#nye

It didn’t take long for Bucky to notice something about you. Something subtle, but persistent.

You needed contact.

Not in an obvious, overwhelming way. You weren’t clinging or invasive. It was quieter than that, instinctive. You leaned into people when you laughed, rested your head on someone’s shoulder during movie nights, brushed against others without even thinking about it.

And the strange part?

No one seemed to mind.

Natasha would casually move closer to you, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Tony didn’t even react when you rested your head against him, just kept talking or watching whatever was on screen. Steve had simply shrugged when Bucky pointed it out.

“It grounds her,” he had said.

Bucky didn’t understand that.

Not at first.

He had spent seventy years learning the opposite, that touch meant pain, control, punishment. That it was something to fear, to avoid, to endure.

Even now, in a place that was supposed to be safe, he didn’t like it. Not really.

And yet…

You understood.

That was the part that unsettled him the most.

Because you never touched him.

Not once.

You never brushed against him in passing, never stood too close, never reached for him the way you did with the others. And it wasn’t out of fear, he would have recognized that instantly.

It was respect.

You moved around him like someone who knew exactly where the invisible boundaries were. Like someone who understood what it meant to have your body used against you. Like someone who knew that trust wasn’t given, it was earned, slowly.

So you didn’t push.

You just… existed near him.

And you smiled.

Every time he walked into a room, your eyes would find him, and you’d give him that same soft, genuine smile. Never forced. Never hesitant. Just… kind.

At first, he didn’t know what to do with it.

Sometimes he ignored it, not because you had done anything wrong, but because he didn’t understand it. Kindness without an agenda felt foreign. Suspicious, almost.

But you never stopped.

And slowly, something shifted.

After a while, he started nodding back. Small, almost imperceptible acknowledgments.

Then, eventually, a faint smile.

Barely there.

But real.

The first time you touched him, it wasn’t intentional.

It happened on an ordinary evening, during dinner.

The compound was loud, everyone gathered in the dining room, conversations overlapping. You had slipped into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, enjoying the brief quiet.

You thought you were alone.

Lost in your thoughts, you turned around with your glass and walked straight into him.

The impact was solid enough to make you stumble slightly.

“Oh my God,” you blurted out, startled. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.”

Your hand came up instinctively to steady yourself and landed on his metal arm.

You didn’t even notice.

To you, it was nothing. A natural reaction. Normal.

Bucky, on the other hand, went completely still.

“Don’t worry,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter than usual. “I wasn’t very loud either.”

You smiled, a little sheepish, apologizing once more before heading back to the dining room, leaving him alone in the kitchen.

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

His gaze dropped to where your hand had been, like he could still feel the imprint of it.

It hadn’t hurt.

It hadn’t felt wrong.

You hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t treated it like something to be careful of.

You had just… touched him.

Like there was nothing to fear.

And the strangest part?

It didn’t bother him.

Not even a little.

That was when things started to change.

At first, it was subtle enough that neither of you noticed.

You leaned closer when you didn’t hear him properly instead of asking him to repeat himself. Your arms would brush during movie nights, and neither of you pulled away. It just… happened. Naturally.

Comfortably.

Every morning, you made coffee for everyone and at some point, you had learned exactly how he liked his.

He noticed that.

Of course he did.

The first time your fingers brushed when you handed him his cup, he almost pulled away.

The second time, he didn’t.

And then, sometimes… it lingered.

Just for a second longer than necessary.

Always by “accident.”

Bucky didn’t know what to make of it.

Didn’t know what he was feeling.

Something unfamiliar. Something that didn’t fit into any category he understood.

And you, you were completely oblivious.

But the others ?

Oh, they noticed.

They noticed everything.

“Twenty bucks says they kiss within a month.”

“Forty-five says she hugs him without thinking first.”

“Hundred says they’re a couple by the end of the year.”

The bets had started quietly. Casually.

But they were very real.

It was October.

And things were only just getting started.

You and Bucky began learning about each other without ever sitting down and deciding to. It happened in fragments, in instincts, in the kind of details most people overlooked.

He noticed the small sigh that slipped past your lips whenever things started to feel like too much, the kind you tried to hide so no one would make a big deal out of it. He noticed it every single time.

Just like you noticed the way his expression shifted when the noise around him got overwhelming, how his brows would knit together slightly, the crease between them deepening as if the world itself pressed too loudly against him.

You learned the way he scanned every room the moment he walked into it, his gaze instinctively flicking toward exits, corners, anything that could become a threat. And he noticed that you did the exact same thing, just more discreetly.

There were other things, too. Smaller, almost ridiculous details. The way your tongue slipped out slightly when you were focused on something. The way his jaw tightened when he was irritated but chose not to say anything. None of it was ever pointed out. None of it needed to be. It settled between you naturally, like a language only the two of you spoke.

By November, something had changed again, something quieter, but heavier in meaning. Bucky felt safe around you. Not just comfortable. Not just at ease. Safe. It was a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to experience in a very long time, and even now, he didn’t fully understand it. But it was there, undeniable.

One night, Tony decided to throw what he called a “small party,” which, in reality, meant loud music shaking the walls, voices overlapping until they became indistinguishable, and an energy that buzzed too intensely to ignore. Most of the team was drunk, laughter spilling too loudly, movements less controlled. The kind of chaos that filled every corner of the room.

You and Bucky stood apart from it, without ever explicitly deciding to.

You didn’t drink, you never really liked it. And Bucky couldn’t. So the two of you ended up sitting across from each other, not really interacting with the others, not really interacting with each other either. Just… existing in the same space, both too deep in your own thoughts to pretend you were enjoying the party.

Bucky hated environments like this. Ever since HYDRA, loud, unpredictable spaces had a way of putting his entire body on edge, like something bad was just waiting to happen. And you, your day had drained you completely. Every sound felt sharper than it should have, every burst of laughter just a little too loud. You stayed anyway, out of politeness more than anything else, but it was wearing you down.

Then it happened.

A loud bang echoed from the other side of the room.

It was sudden. Violent in the way it cut through everything else.

Both of you flinched instantly, your bodies reacting before your minds had time to process it. Your heads turned toward the noise, hearts jumping in your chests. It didn’t take long to realize it was just Tony and Thor, caught in some ridiculous competition that had clearly escalated too far.

Nothing dangerous.

But the damage was already done.

You let out a slow, controlled sigh, trying to steady yourself, trying to push the tension back down where no one would notice. Across from you, Bucky’s brows were drawn together, his expression tight in that familiar way you had come to recognize.

Your eyes met.

And in that moment, everything was said without a single word.

You tilted your head slightly toward the stairs, the gesture subtle, almost invisible to anyone else. A silent question.

Do you want to get out of here ?

Bucky didn’t hesitate. He gave the smallest nod.

You both stood at the same time, as if it had been planned, moving quietly through the room without drawing attention. No one stopped you. No one even seemed to notice you leaving.

With each step toward the stairs, the noise dulled, the pressure easing just enough to let you breathe again.

When you reached your room, you opened the door without thinking, stepping inside like it was the most natural thing in the world. But behind you, Bucky paused.

It was brief. Almost unnoticeable.

But you saw it.

And, like always, you didn’t push. You didn’t rush him, didn’t turn around to question it. You simply continued moving, giving him the space to decide for himself.

You crossed the room and opened the balcony door, stepping outside into the cool night air. Your hands rested lightly against the railing as you exhaled, this time without trying to hide it. The quiet wrapped around you, soft and immediate, like a shield against everything you had just left behind.

For a second, you were alone.

Then you heard the door.

Bucky stepped out beside you, the hesitation gone, replaced by something steadier. The tension in his shoulders eased almost instantly as the silence settled in.

He had chosen to follow you.

To trust you.

And from that night on, it became something unspoken between you.

A habit. A reflex.

Across crowded rooms, your eyes would find each other, and a simple glance would be enough. Sometimes a small nod. Sometimes, one of you would lean in just slightly, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

“Wanna get out of here ?”

And sometimes, it was Bucky who said it first.

But every time, without fail, you left together.

Trust didn’t come all at once. It never did with him. It was built slowly, piece by piece, in silence more than in words.

At some point, he had stopped tensing when you leaned closer during movie nights. Then, one evening, when exhaustion got the better of you and your head slowly tipped onto his shoulder, he didn’t move away.

He had gone still at first.

Not stiff. Not panicked.

Just… aware.

Aware of your weight against him, of your steady breathing as sleep pulled you under, of how natural it felt despite everything in him that used to reject contact.

And then, after a moment, he let himself relax.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t wake you up. Didn’t even acknowledge it out loud.

He just stayed.

Another time, in a crowded hallway, your shoulders brushed as people moved around you too quickly, too closely. Bucky’s body reacted before his mind did. His hand hovered near your lower back, not quite touching, but close enough to guide you if needed. Close enough to shield you from anyone getting too close.

Protective. Instinctive.

He didn’t even realize he was doing it at first.

And you didn’t comment on it.

That was the thing between you, nothing was ever forced into the open before it was ready. You both let things exist as they were, without questioning them too much.

It was… natural.

So natural, in fact, that neither of you really noticed how much things had changed.

But others did.

Steve was the first one to say something.

It happened one afternoon, quiet and uneventful. Bucky had just come back from training, his movements still carrying that residual tension that never fully left him. You were in the common area, sitting on the couch with a book in your hands, your posture relaxed in a way that always seemed to soften the space around you.

You looked up when Bucky walked in.

And you smiled.

That same soft, genuine smile you always gave him.

Bucky paused for just a second, barely noticeable, before nodding back, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he moved further into the room.

Steve had been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with quiet attention.

He waited until you looked back down at your book before speaking.

“He seems less on edge when you’re around.”

His voice was calm, observational, but there was something warmer beneath it.

You glanced up at him, slightly caught off guard.

Steve’s gaze shifted briefly toward Bucky, who was now moving around the kitchen, quieter than usual, more at ease than he had been earlier.

“I’m glad he has someone to trust other than me,” Steve added.

There was no jealousy in his tone. No hesitation.

Just relief.

Because for the first time in a long time, Bucky wasn’t carrying everything alone anymore.

By the very end of December, nothing had officially happened.

You hadn’t kissed. You hadn’t hugged, not really, not in the way people would define it. And if anyone had asked, you weren’t together.

But you were close.

Closer than either of you realized.

Without noticing when it started, you leaned on Bucky more than you did on anyone else. You were still yourself, you still walked side by side with Natasha, still leaned into others during conversations, still laughed the same way.

But something had shifted.

Your head didn’t find Tony’s shoulder anymore during movie nights.

It found Bucky’s.

In crowded rooms, your hand reached for his arm without thinking, fingers curling lightly around his sleeve as if it had always belonged there. It wasn’t desperate, not even conscious, it was instinctive. Grounding.

And he never pulled away.

Not once.

Bucky, in his own way, mirrored you.

Every time he entered a room, his eyes searched for you first. It became automatic, something he did before even realizing it. And once he found you, something in him settled.

Like he could finally breathe properly.

In crowded spaces, his hand no longer hovered near your lower back.

It rested there.

Light. Careful. Always giving you the option to move away.

But guiding you nonetheless.

Protecting you.

Trust, for him, had always been the hardest thing to give.

And yet, one night, you found him in the kitchen, long after everyone else had gone to sleep.

The lights were dim. The compound was silent.

He was standing there, leaning slightly against the counter, his posture tense in a way that told you everything before he even spoke.

You didn’t ask too many questions.

You never did.

You just stayed.

And somehow, that was enough.

Because that night, he told you.

Not everything. Not all at once. But enough.

Enough about the nightmares. About the things that still haunted him when he closed his eyes. About the memories that didn’t feel like memories, but like something still happening, over and over again.

It wasn’t easy for him.

You could hear it in the pauses, see it in the way his jaw tightened, feel it in the way his voice sometimes dropped too low.

But he trusted you with it.

And you didn’t try to fix it.

You didn’t interrupt.

You didn’t look at him with pity.

You just listened.

And when the silence came back, heavy but not uncomfortable, you stayed right there beside him.

That was enough.

It became… normal, after that.

In the mornings, it wasn’t unusual for someone from the team to walk into the living room and find the two of you asleep together.

You, curled slightly toward him, your head resting on his lap.

Him, slouched back against the couch, one hand absentmindedly tangled in your hair, like even in his sleep he needed to make sure you were still there.

Both of you completely at peace.

It was a quiet kind of closeness. One that didn’t need labels or explanations.

And Steve had been right.

Bucky was calmer around you.

The constant tension in his shoulders had eased, the sharp edge in his gaze softened. He wasn’t as quick to withdraw, not as guarded as he used to be.

But what no one had really expected, was that it went both ways.

Because somehow, in the same quiet, unspoken way, Bucky soothed you, too.

Tony, like every year, had organized New Year’s Eve at the compound.

The living room was overflowing, music blasting, people talking over each other, laughing, dancing, clinking glasses. Strangers mixed with old friends, investors, acquaintances Tony barely remembered inviting. It was too much, too fast, too loud. The kind of chaos that usually would have sent both you and Bucky slipping away within the first hour.

But this time, you stayed.

Not out of obligation, but because you actually wanted to.

You wanted to spend the night with your friends, to feel part of it instead of watching it from the outside. And instead of leaving the moment things became overwhelming, you and Bucky found a rhythm. Small breaks. Quiet pauses. You’d drift into the kitchen for a few minutes of silence, or step out onto the balcony to breathe in the cold air, letting the noise fade just enough to reset. Then you’d return like nothing had happened.

Bucky stayed close the entire night.

Not suffocating. Never that.

Just… there.

Sometimes he’d drift off to talk to Steve, a few steps away, but he always came back to your side without needing to be called. Like it was instinct now. Like you were the anchor he didn’t realize he’d been searching for.

At one point, he tilted his head toward the stairs, a silent suggestion, familiar by now.

You looked at him and smiled, shaking your head.

No.

He rolled his eyes dramatically in response, exaggerated enough to make you laugh under your breath. But there was no real frustration in it. His face was relaxed, his shoulders loose in a way that would’ve been unthinkable months ago.

Then the music shifted.

A song you loved came on, immediately recognizable, immediately yours.

Your face lit up before you even realized it, a wide, unfiltered smile spreading across your lips. It was the kind of expression that made everything around you feel softer just by existing.

Bucky noticed instantly.

Of course he did.

He followed your gaze toward the speakers, then back to you. And something in his expression shifted, not a full smile yet, but the beginning of one. Something warm, faintly amused, almost fond.

Before he could say anything, you were already standing in front of him.

Holding your hand out.

“Wanna dance ?”

You weren’t shy about it. Not hesitant. Just bright-eyed, smiling like the night itself belonged to you.

He blinked once.

Then again.

“No,” he said immediately, because of course he did.

You leaned in slightly, widening your eyes.

“Pleaseeeee, Buck.”

That was new too.

Buck.

Something about the nickname alone almost broke his resistance.

He tried to look unimpressed, he really did, but the corner of his mouth twitched despite him. His gaze dropped to your hand, then back to your face.

You were still waiting. Still smiling. Completely unbothered by his hesitation.

With a long-suffering sigh that fooled absolutely no one, he finally slipped his metal hand into yours.

The moment your fingers closed around his, something in him eased.

He didn’t even think about it.

Didn’t think about his arm. Didn’t think about the crowd. Didn’t think about anything except the fact that you were already pulling him forward.

You led him into the middle of the room where people were dancing, laughter and music blending into a steady pulse. You turned to face him, your hands finding their place naturally at the back of his neck, while his settled carefully at your waist, steady, grounding.

Something from The Beatles filled the room, loud and familiar, wrapping around everything like warmth.

You started to sway first.

Bucky followed.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

At first, he kept his expression carefully neutral, like he was only doing this because you had asked. But the longer you stayed there, smiling up at him, moving with the rhythm without hesitation, the more that act started to slip.

Especially when you laughed.

Especially when you pulled him just a little closer.

He made a point of acting annoyed every time you tried to make him move more, every time you encouraged him like this was some kind of performance. But the truth was in the way his grip stayed steady, in the way he didn’t step back even once.

And in the way he started to enjoy it.

It reminded him of something distant. Faded. A version of himself that used to exist before everything changed, before HYDRA, before silence, before he forgot what it felt like to be just a man in a room instead of a weapon in survival mode.

Dancing with Steve, back in a time that felt almost like someone else’s life.

Except this time was different.

Because this time, he wasn’t looking over his shoulder.

He wasn’t waiting for something to go wrong.

He was just here.

With you.

At some point, he spun you once.

Then again.

And again.

You laughed every time, louder each round, until he was laughing too, quiet at first, then more freely, like something had finally cracked open inside him.

The two of you collided lightly into an older couple at one point, earning a sharp complaint that neither of you fully heard through your laughter.

And for once, neither of you really cared.

Because for a moment, just one long, fleeting moment, the world wasn’t heavy.

It was just music.

Just movement. Just you and him.

“Come on, people! The countdown has begun!” Tony’s voice cut through the music, booming over the crowd as he waved his arms dramatically from somewhere near the center of the living room.

Ten minutes to midnight.

The energy in the compound shifted instantly, louder, brighter, more chaotic. People cheered, laughed, rushed to refill glasses, gather closer together, ready to welcome the new year as if it meant something different from all the others.

You and Bucky lingered for a few more minutes, still caught in the afterglow of dancing. The music had shifted into something less familiar, less alive, and you wrinkled your nose slightly at it like it had personally offended you.

Without much thought, you grabbed Bucky’s hand again and tugged him toward the kitchen.

He followed without resistance.

Not because you pulled hard, but because he let you.

The kitchen was quieter, though not completely. The muffled sound of the countdown and distant music still reached the walls, but it was softer here. Manageable. Breathable.

Seven minutes.

You reached the counter first, grabbing a glass and filling it with cold water, drinking almost immediately like you had forgotten how long you’d been moving, laughing, existing in the noise.

Bucky stayed by the doorway for a moment, watching you.

Just watching.

When you finally set the glass down and leaned back against the counter, you were facing him now. He had stepped further inside without you noticing, but still kept a bit of space between you, comfortable, familiar.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.

It wasn’t awkward.

It never was anymore.

Just quiet.

Then you broke it gently.

“Are you having a good night ?” you asked, voice softer now, like the question belonged in this quieter space.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, as if considering it far more seriously than necessary.

Then, with a lazy shrug and that familiar half-smirk tugging at his mouth, he answered:

“Worst night of my life.”

It came out dry. Teasing. Perfectly timed.

But his eyes gave him away.

Because there was no bite in it. No edge. Only warmth, hidden carefully under the joke, like something too honest to be spoken plainly.

What he meant was something entirely different.

Best night of my life.

But that stayed where it always did, behind his teeth, unspoken, safe.

You rolled your eyes immediately, a smile spreading across your face anyway, effortless and familiar. Like you’d learned how to read him without needing anything more than a tone, a glance, a pause.

“Liar,” you muttered, but there was no real accusation in it.

Only fondness.

Bucky’s smile softened just a little more as he leaned back against the counter, watching you like you were the quietest part of the entire night, and somehow the most important.

Outside the kitchen, the countdown kept building.

But in here, time felt slower. Quieter.

Like it was waiting for something too.

Five minutes.

“You know… I’m glad you ended up here,” you said softly, your voice honest in the way it always was when you weren’t trying to hide anything.

Bucky’s gaze lifted to you immediately, like the words had pulled him out of whatever quiet space he’d been standing in.

“Yeah ?”

“Yeah.” You nodded once, gentle. “You keep me sane.”

Something in his expression softened, so slight it could’ve been missed if someone wasn’t looking for it.

“Well,” he replied after a beat, voice low, almost careful, “I’m glad, too.”

You blinked once, a little surprised by how quickly he answered.

“Yeah ?” you asked again, quieter this time.

“Yeah.” He mirrored you, a faint hint of amusement in his tone. “You keep me out of my head.”

The honesty of it settled between you instantly, simple, unguarded, heavier than either of you treated it.

Your gaze dropped to your glass, suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat, like it had decided to make itself known at the worst possible moment. Your face felt warmer than it should’ve, and you didn’t quite understand why.

So you stayed quiet.

Three minutes.

“Maybe we should go back before the countdown ends,” you murmured eventually, breaking the silence gently.

Bucky nodded without hesitation, pushing off the doorway. “Yeah.”

You walked side by side back into the living room.

The atmosphere had shifted completely. The lights were lower now, replaced by neon glows and scattered reflections bouncing off glasses and windows. Everyone had gathered in the main space, bodies packed closer together, anticipation buzzing through the air like electricity.

One minute.

People were already counting loudly, voices overlapping in messy unison. Some were laughing, some were shouting, some were already turning toward the people they cared about most.

You and Bucky stayed slightly apart from the center, not fully stepping into the crowd. Not quite retreating either. Just… existing on the edge of it together, like you always seemed to do without planning it.

Fifteen seconds.

Someone bumped into you from behind while pushing toward the center. Instinctively, you stumbled forward slightly.

Bucky’s hand was on your back before you even registered the movement.

Steady. Immediate.

Grounding.

And just like that, your breath caught.

Because it wasn’t just contact.

It was him.

Ten seconds.

He felt it too.

You could tell by the way his hand stayed there a second longer than necessary, not pulling away, not adjusting. Just… present. Anchoring you in place like he’d done so many times before without thinking about it.

Five seconds.

Your eyes lifted.

His were already on you.

It wasn’t loud in your head anymore. Not the room. Not the countdown. Just him.

You didn’t need words.

Not now.

Three.

His gaze flickered, just briefly, to your lips.

Then back to your eyes.

Two.

Your breath hitched, subtle but real. Your hand shifted slightly at your side like you were trying to decide what to do with it.

One.

His hand on your back tightened, not pulling you, just holding you closer without force.

“Happy New Year!” the room erupted.

The sound hit all at once, cheers, laughter, shouting, glasses clinking, kissing, the world exploding into celebration.

But you barely heard it.

Because in that exact moment, you leaned in.

Slow enough that it wasn’t taken from you. Confident enough that it wasn’t uncertain.

Bucky met you halfway without hesitation.

His lips were warm against yours, steady, certain, like something that had been waiting far too long to finally happen. There was no rush, no chaos in it. Just everything you had both been saying without words for months finally collapsing into something real.

When you pulled back slightly, it was only enough to breathe.

Your foreheads almost brushed, your eyes still half-lidded, soft with something neither of you bothered naming yet.

“Happy New Year, Buck,” you whispered.

His mouth curved faintly, breath warm against yours.

“Happy New Year.”

And then, like restraint had finally run out completely, Bucky kissed you again.

This time deeper.

Less careful.

His hand slid fully to your waist, pulling you in like he was done pretending there was any space left between you. Your fingers immediately caught in his hair, holding him there just as firmly, like you had been waiting just as long as he had.

The noise of the world didn’t matter anymore.

Not the countdown.

Not the crowd.

Not anything except you and Bucky, finally understanding that your relationship hadn't been even close to friendship for a long time.

“I told you I'd stay with you tonight, didn't I?” There was a softness in his tone that he would murder any of his friends if they ever heard him right now. “That's what we agreed on for you coming tonight. Let me be with you.”

Your chest tightens, in that warm, embarrassing, fluttery way.

He stares at you for half a beat. “Still overwhelmed?”

“A little.”

“Then,” he dips his head slightly, lips brushing against your cheekbones, barely there, barely real, but it sends the butterflies in your stomach in a frenzy. “Stay with me. I'll handle everything tonight.”

You exhale, the previous tension slipping off your shoulders and being replaced with the new shy feeling you usually get around him.

“You're acting all sweet.”

He rolls his eyes, but his thumb strokes a small pattern on the top of your right hand where no one can see. “Don't get used to it.”

“Oh, I'm already used to it,” You say playfully. “You've been nothing but sweet to me since we started talking.”

He huffs, but you didn't miss the faint curve of his lips tilting upwards.

“Come,” he says, lacing his fingers with yours and tugging you gently. “Let's meet Gojo. He's loud and fucking weird, but you'd like him.”

His palm is warm and solid, and the moment his palm swallows yours, a little bit of panic unclenches in your chest. He leads you through the throne of bodies and sounds, pulling you closer to him and guiding you like he's cutting a path through all the drunken chaos that's so alien to you.

The living room spills into the kitchen, where the music dips just enough that people don't need to scream to be heard.

The first thing you notice is a white haired guy with sunglasses on despite him being indoors and being night time. Not because he's making a scene—he's really not. He's leaning against the counter, long legs crossed at his ankles, a drink in his hand and the other waving animatedly to the guy you notice in front of him.

Long dark hair pulled back loosely, relaxed posture, amused smile that looks like it never melts away. He listens with an easy patience, not minding the other guys rambling, occasionally humming and nodding, like he's indulging a familiar habit rather than enduring it.

They seem quite… normal? Not at all how Sukuna was trying to make them out to be.

And then you hear a snippet of their conversation.

“-and I'm, like, just saying,” the white haired man exclaims, dramatically flailing his hand in the air, “if you're going to commit to serving punch that tastes like lighter fluid and paint thinner, you might as well label it as a public health hazard.”

The dark haired guy snorts. “Yet, you've drunk three cups of it.”

“And I don't know why! It tastes like ass and dread!” He pours the liquid down in the sink next to him. “Suguru, go get me another drink.”

“Excuse you, I'm not a dog that answers to your beck and call.” He replies, though, he does reach over to grab a can of Sprite for him.

That earns a soft laugh from you before you could stop it.

Both of them glance up from the sound.

The white haired man's eyes brighten from behind his round sunglasses. “Oh, hey! Didn't think you were real."

What?

Sukuna groans. “Don't.”

“Pay up, Satoru.” The dark haired man, you infer is Suguru, puts his hand out and makes some sort of gesture that makes the other guys fish out some cash from his back pocket.

Sukuna drags a hand down his face like he's already regretting this entire introduction. “For the love of God, tell me you two didn't-”

Satoru beams up at him despite losing money. “I absolutely did. Odds were terrible by the way. No one believed you were actually consistently seeing the same girl.”

Suguru holds his hand out further, “pay up.”

Satoru slaps a couple of bills into his palm. “For the record,” he looks at you, “I did say you were definitely real—I mean, he wouldn't stop talking about you. I just didn't think Sukuna here knew how to keep someone around for so long.”

You blink slowly, ignoring his contradiction to his previous statement, then glance up at Sukuna. “Am I… a special cryptid?”

“More like an urban legend,” Suguru says, finally meeting your eyes with a polite smile. “Satoru thought Sukuna was exaggerating.”

The white haired man shrugs. “He lies about everything. His GPA, his height, his emotional availability. This felt on-brand.”

“You're such a dickhead.” Sukuna says flatly and Satoru quickly quips him with a “language” and “wow, you have no tact to please the ladies”

...Whatever that means.

“So,” he leans in, curiosity glinting behind his tinted sunglasses. “What made you stick around for so long?”

“Careful.” Sukuna warns flatly.

“He's good to me.” You say pleasantly with a smile. “Oh! He also buys me my favourite cakes from the patisserie downtown.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Suguru raises a brow.

“Yeah, that would make me stay too.”

“Don't make it weird.” Sukuna mutters, but his hand settles more securely at your waist.

Suguru reaches behind him and pours some Sprite and something clear into a red cup. “Vodka sprite. Light pour. Consider it a peace offering.”

You hesitate, then take it. One sip, then another. It’s sharp but manageable.

“That’ll make the music less… offensive.”

“It still sounds like construction noise,” you say.

“Exactly,” Satoru points. “You get it.”

He leans closer to you again. “So, just so we're clear, you are aware you're dating the human equivalent of a warning label.”

You take a careful sip of the vodka sprite, the alcohol warming your chest almost immediately. “I read the fine print.”

Sukuna huffs, glaring pointedly at his friends. “Why are you like this?”

Because,” he says cheerfully, “it's very funny to see you whipped for someone.”

“I am not-”

“I mean, it's not like you weren't sneaking her in at night and walking her out early in the morning because you didn't want anyone to see her.”

Satoru slaps his arm in agreement. “Yeah! You're not slick, idiot. We can hear you both.”

Sukuna freezes.

Slowly—very slowly, he turns head to face the two of them. “You two are on very thin ice.”

Suguru only hums, unfazed. “Walls are thin. It is an old house.”

“And you,” Satoru adds, pointing at you accusingly and grinning wide, “are very loud.”

You choke on your drink, face heating up in embarrassment. “Oh my God.”

Sukuna groans like he's physically in pain, his large hand leaving your waist to pat your back to let all your choked coughs out. “I hate it here.”

“That's not what you said last week Thursday at two-forty seven am.” Satoru teases helpfully.

“Stop talking or I'll drag you out by your stupid sunglasses.”

“Ooo,” he grins, playfully fanning himself. “Protective too? This keeps getting better.”

You laugh despite yourself, and Sukuna slides his hand back to your waist and tightens.

Not painful or aggressive at all.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and fed up by his friends. “That's enough.”

“Aw,” Satoru grins like he's won the lottery or something, “are we being dismissed?”

He doesn't dignify him with a response, just waits for you to finish your drink.

“Wait! We were just bonding!”

“Goonight.” Sukuna says flatly, turning your sharply so your back is to his chest, and large arm hooking around your middle like a fucking steel bar. You gasp, more startled than uncomfortable as he guides you away from the kitchen.

“You good?”

You nod, cheeks still warm. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because if they say one more word, I’m throwing them off the balcony.”

Behind you, Satoru’s voice carries. “Have fun upstairs!”

Sukuna flips him off without looking.

Sukuna steers you through the kitchen and toward the stairs, his grip never loosening. Every step, he adjusts. Hand firm at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you he’s there, guiding you, grounding you.

Your heart’s doing something stupid in your chest.

“You're-” You glance back, halfway up the stairs. “Are you manhandling me?”

“Yeah,” he replies easily, tugging you closer as if you aren't already flush against him. “You’re walking too slow.”

Your breath stutters. “You don't usually complain.”

“That was before they started running their mouths.”

The corridor upstairs is quieter, the bass from downstairs reduced to a distant thrum that vibrates through the floorboards. Sukuna's hand stays firm around yours as he leads you past several closed doors, each one marked with different name plates and decorations before stopping at the door at the end of the corridor for his room.

He unlocks the door and guides you inside, flicking on a warm lamp he bought after you made a comment about the cool light fixtures he has in his room gives you a migraine. Because of course he uses cool light and instead of warm like a psychopath.

It's surprisingly clean for a frat house bedroom. A large bed with dark sheets, a desk actually organised, weights in the corner, some band posters on the walls. It smells good too, the intoxicating mix of cologne and something uniquely him.

The door clicks shut behind you, the sound small, almost insignificant, but it feels final in an odd way. Like the rest of the house just got muted.

Sukuna doesn't give you time to turn around.

His hand slides from your waist to your hip and pulls, firm and sudden, until your back hits the door behind you with a soft thud. Not hard. Just enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

“Hey-” you start, half a laugh, half a gasp.

He crowds into your space without hesitation, one arm planting itself beside your head while the other stays firm on your hip, thumb pressing in like a quiet reminder that you’re exactly where he wants you.

“You okay?” he asks low, eyes scanning your face for any discomfort.

You nod, a little breathless and jittery. “Yeah- just surprised.”

“Good.” His thumb presses into your hip, grounding and borderline possessive. “Because I’ve been holding back all night.”

Your stomach flips.

“Those idiots,” he mutters, forehead dropping to yours, voice rough with restraint. “Running their mouths. Watching you. Talking about you like you’re not standing right there.”

“They weren't being rude.”

His hand tightens once, just once, before easing. Controlled. Deliberate.

“And then you,” he adds quietly, “standing there smiling like that.”

You swallow. “Is that… bad?”

His lips twitch, but his eyes are dark. Focused.

“No,” he says. “That’s why we’re upstairs.”

He gives you a small smile and he looks so absolutely beautiful it hurts. “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” you admit, because lying to Sukuna is always futile.

He reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ears, his fingers resting against the delicate line of your jaw. “Of me? Or of what you want me to do to you?”

Your breath catches. "Both."

His laugh is low, dark, appreciative. "At least you're honest." His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your mouth parts instinctively. "I've been thinking about this all night. Watching you in that little outfit, seeing other guys look at you, wanting to drag you up here and undo your dress."

"Sukuna..." His name comes out breathy, needy.

He doesn't say much for a little bit, still revelling in the sight of you pressed between him and his door. “God… I've been holding back since you walked in.”

The kiss hits you before you can process that sentence.

It’s not gentle exactly, but it’s not rough either. All confidence and heat, like he knows exactly where to place his mouth to make your knees threaten to go weak beneath your weight. His lips move against yours. Slow at first, testing, then deeper when you tilt into him without thinking. He hums low in his chest, the sound vibrating straight through you.

His other hand slides up from your waist to your jaw,cradling you as he angles your head just right. You gasp softly into the kiss, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like you need something solid to hang onto.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, barely pulling back. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

He kisses you again, shorter this time, breathier, like he’s trying not to lose control completely. His forehead rests against yours for a second, both of you breathing hard.

Then he grips your hand.

“Come here.”

He doesn’t give you time to argue. Just tugs you away from the door, guiding you backward until your calves hit the edge of the bed. You stumble, laughing softly, and he follows you down without hesitation, hands bracketing your hips as you land against the mattress.

The bed dips under his weight as he leans over you, eyes searching your face one more time.

"You tell me if anything's too much," he murmurs against your lips, his hand sliding under the hem of your dress. "You say stop, we stop. Understand?"

You nod, but he pulls back, his expression serious.

"Words, baby. I need words."

"I understand," you breathe. "I'll tell you. I promise.”

"That's my girl." He rewards you with another searing kiss, his hands surprisingly gentle as he undresses you, like he's unwrapping something precious. When you're finally bare beneath him, he sits back just to look at you with an intensity that makes you a bit nervous.

“Don't,” he catches your wrist before they could fly up to cover your burning face. “Don't hide for me. You're fucking gorgeous.”

Heat floods your cheeks, but the way he's looking at you, like you're the only thing in the world that matters, makes you relax into the sheets.

He leans down, pressing kisses along your collarbone, down between your breasts, across your stomach. Each touch of his lips sends sparks skittering across your skin. "Gonna take my time with you," he murmurs against your hip. "Gonna make you feel so good. Is that okay?"

"Yes," you breathe, your fingers threading through the pink hues of his hair.

His mouth finds your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he takes it between his lips, sucking gently. The sensation makes you arch into him with a gasp, and you feel him smile against your skin.

"Sensitive here?" he asks, his hand coming up to palm your other breast, thumb brushing over the peak. "Good to know."

He pours attention on your chest until you're squirming beneath him, soft whimpers escaping your throat. Then he's kissing his way down your stomach, his hands spreading your thighs apart.

"Sukuna-" Your voice comes out shaky, nervous.

He pauses, looking up at you from between your legs, his expression softening. “Say the word,” he says, voice low. “I'll stop.”

"No, I just-" You bite down your bottom lip. "I'm nervous."

"I know." He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, the sharp points of canines grazes your skin as his hands stroke soothingly along your legs. “That’s why I’m right here.” He leans in, mouth brushing your thigh, not rushed, not hesitant either. When he speaks again, it’s closer, rougher, but sure. “Let me make you feel good."

When his mouth finally finds you, the first touch of his tongue makes you cry out, your hips twitching involuntarily. He holds you steady, one arm banded across your hips as he works you with his mouth. Licking, sucking, his tongue doing things that make your vision blur and your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Oh god," you whimper, your hands fisting in his hair. "Sukuna, that's-"

"That's it," he encourages, pulling back just enough to speak. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear it. I need to know what gets that reaction out of you.”

He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and the sensation is so intense you nearly come apart right there. But he pulls back, keeping you on that edge, building the pleasure slowly.

"Doing so good for me," he praises, sliding a thick finger inside you, and the stretch makes you choke out a broken gasp. "So wet, so perfect. Think you can take another?"

"Yes," you manage, and he adds a second finger, curling them just right as his mouth returns to your clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, his fingers pumping steadily, stretching you, preparing you. "So fucking beautiful like this. Love watching you fall apart for me."

You love this version of Sukuna. The one that only ever shows up in the quiet and just with you.

Around company, he’s all sharp edges and indifference, posture loose like nothing ever really touches him. He doesn’t soften for anyone. Doesn’t bend. Doesn’t bother explaining himself. And you’ve always liked and kind of envied that about him. The way he exists so solidly in himself, unbothered by expectations or noise.

But here, with you bare and beneath him and his body close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him, that edge turns into something else.

He’s still rough around the edges. Hands firm, grip sure, presence overwhelming in the best way, but there’s a quiet attentiveness threaded through it. The way he watches your face instead of your body. The way his hand presses at your hip like he’s grounding himself as much as you. The way his voice drops when he speaks to you, like the world doesn’t get to hear it.

You feel it most in the pauses too. The moments where he doesn’t rush, doesn’t take, doesn’t assume. Where he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch and then waits, eyes dark, like he wants to see if you’ll close the distance yourself.

He adds a third finger, and the stretch is more intense, but he works you patiently, his mouth never stopping its attention on your clit until you're trembling, right on the edge.

"Sukuna, please-" You're not even sure what you're begging for anymore.

"Come for me," he commands, his voice rough. "Come on my fingers, baby. Show me how good I make you feel."

His fingers curl against that sweet spot inside you, his tongue flicking smoothly, and you shatter with a cry, your body clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. He works you through it, gentling his touch as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs.

"So perfect," he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his fingers. “Always like this for me.” His hand stays firm, possessive. “Stay with me. I’m not done yet.”

You nod, still breathless, watching as he finally strips off his shirt and his jeans and his boxers. He's big—bigger than you expected when you first had sex with him—and the flutter of nervousness returns every time you see it.

He catches your expression and leans down to kiss you softly. "Easy,” he murmurs. “I’m not rushing this.” His hand stays firm, steady. “You’re ready, but I’m taking my time with you.”

"Okay," you whisper.

He reaches for a condom from his nightstand, rolling it on, and then he's positioning himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. "Look at me," he says softly. "I want your eyes on me.”

He pushes in slowly, and even with all the prep, the stretch is intense. Your fingers dig crescent moons into his shoulder blades as he fills you inch by inch, his jaw clenched with restraint.

"Breathe," he reminds you, pausing halfway. "You're doing so good. Taking me so well. Just breathe for me."

You do, and he slides in deeper, until he's fully seated inside you. The fullness is overwhelming, but not painful. Just intense, perfect.

"Fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "You feel incredible. So tight, so perfect. You're okay?"

"Yes," you manage to whimper out. "You can move."

He starts with slow, deep rolls of his hips, letting you adjust to the feeling of him. "That's it," he praises. "Just like that, baby. You're taking my cock so well."

But slow isn't enough. You need more. "Harder," you beg. "Please, I can take it."

Something shifts in his expression, that careful control cracking. He pulls out almost completely, then drives back in with a thrust that makes you cry out and feel all dizzy and dazed. "Like that?"

He hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half, and the new angle makes him seep so much deeper. The position leaves you pinned beneath him, bodies locked together as his thrusts grow harder, deeper, impossible to not thoroughly feel.

"Is this what you need?" he asks, voice low and rough, and his pace relentless now. "Need me to fuck you properly? Need me to fill you up?"

"Yes-" the word tears from your throat as he drives into you, the bed frame creaking with each harsh thrust. "Oh God, yes-"

"That's it, take it," he praises, one hand gripping your thigh while the other braces beside your head. "Taking my cock so well, such a good fucking girl for me. You feel incredible, so perfect-"

His words make everything more intense, and you're already embarrassingly close again, your body wound tight. "Sukuna, I'm- I can't-"

"Yes you can," he encourages, his thumb finding your oversensitive clit and circling with just the right pressure. "Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart for me again."

The combination of his words, his touch, the relentless drive of his hips, it's too much. You shatter with a cry of his name, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash through you, even more intense than the first time.

"Fuck, that's it, just like that," he groans, his rhythm faltering as your orgasm triggers his own. "So good, you're so fucking good-" He buries himself deep with a guttural moan, his body shuddering as he comes.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, both breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling. Then carefully, he lowers your legs and pulls out, disposing of the condom before collapsing beside you and immediately pulling you into his arms.

"You okay?" he murmurs, his mouth brushes your cheek with each word. "Did I push too far?”

You shift closer instinctively, still catching your breath. “No,” you say, steady despite how spent you feel. “It was good. Exactly right. Like usual.”

A quiet huff leaves him, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His arm tightens around you, firm and anchoring. “Good,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”

His hand stays at your hip, thumb pressing in like a reminder, not gentle but not rough either. Possessive in that unmistakably Sukuna way, like he’s claiming space, not asking for it.

“Don’t get it twisted,” he adds after a beat, voice rough against your ear. “I don’t do this for just anyone.”

“I know,” You smile faintly against his chest. “I figured after talking to your friends downstairs.”

He flicks a finger against your forehead, barely hurting you. “Don't bring up other men just after I made you come twice, silly girl.”

There was no heat in his words, just the familiar bluntness you grew accustomed to like.

You huff a quiet laugh, face warm and glowing post-orgasm. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” His fingers, still wet with your slick, presses once at your hip again, grounding. “Just reminding you.”

You tilt your head back to look at him. He’s watching you through half-lidded eyes, expression lazy, satisfied, but alert in that way he always is, like he’s clocking every little movement you make.

You suddenly feel shy under the weight of it. “You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “You gonna live?”

You roll your eyes playfully, tucking your face into his chest. “Barely.”

A low huff rumbles out of him. Amused. “Dramatic.”

Downstairs, the noise swells, reminding you that you're at a New Years Eve party. Cheering, yelling, someone very off-key starting to count early and getting booed into silence.

You freeze. “Wait.”

His brow lifts. “What.”

You lift your head again, listening. “That’s the countdown. I think they’re about to start.”

“And?” His arm tightens slightly, like he already knows where this is going and isn’t impressed.

“You're…” You hesitate, then mumble, “You’re supposed to kiss at the start of the year.”

You shift, just a little, bracing a hand on his chest like you might sit up.

He doesn’t let you.

Sukuna’s arm bands around you and pulls you right back down, firm and unyielding, pressed flush to his chest. “Don’t move,” he mutters, voice low and certain.

“But-”

“Shh.”

The muffled counting reaches ten.

Nine.

Eight.

His hand slides up your side, not roaming, just holding you there, like he’s anchoring you exactly where he wants you.

Three.

Two.

One-

The cheer downstairs explodes.

At the same moment, he tilts your chin up and kisses you. Slow, sure, unhurried. No rush. No spectacle. Just his mouth on yours. Claiming the moment like it was always his to take, slightly tasting yourself from his tongue.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.

“Happy New Year,” he says.

Your heart feels stupidly full and fluttery.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Happy New Year.”

I think im getting better at writing smut (funny tho as my libido is nowhere to be found siiighhhhh)

happy new year! may 2026 bring love and happiness to you<3