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em1i2a3 · 23 days ago

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Only He Can Heal Me

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Enhanced!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you and Bob take refuge in one of Valentina’s safehouses to wait for an extraction.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and a bit of Angst. We got the one bed trope in here, and we love it very much lol. Mentions of Blood and Injuries, Light Exploration of Readers Traumatic Past, Mentions of Violence, Descriptions of Wound Care. Reader has taken a Super Soldier Serum (a messed up one that didn’t truly work but gave her some benefits like healing a little faster than others and some enhanced strength).

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (….y’all know what I’m going to say…I don’t have to tell you lol), Fingering, Oral Sex (Female Receiving) Handjob, Messy/Sensual Sex, Spitting (but like…in a sensual way guys lol), Grinding

Authors Note: We love a good one bed trope, but I gotta say I’ve written close to like 30,000 words in the past 24 hours and my brain is like ‘HOW MUCH MORE SMUT CAN WE WRITE’ lol. Loved doing it though, it was like a marathon! Can’t wait to release the next one tomorrow :) Enjoy this one, this was a request from an anon, and I cannot find it! But ENJOY!

Word Count: 16,184

The prep bay was cold and mostly empty, except for the soft hum of wall vents and the faint rattling of gear being zipped, buckled, and secured behind locker doors.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, too bright in places and dim in others, flickering where the panels hadn’t been replaced in months. The room smelled faintly of machine oil and static–charged with the familiar tang of adrenaline, sweat, and sterile fabric fresh from vacuum-sealed bags.

You’d just finished adjusting the last strap of your chest harness–tightening it down over the protective plating that pressed solid and reassuring against your sternum–when a flicker of gold caught your peripheral vision.

You paused, with one hand still on the cinch strap at your hip, and turned your head slightly at the colour.

Bob was standing by the far mirror, partially tucked between two lockers, half-lit by a faulty overhead beam that stuttered and blinked every few seconds like it couldn’t quite keep up with the job it was supposed to be doing. He hadn’t noticed you staring–or if he had, he was pretending not to.

He was already suited up and ready for the mission, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes roam over the sight in front of you.

The new Sentry suit clung to him like it had been built cell by cell onto his skin.

Not just worn–forged. It wrapped around every inch of him like it had been grown from starlight and gravity and expectation, molded to fit the weight of a man who could level New York with the snap of his fingers.

And for the first time, with the old bulk of his baggy sweaters and oversized sweatpants gone, you were able to see everything.

The long, sculpted lines of his legs, wrapped in dark navy plating that traced the shape of powerful quads and calves. The sweep of his hips, trim and bracketed in reinforced seamwork that flexed faintly with every shift in his stance. The gold across his chest was smooth, seamless, pressed tight to thick pectorals and sharply defined shoulders that rose and fell with each breath like rolling thunder. Even his arms–cords of lean muscle, taut and strong–were framed by the suit in a way that almost felt indecent in how much presence it gave him.

He was broad. Massive. Godly.

Everything about him in that moment was dangerous in the way the sun is dangerous: too bright, too big, and too hot…Temperature wise of course.

But instead of standing proud in the new suit, he looked uncertain. Hunched slightly, like he was trying to take up less space than he did. One hand moved across his chest in slow, flattening passes–fingers dragging across the golden seam like he was checking for cracks in a shell that didn’t quite feel like his.

His expression in the mirror was unreadable. Something between awe and fear, because the suit made him look like a god.

But the man wearing it?

He still looked like Bob.

Like someone who had spent too long convincing himself he wasn’t worthy of saving–let alone saving anyone else.

You watched him for another couple of seconds. Long enough to catch the subtle furrow of his brow, the way his breath visibly slowed like he was talking himself through the act of just existing inside all that power.

And then–your voice, calm and familiar, cut through the quiet of the room like a knife:

”You’re missing the cape.” He flinched, startled–his shoulders jolting slightly as he twisted toward the sound of your voice. His eyes found yours with the soft, wide-open look of someone who’d just been pulled out of water without realizing how long they’d been drowning. His mouth parted. The apples of his cheeks flushed pink almost instantly, Color blooming up toward the tips of his ears–embarrassed, maybe, or just vulnerable in a way he didn’t know how to guard around you.

You could see the question flicker behind his eyes: How one have you been watching me?

”…Oh.” He said, voice rough at the edges. It caught in his throat, and he cleared it with a soft, awkward cough. His gaze dropped for a second, darting to the chair behind him where the cape sat–folded with care, the weight of its symbolism too heavy for him to shoulder just yet.

”Y-Yeah. I wasn’t s-sure if I should wear it this t-time around.” He replied quietly, as he spoke, a loose strand of light brown hair slipped forward, tumbling across his brow–soft against the sharpness of the suit. He reached up with a flicker of self-consciousness, fingers pushing it back behind his ear, but the motion only emphasized the contrast: the boyish awkwardness of Bob Reynolds trying to live inside the myth of Sentry. When he looked back up at you, the light caught his eyes just right.

And you saw it.

Gold.

Faint, flickering through the deep ocean blue–the colour his irises sported when he was in a certain light–like lightning scattering across abandando seas. Not glowing outright–but present. Watching. Sentry was not lurking, not threatening; he was just awake. Quiet. Curious almost.

You started walking toward him, slow and casual. Measured in a way that wouldn’t spook him and that wouldn’t make him feel like a specimen under glass.

”You should wear it,” You said gently, “It’ll complete the look.” His lips twitched, but didn’t quite make it to a smile.

”T-The look?” You nodded.

”Y’know…The whole divine golden protector from the skies thing they have going for you.” His lashes fluttered as you approached, long and soft against the sharp angles of his face, still a little pink at the cheekbones. He blinked once–then again–as if grounding himself with your steps.

You stopped just shy of him, giving him a respectful bit of space but close enough to see the precise stitching of his suit now–not just armor, but something compared to scripture in a way. Intricate lines flowed from shoulder to elbow like veins of lightning trapped in cloth, cross-patterned over his ribs with a celestial geometry you recognized as Sentry’s sigil, though this one was subdued–etched into him instead of displayed.

The golden plating was seamless, light-warped and fluid over his chest, hugging the swell of his pectoral muscles, tapering down his waist and into the darker paneling that wrapped around his hips like a brace. There were slight grooves in the gold that shimmered as he moved, like solar flares caught in motion. Even standing still, he looked ready to fly. Seeing all the details up close almost took your breath away.

And still–he was fidgeting.

Not noticeably. Not like before.

But enough that you saw it: the flex of his fingers against his thigh. The tiniest rise of his chest like he was trying to steady his breathing.

And only you would notice.

You let the moment stretch just long enough for the tension to ease between you. Your voice stayed quiet, grounded.

“Can I help you put it on?” He didn’t answer right away, but then his eyes flicked up–searching your face, just for a moment–and he gave a single, quick nod. You turned, walking the last few steps to the chair where the cape rested. It was folded perfectly, like a sacred object waiting to be used. Your fingers brushed the fabric as you lifted it.

It was heavier than it looked–dense and thick, with layered gold threading woven through an inner lining of dark slate gray. The outer side was luminous, that same rich gold as his suit, but slightly deeper–burnished at the edges, like sunlight just before dusk. The hem shimmered subtly with kinetic microfilaments meant to stabilize it mid-flight. Even in your hands, it felt powerful.

When you turned back around with the cape in your hands, he was still standing, fingers still twitching at his sides like he was mulling over something in his head. The air between you seemed to tighten just a little–charged, but not dangerous. Not with him. Not anymore.

Then, with a soft exhale, Bob moved.

Slowly, deliberately–he began to kneel.

It wasn’t a grand gesture. Just one knee lowering to the floor with careful control, his head bowed slightly–not in deference, but out of thoughtfulness.

So the height difference wouldn’t strain you, so you wouldn’t have to reach and hurt yourself.

Your breath hitched slightly at the sight.

Because he hadn’t asked. He hadn’t said a word. He had simply given you what he knew you’d never really ask for–ease, access, and trust.

You stepped into his space without hesitation, the cape feeling heavier now in your hands–not just from the weight, but with the meaning of what you were about to do. You stood in front of him quietly, with his head still lowered, shoulders broad and solid but stilled beneath your touch, as if he didn’t want to do anything that would interrupt your rhythm. He breathed in the scent of your tactical gear–the strong smell of gun oil, burnt fabric, and a sweetness that only he could describe as hot strawberries.

You leaned over him and began fastening the clips just beneath his collar–magnetized seal points engineered to respond to manual input only, no voice command, no suit automation. It had always struck you as oddly poetic, like some designer was trying to make some sort of underhanded statement about the vulnerability of a superhero that the rest of the world missed.

Now, it made perfect sense.

Someone had to help him with this.

He couldn’t do it alone.

Maybe it was meant to encourage connection. Maybe it was just another line item under “team protocol.” But right now–with your fingers brushing the reinforced seamwork of his armor, with Bob Reynolds kneeling before you in absolute stillness–it felt sacred, like a kind of ceremony that tethered the both of you into each other.

You clicked the last clasp into place slowly, the faint metallic snap sounding louder than it should’ve in the quiet. Then, with both hands, you smoothed the cape gently across his shoulders–your palms gliding over thick, immovable muscle as you checked the weight and fall of the fabric.

It settled down his back like a mantle. Not just gear. It was the final piece that made everything feel real. He was going into the field for the first time since he Voided the majority of New York City, and he was going with you.

This wasn’t just about trying to prove himself, this was about trying to belong on a team that was continuously doubting him and trying to shield him from missions they knew he wanted to help with.

You didn’t step away from him, instead, your hands stayed on his shoulders, resting lightly–warmth against armor, skin to suit, breath to breath. His body was solid beneath your touch, unmoving. Like he didn’t dare shift and break the moment. Like he was bracing against emotion he didn’t know how to show.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The room buzzed faintly around you. Somewhere a locker clicked shut. A bootstep echoed far off down the hallway. But none of it touched the space you two occupied.

Just you. Just him. Just the weight of what it meant. He looked up from the ground, bringing his shimmering eyes to yours, the cold blue being engulfed with the warmth of gold that pulsed softly beneath the surface.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Like it had to climb up his throat to get out.

“I d-didn’t get to say thank y-you,” He said, “…For what y-you did during the meeting.” You paused. The words hung there–raw and unfinished. You could feel him holding something back, unsure if he’d said too much already.

You shook your head gently.

“You don’t have to,” You murmured, “Someone had to do it.” He didn’t look away, nor did he drop his eyes or fidget. He just stayed there, kneeling, with the cape settling against him, and gold flickering under his skin like sunrise behind cloud cover.

“I still want to say i-it regardless…Because you’re the r-reason why I’m here right now.” The words landed heavy. True. Vulnerable in a way few people ever let themselves be anymore–not with the Thunderbolts. Not with everything they’d seen.

Your throat tightened–but before you could respond, you saw it in his eyes. The flicker. The shift.

He was remembering.

The meeting.

The room had been too full for comfort–one of the main ops debrief suites, repurposed last-minute because Walker had cracked the glass wall in the old briefing room again. Everyone was seated around the table, the tension so thick you could feel it in your molars.

Val stood at the head with a tablet in her hands, and a look that suggested she’d already decided the outcome before anyone spoke.

“The mission is recon only,” She said crisply. “Two agents. Remote location off the edge of Bucharest. No public visibility. Minimal risk.”

Then, like she was dropping a live grenade:

“Bob’s file is under consideration.”

You saw it immediately–the way Bucky stiffened in his seat. The way Walker leaned forward, jaw tightening. Yelena didn’t even try to hide her scoff, and Ava shot you a look across the table like she was trying to gauge how serious you were about this.

Only Alexei sat still, arms crossed, unreadable as usual–but you didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked toward Bob, who sat near the back. Silent. Hands folded in his lap. Shoulders drawn tight beneath a threadbare hoodie.

He hadn’t spoken. Not once. He didn’t need to. The silence around him was speaking volumes.

Val continued, breezing through the risk assessments. She spoke like Bob wasn’t even in the room.

“While his recovery has shown significant improvement–meditative regulation, Void suppression therapy, strength conditioning–field placement is still an unresolved variable.”

“‘Unresolved variable?’”You repeated, voice colder than you intended. “He’s been stable for eight months.”

”And we remember the last time he wasn’t stable.” Walker cut in, tone clipped, “Need I remind you of the Void turning the population into a trauma loop.” Yelena leaned back in her chair, arms folded.

”This isn’t about doubting his progress. It’s just about not wanting to see him go there again.” You rubbed your forehead.

”He won’t,” You snapped, more forcefully than you meant to–but you didn’t walk it back. Your eyes scanned the table, looking at the rest of the team, almost hoping that you would be able to convince them otherwise.

Ava sighed. “It’s not that we don’t believe he’s trying. We know he is. But try doesn’t count for much when the Void’s in play.”

That’s when you pushed your chair back and stood.

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to.

“Then what’s the point of any of it?” You asked. “The training, the meditations, the suppression chamber nights, the full neuro-synchronization sessions we’ve sat through–all of it. What is the point of putting him through hell to be better if the second he is, we decide it’s still not enough?”

The room quieted.

Bob hadn’t looked up.

He’d kept his hands together, looking down at the floor, with his shoulders hunched.

You stepped out from behind your chair, speaking not to the table anymore–but to him.

“I’ve watched him every day. I’ve seen him rebuild himself molecule by molecule while half of you still talk about him like he’s a bomb with a faulty timer. I trust him. And if no one else wants to give him that chance–fine. I will.” There was a pause as everyone exchanged glances at one another, while you looked over to where Val was standing, the tablet still perched in her hands,“Assign me the mission. Put him on it. Just us. Let’s see if all that damn therapy worked.” Val looked at you for a long moment. Then at Bob. Then back again, almost like she was questioning your sanity.

“…It’s your call…But you’re the one who’s taking the blame if anything happens.” You nodded once, steady and sure.

”I’m willing to take the chances.” The room remained quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful—just heavy. Charged. One wrong word and it would tip into something worse. But you didn’t waver. You didn’t even glance back at the others.

You turned.

And your eyes found him.

Bob was still seated, shoulders hunched, posture compact like he was trying to take up as little space in the world as possible. But–

He was looking at you.

For the first time that meeting, he’d lifted his head, just enough, and it wrecked you.

The stunned flicker in his expression was sharp, almost disbelieving. Like he hadn’t been expecting you to fight for him. Not like that. Not out loud. Not in a room where it would cost you something–like being sat out of missions for an unknown amount of time.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His gaze dropped again almost as fast–but not before you caught it.

The look in his eyes was hope, cracking at the edges.

That’s what had brought you to this moment, with him kneeling in front of you, and your hands resting on his shoulders.

”Trust me…It’s not that big of a deal.” But you felt it in the way his muscles shifted under your touch, the slight tremble of disbelief still running through him like an aftershock. The cape settled perfectly down his spine now, catching the flickering light in soft ripples as he knelt there, grounded not by weight, but by something far more vulnerable.

You didn’t mean to reach up.

But your hand moved on instinct.

Fingers brushing along the edge of his jaw before cupping the curve of his cheek–warm beneath your palm, with the faintest prickle of stubble just starting to grow back after this morning’s shave. His skin was soft. Too soft for someone who’d been built to withstand the weight of stars.

His breath hitched.

And though he didn’t lean into the touch, he didn’t move away either. He just looked at you–really looked at you. Gold threading through ocean blue. A light that wasn’t there just a few months ago.

The intimacy of it hung between you like a string pulled too tight. It was more than friendship. More than duty. It was something you hadn’t had the space to name yet–but it was there, crackling quietly in the places words couldn’t reach.

You dropped your hand slowly, gently. Letting it linger for just a heartbeat longer than you should have.

Then you smiled–small but sure–and stepped back.

“We’ll kick ass out there.” The shift in your tone pulled something like a grin from him. Shy. Crooked. Almost boyish.

You tilted your head toward the bay doors. “Now comm up. We’ve gotta catch the quinjet before Alexei starts yelling and Walker decides to fly it himself.”

That got a soft chuckle from him–quiet and warm, like sunlight after stormclouds.

He rose slowly, with the kind of strength that didn’t show off–but couldn’t be ignored either. The cape flowed down behind him as he stood to his full height, golden and striking and real. No longer a symbol he didn’t think he deserved–but one he’d earned, inch by inch.

And now?

He was finally wearing it.

Side by side, you made your way to the hangar doors, boots echoing softly on the floor.

Two agents.

One mission.

And for the first time in a long time–

Bob Reynolds looked ready.

———————

The facility sat like a carcass at the edge of the forest, its structure sunken and half-swallowed by the wild. Tall pines clustered around the perimeter like sentries of their own, and the building’s outer shell was cracked in places, choked with ivy and moss. The quinjet’s descent had barely stirred the quiet–no birdsong, no wind, just that unnatural stillness you only ever found around dead places.

Bob landed first.

Boots hitting the ground with a muffled thud, cape fluttering faintly behind him, and you followed seconds later, crouching low in the brush before rising to your full height beside him. You exchanged a look–then a nod–and started toward the front of the facility, with your weapons lowered, and sensors scanning.

Once inside, the air changed.

It was stale. Clinical. Stripped of time. Like the place had been left in a hurry, but not by accident. You moved through the corridors slowly, your shoulder brushing his every few steps–part proximity, part habit.

The walls were lined with steel and polymer composite, scorched in some places, and still faintly etched with whiteboard residue in others. You swept through the lab chamber by chamber–clearing one door after the next in practiced silence. It was only when you reached what had once been a medbay or containment ward that Bob slowed.

A cluster of terminals flickered dimly under emergency power. Loose papers were scattered across the desk, some yellowed with age, others oddly fresh. You tilted your head and picked one up, squinting in the low light.

“…Looks like they were testing a serum variant,” You murmured, eyes scanning the page. “Modified CRSP-3. With…Anti-degeneration binding agents?”

Bob leaned in, frowning faintly as he read over your shoulder. “S-Super soldier derivative…” He said quietly, recognizing the words he had heard when he was back at the lab in Malaysia, just a the name was a bit off, “It’s close to the version t-they gave me. Just…Not I guess.”

You looked up at the comment, quirking a brow. “Wrong how?”

He shook his head slowly. “L-Like someone took the recipe and forgot the sunlight.”

Your lips quirked slightly at the phrasing, but it faded quickly as your gaze dropped to another folder. You flipped it open and scanned the contents before muttering, “It’s not that different from mine.” His eyes lifted to yours.

“Y-You got a variant?” You raised a brow at him, like you had revealed a secret that everyone knew but never spoke of.

”It was completely diluted,” You replied, sliding a page free from the file, “Got a perk or two though, I can lift heavy stuff like cars and big slabs of concrete…I don’t heal as fast as I’d like though, not as quick as Bucky or John or Alexei. Not that I mind though, it still gives me some flexibility with my skills and stuff…” Bob’s eyes stayed locked on yours for a second longer, like he wanted to say something else about your serum but couldn’t find the words. Maybe it was respect. Maybe it was concern. But it lingered in the air between you.

You stepped lightly toward another desk, fingers trailing over cracked glass and dust-laced folders as you moved. The place felt stripped of life but not memory. You could still feel the hum in the walls, like the experiments had left a stain that hadn’t faded. Bob followed you, his movements quieter now, more controlled–a kind of hyper awareness rolling off him in waves.

”…Do you really not remember anything from that lab in Malaysia?” You asked softly–trying to change the subject, but to also pick his brain–as you thumbed through a clipboard lined with scrawled formulas and dates. His footsteps slowed behind you.

”I r-remember how I got there…But once I was in there it’s just f-fragments. Voices I c-can’t place…A hallway that smelled like o-ozone. Apart from t-that , I really can’t remember much. I do remember waking u-up to you, Ava, John, and Yelena fighting in The Vault.” You smirked at him.

”You remember that part, huh?” Bob’s eyes flicked up toward yours–soft, sheepish. “H-Hard to forget…It’s where I-I met you guys…” You huffed out a quiet laugh through your nose, about to say something else, but the comms in your ear crackled alive before you could get a word out.

Bucky’s voice came through, clipped and alert: “We’ve got movement on the perimeter. West tree line. At least six–no uniforms, no IDs. Could be nothing. Could be a problem.”

You straightened up from the desk, your hand drifting back to the rifle slung over your shoulder, thumb flicking off the safety. “Copy that,” You said calmly, eyes scanning the windows nearest the treeline. “If they come inside, we’ll handle it.”

A pause.

Bucky’s voice came again, firmer. “It’s an unknown number coming for you. Keep sharp. If this is a setup, they waited ‘til you were deep enough to spring it.”

You glanced over your shoulder at Bob, who was already stepping closer, posture coiled, gold flickering faint behind his eyes like a warning. The air felt heavier now–more electric.

You clicked your comms again and replied, dry as ever, “I’m sure a half-assed super soldier and a sun god with an alter ego can handle it.” There was silence on the line for a beat–then a low grunt from Bucky, unmistakably unimpressed.

“You call me when you’re bleeding,” He said, “I’m not flying out to pick up pieces.”

“I won’t let it get that far,” You promised, stepping into the center of the room as your eyes swept the walls and exits. You turned slightly, voice low now–just for Bob.

”We fall back to the south corridor if anything feels off. There’s an escape path to the ravine.” Bob nodded, fingers twitching faintly at his sides, his voice a whisper of steel and concern.

“Y-You sure you’re ready for this?”

You looked at him–and didn’t hesitate. “I brought you here for a reason.”

That earned you a flicker of something in his expression. Not quite a smile. Not quite fear. Just that electric wire of belief stretching taut between you both.

The sound of distant branches cracking wasn’t the kind of snap that came from animals or wind. It was sharp. Intentional.

Followed by another. Closer.

You turned toward the sound, raising your rifle. Bob turned as well the gold now brighter in his eyes, his whole body shifting subtly, muscles tightening like a wire being pulled taut inside that suit. A pulse of heat rolled off him in the moment before everything went wrong.

A sharp ping echoed from above–the unmistakable sound of a suppressed sniper round ricocheting off a corner beam. You ducked instinctively just as the window to your left exploded inward in a shower of reinforced glass and smoke.

“Y/N!” Bob shouted, arm flying out to shield you–just as a long device was thrown into the room, and it burst in a white-hot pulse of light and heat. The impact blew you sideways. You hit the floor hard, your shoulder slamming into the edge of a metal cabinet. Your ears were ringing, disoriented. The smoke was thick, burning your eyes and nose, and something wet was crawling down your back.

You tried to push yourself up–and screamed.

Pain shot through your entire torso like fire licking your spine. You blinked hard through the smoke, fingers going to your back, and when they came away they were slick with blood.

Shrapnel.

Glass. Steel. Maybe a burn too–you couldn’t tell yet. You gasped, coughing violently, but managed to drag yourself into a half-crouch. Your limbs trembled, but your fingers were still on the trigger of your rifle.

You heard movement to your left–shadows in the smoke–and a low, furious sound that didn’t sound quite human. It was Bob.

You turned just in time to see him tear through a wall.

Not a door. A wall.

There were two men in tactical gear on the other side, and he moved like a solar flare made flesh. One got thrown back with enough force to crumple the corridor’s far end. The other screamed when Bob grabbed him and slammed him into the floor so hard the tiles shattered.

“Bob–” You croaked–but it wasn’t Bob who turned to you.

It was Sentry.

His eyes glowed molten gold through the smoke, his expression a mask of fury and panic. He surged toward you, kneeling beside you so fast it stirred the haze around you like wind. He was panting hard, trying to pull himself back under control. But when his hands reached for you, they shook.

”Y/N…You’re bleeding.” His touch was warm and careful despite the trembling fingers, and that’s when you felt it. The slow trickle of something wet sliding down your temple.

You blinked hard and reached up, fingertips smearing through blood at your hairline. You must’ve caught some shrapnel near the scalp too, and you hadn’t even noticed, but the pain in your back was louder now that you were seeing blood.

“I’m fine,” You rasped, even though your ribs ached like splintered glass was being pushed through your skin, “You need to focus. We have to get out of here, now.”

He looked like he might argue. You saw it flicker in the golden fire of his gaze. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring with emotion he couldn’t shape into words, but then he nodded–once. Just enough. You clicked your comms with a blood-slick thumb, the static crackling as you gritted through the pain.

“Thunderbolt One, we’re compromised. Injuries sustained. South corridor breached. We’re falling back.”

Bucky’s voice came in fast, tight. “Copy that. Can you walk?”

You hesitated, then hissed through your teeth, “Not far. Took shrapnel to the back, possible burns–minimal mobility. Sentry’s with me.”

There was a beat of silence on the line.

Then Bucky again, quieter this time. “Safehouse is two klicks southeast. Hidden hydro-station in the gorge. We stocked it last month–first aid, comms, heat. We’ll extract when the sky’s clear. Maybe a couple hours. You gotta lay low.” Your head fell back slightly, breathing labored, the air still thick with smoke and the sting of ozone. You nodded more to yourself than anyone else.

“Understood.” Bob was already moving before the words left your lips. He gathered you in his arms with infinite care, like touching you wrong might undo you completely. You bit your lip hard enough to draw more blood, trying not to cry out as he shifted you against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, almost more to himself than to you.

Outside the shattered clinical grounds, you could hear the chaos still echoing–gunfire farther off, and someone screaming in the distance. Probably one of the men Bob had already thrown halfway through the wall. But here, in his arms, the world felt steadier. He held you like you weighed nothing. Like you mattered more than everything.

“C-Can you hold on?” He asked, voice flickering somewhere between Bob and something far, far older. “I’ll go slow. Just for a bit.”

��Yeah,” You whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He moved fast enough to blur the edges of the hallway but not so fast it hurt. You clutched weakly at the front of his suit, your fingers curling against the heat radiating off his chest. You tried not to close your eyes. Not yet. But the bleeding hadn’t stopped. The world kept dipping sideways and dragging you down with it.

The last thing you remembered was the forest flashing past in pieces–tree trunks like streaks of shadow, gold light blazing just beneath your lashes–and the sound of him whispering something over and over against your hair, too soft for your failing ears to catch.

——————

The first thing you felt was the cold.

Not biting–but quiet. A gentle chill that hugged the concrete floor beneath your spine, softened only by the blanket cocooned around you. It carried the scent of dust and pine sap, of old stone and something faintly metallic–like blood. Your head throbbed. Not sharp, but thick and heavy, like your skull had been packed with wet cotton. Pain bloomed somewhere low in your back, radiating through your ribs every time you tried to draw a fuller breath. Something was strapped tight across your midsection–gauze, maybe, or field wrap–and your tactical suit clung to you in places it shouldn’t have.

You blinked slowly.

The ceiling came into focus first–low, reinforced concrete with flaking paint at the corners and a single exposed beam running above you. The light was dim and dappled, filtering in through a narrow, barred window high on the wall. Golden hour–near sunset, maybe. You turned your head a fraction and winced. Something pulled at your temple. A bandage, hastily applied.

Then your eyes found Bob.

He was in the far corner, standing beside the boarded-up window, back to the wall, shoulders taut like he was trying to hold himself in place through sheer force of will. His hands were flexing at his sides, over and over again—like he couldn’t decide whether to reach for something or just keep clenching them into fists.

He was no longer in the Sentry suit.

Instead, he’d changed into something from the emergency gear cache–a faded charcoal thermal shirt that fit loosely across his shoulders and sleeves that bunched slightly at his wrists, and a pair of black utility pants that were a little worn at the knees. His light brown hair was damp at the ends, curling slightly from sweat or water–possibly from a quick rinse in the shower. He looked like he’d aged a year in an hour.

You watched him in silence, letting your eyes trail over the tension carved into his posture, the way his jaw ticked every few seconds as he stared out the narrow slats toward the tree line. He was breathing through his nose–slow, measured. Controlled. But there was nothing calm about it.

He thought someone was still coming.

And maybe they were.

“…Bob?” You rasped, barely more than a whisper.

His head jerked around instantly.

His blue eyes landed on you like they hadn’t dared hope you’d wake. For a moment, he just stared–like his brain was trying to catch up to what his heart had already registered. Then he moved. Fast. But not chaotic.

He dropped to a knee beside you, one hand planted against the floor to steady himself as the other reached for you–hovered–then settled gently at your arm when he saw the wince in your expression.

“You’re awake,” He breathed. His voice was hoarse, cracked at the edges. “Oh God–how do you feel? A-Are you okay? Are you in pain? D-Do you know where we are–”You coughed once, your ribs spasming with it, and nodded slightly.

“Safehouse. Hydro-station…Two klicks out.” You took a shaky breath. “I remember.” Relief surged across his face like a tide, washing out the panic. His shoulders slumped slightly, like the weight he’d been carrying might finally loosen its grip.

“I stopped the bleeding,” He said, quieter now. “The stuff in the med bin wasn’t great, but—I-I cleaned what I could reach. The gauze might need to be changed in a few hours, b-but you’re stable. I kept pressure on the worst part until it stopped…” You shifted slightly, groaning as your spine lit up with pain, and that was when you felt it–a heat lingering at your side, tucked between your arm and ribs. A hot pack. Probably scavenged from the safehouse supplies.

Your gaze drifted down. Bob had even folded a towel to keep it from burning your skin.

“You did good,” You whispered. “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Bob huffed softly. Not quite a laugh, but not a sob either.

”T-That’s not enough,” He muttered, “You s-shouldn’t have gotten hurt in the first p-place.” You shook your head slowly, like every movement was wading through wet cement.

“It happens,” You rasped, voice soft but firm. “You can’t control everything.”

Bob didn’t reply back. His gaze flickered down, jaw tight again–like the words sat heavy on his tongue but wouldn’t come out right. The silence between you stretched just long enough to border on weighty before you tilted your head, a dry hint of a smile tugging at your mouth.

“But is there any reason why I’m on the floor?”

That got his attention. He blinked, startled–then rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, the gesture boyish and sheepish in a way that made you forget, just for a second, the power inside him.

“There’s only one bed,” He admitted. “I… I thought i-it would be best to put you here until you were awake. That way you could–y’know–get cleaned up before you got in. F-Figured you wouldn’t want blood in the sheets, or on your face while sleeping.” You stared at him for a second, then through cracked lips murmured,

”So that’s why you’re looking all damp.” The question took him off guard–completely. His brows rose slightly, and he actually glanced down at himself, like realizing for the first time that yes, he was still faintly glistening from the quick scrub he took in the washroom.

“Yeah,” He said after a beat, voice almost embarrassed. “It was just a quick rinse to get the grime and dirt off. Sentry was a bit…Angry so I had to settle that. But I was able to calm him down in peace at least.” You watched him carefully, noting the way he downplayed the struggle. You knew it wasn’t easy–how hard he fought to keep Sentry and Void balanced, especially after emotional spikes like the one in the lab. And he hadn’t just come down from it–he’d carried you out in the middle of it, held it all back for you. Your lips quirked, even though it hurt. A dull, dragging ache moved through your ribs, but it didn’t stop the words from coming.

“I owe both of you one,” You murmured, voice still ragged but steady enough. “You got me to safety. I’m grateful, Bob. Truly.” His gaze flicked down like he couldn’t hold it—not under the weight of your sincerity. His ears were already tinged red, but the color spread across his cheeks then, blooming with quiet embarrassment.

“I… I just did what had to be done to k-keep you safe,” He stammered. “That was my m-main goal…Just–g-getting you out. You were hurt, and I–I couldn’t let anything happen to you.”

You tilted your head slightly, biting back a soft smile as you studied him. He looked so unsure, kneeling there in that too-big thermal, his hair curling damp over his forehead, hands still trembling faintly from adrenaline and aftershock. And yet–he’d ripped through a wall for you. Carried you two kilometers and calmed a golden god that lived in his bones just to hold you still and careful.

“Have you always been this heroic on the inside?” You asked, voice low and a little teasing, your smile blooming now in earnest. “Or am I just the lucky one who gets the rescue mission treatment?” He looked up at that, wide-eyed and flustered, like you’d just hit him with a truck made of compliments. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, failed–then let out a breathy laugh that broke the tension like a warm breeze.

“I think you’re… P–Pretty special,” He said, honest and unguarded, his blue shimmering eyes meeting yours with a kind of hesitant awe, “I mean–I’d…Probably still tear a building in half for Walker if I had to. But I-I didn’t mean it like that with you. I mean–oh God–n-not that I don’t care about you–I mean, I do, but not like Walker–like, not like Walker, I–” You reached out with your good hand and caught the fabric at his wrist, giving it a soft tug, looking down at it..

“Hey,” You said gently, cutting through his verbal tailspin, “I know what you’re saying…” The moment stretched between you like something pulled too tight–fragile, golden, and trembling with meaning. Your fingers lingered on the fabric of his sleeve a second longer than they needed to, and when you looked up at him again, he was already looking at you.

Not just glancing. Not just checking, just staring.

Like there was something unspoken caught in his chest, rising toward the surface–caught somewhere between breath and belief. His eyes weren’t just blue now; they shimmered faintly, gold flickering at the edges, the way they always did when his emotions got ahead of his control. You knew that look. It was the Sentry watching through Bob’s eyes, but not interfering. Just…Witnessing. Letting him feel it.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But it sat there between you, humming like electricity on the skin.

Then, slowly, you let your hand fall back to your side, and you pulled in a breath that made your ribs ache.

“Okay,” You murmured, softer now, trying to anchor yourself. “Right now…I need to get this blood off me before I start sticking to the damn floor.”

Bob blinked like you’d broken a spell–but not in a bad way. He nodded quickly, awkwardly, as he shifted backward to give you space. “Y-Yeah, of course. The water’s warm enough, just don’t stay in too long. The heat might aggravate the swelling on your lower back, s-so keep it quick if you can.”

You gave him a sideways look, smirking faintly despite yourself. “Are you giving me medical advice now?”

He flushed. “I read the first aid kit manual twice while you were out just in case something went wrong.”

That made something flutter in your chest. Not quite laughter. Not quite tears. Just a deep, slow warmth.

You began to shift, slowly bracing against the wall to push yourself up, and he reached out instinctively. One arm looped gently around your back, the other steadied you at the elbow. He didn’t lift you completely–just made it easier, like always. Like he’d keep doing it forever, if you let him.

When you were upright and still breathing through the worst of the pain, you glanced over at him again.

“Once I’m done,” You said, voice a little steadier now, “I’ll need your help redressing everything. The wrap’s probably slipped by now, and I want you to learn how to apply it properly. You did good for field triage, but if we’re stuck here overnight–which judging by the radio silence on the comms it seems like it’s going to be the case–it needs to be clean.”

His face sobered instantly. “I-I’ll do whatever you need.”

You smiled at him again–just faintly. “I know you will.” Then, before he could overthink it, you turned and started toward the tiny half-shower tucked behind a chipped concrete partition, biting back a hiss as every step woke another pocket of pain. You didn’t look back. But you didn’t need to.

You felt him watch you the whole way, like sunlight warming your spine as you disappeared behind the partition covering. The shower was more of a pipe rigged into the wall than an actual stall—one of those industrial utility setups meant for clearing mud and sweat from boots and bodies, not exactly for comfort. The water hissed out in a narrow stream, tepid but consistent. You turned the knob carefully, bracing your weight with one hand against the damp wall, then peeled off your suit in slow, stiff movements–gritting your teeth when the fabric tugged at dried blood, as you ripped off the bandages Bob had placed.

The chill of the air gave way to the warmth of the water. It hit your shoulders first, tracking down your spine in ribbons, streaking through the grime, the smoke, the blood crusted to your skin. You let it run for a moment, eyes closed, arms braced against the wall, head bowed. The sound was steady. Soothing. White noise against the hum of aching muscles and the low throb at the base of your skull.

You let your forehead rest against the wall.

For a second, just a second, it was easy to forget where you were.

Then your ribs shifted, pain bloomed, and you remembered everything.

The fight. The explosion. The lab. Bob’s arms around you.

Bob’s voice, cracking with panic, whispering stay with me again and again like a mantra.

You ran your hands slowly down your torso, fingertips ghosting over the angry welt of bruising across your side and the tender edge of where gauze had been peeled away. The water sluiced down, carrying filth and blood with it, and you let yourself breathe into the ache of it—slow, steady, controlled.

Eventually, you turned off the stream.

The towel was scratchy, military-issued, but it was warm from where it had hung near the heat vent. You wrapped it around yourself tightly, twisting your damp hair, wringing it out, before letting it settle on your skin, and limping out from behind the partition.

The room was still dim, the air faintly humid now from the steam you’d left behind. But something had changed.

Bob had moved.

He was seated now on the edge of the narrow safehouse cot–the only bed in the room, barely wide enough for one, with a thin, patchy blanket folded neatly at the foot. The mattress dipped under his weight, creaking slightly. He’d propped the first aid kit open beside him, latex gloves already tugged onto his long fingers, and fresh gauze, antiseptic, tape, and wraps all laid out in perfect, careful order across a folded towel on his lap.

His knee was bouncing.

When he looked up and saw you, he froze.

You felt his gaze catch–not just on your face, but on the curve of your shoulders, the long stretch of leg below the hem of the towel. His eyes widened a fraction, then dropped politely to the kit again, ears flushed pink.

“I–I’ve got everything ready,” He said quickly, almost too fast. “If–uh, if you want, I can get it started.” You nodded softly, still damp and achy, the towel clinging to your skin. Each step back toward the bed was deliberate, slow. The soreness in your side hadn’t dulled, not even with the hot water, but it was manageable now. Or at least, easy enough to ignore with Bob sitting there–so tense and trying so hard to be helpful that it made something warm flutter in your chest.

You reached the edge of the bed and turned your back to him, standing for a beat before gingerly easing down beside him. The cot creaked beneath your weight, the mattress barely more than a few inches of aging foam over a thin metal frame. You could feel the heat radiating off him already.

Then, with a steady breath, you tugged the towel down just enough to bare the strip of your lower back and side where the makeshift field wrap sat crooked and half-unraveled from your shower.

“Okay,” You murmured, voice quiet in the still room. “You’re up, Doctor Reynolds.”

Bob gave a soft huff at that–something between a laugh and a nervous exhale–but his hands moved quickly. He leaned in behind you, close enough that his breath ghosted against your shoulder as he examined the wound. The old gauze peeled back with a faint pull, and he winced even more than you did.

“Sorry,” He said softly, glancing up as if expecting a flinch. “T-The edge was stuck. You okay?” You nodded.

“Keep going. It needs to be clean.” He moved with as much gentleness as he could manage. His hands weren’t shaking now, but they were tense–measured. You could feel the concentration in his touch, like he was afraid of hurting you again, even as he dabbed antiseptic over the reddened skin and pressed clean gauze into place. As he worked, your gaze drifted toward the comm unit resting useless on the bedside table, a tangled mess of wires and cables.

“Did you try contacting the team again?” You asked, voice lower now.

He paused for a moment–just long enough to tell you everything before he spoke. “Yeah,” He said, fingers brushing lightly at the curve of your side, trying his best not to linger in any of the inappropriate spots, even though with all this skin exposed to him it was making his entire body burn up. “No response. Still dead across all channels.”

You gave a soft hum. “Then I guess we really are staying overnight.”Bob didn’t respond at first. His hands moved to the wrap, carefully anchoring the new gauze with smooth precision. You felt the press of his palm through the cloth–steady, reverent, like he was reminding himself you were real and alive with every movement.

“…I can take the floor,” He said suddenly, voice quiet but certain. “After this. It’s not a big deal.” You turned slightly, wincing at the shift, and gave him a half-smile over your shoulder.

“We don’t have to fight over who gets the uncomfortable cot, Bob. We can both sleep in it.”

He hesitated. “It’s really not that big–” You arched a brow.

”You brought me here while trying to hold yourself back from exploding. I think you can survive sharing a mattress with me.” He swallowed audibly.

Then, just as he tightened the last bit of wrap at your ribs, he pressed a little too hard into a bruise that hadn’t fully surfaced yet.

You gasped—sharp, breathless.

Bob jerked back instantly, horrified. “Oh God–I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–shit–are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head quickly, even though your breath was still catching in your throat. “No, it’s okay–it just surprised me. You’re good, Bob.”

His hands hovered near your waist, trembling now, not touching you again until you nodded for him to finish.

He wrapped the last edge slowly, much lighter this time, barely more than a whisper against your skin.

Then silence.

Warm, golden, stretched between the two of you like a blanket.

You didn’t move right away. Neither did he.

You could feel the heat of him behind you, his breath steady and shallow as he stared down at the dressing he’d just finished. His hands lingered near your waist for a second longer than necessary–close, not quite touching–before his eyes drifted downward, following the dip of your spine. The gauze was clean now, neatly taped and secure. But above and around it…More marks had surfaced.

Old ones.

Bob’s breath hitched.

He hadn’t noticed them before–not with the blood and the suit and the urgency of getting you stable. But now, in the quiet aftermath, under the warm yellow flicker of the backup light and with the towel still slouched low across your hips, he could see them clearly.

A long, narrow scar just above your left hip bone. A puckered crescent near your ribs, like a burn. Two parallel lines across the back of your shoulder, faded but unmistakable.

Not field wounds. Not Thunderbolt wounds.

Older.

Hard-earned.

“…These,” He murmured, the pads of his fingers ghosting near—but never quite on—the marks. His voice was gentle. Tentative. “T-These aren’t from today.”

You didn’t turn your head at first. You just breathed–steady, quiet–your shoulders rising and falling.

“No,” You said after a moment, the word flat, then a touch wry. “I had a pretty rowdy life before the Thunderbolts.” Bob’s hand hovered at the curve of your spine, close enough that you could feel the heat of it. “You’d be surprised what a tact suit hides.” You said with a smirk on your lips. His expression was unreadable. Not pitying–he never looked at you like that–but something close to awe. Like he was seeing something sacred. The sum of your survival.

You gave a small, almost shy shift beneath his gaze, suddenly very aware of how much skin was exposed between you–how the towel had begun to loosen slightly at your chest, how his knees were still brushing the side of your thigh on the cot from how he had positioned himself…

You cleared your throat gently. “Hey… Bob?”

His eyes snapped up to the back of your head, as if you’d pulled him from deep underwater. “Y-Yeah?”

“Can you grab me a top and some shorts?” You asked, voice casual but warm. “From wherever you got your stuff? I figure you raided a cache somewhere in the utility lockers.”

“I–Yeah, yeah, of course,” He said, already moving, already grateful to have something practical to do. He rose quickly, the cot creaking under the sudden shift in weight, and crossed to the metal cabinet tucked against the wall. The key was still jammed in the lock from earlier, and he pulled it open with practiced ease.

You watched him move–awkward, careful, trying not to glance back too much. It made your smile curve softly as you tucked the towel tighter around yourself, a slow stretch of fabric across your skin.

He rifled through the stack for a second, then held up a soft, oversized long-sleeve shirt–navy, faded at the collar–and a pair of black compression shorts that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. Not stylish. But warm. Clean.

He turned, holding them out, and then–realizing you were still wrapped in nothing but a towel–he jerked his gaze back to the floor like it had burned him.

“I’ll just, uh–I’ll give you some privacy,” He stammered, shoving the clothes into your outstretched hand without looking. “I’ll just be–right over there, by the door.” You bit back a grin as he spun on his heel and practically speed-walked to the opposite corner of the room, facing the reinforced door like he was on watch duty.

“Thanks, Bob,” You said softly.

You didn’t miss the way his ears turned pink again. “Y-You’re welcome.”

You stood slowly, wincing just slightly, and let the towel fall in silence. The fabric was still damp, cool against your toes as you stepped free of it and tugged on the shorts first, then eased the shirt over your head, careful not to strain your ribs. The hem hung past your hips like a dress, soft and lived-in, and you imagined for a second it might have belonged to him once. The sleeves still smelled faintly like cedar and clean soap. When you were dressed and back on the cot, you shifted your legs up slowly and cleared your throat again.

“All set,” You said, and Bob turned around only once he was sure you meant it. His gaze flickered briefly over you–just long enough to make your skin warm again–but he didn’t say anything. He just crossed the room in a few careful steps, and sat down slowly, careful not to jostle the cot too much as it gave another faint creak beneath their combined weight. The mattress dipped in the center, naturally drawing them closer than either probably expected, but he kept his hands firmly in his lap, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

His voice broke the silence, tentative but laced with quiet humor. “So… how are we going to do this?” He tilted his head slightly, blue eyes flicking toward you and then away again. “I’ll probably take up the majority of the mattress. Didn’t really think that part through when I carried you in.”

You glanced at the sliver of space between you, then slowly stretched your legs out, grimacing slightly as you adjusted for your ribs. ��You’ll just cushion me,” you said simply, voice soft but sure. “You’ll probably have to hold me… but that’s not too much of an issue.”

Bob choked slightly on his own breath—just a soft, startled sound that made the tips of his ears turn red again. “O-Okay,” he said, a little too fast, clearing his throat. “Okay. That’s—uh. That’s fine.”

You smiled to yourself and let your head tip back briefly against the thin pillow behind you. “What side do you sleep on?”

He glanced over at you, genuinely considering the question. “My right,” he said after a pause. “It’s easier on my shoulder. You?”

“My left.”

There was a beat. Then the realization landed, quiet but heavy.

You were going to be facing each other.

You opened your eyes again and caught the expression on his face. He looked like someone who had just realized he’d been invited to sit front row at a symphony he never thought he deserved to hear. Stunned. Honored. Slightly terrified.

“I can lie on my back if it’s weird,” you offered lightly, though you didn’t really want to.

“No,” Bob said quickly, shaking his head. “N-No, not weird. I–uh–I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You won’t,” You murmured, your gaze softening. “You haven’t yet.”

His breath caught in his throat again, and for a moment he looked like he might say something else. Something honest. Something about the way you’d looked, bleeding and unconscious in his arms. Something about the way he’d spoken to you while carrying you through the woods, even though you couldn’t hear him–murmuring please don’t go, just hold on, I’m here.

But instead, he shifted carefully down beside you, mirroring your posture, folding himself into the thin mattress with as much grace as a man of his size could manage. His back barely brushed the wall. His knee brushed yours. His arm hovered for a second between you–then, slowly, gently, he settled it across your waist, just light enough for you to move if it hurt.

You didn’t.

Instead, you shifted closer, until your forehead nearly touched his collarbone, and your hand settled over his bicep

“Okay?” He whispered, breath warm against your temple.

You nodded.

“Okay.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was thick with the scent of cedar and soap and antiseptic. The hum of old pipes and the faint static from the comms unit. The warmth of him, chest rising slow against yours. The weight of his hand, careful but real. And underneath it all…The quiet certainty of something inevitable taking root.

Your breath was slow now. Shallow, but not from pain anymore–just the kind of awareness that crept in like tidewater. Warm and inevitable.

Bob’s hand stayed where it was, curved lightly across your waist, unmoving except for the slight twitch of his fingers now and then, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was allowed to do more. He was being so careful with you. So still. As if any shift would snap the fragile thread holding the moment together.

But you weren’t glass.

And you were done pretending that you didn’t want more than silence and stillness from the man lying inches away from you.

Your fingers, resting gently over his bicep, began to move–slow, almost absent. Just the lightest drag of your touch over muscle, tracing the soft curve of strength hidden beneath the worn fabric of his sleeve. His breath caught. You felt it, right against your temple, like he’d forgotten how to exhale. But he didn’t stop you. Not even when your thumb made another pass, this time curling just slightly, letting the friction build.

“You’re tense,” you whispered. Voice low. Sleepy on the surface, but heavy beneath.

“I-I’m fine,” Bob murmured. It was automatic. Instinctive. But it was a lie, and he knew it the second it left his mouth.

Your other hand shifted. The one resting near his chest. You moved it slowly, palm dragging over the center of his sternum until it settled over the steady thrum of his heart. He was warm there. Unreasonably warm. The beat beneath your hand was solid and fast. Too fast.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” You murmured. Your eyes stayed half-lidded. Your body didn’t move much. But the weight of your touch… It was deliberate. Bob swallowed, hard. His head tipped a little closer to yours. You could feel the heat of his breath fan against your hairline, could feel his fingers twitch again at your waist. Your thumb swept once more across the center of his chest, slow and featherlight, resting in the space where his heartbeat thudded just beneath skin and cotton. It wasn’t racing–but it wasn’t calm either. Like a bird pacing inside its cage, fluttering at the bars.

You let your fingers still.

Then, softly–so softly it almost wasn’t a question–you whispered, “Is it always that fast…Or just when I’m touching you?”

Bob let out a quiet breath. Almost a laugh, but too fragile to be called that. His chest rose and fell once, shallow, before he replied.

“…It’s a bit h-hard to not be nervous,” He said. His voice was rough, threaded with honesty. “You’re… Y-You’re right here. A-And I’m holding you. And you’re touching me like I’m not going to break. L-Like you actually want to.”

You blinked slowly, something tight tugging behind your ribs that had nothing to do with injury.

“I do want to.” You said, clear and unshaken. The quiet cracked like an eggshell.

You felt his arm tighten around your waist just a little–not pulling, not claiming, just grounding. Confirming. Like he needed to make sure this was real. That you weren’t going to slip away.

“I’ve wanted to for a long time,” You added, almost inaudible now. Your hand was still resting over his heart, and his hand had shifted too–thumb brushing just under the curve of your ribs, the heat of him seeping into your skin. The silence between your words and his breath felt long enough to live a lifetime in. You could feel him blinking slowly, could sense the tremor just under the surface of him–the way his whole body had gone still, like he was afraid that one wrong movement would shatter the moment into something unrecognizable.

Then, so quiet it felt like it bloomed straight out of your chest, he whispered–

“M-Me too… I…I just didn’t know that you…T-Thought of me that way.”

His voice was hoarse, not from strain, but from disbelief. The kind of voice someone used when they didn’t want to ruin something beautiful by speaking too loud. His arm curled a little more firmly around your waist, just barely. Still cautious. Still asking without words if it was okay.

You didn’t answer with words this time. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you tilted your head just enough to look up at him.

He was already looking at you.

His face was open, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen before. His eyes shimmered in the low light–blue and gold all at once, like a sky split in two. He looked at you like he was memorizing every inch of your face, and also like he was still afraid he might wake up.

And still–neither of you moved.

Not until your thumb stroked once more over his chest, and you inched a little closer. Your foreheads nearly touched now. Your breaths mingled in that thin space. The cot creaked quietly beneath you, but it felt like the world had hushed. His voice cracked like a dropped glass in the dark.

“Y-Y/N… A-Are you…” He paused, breath catching in his throat. His lips parted slightly, and when you looked up, really looked at him, you could see the fear blooming under the hope in his eyes. The kind of fear that only lives in hearts that have known too much disappointment.

He blinked once, swallowed hard.

“Are you…G-Going to kiss me?”

The question trembled out of him like it had never been spoken aloud before. Like he’d rehearsed it in a dozen imagined lifetimes but never thought he’d live the one where he actually got to ask it.

You didn’t speak. Not right away.

You just looked at him–soft, slow, and sure. There was a quiet steadiness in your eyes that seemed to strip the air from the room, and yet fill it with something heavier, sweeter. You smiled–small at first, then a little wider. It was the kind of smile that said yes without needing syllables. That said I’ve been waiting for this too.

And then you nodded.

His breath hitched, but he didn’t move.

He stayed still, wide-eyed and stunned, as you leaned in.

You didn’t rush. You didn’t dive.

You let the moment bloom.

Your forehead brushed his first. Then your nose nudged along his gently, just enough to tilt your face and let the edges of your lips graze his. You heard the smallest noise from him—a stuttered sound, half a gasp, half a plea–and then…

Then your mouth touched his.

It was barely a kiss at first.

Just breath and heat and the press of your lips against his, tender and tentative. You didn’t push forward. You didn’t open your mouth. You simply stayed there, still and close, long enough for him to register the softness of it. The reality.

Bob melted into it like he’d been holding his breath for years.

His lips moved cautiously–an echo of yours, mirroring your shape, your rhythm. The tip of his nose brushed your cheek. One of his hands, the one resting just under your ribs, tightened slightly, curling his palm around your side like he didn’t even realize he’d done it. He didn’t rush. He didn’t deepen the kiss. He just kissed you back, slow and trembling and reverent.

Like this was a prayer.

You pulled back slightly–just a breath, just enough to look at him. His eyes fluttered open, glassy with emotion, lips parted. He looked dazed. Glorious. Like he was trying to understand the feel of your mouth against his, and couldn’t quite believe it had really happened.

You cupped his face in one hand, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.

Then you kissed him again.

Slower this time. Deeper. Your lips moved against his with a kind of aching tenderness, like you were pouring everything into it that words couldn’t reach. Gratitude. Relief. Want. The softest kind of longing.

He made a quiet sound–barely more than a sigh–and leaned into you fully, his forehead pressing to yours again when the kiss broke. His hand moved to cradle the back of your waist, warm and strong and trembling just a little.

“Y/N…” He breathed, voice wrecked and sweet all at once. Your leg eased over his gently, thigh sliding between his as your hips pressed flush to his side. You felt him stiffen for half a second–like his brain short-circuited just trying to process the contact–then melt again beneath the heat of your body. Your chest pressed lightly to his, and his breath came out in one long, low exhale that ghosted over your cheek.

Then you kissed him again.

This time, it wasn’t slow.

It was hungry.

Your lips moved against his with quiet desperation, like the moment had snapped open and neither of you could keep holding back. You opened your mouth slightly, and when his lips parted in response, your tongue brushed his–tentative at first, then firmer. Bob made a sound in the back of his throat, deep and breathless, and his hand slid higher up your back, splaying between your shoulder blades. You moaned softly into his mouth.

It was small. Barely a sound. But the second it escaped you, he stilled.

Bob pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes wide, lips kiss-swollen, brows drawn in concern.

“W-Was that… Are you okay?” He whispered. His hand was still on your back. His other still cupped your waist, but his entire body was stiff again–like he was ready to stop everything the second you asked.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah,” You whispered, eyes fluttering open. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Maybe we should stop,” He said, voice rough, hesitant. “There’s…There’s no need to rush into things.” Your heart pulled a little. Not in disappointment—but in the aching tenderness of it. You shook your head slowly, brushing your nose against his again.

“I really don’t want to wait…” You murmured. “But if you want to, we can.”

His lips parted, eyes flicking down to your mouth again. He was quiet for a long second, and you could see the war playing out in his head–desire crashing against caution.

“I-I just don’t want to m-make your injuries worse,” He admitted softly. His thumb brushed along your spine, featherlight. “I’ve been trying so hard not to touch you too much t-tonight, I–I was scared if I did I’d…Forget how careful I need to be.”

“You won’t,” You whispered. Your fingers traced the side of his ribs slowly, curling beneath the edge of his bare back. “You’ve been nothing but careful.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening slightly like he was bracing himself.

“I’m sure I’ll be healed in a few days if you do hurt me,” you added with a small, teasing smile, your hand dragging lightly down to his waist. “But I don’t think you will.” His breath stuttered again.

Then, slowly–like gravity had shifted beneath the cot–he shifted. Just enough to lean into you a little more, to press his forehead against yours. And in doing so, his thigh slid between your legs.

You both froze.

Not because it hurt–not because it was wrong–but because the contact burned. The heat of him, solid and broad between your thighs, pressed right against the thin stretch of your shorts. His pants were soft against your bare skin, but it didn’t mute the sensation. If anything, it made it worse–warmer. Closer. You exhaled, soft and shaky, and your hips reacted before your mind could stop them–just the smallest roll forward, seeking more of that pressure.

Bob gasped.

It punched right out of his chest like he’d been struck, and his hand–once trembling, once cautious–gripped your waist with a firmer hold. His breath was fast now, shallow. You could feel it between your bodies, ghosting over your lips as he leaned in, nose brushing yours again.

“I-I can feel you,” He whispered, wrecked. “You’re–J-Jesus, you’re warm.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You just nodded once, slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his.

Then you kissed him again.

This time, there was no room for hesitation.

Your mouth met his with urgency, hunger curling in your belly like a lit match. Your tongue swept against his, and he moaned into the kiss deep and low, like he couldn’t help it. His hand traveled up your side, over the curve of your waist and into the back of your shirt, until his palm was resting against your bare spine, burning into your skin.

You rocked against his thigh again, your body seeking out friction instinctively–and this time he moved with you. The muscle pressing firmer between yours, grounding you as his hand on your back pulled you closer, guiding your hips into a slow, desperate grind.

“You feel so good,” You whispered against his mouth, breathless. “God, Bob…”

His name broke something open in him.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed. Then he kissed you again–harder this time. Still tender, still worshipful–but laced with a growing edge of need. His hand moved down again, slipping over the curve of your ass, and he guided you against his thigh with a slow, upward drag that made your breath stutter in your throat.

“Y-You’re shaking,” He murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your cheekbone, your ear.

“I know,” You gasped, forehead pressed to his temple now, your hips still moving in slow, aching circles. “I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

His hand slipped under the hem of your borrowed shirt, fingers splaying across the bare skin of your lower back. You could feel him everywhere now–his leg between yours, the heat of his breath, the burn in your core growing sharper with every rock of your hips. The cot creaked beneath you with the rhythm you were building, and he let out a low, wrecked sound as your lips found his again, sloppier this time, open-mouthed and breathless.

“I’ve d-dreamed about this,” He confessed into your mouth, voice breaking. “God—I’ve thought about this. So many nights. N-Not like this–not when you were hurt, I swear, I’d never–but just…”

“I know,” you said, your voice thick, your thighs trembling. “Me too. For so long.”

He groaned again, and you felt him–hard now, pressing against your hip through the soft cotton of his sweatpants. Your body responded instinctively, heat pooling low in your stomach as you whispered,

“Do you want to stop?” His head snapped up, eyes wide.

“No,” He said, so quickly it made you bite your lip. Then, quieter–almost reverently–he added, “I want…Everything. But only if you want it too.”

“I do,” You said, and the truth of it vibrated between you like the aftershock of something cosmic. “I want you, Bob.” Bob’s mouth crashed back into yours like he couldn’t bear the distance anymore–like the ache had finally outpaced his restraint.

There was nothing tentative left in the way he kissed you now.

It was hungry. Wet and deep and breathless, like he needed the taste of you to survive. His hand slid up beneath your shirt, palm pressing flat against the small of your back like he was trying to fuse you together. You could feel the heat of his skin, the tension in his muscles, the unmistakable hardness of him against your hip–and the sheer desperation he was fighting not to lose control.

Your moan poured straight into his mouth, and he swallowed it like he’d never wanted anything more.

Then he pulled back just slightly–just enough to press his forehead against yours again, panting, his lips red and kiss-bitten, his voice wrecked.

“C-Can I—” He swallowed hard, eyes flicking over your face, “I want you to…Could you lie on your back?”

You blinked, already breathless, and gave the smallest nod. “Yeah… Yeah, of course.”

Carefully, you shifted, rolling onto your back with a quiet gasp at the slight pull in your ribs–but it didn’t matter. Not when he was looking at you like that. Like you were holy. Like he couldn’t believe he got to see you like this–flushed, sprawled out in the borrowed shirt and compression shorts, thighs still trembling from grinding against his.

Bob sat up slightly, not climbing over you, not rushing. Just moving with care—like reverence had overtaken urgency. He leaned down slowly, bracing one forearm beside your ribs so he wouldn’t hurt you, and then kissed the side of your neck.

Not once.

But again. And again. And again.

Each kiss dragged longer than the last–wet, open-mouthed, the heat of his breath ghosting over your pulse point. His other hand slid up beneath your shirt again, fingertips grazing your bare waist, your ribs, your hip, his thumb dragging a line just above the band of your shorts like it was driving him out of his mind.

And then–

He groaned into your neck, barely holding himself back, and whispered raggedly, “G-God, I want to taste you.”

The sound of his voice like that–low and wrecked and reverent–made your entire body tighten.

“I’ve–I’ve wanted to for so long,” He continued, kissing just below your ear now, his breath uneven. “I’m not–I’m not trying to rush this, I swear. I just…I’m a giver. I want to make you feel good. I want–” His voice broke. “God, I-I want to devour you.” You can hear the way he was starving for it, the desperation lacing his words. Your legs shifted without thinking, thighs parting instinctively beneath the weight of those words. Your fingers curled into the thin sheet beneath you, heart pounding in your throat like it was trying to answer for you.

“Please…” You whispered, barely more than a breath.

That one word unraveled him.

Bob moved instantly.

He kissed your neck one more time, slower this time, like sealing something sacred. Then he dragged his lips down your throat, your collarbone, the soft space above your sternum. He pushed your shirt up inch by inch, pausing to mouth at the newly exposed skin as he went–tongue tracing, lips brushing, every breath of his turning molten against your skin.

“You’re so soft,” He murmured against your ribs, his voice thick with awe. “So warm…God, you smell like heaven…”

You lifted your hips slightly to help him as his hands slid to the waistband of your shorts. His fingers curled there for just a moment–trembling slightly, like the gravity of what he was about to do had fully landed.

Then, slowly, reverently, he tugged them down.

You felt the fabric peel away from your thighs, your hips, your core–and then you were bare before him, flushed and trembling and open. Bob dropped the shorts to the floor with shaking hands. His eyes flicked up your body, and for a second, he looked like he couldn’t breathe.

Then he looked up, meeting your eyes as he settled between your semi-closed thighs. He reached for your hands first, threading his fingers through yours, grounding you together. His palms were big and warm, his grip careful but sure.

“S-Spread your legs for me,” He whispered. “Please.”

You did. Without hesitation, without fear.

You opened yourself to him, thighs falling apart slowly beneath his hands, baring the most vulnerable parts of yourself under the warmth of his gaze. You felt the air shift around you, the intimacy of the moment wrapping the two of you in a breathless cocoon.

”Oh, g-god…” Bob whispered, eyes falling to your glistening core like he was witnessing a miracle. “You’re perfect.”

Then he kissed your inner thigh.

And again. And again.

Soft, slow, open-mouthed kisses up the inside of one leg, then the other–teeth just grazing, tongue leaving hot trails in his wake. He held your hands the whole time, squeezing gently as his mouth moved higher, closer, his breath fanning over slick heat now, and it made your hips twitch helplessly.

“You’re s-so open…So ready f-for me.”

“Bob–” You breathed, already dizzy.

“I want you to fall apart for me,” He whispered, like it was a promise. “I’m gonna worship you…E-Every inch of you.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot, wet, and perfect.

His tongue parted you gently, slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for it–like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered. His nose pressed against your pelvis as he licked a slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, moaning softly into you like the taste alone was intoxicating. Then his lips wrapped around your clit, suckling gently, his tongue flicking in delicate, deliberate patterns that sent sparks up your spine.

You arched with a cry, your legs twitching around his head.

He didn’t stop.

He just groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you as he dragged you deeper into the rhythm–long, slow strokes of his tongue, then tight flicks, then that perfect pressure as he sucked again, never breaking pace.

His hands squeezed yours tighter, anchoring you.

You looked down and nearly lost it.

His eyes were open, locked on you, dark and glassy with desire. His light brown lashes were damp, cheeks flushed, the lower half of his face slick with your arousal–and he looked blissful. Like he’d found his heaven right there between your thighs.

“Y-You’re shaking,” He murmured against your clit, his breath rolling hot over your slick skin. His tongue slowed for a beat, lips brushing so gently it made you ache.

Then, with his eyes locked on yours, he whispered:

“D-Don’t hold back from me… I want to feel it all.”

You whimpered, the sound breaking unbidden from your throat as he released one of your hands and dragged his palm slowly down your thigh–his touch searing. He pressed it to your inner thigh first, thumb dragging through the mess he’d made of you. The sound it made–wet and obscene–had you clenching around nothing.

“Mmm, you’re soaked,” He breathed, voice cracking like he couldn’t quite comprehend it. His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance but not pressing in yet. “And it’s all for me…” He whispered.

“Bob—” Your voice broke on his name.

That was all it took.

His fingers slid into you–just one at first, slow and careful. You gasped, your hips twitching as your walls fluttered around him, already pulsing from how close he had you.

“Oh, my god…” He groaned, eyes fluttering. “You’re so tight–so warm–gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.” He eased in a second finger, curling both upward until he found that spot that made your entire body jolt.

Your back arched with a choked cry.

He groaned into your thigh, and then–still pumping his fingers slowly, perfectly–he leaned back in.

You reached for him instinctively, hand finding the golden-brown mess of his hair and curling into it hard as his mouth latched back onto your clit with a heat that bordered on holy.

He moaned at the contact like it fed him, like the combination of your body trembling around his fingers and the way you were dragging his face closer made him feral.

His tongue moved in tandem with his fingers now–lavishing your clit in slow circles while his fingers fucked up into you, curling with every drag, finding that rhythm that made stars explode behind your eyes.

“Bob–oh fuck, please–” you gasped, your voice wrecked, ragged, desperate.

He growled low and hot into your cunt, the vibration making your vision blur.

“That’s it,” He murmured, breathless. “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hear it.”

Your hand fisted tighter in his hair, your other gripping the sheet like you were going to rip it from the mattress, and your thighs began to shake again–wider now, open for him, letting him take everything.

His pace quickened.

His fingers thrust deeper, faster, curling ruthlessly against that spot that made your mouth fall open in a silent scream, and his mouth never stopped–tongue relentless, lips swollen around your clit, his entire face buried between your legs like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.

“Y-You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” He said, his voice hoarse and soaked in awe. “Right on my tongue–gonna let me taste it all…”

Your body answered before your voice could.

Pleasure coiled tight, seizing hot and fast in your belly before it burst all at once, crashing through you like a wave as your orgasm hit, ripping through your body with a sob of his name. Your thighs clamped around his head and your back arched completely off the mattress as you came–so hard you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel him.

He didn’t stop.

He kept his mouth on you, drinking you down like it was divine, his fingers fucking you through every last second of the high. You trembled, sobbed out a soft curse, and he moaned as you finally collapsed back to the bed, completely undone.

He pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then gently slid his fingers from you and looked up–his mouth slick, his eyes dark and molten.

And he smiled.

Like he’d been reborn.

“You taste like fucking paradise,” His smile faltered, lips still glistening as your chest rose and fell–slow, shallow, trembling with the aftershocks of what he’d just done to you.

Then your voice cut through the haze, low and wrecked.

“You should give me a sample then.”

Bob blinked.

His pupils dilated instantly–his breath catching so visibly in his throat it looked like he might choke on it. But his body obeyed before his mind caught up. Slowly, he rose to his knees, moving back over you with a dazed sort of focus, licking his lips like he wasn’t ready to give you any of it back. Like the taste of you was still burning on his tongue and he didn’t want to let it go.

You reached for him–fingers sliding around the back of his neck as you pulled him in, your lips parting just as his hovered over yours. He hesitated for the barest moment, like he was about to warn you that his mouth was still slick from you–but the look in your eyes told him you already knew. That you wanted it.

So he kissed you.

Slow at first–just the soft press of his mouth against yours, lips parting slightly. Then your tongue swept into him, tasting yourself on him, sweet and slick and warm. You moaned quietly and he shuddered against you. The kiss grew hotter, messier, your mouths opening more fully as he licked into you, groaning low when you sucked on his bottom lip just to feel the way it trembled.

A thin line of spit connected your mouths when you broke apart, trailing slowly from his lips to yours–and when you let your tongue flick out to catch it, Bob visibly swayed, like his knees nearly buckled.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, voice wrecked and raspy.

You didn’t let him catch his breath.

Instead, you slid your hand between your bodies and found his wrist–the one that had been inside you moments ago. Still slick. Still warm. His fingers were trembling slightly in the aftermath of holding you down through your orgasm.

You raised it to your mouth.

Bob’s breath hitched audibly as you guided his hand closer—and then licked.

Your tongue dragged slowly over his fingers, savoring the taste of yourself there. You moaned softly as your lips wrapped around two of them, sucking them clean with deliberate pressure, your eyes never leaving his.

He made a sound. A raw, broken groan that sounded like it had been ripped from the base of his spine.

“O-Oh my god Y/N…Y-You can’t do that–“

“You need to take your pants off, Bob…”You said it softly. Commanding. Like it wasn’t a question.

Bob stared at you for half a second, lips parted, cheeks flushed, sweat still glistening at his temples.

Then he moved.

His hands went to his waistband so fast he almost fumbled. You sat up slightly, wincing a little as your ribs protested the sudden movement–but you ignored it, too consumed by the heat pulsing between your legs and the weight of him in front of you. He pushed his sweatpants down his hips and off in one desperate motion, leaving him naked before you.

And God.

He was beautiful.

Hard and flushed, tip wet and glistening, his cock curved slightly toward his stomach with a heavy, pulsing need that made your mouth water. You let your eyes rake over him slowly, hungrily, and when they finally landed on his face again–he was watching you. Breathless. Waiting. Completely wrecked.

Then you peeled your shirt off.

Bob made another sound the second the fabric left your skin–a strangled, reverent sort of whimper, like he was witnessing a miracle and couldn’t decide if he was worthy of it.

You tossed it to the side, bare and open before him now–your chest rising in shallow, aroused breaths, nipples tight in the cool air of the safehouse, thighs still parted.

And Bob snapped.

Not roughly. Not without control.

But like he couldn’t not touch you anymore.

He surged forward, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss as one hand slid to your breast, cupping it gently, thumbing over your nipple in a slow, teasing drag that made you whimper into his mouth. His cock was pressing hot and heavy against your thigh now, and you rocked your hips up instinctively, catching the underside of him and dragging a moan from deep in his chest.

“I-I don’t know how I’m gonna last,” He whispered, panting against your mouth. “Y-You’re so perfect–I don’t wanna mess this up–”

“You won’t,” You whispered. “You won’t.”

“Tell me w-what you want,” He begged, voice cracking.

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him–hot and thick and pulsing in your palm–and whispered against his lips:

“I want to feel every inch of you…I want you to fuck me like I’m yours…Because I’ve always been yours.” His breath stuttered hard against your mouth when you wrapped your hand around him–fingers curling delicately at first, just enough to feel the weight, the heat, the way he pulsed against your palm. You stroked once. Then again. Slow. Languid. Your grip just shy of tight, your thumb circling the head as a slick bead of precum smeared across your skin.

Bob groaned.

It was deep and low, almost like it scared him–like pleasure this sharp wasn’t something he knew how to hold. His hand curled into the mattress beside your ribs, his other squeezing your hip as you leaned in and kissed him again, your lips softer now, teasing between strokes.

“You’re so warm,” you murmured against his mouth. “So hard for me…”

“F-Fuck–Y/N–“ He gasped your name like it was a prayer and a warning all at once. His hips jolted slightly into your grip, instinct overtaking restraint. “I–I can’t–if you keep doing that, I’m gonna–”

You smiled.

Slow. Sweet. Wicked.

“Just wanted to be a bit of a tease…” You whispered, brushing your lips down along his jaw, to the shell of his ear, where your voice dropped even lower. “I’ve been dreaming of this too, you know. Thinking about how you’d sound when I touched you like this… “ He whimpered at your words, his erection twitching in your hand. Then, slowly—purposefully–you guided him down, dragging the tip of him through your soaked folds. The moment his head brushed your clit, your whole body jolted. Your back arched slightly, breath catching in your throat as the contact sent a white-hot pulse up your spine. Bob gasped, shuddering, and you felt his hands tighten around your hips like he was barely keeping himself grounded.

“Oh my god–” He whispered, his voice wrecked, trembling with restraint. “I c-can’t believe how wet you are…I-I can feel it everywhere–”

“Then don’t just feel it,” you murmured, guiding him lower, “Be inside it…” You shifted your hips–just enough to angle him right where you needed him. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance, slick and swollen, and your whole body went still with anticipation.

Bob’s gaze locked on yours, dark and full of wonder. He leaned in, kissed you one more time–messy and soft and hungry–and then, with a trembling breath, he began to push forward.

You both moaned.

It was slow. Unbearably slow.

He eased inside an inch at a time, every stretch making your breath stutter, your thighs tremble. He was thick–perfectly so–and your body gave way for him inch by aching inch, clenching around the intrusion with desperate heat.

“God, y-you’re so tight,” Bob gasped, burying his face against your neck, breath hitching with every inch he sank deeper. “Y-You feel like—God, I don’t even have words…” He let out a broken sound against your throat and pushed in the rest of the way, bottoming out with a low, desperate groan. You gasped, arching again, your body seizing around the full stretch of him—full, full, so fucking full.

He didn’t move. Not at first.

He just stayed there, buried to the hilt inside you, his arms shaking as he held himself over you, forehead pressed to yours. His voice was hoarse when he spoke.

“I-I’m not gonna last long if I move—I’m sorry—I just—God, you feel so good—”

Your legs curled around his waist, drawing him in tighter.

“Then make it messy,” you whispered. “Make it yours.”

He moaned again—this time louder, hungrier—and then he began to move.

Slow thrusts, deep and aching, the kind that made your whole body roll with him. Each drag of his cock inside you made your eyes flutter, made your mouth fall open, made the air between you heavy with slick, wet sounds and broken breaths. The safehouse filled with them—your whispered gasps, his groaned praise, the sharp slap of skin against skin as he found a rhythm.

Your hands roamed his back, his shoulders, up into his damp hair again as you whispered his name over and over like it was the only thing you could remember.

“Y/N… Y/N… f-fuck, I love the way you say my name like that—”

His thrusts grew deeper. Hotter.

He kissed you again, messier this time, tongue sliding into your mouth as he fucked you in long, rolling motions. Every time his hips met yours, you felt his body tremble—like he was on the edge of unraveling. Your walls pulsed around him, already fluttering with the build of another orgasm, and you could feel him twitching inside you with every pass.

“You’re gripping me so fucking tight,” he gasped. “I-I can feel you clenching—are you gonna come again?”

“Yes—yes, I’m so close—Bob, please—” Your voice cracked, your nails dragging down his back. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t.

He fucked you harder—still careful, still reverent—but with a heat now, a desperate edge that left you both trembling. His cock drove into you deep, each thrust stroking perfectly against your inner walls, and when his hand snuck between your bodies to rub your clit in tight, aching circles, you came again with a cry.

You clenched down hard, pulsing around him, and he groaned so loud it echoed against the cement walls.

“Shit–I’m–I’m gonna come–”

“Inside,” You gasped. “Come inside me, Bob–please–” You begged.

His body seized.

He slammed into you one last time, hips grinding deep, and he came with a broken moan of your name–hot and thick and endless, filling you completely. His hips stuttered with it, his whole body trembling above you as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled everything he had inside you.

For a long moment, you just stayed like that.

Panting. Holding. Shaking.

His forehead pressed to yours again, both your bodies slick with sweat and tangled in a heat that went beyond physical. You could feel the pulse of him still throbbing inside you, the warmth of his release held deep, the silence now full only with the sound of your heartbeats trying to remember their rhythm.

Then he pulled back just enough to see you.

His eyes, still glassy and dark from everything he’d just felt, softened. And before you could say a word, he leaned in and kissed you.

Soft.

So gentle it made your throat ache.

His lips moved over yours with reverence, like he needed to prove he could still be tender after what you’d just shared–like he needed to show you the sweetness, the weight of what this was to him. The kiss lingered, not heated, not rushed. Just the kind of kiss people gave when they wanted to say thank you and I’m yours and I’ve been waiting all in one breath.

You smiled against his mouth.

He pulled back slightly, cheeks flushed, eyes flicking between yours as he gave a soft, breathless laugh.

“I-I should’ve tried to get on a mission sooner,” he whispered, still so close. “E-Evidently you’ve been waiting for this to be your key opportunity to c-confess your feelings.”

You let out a snort–delicate at first, then fuller, warmer, and suddenly you were both laughing. Quiet and exhausted and elated. The kind of laughter that bubbled up not from something funny, but from relief, from joy, from the giddy realization that you were finally here.

“I mean, come on,” You said between giggles, tilting your head back slightly against the pillow. “One cot, remote location, no backup, post-injury caretaking–it was practically begging for some sort of confession to be made…”

Bob groaned, laughing into the crook of your neck. “G-God, you’re evil.”

You ran your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, still smiling. “I’m efficient.”

He huffed a quiet laugh again, then pressed a kiss to your jaw, then one to your cheek, then finally one to the center of your chest, right above your heart. His hands were still on you—one warm and wide on your thigh, the other trailing light circles at your waist.

You could feel the smile on his lips when he spoke again, lower now, a little more serious, a little more honest.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time,” He whispered. “That you…You mean more to me than anyone. I just—I didn’t think I–I was ready. Not after everything.”

You turned your head, brushing your nose against his, your voice soft.

“I knew you wanted to,” You said. “I’ve known for a while.”

He looked at you then, like you’d just told him the sun had always risen for him and he’d never noticed. His eyes were wide, lips parted. And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he smiled again. And you did too.

Because whatever waited for you tomorrow–whatever fallout or chaos or impossible mission the world had in store–right now, in this small, sweat-slicked space, wrapped in sheets and each other…

2K notes · View notes

allforhee · 10 months ago

Text

— 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐒! (ONESHOT) | LEE HEESEUNG

୨୧ pairing — secretary-general!lee heeseung x delegate!fem!reader

synopsis: decelis high's academic weapon, future valedictorian, model un prodigy especially in the crisis council, and top-notch secretary-general of the mun club, lee heeseung has it all. from earning constant "best delegate-s" left and right, no one dared to go against his stances in any debate. until a student like you transfers into decelis high. as a soon graduating senior, you were a newbie to press. but with your endless love for writing, you'd managed to steal the hearts of your peers. it was your first mun, and you didn't expect much. but when heeseung finds out about an article you've wrote about his arrogant performance in a recent committee session, he is set to strike you down.

୨୧ genre — kinda angsty but with happy ending, high school au, secgen/crisis delegate!heeseung x press delegate!reader, academic rivals to lovers, dumbasses in denial, a brief moment of rivals in public but lovers in secret, one sided rivalry

୨୧ warnings — a lot of model un terms (hope you guys can understand), cursing, hurt no comfort, heeseung highkey hates reader, reader is a bit feisty and could care less but she lowkey has parental issues, featuring all the other enhypen members, aespa's winter aka minjeong, txt's yeonjun and beomgyu, stray kids’ i.n, gidle's shuhua, and ive's wonyoung, one bed trope, forced proximity

୨୧ word count — 13.3k (not proofread, but will slowly edit/make changes to tiny minor mistakes found)

୨୧ author's note — dear readers, i'm back from a long overdue hiatus with a new layout and theme! this fic is long as HELL i didn't expect it to reach this long omg. i also changed up a couple details so it will be quite different from the teaser! i’m so sorry for the long overdue wait, senior year of high school has been so hectic, and i’ve been finally able to finish this so enjoy :) omg holy shit y’all are finally reading my full length fic i’ve been harboring since what? february?

𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆 had it all.

the walls of his room were littered with delegate lanyards from conferences across the globe, "best delegate" certificates framed all over his house (and a couple crumpled up inside his desk to fit the space), and a collection of trophies stood in every nook and cranny.

no one at decelis high dared to go against his stance. whenever it was, whether it was a moderated caucus or unmoderated, he'd always have his country or character's placard raised high, ready to speak, or leading whatever bloc was being formed.

there was no doubt that no one had ever beat him. it was no doubt that he was decelis high's mun club's secretary-general, and those who chose to go against him either got crushed in fear or knew when to step back.

even with his "best delegate" status, he wouldn't have gone far without his best mates, park jongseong, sim jaeyun, and park sunghoon.

park jongseong or jay, most known for his cold stares in the debate room, ready to make a delegate tremble, would always chair crisis. he was decelis high's deputy secretary-general alongside heeseung. and although being heeseung's best mate, he never favored him when it came to awarding. it's just that he was naturally talented.

sim jaeyun, known for his popular slogan around the school; "jake it till you make it!", was the strongest when it came to knowing what a country or character believed in. his research skills were like a pirate on the hunt for lost treasure, he had all the facts, the data, and the proof to back up any stance. whatever heeseung needed to know, jake already had his back.

and park sunghoon. even though he was the quiet one of the bunch, his position papers never ceased to appeal to any chair. even if he wasn't as strong in speaking out during committee sessions, his fingers were his weapon. the guys would always ask him why'd he chair press and not join in the heat with them, he'd always answer with "my words are stronger than my actions." where jay would always respond with "isn't that the other way around bud?"

the four were unstoppable when it came to model un. lee heeseung was unstoppable. he was. until you came along.

you were quiet at first. everyone just saw you as the new girl who transferred for her senior year. nobody cared. until decelis high's annual mun conference, which happened to take place a couple weeks after the first day of school.

students from all over the country gathered at decelis high once a year to join in on the fun. various councils were presented at decelis mun, from heeseung's favorite council, crisis, and multiple others like unhrc, who, unsc, disec, unicef, and your favorite, press.

without a doubt, you registered yourself for press, opting that you didn't have the guts to join any other council. you feared you'd tremble listening to another delegate question your stances and ideologies.

your parents would always encourage your writing. as a child, you loved to write little imaginary stories about your life as a princess. writing stories about the love you've seen in your parents, you were set to write a book. but when your mom passed away a few weeks before your senior year of high school, and your dad constantly traveling for work, you had resorted yourself to watching the news all summer long, spiking your interest in being a journalist, where all you had to do was report whatever was going on, spit out what had to be said, and done. you didn't need to think long and hard on what your character was supposed to do next to support the storyline, no opinions, no biases.

as you stepped into your assigned council's room, you felt a gush of wind. the nervousness had gotten to you more, seeing all the socially bright journalists with their laptops open and chatting amongst each other happily.

"hi! you're a new face! oh and you're cnn! me and you will be best buddies! bbc here!" a girl squeals, she has a bright smile and a oh-so friendly demeanor. no doubt a popular trait amongst the press council.

"minjeong! don't scare her off. we're so sorry, she sometimes comes off a bit too much to new people. i'm wonyoung, the co-chair for press." she introduces herself.

"oh, hello. i'm y/n. i just transferred to decelis this year. it's my first time at press." you smile. you lost all your socialite cheerfulness over the summer, but meeting minjeong and wonyoung felt like you've been recharged. "oh and i'm the journalist for cnn?"

the girls take a glance at your nametag, examining you, before wonyoung cuts, "first time? don't worry sweetheart, we'll tell you all about it! right hoonie?"

a tall figure walks up to the three of you, no doubt a intimidating face. "y/n right? i'm sunghoon, the chair for press." he asks.

"yes yes this is her! oh we've got to tell her all about press! first timer alert!" wonyoung beams, before entangling her hand with sunghoon's. there was no doubt that the two were a couple.

"ugh, okay you two cut it off! we're journalists, we gotta be professional!" minjeong argues, playfully slapping wonyoung's arm, causing her to let go of sunghoon's.

at first, you had no idea what you were stepping into. but when chair sunghoon welcomed you to press with his icy-blue eyes and quiet demeanor, the other journalists supporting each other when it came to writing their articles, you felt right at home.

it didn't feel like it, but two days of endless debates went on, countries arguing left and right, and articles written on the current hot topic. the tension was surely rising, and your fingers were tired.

you were glad it was all over.

at every post-conference social, before awards were handed out, the articles the journalists from press wrote would be released to the conference for the other delegates to read. besides their usual gossip box, the articles the press wrote were always the fuel to the fire.

one article stuck up to heeseung. it read; "secretary-general heeseung's love for crisis interferes chair jongseong's chairing process, now who's really chairing crisis?"

heeseung swore to himself that he's never seen a girl like you. so quiet yet so powerful in her writing. hearing rumors that you've only just recently transferred to decelis high. even sunghoon himself was surprised to meet a talented journalist like you, a first-timer at press.

"it was her first time?" heeseung protested, "i mean- she's so quiet and reserved, if she had been doing press for years, i wouldn't be surprised. but this is her first time?!"

"what do you mean she's quiet? look at hoon, he never says a word in comses, but look at him chairing press. and i would never mind you tagging along in crisis, you always give out good insights." jay interrupts his thoughts.

heeseung complains, "i understand that, but her innocent face says nothing to what she wrote about me!"

"her articles were critical. they were precise and to the point. there was never a single weak spot in her articles. i think she's gonna make a run for my position." sunghoon defends.

"it's just one article hee, it won't affect your entire track record anyways." jake compliments, giving him a pat on the back.

heeseung believed what jake said was true. he did have an outstanding track record. "best delegate"s here and there, one silly little article wouldn't ruin his entire reputation.

as the clock strikes seven, social night was slowly coming to a close. decelis high's third annual mun was coming to an end. all that was left was to hand out the awards.

heeseung made his secretary-general speech as usual, a couple thank you-s here and there, before he handed it over to the chairs to announce the awards.

as he was walking down the stage, he felt a couple stares from mostly the press council linger. fixing his tie, he shook it off before taking a seat in the front row.

awards were handed, from best position papers, verbal commendations, honorable mentions, most outstanding delegates, and of course, best delegates.

the press council was saved for last. sunghoon asked heeseung if he could be given more time to rethink his options for the awards, and as his best mate, he let him. in reality, sunghoon didn't need time to rethink his options. he and wonyoung knew who was going to win best journalist. sunghoon just wanted to save the best for last.

when heeseung hears sunghoon's announcement for best journalist, it clicks.

"and the press council's best journalist award goes to none other than... l/n y/n!"

cheers could be heard from across the conference room. minjeong practically jumping on you when they heard your name mentioned. you rushed to the stage with a red face and a still shocked reaction, receiving the certificate along with the medal. wonyoung gave you the biggest bear hug known to man, whilst sunghoon gave you a firm handshake.

you felt the cameras flashing at you, taking pictures from what felt like every single angle. unbeknownst to you, heeseung was glaring at you from the front row.

best journalist. best journalist? his mind was running all over the place. how could he? how could sunghoon, his best friend, let such a writer like you, who wrote a devious article about him, win best delegate?

a single glance at the other delegates of the press council only angered him more. amongst them were laughs and snickers. he swore he heard a journalist say; "looks like mister secgen is upseeet!" but decelis mun only happened once a year. he wouldn't have the need to care about you every other day.

or so he thought.

heeseung felt like you were everywhere. at every lunch break, you were always sitting across his and the boys' table, laughing at nonsense with yunjin and wonyoung. during free periods, you'd be at the library, hunched over your laptop or head deep in a book. and at mun club, you just had to be there.

he hated that you were gifted like him. he hated that his friends favored you. he hated that sunghoon would always send you to their rival school's muns to participate in their press councils. he hated that you always won. he hated that you were clouding his mind every single day.

you hadn't but uttered a single "thank you," to lee heeseung. as decelis high's secretary-general, you didn't think he'd care about you. you were just a writer. you had no strength in the debate field, no reason for lee heeseung to care. but why was he being so cold?

it started when you applied for the harvard model congress. you were ecstatic to find out you'd be attending the conference. obviously, you told minjeong and wonyoung all about it. even striking up small talk with sunghoon.

"that's amazing y/n. i mean, harvard model congress? that's big!" his tooth-rotting smile bringing a cheerful mood.

"you went from winning best journalist in schools across the state to varsity level in just a few months!" minjeong squeals, as she hugs you. you were really lucky to have such caring best friends.

laughing along in the mun club room, you could feel heeseung's glare from his desk. headphones on and focused onto his laptop screen, you felt a strange feeling resonating off of him.

heeseung was fuming. the entire club applied for harvard model congress. heeseung got in. his mates did. and of course, you also did.

it was supposed to be a three day long weekend with his mates full of debate, laughter, awards, and getting drunk on social nights. but no. you and your friends would be there too.

heeseung didn't understand why everyone was so trusting of you so easily.

even jay, was friendly with you. "well y/n, i think you're going to make a run for hee's job!"

wonyoung rolls her eyes at jay. "he should be scared. you've rose up through the ranks like jake's receeding hairline."

"hey! my hair is perfectly fine, thank you!" jake cuts, huffing at the ridiculous comment about his hair.

"yo hee! we gotta work out the letter to the school so we can get a few days off. come over here, you look like you're burning holes into your laptop!" jay chuckles, receiving a smack on the arm from jake.

a quick but surprising slam! from heeseung's laptop emitted a low echo throughout the room. followed by a ruffling of him throwing his decelis almameter over his shoulder, and another loud slam! of the mun club room's door. lee heeseung just stormed out.

"oof, what's got into him?" minjeong asks, her face contorting into an anxious look.

"i don't fucking know, he's been at it since decelis' annual mun. throwing temper tantrums left and right." jay sighs, concerned for his best friend.

"well i guess that temper is living up to my article." you suggest, letting out a huff and a subtle eyeroll.

sunghoon takes a deep breath before realization hits. "now that i think of it, he's been at it since you've joined our core team." while he points at you.

"what does that have to do with me? i didn't do shit. all i do is sit, join muns, write, and win awards for us. would he rather i'd be getting verbal commendations instead?" you sigh. you've done nothing but bring pride to decelis high's reputation.

wonyoung laughs, patting you on the back. "it's not about winning verbcom or bestdel, it's about heeseung finally finding his match."

"exactly! he's gone on and on about constantly winning at every mun. he's always complained about needing more of a challenge. and no shit he's been jealous of your achievements." minjeong pipes in.

"that's ridiculous. i don't understand crisis as much as he does, i'm just a journalist on the press council! he's basically just being an ass to me, that's all." you confessed, you and heeseung were basically on different levels. he was secgen and lover of crisis councils, whilst you were just one of the head journalists and co-editors of the press division.

"maybe he likes you? i don't know!" jake squeals, lifting his shoulders in question. jay and sunghoon gives him a slap on the shoulder each, a glaring stare between the three.

"no no, lee heeseung is a cold-hearted son of a bitch with an ego to feed every other day, there's no way he can feel shit." minjeong debates, a hint of anger in her voice.

"woah girl, what's got you mad? i get you two grew up together but that's a lot to say about heeseung." wonyoung asks her.

"i know it's a long story, but y/n deserves to know. right?" minjeong asks, waiting for you to nod to continue. "every single day of my life, i was my parents' star girl. i love my parents for supporting me. but ever since heeseung moved in next door, i was demoted from best girl in the neighborhood to second best to heeseung. ever since we were eight, heeseung didn't like to lose. to a boy he'd be a good sport. but when he lost to me in a mere storytelling competition, he'd throw a tantrum. that's heeseung to me. he's nothing but an egotistical ass who has to win everything."

you sigh, hearing minjeong’s words. "and you know what y/n?" she continues, "he's never lost it since we were 13. and you, y/n, have officially made him lose his mind. again."

this year's harvard model congress was held at seoul national university, the dream university of many korean students. the seven of you stayed at a hotel nearby, settling in.

sunghoon picks up the keycards at the check-in counter, "okay so there's three rooms in total, the girls are sharing, me and jake are in one room, which leaves heeseung and jay—"

"i'm sorry sir," the hotel staff interrupts him, "but the rooms are already divided by the hotel and cannot be changed. it says here, room 745 is for miss kim and miss yang, room 746 is for mister park, mister sim, and the other mister park— mister jongseong, and room 777 is for—"

"great. thank you. alright, let's settle in and get ready for opening night." heeseung sighs, grabbing his suitcase and your shared room's keycards before heading to the elevators. you gave the rest of the group a shaky smile before following heeseung.

the moment you two entered the lift, and as heeseung tapped the keycard and pressing the button for the seventh floor, you could feel the tension.

as the lift begins to move upwards, heeseung lets out a sigh. "look, l/n. we're sharing a room by casuality, so don't make it a big deal."

you huff shakily, "a big deal? you're the one who's been avoiding me all year! i barely disturb you and all i do is win awards for decelis. what else do you want from me?" your voice slowly getting angrier.

as heeseung opens his mouth to answer, the lift comes to a halt as its doors open, signaling that they've reached the seventh floor.

heeseung holds the lift doors open, so you can exit it with ease. you were surprised with this gesture. coming from him who could care less about your presence, you were baffled.

as you both reach at your hotel room, heeseung gave you one of the three keycards given before tapping his at the hotel room's door.

and as if your romance stories came to life, you spotted an oh-so familiar trope sitting in the middle of your hotel room. there was only one king-sized bed.

"shut the front door." you sighed, looking at the clear situation in front of you.

heeseung entered behind you, "i clearly have, what are you talking abou—"

"no dumbass, it was a metaphor. i'm talking about this." you exclaimed, pointing your finger at the bed.

"great. i'll call up room service and get this sorted—"

"no it's fine, it'll be too much of a hassle and social night is in two hours. besides, we're civil adults, and we're here for only two nights. we can bear 72 hours living through this stupid one bed trope."

"fine. just so you know i'm taking the left side."

heeseung dropped his bag near his side, as he was trying his best to keep his composure. sharing a room with you was bad enough (that's what he keeps telling himself), but a bed as well? he'd rather win verbal commendation than share a bed with you.

you were unpacking your necessities before you decided to break the ice. "heeseung just so you know—"

but before you could finish, heeseung was already out the door. before the door closed, you could hear a mere; "i'll go down for social night. you do you." and a click! of the door.

you scanned the room that was once filled with such tension, spotting your room keycard on the bedside table.

you took off your sweater and switched to something a bit classier for social night, changing to a blood red dress you had packed to match harvard's colors. minjeong and wonyoung had helped you choose it a couple days prior, the conversation reappearing in your mind.

"harvard's got nothing on you with that dress! watch out best journalist!" minjeong hypes you up as you're trying it on in the changing room.

"are you sure it's not a bit too much?" you questioned, feeling insecure in the dress.

"too much? my guess is heeseung would drop dead seeing you in that dress. after all, he is in love with you." wonyoung giggles, which earns her a slap on her arm from winter.

"just own it y/n. maybe layer it with a leather jacket if you get cold?" minjeong suggests. you look at yourself in the mirror once more. maybe this would be the turning point between you and heeseung's rivalry. maybe he'd look at you and decide that he no longer hated you and instead loved y— no. enough of those thoughts.

as you touched up your makeup from earlier this morning, you headed out to find wonyoung and minjeong waiting at the lobby.

"there you are— oh that dress looks, damn!" minjeong exclaims, covering her mouth with her hand to hide the utter shock.

"i just know heeseung's going to gape at that dre—" before wonyoung could finish her sentence, she earns a smack on her arm from minjeong. "ow minie! i don't want my arm to be black and blue at social night! which starts in... thirty minutes. we should get to campus and fill in our registrations so we're set."

opening night was a blast. harvard model congress knew how to throw a goddamn banger of a opening night.

there were so many things to see. a karaoke booth, a photobooth station, a merch station, even a snack booth filled to the brim with various snacks and drinks.

after receiving your lanyards and a couple papers where you'd find your assigned councils for the next day, you, wonyoung, and minjeong, were set to let lose one last time before you were head deep into your laptops, writing articles for the next three days.

entering the room littered with decorations and other delegates, you and the girls entered the ballroom hand in hand, in awe with the decor.

wonyoung spotted the boys immediately, already saving a table for the seven of you. the three of you walked to the table, which had name plates for all your names. wonyoung next to sunghoon, jay next to jake, minjeong on your right next to you, and heeseung on your left.

sitting at the assigned seats and listening to the opening remarks by harvard model congress' secretary-general, the food was served and you all dug in.

although this was only the first of two social nights, you and the girls had to make the best of it. from abusing the “free photobooths!” booth, and filling the room with echoes of musical ballads, your first night at harvard model congress was deemed memorable.

before you knew it, you were dragged to the back of the room, as wonyoung pulled out a small paper bag—which turns out to hold a couple bottles of liquor, you grabbed your glasses and started pouring.

you could see out of the corner of your eye—the girls downing shots of tequila (in secret, cause you didn't want to get caught), and the guys coming along to take a shot or two. but heeseung looked, tense.

jake slapped him on the back, giggling, “come on man, loosen up a bit! mun isn’t all about the awards and the roles, it’s about the memories!”

“and the friends we make along the way, am i right?” jay chimed in, with a teasing tone.

before you knew it, heeseung grabbed an entire bottle and downed what was equivalent to maybe 4 shots, wonyoung squealed, arguing the fact that it was a very expensive bottle of liquor.

“dude! that’s from my dad’s cabinet, it’s at least 500.000 won!” she argued, grabbing the bottle out of his hands.

as you tried to ignore his gaze, minjeong gave you your first shot—which you downed immediately, but it only made you feel like heeseung’s gaze was burning holes into you more.

heeseung sighed, “give me another one.” holding his hand out for someone to pour him a shot. “come on, i don’t got all day.” before sunghoon poured him another shot—which he downed immediately.

you hated the feeling of his stare. it felt, uncomfortable, but you liked it? the more he stared, the more you downed more shots. before you knew it, opening night came to a close, and you were stumbling your way down the hallway with wonyoung and minjeong, before finally finding your room. and in your drunken state, you passed out.

burning pain. your eyes couldn’t handle the bright light emitting from what seemed to be all around you. as you open your eyes, head spinning, you flopped back down onto your bed, exhausted, and with the hotel room ac, you felt frozen.

but as you get comfortable onto the bed once more, you feel a sense of warmth engulf your body. it felt welcoming. comfortable. maybe a bit too comfortable for your sake. but the warmth was soothing. it was, moving?

you shot back out of the bed, trying to rub your eyes to focus back onto the warmth, but that warmth pulled you back into its embrace. as if it needed you to survive.

as you try to recollect the events of last night, your usual 7am alarm rung. what a great way to ruin the moment.

a groan echoed from that warmth you once clung to, a familiar sound, a familiar… voice?

“l/n, what time is it?” it asked.

fuck.

"chill y/n, you'll be fine." you whisper to yourself, walking to your assigned council's room. from the rest of the journalists in your gang, you had been assigned to report on different councils. while wonyoung and winter were assigned to report on the ASEAN council, sunghoon to report on the UNHRC council, you were unfortunately assigned to the crisis council. just to your luck. your mind was still stuck in what happened this morning. you met your chairs, shuhua and beomgyu, role call was held, and your first committee session began.

while you were typing away a starting paragraph for an article, a bright face comes to greet you. "oh hello, l/n y/n right? i'm jungwon, the journalist for KBS! i sit right next to you in our council room."

"oh hello! i'm y/n, reporting for the new york times, it's nice to meet you." you smile, offering a hand out for him to shake, which he accepts.

"so, you got assigned to crisis too huh?" jungwon asks as you nod, "honestly it's one of the worse councils to report on because everything is moving... too fast." he sighs.

"i don't mind the speed, it gives me inspiration to write. but everyone has their capacities right?" you try to reason, whilst jungwon gives an agreeing nod.

not long after some small talk before you could enter crisis' council room, another boy tags along. his bright smile clearly infectious as you and jungwon couldn't help but smile at his bright appearance.

"annyeong! nice to meet you i'm sunoo!" he smiles, his blonde hair reflecting the lights in the room.

you shake his hand as a boy with blonde hair and black streaks tags along behind him before slapping the blonde’s arm, "i'm nishimura riki, you can call me riki. can’t believe i flew all the way from tokyo for this."

“yah! your writing is fine riki, your good shots will steal the show.” sunoo assures him, before looking back at you, and smiling.

riki sighs, before turning on his camera “i wanna get the redhead over there, heard he’s super good at mun or something..”

you blink as you realize riki was talking about none other than—heeseung.

"oh him? yeah he's my secgen." you tell him, the sentence floating out of your mouth. jungwon and sunoo turn to you with gaping mouths.

"wait- what? he's YOUR secgen? THE lee heeseung?" jungwon exclaims.

you furrow your eyebrows, "um, yeah? what's the big deal about him?"

sunoo's face lights up, as he prepares his words. "girl, he's the most highest ranking student in the high school mun circuit! his countless awards and times he's chaired makes him a legend. he's a literal model un weapon, even delegates with the veto powers are scared of him." he explains.

as you open your mouth to respond to his comment about heeseung, one of the chairs of the crisis council exits the room to greet you.

"ah hello journalists, you're here. i'm yeonjun, the head chair for crisis. we currently have unmod going on right now so you're just in time. we'll give you guys a couple opportunities to interview the delegates, but please be mindful." he explains.

you and the three boys smile back at him, before he opens the council room door and lets you in.

"delegates! i'd like to introduce to you all the journalists from the international press institute council, who will be observing our committee session. we have yang jungwon from KBS, kim sunoo from associated press, nishimura riki from NHK, and y/n l/n from the new york times. please treat them with the upmost respect.

a couple delegates say their greetings, and even explaining the current debate going on, as the four of you smile back at them. the crisis council was a popular council, and you can tell that from the amount of delegates in the room.

as you return your laptop back into your messenger bag and pulling out a notepad, a pen, and some sticky notes, you look back up only to lock eyes with heeseung. his gaze was deadly. you give him a slight smile, which he responds with an eyeroll.

the only thing you hated about being a journalist was the interviews. you needed to research, but having to interact with people you don't know? you'd rather kill yourself. it just happened that heeseung's stance was interesting enough for you to pass a post-it note to him, which he threw away.

so you were surprised to see him walk towards you during break, as you had thought he had rejected your interview offer.

"l/n, you wanted to interview me?" he'd asked you, no bad tone in his voice.

you looked at him surprised, kinda shocked, "umm, yeah? are you okay with that."

"i'm good. just, make it quick."

you open your notes to find your question you wanted to ask him, "um, do you mind if i record?" you asked, which he nodded. "okay, so as the delegate of colombia, what steps would you take to face the ongoing drug trade happening in your country? as a journalist, we have not seen you speak up much lately, so i'd like to know your thoughts."

"um, thank you for the interesting question, well i think—"

it was unlike him to treat you like this. unlikely for him to keep his cool. as you try to remember the words he was saying as you hold out your phone to record him, nothing was catching on. it was as if words went in one ear and out the other.

he was so professional. the way he walks, and the way he talks—the way his lips move when he talks, the way he explains his stance—the way he’s saying the words—the way his lips move to pronounce it, oh and the way he-

“l/n? are you done? i’m wasting my precious break time here.” heeseung asks you, breaking you out of that trance.

you compose yourself, hitting the stop button on the voice recorder app, “oh yeah, sorry, i was thinking of another question to ask you—got carried away…”

heeseung rolls his eyes at you, before thanking you and scurrying away.

what had gotten into you? you’ve never seen heeseung in that way before. he’s always been just a secretary-general to you. who also happens to hate you. you think.

but as the unmoderated caucus comes to a close, you return back to your council room, ready to write an article on heeseung’s stance. after all, you still had a day’s left worth of committee sessions, as well as a press conference held at the crisis council.

the press council room was chiming with the clicks and clacks of keyboards, journalists writing articles left and right. you were in the middle of writing once again another filler article, as you had no idea what to write for your mandatory article. as you look through your gallery, observing pictures you took earlier for your articles, you can't help but notice heeseung in his element.

as you're typing a possible title for your mandatory article, you hear from beside you, "hey, what's going on with you and heeseung?" sunoo asks, as you turn to him in shock, as you were in the middle of writing an article.

you laughed nervously, "what? nothing's going on between us. he practically hates me." you sigh.

jungwon pulls his chair over to you, placing his laptop on your table in the process, "i don't think so. not from what i saw last night."

you gasped at what he said, "and what i saw this morning! i could practically feel the tension emitting off the two of you as you were interviewing him. i've never seen a man so intrigued before." riki chimes in.

"this morning? nothing happened, i was interviewing him on his stances and whatsoever for a possible article! that's all to it!" you defend yourself, trying to get back into your article.

"y/nie, sweetie, i've seen way too many kdramas to tell that the way he's looking at you, is a look of love~" sunoo teases, smiling as if he knew something more.

jungwon and riki laughes at your expression, which seemed to resemble a disgusting look, but underneath that, you felt a sting in your heart. not a bad sting, a good sting.

"but hey you two seemed pretty cozy last night, i wonder what that was for?" jungwon asked.

riki gasps, "hey i took a picture! wait let me find it..." as he pulled out his camera, going through the camera roll. "here! you guys were dancing together a lot, and he basically was carrying you back to your room. what, did you guys get drunk or something?"

you choked on your water, as the events of last night start piecing together. "i remember taking a couple shots, he did too, but all i remember after that is falling asleep on my bed... i assumed my friends helped me to get back but now that i think of it... they were pretty drunk too."

taking another closer look at the pictures riki happened to capture, you saw two beaming smiles, and from the looks of it, it looked like you two were having fun. you've never seen him smile this much, let alone around you. the other picture resembled like a married couple. it was as if heeseung was trying to pick you up, but by the looks of your drunken states, it wasn't really working.

"wouldn't it be really funny if you guys accidentally fucked or something? that would explain the tension!" jungwon jokes.

you shake your head, before putting your face in your hands, "no way, not in a million years. our tension is, well, our tension! it's what happens normally!" you try to defend.

"no you're right won, they totally fucked. i mean the floor you guys are on? most of the rooms have king or queen sized beds. what would you guys be doing other than that? snuggling into each other till the sunrise?" riki assumes, scoffing afterwards.

your eyes widened in shock, as if jungwon cut your brain opened and took out the events of what happened this morning. you put your head in your hands once more before beginning to cry.

riki saw your reaction, "hey i didn't mean it that way! i mean it's- um... great? if you fucked? but if not then that's like, totally okay! i mean sex isn't for everyone—"

sunoo cut him off, shooing him away, "stop making it worse, ki-yah! y/nie? will you tell us what happened?"

you sniffed, not knowing why you suddenly burst into tears, maybe it was the frustration? you grabbed a tissue to compose yourself, "i don't know... all i remember is i woke up this morning, in his arms, and i just jumped out and got ready. we didn't even talk about it. all of a sudden he's back to his old self and he's being mean to me again."

you take a deep breath, sunoo rubbing you on the back, trying to calm you down. "he's been like this ever since i transferred. i was just the new girl who was a press prodigy, that's what they called me back at decelis, and i don't know, he's hated me every since. no reason whatsoever. i've tried to win his attention by winning muns and stuff but, it doesn't matter. he looks at me as if i disappoint him."

jungwon and riki both comfort you as well, before jungwon has a strike of realization. "you know, it's not that i wanna stir up delusion in your mind, but it's quite common for guys to hate someone because they like them. what if he has a crush on you?"

riki realizes as well, "yeah what if? what if all this time he's been trying so hard to hate you because he actually likes you?"

hearing the words likes you come out of their mouths makes you shudder in fear. no way he likes you. right?

before you knew it, your chair returns to announce that press conferences are due to start soon. and up first? was the crisis council.

stepping foot into the crisis room, with the information in mind, you start to notice the tiny little characteristics that match with the fact. the fact that the lee heeseung might as well have a crush on you. as you, sunoo, and two other journalists were guided to the front of the room, your chair explaining to the crisis delegates how the press conference was going to work, before giving the floor to the journalists.

you keep your head hung, distracting yourself by re-reading the questions you’ve written on your notepad, peeking through your hair, trying to take a glimpse of heeseung.

heeseung was in his element as always, head deep in his laptop, a couple volunteers passing by to give him a post-it note, filled with scribbles of other delegates wishing to be on his side. but as per usual, his critical self crumples the notes and puts it aside to his pile of other crumpled notes.

sunoo, on your left, nudges you in the arm, trying to snap you out of it. the moment you lift your head to look at the delegates and compose yourself, you catch heeseung looking at you.

with your bloodshot eyes, your usual smile fading, heeseung can’t help but notice what happened. you were fine last break. your eyes which used to be sparkling with curiosity had been traded for puffy eyes and a fake smile.

he wanted to come up to you, wanted to ask what’s wrong. but as your chair introduced the journalists, he’d wonder if it was just an impulsive thought.

each journalist had to share 10 minutes worth of press conference time to ask questions, a tight amount of time. as the journalist on your far left begins, the clock begins to tick. being the last journalist to ask, you begin to feel worried.

but as the mic is passed to you, and mere two minutes left on the clock, you scramble to compose yourself and your questions. “this journalist would like to open the question to the floor, with the excessive drug trade impacting the economy of your countries, what is an effective solution you’d have to decrease the drug circulation, but at the same time, would not damage your economy?”

placards were raised, and amongst them, were heeseung’s. you could see the colombian flag on his placard raised high, but as the journalist of the new york times, your work came first. therefore, you chose someone else. “yes, delegate of the united states?”

the delegate of the united states stood up, and you finally saw the name on his nametag. yang jeongin. he smirked at you, sending a wink. “thank you madam journalist for the intriguing question, as the drug trade across our country begins to increase…”

as you held your hand forward holding your phone out to record his answer, continuing to talk for the next minute. it felt like a lifetime. but in the corner of your eye, you could feel his gaze burning holes. heeseung held his placard high, glaring dead straight at jeongin even if he was still speaking. but as you thank jeongin for his answer, you open the question once more to the floor.

you hear a screech of the chair as heeseung, the only one holding his placard up, stands up to answer. but you don’t discern anything he says. you just stare at him. before you knew it, the clock rang, signaling that time was up.

sunoo nudged your arm once more, trying to snap you out of it. “you okay?” he asked, worry written all over his face. you nodded to tell him you were okay.

as you were escorted out of the room to head to the hotel restaurant for lunch break, you couldn't help but feel the same feeling of heeseung's gaze at the back of your head. you ignored him, walking out with sunoo by your side.

but you were stopped briefly by someone, none other than the delegate of the united states. "hey, that was a very interesting question you asked earlier at press conference. i was wondering if you need my insight on anything? given as i'm usa and you're the new york times." jeongin suggests, his usual smirk returning from before. sunoo winked at you, before leaving the two of you alone in the hallway.

you blink at him, "oh! yeah, i was thinking about gaining insight from, well our country's side of the story. so what can you tell me?"

your notepad flips open along the click of your pen, ready to jot down his words, before out of the corner of your eye, that sharp gaze returns. the burning stare heeseung emitted was back. you gulped and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. "hey, um jeongin? could we find somewhere a bit more quiet so i can record the interview? i need to make sure everything is clear because i need to submit the questions to my chairs."

jeongin smiled, "of course sweetheart, i know just the place." before he took your hand and led you away. unbeknownst to you, heeseung was fuming.

as the two of you walked away, heeseung couldn't help but wonder. what's so great about yang jeongin anyways? compared to himself, his track record was not all that. yeah he may have won most outstanding or honorable mention a couple times, but never best delegate. consecutively.

heeseung felt a tap on his shoulder, before briefly turning around. jay was standing there with a cup of coffee. he grabbed it out of his hands before immediately drinking out of it.

"that's! hot coffee..." jay protested. but to heeseung, his rage burned hotter. "what's got your panties in a twist?" jay asked, sipping his own cup of coffee.

"nothing, just pissed at a delegate. per usual." heeseung lied. as the two begun to make their way to restaurant to eat lunch.

jay chuckled, seeing his pissed face, "dude, i've known you for over eight years, you don't get pissed at a delegate for no reason. this is harvard model congress for god's sake, everyone here? they're basically professionals. mun legends. i wouldn't have afford this shit if i wasn't good at it. the awards and prizes helped fund this hobby."

heeseung sighed, "it's not just a delegate. it's someone else."

"it's y/n, isn't it?" heeseung snapped his head to glare at jay, as if he grew three heads. "chill dude, i can tell. you're painfully in love with her."

"no no no, you don't get it, she's a menace to my track record. do you remember back at decelis mun before she transferred? her article basically ruined my record the next five muns? i basically had to avoid chairing so the rumors wouldn't be deemed true." heeseung argued, reminiscing the times.

"but you'd argue she's a damn good writer, isn't she?" jay defended, "i mean no one from decelis has won consecutively aside from you. and she comes in to make the decelis name proud. aren't you glad? you're secgen after all. you're just in denial."

heeseung sighed, looking at his cup of coffee, once full, now empty. "i'm not in denial! i'm just stressed with a couple delegates in committee session, unmoderated caucus was, stressful."

entering the restaurant, their eyes landed to the corner booth, where you sat face to face with jeongin. jay turned his head to look at heeseung staring deadset at the two. "well, whatever floats your boat man, i'm gonna get some lunch. unsc might as well go to crisis next comses." jay pats him on the back, joining sunghoon, jake, wonyoung, and minjeong.

heeseung stood still. he couldn't help but wonder. is this what love feels like?

"so, yang jeongin, what can you tell me about the united states' stance on the current illegal drug trade? i assume that the country is fully aware of it happening?" you ask, pressing record on your voicenotes app.

jeongin looked around, before reaching over and pressing the stop recording button on your phone. before you could protest, "okay cut the crap, what's going on between you and lee heeseung?"

you looked at him strangely, not expecting the sudden confrontation. "well, nothing? i don't know what you want me to say, this isn't part of the interview."

jeongin dug into his food, "screw that shit, i wanna know why your secgen is all on my ass. i mean i looked at you once at comses earlier, and he looked at me like i lit an orphanage on fire."

you almost choked on your pasta, "what the hell, dude. he's just like that. he hates my guts so much he has to make me feel uncomfortable everywhere i go. i literally bring home decelis as many awards as he has in the past two years. i don't get him."

"nah, i don't think that's hate. he looked at me as if he was clyde and i was trying to steal away his bonnie. that's a look of love."

you sighed, "the thing is jeongin, he doesn't care. i've done everything to pique his attention, best journalist awards left and right, i was supposed to run for deputy secgen but he didn't let me. he said i wasn't a true decelis muner yet. i mean 8 muns in the span of a couple months? and i've never lost a single one? he probably hates me because i chose the lamest council."

jeongin swallows his food before he comes to realization, "hey weren't you the journalist who wrote on heeseung back at decelis' mun? i remember felix-hyung, my friend, that he went feral over it. he was chairing unicef, and in the chairs' room, he overheard heeseung talking about your article. how it was going to ruin his track record, or something."

"i mean, i do remember briefly. wonyoung, my chair, said i was allowed to write about the chairs or staff, even if they were filler articles. i wrote about heeseung and jay out of interest, i didn't know their history." you confessed, feeling quite bad about the outcome. "i didn't want my article to end up being gossip or shit talk, i just wrote what i wanted to."

"freedom of the press, am i right?" jeongin laughed, "speaking of the devil." signaling heeseung heading towards your table.

heeseung stood at your table. "yang. l/n." before scooting next to jeongin's side of the booth. you couldn't help but move your eyes between the two. after what sunoo and the boys told you earlier, and jeongin's confirmation that basically people could tell, you sit there in silence.

heeseung clears his throat, "well i'm not seeing much interviewing going on, delegates."

you scoffed at him, "it's none of your business heeseung. we're all delegates, it's lunch break. you don't have to boss around all the time."

"our decelis guidebook strictly confers to not confide in the enemy. and here you are, with the enemy. you know if you spill precious information regarding us we'd be dead?" he scolded you.

a laugh escaped your throat, "the enemy? jeongin is far from the enemy to me. matter of fact, heeseung, you've been more of an enemy to me rather than a secgen."

jeongin whispered, "keep it down y/n, it's okay."

you stood up in anger, "no it's not okay! i've been trying my hardest to do everything i can, i've won consecutively since my first mun at decelis, i've done everything you ask for. i've done nothing but make the decelis name proud, but i just can't happen to make you proud. what do i have to do next? i do everything and all i do is fall at second best. if you hate me so much then kick me off the goddamn team! wouldn't want me tarnishing your precious track record by having a traitor on the team, would you? all this over a stupid article i wrote months ago." you walk away from the table, returning to your room.

heeseung was speechless, the rest of the room was in awe, normally delegates would be able to stay professional. even if there was a break up or something. even wonyoung and minjeong looked at heeseung in anger, meanwhile jake, jay, and sunghoon looked at him in disappointment. jeongin stood up and left the booth, avoiding any more anger out of heeseung. "if i were you, i'd apologize. that girl has done nothing but try to please you and make you proud. start there." jeongin added before leaving.

out of habit, heeseung hung his head low in embarrassment. this was worse than the time you wrote that article about him. as he stood up to confide in the boys for advice, he spots a small leather notepad in the corner of the booth. it was yours. he'd have to find you, face you and give it back. it wouldn't hurt to read a bit of what's inside, right?

running back to your room, you couldn't dare return till next comses. the fact that an entire room full of delegates and chairs had heard you scream at heeseung's face. and returning back to the bed you woke up from this morning, limbs tangled with heeseung, didn't really help.

hiding your face in your bedsheets, tears flowing freely, you couldn't help but smell the familiar cologne he had left behind. the smell stung your nose, and made your eyes water more. the scent that once plagued you, now had lulled you to sleep.

a blurry facade appeared, the sound of heavy noise music remained muffled. your feet were cold on the hotel floor, destination? room 777. you were swaying side to side, but thankfully you were able to hold on to a pillar, which was moving with you.

"we shouldn't have drunk this much, right l/n? i'm not even sure i'm prepped for comses tomorrow morning." the pillar said.

"you have it easy, lee. you don't have to write 4 pieces worth of mandatory articles and observe other council's committee sessions." you replied, a clear slur in your voice.

it, who turned out to be heeseung, laughed, and it was like music to your ears. "i thought you journalists just copy-pasted shit off google or something, didn't get why you'd have to sit in the back of council rooms."

you scoffed at him, "well, as secretary-general, you should've known better. if only you noticed what i've been doing all this time to get your attention, maybe you would've understood."

"you think i haven't been paying attention? i've had my eyes on you ever since you wrote that silly article about me back at decelis mun. 'who's really chairing crisis?' you do know me and jay have been friends since primary, right?" he argued.

"that i know know, lee. the fact that you caused all the fuss over an article that was purely for mun, and had no ill intention is just stupid. i just wanted to be able to express myself." you confessed, feeling underestimated.

he sighed, pressing the up button on the lift, "it's not that i fussed over an article, it's that you wrote about me. i don't see many people brave enough to write about a secretary-general." before he could continue, the doors to the lift dinged and opened, allowing the two of you to walk in.

"i mean," he stuttered, clicking the number seven on the lift's buttons, "you amazed me. i've never met a person who could express themselves so much through their writing. no one paid attention to me enough to write such a critical piece about me."

you smiled at him, "so i'm special? i was the first to write about you, right?" he chuckled at your cheeky comment, "yes you're a first. i wouldn't mind if you kept writing about me."

"but why'd you hate me? i've done so much for decelis to make you proud, but you still have a way to butcher me. i just wanted to impress you." you'd sighed into his chest, the world beginning to spin.

luckily, heeseung had caught you before you fell, right on time as the lift reached the seventh floor. he basically carried you out, trying not to drop you.

"if i hated you so much, i wouldn't be helping you get back to our room, nor would i be making sure you get back safely." he assured you, holding you in his arms.

you groaned in protest, "but you do, don't you? i'm never enough for you, after everything i've done. all the things i did—"

you were shut up by his lips on yours. out of the blue, with no warning signs, he had kissed you. out of habit you kissed him back, lips molding against each other as if you had been waiting for years, as if you couldn't live without each other. all hatred you held against him dissipated. your arms crawling towards the back of his neck to pull him closer, his own pulling on your waist.

he pulled away to take a breath, but you couldn't breathe. he was your oxygen. you connected the two of you together, chasing his lips, his touch, his presence. it was the sweetness, the flavor of love and lust hanging. you’ve been craving his attention, hell, even his touch for months.

but your lungs craved oxygen, forcing you to pull away, hiding your face in his chest. as you were taking in the moment, he chuckled, "i wouldn't have done that if i hated you, would i?"

waking up with a jolt, the memories of last night came rushing in. you thanked yourself that the two of you hadn't fucked, but the idea of kissing him and liking it gave yourself insight. you wondered if heeseung remembered too.

opening your phone and seeing the time, you rushed out of your room as you were late to your next editorial meeting. it being the last committee session of the day, all you had to do was submit your mandatory articles of the day, and you'd be done. running back to your council room, knocking slightly on the door, you rushed back to your seat.

"journalist, you're late. why is that?" shuhua asked, beomgyu beside her, taking notes.

you sat down and composed yourself, "i'm sorry chairs, i slept in during break. it won't happen again."

the chairs nodded at you, letting it pass. the room discussed about how press conferences was, reminding the journalists of the upcoming deadline, but your mind was in the gutter.

you touch your lips, and you feel the lingering taste on your tongue. you were shocked out of your trance with the knocks of the chairs' gavel hitting the sound block. with only an hour left to finish your mandatory article, you begin to type.

social night was an mun tradition. after a full day of committee sessions, all councils, no matter what their council was, it gave a chance for all the delegates to mingle amongst each other.

free from the deadline of your first mandatory article, you had the whole night to party it out before tomorrow, where you had to finish your final mandatory article.

social nights usually had themes, and tonight, harvard model congress' was inspired by bridgerton, along with masquerade masks were in array. you had packed a a black dress, which belonged to your mother. she’d always tell you to save it for a special occasion, a moment you wouldn’t want to forget. and for tonight, as you miss your mom's touch, you wear your dress with pride.

walking to the venue, and right before you could even enter, you’re immediately greeted by wonyoung and minjeong. "oh my god sweets are you okay?" wonyoung asked, holding your face, clear worry in her eyes. "we heard and saw what happened at lunch, good for you to finally confront the bitch." minjeong commented, which earned her, once again, another slap on the arm by wonyoung.

you nodded at the two, holding their hands, "i'm fine, don't worry. i just needed to get it out of my system, that's all."

"to think of it, i haven't seen him since. normally when you pass by the crisis room, you'd hear his voice bouncing off the walls..." wonyoung confessed, "that's very unlike of him."

minjeong scoffs at her comment, "who cares? he's been downplaying y/n's achievements for the past couple months, i wouldn't be able to stay quiet if i were you."

you sighed at the two bickering in front of you, "guys, i just want tonight to be about us. this is harvard model congress for god's sake, i want to make the best out of it. so can we stop the heeseung talk and have some fun? please?"

the two nodded at your request, not pestering you any further. you all walk into the venue, being handed masquerade masks. the venue was decorated to the nines, and it felt like a ball straight out of bridgerton. the three of you were guided to your delegation table, which seated you, the girls, jake, and sunghoon. but heeseung? he was no where to be found.

"where's heeseung? it's not like him to miss out on social night." jake asked you.

you sat down on your assigned seat, and the seat on your right, which was supposed to occupy heeseung, was cold and empty. "why are you asking me? he hates me, remember?"

jake shrugged, "i don't know, i just reckoned that since the two of you are sharing a room, you'd know where he is."

minjeong scoffs, "who cares? y/n got ready at me and wony's room anyways, so no, we don't know where he is."

"jay said earlier today that he's been looking for him. wonder where he went. and if he found him..." sunghoon tells the table, sipping on his glass of water.

stuck in your trance, you were snapped out of it by a screeching of a chair, one, being jay, and the other was right next to you. heeseung. he was in his usual suit and tie, a couple buttons on the top were unbuttoned. you glanced at his tired eyes, hidden underneath the masquerade mask.

"dude? where've you been?" jake asked jay, slapping him on the shoulder.

jay sighed and drank a gulp of his water, "looking for this asshole over here." while pointing at heeseung, "took me a while to find him literally on the rooftop. i swear seoul uni has the most crazy hideouts. i'm not even sure i can even find my way back."

"how'd you find your way there anyways?" sunghoon asked heeseung.

he sighed, "don't know. just, found it." his demeanor slipping away as you begin to see the raw brokenness. you didn't hurt his ego that much, right?

as the clock struck seven, waiters all around the room began laying out the meals. you took a glimpse of the dinner courses in front of you, not really having an appetite for anything. but you still tried to eat, tried not to waste your food, tried to seem okay in front of him.

heeseung, on the other hand, was trying his best not to combust. sitting next to you was hard enough, but the fact you were wearing such a beautiful dress had him awestruck. he also lost his appetite. he couldn't help but stare at you.

after dinner, your friends stood up and ran over to the dance floor, and you were unfortunately dragged along. a remix of many famous hits were played, before you sang your hearts out to iris, by the goo goo dolls. you felt someone tap you on your shoulder, which to your surprise you see jeongin.

"could i have this dance?" he asked, hand out for you to grab, iris still playing in the background.

you nodded and grabbed his hand before you two danced foolishly to iris, heels discarded, his suit as well, just dancing your hearts out. but you had your limits, you were tired and excused yourself to grab some water. before you felt a nudge on your right, as heeseung leaned towards your ear. "can we talk later? don't say no just yet, just follow the green post its."

he walks away, as you look at him in confusion. feeling bad for what you said at lunch, you decide to meet him and see what he has to say.

following the pins of green post-its he left behind, you find yourself at the hidden rooftop jay was talking about at dinner. you open the door to be shocked at the view. the stars twinkling in the night sky. and stood there near the edge, was heeseung.

you broke the silence, clearing your throat, "you wanted to speak to me?"

heeseung looked at you and your dress, his mind going places. "yeah. i did. i'm not expecting an apology. i deserve it."

"but why'd you hate me so much, heeseung?" you whined at him, sick of his jokes.

"the thing is l/n, i don't!" he shouts, walking towards you, "it's not that i hate you, it's that i hate the way you make me feel. i hate the way you're so good at writing, i hate the way you win everything to make me proud, i hate the way you know my weaknesses, i hate the way you never gave up. you're on my mind every fucking day."

you walk up towards him, pulling his suit to pull him down, and him not expecting anything, you slap him across his face.

heeseung immediately pulled back, "ow! what was that for?"

"that was for not telling me about how you felt. you didn't have to bottle it up, you know?" you scoffed.

"and you didn't have to either!" he protested back, pulling out a familiar journal. your journal.

you grabbed it from his hands, "how'd you find this? i didn't even realize it was missing..."

heeseung sighed, "you know for a smart writer like you, you're very forgetful." a smile beginning to emerge.

"what did you read, heeseung? tell me." you asked, afraid that your secrets would spill out.

heeseung walked towards you, "enough to know that you're too stubborn to even tell me the truth. if you'd been feeling this way for months then you should have told me."

you gasped at him, "i would have told you about it if you weren't such a dick all the time? and then you kissing me last night just added more fuel to the fire." not realizing what you said, heeseung cupped your face, which was full of confusion.

"you remember last night?"

you blinked. "everything."

he laughed, "then you'd know i wouldn't hate you as much if i was doing this, would i?"

the familiar taste of his lips returned as he kissed you. you held onto his hands as he caressed your face. the oxygen you once craved had been fulfilled. you strung your arms around his neck, clinging onto him for dear life. you could feel the burst of sparks just surrounding the two of you, a moment you both craved.

the wavering facade between the two finally faded, unleashing the raw desire the two of you had, rushing through your veins.

you pulled away, heeseung leaning his forehead onto yours, before he gave you his best smile. you blushed out of nervousness and proximity the two of you held, not used to this view.

"you still hate me now?" you joked, smiling at him. his eyes softened, before he laughed, and kissing you once more, not wanting to let go. and as the stars glimmered under the night sky, you forgot time ever existed. forget the committee sessions due tomorrow, it was the two of you against the world.

surely, waking up on the final day of the conference would give you a sense of peace, right? wrong. you had spent so much time last night making out and talking with heeseung that you forgot your final mandatory article was due soon. waking up from the bed the two shared, limbs tangled once more, this time, you weren't ashamed.

you kissed heeseung's forehead to wake him up, and despite heeseung's wishes to stay in and make out some more, you declined and got ready.

"can't you just stay? a bit late to the first comses of the day won't hurt your awards." heeseung groaned, asking you to return.

"i was late at yesterday's comses post-lunch, so i think i'm going to be a good girl and come early to this one." you replied, fixing your tie.

heeseung basically stood up and tried to pull you back to bed, "come on, just be my good girl. i promise you will be awarded with all of my kisses in the world."

you shook your head, "missing out on a couple kisses won't be the death of me. come on, you need to prep for comses too."

heeseung moaned in complaint, "no, i'd break my streak for you, i don't care. i just want to stay in with you, away from everybody."

you were able to crawl your way out of his touch, "nope! i'm not letting you lose your streak just over me. come on, get ready. i'm going down for breakfast."

"can i at least have a goodbye kiss before you go?" he pouted, and the way his eyes resembled bambi, you gave in.

you tried to just give him a quick peck, but his touch was so fragile and welcoming, that if you didn't stand your ground, you'd probably be pinned down till the rest of the day. but you didn't want that, so you let go of his touch, assuring him that you'd spend more time with him after the conference.

now, here you were, back in your conference room with a giddy look on your face. you couldn't help but dream of last night. even sunoo, riki, jungwon, along with wonyoung, minjeong, and sunghoon, were even surprised to see you better all of a sudden.

"okay is this some weird process girls do the cope with sadness, cause if so how do we fix her?" sunoo asked, concerned.

wonyoung was staring at you like you were beaming, "it looks like pregnancy glow."

riki basically spit out his coffee, "wait so they actually fucked?"

minjeong snapped at riki, "who fucked?"

"we had speculation that, y/n and heeseung fucked the first night, hence why she was out of it the next day..." jungwon explained to the rest.

sunghoon, the only person out of the group who happened to know heeseung the best, commented that; "no there's no way he fucked her. if they fucked, they wouldn't have been here."

"could you stop speculating that me and heeseung fucked?" you snapped at the group. not out of anger, but annoyed that you couldn't concentrate.

"sorry, but did you?" riki enquired, earning him a riki! from the group around him. "what? i just wanna know."

you sighed, standing up and packing a couple things, "who cares if we fucked or not? just leave us alone." as you head out of the council room, heading to the crisis room for some final details.

contrary to how you first felt when you walked into the room, your heart felt full of hope. that this time, heeseung wouldn't be staring at you with hatred, instead of love. you hoped you wouldn't distract him.

as you walked into the council room, you nodded at chair yeonjun, before taking a seat at the prepared seats for the journalists. you sit down, open your laptop as you're typing your final mandatory article. you tried to glimpse towards heeseung, but you were returned with the same feeling as yesterday. the sharp gaze was back. maybe it's because he's in is element? mun is important to him... you thought, and busied yourself to writing your article. since it was your final committee session, you just had to submit your article and return for the closing editorial meeting. quickly clicking submit, and the chairs deeming the final committee session over, you wanted to sneak a quick kiss before returning for your meeting.

you stood up from your seat and walked towards heeseung. he stood up and saw you, walking your way. instead of being greeted by a hug or a kiss, he brushed past you to talk to his fellow delegates. you felt a pang in your chest, the way heeseung ignored you like that. you thought everything was okay. the kisses you shared, the conversations you had. you looked back at heeseung only to see him busy talking with the other delegates, barely sparing you a glance. you left the room quickly, not looking back.

unbeknownst to you, heeseung saw you leaving, his heart barely surviving after treating you like that. you deserved better than him. he couldn't have it all.

the final editorial meeting of press councils should be a joy to you. no more deadlines, no more press conferences. but you were stuck in your head. repeating the interaction over and over in your head, you didn't understand a single thing.

after the comments and input from both the chairs and the journalists, chair shuhua decided to pull out the gossip box. you'd been informed prior about the gossip box filling at social night, but since you ran off with heeseung to make out the night away, you didn't have time to fill it in.

as shuhua and beomgyu begin to read the entries, earning laughter all around the room, a certain entry snaps you out of your trance.

"oh this is a good one! new york times from press and colombia from crisis actually fit really good together! hope the enemies finally turn into lovers! wait is this about y/n and heeseung?" chair shuhua asks, causing the whole room to look at you.

you looked at everyone strangely, "what? there's nothing."

chair beomgyu shook his head, "no no no, i don't think there's nothing. come on spill the tea, something must've happened the past three days."

everybody was waiting on your response. waiting for you to tell everyone what happened. you just wanted them to shut up. "okay well. we kissed."

the group of six who were pestering you earlier, gasped loudly. earning you a rumble of no shit's, wait actually's, and a loud jinjja?!

you couldn't help but sink back into your seat, still upset about the way he treated you earlier. "yeah, but he's treating me like shit again today, so. that's that."

the entire room aww'ed in disappointment, before the chairs read out a couple more entries, and adjourns the final editorial. you stand up to clean your table, taking out a pen to begin signing each others' placards. signing everybody else's, photo sessions were in array, and after you were finally allowed to have some free time before awarding ceremony.

awarding ceremony was one of those moments where you have hope, but at the same time you don't. you start rethinking choices you made during the conference, wondering if you made the right option. you headed your way to where the press council was sat at, where you met a couple other delegates, even bumping into jeongin, wishing each other a good luck!

you sit down between wonyoung and minjeong, which earned you an endearing hug from the two, assuring your problems with heeseung didn't matter. stuck in your head, you didn't notice the boys' absence in the room. and awarding had begun. the secretary-general of harvard model congress came up and made their speech, thanking all the delegates for participating and giving their best. chairs from other councils begin to come up to give their awards.

meanwhile, outside of the room, was heeseung cornered by jay, jake, and sunghoon.

heeseung, not caught up with the situation, looked at the three with confusion. "what did i do?"

jay scoffed, "what did you do? you managed to fuck it up again? what did i tell you?!" shaking the life out of him.

heeseung shook his head in confusion, not knowing what to do, when sunghoon came up to him, "look man, your little feud with y/n has to stop. i don't get you anymore. i thought you'd be good at this after helping me and wonyoung get together..."

"nah dude you're in denial. what do you mean you two basically confessed to not hating each other and then made out a bunch of times, only for you to leave her and ignore her like so? that's crazy." jake protested. that was the truth.

"i don't know what to tell you, but me and jake have got to get back for unsc awarding, but please think about it? i know you feel scared of this whole love thing, but i assure you, it's okay to feel this way." jay says, leaving with jake, which left sunghoon with heeseung alone.

heeseung didn't know what to do. for the first time in his life, everything was out of his control. he craved you and needed you, but he felt like he didn't deserve you. it was as if a crisis was happening in his own mind.

as he hears the cheers of the room with every award that is given out, his heart races. he hears the announcement where jay and jake both won best delegates, which they had been double delegating in.

sunghoon kept trying to comfort heeseung, not knowing what to say to him. "look, i may not understand the way your mind works, but i assure you that you deserve her. you've put yourself through it all for decelis, and the track record that we have wouldn't have been what it is now if it wasn't for you. i don't know what plan you're cooking up, but whatever it is, win her back." heeseung looks at sunghoon with sheer nervousness in his eyes. "press and crisis are left, so whatever you want to do? do it now. before its too late."

leaving heeseung alone outside the room, sunghoon walks back in, returning to where the press journalists sat. he saw you picking on your nails out of habit, nervous for the next awards. as your chairs walk up to the podium, sunghoon just hopes heeseung would do something.

as names begin getting called out, sunoo winning best pre-conference video, then riki and jungwon winning verbal commendations, wonyoung and minjeong winning honorable mentions, you held on tight to the tiny string of hope left. it was probably between you and sunghoon left. as you look around the room, heeseung is still nowhere to be found. you had hoped that maybe with this win, you'd make him proud once and for all.

"the final two journalists were a tight match. these two shown impeccable talent in their articles and presence the past three days." shuhua announces. "it is with our great pleasure that the most outstanding journalist goes to, park sunghoon!"

wonyoung, who was on the stage prior, basically screams in joy. you high five sunghoon before he winks at you, knowing you'd win best journalist. but a part of you still thinks you won't.

beomgyu gives sunghoon his award, before adjusting his mic. "this final journalist has pure talent in her writing, and have awestruck the both of us with her work. without further ado, we would like to present that the best journalist award goes to none other than... l/n y/n!"

relief. that's all what washes towards you. yes you've heard your name and the words best journalist go along too often, but every time it happens, it always feels euphoric. as you walk up the stage to receive your award, earning smiles from the other awardees, you couldn't help but look to the crowd.

you see jay and jake basically jumping up and down in joy, but heeseung was still nowhere to be found. a pang of disappointment burns in your chest as you walk down the podium with your certificate in hand. an array of congratulations! are heard, as you sit back down for the final awarding. crisis.

zoning out, after feeling the euphoria of your win, your mind drifts off to heeseung. how would he feel? was he proud?

as chair yeonjun announces the awardees, you are cut out of your trance with every round of applause. you see jeongin win most outstanding, and you cheer for him.

as yeonjun clears his throat for the final award, he begins his speech. "this final award goes to a delegate who really deserves it all. although this mun may have not been his best run, he deserves so much more than the title: prodigy. i'd like to present this best delegate award to none other than... you know what? lee heeseung get up here, get your award, and get your girl!"

with pure shock, you watch as heeseung bursts through the doors, run up to the podium, quickly shake his chairs' hands, grabs his certificate, and runs down. and he's running to you.

he drops his certificate on the floor, before engulfing you in the biggest hug he's ever given in his life. spinning you around, you squeal in excitement. he whispers in your ear an array of i'm so proud of you's, before putting you down, and kissing you in front of everyone.

you cling onto him, parting your lips allowing him to kiss you deeper and deeper, and the feeling of sparks flying around you made it feel like it would last forever. your ears muffle all the cheers surrounding you, only focusing on heeseung, and heeseung only.

he puts you down and rests his forehead on yours, exactly like how he did on the rooftop the night before. "how'd you pull this off?" you ask him, still on cloud nine.

"eh, had some help from chair yeonjun. didn't expect the bestdel though." heeseung laughs, holding you by the waist, tighter, and tighter.

you held his face closer, wanting to feel his touch, "why'd you do that? why'd you run?"

"y/n. i love you. i never knew how to say it all this time, because it's a feeling unlike any other. to the point it made me feel as if my life was in crisis. but that's when i realized i never had it all. not until i found you."

taglist; @riekiss @sesameoil721 @desistay @capri-cuntz @beomluvrr @shawnyle @tya0 @heexoolio @sunghoonsgff @spiderhanzzz (crossed out = i can't tag you)

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disclaimer: this, in no way, reflects the idol. this is purely fiction.

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