#ghosting thoughts 💌 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckysleftbicep · 5 days ago

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what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope)

warnings: loads, like mountains of fluff, soft!bucky, some angst, bucky in an apron, team shenanigans

summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

word count: 6.1k (i couldn't help myself 🥹)

author's note: hi loves! i am in the middle of my vacation and i had this written during my layover, and i just couldn't wait to let you guys read it, so here it is! i hope you'll love it as much as i do! love ya and stay safe out there! 💌

The first time Bucky thought of proposing to you, you were asleep on his chest, and the world was still.

The sun filtered softly through gauzy curtains, turning the room to gold, that liminal hush between dawn and morning, when the world had yet to stir.

The compound was silent. Peaceful. A rare luxury. And in the center of it all was you, curled in the tangle of Bucky’s arms, your face pressed to his chest, your breath warm and even against the fabric of his shirt.

One of your hands was fisted there, right over his heart, like you’d been afraid he might drift away in the night and needed something to anchor you. As if your body, even in sleep, refused to let him go.

He didn’t mind. He never minded. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d never move from this moment at all. He could stay like this forever. And maybe, for once, he actually believed he deserved to.

Alpine lay nestled between your legs, a puddle of white fur with her chin resting lazily on your calf. She let out a soft mewl, stretching languidly, paws reaching toward the warm patch of sunlight spilling across the bed before curling tighter into the cradle you made for her.

Bucky watched her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then looked back down at you, the way your lashes flickered in dreams, the way your lips parted with each slow breath, your features soft and at peace in the golden quiet.

There was a kind of stillness in the air that made everything feel sacred. Like nothing bad could touch the room you shared. Like the outside world, the violence, the ghosts, the endless fight didn’t exist here.

Just you. Just him. Just this.

And his heart ached a little with the weight of it, of how far he’d come, of how long it had taken to get here. To something this gentle. This good.

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

The first time Bucky saw you, he had been standing at the far end of the airport carpark in Berlin, still learning how to breathe in spaces that weren’t cages.

Still unsure of who he was supposed to be outside the Soldier. Still half-listening, half-drifting.

Steve had brought you in, voice warm, saying you’d be helping with strategy and tech coordination for the joint ops.

There had been a familiarity in how he spoke to you, like you were someone he already trusted. That alone had caught Bucky’s attention.

And then… then you walked in beside him.

Wearing jeans and a simple button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in some easy style like you hadn’t even put much thought into it.

You had a notebook in one hand, and your eyes were wide, bright. Like you hadn’t yet learned to keep your guard up in this line of work. Like the job hadn’t bled the softness out of you.

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

Not out of rudeness—not really. But because you’d laughed. Full-bodied and unfiltered.

Scott had said something dumb—some half-witted quip about old men and bluetooth—and you had tipped your head back, laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week.

The sound of it went straight through him.

It didn’t just catch his attention. It wrecked him, a little. That laugh landed somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t even realised was still raw. And for the first time in a long time, something in him stirred. Something slow and silent and stupidly hopeful.

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you’d said, your voice warm, effortless and kind. The kind of voice that made people feel safe. The kind of voice that felt like a hand resting lightly on a wound.

“You must be Bucky.”

He hadn’t said a word at first. Couldn’t. His brain had short-circuited under the weight of your gaze and the gentle curl of your mouth. His pulse roared in his ears like it did in combat zones—sharp, hot, all-consuming.

But then, somehow, he managed a smile. A real one. Small. Tentative. But genuine. And when he took your hand in his, shaking it carefully, cautiously, something in his chest locked into place.

He remembered how soft your skin had felt against his calloused fingers. How you hadn’t flinched at the sight of the metal. How your touch had lingered just long enough.

You didn’t seem put off by his silence. You’d just nodded, eyes full of something unspoken, and walked off with Wanda, the two of you giggling about something he couldn’t hear. Just like that, you were gone. But the space you left behind stayed.

That’s when Sam had sidled up beside him, elbowing him just hard enough to knock him out of his daze.

“You know if you keep staring, it’s gonna get reak creepy,” he said, smirking.

Bucky had scowled at him. Sam had just grinned wider, all smug and knowing, before turning back.

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

Because something had shifted. A compass needle inside him, snapping north.

And from that moment on, he’d been tilting toward you.

Now, as he looked down at you all these years later—your lashes fluttering in dreams, your nose scrunching as Alpine adjusted herself—the same flutter stirred in his chest. The same ache, the same quiet kind of awe.

The kind of wonder a man feels when he realises he’s been given the one thing he never dared to ask for.

You shifted in your sleep, barely a breath of movement, but your hand remained curled tight in his shirt, right over his heart.

A reflex, even now. And Bucky let his vibranium fingers trace along your spine, the weight of them light, slow, gentle. Careful not to wake you. He wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

That’s when he thought about the ring.

The one you’d pretended not to look at in the window of that little shop in town last week, red velvet box, delicate curve of diamonds catching the light.

You’d been with Yelena and Bob, arms full of coffee cups and teasing each other about something John had said.

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

He’d noticed it. The way your gaze had lingered. The way your fingers shifted slightly on the cup, like you were reaching for something you wouldn’t admit to wanting. The way your smile curved at the corners, quiet and wistful, like a secret you didn’t plan on sharing.

He saw it and tucked it away.

And now, with you asleep in his arms, your heartbeat matching his, the sun painting gold into your skin, Alpine’s fur warming your legs and that familiar weight of your hand pressed into his chest—he made the decision he’d been dancing around for weeks.

He was going to buy it.

Because this—this lazy Sunday morning with your body draped over his, your love stitched into the silence—this was it.

This was forever.

The second time Bucky thought of proposing, the kitchen had smelled like toast and sunlight.

It was late morning when he found you in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, hips swaying to the distant echo of Taylor Swift playing from a speaker;

The track was barely audible—warbled through the walls, a little staticky at the edges, but you didn’t seem to care.

You moved with it anyway, letting the music carry you from one counter to the next like it had been written for this exact moment—lazy, sun-warmed, still wrapped in the quiet of sleep.

You were wearing his shirt—that old red henley he loved and you’d stolen without apology—sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh and clinging in places where the steam from the kettle had warmed the air.

Your hair was still mussed from sleep, strands curling at your temples, and one sock was scrunched halfway down your ankle like you’d forgotten to pull it all the way on.

You held a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, lips parted, eyes closed, your voice rising with the chorus as you spun in a loose, lazy circle in front of the stove.

You were completely at ease. Utterly unbothered. Just lost in the song and the morning and the rhythm of your own joy.

Sunlight streamed in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and lighting you up like something out of a dream.

You looked like every warm Sunday morning he’d ever wanted, the kind of morning he didn’t believe he’d ever actually get.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching the way your feet padded across the tile, how your hips swayed, how you bobbed your head to the beat like no one was watching—because you didn’t think anyone was.

And maybe he should’ve said something—greeted you, teased you, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, caught somewhere behind the knot that had formed in his chest. Because there was something about you like this that undid him.

Completely.

You were radiant in a way he didn’t think you realised. The kind of radiant that came from joy—unfiltered, unguarded. The kind that wasn’t curated or calculated or polished for the world.

The kind of beauty that only existed in the in-between spaces—in the stretch of a yawn, in a wooden spoon masquerading as a microphone, in the way your laugh cracked when you hit the high notes wrong.

And god, he thought, watching the sway of your hips, the grin playing at your lips, this is home.

You.

You were home.

He thought about the way you’d slowly, gently introduced him to pop culture like it was your personal mission to drag him into the 21st century.

The curated playlists you made, some with real titles and others labeled “Bucky’s Soft Bitch Era” just to get a rise out of him. The back-to-back movie nights where you made him swear, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t fall asleep during The Notebook.

He remembered the first time he said TokTok by accident and you’d nearly fallen off the couch laughing, giggling so hard you landed half in his lap.

He’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about the whole app being made by “brain rot,” a term you taught him. but you’d refused to correct him, smirking every time he repeated it wrong.

You’d made it all so effortless. The joy.

He hadn’t known it was happening—not at first. Not until it was already too late to stop. Until you were part of everything. His mornings, his evenings, the space between missions, the quiet between nightmares. The laughter between breaths.

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

He smiled to himself, one hand curling loosely around the coffee mug, now half-cold in his grip.

You were singing now, his shirt shifted with every movement, slipping just slightly off one shoulder. The sight of it—your bare skin against his worn cotton, the easy claim of it—made his stomach twist.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

But the thought still rooted deep in his chest and bloomed like something inevitable.

I want to come home to this for the rest of my life.

He could see it, so vividly it ached. This kitchen, your voice, that damn wooden spoon. The rest of your lives written in sunlight and bad karaoke, laughter and bare feet on tile. He wanted to memorise this, frame it. Carve it into stone so it would never change, never fade.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t just love.

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Because the moment felt too perfect, too suspended in its own little pocket of magic, like one wrong word might startle it, might shatter the stillness and send it fleeing out the window with the breeze.

So he let it be.

Let it unfold in golden quiet, you twirling in his shirt, bathed in sunlight, the world narrowed down to the music and the soft clatter of silverware in the drying rack, the steam rising from your forgotten tea on the counter.

And Bucky stood there, still and quiet and entirely undone, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and the sharp, aching certainty that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, he was going to ask you.

The third time Bucky thought about proposing to you, you were laughing in the golden light, beer in hand, surrounded by people who loved you almost as much as he did.

The sky had started to turn.

That soft stretch between afternoon and evening where the sun melted into everything it touched, bathing the world in a low, amber haze. The backyard was warm with the glow of it—fairy lights strung lazily along the rails of the compound’s rooftop.

Smoke curled up from the grill, rich and familiar, while laughter rippled across the patio like music. Somewhere in the corner, Bob’s speaker hummed with old rock music and the occasional burst of static.

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

That soft, breathless kind of laughter that tugged at the corners of Bucky’s mouth every damn time he heard it. Like some part of him lit up in response—quiet and instinctive, like your joy flipped a switch inside him that nothing else could.

He stood just outside the patio doors, a paper plate in hand—barely touched—but his eyes were on you.

Only you.

You were perched on the arm of John’s chair, elbow resting on his shoulder like it was second nature, beer bottle tilted carelessly in your hand. John was mid-sentence, half-defending himself from whatever teasing you were throwing at him, and you were clearly winning.

Your smile was crooked, mischievous. Familiar. The same one you always wore when you knew you were about to land a joke that would ruin someone’s ego for the rest of the week.

“You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you,” you said, clinking your bottle against his in mock sympathy, your tone soaked in smug satisfaction.

John groaned dramatically. “Please. I’m hilarious.”

Yelena snorted from the grill without even looking up. “You are a tragedy.”

Bob raised his hand like he was in a courtroom. “She’s not wrong.”

“You people have no taste,” John muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, jabbing a fork in his direction with finality. “He’s lost all credibility.”

Over by the cooler, Alexei was deep in what could only be described as a passionate retelling of something that definitely hadn’t happened—this time about his red guardian days and a hand-to-paw brawl with some Siberian bear.

He waved his arms dramatically, chest puffed out, his voice rising with each sentence like a man delivering a one-man play.

Ava had tuned him out completely, scrolling through her phone with surgical focus and only humming in vague acknowledgment whenever he shouted the word “bear” a little too loud.

It was chaotic, the kind of mess Bucky never would’ve imagined himself a part of—let alone something he could belong to.

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

The way you leaned into the warmth of the moment, head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges like sun lines. The way you had this unspoken ease with the people around you—even the ones who hadn’t always been easy to love.

You fit into the team not like glue, but gravity—like you kept everyone tethered without even meaning to.

He shifted, let his free hand drift toward the pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed the small velvet box tucked there.

He remembered the aftermath of what happened in New York, it had been brutal.

For everyone. But especially for John.

No one really knew what to say to him. No one quite knew how to reach him, not after it came out that Olivia had left. That the wife and baby he said was waiting back home had already left months before.

He was splintered.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated.

You’d found John on the compound steps the night he returned, still bloodied and shaking, the seams of his restraint barely holding—and sat beside him.

No grand entrance. No fuss. Just a quiet presence. You didn’t offer him pity or force conversation. You didn’t tell him it would be okay, you didn’t lie.

You had reached over and took his hand.

Held it, steady and solid—while the others kept their distance. It was simply, completely unremarkable on the surface.

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

And Bucky had watched it unfold, breath lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Because that was the thing about you. You never tried to fix anyone, but somehow, you still managed to help them heal.

You were everyone’s lighthouse in the dark, even the ones who pretended they didn’t need one.

Especially them.

It was only a week later when the compound had gone still when Bucky had found himself at the dining table, elbows braced, shoulders tight, knuckles white around the edge of a ceramic mug he wasn’t drinking from.

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing, haunted by something he couldn’t name. The image of what he saw in the void still crawled under his skin—loud in the quiet, vivid behind his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

You padded in barefoot, still warm from sleep, wrapped in his shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your hair was tangled, voice soft and low like you hadn’t used it yet that day.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to.

You just pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and reached for his hand. No preamble. No questions. Just your fingers curling gently around his.

“I’m here, James,” you whispered, voice so quiet he barely caught it. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

And that—that was all it took.

He hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight as the tears came fast and quiet and unexpected.

Your grip never loosened.

And then Bucky blinked, too, like waking from a dream.

The memory dissolved around the edges, softening into the golden blur of now.

You were still laughing with John, chin resting on your hand, your bottle now empty and forgotten.

The sky behind you had turned a dusky pink, streaked with orange and fading blue. The fairy lights blinked overhead like slow, lazy fireflies.

Bucky swallowed hard, throat thick, heart heavy with something he didn’t quite know how to hold. Something fragile and infinite.

The ring burned in his pocket.

Yelena sidled up beside him, two plates balanced in one hand, her eyes trailing the line of his gaze before she leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder against his.

“She’s good for you,” she said simply, like it was fact, like it had always been obvious.

He blinked, pulled his eyes from you long enough to glance at her. She was right.

“I know,” he said softly, mostly to himself, his fingers brushing the velvet box again, like the shape of it grounded him.

Soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stood there in the glow of fairy lights and fading sunlight, and let himself love you in silence.

The fourth time Bucky thought of proposing to you was during that one particular movie night.

The rec room buzzed, the lights were dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls in flickering shapes, and someone had dragged in extra bean bags and pillows from the training room—turning the entire floor into a makeshift nest of mismatched blankets and old couch cushions.

The screen glowed in the dark, casting soft blues and golds onto lazy limbs and half-finished bowls of popcorn.

You were curled beside Bucky on the couch, shoulder pressed into his side, legs tangled loosely beneath a shared blanket.

One of your socks had slipped off sometime during the first act. He didn’t even know when. He just knew your toes were cold when they nudged against his shin—and he hadn’t moved away.

He didn’t think he ever could.

The room smelled like buttered popcorn and worn fabric, like sleep and safety and leftover takeout from the kitchen.

Ava was stretched out across two bean bags with Alpine curled on her stomach. Bob had his head tipped back, already snoring softly, while Yelena and Alexei were still arguing in hushed voices about who cried harder during The Lion King.

It was quiet in a way that only felt possible when you were all together. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just easy.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand beneath the blanket. And then, without thinking, you began to trace the ridges of his knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar. Like muscle memory.

Like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had.

It was your comfort habit. Your way of grounding yourself when the day had been too long or your eyes were growing heavy.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

Bucky watched you as your eyelids fluttered, your face softening in sleep, lips parting slightly with each slow breath. Your lashes twitched like you were dreaming already—and god, you looked peaceful. Completely undone by comfort and warmth.

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

And he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head like it didn’t knock the breath out of him. Like it didn’t make his heart twist with something so fierce and tender he couldn’t look away.

Because this—this stupid little moment, your drool soaking into his shirt and your body heavy against his side—this was it.

This was love.

This was the kind of night that carved itself into your bones without even asking.

The movie ended in the background—soft fade-to-black and swelling music—but Bucky didn’t move. People started shifting. Groaning. Standing.

Bob staggered to his feet, mumbling something about a sugar crash. Alexei wandered off in search of leftovers.

Even Yelena, who usually never missed a chance to call Bucky a “domestic menace,” didn’t say anything this time. She just shot him a look, eyes soft for once, and tugged Bob toward the hallway by the sleeve.

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

Blanket pooled over both your legs. Your body curled into his. One of your hands still loosely wrapped around his.

And Bucky leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I want every night like this,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t even a thought—just something that slipped out, something too true to hold in.

He looked down at you again, the words still blooming on his tongue, soft and certain.

He nearly asked.

Right then.

Nearly reached into his pocket for the ring that had never left his side since he’d bought it. Nearly tilted your chin up, brushed your hair out of your face, and told you he never wanted to do this life without you.

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

And Bucky laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that cracked his chest open a little. He dipped his head, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo, your skin, the safety of you asleep against him.

“Soon, baby,” he whispered, lips against your temple. “I’ll ask you soon.”

And in that quiet, golden stillness, as the credits rolled and your breathing evened out again, Bucky knew he could wait.

Just a little longer.

The fifth time Bucky thought of proposing to you, it was in a hospital ward.

Sokovia had been burning.

The sky was thick with smoke and dust, buildings gutted by fire and shrapnel, streets vibrating beneath their feet as another explosion rocked the earth in the distance.

The air was chaos—civilians screaming, radios crackling, the stench of blood sharp against the tang of ash and diesel.

And through it all, Bucky could still hear your voice in his ear—calm, clear, steady, a tether in the madness as you moved beside him.

“There’s two trapped in the north alley,” you’d said, breathless from the sprint, dirt streaked across your cheek. “I’ve got them Buck, go cover the evac point.”

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

But you were always the brave one. The reckless one when it counted. The one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant pulling someone else out. And before he could stop you, before he could argue, it was already happening.

The shot came out of nowhere—a single, clean crack that split the world in half.

Then motion.

You.

Slamming into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs — all instinct and desperation. The bullet was meant for him, but it found you instead.

The sound it made when it hit you would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

Just a sickening, solid thud, and the look in your eyes, just for a second, before your legs buckled and you collapsed into him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

He hit his knees with you, arms tightening, hands already pressing hard against your chest, where blood was blooming fast. Too fast.

The warmth of it soaked his fingers, thick and terrifying, spilling between them like time slipping away.

His breath stuttered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—both of them slick and red—no line anymore between man and machine, just one desperate body trying to hold another together.

“Nonononono—baby, stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Look at me. Come on, just look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

You were gasping, breath catching on every inhale, body struggling against gravity and pain—but still, somehow, you found his hand. Still curled your blood-slicked fingers into his like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

You tried to smile. You tried. Even as your chest heaved, even as your face paled. You were still trying to make him feel better. Even then.

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

“No—” His voice broke. “No, baby, please. Please—stay with me. Stay.”

He screamed for help, hell he shouted it until his throat tore open.

It wasn’t words anymore. It was a sound. Something raw and helpless, a sound he hadn’t made in years—maybe ever. The comms burst to life in his ear, voices overlapping—Alexei calling coordinates, Ava yelling his name, John barking into his comm and Yelena screaming at Bob to send a medic to your position.

But Bucky heard none of it.

Just the ringing. Just the static in his head. Just the crushing silence of your body going still in his arms.

Blood on his hands, blood on his knees, blood on your lips.

And you weren’t moving.

The hallway outside the operating room was too clean. Too bright and way too quiet.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and Bucky sat slouched against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his suit as he clutched a cup of coffee gone long cold. It had stopped steaming ages ago, untouched, forgotten. He didn’t even remember someone giving it to him.

His front was still damp. His knees stained, his fingers raw from scrubbing your blood off in the sink—not all of it had come out.

Yelena sat nearby, arms folded, her head bowed in a silence she never wore. Bob paced. John stood against the far wall with his arms crossed tight over his chest, unmoving. Nobody had spoken in what felt like hours.

Then the door opened.

And Bucky was on his feet before the surgeon even stepped fully into the hallway.

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

Bucky didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember dropping the cup or pushing past the doctor or the sound of someone calling after him.

He only remembered one thing:

Your name. In his mouth, in his heart. Like prayer.

You had looked so small in the bed.

The hospital sheets were too white against your skin, the steady beep of the monitors barely loud enough to be real.

Your chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket, each breath shallow but steady. Your face was pale, lashes resting against your cheeks, an IV threaded into the back of your hand.

But you were breathing. Alive.

Bucky stood at your bedside, his hands hovering before he let himself reach—let his fingers wrap gently around yours, careful not to jostle the wires and tubes. He brought your hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles like you were made of glass.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God, I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t shape the rest of the words around the tremble in his throat. His eyes stung, vision blurring.

He sat down slowly, legs folding under him, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours.

And there, in the soft hum of hospital machines and the scent of antiseptic and blood and you, he whispered:

“I can’t lose you.”

And in that moment, Bucky knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that he didn’t want a life unless it was with you in it. That love wasn’t a question anymore.

It was you. It had always been you.

The day Bucky proposed to you, it didn’t go as he had hoped.

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

Bucky had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Alpine circling his feet and panic setting in somewhere between how hard can it be? and why is this bread still doughy on the inside?

He had bribed Bob and Yelena with a full month of coffee runs to get you out of the compound—bought himself a few uninterrupted hours. Just enough time to pull together something romantic.

A quiet night with a dinner he made just for the both of you. Something that felt normal—something that felt like home.

You deserved that.

You deserved wine, and music, and a man who tried.

And god, was he trying.

He’d even worn the apron you got him last Christmas—Kiss the Cook (or Else)—tied it on with absolutely no protest, even though he had grumbled when he found it.

The fabric was too pink, the font was too aggressive. You had giggled when you gave it to him and well, he had never actually worn it.

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

The sauce burned—thick and bitter and clingy, turning the pan black and smoky before he could scrape it off."The bread didn’t rise right—not the first, second, or even the third time. Each loaf slumped in the center like it had given up halfway through baking.

Bucky had followed the recipe twice. Nothing worked. The wine bottle tipped when he reached too fast for a spoon. It spilled across the counter, down the cabinet, pooled under the fruit bowl. Then he dropped a fork into the pan of sauce, tried to fish it out and burned his hand. Swore loudly enough that Alpine hissed and darted under the kitchen table like he had somehow betrayed her on a spiritual level.

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

He hit it with a dish towel and muttered threats at it.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And that was before he heard the front door creak open.

His whole body froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide, just as your footsteps reached the edge of the hall—too light to be Bob, too quiet to be Yelena. He knew your walk by now. The soft padding of your soles. The way you always slowed down when your hands were full. The way the silence always shifted when you entered a room.

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

The clock on the oven blinked at him uselessly, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on the apron when you walked into the kitchen.

You stopped short.

Still holding your coat, still glowing faintly from the wind outside and the laughter that hadn’t quite left your face.

And then you saw it.

The smoke, the scorched pan, the puddle of wine dripping a slow trail toward the floor. The half-risen bread like a sad little crater on the counter.

And in the middle of it all—Bucky. In the pink apron. Covered in flour and tomato splatter, clutching a wooden spoon like it might just attack him.

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

Or maybe more like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—big and awkward and helpless, covered in guilt and powdered sugar.

“I—” He swallowed. “I realised I haven’t taken you out on a real date.”

He shifted, the wooden spoon still in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I just… I wanted to make tonight special.”

Your lips twitched.

The kitchen smelled like defeat and oregano. The oven was beeping at nothing. Smoke hung faintly in the air like an accusation. And still, your heart cracked wide open.

You stepped toward him—slowly, gently—and rose onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “I’ve got leftover cereal.”

Your tone was teasing, warm, affectionate in the way only you could be. Forgiving. Soft. Home.

You turned, half-laughing, reaching for the cupboard above the microwave, the one that always held your comfort stash. Granola and that one sugar cereal you swore was for cheat days and ate every Sunday anyway.

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

He watched your hand move in slow motion, watched as your fingers curl around the cupboard door, the hinge creaking faintly.

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

Tucked behind a half-finished bag of granola and an emergency box of toaster waffles sat a small red velvet box. Not fancy or flashy, but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t belong next to cereal.

The kind that meant something. The kind that meant everything.

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

And across the room, Bucky stood frozen, apron crooked, hair still damp from the steam, sauce on his cheek, and absolutely no words left in his mouth.

“I was gonna ask later,” he muttered, voice low, thick with something heavy. “There was a whole thing. Music. Dessert. A ring not hidden behind cereal.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked at him—really looked at him. At the mess behind him. At the pink apron barely clinging to its dignity. At the way he stood there like he still expected the floor to swallow him whole.

And your eyes welled up.

Your smile tugged softly at the corners of your mouth, cracking you wide open like a sunrise.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “But… you didn’t even open it.”

You closed the cupboard gently and turned to face him. A breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh as you stepped forward.

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Bucky crossed the kitchen in three slow steps, reached for your face with both hands like you were made of something precious—fragile and entirely his.

He kissed you like he was carving the moment into memory. Like nothing else existed but the space between your lips and his heart.

Then, wordlessly, he lifted you onto the counter, settling between your legs, hands braced on your thighs like they were the only anchor he needed.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “You have no idea.”

You laughed, watery and real, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer.

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

The bread was half-baked. The wine was staining the grout. The sauce had scorched itself into the pan so deeply it might never come out.

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!! if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my love 💖

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 1 month ago

Note

Logan howlett x reader who’s embarrassed about her facial expressions during the deed so she often pulls pillows over her face or shoves her face into the mattress and Logan gets feed up with it because she always dose it when she finishes so he’s never seen her finishing face

thanks for requesting 💌

OLD HABITS DIE HARD. 18+

logan howlett x fem!reader

wc. 1440 warnings. 18+ only! pinv, general filth, pull out. mdni

⎯ ☆ ⎯

There was a small habit you adapted during your more vulnerable moments in the bedroom, a little self conscious act you found hard to part with. You would often result to a shielding of your face, hiding expressions and minimising your noises like you were ashamed of them.

Originally it was something Logan found endearing, sweet even. But he expected this habit of yours to pass with time, for it to dwindle and eventually disappear with each intimate session you two shared. It was a firm habit of yours that he was eager to alter and change, the thought of only ever seeing a pillow or a bent arm replace your face was starting to rub him the wrong way.

And while he sees your face throughout all hours of the day, he’s never seen your face face. The face of pure unadulterated bliss by the means of him. He needed to see how he made you feel, not just hear your muffled sounds though skin or fabric.

Logan’s eyes cast down as he looks at your lips, gaze quite like he’s assessing you beneath him. He’s close, chest sandwiched firmly to yours, face just mere inches from yours as he hovers a top — weight balanced on a forearm beside you. His other arm slots between either of your stomachs, hand clasped around the base of his cock as he begins to feed himself into you.

He swallows the little gasps you make with every passing inch — the slow, steady sinking of his dick into you knocks the air from your lungs. The hand you have behind his neck trails upwards, fingers beginning to rake through his short dark hair as you bring him further into you, forehead pressing against yours.

He throbs as he stills inside you, the full length of him seizing movement as if to allow you both a moment to simply feel the presence of the other. For you to feel the weight and stretch of his cock and for him to feel the warmth and snug fit of your cunt. He adjusts back over your, both forearms either side as he cages you to the mattress.

“All good, baby?” he gruffs against your lips, voice low and quiet as his mouth ghosts yours.

You hum, head nimbly nodding against his with eyes screwed shut. You breathe heavily against him and begin matching your intakes of air with the slight and ever so faint roll of his hips. Your delicate sighs grow shuddery, each one sounding all the more strained as he starts easing in and out of you.

To him, there was no other sound that could top this. No other sound in the world could even come close to the way you fill his ears. So beautiful, so errotic. So you.

He lifts his head from yours and he looks down to you below, eyes flickering over yours briefly before he rekindles the contact of your mouths. The act an attempt to sweeten you up before he suggests something you may not particularly like to hear.

His kisses trail from your mouth and across the side of your face, lips seering warmth to the patch of skin below your ear. But he cops out and discards his thoughts, not keen on ruining the moment with something that could potentially upset you. And so he repositions himself once more: parting from the close contact of you to sit back on his heels — perching on knees between your parted ones.

His hands trail down your stomach, eyes glued to the way your body jitters and twitches beneath his palms. It was like your body was perfectly in tune with him.

The motion of his hips begins to build and a pattern gradually falls into place, each thrust growing closer together with the slight increased speed. A consistent, steady rutting replaces the experimental, precautionary pumps and the change is evident across your face: bottom lip caught between teeth, brows curling in the centre, eyes clouding lustfully. All of it a true sight to behold.

His gaze darts across you like he can’t quite decide what should entrap his attention first: tits circling in beat with his thrusts, your tempting blissed face, even the way your hands reach for his wrists. He’s utterly spoiled for choice.

Logan notices a fidgeting in your hands as they trail up the sides of your body, your hands growing antsy while they settle beside your head. He grew to learn much about you during your few short months together and he knew what that meant, what was about to happen next. And so he acts without thought.

He releases his grip around your waist and leans over you again, not once faltering in dicking he is giving you. A hand extends and he swats away the pillow on your right and then to the one of your left, pushing away your shielding devices. You turn to look either side and then to Logan above, a faint, lazy smile turning into something far more devilish, cunning even.

Though he doesn’t wish for you to feel deceived by the spontaneous change, so he resumes his original position atop you, foreheads pressed together from the sheer closeness.

“Why’d you do that?” you whisper raggedly against his lips, asking the question without a chance to think it over.

“It was time.”

Though it was daunting, you knew that was true, and that you had to let it up at some point. But it left you feeling exposed and you weren’t overly certain why. Sure you were completely and utterly naked, but that was different — having to show your face when you let go is another type of vulnerability.

And Logan could sense that: he could see it in your eyes, could feel it the way you anxiously twitch and tighten around his cock. He knew it was scary for you, though you had no real reason to feel such a way. And you knew that too, but old habits die hard, and this one was quite an old habit.

He alters his weight above you and rests on one arm so that his free hand can hold the side of your head. His palm cups your ear and his thumb begins to caress the hairline by your temple, touch delicate and gentle despite the rough and almost harsh nature of his fucking.

You relax under his touch and the fear subsides. The panic, if you want to put it that way, dissipates and you soon find yourself stepping closer and closer to that edge inside of you. Your brows begin to knit and your breathing grows more strained, each pant sounding strangled as he fucks you towards climax.

“Go on,” he reassures. “Let go,” he whispers, eyes honed in on yours as he watches it all build within you.

You fight the urge to bury your face in the crook of his neck, to hide, but he pulls away, getting a better view of you from above and ultimately hindering any chance for you to shield yourself.

The precise formation of the fucking remains intact, the pattern just as strategic as it had been the entire time and you hang on the cusp, dangling there for a moment. Logan gives you a subtle nod, a small act of encouragement to get you off.

You inhale deeply and your eyes screw shut, mouth hanging agape as your head tilts back against the mattress. The intensity of it all strips you of any sense, brain utterly empty as he fucks you into bliss. You cling onto him, fingers pawing and squeezing at the firm muscles on his upper back.

“That's my girl,” he grunts above you, gaze locked on you like he’s mesmerised. “That’s my girl,” he repeats softly, voice drawn out.

Logan finds it far harder to control himself with the way you look in addition to how you sound and feel clamping around him, and it becomes apparent he has much less control than he originally thought. And so he joins you mere seconds later, retracting his cock from you to cum on the crease of your upper thigh, releasing a full load right beside your cunt.

Your breathing begins to even far sooner than Logan’s, and you stare up at him above, watching him intently as he slowly comes down from his own high. He chuckles lightly as he shakes his head, wordlessly finding amusement in your gawking. His forehead presses against yours as he breathes you in, his own grunt-like pants eventually reducing to almost nothing.

“Can’t believe you’ve been hidin’ that from me.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

#logan howlett #logan howlett smut #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett xmen #logan x reader #logan smut #logan xmen #wolverine x reader #wolverine smut

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vampirevatican · 20 days ago

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okay uhm i’m like a sucker for the slashfic anons i fear ! how would the slashies maybe react to a trans mc or an mc that binds? if not comfortable, no worries at all

for angstnon? bc rn (after just opening the inbox) i've got an endless stream of their content coming in. now if you also mean literally anyone who's asked for slashfic content under anon, i might need to make a faves list

anyway, ima ramble/chat about this one bc as a cis (gender crisis nonbinary) woman i don't think i have full footing to speak on this

one thing is for certain they support mc, use their pronouns. no need to worry over a dead name because mc is already using their name.

ghost has an easy grasp on it, i think mike would too but only bc ghost knows modern things and mike is smart w/o having to explain. jay gets it and respects it, same with leather but in the sense of being who you really are versus what role you were being shoved into... infact they admire mc for it

either way, story and plot stays the same. they love mc and respect mc regardless.

#.⁠｡⁠*⁠dingdong💌━♡#slashfic dorian #ghost slashfic #jay slashfic #leather slashfic #mike slashfic #felt good to revisit an ask like this... i thought it'd be generic to say this stuff...#(hence why the obey me version of this didn't get answered... not to mention feeling ill-equipped to do it)

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moondustbaby · 2 months ago

Text

Everything He Needs

ceo!Rafe x gf!Reader

a/n: based on this request! 💌

Summary: Rafe’s ex resurfaces after four years, hoping to reconnect with the son she left behind—but Mason only knows one mom now, and it’s you, who’s been there every single day since. With protective Rafe by her side, You stand your ground in a moment that proves this little family isn’t going anywhere.

⸻

Rafe didn’t usually forget about meetings. Especially not the kind that had him pulling Mason out of preschool early and racing through town with his tie half-undone. But when he saw the name on the appointment email — Savannah Harding — his stomach dropped straight through the floor.

He didn’t tell you until the next morning. Not because he wanted to keep it from you, but because he didn’t know how to say my ex who signed away custody of our son wants to see him again. That kind of sentence doesn’t come easy.

“Are you serious?” you asked, barefoot in the kitchen with Mason in your arms, his cheek pressed to yours like always. “After four years?”

“She left when he was barely two,” Rafe muttered, staring into his coffee like it might offer some kind of answer. “Now she wants to talk. I don’t know why.”

You’d been in their lives for about half as long as Savannah had been gone — two full years of morning pancakes, preschool drop-offs, late-night Lego cleanup. A year of those spent slowly falling in love with Rafe, and the rest spent loving him out loud. You weren’t just part of their routine — you were home.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just kissed the side of Mason’s head and looked at Rafe the way you always did when things got heavy — a silent promise: whatever this turns into, we’re facing it together.

—

The meeting happened at a park. Rafe’s idea. Public, neutral, safe. A place where Mason could play if things got weird — and they probably would.

When Savannah showed up, it felt like watching a ghost walk out of a past life. Same face, same voice. But none of the warmth or clarity you’d expect from a mother seeing her son again.

“Oh my god,” she breathed when she spotted him, eyes already glistening. “He’s so big.”

Mason clung to your leg, looking up at her. “Who are you?”

Savannah crouched, trying to smile. “I’m… I’m your mom, sweetheart.”

He blinked up at her, confused. Then looked at you. You gave him a soft little nod, hand on his back.

He turned back to her and said, deadpan, “No, you’re not. That’s my mommy,” and pointed straight at you.

Rafe’s jaw locked. Savannah’s whole face crumpled.

“I—I just meant, I had you when you were born,” she said quickly. “That kind of mom.”

“Oh,” Mason said. “But you left.”

You swear even the birds stopped chirping.

“Why don’t you go play for a bit, bud?” Rafe said gently. “You want to hit the swings?”

“I want her to come,” he said, tugging on your hand.

You crouched down beside him. “I’ll be right here, baby. I promise.”

—

“I didn’t come to take him away,” Savannah said the second Mason was out of earshot. “I just… I don’t know. I thought maybe he could know me. A little.”

“You didn’t want that four years ago,” Rafe said. “When you signed over your rights when he was only two.”

“I was in a bad place.”

“And now you want a reward for feeling better?” you asked, calm but cold. “He’s not something you get back when it’s convenient.”

She blinked, stunned. “I didn’t think it would hurt this bad. Seeing him not know me. Not need me.”

“He doesn’t,” Rafe said flatly. “He has everything he needs.”

She looked at you then — not in anger, but in realization. Like it hit her all at once. The morning routines. The skinned-knee band-aids. The way Mason looked at you when he was scared, or tired, or needed someone to celebrate a Lego build.

“I just thought I could maybe be a part of his life again,” she said.

“You were a part of his life,” Rafe said. “And then you walked out. You don’t get to walk back in just because it’s easier now. Not when someone else has been showing up every day since.”

She didn’t argue. Just looked over at Mason, running across the playground, yelling, “Mommy! Look!”

“I see you, baby!” you called back, waving.

And that was it — the shift. The quiet moment where she finally understood.

“I get it now,” she whispered. “I really do.”

—

That night, Mason curled up between you and Rafe in bed, clutching his favorite stuffed dinosaur.

“Was that lady okay?” he asked, blinking up at you.

“She’s okay,” you said softly. “She just needed to see that you’re happy.”

“I am,” he mumbled, snuggling deeper into the blankets. “Can we get pancakes tomorrow?”

Rafe chuckled beside you. “You’ve had pancakes three times this week.”

“But mommy makes the best ones.”

You blinked fast and pressed a kiss into his hair. “Okay. Pancakes it is.”

Rafe just looked at the two of you, all curled up under the soft bedroom light — his family. The one he fought for. The one he chose. The one that stayed.

༶⋆｡ﾟ☽✿⋆˚✧✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶

a/n: ahh okay sorry this took so long to get up, i kept hating everything and rewriting it like 4 different times lmao anyways thank you for sending me headfirst into this emotional rabbit hole. 🙃

♥️ lani

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#moondustbabyreqs ✿☾ﾟ｡⋆༶#rafe cameron #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fic #ceo!rafe cameron #dad!rafe cameron #daddy!rafe cameron #rafe cameron au

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trashytracktales · 6 months ago

Note

AND softdom lando with slightly unexperienced reader!!!! kill me nowwwe it cannot live only in my head

Nothing less | LN⁴

💌 INSPIRED by anon ──── No, cause you know what, anon? Let me do something about it real quick (I changed some things around on purpose, because I either go hard or go home lmao). ENJOY 💋

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

𐙚 summary ──── It's their first time together, and Lando takes the lead, ensuring every touch and word is focused on her comfort and pleasure.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x virgin!reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 catetegory ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, reader's first time, new relationship dynamics, soft dom!Lando, fluff & smut, descriptive language, swearing, unprotected sex, subtle exploration of emotional and physical trust in an intimate setting.

𐙚 word count ──── 2.8k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 26, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── Gentle reminder that I know I have a lot of requests I need to take care of, and they are going to be dealt with, slowly but surely. Thank you for your patience 😁🤍

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

SHE THINKS SHE should tell him, but she doesn’t know him well enough to be sure that Lando isn’t easily scared — or worse, that he wouldn’t walk out on her the second her little secret gets out.

They’ve only been dating for two weeks, but somehow it feels longer than that. Obviously, they’ve talked about sex before — casually, the way new couples do when everything still feels exciting and full of possibilities. But she never told him outright that she’s a virgin. He never specifically asked, and she didn’t see a way to bring it up without making things awkward.

In the midst of her chaotic thoughts, two things are certain: 1) she doesn’t want to ruin the moment, and 2) there’s no doubt he likes her. She sees it in the way Lando looks at her, and she feels it in the way his hands touch her: sometimes by accident, other times with intent.

That's why she doesn’t want to burden him with expectations or make him feel like he has to change to meet some unspoken standard. She wants him as he is: unfiltered, imperfect, and real.

It's almost midnight, and the room is drenched in a quiet intimacy, the only sound coming from the muted hum of the city outside. Lando sits on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing against hers with deliberate slowness. The soft golden glow of the bedside lamp illuminates his face, accentuating the way his lips curve into a smile that’s equal parts teasing and tender.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmurs, his voice a smooth drawl that makes her stomach flip. His thumb strokes over her palm, coaxing her to meet his gaze. “That nervous?”

Her breath catches in her throat, feeling it closing in from the inside, but she nods, not trusting her voice.

“That’s okay, baby,” says Lando gently, leaning in. The warmth of his breath fans against her skin as his lips ghost over her jawline. “I want to take care of you. Can I do that?”

She nods again, her heart thudding against her rib. But the way Lando is looking at her, like she’s the only thing that matters, eases some of the tension coiling in her chest.

She really thinks that she should tell him—

“Words, love,” he interrupts her thoughts, his tone soft yet firm. Lando's hand tilts her chin up so she’s looking directly at him. “I need to hear you, so I know we're on the same page.”

“Yes, Lando,” she replies back, his name dripping from her mouth like honey. “I want this with you.”

His smile widens, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes — desire tempered with a bit of restraint. “Sweet girl,” he says softly, the praise rolling off his tongue like a caress.

She closes her eyes, the words making her cheeks flush, but they also spark something inside her, a yearning she’s never felt so acutely before.

The air between them feels charged with so much expectancy. She knows where this is heading, can feel it in the way his eyes linger on hers, in the heat of his touch that seems to burn through her skin. The thought alone forces a wave of excitement rolling through her. At that, her body reacts before her mind catches up — her breaths quicken, her thighs press together instinctively, and a warm, insistent ache blooms low in her belly. She’s wet already, just from the anticipation, her thoughts spiraling into images of Lando gasping for air above her.

She shakes her head to push those thoughts away, just as he pulls her closer, his hands steady and confident as they frame her face. When he kisses her, his lips are so soft, moving against hers in a way that leaves no room for doubt. He’s in control, but he’s also completely attuned to her.

“If you need me to stop,” he says against her lips, “If anything feels wrong, just tell me, and we'll talk about it. Gonna need your words for this, yeah?” he continues as she nods again, making Lando puff out a small giggle, “What did I say?”

Words. Right.

“I promise I'll tell you,” she says, her voice tinged with nervousness.

He hums in approval, his hands sliding down to her waist. He moves her gently, guiding her to lie back on the bed as he leans over her. His movements are measured, his touch firm but never overwhelming. When his hands skim beneath her shirt, she tenses for a moment, squeezing her eyes shut, and Lando immediately freezes.

“Hey,” he says softly, his brow furrowing in concern. “Too much?”

“No,” she says quickly, her cheeks flushing. “I just— I’ve nev—”

He doesn’t let her finish. His thumb strokes soothing circles against her hip as he leans down to kiss her again, silencing her nervous stammer.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “We’ll go slow, alright? You and I. Just trust me.”

His words are like a balm, and she finds herself relaxing under his touch. He takes his time removing her shirt, his eyes never leaving hers as if to reassure her with every move.

“You’re fucking stunning,” he says, his voice low and reverent.

Her hands tremble slightly as she reaches for him, and he lets her take the lead for a moment, watching her with a quiet intensity as she unbuttons his shirt. She fumbles slightly, and he chuckles, the sound soft and warm.

“Relax, love. It’s just me,” he says, leaning down to kiss her temple; a small act of tenderness that somehow steadies her racing heart.

The warmth of his lips lingers, grounding her in the moment as her nerves begin to settle. When there's no barrier left between them, Lando's hands explore her body patiently, every touch giving her goosebumps. Then, his fingers travel lower, slipping between her legs, and he freezes in place, his breath hitching.

“Ah, shit,” he mumbles mostly to himself, almost in awe when he realizes how much of a mess she is already. “So eager, you're soaked. I could just slip right in.”

The words send a bolt of heat through her, a mix of embarrassment and excitement, but they also give her enough courage to take action. Summoning all her nerve, she reaches for him, wrapping her fingers around his cock with a tentative but determined grip.

She guides him to her entrance, her voice quiet but impatient as she whispers, “Then do it.”

Suddenly, that's more than enough for Lando to let his instincts take over.

He exhales sharply as he pushes forward, the heat of her drawing him in inch by inch. The sensation of her wrapped around his length nearly undoes him — soft, tight, and impossibly warm. His jaw clenches as he stills for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He presses his forehead to hers, his voice strained but tender.

“So damn tight around me, baby,” he gasps softly, his hand coming to rest on her hip. “How's it on your end? Can I move?”

She nods quickly, her hands gripping his shoulders as she adjusts to the sweet stretch. “It’s—”

Good. Perfect. Heaven.

“Didn’t feel as big in my hand,” she ends up saying, making Lando laugh in a high-pitched voice.

“Not sure weather it's a compliment or an insult,” he admits, amused.

“Just give me a sec,” she whispers, though there’s a slight trace of uncertainty in her tone.

His thumb begins to stroke soothing circles on her hip, and he kisses the corner of her mouth. “Take your time, baby. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures her.

She lets out a shaky breath, her body gradually relaxing around him. With one hand, she traces the contours of Lando's face, studying every micro expression, every mole, and the way his breath hitches as she welcomes him in.

“You're perfect,” she says softly, her cheeks flushed with warmth. “Can you fuck me now?”

Lando whines, pulling back slightly before easing forward again, setting a slow, careful rhythm. The friction is intense, almost overwhelming, and he groans quietly, his grip on her hips tightening just a fraction.

Her lips part as a soft moan escapes her, and she tilts her head back, instinctively pushing her hips to meet his movements. “Lando,” she breathes, her voice a mix of need and disbelief.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes searching hers. “Yes, that’s it,” he encourages, his tone laced with affection. “Tell me what you like, what feels good. Let me hear you, baby.”

“You,” she manages, her fingers threading through his hair. “It feels so—You feel so good. All of it, please.”

The corners of his mouth raise into a small, breathless smile. “Such a good girl, aren't you?” he praises, leaning down to kiss her neck as he resumes his thrusts. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Her nails dig lightly into his back, her confidence growing with each movement.

“Faster,” she whispers, her voice trembling with a foreign desire.

His brows raise slightly as he slows down, just to tease her. “Faster? You sure about that?” he asks, his voice taking on a playful edge.

“Lando,” she repeats his name, louder this time, her hips rolling against his.

“You want it that bad?” he says in slight disbelief, his movements speeding up just enough to draw a louder moan from her. Lando studies her closely, his gaze softening even as his control threatens to slip. “Look at you, fuck. Let me take care of you. Let me—”

He swallows his words as his starts thrusting into her, firmly but never rough, his touch always calibrated to her responses.

“God, you’re taking me so well,” he says, his lips brushing against her ear. “So hot and tight around me. Feels right, hm?”

Her breathing quickens at his words, her body responding in ways she doesn’t fully understand but craves nonetheless. His hands trail lower, and she arches into him instinctively, another whimper escaping her lips.

“I know, baby,” he says, his voice thick with approval. “Keep me inside.”

Lando’s rhythm falters, then slows to an almost torturous pace. Before she can question it, he drags his cock out of her entirely, leaving her pussy clenching around nothing. A cry slips from her lips, desperate and aching, but he doesn’t give her time to protest. His length glides up between her slick, puffy folds, spreading the wetness everywhere, his movements calculated and teasing.

Not to mention evil.

“Lan...” she whines, her nails digging into his back as frustration and need overwhelm her. She isn’t gentle, her fingers pressing hard enough to sting, and he lets out a low hiss.

At the sudden pain, Lando stops entirely, his eyes snapping to hers, dark and intense. “Careful, baby,” he warns, his tone soft but laced with authority.

Sitting up slightly, he reaches for a pillow, lifting her hips with ease and sliding it beneath her lower back. When he thrusts back into her, it’s maddeningly slow, as if he wants her to feel everything. His hand moves to her stomach, pressing down lightly as he fucks his cock inside her. The sensation sends shockwaves through her body, and she cries out, her voice high and pleading as the pressure amplifies the pleasure.

“Feel that?” he asks, his voice rough with arousal. “Feel how deep I am?”

She can only nod, tightening her legs around him, her body trembling as she grips the sheets for support. But curiosity and the overwhelming sensations push her to rise onto her elbows, needing to see what he’s doing to her. Her gaze drops to where their bodies meet, and that’s when she sees it — the way her lower abdomen rises and falls slightly with each of his deep, measured thrusts.

Her breath catches, her eyes widening in awe. “Oh my God,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Is that…?”

Lando notices her reaction immediately, his own gaze following hers. The corner of his mouth curves into a smirk, but his eyes burn with something primal. “Fucking hell,” he murmurs, tightening his hands around her waist, holding her steady. “Yeah, that’s me inside you.”

The realization sends a fresh wave of arousal coursing through her, and Lando seems to sense it. His grip on her waist tightens further, and he begins to move harder, his hips snapping against hers with a rhythm that’s still controlled but far more intense.

The room fills with the slik sound of her pussy as Lando thrusts in and out relentlessly, and her moans grow louder, her body arching into him.

“Let me feel you,” he growls, his voice deep. “Let go, baby. Let me feel you,” he repeats, over and over again.

She wraps her arms around Lando, pulling him closer to have something to support her. The way her pussy sucks at his cock, desperate and insistent, sends him careening over the edge before he can even process it.

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, his voice breaking as his hips stutter, spilling into her with a throaty moan. He can get drunk on the way she grips him, her heat, her hunger — every part of her pulling him into pure bliss.

His forehead drops to hers, their shared breaths mingling as they pant and moan together, riding out every wave of pleasure as they hit.

Her nails are still buried in his back, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure coursing through him. He winces but doesn’t stop, his body shuddering as her walls flutter around his cock, milking every last bit of him. They’re locked together, shaking, until the pleasure ebbs into a warm, lingering buzz.

After that, Lando finally stills inside her, his body softening, his arms wrapped tightly around her as he rests his weight against her. Only then does the sharp sting on his back pull his attention, and he lets out a low chuckle, his voice rough and spent.

“You really dug in, didn’t you?” he teases, his tone affectionate as he lifts his head to look at her. The corners of his mouth twitch into a smirk despite the ache in his muscles.

Her face flushes with embarrassment, her hands slipping away from his back, burying into his hair instead. “Sorry,” she whispers, avoiding to look at him.

“Don’t be,” he replies, his gaze soft and adoring. “It was worth it.”

Before she can add something else, Lando leans down, his lips finding hers in a kiss that’s the opposite of tender. It’s a stark contrast to the raw intensity they just shared, and a quiet reassurance that he’s still fully present with her. His hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing against her flushed skin as he deepens the kiss, savoring her.

When they finally break apart, their foreheads rest together again, their breathing still uneven but calming. “You okay?” he asks softly, his eyes searching hers.

She nods, a small, blissful smile tugging at her lips.

“Hey, don't go non-verbal on me again,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She hesitates for a moment before speaking. “Lan?” she says softly.

“Hm?”

She swallows, her cheeks flushed, but she doesn’t look away this time. “You are… I mean, it was my first time.”

For a moment, her words don’t fully register. He blinks, his brows knitting together as if he’s processing what she just said. “First time?” he repeats, his tone slow, almost disbelieving.

When she nods, her lips parting slightly as she struggles to hold his gaze, Lando’s eyes fix on hers. His first instinct is to check if she’s messing with him, but all he sees is her wrecked, post-sex state. Her hair is mussed and wild against the pillow, her skin flushed from her chest to her cheeks, her lips swollen and parted as she breathes unevenly. The faint sheen of sweat on her body catches the soft light, and her eyes are glassy, still hazy with satisfaction. She looks thoroughly undone — raw and real.

And he knows she’s not lying.

The realization hits him like a tsunami, leaving him momentarily speechless. His jaw tenses briefly, and instead of speaking, he leans down and captures her lips in a kiss. It’s not rushed or frantic but deep and meaningful, his lips moving against hers with a peaceful intensity. His hand cups her jaw, kissing her like he’s claiming every part of her. Because he is. The thought makes his head spin — the fact that she’s his completely.

“You should’ve told me,” says Lando, his voice thick with emotion. “I would’ve been more careful.”

“No, it was perfect,” she rushes to assure him. “Because it was with you.”

His eyes soften, and he presses a kiss to her forehead. “Are you even real?” he whispers.

And then he’s kissing her again; her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her lips, trailing down her shoulders and neck, where he makes sure to leave marks behind. His hands roam her body with a newfound reverence, as if seeing her for the first time.

“Gonna spend the rest of the night showing you how much you mean to me,” he says, his lips brushing against her collarbone. “If you’ll let me.”

Her heart swells as she nods, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says, his voice a low hum of satisfaction. “Because you deserve nothing less.”

PREVIOUS LN⁴ ONE-SHOT

MASTERLIST

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dakusan · 12 days ago

Text

HOW SKZ ACT WHEN YOU'RE ON YOUR PERIOD

stray kids ot8 x reader | eight boys, one mission: defeat your uterus with snacks and affection

🌙 synopsis: In this emotionally feral docuseries of domestic chaos, witness eight men spiral between panic, pouty affection, and god-tier cuddling skills as they try to soothe your demon womb. Hormones? Fluctuating. Pain? Off the charts. Love? Disgustingly abundant. Because when you're bleeding, these boys are bleeding emotionally.

💌 a/n: hello bleeding babes 💋. this was written under the influence of one (1) rage cramp, two (2) emotional support chocolates, and the ghost of every ex who didn’t bring me a heating pad. every skz boy is ✨feral✨ in love here because you deserve nothing less than devotion when your insides are trying to kill you. take this as a reminder: you don’t have to be cute while suffering. you can be bloated, bitter, in socks that don’t match and still be the main character of someone’s romantic fever dream. p.s. reblogs = strawberry chocolate covered kisses p.p.s. take a nap. eat something. drink water. i will literally cry if you don’t

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the divider

🎧 » Dimple — BTS « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan // 방찬 domestic softness | clingy cuddles | emergency snack mission | intuitive caretaker

It starts around 2AM, when your cramps get so bad they actually wake you up.

You curl up tighter, hoping they’ll pass, but the wave hits harder this time—twisting, aching, blooming low in your stomach like something cruel. You let out a small whimper before you can stop it.

A pause. Then: Chan stirs beside you.

"Hey," his voice raspy, half-asleep, already worried. "Was that you?"

You nod into the pillow. “Mmhm. Cramps.”

He’s fully awake in seconds. No panic, no noise—just that quiet, laser-focused way he moves when it’s something important. You barely get a breath in before he’s rolling over, warm hand already on your waist.

“Babe,” he murmurs, soft and serious, “where’s your heating pad?”

You blink at him. “Living room. Under the couch. I think.”

“Okay. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

He slips out of bed shirtless, in his boxers, feet padding across the cold floor like a man on a mission. You hear him fumbling in the dark, then the microwave, then some mild swearing when he stubs his toe on the table, and then—

He’s back. Holding a warm rice sock. And a small pack of chocolate-covered almonds. And a bottle of water.

You blink up at him, dazed. “...You brought snacks?”

Chan gives you the softest little smile, one hand brushing your hair off your face. “You always crave something sweet when it starts. I remember.”

He gently tucks the heating pad against your lower belly, adjusting it until you sigh in relief. He doesn’t crawl back under the covers right away—just watches your face with that puppy-eyed tenderness he saves for rare, quiet moments. Then—

“Can I hold you?”

You nod, and he pulls you into him slowly, like he’s scared to hurt you. One arm around your waist, the other beneath your neck, anchoring you against his chest.

You can feel his heartbeat.

He kisses your hair. “I hate that you’re in pain.”

“You’re making it better.”

“Good,” he whispers, breath warm against your ear. “That’s my whole job, you know.”

You smile tiredly into his chest. “I thought your job was being the leader of Stray Kids.”

Chan chuckles. “Nah. That’s just a side hustle. My real job is being yours.”

You groan and smack his chest, but it’s lazy, affectionate. He catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. And then, quietly: “If it gets worse, or you need anything else—wake me up. Even if it’s just to cuddle, yeah?”

You hum sleepily. “You’re already doing perfect, Chris.”

Lee Know // 리노 soft grump mode activated | petty grocery store rampage | cat therapy squad | the quietest, most extra caregiver alive

You try to hide it at first. It’s not a big deal. Just some cramps. You’ve had worse. So when Minho walks in and sees you curled up on the couch, a pillow hugged to your stomach, blanket barely covering your legs, expression just slightly off—he narrows his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

You wave him off. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

Minho stares for another solid beat. Then, in the driest, most unimpressed tone imaginable: “Lie again and I’m feeding your emergency strawberry Pocky stash to Soonie.”

You squint. “...I’m on my period.”

A pause.

“Did you take meds yet?” “No.” “Heating pad?” “No.” “Water?” “...No.” Minho exhales. “Jesus Christ, babe.”

You blink at him, kind of amused. “Why do you look personally offended?”

“Because I’m your boyfriend, not a background actor. You’re not supposed to suffer in silence when I exist.” Before you can respond, he turns on his heel and disappears into the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, he’s back—with a full survival kit.

– Painkillers – A hot water bottle – Three kinds of snacks – Tea – A protein bar – A suspiciously aggressive amount of napkins

You stare at the spread. “Why do you look mad?”

“I’m not mad.” He sets everything down like he’s preparing a shrine. “I’m annoyed that you thought I wouldn’t want to do this for you.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Then: “…You’re so dramatic.”

“Correct,” he says, plopping down beside you. “But I’m also right. Now drink your tea.”

He doesn’t offer cuddles—not immediately. Minho’s love language is closeness, but it’s always on your terms. He lets you shuffle over to him first, curl into his side, blanket dragged over both of you.

A few minutes later, Dori hops up and makes himself at home on your lap. Then Doongie curls by your feet. Then Soonie pads over with the slow, quiet grace of a prince and lays directly on your stomach.

“…Ow,” you mutter.

Minho shrugs. “Cat therapy. He’s trying.”

You glance up. “You trained them to do this, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer (That’s a yes.). Eventually, when your eyelids start fluttering, he shifts beneath you, tucking your head against his shoulder, his voice low: “You get a pass today. From everything. I’ll handle food and chores. You just rest, okay?”

“Mmh.”

He kisses your temple. Doesn’t say I love you, but—“Try not to bleed on the couch. It was expensive.”

You snort. He grins.

Changbin // 창빈 gym bro but make it nurturing | snack-stocking menace | constant verbal reassurance | bear hug therapy

You don’t even say anything. Just shuffle into the kitchen with a pout and that one specific oversized hoodie you always wear when you’re crampy. Changbin looks up from where he’s meal-prepping chicken breast and protein muffins.

“…Oh no,” he says, immediately dropping the spatula like it offended him. “Is it…?”

You nod solemnly.

He gasps softly like it’s tragic news. “Not the cursed week…”

You give him a weak grin. “Yeah. It’s started.”

“Oh baby…” He sweeps across the kitchen in three steps and engulfs you in a warm, solid hug that smells like soap and cinnamon protein powder. He sways you gently side to side. “My poor little womb warrior.”

You muffle a laugh into his chest. “Did you just call me a womb warrior?”

“Yes. Because you’re strong. And scary. And currently bleeding from the inside.”

He lets go just long enough to grab your hand and lead you to the couch. “Sit. No, wait. Lay down. Actually, gimme a second—let me make you the Nest.”

The Nest, as he calls it, is a masterpiece of plush blankets, body pillows, and one of his giant hoodies stuffed like a plushie. You flop down into it like a marshmallow landing in hot cocoa.

He comes back in five minutes with: – A hot water bottle in a cute cover – Your comfort drink (the overpriced iced juice he always says is a scam but secretly buys for you anyway) – A bowl of hot rice with kimchi and a fried egg – A pack of sour gummies – His hand on your forehead like he’s checking for a fever

“You good?” he asks, brows furrowed in that classic Changbin worried but trying to stay cool way.

You nod. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Damn right I am. You’re my girl, and my girl doesn’t suffer alone.” Then, serious voice: “Tell me the pain scale. 1 to ‘rip my uterus out.’”

“Uhh... seven.”

He kisses your temple. “We’re going to war.”

You laugh, and he smirks like it was his life mission to make you do that.

Later, when you’re drowsy and curled into his side, he runs his fingers gently through your hair and whispers: “Next month, I’m buying you a little heating pad you can wear. One of those fancy ones. You deserve a luxury uterus experience.”

You glance up, barely holding in your giggle. “That’s not how it works.”

“I don’t care,” he says, dramatically pressing a hand over your stomach. “We’ll rebrand menstruation into an elite spa process.”

You snort.

And just before you drift off, you hear him mutter: "You're still the prettiest person alive, by the way. Even when you’re grumpy. Especially when you're grumpy."

Hyunjin // 현진 sensitive prince mode | soft-reading-voice therapy | bath prep connoisseur | cries because you cried

You don’t say much that morning. Just shuffle around the apartment with a sluggish pace, wrapped in one of Hyunjin’s big sweaters and hugging a warm water bottle like it’s your emotional support pet. Hyunjin notices instantly. You haven’t even finished your first sigh before he’s halfway across the room, one hand gently brushing your cheek.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

You hesitate, then mumble, “First day… cramps.”

His face crumples like you told him you’d just been hit by a truck. “Oh no. Oh, angel—come here.”

You’re pulled into his arms in seconds. He tucks your head under his chin, rocking you slowly like he’s trying to lull the pain out of you. Then he kisses the top of your head and says with complete, poetic Hyunjin™ sincerity: “If I could trade places with your uterus right now, I would. I’d fight it. With a sword.”

You choke on a laugh. “That’s not how uteruses work.”

“Don’t care. I’d challenge it to a duel.”

You try to tell him you’ll be fine, but he’s already deep into period care prince mode. The next thirty minutes are a flurry of whispered comforts and gentle commands:

“Lay down, my love. I’ll get your fuzzy socks.” “You’re not allowed to move unless it’s to kiss me or pee.” “I made your favourite tea with honey and a cinnamon stick because you’re precious.” “Do you want me to read to you? Or just hold you?”

Eventually, you find yourself nestled between his thighs, back to his chest, as he reads aloud from your favourite book in that soft, lilting voice of his. His fingers stroke your arm as he reads, each word slow and sweet like honey dripping into your brain.

When he feels you tense from another wave of cramps, he stops reading immediately. “Hey—breathe. You want me to rub your tummy?”

You nod weakly. He shifts, placing a warm hand gently over your lower belly, thumb stroking small circles through the fabric of your hoodie.

Then he goes quiet.

You glance back at him. Hyunjin has tears in his eyes. “…Are you crying?”

“I’m just—” he sniffs, “—you looked like you were in pain. And I love you. And your uterus is being evil. And I feel useless.”

You burst out laughing. It hurts, but you can’t help it. You twist around to cup his face, pressing a kiss to his damp cheek. “You’re not useless. You’re literally being perfect.”

He smiles through it, sheepish and pink and glowing.

Later that night, he draws you a warm bath, lights candles (unscented, because strong smells make your nausea worse), and plays your favourite soft playlist. He even ties his hair up in a bun to match yours. You sit between his legs, soaking and sighing.

“You’re everything,” you murmur.

Hyunjin kisses your shoulder. “No. You are. I’m just your backup dancer.”

Han // 한 snack gremlin turned snack provider | panic researcher | dramatic empathy overload | “i gotchu baby” energy

You shoot him a warning text before he comes over.

"just a heads up: cramps. mood: possessed."

Jisung shows up thirty minutes later with:

a bag of snacks too big to be legal,

a heating pad still in the box (he bought a new one just in case),

your favourite hoodie,

and the most anxious but determined look on his face.

“Babe. I Googled things. I am ready.”

You’re half-laying, half-flopped on the couch, blanket over your head like a sad ghost. You peek out. “Google, huh?”

He nods furiously, plopping down next to you with his phone. “Listen. Did you know dark chocolate, bananas, and omega-3s can help? Also—massage, but not too hard or your uterus gets pissed.”

You blink at him. “How long were you researching?”

“Since your text. And also last month. I made a doc.”

“…You made a period doc?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You snort, already feeling better, but your stomach twists again and you wince. Jisung’s face falls like you just told him his puppy died. “Oh no no no. Come here.” He gently pulls you into his lap, wrapping you in the hoodie like a burrito. “C’mere, my angry little cinnamon bun. You wanna scream into my chest? I can take it.”

You do, in fact, scream into his chest. It helps.

He rubs slow circles into your lower back with one hand, the other holding a juice box to your mouth like a doting nursemaid. Occasionally he whispers things like:

“You’re so strong.” “I would absolutely fight your uterus in a 7/11 snack isle.” “I bet if we played sad songs, your cramps would get scared and leave.”

You’re half-laughing, half-dying, and he’s leaning into both roles like a professional clown slash life coach. Then, when you least expect it, he looks down at you—all softness and sincerity: “I know I can’t feel what you’re feeling, but… I hate seeing you hurt. I’d switch with you if I could.”

You melt. Fully. Into him. And he holds you like you’re made of glass and gold at the same time. Eventually, you fall asleep in his arms while he plays soft lo-fi beats from his phone and feeds you Pocky like a spoiled hamster.

And from the way he holds you all night, you just know—next month, he’s showing up again with a full annotated PDF and a playlist called “Period Pains Ain’t Shit (ft. me and snacks).”

Felix // 필릭스 literal cupcake with a god complex | affirmation factory | creates a healing shrine out of your bed | draws you a glitter bath

Felix notices before you even say a word. You shuffle out of the bedroom with a scrunched-up face and a bloated waddle, and he pauses mid-toast, blinking in slow realization.

“…it’s that time, isn’t it?”

You nod dramatically and collapse into the kitchen chair like a fallen soldier. “She has risen from the depths. My uterus is currently staging a revolution.”

Felix gasps like you’ve been personally attacked. “Not the inner apocalypse!!” he gasps, running to your side. “I knew I felt a disturbance in the force!” You start laughing and groaning at the same time while he holds your face like he’s cradling a wounded fairy. Then—

“Go lie down,” he says gently. “I’m turning our bedroom into a cloud.”

And he does. Twenty minutes later, you return to find:

— Your weighted blanket fluffed on top of fresh sheets — Two body pillows on either side like a pain-relief sandwich — A tray of tea, lemon water, and chocolate-covered strawberries — Mood lighting from the fairy lights he set to warm orange — And a soft playlist titled “you deserve the world (and also naps)”

You blink. “Felix what the hell—”

He beams. “Cloud.”

You stare. “You made me a healing shrine.”

“You deserve a healing shrine,” he says, dead serious, crawling onto the bed and patting his chest. “Now get in here. I’m gonna spoon the sadness out of you.”

You curl into him, head pressed to his cinnamon-sugar heartbeat.

But then you start to tear up and Felix notices immediately and pulls you closer, fingers stroking your back with a gentleness that makes your throat ache. "Hey hey hey, shhh—no tears, baby. You already bled enough today," he jokes softly, then immediately kisses your forehead like he’s apologizing to your soul.

Later, he insists on running you a bath—with lavender bubbles, flower petals (that he definitely plucked from your neighbour's garden), and gentle music. He even lights a tiny candle and sets it on the sink like it’s a spell. And when you emerge, cosy and flushed, he wraps you in a towel burrito and murmurs: “Next time, I'm writing a passive-aggressive letter to your ovaries.”

“…You know they don’t read fanmail, right?”

He smirks. “Then I’ll write hate mail.”

You fall asleep giggling, cradled in his arms, full of chocolate and comfort and sunshine-boy magic.

Seungmin // 승민 sarcasm-flavoured care | savage but intuitive | cuddles like a weighted puppy | makes you laugh until it hurts less

It’s early afternoon. You’ve said nothing all day except for a grumbled “ow” while dramatically faceplanting into the couch. Seungmin, across the room eating cereal like it’s a military mission, just raises one eyebrow.

“…Again?”

You groan into the cushions. “Yes. Tell your ancestors to take it up with my uterus.”

He shrugs. “You should unionize your organs. Demand better working conditions.”

You crack a weak smile, and that’s all he needs—he gets up, puts down the cereal, and returns with his usual "pain protocol" like it’s just another Tuesday.

He doesn’t announce anything. No big gestures. Just quietly hands you: – A heat patch from the cupboard – A bottle of water already uncapped – A protein bar you always forget you need – And your favourite oversized hoodie that he always pretends not to like when you steal it

He says nothing. Just watches until you take it.

“…Thanks, Minnie.”

He finally sighs, dramatically plopping down next to you. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t serve and protect you from your own reproductive system?”

You pause. “A bad one.”

“Exactly.”

You shift closer. He adjusts the blanket over your shoulders with one hand and opens his phone with the other. A few seconds later, he’s playing one of your comfort shows—he remembered which episode you stopped on.

And then?

He lets you rest your head on his thigh while he lazily pets your hair like a spoiled cat. Occasionally, he comments on the show like nothing’s wrong.

“Wow, imagine being this emotionally unstable. Couldn’t be me.”

“You cried at a ramen commercial last week,” you mutter.

“Shh. You’re the one with pain hormones. I win.”

But then—quietly—he leans down and says: “Let me know if you need anything, okay? Anything. I don’t care. I’ll go to the store and buy you twelve types of pads and an emotional support donut if that’s what it takes.”

You look up at him, touched. “You’re actually sweet sometimes.”

He scoffs. “No I’m not.”

You smirk. “You are.”

“Lies.”

But later, when you wake up from a nap in his lap, you find your phone sitting next to you with a new lockscreen: A doodle of your uterus getting karate-kicked by a stick figure with puppy ears labelled “me.”

I.n // 아이엔 panicked rookie boyfriend vibes | clumsy cuddle pro | “i googled it” energy | buys everything he sees in the pharmacy aisle

It’s only been a few months since you started dating, so when your period hits full force mid-date night—Jeongin panics. You’re curled up in bed, hands on your stomach, face tight with pain. He’s sitting next to you looking so painfully concerned it’s almost cute.

“Are you dying? Is this a dying thing? Should I call someone?”

You squint up at him. “It’s just cramps, Innie.”

“…Are you sure?” he whispers, already holding his phone with the Emergency icon half-tapped.

You grab his sleeve and tug him down into a hug. “I’m sure.”

He melts immediately. “Okay. Okay. I got you.”

Then: cue Jeongin’s Period Preparedness Panic Arc™. He disappears for forty-five minutes. You think he went to buy a snack or something.

No.

He returns with: – 3 different heating pads (“I didn’t know which one to get so I bought all of them.”) – A literal mountain of snacks (chocolate, gummies, ice cream, crackers, a random matcha cookie that looked ‘healing’) – A floral-scented candle that he regrets instantly (“It’s kinda… strong. We can throw it away.”) – And the softest stuffed alpaca you've ever seen (“She’s for emotional support. Her name is Princess Womb Slayer.”)

You blink. “Jeongin—”

“I panicked, okay?! You were hurting and I didn’t know what to do and the pharmacy lady told me ginger helps so I bought ginger tea and also ginger candy and gingerbread even though I hate gingerbread—”

You laugh. Hard. Which makes your stomach cramp more. You curl into a little ball again and he instantly shuts up, looking terrified.

“I—did I make it worse? Should I go back and get—”

“Innie,” you wheeze. “Come here.”

He carefully crawls into bed, cuddling you gently, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. Then, after a beat: “…You wanna watch penguin videos?”

You blink. “Penguins?”

“They’re cute. They waddle. You always say that makes you feel better.”

You grin and nod, and two minutes later, he’s got a compilation playing of baby penguins slipping on ice while you snuggle into his chest.

#skz #skz imagine #stray kids x reader #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #han x reader #felix x reader #seungmin x reader #jeongin x reader #sunday softdrops

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