Allyium-Inserts

This blog is a side blog of my main @allyium. This is where I reblog fan fictions and reader-inserts that I really enjoy. I might write ideas here as well! I will always credit the authors I reblog here and try to ask permission to repost!!!

[allyium-inserts]

This a simple side-blog where I reblog reader inserts or fan-fictions that I enjoyed reading and want to share!! I may also write my own ideas that happen to live rent free in my head.

Right now my obsession(s) are: Naruto, spy x family, sakamoto days, haikyuu!!, demon slayer

I will also post nsfw works occasionally, so minor do not interact please.

[binniebb]

fireworks ⟢ choi san

── .✦ You join the gym after a painful breakup, expecting only physical change, but as you grow closer to your trainer San, you rediscover your confidence and find unexpected romance that heals you both.

pairing: trainer!san x afab!reader genre: strangers → friends → lovers rating: smut, mature 18+  wc: 11.2k tw: [themes of body image/insecurity, infidelity/cheating, alcohol use, some strong language] warnings: [explicit and detailed smut, unprotected sex, creampie, softdom!sannie, making outttt <3]

ᝰ.ᐟ honestly so sad that I didn't focus on san's ass appreciation bc he def loves reader's ass. also, woosan goes crazy sometimes. expanding to ateez again, and trying to come up with something for bts. who should be the first I write for if I do? enjoy hunnies <3

: ̗̀➛ masterlist  ੈ✩‧₊˚ message me!  ੈ✩‧₊˚

Your sneakers squeak on the polished floor as you walk into the gym. You grip your phone tightly, suddenly aware of your body, your hoodie, and the mirrors along the walls. You remind yourself you’re here for you—no one else.

“Hey.”

The voice is warm. Easy. You look up and immediately forget how lungs work.

He’s tall and broad, making his black joggers and fitted T-shirt look almost too good. His skin is honey-toned, his eyes sharp but softening when he smiles, dimples appearing. He looks strong, but not intimidating. He feels safe.

“I’m San,” he says, holding out a hand. His grip is gentle. “First time here?”

You nod, shaking his hand, hoping your blush isn’t visible under fluorescent lighting. “Is it that obvious?”

He laughs, light and genuine. “A little. But that’s okay. Want me to show you around?”

You follow him past the treadmills and weight racks, doing your best not to stare at his shoulders. He explains everything patiently, tells a few silly jokes, and never makes you feel out of place.

By the time you get to the free weights, your heart is racing. You came for a revenge body, but ended up with a crush instead.

After the tour, he leads you back to the front, where you tell him you’re getting the membership.

You stand there, debit card in hand, nails pressing into the plastic as the gym buzzes around you. Weights clank in the distance. The music thumps quietly, a beat you haven’t caught up to yet. Your hoodie feels too warm, and your leggings feel tight in all the places you try not to think about.

San leans against the counter, clicking through the computer screen with a focused look as he enters your basic information.

“Okay,” he says, tapping the screen and turning it slightly toward you. “This plan gives you full access, group classes if you feel brave enough, and a complimentary trainer for your first week.”

You blink. “Free?”

“Mhm. No traps. No surprise charges. No ‘gotcha’ moment.” He grins. “We’re not completely evil.”

That pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it.

He walks you through the paperwork, explaining everything clearly and never rushing. If you pause on a screen, he stays quiet. If you hesitate before signing, he looks away. He gives you space without making it awkward.

“So,” he says casually, folding his arms on the counter. The black T-shirt pulls across his chest so nicely that you have to avert your eyes. “For the trainer week, you can pick anyone you want. We’ve got a few really great ones.”

He scrolls through a list, pointing as he goes. “Jihyun’s amazing with beginners. She’s terrifyingly strong. Like…casually deadlifts your body weight strong.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s horrifying.”

“She smiles while doing it too,” he adds, dead serious. “Honestly, most of our female trainers could destroy the men. It’s very humbling.”

You snort before you can help it, covering your mouth as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Good to know.”

He glances up at you, amused, clearly pleased he made you laugh again. “I’m just saying. If strength is the goal, they’re your safest bet.”

“And you?” you ask before thinking.

He tilts his head, pretending to consider it. “Me?” A beat. Then, with mock confidence, “I might be the best. Possibly. Allegedly.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Of course you would say that.”

“Hey, I said might,” he laughs. Then his tone softens, more grounded. “But seriously, no pressure. You can choose anyone. Or switch later. Or never train again after the week. Totally your call.”

You look at the screen again, reading the names. You catch your reflection in the shiny surface—small, soft in places you wish you weren’t—standing next to someone who looks like he was made to be here.

Training with him would mean being seen at your sweatiest and most awkward.

“I don’t really…” You trail off, fingers tightening. “I don’t want to feel…worse about myself.”

San’s smile fades, just a little. Not gone, just gentler. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m very professional. And respectful. That’s kind of my whole thing.”

He gestures vaguely behind him. “You can ask literally any of my clients. I won’t be offended if you don’t pick me. I just want you to feel comfortable.”

He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t persuade. Just waits.

The choice weighs on you.

You swallow, then nod. “Okay,” you say, surprising yourself. “We can try.”

His smile returns, slow and bright, dimples carving themselves deep into his cheeks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

San taps your name into the system. “Cool. Then I’ll take extra good care of you.” A pause. “Gym-wise,” he adds quickly, laughing.

You laugh too, feeling nervous and your heart beating fast.

The consultation room is quieter than the rest of the gym, tucked away behind frosted glass and muted walls. The bass of the music outside fades into a distant thrum, like something happening in another life. There’s a small table, two chairs, and a clipboard resting neatly on top. It feels intimate in a way you didn’t anticipate. Less gym, more confessional.

San is already there when you step in.

Black joggers again. A fitted charcoal hoodie this time, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose forearms that look insane. His hair falls in his eyes slightly, parted near the bridge of his nose. He looks great.

“Hey,” he says, standing as you enter. Warm smile. Dimples. Perfect white teeth.

“Hi,” you manage, voice softer than you intended.

He gestures for you to sit and takes the chair across from you instead of next to you. It feels professional and thoughtful. He opens the clipboard but doesn’t look at it right away.

“So,” he begins, tone easy, unhurried. “This is just a vibe check. No pressure. I want to know why you’re here and what you want out of this.”

You swallow. “Well,” you start, defaulting to something rehearsed, something safe. “I just want to get healthier. Stronger. You know. Routine. Consistency.”

San nods patiently, but his eyes stay on your face. They’re sharp but kind, as if he can see what you’re not saying.

“Mhm,” he hums. A pause. Then gently, “That’s the brochure answer.”

Your mouth twitches. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” he admits with a soft smile. “But that’s okay. You don’t owe me the real one if you’re not ready.”

He finally looks down at the clipboard, giving you space. The room goes quiet. You stare at your hands in your lap, fingers twisting together.

“I can’t help you properly if I don’t know what’s really going on,” he adds quietly. “And whatever it is, this room’s safe.”

The way he says it makes your chest hurt.

You inhale, then exhale slowly. “My ex cheated on me.”

San’s pen stills.

You keep going before you can stop yourself. “I know it’s not my fault. I know he’s the one who messed up. Everyone keeps telling me that. But…” Your voice wobbles despite your effort. “I can’t stop wondering why.”

You finally look up at him, eyes burning. “Was I not enough? Did I let myself go? Was there something missing?”

You laugh weakly. “He said it ‘didn’t mean anything.’ Like that makes it better.”

The words spill out now, months of quiet insecurity finally finding air. “I feel inadequate. Like, no matter how hard I try, there’s always someone better.”

San doesn’t interrupt once.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to fix it mid-sentence. He listens like this matters. Like you matter. When you finish, the room is silent again, but it feels different. Lighter.

He takes a slow breath, clearly choosing his words carefully.

“You are enough,” he says, voice firm but gentle. No hesitation. 

Your throat tightens.

“What your ex did says everything about him and nothing about your worth,” he continues. “People don’t cheat because their partner isn’t enough. They cheat because they don’t know how to sit with themselves.” He pauses, then continues. “Curiosity isn’t an excuse. It’s a character flaw when it hurts someone else.”

He leans back slightly, still keeping a respectful distance. “It wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t okay.”

Then, more casually, as if it’s obvious, he says, “And for what it’s worth, you’re gorgeous.”

Heat floods your face instantly. “San,” you protest, half laughing, half mortified. “Is that professional?”

His grin is immediate, boyish, devastating. “Absolutely not.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“My job,” he says, tapping the clipboard, “is to help you see what’s already there. Strength isn’t just muscles. It’s confidence. And you have more potential than you think.”

Your heart stutters.

“We’ll take this one step at a time. I’ve got you.”

San stands first, the chair legs scraping softly as he reaches for a tray of locker keys by the door. They clink together, the sound grounding you after everything you just shared.

“Alright,” he says, lighter now, like he’s intentionally easing the air. “Logistics.”

You watch him sign a number onto your file, neat handwriting, practiced motions. When he hands the key to you, his fingers brush yours briefly.

“So,” he continues, walking toward the door and holding it open for you, “fitness goals.”

You trail after him, heart still fluttery from the conversation. “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say.”

“That’s fine,” he replies easily. “Some people come in with spreadsheets. Some people come in with vibes.”

You huff a laugh. “I’m definitely vibes.”

He laughs and nods approvingly before continuing. “Common reasons are strength, endurance, flexibility, and body composition. Sometimes all of the above.”

You chew your lip as you think, the hallway to the locker rooms echoing softly. “Okay. Um. Honestly?”

He glances at you. “Always.”

“I want to be skinnier,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can soften them. “I want to feel confident. And maybe…grow my ass in the process?”

The words linger in the air.

San slows down before stopping.

He looks at you, expression unreadable for half a second, then his mouth curves into something amused and dangerously calm.

“You already have a nice ass,” he says, conversationally. Like he’s commenting on the weather. “Doesn’t really need growing. Maybe toning, if that’s what you want. But it’s your body.”

You nearly trip over your own feet.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, heat flooding your face. “What?”

He keeps walking, as if nothing happened, utterly unbothered. “You heard me.”

No. No, surely not.

You scramble to keep up. “San.”

“Mhm?”

“Can you repeat that?”

He stops again, turns fully this time. Same relaxed posture. Same warm eyes. Same devastating composure.

“You have a nice ass,” he repeats evenly. “And we’ll train based on what you want and need.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He laughs then, low and genuine, dimples flashing. “I’m professional,” he says. A pause. Then, with a shrug, “For the most part.”

Your eyes widen.

“But,” he adds smoothly, “I’m still a man. With eyes.”

He winks.

You stand there, the locker key digging into your palm, your heart racing, wondering if this gym membership comes with hazards you're not emotionally prepared for.

The scale sits in the corner of the assessment room, silently mocking you.

San pulls the privacy curtain halfway closed, not because it’s required, but because he notices the way your shoulders tense the second you see it. He gestures toward it with an easy hand.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says gently.

You slip off your shoes, suddenly hyperaware of everything. The softness of your stomach. The curve of your hips. The way your thighs touch when you stand still.

You step onto the scale, eyes fixed firmly on the wall instead of the numbers lighting up beneath your feet.

San doesn’t react. He writes the number down calmly, like it’s just another data point in the world.

“These,” he says gently, motioning to the clipboard, “are just numbers. They’re not a grade. They’re not a judgment.”

He moves to take your measurements next, tape cool against your skin. He asks before each one. Arm. Waist. Hips. Thigh. His touch is professional, careful, never lingering longer than necessary.

“You don’t need to feel shy,” he adds quietly, as if reading your thoughts. “Not around me. Not around anyone here. My coworkers included.”

You swallow. “It’s hard not to.”

“I know,” he says. “But this is just a starting line. We take these now so later we can look back and say, ‘Wow, look how far you’ve come.’ Or even just, ‘Wow, I feel better.’ That part matters more.”

He steps back, meeting your eyes. “Strength is important. And obviously, health is most important. But mental health is part of that—I want you to leave feeling good in your skin.”

You feel a little more at ease.

You hesitate, then admit softly, “I’ve always been…thicker than everyone else in my family. They’re all small. Petite. I kind of stuck out.”

San glances at your hips, then back up, smiling warmly. “Well,” he says, “people are built differently.” He taps the clipboard. “And some people are lucky to have a little extra.”

Your face goes hot instantly. “San.”

“What?” he asks innocently, dimples deepening. “Nothing wrong with having something to hold onto.”

You laugh, a little flustered, but also more comfortable around him.

The first week is hell.

There’s really no other way to describe it.

You learn this the moment you catch your reflection in the locker room mirror, tugging at the hem of your athletic wrap top. The outfit is new, carefully chosen.

Black leggings, a black sports bra, and a wrap that hugs your waist just enough to help you feel secure. Black hides sweat and shadows. Still, you look cute.

San notices immediately.

You’re halfway through stuffing your things into the locker when he stops short behind you and lets out a low whistle.

“Well,” he says, impressed and entirely unashamed. “Someone understood the assignment.”

Your head snaps up. “San!”

“What?” he asks, hands up, dimples showing. “You look good. Gym fashion matters.”

You feel heat bloom across your chest and neck, laughing as you shut the locker a little too hard. “You’re distracting.”

“It comes with the job,” he says with a grin. “Ready?”

Fifteen minutes on the treadmill nearly convinces you to quit on day one.

San matches your pace beside you, chatting casually while you struggle to keep up. Your legs ache, and sweat forms at your hairline almost right away.

“Warming up,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta wake the muscles.”

“They were asleep for a reason,” you gasp.

He laughs.

Then you stretch on the floor. Mats, slow movements, deep breaths. San shows each pose with ease, correcting you gently and always asking before he helps. He explains why each move matters.

And then he introduces the workout.

“It’s beginner-friendly,” he promises.

It is, technically. But beginner-friendly does not mean painless.

Squats that make your thighs scream. Push-ups that feel personal. Core exercises that you swear are invented by cruel people with vendettas. San counts your reps, encouraging and praising you, never letting you give up, but never forcing you past your limit either.

“Breathe,” he reminds you. “You’re doing amazing.”

By the end of the hour and a half, you’re drenched, legs shaking, and drinking water as if you haven’t had any in days. San crouches in front of you, eyes bright, still full of energy.

“You crushed that,” he says. “Seriously.”

You groan. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

“And yet,” he grins, “you survived.”

The rest of the week follows the same pattern.

Pain. Sweat. Soreness in muscles you didn’t know you had. Stairs are tough. Sitting down takes effort. Have you ever had to grab the sink basin for support just to sit on the toilet? It was that bad.

San’s constant positivity is almost annoying at first, always upbeat and encouraging. But somewhere between the soreness and the sweat, something changes. You start to feel good—capable and proud.

By the end of the week, when San asks if you want to keep training, his enthusiasm is already there before you answer.

“Absolutely,” you say, smiling.

He grins right away, looking proud. “Knew it,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”

Three months in, the mirror tells a different story.

It’s not a dramatic change or a movie-style transformation. It’s real progress. Your body hasn’t become unrecognizable. It’s still yours, still soft in places, but now there’s muscle underneath. You feel stronger and more grounded.

Your habits have changed before you even noticed. You wake up earlier, drink more water, and stretch when your body needs it. Now you want to move, not to punish yourself, but because it clears your mind and makes you feel stronger. That change alone feels huge.

San did that.

Well, not exactly. He guided, nudged, and helped you change.

You remember the first time you told him you wanted to go into a calorie deficit, how casual you were about it. Like it was obvious.

“That’s all I know,” you’d shrugged. “Eat less. Count everything.”

San had frowned, concerned. “You don’t need to eat less,” he’d said patiently. “You just need to eat better.”

And then he dismantled everything you thought you knew. Explained food like fuel instead of calories entering your body. Taught you to stop demonizing meals and start building them. Protein. Fiber. Real food. He laughed when you complained about cutting dairy.

“Why are you drinking cow milk,” he’d said, deadpan, “if you’re lactose intolerant?”

You hated that he was right.

Somewhere in that first week, you’d exchanged numbers. Strictly practical, he said. So you could send him photos of your meals. Proof you were sticking to the plan.

That lasted about four days. Now you text constantly.

Memes, random thoughts, updates about your day. He sends you gym jokes and terrible puns. You send him screenshots of design projects and ask if the colors look good. One night, you had to drive two hours to your parents’ for an emergency, and he asked you to share your location.

“Just so I know you’re safe,” he’d said casually.

It shouldn’t feel this intimate. It definitely isn’t professional.

But you love it.

You love that he checks in on rest days. That he celebrates your non-scale victories harder than you do. That he notices when you’re tired. That he still hypes you up like day one.

Sometimes he flirts.

A comment about how strong you’re getting. A look held a second too long. A teasing remark that makes your stomach flip and your brain scramble for explanations. Is this confidence boosting? Trainer encouragement? Or is this a man flirting with a woman he’s interested in?

You’re not sure.

What you do know is that you’re healthier. Happier.

Six months changes things in quiet, dangerous ways.

You don’t realize how much until you walk through the gym doors wearing pink.

Not muted blush. Not dusty rose. Pink pink. Leggings that hug your figure perfectly, a matching sports bra that leaves your shoulders bare, your midriff unapologetically visible. No wrap. No safety layer. No oversized hoodie clutched like a shield.

Now you do the pump cover thing. Oversized shirt on the way in, hoodie tied around your waist. You shed it once the heat builds, once your body warms, once you remember that you’re allowed to exist like this. You’re not fully confident. Not bulletproof. But you know, deep down, that you look good.

Your waist has cinched in naturally, like it finally remembered its shape. Your stomach lies flat, especially after San stopped gatekeeping his debloating tea, leaning in close one morning as if he were sharing state secrets.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he’d whispered, glancing around dramatically before murmuring the name.

The gym is quiet today. Too quiet.

You slow near the front desk, fingers brushing the counter as you look around. No clanking weights. No treadmills humming. Just the shitty gym music thumping through the speakers.

You frown. “Hello?”

And then, like he’s been summoned by the sound of your voice, San pops out from behind the hallway with a grin that hits you square in the chest.

Pink suits him too, apparently, because his eyes drop for half a second before snapping back up, dimples carving deep into his cheeks.

“Wow,” he says, not subtle at all. “You’re glowing.”

Your cheeks warm instantly. “You’re staring.”

“I am appreciating,” he corrects.

You cross your arms, pretending not to love that. “Where is everyone?”

“New Year’s Eve,” he replies easily. “Everyone’s either getting ready to go out or already starting parties.”

“Oh,” you say, glancing around again. “That makes sense.”

Then it hits you.

“You’re here,” you point out.

He hums, stepping closer, hands tucked casually into his jogger pockets. He looks relaxed. Very much not in trainer mode.

You haven’t quite adjusted to that yet.

Last week still feels surreal.

When the program ended, you’d panicked. Told him immediately you wanted to extend. That you weren’t done. That you still needed him.

He’d laughed, pulled you into a hug without hesitation, arms warm and familiar around you.

“You don’t need me like that anymore,” he’d said fondly. “Besides, you could train me now.”

You’d laughed, but the fear had lingered. That you’d become just another success story. That he’d give someone else the same attention, the same care. That he’d share locations with new clients. Send them memes. Check in like he did with you.

It had made your stomach twist.

San must see something on your face now because his smile softens. “C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the treadmills. “Let’s warm up.”

You fall into step beside him.

“So seriously,” you ask, trying for casual. “Why are you here if it’s dead?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Because you are.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Oh,” you manage, voice betraying you entirely.

He grins, glancing sideways. “Relax. You’re stuck with me.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says, amusement laced with something deeper. “You’re my gym wife. You don’t get rid of me that easily.”

You scream internally.

You step onto the treadmill beside him, pulse racing, the empty gym suddenly feeling charged with possibility. New year. New body. New rules.

You both start your machines, walking side by side, arms swinging loosely, conversation drifting without effort. San talks about a client who tried to deadlift in jeans. You complain about a design project that refuses to cooperate.

Then he bumps the speed up.

“Light jog,” he says.

You groan, but comply, breathing evenly as your ponytail sways behind you. He keeps talking like this is nothing. A minute passes. Then two. Then he grins at you and taps the console again.

“Sprint.”

“What—San!”

But you’re laughing as your legs pump faster, heart racing, lungs burning. He matches you effortlessly, glancing over with that maddeningly calm expression, counting under his breath.

“Ten more seconds.”

You survive. Barely.

Jog again. Then sprint. Then jog. Over and over, until sweat slicks your skin and your muscles sing with effort. By the time he finally slows you down, your chest is heaving, legs trembling, a wild, exhilarated smile on your face.

“That,” he says proudly, “was beautiful.”

You flip him off affectionately.

Since the gym is empty, he connects his phone to the speakers. His playlist fills the space instantly, bass-rich, energizing, so much better than the generic gym loop. You stretch together on the mats afterward, San correcting your form with touch instead of words now, hovering close.

Then it’s squat time. Leg day for him. Glute day for you.

You grab your water bottle and phone, bending to set them down beside your rack. You feel his gaze before he says anything. When you glance over, he’s mid-warm-up, bar resting across his chest, eyes very much on you.

“Yeah,” he says casually. “You can definitely tell.”

You blink. “Tell what?”

“The difference in your glutes,” he adds, nodding toward you. “Especially in that pink set.”

Heat rushes straight to your face. “You’re flirting again,” you accuse. “And staring.”

He shrugs, dropping into a front squat with effortless depth. “I’m not your trainer anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you stop being a gentleman,” you counter, folding your arms.

He rises smoothly, racking the bar, eyes bright with amusement. “I have my limits,” he says simply. “Especially when it comes to you.”

Your laugh comes out nervous, breathy.

He grins at the sound, clearly enjoying your reaction, then turns his focus back to his workout like he didn’t just unravel you with a sentence.

You grip your bar, heart racing, very aware that something between you has shifted again.

You eye the plates for a long second before you speak. Your bar is loaded heavier than usual.

“Hey,” you say, glancing over at San. “Can you spot me?”

His eyebrows lift, impressed before he even answers. “Going for a PR?”

You nod, nerves buzzing. “Last set.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”

You kick off your shoes first, nudging them aside with your foot. The rubber soles thud softly against the floor. Bare feet feel better. More control. You learned that from him. The bar rests heavily across your shoulders as you step under it, grip tightening, breath slowing.

And then San is behind you. Not touching yet. Just there.

You are suddenly acutely aware of everything. The heat of the room. The sheen of sweat on your skin. The way his chest rises behind you as he mirrors your stance, knees bent slightly, ready. The mirror in front of you reflects it all. Your focus. Your strain. Him, solid and steady at your back.

“Alright,” he murmurs near your ear. “Deep breath. I’ve got you.”

You squat slowly. Controlled. Your hamstrings and glutes burn immediately, muscles protesting as you sink deep. San follows your movement instinctively, his body lowering with yours, close enough that you can feel him without being touched.

“Good,” he encourages softly. “Stay with it.”

You push up with a strained exhale, core tight, jaw clenched. The bar moves, slowly, heavily. But it moves.

Again.

Your legs shake this time, breath turning ragged. You catch your own expression in the mirror. Determination stares back.

“Come on,” San urges, voice firmer now, breath warm against your neck. “You’re strong. Push.”

You drop into the last rep, muscles screaming, lungs on fire. For a split second, you think you might fail, then you hear him.

“Up. Up. You’re right there. Don’t quit on yourself now.”

You grunt, every muscle firing, and rise.

The bar clears. You lock out. Hands shaking, you re-rack the weight with a shaky clank and stagger forward, breathing hard, a soft, involuntary whimper slipping out as the tension finally releases.

Before you can process it, San is cheering.

“Oh my god!” he shouts, bouncing on his toes like a kid. “You did it!”

He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around you, energy vibrating off him. You freeze for half a second.

“Wait,” you laugh breathlessly, hands hovering awkwardly. “I’m sweaty.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes bright. “That was insane. That was clean.”

His excitement is contagious. You feel it bloom in your chest, pride rushing in where doubt used to live.

“I can’t believe I did that,” you say, still panting.

“You did that shit,” he insists.

And then you’re both laughing, jumping up and down, celebrating like idiots in the empty gym. Your heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the weight anymore.

You find San again at the treadmills, both of you drifting back to the same place. Your legs are tired in that deep, satisfying way, muscles humming instead of screaming.

You step onto the treadmill beside him and set it to a slow walk—cooldown pace. Breathing evening out, sweat cooling against your skin.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then you glance sideways. “Hey, thanks again for spotting me earlier.”

San waves it off like it’s nothing, eyes forward. “You did all the work. I just existed behind you.”

“You existed very helpfully,” you counter.

He laughs, shaking his head. “That was your strength. All you.”

You smile at the console, chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.

A minute passes. Your steps fall into rhythm again.

“So,” you say casually, maybe a little too casually. “How are your other clients doing?”

He hums, considering. “Good, mostly. Progress all around.”

“All girls?” you tease.

He snorts. “Obviously.”

You laugh. “Of course.”

Then he hesitates. It’s subtle, barely there, but you’ve learned him well enough to catch it. There is a slight pause before he speaks again. The way his jaw tightens just a fraction.

“I actually had to cancel a program recently,” he says finally.

You glance over, surprised. “Why?”

He exhales. “One of them kept asking me out, wouldn’t let it go. Made things uncomfortable.”

Your steps falter just a bit. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he adds quietly. “Just wanted to help her. Sucks.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice, just tired honesty.

You feel something twist in your chest. Sympathy, anger on his behalf, because you remember that first week. How careful, intentional, and genuinely kind he was.

Like that day a few months back, when you were cooling down after your session, and he’d drifted away briefly. You’d watched him approach a teenage girl on the stair master. Plus size. Nervous. Clutching the rails and pushing herself despite her anxiety screaming at her to leave.

You remembered his smile then. Big and encouraging.

“Hey,” he’d said to her, holding out a water bottle. “Hydration check.”

She’d taken it, cheeks burning red as he playfully scolded her. “I don’t wanna see you in here without water again, okay?”

She’d nodded furiously, glowing under the attention, and you’d felt something settle in your chest watching it.

San had never been just his body. Or his face. Or the way people looked at him like he was a prize to win. He was this.

You reach the end of your cooldown and hit stop. Without thinking too hard, you reach across and stop his treadmill too.

“Hey,” he says, confused. “I wasn’t—”

You don’t answer. You step off your machine, cross the small gap between you, and climb onto his treadmill. He barely has time to react before you wrap your arms around him.

He stiffens for half a second. Then he hugs you back tightly. Like he needed it more than he realized.

Your cheek presses against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. “I see you,” you murmur. “All of you.”

His arms tighten just a little more, breath leaving him in a slow exhale. For a moment, the empty gym fades away entirely. The hug lingers with him long after you let go.

San stands there for a second longer than necessary, arms slowly dropping back to his sides, chest warm where you pressed against him. Your words echo loudly.

I see you.

It lands deeper than any compliment ever has.

He’s felt attraction before; he’s not naïve. He knows what it’s like to be wanted for his body, for his face, for the idea people build in their heads the moment they look at him. That part of life has always been loud.

This is different.

He knew it early. Earlier than he probably should’ve admitted to himself. That first week, when you stood at the front desk looking like you might bolt at any second, eyes darting around, shoulders tight, pretending you didn’t need help while absolutely needing it. He remembers thinking, immediately, dangerously: God, she’s beautiful.

Not in a trying-too-hard way. In a soft, real, devastating way. Curvy, pretty face, expressive eyes, a laugh that snuck up on him. A combination that would’ve undone him even if you’d never lifted a single weight. He would’ve taken you exactly as you were.

But he respected you too much not to respect your goals.

And then you started changing, not just physically. You stood taller, looked at yourself differently, and wore less of your old defenses. Confidence grew slowly, almost without you noticing, and that’s when it really felt unfair.

Beautiful. Curvy. Confident. Triple kill.

And yes. That ass.

He’s not blind. He’s not a saint. He noticed the difference the lifting made. The way your body responded to routine. Rounder. Firm in a way that made him have to actively remind himself to look away.

Professional. Be professional.

San knows who he is. He knows he’s handsome. He knows his smile disarms people, knows his body turns heads. He’s never pretended otherwise. But whenever someone compliments his face, he always laughs and says it’s his mom’s doing. That part isn’t his.

His body, though? That’s his work. Years of discipline. Of consistency. And still, none of it compares to how he feels when you smile at him like you trust him.

He’s trained plenty of women. He knows why most of his clients are female. He’s dealt with the awkwardness, the crushes, the crossed lines. He never wanted them.

You’re different. Not because you’re prettier, but you are. Not because you’re kinder, but you are. It’s the way you see him. The way you notice the things no one else does. The way you hug him without wanting anything in return.

He wants to treat you so well it scares him.

He wants to buy you things just because you mentioned them once. Take you places you’ve never been. Hold your hand absentmindedly while you talk. Kiss you slowly like he has nowhere else to be. Wrap you up in his arms and make the world smaller around you.

He even thinks, fleetingly, irrationally, about your ex. About finding him. About explaining, very calmly, what happens when you fail to cherish something soft and rare.

San exhales, shaking his head at himself. Down bad doesn’t even begin to cover it. In his head, quietly, carefully, he already calls you his.

When you finally pull away, the absence hits him immediately.

His cheeks are warm. Too warm. He’s painfully aware of it, the heat blooming under his skin, the way his ears probably match.

You notice. Your eyes flick up to his face for just a second longer than usual. He sees the recognition spark there. The pause. The choice you make not to say anything.

God. That might undo him more than the hug itself.

He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself into something that looks normal. “Uh,” he says lightly, gesturing vaguely. “Cooldown accomplished.”

You laugh, mercifully playing along. “Barely survived.”

“That’s a win,” he grins, relief loosening his chest. “Still alive.”

You both move around each other easily now, picking up water bottles and phones, tossing towels into bins. The tension doesn’t go away, but it becomes something softer and more familiar. It’s comfortable, like you’ve crossed a line but aren’t ready to talk about it yet.

He cracks a joke about your playlist-stealing privileges next time. You fire back that his taste in music is elite, and the gym doesn’t deserve it.

At the front desk, Yeosang is leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone. San lifts a hand automatically.

“Later,” he calls.

Yeosang looks up, smirks, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Later,” he replies, tone knowing in a way that makes San suddenly very interested in the exit.

The cold evening air hits as you step outside, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. San exhales, shoulders relaxing as the gym doors close behind you.

This is usually where it ends. A wave. A casual “text me when you get home.” A routine goodbye. You turn toward him, stepping closer, arms already lifting.

San’s heart stumbles.

He opens his mouth before he can overthink it. “Hey—”

You pause, looking up at him.

His brain scrambles. 

Say it. 

No, don’t say it. 

He rubs the back of his neck. “Do you,” he starts, then stops, breath hitching, then tries again. “Do you want to maybe have dinner later? At my place?”

The words hang there, fragile.

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Oh,” you say, surprised. Then you smile, softer. “Yeah. Sure.” Friendly dinner, you assume.

“Really?” he asks, grin breaking through before he can stop it.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His face fully brightens, boyish and unguarded. “Cool. Cool. I’ll text you.”

You hug him then, quick and easy this time, and wave goodbye as you head to your car.

San stands there for a second longer after you leave.

Dinner. At his house.

Oh shit. 

Dinner at his house.

He sprints to his car, realizing he needs to start cooking.

The drive over feels longer than it actually is.

Your hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary as you pull into his apartment complex, headlights washing over neat rows of parked cars. You’re dressed casually but intentionally. Jeans that fit just right, a nice top that you stood in front of the mirror debating for far too long. Comfortable enough to feel like yourself. Pretty enough.

Your stomach flips.

Why was he nervous earlier?

That question circles your head as you park and cut the engine. San doesn’t get nervous. San is composed. The kind of man who knows exactly where he stands in a room. And yet earlier, he’d stumbled.

And now you’re here at his place.

You know, with absolute certainty, that he doesn’t do this with clients. Or former clients. You’ve seen the lines he draws. How careful he is. That’s part of why this feels so significant, so loaded with meaning it makes your chest buzz.

You take a breath, step out of the car, and walk up to his door.

Knock. Knock.

The seconds stretch just long enough for doubt to creep in.

Then the door opens.

San stands there like he hasn’t seen you in months instead of a few hours. Big smile and crinkled eyes. Hair slightly tousled, like he’s run a hand through it one too many times. He looks comfortable in his slightly baggy jeans and T-shirt.

“Hey,” he says, bright and genuine.

Your heart trips. “Hi.”

He steps aside immediately. “Come in.”

His apartment is warm, clean, and lived in. Something savory and delicious fills the air, making your stomach ache in a good way. Shoes sit by the door, and a jacket is tossed over a chair.

He gives you a little tour, pointing things out with easy enthusiasm. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Then the spare room.

“And this,” he says, opening the door with a sheepish grin, “is where I keep my problem.”

You step inside and stop short.

Plushies. A collection of them: big ones, small ones, and everything in between. Carefully arranged on the shelves.

Your hand flies to your mouth. “Oh my god.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t judge me.”

“Judge you?” you gasp. “San, this is the greenest flag I’ve ever seen.”

His ears turn pink. “I win them at festivals,” he admits. “And I can’t throw them away.”

You stare at him, heart swelling. Big gym bro, killer body, and a plush collection.

I want to marry him, you think while looking at each one.

He guides you toward the kitchen before your brain can spiral further. The counters are occupied. That’s when it hits you. Dinner. You’re here for dinner. Not to mentally plan a future with this man. Not to imagine him folded into your life. Not to fall in love.

Too late, whispers something traitorous in your chest.

You clear your throat and look down at the food.

San glances at you, amused. “You okay?”

You nod quickly, cheeks warm. “Yeah. I just—wow.”

He smiles, pleased. “Sit. I’ll grab bowls.”

As he turns away, you watch him for a second longer than necessary before sitting at the table, heart loud, thoughts tangled.

You came here for dinner.

But standing in his kitchen, surrounded by warmth and care and something that feels dangerously close to affection, you’re not sure you’re leaving with just that.

He sets the bowls down carefully, and steam curls upward immediately, carrying the deep, rich scent of kimchi jjigae through the kitchen. It’s warm and spicy and comforting all at once, the kind of smell that settles into your bones before you even take a bite. The pot sits between you, still gently bubbling, red broth catching the light.

“Kimchi jjigae,” he says, almost shyly. “It’s kind of my thing.”

Your eyes light up. “You made this?”

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly feels exposed. “Yeah. I make it a lot. For my family. Friends. Me.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “I’m a Namhae boy. We take our food seriously.”

You grin. “I’ve heard.”

“Oh, Namhae is the best county in South Korea,” he says immediately, pride blooming in his voice without a trace of arrogance. “Best food. Best people. Best views. No competition.”

There’s something about the way he says it—so certain and full of love. Everything he talks about feels cherished, not boastful. You realize how much he appreciates his roots, his family, his job, his home, and the life he’s built here. He never takes anything for granted.

You lift your spoon and take a bite, and nearly die.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, eyes widening. The flavor is insane. Spicy but balanced. Rich without being heavy. Comfort in liquid form. You hum involuntarily and take another spoonful immediately, not even trying to hide it.

San watches with bated breath. “Is it good?” he asks, voice hopeful, eyes searching your face.

You nod vigorously, mouth still full. “San, this is so good.”

He laughs, cheeks flushing, ducking his head like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the praise. “Really?”

“Yes. I might cry.”

That does it. His smile spreads slowly and bright, dimples cutting deep, happiness written all over his face. He eats too, more relaxed now, watching you enjoy it like that’s the best compliment he could’ve received.

Conversation flows easily after that. Stories about each other’s childhoods and work. Laughing over small things, teasing each other gently. The kind of talk that doesn’t need effort, just presence.

When the bowls are empty, you stand instinctively. “I’ll wash the dishes.”

He shakes his head immediately. “Nope.”

“I insist.”

He reaches out, catching your wrist lightly. “I’ll do them later.”

And before you can protest again, he tugs you gently toward the couch, presses the remote into your hand, and says, “Find something good.”

You blink. “You’re not…?”

“Wine,” he says over his shoulder, already heading back toward the kitchen. “Give me a second.”

Okay. Wow. This is not at all what you expected.

You sink into the couch, heart racing, the remote warm in your hand, and realize you’re smiling without even thinking about it.

You scroll through the options longer than necessary, thumb hovering as trailers auto-play silently in the background. Your instinct pulls you straight toward horror. It always does. Something about the tension, the adrenaline, the way it makes your heart race.

But then you remember him.

The way he’d laughed once, almost embarrassed, admitting he scares easily. How he said it, like a confession, as if he expected to be judged for it. You’d found it endearing then. Still do now.

So you settle on an action movie instead. Explosions. Fast cars. Something loud enough to be exciting but not enough to send him hiding behind a pillow.

You’re just settling back when you hear footsteps.

San reappears from the kitchen with two wine glasses balanced carefully in his hands and the bottle tucked under his arm. He looks relaxed. Soft around the edges in a way that makes your chest ache. His smile is bright, easy, pure golden retriever energy as he hands you a glass.

“Here,” he says. “Tell me if it’s too dry.”

He glances at the screen just as the opening credits roll, and his brows knit together in confusion.

“…That’s not horror.”

You freeze for half a second. “Oh. I just—” you shrug, suddenly shy. “You said you get scared easily. I didn’t want to freak you out.”

He stares at you. Then his lips pout. Actually pout.

“I wanted to get scared,” he says. “I wanted you to hold me during the scary parts.”

“I—what?”

Your face burns instantly as you scramble for the remote, suddenly very invested in finding literally any horror movie. “I mean, if you want—I can change it—I just thought—”

He laughs, loud and warm, eyes crinkling so deeply it makes your stomach flip. “I’m kidding,” he says gently, dropping down onto the couch beside you.

Not touching, but close. So close you can feel the heat of him through the fabric of your clothes. His thigh just barely brushes yours when he shifts. He pours the wine carefully, handing you your glass before setting his down.

You put a scary movie on anyway.

You giggle suddenly, nerves bubbling over, and stand up. “Wait.”

He watches you with curiosity as you cross the room and flick the lights off. The apartment dims instantly, shadows stretching, the TV glow suddenly brighter.

When you sit back down, San makes a small, very real whining sound.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs.

But he scoots closer anyway. His arm brushes yours now. You pretend not to notice how your heart starts racing again, how the couch suddenly feels smaller, how the space between you disappears inch by inch.

The movie starts in earnest. Music swelling low and ominous. San leans in just a little more.

You thought he was exaggerating, you really did.

At first, you think the way San edges closer and his arm brushes yours again and again is on purpose. Maybe he’s flirting, using fear as an excuse to get closer. You tell yourself he knows exactly how charming he is.

Then the first real jump scare hits.

A shrill sound cuts through the room, and San yelps. He jerks so hard his knee knocks into yours, and he nearly launches himself off the couch.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, startled more by him than the movie.

He grabs the blanket in a panic, yanking it up and throwing it over both of you like it might save his life. His heart is pounding. You can feel it. Fast and frantic against your arm.

“You’re kidding,” you whisper, half-stunned.

Another tense moment builds on screen. You brace yourself, but San does not. He screams again, higher this time, and clutches your sleeve like you’re a lifeline. His whole body jumps, shoulders up near his ears, eyes squeezed shut as he peeks over the blanket like a terrified child.

You try, you really try. But when he jumps so hard he nearly slips off the couch, a small snort escapes you.

Silence.

Slowly, he turns to look at you, eyebrows creased, lips pushed into the softest pout you’ve ever seen. He looks embarrassed and slightly betrayed.

“That wasn’t funny,” he whines.

You cover your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you laugh quietly. “I just—I didn’t think you meant it like this.”

He huffs, then reaches for you with zero hesitation, grabbing your arm and throwing it over his broad shoulders. He shifts closer, tucking himself against your side, big body pressing into you for comfort.

“Hold me,” he mutters. “It’s scary.”

Your heart absolutely loses its mind.

You should feel bad. He’s genuinely frightened. He’s clinging to you for safety, not seduction. But you don’t hate it. Not when his head dips closer. Not when his arm wraps securely around your waist. Not when the warmth of him sinks into you like he’s made to fit there.

The wine bottle on the coffee table is nearly empty now. He’s clearly more relaxed because of it, movements looser, voice softer, fear less filtered. He reacts dramatically to every sudden noise, burrowing closer each time, hiding his face against your shoulder before peeking again.

“I hate this movie,” he mumbles, voice muffled.

“You wanted scary,” you tease gently.

“Hmph.”

You laugh quietly, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt without thinking, steadying him when the tension spikes again. He sighs contentedly at the contact, melting into you completely.

Still not complaining, you think. Not even a little.

A little while later, he gets up to use the bathroom.

The door clicks shut behind him, and a minute later, you hear the sink run briefly. You stretch your legs, adjusting the blanket over yourself, your eyes flicking to the faintly glowing screen paused in the dark.

Then suddenly—

Footsteps. Fast ones.

San sprints down the hallway like he’s being chased, socked feet slapping against the floor before he all but launches himself back onto the couch beside you. He lands hard, breathless, blanket flying as he scrambles to tuck himself against your side.

“What happened?” you laugh, startled.

He clutches his chest dramatically. “I forgot the lights were off,” he says, voice a little too loud, a little too breathy. “I stepped out, and it was just darkness.”

You laugh harder now. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I hate it,” he mutters, already reaching for the blanket and pulling it back up like armor.

An hour later, the next part of the series auto-plays before either of you can stop it. The opening music hums low and ominous, and San stiffens immediately.

“I can change it,” you offer, thumb hovering over the remote. “We can watch something else.”

He shakes his head quickly, then pauses, correcting himself slower, more deliberately. “No. It’s fine.”

You glance at him. His eyes are glued to the screen, jaw set like he’s psyching himself up for battle.

“I can be brave,” he adds, quieter. “Besides…” He trails off, cheeks faintly pink, and shifts closer. His thigh presses fully against yours now. His arm sneaks around your waist again. The wine has definitely loosened him and made him softer, less guarded. He’s clingy now, unapologetically so, warmth radiating from him as he leans into you.

You don’t move away. If anything, you tug him closer, your fingers brushing his arm, your body accommodating his without thought. Earlier, during the second half of the first movie, you’d laughed at one of his over-the-top reactions and absentmindedly threaded your fingers through his hair to calm him.

He hasn’t forgotten.

He shifts again, this time fully curling into your side, knees tucked slightly, broad shoulders fitting surprisingly well beneath your arm. He pulls the blanket up to his chin, peeking over it at the screen, then reaches up and gently places your hand on his head.

No words. Just a quiet request.

Your heart stutters.

You hesitate for half a second before your fingers move, sinking into his hair again. It’s soft. Warm. He sighs immediately, melting into the touch like he’s been waiting for it, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before snapping back to the movie.

There’s a jump scare. He flinches, but this time, instead of yelping, he presses his face into your shoulder, his fingers gripping your shirt, while you run your hand through his hair again, soothing, grounding.

“See?” you whisper, teasing gently. “So brave.”

He hums against you, not arguing, not pulling away. The screen flickers with shadows and sound, but his focus is elsewhere now. On your hand. Your warmth.

A sudden crack, sharp and close enough that both of you jolt at the same time. You gasp, San yelps, and for a split second you’re both frozen, hearts racing, staring at each other like you’re in the movie.

Then another boom rolls through the air, deeper this time, followed by a cascade of pops and whistles.

Fireworks.

“Oh,” you breathe, realization blooming. You glance at your phone. “It’s midnight.”

San blinks, then laughs softly, almost incredulous.

You pause the movie without thinking, and the room falls quiet again, except for the distant noise outside. Together, you stand, movements a little clumsy from sitting so long, from wine, from nerves. He reaches for the blanket automatically, draping it around his shoulders before tugging you closer and wrapping it around both of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s watch.”

The balcony door slides open, cool night air rushing in, crisp and sharp against your skin. You shiver instinctively, and San tightens the blanket, his arm coming around your shoulders, anchoring you against his side. The city stretches out before you, lights glowing, and above it all, the sky erupts in color.

Red blooms first. Then gold. Then brilliant whites that crackle and fade, one after another, reflected in windows and glass and eyes.

You tilt your head back, watching in quiet awe.

San does too, at first. Then his attention drifts.

He looks down at you without realizing it, the fireworks lighting your face in shifting colors. Gold flashes in your eyes. Soft light catches the curve of your cheek, the shape of your mouth as you smile at the sky. His chest tightens.

He doesn’t remember deciding to stop watching the fireworks. Only that suddenly, they’re secondary—background noise. Beautiful, yes, but nothing compared to you standing there, so close he can feel your breath.

You sense it and turn. Your gaze meets his right eye first, then his left. You swallow, eyes flicking down almost without permission, tracing the line of his nose, lingering on his lips. Full, soft, and oh so close.

When you look back up, he’s already watching you. He doesn’t look away.

The world seems to slow, fireworks still bursting behind you, light and sound framing the moment as if it were planned.

San leans down slowly, giving you time. Space to pull back. To say no.

You don’t.

His lips meet yours gently, carefully. The kiss is warm, unhurried, full of everything that’s been building for months. His hand tightens slightly at your waist, holding you there like he’s been waiting for this moment all along.

Fireworks explode overhead, but you barely notice.

This is the only thing that matters.

When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours in the cold air.

“Happy New Year,” he whispers.

You don’t hesitate. Not for a second.

The moment he pulls back to speak, you’re already leaning in again, fingers tightening at the back of his neck, drawing him back to you like it’s instinct rather than choice. He lets out a soft, surprised laugh that barely exists before your lips meet again.

The fireworks crack overhead, loud and brilliant, but they fade into background noise as San steps back until the cool metal of the balcony rail presses against your back. He cages you there without pinning you, hands firm at your waist, thumbs brushing over the curve of your hips like he’s grounding himself.

He tilts his head just right, careful, practiced, so your noses brush instead of bumping. The kiss deepens naturally, unforced, and you realize with a quiet jolt that he’s very good at this.

Insanely good.

You feel every subtle shift of his mouth, the way he draws you in and then eases back just enough to make you chase him. His lips are warm, soft, and persistent. When his tongue brushes yours, it’s unhurried, exploratory, like he’s memorizing you rather than taking.

You’ve kissed plenty of times before. But this is different.

You’re suddenly aware of things you’ve never paid attention to before him. The way he breathes through his nose when he kisses you. The quiet sound he makes in his throat when you respond the way he likes. The gentle tug of his teeth, more promise than pressure, followed by a soothing sweep of his lips like an apology and a praise all at once.

His hands tighten reflexively, then soften, grip turning into slow caresses over and over again, like he can’t decide whether to hold you still or pull you closer. He chooses both, pressing his body into yours, solid and warm, making you feel small in the best way.

Your arms loop fully around his neck now, fingers sliding into his hair, and he exhales against your mouth.

He doesn’t push you or insinuate anything, but you can feel the pressure building between your legs. You want him. And by the feel of the hardness pressing against your stomach, he wants you too. That alone makes you blush and press into him.

You lean back, breaking the kiss. You’re both breathing heavily, and before San can lean back in to kiss your lips, you press a kiss to his neck, before pausing not to see, but rather feel his reaction.

His head falls back instantly, exposing more of his neck as if inviting further exploration. A soft moan escapes him—completely unintentional but very telling—and his hands grip your hips tighter. The action presses him more firmly against you, leaving no doubt about his arousal.

His pulse point throbs against your lips, matching the rhythm of his heavy breathing. San's body is reactive, honest almost to a fault when it comes to physical touch. And right now, his body is screaming for more. For you.

You take that as a sign to continue, pressing your lips harder against his neck, sucking softly, leaving a mark.

A sharp intake of breath is followed by a low groan that rumbles deep in his chest. His fingers dig into your hips almost painfully as he holds onto you for dear life. He moans your name softly, wantonly.

When you lean back to look up at him, his eyes are closed, his fingers digging into your hips. Not to cause pain, but to steady him. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask him, cupping his cheek. You don’t realize he’s trying to show restraint, trying to respect you even though he would love to pick you up and take you to bed. To show you what you do to him.

His eyes flutter open slowly, dark brown irises almost black with desire. San swallows hard, his throat working against your palm. "Nothing's wrong," he whispers hoarsely. But the way his jaw clenches and unclenches gives him away. He's trying so hard to be good when all he wants is to be bad with you.

His self-control is hanging by a thread. One wrong move and he might snap.

"Just... trying to behave," he adds, his voice low and strained.

Ah. There it is. Choi San, the man you are.

You brush your thumb along his bottom lip. “I want you,” you whisper up at him, your other hand trailing up his firm, clothed chest.

His breath catches audibly. San's composure cracks—just a little. His eyes flutter shut again, lashes fanning against his cheeks, and you feel his entire body tense as if savoring the permission.

When he opens his eyes again, they're not soft anymore.

"Say that again," he growls quietly, voice dropping two octaves.

“I want you,” you repeat louder. “Take me to bed.”

Without a word, he bends down and scoops you up in his arms. You gasp, surprised, and instinctively wrap your arms around his neck for support. He holds you close, one arm banded around your waist, the other supporting your thigh. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he strides purposefully towards his bedroom.

The room smells like him—clean linen and the faint spice of his cologne. He closes the door, and the noise of the world falls away. He turns to you, and his expression isn’t hungry, not yet. It’s reverent.

“Months,” he said, his voice a low hum in the quiet. “Wanted you for months now. Let me see you. All of you.”

Your heart hammers, but the familiar, gnawing whispers of insecurity are quiet. He’d dismantled them brick by brick, session by session. So you nod.

He undresses you with a slow, unhurried focus, his knuckles grazing your skin not with lingering intent, but with a steady purpose. Cool air meets your shoulders, your back, your stomach. You stand before him, utterly bare, and his eyes don’t just look. They drink you in.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your throat tightens.

He lifts his hand, brushing his knuckles lightly along your arm. “I thought that the first day you walked into the gym.”

You blink. “You did?”

He nods, eyes never leaving you. “Yeah. I wanted you then. Just like that. Nervous. Soft. Real.”

Your chest aches.

“I would’ve had you exactly as you were,” he continues gently. “But I loved watching you grow, watching you get happier. More confident. That smile you wear now?” He smiles back at you. “That’s everything.”

You swallow, emotions rising fast and sharp. “Even now?”

He steps fully into your space, then rests his forehead against yours. “Always,” he murmurs. “You’re gorgeous to me. At any size. In every version of you.”

His hands finally come up, framing your sides, grounding you there like he’s making a promise instead of a move.

Then he sheds his own clothes, and your breath simply stops.

The faint light from the window paints him in silver and shadow. Tight, defined abs that shift as he moves. Firm pecs that beg for your touch. Biceps that bunch and relax, bulging with latent strength. His shoulders are broad, his back a sculpted landscape of muscle that tapers down to narrow hips. Muscular thighs, a perfect ass. And his traps, rising from his shoulders like the foundations of a statue. He’s a work of art, carved from living marble.

And then his cock. Thick, heavy, already hard, and curving up against his stomach. Pretty wasn’t the right word. It was formidable. Majestic. A promise of ruin.

You reach out, your fingers trembling only a little, and wrap your hand around him. The heat of his skin is a shock. The velvet-over-steel texture makes your mouth water. A low, needy sound vibrating in his chest.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his head tilting back. “Just like that. Feels so good, baby.”

You sink to your knees, the carpet soft beneath you. You take him into your mouth, and his reaction is immediate, vocal. A sharp intake of air. A broken, “Yes.” His hands come to cradle your head, not pushing, just holding. You work him, your tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside, swirling over the slick, smooth head. Every time you hollow your cheeks and take him deep, a guttural groan tears from him.

“Your mouth…fuck, your mouth is perfect. So warm. So soft. Don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”

You don’t. You suck him with a dedication that feels like worship, and he gives you his sounds, his praises, his complete vulnerability. You feel powerful. You feel adored.

When he pulls you up, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “My turn,” he growls, and the softness is gone, replaced by a gentle but firm command.

The switch had been flipped.

He lays you back on the bed, your head sinking into the pillows. He kneels between your thighs, and for a moment, he just looks, the distant fireworks painting his face in fleeting color. Then he bends his head.

His mouth on you isn’t a quick feast. His tongue is soft, tender, licking slow, broad stripes that made your back bow off the mattress. Then it changes—firm, pointed flicks against your clit that has you gasping. He sucks gently, then nibbles with a careful scrape of his teeth that sends electric jolts straight to your core.

He’s making out with you there, his lips and tongue moving with the same tender, then passionate rhythm of a deep kiss. He moans into you, the vibration traveling through your entire body. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you, angling you so he can go deeper, his tongue fucking into you in soft, relentless thrusts.

“Taste so good,” he mutters, his voice muffled against you. “Gonna make you come on my face. Wanna feel you shake.”

And you do. The orgasm builds not like a wave, but like a firework—a tight, coiling tension in your belly that he stokes and stokes with his tongue, his lips, his soft sucks—until it bursts. Your vision whites out. A silent scream catches in your throat as you clench around nothing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He holds you through it, drinking every last pulse, every last shudder.

Before you can even come down, he’s moving up your body, his weight settling over you. The head of his cock pressing against your entrance, hot and insistent.

“This,” he says, pushing forward just an inch. A burning, perfect stretch. “This is going to ruin you for everyone else. Just me.”

And then he sinks in.

Oh.

The fullness is absolute. It steals the air from your lungs. He’s thick, long, stretching you in places you didn’t know could be stretched. He doesn’t move at first, just lets you feel him, lets your body adjust to the invasion. Then he begins to move.

Slow, at first. Withdrawing almost completely, then sliding back in with a deep, rolling grind of his hips. Each stroke is a masterclass in sensation. He angles his hips, and the thick head of his cock drags over a spot deep inside that makes you see stars. He changes his pace—short, hard thrusts that make your tits shake and makes wet smacking noises echo in the room. Then long, slow, deep pumps that feel like he’s reaching your soul.

He fucks you with a focused, possessive rhythm. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip, his fingers pressing into your flesh. His eyes never leave yours.

“You take me so fucking well,” he pants, his breath hot on your lips. “So perfect. Made for me. All for me.”

The fireworks continue outside, a silent, brilliant accompaniment to the ones he’s setting off inside you. Every nerve ending is alight. The world narrows down to the joining of your bodies, the slick sounds of friction, the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of him on your tongue from earlier.

He’s a gentleman and makes sure you come again, his thumb finding your clit and circling with perfect, dirty pressure as he pistons into you. The second climax is sharper, brighter, a supernova that ripples through you, making you clamp down on him with a violent, rhythmic squeeze. He groans, a sound of pure pleasure and strain.

“Fuck, yes…squeezing my cock just like that…I can’t…I’m gonna…”

His thrusts became erratic, desperate. His beautiful body tightening above you, every muscle corded. He buries himself to the hilt, his pelvis grinding against yours, and lets go.

“Fuck! I—oh God—Y/N, baby—” he grunts out, hips stilling.

A hot, wet flood erupts inside you. It isn’t a trickle; it’s a claiming. Pulse after pulse of his release, filling you, marking you. It’s filthy. It’s wet. It’s messy.

And it’s beautiful, because it’s San, and he has a way of making everything feel special.

He collapses onto you, his weight a warm, comforting anchor, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breathing ragged against your skin, pressing slow, lazy kisses.

“Mine,” he whispers.

Outside, the final few fireworks pop and fizz.

BINNIEBB 2026 ™ PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK ♡

[hyucksos]

1 to 10 — kang younghyun

pairing: kang younghyun x f!reader genre: arranged marriage, (one-sided) enemies to lovers, fluff, angst, romance wc: 12.6k synopsis: marriage was never part of your plan— especially not to brian kang, a man as composed and unreadable as he is infuriating. used to calling the shots in your own life, you struggle to adapt to sharing a home, a name, and a future with someone the complete opposite of you. but as bickering turns into something dangerously close to understanding, you realise there’s one thing you hadn’t accounted for in this arrangement: falling for the husband you never wanted in the first place.

You should have known your parents had an agenda the day you were introduced to Kang Younghyun and his family.

You had brushed it off as just that; exchanging pleasantries at galas were second nature to you, and just like the countless other families you had been introduced to that evening, you knew that the Kangs would be nothing more than another name in a long, forgettable list.

Even when you were handed his card, the words Brian Kang, Vice-Chairman embossed on matte cardstock, you had thought nothing of it, the small, unassuming rectangle quickly making home in your purse where you would eventually forget about it for months.

And forget about it, you do, until tonight, almost a year after you first met Younghyun— or rather, Brian. You weren’t sure how to address him seeing as you never really had an actual reason to do so, so you settle for a tight-lipped smile as both his and your parents engage in conversation. You get a polite, dimpled one in return.

It is only when both of your families are settled in your seats, waiting for your first course to be served do you hear his voice for the first time that night. It’s the same as you last remember it— soft, gentle, and far too measured, as if every word is carefully curated to be agreeable.

And that’s when you remember why you hate Brian Kang.

Because no one is ever truly that nice— especially not people like you. The wealthy don’t do kindness without motive, and people only often act that way when they want something— your approval, a favour, or, God forbid, your hand in marriage.

And just as you take a sip of your wine, your mother clears her throat.

“It’s a wonder how Younghyun is stil single at his age, isn’t it?”

The comment is offhanded, but it still sends a wave of uneasiness down your spine. You know how your mother is— she’s the reason why you’re so wary of people like Brian to begin with. Because everything you assume about him? She’s already proven herself true.

Mr. Kang hums in agreement. “A man like him— steady, responsible. Any girl would be lucky to have him.”

The old man glances at you as he utters the last few words, and your grip tightens around your glass. Whatever it is that’s about to come next, you know you’re not going to like it.

“That’s why we’ve been thinking…” Now, it’s your father’s turn to speak. “It’s time you start considering a more suitable future for yourself. We’ve talked it over, and we believe Younghyun is the right match for you.”

A beat of silence passes by, as though everybody is waiting for you to react first. You even feel Brian’s steady gaze on you, and that’s when you realise— he knew. That asshole knew.

You don’t stop the chuckle that escapes your lips before it escalates into full-blown laughter, and if not for the tears in your eyes, you would’ve caught the awkward glances being exchanged across the table.

“Honey-“

“You-“ your voice comes off as hoarse. “You want me to marry him?”

“It’s a good match.” Your mother takes a bite of her steak, completely unfazed and completely dismissive of your slow descend into insanity.

“For who? For me? Or for your business connections?” You snap.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” your father cuts in, unimpressed.

You scoff, turning to him. “I’m dramatic? You’re literally selling me off in the middle of dinner and I’m dramatic?”

Your mother sighs, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. “Sweetheart, let’s be honest. You were never going to make a sensible choice on your own. We’re doing you a favour.”

Your stomach twists. You know what she’s hinting at. “Excuse me?”

“You’re wasting your time on a boy who barely has enough to pay for his own dinner, let alone yours. How do you expect us to trust your judgement?”

Of course. Of course, they’d bring up Wooshik. Your parents never took a liking to your boyfriend since you introduced him to them two years ago, and while that was an issue you’ve been putting off for a while now, always convincing yourself you’d cross that bridge when you got to it, you just never expected for it to catch up to you so soon.

Then again, you should have known. Your parents always play the long game.

You shake your head, your chair screeching against the marble tiles as you stand up. “You know what? I’m done.” You spare Brian a glare as you do so, the man infuriatingly calm as he watches the entire ordeal unfold ike he’s in a board meeting.

Oh, you hate him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Your father calls out to you, his voice sharp.

You don’t bother to reply as your storm out of the dining hall, hailing down the first cab you see the moment you exit the country club. There’s only one person you want to see right now, one person who could make sense of this insanity. The one person who, despite what your parents think, chose you for you.

You arrive at Wooshik’s apartment in twelve minutes, your knuckles rapping loudly on his door. In hindsight, you should have given him a call first, knowing that he’s probably already asleep at this time, but in your frazzled state it seems that all sense has left you completely.

The door finally swings open after what feels like forever, but you’re met with someone who isn’t your boyfriend.

“Yes?” The girl greets you with an unimpressed stare. For a moment, you think you’re at the wrong apartment, until your gaze flickers to the number plate above the doorbell. Not that you even needed to; you’ve been here probably a thousand times. There’s no way you’d mistake your own boyfriend’s place, no matter how distressed.

And for the second time that night, your heart drops to the pit of your stomach, only for it to shred itself into little pieces when Wooshik appears, shirtless, eyes widening when they land on you.

“Baby-“

“Who is this?” You ask lowly, shakily, because even despite everything, you still have an inkling of hope that maybe, this is all just a huge misunderstanding. There’s no way that Kim Wooshik, your boyfriend of four whole years, would cheat on you, right?

But he only stays silent, and that was all you needed to hear.

Your heart pounds in your ribs, each beat louder than the last, but Wooshik still says nothing. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t push past the girl in his doorway to get to you. He just… stands there.

And that’s when you realise— he’s not speechless because he’s guilty. He’s speechless because he doesn’t care.

“Oh, wow,” the girl hums, arms crossing over her chest as her eyes twinkles in amusement. “Took you this long to figure it out, huh?”

You turn to her slowly, fists clenched at your sides. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, c’mon,” she pauses to laugh, gesturing lazily to your boyfriend— if you could even call him that. “Look at him! What other reason could there be for someone like him to go for someone like you?” 

When you don’t answer, she raises her hands, rubbing her middle finger against her thumb. As though you needed a reminder— tonight, of all nights— the only thing people truly cared about.

Money.

And it was a good thing you had loads of those too, because being broke sure as hell wouldn’t be able to get you out of what you did next.

You punched her.

You don’t register it until it happens, the loud crack that echoes in the hallway— your knuckles, her nose, you’re not entirely sure which. One thing for sure, you’re seeing red.

She stumbles back with a shriek, but you’re already turning to Wooshik.

“You bastard.”

Your fist collides with his jaw before he could even stammer out an excuse, and his back hits the door behind him upon impact.

“Are you insane?!” He yells, cupping his bruising cheek as he pants.

Maybe. But right now, you don’t care. Even when you feel the stinging of your scalp as the girl fists your hair and yanks you backwards, you recover fast, and you think it’s the pent-up rage from before that spurs you to continue, disregarding your broken nails as you claw blindly and ignoring the contents of your clutch spilling onto the floor as you use it as a makeshift weapon.

“Stop! Stop it- people are looking!“ Wooshik hisses as he grabs you from behind, pulling you away from his mistress. You yank yourself free, whipping your neck to look at him.

“Oh, now you want to care what people think?” You laugh sharply, ignoring the curious eyes of his neighbours as they watch through the cracks of their half-open doors.

Before he could reply, you’re interrupted by the sound of sirens.

Loud. Distinct. And definitely getting closer.

And as the red and blue lights spill through the corridors, it finally registers.

You’re screwed.

The police station is desolate at this time of night, and if it weren’t for the position you were in, you could even say that it’s peaceful.

You’re seated across an officer— Officer Jung, as the placard on his table suggests— who’s flipping through his notes.

“So, wanna tell us what happened?”

You don’t answer, exhaling sharply through your nose— this wasn’t how you imagined your night to end.

“Seeing as there are no serious injuries, we could let you off with a warning and fine. But, if Mr. Kim and Ms. Shin decide to press charges, well, you might have to deal with a court date at a later time. If you tell us what happened, we could help you— make things easier, at least.”

You scoff humourlessly as you keep your gaze on your lap— your bloodied fingers fiddling with your clutch you miraculously still have with you. It’s bent out of shape and not even able to lock properly anymore, leaving you to notice that some of your items are probably still left on the floor outside Wooshik’s apartment.

And then, you notice it— a familiar sleek, black card, hidden away in a tiny pocket on the wall of your purse.

You haven’t used this bag in a while— it’s been almost a year, you believe, but you instantly know to whom that card belongs.

You look at Officer Jung. “I want to make a phone call.”

He looks taken aback at your sudden request, but quickly recovers. “You’ll get your phone call, but talking now could make things easier for you, if you’d just cooperate, Miss.”

You don’t reply, and the officer sighs.

“Fine. One call.”

He pushes the telephone on his table towards you, and you pick up the receiver while you take out the namecard with your other hand. The phone rings thrice before he picks up.

“Brian Kang speaking.”

“I need you to come pick me up.”

A pause.

“Where are you?”

“Gangnam Police Station.”

Thirty minutes later, you hear his voice again, this time in person. Brian is speaking to the officer at the front desk before he’s handed something to sign, and soon he’s directed to where you’re seated at the waiting area.

You turn away, suddenly feeling conscious of your appearance. You’re sure your mascara is smudged and your hair is a hot mess, and while you really couldn’t care less of what anybody thinks of you— much less Brian— you figure there’s only so much humiliation you could take in one night.

“Ready to go?”

You peer at him through your eyelashes, the man only looking back at you patiently like you’re not at a police station and he isn’t here to bail you out. Brian Kang, with his hair styled to perfection and his black tie still in a neat Windsor knot despite it being close to midnight. The only indication that he’s even been through a day is his blazer being unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but even then, he still manages to look presentable.

Oh, how infuriating. You hate him.

You don’t say anything, standing up and smoothing out your dress in the process. Not like it did much, whatsoever.

“Oh, wow. And who’s this?” A voice sounds from the other side of the room, and you turn to see that it’s Wooshik, a lazy smirk on his lips despite the bruise blooming on his jaw. “Guess I’m not the only one who’s been unfaithful, huh?”

Your blood boils. “You-“

You want to lunge towards him, but a firm grip around your wrist yanks you backwards, and you feel Brian’s chest against your back as he holds you firmly.

“No.” His voice is calm but absolute, his grip tightening when you struggle. “Not here.”

“Let me go,” you seethe, but Brian doesn’t budge.

“And what?” He answers smoothly, tilting his head towards the officers who are watching you intently. “Get yourself in more trouble?”

Wooshik snickers. “You hear that, babe? Keep proving to everyone what a slu-“

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Brian cuts in, his tone so sharp that Wooshik actually shuts up.

You take the opportunity to yank yourself free, and giving Wooshik one final glare, you march out of the station.

Brian is close behind you, as you could tell from the sound of his footsteps, and when you stop, he stands right beside you.

“Brian,” you utter without looking at him, keeping your gaze trained on the almost-empty parking lots in front of you. Your fist your hands tightly, unsure if the pain you feel is from your injuries or from the utter betrayal you’ve received from everyone tonight. “Let’s get married.”

He chuckles softly. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean.”

You clench your jaw as you turn to him, just in time for him to meet your gaze. There’s a twinkle of something in his eyes— mirth. Amusement. Almost as if he’s teasing you, and you hate that.

“You don’t think I’m serious?”

“I think you’re angry,” he corrects, now turning to face you fully. He places his hands in his pockets, casually, like you’re not on the brink of lashing out and him not on the receiving end. “And people say all sorts of things when they’re angry.”

You can’t help but to let out a humourless scoff at his tone. You’d think that he’d drop his fake-nice act now that it’s just the two of you, but if anything, it’s even more infuriating. Who the hell does he think he is, talking to you like you’re a child— like he’s trying to gentle parent you, at that? Even your own parents don’t do that!

“I don’t like you,” you say bluntly, earning a raised brow from Brian. “But right now, I think I hate my life even more. So, really— marrying you doesn’t even sound like the worst idea.”

Brian exhales a quiet laugh as he shakes his head. “You’re doing this out of spite.”

You jut your chin towards him. “Oh, what, so now you’re a mind reader?”

“No,” he quips as he lowers his head to meet your eye level, and his lips stretch out into a wide grin. “I just know you’d rather set yourself on fire than to admit defeat and let your parents say ‘I told you so’.”

You grit your teeth. “Go to hell.”

He chuckles. “Tempting, but I think I’ll stick around for a while.” Brian straightens up, finally giving you space to breathe as he adjusts his cuffs, acting like he’s having the most normal conversation in the world. “So, rings?”

You frown. “What?”

“For the wedding?” He adds, tilting his head. “Unless you’d rather wing it and let your mum pick them out?”

You roll your eyes wordlessly before shoving past him, the sound of his mocking laughter trailing behind you. You don’t even know where his car is, but you keep walking anyway, desperate to put some distance between you and that insufferable smirk.

Just what the hell did you get yourself into?

Your wedding with Brian was nothing short of excessive extravagance, as is the rock that now sits on your finger. As stunning as it is, a three-carat diamond ring with a pear cut and matching silver band that fits perfectly, it’s a reminder of your legal bind to the man, whom, even over the last couple of months, you found yourself to still despise.

It isn’t easy to live with someone like Brian when he’s the direct opposite of you. Precise, methodical, and annoyingly put-together— that’s him, and he’s everything you’re not. While you struggled to remember in which box you packed your toiletries prior to the move, he was already done with colour-coding his sock drawer. As you were cursing yourself for dropping one of your favourite scented candles, he was quick to appear beside you with a broom and dustpan, and by the time you were done being dramatic, there were no more glass shards for you to accidentally step on.

The only upside that came with your marriage was the fact that you’d never have to deal with your parents’ suffocating expectations again, even if it meant having to coexist with Brian and all his… Brian-ness.

There were no I-told-you-sos, (because you never bothered to disclose the ending of your relationship with your ex-boyfriend), no condescending lectures, just quiet, satisfied approval, because you had done exactly what they wanted— married a man they approved of, and moved into a life that was deemed respectable. In return, that got you out of a house you never really got to call home to begin with, and for a while, that was enough, until you realised that sharing a roof with Brian came with its own set of problems— like the way he insists on organising the kitchen cabinets like it’s a damn grocery aisle.

“That doesn’t go there.”

You glance over your shoulder to see Brian leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed as he watches you place a mug in the cabinet.

You arch a brow. “It’s a cabinet. For mugs. Where else should it go?”

He exhales before nodding to somewhere beside you. “Top shelf. Left side. Next to the tall glasses.”

You scoff, turning to face him fully with the mug still in your hand. “Seriously, Brian, do you hear yourself when you speak? It’s a cup. A cup. Who cares where it goes? Are you running a five-star restaurant in here? Are the housekeepers going to judge my mug placement skills? Does the fate of the world depend on whether or not my mug sits next to your stupid tall glasses-“

In the midst of your rant, you don’t even even notice him stepping forward, plucking the mug out of your hands before placing it exactly where he wants it without so much as a word.

“There. Problem solved.” He dusts off his hands before looking down at you. “Also, it’s Younghyun. I told you, Brian is for business. I’m your husband.”

“And our marriage is purely transactional. I’ll call you whatever I want,” you bite back.

“Hm, fair. Should I start calling you sweetheart, then?”

You know he’s trying to rile you up on purpose, and oh, boy, is it working.

You glower. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He merely smiles— that infuriating, knowing smile— and you know he’s noticed the way your cheeks burn in anger. But, being the asshole that he is, he chooses not to say anything.

And somehow, that only makes it worse.

“Sweetheart, could you pass me the salt?”

Your fingers stiffen around your utensils as you slowly turn to him with a glare, Brian not even looking at you as he continues to cut his steak, like nothing ever happened. Like that damn word didn’t just escape his lips; like he’s been saying it for years instead of just now, in front of both of your families.

He only looks up when he realises your silence, and even has the audacity to raise his brows as though to ask: what’s wrong?

You grit your teeth.

“Oh, I absolutely adore what you’ve done with the house! You know, with a space this big, there’s only one way to truly make it feel like home.” Brian’s grandmother beams from across the table.

You don’t like where this is going, but Brian, the ever-perfect grandson, humours her. “And what would that be, Grandma?”

Grandma Kang claps her hands, grinning in a way that reminds you of Brian when he’s teasing you. Now you know where he got it from.

“Filling it with little feet, of course! A house this grand shouldn’t be put to waste— imagine how wonderful it would be to hear children running through these halls.”

Even though you saw it coming, you still find yourself choking on your food as her words hit you before you could process it.

You grasp for your water, but before you could, Brian beats you to it as he slides his own glass towards you, his fingers brushing yours as he does so.

“Careful, darling,” he says, his hand coming up to pat your back. You barely get to register the warmth in both his touch and his voice before it leaves you completely, and he’s back to sipping on his wine by the time you turn to him.

Like nothing ever happened.

“We’re still young, Grandma.” Brian returns to the conversation with an easy smile. “What’s the rush?”

“Yes, but I’m not getting any younger, son,” Grandma Kang hums disapprovingly. “I do want to see at least one of my great-grandchildren before I die. You two haven’t even gone on a honeymoon yet! That won’t do— newlyweds should take time to celebrate.”

“Don’t say that,” Brian chides gently. “You’ll be around to spoil a whole football team’s worth of great-grandkids.”

You kick his shin from under the table, to which Brian doesn’t react— of course he doesn’t.

“I hope you don’t feel like I’m pressuring you, dear.” She turns to you. “It’s just that, I want to see the both of you happy and settled while I can.”

You settle with an awkward smile, though you’re sure it comes off as more of a grimace.

Out of everybody in this room, the old lady seems to be the only one who doesn’t make you feel like you’re under a microscope. She’s warm, affectionate, and genuinely delighted to have you in the family, which is why you can’t find it in you to tell her the truth— that you’re not in love with her grandson, and you don’t think you ever will be.

“But, speaking of honeymoons.” Brian swallows his food. “I do have a work trip coming up. Maybe we could make something out of it. What do you think, love?” He turns to you with a boyish grin, and you swear, if you hear another one of his stupid nicknames leave his mouth, you might just combust.

In anger, of course.

You frown. “A work trip is not a honeymoon.”

“It is if we say it is.” He shrugs, nonchalant. “Especially if it’s in the city of love.”

“Ooh, Paris!” This time, your mother gushes. With the way both Brian’s parents and yours have been quiet throughout the entire duration of dinner, you’d almost forgotten that they were there to begin with. Of course, your mother wouldn’t be your mother if she has to stay silent for very long, and the moment her sharp eyes meet yours, you know that the decision is already made for you.

You’re going to Paris.

You haven’t had a good sleep in days.

With the new project at work and your trip coming up, your schedule is packed, and with the endless emails and phone calls that don’t seem to stop, you’re not given the time to breathe, let alone rest.

It’s nearing midnight, and you find yourself still in the living room, the chandelier dimmed and your only source of light as it accompanies you while you finish up your report. You’ve been at it for hours, and your eyes are starting to blur from the screen, but you force yourself to push through.

You barely even hear the sound of footsteps until Brian stops next to the television, leaning against the wall as he watches you.

“You’re still working?” He asks, his tone quiet and laced with something you can’t really put a finger on. A part of you has a hunch, but you don’t want to acknowledge it.

“Yeah. I just gotta finish this before we leave. I’ll be fine,” you mutter distractedly, not even bothering to spare him a glance.

Brian doesn’t say anything as he continues to watch you, and you continue typing, hoping he gets the hint and leaves you alone.

“You need to take a break,” he finally says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“What I need is to finish this report, Brian.” You finally look up to give him a glare, and you’re surprised to see that for once, he’s being serious, devoid of the usual teasing shit-eating grin he always wears. Still, you don’t waver. “You’re not exactly helping by being here.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. You haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. You need a break,” he repeats, his tone more firm this time. Still, there’s no real anger in it, only concern, and that’s the one thing you’ve been trying not to acknowledge. Your chest starts to twist uncomfortably, unfamiliar with this side of him.

You roll your eyes wordlessly, knowing starting an argument with him would only take up your time, and that’s the one thing you don’t have enough of right now.

You hear Brian sigh before he steps towards you, gently taking the laptop off your lap before placing it on the coffee table in front of you.

“Seriously-“ you scoff before getting to your feet, heart thumping erratically as your frustration finally bubbles over. “What’s it to you? Why do you keep acting like I’m helpless?” You snap. “I can handle this! I don’t need you to tell me what to do every five minutes!”

Brian doesn’t flinch. “I’m not telling you what to do, I’m telling you what’s good for you. And what’s good for you right now is to take a damn break.” Despite the tick of his jaw, his voice is calm, too calm. “You’re not fine,” he continues, a quiet challenge in his voice. “And you don’t have to pretend with me.”

That is what makes you crack.

You don’t know what it is, maybe it’s the exhaustion, mixed with anger— hell, it’s probably all the emotions you’ve been suppressing since you got cheated on and then getting married the following month— because the next thing you know, you’re crying uncontrollably with no signs of stopping.

You drop to the sofa, burying your face in your hands as you sob, your shoulders trembling with the weight of it all. You don’t even want to look at Brian; the last thing you need is his sympathy.

“Just go,” you croak, voice muffled behind your hands. “I’m fine. I’m just tired, okay?”

Brian doesn’t say anything, and for a moment, you think he actually left, until you feel him kneel down in front of you, gently prying your hands off your face.

For some reason, you let him.

He brings his hands to your face, cupping your cheeks gently as he wipes your tears. You shake your head to get him to stop, embarrassed, but he doesn’t move away, only holding you firmer.

“You’re not fine,” he murmurs, his voice a lot quieter now, but his tone is one you haven’t heard before. Soft. Almost tender. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to do this alone. Not as long as I’m here.”

His words catch you off-guard. You hadn’t realised just how much you needed to hear that, too used to carrying everything yourself, always being the strong one, so hearing Brian say that feels like a lifeline.

The fact that he’s actually there, not telling you to fix it or get over it, but simply… acknowledging it, makes everything feel a little less impossible, especially after he says:

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

You sniff before looking away. “You’re so annoying,” you mumble, taking his hands to remove them from your face, but you don’t let go as you let them rest on your lap.

Neither does he.

“You bring this up tomorrow, and I’ll kill you.”

Brian laughs, his eyes crinkling as he does so, and somehow, the sight doesn’t annoy you as much as you know it should.

“You’re joking,” you deadpan, fingers resting loosely on your luggage handle as you stare at the room before you. You turn to Brian. “One bed? Why the hell would you book a suite with a single bed?!”

“Grandma wanted to gift us. I couldn’t say no,” he utters with absolute indifference, like you’re both not standing before a king size bed with flower petals scattered all over it in the shape of a giant heart. The sight makes you shudder.

“It’s fine. I’ll just take the couch.”

“You better,” you murmur, too tired to deal with his nonchalance today. You had just gotten out of a fifteen hour flight— like that wasn’t already terrible enough. The fact that it was Brian Kang that you flew with made it all the more agonising.

He was the type of person who insisted on arriving at the airport way before necessary— which, in your case, meant that the three hours you thought you had to pack your luggage were cramped into a single, stress-filled one.

It didn’t help that Brian had a lot to say about your lack of preparation, chastising you for not packing earlier, which of course, then naturally spiralled into an argument that lasted twenty minutes (though, it was more of you yelling while he remained infuriatingly composed).

By the time you were good to go, you’re exhausted, out of breath, and completely over it. Meanwhile, Brian loaded both your luggages into the car with effortless ease like it was nothing.

Like the responsible adult he was, he had checked in for the both of you on time, and even went as far as to listen to the safety instructions in the plane intently like he was in a lecture. At that point, you wouldn’t even be surprised if he were to whip out a notepad and pen to jot down notes.

He was completely insufferable.

And now that you’re finally in Paris, some distance from Brian would do you good, you think— except, of course, he has plans.

While all you want is to sink into the ridiculously plush hotel bed and knock out for a few hours, Brian is already chattering on about his itinerary like he’s pitching a business proposal. Truthfully, you could barely even make out the places he’s listing with how lethargic you are, and he only stops when he realises you’re being weirdly unresponsive.

You’re fast asleep.

Younghyun scoffs to himself as he stares at the slow rise and fall of your back, your body curled up under the covers as you snore softly. Usually, he’d have something to say about how you shouldn’t be lying on the bed without changing out of your outside clothes first, about how you never listen to him when he tells you to get enough rest, maybe even tease you about how you always insist you won’t fall asleep right away, only for you to be knocked out cold the moment your head hits the pillow.

But for once, he lets it go.

Because despite how much you get on his nerves, and no matter how stubborn you are, he knows you’re exhausted. And maybe, he doesn’t mind giving in to you this time.

With a soft sigh, he gets up from the sofa and grabs his coat, making sure not to wake you up as he closes the door behind him softly. If you won’t take care of yourself, then he’d just have to do it for you. And if you’re too stubborn to go out to eat— well, maybe bringing something back would make it easier.

✦ ✦ ✦

By the time you stir awake, it’s dark, and you realise that you’re alone. You wonder if Brian actually did up and leave to go on that walk along the Seine he had been talking about earlier, and for a split second, you feel guilty. You quickly snap out of it, jolting up in the process.

“Am I going insane?” You laugh humourlessly to yourself, running a hand through your tangled hair. “Why the hell should I feel bad for him? He’s not my responsibility. He’s a grown man!” You try to justify, but deep down, there’s a feeling you can’t shake.

You didn’t even ask if he was okay, if he needed help, if he needed something. Nothing.

You groan fall back into the pillows, kicking your feet against the covers in frustration. Your hands find your head once again, and you tug on your hair. “Get out of my head, Brian Kang.”

“Why? Miss me already?”

You sit up again, this time twice as fast and almost falling off the bed in the process.

“I-I wasn’t talking about you,” you manage to sneer, to which Brian chuckles in response as he kicks off his shoes.

“Sure. Come eat.”

You frown, only now noticing the takeout bags he has in his hands before he places them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. As embarrassed as you are, you can’t deny that you’re hungry, so begrudgingly, you pad towards him.

You wait for Brian to shrug off his coat, his coat which you’re now noticing is damp and covered in little droplets. You didn’t even realise that it had been raining, and the same unfamiliar feeling tugs on your heart strings again.

“Really? You couldn’t just wait until the rain stopped?” You mumble, keeping your tone as casual as possible as you start unwrapping your food.

Brian shrugs. “It was just a little rain.”

“Yeah, well, don’t complain if you fall sick tonight and end up having to skip on your meeting tomorrow. I’m not gonna be the one staying awake to take care of you.”

Brian peers at you through his lashes with a knowing smile on his lips, and it only makes you realise how you may have sounded a little too concerned for your liking.

“I-I’m not worried about you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, turning back to your food. You’re not sure if you can continue staring at him without turning yourself into a blubbering fool even more.

Brian laughs, but he doesn’t push it. “Speaking of tomorrow, do you have anywhere you want to visit? We can go after I’m done with work,” he answers breezily, placing a peeled shrimp in your container before resuming with his meal.

You, on the other hand, are frozen in your spot, still trying to process his gesture. You stare at the shrimp in confusion before glancing at him again, but Brian doesn’t even acknowledge you.

“Didn’t you already have a whole itinerary planned?” You ask when you finally find your voice.

“Yes, but seeing as we’re on a honeymoon, we should do things we both like, no?”

“This is not a honeymoon, Brian. Call it what it is, a work trip.”

“Younghyun.” His voice softens in a way that makes your heart tighten. “I know you’ve been working a lot lately, so this is your chance to enjoy Paris. We’ll make the most of it together.”

You want to argue, but somehow the words never come.You know what it is, and you’re finally ready to acknowledge it— the small pang of guilt that creeps into your chest.

“It’s fine,” you say with a sigh. “I don’t really have anything I want to do anyway.” You shrug as nonchalantly as you could, despite knowing that it’s a lie.

Of course, there are things you want to do while you’re here— things that you know Brian wouldn’t necessarily enjoy, and things that certainly wouldn’t fit in his structured itinerary. But you can’t find it in you to say anything, not after everything he’s done.

As much as you hate to admit it, and despite how infuriating and annoying you still think he is, he’s the only one who’s been doing everything while you’ve barely even contributed to the trip. Your mind goes back to his coat again, his stupid, damp coat, and the thought of him being caught in the rain all to get you some food just because you refused to go out today leaves an uncomfortable weight in the pit of your stomach.

So, you don’t say anything— for once, you’ll give in and agree to go along with his plans, even if it means having to drag your feet to the places you know won’t excite you.

Because the last thing you want to do is disappoint him.

✦ ✦ ✦

Brian is already asleep when you step out of the shower, the three-seater sofa only barely accommodating to his tall form. His legs are bent in a way that doesn’t look very comfortable, and he has his arm draped over his eyes to block out the street lights from the window next to him.

There it is again— the dreadful feeling of guilt that twists and turns in your stomach. It doesn’t help that the rain has gotten heavier now, the occasional sound of thunder a reminder that you won’t be getting a peaceful sleep tonight.

With a sigh, you trudge towards the bed, making sure to face the wall and not Brian as you get under the covers. Try as you might, sleep doesn’t come to you very easily, and you’re not sure if it’s because you’ve already had a nap earlier, the relentless rain outside, or purely the guilt from making Brian sleep on the couch. Maybe it’s all three.

You turn on your back, eyes wide open as you stare blankly at the ceiling.

“Are you asleep?” The question escapes you before you could stop it, and you cringe at how loud your voice sounded in the otherwise quiet room.

Surprisingly, Brian hums in reply, but he remains unmoving when you glance at him.

Before you could change your mind, you remove the extra pillow from behind your head, placing it to your right before you quickly turn back on your side.

“Just come here. But any funny business and you’re dead.”

It’s silent for a while, and you think that maybe Brian had gone back to sleep or is simply just ignoring you, until you feel the bed dip.

He exhales a small chuckle as he settles beside you, and even despite the grogginess in his voice, it’s laced with amusement.

“You say that like I’d even dare.”

It’s teasing, but he doesn’t push his luck. Instead, he shifts— just enough to get comfortable, but careful not to press too close. With the pillow now in between the both of you, it’s not like he could, anyway.

A beat passes before he adds, softer this time. “Go to sleep.”

You shut your eyes, opting not to reply him. While that had managed to clear up a little bit of your conscience, there’s still one issue you’re left with: the thunder.

It’s not like you’re necessarily scared of them. They just make you a little jumpy, is all.

Even now, when it booms and splits the dark in a second-long white glow, you yelp, only to bite your tongue right after and hoping Brian hadn’t heard you.

Silence stretches between you, until you feel him reach over to remove the pillow in the middle before it lands on the floor with a thud. You finally turn to peek over your shoulder, ready to ask him what the hell he’s doing.

But of course, Brian doesn’t say anything, eyes still shut like he’s already asleep. In the empty space between the two of you now lies his arm, outstretched, waiting, like a quiet invitation.

Just as you’re about to chide at him, another strike of thunder crashes through the sky, louder this time. So of course, naturally, you jolt.

Forward.

Right into him.

You gasp. “Bri-“

He shushes you. This asshole has the audacity to shush you as he wraps his other arm around your torso, pulling you impossibly closer.

He exhales, his voice low and laced with sleep. “You’re so jumpy.”

Your words get caught in your throat, so for a while, you don’t say anything. You can’t. 

“Am not,” you huff, though it doesn’t really come out as convincing given you’re practically curled against his chest.

He hums, and you know he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t argue. And when thunder strikes for the third time, you feel his arms tighten around you in silent consolation.

You shut your eyes tightly, though this time, it’s not out of fear anymore. No, right now, you’re trying to ignore his warmth that’s already seeping into yours, and the way his featherlight touches are making your throat go drier than a desert.

You think you might need a glass of water, but you don’t exactly want to leave your spot right now.

“One word about this, Brian, and I-“

“You’ll kill me. I know,” he chuckles, the vibration of his chest against yours making you all too aware of how close you are.

You scowl, though it lacks any real bite. Smug bastard.

Still, you don’t move away.

And neither does he.

You wake up to an empty bed.

As you sit up to rub the sleep from your eyes, you almost forget where you are, still disoriented by the warmth lingering on the sheets beside you.

But then you hear the faint rustling from the other side of the room, and that’s when you see Brian by the vanity, currently buttoning up his white dress shirt with his tie still undone and slung over his neck.

Your eyes widen, and you find yourself falling back to the mattress as you stare at the ceiling, breaths slightly laboured.

What the hell is going on? Why is your heart beating so fast? Are you having a heart attack?

You squeeze your eyes shut, even going as far as to press your palms against your cheeks as though doing that would magically erase the memory from your mind.

Nope. Didn’t work. You did not just get flustered over Brian Kang of all people.

No matter how much you try to will it away, the image is already burned in your head— the sharp lines of his collarbones, the way his fingers worked the buttons with ease, the single strand of hair that falls in his forehead despite his conscious effort to style it.

“You okay?”

Suddenly, his voice is way too near for comfort, and your eyes fly open to see Brian peering at you over the side of the bed, his brows knit in confusion.

Thankfully, his shirt is buttoned up all the way now, sparing you from details you don’t want to see (rather, details that you know could potentially cause you to short circuit).

You must have taken a while to answer, gaping at him like a deer in headlights, because you only finally snap out of it when you register him reaching out to you.

“I’m fine!” You blurt, your hand extending out just in time to catch his wrist, his palm already dangerously close to your head.

“You sure?” He asks, not the least bit convinced. “You’re all red. Are you down with a fever?”

“No. Are you?”

Brian only arches his brows at your response, and you finally let him go, scooting further to his side of the bed to put some distance between you two, avoiding his gaze.

“Alright…” he scoffs, a tinge of humour laced in his tone. “I’ll be back before lunch to pick you up, okay? We could go sightseeing if you’re up for that.”

“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble. You had expected him to leave, but he doesn’t, and you finally turn to him again. “What?”

Brian tilts his head slightly, studying you with the same expression that always gets under your skin. Then, without warning, he leans in— just a little, but enough for your breath to catch in your throat.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks again, lower this time, like he knows something is definitely up; like he knows exactly the reason behind why your face is burning and he’s just waiting for you to admit it.

You swallow, gripping the sheets. “I said I’m fine.”

Brian studies you for a second more before he hums, finally straightening up. You don’t miss the flicker of amusement in his eyes, and you know he’s not pushing you further solely because he doesn’t want to embarrass you— at least, more than you already did yourself.

“Okay. If you say so.” He grabs his coat, throwing it over his shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll see you later, love.”

And with that, he finally turns to leave, just like nothing ever happened.

You exhale sharply, bringing the covers over your head.

You’re so doomed.

✦ ✦ ✦

Your plans after lunch started at the Louvre. It was where you found out that Brian was someone who enjoyed art and history— because why wouldn’t he, right? You thought the gallery was far too crowded and you didn’t see the point in staring at paint splattered on canvas, but seeing how focused he was on reading every single plaque and description, you decided to just let him be.

He’d talk to you about it, too— feed you with fun facts about the artist or history of the painting which really, you couldn’t care less about, but as you took in the way his features would light up whenever he saw a painting he recognised, or the way his lips would twitch into a satisfied smile whenever he shared about something he found interesting, you found yourself holding back on any complaints.

Instead, you nodded along, when in reality you were much more focused on the enthusiasm in his voice and the way his fox-like eyes would crinkle at the corners when he smiled, making him look impossibly more endearing.

That was a thought you were quick to dispose of, of course, because this is Brian Kang you’re talking about. There was no way you were going to admit to anybody that your heart was starting to beat a little too fast to your liking whenever you were around him.

He took you on a boat cruise on the Seine right after, and you did complain this time, bringing up the movie you saw recently about sharks under Paris and how there was no way in hell you were going to let yourself get eaten by one. You weren’t about to tell him that it was boat rides in general that made you uneasy, but it seemed that Brian knew that already without having to ask. He merely laughed and held your hand, and that kept you quiet for the remainder of the ride.

You reach your final destination just as the sun is about to retire for the day, a quiet spot in Champ de Mars facing the Eiffel Tower. Your legs are hurting from all the walking, and with your last meal being lunch a few hours ago, you’re starving.

It was a good thing Brian had half a mind to stop by a sandwich shop on the way here, because your dinner was devoured within minutes, and you’re now left marvelling over the pretty lights that glimmer on the lattice structure before you.

You had no complaints, and it seems that Brian doesn’t have anything to say as well as he too remains quiet, but what you don’t know is that he’s looking at you.

The golden glow of the Eiffel Tower bounces off your skin, catching in the delicate curves of your face. Younghyun might have spent the day at the Louvre, surrounded by centuries’ worth of masterpieces, but hell if you’re not the prettiest thing he’s laid his eyes on.

“Sweetheart.” The name gently rolls of his tongue like he’s been saying it for years, and you hum in reply, clearly distracted, until realisation sets in and your brows furrow ever so slightly as you catch your own slip up.

You turn to him with your signature frown, but Younghyun knows it lacks any real bite. “What?”

He exhales a quiet laugh before pursing his lips, inhaling softly. “I wish you would’ve just told me that you weren’t enjoying yourself today.”

Your expression wavers, but only for a second. “What are you talking about?” You mutter before turning away, like you always do when you’re flustered. “That’s not true. I had fun.”

“You get this look on your face when you’re forcing yourself to have fun,” he muses. “Like you’re watching a movie with a bad plot and you don’t want to admit that you didn’t like it.”

You only scoff, further confirming his assumptions.

“You don’t talk back like you always do. You held back on your complaints when usually, you’d jump at the first opportunity to argue with me. Every time I caught you zoning out, you weren’t looking at what I was showing you— you were looking at me.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Of course, he saw right through you.

“Maybe you just had something on your face.” You glance at him.

Brian laughs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You roll your eyes, but he isn’t done.

“You should have said something,” he continues, softer this time. “I would’ve done anything you wanted, you know?”

“Even if I wanted to go bungee jumping?”

Brian stares at you softly, a hint of a smile on his face. “I’d tie a rope to my ankle and dive a hundred feet headfirst if it makes you happy.”

Something warm stirs in your chest, but you don’t acknowledge it. You don’t want to, because if you do, then you’d have to admit that this tightening feeling in your chest could be something dangerously close to fondness.

That night, you place your pillow next to you before turning on your side, your back to Brian as he finishes up his work on the sofa.

You feel the weight of his stare as he shuts his laptop, and slowly, cautiously, he gets under the covers next to you, almost like he’s testing the waters.

“Are you asleep?” He asks, voice soft.

You don’t answer right away, not wanting to break the fragile moment. “No.”

He waits for a few moments, almost as though expecting you to elaborate, but when you don’t, he asks, “why?”

You stay quiet again, biting your lip, unsure of what to say. You don’t really have an excuse as to why you’re still awake even after the day you’ve just had. It’s not like it’s raining outside, and it’s not like there’s thunder to keep you up.

It’s not like you were waiting for him.

But Brian doesn’t press. He only stays silent for a while longer before exhaling softly, and just like yesterday, he removes the pillow that separates the two of you before shifting closer, his arm finding your waist as he pulls you flush against his chest.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmurs, like he’s read your mind.

Again, you don’t respond, but you don’t pull away either. You turn in his hold, slipping your arm over his torso just as he pulls you closer, and you try to ignore the unfamiliar feeling that constricts your beating heart.

You should be telling him that it’s wrong, that you don’t need this, but you don’t, letting yourself melt in his embrace instead.

Because for the first time, something about the way he holds you feels right.

Paris was weird, so much so that you were relieved the moment you arrived back in Korea. Even if it meant going back to your routine and getting drowned in backlog at work, it was better than having nothing to do, because having time to yourself meant having time to think about Brian Kang, which you found yourself to do every night before you went to sleep.

At first, you blamed it on the jet lag, but even after a week has passed and you've both well settled back into your usual rhythm which consisted of sleeping in your own separate rooms, you still found yourself thinking about him as you lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling. You wondered if Brian thought about Paris just as much as you did, about how safe he made you feel as he wrapped you in his arms, about how the steady beat of his heart, as opposed to your erratic one, had lulled you to sleep even with the raging storm outside. You wondered if he missed your warmth the way you missed his, and how easy it was to fall asleep beside him, like your body has decided for you that his presence was something to seek comfort in.

You wanted to hate it. Because if you didn't, then you'd have to admit that it wasn't just his warmth that you missed— it was him.

And that was something you weren't ready to face, at least not yet.

So instead, you busied yourself with something— anything, to keep your mind off him. And somehow, that brought you here, standing in the kitchen with his grandmother, sleeves rolled up to your elbows and apron tied snugly around your torso as she guided you with a recipe.

You don't even know how you got here. One second, you were staring blankly at your kitchen counter, contemplating on whether to make yourself some instant noodles, and the next you're on the phone with Grandma Kang— and trust that even the mere thought of this is enough to make you cringe— if she could teach you how to make one of his favourite dishes.

You don't know what it is. Was it guilt? Gratitude? Or maybe— no. You weren't going to entertain the thought that it was something more than that. Perhaps, you just wanted to do something nice for him, to repay him for putting up with you, even make him a celebratory meal for successfully closing a deal after his meeting in Paris.

That was all to it.

"So, how was the honeymoon?" Grandma Kang asks as she stirs pot of kimchi stew.

The old lady, bless her, had arrived within minutes from your phone call, eager to spend time with her— and you quote— her favourite granddaughter.

She was the only who ever really checked in on you ever since you and Brian got married, constantly calling just to ask how you are and reminding you to eat if you haven't. She's just like Brian, and the love you felt from her was one you never really got from your parents. It's warm, unconditional— real.

Which is why you feel guilty.

Because whatever you have with Brian isn't, and all you're doing is deceiving her and letting her believe in something that isn't true.

You swallow, pretending to focus on slicing the vegetables. "It was... nice."

"Just nice?" She muses with a raised brow. "I haven't seen my grandson that happy in a long time, you know."

"He's always happy," you say lightly. "Nothing new there."

"No, dear. This was different."

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You don't want to look too much into the reason behind Brian's unusually good mood, according to his own grandmother.

Grandma Kang sets the spoon down before turning to you.

"I know, you know."

Your grip tightens around hilt of the knife. "Know what?"

She smiles at you. "About you and Younghyun. It isn't real, is it?"

You stomach twists at her words. "Grandma, I-"

"You don't have to explain anything, my dear. I'm old, not blind," she chuckles, turning back to the pot. "My grandson has a lot of love to give," she says gently. "And he does it without expecting anything in return."

You exhale shakily, setting your knife down. "I know that."

She hums. "Then you should know that he's not trying to hurt you. He never has." She pauses to sigh. "Stupid boy. I know he only got married to appease me. His parents set him up with so many girls, you know? He was always polite to them, but his heart was never fully in it. Until you." Grandma Kang smiles at you softly. "It's scary, right? But that's also the beauty of falling in love."

"I don't-" you cut yourself off. Because what could you even say? That she's wrong? That you don't-

You can't. Because then you think you'd be lying.

"Grandma? I didn't know you were coming over." Brian appears in the kitchen, surprise etched on his features. He has his blazer draped over his shoulder, his tie loosened, and the sight makes your throat dry.

His eyes are quick to find yours, and you quickly turn away before he could notice the tears welling in your eyes— tears you're only now registering are there in the first place.

You don't even want to know why you're crying— you seem to be doing that a lot lately— but you may have a hunch.

"Ah, these damn onions, am I right?" Grandma Kang huffs, planting her hands on your shoulders as she moves you behind her; you're silently grateful for that. You take that time to dab your eyes dry, clearing your throat slightly and hoping your red face wouldn't give you away. "Why? Is there something wrong with me wanting to spend time with my favourite granddaughter?"

"Of course not, Grandma," Brian says gently, and you hate how the softness of his voice affects you. By the time you turn around, he's already peering at the dishes on the island, and he looks up at you with a grin on his face. "Did you make all of this?"

Somehow, his question makes your cheeks burn. You think it's embarrassment, having been caught doing something nice for a husband you never wanted in the first place.

You don't even know who you are anymore.

"With a little help," you answer, but your voice comes off as quiet. If Brian notices how uncharacteristically awkward you're being, he doesn't say anything.

"Give yourself a little more credit, dear! Younghyun, a lady who can cook this well? You better treat her right, or I'll come knock some sense into you myself."

Brian doesn't look at his grandma despite her chiding, still looking at you like you're the most valuable thing in the world. "Don't worry, Grandma." His gaze grows softer. "I don't plan on letting her go anytime soon."

✦ ✦ ✦

You find yourself wide awake again despite it being way past midnight. It's turned into a routine at this point, and you have no one else to blame but your housemate who's probably already fast asleep at the other side of the house.

You groan. You hate Brian for making you feel this way, and you really wish you meant it.

Knowing that staying in your room wouldn't do you any good, you decide to head to the kitchen— perhaps a hot drink could help ease the turmoil in your heart.

But alas, your heart only starts to thump faster when you realise the lights are already on, and you find Brian leaning against the counter as he nurses a mug of tea.

"Hey. Can't sleep?"

Your words catch in your throat, so you settle with a nod as you open the refrigerator for the mere sake of wanting something to do.

"You shouldn't be drinking something cold this late. Want me to make you some tea?" He offers, and despite yourself, you still find it in you to roll your eyes at his gentle nagging.

"No, I'm good."

"Milk?"

"I'm not a child."

"I'm afraid that's about all the options I have for you then, love," Brian chuckles before he stops, tone growing softer now. "What's the matter?"

You close the door, finally turning to him. "What are you talking about?"

"You just seem distracted lately."

"I'm fine," you mutter, and even though you know Brian isn't convinced, he doesn't push any further.

"Listen, if you're having trouble sleeping..." he trails off. "You can stay with me."

You blink at his words. "What?"

"If you want to." He pauses as though to gauge for your response, before adding, "would it help?"

You hesitate. You hate how easy the way he says it, so gentle and sincere, giving you an out like he knows how much you struggle with expressing your thoughts.

And as much as you still do, you know there's no use in hiding it anymore when he's already seen through you completely.

So you settle with a nod, a slight one, but one Brian manages to catch nonetheless.

His smile doesn't widen, and he doesn't gloat. Instead, he sets his mug in the sink before he takes your hand. "C'mon," he says softly. "Let's go to sleep."

The walk back to his room is a quiet one, and by the time you step inside, Brian lets go of your hand just long enough to pull back the covers.

"Go on," he says, nodding towards the bed.

You stall, but only for a moment, before slipping under the sheets. The mattress dips as he settles in beside you, and any distance between the two of you disappears in an instant.

Brian shifts slightly, turning on his side to face you. "Better?" He murmurs.

You still don't trust yourself to speak, so you only nod.

He smiles at you then, lips quirking up ever so slightly as he reaches over, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. The touch is fleeting, but it sends something through you.

"Good," he whispers, and like it's the most natural thing in the world, he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close— just close enough for you to hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat you missed.

And with your head resting just above his heart, you note the way his breaths even out as he falls asleep, and you know you should too, but your mind refuses to settle.

"Brian?" You call out softly, so softly you think you never meant for him to hear it at all. Maybe that's for the best.

"I think..." you swallow, gripping the fabric of shirt a little tighter. "I think I'm falling for you."

You let your words hang in the air, fragile yet certain, because you don't regret it at all.

And just like the first time Brian's held you in his arms, you feel like you could finally breathe again.

As it turns out, coming to terms with your feelings was more difficult than you thought, especially when every little thing Brian did seemed to mean something now.

The way his hand would find the small on your back when you crossed the street, the way he always ensured your coffee was the perfect temperature before handing it to you, even down to the way he looked at you— soft, knowing, like he could see right through every excuse you tried to make for yourself.

Still, you tried your best to brush it off. You're a grown woman, not some schoolgirl with a silly crush. You could handle this.

Or at least, that's what you told yourself.

Which is why, when you find yourself at his workplace, lunch bag in hand with a bento box specially prepared (a completely normal, thoughtful thing to do), you ignore the way your heart races at the thought of seeing him.

His receptionist greets you with a smile, telling you that he's inside his office, and you make the short walk down the hallway. For some reason, you're nervous, and while you'd usually blame it on your nerves, you should have known that it was something else this time.

Because there he is, smiling with another woman as she laughs at whatever he'd said. And Brian— that asshole— isn't doing anything to stop her either. He doesn't stop her when she bats her eyelashes at him, leaning in too close for comfort, and he doesn't stop her when she calls him Younghyun.

Younghyun, the one name that for some reason, you couldn't bring yourself to say, yet hated to hear from anybody else.

You left right then and there, slamming the bag on the receptionist's table on your way out.

"Tell him he can eat this if he wants," you mutter without turning back.

The poor receptionist stares at your retreating back before she hesitantly picks up the bag. You're obviously in a mood, and quite frankly, Eunji wanted no part of it. Not like she has a choice.

"Sir?" She knocks on Younghyun's door. "Your wife dropped this off."

Younghyun looks up from his paperwork, brows furrowed when he sees the bag in her hands. "I thought I told you to just let her in if she comes by."

"Well, yes." She tightens the grip on the bag. "I did send her to your office right away, sir, but she left not even a minute later."

Younghyun tilts his head as he stares at the bag. "And what time was this?"

"Five minutes ago, sir. She just left."

Younghyun takes in a breath before nodding. "Okay, just put in on the table. Thanks, Eunji."

Eunji nods before scurrying out, leaving Younghyun to lean against his chair, jaw tightening. This wasn't like you— it wasn't very often that you'd come by his office, only doing so when you started cooking, but the times that you do, you'd usually make him come down to get you, or at the very least, have a snarky remark at the ready as you handed him his food. But this? This was something else entirely.

Of course, the way you've been avoiding him recently wasn't lost on him, and Younghyun couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

He thought everything was fine— better than fine, even, now that you were sharing a bed, falling asleep in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world, but somehow you felt more distant than ever.

He started noticing the little things at first— the way you still curled up next to him at night, but never reaching out to him first. He'd pull you close, only for you to stiffen for a moment before letting yourself melt in his embrace, as though you had to remind yourself that it was okay. The way you used to linger in the mornings, pretending to still be asleep so you wouldn't have to move away from him so soon, only to be the first to slip out of bed now. You barely meet his eyes when you talk to him, and you no longer found fault with him in the littlest things, be it the way he'd organise the fridge or how he'd double check his schedules multiple times even though nothing has changed.

And the worst part? You still made him coffee in the mornings, still took care of his meals, still made sure he had everything he needed— all except you, which was the one thing he actually did need.

The silence where your bickering used to be is almost worst than the distance. At least when you argued, it showed that you were paying attention to him.

Which is why now, when he finally finds you in the kitchen, awake and not pretending to be asleep to avoid him like you do, he decides to end this once and for all.

"You didn't tell me you dropped by earlier," he starts off, as casual as possible as he leans against the refrigerator, watching you do the dishes.

You don't even turn to him. "You seemed busy. Didn't want to interrupt."

"Busy? It was lunch time, love."

You don't answer, and Younghyun sighs. "Alright." He steps towards you before turning off the faucet, and you turn to him with a scowl on your face.

"Bri-"

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong, or am I going to have to force it out of you?"

You waver slightly, not all used to this sight of Brian. He's isn't necessarily angry, but the edge in his voice as opposed to the usual gentleness that you're used to is enough to tell you that he's, at the very least, annoyed.

Still, you hold his stare. "Nothing's wrong."

"Don't lie to me." He clenches his jaw. "Why are you avoiding me?"

"I'm not avoiding you," you retort through gritted teeth before attempting to move past him, but Brian cages you in between his arms. You glower at him. "Let me go."

"Is this about earlier?" He asks.

Your fingers twitch. "What?"

"You saw me with her, didn't you?"

Of course. Of course, he's seen through you yet again. You let out a humourless scoff, not ready to admit it just yet.

"You think I'm jealous? I don't care what you do, or who you talk to, Brian. I don't care if you want to let other people call you Younghyun, or if you want to flirt, or-"

"Flirt? Youngji's my cousin! She was at our wedding? She's getting married next month."

You part your lips to reply, but nothing comes out. The room feels unbearably still, the weight of your own foolishness settling over you like a heavy blanket.

Brian exhales sharply as he runs a hand through his hair, and he finally takes a step back for you to breathe. "You don't even call me Younghyun," he mutters, scoffing humourlessly. "But you hate hearing it from anybody else."

You shut your eyes. "Younghyun, I-"

"Say that again."

You breath hitches, and when you open your eyes, he's already looking at you.

You lips quiver, and you don't know what possesses you to obey, but his name rolls of your tongue again in a hushed whisper. "Younghyun."

He smiles at you, and you now realise it isn't the same one you see him give to Youngji. It isn't the same as the polite, effortless ones he gives to strangers, or the one he gives to his family, full of warmth.

No, this one is different.

This one is just for you.

And for the first time since this whole mess started, you finally understand.

"Now tell me," he urges gently as he takes your hands into his. "Tell me why it bothered you so much."

It seems like he already knows, and he's purposely giving you the chance to say it.

"Because I want to be the one to make you smile like that," you say quietly, and Younghyun scoffs as he shakes his head.

"Baby, do you even see the way I look at you?" He asks, almost in exasperation as though he couldn't believe you aren't getting it yet. "You think I look at everyone like they hung up all the stars in the sky? You think I smile at everyone like they're the best damn thing that's ever happened to me?" His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. "Because I don't. It's just you. It's always just been you."

You don't stop the tears that roll down your cheeks, and Younghyun is quick to catch them as he cups your face gently before he leans his forehead against yours.

"Tell me," he murmurs. "Whatever it is that you've been holding back. Say it."

"Younghyun." Your lips quiver, and he reassures you with an equally teary smile. "I'm in love with you."

Relief flickers across his face, and despite his own emotions, his lips widen even more in a way that makes your heart ache.

"I knew I wanted you the moment you called me to bail you out of jail," he says softly, as though going any louder would break the moment. "So if you say you love me," he swallows, throat working as he lets his first tear fall, "just know that I've loved you for way longer."

You let out a shaky laugh, biting your inner lip as more tears slip free. He chuckles, wiping them away again as she shakes his head.

"Can't believe you thought I'd look at anyone the way I look at you."

You sniff. "Shut up."

But you don't pull away when Younghyun leans in, and you don't stop him when he finally kisses you— soft and slow, like you have all the time in the world.

And maybe, just maybe, you think you do.

the book of us collection masterlist

[rirights]

how i feel searching up “haikyuu x reader” on tumblr at least 30 times a day

[xinyanri-deactivated20251106]

MASTERLIST – NO IDEA

kyoutani kentarou x f!reader

₊˚ପ⊹ SUMMARY : when your ex comes back into town with his new girlfriend, you can't help but go crazy, and so finally you go to a concert with your friends (for the first time ever), where you meet the reserved, scary, and fan-favourite bassist, kyoutani kentarou.

tags: kyoutani kentarou x female reader, opposites attract, (kind of) enemies to lovers, sunshine x sunshine protector, literature major ! yn x rockstar ! kyoutani

warnings: alcohol use, cigarettes, kys/kms jokes, explicit language, adult themes

minors dni!

introductions: emotional support system | no braincells (for oikawa)

chapter 1: things you shouldn't say

chapter 2: apology accepted ✏️

dividers by: @dollywons

[jellissante]

🏐 — love of the game !

tooru oikawa x f!reader social media au

SUMMARY —being tobio kageyama's twin, it was no surprise that you were one of the karasuno managers. yet even after seeing team after team, there was only one player that caught your eye. the problem? he plays for the rival team, not to mention the deep history between him and your brother.

status: ongoing | taglist: open

genres: social media au, (american) college au, modern au, strangers to friends to enemies to lovers (itll get really complicated tbh), angst, fluff, crack, etc

content: swearing, kys jokes, maybe ooc oikawa. many other characters mentioned. implied one-sided crush. mentions of past relationship with another character. hurt, some comfort? angst?

playlist: [wip] love of the game. (feel free to suggest songs to add !)

additional notes:

concept inspired by @aestherin’s keep my heart, would highly recommend reading it if you’re into genshin impact

i couldn’t come up w actual names for colleges so i just reused the high school names

the college system reflect the usa college system, though majority of the cast (except [name]) will still be referred to by their last names for consistency (and all characters are 18+)

not completely new to writing smau’s, though it’s been a while. unsure if updates will be consistent.

time stamp DO NOT matter unless stated

dividers courtesy of @cafekitsune

written chapters (if any) will be denoted with a ☆

warm up & introductions . . .

passers + barely passing | seijoh more like say joe mama

set one !

1st point: stfu kageyama

2nd point: barbecue dinner

3rd point: late night practicing ☆

4th point: make it up

5th point: study date with gojo

6th point: in my guest room? ☆

7th point: seijoh girl for today

8th point: immovable kageyama vs. unstoppable [name]

9th point: monday rest day

10th point: understand ☆

11th point: if i have no haters, tobio is dead

12th point: door favoritism ☆

13th point: little sweets

14th point: the game of truth ☆

court swap

15th point: it’s complicated

16th point: milkbreadlover ☆

17th point: do you get deja vu?

18th point: unluckily lucky ☆

19th point: free coffee

20th point: like old times

21th point: #justicefornishinoya

22nd point: fully honest

23rd point: sting

set two !

24th point: of course i love you

25th point: dates like this

26th point: himitsu yn

27th point: come play volleyball

28th point: what are we? ☆

29th point: the worse kageyama

30th point: more than the game

31st point:

related side stories:

nishinoya’s 3 mistakes

taglist (open) (59/50) | @anzuuhoshi @s6rine @l0ckedtomb @mey-archive @idexmids @jadebat7 @katemira @linaaeatsfamilies @ajtheidk @corvid007 @sevriizy @rabbitcola @roses4lex @wiggly-yrath @woncloudie @katarinaablu @depressinglyobsessed @yueriasblog @readerxyou @eternalangellic @akaridolly @potaetopic @yeonette @starrzzworld @ntskbby @zoiehelizabeth @vernon-dursley @sashimi020 @lily-cheese-xoxo @yu-yumii @k4ss11333 @flwrgi @knowitsforthebetterr @lilykup @l4nnisworld @mothericraveviolence57 @4jihyo @scarymygodurdivine @sincerelyruu @staygoldsquatchling02 @schniti-is-in-the-house @bookworm-center @thebluegoddess @forgottensniper @rs4kiss @han0vyc @jazfartz2 @x3nafix @ghostie-dude @southernfrogprincesd

bolded accounts cannot be tagged. send ask/comment to be added to taglist! if you don’t see yourself added after 2 updates, send an ask!!

[multific]

Of Lit Fire and Silk Sheets

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Aemond arrives back to his room late at night, when you are already long asleep.

When Aemond came into your shared bedroom it was already very late.

His duties as Prince kept him up almost all day, barely allowing him to take a break or even eat.

Aemond let out a long sigh as he took off his jacket.

The fireplace in his room was lit, illuminating the room.

On his bed, you slept.

You, his beautiful wife.

Aemond stopped by the end of the bed and looked at you. He has seen you sleeping plenty of times, but he was always right next to you, or he was too tired and went to sleep immediately as he got back. 

But now, even if he was tired, he still took a moment to just stop and look at you.

You looked breathtaking, the warm light from the fire illuminated your face and shoulder as you slept on your side, facing his empty side. Your arm reaching towards his side, trying to find him but failing.

Aemond allowed a small smile to form.

Oh, how you both hated the idea of being married, and yet here you both were, completely and undeniably in love. 

Aemond could still recall the moment your eyes turned from hatred to the soft look that you now have for him.

He could also recall the moment he realized he was in love with you when a Lord dared to speak ill of you and as a result, lost his head.

Aemond takes no chances when it comes to you, his wife.

He believes it is his duty to fully protect you from anything. Let that be his own family, a few lords with choice words or even himself.

Aemond takes no chances, much like a predator, he prefers to act first and think next.

He didn't use to be like that.

He was always very calculated, just not when it came to you.

Love, as they say, is a stronger force than anything, greater than fear or even dragons.

You stirred slightly in your sleep and Aemond moved. Removing his clothes and putting on the comfortable pants and shirt he preferred to sleep in, he quickly moved back to you and laid down.

His muscles relaxed against the silk sheets and comfortable pillows.

He wanted to pull you closer, but he was afraid to wake you.

Aemond just laid there, watching you sleep as he contemplated his next move. He knew he would not be able to sleep fully without having you in his arms or have you closer.

But he didn't have to, you instinctively still asleep, moved closer to him, placing your hand on his chest as you continued to sleep. 

Aemond let out a long sigh as he closed his eyes. He felt you moving beside him as you soon placed your head on his chest, got comfortable under the covers and fell right back to sleep.

His hand moved to find yours on his chest as he fell asleep.

Not even the howling wind outside would hurt you, he will make sure of it.

Taglist: @castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse  @jacalineiscomingforyou  @mandoloriancookie @brascaris

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[darlingofvalyria]

how i 'actually' met your mother— modern!aemond targaryen

❝Uncle Aegon said you threatened muña— threatened!❞

summary | Aegon amusingly reveals to your children how his brother actually met you.

wc: 2,272 | aemond targaryen x dr. wife!reader, modern au!

contains— no warnings, just fluff, innuendo - children (you & aems have four kids hsdhjsdhs) - aemond being a dick the first time he met you!! but within reason ig??? - you're a doctor, hon, cos you're so smart - aegon being the fun, shit-stirrer uncle help - hospital? accident but no graphic depictions. a/n— enjoy my first fic mwa ♡ comment, like & reblog at will!

Every weekend, you spend your days with your mother in law and the rest of the family. Family— to your husband — is very important. Spending it surrounded not just you and your kids, but his mother, his siblings, and the afternoon sun casting a glow over the family home that he grew up in, through hells and heavens, was everything to Aemond Targaryen.

A few times a year, Aemond forgets his family also included his older brother.

Because when the birds are chirping, the music of the trees swaying in the breeze are calming, and you are lying on top of him on the hammock, lazily swaying about as he relished in the feel of your body on top of his, your warmth engulfing his senses, and a book he placed gently on top of your back— of course Aegon Targaryen was going to be the reason his oldest child and teenage daughter, was going to come thundering in big steps and a huff, smacking her hands to her hips and glaring at her father.

"You lied to me, daddy!" she half roared as she stopped right in front of him. Her siblings, like little ducks, followed suit as they clamoured all over the hammock, giggling at their mother who woke up from her drowsy reverie, blowing raspberries at them before turning amusedly at their daughter, then to Aemond.

"What'd you lie about, hon?" you asked with sleepy mirth in your eyes.

"Apart from Santa and the Easter Bunny incident, I have no idea." He kissed the top of your nose, then sighed, as you rose and untangled yourself from him, picking up your youngest, Daegon, only about four years old, murmurs of asking about his day and did he enjoy having tea with his grandma.

He then turned to his eldest daughters, impatience and betrayal exuding from them in spades (he often enjoyed how much his daughters resembled him; not so much in fiery-licked rage), and he sighed again before he turned to Valera, his eldest. "Can you elaborate better, little dragon? As far as I can remember, I have not lied to you since you were six."

"You said you met mom through Auntie Hel, you lied," your third child and eldest boy, Rhaegar, said with a happy little giggle as he hid from his father into the dress of your skirt, clinging to your leg. Both of you froze, you with a slow, widening smile as you realised the kids knew.

Aemond on the other hand, wasn't as amused. In fact, his entire soul froze.

"Who—"

"Uncle Aegon said you threatened muña, threatened!" your second daughter, Rhaella, shouted, eyes bugged out in disbelief. Rhaegar giggled again, no doubt remembering the chaos that ensued once their uncle told the magnificent story without his permission as his sisters lost their mind.

"I—"

Valera, often sweet and admired her father fiercely (she had three years of being an only child before Rhaella was born, and Aemond did not hold back in spoiling her), started to have tears in her eyes as his heart squeezed at the sight.

"You lied, daddy, how could you?" There was devastation in her voice that mirrored Aemond's, a panic growing deep in the pit of his stomach while you tried to muffle your snickers behind your youngest's head.

He would have glared at you if he didn't feel like he was about to lose his mind, instead employing his best 'please help me i will literally do anything you want' wide eye, before you chuckled, shaking your head as you put down Daegon who immediately plopped down on the ground, yanking grass. Rhaegar followed, trying to find bugs; a habit he formed by hanging out with Auntie Helaena.

As you keep a mindful peripheral eye on your boys, you gathered your daughters to you, they immediately latched to your torso as if they weren't thirteen and ten respectively, sniffling and glaring at their father as he was made public enemy number one.

You bit your bottom lip to keep yourself from bursting into laughter as his face sunk deeper into despair, standing up, unable to stay seated any longer, offering them open palms of mournful looks and piercing glares at the manor behind his girls where the reason for his current predicament was no doubt giggling like an idiot.

"My loves, tell me, what did Uncle Aegon actually tell you?" you ask soothingly, running your hands through their silver hair. They looked up at you mournfully, and you bit your lip harder as you realised they even looked like their father in this moment.

"H-he said," Rhaella sniffed. "That he was angry at you. At the hospital."

"And that he yelled at you!" Valera wailed, shooting his father a withering look that had Aemond sinking into himself before he shot his own withering look at the house again, murder in his eye.

"I did not yell at your mother, Valera."

Amused, you raised an eyebrow. "And what would you call it?"

He shot you a 'you're not helping' look as he ave a disgruntled little hum. "I wouldn't it call it 'yelling', my love, merely raising my voice."

At the sort of confirmation, Val and Rhae let out a hiccuped wail. Aemond begun marching back at the house, fingers flexing with a mutter of, I'm going to rip him from spleen to spine, break every bone in his body and stomp on his—

You jolt out your arm, grasping his, laughing lightly as you brought him close and gave him a peck to the corner of his lips. This abated him, if slightly.

"Please don't kill your brother at your mother's house," you whispered against his lips, grinning.

He rubbed your back, more a habit he used to keep himself in control, whispering back, "Wouldn't be the first attempt."

"Then don't kill your brother with your children present, and your wife, who is a doctor. It is literally against my Hippocratic Oath, darling."

"It's why you're the doctor, my love. My job is to defend our honour freely."

"I really think this is your honour instead of mine." You giggled against his lips as he groaned, and you turned back at your daughters who frowned at both of you. You smiled calmly at them. "Okay, okay, girls. I don't think your Uncle Aegon told you the full story. Let Kepa tell you, hm?"

"Is it a good story?" Rhaella asked, wide eyed. "I don't want to know it if kepa sucked."

"If kepa sucked, does that mean we're bastard children?" Val frowned. "Lyanna said bastard children happens when fathers suck, her father said so."

Aemond and you shared a look, his in alarm, yours in complete mirth, before you burst out laughing, unable to stop yourself anymore.

"What is with everyone saying things to children?!" Aemond inhaled deeply. "Please let me explain. It's a long, longer story than just me raising my voice at your mother. Very interesting that your Uncle Aegon left out the part that I was panicking because of your Aunt Helaena and Uncle Daeron."

"Ha?" Rhaella's eyes comically widened further as she pulled away from you and moved closer to her father. In relief, like a cartoon cat dangling the cheese in front of a mouse, Aemond pulled her hand gently until he managed to wound her arms over his torso. "What happened to Auntie and Uncle?"

"They got into an accident, dōna mēre sweet one," Aemond murmured against her head, palpable relief as he kept her close. Rhaegar, bored brought himself and his little brother to their father, until Aemond swept them the four of them into the hammock, Daegon giggling and blowing bubbles at his father's rearranging of them so they wouldn't fall.

"Wanna go?" you teased your eldest daughter who was squirming not being part of the little huddle. Aemond opened his arms, smiling hopefully. You laughed as Valera gave you a kiss to your chest and raced to her father and siblings, moving around until they all managed to fit together.

The tree creaked as you placed your hands on your hips, pouting at them playfully as Aemond met your gaze with a shit-eating proud smirk on his face.

"Come, ñuha prūmia my heart."

"And risk crashing and burning? No, thank you. Go tell your little story while I avenge your honour and maybe get lemon cakes."

At the chorus of 'me toos' and 'yays', Aemond mouthed 'I love you' before you disappeared off, and he turned to your kids, keeping them close to his ribcage; little pieces of his hearts that grew legs and arms.

"Okay, ñuha byka zaldrīzoti my little dragons, so it all started with an accident that was entirely your Uncle Aegon's fault. . ."

Your Uncle Aegon had borrowed your Uncle Daeron's motorcycle to get to a frat party because the girl he liked would be there— this is irresponsible, children, and this is why you shouldn't be riding motorcycles and going to frat parties, yes Val, it's not as cool as it looks — anyway, his car had a broken taillight and he forgot to had it changed or tell anyone.

Your Uncle Aegon... didn't return the bike— or returned back home for the rest of the night, yes Rhaella, it was because he was, um, reading with the girl all night, like your mom and I do when we go to bed, yes Rhaegar, like how we read to you but, um, just with them.

Anyway! Your Aunt Helaena's little pup at the time, Dreamfyre, yes, baby, Dreamfyre was a puppy before she was a big dog, just like you— Dreamfyre got sick, and since Uncle Daeron was at home and he had a bike, Hel asked him. But then they saw it was gone, they had no choice but to take your uncle's car. They didn't notice the taillights.

They were speeding through, which is bad, yes, don't speed, but this was an emergency and Uncle Daeron was doing his best to hit every red stoplight when they tried to go one way but the light didn't go on, and they got into an accident.

No, Rhaegar, they didn't die, you know this, your Uncle Daeron is with Auntie Nyra, remember? And Aunt Hel is just inside, don't cry, baby. Ok, so where were we? Right, accident.

I get the call and I was panicking, out of my mind. All they said was that both of my siblings were at the hospital, declaring your uncle's plate number and I just knew it was his fault. I was already pretty angry then, and I might have transferred most of that to your mom.

Your mom, at the time, was a resident. A first year resident so she still had bad hours, and at the time, her shift mate had gotten sick and no one was able to take her shift.

Yes, dōna mēre sweet one, the times when muña can't come home fast enough. Because she has to be at the hospital to save people.

That night, your mom had been awake for 32 hours. She was not having a good day. She had lost a patient that day too, but I didn't know that, hm? She was just trying to get through the rest of her shift, having finished checking up on your uncle, when I had barrelled through like an angry beast.

All I could really remember was that I couldn't see your Aunt Hel, and your Uncle Daeron was on the hospital bed with a cast on his foot, and your mom had just looked away when I... well...

"— When you started ranting like an absolute madman, demanding better care of your baby brother when he wasn't even wincing in pain, asking for a real doctor because I looked five shies away from having graduated high school," you said, grinning wide as you handed your procured lemon cakes, and outright laughing at Aemond's sheepish, flustered look as both of his girls stared at him wide eyed.

"Kepa, oh my god," Val murmured, munching on her pastry. "That is so bad."

"You had no game," Rhae continued, sort of perplexed about the reason for her conception. "How did mom ever like you?"

"I would've slapped you," Val confirmed, nodding. "Just like you told me I would do if boys acted stupid."

As you couldn't stop laughing so hard you were bent over, your boys found your joyous display wonderful, pushed and kicked around their father while their sisters yelled about their lemon cakes, before reaching your skirts and you started spinning them around, plopping on the ground not a minute later, snuggling your babies close.

Aemond breathed a laugh, pulling his daughters close. "I know, I know, it was so bad. I was actually impressed your mother didn't slap me."

"I wanted to strangle him with the dextrose!" you chirped. "But I made an Oath, so I didn't. But ohh, with that haughty look your father sometimes get when he thinks— no, when he knows he's right? When he doesn't even need to say I told you so, he's just smirking like it?"

At your daughters— even your darling Rhaegar's triple nods, Aemond made a hm of offense, lips flattening.

"I made you three," Aemond said.

You coughed.

"I helped make you three. This is betrayal," he declared before his hands found its way to your daughters sides and tickled them with no mercy. Crows of 'Kepa, please!' between giggles warmed your chest.

"Aemond," you chidded as Rhaella gasped, snorting, and he stopped.

"So how'd you make mom fall in love with you?"

You and Aemond shared a look, your entire life stretching with one warm gaze, and a smile stretches both of your lips. Its lovesick, and familiar to your kids. Rhaella coos at it, but Rhaegar, having favoured his Uncle Aegon, makes a gagging noise before you started tickling him too.

"He apologised," you said. "Took him several tries. Your Uncle Daeron was actually ready to be discharged by the third day. Your Kepa brought him everyday to have a 'check up'."

"Daddy... that is still so lame," Rhaella whispered, in awe of how dorky her father is. Val is hiding herself in shame.

"Got her to accept my apology, and say yes to a date, you two should be grateful," Aemond said smugly.

"Why, mom?"

"Well, he was handsome for one." You snorted at his smirk. "He was sweet for another, explaining he just panicked, and I could understand that. Also he groveled for a long, long while."

"Even after the first date?" Val asked, eyes owlish.

You smirked. "Oh, definitely."

"I did deserve it."

"You did."

He smirked. "But I charmed you anyway."

You rolled your eyes. "You did."

"Come and give me a kiss, my love."

"Ewwww!"

[darkdevasofdestruction]

She Hates Yellow ~ Sandor Clegane x Stark!Reader

What a festive day this was - Most of the Stark children thought, dressing in their best clothes, and the girls having their hair done all pretty. Their parents were nervous for what was to come, and though few new the truth behind the King and the whole retinue, including the Royal Family coming all the way up North, via the King’s Road, Y/N knew as well. Catelyn Stark found it atrocious - Entrusting Y/N, their oldest child, with such vital secrets… Who knew what could happen? However, Ned was more lax in his parenting choices, and with his first child especially, he personally saw to her training and knew they were so much alike in their thinking and their high justice values. He was happy that he didn’t take after him in looks, however - Her hair was long and beautiful, a beautiful shade of red that outshined both Cat and he’d even dare say Sansa as well, whose hair shone like copper in the light. Y/N’s was unique, a dark red that almost looked like the blood moon on a crimson night.

He valued how silent she was, but when she spoke, only wisdom was heard. Though she did not care for the obvious lady mannerisms, she insisted that she picks about every skill that she could learn, saying that it may come of use, in some way. Ned sometimes wondered if he’s so biased because she is his firstborn, or because she was special. For him, she was. For Catelyn, Bran was the favourite child, without a doubt. He felt awful, admitting to having a favourite child, but her and Arya reminded him so much of Lyanna that he couldn’t help but cherish them so deeply and indulge in whatever passions they had.

Perhaps, this overprotective love comes for guilt - His little girl had married a Lord, only to immediately take her away from there, as soon as he found out how awfully he treated her. He did not believe in divorce - It was great shame - But also would not stand for having his child mistreated by some stranger.

Keep reading

[ichorai]

i’m not made by design ; jaime lannister.

track seven of BROKEN MACHINE.  

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 47.8k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/violence/murder/injury/blood, attempted sexual assault, this story covers the events from game of thrones s1-4, politicking, incest, talks of sex, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, reader is known as the bitter wolf and is ned’s youngest sibling, bittersweet ending

main masterlist.

You first met Jaime Lannister during the Year of the False Spring, at the Great Tourney of Harrenhal—you had only been ten years of age, still starry-eyed and gentle-of-tongue. Knights, lords, and ladies hailing from all over Westeros were buzzing about the opening feast. Chalices of golden ale, platters of fruit and cheese, and sizzling trays of freshly-roasted meats were splayed out over several long tables.

To your right was your eldest brother, Brandon, biting into a large turkey leg and gingerly offering you a piece when he caught you ogling him. To your left was your sister Lyanna, popping voluminous grapes into her mouth and chattering to your two other brothers, Benjen and Ned, across the table. Her grey eyes were alight with glee, and she tipped her head back to laugh when Benjen made a snarky comment about Ned’s overgrown hair.

You were well into your second serving of glazed lemon cakes when the crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, stood up front. A hush descended upon the crowd when the handsome, silver-haired man brandished a large, golden harp.

Keep reading

[allyium-inserts]

Y’all I’m totally writing a new fanfic for Naruto’s Mother Figure! Reader and I don’t if y’all are prepared for it. It’s gonna be set in Shippuden…. Potential angst little fluff but I’m not sure when it will be out

[allyium-inserts]

I’m a big Ted Lasso fan and with the last episode coming out, I have my theory of how it will go.

First I think the opening and ending will start with an epilogue of the beginning and ending of Trent’s book.

Like it’s starts with something along the “with the arrival of Ted Lasso brought a lot of skepticism and concern to AFC Richmond fans, myself included…”

And then like if Ted does decide to go back to Kansas.. he has a whole moment with the team before the game or at half time where he’s like “I’m so lucky to have this opportunity . I’m so proud of you all…” and

And the ending epilogue and the ending of Trent book would go like “with the conclusion of the season, it is noticeable that Ted Lasso has had quite the impact on not only the players of AFC Richmond, but every person he meets. Although it is a shame to see him go, the lasso way has been imbedded into Richmond for a long time…”

I’m hyped for the last episode, but I’m not sure if I’m prepared!

[allyium-inserts]

So I have a partial draft of in only part 2 where I went a slightly different direction. I’m debating on posting it as an alternative narrative, but it would be complete. It’s just what I have as a draft

Do I post?

Yes

No

Or just the results ( imma post it anyways options)

Voting ended onMay 16, 2023

[mrsackxrman-deactivated20230717]

Tumblr is so funny because one incoherent horny thought about your f/o you post at 3 am gets you hundreds of notes and the fic you sweat literal blood to craft gets you four likes, if you're lucky

[allyium-inserts]

If Only... Part 2

Based on Naruto Shippuden. Has canon-level violence and death. Mentions of pregnancy. Very fluffy and angsty. I try to follow the Shippuden storyline as best as I can. There will probably be grammar mistakes. Sorry, it took so long, I’m a senior in college so I’m just trying to graduate right now!

Find Part one here!

At this point no one knows of your relationship with Itachi except for the Akatsuki, only Jiraiya knows that’s because he was gaining intel on the Akatsuki and found out that way. But I know for a fact Tsunade has Anbu watch over your cottage. And that Anbu is Tenzo/ Yamato and you both have a deal to not tell your mother who visits and only steps in when you are in danger (even though you can handle yourself)

The only reason the Akatsuki knows about your relationship is because of Kisame’s slip up and that one-time Hidan tried to get in your pants and when you brought it up to Itachi. Itachi was not happy, and it is safe to say that Hidan will never mess with you or Itachi again. At least not in Itachi’s presence

Although you two are not officially married, he has slipped up and called you his wife when talking to Kisame about you. And Kisame never lets him live that down. And you have slipped up by saying my husband when talking to Sakura or Shizune. And they are so confused because they don’t even know you are seeing someone. I mean Sakura totally thinks you are from that one time, but she couldn't confirm it. 

When Jiraiya and Naruto leave to train, you totally leave with them to travel again cuz you’ve missed traveling around the land and being able to help other people. When Jiraiya almost gets killed by Naruto, you are the one who saves his life. He is very much in debt to you at this point. One Senju almost killed him, while another practically saved him.

But you three diverge and you continue to do your own thing. And while traveling you meet Hidan and Kakazu a lot considering how much Kakazu tries to kill Hidan. Hidan likes to call you his little nurse, but only when Itachi isn’t around because the last time he did. He wished he wasn’t immortal. 

While traveling, Itachi visits and you bring up starting a family because you know for a fact that Itachi to you is like Dan was to Tsunade. Plus, it doesn’t help that both you and Itachi have a feeling that Sasuke will come after him soon. You both go into this long discussion about having children and even though you are both extremely young. You are ready and fully prepared to raise a child on your own.

Itachi would love to have a child with you, and nothing would make him happier than starting a family with someone. Especially after being alone for so long and thinking that he did not deserve love at all. He doesn’t even think he deserves to have the privilege of being a father let own being with you.

You understand his stance and wouldn’t push any further, but he wouldn’t mind trying and if you were to get pregnant then you do and if not, you don’t.

“My Love, after everything I did. You would want to give me that honor?” 

“Of course, Itachi, no matter what happened in the past, you deserve to have a family.”

That absolutely melts him, and he does not understand how he is constantly falling deeper and deeper in love with you because each time he falls and doesn't think he can fall deeper. After this conversation, you both would continue to talk about baby names. And decided that if you were to have a daughter, name her Mikoto after Itachi’s mother. For a boy, you would name him after your late uncle Nawaki. 

During your travels you hear about the civil war in the Land of Rain, so you head that way to provide medical aid to injured civilians and ninja if need be. Getting into the Land of Rain is extremely difficult to begin with, but because you are an “asset” to the Akatsuki, you can get in easily. Although when you tell Pain that you are going to provide for both sides, he was not happy, but killing you would cause him more issues than he needed now, especially since they are preparing their move. 

The people in their Hidden Village often called you The Priestess, which was a name you haven’t heard since you met Itachi all those years ago. During the Civil War, Hanzo had put a few attempts on your life, which did not work. Except there was a very close call where an injured ninja had arrived at your tent. The injuries were serious, so you used a lot of chakras and by the time you were done you were exhausted. In your state of exhaustion, you didn’t realize the ninja had gotten up and threw a kunai through your stomach. When you looked back, he was already dead, and Itachi was standing over his body. You pull the kunai out of your stomach before you start to cough up a lot of blood.

At this point you were bleeding out and your chakra was almost completely depleted. Although your mother had taught you about the Seal of 100 hundreds healing and how to accumulate the chakra. You never truly unlocked it, and you have been accumulating chakra since you were 15. 

Suddenly you feel the wound disappearing and your chakra regenerating quicker than normal.  By the time Itachi moves to you, your stomach wound is practically closed and just blood covers that portion of your shirt. His heart literally dropped when he saw the kunai in your stomach. He literally could not lose you, the only person in his life that showed him what it was like to love again. In his mind, he will always be the one to die first, after all Sasuke is getting stronger.

“Please don’t leave me yet.”

After your near-death experience, you leave the land of rain and begin to head back to Konoha. During your travels, you run into Jiraiya and Naruto. The first thing you do is check on Jiraiya’s wound and ask how the training is going. 

You finally arrive in Konoha and the first thing you do is head back to your cottage near the Nara Forest. To your own surprise, Tsunade, Shizune, Sakura, and Tenzo have kept your home clean and neat. 

On your walk to the village, the first person to recognize you is Sakura, who was picking medical herbs right outside the village. The first thing she noticed was your forehead seal. Her eyes literally lit up and asked about the seal. You answered any questions she had while you both walked into the village straight to the hokage’s office to talk to your mother.

When you arrive at the office, Tsunade is doing paperwork with Shizune. She stops her paperwork to give you a large hug, much like when you initially arrived in Konoha. You talk and discuss your travels as well as how you unlocked your Seal of 100 Healings.

During this time, you have started to help at the Hidden Leaf Hospital. You also grow close to the Nara family, cuz after all you are one of the few people allowed in the forest. You rarely see Itachi at all until about a week before Naruto arrives. 

You are hanging out in your home, cleaning up and getting ready to leave into the forest to collect medical herbs to use. A knock at your door causes you to stop what you are doing and at the door is Itachi. You smile widely because you haven’t seen him in a while and let him in. 

During his visit, he tells you that the Akatsuki are starting their plan and probably will not see him very much or at all until the plan is complete. You nod your head and ask how long he will be staying. And ofc it’s not long but he promised to make the most of it. Because after all you both have a feeling that you wouldn’t see each other again. 

So, his entire visit you guys do nothing but whisper sweet nothings and make love to each other, because after all of this is the last time, you might see Itachi. 

Before he leaves you to try to heal his eyesight, but he denies you and that makes that gut feeling even worse. 

“Please come back to me.”

“I can’t promise that my love.”

The next week, Naruto returns to the village with Jiraiya after training for so long. Once Jiraiya hands Naruto off to Kakashi, he asks you to meet for tea. You meet up with him and discuss his intel on the Akatsuki and want it to mean for you as an “honorary” member of Akatsuki. You refuse to break the confidentiality between Itachi and yourself, so you only listen and don’t tell anything specific other than their plan is starting soon, but don’t know when. With that, you leave some Ryo and leave.  

You don’t hear from any of the Akatsuki until you are talking to a Nara member in the village and a gray piece of paper lands in your hand as a message from Konan. You politely dismiss yourself from the Nara member and head straight to your cottage to prepare a first aid bag. As you leave the cottage, you are met with Tobi, which teleports you to the hideout.

Once you arrive at the hideout, you are met with an extremely injured Deidara, a dead Sasori, and fellow Akatsuki members. You instantly go to work on Deidara and heal him as best as you can. You practically exhaust yourself healing Deidara and nearly pass out from chakra depletion. After like 6 hours of healing, you have healed Deidara the best you could. 

You continue with your life until one day you go to Sakura because you were feeling under the weather. It had been about three weeks since you saw Itachi. As a healing ninja, you had an idea about what was causing the illness. When she confirmed your suspicions, you told her to not tell anyone, not even your mother. 

You heard talk around the village about Akatsuki in the area. You ignore the information and go to the closest collection office to collect some blood and resources. Although technically working with Konoha is a way. While being a mercenary any blood or organs you needed you would go to the collection offices and buy them. Just as you arrived you ran into Shikamaru and his crew. When he asked what you were doing here you brought up how when you were traveling you often used collection offices to get blood and organs. What you weren’t expecting was that Hidan was sitting on the stoop of the office. 

As soon as you walked past, Hidan perked up and was like “Are you to heal me, my little nurse” with that smirk on his face. You simply replied with, “don’t let you know who hear that” and his face paled slightly until he looked behind you. You just walked in and started talking to Kakazu and the Head person about the recent arrivals and cost and stuff. 

Cue the fight scene where Asuma is dying. 

You felt bad about Asuma and how Ino was trying to help him, she looked at you pleadingly as a cue to help her.

“Why are you just standing there? HELP US!”

“He’s already dead Ino.” 

The shock in her eyes as you said that and the anger behind them was something you haven’t seen since the Civil War in the Hidden Rain Village. You felt guilty but she will learn when to stop trying like you did.

“How long have you been working with Akatsuki?”

You didn’t answer at all. You didn’t have to tell Shikamaru how you met them randomly and then fell in love with Kin slayer and is pregnant with his child. You didn’t have to explain how we were practically a mercenary, so it wasn’t uncommon to run into ting. Everyone looked at you in shock and betrayal. 

You simply returned to your cottage and prepared for a transplant that you needed to complete to help a traveling merchant. 

You had been requested by your mother to report to the Hokage’s office, regarding the issue. You wanted to ignore it, but her mother’s ignorance of the situation has gone on too long and now we both needed to answer it. 

As soon as you arrived you heard the screaming from Shikamaru, Ino, and Choji about the situation. They wanted answers and you didn’t blame them. As soon as you walked into the office you and your mother exchanged a look and you sighed. 

“You want answers, here are the answer.”

You explained to them about how you were a traveling healer and that you had run into Itachi and Kisame by chance. And how it wasn’t uncommon to see rogue ninja on the road, and since you weren’t one for affiliations, you healed whoever regardless how terrible they were. You told them everything except your relationship with Itachi and that you were pregnant. After that whole debacle, they were of course still angry for letting Asuma die and the whole situation. You chose to not go to the funeral. 

Cue the Itachi pursuit mission and here’s where it gets angsty…

At this point you are like 2 months pregnant, and slightly showing.

So, when you hear about the mission you of course decide to join regardless of what your mother says, and the people involved are confused until your mother explains to them my connection to Akatsuki and your close relation to Itachi. She didn’t go into detail about our relationship but said it would be helpful. 

Jiraiya and I made eye contact, and you really had a bad feeling about this, and you knew that you had to go regardless of the protest. Tenzo would back you up in going but Sakura was nervous for your child.

During the mission you are stuck with Sakura and the two ninja dogs. Until there was a bright explosion, that captivated us. You instantly start running that way cuz you knew you had to, there was a feeling. After that investigation, you continued with the group until Tobi popped up, you knew why he was there and why there was this pit in your stomach. 

“Tobi, let me through!”

“Tobi only will let Ms. (Y/N) because she gives Tobi candy.”

With that you pushed through unconcerned with the yelling behind and the confusion. Tenzo knew why you had to move forward.  I ran until I caught up with Kisame and Sasuke's crew. You were already crying knowing the outcome today will have, but you just needed to see him. 

“Kisame please… you know I need to see him.”

“You of all people should know why I can’t let you through.”

I’m the last part of the fight. You pushed through Kisame and ran Itachi, the dehydration didn’t matter, the cold numbing your body didn’t matter, and the rawness in your eyes did not matter. All that mattered was Itachi and seeing him alive and telling him about your child. So, he can die knowing about the miracle you two have talked about.

As soon as you arrived at the scene, a scream ripped from your lips, and you stumbled down the rocky surface to meet Itachi. You ignored the stunned boy and instantly fell to the ground, grasping Itachi in your hands. You started healing him in desperation to see his eyes again, to see the love they carry. 

 “Please don’t leave me, please! I can’t live without you, Itachi. I can’t… I can’t raise her by myself!” You sobbed loudly as Tobi, Kisame, and Zenstu appear in front of you. You continued to try and heal him as the sob racked from your body, vision blurry with tears unable to comprehend anything around you. “I know I said I was ready to do this by myself, but I c-can’t, please. Please wake up!” Hoping it was genjustu who continued to try and free yourself. You even used your 100 healing seals just so you could see his brown eyes again. You didn’t care that you might be hurting your child, but you just wanted to hear his voice one more time, see his smile one more time. It was too soon for him to go, he still needed to meet his child, he had to meet his child. “We have to take him,” someone said but you couldn’t figure out who, and next thing you know all you are holding his headband to your chest as another loud scream is ripped from your mouth into the air as the Konoha ninja finally reach you. Ignoring their presence, you continue to sob, not caring who sees or hears because, after all the love of your life, the father of your child had just been ripped away from you. Your throat was raw as you finally feel someone put their cloak over you to try and cover your drenched form. The world was a cruel place, and you can think everything is perfect until it all falls apart. All you say, your throat raw from screaming, turning back to them is,

“He’s gone” 

[allyium-inserts]

Y’all I finally finished part two of “If Only” and I don’t think y’all are ready…

[allyium-inserts]

Can I request a mother figure reader and Naruto oneshot? I loved your headcanons. Maybe where the reader is dating Iruka

Here you are! I hope you like this! I am more comfortable making the bullet points, but it was good to leave my comfort zone! Thank you for asking and I'm so glad you enjoyed my headcanons!

Title: Picnic Mayhem Iruka x Mother-Figure! Reader Summary: Naruto has finally return from his three-year training with Jiraiya, but his m