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covenofagatha · 5 months ago

Note

hey!! can you do one where you run into professor agatha at the library while doing homework and it ends with her making you sit on her cock without moving while you study and you're impatient and she ends up fucking you right there in thar secluded corner (with lots of overstimulation and daddy kink if you're comfortable with that?)

Inspiration struck for this one today so hope everyone enjoys

I just started a new semester so probably won't be posting as much but I will do my best to keep writing and putting stuff out regularly. Also will be pausing any Agathario x reader fics for the moment

Learning to focus

When you run into Professor Harkness at the local library while you're supposed to be working on a project for her history class, you find yourself distracted by her (again)

Word count: 4.3k

Warnings: public sex, GP Agatha, fingering, cockwarming, daddy kink, overstimulation, it really was agatha all along, slight humiliation?, hints of degradation

The Westview University campus library is always packed, so you usually opt for the local library about twenty minutes away from the school.

Much quieter and way less crowded.

And you don’t have to worry about running into any failed situationships or crazy roommates from past years.

Plus it’s a really nice library, two stories with long glass windows stretching from the ceiling to the floor. Even when you don’t have school work, you often enjoy coming here just to read or play on your computer. It’s a peaceful place, a place that lets you just relax and forget about the outside world and all the stress you feel.

Stress mainly from one class. Your history class.

Professor Agatha Harkness was the only one who taught U.S. History when your schedule could allow it, which meant you had to ignore all the bad reviews on RateMyProfessor.com, because you had no other option.

On the first day, you could see exactly where they came from.

One boy had shown up five minutes late, practically a miracle on the first day of classes, stammering an excuse about how bad traffic was, Professor Harkness had fixed him with a glare and told him that he better drop the class.

You were just thankful that you had a class before hers, otherwise you would’ve been late, too.

She was just as mean and ruthless and cold as everyone said she’d be. Her assignments were almost outrageous and she graded them so harshly it was honestly impressive you weren’t failing yet.

But the one thing the reviews forgot to mention was how attractive she is. Her long, dark hair that she’d often keep back in a ponytail. Her sharp blue eyes that reminded you of the ocean on a dark night. Her high cheekbones, her pointed nose, her wicked smirk, honestly, everything about her.

You suppose the more impressive thing is that you aren’t failing with how often you get distracted by the way her fingers on her left hand tighten around the dry-erase marker when she’s drawing time-lines on the board. When she sways her hips and flexes her knuckles which tightens her veins, you feel a tugging in your gut and you have to bite your lip.

And you definitely should not be noticing the bulge in her pants when she sits back with her legs spread in her chair while the class is taking an exam.

You have an optimal seat, all the way to the right of her desk and in the front row, so you can take her in without her noticing you too much.

If anyone looked too closely at you, they’d assume you were sweating because of the forty-five multiple choice and five written questions you had to answer in only a little over an hour.

That wasn’t it.

You swore she saw you looking one time, one particular day when she was wearing a blue flannel and loose fitting cargo pants. You were staring, so completely distracted when you should’ve been taking notes that you didn’t even notice she had dismissed the class.

It wasn’t until you finally realized that she was stalking toward you that you had fucked up. You had swallowed roughly and moved to shove your stuff into your bag when she had put her hands on your desk and leaned in, causing you to completely forget how to breathe.

“You seemed a little preoccupied there,” she murmured in a low voice, her hint of cologne tickling your nose. “Try to pay better attention next time. Don’t want to have to teach you a lesson.”

You had promptly nodded and almost ran to your dorm to fuck yourself to the thought of her teaching you a very different kind of lesson.

Professor Harkness is in your head, and you can’t get her out no matter how hard you try. Except right now, you really need to focus, because the end-of-semester project is due in a week and you haven’t started.

Did she give you the entire four months of the course to complete it? Yes. But you have never been good at working ahead or at time management.

She had assigned a ten page paper along with a hand-drawn timeline about something that had happened in the history of the United States. You had picked the Salem Witch Trials, and Professor Harkness had winked when you got the topic approved by her.

So you’re about to spend the next probably five hours in the library trying to make some headway on this project. The timeline should be easy, but it’s the paper you’re worried about.

You go up the stairs and wind through the aisles of books on the second floor until you get to your secluded corner, the one you always go to, the one with a small table and two chairs hidden by bookshelves and gasp.

Your favorite spot has been taken by none other than Professor Harkness. She’s sitting in the chair you usually sit in, pen between her teeth, staring at papers.

When she looks up, she doesn’t even seem surprised to see you and a slow grin spreads over her face.

“Professor, what are you doing here?” You ask, fiddling with the straps on your tote bag. Should you go somewhere else?

She chuckles. “In a public library in the town where I live?”

Your cheeks burn. “Right. Um, I’ve just never seen you here before.” And then you inwardly kick yourself because now it sounds like you’ve been on the lookout.

“Wanted to get out of the house,” she shrugs. “Have some papers to grade for that project due next week. How’s yours coming?”

“Oh, really good,” you lie, shifting your weight and trying to think of a quick way to get out of this conversation. “Almost done. Well, I don’t want to bother–”

She interrupts you by sliding the chair out next to her and patting it. “Why don’t you come show me what you have? I can give you some help, free of charge.” She winks, a glint in her eyes, and it makes your stomach twist.

“Oh, Professor, that’s not necessary,” you say nervously but she tsks and waves dismissively.

“Please, call me Agatha. It’s the weekend and we’re off campus. Now, come sit.” She makes it clear it’s an order and you gulp before taking the seat. Even being this close to her is affecting your body and you know there’s absolutely no way you’re getting anything done.

She’s currently grading a paper about the Boston Massacre and it’s drenched in red ink. You’re not sure which you feel more of: annoyance at your over-achieving classmates or absolute dread for how Agatha is going to react when she finds out that you haven’t even started and, even worse, lied about it.

You take a shaky breath, feeling her intense gaze on you. “So, the thing is…” You trail off, reaching down to pull out your laptop. You set it on the table and slowly open it, silently begging for the floor underneath you to open up and swallow you whole.

Anything would be better than this humiliation.

“Yeah?” Agatha breathes, suddenly much closer to you. You will your eyes to not look away from the computer screen and type in your password, praying that you didn’t leave anything that embarrassing up.

It opens up to the blank document titled Salem Witch Trials, just so it’s clear to Agatha what exactly this page was supposed to be.

You’d rather it have been porn.

Your professor chuckles slowly next to you. “Thought you were almost done?” She simpers in that gruff voice that drives you wild. “Did you get distracted again?”

Agatha leans forwards, resting her elbow on the table, and perching her head in her hand so she can peer at you. Your eyes glance over to meet hers and then back to your computer, but in your peripheral vision, you can see her body tilt toward yours and her legs open just the slightest.

Your mouth runs dry and you make a pointed effort not to look between them.

“What’s gotten you so preoccupied, babygirl?” She asks and you clench around nothing at the shift in tone and the pet name. Holy fuck. “I’ve seen you staring in class, you know. You’re not very subtle at all.”

Forget being swallowed by the floor, you might just combust out of pure embarrassment.

You try to stammer out something, an apology maybe, sorry for wanting to fuck you, Professor, but no sounds come out of your mouth. Her other hand comes up and teases a lock of your hair and you finally work up the courage to look at her.

Agatha’s eyes are heated and dark, all the blue practically gone, and her lips are parted just so. And then you flick your eyes down to between her legs involuntarily and you have to bite back a whimper because she’s fucking hard.

You can see her length through her navy pants and your brain short-circuits. Agatha likes this. Agatha likes you.

“Is that what gets you all hot and bothered? Can’t focus because you’re too busy staring at me?” Agatha asks, hand dropping to palm herself. She gives her dick a quick stroke and lets out a tight sigh and you have to hold onto the table to steady yourself.

Heat rushes through your body in an almost unbearable way. “Yes,” you whisper hoarsely.

Agatha takes her hand off herself and taps a finger to her lips. “Hmm,” she draws out thoughtfully. You can feel a puddle growing in your underwear. “You know, I’m used to the crushes. Doesn’t even phase me anymore, usually it’s college girls who are just so desperate for attention. Not getting it anywhere else and they think that their fifty year old professor will be into them.”

Your jaw clenches. Is this the part where she rejects you?

But Agatha smirks and looks you up and down, takes in your squirming body in the chair. “And I never have even considered it. Until you. None of them have been as delicious as you, pet.”

And it makes your head spin. It’s almost as if you’re in a trance when your hand grabs onto her thigh and Agatha lets out a low moan.

“Please,” you say, desperation in your voice. What are you asking for? You don’t even think you know.

Agatha tuts. “Do you really think you deserve anything? This paper is due in a week and you haven’t even started. Doesn’t seem like you should get a reward for procrastinating, does it?”

“It’s not my fault,” you whine before you can even think about it. There’s something about this side of Agatha specifically that makes your mind turn to mush.

She raises an eyebrow like she’s daring you to say that again. “I think you need to learn how to keep that pretty head of yours focused.” She nods to the computer screen. “Make an outline.”

You swallow roughly and straighten up, putting your hands on the keyboard. You’ve just switched tabs and begun googling “Salem Witch Trials” when Agatha’s hand lands on your upper thigh.

You freeze and glance at her out of the corner of your eye to find her scribbling another note on the paper in front of her. You don’t know how she’s so calm and collected when you feel like your entire body is on fire.

“Focus,” she tells you in that deep voice of hers and you click on the first result that comes up as her fingers begin to toy with the hem of your skirt.

You try, you really do try, but it’s so fucking hard to read the words on the screen when she’s inching closer and closer to your underwear, which you can feel is absolutely drenched.

And soon enough, she’s going to feel it, too. You can almost hear her dark laugh already when she realizes just how affected you are.

Her fingertips brush against you and instead of laughing, she gasps. “Oh, pet, no wonder you never pay attention in class,” she coos and a thrill runs through you despite how embarrassed you are. She effortlessly finds your clit through the fabric and rubs it and you have to sink your teeth into your bottom lip so you don’t make a sound.

“Agatha,” you say under your breath and you can practically hear her smirking. Why is it so hot that she is still grading the paper as she starts to run her fingers up and down your pussy over your underwear? She dips in at your entrance and a muffled groan tears itself out of your mouth.

“Is this what you’re like while I’m teaching, too?” She muses conversationally, but you look down just in time to see her cock twitch in her pants. It makes you feel even more exhilarated, knowing she’s just as affected. But then she moves your panties to the side and slides her fingers through your folds and you forget any train of thought you had. You really hope your wetness isn’t as loud as it sounds. “Dripping for me like a little slut? Getting yourself all worked up when I’m talking about the Declaration of Independence? It’s pathetic.”

You whimper, maybe in agreement, maybe at how good it feels when she pushes a finger into you, but her eyes slightly glaze over at the feeling of your warm walls around her.

“God, Agatha,” you moan, your own hand coming down to wrap around her wrist when she starts moving. You can feel her flexing with each thrust and your tongue presses against your cheek as you breathe heavily, leaning toward her.

She presses a quick kiss to your head and scrapes her teeth against your ear before hotly whispering, “Better be quiet, babygirl. And focus. Or I’ll stop.”

You manage to type out three bullet points worth of information when she slips another finger into you and you clamp a hand over your mouth before you moan obscenely.

Agatha leans over to read what you have so far. “Who was the first woman to be executed for witchcraft?” She asks and you realize that you never finished that sentence.

“Bridget Bishop,” you gasp, and she swipes at your clit as a reward, sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine.

You continue to type, hoping it’s making sense because you can’t even comprehend the words, while Agatha continues to twist her fingers inside you roughly and rub your clit. You can feel your orgasm slowly building, and it only makes it worse every time Agatha hums right into your ear at something you’ve written. Your walls are clenching around her, trying to draw her even further into you, and she can tell you’re getting close, you’re going to cum so quickly around her fingers.

“There we go pet, such a good girl for Daddy,” she says into your ear and you spasm all around her, the name sending you right over the edge.

Who knew you’d like that so much?

Apparently Agatha did, who grins like a cat getting her cream as she fucks you through your orgasm with her fingers, keeping a steady rhythm on your clit. You taste blood from biting your lip so hard but you manage to keep quiet and you finally come down from your high.

But it’s not enough, you need more, and judging by the straining of Agatha’s cock against her pants, she needs more, too.

You move to touch her but she slaps your hand away. “Not yet,” she growls and it sends another blast of heat through you. You think there might be a wet spot on the chair underneath you.

It only makes it worse when she reaches down and undoes her own belt, fiddles with the button exasperatedly, and finally unzips her pants. She reaches inside and your jaw drops open when she pulls out her hard and leaking cock. It’s big, big enough to make your mouth water, and it almost looks painful. Agatha gives herself a few strokes, hips jumping, and she hisses when she rubs her thumb over the tip.

“Think you can focus while you sit on Daddy’s cock, babygirl?” She taunts. You’ve never felt so empty in your life, you need her so bad, and she’s right there.

You almost want to bend down and take her into your mouth, taste her hard cock.

“I asked you a question,” she reminds you roughly, slapping your thigh to get your attention. The sting makes you jump. “God, you really do get distracted easily.”

You mumble an apology, cheeks flushing. “I can focus, I promise,” you say, trying to sound convincing, but neither of you believe it. Regardless, she smirks and pats her legs and you do a cautious sweep of the surrounding area. This is incredibly dangerous and if you get caught, you both will get in serious trouble.

But for some reason, the thrill of getting caught only turns you on more.

So you stand up and straddle her and sit down, taking her cock in one fell swoop. She goes in easy with how wet you are and you bottom out in her lap, the both of you groaning quietly with restraint.

“Fuck, babygirl,” you hear Agatha huff and you squeeze your walls around her in response. It makes her thrust up and you inhale sharply at the feeling. She is so big and you can feel her throbbing inside you. “Better keep working.”

You lean forward slowly to move your laptop closer, the stretch absolutely delicious and she chuckles when you gasp as you settle back onto her. Agatha wraps her arms around your waist and you really do try to be good and focus, but every so often, she shifts beneath you and it hits that spot so deep inside you and you can’t help but squirm to try and get more.

Would she notice if you slowly start moving? Most likely, but it’s worth the risk. You give the gentlest roll of your hips and Agatha moans low into your ear before her fingernails dig into your hips through your skirt to still you. “Don’t even think about it,” she whispers dangerously so you’re forced to sit without moving on her cock that is filling you up better than anything ever has before.

It’s sweet torture and you write a few more sentences before you can feel your wetness dripping down her cock and out of you. Every so often, you’ll clench around her, too, completely involuntarily, of course, and she’ll buck into you like she can’t help it while breathing suddenly. You’re not sure how much longer of this you can take, the ache spreading everywhere in your body and absolutely ruining you.

“Agatha,” you whine again, begging, starting to move despite her death-like grip on your waist.

She moves your hair to the side and nips at your neck. “Yes, babygirl?”

“Can you please–” you begin, frustration leaking into your voice, tears pricking in your eyes. “Can you please move? Please, I need it so bad. I’m trying so hard to focus, please, can you fuck me? Daddy–”

Turns out, all you needed to convince her was to call her that, because she finally breaks and starts thrusting her hips up and pounding her cock into you. Your hand flies over your mouth and you bite onto a finger to stop yourself from crying out and you wish you weren’t in a library right now, rather be in the comfort of Agatha’s bed or car or office or anywhere but here, so you could be as loud as you want.

“Let’s see if you’re still distracted after Daddy fucks all the thoughts out of your head,” she snaps and fuck, you’re already so close after cockwarming her for those few minutes. She reaches around you with a hand to circle your clit, which is already sensitive from your previous orgasm and a muffled sound escapes you. Agatha laughs breathlessly and you strain your ears to hear if anyone is coming near you – not that you could do anything about it now – but there’s nothing.

Thank god this is a relatively empty library, especially at this time of the day, and that the two of you are tucked away in the back where it’s hard to see normally.

Agatha’s thrusts are getting so powerful that you’re forced to put your hands out on the table for balance which means it gets a lot harder to control your noises. But your professor, ever the problem-solver, comes up with a solution.

She slides two fingers into your mouth so you can suck on them and so your moans are stifled. Agatha presses her fingers against your tongue, scrapes her nails against it, and draws them out before shoving them back in, effectively fucking both your mouth and your pussy.

“You feel so good, babygirl, so fucking tight,” she pants into your ear and you gag when she pushes her fingers down your throat.

It’s so much, so much stimulation from her cock and her fingers and the fact that you’re being fucked in a public library where anyone could see that your orgasm hits you out of nowhere and it’s explosive. You sink your teeth into her skin and she moans, almost being louder before she remembers to control herself.

You need a moment to collect yourself, but she doesn’t give it to you; instead, she shoves you off her lap and stands up right behind you without her cock ever leaving your body.

Agatha bends you over the table, hand pressing against your back, and you have just enough awareness to move your laptop out of the way before she sets a bruising pace. The table must be bolted down to the floor or something, because it thankfully doesn’t move.

Agatha grunts softly with each thrust and you can feel her twitching inside you even though it feels like every single one of your nerves is on fire.

“Daddy, I don’t know if I can again,” you quietly sob, the pleasure fraying your mind, the sensitivity of your clit making you gasp when she rubs it. You feel like you’re drifting away from your body, dizziness swarming your head. “Too much,” you babble.

But she doesn’t slow down. If anything, she picks up her speed and tears fall from your eyes. “You can, babygirl, I know you can. You can take it – fuck, you feel so good around me.”

Agatha losing her composure because of you, just knowing you have that kind of affect on someone usually so cold and unaffected, is starting to build your orgasm back up.

“Daddy,” you whine, trying to be as quiet as you can. Her rhythm is starting to falter, she’s throbbing and twitching and cursing, fingers scrambling for purchase on your hips, and you know she’s getting close.

“So perfect, babygirl,” she mutters and you know she’s refraining from being louder, too. “I’ve wanted you for so long, ever since the first day when you walked into my classroom wearing that short skirt.”

The confession makes you clench and a gasp escapes your lips. You’re climbing closer and closer to the edge and Agatha isn’t far behind.

“Knew I had to have you,” she keeps going and your body is practically vibrating.

She’s pounding into you so deep, filling you so good, her cock dragging against your walls in the best way. Her ragged words are getting to her, too; you can tell in the way her thrusts become shallower and shorter like she can’t do anything more.

You’d make a quip about her being distracted but you can’t form a sentence right now. Every thought in your head is gone.

“Daddy knows you come here,” she continues and your eyes roll back into your head. You don’t even think you can understand her. You’re close, so close. “Knew you hadn’t started on the project. Knew you’d be here – fuck, babygirl.” She breaks off with a sharp inhale as you squeeze around her at her words.

This whole thing was planned. She’s wanted you just as badly as you’ve wanted her. And now she’s fucking you against a table in a library because of it.

She reaches around and rubs your clit and that’s it.

You cum all over her cock, walls convulsing around her, and she quickly follows, pumping her cum into you. You feel her warmth spreading through you and it makes you gasp.

Thankfully she pulls out because you truly can’t take anymore and she slides your underwear back into place before her cum can drip down your legs. She turns you around after zipping her pants back up and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You okay?” She murmurs and you weakly nod. “Is that pretty head of yours clear now? Think you can focus?”

The question makes you laugh. There are no thoughts left in your head whatsoever. “You do know that I’m only going to be thinking about this in your classes right? You just made the problem ten times worse.”

Agatha smirks and taps under your chin. “Tell you what, pet. For each day early you turn this project in, that’s one more reward you’ll get.”

And even though you’re completely worn out, your clit pulses at the thought of more.

“Think you’ll be able to focus now?” Agatha asks sweetly. You nod eagerly, your brain suddenly able to piece together how you’re going to structure your paragraphs, and she chuckles. “It’s all about finding the right motivation. I look forward to seeing your final project.” She winks, packs up her stuff, and then walks away.

You sit down in the chair, making a mental note to clean that and the table before you leave, and open your laptop back up.

Cracking your knuckles, you get to work, suddenly able to focus so much better now.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along #covsfics #learning to focus

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brenwritesss · 3 months ago

Text

𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝'𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

⋆˚࿔Paige Bueckers x reader ❀˖°

Summary: You were done with Paige, but she keeps pulling you back in.

Warnings: smut

a/n: long-awaited part 3 is officially here. so sorry about that long wait

part 1 | part 2

paigebueckers started following you.

paigebueckers sent you a message.

I shouldn’t have said that.

The time of the message read 3:05 AM and even though it had been a restless few nights for you after the catastrophe at the bar, you tried your best to forget Paige’s existence and move on. But of course, Paige couldn’t help herself and she had to find any possible way to weave herself back into your life. And it started with her unblocking and messaging you to reel you back in.

You keep the message open, seeing that she’s active but close out of it when you decide that she’s not worth trying to get back. Out of sight out of mind right?

So you left her on read, a closing to that part of your life that you wanted to so desperately crawl back to but you couldn’t do that to yourself. Again.

And that was how it started. These little things that Paige would do to reel you in and you wondered how she felt when she realized it wasn’t working. First it was the Instagram message, then it was hanging out with you and Azzi; although that didn’t last long when you would just leave, leaving Paige to deal with Azzi’s questions. Then she started “coincidentally” walking past your communications class when you would be leaving. Then it was liking your Instagram posts.

She was trying to get to you and you weren’t going to let that happen again, no matter how hard she tried.

Kathrine huffed as she sat up in your bed, watching you at your desk. “Are you seriously still mad at me?”

You don’t say anything and continue studying.

“Y/n, it’s Paige Bueckers. Who wouldn’t make out with her? I know you would.” The tone in her voice was condescending almost, as if you were some idiot she was lecturing.

You turn to her, looking her dead in the eyes. “You want to go make out with Paige, then go make out with her and shut the door on your way out.”

Kathrine’s eyes widen at you, earning you a scoff from her. She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Why the hell are you so bothered by it anyway? We’re not fucking dating so I can make out with whoever I want.”

You close your eyes, trying to fight the anger rising in your chest. “It’s not about you.” You say it so quietly, she can barely hear you.

“Speak up.”

“I said it’s not fucking about you,” you shout, louder than you had intended too.

“Then what is it?” Kathrine’s voice echoed throughout your room.

You slam your pen down on your desk, standing up from your seat and rubbing your hands on your face. Kathrine jumps at the sudden outburst, not knowing what you would do next. You had many options: kick her out, scream, tell her that Paige was your ex, pull her into your own heated make out session. But even now in your own dorm, Paige haunted your mind. So much to the point that you couldn’t even think of a good enough response to make up for the fact that you were letting this get to you this easily.

You take a deep breath, letting your hands fall from your face as you sit down on the bed beside her. “Sorry, I don’t know why I freaked out. It’s probably just midterms.”

Kathrine, weirded out and probably uncomfortable, shuffles away from you and grabs her stuff. “Yeah well you need to figure your shit out.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you mean?”

Kathrine stands up from the bed, moving towards your door. “I signed up for good fucking sex and the occasional cuddles in bed. Not,” she pauses, signaling to the space around you. “Whatever you have going on or whatever this is.”

You let out a laugh. “Believe me, I’m still looking for that good fucking sex.”

Kathrine’s eyes are practically bulging out of her head at this point. “Paige probably fucks better than you anyway.”

“Yeah good luck with that.” You stand up and open the door for her, waiting for her to walk out.

“Good luck?” She asks, not believing the scene before her.

“You’re not her type.”

Paigebueckers liked your post.

“Damnit,” you curse as the notification causes you to accidentally drop your glass cup in the sink. “Fuck.” You stare at the broken shards of glass in your sink. Even through Instagram she could still get to you and that was scary. How could a high school relationship fuck you up this bad? You didn’t think it would until you saw her the first time since.

Paige never did anything specific to cause you to break up with her. In fact, throughout the entire relationship she was perfect and that made it a million times worse when you had to break up with her. You had been told by everyone that a high school relationship wouldn’t last in college and maybe breaking up with her was the right decision. Or maybe it wasn’t and this was you suffering the consequences.

“What the fuck happened?” Azzi asks, walking into your dorm which causes you to jump.

“God, Azzi what the fuck?” You place your hand on your chest, trying to catch your breath and she laughs as she walks over to peer over the sink.

She points to the glass. “You should really clean this up.”

You roll your eyes at her and give her shoulder a quick shove. “What are you doing here?”

Azzi holds up a paper bag with the Chick-Fil-A logo on it and you immediately broke into a smile which Azzi returns. “Figured you could use a pick-me-up.”

“You’re the best.”

Azzi sets the bag down on your bed and sits down, wrapping herself in your covers and taking a bite out of a waffle fry. “Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

“Shut up,” you mutter as you get in bed beside her. Azzi is already holding the fries towards you which you gladly take while you grab some buffalo sauce. Moments like these with Azzi were some you treasured deeply, not wanting to lose these little times that you could see her and be yourself around her. And all of that reminded you why you needed to stay away from Paige in the first place.

“She’s sorry y’know,” Azzi says quietly with her mouth stuffed with chicken nuggets.

Those words alone cause you to stop chewing and turn your head towards her. “What?”

“She told me about what happened at the bar and even though I don’t want whatever happened between you happening again, she is sorry for saying what she said.”

You looked into Azzi’s eyes which were sincere and that made you feel bad. Not because you felt bad for Paige but because you were unintentionally dragging Azzi into this whole mess which you were trying to forget.

“It’s whatever, I don’t care,” you say back, shrugging. “She’s entitled to her own opinion.”

“You’re not a bitch, Y/n.”

You turn away from her because deep down you knew Paige was right. You may not have been a bitch to everyone but you definitely had your moments. Especially with Paige and that made you feel even worse than you already did. Wrapping your comforter tighter around your body, you let yourself sink into your mattress. “Maybe not to you.”

Azzi moved closer to you, moving the food and wrapping her arm around you. “What Paige said was just her being angry for no fucking reason that didn’t have anything to do with you. Her words don’t make up the type of person you are which are none of the things she mentioned.”

“I’m just over her bullshit.”

You show up to class a week later, books in hand as you slide into your seat and placing them neatly on your desk. Fishing a pen out of your backpack, you sigh as you prepare yourself for another boring lecture. Your professor begins the class with the usual procedure: attendance, short quiz, and then note-taking. All of which you do complete easily as someone comes to sit in the open seat beside you. You pay no attention to it, too focused on writing down your notes when they speak, “is this seat taken?”

“No, it’s–” you turn your head to see Paige staring right at you. “Not.”

“Great,” she smiles as she puts her backpack down. “So, what are we learning today?”

“Listen and find out for your fucking self,” you whisper as you go back to taking notes, not before moving your chair farther away from her.

Paige, who is looking at you like you were the craziest person on the planet, slides her hand over to your notebook, bringing towards her and giving it a look. “You always had pretty handwriting.”

You look at her dumbfounded. “You can’t be serious.”

Paige smirks at you. “Very serious.”

You pull your notebook back to you. “I thought I was too much of a bitch to be around.”

Paige’s shoulders fall, her playful expression falling with it. She leans towards you, “I said I was sorry about that. I didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you mean. If you didn’t mean it, you wouldn’t say it.” You go back to taking your notes. “And besides, we got a promise to keep for Azzi. So let’s honor that please.”

“Right because now you suddenly care about that promise.” You hated how hot her voice was. How hot she was just sitting there right next to you. How close she was just like that night at the bar.

You scoff, “you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“No,” she rebutted. “I said I didn’t want you meddling in on my love life. Why can’t we be friends?”

Her sudden change in demeanor from when she was screaming at you outside of the bar compared to now made you turn your head enough to where you could almost get whiplash. “You should have said that maybe like two or three weeks ago. Or I don’t know,” you pause, pretending to think. “Maybe a damn month ago.”

“But I want to now, ma.” The use of the pet name made you freeze on the spot, dropping your pen and by the way you felt, you just knew that your cheeks were red as fuck. And by the look on her own face, you knew she was enjoying your reaction. “Just like old times.”

“Go suck up to one of the bitches you fuck,” you spit out, putting your books away and getting up from your chair without another word.

“Y/n–” Paige began but you couldn’t hear the end of her sentence because you were already out the door. Not only did you have a promise to keep to Azzi but also a promise to keep to yourself: don’t let Paige into your life again.

You don’t know exactly how you ended up here yet there you were, standing in the crowded kitchen of a frat house trying to fish through the cooler to look for a drink. Another party you let Azzi drag you to and each time she did, you regretted it deeply. While frat parties were the final boss of college partying, the one thing you hated the most about these parties were the awful tastes in music these guys had with TikTok music just circulating throughout the speakers. It also didn’t help that you were wearing a tight and short black dress that made every guy at this party look your way. And that made you feel disgusted.

And with your luck, Azzi left you to go find some girls from the team, leaving you in the kitchen to fend for yourself. You find a can of Coke in the cooler which looked like the best decision compared to the other drinks that were available. You lean back up, opening your can and taking a sip, letting the carbonation hit the back of your throat.

“Enjoying the party?” Kathrine whispers behind you, pressing her body against your back. Your breath hitches and your fingers curl the can in your grasp. Kathrine can sense you being on edge so she slowly glides her hand up your waist, trying to elicit some sort of response that was something other than being guarded.

“Not my scene,” you say quietly, trying to let yourself relax in her grasp.

“We can always change that,” she pauses, spinning you around so that you’re now facing her and her fingers are tangled in the black fabric of your dress. “I always liked you in black.”

You look into her eyes, “I thought you preferred nothing at all.”

Kathrine’s eyes lowered themselves onto you as she spoke, “I thought that was a given.”

Trying to get your mind off of Paige was something you were used to and even though you were never actually into Kathrine, she provided a good distraction. Maybe it was the party getting to you but there was something about getting with the same girl that you found Paige making out with weeks ago made it seem almost fun.

You instinctively grab Kathrine’s hand as you drag her to a wall just a few feet away, pushing her up against it. She immediately responds to you, grabbing at your face as she brings your lips together. It was heated and fierce, both of you trying to fight for dominance as Kathrine wasted no time in shoving her tongue down your throat. The two of you could both tell that this wasn’t anything more than all of your meaningless hookups had been. Meaningless. That night in the locker room with Paige was never supposed to be meaningless.

And fuck, now you were thinking about her when you’re making out with someone else.

Kathrine spins around, catching you against the wall as your hands become tangled in her mess of blonde hair. Her skin was warm compared to your cool fingertips and her lips were soft like they always had been.

Kathrine’s mouth wanders down your jaw, causing you to let out a short gasp that only the two of you can hear through all of the loud music. Her mouth wandered down farther to the crook of your neck and you braced your hands against her shoulders trying to steady yourself as she sucked and nipped at your neck.

You open your eyes for the first time, watching Kathrine’s head bob down as she continued to kiss along your collarbone and damn did that make you horny. It became worse when you look across the room and notice those familiar blue eyes staring you down. And that stare created a pool between your legs.

Paige had been watching you and Kathrine the whole time with a bottle of beer in her hand. The way she looked at you was a mix of a glare and disbelief as if you had just seen straight through her. For the first time in a while, she looked hurt and you were the reason why. You let your hands drop from Kathrine and you pull her head up from your neck which causes her to look at you with confusion.

“Is something wrong?” she asks you with swollen lips and partly out of breath.

You look away from Paige and towards Kathrine, giving her a slight head shake. “No, nothing’s wrong.”

Before you can say anything else, Paige is walking towards the two of you, the bottle that had been in her hand was now on an empty table as she approached you, eyes filled with fire. You didn’t know what she would do but the second that Kathrine’s lips were reattached to your neck, Paige pulls you out of her grasp.

“What the fuck?” Kathrine asks, not realizing that Paige was standing in front of her.

“Hands off,” Paige says, not a break in her tone. Not a stutter at all.

You move your arm out of her grip. “I’m not a damn animal, Paige, I can speak for myself.”

Paige looks at you, making an attempt to grab your arm again. “I don’t give a fuck, Y/n. I’m done watching you and not doing jack shit about it.”

She drags you out of the house, pulling you into the backyard. And as much as you fight her, her strength wins as she holds you in front of her before letting go and shutting the glass door. You couldn’t believe the scene that had just played out and every part of you wanted nothing more than to scream at her. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Paige’s voice broke through with an urgent tone. “My problem? You’re the one who won’t let me apologize for what I said.”

You grab at your hair before snapping at her, “Why do you care? Tell me why because this whole thing is so confusing that it’s driving me insane.”

“What’s so confusing about it?” Paige acts clueless yet you know better than to believe that.

You raise your voice to match hers. “You kiss me in the locker room then you pretend that I don’t exist, saying that you’re doing it because of Azzi when we both know that’s bullshit because if you cared about Azzi in this situation you would have never dated me in the first place!”

Paige took a step towards you, tilting her head. “I was seventeen! What the fuck did I know? And you’re acting like you’re a fucking saint when you know damn well this was equally your fault as it was mine.”

“You tell me to stop coming back into your life and when I finally listen, you decide that’s not good enough and you try anything to weave your way into mine,” you say as you spit your words and you feel the sudden sting in your eyes. “Are you so conceded that you can’t handle that I’m moving on from you? That I want to live a life without you?”

“We both know you don’t want that,” she snaps. “I don’t want that.”

Those four words make you pause as you bite your lip, flipping your hair in distress. “What?”

Paige takes a deep breath, calming down from her outburst. “I thought ignoring you was going to fix this and finally make me get over you. But you’re not fucking easy to get over and seeing you with that girl or anyone else makes me want to go over there and show everyone why I wanted you in the first place.”

You couldn’t believe the words you were hearing. If anything, you were just confused because one second, she’s calling you a bitch and the next, she’s telling you she still has feelings for you. You take a slow step back from her, putting your hands behind your back. “You can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Do what?”

You huffed because you knew that once you opened your mouth, there was no going back and everything that has happened could either be done for good or a new step forward. You didn’t let your eyes wander from her and you took a step back again, creating a bigger gap between the two of you. “Pulling me in, pushing me away and then doing that shit all fucking over again. It’s too much.”

Paige tried to take a step forward, reaching her hand out to you but all you could do was take another step back. Anything to show her that you were done. When you rejected her movement, she sighed and glanced at the ground before looking back up to you. “I didn’t think–”

“That’s right,” you say, cutting her off. “You don’t.”

Paige’s frown turned into a line when she shook her head at you. “If that’s how you feel then fine.” And she leaves you there in the backyard as she walks back inside the house. You didn’t know whether to be upset or happy at the fact that maybe she’d finally understand how you felt. You hoped she at least had the maturity to do that. At first, you didn’t know if you should walk back inside but after a few minutes, you decide to and shut the glass door behind you.

Everyone were still in their places dancing and drinking with the occasional grinding against one another which made you feel sick for some reason. You looked around the house for Kathrine but she was nowhere to be found so you had just assumed she left. Deciding to check one last bedroom, you open the door and drop your drink on the ground as you walk in on two girls, one straddling the other on the bed. They both had their shirts off and were clearly in the middle of an intense makeout.

Feeling completely embarrassed, you apologize, “Sorry, sorry my bad…” You trail off when some brunette gives you a disgusted look as she shifts in Paige’s lap. At first, Paige looked at you with anger but watching you drop your cup made her feel guilty and it was clear that you could tell.

You don’t say anything else as you shut the door and leave Paige in the room with that girl. You walk down the stairs and decide to leave the house. And as you expected, Paige never followed you.

You walked into the elevator in your building, pressing the button to the fourth floor as you continued to try to erase Paige from your mind. She shouldn’t have this much of a hold on you but she did and there wasn’t anything that you could do about it at this point. You leaned against the wall of the elevator as the doors shut and it begins to move up. You haven’t spoken to anyone including Azzi for several days since you had walked in on Paige and that random girl. And yes, it wasn’t fair to Azzi but everything and everyone reminded you of Paige. And you needed a break.

That break was going to have to wait a little bit longer because when the elevator stopped on the second floor and opened, Paige walked in, freezing in her spot when she looks up and makes eye contact with you. You look up from your phone and mimic the same expression before going back on your phone. Paige hit the button to close the elevator door and decided to stand beside you, resulting in you taking a step farther away from you.

“Can we talk?” Paige asks from beside you and all you could do was turn away and not even glance in her direction. Paige huffs at your response, turning her body towards you. “Really? Are you going to act like a child right now?”

You give her no response which fuels her even more. You hear her step towards the elevator door and out of nowhere, the elevator stops in its place. You turn towards her and look at her hand that has just pulled the red button. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Paige smirks. “So it takes me stopping a damn elevator for you to say a word to me?” She grabs your arm to which you tear away from her.

“You’re fucking crazy, Paige,” you yell out, trying to get yourself as far away from her as possible. Your chest tightened and your breathing hitched, making your face go red. Was now a good time to mention that you are claustrophobic?

“You clearly have me going fucking craz–” Paige responds but notices the way your breaths get caught in your throat. She takes a step towards you, concern clearly written across her face. “Hey, hey are you okay?”

Your back hits the elevator wall and you slide down until you’re sitting on the cold floor. You pull your legs out in front of you and hide your face in your knees, trying to gain control over your breathing.

Paige kneels down beside you, placing a warm hand on your knee which causes you to jolt in your place. “Fuck–I forgot you’re claustrophobic. I’m so sorry.”

Paige gets up and tries pressing other buttons to get the elevator moving but it’s no use because the two of you are still stuck. When it’s clear that her actions aren’t working, she comes back to your side and pulls you into her arms, wrapping her hands around you and pulling your head into her chest. “Relax princess, nothing is going to happen to you. I’m right here.”

Against your better judgement, your hands snake up to wrap around Paige’s neck as your breathing steadies. Even though Paige was the cause of your anger, she always knew how to calm you down. Paige’s grip on you gets tighter as she rubs small circles on your arm. Her touch alone was enough to fully ground you and gain control of your breathing, which Paige could tell instantly. “Talk to me mama.”

The old pet name surprised you and you couldn’t deny the way your heartbeat slowly increased again. You lifted your head up to look at her. “I’m okay I think.”

Paige gave you a soft smile, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You scared me there for a second, L/n. I can’t have you scaring me like that.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have stopped the elevator then.”

Paige’s eyes became half–lidded as she took the sight of you in her arms in. Her hand that was on your shoulder dipped to your lower back to which you could instantly tell that the mood between the two of you had shifted. You cleared your throat. “We should call for help or something.”

Paige couldn’t take her eyes off of your lips as you talked, which only turned you on more. “Or we just wait.”

“That could take forever.”

“I’m good with forever.” Her eyes couldn’t leave your mouth and yours couldn’t leave hers. This was a very bad idea but fuck it, you knew you needed her. Now.

Before thinking about it again, you pull her face towards yours and kiss her like it was your last day on Earth. Paige let out a small gasp as she held your waist to gain some sort of stability, moving her lips against yours without any shame whatsoever. Paige’s hold on your hips grows tighter as she pulls you effortlessly onto her lap. Your hands move from the sides of her face down to her neck, which you rub circles on with your thumbs. The kiss between the two of you was intoxicating and even though your mind was foggy, all you wanted was more.

Paige lets one of her hands on your lower back drift farther down until it dips underneath the belt of your pants and caresses your ass. You gasp at the sudden move which gives Paige all she needs as she uses that opportunity to slide her tongue in your mouth. It causes you to moan and that makes Paige smile against your lips. Paige pulls away slowly, making you whimper at the sudden loss of her lips. “Look who’s desperate for me.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

She pulls at the bottom of your shirt, looking at you with raised eyebrows and a small smirk. “Can I take this off?”

You didn’t think twice before nodding as she pulled the fabric over your head with ease. She admired the sight before her of you in your bra that happened to be in her favorite color. Paige lets her fingers glide along your chest, outlining the shape. “You’re so fucking hot, princess.”

You tilt your head down at her. “Do you want to keep touching or do you want to actually fuck me before someone comes to fix the elevator?”

“Yes ma’am,” she whispers, taking off her own shirt and undoing your belt. You immediately go back to kissing her like you had just been and damn did it feel like the most amazing thing on the planet. All those times you would kiss other people, especially Kathrine, it never felt like this. Like they belonged with you. To you. You grip her bare shoulders which are warm and sculpted like a fucking Greek God and that only makes your pussy throb more than it was. She pulls your hips up in order to pull your pants off and you help her, tossing them to the side onto the cold floor and going back in to kiss her. She sinks you back down onto her lap and you could immediately feel yourself pooling on her sweatpants. And she could feel it too because she pulls away and laughs. “It really doesn’t take much, does it?”

You slap her shoulder. “Fuck you.”

“Is that not what you’re doing?” She asks with the slyest smile you have ever seen. When you don’t respond, she begins moving your hips against her, creating long, colored streaks on her gray sweatpants. The movements cause you to let out a moan, which causes Paige to bite her lip. “Just like that.”

Her reaction ignites a fire in you to move faster, attaching your lips to the crook of her neck and the second you do, you could almost feel her eyes rolling to the back of her head. You smile against her neck as you leave a big mark on her neck that would no doubt, soon turn into a huge hickey. Paige’s hands were everywhere on you. On your neck, your tits, your waist, your back, your thighs, your ass and the electrifying shock of her touch sent butterflies through your entire body, making you crave more.

Paige grabs a hold of your hips, slightly turning your body which causes your lips to leave her neck. You whine at the sudden loss of contact but Paige kisses you before she turns your entire body so that your back is now laying against her chest. Your legs are sprawled out but you squeeze them together to try to stop your core from dripping even more onto Paige’s lap.

“Stop that,” Paige whispers in your ear as she forces your legs apart with her own, locking them in place so that you can’t move them back together. She wraps an arm around your stomach to keep you from squirming on her and you knew what was going to happen in exactly a few seconds. Her fingers trail down your body until they’re circling your clit slowly. You whine out, “Paige please.”

“You want more, huh?” Paige is almost mocking you at this point and you’re eating it the fuck up. She circles over your clit once, stopping and applying pressure, and then stopping once more. You’re already on edge and these small movements make your pussy throb. It’s like Paige can feel it because she begins dragging her fingers down to your entrance, teasing you before she brings them back up to your clit.

“Paige please stop teasing me,” you breathe out, shutting your eyes every time her fingers run over your sensitive clit.

Paige uses her other hand to lightly brush your hair out of your face. You could tell by the tone of her voice and the smirk on her face that she was enjoying this a little too much. “Just tell me what you want mama.”

You closed your eyes, preparing yourself to give Paige exactly what she wants. “Please fuck me.”

“Whatever you want, ma,” she says quickly and doesn’t give you any more time to prepare as she sinks two fingers deep inside you. You gasp and lean your head back on Paige’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” you mutter as she keeps her movements controlled and slow. You take a hold of her arm to provide you some sort of stability, gripping it so hard that your fingertips turn white.

“You like this shit, huh?” Paige looks down at you and the image before her was so beautiful, she couldn’t take her eyes off of you. You nod as you let out a moan, Paige’s fingers thrusting even deeper. You were practically seeing stars at the moment and never in your life did you ever think you would be fucking Paige Bueckers in an elevator.

“Faster.” You don’t even remember those words leaving your body as Paige speeds up her movements and begins to curl her fingers inside of you which causes you to scream out, “oh fuck.”

Paige starts going as fast as she can, using the strength in her other arm to hold your body up. You can feel the knot in your stomach beginning to unravel and that causes you to push your body more against Paige.

She can feel that you’re close so she whispers, “doing so good, baby. Keep going.”

That’s all it takes when you grab her hand that’s currently deep inside you and and push her hand as far as it will go as she curls her fingers again. Paige lets out a small laugh at your movement as you cum all over her fingers. Your eyes roll back as you do nothing but moan and slump against Paige. She helps you ride out your orgasm and when your breathing starts to slow down, she pulls her fingers out of you and looks in awe at how covered in cum they are. You watch as she licks her fingers clean. “You taste good, baby.”

You are about to respond when the elevator suddenly starts to move and that’s when everything hit you. Paige had just fucked you which meant that you let in all of the old feelings for her. That you accepted everything that had happened between the two of you for years when you were just starting to accept that she didn’t want to be part of your life anymore.

You get up as quickly as you can and try to forget what just happened as you put your clothes back on as fast as possible.

“Y/n–” Paige says as she gets up from the floor, her sweats still covered in your cum.

You finish putting your shirt on as you turn around to her. “This should never have happened. This–this can’t happen again.”

“What?” Paige looked confused and mostly hurt at the sudden change in your tone. “What just happened changes things.”

You were a mess. More of a mess than you were twenty minutes ago. You go over to the elevator door and press any button you can to open the door. “What just happened was a mistake.”

Paige walks over to you, gently grabbing you by the arm so that you’ll look at her. “A mistake?”

“You can’t just pretend I don’t exist and the second that I’m finally moving on, pull me back in and pretend that this,” you say as you motion to the space between the two of you. “Will ever be something more than just fucking or playing with each other’s emotions.”

The door opens before Paige can respond and you take the first opportunity to run out of the elevator and to your dorm. And like you had expected again, she never followed you.

A few hours later had resulted in you not knowing what to do and needing something to take away all of the sudden emotions and feelings that Paige made you feel in that elevator. So that’s how you find yourself here, in your bed with Kathrine’s body on top of you. That was the thing about her. She wasn’t Paige. She never made you feel as good as Paige did but that meant she never made you feel as bad as Paige did too. And that’s what you needed right now; to not feel worse or confused. Because with Kathrine, there was no confusion in where you stood with her. So while you moaned Kathrine’s name and let her hands touch every inch of you as if she owned you, you felt safe.

Little did you know that Paige was standing outside of your door, hearing every cry and moan with a bouquet of your favorite flowers in her hands.

#uconn #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #wcbb #paige bueckers x reader #uconn huskies #wlw #wlw smut #wlw post #paige buckets #paige x reader #angst

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willowsnook · 3 months ago

Text

halfway to always pt. 2

quinn hughes x sharks!reader

pt. 1 here

tags: @hockeybabe87 @enjoymyloves @freyathehuntress @onlyreadz @how-what-why-huh @1loverc @stormsies

-------------------------------

It had been a couple of months since your trip out to the lake and you had thrown yourself into work, trying to forget about the oldest Hughes' brother who had left an imprint on your heart. So far it was going well, mostly because Will and Macklin hadn’t been there to harass you about it. They both went home for the rest of summer break and were just now coming back for training camp.

You had plans to meet them at their place when they both got back, and after finally logging off for the day, you made your way over.

“Y/N!” Will yelled as he opened the door, quickly pouncing on you. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” you said into his chest. “My life has been so boring.”

“Of course it has,” Macklin said, coming from out of his room. “We are the most important people in your life.”

“I’m about to replace you though,” you teased, setting down your stuff in the kitchen. “I meet the new guys tomorrow.”

Both of them glared at you, making you giggle.

"You know I'm kidding," you reassured them, hopping up onto their kitchen counter. "So, tell me everything. How was the rest of your summer?"

They launched into stories about family trips and training regimens, Will showing you pictures on his phone while Macklin demonstrated some new workout move he'd learned. You smiled, realizing how much you'd truly missed their chaotic energy.

"What about you?" Will asked finally. "Did you do anything fun after Michigan?"

You shrugged. "Just work, mostly. Helped with rookie camp prep, went home to see my parents for a weekend."

"That's it?" Macklin frowned. "Please tell me you at least went on a date or something."

You rolled your eyes. "No, I did not go on a date.”

You pulled out a bottle of wine from your bag, uncorking it while Will leaned against the counter, watching you with a suspicious expression. "So... have you talked to Quinn at all?"

Your movements faltered for just a second before you recovered, reaching for glasses in the cabinet. "A little. Just texting here and there."

It wasn't exactly a lie. You and Quinn had exchanged messages sporadically since the lake trip—casual check-ins that carefully avoided any mention of what had happened between you. The last text had been over a week ago, a simple "good luck with training camp" from you, followed by his "thanks, you too" reply.

"Just texting?" Macklin pressed, raising an eyebrow.

You sighed, pouring three generous glasses of wine.

“Look,” you started. “We had fun at the lake. But it was just the lake. I’m back to the real-world again.”

“But you guys are so perfect together,” Macklin complained.

“I was with him for less than a week,” you argued back and Will rolled his eyes.

“Love at first sight,” he said and you snorted, even Macklin letting out a little laugh.

“I’m busy with work anyways, so it’s going to be okay,” you said firmly. You turned around to grab your phone and both boys shared a look, an idea already forming.

Step 1: Investigation Time

“Did you see Quinn’s post?” Will asked while you were both out on a morning walk before he had to be at the facility.

“I did not,” you replied, amused. The boys could not leave the idea of you and Quinn alone which was adorable but like you’d told them earlier: there wasn’t anything to it. You had kissed a lot of boys in your lifetime - it didn’t always have to mean something. There was no reason to even let your mind entertain the idea.

“You made it,” he said, trying to contain his excitement. “It’s a summer recap.”

Leaning over his shoulder, you looked at this specific picture. It was of Quinn at the grill and you next to him, holding a plate of food. It was a sweet picture, and you made a mental note to screenshot it later to keep for memories.

“Very nice Will,” you commented and he beamed.

“You too look so good together,” he said and you snorted.

“Not giving this up?” You teased and he shook his head.

“You were so into him on the trip,” he said. “I want to see you happy.”

“I am happy Will,” you said. “I don’t need a man to be happy.”

"I know," Will said, more serious than you'd expected. "I just think you guys had something real. And maybe it's worth exploring."

You sighed, watching the morning light filter through the trees as you walked. "Even if there was something there, what would be the point? He lives in Vancouver. I live here. Both of us have demanding careers that keep us in those places."

"Long distance?" Will suggested.

You laughed, but it came out hollow. "For what? A connection we felt after knowing each other for a few days? That's not enough to build something on."

Will fell silent for a moment, considering your words. "You know, I've never seen you light up around anyone the way you did with him."

The observation hit you harder than you expected, and you quickened your pace slightly. "I'm not having this conversation anymore."

"Fine," Will conceded, jogging away. “Then I’m not buying you coffee.”

“You promised,” you complained, jogging after him.

Meanwhile, Macklin and Jack were working on Quinn.

“Hey man what’s up?” Quinn said, answering his phone.

“Just wanted to call before the season started,” Macklin said.

“Getting a little nervous?” Quinn asked.

“I feel like the pressure is way up this year for me,” Macklin admitted.

“It feels like that for everyone their second year,” Quinn told him. “Especially because of how well you did last year. Just stay focused. You have good people supporting you.”

Macklin saw his segway and took it, “Yeah I do. I don’t know what I would do without Will and Y/n. You remember her?”

Quinn rolled his eyes before answering, “I know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Macklin replied, feigning innocence. “Just wondering if you guys had talked since the lake.”

“I’m sure you can ask her that,” Quinn said, avoiding the question.

"I'm asking you though," Macklin pressed.

"We've texted a bit," Quinn finally admitted, his voice carefully neutral. "Just checking in."

"That's it? Just checking in?" Macklin asked, clearly disappointed.

Quinn sighed, running a hand through his hair as he paced around his living room. "What do you want me to say, Mack? That I think about her all the time? That I wish things were different? None of that changes the reality."

"Which is?"

"You know which is. She's in San Jose. I'm in Vancouver. We both have careers that keep us in those cities."

"People do long distance all the time," Macklin countered.

Quinn let out a humorless laugh. "Based on what? A week together? A kiss? That's not enough to build something real on."

There was a pause on the other end of the line before Macklin spoke again, his voice sincere. "I know it's none of my business, but Y/n is important to me. And I haven’t seen her act like that around someone literally ever. I’m just floating the idea that maybe you could figure something out.”

“We’ll see,” Quinn said shortly before hanging up.

Jack and Luke had flown to Vancouver the week before the season started to see their oldest brother. It was a short trip, but they played some rounds of golf and had plenty of time to relax before they wouldn’t see each other for a bit.

The night before they were heading back to New Jersey, they were out to dinner when Jack started his subtle inquiry, already proud of himself for not bringing up y/n yet this weekend.

“So, you guys play the Sharks in a couple of weeks?” Jack asked casually and Luke instantly snorted. Quinn looked up from his phone, giving his brother a pointed look.

“That’s usually how a hockey season works,” Quinn shot back. “Conspiring with Macklin now are you?”

Jack huffed, “I’m just making conversation. Just wondering if you have any plans to see anyone after the game or anything.”

“Not as of right now,” Quinn replied honestly. “We haven’t really spoken since the beginning of training camp.”

“Hmm,” Jack replied.

Quinn paused, setting his fork down and giving his brothers a serious look. "Look, I appreciate that you guys care, but this isn't helping. Y/n and I had a connection, yes. But sometimes timing just doesn't work out."

"But—" Jack started.

"No," Quinn cut him off firmly. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. Not everything has a neat resolution, okay?"

The finality in his tone silenced both his brothers. Luke shot Jack a warning glance, and the subject was dropped for the remainder of dinner.

Step 2: The Setup

Will's phone buzzed with a text from Jack: "Operation reunite stubborn idiots is a go. Quinn just landed in San Jose."

Will nudged Macklin, showing him the message. They shared a conspiratorial smile before turning their attention back to you. You were sitting across from them in the players’ lounge, a few hours before the game tonight.

“So,” Will cleared his throat and your head snapped up. “What are you doing after the game?”

Your eyes narrowed, “I was planning on just going home but i’m getting the feeling that you are going to drag em to something.”

“Toff rented out this bar for his birthday tonight,” Will said. “So you should come because it’s his birthday and you know him.”

You did know Toff, you knew every player but you weren’t really that acquainted with him. “Did he ask that I be there?”

“Just come y/n,” Macklin said exasperated. “You need to get out of the house.”

“Fine,” you said, rolling your eyes. You missed seeing the boys bump each other’s fists under the table, turning your attention back to your phone.

The Canucks steamrolled the Sharks, but the boys still had a good game, so you were pleased by that. You had changed in your office from your business clothes to just a plain white tank top and jeans and now were waiting by the players’ entrance.

“Hey stranger,” a voice called out and you froze. Quinn was giving you a small smile as he walked towards you and you couldn’t help but grin.

“Hi,” you greeted him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He held on to you for a second too long and your heart was racing at the physical contact.

“I’m looking for Will and Macklin actually, have you seen them?” Quinn asked he pulled back.

“Funny, I’m looking for them too,” you said, and the pieces started to click together. Both of your phone buzzed at the same time and you looked down to see what Will had said.

WS: Sorry guys, we caught a ride with someone else. I’m sure you can carpool to the bar tho. Bye!!!

You groaned as Quinn shook his head. “Relentless,” you muttered.

“Tell me about it,” Quinn mused. “Guess I’ll follow you.”

You chatted about the game as you walked to the car, Quinn filling you in on how the team was looking so far and you telling him about the new rookies. The way conversation fell so naturally it was like you were at the lake just last week.

"So," you finally said as you pulled into the parking lot, "how long are the boys going to keep this up?"

Quinn chuckled, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "Knowing Jack, probably until one of us gets married."

You laughed, though the comment sent an unexpected flutter through your chest. "Will and Macklin are just as bad. They've been not-so-subtly bringing you up for weeks."

"Same with Jack and Luke," Quinn admitted. "I think they're all in a group chat about it."

As you walked toward the bar entrance, Quinn's hand brushed against yours—perhaps accidentally, perhaps not. Neither of you acknowledged it, but seeing how packed the bar was, you slipped your hand into his, not wanting to lose him on the way to wherever Will and Macklin were. His hand tightened around yours and it was the first thing the boys looked at when you emerged from the crowd, both lighting up.

You dropped Quinn’s hand as you reached the table, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I waited for you guys for 20 minutes,” you said.

“Sorry y/n, Eklund insisted we come with him,” Macklin said innocently. Quinn snorted from behind you, shaking his head.

“Whatever, I’m getting a drink,” you muttered, leaving them all behind for the bar.

Quinn watched you weave through the crowd toward the bar, then turned to fix Will and Macklin with a stern look. "Subtle, guys. Really subtle."

Macklin shrugged,. "Did it work though?"

"Did what work?" Quinn asked, though he knew exactly what they were getting at.

"Come on," Will groaned. "You two were holding hands!"

"So I wouldn't lose her in the crowd," Quinn explained, though the excuse sounded weak even to his own ears.

Macklin and Will exchanged knowing glances. "Right," Macklin drawled. "That's definitely it."

Quinn sighed, leaning against the table. "Look, I appreciate what you guys are trying to do, but it's complicated."

"It's really not," Will argued. "You like her, she likes you. What's complicated about that?"

Quinn ran a hand through his hair. He really was starting to wear down when it came to that question. Seeing you again had reignited what he felt at the lake, and he was running out of excuses to at least not give it a try.

You came back a little later, wordlessly handing Quinn a beer before sitting down next to Will. Quinn ended up getting pulled away by some other guys he was friends with, and your table was joined by a couple of WAGs that you were somewhat friends with. You didn’t really hang out with most of them, but the ones who sat with you were around the same age as you, so it was an easy friendship.

A couple of hours went by and you were caught up in a conversation with Carl Berglund when you felt a presence behind you. You looked over your shoulder to see Quinn, looking between you and Carl, his jaw tightening.

“Hey man, good to see you,” Carl said reaching out his hand, unaware of the tension.

“You too,” Quinn said shortly, shaking it. Carl looked between the two of you before smirking and raising his beer.

“Nice talking to you y/n, i’ll see you later,” he said before walking to join another conversation. You turned to Quinn amused.

“What was that about?” You asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said nonchalantly, looking anywhere but you.

You raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on your lips. "You're a terrible liar, Quinn Hughes."

He sighed, finally meeting your eyes. "Fine. I didn't like seeing you with him."

"With Carl?" you asked, genuinely surprised. "We were just talking."

"I know," Quinn admitted, taking a swig of his beer. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

The jealousy in his voice sent a thrill through you that you tried to ignore. You stepped closer to him, lowering your voice. "You don't get to be jealous when you won't even admit there's something here."

His eyes darkened as they held yours. "Who says I won't admit it?"

Your heart skipped a beat. "You've had months to do something about it."

"So have you," he countered.

The admission hung between you, charged with everything left unsaid from the summer. You set your drink down, suddenly feeling too warm.

"Want to get some air?" you asked quietly.

Quinn nodded, following as you weaved through the crowd toward the back exit. The cool night air was a relief after the stuffy bar, and you took a deep breath, leaning against the brick wall.

"So," you started, looking up at the stars rather than at him.

"So," he drawled out. “I can’t get you out of my head.”

You were surprised by the admission, turning to face him fully as he stared into your eyes.

“I could say the same thing,” you admitted quietly. Neither of you said anything for a bit, just taking in one another’s presence.

“What do we have to do to make this work?” He asked, breaking the silence.

You sighed, leaning back against the wall before answering truthfully, “I don’t know.”

He moved in front of you, bringing one hand to rest on your waist and your breath hitched at the contact.

"I know it might be ridiculous," Quinn murmured, his thumb tracing small circles on your waist, "to feel this strongly about someone I've spent so little time with. But I can't stop thinking about what could happen if we just... tried."

Your heart raced as he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting we stop making excuses," he said, his voice low and certain. "We play each other four times this season. I have the All-Star break, you have holidays. There are bye weeks and off-days. We have phones. We have FaceTime. Vancouver to San Jose is a two-hour flight."

You closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you. The practical part of your brain wanted to list all the reasons why this was complicated—the distance, your careers, the logistics—but another part of you, the part that had been daydreaming about him for months, was tired of being practical.

“We can try,” you finally said and a small smile broke out across his face. He inched his head closer, pressing his lips against yours in a sweet kiss. Your hand travelled up to his hair, pulling him deeper into you and he pressed you harder against the wall as his mouth moved against yours. When you finally pulled apart, breathless, his eyes were dark with wanting.

"I've been thinking about doing that again since the lake," he admitted, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

You smiled against his touch. "Me too."

The door to the bar swung open suddenly, spilling light and noise into the alleyway. Will stood there, his eyes widening as he took in the scene before him.

"Finally!" he exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air before disappearing back inside, presumably to tell Macklin and you groaned, resting your head against Quinn’s shoulder.

“I’m sure i’ll get a cryptic text from Jack soon,” Quinn muttered and you giggled, bringing your lips up to his once more.

“Worth it.”

Pt 3

#nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine

566 notes · View notes

felinecyan · 11 months ago

Text

Meddle About

[Katsuki Bakugo x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: When something… intimate happens between you and the explosive boy, you seek out the comfort and advice from your fangirl best friend.

WC: 6832

Category: Fluff, Slight Spice/Lime, Mixed Signals

Might be ooc (I blame Chase Atlantic for this one), but I wanted to post something… interesting since it’s OFFICIALLY my birthday 🗣️🗣️

『••✎••』

Here you were, pacing back and forth in your best friend's dorm room. You hadn't said a word, only muttering incoherent thoughts to yourself while your eyes flitted around the room as if you could find the words written on the walls.

Mina watched you from her bed, leaning forward on her hands, which were planted on her mattress. She had her legs crossed beneath her, and she was rocking herself slightly. Her mouth was agape with excitement and confusion, and her eyes were wide as she watched you.

You felt bad for disturbing her sleep, but you were too overwhelmed to wait until morning to talk to her about what had happened. When it happens, you can't even wait an hour to tell someone about it, much less eight hours. So, with your impatient nature, you hunted her down after five minutes of attempting to calm yourself down and failing.

Mina, who had been sleeping soundly at the time, was jolted awake when you burst into her room and slammed the door shut. It wasn't until she heard the lock click that she realized the situation.

You were freaking out, and it had something to do with a boy.

When you first started at UA, the two of you had promised each other that you would never keep a crush a secret from the other so you could gush and squeal over the boys together. Of course, it had always been Mina with a crush, and you were giving advice. She had had her eyes on several guys throughout the year, but you had remained unfazed.

Until...

"Okay," Mina began. "I'm not even going to ask why you were walking around the dorms at one in the morning. But, seriously, tell me what happened!"

Your hands, which had been tangled in your hair, fell to your sides as you turned to look at her. Your cheeks were flushed, and your heart was racing. You didn't know how to begin. You wanted to just blurt it all out, but at the same time, you were afraid.

"I... uhm... well..." you stuttered, wringing your hands nervously.

"C'mon, I'm dying here!" Mina whined, bouncing in place. She reached her hands out and grabbed yours, tugging you forward until you were sitting next to her on the bed. "You're acting as if you had your first kiss or something."

You stared at her, blinking slowly as you processed her words. Then, without warning, she froze. You were afraid she had short-circuited. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes were as big as saucers. Her grip on your hands tightened as she gasped loudly.

"No," she whispered. "No way."

"Mina..."

"You did!" she exclaimed, her voice rising to a volume that could probably be heard throughout the dorms.

"Keep your voice down!" you hissed, grabbing a pillow from behind her and smacking her across the face. She didn't react, her mouth still open.

"Tell me everything," she demanded, her voice lowered. "How did it happen? When did it happen? Who did it happen with? I want to know all the details, so spill."

"Mina..."

It was rough to have her pressuring you. She was always good at doing that. It was part of the reason why you ran straight to her. You knew that she would force you to talk about it, and you needed to talk about it. You didn't want to stop talking about it. You didn't want the night to end, and you didn't want to forget about it.

"I'm listening," Mina told you, squeezing your hands once more. "Don't be afraid to get all the gushy details. You know I love that stuff."

You couldn't stop your eyes from rolling as you took a deep breath. You decided to spill her favorite part first.

"I can't get it out of my head, Mina," you whispered. "I didn't even realize he could do that. I didn't know he was capable of it. I was so dazed by his actions that I didn't know what was going on. It felt like I was dreaming. I don't even know how it escalated so quickly. I just found myself against the wall, and he was looking at me, and his eyes... oh, his eyes, Mina, his eyes."

"Who the hell are you talking about?!" Mina interrupted. She looked like she was going to burst from anticipation, and you were slightly enjoying keeping her in the dark. Especially since she had no idea it was the guy who she least expected it to be.

"Do not yell," you warned her, pointing your finger at her face. "You won't believe me, but I swear it's the truth."

"What?" she asked. "Who was it?"

"Promise me you won't freak out."

"Okay, now I'm nervous," Mina said. She moved backward on the bed so her back was pressed against the wall. You watched as her fingers dug into her blanket, her knuckles turning white. "Now you have to tell me. I'm terrified, so you have to. Who was it?"

You took another deep breath, your heart beating loudly.

Now or never.

"Bakugo."

You were ready for your ears to bleed. You were expecting her to scream bloody murder, and you were ready to clamp your hand over her mouth to shut her up. But, instead, she broke out into laughter. And it wasn't her usual laugh, either. It was loud and obnoxious, and she threw her head back and cackled.

"Yeah, right," she breathed out, wiping a tear from her eye. "Oh, that was a good one. I almost believed you. Now, really. Who was it?"

Your jaw dropped, and you could feel anger boiling inside of you. She didn't believe you? I mean, yeah, it was completely unbelievable with how he acts with everyone, but you didn't joke around like this. And you were honestly offended that she thought you were.

Mina laughed again and again and again. Every time, it became harder for her to breathe, and her laughs turned into snorts. Her face was bright red, and her shoulders shook violently as she giggled. It wasn't until she finally opened her eyes to see the glare on your face that the laughs eased up.

"I mean, it's a good joke," she chuckled. "But, seriously, tell me who it really was."

You didn't say a word. Instead, you just gave her the most deadpan stare you could muster, which still took her a moment to register. Once she did, however, that smile of hers fell off her face faster than you could blink.

"Wait... you're not joking?"

"Do you really think I'd come here in the middle of the night if I was?"

She stared at you with a shocked expression on her face. She was speechless, and you were waiting for the reaction you expected. You were sure her brain had exploded.

"You mean to tell me," she said, her voice shaking. "That Bakugo... the hot-tempered, vulgar, rude, foul-mouthed, explosive asshole just kissed you? He kissed you?! Are you serious?"

"Mina, please, not so loud!"

"Are you serious?!" she screamed, leaping off her bed. "You have got to be joking. There's no way that happened. No way! It had to be a dream or something. I can't even see him doing something like that. Of all people, it's him? I even see Mineta before him! He's like... not capable of showing any emotion that isn't anger."

"Mina!"

"What the hell happened?! I want to know all the dirty little details!" she yelled, rushing forward and grabbing your arms. "How did you get that maniac to do something so... un-Bakugo-like? What did he do? How did he kiss you? Was it nice? I can't believe he kissed you! He's never kissed anyone before!"

"Mina, shut up!" you hissed, covering her mouth with your hand. She kept mumbling against your skin, and you felt her tongue swipe across your palm. You grimaced, pulling your hand away from her and wiping it on your pants.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" she squealed, jumping up and down. "How did you do it? Oh, I'm so happy for you! Why didn't you wake me up sooner?!"

"Mina, please. It's late," you told her. "Be quiet; he can probably hear you."

"Wait... how long ago was this?"

"Uhm... maybe twenty minutes or so."

She stopped bouncing, and her jaw dropped.

"You kissed Bakugo twenty minutes ago," she said. "And you just came to my room?! Why the hell are you even here? You should be with him! Get your ass back to him and make sure he kisses you again!"

You were taken aback by her sudden outburst, and your cheeks flushed. The thought of going to him now sent a wave of anxiety through you, and you were beginning to regret waking Mina up.

"I can't go back there," you told her. "Not yet. I can't... I can't look him in the eye."

"Why the hell not?" Mina questioned, furrowing her brows. "This is a huge! He still hasn't even called me by my actual name. But, he kissed you? That's insane. He's gotta be a secret softy or something. I need details."

"Mina, you don't understand," you said, sighing. "I- I never felt like this before. I'm... I'm stuck. My mind is blank. I can't get him off my mind. It's driving me crazy. I didn't realize someone could affect me like this."

Mina stared at you for a moment before a smirk appeared on her face. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at you with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "How did he do it?" she asked.

"Mina," you said. "I just told you that—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but did he just walk up and kiss you or what? Like, how did it happen? You have to start from the beginning."

You rolled your eyes but obeyed her orders.

And the truth was, you honestly still didn’t know how it happened. You were yelling at each other over something dumb, as usual, but then the conversation took a strange turn. You had no idea where it had come from, and the memory was hazy, but you remembered what he had said.

"You wanna know what I fucking think?" He was seething, his fists clenched at his sides. His jaw was tight, and his eyes were burning holes into your head.

You didn't remember what you had said, but you remembered what he replied and the way he walked towards you.

"I think," he growled, and you were backing away from him. "You're so fucking desperate for attention that you're willing to do anything. Just admit it. You're so lonely that you'll try to make friends with anyone."

The scoff you had given him was followed by a few insults that you didn't remember. In all honesty, the things that were said weren't worth remembering. It was always the same old fight. But, for some reason, it was the actions in between that had caught you off guard this time.

You didn't realize how much you were trying to create space between the two of you, but every time you took a step back, he took one forward. You were trying to keep your voice steady and strong, but your hands were shaking, and your legs were weak.

It was only a matter of time before you were backed against the wall, and you could feel his breath hitting your face. Your eyes were wide, and your breathing was heavy. You couldn't focus on his words because his body was too close.

He noticed, too, because his insults were slowing down, and you could feel his eyes studying your face as it was turned away from him. When your gaze met him, the room became still. You were frozen in place, unable to move. He just... stared at you.

Neither of you said a word, but there was something in his eyes that changed the atmosphere of the room. It was like a flip had been switched. He was no longer angry or irritated. His eyes were gentle, and his gaze was intense. You had seen his gaze before, but you couldn't figure out why it felt so different.

Until you saw the flicker of his eyes. A millisecond change that anyone could've missed, but you didn't. You caught it as you caught the next one. You felt him move forward, and your mind went blank. Your senses were overrun by him. You could feel the heat from his skin.

He could probably hear your heartbeat; it wasn't very subtle. Your mind was racing, and your vision was hazy. All you could see was... him. And maybe you were just imagining it, but there was something in his eyes that showed you he wasn't mad anymore.

He looked different now, and it scared you. It scared you how you started counting his eyelashes. It scared you how much you wanted to reach up and run your hand through his hair. It scared you how badly you wanted to know how soft his lips were.

And he could tell because he leaned closer. Closer than you didn't think possible. Your breaths mingled together, and your noses brushed. He wasn't there yet, though. His mouth was just barely touching yours, and the feeling sent tingles down your spine.

His gaze was intense, and he looked like he was holding back. You could feel his chest pressing against yours, and he was taking shaky breaths. It was so strange, seeing him like this. Your eyes locked onto his, and you were sure he saw the curiosity behind them.

And then... his gaze fell into a look you've never seen before. Something was swimming behind those crimson eyes, and you found yourself drowning in the intensity. He was staring into your soul, and somehow, you could see the meaning in his eyes.

He was giving you a choice. He was asking a silent question. His eyes were pleading. They were begging. His face was so close to yours, and you were frozen. The way he was looking at you, you could see it. You could see what he was thinking.

He was waiting for you to do something. To push him away, to smack him, or to speak out. He was waiting for the rejection, the denial, the refusal. But you did none of those things because, for some reason, you didn't want to. You were enjoying the closeness, the intimacy, the... vulnerability.

Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe you were just insane, but the way he was looking at you made your stomach flip, and a strange warmth filled your chest. It was the way he was holding himself back, the way you could see his fingers trembling, the way his breath was unsteady.

For some reason, seeing him so weak, so open, so defenseless made you feel... something.

He was waiting for a response. It was up to you. You were the one in control, and if you had said the word, he would have walked away. But that's not what you wanted.

You didn't want him to go.

And, so, you had tried to speak out, but the words were caught in your throat. They wouldn't form, and the air was thick. Your tongue was tied, and your fingers were shaking. You were afraid. Afraid of the unknown.

He was patient. His gaze never faltered. His eyes were still looking at you with the same intensity, and you were getting lost in it. He didn't move closer, but his breath fanned across your lips. Your mind was blank, and you had no idea how long the two of you stood like that.

All you knew was that you needed him to do something. You needed him to know he was allowed to, but you couldn't bring yourself to speak. You were terrified, and the anticipation was driving you insane.

So, you used another way to answer.

You grabbed him, jerked his body forward, and pulled him as close as you could. He wasn't prepared for your sudden movement, and the air was forced out of his lungs. His hands found the wall, and his arms caged you in. You could feel his muscles flexing against you, and his eyes widened as they looked at you.

He didn't expect it. He wasn't prepared. It was a shock, but he wasn't about to deny himself the opportunity. Not when you were offering it to him. So, his eyes fell back into that look, and his head moved closer. He hesitated, and his lips grazed yours. You could feel the way his heart was beating.

The first kiss was chaste and barely there. You could've missed it, and you might've imagined it. But then he did it again, this time with enough pressure to make you aware. To make your eyes fall shut and a small sigh escapes your lips.

The next one was a little deeper, and he lingered a bit longer. His movements were slow, and he was giving you plenty of time to push him away, but you didn't. You couldn't. Because the moment his lips met yours, you lost all self-control.

Your body melted against his, and you found yourself falling into the kiss. You were sure you'd end up a pile of mush on the ground if his hands hadn't shifted to your hips, holding you up. The grip he had on your sides was gentle but firm, and the tips of his fingers were digging into the flesh of your hip bones.

Your hands had found their way into his hair, and your fingers tangled themselves in the blonde locks. You were always curious about his hair in that regard, and you were pleased to find it softer than you'd expected. With its jagged spikes, you'd expected it to be sharp and stiff, but it was just as smooth as silk. You really needed to get a hold of his hair products.

But you didn't have time to dwell on the subject because his mouth was moving against yours, and your entire being was focused on the feeling of his lips. Damn, he knew exactly how to use them.

You were already lightheaded, and he barely did anything. It was only a matter of time before you couldn't even think anymore. All you knew was his scent, his taste, his touch, and his breath. He was overwhelming all of your senses, and you could feel your mind shutting down.

But, before you could, you gathered enough sense to do something that caught him completely off guard. When he pulled you even deeper, your teeth grazed his bottom lip, and your hands tightened in his hair. He froze for a second, his movements stopping completely, and you were terrified that you'd crossed a line.

However, that fear was quickly erased because he let out the most guttural sound you'd ever heard. It was low and deep and... fuck. It sounded like a growl, but it was filled with need. It was hungry and rough and sent a jolt straight down to your core.

A moment later, he was kissing you harder than before. He was practically attacking you, and you were glad he still had ahold of your hips because those legs of yours would have given out long ago. His mouth was moving so fast that it was hard for you to keep up, and your lungs were burning.

It felt like a dam had been broken.

He devoured you like a starved man. There was no hesitation, no fear, no nervousness. It was pure desperation, and you weren't doing much better. His kisses were hard and bruising, and his grip on your waist was tight.

When he went to your neck, that was it.

Your head fell back against the wall, painful, but you couldn't care. You couldn't focus on anything except the way his mouth was working its magic on your throat. Your nails were digging into his scalp, and you could hear his sharp breaths.

If all kisses were like this, then you have no idea how people survived without them. It was addicting. The feeling of his lips and tongue and teeth against your skin was euphoric. Your mind was swimming, and your heart was pounding.

Mina was squealing in front of you, but you were too lost to care. You were back in the moment, and the memory was flooding through your body. The feeling of his fingers gripping your hips. The warmth of his mouth. The heat of his body. His hair was so soft. The sound of his breath. His lips. His tongue.

"I... don't remember much after that," you told Mina, your eyes unfocused. "The next thing I remember is me leaving the room and going straight to yours."

She was grinning at you. It was a wide, Cheshire-like smile, and her eyes were gleaming. She looked like she was about to explode, and she was holding herself back.

"This is insane," she said, her voice cracking. "Actually, I take back what I said earlier. This is better than the best day of my life. The fact that it was him—I mean, I'd expect this from someone else, but the thought of him being that good is... wow."

You sighed. "Mina, please. What am I going to do? I'm... I'm..."

"Lost in the clouds?" she offered. "A mess? Unable to function like a normal person?"

"All of the above," you said, running your hands over your face. "I just... I don't understand how someone could make me feel like this. He's a dick, Mina. He was literally insulting me just a few minutes ago, and then... this."

She hummed, tilting her head and looking at the ceiling. Her smile never left her face. "So, what now? Are you guys dating, or...?"

"I didn't ask," you told her. "I just ran out."

"Wait, I thought you meant running away, as in after talking it out and stuff?"

"I mean, running away, as in pushing him and sprinting down the hall to your room."

Her eyes widened. "What?!" she exclaimed. "You're telling me that after he gave you the best kiss of your life, you ran away?!"

You nodded.

"Are you insane?!"

"Maybe a little," you said. "But I was so overwhelmed, and it was too much. I couldn't stay there, or I'd have done something embarrassing."

"You mean something more embarrassing than leaving? Girl, you need to get back there and find out what the hell is going on between you two. I can't believe this. I just..." She let out a frustrated groan. "He's probably pissed off. And confused. And, honestly, I can't blame him."

"What? You think he's regretting it?"

"Oh, honey," she said, her expression changing. "You've got it all wrong. How do I know more than you about this situation? That boy doesn't show anyone this kind of side, I mean... shit, and you're telling me he was the one to initiate it?"

You nodded. "Yeah, he was."

"Well, then... damn. You're special. If he didn't want it, he would have punched you or something, but the fact that he went and did that... then there's no way he would ever regret it. Hell, if I were in his position, I'd have taken you right there, too."

"Mina!" you shrieked, smacking her shoulder.

She laughed. "What? I'm your bestie. I gotta have your back. Now, listen, you've done messed up by running away. There's no way he wouldn't take it as an insult; his ego's too big. So, what you need to do is get back there and tell him what's going on. Be honest. Don't lie, and don't sugarcoat. Just tell him the truth."

"But--"

"No, no buts. No ifs, no ands, or anything. Bakugo is the type to appreciate honesty. You can't be wishy-washy with him. I've learned that after seeing him treat everyone. He doesn't hold back, and neither should you. The good thing is that you know he really likes you; otherwise, none of this would've happened."

You bit your lip.

"Even as sudden as it was, it was a choice," she told you. "He knew exactly what he was doing. That kiss wasn't some spur-of-the-moment thing. He knew what he was doing and what he was feeling, and there's no way he would have done it if he didn't want to."

You thought about her words. "You're right."

"Damn right I am," she said, leaning forward and grabbing your shoulders. "He doesn't regret it. At least, not in the way you're thinking. If he's regretting anything, it's letting you run away without saying anything. So, what you're going to do is march back there and kiss that boy senseless. Got it?"

"But it's almost two in the morning," you said.

"If you think you both are sleeping anytime soon, you're delusional," she stated. "The guy is probably pacing in his own room right now, trying to figure out why the hell you rejected him. He's a wreck, and I'll bet you anything that his thoughts are just as bad as yours."

You frowned. "I guess, but..."

"But what?"

"It's just... he's Bakugo, and I'm... well, me. There's no way this could ever work out. He's too focused on being the best to date anyone, and I'm not the kind of person he'd go for. We're complete opposites. We fight all the time, and he's always yelling at me over something. Even now, I'm still wondering what the hell he was thinking when he kissed me."

"You need to stop doing that," Mina said, her tone firm. "You can't think like that. I told you he wouldn't have done it if he didn't see anything. Sure, you guys don't get along all the time, but that doesn't mean it's a lost cause. The fact that he's showing interest in you is enough to prove that he's attracted to something."

"Okay, fine, but what is it? What does he see in me? Why did he choose me? Why did he—"

"Girl, shut up. I can't handle any more of your doubts. This is a waste of time, and it's just making your brain more and more confused. Stop. Thinking. Go get him and just talk. I swear, you're gonna give yourself an aneurysm if you keep this up."

"Fine," you relented, throwing your hands up. "I'll—"

Then, there was a knock on the door.

You paused, staring at Mina. She stared back, her eyebrows furrowing. The two of you were quiet, not moving, not breathing. Then, another knock came, this time a bit louder.

"Iida?" you asked, your voice quiet. "We were pretty loud, weren't we?"

"Probably," Mina replied. "I hate that guy sometimes. What the hell does he have against us having fun? It's not like we were causing trouble."

"He's just being a good student," you said. "We should probably—"

Another knock and this one was harder. And something in the back of your mind was telling you that it wasn't him. It was different.

You and Mina shared a look before she shrugged and got off the bed. She went to the door, and you stayed seated. You were nervous. The tension in your stomach was building up again.

The thought was already in your mind, but it wasn't until Mina's face fell that you knew for sure.

She turned to look at you, her expression unreadable, but the emotion was clear in her eyes. It was the same look you'd given her before when you talked about the kiss.

And, you knew.

He was here.

"Where is she?" His voice held annoyance, but you could detect the change in tone.

"Bakugo," Mina said, trying to cover for you. "Why are you here? Is everything okay?"

"Cut the crap," he said, his voice a growl. "I know she's in there, Raccoon Eyes. Just... I need to talk to her."

You were frozen.

You were afraid.

You didn't know what to say or do.

Your heart was pounding, and your palms were sweating. You couldn't breathe.

"Send her out here," he said. "...Please."

Mina looked back at you. The pure shock in her eyes told you she'd heard him use the word, and you couldn't help but think the same. Bakugo wasn't a person who asked nicely. Ever. But the way he said it made it sound like it pained him.

You both stood there for a few moments. It was a stalemate, and neither of you could speak. Now that he was here, all the confidence Mina had built up was gone, and you were back to square one. You felt helpless.

Then, there was a sigh, not from him, but from her. It was the sound of defeat and the sound of surrender. She turned back to the door, opening it up to reveal those damn eyes of his.

His expression was hard and unreadable. It was blank, and his eyes were cold. They were the same ones you were used to seeing, the ones that held no emotion, the ones that only held anger. But they weren't as harsh as usual. They were softer.

He looked past Mina and saw you on the bed. The moment his gaze locked on yours, you knew you were going out in that hall whether you wanted to or not. His stare was strong, and it was demanding. It was like the world would crumble if you didn't follow his order.

So, you did.

You got off the bed and made your way to him. Your feet were heavy, and your heart was racing. With every step, the pressure got worse. When you were close enough, Mina shoved you towards him and then closed the door.

It was just you and him now.

You didn't know what to say. He was quiet, and the silence was killing you. It was making your head spin. You felt nauseous, and your stomach was in knots. It was too much.

"You..." He spoke, his voice low. "You're the most annoying person I've ever met."

You didn't respond. You couldn't. Your throat was dry, and your tongue was like sandpaper.

"Do you have any idea how frustrating you are?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. "You're such a fucking mess."

Back to this.

"Yeah, I get it," you told him, finding your voice. "I'm a mess. It's been established. But you know what, Bakugo? So are you. You're an asshole."

"Me?" he laughed. "You think I'm the asshole? You're the one who ran away. I didn't do shit."

"You're the one who cornered me," you shot back. "What the hell was that, anyway? Insulting me into a corner, and then—"

The pause of your sentence spoke louder than any words you could have said. It was a statement, an unspoken accusation, and the meaning was clear. It was obvious.

His jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened. "You know, if I had a dollar for every time you pissed me off, I'd be richer than All Might."

"If I had a dollar for every time I had to hear your rants about being the future number-one hero, I'd be able to retire," you retorted. "You're so fucking arrogant."

"Well, at least I know what I'm good at. You made that much clear, didn't you?"

Offended, you stepped closer to him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

You knew exactly what he meant. It was obvious. He was calling you out, and the fact that he had the nerve to even use those words after the incident in the common room made you see red. So, you might've done something that would get you in house arrest, but it was worth it.

You slapped him. Hard.

He didn't seem fazed, though. In fact, the only thing you did was piss him off even more. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, towering over you. "Are you that much of a dumbass? How the hell did you make it this far in UA with that stupid brain of yours? Do you have any idea how dumb you are?"

"I'm not an idiot," you said through gritted teeth. "I have my strengths, too. I'm not weak."

"Oh, really?" He was mocking you, his voice a challenge. "Then, why did you run away?"

"That's—"

"What? It's not because of weakness? Then, why did you leave?"

You didn't have an answer.

"Exactly," he said. "You're a fucking coward. You ran away from your problems, and that's all you do. That's all you're capable of. You don't know how to deal with situations, and you just run."

"I'm not—"

"You are," he said. "Every damn time. You ran from me. From arguments, from training, from everything. It's all you ever do. And you don't seem to care, do you? You don't care how much it pisses me off. You just do it anyway."

"Bakugo—"

"Tell me, damnit," he interrupted, his eyes flashing. "I... I let you in. I let you see something, and this is what I get? A slap and an escape? How the hell is that fair?"

"I didn't—"

"Yes, you did," he growled. "And it fucking hurt, okay? You don't know how much I..."

The silence was back, and it was more deafening than before. The tension was thick, and the air was heavy. You could feel the heat rising, the pressure building.

You had no idea what to say.

He was right. Mina was right. You had messed up, and you knew it. You knew you had hurt him. The pain was evident in his voice. But it didn't excuse him for being an ass about it.

"Why'd you come here?" you asked. "What did you expect to get out of this? Was it just to yell at me and make me feel bad?"

"No, moron, I came to ask if I fucked up. If I had crossed a line. I know what it looked like, but with your stupid ass, I don't know."

You rolled your eyes, but he made sure to keep them locked on him.

"You pulled me in. You returned it," he said, his voice dropping. "You even deepened the damn thing. What was I supposed to think, huh? You're not telling me anything. You're not giving me anything. If anything, you're taking. So, I'm asking. Stop running away, damnit. Talk to me."

The sincerity of his words struck a chord in your chest. He was right. He was absolutely right. You were running away. You were avoiding him.

You were a coward.

"I'm sorry," you said, your voice soft. "I shouldn't have done that. I... I didn't know what to do, and I was scared."

"What the hell are you scared of?"

"This," you told him. "Of you. Of the kiss. Of... what it meant."

"You're acting like you're the only one involved here," he said, his voice holding an edge. "What about me? Do you have any idea what I'm feeling right now? I'm just as confused and scared as you are, but you know what I'm not doing? Running away."

"I didn't mean to, it's just—"

"You did," he said, interrupting you. "You did, and you knew it. You were running, and you didn't want to deal with the consequences. That's what it was, wasn't it? You didn't want to face the truth. You didn't want to face me. You wanted to run. Like always."

"It's not like that."

"Then, what is it?"

You paused.

"Exactly," he said. "Nothing. You don't have an excuse. You were just being a coward. That's all it is. So, tell me. Tell me why the hell you ran. Tell me what the kiss meant to you. Because if you don't, I'll—"

"It meant everything!" you cried out, only to remember the late hour and quiet down. "It... it meant everything, okay? And I didn't want to lose that. I couldn't. It was... It was everything. It was so much. Too much. I didn't want it to be ruined. I didn't want to ruin what fucked friendship we had."

His expression was unreadable, and it made your stomach sink.

"So, I ran. I didn't know what else to do," you confessed, your voice quiet. "And... I didn't want you to find out the truth. Because if you did, you'd... I'd... Everything would change, and I didn't want that."

"We changed the moment that damn kiss happened," he said, his tone firm. "I'm not blind. You're not subtle, and I can tell that you've had feelings for me. And I think... I've had them for a while now, too. But if you're gonna act like this, if you're just going to run from your problems, then there's no point in doing anything. I can't have a relationship with someone who's just gonna hide and run away. It's not fair to either of us."

"Bakugo..."

"Don't 'Bakugo' me," he growled, his eyes burning. "What are we gonna do about this, huh? Are we gonna keep dancing around each other and pretend it didn't happen? Are we gonna pretend it doesn't exist? Because if we do, I'm not wasting any more time. It's not worth it. I have better things to focus on."

"It's not like that."

"Really? Because it seems like it."

"But—"

"Tell me, damnit. What the hell are we gonna do? What's it gonna be? I can't wait around forever, and I won't waste my time. I don't have the patience for it. If you're not willing to do anything about it, then there's no point in trying. It's just a waste of time. So, decide. Now."

He didn't ease up, and his gaze didn't falter. He was staring straight at you, waiting just as he had said. But you didn't know what to say or do. He was putting the ball in your court, and he wasn't budging. He wasn't backing down.

"Well?" he asked, his voice harsh. "I'm waiting. Make your choice."

"I—"

"It's not that hard," he cut in, his eyes narrowing. "Either we try this, or we don't. So, make a damn choice. If not, I'm walking out, and I won't look back."

You knew the decision was easy. It was obvious. It was obvious, but your mind was spinning. It was hard to concentrate when his hands were on your arms, and his eyes were burning holes into your soul. It was impossible to think.

But, you knew. You knew the answer. You knew what you wanted.

"Do it."

The words left your lips without hesitation, and for a moment, he faltered. His expression changed, and his eyes widened. His grip on your arms loosened, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. He was silent, and his eyes were focused on yours.

"You don't want me to run?" You asked, your voice barely a whisper. "So, make me stay."

The words were simple. They were easy. But they were enough to see the twinkle in his eye. It was enough to see the shift in his demeanor and feel his grip tightening. His body was pressed against yours, and his hands were on your arms. He was leaning forward, his face inches from yours. His breath was hot, and his eyes were dark.

In an instant, you were flung back into the same position you had been in hours ago. His lips were on yours, and the intensity was there, stronger than ever. The kiss was rough and passionate. He was pushing against you, his grip firm. He was in control, and he was demanding.

You kissed him back, and the emotions were overwhelming. They were consuming. His hands met the small of your back, pulling you into him. He was firm, his touch strong and his kiss powerful. It was rough, but it was gentle. It was intense, but it was loving.

The kiss was everything.

The moment his lips left yours, you found yourself wanting more. You couldn't help but pull him back in, kissing him deeper and harder. He met your desire, his movements matching yours. You didn't know how long the kiss lasted, but the moment it broke, you knew.

You knew that this was right. You knew that this was what you wanted. You knew that he was the one.

"Katsuki," you whispered, his name leaving your lips in a breathy sigh. "Katsuki, I..."

"I know," he breathed, his voice husky. "Me, too."

Then, he pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you. He held you tight, his warmth enveloping you.

You knew this feeling now; you understood it. This was the love that Mina had been talking about. This was the emotion she had been describing. This was what it was like.

It was the best damn feeling in the world.

2K notes · View notes

tpwk-formula1 · 7 months ago

Text

Biggest Fan - CL16

Requested by @nina-or-anna-or-nora "Heyy!! 💕 I saw you were asking some requests so I have one for an Smau!! (If you want to do it ofc) I was thinking about the reader being kinda like Sabrina or Olivia (a performer) and then Charles being like her biggest fan🤭just a super cute fluffy thing and he goes to every show he can or posts her and stuff🥹"

AN - Had so much fun writing this SMAU for you! Don't be afraid to send in requests that aren't apart of the Pizza Menu! I love Sabrina but I'm not a die hard fan so I have no idea how many outfit changes she has or the order she performs so if it's a little messed up I apologize! Also LMK if you wanna see me do this with more drivers and make it a little series of the drivers being head over heels for their girl friend!

Summary: Just Charles being in love with Y/N... and basically everyone in the F1 community!

Charles insta stories over the fall break

Twitter

Charles instagram

Liked by landonorris, youruser, carlossainz, and 2,090,513 others

charlesleclerc We're ready for you Austin ft. Y/N and all the fan gifted hats that will make an appearance this weekend tagged carlossainz and youruser

user5 I love how he makes a post for work and still finds a way to get Y/N in there

user6 your honor... it's them. It's always them!

youruser I'm ready to be back in my home soil!

user7 I constantly forget our girl is from the US charlesleclerc you mean MY girl user8 Charles will never learn to share charlesleclerc not when it comes to MY Y/N youruser alright calm it down you charlesleclerc yes maam

user9 I hate feeling single but I do love you guys!

carlossainz Will I ever get a post with just us?

user10 Carlos... they're a package deal user11 If I don't expect anything less, you shouldn't either youruser damn... catching strays carlossainz Y/N I thought we were friends!

load more comments

Your insta story

user12 how does it feel to be living my dream

carlossainz he's been smiling at his phone for 10 minutes because you posted him

youruser I love knowing he loves me as much as I love him

user13 his eyes

charlesleclerc that's one lucky man

youruser he really is!

user14 I love the way you guys love each other

landonorris you guys disgust me with how cute you are together

youruser you wish this was you huh? landonorris I miss when you were to shy to interact with us... kinda a meanie youruser you'll learn to survive

Twitter

your Instagram

Liked by charlesleclerc, yourbff, oliviarodrigo, and 3,092,172 others

youruser Thanks for the warm welcome home... see you in a few weeks for Vegas!

Look for a surprise tomorrow around noon YeeHaw time!

charlesleclerc Ooooo I wanna know the surprise

user18 I can't believe I have notifications on and Charles is still here before me

charlesleclerc you snooze you lose! gotta be quicker than that! youruser love you need to be a bit nicer! user18 no this is on me... I should know no matter how much I love you Charles just loves you that much more! user19 I'm sobbing at this! Charles is so unhinged when it comes to Y/N

landonorris Can I also know the surprise

charlesleclerc NO!

user20 YeeHaw time is SENDING me! For anyone confused she's talking about CST

user21 THANK YOU! It makes so much sense now that you've explained but as a non F1 Y/N fan I didn't realize she was in Texas haha

user22 I love their height difference. I forget just how SMALL Y/N is.

Your Insta Story

charlesleclerc I can't wait to watch you!!

user23 HOLY SHIT! I can't fucking wait!

user24 omg! I'm so excited for this!!

landonorris: I hope you have a ticket saved with my name on it!

youruser: I do including the rest of the grid... spread the word pleaseeee

user25: Oh to be in the US rn to experience this concert! I just know it's gonna be amazing

Twitter

Charles Insta story during the show

Max's Insta story during the show

Youruser: Max! hahaha you had me cracking up in the first slide... then tearing up through laughter in the second. Thank you so much for finding time in your title fight to support!

maxverstappen1: I wouldn't have missed it! Had to see what all the hype was about. Please invite me again

Grid Members Stories (Lando, Carlos, Oscar, Yuki, Liam, Franco)

641 notes · View notes

buckymorelikefuckme · 1 year ago

Text

and baby makes three

(the reboot)

bucky barnes x fem reader

words: 11.3k

warnings: **18+ ONLY** friends to lovers, pining, smut, oral (f receiving), breeding kink, pregnancy kink, cockwarming (kind of??), trigger warning for having troubles with getting pregnant. it's still super fuckin soft despite all of that though, i swear.

a/n: okay so it's currently 6am as i'm typing this and i haven't been to sleep yet bc i decided to just heavily edit this instead of rewrite it bc i'm lazy i guess idk. this was posted originally back in 2021 i believe and it's still on ao3 it's just orphaned rip. i promise i'll be writing and posting new stuff soon ok pls have faith in me and cheer me on bc it's hard and scary and i don't wanna disappoint anybody :( ANYWAY, as usual, any and all mistakes are my own. if i've missed anything important pls let me know so i can correct it. feedback is encouraged (pls) and appreciated (i am begging...)

The idea of you having a child one day always seemed foreign and very unlikely. Sure, you liked kids well enough, but having one of your own…

It’s a thought that’s sat in a corner deep in your mind, buried beneath a million other impossible concepts; a thought that you’ve only ever glanced over and never gave your full attention, having ruled it out ages ago as something you just couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do.

And then, on a day like any other, it pushes its way to the forefront of your mind, making itself known and unwilling to leave.

You’re going into the clothing store to find a new cardigan after your most favorite one got eaten by the dryer. Usually you’re a single-minded shopper, walking into a store with tunnel vision and on a mission to get what you need and that’s it.

Today, however, you make the mistake of letting your eyes wander on your way to the sweater section. Your gaze just so happens to land on the baby clothes… and your steps falter. It’s there that you see it, a tiny, pink onesie with a sleeping teddy bear printed on the front, displayed on an even tinier hanger. There’s matching pants with teddy bears all over them and ruffles on the butt and all your brain can muster up is cutecutecutecutecute.

Your feet carry you closer and before you realize what you’re doing you pick up the outfit, letting out a coo when you realize the teddy bear is fuzzy, softly rubbing your thumb across it. Somehow, you walk out of the store, not with a new cardigan, but with the cute baby outfit and a bow you thought looked adorable with it.

It’s not until you get home that it hits you, that you bought baby clothes for a baby you don’t even have.

The feeling that rushes through you is hard to describe. Shame? Embarrassment?

...Yearning?

No. Definitely not. Nope.

There’s absolutely no yearning going on here, not for a baby. You’ve never even had that desire before and you certainly don’t see yourself having it now. You shake your head to clear it, telling yourself you’ll take it back tomorrow.

Except you don’t take it back. You conveniently “forget” and it stays shoved on the top shelf in your hall closet. You pretend you don’t pause in front of said closet throughout the following days—weeks—chewing on the inside of your cheek and staring at the door like you can see through the wood at the evidence of your impulsive purchase.

It gets harder to ignore, though, when you start getting ads for baby clothing brands. And baby toys, bottles, handy little gadgets for new parents, nursery decor… It’s endless.

Then, as if it wasn’t already bad enough, all of your childhood friends start popping out babies like it’s a brand new trend. You don't think you've seen your social media this flooded with pregnancy announcements and baby arrivals, ever. Your emotions are mixed; happy for them, and for their excitement, but there’s also a weird discomfort settled in your stomach.

You hesitate to be that person who thinks the universe is trying to tell you something, but you do wonder. Why else would you suddenly have these feelings? Why else would there be baby stuff everywhere you look now?

It brings on other thoughts, as well. In this day and age, it’s not too unusual for women to have babies without being married, or without a significant other at all. There is the pressure, still, to at least be in a relationship, but considering you’ve been practically in love with one of your closest friends for the last two years, it’s safe to say that you’re tragically single, so having a baby with someone is out of the question.

And god, do you even want a baby?

As soon as the thought crosses your mind, with a sudden clarity that hits you like a ton of bricks, you realize you do. It feels like a freight train has slammed into you. Your mind’s eye supplies you with images of a swollen belly and wide smile, a precious baby wrapped in a soft blanket, cradled in your arms, a gummy grin and happy giggle.

Emotion consumes you then, longing like you’ve never felt in your life, chest aching with how badly you want that.

It’s not as if you’re too young. You’re plenty old enough and you’ve got a secure job. You don’t subscribe to that whole biological clock nonsense, but you do feel that if you are going to potentially have a baby, it might be better to do it now while you’re still in relatively good health.

You groan, dropping your face into your open palms, the movie you'd been watching to try and distract yourself long forgotten as it continues to play on the television.

This is a lot to think about, you ponder to yourself. Taking a deep breath in and releasing it slowly, you decide the mature thing to do is give yourself more time to ruminate on it. Having a baby is no small decision. You need to be absolutely certain it’s what you want. It’s going to change your entire life, everything, and you’d be responsible for a new life. So, you’ll have to give yourself a few months to decide and then you can go from there.

***

You’re scrolling through yet another article on your laptop, engrossed in every detail of the process of artificial insemination and the symptoms and side effects that come with it. So engrossed, in fact, that you don’t hear the key turning in the lock, the door opening and closing, and the heavy footfalls that follow.

It’s only when Bucky asks, “Whatcha reading?” that you are even aware of his presence.

You startle so hard that your knee slams into the underside of your table. Ignoring the throbbing pain in your knee and your wildly beating heart, you close your laptop with a snap and turn to Bucky.

“You could knock,” you grouse.

“Why give me a key, then?” he retorts, unapologetic.

You roll your eyes and grumble under your breath, “Clearly, it was a mistake.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

Brows furrowed, you ask, “What?”

He gestures to your laptop. “What were you reading? Your nose was nearly smushed against the screen.”

You blink, trying to think of a reasonable excuse and coming up empty.

“Nothing,” is all your brilliant mind can supply.

Bucky’s eyes narrow for a few seconds, and you pray to every higher power and all that is holy and good that he won’t press further. You remain frozen under Bucky’s suspicious stare, hearing that Old West shootout music playing in your mind.

Thankfully, it seems the deities are feeling indulgent, as Bucky chooses let it go.

He holds up the bags he carried in. “I brought lunch.”

You perk up instantly. “Did you go to that one place—?”

“With the fried rice you like so much, yes,” he finishes for you, smiling.

“You’re the best,” you sigh, stomach rumbling eagerly.

“I know,” he replies, solemn and dramatic like the idiot he is.

He begins taking out the styrofoam boxes and chattering on about something dumb Steve did the other day, and you mean to listen, you really do. It’s just. That article is still lingering in your brain. There’s so many steps and hassles. Plus, it’s not cheap. It would be a hefty investment.

You’d only researched it because, after months of contemplating the pros and cons of having a baby, you determined the pros far outweigh the cons. But then the problem was: how to even make it happen.

Your first thought was that you didn’t think you’d let just any man come inside you, for many obvious reasons. You’d shuddered to think of it. Then there was surrogacy, which is admirable and wonderful, but you’d quickly dismissed that idea as you realized you wanted to actually carry the baby yourself. So that led you to artificial insemination. You weren’t sure how you felt about it yet. There was something a little too clinical about choosing a random man’s sperm to have injected into your uterus.

Bucky’s still speaking as he grabs plates and forks, unaware of your inner monologue. “And then he got Sam involved,” he’s saying, scooping out food onto the plates, “which, as you know, I always think is a dumb thing to do.”

“I want to have a baby,” you blurt, eyes widening at your outburst.

Bucky fumbles with the spoon, sending fried rice flying, muttering curses as he tries to catch it with no luck as it lands with a dull clunk on the table. The silence that follows is loud. It feels like your heart is in your throat as you wait for him to just say something, anything.

“This is… quite a mess I’ve made,” Bucky finally observes. His voice is a bit higher than usual. “Where’s your vacuum? Actually, do you have one of those mini ones? Or would Clorox wipes be better? You know what, I’ll do both.”

He nods decisively then turns an expectant look towards you. His eyes look a bit wild, but you wisely keep that to yourself.

Wordlessly, you direct him to your hall closet. You realize your error a second too late when he opens the closet and reaches for the vacuum on the top shelf, where the purchase you’d made months ago also rests. His fingers get caught in the plastic bag when he grabs the handheld vacuum and its contents spill out. He goes to catch them right away, but once it registers what they are, he lets go of them like they’re on fire and nearly drops the vacuum on his foot.

Heat has been steadily creeping up your neck, but now your whole body feels aflame with embarrassment. The two of you stare at the baby clothes lying unassumingly on the floor for a long moment, until Bucky quietly walks back to the table with the vacuum clutched tightly in his fist. He flicks the switch on and it whirs to life, sucking up the bits of rice scattered around the table.

There’s another lengthy silence after he turns the vacuum off and you're unable to find the right thing to say to break it. Bucky does it for you.

“So… You’re serious.”

You meet his eyes and sigh heavily. “Yeah.”

He blinks a few times before clearing his throat, schooling his expression carefully. “I didn’t realize you were seeing someone.”

You cough lightly and start picking the peas out of your fried rice. “Well, that would be because I’m not.”

“I don’t think I follow,” he admits slowly.

You sigh again, lowering your gaze to your lap. “Look, I’ve thought about this a lot, okay? I’ve given myself months to really make sure it’s what I want. I’m in a good place in my life to have one, Bucky, and I don’t want to feel pressured to wait until I might get married.” You lift your gaze to his. “I want to have a baby,” you repeat firmly. “And I don’t need a partner to have one.”

You’re not sure why you feel the need to defend yourself. It’s not up to Bucky what you decide to do. You don’t need his approval, or anyone else’s. Maybe it’s because, even though you know it's not true, it feels like you're making too hasty of a decision.

After a beat, Bucky amends, “Well, I mean… You do…”

“Oh my god, shut up, you know what I mean,” you groan as you smack his arm, glad that he's not calling you crazy or trying to talk you out of it.

He doesn’t even flinch, the jerk.

“Wait, so what were you reading when I got here?” he suddenly questions, brows furrowed.

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, guiltily.

“Let me see your laptop then,” he counters as he crosses his arms over his chest.

You flounder for a second, scoffing. “What? No!”

“It can’t be that embarrassing, just show me,” he wheedles.

“Absolutely not.”

“Let me see!”

“It’s private!”

“Don’t be a chicken.”

Your eye twitches. “I’m not a chicken.” Bucky smirks and before he can even open his mouth you interject with a finger pointed accusingly at his face, “Do not start clucking at me, Bucky. I’ll kick your ass,” you threaten, though it's weak and you're not the only one who knows it.

You glare when his smirk only widens. Slowly, he moves his arms like he’s gonna flap them like chicken wings.

“Ugh! God, fine! You wanna know what I was reading?” You open your laptop and slide it over to him, turning it to where he can read it. “There.”

Bucky scans the page, then scans it again, eyes flicking all over like it’s in a different language. His cheeks grow redder and redder as he reads and you get a small sense of satisfaction at the sight.

“Wow,” he mutters finally. “You’re turkey baster serious.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“What?” he asks innocently.

When you make eye contact with him, you purse your lips to keep the laughter threatening to bubble out at bay, but the ever growing smile on Bucky’s face is hard to resist and you find yourself snorting a laugh that leads to uncontrollable giggles. Bucky’s laughing with you, his eyes crinkling on the sides. The tension you hadn’t realized you held in your shoulders loosens and you nudge his knee with yours in silent thanks.

“So,” he says after you've both calmed down.

“So,” you repeat, dragging it out, drumming your fingers on the tabletop. “I’ve been doing research, checking out all of my options, and while artificial insemination seems like the best choice… I don’t know, there’s just something too clinical about it,” you reply, voicing your concerns, “It doesn’t feel right. I know I said I don’t need a partner, and I don’t, but… Having absolutely no connection is weird.”

You shrug, waving a hand as if to say oh well, putting an end to the conversation, and pick up your plate to carry it over to the microwave. You reheat Bucky’s food while you’re up, and then you both start eating in comfortable silence. He gets halfway through his meal before speaking up.

“Have you… I mean, did you think about… I’ve heard that, uh. Some people ask another person…”

He trails off, clearly frustrated that he can’t just spit out what he’s trying to say. You think you understand what he means, though.

“I read up on surrogacy,” you say, biting your lip. “But I don’t think I’d want someone else to carry my baby.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t suggesting, uh, that. Not that there’s anything wrong with it!” he rushes to say.

You tilt your head. “What did you mean then?”

“Well,” Bucky starts, stilted, licking his lips. “For the artificial insemination, have you considered… you know. Asking someone you’re close with?”

You frown, not following.

“For—for the sperm,” he clarifies, shifting in his seat.

“Oh,” you breathe, blinking rapidly, surprised as you think of how to reply. “Um. No? I wouldn’t even know who I could ask, to be honest. That’s quite the request, you know? Who would—“

“Me,” he interrupts, determined and cheeks flushed, “I would.”

Your own face heats. “Oh,” you say again, quieter.

You can say, with full confidence, that not once did it cross your mind to ask anyone to help you, but you especially would have never given thought to asking Bucky.

For a list of reasons, really, with “it’s Bucky” being right at the very top. Like—sure, yes, you’re in love with him, but after two years of no signs of reciprocation you’ve learned to stop dreaming, to stop hoping. If the attraction was mutual he would have shown it by now, right? And on top of that, his friendship means the world to you and you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. You'd never forgive yourself if you ever managed to fuck up the one good, constant thing going for you.

“Bucky,” you start, slow and careful, “this… This isn't something you can just jump into. It’s something you should think about for a while.”

He contemplates that for a second. “You’re right,” he concedes with a nod. “But…” He purses his lips, glancing away for a minute before turning back to you, leaning forward. “Okay listen, this is important for you. It’s going to change your whole life. You said it yourself, not having a connection to the sperm donor feels wrong. You’re my best friend, alright? I—care about you. You should pick someone you can trust.”

He clenches his jaw after he finishes speaking. You sort of hate the way your heart both flutters and plummets at his words. It’s nice to know you matter to him, just not in the way you’ve wanted for too long.

And if you’re really honest with yourself, Bucky would be a great choice as a donor. He’s in great health, has strong features that would look wonderful on any gender. But would you be able to handle the repercussions of having his child? Would you be able to look at your baby and see those features without it sending a pang through your chest every single time? You can’t say for certain.

Yet, the chance to have that type of connection with him, selfishly, sounds too good to pass up.

“At least think about it for a few days,” you murmur reluctantly.

It’s the most acceptance he’ll get and he knows it. A smile blooms across his face and you have to swallow down the warring emotions rising within you.

***

With the amount of research you do on the subject now, it doesn’t take long for you to find out that there are at-home kits for artificial insemination that are much easier (and cheaper). It’s easy to settle on that, clicking on the info to order your kit with butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

You read through the instructions online and it all sounds simple enough, until you get to the part where it says that having an orgasm after injection helps increase your chances of conception.

Blinking, heat crawling up your neck, you read that step several times, hoping you read it wrong, but it doesn’t change.

You… You can’t masturbate with Bucky’s sperm inside you. That’s a line you refuse to cross.

And besides, he’s a healthy man in his thirties who exercises regularly and eats fairly healthy food! You probably—definitely—won’t need to take that step. It’ll be fine. Probably.

Once the kit arrives, you call Bucky and ask him to come over so you can explain the process to him. Since he’s only across the hall of your apartment building, he’s there a moment later, letting himself in with his key.

“Let’s make a baby,” is how he greets you.

“Hold your horses,” you reply, fighting back a laugh. “I gotta walk you through everything first.”

He plops himself down next to you on your couch. “Fine, fine. Go ahead.”

Squaring your shoulders, you begin telling him how it all works, and what parts he is key for. You speak through your awkwardness, avoiding eye contact, when you explain that he’ll need to masturbate into a clean, sterile cup. You leave out how it’s suggested for you to also masturbate, deciding it’s not pertinent information for him to know.

“When do we start?” he asks once you’re done.

“I have to take an ovulation test first to find out the best days for me to conceive, but once I do that we’ll be able to, um.” You gesture vaguely. “I’ll be able to do the injections.”

He nods. “Alright.” He looks at you then, taking your hand in his and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be here every step of the way, okay?”

“I know,” you say, smiling. “Thank you, Bucky.”

“You’re welcome,” he returns softly.

“No, really, thank you,” you assert. “This is a lot to take on and I can never fully repay you.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I want you to be happy, and I can see that having this baby is going to do that. I’ll do whatever I need to do to ensure it happens.”

You pull him into a hug, willing yourself to not cry. You’re not sure he’ll ever understand what this means for you, personally, or that you’d ever find a way to express it. He’s giving you so much more than just a baby.

***

The first injection time comes and you find yourself fidgeting where you sit as you wait for Bucky to bring over the, uh… sample. You do your best to not think about what he’s doing in his apartment, to not think about exactly how he’s collecting his sperm.

Now is not the time, you mentally scold yourself. Get it together.

A timid knock at your door alerts you to his presence. The fact he’s knocking says a lot about his own level of embarrassment about the situation.

His cheeks are pink when you open the door. “Uh, hi.”

“Hi,” you return.

He clears his throat and lifts the small cup in his hand. “Here’s… well, you know.”

You gingerly take it from him, not knowing what else to say, but when he smiles somewhat crookedly and turns to leave, you find yourself asking, “Will you stay?”

Bucky’s steps pause. “Huh?”

“Will you—I mean… Would you mind staying?” You shift on your feet. “This is a big moment for me. I-I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Are you asking me to…?” He trails off awkwardly.

“Oh! God, no, I wouldn’t—no,” you assure, huffing a laugh, “I’m doing the injection, I just need a little moral support. That’s all.”

Bucky smiles. “Sure, I’ll stay.”

Relief floods through you. You step aside to let him in, closing the door behind him. He follows you to your bedroom and just before entering you stop in your tracks, nearly causing Bucky to bump into you.

“Um,” you mutter, turning to him. “You’ll have to, ah, sit out here,” you explain. “I have to be lying down…”

Understanding dawns on him. “Oh! Right, right, of course. Sorry.”

“I’ll let you know when I’m done,” you promise.

He nods and watches you close the door. You walk over to your bed and sit down, glancing at the syringe you’ll be using and biting the inside of your cheek.

This is it. There’s really no going back after this. Sure, you may not get pregnant the first time, but Bucky’s already said he’d help you for as long as it takes. It’s just… very real now. You don’t feel any doubts, though. You want this.

Inhaling a large breath and slowly letting it out, hands shaking, you take the lid off the cup and pick up the syringe. You remember the instructions, making sure there’s as little air sucked in as possible when you draw out the semen, and getting rid of the few air bubbles that you see. You grab your pillows and lie down, propping them beneath you to lift your hips.

“Here I go,” you mumble to yourself, taking another deep breath and releasing it.

A couple minutes later, the syringe is empty and you’ve got your legs pulled up to your chest. You cover yourself with your blanket and call out Bucky’s name.

“You okay?” you hear through the door.

“Will you come here, please?” you ask.

He walks in cautiously, making sure you’re decently covered before entering fully, wisely not commenting on your position. “Well?”

“I did it,” you whisper.

He stays quiet, letting you parse through your thoughts. You blink when you feel tears threatening to gather in your eyes. He’s beside you in an instant, crawling in the bed and lying down, taking your hand in his.

“Congratulations,” he says softly.

“Don’t congratulate me yet,” you reply, sniffing and wiping at your eyes.

“Still,” he presses. “You’re one step closer now.”

He pulls your hand up and kisses the back of it. You give him a watery smile. The two of you lay there in silence for a moment before Bucky breaks it.

“This isn’t how I pictured myself making a baby.”

It startles a laugh out of you and Bucky grins, pleased to have helped ease the tense atmosphere. He distracts you with idle conversation after that, talking about his plans for the upcoming weekend, asking about yours, tells you about the newest stupid thing Sam did; he talks and talks and talks, until your anxiety is gone, and then he stays to cook dinner for you.

Your hug when he gets ready to head back to his apartment lasts a couple minutes longer than usual. Bucky quietly allows it, dropping a kiss on your forehead when you pull away.

“Same time next week?” he jokes, making you crack a smile.

“Goodbye, Bucky,” you reply exasperatedly as you close your door.

“Bye, sweetheart,” he returns over his shoulder.

***

Weeks pass. More injections. Pregnancy tests taken.

But nothing happens.

All of your tests come back negative.

When reading up on artificial insemination, and pregnancy in general, you’d understood that there was a chance it wouldn’t happen right away. You thought you were fine with that, that you’d be alright with the waiting and all. Looking at your growing collection of negative tests, however, has a sense of dread building within you. You do your best to quell it, telling yourself there’s no need to stress over it. Yet.

Besides, your mind supplies in an overly cheerful manner, there’s still one more method to try!

***

The next time Bucky brings over his sample, he lets himself in, like always, and passes along the cup with an encouraging smile. You try to smile back, but it feels more like a grimace. He either doesn’t notice or he at least pretends not to, thankfully.

But when he goes to make himself comfortable to wait, you’re reminded that you haven’t told him about the, uh… change in procedure, so to speak.

You clear your throat delicately. “I don’t think you’ll need to stick around this time.”

Bucky frowns. “Why not?”

“Because…” You trail off, cheeks pinking, yet not finishing the sentence, because how do you explain this?

“I promised you I’d be here every step of the way,” he recalls. “I intend to keep that promise.”

You wince. “I really appreciate where your heart is, Bucky, I really do, but I literally cannot let you be here for this injection.”

“Why not?”

You look heavenward for mercy. “I have to…”

When you don’t finish your sentence again, Bucky raises a single brow, gesturing for you to go on. “You have to… what?”

You huff, throwing your arms out. “I have to orgasm, okay?”

His eyes go a little bit wide, but you can tell he tries to control his reaction. He swallows, shifting where he sits on the couch.

“Oh,” he mumbles. “Have… have you had to do that before?”

“No. Well, I mean, it was suggested, but I never…”

His eyebrows furrow. “Does it help or something?”

You absently scratch your neck. “They say it increases the chances of conception.”

“But you haven’t been doing… that.”

“I didn’t think I’d need to.”

Bucky inhales like he’s going to say something, but then doesn’t.

“Yeah, so, I don’t think you should be here,” you utter, quickly adding, “No offense.”

“No, yeah, that’s fair, um. I’ll just—I’ll head back to my apartment,” he states as he stands. “You can—I mean, if you still want me to—I can come back over? After you… uh…”

“I’ll let you know,” you reply, voice tight and high.

He nods, looking lost and like he wants to say more but thinks better of it. Finally, he mutters a soft bye and is out the door.

Alone now, your stomach feels like it’s tying itself in knots and your heart is doing its damnedest to beat out of your chest. You try to tell yourself that it’s just another injection, that this is the same as any other time you've done this, but you know it’s not. It's really, really not.

Laying down on your bed, syringe in hand, is much more nerve wracking than before. On your left lies a new addition to your routine. You don’t know why you’re acting like such a prude all the sudden. It’s not like you’ve never masturbated before. Though, you suppose the major difference is that you didn’t have Bucky’s sperm hangin’ out in your vagina all those other times while you did it.

“Quit being such a goober about this,” you tell yourself.

This has to be done for a reason. If you want to have a baby—and you do, very badly—then you’re gonna have to deal with the process.

Once you’ve injected the sperm, you reach for your bullet vibrator next to your left hand. The instructions say not to insert anything, only to stimulate your clit. You try to clear your head, think of it as a chore or something, yet it’s hard not to think of a certain someone.

The vibrator buzzes with the press of a button. You adjust your hips, making sure they’re tilted, then bring the vibrator to your clit. The first touch makes your stomach tense and thighs spasm.

You close your eyes, running the toy along your slit. You really don’t want to drag this out, would prefer to get it over with as quickly as possible, but your mind begins running away with images.

Bucky, settled between your spread thighs, one hand resting on one of them, the other controlling the vibrator. You imagine he’d tease you, slowly trail it along the crease of your thighs, over your hips; everywhere but where you wanted it.

Bucky would probably give in once you whine and beg enough, once your desperation bled into your voice, and hold the vibrator directly to your clit, drink in your cries of pleasure like they’re the finest whisky.

He’d mutter soft but firm encouragement, tell you how good you’re doing, how good you sound. He’d start circling the vibrator, going from quick to lazy swirls, then he’d change the setting to a higher one just to hear you whimper. His free hand would run up your torso to pinch at your nipples for added stimulation.

When you imagine him leaning down to add his tongue into the mix, your mind blanks as your climax hits you, a ragged moan forcing its way out of your throat. You’re quick to turn the vibrator off and toss it to the floor, deciding you’ll worry about cleaning it later, chest heaving as you pant for breath after an intense orgasm.

Shame and embarrassment consume you, mock you for using Bucky to rub one out. You’d given in to the fantasy so easily.

Truthfully, it’s not the first time you’ve thought of him while pleasuring yourself, but the context this time is completely different, and you feel immediately guilty. Admittedly, it’s probably irrational.

That doesn’t stop you from cringing at your actions.

***

You’re sure you’ve bought out the entire pregnancy test section from the convenience store down the block. Currently, there are six different brands in front of you, all promising the most accurate results.

Bucky is sitting in your bedroom, quietly waiting for you to pee on all of them so you can both find out what they say. You chug the last bit of your third bottle of water even though your bladder is fit to burst at any moment. Turning the faucet on for modesty, you make quick work of the tests, then wash your hands.

And wait.

You call Bucky into the bathroom with you. The two of you quietly sit on the edge of your bathtub, counting down the minutes. Part of you wishes Bucky would say something dumb to break the tension, like he usually does, but you're also kind of glad he's just here, next to you, a silent comfort.

It seems like hours have passed when you’re finally sure you can check them.

The first one is negative, and so is the second. The third, however, reads positive. Your heart begins racing, clutching at the counter, but before your hopes get too carried away you read the rest. To your dismay, they are all negative. You stare down at them all, eyes falling on the loan positive test multiple times, knowing that it’s likely a false positive, yet stupidly hoping otherwise.

Your chin wobbles. Bucky hugs you from behind, resting his cheek on your shoulder.

“What do I do, Bucky?”

At your broken whisper, he sighs. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

Neither of you know what to say or do after that. Bucky continues offering quiet support, his solid presence at your back, and you’re grateful. Eventually, he leads you out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, sitting you down at the table as he starts preparing dinner.

When you’re both eating the spaghetti he made, he breaks the silence.

“Do you think…” he starts, pausing to think of how to phrase his question before carefully carrying on. “Are you going to stop?”

“I don’t want to,” you answer, the implied but hanging heavy in the air.

Bucky sits his fork down. “I know you want this, very much.” He pushes his hair out of his face as he leans forward, elbows settling on the table. “But I hate seeing how sad you get when the tests come out negative. I feel so… powerless. Like I could be doing more or something.”

“You’re doing all you can, Bucky,” you assure.

“That’s the thing, though. I don’t think I am.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

He licks his lips, locking his fingers together. “I think we should have sex.”

Your fork drops to your plate with a clang, eyes going wide.

“I apologize for how blunt that came out,” he states with a wince. “But, I mean, think about it. You’ve only been using my sperm from a syringe, and up until the last time, you hadn’t been, um, orgasming with it.” You look away, bashful. “I just wonder if maybe trying the old-fashioned way would give you better results.”

“Bucky,” you start, opening and closing your mouth a couple times before shaking your head. “It’s one thing for you to offer your sperm, which I’m thankful for, truly, but… Having sex?”

“I’ve already told you I’m willing to do whatever I need to do,” he retorts earnestly. “Your happiness means a lot to me, okay? I hate sitting around and watching your heart break every week. You’ve tried it your way, now I think we should try mine.”

“I-I don’t know,” you hesitate, chewing on the inside of your cheek, knee beginning to bounce under the table.

His hand slides onto your knee, stilling the movement as he ducks his head to meet your gaze. His eyes are impossibly sincere and your resolve crumbles in an instant.

“It won’t… It’s not going to change anything,” he assures. “I won’t allow it.”

You swallow roughly. He may not, but your heart is going to take its toughest beating yet. It’s going to be hopeless trying to overcome the inevitable emotions that come with sex.

Even so, somehow, your longing for a baby eclipses all of this. Now that you’ve imagined holding your child in your arms, raising them and loving them, you can’t go back. Not anymore.

“Okay,” you allow, softly.

Bucky’s shoulders relax, lips tipping up into a devastating smile.

You’re so fucked. (Pun intended.)

***

Two nights later, you’re pacing in your bedroom, impatiently waiting for Bucky to arrive. You’d been unsure whether or not you should dress up. You didn’t see the point, honestly. Still, a small part of you wondered what his reaction would be if he saw you all done up in lingerie. At the moment, you’re in an oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts.

It’s Bucky, you think, and this isn’t a normal situation, it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing.

You hear his key turning in the lock then and your heart begins hammering away. He calls your name as he enters.

“In here,” you reply, twisting your fingers nervously.

He walks into your room looking just as on edge as you are. He also seems to have had the same idea about his attire, comfortable in his white tee and sweatpants. His feet are bare and for whatever reason that feels way more intimate than it has any right to.

“Hey,” he greets.

“Hi.”

You bite your lip, eyes flitting around your room and coming back to settle on Bucky. He huffs.

“This is ridiculous,” he declares, “It’s just us.”

“Right,” you nod, biting the inside of your cheek.

“It’s not gonna be weird.”

“Nope.”

His jaw ticks. You stare back at him. It only takes a moment for you to realize that somebody has to make the first move, so you steel yourself and turn on your heel, walking towards your bed.

“I’m keeping my shirt on,” you announce as you unceremoniously drop onto the mattress, grabbing your pillows to stuff them under you.

Bucky follows at a sedate pace, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He pauses next to you, taking a second to roll his shoulders, then he climbs in and settles in front of your bent legs. He gingerly places his hands on your knees.

“May I?” he asks.

Mouth suddenly dry, you nod. He moves his hands to the waistband of your shorts and tugs. You lift your hips to help him slide them down and off, along with your underwear. Gently, he spreads your legs.

Your breathing has picked up considerably, eyes firmly trained on the ceiling. You know you’re already wet and are blessedly thankful he doesn’t mention it.

The first slide of his fingers has you inhaling sharply. He slowly gathers your slick and trails it up to your clit, lightly circling it. Your mind recalls your fantasy, but you quickly shove it back to the depths of your thoughts, lest you do something idiotic like tell him about it.

He spreads your legs more, adjusting his position between them. His fingers move down until he can sink one into you. You gasp, hands shooting out to grasp your sheets. He wastes no time and begins thrusting his finger inside you.

It becomes quickly apparent to you that it’s going to be very difficult to hold back any noise or reactions. Goddamnit, you will try, though!

When he decides it’s time to add another finger, you feel yourself clench around them, and his soft fuck does not go unnoticed, evident in the way your pussy traitorously clenches again.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice cracking, but doesn’t finish his thought, making you have to break your staring contest with the ceiling and look at him.

He’s not even looking back at you, he’s staring at his fingers, watching them pump in and out of you, half bent over with a slack jaw, like he wants to…

He meets your eyes then, licking his lips.

Oh.

Swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat, knowing you’re probably going to regret it, you nod.

He’s leaning over and sucking on your clit before you can even blink. You cry out, thighs trying to clamp around his head, but his free hand shoots out to hold you open. It makes you squirm, fisting the sheets even tighter. His fingers curl inside you as his tongue licks around them and you whine, high and needy, and then mouth is back on your clit, tongue swiping over it, sucking on it with loud, obscene noises.

His hand comes up to grab the hem of your shirt, shoves it upward until it’s bunched underneath your breasts. Those fingers ghost back down your torso, goosebumps erupting in their wake.

He speeds up his thrusts and your hand flies down to grip his hair. You don’t think you’re meant to hear the quiet grunt he lets out, but you do, and it has you panting even harder. Your orgasm is building, fast, and you pull on his hair in warning.

“Bucky,” you say on a gasp.

Using his arm to hold you down, his free hand joins, thumb swiping over your clit now as he dips his head to slide his tongue in alongside his fingers. It draws a yell out of you, the ever expanding pleasure within you bursting into the hardest orgasm you’ve experienced thus far in your adult life. You know you’re moaning, bucking into the sensations coursing through you, and you’d feel abashed if you didn’t feel so fucking good.

Before you can become too sensitive, Bucky withdraws his fingers and sits up. You can’t even really catch your breath, though, because in the next second he’s whipping his t-shirt off and shoving his sweatpants down far enough to free his cock.

Your thighs do clamp closed then, at the sight of how thick he is, and he tries and fails to keep his smirk hidden.

“Oh, shut up,” you wheeze.

“Didn’t say anything,” he counters.

He doesn’t let you argue, choosing that moment to shuffle closer and line up with your opening. Cautiously, he eases himself inside, inch by inch. Your mouth drops open, brows furrowing as he fills you, stretching you so perfectly. When he’s in as far as he can go, the breath wooshes out of him, his head falling back. You know he’s trying to be polite and let you adjust, but—

“Oh my god, move,” you demand, impatient.

He huffs a laugh, dropping his heavy lidded gaze to yours. “Bossy.”

“Did you really expect anything else—oh!”

The grin he aims your way after grinding into you is downright sinful. You mentally tell yourself to kick him for that later.

He grabs your hips and the pillows and settles you closer to his lap, changing the angle, then pulls out and glides back in, creating a painstakingly slow rhythm.

You have to close your eyes. You can’t look at him anymore. You knew he was probably a god in bed, but to now have firsthand experience? There was no way you’d be able to fuck anyone else without comparing them.

His grip on your hips tightens, the only warning you get before his thrusts turn sharp.

“Fuck,” you cry out, your hands reaching up to grip the pillow beneath your head.

The sound of your skin meeting his is harsh in the otherwise quiet room. Well, okay, you’re not exactly being quiet, but you can’t be blamed for that.

Bucky, however, is nearly silent. The only thing you hear from him is heavy breathing. You wonder if he’s holding back, the thought crossing your mind for a split second, and then you’re clenching around his cock, trying to see if you can gain a reaction. And boy, do you get one.

He grunts and sucks in a breath, lips parting as his eyes squeeze shut. His hips pick up their pace and hair falls into his face. You find yourself wishing he was closer so you could brush it out of the way.

Stop it, you scold yourself.

He pauses to grind into you again, your walls fluttering around his throbbing cock, and you both sigh. Bucky leans forward, hooking your legs into the crooks of his elbows, and resumes his brutal pace.

“O-Oh,” you whimper.

The new angle is heavenly, his cock dragging along a spot inside you that you thought nobody else could find. Unable to help yourself, you clutch at his arms, nails digging in.

“Shit,” he groans, thrusts faltering.

He lets go of one of your legs to slip his hand between you, rubbing at your clit and sending you that much closer to your second orgasm. He can tell you’re close, but you’re gonna need something to push you over the edge. He leans down even closer, breath fanning out against your cheek.

“C’mon,” he pants. “Let go.”

You shiver when his tongue flicks your earlobe and sucks it into his mouth, keening as the pressure builds. He thrusts harder, faster, and when you grasp his hair and pull, he growls and latches on to your shoulder, biting down. You gasp from the added pain and then you’re coming, shuddering and whining through your release. Bucky isn’t far behind, raising up and fucking into you savagely before pausing abruptly, groaning as he finally comes. He lazily thrusts a few more times to draw it out, then stops, stilling with his cock inside you.

Your hair is sticking to your forehead, as well as your shirt to your clammy back, breathing in lungfuls of air. Bucky is softly caressing your thighs, letting out shaky breaths as your pussy continues to flutter around him.

It takes several moments for you to gather your wits, for the rest of the world to come filtering back in. You are truly and completely fucked now, in every sense of the word.

“Well…” You trail off, voice scratchy.

“That was…”

“Mhm,” you mumble.

Bucky sighs heavily. “Let’s hope it worked this time.”

You hum. “Thank you for your service,” you reply with a lazy salute.

You yelp when he pinches your hip, kicking at him in retaliation. The jostling reminds you, with a gasping groan, that he’s still buried balls deep inside you.

“Um.” You cough lightly. “You wanna, you know… pull out?”

He looks down where you’re connected like it hadn’t even dawned on him. “Oh, uh. Well, I thought maybe it could, like. Help.”

His gaze stays locked, fingers flexing on your hips, and you feel like squirming again.

“I think it’s good,” you say quietly.

Bucky finally glances back up at your shy tone, cheeks pinking. He clears his throat.

“Right.”

Carefully, he eases his softening cock out of you, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making a noise.

You can’t hold back yours, though, gasping once he’s gone. You feel unbearably empty, but refrain from voicing that incessant thought.

Bucky’s intense eyes stare at your pussy until you reach for the throw blanket next to you. He watches you throw it over your lap, drawing your legs up to your chest, and takes that as his cue, jolting into action.

“Okay, so.” He starts, then stops, climbs off your bed and pulls his sweatpants back up. “This was—I mean, if it doesn’t take this time, we can… try again.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Sounds good.”

He nods, bending to pick up his discarded t-shirt. “Great. I’ll just, um, see myself out, I guess.”

You nod, sending a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes in his direction. He seems to contemplate something for a second, then leans down to kiss your forehead before saying a quick goodbye and leaving.

As soon as you hear your apartment door shut, you let your tears fall.

***

It’s not really like you mean to avoid him after that.

Honest.

You simply become busy, that’s all. You definitely don’t go out of your way by taking the stairs in your apartment building to avoid possibly bumping into him in the elevator. No, you take the stairs because you could use the cardio. It’s important you stay healthy right now. And when he texts you to ask if you want to have dinner, you can’t help that you’ve got boatloads of work to catch up on—all five times he asks.

Okay, so, that’s a lie. You’re totally avoiding him. But what on earth are you supposed to say to him now? You don’t think you’d even be able to look him in the eye anymore, not after the fuck of your goddamn life.

That night confirmed what you already knew for the last two years: Bucky absolutely ruined you for anyone else.

More than anything, though, you were angry with yourself. He’d only offered because you weren’t getting your desired results the other way. You should have been able to separate your feelings and emotions from all of it. After all, none of this was about whatever you feel towards Bucky. This was about trying to conceive a baby.

You try telling yourself to get over it. He’s your best friend, you can’t just cut him off because you’re a spineless pansy.

I just need some time, you reason. You can give yourself a few days to wallow over what could have been and then you can reach out to him and pretend like everything is fine. Because it is.

***

Flash forward two weeks to you attempting to sneak into your apartment, only to jump out of your skin when you turn around and find Bucky sitting on your couch, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Oh, good, you’re still alive,” he drawls.

His tone suggests annoyance. You suppose you deserve that.

“Hey,” you say after a pause.

He stares at you for a moment longer before speaking again. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t let it get weird.”

You agreed, you almost say, thankfully biting it back. You drop your purse on the entryway table, sliding your shoes off and making your way over to sit next to him.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. You tug your sweater sleeves down and tuck your feet beneath you. “I haven’t ever… I’ve never been intimate with a friend before. It was just… a lot.”

It’s a half truth, at least. You haven’t had sex with a friend before. Or, well, not one you had feelings for.

“You could’ve just told me,” he replies, reaching for your hand.

You nod. “I know, and I should have, I just. Things are all out of whack lately with the whole… trying to get pregnant thing.”

“If I overstepped in any way—” Bucky starts, but you’re quick to interrupt.

“You didn’t,” you promise. “You’ve been nothing but fantastic throughout this whole ordeal. Honestly, Bucky, you’ve done way more than anyone else would have in this situation. I just had a lot going on in my head and let it get the best of me. I’m fine, I swear.”

He searches your eyes and must find what he’s looking for.

“Don’t shut me out again,” he pleads.

Heart cracking in your chest, you can only nod, shuffling closer to pull him into a hug. He buries his face in your neck and holds on tight.

***

Another week passes.

Bucky is with you as you wait for the results of the latest pregnancy test. He’s reassured you that you’ll keep trying until it happens if it didn’t work this time.

When the timer on your phone goes off, you release the breath you’ve been holding. You take tentative steps over to the sink and gingerly pick up the test.

Positive.

Your stomach swoops. It’s positive. You check again, reading the digitized screen, but it stays the same. Positive. Holy shit.

“Okay, wait, no, I need to do more. I can’t get my hopes up again,” you mutter, rushing to open the cabinet under your sink to dig out several more varieties of tests.

You don’t even wait for Bucky to leave before you’re peeing on the other sticks. He’s seen it all at this point anyway, and he doesn’t seem to care, sitting on the edge of your tub with an anxious expression. The downside is that you have to wait another few minutes for these tests to finish and you can’t sit still, pacing back and forth in the small space of your bathroom.

The timer goes off again. You feel like you’re going to throw up when you finally work up the courage to look down.

Every single one of them… Positive.

A shocked, happy laugh escapes you. You cover your mouth, turning to Bucky with wide eyes.

He rises to his full height, coming closer and peering down at the tests, then back to your teary eyed expression.

“Did we…?”

Words failing you, you nod, giggling in astonishment. Bucky’s face breaks into the biggest, handsomest, most gut-wrenching smile. His happiness is palpable and you’re suddenly so overcome with emotion. Your hands are gripping his face and angling it to align your lips to his before you register what you’re doing. He freezes and you hurriedly pull away, taking a few steps back.

“I’m so sorry, I-I don’t know why—”

“Shut up,” he cuts you off, closing the gap between you in a single stride.

He kisses you like his life depends on it, pressing your bodies as close as possible, his hands cupping your cheeks. You clutch his shirt desperately, never wanting to let go. He steals the breath straight from your lungs when he swipes at the seam of your lips with his tongue, moaning happily when you allow him access. A feeble whine from you after he flicks his tongue against yours makes him break the kiss.

“I have a confession,” he breathes into the miniscule space between your mouths.

“What?” you question distractedly.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your gaze shoots up to his, astounded. He brushes stray hairs off your forehead, runs his thumbs softly under your eyes.

“I’ve been selfish this whole time,” he reveals. “I couldn’t let you choose some random stranger to be your sperm donor, to father your child, couldn’t bear the thought of you carrying their baby, because I’ve been in love with you since the moment I met you. I wanted to be the one. And I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, but I’m not sorry I did it.”

You’re hearing the words, yet your brain can’t seem to make sense of them. Surely you’re hearing him wrong. You can’t possibly have this too, right? You can't have Bucky and have his baby…

But he’s here, very real and solid beneath your hands, looking at you like you’re his entire world.

“Bucky…” You trail off, struggling to find the right words, at a complete loss. “I-I’ve loved you for so long now, I didn’t think you…” You shake your head, a giggle escaping you as you stare at him in wonder. “I couldn’t let myself hope.”

He grins, relieved, planting a few chaste kisses to your mouth. “I know this entire circumstance is totally backwards, but I want you, and I want this baby. I meant it when I said I’m not going anywhere.”

Fresh tears gather in the corners of your eyes. “Are you sure?” you still ask.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

You have to kiss him then, uncaring of the tears that trickle down your face. The only thing you are focused on is the way his hands trail down your back, pausing to squeeze your ass, then grip underneath to lift you. Your legs wrap around his waist, arms locked around his neck, as he heads for your bed. He makes a point of throwing your extra pillows on the floor before settling between your thighs and kissing the hell out of you.

He pulls away only to undress you and himself, but he’s always back as quickly as possible, lips pressing kisses wherever he can reach. You impatiently tug at him until his lips are attached to yours again. The way he fucks his tongue into your mouth is nothing short of indecent and it sends a rush of pure want all the way to your core.

When you bury your fingers in his hair, gripping it tight, he grunts, biting your lip. You whimper and he grins as he pulls away.

“You make the most beautiful sounds,” he praises, his hands beginning to sweep down and up, tickling under your breasts.

His thumb and forefinger pinch one of your nipples and you gasp, back arching off your mattress. He repeats it on the other side, just to hear the same noise.

“Bucky, please,” you beg.

“Please what?” he prods. His hands drift further to the creases of your thighs, spreading them open. “What do you need?”

You whine, canting your hips up. “You, I need you, please.”

“You have me, sweetheart.” He tilts his head and you make a noise of frustration. “Use your words, darlin’.”

“Fuck me, please,” you burst out, feeling your pussy clench around nothing.

Bucky smiles, slow and torturous. “Yeah? Want me to fuck you? Fuck this perfect pussy until you’re so full of my come that it drips down your beautiful thighs?”

“Oh god,” you mumble.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he teases.

His fingers slide down your slit, gathering your slick then thrusts two fingers in at once. You groan brokenly, shifting your hips to try and get more friction, but he holds them down with his metal arm. Agonizingly slow, he begins fucking you with his fingers. It’s good, it’s amazing, but it’s not enough. Not when you know what his cock feels like. He takes his precious time fingering you and you’re sure you’re going to lose your mind before the day is done.

“You have no idea how incredible you felt around my cock,” he tells you in a ridiculously conversational tone. “I was trying to think of any excuse I could come up with to have you at least one more time.”

He shifts until his mouth is directly above where you’re dripping for him, and he waits until you make eye contact with him.

“But now I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making you come apart on my cock any chance I get.”

You hardly have any functioning brain cells at the moment, but even if you could form a coherent sentence you wouldn’t have been able to say it aloud, because then he’s descending and all you can feel is the wet warmth of his mouth.

He definitely doesn’t hold back this time, that much is apparent in the way he devours you, lips and tongue drawing out noises you’ve never heard yourself make, pressing his face so far into your pussy that he has to come up for air. His mouth and chin shine when you chance a look down, and when you clench on his fingers his smile goes smug at the corners.

He plants kisses along your hips, the insides of your thighs, around where his fingers are buried within you. He curls them, in search of the spot he found last time. He knows he found it when you try to close your thighs around his head and cry out. Now that he's found it, he angles to brush it on every thrust of his fingers and attaches his mouth back on your clit.

You chant his name, nearly sobbing as you approach your climax, until finally you fly over the edge. Your vision blurs and you’re not sure if you’re making any noise now, unable to hear past the blood rushing in your ears. Bucky helps you ride it out until you’re shuddering from sensitivity.

He kisses your thighs again, trailing them up your stomach and between the valley of your breasts.

“So good, did so well,” he mutters.

Weakly, you lift your hands to trace them down his toned stomach and around his back, down further so you can cop a feel of your own, smiling at his grunt of surprise.

“That was great and all,” you say, arching your back so your chest presses against his, “but I do believe I asked you to fuck me.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Who said I was done with you?” It’s apparently a rhetorical question, as he continues before you get a chance to reply. “I’m gonna fuck you until you come, and then I’m gonna keep fucking you until you come again, and only then will I come so deep inside you there’ll be zero doubt I’ve put a baby there.”

Your legs are lifted and thrown over his shoulders in a blink, his cock pushing into your pussy, dragging out a high-pitched moan from you. There’s barely a pause and then he’s fucking you, just like you asked. The pace is brutal right from the start, a steady rhythm that has you mewling and writhing in pleasure. Bucky is watching his cock as he thrusts in and out of you, his mouth hanging open slightly as he pants. He hikes your hips up a little higher and you jolt through your startled moan. This angle is divine and the telltale signs of your second orgasm start tingling at the base of your spine.

“Can feel you,” Bucky says through panting breaths, “so close. C’mon, let me feel you.”

He pulls you down on his cock, grinding into you, his thumb reaching to rub tight circles over your clit. You sob through your release, shuddering against Bucky as you clench around him. He groans, still barely moving as you come down from your high.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “Come here.”

He helps you sit up, still seated on his cock, making you both hiss from your movement. Your arms automatically wrap around his shoulders and his around your waist. He kisses you so sweetly, a stark contradiction to the way he just fucked you. When you pull away, resting your foreheads together, he grins.

“Hi.”

You crack a smile. “Hi.”

“Ready for more?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You think you got it in you?” you tease as you play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

The light smack to your ass startles you and you let out a soft sound of surprise, hands tugging his hair harshly. Bucky’s eyes light up.

“Interesting,” he muses.

Another slap, a little harder than the first, and you’re whimpering, your walls clenching around his still hard cock.

“I’ll play with that later,” he promises, voice breathy.

You bury your face in his neck and start shifting your hips. He takes the hint, gathering you as close as he can and thrusts up into you. He can’t pull out as far this way, but the snap of his hips more than makes up for it. You mouth at his collarbone messily, kissing and licking your way up to his jaw, biting marks wherever you see fit. You make it up to his mouth and he kisses you, wet and filthy. You suck on his tongue and a ragged moan claws its way out of his throat. The need for air eventually has you pulling away.

“It’s a good thing you love me back,” you whisper in his ear. “Nobody else could ever compare to you.”

He growls, fisting your hair and yanking your head back to look him in the eye.

“Nobody will ever compare,” he corrects.

You moan. “Yes,” you agree, whining, “No one else could’ve given me a baby.”

Bucky thrusts harder and faster at your words. You’re picking up on a few hints and you can’t say it’s not doing it for you either.

“Filled me up so good, fucked me so well. Gonna be round with your baby soon.”

“Fuck, fuck,” he keens, hurrying to lay you flat on your back so he can fuck into you easier.

The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, your cries of pleasure mixing in with Bucky’s grunts and curses. His grip on you tightens almost painfully as he chases both your and his orgasm. You’re sure to have bruises tomorrow and you already know you'll be poking at them to remember this moment.

“C’mon, baby, wanna feel you too,” you beg.

His thumb finds your swollen clit once more. It’s beyond sensitive now, feels like a shockwave coursing through you, and without any warning, you come. You spasm around Bucky and he swears under his breath, thrusts going sloppy. With a final groan, he comes inside you, his hips moving seemingly on their own as he draws out both your pleasures. Slowly, he comes to a stop, but he leaves his cock buried in you like he did last time.

You know you’re gonna feel too empty when he does pull out, so you don’t mind sitting like this for a while. Bucky softly runs his hands across every inch of your skin he can touch and you bask in the affection. You card your fingers through his sweaty hair, smiling when he hums happily. It takes only a minute for you to notice the way his hands migrate to your stomach, and when you do you kiss his shoulder.

“Maybe we should go again later,” you suggest faintly.

Bucky grins. “We can do it a hundred more times if you want.”

“Guess I better enjoy it while I can.”

His smile goes soft at the edges.

It’s not lost on you how incredibly crazy all of this is. There will undoubtedly be a conversation, a much needed one that isn’t going to be simple or easy, but it’s necessary.

For now, though, you bask in Bucky’s warmth and loving embrace.

***

Keys jingle as they unlock the door and you perk up where you’re sprawled on the couch. Bucky enters, arms laden with bags from the convenience store.

“They didn’t have the banana ice cream you asked for,” he announces, continuing before your pout fully forms, “but they did have the double chocolate brownie kind you love so much, so I got that, as well as the sour gummy worms, beef jerky, and fried pickles from the deli on your list of demands.”

“What about—”

“And your strawberry Fanta,” he adds with a fond, slightly exasperated smile.

You’re unable to stop your expression from going soft and dreamy.

Ever since you and Bucky figured out where to go with your relationship, he’s been even more attentive and accommodating (and that’s saying something).

You expressed your worry about the possibility of something going wrong, that one or both of you would get bored and leave, or there’d be a big fight that neither of you could forgive. He was quick to reassure you of his commitment, told you there was no way he would ever get bored of you, and that as long as you both promise to talk things out in a calm, mature way, then you’d be alright.

It all sounded so easy when it was put like that. The more you thought about it, though, the more you realized he was right. It wasn’t fair to either of you to already give up before you’d even started. So you’d taken a deep breath and leaped.

Now, you’re five and a half months in, your belly steadily growing and making everyday life increasingly uncomfortable. The changes to your body were physically and emotionally draining, to say the least. Moreso the emotional side. You’d hoped you wouldn’t be one of those pregnant women with strange cravings, and for the most part they were pretty tame, but you do like to dip your sour gummy worms in banana ice cream. Bucky didn’t attempt to hide his disgust over that.

“What did I do to deserve you?” you ask on a pleased sigh.

He places your small cornucopia of goods on the coffee table. You sit up, huffing for breath during the struggle. You go to reach for the ice cream first, but Bucky catches your hand, lacing his fingers with yours and kissing your knuckles as he kneels in front of you.

“You were yourself. Smart, kind, selfless, unbelievably sexy.” You snort at that, but he’s undeterred. “And you’re giving me the best gift I could ever dream of. A family.”

Instantly, you’re crying. He’s grown accustomed to the mood swings by now, taking it in stride as he wipes away the tears with gentle hands.

“Stop being so disgusting,” you blubber through your hiccuping cries. “You’re such an asshole.”

Bucky laughs. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You sniffle, kissing him. “Love you,” you grumble.

He leans down and plants the softest of kisses to your belly. “And I love you, little lady.”

The idea of you having a child one day always seemed foreign and unlikely, but life has a way of turning out exactly how it’s supposed to… And you wouldn’t change a thing.

#avengers fic #marvel fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky x reader #bucky x you #i can't remember how to tag bye

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gldrushh · 19 days ago

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GUILTY AS SIN? | JJK | PART 𝐈𝐈𝐈 |

"After all lessons are learned. There's only one to live out in practicality. You're not sure how good you're at it —only that, this time, you won’t try alone."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff

→W.C 20k

→ Warnings lots of mentions of graveyards, loss, nostalgia, because you can scream and scratch and bite but you can never go back, minhos third death anniversary, he stays haunting everyone, jk being lovesick, what's new?,their dating era!!, kissing, self realization, they make it official, mentions of anxiety, soft family moments :(, mention of jk threatening someone, protective jk, mentions of alcohol, like a lot, jk manhandling oc, she's drunk and a menace, he is so in love, and so is she apparently, jks nose gets appreciated, nose kisses, fluff, jk is rich, dancing around, real chessy stuff im sorry haha but trust me when i say that it pained me too

→ Playlist You are in love by Taylor swift

→A/N hi! hello! It's definitely not been a while since I posted but it most definitely feels like I've lived a multiple lifes since. I'm sorry for not posting when I promised and I'm sorry that you had to see me falling for rage bait because i don't belive that was anything but. Like genuinely get a life my brother in christ. I write fanfiction for a hobby. A silly little hobby. It's not that deep and you don't have to lose your shit over that. Anyways, all that negativity aside I wanna thank you to all the majority of my readers who were nice enough to put up with me. You all are who I write for and will continue doing so though can't say for sure lol. I've had a great time with writing this fic and all the love it got. It will forever hold a special place. These characters will forever hold a special place. I will miss them and I really hope you understand from the word count why it took the time it did and enjoy reading <33 please comment or message your thoughts!! Love you!!

| PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE |

The graveyard was deadened in a way that empty places where bones met soil learned to be. In a way that they are belived they are. With a stillness so complete, it surmised like a hostaged breath.

You sat cross-legged before the headstone, coat draped around your shoulders, your fingers numb from the stone bench that did little to hold warmth or from holding the bundle of white lilies, their stems slick with dew. You hadn’t put them down yet. You had spent the better part of your time here, staring at another small bouquet resting at the base of the grave—white carnations and forget-me-nots, arranged with care, like they always were. Someone’s been here before you. Arranged these flowers with love. There's just no name in some card that gives away the beholder of the love.

You traced the curve of a petal with your gaze, not touching it. Not needing to.

You're not wary of them. It's a graveyeard. It's Jeon Minho's—beloved son, brilliant brother, best husband—grave. It's never empty. You recalled, absently,how on his first death anniversary the plot had been crowded. A forest of flowers so pretty and perplexing, letters folded into stones, paintings left by former students who still wrote emails to an address that no longer worked. One of them left a thumb drive with a digital portfolio and a note that simply read: “I only got in because of him.”

Even now—three years later—his name never stopped resounding in impertuable places because he had a way of staying with people, even long after he’d left the room. Had this laugh that would get stuck in your head. And somehow, that made it both easier and harder. That he was remembered in a love that he alone inspired. Gentle. that was earned without asking. The kind of love that was mourned in secret, in ritual, in color.

You placed your bouquet down next to the others, brushing a fallen leaf from the base of the headstone. The stone was smooth beneath your touch, cold. You traced the carved letters-his name, the dates-and swallowed the lump that always formed when you read them too slowly.

“I was going to bring tulips,” you said softly, not sure if you were speaking to the stone or the wind. “But you always said they looked sad. Too floppy.” A just as sad smile that would have mimicked the tulips curled at your mouth.

“Thought I’d bring lilies instead. Thought they might hold their shape better. I hope they do.”

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. But it was deep. It was marrow-deep. Though it didn't weight like it used to. It hummed in your blood, a familiar frequency. Almost like a song you’d once loved but now couldn’t bear to hear past the first few notes. Like the sky that is a pale repose of overcast, streaked with gray, the kind that always made Minho grumble about "bad lighting" when he painted. The ground is damp but not cruel. Just enough to remind you that time moves here too. That even woe must learn to grow things again.

A breeze stirred, threading through your coat, pushing strands of hair across your cheek. You didn’t brush them away. You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, the grave in front of you, the silence beside you.

"Odd taste you had, min-min." You said after a while. "I wouldn't be suprised if you would find me sitting here, trying to make conversation with a slab of stone romantic. Probably say how so much effort for a guy who once mixed paint water into his cereal is good kind of weird."

Your voice cracked a little at that.

You don't cry.

You think that maybe you’ve used up all your tears on the wrong days—the regular ones, the grocery-list ones, the Tuesdays that came out of nowhere.

And then because the present can only be held for so long, you begin to remember.

The first time you were ever in a graveyard. Before you understood what death really was. Before it had touched you. When it was just a mystery. A place with names and flowers and questions no one could answer properly.

It had been years ago—childhood still clinging to your limbs like summer heat, with scraped knees and sticky palms and dreams that stretched further than your little world could hold. You and Jungkook couldn’t have been more than ten. Minho, already bordering on thirteen, had taken to pretending that his age made him wiser, even though he still laughed too loudly at fart jokes and left crayon smudges on his school notebooks.

You had been searching for this place for a while.

Not this graveyard, exactly, but the idea of it.

A name. A date. Something real to press against the fading edges of Jungkook’s memory.

He had come across a slip of paper one day in the back of a file, folded four times over, nearly forgotten in the drawer of father's study that nobody was allowed in. The handwriting had been unfamiliar—elegant but rushed—and it bore two names. His parents, he said. He thought.

And for weeks, the three of you had quietly tried to piece it together.

You’d used the school’s clunky computer lab—pretending to research for a social studies project while Minho furiously clicked through online directories and civic records. You whispered questions to the lunch lady, who knew someone who once worked in town hall. You even bribed the janitor with your entire sticker collection to let you sneak into the staff archives one afternoon.

No one said it was about sorrow.

No one had to.

You just wanted to help him find something—anything—that made him feel less like a shadow of someone else’s loss.

And finally, on a Thursday that still smelled like last night’s rain, you did.

You’d all skipped school that day.

The air still damp from last night’s rain, the sky overcast in a way that made the world look softer, quieter, like someone had pulled a cotton sheet over the sun.

It had been Minho’s idea, but Jungkook who needed it. You remember that part vividly, because he hadn’t asked out loud. Hadn’t needed to. He had stood in the courtyard with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-big jacket, hair a mess, eyes darker than usual. And Minho had just looked at him, then at you, and nodded.

“We’re going,” he said. "Are you ready, Kook?"

He was holding a slip of paper in one hand and clutching the edge of his jacket with the other.

“Yes, hyung." He had nodded. "I want to find them."

The air around you had gone quiet then—not out of shock, but out of care. Like the air had thinned out so as not to crowd him.

“We’d get in trouble,” you had broke the silence, voice a sharp whisper, mind already thinking of all ways you could get in trouble, eyes darting to the teachers pacing the other side of the field.

“Yeah,” Minho agreed. “But it’s a good reason. I'm sure they will understand...right?" Taller than the both of you already. He looked between Jungkook’s face and the paper again, then over at you.

You’d rolled your eyes, half because you were nervous and half because that was your role in this trio—to be skeptical just enough for Minho to feel brave. That made minho provide reassurance to his own doubt. "They will." Minho had said, like it was that simple.

And it was.

It always was, with the three of you.

You were kids, but not careless ones. You planned it like it was a secret mission—packed snacks in the side pockets of Minho’s bag, let Milo tag along even though he wasn’t technically allowed out without a leash. The sun was high when you snuck out, the kind of early spring day that couldn’t decide if it was warm or not. As if it was playing a cruel game of hide and seek, peeking through clouds that weren’t sure if they wanted to rain again. You wore your favorite jacket—denim with a strawberry patch on the sleeve. Jungkook didn’t bring anything except the folded piece of paper. Milo sat at his feet, tail thumping occasionally against the metal floor of the bus.

You caught the bus by the corner near the florist’s shop, ducking low behind the seats in case any familiar faces passed. The journey was slow. Long bus ride—two transfers, three wrong stops. You sat tucked in the back row, heads down, laughing behind your hands when Milo licked a stranger’s elbow. You passed the time counting license plates and telling each other made-up stories about the people outside.

One old man at the third stop looked at you from under his hat and said, “That place? That place’s been forgotten.”

But then a woman at the vegetable stall a few streets over gave you better directions. Told you to follow the path lined with dogwoods until you saw the iron gates.

You wandered through the quiet neighborhoods of Daejun on foot, sneakers wet from the last puddles, stepping over cigarette butts and crushed petals, past shuttered stores and a shrine half-covered in ivy. The deeper you walked, the more the world thinned out into something older. Something that felt sacred and sad all at once.

The graveyard.

Wrought iron gates half rusted, vines crawling up the stone wall, the sign chipped but still legible.

There was no one there to greet you. Just wind. And quiet. And Milo’s soft panting.

You stepped inside together, slow. Reverent. As if you were entering a cathedral.

You didn’t speak much. Just looked.

Row after row of headstones, some cracked, some buried under moss. The names were unfamiliar. The silence, even more so.

“I think it’s this way,” Minho said, squinting at the map he’d drawn on notebook paper. “I printed a map. And I’m, like, really good at reading maps.”

“You got us lost last week trying to find that new ramen place,” you reminded him, turning around to walk backwards for emphasis.

Minho rolled his eyes. “That was one time."

"Was it?" You looked at Jungkook to back you up but he only cracked a tiny smile at that. You caught it—brief, barely there—but it warmed you anyway. It had been a long week leading up to this.

“They’re somewhere near the east wall,” Minho said, squinting at the faded directions. “Row 12, plot 33. I think we’re close.”

Your footsteps crunched over gravel and scattered leaves. Milo veered off occasionally, sniffing at corners and chasing insects, but always came back. The sun filtered through bare branches in patches, dappling your arms in faint light.

The wind picked up when they turned the final corner—soft, not cold, brushing past their jackets like a whisper. Row twelve stretched ahead in crooked lines, some stones older than others, names worn down by years of weather and forgetfulness.

Jungkook stopped walking.

Your eyes followed his gaze.

Two gravestones stood side by side, tucked beneath a slant of oak branches. The grass was longer here. The stones smaller than you expected.

They were side by side. Dates etched beneath them.Born years before any of you. Gone before Jungkook had learned what it meant to belong to anyone. No pictures. No flowers. Just names and silence. And that was all he had.

Jungkook stared at them like he didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Like maybe he’d expected something different. Or maybe he didn’t know what he expected at all.

His hand crumpled the piece of paper still clutched in his fist.

You moved first, not touching him, just standing nearby, close enough that he’d know you were there if he needed you.

Minho lowered the backpack slowly to the ground, the usual jokes stalled on his tongue. Even Milo went still, sitting quietly at Jungkook’s feet, as if he understood the moment too.

Jungkook stepped forward, cautiously. His sneakers scuffed the grass. He crouched slowly in front of the grave, his knees pressing into the damp soil, fingertips hesitating above the stone.

“That’s them?” he asked, voice tight in his throat. “For real?”

Minho nodded. “Yeah. The names match.”

Jungkook didn’t speak again. He pressed his fingers lightly to the letters on the headstone—first his father’s, then his mother’s. They were cool from the shade, worn smooth at the edges.

You crouched beside him. He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the way his eyes were glossed, not quite crying, but close. “Do you think they were nice?”

Minho sat down cross-legged beside him, stretching his legs out like it was any other afternoon. “Your mom? Definitely. Anyone who names a baby Jungkook has to be at least kind of awesome.”

That earned the smallest laugh from you, and then from him.

Jungkook looked at the gravestones again. “Do you think they’d like me?”

You nudged his side with your elbow, gently. “Koo, it’s kinda hard not to like you.”

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “I cry sometimes. And I suck at spelling.”

Minho made a dramatic groan. "You’re the coolest. Smarter than me. And you always win at Mario Kart.”

Jungkook ducked his head, but you saw the way his shoulders loosened. He reached out then—hesitant—and brushed some dirt off the stone. You watched the movement, how careful it was. How reverent.

“I didn’t think I’d feel anything,” he murmured.

“But you do?” you asked.

He nodded, still not looking at either of you. “Yeah.”

You stayed there until the sun dipped lower behind the hills. Minho finished the sketch and tore the page from his book. He folded it carefully, handed it to Jungkook without a word.

Jungkook looked at it for a long moment, then tucked it into his hoodie pocket.

“Hey,” Minho said as you were walking back toward the gates. “Think they’ve got a vending machine nearby? I want strawberry milk.”

You laughed. “You always want strawberry milk.”

He smirked, tugging his cap lower. “Yeah, well. It’s a long walk home.”

You trace the rim of the headstone now, your fingertips ghosting. Lingering. Your voice is soft. Almost like a child's again.

“We never did find that vending machine.”

The wind stirs in the trees like it remembers too.

“But you’d be happy to know,” you continue softly, “that your paintings found their way anyway.”

You smile faintly, fingers brushing a small chip in the edge of the stone like you could smooth it out. “It’s finally happening. Really. The gallery. Jungkook’s opening it today.”

You glance up toward the stone, as if you might catch his reaction.

“I told him we should. After I saw it—I mean really saw it—I couldn’t not share it with the world. And you know me. I don’t say things like that unless I mean them. I think… I think you’d be proud of how much care he put into it. How many nights he stayed up figuring out framing and lighting and titles. Gosh."

Your voice thickens around the word proud.

“He asked me what kind of wine you’d want served at the opening,” you add, with a shaky laugh. “I said you’d just tell people to bring root beer instead and call it a day.”

You look at the lilies now, at the way their petals fold gently inward. You try to imagine the sound of Minho’s laughter if he were here. Try to imagine the way he’d tease you for crying without making you feel like crying was wrong.

“It looks beautiful, Min min. The gallery. I think it would’ve made you shy. All those people showing up just for you. Can you imagine?”

You pause.

A crow calls from a nearby tree. A leaf skitters across the gravel.

“And something else,” you say softly. “I think I should tell you.”

It’s not a secret, not really. Just something unspoken for a long, long time. Something you’ve carried carefully, like glass.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” you admit, a dry laugh slipping out. “I mean, of course I wasn’t. It felt impossible. Like… crossing a bridge I shouldn’t have even been near. I can't even think of anything else to describe it to you."

The words take time. But you don’t rush them.

"The very first it was the the little bakery near the university with the good tarts. The museum with the terrible lighting but the softest benches. He even took me to that rooftop bar that used to give you vertigo—remember? "

You chuckle, covering your face briefly with your hand.

You shift your weight slightly, stretching your legs in front of you. A leaf lands on your boot.

“And then last week,” you continue, “he took me to this little Korean BBQ place in Hongdae. Said the meat was just okay, but the company made it worth it. We stayed until the restaurant closed. Walked along the river. He kissed me beside the railing. It was cold, and I couldn’t feel my fingers."

The place wasn’t fancy. People probably didn’t dress up for here dressed up or made reservations two weeks in advance. It had plastic chairs that wobbled slightly, walls lined with signed polaroids and grease-stained menus, and a sliding glass door that stuck every time someone tried to open it too quickly.

You ordered too much, of course. He insisted on the samgyeopsal, you picked the bulgogi, and somehow you ended up with three side dishes neither of you remembered asking for. The grill sizzled between you, soft smoke curling toward the ceiling vents, and Jungkook poured you a glass of water like it was part of an accent only he knew how to follow.

And there was something about watching him like that—hair pushed back, head slightly tilted, tongs in hand while he laid down the marinated strips of meat that made something alter inside you. Something small but sure.

Something you didn’t feel with the with the accountant who wouldn’t stop talking about NFTs. The guy who took you to a food truck but only ordered for himself.

A soft breath escapes you. “And it’s not the same. It’s not like it was with you. But it’s not different in the wrong ways either.”

You glance at the grave again, hands resting in your lap. Your heart hurts and swells at once.

“I think you’d understand,” you whisper.

And you do. In some strange, marrow-deep way, you believe it. That he would. That Minho, the boy who used to kiss the corners of your eyes and name his paint colors after inside jokes, would know what this meant. That he’d want this for you.

That he’d forgive you.

You reach for the lilies again, adjusting them so the stems don’t bend. Your eyes flick back to the stone.

“I still miss you,” you whisper. “I still love you.”

The breeze quiets again.

"And I still think you're the best friend I've ever had. That's why I needed to tell this this to you first."

Your fingers press gently to your lips, then down to the stone.

Who else would you tell other than the boy who had orchastered the definition of fairytale love for you? Who would you tell that you're starting to realize that he loves you? Maybe he had a for a long time now. And maybe you-

Bzzzt.

Your phone vibrated in your coat pocket.

The sound was soft, almost reluctant against the hush of the graveyard, like it too didn’t want to interrupt.

You blinked, pulled it out with chilled fingers, and read the message lit dimly on the screen.

[Dad:]

Sweetheart, we’re parked outside, still. Just checking if you’re ready.

You turned your head slightly and spotted the vague outline of your father’s car just beyond the gate, tucked in the corner of the lot. You could imagine your mother in the passenger seat, fingers wrapped around a thermos of tea, eyes scanning the trees while she waited with the scarf minho brought her two christmas ago, letting you have this moment uninterrupted.

They’re in town, of course. They always are, on this day.

It started the first year—when the pain was still red and raw and too large for your chest. Back then, you couldn’t eat, couldn’t speak without choking on the spaces where Minho should’ve been. Your parents had shown up with soup and chamomile tea and enough patience to outlast a storm. They stayed even when you didn’t speak for hours.

And every year since, they’ve found new ways to not let you be alone.

This day always makes them softer with you. Or maybe just more afraid of saying the wrong thing. Hovering a little closer. Speaking in quieter tones.

You sigh, brushing your thumb across the message. You don’t reply yet. Instead, you turn back toward the headstone, heart still soft and cracked wide open.You smile faintly.

“I should probably go.”

You reach down, sweeping a fallen petal from the edge of the stone.

“I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Tell you how it goes."

You gather your coat closer around your shoulders, standing slowly. Your knees creak from the cold stone bench, from sitting too long in one position. You stretch slightly, then glance once more at the flowers now clustered at the grave’s base.

The sky has begun to change—clouds pulling apart in slow, reluctant threads, letting in slivers of afternoon light. You press your fingers gently to the headstone one last time.

"Wish me luck, min min."

You imagine he does. Hands in his pockets. Smile tugging wide and lazy. Head tilted, like he knows you've got this.

Like he's urging you to go back to the part of the story where something finally begins.

You slipped into the backseat with a soft apology, the car door clicking shut behind you.

“Sorry,” you murmured, pulling your coat tighter around your shoulders. The fabric had gone cold against your skin, but the chill clinging to you wasn’t just from the graveyard. “I didn’t mean to keep you both waiting.”

Your mother turned in her seat, her eyes warm even beneath the slight crease of worry still lingering at her brow. “Don’t be silly,” she said gently, her hand reaching back to rest briefly on your knee, the kind of maternal touch that knew when to press and when to ease. “We figured you might want a few more minutes. We all do."

“We were just talking about how this town hasn’t changed a bit,” she added, shifting the topic without making a show of it.

“She was talking,” your father interjected from the driver’s seat, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I was checking the parking meter.”

“You were checking your watch and pretending it was the parking meter,” your mother teased.

“I was,” he insisted. “City’s always been eager to ticket people in parked cars.”

You let the cadence of their conversation fold around you, like the comfort of a familiar quilt. Safe. Worn soft with time. The kind of talk you’d heard all your life, in road trips and kitchens and walks through grocery aisles.

The engine kicked into motion, pulling you away from the graveyard slowly. You turned once in your seat, watching the wrought iron fence fade into the distance, your eyes lingering on the tree line long after it disappeared.

Outside, the town blurred past—branches heavy with the early promise of spring, cafés setting out mismatched chairs, signs swinging in the breeze like the sighs of old shopkeepers.

Your parents started talking about the café near the roundabout—how it had changed hands again, how the new owners apparently served matcha pancakes now, how the inside had been repainted a strange, charming blue. You listened with half an ear, forehead resting against the cool glass, hands folded in your lap.

Bzzt. Your phone made the same noise again.

[Jungkook]:

Are you on your way yet?

Missing you.

You typed back quickly, thumbs moving faster than your thoughts:

[You]:

On the way now. In the backseat with my parents. Be there soon.

He replied instantly like he was waiting with his phone in his hand.

[Jungkook]:

Good. See you.

You could picture him now—standing in the middle of the gallery in those dark slacks and a shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed as he scanned the placement of frames and fiddled with the lighting, making sure nothing was out of place. He’d probably refused help again. Probably hadn’t eaten yet. Probably had to be convinced into not polishing every glass display himself.

You scrolled up, letting your thumb drag slowly over the thread from this morning:

[Jungkook]:

Good morning, angel ❤️

[Y/N]:

Good morning 😊

[Jungkook]:

Did you eat?

[Y/N]:

Just coffee so far. Did you?

[Jungkook]:

Two bites of toast. Stress eating. Lights are temperamental again but I'll sort them out.

[You]:

Don't stress it too much, okay? And eat.

[Jungkook]:

Copy that, professor.

You had smiled when you read that. Still did. A quiet little curve of your lips you didn’t bother hiding. Then he had sent a photo—one of the larger canvases half-unwrapped, sunlight catching the ridges of Minho’s brushstrokes like gold embroidery.

[Jungkook]:

Look at this.

[Y/N]:

Looks so beautiful. Everyone's gonna love it. You've done so much.

The light turned red and your father hummed to the radio while your mother picked at invisible lint on her sleeve.

[Jungkook]:

I can come get you after you're done visiting the cemetery. Just say the word.

[You]:

It’s okay. My parents are in town. I’m coming with them.

You were still staring down at the screen when your mother spoke again.“You’ve looked miles away for the last five minutes. Who’s texting you?”

You didn’t look up from your phone, but you could hear the knowing in her voice. “Oh.. it's Jungkook.”

“Ah,” she said, like that explained everything.

“He’s there already, isn’t he?” Your father asked casually.

You nodded, surprised. “Yeah, he’s… there. He’s doing a lot.”

“He always did have a stubborn streak,” your dad added. “Good head on his shoulders though."

Your mother smiled to herself. “I remember how he used to follow Minho around. And it's so beautiful now that he’s carrying so much of him forward.”

You looked down at your lap, throat tightening. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “It is.”

The car turned left and began its slow crawl into a lane that was too familiar.

You sat straighter as the car slowed, heart pulling taut in your chest, held in place by something between magnetism and memory. You recognized the bend in the road before you saw the sign—the soft flicker of gold script in the window, the sharp white glow of the "Open" sign casting its light across the pavement.

Your mother leaned forward slightly. “Oh. We’re here.”

The tires crunched over the gravel as your father pulled into the side lot. There were already several cars here, clustered neatly in crooked rows—some you recognized, most you didn’t. The gallery looked different in this light. Not the mum, plagnent space Jungkook first brought you to, that secret place where ghosts had been allowed to breathe without interruption.

the same place pulsed now. Lived.

Soft warm light spilled out of the tall windows. Music, muffled by glass, carried on the wind in threads. A little cluster of people stood out front—hands curled around invitation slips, eyes lifted toward the lettering carved into the wooden sign overhead.

You inhaled slowly.

It was still the same place you saw a month ago.

But it had opened its doors.

People had come. People would see it. His art.

The same paintings that once cluttered the corners of your apartment. That leaned against your sofa while waiting to dry. That held pieces of him—his bursts of joy, his quiet grays, his wild blues. You wondered if anyone walking past those canvases today would feel it. Would know what it cost him to bare his soul in brushstrokes.

And what it cost you to let it go.

Your mother turned to you in her seat, her hand reaching for yours, gentle.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded before you even knew if it was true. “Yeah, eomma. I’m fine.”

Your father opened his door, stepping out and stretching a little. “We’ll head in first,” he said, not unkindly. “Give you a moment if you need it.”

You managed a grateful smile. “Thanks, appa.”

The doors shut gently behind them. And for a beat, you were alone in the car, staring at the front doors of a dream made real.

Minho should be here.

That thought burned sudden and sharp and then softened into something acheful and wide. No. If love made ghosts, he’d be here already.

You reached for your bag, tugging out your compact mirror. You checked your eyes, smoothed your mouth, and whispered something into your reflection you didn’t quite hear yourself.

You abode in the stillness of the car for a few more seconds.

The engine long silenced. The peal of your parents’ voices faded into the low thrum of background music filtering through the gallery windows, the kind that belonged to wine glasses and quiet awe. The kind you imagined would play behind moments people would remember long after they forgot the taste of the wine or the exact words said.

You stored at the open doors. Arms stretched out. Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to move.Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, tracing the stitching of your coat. The sleeves of your blouse itched slightly at the wrists where your nerves collected like water pooling before a storm. You weren’t sure why your hands trembled. Maybe it was the anticipation. Maybe it was memory. Whatever it was, you had to brush past it.

You finally opened the door.

The wind greeted you with the breath of spring—soft, cool, perfumed faintly by something blooming just out of sight. The air kissed your cheeks, lifted the ends of your coat, and whispered welcome in a language only the brave know how to answer.

Your boots landed on the pavement. One step after the another. surely you remember the movement. there's only so much a day can take away from you.

The closer you walked to the entrance, the quieter the outside world became. The street behind you faded. The city paused if it could even do that. All you could hear now was the creak of wood beneath your feet as you stepped through the front doors, the soft closing of them behind you.

You found yourself in the hallway.

Long. Polished. Narrow in the way old corridors are. lit warmly with sconces that cast golden glows on textured walls. The murmur of voices came from farther in, down toward the gallery proper. That’s where everyone must be. You imagined them standing in front of the paintings, glasses of wine held loosely, their faces tilted upward in soft admiration, eyes wet in that quiet way art sometimes invited. People standing in front of Minho’s canvases and murmured things like "alive" and "honest" and "brilliant" without ever knowing the sound of his laughter.

But this hallway was empty. Or you thought it was.

You had just reached the halfway point—right where the hallway curved inward—when arms slipped around your waist from behind.

A gasp left you before your body remembered the shape of his.The scent of cedar, lavender soap, and faint varnish clung to him like an afterthought. His arms locked around you with the ease of practice but the fervor of something still new, and for a moment, the world dipped, rearranged itself around this one small plantery motion.

“There you are,” Jungkook murmured, voice rough against your ear.

You turned in his arms, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt like they’d always known how. His sleeves were rolled, just as you imagined, the fine lines of stress still etched around his brow.

His eyes met yours.

And something in your chest loosened.

"Were you looking for me?" you asked quietly.

He replied just as. "I'm always looking for you, angel." There was no flourish in the way he said it. Your breath hitched, a tiniest of movement and Jungkook watched the subtle shift of your expression like a ripple breaking the surface of water.

Gods, he thought, how could he not?

Even now, here, when there was so much else demanding his attention—guests arriving in waves, wine being poured, lights flickering again in the east wing. And still, in every room he walked into, in every face he passed, he found himself searching.

It was ridiculous, really. The way his eyes would scan the corners of the gallery and mistake someone’s hair, the tilt of a shoulder, the sound of your laugh echoing in his head like phantom static. The way his pulse leapt anytime the door opened. The way he felt incomplete if he couldn't place you in the room.

And now you were here. And the world had stitched itself back together.

You didn’t speak at first.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because your heart felt like it was still catching up after it had been walking this hallway too, trying to find its way to him.

“Well, you're the host. I'm sure you must be needed elsewhere too.” you whispered, reaching to smooth the edge of his collar.

Jungkook shook his head gently. “I'm exactly where I want to be.” His hands tightened just slightly at your waist.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Really okay?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “Now I am.”

He held your gaze for another moment, then dipped his head forward, just enough to press his lips to your forehead, his hands resting warm by your side. The world dimmed in that moment—just the two of you, suspended in quiet, his breath a soft punctuation at the crown of your head. But even as warmth bloomed beneath your ribs, there was a tight, pulsing thread of awareness that curled around your spine.

You stole a glance over Jungkook’s shoulder, eyes flickering to the curve of the hallway behind him—the doorway just around the corner where voices hummed, where glasses clinked, where footsteps could echo down the tile at any moment. Anyone could walk past. People with eyes and mouths and memories. Guests who knew your name. Friends of Minho’s. Colleagues. Distant family.

Anyone could turn the corner and see this—see him with you like this, your bodies tucked into each other. Your hand clenched softly into the fabric at his side. The paranoia was subtle, but it was real. It had crept in somewhere between the second kiss and the third hidden touch.

The thought made you tense, just slightly. He felt it.

“Baby.” Jungkook said, voice low, his hand drifting to the small of your back. “It’s just us.”

“Yeah, but…” Your voice trailed, lips brushing the fabric near his collarbone, your fingers curling into the cotton at his chest. “Someone might come.”

His eyes softened, though there was something that tightened at the corners giving way to a flicker of frustration he didn’t bother to hide. Not at you, obviously. He does'nt think he's capable of ever directing that at you. But at the way the world demanded so much of your caution, your retreat.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "I promise. No one will."

The words curled in your ears, low and purposeful, like he’d carved them for just you. His hand slid up your back, a warm, steady line from your waist to your shoulder. You hated that you thought that they kinda do. You hated the need for shadows and how it has been shaping your frustration. How it has been shaping it in a circle so big you couldn’t tell where it started anymore. Only that it kept coming back. That it always ended with your pulse too loud in your ears and your eyes darting over your shoulder. Like what you were committing to didn’t deserve a place in the daylight.

You have also started eliminating even the possibility of the thought that it maybe didn't. Still, the guilt was no longer clean. It was clouded now, smeared at the edges with longing and the slow, terrible truth that what you had with Jungkook didn’t feel borrowed. It didn’t feel like a thing you could press back into a drawer once the moment was gone. It was the impossibility of compartmentalizing love.

Because how do you mourn someone and move toward someone else, all in the same breath? How do you walk through a gallery built from one man’s art only to fall into the arms of the man who framed it all?

It felt like it had grown roots.

And the more you buried it, the more it pulled at you.

You looked at him now—really looked. His brow furrowed slightly, not from worry but from effort. Like he was thinking, measuring, holding back the words that always swam just below the surface when you were this close.

Instead of saying any of the things tugging at the threads of your mouth, you stepped back just enough to feel the air slip between your bodies. Not far. Just enough for your hand to find his.

His fingers curled around yours instinctively. Always ready.

You looked up at him. “Is it crowded in there?”

"A little." He said. "Some of our colleagues. A few critiques."

You nodded again, absorbing that.

"None of them need to matter, yeah?" he added, searching your face, thumb skimming just beneath your eye. His next words were gentler.

You looked up then, caught the sincerity in his eyes, fought the urge to lean into his touch. Managed another nod. "Yeah...Can we stay a minute more?" The latter come out smaller than you would have expected.

“Take your time,” he nodded. "They can all wait."

You didn’t dare think about the look on his face when he had to let go of your fingers fitted around his after you said you were ready. He only offered a squeeze to your fingers and then let go with a kind of quiet reluctance, like pulling his hand out of warm water. The touch lingered, even as you stepped aside to let him lead the way. You rounded the curve of the hallway together, the voices sharpening in clarity now, glass clinking against glass, the soft rustle of shoes on polished tile growing louder until the threshold broke open and the gallery revealed itself in full.

It was no longer the dim, sacred place. It breathed differently now. Alive with soft light and the lull of conversation, with coats slung over arms and programs curled in curious fingers. Warm gold spilled from fixtures in the ceiling, catching on frames that lined the walls like punctuation. Artwork stretching in long, thoughtful rows, each canvas dressed in celebration. Of someone's unfinished story? you doubted it cared.

You stood still for a moment, toes just brushing the edge of the gallery’s threshold, eyes skimming the room as your body remembered how to belong to this space. The floors had been polished to a mirror shine. Glasses reflected in the glass cases. Someone was laughing softly by the front corner near the sculpture series.Others stood near the windows, wine glasses held delicately, murmuring words like “devastating,” “formidable,” “alive.” It wasn’t performative in a sense that you made up in your head. At least not all of it. You recognized a few of them—students, former professors, one woman who had once hosted Minho’s university exhibit and had cried at his brushwork.

You darted your gaze to Jungkook then. The way he walked just ahead of you now, poised and solid in his dark dress shirt and pressed slacks, shoulders straight, head slightly tilted to catch bits of conversation from passing guests. He looked composed. You assumed or you'd like to think so that he only bared his nerves in front of you. As if the man who used to flinch at compliments and pretend his silence was indifference had taught himself to carry meaning with quiet precision.

But then a man stepped into his path. Tall, suited, carrying a drink and the kind of posture that belonged to someone who used the word “impressionist” a little too often. His smile was sharp and familiar, one of Jungkook’s gallery donors or colleagues, you assumed. Maybe from Seoul. Maybe further. Either way, it took only a moment for you to read the shift in Jungkook’s expression—the subtle recalibration of his shoulders.

He turned to you before the man could fully pull him into conversation, fingers brushing your wrist in a barely-there promise. “I won’t be long.”

You nodded, already letting go. “Of course,” you whispered, because it was all you could offer right now, and maybe all he needed.

The man clapped Jungkook on the shoulder and pulled him aside, voice too loud and smile too bright. You watched them for half a moment—Jungkook answering politely, gaze flickering every so often in your direction like a thread trying not to fray before you eased yourself into the soft tide of the room, letting the current pull you away.

You moved carefully, politely. Like someone trying not to be noticed but still present enough not to be rude. You paused by a small table draped in navy linen, where empty glasses sat beside a quiet arrangement of baby’s breath and ranunculus. Someone offered you a flute of sparkling wine, and you accepted with a quiet smile.

You turned toward one of the walls, drawn in by a piece you hadn’t seen before; one of the mid-sized ones, full of green and amber and soft streaks of silver. The color didn’t move, it shimmered. Softly. Like someone had taken the feeling of being loved quietly and turned it into oil and canvas.

The placard below it simply read:

“Until Then.”

Minho’s signature curled in the corner, the same familiar scrawl you’d once watched him sign onto birthday cards and tax forms and the back of the fridge note that read don’t drink the milk, I’m trying to paint with it.

You had just rounded the sculpture wing—Minho’s smallest works, done in smoothed resin and wire, quiet things that bloomed under light like secrets left in the sun—when you spotted her.

Your mother, standing near the northern alcove, a glass of wine untouched in her hand, fingers curled gently around the stem like she was trying not to leave prints. She looked beautiful beneath the high arch of the window, her coat tucked neatly at her elbow, hair pinned like it always had been like she hadn’t aged a day past the first time she walked into your kindergarten recital.

You slipped beside her, your hand brushing her arm in greeting.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

She turned, her face lighting up with that familiar mix of joy and worry, the kind only a mother could balance so well. “Here you are. I was wondering if you’d gotten swallowed by the hallway.”

“Almost,” you said, managing a faint smile. “But I escaped.”

"where's dad?" you added. 'making friends I think."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice laced into the air from behind.

"Found you."

Mrs. Jeon stood a few feet away, her posture regal even beneath the soft, flattering lights. She wore navy silk—understated but elegant—and her hair was pinned in place with simple pearl combs. Always the portrait of grace, always the kind of woman who held her sorrow like a folded note in the corner of her purse: private, creased, but always within reach. of her, atleast.

Her smile, though, was real. It warmed as she drew nearer.

"Mom." You muttered in muscle memory.“I was hoping to catch you before the crowd did,” she said, pulling you in for a quick, maternal sort of hug. “You look lovely.”

“So do you,” you said honestly, letting yourself be held for the brief second she allowed.

"You look exactly the same, you witch. Do you age backwards?”

Mrs. Jeon turned at the sound of the voice she hadn’t heard in a while—one that still carried the same quiet humor, tinged with a touch of fond exasperation. Her eyes widened slightly before softening, and her expression brightened into something looser, something more like the woman she might’ve been before grief gave her bones new weight.

“Oh, look who’s talking,” she replied with a smile, already moving forward. “Still glowing like you’ve got a secret no one else knows.”

Your mother laughed as they embraced, arms curling gently around each other’s shoulders in a way that spoke of familiarity—of years stitched loosely together with holiday dinners and shared glances from opposite ends of the table.

“It’s been so long,” your mother murmured as they pulled apart. “I’m sorry it took something like this.”

Mrs. Jeon shook her head, brushing it off with a small wave of her hand. “Don’t be. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

"It's been a long time still. When was even the last time we saw each other properly?"

Mrs. Jeon tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Hmm—wait, there was that awful fundraiser for the community garden. The one where everyone got food poisoning from the shrimp cocktail.”

Your mother gasped. “That’s right! I completely forgot about that.” Her eyes glittered with the memory. The laugh that followed was lighter than you expected it to be. “We left early and went to get hotteok from that little cart in the alley.”

“We did,” Mrs. Jeon smiled, and something softened in her gaze, her fingers brushing absently over the pearl comb in her hair. “You know, I don’t think I’ve had hotteok since.”

For a moment, it was easy to forget the reason for this gathering. Easy to forget the weight of what this day had always meant.

These were two women who had held time in their hands and offered it gently to each other across decades. You saw it now, plain as anything—in the crinkle of their eyes, in their voices when they leaned closer, speaking not just as in-laws, but as women who had once, maybe still, shared the same kind of heartbreak no parent should have to.

“Has he come?” your mother asked softly, her tone shifting as she scanned the room briefly, no longer talking about students or fashion or time but of something more specific.

Mrs. Jeon’s expression softened, her posture stilling in that way you’d learned to recognize—when something trembled just beneath the grace. She shook her head once. "No." she said, smoothing her hand down the front of her skirt. “He wanted to come. Really, he did. But I guess he had to sit this one out." She passed you a apologetic look and you nodded in reassurance.

Your mother didn’t press either. She simply nodded, and her hand found Mrs. Jeon’s again—a squeeze, not meant to comfort so much as to acknowledge. To say, I know.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she added, turning to you, her hand squeezing your elbow briefly. “I know today couldn’t have been easy.”

"Makes the two of us, mom." You said with crinkle of your eye that earned a acknowledging smile from her.

Reaching out to adjust the collar of your coat like it was second nature, she added. “He’d be proud of you, you know. Both of you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond to that with anything other than a quiet, "I hope so."

She let out a breath, slow and steady. “Oh, my dear. He would.”

And then, like all good women who’ve loved and lost and laughed too hard in small corners of too-large rooms, they both smiled again.

Then Mrs. Jeon tucked her arm into your mother’s. “Come on,” she said with a small lift of her chin. “You’ve got to tell me where you found that skirt. And I need wine before I start tearing up in front of a painting again.”

"Oh I've been out of loop for years. I've got to." Your mother said and offered a hand to you. "Would you like to join us, love?"

“You should.I have stories,” Mrs. Jeon promised, and you smiled. "You two should go. I'm gonna look around a bit and try to find Mira. She's here, right?"

“Oh, I saw her by the impressionist wall earlier,” Mrs. Jeon said, glancing over her shoulder. “She looked like she was interrogating someone about varnish techniques.”

“That sounds about right,” you replied with a smile. “I’ll catch up with you both in a bit.”

They nodded, already slipping back into their quiet conversation, and you watched the two of them disappear into the soft murmur of the gallery, heads tilted together like old friends caught mid-thread. You turned then, letting yourself exhale fully for what felt like the first time since you stepped through the door.

A cello murmured somewhere over the speakers, curling between the talking here and there, and the lights glowed honey-gold against the soft canvas walls. Every corner of the room breathed with pigment. you could'nt stop noticing that.

You wandered.

Your boots tread lightly over the polished floor, hands tucked loosely in front of you, eyes scanning the crowd—pausing now and then at paintings you remembered in their messier stages: taped along the kitchen wall, hanging crooked behind your sofa, still smelling of linseed and dust. It was surreal, this setting—so curated, so clean—when you remembered the life that birthed the art was anything but.

You caught a flash of Mira’s hair through the crowd, that soft copper tone that always helped you find her in a room. You lifted a hand slightly, already beginning to weave your way toward her. But before you could call out or lift a hand in greeting, someone stepped into your periphery.

“Excuse me—are you…?”

The voice was tentative, warm with a kind of hesitant reverence. You turned, expecting perhaps one of the donors or a distant family friend, only to find a young man—tall, soft-eyed, and maybe just a little older than Minho had been when he first started teaching.

He looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t place him immediately. He stood with a kind of earnestness that was hard to fake, his hands clasped in front of him, suit slightly rumpled like he’d run here from the train.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, offering an apologetic smile. “You probably don’t remember me. I was one of...uh..your husband's students.”

Something gentle shifted in your chest.

“I… didn’t want to intrude,” he added. “But when I saw you, I thought—well, I hoped I could say hello.”

Your throat tightened. You tilted your head and smiled softly, gesturing toward a nearby bench nestled between two hanging pieces—one of them a landscape Minho had once painted after a rainy drive through the mountains. “You’re not intruding,” you said. “Do you wanna sit?"

He seemed almost surprised at the offer, but nodded. You watched him ease into the seat beside you, clearly trying not to take up too much space.

“What’s your name?” you asked gently.

“Jihoon,” he said. “Lee Jihoon. I took one of his electives in my final year. Painting, beginner’s level. I was…awful at it.”

You laughed quietly, a real sound. “He’d argue there’s no such thing.”

“That’s exactly what he used to say.” Jihoon grinned. “Said ‘awful’ just meant you had somewhere to go. I always remembered that.”

There was a pause, full but comfortable.

“I didn’t really know him that well,” Jihoon admitted, his voice softening. “But he remembered my name. Every single week. Asked about my projects. My mood. Even told me once that the colors I picked made him think I saw the world kindly.”

You blinked.

“Not a lot of people say things like that,” Jihoon murmured. “Especially to someone like me. I was a chemistry major—out of place, anxious, tired. Had no idea what I was doing with my life. Until I came across his class, of course."

“That’s so beautiful, Jihoon." you said, the words catching slightly on the edge of your breath. “He always did have a gift for reminding people of their light.”

Jihoon nodded. “I don’t paint anymore. But I kept the last thing I made in that class. Just a mess of color on canvas, really. But sometimes I look at it and think—he saw something in it I didn’t.”

You smiled, blinking against the warmth flooding your eyes. “He had a habit of doing that.”

Another beat passed. The murmur of the gallery swelled around you like background music scored too gently for something so profound.

Jihoon looked over at you, his expression shifting into something fragile, more careful. “I’m really glad I got to meet you,” he said. “I don’t think he ever stopped talking about you in that class. Said if we ever wanted to get him any snacks, bring lemon bars." His face lit up with a quiet smile. “He said you liked lemon better than chocolate.”

You nodded, stunned by how clear the memory was now that it had been stirred. “I did.”

“Still do?”

You lifted a shoulder, the corner of your mouth tilting upward. “Some things never change.”

Jihoon smiled at that—wide and boyish. "That's nice to know." It was gentle, the way his presence sat beside you—like he wasn’t just honoring Minho, but also everything that had grown from knowing him.

Then Jihoon exhaled, slow and almost awed, eyes drifting back across the expanse of the gallery, gaze moving reverently from frame to frame, like each canvas demanded a certain kind of silence. “This gallery… it’s really something. And it’s a beautiful thing you’ve done, putting this together.”

Your heart flinched at that—touched, yes, but instinctively you shook your head.

“Oh—no. It wasn’t me.” You paused, glancing toward the crowd again. Your gaze moved past familiar faces, past wine glasses and framed brushstrokes, until it landed on the person you had, without realizing, been looking for since Jihoon sat down.

He stood just a few feet away, near the long window where the light curved in golden arcs across the floor. He was finishing a quiet exchange with someone in a charcoal suit—one of the critics, you guessed, or perhaps a gallery curator. His posture was easy but alert, as if one part of him remained in every corner of the room at once. His sleeves were still rolled, his collar slightly unbuttoned, and you could tell just by the slight shift of his brow that he was already scanning the crowd for you again.

Of course he was.

You raised a hand and waved, catching his eye. His face lit up—not in a bright, extravagant way, but in the way only people who’d been waiting to breathe could look when they finally did.

He made his way over without hesitation.

You turned back to Jihoon as Jungkook approached, gesturing gently. “That’s who did this,” you said. “That’s Minho’s younger brother. Jeon Jungkook. He’s the one who made all this happen.”

Jihoon blinked, clearly surprised. “That’s his brother? I didn’t know he had one.”

“Not many did,” you murmured. “They were close. Complicated. But close.”

Jungkook reached your side just then, eyes flicking briefly from you to Jihoon before settling somewhere in between—calm, but attentive.

“Hey,” he said to you, his voice a quiet tether. "Everything okay?"

You smiled. “Yeah. Jungkook, this is Jihoon."

Jihoon stood up immediately, offering his hand. “Lee Jihoon, sir. I was one of Minho’s students—back in my undergrad days.”

Jungkook took the hand, gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Jihoon. I'm Jungkook."

“You too. I was just telling ma'am…” Jihoon glanced toward the paintings on the wall, his expression shifting to something a little more awed, a little more raw. “This place is really special. You’ve honored him in a way that… well, I think he would’ve loved it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly, but his nod was deep. “He gave us so much,” he said. “This was just… the least I could do. Thank you for coming."

You watched as they stood there, just the two of them for a moment—two people connected only through love for the same person. Different kinds of love. Different shapes. But still, deeply rooted in retention, in ache, in admiration.

Jihoon dwelled for a moment after the handshake, shifting slightly from foot to foot like there was something else he was holding on to, something not yet said. His eyes moved once more over the room—past the guests murmuring quietly before landscapes of borrowed light and rain-drenched rooftops, past the gleam of gallery sconces and the soft ripple of music weaving beneath it all. Then he turned back to you, gaze steadied by something freshly lit.

“Would it be alright,” he asked, voice tentative, “if we—if someone made a toast?”

You blinked at him, surprised.

Jihoon cleared his throat, not quite sheepish, but aware of the weight of what he was suggesting. “I know it’s not that kind of event,” he continued, “and maybe this is out of turn, but… it just feels like we should. I mean—everyone here came because they loved him. Or learned from him. Or knew someone who did. I feel like he deserves that much.”

You were quiet a moment, absorbing that. Your fingers brushed against the hem of your sleeve. Behind you, Jungkook stayed still, close but not pushing. Letting you hold this decision.

Then you smiled—softly, achingly—and looked to Jihoon. “I think he would’ve liked that.”

Jihoon let out a small breath, and for the first time since he introduced himself, his shoulders eased.

Jungkook stepped in then, his voice low as he looked between you both. “Let me get someone to quiet the room.” His hand grazed your lower back briefly before disappearing again as he made his way toward the center of the gallery, where the natural dip in sound could be coaxed into pause.

You and Jihoon watched him go.

Jihoon straightened, cheeks slightly flushed, suddenly shy. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to overstep. It was just a thought.”

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, reaching to squeeze his wrist with a gentle, grateful hand. “It was a good one.”

The lights dimmed ever so slightly in a way that pulled attention without demanding it. Conversations tapered. A curator tapped gently against the side of her glass. Heads turned.

Jihoon glanced at you again, seeking silent permission.

You gave a small nod.

And then he stepped forward, clearing his throat once. “Hi,” he said, voice steadier than you’d expected. “Sorry to interrupt.”

The small squleche that followed was expectant—not cold. Rather, waiting.

“My name’s Jihoon,” he continued, “and I was one of Professor Jeon’s students. I didn’t know him as well as some of you might have. But I think—I think that’s what made him so special. You didn’t have to know him long to feel like you did.”

A few murmurs of agreement. A rustle of someone dabbing their eye with a tissue.

“He taught one class,” Jihoon said, “and I carried the things he said with me for years after. He made you believe you were capable of softness. Of seeing the world differently. Of being part of something even when you didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere.”

You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of your eyes.

Jihoon looked down, then back up again. “So if no one minds, I’d like to raise a glass. To Professor Jeon Minho. For all the ways he made us see color in places we didn’t know to look.”

There was a quiet chorus of glasses being lifted.

“To Minho,” Jihoon said.

“To Minho,” came the soft, scattered reply.

There was a sereness after Jihoon’s final words. Not silence, exactly—but the kind of quiet that settles after something sacred has been said aloud. For one suspended moment, all you could hear was the soft creak of someone adjusting their stance, the distant clink of a glass set gently onto a tray. A man nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the frame nearest him—one of the softer pieces, all dusk and ripple.

And Jihoon just stood there, blinking slowly, like he was still surfacing from whatever place inside him those words had come from. And when he turned toward you, there was something unreadable in his expression. Not pressure. Not expectation.

Just… offering.

He held it out—gentle, like it might break if he wasn’t careful.

“Would you…?” he asked, voice low. “I mean—you don’t have to. But if anyone should…”

Your breath left you all at once.

A soft, dizzying rush.

As if the floor tilted beneath your shoes, and suddenly you were thirteen again, being called up to the front of a school assembly. Your palms itched. The back of your knees tensed. Your first instinct—your strongest—was to shake your head. To step away. To dissolve into the crowd and pretend you were just another guest, just another echo of Minho’s story, not the one who shared the ending.

You hadn’t spoken about him like this. Not out loud. Not in public. Not since—

Not since the funeral.

And even then, the words had been written on a crumpled sheet of notebook paper you never managed to unfold.

You swallowed, blinking past the sudden blur in your vision.

The gallery was full. Packed. Shoulders bumped. Wine was held, not sipped. People who knew you only in tangents were watching now—waiting, not rudely, but with a kind of esteem that made the room feel tighter than it was. Their gazes weren't demanding. But they were present. And that was somehow worse.

Your feet didn’t move.

Your spine stiffened instinctively, not out of pride, but fear. Fear that your mouth would open and nothing would come out. That your voice would catch on the years you spent trying to say his name without crumbling. That they would all look at you and see not a woman still grieving—but a woman trying too hard to prove she still was.

Jihoon seemed to realize it too late.

His hand faltered slightly, his brows lifting in the smallest, guilty apology.

You inhaled through your nose, sharp and steady, the sound of your own breath loud in your ears. Your heart was racing. Thundering. The edges of the room blurred just slightly, like the light had leaned in too far.

This wasn’t how you imagined tonight.

You didn’t imagine standing beneath spotlights with every gaze tipped toward you like glass waiting to crack. You didn’t imagine saying Minho's name aloud in a room full of strangers who only knew the brushstrokes, not the man.

He was yours once. That memory still felt private. Sacred. Could you really put it on display like this? Wasn’t the art enough?

Your eyes darted to the floor. To your palms. To anything but the sudden attention.

And you thought—how does one speak about a person who once turned their love into art and left you with the aftermath of their absence? How does a person speak of someone who still walks the halls of their memory like the floorboards remember his weight?

But eventually, the words would come. And they would be something like: Tentative. Threadbare. But real.

“Hi,” you'd say the word small, too soft for the space at first. You cleared your throat gently. “Um. Sorry. I—I wasn’t planning to speak tonight.”

That would get a quiet laugh from someone.

“Minho wasn’t someone you really planned things with, either,” you'd add, your lips pulling into the barest shape of a smile. “He was… spontaneous. Kind of a whirlwind, honestly. He’d forget his keys three days in a row, but remember a stranger’s birthday after overhearing it in a coffee shop.”

The room would shift slightly—leaning in.

You took a breath. Let it settle.

“My husband wasn’t just a man who painted,” you said. “He was someone who watched the world the way some people listen to music. Closely. Devotionally. He noticed things most people didn't. Messy things. Especially those, I think."

You'd managed a laugh, more breath than sound. And you'd admit, for the first time out loud that grief is messy. It’s changed shape every day. Some days it’s a stone. Some days it’s a fog. Some days it’s a balloon with a string you can’t catch.

You'd pause and you'd tell yourself it's obviously not for dramatic effect. "But tonight is different. Because of all of you. Because you came."

You looked out then, gaze landing softly on Jihoon, on your mother, on Mira’s coppery hair now stilled in the far corner. You saw faces that had once lived only on the edges of memory, now lit by gallery lamps and the weight of shared knowing.

Your eyes, though painted a picture perfect of one man alone in the crown. Found comfort when they found him only.

Standing just behind the crowd now. His hands folded calmly. His head tilted, watching you like you were the only voice in the world. And maybe, for him, you were.

"And this was possible only because of one person."

Your voice would shake—just a little. But not from fear now.

“This was made possible by someone who loved him too. Someone who saw what he meant, not just to me, but to the world. Someone who held my hand when I thought I’d never feel anything but the absence. Someone who…” A unconscious smike would tug at your lips—tired, grateful, breaking gently at the edges. “Who also happens to be my boyfriend.”

And that's the thing about adrenaline.

"Thank you, Jungkook."

Or maybe it was longing, maybe it was just exhaustion wearing a braver face. Maybe it was the ache of having stood on a ledge for so long that when your foot finally moved forward, you mistook the fall for flight.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It had curled out of your mouth before you even registered the gravity of it, like a word said often in thought but never aloud. A word with teeth and color and something terrifyingly irreversible to it. A word that had lived only in backseat glances and unspoken tendernesses, in private touches and the quietness of shared nights.

And for a moment, everything inside of you would go still.

You'd wait—rigid, breath tucked in your chest—for the ripple of it. For someone to count the months, do the math, raise an invisible hand and say what you’ve been saying to yourself every night. The inevitable shift. The stiffened gazes. The whisper sliding across someone’s tongue like a question dressed up in disapproval before they decided how to create into the dirtiest scandle.

No collective sound of gasps would come but the silence would skin you down anyways. It would echo in your blood like something impossible to take back, something that forced you to run from everyone.

You locked the stall door behind you with trembling fingers.

The click of the latch echoed too loudly in the tiled silence, as if the world wanted you to know—yes, you were alone now. Yes, you had done that. Yes, you had said it. Out loud. In a room full of Minho's memories and the people who used to call you his.

You braced your hands against the walls of the stall, palms flat against the cold tile, eyes squeezed shut.

Your breath came shallow.

God.

You were so stupid.

It played again in your head—your voice, too soft and yet entirely too clear, threading through the quell of the gallery like silk cut on glass.

Boyfriend.

You had said boyfriend.

You had said Jungkook’s name and attached boyfriend.

And though none of the terrible things you thought in your head made it out loud, silence, when it’s thick enough, is just another kind of thunder. And now it was echoing between your ribs like a bell toll.

You sank down onto the toilet lid, coat bunched beneath you, elbows on knees, forehead in your hands. Your fingers against your temples like you could keep the shame from spilling further down your face.

What had you done?

You could still feel the phantom warmth of the spotlight on your face. The taste of exhilaration clung to the back of your tongue, sharp and coppery, like you’d bitten into a secret and couldn’t spit it out fast enough.

Why hadn’t you stopped yourself?

Knowing everyone who had been there. Your parents were probably standing near the back, holding a flute of wine with both hands like they always did when trying not to look worried. fingers curled too tight, probably, lips pursesd in a expression you would recognize too well.

And Mrs. Jeon. God.

What must she be thinking?

You had loved her son. Loved him through every phase of boyhood and manhood and married years. You’d sat across from her at too many dinners to count, brought her lemon cakes on Sundays, once helped her fix her shoe in the middle of the grocery store.

And now she’d watched you turn toward the brother. Heard you name him something tender. Watched you stitch that word between your anguish and your present like you hadn’t torn anything in the process.

You had handled it fine up until then. You’d spoken about Minho. You had kept your voice steady, even when your hands had trembled. You had said the hard things—the soft things. The beautiful things. But that one word had been too much. Too fast. Too soon.

Why did you always go too far when it came to him?

And worse—why hadn’t he stopped you?

Why hadn’t he looked away when you’d looked at him?

Why had he stood there, taking it, breathing it, accepting the title like he’d been waiting for it all along?

You had thrown him into the light. You’d stepped outside the one rule you’d both kept tucked beneath your skin since this thing started.

You were so stupid.

You'd undone months of silence in one breath.

And you hated yourself for the part of you that didn't want to take it back.

Because that was the cruelest truth tucked beneath your chagrin. The real reason your stomach twisted and your heart beat so wildly it felt bruised from the inside out that maybe you hadn’t meant to say it. But you had meant it.

And now you couldn’t hide from either.

Did they think you moved on too quickly?

That you had let love grow again in the ruins?

You had wanted so badly for tonight to be about Minho.

About the way he painted loneliness like it was light filtering through stained glass. About the way he had lived—not just the way he had left.

And instead, you had made it about yourself.

About you and Jungkook and the impossible thing that bloomed between the wreckage.

You could already imagine it. The murmurs. Soft as oil and sharp as glass.

“Did you know?”

“So soon?”

“Well, he was her brother-in-law…”

Your hands curled into fists against your knees. You hated that you could hear them before they spoke. Hated even more that a part of you feared they were right. That some version of yourself had always been selfish enough to want to be held again, even if it came in a contours you weren’t supposed to take comfort in.

Even if it wore your husband’s last name.

You pressed your forehead to your palms and breathed in through your nose, sharp and careful.

You didn’t know how longer it would take for your breath to even out or more importantly, how long will it before you find the courage to step inside, face everyone.

Time slowed in the tile-slick silence. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, thudding out some rhythm of regret. Beneath the thin fabric of your blouse, sweat cooled over your spine, a second skin of discomfort. Your coat, wrinkled beneath you, smelled faintly of rosewater and nerves.

You stared at the hinge of the stall door like it might open on its own. Like someone would find you here and drag you gently into sense, or kindness, or forgetting.

But no one did.

Not for a while.

Not till there was a knock.

You froze instantly.

Just one. Light. Then another, softer this time, like maybe they realized what this was. A retreat. A rupture even.

You opened your mouth, voice caught in the wires of your throat, about to say—occupied—or sorry—or please go—but the voice that came next was not one you expected.

“Sweetheart?”

You blinked.

Your spine went taut, then loose, as if the air itself sighed through your bones. You pressed your palms flat against the stall wall again, steadying yourself against the name.

Not Jungkook’s. Not your mother’s.

Mrs Jeon. Oh Jesus.

You closed your eyes.

Her voice didn’t come again, but you heard the gentle scuff of her heel shift just once, as if she didn’t need to knock again. As if she already knew you were on the other side, already knew what you were doing in there. As if she had once stood exactly where you were, though not in a gallery bathroom, not in navy silk, but somewhere private and full of guilt of her own.

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t tap her fingers against the wood or call your name again like some well-meaning warning.

Just asked for confirmation. "Are you in there?"

You lowered your hands slowly, tears unshed but dangerously close, and stared at the small strip of her shadow beneath the stall.

You wanted to bolt.

You wanted to speak.

You wanted to rewind time.

Instead you dared again and answered. "Yes."

Your voice ragged and small cracked through the silence like a thread fraying loose again.

“…Did you hear it?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes.”

Your stomach flipped.

Another breath drew.

“Do you think less of me now?”

It took her a moment. But when she answered, it was without hesitation.

“No.”

She didn’t say it’s okay. She didn’t say I understand. She didn’t reach for platitudes or soft versions of a dejection you both carried like broken mirrors. She simply answered what you’d asked. Somehow that was what made your throat cave in.

“I was twenty-four,” she said, almost conversationally. “When I said something like that."

You blinked.

“It was a dinner party. The first one I attended. I said it too easily. Laughed like it meant nothing. But it did.”

Another pause. Then:

“I threw up in the bathroom afterward. Swore I’d never go to another dinner again.”

You felt your lips twitch—wet with something like a laugh, but broken at the edges.

“Did you go to another one?”

She hummed softly. “Eventually. You do things again. Not because you stop feeling, but because feeling changes. Becomes something you live with, not something you live inside.”

The silence that followed didn’t hurt the same way anymore.

When she spoke again, her voice was nearer to the door, like she had leaned just slightly in.

“Come out when you’re ready, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

Then her heels clicked softly against the tile, retreating with the same grace she always wore.

And for the first time since stepping into the bathroom, your breath moved all the way through your chest.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there after her footsteps faded.

A minute? Five? The kind of silence that doesn't tick, but swells. It filled the corners of the room, the hollow just beneath your ribs. You listened to it. To your breathing. To the subtle shift of water in the pipes behind the wall. You focused on the small things, the mundane ones—just long enough to believe the larger ones might not crush you once you stood.

Eventually, your knees cracked softly as you rose.

Your coat shifted around your hips. Your hands reached for the lock. A breath before the click. Another after. You opened the door slowly, stepped into the stillness of the restroom like someone learning how to inhabit her own skin again.

The light outside the stall was unforgiving, but Mrs. Jeon was not.

She stood a few steps away, hands folded gently in front of her, her shoulders soft with patience. And when her eyes met yours, she didn’t search your face for shame or answers.

She only opened her arms.

And you stepped in like a child too old to be held, but still needing to be.

The smell of her perfume—something floral and faintly spiced—wrapped around you like memory. Her arms didn’t grip. They gathered. And somehow, the simple weight of that embrace unspooled something inside your chest that panic hadn’t quite broken yet.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean any of it. I swear, I was trying so hard to be careful. I know how it must look. I know—”

She pulled back just enough to see your face, her hands still resting on your arms.

“Honey,” she said, voice quiet, eyes impossibly kind, “you’re talking like you’ve committed a crime.”

You flinched. “But I—God, I've been keeping this from you and everyone for so long. That doesn't feel fair."

“People who already knew,” she said gently.

You blinked. “What?”

She gave you a look—dry, fond, just the tiniest bit wry. “Darling, please. You think none of us noticed the way my son looks at you like he’s one second away from his heart bursting?” She squeezed your arms. “You said it. That’s all. You didn’t invent it tonight.”

You bit your lip. Shook your head like it might keep the tears from cresting again. “I thought I heard someone say something. A woman—by the back wall. She said something like… like it didn’t take me long.”

“Oh, that,” Mrs. Jeon said lightly, brushing your hair back as if to say not worth it. “You mean the one in the red shawl with the loud opinions and the knockoff purse?”

You blinked, stunned by the precision.

“She said something awful,” you whispered.

“I’m sure she did,” she said. “Right before Jungkook told her if she so much as muttered another syllable in his girlfriend's direction he’d personally make sure her husband’s antique store on Fifth lost its foot traffic forever.”

Your mouth parted. “He—what?”

Mrs. Jeon gave an elegant shrug, smoothing the sleeve of her jacket. “He was polite about it. But it was... unmistakable.”

You blinked again, and the breath that escaped you was half-laugh, half-sob. “Of course he did.”

“He’s terribly protective,” she said, glancing at you with a smile that was a little too knowing. “Gets that from his mother.”

It took you a moment to laugh—really laugh—but when you did, it broke through like sunlight behind thunderclouds.

“I just… I don’t want people to think I forgot Minho.”

She tilted her head, her hand coming up to smooth your hair behind your ear. “Sweetheart. No one who’s ever known you could think that. Least of all me.”

You looked down, voice low. “I didn’t want tonight to be about me.”

“It wasn’t.”

You met her eyes.

"What about my parents?" you asked quietly, your voice catching on the question like it had been waiting there all along. “Did they look mad? Disappointed?”

Mrs. Jeon gave a soft sigh, the kind that came from years of reading rooms, faces, silences. Her hand smoothed down your arm like she was pressing a wrinkle from cloth, calming you in increments.

“They’re planning to talk to Jungkook,” she said simply, brushing invisible lint from your shoulder. "Having a word with him, to be exact."

Your breath caught. “Oh god.”

Mrs. Jeon gave a small, amused shake of her head. “Don’t worry. I'm sure they're just making sure he treats their daughter right." She paused. “They’re not angry. I promise you that. A little surprised, perhaps. But not angry. No one's angry with you."

She staryed again.“I told her I’d beat her to it,” she said simply. “Can’t have him thinking he’s off the hook just because he's all grown up in a suit."

Your mouth opened, then closed. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing it, but your hands still clutched the edge of the sink like they needed something real to tether you.

A silence passed between you, then two. You tried to swallow the knot forming at the base of your throat, but it was impossible to hide the flush rising in your cheeks. Your voice came small, hesitant. “You’re… really okay with this?”

Mrs. Jeon looked at you in that particular way only someone who’d known you through every winter and every spring could. She reached forward and took your hand. Held it firmly.

“You tell me something,” she said, and her voice was quieter now, careful in the way it stepped into the softest parts of you. “Are you happy?”

Your eyes met hers.

The word hovered in your chest, terrified and blooming all at once.

You bit your lip, shoulders curling in, and nodded—small at first, then a little more certain. “Yes,” you whispered.

Mrs. Jeon let out a slow breath, like she’d been waiting to hear it for longer than she let on.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

You looked at her, eyes glassy.

“It was about time,” she said, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face again. “About time you finally put that poor boy out of his misery.”

You groaned in exasperation. "Mom!"

She laughed, not cruelly, but full of something knowing and warm. "What? Not my fault he was so obvious before he even knew how to spell your name properly.”

You smiled again. Free and a little stunned by how light your chest suddenly felt.

“Come on,” she said, smoothing her skirt with one hand and tugging your arm with the other. “Let’s go rescue him from whatever emotional purgatory he’s pacing through in that hallway.”

You let her pull you forward but you don’t get to rescue your boyfriend. You're rather met with a very heartbroken Mira who demands answers and pulls you away before you can even get the chance too.

She stepped back, pulled out her phone, and dialed with the urgency of a 911 operator.

“Hobi?” she said when the line picked up. “Yeah, hi, I know you’re probably making out with your date or something, but this is an emergency.”

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

She gave you a look. “You said you needed a drink, right?”

“…I did, but—”

“Well then.” She turned slightly away. “You’re not going back anywhere tonight until you explain everything to me in the proper setting, which is clearly a bar with sticky menu. Hobi? Yeah. Bring your wallet."

You watched her hang up and start marching toward the coat check like a woman with a mission. And you followed because this was the girl who’d held your hair back and fed you soup in silence the first week after Minho died. The one who knew when to fight, when to joke, and exactly when to say nothing at all.

The bar Mira chose was exactly what you needed and absolutely what she promised: questionable neon signage, vinyl booths held together with decades of duct tape and bad decisions, and a jukebox that alternated between early 2000s heartbreak anthems and ABBA on repeat. The air smelled like lemon-scented cleaner that didn’t quite mask the ghost of spilled beer, and the lighting was so dim you could’ve sworn everyone wore built-in Instagram filters.

You slid into the corner booth, coat still damp from the walk over, cheeks raw from wind and embarrassment, and Mira slid in across from you like she was preparing for a high-stakes interrogation.

Hoseok arrived moments later, hair wind-swept and cheeks pink from the cold, looking far too good to be in a place with this much wallpaper peeling off the walls. He dropped into the booth beside Mira with the chaotic energy of someone who had just abandoned a very flirty date and wasn't over it.

“Boyfriend?" he said in lieu of hello. "Why am I not suprised that Mr firm hands is the boyfriend?"

You gave him a look. “Are you… judging me?”

“Oh no,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Not judging. Just trying to understand how I didn’t know this was happening.”

“You were busy dating someone named Seulgi who calls you ‘sunbeam’ and posts about her salads on Instagram,” Mira shot back, flagging down a waiter with a sharp flick of her fingers. “Now respectfully shut up and let her talk.”

You stared down at the menu, even though it was mostly beer stains and crossed-out prices. Mira reached over and gently pulled it from your hands. “You don’t need this. You need fries, something fried, and probably a little tequila.”

“Tequila?” you murmured.

“Don’t argue with the doctor,” Hoseok added, even though Mira was most definitely not a doctor.

The drinks arrived fast—too fast, which meant they were going to taste like regret—and a bowl of over-salted fries landed in the middle of the table with a satisfying clatter.

You sipped your drink slowly, felt the warmth of it bloom at the back of your throat, and only then let yourself exhale.

“It wasn’t—God, it wasn’t like that,” you said, palms out now, defensive and pleading all at once. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It just happened. And then it kept happening. And then suddenly it felt like telling anyone would break it. Ruin everything.”

Mira stared at you, all righteous betrayal and mascara-smudged emotion. Her voice cracked just a little when she said, “But me?”

You let out a shaky exhale, your voice breaking into something small, something that couldn’t be smooth no matter how you tried. “I didn’t not trust you. Please don’t think that. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?”

“No,” you said softly, “of saying it out loud. Sorry, it sounds pitiful."

Mira studied you for a long breath. Then, like she’d squeezed all the anger out of her in one long sigh, she deflated a little. She still looked hurt, but her eyes softened.

“I should’ve told you,” you said quietly. “I just didn’t know how.”

She stared at you for a long moment, then slid her glass aside and reached across the table. “I’m still mad,” she said, “but I love you. And I’m glad you didn’t end up in a fling with those dates they used to send you on. Yikes! At least you picked Jungkook. Who clearly worships the ground you walk on.”

“Oh, I bet.” Hoseok added, “don't know him much but oh, I bet."

You winced or flushed but you wouldn't like to use that word. “That’s not—”

“He does,” Mira said, crossing her arms. “He did. Everyone saw it. Except you, apparently. Until now.”

“look,” you said defensively. “I just… I didn’t think it’d become anything.”

Mira made a sound that was equal parts sympathy and exasperation. “Yoongi told me years ago,” she said, picking up a mozzarella stick and pointing it at you like a weapon. “Said something like, ‘Your friend’s maybe as oblivious as she pretends. But my cousin’s a lost cause.’”

"Your husband speaks?" Hoseok snorted into his glass.

That earned him a punch to the side. He groaned so dramtically the five people in the space turned around. You wrapped your fingers around the base of your glass and stared into the fizzing surface. God, you loved them.

“I just didn’t want it to look like I was replacing him,” you murmured, not looking up. “Minho.”

Mira’s teasing stilled. Hoseok’s posture softened.

“You’re not,” Mira said, and her voice was quieter now. “And anyone who thinks you are can choke on their free gallery wine.”

“I’m serious,” you said, twisting the glass between your hands.

Mira tilted her head, one of her hands coming to rest gently over yours. "So am I. I almost dropped my canape when you said it. I even grabbed the old lady next to me.”

"That sounds very serious." Hoseok expressed.

You laughed, reluctantly. “I’m glad,” Mira said, serious again. “Even if I hate that you didn’t tell me, and I will absolutely be holding it over your head until the day we die. I’m glad. Because you’re here. Laughing. Smiling."

You reached for a napkin and dabbed at your eyes. “Thanks.”

And after that—after the napkin had soaked up the last streak of guilt, after Mira’s hand squeezed yours a little tighter, and Hoseok slid a second shot glass in your direction with all the pomp of a coronation—the night began to dissolve in that peculiar, beautiful way nights do when something heavy has been named and nobody lets go.

You drank.

And even that seemed like a understatement.

Not to forget anything but to remember yourself. The version of you that wasn’t shadowed by what you were afraid people would say. The one who dared to call someone hers in a room full of ghosts and memories and didn’t completely fall apart after.

It was baffling.

It was miraculous.

And, God, it was exhausting.

The drinks made everything blur—delightfully at first, then in a way that made your friends exchange glances. You heard Mira say something like “She’s cut off after this one,” and Hoseok immediately counter with “Let her live,” and then you couldn’t hear them anymore because the bar’s speakers erupted into some throaty love song.

Your cheek pressed against Mira’s shoulder for a while, though you couldn’t recall when it landed there. She’d draped your coat over your knees like a blanket and was scrolling through photos on her phone with Hoseok, both of them whisper-laughing, passing the screen back and forth like teenagers.

You looked at them, and something inside you melted—not from the alcohol, not from the bar’s molten heat though that was quiet unbearable too—but from the simple fact of being held.

A feeling you hadn’t known two nights ago, two years back. The universe hadn’t cracked open and swallowed you whole. The chandelier hadn’t fallen from the ceiling. No one had thrown wine at your face or cornered you near the shrimp cocktail with cruel questions about the morality of love.

Instead, the world pitched ever so slightly to the left every time you blinked. The jukebox had moved on to Fleetwood Mac now—some slow, melancholy guitar that wrapped around your temples like gauze. You couldn’t feel your legs. Or maybe you could. They just didn’t want to move.

The fry basket had long since turned cold, and your drink—whatever remained of it—sat abandoned in front of you, a wedge of lime floating like a lifeboat in stormy water. You blinked down at it and considered saying something. Couldn’t remember what.

“Okay,” Mira said, voice low but distinctly not subtle, “that’s enough for her.”

You lifted your head, eyes heavy-lidded. “Wha—? No. M’fine.”

“Sure you are,” she muttered, already pulling her phone out of her coat pocket. “And I’m the queen of France.”

“I am fine.” You sat up straighter, blinked hard at her, as if that proved something. The booth spun gently. “Mmmfine,” you mumbled. “Jus’ warm. Floor’s doing a little… wavy thing.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not the floor. That’s your tequila tangoing with the bad decisions.”

Mira gave him a look before pulling her phone out of her purse.

“Noooo,” you groaned, pawing at her wrist with absolutely no coordination. “Don’t. I’m fine. I’m just… appreciating...”

“You’re appreciating everything too much,” Mira muttered, unlocking her phone with her thumb. “He deserves to know.”

You blinked blearily. “Who?”

She didn’t answer you. Thumbs tapping furiously. You tried to grab her wrist, missed by a margin you weren’t proud of. Just pressed the phone to her ear and stood from the booth, pressing one finger into her other ear to muffle the noise of the bar.

You slumped back, staring at your half-finished drink like it had betrayed you. Hoseok reached over and silently took it away.

“Miraaaa,” you called, dragging her name like a scarf behind you. “She’s being… dramatic. Over…reacting. I could walk home.”

Hoseok said, “you just mistook a fork for your phone.”

You stared at the table. “...Did I?”

He nodded solemnly. “Twice.”

“Jungkook,” Mira said sweetly into the phone now pressed to her ear, “hi. Yeah, she’s—no, no, she’s alright. We’re at that little dive near the station. You know the one with the broken neon cactus sign? Yeah. She’s, um…” A glance at you, hunched like a tragic poet over the tabletop. “She’s had a night.”

You sat up with all the indignation of a drenched cat. “A night?” you hissed.

Mira patted your shoulder. “Don’t worry. He said he’s on his way.”

You blinked, your voice in unison with Hoseok’s. “Already?”

"Already." Mira echoed.

You groaned and buried your face into her shoulder again. “Noooooo.”

“Yes,” she cooed. “Yes, ma’am."

You let out a slow, melodramatic exhale, sliding lower in the booth, your face half-buried in your coat. “This is humiliating.” You didn’t say anything after that. You couldn't and you didn't think you could even hear when the door to the bar creaked open. Not really.

The world had dulled to a low, sluggish hum, softened by liquor and dim light and the weight of your own mortification. But Hoseok glanced up, muttered something under his breath about “the cavalry,” Mira lifted her head, glanced over your shoulder, and then tilted her chin in that way that always meant: look sharp.

Not that you could.

You barely had time to blink before you caught the scent of him.

Jungkook’s cologne always managed to find you first—cedar and lavender, dusk and heat. Then the weight of his presence settled behind you like gravity, and before you could lift your head or find your voice, his shadow stretched over the booth.

His eyes found Mira first. A curt nod. Grateful. Barely spared Hoseok a glance. Hoseok looked almost grateful for it.

“Thanks for calling,” he murmured.

Mira didn’t flinch beneath his seriousness. “Thanks for coming,” she replied simply, standing up and gathering your coat like a reflex.

You stirred at that, blinking up at the blur of black shirt, rolled sleeves, and the soft fall of dark hair just slightly wind-tousled. He looked unfairly beautiful for someone who'd just found you curled into a booth like a regretful blanket. His jaw was set tight, you really hoped it was not anger.

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t blink against the tacky lighting or the low thrum of music. Just made a beeline toward your side of the booth, and for one breathless moment, you thought maybe he’d try to coax you out gently.

Instead, he looked down at you—your ridiculous half-hunched self curled in a coat that had long since become your second skin—and without preamble or ceremony, he scooped you up. Just like that.

Just a sure, practiced ease, like he’d been doing this for lifetimes. Like the world made more sense when you were in his arms and he didn’t have to guess where you were anymore.

You yelped.

He didn't say anything, just adjusted your weight slightly and wrapped his coat tighter around you.

But you felt the slow exhale he gave through his nose.

Not a sigh. Something closer to relief.

He tilted his head to Mira again when she spoke.

Mira’s expression had softened. “Don’t forget to make her eat something. And maybe—y’know—hydration?”

“I’ve got it.”

You were already half asleep against him.

Half awake.

All warmth and clumsy enegry, with your head tucked beneath his chin, the wind nipping at your cheeks while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt like some last-minute apology stitched into cotton. The air outside the bar was bitter enough to bite the inside of your lungs, and it sobered you in slivers—slow, fogged pieces of clarity threading through the haze like dawn slipping between window blinds.

But neither of you said anything.

He didn’t look down at you.

He didn’t speak.

Only the faint sound of his boots hitting pavement filled the space—cadenced, unbothered, maddening in its calm.

You let your cheek fall heavier against his chest, where his heart should’ve been louder. But it wasn’t. It was steady. Frustratingly so.

Your lips brushed against the fabric of his collar. You felt his heartbeat pick up. It felt charged now, as if both of you had bad thoughts trying to form, pushing through the quiet in crooked shapes and half-decisions.

You wanted to say something.

You wanted not to say something.

Your mouth tastes like tequila and fear and bad timing. God, you were all about bad timings today, weren't you?

You turned your head slightly, breath catching on the scent of him. The movement made your stomach sway, but you managed.

You swallowed. "Koo?" You asked in a voice barely above the wind. The nickname slipping out thick and syrupy from your mouth. The sober you would have winced at yourself the second it did.

Good thing you were not.

Before there was an audible response, you heard the sound of his breath catching. Muttering a incohered curse under his breath. "Yes, angel?"

You fiddled with the fabric of his shirt where your fingers rested. “Y-You mad at me?”

He didn't answer at first. His jaw tensed once, twice, the movement as familiar as the sound of your voice laced with slur and shame.

His eyes stayed forward. Watching the parked cars blur past like it mattered more than the conversation pressing in the air between you. Watching the lines in the concrete like they might give him something to focus on other than the pounding of his pulse.

Because your question so slurred and soft and soaked in all the wrong kinds of courage had landed somewhere sharp in him. Not painful, exactly. But startling. Like someone tapping on glass that had long since been sealed shut.

“Are you asking me that because you got drunk?"

"I'm not too drunk-" You mumbled, trying to line your spine straighter and immediately regretting it when your vision swans. "I mean, yeah, okay, I'm a bit- I mean I drank but that's not what I meant.

"What did you mean?" He asked, not unkindly. Voice low, like he already knew but needed you to say it again anyway. Needed to hear it from your own clumsy, slurred lips.

“I meant—fuck.” You groaned, dropping your forehead against his collar. "for what I did. Back there. At the gallery.”

It had rung through him with the violence of something gentle. And that was the worst kind, wasn’t it? The soft truths. The ones you didn’t brace for.

He had spent so long keeping this thing quiet; out of respect, out of fear, out of the twisted need to protect what didn’t yet have a name. He had convinced himself it was better that way. That if he never said it out loud, he couldn’t lose it. That the world couldn’t break what the world didn’t know existed.

And then you’d just carved him into your life liturgy. The only that he'd felt was unhooked.

God, how were you still scared of that? How could you not see it still?

Your hair smelled like lemon shampoo and something warm. sugar, maybe. Your breath still carried the ghost of tequila and lime and the kind of boldness people only conjure up when they don’t think they’ll remember it later.

He felt you pick nervously at the seam of his collar, like maybe that was safer than looking at his face.

You didn’t know that he’d replayed your voice a hundred times already.

Didn’t know that when you said it. His entire body had stilled. Had gone hot, then cold, then weightless.

You didn’t know that it had taken everything in him not to walk across that gallery and kiss you in front of everyone. The urge was so strong, the relief was so overwhelming that it had nearly leveled him.

And still, here you were fearing the thing he had dreamed of.

He finally spoke.

“Angel,” he said, voice low, careful, “I have been yours for a long time. I thought about it. Dreamed of hearing you call me that for longer than I’ll ever admit. Over dinner maybe. But I don't care where it happened."

You went still in his arms.

He tilted his head, just enough to brush his cheek against your hair.

“I’m not mad,” he said again, softer now. "I'm fucking elated." He rasped low, one hand tightening on your thigh, the other cradling your back like a secret. "And I'm just trying not mess it up."

Before you could make more of the latter, his parked car came in view.

The door clicked open, leather and warmth spilling into the night. He placed you into the passenger seat like you were made of glass—though that was nothing new. He always held you like that. As if the ache in you had a physical symmetry, and he was the only one allowed to carry it.

And maybe it was the night, or the alcohol still warm in your veins, or the sheer disbelief that your world hadn’t crumbled after your confession. But you believed him.

You slumped into the seat, curling into the warmth of his coat that he hung around your shoulders, the hem pooled at your lap like a blanket.

“so…you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

He laughed—really laughed this time, soft and low, one hand bracing on the top of the car door. Then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered.

“Forever, if you’ll have me.”

When he finally closed the door and climbed into the driver’s side, the cabin filled with that muted, in-between silence. The kind where things weren't okay yet—but maybe on their way.

The heater came on with a soft whir, chasing off the cold from your knees. You barely noticed it, half curled beneath his coat, one boot unbuckled and heel slipping off as your foot tucked up against the seat like you had no intention of looking composed.

Outside, the streetlights blurred through the window. Pale yellow and blinking, like they couldn’t quite keep their eyes open either. The windshield fogged a little from your breath, everything smudging into something dreamlike and quietly unreal.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just watched the haze of the window, your cheek nestled into the fleece of his coat collar. But your chest was loud. Restless.

Because for all the softness he wrapped you in, for all the peace you should’ve felt, you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that if tonight hadn’t gone like it did, you might still be pretending you were just shadows again. That this wasn’t real.

Your fingers clenched gently at the hem of his sleeve where it had fallen across your lap. You sat there like that for a while, quiet and too full of all the wrong questions. Only to repeat.

"Koo?"

Your voice, thick with exhaustion and treacly from the weight of everything you’d drunk and everything you hadn’t said.

He hummed, fingers flexing against the steering wheel, gaze flicking toward you but not quite leaving the road yet.

You turned your head slowly toward him, your forehead creasing a little as the warmth from the heater tangled too hot against your cheek. “I… I don’t wanna go home.”

The words were blurry. Fumbling. Like they’d been handed to you in pieces and you hadn’t had time to stitch them back together.

But they were true. That they were.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just glanced at you from the corner of his eye. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and you watched the careful tension in his knuckles where they wrapped around the wheel.

You bit your lip. “Not—not forever. Just. Y’know. Just not… tonight."

You sniffled once, rubbing at your nose like a child, embarrassed by the confession but too drunk to walk it back. “Please don’t take me home.”

Jungkook exhaled softly. A sound that felt too much like relief for someone being asked for something so heavy.

“Good thing,” he said at last, turning the car down a different street, his voice curling warm and dry like smoke in your ear, “I’ve got a habit of taking you anywhere but.”

You sighed, relaxing deeper into the seat. “You’re not real,” you murmured. “You're… like. A fever dream. With like really... good cologne.”

Jungkook chuckled lowly, eyes flicking to your profile again, this time longer. “Drunk you’s a menace.”

“I'm sensitive,” you corrected, slurring. “Be nice.”

He reached across the console and found your hand without even looking. Threaded his fingers through yours and held it there like it was always meant to be.

“I am,” he said. “Always.”

“Your nose,” you whispered, studying him like you were discovering the shape of him for the first time. “It’s really pretty. Like. Like you paid someone. But you didn’t, did you? That’s just you.”

He bit back a laugh. “That’s just me, angel.”

You poked the tip of it with the gentleness of a feather. “Insulting.”

“Deeply.”

And then you kissed it.

Quick. Clumsy. The faintest press of lips to the slope of bone. Like you were branding him with your approval.

“Drunk,” he murmured, but he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded like he was retaining you.

You nestled your face into his neck again, legs wrapped tight around his torso with his palms supporting your weight hanging off of him. Docking you to him the moment he slipped the car into some underground garage and stepped out without a word, circling to your side. Didn’t even wait for permission. Apparently when you flinched with a tiny sound, then whined when your limbs refused to cooperate was reason enough. You were up in his arms again before the cold could touch your ankles, the world tilting briefly before settling against his chest. You had blinked, dazed, then turned your face upward. “Warm,” you replied.

Jungkook made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re trying not to fall even deeper in love than they already have.

You hummed a note of agreement, then leaned forward and pecked the tip of his nose again like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Boop.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and kept walking, a little faster now.

The lobby was sleek and quiet, lit low with ambient light that glittered off the marble floor. A sleepy doorman nodded as Jungkook passed. You didn’t even ask where you were until the elevator opened directly into a hallway with only one door, black, modern, heavy. You blinked as he shifted you gently in his arms and pressed the keypad. The soft chime of the lock sliding open echoed too loudly in your ears.

“Where…” You blinked again as he nudged the door open with his shoulder. “Where are we?” This wasn’t your apartment. This wasn’t his parent's place. Did'nt exactly look like a hotel or if it was it was a really expensive one. This wasn’t anything you knew.

He set you down slowly—like a ribbon being untied—and turned on the light with a quiet flick of his fingers. Warm, dim lighting spilled into the room, softening everything to velvet edges. The floor beneath your boots was heated tile. The couch in the center of the room was oversized, draped in soft gray throws. There were no bright colors. No screaming art. Just low lines of furniture, oak and ash tones, clean details that whispered instead of shouted. You could see hints of habit: a stack of books with bookmarks poking out crookedly near the couch. A worn mug sitting on the edge of a console table. A leather jacket flung across a chair like it belonged there. Which it probably did.

There was a piano by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Of course there was a piano.

You stood still, swaying gently in your own boots, the air too warm against your skin now after the chill of the street. You stared across the space with wide eyes, lips parted, trying to absorb the fact that you’d never stepped foot in this place, and yet… there was something terribly intimate about it. About all of it.

It looked like somewhere important people lived. Or people who wanted to be left alone.

You moved forward carefully, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the arm of the couch like you were afraid to wrinkle anything. The floors were silent beneath your boots, and the air had the clean scent of lemon balm and something else you couldn’t name something earthy. Sage, maybe.

You turned toward the open kitchen across the loft just in time to catch the warm flick of the fridge light opening. Jungkook stood there sockedfeet now, sleeves still rolled, a glass in one hand and the other pushing aside a cabinet door.

And your eyes stuttered. Not at him. (You’d long since gotten used to the way he looked like sin and salvation in dim light.)

But at the contents of the cabinet. You swear you just got a peak of dozens of tea boxes. Not just one brand or two—but everything from supermarket bags to specialty tins, chamomile to lavender to citrus blends. Lined like he’d been collecting them, like someone who maybe didn’t even drink tea but wanted to be prepared in case someone who did ever stayed the night.

He poured the water.

Set the glass down.

And only then turned to you.

You were still staring.

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

You felt suddenly too sober. Or maybe just drunk in a different way now. “What… is this place?”

Jungkook stilled.

It was a half-second pause small, almost imperceptible but you caught it. The way his hands slowed, the way his eyes darted once toward the far window before coming back to you.

He wiped his palm on a dish towel, came around the counter, and set the glass gently in your hands. You took it, grateful for something to focus on. It was cool and smooth and anchored you just enough.

"it’s… it’s really…” You looked around again. “Expensive-looking.”

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the strands at the back then the same hand reached out to steady your elbows like he didn’t trust you not to float away. His voice, when it came, was low. Soft in that Jungkook way like gravel dragged through silk.

“I bought it,” he said. “Next day after the night at Kim's."

Your brows pulled together slowly.

“It was impulsive,” he admitted. “Probably stupid. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I needed to make space for something that might never happen." He needed to make space for the possibility of you. Because who was Jeon Jungkook if not the most hopless of case when it comes to you.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to bring you here,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours. “But I bought it anyway.”

You blinked slowly, piecing the words together. Your fingers lifted to press against your lips, as if trying to feel the echo of what you’d confessed there.

“This is yours?” you asked, like it still didn’t quite make sense.

He only said the simplest of truths. "It can be ours."

It felt too big for the room and too small at the same time.

“ours?” you repeated, tasting it.

He gave you a crooked smile, faint and self-conscious. “Well. That was the hope.”

Your heart tripped somewhere in your chest.

You looked around again, slower this time. Noticed the wine glasses above the sink, still drying. A photo frame faced down on the side table like it hadn’t been ready to be displayed yet. A stack of takeout menus in the corner, one with a smudge of sauce on it. A blanket draped over the back of the couch, creased like someone had slept there recently.

“Have you… stayed here?”

He nodded once. “Sometimes. When I needed to breathe." When he wanted to imagine you in here.

He didn't plan to tell you that part.

The truth of how often he came here, and you were in every corner of it.

He watched you now, standing there in the soft yellow glow of pendant lights, barefoot on the tile with your hair a little wild, your eyes flicking from one piece of furniture to the next like they were giving away secrets. And Jungkook—God, Jungkook had never known what it meant to wrench quietly until he imagined you here for the first time. Until he watched you exist in a space he had once only filled with feasibility.

He had picked that couch because it looked like it could hold two people who didn't mind tangling legs. Had stood in the kitchen and wondered if you'd drink your coffee by the window. Had stared at the second drawer by the bathroom sink and thought, that’s where she could keep her earrings.

He didn’t say any of that.

Didn’t confess the way he’d lain on that very couch more than once, staring at the ceiling and trying to imagine what your laugh would sound like bouncing off these walls.

He hadn’t wanted to jinx it. But he’d wanted it.

He still did.

“Were you gonna tell me? About this place?”

He smiled a little—wry, sheepish. “Eventually.”

“Why wait?”

“Because,” he said, stepping closer, “I didn’t want to give you something you didn’t ask for. Not unless you were ready to want it, too. Was'nt that right?"

Then, without meaning to, you took a small step forward and wrapped your arms around his waist. Clung. He didn’t hesitate. His arms were around you in a second. One hand cupped the back of your head, the other pressing gently against your spine.

You buried your face into the soft black cotton of his shirt. “I feel… dizzy.”

“From the alcohol?” he asked, a barely restrained urgency in his voice.

“No.” You turned your cheek against him. "This is just..really dreamy. Yeah. Really dreamy."

He heaved out a breath and started started rocking you back and forth against him in an missable motion. "Sure, angel? You like it?" He asked for confirmation. He didn't bother hiding his need for reassurance in front of you. And you don't mind giving him so. You nod with confidence.

He huffs a soft chuckle. "You haven't seen the half of it. Maybe you won't like the colors. We can change them if that's what you'd like. Add plants." His voice spilled low against the crown of your head. An offering disguised as a list of design choices. But you knew what he meant. You heard it tucked between every carefully placed word.

Let’s make a life here.

Let’s try. Together.

Your face pressed to the slope of his chest, listening to his heartbeat carry the words he didn’t yet say aloud. Your arms looped tighter around his waist, fingers bunching the back of his shirt like you might fall through the floor otherwise.

"We can do whatever we want." he murmured, then exhaled like something eased in him. "All the little, big things. Do you ever wanna get a pet?"

You bobbed your head with far too much enthusiasm. "Absolutely! We could get a dobermoon! You once said you always wanted that!"

"I did." He smiled gently.

Your mouth twitched, and you didn’t mean to smile—but you did. It bloomed slow and sleepy across your face, the kind of smile that couldn’t be helped. “And what else?”

He was still swaying you—slow, steady movements, his hands warm at the small of your back. It took you a moment to realize what he was doing, what the motion even was. You blinked, nose brushing the side of his neck. “Wait,” you whispered, a soft snort cracking loose. “What are you doing?”

Jungkook tilted his head down, eyes meeting yours, glittering a little under the golden pendant light. “I just realized,” he said, and his voice was so low, so unbearably soft, you almost didn’t catch it, “I never got to dance with you at your wedding.”

You blinked, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that dizzy kind of drunk only heartbreak and hope could cause. “You left before the music started.” You pouted against his chest.

“I know.” His hand found hers. “Can I have one now?”

You burst out laughing, giddy and golden. The thought of so that's how your laugh sounds bounching around the walls came paired with If he could have bathe in the sound of it he would for the rest of his life. “There’s no music.”

He tilted his head. “There’s you.” With a theatrical sigh, you let him slip all around you. It was unsteady, like gravity had forgotten you tonight, yet just like gravity; the way you fit against was a contradiction. All too well. All too comforting.

He moved you slowly, in wide, meandering arcs, like your bodies weren’t bound to tempo or beat, just to each other. You stepped on his toes once. Maybe twice. Your sock slipped on the smooth floor and you cursed under your breath. He caught you, hands tightening with the kind of tenderness that made you want to cry.

“Oops,” you muttered.

“You're Graceful,” he murmured, voice fond.

“You love it,” you countered.

“I do.”

He twirled you then. Not properly God, no, but with that not so perfect grin that made your ribs ache and your stomach flip. You stumbled a bit, laughing into the fabric of his shirt, and he caught you again like he’d been born to. You buried your face in his shoulder. The air around you felt velvet-rich, the heat of his skin, the soft whirr of the heater, the scent of coffee grounds faint from the sink and your perfume still lingering on his collar. The world felt like something you could carry in your palm tonight.

Your cheek pressed right above his heart, where it thudded steady, solid, yours.

Your cheek pressed on right above his heart. “We’re not very good at this,”

“I don’t care,” he murmured into your hair.

You sighed. “My feet hurt.”

“We can stop,” he offered, easing to a gentle halt.

“Mhm." You leaned back to look at him, blinking up through your lashes, voice cotton-soft. You pressed your hand against it absentmindedly, right over the steady beat of his heart, fingers splayed like you could read it in Braille.

He watched you.

Watched the curve of your mouth. The warm glassiness in your eyes. The way your thumb moved without rhythm against his shirt.

You sighed out a thought. “Thank you,” you said.

He tilted his head, brushing a piece of your hair back behind your ear. “For what?”

“For this.” You squinted a little, like you were trying to remember something and only barely catching the edge of it. “For everything. I love you."

You hadn’t even flinched when you said it. You were smiling. Loose-limbed and lidded and not the least bit rattled, still swaying in place like the words had meant nothing more than a sweet note scribbled in a thank-you card.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe for a second. Could only feel the way his heart kicked against his ribs so hard he thought maybe you could hear it. hear the sound of it clawing toward your name.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound from that came. The function of his body when he was around you, especially, this you was beyond him.

You just looked at him, lashes heavy, lips curved soft. “Hmm?”

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Thank you?”

“No, not that—fuck, angel." A deep chuckle rumbled out of chest. "Fuck."

But you were already pressing your cheek back to his chest, humming something tuneless, eyes drifting shut.

He swallowed hard. Tugged you closer to him and pressed his lips hard against your head. "I love you too."

Because what had once started with a love so rooted will end with a love that will survive an eternity.

It would always end in "I love yous."

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