#“some people are already using it for slides??????”

[akeaaan]

Change 2

Jinu X fem. reader

part1

word count: 4.7k

a/n: I bless you guys with this, idk why I made it like this and shit but yeah here the last part yall

Synopsis: ╰┈➤You were once a feared demon of the underworld—until you turned your back on that life. Branded a traitor, you escaped to the human world and lived quietly in the shadows, blending in among mortals for years. Peace became your new normal. Routine. Safe. That is, until fate stepped in. A single encounter with Jinu—the sharp-eyed, silver-tongued leader of the rising idol group Saja Boys—shattered your calm existence.

〃✦ ┆ You vaulted over the railing of your penthouse bedroom, landing with a soft thud on the floor below. Sliding the glass door open, you walked in with a tired groan and shook your head, muttering under your breath.

“Why the hell did I do that…” you sighed, pressing your fingers to your temples. “Stupid. So stupid.”

Sealing your father’s voice—the ancient, terrifying weight of Gwi Ma’s presence—into Jinu’s head temporarily? That wasn’t just reckless. That was borderline suicidal.

A low, rumbling growl snapped you out of your spiral.

Your gaze shifted toward the bed, where a massive figure had claimed your mattress.

Not a dog.

A wolf.

No—a demon wolf.

It lay there like it owned the place, sprawled across your bed with limbs stretched out in every direction, completely unbothered by your mental crisis. Its fur shimmered faintly under the moonlight slipping through the windows, black with streaks of silver like ink in motion. Its tail gave a lazy flick.

The demon yawned, glancing at you with glowing amber eyes before settling back down.

You raised an eyebrow. “You're real comfortable, huh?”

In response, the wolf purred—a deep, vibrating sound—and rubbed its fur deeper into your mattress. You plopped down at the edge of the bed with a tired grunt. The wolf shifted without protest, curling around and laying its massive head on your lap.

You stared down at it for a long moment. The gentle rise and fall of its breathing didn’t match the chaos in your mind.

Because really, what the hell had you done?

You sealed Gwi Ma’s voice inside Jinu.

Temporarly

Jinu. Of all people.

Why him?

Was it pity? Guilt?

Or was it something uglier—some selfish instinct to push the curse onto someone who could carry it without tearing your world apart?

You couldn’t even explain it to yourself.

And now, it was done.

The seal was in place. Gwi Ma’s voice echoed in Jinu’s mind, long gone for now. And you could only hope he was strong enough to handle it.

You sighed, hand absentmindedly brushing through the wolf’s thick fur.

Even if you tried to avoid it, your paths were bound to cross again. You were both idols, standing on stages under the same spotlights, your names whispered in the same circles.

Destiny had its own sense of humor.

“Maybe the Huntrix will just finish the job,” you muttered dryly. “Save us both the trouble.”

The wolf let out a sleepy snort.

You weren’t even sure if that was agreement—or mockery.

You stood in front of the mirror in your waiting room, hands braced on the vanity as you tried to calm the racing of your heart. The makeup lights made your skin glow, but your eyes—your eyes told a different story. Focused. Fierce. A little scared.

You inhaled deeply through your nose, held it, then exhaled slowly.

Tonight wasn’t just another comeback. This was the comeback.

Your outfit shimmered under the warm lights—custom, sharp, stage-ready. The mic was clipped to your ear, in-ear monitors already tucked in. Everything was set. This was your newest single’s first live performance on Mnet, and the world was watching.

KNOCK KNOCK.

“Y/N, you're up in five!” called a staff member through the door.

You swallowed hard and forced a reply. “Y-yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Their footsteps faded. Silence returned. You looked back at your reflection and gave yourself a small nod.

You’ve worked too hard to get here. Too many sleepless nights. Too many sacrifices. This stage is yours. Nothing and no one’s going to take it away.

With that thought, you turned and grabbed the door handle.

But the second you opened it, your body froze.

Your breath hitched.

“What the heck are you doing here?” you blurted, eyes narrowing.

“Jinu…”

He stood leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed over his chest, wearing his idol outfit, but there was no mistaking him. Same intense eyes. Same aura that never really let you breathe when he was close.

“We need to talk,” Jinu said calmly, voice low but serious.

You blinked, shaking your head. “Now? Really? I’m about to go on stage.”

You moved past him quickly, boots echoing against the linoleum floor as you headed for the backstage corridor. But of course, you heard him behind you. His quiet, deliberate footsteps.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you snapped, not even glancing back.

“I think there is,” he replied, but his tone wasn’t biting. It was... tired. Hesitant.

You kept walking.

But then you felt it—his hand wrapping gently but firmly around your wrist. You stopped in your tracks. You feel the demon patterns on both of your arms starting to form.

“Y/N,” he said, and this time when you looked back, you saw it—whatever he’d been holding in. The regret. The urgency. The softness he only ever showed you behind closed doors.

You didn’t speak.

Not yet.

But you didn’t pull away either.

“I don’t want to work with him anymore,” Jinu said finally. “With Gwi Ma.”

You blinked. 

He looked straight at you.

“You can help. You’re his daughter.”

You stiffened instantly. The hallway felt colder.

“Don’t say that out loud,” you snapped, stepping forward, eyes darting. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t back off.

“You are,” he said. “You don’t work under him. You were never branded. Never bound like the rest of us. You're the only one who can talk to him without a blade at your throat.”

Your mouth opened—but you didn’t know what to say.

The truth was… he wasn’t wrong.

You hated it. You hated that your blood had ties to a name like Gwi Ma’s. You hated that even after cutting every tie, leaving the underworld, his rule, everything behind, people like Jinu still found you. Still needed something from you that only he could give.

But beneath the tension, the unspoken history, and all the things you left unsaid... You and Jinu shared one undeniable truth— Freedom.

You both craved it. From the shadows. From the blood-soaked contracts. From the underworld that shaped you and broke you in the same breath.

You weren’t just performers. You were survivors. Bound by the same cursed fate that ran deeper than fame, deeper than music. You both wanted out.

Jinu’s grip on your wrist loosened slightly, like he didn’t want to force you—like he hoped you’d choose him on your own.

And you did.

You closed your eyes, the weight of everything catching up to you for just a second. 

“…Fine.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Tired. Resigned. But resolute.

You opened your eyes, lifting your gaze to meet his. Jinu’s expression had softened, the usual cool edge in his stare melting into something vulnerable. Something real.

“I’ll help you,” you said quietly.

His hand didn’t let go—but it didn’t tighten either. It just stayed. Solid. Grounding. A silent thank you.

The stage was calling, but now… so was the war you swore you'd never fight again

Your legs dangled over the balcony railing, swaying slightly above a dizzying drop—hundreds of feet from the ground. One wrong movement and it would be over in an instant. But the danger didn’t faze you. Not tonight.

The city glowed beneath you—alive, unaware. Neon signs blinked in rhythm with traffic. A breeze rustled your hair, cool against your skin.

“You’re a terrible sneaker, you know that?” you said casually, not even turning your head.

A low chuckle answered you before a soft thud followed. You glanced sideways to see Jinu, landing on your balcony with the grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times.

“What gave it away?” he asked, brows raised as he pulled back his hood.

You turned your eyes back to the skyline. “I can feel your energy. It always gives you away.”

A dim glow started to pulse along your arm—faint, curling demon marks slowly forming like ink soaking through your skin. You studied them with no urgency, just resignation.

Jinu leaned beside you on the railing, hands in his pockets. He didn’t interrupt the silence.

“My father…” you began, voice low, “is the worst man alive.”

That caught Jinu’s attention. He turned slightly toward you, waiting.

You gave a bitter laugh. “And I’m his favorite daughter. Funny, right? The one he loved most… is the one who betrayed him.”

Jinu didn’t speak, but his silence felt like encouragement. You continued.

“I don’t even know how I survived all these years.” He tilted his head. “Then how did you?” he asked softly.

You finally looked at him, eyes tired but calm. “I fed,” you said bluntly. “On corrupted souls. I hunted them myself, quietly. It was the only way I knew how to live without becoming what he wanted.”

Jinu's expression darkened, but he remained quiet.

“When I was a child,” you continued, “he started sending me here… slipping me through cracks between realms like I was nothing. Just a spy. A pawn.” You exhaled sharply. “He didn’t care how small I was. He just wanted information. Souls. Obedience.”

Your hands clenched the railing. “But every time I crossed over… I felt something. Peace. Even if it was brief.”

You smiled faintly, eyes softening with the memory.

“A young couple found me once. Took me in. They thought I was just a lost child.” You paused, your voice nearly breaking. “They were kind. They raised me. Loved me. And when my father found out—he forced me to take their souls.”

Jinu finally looked at you fully. You didn’t meet his eyes.

“That was the moment I knew,” you whispered, “it was all wrong. Everything. I ran. I hid. I started using my power in secret—helping the Hunters. Sealing the honmoon. Destroying demons that slipped through.”

“…And killing your own kind,” Jinu finished for you, voice steady.

You nodded.

“I killed them because they were hurting innocents. Because they didn’t care who they destroyed. But I’m no hero either… I’ve taken souls too, even after I swore I wouldn’t.”

Your voice cracked as you added, “I know this world isn’t perfect. It’s full of pain and selfishness. But it’s still better than the never-ending torment of the underworld.”

Jinu didn’t speak right away. The wind rustled your hair again. Then he said, barely above a whisper:

"Sounds to me like you saved yourself."

You blinked slowly, letting his words sink in like a knife dulled by time but still sharp enough to hit where it hurts.

Then, quieter, gentler—his voice barely above a breath:

“And maybe… there’s still more worth saving.”

Your gaze met his, locked—daring, vulnerable, charged with something you didn’t want to name.

"You..." you whispered.

In a swift motion, you leapt from the railing, boots landing soundlessly against the cold rooftop tiles. Jinu pushed himself off the opposite side, standing tall as he faced you—chest rising with every slow inhale.

Then, it began.

Your patterns awakened first—slowly crawling up your arms like living ink, pulsing with familiar power, before consuming you entirely. Your eyes burned with a fierce, glowing violet hue. This was the real you. The form you didn’t show just anyone.

Your demon form stood bare before him.

Jinu's breath caught in his throat. His lips parted. He couldn’t look away. Something primal stirred in him as he lowered his gaze—his own markings responding instinctively. They crawled across his skin like heat rising beneath the surface, until his yellow eyes locked with yours—burning to match.

You stepped toward him, silent, slow, dangerous. Your hand rose, fingertips barely grazing his jaw before your palms gently cupped his face—like you’d done the last time you were alone. Back when everything was simpler... or maybe just easier to ignore.

Jinu didn’t move. He stood there, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes. You leaned in slightly, almost ready to speak the chant pulsing at the back of your throat.

But his voice stopped you.

“You never noticed me…” he murmured, barely audible—like a secret spilling from a locked place in his chest.

You froze, the words anchoring you in place.

“What?” you breathed.

He smiled faintly. Not out of happiness—out of resignation.

“I kept seeing you with Gwi Ma… I wanted to talk to you, I did. But I always got cold feet.” His laugh was soft, bitter. “Back then, I was barely holding it together. Newly turned, still figuring out how to control the patterns. But you...”

His voice trailed as the memory pulled him back. His gaze softened.

“You stood there, with your head high, commanding the space like you were born for it. Gwi Ma gave you orders, and you didn’t even flinch. You looked untouchable.”

You remembered that moment. The spy meetings. The night before everything shifted.

Jinu’s voice broke the silence again, quiet and aching:

“Ever since that day…” his voice was low, smoky, just above a whisper. “I couldn’t stop watching you.”

Jinu stepped forward—slow, deliberate. The kind of step that didn’t just close distance, it claimed it. His golden eyes flickered under the moonlight like burning embers behind smoke, catching every unsteady breath you took.

“And then you disappeared,” he murmured, now just inches away.

His words ghosted over your lips, and though he hadn't touched you yet, you could taste him in the air—warm, wild, and aching with something unsaid.

“Without a word,” he added, almost accusing. But his tone was soft. Hurt, maybe. Or worse—longing.

You couldn’t answer. Not really. Not with how your chest tightened. Not with how his presence filled the air like a storm.

“Until now.”

Your breath hitched. You hated how much he still affected you. How he always had. Since the first time he saw you—really saw you—backstage during Play Games With Us.

He told himself you just looked like her. Just a random idol with a familiar face. But when your paths crossed… when your shoulders brushed and he felt that undeniable pattern in his soul unlock—he knew.

It was you.

The girl he never had the courage to speak to in the demon world.

The one who haunted him across dimensions.

Your heartbeat thundered in your chest, deafening in your ears. It was too loud. Too fast. And somehow, Jinu heard it anyway.

“I see it now…” he whispered, his hand rising slowly to cup your cheek. His touch was impossibly gentle. No trace of the coldness your kind were known for. Just warmth—steady, real.

“The real you.”

You didn’t dare speak. The moment was too fragile, like it would shatter if you so much as breathed wrong.

Only the tension. The breath you both held. The weight of everything unsaid.

The ghost of hands that had hovered close but never touched.

Lips that once looked but never dared.

Not until now.

When his lips pressed against yours, your eyes widened. It was slow. Searching. Testing a boundary he’d waited years to cross.

You didn’t pull away.

You melted.

Your eyes closed.

Your lips parted—inviting him in without knowing why. Needing him like oxygen.

His hand moved to your hip, firm and possessive, pulling you against him as he deepened the kiss. His tongue slipped past your lips, and the kiss turned hungry, urgent, electric.

And all you could think was:

Finally.

Your heels hit the floor with each backward step, heartbeat pounding loud enough to drown everything else out—except him.

Jinu followed without hesitation, lips crashing into yours, his breath hot and uneven as he kissed you like he’d been starving. His hands were everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like the space between you two offended him.

Your back hit the cool glass of the sliding door. The contact made you gasp into his mouth, your hand still cupping his cheek while your other reached behind blindly, fingers fumbling until the door slid open. You stepped backward again, drawing him in, and he didn’t even pause—just kicked the door shut behind you.

The room was colder than expected, but neither of you noticed.

Not really.

Jinu broke the kiss, panting, his forehead leaning against yours as he stared at you—eyes blown wide, dark with something primal.

"You're so beautiful..." he breathed, but it wasn’t just admiration. It was a whimper. A confession. A breaking point.

Then he kissed you again—messier, harder, almost frantic. Desperate hands pulled you forward as he guided you to the edge of the bed, gripping your hips to keep you from falling too fast.

You shivered, but not from the cold.

He laid you down with care that contrasted the hunger in his touch. One hand slipped under your shirt, palm splaying over your stomach, fingers dragging up—slow and teasing—until they reached the curve of your chest. The other hand slid down, rougher now, grabbing your thigh and lifting it up, anchoring you to him.

You wrapped your leg around his waist instinctively, pulling him in, grinding into the pressure.

He groaned low in his throat, redirecting the kiss—his lips trailed from your mouth to your chin, along your jaw, then lower. His mouth attacked your neck—biting, sucking, leaving a trail of heat and bruises and sin. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp as your hips arched into him.

You turned your head to the side, offering more, wanting more.

And he took it. Eagerly.

His lips found the spot behind your ear and when his tongue flicked against the skin, you nearly lost it. His knees shifted between your thighs and when one of them brushed there—through the fabric, right against your already wet slit—

You moaned.

You tried to stop it. Bit your lip. But it slipped out, raw and breathy and broken.

Jinu froze for just a second—just long enough to hear it, feel it—and when he looked back down at you, eyes dark and wild and locked on yours, it was clear.

He wanted to ruin you.

And God—you were going to let him.

Jinu’s hand slid slowly up your thigh, fingers trailing fire beneath your skin. He brushed against the edge of your shorts, and his smirk deepened the moment he felt it—the telltale dampness soaked through the fabric.

“Mm,” he hummed lowly, eyes locked on yours. “You’re already wet for me.”

The way he said it, voice all gravel and dark delight, made your breath catch. You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down where his fingers teased, hovering but never touching where you needed him most. Your lips parted—maybe to protest, maybe to pretend you weren’t so shamelessly worked up already.

But you couldn’t lie. Not to him.

Not when your body betrayed you so easily.

Jinu's eyes gleamed. "No need to hide it, baby."

He gripped the waistband of your shorts and underwear, tugging them down in one slow, deliberate motion. You lifted your hips for him, heart pounding, heat pooling low in your belly. He peeled the fabric away, baring you completely, and let it drop to the floor with a quiet thud.

You turned your head, shame rising despite the arousal surging through you.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice softer now—dangerous in another way.

His hand left your waist, slipped under your shirt and up to your chin, coaxing your face back toward his. “Didn’t I say all eyes on me?” His thumb brushed over your lips, slow and intimate, like he owned every inch of you already.

You met his gaze.

His smile was pure sin. “That’s my good girl…”

You clenched around nothing, heat flooding you all over again from just those three words.

Jinu dropped to his knees between your thighs like he belonged there. He slid one of your legs over his shoulder, positioning you exactly how he wanted, spreading you open like a gift he couldn’t wait to unwrap.

He looked down at you, then back up—his eyes dark, pupils blown wide, jaw tight with restraint.

“I want you to watch,” he said, voice like velvet and vice. “Don’t look away. Just keep your eyes on me… while I make this pretty pussy forget how to breathe.” 

He didn’t hesitate—not even for a second.

Jinu dropped to his knees like he was born to worship you there, hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he dove in without mercy. His long, eager tongue plunged deep into your soaked cunt, and you nearly lost your balance right then and there.

The obscene sound of him slurping at your core filled the room, his mouth messy with your slick as he groaned into you like a man starved.

“Mmf…, you taste like heaven,” he muttered between licks, his voice thick with hunger.

He didn’t stop—he devoured you. Tongue flicking wildly against your swollen cunt, then sucking on it like it owed him something. Your legs shook as you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, guiding his mouth right where you needed him.

“Jinu—ah—don’t stop, fuck—”

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he kissed every part of your slit like it was sacred. His gaze flicked up, dark and locked on yours, and it only made the heat in your belly coil tighter.

Then—just when you thought you couldn’t take more—you felt it.

A sudden stretch inside. His fingers.

Two of them, sliding into your dripping hole with ease, curling upward with wicked precision as he pumped them in and out, his mouth never once leaving your clit.

The combination made you choke on a gasp.

“Oh my god—”

His growl sent a hot vibration through your core, and your hips bucked instinctively.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he rasped, breath hot against you, “All for me, huh?”

Your stomach clenched.

That knot—tight and burning—started building fast. Too fast.

He sucked your clit hard, fingers driving deeper, faster, and your body gave in with a cry. The knot snapped.

You came undone on his face with a moan so raw, it echoed around the room. Your body trembled as the waves hit, one after another, and he didn’t let up—didn’t stop—until you were shaking, until your thighs were twitching around his head.

And when you finally looked down at him…

He was smiling.

Lips glistening, tongue darting out to lick up your release, shamelessly savoring it.

Then slowly—deliberately—he slid his fingers out of you and held them up between you both, watching you.

And without breaking eye contact, he brought those fingers to his lips and sucked them clean.

“Tastes like fucking addiction,” Jinu growled against your lips, his voice a low, sinful drawl that sent heat straight between your legs.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, then leaned in again—claiming your mouth in a kiss that was messy and hungry. You gasped as you tasted yourself on him, the tang of your arousal still wet on his tongue as he licked deep into your mouth, slow and deliberate. His tongue curled behind your teeth, exploring like he owned every inch of you—and he did. Tonight, he fucking did.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were swollen and your lungs desperate for air. You let your head fall back against the pillow, dragging yourself up the headboard, legs still spread and trembling slightly.

Jinu just smirked at the sight—your wrecked expression, flushed skin, the way your chest rose and fell like you were trying to keep it together.

“You okay?” he asked, low and husky, with just a flicker of concern under all that cocky heat.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah…”

“Good.” His voice dropped another octave as he reached down and peeled his hoodie off in one slow motion, tossing it to the floor without a care. It left him in nothing but those black pants, the fabric hugging his hips in the most unfair way.

Your eyes dropped immediately. Down the hard line of his torso—past the chiseled abs, the demon marks curling over his skin like some kind of dark prophecy etched into his flesh. Down to the sharp cut of his hips, the V-line so defined it made your mouth go dry.

And then there it was—his cock, thick and hard and pressing against the fabric.

He caught you staring, and that smug, lazy smirk spread across his face.

“I knew I’m hot,” he said, already unbuckling his pants with one hand, the metallic clink echoing in the quiet room.

“You’ve been looking like you want to fuck me all night, baby.”

And honestly?

You did.

you tossed your own shirt leaving you on your bra and nothing else. once jinu took off his pants he went back kissing your neck sucking on it giving marks, his cock pressed against your bare cunt, one of his hand moved its way on your back

clicked 

His fingers made quick work of your bra, the clasp undone like second nature. He didn’t even hesitate—he just pressed himself closer, his lips catching your gasp as your bra was flung somewhere into the shadows of the dim bedroom.

You felt him roll his hips against you, and your breath hitched. You could feel him—hard, needy, pressed right where you were pulsing for friction. A desperate sound escaped your throat, something between a moan and a plea.

Jinu’s breath was hot against your neck, but his voice? Low, strained, laced with restraint he was barely holding on to.

“Can I?” he asked, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching—burning with both desire and something softer. Need.

You nodded, not trusting your voice. It was more than consent. It was surrender.

He slid his boxers down, and his [blank] pressed right against your entrance—hot, heavy, and aching. When he pushed in slowly, the stretch burned in the best way, making your legs tremble.

“A-ah—” you hissed through clenched teeth, your back arching slightly.

Jinu let out a rough groan, fingers flexing around your waist as he buried himself deeper. You could feel how he shook with the effort of holding still, breathing ragged. He reached up, brushing your hair gently from your damp forehead, voice soft—soothing.

“Hey… I got you, yeah? You’re doing so good for me already.”

When he was fully seated inside you, he didn’t move. He waited—only moving when you gave a shaky nod of approval.

Then he started.

At first it was slow. Tender. Every thrust deliberate, like he was savoring every second inside you. You whimpered, your body adjusting around him, pain melting into something slick and molten.

Then his rhythm shifted—slowly, gradually—until his hips snapped into yours with growing force. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, messy and obscene, your moans rising in pitch with every stroke.

He grunted as he braced himself against the headboard, hand digging into the wood for leverage. The pace was rough now—cock, relentless—and then with a sharp snap, the headboard cracked beneath his grip.

But neither of you cared.

Not when you were moaning his name like a prayer, not when his voice dropped to a low growl in your ear:

“Damm—you feel so fucking good. So tight—like you’re made for me.”

He slammed back into you, chasing deeper. “Say it. Say you want it.”

Your voice broke, breathless and wrecked, “I—want it —Jinu, please, don’t stop.”

And he didn’t.

He didn’t slow down—not even when the bedframe gave a harsh crack beneath you. His pace only grew rougher, more punishing, as if chasing something deep inside you. Each thrust dragged a broken sound from your throat, and the knot in your belly twisted tighter, sharper.

“Fuck.. you’re so tight,” Jinu hissed between clenched teeth, his voice guttural as he felt you start to clamp down on him. “You’re about to—aren’t you?”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form anything but a moan that pitched higher with every slam of his hips. Your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red marks that made him groan—not from pain, but pride.

“Just like that,” he growled, his breath hot against your skin. “Fucking take it.”

And you did. You took all of him—deeper, harder—until your body couldn’t take anymore. You shattered around him, crying out his name, spine arching off the mattress as your orgasm crashed into you.

That was all it took.

He cursed under his breath as his rhythm faltered—then stilled—burying himself to the hilt as heat flooded inside you. You felt it, that warm pulse of cum, and the way he trembled slightly above you as he rode the high with you.

Both of you were gasping, the room thick with the scent of sweat, sex, and something heavier. Jinu leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, still inside you.

Neither of you moved. Not yet.

“I can’t hear him anymore,” he murmured against your lips—eyes fluttering shut, voice almost... relieved.

You closed your eyes too, pulling him even closer. His skin was warm against yours, heartbeat steady, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. There were no more walls. No more distance. Just the quiet rhythm of breath and the lingering fire of everything unspoken now laid bare between you.

You stayed like that for a while—bodies tangled, souls unwinding.

Jinu opened his eyes first.

He looked at you—really looked at you. And this time, there was nothing but love swimming in his gaze. Relief. Longing. The kind that had waited too long and held on too tight.

He exhaled softly, brushing a thumb along your jaw.

“…The bed broke,” he murmured, almost like he just realized it.

You blinked slowly, and then let out a breathy laugh. “It’s the demon strength,” you whispered back, voice tired but laced with affection.

He smiled—lazy, genuine, and rare.

“Guess I owe you a new frame.”

You rested your forehead against his. “Guess you do.”

Neither of you moved to get up. The world outside could wait a little longer.

For once… there was no hunt. No stage. No pressure.

Just you, and Jinu, and the quiet in between.

a/n: ITS SO BADDD OMGGG STOPPP it's my first time writing full-on smut yall don't judge :( also idk how to end it so here your food Jinu was a bit ooc during the smexy scene lol

taglist: @miffysoo @akariis4snowball @zhentheraven @nisarelle @aise-30 @pjs-gf-foreal @22carolina08 @violetraccoon-4

[writesvani]

dear me | 11

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: emotional repression, jealousy, passive aggression, emotional conflict, secrecy, pregnancy mention, guilt, self-deprecation, avoidance, emotionally unavailable relationships

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 5,1k // date: 22nd of June 2025

CHAPTER ELEVEN — THE SECRET happy reading my gummies...

AN: hi there my babes. guess who's back. mhm that's me. here's dear me 11. are we excited or what (i know fully well i am). ugh guys, this chapter is actually one of the most important chapters in season one of dear me (even though it doesn't seem like it), because we're slowly going to be unlocking past and present character arcs and i’m so excited (and scared) about it. did you like it? what do you think? i can't wait to read your comments and theories ugh.

also let’s be honest, this chapter is unhinged in the most emotionally constipated way possible. people be fighting, lying, cracking under pressure, and someone is being the hot nuisance he always is. a full-course meal.

now for the note goal—note goal for this chapter is 500 notes. let’s see if we can still do it or if we’ve collectively died from the angst. love you always mwah.

“Jesus, come back to bed, why are you up so early?” Taehyung groans from the tangle of your sheets, voice still thick with sleep.

The morning sun breaks through the blinds and slides across his bare chest like it’s trying to seduce you too. His dark hair is a mess, sticking out in different directions, pillow-creased and annoyingly perfect. He throws one arm over his eyes, the other lazily patting the space beside him.

“Because some of us have actual lives,” you mutter, knotting your robe and trying not to look at how the sheet’s dangerously low on his hips. Taehyung in your bed is already dangerous enough. Taehyung all golden and sleepy? That’s a war crime.

“Boo,” he yawns. “So no morning sex?”

You grab your phone off the nightstand. “Wasn’t last night enough for you?”

“Enough?” He lifts his head, giving you a grin that is absolutely going to get him smacked one day. “I’m never full when it comes to you. You're like—dessert. Irresistible, kinda bad for me, but still... I keep going.”

You throw a sock at him. “Gross.”

“True.”

You laugh anyway, tossing your charger into your tote. “I have to go see my parents. And then clean, grocery shop, return that thing that’s been sitting in my bag for three weeks, try not to spiral into a panic attack—just Saturday things.”

“Wow,” he says, voice flat. “Sexy.”

“Don’t pretend like my crippling to-do list doesn’t turn you on.”

“Oh, it does,” he groans. “You scribbling little notes in that scary planner? That’s peak hot girl behavior.”

You roll your eyes, walking toward the kitchen for coffee. “You know this isn’t a sleepover, right? You don’t actually live here.”

“I’m aware,” he calls after you, voice sing-song. “But you let me stay the night, so by the rules of fuckbuddy law, I get coffee privileges.”

“Who made those rules?”

“Me. I’m the mayor of casual hookups. Respect my office.”

You return with your mug, taking a long sip. “You’re lucky I don’t charge you rent.”

“I’d pay in very creative ways,” he says, stretching his arms above his head in a way that absolutely should not be legal. “Very. Creative. Ways.”

You glance at the time on your phone. “Well, unfortunately for you and your creative payment plans, I’ve got to go.”

He pouts like a child being told recess is over. “So that’s it? I get kicked out into the cruel world with nothing but last night’s memories and a boner?”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.”

You head to the door with your bag, pausing before you open it. “Lock up behind you.”

Taehyung salutes you from the bed. “Yes, captain. Until next time, my cruel queen.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t eat all my cereal.”

“No promises!”

Taehyung keeps spamming you with messages until you pull into your parents’ driveway, phone lighting up like it’s possessed.

[11:36 AM] Tae: where’s the coffee. be honest.

[11:36 AM] Tae: also why do you have like… seven bags of quinoa??

[11:37 AM] Tae: are you okay

[11:38 AM] Tae: help me

[11:38 AM] Tae: if i die in your apartment, it’s your fault

[11:39 AM] Tae: okay nvm found the coffee i love you

[11:39 AM] Tae: wait no i don’t that was the caffeine talking

[11:40 AM] Tae: also the sugar was in the fridge?? are you a serial killer

You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you as you scroll, thumb tapping a quick reply.

[11:40] You: stop touching my stuff or i will block you.

[11:40] Tae: kinky

You ignore that.

Kim Taehyung makes everything so damn complicated and yet so stupidly easy at the same time. Like, he’s the human equivalent of throwing glitter in the air—chaotic, unnecessary, but admittedly very pretty. He talks too much. Sends too many selfies. Wears your robe like he owns it. But he also listens when you rant, hugs you like you’re breakable, and makes your coffee just how you like it—when he actually finds the ingredients.

He’s also extremely good in bed. Like, top-tier, Olympic-gold-medal-in-thrusting good. You’d give him a solid 11/10 if it didn’t feel like stroking his already inflated ego.

You have thought about it before—what being with him would look like. But every time the fantasy starts to form, it fizzles out just as fast. Because Taehyung? He’s a walking red flag with mood swings and a god complex. He’s emotionally unavailable, possibly allergic to commitment, and once said “monogamy is a social construct” while eating cereal shirtless.

So yeah. He’s hot. He’s fun. He’s probably texting you right now asking if he can borrow a pair of your socks. But he’s not boyfriend material.

Clingy fuck buddy it is.

You put your phone on Do Not Disturb just as you climb out of your car. The second your foot hits the pavement, you hear your mom yelling from the front porch.

“There she is! Finally! You said eleven! It’s basically noon!”

You sigh, slipping into your practiced smile. “Traffic.”

“Sure. Come kiss your father.”

Your dad’s in his usual spot on the porch, coffee in hand, pretending he’s not amused by your mom’s dramatics.

You wave. “Hi, dad.”

“Morning,” he grunts. “You look tired.”

You want to say well I didn’t sleep much because I was too busy getting railed by a man who thinks air fryers are sentient, but instead you just smile and say, “Didn’t get much sleep.”

Your mom tuts and ushers you inside with a fuss. “You young people and your strange schedules.”

You shoot her a grin. “You’d be surprised.”

Vicky gently grabs you by the wrist, pulling you to the side as you enter the house.

“Heard Jungkook played a few days ago,” she says casually, as if even bringing up Jungkook’s name doesn’t flare her up with irritation.

You hum, noncommittal, mostly because you don’t feel like unpacking that whole situation with Vicky before you’ve had any sugar in your system. “Yeah. He did.”

“That’s all?” She raises a brow.

“That’s all,” you say, brushing past her.

You don’t have the energy to explain the layers of tension and warmth and unresolved mess between you and Jungkook—not to Vicky, who has her own (unsolicited) commentary on your friendship with him. Besides, you’re still piecing it together yourself.

You head into the kitchen where Leah is already sitting like a little gremlin, legs folded up on the stool, waiting for you.

“There she is,” she grins, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Girl, I made crème brulée. You gotta give me a taste test.”

“Bring it out,” you say, finally smiling as you drop your bag and lean your hip against the counter. “Let’s see what all the hype is about.”

Leah stands up dramatically, like she’s about to present a Michelin-starred dish on MasterChef. Vicky follows behind, arms still crossed like she’s itching to circle back to the Jungkook thing, but stays quiet—for now.

“You’ve been avoiding us,” Leah says sing-song as she grabs the ramekin from the fridge. “Which makes me think either you’ve been in a depressive spiral… or you’re hooking up with someone you’re not telling us about.”

Vicky snorts. “Honestly, could be both.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ve just been busy. I have a life, you know.”

“Suuure,” Leah says, placing the ramekin in front of you. “But your life doesn’t make crème brulée and ignore group texts for 48 hours straight.”

You grin despite yourself. “Okay, this looks kinda insane, not gonna lie.”

“Tap it,” she says, holding her breath.

You grab a spoon and give it a gentle smack—the sugar top cracks perfectly.

Leah gasps like she just won a medal. “DID YOU HEAR THAT?! I told you I got it right.”

You take a bite. “Leah… this is stupid good.”

“She’s been unbearable all morning,” Vicky mutters, sipping her lukewarm coffee. “She forced me to do a blind taste test at eight a.m.”

“Because I’m a culinary icon,” Leah says, beaming.

“You’re a menace,” Vicky deadpans.

“Soooo,” Leah says, dragging the word until it becomes a warning, “are you hooking up with someone?”

You lean back in your seat, one hand ruffling your hair. “Maybe I am.”

“Knew it,” Vicky mutters, smug like she just cracked a case. “You’ve had that freshly-fucked glow for weeks.”

Leah gasps. “I told you it wasn’t just new moisturizer!”

“Okay, first of all, rude. Second, I’m literally just… chilling. No big deal.”

“Uh huh,” Vicky deadpans. “Just chilling. Meanwhile someone’s breaking your back on the regular.”

You grin. “Someone’s helping me with my stress management, let’s say that.”

Leah squints at you. “Do we know him?”

“No.”

“Do you like him?”

You pause, blink. “I like that he leaves when I tell him to... Sometimes... and brings snacks.”

Vicky claps. “That’s growth.”

“He talks too much after sex though,” you say, grabbing a cookie off the counter. “Thinks I wanna discuss jazz theory while I’m still catching my breath.”

Leah laughs. “Wait. Is this the guy who got lost in your kitchen trying to find coffee the other day?”

You smirk. “The very same.”

“Oh my God,” Vicky says. “He texted you, didn’t he?”

You wordlessly flash your phone screen with six unread texts from Taehyung. One of them just says:

“where’s the fucking sugar i’m begging u i’m eating cereal like a prisoner”

They both burst out laughing.

“This man,” Leah says between wheezes, “is your reward for getting your life together?”

“I never said I was doing great. I said I was managing.”

“Are you gonna keep seeing him?” Vicky asks, still giggling.

You shrug. “Probably. He’s fun. Keeps things light. Doesn’t ask dumb questions like ‘what are we?’ or ‘have you eaten today?’”

Leah grins. “So you’re thriving.”

“Obviously.”

Leah moves around the kitchen with the kind of grace that only comes from familiarity, pouring coffee into mismatched mugs she’s had since high school. The smell is rich, warm — a little stronger than you’d make it yourself, but comforting all the same. The three of you shuffle into the living room like it’s muscle memory, each one naturally taking the spot you’ve claimed a hundred times before. It’s easy, effortless. The kind of comfort only years can bring.

You curl up on the couch, fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic of your cup. The cushions dip just the way you remember them — this couch has survived a lot of heartbreaks and way too many spilled drinks.

“Where’s Nick?” you ask, not really thinking much of it. It’s just something you say when someone’s missing.

Leah leans back into the loveseat, tucking a blanket around her legs. “He’s at the Jeons’,” she says, completely unbothered.

You nod, already knowing she means Jungwoo’s place. Nick’s been best friends with Jungkook’s younger brother since forever — they’ve been inseparable since middle school, and by now he basically lives over there. The Jeon house is his second home, just like it used to be yours.

“I’ll give him a call,” Vicky says, already unlocking her phone with a dramatic sigh. “We barely get time like this anymore. He should come hang out with us.”

You hum in agreement, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “He probably thinks we’re gonna start trauma-dumping the second he walks in,” you joke.

“Honestly, he’s not wrong,” Leah adds, grinning as she pulls her hair up into a messy bun. “But he can survive a little emotional depth.”

Vicky rolls her eyes as she puts the phone to her ear. “If he picks up on the first try, I’m buying a lottery ticket.”

You glance around the room while she waits — the soft ticking of the wall clock, the slight creak of the ceiling fan above, a framed photo of the four of you at Leah’s high school graduation still hanging a little crooked on the wall. You didn’t realize how much you missed this — not the house, not even the coffee, but the quiet sense of belonging that comes with being around people who get you.

“It’s so weird that this used to be, like, every day,” Leah says, eyes scanning the ceiling like she’s watching a memory float by. “Now we need to schedule hangouts like we’re CEOs or something.”

“Yeah,” you say, your voice quieter than you expect. “I miss this.”

Vicky groans, “Ugh, he sent me to voicemail. Whatever, he’ll show up. Eventually.”

You all laugh, because that’s just so Nick. Always the last to arrive, always the one who makes an entrance.

The moment isn’t flashy, or even all that eventful. But it feels like something you’ll remember. A lazy Sunday afternoon and some coffee that’s too strong but made with love. No pressure to talk about anything heavy, no expectations — just a soft space to exist in for a while.

And honestly, that’s enough.

Just as Vicky pulls the phone away from her ear with an annoyed sigh, it starts ringing — his name lighting up the screen like a miracle.

She stares at it, stunned. “Okay, what the hell?”

You and Leah both lean in to look at the screen like it’s a rare artifact.

“No way,” you say, laughing. “Nick’s actually calling you back? Right now?”

Vicky answers dramatically, “This must be a sign of the end times.”

“Hello?” she says into the phone, already sounding skeptical. “Oh now you wanna pick up?”

You can only hear her half of the conversation, but you can imagine Nick on the other end — probably sprawled out on the Jeons’ beanbag, gaming controller in one hand, phone pressed to his cheek.

“No, we’re not dying, idiot,” she continues, exasperated but fond. “But we’re all here — me, Leah, and our lazy-ass sister — and you should be too.”

You sip your coffee as Vicky rolls her eyes dramatically again, clearly being fed some kind of excuse.

“Well put down the controller or say goodbye to your dignity, because I’m putting you on speaker.”

She taps her screen and tosses the phone onto the couch between all of you. “Say hi, loser.”

Nick’s voice comes through, slightly crackly but clear. “Yo! Okay, okay, chill. I’m coming, alright? I just gotta finish this round.”

“Told you,” Leah smirks.

“Finish it fast or I’m eating everything without you,” you snark.

There’s a pause. Then Nick goes, “You guys suck,” before hanging up.

The three of you burst out laughing.

“God, I missed this,” Vicky says, letting her head fall back against the cushions.

You don’t say it out loud, but you did too. It’s rare now — the ease, the messiness, the way you all still slip back into each other like puzzle pieces that still fit, even after years of growing up.

You glance toward the door like you can already hear his footsteps on the porch.

“He’ll probably show up in, what, an hour?” Leah teases.

“Or fifteen minutes,” you say, smiling. “If he thinks I really am eating his food.”

“Yoooo,” Nick yells as he bursts into the house exactly twenty minutes later, arms open like he’s walking into a sitcom set. He immediately goes for everyone’s cheeks, pinching each of you with dramatic enthusiasm like he’s not the literal youngest here. “Missed me?”

“Unfortunately,” Vicky says dryly, slapping his hand away.

“Your energy is so loud,” Leah mutters, even as she’s smiling, trying to avoid his fingers. He gets to you last, practically squishing your face in his palms. “Ugh, you’re all so weird,” he teases before dropping into the armchair like a king returning from war.

Right behind him, like an awkward little shadow, comes Jungwoo. He looks up with a shy smile, offering a timid “Hey,” and you instantly brighten.

“Jungwoo!” you say, pulling him into a warm, quick hug. He lets out a quiet laugh, and you pat the seat next to you, already scooting over to make room.

“Thanks,” he says, settling down carefully, like he doesn’t want to take up too much space. His presence is comforting though — calm and familiar in a way that never demands anything.

But then—

You hear the casual thump of sneakers on the hallway tiles and, a beat later, him.

Jungkook walks into the room like he owns the lease, all lazy posture and understated confidence. His hair’s a little messy, like he didn’t bother checking it before leaving the house — or maybe because he doesn’t have to. His hands are in his pockets, and his eyes scan the room like he’s just checking in on what’s his.

You don’t notice him right away, not until his presence actually reaches you — like the heat of a flame you didn’t realize was too close.

Your eyes flick toward Vicky before anything else, and sure enough, she’s already rolling hers, the irritation practically humming off her. Classic.

Jungkook doesn’t seem fazed. He leans down and presses a casual kiss to your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world — and maybe it is, maybe it’s just who he is, but the air still shifts slightly around the room, and you’re hyper-aware of it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and it’s so brief, so soft, it’s almost a whisper.

You hum back already feeling the subtle undercurrent vibrating beneath what was just a chill hangout moment ago.

Nick, of course, is oblivious, already asking if there’s food in the kitchen. Leah’s staring between you and Jungkook like she’s trying to connect invisible strings. Jungwoo politely sips on some soda, and Vicky... Vicky looks like she’s trying not to throw something.

“Jungkook,” Vicky says with a dry cough, her voice laced in sugar-coated sarcasm as she shoots him a smile that feels more like a threat than a greeting.

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. He plasters on a polite grin, the kind that says I see you, but I’m not giving you the satisfaction, and replies, “Hey, Vicky.” His voice is casual, as he lowers himself into the open seat beside you. His knees knock yours lightly as he settles in, spreading his legs like he owns the damn couch.

You can practically hear the smugness in the shift of his body.

He leans back into the cushions like he’s been part of this family hangout every Sunday for the past ten years.

“So glad you two made it,” Leah says, eyes warm as they flick between Jungkook and Jungwoo. She’s the only one in the room who actually seems excited, cradling her mug like it’s a shield against the inevitable chaos.

“What, no love for me?” Nick gasps, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “I walk in here after being ignored in the chat all week and you’re acting like I’m invisible?”

Leah rolls her eyes without looking at him. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, little bro.”

“You wound me,” Nick mutters, falling into the armchair like he’s been personally attacked.

You snort into your coffee. “What were you guys even doing before you came here?” you ask, turning your head just slightly toward Jungkook. He’s too close. His cologne smells like cedar and leather and something vaguely sweet, and it’s driving you crazy.

Jungkook stretches his arms over the back of the couch and shrugs. “Just gaming. Got sucked into a ten-round match. Jungwoo was rage quitting every five minutes.”

Jungwoo, still looking slightly nervous to be around this much estrogen, huffs from the corner. “Only because you kept stealing my kills.”

“I call that teamwork,” Jungkook says smugly.

“Amazing,” Vicky cuts in, her voice a touch too bright. She leans forward like she’s part of the conversation, even though she clearly wants to be anywhere else. “A group of full-grown men, spending their precious free time playing make-believe war on a flat screen. So inspiring. Truly peak masculinity.”

There’s a second of silence.

Jungkook just raises a brow. “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried the high of landing a perfect sniper shot.”

“Right,” Vicky deadpans. “Because that’s what’s missing from my life. Digital murder.”

You hide your smirk behind your mug. Nick snorts out loud.

“Don’t take it personally, Kook,” you whisper under your breath, your lips brushing the rim of your cup. “She’s just mad because no one ever carried her to victory in Mario Kart.”

Jungkook chuckles low under his breath, and that stupid little sound warms the side of your neck.

“Please,” Vicky says, crossing her arms. “If I wanted to waste hours of my life, I’d re-download Tinder. At least that has real people.”

“Debatable,” Jungkook mutters, and even Leah lets out a laugh at that.

“Besides,” Vicky sing-songs, stretching her arms over the back of the chair like she owns the entire damn living room, “if I wanted to, just hypothetically speaking, spend my time engaging in murder…” —her gaze drifts pointedly toward Jungkook, slow and deliberate— “it sure as hell wouldn’t be the digital kind.”

A beat.

Jungkook blinks once, then exhales like she’s personally exhausted him. “Damn, Vick. I barely stepped into the house and you’re already out here threatening my life?”

“Who says I’m talking about you?” she snaps, lips curling into a sweet, venom-laced smile. “But I mean… if the shoe fits.”

Leah snorts from the couch, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Size ten in petty.”

Nick, spoon halfway to his mouth, glances between the two of them like he’s watching a tennis match. “You realize he’s a lawyer, right?” he says, around a mouthful of Leah’s crème brûlée. “He could probably put you in jail for, like, intent to commit murder. Or… psychological intimidation. That’s a thing, right?”

“Wow. Thank you, Nicholas,” Jungkook says, lifting his hand to his chest in mock appreciation. “Glad someone here respects the law.”

“Oh, boo hoo,” Vicky sighs, tossing her hand dramatically. “I’m so scared. What are you gonna do? Sue me for having bad vibes?”

Jungkook’s brows shoot up. “Don’t tempt me. I bill by the hour.”

Leah nearly chokes on her tea, covering her mouth to keep from laughing. “God, this feels like a deleted scene from Legally Blonde."

Vicky eyes Jungkook one last time before shifting her focus to her nails like he’s not even worth the continued energy. “Whatever. I’d win in court anyway.”

“You’d win by sheer volume of attitude,” Jungkook mutters.

“You’re damn right.”

“Anyways,” you say, drawing out the word like a life raft tossed into rising tension, “Where’s Nina? How is she?���

“Uhh…” Jungkook scratches the back of his head, a little too slowly. “She’s sick, so she’s resting a bit.”

“Again?” you ask, brows knitting, concern slipping into your voice before you can curb it. “She was feeling off the night you played too. Is she okay?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook shifts in his seat, a bit too quickly. “It’s probably just the weather changing, I'm not sure. But it's nothing serious.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me,” Vicky mutters under her breath, swirling her tea like it wronged her. “What is she, pregnant or something?” She lets out a short laugh, but no one joins in.

In fact, the air shifts—just slightly, but unmistakably.

You feel it first. Jungwoo straightens his shoulders like someone pressed a nerve in his spine. Nick stops mid-bite, his spoon hovering somewhere between the table and his mouth before he quickly lowers it like the dessert is suddenly too rich to swallow. He stares at his plate like it might hold the answer to why this room just dropped ten degrees.

And Jungkook?

Jungkook doesn’t laugh. Not really. He lets out a single, clipped chuckle that dies as quickly as it’s born. His jaw tightens—once, twice—his fingers twitch subtly at his knee. His breath comes shallow. Controlled.

“Of course not,” he says, voice just a tad too light, too quick. “Just a little cold. Happens.”

But his eyes don’t meet yours.

Vicky blinks, her expression faltering as she scans the room, the energy clearly not matching her intent. “I was just joking, guys,” she says slowly, like she’s unsure whether she should be apologizing or doubling down.

You offer her a small, almost sympathetic smile—because truly, you don’t think she meant it. But your stomach twists all the same. Because whatever she said hit something. Something tender. Something no one’s talking about.

And most of all, because Jungkook’s not looking at anyone anymore. Just at the edge of the coffee table. Like he’s suddenly a million miles away.

And for the life of you, you don’t know why.

The conversation trickles back after a few awkward gulps of coffee and half-hearted jokes. Leah tries her best, bless her, chattering about some new café that opened up in town. Nick throws in the occasional sarcastic comment to keep the rhythm from collapsing entirely. Jungwoo nods along like a man on autopilot.

But you can still feel the heaviness clinging to the room like smoke.

Jungkook’s unusually quiet now. He's answering questions when prompted, but his usual warmth is gone—like he packed it away with Nina’s name.

You’re not the only one who notices. Vicky’s arms are crossed tight, and her jaw ticks like she wants to say something but bites it back. Leah’s glance darts between the two of them, the peacemaker instincts activated but unsure where to step in.

Eventually, the opportunity comes when Leah gets up to take more dessert orders and Vicky follows her into the kitchen with a pointed, “We need more whipped cream,” which is clearly just code for let me vent for five minutes before I explode.

Nick and Jungwoo fall into their own small conversation—basketball, you think—something safe.

That’s when you nudge Jungkook’s leg.

He looks at you, slow. You nod toward the hallway.

“Come with me for a second?” you ask quietly.

He follows you without a word.

You stop near the coat rack in the hallway, just out of earshot. It’s dimmer here. Quieter. The hum of a refrigerator from the kitchen and soft chatter from the living room feel miles away.

“You okay?” you ask, voice gentle.

Jungkook shrugs. “Yeah. I told you—she’s just sick.”

You tilt your head, squinting at him. “I didn’t ask about Nina.”

That catches him off guard. His shoulders drop slightly, like you just called him out on holding his breath.

“I’m fine,” he says, this time without the fake lightness. “I just… didn’t expect that.”

You nod, arms crossing, not in defense, but in comfort. “Is there something going on you’re not telling me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His tongue rolls over the inside of his cheek like he’s chewing on whether or not to speak. And then he exhales through his nose, sharp and quiet.

“There’s just stuff I’m… still figuring out.”

“Okay,” you say simply, not pushing.

His eyes meet yours for a second longer than necessary. There’s so much in them. Fatigue. Frustration. And something else—something you can’t name, but it makes your heart sting a little.

And then, as quickly as it cracked, the mask slides back on.

“We should go back,” he says, already stepping toward the living room.

You watch him walk off. You don’t follow right away.

There’s a weird heaviness in your chest. Not worry. Not sadness. Just this strange, frustrating itch of not knowing.

You don’t know what’s going on with him.

You don’t know what Vicky’s comment touched.

And you really don’t know why all of it is starting to matter more than you want it to.

It's past midnight when you finally get home.

The apartment is dark, your skin smells faintly of creme brulée and laundry detergent, and your phone’s been silent for the past hour.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. And you think about it.

About Vicky’s joke.

About the shift in Jungkook’s posture.

About how he didn’t touch his coffee after that.

About the hallway, and the way he didn’t answer your question, but his eyes did.

So, you do what you shouldn’t do.

You open your texts.

[12:27 AM] You: hey

You stare at it. Delete. Re-type.

[12:28 AM] You: i hope you're okay. you don’t have to explain anything if you’re not ready. i just wanted you to know i’m here. always.

You press send.

And then — because you can’t help yourself — you add one more.

[12:29 AM] You: also. if you ever need someone to fake a kidnapping so you can vanish for a weekend, i have a shovel and a good alibi.

You hit send.

Immediately regret it.

Immediately laugh.

Immediately wonder if he’ll reply.

You put your phone face down on your chest and close your eyes.

The kind of tired you feel isn’t physical.

It’s the kind that settles behind your ribs and waits.

You’re not expecting a reply.

Not tonight, maybe not at all. You know Jungkook — he shuts down when things get too heavy.

But your phone buzzes. Once.

[12:41 AM Kook]: you always know when to text me. it’s scary sometimes.

Then, after a beat, another one.

[12:42 AM] Kook: i’m okay. or trying to be. it doesn't matter. but thank you

Your heart tugs in a way you don’t like. A way that feels too much, too soon, too everything.

He sends one more.

[12:44 AM] Kook: also, pretty sure the shovel thing is illegal. but i’m keeping you in mind. just in case.

You laugh. You smile. You almost cry. All at once.

You set your phone down gently, like it’s carrying something fragile. Because maybe it is. Maybe it always has when it comes to Jungkook.

The room is dark except for the soft glow of the city bleeding in through your curtains, dancing shadows on your wall. You exhale, long and quiet, and sink deeper into your mattress, the weight of the day pressing against your chest.

You don’t reply to him. Not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t trust yourself not to say too much. Because your fingers are twitching to type "I miss you,” and your chest aches with the need to ask "What are you not telling me?” But instead, you let the silence answer for you.

You turn over, blanket pulled up to your chin, eyes open to the ceiling, and you realize something:

This is no longer simple.

It hasn’t been for a while now.

Jungkook's words echo in your head as you finally close your eyes.

“You always know when to text me.”

And yeah—

That’s exactly the problem.

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[silkensago]

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ jason todd x fem reader. fluff & comfort. ⭑ some people just can’t take a hint. your boyfriend (bodyguard) comes to your rescue.

“I have a boyfriend,” you say. For at least the fifteenth time. You’re getting tired of counting.

The guy who’s been hitting on you for the past ten minutes while you wait smirks. Gross.

“Bet he doesn’t treat you right.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. As if. Just flat-out leaving the café right now sounds really, really tempting. But you also just paid for your drink, and you really, really don’t feel like abandoning it because some weirdo with no self-awareness can’t handle being rejected.

A voice cuts in, flat. Dangerous.

“She literally had pancakes in bed this morning. Talk to my girl again, and I’ll cut your tongue off.”

You bite your lip to hide the rush of relief that spreads through your chest.

Jason.

You forgot you were sharing your location with him. Of course he’d notice when your order took ten minutes instead of six.

You’re mentally doodling little hearts around his name as your beautiful, big, grumpy, scary dog of a boyfriend steps into place beside you like your personal bodyguard, hand sliding around your waist—warm and sure, grounding you.

It’s possessive, but not like the way strangers look at you. Not expectant or entitled. His touch says I’ve got you. Like he already knows your worth and never needed you to earn it. Never looked at you and thought prove it. He just sees you. All of you.

You’re not just someone pretty to look at, not just a face.

Someone he loves in all your quiet, tired, messiness. No less breathtaking when your hair’s unbrushed and your makeup's off, and your socks don’t match, and you say something incredibly nerdy that makes him roll his eyes fondly and you forget how to make eye contact.

Someone who stays in his chest long after you’ve walked away, leaving him for work with the ghost of your kiss and lip gloss on his cheek, needing to be on your tiptoes to even reach him, even in heels which he always teases you for.

You’re someone to come home to. Someone whole and infinite and more.

“Was wondering where you were.” Jason mutters. His voice is calm, but you can feel the tension humming under his skin, sharp as a drawn wire, as his hand settles firmly over your lower back—right where the guy’s eyes had been.

The creep mutters something and slinks off, at least he had the awareness to sense danger. He’s lucky Jason doesn’t even spare him a second glance.

His focus is on you.

You’re still standing too still. Your fingers locked too tight around the cup of your drink. You haven’t taken a single sip.

Jason tilts his head and lowers his voice. “You okay?”

He rubs slow, small circles on your back, and some of the pressure inside you finally starts to ease. Your shoulders sag a little more.

"Maybe I shouldn't have worn this today."

You glance down at your outfit, fidgeting with the hem. You had felt cute, when you put it on at least. Now you just feel small. Exposed.

Jason’s hand stills, then smooths down your spine with deliberate care. 

"No," he says firmly. "You look beautiful. Don't ever let some asshole's behavior make you question that. You're not the problem, sweetheart—they are." 

After all the stares that make you want to crawl out of your own skin, his hand feels like water over flame. Quiet. Steady. Like he’s cleansing you of every word, every glance, every inch of attention that never came with the kindness that you deserved.

You nod. Then shake your head. The laugh that slips out is small. Fragile.

“No matter how many times this happens,” you say, “I can never get used to it.”

Jason’s eyes soften.

His hand rises to your cheek, brushing along your jaw with careful fingers like he’s afraid to hurt you even by accident.

“Baby,” he murmurs. “Baby. You shouldn’t have to. Look at me."

You hesitate, then look up at him.

His eyes—a gorgeous clear, deep teal—meet yours, steady and soft. His gaze quiets the noise in your head. There’s no judgment there. No pressure. Just him, looking at you. Because you’re the most important thing in the room.

“This isn't your fault,” he says gently, thumb stroking your cheek.

Your lips twitch. “Mhm.”

Jason shakes his head a little, and leans in just enough for his forehead to almost touch yours.

“I want you to say it with me, sweetheart,” he says.

You take a shaky breath. Your voice is quiet, but there. “This isn't my fault.”

“That’s my girl.”

The corner of his lip quirks up in a proud little smile just for you.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” he says.

“You’re here now,” you whisper.

Jason leans in and kisses your forehead. 

“Damn right I am.”

He glances toward the door the guy vanished through, then back at you.

“If he even looks at you again,” he says, voice low, “he’s not walking. Like, ever.”

You huff a soft laugh, the first real one, and he smiles at the sound.

Jason wraps an arm around your shoulders this time—holding you close, not just guarding you, but keeping you warm. You bury your face in his chest and let his comforting scent wash over you. The smell of home.

He nudges you gently toward a table, like he’s steering a ship back to harbor.

“Come on, sit. Drink your sugary, overpriced caffeine. I’ll be right here the whole time."

You sit, finally, and Jason doesn’t let go. His thigh brushes yours under the table. His hand stays tucked around the back of your chair.

You sip your drink slowly. It's lukewarm by now, but somehow still tastes better than it would’ve without him next to you. His leg is pressed to yours under the table, solid and steady. Like an anchort, keeping you from drifting too far out.

Jason’s thumb brushes the back of your hand where it rests on the table, slow and absent like he’s not even thinking about it—but you know he is. Jason thinks about everything. Especially you.

“I like your socks,” he says after a while. Voice low, coaxing. “The little strawberries. That’s new.”

You glance down. Smile faintly. “Bought them last week.”

He hums, leaning in until his shoulder brushes yours. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve worn mine too.”

“You don’t have strawberry socks.”

“Don’t underestimate how far I’d go to match you.”

The laugh you let out comes from your chest this time. A real one. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he shifts just slightly to let you settle there.

When you finish your drink, Jason takes the empty cup from your hands and tosses it for you.

“You ready to go?”

You nod, still leaning into him. “Only if we can stop to get books at the library.”

His hand finds yours again. Squeezes. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

And for the first time that morning, you feel safe again.

[buckyseternaldoll]

you, unblurred.

Pairing: Post-Thunderbolts!Bucky x NewAvenger!Reader

Summary: You hated him. You swore you did. Until the dick pics you’d been seeing for months turned out to belong to your mission partner—the man who barely looked at you in daylight.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, mutual masturbation (via FaceTime), p in v sex (unprotected), first time sex (reader), dirty talk, breastplay (nipple sucking), wet grinding (clothed and bare), edging (reader), orgasm denial (brief), praise kink, possessive!soft!Bucky vibes, intense intimacy, post-orgasm shaking, soft aftercare cuddling

Word Count: 8.7k

You hadn’t even made it halfway through your first week and you were already public enemy number one in the eyes of Bucky Barnes.

Valentina hadn’t given you much warning. One curt message, no fanfare. Just a quick relocation order and the kind of tone that made it clear you weren’t allowed to say no. You were to report to the newly restructured Watchtower—what used to be the old Avengers Tower, now stripped of its former glory and repurposed for the next wave of heroes. Or, as the media loved to call it: The New Avengers.

But the title never sat well with you.

“New Avengers” sounded like cheap branding. A desperate repackage. Like you were standing in the shadow of gods and legends, trying on their hand-me-downs and pretending they still fit. You didn’t see yourself in that lineup. You didn’t want to. So you clung to something else.

You were Thunderbolts. Raw, messy, cobbled together by circumstance and grief, yes—but still sharp around the edges. Thunderbolts sounded tougher. Grittier. Real. You liked that.

Your first day was already a disaster.

You’d overslept after flying in from a red-eye, scrambled into your navy leggings and cropped black tank, hair still damp from a rushed shower and barely twisted into a low bun. One hand juggled your phone, the other a hot, nearly-overflowing paper cup of coffee. Wedged awkwardly under your arm? A grease-stained paper bag with a very loaded chili dog inside. Extra chili. Always extra chili.

You were running toward the elevator when the doors slid open—and you didn’t realize someone was standing inside until your boot clipped the edge of the hallway runner and you were airborne.

You collided full force with a solid chest, and everything you were holding—coffee, chili, dignity—exploded across the poor bastard who’d been unlucky enough to stand in your path.

Bucky Barnes.

Your coffee soaked the front of his dark red henley. Chili smeared across his chest. A fat drop of sauce slid down the side of his neck, and by some miracle, a single black bean clung to his collarbone like a badge of shame.

His eyes snapped to you—ice-blue and narrowing fast.

You froze. “Oh shit—I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—I’ll clean it, I swear—like, personally. Or I’ll run your errands for the week. Seven days. No questions—”

He didn’t say a word.

Just a hard exhale. A glare sharp enough to slice bone. Then he turned, dripping and silent, and walked off the elevator like he hadn’t just been assaulted by caffeine and chili grease.

You stood there in stunned horror, the doors sliding closed behind him.

By the time you finally made it up to the Watchtower’s main lounge—jittery, sweating, and still slightly smelling like cumin—most of the team had already gathered.

Yelena had taken one look at your half-spilled coffee and chili-smeared shirt and declared, “You look like chaos. I like it.”

John Walker gave you a nod and a raised brow, then returned to sulking over a protein shake.

Alexei had tried to pitch you on his “secret endurance routine” within the first five minutes.

You laughed. Politely declined.

It was messy. Loud. Barely functional. But comforting in a strange way—like finding out the group project you were forced into was at least full of people who didn’t take themselves too seriously.

Then you saw him again.

Bucky entered the lounge a few minutes later, now dressed in his black compression shirt and tactical pants—his training gear. His hair was damp, brushed back behind his ears, and his jaw looked freshly clenched. You straightened up instinctively, wiping your palms on your leggings, then took a breath and stepped toward him.

You opened your mouth to greet him, maybe even introduce yourself properly this time.

He walked past you.

Didn’t look. Didn’t stop. Just kept moving like you weren’t even there.

You heard him grunt—low, sharp, and unmistakably annoyed.

You knew it was meant for you.

A warning shot.

A sign of war.

—

It didn’t end there.

Over the next few days, Bucky made it very clear you were on his shit list. Every time he assigned training rotations, you got the worst of it. Your combat drills were brutal—sparring reps that left your ribs aching and your pride in pieces. While others got to rotate partners, you were stuck running simulations against one of the Widow bots that seemed permanently set to maximum aggression.

The gym sessions? A damn death sentence. Weighted vests. Endurance drills until your lungs felt like they were trying to claw their way out of your chest. No water breaks. No mercy.

He didn’t speak to you. Barely looked at you.

Except when he did, and it was always across the room—like he could smell your failure before he saw it. Like your presence alone was a personal offense.

You tried. You really did. But by week two, your patience ran out.

One late afternoon, you were in the pantry with Yelena, peeling open a protein bar and venting under your breath.

“He’s just—ugh, he’s a grumpy old bastard,” you muttered. “Looks like he hasn’t slept since the Cold War and acts like he’s allergic to joy. Like, take a goddamn nap in a grave already.”

Yelena snorted into her coffee, half-choking.

Unfortunately, you didn’t notice John Walker stepping in through the hallway behind you.

“You know Bucky’s just next door, yeah?” he said casually, leaning against the counter with that smirk he always wore when he was about to stir up some trouble.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, so?”

John arched a brow. “And you do know he’s enhanced.”

“So what?”

“So…” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “He can hear all that shit you’re talking. Loud and clear. Pretty sure he’s listening right now.”

You froze mid-bite, mouth still half-open, stomach dropping like a stone.

Yelena widened her eyes in faux horror and whispered, “You’re so dead.”

You considered apologizing. Maybe retreating. Maybe fleeing the country.

But the truth?

You were tired of walking on eggshells. You’d tripped once. It was an accident. You hadn’t meant to spill anything on him. And if the great Sergeant Barnes wanted to crucify you over one clumsy mistake and make your life hell over a chili dog and a coffee?

Then let him.

You swallowed the bite, turned back to your protein bar, and said with zero remorse—

“Good.”

—

You didn’t stop shit-talking Bucky Barnes after that first day.

If anything, you escalated.

Not publicly—well, not all the time. But every night, without fail, you’d unload your frustrations somewhere far safer. Somewhere faceless. Somewhere private.

You had a fling.

Not a lover. Not even a real person, as far as you could prove. You’d met him long before this whole Thunderbolts mess started, back when your life was quieter, lonelier, when everything still felt like it was just slightly out of reach. You were still moving between safe houses and temp assignments then, with no anchor point but your own reflection—and a damn dating app that promised distraction if not affection.

He caught your eye immediately. Not because of the photos—there weren’t many—but the bio. Dry. Hilarious. And oddly sad in a way that curled around your ribs and settled there.

Been cold for a while. Warming up slowly. Thought maybe someone out there had the defrost button.

It made you pause. Laugh. Swipe right.

He matched with you in less than a minute.

The first message was a joke. Obscure, borderline ridiculous, laced in some cryptic code about how hard it was to feel human again in a world that never really waited for you. You responded in kind—half sarcasm, half curiosity. It spiraled from there. Inside jokes layered like bricks. Memes, strange hypotheticals, long nights of talking in half-truths and wry honesty.

And then, somewhere along the line… things turned filthy.

It wasn’t planned. It just happened. Like a switch flipped. One voice note became two. Then came the late-night confessions. The breathy admissions. The images. Not full nudes—he never sent anything that showed his face. But the way he described things? The way he talked? It made your stomach twist and your thighs squeeze together under the sheets.

His voice was low, rough in the corners, always a little tired like he’d recorded it with his head resting on a pillow. But the words were razor-sharp. Soft growls of praise. Dirty commands. Compliments that didn’t sound like he was bluffing, like he actually meant it when he called you his “good girl” or said he’d drop to his knees for you if you just asked.

And then there were the pics.

Oh, the pics.

Awkward angles, yes. But unmistakable. He was filthy thick. Curved slightly to the right. Veiny in a way that made your mouth water. Every photo was captioned with some deadpan comment that made you laugh and ache.

This angle is 90% countertop and 10% cock. Not sorry.

Too cold for dick pics but I suffer for art.

If I die of embarrassment, bury me face down so you can sit on my shame.

You’d called him the King of Come-dick (get it? Comedic Dick?), and he told you that was going in his will.

And even without a name or a face, you felt more seen in those chats than you ever had in real life. He made you laugh. He made you beg. He made you feel good.

But lately, those voice notes had taken on a different flavor.

Because now you were venting.

Every night.

After a day of getting your lungs torched by combat drills and your pride mangled by James freaking Barnes, you’d crawl into bed, roll onto your side, and let it all pour out.

Your messages to the fling started as innocent rants.

You ever met someone who just hates you on sight? Like your existence is their 13th reason?

He’s the human version of stepping barefoot on a plug. Like I’m convinced he’s been possessed by an ancient war ghost who hates fun.

I tripped once. ONCE. Now I’m stuck doing training reps that make my organs feel like they’re auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

And your online fling—bless him—never once dismissed you. He didn’t ask too many questions. Didn’t push for context. He just listened.

Told you you were strong. That your instincts were good. That whoever was tearing you down probably didn’t deserve to know the real you. That maybe this guy—this “grumpy dickhead on permanent PMS”—just didn’t know how to handle someone like you. Someone bright. Loud. Capable. Free.

And God, those messages always left you warm. Floating. Like he saw you, even without seeing your face.

You never told him you were a Thunderbolt. Never mentioned the Watchtower. You kept it vague—just some asshole colleague with authority issues.

And he never told you where he was either.

You didn’t need names. Didn’t need faces.

It was better this way. Safer. More honest, somehow.

Besides, it wasn’t like you were in love with the guy.

It was just sex.

Just comfort.

Just a voice in the dark whispering that you were worth more than how Bucky Barnes made you feel.

And if, sometimes, that same voice made your breath hitch and your toes curl under the covers, whispering filth that left you gasping into your pillow?

Well.

That was nobody’s business but yours.

—

By now, the tension between you and Bucky Barnes had evolved into something legendary.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t dignified. It was a living, breathing force that stalked every shared hallway, every joint training session, every goddamn mission briefing. You didn’t speak. He didn’t speak. But somehow, every grunt, eye-roll, sigh, and clipped command felt like it echoed through the whole goddamn Watchtower.

The others noticed.

They definitely noticed.

So much so that one morning in the lounge room—barely ten minutes into your coffee—Yelena snapped.

“For fuck’s sake,” she groaned, slamming her mug down a little too hard. “Can someone ask Bob to summon the Void again? I’m serious. Trap them in it. Lock it. Throw away the key.”

Across from her, Bob nearly choked on his protein shake.

He looked up, blinking. “You want me to… what? No. Absolutely not. Do you know how hard I’ve worked to keep that thing buried?”

She narrowed her eyes. “So don’t be the Void. Be Sentry. Throw Bucky somewhere far. Like Antarctica. That should fix it.”

You were already suppressing a laugh, staring into your bowl of cereal like it had the answers to your spiritual collapse.

Bucky, of course, was seated at the end of the long couch—tablet in hand, thumbing through mission briefs with a scowl that seemed surgically attached to his face.

“I heard that, Lena,” he muttered dryly without looking up.

Then he did look up.

Right at you.

The kind of look that scraped across your skin like ice on bare flesh. Not even anger anymore. Just a quiet, simmering disdain. A full-body ugh.

He dragged his finger across the tablet, ignoring everyone else, scrolling like you weren’t worth more than a line item in his day.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard.

It had been days since you last messaged your fling—missions had kept you busy, bruised, mentally wiped. But today? You needed a lifeline. You needed him.

You reached for your phone under the table and typed, thumbs moving fast, tension bubbling under your skin.

Shitty day at work. Missed you a little more than usual today. Hope you’re alive and not plotting your escape from Earth.

A second later, a ding echoed across the room.

You didn’t look.

But from the corner of your eye… you saw Bucky smile.

Just the ghost of it, but it was there. Quick. Sharp. Subtle enough to vanish in a blink—but unmistakable. The corners of his mouth curved, softening his jaw, lighting up something that should’ve made him look kinder.

Instead, it pissed you off.

How could someone with a smile that beautiful act like such a piece of shit?

Your phone buzzed.

Hey babe. How bad are we talking? On a scale from paper cut to arson?

You nearly melted at the sight of the message. The nickname. The teasing tone. Like your body had been waiting to exhale.

Your fingers flew, fire in your blood as you rose from your seat and power-walked out of the lounge, phone still in hand.

You headed straight for one of the smaller mission debrief rooms—locked the door behind you and threw yourself into the nearest chair like it was a confessional booth.

Same old dickhead being a dickhead again. Just needed your voice or your cock. Either one will do.

It didn’t take long for the response to ping through.

Rough day too. Holding the world together with duct tape and a smile. My shoulders might collapse from all this weight.

You snorted softly, your anger already softening into something warmer, darker, messier. Your thighs pressed together.

Your fingers danced across the screen again.

Maybe a dick pic would help redistribute the emotional labor? 😌

You hit send.

Hot tension unfurled low in your stomach. That fuzzy, heavy pulse building behind your navel. You leaned back in your chair, the silence making your heart beat louder.

A beat passed.

Then the reply:

Not now. Mid-meeting. Bad time.

You pouted, eyes narrowing slightly.

Then your screen lit up.

Image received.

You tapped it open.

It was… tight. Somewhat zoomed in, framed awkwardly from waist down—but unmistakable. The outline of his cock straining against dark, snug tactical pants. Like it was furious to be caged. The bulge was obscene. Rude. Practically throbbing through the screen.

You blinked. Sucked in a breath.

Your pulse jumped.

Mmm, excuse me, bold and nasty? In a meeting?? Someone’s got issues 🫦

No reply.

You waited, but you weren’t upset. He disappeared like this sometimes—usually when work pulled him back under. You understood it. You respected it.

So you looked at the photo again.

Zoomed in a little.

God, it looked so good.

But then… something tugged at your brain. A weird, annoying sense of déjà vu.

The pants.

The texture of the fabric. The way they clung. The slight reinforcement at the side seams. They looked… familiar.

Too familiar.

You frowned.

Hadn’t you seen these somewhere?

But no—no, that was stupid. There were probably ten thousand pairs of pants like that in the world. You were just horny and paranoid.

And horny.

Mostly horny.

You shook the thought away, closed the image, and leaned back with a dreamy sigh.

Whoever your mystery man was… he was your safe space. Your escape.

And there was no way the guy sending you filthy bulge pics from some secret meeting was the same one currently glaring at you every day like you were a plague.

Right?

—

As if things couldn’t get any worse, Valentina had to stick her designer heel right into the wound.

She called it a “strategic adjustment.”

You called it cruel and unusual punishment.

From now on, until further notice—her favorite three words—you were to be partnered with Bucky Barnes. For missions. For sparring. For everything.

Her exact phrasing?

“For God’s sake, Barnes. You’re over a hundred years old. You’ve survived wars, Hydra, cryo, and three near-apocalypses. Fix this shenanigan already. Or I swear, I’ll fix it for you—and neither of you will like my method.”

You wanted to protest.

Bucky didn’t even blink.

Just gave her that flat, dead-eyed look that said he’d rather be in a Siberian prison than listening to this briefing.

So it began.

The first few sparring sessions were nothing short of apocalyptic. Poor coordination, missed cues, accidental hits that didn’t feel that accidental. Zero trust. Zero chemistry. Just bruises, swearing, and thick silence that felt louder than gunfire.

And finally, you snapped.

You threw your gloves across the mat, stormed toward him as he stood there like a statue, and spat the words out like venom.

“What the fuck is your problem, Barnes? Can you say something for once instead of treating me like I’m radioactive?”

His gaze lifted to meet yours. Calm. Unreadable. Stormy blue with something you couldn’t quite name hiding underneath.

He let out a breath.

“This is why,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly.

You blinked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re still a kid.”

The words landed like a slap—sharp and low.

“What the fuck was that supposed to mean?” you shot back, voice rising.

He exhaled sharply, looked away like he was already done with the conversation.

“You’re not in the right headspace for this. Neither am I. Let’s call it for today. I’ll reschedule the gym session.”

He picked up his towel, unbothered, collected his things like your fury was a passing breeze. Then walked out.

Left you standing there. Burning.

You kicked the mat. “Fuck!”

It echoed. Pointless. No one heard.

Except the part of yourself you were trying desperately to ignore.

The part that kept noticing things. Soft, human things about him.

You’d been avoiding him for so long that you accidentally started watching him. Observing. Catching details you didn’t mean to.

Like the way he always knew what the team needed. Quietly. No fuss.

He gifted Bob a stack of niche self-improvement books—nothing preachy, nothing corny. Just thoughtful reads that let Bob’s mind wander somewhere better. Gave him a way out of his own head.

He remembered Yelena’s favorite protein bars. Replaced them in the kitchen when they ran out, even though no one asked.

And the chili dogs.

You didn’t eat lunch one day—too many back-to-back briefings. You hadn’t even said anything.

But there it was, sitting on your desk an hour later: a warm paper bag with a chili dog inside. Extra extra chili. No mustard.

Exactly the way you liked it.

You never told him how you liked it.

And he hated you. Didn’t he?

You laid flat on the training mat, arms spread out, chest rising and falling fast. Not from the sparring. From the confusion. The ache. The messy swirl of wanting and not wanting and wishing he’d just say what the hell he was thinking for once.

It made you miss your other one even more.

Your secret.

Your escape.

Your not-a-lover, not-a-boyfriend—your ghost between the sheets.

And it made you horny as hell.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. The sweat. The anger. Maybe it was the sound of Bucky’s voice still echoing in your ears. Maybe it was the impossible urge to burn everything down and touch yourself through the flames.

You grabbed your phone.

Your thumbs hovered for a second.

Then you typed.

Throbbing for you today. Thinking of trying something new. Facetime tonight? I want to see you. It’s time.

You stared at the message.

Then hit send.

Your heart fluttered like you just disarmed a bomb.

You’d never done it before—not live. Always voice notes. Pictures. Heavy breathing and whispered praise in the dark. But you wanted more. You needed to see him. To watch his mouth when he groaned. To show him your face when you broke.

Your phone buzzed.

One line.

Been waiting for that, babe. Can’t wait for tonight.

You closed your eyes. Smiled.

Something bloomed deep in your chest.

But then…

Bucky’s face flickered in your mind. That last glance he gave you before walking out—not cruel. Not angry.

Not… disgusted.

For the briefest second, it looked like he wanted to say something. Like he was holding back.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because what if?

What if all this time, he wasn’t just avoiding you?

What if he knew exactly what he was doing?

—

Night fell like it had been waiting all day just to wrap around you. Heavy, quiet, almost expectant. Like even the shadows knew what was about to happen.

You’d made the room exactly the way you wanted it—dim, intimate, anonymous. One small lamp by the bed, screen brightness lowered. Location off. Door locked. Twice.

He had your Apple ID now. You’d never given him your number. That felt too personal. Too dangerous. But your old burner email from when you were eight—the one that made you cringe now?

pwinceszz_n0body@yahoo.com.

Yeah. That one.

It made you feel hidden. Untouchable. Like no one could ever guess who you really were behind a name that dumb.

At exactly 9:15 p.m., your phone buzzed in your palm.

Incoming FaceTime call. From an email you’d never seen before—cryptic, strange: wolfhowling3333333333@icloud.com.

Your stomach flipped.

That was new.

You inhaled deeply, thumb hovering. Then tapped accept.

The call connected.

No faces. No hellos. Just dark screens and careful camera angles.

He had his camera angled low—blanket pooled around his hips, the lens tilted toward the rise under thin dark fabric. Boxers. Nothing else.

Yours was already aimed at your chest—lace crop top, black and barely-there, your nipples visible through the sheer. That was the rule. No real names. No faces. Just bodies and breath. Just touch without touching.

“Hey, babe.” His voice was soft tonight. Lower. Warmer. “Your room’s so dark. I can barely see anything.”

You smiled, voice light. “Same here. What are we—covert ops?”

He laughed quietly. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve done.”

There was a pause.

Heavy with something unsaid.

You reached over and adjusted your lamp just enough to cast a golden wash over your skin. Still cropped. Still framed. Just enough for him to see the swell of your chest.

On the screen, his hips shifted. The blanket moved slightly.

He let out a groan. “Fuck… you’re starting with that?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “What? You think I dressed like this for me?”

He chuckled. It sounded a little strangled.

You flipped the camera to the rear, aimed it lower—down your thighs, where the blanket still clung. Slowly, deliberately, you peeled it back. The cool air hit your bare cunt and made you flinch.

You didn’t need to look to know he was watching.

His voice thickened. “Jesus, baby… you’re unreal.”

You stayed quiet. Let him drink it in.

He shifted again. His hand slid down, over the bulge pressing hard against his boxers. You could see it straining—long, thick, clearly aching to be freed.

“You see that?” he murmured. “Already hard for you. Always.”

You moaned softly in response, your fingers teasing between your folds. Dipping slow. Making a mess of yourself just for him.

“God, yes,” you whispered. “You see this? So fucking wet. For you.”

His hand stroked himself through the fabric, slow at first. Measured. Like he was pacing it just for you.

Then—he dropped the phone.

Just for a moment. The screen tilted to black.

You heard a muffled shuffle of fabric. Movement. A grunt. The sound of him exhaling hard.

Then—

He picked the phone back up.

And there it was.

The cock you’d seen in pictures, now in motion. Hard. Heavy. Curved slightly to the right. Veins running along the shaft like paths you wanted to trace with your tongue.

You whimpered, breath catching. “God… your cock looks so fucking good.”

He wrapped his hand around it and stroked slowly, deliberately.

“Stroke it for me,” you begged, eyes fixed on the screen as your own fingers worked faster. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You turned off your camera for a second—adjusted your angle—then turned it back on. Still cropped. Still hidden. But now angled perfectly between your thighs. Slick. Open. Needy.

“See this?” you whispered. “See what you do to me?”

He moaned—deep, rough, just a little breathless.

The call dissolved into heat. Sound. Wetness. Praise. You whispered filth to him like prayer. He groaned your name like he was falling apart just for you. You were close. So close—

Until—

WEE-OO-WEE-OO. WEE-OO-WEE-OO.

The emergency siren shrieked through your phone like a gunshot.

You gasped and jolted upright—until you realized…

It wasn’t just coming from your phone.

It was echoing.

From his side too.

Same pitch. Same frequency.

Watchtower protocol.

Your heart seized.

You stared at the screen—just as he cursed under his breath.

“Shit.”

Then the screen went black.

Call ended. Gone.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands still between your legs. Your body raw with need.

But your brain?

Your brain was moving in slow, precise horror.

That siren wasn’t public. It wasn’t general Watchtower protocol.

It was specific.

Each mission pair had their own unique alert—encrypted, untraceable outside their shared comms. And that tone… that exact pitch sequence…

It was yours.

Yours and your assigned partner’s.

And your partner?

Was Bucky Barnes.

Your stomach clenched.

You stared down at your phone, pulse pounding. Your body was still humming from the aftershocks, but the rest of you was unraveling.

You blinked at the dark screen. Tried to breathe.

And then your mind began to pull—thread by thread—backward.

The voice. That low rasp that lived somewhere in his throat. Always a little tired. Always a little rough. You’d heard it in the sparring room. You’d heard it moaning your name in the dark.

The timing. The discipline. The almost militant sharpness of his replies. Always exactly on time. Always controlled.

And then—

The way he touched himself.

One hand.

Always the right.

Every picture. Every clip. Every motion you’d ever seen. Cock in his right hand. Phone in his left. You’d never seen anything else. Never thought to question it.

Until now.

Until you remembered exactly what his left hand was made of.

The vibranium.

Always gloved in daylight. Always held behind his back, or casually resting on his hip like it wasn’t worth using. Always there, but never used—not unless it had to be.

Your breath caught.

The pieces stopped falling.

They just… clicked.

The voice. The siren. The silence. The lack of left hand. The way he moved. The refusal to show his face. The email so purposefully anonymous. The instinct to keep himself hidden—just like you had.

You stared at your reflection in the black screen.

Still damp. Still trembling.

“…no fucking way.”

But there was no more room for doubt.

Because if your gut was right—and every part of you said it was—then the man who had just come for you in the dark…

…was the same man who couldn’t even stand to look at you in the light.

You weren’t just turned on.

You were completely, utterly fucked.

—

“Shit,” Bucky muttered, breath still ragged as he ended the call with a swipe of his thumb.

He was seconds from coming—already flushed, tense, his hand wrapped tight around his cock—when the emergency siren blasted through his phone.

His specific alert. High-pitched, short burst, then a long one.

And then… the echo.

The same damn siren, faint but unmistakable, bleeding through the other end of the call. His caller’s phone.

Your phone.

He froze.

Chest still rising and falling. Sweat on his neck. Mind racing.

It took him three full seconds to understand what it meant.

And when it hit—it hit hard.

You.

You.

The woman he was supposed to protect. Train. Lead. The one who spent every meeting glaring at him like he’d kicked your dog in a past life.

You were the one he’d been jerking off to for the last six months.

The one sending him voice notes at midnight. The one calling him baby and making him laugh without even trying. The one who knew exactly how to pull pleasure out of his body with just the sound of your breath.

He dragged a hand over his face. His heart was still pounding, but now it had nothing to do with arousal.

He leaned back in the chair, stared up at the ceiling, and cursed again under his breath.

He hadn’t known.

He swore he hadn’t known.

—Bucky’s POV—

The memory came back uninvited. That first day.

The elevator.

The hot splash of coffee—steaming, not just warm. It scalded straight through his henley, soaked the skin over his chest and shoulder. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, just to keep from reacting.

He could’ve cursed. Could’ve snapped. But you were already panicking, mumbling rapid apologies, trying to wipe it off with your sleeve. He’d seen the horror in your eyes—wide and sincere and a little ridiculous, considering the chili dog now sliding down his shirt like it was trying to escape judgment.

So he said nothing.

Just clenched his jaw and stepped out the second those elevator doors opened, beelining to the men’s room. Cold water. Fast scrubbing. Quiet pain.

By the time he’d changed and returned to the lounge, he barely had time to scan the room before John Walker waved him over.

“Bucky,” John had said, holding out a tablet. “Priority situation in the Balkans. You’ll want eyes on this.”

Bucky was halfway across the room before he noticed you were there—standing off to the side, a coffee-stained shirt clinging to your frame, looking small but composed, like you were trying not to exist too loudly.

He hadn’t even realized he’d brushed past you until later.

To be fair, you were… small. He towered over you by nearly three and a half heads. And when his mind was in mission-mode, everything else blurred.

But from that moment on—you were cold. Icy. Guarded. Like he’d somehow declared war just by existing.

—

It wasn’t hate.

Not from his side.

Far from it.

Your file had flagged you as physically promising but slightly under-trained in stamina and real-combat conditioning. So he’d structured your simulations to push you—to meet you at the edge of your capacity.

He wasn’t trying to break you.

He was trying to build you.

And goddamn, you’d risen fast. Quicker than most.

You were smart. Sharp. Focused in a way that made him take notice. Your recovery rate improved. Your reflexes tightened. Your rhythm in combat sparring became beautiful to watch.

And yet, you never gave him anything back but sarcasm, glares, and whispered insults when you thought he wasn’t around.

He had heard you in the pantry that day—grumbling to Yelena.

“Grumpy old bastard,” you’d muttered.

He almost laughed.

Because… yeah.

He was grumpy. He was old.

He didn’t take it personally.

But it confused him.

He’d never insulted you. Never shut you down. Never raised his voice.

Even the damn chili dog—he ordered it because you skipped lunch. And because, after weeks of listening, he knew how you liked it. Extra extra chili. No mustard.

It wasn’t a peace offering. Not exactly.

He just… wanted to talk to you. Properly. Without you frowning at him like he was the plague.

But when he dropped it off at your desk, you didn’t even look up.

—

And now?

Now he couldn’t breathe.

Because the woman who shut down every attempt at conversation—the one who rolled her eyes during briefings, who sparred like she was trying to draw blood—

Was the same woman who sent him a voice note last week whispering “I wish I could ride you until we both black out.”

The same woman who tonight had parted her legs on camera, fingers working between her folds, moaning for him like it was a prayer.

And the worst part?

He liked you.

He already liked you.

Even before tonight’s accidental reveal, there was something about you that got under his skin. Your fire. Your mouth. The way you never let him off the hook.

It drove him crazy.

And now?

Now you were burned into his hands. His sheets. His bloodstream.

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

You were going to hate him.

You were going to find out. If you hadn’t already.

And when you did—

He wasn’t sure what would destroy him faster.

Your disgust.

Or your silence.

—POV end—

—

You got dressed fast.

That siren could’ve meant anything—civilian threat, global emergency, interdimensional chaos. You’d heard stories. One time they scrambled a team for a goose that got too close to a Stark satellite. Another time, someone joked it might be Galactus. No one laughed.

Whatever it was, you weren’t risking being the last one to show up.

You tugged on your gear, tied your hair up, and bolted for the elevator.

And then—ding.

The doors slid open.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Fully dressed in tactical gear, all buttoned up and brooding like usual. Black compression shirt, black pants, boots laced with military precision. His eyes flicked to you once—just a glance—and then back to the elevator panel. But the tension? Instant. Thick.

It had only been a few minutes since you were both naked, panting, whispering filth into your screens. You could still feel the echo of his voice in your bones. Still hear the ragged way he said “fuck, baby” like he was breaking.

You kept your eyes forward.

You meant to keep them forward.

But your gaze dipped anyway. Just for a second. A glance.

Black tactical pants.

The same ones.

The exact same fit, the same cut. The same pants from that picture. From when he said he was “in a meeting.”

Your stomach dropped.

Your eyes flicked back up—and met his.

Caught.

He saw it.

He saw you seeing it.

Your head snapped to the side, heat crawling up your neck, burning into your ears.

Shit.

The silence pressed in on all sides, humming with everything neither of you were saying.

Then you forced yourself to speak.

“Can we talk… after this? After whatever this whole thing turns out to be?”

Bucky didn’t move much. Just a slight nod, his voice low and steady.

“Sure thing.”

—

The siren turned out to be a false alarm.

A rat.

A rat had chewed through a critical cable cluster near the ops wing. Short-circuited a core and triggered multiple alerts. It was now extra crispy and mostly unrecognizable.

The debrief was short. Everyone dispersed.

You didn’t even breathe until the elevator doors closed again.

Then, his voice beside you.

“Talk in my room? Or do you want the common area?”

You looked up at him, fingers fidgeting at your side.

“Somewhere private. Your room sounds… nice.”

He nodded once. Wordless again.

You followed him down the hall. Past mission boards and storage units.

When he opened his door and let you in, you were hit with the quiet scent of aftershave and clean cotton. Dim lighting. Neat, except—

Your eyes caught it.

The bed.

Blanket slightly skewed. Pillow dented. The indent of where he’d been sitting when the call came in. Like you could trace the shape of him from the air still hanging around it.

He didn’t say anything about it. Just walked to the small kitchen island and poured a glass of water. One for you. One for him.

You sat down on the stool beside him, fingers wrapping around the glass like it could anchor you.

Silence stretched.

And then he spoke.

“So…”

You looked up. His eyes were on the counter. Then on you.

“I know you probably hate me right now. Or want to kill me. Or both. And I get it,” he said, voice low, careful. “But… I’m not gonna pretend I regret any of it. The voice notes. The pictures. That call.”

That call. The way he said it sent heat crawling up your spine.

“I never hated you,” he added, softer now. “Honestly, I never understood why you hated me.”

You blinked.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected. “What are you talking about?”

He looked at you fully now. Not like a soldier. Not like a leader. Just… Bucky.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, the words coming quicker now. “You assigned me harsher drills than Yelena or Ava. You didn’t look at me. You didn’t talk to me. You treated me like I was on your shit list from day one.”

It wasn’t accusation this time. Just confusion. Honest and aching.

Bucky’s lips twitched—not in amusement. Just… exasperation. At himself.

“I never meant to make you feel that way,” he said. “I thought I was doing my job. Training you based on your stats. You’re… more capable than most, and I didn’t want to hold you back. That was it. And yeah, I’m not great at small talk, but I swear—I wasn’t ignoring you.”

You stared at him. Processing.

“Even the chili dog?” you asked, a faint smile threatening.

He cracked the smallest smirk. “Extra extra chili, no mustard. You looked like you were gonna pass out from hunger. Seemed like the least I could do.”

You looked down at the counter, your fingers inching closer to his. Slowly, purposefully, you touched your fingertips to the edge of his vibranium hand.

He didn’t move.

You swallowed.

“You know, Bucky,” you said, voice quieter now. “I liked what we had. That connection, when we didn’t know who we were. When it was just… voice and breath and instinct. Felt honest in a way nothing else has.”

You met his eyes again.

“I don’t want that to be ruined because I misread you. Because I let my anger get in the way. That’s on me. And I’m sorry.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. Not annoyed—just like he’d been holding that breath for days.

“I don’t want it to be ruined either.”

There was a pause.

You felt it first.

The shift in the air.

The hum.

Your thighs clenched, your body already remembering the sound of his voice, the weight of his moan, the way he said babe like it was a promise.

You leaned in slightly, just enough.

“In all honesty,” you murmured, “I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want us to stop. I mean, if you’re done with it, I’ll get it. But…”

You tilted your head, your voice a little more playful now.

“I’ve never liked a cock this much in my life. And that cock happened to be yours.”

That did it.

Bucky froze. Blinked. Then his ears went red—just a little. His jaw tightened, but not with anger.

The tension snapped.

And the room started heating up again.

Fast.

—

Your mind could barely register what had happened.

One second, you were sitting on a stool at his kitchen island—nervous fingers tracing your water glass, heart beating louder than the silence.

The next?

You were in his arms.

Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your back against the wall. His mouth on yours—crashing, pulling, devouring.

It was messy. A little rushed. Reverent in its desperation.

Like something ancient had finally been set into motion.

Like this wasn’t just inevitable—it was fated.

You clung to him, hands clutching the collar of his shirt, your mouth parting under his as he kissed you harder, deeper. Tongue slipping past your lips like he already knew what you tasted like.

He walked you backward, blindly, the metal plates of his vibranium arm pressed firm against your thigh. You barely noticed the shift until he sat down at the edge of his bed, dragging you down with him, your thighs straddling his lap like you’d always belonged there.

The kiss never broke.

Only deepened.

Your fingers dove into his hair, tugging hard at the roots, and he groaned into your mouth. His hands were everywhere—the metal one gripping your thigh tight, anchoring you to him, while the warm flesh one came up to cradle your jaw.

His thumb stroked slow, soothing circles into your cheek, a contrast to the way his mouth devoured you.

Then his hand slid lower.

Over your neck.

Down to your chest.

And then—he cupped your breast.

You gasped into the kiss. His thumb brushed over the peak through your shirt. He pulled back just slightly, breath ragged, eyes blown black with need.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped. “You’re so soft.”

His palm squeezed gently, reverently, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“No bra?” he asked, voice hoarse, lips still grazing yours.

“Non-padded,” you whispered, your fingers finding his vibranium wrist and guiding it higher, sliding it over your other breast.

“Jesus,” he muttered, gripping it with care, the cool metal pressing through your shirt as he kneaded both like they were a goddamn miracle.

You reached down, starting to unbutton your shirt from the bottom.

But he stopped you.

His hand caught yours gently. “Lemme,” he breathed, already slipping the buttons open with a surprising ease, one by one, baring more of your skin with each.

When he pushed the fabric aside and saw the bra—thin, delicate, your nipples barely hidden—he groaned.

“Goddamn,” he whispered. “Been dreaming about this… for way too long.”

He reached around you, unhooking your bra with a flick of his fingers.

And when they spilled free?

He froze for half a second. Jaw tight. Throat flexing.

“Fuck me…” he muttered, his hands sliding back up to cup you properly now—skin to skin.

You were already grinding against him. Slow, controlled, your clothed pussy pressing against the thick ridge in his pants.

He let out a low sound. A growl.

Then dipped his head.

And devoured you.

His mouth latched onto one nipple, tongue swirling, lips sucking hard enough to make you arch into him. His metal hand squeezed the other breast, thumb flicking the peak in lazy circles.

You moaned, loud, fingers gripping his shoulders, nails dragging along the fabric of his shirt.

Every flick of his tongue sent electricity down your spine. Your panties were already soaked. The pressure in your core was unbearable. The need clawing at you from the inside out.

“Bucky—fuck—” you gasped, as he moved to your other nipple, worshipping it with the same urgency, same hunger.

He moaned in response, mouth full, pulling back only to whisper, “You sound even better like this. In real life. On top of me. Falling apart.”

You whimpered.

Because it was too good.

Too perfect.

You’d never had sex—not really. The only thing that ever “took” your virginity was a purple dildo named Tomdildody that lived in a shoebox under your bed.

But this?

This was everything Tomdildody could never be.

This was hot breath and strong hands and the delicious stretch of a man who wanted all of you. Not just your body—but the sounds you made. The way you shivered. The way you whispered his name like it was your final prayer.

Your thighs clenched tighter around him, your hips rolling now, slow but shameless, as his tongue dragged one last, greedy circle around your nipple before he looked up at you.

He was wrecked. Eyes dark. Lips slick. His hands still full of you.

You were already shaking.

And it was only the beginning.

—

You slid off his lap without a word.

Your body moved on instinct now—too hot, too full, too overwhelmed to think. You stood at the edge of the bed and peeled off your pants, one leg at a time, your soaked panties clinging to your folds before you yanked them down and tossed them aside.

Bucky followed your lead, rising from the bed like a force of gravity had pulled him up behind you. He undid his belt with one sharp pull, shoved his tactical pants down, and yanked off his boxers.

You froze for a beat.

They were the exact same ones from the FaceTime. Black. Faintly stretched at the waistband. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist and your pussy clench with anticipation.

He sat back down—legs spread, cock heavy and flushed between them. Thick. Glistening. Leaking at the tip like he’d been waiting hours for this.

You climbed into his lap again, bare skin on bare skin now, your knees pressing into the mattress as you straddled him. You sank down just enough for your soaked cunt to drag along the length of him, slow and hungry.

Wet, filthy squelches echoed in the quiet room. You both moaned—loud, ragged, desperate.

Your forehead dropped to his shoulder.

“Let me feel you, Bucky,” you begged, your voice shaking. “I need it. I need you. My pussy wants you so fucking bad…”

You rolled your hips against him again, your slick coating him, teasing him. Your walls clenched at nothing—frantic for him, aching to be filled.

His breath stuttered. Then he growled.

“Fuck, baby…”

He gripped your thighs—metal on one side, warm skin on the other—and lifted you just slightly like you weighed nothing. Then with one hand, he angled his cock and pressed the tip against your entrance.

And when he lowered you down?

Plop.

His cock slid in with ease—your body parting like it had been made to take him. Welcoming. Greedy. The stretch made your mouth fall open. He was thick, curved just right, sliding into you like a prayer answered.

Both of you moaned—loud.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching him. His hands stayed firm on your hips, anchoring you, grounding you.

“Jesus,” Bucky whispered, voice wrecked. “This feels so… unreal.”

He pulled out slightly, then slid back in with a guttural groan. “You feel like heaven, sweetheart. Fuck.”

You barely managed a sound—just a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as your walls clenched around him involuntarily.

“God, your pussy feels so good. So fucking good,” he murmured, his forehead dropping to your chest as he rolled his hips into you. “I wanna live here.”

You let out a sob of pleasure.

Because this—this was bliss. The kind of sex that made you forget time, space, rules. The kind that made your thighs shake and your stomach tighten and your soul hum.

You bounced on his lap in slow, messy thrusts. He met every movement with a snap of his hips, driving deeper each time. His cock rubbed every right place inside you, that slight curve hitting your sweetest spot again and again, forcing sounds out of you that you didn’t know you were capable of.

“Fuckfuckfuck—Bucky—oh my god—” you cried out, hands gripping the back of his neck, pulling him close like he could stop your body from combusting.

He moaned your name.

Over and over.

Like he was tasting it. Claiming it. Like it lived in his blood.

“Say it again,” you breathed, dizzy from the rhythm. “Say my name.”

He thrust up into you with purpose—sharp, needy—and whispered it like it was holy.

“Baby…” he gasped, voice shattering at the edges. “God, you feel so fucking good—fuck, I’m not gonna last.”

And then he said it—your name.

Low. Rough. Worshipful.

Like it wasn’t just something to call you, but something etched into him. Something his. He kept saying it, over and over, like it grounded him. Like it was the only thing he could hold onto as he drowned in the feel of you.

You were unraveling.

Clit grinding into the base of his cock with every drop of your hips. Slick running down his thighs. Your body clenching tighter around him with every thrust.

You didn’t care who heard.

You didn’t care who knew.

Because this was the best thing you’d ever done.

The most right thing you’d ever felt.

You were full of him. Wrapped around him. Buried in him. And as your orgasm started to crash through your belly in pulsing, blinding waves—

You knew this was more than just sex.

This was the beginning of everything.

—

You moaned into Bucky’s ear, breath hitching, hands clawing into his back.

“Baby, I’m so fucking close—harder, baby—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

God, he didn’t.

His grip tightened on your hips, the vibranium fingers splayed with reverent strength, anchoring you to him as he bucked up harder, faster, deeper. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room—slaps, gasps, choked curses. Heat built between your bodies like friction could burn through time.

And then—

It hit.

Your orgasm shattered through you like something sacred. A wave that cracked your spine and left your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Your body trembled, clenching around him, pulling him deeper even as your climax dragged you under.

Bucky groaned into your shoulder, one final thrust before he pulled out, gasping through his teeth as he spilled across your belly, thick ropes hitting your skin, streaking your thighs. You could feel his chest rising and falling under you, faster than usual. Ragged.

And still—you collapsed against him. Boneless. Wrecked.

He caught you instantly. Wrapped both arms around your waist and held you close like you were something he’d been fighting to protect this whole time. His breathing slowed quickly—thanks to that goddamn serum—but you could feel something different in him. Something deeper than just release.

It wasn’t just sex for him.

It hadn’t been for you either.

You stayed like that for a long while—just breathing, just tangled. Your face buried in his neck, skin warm and slick with sweat and something else you didn’t have the language for yet. Something like peace.

Eventually, your arms slid up to hook around his shoulders, and you lifted your head—only just—to find his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes that always looked like they’d seen too much. But now?

Now they were soft. Glowing. Staring at you like you were some kind of beginning.

“That was…” you started, voice raw, shaky with the aftermath.

You paused.

Then you smiled, just a little.

“That was my first time.”

Bucky blinked. Like he hadn’t heard you right. Like the Earth had tilted sideways under him.

You touched his cheek, thumbing at the stubble there.

“And it was the best,” you whispered.

His throat bobbed. He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, as if the words would never be enough. But you could feel it in his hands—the way he held you tighter. How he kissed your forehead, slow and reverent. Like you’d given him more than just your body.

You let him pull you under the blanket with him. Still bare. Still warm.

You curled into his chest, his arm wrapped snug around your back, your leg draped over his. One of his fingers traced circles into your spine, and he whispered things into your hair you couldn’t quite make out—murmured words like baby and you feel like heaven and can’t believe it was you.

And for once, there were no missions. No sirens. No grudge hanging heavy in the air.

Just the quiet weight of new beginnings.

You closed your eyes against his collarbone, and for the first time since joining this chaotic team, you let yourself rest.

Where it was safe.

Where it was warm.

Where he was.

[sailingintothenight]

"The girl in his eyes." Bob Reynolds Imagine.

(Not my gif but give a prize to the people who make them)

Summary: Time together created feelings in the two of you, until the group tries to get him and you to talk, with John urging Bob to talk about "the girl in his eyes." And that creates a big misunderstanding.

A/N: Just a kind of short imagine (around 4K words) cause I'm new here and I don't want to go on too long and bore you all in case this is boring. I'm sorry if there are any grammatical errors. But something I always knew but I accepted today is that some of us write the kind of love we'd like to receive, right? The kind we sometimes can't find, though other did find, I hope. However, in the meantime, don't forget to love yourself please. As a warning, a little angst(?) but with a happy ending! and the word "drug." I think that's all, thanks!

“Lena, did you see (Y/N)—”

The last letter of your name drops to a whisper as Bob stops in front of the long couch, Yelena’s finger pressed against her own lips to silence him, a potato chip sandwiched between her other two before she pops it into her mouth, the bag in her lap, and her full attention back on the phone in her other hand.

She’s sitting diagonally, her back between the cushion behind her and the armrest, her left knee bent down as it falls off the edge to the floor, but it’s the other one that has Bob pressing his lips together as he films this version of you with his bluest gaze, the memory searing itself into his mind. You’re there, asleep, lying sideways on the comfy, fluffy cushions, part of your head on the outside of Yelena’s thigh, a front strand of your hair now falling over your closed eyelids and the border of your nose.

And it's soft for Bob, that image of you, and overwhelming only in the way it forces him to swallow the lump forming in his throat as his feelings pile up inside.

"You need anything, Bob?" Yelena's pointed gaze moves from the paused TikTok video (a cat staring at the camera, a flashbulb fired in right in its face), chuckling as the animal's expression still lingers in her mind, frozen on her phone—the white feline silhouette and wide–open eyes—and she shows it to him. "Have you watched this video?"

Bob nods, and the sound of him trying to clear his throat (so his words don't falter mid–sentence like he knows they will) accompanies the action.

"Yeah, (Y/N) sent it to me a few days ago."

"It's so funny." She laughs softly, and her full attention returns to the device, finger sliding across the screen after saving it to favorites, bringing another chip to her mouth. “That cat is so silly.”

But like a cry, Bob whimpers softly, the tiniest sound in the silence.

“You’re dropping crumbs in her hair, Lena.”

Yelena stops, her gaze sliding from her phone to him and then back down to you, and her slightly oily hand catches the crispy piece that had gotten caught in the strands.

“Relax, Bob. This is the price (Y/N) is paying for using me. She knows it. We shook hands. Now, do you need anything? Or someone, maybe?”

There’s a hint of healthy mockery in her smile, a silent challenge in her tone of voice that’s urging him to answer only with the truth everyone already sees, but the featherweight of her joke feels like lead in his chest and in his nervous hands, covered by a layer of clothing one size too big for Bob.

“No, just… I finished reading a book and thought (Y/N) would be here ready to—”

But there was nothing afterward, just lying there together, in the same bed before sleeping, on extreme sides so as not to cross boundaries but to keep each other company before loneliness settled in every room, when it sometimes forced him to wake up with a gasp and a foggy mind filled with traumatic experiences, talking about books or things.  

But perhaps it was the words left unspoken between you before sleeping (hidden among the ones you did say: goodnight and sleep well), the ones you two avoided saying and pushed aside, along with the feelings that lived dormant in the darkness and accumulated inside each other—the things you both were dying to say but neither of you dared for fear that the already solid pillars of your friendship would crumble because of something as unstable as love.

Yelena waits a second longer, but there is no response from the other end.

“The team and I were talking about you tw—”

Bob knows what it is, the favorite topic on everyone's lips.

“You guys talk a lot, maybe you should shut up for a while. Silence is good sometimes.”

She rolls her eyes, an exasperated look following her action.

“Help me out here for a while, will you? I have a cramp and need to stretch.”

Bob swallows, eyes slightly wide at the prospect of feeling that kind of closeness with you, the kind that comes so quickly it makes him dizzy and ignites the heat in his cheeks sharply. The warmth of your hand, he felt it before, many times, a casual or intentional touch, and it was scorching (when the supermarket was crowded and the crush of people unnerved him sometimes, for example, your fingers would close around his and his hand would squeeze yours), as if it could ignite a forest fire inside him, so wild it seemed it could burn everything—the enemy in his thoughts, his insecurities, his fears, his nightmares.

He didn't even want to think about what it would feel like to feel the heat of your cheek.

But he did.

Bob had imagined it several times already. In a burst of bravery, his heart beating faster than a drug high, his thumb would slide down your cheek, fingers hooking softly around the edge of your jaw.

"Bob?"

"What?"

Yelena drops her things into the armrest, her hand cupping the bottom of your head.

“Put your leg here, Bob.”

He shakes his head, his own heartbeat increasing with the fear and excitement that mix, so close that the line between them blurs, and his somewhat messy, wild hair moves with him.

“I don’t think—”

“Three…”

“What are you—?”

“Two…”

“Lena—”

“One.”

Bob takes a step forward, hands outstretched to stop her without a word, a silent plea in his eyes for her to do nothing, even though Yelena hadn't moved an inch and wasn't planning to either. And with a deep inhalation and exhalation, a failed attempt to fill his lungs with cold air and soothe the heat settling in his chest, Bob switches places with her, even more gentle as you shift in your sleep, your hands close to your face and your cheek now on his leg, covered by his gray sleep pants, but which seem like the finest fabric in the world when Bob feels your heat radiate through your skin until it meets his, every nerve ending.

"You're adorable, Bob." Yelena laughs quietly, but there's not a hint of cruel mockery in her words—never with him—and she leans back on the second–long sofa, phone in her hand again. "Like those boys in her books. Such a gentleman. I know why she likes you so much."

Likes you, being in love—two different scenarios if the feelings on either side were unequal. Either a chasm separated those two feelings, or the first could be the path to get to the other.

“Did I do something wrong to make her not like me anymore?”

The weight of self–doubt about a topic as distant and still foreign to him as love (next to his insecurities) try to bring down the confidence Bob was still trying to build little by little, and Yelena can see them shining clearly in his gaze as he finally holds hers, even in the dim living room light at night, searching for an answer he can't find within himself, not when there's a thick fog between the truth and him.

“What do you mean?”

Bob shrugs.

“(Y/N) is always here with me, but absent at the same time, as if something has suddenly changed between us.”

“You’re overthinking things, Bob.”

There’s affection in Yelena’s words, warm in their attempt to reassure him of a truth hidden among his fears, but he lets out a small sound, something like a laugh without a hint of humor. Just an empty noise.

“Overthinking sometimes allows you to see the smallest things.”

“Like what?”

Bob can see it in his sometimes fragmented mind, every moment together and the way you changed, finding solitude where there was only company, a touch of emptiness when there was always life in your eyes.

But he doesn't know exactly how to explain it, and Yelena nods thoughtfully.

"Why don't you try to think about what exactly you did then? We have a while until the losers arrive with dinner. I'm going to be here with you, but ignoring you at the same time, okay?"

Catching his slight nod, Yelena turns on the couch, face close to the cushion and her phone in between, indistinct sounds from the videos, set to low volume, floating around him so the absolute silence doesn't completely consume him with the severity of his thoughts.

Bob lowers his head and his gaze rests on you, barely listening to the sound of your slow breathing as, in your sleep, your body relaxed, at peace. The curve of your lips is tempting, and he lifts the hand resting in his lap to push that strand of hair away from your face and place it where it belongs.

There, above your eyebrow and with nothing covering it, Bob can see the only physical reminder of the fall of a whole building when your self–control overflowed at the edge of your anger. And like a tiny crack in a surface, the small scar has a slightly different hue than your skin, but it was an imperfection that only makes you more perfect, more real, a whole person and not like a cruel dream from which Bob always wakes up before reaching.

Just like that, your presence in his life became a need.

You were the proof that he was still alive after the unbearable pain, (knowing all have been worth it because he met you) and that his heart hadn't turned to tin. He was still breathing, his heart was still beating, and he'd finally felt the nervous tingle, the fluttering of being in love.

Love, so silent you don't even know you have it until you're full of it.

Love, a silent feeling in a room full of euphoria, and at the same time, it's like an alarm that goes off and no one but him and you can hear.

To be close to you, with you, every day, that’s all Bob wanted at the beginning. But almost selfishly, the passage of time together made him greedy, wanting more from you, a different smile than you had for others, a new kind of laugh, escalating until all his thoughts were about you, daydreaming about how to shake off that title of friend and crown himself with a different one.

It was a silent plea, a hope. It became a desire that made him company through his sleepless nights…

“You need to be direct with her.” Alexei had said weeks ago in the kitchen, when the hands of the clock showed it was too late at night. “Your words must be deep enough to cut like a knife in the heart.”

Bob didn’t even know how he’d ended up in that secret meeting, when all he’d wanted to do was grab a late–night snack from the fridge to leave on your nightstand after you’d joked embarrassingly that you did that sometimes. But, confused and slightly scared, his eyebrows furrowed in surprise as the rest of the men stared at the red guardian and his constantly failing attempt to explain himself properly.

“Maybe not so direct.” Walker shook his head, the usual mocking tone on the edge of his voice. “How about you just tell her in small hints instead of trying to draw blood? You can hint that you like her, but without actually saying I like you.”

Bob blinked, confused, the information coming in too fast as he tried to take it all in.

“Like what?”

Bucky wag his head softly.

“Ask her to teach you how to do things you know she likes. She will feel that you are interested in her.”

And that was exactly what Bob did.

Now, when the doors of the elevator open and some really loud voices pierce the room, his natural protective instinct, (the one that was born the first time he took care of his father after witnessing his first blackout) makes his hand, a second after the resounding sound, move fast to press it against your ear, blocking out the laugh coming from the men.

As a reflex, your body moves in your sleep, but your awakening is less abrupt with his help.

You get up slowly, your mind and gaze blurred as Yelena leaves the living room, patting Bob on the shoulder on her way to the dining room. The edges of your gaze darken after rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands, the pleasant sting creeping around as you chuckle.

“Did I sleep so much I forgot I was lying on your leg?”

Bob chuckles too, and an invisible thread pulls the corner of his lip upward.

“You slept so long that Lena’s leg went numb. Just like mine.”

You let out a surprised laugh, your body slumping back against the backrest.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you know I’m always here for you.”

“Kids, dinner!”

Alexei’s voice fills the room.

At the same time, as a reflection that you both can’t avoid in time when instinct wins, Bob and you move your bodies to look over your shoulders, heads turning in the same direction, finding yourselves at what your mother used to call, at the perfect distance of a kiss. Bob is so close you can almost drink his breath, stopping yours when his blue gaze holds yours for an eternal second that finish quickly but that feels endless, watching each other's eyes before you both separate, looking forward as a nervous feeling fills your heart.

You walk away first, finding an empty spot next to Ava.

“Dad, will you stop calling us to the table like we’re real kids?” Yelena complains, sitting at one of the heads of the food–laden table as Bob sits in the chair across from you. “Someone here is older than life.”

The rest chuckle, not too loudly.

“But you’re my kids. Now, let’s have dinner like family.”

At some point, there is a back—and—forth conversation around, about a past relationship for some of them, somehow empty, never too deep because talking once about the future they hoped and never got to feel is enough for everybody, but always accompanied by soft laughter that makes the tower feel like a real home after some lost it or never had it in the first place.

“So… what’s your type of man, (Y/N)?” Yelena chuckles, and the sound is full of genuine affection for you, but it hides her desire to steer the conversation in a way that Bob can be included in your words. “You’re always reading, so you must have a type. Maybe someone here is like that.”

The others feign innocence, but the possibility stirs in Bob’s body with a heartbeat that’s too fast, eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion, and a certain weight of worry about not hearing a promising answer.

“Who?” Ava laughs also knowingly, with a certain disdain at thinking of the others and you that way too, and her finger points at Alexei. “Too old.” Then at Bucky. “Way too old.” Finally, at John. “Too much of an idiot. That leaves just Bob.”

Bob swallows at the sound of his name, so abruptly that the food in his mouth makes his expression twist slightly in pain.

The others, expectant, continue waiting.

You clear your throat, your heart pounding against your chest as if it were seeking its own freedom and a way out of a situation that seems unlikely to end well.

“The usual, I guess, just… a nice guy.”

“Oh, come on, that’s not fun.” John grins, malice bubbling up as if he needs to embarrass someone at least once a day to survive. “You could be more specific, like Bob. Right now there is a girl in his eyes so he could tell us what she’s like, describe her so much until we’re bored.”

Bob's gaze meets yours, barely a second before you look away when Bucky speaks.

“I think that’s enough with the jokes, huh?”

But then, to everyone’s surprise and his own, Bob speaks, and with a touch of nervousness bordering on anxiety, he starts talking about her. Just a little, not quite to the point of boring the rest of you.

And you listen, your heart a little cold around the edges. Like a brutal change in the season, the tempest of his words threatens to hurt you without hesitation or guilt, but you listen, because you always tried to be a good friend to Bob, a person he could trust when he didn't even trust his own shadow. And even when he was always full of doubt about himself, about the truth, he seemed to trust your voice more than the enemy within, the one that whispered only cruelty. Even when he became cloudy, pulling the blanket off his head when you asked him to, because that was always the only promise for him that it would all end eventually.

For all those months together, it had been you, and between heartbeats, it had always been him. Until you confused things, apparently.

Until the girl in his eyes arrived.

And it hurts, it burns to think about it, that reality that creeps up on you, that of always being just a friend. And it's like having an empty stomach, an empty mind, an empty heart.

When he's finished, you excuse yourself to leave with a smile and your head held high, leaving the deathly silence behind and missing the way Bob follows you with his eyes, even after you disappear from the room.

"I think we blew this." Ava lets out a small sound, like a worried laugh at possible defeat as she looks at the rest.

"Did you have to go on so long, genius?" A semi–hard object hits the side of Bob's head and bounces off it, without erasing his terrified expression as he looks at Bucky. "We told you you had to flatter her a little, not write her a Shakespearean sonnet."

Yelena frowns.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Some weeks ago we told Bob to try to hint to (Y/N) that he likes her without telling her he likes her.”

“And?”

“And nothing else. (Y/N) came into the kitchen to get something from the fridge, and the conversation ended there.”

“Did she hear you talking about this ingenious plan?” Ava’s hard gaze landed on Bob, and he blinked, innocent eyes set in a look of terror. “Did (Y/N) hear you talking about her, or did she hear you being told by the smartest men in this place how to get your girl?”

As night fell and sent the rest of the team to sleep, the endless talk finished when you had entered the kitchen, a soft sound from your throat announcing your presence first.

“What are you doing up so late, darling?”

“I came to get something to eat.” Bucky’s gaze rested on you, all the way until you closed the fridge door. “Sorry to interrupt your boys’ sleepover.”

“It’s not a boys’ sleepover, (Y/N).” John frowned, slightly offended.

“Men’ sleepover is better.” Alexei smiled, and you laughed with him, his innocence fluttering as the others sighed in defeat.

“Of course, my mistake. Sleep well, everybody.”

“You too.”

The others' voices were an echo, except for Bob's, lips closed as your eyes fell on him in your farewell.

He never said your name, and neither did the others. But from then on, there was only half a life in your eyes, whereas before they had always been full of it every time you looked at him.

The seconds of understanding end when Bob stands up, so fast he pushes his chair back with a dry sound against the polished floor.

His own breathing becomes labored, but he tries to calm his anxious heart.

"You always have to ruin things—"

"Not this time. Not with her." Bob murmurs softly, and when he finally reaches your room, your door is always open for anyone who wants to enter and exist, and that's a mixed relief. "(Y/N)?"

You look over your shoulder, your body facing away from him as you continue to sit in front of your laptop on the desk.

"Yes?"

"Can I come in?"

"Of course."

Bob closes the door behind him, barely making a noise as he ventures inside, feeling the place like untapped territory even though he's been there since his life merged with yours. The sound of his sneakers on the floor is almost nonexistent, but it feels heavy like lead in his pockets as Bob sits next to you, listening to the almost ghostly volume of the video playing in front of you.

"You okay, Bob?"

Your attention is on the screen and your voice is a whisper, but it is an overwhelming force that hits his chest, even harder than bullets in the past.

"Are you?"

You chuckle.

"I asked you first."

Bob hums a reply.

"Do you want to lie down for a while? I finished a new book today and think I can convince you to read it."

You shake your head, but there's a slight, honest smile on your lips.

"I'm not sleepy yet. Maybe later or tomorrow."

Neither of you says anything for a moment, your eyes straight ahead like Bob's gaze lingers on your profile.

Bob knew that you, too, were still learning to use your voice like him, to find the right words—always hidden—so scattered across different galaxies, so far from each other that you still struggled to put them together to say something eloquent, to say what you both truly wanted to say, what you truly felt. Silence had always been your ally and an imposition for him. And that had been his curse throughout his life and yours, always in solitude, until it created his inability to speak.

But not today, not ever again.

“We’re feeling a little much apathetic today, huh?”

It’s not an accusation, but his tone tinges with his sassiness, the kind he used to make direct comments and respond to other people’s jokes, to John’s sarcasm and sometimes Bucky’s condescension. Today, however, his words make you frown sharply as you turn to look at him.

“Excuse me?” His gaze threatens to falter and leave yours when you narrow your eyes at him, but Bob stands firm when what he's said is free to the world, saying out loud what he wants to say instead of letting it perish inside and ducking his head to pretend it never happened. "You're quite bold sometimes, Bob."

“And you’re quite clueless.” He smiles, softly, firmly planted on the floor, his heart pounding in his chest. The electricity, the tingling at his fingertips as the result of this brave act is addictive, like a drug, but ultimately a healthy one, one he wants to get hooked on. “I was talking about you, silly. How can you be so smart and not realize that every word I said was about you, (Y/N)?”

Your frown relaxes, and the gnawing feeling of annoyance at his forwardness is replaced by confusion. His hands cup the sides of your chair, and Bob pulls you closer, gently, not roughly, taking in the way your body has stopped tensing, being brave when he sees your eyes light up with affection again, completely—a little scared around the edges, but finally not halfway.

“When I asked you to teach me how to braid your hair, it was for you—for that loose braid you always have. Your mom did it for you, didn’t she? Every day.” You nod, feeling the heat from his knees radiating against yours. “When I asked you to teach me how to dance to those old ballads Bucky loves so much, I didn’t do it to dance with someone else. I did it because I saw the way he spun you around one night and saw you laugh, and I wanted so badly to be him that I could feel my body vibrate. The things I said in the kitchen, about her hair and her laugh and everything—it was all about you, okay? Can you believe me? Please?”

You nod again, and Bob can see the hope, right next to that desire of a soul crying out for the exact same thing as his, silent but fervent.

His hands cup your face, soft skin over slightly calloused fingers on your cheek and the underside, thumbs gliding to make his dreams (asleep and awake) come true, a touch so tender you feel nothing but warmth at the tips—his face so close his breath mingles with yours.

Your own hands clutch at his arms, searching for something to hold you steady as well.

“I’m sorry. I… I got scared. This is my first time feeling like this.”

“I know. And I’m so sorry, I never meant to make you feel like there was someone else there because ever since I met you, it’s always been you. And if you have any doubts, you are the girl in my eyes.”

Bob leans forward, closing the small space between his existence and yours.

And behind his closed eyelids, like yours, the darkness ceases to be terrifying and becomes pleasurable, for the first time in his life. Time, life itself, the past and future are suspended, unimportant and in an eternal pause in the seconds his lips linger against yours. It's an unspoken conversation, a confession of love without even having to say those three letters. A connection, strength and gentleness, melting away any fear or doubt. The kiss is soft like him, a little shy like you, but real and perfect after every moment you imagined him in your head.

And in a synchronized movement, the two of you separate, breathing in each other's air.

"I'll be back, okay? I won't be long." He whispers, his lips touch yours with the promise of many more shared kisses, before Bob stands.

"Where are you going?"

He stops halfway across the room and turns around, those strands of hair on either side of his face bouncing with the movement.

“I'm going to get you some midnight snacks so you won't have to get up, and that book I was talking about.”

You laugh softly.

“And you're going to tell the others, aren't you?”

“No.” His shoulders slump. “Yes. I have to, honey. Lena and Ava were about to hurt me really bad.”

A nervous but genuine smile appears on that sweet face of him before Bob turns away.

[andy-15-07]

Can you write about PedroXreader, she has a crush on him and she tells him, he pushes her away because she is 30 but deeply he likes her too.

He gets jealous when guys approach her, and one night at a party a guy kisses her in front of him and he gets angry and leaves, she knows he is jealous so she follows him home , and things gets smutty back home?

Dont know if it made sense English is not my first language

Twenty Years Too Late

PAIRING:Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 1347| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

You’d been crushing on Pedro for months,ever since you’d been cast as a reporter in that indie pilot he was executive producing. His warm smile, that gravelly voice when he corrected your pronunciation of “Mandalorian,” the way he’d lean in when you told him an anecdote about your dog… all of it had you swooning. Yet every time you tried to flirt, he’d gently deflect.

Tonight, at a mutual friend’s rooftop party in LA, you decided: enough.

You found him perched on a stool near the bar, stirring his drink. He wore a simple black tee and jeans,handsome in effortless Pedro style.

“Hey,” you said, sliding onto the stool next to him.

He offered that lopsided grin. “Hey. You look… radiant, as always.”

Your heart flipped. “Can I be honest?”

“Please.” He lifted his glass, encouraging you.

You took a breath. “I have a crush on you. A big one. You’re handsome, talented, kind… and I’ve been dying to tell you.”

His smile faltered. He set down his glass. “I… you’re sweet, really.” He paused, eyes drifting away. “But I,I’m nearly twenty years older than you.”

You blinked. Twenty years older? He was fifty-two. You were thirty-two. It never felt like an age gap to you; it felt like you’d met someone who saw you. But you bit back the retort.

“Age is just a number,” you said softly.

He ran a hand through his hair. “I know what people would say. I can’t… I shouldn’t.”

Your throat tightened. “What if I don’t care what people say?”

He stood abruptly. “I’m sorry.” With that, he walked away into the crowd, leaving you stunned on the stool.

You nursed your drink, replaying the scene in your head. You hadn’t expected perfection, but his reaction stung worse than rejection. You watched him near the DJ, laughing with friends,but every few seconds he’d glance over at you, tension in his shoulders.

Then you saw the first interloper: a tall guy in a linen shirt drift over, leaning in to compliment you. You smiled politely, but the stranger reached to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. Pedro’s jaw clenched; you saw it from across the deck.

The guy’s hand lingered, his face inching closer to yours. You tensed. Pedro rose, stepping between you. His eyes were sharp, his voice low. “Everything okay here?”

The man stammered, stepping back. “Uh, yeah. Just,hi.” He smiled too broadly and backed off.

Pedro forced a polite grin for the guy, then turned to you. Heat burned behind his eyes. “Let’s get some air.”

He took your hand and led you up to the next rooftop level, away from the crowd. You followed silently, adrenaline thrumming in your veins.

He leaned against the railing, facing the city. Neon lights flickered below. After a moment, he spoke, voice tight: “You told me you liked me. Why didn’t I just stay and listen?”

You crossed your arms. “Because you were scared. You think it’s wrong.”

He gave you a sidelong glance. “Do you think it’s wrong?”

You stepped closer. “No. I think it’s… complicated.”

He looked away, jaw working. You reached up, brushed his cheek. “I’m not some kid. I’m thirty-two. I can handle the complications.”

He caught your hand in his. A tremor ran through him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You sighed, heart aching at his concern. “I’m already hurt, Pedro. But I still want this.” You pressed a kiss to his palm. “Us.”

A beat passed. Then suddenly, the distant strains of music and laughter dissolved into the night as he spun you around, pressing you against the cold metal railing. His lips crashed into yours, fierce and desperate. You melted instantly into the heat of him, arms winding around his neck, your legs kicking out until he lifted you, legs straddling his waist.

His mouth traveled down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. You gasped into his shirt, heart pounding. His hands roamed your back, tugging your dress hem higher, brushing the lace of your panties through the fabric.

He lifted you onto the railing, legs wrapped around him as you ground your body against his bulge. The zipper of his jeans strained in your grasp. You tilted your head back, offering more of your throat, and he obliged with hot, needy kisses.

“God, you,” he broke off, voice ragged. “You’re going to get us killed.”

You laughed breathlessly. “I don’t care.”

He fumbled with his jeans, freeing himself just enough to push into you, shallow at first. Your nails dug into his shoulders as he thrust, the cold metal railing against your back heightening every sensation.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hitting deep. “You feel amazing.”

You rolled your hips with his, meeting every thrust. The wind whipped around you, but all you felt was heat. Your breath came in short pants.

“Pedro,” you moaned, voice trembling. “I want more.”

He obliged, pulling you flush against him, driving harder now. The sound of skin meeting skin, the wet, filthy noises of it, echoed through the quiet night.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Come with me.”

He hissed in response, thrusting until your moans turned into cries. With a final, firm push, you both tumbled over the edge of control, clinging to each other as your bodies shook.

He collapsed against the railing beside you, both of you panting. He brushed a strand of hair from your face. “Why did I ever push you away?”

You laughed softly, fingertips tracing his jaw. “Because you’re a stubborn old man.”

He shot you a mock-offended look. “Hey.”

You kissed him lightly. “Thank you for this. Thank you for being jealous.”

He smiled, shadows and neon playing across his face. “Jealous? Me?”

You nodded, curling into him. “Yes. Jealous.”

He swallowed. “I… I really like you.”

Your heart soared. “I like you too.”

He kissed you then, slower this time, savoring every second, tasting you like he’d memorized every part of you.

When the party wound down, you slipped back to his place,the same you’d sneak into before dawn all summer long. The door clicked closed behind you, and suddenly it was private again.

He backed you against the door, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone. You lifted your arms, helping him unbutton your dress. It pooled at your feet. He dropped to his knees, hands skimming over your thighs.

“Can’t get enough,” he murmured, thumb brushing your clit through your panties.

You moaned. “Then don’t.”

He tugged the lace aside and enveloped you in heat, tongue swirling until you trembled. The world narrowed to just his mouth on you and your fingers threading through his hair.

When he stood again, kisses trailed up your body until he reached your lips, capturing them in a bruising kiss. His hands went under your thighs, lifting you up. You wrapped your legs around him, guiding him in.

Inside his apartment, on the carpet near the door, he moved slow at first, savoring. You ground down on him, the difference in height only making it deeper. His hands clutched at your hips, thumbs dug into your flesh.

“God, you’re so tight,” he panted.

You reached for his back, nails raking gently. “Pedro… faster.”

He obeyed, thrusting harder, deeper, the sound of your skin slapping echoing softly. You kissed him through it, tongue dueling, breath mingling.

The world dropped away as you built toward release again. He shifted, angling just right, and you both fell over the edge together, voices rising in ecstasy.

He collapsed beside you afterwards, forehead resting on yours, arms wrapped around you protectively.

“I love you,” he whispered, as if testing the words.

You traced circles on his chest. “I love you too.”

He smiled, kiss swift and soft. “Twenty years older, huh?”

You laughed. “Worth every one.”

He chuckled, pressing another kiss to your lips. “Worth every second.”

And as you drifted off in his arms, the city lights outside your window flickering like distant stars, you knew this confession,and the jealousy that ignited it,had brought you both exactly where you belonged.

[overangel]

I just thought of this while in the middle of sending the ask about hair pulling, but what will happen to the Batfamily's love interest when they fall for darling and how do they feel about their man being in love with their stepsister? Do they know darling or did they find out about her after their bat started pursuing her instead of them?

(I'm so sorry for sending so many asks😭)

-🦇

𝑾𝒉𝒐'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍?

Dick = Starfire & Barbara

Kori understands, but Barbara breaks.

You helped him see that his worth wasn’t tied to who he was with or how he made people feel. Your concern for him was genuine, your observations impassioned, and for some reason your words reached deeper than anyone else’s ever had.

You were right. He had a problem but had been at it for so long, he didn’t know how to stop and who he would be after if he ever did.

He took a step back and saw what he had been doing with his life. He was sexualized since he was a boy and bounced between women like a pinball, leaving a trail of broken hearts and feeling emptier from each relationship.

He was looking for something he couldn’t find in himself, something he was sure he could only find in another person.

You helped him see that he was so much more than a body, a face, or a fantasy, and he fell.

The exact opposite of what you wanted.

Kori understands his feelings completely. Her people are driven by passion, and she could feel his love for you practically radiating off his being simply from your name being mentioned. 

His change was subtle but couldn't go unnoticed by someone who loved him as deeply as she did. He wasn't always "on" like before. Whether as Dick Grayson or Nightwing, he was always being watched, admired, devoured. He was never caught at a bad angle, and he still wasn't now—Dick Grayson didn't have bad angles—but he was simply being now. When was the last time he could take a deep breath and feel his lungs expand and taste the sun on his tongue and smell the scent of daisies on the air? It was when his parents were alive. And now, it's after falling in love with you.

He was less touchy and more relaxed. He took things at a slower pace, and was less compelled to sprint into danger or into an entanglement. He wasn't constantly seeking validation to distract him from the pain.

She wasn’t an idiot.

Kori loves love, and she loves Dick and wants him to be happy even if it’s not with her. You wouldn't back down if she fell in love with her adopted sister either (if she had one), so how could she have the gall to discourage Dick? She wasn't a hypocrite.

That doesn’t stop her from initially wanting to fight you to the death for him, but she doesn’t need to lose a fight to see she’s already lost.

She and Dick sat in a long silence, their faces saying what words couldn’t. 

It’s over. 

It had been over the moment you touched his heart.

Barbara can’t be calm, cool, and collected in this scenario. Barbara could let things slide within reason, and had to get used to the insanity life threw at her at every turn, but this was something she didn’t think she could accept.

 A knee jerk reaction tells her that this is wrong! You might as well be Dick’s sister. She shames him for being promiscuous, and lets loose on all the ways this wouldn’t end well for him.

What? He ran out of options and started looking close to home? (she’s a hypocrite and knows it, but emotions are irrational and she’s letting every single one take over)

So what if you were an adult and got your body back? You were Bruce’s daughter that made you off limits, especially to him (who said?). Dick was just lonely and bored and looking for an exotic distraction.

She belittled him in every way and he just stood there. Staring into her eyes, he was an immovable mountain.  

“Are you done?” She was hurting and she wanted to hurt him even more. He knew this and let her lash out and she hated him for being the bigger person.

“I never knew you were a creep.” She spat out from bitten lips.

“I didn’t know you were so small-minded.”

She swings on him and he lets her chop connect. She kicks him in the gut and he doesn’t dodge. He merely bends but his knees don’t buckle. His face is impassive as if she’s just a gnat in front of him.

He waits for her tantrum to end and for all of the fight to leave her so he can help her crawl into her bed. She's dissolved into tears, and her fiery hair he once loved is a curtain hiding her shame.

He leaves their—no, her—apartment. He’s moving out today. He leaves his key on the table and doesn’t look back.

He’s going home to you.

Jason = Ravager

Ravager tries to hit him where it hurts. 

It’s no secret that Jason pushed people away, including the rare few with good intentions. Especially that rare few. He could’ve had something good with Ravager—Rose Wilson—but it was a different day, same story. Jason didn’t want to let himself be vulnerable. If he let someone in, they’d see the things he never let see the light of day for a reason.

They'd see the beauty, but a lot more ugly, and he wouldn't be able to live if someone he loved saw who he really was and couldn't accept him.

It was a shame. They had so much in common. They both knew pain like an intimate friend, were the black sheep of their families, and learned that life wasn't fair before they could even walk. 

They could’ve been so good together, and Jason once regretted pushing her away, hating himself for once again not knowing how to be happy. But now? He was relieved he had pulled away. It was like he unconsciously saved himself for your arrival.

And because things could never be easy for Jason, Rose had fallen back into his life acting like they had never been apart right when he was trying to build something that would last with you.

She was startled and that rarely happened. He wasn’t the same old Jason she knew. He didn’t run from his feelings, he embraced them. He no longer hid his insecurities with dark humor and one-liners, and now he walked like man who knew who he was and was confident with his choices.

He didn’t need Batman’s or anyone else's approval and even more, he didn’t want it. 

He had changed in ways she thought he never could in his life and she was smart enough to find out why that was.

He had been setting up his scope when she cornered him on a rooftop one night. “Seriously?” She hissed. Her mouth curled into a disgusted snarl. “That’s low even for you.” Jason merely squinted, his mind turning over what she could be talking about.

“Aren’t you taking your daddy issues a little too far? Going after his daughter?”

Jason’s blood ran cold and his eyes, that you lovingly called ‘teal,’ flashed with the toxic green of the pit. 

“Watch it, Ravager.”

She leaned in, “Or what? You’re too scared of women, but your sister’s fair game?”

He took one controlled breath. There would not be a third chance after this.

“That’s not the case. I’m not afraid. I’m in love.” The toxin switched to that lovely teal when he thought of you, “She makes me better.”

Ravager scoffed and it almost sounded like she was gathering spit, “She’s a bandage for the bigger problem.” He could feel her roll her eyes under her ask. "You're fucked, and so is she."

He didn’t hold back, but he didn’t kill her either. They had been friends once. 

“Real rich of you talking about daddy issues.” He knelt beside her battered and broken body and wiped the blood from his blade on the skin beside her empty eye socket. He had removed her mask and eyepatch during the fight and dug in a thumb to completely immobilize her. The scream that erupted from her throat was inhuman and he grinned in wolfish satisfaction.

Anyone would deserve it for talking about you like that.

“She’s not my sister, and even if she was,” He turned his back on her, who was fighting unconsciousness, “that wouldn’t stop me.”

Tim = Bernard Dowd

Bernard loses his first love.

Tim had chosen Bernard out of love, but Tim didn’t have a choice when it came to you. The obsession took root and thrived without sunshine or water. A single breath from your pretty lips was enough to nurture the sprout into a full bloom, its creeping vines wrapping around his heart and mind, forever entangled.  

Bernard thought they had settled into something almost normal like how a relationship should be. He discovered Tim’s secret identity, and shared how Tim let him be his true self too. All of the excuses, why Tim had to rain check or go help Dick or Bruce with something spontaneous during all hours of the day, started to make sense to him.

It didn’t take long for that momentary peace to be disrupted.

He first noticed the way Tim looked at you. Well, ‘look’ wasn’t strong enough. The way Tim watched you. He stared unabashedly with dilating pupils. Bernard could see Tim’s eyes moving, devouring every minor detail of yours and then committing it to memory until he could see you again. You always greeted Bernard kindly when you came across each other, and hardly spared Tim a glance, but to his horror, Tim was grateful for any little crumb and walked on air if you even said “Hi.” to him.

It’s like Tim knew where you’d go before you even got there. So many times had he moved their study session to the dining room or den before you walked in, only for you to turn back and for Tim to plead for you to stay. Bernard watched it all with a sour taste in his mouth and sinking feeling in his gut.

Tim switched date spots to wherever you were and made it look like a happy coincidence (only happy for him). He changed his habits to fit your taste, suddenly craved your favorite foods, and was always anticipating your needs. 

Bernard knew it was over when he and Tim were hanging out in the garden, but Tim had been watching you water the plants in silence, not acknowledging Bernard for two hours. 

Bernard whispered quietly, “She’s your sister, Tim.”

“Huh?” Tim was suddenly brought back into his own body.

“What do you think people will say when they find out? You’re Mr. Wayne’s adopted son and she’s an heiress.” He can’t believe he had to spell it out, but it was like wasn’t aware at all. This was a scandal that rivalled being Red Robin.

No! Tim Drake, wealthy in his own right and adopted son to Bruce Wayne fucking Y/n L/n-Wayne—Bruce Wayne's only biological daughter who was discovered in one of the most shameful moments of Bruce's life—would be infinitely more scandalous to the masses than simply finding out some rich kid was a vigilante.

Tim turned his head and locked eyes with Bernard. Something was missing behind Tim’s blue eyes. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Yes it is! I’m your boyfriend.”

Tim’s brows scrunched up, and his voice was dipped in pity. “Bernard…”

Bernard jumped to his feet and almost knocked over the lawn chair. “Don’t you dare, Tim! Don’t look at me like that.”

Tim sighed and swung his legs over the side of the recliner to face him. “Listen, I have a lot to thank you for,” Tim threaded his fingers together and rested on his knees, “but it’s best that we stop now.”

“Are you really breaking up with me for your sister?”

Through gritted teeth, “Stop saying that. She’s not my sister.”

“Well, she’s your adopted dad’s daughter so what do you think?”

Tim raised a thin brow and the pretense of pity to let Bernard down easy vanished. “I think this relationship’s run its course.”

Bernard’s shoulders dropped and his lips trembled. “This can’t be real, Tim… It could be anyone. You could go back to Stephanie, but does it have to be her?”

Tim’s resolve is unshakeable. He knew that this was taboo. He knew the dangers, he knew the ridicule, but he was ready. He had a contingency for anything that would inevitably come your way and was more than prepared to drag you down to hell with him.

“It can only be her.”

Tim sat back and resumed admiring you from a safe distance. “Alfred will show you out.”

Damian = Flatline

“Then what was all that “girlfriend” crap about on the island? What was that kiss, Robin?”

Damian was a lot taller than he had been on the island when he was barely a teen battling with self doubt and a cowl he may never fit. His shoulders were broader, his gait longer, and his horizons had broadened since you had come into his life.

“That was a long time ago.” 

“Not long enough for you to fall for your own sister!”

Damian almost tsk’d but reined it in, not wanting to seem dismissive to the girl who once meant so much to him. You taught him to be this considerate even to people he barely wanted to spare a glance.

He was young when he got his first “girlfriend,” hell, he thought of Flatline as his girlfriend before she even considered the possibility. He had been some dorky kid in a costume to her, and she had literally ripped his heart out when they first met.

He seemingly fell for her more and more, but now? He was taking back that title by force. You were the only one who would be his girlfriend, lover, and wife. He would scrub away any speck of him ever having been “unfaithful” in his past even if you didn’t know or care.

He couldn’t let anything tarnish his purity for you.

“Emotions ran high, Flatline. We were literally fighting for our lives if you don’t recall.”

“So, now it was a spur of the moment thing?” Her painted face contorted painfully. He had made her feel, and now he was just taking this back?

Damian let loose a ragged sigh and pinched his nose bridge in irritation. “I admit, I had a crush on you. However, I was child." He looked at her now like she was a child he had to explain things very carefully to, "Now, I'm a man, and she's the woman I'll love for the rest of my life."

Damian had been the one to show her that she had a choice. That she could be more than a killing machine.

"And you're just taking everything back?"

Damian's eyes flashed. He was a Wayne, but Ra's Al Ghul's roots ran deep and if you were ever in danger he'd chuck the code out the window.

"I'm not taking anything back. I was always hers from the beginning."

Bruce = Selina Kyle

“You monster!” Catwoman screeched through blood red lips and pointed canines. Her leather whip found its target, lashing at Batman’s eyes before he could fully avoid the danger zone. 

The Cat was chasing the Bat with bloodlust in her eyes, and rage pumping through her veins. He retreated, “You don’t want to do this, Catwoman.”

“I know exactly what I want, you freak.”

She closed the distance between them and slashed at his face with diamond claws, “She’s a child!”

“She’s a grown woman now.” 

The claws drew blood, but he managed to grab her wrist and put her in an armlock. She huffed through gritted teeth, “She was a teenager when she got here. Just a girl, and your daughter! You were supposed to protect her from freaks like you!”

Those words didn’t hurt him. No one could say anything worse than he had already thought about himself. 

Catwoman broke free and flipped to kick him in the jaw, he blocked it effortlessly, and became more serious. He had battled with this crisis every second of every day since he discovered you were the vigilante he had been lusting and longing for. He put himself in more life and death situations than usual, and took risks that almost promised he'd come out maimed.

He knew this was wrong, but he couldn't stop. Did he want to?

“I’ll kill you!” She shrieked, and her moves become more erratic. She was too emotionally invested in your situation. She thought of you and only saw a sixteen year old girl who had lost it all. A girl like you needed to be protected but she was thrown to the wolves in Gotham, and taken by the big bad wolf in sheep's clothing.

She knew how vulnerable girls like you had once been ended up, and the fear that gripped her heart made her fight even harder.

Bruce blocked and parried effortlessly as she began to lose stamina. A strong backhand with way too much force behind it sent her spiraling and landing across the construction site where the late night battle began.

"You're sick." She nearly cried, knowing she couldn't save the girl you used to be.

"Always have been."

[seongwars]

intermission: deluge (preview)

Pairing: heir!Park Seonghwa x photographer!Reader AU: non-idol | strangers by nature universe Genre: angst, some humor, mystery Rating: T (mentions of m*rder, swearing) Summary: Bound to a future he didn’t choose and an engagement he doesn’t want, Seonghwa has buried every trace of who he used to be. But when an old camera sends him hurtling back ten years into his 21-year-old body, he's given a second chance to confront the choices that changed everything.

a/n: I'm not sure when Seonghwa's next appearance is going to be in SBN so he gets his own little spinoff 🤭 this will be a LONG one shot and is my version of lovely runner and a reverse version of 13 going on 30 and a 3K preview

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The boardroom buzzed as people began collecting their laptops and belongings, finally escaping the stuffy meeting room and into the sun. Seonghwa stood, perfectly composed in his tailored navy suit, and bowed at the departing executives.

“Your numbers on Q3 projections were sharp,” murmured one of the directors.

“They’re always sharp,” someone else replied under their breath.

From the far end of the table, his father stood last, adjusting the gold cufflink on his sleeve.

“Don’t forget dinner with the Hongs tonight—”

“6:30 P.M. at Hala Haus,” Seonghwa echoed, sliding his pen into the fold of his leather planner. As if this wasn’t the fifth time today his parents had reminded him. As if he hadn’t already received the calendar invite, the follow-up text from his mother, and a phone call from his father’s secretary.

His father gave him a once-over, unreadable. “Jini's parents are expecting sincerity.”

Seonghwa could only roll his eyes. He felt bad for the poor woman who was probably just as trapped in her family’s schemes as he was.

“You don’t get to live for whims and impulse anymore.”

“No,” Seonghwa said, gathering his papers. “I live for legacy now. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

His father straightened, fixing his tie in the reflection of the conference window, watching his son in the corner of his eye as he made his own departure.

Seonghwa didn’t head straight to the executive elevator. He never did.

Instead, he took the long route through the east and south wings, checking in with the admin office, nodding at the new hire sorting intake files, passing on a foundation memo at maternity, and signing off on pharmacy renovations. These detours weren’t required of him. But someone had to keep the place from falling apart under its own weight.

Doctors and staff alike found it odd how involved Seonghwa was, how he remembered names, department codes, and whose vending machine was always broken. He wasn’t warm, exactly. But he was present. Attentive. Impossibly composed.

Some chalked it up to control issues. Others called it dedication. Either way, it was what made him likeable, even among board members. 

Being Hospital Director wasn’t just numbers and donor reports. It required foresight, stamina, and unfortunately, people skills, which occasionally meant stepping in before someone launched into a tirade in the lobby. 

He spotted them outside the outpatient pharmacy before anyone else did: Ahri, voice sharp and unrelenting, cornering Mingi in a tone that was quickly drawing too much attention.

“Ms. Jeong,” Seonghwa said smoothly, approaching the small crowd of spectators. 

“I suggest you leave before you embarrass yourself any further.”

Ahri whirled on him. “Stay out of this, Park Seonghwa! This has nothing to do with you!”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “You’re causing a disturbance in my hospital. That makes it my problem.”

Her chest rose and fell with sharp, angry breaths, but Seonghwa remained unfazed.

“You’re humiliating yourself. If you don’t leave, I’ll have security escort you out.”

Ahri’s lips parted, her eyes darting between Seonghwa and Mingi, as if searching for a foothold. But Mingi had already turned away, walking toward the parking lot...toward someone else entirely.

He figured Mingi’s wife had been waiting for him. An heiress by birth, she was a bit of an outsider to the rest of high society, especially in the way she spoke so freely without pretense. There was something about her that drew him in, but the feeling was more haunting than comforting.

Frankly, she was too good for Mingi. But then again, most people were too good for the men they loved.

He checked his watch, adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, and continued down the hall.

All in a day’s work.

By the time he arrived at his penthouse, the late afternoon sunlight had dimmed into something softer, casting long lines against the marble floors. 

And immediately, he noticed something was off.

The first thing he noticed was the noise. the faint sound of furniture being shifted, followed by the strong scent of nauseating florals. 

One of the housekeepers was finishing up in the living room, fluffing throw pillows that hadn’t existed yesterday. Beside her, two decorators were holding up curtain samples near the balcony window, murmuring about "light tones to soften the space."

His penthouse was being dismantled piece by piece.

“Director Park,” one of the housekeepers startled. She bowed quickly.

“We didn’t expect you back so early. Mrs. Hong sent the items over this morning, she thought Miss Jini might want to start envisioning the space.”

He didn’t say anything but the housekeeper sensed the tension simmering under his cool demeanor. 

“O-Of course, we’ll revert things if you prefer.”

“No need,” he said. “Let them see what they want to see.”

The decorators offered tight smiles and gathered their swatches. One of them adjusted the newly added vase of artificial peonies on the dining table.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge, then closed it again without taking anything. The place felt like a cage, a version of domesticity designed for someone else's future.

His future fiancée, apparently.

He leaned a hip against the counter, eyes trailing over the reorganized shelves and piles of boxes, all while trying to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

Dinner with the Hongs was in twenty minutes.

He could still make it. Change, show up, and play the part. Shake hands, smile politely, pretend like everything wasn’t being hollowed out from the inside.

Instead, he turned on his heel and walked toward the back room, where a handful of old boxes had been pulled out of storage stacked neatly, ready to be discarded “make room.”

He opened the top box, filled with his childhood belongings. A soft stuffed bear with one eye missing, a stack of old composition notebooks in crooked handwriting, a faded photo of him in swim goggles, clutching his first gold medal with both hands. 

The next box held his middle school memories. Science fair plaques and newspaper clippings from the local paper about a swim competition.

“Rising Star in Competitive Swimming: Park Seonghwa.”

He remembered the day that article was published. He’d rushed home, clutching the paper like it meant everything. But his father hadn’t even looked up from his emails.

The last box brought him back to college. Inside were fragments of a life he barely recognized anymore: his team hoodie, a warped Polaroid from some party he barely remembered, a campus newspaper lay folded in half: “Park Withdraws from Nationals.”

He pushed the paper aside as his hand drifted farther down through the mess of until it bumped against something solid.

He pulled it free. A black film camera, slightly dented near the shutter, but the leather strap was still soft and surprisingly well-conditioned. Probably better than he was, honestly.

It didn’t even look like it worked anymore—the viewfinder was dented, the lens scratched, and there probably wasn’t any film loaded. Still, he lifted it to eye level and pressed the shutter out of curiosity.

Click.

A blinding flash exploded directly into his face. He flinched back with a curse, nearly dropping it.

“Shit—”

The camera dangled from the strap around his wrist as he rubbed his eyes, blinking furiously. 

“Park Seonghwa, are you still asleep?”

The voice was muffled, followed by a loud knock at the door. His eyes snapped open. Except…hadn’t they already been open?

He was no longer in his penthouse. Instead, he was in a dorm room. Books were neatly stacked on built-in shelves. His desk was cluttered with swim goggles, a planner, a pack of protein bars, a half-finished water bottle. His swim team hoodie was draped over the back of his desk chair. 

“Bro, seriously, get up! Practice starts in thirty!” another voice shouted through the door, more annoyed this time. 

“If you’re late again, Coach’ll make you do wall sprints until you puke!”

Footsteps retreated down the hall as Seonghwa sat up too fast and struggled to center himself. Coach? Sprints? 

He scrambled off the mattress, nearly tripping over a pair of sneakers. His hand slammed into the desk, knocking a protein bar to the floor. He scanned the room like it might be rigged with hidden cameras like some elaborate setup by his parents or the Hongs to test him.

Then his eyes landed on the phone charging by the desk and snatched it up. But there was no Face ID or lock screen. Instead he jammed the home button.

March 30. 5:55 A.M. 

He stared. His heart dropped into his stomach as he stumbled toward the mirror, bracing a hand against the wall.

A younger version of himself blinked back.

“No. No, no, no, this can't be,” he muttered, waving a hand in front of his own face.

He turned in a full circle, eyes wide, pacing the length of the dorm like a caged animal.

“Why am I in my old dorm? I don’t swim anymore! I haven’t eaten instant ramen in years!”

Another knock from the hallway.

“Seonghwa, seriously! Coach is gonna skin you alive!”

He let out a strangled sound, something between a gasp and a feral scream, and sank down into the desk chair, gripping the edge like the room might spin off its axis.

He was twenty one again.

And absolutely losing his mind.

⋆˙⟡

Seonghwa dragged himself to morning practice, his body aching in places he’d forgotten existed. Coach Lee narrowed his eyes at him but gave a curt nod, and Seonghwa was quietly grateful to have made it by the skin of his teeth.

As he slipped into the water, muscle memory took over. Stroke. Breathe. Turn. The rhythm was there, like his body still remembered the boy who used to crave the stillness found only underwater.

He was grateful for it. Grateful that his limbs knew what to do even when his mind didn’t. That some things, at least, hadn’t changed.

Until he saw you.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped swimming until Coach barked his name. You were by the edge of the pool again, crouched with your camera, hidden behind the lens like always. His lungs burned from the cold water, but it was nothing compared to the ache creeping into his chest.

You’d met during his sophomore year at a regional swim meet. He was halfway through his dive, and somehow, you’d caught the shot perfectly. The photo made its way into the school paper, then into his locker, his phone’s lock screen, laptop wallpaper, and then into a frame at his desk. 

He’d tracked you down after the meet, awkward and curious about your photography skills. “Do you always shoot like that?”

“Only when someone’s worth the shot.”

After that, he started hovering by the bleachers during practice, his towel slung over his shoulders like he wasn’t waiting for anything in particular. But he always managed to catch you just as you were packing up your gear.

At first, it was questions. Like, “what makes a photo good?”

“Why do you shoot on film instead of digital?”

“What’s the difference between f/1.8 and f/2.2 again?”

He borrowed your spare camera once and nearly dropped it. You teased him relentlessly after that, telling everyone on the team he held it like it might bite.

“Only because it looks like it will,” he pouted.

You were opposites. He was golden, gifted, always surrounded by noise. You were quieter, someone who saw things through a lens before you spoke. But somehow, you both clicked.

You caught photos of him when he was the most vulnerable. Some shots included stretching on the bleachers, laughing too hard at something dumb his teammate said, or staring into the water like he was trying to predict his future. He said no one had ever seen him like that before. You thought maybe that was the point.

Sometimes, he'd walk you home from late practices. Sometimes, you'd bring him snacks when he forgot to eat between meets and lab hours. It was a friendship that Seonghwa valued because for once he got to be himself. Not the heir to the Park Medical Group. 

But everything changed the night of his birthday. 

You stayed off to the side at the club, watching him work up the courage to do something you didn’t think he’d do. He was flushed with nerves, jacket sleeves wrinkled from fidgeting. He kept scanning the crowd for Mira while you were off to the side rooting for him. 

You told yourself you were happy for him. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything that your heart had started racing too.

And then you heard her voice. 

“Wait, you’re asking me out? I thought you and Y/N were together?”

“What? No,” he said, brushing it off with a wave of his hand. “She’s just—Hell, no. We’re just friends.”

Mira’s smile faltered. “Okay… it’s just, I don’t know, you guys seem close. Still, you probably shouldn’t talk about her like that. She clearly cares about you.”

Seonghwa laughed, loud enough for everyone in your section to hear. Loud enough for you to hear.

It hit like a punch to the gut. The music didn’t stop, but the world felt quieter, like someone had muted everything except the roaring in your ears. You caught one girl whispering behind her drink to one of Seonghwa’s teammates. Suddenly, the package in your purse felt unbearably heavy.

“She’ll get over it,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “She always does.”

Mira’s brows knit, but she didn’t press him. Just looked at him like she suddenly saw him a little differently.

And maybe that was what did it. The laugh died in his throat, and for a moment, he looked lost and unsure of himself.

“I—I need some air,” he mumbled, already stepping back.

Before anyone could stop him, he turned and pushed through the crowd, heading for the exit without another word.

You slipped out the door and found him standing beneath a street lamp, his dark hair and shoulders damp with drizzle. He tensed and turned at the sound of your footsteps, like he’d been bracing for a fight he couldn’t afford to lose.

“What the fuck was that?” you shouted, stalking toward him.

“Why are people saying we’re together? Did you tell them that?” he shot back.

Your jaw dropped. “What? No! Why would you even think that?”

“Because everyone thinks it,” he snapped. “And I didn’t say it, so who the hell did?”

“You’re serious?” Angry tears pooled at the corner of your eyes. “You really think I’m going around spreading rumors about us because Mira rejected you?”

“Don’t make this about her—”

“It is about her! She thought we were together, and instead of telling her we're just friends, you acted like I planted the idea in everyone’s head.”

“Maybe you did! Maybe you just wanted attention and to feel special because you’re a charity case!”

For a moment, you searched his eyes, looking for the person you thought you knew. But all you found was the stranger who’d broken you.

“I never asked for your pity or your money. I thought you were my friend because you wanted to be. Not because you needed someone to use as a punching bag when things went wrong. But that's probably because you've never owned up to anything in your life."

Your hands shook as you reached into your bag. The ribbon had come undone on the walk over, and the rain had soaked through the wrapping paper. Still, it didn’t matter. You hurled the box at his feet, watching it bounce off the pavement.

“I saved up for that,” you said flatly. “Took weeks of shooting extra matches. Happy fucking birthday.”

You didn’t wait for him to pick it up as you stormed off. Seonghwa stood there, frozen under the streetlamp, watching you disappear. He told himself he’d fix it and give you space. Show up the next day with a breakfast sandwich and some kind of apology, and everything would find its way back to the way it used to be.

But by morning, it was already too late.

He woke up nauseous, unsure if it was from the fight or the hangover that followed, from wallowing in humiliation. Either way, the feeling clung to him as he headed to practice.

The moment he reached the pool, everything changed. Yellow tape stretched across the doors, police cars lined the curb, and Coach stood pale faced, giving a statement to an officer. The rest of the team huddled behind the barricade and their phones buzzed nonstop with notifications about the incident.

Seonghwa pushed forward.

Then he saw it.

Your body floated just beneath the surface, suspended in the still water of the deep end. Your skin was pallid, eyes closed, as dark hair bloomed around you like an inkblot. There were angry bruises around your neck, like someone had meant to hurt you. Like someone had wanted to take the light away from you.

He staggered back as bile swam up his throat and a high pitched ringing filled his ears. His chest seized, as if his lungs had forgotten how to work. When he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ground himself, all he could see was your lifeless body floating before him.

That summer, Seonghwa withdrew his name from the national roster and quietly left the team. Weeks later, headlines announced his decision to step away from competition and fully embrace his role as heir to the Park Medical Group.

[big-ooof]

Playing Pretend

college au, fake dating; heeseung x f!reader

Your ex was already grinning like he won something. The problem with pathological charmers like Ryan wasn't just that they cheated, it was that they somehow made you feel like the dramatic one for being upset about it. Like catching him kissing someone else at a party last weekend was an overreaction.

“Y/N,” he says now, his arm slung around his latest conquest like he’s hosting some twisted reunion. “Didn’t think you’d show your face today.”

You clench your jaw, ignoring the sudden tightness in your chest. “Why wouldn’t I?” You shoot him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just because you have the emotional maturity of a soggy napkin doesn’t mean I’m hiding.”

“Ouch,” Ryan fake winces. “Still bitter?”

Behind him, Sunghoon shifts, arms crossed, a flicker of warning in his eyes. You catch it, but your pride is louder than your caution today. Pride, and maybe something else. Something reckless.

You glance past Ryan and your gaze lands on him. Heeseung. Black hoodie, headphones around his neck, expression unreadable as always. He's walking alone across the quad, coffee in one hand, textbook in the other. Tall, quiet, and completely unattainable. You’ve shared maybe five conversations in total, and three of those involved library seating disputes. He thinks you’re chaotic. You think he’s insufferably smug.

Perfect.

“Actually,” you say, turning back to Ryan with a wicked smile. “I’m not bitter. I moved on.”

His eyebrows rise, amused. “Yeah?”

You shrug. “Yeah. I’m dating someone now.”

Sunghoon straightens beside you. “You’re—”

Heeseung is just close enough now. You step away from Sunghoon, and before your brain can remind you this is a terrible idea, your hand wraps around Heeseung’s wrist, stopping him mid-step.

“Hey, babe,” you chirp, plastering on a grin. “You forgot to walk me to class.”

Heeseung blinks. One second. Two. His gaze slides to your hand. Then to your face. Then to Ryan. And then… his expression doesn’t change, but his voice lowers just slightly.

“You’re late,” he says, smooth as sin. “Again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to hide the shock. Did Lee Heeseung just… play along? Heeseung steps closer, slipping his hand around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers brush your hip and your breath hitches, but you hope no one notices.

Ryan does. His smile falters. “Didn’t realize you two were… a thing,” he mutters.

Heeseung’s eyes narrow just enough to be noticeable. “That makes two of us.”

You jab an elbow into his side. Subtle. Sharp. Heeseung’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t flinch.

“We keep it quiet,” you say quickly, hoping that’s enough to cover the weird tension building between the three of you.

Ryan’s already backing off, a sour look on his face. “Whatever. Good luck.”

He stalks away, muttering something under his breath. The girl on his arm giggles like she’s won a prize.

You exhale once he’s out of earshot. “Okay. Crisis averted. Thanks for that, I’ll just—”

“Wait,” Heeseung interrupts, gaze sharp. “Care to explain?”

Sunghoon appears at your side again. “What the hell was that?”

“I panicked,” you say, pulling your arm back. “I didn’t think he’d actually believe me.”

“You grabbed Heeseung of all people,” Sunghoon mutters, crossing his arms again. “The guy you argued with for twenty minutes about chair etiquette last semester.”

“It was a first come, first serve table and he stole it while I went to pee.”

“It’s a library, not a battlefield,” Heeseung mutters.

You both glare at each other.

Sunghoon watches the exchange like he’s watching two cats hiss across a couch. “Okay. This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Look, just… pretend you’re dating me for like, a week. Maybe two. I just need Ryan to back off and stop acting like he still owns a piece of my life.”

Heeseung raises a brow. “And why me?”

“Because you were standing there and you look like someone I’d be stupid enough to fall for.”

A pause.

“That supposed to be a compliment?”

You smile, tired and a little sad. “Take it however you want.”

Heeseung watches you for a beat longer, like he’s searching for something. Then, softly: “Fine. Two weeks.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll do it.”

Sunghoon looks like he just witnessed a glitch in the matrix.

“But only in public,” Heeseung continues. “No cutesy texts. No matching lock screens. And absolutely no kissing.”

Your stomach dips— why did that part sting?

“Deal,” you say quickly.

You both nod, stepping back like two business partners finalizing a contract. As you turn toward the lecture hall, you feel Heeseung’s gaze on you. You don’t look back.

But you swear, just before you disappear inside, you hear him murmur: “This is going to end badly.”

You couldn’t agree more.

There’s a whiteboard in Heeseung’s apartment kitchen, typically used by his roommates for passive-aggressive reminders like “CLEAN THE DAMN SINK, JAKE” or “don’t touch my leftovers, I swear to god – Jay.”

Today, though, it reads:

FAKE DATING RULES (Y/N + Heeseung) No kissing No cuddling No pet names No talking about feelings No real feelings NO KISSING (yes, again)

Jake squints at it from the couch. “You sure you guys don’t want to kiss just a little? For realism?”

“Out,” Heeseung says, pointing toward the door.

Jake laughs but grabs his keys. “Okay, okay. But if you fall in love and write poetry about her on the bathroom mirror, I’m telling everyone.”

Once the door shuts, it’s just you and Heeseung in the kitchen. “You really had to write it down?” you ask, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

He’s leaning back in a chair, long legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “Visual clarity helps avoid misunderstandings.”

“I feel like I’m being onboarded into a job with emotional liability.”

“That’s because you are,” he says dryly.

You try not to smile.

Honestly, you expected this to fall apart by day two. But Heeseung hasn’t backed out. You’ve walked to class together twice, he carried your bag once (“Don’t get used to it”), and he dropped a casual “she’s mine” during lunch when some guy from your psych lecture asked for your number.

You’re starting to realize something dangerous: Heeseung is very good at pretending. So good it makes your chest ache a little.

“I think we need to talk about Sunghoon,” Heeseung says suddenly.

You blink. “What about him?”

Heeseung shrugs, a little too casual. “If people see you with him all the time, it’s gonna raise questions. And if we’re ‘dating,’ shouldn’t you be spending more time with me?”

You squint. “Is this a jealousy clause?”

“It’s a realism clause.”

You step forward until you’re standing right in front of him, arms crossed. “Sunghoon is my best friend. If this fake relationship requires me to abandon him, it’s not happening.”

Heeseung stares up at you, jaw tight. “I didn’t say abandon.”

You’re not sure why your voice is quiet when you respond. “Why does it bother you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you, like he’s trying to figure something out and can’t quite land on it. Finally: “He looks at you like he owns a piece of your heart.”

The silence between you stretches. Heeseung stands, chair scraping lightly against the tile. He’s close now, not touching you, but close enough to feel the tension vibrating in the air.

“Let’s just be careful,” he says. “You asked for pretend. That’s what I’m giving you.”

Later that night, Sunghoon corners you outside the campus café with a hot chocolate in each hand and that knowing look that makes him seem a thousand years older than you both.

“You okay?” he asks, handing you a cup.

“I’m fine.”

He arches a brow.

You sigh. “It’s not real, Hoon.”

“You sure?”

You meet his eyes, and for a second, something inside you wavers. “I need it to not be real,” you whisper.

Sunghoon doesn’t push. He never does. He just reaches out and gently knocks his cup against yours. “To temporary delusions, then.”

You laugh softly.

It’s Jay’s idea to go bowling. Which turns into an arcade. Which turns into pizza and late-night chaos. You, Heeseung, Sunghoon, Jake, and Ni-ki pile into a booth at the local pizza dive, the kind with neon lights and sticky tables. Heeseung slides in beside you, his arm brushing yours. You flinch, not from discomfort, but from how not uncomfortable it feels. Sunghoon watches.

Jake pokes at a breadstick. “So when’s the fake couple going to kiss and make this believable?”

Heeseung doesn’t even look up. “Ask again and I’ll throw you in the soda machine.”

Ni-ki grins. “Just admit you’re obsessed with her.”

You elbow Heeseung lightly. “Obsessed with me, Lee Heeseung?”

He turns his head, eyes locking with yours. His voice is low. “You wish.”

Your stomach flips. The table goes quiet for a beat.

Sunghoon clears his throat. “She’s always had someone wrapped around her finger. Don’t let her play you too hard.”

It’s meant to be teasing but Heeseung’s jaw ticks again. “Good thing I’m not easy to play.”

You glare at Sunghoon. “He’s not a game.”

The second it leaves your mouth, you regret it. Heeseung looks away. The tension burns.

Heeseung doesn’t text you that night. Which shouldn’t matter. Because this is fake. Because he said “no pet names, no kissing, no feelings.” Because you agreed. But you find yourself staring at your phone anyway, scrolling up through the short, sarcastic exchanges from earlier that day. You almost send a “thanks for not completely hating this,” but stop yourself. You throw your phone under your pillow like it’s cursed.

Sunghoon finds you on the library steps. He’s holding a coffee he knows you like: extra cream, one sugar, just enough caffeine to keep your thoughts sharp but not jittery.

“You doing okay?” he asks, sitting beside you. You don’t answer right away. He sighs. “This thing with Heeseung… is it working? For you?”

You press the coffee cup to your lips. “It’s not real.”

“I didn’t ask if it was real.”

You glance at him. “Why are you pushing this?”

He shrugs. “Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And I’ve seen the way you don’t know what to do with it.”

Your stomach tightens. “Heeseung doesn’t look at me.”

Sunghoon leans back, his voice soft. “He does. Like he’s trying not to.”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

Heeseung shows up at your apartment door at 7:02 p.m., wearing a leather jacket and holding a plastic bag with snacks and a bottle of something that looks suspiciously not grape juice.

“Since we’re supposed to be a couple,” he says, “figured we should do a couple thing. Low stakes.”

You blink. “You brought me… strawberry milk and flaming hot chips?”

He shrugs. “You’re weird. I had to improvise.”

You snort but step aside to let him in.

You end up sitting on your bed with your laptop between you, watching a dumb horror movie neither of you really pay attention to. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips between your knees. Heeseung is lounging beside you, head tipped against the wall, socked feet crossed at the ankles.

It’s so… normal. So dangerously comfortable. At one point, during a quiet scene in the movie, your arm brushes his. Neither of you move. The tension feels alive.

“Did you always know Ryan was bad news?” you ask quietly, eyes on the screen.

Heeseung doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low. “I didn’t know how bad. But I knew he didn’t deserve your attention.”

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you. The air shifts. Your heart stutters.

Heeseung leans in— just a little. Not enough to cross the space completely. Just enough for you to feel his breath, for the weight of the moment to fall hard and real between you.

Your lips part. He stops. Eyes flicker down. He swallows hard. Then he pulls back.

“Rule six,” he says, voice rough.

You feel cold. “Right.”

He turns away. “I should go.”

You want to stop him. But you don’t. Because this is pretend. Because he told you not to fall. Because the rules said no kissing. And the part that hurts most is how badly you wanted to break them.

Heeseung doesn’t talk to you for two days. You tell yourself it’s fine. You agreed on boundaries. This wasn’t supposed to be messy. But it is.

Because now every time your phone buzzes and it’s not him, your chest tightens. Because now when you run into each other in class, he nods instead of smirking, and sits two seats away instead of beside you. Because now you know what it feels like to almost kiss him, and your lips won’t forget.

You spend an evening in Sunghoon’s dorm just to stop thinking about it. He puts on music, tosses you a blanket, and says nothing when you sit cross-legged on his bed with a silent ache behind your eyes.

Finally, he says quietly, “You miss him.”

You don’t respond.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Your heart lurches. You laugh, too sharply. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

You meet his eyes. And the silence says more than your words ever could.

Jay was hosting a party Friday night. The music is too loud, the lights are too dim, and the drinks are all watered-down disasters. You’re in the kitchen pretending to scroll through your phone when Heeseung walks in. He sees you. You see him. Neither of you moves.

He’s wearing black again, always black, and his hair is still a little wet, like he didn’t care enough to dry it properly. You hate that he still looks like your favorite thought. You look away first.

Jake’s the one who grabs your hand and spins you into the living room. He’s already tipsy, but his grin is warm. “Dance with me,” he says, “before I make a fool of myself alone.”

You laugh and let him pull you into the crowd. You let the beat take over, swaying to it, forgetting yourself— just for a second. Then you see Heeseung on the edge of the room. Watching. Jaw tight. Fist clenched.

Sunghoon appears beside him, a red cup in hand, voice low and sharp. You can’t hear what he says but Heeseung flinches. Then he storms out. And you follow him.

Heeseung’s sitting on the edge of the patio steps, head in his hands.

You stop just behind him. “Are you seriously going to avoid me forever because we almost kissed?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Don’t do that,” you say, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down just because it got real.”

“You said you didn’t want real,” he mutters.

You sit beside him. “Well maybe I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

He turns to look at you, his eyes are raw. “You’re killing me,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

He stands. “You’re in my head. All the time. And I’m trying so damn hard to be what you asked, pretend, platonic, cool. But I’m not. I can’t be.”

Your throat tightens.

“I told you no kissing because I knew if I kissed you once, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Silence.

“I didn’t plan this,” he says. “...falling for you.”

You stand too. Your voice is soft. “Then don’t pretend anymore.”

He hesitates, then steps forward, cupping your jaw. And this time, there’s no rule. His lips brush yours once, twice— then finally, fully, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. It’s gentle. And painful. And full of everything you were both too afraid to say.

The kiss haunts you. Not because it was confusing, but because it wasn’t. Because it felt so real, so familiar, so right, that the moment it ended, the only thing you could think was: I want more. Heeseung didn’t say anything after. Just stared at you like you were breaking him in slow motion, then mumbled “I’ll call you” and walked off into the dark.

You stood there too long. Thinking about how dangerous honesty feels once it’s been denied for too long.

The next day: No text. No call. You don’t sleep. You replay the kiss a hundred different ways, wondering if you leaned in first or if he did. Wondering if it meant the same thing to him. You know it did. And still— nothing.

You go to Sunghoon’s. He opens the door, sees your face, and pulls you in without a word. You sit in his desk chair while he sits on the edge of his bed, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a ghost still deciding to haunt.

“He kissed me,” you say.

Sunghoon blinks. “You kissed him back?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Finally.”

You laugh, broken and soft. “Don’t say that like it’s good.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not fake anymore.”

Sunghoon tilts his head. “Was it ever?”

You go quiet.

He sets his cup down. “Listen… I know you don’t want to screw things up. But I’ve watched the way you look at each other— like the room stops spinning when you’re close. That’s not fake. That’s gravity.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “What if I’m not enough for the real thing?”

Sunghoon stands and walks over, crouching in front of you. “Then he’s an idiot. But I don’t think he is.”

You’re halfway through overthinking whether to knock when the door swings open. Heeseung looks like hell. Like he hasn’t slept. Like he’s been pacing. Like the storm inside him hasn’t calmed.

His voice is hoarse. “I was gonna come to you.”

“I came first,” you say softly.

A beat. He steps aside, and you walk in. The door clicks shut. No games now. No rules. No hiding.

You turn to him. “I don’t want to pretend.”

His voice is rough. “Neither do I.”

You step forward until there’s nothing between you. “Then say it.”

He looks at you like he’s memorizing you. Like the answer to every ache he’s ever had is written on your skin.

“I’m in love with you,” he says quietly. “I have been since you argued with me about a chair in the library last year.”

Your breath stumbles. You nod once. “Then let's stop pretending.”

He steps in, wraps his arms around you, pulls you to his chest like a prayer finally answered. And this kiss, this second one, is nothing like the first. It’s not careful. It’s not almost. It’s everything.

You and Heeseung don’t leave his apartment until the following afternoon. You don’t do anything, not really. Just lie there, tangled in blankets and unspoken relief. His arm stays draped over your waist like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he lets go. You don’t want to move either.

He brushes your hair back when he thinks you’re asleep. You’re not. You’re memorizing the weight of his breath.

He sits up suddenly, hair messy, voice still gravel from sleep. “So… what are we?”

You blink. “Are you seriously asking me that now?”

“I just—” he scratches his neck. “If you tell me you want to go back to fake, I’ll respect it. But if there’s a chance this is real for you too—”

“Heeseung.” You reach for his hand. He meets your eyes. “I wasn’t pretending last night,” you say softly. “And I’m not pretending now.”

He exhales. Like he’s been holding it for years. “Then this is real, we’re real,” he says.

Your fingers tighten around his. “We’re real.”

On Monday, Jake and Ni-ki find out and are insufferable about it. Jake spits out his coffee when you and Heeseung walk into the quad together holding hands.

“Oh my god,” he says dramatically, pointing. “They’re in love.”

Ni-ki squints. “Wait. So the fake dating thing wasn’t fake?”

Jake smirks. “Or the fake dating worked too well.”

You roll your eyes. Heeseung flips them both off and kisses your temple.

Jake makes a gagging noise.

Ni-ki pulls out his phone. “Group chat’s gonna be wild tonight.”

That evening you were meeting Sunghoon on the basketball courts after class. He’s already there, shooting hoops in a quiet rhythm that slows when he sees you. You sit on the bench. He joins you a minute later, towel over his neck, skin glistening under the last golden light of the day.

“So,” he says. “You and Heeseung.”

You glance down. “Is it that obvious?”

“Everything is,” he says gently. “When you’re in love.”

You swallow. “Are you mad?”

He shrugs. “Not at you.”

“Sunghoon—”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t owe me anything.”

You stay quiet.

“I think… there was a moment,” he says, voice soft. “A version of this where I was the one you fell for.”

You inhale sharply.

“But even then, I think I knew— he was the one you looked at like he held the sky.”

Tears sting the back of your eyes.

He bumps your shoulder. “I’m not disappearing. I’m just… stepping back. Giving you space to love him without guilt.”

You wipe at your eyes. “You’re the best person I know.”

He smiles. “I know.”

Two days later, it’s pouring outside when Heeseung drags you under the eaves of your favorite café, both of you soaked and laughing.

“You could’ve waited five more seconds to grab the umbrella,” you say through a laugh.

Heeseung shakes his wet hair like a dog. “I panicked.”

You press close under the awning, breathless.

He looks at you, suddenly serious. Rainwater clings to his lashes. “Loving you,” he says, voice barely louder than the rain, “was never the hard part.”

You blink. “What was?”

“Believing you could ever love me back.”

You don’t answer. You just reach up and kiss him, slow, steady, deep, like proof. Like a vow.

You and Heeseung aren’t exactly hiding your relationship, but you're not broadcasting it either. Still, people notice. It’s in the way you share a drink without asking. The way he waits outside your lecture hall, leaning against the wall, tapping out a rhythm only you recognize. The way he looks at you like nothing else exists.

Jake and Ni-ki make dramatic commentary every time they spot you holding hands. Sunoo tries to hide his smile but fails. Jungwon tells you both to “get a room” but then shoves his phone at you to show a picture he secretly took of you and Heeseung laughing under a tree.

And Sunghoon? He gives you space, like he promised. But every now and then, you catch his gaze across a room— soft, steady, still protective. Some people don’t fall out of your life when the story changes. They just step into a different chapter.

You have your first fight on a Thursday. It’s not dramatic. You’re tired. He’s frustrated. You snap about something small— a missed call, an assumption, a joke that felt too sharp. He fires back. You both go quiet after that. For hours. And then he shows up at your door, hoodie soaked from the rain, eyes glassy.

He says, “We’re gonna fight sometimes. But I don’t want to sleep tonight without fixing this.”

And you let him in. You curl into his chest. Apologize. So does he. And for the first time, you realize: this isn’t perfect. But it’s real. And it’s yours.

Later that week, Heeseung waits for you outside your class, holding two cups of coffee. The walk is quiet, peaceful. There’s a weightlessness in just existing together.

Halfway down the path, he says, “This all started because you needed a fake boyfriend to get your ex off your back.”

You snort. “Worst plan ever.”

“Or the best,” he says. “Because I got you.”

You slow your steps. He keeps talking, softer now. “I don’t care what happens after this year— where we end up, how life changes. I just want you to know…”

You stop walking. He faces you before saying, “I meant it when I said you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You don’t rush your reply. You let it settle in your chest, heavy and light at once. Then you reach for his hand. “You’re the best part of all my days, Heeseung. Even the hard ones.”

He smiles— full, real. You keep walking. Hands warm. Hearts steady. No pretending. Just love.

One Year Later — Graduation Day The sky is obnoxiously blue. The kind of clear that looks photoshopped. Students fill the lawn like a field of mismatched wildflowers— caps and gowns, families yelling names, camera flashes sparking every few seconds. Chaos, beauty, endings.

You spot him through the crowd. Lee Heeseung. Tassel crooked. Button undone. A lazy grin spreading across his face the second his eyes land on you.

After the ceremony the two of you walk the campus one last time— past the quad where Jake caught you kissing, past the old art building where Heeseung made up a reason to “accidentally” run into you during your 8 AM, past the bench where you both sat the first time you admitted that none of this was pretend anymore.

It’s quiet now. He’s quiet, too. You squeeze his hand. “Nervous?”

He shrugs. “A little. New city, new job. No more late-night ramen runs. No more bunking with Ni-ki and threatening to set his alarm clock on fire.”

You nod. “It’s a lot.”

“But,” he adds, stopping in front of the old library steps, “I’m not scared of the change.”

You tilt your head. “Why not?”

He meets your eyes. “Because I’m doing it with you.”

Later that night you were packing and found a box labeled: Fake Dating Agreement. You laugh as you open it. Inside is the old napkin contract from a year ago, complete with your signatures and doodles of stick-figures holding hands.

Heeseung walks in, sees you holding it, and groans. “God, burn that.”

“No way,” you say. “This is historical evidence.”

He walks over, wraps his arms around you from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I like where we started,” he whispers. “But I love where we are.”

You lean your head against his. “Me too.”

He turns you around slowly, eyes soft. Then he kisses you, quiet and deep and sure. Not fake. Not just real. Forever kind of real.

[lynncade]

5 Stages of Grief

zayne x reader angst. takes place after the events of the main chapter update. going through the 5 stages of grief after zayne leaves you.

Day 3 - Denial - 4:52 PM

You sit on a bench outside of Akso Hospital feeding breadcrumbs to Clopidogrel as people pass by in the late afternoon. Some cast sideways glances to the lone Deepspace Hunter feeding a squirrel, but after noting the puffiness of her cheeks and the far away expression on her face they quickly lose interest and turn away. 

“Miss Hunter, it’s nice to see you again. How are your wounds healing?”

You don’t startle at the sudden familiar voice. “Hello, Yvonne. I’m fine, and you?”

The woman’s shadow falls across your back as she hesitates before deciding to sit next to you. “I’m alright, thank you for asking.”

You two sit in silence for a while, a silence that is neither comfortable nor intrusive. It’s the type of quiet that feels like it’s building up to something, like a story where the ending is finalized but the middle part hasn’t been written. You both know why you aren’t speaking but whereas she doesn’t know how to start, you don’t want to. You can’t. Speaking of it makes it real and you can’t do real right now.

It’s only been three days, three days isn’t even enough time to make something real. So it can’t be real and since it can’t be real there’s nothing for you to talk about. You would be content to sit in silence for the rest of your life if it meant it wasn’t real.

She takes a breath. “You know, I remember your first appointment with-”

You stand abruptly. “I’m sorry, there’s somewhere I have to be right now.”

She stammers out an apology but you’ve already turned your back and started walking away. 

-

Day 18 - Anger - 1:43 AM

You’re pacing the livingroom, music blaring through your TV speakers to drown out the thoughts that still push you to stomp in circles. You can’t even hear what song is playing, Zayne’s words echoing over and over in your head.

“If I hurt you, that would be the greatest regret of my life.”

You snatch an open bottle of whiskey up from the coffee table and take a swig, at this point immune to the burn of the cheap liquid. Its fire pours down your throat and settles in your stomach, raging alongside your absolute fury at the man whose voice haunts every step you take.

He doesn’t care if he hurts you. If he cared he would be here, telling you that drinking this much on a stomach that’s been empty for two days is inadvisable and reckless. If he cared he’d be holding your hair back as you threw up everything but your stupid fucking memories, wiping your forehead with a damp rag and using his dumb dry humor to try to make you laugh. He’d help you change out of the clothes you’d been wearing since last Thursday and run a hot shower for you, maybe even throwing one of your fizzies in to create a calming atmosphere of eucalyptus scented steam. He’d have water and pain meds already on your nightstand and he’d chide you when you fought him like a child to take them. Then he’d make sure to tuck you into bed and slide in under the covers beside you when you asked him to keep you company.

“...the greatest regret of my life.”

SMASH!

The bottle of whiskey shatters in the kitchen sink, your hands shaking with the force of throwing it. You don’t care what the neighbors think about what they’re hearing, why the fuck should you care about anything when he doesn’t care about you.

You stare at the broken glass in your sink, hating the way the smell of whiskey now burns in your nostrils, the way the too-bright light of the kitchen catches the jagged edges. With a scoff you stalk back into the living room and drop onto the couch, praying that the buzz of the alcohol will finally start numbing the sting of abandonment.

After some amount of time- what's the difference between a second and an hour anymore?- you pick up one of the throw pillows, bring it to your face, and scream.

You scream.

And scream.

And scream.

But if he hears you, he still doesn’t care. He still doesn’t come back.

-

Day 27 - Bargaining - 9:32 PM

“The number you have dialed cannot take your call at this time. Please leave a message at the tone.”

BEEP!

“It’s me. I mean, you know it’s me, you can see my number in your list of missed calls. There should be several of them. Missed calls, not…not numbers. Unless there are multiple people calling you and that’s why you’ve been missing my calls…and not returning them. If or when you do get my message, this one or the 20 other ones, please give me a call back? Or a text? Or a voice memo? Fuck, even a smoke signal at this point. Just…just please send me something.”

Day 29 - Bargaining - 12:14 PM

“The number you have dialed cannot take your call at this time. Please leave a message at the tone.”

BEEP!

“I’m on my lunch break and headed to the hospital to feed Clopidogrel. I know you’re probably worried about him getting fat because I’ve been feeding him more than normal, but honestly I throw him food and he just sits there, like he’s also waiting for something. Or someone. You know, I bet if you came by to see him he’d perk right up! Forget Greyson and Yvonne, we both know the real draw to the hospital is this silly little squirrel. I think he misses you, you should come visit him sometime.”

Day 32 - Bargaining - 10:45 AM

“The number you have dialed cannot take your call at this time. Please leave a message at the tone.”

BEEP!

“This is the first morning I haven’t had a delivery from the pastry shop you love. They told me you had pre-bought a month’s worth of desserts to be sent to me, one each day. I think my favorite was either the chocolate hazelnut torte or the salted caramel macarons. I know you wouldn’t want to eat those because you don’t think salt has a place in sweets, but I think they were perfectly balanced. Maybe you should try them? Get outside your comfort zone a little bit? Tell you what, I’m headed to that bakery myself right now, you could meet me and I’ll buy some for you to try. Or really I’ll buy whatever you want, the whole pastry shop is your oyster, okay? Great, so I’ll see you soon.”

Day 40 - Bargaining - 11:29 PM

“The number you have dialed cannot take your call at this time. The mailbox is full and cannot take anymore messages. Good-bye.”

-

Day ??? - Depression

You wish he broke you.

Days and nights pass by and you wish through every second of it all that he had broken you, that you could say you had a broken heart. Explaining to friends and coworkers why you stopped going out, why tear streaks constantly painted your face, why your clothes no longer fit, explaining it all away by saying you had a broken heart would have been easy. Everyone has seen the movies, heard the songs. Broken hearts happen, hearts break and then they heal again. It may take time, but every wound eventually patches itself back up.

The problem is, he didn’t break you. Breaking you would mean there was something left to break. He didn’t break you when he left, he took you with him.

Mornings melted into afternoons that spilled into evenings and through it all you felt nothing anymore. Not in the numbing way, no you would give anything to be numb. You ache, mind, body, and soul, because you’re empty. There’s nothing left in you to give. To feel. No hope to cling to, no anger to sustain you. Sometimes you wish the world would swallow you up, suck you down into a well, deep and dark and as empty as you are. Sometimes you feel like you are the well, a black hole of nothing moving through life to survive, not to live.

Your phone has been dead for a few days now, the temptation to look at old pictures and text messages kept plaguing you and at some point even the self torture felt pointless. If work needs to reach you, the message can come through your comm watch. If anyone else needs to reach you, or cares to reach you, well…the important people know where you dwell.

The weather has been traitorously perfect, the abnormal snow from all those weeks ago completely forgotten as the sun shines and cool breezes drift through warm days. In the books and movies the weather always reflects the mood, so why does the sun continue to shine? Why do birds sing and children laugh right outside your window? Why does everything else in the world get to experience joy and life while you curl into yourself and freeze in darkness? A few weeks ago you would have screamed at it all until your throat felt raw but now you would be shocked to discover if you could even whisper anymore.

You’re not broken.

You’re not anything.

-

Acceptance

“Tara, I’m still waiting on your reports from last week’s mission,” Jenna’s voice grows closer as she walks over to where you and your friend are chatting about some mission that’s supposed to be underway next week.

“Of course, ma’am, right on it!”

Tara smiles apologetically as she runs back to her desk and starts shuffling through the stack of papers she had left for “Future Tara” to deal with.

Jenna stops in front of your desk and glances over you with an appraising eye.

“You’ve been looking better these past few weeks.” It’s not an unkind thing to say, she’s speaking to you in earnest. She doesn’t know the full extent of everything that happened but she wasn’t blind to the way you spiraled down, down, down.

“I’ve been feeling better.” Not a lie, though not necessarily the truth either.

It’s not that you’ve been feeling better, it’s that, for the first time in a long time you’re finally able to feel at all. It started slowly, crying yourself to sleep turned to slipping into unconsciousness. Nightmares that kept you tossing and turning and sometimes screaming yourself awake gradually became dreamless sleeps that still didn’t feel restful but at least sustained you enough to keep dark circles from under your eyes. Bit by bit, piece by piece, you began rebuilding a semblance of your life. It wasn’t easy, and there were days when the darkness gnawed its way back into your mind and settled there like a feral animal with teeth and claws. But even those days started lessening after time, and though they never really went away, they were easier to handle. You had plans in place to help you navigate them.

Jasmine tea for nights where sleep seems too far out of reach. Chocolate croissants for the mornings when getting out of bed seems like too much effort. Music for when the thoughts get too loud, walks in the park when they get too quiet. You laugh to yourself the day you realize you’ve created a treatment plan for yourself like a doctor treating a patient. The sound of your laughter is foreign, it feels uncomfortable in your throat, but like everything else lately: it gets easier.

“This mission we’re going on next week, it could get pretty intense. No one would bat an eye if you decided you needed to stay back and run support.” 

You hesitate before meeting her eyes, something like determination flickering in your heart. “No, I can do it.”

And you can.

You’re not healed, but you’re something, and that matters. Sometimes you're hurt, sometimes the pain is dulled to a minor ache, and sometimes you even believe yourself when you say you’re okay. A few months ago the idea of you even stepping foot outside your apartment seemed too far beyond the realm of possibility. Now you find yourself moving through the world like the person you used to be, not haunting it like the ghost his absence made you.

You don’t think this is your forever, but it’s your present and for the moment you can accept it.

[lohotine]

``The Want to be Wanted.``

Chance x Reader (Forsaken)

Cw: Mentions and usage of: Cigarettes, Alcohol. Not proof read.

The night had been long. It was filled with loud activities, risky bets, money, alcohol.

Things that were commonplace for a casino.

Chance had you by his side the entire night. You were his quote-unquote lucky charm. Though you're pretty sure he was only saying that because you were a nice piece of eye candy for him to flaunt around the casino.

What is a crown without its jewels, after all?

He'd have you seated on his lap while making irresponsible bets that he somehow never ended up being punished for, leaving kisses along your neck and rubbing their thumb over your hip.

It was honestly quite boring, but you couldn't deny that the attention was nice.

Feeling wanted was nice.

Of course, he'd make it up to you by buying you drinks and complimenting you the entire time. About how nice you looked that night, or how good you smelt.

Cheap, basic compliments like that; but compliments nonetheless.

Compliments that, despite your best efforts, replayed in your mind over and over.

But all good things have to come to an end eventually.

The two of you would call it a night, and Chance would bring you to his expensive car parked outside, and he'd hold the passenger door open for you, like the gentleman he was.

As Chance drove, you'd look out the window to see all the city lights filling up the streets. You'd see all of the people who have yet to retire for the night.

Chance was rambling on about a jackpot he won earlier that night. You already knew about it, of course. After all, you were with him the entire time. Yet you continued to listen despite this.

You always listened.

Nobody else really did.

And eventually, you'd reach the apartment complex he had booked for the night. It was a different one from last week, though no less expensive.

Chance could never really sit still, after all. They were constantly chasing after that thrill. Asking things like, what kind of complimentary wine will be served this time?

Or, will there be white bedsheets or black?

Small things like that. Things that made him seem like even more of a gambling addict than he already was.

He'd know the answer to these questions if he simply checked the website a little more thoroughly. But why would he do that when he could just leave it up to fate, right?

The lobby was empty. It was late, after all. Chance took this as a sign to wrap his arm around your waist and walk you towards the elevator. Not like he wouldn't have done the same thing anyway if there were people.

"So, fun night, right?" He muses, that signature grin brandishing his face as you approach some random suite. You say nothing. You just want to lie down.

"I'll take that as a no," he notes, sliding the apartment keycard along the sensor. The inside looks nice. Everything Chance owns is always like that.

Refined, minimalistic, expensive.

Chance starts to take off his coat, but you don't help him. You only wander off to the balcony. To the first moment of solitude you've been offered this entire day.

Solitude isn't really what you're after, though.

The entire city stirs beneath you. Cars speeding down the street, apartment lights serving as your substitute for stars.

It's something you have to get used to. How everything is constantly in motion.

How it can never seem to sit still.

And eventually, after staring at the view from the balcony and being lost in thought, Chance reunites with you once more.

And once again, your thoughts have circled back to him. The one person who probably could not care less about you.

Not really.

Not in the way you'd want.

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his suit. It's an exclusive, nameless brand that's probably worth more than your entire life's savings.

Another reminder of just how little your life is worth in comparison to his. For some reason, this night just seemed full of them.

Chance lights one cigarette and brings it up to his lips. You watch silently as he breathes it in, and eventually breathes it out.

It's sort of mesmerizing; how pretty he is.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer." He grins at his own joke, because of course he does. "But seriously. What's up with you? You've been acting off all night."

You say nothing. You're not even sure what you'd say, anyway.

The only sounds that remain are the sounds of cars driving by and the sound of Chance's breathing as he continues to smoke.

If he were feeling a little more generous that night, perhaps he would have allowed you to remain silent.

But he'd long since become bored of your little silent treatment. Even the most patient of people grow tired of waiting after all.

He leans over you, smoke swirling around the two of you like a veil. Chance smells of alcohol and expensive cologne. The apartment smells like antiseptic.

An unfamiliar mixture of scents.

A mixture that just so happens to set off all of your nerves in a way that makes you feel like something is wrong.

You can't see their expression under the sunglasses, but even if you could, you doubt you'd be able to decipher it.

Is there something wrong?

"Come on now, use your words. Tell me what's on your mind," Chance says, his thumb brushing along your bottom lip.

He looks at you with that small, charming smile. The one he's constantly wearing. Though this one, you admit, is slightly softer.

It manages to make you fold. Instantly.

"Why do you even keep me around? You... have no need for me..." you mumble.

The atmosphere gets more suffocating with those words, and Chance's movements seem to still, if only for a moment.

Then he sighs. He removes the cigarette from his lips and flicks it out over a nearby ashtray.

"Of course I don't need you."

His hold on your chin tightens. An act of desperation, perhaps?

"But I want you," he exhales, the words sounding breathless on his lips.

"I want you so badly."

"And more than that... I want you... to want me too."

Chance never thought he'd admit those words.

After all, Chance had everything he could ever need.

He had money. Connections. Luxuries.

And yet,

you remained all he could ever want.

That's why he did all that he did, after all.

He bought you anything you even vaguely looked at. He kept you near him always. He'd hold open doors for you, pull out chairs for you.

All so that, maybe, you'd want him, like he wanted you.

He wanted you to want him.

He really,

truly,

did.

And so, when Chance felt your hand slowly trailing upwards, before resting on his shoulder, he could not help but lean into you more.

You were careful, and perhaps even a bit reluctant in your actions, yet not unwilling.

Never unwilling.

"I want you."

Those were the words Chance heard from you.

A quiet exclamation. Almost a whisper, that threatened to be whisked away by the night breeze.

But he heard it anyway.

Of course he did.

And then he'd shift, once more, closer to you. Closer to your lips

And you'd do the same, until you two met.

A careful interaction, being tread lightly by both of you.

This kiss was different from the others.

Not as demanding. Not as bold.

Just there. Simply being. As it is.

"I think I love you," he'd murmur, never quite breaking the kiss and simply mumbling the words into your mouth.

"You're not sure?"

He'd pull back at that, shaking his head slightly.

"No. I am sure... I love you."

And before you could say anything else, his lips were back on yours. His tongue swiped your bottom lip, before shoving its way into your mouth.

He still tasted like the smoke from his cigarette. It was bitter. But it tasted like him.

It tasted right.

"I love you, too," you'd say in-between kisses.

The words left you effortlessly.

You've been meaning to say them for a long time, after all.

Been meaning to kiss him like this.

Like you meant it.

And you did mean it.

As did he.

And you wanted it.

As did he.

[gotwcird]

"oh hell yeah!" ripley looks back at him with repeated nods as they reach the apple stall, already excited from the ideas bren is spouting. watches affectionately as they can see the cogs in his brain whir to life for this. can imagine everything he's mentioning too, knows it'll all taste amazing, just because of who he is — would rather have whatever he makes over anything else. "there! we'll even get to use your fancy butter with it all!" they exclaim with a cheeky smile as if he hasn't already said okay to getting them, just wants to be a goober more than anything for fun. they falter for a moment though, realizing they'll be apart. feels ridiculous for it, but can't help it either. wants to optimize every second with brendan but concedes with an enthusiastic nod to start picking out the produce.

it doesn't take too long at least to get two plastic bags bought. the people at the stall are helpful, and they managed to exercise some self-restraint and not buy one too many avacadoes. once it's all paid for though, ripley makes a beeline to where they know they bought the fancy butter before. perks up immediately when they see bren looking ducked down to inspect the products, which makes their chest stir with warmth. they do their best not to surprise him though, tugging at the fingers of his free hand and not letting go as they slide up next to him. "so, was the limit obsolete or have the fancy butter gods showed you mercy today?"

he leaned into their touch for a second, eyes crinkling as they poked at his face, and nudged his shoulder gently against theirs. the circles he was drawing didn’t stop, though — maybe they’d never stop, not when ripley was close like this, sun filtering through their hair and with a grin catching him off guard every time. he's distracted, momentarily, by the tents he sees rising on the horizon, squinting in the sun to try to see the different wares like they had. ‘ okay, okay, apples and avocadoes, ’ he conceded with a grin of his own, catching up to their pace with a soft jog. ‘ but only if we get to make something with them later. like — avocado toast topped with apple slices and a drizzle of honey. where i can use my fancy butter and it won't go to waste. ’ could make a strudel depending on the amount of apples they wanted to get, some fritters ... already calculating how much he'd need of each to make them some sweet treats for later. ‘ you go and pick some out. i'm going to see if they have the butter, and if they don't ... we'll just have to buy a lot of something else to make up for it. ’

[zenathezee]

During the most recent full company meeting HR mentioned they're about to roll out our policy guide for AI, so we all know how to use it within proper guidelines as some of us are already using it to generate slides and stuff

I'm sorry, but if you don't understand enough about the subject matter to write a slide about it, you shouldn't be making the powerpoint or presenting it, what the actual fuck are you contributing

[isolatednights]

"this is you picking me up. don'know about picking me," she murmurs with a sigh, taking aspects of their conversation far too seriously and others not - but that was the drunken haze. "shouldn't be surprised. no one ever picks me and my lion first." despite her state, she still manages to catch the laugh that escapes him, brow furrowing. "then i'm your type according to your logic."

"i'm just-" yawn cutting off the rest of her sentence, it takes a moment longer for her to continue, "angry because its not fair. i shouldn't be angry with you - because i'm in the same position. aslan's asleep too. keep wondering if i ought to wake him up. would i be a bad mother if i did? or if i didn't?" brows furrow as light hues try to meet dark - as if somehow whatever answer he provides might start smoothing over the rift between them. a grumbled noise escapes her as she's set down - eyelids growing heavy already. "stay?"

silas watches her for several beats cradling the mug between her fingers, and though he's tempted to prompt her to actually take a sip of it, the man simply offers a smile and satisfied nod before leading her away. "grass. and trees. flowers. pretty sure there's fruit but i can't remember if its on this floor or a different one. we'll have to explore some more." he remarks before holding up the control pad that seemed to never be far from his fingertips these days. "figured none of you had found it yet or you'd be hounding me to open it. i thought after everything we'd been through, we deserved something of home. sunlight in there is artificial. so is the breeze. but dirt, grass? smells like earth. opened it up earlier. that's originally what i was trying to find you all for."

"c'mon." stepping around her once more, the nearby doors slide open without a noise - the scent of nature immediately permeating the air. "this is my first time in here since waking up as well." glancing over his shoulder, he grins at her. "what do you think? nice little treasure just for all of us, right?"

he didn't know how long they'd have to sit there - with him murmuring soft reassurances to try and calm her down - but something deep inside him said he'd wait as long as needed. until her breathing normalized and the shaking of her hands stopped, his hands would continue the smooth trail up and down her spine.

"'s not gonna be perfect," he murmurs after a moment. "not at first. but we'll figure something out, ya? silas' got that tablet. sure we can get ourselves into any one of these suites. something real big. get into the storage and shopping areas. get what we want to decorate and what not." assumptions, all of it, but asher would do a fair amount to try and sooth the woman. to make all of this work out in the end. "don't wanna make assumptions that you and i will be together," not when he knew he wasn't a good guy - when she had people willing to sacrifice the lives and well being of others for her. "but i could probably take you on a date. figure all that out." not that he'd ever done that, but they could try, right? chuckling softly, his head tilts down to look at her. "i imagine it does. you and that other girl seem to have drunk half the bar. c'mon. i'm gonna pick you up. the med-bay'll have some IV bags that'll help with the hangover tomorrow."

"am i not picking you now? is this not me picking you?" his eyes softened. "i'm sorry, that i made you feel like you were second choice... i really just needed time to figure my head out darlin'. it wasn't you." he meant that, the way he spoke? soft and warm? that was a voice for her to melt in to, to soothe and it was utterly serious. he couldn't help the bit of laughter that escaped. "because apparently your type is me, i mean, has to be according to that test thing, right? so i'm going to take a chance that tall, dark hair, rough around the edges is your type."

"don't wanna be mean to me, but you're angry at me, so what can i do for you to not be angry at me? then we've half solved that problem right? i can't read means, wish i could, but you might have to give me a clue on what it is i could do." the noise of his door hushing opened and then closed behind them, he was setting her down on his bed as gently as he could. "there we go, easy" he'd go find a bed elsewhere, maybe the sofa so he wasn't too far, but he wanted her to be comfortable. "right, let me get you some water and something for how much your head will hate you in the morning."

eris was staring down at the mug of hot chocolate he'd as good as pushed into her hand, she didn't know what to make of it because.. how the hell did he know that she loved a hot chocolate? it was always her choice when it came to something sweet. it threw her too, the kindness of showing her this first, the normalcy of a cafe and she hadn't half been craving some form of normality the past few days. sure the androids were a little strange but at least a cafe would seem like something they'd have all done in their day to day life before this. it was such a simple pleasure, her fingers curving around the comfortable warmth of the mug.

she followed him again, looking out into such vivid greenery, and this little smile started to tug at her lips. "is that grass?" she could see so much here, so many rooms, it wasn't just boring grey either and seeing the room garden room, such vivid green it made her feel more... more normal. "why are you showing me this?" she moved to the window, clutching that mug close to herself like there was a risk someone was going to snatch it from her, the other hand on the glass pane that looked down to the garden. "can we get in to that room yet?" she was in awe of it.

maybe it was the heat of his chest, or the strong arms that she knew weren't going to stop holding around her until she was ready for it, but something about how he cradled her felt so surrounding and safe. enough that her own hands stopped gripping at herself and instead, gripping into his shirt, her hands balling the material into fists as she held to him, firm and secure and close, she was so close. she was crying, a soft sniffle as she just cried in to his chest for a little bit, because that was fine.. that was fine because he soothed it, he ushered little words of being there, that he was there.

it took a minute for her to calm, for her to breath without the rushing, without the panic in her bone, for her hands to stop their trembling but it did work.. eventually she was nodding her head a little bit because what he'd done had worked a treat. he'd given her something else to think about and focus on, making some space here, a home, how to make it cosy, how to make it feel like a home for him too so he could experience that. "i think so. i can try my best. you should get to have a home, even if it's not one with me for that- the thingy." despite calming, she didn't want to move, she wanted to stay right there. "my head feels all.. all fuzzy." she mumbles into his chest. she could stay right here and be perfectly happy. "it hurts, the fuzzy feeling i don't-" the noise she made was halfway to a hiccup. far too much to drink. "i don't like it."

[spiffybits357]

Here's a big project I've been working on for a few weeks: a phylogenetic tree of everything in Minecraft! It would take ages to explain everything here, so if you want an explaination of any inclusions, exclusions, categorisations or Latin names PLEASE PLEASE PUHLEASE ask me I would love to answer any questions :3

Here's the slides I used to make it since i'm aware the text on the image there is pretty much unreadable.

Reblogs appreciated!

Edit: there are some problems with the image on here aside from the quality, so please check the slides for a slightly more accurate version! Also, if you have a question check the notes first! Odds are someone else has asked already.

Edit 2: PLEASE check the reblogs before you ask a question, most of the questions I'm getting now are ones that have already been answered. But I of course really appreciate how much people care :3

Full image description:

At the bottom is the Origin of Life, which branches out into five kingdoms - amoebozoa, animalia, fungi, algae and plantae.

Amoebozoa is in pink. It branches into Sculk (latin name sculk sculk) and then into slimes (scindo uliginosus) and magma cubes (scindo igneum)

Animalia starts off in orange. It branches off into the five types of coral (Fire - millepora, horn - rugosa, tube - tubipora musica, bubble - Plerogyra sinuosa, brain - diploria). The second branch of animalia branches off to the sponge (in the phylum demospongiae) and then to molluscs and arthropods.

Moluscs first branches off to the shulker (duopartes purpur) then to the nautilus (latin name nautilus), the ghast (Exspiravita inferno) the heart of the sea (unknown latin name), the squid (Immiforma caeruleum) and the glow squid (Immiforma crepuscula). The heart of the sea and nautilus are both marked with a dagger symbol, indicating they are extinct.

Arthropods branches off to the enderman (gracillis sapiens) and the ender dragon (draconiforma finis). It also branches off into insects, featuring bees (bombus enormus) and silverfish (Lepisma saccharinum), as well as to arachnids, featuring the endermite (terminus limina), the spider (rufoculos nocturnis) and the cave spider (rufoculos caverna).

Carrying on from the branch of animalia is the sea pickle (Pyrosoma) and then the vertebrates, which are coloured in reddish orange. The first branch contains the Queen angelfish (Holacanthus ciliaris), the emperor red snapper (Lutjanus sebae) and the moorish idol (Zanclus cornutus). the second branch contains salmon (Oncorhynchus nerka). The third branch contains the yellowtail parrotfish (Sparisoma rubripinne), the clownfish (Amphiprion percula) and the dottyback (Diadem pseudochromis). The next branch contains cod (Gadus). the final fish branch contains the triggerfish (Abalistes stellatus), the pufferfish (Arothron meleagris) and the yellow tang (Zebrasoma flavescens).

Next the branch transitions into tetrapods. coming off this are amphibians, which includes the frog (Lithobates thermochroma) and the axolotl (Ambystoma mexicanum)

image desc currently unfinished, would appreciate help

[op1umeyes]

Firefighter!Simon who meets you when your apartment goes up in flames, breaking down the crumbling excuse of a door to make sure that everyone had been evacuated from the building. Gaz was having a laugh about how someone ‘could sleep through that shit’ as Simon had to wake up this poor girl who just wanted to sleep after her stressful day. Firefighter!Simon who answers all your questions with a gruff tone, navigating through the burning building. On one hand, he’s glad you aren’t screaming and crying about the building but on the other hand he wasn’t used to people asking him questions. You ask him things like his favorite color, his favorite food, how many times he had punched people in the face, and about his opinion on everything under the sun. He was on his seventh ‘you need to stop talkin’, ma’am, yer wastin’ air’ when you started coughing.

When you got to the ambulance, Firefighter!Simon didn’t say no when you asked him to go with you to the hospital. Johnny raised an eyebrow at Simon as he maneauvered his hulking body onto the seat next to you. For some unknown reason, Firefighter!Simon didn’t want you- nosy and kind and pretty you- to be hacking up a lung by yourself in the presence of someone like Johnny. And when your breathing started slowing and you weren’t looking around with bright eyes, Simon let you slide your hand into his gloved one.

Firefighter!Simon who, miraculously, has the night off. He decides to stay in the hospital until you wake: thinking it would be the gentlemanly thing to do to make sure your friends or family were made aware of the devastating fire. But when you finally blink awake and Simon asks all his questions, he’s stumped when you hit him with a ‘I don’t have any family’. Simon can’t stop himself from blurting out ‘You c’n stay with me. If you want.’

It takes a full day for you to be cleared before Firefighter!Simon picks you up from the hospital to take you to his (more than) humble abode. He finds that you quickly find happiness in the kitchen, but are more than disappointed to see he has barely anything to cook or bake with. “A damn shame” you say. With the remaining daylight hours, Simon finds himself driving you to a little supermarket in the corner of the city he hadn’t had the time to be explore. You insist on buying everything, telling Simon (a man who you really knew nothing about) it was the least you could do since he saved you from homelessness. And dying.

The rest of your first day in your temporary home with Firefighter!Simon is spent cooking. You whip up a marvelous pasta dish with hearty meatballs that almost make drool seep from Simon’s lips. He sits at the island watching you move around his space like you’d been there millions of times, an unfamiliar feeling blooming in his gut similar to fondness. Since picking you up some new clothes, Simon had learned a little bit more about you than Simon thought healthy. It was unfortunate enough for him to have been unable to get laid in over three months, but it was even more unfortunate that he had such a pretty bird in his apartment making him food and insisting on being near him when he sure as hell couldn’t make a move on her.

Firefighter!Simon who gets comfortable in his routine with you. On the days he’s not at work at assfuck 0200, he’s up making a simple breakfast for you and him before rhe day starts. You’ll eat and concerse a little awkwardly but that wont stop you from asking all about how he slept and if his buddies wanted more of those monster cookies you’d made to thank them for saving you and your fellow tenants. Simon had to relay many praises of your work in the kitchen, only ommiting the details and sly jokes about how ‘Simon’s girl’ was already taking care of the family. You’d go to work by bus or train- depending on how you felt- and then come home and make dinner or reheat leftovers. If Simon was at work, you’d laze on the couch in the main room and watch television and read. If Simon wasn’t at work, you’d bring the softest blanket from the room Simon had placed you in and watch a movie. More often than not, you would scoot closer and closer to Simon before falling asleep against him. When you woke up, you were in your bed- undoubtedly carried by Simon. Oh well. Its what friends do.

Firefighter!Simon who sees you as a friend. It’s basing your third week in his home and he feel comfortable around you. You’re good at reading his silence- the set of his shoulders and the future of his brow say enough- and he can’t be more thankful of that. For someone so new to his life, you seem to know exactly when to let a comfortable silence fall between you and when to start chattering about them things that come to your mind. But when you are the silent, short-tempered, and fatigued one, Simon is more than scared to get in your way. “Needa talk?” He offers, sliding you a cup of steaming coffee when you level a glare at the mug that had irritated you at such an inconveniently early hour. You heave a sigh and your head crumbles down into your arms. “I’m a mess, Si,” you tell him. Though your voice is muffled, Simon hears the shakiness in your throat trying to escape. He rounds the corner of island and places a large palm on your back in his attempt to comfort you. You are wrapping your arms around his neck and buring your face into the frail fabric of Simon’s shirt before he even knows what’s happening. And- as avoidant as Simon is to physical touch that doesn’t occur during work hours or when you fall asleep on him or when you slid your hand in his gloved hand during The Ambulance Ride- Simon didn’t mind your arms and warmth around him. When you started shaking in his arms was when Simon had to clench his jaw. It pained him that it pained you- and he didn’t even know what was ailing you! Simon tried to soothe himself with the knowledge that he was giving you the best comfort he could offer.

A day later you wake up to a crime scene in your underwear in the middle of the night so you decide to take a midnight trip to the convenience store a literal block away without letting Firefighter!Simon know. I mean, hey, he needs sleep and you were not going to wake him up to let him know you would be gone for a total of five minutes! But when you were on your way back to his house, you noticed someone following you. As you turned right for the third consecutive block, you finally fumbled for your phone.

Hearing you say ‘hey baby’ at 0146 had Firefighter!Simon’s head spinning. He was a little dazed because of the abrupt awakening but your casual greeting was wnough to jolt him awake. “Y/n? Whadda ya- what-?” He couldn’t finish his question before you interrupt him. “Hey do you think you could pick me up? I think I got a little lost.” Simon shoots out of bed, hitting the speaker button as he goes to slip a shirt on. “Where are you? Do I need a knife? Are you okay, dove?” He slips his shoes on and is out of the door faster than he is when he gets a work call. “Yeah, I’d bring the knife, babe,” you answer on the other line, more than loud enough for the man who is following you to hear. “I’m about four blocks away, by the Casey’s. You have my location.” Simon peels out of his driveway and immediately clicks on your profile to find the map with your smiling face. “Talk to me, y/n. I’m almost there.” Your breath is shaking on the other end and Simon doesn’t want you to be scared. “I think I could go for some Italian, Simon,” you say truthfully. “A minute away” Simon tells you, tires squealing as he turns down the streets you were hightailing down. Simon steps out of the truck after shifting it to park and the guy scatters. You’re running into Simon’s open arms before he could take a third step toward you. “I’m sorry,” you murmur “I kinda… started my period and didn’t want to wake you but then-“ Simon just shushes you, running a large hand down your back. “Let’s go home, love.” Simon scooped you up easily, tucking the obnoxiously loud crinkling plastic bag into your lap as he easily carried you to the passenger seat. Home. Yeah, Simon and his place had become your home.