#and then it came back to me and i almost passed out

[webslinger-holland]

HIIIII!! it’s me again! I loved the prompt you did for me omg it was so good! i love your description of yelena and ava ☹️

could you do the thunderbolts reacting to you taking a bullet for them orrrr you getting dressed up to go on a date with someone that isn’t them maybe! Thank you so much for your writing, it’s SO good! :D

Prompt: The Thunderbolts react to you taking a bullet meant for them.

Warning: heavy on angst, hints at character death, violence in form of gunshot wound, mentions of blood/bleeding out, and emotional distress

Note: I might have to do that other one too. Those are both such good requests!

Yelena: The sound of the gunshot slicing through the air made her wince. All the chaos in the room seemed to silence the sound of the body dropping to the floor. She looked for the source of where it came from only for her gaze to settle on you laying in a pool of your own blood.

Yelena was the first to reach you. She fell to her knees beside you; her hands frantically trying to stop the blood from spewing out of your abdomen. Blood didn't typically phase her, but it being your blood did.

"Why did you do that?" Her voice cracked along with her whole demeanor. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

She tried to push out any negative thoughts, determined to save you if it meant tearing everything else down. She wasn't going to loose you like she lost her sister.

Your entire demeanor was calm, too calm. You weren't panicked or struggling to breathe. It was almost like you were at peace, which was something she wasn't able to accept yet.

She snapped her fingers to try to get your attention, but your eyes were already growing more glossy and distant. "Hey, you stay awake, okay? We're going to get you help and then you'll be all better." Yelena sounded like she was trying to convince herself not you.

With each passing moment, your face grew more pale and the light was leaving your eyes. Your movements were limited and weakened. Very slowly, your hand shifted over her hand as if to comfort her or let her know that everything was going to be alright.

When Yelena lifted her head, her eyes were filled with unshed tears. Her face crumbled and her shoulders racked with heavy sobs. She shook her head and tried to deny it, but it was already too late for you.

“Stay with me. Please. I can’t lose you too.”

Bucky: The string of gunshots sounded like a roll of thunder. He shielded himself with his metal forearm, but somehow missed one fatal one. The bullet that ended up hitting you.

He whipped his head to look back at you, horror etched onto his face in sudden realization. He caught you before you hit the ground. His metal arm braced you against him as you slumped, blood soaking into your clothes at an alarming rate. He was careful to lean you up against a nearby wall.

"What were you thinking?" Bucky's voice was trembling with restrained fury. He pressed his hand hard against the wound; his eyes desperately searching for any sign of hope. “Stay with me. You're not going out like this. Not for me.”

"Bucky—" you tried weakly.

"No," Bucky cut you off firmly and sharply. "No, that's not fair."

His eyes searched your face—your weakening gaze, your pale skin. He was unraveling, panicking.

You reached up, your fingers just brushing his jaw, and he caught your hand in his, holding it tight against his chest. He fought back tears and couldn't bring himself to accept the reality laying before him.

He leans closer, his forehead against yours, jaw clenched. “You don’t get to go. You hear me? I’ve lost too many people—I won’t lose you too.”

The war around him meant nothing. The only battle that mattered was the one for your life, and he wasn’t ready to lose.

John: The firefight had been intense. John was barking orders, shield raised, adrenaline pumping — until a flurry of gunshots came barreling towards him. He raised his shield to deflect them and the dinged off the shield one by one. What he didn't account for was the ricochet.

The sound of a soft whimper tore his gaze away from the fight. You were keened over slightly with your hand hovering above your abdomen. The patch of blood growing deeper in color and spreading through your clothes.

“Shit—” John jumps into action.

He scrambled to catch you and gently lays you down on the ground.

“No. No, no, no.” John grips your shoulders like he can hold you together with brute strength alone.

He initially doesn't know what to do, too overridden with panic and the fear of losing you. His hands hurried to cover the spot of blood and he pressed down to slow the blood flow.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” John yells. His panic boiling over, voice far too loud. You flinched, barely, and he instantly regretted it. 

His hands moved instinctively, trying to cover the wound, pressing down hard though his vision blurred with horror. “I’m not mad. I’m not mad at you, okay? Just—stay with me. Stay with me.”

You weren’t speaking now. Just breathing shallowly, your face eerily calm, like the pain was fading. Like you were fading.

“Don’t do that,” John said quickly, panic catching in his throat. “Don’t go all peaceful on me. That’s not a good sign. That’s a bad sign. Stay awake. Talk to me. Yell at me if you have to.”

He cupped your cheek, rough calloused thumb trembling as it brushed across your skin. His expression cracked then—whatever armor he wore, whatever facade he’d built, it fell away completely.

“Don’t go quiet on me,” he begged, his voice ragged and breaking. “Please, you don’t get to die on me. Not after everything. Not after all the shit I’ve done. You’re the one good thing I’ve got. I can’t lose you too.”

The world felt still around him now, like time had slowed, narrowed down to your face, your breath, the warmth of your blood on his hands.

Ava: It was instinctive for her. She just phased and forgot you were right behind her. So you took the bullet meant for her. You dropped before she even realized what had happened. One second you were behind her, the next you were on the ground bleeding out and she felt something inside her snap.

“No,” Ava breathed, almost like she was still catching up to what her eyes were seeing. “No, no, no…”

It hit her in waves. Her breath caught in her throat, like her lungs refused to work. She knelt beside you in a flash, hands hovering over the wound, helpless.

“You were—behind me. You were right behind me.”

Ava’s hands pressed to the bleeding, her phasing flickering violently as her panic spiraled. The flickering wouldn't help you, but she couldn't bring herself to stop.

“I didn’t see you. I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

"It's okay—" You tried to wave it off like it was nothing.

“Don’t talk, okay? Don’t waste energy. You’re going to be fine. You’re gonna be okay.” Ava was trying to convince you, but it sounded like it was more aimed to reassure herself.

And your eyelids fluttered.

Something inside her snapped. It was more panic.

“No, no—stay awake.” Her voice cracked, shaking as her hands desperately tried to hold you here, to keep you. “Don’t go quiet. Please. Don’t leave me like this.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, trembling and raw. The tears now sliding down her face uncontrollably.

“You can’t go. Please. Not like this. Not for me.”

You managed to catch her eyes. A breath, almost a smile. Her hands phased harder. And then, neither of you were there.

Bob: The bullet sounded fast. He couldn't have predicted it. He didn't have time to react. It hit you and it wasn't supposed to.

Bob’s head whipped around at the sound; his eyes widening in absolute horror. He saw you drop, and the world simply stopped.

“No—!” The word left him in a strangled cry of disbelief.

The sky above twisted�� clouds spiraling like they, too, had been torn open by what had just happened. He caught you mid-fall. Not fast enough to stop it, just fast enough to be the one who held you as you crumpled.

The heat of your blood soaked into the front of his suit. His eyes were locked on yours, wide in disbelief, like he couldn't fathom a world where you’d throw yourself in front of him.

“Why…?” His voice broke and cracked. “Why would you…?”

You smiled, barely. That soft, broken look that made it worse. Like you were already halfway gone and okay with it.

“No,” he snapped, his tone harsher than intended. “No, don’t do that. Don’t give me that look like it was worth it. Like I’m worth it.”

"You are..." you replied softly. "You've always been worth it."

His breath hitched and his head dipped, pressing his forehead to yours, fingers curled around your hand like it was a lifeline. Like you were his lifeline. He couldn't hold back the tears or the sobs that escaped his lips.

He hated how limp you'd become in his arms, hated watching the light leave your eyes, hated feeling your skin grow cold, and hated hearing the last breath slip past your lips. He hated it all.

The dark storm clouds above cracked with lightning and the rumble of thunder followed shortly after. The rain began to fall heavily, which matched the tears that fell down his face.

REALLY HOPE I DID EACH CHARACTER JUSTICE. PLEASE ENJOY

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

How about a yandere god and a reader who was sacrificed to him to become his consort 👀

Yandere God x Reader

They dressed you in white, as if purity could shield you from the one waiting beneath the earth.

The temple's air was thick with incense and resignation. The villagers chanted prayers with trembling voices. Your wrists were bound in red cord. Tradition, they said, to lead you like a lamb to slaughter. Your mother wept behind her veil. No one met your eyes.

You knew the stories:
The god beneath the mountain.
The god with no name.
The god who demanded love in bloodied offerings and blind devotion.

You weren’t the first consort.
But you were the first in twenty years.
And you would be the last.

They left you at the altar deep inside the earth, beyond the reach of the sun. A smooth obsidian platform surrounded by candles.

He came in silence.

You didn’t see him at first, only felt him—a shift in the air, like the breath pressing against your skin.

Then his voice. Low. Velvet. Cold as cavewater and cruel as hunger.

“You’re prettier than the last one.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Something moved in the dark. Not footsteps. No, he didn’t walk. He simply was, and then was closer. A flicker of pale skin, the glint of something sharp behind a smile.

His fingers brushed your chin, tilting your face toward his. Eyes like bottomless wells gazed down at you, silver-ringed and shimmering like wet stone. You thought of wolves. Of jagged rocks hidden beneath black waves. Of a mouth filled with teeth that didn't belong to men.

“They sent you to be devoured,” he murmured. “But I am not so wasteful.”

The cords around your wrists unraveled by unseen hands. He caught them before they could fall.

“You belong to me now.”

—-

The days, if they could be called that, passed in flickering torchlight. Time lost meaning in the temple beneath the world. He did not let you leave. He didn’t need to chain you. His presence alone was a cage.

He spoke to you like a lover. Called you darling, pet, bride. Brushed your hair with fingers tipped in claws. Pressed kisses to your brow like benedictions. Every night he laid beside you, not always touching, but always watching. You felt his eyes even when you turned your back to him.

Sometimes he was beautiful. Almost human. Silken hair, a sculpted mouth, long limbs curled around you like protection. He could make you forget, for a moment, what he was.

And then he’d smile.

And you’d remember the teeth.

—-

You tried to escape, once.

Just once.

The tunnels had changed. The path you knew led back to him, again and again, like the mountain itself was bending to his will.

When he found you…No, when he let you be found, his expression was unreadable.

He did not strike you. He did not scream.

He only cradled your face and whispered,

“Do not run from me. I have been patient. I have waited for you.”

You didn’t ask how long.

You were afraid of the answer.

That night, he pulled you into his arms like a lover. But his grip was a vise. One wrong breath, and you knew he would crush you like wet clay.

“You are mine,” he whispered against your throat. “My light. My little flame. Do not make me snuff you out just to keep you.”

—-

You stopped counting time after that.

You forgot the sun.

You forgot your name.

But not his. Never his. He whispered it into your mouth, into your bones. He carved it into your skin with every kiss and every too-long touch. You dreamed of him. Even awake, you were not free.

And in time, gods help you, you began to lean into him.

You laughed at his jokes. You let him stroke your hair, press your hand to the place in his chest where a heart should be. You began to speak, to ask questions, to touch him back.

He glowed with joy when you smiled at him. He kissed your fingers like relics. He wrapped you in silk and shadows and sang you songs in a language no mortal tongue had ever spoken.

“You are learning,” he whispered. “You are becoming mine.”

And maybe you were.

Because love is possible, even for monsters.
Especially when you stop looking at the teeth.

Masterlist

[zstartrixxx]

𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝑨 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹. (𝒀𝑶𝑼'𝑽𝑬 𝑺𝑬𝑬𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑩𝑼𝑻𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑹)

²⁰⁰⁰ˢꜝʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: On a night of apparent peace, you answer the door of the rented house to a stranger who swears up and down that he also leased the very same property... It's not what you're imagining. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: TO CELEBRATE OUR 200 BILLION FOLLOWERS IN STYLE (kskskskskksks now seriously: tkysm for the 200 followers, it's been a little over a month since i created this blog with face, heart and courage to post my fanfics without any grand expectations, so everything that's happening is fucked up :)

i’m humbly offering this fic that i affectionately call a 'FUN-FANFICTION'—funnier, silly and way more chaotic than my usual smut-heavy or over-the-top dramatic plots. think of it as your post-chill pill after a long day!!! to everyone reading this: thank you for your time, your love, and for being here. i adore you as much as i adore jackie's chars. <3 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. vampirism & gore (bite and blood), smut: oral (m!receive) and unproteced penetration, a lil' bite of monsterfucker; weirdo!remmick (he's a really freaky here idk :) lmk if i forget smt ;) 𝐖𝐂: 3.5k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"i wanna to watch the way, you creep across the night sky. you slowly enter, because you know my room; and then you crawl your knees off and then you shake my tomb..." (you've seen the butcher, deftones).

"A monster cannot be loved...

I always believed this with the same fervor as my faith in the saints and gods that surrounded me since childhood, when my parents took me on morning walks to the cemetery to honor those who came before me - from whom all wisdom originated. My great-grandmother's imposing marble mausoleum, with a winged guardian angel crushing a serpent's head, was my favorite place to be. That was a long time ago. My life changed when—"

A noise snapped you out of your trance.

You were surprised—you weren't expecting anyone at that house. You looked at your laptop clock: it was past nine in the evening. You raised your eyes to the window in front of you, facing the neighbor's house, the glass speckled with raindrops. The noise continued—someone was frantically twisting the doorknob, almost desperately, then stopping for a few seconds, making you think you were finally alone again—only for the noises to return, now more intense: fists pounding against the door, a deep voice in the background shouting "Hey!", completely breaking your concentration. You rolled your eyes, slamming your laptop shut, walking the short distance between the kitchen and living room, grabbing your fluffy white robe thrown over the back of the couch, to peer suspiciously through the peephole, trying to see who could be there at this hour on an ordinary Wednesday night in the middle of the rain.

A shadow passed by, obstructing your view. With no light on the porch, the faint glow from the quiet street only revealed outlines and shadows. With your palms flat against the door, you were startled by another violent shake, the deep, affected voice invading through the door crack:

"Hey! Open up! Let me in... Shit!"

You frowned, one hand on the metal doorknob and the other on the key, wondering if it was wise to open it for whoever was outside. You couldn't take another loud knock, long and insistent, turning the key in the lock with a click, twisting the knob, opening the door to find a drenched man just inches away from you. Holding onto the security chain that limited your field of vision, the man's face lit up with relief, arms crossed, raindrops falling from his brown almost black hair as he peered into the house with those dark blue eyes:

"Miss, sorry for the hour, but there must have been a mistake..."

"What mistake?" you asked, genuinely curious, looking him up and down: casual clothes, a black hoodie with the hood down, navy blue jeans, scuffed sneakers, and beside him a military-green camping backpack with what looked like a string instrument case leaning against it. You stared at him again, even more intrigued by the strange visitor, who was rubbing his hands together:

"Look, I don't want to sound weird or anything, miss, but this must be a mix-up! I rented this place for a few days to stay for a couple weeks, but when I got here, I couldn't find the key anywhere and, well... Now seeing you here, I think we've got a problem."

"Are you sure it's this house?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. He widened his eyes, nodding - pulling a worn leather wallet from his pants pocket, fishing out a crumpled piece of paper from between a wad of crumpled bills, extending his slightly trembling hand to you, likely from the cold. Behind him, the rain intensified, splashing onto the poor guy and onto you; the stranger pulled up his hood, casting his striking features into noisy darkness. You shrugged, taking the paper between your fingers, stepping back to smooth it out and read its contents under the indoor light, aloud:

"Blah-blah-blah... Temporary tenant Remmick... Blah-blah-blah, Zero-Six Street... Hmm, authorized stay from today until... Granted permission to occupy hereby..." You looked up at him, startled. The stranger—or rather, Remmick—raised his eyebrows at you:

"Believe me now?"

"Okay, fine... But what do we do?"

"Look, I don't want to be pessimistic, but this town is one of those weird ones where taxis only run at certain times and specific places, and the cabbie who dropped me off said I either walk back or find somewhere to stay... And with this rain, it'd be pretty shitty to leave me out here."

"Are you really sure you want to come in?"; Your voice came out dark, a glint passing through your eyes. An enigmatic little smile appeared at the corner of the man's lips as he lowered his hood again, putting on a pleading expression with puppy-dog eyes:

"Just one night, miss. Just so I don't catch a cold. One night—" He raised an index finger, flashing a convincing little smile: "—one night, and I promise I'll be a ghost to you. You won't even notice I'm here."

Your eyes shifted from him to the unrelenting rain behind him.

You glanced over your shoulder, where that empty house seemed to invite you to take in this poor guy, who wasn't to blame for his bad luck. In the end, you'd both come out ahead, right?

Convinced, you nodded affirmatively, unlatching the chain with a click. Before Remmick could enter, you stopped him once more, a hand extended, fingertips lightly brushing his chest, your eyes piercing into his, which gleamed with a hot-blue intensity as they locked onto you:

"Are you absolutely sure you want to come in?"

"Absolutely, miss. Don't ask me twice..." He shrugged as he stepped past you, carrying his things inside. Before closing the door, you took one last look at that street of houses with only a few lights on, a desolate place almost lost in that small town.

The night would be long.

Remmick didn't shut up for a single second. But it didn't bother you at all—quite the opposite. You were genuinely interested in what he had to say, the stories about failed gigs—while refilling another mug of cheap wine you'd found in the fridge—he told you about the time the band's car broke down in the middle of the highway:

"...I swear to God! There I was with the guys when boom!, the tire blew. We got out, in the middle of absolute nowhere, on one of those dirt roads connecting Nevada to California, you know? And the worst part..." He started laughing at the memory, the two of you sitting on the three-seater couch in the living room, the tube TV tuned to MTV, where nu-metal videos played. Remmick had showered, radiating warmth that smelled like chamomile and mint shampoo. He wore a simple black t-shirt that revealed a tattoo on his right inner bicep, gray sweatpants, barefoot—completely at ease, as if you were old friends reuniting after time apart. 

He sipped his wine. You laughed:

"And the worst part was what?" Sitting beside him, you'd taken advantage of his shower time to change into your pajamas: an oversized band t-shirt, black cotton shorts, the robe still covering the more exposed areas. Even so, every now and then you caught a pair of ocean-blue eyes glancing at you, trying to catch a glimpse of skin through the robe's opening or your slightest movement. Remmick wiped a trickle of wine from his chin:

"The worst part was that we stopped right in front of one of those roadside motels. But not just any motel—one of those for couples, you know? And there must've been an orgy or something going on, because it was fucking awkward..."

You burst out laughing, trying to picture the scene.

Remmick joined in, his laugh open and booming, full-bodied. He was slightly drunk and an open book: in less than two music videos and two mugs of wine, he'd already told you why he was here, about trying to go on the road with his little band, but his day job got in the way—so he had to choose between the band or work. And there he was, about to play a series of shows that, according to him, would "change his whole career." He was excited, hopeful, his eyes gleaming as streaks of blood-yellow light reflected in his irises, his teeth glowing under the TV's anise-colored light during pauses, his black hair still shiny with dampness. He was too human to seem like a weirdo... Even if some of his stories sounded far-fetched.

Remmick finished shaking his shoulders, his laughter fading as he turned back to the TV, where the opening chords of Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away) began, Chino Moreno's face flashing on screen as the guitar riff exploded. Remmick started nodding his head slightly, humming along to the first lines. You smiled, half-admiring his spontaneity.

"Is this the kind of music you guys play?" you asked, drawing his attention back to you. Remmick grinned proudly, his eyes never losing their sparkle. He downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, setting the mug on the wooden coffee table cluttered with magazines and knickknacks:

"If I weren't so obvious and were more mysterious, it'd be cooler, huh...?"

"What do you mean?" You narrowed your eyes, mimicking his gesture, setting your own mug aside. Remmick glanced at it, commenting offhand:

"You haven't even touched your wine properly—scared of me?" He laughed, half-sarcastic, leaning back into the couch, his gaze heavy-lidded as you turned more toward him, knees pressed together, pointed in his direction. Your eyes traced the lines of his body—not muscular but defined, a subtle bulge between his legs making your throat go dry... Desire.

Remmick was fucking hot, and you were lucky this misfortune had happened with him.

His eyes were penetrating, and in that sepia light between pale yellow and steely blue, they were beautiful. His face was handsome, well-defined and masculine, his hair looked so soft—not to mention that prominent nose, large and slightly upturned, those full, kissable lips, and hands that, if they knew how to play an instrument, your mind concluded, would know how to touch anyone like no one else. And that desire burned through you—you were starved... for touch.

The man was still focused on the frenetic music, the singer's voice gently penetrating your ears. You answered him, your eyes never leaving his:

"It's not fear, it's just... thirst for something else."

"What... something?" he asked, his breath hitching slightly, watching you with curiosity. You pressed your lips together in a smile, stretching as you turned back to the TV, avoiding his gaze:

"A little something I'm not sure I should mention..." You played coy, wanting to provoke him. Remmick slowly adjusted himself on the couch, caught between curiosity and challenge, his lazy grin widening as he stared at you in that half-light from the kitchen lamp mixing with the TV's glow, replying in a teasing tone:

"You're a bold one, you know...? Don't even know me, don't know if I'm a potential serial killer." You laughed, disbelieving. Biting your lip, you shook your head:

"No, Remmick, I'm not afraid of you at all."

"Well, you should be!" he exclaimed, jumping up to stretch, yawning as he checked the digital clock in the kitchen: "Jesus, it's past midnight. Better hit the sack..." He shot you a look full of expectation: "...you too, 'I'm-Not-Afraid-Of-You-Remmick'!" He laughed mockingly, but with an air of suggestion: "Maybe I'll leave my door open... just in case I need something."

"Fine, Mr... 'You-Should-Be-Afraid-Of-Me'—" You made a face, matching his look, your smile widening further: "—maybe I'll come running under your covers, hide from the Boogeyman."

"Or from me..." He shrugged, already heading for the stairs leading to the bedrooms. You snorted a laugh, watching the next music video start. You threw a dangerous glance at the man already climbing the stairs, step by step, his eyes gleaming as his smile seemed to drip for you.

Calling you.

You looked away, keeping your eyes on the TV, pulsing and vibrating with the possibilities of this surprisingly eventful night. He flirted in a weird little way that got to you more than it should have.

Remmick did wait for you, awake in that narrow guest bed, between the closed window's sound of dripping rain and the noise of his own thoughts, hands resting on his chest as he lay in the dark room, thinking of you. Only a sliver of harsh yellow light came from the hallway through the slightly ajar door. Then he heard your footsteps, heavy, coming up the stairs—you'd taken about an hour to finally come up, whatever you'd been doing downstairs in complete silence—or maybe his thoughts were just too loud for him to notice.

Slowly, you stopped at his door, opening it with a soft creak that made him smirk, a small smile appearing on his lips as the warm light entered with you, leaving you both in that half-light where anything could be hidden. But he could still see your face, soft and relaxed, the way you wet your lips and shed your robe, revealing yourself completely naked to him. Remmick shuddered, his mouth watering with desire, already sitting up in bed as you slowly crawled toward him, across the sheets, the mattress springs squeaking, his heavy breathing louder than the rain outside. Then your voice came out, feline:

"You really waited for me, hmm? Really left your invitation open for me to come into your room..." You stopped in front of him, sitting on his knee, your hands beginning to trail up his shins to his knees. Remmick closed his eyes, lethargic, the wine's effect mixing with the arousal growing inside him. You laughed, climbing higher until you were face-to-face with him:

"Remmick, Remmick... What a pleasure to have you as my guest tonight!" you teased, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, his hands touching your skin, sending a shiver through him at the temperature contrast—maybe because you were naked in the cool air while he was in that furnace of a room—parting his lips and closing his eyes, asking for a kiss. But you didn't give him what he wanted. Instead, you licked him, laughing at the face he made, dragging yourself down his torso until you were between his legs:

"Will you let me suck you, Remmy?" The nickname came out casual, intimate, playful. The man didn't hesitate, nodding immediately. With a quick move, you were off the bed, pulling him toward you, kneeling, your sharp nails scratching at the waistband of his sweatpants, stripping him of both pants and white underwear, already wet with pre-cum, taking his soft, warm cock in your hands.

Never breaking eye contact, he eagerly pulled off his shirt in one motion, revealing a cross tattoo on the right side of his waist—a detail that made you even wetter—and you started low, sucking his balls with delight, watching him melt and moan, his hands gripping the mattress tightly as you licked from the base to the red, wet tip, begging for attention, thick and relatively large, stopping right at the head to ask:

"Is this how you like it, Remmy?" Then you took just the glans into your mouth, hearing him gasp heavily, your tongue swirling around it in circles. Remmick almost laughed from pleasure, nodding, one hand already buried in your hair guiding your movements, almost fucking your mouth with thrusts, which you opened and let him enjoy—because his pleasure was yours.

Laughing after he thrust deep, making you gag slightly, pulling back completely soaked and drooling over his cock, he said breathlessly:

"Fuck, woman, like this I'm gonna come too soon... What a magical little mouth!" He caressed your face with one hand as you stood up, pushing him back onto the bed:

"That's because you haven't seen anything yet, Remmy. Haven't seen anything."

He laughed, flirtatious, his hands already claiming your thighs as you, unhurried, positioned yourself over him, never breaking eye contact—Remmick was being very well served, groaning roughly:

"So fucking wet for me, holy shit," his face twisting in pleasure, eyebrows knitting together, lips parting in a broken smile, prominent canines showing. You laughed, grinding aggressively on top of him, grabbing his hands and pinning him down. He groaned beneath you: "So tight, shit, if you keep riding my cock like this I'm gonna come—"

"Then come, Remmy—" Desire was blinding you, your dominant hand going to his throat, watching his Adam's apple rise and fall, his eyes closed, breathing fast, a trail of saliva escaping the corner of his lips.

"Fuck..." Roughly, he thrust up into your pussy. You bent over him, loosening your grip slightly, licking his neck, whispering suggestively:

"Can I suck you here, Remmy?"

"Shit, yes, do whatever you want to me... Just let me come..." he begged, his hands now free from your grip holding your waist, his mouth latching onto the exposed side of your neck, yours doing the same where the arteries pulsed. Remmick felt all his lust spill into harsh thrusts into your pussy, long spurts, while his teeth bit into you.

And yours did the same.

You moaned, strangled by pain and pleasure, blood welling from the bite, flooding your mouth; Remmick let out a guttural cry, eyes closed, feeling that burning frenzy of orgasm, his mouth slack, tasting something... metallic, rancid-sweet, then back to the pungent tang of copper. When he opened his eyes, you were above him, your hands pinning his shoulders to the mattress, your mouth full of blood. Horror crossed his face as the burning intensified, throbbing.

It felt like blades plunging into his skin, deep, lacerating, metallic. Blood, the nauseating smell of it, sticky, and panic filling him as he thrashed beneath you—still inside you—as you laughed, mouth dripping with his blood, staining him further.

"What the fuck!? What kind of monster are you!?" he managed to choke out, trying to break free from your grip, which was stronger than his. When he looked at you again, in that yellow-blue light, the plastic warmth from the hallway mixing with the night's darkness, the rain outside growing heavier, seeming to drown out his screams:

"Well, I did ask you twice if you wanted to come in—" you whispered, putting on an innocent face, bending over his chewed jugular, which gushed bright red blood onto the white sheets and his pale skin, licking up that delicious liquor, spiced with his fear and pleasure: "—and twice you said you did. And you let me suck you, Remmy... Suck you! Oh, poor little thing..." You straightened up again as his eyes lost focus, dull at the edges, lips darkening, his convulsions becoming more random and spaced out.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Remmick was dying as beautifully as he came, that much was certain. His flavor was rich and exquisite on your palate, sharpened by the fear that had shocked him, diluted in intense orgasm. Simply divine.

Monster.

Could a monster be worthy of love?

"Can a monster be loved?" The question was almost rhetorical.

The unhappy little laugh came from deep in your throat, hoarse and almost dry. In the background, a song played on the convertible's radio, wind whipping across your cold faces, sunglasses on despite the night, sharp smiles, your claw-like nails tapping the car door as Remmick drove, humming along to the lyrics:

"Pleased to meet you... Hope you guess my name, oh, yeah! But what's puzzling you... Is the nature of my game, oh, yeah!" He glanced at you over his sunglasses, his blue eyes glinting in that scarlet light just for you. He wore a leather jacket, corpse-pale hands on the wheel, a sly smile, while you admired the creature you'd created that night full of surprises. Remmick began to speak, his voice calm, his expression contemplative:

"Once, I was seduced by a monster, who punished me severely with the pain of death... But after taking what she craved—my blood and my pleasure—she offered me the greatest gift anyone could accept in this miserable life. Even if the hatred for death poorly announced catches up with us, darling, yes, I believe we can love... In our own way. We're punished by our desires, but whatever... In the end, it was worth giving you what you wanted."

"Blood?" you guessed, throwing a look past him, across that huge bridge full of cars, your suitcases and his guitar case in the backseat. Remmick gave a sly, self-satisfied smile, carefully adjusting his leather jacket sleeves, his hair blowing in the wind, exuding sex and bloody fury on this night that, for the two of you, was only beginning:

"No."

He stated, giving you a look, finally removing his sunglasses, revealing himself to you once more, fangs inviting:

"Eternity with a companion."

In the background, the radio's volume gradually rose...

"Tell me, baby, what's my name? Tell me, honey, can you guess my name?"

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: as you've probably noticed, i got drunk on references to the ultimate classics—interview with the vampire—which is why this fic plays fast and loose with the movie's canon. that said: I LOVED writing this because there's something delicious about imagining a human, fragile remmick who—poor bastard—gets wrecked by his own desires.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 10

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, Major Fluff For This Chapter, Romance, Slowburn, Splice of Life]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Part 10. Chapter Word Count: 10.4k+]

[Chapter Summary: Some moments settle without warning. Some feelings never really leave. And sometimes, the heart remembers before the mind is ready to follow.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

It was one of those days in Seoul where the seasons made no sense.

The sun was high, almost harsh in its shine, but the wind bit like winter still had teeth. The sky had the color of summer — blue, clouds stretching thin like whispers at the edge of morning light but the air didn’t stick to your skin the way it usually did this time of year. It just… drifted.

Like everything was holding its breath.

And maybe you were, too.

You’d been floating for who knows how long.

Not metaphorically — though that would’ve fit.

No, you were literally drifting on the surface of the pool behind your mother’s house. Arms spread out. Face tipped to the sky. Head against the concrete edge. The silk of your pajama dress fanned out around you like petals in slow bloom.

The water was cool. Not cold enough to make you shiver, but enough to keep you awake. Enough to keep you anchored in your body, even while your mind wandered miles away.

Above you, the branches shifted in the breeze — skeletal, wiry, still bare despite the month. Wind whispered through them in spirals. Like the trees were trying to talk you out of your own head.

You didn’t remember how you got in. Just remembered the silence. And how loud it had been since.

Jeongguk had called. Once, the night that followed since, then twice on the night after. You let it ring both times.

The third time, this morning, your fingers hovered – wet and trembling – just above the screen. You stared at his name glowing, thumb hesitating over the green button. You could still hear his voice from those nights ago, rough and aching, filled with longing; you’re not sure.

“Baby.”

“You’re still you.”

But then the call went to voicemail, and the moment passed.

You didn’t mean to listen. Not really. But your finger slipped before you could think twice. And suddenly there he was — muffled, low, not as steady as he probably meant to sound.

“Hey… it’s me. I… uh—” You imagined him pinching the bridge of his nose like he always did when he was frustrated with himself. “It’s too early. I’m sorry if I’m pushy but I just…” Another pause. “Call me if you want to. Or… don’t. I just wanted to know if you’re okay.” Soft static. A throat-clearing. Then, “I miss our breakfast. That’s all. Bye.”

That was hours ago. You hadn’t listened again since.

You didn’t know what you wanted. Or maybe you did — and just weren’t ready to face what came after.

Jeongguk’s voice had stayed with you, even when you sank under the water. Even when you pressed your ears beneath the surface to block out the world.

You don’t hear the gate creak open – or maybe you do. Just don’t care. The water always gave you a kind of serenity, even back then. The water mutes everything. Even the sound of your name being called from the garden path.

“Yah. Yah. Are you serious right now?” It’s Hobi’s voice, and your body flinches like it’s been caught. You turn your head slightly, the cold breeze brushing your cheek. He’s standing by the pool, arms crossed, looking like he aged ten years since breakfast.

He sighs. “Your mom wasn’t exaggerating.”

“She called you?” Your voice is rough – barely recognizing it.

“Said you looked like you were somewhere else this morning. She said you went outside; never came back in.”

“I was just thinking.”

“In the pool. In your pajamas.”

You gesture vaguely at the sky. “It was sunny.”

“It’s eleven degrees.”

You shrug. “Felt warmer.”

Hobi exhales hard, then crouches by the poolside, mutters under his breath, grabs your wrist – not roughly, but firmly enough to mean it.

And when you don’t resist, he hauls you out like a wayward child. The chill in the air hits you like a wall. You shiver, and only then do you realize how numb your fingers are.

“Go change,” he’s already shoving you toward inside the house. “Then come back, sit your ass down. We’re having a talk.”

In your room, you tried taking your sweet time. Showered thrice. Did your skincare for at least ten times, already accepting the after effects would result into a disaster. Went through the closet for a bunch of outfits you knew you didn’t care about.

You could only do so much to stall; knew Hobi would come up and drag you for what’s waiting.

So you give it up, change into the first t-shirt you found and some loose jeans, pulled the first cardigan in your pile. The faint smell of detergent and lavender sticks to you.

Your limbs feel heavier now that you’re warm again. The stillness in your chest starts to ripple.

When you return to the patio, Hobi’s already made himself at home. He’s taken over the garden bench, two mugs of something steaming in his hands.

“You took your time,” he says, handing you the one with the chipped rim – your usual. “Figured you’d try to escape through the upstairs window.”

“Thought about it,” you admit. “But you’d find a way to bring me back here.”

He huffs a laugh, then jerks his chin toward the chair across from him. “Sit. And no sulking.”

You drop into the chair with a quiet groan. The mug warms your palms.

For a few seconds, it’s just the trees rustling around. A sparrow hopping across the grass. Then Hobi lifts his phone, squints at it, and taps the screen.

“You’re not dragging Jimin into this,” you protest weakly, already predicting what he was about to do.

“Oh, I absolutely am,” he says with glee, just as the FaceTime ring echoes.

It only takes two rings.

Jimin’s face appears on the screen — blurry, then clear — and he looks far too smug for someone who should be working. “Well, well, if it isn’t Seoul’s favorite mystery case.”

“I’m leaving,” you mutter.

“No, you’re not,” Hobi and Jimin say in unison.

“I swear to god—”

Jimin leans into the camera. “Tell me why Hobi Hyung just said you went for a swim in an eleven-degree weather. Are you training for triathlons now? Emotional Olympics?”

“It was barely a dip.”

“She was floating like a tragic koi fish,” Hobi supplies. “Wearing silk pajamas. I nearly had a stroke.”

Jimin cackles. “Of course she was. Drama. Always drama.”

You pull the cardigan tighter around yourself. “Okay, say what you need to say.”

“We want to know what’s going on,” Hobi says, gentler now. “You’ve been off. More than usual.”

Jimin nods. “It’s like you’re sleepwalking. But emotional.”

You hesitate. Then, very softly, “I kissed him.”

Silence. A bird chirps somewhere in the hedge.

Hobi blinks. “You—?”

“Kissed Jeongguk,” you clarify, staring into your mug. “A few nights ago. After Jin’s anniversary dinner.”

Jimin lets out a long, low whistle. “Damn.”

Hobi just stares. Then mutters, “That explains the existential pool moment.”

You sniff. “Fuck, this is so messed up.”

“Oh, babe,” Jimin sighs. “You’re exactly like this every time.”

Your brows knit. “Every time?”

Jimin leans back dramatically. “You were like this when he first tried to kiss you back in uni.”

Your head snaps up. “Chim.”

“No, let me say it,” Jimin grins, leaning forward towards the camera with the mischief of someone already savoring the story. “Remember after his third-year photo showcase? Kid won, got so excited, you were just there. He tried to kiss you after and you panicked so hard you knocked over his camera bag.”

Hobi nearly chokes, snorting into his drink as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “God, that day.”

“Then you ran,” Jimin continues, eyes wide with mock betrayal. “Vanished. Didn’t go back home to your shared apartment. Didn’t go to classes either.”

“Urgh, that was dramatic,” Hobi groans, slouching dramatically in his seat. “Crashed at my place for what—three whole days?”

“Just because she couldn’t face him. Because she was a chicken,” Jimin adds, jabbing a playful finger in your direction. “Gguk begged to stage a fake emergency just to get you to see him.”

“And we helped him for what?” Hobi throws his hands up, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“Because they were so cute back then,” Jimin sighs, placing a hand over his chest like the memory still haunts him. “Tiptoeing around each other, hiding their feelings—I wanted to run them over with my car.”

“I was nineteen!” you protest, pulling a cushion into your lap defensively. “What did I know about feelings?! He had a whole fan club going after him.”

“Yet you were the only one he gave his attention to,” Jimin counters, raising a brow.

“Because I was his best friend!” you exclaim, voice pitching.

“No,” Hobi interjects, pointing a spoon at you with conviction. “You had the emotional processing skills of a nine-year-old, not nineteen.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t seriously be on his side.”

“I’m just saying what I remember,” Hobi shrugs, then leans back, arms folded. “Gguk had a crush on you way before that. You did know that, right?”

You blink, caught off guard. “No. Why do you think I was thrown off when he confessed in the middle of our apartment years after? You know that story.”

“Ahh, the magical confession that started it all,” Jimin sighs theatrically. “How could we forget. You mentioned he was planning to confess to someone. After the daily lessons you gave him, you spent every day at my apartment, finishing all my ramen.”

He adds. “When I came back from tour that year all I wanted was to binge watch my favorite series and eat some food that the company would sue me for, and what do you know—I come home to an empty cabinet instead.”

Hobi bursts into laughter, nearly tipping his cup. “If only she’d known it was her all along.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “You both are impossible.”

But the mood shifts when Jimin’s voice softens. “The only difference now is that it’s not an attempt and it’s not by Gguk. This is all you.”

You stay quiet, the cushion now clenched between your arms.

Hobi reaches across the table, fingers tapping lightly against your wrist. “You know I haven’t been his biggest fan over the past few years. I’m just worried. We’re just worried. You look like you want the earth to swallow you. Do you regret it?”

Your hands slowly fall into your lap. You stare at them for a moment, then whisper, “No regrets. I just…I don’t know. It felt real. But I don’t know what it means. And I’m scared it doesn’t mean the same thing to him. Heck it hasn’t been for a few years.”

Jimin tilts his head, brows furrowing. “Did he pull away?”

You shake your head. “No. He—he kissed me back.”

Hobi’s eyebrow arches, but he stays silent.

“He was… soft,” you say, voice quieter now. “Careful. He even said we were going to talk about it – about us.”

The words hang in the air like mist. Both your friends freeze slightly—just enough for you to notice.

“Oh,” Jimin murmurs, eyes gentling.

“You haven’t talked since then?” Hobi asks, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to read between the silence.

You exhale, shoulders sagging as if the air leaving you carries too much weight. “Been dodging. In three years, this is the most normal we’ve ever been. It’s more than I can wish for—and I fucked it up.”

“How would you know?” Hobi’s voice sharpens just a little, not unkind. “You’ve been avoiding him.”

You throw him a tired look. “Why are you encouraging this?”

“Am not,” he says, lifting his palms in mock surrender. “It just sucks to see you drowning yourself—I mean almost literally if I hadn’t arrived.”

Jimin’s voice crackles through the speaker, softer now. “We’re just concerned, Sunshine. You’re not going to get answers to your what ifs if you keep running away from him.”

The sudden buzz of your phone cuts through the air, making you flinch. You grab it quickly, heart leaping—but it’s not his name that flashes across the screen. Just a calendar notification.

You try not to show your relief. “Got to go,” you stand, and brush the leaves that’s fallen on your pants. “Long day ahead.”

Jimin gasps dramatically on the call. “Come on! We’re not done here.”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Well boohoo, I’ve got better things to do than sulk about my love life.” You turn to Hobi with a raised brow, slipping your phone into your pocket. “Mind driving me?”

He grins, already rising from his seat and grabbing his keys. “Yes! Lecture part two, let’s go.”

“Aww man, this isn’t fair!” Jimin wails, sticking his lower lip out and clutching dramatically at his chest on-screen.

Hobi snorts and taps the screen. “Okay, drama king, that’s enough.” He ends the call before Jimin can protest again, stuffing his phone into his back pocket with a chuckle. “He’s going to text us in all caps.”

“Deserved,” you mutter, lips twitching as you walk beside him.

The supermarket is quiet for a weekday, the kind of hush that only soft music and squeaky cart wheels dare to interrupt. You’re thankful Hobi doesn’t press anymore the whole time since you’ve left the house – already noticing your mood becoming brighter for the day that’s waiting ahead.

You're halfway through the produce aisle, holding a checklist and peering suspiciously at a box of clementines when Hobi hums beside you. "You always shop like you're about to enter battle."

You glance at him. "I am entering battle. With a hundred hyperactive children."

"Fair," he laughs, tossing a pack of juice boxes into the cart.

You’re scribbling something on your list when a flash of movement catches your eye—and your breath stops short.

Down the aisle, barely a few meters away, is Jeongguk. In all black. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, tattooed arm stretching to reach something on the top shelf. He hasn’t seen you yet.

You instinctively duck behind a shelf of rice crackers and kimchi jars.

Hobi pauses mid-step. “What the fu—”

“Shh!” you whisper harshly, gripping his jacket sleeve.

Hobi glances up, follows your gaze, and spots him. His lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile. “Oh no, you don’t get to run this time.”

“Hobi—” you hiss, panicked.

Too late.

He raises his voice a few decibels too high, cheerful and fake. “Oh, Jeongguk-ah! Fancy seeing you here!”

You snap your eyes shut. “You traitor.”

Jeongguk looks up, eyes landing on Hobi. Before he can say anything, a glass jar clinks too loudly behind the kimchi display. His eyes shift, catching the familiar shape of your shoulders as you freeze in place.

His brows lift in surprise, then soften. “Hey.”

You straighten awkwardly, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Hi.”

Hobi, satisfied with his sabotage, checks his phone with dramatic flair. “Ah, look at the time. I actually have somewhere to be.”

You whirl around. “No, you don’t.”

“Do now,” he says, grinning unapologetically. “You’ve got company. Better company. Call me if you need anything.”

“Hobi—”

He grabs the cart handle and gently pushes it toward Jeongguk. “Have fun, you two,” he singsongs, already walking backwards. “Don’t forget the toothpaste!” And with a mock salute, he’s gone.

You’re left standing there, arms stiff at your sides, while Jeongguk looks at you with a mix of amusement and mild concern. “Hyung's not going to answer in case you call, is he?” he asks lightly.

You huff. “Probably already blocked me off for the rest of the day."

“Can I—help?”

You hesitate, then glance at the cart. It’s already half-full. You do need help carrying things. “Fine. But you’re just helping. No comments.”

“Got it.” He nods, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Silent mule at your service.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile sneaking up on you either. “Let’s just finish this.”

The grocery store lights are too bright for your mood. Fluorescent rows hum above your head, flickering occasionally, as if to match the static in your chest.

You grip the cart like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Jeongguk walks beside you in silence, pushing the cart now without being asked. You hadn’t planned for him to be here. That part wasn’t in your to-do list. But the shopping still had to get done—for them.

The silence between you is strange. Not quite heavy, but too aware. It’s only broken by the occasional squeak of the cart wheel or the murmur of announcements over the speaker system.

He follows your lead quietly, as you start pulling toys and snacks from the shelves, loading them one by one. A pack of watercolor sets. Soft pastel bears. Fruit jellies and rice snacks. Colorful markers, even if they’ll end up dried out within a few days.

Jeongguk watches you – moving around, adding more things into the cart. You can feel the question fighting to come out when he finally speaks. “This isn’t for you, is it?”

“Nope.” You don’t explain further.

He doesn’t push.

At some point, you reach for a box on the top shelf—foam clay, pastel-colored. You stretch onto your toes, fingers grazing the edge.

But before you can tip it into your hand, an arm reaches past you. Jeongguk takes it down like it’s nothing. Hands it to you without meeting your eyes.

“Thanks,” you murmur, tucking your hair behind your ear.

He nods.

A few aisles later, you reach for the bulk box of milk packs and lift it with steady arms—manageable, nothing you haven’t done alone before.

Before you can set it in the cart, Jeongguk takes it from your hands, placing it down gently, like it’s second nature.

“Gguk,” you start, unsure what you mean to say. Maybe something like you don’t have to, or I didn’t mean to drag you, but neither sound right in your head.

“Please,” he says softly, like he’s heard the words anyway. “Let me.”

You stare at him for a second too long. He doesn’t look at you, but his fingers linger on the cart handle, tense for a moment before they loosen again.

By the time you reach checkout, the cart’s half-full with things you don’t even remember picking up. You pay before he can offer, brushing off his wallet with a shake of your head.

He doesn't argue.

Outside, the clouds have rolled in, softening the edges of the sun. The wind has picked up again.

He unlocks the car, lifts the bags into the trunk before you can protest. You give him the address with barely more than a murmur. No explanation. Just an area he hasn’t been to. He doesn’t ask questions.

The drive is quiet with music playing low—some instrumental track from his usual playlist. Something you both used to study to in college just to feel a sense of calm.

You stare out the window, hands folded over your lap, heart pacing a little faster than usual.

The car eventually slows down in front of the narrow gates, after hours of driving away from the city. Behind it stands a modest building, old but well kept. Faintly weathered walls, a sloped tiled roof, and ivy growing up one side—quiet signs that time has been kind here.

The sign out front reads nothing special—just the name of a children’s home, one Jeongguk doesn’t know about. No dedications. No fancy titles. Just quiet lettering on faded wood, like it never needed to call attention to itself.

Surrounding it are long stretches of countryside. The roads that led here thinned into gravel. There are no tall buildings, no passing cars. Just open skies, whispering trees, and the faint hum of wind moving through the hills.

It’s peaceful. Secluded. Like the world forgot this place existed—and maybe that’s what makes it sacred.

You reach for your seatbelt.

And he asks, “This is where you were going?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He looks at the building, then at you, something soft flickering in his gaze. “Do you come here often?”

You smile faintly. “Used to. Then didn’t for some time. But lately, more often.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Jeongguk moves to help you carry the bags up the front steps, gentler than before. Like he knows without needing to be told that this place means something to you. And he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask more.

Just walks beside you, like always.

The front door opens with a familiar creak, the kind you’d memorized during your earlier visits—when your footsteps felt heavier, when you were still learning how to breathe without aching.

The smell inside is soft, lived-in. A mix of baby powder, instant noodles, and laundry soap. Homey.

You step in first, setting the first few bags down by the wall just like you always did.

Jeongguk follows, does the same. He’s quiet but observant. His gaze traces the walls—drawings taped up with mismatched washi tape, a corkboard with birthday cards, and tiny handprints in paint.

There were some photos pinned too. Taken in different seasons. You and the staff, smiling softly as the golden light of autumn filtered through the trees behind you.

Another showed you kneeling beside a group of children bundled in bright scarves and mittens, rosy-cheeked from a crisp winter’s day spent building snowmen.

One captured a sunlit spring afternoon, you crouched in the garden, helping a little girl plant seeds, her hands muddy but her grin wide.

There was even a candid shot from a summer festival—strings of lanterns glowing overhead, children laughing as you handed out ice cream cones.

Each picture felt like a quiet story of care and moments lived fully, stitched together across the turning seasons.

“This is different,” Jeongguk says gently, still looking around. “Seems like you’ve been around for a while.”

You hum, crouching to adjust a bag of toys so it won’t tip over. “I started after… Well. It helped.”

He doesn’t push for more. Just nods, lips pressed into a quiet line.

A moment later, footsteps approach around the corner.

Ms. Han, one of the coordinators you’ve known since your first visit, appears in the hallway — eyes lighting up the moment they find yours. She’s as warm as ever, apron still dusted with flour, smile crinkling at the edges like it’s second nature.

“You’re here,” she says, already moving in for a brief hug. “The little ones will be thrilled. They’ve been waiting.”

You return the embrace, already feeling a huge weight lifted off your chest, one you didn’t realize was lingering around. “I can’t wait to see them. Hope this isn’t too much.”

Her eyes flick to the bags at your side, gives you a grateful wide smile, like she’s always done, then shifts to the man beside you. Her smile doesn’t falter, but it softens into something quietly curious.

“Oh,” she says, surprised, “And you’ve brought someone with you.”

Her eyes land on Jeongguk, taking him in — the careful way he carries a box, the silent attention in his posture, the quiet thread that seems to stretch between the two of you.

Then gently, with curiosity wrapped in fondness, she asks, “Your husband?”

You freeze for a heartbeat.

Then—instinctively—you glance at Jeongguk.

He doesn’t flinch. Just meets your eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging into a small, barely-there smile. He nods once — gentle, like he’s saying, It’s okay. You decide. I’m here.

Your fingers tighten around the donation bag.

Then you turn back to Ms. Han, voice steady as you answer, “Yes.”

Ms. Han smiles like she’s known all along and steps aside to let you both in. “Come,” she says, with a fond wave of her hand. “The kids have been asking what time you’d be arriving today. They’ll be happy to see you’re here.”

You nod, offering a quiet thank you, and Jeongguk follows as you lead the way down the narrow hallway. His footsteps echo just behind yours — steady, unhurried.

The floor creaks beneath you in the same familiar spots. You’d memorized them without meaning to — like everything else here. The hallway walls are still that pale yellow the children helped paint one summer, uneven in places where small arms couldn’t quite reach, patches of lighter tones marked by smudged fingerprints no one had the heart to cover up.

Everything here is soft around the edges. Worn cushions on the benches. Hand-sewn curtains barely clinging to their rods. Corners padded with foam, sticker charts curling on the bulletin board. Nothing fancy. But everything lived-in. Loved.

Jeongguk says nothing, but you feel his eyes taking it all in. Watching the way your fingers drift along the wall like they’re retracing muscle memory. The way your steps slow near the corkboard filled with notes and crooked crayon drawings. The way something in your shoulders seems to loosen here.

And then—

“Unnie!”

The call comes from down the hall — high-pitched and gleeful — followed by the sound of small feet pattering on linoleum. You barely have time to turn before a blur of limbs barrels into you.

You laugh, arms catching the little girl mid-run as she clings tight to your neck. “Hey now—careful,” you murmur, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. “You’re going to knock me over again.”

“But we missed you!”

The others come quickly after — their joy spilling around corners, all mismatched socks and wide, bright eyes.

“Noona!”

“She’s here!”

One of the older boys lingers near the edge of the crowd, wide-eyed as his gaze bounces between you and the man behind you. “Noona brought someone!” he says louder that the rest of the kids— and that’s all the cue the rest need.

A ripple of curiosity spreads.

A little girl gasps, her hands clapping over her mouth in mock-shock. “Is he your boyfriend?!”

Another child immediately joins in. “Do you and Unnie hold hands?”

“Does he bring you flowers?”

Jeongguk blinks — clearly not prepared for the sudden interrogation — but he handles it well, calm, letting the kids crowd him.

You watch, barely holding back a laugh as one particularly bold toddler barrels into him, wrapping pudgy arms around his legs like he’s known forever.

Jeongguk steadies himself, crouching with ease. “Flowers?” he says, gently loosening the toddler’s grip to keep them from falling. Holds them steady. “I bring her favorites. Huge purple ones she loves.”

The kids erupt in a chorus of delighted “ooohhh”s, like he just confirmed something scandalous. One little boy gasps dramatically and points between you both. “Do you kiss?!”

His ears tint the faintest pink. He glances over at you — and for a second, the tension that’s lingered between you dissolves into something softer. Lighter. Shared.

You shake your head, amused. “You all have way too much energy.”

“They’re just excited,” Ms. Han says, stepping in with a smile. “It’s the first time they’ve seen you bring anyone along.”

The kids swarm again, now pulling Jeongguk’s hand as much as yours.

“Come see our room!”

“We drew pictures last week! Wanna see?”

“There’s new snacks! Unnie brought snacks!”

Jeongguk lets one of the smallest children cling to his arm like a koala. He looks at you — half amused, half stunned — and you just smile, already leading the way down the hall.

The playroom is loud in the best way — fingerpaints, wooden blocks, stuffed animals in chaotic piles.

You’re barely two steps in before a crayon is shoved in your hand and three different voices are asking if you want to play house, draw dinosaurs, or help braid hair.

Jeongguk hovers near the doorway at first, watching as you settle onto a worn rug with three toddlers and a bucket of paintbrushes. It doesn’t take long before one of the older boys grabs his sleeve.

“Samchon, can you help me paint a train? Make paper planes too after?”

You see his brows lift — caught off guard by the nickname but a smile comes out anyway. “Of course,” he lowers himself to the child’s height. “What kind? Fast? Slow? Magical?”

“Fast and magical,” the boy decides instantly.

Jeongguk chuckles. “Best kind.”

You glance sideways, watching him ease into it. The way he kneels without hesitation. The way his fingers curl naturally around the paintbrush, guiding the little boy’s hand as they drag the first thick strokes of green and gold across the paper.

The sight squeezes something in your chest. You look away before it shows.

Your distraction costs you.

A giggle. Then—

“Oops!” One of the younger girls has dabbed a fat smudge of yellow paint across your cheek. Her hand hovers with the brush like she’s not sure if she’s about to be scolded.

You blink. Then smile. “You trying to turn me into sunshine?”

She grins wide. “You already are.”

You laugh, leaning in so she can add a second streak. Because, why not?

At some point, Jeongguk glances up from his drawing — and freezes.

Because now another toddler beside him has decided to join the chaos, sneakily dipping their brush and dabbing a bright red circle on the tip of his nose.

“Yah,” he says gently, pretending to scowl. “You’ve turned me into a button.”

The kids dissolve into laughter.

And so do you.

“Looks good on you,” you say, teasing as you reach across for a wet napkin from the counter.

“You’re one to talk.” He nods at your cheek. “You’ve got a whole sunset going on.”

You shake your head, amused, then press the napkin gently to your skin. Before you can reach the next streak, he’s already moving closer, wiping it for you — careful, tender, like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t say anything. Just offers a second napkin, flicking his eyes silly to the red on his nose. “I won’t survive the cuteness if more of them gang up on me.”

You grin, taking it. “Hold still.”

His eyes soften as you wipe off the paint. He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you — close, quiet — like he’s memorizing the shape of this moment. Like maybe, for a second, it feels like before.

You both stay there a moment longer, paint smudged and smiling under the hum of childhood.

The playroom noise fades behind you, replaced by the quiet of the nursery hallway. A soft children’s song plays faintly through the door, mixed with the steady hum of a white noise machine.

You pause just outside the doorway, your fingers gently gripping the frame.

“You okay?” Jeongguk asks behind you.

You nod, soft. “Could you grab the last bag? The one with the formula and wipes?”

He gives you a gentle nod and disappears down the hall without question.

Inside, the nursery glows with soft golden light and quiet warmth. Thick curtains mute the summer sun, and pastel mobiles slowly turn above each crib. The walls are covered with animals the kids painted years ago — a giraffe with uneven legs, an elephant with five flower-shaped ears. You remember painting with them, the scent of fruit snacks and finger paint still fresh in your mind.

A tired staff nurse is rocking a crying baby near the far crib, gently bouncing her, but the little one refuses to settle.

Her eyes lift when she sees you. “Sweetheart,” she says, visibly relieved. “She hasn’t stopped crying since after lunch.”

You smile softly and stretch out your arms. “Here, let me.”

The nurse hands her over without hesitation. You tuck the baby against your chest, your hand finding her back like instinct. Getting comfortable on the play mats, you rock without even realizing, movements small, heart steady.

“She just got changed,” the nurse explains. “Probably just wants comfort.”

“She’ll sleep soon,” you say, rubbing her back gently. “Just needs to hear a heartbeat.”

By the time Jeongguk returns, the baby’s cries have softened into sniffles, and your arms are full. “Got it,” he says, holding up the bag.

You motion with your chin. “Can you set it by the changing table?”

He follows, crosses to the far side of the nursery. But then pauses, spotting another infant in the corner bassinet, fussing as he kicks against his blanket.

The nurse sighs. “He’ll need a fresh change soon too.”

“I can do it,” Jeongguk offers before thinking.

Your arms instinctively tighten around the baby, but you keep soothing.

The nurse arches a brow. “You sure?”

He’s already rolling up his sleeves, a hint of a smile on his lips. “It’s been a while, but… I think I remember how.”

You watch as he gently lifts the baby from the bassinet, cradling the boy with practiced arms. He lays him on the changing mat nearby, his movements careful and steady.

He hums under his breath — a tune you recognize. Soft and slow, the same one he used to sing with his lips pressed to your belly, palm cradling your side, whenever a little ball of sunshine kicked up fuss from inside.

You shift slightly, settling the baby in your arms. She stirs, eyes catching the motion nearby. You look over at Jeongguk, following her gaze — or maybe she’s following yours.

He unsnaps the onesie with careful fingers. Talks to the baby like he’s listening. “You’re strong huh buddy? Gonna wiggle your way out of this one?”

The baby hiccups, waving his arms.

You breathe out a soft laugh, barely there. Jeongguk glances up, meets your eyes. There’s no teasing in his smile. Just warmth.

He finishes the change without fuss. Secures the new diaper, buttons the onesie with gentle thumbs. When he scoops the boy back into his arms, he’s settled and calm. He leans down and lays the little one gently back in the bassinet, giving the tiny chest a light pat. The boy settles with a soft noise, blinking up at the ceiling. Jeongguk lingers for a second, then straightens and returns to you.

“You still got it,” you murmur.

He shrugs slightly. “We did take those classes together for two weeks straight.”

You smile. “Pretty sure we bickered the whole time.”

He chuckles. “Only because you kept trying to correct the instructor.”

“She was wrong about the diaper fold.”

He holds up his hands, mock serious. “I wasn’t about to argue with either of you.”

You exhale. Not a sigh, not quite — more like a breath you’d forgotten you were holding.

He disappears again for a moment, returns quickly with a small tray – a rice ball, some warm soup, and cut fruit, set aside by the staff for visiting volunteers. He also has a folded blanket he carefully drapes over the little girl in your arms.

“Here,” he says, crouching beside you on the floor. “Lunch. You didn’t eat.”

You glance down at the sleeping baby. “She’ll wake up if I move.”

“I’ll hold her.”

You look at him. “Is that okay?”

He just smiles and shifts closer, waiting until you adjust your grip. Then he takes the baby into his arms like he remembers how it used to feel — like he remembers this weight, this stillness.

You rub your arms as the chill hits your skin.

He notices, glances down. “Hang on a sec.” Carefully, he shifts the baby in one arm to free the other, her tiny face scrunching as the movement jostles her.

She lets out a soft, uncertain noise — the kind that threatens to turn into a cry.

He dips his head, voice low and steady. “Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” His thumb strokes gently along her back, and she quiets again.

Then, with practiced ease, he shrugs out of his hoodie and drapes it over your shoulders, all without missing a beat.

“You first,” he says, motioning to the tray.

You sit, legs curled under you, and pick up the spoon. One bite at a time. Jeongguk doesn’t speak, just watches the baby’s chest rise and fall, his thumb gently stroking the soft blanket.

“She likes warmth,” you say quietly. “Some of them won’t nap unless they can feel someone near.”

He nods, not taking his eyes off her. “I remember that from one of the classes.” There’s a long pause — not heavy, just full. Then he says, almost to himself, “You’ve been doing this all this time.”

You don’t answer. Don’t have to.

He looks at you, and you swear he sees it — all of it.

And still, he stays.

The halls are quiet now. Naptime has wrapped the orphanage in one of those rare, peaceful spells where every child sleeps at once.

You step out of the nursery just as Ms. Han appears around the corner. She doesn’t say anything at first — just watches as you tuck a sleeping baby more securely into your chest.

“I forget how natural you are with them,” she murmurs, voice gentle.

You give a faint smile, adjusting your grip. “They make it easy.”

She watches you for another moment, then glances toward the door at the end of the hallway. “Some of the adoption papers went through this morning. The Lee siblings will be picked up by the end of the week.”

Your arms tighten slightly. “I thought they were still waiting on approvals.”

“They were. But someone pulled a few strings.”

You let out a breath, smiling in quiet relief. “That’s good to hear.”

Ms. Han nods. “Thank you. You’ve helped make a lot of things happen here.”

You look away — not out of shame, but the ache that always comes with recognition. “They deserve it.”

“They do,” she agrees. “And so do you.”

She steps closer then, lowering her voice just a bit. “Is today your last visit?”

The question sits heavy, even though you’ve known the answer all day. You nod once.

“We’ll miss you,” she says, and for the first time, her voice wavers. “You’ve done so much without ever needing credit. Quietly. Fully. Like you were always trying to leave pieces of love behind.”

“I just wanted them to feel warm,” your throat tightens. “Even if just for a little while.”

“You gave them more than that,” she says. “You gave them a home.”

You and Jeongguk step out into the garden at the side of the orphanage, where a few of the older kids are lingering with chalk and paper airplanes, their voices softer now, the day tipping gently into late afternoon light.

One of the boys —the same one who’d called him Samchon earlier — wanders over, a piece of folded paper in his hand.

“Samchon,” the boy says, holding it out. “I made this one better. It’s faster now.”

Jeongguk takes it carefully, inspects the sharp folds. “You’ve got the wings even this time,” he says, impressed. “That’s gonna fly far.”

The boy grins, then pauses. “Will you come back next time?”

There’s a stillness in Jeongguk’s response. He glances at you, his expression unreadable for a moment — then softens. “I think…” he begins, crouching to the boy, “you and your friends are all headed somewhere new soon, right?”

The boy nods. “My new mom and dad are coming next week.”

Jeongguk smiles, and it’s warm — proud. “That’s amazing. You’ll teach them how to fold the best airplanes?”

“I will,” the boy promises, straightening his shoulders.

Jeongguk ruffles his hair gently. “Then you won’t even need me.”

The boy shrugs, playful. “Maybe not. But you’re still cool.” He darts off before either of you can say more.

You let out a quiet breath. The kind that stays in your throat. Jeongguk just watches the boy go, something distant flickering across his face.

Something like a quiet ache wrapped in fondness.

The road hums beneath the tires, a quiet pause between places. Neither of you speak at first—not for lack of words, but because the air still holds the weight of small feet, warm bottles, paint-smudged cheeks.

Eventually, Jeongguk gestures toward an upcoming exit. “Coffee?”

You glance at him. His voice is soft. Familiar. You nod. “Could use it.”

He pulls into the drive-thru of a small roadside café — one that’s had the same five drinks on the menu since before you both learned how to drive. He orders from memory; one iced americano, one mild latte with almond milk and extra foam.

You let out a quiet laugh. “These used to keep us up all night.”

Jeongguk smiles faintly, eyes still on the menu board. “And we’d show up to 7AMs looking half alive.”

“Why did we pick the earliest classes, again?”

“You and your cursed need for ‘structure,’” he says, and you mimic his voice in a teasing lilt. He scoffs keeping his eyes ahead.

The barista hands over the drinks. You pass them into the cup holders, fingers brushing briefly. The first sip warms your throat. The sweetness is just enough to settle you.

“Thanks,” you murmur — more than just for the drink.

He nods, pulling the car back onto the road.

Outside, the light has started to dim. The sun dips low behind the trees, casting long streaks of amber across the windshield. One by one, streetlights begin to blink on, softening the edges of approaching dusk.

Then, you notice the turn he takes.

The bend of the street.

The familiar lamppost that still flickers near the crosswalk.

The university gates, now worn with time.

The empty lot at the back of campus — the one where you used to wait for him after class. The one where he taught you to drive. The one that always felt like somewhere in between youth and becoming.

The car settles into a stop. The engine ticks once, then fades.

The lot is nearly empty, shadows stretching longer beneath the slanting afternoon sun. Everything here feels unchanged — and yet entirely different.

For a second, you think about asking what — why here, after all this time. But the question never leaves your lips.

Maybe you both need this.

The coffee cups sit between you now — lids soft with condensation, your fingers tracing circles near the rim of yours.

You’re parked beneath the same tree that used to shade Jeongguk’s car years ago, in the quiet lot just outside your old university’s art wing.

The wind moves through the branches, gentle and unbothered, as if this little corner has been left untouched by time.

You glance over. “Thanks… for today.”

He shifts slightly in his seat, coffee nestled in one hand, eyes already on you. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” you say, voice gentle. “For everything. The shopping, the snacks, the diaper duty…”

He chuckles softly. “You say that like I haven’t done it before.”

“I didn’t think you remembered how.”

“Didn’t think I did either.” His mouth quirks, but there’s a softness behind it. “But I’m glad the muscle memory stuck. Being with those kids… it felt good. Thank you for letting me stay.”

You smile at your cup. The breeze threads in through the cracked window. For a moment, there’s only the sound of the cardboard sleeve creaking between your fingers.

Then—

“Can I ask you something?”

You glance up. He’s watching you, serious but soft. Always soft now.

His mouth twitches when you nod. Takes your cue as permission. “How long have you been going there?”

You don’t look away. “A little over three years.”

“Since…?”

“Since Ha-yun,” you say quietly, not to wound, just to root the truth in time. “After everything settled, I found myself needing somewhere to go. Somewhere I could feel like… I still had something to give.”

Jeongguk doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

“At first, it was just for an hour or two. Holding the babies, helping during meal prep. I wasn’t doing anything major. I just… needed to be near them. Kids who’d lost something too. Part of me was trying to stay close to what I lost.”

You glance away, out toward the walkway near the lecture halls. “I started donating when I could. Buying diapers, toys, blankets. It wasn’t some grand gesture. It just made sense. Like if I had that love in me and nowhere to put it, maybe this was a place that could hold it.”

Jeongguk’s fingers tighten around his coffee. But not out of guilt — not this time. Just quiet awe.

“I didn’t know,” he murmurs.

“You weren’t supposed to,” you say, meeting his eyes again. “I didn’t do it for anyone to know. I did it for her. For me.”

His jaw flexes, just barely. “I was thinking… maybe I wasn’t the kind of person who could carry her memory right.”

“There’s no right way to remember what we’ve lost — or to grieve,” you murmur. “It’s what makes us human. Some people spiral into their darkest moments, become someone they never imagined. Others carry their pain quietly. Or they channel that love into new places, where someone else can feel it.”

Your gaze softens as you glance his way. “We just carry it differently.”

He looks at you — unsure, still searching for something he can’t name.

“We were both in a bad place,” you continue, voice calm, steady. “But we chose different ways to survive it. That’s okay.”

Jeongguk breathes in slowly, like he’s finally letting that truth sit in his lungs for once.

You offer a faint smile. “If you let other people dictate how you’re supposed to grieve, you’d just be their puppet — not human.”

The silence that follows isn’t sharp. It just lingers — warm, full, like something shared finally found space between you.

Jeongguk’s the one to break it. His voice is quieter now. “Why didn’t you tell me? About the orphanage. About all of it.”

“Because I didn’t need you to know.” Your fingers curl gently around your coffee cup, condensation cooling your skin. “That place… those kids… it was how I kept breathing. And you — you had your own way of getting by.”

You glance down briefly, then lift your gaze again.

“We were both carrying a burden back then. And yeah, maybe as a married couple, we were supposed to share it. Be each other’s landing place. That would’ve been nice.”

You pause. Let the weight of the past breathe between you.

“Back then, I really hoped I could lean on the person I love. Hoped I could lean on you.”

The admission hangs there — not bitter, not demanding. Just soft and settled.

You take a breath, close your eyes briefly, as if pulling strength from the calm you’ve built within. “But time really does bring you peace. It wasn’t easy, but it came.”

Then, a breath lighter, you add, “And like I said, that’s what society expects — to grieve together, to do it properly. When did I ever give a shit about expectations?”

That earns a quiet laugh from him — one of those Jeongguk laughs, fond and half-exhaled. “You always had a way of turning things around. Always led with kindness.”

“Not always,” you say gently. “You just didn’t see me breaking when I did.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you like his heart is trying to memorize the way you look when you say things that hurt and heal at once.

And then—he reaches for your hand. Not urgently. Not to fix anything. Just… enough.

Enough for your pinkies to meet where they rest on the console, side by side.

You let them stay there. Don’t thread your fingers through his. Don’t pull away either.

Outside, the sky deepens into burnished gold — slow, unhurried, the last warmth of the day clinging to the edges.

And for the first time in a long time, the weight in your chest feels different.

Less about what you lost.

More about what never left.

The silence lingers a little longer before you both quietly step out of the car. There’s no destination—just an unspoken agreement to keep walking.

Campus hasn’t changed much.

The hedges are trimmed the way they always were. The breeze still sweeps through the old courtyards like it’s carrying secrets from a decade ago. You pass the benches you used to sit on between classes, the path lined with cherry trees that bloomed too early every year.

Somewhere down the block, a familiar rusting gate catches your eye.

You glance over your shoulder. “Think the basketball court’s still open?”

Jeongguk raises a brow. “Doubt it.”

You start walking faster.

“Wait—” he says, already catching on.

You glance back with a grin, voice airy, teasing. “You’re the one who brought me here. Keep up.”

And then you’re off—dashing across the lot like gravity doesn’t apply. You reach the chain-link fence and tug at the side where the latch’s always been loose. It creaks open with a little resistance.

Jeongguk jogs after you, breath catching between laughter and disbelief. “Are you seriously breaking into a college court in your thirties?”

You swing the gate wider. “For old time’s sake.”

“You’ve gotten faster since uni.”

You smirk over your shoulder. “You’re just getting old.”

“We’re the same age!”

“Put that cardio you brag to use! I don’t even go to the gym.”

You dodge past a crooked bench and duck under the gate, sneakers skidding to a stop on the cracked pavement of the court. Jeongguk follows, breath catching as he slows beside you, eyes sweeping the empty space.

“Wow,” he murmurs.

Inside, the court looks almost exactly the same—faded lines, one broken hoop, the faint scent of rubber and summer still lingering in the concrete.

You walk toward center court and spin slowly, like you’re trying to remember how it felt to exist without weight. To be nineteen. To be invincible.

Jeongguk watches you, quiet amusement dancing in his eyes. “Remember when you used to come here to watch me play?” he says.

“How could I forget the number of times you bet you could make a half-court shot blindfolded?”

His grin stretches. “I did.”

“You hit the janitor’s cart.”

“That’s called creative aiming.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You had the biggest ego for someone who missed every layup.”

“I was distracting the crowd with my charisma.”

“There was no crowd, Gguk.”

“There was you,” he says, without thinking.

You glance toward the far end of the court, where late sunlight slices across the paint like a memory you haven’t touched in years.

Your fingers brush the hem of your sleeve. The bracelet is still there.

Warm against your skin. But cold with questions, waiting.

And then, quietly, “Why did you send it?”

Jeongguk turns toward you slowly. The laughter from earlier fades from his lips, replaced by something quieter. Something only meant for moments like this.

“The bracelet,” you say, more gently this time. “You sent it without a note. Without a name. Just… showed up.”

His hand slips into his coat pocket, like it’s looking for something to hold onto. “I meant to give it to you before. A long time ago.”

Your eyes stay steady on his. “Why’d you get it in the first place?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifts, pushes his sleeve back just slightly — just enough for the edge of the silver to catch the light.

“You’ve seen mine, right?”

You nod. Quiet.

“I got it to always have a piece of you,” he says, voice low. “To keep you close. Tulips have always been a part of you. But there was this one moment that really hit.”

His gaze drops to the bracelet, a faint smile tugging at his mouth before he speaks again. “It was the morning after our wedding. You were still asleep. Curled around your bouquet — those damn tulips.” A soft breath of a laugh escapes him. “I couldn’t stop looking at you. Like if I blinked, you’d vanish.”

You smile. “How’d I end up with the bouquet again?”

“We were taking pictures with it before bed,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Somewhere between my dumb jokes and your yawns, you passed out hugging the whole thing. And it just... stayed with you.”

“That explains why there were petals all over the bed,” you murmur, grinning.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. But it was the best thing to wake up to. You—hair a mess, petals everywhere, clinging to something that meant everything. And I just stood there thinking, this is it. The first morning I got to call you my wife. And that from then on, every morning after, I’d get to call you mine.”

His eyes drop to his wrist. Thumb brushing over the tulip charm like second nature.

“So I went looking for something to hold that moment,” he says. “Had this made. Minimal, clean lines. Just like that morning. Quiet. Real.”

You squint at him, teasing. “And here I thought you wore it because of your classically bland taste.”

He gasps. “Bland?”

“Classically bland,” you amend, barely holding back your smile. “But yeah, I’ll give you points for sentiment.”

He rolls his eyes, but his shoulders drop a little — tension dissolving into warmth.

Then, after a moment; “When I had yours made,” he says, voice dipping low again, “I hoped maybe it could help me remember my love for you. That maybe it could lead me back to what mattered. That maybe… it could help me find my way back home.”

Your breath catches.

And before you can stop yourself, the question slips out. “Does that mean you actually forgot your love for me?”

His head lifts fast. “No,” he says instantly. “Fuck, no.”

There’s no waver. No doubt.

“I didn’t forget,” he says. “I buried it. Buried it under shame, guilt, fear. There were things that made me feel like I didn’t deserve your love anymore. Things I let consume me. I lost track of what mattered because I thought I couldn’t be forgiven.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

He glances down again—at the way your fingers now cradle the matching charm on your wrist.

“I wanted to give it to you back then,” he says. “God, I wanted to. But a bracelet wasn’t going to undo everything I broke. Couldn’t hand you a piece of silver and pretend it would fix the pain. I even did something after —“

You swallow. “That would’ve been a start,” you whisper.

He nods. “It would’ve. But I was a stranger to myself. Too far gone to recognize what love really looked like.”

You glance down at the charm again, feel the curve of the metal between your fingers.

“You said this was supposed to help you remember,” you say. “Help you find your way back.”

You pause — heart beating a little too hard. “And now you’ve given it to me. So… does that mean you’ve found your way back?”

When his eyes meet yours, they’re full of the softest kind of ache.

“I have,” he says. “For a while now.”

The breeze picks up as the last of the sun slips away, brushing over your skin like a memory.

You’re both quiet now, walking a slow, meandering circle back to the parking lot, the pavement still holding the day’s warmth.

Jeongguk glances at you once. Twice. Then finally, “Can I say something?”

You stop, turning to face him. “Of course.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there — hands in his pockets, brows slightly furrowed, like he’s sorting through pieces of something he’s never let himself fully hold.

His voice comes low. “There’s no excuse for how I hurt you.”

Before you can answer, he pushes forward — not rushed, but clear. Like he’s been waiting for this opening, this quiet, this you.

“Kept telling myself I didn’t mean to. That I was just… lost. But lost or not, I still left you alone. I made you carry everything on your own.”

Your chest tightens — not from pain, but from the honesty in his voice. The clarity you’d spent years waiting for.

“I shut down after we lost her,” he says. “Threw myself into work, into being anywhere but where it hurt. And you—” he swallows, gaze falling to the ground, “you were the only one who could’ve helped me remember what love even looked like. Who I really was.”

Your heart stumbles. You step a little closer — not much, just enough for your shoulder to brush his when the wind shifts again.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I kept trying to punish myself,” he says. “Pretended I didn’t care. Pretended you’d be better off if I stayed cold. But I knew what I was doing.”

He breathes in — shaky. Measured. “And then I did something unforgivable.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say the word. Doesn’t say a name. Doesn’t need to.

The silence that follows holds everything — the betrayal, the ache, the way your heart had shattered the day you found those papers. The ones that told you, in cruel black ink, that your future was slipping away.

He lifts his eyes. “I broke our vows,” he says quietly. “Broke you.”

You don’t step away. Just meet his gaze — steady, unwavering — even though your hands have gone still at your sides.

“You did,” you say – not cruel, just honest. “But I broke too. Gave up too easily when I found those papers.”

His jaw tightens. A breath catches in his throat. His gaze drops briefly, then lifts again — full of something heavier than guilt. More enduring than shame. “You had every right,” he murmurs. “The way I treated you—”

He breaks off, shakes his head. Then exhales, jaw working, eyes catching the last glint of fading light. “I would take it back if I could. Every second I let you feel unloved. Every moment I made you question your worth. I’m so—”

You look down at your hands, cut him off gently. “We can’t take back the things we’ve done. Can’t use time to reverse the mistakes.”

“I know that,” he says. “Can’t erase the ways I failed — as a husband, as a father. Even as your best friend who once promised to be there for you no matter what right here on this campus.”

He gestures vaguely around you both — at the parking lot, the lights beginning to flicker on one by one, the faint hum of cicadas in the trees.

Jeongguk continues, “I shouldn’t have left you alone the past three years. Can’t go back and rewrite that. I’ll have to live with it forever.” He moves closer, faces you now, “But I want to be the one who finally understands you now. No more running. No more hiding. No more shutting you out.”

Your throat tightens, but you stay silent — listening. Breathing.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he says. “Know I don’t deserve it. If I were you, I wouldn’t forgive me either.”

Then, without rush, he reaches for your hand. Not desperate. Not begging. Just there — fingers threading gently between yours, brushing against the ring still resting at the base of your finger.

His voice dips. “But whatever part of me you still want — I’ll give it.”

A tear slips down your cheek. You barely feel it until Jeongguk reaches up, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye, his touch feather-light.

When he leans in — just a little — you can feel the warmth of his breath. The slight tremble in his hand as his fingers rest at your jaw. He doesn’t kiss you. The tip of his nose just grazes yours — soft, aching, familiar.

“I’m choosing you,” he says. “I’m here to stay.”

You let the words settle, let the quiet and peace finally find their way — not just in the space between you, but in the part of you that’s been waiting for him all along. The part that’s loved him since the beginning, and in between all the fuck-ups life threw at you, until now – still here, holding on.

Without warning, you blink, slow, wide-eyed. Blurt out, “Please don’t kiss me.”

Jeongguk lets out a breath, startled — halfway between a laugh and a choke. “I wasn’t…wait—what?”

“What?” You hide your face in his chest like the embarrassment might drown if you press hard enough. “Shit. Never mind. Fuck off."

His chuckles rumble beneath your cheek. “You’re the one who brought it up!”

You nudge his side with your elbow, trying not to smile. Failing.

“Now that you did,” he murmurs, his hand brushing lightly against your arm, “you gonna tell me why you avoided me like the plague?”

Your hands toy with the zipper of his hoodie. The fabric between your fingers grounds you as you try to form an answer.

“I didn’t know what to say,” you admit. “Thought I might’ve ruined things. That maybe… you’d drift away again. Thinking, you might now.”

He pulls you in, arms winding around your waist slowly, deliberately. Not with hunger, but with the kind of patience that promises he’s not letting go this time. “Did you not hear everything I said, woman?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Well, this wasn’t in the open back then. I didn’t have a manual for what comes after kissing your limboing husband in a rusted tram.”

He grins. “Fair point.” He pauses, follows with a quick question, voice steady. “Just one thing,” you peak up. “Why’d you kiss me that night?”

You draw in a breath, teeth grazing the inside of your cheek. “It was a really long day,” you say quietly. “Too much raining down on me at once. Everything felt so loud. I couldn’t breathe. And then—there you were.” A pause. “Guess you’re still the comfort I need. Still the comfort I want. Despite everything. I still want you. Not just the comfort. You know—that never changed. It’s scary and I’ve got so much to—“

With the tremble in your voice, Jeongguk traces a slow arc down your arm before they find your hand again. “Glad I could still be that person to you. Thank you for letting me still be. I’m not going anywhere this time. You have me.”

The silence that follows is gentle, whole. Like a held breath made of old memories and something new blooming quietly underneath.

You shrug, playful despite the warmth in your chest. “Don’t let what I said go to your head.”

He chuckles. “Won’t even.” Tucks a strand of your locks behind your ear. “Just happy you’re here.”

I’m happy you’re finally here. The words hover on the tip of your tongue, but instead, you let yourself lean into the moment – feeling his warmth and the quick beat of his heart.

Without thinking, your hands find their way into the front pocket of his hoodie—soft, comforting. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, he shifts closer, like he’d been waiting for it.

And then, you tilt your head. “Do you want to go home?”

Jeongguk looks at you, the sudden shift in the moment leaves him confused. “I mean… I’d love to spend more time with you. But if you’re tired, then yeah, I’ll drop you off—”

You laugh, light and breathy, finally letting it out. “No, I mean—” Your eyes on him are steady now, lips curled into a tight smile.

“Do you want to go home with me…to Busan?

[nephynes]

stoner hoon?

RAH why’d this shit have me tweaking

MDNI

════════════════════════════

Stoner!Sunghoon is definitely some recluse burnout you shouldn’t be fucking, not just because you don’t even know his last name, but also because you shouldn’t be caught dead with him.

He doesn’t follow you on Instagram. You don’t follow him back. You met him once while he was half-baked and too curious at some mutual’s party where he barely said five words to anyone and rolled joints for everyone like he got paid for it. The first time you hooked up, it was against the side of that same house, behind the pool fence, while everyone else was inside fighting over aux.

Now it’s a routine.

He only ever texts after you 1 a.m. Always the same thing.

Sunghoon: u up?

And even though you know you shouldn’t, you answer. Because Sunghoon shows up with eyes red from whatever he’s been smoking and a hoodie you’ve seen him wear at least eight times, but never smells dirty, and he looks at you like he’s already thinking about bending you over the hood of his car.

You’ve never been to his place. He’s never taken you anywhere. He just pulls up, leans over to kiss you, and by the time his hand’s between your legs, you’re not thinking about any of it anyway.

He doesn’t talk much. He groans. He cusses. He says fuck, a lot.

But the way he fucks you, you have to say it’s almost rude.

Like he’s got something to prove. As if he knows your legs are going to shake and your voice is going to break, and he just wants to see how fast he can get you there.

His car always smells like weed and faint leather and that earthy cologne that sticks to the windows. You’ve fogged up the windows more times than you can count. One time, you came so hard you accidentally kicked over a half-empty grinder on the floor.

When it’s over, you’re fucked out and panting in his lap, still straddling him and trembling with your sweater pushed up over your tits, hair a mess.

He just lights a blunt. Takes one drag, passes it to you with a lazy smirk.

“Open,” he’ll say, tapping your thigh.

And you do.

You don’t know how you’d even explain him to your friends.

You can’t just say, “Oh yeah, I’m seeing this hot burnout I met outside a bathroom one time. He only texts me at ungodly hours and dicks me down in his Honda Civic.”

They’d blink at you. Maybe you’d have to pull out receipts. Probably a picture of his dick, if we’re being honest. Just so they’d understand.

But you never do.

You just keep answering his texts, getting in his car, and melting under the hands of someone you don’t even really know, but who fucks like it’s the one thing he was made for.

And when he kisses your shoulder and says, “You’re so fucking hot like this,” voice hazy and blown out from the smoke.

You believe him. Every damn time.

════════════════════════════

• a/n: you guys be giving the best reqs yo

[riddleswhcre]

Pleasee more joel hurt/comfort!! Love it when Joel breaks us then fixes it 😣😣 Potentially Joel saying a bunch of nasty stuff that he doesn’t mean, reader walks out on him, then he realizes what he lost and what he desperately needs to keep. Happy/comfort ending please !!

────۶ৎ say it like you mean it

joel lets fear twist his words into something cruel. he realises exactly what he’s done — and what he’ll do to get you back.

warnings: hurt/comfort, argument, joel miller being a self-sabotaging old man, happy ending tho

ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: ughhh angst 🤭 you rewired my brain. hope this hurts and heals just right

more

ᖭ༏ᖫ

he’s already wound up when you get home. pacing the floor like a caged dog, muttering under his breath about patrol routes and ellie skipping out on chores, like any of it’s your fault. you toe off your boots and watch him for a minute, waiting to be noticed.

“you forget how to use a damn radio?” he snaps, eyes dark and bloodshot.

you blink. “joel, what—?”

“been callin’ for over an hour. figured you were dead in a ditch. or worse.”

you try to explain, something about losing track of time with dina, but he’s not listening. he’s caught up in it now, chewing you out like you’re some rookie who got careless.

“don’t need more people disappearin’ on me,” he growls. “i’m tired of carryin’ dead weight.”

the words hit like a slap.

you stare at him, stunned. “dead weight?”

he doesn’t mean it. god, he doesn’t. but he’s too far gone in his own fear to stop himself.

you nod, once. quiet.

“right,” you say, grabbing your coat again. “i’ll make it easier on you then.”

you don’t slam the door when you leave. you want to. but you don’t.

—

he doesn’t sleep that night. or the next.

he’s got your favourite mug still sittin’ by the sink. your extra jacket still hangin’ on the hook. every room feels colder without you in it.

he doesn’t ask around. not right away. too ashamed. but when three days pass, and there’s no knock at the door, no second chance fallin’ into his lap—he starts lookin’.

he finds you on the outskirts, bunkin’ with another patrol group, distant and cold-eyed. you don’t flinch when you see him. but you don’t smile, either.

“came to check if i’d dropped dead yet?” you ask dryly.

he winces. “i came to apologise.”

you cross your arms.

“you said i was dead weight, joel. not reckless. not careless. dead weight.”

he looks down, shame clinging to him like dirt. “i was scared,” he says again. “doesn’t excuse it.”

“no, it doesn’t.”

he nods. takes the hit.

“but i ain’t here to defend myself,” he says, voice rough. “i’m here to fight for what i threw away. for you.”

your heart tugs.

“i ain’t slept since you left. can’t think straight without you around. i miss your voice, your laugh. i miss havin’ someone who sees the worst in me and still sticks around—’cept now you’re not stickin’, and i can’t blame you.”

his voice cracks on the last part.

“joel—”

“just... lemme fix this. please. i’ll do it right this time. you don’t owe me forgiveness, but god, i need the chance to earn it.”

he steps back like he’s scared he’s said too much.

you’re quiet a long moment. the wind picks up, tugging your sleeves.

“you really think you can fix this?”

his eyes lift. hopeful, but scared.

“i don’t know,” he admits. “but i’ll spend the rest of my damn life tryin’, if you let me.”

—

later, back at his place, you both sit on the porch. no touching. not yet.

but his pinky brushes yours on the step.

“can i call you sweetheart again?” he asks, so soft it almost doesn’t reach you.

you look at him. that same tired face. but softer now. open.

“not yet,” you say.

and he nods.

“but maybe soon.”

ᖭ༏ᖫ

thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.

[powderpinkprincess]

Twin Telepathy III. [Lando Norris & twin sister!reader]

find part two here description: Little moments of your lives as twins.

It was summer break. You figured Lando had lots of plans, most of them including either not traveling very far or the opposite, traveling so far that there was almost no chance of meeting people. The latter one was nearly impossible, considering he went on a ski trip to the smallest city in the north and still got filmed in a grocery store.

You didn’t follow him to race weekends very often, but you took almost every opportunity to have a little holiday at his place in Monaco. Especially when he invited other British friends too, because then you didn’t even have to travel alone.

Two boys were sleeping in the guest room, and you were crashing on Lando’s couch. When you came with others, the arrangement was somehow always like this. You were a family member, so this seemed the least impolite. Besides, you loved running, so you didn’t mind joining Lando while the others were still fast asleep. The only thing you minded was that he had to get it done so early in the morning.

It wasn’t even 7 a.m. when he was already dressed.

 “Let’s have some breakfast and go,” he told you, who was still in pyjamas.

 “I’m not even hungry this early,” you sighed.

He just sent you a glance and took out two porridges from the fridge. “Yeah, you’re not going to pass out on me in the Monaco streets. Mom is going to kill me.”

 “If we could just go an hour later…” you tried again.

 “No chance. I don’t want anyone to stop me on the streets because we went out during the rush hours. Besides, I still have to do gym before lunch. Do you want to join?”

 “Lando! I’m on a holiday!” you crossed your arms immediately, leaning against the kitchen counter.

 “Yeah?” he grinned.

 “I definitely won’t touch any gym equipment while I’m supposed to relax and enjoy my time off,” you stated. You knew his ego found it amusing that he was more fit than you were. You didn’t mind, at least you didn’t have to stick to a cruel routine to keep your job. You were a private trainer for runners. No one asked how many hours you spent in the gym or if you ate the right amount of breakfast at the right time. Of course, there was a huge difference between your salaries as well, but you still lived well enough for your liking.

___

 “Can you even do a decent push-up?” Max Fewtrell sent you a smug grin as he pushed his sunglasses up on his nose.

He and Lando’s other long-time friend, Alex, were sitting under an umbrella on the beach, drinking beer and enjoying the warm summer weather. Lando was doing some short business again, so the three of you decided to wait for him on the shore instead of at his apartment. He didn’t really enjoy beaches anyway. He hated the sand.

 “Excuse me? Of course I can,” you frowned in reply. “Just because I’m running, it doesn’t mean I don’t do anything with my arms.”

You heard footsteps from behind you, so you turned your head quickly before Lando could do anything stupid. You couldn’t put into words how, but you recognized his presence without even looking. Maybe because he had such a headache aura when he was in a good mood. Then he would definitely annoy you to death whenever he had the chance.

 “Oh no, what did Max do now?” Lando asked, still attempting to cover your eyes with his palms from behind.

You swatted his hand away. “He’s doubting my push-up capabilities.”

Lando looked at you. Then at Max. Then back at you. “Well? You gonna prove him wrong or what?”

 “I don’t need to prove-”

 “You’re going to,” Lando grinned. “Because now I want to see it.”

You glared at them both, but you sighed and stood up, kicking off your flip-flops in the process. You dropped onto the sand and started.

One. Two. Three.

You were about to start the fourth when Lando kneeled next to you. “I’m joining.”

 “No, you don’t,” you opposed immediately.

Too late. He was already doing them. Faster and much showier. Absolutely effortlessly.

You glared sideways at him. “Stop it.”

 “I’m motivating you.”

 “You’re demoralizing me.”

Max laughed. Lando kept going, annoyingly smooth and stupidly perfect, like he was in some kind of Instagram fitness ad.

You sat up on your heels after eight. “I hate you.”

Lando stopped after twenty. “That’s fair.”

He stood up, standing over you, brushing the sand off his palms. Then, he leaned down and offered a hand to you.

You slapped it away. “No. Go high-five your ego.”

 “For the record, I’m still impressed, Y/N. Just like… Less than before Lando joined you,” Max snickered, enjoying your grim expression. “You should do a plank challenge next time. I want to see that, too.”

 “Nope. I’m done with men,” you mumbled as you sat back on your sunbed.

___

The sun was already dipping behind the horizon, painting the water orange. You loved Monte Carlo. It was a beautiful city.

Lando was incredibly annoying the whole day. Like a middle schooler on his first day of summer break. You had already told him he should be exercising like he did during the season, so he could burn off the excess energy.

 “You’re too comfortable around me,” you rolled your eyes after you smacked his hand again when he was trying to steal the small umbrella off your cocktail.

He invited all of you to dinner. He was sitting next to you, so you decided to order seafood, knowing well how he hated the smell of it. At least the extra stimulus would distract him a little. Of course, not even halfway through dinner, he switched places with Max, who was sitting in front of him.

Then he sent a picture to the family group chat to show that he was treating you better than expected. You just rolled your eyes again.

___

You were walking back to his place on the seashore. You were talking to Alex, yet you kept sending small glances towards your brother, a great idea forming.

He must’ve sensed it.

 “What are you plotting?” he asked immediately, his eyes cautious.

You shrugged with a smug smile. “Nothing.”

He squinted at you. He didn’t believe it.

 “Hey, guys, wanna go see the view from the dock?” you asked, stretching your arms above your head. You needed all your good reflexes for this.

 “No. You’re going to push me into the water,” Lando shook his head immediately.

You blinked at him, wide-eyed. “No, I’m not. Why would I do that?”

 “You absolutely are.”

Max snorted.

 “Lando, the sun is setting, and this is one of my favourite cities. Why on earth would I waste my time on that?” you tried.

He sighed but started walking towards the dock anyway. “If I fall in, I’m taking you with me.”

All three of you walked down to the wooden dock, silent except for the buzzing of bugs and Max’s laughter echoing behind you.

Once there, Lando looked around, then back at you. “Well? Go on then. Push me.”

You tilted your head. “You could at least pretend to be surprised.”

 “I’d rather brace for impact.”

You shoved him. Not hard, just enough to throw him off balance. But instead of splashing into the water alone like planned, his hand shot out, caught your wrist mid-shove, and the next thing you knew…

SPLASH.

You surfaced coughing, hair plastered to your face, laughing.

 “You ruined my moment!”

Lando was already laughing too, treading water next to you. “You thought I wouldn’t be ready?”

You tried to jump on him to push him down, but he showed you away and splashed you in the face. “Get off.”

[unstablecherries]

Just like That, (NSFW)

Oneshot; Vi x Virgin!reader

content; first time, soft, slow, praise, gentle, fingering

Vi’s lips were gentle but sure, tilting into yours with that quiet sort of confidence she always carried; not arrogance, but like she knew how to handle something fragile. Someone fragile.

You weren’t fragile, not really. But tonight, in this moment, shirt off, skin bare, heart racing.. you felt like glass.

Vi pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb stroking your cheekbone.

“Still good?”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat.

“Just nervous.”

She kissed the tip of your nose. “That’s okay. You don’t have to be anything but here right now.”

And god, you wanted to be. With her. Like this.

When her hand slid down your belly, fingers splaying over your hip, she moved slow enough that every nerve lit up in its own little fire. She didn’t rush. She just looked at you like she was reading your body second by second, waiting for every breath.

Her fingertips dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear.

“Still okay?”

You nodded, unable to speak. She leaned in to kiss you again, and that time, her fingers grazed your center; warm, slick, and already throbbing with need.

Vi let out a low, pleased sound. “Damn, angel. All this for me?”

You whimpered, hips twitching under her touch.

She smiled against your neck and took her time exploring; lazy strokes up and down your folds, parting you gently, mapping every inch like she had all the time in the world. She never even tried to slip inside yet, just circled your clit in feather-light touches that made your thighs shake.

“I want you to remember how good this feels,” she whispered. “So every time you think about your first time, you’ll think about this. About me.”

Her fingers moved a little faster now, firmer pressure, but still teasing, still just enough to keep you gasping and squirming under her hand. You rocked your hips toward her, needy, aching.

“Vi- please-”

“You’re getting close, huh?” she murmured, thumb brushing over your clit in a slow circle that made your back arch. “You don’t even need more yet. Look at how sweet your body is for me.”

You moaned, head falling back. She kissed your throat, your collarbone, your breast, everywhere but where you needed her.

And then she slid one finger inside, slow and steady.

You gasped at the stretch, not pain, just pressure, new and intimate and perfect with the way she angled her hand. She didn’t move at first, Just let you get used to it, her palm warm against you.

“You’re doing so good,” she whispered, brushing your hair off your face. “Look at you. Taking me so well.”

She began to move, slow thrusts that made your walls flutter and your breath hitch. Her thumb circled your clit again, not rushed, not rough, just enough.

You could feel it building again. The heat low in your belly, winding tighter with every stroke.

“I’ve got you,” she said again, firmer this time, almost reverent. “Just let it happen. You’re safe. Let me take care of you.”

And with a cry, you did.

You came hard, clinging to her arm, your body pulsing around her fingers as wave after wave rolled through you. Your vision blurred. Your breath trembled. You heard her voice in your ear the whole time; murmuring how beautiful you looked, how proud she was, how lucky she felt to be your first.

When it passed, she kissed your temple and gently slid her hand away, wrapping her arms around you like she’d never let you go.

You buried your face in her chest, still catching your breath. “That was…”

She smiled, pressing her lips to your hair. “Perfect,” she finished for you. “You were perfect.”

[ikeu05]

PUPPY LOVE ✮ MUST HAVE ITS DAY

𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 。 where you have liked riki for so long, you fail to see how down bad he is for you

── riki x fem!reader 1.9k fluff friends to lvrs ─ making out skinship riki being down bad school themes a little crack because riki is down bad lmaooo

there was a time when yn liked riki. he was her seatmate—funny, sharp-tongued and just a little too smug for his own good. in the beginning, it had been harmless banter, passing notes during class, arguing over pens and playlists. but then it started to feel like something else. something warmer. something that made her heart flutter when he looked at her for a second too long.

everyone else had noticed too. her friends would nudge her whenever he lingered beside her, smirking like he knew something she didn’t. “he definitely likes you,” they’d say, but yn wasn’t sure.

riki was insufferable. one moment he was teasing her like she was just another classmate, and the next he’d say something soft, something almost tender, like he cared. it was exhausting trying to figure him out. and eventually, yn stopped trying. she told herself she didn’t like him anymore.

then came the karaoke thing in class. some kind of end-of-term bonding activity their teacher thought would be fun. most people didn’t take it seriously, but yn had gotten a little too into it, and she knew riki would too. when heartbreak anniversary started playing—his favorite—she could already see the grin forming on his face. it was one of those songs that got stuck in your head, even if you didn’t want it to.

as the chorus approached, yn tapped his shoulder and smiled up at him. he looked at her, eyes lighting up like he’d been waiting for that exact moment, and smiled back. without saying a word, they both broke into that silly tiktok-style choreography, half-mocking, half-serious. it was stupid. it was cute. it was them.

but then the last line of the song came, and right before it ended, riki leaned over and kissed her cheek.

yn froze. her smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. he just… went back to his seat like nothing had happened. like he hadn’t just scrambled her entire brain with that one quick, soft, maddening kiss.

she didn’t know what to do with it, with him. so after the class ended, she found him near the lockers and cornered him. “why did you do that?” she asked, brows furrowed and arms folded tightly across her chest.

riki gave a half-shrug, like it hadn’t meant anything. “i don’t know. it was an in-the-moment thing, i guess.”

“you’re so annoying,” yn snapped, turning on her heel to walk away, but before she could take more than a few steps, he caught her wrist.

“wait,” he said, voice quieter now. “did you want me to?”

she paused. only turning her head to look at him, her fingers curled slightly in his grip, unsure.

“maybe,” she said.

that was all it took. riki leaned in and kissed her, soft and slow, just like in the movies. yn stood frozen at first, her thoughts racing faster than her heartbeat. but then, almost instinctively, she kissed him back. it was tentative at first, nervous. but riki smiled into it, pulling away just slightly, his eyes flicking from her lips to her eyes.

“you like me back,” he whispered, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes darting between hers, so soft it made her melt right there.

yn blinked, dazed. her heart fluttered wildly at the way he was looking at her—sweet, adoring, like he’d been waiting forever for this. slowly, she nodded, still caught in his gaze. but then his words fully registered in her head.

“wait… back? you like me?” she gasped, taking a step back in disbelief. “you like me?”

riki raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “is that not obvious by now?”

“well, yeah, i guess? but i’m a bit slow so…” she trailed off with an awkward laugh before stepping forward and kissing him again, more sure this time. she only moved her arms to his neck when he kissed back while his found her waist, drawing her closer. he smiled into the kiss, his fingers brushing gently along her side, like he couldn’t quite believe it was real either.

it was sweet. it was perfect.

until—

a loud throat clear.

“both of you. principal’s office. now.”

they froze mid-kiss. yn pulled away in horror to see their teacher standing there, arms crossed and glaring at them with the full wrath of someone who had absolutely had enough of teenage romance.

“i’ve never been to the principal’s office before,” yn whispered in horror as she began fast-walking down the hallway. “and now i’m going because of PDA?!”

behind her, riki jogged to catch up. “w–wait! yn! slow down!”

she turned on him with wide, accusing eyes. “riki. what the hell.”

“heyyy,” he whined, holding up his hands, “how is this my fault?”

they reached the office, where the peon told them to wait. yn sat down, pointedly choosing the chair one seat away from him. she folded her arms and stared at the wall, furious and humiliated.

next to her, riki sighed, shifted, and then leaned closer. “baby, it’s okay,” he murmured. “they’re not actually going to do anything.”

yn turned to him, her face a mask of panic. “what if she vetoes my scholarship because of this?” she whispered.

to her dismay, riki actually chuckled. “she won’t. don’t you trust me?”

“i literally don’t,” yn deadpanned.

“well ouch,” he muttered with a grin, then gently took her hand in his. “but i promise you, yn. she won’t do that. just… calm down, okay?”

she looked at him, his thumb brushing comfortingly over her knuckles, and slowly nodded. “thanks,” she mumbled.

riki smiled, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. yn looked up at him and couldn’t help but return the smile, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips in return. but as she leaned in, his hands cupped her face, and before she knew it, they were kissing again—slow, dreamy, and completely unaware of the world around them.

until—

“oh my god, yn. do you have no shame?”

they pulled apart instantly. yn shot up from her seat, aggressively wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her uniform blazer. “i’m so sorry, i’m so sorry, oh my god, i didn’t mean— i’m sorry—”

the principal shook her head in disappointment and walked into her office without another word.

yn turned to riki, panicking again. “what am i gonna do now?” she hissed, then scrambled in after the principal, shoulders hunched.

inside, the principal sat behind her desk with a deep sigh. “look. the least i can do is suspend you for a week.”

yn’s jaw dropped. “no. no, no, no. i can’t have a suspension on my record, please— please, i swear i didn’t mean—”

“i’m sorry, yn,” the principal said firmly. “i never expected this from you. riki…” She paused, then muttered under her breath, “…eh, it was only a matter of time.”

“ma’am!!” riki exclaimed, stepping forward. “please, cancel my sports scholarship instead. just don’t suspend her. i’ll take the punishment.”

yn gasped. “riki…”

the principal blinked at him. “oh wow. uh. i mean… it’s not that serious, but… sure? if you insist.” she waved them off. “you’re both free to go.”

as soon as they stepped outside, yn turned to him, eyes wide, and threw her arms around his neck. “thank you,” she said over and over again, clutching him tightly. “thank you, thank you, thank you—”

riki laughed, squeezing her back. “anything for you, cutie,” he murmured with a smirk, brushing his nose against her cheek.

yn pulled back just enough to look at him. “you’re insane,” she whispered.

he grinned, forehead meeting hers in a soft bump, “only for you.” his lips softly touched all over her face, kissing her forehead, cheeks, nose, the corner of her lips over and over.

they stood in the empty hallway, the door to the principal’s office still swinging slightly behind them. yn was pressed against riki, her arms looped loosely around his neck, his forehead resting gently against hers as they caught their breath. her heart was still thumping like a drum inside her chest—half from the giggling due to the kiss frenzy, half from the sheer disaster they’d just barely escaped.

riki was smiling. that same boyish, dimple-showing grin he got when he knew he was being a little shit but also knew she could never stay mad at him.

“you gave up your sports scholarship, you idiot,” yn whispered, pulling back just slightly to look at him.

he tilted his head. “well, yeah. worth it though.”

“for a kiss?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“for you,” he said, so simply and sincerely that her knees almost gave out.

yn stared at him for a beat, her expression softening despite herself. “god, you’re down bad.”

“down catastrophic,” riki confirmed proudly.

she laughed and leaned in again, resting her head against his chest. “i’ve literally never gotten in trouble at school before,” she mumbled into his uniform shirt. “and now i have a reputation because of you.”

“you mean we have a reputation,” he corrected, wrapping his arms around her. “power couple energy. bonnie and clyde. jail time but cute.”

“shut up,” she groaned, laughing again, her fingers clutching the sleeve of his blazer tighter, almost crumpling it under her touch.

they stood there for a moment, tangled up in each other in the quiet corridor, before yn peeked up at him. “wait. are you seriously okay with them revoking your scholarship?”

riki shrugged. “they won’t. she was bluffing.”

“she wasn’t,” yn insisted.

“well then, worth it,” he said again, eyes twinkling. “besides, now i have leverage.”

yn raised a brow. “leverage?”

“you owe me, obviously.”

“oh god. what’s the price?”

riki grinned. “let me walk you home every day. and carry your books. and hold your hand. and maybe kiss you once in a while if you’re okay with it.”

“that’s your ransom?” she asked, half-laughing, half-swooning.

he leaned closer, eyes flickering to her lips again. “i’m a simple man.”

yn rolled her eyes but smiled, her hands reaching up to fix his slightly crumpled up collar “you’re ridiculous.”

“you like ridiculous,” he teased, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

she sighed dramatically “unfortunately.”

then they heard footsteps and immediately jumped apart, pretending to stare at their lockers as if they hadn’t just made out and nearly been suspended for it. riki looked over at her, biting back a grin “this is so unserious,” he whispered.

yn muttered under her breath, peeling away the fading sticker of an apple on her locker “i swear if i lose my scholarship, i’m breaking up with you before we even start dating.”

“too late,” riki said, slipping his pinky into hers as they walked down the hallway. “you kissed me twice. that’s legally binding.”

“you kissed me first,” she said.

“on the cheek. you upgraded it.”

she bumped his shoulder with hers “you’re the worst.”

but she was smiling again.

he looked down at her with the softest gaze, like she was his favorite thing to look at. “i kinda think you’re the best.”

and yn? well, she was so not ready to admit it out loud, but she was kind of starting to think he might be right.

especially when he stopped in the middle of the corridor, looked at her, and whispered, “can i kiss you again? i won’t do it in front of teachers, promise.”

her chest flipped, and before she could even answer, she was already leaning in again.

maybe she was slow—but she wasn’t stupid.

nessie 🗯️ based of off a dream i had like 2 years ago 😭😭 i was reading my dream diary and decided to write this heheheh cutie riki is best riki 😚

tag𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 drop a comment down or send me an ASK to be a part of my taglist <3

[beckyninja]

Desecration

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemOC

Warnings: A lot of dark implications in this one, Leandros is almost at the depths of his corruption; mentions of surgery

The Vengeance Squad is on the way! But will they be in time?

Find the previous parts of this series on my Masterlist. Comment and ask to be added to/removed from the Taglist. And remember, my DMs and Asks are open!

Something is wrong.

Titus felt it the moment he stepped from the Thunderhawk’s ramp, back into the hangar of the Resilient. Everything looked as it had when he departed. Tech adepts labored over machinery, chanting as they worked. Servitors shuffled and clanked. Serfs bustled about on a thousand different tasks. 

None of those serfs were Sera.

Unsurprising. From the expressions on my brothers’ faces, it seems no one expected my return.

Rationality declared he had no reason to expect her presence. But something else… something deeper… snarled.

Something is wrong.

Titus began his march toward the Apothecary. Reports to Captain Acheran could wait. His twin heartbeat spiked, with anticipation or anxiety he could not tell. He quickened his pace until his armor creaked in protest. A few Ultramarines called out as he passed. He ignored them.

“Little Healer.” He rumbled. “Sera.”

Throne, it has been too long!

Too long since the sound of her sweet voice. Too long since her soft arms twined about his neck. Too long since he inhaled her intoxicating fragrance. 

Titus ached.

And still, the nagging thought.

Something is wrong.

He turned a corner, nearly trampling a pair of techpriests, and came into sight of the Reclusiam. 

Blood.

The scent jerked him to a halt. Every detail of his surroundings burst into sharp definition. Red spattered the floor just outside the great, gilded doors. A group of cleaning serfs huddled off to one side, whispering, their shoulders hunched.

“She wasn’t supposed to be here! Who even was she?”

“I don’t know. She traded places with old Gaius.”

“Why on Holy Terra would any serf want this duty?”

“I’ve never seen… him… that angry.”

A collective shudder ran through the huddle.

“What happened here?”

The serfs flinched at Titus’s booming question. Almost as one, they dropped to their knees, heads bowed. A few trembled.

Titus frowned. A simple question, and these serfs acted as if he’d threatened them with chainsword revving. 

“You need not cower. I mean you no harm.”

Finally, a woman with a nose that had been broken sometime in the recent past, spoke. “It is our great shame to tell you, my Lord, that one of our number angered the Holy Chaplain, and he visited his righteous wrath upon her.”

Titus clenched his fists, unease settling in his gut. “Who?”

“I don’t-”

“Wait,” a younger man, missing one eye, broke in, “I think I saw her once, in the Apothecarion.”

Titus didn’t wait for more. With a speed that no being of his size should have attained, he raced for the nearest lift.

Please, God-Emperor. Not her.

***

Chairon paced the Apothecarion. Back and forth. Back and forth. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He’d never liked this place. The stench of chemicals and antiseptics irritated his sinuses. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

His eyes fixed on the door leading to the surgical room.

“I must return to duty.” Gadriel had said. “I will… make an excuse for you, Brother Chairon. Inform me when the medica is able to speak.”

If she is able to speak.

The thought hurt worse than it should have. The image of Vesta laying there, choking on her own blood, replayed over and over again in his mind. It sparked faded memories of a childhood long gone. Of a boy running through the chaos of the Word-Bearers assault on Calth, finding a burning home.

And the slaughter within.

He’d never forget the choked groan from Apothecary Callistus as he knelt over the writhing body. Never forget the look in his eyes as he gathered her up and tore back to this Apothecarion, Chairon and Gadriel close on his heels.

Once again, Chairon’s eyes darted to the door. Behind which, a team of baseline medicae fought to save a life, overseen by the Apothecary himself.  

He resumed pacing.

Warp damn me, we should never have allowed this to happen! We sent an innocent into danger. Alone… unprotected…. 

Shame wrapped icy fingers around both his hearts. First the Lieutenant’s serf. And now sweet Vesta. Vesta with her eyes that reminded him of springtime on planets long lost.

He should have protected her. He should have protected both of them. He’d failed. And all because of… him.

Rage burned in Chairon’s chest. Clawing to be set free. The same rage he’d felt when he witnessed the cruelties of the Thousand Suns upon Avarax. And again when they fought the Sorcerer on Demerium. 

Even if you are not Chaos-corrupted, Chaplain, you are a traitor. One who preys upon the innocent is a traitor to all our Chapter stands for!

And he still had the Lieutenant’s Sera in his clutches.

“Enough!” Chairon turned to leave the Apothecarion. “I can do nothing here. But I can avenge-”

The door hissed open.

“Where is she?”

***

Only an hour had passed since the Thunderhawk unloaded its passenger onto the Resilient, and rumors reached even the innermost chambers of the Reclusiam. A candelabra shattered against the wall, followed by a sparking servo skull. A cherub was snatched from the air and ripped in half. 

Bestial snarls sent Sacratium serfs scuttling for safety in the darkest alcoves they could find. They whispered prayers to the Emperor and rubbed aching scars, marks of their Lord’s previous bouts of temper.

“Alive?!” The roar ripped through the incense-clouded air.

Leandros stood, bare-chested, in the midst of the ruin he’d wrought. Wild eyes darted, searching for another vessel for his wrath. They fell upon the blind servitor he’d assigned to the Harlot’s cell, creeping along, blood-stained bandages clutched in its skeletal hands. A moment later its head rolled to rest at the foot of a shrine.

Titus, alive?! How? No! 

He’d been so sure. So sure the mission would bring about the Heretic’s fall. A cleansing of his soul through glorious death. Or, better, a spotlight revealing the depths of his corruption. 

Either way, an end to Demetrian Titus.

But, now….

Leandros raked his hands over his face. Control. He needed to regain control! Surely this was a test of some sort. Surely the Emperor would provide clarity if he just listened hard enough, focused hard enough, believed-

The thought slipped into his mind like cool silk over fevered skin.

You tried to pass your task on to another.

He stilled.

Did you not feel it when your whip scourged her tender flesh? The rush of… purpose… when your touch made her gasp in cleansing shame? 

Deep, deep within the man Leandros used to be, warning bells rang.

Punishment is your right, your privilege, your duty.

“I see….”

The Heretic returned so you could inflict the punishment that is your due. And what better way to punish him, than to take that which he calls his own? 

“I… I have….”

Have you? Have you taken her? In all the ways you dreamed, alone, in the dark? 

The warning bells grew louder. He pushed them away.

Images filled his mind. Images he’d barely allowed himself to dwell upon. The Harlot, broken, bloodied, bare, splayed upon his cot.

Punish the Heretic by ruining the Harlot. Desecrate the desecrated. Only then will you be able to purify her soul. And the pleasure you will feel? Your Emperor-given reward for being so, so faithful.

Don’t you want your reward, Chaplain?

Leandros eyes turned toward the cell. His body burned. Hardened.

“I do.”

***

Ultramarines were supposed to be rational. Logical. In absolute control of their emotions. 

Titus stood like the marble statues so prevalent upon Macragge. He neither frowned, nor snarled. No bared teeth. No gasping breaths. Still and silent.

He’d never felt more out of control in his long life.

Not Sera.

The sheer relief he’d felt at Chairon’s reassurance. Followed by confusion. Then consternation as his battle brother revealed who did lie near death, in that surgical room. Questions had followed. 

Then… emotions. Wild and mixed and nothing like any Ultramarine, any Astartes, should ever feel. 

Horror. Grief. Shame. Rage. Horror, grief, shame, rage. Horrorgriefshamerage.

Chairon was apologizing, his voice cracked. Titus barely heard him.

Sera.

He should never have left her behind. Calgar would have understood. Why didn’t he explain? Why didn’t he try?

The Apothecarion door hissed open again behind him.

“Lieutenant!”

Titus turned, slowly, to face Gadriel. 

“Sir, I… we… she-”

Titus slammed him against the door with a bang of metal on ceramite. “She was supposed to be safe with you!” 

The Sergeant looked stricken. “Forgive me-”

“Forgiveness? You ask my forgiveness?!” 

He drew his fist back, only to have it caught by another.

“Brother, no!” Chairon forced himself between the two of them. “Brother Gadriel and I share blame for this. But you never warned us of the hatred the Chaplain bears you. We did not know!”

The anger bled away. 

My fault. If I had been honest with my brothers, trusted them!

And now Sera paid the price for his reticence.

“Leandros….” Pushing away from his squadmates, Titus lunged toward the door. “I will kill him.” 

For her, for my Little Healer, for Sera. And Warp damn the consequences!

He sensed Chairon and Gadriel falling in behind him. “This is not your fight.”

“If the Chaplain is so corrupted, it is every Ultramarine’s duty to see him removed.” Gadriel intoned.

“I would kill him for Vesta’s sake alone.” Chairon spat.

“As would I.”

All three of them turned to the bloodstained figure exiting the surgical room. Callistus’s eyes burned with vengeful fire. 

Chairon stepped forward. “Vesta…?”

“Lives.” The Apothecary sighed. “We repaired the lung, set the ribs. Now we wait.”  He looked down at the blood on his gauntlets and spoke as if to himself. “So small when I took her into the Chapter. I worried she would be crushed underfoot, so I sat her on my shoulder as I worked. A never ending stream of questions rattled into my ear.”

Titus had never seen the veteran smile. Then that smile faded, and he looked up.

“You are not the only one who has failed to protect one dear to him.” Moving to a locker against one wall, the Apothecary removed a chainsword. “Vengeance, brothers.”

“Vengeance.” Gadriel and Chairon growled in tandem.

Titus said nothing.

The four of them stalked through the halls of the Resilient. Serfs fled before them. Ultramarines watched in bemused silence. They shouldered through the doors of the Reclusiam to find it empty.

Good. Titus thought. The fewer brothers who see this, the better.

The door to the Chaplain’s inner chambers was locked. A few kicks and chainsword cuts solved that. Somewhere, an alarm blared.

“No going back, now.” Gadriel muttered.

“Look!” Chairon took a few steps to one side, bent, and lifted what looked like a cleaning serf’s bucket.

Opening it, he revealed a battered servo skull. “Perhaps Vesta managed to record something after all.”

“Keep it.” Callistus grunted. “We will need its evidence when we are tried.”

Titus clenched his teeth. “I care not for trials. I care only for-”

Blood. Again. Stronger.

The four of them moved as one toward the tiny barred cell set into the far wall. 

“What is this?” Chairon sounded shocked.

“Hmph.” Callistus leaned forward to peer through the bars. “I have heard of such things for punishing erring Sacratium serfs. I did not know our Chaplain made use of them.”

Gadriel remained silent, fingers flexing around his bolt pistol.

Titus inhaled, and nearly choked. “Sera’s blood.”

The cell reeked of her. Of her fear. Her pain. He took in the manacles… and the shredded robe. A dark suspicion grew.

“Emperor… no….”

“He must have moved her.” Gadriel rasped. “But where? And where is he?”

Titus snapped his head from side to side. The dark suspicion consumed all before it, filling him with sick dread and a sense that they were running out of time.

Then, something glimmered in the candlelight, on the floor next to another, smaller door. He rushed to it.

My laurel leaf. Her laurel leaf.

“No….”

The muffled sob hit him like a bolter round.

“Please… stop….”

“SERA!”

He rammed his shoulder-pauldron into the door with all the force only an enraged Astartes could muster. It shattered.

And Demetrian Titus stepped into a scene from his darkest nightmares.

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[mandoalorian]

Hi, I love the way you write Bucky. But it made me think if Bucky never fell. If Steve had sacrificed himself and Bucky had to come back to Brooklyn w/o Steve. How he would have fared. Maybe he has a girl, how about his family. How he would have kept Steve’s memory alive. Would they have met again when Steve was found.

Sorry, this is my first time requesting a fic so if something is wrong. I apologize. Thank you!!!

hi! thank you for trusting me with your first ever request! i’m sorry it took me a little time to get around to. i hope you enjoy the story. it was super interesting to explore, especially the reverse roles. i felt like i was writing an episode of 'what if...'❤️‍🔥

i am gonna grow wings [captain america!bucky barnes x reader]

synopsis: in an alternate reality where steve sacrifices himself, bucky returns to brooklyn a broken man, haunted by loss and memories. even with the love and strength of you waiting for him at home, he struggles to carry steve’s legacy and find his own path as the new captain america.

warnings: descriptions of depression, suicidal ideations, the different stages of grief/mourning, canon typical themes and violence. suitable for teens and above.

word count: 3200

masterlist

November, 1944 ༊*·˚

The snow whipped sideways through the broken hull of the Valkyrie as Bucky fought his way down the corridor, gun in hand, pulse in his throat. The sound of metal creaking under pressure was almost louder than the gunfire outside. He ducked behind a wall as a HYDRA agent crumpled at Steve’s feet ahead of him, shield returning to his hand like a promise kept.

“Buck, we’re running out of time!” Steve’s voice called back, hoarse but firm.

Bucky shoved past the last stretch of wreckage and reached his side. The control panel was blinking red erratically. The auto-navigation was set. The plane was headed straight for civilisation, loaded with enough bombs to turn the Eastern Seaboard into ash.

Bucky grabbed his arm. “We can land it. There’s gotta be another way.”

Steve looked at him — really looked. The way he always did when he was about to do something reckless and noble and stupid.

“There’s not.”

“No—no, don’t pull this crap, Steve. You don’t get to be the hero again. Not without me. We do this together. We win this fight, together.”

“This way Buck, we can both be heroes,” Steve said quietly. “And it means you get to go home.”

Bucky shook his head furiously, trying to keep the panic from cracking open his chest. “No, not without you! You jump, I jump. Remember?”

Steve gave a weak smile. “That was when we were kids.”

“You’re still that kid. You just got bigger and—dumber. Stevie, don’t do this.”

Steve stepped past him and placed the shield gently in Bucky’s arms. The weight of it was staggering. “Take this. Keep it safe. For me.”

Bucky looked down at it, then up at Steve like he’d just handed him his own heart.

“Don’t make me bury you,” Bucky said, voice catching.

But Steve was already stepping into the cockpit. Already turning the radio dial.

“Peggy…” he said. “I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance.”

The signal cut.

“No—STEVE—” Bucky ran to the window, slamming his fist against the glass.

Below, the white expanse of the Arctic stretched endlessly. The plane veered slightly, then straightened.

Then silence.

Bucky stood there with the shield clutched to his chest and nothing but wind and grief in his lungs.

He didn’t even feel the snow melting in his hair as the rescue chopper came to pull him out.

— 𖤓 —

The Brooklyn streets felt smaller than you remembered, tighter and heavier like they were holding their breath. The autumn air smelled faintly of wood smoke and rain, but you barely noticed.

You waited by the window, heart pinned to the rhythm of every passing footstep and engine hum. When the old military jeep finally rattled down the block and stopped at the curb, you barely had time to steady yourself before the door swung open.

Bucky stepped out, taller, broader, but somehow smaller too. His face was hollowed, eyes like dark glass reflecting everything he wanted to forget. The weight of the war clung to him, dragging him down in slow motion.

He didn’t say a word. Just walked through the door and dropped his pack by the threshold.

You were there before he could shut it, arms wrapping around him, pulling him close like you could stop the world from spinning without Steve.

He sagged into you, forehead resting on your shoulder. The shield, still strapped to his back, felt impossibly heavy, like carrying the whole war on his shoulders.

“Steve...” His voice cracked, barely a whisper.

You squeezed him tighter. “I know, honey. I read about it in the paper. I know it hurts. But you’re here. You came home. And I am so glad to see you again.”

His breath hitched, a strangled sound. “It should have been me.”

“No,” you said softly, brushing damp strands of hair from his face. “You were supposed to come back. That’s why you’re here.”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, desperate for something solid. “But I feel so empty without him. It’s been months and, God, how do I live like this? How do I carry his memory without breaking?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You don’t have to carry it alone. Not anymore. You have me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky’s gaze faltered, and he leaned into you again, resting his head on your chest this time. His hands clenched at your waist, trembling slightly.

“Can we just… go to bed?”

It was early noon, and the sun was still shining bright in the sky. The delicious scent of the roast dinner you had prepared for your boyfriend’s arrival filled the apartment, but Bucky didn’t have the appetite. He was so tired. In fact, this feeling was more than exhaustion. His whole body ached with mental torment.

You nodded, heart aching for the man that you loved so dearly. “Yes, let’s go to bed.”

Later, as the room grew quiet except for the rain tapping softly on the window, you held him close. His body was tense at first, like he was trying to hold himself together.

But eventually, he relaxed into you — breathing slowing, shoulders lowering.

You whispered against his hair, “You’re not alone, Buck. I’m right here.”

He didn’t answer, but you felt the tremble of his sigh against your skin.

And for the first time since the war, maybe since the plane crashed, Bucky let himself fall asleep — safe in your arms.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and tentative. You stirred first, still cradling Bucky’s worn frame against your side. His breath was slow, steady — but his eyes remained closed, heavy with exhaustion that no sleep could fully erase.

You brushed a gentle hand along his cheek. “Buck, it’s morning.”

He blinked slowly, disoriented, before focusing on you. A ghost of a smile flickered, but it vanished almost immediately. “Feels like I never left the war.”

You kissed his forehead. “You’re home now. And I’m here.”

He squeezed your hand, then reluctantly shifted to sit up. The weight of reality settled back onto his shoulders. “I need to see her. Agent Carter. I have to.”

You nodded. “I’ll go with you.”

The drive from Brooklyn to Peggy’s office was silent, the hum of the engine the only thing filling the space between you. You stole glances at Bucky, sitting rigid and distant beside you, his jaw clenched tight, eyes staring out the window like he was somewhere far away — maybe trapped inside memories that wouldn’t let him go.

When the car stopped, he didn’t speak. Just opened the door and stepped out, the weight of the shield slung awkwardly on his back.

You fell into step beside him as he approached the building, every footstep slow and deliberate.

Peggy was waiting by the door when you arrived. Her smile was warm but guarded, the kind that tried to hide the layers beneath.

“Bucky,” she said softly, stepping forward. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Bucky gave a stiff nod but didn’t smile back. Instead, his eyes darkened, searching hers like he was expecting something—an apology, an explanation, maybe a reason to hate her.

“I heard,” he said quietly, voice rough, “that you’re seeing someone.”

Peggy’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, then she nodded. “It’s been months. I had to move on.”

“Months.” The word hit the air like a slap. Bucky’s voice rose, sharp and bitter. “And here I am, stuck with the ghost of Steve every damn day. You just… moved on? Like it was easy? Like he was nothing but some chapter you closed?”

Peggy took a step closer, voice low but steady. “It’s not easy, Bucky. None of this is. But holding onto pain forever? That doesn’t bring him back.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed with anger, pain bleeding through the fury. “I can’t do it, Peggy. I don’t want to live in a world without him. And you… you act like it’s nothing.”

“I’m not acting like anything,” Peggy said quietly. “I’m surviving. And you have to find a way to do that too.”

His hands balled into fists, knuckles white beneath the leather of his gloves. “Maybe I don’t want to survive.”

You stepped forward, placing your hand gently on his arm. “Bucky, please. This isn’t you.”

He jerked away, the distance between you suddenly palpable. His voice broke, raw and heavy with grief. “I’m lost. I’m empty. I’m just the one who came back.”

Peggy looked at you both, the weight of the moment sinking into her eyes. “He needs time.”

You nodded, swallowing the ache in your throat. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Outside the office, the cold air hit your faces. Bucky lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a shield. You didn’t say anything. Sometimes, words weren’t enough.

But you stayed.

And you would keep staying.

— 𖤓 —

The room was quiet except for the ticking of the clock on the wall. Bucky sat stiffly in the chair across from the council of SHIELD officials and military brass, the shield resting heavily on the floor beside him.

“Sergeant Barnes,” one of the officials began, voice measured but firm, “With Captain Rogers’ sacrifice, the mantle of Captain America is open. We believe you are the man to carry on his legacy.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, shaking his head before the words could even form.

“I can’t,” he said, voice low but steady. “Steve was... Steve. I’m not him. I’m not the man he was.”

“You don’t have to be him,” another officer said carefully. “But you have his courage. His heart. That’s why we’re asking you.”

Bucky looked down at the shield, fingers brushing the familiar curves as if seeking reassurance.

“It’s not about courage,” Bucky whispered. “It’s about what I’ve lost. What I carry. How I failed him.”

You stepped forward, heart pounding but voice clear. “Bucky, listen to me.”

All eyes turned to you.

“You don’t have to be Steve. Nobody expects that. But you have something Steve never had—a second chance to choose who you want to be.”

You reached for his hand, squeezing gently. “I see the man behind the shield. The one who survived hell and still wants to do right. That’s who you are. That’s who you’ve always been.”

He looked up, eyes glimmering with unshed tears and a flicker of hope.

“I’m not asking you to replace Steve. I’m asking you to be you. Bucky Barnes: Captain America.”

Bucky swallowed, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. The shield seemed lighter now—not a burden, but a promise. And with you by his side, maybe he could finally start to believe that.

The evening was quiet, the city lights glowing softly outside your apartment window. Bucky sat on the edge of the couch, the shield resting against the wall beside him. You sat close, fingers intertwined, the silence between you full of unspoken pain and hope.

He looked down at the shield, then back at you. “What if I fail? What if I’m not worthy?”

You cupped his face, thumb brushing the scars that mapped his past. “You’re not alone anymore. You have me. And every step you take, I’ll be right there with you.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, a tremor in his hands as he reached out and took the shield.

“This is your fight now,” you said softly. “Not Steve’s. Yours. And he believed you to be worthy. That has to count for something.”

He lifted it, the weight familiar but different — not a burden, but a promise.

“I’ll try,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “For Steve… and for us.”

You smiled through tears, pulling him into a tight embrace. “That’s all I need.”

— 𖤓 —

Months turned into seasons, and seasons into years. The shield, once a symbol of loss and burden, became a beacon of hope—not just for the world, but for Bucky himself.

Each morning began with gruelling training sessions. You watched from the sidelines sometimes, heart swelling and aching as he pushed himself harder, fighting against the ghosts of his past. The serum courses through his veins now, slowing time’s cruel march, halting the wear of years, but it couldn’t erase the memories.

When the missions came, you were there—patching bruises, cleaning wounds, and more importantly, listening. Your apartment became a sanctuary where he could lay down his armour and just be Bucky, the man who loved fiercely and fought for what was right.

One night, after a particularly brutal day, he collapsed into your arms, exhaustion and pain heavy in his body.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, voice raw. “Scared I’ll lose myself in this role. That the war will never leave me.”

You kissed his temple gently. “You won’t lose yourself. You’ll become stronger. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Together, you learned to navigate the balance—between duty and peace, past and future. And slowly, the cracks in his soul began to heal.

Years had softened the sharp edges of pain. The apartment in Brooklyn was filled with laughter, warmth, and the quiet chaos of everyday life — a far cry from the battles and ghosts that once ruled Bucky’s world.

You stood in the kitchen, watching him play with your children in the living room. His laughter was a sound you never thought you’d hear again — pure, unburdened, alive.

He caught your eye and smiled, that old familiar spark lighting up his eyes.

“Did you ever think we’d get here?” he asked, voice thick with emotion.

You crossed the room and took his hand. “I believed in us. Even when you didn’t.”

He pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You saved me.”

“No,” you whispered, “we saved each other.”

Though the past was never far, it no longer ruled him. The serum had slowed time, but it was your love, your home, your family that healed his heart.

Together, you built a life — one filled with hope, honour, and the quiet strength of two souls who chose each other every day.

March, 2014 ༊*·˚

The city was slick with rain, neon lights flickering off wet pavement. Bucky’s breath came steady, the chill biting through his coat, but his heart was anything but calm. Years had passed since you were gone — since he lost the person who anchored him, who taught him to believe in himself again. But time was a trickster, and now it had thrown him the cruelest of all cards.

Captain Hydra.

The name sent a shiver down his spine.

They didn’t just steal his body — they rewrote his soul.

After his sacrifice in 1944, Steve Rogers was presumed dead. But Hydra found him, broken and near death, entombed in Arctic ice. Where the world would have honoured him, Hydra saw something else: potential. A symbol of hope they could twist into a weapon of fear.

He was defrosted in a sterile underground bunker, strapped to a metal chair under buzzing lights. No familiar faces. No freedom. Only pain.

They tortured him physically at first — electric shocks, isolation, sleep deprivation. But Steve was strong. Too strong. So they shifted tactics.

They went after his mind.

They whispered lies until they sounded like truth. Played him recordings over and over again — false missions, fake betrayals, a rewritten history where Hydra saved the world. Where Bucky died by his hand. Where Peggy betrayed him. Where America never deserved Captain America in the first place.

Then came the chair — crude, cold, invasive. They carved into Steve’s memories, overwriting his morality with obedience. Replacing his ideals with loyalty to Hydra.

By the time they froze him again — their perfect soldier, preserved like a monster in ice — there was no Captain America left.

Only Captain Hydra.

Over the next seventy years, they thawed him out when they needed him. Silent. Deadly. Efficient. A myth of his own. The shield he once carried now bore Hydra’s crest — a mockery of what he once stood for.

Bucky’s hands clenched his shield at his side as he navigated the shadowed alley, the memory of your voice still whispering in his mind. I’m with you. Always.

He had to find Steve. Had to reach him before Hydra’s grip destroyed what was left.

And then, there he was.

Steve stood tall beneath the flickering streetlamp, his new Hydra insignia gleaming coldly on his chestplate. His shield—once a symbol of hope—was now twisted, bearing Hydra’s emblem.

Bucky stepped forward, voice low but urgent. “Steve.”

Steve’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and hostile. “You shouldn’t have come here, Bucky.”

The words stung, but Bucky forced himself to stay steady.

“I came because you’re not who they want you to be.”

Steve’s face twisted in anger. “I’m nothing like you anymore. I’m Hydra’s soldier.”

“No,” Bucky said, taking another step closer, “You’re Steve Rogers. The man who stood for something bigger than himself. You didn’t choose this.”

Steve raised his shield defensively, but Bucky didn’t flinch. Instead, he dropped his own shield to the ground, palms open in a gesture of peace.

“Remember the Brooklyn streets? The dreams we shared? You taught me what it meant to fight with honour—” Bucky’s voice cracked, the weight of decades pressing down. “You were my brother. My best friend. You saved me. And now, I’m here to save you.”

Steve’s eyes flickered—confusion, pain—before they hardened again. “I don’t know you.”

“You do,” Bucky said softly, stepping even closer. “I’m not going to fight you. You’re my friend.”

Steve grimaced before a wicked smile flashed across his lips, and he brought his fist to Bucky, slamming it into his ribs. “You’re my mission.”

“Then finish it,” Bucky gasped. “Because I’m with you... until the end of the line.”

A beat of silence.

Then, like a dam breaking, Steve’s expression shattered. The coldness in his eyes flickered, replaced by a flash of the man Bucky remembered—his Steve.

His guard dropped just slightly, shield lowering.

Bucky reached out, voice gentle but firm, “Come back. Fight with me. Not for Hydra, but for us.”

Steve’s breath caught, the battle inside him raging. Memories surged—your laughter, the nights you stayed up comforting Bucky, the promises made on rain-soaked rooftops.

“Bucky...” Steve whispered, voice thick with emotion, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’re the man who never gave up,” Bucky said, gripping Steve’s shoulder. “And I never gave up on you.”

For the first time in decades, Steve let the walls fall.

Bucky held him tight, feeling the tremors of his old friend come back to life. The storm inside Steve began to calm, replaced by the fragile, fierce hope of redemption.

And though you were no longer there, your love had never left — it lived on in Bucky’s strength, in their bond, in the promise to stand together… until the end of the line.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat

[sturnboos]

[🤍] You’re not stupid, You’re human.

hurt/comfort inspired by the song Matilda by Harry styles. shit day so I threw this together real quick, enjoy!

You didn’t mean to tell him. It just slipped out like most of the things you spend all day trying to swallow back. It’s not like you wanted to talk about your family. Not really. You’ve done that before, and it always ends the same awkward silence, pity, someone trying to fix something that's already dust.

But with Matt… it’s different.

You were sitting on his couch, curled up with a blanket that smelled like him. Some foreign movie was playing, something with subtitles, but neither of you were really watching. You said it like it meant nothing. “They didn’t even call on my birthday.” You didn’t even realize it came out loud.

But Matt heard it and he muted the TV.

You tried to brush it off, act casual, shift the attention to literally anything else. But Matt… Matt doesn’t let you disappear like that.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words. So simple. So steady.

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know. But I’m still sorry.”

You shrug, eyes glued to the paused screen, trying not to blink too hard. “It’s fine. It’s always like that.”

Matt leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. He looks at you like he’s seeing through every “I’m okay” you’ve ever said. “They don’t get to make you feel small.”

You almost laugh. “It’s not that deep.”

He tilts his head. “It is.”

You hate how your throat tightens. Matt doesn’t say anything for a while. Just lets the silence sit. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s not pressuring. It just is safe, like the way he always is with you. “I hope you know,” he says finally, voice low, “you don’t have to pretend it didn’t hurt.”

You glance at him. His eyes are soft, steady. Like he’s offering something you’ve never had before. “Matt—”

“If you ever want to talk about it, I’ll listen. If you don’t, I’ll still be here. I just need you to know… it’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to grieve what you deserved and didn’t get.”

You bite your lip. Hard.

“Sometimes I feel stupid. For wanting more.”

“You’re not stupid.” His voice sharpens, only for a second. “You’re human.” Then, quietly “And if they couldn’t see how incredible you are… that’s their loss. Not yours.”

You feel it then the ache in your chest that you’ve ignored for years. The one that’s been screaming just to be seen. Just to be loved the way you should have been. You look at him, really look, and it’s there in his expression… No judgment. No pressure. Just care. Just Matt.

He reaches over, tentative, gives your hand a soft squeeze. “You can let it go, y’know. You can build something new.”

“With what?”

“With me.” You don’t pull your hand away. That’s what surprises you most. You’re used to retreating. Used to tucking the vulnerable parts of yourself away like they’re shameful too complicated to love.

But Matt holds your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like it's his hand that fits there. “You really mean that?” You reply your voice barley even a whisper. He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

You can feel the heat blooming in your chest that strange, unfamiliar feeling that’s not quite pain, not quite relief. You blink at him, slowly, like you’re trying to memorize this moment just in case it slips away.

Matt smiles softly, but there’s a weight in his gaze. “You’ve spent so long trying to be okay for everyone else. Don’t you think you deserve someone who just… stays? Without needing you to pretend?”

You nod before your brain catches up. Then you say it out loud. “I think I want that.”

His eyes search yours. “You have that. You have me.”

Your breath catches and suddenly it’s not about family anymore, or the birthdays that passed without a text, or the dinners where you were invisible. It’s about him. Here. Now.

“You’re serious?” you say, and it’s so quiet you’re not sure if you even meant to speak.

He nods. “I’ve been serious about you for a long time.”

Something fragile cracks open inside you. You sit up a little straighter, shifting to face him. His hand is still wrapped in yours, grounding you. The way he looks at you steady, unrushed, sure it makes your chest ache in a different way. A better one.

“Can I—” you pause, nervous. “Can I kiss you?”

Matt’s smile grows. Not cocky. Just… warm. Like sunlight through a window. “You don’t have to ask.”

So you lean in. It’s not dramatic, not fireworks or movie scenes. It’s just lips against lips soft, hesitant at first, then surer. A little messy from the tears you didn’t know were still there. But it’s real and when he pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed to yours. Thumb brushing your cheek like a vow.

“You never have to earn this, you never have to feel sorry” he says. “Not from me.”

You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years. And for the first time in a long time maybe ever you believe it.

Tags: @blushsturns @riasturns @iloveduckssm @chrissbxby @sturnobessed @kayskreativeideas @tits4matt @mattsfavho @sturniolobananas1 @courta13 @alexisa78 @chrisissos3xy @sturnobessed @mattschelseaa @norahsturns @dolliraez @jibitzlesscrocs @oopsiedaisydeer @gemzyy @mattschelseaa @hesvoid34 @phone4pills @spaghettislut1 @sturnslux3 @phone4pills @owenstar @luvsturns @nickssidewitch @ariieeesworld @sugarraez

[bitchinbarzal]

One Last Dance | T Meier

summary: after one love fuelled summer with timo, you’re marrying nico.

⸻

There are wildflowers in your hair and champagne on your lips when you spot him.

Timo.

Leaning against the bar in that way he always did — one arm braced, jaw tight, pretending not to look for you. You wonder how long he’s been here. If he saw you walk down the aisle. If it hurt.

You’re not supposed to care. You’re not supposed to think about him. Not today.

But the truth is, you haven’t stopped since Zurich.

You met Timo the summer you turned twenty-two, when everything was sun-drenched and fleeting. You were working abroad, running a photography program for kids while trying to figure out your own life, and he was already knee-deep in the hockey world, crashing in Switzerland for training and a bit of freedom. You collided at a lake party just outside the city — you in cutoff shorts, him in a backwards hat, both of you tipsy and too curious for your own good.

It was supposed to be nothing. A fling. A heatwave thing.

But it wasn’t.

You stayed up late, slept in his shirts, learned every freckle on his chest. He let you read pages from his journal and you let him photograph you in golden hour light. You danced barefoot on balconies and kissed like the world was ending. And maybe, in some ways, it did. Because when August came and you both had to leave — he to training camp, you to the States — there was no ending that fit.

You didn’t talk about feelings. You didn’t say goodbye properly. You just left, and he didn’t stop you.

Years passed. You moved on. You met Nico.

Sweet, steady Nico, who made you feel safe for the first time in a long time. He never made you question his love, never held back, never left you guessing. He was Timo’s best friend which was something you didn’t realise at first but by the time you found out, it was already too late.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the past was the past.

But Timo never left your head. And now he’s here, in a suit and tie, watching you slow dance with your husband on your wedding night.

You try not to look, but you do.

Nico’s hands are warm on your waist. He leans in and kisses your forehead, murmuring something sweet, something only for you. You force a smile and nod, but your stomach turns because you feel Timo’s eyes like a brand across the dance floor.

The song begins to fade.

Nico pulls back slightly. “Be right back,” he says with a smile, gesturing toward the DJ. “I’ve got a request.”

And before you can step away, another hand slips into yours.

You already know it’s him. You don’t have to look up.

Timo.

His touch is tentative but familiar. Still calloused in the same places. Still warm like summer.

You should walk away. You should run. But you let him pull you in.

“I won’t keep you long,” he says softly.

Your heart thunders. You glance around, but no one seems to be watching. Or if they are, they’re too polite to say anything.

You try to keep your voice even. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

He doesn’t argue. He just starts to sway, leading you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Maybe he has. In Zurich. In memory.

“You look happy,” he murmurs after a beat. “You look beautiful.”

You blink hard. “Timo…”

“I’m not trying to ruin your day.”

“Then why are you here?”

His jaw tightens. “Because I needed to see if you were really gone.”

The music winds around you like smoke, heavy and slow. You can’t meet his eyes. You’re afraid of what’s there — or worse, what’s still there.

He shifts his hand slightly, thumb brushing the bare skin at your back, just above the waistline of your dress. You flinch.

“I loved you, you know,” he says, so low it almost disappears beneath the violins.

Your chest clenches. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t think I had to. I thought you knew.”

You finally meet his gaze then. And it nearly destroys you.

He looks like the boy you left behind and the man he became all at once. Hurt, but harder now. Like he built walls to keep you out and never figured out how to tear them back down.

“You let me go.”

“I didn’t want to,” he says, voice cracking. “I just didn’t know how to ask you to stay.”

You want to say something cruel. Something that will break the moment before it breaks you. But you don’t get the chance.

Because as the music swells to its final notes, he leans in.

And with a voice full of every word he never got to say, he whispers:

“It should’ve been me.”

The world stops.

Air catches in your lungs. Your fingers tremble in his. Your heart shatters in slow motion.

You pull back.

Timo lets you go, just like he did that summer.

And when Nico returns, all bright-eyed and proud with a new song queued up, you smile and step into his arms like nothing happened.

But something did.

And you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to forget it.

[saturnyo]

Bound to Ruin

Pairing: Javier Pena x Reader

Summary: You are a local translator and agent working for the DEA, and Javier was your unwilling partner. He flirts with everyone, but you are immune to his charms. You see through him, and he hates that he wants you anyway.

Warnings: Bilingual Dialogue (English/Spanish), Praise Kink, P-in-V Penetration, Creampie (implied), Soft Aftercare, Spanish Dirty Talk

WC: 1.8k

A/N: There is some Spanish dialogue, and since I'm not a speaker of said language, I had to use a translator. I apologize if the translations are wrong.

Song choice: Crazy in Love cover by Sofia Karlberg

Bogota, Colombia - 2:45 P.M.

The embassy was filled to the brim with sounds of keyboards clacking and feet scurrying across the floor trying to get to where they need to as quickly as possible.

Working for the DEA was your dream come true. You loved the nitty gritty sides of police work and even delving into dangerous places to help bring down the world’s most notorious criminals. Which landed you here in Bogota, Colombia, all the way from good ole California.

You were assigned to the Medellin Cartel Case, a dangerous drug trafficking ring. There is no place in the world where they are not familiar with who they are. Of course, you wouldn’t be working alone. Alongside a team of other capable agents, you all put your collective minds together to intercept any information you came across. But off to the side with that annoying cocky grin of his was Javier Pena. He would lean back in his chair like this job was only for him to relax and sleep his way across Colombia.

He’s the type of guy who could make every girl swoon with a smile and a corny pick-up line, but you? You are different. You were immune to his charms, and that fact alone made him want you more.

You were sitting at your desk when he walked up to you, slamming a Manila folder down on your desk. His own was just a few feet away, turned in the direction where Javier could stare directly at you whenever he chose to lift his gaze.

The Manila folder made your pens and a few other papers scatter across the floor as you glared daggers at him.

“What the hell, Peña?” You looked up, unimpressed. “¿Qué te pasa?” you said coldly.

He gives you that shit eating grin that makes you want to smack it right off. Or kiss it. Your head is just confused in his presence but you would never admit that to him.

“I like you speaking in Spanish,” he said, leaning in over your desk just mere inches away from your face. “Un escupitajo que eres, y me encanta.”

You rolled your eyes as you bent over to pick up the papers. “Those tired old lines won’t work on me, Peña.”

Javier watches you like a hawk, tracing every curve as you bend down, loose papers and pens in hand.

"Hermosa."

You blink, taking in what he said, almost feeling like you hallucinated it. Your face heated up, your legs felt like jelly, and the sounds of the keyboards and feet faded out.

You fucking hated it

"Do you have something worthwhile for me?" You asked, eyes narrowing.

He handed you the manila folder. "Need help translating some communication that we recently intercepted."

You raised your eyebrow. "And a man who can speak Spanish suddenly just can't, and you need my help?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I just wanted to see the most beautiful woman in Colombia? Also, you are joining me on a stakeout."

Your stomach dropped.

"Since when?"

He smiled. "Since now. Come on, Cariño."

You rolled your eyes again, ignoring the sudden heat pooling between your legs, and gathered your things. You wondered how the night would go, being trapped in a car for hours with a man you hated, but desired at the same time.

Bogota, Colombia - 11:00 P.M.

Hours passed. You and Javier are sitting in his car, staking out a suspected drug stash house. His car is a bit cramped, and your legs cramp up from being in one position for too long.

"Mierda.." you muttered. Your legs seized up as the passenger seat creaked, you shifted side to side, trying to get comfortable, knowing you'll be here for a while longer.

Javier looked at you, his eyes softening a bit. "Are you ok, Cariño?"

His gaze cut through you, making you forget for a moment where you were. You snapped out of it, bringing yourself back down to earth.

"I'm fine," you snapped, saying it too quickly. "My leg is just cramping. I don't go out on stakeouts often; they mainly keep me in the office."

"Good," he said curtly. Javier turned back, staring out the windshield. Silence fell over you before he cut in again. "They've been missing out on one hell of an asset, then."

Your heart clenches, catching yourself between hate and lust.

"Thanks, Javi-"

You were cut off by the sound of bullets hitting your windshield. You have been made. Two figures step out from the stashhouse, aiming their weapons in your direction. Bullets began flying relentlessly as you grabbed your gun, Javier's voice ringing out through the chaos.

"Mierda. Cariño sígueme!"

Shots fired from Javier as he grabbed your arm, pulling you through different alleyways trying to get away from your relentless pursuers. His hands never loosened, only tightened as bullets ricocheted off the brick walls making you tremble in fear. But through it all, Javier was there pulling you, shielding you in the best way he could and your ire towards him slowly began to soften.

Eventually he stopped at a door, swung it open and ushered you inside. it’s a Safehouse, one of many the DEA has stashed around the city. You spotted the red worn leather couch and plopped down on it, adrenaline still coursing through your veins and your heart still pounding, threatening to break your ribs.

“We-we almost died, Javi…” you whispered, voice trembling as the weight of what happened finally settles down on you.

Javier leaned in, forehead touching yours. “I was scared too. I didn’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

You looked up, he’s standing in front of you hands cupping your face like you are fragile but not demeaning you but fragile as if you’d break so will he.

“i thought you hated me, Pena.”

“And i thought you hated me, Cariño”

His eyes held a secret. one he’s been trying to suppress out of fear and rejection. All of things he wanted to say are held within his big brown eyes.

“Aren’t you just trying to make me another notch in your belt?” you asked bitterly, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice.

He scoffed, shaking his head, but there was pain in his eyes. “is that what you really think of me? After everything?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore Javi,” you said, folding your arms tightly across your chest like armor. “You flirt with everyone. You disappear when it matters. What was i supposed to believe?”

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, swallowing your words letting you release your pent up frustration.

“A la mierda.”

One word. One sentence. It felt from his lips as quick as he pressed them against your own. Electric, unlike anything you ever tasted before. He was cigarettes and tequila but safety and sorrow. Outside, you two almost died but in here? in the safehouse? it was just you and Javi, lips colliding, clothes falling to the floor, and him laying you gently kissing down your body worshipping you like you were a long forgotten holy idol.

“Hermosa,” He said, his voice a quiet confession. “do you know how long i’ve been thinking about this?”

“How long?”

“Demasiado jodidamente largo Cariño.”

You moaned in response, your head swimming unable to think clearly. His fingers trailed down your stomach, tracing circles along every scar, ever bruise you have gained since you started to work in Colombia. He kissed them, whispering loving words before his fingers traced the outline of your clothed pussy. you were soaking wet, dripping down your thighs.

“Maldito bebé,” Javier groaned. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

He pushed a finger inside making your back arch off the couch, your hands gripping his hair trying to anchor yourself in the moment.

“Earlier today. Office,” you moaned, breathless at the feeling of his finger delving into your wet cunt.. “Por favor. Necesito más”

Javier growled, low in his chest, and then there was a second finger—stretching you out, filling you in a way that made your mind go hazy. They were thick, moving so precisely making you come undone. He watches in awe, like he couldn't believe you were withering beneath him looking so beautiful as your orgasm washed over you, making you shudder.

He places a slow, drugging kiss on your lips before he positions his cock at your slick entrance. “Do you want this? Podemos parar.”

You pulled him closer, interrupting him with a kiss. That was all the answer he needed as he pushed inside, slow and sure like the both of you were trying to hold onto something fragile, to something worth fighting for.

“Eres tan jodidamente apretado,” He groaned, dipping his head into the crook of your neck, breath hot against your skin.

His hips move in perfect, slow rhythm, each thrust deliberate, filled with purpose. It’s not pretty, it’s not like one of these perfect sex scenes in a rom com—it’s filled with a disgusting need and fervor. Your bodies moving together, wet skin against wet skin, moving together creating a thread between you and Javier—your hate fading away.

“Todo mío”

“mi vida”

“Hermosa”

His words flow into your ears, your skin on fire as Javier lifts one of your legs and wraps it around his waist—giving him a better way to push his cock in deeper making you gasp. Your fingers grip his arms tighter as your release builds up like a dam about to crack.

“Vamos nena, suéltate,” Javier murmured. “I want you to feel you cum on my cock.”

Suddenly you feel yourself as your cunt squeezes him, your body violently shaking as he fucks you through your orgasm. it was overwhelming, so many feelings all at once—crashing back down.

His rhythms sttuters just for a moment like he’s trying to drag it out, savor it. but his breathing is ragged, jaw clenched tight, every muscle tawt in his body like hes hanging by a thread.

“Mierda,” he growls again, voice wrecked. “i’m close.”

His thrusts get deeper, more frantic. rougher and deeper, more brutual now. like he’s chasing that moment where his control shatters. Your body’s trembling, still riding the high from your last orgasm, and you feel him throb inside you. he grabs your face, possessive and firm, forcing you to look him in the eye.

"Mírame cuando me corra, nena."

And fuck you do. the look in his eyes is wild. that anger, that hunger, that fucking need, all crashing into one beautiful, terrifying thing. Then he slams into you one last time, his cum filling you up inside as he buries himself inside. he groans like his voice is being ripped from his throat.

When he finally stills, he looks at you, brushing the sweat covered hair off your forehead admiring how it splays out across the couch.

“Eres mía mi amor,” he whispered. “Te quiero.”

Your breath catches at his words.

You don’t say anything

You didn’t have to

He knew. You knew. And that changes everything.

[jelly-sharki]

Let's talk about Michael Wheeler.

This is my first post, btw. I'm still new to this despite having Tumblr for more than 2 years.

I want everyone to know that I am a Byler shipper, I believe that they WILL get together in ST5. I feel it in my bones, in my nuggets, in my giblets.

Anyway.

What if Mike was the one to get possessed? I know, I know. There is clear proof that Will is the one who most likely gets possessed from the "RUN" scream and obviously passed out on his mum, but hear me out for a second.

The way Mike is clearly the hero/leader(or portraying himself into being the hero/leader) for the small group of kids and most likely a lot of other characters including Will, as we see here:

There's a clear sign of protection and sacrifice in this photo and scene alone. So the thought of Mike doing something to protect someone isn't bizarre, meaning the feeling to self sacrifice himself isn't something to ignore when thinking of Mike in ST5. What if that's what happens? Self sacrifice.

Will being possessed is something that will definitely happen noting the few scenes about it being a high possibility, but maybe Will fights that, the possession now not being a thing. Unless a new host is found, and who would be a perfect host? Mike. He is the next best option after Will, if we were right about some things in the theories, the theory about internalized homophobia might be something that fuels the easy control over Mike. His fear, regret, and sadness. Vecna/Henry/001 could use that to control Mike, and since he is now in a situation he's not familiar with himself, it wouldn't be hard to succeed.

This could also be seen the other way around, Will getting possessed and Mike being the one to save Will, back to the theory of Will getting Vecna'd and Mike playing "Should I Stay Or Should I Go" in the headphone, almost death scene, ect ect.

Honestly? BORING.

Yes, Mike saving Will is very nice and just MM, hero Michael all the way, but c'mon... Will saving Mike? A cleric is known for healing and support, meaning they also make shields and protection spells if needed. Will getting his hero moment, Mike getting an even more important part in Will's story that isn't just love interest and/or his saviour? Now that's cinema.

The idea came from the lawyer video by: @teambyler

And the ST5 ep 6 title: "Escape from Camazotz"

(Before I start, I have not seen the movie this references, all Google searches)

Camazotz is from the movie "A Winkle In Time", it's the name of a planet that is soon controlled by IT(the "Black Thing" I think??), at some point Meg Murry kept saying "I love you" over and over again to Charles Wallace, it instantly reminded me of Byler.

This could easily be seen as Mike saying "I love you" over and over again towards Will, giving him the courage to fight against Vecna and the Mind Flayer.

But think of that the other way around.

Will finally confessing his feelings towards the person he's loved for years, but out of fear one of them might die, the fear of not being able to say it later, the need to finally say:

"I love you Mike! Please don't leave me-- I need you! I love you!"

"That day you asked me to be your friend on the swings-- I've always needed you after that! Please, Mike! I need you!"

Like C'MON!!?!???!

[zyart-jpg]

"Where are you now when I need you most?"

Pairing: Wooin Yoo x Reader (18+)

Summary: It took one question for things to falter.

Tags: Slight angst, SMUT, Established RS, Slow-burn, MDNI

A/N: this is the first ever smut I've officially posted. Nothing crazy lol just something sweet (?) because someone asked for it REPEATEDLY in my asks. I can't tag you bcs ur anon but here you go hehe.

A/N2: 18+ BANNER CREDITS TO @cafekitsune

It started with a question.

“Would you ever consider marrying me, Wooin?”

Just seven words. Casual—almost careless. Tossed into the quiet like a pebble across still water.

You hadn’t meant it to carry weight. Just a stray thought, slipping out during a peaceful midnight—both of you curled on the couch, half-watching a show he didn’t care for but sat through anyway because you asked.

But for him, it landed like a stone to the chest.

You saw it—the way his body stiffened, how his gaze faltered like you’d brushed a nerve he’d buried deep. He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the screen like he hadn’t heard you. Like ignoring it would make the moment pass.

Then he scoffed.

Muttered something about how stupid he’d have to be to get tied down, and looked away like you weren’t even worth the question.

And then it all unraveled.

One minute, you were warm under the covers, limbs tangled. The next, you were trading barbed words that cut too deep. Voices raised. Things said you wish you could take back. 

And finally—silence.

It’s been days.

No calls. No texts. Nothing.

Just silence—heavy, unresolved. Sitting in your chest like a bruise. You’re still raw from the argument, still haunted by the question you can’t undo. Still wondering if you should’ve stopped him from leaving, if you should’ve asked him to stay—maybe you shouldn't have asked that damned question in the first place.

You hate fighting with him.

Not because he gets angry—he does. He pushes back when it stings. Knows exactly where to aim when he’s hurt.

But it’s the aftermath that crushes you.

The way he disappears into silence like it’s an armor. No apologies. No attempts. Just time. Just distance. Like waiting it out is enough.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most.

You hate it because he never reaches out first. He can go days without your voice. Without checking if you’re okay. Not because he doesn’t care—he does, you know he does. But he won’t be the one to crack first.

You just wish—for once—he’d need you enough to break the silence.

You hadn’t blocked him. Couldn’t. You still stared at his name in your contacts more often than you’d admit. Still opens your old chat sometimes just to scroll. Still waited for that familiar notification tone you swore you’d stopped hoping for.

The days stretched into weeks, each one quieter than the last. The silence wasn’t just absence—it was torture. Every hour without a word from him gnawed at the edges of your resolve, until desperation finally cracked it wide open.

But you didn’t cave to him.

You caved to the closest thing you could reach him through—Joker.

You didn’t say much. Just a quiet, “Hey. Is he okay?” sent too late at night to be casual.

The reply came fast, but cold.

Bar.

That was it. No follow-up. No comfort.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the silence from Wooin or the one-word scraps you had to beg from someone else.

You told yourself the tears would stop. That you’d get over this. But they still stung beneath the surface, waiting to fall every time you let your mind wander.

Were you still something to him? Or had one fight been enough to erase everything?

You played it over and over. The way your voice cracked. The sharpness in his tone. The door slamming shut behind you. And the fact that neither of you turned back.

By the third week, your apartment felt colder. Emptier. Even when it was spotless. Even with music playing, or shows looping in the background like white noise trying to drown out the ache.

His absence had settled into everything—your sheets, your couch, the air itself. It clung to your skin, heavy and still, like gravity pressing you down.

You stopped keeping track of the days. The nights bled into mornings. Blankets curled around you like armor, still faintly smelling like him. Your body ran on autopilot—barely eating, barely sleeping. Crying came in waves, but even the tears felt exhausted now.

It was grief. 

That’s what it was—grieving someone who was still alive. Still somewhere out there. Just no longer choosing you.

And the worst part?

You didn’t want anyone else—you just wanted him.

Even after everything. Even after the silence.

But maybe—just maybe—the world hadn’t turned completely cruel.

Not yet.

Because just as you’d finally forced yourself to get up, to shower, to piece yourself together for the first time in days and try to step out into the city that didn’t stop moving without him—there it was.

A knock.

Firm. Then again. And again.

You froze by the door, breath caught like a bird in your throat—and suddenly, everything in you dared to hope.

A part of you hoped—prayed—it was him behind the door when you pulled it open. 

You told yourself not to get your hopes up. Told yourself it was probably a neighbor. Maybe a delivery to the wrong unit. Anything but him.

But nothing could’ve prepared you for the way your heart stuttered when your eyes met his.

Wooin stood there—rain clinging to his hair, clothes wrinkled like he hadn’t been sleeping, eyes bloodshot but blazing. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t give you the chance to ask.

Because the moment the door opened, he stepped inside like he couldn’t bear being kept out another second. His hands gripped your waist as he pushed you gently back into the apartment, kicked the door shut behind him, and locked you in his arms as though letting go would kill him.

You didn’t speak—not yet. Neither did he. But his breathing was shallow, chest pressed hard against yours, like he’d been holding in everything for days and now it was all trying to escape at once.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, finally. The words cracked in the middle, thick with emotion. “I was a fucking idiot.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Your fingers were already clinging to the back of his shirt, nails digging in just to feel that he was real. Here. 

Finally.

“I didn’t mean it,” he went on, his mouth brushing the side of your face, your temple. “What I said. I just—panicked. I’ve never had someone ask me something like that. It scared the hell out of me.”

His hands slid to your cheeks, lifting your face so you’d look at him. So you’d see he meant every word.

“But you… you’re everything I never thought I could have. Everything I don’t want to lose.”

Your lips parted to respond, but he kissed you first—soft, desperate, like he was begging for forgiveness and anchoring himself to you all at once. Like every silent day had led up to this one moment.

The kiss deepened, turned breathless. Heated.

You barely registered when your back hit the wall, or when your shirt slipped halfway down your shoulder. All you felt was him—his heat, his hunger, the way his hands moved with a desperation that bordered on pleading.

This wasn’t just sex.

It was something deeper—something aching.

He wasn’t chasing lust. He was chasing closeness, comfort, the kind of reassurance you can only ask for through touch. Through bare skin and breathless apologies murmured into the curve of your neck, like he was trying to say sorry without breaking the moment.

He didn’t rush it.

He held your face like something sacred, murmured your name like a prayer between kisses.

“I thought if I stayed away, I’d calm down. But I didn’t,” he said against your throat. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I kept waiting for you to call. To scream at me. Just... anything.”

You pulled him in closer, mouth finding his own again. And he kissed you like he was trying to erase every second of that cruel silence, every stupid word exchanged that night.

You didn’t need to ask if he still wanted you.

His hands said it all.

And so did the way he led you to the bedroom—gentle, reverent, like a sailor laying foot on land after years at sea.

You didn’t realize how much you needed him until he was inside you—slow, deep, grounding. Until your back arched off the mattress, his breath ghosting against your lips, his name a tremble caught between your teeth.

“Fuck…” he groaned, low and ragged, his voice cracked open by the weight of everything he hadn’t said. His hips rolled forward, heavy with longing. “I missed this—I missed you. So fucking much…”

Your legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him deeper, and he gave in without hesitation. Skin met skin with a wet, rhythmic slap, the room filling with the raw sounds of need—your broken gasps, his desperate groans, the bed creaking beneath the weight of everything that had gone unsaid for too long.

Every time he drove into you, a moan spilled from your lips—sharp, breathless, uncontrolled.

“Wooin—please,” you whimpered, nails digging into his back, clinging like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

More. You needed more. Of him. Of this. Of everything he took with him when he walked away.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—fuck, I’m so sorry…” he choked out between thrusts, his forehead pressing into yours, voice trembling into your mouth. “I didn’t mean that shit—I just... fuck—God, you feel so good.”

His pace quickened, rhythm stuttering as his need began to overtake his restraint. He grunted every time he bottomed out, breath thick and ragged, fingers digging into your hips like he needed to feel every inch of you against him.

“You’re mine,” he growled, each word punctuated by a thrust. “This—you—fuck, you’re mine.”

Your moans spiraled higher, breath catching as your body trembled beneath him. The headboard knocked faintly against the wall, syncing with the messy, urgent rhythm between your bodies.

“I—I’m yours,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut, your voice breaking as your body clenched around him. “‘m yours—Wooin, please—”

He groaned, rough and guttural, tightening his grip on your waist. He pushed into you again—rougher now, needier—like he couldn’t stand the idea of anything between you. His mouth hovered over your skin, your name slipping out in cracked, reverent murmurs.

You felt him everywhere—his hands, his weight, his breath, his heat—like gravity, like possession.

“Mine,” he growled again, the word torn from his throat. “Fuck—mine, all of you.”

All you could do was cry out his name, your release pooling in your stomach. Your fingers curled around the nape of his neck, clinging like you might shatter without him. Lips trembling, you choked out broken pleas between gasps, voice breathless and high. 

“I-I’m gonna c-cum—Wooin, p-please—please don’t stop—”

The words barely made it out—more breath than voice—before you yanked him closer, burying your cries in the crook of his neck. Your mouth trembled against his skin, your voice cracking as need and release blurred into something dizzying and raw.

He held you tighter, arms locking around your back like he could feel you falling apart and needed to keep every piece of you intact. His thighs pushed yours apart, driving deeper—closer.

“Yeah?” he panted, voice rough between staggered breaths. His hand slid to cradle the back of your head, keeping you flushed against him. “Gonna cum, pretty girl?” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded quickly, gasping as your body gave in—trembling, clenching hard around him like you couldn’t let him go. 

"Go on, baby," he murmured, a breath against your ear—more ghost than voice, a reminder that he was still right there, wrapped around every edge of you. "Come ‘round me."

And when it hit, it wasn’t gentle.

It surged through you like a wave breaking too fast, too hard—knocking the breath clean from your lungs. Your cry got lost in his shoulder, teeth sinking into skin as your body trembled, and you felt him twitch deep inside, the sound he made more instinct than thought.

“M-mhm—y-yeah, like that—love, fuck—took me so well, huh?”

He groaned—low, guttural, like it was being torn straight from his chest—as he drove into you one final time, raw and aching. His hips stuttered, every muscle in his body drawn tight, trembling with the need to let go.

"Fuck—take it," he snarled, voice raw, forehead pressed to yours. "You feel that? That’s all yours, baby."

Then he broke.

Spilling inside you with a shudder, hands gripping so tight it felt like he was trying to anchor himself inside you, as if the world might fall away if he didn’t hold on.

As the high melted into quiet, he cupped your face and kissed you—slow, breathless, like a thank you, like a promise. His lips trembled against yours, still tasting of heat and something aching.

And then came the stillness.

Just heavy breathing and shared warmth, your limbs tangled, your bodies twitching with the aftershocks as you held on.

“…I’m gonna marry you—fuck, I’m gonna marry you.” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost in disbelief. “That’s my answer, love.”

His lips hovered just above yours, breath hot and erratic, still panting like he couldn’t catch it. You barely had a second to process the mess between your thighs, the oversensitivity, the aftershocks—before he shifted, still buried deep, still trembling. 

His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, dragging you closer, clutching at your waist like he couldn’t stand an inch of distance.

You yelped, “W-Wait—!” palm braced against his slick chest, trying to catch your breath, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Didn’t hear.

“No—no, I’m not done,” he gasped, voice unraveling, lips brushing yours as he rambled. 

“I’m gonna marry you, y’hear me? Gonna make you mine—forever, shit—‘m gonna give you everything, even the damn brats you always joked about—just—”

He sat back on his heels and hauled you into his lap, a rough, reverent motion that made you gasp again as your thighs trembled, still sore and soaked. His arms locked tight around you, grounding, caging, desperate.

“Don’t leave me,” he choked out, forehead pressing to yours like a prayer. “Not after this. Not after you let me love you like that—”

He groaned again—broken, undone—as his hips jerked up, instinctive, needy, grinding you down onto him in a slow, ruined rhythm that made your breath hitch and your fingers clutch at his shoulders.

"You got me—every part of me," he breathed, voice thick, trembling against your skin. "No one else—just you. You keep me like this, baby, please—don’t push me away now... I’m yours."

Your mind was spinning, heart a wild, aching thing in your chest. Still trembling, still sensitive—but you reached for him anyway. Kissed him like it hurt to be apart. Not from hunger. Not from need.

But like you were saying yes.

Like you were back home.