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spencersmopbucket · 1 month ago

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A Daddy's Girl | Stack Moore

Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Reader Summary: You're just Stack's type — feisty, strong willed, and damn pretty. Only thing is.. You won't give Stack the time of day on account of your daddy.

Your upbringing was a lil' different than girls your age. It was 1932 — you were nineteen, having grown up on your daddy's ranch. Instead of white cotton dresses, neatly combed hair, and puppies, you were raised wearing stained skirts, your hair wild and curly, riding horses and rejecting every boy that dared come near you.

Mama died when you were real young — too young to remember her face without staring at a photograph. Daddy did his best, though. He didn’t much care for you doing "girl’s work" when there were fence posts to mend and cattle to brand. So he raised you like he would’ve raised a son: rough around the edges, stubborn as a mule, and twice as fast with a rifle. By thirteen, you were driving the wagon solo into town. By sixteen, you could outshoot most men at the fair. And by nineteen, most folks knew better than to speak to you sideways.

Still, no matter how tough you acted, there was something that always drew in men. It was a competition almost. Any time you walked home from the schoolhouse at age 16, you heard them talkin'. The boys. Betting on who could secure a kiss first, maybe a date.

"First one to kiss the farmer’s daughter gets braggin’ rights for life," one of ‘em would say, real cocky. Like you were a trophy instead of a person.

But you weren’t some daisy to be picked. You were wild thistle — sharp, stubborn, and grown in hard soil.

None of those boys ever made it past your front gate. One tried and ended up limping back home with a busted lip and a bruised ego. After that, they mostly kept their distance. Called you a spitfire. A man’s girl. Trouble wrapped in curls and sunburn.

And maybe they were right.

You didn’t care much for dresses, or dancing, or sitting pretty at socials. You cared about the land, about your daddy, about making it through the droughts and the hard winters. You were proud of the calluses on your hands and the dirt under your nails. You knew how to clean a gun, break a horse, and break a man’s nose if need be. You didn’t need anyone — and that scared the hell out of every suitor that came sniffin’.

Until Stack Moore.

He was the opposite of his brother, though they were both law breakers. They'd come back into town like a storm, claiming it back again when they got sick of being men of war or taking over Chicago. They brought money, they brought booze, and they regained the enemies they'd always had before.

Your daddy knew exactly what type the Smokestack twins were. That's why he was so put out the day Stack spoke to you.

It was hotter than hell that afternoon, the kind of heat that made the air shimmer off the dirt road. You were hitchin’ the mule to the wagon outside the general store, sweat rollin’ down your spine, dust clingin’ to your boots. Stack leaned against a post with a matchstick between his teeth, lookin’ like the devil dressed in Sunday black — suspenders off his shoulders, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make your throat go dry.

"Need a hand, sweetheart?" he drawled.

You didn’t answer him. Just wiped your brow and kept workin’, jaw tight, heart louder than it oughta been. You felt his eyes on you like heat from a fire. That was the first time he spoke to you.

You grunted, finally getting it hitched, before glancing up at Stack with irritated (and curious, though you wouldn't admit it) eyes.

"I got it. Somethin' I can help you with, Stack?" You responded coldly. In a moment, your daddy would be coming out of the store. He wouldn't take kindly to Stack chatting you up.

Stack smirked, slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world and not a care who saw him spending it on you. That matchstick rolled between his teeth as he looked you over, not lewd, not disrespectful — but bold. Real bold.

"Nah, darlin’. Just figured I’d say howdy," he said, voice molasses-smooth with that slick edge he and his brother hadn’t lost, even after years in the city. "Hard not to, when you’re standin’ there lookin’ like trouble in a skirt."

You narrowed your eyes. "Keep talkin’ like that, and you’ll find yourself wearin’ that matchstick in your eye."

He laughed — a warm, low sound that made something flutter deep in your belly, though you kept your scowl firm. He liked that. You could tell. The way his head tilted slightly, his eyes sharpened like he was memorizing the way your mouth twitched when you were pissed.

"I like a woman who bites," he said.

You opened your mouth to fire back, but the screen door of the store slapped shut behind you. Daddy stepped out with his purchase — a sack of flour and a bottle of tonic. His boots hit the porch with that heavy rhythm that always said someone was about to get corrected.

Stack’s smirk didn’t fade, but he straightened up. He tipped his hat slow and easy, like he wasn’t worried one bit about the man standing between him and a shallow grave.

"Afternoon, Mr. L/N," Stack said, polite as a preacher.

Your daddy didn’t respond. Just stared Stack down, eyes like steel under the brim of his weather-beaten hat. You could feel the tension crackling in the air, thick and dangerous.

"You got business here?" your daddy asked, voice flat.

"Just admirin’ the view," Stack replied, not looking away from him — but the weight of his words sat heavy between you and your daddy. Like a line drawn in the dust.

You cleared your throat, loud enough to break the moment. "We done here, Daddy?"

Your father gave Stack one more look — the kind that could kill a lesser man — before nodding to you. "Yeah. Let’s get home. Storm’s comin’."

You climbed into the wagon without another word, trying not to think about how your skin still tingled from Stack’s gaze. As the mule started off, you glanced back once, just once — and saw him watching you, arms crossed, eyes lit up like he’d just spotted a gold vein in a rock.

It was the first time Stack Moore spoke to you. And the last time you knew peace for a long while.

When you got home, Daddy cleared his throat awkwardly, cleaning his gun in the common room of the house.

"Y/N." He called to you from where you stood in the kitchen.

You paused, hands deep in the dish basin, the soapy water stinging a nick on your finger you hadn’t noticed ‘til now. His voice was gruff, but there was something under it — something tight. Wary. Protective in that way only a father could be when he knew his daughter had just caught the eye of a wildfire in a man’s body.

"Yes, sir?" you called back, wiping your hands on a dish rag as you stepped through the archway into the common room.

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept running the cloth over the barrel of his Winchester with a quiet, deliberate focus. You could tell he was turning something over in his head, chewing on it like a dog with a bone.

"Stack Moore," he finally said, like the name tasted bad. "You stay away from him."

You blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness.

"Didn’t plan on inviting him for supper," you muttered, crossing your arms.

Daddy looked up then — sharp and dead serious. "I ain’t jokin’, girl. That boy’s got blood on his hands and more comin’. His kind don’t leave nothin’ but ruin behind."

You didn’t say anything. Mostly ‘cause you weren’t sure what you wanted to say. It was the first time a man had looked at you like you were a woman and not just the farmer’s wild daughter in scuffed boots. And maybe that was dangerous. Maybe Daddy was right. But maybe you didn’t give a damn.

"I know you think you’re grown,�� he went on, his voice softening a bit, “but there’s men out there who take one look at a girl like you and see a challenge. Not a future. Stack Moore’s one of ‘em."

You swallowed, throat dry. "I’m not stupid."

"I didn’t say you were. I said he’s trouble. And I’ll be damned if I let him put you in harm’s way."

Silence hung between you. Thick as molasses. You could hear the wind picking up outside, dust scratching against the shutters. Storm was comin’, alright. But it wasn’t just in the sky.

You finally nodded. "I hear you."

He held your eyes for a long moment.

"You're better off with that Boone. If you really hafta marry. He's a nice boy and ain't gonna put you out when he has his fill."

Boone was a ranch hand your daddy had hired. He wasn't unattractive, no. He was tall, strong, worked with a smile and never complained. His parents were respectful and they were fans of how your daddy did business. Boone was who you should've been with, if you gave any man a chance.

He'd been pining after you since the two of you were sixteen.

You rolled your eyes, smirking in amusement.

"You like Boone so much, why ain't you marryin' him?"

Daddy’s face went dark, like you'd just knocked over a beehive.

"I’m your father. I make the calls ‘round here."

I folded my arms and leaned against the table, matching his glare. "Ain’t no law says I gotta marry the man you pick."

He set the gun down with a heavy thud. "It ain’t about law, girl. It’s about keepin’ you safe. Boone’s steady. He don’t bring trouble like those Moore boys."

You groaned.

"I ain’t sayin’ I’m takin’ up with Stack. But don’t reckon I’m gonna be Boone’s bride just ‘cause you want it."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You’re stubborn as a mule, just like your mama."

You knew that was the final word.

But that night, long after the lights were out and the crickets had taken over the silence, you found yourself sittin’ on the edge of your bed, fingers twitchin’, heart restless. Because even though you’d said you understood, and even though you knew what kind of man Stack Moore was…

You also knew you weren’t the kind of girl who turned her head away from fire.

Your friend Lizzie had to beg you to go out.

"I swear, Y/N, one night won’t kill you," she said, tugging at your arm as you rolled your eyes. "You need to dance. Laugh. Hell, even just drink something that ain’t water or dust."

You weren’t exactly the type for blues clubs or lipstick-stained whiskey glasses, but Lizzie had that kind of persistence that wore you down like river water over stone. So by the time the sun dipped low and the sky bled pink, you were dressed — not dolled up like the city girls, but enough to turn a few heads in town: a dark skirt that hugged your hips, boots polished cleaner than usual, and your wild curls pinned just enough to look like you tried.

Club Juke was loud, smoky, and packed to the rafters. Lights glowed like sin on velvet, blues players' moaned from the corner stage, and the air buzzed with liquor and secrets. You followed Lizzie in, your fingers hooked into the belt loop of her dress, and tried not to flinch when a man brushed too close or looked too long.

You made it to the bar and ordered something you didn’t even hear over the noise — some whiskey drink served in a chipped glass. Lizzie had already pulled a fella onto the dance floor, leaving you with a half-sip of burn down your throat and the sudden awareness that someone was watching you.

You didn’t have to look far.

There he was. Stack.

Sitting in a corner booth like he owned the place (because he did), sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, smoke from a lit cigar curling around his jaw. His eyes were on you, unmoving. He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Just looked like he’d found exactly what he came here for.

Your pulse jumped. Damn it all.

You turned back to the bar, heart thudding. Maybe if you ignored him, he’d —

A warm voice slid in behind your ear like a sin on Sunday morning.

"Well now," Stack drawled, low and slow, "ain’t you a sight. Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this."

You didn’t turn around. Just took another sip of your drink, ignoring the heat rolling off him in waves.

"Didn’t come for you," you said coolly.

He chuckled. "Maybe not. But I figure fate don’t give a damn."

He moved beside you, close enough that your elbows brushed. You could smell leather, smoke, and something sharper — danger, maybe. He rested his forearms on the bar and nodded to the bartender.

"Two of whatever she’s drinkin’."

You shot him a glare. "What’re you doin’, Stack?"

He looked at you then — really looked — and for a moment, the noise of the club faded under his steady gaze.

"Tryin’ to figure out why a girl raised to fear me keeps lookin’ like she’s itchin’ to find out what makes me so damn interesting."

You swallowed.

Then, you fixed the usual glare back onto your face.

"Well, what the hell makes me so interesting? Everyone with a dick in this town can't look away."

Stack barked a quiet laugh, low and raspy, like he wasn’t expecting you to come back that sharp — but damn if he didn’t like it. He leaned in just a hair closer, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again, that grin of his growing just a little wider, a little darker.

"What makes you interesting?" he echoed, voice like smoke. "You walk into a room like you own the land under everyone’s feet. You don’t smile unless you mean it, and you don’t flinch at a man like me." He tilted his head, still watching you. "That kinda thing makes folks look. Makes ‘em wonder."

You crossed your arms, hip cocked, not letting him get the upper hand. "You mean it makes ‘em bet. Run their mouths. Act like they got a chance."

Stack shrugged. "Let ‘em. Boys bet. Men watch. I’m just here enjoyin’ the view."

You scoffed. "You’re all the same."

His expression shifted then — just a flicker of something deeper beneath the charm. He leaned in again, but this time his voice dropped lower, real low, just for you.

"No, darlin’. If I were like them, I’d already be braggin’ about what I could do to you. Not sittin’ here waitin’ to see what you’ll let me do."

That shut you up for a second. Long enough for the air between you to grow thick and heavy.

Before you could fire back, the music kicked into a new number — a slow, sultry blues rhythm that rolled across the club like honey.

Stack held out a hand. "Dance with me."

You looked at his hand like it might bite you.

"I don’t dance."

He smirked. "Then just stand close and sway. I promise I bite softer than I look."

You stared at him, heart thudding somewhere stupid.

And then, without knowing why, you placed your hand in his.

His palm was warm. His grip was gentle. And your daddy’s voice was nowhere in your head when Stack pulled you onto the floor like he’d been waitin’ his whole damn life for this.

The floor didn’t feel real under your boots.

Stack's hand rested firm against the small of your back, pulling you close — but not too close. Just enough to feel the heat rollin' off him in waves, enough to smell the faint scent of whiskey and smoke on his collar. Your fingers hovered just barely on his shoulder, stiff at first, like you were afraid of giving in.

"You’re stiff as a fence post," he murmured against your temple, voice rough and warm. "Ain’t nobody lookin’ to bite."

"You just told me you were," you shot back, eyes narrowing even as you swayed to the rhythm.

That earned a quiet chuckle from him — one that rumbled in his chest and traveled straight through you.

The music curled around the two of you like a fog, blues guitar crooning through the haze of cigar smoke and perfume. Other dancers swayed nearby, but none quite like you and Stack. You moved like magnets pulling in, fighting it, pulling in again. A war with no guns — just glances, breath, and the occasional accidental brush of leg against leg.

His thumb stroked a small, deliberate circle at the back of your waist. You stiffened — just slightly — and he caught it.

"You alright, spitfire?" he asked, voice a low purr. "Ain’t used to men touchin’ you, or just not used to likin’ it?"

You glared up at him, lips parting to throw fire — but the words got stuck somewhere between your pride and the warmth blooming beneath your ribs.

"…You think just ‘cause you talk smooth, I’m gonna fall at your feet?" you finally snapped.

Stack leaned in, close enough that his breath kissed the edge of your jaw.

"No," he said. "I think you’ll fight me every inch of the way. And I like a fight."

The tension snapped taut between you, so tight it hummed. His hand slid just a breath lower on your back. Your fingers curled tighter into his shirt. You weren’t smiling, but you weren’t pulling away, either.

"I ain’t your conquest," you muttered.

"No," Stack said, eyes locked to yours like a vow. "You’re the kind of woman a man earns. Or dies tryin’."

The music slowed to a crawl. The last long note of a saxophone kissed the silence.

Neither of you moved.

You didn’t know who leaned in first — but suddenly your face was inches from his. Lips barely apart. Breath tangled.

"Lord.. If you ain't the devil."

His mouth curved just slightly — not a smile, not quite — something darker. Hungrier.

"Then what’s that make you, sweetheart?" he murmured, breath brushing your lips. "The lamb wanderin’ into the fire�� or the flame that keeps draggin’ me back to hell?"

You blinked up at him, your heart thudding so loud you swore the whole club could hear it.

Everything inside you screamed to pull away — to do what you’d always done when boys got too close, when their hands wandered and their eyes lingered too long. But Stack wasn’t like those boys. He didn’t leer. He didn’t plead.

He waited.

Like a man sure of the storm and patient enough to let it come to him.

Your voice came low. Dangerous.

"I ain’t no lamb. And I sure as hell ain’t chasin’ you."

He laughed — a quiet, genuine sound that rolled through his chest.

"No," he said again, like he was committing it to memory. "I'm chasin' you, baby."

Then his hand slid up — not low, not greedy — just firm and reverent, fingers skimming the side of your jaw like he was feeling the edges of something sacred.

"And I’m tellin’ you now," he added, voice dropping like molasses in your ear. "You keep lookin’ at me like that… I will find out what you taste like when you stop pretending you hate me."

Before you could bite back, before you could even think, the club doors burst open again —

And Boone’s voice came, loud and panicked: "Y/N! What the hell are you doin’?!"

The spell shattered.

You jerked back like burned, your spine stiffening, eyes snapping toward the entrance.

Boone’s chest heaved, face red and soaked in sweat. Eyes darted from you to Stack, and the rage built fast — like a match tossed in dry brush.

Stack turned lazily toward him, jaw twitching. The charming smirk faded into something else. Something sharp.

"You know," he said, stepping just slightly in front of you, “if he was any kinda gentleman, he wouldn't swear at a lady."

Boone didn’t flinch. Just pointed a finger, shaking with fury. "Your daddy’s gonna hear ‘bout this. And when he does, he’ll bury that bastard himself."

Your breath caught.

"Boone, it's—"

"Oh hell no. This ends now."

You stiffened, pulling away from Stack slightly. A glare rose to your face.

"You think you control anything I do? You're daddy's ranch hand, you ain't his informant, and you definitely ain't my husband, so I don't reckon you should be telling me what ends now."

Boone's jaw dropped.

"You know this is against his damn wishes. He wants you with me, not with Stack Moore."

Stack smiled, his gold grill glinting in the light of the juke.

"She don't want you, Boone Jones. Hell," he snorted, stepping forward. "She don't even really want me. I suggest you get to movin' before my brother and I toss you out this juke."

Boone’s eyes flashed, muscles tightening like coiled steel. "You got a real mouth on you, Stack. But don’t think for a second I’m scared of you or your brother."

He stepped forward, the heat between them crackling like a storm about to break.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. The tension was thick enough to slice through, and neither man was backing down.

Stack’s grin twisted, teeth flashing like daggers. "Well then, looks like we got ourselves a showdown. You ready to back that up, Boone?"

Boone faltered for a moment. He spotted the gun on Stack's hip, glinting under his jacket. He was torn. But eventually, he turned away from the two of you.

"Get home, Y/N. I'm warnin' you. Your daddy'll be out lookin' for you soon as I tell him this shit."

With that, Boone spat on the floor and walked out.

The jukebox sputtered a slow country tune as Boone’s heavy footsteps faded into the night. Stack turned to you, smirking like he’d just won a war without firing a shot.

"Well, looks like the ranch hand knows when to fold ‘em."

You stood frozen, the weight of Boone’s warning settling deep in your chest.

Stack’s voice softened, almost mockingly gentle. "Now, tell me… what’re you gonna do with all this heat you’re sittin’ on?"

Your eyes burned with quiet defiance, but inside, a storm was brewing — one that wouldn’t be settled so easily.

Without another word, the defiance and want burning in your chest boiled over. You pulled Elias Moore into a crushing kiss, ruffling his suit jacket.

Stack’s smirk faltered for just a heartbeat, a flicker of surprise flashing behind his gold teeth. His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing the side of your jaw with a teasing, deliberate lightness that sent a shiver down your spine. His voice dropped, low and dangerous, like a velvet promise edged with steel.

"Careful, baby. You’re playin’ with fire."

But you didn’t pull away. Instead, your breath hitched, and your heartbeat thundered in your ears like a wild stallion breaking free. The air between you thickened, charged with a heat that wasn’t just from the summer night or the sticky tension in the jukebox’s flickering neon glow. It was raw, electric, and impossible to ignore.

Your fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket, tugging him closer, hungry for the heat that radiated off his body. The scent of leather, musk, and something uniquely Stack invaded your senses. Your lips pressed harder against his, demanding more, needing more. His hands found your waist, strong and possessive, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left — only the desperate dance of two bodies claiming their own wild territory.

His mouth moved over yours with fierce intention, teasing and tasting, trailing a path of fire down your neck. You arched against him, breath mingling, every nerve alight. The weight of Boone’s warning dissolved somewhere in the back of your mind, drowned out by the thunderous storm between you and Stack.

Stack’s voice, rough and low, was a whisper against your skin. "You gonna be my woman. One way or another."

His hands slid lower, fingers digging into the curve of your hips, grounding you even as your pulse raced with reckless abandon. You tugged at the buttons of his shirt, exposing the warm skin beneath, your nails grazing, marking. Every touch was a challenge, every breath a promise.

Your lips parted in a silent plea, and Stack answered, his tongue tracing the line of your jaw, down to the swell of your collarbone. The heat in your chest ignited into a blaze, scorching and sweet. It wasn’t just passion — it was war, desire, defiance, and something dangerously close to surrender.

The air thickened, charged and heavy with all the words neither of you dared say. His fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he wanted to press you into him and make sure you couldn’t slip away. Your hands trembled slightly, caught between the urge to push him away and the desperate craving to keep this fire alive.

Stack’s breath hitched as his mouth dipped lower, kissing the hollow at your throat, leaving a trail of heat that seared through your skin. Your fingers tangled in the coarse fabric of his shirt, dragging it open just enough to feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your touch. Every beat was a promise, wild and relentless.

That night, you thought you'd be in wicked trouble with your daddy.

You got home and he was sitting in his chair, rifle by his side. There was no glare. No anger. No fight. Just disappointment.

His eyes met yours — quiet, heavy, like the weight of every unspoken word between you.

"Boone stopped by. Said you was almost kissin' Stack in the back of his juke joint. That the truth?"

You froze in the doorway, the screen creaking shut behind you. Your boots felt heavy against the floorboards.

"Is that the truth? I won't ask again." he asked again, voice like gravel and smoke, worn down from years of silence that meant more than shouting ever could.

You swallowed, but your throat was dry. "Yes, sir."

Your daddy looked away then, toward the window. The moonlight spilled across the hardwood like spilled milk, cold and pale. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even shift in his chair.

“Didn’t raise you to chase heat just ‘cause it burns bright.”

You stepped further inside, your heart thudding in your chest. “It ain’t just heat.”

He turned back to you, slow and steady, the way storms roll in without hurry. "That boy’s trouble, Y/N. His people bring it like flies bring rot. You think Stack Moore gives a damn about you come winter? When the crops are dry and the nights are long?"

“I ain’t askin’ for your blessing,” you said, quietly. “But I ain’t askin’ for forgiveness, either.”

His jaw worked, clenched and tight. The rifle stayed at his side, but his hands curled on the armrests like he was gripping the weight of every fear a father could carry.

"You know I’d ride to hell for you, girl." "I know."

A beat. A breath. The porch creaked under the weight of the wind.

"Then don’t make me bury you for someone who wouldn’t ride back. If you think Stack Moore is worth it, I can't stop ya," he asserted wisely. "But he better be. Because if a single tear drops to this floor and he's responsible for it, I'm buryin' him. And his brother."

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t let it show.

He wasn’t threatening. He was promising.

That old chair creaked as he leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes pinning you like a hawk pins its prey.

"You understand me, girl?" His voice was low, but there was thunder in it — a quiet kind of rage built on love and fear and the kind of heartbreak only a father can carry.

You nodded, chin up even though your chest was tight. "I understand."

He let out a long breath through his nose, like he’d been holding it for years.

"Then go on to bed. And think real hard ‘bout the kind of man you’re givin’ your name to. 'Cause once you do… you don't get to take it back."

You stood there for a moment longer — the screen door groaning open behind you again, the wind pushing against your back like even the night was trying to warn you.

But you didn’t look back.

The next day, Stack stopped by the ranch, as if he was askin' for a gun to go off towards his head. You were out back, tending to the horses, brushing your favorite tenderly.

The horse, Annie was her name, blew air out of her nose, as if she knew trouble was approaching. You cooed at her.

"Settle down, pretty girl. Ain't nothin' comin' to get you."

But even as you said it, your eyes flicked toward the dust trail creeping down the long dirt drive — slow and deliberate. A dark car. Stack’s.

Annie shifted under your hand, hooves stamping once against the earth. You didn’t blame her. You felt the same tight pull in your chest. That mix of anger and ache, nerves and want, all tangled together like barbed wire.

Stack stepped out like he owned the goddamn world. Boots still dirty from whatever hellhole he'd walked through last, and that cocky tilt to his mouth like he'd slept just fine while the storm he stirred brewed all night long.

He spotted you in the paddock, and his smirk deepened like he’d expected a bullet and got a welcome mat instead.

You didn’t wave. Didn’t call out.

Just kept brushing Annie’s side like you weren’t burning from the inside out.

Stack leaned on the fence, one arm slung over the top rail, eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing that ever moved slow in his world.

"You didn’t call," he said, voice low and teasing. "Thought maybe Boone talked you outta me."

You looked up then, slow and measured.

"No one talks me outta anything, Stack. Least of all a man who runs when daddy’s rifle’s on the porch."

That knocked the smirk clean off his face for a second. Then he chuckled — slow, deep.

"Figured I’d come back ‘round today. Let your old man know I ain’t runnin’. I’m standin’."

You shook your head, a bitter little smile tugging at your lips.

"He already knows. Question is… do you?"

Stack’s jaw twitched. His eyes dropped to your hands on the horse — the way they moved, firm but gentle. Like you could break things and fix them all the same.

He straightened off the fence.

"I ain’t scared of your daddy," he said. "And I ain't here for a quick trip to the sheets. You're the typa woman worth marryin'."

You froze.

Annie huffed beside you, but you barely heard her over the rush of blood in your ears. Stack’s words hit you like a hammer to the ribs — not because you didn’t believe him, but because deep down… maybe you did.

Still, you kept your hands busy, brushing through Annie’s mane like she was the only thing keeping you grounded.

"You don’t even know what marryin’ me means, Stack Moore," you said quietly. "It ain’t just Sunday dresses and kissin’ under porch lights. It’s long winters and hard land and family that don’t forget where you came from."

He stepped into the paddock without asking, boots crunching over the straw and dirt. That alone told you something — Stack had never waited for an invitation in his life.

"I know it won’t be easy," he said, stopping just a few feet from you. "I know your daddy don’t think I’m good enough. Hell, maybe I ain’t. But I know this — I’d rather fight every damn day for your heart than spend a single one without it."

Your hand paused on Annie’s shoulder. For the first time, you looked at him — really looked.

There was no grin now. No sharp teeth. Just a man, standing there with his scars and swagger stripped down to something real.

"You’re serious," you said, more to yourself than him.

"I’ve been in fights I ain’t walked away from. I’ve stared down the barrel more times than I can count. But you?" He stepped closer, voice low and steady. "You’re the first thing that’s ever made me scared to lose."

Your chest tightened.

Goddamn him.

Because you wanted to believe it. Wanted to throw your arms around him, take him in the barn, and kiss the past right off his mouth. But you’d learned too young that want didn’t make a man stay. Promises were easy when the sun was out — it was the nights that told the truth.

So you swallowed hard and said the only thing you could.

"Then don’t say you want me, Stack. Show me."

His eyes flickered, something fierce and warm lighting in them.

"I intend to, darlin’," he said. "Every damn day. Starting now."

And when he reached for your hand, you let him take it. Just for a moment.

Just long enough to remember how it felt.

He raised it to his mouth. Kissed it gently, if Stack Moore was even capable of being gentle.

"Now.. Take me inside to see your daddy. I'm sure we can find somethin' to agree on. Gotta get along before I ask for the blessin'."

You snorted, tying Annie up and kicking his boot with your own.

"It ain't that easy. You've got to court me before you marry me, and even then, you gotta impress daddy."

Stack chuckled low in his chest, the sound rich like molasses and twice as thick with trouble.

"Darlin’, I didn’t think anything about you would be easy," he said, falling in step beside you as you started toward the house. "Hell, if you were, I wouldn’t be out here riskin’ a shotgun sermon and a boot up my ass."

You cut him a sideways glance, amused despite yourself. "You’ll get more than a boot if you don’t stop runnin’ that mouth."

He grinned, flashing that infamous gold tooth like a warning sign. "That mouth’s gonna be the reason you marry me, just you wait."

You stopped at the bottom of the steps, boots crunching in the dirt. Stack did too, waiting for your lead. Waiting, you realized, for your say-so — and that was rare.

"You serious about this?" you asked, voice lower now. No teasing. No fire. Just the honest question of a woman who knew how easily hearts cracked under pressure.

He nodded once. No swagger this time. Just steel and heat.

"I want a wife. I want babies. I wanna hang my guns up until I need 'em. And I want you. So, little lady, let's go."

You held in a tear, the only tear that had ever developed in your cold e/c eyes since mama died. Then, you willingly threaded your fingers into Stack's and tugged him towards the house.

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dior-luxury · 2 months ago

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hiiiii hope you're having a good day! Can I request Idia, Azul, Ruggie, Jamil, Lilia, Ace + anyone else you like with a reader who has a crush on them but is utterly convinced there's no way he likes them back? Just "he's so cute and I love him but he's way out of my league, oh well back to daydreaming" Thank youuuu ~ 👾 nonnie

You Being Convinced They Don't Like You Back

( ✧ ) ────── pre-boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] ace . ruggie . azul . jamil . idia . lilia

- [𝐩:𝐬] Self-deprecating thoughts / Low self-esteem . Mutual pining . Angst with a happy ending . Romantic insecurity . Fluff

Note: I literally am in LOVE with this prompt hello 🥹 thank you so much for requesting 👾 nonnie! I hope my writing exceeds your expectations ( ´ ω ` ) .

Ace Trappola

The library was unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon, the hum of distant conversation muffled by the towering shelves of books and the occasional creak of an old wooden chair. You sat in the farthest corner, your favorite spot, hunched over your notebook but not really writing. Not really thinking, either.

You were doodling again—him, of course. The slightly messy hair that was always a shade redder in the sunlight, the crooked smirk that came out right before he teased someone (or charmed them), and those stupid little hearts he sometimes made with his hands just to be annoying. Ace Trappola.

You sighed and dropped your pencil, watching it roll off the desk. “Ugh, why is he so cute,” you mumbled under your breath, face down in your arms.

It wasn’t like he knew you existed in any special way. Sure, you were classmates, sometimes group partners, sometimes sparring partners in flight class. He joked with you a lot, yeah. But he joked with everyone. He winked at everyone. He didn’t look at you the way you looked at him—soft, lingering, completely lovesick.

You were convinced Ace belonged in a whole different universe than you. He was bold, charming, magnetic. And you? You were… fine. Okay. Passable. Not his type, whatever that was. So you kept it inside. You giggled with your friends about how cute he looked in his uniform, you wrote little daydreams in your journal and then crossed them out, and you tried to survive the actual conversations with him without letting the pink in your cheeks get too noticeable.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t have known—was that Ace had been hovering outside the aisle for the past five minutes.

He’d come to return a book, seen you, and almost walked away. But your muttering had stopped him cold.

He leaned a little closer, his heartbeat just a bit too loud in his ears. Did you just call him cute? No way. You were probably talking about some manga character.

But then you sighed again and muttered, “He’d never like someone like me. Not when he’s... him.”

And something in Ace's chest twisted.

He stepped out casually, pretending like he hadn’t just eavesdropped on your heartbreak. “Yo,” he said, tossing the book on the return cart. “Didn’t know you talked to yourself. Should I be worried?”

You jolted upright, face turning crimson the moment you saw him. “A-Ace?!”

He leaned on the edge of your desk, eyes scanning your doodles. “Wow, that guy looks exactly like me,” he teased. “You got a little crush or something?”

You tried to cover the page, but it was too late. Panic surged in your chest, your throat tightening as every possible excuse dried up on your tongue.

Ace tilted his head, smirk fading just slightly into something softer. “Hey,” he said, quieter now. “Was that about me back there? What you said?”

You froze. Busted.

He laughed—gently, not the loud, showy kind. “You think I’m out of your league? That’s rich. You literally do everything better than me except math, and I still think about how you beat me in Spell Target last month.”

You blinked, stunned.

Ace grinned wider, leaning just a bit closer. “So... maybe I’ve got a little crush too. Don’t go writing me off like that next time, yeah?”

Ruggie Bucchi

It was late afternoon, and the Savannaclaw lounge was mostly empty—except for you, perched on the steps outside, and Ruggie, balancing a tray of snacks with a practiced hand. You’d offered to help, but he’d waved you off with a grin.

“Relax, I got this.”

You smiled politely, folding your arms tighter. Not that he’d notice the way your chest fluttered when he smiled like that. That sly, sleepy-eyed grin that made your stomach dip every time.

Ruggie was… everything you weren’t. Fast-talking, adaptable, clever, confident in a way you never could be. He made jokes even when Leona was glaring daggers. He knew how to turn scraps into something useful. And you? You were just you.

No way he’d be interested in someone who wasn’t cool, cunning, or at least a little dangerous. He needed someone who could keep up with his sharp tongue and trickster nature. Not someone like you who blushed too easily and got tongue-tied every time he looked your way.

You fiddled with a loose thread on your sleeve, sighing. “He’s way out of my league,” you whispered to no one.

Unbeknownst to you, Ruggie was returning from the lounge, just in time to hear that.

He paused in his step, the grin faltering as the words sank in.

Out of your league? Him?

He tilted his head, watching you. You looked… soft. Tired. Not just from today, but maybe from carrying that weight in your chest. The kind he knew too well. Ruggie bit the inside of his cheek and walked over quietly, plopping down beside you without a word.

You looked up, startled. “Oh! You’re back.”

“Yeah.” He offered you one of the sweet pastries he’d snagged from the kitchen. “You looked like you needed somethin’ sweet.”

You took it, hesitating. “Thanks…”

The silence lingered a moment too long. Then Ruggie said casually, “You know, I heard what you said.”

You froze.

Ruggie turned his head to look at you, his smile smaller now, more sincere. “You think I’m outta your league?” He snorted. “That’s a laugh. You’re the only one around here who’s nice to me without expecting somethin’ in return.”

You stared, lips parting, but no words came out.

“I notice things, y’know,” he continued, voice lower now. “How you bring extra snacks just in case someone forgets lunch. How you patch people up after training. How you always wave to Grim like he’s the main character or somethin’.”

You smiled weakly. “He thinks he is.”

Ruggie chuckled. “You’ve got no idea how easy it is to like you, do ya?”

The air went still.

He leaned a bit closer, a mischievous spark lighting back up in his eyes. “So, what d’you say we make this official? You stop pretendin’ I don’t like you, and I stop stealin’ snacks to get your attention. Deal?”

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded—furiously.

And Ruggie, with a smug little grin, nudged your shoulder and whispered, “Knew you liked me, too.”

Azul Ashengrotto

The lounge was closed for the night, lights dimmed, the usual chatter of customers replaced by the quiet shuffle of papers and the gentle clink of glass as Azul organized the bar. You sat alone at one of the side tables—he’d offered to let you hang out while he finished work, a kind gesture wrapped in professionalism. You didn’t question it. You were just happy to be near him.

Azul was perfect. Not in an untouchable way, but in the dangerously magnetic way. His intelligence, his poise, the calculating way his eyes always seemed to know more than he let on. He could make a deal with a king and still get the better end of it. He ran a whole business while juggling classes and contracts and never once looked like he was struggling.

Meanwhile, you were just… you. No cunning. No genius intellect. Just someone who barely passed alchemy and still got nervous speaking in front of people. Azul was miles above your league.

So, you admired him from afar. You listened carefully when he spoke in class, hung onto his every word when he got passionate about potion theory, and then pretended not to ache when he’d smile politely and move on without knowing how he affected you.

Tonight was no different.

You watched him from behind your drink, your heart fluttering as he adjusted his glasses, sleeves rolled to his elbows. You sighed under your breath, “He’s so beautiful. And way out of my league. Oh well. Back to daydreaming…”

Azul looked up.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but his mer ears were… sensitive. The words hit him harder than expected. You thought he was out of your league?

He swallowed hard, turning away quickly to hide the sudden redness in his cheeks. Was that a joke? Were you playing him? No, no—your voice had been too soft. Too sad.

He closed the ledger and made his way over to your table, rehearsing something casual to say. But he couldn’t do it. The usual charm slipped. He sat down across from you instead, unusually quiet.

“Everything alright?” you asked.

“Yes,” he said too quickly. Then, after a breath: “I overheard something just now.”

Your heart dropped.

“I didn’t mean to. But you said…” He paused, searching your face for any trace of irony. “You think I’m out of your league?”

You froze. Busted again. Why did the universe keep doing this to you?

Azul looked… uncertain. Vulnerable. His fingers tapped the edge of the table in a rare moment of nervous fidgeting. “You have no idea how intimidating you are to me.”

You blinked. “Me?!”

“Yes. You’re so—genuine. You smile without scheming. You care without a contract. That’s not something I’m used to.” His voice dropped, soft and serious. “And I’ve liked you for a while. But I didn’t think someone as… sincere as you could ever return that kind of feeling.”

Your chest clenched. “Azul, I… I do. I have. For a long time.”

He gave a breathless little laugh. “Then perhaps… a real date? No contracts, no business. Just us?”

You nodded, overwhelmed but glowing. And for once, Azul Ashengrotto looked flustered. Adorably so.

Jamil Viper

The sun was setting over Scarabia, painting the desert sky in shades of gold and crimson. You sat at the balcony edge of the dorm’s main building, legs dangling, fingers absentmindedly picking at your sleeve as you watched the horizon burn.

Jamil was training below—moving with that smooth, graceful precision of someone who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much attention he was getting. But Jamil never asked for attention. He earned it quietly, consistently, and refused to let it change him.

You had it bad. So bad it was kind of pathetic.

He was calm, composed, mysterious in the way that made your heart race just a little. But also kind, thoughtful, and far too selfless for someone with his level of talent. You loved the way he took care of others, even when they didn’t realize he was doing it. You loved the way his eyes lit up when no one was watching and he actually let himself enjoy something.

And of course, you’d convinced yourself he’d never return the feeling.

You were ordinary. Not someone with elegance carved into every step. Not someone with a voice that could silence a room. You were nice, and dependable, but not the kind of person who got someone like Jamil Viper.

You sighed and murmured to yourself, “He’s so cool and so out of my league… but I love him anyway. Guess I’ll just keep dreaming.”

Unfortunately, your voice carried.

Jamil paused mid-step, hearing your words. The rhythm of his movements faltered for just a second. He glanced up, spotted you on the balcony, and blinked.

Your eyes met. Panic.

He jogged up the steps—not fast, but direct. Intentional.

You stood, heart racing. “J-Jamil, I didn’t know you—”

“I heard you,” he said, his voice even, but there was a flicker of emotion in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. “What you said.”

You turned crimson. “That was—I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not for you to—”

He held up a hand gently. “Can I be honest with you?”

You nodded, too stunned to speak.

“I’ve spent a long time trying not to like anyone,” he said slowly. “Because it’s easier. Because I don’t get to have things I want. People expect me to stay in the background, to be useful—not to be seen.”

Your breath hitched.

“But then you came along. You’re kind. You notice things most people overlook. You see me.” He looked away for a second, a rare flicker of vulnerability. “And I didn’t think I was allowed to want someone like you.”

You were stunned. “Jamil… I see you because I care. I’ve always cared.”

He looked at you again, softer now. “Then maybe we’ve both been idiots.”

You laughed shakily. “Definitely.”

Jamil stepped closer, a real smile pulling at his lips. “Then let’s stop pretending. I like you. And I’m not letting you drift away into daydreams anymore.”

Your heart soared. Maybe… just maybe… you were enough for him all along.

Idia Shroud

The glow of the computer screen lit your face as you sat cross-legged on the floor of Ignihyde's rec room—aka Idia's fortress. You’d been invited to a co-op gaming session, not unusual since you’d proven yourself in battle simulators, strategy MMOs, and the occasional horror VR run.

But what was unusual… was that Idia had invited you.

You kept telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal. He was probably just being friendly. Maybe he appreciated that you didn’t make fun of his Otaku shrine or that time he totally short-circuited a project trying to install AI voice lines of a waifu into Ortho.

Still, every time he laughed softly at one of your dumb jokes, or his fingers brushed yours when you handed him a controller—you felt that dizzy, heart-thumping feeling in your chest. And you reminded yourself, for the millionth time:

“He’s brilliant. Cool in a mysterious, tech-wizard way. That anime hair glows. He’s basically a boss-level character. And me? I’m just a side quest.”

So you kept your feelings locked behind your own firewall and resigned yourself to the background.

Tonight was no different. After you won a particularly chaotic match, Idia leaned back in his chair, hoodie half-draped over his head, giving you one of those rare, sheepish smiles. “Y-you’re really good at this… I mean, I knew you were decent, but like… whoa. T-totally NPC-crushing it.”

You smiled, heart fluttering. “Guess I just like playing with you…”

He froze. Not visibly, not obviously—but if you’d been watching closely (and you always were), you’d notice the way his avatar just… idled.

You were about to awkwardly fill the silence when you heard it—his voice, quiet, uncertain. “You know, I always thought you were… like… out of my league.”

Your brain lagged.

“Wait—what?”

Idia pulled the hood further over his head, hair flickering in shades of anxious pink. “I mean, you’re normal. Like, good at talking to people, and helping Ortho with projects, and you actually listen when I go off on anime world-building lore instead of hitting skip like everyone else.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “But I thought I was just the sidekick here! I mean—you’re… you. I figured there was no way someone like you could like someone like me.”

He glanced up, eyes wide and glowing faintly. “No. You’re not ‘someone like’ anything. You’re just… you. And you’re kind of my favorite player two.”

Silence stretched.

And then he blurted, fast and fumbling, “So—uh, do you wanna maybe do a… real date co-op thing? Like a—non-digital questline?”

You beamed. “I’d love to.”

And somewhere in the corner, Ortho’s little scanner lit up green. “Successful confession: confirmed.”

Lilia Vanrouge

The Diasomnia garden was especially quiet in the evening, the moonlight bathing the stone paths in silver as soft wind rustled the leaves. You often came here after a long day—it was peaceful, and you could just… think.

And of course, he was often there.

Lilia.

Sometimes humming an old lullaby. Sometimes practicing aerial flips. Sometimes just tending to the strange, glowing plants with that serene little smile. He was enigmatic, ageless, playful in a way that made your heart ache. He flirted with everyone, joked like he’d seen centuries of stories unfold—and maybe he had.

You were utterly, hopelessly, in love with him.

But you’d buried it. Because how could someone like Lilia Vanrouge—mysterious, powerful, ancient, and radiant—ever love someone like you?

“He’s basically immortal. I’m mortal, awkward, and sometimes trip over nothing. He’s been alive since kingdoms rose and fell. I’m just trying to pass my midterms without dying of stress. He probably sees me like a cute stray cat or something.”

So instead of confessing, you smiled, nodded when he teased you, and let the daydreams pile up where he couldn’t see.

Tonight, you didn’t notice him approach until he sat beside you, quiet and uncharacteristically gentle.

“Lost in thought, little one?”

You startled slightly, then laughed. “Yeah. Just… life stuff.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, gaze flicking over your face like he was reading something written across your skin. “You've been sighing a lot lately.”

You tried to deflect. “Guess I’ve just been thinking about someone.”

His eyes twinkled. “Ah… a crush, perhaps?”

You flushed. “Maybe.”

Lilia tilted his head, fangs barely visible behind his grin. “And what is this mysterious someone like?”

You bit your lip. “He’s… incredible. Playful but wise. Mysterious. Totally out of my league.”

That grin faded—just slightly. “Out of your league?”

You nodded, sighing. “Yeah. He’s someone who probably sees a million people every day and never notices someone like me. Which is fine. I’m just… daydreaming. That’s all.”

Lilia was silent for a beat. And then he did something you hadn’t expected.

He took your hand.

“You know,” he said quietly, “for someone who’s lived as long as I have… very few people surprise me anymore. But you? You always do. With your honesty, your kindness… and the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

You froze.

“I do notice,” he added, voice lowering, soft as dusk. “And I would be a fool not to return the favor.”

You stared, eyes wide. “Wait… you—?”

“Yes.” He smiled, a touch bittersweet. “And I’ve been waiting for the right time to say it. But it seems we’ve both been sitting in our little corners of longing, haven’t we?”

You nodded, heart hammering.

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. “Well then… perhaps it’s time we step out of the daydream.”

#𝐃𝐈𝐎𝐑-𝐋𝐔𝐗𝐔𝐑𝐘 #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst x reader #twst headcanons #twst fanfic #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland #twst imagines #ace trappola x reader #ace trapolla x reader #ruggie bucchi x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #jamil viper x reader #idia shroud x reader #lilia vanrouge imagines #lilia vanrouge headcanons #lilia vanrouge x reader

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5starwitch · 4 months ago

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What the Planets in Your 1st House Mean for Your Appearance

Sun in the 1st house individuals have a radiance that is hard to ignore. It's not just their charisma but something deeper than that. Almost like a ray of sunshine follows them around. Their hair is a defining feature, kind of resembling a lion's mane. Another defining trait is their cat-like eyes, which suit bold and dramatic makeup looks. They have naturally glowing skin, and bronzed or tan tones complement them beautifully. These are the type of people who walk into a room with their head held high, knowing they are the main character.

Moon in the 1st house individuals have an aura that makes people feel safe and comfortable around them. They usually have big, expressive eyes, round facial features, a fuller bust, and a more rounded physique. They wear their emotions on their sleeves, especially if they have a water or fire sign in the 1st house. Their dreamy, ethereal aura makes people around them feel like they’re in a movie.

Mercury in the 1st house individuals have a youthful charm to them. They are usually very expressive, which is evident in their mannerisms, animated facial expressions, and the way they move their hands while talking. Pixie cuts tend to look great on women with Mercury in the 1st because they have sharp, defined, and symmetrical features. Just like their mind, which goes 100 mph, they are fast talkers and walkers. These people are very witty, funny, and charming (in a mischievous way tbh)

Venus in the 1st house individuals look beautiful and approachable. They typically have balanced and symmetrical facial features, and their body is curvy but balanced. They have full lips, a nose that fits well on their face, inviting eyes, and cheekbones that are noticeable but not too pronounced. They have a natural knack for aesthetics and style, so picking out outfits for themselves is an easy task. They give off girl next door vibes: innocent and charming, and everyone wants them.

Mars in the 1st house individuals have a bold and assertive presence. They walk into a room like they own it. They may come off as aggressive, especially if there are harsh aspects, but overall, they radiate confidence, boldness, and s*x appeal. They tend to have bold, sharp features, such as upturned, siren-like eyes, defined cheekbones and jawline, and an athletic body that might naturally maintain abs or muscle tone. Red hair looks great on them, even if they don't have it naturally.

Jupiter in the 1st house individuals have a larger-than-life personality. These people have natural charisma that everyone around them can feel. They know how to make people feel welcome and truly listened to. They have so much energy and they have the kind of laugh that makes you laugh along with them. These people are optimistic af. They naturally exude lucky energy. Like everything just goes their way, and it usually does! They have a youthful appearance. Usually they have big features. It could be their eyes, nose, lips, etc. They might be prone to gaining weight, and if they’re a woman they tend to be curvaceous.

Saturn in the 1st house individuals tend to have a stoic, reserved presence. Their energy might be closed off and this intimidates people. It makes people feel like they have to work to earn the attention of the Saturn in the 1st person. These people may have had to grow up at a young age or dealt with a lot of self-esteem issues, but as they get older Saturn blesses them. It's like they age backwards, both physically and mentally. These people age like fine wine, growing into themselves and only getting more beautiful as time goes on. They may be blessed with prominent cheekbones and black hair tends to suit them.

Uranus in the 1st house individuals have a unique, eccentric quality about them. They might experiment with their hair color or fashion. These people can be real trend setters because they don't care what people think about them. They do what they want. They tend to experiment with their hair specifically: different colors, cuts, styles. They've done em all. There's an unpredictability about them which makes them so captivating. They're hard to figure out or pin down. Their body type can range from big or small, short or tall. They tend to embrace what they look like and don't fall in the trap of following conventional beauty standards.

Neptune in the 1st house individuals have a dreamy, ethereal quality to them. They’re also mysterious, but in a way that people can’t really figure them out. It’s almost like they can shape shift, becoming a different person depending on who they’re with. They’re elusive. They have a mystical allure, spiritual even. Their eyes pull people in like a magnet because they’re so full of depth and have a watery quality to them. They look like they’re in a dream. Their features are usually soft and gentle, and their hair flows and is soft.

Pluto in the 1st house individuals are known for their deep, penetrating gaze. Their eyes are full of depth, but there’s power in the way they look at people, like they know they’re the one in control, always. There’s always something dramatic in the appearance of these people. Whether that be their impeccable bone structure, a scar, or mole. These people take up space in a room, and people remember them long after they leave. They don’t even have to speak, their aura speaks for them. They have a quiet authority, dominance and sensual appeal that leaves people magnetized. Their features are generally not soft.

Lilith in the 1st house individuals have an undeniable s*xual presence. These people may have been overly s*xualized for their body or aura. For some, this makes them want to hide that side of themselves, but for others it makes them want to further enhance that side of themselves. They have an intense, seductive gaze that leaves people obsessed. Their features may be sharp and bold. They move with a sense of confidence and sensuality that people can’t help but notice. Their sensuality is very present in their body language and the way they speak.

Individuals with no planets in the 1st house still have a sign in that house, which influences the way they appear. For example, having Aries in the 1st house will make someone have bold, striking features such as cat-like, upturned eyes, a prominent forehead, red (or red undertones) hair or red generally looks good on them. Aspects to the ascendant also impact the appearance. For example, having venus aspecting the ascendant can give someone symmetrical, balanced features in the face and body, and a good sense of style and aesthetics. This is why if you don’t relate to the planet in your 1st house, it may be because you relate more to the sign in your 1st house or the aspects to your ascendant.

...

Buy a birth chart reading from me on my ko-fi or cashapp ($5starwitch) for $30

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kole-cooler · 4 months ago

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Take it or Leave it

Shin Yuna x male reader

word count: 9K

It’s Friday night, and the week’s been a grind—exams looming, group projects sucking the life out of you, the usual college chaos. Your phone’s been buzzing on and off with Yuna’s texts all day, starting with some dumb meme about a cat in a wig, then escalating to her dropping flirty little jabs like “u surviving without me or what?” You play along, firing back with your own sarcastic quips, but deep down, it’s gnawing at you. The way she struts across campus like you’re a ghost, not even a flicker of eye contact when her squad’s around, it’s like you’re her dirty little secret. And yeah, maybe you are. Four months of this shit—her sneaking over, the two of you tangled up in your sheets—and still, you’re nothing to her out there. But tonight, she’s coming over again, and your stomach’s already twisting, half from want, half from dread.

The doorbell chimes, and there she is, bursting through the frame like she owns the place, her voice spilling out before the door’s even shut. “Oh my god, you won’t believe what Chaeryeong said to me today—she’s so extra, I can’t,” she’s rattling on, tossing her bag onto your couch like it’s her second home. You catch a good look at her, and fuck, she’s dialed it up tonight. She’s wearing this black satin slip dress, short enough that it’s riding the line between bold and reckless, the hem cutting off mid-thigh to show off those legs that could kill a man. The fabric’s got this subtle shimmer, clinging to her slim waist and flaring out over her hips—those wide, perfect hips that you’ve memorized by now. A cropped leather jacket’s slung over her shoulders, unzipped, giving it that effortless cool-girl edge, and underneath, the dress dips low, a little lace trim peeking out where it teases her chest. Her hair’s loose, dark waves spilling down her back, and she’s got these chunky silver hoops glinting when she moves. It’s sexy as hell, provocative without trying too hard, but chic enough that she could pull it off anywhere. She’s a walking Instagram post, and she knows it.

She spins around mid-sentence, all that energy zeroing in on you, and before you can blink, she’s bounding over, arms outstretched like she’s about to pull you into her orbit. Her lips are glossy, puckered for that kiss she always lands on you the second she walks in—half playful, half claiming. But tonight, you don’t budge. You just stand there, hands shoved in your pockets, jaw tight, letting her momentum crash into your stillness. Her lips hover an inch from yours, and you see the flicker of confusion in her eyes when you don’t lean in. She pulls back a little, tilting her head like a puppy who’s been denied a treat. “What’s up with you?” she says, half-laughing. You take a breath, feeling the weight of everything you’ve been swallowing for weeks piling up in your chest. “Yuna, we need to talk,” you say, voice low but steady, and her whole vibe shifts—she steps back, crossing her arms under that damn dress, her jacket sliding off one shoulder, and she’s staring at you now, lips parted, waiting for the bomb you’re about to drop.

“Maybe we should just stop seeing each other,” you say, letting the words drop like a brick on the hardwood floor. She freezes, her arms still crossed, that leather jacket slipping further down her shoulder. “What?” she says, voice spiking with disbelief. You shift your weight, rubbing the back of your neck, and say it again, slower this time, “I think we should stop this, Yuna. Whatever this is.” Her brows knit together, and she steps closer, heels clicking on the floor—she’s still got those strappy sandals with heels on, the ones that tie up her calves like she’s some goddess descending from Olympus. “Why the hell would you say that?” she asks, and her tone’s sharp now, like she’s daring you to keep going.

So you do. You let it all spill out, raw and messy, like you’ve been holding it in too long and the dam’s finally busted. “Because I’m sick of feeling like shit, okay? At college, you act like I don’t exist—like I’m some random dude you barely know. I’m busting my ass with these classes, trying to keep up, and then there’s you, waltzing around with your crew, pretending I’m not even on your radar. But here? In my apartment? It’s all good, right? You’re all over me, and I’m supposed to just be cool with that split? Nah, it’s fucking with me.” She blinks, lips parting like she’s about to interrupt, but you push on. “I’m starting to feel like you’re embarrassed to be seen with me—like I’m some loser you’d never admit to touching. It’s like I’m just your little plaything you pull out when you’re bored or horny, and I’m done with it.” Your chest’s heaving by the end, and you can feel the heat creeping up your neck, but it’s out now, no taking it back.

Yuna’s staring at you, and for a second, you think she might actually get it. But then she rolls her eyes, tossing her hair back with a little huff. “Oh my god, chill out. This is just a casual thing—we’re not dating, you know that. Why are you catching feelings over something that’s not even serious?” She uncrosses her arms, gesturing with her hands like she’s trying to wave your words away. “I’m not embarrassed of you. I just don’t see why it’s a big deal.” You laugh, but it’s bitter, hollow. “Not a big deal? Yuna, it’s not simple for me. I can’t just switch it off like you do. And yeah, maybe you’re not embarrassed, but it sure as hell feels that way when you won’t even look at me in public. Like that time I came up to you when you were with your friends—middle of the quad, broad daylight—and I asked about the project? You brushed me off, said, ‘Text me about it,’ and walked off without a second glance. Didn’t even introduce me, didn’t even pretend I was worth a damn to you. I felt like a fucking idiot.”

Her face shifts—she remembers that day, you can tell by the way her lips twitch, but she doubles down anyway. “I’ve always treated you fine! I come over, we hang out, we have fun. I don’t get why you’re making this a thing.” She’s pacing now, sandals clicking again, her dress swishing with every step. You shake your head, leaning against the counter to steady yourself. “If it’s not a thing, then why can’t you talk to me out there? Why’s it always gotta be this secret shit? I’m telling you, it’s better if we end it here. You can find some other guy to mess around with—someone who’s cool with being your shadow.” That flips a switch in her. Her eyes narrow, and she stops pacing, planting herself right in front of you. “Oh, please,” she snaps. “You’re the one who’s pissed because I won’t parade you around like some trophy. What, you think I’m using you? Maybe you’re the one chasing me, trying to ride my coattails because I’m popular and you’re—what—just some nerd who got lucky?”

You can’t help it—you laugh again, loud and sharp, cutting through her bullshit. “That’s rich, Yuna. Yeah, I’m totally the one taking advantage here. I’m the one sneaking over to your place, right? Oh wait, no, that’s you.” She glares, cheeks flushing pink, and you can tell she’s not used to this—being called out, being rejected. She steps closer, voice dropping low. “You’re ruining my night, you know that? I was so pumped to come over, kick back, watch that stupid horror movie you’ve been on about. I even brought snacks—those sour gummy worms you like.” She points at her bag on the couch, like that’s supposed to fix everything. You smirk, leaning in a little. “Yeah, and you were also pumped to fuck me, right? That’s the routine—movie, snacks, then you’re climbing on top of me like clockwork.” Her jaw drops, and she looks genuinely offended, hand flying to her chest. “Wow, rude much? It’s not like you’re complaining in the moment—you’re just as into it as I am!”

And that’s the kicker. The way she moves, the way she tastes, the little gasps she lets out when you’ve got her pinned under you—it’s like a hit of something strong, something you can’t shake. “Yeah, I am,” you admit, voice quieter now, “and that’s the problem. It’s too good, Yuna. You’re too good. It’s like a drug, and I’m hooked, and that’s why I’ve gotta cut it off before I’m in too deep.” She stares at you, lips parted, and for once, she doesn’t have a comeback ready.

The silence stretches out for a beat too long, and then Yuna’s voice cuts through it, soft and low. “Okay, fine… if that’s how you feel, then this’ll be the last time.” She’s looking at you with those big, dark eyes, and there’s something in them—maybe a flicker of hurt, maybe just stubbornness—but it’s enough to make your stomach twist. You shake your head, leaning back against the counter, hands gripping the edge. “Nah, Yuna, I don’t think that’s a good idea. We’re trying to end this, not drag it out.” She steps closer, her sandals clicking softly, and her voice firms up, sharper now, like she’s made up her mind. “No, listen—I’m here, right? I didn’t haul ass across town for nothing. Let’s make it the last fuck, then. One more, just to say goodbye proper.” She’s right in front of you now, close enough that you can smell her perfume—and it’s hitting you hard, stirring up that familiar ache.

She reaches out, her fingers brushing your chest through your shirt, light but deliberate, and it’s like a jolt straight to your core. You clench your jaw, trying to hold your ground, keeping your hands locked on the counter so you don’t give in and grab her. “Come on,” she murmurs, leaning in, her lips hovering near your ear, breath warm against your skin. “Please, I know you want it too. Don’t make me beg.” Her hand slides lower, grazing your stomach, and your resolve’s crumbling fast. You sigh, loud and ragged, and before you can stop yourself, your hands are on her hips, pulling her closer. “Fuck it,” you mutter, voice rough, “this is the last time, Yuna. The farewell fuck, that’s it.” She’s already nodding, her lips crashing into yours, hungry and messy, and between kisses she’s gasping, “Yeah, last time, promise.” You’re tugging that leather jacket off her shoulders, letting it hit the floor with a soft thud, and she’s pressing herself against you, all heat and curves.

You stumble toward the couch, half-guiding, half-dragging her, and she’s giggling—low and breathy. You collapse onto the cushions, pulling her down with you, and she lands on your lap, straddling you for a split second before you roll her under you. Your mouth’s on her neck, kissing and nipping at that soft spot just below her jaw, and she lets out this little sigh—half moan, half surrender—that sends a shiver down your spine. Your hands slide up her sides, finding her small, perky tits through that satin dress, squeezing just enough to make her arch into you. “Goddamn, you’re too much,” you mutter against her skin, and she laughs, tugging at your shirt. You pause, sitting up to yank it over your head, and her eyes rake over you—chest, abs, the whole deal. “You’re so fucking hot,” she says, grinning, reaching out to run her nails lightly down your stomach. It’s cheesy as hell, but it still gets you—except tonight, you’re not in the mood for her commentary.

“Shut up,” you say, diving back in to kiss her hard, swallowing whatever smartass reply she’s got lined up. Your tongue’s in her mouth, and she’s melting under you, but then she pulls back just enough to whisper, “Gonna be tough—I can’t keep quiet when you’re fucking me. You know you love it when I get loud.” She’s right, and that’s the problem—her voice, those little gasps and whines, they’ve got hooks in you, and tonight you need this to be clean, primal, no strings. “Then I’ll keep your mouth busy,” you shoot back, smirking, and you shift off her, sitting up. “Get on your knees.” She doesn’t hesitate, sliding off the couch with this wicked little gleam in her eyes. Before she drops, she reaches down, shimmying that black satin dress up over her head in one smooth motion—leaving her in just a lacy black thong and those sandals still strapped around her ankles. The sight of her—tan skin, curves bare and glowing in the low light—almost knocks the air out of you.

You’re on your feet now, kicking off your jeans and boxers in a rush, and your cock springs free, already hard as hell, aching from just the thought of her. She’s kneeling in front of you, looking up with that mix of defiance and want that’s pure Yuna, her hair spilling over her shoulders, framing her face. “Last time, huh?” she says, voice teasing, but there’s a tremble in it—like she’s feeling the weight of it too. You don’t answer, just step closer, and she reaches for you, her fingers brushing your length before you tangle a hand in her hair, guiding her where you want her. The room’s quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the sound of your breathing, and you know this is it—the final hit of her before you try to quit cold turkey.

You’re standing there, one hand still tangled in her dark hair, the other gripping the back of the couch for balance, and you look down at her—kneeling, bare except for that skimpy thong and bra—and you can’t help but feel the weight of this moment. “Memorize it good, Yuna,” you say, voice rough, edged with something raw. “This is the last time you’re getting anywhere near my cock, so make it count, 'cause you're gonna miss it.” Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and there’s this spark in them—part challenge, part hunger—and fuck, it’s like pouring gas on a fire. She doesn’t say anything right away, just leans in closer, and you feel her breath hot against your skin as she drags her nose along the length of you, inhaling deep like she’s savoring it. Then her tongue darts out, slow and deliberate, tracing from the base all the way up to the tip, leaving a wet streak that’s got your knees twitching. She’s kissing it now—soft, teasing little pecks along the shaft, down to your balls, where she lingers, sucking gently, and it’s so damn good you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from groaning too loud. The way she’s working you, it’s like she’s putting on a show just for you, and it’s flipping every switch in your brain.

She pulls back for a second, lips shiny, and smirks up at you. “Goddamn, I’m gonna miss this cock so much,” she says, her voice all husky and low, like she’s confessing some deep, dirty secret. “It’s my favorite, you know? Perfect size, perfect everything. Gonna be a crime not having it anymore.” She’s laying it on thick, and you’re caught between rolling your eyes and getting lost in it because, shit, she knows exactly how to play you. Her hands are on you now, one wrapped around the base, stroking slow while her tongue flicks over the tip, and you can’t tell if she’s for real or just fucking with you to keep you hooked. Either way, it’s working—your dick’s throbbing, and every little move she makes is winding you up tighter. Then she takes you into her mouth, full-on, lips sliding down until you’re hitting the back of her throat, and it’s so wet and warm and tight that your head tips back, a low curse slipping out before you can stop it. There’s nothing in the world like watching her suck you off—those pink lips stretched around you, her cheeks hollowing out, the little slurping sounds she makes like she’s starving for it.

She’s bobbing her head now, steady and deep, but then she pulls off just enough to talk, her hand still pumping you, keeping the rhythm. “You know,” she says, voice muffled around you, “I was so fucking jealous when Yeji dropped that bomb about hooking up with you. Just casual, like, ‘Oh yeah, that guy you doing the project with? We fucked at that party.’ Like it was nothing.” She’s licking you again, long, slow stripes, and her eyes don’t leave yours, like she’s daring you to react. “And then she started going on about your dick—how big it was, how she couldn’t believe I hadn’t jumped you yet. I was standing there, fuming, thinking, ‘No way this bitch gets to have him and I don’t.’ So I made my move—stole you right out from under her nose before she could even think about round two.” She laughs a little, soft and smug, then sinks back down, taking you deep again, and you feel her throat flex around you. “Yeji was cool about it, though—she’s a real one. Said she wasn’t gonna fight me over some guy. Lucky for me, huh?”

You’re barely processing her words, caught up in the heat of her mouth and the way she’s working you like she’s trying to etch herself into your memory. But it’s too much—her voice, her story, the way it’s all tangled up with how you feel. “Shut up, Yuna,” you growl, tightening your grip in her hair, pushing her back down. “Just keep sucking.” She hums around you, obedient for once, and dives back in, harder this time, her tongue swirling over the tip every time she pulls up, her hand twisting in this perfect rhythm that’s got your head spinning. You can see her thighs pressed together, like she’s getting off on this as much as you are, and it’s driving you wild—the idea that she’s this into it, that she’s claiming you in her own fucked-up way. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s making these soft, needy noises that hit you right in the gut. You’re not sure what’s true anymore—whether she’s really gonna miss you or if she’s just spinning a line—but right now, with her on her knees, worshipping your cock like it’s the last time, you don’t give a shit.

Yuna’s relentless, her mouth working you like she’s got something to prove, and she’s not letting up with the dirty talk either. She pulls off for a second, just enough to catch her breath, and she’s grinning up at you, spit glistening on her lips, her tongue flicking out to tease the tip of your cock. “You like this, don’t you?” she purrs, voice all sultry and rough. “Me down here, choking on you, making a fucking mess of myself.” It’s obscene, how perfect she is, all that polished campus-queen vibe turned into something cheap and nasty just for you. “Look at you,” you say, voice low and biting, “you look like a fucking slut right now.” It’s harsh, but it’s true, and you mean every word.

Her eyes light up at that, like you’ve just paid her a compliment, and she lets out this wicked little laugh. “Then I’m your slut,” she shoots back, leaning in to kiss the underside of your cock, slow and sloppy, leaving a trail of spit that drips down to her chest. “Yours to fuck however you want.” She’s baiting you, and she knows it—knows how her words twist you up, how they make you want to give in and let her have it all. But she’s pushing too far, talking too much, and you’re not about to let her take control of this. You need her quiet, need to shut that pretty mouth up before she worms her way deeper into your head. So you grab a fistful of her hair—those silky waves bunching up in your hand—and yank her forward, hard. “Enough talking,” you growl, and then you’re shoving your cock back into her mouth, past those glossy lips, all the way until you feel her throat clench around you.

She gags a little at first, eyes watering, but she doesn’t pull back—fuck no, she leans into it, like she’s been waiting for you to snap. You start thrusting, rough and fast, holding her head steady so she’s got no choice but to take it. Her hands fly up to your thighs, nails digging in, and the sounds she’s making—wet, choked little moans vibrating around you—are pure sin. You’re moaning too, can’t help it, because her mouth’s a fucking dream—hot and tight, that tongue still trying to swirl around you even as you’re pounding into her. “Yeah, that’s it,” you mutter, voice ragged, “take it like you love it.” And she does—she’s a mess now, mascara streaking down her cheeks, lips swollen and red, spit slicking her chin, and it’s so goddamn satisfying to see her like this. That perfect, pampered face—always so untouchable at college, always too good for the likes of you—getting ruined, all because she can’t get enough of your cock.

Her bra’s slipping, one strap falling off her shoulder, and her tits are bouncing just enough to drive you crazy as you keep up the pace. She’s trying to say something, muffled words garbled around you, but you don’t let up—don’t want to hear it, don’t need her sweet-talking her way out of this. “Fuck your face feels good,” you groan, tightening your grip in her hair, and she whimpers, eyes fluttering shut like she’s lost in it. You can feel the heat building, that tight coil in your gut winding up fast, but you’re not ready to blow yet—not until you’ve pushed her as far as she can go. She’s drooling now, a steady stream of spit spilling down onto the floor, and the sight of her like that—kneeling, wrecked, totally at your mercy—has your head spinning. “Look at you,” you pant, slowing just enough to let her catch a ragged breath, “fucking gorgeous and filthy all at once. Bet your fancy friends wouldn’t believe it, huh?” She tries to nod, or maybe it’s a gag, but you’re already moving again, slamming back into her throat, the rhythm of your hips relentless as you fuck Yuna’s face, no holding back, no mercy—just raw, animal need driving every thrust.

Her mouth’s a perfect mess around you, wet and tight, and she’s choking on your cock, little gags and sputters escaping every time you push in deep. Those big, dark eyes lock onto yours, watering like crazy, tears pooling at the corners and streaking down her cheeks, but she’s not backing off—she’s taking it, every brutal inch, like she’s daring you to keep going. Her mascara’s a disaster, black smudges framing her gaze, and her lips are swollen, stretched wide around you, spit dripping down her chin in sloppy strings. “Fuck, you’re such a slut,” you grunt, voice rough and low, and it just spills out—you can’t stop it, not when she’s looking up at you like that, wrecked and willing. She moans around you, a muffled little hum that vibrates through your cock, and it’s like she’s agreeing, reveling in the name.

Your hand tightens in her hair, fingers twisting into those dark waves, and you pull hard, angling her just right so you can slam even deeper. Her throat’s convulsing around you, squeezing every time you hit the back, and the sound—wet, messy, obscene—fills the room, mixing with your own ragged breathing. “Yeah, choke on it,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to her, and she does, her eyes fluttering shut for a second as she gags hard, but then they snap back open, fixed on you again, like she’s begging you to see her take it. You’re moaning louder now, can’t help it—low, guttural sounds ripping out of you because her mouth’s so fucking perfect, so hot and sloppy, and the sight of her like this—kneeling, ruined, all that campus-princess polish stripped away—is pushing you right to the edge. “Love this, don’t you?” you pant, thrusting harder, feeling the pleasure coil tight in your gut. “Love me fucking your pretty little face.” She can’t answer, not with you buried in her throat, but her hands grip your thighs, nails biting into your skin, and that’s enough.

You go deeper, as deep as you can, your cock lodged so far down her throat you’re sure she can barely breathe. Her whole body jerks with each thrust, tits bouncing in that flimsy bra, heels digging into the floor like she’s bracing herself. You’re close—fuck, you’re so close—and you can feel it building, that hot, electric rush surging up your spine. “Gonna cum,” you groan, voice breaking, and she makes this desperate little noise, eyes pleading even as they water more. You thrust once, twice, then hold her there—head yanked back by her hair, your cock shoved all the way in—and you let go. You cum hard, pulsing deep in her throat, thick and hot, and she’s choking, coughing around you, but she doesn’t pull away. She swallows it all, every drop, like the good little slut she said she’d be, her throat working against you as you empty yourself into her. It’s intense, almost too much, and your legs are shaking as you ride it out, keeping her there, softening in her mouth while she struggles to keep up.

Without even thinking, your hand loosens in her hair, and you start stroking it—gentle, absentminded, like some weird reflex kicking in while you’re still coming down. She’s trembling, chest heaving, and you finally pull out, slow and deliberate, your cock slipping free with a wet pop. Yuna gasps, gulping air like she’s been underwater, panting hard as she slumps back on her heels. Her face is a total fucking wreck—mascara streaked down to her jaw, lipstick smeared, spit and cum glistening on her chin—and it’s gorgeous in the most fucked-up way. You grab a handful of tissues from the coffee table, crouching down in front of her, and start wiping her face, soft and careful, tracing over the mess you made. “You okay?” you ask, quieter now, a little worried you went too far. She looks up at you, still catching her breath, and then she smiles—weak at first, then breaking into this raspy little laugh. “I’m fine,” she says, voice hoarse, “just… gimme a sec to breathe, yeah?”

You nod, standing up and dropping onto the couch, your own chest still heaving as you try to recover. She crawls over after a minute, still in that bra and thong, heels clicking faintly as she moves, and plops down next to you, snuggling in close. Her skin’s warm against yours, her head tucking into your shoulder, and it’s weird—soft and intimate after all that roughness. “Can I crash here tonight?” she asks, voice small, almost shy. You hesitate, rubbing a hand over your face. “I dunno, Yuna. Not sure that’s smart.” She shifts, propping herself up to look at you, her hair falling messy over one eye. “Come on, it’s the last time, right? One night won’t kill us. Be nice to just… chill, y’know? After all this.” She’s got a point, and you’re too wiped to argue hard. You sigh, slumping back into the cushions. “Fine, yeah, okay. Just tonight.” She grins, snuggling back in, her body curling against yours like she’s already settled, and you’re left staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about everything that's happening right now.

Her body shifts, warm and soft against yours, and before you can fully register it, her lips are on you—slow, lazy kisses trailing across your chest, her breath hot against your skin. Her hand slides down your stomach, fingers brushing over your softening cock, and she gives it a gentle squeeze, coaxing it back to life. “Gonna miss this so fucking much,” she murmurs, her voice low and husky, lips hovering near your collarbone as she strokes you slow and steady. You feel that familiar twitch, the heat creeping back in, and you can’t help but let out a quiet, “Yeah, me too,” your voice rougher than you mean it to be. It’s true—she’s got you hooked, and even if this is supposed to be the end, the thought of not having her like this again stings more than you’d admit.

She pauses, her hand still wrapped around you, and looks up, those dark eyes narrowing just a bit. “This isn’t about Yeji, is it?” she asks, and there’s an edge to her tone—like she’s fishing for something, testing you. You shake your head, meeting her gaze dead-on. “Nah, Yuna. It’s just you. All this shit—it’s about you, not her.” She doesn’t say anything for a second, and you can’t tell if she’s pissed or pleased—maybe both. Her lips part like she’s about to snap back, but instead, she crashes her mouth into yours, hard and needy, kissing you like she’s trying to prove a point. It’s all teeth and tongue, messy and desperate, and your hands are on her before you can think, fumbling with the clasp of her bra. It’s one of those flimsy lace things, and you get it undone in a snap, letting it fall to the floor as her tits spill free—small, perfect, begging to be touched. She’s stroking you faster now, and your cock’s fully hard again, pulsing in her grip, ready for round two.

You pull back from the kiss, both of you breathing heavy, and she’s got this wild little smirk, like she knows she’s got you right where she wants you. “Fuck the couch,” you mutter, grabbing her by the hips and hauling her up with you. She lets out a surprised little yelp, but it turns into a laugh as you spin her around, pushing her toward the wall by the kitchen. Her hands brace against it, palms flat, and she arches her back, sticking her ass out like an invitation. You’re right behind her, pressing up against her, your cock nudging her thong to the side—no time to take it off, no patience for it. “Goddamn, you’re unreal,” you say, voice low in her ear as you line yourself up, feeling how wet she is already, slick and hot against you. She shivers, tossing a look over her shoulder. “Just fuck me already,” she says, half-pleading, half-demanding, and you don’t need to be told twice.

You slide in, slow at first, just the tip, teasing her until she’s pushing back against you, desperate for more. Then you thrust hard, burying yourself deep, and she gasps—loud, sharp, echoing off the walls. “Fuck, yes,” she moans, her voice breaking as you start moving, pounding into her from behind. Her hips rock back to meet you, matching your rhythm, and the sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, raw and filthy. You’ve got one hand on her waist, the other gripping her shoulder, pulling her into every thrust, and she’s taking it all, her body trembling but holding steady. “Miss this too much,” she pants, her words choppy between gasps, “your cock—fuck, it’s so good.” You smirk, leaning in to nip at her neck, tasting the salt of her skin. “Told you I’d miss it,” you say, driving deeper, feeling her tighten around you, hot and perfect. “But this is it, Yuna—last fucking time.”

She doesn’t answer, just moans louder, her nails scraping the wall as you fuck her harder, the pace brutal now, chasing that edge again. Her thong’s bunched to the side, cutting into her skin, and those heels make her legs look endless, trembling every time you slam into her. You reach around, sliding a hand down her stomach, fingers brushing her clit, and she jolts like you’ve shocked her, a high-pitched whine spilling out. “Shit, right there,” she gasps, head tipping back against your shoulder, and you keep it up, rubbing tight circles while you pound her, her whole body shaking. “You’re such a dick,” she mutters, but it’s breathy, almost a laugh, like she’s loving every second of this. “Yeah, but you love it,” you shoot back, voice strained, feeling the pressure build again, your cock throbbing inside her.

You’re deep in it now, hips slamming into Yuna’s tight little pussy with a rhythm that’s borderline feral, every thrust rocking her against the wall like you’re trying to leave a permanent mark. She’s so fucking wet—dripping, slick, the sound of it loud and obscene every time you drive in, her thong still shoved to the side and soaked through. You can feel her squeezing around you, hot and greedy, pulling you in like she can’t get enough, and it’s got your head spinning, every nerve lit up. She’s moaning your name now, over and over, her voice all high and desperate—“Fuck, yes, harder, please”—and it’s like gasoline on the fire, making you want to wreck her even more. Her heels scrape the floor as she tries to brace herself, legs trembling, but you’re not giving her an inch to recover. This is too good, too raw, and you’re not stopping until she’s completely undone.

You shift your grip, grabbing both her arms and yanking them back, pinning them behind her with one hand. It’s rough, controlling, and she fucking loves it—you can tell by the way her back arches even more, her ass pushing out to meet you, giving you full access to pound her harder. “Oh my god, yes,” she gasps, her head tipping back, hair sticking to her sweaty neck, and you’ve got her totally at your mercy now, her body bending to your will. Her tits bounce free with every slam, small and perky, and the sight of her like this—helpless, pinned, taking it like a champ—sends a jolt straight through you. “You like that, huh?” you growl, leaning in close, your breath hot against her ear. “Me holding you down, fucking you senseless?” She nods, frantic, her breath hitching. “Fuck yeah, I love it—don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop.”

You tighten your hold on her arms, pulling her back harder so her spine curves just right, and you can hit that spot that makes her go wild. “Look at you,” you say, voice dripping with heat, “taking my cock like a good little slut—fucking perfect.” She whimpers at that, a shaky little sound that’s half pleasure, half surrender, and you can feel her pussy clench tighter, like she’s trying to milk you dry. The wall’s creaking under the pressure, her hands flexing where you’ve got them trapped, nails digging into her own palms. “Shit, you’re so deep,” she pants, her voice breaking, “ruining me—fucking ruining me.” And you grin, wicked and sharp, because that’s exactly what you want—to leave her a mess, to make sure she feels this long after you’re done.

Your free hand slides up her side, rough and possessive, gripping her waist, then her tit, squeezing hard enough to make her hiss. “This tight pussy’s all mine right now,” you mutter, slamming in again, watching her shake with it. “Nobody else gets you like this—nobody.” She moans louder, a slutty little “uh-huh” slipping out, and you can tell she’s losing it, her whole body trembling, thighs quivering like they might give out. You let go of her arms for a second—just long enough to grab her hips with both hands, spinning her around so her back’s flat against the wall, her legs instinctively wrapping around you. She’s panting, eyes half-lidded, lips parted and shiny with spit, and you dive back in, thrusting deep, her arms looping around your neck to hold on. “Fuck me up,” she whispers, right in your ear, hot and needy, “make me feel it tomorrow.”

You’re pounding her so hard the wall’s rattling, her heels digging into your back, urging you on, and she’s clawing at your shoulders now, nails leaving red streaks that sting just enough to keep you sharp. “You’re so fucking hot like this,” you say, voice rough and strained, “all desperate and slutty—can’t get enough of my cock, can you?” She shakes her head, frantic, her breath catching every time you bottom out. “No, fuck, I can’t—feels too good, gonna—shit, gonna lose it.” Her pussy’s gripping you like a vise, tight and wet and perfect, and you can feel the pressure building again, that hot, heavy pull in your gut. But you’re not there yet—not ready to let go—so you slow it down just a notch, grinding into her deep and deliberate, making her feel every inch. “Take it slow, baby,” you tease, smirking against her neck as you nip at her skin, “let me fuck you proper—gonna savor this tight little cunt while I’ve still got it.”

She’s whimpering now, clinging to you, her hips rolling to meet every thrust, and the way she’s pressed against you—sweaty, shaking, totally fucked out—is driving you wild. “You’re such an asshole,” she gasps, but there’s a grin in her voice, like she loves you for it. “Yeah, but you’re still begging for it,” you shoot back, picking up the pace again, slamming her into the wall so hard her breath stutters. “Fuck, Yuna, you’re killing me—gonna miss this pussy so bad.” And she just nods, too gone to argue, her moans turning into these broken little cries that hit you right in the chest, pushing you closer to the edge but still holding off, determined to drag this out as long as you can.

You’ve got Yuna pinned against the wall, her body trembling under you, legs hooked tight around your waist as you keep hammering into her. Her pussy’s so tight it’s unreal, gripping you like a vice, all hot and slick, and she’s losing it—moaning your name in these broken, needy little gasps that make your blood burn. You’re relentless, hips snapping hard, driving your cock deep with every thrust, and she’s taking it like she was made for it, her nails clawing at your back, leaving raw streaks that sting in the best way. “Fuck, you feel so good,” you growl against her ear, nipping at her lobe, and she shudders, her breath hitching as you hit that spot inside her that makes her whole body tense. “Yeah, right there,” she whines, voice all slutty and desperate, “don’t stop—please, don’t fucking stop.” Her submissiveness is killing you, the way she’s begging, totally at your mercy, and you’re loving every second of ruining her like this.

You shift your grip, one hand digging into her hip, the other sliding up to squeeze her tit, thumb flicking over her hard nipple. “Look at you,” you say, voice rough and thick with lust, “such a needy little slut—my big cock’s wrecking you, huh?” She nods, frantic, her eyes half-lidded and glossy, lips parted as she pants, “Yes, fuck, yes—wreck me, please.” You smirk, leaning in to kiss her hard, sloppy, tongues clashing as you pound her harder, the wall thudding with every slam. Her pussy’s dripping down your cock, soaking you, and the wet slap of your bodies colliding is loud enough to fill the whole damn apartment. She’s close—you can feel it in the way her walls flutter, the way her moans turn into these high-pitched whimpers, her thighs starting to shake around you. “Gonna cum for me?” you mutter, slowing just enough to grind into her deep, rolling your hips so she feels every inch. “Come on, baby, let that tight little pussy cum all over me.”

She’s practically sobbing now, clinging to you like she’ll fall apart if she lets go, and you speed up again, ruthless, fucking her through it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—I’m—” she stammers, and then she’s there, her whole body locking up as she cums hard, a sharp, shuddering cry ripping out of her. Her pussy clamps down on you, pulsing tight and wet, and it’s like she’s trying to pull you over the edge with her, but you grit your teeth and hold back, not ready to finish yet. She’s shaking, gasping, her head dropping against your shoulder as she rides it out, and you keep going, slower now, letting her feel every thrust through the aftershocks. “Good girl,” you murmur, kissing her sweaty temple, “took it so fucking well.” She’s whimpering, oversensitive but still pushing back against you, needy even now, like she can’t help herself.

You pull out slow, her pussy clenching around nothing as you do, and she lets out this pitiful little whine, like she’s mad you’re leaving her empty. “Come on,” you say, voice low and commanding, grabbing her hand and tugging her toward your room. She stumbles after you, legs wobbly from the orgasm, her heels clicking unevenly on the floor. You kick the bedroom door open, the dim light from your bedside lamp casting shadows over the messy sheets, and turn to her, nodding at those strappy sandals still clinging to her feet. “Lose the heels,” you tell her, and she bends down—ass in the air, thong still askew—unstrapping them quick, kicking them off so they clatter against the wall. You're still fucking hard, cock throbbing just watching her, and when she straightens up, you point to the bed. “All fours, now.”

She doesn’t hesitate, climbing onto the mattress, sinking down on her hands and knees, ass up high like a fucking offering. Her back’s arched, thong stretched tight over her hips, and you step up behind her, running a hand over the curve of her ass before smacking it lightly, making her jump. “Goddamn, look at you,” you mutter, grabbing her hips and yanking her back a little, lining her up. “So fucking slutty—begging for more even after I made you cum.” She glances back over her shoulder, hair falling in her face, lips parted. “Please,” she says, voice shaky but dripping with want, “fuck me again—need your cock so bad.” You grin, dark and hungry, and tug her thong down just enough to bare her pussy, still glistening, swollen from before. “Yeah, you do,” you say, sliding your cock along her slit, teasing her until she’s squirming. “This big dick’s all you can think about, huh?”

You don’t wait for an answer—just thrust in, hard and deep, filling her up in one go. She cries out, loud and raw, her hands fisting the sheets as you start fucking her again, the bed creaking under you. “Fuck, you’re huge,” she moans, voice muffled as she buries her face in the pillow, but you grab her hair, pulling her head back just enough to hear her better. “Take it,” you growl, pounding her steady, watching her ass jiggle with every slam, “take this cock like the little slut you are.” She’s whining, pushing back against you, needy and wild, and you can feel her pussy still twitching from her last orgasm, sensitive as hell but greedy for more. “Ruin me,” she gasps, voice breaking, “fucking ruin me with it,” and you do—fucking her hard, deep, relentless, determined to leave her a shaking mess all over again.

Her pussy’s tight and dripping, swallowing your cock with every brutal thrust, and she’s rocking back into you, desperate, her elbows sinking into the mattress as she arches that perfect ass higher. The thong’s still tangled around her thighs, stretched and useless, and her skin’s glistening with sweat, glowing in the low light of your room. You’ve got her hips in a death grip, those wide, sexy curves filling your hands, and you’re pounding her so hard the sound of your skin slapping hers is echoing off the walls, filthy and loud.

Then she turns her head, just enough to catch your eye, lips parted and panting. “Spank me,” she says, voice cutting through the haze, all breathy and raw. “Fucking slap my ass—leave a mark so I’ll never forget this.” And fuck, that’s like a match to dry grass—exactly what you want, what you’ve been itching to do since you bent her over. You grin, dark and feral, and bring your hand down hard on her right cheek, a sharp crack ringing out over her scream. Her whole body jolts, ass jiggling from the impact, and she clenches around your cock so tight it’s almost painful. “Yes, fuck, like that!” she cries, voice breaking into this slutty little whimper, and you can tell she’s loving it, the sting, the heat, the way her skin’s already turning pink. You don’t stop—slap her again, harder this time, leaving a bright red handprint blooming on that perfect curve, and she’s screaming now, pleasure ripping out of her in waves.

“Goddamn, you’re such a freak,” you growl, smacking her left cheek now, matching the mark, and her hips buck back against you, chasing your cock even as she gasps from the pain. “Want me to brand you, huh? Make sure you feel this last fuck every time you sit down?” She moans, loud and shameless, nodding into the pillow. “Yes, please—fucking mark me, make it hurt, I don’t care.” You oblige, spanking her again and again, alternating sides, each hit stinging your palm as much as it’s lighting her up. Her ass is a masterpiece of red now, glowing hot under your hand, and you grab those wide hips tighter, fingers digging into her flesh as you keep railing her, the bed shaking like it might collapse. “Look at this ass,” you say, voice rough with lust, “so fucking sexy—gonna miss spanking it red, watching it bounce while I wreck you.”

She’s whimpering now, half-screaming into the sheets, her body trembling but still pushing back for more, like she can’t get enough of the mix—your cock stretching her out, the sharp sting of your hand, the way you’re owning her completely. “Harder,” she begs, voice muffled but dripping with need, “slap me harder—fuck me up, it’s the last time.” You growl low in your throat, bringing your hand down with a smack that’s so loud it’s almost deafening, and she shrieks, her pussy clamping down on you again, wet and pulsing. “Like that, you little slut?” you ask, spanking her once more for good measure, leaving her ass a fiery red mess of handprints. “Gonna remember this cock, this spanking—gonna feel me for days?” She’s nodding, frantic, her moans turning into these broken sobs of pleasure, and you can feel how close she is again, her walls fluttering, her body begging for release even as you keep punishing her.

You grab her hips with both hands now, holding her steady as you pound into her harder, the spanks still ringing in your ears, her ass so red it’s practically glowing. “Fuck, Yuna, you’re unreal,” you mutter, voice strained, feeling the sweat drip down your back as you fuck her senseless. “This tight pussy, this slutty ass—gonna miss ruining you like this.” She’s gasping, barely coherent, just a string of “yes, yes, fuck, yes” spilling out of her as she takes it, her wide hips swaying with every thrust, her skin marked up and claimed. You’re not letting up, determined to drag her over the edge again, to make this last fuck something she’ll never shake—your cock, your hands, the way you’re breaking her down into a trembling, needy mess.

Then you switch, flipping her onto her back on the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and she doesn’t fight it—just lets you take control, her body pliant and trembling from how hard you’ve been working her. Her ass is still red-hot from the spanking, handprints stark against her skin, and that thong’s been stuck around her thighs long enough to be a damn nuisance. You grab it, yanking it down her legs in one rough tug, the fabric snapping against her sweat-slicked skin before you toss it somewhere behind you—don’t care where, just want it gone. She’s sprawled out beneath you now, slim and gorgeous, all tan lines and sharp curves, her chest heaving as she catches her breath. You climb on top, pressing your weight down on her, pinning her to the mattress, and her legs spread wide, instinctive, inviting you back in. You slide your cock into her again, slow at first, feeling that tight, wet heat swallow you whole, and she gasps, her hands flying to your shoulders like she needs something to hold onto.

“Fuck, I wanna see your face when you cum,” you tell her, voice low and gritty, locking eyes with her as you start thrusting again. Her pussy’s so slick it’s obscene, sucking you in with every move, and this new angle—it’s intense as hell, deeper, hitting her just right. She’s staring up at you, lips parted, eyes glassy with lust, and there’s something softer in there too, something that catches you off guard. You lean down, your chest pressing against hers, her tits crushed between you, and the pace picks up—still raw, still dirty, but it’s shifting, turning into this messy, passionate thing that’s got your head spinning. “Gonna watch you fall apart on my cock,” you mutter, lips brushing her jaw, and then you’re on her neck, sucking hard, leaving a mark—a dark, bruising hickey right where her pulse is hammering. She moans, loud and slutty, her fingers tangling in your hair, tugging at it like she’s trying to pull you closer.

“Babe—fuck, babe,” she gasps, the word slipping out all needy and raw, and it hits you like a punch, twisting something deep in your gut. She’s never called you that before—not like this—and it’s killing you, the way it sounds so desperate, so fucking real. Her legs wrap around your hips, pulling you in tighter, and you can’t help yourself—you’re kissing her neck again, leaving another hickey, then another, marking her up like she’s yours, even if it’s just for tonight. “You’re driving me insane,” you groan against her skin, voice breaking a little, and you pull back just enough to look at her—her face flushed, eyes wild, that perfect mouth open and begging. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Yuna—damn, you’ve got me losing it.” It’s too much, too honest, but you can’t stop it from spilling out, not when she’s looking at you like that, not when her pussy’s clenching around you, hot and tight and perfect.

She’s close—you can feel it, the way her breaths are coming faster, sharper, her body tensing under you, her nails digging into your scalp. “Fuck, I—I can’t,” she whimpers, her voice cracking, “you’re too good, babe, too fucking big—gonna cum again, I swear.” Her hips are rolling up to meet every thrust, needy and frantic, and you’re pounding her harder now, the bed creaking like it’s about to give out, your cock slamming into her so deep she’s shaking. “Do it,” you growl, nipping at her collarbone, leaving another mark, “cum for me, let me see that pretty face when you lose it.” She’s moaning your name now, over and over, her hands clutching at you like she’s scared to let go, and the way she’s giving herself up to you—raw, slutty, but somehow soft too—is making it impossible to keep your head straight.

You shift, propping yourself up on your forearms so you can watch her better, your thrusts slowing just a little—not enough to ease off, but enough to drag it out, make it linger. Her eyes flutter shut, then open again, locking onto yours, and there’s this spark there, this connection that’s more than just fucking. “You’re killing me,” she whispers, voice all shaky and sweet, and her hand slides from your hair to your cheek, trembling as she touches you. “Last time, huh? Then fuck me like you mean it.” You groan, leaning down to kiss her—hard, messy, tongues clashing—and it’s still dirty, still rough, but there’s this edge of something tender creeping in, making your chest tight. You pick up the pace again, slamming into her, her slim body rocking under you, and she’s so close—her pussy’s fluttering, her moans turning into these high, broken cries.

The room’s thick with it—the smell of sex, the sound of her moans mixing with your grunts, the slap of your hips against hers as you drive into that tight, pink pussy like it’s the last time you’ll ever feel it. Because it is. Her legs are locked around your waist, pulling you in, her nails raking down your back, leaving trails of fire that only make you thrust harder. She’s a mess beneath you—hair splayed out on the pillow, lips swollen and parted, hickeys blooming dark on her neck—and you’re just as gone, sweat dripping down your chest, your cock throbbing inside her with every move. You can feel it building, that hot, heavy pressure in your gut, and you know you’re close. “Fuck, Yuna,” you pant, voice rough and strained, “I’m gonna cum—gonna blow any second.”

Her eyes snap open, wide and wild, locking onto yours, and she tightens her grip on you, legs squeezing your hips like she’s scared you’ll pull away. “Cum inside me,” she says, voice low and desperate, cutting through the haze of your lust like a blade. You freeze for a split second, brain short-circuiting—did she just say that? “What?” you choke out, thrusts slowing but not stopping, and she nods, frantic, her hands clutching at your shoulders. “I’m on the pill, it’s fine—please, cum inside me, I need it.” You’ve never done that before—not with her, not ever. It’s always been her face, her mouth, those flat, tight abs, or that perfect ass. The thought of filling her up, pumping your load deep into that sweet, tight cunt—it’s like a switch flips, and suddenly you’re hornier than you’ve ever been, your cock twitching hard at the idea. “Fuck, you serious?” you ask, voice gravelly, and she nods again, biting her lip. “Please, babe—I need to feel your cum inside me, just once. Gotta know what it’s like.”

That’s it—you’re done for. “Alright,” you growl, leaning down to kiss her neck, sucking another hickey into her skin as you pick up the pace, slamming into her with everything you’ve got. “Gonna give it to you, Yuna—gonna fill that tight little pussy up.” She moans, loud and slutty, her whole body rocking with you, and it’s like she flips a switch of her own, turning into this needy, begging mess. “Yes, fuck, please—give me your cum, babe, make me your cumslut,” she whines, voice breaking as her legs tighten around you, pulling you deeper. “I wanna feel it—wanna feel you unload in me, need it so bad.” Her words are filthy, dripping with lust, and it’s driving you wild, the way she’s begging like some desperate little slut who can’t live without it. “You’re such a fucking cumslut,” you mutter, grinning darkly as you pound her harder, the bed shaking, her tits bouncing under you. “Begging for my load—gonna give you every drop, make you take it all.”

She’s panting, sweaty, her hands in your hair now, tugging at it as she stares up at you, eyes pleading. “Please, please, cum in me—make me yours, fill me up,” she chants, her voice all high and slutty, and you can feel her pussy clenching around you, hot and wet, pushing her closer to the edge again. You’re right there with her, the pressure in your balls building, your cock swelling inside her, and you know it’s gonna be big—huge, even. “Fuck, Yuna, I’m close,” you groan, thrusting deep, your hips slamming against hers so hard she’s sliding up the bed. “Gonna cum—let’s do it together, yeah?” She nods, frantic, her breath hitching. “Yes, yes—cum with me, babe, fill me while I cum on your cock, please!” Her begging’s got you teetering, and you can feel her tipping over too, her walls fluttering, her moans turning into these raw, broken cries.

Then it hits—you both lose it at the same time. “Fuck, here it comes,” you rasp, and you thrust one last time, deep and hard, burying yourself in her as you cum, hot and thick, unloading everything you’ve got. It’s a flood—your cock pulsing, pumping rope after rope of cum into her, filling her up just like she begged for. She’s cumming too, her pussy spasming around you, milking you dry as she screams, her head tipping back, eyes rolling up in pure, slutty bliss. “Oh my god—fuck, I feel it,” she gasps, voice shaking, “so much cum—shit, it’s so good.” You’re emptying your sack into her, a massive, sticky load, and she’s taking it all, her body shuddering under you, legs locked tight like she’s scared you’ll pull out too soon. You keep going, groaning as you pour it into her, and she’s beautiful like this—face wrecked, mouth open, those dark eyes rolling back as she savors every pulse.

You’re spent, chest heaving, but you can’t resist—leaning down, you kiss her cheek, soft and quick, then again, murmuring, “Fuck, you’re gorgeous—absolutely fucking beautiful.” She blinks up at you, dazed, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “You gave me so much,” she says, voice hoarse but warm, “so fucking much cum—I’m never gonna forget this, babe.” You pull out slow, reluctant, and she spreads her legs a little, reaching down with shaky fingers to part her pussy lips. Your cum leaks out, thick and white, dripping slow from her swollen, pink hole, and she sighs—this long, satisfied sound that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. “Look at that,” she whispers, almost to herself, “you filled me up good.” It’s obscene, the way it’s spilling out, pooling on the sheets, and you just stare, mesmerized, because it’s also the most beautiful fucking thing you’ve ever seen—her, marked by you, claimed in a way you never thought you’d get to have.

—

The shower’s running hot, steam curling up around you both as you stand under the spray, the water pounding against the tiles like it’s trying to drown out the heavy silence between you. Yuna’s in front of you, her back turned, all slim and delicate, her wet hair plastered down her spine like a dark ribbon. You’re soaping her up, hands sliding over her skin—smooth, slick, warm—rubbing the bar of soap across her shoulders, down the curve of her back, tracing the faint red marks from earlier that are starting to fade. It’s quiet, too quiet, and the weight of everything that just happened is sitting on your chest like a brick. The sex, the cum, the way she begged, the way you gave in—it’s all there, swirling in your head, mixing with the steam, making it hard to think straight. She’s not saying anything, just letting the water hit her face, and you’re not sure what to say either, so you just keep soaping, hands moving slow, almost mechanical.

Then she turns around, sudden and soft, and the water’s streaming down her face, soaking her lashes, dripping off her chin. “I don’t want this to end,” she says, voice low and shaky, cutting through the sound of the shower like a knife. You freeze, dropping the soap, letting it clatter to the floor, and your hands find her back, holding her there, feeling her heartbeat through the wet press of her, because it sounds like she’s crying—her words wobbling, her breath hitching—but the water’s blurring everything, and you can’t tell if it’s tears or just the spray. She steps closer, pressing her thin, naked body against yours, her arms wrapping around your waist, her head resting on your chest.

“I don’t want this to end,” she says. “I mean it—I can’t do this ‘last time’ bullshit. I need you, okay? I need us.”

You just stare at her, water streaming into your eyes, blinking it away because you’re caught off guard, heart hammering against your ribs. She’s crying now—you’re sure of it, her breath hitching, her lips quivering—and she steps closer, pressing her forehead to your chest, her wet hair sticking to your skin. “You’re so fucking great, you know that?” she mumbles, voice muffled against you. “You’re funny as hell—like, you make me laugh so hard I forget all the crap in my head. And you’re kind, not fake-nice like some assholes, but real, quiet kind. You listen when I talk, even when I’m just bitching about dumb stuff like my profs or whatever. And those late-night talks? After we fuck, when we’re just lying there, sweaty and stupid, talking about movies or what we’d do if the world ended? That’s my favorite thing. I didn’t even know I could like someone this much, and it scares the shit outta me, but I do. I like you—a lot. More than I ever meant to.”

She’s shaking a little, clinging to you, and you feel this knot in your throat because—fuck—you’re so gone for her it’s ridiculous. You pull her back gently, just enough to look at her—eyes red, lashes clumped with water, lips parted like she’s waiting for you to say something, anything. “Yuna,” you start, voice rough, scraping out of you like it’s been buried too long, “I don’t want this to end either. You think I can just walk away from you? From this? I’m fucking in love with you, alright? Like, stupid, head-over-heels, can’t-think-straight in love with you, and it’s been killing me pretending this is just some casual hookup thing.”

Her eyes widen, a little gasp slipping out, but you’re on a roll now, hands sliding to her face, cupping her cheeks as the water keeps falling, soaking you both. “You’re everything, you know that? You’re badass and smart—way smarter than me, don’t even try to deny it—and you’ve got this way of looking at me that makes me feel like I’m worth something. I love how you tease me, how you call me out on my shit, but then you’ll just curl up next to me like I’m your safe place or whatever. And those nights? When we’re just talking, laughing, fucking around until we’re too tired to move? That’s the best shit I’ve ever had. I love how you’re not afraid to be you—all messy and loud and real. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, and it’s freaking me out, but I don’t wanna lose it. I don’t wanna lose you.”

She’s staring up at you, water running down her face, and for a second, it’s like the world stops—just you and her, the shower drowning out everything else. Then she laughs, this shaky, relieved sound, and buries her face in your chest again, arms wrapping tight around you. “God, you’re such a sap,” she mutters, but it’s soft, affectionate, and you can feel her smiling against your skin. “I fucked up, okay? I was a bitch—pushing you away, acting like I didn’t care. I didn’t mean it. I was just… scared, I guess. Scared I’d fuck this up, scared you’d figure out I’m not as cool as I pretend to be. But I like you so much—too much. I love this, us, all of it. I don’t wanna stop.”

You tilt her chin up, thumb brushing over her wet lips, and she’s looking at you like you hung the damn moon. “So don’t,” you say, voice low but firm. “Don’t stop. I’m in this, Yuna—I want this, I want you. But you gotta stop running, alright? No more pretending I don’t exist out there.” She nods, quick and earnest, her hands sliding up your back. “I won’t—I swear. I’ll be better. I’ll brag about you to everyone, I don’t care. Just… give me another shot. Please.” You lean down, forehead pressing to hers, and it’s like all the tension just melts under the hot water. “Promise me,” you say, and she surges up, kissing you deep and slow, her lips soft and salty with what might be tears or just the shower. “I promise,” she whispers, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, “I’m yours, okay? For real.”

You slide your hand to her cheek, cupping it gentle, thumb stroking over her wet skin, and you feel this dumb, happy grin tugging at your lips. “I’m happy,” you say, simple and honest, and her face lights up—really lights up, like the sun breaking through clouds. “Me too,” she says, voice soft but sure, and then she perks up, that playful edge creeping back in. “Hey, can we still watch that horror movie? The one you’ve been hyping up?” You laugh, the tension melting away, and nod, stepping back to grab the shampoo off the ledge. “Hell yeah, we’re watching it. Gonna scare the shit outta you, and you’re gonna love it.” She grins, turning around so you can lather her hair, and as you work the shampoo in—fingers massaging her scalp, her leaning into your touch—you’re both giggling like idiots, the heaviness from before washing away with the suds. It’s not perfect, it’s not figured out, but it’s something—something real—something big—and something yours.

#yuna #shin yuna #Yuna smut #yuna x reader #shin yuna smut #kpop gg smut #kpop male reader #Kpop smut #itzy smut #yuna smut #kpop x male reader

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eclipsturns · 4 months ago

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⎯⎯⎯⎯ NOW YOU'RE WATCHING ... uber driver!matt fucks you after a shitty date.

your date was a bust; some guy named andrew who spent two hours at a shitty diner droning about his gym routine, barely looking up from his phone, leaving you bored and dry as hell. you’re more than done with this, heels clicking on the curb as you book an uber, the night air cool against your skin, your little black dress hugging your curves, wasted on a dud.

a black, beat-up sedan with cracked windows rolls up and matt (or at least that's the name on your phone) slides into view, leaning an elbow out, smirking like he’s already got you figured out. he’s all messy brown hair, sharp jaw, plaid shirt unbuttoned over a white tee, eyes raking you up and down with zero shame.

“rough night, huh? y’look like you just escaped a fuckin’ coma,” he says, voice low and lazy, dripping with a cocky grin as you climb in the back, slamming the door harder than you mean to. “address’s set—where we goin’, princess?”

“home,” you mutter, crossing your arms, staring out the window, but he’s not letting it drop, glancing at you in the rearview, one brow cocked.

“home? nah, you’re dressed like that for some loser who couldn’t even make you sweat? tell me ‘bout this clown, c’mon, spill it.”

you roll your eyes, but he’s got this pushy, crude way, like he’s daring you to bite back. “andrew. gym rat. talked about protein shakes so much i wanted to claw my ears off. didn’t even kiss me—just a handshake. a fuckin’ handshake.”

matt laughs—loud, sharp, head tipping back. “a handshake? shit, what a pussy. you wasted that dress on a dude who can’t even get you wet, that’s tragic, babe, y’could’a stayed home and fucked yourself better.” his eyes flick to you again, dark and glinting, tongue swiping his lip like he’s tasting the idea. “bet he wouldn’t know what to do with you anyway—look at ya, all pent up, sittin’ there like y’need a real man to fix that.”

heat creeps up your neck, a mix of annoyance and something else. his words are crass, intrusive, but they hit, stirring the frustration andrew left simmering. “and what, you think you’re that guy?” you snap, leaning forward, elbows on the seatback, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “big talk for some uber driver.”

he smirks wider, cynical and hot, shifting gears with a lazy flick of his wrist. “oh, i’m more than that, sweetheart. i’d have you screamin’ in ten minutes—hands are quick, tongue’s quicker. y’wanna test me? or y’too scared to find out andrew’s not the only one who can’t deliver?”

it’s a taunt, bold and filthy, and he chuckles when you don’t flinch, just stare back, pulse kicking up.

“prove it, then,” you say, voice steady, daring him now, the car humming under you as the tension snaps. “pull over—somewhere dark. let’s see if your hands match that mouth, or if you’re just another bullshit artist.”

matt’s grin turns feral, eyes flashing as he mutters, “fuckin’ bet,” and swerves the wheel, tires crunching gravel as he peels off the main road, weaving into a shadowed alley, streetlights fading to black. he kills the engine, twists around, one arm slung over the seat, staring at you like you’re prey. “backseat now. let’s see how bad you need this.”

you climb over, dress hiking up your thighs, and he’s on you fast, the door slamming shut as he shoves you down across the seat, one hand yanking your straps down, baring your tits to the cool air. “shit, look at these, he didn’t deserve ‘em,” he growls, mouth crashing onto one, teeth grazing your nipple, making you gasp, arching up against him.

his other hand’s already between your legs, shoving your panties aside, fingers plunging in—two, rough, curling deep, pumping fast until you’re soaked, the wet squelch loud in the tight space.

“fuck, you’re so wet already,” he laughs, voice dark and mocking, “this what you wanted all night, huh? not some dickhead too busy flexin’ to fuck you right?”

you moan, loud and needy, grabbing his hair, pulling him up, his lips hovering over yours, breath hot and ragged. “shut up and use that tongue,” your panting making him grin as he dove down, flattening it against your cunt—broad, sloppy licks, sucking your clit hard, your thighs shaking, trapping his head.

“ohhh shit!” you cry, hips bucking, and he groans, “fuck yeah, scream f’me, let me gove you what that loser couldn’t,” voice muffled as he eats you out, relentless, tongue flicking fast, then slow, dragging you to the edge, your nails clawing at the seat desperately.

he pulls back, smirking, wiping his chin, “told ya—hands next,” and flips you over, face down, ass up, yanking your hips back, spreading your legs wider.

he’s behind you now—jeans shoved down, cock out, thick and dripping—rubbing it against your slit, teasing, making you whine, “c’mon, fuck me already.”

“needy little thing,” he mutters, all smug and hot, then thrusts in—hard, deep, bottoming out until you yelp, walls clenching tight. “fuck, y’feel so good,” he groans, setting a brutal pace that felt fast, sloppy, the car rocking with every slam, windows fogging as you moan, loud and wrecked.

his hands grip your ass, spreading you, one thumb circling your rim, teasing, not pushing, “y’like that? dirty girl, bet andrew never even tried,” and you laugh, breathless, “he wouldn’t dare... keep goin’.”

he does—fucking you savage, one hand sliding up, pinching your nipple ‘til you hiss, the other rubbing your clit, sloppy and fast, ‘til you’re screaming, “matt, fuck, m’gonna cum!” and you do, soaking his hand, his cock, the seat, looking like a shaking, sobbing mess.

he’s not far, groaning against your ear “you’re so tight, babe. m’cummin’,” and pulls out, jerking fast, painting your ass with hot, thick spurts, panting,

“you’re better than any date.” you slump, breathless, dress torn, thighs slick, and he lets a low, cynical laugh.

“told ya my hands don’t lie. your tinder guys got nothin’ on this.”

𝐌𝐘 ��𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐒ㅤ: ㅤ @courta13 @chrislilcumslvt @marrykisskilled @chrislova @hazedsturns @inspiredangel @strnilolover @emely9274 @sturns-mermaid @ariieeesworld @pixie-sticks-are-good @luvjaeeee @sturnslutz @mattswifeyy @mattswifeyy @oopsiedaisydeer @v4lsturn @pair-of-pantaloons @idkwhatthisevenislol @sturn777 @whore4mattsturniolo @mattchalattee @madifilipowiczisthebest @fratbrochrisgf @sturniolo101 @ivysturnss @mattsatellite @onevison @izzylovesmatt @allisonclairee @m4gz-png @mr-wrinkleton @bluestriips @surprisecurlyfriesbackup @ariestrxsh @chrepsi

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daughterofthetis · 2 years ago

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cassidy tag dump

#❝ greet the world with open arms ❞ → ooc; answered #❝ and there may not be meaning; so find one and seize it ❞ → ooc; memes #❝ like theseus's ship (we'll fix the busted bits) ❞ → ooc; starter call #❝ crowned by an overture bold and beyond ❞ → ooc; promos #❝ still the salt winds blow ❞ → ooc; queue #❝ throw yourself into the unknown (with pace and a fury defiant) ❞ → threads #❝ the sky looked white and the water like wine ❞ → aes #❝ when does a ripple become a tidal wave? ❞ → musings #❝ more than meets the eye ❞ → visage #❝ your boldness stands alone among the wreck ❞ → hcs #❝ i will learn to love the skies i'm under ❞ → home; nyc #❝ the trees i climbed when i was a child ❞ → home; virginia beach #❝ hey quick question. how petty am i allowed to be? ❞ → crack/shenanigans #❝ i could hear the world outside calling me ❞ → interests #as if glass could contain the sea ( relation: thetis )#waters deep to the roots ( relation: francesca grey )#all those questions unasked ( relation: achilles )#v; cause i've seen the line of ocean and shore ( main verse )#v; my time will come ( kronos' army au )#v; living on borrowed time ( battle of manhattan era au )#v; how you will heal and you’ll rise above #v; hear those bells ring deep in the soul ( underworld )#v; a long way out to reach the sea ( gen. fantasy )#v; and see life as a means to a triumph ( bronze age )

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buckysleftbicep · 13 days ago

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the things we left behind 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!ex!bucky barnes x widow!ex!reader (reader is female)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, a whole lot of angst, unprotected sex, creampie, painful break up, depression, toxic relationship

summary: you haven't seen bucky in years. not since the night he left. the blip changed both of you, and nothing was ever the same after. now, val has you working together again. the job is dangerous, the tension is unbearable. and the feelings? still impossible to outrun.

word count: 6.7k

author's note: hi loves, it's been a tough few days and honestly, i am trying to cope with work and school, and how i gotta start on my research paper in a month. i am so overwhelmed, and writing this fic kinda helped me to escape all of that for a bit 💓. thank you for reading, love ya guys and stay safe out there!

The email came at 3:12 a.m.

You didn’t check it right away—you were halfway through disassembling your beretta on the kitchen table, fingers slick with oil, an old jazz record crackling faintly from the busted speaker in the corner.

Outside, another storm carved itself across the city skyline. Rain hammered the tin roof. Wind screamed through the alley like it was trying to claw its way in.

You'd gotten used to nights like this. The quiet ones. The hollow ones. The ones where silence curled around your spine like a second skin. Where sleep didn’t come easy and ghosts sat in the corners.

But you never ignored a message from Val.

Especially not one marked URGENT.

You slid the half-cleaned barrel aside and reached for your tablet. The screen flickered to life, illuminating the room in cold blue.

A notification pulsed at the top corner, her name bold, bureaucratic, unmistakable. You hesitated for a second. Not out of fear, just instinct. You always read the fine print before you let something gut you.

You tapped the message open.

FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: URGENT: Field Assignment Target: Codename OMEGA. Ex-military. Ex-Hydra. Now independent and building weapons that rival Stark’s worst. Expanding faster than Hydra ever did. You’ll be compensated generously, you’re the best tracker I’ve got. And Barnes could use your help. — V

You stared at the screen for a long time.

Barnes.

Your thumb hovered at the edge of the table, tapping once. Twice. Again.

That name wasn’t a landmine—it was a fucking extinction-level event. A seismic crack straight through your chest.

You hadn’t seen it typed out in over two years.

Not since you deleted every message.

Every photo. Every voicemail.

Not since you shoved him—all of him—into a vault inside your mind and welded the door shut.

Even thinking it felt like betrayal. The air shifted around you. Denser. Sharper. You weren’t sure if it was rage or something colder coiling under your ribs, but it made it hard to breathe.

You rose from the table without realising it, pacing to the window. The alley outside was bathed in harsh shadows, neon from the liquor store sign across the street painting everything a violent red.

You could still remember the last time you said his name aloud. It hadn’t been soft. Or sweet. It had been a whisper strangled by tears.

Just a few months ago, you had seen his face again. Unintentionally. On your shitty television, the one balanced on a rusted ammo crate next to your gear bags. You were flipping through channels to avoid your own thoughts—when suddenly, there she was.

Val, in that smug little purple coat, standing on some makeshift podium like a bad dream. Flanked by the press, and smiling like the devil.

"Meet the new Avengers."

And there he was. Bucky.

Your hand froze around the remote.

He was different. A little older. Clean-cut, almost polished. But not really. There was still something haunted behind the eyes. Something wild under the surface.

You knew that look. You’d memorised it—held it in your hands during the worst nights. It was the way he looked when he didn’t know how to stay. The way he looked at you.

You didn’t watch for more than a few seconds.

Didn’t listen to what he said.

You clicked the screen off.

Walked out of the room like it hadn’t just set a match to the walls you’d spent years rebuilding.

The last you’d heard, he was a congressman. Or maybe that was just another lie the world told itself to sleep easier at night.

You’d made it a rule not to keep tabs. Not to reach out. Not even when you missed him so much you thought your skin might split.

It was the only way you’d survived.

Now this.

Now Val was offering you money. A job. A mission.

But not just any mission. One that meant going back into the field. Tracking a target dangerous enough to spook even her.

A weapons dealer with enough firepower to start another war, based in Romania, deep-pocketed, ex-military, rumoured to be building something worse than Stark tech.

You could do it. Of course you could.

You were trained for it. One of the best assassins still walking—invisible, untraceable, lethal.

Val hadn’t exaggerated. You were the best.

But this wasn’t about the mission.

This was about him.

Working with him. Seeing him again.

Smelling him. Hearing his voice.

Pretending it didn’t hollow you out.

God, after everything— After everything—

You clenched your jaw until your teeth ached and looked back at the screen.

Val didn’t know your history. Of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t have sent the message if she did. Or maybe she did know, and sent it anyway. You wouldn’t put it past her.

Your reflection in the glass caught your eye. Same eyes. Same scars. But the woman looking back wasn’t the one he loved. Not anymore.

Maybe she never was.

You sat back down slowly. The room was too quiet now. The Beretta still lay in pieces on the table, glinting dully under the bare bulb overhead. The silence felt like a countdown.

Your hand moved on its own. You tapped out a reply.

I’ll take it.

You could still remember the night he left.

It had started like all the other nights.

Angry, messy and quiet in all the wrong places.

You’d fought again. You couldn’t even remember what about, maybe it didn’t matter. It never really did. It was always about the same things—the silences, the avoidance.

The way he wouldn’t talk to you unless it was laced in something defensive. The way your voice always seemed to crack just before you said something unforgivable.

The apartment was dark, save for the sliver of streetlight cutting through the blinds and the faint hum of the heater that never quite worked right.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, spine tight, fists curled in the sheets. Your chest still heaved from the shouting match, breath shaky, shallow.

You hated crying in front of him. But it was happening anyway.

Behind you, he stood by the door, tall, unmoving, arms crossed like holding onto himself was the only thing keeping him from saying something worse.

Bucky hadn’t spoken in minutes. That always scared you more than the yelling. The quiet.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you finally whispered, voice raw.

He didn’t respond.

You turned to look at him, forcing your voice to steady. “Say something.”

He looked up then, and his eyes, God, his eyes. There was no softness left in them tonight. Just exhaustion, grief wrapped in the shape of a man.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he said quietly.

Your heart clenched so hard it hurt. “I want you to act like you still fucking care.”

“I do care,” he bit out. “That’s the damn problem.”

The silence that followed was loud. So loud it made your ears ring.

Bucky’s jaw tensed as he stepped forward slowly, stopping just in front of you.

His voice dropped lower, strained, like it hurt him to say it. “You think I don’t care because I don’t yell back anymore? Because I don’t chase you when you storm out? I stopped chasing you because every time I do, you just run further.”

Your throat burned. “I’m not the only one running.”

That landed. You saw it, in the way his expression faltered, just for a second.

“I lost everyone, Buck,” you continued, voice cracking. “Nat. Steve. The world fucking flipped inside out. I came back and people I loved were either dead or moved on. And you—you were the only thing that felt real.”

He didn’t say a word.

“I just kept thinking… maybe if we held on tighter, we could—”

“Break each other slower?” he cut in.

The words hit you like a slap. Brutal, cold and unflinching.

You blinked at him, stunned. “Is that what you think we’re doing?”

“I think we’re trying to survive a war that already ended,” he said, a little softer now. “And neither of us came out whole.”

Your eyes stung. But you didn’t want to cry.

Not again. Not in front of him.

“So what? That’s it? You give up?”

“I didn’t say that.” he protested.

“Then what are you saying?”

He ran a hand through his hair, stepped back like he needed air. Like you were suffocating him just by standing there. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… I don’t know who we are anymore.”

You stood up. Walked toward him. Close, too close.

Your voice was trembling now, but you didn’t step back. “We’re us. We’re still us. You know that.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth—like he wanted to believe it. Like he couldn’t.

“You don’t get to walk away,” you whispered. “Not tonight.”

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It was desperate.

The fight dissolved the moment your mouths met. Your hands went to his jaw, to his hair, pulling him in like you could anchor yourself inside him.

He kissed you back like a man unraveling, like he had no other language left. His hands gripped your waist, guiding you backward until your spine met the bedroom wall.

Clothes came off in clumsy, frantic movements. Tugged shirts. Shaking fingers. Gasps caught in the quiet like smoke. His lips trailed down your throat, your chest, his mouth everywhere—hot and hungry.

He pushed inside you with a groan, and your legs wrapped around his waist like instinct, like need. Your hips lifted to meet his, the angle bruising, perfect.

It wasn’t gentle, it never was when you fought.

Every thrust was a plea. Every moan a memory.

He held you like he wanted to stay. Fucked you like he didn’t know how to leave.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back as he drove deeper.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured into your neck, voice wrecked. “I know. I’ve got you.”

Your nails raked down his back. Your mouth caught his in a sloppy, hungry kiss. You’d done this so many times, made love like it was the only language you both still understood.

And maybe it was.

When you came, it was with a cry muffled into his shoulder. Your body trembled around him, and he held you through every wave. He followed soon after, voice breaking on your name as his hips stuttered, as he buried himself deep inside you, like he could stay there forever.

For a while, you just lay there. Breathing.

You were curled against his chest, your hand resting over his heart, still pounding hard beneath your palm. His arm was around your waist. His other hand gently cradled the back of your neck. He pressed a kiss to your hair.

And then—he spoke.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

Your whole body stilled.

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “What?”

He didn’t meet your eyes.

“This,” he said. “Us. The fights. The sex. The pretending, (y/n) it's killing us.”

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, we can fix it. We always do.”

“This isn’t fixing anything,” he said, voice quieter now. “We're just stalling the inevitable.”

Your eyes filled again, but you blinked fast, furious. “So what? You want to end it?”

He hesitated.

That hesitation was worse than anything he could’ve said.

“Say it,” you whispered. “If that’s what you want, just say it.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. He looked wrecked, like every word he said carved him open too.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” he said. “I’m not what you need. Maybe I never—.”

“Don’t say that,” you breathed. “Don’t you dare—”

He kissed you again.

Slow. Final.

And when he pulled away, it was like something tore loose inside your chest. Like a rib cracked open and your lungs forgot how to work.

“I love you, god, I do,” he said. “But we’re not good for each other.”

You stared at him, heart breaking open like glass.“Then why does this hurt so much?”

He looked at you—like it was killing him not to reach for you.

“Because I loved you,” he said, voice wrecked. “And I still couldn’t make it right.”

He left before sunrise. You didn’t sleep for three days.

Bucky hated briefings.

He hated the fluorescents. The cold coffee. The recycled air. He hated the staged professionalism, the smug undertone in Val’s voice, and the folders she always slapped down like a final hand in poker.

But he showed up anyway, half-shaven, black t-shirt clinging to the sweat along his spine, bruises still blooming across his ribs from the chase in Istanbul just a day ago.

A smuggler had gotten lucky with a crowbar and he had returned the favour with a shattered wrist.

Val didn’t even glance up when he entered the room.

“Took you long enough,” she muttered, flipping through a file like she hadn’t been waiting. “Sit.”

He dropped into the chair across from her, spine loose but jaw tight, watching her like he was waiting for the punchline.

“You said it was urgent.”

“It is.”

She slid the top folder toward him across the steel table. No smile. Just business.

“Weapons dealer. Codename: OMEGA. Ex-military and former Hydra, bastard’s freelancing now, he’s building something, Stark-level tech, maybe worse. We don’t know but black market says it’s mobile, adaptive, and spreading faster than anything Hydra ever managed.”

Bucky flipped the folder open, glancing over the first photo. Satellite images. Grainy outlines of a compound nestled in the Carpathians. Weapon crates stamped with false serials. And a man, dark-haired, lean, with a half-smile that made Bucky’s gut twist.

“You want me to take him out?”

“No,” Val said, narrowing her eyes. “Not yet. I want you to find him. Get intel. Map the pipeline. This asshole is exporting something fast, quiet, and powerful, and nobody knows how yet.”

He leaned back in the chair, nodding slowly. “So who’s running point with me?”

That was when she smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It never was.

“Someone sharp. Knows the terrain like it’s etched into their bloodstream. I needed someone OMEGA wouldn’t see coming, a ghost, basically.” She pulled a second folder from beneath the stack and laid it down with calculated weight.

“So I found the best.”

Bucky’s chest went still.

She tapped the folder once. “You’ve worked together before.”

His eyes didn’t move. Not yet. He didn’t need to look to know. Something low and cold began to unfurl inside him.

“Who?” he asked, already knowing.

Val didn’t skip a beat. “She’s from the Red Room, trained with Romanov. One of the sharpest trackers I’ve ever seen, maybe the best. You worked with her back in 2016. Rogers brought her in to help you disappear for a few weeks.” She looked up at him. “That ring any bells?”

His throat dried out.

Of course it rang a bell. Of course it cracked the whole goddamn church tower.

“She ghosted after the Blip,” Val went on, oblivious to the way the blood had drained from his face. “Merc work. Off-grid. Her name comes up every few years, always attached to success stories. She doesn’t come cheap, but lucky for us, she said yes.”

Bucky didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His hands had gone still in his lap.

Val cocked her head slightly. “Problem?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his tone flat. “No. Just surprised.”

“Don’t be. I told you I wanted the best.”

And she meant it, that was the thing.

Val had no idea. None.

She was looking at him like she’d made a smart tactical move, like this was just another piece on her chessboard.

She didn’t know you were more than a name on a file. Didn’t know that just hearing your name was like being punched in the ribs with a memory.

Of course you said yes. Of course you did.

Bucky looked down at the folder, the one he hadn’t opened. The one that already felt like it was burning through the table. His fingers twitched, fighting the urge to open it. But he didn’t need to. He could already picture your face.

Exactly how you looked the last time he saw you, in that apartment, the light catching the tears on your cheek, your mouth trembling, your voice a broken whisper after one final kiss that hadn’t felt final at all.

You hadn’t spoken since. He’d made sure of that.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think you were the right choice.

You were. You always have been. Your instincts were lethal. Precise. Back when everything was chaos, when he was hunted, bleeding, feral—you’d found him with no satellites, relying on nothing but your skills.

You’d read the rhythm of his footsteps, you’d seen the man underneath the weapon—and somehow, you’d still touched him like he was worth something.

He remembered it all.

The way you’d looked at him without fear. The way you’d spoken to him like he wasn’t broken. The way you’d fallen— And the way he’d fallen harder.

Too hard.

He clenched his jaw and rose from the chair before Val could get clever.

“When do we leave?”

Val smiled, satisfied. “She’ll be here by morning.”

He turned and left before she could say anything else.

Bucky hadn’t seen you in years.

But the memory of you had never really left.

He had tried to pretend otherwise—told himself he’d locked it away. Buried it. Pushed it down into the same graveyard where the rest of his broken things lived. But the truth was simpler. Meaner.

You were everywhere.

In the way someone laughed too loud on a subway platform, in the weight of silence when he climbed into bed alone.

You’d lived beneath his skin long after you left his bed.

And sometimes, even now—in moments he didn’t expect, he could still feel you there.

He remembered the first time he saw you.

Bucharest, 2016. Steve had said your name, classified—a Red Room defector who knew the streets, the syndicates, the backchannels. A shadow that didn’t leave footprints.

He said you owed him a favour. He never said what that favour was.

You’d found him in less than forty-eight hours.

He was holed up in an abandoned tenement, hiding in corners, still haunted by trigger phrases and mission reports and words like asset and eliminate.

He hadn’t slept in two days. He hadn’t trusted anyone in longer.

Then the door creaked. A whisper of motion. And there you were, boots silent, a pistol tucked in your belt, eyes sharp enough to cut. You looked at him like you already knew every terrible thing he’d done.

And somehow… you didn’t flinch.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you said.

And maybe that was the first lie you ever told him.

Because you did. Just not in the way he expected.

You’d stayed longer than Steve asked. Said the apartment wasn’t secure. Said you didn’t trust the local chatter. But you’d also started bringing back coffee in the mornings. Left food on the table without asking.

You never made him say thank you. You never asked why his hands shook when he reached for a fork.

And when he had a nightmare so violent he woke up gasping, fists clenched, blood on his tongue, you didn’t back away.

You touched his shoulder, soft and steady, and whispered his name until the past let go of his throat.

Until he remembered where he was. Until he remembered who he was.

That was the night you sat on the windowsill, legs crossed, and told him about the Red Room.

Not all of it. Just enough.

You told him about the girl who never shed a single tear during conditioning. Who learned pressure points before she comprehended math. Who killed a man before she learned how to braid her own hair.

He watched you in the half-light. And something broke open in him. Something painful and quiet.

“You think you’re the only one who came out wrong,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ve got blood on my hands too.”

He didn’t know what to say.

So he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It couldn’t be.

Two people clawing at each other for something that made them feel human. That made them feel alive.

You’d kissed him like you were starving. Pulled him in by the collar, pressed your body to his like you could crawl inside him and stay there. It was heat and teeth and desperation. It was need, masquerading as anger, safety masquerading as lust.

But later, when your breath had evened out and the moonlight spilled across your bare shoulder, he held you like a secret. His hand moved up and down your spine like he’d been doing it forever.

You curled into him. Stayed there. Whispered things you’d never say in daylight.

He didn’t ask about the scars. You didn’t ask about the dog tags beside his bed. You didn’t need to.

You’d already seen each other naked long before the clothes came off.

That was all it took. That was all it ever took.

Then the Blip happened. And the world ended.

He didn’t know what hurt more—watching you turn to dust in front of him, or himself coming back five years later to find out you hadn’t come back.

They say grief changes people. But this wasn’t grief. This was obliteration.

When you finally returned, months after the snap was reversed—something in you was different. Sharper. Duller. Both at once. Your eyes didn’t light up the same. Your voice came from somewhere deeper.

Bucky later learned the truth in pieces.

You hadn’t come back with the others. Not because you couldn't. But because you hadn’t wanted to.

The moment your body came back, lungs gasping, heart hammering, soul thrown back into flesh, you were alone. Dropped in a place you didn’t recognize. Somewhere cold. Ruined. A city that had moved on without you.

No one was waiting. No one even knew you'd returned.

And when you finally made it back to what was left of the world, you found out what you’d missed.

Natasha was gone. Steve was gone.

Everything you fought for. Everyone who held you up. All of it—just gone.

You didn’t go back to the Tower. Didn’t call anyone. You vanished.

You went underground, took jobs that let you bleed. Let you disappear. Let you punish yourself in silence, in shadows, where no one could see the way grief had gutted you.

It wasn’t about survival. It wasn’t even about revenge.

It was about not being seen. Not being found.

Because if someone found you—if Bucky found you—then you’d have to admit that you were still alive.

And some days, that felt like the worst thing of all.

It took Bucky weeks to track you down.

You'd covered your tracks—burner phones, false names, cities that swallowed you whole. But he knew your patterns. Knew how you moved.

He traced whispers of a woman who never stayed long, it had led him to a crumbling outpost in Albania, an old safehouse half-buried in snow.

You’d just come back from a mission, your knuckles bruised, your jaw clenched, blood dried at your collar.

He watched you from across the road, heart pounding, breath caught in his throat. You didn’t see him until he stepped into the light and said your name.

Soft. Like a prayer. Like a wound.

You didn’t talk about Natasha. Didn’t mention Steve. You didn’t talk at all.

And when he finally got you to come home, Bucky tried to help. God, he tried. He made you tea on the nights sleep wouldn’t come. Sat outside the bathroom door when you locked it, listening to the sound of your breath breaking apart through panic.

He held you when you let him—which wasn’t often—and never asked for more. And when the words ran dry, when silence grew sharp enough to cut, he touched you like he could piece you back together. Made love to you like it might be enough, like it might remind you how to stay.

But you didn’t come back to him. Not really.

And if he was honest, neither did he.

The world had cracked open. And when it tried to reassemble itself, the pieces didn’t fit.

He still loved you, that had never changed.

But love isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s sharp, jagged.

Sometimes it’s made of splinters and sutures. Sometimes it bleeds.

And this one did.

The fights started small.

You stayed out too late. You took contracts without telling him. Vanished without explanation. Returned like nothing had happened—blood on your hands, silence in your eyes.

“Where were you?” “I handled it.” “You don’t have to handle things alone anymore.” “Don’t tell me what to do, Bucky.”

It escalated.

You screamed. He slammed doors.

You made love like it was the last time, every time. You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you from drowning. He kissed you like he couldn’t bear the thought of breathing without you.

You cried once—during.

He kissed the tears from your cheeks and didn’t ask why.

And the next morning, neither of you said a word.

He had left before sunrise.

Quiet. Measured. Like if he moved too fast, the goodbye would catch fire.

Hours earlier, you’d clung to each other like maybe it could still work. Like maybe the way he held you—deep and slow and shaking, like it could sew something back together that had already torn beyond repair.

He’d kissed you after. Whispered your name like it was a prayer. You’d thought maybe he was staying.

But the words came anyway. The softest ones. The final ones.

“I love you,” he’d said. “But we’re not good for each other.”

He didn’t leave a note, he didn’t need to. The silence between you had already said everything.

You didn’t chase him. He didn’t come back. And neither of you called.

Because whatever it was—love, grief, survival—it had finally burned through.

Now, standing in the tower hallway, hands clenched and jaw tight, he thought about all of it.

About the girl who kissed him with cracked knuckles and laughed when she beat him in hand-to-hand. About the woman who came back from the dead and couldn’t sleep through the night.

He thought about your mouth. Your voice. The way you used to touch him.

You were coming back into his life. He didn’t know what that meant yet.

But it didn’t feel like closure. It felt like fate trying again.

The helicopter touched down just before midnight.

The rooftop landing pad of the compound was slick with rain, wind howling against the glass walls like it wanted in. You stayed seated as the engine powered down, watching water bead and crawl across the window.

The city pulsed below, indifferent and alive. It had been years since you stood in this place. Longer since it had felt anything close to home.

You adjusted your gloves slowly, methodically. Your bag was already slung across your shoulder, weapons holstered, expression blank. The only tell was your fingers—twitching against your thigh like they were searching for something to hold onto.

Footsteps echoed behind you.

"You coming, or do I have to drag you out?" Yelena's voice, unmistakably smug.

You turned. And for a second—just a second, your composure slipped.

She looked the same. Combat boots scuffed from wear. Hair shorter now—cropped into a blunt cut that suited her sharp grin.

There was something in her eyes that made you feel twelve again. She crossed the threshold and threw her arms around you before you could react.

"You bitch," she said, laughing into your shoulder. "You didn’t even text me. I thought you were dead. I tried everything. Even hacked into a mercenary network that tracks off-grid operatives. That’s how low I sank."

You exhaled a breath that almost cracked. Your arms wrapped around her on instinct.

"I missed you too," you murmured.

She pulled back and looked at you—really looked.

"Where did you go?" Her voice dropped a little. Not accusing. Just softer. Like it hurt to ask. "I tried calling, so many times. You just vanished."

You hesitated.

"I couldn’t be here," you said finally. "Not after everything that happened."

Yelena nodded, but her smile faltered. There was understanding in her eyes. And maybe grief too. You had lost your best friend, and she had lost a sister.

"Well, you're here now," she said. "And Val’s gonna shit herself when she sees the two of us in the same room."

You huffed out a quiet laugh. It didn’t reach your eyes.

The elevator opened with a low chime.

And that was when you felt it.

A shift. A cold crackle in your chest. Like a wire pulled tight.

You turned your head.

And there he was.

Bucky stepped off the elevator like a ghost from a life you didn’t let yourself remember.

Dressed in black, cargo pants, worn boots, leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the grey shirt beneath. His damp hair pushed back like he’d just stepped out of the storm. A duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, his gait loose but alert.

And his expression—his expression was still, but his eyes...his eyes landed on you like impact—like an old wound splitting wide open

They locked on yours with such force it felt like gravity shifted. Something primal and painful surged in your chest.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

He froze. So did you.

It was silent. Just the distant hum of the building, the rain tapping against the windows, Yelena shifting awkwardly between you. No words. Just that unbearable, suffocating pause.

Then he blinked. Swallowed. And nodded once.

"Hey."

It was barely audible. Rough. Like he hadn’t said it in a long time.

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Yelena glanced between you and cleared her throat. "I’ll uh… give you two a minute."

She was gone before you could stop her.

You turned back toward the window, throat burning. You felt him walk closer—not near enough to touch, but close enough that his presence bent the air.

"You look different," he said quietly.

You didn’t turn around. "So do you."

Another silence.

"Didn’t think I’d see you again," he said.

"You didn’t try to."

That landed. Hard. You could feel it—the way his weight shifted, the breath he held like it might shatter.

"I didn’t think you’d want me to."

You finally turned, eyes sharp, guarded.

"I didn’t."

And it was true. At least partly.

Because as much as you wanted to hate him, as much as you told yourself you’d buried it all—your body still remembered.

The way he used to touch you. Hold you. Make love to you like it meant something.

It all came flooding back now.

You remembered the press of his mouth against your throat, the weight of him between your legs, the way he whispered your name when he was close—like it broke something inside him.

You remembered how he moved inside you, how he clung to you like a drowning man, murmuring your name over and over like it was the only anchor he had left.

You remembered his hands, calloused and warm, roaming your body like they knew every inch, every scar, every secret.

The way he used to fuck you like he was desperate to stay, to feel something that tethered him to this life—to you. Like the act of loving you was the only thing keeping him from disappearing entirely.

And you remembered what it felt like after.

Curled into his chest.

His lips in your hair.

His breath still shaking.

His voice—low and ruined—saying he couldn’t keep doing this.

The ache of it split something inside you.

You swallowed hard. Fingers tightening over your arms like they were holding your ribs together.

"This doesn’t change anything," you said.

He nodded slowly. "I know."

But it did. You both knew it.

Because for all the distance, for all the time, the pain, the silence—the second your eyes met, you felt it. That same, awful, impossible thing.

You still wanted him.

And he still looked at you like you were the only person who ever knew how to touch him without hurting.

It wasn’t love.

It was something worse. It was memory.

The ride into Romania was long, loud, and silent in all the worst ways.

The blades beat a steady rhythm against the night sky, slicing through clouds as the landscape below dissolved into shadow.

You sat across from him on the side bench, both of you facing inward, knees angled close, but never touching. The blades roared above as the helicopter cut through the clouds, the green glow of the instrument panel washing your boots in ghost-light.

You didn’t look at him. But you could feel it. Every flicker of his gaze, every stolen glance. Like gravity pulling him toward something he had long buried.

When the helicopter finally began its descent, the mountains looked like teeth—jagged, looming, half-lost in cloud. The safehouse wasn’t much. A stone structure tucked into a hillside, half-swallowed by fog and overgrowth.

The wind howled around it as the blades slowed to a halt, leaving you both alone with nothing but damp air and unfinished sentences. You slung your bag over your shoulder, boots crunching over gravel as you followed him up the narrow path.

There was no conversation. Just the weight of your history trailing behind you like a second shadow.

Inside, the safehouse smelled like dust and rain. There were two rooms. A generator humming low. A fireplace that hadn’t been used in years.

The air held the chill of old grief, you dropped your gear on the floor, peeled off your damp jacket, and stood there, cold, wet and exhausted. He did the same, his movements slow, careful, like even the air between you might break if he moved too fast.

The silence thickened. Unbearable.

You turned toward him, voice sharp. “You never came back.”

He looked up from his bag. Stilled. “What?”

You stared at him, every nerve in your chest pulled tight. “After the fight. After you walked out. You never came back. Not even once.”

He blinked. “You told me not to.”

“No, I didn’t,” you said, voice rising. “I begged you to stay. I begged you not to walk away, and you still left.”

His jaw flexed. “Because I didn’t want to hurt you anymore.”

“Well, congratulations,” you snapped. “You did anyway.”

He stepped toward you then, chest heaving, anger flickering beneath the surface. “What did you want me to do? Keep pretending we were okay? Just keep fucking you like that was enough?”

You flinched. “Don’t you dare—”

“I didn’t know how to make it better!” he shouted. “I loved you, god, I loved you, but I didn’t know how to reach you. And every time I touched you, I told myself we were okay, that I could keep us from falling apart. But it was fucking killing me.”

You swallowed against the ache rising in your throat. “So you let go.”

He nodded slowly, breathing hard. “Yeah. I let go.”

“And you didn’t look back.”

He stepped closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Act like you didn’t leave too. You shut me out. You stopped talking. You disappeared before I even walked out that door.”

Your eyes burned. “Because I was grieving, because everyone I—I loved was gone.”

“And I was still standing there,” he said, voice breaking. “I was right there, and you wouldn’t even look at me.”

Something in you cracked.

You pushed him, open palm against his chest. Hard.

He didn’t move. Didn’t stumble. Just looked at you with something hollow in his eyes, like he was still standing in the ruins of everything you used to be.

“I waited,” you whispered. “I waited for you to come back.”

He stepped into you then, hands bracing against the wall behind you, caging you in. The air shifted, heat sparking between you like a live wire.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he said, low and rough.

Your breath hitched.

You stared at him, eyes wet, fists clenched. “Then why didn’t you try?”

His voice was hoarse. “Because I thought I already lost you.”

You shook your head. “No James, you gave up on me.”

“I never gave up on you,” he said. “I gave up on the idea that I was good for you.”

The words scraped across your chest.

“I didn’t want perfect,” you whispered. “I just wanted you.”

The distance between you snapped.

His hands found your face, your jaw, your waist, pulling you in like a man dying of thirst. The kiss came sharp, searing, desperate. All tongue and teeth and ragged breath.

You clawed at his shirt, fisting the fabric, grounding yourself in the heat of him. He pressed you back against the wall, hard enough to shake loose the memories.

His mouth dropped to your neck, your collarbone, biting at the soft skin like he was angry at it. You gasped, arching against him, fingers dragging down his spine.

“Tell me you don’t miss this,” he growled against your throat.

“I hate you,” you gasped.

“Not what I asked.”

He lifted you with ease, walked you backwards to the bed, lips never leaving your skin. He dropped you down, followed you with a weight that felt like coming undone. The rain outside slammed against the windows. The bed creaked beneath the weight of everything you hadn’t said.

Clothes peeled off, slow and frantic at once. He kissed every inch of your skin, reverent and bruising. You clawed at his back, moaned his name like a plea, like a prayer.

When he slid inside you, it stole the air from your lungs.

He moved slowly at first, deep, deliberate thrusts that made your toes curl, your body arch. You clung to him, nails biting into his shoulder blades. He buried his face in your neck.

“You feel the same,” he rasped. “Fuck—you feel exactly the same.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Please, don’t stop.”

His rhythm quickened, rougher, harder. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, punctuated by broken sobs and gasping breath.

“I should’ve fought for you,” he said. “I should’ve fucking fought.”

You kissed him, fierce and shattering. “Then fight now.”

He groaned into your mouth. “I love you.”

“Then stay.”

You came with a cry, your whole body seizing around him. He followed with a broken moan, hips stuttering, breath catching as he spilled inside you.

You stayed like that for a long time, chests pressed together, foreheads touching, breath mingling in the dark.

And in that quiet, brutal silence, something shifted.

Not healed. Not yet.

But something close to hope.

You lay still for a long time after, his hand tangled in your hair, your breath catching on every exhale like your body didn’t quite believe what it had just done. Bucky shifted beside you, his arm tight around your waist, grounding you.

“You meant it?” you asked softly. “When you said you love me?”

He turned his face toward yours. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no flicker of doubt. “I never stopped,” he said. “I want you to know that.”

You closed your eyes. Let the words settle. Let the silence stretch.

Then—his voice again. Quieter now. Rough around the edges, like the words scraped on the way out.

“Can we try again?”

Your eyes opened.

He held your gaze, steady and unflinching.

“I know I left,” he continued. “And I know you shut me out too. We both did damage. But I still love you. And I want to stay this time. No matter how hard it gets, I’m not walking away. Not ever again.”

Your chest ached.

Because part of you still wanted to push him away, to brace for the inevitable.

But a bigger part, the part that remembered the sound of his laugh in the morning, the feel of his hands holding your broken pieces together—that part whispered:

Yes.

And for the first time in a long time, you almost believed it could be enough.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it! your feedback is forever welcomed my loves!

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nvrngl · 30 days ago

Text

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒖𝒔

synopsis. it's the middle of the night and jungkook stumbles ( yet again ) through your window, wounded, sheepish, irresistably adorable.

pairing. bts ﹢ spiderman!jungkook x mj!reader ﹢ fluff

wordcount. 1.6k

warnings. minor injuries, blood, language, shameless flirting, spiderkook

notes. to the one that loves jungkook like no other and is now falling back down the marvel blackhole, happy birthday c. 💚

You don’t look up when you hear the thud.

It’s followed by a sharp metallic creak on the fire escape and a muffled ow, which means Jeon Jungkook has once again flung himself into your life — bruised, dramatic, and ten seconds from bleeding out on your floor like it’s part of his nightly routine.

You flip a page in your book.

“I’m dying,” comes his voice through the window screen. He sounds like a Victorian ghost. It’s kind of impressive.

“You said that last week,” you call back, still not looking.

“This time it’s for real,” he groans. “I think I got shot. Or stabbed. Possibly both.”

You sigh and slide open the window. Jungkook slumps through it with the grace of a wounded cat, mask pushed up, suit half-ripped, curls wild, and an actual trail of blood following him like glitter.

“My carpet,” you say flatly.

“Hi to you too.” He grins, teeth and all. There's a cut on his lip. He looks like trouble. He always looks like trouble. And God does it make you feel something.

“Let me guess,” you say, grabbing the first-aid kit. “Drug bust gone wrong? Gang of mutant pigeons? You finally picked a fight with someone taller than you?”

“Bold of you to assume anyone is taller than me when I’m upside down,” he mutters, flopping onto your bed without asking.

You ignore the chaos, kneel next to him, and dab at the gash on his temple.

“Stop moving. I don’t want your blood on my comforter. It’s expensive.”

“I’m expensive,” he mumbles. “Limited edition. Real collector’s item.”

“More like ‘slightly used with minor damage.’”

He laughs — a warm, boyish sound that makes your hand freeze for half a second. You pretend it didn’t happen.

“You know,” Jungkook says, eyes flicking up to yours, “most people would be flattered Spider-Man keeps showing up at their window.”

“You’re not Spider-Man,” you say. “You’re Jungkook in spandex who can’t stay upright for more than fifteen minutes.”

“I got pushed, thank you very much.”

You snort. “By what? A toddler?”

“I’ll have you know she was twelve and vicious.”

You press a bandage to his forehead a little harder than necessary.

He hisses. “Ow. I’m telling your mom you abuse superheroes.”

“She already thinks you’re my boyfriend.”

Jungkook blinks. “Wait, what?”

You shrug. “You come over injured. You sleep here sometimes. You call me at 2 a.m. like we’re in a situationship.”

“That’s slander,” he says, looking far too smug for someone who might be concussed. “I only call you after midnight if I’m emotionally stable.”

“That has never happened.”

“Okay, true.”

You roll your eyes, dropping the bloody gauze in the trash. “Why do you even come here? Don’t you have, like, a nurse sidekick or a secret spider cave or something?”

“I have all that,” he says, hand flapping mid-hair like he's all that. “but none of them smell like your vanilla shampoo.”

You blink. “You are literally injured and flirting with me.”

“Multitasking. I’m gifted.”

“You’re gonna bleed out.”

“Then kiss me before I go.”

You stare at him.

He stares back, shameless, like this is normal behavior. Like he didn’t just crawl through your window half-dead and immediately start being a menace.

God, he’s cute. Unfortunately.

“Not tonight, web boy.”

“So you’re saying there will be a night?”

You pause. Blink. Your brain reboots.

“No. Nope. Totally not what I said.” But your speech is a little too fast. It's giving it away, and Jungkook saw it a million miles back.

“You paused. That was a pause.”

You shove the ice pack into his hand. “Shut up and hold this.”

He grins and does what he’s told.

You lean back against your desk chair, arms crossed, trying not to look at the way his jaw flexes or how his shirt is riding up slightly, revealing the tiniest sliver of abs. You’re not looking. You’re definitely not looking.

“Thanks for patching me up,” he says after a beat.

You glance at him. He’s watching you again — but this time it’s not loud or teasing. Just kind of soft. The kind of soft that makes your stomach do something it shouldn’t.

You flick your eyes away.

“Yeah, well. Don’t die. I’d have to clean up your body and that sounds annoying.”

He smiles like that was the most romantic thing he’s ever heard.

He ends up staying.

Which, of course, he always does.

You sit cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, sipping from a lukewarm energy drink and pretending not to care that Jeon Jungkook is currently stretched across your pillows like he pays rent here. He doesn’t. But you’re pretty sure he has a toothbrush in your bathroom.

He’s in his undersuit now — black and sleeveless and clinging in ways you absolutely do not think about. His arm’s bandaged, his curls are still damp from the wet cloth you made him use, and there’s a tiny smudge of blood drying at the corner of his mouth. He looks like a mess.

An unfairly hot mess.

“So,” you say, gaze fixed on a chipped spot of polish on your thumbnail, “what happened out there?”

Jungkook lets out a breath and stares up at the ceiling like it personally offended him. “Some idiot tried to rob a tech truck three blocks from Oscorp. Had, like, actual alien weapons. Not even subtle.”

Your eyes flick to him despite yourself. “Alien-alien or just suspiciously shiny?”

“Alien-alien. Chitauri plasma rifles. The one with the glowy blue veins? You know the type.”

You hum, casually. As if you don’t know. As if you haven’t watched every Avengers briefing leaked online.

“They really let just anyone steal those now, huh?”

“Apparently,” he mutters. “Anyway, I swing in — like, mid-getaway — and try to web the tires. But these guys had shields. And a drone. A full drone, MJ. Like, Stark-level AI.”

“That explains the new hole in your suit.”

He groans. “Do not remind me. This one was limited edition.”

You rest your chin on your knees, quietly watching him. He talks with his hands a lot when he gets going, all excited energy and half-formed gestures. It’s like he forgets how tired he is. Or how much he’s bleeding. Or that it’s 2:37 in the morning and you’re literally just some girl he keeps crashing into.

Still. You could listen to him forever.

“You should call for help more,” you mutter. “You’re not invincible.”

He glances at you. And for a moment, something flickers behind his eyes. He grins lazily. “You worried about me, MJ?”

“I just don’t want alien blood staining my sheets,” you shoot back. “We both have standards.”

Before he can respond with something equally stupid and flirty, his watch makes a sharp beep. He groans again — louder, more dramatic.

“Ugh, nooo. Not now.”

“What is it?”

He presses the face of the watch and a pixelated message glows to life:

DISTRESS CALLAVENGERS TOWER — LEVEL 4 SECURITY THREAT

Your breath hitches. “Avengers?”

“Yeah. I, uh... I help out sometimes.”

You blink up at him. “You never said you worked with them.”

Jungkook shrugs like it’s no big deal. Like Tony Stark didn’t probably give him that suit. “It’s casual. I swing by. Save a cat. Fight a god. Eat snacks.”

You scoff, but your stomach flips a little. He’s joking — but not really. He’s one of them. You’ve always known he was more than the “neighborhood” part of Spider-Man, but still. Hearing it out loud makes something sharp and weird twist behind your ribs.

Jungkook slides off your bed and stands, tugging his top layer back on. His movements are quick now, practiced, but he’s still limping slightly.

You stay seated on the floor, staring up at him. You don’t say it, but your jaw tenses.

He glances at you, then smiles — that annoying, infuriatingly charming smile that makes your heart stutter when you’re not careful.

“Hey,” he says lightly. “Don’t I even get a good luck kiss?”

You blink.

“Excuse me?”

He leans down a little, eyes glinting. “What if I don’t make it back? This could be our last moment. Don’t you want to make it cinematic?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna guilt-trip me into kissing you before fighting an alien or whatever?”

He pouts. “You’re literally my emotional support girl. This is part of the job.”

“Then you should’ve unionized.”

He laughs — full-on, head-thrown-back giggle — and it does something catastrophic to your insides.

You roll your eyes and stand, slowly. “Fine.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Close your eyes.”

Jungkook lights up, immediately obedient.

You lean in close.

...and flick his forehead.

“Ow!” he yelps, stumbling back. “Rude!”

You smirk. “That’s for bleeding on my floor.”

He presses a hand to his chest like he’s wounded. “Cold. So cold.”

You cross your arms and shrug, even as your heart thrums traitorously. “Now go save the world or whatever. I’ve got a chem test tomorrow.”

Jungkook backs toward the window, already lifting his mask into place. His curls are wild again, his eyes bright with adrenaline.

But before he climbs out, he pauses — just long enough to glance back at you, one hand resting on the sill.

“You know,” he says, voice muffled through the fabric, “I’m gonna get that kiss one day.”

You roll your eyes. “You keep saying that.”

“And you keep letting me in.”

With that, he winks — actually winks — and dives out the window like gravity is just a suggestion.

You stand there for a second too long.

Then you sigh, turn off the light, and climb into your bed, pulling the blankets over the spot where he left his warmth behind.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ

#jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook bts #bts jungkook #bts #.txt #webs between us

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oneforthemunny · 2 months ago

Note

I was thinking about what you said about dry humping and Janitor!Eddie. Then I started thinking about straddling him on the couch while he sucks on his girl’s tiddies and she begins to grind on him until they both cum in their pants 🫣

oh helllllllll yeah. lfg janitor!eddie girlies nows your time!!!! smut ahead minors dni.

Eddie groaned beneath you, his head tipping back onto the cushioned back of the couch, eyes screwed shut, lips vibrating with the moan he tried to swallow. He looked so pretty, you decided, a hand caressing his cheek for a moment before your lips were back on his.

A bottle and a half of chardonnay, the excitement of spring break and being off for the week, and Cross My Heart playing on the screen; you'd blame that triple threat as the reason you both were here. Stripped down to just your underwear, hips rocking against his.

"Please," Eddie gasped, a straggled breath caught in his throat, fingertips sinking into the flesh of your hips. "Sweetheart, you- I'm gonna bust if you keep do-doing that."

Your toothy grin had his stomach lurching with a rush of excited heat, eyes widening in excitement, maybe fear. You had a tendency to get a little bold when you'd had a drink or two, not that Eddie minded. Oh no, it was quite the opposite, it's the exact reason why his body was fidgeting under yours, hips wiggling for friction.

"Mmm," You let out a soft moan, your hands squeezing around his shoulders, head tipping back. Your own hips swiveled, rocking gently. You could feel the wet patch already forming at the front of your cotton panties.

"Baby, you- you gotta stop." Eddie's voice cracked, embarrassingly high pitched in a way he hadn't heard since middle school.

"I don't wanna stop." You purred, hips moving agonizingly slow, your clothed clit rocking against his tented boxers. "I like how this feels."

"Fuck," Eddie whispered, the combination of your words and the way he could feel your wetness starting to seep through your underwear to his, had his hands beginning to shake with blinding pleasure.

"Don't you like how this feels?" You hummed, so sweetly it had Eddie blushing. "Doesn't it feel good?"

"Jesus- Yeah, it feels really fuckin' good, baby." Eddie nodded, eyes rounded and wide when they met yours, only for a moment, before his gaze shifted to your boobs, nearly inches from him.

His hands slid up your body, slowly, leaving you shivering, a small whine leaving your lips, grinding harder and harder when Eddie's thumbs slid over your nipples.

Eddie's hands lingered there for a moment, before his face was buried between them, kissing your left boob, lips wrapped around your nipple.

His hands slid back down your body, over your ribcage, the swell of your hips, anchoring on your ass. Squeezing handfuls of each of your cheeks between his calloused hands, your thighs were beginning to shake at the sensation, rocking harder and harder.

"Eddie, that feels so, sooo good." You whimpered, his face pressing further into your chest, tongue swirling around your nipple.

A gasp tore from your throat, eyes opening with a start at the sudden shift. Eddie's hands still held your ass, pressing you further and further into him, his own hips meeting yours with a furiously needy rhythm.

"E-Ed," You gasped, your orgasm creeping closer and closer, Eddie's hands pressing you further and further into him. So close you thought you might fuse together.

Eddie's body moved with yours, a symphony of both your breathy moans and gasps mixing with the squeak and groan of the couch springs, until you finished, a flood of wetness that soaked and darkened the front of your panties. Eddie's followed shortly after, a sticky, whiny mess of an orgasm, his face still buried between your breasts.

He pulled you on top of him, your warm cheek pressed against his chest, both your eyes shining from the wine and your own releases. "I don't think I've dry humped someone since freshman year of high school." Eddie admitted, mind still swimming, slowly reeling. "I forgot how good it feels."

You giggled, turning to him, chin pressed to his chest. "It did feel pretty good, didn't it?"

"Felt more than pretty good." Eddie muttered.

"More than pretty good, hm? So you liked it?" There it was again- that sneaky, wide smile that had Eddie's heart lurching. Eddie nodded, his hand smoothing down your back gently.

"Yeah? You liked it when I did this?" Your grin widened, pressing your hips into his, your wet underwear pressing together.

"Yes." Eddie jumped at the sensation, a smile tugging on your lips when you giggled, silly and love sick, his arms wrapping around you.

"Good to know." You hummed, leaning in gently, lips barely brushing. "I'll keep that in mind." You muttered, your lips enveloping his, hands sliding over his jaw, pulling him into you.

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clawsdevour · 3 months ago

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˳ . *࿔ kenma nsfw hcs

wc: 0.5k content warning: post-time skip, smut , kenma x reader, not proofread

｡　˚◌ ༊..

-Kenma, who can easily get riled up/aroused thinking of new ways to stimulate you. he could be chatting with his viewers, maybe reading a few questionable comments, or even one where they asked about you. he'd think of you but in another setting... perhaps an intimate one where only he would know that side of you and which points you like to be pressed upon.

-Kenma wouldn't be much of a talker since his eyes do the talking for him. but, he would definitely joke around in a sexual way that makes you gush out more of your essence. he doesn't even know, but he's basically teasing you with every word and every stroke laid upon your body that makes you shiver and have goosebumps. his eye contact is bold and loud, it makes you feel like you need to cover up which is never a choice when he's on top.

-Kenma enjoys feeling dominant until he's physically starting to wear down. he'd love being in command, making you reach down to rub your little overstimulated clit, telling you to rub faster, rub harder, add a finger or two in while his eyes are fixated on your every movement. it just satisfies him, the way you obey like those on nekoma.

-Kenma definitely likes to play around, seeing if there's anything new that gets you soaked. he's always going to end up edging you so hard you'd scream out his names and for him to let you cum on his fingers. he'd always end up saying not yet, or just a little longer until your heart is beating out of your chest and you can't breathe from holding it in.

-Kenma would know and memorize all of your most stimulating points. when he's buried deep inside you, he's definitely thrusting around to find those spots. every time he finds it, Kenma's going to constantly and repeatedly hit them to make you twitch and gasp in satisfaction. hearing you cry in pleasure just simply completes him, like winning a hard boss battle.

-Kenma is definitely spiraling whenever he sees you get on your knees with your hands pulling your hair back. he just simply can't control what lays between his legs as it seems to register the excitement before him. during your blowjobs and handies, kenma would for sure be gripping onto the bed sheets or have his head hung all the way back while he's completely consumed with pleasure.

-Kenma goes crazy when you're riding him. doesn't matter if it's cowgirl or from the back, or in a hugging position. Kenma is simply out of control. you're the one who's in control as he feels completely weak. he feels like he could explode trying to hold back from busting a load inside you, he could faint.

-Kenma would miss one of his streams to make sure your needs are completely satisfied. overall, he could always do multiple streams a day.. on the other hand, he's thinking about what if he were streaming? wouldn't that just turn him on even more, the thought of people just watching to see him and his partner making love? course, he would never do that, but the thought of it will probably strike him.

-Kenma, who gets more affectionate after he cums. you're both laying on each other in the end, he's giving you sloppy kisses on your body until it grabs your attention. when you're sleeping, he's clinging onto you. skin on skin, he'd definitely have a hand around you, and the other fondling your chest with a tight grip.

-Kenma would be really shy at first to cum in front of you, but he would for sure get more used to just releasing his load. kenma would definitely whimper and groan when he gets close, or it's just unbearable too good. he finds it enjoyable seeing you take it deep inside, or rather in your mouth. Kenma also like the sight of his essence dripping off of your body that's covered by a sheen layer of sweat.

masterlist here

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enticingmelanin · 1 month ago

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Fire We Make: A Modern Smoke x Annie Fic

Fire We Make || Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Annie (modern au)

This is Part 2 of the Savor Series.

Rating: E for Erotic.

Warnings: NSFW, Smut, and Explicit Language. 18+ Only.

Word Count: 7k+

Summary: Smoke and Annie’s bond has only deepened since fate reunited them in the city. Their emotional, mental, spiritual, and physical chemistry keeps their love burning bright. But when they attend the grand opening of Pearline’s, the heat between them proves impossible to tame. Some flames flicker. Theirs? Blazes.

𝄞₊ ⊹₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ˚₊⊹ ₊𝄞━━⊱⋆⊰━━𝄞₊ ⊹₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ˚₊⊹ ₊𝄞

Melodic humming filled Smoke’s bathroom as Annie applied the finishing touches to her makeup. Soft and radiant, her look accentuated her natural beauty—subtle shimmer on her lids, feathery lashes, and a gentle highlight that kissed her cheekbones. Her hair, now an older perm rod set, was pinned back into a romantic bun, a couple of loose spiral curls framing her face like poetry.

It had been eight months since they’d rekindled what was once lost—and they were stronger than ever. Life didn’t slow down for love, but they adapted, carved out time, made each other a priority. Zariah’s was always buzzing, fully booked, while Smoke and his family had poured heart and soul into building their lounge from the ground up. And finally… tonight was the night Pearline’s would be born.

Annie practically glowed as she moved through his space, excitement in every graceful step. As she reached for her MAC Ruby Woo lipstick to match her dress, a giddy hum vibrated from her lips.

“Ready, baby doll?” came that gravel-smooth voice from the bedroom.

“Yep, just puttin’ my lipstick on,” she replied, gliding the bold red pigment across her plush lips in one fluid stroke.

From the corner of her eye, she caught his silhouette in the doorway—leaned against the frame, watching her like she was art. His eyes roamed her slowly, appreciating how she mirrored his sharp red suit with that stunning dress.

The dress—a vintage-inspired scarlet gown that clung to her voluptuous frame. The satin hugged her curves, dipping low at the bust to reveal some cleavage, then cinched at her waist before flaring softly over her hips. A thigh-high slit flashed glimpses of smooth brown skin and hinted at the strappy red heels she wore underneath. Her body looked sculpted by the ancestors, and the way she moved in it? Like she knew she was unforgettable.

Suddenly, he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing himself flush against her back. His lips found her neck, placing slow, reverent kisses on her skin. A soft giggle escaped her as she leaned into his warmth.

“You look so damn good, we might not make it out the door,” he murmured against her ear, their gazes locking in the mirror.

Annie hummed, the corner of her mouth curling into a smirk. She turned to face him, arms draping around his neck, her breasts pressing against his solid chest. “As do you, but you can’t miss the grand opening, Mr. Owner. This is the night we’ve all been waitin’ for.”

Smoke let out a low sigh, trying to pull himself back from the edge. “True… I’d never hear the end of it, especially from Stack. But...” His voice dipped, rich with promise. “Just know I’m puttin’ these pretty lips to work later.”

He leaned in to kiss her, but she pressed a finger to his mouth, stopping him with a glint in her eye.

“Mm-mm. Not messin’ up my lipstick,” she whispered. “Plus… it'll give you somethin' to look forward to.”

She leaned in and slowly ran her tongue across his lips—teasing, taunting—before slipping away with a playful strut toward the doorway.

Smack!

His hand landed firmly on her ass, making her gasp mid-step.

“Elijah!” she scolded, breath catching in her throat.

He just grinned. “Better pray I behave tonight or you'll be screamin' that all night long.”

The fire between them crackled and Annie silently hoped she could tame the heat long enough to get through Pearline’s grand opening.

Slowly, the black Escalade rolled to a stop in front of the entrance, its paint gleaming under the moonlight and glowing building lights. Annie smiled at the long line of guests wrapped around the corner, all dressed in their finest. Their childhood friend, Cornbread, stood tall at the head of the line in a black tux as the bouncer of the evening. A bold neon sign in soft red script read “Pearline’s,” its light casting a sultry blush across the rich brick exterior. A red carpet trailed from the doorway like an enticing welcome.

She was lost in admiration when her car door swung open.

“Thank you, ba—” she started, then stopped, blinking as the face staring back at her wasn't Smoke's, though it was identical.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You can admit you always liked me more,” Stack teased, grinning wide with those infamous gold-capped pearly whites, a toothpick dancing at the corner of his mouth. He wore the same tailored red suit as Smoke, but his button-down was black—sleek and sharp in contrast.

Annie shook her head, laughter already bubbling up. “Boy, you’re a menace,” she said, taking his hand as he helped her out of the truck. She pulled him into a warm hug.

“And you love me for it,” he replied, placing a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Nigga, you wish my woman liked your ol’ country bumpkin ass,” Smoke called out, rounding the front of the truck, that signature smirk playing on his lips.

Stack raised both hands in mock surrender, the grin never leaving his face. “Sounds like the pot callin’ the kettle, big brother.”

“Stop terrorizing them, Elias,” came a soft, amused voice from behind him. Mary stepped up, all grace and calm. Her hair was styled in loose waves that framed her heart-shaped face, eyes bright and lips painted a subtle rose. The slinky rose gold dress she wore clung to her figure, shimmering with every step, the open back catching the warm glow from the lights behind her.

She pulled Annie into a hug with an easy elegance. “You look beautiful, love.”

Annie smiled. “So do you.”

The twins greeted each other with a dap and a tight hug before ushering their women inside.

Annie’s chocolate eyes widened the moment they stepped through the doors.

“Babe…” she breathed, rooted in wonder.

“Ain’t she a beauty?” Smoke replied, his voice laced with quiet pride.

Pearline’s was opulence made intimate. Deep ruby velvet chairs hugged black marble tables, each topped with crystal glassware and lush centerpieces of red roses. The walls were a glossy black laced with gold detailing, reflecting the soft, amber glow from the grand chandeliers that hung like golden galaxies above.

The stage was commanding—elevated, dramatic, framed by heavy crimson curtains that spilled like wine to the floor. A spotlight illuminated the center, while plush banquettes circled the space, giving every guest a perfect view.

Just then, a six-piece live band stepped onto the stage, dressed in crisp, classic black. The pianist flexed his fingers, the upright bassist plucked a note that hummed through the velvet-draped air, and the horns tuned in harmony. The rhythm promised something sultry, something smooth, something alive.

“Y’all got a hit on your hands,” Annie exclaimed, her eyes still soaking in every plush detail. “That line is gonna be wrapped around the city with people desperate to get in here after tonight.”

“That’s the idea,” Smoke replied, his smile slow and warm as his hand found the small of her back. The pride in his eyes wasn’t just for the lounge—it was for her. For everything they’d built together, in their own way.

“And once Pearline and Sammie hit the stage,” Mary added, her voice dipping into that sweet Southern twang as she glanced toward the velvet-draped platform, “they just might burn the roof down.” She let out a low whistle, the excitement dancing in her tone.

Stack smirked and nodded toward the back left corner with a casual flick of his chin. “Speak of the devil.”

Annie followed his gaze—and there they were.

Pearline stood poised in the corner, a tall glass of champagne in hand, dressed in floor-length black satin that shimmered like oil under the low lights. Her deep brown skin glowed under the chandeliers, and her natural hair was sculpted into a soft, elegant updo that showed off her high cheekbones and expressive eyes. She looked like every jazz song ever written about heartbreak and romance.

Beside her was Sammie wearing a charcoal-gray three-piece suit that fit like it was made just for him—shirt open at the collar, no tie. A soft gold chain peeked beneath the fabric. His guitar case rested against the corner of the booth like it had its own seat, and the way he leaned into Pearline, eyes low and easy, made it clear the stage wasn’t the only place they made music.

They were magnetic, undeniably so.

Mary squealed in excitement, eyes lit up like stage lights, and grabbed Annie’s hand without warning. “Come on!” she laughed, tugging her toward Pearline and Sammie.

Smoke shook his head, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. “Every damn time,” he muttered fondly as Stack chuckled, hands in his pockets, following behind them to join the growing group hug.

“I can’t wait to hear y’all’s new music,” Annie said, pulling back from the embrace, her eyes warm with admiration. She turned to shoot Smoke a teasing scowl. “He wouldn’t say a peep about it. Been keepin’ secrets.”

“Confidentiality clause,” he said with a smirk. “Artist privilege.”

The double doors opened behind them, and the low hum of conversation began to grow as guests trickled in—heels clicking against the marble floor, silk and perfume trailing through the air. Waiters dressed in black-on-black uniforms glided between tables, ushering people to their seats with ease.

“Looks like you won’t be waitin' too much longer,” Pearline said, giving Annie a playful wink. “It’s showtime. We’ll see y’all in a bit.” Her smile lingered as she looped her arm through Sammie’s, and together they slipped backstage.

The two couples made their way to a table positioned front and center—the table, with an unobstructed view of the grand stage. The plush crimson chairs hugged them in comfort as they settled in, the golden glow from the chandeliers bathing them in a warm, flattering light.

Classic jazz poured from the band now set up onstage—the kind of melodies that made you close your eyes and sway slow without realizing. The saxophone crooned like it had a heart of its own, mixing perfectly with the clink of glassware and soft laughter around the room.

Their table was a feast of elegance and indulgence. Thanks to Annie—who Smoke proudly insisted be listed as a partner—Pearline’s menu had soul and sophistication. Small plates filled the table like a love letter to flavor—oysters Rockefeller resting in gleaming shells, crab-stuffed mushrooms steaming beside golden catfish fritters, sliders layered with Wagyu beef and caramelized onions, honey roasted carrots, and baskets of parmesan truffle fries still hot to the touch.

The twins nursed their negronis, dark and bitter with just enough bite, while the ladies sipped lemon drops—tart, sweet, and chilled nicely.

“This is what luxury tastes like,” Stack said, popping a fry into his mouth and leaning back with a satisfied hum.

Mary raised her glass toward Annie. “That’s ‘cause our girl knows what she’s doing.”

Annie just smiled, letting her fingers trail over the base of her glass. “Only the best for y'all.”

After a moment of savoring their food and enjoying each other's company, the band’s saxophonist stepped forward, mic in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, the soul of Pearline’s—Miss Pearline herself!”

The lights shifted, casting a warm spotlight on the stage just as Pearline emerged from backstage. She strutted toward the mic stand with slow, sultry confidence. Her presence alone commanded the room. She grasped the microphone with intention, her fingers adorned with delicate gold rings, while Sammie joined the band—his foot stomping to start the beat of the song. The rest of the band followed suit, feet thundering in unison like a summoning drum, ushering her into the music.

Then, her voice—rich, raw, and velvet-smooth—cut through the air.

"Ooh, ooh Mm-hm, mm-hm Mm-hm, mm-hm Oh, pale moon rising over the pines, come Lawd away until the sun does rise Leave the day by the, by the door, I don't Care if sun don't shine once more, that's what I said"

A current surged through the lounge. Even Smoke, usually the embodiment of cool restraint, found his fingers tapping against his glass, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin. The crowd came alive—feet stomping, hands clapping, the rhythm infecting every corner of the space.

As Pearline’s hips swayed and her voice soared, she stepped down from the stage gracefully, weaving through the crowd. She didn’t just perform—she shared the song. Women stood to join her, drawn into the spell she cast. Mary was on her feet first, dragging Annie with her as laughter bubbled from both of them.

“Y’all better move!” Mary yelled over the music, her curls bouncing as she hyped Pearline up.

Annie laughed, joining in the stomps and claps, her red dress hugging her curves with every twist and sway. Pearline moved between them, harmonizing with two background singers as the lyrics rang out.

"Ain't no love in the heat of the sun Keep on workin' 'til the dollar's won From the crow of the rooster to the morning dove Sing my song when the day is done"

The final note lingered in the air, followed by an eruption of applause, whistles, and the low hum of delighted conversation.

“Girl, you did that!” Annie praised breathlessly, grabbing Pearline’s hand in a high five, her eyes shining with pride. She felt like a proud big sister watching her shine.

Pearline beamed, her smile radiant as she glided back up to the stage and gently returned the mic to its stand. Sammie stepped forward, looping an arm around her waist.

“Give it up again for my baby y’all!” His voice boomed with pride, deep and smooth. The room answered in cheers as the couple shared a soft, lingering kiss, earning more whistles and playful teasing from the crowd.

Pearline swayed back toward the girls, her energy still electric, while Sammie stayed center stage.

“So clearly,” he said with a chuckle, “this place is named after the woman I love.” He looked across the room at Pearline, his eyes softening. “Seems only right, considerin’ the only thing I love almost as much as her is music.”

More “awws” and whistles followed, and he winked before continuing. “I gotta thank her, Annie, and Mary for their unwavering encouragement and partnership. And last but certainly not least—my cousins Smoke and Stack. They more like my brothers, and I wouldn’t wanna build this place with anybody else.” His gaze landed on each of them, voice thick with emotion. “Don’t know where I’d be without their guidance, love, and support.”

The ladies blew him kisses while the twins lifted their glasses in salute, proud and still grinning.

Sammie chuckled. “Ya see, we come from a lil ol' town in Mississippi named Clarksdale. Back home they call me Preacher Boy, on account of my daddy bein’ a man of the cloth.”

Laughter rippled through the audience.

“He used to say if I kept dancin’ with the devil, meanin’ the blues, one day he’d follow me home.” He paused, eyes glinting with mischief. “But far as I can tell, all blues ever brought me was freedom.”

He slung his guitar over his torso, adjusting the strap as the room grew still with anticipation.

“So this one’s for my daddy. Hope y’all like it.”

He plucked the strings with soulful ease, the guitar crying out in rich, aching notes.

“Somethin' I been wantin’ to tell ya for a long time... It might hurt you, hope you don’t lose your mind..."

The band joined him, stomping their feet once more, pulling everyone into the rhythm of his truth.

"Well, I was just a boy, ‘bout eight years old You threw me a Bible on that Mississippi road See, I love ya, Papa, you did all you could do They say the truth hurts, so I lie to you Yes, I lied to you I love the blues…”

Sammie’s voice poured out like honey over gravel—rich, aching, and smooth. It wrapped around the room and didn’t let go. The men nodded in quiet agreement with the beat, their expressions solemn and knowing. The women, drawn in by the slow pull of the music, swayed their hips seductively to the beat.

Annie felt Smoke’s stare heavy on her backside, his gaze smoldering. She didn’t need to turn to know Stack was doing the same to Mary, who twirled a lock of hair between her fingers and grinned to herself.

“Mm-mm Ohohoh, mm-mm Hey! Somebody take me in your arms tonight, well alright”

The crowd whooped and clapped as Sammie hit a powerful high note with effortless control. An older gentleman, known to most as Delta Slim, took his place at the keys. With fingers smooth as silk and sharp as razors, he played like the piano owed him money. He was family—more uncle than friend to the twins—and his presence alone raised the soul of the room.

“Sang, baby!” Pearline called out proudly from the sidelines, hands cupped around her mouth.

"Somebody take me in your arms tonight”

“Wheeew, boy! We ’bout to make us some money!” Stack hollered, his deep laugh booming as Smoke shook his head, chuckling low beside him.

“I hope you can stand it, stand it all ‘Cause what I’m out here doin’, you didn’t preach at all See, I’m full of the blues, holy water too I know the truth hurts, so I lie to you So preach on, speak your words I know the truth hurts Yes, I lied to you I love the blues I love the blues...”

As the song moved into its final stretch, Sammie stepped closer to the edge of the stage, lifting his hand to direct the audience.

“Sing with me now…”

The crowd followed eagerly, humming and swaying, the entire room moving like one being.

“Mm-hmm Mm-hmm Mm-hmm Yeah, yeah, yeah Hey, hey, oh Mm-hmm I know the truth hurts Hey Lied to you Somebody take me in your arms!”

The crescendo hit like a wave, his voice crashing through the air with such force it felt as if the very windows would burst. Plates vibrated, silverware tingled, and hearts pounded in unison with the beat. Applause exploded before the final note had even fully landed.

Annie blinked back tears that welled in her eyes as chills ran up her spine—not of sadness, not even pride. It felt ancestral. Like spirits of their kin had gathered in joy, hands clapping and feet stomping with them. She quickly dabbed her eyes and clapped, joining in the thunderous standing ovation as Pearline’s heels clicked fast across the floor, arms flung wide to embrace her man.

“I knew Lil Sammie could sing,” Mary hollered over the music as the band struck up a light, jazzy number. “But I ain’t never heard nothin’ like that before.”

“Me neither,” Annie laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. “Now I see why Smoke kept his mouth shut. That was the best-kept secret, that’s for sure.”

They giggled and clasped hands, spinning each other on the dancefloor like carefree girls in love with life. Laughter spilled between them, joined by the warmth of good company and good food.

But just as they slowed their pace, Mary’s smile dropped, her eyes narrowing at a figure near their table.

“Now I know she sees that ring on his finger,” she said, annoyance evident in her tone.

Annie followed her gaze. A woman with legs too long and a dress too short stood much too close to the twins. Stack was leaning back, twirling a toothpick at the corner of his mouth with a smirk. Smoke, stoic as ever, puffed slowly on a cigar, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

Annie’s brow arched. “Mmm,” she hummed before strutting toward them, Mary on her heels.

“You boys twins?” the woman asked, her voice syrupy and too sweet. Smoke nearly rolled his eyes while Stack let out a soft chuckle, amused.

“Nah,” Stack answered dryly, his smile slow and sly. “We cousins.”

The woman giggled, clearly unfazed. “That was silly of me. Of course y’all twins. Fine ones at that.”

Annie nearly scoffed aloud but caught herself.

Girl, you tried it.

“They sure are,” Annie chimed in smoothly, stepping in with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Mary cozied up to Stack, his arm slipping naturally around her shoulders. Annie’s eyes locked with Smoke’s. He raised the cigar to his lips again, but she took his hand, guiding it—and the cigar—toward her mouth. Her crimson lips wrapped around the tip briefly, pulling a slow drag before blowing a stream of smoke in soft rings toward the ceiling.

His eyes darkened, the tension between them crackling like static.

“Hi, baby doll,” he murmured, enthralled. His gold open-face caps glistened under the warm lighting against his teeth.

“Hi, daddy,” she purred back, voice velvet and warm. “Who’s this?”

Smoke barely glanced at the woman. “Oh... uh. What was your name again?” he asked absently, like someone trying to remember what they had for breakfast.

“It’s April,” she snapped, her smile faltering with the realization that she was now completely ignored.

At that moment, Sammie and Pearline reappeared near the front of the stage, preparing to begin a duet.

“Well, April,” Smoke said casually, still not looking at her, “if you’ll excuse us, we’re gonna go dance with our beautiful wives. Have a good night.”

And just like that, he guided Annie toward the dancefloor, Stack following suit with Mary, leaving April dumbfounded in their wake.

Annie’s heart swelled as she rested against him, her heart full.

Wife.

The word echoed sweetly in her ears. She gazed up at his face, lost in him, eyes wide and full of love, the way a woman looks at a man who makes her feel like she’s the only thing that matters in the world. That's exactly how he made her feel everyday.

She never placed marriage on a pedestal—refused to, really, in defiance of the conditioning women had been fed since birth. But with a man like Smoke—a man who respected her, saw her, and always moved with her best interests in mind—marriage didn’t feel like some risky fairytale. With him, it felt natural. Like breathing.

Pearline and Sammie began singing a cover of Fire We Make by Alicia Keys and Maxwell—sultry, smooth, and perfectly tailored to their voices. The chandeliers above dimmed and shifted into a seductive crimson hue, bathing the room in heat and longing. The air felt thick with it.

Smoke pulled Annie flush against him in the center of the dancefloor, his arms wrapped tight and possessive around her waist as they began to sway in sync with the rhythm.

"Hey baby how you doing tonight I wanna let you know, I wanna tell just how I feel Don't wanna love you baby and it's going so right I wanna burn a candle, turn the darkness to the light With the fire we make, it's getting hotter and hotter"

Their eyes stayed locked, unblinking. The lyrics weren’t just music—they were confessions they both had yet to communicate. Annie’s stare was full of hunger and heat, but also anchored in something deeper. Love. Safety. Want. It stirred something primal in him.

Smoke’s brow quirked, and he leaned in, his voice low, rough velvet against her ear. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, cousin and Pearl won’t be the only ones givin’ a show.”

Annie bit her lip, pelvis tightening at the wicked thought of the kind of show he meant. “Just thinkin’.”

"Hi baby, wont you tell me the truth You wanna be the one, you can't stay away Hey darling, don't you mean no excuse We can chase this on, and burn the hole inside you From the fire we make it's getting hotter and hotter Like a moth to a flame, I can't stay away With the fire we make it's getting higher and higher Like the night to the day I can't stay, I can't stay away"

“’Bout what?” he asked, eyes scanning her face like he already knew.

He reached up and gently untangled the gold earring dancing against her jaw, his fingers trailing the delicate curve of her neck. She shivered.

“Wife,” Annie said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

His own smile mirrored hers as he smoothed a tendril of hair back behind her ear, then traced her cheekbone with his thumb like a man memorizing scripture.

"This abyss of the world and it takes us to the stars It's getting higher and higher It's the fire we make it's the fire we make Getting sweeter and sweeter Like a night to a day I can't stay away, say is, no no"

“I’m not takin’ this second chance with you for granted,” he said, voice low but steady. His eyes locked onto hers with devotion. “Those years without you? They felt hollow. Nobody’s ever seen me the way you do. And I’ve never tried to understand anybody the way I try to understand you. I spent that time fuckin’ up, learnin’ from it, becomin' the man I always wanted to be... the man I wish my father had been.”

His grip on her waist tightened slightly, grounding himself in her. “It all led me back to you. I ain’t sayin’ we gotta rush... but I know what I want and that's to be your husband.”

Her breath hitched, tears gathering in her eyes. Every word burrowed into her soul and settled there. “I want that too,” she said, barely above a whisper. “On one condition.”

He smirked. “What’s that?”

“I’m hyphenating my last name. It’s a piece of Mama I’m never giving up.”

Smoke nodded without hesitation. “Of course. But don’t think I’m proposin’ to you in the middle of this lounge,” he said with a grin, brushing his lips across her forehead. “When I do, you’ll know it. And you won’t be sharin’ that day with anyone or anything but me.”

He turned her in his arms, pressing her back against his chest. She relaxed into him, eyes fluttering shut as his lips found the crook of her neck and shoulder. The brush of his beard against her skin sent a shiver down her spine.

"I wanna tell you, I wanna love you, I just wanna stay with you I can't be done, just can't stay away, I wanna make so much fire with you Baby I wanna go, gonna go, to you darlin' Yeah yeah"

The crowd erupted into applause as the song ended, but Annie and Smoke didn’t even notice. They were still moving, still caught in each other’s pull like gravity.

Smoke gently cupped her jaw, guiding her gaze up to meet his. “I love you... so much.”

“I love you too,” she said, eyes dropping to his lips. And before either of them could say another word, she kissed him—deep and hungry, lipstick be damned.

A low grunt rumbled from Smoke’s lips as he kissed her back with just as much fire. His arousal pressed hard against her ass, thick and undeniable, making her moan softly into his mouth. It felt like they were the only two people in the room—like time had slowed and spun around just them. But as much as he wanted to take her right then and there, the thought of anyone else laying eyes on her in that state made his jaw tighten.

He slowly pulled back from her, reluctant but determined. Before she could even ask, he was already taking her hand, leading her upstairs with purposeful strides into a sleek, modern office space. She barely had time to admire the clean lines and dark wood finish before his strong hands cupped her breasts through her dress, massaging them with hunger. The seat of her thong was soaked with need, her arousal only heightening under his touch.

There was no more saving it for later. Later was now—and the urgency of it, the risk of being heard or even caught, sent a fresh thrill down her spine. The music from the band downstairs would likely cover any sounds, but the chance someone might hear? That alone made her wetter.

She gasped when her breasts were suddenly bare, cool air kissing her sensitive skin. Smoke had undone the bow at the nape of her neck without her even noticing. Her back arched involuntarily as his fingers worked her nipples, rubbing and twirling them until they stood firm, aching for more.

“Can daddy have his pussy now, sweetheart?” he murmured low and thick in her ear, voice coated in lust. “You been temptin’ me all night.”

A breathy moan escaped her. “Yes,” she answered, voice laced with anticipation. Then, with a teasing smirk, “But I thought you said you were puttin’ these pretty lips to work. Had a change of heart?”

That made him pause. A glint sparked in his eyes.

Without a word, he stepped away, walking toward the glossy black office desk. Still holding her gaze, he peeled off his suit jacket and draped it neatly over the back of the leather chair. Then, without breaking eye contact, he undid the buttons of his shirt with quick, precise flicks, metal clinking as he unfastened his belt next. A swift unzip of his slacks and shift of his boxers later, his thick, long dick was in his hand, slowly being stroked with deliberate rhythm.

Annie’s mouth parted slightly, damn near drooling at the sight.

“Thank you for remindin’ me,” he said, voice low and smooth like molasses. He curled his finger at her, beckoning. “Now… come over here so I can do just that.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice. Annie strutted toward him, eyes locked on his thick length. As she stepped between his legs, his hand reached up, fingers wrapping gently around the front of her neck to pull her into a ravenous kiss. Their mouths moved together in feverish hunger, moans exchanged as their tongues danced and tangled. Her left hand braced against his thigh while the right traveled up to his dick, fingers wrapping around it and stroking with slow, twisting motions.

Smoke grunted at the contact, eyes fluttering shut briefly before he released her neck to let her work. She loved this—pleasing him, taking care of him. The act was intimate, powerful, grounding. Just like him, she’d go to the ends of the earth to make the other smile, to bring peace, pleasure, joy. It was always mutual—physical, emotional, soul-deep.

Red lipstick prints marked a sensual trail down his muscular torso as she lowered herself to her knees. The layers of her dress fanned out around her, giving her just enough cushion. Her hand kept stroking his shaft while her lips wrapped around the swollen head, delivering slow, savoring sucks. His head fell back, bottom lip caught between his teeth, breath short and sharp.

Annie moaned as she sucked him deeper, her hands now splayed against his strong thighs. Smoke’s hand slid to the back of her head, fingers splayed as their eyes met once more.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he muttered, voice hoarse, hips subtly rocking in rhythm with the sultry number the band played downstairs. He began thrusting into her mouth, slow but deliberate. Pleased with the praise, Annie moaned again, the sound vibrating down his shaft. She relaxed her throat, letting him hit the back as she matched his pace, one hand sliding to gently cup and massage his balls.

Smoke let out a low, guttural groan. “Fuck… mmm. You want daddy to cum in that pretty mouth? Hm, baby doll?”

“Mhm,” she purred, his length muffling her voice.

Wet smacks and slick suction sounds filled the office as she devoured him like a woman on a mission. Her saliva spilled down her chin, dripping between her breasts. An idea sparked in her head.

His shaft throbbed against her tongue as his climax neared, and just before it hit, Annie pulled back with a sultry gleam in her eye. Rising onto her knees, she cupped her full breasts and sandwiched his slick shaft between them. Pressing them tightly around him, she glided them up and down his length.

Smoke hissed through his teeth. “Shit…”

She knew how much he adored her breasts—touching them, sucking them, burying his face in them—but this? This was new. And her boldness wrapped around his restraint and yanked.

“Fuck, girl…” he muttered, jaw tight as his hips began to thrust, titty-fucking her with increasing urgency. He slipped his thumb between her lips and she sucked it without hesitation, eyes locked on his like a challenge.

Then with a groan, his release hit—warm ropes of cum coating her chest as he growled, “Oooh, such a good fuckin’ girl.”

His thumb slipped from her lips with a soft pop, then wiped the spit trailing down her chin. He cupped her jaw, pulling her into a deep, possessive kiss. Their mouths melded in a passionate exchange before his hands dropped to her waist, gripping firmly as he maneuvered their bodies to switch places with practiced ease.

Now with Annie’s back to him, Smoke didn’t waste a second. He yanked her thong down with urgency, bunching her dress around her waist. Her breath hitched as cool air kissed her exposed skin, followed by the warm press of his fingers against her slick folds. Her moans spilled out instantly.

Meanwhile, Annie swiped two fingers through his cum on her chest, trailing it to her nipples and circling them teasingly, adding another layer of stimulation.

“Mmm... wet ass pussy,” he murmured against her ear, voice low and raspy as his hand slid up to gently grip her throat. “She needs me, doesn’t she, baby?” he asked before slipping two fingers inside her, deep and deliberate.

She whimpered, her knees nearly buckling as her eyes fluttered shut. “Oh fuck... yes, daddy. Please,” she begged, voice trembling.

Smoke pressed soft, adoring kisses to her cheek, her jaw, the length of her neck—watching her every expression. He was under her spell. Watching her unravel was his favorite part of making love to her. It never lost its thrill, and he knew he wanted to watch her come undone like this for the rest of his life.

“There’s somethin’ I need from you first,” he said with a smirk in his voice.

Before she could ask, his fingers began pumping her harder, faster—precise strokes against her spongy g-spot while his palm repeatedly brushed against her clit. The sudden intensity ripped a high-pitched squeal from her.

She knew exactly what he wanted.

And she didn’t fight it.

Because what daddy wants, he gets.

Her orgasm tore through her like lightning, thighs shaking as her release splashed onto his hand and down her legs, wetting the hardwood beneath them in a small puddle. Her hands slammed onto the desk to keep her balance. Had it not been for the band playing below, their guests would’ve easily heard the symphony of moans and cries raining down from the second floor.

Annie whimpered and shuddered as the aftershocks seized her body. “Hmmmm, shit!”

Smoke’s low, satisfied chuckle rumbled against her ear. “Good girl,” he praised, gently stroking her sensitive pussy, helping her glide back down from the high he'd so expertly pulled from her.

Once she had calmed down, delicate kisses trailed up the top of her back to the base of her neck. A shiver rolled through her as she felt the thick, bulbous head of Smoke’s dick gliding teasingly through her slick folds, gathering her wetness but not yet entering her.

Before she could beg him to fuck her, his grip tightened—right hand clamping down on her shoulder while the left took hold of her waist. With one powerful pull, he guided her back onto his shaft as she bent forward.

She hissed through her teeth in pleasure. “Oooh, yes, baby,” she moaned, long and needy, her eyes rolling back before fluttering shut. Every girthy inch of him filled her slowly, every ridge of his shaft dragging against her aching walls with maddening precision.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, watching as his dick disappeared into her, coated in her arousal. The wet clap of their bodies meeting echoed off the walls as his pace quickened. Their moans wove together, rising and falling like a sensual melody, each thrust drawing them deeper into a euphoric haze. But it still wasn’t enough. No amount of her ever was. Annie always left Smoke hungry for more—starving even.

He gripped her right leg and lifted it, bracing her knee on the edge of the desk. The position made her spread wider, fully open, utterly his. He drove into her harder, deeper, fucking her like he couldn’t get close enough.

The sound of her moans, the rhythm of their breathing, the heat between them—it all built into something wild and consuming.

“Mhm, that’s it. Gimme this pussy,” he grunted, landing a sharp smack on her ass. Her walls pulsed around him, gripping him tight as creamy white arousal gathered at the base of his dick.

“Yessss, cream on it,” he groaned with another slap. “Show me how much you love this dick, baby.”

Annie whined, her breath catching with each relentless thrust. His deep strokes and filthy praise had her unraveling, the ache between her thighs twisting tighter and tighter.

“Da-Daddy… uunh!” she whimpered.

“I got you, baby. Give it to me,” he urged, voice low and commanding. She couldn’t deny him if she tried.

“Elijah…” she gasped, her nudey pink nails clawing at the desk for leverage, trying to ground herself.

He leaned down, tongue dragging up the sheen of sweat along her spine to the nape of her neck before planting a kiss there.

“That’s right,” he growled against her skin. “Tell them who you belong to.”

His name poured from her lips like a prayer as she shattered—body trembling, pussy quivering around him in a tight, uncontrollable climax. Her orgasm consumed her, every nerve lit and raw, her voice caught between sobbing moans and broken cries.

Smoke’s restraint crumbled. He bit his bottom lip hard, fighting his own release as he continued to pound into her. But he needed more.

Suddenly, he pulled out and swiftly turned her over, laying her flat on her back. His hands pushed her thighs up and back, opening her wide again.

“Just one more, baby,” he murmured, slipping back inside her like he never left.

Her cries floated up to the ceiling—soft, wrecked, overwhelmed. She hadn’t even started to recover, and already he was digging for that spot that made her scream. One hand clutched the back of her thigh, the other gripped his forearm like an anchor.

Her eyes clamped shut just as his fingers found her clit, strumming it in time with his strokes.

That was it. The fire between them exploded into an earth-shattering orgasm.

“Fuck, Annie,” he groaned with one final, powerful thrust as he emptied himself deep inside her. Their moans tangled together in a raw, perfect duet.

Breathless, he collapsed forward, capturing her mouth in a slow, loving kiss. His fingers brushed the damp tendrils of hair from her flushed face, reverent even in the afterglow.

After a few more kisses, Annie felt the absence of his warmth. The soft click of the office bathroom door let her know where he’d gone, but she hadn’t yet summoned the strength to lift even one eyelid. Her body still hummed, boneless and spent.

Minutes passed, then her hips jerked slightly at the sudden warm pressure between her thighs.

“Shhh, baby,” Smoke soothed, crouched between her legs with a damp cloth. She whimpered quietly, still tender, still sensitive. He moved with care, wiping her down with featherlight precision.

A second cloth followed, warm and wet, this time dabbing the sticky mess from her chest with the same patience. She swore she could feel the pride in his touch—like he was handling something sacred.

When he finished, his hands enveloped hers and gently pulled her upright. He kissed her—slow, soft, and lingering.

“I promise I’ll put you to sleep when we get home,” he murmured against her lips. “Now, go pee. I’ll grab your bag.”

And with that, he turned and slipped out, quietly closing the door behind him. Somewhere in the haze, she realized he’d already redressed.

She sighed deeply, letting the moment sink in, before finally peeling her eyes open and rising to her feet. Moving gingerly, she made her way to the bathroom.

After flushing the toilet, she washed her hands and paused to study her reflection.

Messy lipstick? Check.

Tousled hair? Check.

Thoroughly fucked and utterly in love?

Check. And check.

A giggle bubbled up from her chest. Smoke made her feel so damn free—unapologetically herself. She used to think she could never do something this bold, this wild, in public. But with him? She felt protected. Cherished. Unleashed.

As she reached for the straps of her dress, the door opened. Smoke reappeared with her purse in hand, setting it gently on the marble counter.

“Let me,” he offered, stepping behind her.

She let go of the fabric and he took over, retying the straps into a secure bow at the back of her neck, adjusting it until her breasts sat right. Then his arms wrapped around her middle and his chin rested on her shoulder, eyes locked on her reflection while she touched up her makeup.

She giggled, tossing him a playful kiss in the mirror. He smiled, slow and genuine, his thumb brushing across her hip absentmindedly.

A few moments later, she gave herself one final once-over and turned to him. “Good?”

“Perfect,” he replied without hesitation.

He took her hand, fingers laced, and led her back downstairs.

As they reached their table, Sammie and Pearline were seated, happily indulging in a new round of small plates. Across from them sat Stack and Mary, looking equally satisfied.

“Y’all make me an uncle while y’all were gone?” Stack asked with his signature slick smirk.

A round of muffled laughter and exchanged glances swept through the table.

Smoke turned to his twin, one brow arched high. “Aye, Mary,” he called, eyes still on Stack.

“Yes, brother?” she answered cautiously, already sensing the trap as she glanced between them.

“How’s that storage closet ceilin' holdin’ up?” he asked, wearing a near-identical smirk.

"Oop," Pearline squeaked under her breath.

Mary gasped, hand flying to her mouth as the memory of her recent midday quickie with Stack hit her like a runaway train.

“Oh, you playin’ dirty now,” Stack said, chuckling and shaking his head.

“Checkmate, lil’ brother,” Smoke replied coolly, and the whole table erupted in laughter.

The night flowed on in easy rhythm—full of laughter, good conversation, and the low hum of live music. Annie and Smoke stayed close, attached at the hip. He kept his promise when they returned home, rocking her to sleep in every way he knew how.

And just before sleep claimed him, his thoughts drifted to the little black velvet box hidden in the back corner of his walk-in closet.

To be continued...

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Is that wedding bells I hear? I hope y'all loved this as much as I loved writing it. I had the Sinners soundtrack playing as I got lost in this. I HAVE to go see it again. Glad I saw it in IMAX first. Feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you think. I love hearing from you guys. xoxo

𝄞₊ ⊹₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ˚₊⊹ ₊𝄞━━⊱⋆⊰━━𝄞₊ ⊹₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ˚₊⊹ ₊𝄞

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