. And drunk.

“Did you want to join them?” Yeonjun asks. He doesn’t know any of those people, but he’ll go if that’s what you’d like. It’s not like there’s much else to do when you’re not drinking or dancing.

The LED lights that line the house reflect in your eyes, making them dazzle extra bright. Your eyes dart to the group one last time before you shake your head. “Nah. Let’s just sit down and talk.” Yeonjun gladly obliges.

You find an empty spot to sit at, looking up at Yeonjun after you situate yourself. He laughs a little, “You really like sitting on the grass, huh?”

You smile at him and pat the ground next to you. “Don’t act like you’re too good to connect with nature.”

“It’s more about getting grass stains on my pants,” Yeonjun says, but sits beside you anyways.

You turn your head to him, and something about seeing your face this close makes it hard for him to keep eye contact. It’s quiet for a few seconds before you speak up, “So how come you said yes to the party?”

Something about your question strikes fear inside Yeonjun. Did you find him out? Do you know he likes you? Maybe this is some kind of humiliation ritual you’ve set him up for.

“Cause you asked,” he answers, voice a little meek as he fidgets with his hands in his lap.

“And if it was someone else who asked?”

Yeonjun thinks for a second, but he can’t come to an answer. “I don’t know. Like who?”

You hum and look into the crowd of people. Your head turns back to him after a couple seconds. “Like Yerim,” you say.

Yeonjun laughs as if the scenario is ridiculous, mostly because it is. Yerim would never even give him the time of day. She’s notorious for being cold to anyone who she isn’t interested in. Somehow, that seems to attract a bunch of guys to her. Not Yeonjun, though.

“No chance I’d go,” he says.

“So what makes me different?” you ask.

A lot of things. You’re nice, and you’re smart, and you’re down to earth, and you’re a beacon of warmth. Everything makes you different.

“Cause we’re friends,” he says instead. He wants to punch himself after the words leave him. This was his chance to flirt with you, yet he couldn’t even muster up the courage to give you a single compliment.

You nod. “I’m just asking cause… well, I guess I’m just surprised you agreed to come.” Your eyes meet his, warm and kind. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

Yeonjun’s stomach does flips when you look at him like that. “You’re welcome.” It goes quiet for a moment, so he continues, “I think this was worth handing over the last of my cash for.”

You burst out laughing. “They made you pay?! Why didn’t you just say you’re here with me?”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he says. He bites his tongue after the words leave him. Who is he to assume there will be a next time? He hopes you don’t call him out on it.

“We should just go somewhere else next time. There’s a lot of places downtown that I want to visit,” you suggest, bumping his shoulder with yours. Yeonjun almost explodes.

“We should do that then,” he agrees. He’s not sure what suddenly drew you to him as more than some kind of tutor, but he thanks the universe for bestowing him with all this luck.

“There’s that bakery that opened a couple months ago,” you mention.

Yeonjun lights up. “Oh my god, I’ve been wanting to go there too!”

You squeal in excitement and clasp your hands together. “Let’s do that next. Tell me you’re free on Sunday,” you say.

“I don’t know, things come up last-minute sometimes. I’ll let you know.” It’s hard to make plans when he’s basically living a double life. Then again, he did agree to going out with you tonight on a whim. He’s not very consistent with his rules. He pushes the thought back.

Your eyes land back on the group of people hanging out and laughing. Yeonjun frowns, and he wonders if he’s not entertaining you enough. He doesn’t want to keep you from having fun.

“Why do you keep looking at them?” he asks, curious and soft. He hopes he’s not prying.

“They’re just some friends,” you answer.

“Oh. Why don’t we go say hi, then?” he offers.

You pull your lips into a tight line. “I’d rather not.”

“That’s alright,” Yeonjun says. You give a small smile in appreciation.

“What about you?” you ask. He tilts his head, not knowing what you mean. You continue, “Who’s in your friend group?”

Yeonjun laughs awkwardly and shrugs. “I mostly hang out with the physics honor society,” he admits.

“That’s cool. You must have a good bond.”

“We do,” he says. “How’d you meet your friends?”

You smile at him, and something in your face tells Yeonjun that it’s a complicated story. You sigh dramatically and lean back a little, “I met them at parties. Does that surprise you?”

Yeonjun’s not sure if that’s a rhetorical question. “No. You’re friendly. I can see why people come to you,” he answers.

“Thanks,” you say, voice a little quieter.

“Are you friends with your roommate?” he asks.

“I don’t have one. I live in a single dorm.”

Lucky. If Yeonjun had the extra money to spare, he’d be dorming alone too. It would definitely make heading out as Spider-man easier; he’d just be able to change in his room and jump out his window. Assuming no one is around to see, that is.

“That must be nice,” he says.

You shrug. “It’s alright. What about you? You got a roommate?”

“Yeah. We’re…” Yeonjun struggles to find a word to describe his relationship with Soobin. They’re not exactly friends, but they’re peaceful with each other.

You laugh and finish the sentence for him, “Roommates and nothing more.” There’s a lilt to your voice when you say that, and you wiggle your eyebrows like that’s supposed to suggest something.

“Ignoring your insinuations, yeah, pretty much.”

“I’m just kidding,” you say. He’ll let you make jokes at his expense all you want, it doesn’t bother him. Especially not when it means he gets to see you all giggly and happy. He thinks that you look the prettiest like this. Yeonjun would stare at you smiling up at him forever if he could.

The sound of a guy calling your name pulls Yeonjun from his stupor. He blinks at the man standing before the two of you, then looks at you with scrunched brows as if to ask who is that?

His unspoken question is answered the next second. “Hey, Kai,” you say. When Yeonjun gets a better look, he realizes that this is one of the dudes in the group you kept looking over at.

“Who’s this guy?” Kai asks, jutting his chin toward him.

“I’m Yeonjun.” He goes to hold out his hand for Kai to shake, but quickly puts it back down upon realizing that might be weird.

“Oh, Yeonjun from calculus. I know you,” he says.

“I didn’t know you’re in that class too,” Yeonjun muses.

Kai laughs, “I’m not. Y/n just talks about you.”

Yeonjun nearly melts. You talk about him. This is the best day of his life.

“Anyway,” Kai continues, looking at you again. “I need a couple more people on my beer pong team. You guys down?”

Yeonjun turns to you to gauge your reaction. He can’t really tell what you're feeling, not even when you face him as you contemplate your answer. Yeonjun shrugs, as if to tell you that he’s down for whatever you want to do.

“I think I’m good,” you say.

“Ah, alright, you bummer,” Kai jokes, stepping back and sending you a bright smile. “Continue your convo with the calc lord, I insist.” He’s gone after that, jogging off to the rest of his friends, setting up the game.

“Calc lord?” Yeonjun repeats, amused.

Your laugh is accompanied by a roll of your eyes. “He means it nicely, I swear.”

“Well, depending on how well he does in this game, I might start calling him beer pong lord,” Yeonjun says. You push at his shoulder as your laughter continues.

Yeonjun already knew he likes you a lot, but as the night goes on, he finds out that you’re even better than he thought. Conversation unfolds easily with you, even if Yeonjun’s answers are dorky and awkward at times. He feels exactly how he thinks you look when you sit in the grass alone: content and peaceful.

He’s not sure how many minutes or hours have passed when you ask him to walk you back to your dorm. All he knows is that tonight could have stretched into infinity, and that would’ve been fine. He follows you into the building, then into your room. He’s not sure why. It just feels right.

“Thanks for bringing me back,” you say. Yeonjun smiles and nods. He leans against the wall and stares out the window. You live on the top floor of your building, so the view’s pretty different from Yeonjun’s second story view. This would be a fun room to swing out of.

“Do you need anything else?” Yeonjun asks. A smile slowly takes over your face, and you cross the room to stand in front of him. You blink up at him, and something about it feels flirty. If he wasn’t biting his tongue so hard, his thoughts would have slipped right past his lips: you look cute.

You break the short moment of silence with a giggle. “Just for you to promise me we’ll hang out again,” you say, voice barely over a whisper.

Yeonjun has to remind himself to breathe and be normal. “I promise,” he says. He even holds out his pinky to seal the deal. You curl your pinky around his, accepting the playful gesture.

“Did you want to stay?” you ask. You look out the window, then back at him. “I’m okay with sharing my bed.”

That definitely flusters Yeonjun. “Oh, no, I’m—I was gonna just walk back to my dorm or something. Or take a bus. I don’t know. Thank you, though.”

You laugh. Hopefully not at his sputtering and rambling, but Yeonjun has a feeling that might be why. “Alright, then. Good night, Yeonjun.”

Your soft voice has Yeonjun wanting to backpedal and say he’ll stay the night, but he swallows down the words. He smiles at you as he backs away toward your door. “Good night,” he says, standing in your doorway.

“Yeonjun,” you call, stopping him before he could leave. He turns, waiting for your words. He’s surprised to see that you look a little shy. “I’m really happy I asked you to come with me. Tonight was fun.”

Butterflies erupt in Yeonjun’s stomach, and he feels like he could float from how giddy he is. “I’m happy too,” he says.

He steps out into the hall, thoughts lingering on how overwhelmingly good his time with you was. His mind is clouded with rosy memories of his night with you, and he finds himself repressing the urge to twirl around and jump for joy. He’ll probably be skipping all the way home, imagining all the possibilities of what could come next between you.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

It’s Sunday, and Yeonjun knows exactly why you’re calling. He stares at his phone, then back at the man in front of him tangled up in webs. Yeonjun shoots another web over the guy’s mouth.

“Sorry, gotta take this,” he says. “Stay right here.” He slings himself onto a branch of a tall tree nearby, just to make sure no one can listen in as he accepts your call.

“Hey Yeonjun!” Your voice is so cheerful that it makes Yeonjun giggle. He even swings his feet in the air as he sits on the branch.

“Hi Y/n,” he greets, hoping his voice isn’t too muffled through the mask of his suit.

“Did those last-minute plans end up showing, or are you down to try out that bakery?” you ask. Yeonjun frowns, hating to let you down when you sound so happy.

“I’m really busy today, I’m sorry,” he says, shoulders sagging from how awful he feels. He’s got a whole lab procedure to write once he’s done sorting out the crime scenes of today.

“No worries, maybe we can go after class sometime.”

He frowns. “I wish I could, but I got another class right after ours. Let me check my schedule, I might be able to”—

“Are those sirens?” you interrupt, and Yeonjun looks out to the street. He’s grown so accustomed to the sound of those things that it didn’t even register. “Where are you?” you ask.

“I’m… uh,” Yeonjun stammers, focusing on the cops getting out of the car and making their way towards the criminal.

He tunes into the cops’ conversation. “Looks like Spider-shit’s been here already,” one of them comments in a gruff voice.

The other cop huffs out a laugh. “He’s always meddling in with petty crimes. What do you think this guy did?”

“Jaywalking?” The cops chuckle.

“Not like he can explain with that over his mouth.” He points to the web Yeonjun placed on the man a minute ago.

Yeonjun scowls. He’s not sure why the cops hold so much scorn for him, but if they’d like to know, then the petty crime that Spider-shit helped stop was an armed robbery. If these guys were a little better at their jobs, he wouldn’t have to meddle in all the time.

“Hello?” you ask, and Yeonjun reels his attention back to his conversation with you.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just coming back from the store. Crazy stuff going on today.”

“Oh. Well, stay safe,” you say.

“Thanks, I will.” He sees the cops looking around, probably trying to spot him, so he flattens his back against the tree and tries to talk a little quieter. “I’ll see you in class, I gotta go.”

“See you!”

Yeonjun sighs once the call ends. His suit doesn’t even have pockets, he just carried his phone with him today in case you contacted him. Stupid? Mildly. Inconvenient? Very. He had one less hand to work with when dealing with today’s crime culprits. To hear your voice, though? Worth it. He smiles like an idiot as he swings over to the next nearest building, making his way back to his dorm.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Yeonjun’s professor accompanies him to the lab today, overseeing the procedures for the day. The feeling of his professor watching over his shoulder is more nerve-wracking than any day spent fighting crime on the streets. He’s usually careful with his work in the lab, but he’s extra, extra careful on these days.

He pauses when he retrieves the petri dish of cells. He briefly considers the possibility that he’s crazy and just seeing things, but Yeonjun’s pretty sure that the clump of cells just moved. Like, uncanny movement. He holds his breath.

He stares at the clump, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. It doesn’t jerk around anymore, so maybe it was just his imagination. Fear still creeps up his neck at the idea of the research going wrong. He remembers feeling like he messed up at some point last time he was here, and the realization is making his skin grow clammy.

“What is it?” his professor asks, taking a step closer to Yeonjun.

“Nothing, I was just thinking,” he quickly responds, keeping his voice calm and steady. He brings the petri dish to the table and does his best to forget what he saw earlier. Yeonjun fears how his professor would react if he told him something unprecedented might be occurring. It happened so quickly that he can’t even tell if his mind was just playing tricks on him. Maybe he’s just extra nervous today.

He wipes the sweat off his palms onto his lab coat, bringing the necessary materials to the table to continue the research. His professor reads off the instructions slowly, and Yeonjun pretends he doesn’t feel his stomach twisting as he works with the cells.

He tries to calm down as he walks back to his dorm, but there’s a permanent chill shooting down his spine. There’s no way the clump should have moved like that—it shouldn’t show any observable motion at all, not without some kind of electrical stimulation.

Maybe he just jerked the dish too harshly. He was pretty nervous, so it would make sense. He must have been shaking and just didn’t realize. That would explain it. That would put Yeonjun at ease.

He can try to convince himself that everything’s fine, but he can’t stop the anxious thrum of his heart. Apparently the fear reads on his face, too, because Soobin’s quick to notice it when Yeonjun enters the dorm.

“Are you okay?” Soobin asks. Yeonjun’s not sure what must have given himself away. He pays more attention to breathing slowly and talking casually.

“I’m good,” he answers. He doesn’t expect Soobin to push the subject considering how quiet he always is, but Soobin’s gaze isn’t leaving Yeonjun. He must be really concerned.

“Did something happen?” Soobin asks. Yeonjun sinks into his desk chair, covering his face with his hands as he groans. “Sorry,” his roommate apologizes, turning away from Yeonjun to look at his laptop instead.

“No, you’re good, it’s just…” Yeonjun sighs. He might as well get this off his chest. “Some lab thing.”

Soobin nods, not asking any further. Now that Yeonjun’s started though, he doesn’t feel like stopping.

“I think I might’ve fucked up,” Yeonjun admits.

“How?” Soobin’s playing some video game on his laptop as he talks, which actually puts Yeonjun at ease. It feels less pressing, less like an interrogation or a confession and more like a normal conversation.

“The cells I’m working with are being weird. I don’t know. I don’t even know if I saw it right. I just feel crazy now.” Yeonjun rubs his palms against his eyes in frustration and exhaustion, soothing the headache he’s got building up.

Soobin hums. The little shooting sounds and animated voices coming from Soobin’s game fill the room until Soobin speaks again, “Did anyone else see?”

“No. My professor was there, but he didn’t notice.”

Soobin shrugs. “You’re probably fine then.”

Honestly, Soobin’s nonchalance to the situation eases Yeonjun’s worries a lot. He knows he can get in his head sometimes, especially when it comes to doing everything right, so to hear he’ll be fine lifts a weight from his shoulders.

“Yeah, probably,” he agrees. He basks in comfortable silence for a minute now that his heart isn’t beating so hard.

“By the way, have you bought more laundry detergent yet?” Soobin asks.

Ah, shit. “Tomorrow, I promise.”

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Being Spider-man is tasking, but it’s usually pretty cool. Not everyone gets to zip around the city and restore peace in people’s neighborhoods. Not everyone, however, has to worry about getting stabbed by a criminal in the middle of the night.

Yeonjun always stays until the cops arrive. It almost feels essential, just to make sure justice gets served. This time, he can’t.

He has to stop himself from groaning too loud when he feels the knife pull out from his side. The man in front of Yeonjun is already stuck to the side of a building, held there with a thick layer of web, so there has to be someone else. He turns around to look at the perpetrator, but the world moves a lot slower than normal.

Yeonjun blinks hard, focusing on breathing and staying conscious. The coward who stabbed him is wearing a ski mask, and he’s running away quickly. Yeonjun can’t let him leave. He moves forward and ignores the searing pain that sets his body alight. He straightens out his shaky arm and aims his wrist at the man, but the web that shoots out is just as weak as Yeonjun is.

Frustrated, Yeonjun growls and forces himself to move faster. It burns, he’s never felt any kind of pain like this, but he can’t let this man walk free. He can’t let this man stab another innocent person. Even with his staggered pace, limping as he tries his best to catch up to the man, he advances quickly.

He breathes hard and holds the air in his lungs as he aims again at the man, brows furrowed with angry determination beneath his mask. He lets out a loud grunt as he shoots his web out, and finally, it lands. The criminal falls as the web captures his ankle, keeping his leg stuck to the ground.

Yeonjun huffs as he traverses the rest of the way toward the man, nothing but fury in his veins as he shoots another web out. This one’s bigger, covering the man’s back and securing him to the pavement. He picks up his head and looks at Yeonjun with fear in his eyes, but he doesn’t care. He can’t. All he feels is pain and anger and pain and pain and so much fucking pain.

Yeonjun’s not the vengeful type, but getting stabbed really tests a person’s limits. He shoots more webs over the guy, making sure he won’t be able to move a muscle until the cops arrive.

Yeonjun doesn’t waste his breath making snide comments, though he does have a few choice words for him. He takes off the man’s ski mask and resists the urge to deck his face. He’s got fear etched into his expression, but Yeonjun finds it hard to feel sorry for him. The man starts begging for his life, and Yeonjun scoffs. Of course he’s not going to kill this man—no matter what, he doesn’t end people’s lives. A city’s hero shouldn’t get to decide who lives and dies.

Yeonjun stumbles away after finding a passerby to call the police. Now that the adrenaline’s gone, Yeonjun feels less mad and more scared. He’s really bleeding now; his hand comes up soaked when it presses against the wound. What the hell does he do? He can’t die like this.

He can’t go to the hospital with a stab wound. There’s no way for him to make up some alibi that wouldn’t just trace Spider-man’s identity back to him. He hisses through gritted teeth as he frantically scans his surroundings, looking for somewhere to go. The only thing that’s coming to mind is you, and it’s aggravating. He could be dying right now, and all his useless mind can do is think of you. Maybe it’s all the blood loss, and he’s just getting delirious, or maybe it’s a sign. It’s not like he has many good options right now.

There’s not enough time to think about it. He zips through the city and back onto campus as fast as he can, ignoring the splitting pain in his side that shoots up his body every time he moves. It’s getting harder to breathe, suddenly feeling suffocated by his mask, but he has to hold on. He’s not far away now.

He remembers the view from your window. He remembers exactly which room to shoot himself up to. He adheres himself to the wall outside your room and pulls his mask off, leaning his forehead onto the cold glass of your window with a sigh of relief. He catches his breath and knocks with a shaky fist. He’s really sorry for having to wake you up at this hour, but he has a feeling you’ll understand.

He doesn’t wait long. You're trudging out of bed and making your way toward the window, tired eyes blinking slowly. You look really cute. Everything is spinning around him, but he focuses on you. You’re still groggy and out of it until you meet Yeonjun’s eyes through the glass. As soon as you see him, it’s like you wake up immediately.

He watches your jaw drop, your frantic hands racing to open your window. His vision is nearly blacking out, and he tries to blink away the dizzy feeling in his head the best he can.

“Yeonjun?!” you squeak as he drags himself through your window and into your room. He can’t even hold himself up anymore, weak body collapsing to the floor. He groans and leans against the wall, clutching his side. He ignores the sickening feeling of blood dampening his hand, sticky and warm against his palm and between his digits.

You pick him up by the underarms, grunting as you heave him toward your bed. He notices how shaky your arms are, and he tries his best to pick up his own weight, even if it hurts like hell. He’s burdening you enough as is coming here so late.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to go to,” he says, catching his breath as you guide him to lay on your bed. He’s half-aware of how bloody and dirty he is, but you seem fully ready to let him stain your sheets. Concern and confusion fill your wide eyes, and Yeonjun can hear every word that you don’t say.

Luckily, you save the unnecessary questions for later. “What do I do?” you ask. Your hands tremble as they peel the shirt of his suit up, just enough to expose his midriff and the nasty damage to his side. You gasp upon seeing how bad it is, hardly able to stomach it, opting to look into his eyes instead.

He wants to respond to you, if not to answer your question then just to comfort you, but breathing is enough of a chore on its own right now; talking seems almost impossible. Watching you panic about this is shattering him. He makes an effort to move his arm out toward you, just to hold your hand and reassure you, but he doesn’t have enough strength.

You lift from the bed and open up a bottle of water, pouring some of the cool liquid over his head. It’s relieving against his burning skin and keeps him from losing consciousness. It also makes him realize how dehydrated he is.

“Please sit up,” you beg, placing a hand underneath his head to lift it a bit. He comes up just enough to drink some of the water you feed to him, swallowing down the rest of the bottle. He collapses back against your pillow once he’s finished, feeling much better just from that.

You come back with another bottle of water and pour small bits at a time over the gash in his side. He hisses and tenses up each time it hits his skin, but he knows you have to do this. He doesn’t want to make it harder by thrashing around and complaining, so he bites his tongue and keeps his body stiff.

The sheets soak beneath him as you continue emptying the water bottle over the wound. He should help you clean up after this; he doesn’t want you dealing with his mess all alone. A few minutes pass before you discard the plastic bottle and grab a t-shirt from your dresser.

You press the bunched up cloth against his injured skin gently, and he holds back any grunts that threaten to slip out. It’s like you can sense his pain despite his efforts to hide it, because you keep murmuring apologies to him.

“I’m okay, don’t be sorry,” he reassures. He doesn’t think you believe him, judging by the way lips stay tugged into a frown.

A quietness falls over the room. You pull your t-shirt away from his body and observe the wound, and your fingertips on his torso send electricity throughout his body. It doesn’t hurt so much now.

“You’re not bleeding anymore,” you point out.

He hums. “That’s good.” Your hand grazes the skin just outside the gash. There’s a soothing effect in the way your fingers glide against him, pressure so light that it’s barely there.

“You need stitches,” you say quietly, like you hate to break the news to him.

Yeonjun doesn’t mind. “You got a needle?” he asks. You fidget with the fabric of Yeonjun’s suit as you sigh and look away.

“I do,” you say. You don’t sound too confident, though. He doesn’t know what to do to make you feel better.

You grab his hand like it’s second nature to do so, and the action would be romantic if only you didn’t have that nervous look on your face. He can practically feel your heart pounding, and he’s dying to let you know that everything’s okay.

“I trust you,” he breathes out. He makes sure he’s looking you in the eye so you can see how much he means it. He’s risking everything by trusting you, but he’s not scared. He feels safe even with his life in your hands, his secret identity in your knowledge. If there was something more sacred and dangerous to give up than that, he’s sure he’d be okay lending that to you too.

It feels much more real when you have your needle and thread in hand. Yeonjun can’t contain his noises anymore, whimpering in pain when he feels the sharp tip pierce his skin.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say quickly and desperately. “I’ll do it fast.”

He hisses as he feels the thread start to tug his wound shut. He throws an arm over his eyes, as if not watching you treat him will stop the piercing feeling. All his muscles are tensed up no matter how much he tries to relax, but he keeps his breathing steady and lets you do your work.

It’s not too long before you’re tying off the final knot and discarding your needle onto your nightstand. You run your thumb over the stitch, gentle and slow. Yeonjun takes his arm off his face and fixes his gaze on you, watching you scrutinize your work with scrunched brows.

“It feels fine. You did perfect,” he says, wanting to keep you from judging yourself too harshly. He wants to thank you, but the words feel so awkward building up in his throat.

“I don’t have a big enough bandage to put over this,” you say, still fixated on his injury. Yeonjun tries to sit up, but your hand on his shoulder eases him back down. “Don’t move too much.”

“Y/n…” he starts, but you give him a pointed look, and he decides to shut up and listen. He relaxes against your mattress.

“I wish I had some clothes to change you into,” you mutter after he pulls the shirt of his suit back down. The spandex isn’t super comfortable against his fresh stitches, but it’s easy to ignore in comparison to the searing pain of the open wound. He’ll have to throw out this suit; it’s bloodied beyond repair, and he has plenty of back-ups anyway.

“It’s alright,” Yeonjun says. You shuffle on the mattress until you’re laying down beside him. “Aren’t the sheets wet?” he asks, surprised at how unfazed you seem.

You let out a small laugh, and that frown finally leaves your face. “I don’t mind. I wanted to lay down.”

“I’ll buy you new sheets,” Yeonjun promises. “And a new needle. And I’ll explain everything to you, I swear. Please don’t”—

“Yeonjun,” you cut off. He shuts his mouth. “That stuff doesn’t matter. Are you okay now?”

He nods. “I’m okay.”

“That’s all I care about.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence. Yeonjun stares at the ceiling and wonders how much this is going to change things between you. He has some hope that this will make you two even closer, but a small part of him fears that you won’t want to associate with him anymore. He wouldn’t blame you; it’s not like being close to Spider-man isn’t a riskless situation. He doesn’t regret coming to you tonight, though.

He feels your eyes on him a moment later, and he can only bring himself to look at you for a second before returning his gaze to your ceiling. You must find that funny, because he hears you chuckling beside him.

“You know, I wasn’t expecting this when you said you’d hang out with me again.” There’s a softness in your voice that makes Yeonjun feel lightheaded. Not the losing-too-much-blood kind of lightheaded, but the oh-god-I-really-like-her kind—this one’s much more preferable and much more welcome than the former.

“I’ll have to make it up to you,” he says.

“How do you plan on doing that?”

He turns his head to face you, and something feels awfully domestic about getting to lay this close to you in your bed. It’s hard to breathe when you’re smiling at him so eagerly, when there’s a glint in your eyes that tells Yeonjun you’re having fun. There’s an itch all the way down to his bones that begs him to push forward and kiss you already, but he resists.

“I’ll find a way,” he whispers.

The room gets quiet again, and Yeonjun supposes he should leave. It’s not like he can wait for the sun to rise and walk out of your room in his bloodied Spidey-suit glory. He’s not sure what time it is right now, but he knows that if he doesn’t leave soon and get some sleep, he’ll be passing out in his classes.

“Thanks for fixing me up,” he says, pushing himself off your bed and stretching his limbs. He feels beyond sore, wincing at the pain that shoots through his body. You sit up immediately, scrambling to stop him.

“You’re leaving? Are you crazy? Stay here!” you insist, trying to drag him back to the bed. He turns his head to you and smiles, and something about the silent plea in your eyes lights up his heart. He keeps his feet on the ground and resists your efforts, even though he wants nothing more than to spend the night with you. It’s just not smart and not worth the risk.

“I can’t,” he says. You pout and stand before him, blinking up at him so prettily that he almost changes his mind. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know. I just wanted to keep you.” That makes Yeonjun giggle.

“Sorry. Maybe next time.”

You swat his chest. “Don’t let there be a next time. You almost scared me to death.”

“I’ll make sure to tell the next knife-bearer you said that,” Yeonjun jokes. It gets the laugh that he was hoping for out of you.

“Well…” you start, eyes darting between his own. He barely has time to register it when you press a kiss against his lips, your movement so hesitant and shy. It’s soft. It’s sweet. It’s over before he knows it. He blinks at you dumbly—it’s all he can do to not pass out like a dork in front of you. Your smile is just as soft and sweet as your kiss was. “Just stay out of trouble,” you finish, patting his chest gently.

“I’ll try.”

“I guess I’ll see you in class, then,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees. He should go now. He should make use of his feet and back away, but he stays planted in his spot. You sway girlishly in front of him, hands clasped behind your back.

“Good night,” you whisper. Yeonjun can’t help it—he pulls your face in so he can feel your lips on his again, more properly this time. They’re pillowy and dreamy, and Yeonjun could just melt into you. He doesn’t linger longer than he has to, backing up just enough to see your face. You mirror the glee that he feels in his own expression.

“Good night,” he echoes. He backs away and grabs his mask, slipping it back on. He opens your window back up and slings himself to the nearest tree. Each time Yeonjun looks over his shoulder, he sees you leaning at your window smiling right back at him. His heart does a little flip. On second thought, maybe getting stabbed is kind of cool.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

Despite how well last night went, Yeonjun wakes up with a heavy weight on his shoulders. Every ounce of confidence that his interaction with you last night might have given him is completely gone the moment he remembers it, and sheds away at itself further when he notices you skipped class. A dreadful thought creeps up his spine: are you avoiding him?

Maybe you woke up regretting it all. Maybe you realized how ridiculous and stupid getting involved with Spider-man is, and you’re just protecting yourself before you can be burdened further. The classroom feels hot and suffocating, and fresh air sounds really nice right now, but Yeonjun stays put in his seat. He doesn’t want to make a scene and start freaking everyone out. To the best of his ability, he pushes his fears down and saves his panic for later—preferably for after he talks to you and gets some answers.

He doesn’t even open his notebook in his last class of the day. He shows up just for attendance purposes, then zones out staring at his desk for the rest of the hour. Time passes far too slowly; Yeonjun’s itching for the lecture to end so he can talk to you already. He’s practically running out of class as soon as it’s dismissed, but finds himself slowing down the moment he’s outside the building.

He’s pretty sure he knows where to find you. The bigger issue is figuring out what the hell he’s going to say. Is there any way to start this conversation without being awkward? Hey, thanks for saving my life last night. Also I am indeed that hero or whatever taking care of criminals in the city, hope you don’t mind! He feels so lame.

It’s wishful thinking to hope that you won’t care about what happened last night—well, except for the kissing part, but that’s probably not as important right now. He’ll push aside that conversation until the more important one happens.

He wants to run away the moment he sees your figure in the distance, sitting exactly where he thought you’d be. His tongue suddenly feels like lead, too heavy and useless to try talking to you. He gathers his breath and walks across the field, not letting himself back out now. You deserve to be given a little peace of mind. He’s sure today must have been confusing for you, that clarity hit you like a train this morning the same way it did to him.

You look over your shoulder when he reaches you, staring up at him and squinting your eyes from the sun. “How’d I know you’d come find me?” you ask, half-amused.

Yeonjun gives you a short laugh, unsure of himself as he sits on the grass beside you. It feels a little like he’s invading your space. He’s seen you sitting alone on this field as if it was all yours so many times.

“I thought I should thank you again,” he says, a little shy. He feels like he owes you a lot for last night. The whole city probably owes you a lot for saving him, honestly.

You look at him with a small smile, leaning your head on your bent knees. “Mhm. Shouldn’t I be thanking you, Spider-man?” There’s a teasing quality to your voice, and it makes Yeonjun laugh nervously. He should probably address that.

“I really hope you won’t tell anybody.”

“I won’t. I’m still finding it hard to believe anyway,” you say. Your sentences are all laced with a tiredness and exhaustion that Yeonjun can’t help but to feel at fault for. “It’s just weird to know it now.”

Yeonjun hums. He can sympathize with you on that—it must be really bewildering to know your classmate is the one swinging around town shooting webs at criminals. He just hopes you can forgive him for dragging you into this.

“Spider-man’s a little less cool now, huh?” he jokes, keeping his voice quiet even though no one’s around.

Your smile is full and genuine, and Yeonjun’s heart skips a beat. “I always thought he was a little lame,” you answer. Yeonjun’s ego bruises at that. You continue, “But I think he’s kind of interesting now.”

He can only hope that you don’t see the blush that takes over his face. He looks away to hide it, but he feels your gaze on him. “I don’t know if I’m that interesting,” he says, acting all humble. It’s clearly bait, and he hopes you’ll catch it.

“I can be the judge of that. Let me get to know you more,” you offer. Yeonjun bites his cheek to stop himself from grinning at this massive win.

“Well, we still have that bakery to go to,” Yeonjun mentions, and judging by the way your eyes gain a new sparkle, you seem to like the idea.

“You don’t have any more classes today, do you?” You already look ready to go.

Yeonjun doesn’t bother hiding his excitement anymore, letting his smile take over his face. “I don’t.” You’re standing up the next second, and Yeonjun’s quick to follow.

The bakery is a cute, cozy little place near some other restaurants downtown. There’s no seating inside due to the lack of space, but that’s made up for by the giant row of sweet selections to choose from. Yeonjun’s stomach rumbles in anticipation as his eyes jump around to look at each confection.

After buying your treats, you lead Yeonjun to a nearby bench. You both open your pastry boxes and bite down on the baked goods eagerly. You hum in satisfaction, nodding at the taste. “Wow, we should go here again,” you say, going in for another bite.

Yeonjun chose a sweet cheese bread, which he completely devours within a couple minutes. You don’t eat as fast as him, but he doesn’t mind waiting for you. He makes conversation in the meantime: “How come you skipped class today?”

You laugh a little around your mouthful of food, swallowing before you answer, “I barely slept. There was no way I could’ve focused if I went.”

Yeonjun hums in understanding. “I barely slept too,” he says.

“But you still went,” you add. “I guess you’re better than me.”

Oh god, he hopes you didn’t take it that way. “Not at all!” he rushes to say.

You smile and pat his shoulder. “I know. You’re just a star student, that’s all.”

Is that a compliment? Yeonjun blushes anyway. “I like to do well,” he says.

“I mean, considering everything you’re balancing, yeah, you are doing pretty well.”

Yeonjun laughs awkwardly in response, barely able to take your praise. He’s pretty sure you’re alluding to what you found out about him yesterday. “Thanks,” he mutters, all humble.

“Do you wanna talk about last night?” you ask, finishing your last bite.

“Sure,” Yeonjun answers, feeling a smidge of nervousness returning to him. It’s quiet for a few seconds. “Did you have any questions?” he asks. He feels more bashful than anything else, but it’s better than coming off as braggadocious.

You hum in thought, pouting your lips while you conjure up some ideas. “Was that your first kiss?”

He’s completely taken aback by your question—and a little embarrassed, quite frankly—and he scrambles to spit out a response. You’re stifling your laughter before he can even get his defense out. “No! I had my first kiss in, like, high school!”

“I’m just teasing,” you admit. “You’re a good kisser.” The compliment goes to Yeonjun’s head, playing in a loop while he floats on cloud nine. You liked kissing him. He should do it again and again, just to keep you happy. And for more selfish reasons, too.

Your voice breaks through his thoughts when you speak again, “Do you feel better today? Are you healing alright?” The joking tone leaves your voice, replaced with genuinity and care.

“I feel fine,” he answers. He pulls up his shirt to show you the wound, all stitched up and starting to heal over.

You wince. “Good thing I finished my food already. That killed my appetite.” Yeonjun laughs at your grimace and releases his shirt, falling back into place. “You should really put a bandage over that,” you suggest.

“I don’t have any.”

You shake your head in disbelief, though your amusement reads on your face. “You should be more prepared.”

Your concern is cute to Yeonjun. “I know,” he says.

“So who stabbed you?” you ask.

He shrugs. “No clue. He’s probably in a cell now.”

“Did it hurt?” you ask, though the answer is obvious.

“Like hell,” he says.

“How’d it even happen?” Honestly, Yeonjun’s not too sure about that either. He can usually sense imminent danger before it comes, but maybe he was too focused on the crimes he’d already been dealing with.

“He came up behind me while I was handling another criminal,” he answers.

You hum, getting off the bench and tossing your trash in a bin nearby. You start walking off then, and Yeonjun follows mindlessly. “Must be tough being Spider-man,” you say.

“Careful how loud you say that.” Yeonjun tenses as someone walks past the two of you, praying they were out of earshot when you said that. He sighs in relief when he sees the person had headphones in.

“Right, sorry. There’s just so much I wanna know now.” You turn a corner, taking a path leading back to campus.

Your curiosity excites Yeonjun, and he’s ready to answer whatever question you come up with. Some of his stories have serious entertainment value to them.

“Ask me, then,” he invites. You twist your head to smile up at him for a second.

“How’d you get like this? Were you just born this way?”

Yeonjun laughs at the idea. He swings his head around to make sure no one’s around when he answers, “No, a radioactive spider bit me.”

“When did that happen?” you ask. Yeonjun reminisces the first few weeks after the bite, thinking back to those initial feelings of fear and dread when he realized something had happened to him.

“In high school,” he says. It was super bewildering back then to change so drastically, yet be forced to act so normal. It’s much easier now—he’s had years to adjust—but he was a teenager when it first happened. That’s a lot for a kid to take on. He had to act like he was the same Choi Yeonjun his classmates had grown up with, and not some mutated superhuman dealing with the stresses of his new identity. Of course, he did that whole Spider-man thing to himself, but it was the right thing to do. He doesn’t regret it.

“Does anyone else know?”

“My uncle did, but he’s gone, so now it’s just you.” He looks at you, lips twitching upward.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you apologize, voice growing soft. He realizes that you’re in front of your dorm building now, and he supposes this is where he should leave. His eyes dart between yours, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to go. To ask him to stay.

“Are you doing anything today?” he asks. Maybe he sounds desperate. He doesn’t really care.

“Catching up on some work,” you say.

“I’ll give you my calculus notes.”

You smile. “That would be nice.”

Yeonjun didn’t even take notes in calculus today. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“Can I stay?” He’s teeming with hope and bravery today. You open the door to your building and signal him inside, and he has to hold back the victorious giggle that almost escapes him as he trails behind you.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of questions and answers. Yeonjun’s never talked so openly about being Spider-man before, and a part of it feels healing. You study hard while he rambles about stories of the little things he’s done throughout the years. Some are funny and make you cackle, and some draw your attention away from your textbook so you can look at him in shock. It’s impossible for Yeonjun to wipe the grin off his face—not when he bids you good night, not when he walks back to his dorm, not even when lays in bed to sleep. His heart never lets up on that jittery rush it has for you.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

A quintessential part of the college experience, Yeonjun’s come to find out, is trying out all the different ramen brands to see which one is the best. He’s a fan of whichever one he’s chowing down on right now, and a 5-pack of this barely puts a dent in his bank account. Seems like a winner.

He glances over at his dorm’s door when it opens, curious to see that Soobin brought someone over. Yeonjun isn’t bothered by that, though; if this guy is anything like Soobin, he’s not worried about getting annoyed.

“You can remember to buy ramen but not detergent?” Soobin asks, chuckling. Yeonjun chooses to read that as a joke instead of a passive aggressive comment.

“Ugh, dude, I keep forgetting, I’m sorry,” he apologizes. Yeonjun points at Soobin’s friend and continues, “This your friend?”

“Yeah, I’m Beomgyu,” the friend introduces. Something about him looks a little familiar.

“Nice to meet you,” Yeonjun greets with a nod.

Soobin grabs some clothes from his closet then turns to the door. “I’m gonna go change and then we can head out,” he says to Beomgyu, then heads off to the bathroom.

When the door shuts, Yeonjun returns his attention to his ramen and ignores Beomgyu’s presence as best as he can. That doesn’t last too long, though, cause soon enough, Beomgyu’s breaking the silence: “Are you still hanging out with Y/n?”

Yeonjun turns in his seat to face Beomgyu. He’s not sure how Beomgyu would know that, but Yeonjun entertains the question nevertheless. “Yeah. You know her?” he asks.

“She’s my friend,” he says. “Kind of.”

Yeonjun already feels something weird in the air. He’s waiting for the turn that this conversation is bound to take. He finally pieces together why this guy looks so familiar; he’s one of the boys at the party in the group that you kept looking over at. Now Yeonjun’s really curious.

“Why do you ask?” The question comes out a little hesitantly.

“I’m telling you this man-to-man, I think you might be getting played,” Beomgyu says.

Yeonjun’s immediate reaction is only confusion. How would you be playing him? You’ve been nothing but sincere with your feelings—or, that’s what it seemed like, at least. Now Yeonjun’s doubting himself. A part of him doesn’t believe it and doesn’t want to indulge in this conversation any further, but he’d start spiraling whether or not Beomgyu explains himself now. Worry swirls in Yeonjun’s stomach.

“Why?” he asks despite himself.

“This is just what I’ve heard, but apparently she had a thing with Kai, and he started talking to another girl, so she wanted to get back at him. I don’t know, though.”

Kai. That boy who came up to you at the party. Yeonjun remembers him.

He doesn’t want to show how much those words affect him, but shit. Hearing that hurts. His body feels weightless, like he’d be falling over if he wasn’t sitting at his desk. He nods as he exhales slowly, keeping his heart from going haywire.

“Huh,” is all he says. Soobin comes back the next second, and Beomgyu heads out with him after that, and the world keeps spinning on, but Yeonjun feels trapped in that moment. He waits to wake up in a sweat, hoping this is all some nightmare that’s going to end, but the wake never comes. He’s forced to deal with his whirling thoughts instead.

None of this can be true. It wouldn’t make sense. You kissed Yeonjun. You said you were interested in him. If this was all a lie, how will Yeonjun ever trust anyone again? When he came to you bleeding out, you saved his life. When you found out his secret identity, you kept it safe. Yeonjun miscalculated something that night—there is something more sacred and dangerous to trust you with than those things: his heart.

He doesn’t even want to finish his ramen anymore. His fingers brush against the wound that’s healing pretty well thanks to you, and a thought crosses his mind. The night that you kissed him was the night you found out he was Spider-man. An especially sickening question starts to haunt him. Did you only start liking him because of that?

Yeonjun feels played. He’s always known that he was a fool, so he doesn’t know why he’s so surprised, but really? Beer pong lord?

Five minutes is hardly enough to process the information Beomgyu dumped onto Yeonjun, but that’s all he gets, because now his alarm is going off and telling him to go over to the lab. He drops his head to his desk with a groan. It’s like an anchor’s been tied to his heart, sinking further and further until it makes him his stomach churn.

The fresh air feels good in Yeonjun’s lungs as he walks over to the lab. A permanent pout is etched onto his lips, unable to stop thinking about you. Good things. Bad things. Everything. Each memory hurts now.

He probably looks like some depressed college kid, walking around with his hood up and head down. He should be less pathetic, pick himself up and get himself together. It’s not like you two were really anything anyway. A kiss doesn't always mean something to everyone. Maybe it’s his fault for assuming that for you, it did.

It’s not just that, though. Yeah, kissing you made Yeonjun feel alive in a way that only swinging through the city could compare to, but there’s so much more to you than that. It’s the way you talked to him, the way you cared for him, the way you looked at him. How the hell do you fake that kind of connection? Hurt splits him at the seams like he’s being torn in two, but he keeps walking like nothing’s wrong.

“Yeonjun!” He recognizes that voice immediately. He pulls his eyes off the sidewalk and catches sight of you walking up to him. He almost forgot that he walks past your little field on the way to his lab.

It feels like he’s the one keeping a secret, palms clamming up as you stand in front of him. He stops in his tracks to allow you the conversation. “Hey,” he says.

“What are you up to?” you ask. He fidgets with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Should he just act normal? Should he let you get away with using him? When he thinks about it like that, it puts a sour taste in his mouth.

“I’m headed to the lab. Got some stuff to do, and it’s time sensitive, so…” he trails off awkwardly, looking off into the distance instead of at you.

“Oh, okay,” you say, sounding a little dejected. Yeonjun shouldn’t be feeling bad for you right now, but he can’t help it. It makes his chest clench to hear the joy leave your voice. “Maybe we can hang out after? Just to study or something,” you offer.

Yeonjun sighs, “Maybe.”

You’re quiet for a second as you assess him. “Are you okay?” Concern fills your voice, and when he brings his vision back to you, he can see it in your eyes too.

“I’ll talk to you about it later,” he says.

You frown, taking in his flat expression. You must gain some insight from that, because then you’re asking, “Did I do something?”

He wants to hold his head, feeling defeated and frustrated and sad and a million other different things. He’s not sure how to label it. He’s never felt emotions this complex before, probably because he’s never liked anyone this much before.

“Oh god, did I?” you repeat, more fear in your voice at Yeonjun’s lack of a response. It strikes him and deflates his will to be dismissive about it, not wanting you to sit here worrying for the rest of the day. Curse his soft heart.

“Just come with me,” Yeonjun says, continuing on the path to his lab building. You follow beside him, taking long strides to match his quick pace. He notices you struggling to keep up, so he slows down, even though it might make him a few minutes late.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. He can feel you looking at him, but he keeps his eyes ahead.

“You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for,” he mumbles.

“Tell me then,” you plead. The thought of having to talk about this with you makes him feel sick. He doesn’t know if he can even choke up the words without getting nauseous.

“Let me clock into my lab first.” The rest of the walk is silent; you keep quiet even as you enter the room with him, watching him take off his sweatshirt and put on his lab coat. You’re quiet even as he goes through the study procedure, not even lingering near him to see what he’s doing. He feels a little cruel for it, wondering if he’s just torturing you by forcing you to stand silently and worry about what he must be upset at you for.

He steals a glance at you. You’re leaning against the wall by the door, so many steps away, keeping so much distance. He bites his lip and looks away, figuring it’s time to start the conversation.

“I want to talk to you, but I don’t want you to lie to me,” Yeonjun says, breaking the long stretch of silence. He walks toward you, stopping before he gets too close.

“I won’t. I’m not gonna hide anything from you.” It’s funny you say that.

“Do you like Kai?” His question catches you off guard, your frown leaving your face.

“No,” you answer.

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay. So why did Beomgyu tell me you used me to get back at him?”

He watches you stiffen at the question. “How do you know Beomgyu?” you ask.

“Please just answer me,” Yeonjun says. He doesn’t want to run around in circles, he just wants to hear the truth from you.

“I don’t like Kai anymore.” Something about that sentence hits like a stab to the gut. Yeonjun would know the feeling.

He tsks and shakes his head, ready to walk away and end the conversation, but you continue, “Please let me say the whole story.” Yeonjun sighs and meets your eyes. He decides to hear you out, only because a part of him is dying for you to make this right.

“Go ahead,” he says.

“I invited you to the party because you’re my friend, and I think you’re cute, but also for really petty, stupid revenge. It was so dumb and I’m so sorry, I feel so fucking bad for that now,” you explain. Yeonjun thinks back to how excited he was when you asked him. He remembers the rush of butterflies, the nervousness that pooled in his stomach, the adrenaline through his veins when he realized he finally had your attention.

You continue, “But I swear on my life, Yeonjun, the second we went outside at that party, I realized how unfair it was. I wanted to make Kai jealous, but when we were standing out there, I couldn’t do it. You’re a good person, and I felt fucking awful, and I didn’t go through with anything, and I’m glad I didn’t. You gave me one of the best nights of my life that day. I mean that. Seriously.”

There’s sincerity in your eyes, so Yeonjun knows you’re not lying. The ache in his chest is dull now, but still there. He can’t believe you planned to use him as some pawn to get back at Kai.

“Why’d I have to hear it from someone else? Why couldn’t you tell me yourself?” he asks. It���s pathetic how his voice carries more heartbreak than anger.

“Cause I didn’t want you to misunderstand and leave!” you explain, desperate. “Yeonjun, please. I don’t care about Kai anymore. I haven’t even talked to him since the party.”

Yeonjun wishes he could feel comforted by your words, but all he feels is hurt. He has this terrible thing where he can’t stop asking questions that will only batter him worse. “So you didn’t really like me?”

You take a step closer to him, placing both hands over your heart. Yeonjun’s not blind; he can see the fear in your eyes, the worry that he might walk away. He doesn’t have it in him to relieve your stress right now.

“I always liked you. I like you more every day,” you answer. There’s honesty in your words, which Yeonjun appreciates. It doesn’t quite melt away his insecurities, though.

Yeonjun can’t bear looking at you any longer, dropping his gaze to the floor and stepping back. He’s ready to leave, thinking he needs the night to himself to stare at the ceiling and contemplate this whole situation.

You stop him before he can get too far. Your hand hooks onto the sleeve of his lab coat, shaking as you cling to him. It’s so pitiful that it ruins the monstrous image Yeonjun’s trying to fit you into in his mind. Against his better judgment, his eyes meet yours again.

He’s about to speak—maybe to console you, to get some of that sadness out of your eyes—but the sound of glass breaking behind him makes him turn with wide eyes, searching for the damage. He’ll be the one stuck replacing any broken equipment; he can only pray that it wasn’t a more expensive piece.

His eyes flit across the room, but he finds nothing. Is he seriously losing his mind? Every time he’s in this lab, there’s something new giving him a mini heart attack. He brushes this off as some kind of paranoia. He considers talking to his professor about taking a break from the lab, just until he can restore his sanity.

“Let’s just head out of here,” Yeonjun says, unable to rid himself of the chill down his spine.

“Do you still like me?” you ask, unable to move on from the conversation. You stay planted in your spot as Yeonjun takes off his lab gear. He groans internally at your question—of course he still likes you. Do you think his feelings are so malleable? His adoration for you feels like an immovable boulder. He can’t even stay mad at you for as long as he wanted to, though he tries not to let you win too easily.

He sighs out your name instead of answering. He waits for you at the door as he throws his sweatshirt back on, and you trudge forward with a pout. Once his sweatshirt is slipped over his head, he catches sight of something behind you, heart stopping entirely.

“What the hell—?!” he emits, eyes growing wide as the cell clump he’d been working with expands out past its storage spot, spilling out onto the floor. The broken glass earlier must’ve been from the petri dish—shit, he should’ve checked. It’s discolored now, so dark it’s nearly black, and growing more rapidly than it should be able to.

You spin on your feet to see what Yeonjun’s looking at, yelping when you see the growth. You back up quickly and bump into Yeonjun’s chest. “What’s happening?” you ask, turning your head back to look up at him.

“I don’t know,” he answers. He has to think fast, because it doesn’t look like the cell replication is stopping any time soon—if anything, it looks like it’s growing exponentially. The clump is a goo-like substance, slowly spilling out further and further onto the floor, looking something like tar as it expands out. “We’ll have to trigger rapid apoptosis,” he says.

“How do we do that?” you ask. Yeonjun’s not sure either, so he doesn’t bother to answer. He opens one of the cabinets and pulls out all the different liquid chemicals he can find. One of these is bound to do something.

You hold yourself and watch him carefully, still looking shy and desperate and nervous from your argument. Yeonjun’s not sure why you seem to be more bothered by him not reassuring you that he likes you than by the clump that grows behind you. Your attention remains on him the whole time.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask.

“No,” he answers sharply and quickly. He has bigger issues to be worried about than staying mad at you.

“I promise I wasn’t lying. I won’t talk to Kai ever again.”

“Why are we having this conversation right now?!” Yeonjun asks, frustrated.

“Because it’s important to me that you know!”

He ignores you in favor of unscrewing the lid to one of the acids, hoping it could digest the cells. When he pours it onto the clump, a loud hiss rings through the room and smoke comes up from the mass. It doesn’t seem to dissolve the cells, though.

He emits an exasperated groan, opening the lid to another chemical substance, and you rush to do the same. He can’t stop to think about how dangerous this is, too focused on controlling the problem before it gets irreparable. You and Yeonjun pour chemicals onto it at the same time, and it seems to react. The tar-like blob thickens now, erecting itself up from the floor languidly.

You and Yeonjun back up, watching with fearful eyes as it stands. It moves like it’s alive, like it’s a living organism. It’s eerily silent for a room as you two stare at the mass in shock. Then, rapidly, it comes charging at you, attaching itself to your cardigan as you shriek. Yeonjun acts fast, running to you and grabbing your waist, adhering his feet to the floor to keep you from getting dragged any more. You shed your cardigan quickly before tugging it back from the blob. It tears from how harsh you pull it, but you don’t seem to care, chucking it to the opposite side of the room.

This is an unfortunate time to see you in a tight-fitting tank top. Your chest heaves from the panic of being grabbed by the organism, rising and falling as you start to steady your breath. You look over at him, and he finds himself blushing and removing his gaze from you in embarrassment. God, now he’s the one struggling to focus on the bigger problem.

Yeonjun directs his wrist at the blob, shooting a web at it to keep it from charging at you again. The web sends the mass flying back until it collides with the wall. Though it can’t remove itself from the confines of the web, it still slowly grows, and it will be able to expand enough to attack again soon. Still, this should buy you two some more time.

“You should leave,” Yeonjun says, coming to you and cupping your face. His eyes beg you to go, strung up on the possibility of you getting hurt.

“I won’t,” you say, grabbing onto his wrists.

“Please. You’re too important.” His hand strokes through your hair like you’re something precious.

You take his hand and kiss it. “You are too. I won’t leave.”

He sighs. He knows he’s not winning this, there’s too much determination in your words. Before he removes his focus from you, he thinks he should tell you one last thing. “Just so you know, I like you too.”

You’re barely able to hold back your smile, but Yeonjun can’t stay and watch your reaction. The mass continues to grow over the confines of the web, and he has to find a way to control it before it overcomes the binds. He opens the binder that holds the descriptions of all the lab materials, hoping he can find something useful in there. His eyes flit across the words, scanning for the chemicals that will be his saving grace.

He stops when he reads the description for nitric acid. The words digest and dissolve kick his body to life, hope stirring inside of him. “Come here with the nitric acid!” he shouts over his shoulder.

“Which one is that?” you ask hurriedly, scanning through the different bottles of chemicals.

“It’s in a brown translucent bottle. Quick!” Before he can panic further, you’re racing to his side with a bottle of the acid. Yeonjun quickly pours it over the mass, watching it shrivel when the liquid hits its surface. A weight lifts off Yeonjun’s shoulders when he realizes he finally found something that works. The bottle doesn’t hold nearly enough, though, because Yeonjun empties it out before he can melt the organism completely.

He turns to you expectantly, and you’re rushing back to the counter where all the chemical substances are held. You’re turning each to read the labels, growing more aggravated as you fail to find another container of nitric acid. You curse as you swing the cabinet doors open, checking if there’s any stored away in there.

You pull out a bottle from the cabinet, reading it quickly. “Would sulfuric acid work?” you ask, looking at Yeonjun like you need him to say yes.

“It would react with the nitric acid,” he answers. You groan.

“You think I know any of this stuff?!” You go back to searching through the cabinet.

“Yes! You’re, like, the smartest girl I know!” Yeonjun exclaims, equally as frustrated.

“You must not know a lot of girls then,” you huff. You finally pull out a bottle that seems to match, running over to Yeonjun. He takes it from your hands and pours the liquid over what remains of the clump, watching it dissolve until all that’s left is a murky puddle on the floor. He plops the nitric acid onto a table, finally letting himself take a full breath. He tastes the chemicals swirling in the air, but he can’t bring himself to care about any toxins filling his lungs. He’s worn out, crouching down in exhaustion with a groan.

When he picks his head up from between his arms, he searches for you. You’re bent over one of the tables, head tucked between your arms as half your body rests over the surface. You must be just as drained as him. He stretches his body out as he stands back up, then approaches you at the opposite side of the table. He rests his elbows onto the tabletop, leaning forward to be closer to you.

“You get feisty when you’re working under pressure,” Yeonjun teases, breathless laugh escaping him. You lift your head to look at him, and he can see how you hold back your amusement.

“I could say the same about you,” you respond. You seem winded, still breathing hard as you push yourself off the table and pick up your cardigan from the floor. You hold up your cardigan and examine the damage. It’s stained and ripped and looks disgusting. You pout. “This was my favorite one…”

“Don’t worry, you’re pretty good at stitching things back up,” Yeonjun says, coming up to you and taking the cardigan from your hands to tie it around your waist. You look up at him, something fond shining in your eyes.

“I guess I am,” you say, tugging on Yeonjun’s sweatshirt to pull him closer to you. You wear a dopey smile as you stare at him, hands resting on his shoulders, and Yeonjun really hopes that you do what he knows you’re both thinking about right now.

You don’t leave him waiting long; your hand comes to his jaw to bring his face to yours, and the next second, Yeonjun’s having the best kiss of his life. It feels like a reward after the shitshow that today’s been. For it to come to this, he’d relive it a dozen more times.

“Wait,” Yeonjun says, pulling back. “Are we dating now?”

“Haven’t we been dating?” You look at him like he’s a fool, and it endears Yeonjun endlessly.

“I mean, boyfriend-girlfriend dating,” Yeonjun explains.

“Oh, I’ve already told, like, three people that you’re my boyfriend.” There might be real hearts in Yeonjun’s eyes right now.

“Good,” he says, coming in for another quick kiss. “I’m all yours.” His words are uttered against your lips, since he can’t seem to pull himself away from you.

You gladly accept his kisses, and he has to keep himself from getting too drunk off your taste. He has to remember he’s still in a lab with a bunch of chemicals filling the air—it’s probably a good idea to get out. Even though he doesn’t want to, Yeonjun steps back and looks around at the mess throughout the room. Given everything that happened, it’s not awful. A mop would take care of ninety percent of the problem.

“We should clean this up,” he sighs.

“Yeah,” you agree. Neither of you make a move. You start laughing after a few seconds, and Yeonjun returns his attention to you with a cheeky grin.

“No, let’s just leave,” he suggests. He’s exhausted. He’ll explain everything to his professor tomorrow, he can’t take any more of this today.

“Should we go back to my place then?” you ask. Yeonjun does a very poor job of hiding his excitement. He wants more than anything to hold you to his chest and zip across campus to get to your dorm, but alas, he does the smart thing instead. A ten minute walk has never felt more like ten hours in his life, and seeing your dorm building finally come into view has his heart racing in anticipation.

Yeonjun’s all over you the minute your door closes behind him. He doesn’t let your lips disconnect for a second—not to talk, not to breathe, because nothing’s more important than tasting your lips on his.

Your back falls to your mattress, and Yeonjun’s mind briefly wanders to the last time you two were here. Having you sprawled out beneath him is quite different than you patching him up above him. In a way, that moment felt like the start of something bigger between you. The initial spark came long before it, but that night is what caused fire to catch. He feeds the flame now, fingers untying the cardigan at your waist and throwing it to the floor. Your shirt’s the next thing to go, and he only pulls away long enough to shed the cloth off of you.

His mouth on yours is ravenous and unwilling to waste any more time. He feels up your stomach, cherishing the warm flesh with eager fingers. He trails his hands up to your chest, feeling your breasts over your bra. You gasp when he squeezes experimentally, and it encourages him to continue, movements growing hungry.

You break away from the kiss, panting for air while Yeonjun latches onto your jaw. He’s insatiable, sucking your skin and placing kitten licks over the mark after. He hovers his face over yours, biting back his grin when he sees how hazy your eyes have become.

You catch his face in your hand, cupping his jaw and thumbing his cheek. The action makes his heart soar, and he leans into your warm touch. Your smile turns from soft to wicked when you push your thumb between his lips, and he engulfs the digit without a fight.

“I like you,” you say as he sucks your thumb, blinking up at him adoringly like he’s not doing some lewd act right now. He swirls his tongue around you before popping it out of his mouth, kissing your fingertip then taking your hand in his own.

“I like you too.” His free hand goes behind your back to search for your bra clasp, fumbling with it clumsily until he gets it to disconnect. You pull the material off, and Yeonjun’s cock twitches in his pants when he takes in the sight of you. A part of him feels wrong for doing this, like this is too dirty, but a larger part of him can’t wait to indulge in you. He’ll just make sure to take you out for dinner after.

Yeonjun throws his sweatshirt and shirt to the floor, pride swirling inside him when he sees the way you ogle at his skin. You lay your hand over his chest, trailing your fingers over the expanse teasingly. He takes your wrist and drags your hand away.

“You don’t deserve to touch me. I’m still upset about Kai,” he says. It’s a lie, but he’s in a playful mood. Your hand makes its way back to his chest despite that, so he grabs it and brings it to the bed, shooting a web over your wrist so you can’t move it. He giggles. The whole web-slinging thing comes with some perks.

“Oh, come on,” you sulk as he does the same to your other wrist. He leans back for a moment, looking down at you all proud. A few different sights flash through his mind, endless possibilities of how he could make the most of your hands being restrained. Maybe he should punish you for ever liking Kai in the first place, keep you on the edge until you’re chanting apologies into the air. He could also just indulge in your body greedily, taste every inch of you without your hands pulling him away. The ache in his pants grows at the thought.

You sigh in satisfaction when his hand meets your clothed core. Your hips grind against his hand, and he allows you to use him to find your pleasure. Your hands close into fists as Yeonjun lets you ride his open palm, still fighting against your restraints.

“How much do you like me?” Yeonjun asks. His free hand holds your waist, fingers brushing against your skin gently.

“So much,” you answer, never abandoning your rhythm. “You’re so smart, and handsome, and funny, and—nngh—and good to me…” Yeonjun’s hand travels from your waist to your chest in reward, thumb rolling over one of your nipples.

“Yeah, I am good to you. I stay with you even though you’re mean to me.”

You shake your head at his statement. “I’m not mean to you,” you say.

He laughs at how you try to control yourself, how serious your tone gets. Your hips slow, so he takes measures into his own hands and moves his palm against your cunt instead. If he presses down hard enough, he can feel how wet you are even through your pants.

“You are,” he says. “You use me to get other men.” He knows that’s not true now, but a part of him is still a little bruised by the idea. He figures that airing out his insecurities like this might help him, and it makes him feel less vulnerable.

“No! That’s not true!” Yeonjun ignores you and takes off your pants, letting them join the other articles of clothing on your floor. He short circuits when he sees the wet patch on your panties. A sense of shame must fill you then, because your legs clamp shut to block his view.

“Hey, be nice,” he says, opening your legs back up. He holds you open as he presses his knee to your folds, and he can feel your arousal even through the fabric of his sweatpants. He’s squealing internally, overjoyed to have you soaking for him, but he keeps his calm on the outside.

Your hands push against the webs again, shaking the mattress a little. You pout at him. “I want to touch you,” you whine.

“Sorry about that,” he says. He matches your pout as his hands smooth down your legs, lazily exploring your flesh. He grabs your hips and positions them up a little so that you’re pressing into his thigh. He hears the moan that gets caught in your throat as he drags your cunt against him, holding back a satisfied smirk.

“Should I tell you what I like about you?” Yeonjun asks, something silky and smooth in his voice. You nod, rolling your hips over his thigh. “Say pleaseeeee,” he prompts.

“Please,” you echo. He giggles.

“Again.” He’s having fun.

“Please, Yeonjun,” you beg, sweet voice dripping with need.

He releases your hips so he can pull off your panties, tugging you back onto him once you kick the cloth off your ankles. He can really feel how wet you are now, and it makes a knot form in his stomach. He wants you more than anything.

“I like how pretty you are,” he starts, leaning over you to press kisses against your neck. “And I like how cool you are.” His mouth travels a little lower, sucking at your collarbone. “And I like how I can talk to you for hours and never get bored.” His lips smother your chest, just above your tits, familiarizing himself with every inch of your skin. Your hips buck against him when he presses his thigh more firmly between your legs. “And I like how wet you get,” he laughs.

His mouth finds your breasts then, tongue swirling teasingly around one of your buds. Your nipples perk up, begging for his attention. He drags his tongue over to your other mound, sucking at the swell of flesh, moaning against you. The taste of your skin in his mouth makes him feel high.

You whine, hips rolling more fervently against him, chasing your approaching high. Yeonjun busies himself with delivering kitten licks to your nipples, watching the way they glisten with his saliva after he runs his tongue across them a few times. He peels himself off of you when your rhythm gets unsteady, not wanting you to cum yet. There’s a look of betrayal on your face as he disconnects from you, not touching you at all anymore.

“Yeonjun,” you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him in. “I need to cum.” Your needy cunt grinds against the tent in his boxers, hungrily trying to get yourself off. He lets you have your fun for a minute, enjoying the feel of your warm, wet slit coating his clothed cock, before holding your hips still and keeping you from moving. That doesn’t stop you from digging your heels into his back, pushing him harder against you.

He removes your legs from him, holding you open as he plunges two fingers into your cunt. Your heat takes him in so nicely, the slide of his digits inside you made so easy from how slick your cunt is. You arch your back, moaning out as he curls his fingers inside you.

“Tight girl, gotta stretch you out,” he says, scissoring his digits to prepare you. Your arousal pools out of you, dripping onto the mattress as Yeonjun fucks you on his fingers. “Need to get you ready for me.”

“Mhm, need your dick,” you say. You look so helpless like this, laying back and letting Yeonjun fuck his fingers into you however he wants. He increases his speed just because he can, knowing you can’t pry his hand away, grinning when you emit a surprised gasp. Your walls start tightening around his fingers, a warning of your orgasm, and Yeonjun pulls his hand away before you can get there.

You’re whining his name again, thighs clamping shut to relieve the pressure. He shushes you as he tugs his boxers out of the way, stroking his cock as he watches the way you tremble. Poor thing.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asks. Your legs spread open immediately in invitation. He watches as a glob of arousal drips out from your core.

“Yes,” you breathe out. He pumps his shaft a few more times before bringing it to your folds, letting your wetness coat his tip. “Put it in,” you beg, jerking your hips up. He ignores your plea, bringing the head of his cock to your clit to tap on it a few times. The stimulation sends a buzz through you, and Yeonjun coos at you sweetly.

“Want you to feel so good,” he says, aligning his tip to your hole and starts pushing in. You throw your head back and groan, and he gives your neck a wet kiss. “Wanna be the best you’ve had.” He sinks in slowly, letting your walls adjust to him inch by inch. You feel like heaven around him, and his fingers dig into your hips to keep himself from losing his mind. He wants to meld himself into you.

He grinds his pelvis against you when he bottoms out, steadying his breaths so he doesn’t lose himself too quickly. His moans are deep and airy, while yours are whiny and pathetic. He trails a hand up your body until he’s cupping your face, bringing your attention to him. You look dazed, and he wants to watch you fall apart. He needs to see your perfect face scrunched up with pleasure, eyes glassy and mouth open, going stupid from how fucked out you are.

He presses a light kiss against your lips, then leans his face into the crook of your neck. He finally starts pulling back, slamming back into you with a whimper. Your cunt takes him so readily despite how tight you are, your arousal making him glide in and out of you so easily.

“Gonna be perfect for you,” Yeonjun promises. “Be a good boyfriend. Fuck you every day. Keep you happy.” He lifts himself up to watch your mouth fall open as he thrusts into you. He presses against your stomach to feel himself inside you, moaning whorishly when he does. It makes him fuck you harder, desperation coursing through his system.

You can barely speak from how far gone you are, stuttering out curses and whimpers of his name. He brings his thumb to your clit, rubbing at the swollen bud to get you clenching around him. He groans at how tight you get, sucking him in like your body was meant to take him.

“Need you to cum now,” Yeonjun says, feeling his high looming over. “Gotta feel you milking my cock, let me see it.”

“Kiss me,” you say breathlessly, mouth hanging open as you wait for him to take it. He obliges eagerly, shoving his tongue into your mouth with a needy whine. He licks into you as if this will coax your orgasm out, and it does. Your walls clamp around him, and he’s barely able to move from how tight you get. He circles your clit diligently, only letting up when your body jolts in overstimulation.

He pulls out soon after, only having to stroke himself a few times before he’s spilling his seed onto your stomach. He groans as he milks himself for every last drop, hand shaking as he releases the last of it. You look hot painted with his cum; he bites his lip and squeezes your thighs, needing more and more of you.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says, making you turn your head away shyly.

“Thanks. You are too.” His stomach flips, feeling proud that he earned your praise. He lowers himself to your torso, lapping at the milky strands of his cum. He cleans you nicely, swallowing down his own release until your stomach’s coated in only his saliva. He brings himself to your slit to lap at it languidly, loving the little whines you emit at the sensation.

“Did so good for me, thank you,” he murmurs into your cunt. He pushes his tongue into your entrance, slowly fucking the muscle inside you. You sigh and roll your hips against his face, relaxed and melting into the feeling.

“Y-you’re good too,” you praise. He licks his way up to your clit, taking it into his mouth and letting his tongue roll over the bud. He likes to hear that he’s being good for you, it makes him feel like he’s worthy of you. He thrives off your happiness, so he feels content as he pleases you with his mouth.

He never wants to let you go. He wants you in his arms forever, he wants to stay in this room and live the rest of his life with just you by his side. This much is enough for him. He glides his hands down your thighs, letting his fingers lightly drag along your skin. He opens his mouth a little more to taste more of you, to kiss your folds more hungrily. He presses the tip of his tongue to your bud, focusing the pressure right against it until he hears you mewl.

“Right there!” you gasp out, pressing yourself further into Yeonjun’s face. He hooks his arms around your thighs to keep you in place, making sure you don’t jolt away when your orgasm creeps up on you. He flicks his tongue over your clit repeatedly, feeling your thighs shake in his grasp. He doesn’t stop until you’re releasing on his face, coating his mouth and chin with your essence.

He detaches himself after a minute, licking his lips and letting go of your legs. He sits up and smiles at you, taking in how pretty you look. He holds your jaw so he can kiss you, and he can’t help but to giggle into the kiss. This is so surreal. He would have fainted if he knew one month ago that this would be happening to him.

“Hi,” you say when he finally pulls his face from yours. This feels like a dream.

“Hi,” he echoes, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He cherishes the smile you give him.

“So when does this dissolve?” you ask, tugging at the webs holding your arms in place. Yeonjun scratches his neck bashfully. That's enough of an answer for you. “Yeonjun…” you sigh, body deflating.

“Less than two hours!” he rushes to say.

“Two hours?!”

“It’s not that bad. I think we can pass the time,” he says, failing to hold back his smile.

Your eyes flit down to his stirring cock. “I guess I have nothing better to do,” you give in. Yeonjun sees right through your nonchalant act, but he lets you get away with it. He has better things to busy himself with than arguing about that.

──── ──── ──── ──── ────

You bring Yeonjun to the market after learning about the laundry detergent debacle. You place the item in your basket, shaking your head at him as you do. “I can’t believe your roommate had to tell me to get you to buy this.”

Yeonjun raises his hands in defense. “I get busy sometimes,” he says.

“With coming to my dorm every other night?” you ask with a raised brow, walking into the next aisle.

Yeonjun drops a candy bar into the basket alongside the detergent. “No, with lab stuff, and class stuff, and Spidey stuff,” he corrects. He picks up a bottle of your favorite drink as he passes by it on the shelf. “And with girlfriend stuff,” he adds sweetly.

“Right,” you say unconvincingly, smiling as you nod your head.

Yeonjun grabs a pair of sunglasses off a rack, placing them on his face and turning to you with a grin. “How cool are these?” he asks, pointing at himself.

You laugh and lift the sunglasses up so they rest on his head. “So cool,” you answer. You tilt your head to check the price on them. “You should totally spend the last of your money on them.”

He pulls the glasses off his face to check the price tag, eyebrows raising in reaction. He puts them back on the rack. He can’t get rid of the smile on his face as he watches you shop, endeared and swooned by every little thing you do. It’s small moments like these that make him feel like the luckiest guy on earth.

“We should get bandages. I can’t believe you don’t have any,” you say, looking for where the item would be in the store.

“There’s a lot of things I don’t have. I’m operating on a limited budget,” he explains. It’s not like he can tackle a job on top of everything else he does. He’s grown accustomed to his ways of living, accepting that he’s become the male college student stereotype.

“I’m glad I stepped into your life then,” you say, throwing a box of bandages into your basket. “I’m actually scared you’d die without me.”

Yeonjun can’t help but to laugh at that. “I would die without you,” he agrees. He follows you as you continue walking around the store, aimlessly searching for anything you might need. You stop when you feel your phone buzz, pulling out your phone upon receiving a notification, checking it curiously. He reads the message over your shoulder; it’s an alert from your local news station about some rescue mission for a bunch of dogs that ran loose from their shelter just now. You turn to him with a knowing smile.

“That’s your cue, Spider-man.”

notes: god i loved writing this so much…. i hope u like spideyjjun just as much as i do<3 i would love to hear ur thoughts if u have anyyy!!! tysm for reading hehe

taglist: @ambsphoria @bananasdiary @beaabz @beomgyusluver @beomsdoll @brrytears @bumgyuz @dawngyu @enhastolemyheart @estrnrea @fancypeacepersona @fatbixchwithanopinion @heejamas @heesmiles @insanityz @i4tzy @jellyyjn @kejingken @lilbrorufr @lovesickchoi @mrsjohnnysuh @raspberrii @sanscupid @saraalovestxt @soobinieswife @starrynightgyu @starstrucktae @taebatu @taysfairies @tubatukimoa @tyongyuta @usuallyunlikelyfox @verco @vvjolyneee @xylatox @younbeanz @yourenzoo @yunverie 🤍

© delugyu 2025, do not translate or reupload

[sbnslver]

Love In Every Look hkk

Kai x fem!reader

(this is just pure fluff. I love Kai 🥺)

This has been sitting in my drafts for about a month. What better coming back fic than a cutsie one? (I will edit this later I am too lazy to do it now 😭)

-

Huening Kai had a habit. It wasn’t a bad habit, at least not to him, but it was definitely noticeable.

He stared.

A lot.

Especially when it came to you.

There was something about you that made his eyes gravitate your way like gravity itself bent a little harder around you. He didn’t always realize he was doing it, at least not until someone (usually Soobin) snapped a finger in front of his face or made some offhanded comment like “You’re gonna burn a hole through her, dude.” But even then, Kai would just blink, offer a soft shrug, and go right back to gazing.

And right now, sprawled out on the soft checkered picnic blanket beneath the warming spring sun, you were the epicenter of his universe.

You didn’t even know it.

You were talking, animatedly, passionately, about some ridiculous conspiracy theory you’d fallen down a rabbit hole about the night before. Something about pigeons being replaced by government surveillance drones. Your hands flailed around like you were painting the evidence in the air, your eyes wide, your lips tugging into a grin every time you said something you knew sounded unhinged. You were glowing with energy, alive in a way that made even the wind pause to listen.

Kai wasn’t listening to the theory. Not really.

His mind was too full of you.

The way your hair caught the light and shimmered like silk in the sun. The way your nose scrunched when you laughed at your own absurdity. The smudge of chocolate from the picnic dessert still lingering on the corner of your mouth because you’d been too excited to tell your story to bother wiping it away.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling.

He just… did. Softly. Secretly. The kind of smile that bloomed without permission and warmed his whole face like sunlight on fresh skin. You were like that—always managing to pull him out of himself, without even trying. He could sit here all day, just watching you talk, watching you exist.

Watching you.

God, he was so in love with you.

“—I mean, think about it,” you insisted, eyes wide with exaggerated conviction as you reached into the picnic basket, grabbing a strawberry and holding it up like it was Exhibit A in a trial that only you were taking seriously. “Have you ever actually seen a baby pigeon?”

You pointed the fruit at him like it held the answer to the universe, your eyebrows raised in a way that demanded agreement, or at the very least, stunned awe.

Kai blinked, caught off guard, not by the theory, but by you.

You were glowing, in your own ridiculous, unapologetically passionate way. The sun hit your face at just the right angle, tracing the line of your cheek with a warmth that made you seem almost surreal. Your hair danced a little in the breeze, your lips slightly stained from the strawberry you’d eaten earlier, and your eyes. God, your eyes were sparkling with a light that had nothing to do with the sun.

He was trying, really, trying to focus on what you were saying. He heard the words. They passed through the air and reached his ears, but they never quite made it to his brain. Not when your voice was laced with that kind of excitement, and your expressions changed with every breath, every thought.

“Uh…” he murmured, dragging his gaze away from your lips to your eyes. “I don’t think so?”

“Exactly!” you gasped, eyes widening even further as you sat up straighter, triumphant. “Because they don’t exist! The government replaces them with robotic pigeons that spy on us!”

You bit into the strawberry dramatically, like you’d just dropped a national secret.

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest, rich and low, barely restrained. It wasn’t mocking, not even close. It was affection, wrapped in amusement, carried on the breath of someone completely and hopelessly captivated. His lips curved into that soft, familiar smile. The one he reserved just for you. The one that tugged at the corners of his mouth like it was tied to his heartstrings, like it bloomed whenever you did.

“You’re seriously insane,” he said, shaking his head, but his voice was too gentle to be anything but enamored.

And in that moment, as you wiped strawberry juice from your fingers with a grin and launched into yet another “piece of undeniable proof,” Kai knew two things for certain.

One: He would listen to you talk about conspiracy theories all day if it meant seeing you like this.

And two: No matter how ridiculous your words were, to him, they always sounded like poetry.

You paused mid-ramble, the triumphant gleam in your eyes fading into something squintier, sharper. Suspicious.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

Kai didn’t even try to pretend. His head tilted slightly, the corners of his mouth still curved in that soft, unshakable smile that always made your stomach feel like it was doing gentle somersaults.

“Because you’re cute,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. Your breath hitched.

Heat bloomed across your cheeks before you could stop it, spreading fast like your skin was suddenly too aware of itself. You laughed, flustered, and immediately waved him off, desperate to redirect the attention. “I’m talking about government pigeons, Kai.”

“I know,” he said, completely unbothered, his grin only widening as he leaned in slightly, resting his chin on his palm. “But you’re really cute when you talk about random stuff like this. You get all excited and wave strawberries around like you’re in court.”

You groaned, dragging your hands up to cover your face, your voice muffled behind your palms. “You’re embarrassing me.”

Kai only laughed, warm and genuine, that melodic kind of laugh that always made your chest flutter. Before you could retreat any further into the safety of your own hands, he gently reached out, curling his fingers around your wrists with featherlight care and pulling them down. His touch was soft, sure, like he’d done it a thousand times before in a hundred different ways—like your skin knew his already.

And when your hands dropped, he didn’t let go.

Instead, his fingers found yours naturally, sliding into place like they were made to fit. Effortless, familiar, home.

“I mean it,” he murmured, his voice softer now, low and sincere, as if he was saying something sacred. He gave your hand a light squeeze, eyes locked on yours, no teasing in them this time. “I love listening to you. Even when it’s about robot pigeons and government spy birds.”

Your heart did something ridiculous in your chest, tripping over itself at the way he looked at you. Not like you were silly or strange or just something to laugh at. But like you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. Like your words, no matter how absurd, were his favorite sound.

You tried to respond, to say something witty, maybe even roll your eyes and laugh it off, but the words never came. Not when Kai was looking at you like that. Not when his thumb brushed gently over the back of your hand, grounding you with the quiet intensity of his affection.

Because in that moment, under the open sky, surrounded by crumbs and berries and bad theories, it wasn’t just his habit of staring that gave him away.

It was everything.

The way his thumb never stopped tracing slow circles against your skin. The way his eyes lingered on your face like he was memorizing it in real-time. The way his smile softened when you got flustered, like he adored every little crack in your composure because it made you real, made you you.

You pouted, just a little, trying to be playful even as your heart thudded like it was trying to climb its way out of your chest. “Even when I’m talking nonsense?”

Kai didn’t hesitate, not for a second.

“Especially when you’re talking nonsense.”

Your breath caught again, and this time you didn’t bother hiding the way your lips curled at the corners. It was silly. It was simple, and yet, it made something in you ache in the softest, most beautiful way. Like being seen, and still chosen, flaws and all, wasn’t something you were used to.

The thing about Huening Kai was that he never made you feel self-conscious.

Not once.

Not when you went on long, winding tangents about absurd things. Not when your voice cracked from laughing too hard. Not when you nervously tugged at your sleeves or shifted uncomfortably, afraid your body took up too much space. Not even when you paused mid-sentence, second-guessing whether what you were saying was worth hearing.

He never looked at you with anything less than pure adoration. Like every inch of you, every curve and every quirk, was something he’d treasure if only you’d let him.

He saw you, not the polished version, or the carefully curated self you showed the world, but the real you. The messy, passionate, chaotic version that stumbled through conspiracy theories and spilled fruit juice on her shirt. And somehow, in that gentle, disarming way that only Kai could manage, he made you believe that version was enough.

More than enough.

With a breathy sigh, you gave in to the feeling, letting yourself fall backward onto the blanket. The sky above you was a watercolor swirl of fading blue and cotton candy clouds, but your focus was fuzzy, caught somewhere between the rhythm of his thumb on your hand and the echo of his words in your head.

“You’re too sweet for your own good, Kai,” you muttered, squinting at the sky like maybe it held the answer for how someone could be so effortlessly kind.

He chuckled, that low, melodic sound vibrating the air between you as he laid down beside you, shoulder brushing yours. His fingers never left yours, still intertwined like they belonged that way. Like maybe they’d been waiting to find their match all this time.

“Or maybe,” he said softly, eyes on the same sky, “I’m just in love.” Your heart didn’t just melt, it folded.

Folded under the weight of something so tender, so honest, it stole the breath from your lungs. Because there was no dramatics in his tone. No performance. Just quiet certainty, spoken like a truth he’d carried for a while now, like it had settled into his chest and made itself at home.

You turned your head to look at him, eyes wide, throat tight. He didn’t look away.

He just smiled at you. Calm, steady, completely unafraid of what he’d just said.

And suddenly, the conspiracy theories didn’t feel so unbelievable.

Because maybe the wildest, most impossible thing of all… was that someone like Huening Kai could love you that deeply.

And mean it.

Your lips curved into a soft smile. “Lucky for you, I am too.” Kai grinned, bringing your hand up to press a gentle kiss against your knuckles.

Yeah.

He was so in love with you.

[sbnslver]

none of it was fake

bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader

summary: you've been undercover with bucky as husband and wife. upon returning, he seems to have forgotten that it was all pretend.

word count: 1.6k+

warnings: two idiots cluelessly pining for each other. fluff. usage of petnames such as sweetheart, doll, and baby. lowercase writing.

note: hi, babies. how's everyone? this is my first fic in ages, so sorry if it's not my best one. i just wanted something cute ++ this is unedited & not proofread, might fix it laterrr. still hope you'll enjoy this one! xo

dividers made by @firefly-graphics!

comments, reblogs, and likes are highly appreciated. thank you! ♡

“i can't believe your first kiss happened during a mission. an undercover mission!”

wanda huffed, still hung up on the mission you had with bucky weeks ago wherein you had to play pretend as a married couple. there had been a kiss or two during that time, and it felt impossible not to tell your best friend about it when you had been crushing over the soldier for ages.

wanda knew what you felt towards bucky. in fact, she was the only one who knew, or at least the one you shared th information with, and she made sure to ask everything about the mission, even if it took days for her to interrogate you.

“excuse me? that was not my first kiss,” you said defensively, reaching for a cup from the cupboard that you had just opened. “and why are we still talking about this? you and nat already squeezed out every information from me for an entire week.”

“i didn't mean your first first kiss!” she exclaimed, following you around the kitchen as you made yourself a cup of coffee. “you've had a crush on the guy for so long, and the first time you two kiss each other is when you're pretending. that's not how i pictured it at all!”

you had to admit, the mission was sort of a blessing in disguise and a curse at the same time. you were glad to be able to spend time with bucky in ways you've dreamt of, but there was also the horrible reminder that none of it was real. with how avoidant bucky was with you, it was impossible for any of it to happen outside of the mission.

“well, maybe you should stop picturing us doing that sort of stuff. you're way more invested in this than i am, wanda. don't you have your own relationship to think about?” you asked. although you knew she was in a happy relationship with vision, you just wanted her to take a break from all the bucky talk. “when is your man home anyway?”

“my relationship is doing great, so i'm good. i don't need to think of it as much since he gives me everything that i need, and i think of yours because you deserve happiness as well.” she smiled fondly, her eyes sparkling with happiness. “and i'm glad that you asked because this reminded me that vision's arriving with bucky soon.”

“already?” your eyes widened at her statement, completely forgetting that bucky, along with steve, clint, and vision, were coming home today from their mission. “why didn't you tell me sooner!?”

after finishing your mission with bucky two weeks ago, he was immediately sent into another mission which specifically needed him. so, today would technically be the first time you're seeing him again since you last called him your “husband,” which was more nerve-wracking than you expected.

“hey, i'm your best friend, not your alarm.” wanda raised her hands up, defending herself. “and why are you so worried? i can feel your anxiety without needing to be in your head.”

“well, we never talked after.. you know,” you replied, taking a big sip out of your cup. “i know none of it meant anything and that we were just doing our job, but it's the first time i'll be with him normally and not as a pretend married couple. it's kinda awkward, wands.”

“you were able to pretend you didn't like the guy for months, you can do it again for another day.” she answered. “unless you finally tell him what you feel?”

“oh, that? yeah, never happening. i'm not going to risk—”

“there you are, sweetheart.”

there was a collective shocked gasp from both you and wanda, recognizing that voice from behind. except the gasps had different reasons.

you were surprised with his arrival.

wanda was surprised that he casually called you sweetheart.

you turn to find bucky already walking towards you with a smile on his face.

this man never smiles unless he was tasked to do so!

“bucky! you're back!” you awkwardly greeted him.

“yeah, didn't they tell you? i was looking for you when we landed.” he said, pulling you close to him before bending to place a soft kiss on your lips like it was something he'd always done. “you okay, baby? you look pale. did you eat?”

i look pale because wanda is right here with us and you just kissed me while acting like we're dating!

“um, yeah, i'm fine. i'm fine,” you answered, gently pulling yourself away from his arms before he could wrap them around you completely. “can we talk? privately?”

he frowned, worry etched on his face, but he nodded and squeezed your arm softly. “of course. where do you wanna talk, doll?”

“anywhere where wanda isn't there.” you said lightheartedly, throwing a sharp glance at wanda who finally understood what you wanted her to do.

“oh! right, right. i'm sorry, you guys can stay here. i have um..” she paused, thinking of a reason to say. “i have to look for vision anyway. we're supposed to watch a movie together. bye!”

and just like that, wanda was gone and you were left alone with bucky in the kitchen.

before you could speak, bucky asked you first. “what's the matter, doll?”

“what's the matter?” you echoed in a higher tone. “what was that all about?”

“what are you talking about?” he asked, seemingly confused.

“you kissed me, bucky, like it was nothing. then you keep calling me these nicknames.” you reminded him. “we're back home, not in los angeles in our fake house that we used as a fake couple.”

bucky took a step back when he realised his actions, now finding it hard to look at you. “i.. i'm sorry. i completely forgot. i just.. i wasn't thinking. i got used to how we were before,” he mumbled, still finding the right words to say. “did i make you uncomfortable?”

“no, but you made me confused,” you replied. “i'm guessing you got used to how we acted as a fake married couple, but you were gone for another mission. how are you still stuck with the old routine we had?”

“because that's all i could think about,” he answered, now staring at you. “while you're back here in the tower, completely done with our mission, i was thrown back into another one, having only you in my head to pull me back up from the fatigue.”

“you're telling me that you kept thinking about us even when you were gone? why?”

“haven't you?”

“is this a trick question?”

“it's a question to find out whether you like me too or not.”

“you.. you like me?” you blinked. “that's impossible.”

“how on earth is that impossible?”

“because you're always so cold and grumpy around me,” you answered. “i think you're just confused with all the acting we've done, bucky. you don't like me.”

“i was supposed to go on that mission with sharon, not you.” he exhaled. “she volunteered to do it, so she was initially picked. i tried getting out of it, but i had advantages that they needed for the mission to go smoothly. so, i agreed, but in one condition.”

“what was it?” you whispered.

“that you should be my partner,” he answered quickly. “ask me why.”

your heart pounded. “why?”

“because i wanted an excuse to act the way i've always wanted to. i wasn't cold or grumpy because i didn't like you, i just didn't want to scare you.” bucky explained, his hand reaching out for yours. “god, doll. figuring out whether you like me or not has got to be the hardest mission i had to deal with. so do me a favour and get me out of this misery.”

once your lungs found a bit of oxygen again, you finally spoke. “what you said.. you mean it?”

bucky nodded. “every word.”

“well, i like you too.” you tried to bite back a huge smile. “for some time now, actually. wanda will eventually tell you all about my obsession with you. i can't believe we were both worrying for the wrong things.”

“your obsession with me, huh?” he asked cockily, a teasing grin plastered on his face.

“really? i said all that and that's what caught your attention?”

“can't help it. i've been obsessed with you for a long time now as well.” his eyes crinkled at the corners, a little smile gracing his lips while his arm slipped around your waist.

your eyes peeked up at him through your lashes. “does this make it real now?”

“do you want it to be?”

“you're really asking me that?” your chest rumbled. “of course i do.”

“then let's make it real.”

bucky watched you intensely for a few seconds as if he wanted to frame this exact moment before licking his lips and leaning down. you suck a breath, eyes closing as you felt his soft lips meet yours.

you never realised how much you've grown familiar with his touch and affection since your time together as a fake couple.

except this time, none of it was fake.

should we see their time in los angeles as an undercover married couple? 👀

if you have any requests for bucky, send them my way! 💌

[sbnslver]

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

[sbnslver]

safe haven – bucky barnes

summary: bucky goes back to you after the void incident pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 3.7k tags: thunderbolts* spoilers!, vague void experience on purpose (for the full x reader experience), sam is back and he's pissed, fluff and fluff and more fluff (love is in the air people!), comfort, kissing, things get heated at the end but no actual smut is included (i think i'll make another part exclusively for the smut lovers, so the people that don't read smut can still enjoy this part)

please reblog and/or comment in you enjoy!

all masterlists | marvel masterlist | previous part

You gasp, snapping back to reality after...whatever the fuck just happened, trying to catch your breath in hopes of easing your headache and slow your heart rate. The broom you were using to clean up your apartment lays on the floor next to you, everything looking the exact same as it was when you left.

It cannot possibly be another Thanos situation, right? That time it felt like you just blinked, but now it feels like you've been gone for long tortuous hours. That time your roommate almost had a heart attack when you knocked on the door of your shared apartment because she thought she’d never see you again. And you certainly don't remember anything about experiencing the blip. Now...now you wish you could forget what you saw back there.

You were forced to experience the most traumatizing memories playing in a loop over and over again until all you could do is sit in a corner and cry as you beg for the images to go away. A horrifying display of the darkest moments of your life. The times you felt more unhappy and hopeless. And every time you thought you’d managed to escape, you’d just end up in yet another memory.

But somehow you're back in your apartment now. Everything looks the exact same and it seems like no time has passed.

Still, even when it seemingly feels like you're safe, you can't help but feel uneasy. The thought of what you saw is still very much present in the back of your mind, replaying over and over again, taking over your senses and clouding your judgement. 

What if this is just another trick and you’re about to experience another horrible memory? You look around your apartment, too afraid to move, expecting to see something that confirms that you’re still stuck in this never-ending nightmare. That you’ll have to stay in this place for the rest of your life.

The unexpected buzzing of your phone makes you jump, snapping you back to reality as you frantically search for it. Quickly spotting it on top of your dinner table, you keep wondering what the hell is happening as you read Sam's name on your screen.

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN? I'VE BEEN TEXTING YOU LIKE CRAZY,” you hear him shout on the other line as soon as you picked up, sounding incredibly agitated.

“I'm sorry, I...I don't exactly know what happened,” you mutter, staring outside the window in hopes of seeing something out there that might give you any clues of what is going on. To your surprise, you can see a few ambulances speeding past your street and you can spot a large cloud of smoke in the distance. 

Bucky and the others are most likely involved in that commotion. You can only hope that they’re okay, still having no updates. You can’t really tell how much time has passed since they left, so you can’t know for sure when Bucky is going to show up.

“The entirety of New York just went black,” he explains. “It just looked like darkness.”

“What?” you ask in disbelief. “I don't remember anything about it. I was just cleaning up my apartment and then somehow I was in...I don't even know what it was. It was like purgatory or something.”

“What do you mean?”

You sigh, not really wanting to go into too much detail about the stuff you had to witness. Honestly, you wish you could just forget it. “It was like being tortured, Sam. I don't know what it was, just that it was awful. I was cleaning my apartment and that's pretty much the last thing I remember before waking up in that place.”

There's a brief silence and for a second you thought perhaps the call was disconnected, but you suddenly hear Sam's voice again. “Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me!”

“What happened?” you say, evidently confused.

“Put on the news,” he sighs, muttering something else under his breath you can't quite hear correctly. “I gotta go, but I'll talk to you later, okay?” he says in a ruther rushed voice, sounding both pissed and worried. “Take care.”

“Sure. Bye, Sam.”

You hang up the phone as you sit on your couch, TV remote in your hand as you search for any news broadcast that's on. As soon as you find one, you stare at it in disbelief. There, in the middle of a street, is Valentina giving some bullshit speech you don't really care to pay attention to, and behind her stands the entire group of people that were in your apartment just seconds (or minutes? Hours?) ago, joined by a blonde guy you have never seen before.

They look exhausted and visibly confused to be in front of so many cameras. Bucky and Yelena look particularly pissed. But what matters the most to you is that they're all alive.

The next thing that really catches your attention is the text on the banner beneath the image. 'Introducing the New Avengers'.

What the hell is really going on right now?

The broadcast finally ended, and it doesn't take Bucky that long to arrive. All he wanted to do was to get away from Valentina and all the press that just kept taking pictures of him and the others. He barely even acknowledged the rest of the group, leaving as soon as possible. All he wants right now is to see you and make sure you're okay. He knows you're probably safe– of course you are, but he won't be calm until he's standing before you to make sure you really are unharmed.

He walks inside your apartment and immediately walks towards you, grabbing your face with both of his hands as soon as he's standing in front of you, frantically scanning your face for any sight of hurt or discomfort. It's almost as if you were the one out there fighting.

“Are you okay?” he asks, slightly out of breath, still not letting you go.

“Yes, I'm okay,” you reply with a reassuring smile, and he immediately pulls you in for a hug. “How are you?”

“Uh...as good as I can be.” 

His arms are still tightly wrapped around you, not wanting to let you go any time soon. Yes, he’s holding onto you because it’s a huge relief to confirm that you’re safe, but it also brings him an enormous amount of comfort, which is what he was craving ever since he stepped foot into the void.

“What kind of answer is that?”

“I don't know. It's been a lot. I was so worried about you.”

“I was so worried about you!”

He pulls away just enough, and you almost want to roll your eyes at the playful smirk on his face. “Don't try to make this a competition.”

“I won't make it a competition because I would obviously win,” you reply, exasperated. “I wasn't the one who was out there fighting...what was the guy's name again?”

“Sentry.” There’s a brief pause, his expression hardening considerably. “Were you there too?”

You get even more exasperated because you still don't understand shit. “Where?”

“The void.”

Realization hits you right there. The entirety of New York being consumed by darkness as Sam explained over the phone, the horrible things you had to see...of course a place like that would have such a fitting name. It felt exactly like it. You just felt empty and alone.

“So that's what it was. And the entire city was experiencing the same thing?” you ask, still in complete disbelief at the idea of one person having that much power. It certainly is a terrifying and dangerous ability to have. 

Then, after a quick pause, you realize Bucky had to experience that too, immediately hating the idea of him having to endure that. "Were you...?"

Bucky notices the shift in your expression, offering you a weak smile. “Yeah, we were all there.”

You don't know what to say at first. If you thought you had a hard time in there, you can't even begin to imagine the horrors Bucky was forced to watch over and over again. It breaks your heart to think about it. Even when he has made a lot of progress when it comes to healing from his past and learning to forgive himself, it doesn't mean the pain and guilt are not there.

“I'm so sorry,” is all you can say, feeling completely useless at that moment. Sorry doesn't make it better in any way.

“It's okay. It's not like this is the first time I've been there.”

His last statement absolutely crushes you. If you could find a way to take all of that burden off his shoulders, you'll do it in a heartbeat. Still feeling completely useless, you decide to pull him in for another hug, because at least that’s doing a little more than just saying you’re sorry.

“I wish I could do more to make you feel better,” you whisper, feeling his fingers gently running through your hair in an affectionate manner, kissing the top of your head.

“Being here with you is more than enough,” he whispers back. “You are more than enough."

“Oh, please don't make me cry now,” you warm him with a soft giggle, feeling like a few tears might actually come out any second now.

The sound of Bucky's laugh makes you feel just a hundred times better about the entire situation involving that stupid void, loving to hear it under such circumstances. It's impossible not to feel overwhelmed right now. That place really left you feeling like an emotional mess.

You move back from the hug just enough and Bucky takes that as his opportunity to pull you in for a kiss. The type of kiss that makes your knees weak and leaves your mind completely blank. A kiss you see in a movie with fireworks adorning the night sky, right before the end credits roll. One that feels like he's been dying to give you a kiss since he closed the door of your apartment before New York was consumed by darkness.

A kiss that shows you he really does mean it when he says you are more than enough.

“I'm really happy you're okay,” he mutters right after the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

I love you. That's all you can think of in this moment, and it takes everything in you not to say it out loud because how fucking insane would that be? To not even be an official couple and already say such a thing? Perhaps it wouldn't be so crazy given you've been best friends for so many years (and you've had a crush on him for most of them), but still. It's just too soon. Too weird. Too intense.

The fucking void really did numbers on you. Just get it together, please!

“I'm happy you're okay too,” is what you say instead, which sounds appropriate. And not weird. And not intense at all.

You offer to make him a snack after all that happened, forcing him to take a seat when he said he could do it himself. As you prepared a few sandwiches, he tried to explain as much as possible about everything that's been going on.

“So Bob doesn't remember anything?” you ask once he's done, just as you're handing him a plate with two grilled cheese sandwiches.

“Apparently,” he replies, right before leaning over the counter to give you a quick kiss as a way of thanking you for the food.

“Well, that's probably for the best, right? I mean if the Sentry part returns, it's only a matter of time until the Void part wants to have a bit of fun again too.”

He practically devours one of the sandwiches, looking like he hasn't eaten in centuries. “Probably,” he says nonchalantly, clearly more focused on eating. It's impossible to blame him for it, especially considering everything he's been through today.

You can't help but smile at the image of him eating the sandwiches like he's been deprived of food his entire life. So much so that he can barely hold a conversation.

I love you. It's like you just couldn't hold yourself back from wanting to blurt those three little words once again. Like it's physically impossible to hold them in. It doesn’t matter if he’s saying cute things to you or if he’s eating like a caveman. You love both sides of him. 

But you can't say it. You can't be weird.

Instead, you try a much more appropriate approach once again. “You're so cute,” you say with a smile, moving closer to run a hand through his hair affectionately. Then, you suddenly remember something that you two haven't discussed yet, and your 'I'm-so-down-bad' smile turns into a 'just-thought-of-the-best-joke-ever' smirk. “Might as well start calling you the cutest Avenger, huh?”

He turns to look at you with a soft grin on his face, immediately shaking his head. “Please, tell me you didn't see that.”

“Oh, but of course I did!” You take a seat next to him on your kitchen counter, getting more comfortable to continue teasing him. “The news called you ‘The New Avengers’. Who would’ve thought!”

“It was all Valentina's plan to save her ass.”

“So you guys are not going to accept the title?”

“We are, but we still need to have a few meetings to set some rules if we plan on working together…and boundaries.”

“Oh, don’t act like you’re so irritated by the idea! I can tell you’re starting to feel more comfortable around them.”

He’s completely silent for a few seconds, knowing he can’t lie without you noticing. “Okay. They might be growing on me.”

“Awwh,” you reply, but not with the intention of making fun of him. “I thought they were very nice. And I'm glad you're making new friends.”

“You're never gonna stop teasing me about any of these, aren't you?”

“Well...yeah, but I actually mean it when I say I like seeing you meeting new people,” you reply, changing your tone and demeanor to let him know you're serious. “And yes, I'll tease you about the whole Avengers thing, but that doesn't mean I'm not excited to witness this new chapter in your life.”

You begin gently caressing his arm as you offer him a sincere smile. “You deserve it. You deserve to be recognized for your kind heart and your willingness to help others,” you continue. “I'm so proud of how far you've come. And I'm sure Steve is proud of you too.”

The mention of his childhood friend brings a melancholy to his expression that is both sad and beautiful to see. It shows he still deeply misses him, but has learned to think of him without breaking down. It's the type of expression you have when you've finally found peace with the fact that someone you love is not around anymore...not entirely around, at least. He'll always carry a part of Steve Rogers with him.

"Thank you," he says, genuinely meaning it. 

I love you. Those three words threaten to make their way into your conversation again, but this time it's not you the one fighting back the urge to say them.

But It's just a little too soon, right? Last thing he wants is to make things awkward between the two of you. So he decides not to say anything, just like you have decided twice already.

You smile, standing up from your seat. “Finish eating, okay? I have to clean the mess the New Avengers left in my living room earlier.”

“Yeah, you'll have to get used to that, unfortunately.”

“Like I haven't had to deal with that before,” you joke, hinting back at all the times you had people like Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton randomly showing up at your place.

Bucky stays in your kitchen while you finish brooming until you’re sure the floor of your living room is impeccable, familiarity slowly setting in after everything that happened today. You could faintly hear Bucky having a phone call with someone, but you couldn't quite make the words out over the music you had playing on your own phone to make the cleaning much more entertaining.

You go back to your kitchen to throw away the dirt and dust you collected from the living room, just in time to see Bucky standing up to wash the dish he used, sandwiches long gone.

“I just got a call from Sam,” Bucky says as soon as he notices you, his tone letting you know it wasn't exactly a pleasant conversation.

“What did he want?”

“For us to immediately backtrack and not go through with the whole Avengers thing.”

“Yeah, he called me just as it was airing and he didn't sound too happy about it. What are you going to do?”

Bucky sighs, exhaustion visible in his demeanor. “I'll talk to him later. I don't think anyone in the team feels like backtracking right now. Most of them looked pretty excited actually.” You can't help but smile, which makes him let out a soft chuckle. “What?”

“You said 'the team'. I just thought it was cute,” you shrug, crossing your arms across your chest. “I should invite them for a pizza night or something. Get to know them a little better. And meet this Bob guy too.”

“You'll invite John?” he asks, half-joking.

“Please don't call him John,” you immediately reply, squinting your nose in disgust. “I'll have to warm up to him...very slowly. I still feel like punching him in the face when I see him.”

“That's fair,” he agrees with you, perfectly understanding where your discomfort with John Walker's presence comes from. Perhaps that might explain some of the reasons as to why Sam seems so against the idea of this team being a thing.

You notice Bucky walks towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Even when the possible pizza night sounds exciting, I kind of just want to think about the two of us spending time together alone,” he says, grinning mischievously. 

A shiver runs down your spine when you feel his fingers near your neck, gently pulling the fabric of your hoodie to the side, exposing more of your collarbone. He places a few kisses there. Slow and careful.

“Perhaps I can stay here with you for a few more days?” he suggests, right before leaving another kiss on your skin, using his other hand that’s firmly placed on your lower back to bring your body closer to his.

“Of course you can stay,” you reply in a soft voice, trying not to let it show just how much his actions are affecting you.

He practically hums against your skin. “Do you want me to stay?” he whispers, definitely making you shiver now that his metal fingers are tracing lazy patterns on your skin, underneath your hoodie. What a teasing piece of shit.

It’s almost impossible to speak now. “Yes.”

His fingers trail further up your spine, but not that much higher. Just enough to allow you to feel his touch in a slightly different place, making you crave for more. A silent reminder that he can just move his fingers wherever he pleases, but he deliberately chooses not to grant you that pleasure.

“Then say it properly.”

It’s not a suggestion or a plea. It’s straight up an instruction. And he sounds like he’s absolutely certain that you’ll do exactly as he says. 

And you do. “I want you to stay here with me.”

The kisses on your neck continue and it feels like a reward, so you just stand there and enjoy it, allowing him to worship your skin with his lips until you're practically trapped between his body and the counter.

You can feel your cheeks burning red, the warmth spreading to the rest of your body with each kiss. “Don't you want to take a shower?” you try being a voice of reason, your brain just doing whatever it can to help you feel less nervous.

“Why? You're thinking about joining me?” he whispers against your skin, which immediately makes you regret ever opening your mouth because what the fuck is wrong with him and how does he dare to say something like that?

Okay. To justify your growing nerves, you've technically never been fully intimate with Bucky yet. You've been pretty close because a girl can only hold back for so long, but the two of you have been mainly focusing on your emotional connection and that one is just so mind-blowingly special that there hasn't been a need to immediately jump to the physical aspects of your relationship.

But oh, is he tasting your limits right now...

“How you even have the energy right now is beyond me,” you comment again. You're not against the idea of something happening, but your nervous brain gets the best of you so you find yourself blurting out random things yet again.

Finally, Bucky moves away just enough, a playful smile adorning his lips. “I'll always have the energy for you,” he replies, and the implication behind his words has you blushing even harder.

You immediately hide your face in his chest while he wraps his arms around you, laughing at your reaction. “I hate you,” you mutter.

“No, you don't.”

That's true. You really don't hate him at all. It's actually quite the opposite, but you can already picture him walking out the front door if he hears you say how you truly feel about him. The thought of daring to confess you love him is a thousand times more terrifying than the idea of having sex with him for the first time.

You look up, smiling up at him when he kisses your forehead. “No, I don't.”

“Glad to see you're agreeing with me for once in your life,” he comments playfully.

“Don't push it,” you warn him, making him laugh once again.

“How about I take a shower like you suggested and then we take a nap together,” he suggests casually, still keeping his arms around you. “I think we can both use a little sleep.”

“Yeah, a nap sounds good.”

“Wow, two in a row! What has gotten into you?” he jokes yet again, trying to get you to stay in his arms when you start to push him away after that little comment, but he doesn't put up that much resistance, so you're eventually getting away from him.

“You're insufferable,” you comment in an obviously fake tone of annoyance, right before leaving the kitchen to head towards your bedroom.

“And you're beautiful,” he replies with a genuine smile, following after you.

[sbnslver]

nurse for a day

synopsis: who knew a sick doctor could be such a handful? 

tags: stubborn zayne who hates being sick, reader takes care of him anyway, sleepy delirious zayne, fluff fluff fluff, humor(?), suggestive for .5 seconds word count: 2k 

a/n: i personally think i ate with this one 

It was quiet. Too quiet. 

As you slink through the seemingly empty house, ducking into shadows like you’re on a stealth mission, you really wish your boyfriend weren’t so damn stubborn. 

On your earlier phone call, Zayne had tried admirably hard to mask the nasally tone in his voice—to pretend like his frequent coughs were simply him “clearing his throat.” But you knew better.

He doesn’t get sick often—what with knowing exactly how to prevent it, and all—but when he does, he detests it for several reasons. The most pressing one, at the moment? You love when Zayne is sick.

Not because you think he deserves it, not because you want to see him suffer, but because you get to play nurse. After so many days being taken care of and scolded by the best doctor in Linkon, you finally get to return the favor. 

Except Zayne isn’t particularly…appreciative of the favor. You’re a very strict nurse, he’s frowned at you several times before. You tell him over and over again that you only want him to feel better, but that doesn’t stop him from holing up in a bunker every time he comes down with something. It’s the only time he avoids you. 

And now, he’s hiding from you. In his own home. 

You know he’s here. When you arrived, his freshly washed car was sparkling in the driveway, a full mug of jasmine tea was still steaming on the kitchen countertop, and various office supplies were left scattered across the coffee table. As if he’d heard you coming and frantically abandoned ship. 

You’d searched the usual spots: his empty bedroom, so pristine it looked like a hotel cleaning crew had stopped by; the walk-in closet, to make sure he hadn’t disguised himself among the hangers; and his study, where there’d been nothing but heaps of paperwork threatening the desk’s structural integrity. 

He’s being extra sneaky this time, you scoff to yourself as you tiptoe around upstairs. Room after room, and no endearingly, adorably, annoyingly stubborn doctor inside. 

But then, pressing your ear to the laundry room door, you hear it. 

The unmistakable crinkle of a candy wrapper.

You’ve never felt so lucky that Zayne reserves his self-control for you and not sweets. 

With a deep breath and a crack of your knuckles, you jiggle the doorknob slightly before bursting into the room. The man inside, hunched over the floor next to a tissue box, jumps at the sudden noise before freezing in place. And then, slowly, shyly, he spins to face you with the wide eyes and stuffed cheeks of a disgruntled hamster. 

Zayne has spent enough time with you to know what the unimpressed look on your face means: Explain yourself. 

“I don’t remember you knocking,” he sniffles curtly, unable to hide the way his stuffy nose constricts his throat. The rosy blush on his cheeks is the only indication of his guilt. 

“I don’t remember signing up to date an escape artist,” you shoot back, satisfied with his resulting wince. “What are you doing all the way in here? Was the space under the desk in your study not suitable this time?” 

“Just wanted a—”sniff—“change of scenery,” he jokes lamely, gesturing to the sleek washer and dryer towering over him. 

Sighing, you crouch down in front of him, taking in the wall of chocolate wrappers barricading him in. “Is the idea of me taking care of you really that bad? I’m just trying to help.” 

“That’s exactly it,” he says dryly. “You always help more than what’s needed.” 

At that, your eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to cut through bone. His bones, if he’s not careful. “Excuse me?” 

“I mean,” he clears his throat, grimacing at the dull burn in his sinuses, “You always help me exactly how I need it, and more.” 

“That’s what I thought you said. Now, come downstairs so I can give you the medicine you need, Dr. Zayne. And hand over the candy.” 

It was no secret that Zayne loved sweet things. The confiscated tub of chocolates sitting on the counter was evidence enough. 

But as you look down at his frowning face, cup of chemically red liquid in hand, you can’t help but wonder if it’s because Zayne loves sweet things that he hates taking medicine. 

Once he’d finally trudged into the kitchen, you’d sat him down on a barstool before fishing the dreaded bottle out of the cabinet. “Why not a lozenge instead?” he’d asked. “One of the citrus ones.” 

You hadn’t fallen for his trap, of course. But as he eyes you like he’ll make a break for it any second now, a weary part of you wishes you had. 

“You know,” you lean in conspiratorially, “they say if you plug your nose, you won’t taste it as much.” 

“Illness doesn’t make me a fool,” he mutters bitterly. “I, more than anyone, know how fruitless that trick often is. It doesn’t even work on the kids in the pediatric ward anymore.” 

“And why would a 27-year-old man need the same encouragement as sick children, I wonder?” you crack slyly. 

Zayne looks away, taking a sudden interest in the floor tiles. 

Snorting, you double-check the dosage in the medicine cup and hold it out to him. He regards it with abject misery, his big, hazel eyes staring up at you pleadingly, and you feel a crack in your resolve.

“Fine,” you grumble, pivoting to raid the pantry behind you. Retrieving the most acceptable pastry you can find—there are about 7 different options—you set the blueberry muffin on the island in front of him. 

At the peace offering, those hazel eyes light up slightly, driving out some of the pallor on his face. With a deep breath, Zayne grunts softly before downing the liquid like a shot, shuddering at the aftertaste. Eyes closed in a lasting grimace, he reaches blindly for the muffin before you push it into his grasp, and he sighs in contentment when he bites into it.

Running a hand through his dark hair, you can’t help but grin fondly. 

If only the pediatric ward could see him now. 

After Zayne recovered from the horrors of modern medicine, he’d sullenly asked for more tea, since the batch he’d made earlier was cold now. Pinching his cheek, you’d sent him to sulk on the living room couch so you could keep an eye on him. Which had worked, for several minutes. You’d gathered the ingredients, and he’d flipped blankly through a journal, intermittent sniffles reassuring you of his presence. 

But as you gawk at the abandoned sofa, you realize he must have ducked you while your back was turned. 

Yep. Definitely an escape artist.

With a frustrated growl, you hurriedly plunk the tea bag in and listen for signs of movement. Hearing the faint clicks of a keyboard, you stomp up the stairs to his study, not caring if the drink in hand sloshes over the rim of his favorite penguin mug. Serves him right.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you snap, setting the cup on his desk to put your hands on your hips.

“Working,” he answers with an innocent upturn of his lips. 

“I mean,” you clarify, “what do you think you’re doing when you should be resting?”

Too distracted to keep typing, Zayne switches his attention to the stack of papers before him. “I feel much better already,” he lies flatly, breaking eye contact when yours bore into his. 

As an incredulous laugh escapes you, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What would you say to one of your patients if they tried to work through an illness?” 

“I’d say that as a medical professional, I only have the jurisdiction to advise them on the best course of treatment. Once out of hospital care, it’s up to them to exercise judgment and decide if they’re able to work or not. Like I’m doing now,” he retorts, and you almost commend his ability to bullshit such a polished answer.

“Right, of course,” you entertain him sweetly. “So is that why you just scrawled your signature through the bottom of that confidentiality agreement?”

With sluggish alarm, Zayne jerks his head down to survey the damage, and sure enough, his swooping penmanship has rendered the contract illegible.

“How could I have missed the signature line?” he whispers, face aghast with disbelief. “I…I don’t even know what…”

“I do,” you sing triumphantly, walking around to haul him up from his armchair. “I know exactly what’s wrong.” 

The main reason Zayne hates being sick isn’t the symptoms. It isn’t the unneeded pity, the inopportune sick days, or even the insidious slide of what tastes like poison down his throat.  

No. Unfortunately, for your stubborn snowman of a boyfriend, the main reason Zayne hates being sick is simply of his nature: cold medicine makes him terribly drowsy. 

Its heightened effect on him is just like his alcohol intolerance—something in his genes just can’t handle outside influences. 

So as you lead him back to rest on the sofa, laying his head across your lap, it becomes clear you’re now dealing with an oversized koala. 

“You smell nice. I think. I can’t really smell anything,” he murmurs into your navel, tickling your skin with his rhythmic deep breaths. 

“Mm. You smell nice too, under the medicine scent. Like jasmine tea.”

As you gently massage his scalp, he burrows into your stomach, lifting his head up seconds later as if remembering something. 

“Did you d’something different with your hair today? Looks nice,” he slurs, blinking at you with sleep-laced eyes. 

“Yep!” Nope. “Thank you for noticing, Zaynie. So observant even when you’re sick,” you coo, rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

With a delirious hum, he smiles softly at the praise before his gaze lands on your chest, rising and falling above him. “You’re very…warm,” he whispers, baby pink tongue wetting his lips. But just as he leans up to nuzzle into you, you stop him halfway. 

“Oh no, you don’t,” you chide, catching him by the scruff. “Not right now, at least.” 

A quiet sigh is his only resistance, and as he slumps back down, he brings a hand around your waist to leave a lingering kiss on your stomach. 

“Are you tired, Zayne?” you ask, cradling his head in your palms to meet his clouded gaze.

“Mm. I’d like to go to bed now.”

As you turn off the bedside lamp, preparing to leave Zayne in peace for the night, feverishly warm hands pull you down onto the mattress. Lying beside him, you flutter your eyes closed as he presses a tender kiss to your cheek. 

“Aren’t you worried about getting me sick?” you question, raising a brow in the moonlight. 

Chuckling, he shakes his head languidly. “Sinus infections aren’t contagious,” he yawns. “But even if they were, transmission would only give me the chance to look after you in return.”

“Are you sure? Someone once told me I’m too stern of a nurse. I’d hate to be the same way as a patient.” 

Zayne frowns contemplatively as he rests a hand on your hip. “Even though your methods are…involved,” he swallows, “I appreciate the consideration you’ve shown me today. Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Approval from the illustrious Dr. Zayne,” you whisper, gently tapping his reddened nose. “I hope this means he won’t hide from me next time.” 

As he winces, you can almost see the events of this afternoon replaying in his mind. “If he can help it, there won’t be a next time. But yes, I won’t hide from you again. I truly do feel better with you here beside me.” 

“And you’ll feel even better with proper rest,” you remind him. “Sleep. I’ll stay right here until you do.”

Finally relenting, he turns on his side, holding you to him like a child with a teddy bear. 

And though he’s never believed in them before, when Zayne wakes the next morning, nose clear and fever broken, he thinks you might be a miracle worker. 

[sbnslver]

how about childhood friends beomgyu to enemies to lovers 🤗

because of you

summary: you and beomgyu were never meant to be more than enemies — or so everyone thought. but one fake relationship, one wedding, and one jealous ex later, everything starts to unravel. somewhere between pretending and falling, the lines blur… and your heart forgets it’s all supposed to be fake.

pairing: beomgyu x fem!reader

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers, fake dating, slow burn, romance, fluff, a sprinkle of angst.

warnings: language, emotional vulnerability, mentions of past heartbreak, very soft kissing scenes, a little bit of yearning, friends reacting in shock.

wc: 14,3k

notes: omg i LOVED this request!! i’d been playing with the idea of fake dating with beomgyu for a while, and when this anon slid in with this concept, i instantly knew i had to merge both ideas 😭💕 i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i loved writing it <3

every time I trade my soul because of you, if you wanna be in my way because of me.

you don’t remember the exact moment beomgyu stopped being your best friend.

maybe it was a gradual thing. maybe it was one of those silent transitions, like the seasons changing in slow motion—summer bleeding into fall before you ever notice the chill in the air. or maybe it was a single instant, sharp and cruel, a rupture too quick to process in real time.

what you do remember is this: there was a time when choi beomgyu was your favorite person in the world. he was the loud laughter that echoed down the elementary school hallways, the warm hand that always reached for yours first during class trips, the boy who biked to your house even when it was raining just to drop off the pencil case you left behind. the one who knew your favorite candy, the stories you told yourself to fall asleep, the secrets you never said out loud to anyone else. he knew all of you. and back then, that meant everything.

you were inseparable. like people said it with a laugh, like it was cute how he always waited for you after class, how you saved a seat for him at lunch, how you shared snacks and whispered answers during tests. you didn’t care about what people said. beomgyu was your home. he was loud and goofy and a little chaotic, always pulling you into mischief, but he was yours. and you were his.

until middle school.

until popularity started to matter. until you realized that not everyone thought your closeness was endearing. especially not son hyejoo.

you’d heard the rumors about her before you ever exchanged words. she was the kind of girl who could make or break your social life with a single look. and somehow—of course—beomgyu got hers. she liked him. or maybe it was the idea of him: the boy with the easy smile, the boy people listened to, the boy who had potential. and he liked that she liked him. you watched it happen in real time—how he started sitting with her group, how he stopped waiting for you after class, how he laughed louder when he was with them, as if to prove something.

you didn’t say anything the first time he ignored you in the hallway. you didn’t say anything the second time either. but you started to feel it. the ache. the bitterness.

then came the cafeteria incident.

you can still feel the sickly-sweet stickiness of the juice dripping down your hair, soaking into your clothes, the weight of a thousand eyes on you as the sound of laughter exploded like fireworks.

"oops," hyejoo had said, her voice saccharine, lips curled into a smirk. "maybe watch where you're going next time."

you hadn’t touched her. you knew it. she knew it. everyone knew it. but no one said anything.

and beomgyu—beomgyu was right there. just a few feet away. sitting at the table with lee jeno, yang jeongin, kang yeosang, yoo jimin, shin ryujin, and shim jayoon. they were all laughing. pointing. except him.

he didn’t laugh.

he just watched you. eyes unreadable. lips in a tight line.

and then he turned away.

he... turned away...

that was the moment, you think.

not when he stopped being your friend— but when he proved he didn’t want to be.

you walked out of that cafeteria drenched and humiliated, but you didn’t cry. you didn’t give them that. what you gave them instead was silence.

you stopped acknowledging him. on the street. at school. in every space where your lives used to overlap.

it was almost laughable, how fate seemed to enjoy your misery. you ended up at the same high school, the same class, even seated next to each other on the very first day.

“i’d like to request a seat change,” you said, before the teacher even finished the roll call. your voice was steady. clear. “i don’t want to sit next to him.”

the class went silent. you could feel the way everyone stared, eyes flicking between you and beomgyu like they were waiting for a scandal to erupt.

kim chaewon, ever the peacemaker, raised her hand with a soft smile. “i can switch with her, if that’s okay.”

and just like that, you moved a few seats behind him.

he didn’t say anything.

he didn’t need to.

the coldness in his posture said it all. the tension. the subtle way he avoided your gaze, like your very existence annoyed him. and maybe it did. maybe he hated you now, too.

no one ever asked for details. no one really wanted the truth. they were satisfied with your vague, bitter shrugs and dry mutters of “he’s just a shitty person.”

and maybe he was. but he wasn’t always.

and maybe that’s what hurt the most.

you didn’t hate beomgyu because he was cruel.

you hated him because he used to be kind.

you hated him because he knew you better than anyone else ever had— and still chose to become a stranger.

you hadn’t seen it coming—university.

you didn’t expect that of all the people in the world, of all the schools, dorms, and friend groups, life would throw choi fucking beomgyu back into your orbit like some cruel joke written by a bored god.

you were here to reinvent yourself. to study psychology, bury yourself in theory and case studies, figure out how minds worked—maybe even understand why people hurt others for no reason. why best friends stopped being best friends. and beomgyu... you assumed he’d vanish with the rest of your high school nightmares.

but no. the universe, in all its twisted humor, made sure you ended up not just in the same university, but tangled in overlapping circles.

he majored in music. of course he did. you remembered how his face lit up in elementary school when he talked about melodies and chords, how his fingers clumsily pressed the keys of the tiny keyboard his dad gave him—only ever managing to play twinkle, twinkle, little star on loop, again and again until it was stuck in your head for days. in middle school, before everything went to shit, you’d heard whispers that he was learning guitar.

but after that—after he became someone else—you stopped caring. whether he mastered guitar or became a world-famous composer, it didn’t matter. he was nothing to you. just a shadow in your past. a ghost of someone who didn’t deserve to occupy your thoughts.

still, there he was. loud laughter across the quad. cigarette tucked behind his ear. headphones always hanging from his neck like an accessory. and worst of all, always around.

because the first friends you made in your dorm—soobin and yeonjun—just happened to be close to him. not best friendsclose, but hang-out-every-weekend close. and suddenly, your peaceful, beomgyu-free college fantasy went up in smoke.

you didn’t avoid him. no. that would’ve given him power. instead, you pretended like he didn’t exist. like he was air. stale, annoying air you occasionally had to breathe in. when he entered the room, you didn’t flinch. when he laughed too loud, you rolled your eyes. and when he spoke, you replied with thinly veiled sarcasm, the kind that made soobin squirm and yeonjun whistle through his teeth.

“what’s up with you two?” soobin asked once after beomgyu left a movie night early, mumbling something about a project. you didn’t answer. just shrugged and kept scrolling through your phone.

they didn’t push.

they could feel the tension. everyone could.

until that one night—the fraternity party.

you weren’t even going to go. but yeonjun begged. promised cheap drinks and good music and "no drama, babe, just fun."

liar.

you ended up on the worn-down leather couch in the corner of the frat house, a red solo cup in your hand, with your legs draped lazily over chaewon’s lap, head already buzzing. soobin was next to you, half-listening to a story yeonjun was telling about a disastrous tinder date, as you and the others fell into another round of drunk-university-party conversations.

chaewon—your anchor in the chaos of young adulthood—was laughing at what yeonjun had just said, cheeks flushed from the wine coolers she’d been sipping since you arrived. she nudged your thigh.

“this is kinda fun,” she murmured with a grin, eyes scanning the room. “it’s nice seeing you not buried in your notes or complaining about freud for once.”

“freud’s a menace,” you replied, deadpan. “but yeah, i guess... this is tolerable.”

soobin was perched on the arm of the couch beside yeonjun, who was starting to look glazed over, his hand swirling his drink like it held the answers to life.

and of course, it was only a matter of time before the conversation turned.

“okay, okay, but like...” yeonjun leaned in closer, squinting at you with exaggerated suspicion. “you still haven’t told us why you and beomgyu are always at each other’s throats.”

soobin raised his brows in agreement, shifting a little to face you.

“yeah, it’s like... one second he walks into a room and you’re suddenly the queen of sarcasm and shade. the tension is insane. you used to date or something?”

you groaned, letting your head fall back against the couch. “ugh. no. gross.”

“so what then?” yeonjun pushed, his tone teasing but curious.

chaewon chuckled softly. “i only know bits and pieces,” she added, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “she never really talks about it. anytime i asked in high school, she’d change the subject or pretend she didn’t hear me.”

you glanced at her. she wasn’t judging, just watching you carefully, giving you room if you wanted to take it.

and maybe it was the beer. maybe it was the fact that you were tired of the weird elephant always stomping through every hangout. or maybe it was because you were starting to realize that talking about it didn’t make it any less true.

so you shrugged, sitting up a little straighter, cup resting on your knee.

“we used to be friends,” you said simply. “like... actual friends. elementary school, mostly. did everything together. hung out after school. we’d sneak snacks into each other’s backpacks. he even let me write lyrics for the dumb little songs he made up when he first got that keyboard from his dad.”

chaewon blinked, surprised. soobin leaned in.

you continued, voice steady but colder now.

“but somewhere along the way—middle school, i think—he decided he wanted to be cool. and being cool meant hanging out with the kids who loved making my life miserable. the ones who called me names, who shoved my books off my desk, who made fun of how i dressed or talked or existed. and beomgyu... he laughed with them. he chose them.”

“damn,” yeonjun muttered, the mood shifting.

“he didn’t even look back,” you added, more to yourself than them. “just... left me there.”

the silence after that was a little too long. not uncomfortable, just heavy.

and then, because life is a master of bad timing, the front door creaked open. laughter spilled in along with a gust of cooler air. and there he was.

beomgyu walked in with that same lazy confidence he always had, hair a little messy, hoodie half-zipped, headphones hanging around his neck like an accessory he never actually used. he spotted your group almost instantly and started walking over.

yeonjun, without missing a beat, raised his hand in greeting and then pointed at him.

“you,” he said, loud and sloppy, a grin tugging at his lips. “we were just talking about you, asshole.”

beomgyu raised an eyebrow, amused. “oh yeah? good things, i hope.”

you didn’t even bother hiding your eye-roll.

“soooo,” yeonjun continued, half-laughing, half-serious, “did you really ditch her to be popular? that’s fucked up, man.”

beomgyu paused for a moment. then, slowly, he walked over and lowered himself onto the empty spot beside soobin, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable.

“yeah,” he said. “i did.”

chaewon’s eyes darted between you and him, tension curling like smoke in the air.

“i mean,” beomgyu went on, voice cool, “we were kids. kids wanna fit in. kids make stupid decisions. i made mine.”

you scoffed. “you think that excuses it?”

he turned to you, his face carefully blank. “no. i’m just saying... people grow up. some faster than others.”

your jaw clenched. the cup in your hand crinkled slightly from the pressure.

“fuck you,” you said quietly, but not softly.

beomgyu laughed—a dry, humorless sound. “there it is. the victim complex. you’ve always had that down.”

“and you’ve always been a coward,” you snapped back. “you didn’t grow up. you just grew spineless. you couldn’t stand beside someone uncool because you were too scared of being uncool too.”

his eyes flashed then, something dark rising behind them, but he didn’t say anything. just stared.

chaewon’s hand found yours on your lap, grounding you with the gentlest squeeze.

soobin stood abruptly. “i need air.”

yeonjun followed a second later, mumbling something about refilling his drink, clearly regretting starting the whole thing.

and now it was just you and beomgyu on the couch. again.

he leaned back, head resting against the cushion, eyes closed.

“you always did know how to make an entrance,” he murmured.

you stared at him, hating how calm he looked.

“and you always knew how to ruin everything.”

you got up before he could answer.

you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of another comeback. not tonight.

the bathroom was the quietest place you could find. the fan buzzed softly overhead, doing little to clear the air of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, but at least it was a buffer from the party outside. you sat on the closed toilet lid, your fingers clenched into the fabric of your jeans, heart still drumming a low, steady rhythm of frustration.

chaewon was crouched in front of you, her palms resting gently on your knees, her expression unreadable but calm—always calm, even when you couldn’t be.

“i’m sorry,” she said softly. “i didn’t know it was all... that deep.”

you didn’t answer immediately. the words were stuck behind the knot in your throat.

“i don’t talk about it,” you finally muttered. “not because i don’t remember. because i remember too well.”

chaewon’s lips pressed into a thin line. she didn’t try to hug you, didn’t try to distract you with jokes like others might. she just stayed there, solid and present, like she always did when the world spun too fast around you.

“you were kids,” she said after a beat. “but it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. it’s okay that it still does.”

you looked at her then. her eyes didn’t pity you—they understood you. and maybe that was what broke something open in your chest, just a little.

“i didn’t need him to defend me. i just needed him to not join them,” you whispered. “and he did.”

chaewon nodded slowly. “that kind of betrayal... it sticks.”

you exhaled shakily. she gave you a moment, then stood and offered her hand. “come on. let’s get some fresh air. you need to breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like weed and heartbreak.”

you laughed, a short, bitter sound, but you took her hand anyway.

meanwhile, across the house, in a quieter corner near the sliding glass doors, beomgyu stood with a drink in one hand, the other stuffed in his hoodie pocket. he was staring out into the backyard like the answer to the past ten years was hiding behind someone’s half-inflated kiddie pool.

yeonjun walked up beside him, no longer smiling, his drunken haze thinning into something a little more sober, a little more serious.

“i didn’t think you’d admit it,” he said without preamble.

beomgyu didn’t look at him. “wasn’t really a secret, was it?”

yeonjun gave a low snort, but it wasn’t amused. “i mean, yeah. but... shit, man.”

beomgyu took a sip from his drink. “i didn’t come here to fight her. but you stirred the pot.”

yeonjun shrugged. “you made the soup.”

they both stood in silence for a beat, the music thumping from the living room like a heartbeat too loud to ignore.

“you know,” yeonjun added, voice quieter now, “i don’t think she hates you because you were a jerk. i think she hates you because you weren’t—not back then. and losing someone good like that fucks you up.”

beomgyu finally turned his head, meeting his friend’s gaze. his eyes were sharper now, less detached.

“i was scared,” he said, almost too low to hear. “those guys... they made my life hell before they liked me. i thought if i laughed with them, they’d leave me alone. and they did. but i had to choose.”

“and you didn’t choose her.”

“no,” he said, and there was no pride in it. “i didn’t.”

just then, soobin appeared beside them, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression strained, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he walked away.

“sorry,” he muttered. “i had to step out. i... i felt like if i stayed, i’d implode or something.”

yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “you okay?”

soobin nodded, but it looked more like a twitch. “not really. i mean, yeah, but no. fuck. you guys didn’t feel that?”

beomgyu looked down at his cup. “every word.”

“she was shaking,” soobin murmured. “not visibly. but i could tell. she looked like she was holding it all together with a thread.”

yeonjun ran a hand through his hair. “she was.”

the three of them stood in a triangle of shame, regret, and something unspoken that clung to the space between them.

soobin’s voice was the one to cut through it again. “so what now? you gonna keep pretending it didn’t happen, gyu?”

beomgyu didn’t answer right away. then he drained the rest of his drink and muttered, “nah. pretending’s never worked for me.”

yeonjun arched a brow. “what does that mean?”

beomgyu looked up, his gaze locked on the doorway where you’d disappeared minutes before with chaewon.

“it means i’m not done with this. not by a long shot.”

i'm gonna be fine, you left alone can i heal the wounds myself?

it happened a few days later, during a gray tuesday that smelled like leftover rain and wet concrete. you’d just finished a psychology lab with chaewon and were walking back toward the dorms alone, hoodie pulled tight over your head, earbuds in, trying to disappear into the low hum of city pop.

but the universe, always cruel and deeply committed to irony, had other plans. he was leaning against the brick wall near the entrance, arms crossed, eyes trained on you like he’d been waiting a while. beomgyu. same mop of dark hair, same posture that screamed too-cool-to-care, but his eyes—those were different. quieter. tired.

you pulled out your earbuds and sighed, already exhausted by the conversation you hadn’t even had yet.

“can we talk?” he asked, voice low, unsure.

you didn’t stop walking. just kept heading toward the entrance, as if your momentum could carry you past him without consequence. but of course, it didn’t. he fell in step beside you.

“just five minutes,” he tried again. “please.”

you stopped so suddenly he almost bumped into you. your eyes burned as they met his, and your voice came out colder than you expected, like winter had rooted itself in your lungs.

“what do you want from me?” you asked. “apologies? closure? a second chance at being a decent human being?”

beomgyu’s mouth opened, but you cut him off before he could try.

“i don’t want anything from you. not an explanation, not regret, not even guilt. nothing.”

he flinched slightly, the movement barely there, but you caught it.

“you don’t get to waltz back into my life just because you finally decided to grow a conscience,” you continued. “i’ve spent years learning how to breathe without you in the air. don’t you dare try to choke me with your presence again.”

you could tell your words hit him, maybe deeper than you meant to. his mouth was a thin, pale line now. he looked like he wanted to say something—maybe to defend himself, maybe to beg—but you didn’t care.

“just disappear,” you said, voice steady, final. “if there’s one thing you can do for me now, it’s that. disappear.”

and for once in his life, beomgyu actually listened.

he never tried again. he avoided places you frequented, never joined mutual hangouts unless you weren’t coming, and your friends—soobin, yeonjun, chaewon—they respected your silence like it was sacred scripture. everyone understood: the wound was too deep, the scar too sensitive. it wasn’t just history. it was trauma.

and then the years passed.

five of them, to be exact.

by the time the fifth one rolled around, you were no longer that angry, betrayed girl from university. you’d graduated with honors, completed your internship at a mental health clinic, even started working with children on the spectrum. you’d fallen in love. truly, profoundly, messily in love—with someone who wasn’t beomgyu.

kang taehyun.

you met him at a post-graduation mixer. marine biology major with a calm voice, shy eyes, and a laugh that made your chest bloom with warmth. he was the kind of guy who brought flowers for no reason, who always remembered your coffee order, who waited outside your night classes with an umbrella when it rained. you didn’t expect it, but somehow, slowly, it became everything.

you met his best friend, huening kai, who instantly adored you, calling you “noona” and sending memes at 3am. your little trio had beach picnics, study sessions, lazy sunday brunches where taehyun would rest his head on your lap and read aloud from whatever animal behavior article he was obsessed with that week. he made promises—so many of them. to stay, to love, to build something that wouldn’t crumble.

you believed him.

and you weren’t naive. you didn’t expect perfection. but you saw a future. you wanted it. late-night talks under blankets turned into quiet conversations about rings and cities you could live in. when he asked you if you’d move to jeju with him someday, you said yes without hesitation.

he said he wanted to marry you. he said he saw kids—two, maybe three, with your eyes and his dimples.

you thought you were safe.

but then came the internship offer. antarctica. nine months. field research. you smiled, encouraged him, kissed him before he left. wrote long emails. sent him care packages full of love letters and seaweed snacks.

when he came back, he was distant.

and when he ended it, it wasn’t dramatic. it was calm. heartbreakingly calm.

“i love you,” he said, hands shaking. “but i don’t want this. not the house. not the wedding. not the life you deserve. i want to travel, i want to work with endangered species, i want to spend months underwater and years away. and i’m not... i’m not willing to bring you with me.”

“i’ll go with you,” you’d said, crying, desperate, broken open. “taehyun, i don’t care where we are. i just want to be with you.”

but he shook his head.

“you’d get tired. eventually, you’d start asking me to stay, and i’d hate you for it. and you’d hate me for choosing fish over forever.”

it was the cruelest kind of love. the one that was real, but not enough.

so he left.

and you didn’t try to stop him again.

don't, don't lose my mind, dream of you again and i look at you as it fell

you were halfway through your second slice of avocado toast, sipping on orange juice and skimming through appointment logs when your phone buzzed against the laminated table. chaewon looked up from her yogurt bowl, raising an eyebrow at your distracted smile.

“who is it?” she asked, voice still wrapped in morning laziness.

you didn’t answer right away. you were too busy rereading the message.

huening kai: noonaaa 🥺 i’m getting married!! can you believe it??? i really hope you can come. it would mean a lot to me. she’s the one, i swear. you’ll love her. the wedding’s in two months — i sent you two tickets, in case you wanna bring someone special 😏 click the link below for your boarding passes & rsvp 💌 i miss you.

you choked.

like, actually choked.

orange juice went down the wrong pipe, and you doubled over in your chair coughing, one hand on your chest, the other waving chaewon off as she jumped to her feet in panic.

“are you okay? oh my god, did you swallow a bee? what’s happening?”

you managed to wheeze, “kai. he’s—he’s getting married.”

“what?” she blinked, stunned. “kai? as in taehyun’s kai?”

you nodded, eyes wide, phone shaking slightly in your grip. she leaned over to read the message and let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “holy shit. that was fast.”

you slumped back in your chair, staring at the screen like it held the secrets of the universe. “i barely met her twice. she was sweet, yeah, but—marriage? already?”

chaewon bit her bottom lip, then took a slow sip of her coffee. “he sent you two tickets. that’s cute. very optimistic of him.”

you didn’t reply. your thoughts had already spiraled ahead, crashing violently into one very obvious, very haunting possibility.

“he’ll be there,” you murmured.

“taehyun,” chaewon confirmed quietly.

you stared at your untouched toast, appetite completely obliterated. the clinic’s soft background music suddenly felt too loud, the sun too bright, the smell of oranges cloying. your stomach twisted, unfamiliar tension knotting in your chest.

it had been almost a year since you last saw taehyun. nearly five since you met him. and still, even now, his name had the power to freeze you mid-breath, to summon ghosts of promises that had once felt like scripture.

“do you think he’ll bring someone?” you asked, trying to sound casual. it came out hollow.

chaewon didn’t answer immediately. instead, she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes in that way she always did when she was about to say something ridiculous but necessary.

“okay,” she said, setting her spoon down with a decisive little clink. “then you’ll just have to make him regret everything.”

you blinked. “what?”

“you heard me. you’re going to go. you’re going to look insanely hot. and you’re going to bring someone who makes taehyun feel like he just let go of the woman of the century.”

“that’s ridiculous,” you scoffed, trying to hide the way your heart suddenly beat faster. “i’m not that petty.”

“you’re not,” she agreed. “but i am. and you deserve this. you deserve to walk into that wedding and remind him that while he was out falling in love with penguins and sea lions, you were healing. and thriving. and looking like a goddamn greek goddess.”

you laughed, but it came out shaky. her words were half a joke, half a battle cry.

“it still hurts,” you admitted, barely a whisper.

“i know,” she said, gently this time, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “but you don’t have to go alone. not to this. not ever.”

you looked back down at the message. kai’s digital smile practically beamed from the screen. he was getting married. he was happy. and despite everything—despite the silent weight of memory and heartbreak—you felt a tiny spark of happiness for him.

but taehyun would be there.

and maybe, just maybe, it was time he saw exactly what he’d walked away from.

the stars were shinning to me away, whispering "i want you to know you're my world"

chaewon reminded you that yeonjun's birthday was coming up, so you needed to buy a good gift. but what could it be? even though your mind was still preoccupied with kai's wedding, you decided to accompany her to buy the presents — since you were also planning to get something for him anyway.

yeonjun’s birthday parties were never modest. he had a reputation to uphold—not only as a top model, gracing magazines and runways alike, but as a host who knew how to turn any ordinary night into something cinematic. the kind of night people whispered about in green rooms and studio corners. the kind of night that started with champagne and ended with stolen glances and stories never told.

his penthouse was glowing in warm light, the skyline of the city bleeding gold and indigo through the vast windows. soft jazz played in the background, blending with laughter and the pop of corks, and everything smelled like vanilla and cashmere and something expensive you couldn’t name.

you were there early, with chaewon by your side, both of you dressed to impress—but not to steal the spotlight. that belonged to yeonjun, as always. soobin was already there, hand in hand with his girlfriend, who wore something pastel and silk, glowing with that gentle charm only she could pull off. you greeted them casually, sharing a quick toast before settling in with your drink, your dress hugging you like a second skin.

you hadn’t expected to see him.

beomgyu arrived later, not with fanfare, but quietly. like a ripple in a calm lake. he wasn’t the same boy you remembered, not even close. gone were the oversized hoodies, the ever-present headphones slung around his neck, the cigarette tucked behind his ear like a secret he wasn’t ready to part with. now, he wore tailored grey trousers that fell just right over his shoes, a black button-up rolled to the elbows revealing tan, toned forearms, a silver watch glinting under the soft chandelier lights. a single, delicate chain hung around his neck, subtle but striking. his hair was darker now, styled back with just enough softness to suggest he didn’t try too hard.

he looked expensive.

he smelled like sandalwood and clean linen and a memory you couldn’t quite place.

he greeted everyone with a quiet smile, hugging yeonjun, nodding at soobin, offering chaewon a gentle hello. and then his eyes found yours.

there was no tension in his shoulders. no arrogance in his walk. just... calm. time had smoothed the sharpness out of him. when he stepped closer, you stood tall, chin high. he offered his hand—polite, formal. “it’s been a while,” he said simply.

you shook it. firm grip. warm palm. “yeah,” you replied, meeting his gaze for one single, suspended second.

you looked for a ghost. but found a man.

chaewon nudged your arm the moment he moved on. “okay. wow. what was that?”

you didn’t answer. you just stared into your drink, letting the ice kiss your lips as you tried to quiet the drumbeat that had started in your chest.

“he’s changed,” she murmured, and you could only nod.

“you’re still thinking about the wedding, aren’t you?” chaewon pressed, playfully cruel in the way best friends always are.

“shut up,” you said, but your voice held no real bite.

you were thinking about it. still hadn’t found someone to take. your list of candidates was short, and honestly, pathetic. yeonjun was out of the question. he was your friend, yes, but also a model with a fragile PR image. dragging him to a wedding in another city would spark more rumors than your heart could handle. soobin was obviously unavailable, and most of your other male friends were either married, emotionally unavailable, or both.

and then there was beomgyu.

you looked over again—couldn’t help it. he was seated now, at the bar, sipping something amber and neat. he laughed at something yeonjun’s bartender said, his profile catching the light just enough to make your heart do a tiny, traitorous leap. his jaw was sharper now. his skin clearer. he looked like success disguised as mystery.

you knew his alias now, whispered among industry people like folklore—“GHOSTGYU”, the producer no one could quite pin down. no interviews. no live appearances. just music. always music. his beats had shaped some of the biggest hits of the year, but no one really knew him.

except you.

and even then, you weren’t sure anymore.

a dangerous, fleeting thought slipped past your defenses.

what if i asked him to go with me?

you froze, glass hovering midair.

no. absolutely not. that was ridiculous. crazy.

but the thought didn’t leave. it clung to you like perfume. persistent. seductive. as you watched him roll the glass between his fingers, as he leaned back in his seat with a grace that wasn’t there before, you wondered if asking him would be revenge, redemption, or something far more dangerous.

you didn’t want to care.

and yet, you did.

more with every passing second.

he disappeared for a while, drifting from the bar like smoke in the breeze. you didn’t notice at first—your mind was too busy pretending it wasn’t spinning. but when you turned your head and found the stool next to yours empty, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. you took the opportunity to refill your glass, fingers trembling slightly as you reached for the bottle. the coolness of the liquid was grounding. it kept you still. sane. focused.

you didn’t hear him come back. you just felt the shift in the air, like when a storm changes direction.

he sat beside you again, just as casually as before. no warning. no preamble. just him, leaning slightly over the bar, sipping from his glass like he hadn’t just left a crater in your chest by existing. he didn’t say anything at first. didn’t even look your way. but you could feel him, every inch of him, in your periphery—his scent, his quiet presence, the weight of his stillness.

when you turned your head, a little startled, your eyes met his.

his gaze wasn’t sharp or guarded like it had been years ago. it was calm now, curious maybe, with a hint of something unreadable beneath the surface. something too deep to touch without getting pulled in.

“how have you been?” he asked softly, as if it hadn’t been years. as if it were normal to ask that while sipping whiskey at a birthday party under city lights, after everything that had happened.

you blinked. once. then again. the question sounded simple, but it wasn’t. it cracked something open. and you weren’t sure you liked the feeling.

“i’ve been... good,” you said finally, the word catching a little on your tongue. “working. surviving. you know.”

your tone was neutral, maybe even too polite, but your body was stiff, your spine too straight.

he nodded, a slight tilt of his head. “it’s been a long time.”

you didn’t answer.

“i remember the last time we talked,” he continued, voice just above a whisper. “you told me not to show my face again.”

you inhaled sharply. of course he remembered. you did too. you remembered everything—his voice cracking when he apologized, your tears burning your cheeks, the tremble in your fingers as you pointed to the door and told him to leave. it had been final. absolute. like slamming a book shut in the middle of a chapter.

“yeah,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “i did.”

his shoulders tensed a little, barely perceptible. but you noticed. “and yet here i am.”

you chuckled, bitter and short. “i guess the universe has a sense of humor.”

there was a silence then. not uncomfortable, but heavy. like it needed to exist for the next words to mean something. you stared into your glass, watching the ice melt slowly, as if the answer you needed was buried at the bottom.

and then, like a dam breaking—your voice was low, deliberate, but steady.

“do you still want me to accept your apology?”

he turned to you fully this time, caught off guard. “what?”

you looked at him. really looked at him. the face that had haunted your dreams and your worst nights. softer now. older. but still him. “you apologized,” you said. “but i didn’t accept it. i wasn’t ready.”

he nodded slowly. “i remember.”

“well,” you began, the fear rising like bile in your throat. “i might be. now.”

his brow furrowed slightly. “what does that mean?”

you hesitated. god, it felt so ridiculous now that it was about to come out of your mouth. but it was the only thing you could think of—the only way to keep the balance of power from tipping, the only way to keep yourself from being too vulnerable. so you wrapped the truth in a dare.

“it means... if you want me to even consider accepting it, you’ll have to do me a favor.”

he blinked. twice. confused, visibly, as his fingers stilled around his glass. “a favor?”

you nodded.

“what kind of favor?”

you stared straight ahead, the words burning their way up from your chest. “i need a date. for a wedding.”

he almost choked on his drink, coughing once as he looked at you incredulously. “a wedding? you want me to go with you to a wedding? me?”

you gave a weak shrug. “yeah. you.”

“but you—i mean, you hate me.”

you sighed, exhaling years of anger and heartbreak in a single breath. “i don’t hate you, beomgyu. not anymore.”

he stared, waiting. you turned to him finally, your voice quieter now. “i wouldn’t say you’re my favorite person in the world. and i wouldn’t say we’re... okay. but this is an emergency. and the list of people i trust enough to not make this weird is... short.”

he didn’t respond right away. he was too stunned, trying to piece together what this meant. if it was a trap. if it was a test. if it was real.

you looked at him again, eyes searching his. “so. will you help me?”

he didn’t answer yet. but you could see the question dancing in his gaze, the one he wouldn’t say out loud—what the hell happened to us?

and maybe, just maybe, this favor wasn’t about forgiveness.

maybe it was the beginning of something else entirely.

he looked away for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line before he bit the bottom one—nervously, like he was holding back words that wanted to escape. he let out a shaky breath, nostrils flaring slightly. and for the first time that night, he looked... scared.

you could see it. not just in his eyes, but in the tension of his shoulders, in the way he kept shifting slightly on the stool. he’s remembering, you thought. and he was.

he was remembering that party.

the one where you’d confronted him, voice trembling with rage and heartbreak. the one where, instead of being the person you needed, he laughed. made light of it. mocked your pain because he was too much of a coward to face the ugliness of what he'd done. he hadn’t apologized back then. not really. he’d smirked and said something like “i was shitty. so what?”like that was enough. like that made it okay.

he felt the weight of it now. years later. he’d felt it the moment your eyes found his tonight and they weren’t warm anymore. they weren’t familiar. they were sharp. cold. distant. and it had torn something open in him, something that had never really healed. he didn’t consider himself a victim—but god, it had hurt to realize he was someone you had to protect yourself from. someone who used to be your safe place, and then became a wound.

he swallowed hard, voice a little hoarse. “why me?”

you didn’t flinch. “i told you. i need someone i can trust to play the part. and despite... everything, i know you won’t make it worse.”

he looked at you for a long moment, expression unreadable. then finally, he nodded, slowly. “okay.”

you blinked, surprised. “okay?”

“yeah.” he exhaled, almost like he couldn’t believe himself. “i’ll do it.”

two days later, you met him at a quiet coffee shop tucked between bookstores and vintage vinyl stores, the kind of place you used to frequent in college. nostalgia clung to the wooden walls and smelled faintly of cinnamon and ink. you sat by the window, fiddling with your phone until the bell above the door rang.

you looked up—and there he was.

beomgyu walked in with sunglasses covering his eyes, messy dark hair falling over his forehead, wearing a white shirt that clung to his chest and jeans that hinted at the fact that maybe, just maybe, he’d been putting in work at the gym. your breath caught slightly. you hated that it did.

“hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you.

you nodded. “hey.”

there was a pause before either of you said anything else. then you cleared your throat. “okay, so. the wedding’s in two weeks.”

he leaned back, arms crossed. “whose wedding is it?”

you hesitated. “he’s... a friend. of my ex.”

his head tilted slightly. “ex?”

you gave a little nod. “his name’s taehyun. we were together for two years.”

something flickered across his face—surprise, a shadow of something deeper—but he kept his voice even. “i didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

“you didn’t know a lot of things,” you said, almost too quietly.

he didn’t argue.

“kai is the one getting married. taehyun’s best friend. he gave me two tickets. and it’s a big deal—expensive venue, guest list full of people i used to know. i didn’t want to go alone.”

beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “so... you want me to come with you. to pretend we’re...?”

“a couple,” you finished.

he sat with that for a second, then chuckled bitterly. “so you want to make your ex jealous.”

you froze.

you hadn’t planned on saying it like that. you hadn’t even wanted to admit it, not out loud. but now, with the words dangling between you like a noose, you could only nod. “...yeah.”

he stared at you, then dragged a hand down his face, sighing. “jesus.”

“you can back out,” you said quickly, defensive. “i won’t hold it against you.”

but he didn’t. instead, he tapped his fingers against his thigh, thinking. after a long pause, he met your eyes again. “so i have to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

you nodded, trying to sound casual. “yep.”

he leaned forward slightly. “you do realize that means a lot of skinship, right?”

you blinked. “what?”

“holding hands. arms around waists. maybe even... i don’t know, kisses on the cheek? forehead?” he shrugged, but his voice was tight. careful. “are you comfortable with that?”

you hesitated. you hadn’t thought that far ahead. hadn’t wanted to. you could feel your pulse pick up, the idea of him touching you again sending conflicting signals through your brain—alarm bells and something else. something warmer.

but you forced a shrug. “we don’t have a choice. it has to look real.”

he nodded slowly. “alright.”

and then, you got to work.

“so, when did we start dating?”

you bit your lip. “six months ago?”

he smirked faintly. “sounds reasonable. what do we like doing together?”

“karaoke,” you said immediately, smiling at the memory of those nights when you were still friends. “you always picked the worst songs.”

“hey,” he laughed. “those were bangers.”

you rolled your eyes. “you once sang an anime opening in front of my parents.”

he grinned, and for a moment, it felt... like the past. like before everything burned down.

“okay, so,” he said, pulling out his phone. “we need a list. favorite restaurant. inside jokes. maybe a fake anniversary date.”

as he typed, you watched him. really watched him.

and you wondered—not for the first time—if this elaborate lie was going to lead you straight into the truth.

because maybe... just maybe... it never really ended between you two.

every time i'm crazy is because of you if you're looking right at me is because of love?

you had texted him that morning. short, to the point: “we should rehearse. come over around 6?”

he didn’t reply right away, but when he did, it was a simple “okay.”

you spent most of the afternoon pretending not to be nervous, cleaning surfaces that didn’t need cleaning, lighting a candle you usually reserved for guests. this was just beomgyu. and it wasn’t even real. except it had to feel real. that was the whole point.

when he rang the bell, you didn’t check yourself in the mirror. didn’t fix your hair. but your heart still skipped when you opened the door and found him standing there with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, black hoodie zipped halfway, his hair tousled like he hadn’t thought twice about it. he looked casual. effortless. you hated that it made your stomach turn.

“hey,” he said, eyes flicking down to your socks—mismatched—and then back to your face. “you ready to get fake engaged or whatever this is?”

you snorted. “not engaged. just... convincingly coupled.”

he stepped in, the scent of rain on his jacket mixing with your vanilla candle, and as he walked further into your space, you pulled out your phone with a flutter in your chest.

kai’s message was still open.

“let me know if you’re bringing someone. taehyun’s dying to know lol.”

you stared at it for a second, then typed.

“yes. i’m bringing someone. can’t wait for the wedding 🥂”

sent.

you didn’t overthink it. at least, not more than you already had.

your apartment smelled like vanilla, soft wood, and something citrusy that he couldn’t name but felt deeply you. beomgyu stepped inside slowly, letting the door close behind him as he looked around.

“wow,” he muttered, genuinely impressed. “this is... cozy.”

you raised an eyebrow. “cozy?”

he nodded, turning in place as his eyes landed on the framed photos, the neatly arranged books, the record player with a few vintage vinyls on display. “it’s just... you. like, unmistakably you.”

you smiled, a little embarrassed. “i try to keep it nice.”

he hummed, walking over to a small shelf, fingers grazing the spine of a poetry book. “it’s really nice.”

he turned back to you and for a second, neither of you said anything. then you clapped your hands once. “okay! let’s get into it.”

“right,” he said, shaking his head a little as if to clear it. “we’re fake dating. gotta make it look real.”

you both sat on the couch, knees brushing. you hadn’t meant for that to happen, but neither of you moved.

“so...” you began, “public displays of affection. we should probably practice.”

“yeah.” his voice came out rougher than expected. “makes sense.”

you reached out, hesitating before taking his hand. his fingers curled instinctively around yours. warm. familiar. a spark zipped through you and you knew he felt it too when he looked up, eyes wide and surprised.

“this okay?” you asked quietly.

he nodded once. “yeah. just... warm.”

you both laughed, trying to shake it off. but the air had already shifted.

“okay,” he said, forcing a grin. “let’s try something easier. karaoke.”

you perked up. “you sure?”

“you said we do it all the time as a couple, right? we better sell it.”

you loaded the song. one you both knew, but had never sung together. and yet, the moment the first beat dropped, it was like muscle memory. you both knew the words. the timing. the moves.

he looked at you, stunned. “no way.”

“don’t tell me you know the choreo too,” you teased, already stepping back into position.

he smirked. “you’re on.”

the two of you danced, laughing, off-key and dramatic. he twirled you once, then again. and when the chorus hit, he spun you into his arms, pulling you close. too close.

you were both laughing when it happened.

his arms wrapped around your waist. your hands rested on his chest. his breath hitched as your eyes met.

neither of you moved.

not right away.

his lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something—but nothing came. because this wasn’t rehearsed. this wasn’t fake.

it was just you. and him. flushed. breathless.

“sorry,” he whispered, stepping back.

you cleared your throat, heart pounding. “it’s fine. that’s... what couples do, right?”

“right.” he nodded. “totally normal.”

you both sat down again. this time, farther apart.

your hand brushed his when you reached for the remote and both of you flinched.

he glanced at you, eyes unreadable. “so... more practice?”

you nodded. “yeah. we’re getting good at this.”

but neither of you looked convinced.

in the days leading up to the wedding, your fake relationship had taken on a life of its own.

you went on more “dates” to build chemistry—coffee shops, galleries, night walks pretending to be that kind of couple who couldn't keep their hands to themselves. from the outside, it looked picture-perfect. inside, it was a storm. every casual brush of his fingers against yours, every accidental glance held too long, every laugh that turned into silence too quick—it all felt like a fucking heart attack.

it was only supposed to be a favor. a role. a lie dressed up in borrowed intimacy. but your body didn’t know that. your chest didn’t know that.

and neither did beomgyu’s.

especially not the night you were in your apartment again, this time sitting on the floor of your bedroom, surrounded by shoes, accessories, and two dress bags hanging off your closet door. the scent of fabric softener and his cologne filled the room, cozy but heavy. familiar but charged.

he was holding his tie, trying to decide between navy or burgundy, when he suddenly said, “this feels weird, right?”

you looked up from your heels, confused. “what?”

“us,” he said. “doing this. pretending. acting like none of it ever happened.”

the air stilled.

you didn’t answer immediately. your fingers froze on the strap of your shoe, heart kicking against your ribs.

“i know this is a favor,” he said, voice quieter now, “but i don’t want to keep pretending this is just about the wedding. i mean... not in that way, i just—i don’t want to keep dodging everything that’s still between us.”

you blinked, throat dry. “beomgyu—”

“no, listen. please.” he leaned back on his palms, gaze locked on the ceiling like he was too afraid to look at you. “i fucked up back then. i know i did. and it took me a long time to understand it. i was stupid and selfish and cruel. and i acted like it was funny. like it didn’t matter. but it did. and seeing you now... how much you’ve grown, how strong you are—shit, it kills me that i’m not part of your life the way i used to be.”

his voice cracked, just a little.

“i don’t want us to keep pretending this is easy,” he said. “because it’s not. not for me.”

you stared at him. at his jaw clenched tight, the way his chest rose and fell too fast. you weren’t expecting any of this. not tonight. not ever.

and yet, a part of you had waited for it.

“i hated you,” you said softly. “i hated the way you laughed when i cried. the way you dismissed what you did, made it seem like it was just... nothing. i hated the way you looked at me afterwards, like i was the one who’d changed.”

his shoulders slumped.

“but the thing is,” you continued, voice trembling, “i can’t keep living in that hate. i carried it for years and it only made me bitter. i can’t undo the past. and yeah, you hurt me. more than i thought someone like you ever could. but if you’re here now, helping me with this, putting yourself in this mess just because i asked... then maybe you do mean it. maybe you really are sorry.”

you looked at him, finally, and he was already looking back at you—eyes glossy, jaw tight, like he was holding something back.

“i accept your apology,” you said. “not because everything’s okay now. but because i want to stop letting what happened define how i feel. i want to move forward. and if that means... giving you another chance to show me who you are now—then fine.”

he swallowed hard. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me,” you murmured, “just don’t fuck it up.”

that made him smile. a real one. small and crooked, but warm.

you sat there in silence for a while, surrounded by silk and suits and the faint hum of the night through your window. it wasn’t peace exactly. it was something messier. raw. true.

and though you wouldn’t admit it—not yet—something in you shifted. you saw him. not the boy who broke your heart, but the man who was trying to make amends.

maybe it wasn’t love.

but it was something.

and it was terrifying.

to me it's a pretty wonderland, do not make cry again, i need you right now

the day of the wedding arrived cloaked in golden sunlight and nerves. your stomach was a mess of tangled wires—part excitement, part dread, and part something else you didn’t dare to name. standing in front of the mirror in your bedroom, you took a deep breath, hands smoothing down the soft folds of your dress. the fabric hugged your figure like a second skin—champagne satin with a low back and off-the-shoulder sleeves, the kind of dress that whispered luxury without screaming for attention. your earrings were subtle, your makeup warm and glowing. you looked ethereal. untouchable.

and then beomgyu stepped into the room, and your breath hitched in your throat.

he was wearing a tailored suit in a shade of deep, muted green, like pine trees in twilight. his tie matched your dress—a soft, pearlescent champagne—and the pocket square carried the same satin sheen. his hair was swept back effortlessly, a touch of curl still framing his forehead, and when he smiled at you, something inside you twisted painfully.

“you look beautiful,” he murmured, offering his hand. “ready to go make everyone jealous?”

you took his hand, heart hammering in your chest. “as i’ll ever be.”

on the ride to the venue, you kept rehearsing the things you were meant to feel. calm. confident. committed to the lie.

but instead, your hands trembled slightly. your heart wouldn’t slow down.

was it beomgyu? or was it the thought of taehyun?

the venue was breathtaking.

a glass-roofed reception hall nestled between rolling hills, draped in ivory florals and soft hanging lights. the sound of string instruments floated through the air, delicate and romantic. people were milling about in elegant attire, laughter ringing like champagne flutes clinking together. when you and beomgyu stepped inside, you felt all eyes drift in your direction.

you were holding hands.

and it wasn’t just for show—his grip was grounding you, firm and unshakable, like he knew your insides were a storm.

“smile,” he whispered against your ear as you walked. “we’re the couple of the evening.”

you found the newlyweds near the stage, glowing in white and silver, all laughter and tears. kai pulled you into a warm hug, wide grin on his face. “you made it!” he turned to glance between you and beomgyu. “and you brought your plus one, just like you said.”

you handed over their gift, a carefully wrapped box in gold paper. “i wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

they thanked you and guided you to your assigned table. the moment you saw the names, your heart sank. table 5. with taehyun’s old group. fuck.

and there he was.

kang taehyun.

he looked devastating in a black tux that fit like sin, his hair slightly tousled like he hadn’t tried but somehow looked perfect anyway. when he saw you, his expression changed—slowly, subtly, like recognition blooming across his features. your eyes met, and the air between you snapped taut. your breath caught. it’s him. he looked at you like you were the last person he expected and the only one he wanted to see.

he stood up.

and you—traitor of your own heart—you moved toward him.

drawn like a magnet, like gravity had shifted in his direction.

but before your hand could reach his, before you could even form a hi, beomgyu’s hand extended first, sliding into taehyun’s like a blade between ribs.

“hey,” he said smoothly, “i’m choi beomgyu. y/n’s boyfriend.”

it landed like a gunshot.

taehyun blinked. once. twice. his smile wavered, confusion flashing across his face like lightning. “boyfriend?” he echoed, the word like ash in his mouth.

your heart slammed into your ribs.

“it’s been a while, tae,” you said, stepping in quickly. the nickname rolled off your tongue like honey and broken memories. beomgyu’s eyes flicked to you sharply.

taehyun looked at you, still dazed. “yeah... yeah, it has.”

you greeted the others—yuna, wonjin, and a couple more you barely remembered but who definitely remembered you.they exchanged glances. curious. surprised. maybe even suspicious.

“i thought you two would come together,” yuna said, her tone sweet, but her eyes sharp.

taehyun cleared his throat.

“we broke up about a year ago,” you explained simply, sitting down. your hand stayed in beomgyu’s.

“so...” wonjin glanced between you and beomgyu. “who’s this guy?”

beomgyu leaned in, voice casual. “boyfriend,” he repeated, smiling. “been together for a while now.”

the questions came like a tidal wave. how long? where did you meet? how serious was it?

you and beomgyu handled them like pros—laughing, teasing, nudging each other like you were deeply in sync. you could feel taehyun’s eyes on you, every fucking second, and you hated how your body still reacted.

but then he asked.

“how did you two meet?”

and the world froze.

you opened your mouth. no sound came out. nothing. panic gripped you like ice.

that detail, the most basic of all, had somehow slipped through your careful planning.

you looked at beomgyu, your eyes wide, desperate. and he—cool as ever—slid his hand to your shoulder, his thumb stroking softly, soothing.

“we’ve known each other since we were kids,” he said, smile calm. “childhood friends. and you know how it goes... years pass, and those feelings you thought you buried start to grow again. it was almost inevitable, right, sweetheart?”

he looked at you.

and you smiled. because you had to. because you knew that’s what it took to sell this story.

“she rejected me once, though,” he added with a smirk. “but deep down, she knew she loved me.”

taehyun’s expression twisted. “so... you were in love with him when we met?”

his voice wasn’t loud, but it cut deep.

“no,” you said, quickly. “we had... a falling out in college. we didn’t speak for a long time. when i met you, he wasn’t in my life.”

beomgyu nodded. “we reconnected after you two ended things. and the feelings we’d buried came back stronger.”

he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulled you into his side, his cheek brushing yours. you felt his breath against your skin. his touch was warm. grounding. too intimate.

you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

taehyun looked like he’d swallowed poison.

and you—trapped between past and present, between truth and performance—felt the familiar weight of discomfort slide back into your skin.

kang taehyun had always been your greatest heartbreak.

and sitting beside choi beomgyu, pretending he was your greatest love, was the cruelest irony of all.

the music shifts. the soft thump of the bass, the rhythmic clinking of champagne glasses, the laughter and rustling of silk and tulle—all of it merges into the warm blur of celebration. the lights dim just slightly as couples begin to rise, drawn toward the dance floor like moths to flame.

you’ve just taken another sip of wine, trying to relax after the intense introduction, the invasive questions, and the suffocating presence of your ex seated so dangerously close. but before you can even set your glass down, taehyun rises.

he walks toward you with a practiced calm, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to look away first. "may i have this dance?" he asks, voice soft enough for only you to hear, but there’s an edge to it—like a test, a provocation.

but before you can speak, beomgyu shifts in his chair beside you. his hand slides over yours, firm, grounding. “no,” he says coolly, voice louder. the table quiets. "how dare you ask someone to dance when she's clearly here with her boyfriend?"

taehyun lets out a breath of laughter, sharp and amused. “what, are you scared? that if she dances with me, she might remember what we had?”

the tension at the table becomes palpable, electric. beomgyu stands now, leveling his gaze at taehyun with a calm so composed it borders on threatening. “you’ve got nerve, i’ll give you that. but no—i’m not scared. i don’t doubt her feelings for me.”

your heart stutters.

taehyun’s smirk falters. “then why don’t we let her decide?” he challenges, turning back to you. “y/n?”

you freeze. the weight of their gazes pins you in place, your spine stiff, mouth dry. you do want to dance with taehyun. Your body remembers the warmth of his hands, the way he used to hold you like you were gravity itself. but then—

beomgyu extends his hand toward you. calm, steady, open.

a choice.

a silent reminder: this is why you're here.

to make him jealous. to make taehyun feel what you felt when he left.

you look up at beomgyu. his eyes flicker with something you can’t name. you take his hand.

“i’m sorry, taehyun,” you say gently, rising from your seat. “but i came to this wedding to enjoy it with my boyfriend.”

the word hits like a drop of ink in water—rippling out, staining the air.

beomgyu stiffens. just for a moment. just enough for you to feel his pulse skip against your fingers.

you don’t look back at taehyun. you let Beomgyu guide you to the dance floor where strings swell into the opening of a love song. the kind that makes people sway closer. the kind that makes you forget you're pretending.

you start to dance, slowly, hands placed properly, bodies at a safe, respectable distance. but then he speaks, voice low and amused by your nervous chuckle.

“looks like the plan’s working,” he murmurs near your ear.

your lips twitch into a half-smile. “maybe too well.”

his fingers trail slightly down the curve of your back. not inappropriate, but… intentional. “you look beautiful tonight,” he adds, tone suddenly more sincere, less teasing.

the compliment catches you off guard. you let out a small, uncertain laugh. “you don’t have to say that.”

“i’m not saying it because i have to.”

you glance up at him. he’s not looking at the other couples. he’s not looking at taehyun. he’s looking at you. and not just your eyes—your mouth, the slope of your neck, the place where your skin meets the lace of your dress. the dress you wore to fit the part. to be his girlfriend. to play the game.

but now you’re not so sure it’s a game.

the music climbs into its chorus. around you, couples draw closer. Some kiss—softly, unselfconsciously. you turn your head, scanning the room for taehyun, and there he is—watching. unmoving. drinking you in like a ghost he didn’t know he still loved.

beomgyu notices.

and then suddenly, his hands are on either side of your face. gentle but sure. you barely have time to inhale before his lips are on yours.

it’s soft. so soft you almost miss it. but then the second beat lands—his mouth molding perfectly to yours, and you gasp through your nose, hands tightening on his arms. your eyes flutter wide, shocked, searching for meaning in the space between reality and performance.

his lips are warm. confident. too confident.

you shouldn’t like this. but you do.

his hands move to your waist as the kiss deepens—just enough. just long enough to make it feel like more than an act.

then he pulls back, just far enough for breath to slip between you, his eyes slightly darker now, but still calm, still playing the role.

“we had to keep up with the others,” he says smoothly, like he didn’t just melt every logical thought out of your brain.

you can’t answer. not yet. you just nod.

because you're still not sure if the kiss was for them, or for you.

since the kiss, you haven’t been able to breathe quite right.

your body moves through the rest of the night, politely laughing at jokes, sipping wine, answering questions with nods and vague hums, but your mind is stuck. not on taehyun. not anymore. his presence at the table has blurred into the background, a faded photograph slowly losing its color.

no—what keeps echoing in your chest like a drum is beomgyu.

how close he’s sitting next to you. the way his thigh presses against yours beneath the tablecloth, warm and constant. how his hand hasn’t left your lower back for more than a minute, always returning like he owns that space now. how his fingers sometimes toy absentmindedly with yours, tracing lines over your knuckles, slow and soft. it should feel comforting, part of the charade. but instead, every brush of skin is a spark, every gentle squeeze is a ripple of heat that settles embarrassingly low in your stomach.

your heart stutters when you glance at him again.

he’s speaking to someone across the table, smiling with that crooked little smirk he wears when he knows he’s charming. and god, is he charming. his laughter is low, the kind that makes your shoulders soften even if you don’t understand the joke. and when he tilts his head to the side, the lights catch the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his adam’s apple moves when he swallows between words—it’s so stupid, so dumb, but you can’t look away.

even his eyelashes are pretty. long, thick, casting shadows on his cheekbones. who notices eyelashes? apparently you do, now.

he leans in to murmur something in your ear, and your whole body reacts. you don’t even register what he says. your mind is too busy screaming over the way his breath brushes your neck, the soft weight of his arm resting around your waist like it belongs there, like he’s done this a thousand times.

you feel hot. flushed. overexposed and restless. you try to tell yourself it’s the wine. or the music. or the aftershock of the kiss. but nothing helps.

eventually, you can’t take it anymore. you excuse yourself, murmuring something about needing air, and slip out into the garden. the cool night hits your skin like a blessing. you exhale shakily, hugging your arms around yourself, trying to calm the chaos inside.

you barely get a minute of peace before footsteps follow you.

you turn—and of course, it’s taehyun.

he stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, looking unsure for the first time tonight. he doesn’t speak right away. instead, he just watches you, like he’s still trying to read you, still trying to understand what changed.

"you look beautiful tonight," he says eventually. his voice is soft now. sincere.

you give him a tight smile. "thanks."

he steps closer. "when i got the invite... the first person i thought of was you."

you look away.

"i hoped maybe..." he trails off, then runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "fuck. i haven’t stopped thinking about you, y/n. after we broke up, i—i kept telling myself it was for the best. but it never felt right. it still doesn’t."

you freeze. the words hit you like cold rain—sharp and disorienting.

“i thought,” he continues, “that maybe tonight, i could try again. i saw you and i just... remembered everything. and maybe i thought it was fate or some shit. that this was our second chance.”

you inhale, shaky.

"taehyun…" you start, but your voice breaks. you pause. gather yourself. then look him in the eye.

"you hurt me."

he flinches.

"i was ready to give up everything. remember? i was going to follow you. i was ready to leave behind my job, my home, my family—just to see you chase your dreams. but i wasn’t part of those dreams, was i?"

he doesn't answer.

"you made that clear when you left. you made me feel like i was holding you back. like i was just... something temporary. something convenient." your voice quivers, but you don’t stop. “so no. you don’t get to come back now just because you regret it. you don’t get to pick me again now that you're lonely.”

he opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“i’m happy with beomgyu.”

the words come out fast, maybe too fast. you swallow.

"he’s been... good to me. he listens. he’s patient. when i had that terrible week at work, he showed up with soup and made me watch dumb romcoms until i stopped crying. when i forgot my umbrella, he waited for me at the station with his. when i had the flu, he came over with three bags full of medicine and snacks and even folded my laundry."

your breath hitches. you're listing off things that happened. real things. but were they part of the act? or... were they just him? beomgyu, being soft. being kind.

your chest aches.

“he makes me laugh,” you add quietly. “and i feel safe with him. really safe.”

taehyun says nothing. the silence stretches.

and suddenly, you realize—you don’t know if you’re defending a lie anymore. or if somewhere along the way, the lie became a truth you’re not ready to admit.

you blink back the burn in your eyes.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “but you’re too late.”

taehyun nods, once. solemn. he doesn’t argue. doesn’t plead.

he just looks at you with a kind of hollow acceptance. then turns and walks back inside.

you stay in the garden a while longer. heart thudding. pulse unsteady. trying to figure out why it hurts so much. why your thoughts keep drifting back to the warmth of beomgyu’s hands. the taste of his kiss.

and why, even now, all you want… is to see him.

you don’t hear the footsteps this time. not over the thudding in your ears. not over the sound of your own pulse, rapid and rising.

but beomgyu appears beside you like he was pulled by a thread—drawn out into the garden by instinct, or maybe something less rational and more dangerous. you blink at him, startled, but it’s too late. you can tell by the way his eyes narrow slightly, by the way his jaw sets, that he’s heard enough.

his gaze flicks to taehyun, sharp, unreadable. "i think you should leave her alone," he says calmly. too calmly. there's a current under his voice. a warning.

taehyun stiffens. "we're just talking—"

"no," beomgyu cuts in. “you’ve done enough of that.”

you feel the shift in the air. it’s not dramatic, not a sudden snap, but something quieter—more dangerous. beomgyu’s eyes don’t leave taehyun’s face as he steps a little closer. “i’ve already told you. several times. she’s my girlfriend. she’s with me now. and there’s no opportunity here for you, hyung.”

taehyun’s mouth parts, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t get the chance.

“so unless you’re actively trying to get your face broken,” beomgyu says, voice still steady but lower now, “i suggest you back the fuck off.”

the silence that follows is brutal. taehyun’s expression twists—not quite disbelief, not quite amusement, but something caught between. he raises an eyebrow, like he doesn't buy it. like he doesn't believe beomgyu would ever go that far.

but you do.

you know beomgyu. you’ve seen the softness, yes—the warmth, the silliness, the boy who cuddles stray cats and gets excited over mango smoothies. but there’s a different kind of fire under all of that. you’ve seen flashes of it before. you believe him. and you don’t want this to be the moment he burns someone.

you reach out, curling your fingers gently around his wrist. “gyu,” you say quietly. he doesn’t look at you right away. “you’re not doing that. not here. not for him. okay?”

finally, his gaze flicks down to you. something in his eyes softens just a fraction.

you take a breath. “let’s just go home.”

he watches you for a moment longer. then nods.

taehyun doesn’t say anything else. just steps back, jaw clenched, arms crossed over his chest. you can feel his stare on your back as you walk away with beomgyu, back into the house, past the warm golden lights and the laughter that now feels miles away.

the ride home is quiet.

too quiet.

beomgyu drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. his jaw is tight. his lips pressed together in a line. the usual easygoing glow in him has dimmed, replaced by something colder. he hasn’t spoken a word since you got in the car, and the silence is starting to weigh on you, dense and uncomfortable.

you sit beside him, hands fidgeting in your lap. you glance at him from the corner of your eye—he looks beautiful, even like this. even tense and brooding and upset. the streetlights passing over his face only make him seem more carved out of light and shadow, more unreal. your chest aches in that strange way again.

“gyu,” you say, softly.

he doesn’t answer right away. just exhales, long and slow. “did you mean it?” he finally asks, voice low.

you turn toward him. “mean what?”

“everything you told him. about me.” his grip tightens slightly on the wheel. “about how i make you feel. or was that just part of the lie?”

the question shouldn’t catch you off guard—but it does. maybe because you’ve been asking yourself the same thing since you said it. maybe because you don’t know the answer. maybe because you do, and it scares you.

“i don’t know,” you admit. your voice cracks. “i don’t think it was a lie.”

he finally looks at you.

and it’s that look. the one that always makes your breath catch in your throat. the one that’s not teasing or flirty or playful. the one that’s real. too real. it’s him seeing you—really seeing you—and it’s almost too much.

“i meant everything i said,” you add. “i just don’t know what it means yet.”

beomgyu nods slowly. then turns his eyes back to the road.

you ride the rest of the way in silence again, but it’s different now. not cold. not angry. just heavy. like both of you are holding your breaths. like the story you were pretending to tell is suddenly demanding to become the truth.

when he pulls up to your place, he doesn’t kill the engine right away. just sits there.

you don’t move either.

the air between you hums.

“thank you,” you say finally, “for standing up for me.”

his mouth twitches. not quite a smile. “i wasn’t acting.”

you nod. “i know.”

then you open the door and step out, leaving it all suspended in the air between you—the kiss, the lie, the truth, the heat, the tension, the look he gave you that felt like a question you still don’t know how to answer.

but you’re starting to want to.

you close the door behind you, but the silence that follows feels deafening. the apartment suddenly seems too quiet, too still. your heart is still racing from everything that happened — taehyun’s words, beomgyu’s protectiveness, the kiss at the wedding, the car ride home. but beneath all the noise, beneath the confusion, something sharp and clear starts to rise.

a pulse.

his name.

beomgyu.

you press a hand to your chest, breathing deeply, but it doesn’t slow. and then it hits you — not gently, not sweetly, but like a wave knocking you off your feet: it’s him.

you don’t think. you don’t wait.

you spin around, yank the door open and run — barefoot, not even grabbing your coat — down the hall, down the stairs, heart hammering in your chest like it’s trying to chase him before he disappears for good. you reach the stairwell, breath caught in your throat, and then—

he’s there.

at the landing, a few steps below, chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. his eyes find yours immediately, wild and soft all at once, and the relief in them makes your knees go weak.

“i couldn’t leave,” he breathes out, voice cracked and real. “i couldn’t just… leave you like that.”

his hair’s slightly messy, cheeks flushed, and there's this tiny line between his brows like he’s been worrying the whole time. and that’s when it hits you again — he came back. just like you ran after him. you both chose each other.

you don’t say anything. you just move.

arms around his neck, pulling him close, your face burying into the crook of his shoulder. he smells like night air and whatever cologne he wore to the wedding — it’s soft, grounding, familiar. his hands find your waist, then your back, holding you like he’s been waiting to do it forever.

and then you pull back, just enough to look at him.

his eyes flicker to your lips.

and you kiss him.

slow, deep, nothing like the kiss on the dance floor. this isn’t pretending. this is you, trembling fingers on the side of his face, his hand sliding up your back, holding you like you’re precious. his lips move against yours with a softness that borders on reverence, and when he exhales into your mouth, it sounds like he’s been holding his breath for days.

you only part when your lungs ache, foreheads pressed together, your heart loud and unrepentant between you both.

“i was halfway down the street,” he whispers, “and all i could think was, ‘i need to tell her.’”

“tell me what?” you ask, your voice a little breathless, a little cracked.

he leans in again, brushing his nose against yours.

“that i’m not pretending anymore.”

stay next to me push the bad memories aside

you’re in your apartment now. everything feels quieter, but not in that lonely way from before. it’s peaceful. your fingers are laced with beomgyu’s as you both sit on the couch, socks brushing, shoulders touching, hearts still racing from the moment downstairs. there’s a stillness now, but it’s full of possibility. your eyes meet and neither of you look away.

he’s the first to speak.

“so… that kiss,” he says softly, smiling just a little. “i hope you know that wasn’t part of the plan.”

you let out a quiet laugh, eyes flickering down to your intertwined hands. “i figured.”

“i meant it,” he adds, almost in a whisper, as if saying it too loud might shatter the moment. “i meant every second of it.”

your breath hitches, chest tightening in that warm, aching way that only truth brings. you turn your head to him, really look at him — the soft curve of his jaw, the way his lashes brush his cheeks when he blinks, the tenderness in his expression that you hadn’t noticed before but now feels impossible to ignore.

“when did it stop being pretend for you?” you ask, voice quiet, vulnerable.

he hesitates only a moment before answering. “somewhere between your laugh and the way you always fix my tie even when i don’t need you to.”

your heart clenches.

“between that night you texted me good luck before my interview… and the way you talk about the things you love like they’re magic.” he pauses, eyes locked on yours. “it’s always been you. i just didn’t know how badly i wanted it to be real until it already was.”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until he reaches up, brushing a thumb gently under your eye.

“hey,” he says, voice low, “you okay?”

you nod, smiling through the tears. “i just… i think i fell in love with you without meaning to.”

your fingers are tangled in your sleeves, knees pulled close to your chest. neither of you speaks for a while, but the silence is thick with everything left unsaid.

and then, softly—

“you sure about this?”

his voice is low. careful.

you look at him, brows furrowing. “about what?”

“about… us.” he swallows, gaze still down. “after everything.”

your heart tightens. “beomgyu—”

“no, i mean it,” he cuts in, gently but firm. “i’ve been thinking about it since last night. since we kissed. and then again this morning. and again, every second after. and it’s not that i don’t want this. i do. so badly i feel like i can’t breathe sometimes. but—”

he finally looks at you.

and god, it hurts.

“i treated you like shit,” he says, voice cracking. “back then. even if it was joking or flirting or whatever excuse i told myself, i was cruel sometimes. i pushed you, made you feel small just because i didn’t know how to handle what i was feeling. and now you're here—choosing me. like i deserve you.”

you blink, stunned. you hadn’t expected this—this confession bleeding out of him.

he runs a hand through his hair. “you’re good. you’re so good, and i’ve been so fucking scared that one day you’ll remember every time i made you cry, or shut down, or feel like you weren’t enough. because you were always more than enough. i just… i didn’t know how to see it. not then.”

your chest aches. “beomgyu—”

“i don’t want to be that person anymore,” he whispers. “i’ve worked so hard not to be. but i still look at you and think, she deserves someone who didn’t need a second chance to get it right.”

you move slowly, reaching out to cup his face, thumb brushing the corner of his eye where tears threaten.

“you are that someone,” you say softly. “you’re not who you were, beomgyu. you grew. you changed. you loved me, even when you didn’t know it. and now? now you treat me like i’m sacred.”

he leans into your touch, eyes glassy.

“you are sacred,” he breathes.

you smile, trembling. “then stop trying to push me away like i’m not choosing you with my whole heart.”

he exhales shakily. “i’m scared.”

“me too.”

he pulls you in then, arms around your waist, head tucked into the crook of your neck.

“don’t let me fuck this up,” he says against your skin.

“we’ll figure it out together,” you whisper, holding him tighter. “you’re not alone in this.”

he pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead.

“say it again,” he says.

“what?”

“that you choose me.”

you look him in the eyes, no hesitation. “i choose you.”

his lips find yours like a prayer answered. soft. reverent. a little desperate.

and when you part, he presses his forehead to yours, whispering,

“then i’ll spend the rest of forever proving you made the right choice.”

put me in the palm of you all my life time i will be thinking of you

saturday brunch is supposed to be chill.

the kind where chaewon shows up in oversized sunglasses like she’s famous, soobin talks about the latest alien documentary he found, and yeonjun takes a thousand photos of his latte art just to post the worst one with the caption “just vibing.”

but not today.

today, you and beomgyu are sitting side by side in the booth instead of across from each other like usual. your knees are touching. his hand is on your thigh. you're giggling. he whispers something in your ear and you blush.

chaewon is squinting at you both like she’s watching a glitch in the matrix.

soobin is staring at beomgyu like he’s about to conduct a full investigation.

yeonjun drops his phone into his mimosa.

"what the fuck is happening," chaewon says, flat out, fork frozen mid-air.

you smile sweetly, lacing your fingers with beomgyu's. “we’re dating.”

yeonjun gasps like he’s been shot in the chest. soobin literally chokes on his orange juice. chaewon blinks three times, then shakes her head. “no, no, no. you two hate each other. i was there. i’ve seen you call him a crusty medieval squirrel with commitment issues.”

beomgyu grins, smug. “and now i’m her crusty medieval squirrel.”

you nudge him, laughing. “don’t make it worse.”

“this is a prank,” yeonjun says. “you’re filming us for tiktok. where’s the camera. i know it’s here.”

“we’re not pranking you,” you say, cheeks pink. “it just… happened.”

“just happened?” soobin repeats, still dazed. “you two have been fake dating for weeks!”

beomgyu shrugs. “then it got real. sue us.”

chaewon narrows her eyes, studying you. “okay… but are we talking real real or like, ‘we’re trauma bonded and it’s sexy’ real?”

you look at beomgyu.

he looks at you.

you both smile, soft and full of something you didn’t used to know how to name.

“real real,” you say.

yeonjun makes a sound like a dying whale. “i feel gaslit. i’ve spent months mediating your arguments. you once threw a croissant at him in public.”

“he ate it off the floor,” you shoot back.

beomgyu squeezes your hand. “best croissant of my life.”

soobin groans. “i need to lie down. i can’t process this sober.”

“i give it a month,” chaewon announces, sipping her iced coffee with flair. “before you implode.”

you grin. “i’ll take that bet.”

yeonjun finally recovers enough to fish his phone out of his drink. “congrats, i guess. but if you break up, i’m choosing her in the custody battle.”

“damn,” beomgyu says, hand on his heart. “that hurt.”

chaewon smirks. “don’t worry. if she dumps you, i’ll help her write her hot girl summer playlist.”

beomgyu only pulls you closer, arm slung around your shoulders, eyes shining.

“good thing i’m planning on keeping her forever.”

you roll your eyes but can’t fight the smile spreading across your face.

and even through the chaos, the disbelief, and the dramatic reactions… you’ve never felt more sure.

this is real. and it’s only the beginning.

and it's because of you.

[sbnslver]

'*•.¸undeniably yours¸.•*'

୨♡୧ part one / part two ୨♡୧ pairing: beomgyu x femreader genre: fluff, strangers to friends to ....? , college AU, slow burn summary: you and beomgyu are partnered for a group project, the connection starts off as simple friendship. but as you share quiet moments, unspoken glances, and moments of vulnerability, the lines between friendship and something more begin to blur. w/c: ~4k warnings: not entirely proofread, fluff (might be cringe), an attempt at humor a/n: its been 10 years since i last wrote something (which was on wattpad) and actually published lol so many drafts ;-; so bear with me. i usually don't write fluff, i always leaned more to angst or smut yet here i am. i hope it's a little bit enjoyable <3

it wasn't love at first sight.

there were no sparks flying across the room, no fireworks, no swelling background music with flower petals twirling and glitters shimmering.

just a tuesday morning lecture, and a pair of tired eyes locking briefly across the room before looking back down at a notebook.

"i've assigned the partners already," the professor said, tapping his laptop. "check your emails."

you opened yours with a sigh, not expecting much. then paused.

partner: choi beomgyu

"huh?"

beomgyu? that guy who always sat in the third row by the window? who always wore those oversized hoodies, and had a habit of twirling his pen when he was deep in thought?

beomgyu. that guy with the soft brown eyes and the eternal bedhead. the one who always had a half-smile playing on his lips as your eyes met. you'd shared a few classes before, exchanged nods and awkward hellos in group discussions, but never really talked.

until now.

you agreed to meet at a nearby cafe the next day—neutral territory. the project was due in 15 weeks, and you didn't want to be the partner who slacked off. you arrived first and chose a small table by the window. you heard the soft jingle of the door and looked up just in time to see beomgyu walk in, ruffling his hair and looking around until his eyes landed on you.

he offered you a small wave, walking over with a grin. "hey."

"hey, beomgyu." you returned, sending him a kind smile.

"that's me." he slid into the chair across from you. "sorry if i'm late. i had to rescue my hoodie from my roommate's dog. he thinks it's his now."

you laughed before you could stop yourself. "did you win the battle?"

"barely. this is a peace offering," he said, holding up a slightly crumpled banana milk. "also, i brought you one. it's not coffee, but it's got charm."

you blinked, surprised. "you brought me one?"

"figured i should start off as a decent partner," he said with a casual shrug. "if you hate banana milk, i'll take it back and cry about it later."

"i like it," you chuckled softly and sent him a smile. "thanks."

your first meeting was mostly small talk and note-sharing. beomgyu was surprisingly organized, though he admitted he did most of his work at 2 a.m.

"that's when i'm the most powerful." he said with a mock serious face, earning a laugh from you.

both of you got to work quickly—organizing tasks, dividing responsibilities, setting deadlines. it was professional. efficient. but something about the way beomgyu spoke—soft and easy, laced with dry humor—made you feel oddly comfortable.

he wasn't trying hard. he didn't have to.

but what struck you the most was how easily he listened as much as he talked. he wasn't just nodding along. he remembered things, like how you preferred tea over coffee, or that you hated typing on your laptop without music playing.

by the end of that first meeting, you'd laughed more than you had all week. that was the first moment you realized he wasn't what you expected. not just the class clown or the guy who wore headphones walking down the hallway.

thoughtful, a little odd and disarming in a weirdly comforting way.

the collaboration soon settled into a comfortable rhythm. study sessions alternated between the library, the cafe, and occasionally, each other's homes. each meeting, their conversations began to drift beyond the confines of their project.

both sitting on the floor of beomgyu's living room, while his roommate was away and surrounded by open books and notes, beomgyu strummed his guitar absentmindedly.

"you play?" you asked, nodding towards the instrument.

he glanced up, a sheepish smile on his face. "a little. it's more of a hobby."

"can i hear something?"

he hesitated for a moment, his fingers softly grazing the strings. "alright, but no judging."

you nodded and his fingers danced over the strings, producing a soft melody that filled the room. you watched, captivated by the way he immersed himself in the music. as the final note lingered, you clapped softly.

"wow," you said under your breath, afraid to break the silence. "that was beautiful."

beomgyu's ears turned pink, luckily for him, his hair covered most of his ears. "thanks. it's just something i do to unwind."

"do you write your own songs?"

"sometimes," he admitted. "mostly when i can't sleep."

you leaned forward, intrigued. "i'd love to hear one sometime."

he met your gaze, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. "maybe one day."

"so, tell me something weird about you." beomgyu said as he was scrolling uninterestedly through his phone.

beomgyu was sitting on the couch, leaning with his back against the arm rest and his feet resting on your lap.

you looked up from your phone, turning your head to him as you raised an eyebrow. "weird how?"

he shrugged casually, putting his phone down, meeting your gaze. "like... you eat cereal with water, or you sing to your houseplants. something unexpected."

you grinned. "okay. i have this very serious superstition that i have to wear mismatched socks on exam days."

beomgyu blinked. "you... what?"

"they bring me luck!" you quickly defended yourself, but couldn't help but laugh a little.

"that's extremely specific. i like it." he said, his fingers touching his chin as he nodded.

"your turn," you challenged.

he thought for a moment. "sometimes i talk to my laundry."

you frowned your eyebrows before you burst out laughing. "your laundry?"

"yeah, like if i'm folding a shirt and it refuses to cooperate, i'll scold them, or just yell at them."

you clutched your stomach, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. "you are—wow." before you could finish your sentence, you began to laugh even harder.

he was now reenacting the scene.

"i'm never looking at laundry the same again." you said, trying to stop yourself from laughing.

beomgyu was effortlessly funny, the kind of person who could make you laugh without even trying. he'd mimic professors, come up with ridiculous nicknames, or read lines from their textbook in dramatic accents just to see you smile.

"wait, you've never watched spirited away?" beomgyu asked one evening, scandalized. "we need to fix that. immediately."

"i just never got around to it," you defended. "you're making it sound like i committed a crime."

"you kind of did." he grinned. "movie night. right now."

you rolled your eyes, but your lips slowly curved into a smile, betraying you. "fine. but i'm picking snacks."

the group project finished early. neither of you mentioned it, but you kept meeting up anyway.

it was the little things that began to chip away at the wall around your heart. the way he'd always wait for you outside class, even when it wasn't necessary.

how he remembered your favorite drink and brought it to study sessions without asking. the way he looked at you when you laughed—like you were something he'd been waiting to see bloom.

and it was how he didn't rush it.

even when your fingers brushed for a second too long, or when you stood closer than necessary, or when the silence stretched a little too comfortable—beomgyu never pushed.

he just let it happen, slowly, unforced, easy.

after a particularly grueling study session, both of you decided to take a break. the city lights shimmered as you wandered through the quiet streets, hands tucked into both of your pockets as the hot summer came to an end and the rainy fall was approaching.

"do you ever feel like you're going through the motions?" beomgyu asked, his breath visible in the cold air.

you glanced at him, surprised by the sudden introspection. "sometimes. university can feel like that. but then there are moments that remind me why i'm here."

"like what?"

you thought for a moment. "like this. walking through the city, just talking. it makes everything feel... real."

he smiled softly. "yeah..."

you walk in silence for a while, the distance between you two narrowing with each step. his shoulder brushed yours once, then again, but neither of you moved away.

you found yourself on beomgyu’s couch as the rain pattered against the window, a classic film playing on the tv. you curled up with a blanket, while beomgyu sat beside you, your shoulders touching.

the room smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and cinnamon tea.

beomgyu had taken over the popcorn bowl, cradling it like some priceless artifact in his lap. he was deeply focused on it. more so than the movie, picking through the pieces like a kid separating marshmallows from cereal.

you arched a brow. "are you seriously removing all the unpopped kernels?"

beomgyu didn't even glance up. "yes. they're a menace. one wrong bite and it's over. i have sensitive molars."

you laughed and shook your head slightly. "you're so dramatic."

"i'm a victim of snack sabotage," he said with a solemn nod. "you wouldn't understand."

he looked up then— eyes shining, lips curled in that typical lazy grin of his—and you blinked, caught off guard by how different he looked like that, handsome even. like summer even though it was raining. like something warm even though the windows fogged with the cold.

you shook your head and grabbed a handful of popcorn from his 'safe pile.'

"thief," he accused, his lips slightly parted as his eyes followed your hand full of his popcorn.

"you owe me for picking the movie," you said casually through a mouthful.

"which, by the way, was way too sad." he responded witty , looking down at his safe pile that was looking much smaller now, a pout growing on his lips.

"hey. you voted for it!" you said defensively.

"i was tricked."

"you literally said—and i quote—'that one has cool vibes.'"

beomgyu gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "i did not sound like that."

"oh you did."

the laughter bounced around the room like the rain outside, soft and constant. the movie flickered on, mostly forgotten now, serving as a backdrop to something that felt... safe.

beomgyu leaned back on the couch, stretching until his arm rested casually along the back, his fingers inches from your shoulder. not touching. almost.

you pretended to focus on the screen, but you couldn't help but notice how close he was. how normal it felt.

how not-normal that normal felt.

when did it become this easy to be around him? when did he start looking like that?

beomgyu glanced over at you just then, mid-thought, and you caught him. his hand twitched like he might move it closer—then didn't

he grinned instead. "you've got popcorn salt on your cheek."

you blinked. "i do not."

"you do."

you tried wiping your face with the back of your hand.

"nope, other side."

you tried again. he squinted dramatically.

"closer," he teased. "warmer... almost... oh no. now it's smeared."

"seriously?"

he leaned in then, brushing his thumb lightly across your cheekbone. just a second. just enough.

"got it."

you froze. not from the touch, exactly—but from how something about it lodged itself under your ribs and stayed there.

that shouldn't have felt like anything, you told yourself.

but it had.

beomgyu didn't move away immediately. he looked at you, eyes scanning like he was trying to solve a puzzle. like he was trying to read you.

he wasn't smiling anymore, not really. it wasn't serious, but it wasn't just playful anymore.

why do i keep noticing the way she looks at me? why does her laugh sound like something i want to hear first thing in the morning?

that moment hung there—brief, silent, almost something.

the you grabbed a pillow and whacked him, maybe a little too hard.

"okay that was dramatic. you made it a whole moment."

he barked out a laugh, delighted, instantly recovering, his head tilted to the side. "i was being helpful! you're lucky i didn't use a napkin like an old man."

you narrowed your eyes. "you definitely would've done the whole spit-on-the-thumb thing, huh?"

beomgyu gasped. "do i look like a mom at a school drop-off?"

you looked him up and down pointedly. "you do own a cardigan that says otherwise."

he placed a hand to his chest, fake-offended. "that cardigan is a fashion statement."

"it's a threat to society."

he snatched a handful of popcorn and launched a piece at you. it bounced of your blanket.

"you're just jealous," he muttered, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "you wish you looked that cozy."

"i do look cozy," you said smugly, hugging the bowl to your chest now like it was a trophy. "and now this popcorn's mine."

"oh you think i'm gonna let that slide?" he said inching closer.

you tightened your grip. "don't test me."

your eyes locked in mock-serious challenge. then, without warning, beomgyu lunged. both wrestling over the bowl like two kids at a sleepover, laughing so hard, barely holding it together.

limbs tangled, the blanket twisted, and somewhere in the chaos, your hand ended up resting against his chest, and his leg slid beside yours, warm and solid.

both of you froze—not on purpose, but as if something instinctual told you this was different. the laughter trailed off in small, breathless remnants, but neither of you moved right away.

you looked up, realizing how close you were. his hair was a little messy now. he was smiling—but softer. not his usual teasing, lazy grin.

your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his hoodie before you pulled them back.

beomgyu didn't say anything. he just shifted onto his elbow, resting his head in his hand, watching you as you sat up and set the popcorn down beside the couch.

the room was still. not awkward nor heavy. just full of something unspoken.

you turned towards the screen, tucking your legs underneath you again.

"you're not so bad for a popcorn snob." you said lightly, not looking at him.

"thanks," he replied, his voice softer now. "you're not so bad for a popcorn thief."

the both of you sat in silence again, this time more aware of it. more aware of each other.

it was supposed to be a quick study session. an hour, maybe two. just enough to finalize the concept sketches and finish your part of the layout. you'd done most of the work already—beomgyu had helped a lot more than you expected him to, even stayed up late editing the small mistakes you made when you were too tired to keep your eyes open.

so when he texted you that afternoon—

"you free to review the last presentation slides? i promise i'll bring snacks + my charming presence."

—you'd rolled your eyes and typed short yes.

unfortunately, the rainy season wasn't over yet. today the rain started like a whisper, then turned into a roar.

it poured down so hard, you could barely see the street from your window.

thirty minutes later, he was standing in your doorway,

drenched.

like fully soaked. hair flat. hoodie sticking to his arms. his sneakers squelched when he stepped inside.

he looked half amused, half miserable.

you blinked, your eyes traveling over him from head to toe. "did you walk here?"

beomgyu nodded, blinking rain from his lashes. "i was halfway when the sky opened up."

"why didn't you bring an umbrella?"

"i was trying to be dramatic."

you stared at him.

he smiled sheepishly. "also... i forgot."

you sighed, shaking your head, already turning to grab a towel.

he wasn't planning on getting caught in a storm, but maybe, deep down, he wanted an excuse to stay longer.

the professor gave the class another project, but you both finished it, mostly.

but that wasn't the reason he'd wanted to come over.

he liked your apartment. the plants in teacups. the art prints taped to the walls instead of framed. your weird little snack drawer organized by mood. it all felt warm, like you lived in comfort space, like you weren't trying to impress anyone.

and he liked your company, though he was still figuring out what to do with those thoughts about you that kept popping occasionally.

he liked the way your mind worked. the way you made things feel calm yet entertaining.

so yeah, he walked through the storm. and maybe he didn't care.

"guess i'm stranded." he said as you returned, holding a towel and a worn grey sweatshirt in your arms.

you tossed both at his chest.

"you're lucky i'm nice." you muttered, turning around, back to the living room.

he caught the sweatshirt midair and laughed, peeling off his soaked hoodie. "no, i'm lucky it's you."

you didn't answer him. you didn't want to read too much into it. beomgyu said things like that. he flirted for fun.

but your heart noticed.

he also didn't usually look at you like that.

you tried to ignore the way your heart sped up when he pulled your sweatshirt over his head. it looked better on him than it did on you, of course. and something about seeing him in it made the room feel smaller. closer.

you turned away and focused on making tea.

the rain hadn't stopped. it got heavier.

by that time, you both ended up on the couch under the blankets, the storm had turned the apartment into a little cave—safe, warm, cut off from everything else.

the tea steamed gently on the table. the movie played, but neither of you were paying attention. you sat shoulder to shoulder, legs tucked up, knees barely touching.

and still, you could feel him. every little shift. every glance.

you saw him look at you once. then again. and a third time.

"hey," he said, eyes on the screen, voice barely above a whisper.

you turned your head slightly. "hm?"

"i'm really glad we got partnered together." he said referring to early spring.

he wasn't sure why he said it. but he did.

thump, thump.

you weren't sure why your heart was speaking before your mind could process everything.

maybe for him, it was because the rain softened everything. maybe it was because the blanket was warm and you were warm and something about being near you made everything easier.

but he meant it.

he didn't look at you, his gaze still glued to the tv. still, he felt you turn slightly towards you.

"me too," you said, and there was a smile.

that did something to his chest, a tiny smile growing on his face.

"you know, i used to think you were kind of quiet," he said, trying to keep his tone light. you raised a brow. "but you're actually... kind of weird."

you elbowed him softly. "what... thanks, i guess?"

beomgyu grinned. "no like... you say weird stuff. the thing with your mismatched socks, talking to your plants like they're your babies. your enormous snacks collection based on your mood. but it's cool. it's interesting."

you didn't say anything, more like not knowing what to say. so you just looked at him.

your eyes, soft, kind. more than words ever could.

"your sweatshirt smells like you," he murmured, completely out of nowhere. "like laundry and cinnamon."

your heart flipped.

"that was almost romantic," you teased, pretending to be unbothered by your heart, almost jumping out of your ribcage.

he reached for his tea, brushing your hand in the process. sipping from his mug, his eyebrows dancing. "almost?"

"try harder next time."

he laughed, but his heart stuttered, ‘next time?’ he thought to himself. why did i even say that. hiding his thoughts behind a smile.

from his perspective, you didn't seem to mind, you didn't make it weird. thankfully

the thunder cracked louder now, rattling the windowpane.

you checked the forecast on your phone and frowned. "yeah you're not going anywhere."

beomgyu looked up from where he had flopped dramatically across your couch, his hair still slightly damp and sticking to his forehead.

"tragic," he said, voice dry. "guess i'll have to endure your tea and fluffy blankets a little longer."

you gave him a look. "endure?"

he looked at you with his usual playful grin, hugging a throw pillow like it was a long-lost pet. "okay, luxuriate inn. happy?"

"ecstatic," you said, tossing him a second pillow to the face.

he caught it swiftly and immediately started building a pillow wall between you. "this is for my safety."

"from what?" you asked with a raised eyebrow.

"you. you're feisty when sleep-deprived. remember your mood last week."

"you literally tried to eat expired instant noodles last week."

"and i survived, didn't i?" he said proudly and had a smug smirk on his face.

"barely."

"i am a man of mystery. i live on the edge."

"you live on convenience store snacks." you said and rolled your eyes. you pushed yourself off from the couch and his attention was now on you.

"you want me to grab something to sleep in?" you asked, voice soft with sleep.

he gave you a thumbs up from under the pillow fortress.

you came back with a pajama pants covered in tiny frogs, dropping it on his lap.

beomgyu's eyes lit up as he noticed the frogs. "i bet i'll still look handsome in this." his tone layered with confidence.

you rolled your eyes and shook your head slightly.

"whatever. i'm going to bed." you said after grabbing him a couple more blankets, since it was getting colder.

beomgyu nodded and prepared the couch to a comfortable bed.

"goodnight frog boy," you mumbled as you were walking towards your bedroom.

"goodnight popcorn thief." he said back. he was already laying comfortable, under the blankets and pillows.

the morning sunlight crept through the clouds, pale and hesitant casting a soft glow. the storm had finally passed.

you stirred awake to the faint clink of dishes and the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing.

beomgyu.

you blinked a few times, sitting up slowly. your hair was a wild mess around your face. a yawn escaped from your lips and you pushed yourself up from your bed.

you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes. "what are you doing?"

beomgyu turned around, spoon in his mouth and a box of cereal tucked under his arm like a prized possession. his hair was fluffy now, dry but still unbrushed, sticking up like he'd rolled straight from the couch into the pantry.

he pulled the spoon out and shrugged. "breakfast obviously."

you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "you have your own place."

"you don't have plain boring cornflakes," he said, lifting the box of choco rings slightly like it was a trophy. "you have joy."

you sighed, but your lips curved upward. "help yourself, i guess."

"oh i have been," he said with a playful wink, already reaching for a second bowl from the shelf.

the next ten minutes were filled with quiet munching and the soft sound of the morning news on low volume in the background. beomgyu sat across from you at the small kitchen table, still wearing the frog pants you'd given him the night before, like they were the peak of fashion.

"you've got milk on your chin," you said, half-smiling as you pount at him with your spoon.

beomgyu blinked, swiping at the wrong side of his face. you rolled your eyes, leaned over the table and wiped it with the corner of your sleeve.

he froze—just for a second. the kind of pause that hung in the air a beat too long. you felt it too, the sudden silence stretching between you.

"thanks." he said softy, eyes lingering on yours a little longer than usual.

you nodded, quickly looking down at your cereal. the clink of your spoon against the bowl suddenly felt too loud.

after a moment, he leaned back in his chair and tilted his head toward the window. "the sun's finally out," he said, his voice light again. "i was starting to think we'd be stuck in a tragic indie film forever."

you snorted. "you'd love that though."

he smirked. "depends. do i get the girl in the end?"

huh?

you stared at him—just a second too long. an unreadable expression on your face.

but your heart knew what was behind that expression, even if your mind was in denial.

he looked back, like he was trying to read something in your face. then he blinked and grinned, brushing it off like it was a joke. "kidding. unless you think i'd make a good male lead."

his usual teasing tone was evident in his voice.

you laughed, shaking your head. "you'd definitely cry at your own monologue."

"and steal the show," he said, eyebrows dancing, popping the last choco ring into his mouth.

you watched him, the sun catching his hair now, and something soft settled in your chest—warm and confusing.

"what?" he asked, catching your gaze.

"nothing." you said quickly. "just... your hair looks ridiculous."

"you say that like it's not my brand. and it's called trendy." he said and sent you a wink playfully, a light-hearted joke.

but why did my heart take it seriously?

© bangtanbeom 2025

[sbnslver]

Some of y’all don’t get Sylus.

He puts on the tough exterior because it’s expected of him, and it’s necessary. The big crime boss and leader of the N109 zone (who is an excellent employer, by the way) is supposed to have this untouchable air about him. He’s supposed to be tough and cocky and unreachable. He’s supposed to be cold and nonchalant. That is the façade he puts on, but we know otherwise.

Sylus is a loverboy.

He has this hard exterior around him, at first with mc as well. His words are different from his actions. He is loving and kind and supportive. He is gentle. He is generous. He is not afraid to show his affection, and is willing to announce it to the world.

Sylus craves the affection and attention. He needs it like air. He needs the attention in bantering, and the little jokes just between him and his lover, he needs it. His words may deny it, but the way he leans into touches, how his eyes soften, how he carries himself in a totally different way and becomes SKYE a fucking fruit vendor because mc is worried.

He does not want to control or particularly manipulate his lover. He does not lie, and instead avoids because he can’t find it within himself to willingly lie to mc. He waited for her, and remembers everything. He left hints to try to help her remember him and find him.

He doesn’t turn to violence unless there is no other option. He adopted two young men that he saw were trying to assassinate him, and he simply asked them to prove themselves. He built a little bird for a reason that hasn’t been fully communicated yet, but most likely for easy surveillance. He loves Mephisto, and treats him with dignity and respect, like a living being.

He is a good man.

He is so much more then the N109 zone crime boss, and I wish more of y’all could see that.

[sbnslver]

── backwards and fowards ꫂৎ ; grumpy!hamzah

summary ⋮ at a party, you meet hamzah—quiet, distant, and seemingly uninterested in you. despite his cold demeanor, you try to interact with him, but he only responds with dry remarks and indifference. after an awkward car ride and a particularly harsh comment at game night, you quietly pull away, convincing yourself he never cared. weeks pass, and while mandy checks in, hamzah doesn’t. but in your absence, he starts to notice—game nights feel dull, the group quieter. he catches himself looking at your photos, missing your presence. then, late one night, your phone buzzes, pulling you from sleep.

wc ⋮ 2.8k

authors note ⋮ okay honestly this SUCKS. came out worse than i expected but oh well💔💔 i got rlly lazy at the end but hopefully part 2 will be better!!

the party was already in full swing by the time you arrived. loud music spilled out into the hallway, accompanied by bursts of laughter and the scent of something that smelled suspiciously like burnt pizza. you took a deep breath and knocked on the door, adjusting your oversized cremé sweater you wore for the cold toronto weather before mandy opened it with a smile.

"there she is!" mandy greeted, pulling you into a warm hug. "you made it! this place is already crazy."

you grinned, your eyes scanning the crowded living room. "you always throw the best parties, mands," you replied, pushing through the door. the apartment was packed with friends, majority of them you didnt know.

your eyes fell on two familiar figures sitting on the couch — martin, who was already in his usual comfy hoodie, and hamzah, who was slouched beside him, eyes half-lidded as he stared at his phone.

you had seen hamzah a few times before, but never met properly. he was always off to the side, scowling in his hoodie like he wanted to be anywhere but here. you didnt blame him, though. some people just werent built for parties.

still, that didnt mean you were going to leave him out of the fun. you bounced over to the couch, grinning like a mischievous cat. "hey, hamzah!" you called brightly, your voice louder than necessary as you plopped down next to him.

he barely glanced up, his fingers still flying over his phone. "your loud," he muttered, not even bothering to look your way.

you laughed, unbothered. "i perfer the term 'energetic'.. and im not that loud. trust me, you'll get used to me."

hamzah shot you a side-eye, barely hiding the annoyance that flickered in his dark eyes. "uh-huh," he grumbled, his tone dry. "maybe you should take it down a notch before your voice annoys the whole building."

you titled your head, unfazed. "ill take that as a challenge."

martin, overhearing the exchange, chuckled from the other side of the couch. "oh no, hamzah, you've awakened the beast."

you gave him a dramatic wink. "you know me too well, martin."

hamzah's lips twitched in something that couls've been a smile, but he quickly masked it. "great, now im really looking foward to this."

you leaned back into the couch, nudging him with your shoulder, though her clearly wasnt interested in your attention. but you didnt mind — you were used to it. it was a game, really. hamzah was like a stone, cold and unyielding, but you knew better than to think he didnt have a soft spot under all that sarcasm.

"im here for the snacks, by the way," you added, not missing a beat. "dont judge me."

hamzahs gaze finally flickered to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "if i judged you for that, i'd have to judge myself too."

you grinned. "see? were already bonding."

martin rolled his eyes, "oh please, you two are like oil and water."

you just shrugged, your smile wide as ever as you think of a cringy comeback, "oil and water make a beautiful mess, dont you think?"

hamzah didnt respond, but the faintest smirk lingered on his face. it wasnt much — but for a guy like hamzah, it was more than enough.

the night carried on, and you found yourself drawn back to the couch time and time again, sneaking glances at hamzah as be tried — and failed — to hide his amused smirk whenever you pulled another ridiculous stunt. but you could tell he wasnt completely unfazed. he was.. intrigued, and that was more than enough to keep you going.

the end of the night came, slowly, but it came. mandy and martins friends started leaving one by one until it was just mandy, martin, hamzah, and you. hamzah and martin were left talking in the kitchen as you helped mandy clean up, even though you werent asked.

you gazed over at hamzah in the kitchen. his eyes caught yours while martin was still talking about video ideas, the corner of his lips curled up, just barely. you flushed, looking away in hopes he hadn't seen.

you and mandy finish cleaning up. you yawn, heading to the front door to get your shoes on. "you walking home?" mandy asks, concerned.

"yeah, its like a 30 minute walk, not too far." you smile, trying to reassure her you'll be fine. mandy flashes a frown at you, "its cold, are you sure? i can drive you."

"mandy, trust me its fi-" you get cut off by hamzah, "i'll drive her home." he clears his throat. you show a confused look as you smile, putting on your shoes.

hamzah picks up his keys, opening the front door. "come on." he demands you. martin and mandy flash eachother a look and smirk, saying their goodbyes. you both head out the door, walking down the hallway to leave the building.

theres an awkward silence between you two as you head towards the car. he opens the passenger door for you, your cheeks turn red, thankful for the cold weather disguising your fluster.

you climb into the passenger seat as he shuts the door, heading over to the opposite side. he climbs in and immediately starts the car, putting your address in the gps.

as the car hummed down the empty road, the soft sound of the engine was the only thing breaking the silence. you could feel the warmth of the cars interior surrounding you, and despite the tension earlier, something about the quiet made you feel safe. you allowed yourself to sink deeper into the seat, your head tipping slightly to the side, eyes fluttering closed for just a second.

but the silence felt like it was choking you. it was suffocating, thick air. you couldnt stand it anymore, the awkwardness clawing at your chest, so you spoke up, your voice soft, trying to break the tension.

"thanks for driving me home," you murmured, your fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. you turned your head slightly, hoping to catch his eyes, but he was so focused on the road, his jaw tight. the way he was holding himself, so distant, made the words feel like they were falling flat in the air. “i know its late, and you probably have better things to do, but i really do appreciate it.”

there was a long pause, and you could feel the coldness radiating off him. he didnt respond right away, and the silence streched out, sharp and uncomfortable.

“yeah, well, its not like i had a choice, right?” his voice was flat, almost dismissive, and it stung more than you expected.

you pushed on, forcing a small laugh to lighten the mood. “i probably wouldve ended up stranded if it werent for you. or, like, lost in a ditch somewhere.” ou glanced at him again, searching his face for any flicker of softness, but all you got was the faintest twitch of his jaw.

the rejection settled in slowly, like a cold ache blooming in your chest. you leaned back into the seat, folding in on yourself, wishing you could just disappear.

you prop your elbow up on the car door, leaning your head on your hand as you gaze out the window.

“im sorry if i… talk too much or whatever,” you whispered, barely audible, more to yourself than to him.

hamzah exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “you don’t have to fill every silence, you know. its annoying,” he muttered, his voice low and tight.

it shouldnt have hurt as much as it did.

you bit the inside of your cheek and nodded, turning your head to stare back out the window. the streetlights blurred into streaks of gold against the night sky. you blinked rapidly, willing away the sting in your eyes.

for the rest of the drive, you didnt say another word.

and he didnt seem to notice.

or maybe he did — and just didnt care.

the car slowly came to a stop as he pulled up to your apartment complex. you unbuckled as you held the car handle. "thank you." you murmur, avoiding eye contact. he hums in response as you open the car door and step out. you rush to the entrance of your apartment. as he drives off you sigh, shoving the key into your door and entering.

after your proper introduction to hamzah, you became a fixture in their little group.

its now been a week since the awkward car ride between you and hamzah. your phone buzzed on your bed as your putting on some pyjamas.

you glance at it, seeing mandys contact. you rush over to read the text. you smile at the invite to a game night with just you four, knowing hamzah will be there for sure. you accept and start heading out of your front door, saying goodbye to your two dogs — bubbles and disco.

you arrive at mandy and martins shared apartment after a long 30 minutes of walking in the cold, dark night.

you knock as you hear mandys feet quickly shuffling to the door. she opens it and greets you, pulling you into a hug. as your hugging, your eyes meet hamzah. you flash him a smile as his eyes quickly dart away, looking cold. she pulls away and you enter the house.

"go sit next to hamzah! we'll start once the hot cocoa is all ready," she shares, smiling as she walks back to martin in the kitchen.

you sit next to hamzah, feeling his awkward aura as he shifts himself slightly, distancing you two a bit more. you take a deep breath, uncomfortable with the silence.

you clutch your hands in your lap, fingers twisting together as you try to ignore the space hes put between you. the distance feels louder than the silence itself, each second stretching out like an eternity.

“i can move if you want,” you offer quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. you dont look at him, your eyes fixed on a faint scratch in the dining table. “i dont want to bother you.”

hamzah exhales, sounding annoyed. “youre fine,” he mutters, but he doesnt move closer.

the words should be reassuring, but they feel hollow, like hes just saying them to end the conversation. you nod, pressing your lips together to keep the lump in your throat from rising, and let the silence swallow you both again.

mandy and martin slowly walk over to the table were sat at with a pile of board games, giggling as they both hold 2 cups of hot cocoa.

they reach the table as they set down the cups, sliding you and hamzah yours as they sit in their respective seats opposite from you and hamzah.

you adjust yourself as you pick up your hot cocoa to sip. "oh carefu-" mandy warns, getting cut off by your whimper at the hot liquid burning your mouth.

hamzah glances over, eyes flickering to you as you set the cup down quickly, fanning your mouth with your hand and swallowing the burning liquid with a whimper. "seriously?" he mutters, shaking his head. "are you stupid? is it not obvious its hot?"

martin snorts, biting back a laugh. mandy gives hamzah a pointed look. "you dont have to be rude," she chides, nudging him under the table.

the burn still lingers on your tongue, but what stings more is the sharp edge to hamzahs words. still, you force a smile, waving it off. “its fine,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse. “my fault for not listening.”

for a split second, something unreadable flickers across hamzahs face, but he quickly schools his expression, leaning back in his chair like he couldnt care less.

mandy breaks the tension with a clap of her hands, pulling out the first game from the pile. “okay! how about we play something to lighten the mood?” she chirps, shooting you a sympathetic smile.

you nod, grateful for the distraction, but as the game begins, you cant help but notice the way hamzah avoids looking at you — like your presence is something hes trying to ignore.

you throw your hands up, laughing loud, voice echoing, filling the space. cards fall as you cheer for yourself, a wild grin on your face.

mandy giggles, martin shakes his head, the room buzzing, alive and bright. but hamzahs voice cuts through it all — sharp as a blade, too tight

“do you ever shut up?” he mutters, not even bothering to glance. the words hit harder than bullets, stripping away your stance.

“youre so annoying,” he bites out low, like your joy is some kind of crime. the room turns cold, your laughter dies.

mandy and martin trade a look, their smiles faltering. you swallow the ache, force a grin, pretending the hurt wont last.

but every word lingers, heavy and sharp, etching itself in your skin.

the night continues and you find yourself being quiet and reserved, only speaking when spoken to, not cheering when you win, and only mumbling short little answers when someone asks you something

you glance at the oven clock, noticing it says 12:34 am. you sigh before mumbling, "i think im gonna head home, its getting late." forcing a smile, you get up from your chair and stretch.

"oh, yeah it is.. are you sure you dont wanna just spend the night?" mandy questions. you bite your cheek, "no, im fine."

you hug mandy and say goodbye to martin as you quickly walk to the door and put on your shoes. hamzah has a confused look on his face when he notices you didnt even bother saying goodbye to him.

his expression quickly falters when he sees martin looking at him. you open the door and slam it shut, walking outside into the frigid night.

you sigh, not wanting to walk in the dark or cold but knowing its either that or another awkward car ride with hamzah.

'maybe he just is upset im intruding on their group' you think, zoning out as you continue walking the 45 minute walk to your apartment.

your mind rattles with a bunch of ideas as to why hamzah is so cold to you. obviously its not unusual that he was cold but it was different with you. like he had some unbearable hatred against you.

a sharp pain snaps you out of your thoughts, you wince, only now noticing the blood on your lip. you must have been biting it without realizing. swiping your tongue over the wound, you continue walking until you finally reach home. the moment you step inside, your dogs dart from their little bougie beds to greet you.

you yawn, shuffling over to your bedroom. you lay down, taking off your shoes and throwing them randomly. you tug the blankets over yourself the instant a shoe hits the ground. you turn on your phone, deciding to mindlessly scroll on instagram. as your scrolling you space out, however, one specific post catches your eye.

your eyes inspect the photo, jaw slacking ever so slightly as you see a photo hamzah posted only 20 minutes ago. him and another girl hanging out, hamzah smiling as the girl is acting silly.

for some reason, you feel hurt. as if your heart had just been ripped out. sure, you werent expecting to be the only girl hamzah hangs out with but it hurt seeing him so happy with another girl. you didnt expect for him to like you as well, especially not this fast. but you liked him, a lot. you always have.

you turn off your phone and roll over, tears silently escaping. you wiped them, 'this is stupid to be upset over, of course he doesnt like me!' you repeat in your head until you eventually fall asleep.

the past 2 and a half months have been nothing but you bed rotting. of course there has been plenty of opportunities for you to get out but you just didnt want to leave the comfort of your house, or bed for that matter.

mandy was worried, constantly checking up on you, calling you, inviting you for game nights, but you only spoke to her breifly. telling her not to worry and that you were fine. she never believed you, obviously.

you took notice to the fact that only mandy was calling, never once did hamzah call you. not even to ask if you were coming to the game nights or movie nights.

and after 2 more weeks, he still didnt. you knew to stop waiting to see his stupid contact buzz on your phone, so you gave up any hope of thinking he cared.

hamzah didnt think you leaving the group when you had just joined would affect him. and truth be told, it didnt at first.

but the silence starts to eat at him. the group feels dead without your voice. game nights are quieter. hamzah catches himself stalking your page. seeing the way your bright smile travels to whoever else is in the picture with you. seeing you makes him smile, even if its just simple photos of you.

your sleeping as your abruptly woken up by your phone ringing and vibrating. you groan, looking at the screen and seeing hamzahs name.

[sbnslver]

Back to Bourbon Street

summary: When you’re badly injured on a mission, Bucky works desperately to keep you alive. Only, it might not be enough.  pairing: bucky x reader word count: 6.7k warnings: canon level violence, hurt!reader, poison, brink of death cuddling, angst with a happy ending

There is a moment of clarity amidst the chaos of the battlefield; a brief, impossible moment that allows Bucky to take hold of a peace he’s been missing for decades. The perfect storm of violence and adrenaline is one he’s familiar with, something he knows well enough to allow his mind to take a step back and give control to his instincts.  

Left jab. Right hook. Kick. Swipe the leg. Shoot.

The sound of the chopper above is muffled. The shouts of the men rushing at him with weapons and malice are indistinguishable. His body moves of its own accord and this is what makes him untouchable. Even with the Winter Soldier buried to the deepest parts of his mind, Bucky finds a relief in letting go of the control, of allowing an untethered detachment to rise to the surface just long enough to get the job done. 

Bodies in his wake, blood on his hands, and his mind elsewhere.

That is, until you come into view.  

Keep reading

[sbnslver]

; .. 당신은 나의 것입니다 DREAM GIRL

꒰ 🐚 SYNOPSIS. When your bestfriend pressured you into helping him get his dream girl, you obviously felt a stab in your heart. But who knew that you were the dream girl he was talking about?

#PAIRING. choi beomgyu x oblivious!reader #WARNINGS. bestfriends to lovers trope, humor, kisses and silliness, hint of angst

ᯓ★ CHAPTERS

01. Beomgyu’s huzz - SMAU 02. How you get the girl - SMAU 03. Plan gone wrong? - SMAU 00. More to be added

started - 2025.00.00 | ended - 0000.00.00

TAGLIST:

Uhm im a really slow writer, pls be patient 😭 Also, I’m not 100% fluent in English! Please ignore any potential spelling errors.