always yours | l.cy
wc: 4.8k | pairing: long distance bf!anton x gf!reader | genre: ANGST, smut | warnings: lots of angst, yearning, and pining, lots of emotions, emotional conversations, emotional make up sex, p in v, unprotected sex
synopsis! this was a request ( @namedinwinter ) where anton is a loving long distance bf to yn, but they're both always yearning for the other. anton never wants to take it further than kissing out of his guilt of not being able to be there like he wants to for yn, but yn thinks the worst of this situation...
the nights always felt longer without him. you lay on your back, phone resting on your chest, watching anton’s face glow faintly on the screen. his hair was a little messy, his eyes half-lidded with fatigue, but he was still smiling at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
“you’re tired,” you said softly, even though your own voice carried exhaustion.
he shook his head. “i just don’t want to hang up yet.”
there was always this small stretch of silence after he said things like that. it wasn’t heavy or awkward, just full of something unspoken—the wanting that hung between you both. you loved him, he loved you, and yet the miles between you pressed against your chest like a weight you couldn’t push off.
he told you about his day, small things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else: what he ate for lunch, the way the rain hit the practice room windows, the joke one of his friends made that he wished you had been there to laugh at too. you listened to every word like you were collecting them, storing them away for the nights you wouldn’t have him at all.
but even as you smiled, you felt that familiar hollow ache. love wasn’t the problem. the distance was. the way your bed always stayed cold on his side, the way you held your phone instead of his hand, the way you had to imagine his arms around you when you fell asleep.
he didn’t notice the way your smile faltered, too busy fighting sleep, eyes fluttering closed before he snapped them open again to look at you. “don’t go yet,” he mumbled, like a child refusing bedtime.
“i’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.
and you meant it. but the thought still pressed at the edges of your mind—how long could you really keep this up? how many more nights of distance, of phone screens instead of skin?
the melancholy lingered, quiet but steady, as you listened to his breathing on the other end. sometimes you closed your eyes and pretended he was beside you, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss. and when he finally was—when distance gave you a brief reprieve—the moments were fleeting, fragile things you tried to hold onto.
anton kissed you until his chest ached. your hands were clutching at his shirt, warm against his skin, and for a second, he thought he might lose himself in you completely.
but then the familiar weight settled in. the reminder that he wasn’t here enough, that he was about to leave again, that you spent more time waiting for him than actually with him.
anton pulled back, breath shaky, and forced a small smile. “sorry,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along your cheek as if he could erase the disappointment before it formed.
you only nodded, resting your head against his shoulder. you didn’t say it, but anton felt the tension in your body—the way you had been ready for more, the way you would never ask for it.
later, lying in bed beside you, he stared at the ceiling instead of sleeping. your breathing was steady, soft against his chest, but his thoughts spun relentlessly.
anton wanted you. he always did. every time he looked at you, his chest ached with it, a need that went beyond anything physical. but it felt selfish to ask for more when he already gave you so little.
anton thought about the nights you spent alone, holding a phone instead of him. he thought about the time he wasted in airports, in practice rooms, in hotel beds miles away from your warmth. what kind of boyfriend was he? what kind of man?
anton’s hand twitched where it rested on your arm, wanting to pull you closer, to give in. but his guilt stopped him. he had already taken so much from you—your patience, time, your constant reassurance that distance didn’t matter. he didn't deserve to take more.
so anton kissed the top of your head instead, as if that would be enough, and shut his eyes.
you would never know how often he lay awake like this, staring into the dark and wishing he were different. wishing he wasn’t the boy who left you behind more often than he held you. wishing he could be brave enough to tell you how much he needed you, in every way.
but instead, anton told himself the same lie he always did: that holding back was better. that not asking too much of you was a kind of love too.
still, the ache in anton’s chest didn’t ease. it only grew heavier, settling deep into him, until sleep finally took him under.
you watch him on the screen, the glow of his lamp casting soft shadows across his face, and for a moment, the ache in your chest dulls. you lean closer, resting your elbow on the bed and your chin in your palm, smiling at him like it’s nothing, though your heart is pounding.
“i got something,” you say, holding up a small, delicate package. his eyes flicker with curiosity. “you’re going to like it.”
he smiles, a little tight, a little hesitant. “oh?”
you pull it out slowly, letting him see the shape, teasing just enough to make him lean forward. “but… i haven’t tried it on yet. i want you to see it first.” your voice is softer now, and a quiet thrill coils through you at the thought of his reaction.
anton freezes. his cheeks flush pink, eyes widening just slightly, and he opens his mouth, then closes it again, fumbling for words. your pulse quickens—exactly what you wanted—but there’s also that tiny shadow at the edges of it, that hesitation that always lingers.
“you… you mean, now?” he stammers finally, his voice low, almost breathless.
you bite your lip, trying to keep your tone playful, but the tremor in your chest betrays you. “well… not really now,” you say, letting your words hover. “soon. just… imagine it, okay? imagine me in it, for you.”
his hands curl into fists at the edge of the desk, knuckles white, and his throat moves as he swallows. “i… i do,” he murmurs, barely audible, and then his gaze drops. the flush in his ears deepens, and he glances away, like he can’t meet you head-on.
you laugh softly, a little breathless, trying to shake off the disappointment crawling through you. it was supposed to be fun, meant to draw him out, make him want you like you wanted him. but instead… it’s a timid reaction, careful, restrained, and it leaves a hollow ache in your chest that mirrors the distance you feel even now.
he’s blushing, he’s flustered, he’s clearly affected by you. but it isn’t enough. it’s never quite enough, and your mind spins with the same persistent doubt: does he miss you the way you miss him? does he want you as much as you want him?
“anton?” you ask softly, tilting your head. he meets your eyes for a moment, and the sight of him—shy, vulnerable, longing—should be enough. but your chest tightens, and the melancholy hums through you like a song you can’t remember the lyrics to.
“yeah?” he whispers, voice tentative, fragile.
“i just… i can’t wait to see you,” you say, trying to hide the edge of longing that sharpens the words. “soon.”
he nods, swallow hard. his lips twitch into the ghost of a smile, but his eyes carry the weight of everything unspoken—the guilt, the restraint, the fear that he’ll never be enough for you.
you end the call soon after, leaving the screen dark, the room quiet. you lie back against the pillow and let your hands fall to your sides, thinking about how much you want him, how much you ache for him, and how sometimes, even love isn’t enough to fill the distance.
and somewhere, miles away, anton stares at the ceiling again, restless, wishing he could close the space between you—if only for a night, if only to prove you that he does, in fact, want you more than anything.
the memory of the facetime call from last night gnaws at you, sweet and frustrating all at once. the blush on his cheeks, the shy stammering, the way he turned away—it should have been intoxicating, proof of his yearning. but instead it leaves a hollow ache that spreads through your chest, heavy and gray. you wonder if he really misses you, if he wants you the way you want him.
your fingers linger on the set you bought for him, tucked in the drawer. you imagined wearing it for him, imagined the way he might react, imagined the way he might need you as much as you need him. but now, the thought only makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. maybe he wouldn’t feel it the way you do.
so you leave it untouched, slipping it back into the drawer. today he’s coming, and the thought of him makes your chest both ache and constrict, but you don’t want to tempt disappointment. you don’t want to give him anything to misunderstand—or worse, for him to not respond the way your heart hopes he will.
the air smells damp, faintly of asphalt and something distant you can’t quite name. it presses against your skin, heavy and still, as though the world has slowed just enough to hold its breath. the hours stretch, gray and slow, like the rain outside has seeped inside and softened the edges of everything. your mind circles, turning over memories and half-formed fears, until you barely notice the knocks at the door.
he’s there, drenched slightly, the edges of his hair sticking to his forehead, eyes bright with something you can’t immediately read. he smells like rain and him, and it makes your chest ache.
“i missed you so much,” he says, closing the distance in one quick step and wrapping you in his arms. you feel the warmth, the pressure, the desperation in the hug—everything you’ve been craving for weeks.
but something in you hesitates. you stay still, letting him hold you, but you don’t curl into him like you always do. you keep your hands at your sides, and when he tightens his hold, it only makes the hollow ache in your chest feel heavier.
“i missed you too,” you say softly, and the words feel small, almost empty, even as your throat tightens. you close the door behind him slowly, the dampness of the apartment curling around both of you like a muted fog. the familiar scent of rain clinging to his coat, mingling with his cologne, should feel comforting—and yet it only reminds you how far apart you’ve been, how much space still exists between the two of you even when he’s finally here.
normally, you would move with him into the bedroom, brushing around his bags, sliding behind him to wrap your arms around him from behind as he set them down. the gesture was automatic, comforting, a rhythm you shared without thought. today, though, you linger in the doorway, your fingers pressed lightly against the frame, anchoring yourself. you feel unsteady, as if stepping fully toward him might collapse something fragile inside you.
anton’s steps slow as he notices your hesitation. his eyes search yours, cautious and gentle, tracing the tension in your shoulders, the subtle stiffness in your posture. the apartment is quiet, save for the distant patter of rain on the windows, and in that quiet, the air between you feels almost tangible—heavy, hesitant, as if it could solidify into something unmovable if either of you made the wrong gesture.
he tilts his head slightly, a question forming in his eyes, but it remains unspoken, hovering in the gray light. he takes a careful step closer, measuring, as if approaching too fast might shatter the fragile calm you both cling to.
you inhale shakily, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to steady your racing heart. the weight of your uncertainty presses down like a quiet storm, and your chest aches in the way it always does when longing collides with doubt.
when you finally open your eyes, anton is fully turned toward you, his expression a mixture of longing and worry, soft and hesitant. the concern in his gaze digs into you, and your chest tightens even more, because you know he can sense that something is off—that the gray tension is yours and his fault all at once.
he doesn’t speak yet, doesn’t step closer, but the quiet intensity of him there, waiting for you to bridge the gap, makes your breath catch. the room feels suspended, holding its breath with you both, waiting for the first word, the first move, to break the silence.
you take a shaky breath, and for a moment the silence stretches between you like a living thing. anton shifts slightly, hands hanging at his sides, eyes never leaving yours. the rain outside drums softly against the windows, a rhythm that seems to echo the tight, anxious beat of your heart.
“i… i think we should take a break,” you whisper, barely audible even to yourself. the words feel foreign on your tongue, heavy and wet, like something you shouldn’t be saying. you keep your eyes closed, hoping that somehow they’ll carry less weight if you can’t see his reaction.
anton freezes, and the shift in him is immediate. his chest tightens, and you can see the moment his mind races, trying to catch the meaning behind your words before it lands fully. the weight of fear settles in his gaze, that same fear he’s always carried—that he’s not enough, that he’s failing you even when he’s trying his hardest.
“why?” his voice cracks, small, fragile, desperate. “is it something i did?”
you hear the tremor, and it twists something deeper in your chest. your eyelids flutter, but you keep them closed, letting the tears come freely now. you can’t stop them. the dam you’ve been holding back for weeks breaks at once, spilling everything you’ve been holding inside.
“do… do you not love me anymore?” he asks, voice shaking as he steps closer, reaching for you but hesitating. every movement is careful, hesitant, as though the wrong gesture might push you farther away instead of closer.
you shake your head, letting the tears fall freely. “no,” you whisper through sobs, voice cracking. “i love you so much. i love you more than anything.”
but saying it doesn’t stop the ache. it doesn’t erase the fear you’ve carried: the gnawing thought that he doesn’t feel it as fiercely as you do, the quiet doubt that maybe his love isn’t enough to keep you whole across the distance.
anton’s hand brushes yours, tentative, almost as if testing whether you’ll pull away. when you don’t, he moves it gently, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking along the curve as he leans in slightly. his own tears streak down his face now, unrestrained, betraying the guilt that’s been his constant companion—the fear that he’s a bad boyfriend, that he’s not giving you enough of himself.
“then… what’s the matter?” he whispers, voice raw and urgent. “what’s wrong? how can i fix this?”
you tilt your head into his touch, pressing your palm against his chest as if to anchor yourself. your tears soak his shirt, but you don’t care. you can’t stop the sobs, can’t stop the tightness in your chest. “it’s… it’s the distance. and… i think about… about you holding back, about how you never… never take more of me when you could. and it makes me feel like… like you don’t want me the way i want you.”
anton’s lips part, and he shakes his head, his own chest trembling. “no,” he says quickly, almost desperate. “i… i do. i want you. more than anything. i just… i think i’m not… good enough. i think i’m taking too much from you already, and i…” he swallows hard, voice catching. “…i don’t want to hurt you.”
the words cut through the gray tension, sharp but honest, and you press your forehead to his chest, letting your body lean into him as your walls crumble completely. he wraps his arms around you tightly, as though he can physically hold the ache away, and you cling to him just as fiercely.
“i don’t want you to think i don’t want you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your hair. “i need you… more than anything.”
you let out a shaky laugh between sobs, burying your face against him. “then… then don’t hold back anymore,” you whisper. “please.”
you feel him tilt his head down, brushing his lips against the top of your hair, over your temple, down your cheek. every touch is deliberate, hesitant, like he’s memorizing you all over again, imprinting you into his memory after months apart. your fingers tighten in his hair, nails grazing the scalp, anchoring yourself to him, to this fragile, trembling reality.
he shifts slightly, hands sliding down to your waist, holding you close but careful, almost afraid to claim more than what you’ve given willingly. and in that carefulness, in that restraint, the ache in your chest twists—a mixture of longing, frustration, and relief. relief that he’s here, frustration that he can’t let go entirely, longing that makes your lips tremble as you press them into his chest.
“i’ve missed this,” he murmurs, voice low, almost broken. “i’ve missed you. all of you.”
you tilt your head up to look at him, tears still clinging to your lashes, and the sight of him—flushed, hair damp from the rain, eyes shimmering with the same grief and need that lives in your own chest—makes your heart squeeze painfully. “i’ve missed you too,” you whisper, but the words feel like they’ll never capture the depth of everything inside you.
he presses his forehead to yours, breath mingling, and finally, you feel the first thread of permission to let go. his hands move just a little lower, fingertips tracing over the curve of your hips, tentative but intentional, as if asking for consent in every movement. you nod slightly, leaning into him, giving yourself entirely to the moment, to the warmth, to the ache dissolving in the closeness.
the gray stillness of the apartment—the damp, the rain, the lingering hesitation—begins to soften around you. your lips brush his again, this time slower, deeper, tasting the months apart, tasting relief and need and love all at once. his hands move with growing confidence now, gathering you closer, and you let out a soft moan, the sound trembling and raw, echoing the release that’s been building inside for weeks.
he lifts you gently, pressing your body against his, and you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him carry you toward the bed. each step is heavy with desire and tenderness, each movement a careful balancing act between restraint and urgency. you feel the tremor in his chest through your palms, and it mirrors your own heartbeat, rapid and uneven.
when he finally lays you down, hovering above you, the grayness that clung to the edges of the room still hums softly in the background, but it no longer presses in. the rain’s patter against the windows becomes a rhythm, a quiet accompaniment to the intimacy unraveling between you.
his lips meet yours again, more urgently this time, and you let yourself answer in kind. hands trace arms, shoulders, and finally the curve of his back, memorizing, claiming, giving in. the months of longing, the ache of distance, the quiet doubts—they all melt into this single, trembling closeness.
and as he holds you, as you press into him, you realize that even through distance, through restraint, through everything that felt gray and heavy, the tether between you hasn’t broken. it’s stronger, rawer, and now tangible, warming the spaces that have felt cold for too long.
you let out a shuddering sigh, forehead pressed to his chest again, and in that quiet, intimate heartbeat, you understand: even across miles, even across months of restraint, even across gray hesitation, the two of you are still here, still aching for one another, still irrevocably tethered.
anton hovers above you, eyes dark, lips slightly parted, hands trembling even as they hover near your shoulders. the weight of longing in him makes your chest tighten; you can feel how badly he wants you, and it makes your own need flare sharper.
slowly, deliberately, you let your fingers trace the line of his jaw, tilt his head toward you. “anton,” you whisper, voice husky, “please…”
he nods, barely, as if your permission is a tether keeping him from collapsing under the weight of desire. his hands move cautiously, but each motion is filled with reverence. he slides the straps of your top down your shoulders, lingering on the warmth of your skin, pausing to press a feather-light kiss where the fabric falls away. every motion is careful, almost worshipful, as if he’s memorizing you in fragments before he can claim you fully.
you shiver under his touch, letting him guide you, letting the slow unraveling of clothing be part of the surrender. when your bra falls away, his hands cup you gently, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin, and you arch into him, letting out a soft breathless sound. your fingers thread into his hair, tangling slightly, anchoring yourself to him as he leans closer.
anton hesitates for a heartbeat, glancing down at you, lips pressed together in that familiar mixture of shyness and want. then, slowly, he lifts his own shirt over his head, revealing the taut lines of his abdomen, the muscles you’ve memorized from pictures and fleeting glimpses. instinctively, your hand slides down over him, tracing the curve of his stomach, feeling him in a way that has nothing to do with distance or hesitation.
his lips find your bare chest, soft and reverent at first, and you tilt your head back, fingers threading through his hair as your other hand roams across his back, over the ridges of muscle, pressing, tracing, squeezing gently at his biceps. he moans softly into you, shaky, the sound vibrating through your chest. every tremor in him echoes the same tremor you feel in yourself.
“i’ve wanted this,” he murmurs against your skin, voice breaking, “so much… you don’t know…”
you grip his shoulders lightly, drawing him closer, letting him feel the weight of your need as clearly as he feels his own. your lips brush against his jaw, your forehead against his temple, and every sigh, every touch, every whispered word carries the months of distance, the quiet ache, the longing that neither of you could release until now.
his hands roam, slow and deliberate, memorizing the feel of you, mapping every curve, every hollow, every tremble that answers him in kind. the intimacy is slow, deliberate—more than desire, more than lust. it is confession, release, recognition of the ache you’ve carried apart from each other, now surrendered entirely in the quiet gray room.
you tilt your head back again as he kisses up your torso, letting your hands trail down his back, squeezing gently at the breadth of his shoulders, the strength you’ve imagined in your solitude, now tangible beneath your touch. he trembles against you, shivering, and you let your own body mirror him, fingers tracing the muscles, hands clenching, soft gasps breaking past your lips.
your hand drifts down, brushing against his, and you guide him deliberately, pressing his fingers where you need him most. your voice is soft, tremulous, carrying all the ache you’ve been holding back. “it’s all for you,” you whisper, “everything… for you.”
his groan vibrates against your chest, low and raw, and you feel the heat of him pressing against you. your hand traces over the outline of his length through his pants, feeling the undeniable hardness, the proof of how badly he wants you, how badly he’s needed you all along.
“you can go ahead,” you coo, breathless, tilting your head to meet his gaze. your lips curve into a small, shaky smile, and your voice softens, coaxing: “i’ve been ready for you.”
his eyes darken, longing and relief mingling, and he doesn’t hesitate. the slow, deliberate care in which he moves mirrors everything you’ve been waiting for—every restrained touch, every shared moment of absence now unleashed in full.
when he enters you, it’s slow and careful. each movement is deliberate, almost sacred, giving both of you time to adjust, to feel, to acknowledge the months of longing, the ache of absence, and the quiet hunger that has been building between you.
“i… i love you,” he murmurs, breathless, voice breaking slightly as he moves. “so much. i’m sorry i’ve made you wait.”
your chest tightens, and you tilt your head up to press your lips against his shoulder. “i love you too,” you whisper back, voice trembling. “i’m yours… forever.”
he groans softly, and the sound vibrates through both of you. “forever… i’ve wanted this forever,” he says, each word heavy with need and confession.
you wrap your arms around his neck, legs curling instinctively around him, anchoring yourself to him, letting him feel your need just as clearly as you feel his. “anton… i’m yours too,” you murmur into the crook of his neck. “all of me. always.”
his hands move along your body, slow and reverent, memorizing the curves and hollows, every inch, every shiver and sigh. “you’re mine,” he whispers, pressing you closer.
you tremble under his touch, letting out soft moans that mix with the wet sound of him moving inside you. “i forgive you,” you say, voice shaky but certain. his lips press against your shoulder, nuzzling, and he groans again. your hands thread through his hair, down his back, clutching at him as if you could anchor yourself entirely in him, letting go of everything that has kept you restrained.
and when he finally collapses against you, forehead pressed to yours, arms wrapped tightly, both of you shivering and spent, the gray has finally lifted. only warmth remains—tethered warmth, solid and real, the proof that even distance, restraint, and longing could never diminish the bond between you.
the rain has softened outside, the patter against the windows now a gentle rhythm, a background to the warmth that fills the apartment. anton lies beside you, one arm draped over your waist, the other tangled in your hair, holding you close as if he’s afraid you might slip away again.
you nuzzle against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and a soft laugh escapes you. “you’re warm,” you murmur, voice still husky from everything, “and heavy… and perfect.”
anton groans, pretending to scowl, but the corners of his mouth twitch into a grin. “and yours,” he teases, fingers brushing along your back. “always yours, right?”
“always,” you whisper, smiling into him, tilting your head up to press your lips to his collarbone. “my toni,” you murmur softly, a playful lilt in your tone that makes his chest tighten in delight.
“hey,” he chuckles, lifting his head just enough to look down at you, eyes glittering. “did you just call me that? your toni?”
you nod, biting your lip slightly, eyes sparkling. “yeah… i like it. sounds cute, don’t you think?”
anton shakes his head, laughing softly, shaking off the intensity of the earlier moments. “cute,” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing. “cute and mine.” he presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek. “so… can i see you in that new set later?”
your cheeks flush at the mention, and you nuzzle against him again, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants playfully. “maybe,” you whisper, voice teasing. “but only if you promise to behave until then.”
he pretends to gasp, mock-offended, before pulling you closer. “behave? me? impossible,” he murmurs, voice low, warm, teasing. “but… i can try… for you.”
you laugh softly, curling against him, letting your fingers trace idle patterns along his chest and shoulders. “i think you’ll try really hard,” you tease, “and then probably fail spectacularly.”
anton presses a soft kiss to your forehead, humming against your hair. he brushes a strand of hair from your face, voice soft, teasing, and full of affection. “you know, toni’s very happy you’re here. and he can’t wait to see more of you later…”
you giggle, rolling your eyes playfully, “you mean toni can’t wait to get into trouble with me?”
“exactly,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your temple, pulling you impossibly close. “but only with you. always only with you.”
riize m.list
a/n! hii i hope you enjoyed this angsty, very romantic, very yearning fic for toni. and thank u for the request, it was right up my alley :D
