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toji-bunny-girl · 10 months ago

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bartender toji fucking the living daylights out of us after a nasty breakup ? also have a nice day

ON THE H★USE !!

#𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐆 ⟢ bartender!Toji Fushiguro x fem!reader #𝑺𝒀𝑵𝑶𝑷𝑺𝑰𝑺 ⟢ riding the hot bartender after a break up is the least expected thing you’ll ever think of #𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ⟢ alcohol, pet names, foreplay, fingering, teasing, grinding, pre-cum, no protection, creampie, car sex, nipple play, squirting, size difference, big dick toji papa, alpha toji with xxxxxxxxl dick, multiple orgasm, one-sided drunk sex (?), power play, I’m so lazy to do tags, who even reads content warnings tbh #𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫 𝑪𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑻 ⟢ 4k #𝑨/𝑵 ⟢ don’t let this flop guys I spent way too much time on this when I should be studying for my exam 😭

“Plus, he literally had to beg me to act like I was cummin’ when he stuck his sorry excuse of a dick in me!” your eyelids hung heavily over your eyes as you exclaimed, brows shooting down in a frown. “Get a load of that guy, am I right?”

“He doesn’t pay for your stuff, and he can’t fuck good?!” Toji teasingly mirrored your tone as he manoeuvre behind the bar, uniform taut from the way he natchly flexed his arms; the bottles clinking as he worked deftly to craft out the beverage you ordered. “What a man.”

It has been 2 hours since you’ve been rambling on about your ex-boyfriend, and the ravenette felt like he’d known this stranger for years—all of his secrets and traits aired into his ears. Albeit, it was getting a bit boring, with the same repeated stories tumbling out of your voluble mouth. But still, he enjoyed chuckling at your adorable insobriety, fuelled by drunken mania.

“Here you go, princess,” a small tug lifted the ends of his scarred lips when your eyes patently glimmered at the newly served alcohol. “It’s the last I can give you, we’re closing…” Toji’s eyes momentarily flickered to his watch, “in 7 minutes.”

“Oh, okay!” you deliriously yawped, downing the beverage into your liqueur-brimmed system before handing him your card, which you aimlessly threw at him, not even lucid of your motions. “Just swipe it.”

Toji simply brushed it off, taking it towards the other side of the counter. He's used to unintentional antics like yours, as long as the tab was paid off he has no problem with them.

15,900 yen.

The digits flashed past his eyes like stars, igniting a luminous glint in his dark emerald orbs. Hell, was it a sum to casually splurge on at some mid-high bar? He’s got a pretty girl with probably an equally pretty amount of personality in her wallet, sprawled on the bar top wailing about her broken heart.

Oh, how he would love to play saviour.

“Here, princess. Time to go home,” he tapped your card onto the counter after the successful transaction. His gruff voice was low as you drifted further from your haywired consciousness and towards a delicious drowse. You didn’t move when he neared your face, attempting to marshal up your scattered coherence by calling into your ear.

Toji sighed as he leaned back onto his feet, and crossed his bulky arms, pondering the ways to get you out of the otherwise empty bar.

It was 12:58 am and the other inebriated customers had gone out by themselves or with their friends dragging them along. Except for you, softly snoring on the sticky counter.

His coworker shrugged at him when the ravennette glanced at the shorter male for help. “Just get her out of here. I’ll clean up the rest, and you owe me this one,” always so kind—how Toji wished he could smooch that man right then.

“Thanks, man,” Toji’s eyes curved in moon crescents, before settling his sight onto your dozed frame. His finger pressed against your temple, and your head lolled to the side in suit of a light push; a trail of drool slipping past your plump lips. You were completely and utterly out of it, huh?

Grasping onto your arm, the male lightly shook you awake, the warmth from his calloused palm stimulating your nerves vivified. “Hey, Mr. Bartender…” you had an uneven smile on your crooked lips, sleepiness bubbling into the air with every laggard blink as you breathily chuckled. “Are you gonna bring me home?”

“I don’t know about that, princess,” his tone was syrupy sweet and it licked the ends of your lips upwards into a velvety grin. “But we gotta go now. Come on,” Toji’s hands came to yours, gently pulling you off of the bar stool. You followed after his guide, slipping your card into your pocket before frisking behind him like a lamb to the door.

The burly male turned to his wrist after the door swung close in the wake of your exit, checking his watch; it read 1:04 am. The train station is closed and it’s going to kill his conscience if he leaves you by the streets like he always does with intoxicated male customers. He has no idea where you stay anyway—best to call a friend of yours to take you home.

“(Y/N)?”

A grating, vexatious voice called. The two of you swivelled your gaze to the source to find your cheating, insipid creature of an ex with an arm thrown over some chick’s shoulders, chortling at the unstable mess you were. Your eyes were puffy and tumid from the hours of crying slash ranting session, and you were anything but lucid from the way you looked.

How fucking lucky.

“What you got going on here? Getting kicked out of a bar?” your ex taunted, nearing his face to yours as you narrowed your eyes at him.

“Y-You…as—”

“Have the lady some of her space, buddy,” Toji’s authoritative voice prevailed over yours as he pushed the male away, rendering him to helplessly stumble backward into a fall. The woman in his arm hid her giggle with a gasp before helping his fuming ass up, his face beet red from his ignominious tumble.

“Who are you?” he barked, eyelids flying open to show the hidden whites and teeth bared in belligerence.

“A man who can make her cum, without begging her to fake it,” the woman burst into a half-concealed snicker when the ravennette broke the air with his unanticipated words. Your face grew to be saturated with ardent red, from both the intoxicant that coursed through your veins and the sentence you thought you had heard.

“I call it bullshit,” your ex spat with his upper lip pulled up in disrelish. There’s a flash of humiliation in his glare—he knew Toji seemed better than him and it killed him to know you’ve got suitors who are way out of his league.

“It’s true,” you tapped Toji’s metallically stiff chest with a twisted, satisfied smirk on your rat-arsed face. “He toootally didn’t just stick his dick in me and call it a day, y’know?”

“Fucking whore.”

“What d’ya say?!” you screeched, ready to pounce on the asshole. “I sent you to the ER once, and I’ll do it again!”

“Alright, that’s enough, princess,” Toji tenaciously held onto your arm, and you’re stuck by him even without him using much strength. “We don’t want you dirtying your hands, do we?”

A nasty shove met the male’s chest, knocking the air out of his lungs when he hit the ground. It was merely a fraction of Toji’s force, and it already had the male choking to breathe on the ground.

“Speak to her like that again, and it’s not going to be just a push,” you could hear the rise of a dour, serrated threat in his tone, and it begot the asshole to cower back in trepidation.

Pussy, Toji grimace. Albeit he was no saint himself but he absolutely despises the ilk of guys your ex filtered into—boisterous and a bully to women, yet nothing but a trifling mutt in front of men.

A tug of his arm, and your limbs wrapped around his wretched him out of his state of visceral contempt. “Take me home!” you ineptly exclaimed, a gruntled grin on your adorable, roguish face.

Briefly riveting his baleful gaze onto the splayed male on the bitumen, Toji steered you uphill towards the parking lot as you clumsily tottered aside him.

The encounter with the small-dick fucker sure rendered him more understanding of your evening of outburst. Plus, for you to be cheated on that piece of work was truly the icing on the cake. “Poor you, huh?”

“Forget ‘bout him! You were so cool I almost cummed right there and then,” you teasingly giggled as you peered at him through your heavy eyelids.

Fuck—it’s no good for you to be saying that with that look on your face.

His eyes rest ahead the road as you soon come to near the bright red C8 Corvette the woman he’s estranged with had previously gifted him, the car standing out amongst the parked vehicles like a sore thumb.

Your eyes scintillated in awe when the car luridly flashed and beeped in the night, “That’s yours?!” you cried aloud, frisking all the way to the car, before stumbling over thin air and nearly jolting forward into a fall. Luckily, Toji was quick enough to catch you by your arm, saving your knee a painful event of bloody excoriation. “Oopsie daisie.”

Cute, Toji chortled.��

Jumping into the vehicle, the potent roar of the engine cut through the midnight air after you’ve settled neatly in the passenger seat, the only thing missing was the safety belt that was supposed to secure your form. Reaching to your side, Toji’s hand briefly brushed over your exposed thigh, the hem of your short dress riding up to merely cover your panty.

A soft, almost inaudible noise fled your lips, and his eyes laid on your face, the faint, intimate gold beam from the street lamp illuminating your glowing features. Your orbs were luminous through the dark, and it roused an innate lasciviousness that lay dormant in his core.

The liquor that flowed through your blood vessels had not quelled through the lapse of time, but it did not take away your clarity to feel the tension that electrified the air molecules into sweltering magnetism. And gosh do you want to snatch the constriction in the atmosphere and tear it through your canines.

“Touch me,” you whispered, so soft and vulnerable Toji could seemingly snap you in half with just a touch.

“You’re drunk, princess,” he reminded, yet he remained unshifted over your smaller frame, his hand merely a molecule from your tempting flesh that sang for his warmth.

“No,” you were firm. Something in you purled, bubbling a heavy, demanding need to have him devour you. “I want you,” your breath was hot, scorchingly so; airy and desperate.

“You want me?” his hand fell to your wrist, grasping your soft skin under his heavy hold, and guiding you over to his seat, straddling his lap. His gaze cut through your eyes, daubing pressure against your jumbled nerves, his intensity threatened to slice through the silky jugular of your vulnerability. And you nearly moaned under his eyes.

You gingerly nodded at him, and you thought the knit between your brows was enough to speak for your neediness.

His grip on your wrist tightened a fraction before you missed the heat radiating from his palm. “Careful, princess. You might regret this,” he had paved a way out, it’s a leave it or fuck it situation served beneath your fingertip—and all the atoms in your body leaped into the growling blaze in the abyss residing in his essence.

“Please,” your voice was barely a note above a mumble, yet the weight of your single word mitigated any marshalled resistance in him.

His hands slid up your thighs, inching under your dress, sending tingles to your throbbing core. The intensity that radiated from him ceased to waver as he leaned against your neck, brushing against your skin as you gulped. Dark, ashen clouds drew above the emerald forest of his before he spoke, almost threateningly against your throat, “I want you to remember every single detail of this in the morning.”

With a breathless nod, you had swung the floodgates of your amenability open to his guttural thirst. The heavy, rapacious waves of your desires crash into superposition. You were the fuel and he was the fire, together the air detonated into space.

His wet lips met yours in a whim, sucking onto your flesh until it stung, greedily tasting every crook and cranny of your wet cavern with the bumps of his tongue. You moaned into his mouth as your hands flew to clutch onto his head, deepening the kiss to reach his insides while his rough fingers sank into the plump flesh of your ass.

Your lips burned with his saliva, and his tongue fluttered with yours. The atmosphere felt all-consuming, gripping onto your throat and restricting the air from flushing down your windpipe. Yet, your core pulsed between your thighs, an excited blaze slowly roaring into something bigger than you could handle.

Your chest rose and fell in a quick tempo when you snatched your lips away from his, grasping as much air as you could within a second before you dove right into him. Albeit your sight was hazy, you caught sight of the luminous flush that panned over his cheeks.

Pretty, pretty. You chanted in your head as your hands slid down to his clothes, clumsily popping the buttons off of the garment that kept the warmth of his skin away from your touch. You want him, you want him.

Your fingers nearly melted when they met his hot, sinewy chest, and Toji’s teeth sank a little too hard into your bottom lip when you teased his nipples under your touch, innervating them hard with every flick. The salient bulge in his pants rolled against your folds, merely separated by an annoying piece of your underwear, and your moans jumbled into each other’s mouths

“Fuck, princess. You’re driving me crazy,” Toji breathily groaned when your sloppy lips sundered apart, a hot string of mixed saliva connecting your swollen, red lips together. His large hands lifted your ass up into the air as he palmed them, the warmth from him sending a snuggly sensation through your body. “It’s no fun when only you get to tease.”

Your eyes playfully gleamed, before the light shot out of the crater of your orbs—his finger pressed against your sodden panty, damp with arousal. The tingles shyly reached through your belly as he rubbed your hardening bud, and your body shuddered against his.

“You’re not playing fair,” he murmured against your jaw, leaving trails of bruised kisses down your jugular. His hand left your heat just as the high came close to your clutch, leaving you with nothing but the lingering cold touches of his.

With a defeated sigh, you ground your knee against his growing hardness, your finger shyly rubbing against the clothed tip of the constrained mount, the spot slowly growing dark from amativeness.

Toji sunk deeper into the headrest as you touched him, his exposed chest ceaselessly rising and falling. His breath hitched in his throat when you twirled his sensitive nipple between your fingers; your heated exhales warming the side of his neck as his grip almost painfully firmed onto the fat of your ass.

You didn’t allow his peaking orgasm to come through, forcing yourself off of his sore, throbbing erection, and your teeth bared into a dirty smile. “I am playing fair.”

“You want to test me, princess?” he chuckled, the bassy timbre of his scratching the knot of an itch inside your ears. A gasp leaped out of your throat as your body jolted forward, his seat clicked backward to its maximum taut, “I’ll make you cry for more.”

You found your back nestled in his stead, your thighs spread open with his calloused hand slipping down your supple flesh. His fingers tapped nearer and nearer to your heat, before slipping off your soiled panty.

“So fuckin’ wet,” Toji sucked an inhale through his teeth as he leered at your dripping sex—thick, rough thumb fluttering friction on your clit once again. Your eyelids flitted shut as you softly moaned against the air, the smell of your arousal filled the confinement of the car; the scent nearly making him growl when it panged hard against his nostrils.

You watched as Toji slipped a thick finger into your velvety folds, feeling it trodding past your walls. Your heat snugly enveloped him as he filled your inside with another digit, his two fingers pressing, and running themselves over your slick cunny. “Gotta stretch you good for me, princess.”

Your back inched into the seat with a contented sigh, enjoying the build-up of ticklish pressure stacking up your tummy. Toji was ridiculously dexterous with his fingers—deftly stroking your cunt, and quick to find the spot in you that innervated your pure senses with a ting.

“S-Shit—” your body was subservient to his touches; your spine curved into an arch, your toes curled tight and your fingernails dug into the flesh of his arm. “M’feel so good. Toji—fuck,” it was as if his fingers were gilded in Eros’ heavenly blessing, the godly grace spilling into your pleasure. Tears began prickling at the sides of your eyes from how hard you were squeezing them, your flailing legs kicking against the dashboard of his car.

“So pretty when you cry,” Toji groaned under his breath, his damp restraints painfully throbbing from the way your squelching walls tightened around his fingers—oh, how he fucking wish it was his cock in you right there and then.

His touches were singing your walls into melting squirts of drool, pearls of arousal weeping between your thighs in the wake of his careful strokes. Never were you touched in such a way, and you felt like balling from how good it felt. “M’ close! M’gonna cum! Oh my gosh—!”

“Come on. Cum for me, princess,” you could hear his smirk in his voice as pleasure kissed your senses, fluttering through your electrified nerves and sending a jolt of tingles all over your body. Your mouth was lax open into an ‘o’, nails marking his skin as they sank deeper into his arm, and your walls tightly spasmed with a wave of rough euphoria cracking your bones weak. You fucking came from his mere fingers.

Your eyes bat open with your lips sundered from your pants, your face ardently glowing from your subduing high. “Fuck…” your wet thighs quivered from the sheer force of your orgasm, and you blinked in disbelief.

Over 2 decades of living and it was the first time cumming from a real man, not your fingers nor toys. But the brawny, sex-dripped male slipping your dress off of your spent body.

You almost fell in love.

Pushing him down the driver’s seat, you crawled over Toji’s firm thighs, running your finger from his chest to his muscle-packed abdomen, then down to the wristband. You were flickering to take charge, and he sank down to your guidance, rough palms resting on your hips.

Your dress was off, divulging the bare curves of your body, sweat-glazed skin iridescent under the moonbeam and your sex-flushed features were begging for him. You look so, fucking, perfect that he had to bite down the need to ruin you on the spot.

His hips impatiently thrust upwards into your sticky cunt, grinding his pack against you, urgency in his essence demanding your heat. “Don’t keep me waiting now,” he purred, with a silent warning tagging behind his words.

Your fingers tugged the waistband of his pants along with his briefs, a drive in you matching his pacing hastiness. His shaft sprang out of its painful confinement, and your eyes nearly popped out from the sheer look of his cock.

He was oozing with sticky pre-cum from his angry, red tip, throbbing veins ran from the base of his length to the curved head—the size of him bigger than any you’ve seen. The smell of his masculine essence hit your senses and a new pool of arousal began drawing in your tummy, your pussy walls squeezing in empty neediness.

“There’s no backing out now, princess,” Toji’s fingers firmly gripped onto your ass, lifting you over his cock, hovering.

“Who said I’m backing out?” you gulped, before lowering yourself down, his fat cockhead kissing your pussy lips before your hips greedily sank down his length, oblivious to the crackle of tingles it would send to your nerves.

“Careful there,” he teased with a chuckle as you let out an instinctual gasp from the way his girth stretched past your velvety walls, the slick sound of your arousal-dripped cunt, and his heavy shaft bubbled into the air, and scorched your cheeks red.

“M-My gosh…” you cried as your hazy gaze fell to the bulge jutting from the inside of your tummy, your walls taut with his heavy cock buried inside you. “I’m s’full, Toji.”

“Mhm,” he cooed, brushing his hands over the sides of your smooth thighs. “But you gotta start moving, baby.”

Gingerly, you lift your hips up before slowly inching them down his length. Your walls clenched as your sex rubbed friction, and you could feel every pulsing vein of his just as he could feel your fluttering warmth.

“Feel good, princess?” Toji asked breathily, your head faintly nodded, but there was a hint of a dubious glint in your fallen gaze, your knees lifting and sinking your weight.

“I need your help…” your voice cracked in disappointment as you paused, tears of frustration edging by your eyes. You couldn’t seem to grasp a steady pace no matter how long you painfully rode.

“What d’ya say?”

Your orbs looked as though they were melting off of your sweat-glazed skin, blinks of fervourish plea clawing from your drunken gaze into his. “Please, Toji,” your voice hitched, and you’re humping his pelvis. “Please…I want to feel good.”

Aww. How fucking adorable.

You yelped when you felt yourself being raised and slammed down his cock, your folds burning with every stretch of your walls. And it feels so good. “Y-Yes…” your eyes closed shut, fingers scrambling to grip his locks. “T-Toji—mhaa!”

“You’re so fuckin’ cute screaming my name,” the curve of his tip perfectly kissed your g-spot with each piston of his hips, and every time the twitching head of his meat met your gummy part, it sent a flash of electricity up your spine.

“S-Sho good—” you slurred through your words, weighed head lolling idly to every thrust of his fat cock.

“No one can get you dripping off their cock like this, huh?”

“Mmh—yes!” the space between your brows was crumpled into a tensed frown, your hips bouncing up and down his thick girth with his hands guiding your pace. “I love it! I love your cock!”

Toji let out a low groan when you cried, bucking himself deeper into your sloppy mess of a cunt and kissing the surface of your cervix. “Fuck—I love an honest girl.”

Your muscles nearly melted off of your bones as he continued to fucked himself deeper than you’ve ever felt, reaching the parts you didn’t know could be touched and your features dropped with his touches on your deep intimacy. A fierce sear of heat burned through your tingling womb, and it threatened to consume your body whole. “M’ cummin’! Toji—!”

“I know, I know, let it out f’me. Come on,” he grunted, keeping his grip firm on your arms as he fucked himself hard and deep into you. He could feel your squelching cunny clench, so tight as for the purpose of milking him on the spot. “Keep bouncin’ on my cock, yeah?”

“Nngh—No more!” you squealed. “N-No—” his thumb drew between your shaking thighs and greedily swiped over your blushing clit. Your fingernails sank into your palms as you gripped for dear sanity, his cock continuously violating your fluttering spots until they grew sore.

“I can make you feel better, princess,” he mumbled tinglingly against your neck, sinking his teeth down your flesh to hold back a shaky moan. His pleasure was inching to fly to release, and your tight clutch onto his shaft was nothing but a catalytic lure.

“S’ hurts—please!” your babbles were almost indecipherable as he rammed into your sore cunt, his fingers digging into your soft flesh holding onto you tenaciously; pushing you right to the edge of oblivion as he clung onto his nearing release.

“Cum f’me again, baby?”

“M’can’t! Still sensitive—!” you cried before another orgasm shot through your core. You felt as if you were sent up into the ether, stars teeming through your body as the waves of pleasure sent you on a vertigo ride. Your gasps dragged through your lips, your eyelids hung heavily over your bleary eyes, with tears slipping down your hot cheeks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—M’close too, baby,” Toji swore through his bared teeth, his cock painfully twitching as thick semen surged through his tip—his hips rolled as your cunt squeezed his remaining sanity, popping them like fireworks before they burst into nothingness.

Your essence squirted out of your tensed cunny, shooting with his mixed cum that dripped down his belly. Your breaths shaky and hot with heightened senses, your sticky sex pulsing in overstimulation.

Exhausted, you fell prostrated on top of his hard muscle-built body, head undulating with the ups and downs of his heaving chest. And slowly, your cognisance drifted back into your mind, the aftermath of everything—the alcohol and the sex, pummelled into you like a heavy truck. Unforgivingly so.

“Toji…I really feel like pukin—”

6K notes · View notes

danysdaughter · 17 days ago

Text

Once More To See You

pairing | 40s!bucky x 40s!reader & post-catws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 12.8k words

summary | in the 40s, the two of you were meant to be forever—wild, in love, and untouched by anything but each other. but time tore you two apart, and when fate brought you back together decades later, love still lived between you and bucky... just no longer in the same lifetime

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, p in v sex, time skip, angst, heavy angst/no comfort (we die like men), canon divergence (post-tfatws), unresolved feelings, mention of war and ptsd, bittersweet / painful romantic resolution, reader cries (a lot), bucky crying (internally), mitski energy, BABY TONY, leo fitz cameo

a/n | chat, we all crying in the club with this one. based on this request

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Brooklyn, July 1942

The summer air in Brooklyn was thick and golden, the kind that made your skin feel kissed and alive.

You were barefoot on the edge of the rooftop, the sun setting behind you like fire rolling across the skyline, and Bucky Barnes was watching you like you were the most dangerous thing he'd ever seen—and he’d already gotten into three bar fights this month.

“You're gonna fall,” he warned, arms crossed, but with a smile pulling at his lips.

You turned your head, a grin already blooming. “Then catch me.”

“Don’t joke,” he said, stepping closer. “You know I would.”

You turned fully, facing him, the wind pulling your dress tight around your legs. “That’s the problem, Bucky. You always would.“

He paused, eyes on you now—less amused, more... full. You felt it in your chest.

You walked toward him slowly, deliberately, barefoot and brave. “What would you do if I jumped off something one day and you weren’t fast enough?”

He caught your wrist when you reached him. “Then I’d follow you down.“

You stared at him. The laughter on your tongue dissolved.

That was always the thing with Bucky. He said stuff like that, and he meant it. Fully. Without fear. Like loving you was easy.

“You make it too easy to love you,” you whispered, eyes soft now.

“And you make it hard to survive,” he shot back, teasing, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. “Running around barefoot on rooftops like a little menace.”

“I just don’t want to waste time being careful,” you murmured, resting your forehead to his. “We’ve got now, don’t we?”

He kissed you like a promise.

Slow. Long. With one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other anchoring your hip. You sank into it, into him. Into the kind of kiss that made the city disappear.

When he pulled back, he said it—finally said it.

“I’m in love with you.”

You blinked.

You smiled.

And then, without missing a beat: “Took you long enough.”

────────────────────────

Later That Night – Bucky’s Apartment

The fan turned slowly overhead, humming quietly as the heat clung to the air, thick and lazy. You were stretched across Bucky’s bed, legs tangled in the sheets, one hand trailing down the slope of his chest while the other held a cigarette loosely between your fingers.

Bucky watched you like he always did: completely, unapologetically.

"You’re staring,” you murmured.

“You’re naked in my bed,” he said. “I’d be stupid not to.”

You grinned, putting the cigarette out in the tray on the nightstand before crawling over to straddle his hips. “Stupid, huh?”

He ran his hands up your thighs, gripping them like he was grounding himself. “The second I saw you in that bar a year ago, I knew I was in trouble.”

You leaned down, nose brushing his. “Good. Trouble keeps you young.”

Your lips met—soft at first, sweet—but it didn’t stay that way.

Bucky's hands slid up your back, palms warm and sure, dragging you against him as your hips began to roll. His cock hardened beneath you, thick and hot where it pressed between your thighs. You moaned into his mouth, hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that made his grip on your ass tighten.

“You're gonna kill me,” he groaned, voice ragged.

“Not yet,” you whispered, reaching between you to line him up.

You sank down onto him with a gasp, your walls stretching around him, the burn sweet and perfect. Bucky’s hands flew to your hips, holding you steady as you took all of him, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked.

You didn’t move at first. Just leaned forward, forehead to his, feeling the way he throbbed inside you, the way his breath stuttered against your lips.

Then you rolled your hips—slow and deep—and his whole body tensed.

“You're so fuckin' tight,” he panted, bucking up into you instinctively. “Like you were made for me.“

You bit your lip, rocked again. “Maybe I was.”

And that was all it took.

He gripped your hips and fucked up into you, his rhythm desperate, rough, but never careless. You met him thrust for thrust, nails dragging down his chest, breath hot against his throat.

The bed creaked beneath you, headboard knocking the wall, bodies slick and needy. You were panting now, fingers tangled in his hair, moaning shamelessly as your orgasm built like fire curling in your belly.

“Come on, baby,” Bucky groaned, voice gone. “Come for me. Show me I’m the only one who gets to have you like this.”

Your body clenched—tight, hot, overwhelming—and then you were coming, crying out his name, hips jerking as he held you down and fucked you through it.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—” Bucky’s rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he spilled inside the rubber, hands gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

You collapsed onto him, both of you sticky and breathless, hearts thudding in unison.

“I love you,” he whispered again, softer this time, like he knew what was coming.

You closed your eyes, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

“Then don’t ever leave me.”

He didn’t answer.

He just held you tighter.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, September 1943

Three weeks before Bucky ships out

The letter sat on the kitchen table, opened, unfolded, and lined up too neatly for it to be an accident. You froze in the doorway, fingers still smudged with newspaper ink from the classifieds you hadn’t really been reading.

Bucky stood on the other side of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You weren’t gonna tell me?” he asked, voice low but razor-sharp.

You exhaled slowly. “I was. I was waiting for the right—”

“There’s no right time to tell me you’ve signed up to follow me into a war zone.”

“I didn’t sign up for you,” you said, stepping forward, calm but firm. “I signed up for the people who need help. And for the ones who don’t get to come home.”

He laughed—bitter and low. “Right. And that just happens to be the same front line I’m getting sent to?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Because yes. Yes, it did happen to be the same region. Same Allied deployment. You’d pulled every string possible, leaned on every nurse you trained beside, begged to be assigned where you knew he was going.

“I’m not gonna sit at home and wonder every day if you’re still alive,” you said. “I won’t do it.”

“You’re not supposed to be there,” he snapped. “Do you know what it’s like out there? You think the enemy’s gonna care you’ve got a Red Cross on your arm? You think they won’t shoot through a nurse like anyone else?”

“I know the risks.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, slamming a hand on the table hard enough to rattle the cup beside your letter. “You’ve never seen a man bleed out on the ground with half his leg gone. You’ve never had shrapnel spray through a tent while you’re catching your breath.”

His voice cracked.

You stepped closer.

“This isn’t about you thinking I’m naïve,” you said quietly. “It’s about you being scared.”

He looked at you then—really looked.

And God, he was scared. Eyes red, jaw clenched like it hurt to speak.

“I am scared,” he said, voice softer now. “I’m terrified.”

You reached for him, fingers brushing his forearm. “Then let me be where I can help. Let me do what I can. Don’t ask me to stay behind and feel helpless.”

He swallowed, shaking his head.

You stepped closer. “You’d do the same for me.”

“That’s not the point.*”

“It is,” you said. “It is, James. Because I don’t want to lose you and wonder if I could’ve saved someone else just like you.”

He let out a shaky breath and pulled you into his arms like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore.

You stood there, pressed to his chest, both of you silent.

You weren’t changing your mind.

And neither was he.

His forehead pressed to yours, breath shaky, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress like he needed to hold something.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered.

You kissed him. Slow. Steady. Real.

“You won't.”

2 Years Later

Occupied France, 1944

A dusty bar just past midnight

The bar was a converted farmhouse—dusty, dimly lit, and barely holding itself together. Bottles clinked, laughter spilled like smoke, and music hummed from a battered radio in the corner.

Somewhere in the background, Dugan was arm-wrestling two locals at once, while Morita laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool. There were glasses clinking, boots scuffing the floor, and one of the Commandos yelling about needing more whiskey like they hadn’t just cleared out half the stock already.

And Bucky was holding you like he couldn’t believe it.

You were tucked into his lap in a shadowed booth near the back, your arms draped around his neck, one hand gently threading through his hair. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers pressed to the curve of your spine like he was scared you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.

Outside, the war still existed. But not here.

Not in this small, golden sliver of now.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You know they’re watching.”

He smiled, eyes half-lidded and heavy with whiskey and relief. “Let ‘em. If I can’t kiss my girl after dropping a Hydra base, what the hell are we even fighting for?”

You laughed, low and quiet. It rumbled in his chest.

“I missed your laugh,” he said, voice rough. “It’s been weeks since we’ve had more than ten minutes where we weren’t being shot at or yelled at.”

You tightened your arms around him. “You keep surviving and I’ll keep laughing.”

He went still for a moment, just holding you, his nose brushing the side of your neck.

You leaned into his touch, fingertips tracing along the nape of his neck. “What are you thinking about?”

He paused.

Then he smiled—small, quiet, soft.

“I see it now.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “What?”

Your brows furrowed slightly.

“The future,” he murmured. “Us. After all this. I didn’t used to let myself picture it. Thought it was bad luck or something. But tonight? I see it clear as day.”

You swallowed, throat suddenly tight.

You opened your mouth to answer, but he cut you off—his voice gentler now, steadier. Certain.

“When this is over, I’m gonna marry you.”

Your breath caught.

Not because it surprised you. Not because it was sudden.

But because he meant it.

His hand slid up your spine, warm and steady.

“I’m serious,” he whispered. “We’ll get a better place in Brooklyn. You’ll still complain about the noise. I’ll pretend I like fixing things. You’ll still be wild. And I'll still follow you anywhere.”

“Bucky…” you breathed.

He leaned in, kissed you like it was a vow.

“When it’s done,” he said again. “You and me.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, smiling as you fought the sting in your eyes.

There, in the middle of a war. Blood on his knuckles. Dust on your shoes. You both knew the odds were shit. But still—he saw it. You.

You pressed your forehead to his.

“I’ll hold you to it, Barnes.”

“You better,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you again—slow and deep and full of everything he’d never said, everything he was too afraid to hope for.

You didn’t say anything either.

Because you saw it too.

And it was beautiful.

And it would never happen.

────────────────────────

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945

The flaps of the medical tent opened with a violent rustle as Bucky stormed in, his arms wrapped tightly around your limp body.

“I need a medic!” he shouted, voice hoarse, desperate. “Somebody—she needs help, now!”

Your head lolled against his shoulder, blood trailing from a gash at your temple. Your uniform was scorched along one side, and your skin—hot to the touch, glowing faintly blue—made his breath choke in his throat.

Steve was right behind him, bloodied and breathless from the mission, his face pale beneath the dirt and sweat. “Bucky—there—over there.”

Bucky stumbled toward the nearest cot, easing you down with shaking hands. “She’s not—she’s not waking up—why isn’t she waking up?!”

“Move,” a voice snapped. One of the medics pushed past him, and behind them, Howard Stark rushed in, eyes scanning the tent before landing on your still body.

“What happened?” the doctor asked quickly, already peeling back your uniform sleeves to check your vitals. “Where was she hit?”

“She—shit, she—she was trying to get to the evac point and that Hydra weapon—the blue thing, it exploded—she was right there, it hit her—dead on.” Bucky’s words were a mess, stumbling out one over the other as he paced, eyes wide and wild. “There was this light—this blast—and she just—she dropped.”

Howard’s head snapped toward him, face going white. “The Tesseract?”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “What?”

“That wasn’t just energy,” Howard said, approaching the cot fast. “That was Tesseract radiation. If she was that close to a direct hit—she should be—”

“Don’t say it,” Bucky growled, eyes blazing. “She’s not dead. She’s not.”

He dropped to his knees beside the cot, grabbing your hand, pressing it to his lips. “C’mon, doll. You’re tough. You always get up. You’re gonna get up now.”

The medic pulled out a flashlight, gently prying one of your eyes open. “Pupils responsive but sluggish. She’s breathing, but it’s shallow. Pulse is unstable.”

Howard moved in beside them, watching your vitals with a furrowed brow. “This doesn’t make sense. There’s no visible trauma except the cut. If she took a full dose of that energy—”

“Why isn’t she waking up?” Bucky’s voice cracked, and suddenly he was whispering. “She’s always so loud, y’know? Never sits still. Never—she wouldn’t just go quiet like this. She wouldn’t.”

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Buck. We’re gonna figure this out.”

Bucky shook his head, holding your hand tighter. “She promised me a future, Steve. She promised.”

And you weren’t waking up.

Not yet.

────────────────────────

Two Days Later

You hadn’t moved.

Not once.

Not even a twitch.

Bucky sat beside your cot, slouched in a metal folding chair, his fingers still wrapped around your hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His uniform was wrinkled. His face unshaved. Eyes red and ringed with exhaustion, like sleep hadn’t dared touch him in forty-eight hours.

Outside, the camp buzzed with movement—boots, trucks, whispered plans. Another Hydra facility marked. Another opportunity to get ahead.

But inside the tent, it was silent. Except for the monitor’s slow, steady beep. The only sign you were still in there somewhere.

He watched your face like it might change. Like your eyelids might flutter. Like you’d sigh and mutter something sarcastic just to mess with him.

But nothing. Stillness.

Until the tent flap rustled, and Steve stepped inside.

Bucky didn’t look at him.

Steve waited a beat, then approached quietly. “Zola’s train. We’ve got confirmation. If we intercept it, we can get him—and maybe trace it back to the Tesseract.”

Bucky’s grip on your hand tightened.

“Buck…”

“I can’t leave her,” Bucky muttered, voice low, ragged. “She could wake up. She’s gonna be scared, disoriented. I have to be here.”

Steve crouched beside him, elbows resting on his knees.

“She’s strong,” he said gently. “She’ll hold on. She always does.”

Bucky shook his head slowly, like if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. “She followed me here, Steve. Through hell. And now she’s like this ‘cause she was near me. I can’t—I won’t walk away from her.”

Steve was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, soft and steady, “One last mission.”

Bucky didn’t speak.

“We get Zola. We find out what Hydra’s planning. What they hit her with. Maybe it'll help Howard figure out how to wake her.“

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll come back to her. You always do.”

The silence stretched. Bucky looked at your face, memorizing it all over again.

Then—reluctantly, slowly—he stood.

He leaned down, brushed his lips over your knuckles. “Don’t you dare wake up without me.”

And then he walked out.

Into the mission that would steal him away.

─────────────────────��──

London Outskirts — Allied Medical Facility, April 1945

There was a buzzing under your skin.

Not like electricity. Not pain, exactly. Just… noise. Dull and heavy, like someone had wrapped you in cotton and dropped you underwater.

You blinked, slow and uneven, as the world filtered back in pieces.

White ceiling. IV drip. The scent of antiseptic and wilted flowers.

You didn’t know where you were. Or when. Or how long it had been since anything had felt real.

Your throat was dry. A soft, broken sound rasped from your lips, not quite a word, not quite a cry.

Movement.

A figure stirred beside you, and your head turned weakly toward it. There she was—Peggy Carter—neat, composed, hair swept into a familiar roll, lips pressed in a tight, unreadable line.

You tried to speak.

Nothing came out.

Your tongue felt thick. Your thoughts slow. Your chest ached—not sharp, but deep, like it had been cracked open and stitched back wrong.

Your lips parted. It took effort to find your voice.

“…Peg?”

She looked up instantly, eyes wide with something too deep to name. Relief. Sorrow. Something between the two.

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching for your hand. Her grip was warm. Gentle. “You’re awake.”

You blinked again. Your eyelids felt like stone.

“Where’s… Bucky?”

Peggy hesitated. And you knew.

Not because of what she said.

Because of how long it took her to say it.

You blinked again, trying to force the fog out of your head. “Where is he?” you repeated, a little clearer. A little louder.

Peggy’s eyes were steady. Too steady.

“There was a mission,” she said gently. “A train in the Alps. HYDRA. Bucky was… he fell.”

You stared at her, the words not quite landing.

“He fell,” you repeated.

She nodded once, eyes glistening. “Off the side. Into the ravine. We searched for him. We tried—”

“No.” It was out before you meant to say it.

Peggy looked down.

You opened your mouth to keep talking, but your chest locked up. Something thick and painful wedged under your ribs. You tried again.

The buzzing returned. It roared now. Every breath hurt.

“No…” you said again, barely above a whisper.

Peggy reached for your hand.

You flinched.

“No—no, no,” you repeated, squeezing your eyes shut like it would erase her words. “You’re wrong. He—he said—we had plans. He promised—he—”

Peggy squeezed your hand, her voice like broken glass. “I’m so sorry.”

Your chest heaved. Tears slid down your cheeks in silence—slow, unstoppable.

You didn’t sob. Not yet. You just cried. Soft and disbelieving.

The kind of crying that felt like your bones were cracking open from the inside out. Like your body couldn’t process the grief fast enough.

He was gone.

Your entire world, gone.

You turned your face away from Peggy, trembling as the tears kept falling.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t speak.

You just wept quietly into the pillow, mourning a future that died a thousand miles away—on a mountainside, in the snow—where no one could bring it back.

Five Years Later – Brooklyn, 1950

You didn’t notice it at first.

You never noticed anything, really.

The world had kept moving without you, chugging forward like a train on a track you’d never boarded. You went through the motions—woke up, went to work, cooked meals you rarely ate. Laughed sometimes, though you never meant it. Time passed. The war ended. Cities rebuilt.

But inside?

You were still there. Still in that bed. Still in that room.

Still clinging to a lifeless hand that never gripped back.

Grief had folded itself into your bones like marrow. You carried it like your own shadow—quiet, constant, invisible to anyone who didn’t know where to look.

You’d heard the comments, of course.

At first, they’d sounded like kindness.

“You’ve held up so well.”

“Still got that youthful glow, huh?”

“God, I wish my skin looked like that.”

But you never paid them any mind. Compliments slid off you like water off wax paper. You never saw what they saw. When you looked in the mirror, all you ever saw were dead eyes. Eyes that stopped shining the day Bucky didn’t come back to you.

Until one day… you looked.

Really looked.

You were standing in front of the mirror, brushing your wet hair absently, staring at yourself like usual—not *at* yourself, just through—when something pulled you up short.

Your hand stilled.

You blinked.

And this time, you really saw it.

Your cheeks—still full. No hollows. No lines from laughter or frowning, even though you'd done plenty of the latter and none of the former.

Your skin—glassy. Smooth. Not youthful, not radiant. Just… untouched.

No crow’s feet. No crease between your brows where you’d furrowed them every morning for five years straight.

Your fingers tightened around the brush.

You leaned closer.

No greys in your hair. Not one. You combed through the strands slowly with your fingers, heart beginning to thrum like distant thunder.

Your hands—steady, soft. No sag to the skin. No dark spots. No thinning at the knuckles.

You didn’t look thirty. You didn’t even look twenty-five. You looked exactly the same. And in 1950, that wasn’t beautiful.

It was unnatural.

It hit you in the gut like ice.

You stepped back from the mirror, shaking your head like that might fix it. Like your reflection might catch up to the pain you’d earned.

But it didn’t.

Because you hadn’t aged a day.

And something was very, very wrong.

That's how you ended up in front of Howard Stark again.

Hair wind-tossed, coat clutched tight around your body, eyes hollow as you stood in the lobby of a new office in Washington D.C.—clean lines, too many acronyms, glass walls that looked out onto a world you didn’t recognize anymore.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” you said.

Howard blinked when he saw you. He hadn’t changed much—bags deeper under his eyes, tie looser than it used to be, but his mind still whirring like a machine. He didn’t ask questions. Just brought you inside.

That’s how you found out about S.H.I.E.L.D.

Some quiet initiative he and Peggy had started—first as a resistance concept, now evolving into something more. Protection. Prevention. Oversight.

And now? Medical diagnostics. They ran tests. Endless ones. Blood. DNA mapping. Tissue scans. Vital readings.

They cross-referenced data from other soldiers exposed to Hydra weapons, to radiation, to anything remotely alien. They even examined your service uniform—residues from the blast, particles trapped in the fabric’s weave.

And the answer came slowly. Then all at once.

“You’re not aging,” Howard said, voice flat with disbelief, eyes scanning the readouts. “Not at all.”

Peggy sat in the corner of the room, hands clasped, eyes dim.

Your heart thudded in your chest.

Howard looked at the scans again. “Your cellular regeneration rate is exponentially higher than the baseline. Mitochondrial aging markers are… nonexistent. The tissue sample we took yesterday? It’s already reversed degradation overnight.”

You stared at him like he was speaking a language you didn’t want to learn.

“What does that mean?” you whispered.

He hesitated. “It means your body is repairing itself faster than it can age. And at this rate… it likely won’t ever stop.”

Your breath hitched.

Peggy stood. “We think it was the Tesseract,” she said gently. “The radiation wasn’t like anything we’ve encountered. It was… beyond us. Beyond Earth. It changed you.”

“I don’t want this,” you said, voice small, breaking. “Howard—fix it.”

He looked at you.

And for the first time in your life, you saw fear in his eyes.

“We’re trying.”

You laughed—short, bitter. “Try harder. I don’t want to be some—some relic. Some myth people study as I live forever. I don’t even want to live right now.”

Peggy reached for you. You pulled away.

And then the days blurred. Months passed in white walls and test tubes. Howard kept trying. Peggy kept reassuring. You kept waking up to the same face in the mirror, the same unwrinkled skin, the same 24-year-old trapped in a body that wouldn’t let go.

And before you knew it… it was 1960.

You were supposed to be forty. But the woman in the mirror? Still looked like the girl who had just lost everything.

New York, 1970

Stark Residence – Late Autumn

“He’s beautiful,” you said softly.

The baby blinked up at you, barely able to focus, cheeks round and pink, one tiny fist curled in your sweater. His eyelids fluttered, mouth opening in a sleepy pout.

“Can’t believe you named a baby Anthony, Howard,” you added dryly, glancing up at Howard. “What is he—fifty already?”

Maria laughed from her seat on the couch. “Thank you. That’s exactly what I said.”

Howard rolled his eyes. “It’s a strong name. Classic.”

“It’s a grandfather’s name,” you teased, rocking gently as the baby blinked again. “He’s gonna come out of the bassinet asking about tax reform.”

Maria smiled, rubbing her side gently. “How was Italy?”

You exhaled through a faint smile. “Beautiful. Quiet. Just the break I needed.”

Maria nodded knowingly. You didn’t have to say more. Everyone needed to escape sometimes. You, more than most.

“Though,” you added, “I did have some issues at the airport. Apparently, people get suspicious when your passport says you were born in 1920.”

Howard gave you a look from across the room, but you ignored him.

“And you?” you asked Maria, gently bouncing the baby as he started to fidget. “How are you doing? Six months in and you’re still glowing.”

Maria smiled, eyes warm. “Recovering. Slowly. He’s worth it, though.”

You nodded and glanced down at little Anthony. He yawned, the movement so pure and small it made your chest ache.

Then Howard spoke.

“You missed your last screening.”

The air shifted. The bounce of the baby in your arms slowed.

“It’s just one test,” you said without looking up. “None of them work anyway.”

Howard straightened from his chair. “That’s not the point. Science is evolving every day—we’re closer now than we were six months ago. You can’t just keep skipping—”

“You’ve been saying that to me for the last twenty-five years, Howard.”

Silence.

The baby cooed, soft and unaware of the sharpness that had entered the room.

Maria cleared her throat gently, trying to soften it again. “He’s right, you know. One day something will work.”

You rocked Anthony again, gaze drifting down to his little hand curling in your shirt.

Maria’s voice was softer now. “You ever think about doing this for yourself? Finding someone? Starting a family?”

You stared at the baby. Long enough that the quiet turned into something heavy.

Then you whispered, “So I can outlive them, too?”

No one spoke. Maria reached for her tea. Howard looked away.

Anthony blinked up at you, peaceful and unaware of the fact that your heart had just folded in half again—quietly, invisibly, like it had learned to over the decades.

Washington, D.C. – 2011

S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters, The Triskelion

Level 4 Medical Wing

The medical wing smelled like antiseptic and recycled air—sterile, humming, too bright. You’d memorized every corner of it. Every buzzing fluorescent tube. Every faint scratch on the polished floor from wheeled machines that came and went like clockwork.

You sat on the exam table, sleeve rolled up, arm extended. Your gaze was blank, unfocused, fixed on a point past the wall while the needle pierced your vein.

The young man adjusting the monitor beside you was rambling. Scottish. Awkward. Unapologetically enthusiastic.

“…so basically, your cellular repair rate’s increased by point-zero-four percent in the last decade, which—honestly? Shouldn’t even be possible. We’ve all sort of—well—not to be weird—but we’ve sort of been passing your case files around the medical research division like they’re…” He cleared his throat. “Like they’re legend.”

You blinked slowly.

He winced at himself. “Right. Sorry. That was probably weird to say out loud.”

You said nothing.

He smiled awkwardly and gently removed the IV. “Honestly, I can’t believe they’ve got me doing your panel this cycle. It’s usually Doctor Winslow, or sometimes Simmons when she’s not in the field—uh, that’s my colleague, she’s brilliant—but I drew the assignment this time and I—well, you’ve been with S.H.I.E.L.D. longer than the agency has even existed, which is wild, right?”

You tilted your head slightly, like you were watching a small animal knock its head against a glass door.

He fumbled with a tablet, clearly trying to keep the energy going. “Anyway, it’s fascinating. You’re…you’re basically a walking contradiction. Functionally immortal, ageless, regenerative to a degree we can’t replicate even with alien tech—God, I hope that wasn’t offensive, calling you that—immortal, I mean.”

You raised one brow.

He paled slightly. “Sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

You didn’t smile. But you also didn’t tell him to shut up, so he took it as a kind of social win.

When he finally finished up with the last scan, he gave you a sheepish glance.

“Um… would it be weird to ask for a photo?”

You slowly turned your head, looking at him fully for the first time.

The silence that followed was so sharp, it could’ve been used to sterilize the room.

His face blanched. “Right. Yes. Terrible idea. That was—that was inappropriate. Of course. Never mind. I’m just gonna go ahead and, uh—upload these. You’re done for today! Thanks!”

You slid off the table wordlessly, tugging your sleeve back down.

And as you walked out, you heard him whisper to himself, “Cool. No, totally cool. Great job, Fitz. Legendary immortal war nurse just stared into your soul.”

The door hissed shut behind you, and you exhaled—long, steady, trying to shake off the sterile weight of fluorescent lights and Fitz’s over-enthusiastic commentary still clinging to your thoughts like static.

You turned down the hall—

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall just outside the medical wing like he had all the time in the world. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders relaxed. That signature half-smile that never reached his eyes until you made it.

Agent Cole Turner.

“You missed your window,” you said, not even slowing your pace. “I escaped the lab untouched.”

He pushed off the wall, falling into step beside you effortlessly.

“They always let you go. I just come here for the view.”

You raised a brow. “You’re shameless.”

“And yet you don’t seem to mind,” he said, glancing sideways at you, voice low, rich, smooth enough to run a finger through. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you time your exit to run into me.”

“I could have you reassigned.”

“I’d come back.”

You cast him a glance—flat, unimpressed, too good at hiding the flutter under your ribs.

But he saw it.

He always saw it.

Turner let the silence hang a second too long. Then, like he couldn’t help himself:

“You look different today.”

You stiffened slightly. “Do I?”

“It’s your eyes,” he said, quieter now. “They’re a little softer. Sadder.”

You didn’t answer. He stopped walking. You took two more steps before you realized and turned slowly back to him.

“Something happen?”

“It’s just been a day,” you said.

He studied you for a long beat, something sharper edging into his expression. “You’re not like the rest of them.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“I say it like it’s true.” He took a step closer. “You keep everyone at arm’s length like it’s a strategy. But you still come back. Still take the tests. Still give just enough. Why?”

You blinked slowly. “Maybe I’m a creature of habit.”

“You’re not a creature of anything. You’re a woman who’s been running from something so long, she doesn’t know what it feels like to stay.”

That hit a little too close. You looked away.

Turner’s voice dropped again, lower, more deliberate. “I could take you out. Just coffee. Just air.”

You stared at him.

“You don’t even know what today is,” you said softly.

He tilted his head. “Then tell me.”

You didn’t. Because it was your birthday. You were now ninety-one.

And you still looked like you were twenty-four, standing in front of a man you might’ve let yourself love in a different life.

You gave a short breath of a smile instead. “You’re really bad at backing off.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “That’s what they keep telling me.”

You turned away before he could see you almost smile again.

He fell into step beside you once more, casually.

“Tell me one thing, and I’ll go.”

You paused. “What?”

“Do you look at me like that on purpose?”

You didn’t look at him this time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you did. And so did he.

He let out a soft breath, low and amused. “Then I’ll see you around.”

You didn’t watch him walk away. But you wanted to. More than you’d admit.

But you continued, stepping out into the cool D.C. air, the late afternoon light washing over the concrete courtyard in golden warmth.

And for the first time that day—a real smile touched your lips.

Because there he was.

Leaning against a sleek black Audi like it was a runway, sunglasses perched on his nose, suit pressed like he hadn’t ever known a wrinkle in his life.

Tony Stark.

He pushed off the car when he saw you, arms opening like he was about to go full dramatic hug.

You crossed your arms. “What are you doing here?”

He removed his sunglasses with a flourish. “What, you think I’d miss my godmother’s birthday? The woman who once grounded me for hot-wiring my own father’s car?”

“You were eleven,” you said.

“I was innovating,” he countered, pointing a finger. “Visionary. Ahead of my time.”

“You were stealing a ride to go get candy.”

Tony grinned. “And you were the only one who had the guts to chase me down in heels and throw me into a bush.”

You shrugged. “And I’d do it again.”

“I know. That’s why I love you.” He opened the passenger side door. “Get in, old lady. I’m taking you out.”

You raised a brow. “Where?”

“That crappy restaurant in Brooklyn you always go on about,” he said, circling around to his side. “You know the one. Peeling wallpaper. Weird lasagna. Waiter with a God complex.”

“Vincent’s,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You hate that place.”

He started the car. “I do. But you don’t. And I’m feeling particularly generous today.”

You slid in beside him, smirking. “Did Pepper put you up to this?”

He turned to you with mock offense. “Wow. You think I can’t do a nice thing out of my own volition?”

“You called me an ‘ancient vampire’ last year when I wouldn’t let you have champagne before noon.”

“And I was right,” he said. “But you’re my ancient vampire. Which means I’m buying you overpriced garlic bread and pretending I don’t gag at marinara.”

You laughed, for real this time, the sound warm and effortless.

He glanced at you sideways, smirk softening. “You deserve something good today.”

You looked out the window for a second. “Thanks, Tony.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just pulled onto the road and turned the radio down.

Then, casually: “You know, if I had a time machine, I’d go back and punch anyone who ever made you feel alone on your birthday.”

You looked at him again—really looked.

And your chest ached in the best way.

“Careful,” you said. “If you get any more sentimental, I might think you’re going soft.”

He smirked. “I’m Tony Stark. I can be whatever I want.”

You smiled again. “Then today? Be my annoying godson who buys me garlic bread.”

“Done.”

────────────────────────

The cabin of Tony’s jet was warm and plush, stocked with things you’d never dream of asking for but he always insisted on having. The faint hum of altitude mixed with his voice as he made some dramatic comment about how you were a “terrible birthday date” for refusing to pick a champagne.

You rolled your eyes, lounging with a drink in hand, just starting to let yourself relax.

And then your phone rang.

You frowned.

Tony looked up too. “You actually have your ringer on? What are you, eighty?”

“Actually I'm ninety-one,” you murmured, glancing at the screen.

Unknown.

You picked up.

“…Hello?”

“Don’t speak,” came Fury’s voice, sharp and direct. “Just listen. We’ve got a situation. You need to come to our Manhattan facility. Immediately.”

You straightened in your seat. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

“We recovered something. Someone.”

You were already on edge. “Fury—”

“It’s Rogers,” he said flatly. “Captain America. We found his body in the Arctic. He’s… he’s awake.”

Silence.

It ripped through you like a bullet.

“What?”

“We thawed him two days ago. He’s stable. Fully conscious. Still adjusting.”

Your breath left your lungs like a punch. “You what? And you’re just telling me now? I should’ve been told the moment you found him—how long have you known?!”

There was a beat of static. Then the line went dead. You pulled the phone back, stared at the screen: Call ended.

“Motherf—” You cut yourself off, nearly launching the device across the cabin.

Tony raised both brows, slowly closing his tablet. “Well. That sounded like a vibe killer.”

You were already standing, heart pounding, hands shaking. “I—I need to raincheck. I’m sorry.”

He blinked. “Raincheck? On your birthday dinner?”

You looked at him, pained. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious.”

He studied you for a second, expression unreadable.

Then: “Fine. But if this turns out to be you ghosting me to avoid carbs, I will send you gluten-laced muffins in retaliation.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, grateful and soft.

“Next time,” you promised.

He nodded, but as you rushed toward the cabin door, he called after you.

“Tell the Captain he owes me a drink. I’ve got questions about the hair.”

You didn’t answer.

You were already gone.

────────────────────────

S.H.I.E.L.D. Manhattan Facility – Sub-Level 3

The elevator opened with a cold metallic hiss, and there he was—Nick Fury, standing at the threshold with his arms folded, eye already tracking your every movement like he expected a detonation.

You didn’t greet him.

You didn’t slow down.

You stormed past him with the force of a tidal wave.

“You should’ve told me immediately,” you snapped, heels echoing down the corridor as he turned to follow you.

He didn’t flinch. “You weren’t cleared.”

You stopped.

Pivoted sharply.

Face to face with the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., your expression carved from stone.

“Bullshit.”

Fury’s jaw flexed. “Might I remind you that you are not an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Nevertheless having the clearance—”

“He is Captain goddamn America,” you bit out, voice low and lethal. “And you thought it wasn’t logical to contact the only living person he knows? The one who knew him before the shield, before the serum, before the goddamn war?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stepped closer, finger pointed square at his chest.

“Don’t play smart with me, boy.”

That stopped him. For a second, the Director of the world’s most covert agency looked like he’d been slapped.

“I was born before your parents even met,” you said coldly. “I was holding soldiers hand while they bled out on a field you’ve only ever read about. I sat in a room and cried over Steve Rogers before your daddy learned how to spell his own name.”

Your voice shook—not with weakness, but with fury barely leashed. “I watched everyone I ever loved disappear. And now he’s back, and you didn’t tell me.”

Fury’s gaze dropped, just for a moment.

“You think S.H.I.E.L.D. built me?” you hissed. “I’ve outlived organizations. I’ve outlived time. You don’t keep something like this from me.”

There was a beat of silence. The hallway was cold and empty, save for your words hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Fury spoke, quieter.

“…He’s just through here.”

You stared at the door.

Your hand trembled, just slightly. The door slid open with a soft hiss.

The room beyond was quiet, dimly lit. Stark white walls. No windows. Just the low hum of surveillance tech and a single man sitting at the edge of a hospital-style cot.

Steve Rogers.

His elbows rested on his knees, broad shoulders hunched, head in his hands like the weight of the century he missed was finally bearing down.

You stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind you with a final click.

He didn’t hear it. Not at first. But then—his head lifted. His eyes—tired, shell-shocked, too blue—locked on yours.

And for a moment… everything stilled.

He stared at you like you were a ghost. Like you might disappear if he blinked too hard.

“…No,” he whispered, breath catching in his chest. “No… that can’t be…”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at him, eyes burning. “It’s me, Steve.”

He was on his feet in seconds—crossing the room in three long, desperate strides, his hand reaching before he could stop himself, like he needed to touch you to believe you were real.

You let him.

He stopped inches away, eyes wide, searching every line of your face.

You whispered, “I’m real.”

He didn’t speak.

He just pulled you into his arms—tight, fierce, trembling—and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding for seventy years.

His voice cracked at your ear.

“…How?”

You closed your eyes, gripping the back of his shirt. “It’s a long story. One you won’t believe.”

He held you like the world had finally stopped spinning.

And maybe, for one perfect second, it had.

────────────────────────

New York City – Stark Tower, 2012

The streets of Manhattan were still choked with debris, flickering emergency lights, and the aftermath of an invasion no one expected. But you didn’t stop moving—not through the airport, not through the eerily quiet flight, not through the ash and twisted metal littering the city.

Because you saw it.

The footage.

Steve.

Tony.

A hole in the sky. And now—you were here.

You stepped through the busted entryway of Stark Tower, heart in your throat, shoes crunching glass. Security didn’t stop you. They knew who you were.

You pushed through the ruined lobby, into the elevator—thankfully still functioning—and rode it in dead silence, hands clenched.

The doors opened onto chaos.

And you saw them.

Tony, pacing near a half-functional console, bruised and blood-streaked but upright. Romanoff sitting on the edge of a workbench, stitches on her temple. Barton standing guard at the window. And—

“Steve—”

He turned at the sound of your voice.

You crossed the room before you could stop yourself, arms flying around him, holding tight.

“Are you okay?” you demanded, breathless, checking him over with your hands, ignoring the shield slung across his back. “What the hell happened—I saw you on the news, I thought—”

“I’m okay,” he murmured, voice tired but warm. “I’m here.”

“Well, great,” Tony cut in dryly, limping slightly toward you. “Glad to see Cap gets all the hugs. Never mind me, the guy who literally flew a nuke into space and crash-landed back to Earth like a comet.”

You turned, expression flat. Then without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him too, tight, one hand on the back of his head.

He blinked. “Okay. Wow. That worked better than expected.”

You pulled back. “Never do that again.”

“No promises,” he said, voice softer now. “But… since you’re here—” he gestured vaguely to the rubble, “—and we’re alive, I might’ve found something. A possible fix.”

You frowned. “Fix for what?”

Before he could answer, a voice echoed behind you like rolling thunder.

“Milady.”

You turned—and stared.

There, standing tall among the wreckage, was a man out of myth.

Blonde hair, broad shoulders, armor gleaming despite the mess. A cape. And a hammer—impossibly heavy-looking, dangling from his fingers like it was nothing.

Your eyes widened.

He stepped forward with regal ease. “I am Thor of Asgard, son of Odin, and wielder of Mjölnir.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

He bowed his head slightly. “The Captain of America and the Man of Iron have spoken of you.”

Steve looked faintly exasperated; Tony was smirking.

“They told me of your… predicament,” Thor continued, “and of the relic that caused it. The Tesseract and it's power is not unknown to me. It is one of the Infinity Stones—powerful beyond your world’s understanding.”

You glanced between them, mind catching up. “You know what it is?”

Thor nodded. “And I believe I can help.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, all you could see was possibility.

You turned slowly toward Steve, toward Tony.

Steve gave a small, hopeful nod. “I think he can really help you.”

And for the first time in a very, very long time…you felt it.

Hope.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn – Abandoned Warehouse, October 2014

The space was cold. Cracked walls. Rotting beams. Bare concrete that echoed every breath like it was trying to remind him he was still alive.

He sat in the corner of the second floor, back to the wall, knees drawn up, metal fingers clenched around the edge of a weather-worn blanket someone had left behind. He hadn't turned the lights on. He couldn't. He didn’t want to see what kind of ghost looked back at him.

A memory flickered.

A pair of blue eyes—his? Someone else's?

Gone.

He pressed his fists to his forehead, hard. Like pressure might force the truth out.

He knew the facts.

Names from placards and plaques. Faces on digital screens in museum halls. Steve Rogers: Hero. Captain. Friend.

And a photograph—grainy, faded.

Her.

You.

A woman in a dark dress. Laughing. Elbow hooked in Bucky Barnes’s. Smiling like you didn’t know war was waiting.

But he didn’t remember your name.

Not really.

Only—flashes.

A smoky bar. Laughter like wind chimes. A voice sharp with wit, low with want. The way you’d leaned in, chin tipped up, mouth just barely grazing his.

Then—touch. A warm thigh under his palm. Your fingers threaded through his hair. Skin on skin in a dark apartment that smelled like old books and lavender. His hand gripping your hip, your breath catching in his ear, your laugh—

“You make it too easy to love you.”

That one he remembered.

He choked on a breath. Pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth.

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

His mind was full of holes, Hydra-shaped voids that swallowed everything whole. But you were like a splinter stuck beneath his ribs—sharp, aching, impossible to dig out.

And it hurt. It hurt.

Not just the not-knowing. The not-having. But the knowing enough to miss it. To miss you.

He doubled over, forehead to his knees, metal fingers curling into the floor, dragging small scars into the concrete.

He hadn’t cried. Not in forever. But now his chest was cracking open, silent and violent and shaking.

Because the woman in the flashes—

the one who touched him like he wasn’t a weapon—

the one who kissed him like tomorrow was a joke—

She was real.

The air had gone still.

No traffic. No wind. Just the buzz of old wiring somewhere in the walls and the sound of his own breathing—too fast, too shallow, like even that was a struggle.

He opened his notebook again—small, weather-stained, bent at the corners. A pen rested inside it, lid chewed to hell. His hand trembled as he flipped past scribbled museum facts, fragmented Russian, coordinates scratched in blind frustration.

Then—on the last page. A single line.

"Beautiful eyes, sharp mouth. Loud and free."

He stared at it. He didn’t remember writing it. But he knew it was about you.

You, who lived in the gaps between dreams and triggers. You, who surfaced in the quiet moments before the nightmares started. You, who touched him like he wasn’t broken, even though maybe he always had been.

The worst part? He couldn’t remember your name. Not your voice. Not your laugh in full.

Just impressions—like the warmth a flame leaves after it’s gone out.

A breathless laugh behind a rooftop kiss. A low murmur against his throat—“Don’t ever leave me.” A flash of skin in moonlight, your leg draped over his hip. And something deeper. Something dear.

The way you’d looked at him once—like he was worth everything. That memory stabbed.

Because no one looked at him like that anymore. Not even himself.

His metal hand clenched around the pen until it creaked, until it cracked, until the ink bled into his palm and he barely noticed.

He stood, pacing, fast and desperate. He needed something. A lead. A name. A reason.

He tore through the backpack he kept hidden under the floorboards—scavenged burner phones, papers, an old StarkPad he barely knew how to use.

He cracked it open with shaking hands.

Typed:

Brooklyn, 1940s. Woman. Bucky Barnes.

Nothing. Too vague.

Bucky Barnes. War nurse. Brooklyn, 1940s. WW2.

Still nothing useful.

He slammed the pad down hard enough to fracture the case.

“Please…” he whispered to no one. “Please…”

He didn’t know who he was begging.

Not Steve. Not God. Just you.

Because he could live without memories. But not without you.

The cracked StarkPad balanced on his knee, the screen flickering from overuse. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then moved faster—typing, deleting, retyping again over and over.

And then—

There it was.

A headline.

“The Mysterious Case of The Girl Stuck in Time: Survivor of World War II. Known for her service as a front-line nurse alongside Captain America and the Howling Commandos. Has not aged since 1945.“

His breath caught.

He clicked the article with trembling fingers, the screen loading slow like it knew it held something sacred.

There you were.

A black-and-white photo from the war, standing in uniform beside Steve and him, smiling wide. The same eyes.

Then a more recent image—different setting. S.H.I.E.L.D. file photo, maybe. Hair pulled back, skin impossibly smooth. Too smooth. Like glass. Like time had decided it didn’t apply to you.

You looked the same.

But also—not.

The curve of your lips was tight, your eyes dull. Your beauty was preserved, but your light had dulled. In the photo, you looked like someone still breathing only because the alternative was worse.

His fingers brushed the screen like it might bring you closer.

He didn't understand.

What the hell did they do to you?

He dug deeper. Articles. Theories. Old interviews. They all called you a miracle. A myth. A phenomenon.

They didn’t know what he did.

That you were real.

Warm. Loud. Wild.

The girl who kissed him like the world was ending.

The woman who swore she’d never let the war steal you both.

Now the war had ended.

And you were still fighting.

He kept scrolling. More photos. All of them wrong.

That wasn’t how you’d looked when you whispered “You’re mine” against his mouth.

But you were alive.

His heart pounded. For the first time since the collapse of the helicarriers—for the first time since your name came back to him—he felt something close to clarity.

He had to find you.

No matter how long it took. No matter who you’d become. Because somewhere in there—

you were still his.

────────────────────────

San Francisco – November, 2014

Outer Richmond District, 4:37 p.m.

The sky hung low, swollen with clouds, heavy with the kind of gray that made the entire street look washed in cold ash. Rain fell in a soft, steady rhythm—thousands of tiny drops kissing pavement, pooling along curbs, hissing off car roofs.

Bucky stood across the street, half-sheltered beneath the overhang of a florist’s shop. A faded baseball cap pulled low over his brow, collar turned up high. The leather of his gloves creaked as his fingers flexed in slow, anxious rhythm.

He’d been here for hours.

Watched people pass. Listened to the city breathe in traffic hums and bicycle bells.

Waiting.

Waiting to see you.

He knew your life now—what pieces the world had.

The woman they called “The Girl Stuck in Time.”

He’d read everything. Every grainy tabloid photo, every polished New York Times spread from the 60s. He found the interview you gave in ’71—your voice quiet, controlled, your smile tight as you said you were just “trying to do something good with the time I’ve been given.”

Philanthropy. Global aid. A foundation in your name. Book deals you barely promoted. Speeches you didn’t like giving. Smiling for photos you didn’t believe in.

A life that looked full. Beautiful.

But behind your eyes? Still the same sadness from the museum photos.

Still you.

And now you lived here. In San Francisco. Far from Brooklyn. Far from the ghosts.

He didn’t blame you.

He didn’t know what he expected. He didn’t even know what he wanted.

Just a glimpse.

Just you.

You stepped out of the café first—coat belted tight, hair swept back from your face, a slight flush to your cheeks from the warmth you’d just left behind. Your umbrella tilted slightly as you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, brow furrowed at something on your phone.

And then you looked up.

It wasn’t even at him—just up, vaguely, across the street.

But it didn’t matter.

Because your face.

Bucky’s lungs forgot how to work.

You looked exactly like the pictures.

Exactly like the memories—at least, the fractured ones that still burned inside him.

But it was more than that.

It was you.

Alive. Breathing. Whole.

The girl from his dreams. The girl who haunted the spaces between gunfire and screaming. The girl whose name he whispered in sleep like a prayer, whose laugh he remembered better than his own.

You weren’t just real. You were here. And for one moment, just one impossible second—

You smiled.

Soft. Small.

Like the rain didn’t matter. Like maybe you had seen him. And in that moment, Bucky thought—maybe.

Maybe this was it. Maybe the universe had given him a mercy. Maybe you had been waiting for him too. Maybe this was the end of the darkness. Maybe he could finally come home.

His feet moved before he knew it. One step into the street. Then another.

Then—

Another figure stepped into view. A man. Umbrella in one hand, bouquet in the other.

Bucky stopped. Mid-step.

The man reached you. And you lit up. Brighter than you had been in those pictures he saw. Brighter than any memory he had left of you.

You laughed, pressed your hand to your mouth, and said something Bucky couldn’t hear, but he didn’t need to. The look on your face said everything.

This wasn’t polite. Wasn’t passing. This was love.

The way you touched his arm. The way he brushed a thumb across your jaw, held your umbrella steady as you tilted your head to receive it.

The flowers. Hydrangeas, your favorite. The familiar rhythm of your bodies as you walked together. The comfort of your closeness.

It was intimate. It was effortless. It was everything Bucky had lost—and you had found.

His chest cracked. Not in a dramatic way. Not loud.

Just quietly. Completely.

He stumbled back onto the curb like he’d been punched, mouth open, breath stolen. His hands curled into fists—both of them—like he could grip the pain and hold it somewhere that wasn’t his ribs.

You were smiling like you were safe.

You were holding someone else like he was home.

The ache bloomed slow.

Hot. Cold. Heavy.

He backed into the shadow of the building, eyes still locked on you.

He had imagined this moment so many times.

But in all of them, you were alone. Waiting. Needing him.

Not…

Not like this.

Not happy. Not healed. Not loved by someone else.

He didn’t feel the rain pick up again. Didn’t feel the damp against his jacket, the wind at his back. All he felt was the slow collapse of something deep in his chest.

A collapse that didn’t come with a crash.

Just… silence.

Stillness.

Because he was too late.

The woman in his dreams—the girl from rooftops, from crumpled sheets, from smoky bars and whispered promises—she had survived.

She had moved on.

And he had no right to pull her back.

Because that smile—

That was enough. That was all he came for.

Once more to see you.

────────────────────────

San Francisco, January 2015

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t know how to breathe.

Steve had said the words so quietly, like saying them too loud might break something sacred.

“He’s alive.”

And your whole world folded in on itself. Again.

You stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. Waiting for it to make sense.

It didn’t.

Not right away.

Your hands were still in your lap. Fingers laced together, knuckles bone-white. You hadn’t moved since he said it—like if you stayed perfectly still, the gravity wouldn’t shift.

But it already had.

“He went into hiding after D.C.,” Steve had said, voice tight. “Tried to disappear again. But eventually… he came to me.”

You hadn’t looked at him. Couldn’t. The room felt too full. Too loud.

“And the only thing I could think to do…” He’d run a hand through his hair. “He needs something to hold on to. Someone. He barely remembers me. Only fragments. Just what Hydra left behind, and what he read in a museum.”

A sharp breath caught in your throat. Of course. That’s what he’d been reduced to. A legend on a plaque. A soldier behind glass.

And now—he was breathing. Somewhere in the same country. And he didn’t even remember Steve.

But he remembered you.

That’s why Steve was here. Because you were the only thread Bucky still clung to in the tangled web of his mind.

“I didn’t know if I should come,” Steve said finally, quieter now. “But… if there’s anything that can help him—it’s you.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed again. Nothing came out.

Because you had loved him. Loved him with every second you were sure you’d never get back.

And now? Now he was here.

And it felt like your heart had just started again. But you didn’t know if it was beating for him.

You didn’t know what to feel—except everything, all at once.

────────────────────────

New York City – Stark Tower, February, 2015

The jet landed in silence. No welcoming fanfare. No agents or escorts. Just the hum of engines winding down and the weight of Steve Rogers standing beside you like the ghost of your former life made flesh.

He hadn’t said much during the flight. He didn’t need to. The silence between you spoke loud enough.

And now, as you stepped into the elevator, every floor closer felt like pressure against your lungs. The kind that makes it hard to breathe.

You hadn’t seen Bucky Barnes in seventy years. And he wasn’t the same man.

Steve had told you as much. That the boy who used to kiss your neck in the back of his tenement hallway now had metal where his arm used to be. That he rarely spoke unless spoken to. That he was healing—but painfully slow.

You nodded. Told Steve you understood. But you didn’t. Not until the elevator doors opened. Not until you saw him.

He was in the corner of the room—half-shadowed, quiet, like he was trying to make himself smaller than a man his size could be.

And God, he was bigger.

The serum had carved him into something unrecognizable and so achingly familiar. Broad shoulders, thick arms, his back rising and falling in slow, cautious breaths.

But it was the hair that struck you.

Longer now, brushing his jaw. Unkempt but soft. And tucked behind it—those eyes.

Still that same steel-blue.

Still yours.

For a second, you didn’t move.

Your eyes traced the metal arm—exposed, gleaming in the light. Every line of it sculpted, silent, awful. That was new. That wasn’t the man you remembered. That arm had done things your Bucky never would have.

But when he turned—

When he really looked at you—

Time stopped.

Your breath caught in your throat like a sob you hadn’t meant to let out. And still… you walked forward. One slow step at a time. Trying to keep your spine straight. Your voice level.

“Do you… do you know who I am?” you asked.

You hated how your voice trembled.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Like his body knew before his mind did. Like his heart was dragging up something his brain couldn’t catch yet.

Then—finally—he spoke. Your name. Whispered. Barely there.

But yours.

It hit you like a knife to the sternum.

His lips parted like he wanted to say more—but the words came slow, fractured, unsteady.

“I… I met you in a bar,” he murmured, voice raw from disuse. “June ’41. Summer night. You were with… friends. Your hair was down. Laughing.”

“And you…” he huffed, something like a memory making his mouth twitch. “You told me not to buy you a drink because you didn’t like whiskey. Said I could impress you by dancing instead.”

Your eyes burned.

“You danced with me. That night. All night.”

A slow nod.

“And the next,” he mumbled. “And every night I could steal before they shipped us out.”

You looked at him then—really looked—and felt everything crash forward. All the time, all the silence, all the grief.

Because it was him. Changed. But him.

That need—the one you thought had died with the war—it flooded you all over again. Your skin remembered his touch. Your mouth remembered the shape of his name in a moan. Your heart remembered everything.

It was still there. Alive and loud and aching. But so was something else.

Because you loved someone else now. A different man. A good man. One who had held you when the world forgot you. One who kissed your cheek when your nightmares made you shake. One who was real.

And now your whole world was breaking open.

All over again.

A Year Later

The Avengers Compound – Sublevel Quarters

Morning, June 2016

The world was quiet. Too quiet for a day like this.

Bucky sat in the half-dark of his room, blinds pulled but not shut. Sunlight bled through in thin, uneven strips, painting his floor in quiet gold. The air was warm—June warmth—but he hadn’t changed out of last night’s clothes. Just a black shirt. Worn jeans. Bare feet.

The metal arm caught the sunlight. And he hated how quiet the room was. How quiet he was.

The voices were gone now. The static. The screaming commands. The weight of Hydra’s grip wasn’t around his throat anymore—but something else had replaced it.

Emptiness.

Like he’d fought his way out of hell and found nothing waiting for him on the other side.

His reflection in windows didn’t scare him now.

But it didn’t look like him, either. He didn’t know what he looked like anymore.

There was a knock. Soft. Then the door opened slowly.

Steve stepped in, already in a charcoal suit, tie neat. He looked uncomfortable—like the fabric didn’t sit right on his soldier’s frame. But his expression was soft. Tired. Familiar.

“We’re headin’ out,” Steve said, voice low. “Last call if you wanna come.”

Bucky didn’t look at him.

Just kept twisting the chain of his dog tags—cool, rhythmic, constant.

He already knew what today was.

Your wedding day.

And somehow, it felt like his funeral.

Today, you’d be someone else’s wife.

You’d wear white.

You’d say I do.

And Bucky would watch the sunset knowing he wasn’t the man you wanted forever with anymore.

“I’m not coming,” Bucky murmured, finally.

Steve didn’t answer right away. He stepped in, let the door close behind him.

“You could,” he said. “Nobody would mind.”

“I would.”

Silence.

Steve sighed. “You’re not… excluded, Buck.”

Bucky let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh. Could’ve been a choke.

“I know.”

His fingers stopped moving.

“I just don’t think I can watch it happen,” he whispered.

Steve looked at him for a long time. “You love her.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“I’m glad she’s happy,” Bucky said eventually. “I mean it.”

Steve nodded, quiet.

“But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

The room fell still again.

Steve walked over, rested a hand briefly on Bucky’s shouler, “It’s okay, Buck.”

He hated how gentle his voice was. Hated that he needed it.

“You did good, letting her go.”

Bucky didn’t look at him just clenched his fist over the tags.

He didn't say anything else. He couldn't.

And then Steve turned to leave. Gave him one last look over his shoulder.

“I’ll tell her you said congratulations.”

The door clicked shut behind him. And Bucky just sat there. Still. Breathing like it hurt. The silence swelled again. And then—

Something snapped.

He stood. Abruptly. Too fast. The chair scraped.

His breath caught. He stared at the door. His chest was tight. His heart too loud.

He didn’t know what he was going to say. Or do.

But he had to see you.

Just once.

One more time.

Before he let you go completely.

────────────────────────

The Plaza, Private Bridal Suite – New York, Late Morning, June 2016

The room was silent.

Soft light filtered in through lace-curtained windows, dust floating like quiet confetti in the air. The kind of stillness meant to calm. The kind of stillness you’d prayed for.

You stood in front of the mirror, veil draped over the back of a nearby chair. The dress fit perfectly. Your hair was set, every pin tucked just so. Everything was exactly how you had planned it.

And still…

Your fingers trembled as they traced the edge of your neckline.

Your eyes studied your reflection like it was a stranger.

This was supposed to be the beginning. The start of your real life.

You’d earned this. You’d survived. In 2012, the doctors confirmed it—after Thor's help, your cells had finally stabilized. The tesseract’s grip had faded. You were free.

You were aging. Like everyone else. Like you were supposed to. And you’d cried.

Out of relief. Out of fear. Out of the overwhelming weight of time returning to your body.

But you hadn’t gone back to your old self.

You hadn’t gone back to her.

The wild girl who danced barefoot. Who loved a soldier with reckless joy. Who pressed her cheek to a metal dog tag in the dark and whispered “come back to me.”

You buried her.

Built something new. Something safe.

You found someone who loved the woman you became—quiet, poised, a little haunted but finally real.

And today, you were marrying him.

Your hand hovered over your heart. But there was this… ache.

It didn’t make sense. Everything was perfect.

The dress. The weather. The man waiting at the altar. But something deep inside your chest was pulling.

You pressed your hand flat to your ribcage, as if that would stop it. It wouldn’t.

Because it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was something else.

Something… missing.

And you didn’t know why.

You didn’t hear the door open. You didn't hear it close. You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.

You were too lost in the mirror. In the image of yourself. The one everyone else would call beautiful. Radiant. The woman who made it. Who endured.

But all you saw was someone still trying to believe this was real. Still trying to make that ache go away.

Then—

A voice. Low. Familiar. Reverent.

“You look beautiful.”

You flinched. Spun. Your breath caught. Because he was there.

Bucky.

Standing just inside the door, tux fitted like it was cut from memory, his long hair combed back, bowtie slightly uneven—because of course it was.

He looked… God.

He looked unreal.

You hadn’t seen him in months. Not since you’d started wedding planning. Not since the night you said goodbye with your eyes but not your mouth.

But here he was. Right in front of you.

You stared at him. And he stared right back. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

The air felt too thin.

And somehow, it wasn’t the dress that made you feel exposed—it was his eyes.

Because he looked at you like he still remembered the curve of your smile before it broke. Like he still saw the woman from 1942. And every version you became after.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

It was all you could manage.

His lips parted like your name was the only thing holding him together. He took a breath.

And the world, for just a second—stopped turning.

Your throat was tight. It ached just to breathe.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Your fingers brushed against the fabric of your gown, like that would steady you. Like anything could.

Bucky’s eyes dropped briefly to your hand. And lingered.

On the ring. Silver. Simple. Clean.

His mouth twitched—not in a smile. In something like memory.

“For him,” he murmured. “Not you.”

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded at your hand. “It’s silver. You always liked gold.”

You looked down. And for a second, the breath you’d been holding collapsed in your lungs. Because he was right. You did like gold. You always had.

“Bucky…” your voice broke around the name, fragile.

He stepped closer. Not much. Just enough to be near.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I just—I needed to see you. Just once.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely stand.

His voice was velvet and gravel, threaded with every unspoken word you’d buried over the years.

“I didn’t come to stop you,” he said. “I just… I didn’t want the last time I saw you to be the memory of you walking away.”

You closed your eyes. Because it hurt.

Everything about this—his presence, his voice, his knowing you even now—it made your chest feel like it was folding in on itself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“But you are.”

“I am.”

Silence. Thick. Unforgiving. And still—you didn’t move. You swallowed, but it didn’t help.

Your voice came out thinner than you meant it to, laced with something between ache and awe.

“You’re alive…”

You shook your head, barely. “But I still feel like I’m mourning you.”

The words hit the room like a confession no one had earned but had to be said anyway.

And maybe you were mourning him.

Not just the man in front of you, breathing and solid, with his tux and his sorrowful eyes. But the man you were supposed to have.

The one who never got to put a ring on your finger. The one who never came back from that train.

A tear slipped free before you could stop it. Bucky moved before you even registered it—just one step. But it was instinct. Memory. Love.

His fingers brushed your cheek, feather-light, catching the tear like it offended him. His metal hand didn’t flinch. He held you like he might break something sacred.

You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. Sighed softly, shakily.

He studied you like you were the most precious thing on earth.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured, voice low, rough-edged. “It’ll ruin your face.”

You let out something between a laugh and a sob. “It’s already ruined.”

“No,” he said, softly, firmly. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath stilled. His thumb traced the damp track left behind. His brow was drawn, eyes dim but focused like the moment might disappear if he blinked. And in his silence was everything neither of you could say.

I loved you. I still do. But it’s not mine to hold anymore.

You didn’t mean to reach for him. But you did.

Arms around his waist. Face against his chest. The scent of him—clean, warm, familiar in a way that shattered you.

And he held you. Not like someone about to say goodbye. But like someone who already had. His arms wrapped around you like they were the only safe place you had left. One flesh, one steel. Both trembling.

You could feel his heartbeat—steady, slow, heavy.

He lowered his head, nose brushing your hair, your temple, your jaw. And he breathed you in. Like he wanted to memorize you one last time. Like this was the end of a dream he had held onto for too long.

You held him just as tightly.

Because what else could you do? What else could you give him, when your name was about to become someone else’s?

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispered.

And the silence that followed was louder than any scream. You didn’t say it back. Not because it wasn’t true. But because it was.

A knock shattered the stillness. Soft. Gentle. Final. You both froze.

Your hands lingered on his back for just one more second. Then slowly—too slowly—you pulled away.

You crossed the room. Heart in your throat. You opened the door.

Tony stood there in a sleek tux, his mouth already forming some sarcastic line until his eyes locked on you. And for once—he said nothing.

He just looked at you. Then softly, “You ready?”

You didn’t answer right away. You turned.

Bucky stood in the shadowed half of the room, just behind the edge of the door. Out of sight. Out of reach.

But your eyes found his. One last time.

He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. But he nodded. Just once.

You nodded back. And then turned.

You took the bouquet Tony handed you. Slipped your fingers into the loop of your veil.

And when he offered his arm, you rested your hand on it gently.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. Because some part of you would always be in that room.

Wrapped in arms that could no longer hold you.

────────────────────────

The music swelled—soft, elegant, perfect.

You held onto Tony’s arm, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands. Your veil floated gently behind you, trailing over polished marble floors beneath glittering chandeliers.

The room was everything you’d never imagined as a little girl. Beautiful. Grand. Full of carefully curated perfection.

Your eyes lifted—

And there he was.

Cole.

Waiting at the altar. Back straight. Eyes soft. A man who had held your hand through everything, who had made you laugh when you thought you’d forgotten how.

But as your steps echoed down the aisle—

Your mind drifted. Just for a second.

And the year wasn’t 2016 anymore.

It was 1946.

And you weren’t in Upper Manhattan.

You were in a modest little church in Brooklyn—St. Mary’s of Carmine, two blocks from the tenement you’d grown up in. The kind of church with creaky pews and peeling paint, where sunlight spilled through old stained glass like warm memory.

And waiting at the end of that aisle…

Was Bucky.

Fresh-faced. Hair neat, eyes wide and red-rimmed like he’d already cried and might do it again. He looked at you like the whole damn war had been worth it just to see you in white.

Next to him—Steve. Grinning, proud, a little choked up but trying to play it cool.

You weren’t wearing silk or designer lace. Just a simple, sleeveless dress. No name label. Just love stitched into every seam.

And you were walking toward forever.

The fantasy faded as the room came back into focus—music, flowers, the soft murmur of guests.

Cole was still there. Still smiling. Still waiting.

And you loved him. You really did.

But as you neared him—hand still resting on Tony’s arm—you couldn’t stop the ache that curled low in your chest.

Because somewhere in time, in a church that never stood long enough… You’d already walked this aisle once before.

Your steps slowed. Tony gently squeezed your hand, then released your arm, stepping back as you took your place at the altar.

The air was still.

Cole turned to face you fully. His eyes were soft, steady, full of the kind of love that didn’t need grand declarations.

And maybe that was why this could be real. Why this was.

Your fingers trembled slightly around your bouquet. You glanced up once, just once, to the soft light pouring through the high windows.

The music faded. The pastor cleared his throat gently.

“Dearly beloved…”

You looked forward again. At Cole. At the future you had chosen.

Even as another version of you, in another year, in another universe, still stood in a Brooklyn church, whispering I do to a boy with a medal on his chest and stars in his eyes.

And maybe that version of you would always live, tucked away in a corner of your heart.

But this one? This you—

This you was ready.

The ceremony had begun.

And you didn’t look back.

A/N | Yes chat, we all crying rn, I don't know how many times I made myself cry writing this. Lowkey think this should be left like this, but if ever I write a part 2, it would be like post-blip, Tony's dead, Steve's dead, and cole died somehow, and you're suffering from postpartum and grief, and Bucky's there always to be there for you.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut

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beastomato · 2 years ago

Text

just got the most wonderful notes on my latest art post. thank you so much..

figured it’s nice to share a little bit of behind the scenes for my thinking process, so here you have it!

i think my understanding of anthy comes from a place of being more susceptible to that kind of abuse. there is no such thing as a literal rose bride and a castle with the magic to revolutionize the world in real life, but the concept of being used as a posession to own for cishet men so that they can climb this ladder of power really resonates with my existence. there’s the extra layer of exoticism and objectification i don’t go through because i’m pale though! but i understand how this process goes. i’ve never had a boyfriend nor been treated like anthy in the show by both men and women alike, but i see a specific type of harm that surrounds me and keeps repeating itself that i’m not invincible against, so i tried my best to think about that as i sketched out the idea.

also given the implications and visualization of anthy’s character suffering through constant physical abuse in the episodes that can be pretty graphic most times (i think i vaguely remember trigger warnings for sexual abuse on later episodes —not graphic thank god but it is implied and quite symbolic in imagery—) there’s an angle to her portrayal i think it’s best to avoid in my creations: the act of anthy being actively harmed (in a literal way). i believe there’s a more responsible and poignant way to portray her pain that doesn’t attach itself to human morbidness, because her pain is already showed in the anime and very much a real thing that does happen in real life, portrayed through a character. characters ≠ people, but the themes (their backbone!) they carry are real, otherwise how would we even connect to the fiction? so i like being careful with how i approach what i’ve seen of her story.

it’s very lovely to get those notes too, since i’ve been struggling to come up with compelling imagery in my artwork since 2021 i think.. but RGU’s visual language is truly inspiring. it gives me new ideas for my own compositions :-]

#artistic thought process #<- making a tag for stuff like this #i wqnted to post my written notes pre-thumbnail sketch but they’re in spanish #and i’m too lazy and tired to translate. maybe some other time i’ll show that. good night!

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sh4nksslvt · 2 months ago

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I love shanks so much😭😭

Are you able to write a story where reader is a captain of another crew? Their crew isn’t super famous but aren’t weak either. Their crew is staying at some island and a tavern there when the Red-Haired pirates show up and think that they might try to fight, but reader dgaf and decides to flirt with shanks and stuff. Don’t know if your readers are Gn or female, but could the reader be described as “as beautiful as the ocean” please? I thought that would be cute!

Thank you!

🌊

thats interesting! its not much but hope u like this~~

Trouble Walks In, and So Do You

shanks x reader | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, ocs, flirting, chaotic crews

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff a bit cringe, akward, and confusing

word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The tavern on Bellmouth Island had never known peace.

It was tucked into the port side of the island like a cozy scar—weathered, stubborn, and full of bad decisions marinated in rum. But even Bellmouth’s most seasoned barkeep hadn’t seen anything quite like The Siren’s Fang crew.

“Hey, Cap! Tall guy passed out again!” barked Kiji, the squad’s medic, gesturing to a pile of limbs slumped over a barstool.

“Is he breathing this time?” you asked lazily, twirling a glass of rum in your hand. You sat at the tavern’s center table, leg slung over the arm of your chair, adorned in sleek leather and gold-trimmed cloth, eyes half-lidded with amusement.

“Barely,” muttered Azel, your cook-slash-unofficial-grim-reaper, poking the unconscious man with a ladle. “He mistook my hot sauce for syrup. Natural selection.”

“His fault,” you sighed.

You were Captain [Y/N], the woman many whispered about as beautiful as the ocean—mysterious, wild, and just as likely to drown you as smile at you. The Siren’s Fang wasn’t a household name like the Straw Hats or the Emperors, but in the Grand Line’s undercurrent, your reputation had teeth. Rumors swirled of your crew taking down a fleet from Big Mom’s remnants and sinking a marine battleship like it was a toy boat in a bathtub.

Still, fame didn’t interest you. Fun did.

And Bellmouth was fun—cheap booze, rowdy locals, and just enough lawlessness to feel like home.

That was until the door slammed open.

Wind howled through the tavern. Bottles rattled. Even the drunks perked up.

The Red-Haired Pirates had arrived.

You didn’t need to look. You felt it. That magnetic, crackling air of too-powerful people walking into a space too small to contain them.

Shanks led the way, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other resting on his hip as he scanned the tavern with lazy mirth. His crew spilled in behind him—Benn Beckman, Lucky Roux, Yasopp, the works.

Ten seconds passed. Then—

“Welp. Guess we’re fighting,” muttered Neri, your tactician, flipping her dagger.

“Can’t we go one week without a legendary crew showing up?” grumbled Hyun, your shipwright, who’d just managed to tape a window back together.

“Don't break my chairs,” called the barkeep, already ducking behind the bar.

You, meanwhile, took a sip of rum.

And then, slowly, gracefully, rose to your feet.

"Are we fighting?" asked Benn, eyes narrowing slightly.

Shanks tilted his head in your direction, gaze locking onto yours.

You didn’t draw your sword.

You smiled.

“No,” you said, voice like velvet. “But I do have something else in mind.”

The room collectively blinked.

You strolled toward them with the ease of a queen and the chaos of a siren in full swing. “You must be Red-Haired Shanks,” you purred, eyes scanning him with undisguised appreciation. “You're taller than I expected. That’s... hot.”

A pause.

Then—someone from your crew let out a wheeze of disbelief. Probably Toma. He’d bet two crates of rum you’d deck Shanks on sight.

Shanks arched a brow, lips twitching. “Not the usual greeting I get from a rival pirate captain.”

“I’m not your rival,” you said, stopping only a breath away from him. You craned your head up, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Unless you want me to be. Enemies to lovers? That your thing?”

Lucky Roux choked on his drink.

Shanks actually laughed, the rich, boisterous sound of someone genuinely caught off guard.

“Captain,” Benn said dryly, “I think we’re being hit on.”

“DAHAHA I know, right?” Shanks grinned. “This is way more fun than usual.”

Your crew was now in a full-on state of stunned chaos.

“I—she just flirted with a Yonko. Casually. Like she was ordering a drink,” Kiji mumbled.

“She’s going to get us killed,” muttered Neri.

“No,” corrected Hyun, “she’s going to get laid.”

“Pfft—HA!”

Meanwhile, Shanks tilted his head. “So what’s your name, Ocean Eyes?”

You gave him your full title, adding, “Captain of The Siren’s Fang. And yes, I live up to the name.”

“Mm.” He leaned in just slightly. “Should I be worried you’re trying to lure me onto the rocks?”

“I’m trying to lure you onto something, that’s for sure.”

Yasopp nearly fell off his stool.

Benn facepalmed. Lucky Roux laughed so hard he snorted beer through his nose.

“Join us for a drink?” you offered innocently. “Or are you too scared I’ll make you fall in love with me?”

Shanks held your gaze for one beat. Two. Then smiled.

“I’ve done dumber things.”

And just like that, the Red-Haired Pirates sat down with the Siren’s Fang.

Tension left the room like steam off hot rum. Chairs screeched. Drinks clinked. Somewhere, your sniper was trying to discreetly message your ship’s chronicler: CAPTAIN IS FLIRTING WITH SHANKS, SEND HELP.

“...And then the marine tries to arrest me, right? While I’m naked. In the bath!” Shanks crowed, halfway through a bottle of rum, hair falling into his eyes.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, clutching your side. “Please tell me you fought him like that.”

“I slipped! Broke his nose falling out of the tub!”

You and your crew howled.

A few tables down, Benn and Neri were having a quiet intellectual standoff that involved a lot of maps and dry sarcasm. Yasopp and Hyun were arguing over gun specs. Toma was getting arm-wrestled into oblivion by Lucky Roux. It was, in short, a tavern apocalypse.

“You’re fun,” Shanks murmured, voice low, only for you.

You tilted your head. “You expected me to be scary.”

“I expected you to swing first and ask questions never.”

“Ah. That’s just on Wednesdays.”

He chuckled. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like that,” you teased.

“I do,” he admitted. “But be honest. Is this all just to distract me while your crew steals our booze?”

You sipped your drink with a wink. “What do you think?”

From across the room, a yell: “WE’VE TAKEN THE BEER STORAGE!”

“DAMN IT, KOKO!”

Shanks stared.

You said nothing.

He grinned. “Marry me?”

“Buy me a boat first.”

“You already have a ship.”

“Yeah, but I want a red one.”

As the night wore on, chaos bloomed into something almost tender. The two crews, pirates feared across the seas, were now doing karaoke with a broken lute and a guy named Phil.

You leaned against the tavern doorway, watching the madness. The moonlight brushed your skin like seafoam, your hair tousled by the salt-laced wind.

Shanks joined you silently.

“You’re really not what I expected,” he said.

“Disappointed?”

He shook his head. “Enchanted.”

You turned your head to him, eyes soft now. “You’re pretty smooth for a pirate.”

“I’m usually drunker.”

You laughed, then reached up, brushing a lock of hair from his face. “You know, Red, if I weren’t a captain…”

“Yeah?”

“I’d ask you to run away with me.”

He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“If I weren’t a Yonko,” he murmured, “I’d say yes.”

For a moment, it felt like the sea held its breath.

Then someone inside yelled, “THE CAPTAIN AND SHANKS ARE MAKING EYES AT EACH OTHER AGAIN!”

“TAKE PICTURES!”

“START THE WEDDING SONG!”

You and Shanks groaned in unison.

“Back to the madness?” he offered.

“Only if you dance with me.”

“Deal.”

And so the two of you dove back into the tavern storm, laughing, flirting, half-dancing, half-sparring with words, like the sea and sky in a constant, chaotic waltz.

No declarations. No promises.

Just two captains in the eye of a storm they both enjoyed far too much.

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #fluff #idk man #idk what im doing #shanks x reader #red haired shanks #shanks #akagami no shanks #red hair shanks

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mapsthewanderer · 3 months ago

Text

Maps headcanons

The LADS boys -

The underwear edition

Details: 3000ish words.. What do they wear? What do they get you to wear? And most importantly… how do they gift it to you? Probably fem reader, but let’s be honest, it’s strictly just a gift. They want to see you in it. Full stop. Some adult fluff, some sexual tension and implied notinoti stuff. So 18+ I guess? And umh… yea I definitely went overboard. SORRY! But I had so much fun, I couldn’t stop myself.

❤️ Sylus

What Sylus wears:

Sylus is all sharp lines, dark elegance, and control. Underneath that crisp red-streaked suit? He’s wearing tailored, jet-black silk boxer-briefs. Luxurious. Breathable. Tactical. They’re tight enough to keep everything in place during any kind of… movement, but soft enough to feel like nothing’s there—no small feat, considering what they’re working with. No logos. Just that sleek minimalism only a man would choose if he knew exactly how handsome he was, didn’t care what anyone else thought—and never once looked at a price tag.

Sylus’s gift to you:

Oh, he’s not just buying you lingerie—he’s curating a message.

It’s a two-piece set, hand-delivered in a black velvet box—while you’re at work. No return address. Just a black wax seal with a crow pressed into the lid. Then a folded note in sharp, elegant script.

If this ends up on the floor, you better not be the one who puts it there. Don’t disappoint me, kitten. —S.

And inside:

A high-leg, sheer silk and lace thong in a crimson so deep it’s almost black—just enough opacity to leave things to the imagination, but not too much.

The matching bralette: underwire-free, soft lace, with feather-like embroidery in crimson thread—subtle nods to his own red-streaked shirt and the crow brooch he gave you. It whispers danger and intimacy at once.

But here’s the kicker—he’s had both your initials and his embroidered inside, side by side in tiny, near-invisible thread. Only you would notice. That’s his way: power in the quietest touches, like branding you without ever lifting a finger.

Scene:

You don’t even have to look out the window to know he’s watching. Heat creeps up your neck as you snap the box shut, fingers fumbling slightly. You tuck it into your drawer fast—too fast—just before anyone walks by.

Your cheeks burn. Your pulse stutters.

Later you open the velvet box in your bedroom—its crow insignia gleaming faintly under the light. It smells of something expensive and sharp—amber, burnt cedar, and a lingering metallic note… gunpowder? When you look up, Sylus is already there, leaning against the doorframe like he’s been watching the whole time. His smirk is lazy, eyes glowing faintly red.

“I thought you could use something… less modest,” he says, voice like dark wine. “Consider it… encouragement.”

You brush your fingers over the crimson mesh, the featherlike embroidery. “And this is supposed to motivate me?” You glance up at him. “Sending me underwear while I’m at work?”

He tilts his head. “Everything I do motivates you. Why should this be any different?”

You narrow your eyes. “Want me to try it on?”

His grin widens. “No. I expect you to.”

You disappear into the other room—and when you return, the change is undeniable. The set clings like a second skin: barely-there lace, delicate and daring in all the ways he clearly planned. Sylus is leaned back with his palms pressed into the mattress behind him, utterly at ease—blazer still draped over his shoulders, one brow cocked as his gaze trails down every inch of you.

You turn slowly, fingers trailing along the silk at your hip, then glance back at him with the faintest smirk. An unspoken well? hangs in the air—daring him to speak, to react, to move.

“Look at you. The gift, wrapped and worn—for the one who gifted it.” A slow smile curves his lips. “You’re lucky I let you wear it at all, kitten.”

Sylus doesn’t move—just stays there on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms, one ankle resting casually over his knee. But his gaze trails down your body like a hand.

“But don’t confuse indulgence for permission,” he adds, voice velvet-dark. “I unwrap what’s mine when I decide.”

You raise a brow.

Then he stands—slowly—and stops in front of you, fingers brushing the embroidery near your hip. His touch is light, almost teasing, but his voice has gone rough. “So now I get to peel this off… piece by piece… and watch your ambitions unravel.”

His fingers slide just under the strap at your shoulder, just enough to threaten movement. “I want to see how long you can hold eye contact while I take my time with you.”

He leans in close, gaze never wavering, and drags the tip of his tongue slowly along your bottom lip.

“So don’t blink, kitten.” He murmurs, voice a low drawl. “I want to watch every second tonight.”

——————————————————————————

💜 Rafayel

What Rafayel wears:

Rafayel isn’t really one for undergarments—too restrictive, too boring. He prefers fabric that flows, not hides. On regular days—when he’s in his paint-splattered studio with a half-buttoned shirt and flushed cheeks—he wears linen boxer-briefs, soft and pale pastels. But not just any linen—this is the kind handwoven by some obscure artisan, the kind that costs more per pair than most people’s monthly utilities. They cling loosely, comfortably, with a low waistband that dips dangerously on his hips when he stretches or leans too far over a canvas.

Rafayel’s gift to you:

You don’t even know it’s for you at first. He doesn’t say it.

It’s wrapped in a long strip of sheer silk, painted by hand. The gift is neatly tucked at the base of his easel, a soft rosy color catching in the early light, with painted waves in a beautiful baby blue flowing gently across the fabric. The fabric inside feels more delicate than air:

The bottom is a high-slit silk wrap, sea-blue and iridescent, that ties at the hip with a golden clasp shaped like a wave crest. The slit goes high—deliberately high.

The top is a lace halter bralette, stitched with tiny scales in shimmering threads—blues, pinks, and deep ocean violets. When you move, the color changes like it’s underwater.

And at the center of the chest? A small pearl—real, imperfect, kissed by the sea.

There’s a faint scent of paint, sea salt and saffron on the silk. You know he touched every part of it.

Scene:

You step into the studio—sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains, the scent of paint and salt lingering in the air. Raf’s crouched in front of a half-finished canvas, brush dangling loosely from one stained hand, shirt half-off one shoulder, eyes pink-blue and distracted until he notices you.

Then he blushes. Bright. Immediate. Cheeks, ears—flushed like a sunrise.

“There’s something for you,” he mumbles, looking away as if the thought of you seeing it—wearing it—is almost too much to bear. He nods toward the silk bundle. “I… made it. Thought you’d look… divine in it.”

You crouch beside it, fingers trailing along the silk wrapping, savoring the softness before carefully unfolding it. The fabric slips open, revealing the undergarments inside—shimmering, sea-glass delicate. You glance back at him then, eyes teasing.

“Should I put it on?”

Rafayel swallows hard, brush frozen in mid-air. “Yesss. I mean, if… you want to.” His voice cracks just slightly, the tip of his ear glowing like it might catch fire.

You disappear into the adjoining room—there’s a screen for changing, of course—but you leave it just slightly ajar. When you come back out, the set clings to you like seafoam. Rafayel stares—his brush forgotten, his lips parted. For a second, the artist is speechless.

Then, finally, he says softly, reverently:

“I’m never painting anything else again.”

You’re not sure if he means for the next hour, or the rest of his life.

With a small twirl, you step closer to him. The silk shifts with every movement—light, barely there, suggestive in ways that feel like poetry and sin all at once. Rafayel’s gaze follows the curve of your hips, the embroidery over your chest, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard.

His paint-stained fingers twitch at his sides. “Turn around again,” he says, quieter this time. “…Please?”

You do. Slowly. The moment stretches taut between you.

When you face him again, he’s closer. Too close. His hand lifts, hovers just above your waist, not quite touching. “I wanted it to feel like water,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, lower. “But it clings like heat. Like you’re melting into it.”

He finally touches you—fingertips tracing a line along the embroidery near your ribs. His breath stutters. “I don’t know if I want to paint you or pull this off with my teeth.”

You arch a brow. “That’s quite the choice.”

Rafayel leans in, lips brushing your shoulder, his voice a husky rasp against your skin. “Why not both?”

His hips press into you, letting you feel the full weight of his desire—hard, aching, and entirely focused on you. One hand traces the edge of your halter, fingertips ghosting along the lace before he gives it a curious little poke, like he’s testing his own creation. His lips hover just above yours, breath warm, eyes soft and burning all at once.

Then, just above a whisper, he adds—“Either way… I’m going to ruin you beautifully, cutie.”

——————————————————————————

🧡 Caleb

What Caleb wears:

In casual moments—when it’s just him and you in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, cooking for you—he wears comfortable cotton boxer briefs. Black, sleek, nothing flashy. He’s practical like that. But they hug him just right, sitting low on his hips, making it really hard to focus on the food. And the worst part? He knows. You’ll glance, just once, and he’ll smirk—subtly flexing one ass cheek like it’s a reflex. Just to mess with you. Just to watch you squirm.

Caleb’s gift to you:

It comes in a sleek, dark orange box. You find it on your doorstep after a long day. Tucked on top, folded with military precision, is a tiny origami fighter jet—his old model, of course. Unfolding it reveals a single line, scribbled in his handwriting:

Try it on, or I’ll just imagine it. Either way, I win.—C.

And when you open it:

A high-cut, gravity-defying black lace bodysuit. It’s sheer in all the right places, sculpted with subtle violet shimmer threading through the seams. Where the light hits it, it reflects a dull glow—almost like a nebula.

A thin, matching choker with a clasp shaped like an apple.

And one last piece: a purple silk sash. A tie. A leash. A promise of discipline wrapped in devotion, of control you never had to ask for, of just how far he’ll go to make sure you never forget who you belong to.

Yet the fabric carries just the barest trace of his cologne and… mouthwash(?)

Scene:

You confront him, of course—he left it there on purpose, knowing curiosity would get the better of you. You don’t even try to play it cool. You find him hours later, still at work on The Fleet, posture perfect, all crisp uniform and that infuriating calm. An adjutant’s just finishing a report when you step into the room. Your eyes lock on him like a missile. Caleb doesn’t flinch—doesn’t even turn. Just gives you a quiet, knowing look over his shoulder like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“What’s the meaning of this?” you ask, holding the box like evidence, like a challenge.

His gaze drags over you from across the room, slow and deliberate. He uncrosses his arms, brushes a speck of dust from his uniform—measured, precise. Like you’ve interrupted something important, but he’s willing to indulge you.

That Colonel Caleb chill lingers in his eyes… but there’s a glint now. And the faintest curve to his lips.

“You found it,” he says, stepping closer until your breath catches. “Great. I had it made. Custom stitching. Seamless where it matters.”

You narrow your eyes. “So you just decided—?”

“I don’t ‘decide,’” he cuts in smoothly. “But if you really are mine…” his voice drops, dangerously low, “…then I want to be the only one who sees you in this.”

His gloved fingers brush your cheek, then trail down to your collarbone. The heat between you crackles like static in space.

Behind you, the adjutant clears their throat—once. A warning. A presence. Caleb doesn’t even glance their way.

“That’ll be all,” he says, voice low and firm, the kind that doesn’t invite questions. The door hisses shut behind you a moment later.

Then it’s just you. Him. And that charged space between.

“Put it on for me, Pip-squeak.”

It’s not a request. But it’s not entirely a command, either. He’s looking at you like you could refuse—but he knows you won’t.

Caleb shrugs off his coat with practiced ease, draping it over the back of the chair before pulling off his gloves, one finger at a time. He sinks into the seat in a single, fluid motion—then reaches up to loosen his tie, just enough to breathe. His legs spread, posture easy, but there’s nothing casual about the way he watches you.

You turn your back to him as you undress, the room quiet except for the subtle shift of fabric. The black bodysuit slides on smoothly, the silk sash tied loosely at your waist. The lace hugs your curves perfectly.

Caleb leans forward, forearms on knees, purple eyes trailing down your form like a scan. Slowly. Thoroughly.

“Turn around.”

You do, slowly, and when you face him, he’s already rising. He closes the distance in measured strides, hands sliding to your waist, voice low and tight.

He leans in. “You know,” he murmurs against your neck, “I wish I could deploy you in this. No one would dare touch you.”

You smirk. “Jealous, Colonel?”

“Obsessed,” he corrects, voice like a velvet threat. “And completely serious.”

You feel his lips graze your shoulder—soft, then firm. And then—his teeth sink in, just enough to make you gasp. Not to hurt. Just to remind you: you’re his.

“Do you know what I thought about every night when I designed this?”

You breathe out. “What?”

His fingers curl into the sash at your hip. “How fast I could undo it.”

Then he lifts you like it’s nothing, pressing you back against the console with stars spinning behind you—his mouth already trailing down your neck as the fabric slips from your skin. But you don’t see stars—you feel them crash.

Then, without missing a beat, the corners of his mouth curve—just slightly, just enough. “I’m betting it’ll take me ten seconds to undress you… if I take my time.”

——————————————————————————

🩵 Zayne

What Zayne wears:

Zayne is nothing if not understated excellence. Beneath his pristine three-piece suits? Charcoal-gray modal boxer briefs. Soft, breathable, structured—he’d never wear anything flashy or inconvenient. But they fit like they were measured for him, contoured to sit low on his hips beneath that crisp dress shirt. And if you ever catch him with the shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, forearms scarred and strong? The contrast of clean fabric and rough skin does things to you.

Zayne’s gift to you:

He doesn’t take you shopping. He doesn’t even mention he’s getting you something. It just… appears, neatly folded in a soft satin box inside your closet. Next to it, a small handwritten note in steady script:

The fabric’s hypoallergenic. I know how your skin reacts to lace. I hope the fit is precise—I took the liberty of measuring while you were asleep. —Zayne.

And on the inside:

A silk slip dress, cut short and minimal, in deep forest green with thin black straps that crisscross at the back. The inside is lined with cotton—soft, breathable. So Zayne.

A matching bra and panty set—subtle scalloped trim, no underwire, no push-up. Just comfort and beauty in quiet balance. He knows how to make you feel exquisite without shouting it.

And tucked in one of the folds? A thin bracelet. Jade.

Scene:

He doesn’t even bring it up at first. You only find it after he leaves for a night shift.

The next evening, you bring it up with a wry smile. “So… were you going to mention the intimate gift hiding in my closet, or were you just hoping I’d trip over it?”

Zayne blinks once behind his glasses, setting down his mug of cocoa.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says simply. “But I also didn’t want anyone else buying you something that didn’t… suit you.” His gaze drops, lingering on your wrist where you’ve already put on the jade bracelet. “So I took care of it.”

You arch a brow. “Do you want to see it on me?”

His eyes flick up, expression unreadable—but there’s a faint flush climbing up his throat. “That depends.”

“On?”

“If you want me to take it off you too.”

And there it is. The Zayne smirk—so faint, you almost miss it. Almost.

You step into the bedroom after a hot shower, damp hair over your shoulders, body wrapped in the green silk slip. It molds to you, effortless and cool. The straps kiss your shoulder blades, the hem teasing the tops of your thighs.

Zayne is seated at the edge of the bed, shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows—relaxed in theory, but his eyes are anything but. Behind the silver glint of his glasses, hazel green irises rake over you slowly. Intently. Like you’re a case study he’s about to personally explore.

“You wore it,” he says, voice steady, but lower now. Tight.

“I did,” you reply, stepping closer, letting the silk sway just enough to tempt. “Are you going to examine it?”

He doesn’t answer—not with words. He pulls off his glasses and sets them aside with exacting precision, then leans forward and tugs you between his knees. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, fingers splaying over silk and skin.

“I’m not your physician right now,” he exhales, his mouth brushing your sternum, “but I still know how to handle delicate things.”

You inhale sharply, and he shifts the slip aside—just a little—enough to make your heart race.

His lips brush the inside of your wrist—soft at first, then slower. He drags his mouth down to the base of your palm, then lets his tongue trace the curve of your finger, you like you’re his favorite candy—something rare, rich, and entirely his.

“…You realize,” he says against your skin, “you’re never wearing this for anyone else.”

You breathe out, quiet, shivering. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.”

And the way he says that one word, low and clinical and full of heat? It feels like you’re about to be unraveled—one practiced touch at a time.

“I’ve studied anatomy,” he murmurs, gaze unwavering, “but I’ve never wanted to memorize someone like this.”

You tilt your head, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “So what now, doctor Zayne? Want me to act like your study sample?”

His eyes flick down your body, then back up—calm, absolutely smoldering. “Mm. Slow breaths for me, please,” he says softly. “I want to feel every shift under my hands.”

——————————————————————————

🩷 Xavier

What Xavier wears:

For all his ethereal calm and delicate looks, Xavier’s body is not soft. He’s lithe, compact, and stronger than he looks—and his undergarments reflect that contradiction. Sleek. Supportive. Understated. He wears fitted low-rise boxer briefs in pale gray or lavender. Soft, seamless, breathable—so easy to move in you almost forget they’re there. And while size has never been the point, there’s no denying the quiet truth: he’s big. The waistband is low enough that when his sweater rides up while he’s napping on the couch? You catch the edge, just barely. (And no, he’s not unaware. He’s just pretending he is.)

Xavier’s gift to you:

You don’t even realize it’s a gift at first.

You find a small folded bundle on your pillow—no tag, no note, but it smells faintly of that tangy-sweet, citrusy energy drink he drinks… laced with the subtle warmth of vanilla that always seems to linger on his skin. The fabric is impossibly soft. Dreamlike.

A silk cami set, sleeveless, light violet with silvery sheen. The camisole is loose, with barely-there straps and delicate lace at the hem. It looks like starlight.

The shorts are sheer, fluttery, with a ribbon drawstring. If you move too quickly, they shift… dangerously.

There’s a tiny embroidered constellation stitched near the hem.

You realize later that the embroidery thread is pale gold. Subtle. Like he wants you to wear the stars for him.

Scene:

You ask him about it later, holding the fabric between your fingers—right after sharing a burnt pizza he insisted he had under control (he did not).

“Did you leave this on my bed?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches you with that quiet intensity, like he’s still trying to figure out how you got past his walls with nothing but laughter and melted cheese. He tilts his head slightly.

“I thought you might sleep better with it on,” he says softly. “Or off.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that a suggestion?”

“No,” he replies, gaze dragging slowly down your figure. “It’s a preference.”

He steps closer, fingers brushing yours as he takes the fabric back from your hand—just long enough to skim his knuckles over your palm before he returns it. His voice drops a note lower.

“Will you wear it tonight?”

You swallow, pulse jumping.

“I might.”

He smiles—barely. But it’s real. “I’ll be upstairs if you need help taking it off.”

Later, when the lights are low and the house is quiet, your phone buzzes.

XAVIER: Did you end up trying it on?

You hesitate, then type:

YOU: Maybe.

There’s a long pause. Then:

XAVIER: Then I hope you’re not expecting sleep.

You stare at the screen, heart skipping.

YOU: Good night, Xav.

Another pause.

XAVIER: Good night… Don’t lock your door.

You wake to find Xavier standing in your doorway—messy silvery-blond hair, expression unreadable, sleep still tugging at his lashes. You’re wearing the silk cami set, curled under your blanket. He blinks once, slowly, as if committing the image to memory.

“…Door was unlocked,” he murmurs. “You sleep too lightly.”

“I sleep just fine,” you say, voice husky, watching his eyes flick down the curve of your thigh where the blanket’s slipped. “So why are you here?”

He walks in, slow and barefoot. “I was thinking about you.”

“And?”

His fingers brush the ribbon of your waistband, tugging lightly—just once, enough to let the silk shift against your skin. “And I wanted to see if you look better in… or out of it.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You’ve been staring long enough to know.”

His eyes drag up your body with excruciating calm, but there’s something darker flickering beneath the stillness. He leans down, brushing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then just beneath your jaw—lingering there.

“I’m thorough. Still deciding,” he murmurs, breath warm and slow, thick with something you feel more than hear.

He undresses with quiet efficiency, unbuttoning his pajama shirt, folding it once before setting it aside, then slipping out of the pants with the same composed ease—until he’s left in nothing but his underwear.

Then he slides under the covers, pulls you into his chest, and whispers against your ear,

“You can keep yours on—for now.”

But his hand is already resting low on your waist, fingers curling just beneath the hem of your top, like he’s giving himself permission to explore later—inch by inch, breath by breath.

Then, without a word, he takes your hand and guides it along the plane of his chest, down the firm line of his stomach—slow, careful, like he wants you to feel how hard it is for him to stay gentle.

And just when your fingertips brush the edge of his waistband—he leans in, voice low and rough with need.

“This is me… trying to be good for you.”

Your fingertips slip just beneath the waistband, barely testing the edge of skin. His breath catches, and for a moment he doesn’t move. Then his hand wraps gently around your wrist—not to stop you, just to feel you there.

His voice drops. “But if you keep doing that… I won’t be good much longer.”

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: YE. I’m sorry. Nobody asked for this. I spent my Saturday night writing 3k words of underwear headcanon and then gave it the gentlest proofread over my Sunday morning coffee like that somehow made it respectable. Totally normal, balanced behavior. I’m thriving. Unhinged, yes—but thriving. Should I be finishing the Bear AU pilot? Absolutely. Am I derailed by one intrusive thought? Also yes. But! I will finish the pilot this week. Prrroooomise. I should touch grass… but let’s be real, that’s what triggered this spiral in the first place. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

476 notes · View notes

natalicss · 5 months ago

Text

Like We Were In Paris II

kwon ji-yong x american pop star!reader

part one

summary: you and ji-yong have been dating for a couple years, and you’ve kept under the radar this entire time. after the gala de pièces juanes, you two attend the chanel spring-summer 2025 haute contour show. however, the two of you are starting to get tired of keeping your relationship a secret.

warnings: not proofread AT ALL! i’m way too lazy for that, sorry. celeb!reader, implied age gap (reader is mid-twenties), lots of fluff, lil bit of angst, use of y/n, i still don’t know how to use this app i feel like an elderly man using a cell phone.

word count: 4.9K

nat’s notes: hey y’all! i came back for part two AS PROMISED! this was actually very hard for me to write as i kept changing my mind about how i wanted this to go. so im sorry in advance if its not all that great LMAO. i do wanna write a lil more about american pop star reader & jiyong, maybe i’ll do some sort of head canons about them, or some stuff about their relationship early on. i’m not sure. i also tagged the people who asked to be & i will try to keep tagging people in the future (if they wanna be). anywhore, i hope that you guys enjoy this, if you don’t…sorry<3 toodles!

tag list: @infinetlyforgotten @petersasteria

After the successful Gala Des Pièces Jaunes event, you had spent the next couple days in dressing rooms. You had been invited to Chanel’s Spring-Summer 2025 Haute Couture Show. You said yes, of course, having an affinity for fashion, and never turning down the chance to be near your long-term boyfriend. You and Ji-yong had been to a couple of the same fashion shows before. It was always easy to slip by with nobody noticing your connection. Oftentimes, you two were not seated remotely near each other and are far too busy with the peers around you to sneak away.

But this last week felt particularly more difficult. Unlike in America or South Korea, where you knew the paparazzi and knew very well how to remain under the radar, the Paris press was more complicated. You and Ji-yong had to weave your way around in more secrecy than ever. Every method you could imagine. Some instances, the two of you would sneak through a back door and slide into cars to avoid the cameras. Other instances, the two of you would make separate nonchalant appearances. Ji-yong would leave the hotel first, shy and polite as he waved and greeted the people around him as he’d slip into a car and drive off to his next location. You, wearing designer clothes and sunglasses as you walked out with a big smile and a more confident approach. You’d get in your own car, sliding into the back with your security with a huff. Within moments, you’d open your phone to shoot a text to your lover.

Y/N

i didnt get to say it before you left, but you look handsome today<3

You knew it’d only be a moment before he responded.

Ji<3

Thank you, Aein, you look beautiful!

You and Ji-yong hated that you couldn’t spend this Paris trip together more. After all, you two had all of the same events, same meetings, same friends to visit, and yet you couldn’t be by his side at any of it, not in public. Part of you didn’t mind, used to the routine, but part of you was starting to grow tired. It wasn’t like two years ago, when you first started dating. At that time, Ji-yong was still on hiatus, you were working on your fourth album, and everything had to be a secret. Secret vacations, secret visits, secret dinner dates where the two of you wore silly disguises. You were good sports, making a game out of it and playing ridiculous characters to see who cracked first. But that was two years ago. He was back in the spotlight again, you had released your fifth album a few weeks ago, he was releasing his own work. You two were confident in your relationship, everyone was. What was holding you back?

There was no black and white answer. On one hand, now was the perfect time to announce to the world that their rumors of you dating a random Hollywood actor were all false. On the other hand, were you so willing to give up that last piece of privacy you did have? You weren’t worried about the hate on either side, despite knowing how fans often get if they don’t approve of their favorite celebrities' relationship.

You had been in a public relationship way before Ji-yong. It was years ago, back when you were still new to the world of fame and glamour. Every corner you turned, the cameras flashing, the wave of hate you’d received, the amount of gossip around every song you released being about them or not, their interviews for their movies always being about you. Your careers had been forced to blend due to the way people reacted. The world had taken your last relationship by storm and had seemingly strangled it with their love and adoration. The lack of privacy, individuality, and respect for the two of you had been what led to you and your last partners split. It took the two of you years before the media finally stopped associating everything either of you did together. So, understandably, part of you was worried about that happening again.

You thought about all of this as you and Ji-yong were getting ready for the day. You both had things to attend to, tomorrow being the fashion show. One last fitting, one last meeting with your teams. You were styling your hair as Ji-yong had finished getting dressed, the agreement for him to leave the hotel first still agreed on. He looked at you, and you could see the way his eyes softened as he observed your eyes. He knew everything about you, down to the way your face looked when you were deep in thought, perhaps about to drown yourself with your ability to overthink.

“Are you okay, love?” He asked, speaking in Korean first as he approached. You didn’t say anything, busy running your fingers through your hair as he quietly stepped next to you. He met your eyes in the mirror, his lips curling. “There she is.” You blushed at his words, putting your hands down as you finally turned your body to face him. “What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?” He asks, reaching up to adjust your hair framing your face.

You didn’t know where to start. You and Ji-yong had talked about this a million times before. You two had always agreed to keep things the way they are. You weren’t sure if he was ready to change that. As he watched you get lost in your thoughts again, he tilted his head to meet your gaze. Your eyes were glossy, not all there as you already started mapping out every way the conversation could go, preparing yourself for every out come.

“Jagiya, you’re worrying me,”

You blink. It takes you a second to come back to the present, taking a deep breath as you try to explain the heavy complicated feelings in your heart. “I’ve been thinking, through this whole trip,” You subconsciously reach for his hands, looking for comfort and something to anchor you down. He lets you, his thumb running along your skin in soothing patterns. “I don’t know how much longer I want to keep us a secret.” You blurt, staring at your connected hands rather than his eyes. You were too worried about what you might find.

There’s a beat of silence. Then another. Your heart twists in anxiety, but you don’t dare to look up. Ji-yong’s breathing changes, only the slightest bit, but you notice. He stops his thumb from tracing its delicate patterns, instead letting it tap against your skin. You feel guilty. You both had so much to do today, this conversation could have waited til tonight, after the show tomorrow, or at just about any other time. You weren’t sure, but you knew this wasn’t it.

Ji-yong adjusts his posture, pulling one hand away from yours, only to bring it to your face. With the gentlest touch, he lifts your head so you finally see his eyes. They’re not angry, or frustrated, or even remotely annoyed. Instead, they’re as soft and warm as they’d always been, making your heart flutter the slightest bit. To be honest, Ji-yong had thought about this too. He’d admitted before that going public worried him. He was a celebrity, and that immediately brings its own multitudes of hardships. He knew that he’d keep any and all relationships a secret, unless the person he was with said otherwise. You had come into his life, unexpectedly, and changed his entire world in the best ways he could imagine. And here you were, the person he knew was the love of his life, staring back at him with sadness because of that very sentiment.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been feeling it too. He wanted to hold your hand down the streets of Paris, the two of you pointing out different things you loved about it, sharing kisses under streetlights. That night at the Gala, he had wanted to kiss you as soon as he was off the stage. And when you were finished performing? He wanted to part the crowd and sweep you into his arms, like he did at your own tours. But he’d been worried, worried about what people might say to you or about you. He knew how harsh they got. He knew you could handle it, but that didn’t mean he wanted to put you in that position unless you were ready.

His hand, which caresses your face with a certain level of sincerity you only ever felt from him, was soft and moved gently. He smiled, a soft gentle one that made you feel more at ease as you realized he wasn’t mad at you in any way. “It hasn’t been easy, has it?” He asks you, raising a brow. You only shake your head, lips pursed into a line. He studies your features like you’re a work of art (cause you are). “I miss every second I’m not with you. All I can think about is where you might be. If you’re smiling. If you’re anxious. If you’re laughing. If you’re thinking about me, too.” He leans in close, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And then you text me, and all I can think about is how lucky I am to be with you, and how mad I am that you’re not next to me.” You nod in understanding. You’d always felt that way about him, to the point it made your heart clench.

“I love you,”

“I love you more.”

You’re blushing wildly as he kisses your lips softly. Your feelings for him being translated into simple intimate touches. You’d never experienced something like Ji-yong before. You never wanted to let that go.

When he pulls away, he’s reaching for your jacket hanging off the back of a chair. You smile at him, memorizing his face like you’d done a million times before. You slide your arms into the jacket, letting your boyfriend adjust your outfit slightly. He focuses on your hair, bringing it out form under it and framing your face. Everytime his fingers brush your skin it leaves faint tingles in their wake.

“Why don’t we talk to everyone when we get home?” He suggests, looking back at you. Your eyes widen. You search his expression. “If you’re positive, then I’m with you.”

You smiled wide. You couldn’t help it. “I’ve never been so sure of anything.” Your arms wrap around his neck, and he laughs softly as you start to kiss all over his face. “I want nothing more than to scream about how I’m dating G-Dragon.” He rolls his eyes playfully, still not used to you using his stage name after all this time.

The rest of your days went smoothly. Both of you finishing up with your work, having dinner with friends, coming back to the hotel room to spend every possible moment together. Soft laughter as you each told stories from your pasts (many you’ve already told), legs tangled together under the sheets of your bed. Small intimate touches. Fingers tracing shapes on skin. Gentle kisses. Messy hair. If possible, your eyes were certainly heart shaped every moment you looked at him.

It was hard to hide it, even now, as you sit at the Chanel show. Both of you had arrived at different times, wearing extravagant outfits. You could feel his eyes on you as you posed for the cameras. He tried to keep his composure when he knew you were near by as he did interviews. Luckily for both of you, you’ve had years of practice. You held your head high with confidence, switching your energy from your usual softer self to the person you were on stage. America’s pop star. America’s princess. The way you posed yourself elegantly, batting your full lashes and gave your most sultry looks. How was Ji-yong supposed to not look? You were sitting in your seat, looking down at your phone as a text popped up.

Ji<3

You’re the most beautiful one here

You looked across the runway, your heart skipping a beat. He was already looking at you, a knowing shy smile on his face as he kept his phone in his hand. You smiled back at him, looking back at your phone.

Y/N

Says you<3 I love you

You put your phone in your lap, looking around some more. You felt lucky you had been to so many events, most of these people you already knew one way or another. It made small talk with the people next to you flow easily. Every now and again, you’d sneak a glance at your boyfriend, who was always staring at you like you were the show itself. It was hard to hide your blushed face, keep your voice from pitching when you talked to the other celebrities, and nearly impossible not to stare right back at him.

The show itself seemed to pass by with ease. You watched thoughtfully at every piece, making mental notes of things you particularly liked and wanted to mention to your assistant later. You’d lean over to your new friend of the night, whispering about different pieces and sharing your thoughts. You could see Ji-yong completely focused on the show, his eyes studying every model with intrigue. It was clear every piece that came out was being calculated into various looks. If he thought of something that worked, he’d raise his phone and take a quick photo. You smiled every time, excited to hear what he was thinking of later.

As the show came to an end, you were talking with your team as you felt someone graze past you. You looked up to see your familiar boyfriend, smiling at you fondly. You knew there were cameras everywhere, one minor slip leading to a whirlwind of chaos and news articles. The anxiety in your chest felt tight, but you kept your cool, straightening your posture and giving him a smile.

Ji-yong looked around, as if silently piecing together something. You followed his gaze, trying to see exactly what he was looking at. To you, there was nothing particularly interesting one way or another. Some fellow stars were talking, being interviewed, or just admiring the scene. Photographers were taking photos of guests, journalists asking people various questions. To you, it looked like every other fashion show even you’d been to. To Ji-yong, it looked like an opportunity.

There were no words shared. His hand clasped around yours, and without thinking your fingers tightened around his. You blinked in surprise, looking ahead as Ji-yong started pulling you through the sea of people. You were wide-eyed as you looked around. Your teams hadn’t noticed you disappearing, but you knew that wouldn’t last long. But Ji-yong moved with purpose, walking through like this wasn’t strange or something other people should take a second glance at. You tried to mimic his confidence, but the butterflies in your stomach refused to simmer down.

In a quiet corner away from the cameras and the wandering eyes, Ji-yong finally came to a stop. You looked at him with a surprised expression. Your lipstick-painted lips parted slightly as you watched him look at you. He adjusted the tie around his neck, something he’d been doing the entire day. You looked behind you, worried who was watching, but a hand wrapping around your waist caught your attention.

His lips pressed against yours. Soft, passionate, and urgent. You squeaked in surprised against him, your hands landing on his chest as he pulled you further into the corner. Hidden away from your peers, from your teams, and from the layers of paparazzi. Your hands clutched tighter onto his jacket. His hands, which traced your body slowly, slowly lifted to grab your face with the most gentle touch. As he pulled away, you could only blink at him with big doe eyes.

“I couldn’t stand there and act like you weren’t the most beautiful thing here.” He whispers.

The words caused your heart to do flips against your ribcage. His touch seemingly brought you back to earth, his thumb gently brushing against your cheekbone. “Says you, Monsieur G-Dragon,” You tease as you run your hands over the jacket again. This time, he’s the one trying to hide the way his cheeks blush. You looked at the bow tie with the flower on it, tilting your head as you reached up, slowly maneuvering the flower off. He looks down, blinking at it as you hold the flower in your hand, “Is that better?”

He reaches up, adjusting the tie again, and smiling softly. “Yes. Thank you.” He says finally. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know, the usual” You sigh dramatically, shrugging your shoulders. Ji-yong chuckles, nodding in understanding. “Got whisked away by a hot guy, can’t complain.”

Ji-yong raises a brow in amusement. “Is that what happened?” He asks. You look around. “What else would you call this?”

He steps closer, looking up in thought as he lets his arms wrap around your waist. His lips in a line as he tilts his head slightly. He narrows his eyes at you playfully. He didn’t have an answer. He rather liked the idea of whisking you away from the public eye. He did it often, though usually it was more hidden than this. You leaned into his touch, a natural instinct. The rest of the world seemed to drift away, even in moments like this. Only you and Ji-yong existed. Life was better with him. He knew you like the back of his hand. He knew how to make you laugh, how to calm your nerves, how to soothe your cries. He knew your favorite snacks, your order at your favorite coffee shop, and your favorite movies. The same could be said for you. You knew how to quiet his overwhelming thoughts, how to make him smile in stressful moments. You knew his favorite songs to play in the car. His favorite jewelry pieces to wear. You had his tells of when he was anxious or upset burned into your brain. And when one of you were around the other, everybody else melted into the background. Your love trumping anything else.

“We should probably get back out there,” You whisper. He hums in agreement, but neither of you make any move to leave. You lean closer into him, your head resting on his chest as his chin rested on top of your head. You knew it wouldn’t be long until the two of you were together again; a few hours at most. Lately, those hours felt like decades.

Ji-yong gave you another squeeze. “You go out first, jagiya,” He whispers. You pull away from his embrace, staring up at him. The way your glossy eyes sparkled up at him. It was like he could see every ounce of love for him you had, pouring out of you. He framed your face in his hands, kissing you softly. “I love you.”

“I love you,” You whispered against his lips. Reluctantly, you pulled away from his touch, looking back at him again as you walked away. He only smiled softly. Your heart yearned to stay in that corner with him forever, until your managers found you and ripped the two of you apart. You chewed the inside of your cheek, turning away from him completely as you looked for any sign of your team.

In the dark of your hotel room, you and Ji-yong were a tangled mess of bedsheets and limbs. The rest of the event blew by, you making some lame excuse to your team that you had gone to the bathroom, and Ji-yong telling his team that he was looking at some of the pieces again. You ended up having a romantic dinner together, talking about the event and the people you ran into. A quiet night with glasses of champagne and flirtatious glances.

But now, as the two of you were sleeping peacefully in your quiet room, your phones began to buzz. A violent series of notifications flooding both of your phones. You begin to stir first, rolling over slowly, pulling Ji-yongs arms off of you as you reached for your cellphone. A series of calls, texts, emails, all from your manager, publicist, assistant, even friends of yours. You blinked a few times, your eyes squinting at the bright screen as you opened up a text from your closest friend. A news article.

Unexpected Couple! Musician Y/N L/N Seen With K-Pop Idol G-Dragon at Chanel Fashion Show

You felt your heart plummet into your stomach. No, no, no. You had been so careful for so long. You scroll, your breath escaping you as you look at a photo of you and Ji-yong. His hands on your face, his lips on yours. Another photo of you looking up at him like he was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen (he was, to be fair). For a moment, you just stared blankly. Your thoughts struggle to catch up as your body seems to react for you. Nausea came over you. The room suddenly felt too small. The words on the screen burned into your eyes.

You looked at the top of your phone, seeing another phone call from your manager coming in. You ignore it, reaching over to your boyfriend and shaking him. “Ji?” You whisper. When he doesn’t immediately respond, your eyes begin to water. The anxiety, the fear, the stress catching up to you. It crawls up your spine like some sort of ugly clawed fingers reaching for your throat. You shake him again, a little more harsh as you croak. “Ji-yong.”

His eyes shot open. He flinches awake, looking around the room in a momentary panic before looking at you. First, he relaxes, realizing it’s just you. Then, his tired eyes take in yours. The tears threatening to spill over, your shaking frame, your heavy breathing. He sits up now, looking you over in concern. “Aein…? What’s wrong?” As he wakes up, he hears his phone. He turns to look at it, but the whimper from your lips stops him. Slowly, you hand your phone over. Ji-yong looks at you in confusion, but takes it and looks down.

Oh.

What was once a comforting silence now felt cold. The incessant vibrations of his phone on the nightstand made your ears ring. You crawled out of bed, wearing one of Ji-yong’s shirts as pajamas. You paced the carpeted floor, running your hands through your hair. Ji-yong remained silent. He read the article. Then he reread it. Then he read it again. He looked at the photos over and over. The title. The numerous texts you were getting. For a moment, he didn’t know how to react. He sat in the bed, dumbstruck.

On one hand, part of him wanted to be relieved. The secret was out, and there was no reason to hide his love for you anymore. But this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. It was supposed to be on your terms. Organized by your teams. Some staged paparazzi sighting, or maybe a hard launch on your social medias. He wasn’t sure. The two of you never discussed it that far. Now there was no choice. All because he’d dragged you into his embrace in secret. A selfish moment, now on the cover of multiple articles.

Slowly, he put your phone down, putting it on silent before reaching for his own. He winced at the number of texts he was getting, reaching triple digits. He even saw texts from Taeyang and Daesung, two of the few people who knew about your relationship. But he didn’t answer anyone, turning his own phone off so he could set his attention on your pacing figure. “Jagiya,” He pulls himself out of bed, approaching you with soft eyes. You keep pacing, shaking your head as you try to sort your racing thoughts. “Jagiya, look at me,” He reaches for your hands, pulling you to face him completely. His heart ached as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks. Your eyes wide with fear and worry. You wanted to go public. But not like this. You’d done so well at keeping your life private, and now it felt like it had been stripped away from you before you could even do it yourself. “I’m so sorry,”

His words caught you off guard. There’s a heartbeat of silence as you look at him. Your brows crinkle together as you look at him. His sad, anxious expression as he guiltily looks away. “What?” You whisper, a moment of clarity through your emotional storm.

Ji-yong swallows, looking around the room as he holds your hands tightly. Your touch being the only thing grounding him to this moment. “If we hadn’t, if I hadn’t pulled you away, they wouldn’t have seen anything.” He explains. Your eyes dance over his face as you let what he’s saying register. You shake your head. “Ji,” You coo, reaching forward to push his mint hair out of his face. He looks at you, eyes sad and guilty. “It’s not your fault. We knew that there was a risk. Since day one.” You remind him. You were right. Since you started dating two years ago, there was always the possibility the media would find out about the two of you. Both of you are major stars, with public lives (to some degree). “I just, I can’t believe it got leaked at a Chanel show.”

Ji-yong is quiet for a moment, looking over at you. “The photos are cute.” He says. You look at him in surprise. You think about the photos, how oddly scenic they were, how the photographer had captured a genuinely sweet and beautiful moment. You couldn’t help but laugh, wiping at your tears. Ji-yong cracks a smile, though the worry in his eyes still evident. Not worried for himself, no, but worry for you.

“Our managers are going to kill us.” You say, your voice weak from crying and still being tired. Ji-yong nods his head. “What are we going to do?”

He looks at you, tilting his head slightly in curiosity. “What do you want to do?” He asks you. Naturally, the two of you drift towards each other. Your arms wrap around each others frames, Your face tucked into his neck as you close your eyes. His grip on you tight, still gentle, and protective. His fingers rake through your hair as he waits. No rush for you to answer. No rush to figure out the rest of the world. He lets you simmer in his touch, your mind still racing.

You clutch onto him, not moving away from him as you start to talk. “I want you. That’s it. I want to be able to be with you. I’m not ashamed of being with you, Ji. I’m proud. So proud of you, being with you. I love you.” You feel his arms tighten around you. Slowly, you lift your head and look into his eyes. Now, they were glassy.

Ji-yong blinks away the pending tears as he sniffles. “You’re the love of my life, Y/N,” He whispers, reaching up to push your hair out of your face. You lean into his touch. “I will never be afraid to say that.”

You lean closer, kissing him softly. Your heart still pounding against your chest, your mind still a storm of fear and worry for what wrath you’d face from the media, but it didn’t matter. Not in the long run. You had Ji-yong. You loved Ji-yong more than you could ever explain to him or anyone else. And you knew that the two of you would figure it out together. You’d figure out everything together.

“Are you ready?” He asks you, looking at your phones on the bed. This was it. No more secret rendezvous. No more sneaking around. No more lying in interviews about your relationship status. Everybody knows now. There was no hiding from it now.

You smile at him, your eyes sparkling in the way he loved. You nod your head. “I’m ready,” You assure him.

And by the time the two of you would be leaving Paris, on your way back to Seoul, the entire world knew the secret you’d been keeping to yourselves. And in the early morning as you rushed out of your hotel with your security guards, you two didn’t hide from the paparazzi. Ji-yong walked with you, hand-in-hand, as you walked towards your car. The shouts of fans and cameras catch your attention. You smile and wave, blushing wildly as you realize this was real.

Ji-yong stands up straighter, his hand tightening in yours as he pulls you close. His hand releases yours, only to wrap around your waist tightly as he leads you forward. Ji-yong opens the door for you, despite the security guard reaching for it. Fans scream in awe, and you lean over quickly to press a kiss on his cheek. A weight you didn’t know was there, suddenly lifted. You beamed as Ji-yong slid into the seat next to you. His expression matched yours. Filled with love, excitement, a certain fondness and admiration. “Au revoir, Paris,” Ji-yong muttered as the car started to move. You giggled, leaning into him as you looked around the streets.

“Taeyang and Daesung will never let us hear the end of this.” You muttered, playing with Ji-yong's fingers absentmindedly. A gentle groan comes from Ji-yong, causing you to laugh again. An infinite amount of teasing and playful jokes awaited the two of you back home. Along with a million questions from friends, coworkers, the media, and who knows who else. But you were okay with that. It hadn’t been completely on your terms, but it was yours. Ji-yong was yours.

And if nothing else, it made your stories about Paris far more entertaining.

#kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader #gdragon #kwon jiyong #bigbang #bigbang x reader #kpop fluff #kwon jiyong fanfic #fanfic #x reader

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sinstear · 4 months ago

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ㅤI KINDA WANNA KISS YOUR GIRLFRIEND IF YOU DON’T MIND

tags; 18+, established ellabs relationship, loser!abby, sub!abby, dom!reader, dom!ellie (kinda), cocky!reader, fingering (a!receiving) needy abby, mutual pining between 3 fuckin’ idiots who don’t want to admit they like each other to be honest, smoking, dirty talk, spitting, nipple play. wrote this 3 times 😃 so if i’m missing some stuff, soz!

You’ve been Ellie’s best friend since you could practically walk, curse like a sailor at a random person in the street if they looked at you funny, and break anything you could find. Abby, who’s been dating Ellie for almost 2 years, wonders if Ellie had ever felt anything other than friendship with you. She wonders if she looks at you in the way Abby finds herself doing. Was it wrong? So wrong to look at someone who isn’t her girlfriend? Maybe but she wasn’t going to tell Ellie that. No.

It probably only started after times Ellie had asked you to pick Abby up from work because she herself was working, and maybe if you hadn’t given her that stupid fucking lazy smile you’d give her whenever she would grumble under her breath at your loud music every single time you did pick her up, then maybe she wouldn’t steal glances at you. Even when her girlfriend was with her.

If Ellie picked up on it, she sure as hell never mentioned it to Abby or You. Ellie was good. If she notices something, she doesn’t say anything until Abby brings it up first. They got each other like that.

Since getting with Abby, Ellie never really moved out from the apartment she shared with you. Her girlfriend spends more time there than she does at her own place so it always made sense this way. You were never a third wheel per say, you enjoyed both their company; even if you were a grumpy asshole most of the time.

You also loved to pretend to be annoyed at the fact they would always wake you up. Acting like it bothered you, but when breakfast came, Abby would be a blushing, flustered mess when you would mock how she sounds. Ellie would sit on the other side of the couch, drinking her coffee and smirking subtly.

Ellie’s sitting on her— your bed, Abby slumped between her legs with her head resting on the brunette’s chest comfortably. She’s reading one of her books, Ellie isn’t sure which one, just knows it’s one from her huge collection and she slowly threads her fingers through the Blonde hair, tugging strands lightly.

“Stop hoggin it,” Abby murmurs, reaching a hand up behind her. “S’my turn.”

Rolling her eyes, Ellie pulls the joint from between her lips and carefully passes it to Abby, slipping it between her fingers and shoving her other hand under her girlfriend’s shirt. The action causes Abby to shiver and wrap her lips around the joint before inhaling.

Both of them are able to share the joint a few more times until the sound of the bathroom door is unlocking, and you walk out freshly showered hair wet and a loose pair of sweatpants hang loosely around your hips with a little too tight shirt on. Of course Abby notices that.

“Can you guys go five minutes without fuckin on my bed’? I bet you’ve both fucked twice since I went in the shower,” you grumbled as you stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

Ellie snorts under her breath, eyebrow slightly raising. “Told you that you’re welcome to join.”

As you move around your room, you glance over and find Abby’s eyes fluttering closed with each puff she takes, and a subtle grin appears on your lips. “Nah, think you guys would enjoy that too much— is that my shirt?”

“Relax, she needed a new one.” Ellie scoffed.

“Wasn’t gonna say anything, looks good,” You nodded, dropped your towel on the floor and made your way back over to the bed. “Are you gonna share or?”

Abby’s eyes snap open and lock with yours quickly when she finally takes notice of you being a lot closer than you originally were. “No,” She smirked playfully, dropped her book beside her and shook her head. “Don’t feel like it.”

“Oh? You don’t?” You laughed, cocking your head to the side with a soft tut. “Ellie, does your girl not have manners?”

“Only sometimes,” Ellie murmured against Abby’s neck, and snuck her hand back up the shirt. “She doesn’t like to share joints with many people.”

Eyeing her up closely, a deep hum emitted from the back of your throat. “Yeah, I can see that, dickhead,” You scowled and held your hand out. “But I bought the weed, therefore you’re smoking my stuff.”

Blowing the smoke in your face, Abby giggles with a gentle eye roll and passes it to you this time, shivering and softly whimpering when Ellie’s hand cups one of her tits. None of you are seemingly embarrassed by this. Or you chose to ignore Abby’s flushed cheeks.

“Please don’t fuck on my bed again,” You sighed, watching how Ellie practically gropes Abby right before your eyes and not having a single ounce of shame.

“Abby likes when people watch,” Ellie admitted, biting back a laugh when Abby scoffs. “Right, you like when she watches.” Just like that her eyes snap open again and she’s caught. Shit.

“What?” Abby chokes out.

“S’cute,” You started, taking another hit and chuckling. “Think we don’t know, but we do,”

“Know what?”

“Your little staring problem. You think I don’t notice the way you stare a little too long? Especially when it’s just you and me. M’surprised you haven’t drooled over yourself yet.”

“That’s not—”

“So you haven’t thought about it before?”

Ellie’s silently watching from behind, smirking and pushing the shirt up higher, Abby’s perky nipples on display before you can blink. “T..Thought about what?” She mumbles, eyes not leaving yours.

Her lips part and pupils are blown slightly wide when you kneel on the bed and the joint is still between your lips. “You’ve never thought about me fucking you?”

The question hangs in the air, her skin is covered in goosebumps, you’ve got her right where you want her that she seems to only be focused on you. So focused that Ellie manages to get the shirt off her without a problem. “Do you, Baby?” Ellie finally speaks and it’s soft against her ear. “Do you think about her fucking you?”

Placing the joint in the ashtray, your attention doesn’t waver from Abby. It’s always on her for fuck sake, you’ve stole your own glances at her when Ellie’s not here, when she’s in your apartment, wearing your clothes that Ellie lent her. Fuck.

“S..Sometimes.” Abby admitted with a moan, heat pooling between her legs and she doesn’t have the balls to admit just how wet she is right now.

“Ellie?”

“What?”

“Can I kiss her?” The question is innocent and Abby’s heart swells at how softly you ask. Your hand rests on her thigh, eyes roaming her face slowly and that stupid grin would have her melting into a puddle if she was stood up and not lying down.

Abby’s cheeks flush at the feeling of Ellie’s smile against her neck, and the vibration of her laugh sends her into a frenzy. “Do you want her to kiss you?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

You’re suddenly so much closer to her face, so close that she can see the way your pupils are blown too. Was it the weed? Was it something else? Abby wasn’t sure, but with Ellie’s fingers pinching and rolling her nipples, and your breath against her face, she couldn’t focus. “You want it?” You asked, fingers gripping her chin.

“Uh huh,” Abby nodded, arching against Ellie’s chest at a certain pinch.

“You want it?”

“Please?”

You press your lips to hers, and Abby melts into you with a gentle sigh. She didn’t expect for your lips to be so perfect and soft against hers, maybe it’s because of all the times she catches you using lip balm or some stupid shit you saw on the internet, either way, she doesn’t care. Not when your free hand reaches up and cups the side of her face and kisses her just a little harder. Ellie watches from behind and her stomach flutters and her cunt clenches around nothing at the sight. At the sounds you were easily pulling from her girlfriend.

Whimpering into your mouth suddenly, Abby grips your hand and pushes it downwards abruptly. Pulling away just slightly, you ignored the whine she let out and laughed at how wet she was. “Weed makes you fuckin’ horny, huh?”

Makes her horny all the time, why do you think she’s always riding my cock like a slut?” Ellie piped up, biting and sucking her neck harshly. “Bet you could just slip your fingers right in, always so wet.”

“Want me to fuck you?” You whispered against her lips, squeezing and gripping her thigh. Abby’s quick to nod while you simply tutted again. “Words, Baby.”

“Yes, want you to fuck me,” She whimpered quietly and lifted her hips up at your patting of her hip. Licking her lips and looking away bashfully when you’re pulling down her sweatpants and her boxers, she suddenly feels embarrassed at the noticeable wet patch on the fabric.

“Makes you horny alright,” You murmured and threw her clothes somewhere behind you. Your eyes find Ellie, and for a few seconds you just stare at each other. “Is this okay?”

“It’s okay with me, Abs are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, just— please,” She sighed, legs falling open on their own accord and her cunt glistened with slick before you. “Need you to fuck me, please, please.”

“Someone’s needy,” You commented.

Before Abby could respond to your words, your lips were already back on hers, kissing her hungrily. Your teeth nipped at her bottom lip, hands running up and down her thighs and she shivered. Blunt nails sunk into the skin and Abby whines pathetically at both yours and Abby’s touch. “Such a needy slut,” Ellie murmurs into her neck, fingertips pinching harder at her nipples. “Need to always be full, hm?”

Your thumb finds her clit, and Abby pulls away with a soft whimper, a string of spit keeping the two of you together as her eyes flutter closed and arches into you. “So wet,” You murmured, kissing up and down her jaw. You rub slow circles on her clit, and smile against her skin at her jolts. “Sensitive too.”

“I bet,” Ellie laughed, reaching her hand up and tilting Abby’s head back by her chin. “Only fucked her this morning—”

“Could hear you,” You scoffed, dipping your fingers down and slipping them between her soaked folds, slick coating your fingers embarrassingly quick. “Sound so pretty when you moan,” Your lips brushed against her ear and Abby whined. “So pretty when you’re getting fucked.”

Abby’s eyes fluttered open at your words, cheeks flushed and heart hammering in her chest, to find Ellie already looking down at her with a smirk on her lips and her thumb stroked her cheek slowly. “Open your mouth for me, baby,” She asked, moving her fingers and tapping her lips. “Be a good girl for us, yeah?”

Obediently, Abby opens her mouth and Ellie lowers her face down a little more. You watched the sight silently, fingers still rubbing faster and harsher circles on her clit, and you licked your lips hungrily as Ellie held her mouth open by her chin, and spat a glob of spit into her waiting mouth. Just as she went to swallow, the brunette locked her in a harsh kiss and Abby moaned into her mouth when you’re sinking two of your fingers into her cunt. Her hand grasped your wrist tightly and the other held onto Ellie’s knee tightly.

“So tight,” You growled at the feeling of her walls clamping tightly around your fingers. Abby’s hand grips your wrist harder, hips wildy bucking up into your touch as your fingers brush and curl against her velvet walls perfectly.

Pulling away with a smack of wet lips, Ellie grinned down at Abby’s flushed face, wiped the spit from the corners of her lips with her thumb, and slid her other hand down her stomach. “Look so pretty,” She murmurs softly. “Pretty when you’re stuffed full and being a good girl.”

“More,” Abby whimpered, grinding against your fingers, taking them deeper with each thrust. Her back arches against Ellie’s chest, pushing more up into you when your lips find her neck; where you kiss, bite and suck harshly. “Fuck.”

Your lips curl into a smile at her whimpers, and you barely notice Ellie moving her hand down between Abby’s legs until she gasps loudly and holds your wrist with an iron grip. “This what you wanted? Me playing with your pretty clit while she fucks you?”

“Yes— fuck, please.” Abby chants pathetically.

Littering kisses up and down her neck, another curl of your fingers has her letting go of your wrist and wrapping an arm around your neck, pulling you closer to her. “You think about me when you fuck yourself?” You found yourself muttering into her skin, working your fingers in and out of her with vigor. “Hm?”

The way her cunt clenches around your fingers, and clit throbs beneath Ellie’s thumb at your question is an answer for both of you and it has your heart hammering in your chest. “Course you do, pussy’s made for my fingers, ain’t she?” You’re purposely Pissing Ellie off, and it works when you hear her grumbling behind Abby. “Don’t worry, baby, my cock will be perfect for you.”

Abby gasps, but she’s not sure if it’s the way you’re fucking her so good, or your words that has her flushed and wrecked, but she doesn’t seem to care. Especially not when you lift your head from her neck, lean your face closer to hers and brush your lips against her pink plump ones. “Look so pretty for me, so beautiful while you ride my fingers like a whore,” You smiled. Smiled like you didn’t have your fingers reaching parts she couldn’t even reach.

It usually takes Abby a while to get to where she wants, but when she feels the tightening of her lower stomach, the familiar feeling rising, she closes her legs around your wrist, shamelessly grinding against your fingers. “M’gonna cum,” She whines, eyes fluttering open and closed a couple of times before they find yours again. “Need to cum,”

“Yeah?” You cocked your head to the side, looked down where Ellie had one of her hands on her thighs, keeping it apart and hummed at the sight of her fingers against Abby’s clit. “Gonna cum for me or her?”

“Please—”

“Who are you gonna cum for? Me or her?” You asked again, speeding up your fingers. “C’mon baby, tell me who you’re gonna cum for.”

The loud squelching sounds had the blood rushing to her head, the thumping in her ears louder and Abby’s lips parted with a loud whimper when you’re brushing that spot that makes her toes curl. “You! M’gonna cum for you, please.”

“Yeah? Go on then, cum for me.”

That’s all it took for her body to tense up, like your words were the only things she needed to hear, as her back arches, body arching into you, her gasps come out in short breaths and cums against your fingers with a pathetic whine. The gush of sticky spray covering your wrist makes you grin down at her smugly. “Fuck, made you squirt, huh? Definitely need to do that again, angel,” You murmured, leaning down and kissing her lips with a soft moan of your own. “You’re so pretty when you cum.”

As Abby came down from her high, your fingers buried to a hilt, still inside her, your lips found her ear again and your eyes locked with Ellie’s lustful ones as you spoke. “You’re gonna ride my cock while we show your girlfriend how to fuck her girl right, yeah?”

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson smut #abby anderson #abby anderson fic #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams smut #ellie williams #ellie williams fic

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cece693 · 5 months ago

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I Don't Need A Gentleman

pairing: edward cullen x gender neutral reader tags: edward is old fashioned and kinda a prude, the reader is not, reader doesn't want vanilla sex anymore, alice and rosalie are cool sister in laws

You lounge on the massive, cream-colored couch in the Cullens’ living room, scrolling absentmindedly through your phone as Alice and Rosalie flip through a stack of fashion magazines. It’s one of those rare, lazy evenings—no imminent threats, no pressing vampire drama—just the family scattered around the house doing their own thing. Alice bumps your foot with hers. “You’re weirdly quiet today. Seriously, what’s up?”

You look up, tapping the phone against your knee. “It’s kind of about Edward.”

Rosalie arches a perfectly groomed brow. “What did our golden boy do now?”

Your cheeks—if they still could—might blush. “He didn’t really do anything wrong, exactly. It’s just…” You pause, gathering your thoughts. Even though you’ve been married to Edward for a while, it can still be tough to put some things into words. “He’s super considerate, and I adore that about him. But sometimes—okay, a lot of times—I just wish he’d show a little more…passion? Fire?”

Alice makes a sympathetic face, setting her magazine aside. “He can be a bit old-school, yeah. He has that ‘eternally seventeen’ gentleman thing down to a T.”

“Tell me about it,” you huff. “I’m a vampire, too! I mean, I’m not exactly made of glass. But he keeps treating me like I’m this delicate flower that might crumble if the wind blows too hard. I swear, sometimes our kisses feel like little pecks—like he’s worried I’ll spontaneously combust if he lingers longer than three seconds.”

Rosalie leans back, crossing her arms. “Look, Edward’s always been overly cautious. It’s one of his most annoying…okay, fine, endearing qualities. But you can’t blame him for wanting to protect you. He’s basically built that way.”

You sit up straighter, pushing your hair out of your face. “Totally. I get it. I love how he’s protective, and, well, a total gentleman. But I need more of that oomph. Y’know, that feeling where you just can’t keep your hands off each other.”

Alice snorts a laugh. “I never thought I’d hear you say ‘oomph.’ You should definitely say that to Edward’s face. He’d probably blush so hard, if vampires could blush.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, rolling your eyes playfully. “But how do I bring it up without hurting his feelings? He’s so sensitive. The moment he thinks he’s made me even slightly uncomfortable, he clams up.”

Rosalie sets the magazine aside with a little thump. “You’re married. He can handle the conversation. Trust me, you should be honest about it. Being in love for, what, decades? That means talking about the hard stuff, or the passionate stuff.” She smirks at that last part.

Alice nods enthusiastically, tucking her legs up beneath her. “The best way is just to be straightforward. Tell him how you feel without making it sound like he’s doing something wrong. Emphasize that you love his old-fashioned side—it’s part of why you married him, right? But also make it crystal clear that you want him to dial up the heat. You’re a vampire, for crying out loud, not some breakable human.”

You exhale, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. “You guys are right. I’m probably overthinking it. I’m worried he’ll take it the wrong way, but I can’t just keep ignoring how frustrated I am.”

“Exactly.” Alice taps your knee again. “He’ll listen, especially if you remind him that you still love all the things that make him Edward. He just needs to hear that you want him to trust your strength, too.”

Rosalie stands, stretching with the fluidity of a cat. “And if that doesn’t work, just throw him up against a wall somewhere. That’ll get the point across.”

Alice gasps in mock horror. “Rosalie Hale! That’s your brother you’re talking about.”

She smirks. “Hey, I’m just saying, sometimes subtlety isn’t the answer.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Let me try talking first before I start tossing him around.”

Alice and Rosalie share amused glances as you stand, giving a quick wave. “Thanks for the advice, seriously.”

“Anytime,” Alice sings out.

“Go get ’em,” Rosalie adds, winking.

You head up the stairs to find Edward, heart fluttering in that familiar way only he can cause, despite both of you being, well, undead. He’s in his usual spot in the family’s library, flipping through a thick novel—something old and fancy, undoubtedly. The moment he senses you, he glances up with a small smile, eyes full of that unwavering devotion.

“Hey,” you say, crossing the room until you’re close enough to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Got a minute to talk?”

“Of course,” Edward responds softly, setting the book aside. He tilts his head, concern flickering in those golden eyes. “Is everything all right?”

“It is,” you reassure him, settling in beside him on the velvet couch. You can still hear Alice’s and Rosalie’s voices drifting faintly from downstairs, but you focus on Edward. “I just wanted to share something that’s been on my mind, and it’s really important to me.”

He nods earnestly. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Taking a breath, you gently place your hand over his. “So, we’ve been together for a long time. We’re married, and I’m a vampire—just like you, right? But sometimes I feel like you’re handling me with kid gloves. I love your gentlemanly side, and I’d never want you to completely lose that. But I want us to be able to express our love passionately, without you worrying so much that I’ll break.”

Edward’s gaze drops to your entwined hands. “I—I see,” he says quietly. “I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t my equal. It’s just…I can’t shake the habit of worrying you might be hurt or regret something if I let go too much. Even though you’re stronger than any human I once knew, it’s hard to override decades of caution.”

Leaning in, you brush a gentle kiss against his cheek. “I know. And I respect how deeply you care. But hey, my strength is legit.” You grin, flexing half-jokingly. “I promise, I can handle more. And if something’s too much, I’ll tell you.”

Edward’s lips curve into a small smile. “Thank you for being honest with me. I guess I needed a reminder that I’m not the only one in this relationship who has a say—especially when it comes to showing affection.”

Your heart (metaphorically) flutters at the genuine warmth in his voice. “Exactly. I love being with you, and I don’t want you to hold back. We can figure out the balance, you know, do the old-fashioned courting stuff, but also, I don’t know…maybe occasionally break the furniture?”

His eyes widen for half a second in surprise, then he laughs, the sound soft and musical. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he teases, sliding a hand around your waist to pull you closer. This time, when you tilt your head up for a kiss, you feel him lean in just a bit more—a tiny, tangible shift. His lips linger, his cool hand splaying across your back. The moment stretches on until you both draw away, contented smiles on your faces.

“That,” you whisper, thumb brushing against his jaw, “was exactly what I’ve been missing.”

Edward’s eyes shine with affection. “Then I’ll make sure you never miss it again.”

Downstairs, you can practically hear Alice’s “Yes!” whispered under her breath, and you know Rosalie is grinning in that smug way that says, “Told you so.” It makes you laugh softly. But that’s the beauty of this big, unconventional vampire family.

Edward gently presses his forehead against yours. Neither of you needs to breathe, but the moment feels like a breath of fresh air anyway. Old-fashioned or not, he’s all yours—and he’s finally letting you show him that you’re every bit the strong partner he deserves. And judging by the heat in his eyes, this is just the beginning.

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jaitunapie · 3 months ago

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ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

//Kang Haerin x Reader//univ!AU//short oneshot//

ᴍᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇx ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀɴ. ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ.

SYPNOSIS ! You’ve never missed a party. But when Kang Haerin—your best friend/fake girlfriend, and a total loser—cups your face and asks you to stay, how could you possibly say no????

WORD COUNT ! 2k TAGS ! Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Fluff & Tension, Light Angst, Nerd/Loser (idfk)!Haerin, Popular!reader, Subtle Jealousy. friends with benefits???, univ!au, fem!reader ofc, CUDDLESSS WARNINGS ! Mild suggestiveness, gay ahhahahah, idk how to write kissing stuff, kinda rushed but idc, Mentions of alcohol/partying,

AUTHOR'S NOTE ! ohmygoff guys i tried a different header style and i don’t like it but i’m too lazy to fix it 😭 anyway i got this idea from a tt i saw like a year ago lol

You’re sitting cross-legged in front of your vanity, lip gloss uncapped in one hand and your phone in the other. A stream of notifications rolls across the screen—texts from your friends about tonight’s party, someone asking if you’re bringing Haerin, and a single message from your ex that you’ve been ignoring all day.

The girl behind you shifts on the bed, the soft glow from your LED lights casting faint shadows across her face. She’s still in her oversized sweater, the sleeves bunched over her hands, and her glasses are slipping down the bridge of her nose. Loose strands of hair frame her face as she watches you apply your makeup.

“You’re really going?” Haerin’s voice is soft, almost hesitant.

You meet her gaze through the mirror, “Yeah. Why, you gonna miss me?” you joked

Haerin’s eyes drop to her lap, fingers tugging at the frayed hem of her sweater. “No.”

You roll your eyes. “Liar.”

She doesn’t answer, but you catch the way her lips press together.

Most people wouldn’t dare accuse Haerin of lying. Half the school is either intimidated by her or obsessed with her—the whole mysterious, nonchalant dreadhead vibe only adds to the appeal. She’s smart, always at the top of her class, but not in a try-hard way. It’s effortless for her.

At least, that’s what everyone else thinks.

You know better.

“awhh, you’re really not gonna miss me?” you tease, tilting your head.

Haerin’s mouth twitches, almost like she’s fighting a smile. She pushes her glasses up her nose with the edge of her sleeve. “Obviously not.”

Yeah. Sure.

The thing about Haerin is that she’s impossible to read—cold and quiet to most, yet with you, she’s something else entirely. A complete loser, really.

She’s obsessed with frogs. Like, weirdly obsessed. She has a whole album of frog pictures on her phone and once made you sit through a 20-minute Ted Talk about how they absorb water through their skin. And don’t even get started on the fish facts—Haerin has this habit of dropping random, useless knowledge on you at the worst times. (“Did you know some fish can change genders?” she once whispered during a math test.)

And honestly—You find it kind of cute.

You twist around in your seat, setting your lip gloss down and leaning back on your hands. Haerin’s still looking down, her glasses sliding lower on her nose as she worries the edge of her sweater between her fingers.

“You could come with me, you know.”

Haerin scoffs, adjusting her glasses. “Why would I do that?”

“Because,” you shrug, “it would make sense for my girlfriend to be there.”

Haerin’s head snaps up, eyes rolling behind her lenses. “You’re really still going through with that?”

You grin. “We already agreed, didn’t we?”

“You agreed.”

“Hey! You agreed too,” you remind her. “You were the one who said it’d be a good idea.”

Haerin huffs, standing up and heading toward your closet.

The whole fake dating thing had been your idea. After your ex moved on a little too fast, you figured making her jealous was the obvious solution. And who better to rope into your ridiculous plan than your own best friend?

It worked maybe a little too well. Your ex definitely noticed, and Haerin played the part better than you expected. Too good, even. The way she held your hand, the way she looked at you like you were the only person in the room—it felt real.

Then your ex texted you she said she wanted to talk, maybe even try again. But you turned her down without hesitation and never mentioned it to Haerin.

And somehow, instead of ending the whole thing right there… you just kept going.

“Great.” You hum to yourself, picking up your brush again.

You hear Haerin rummaging through your closet, followed by the shuffle of fabric. When you glance back, you see her pulling on a blue flannel—and then… a baseball cap.

She adjusts the brim low over her face as she sits back down on the bed.

“You are not wearing a baseball cap to the party,” you arch a brow, grabbing your phone and a handful of makeup products as you walk toward her.

The girl on your bed leans back, tipping the brim upward slightly. “What’s wrong with baseball caps?”

“At a party? Everything.”

You toss the cap behind you and slide into her lap without thinking—an easy, familiar motion, like slipping into your favourite seat. Her hands instinctively hover at your waist, hesitating just for a moment before resting there, light but sure, as if they’ve done it a hundred times before.

“Let me do your makeup,” you say, grinning as you hold her chin between your fingers.

“What?” Haerin blinks, pushing her glasses up with her knuckle.

“You’ll look cute.”

“No.”

“Please?”

Silence. Which is basically a yes to her.

“Yay”

Her breath hitches when you push her glasses up onto her head. Her hands tighten on your waist—just slightly, just enough for you to notice.

You pretend not to.

She watches as you put blush onto her cheeks, her lashes fluttering when you swipe a soft stroke across her nose. When you lean in to do her eyeliner, your thumb resting lightly beneath her jaw, you feel it—the faintest tremor beneath your fingers.

“Sit still,” you murmur, leaning in to draw her eyeliner. Your left hand steadies her head, thumb resting just beneath her jaw.

Her gaze flickers up—not toward the mirror, but directly at you.

And now you’re close enough to see the gold flecks in her irises, the way her breath subtly hitches in her throat.

How is she supposed to stay still when you’re this close?

“There.” You smile, brushing your thumb lightly over the curve of her cheek. “Pretty.”

Though, you could’ve sworn you didn’t put that much blush on her…

Haerin avoids your gaze instead flicking toward the corner of the room

“Hm…wait.” You squint, studying her face. “You’re missing something.”

“Ah!...lipstick.”

Her gaze drops immediately to your lips.

You hum to yourself, twisting slightly as you glance toward the side of the couch, brushing your hand along the cushion in search of the tube. “Damn… I forgot to bring it over.”

You start to push yourself up — but before you can move, Haerin’s hands shift at your sides, her fingers brushing lightly over your waist like she’s steadying you.

You blink. “Haerin?”

Her cheeks are bright pink, her breath shaky. For a moment, it feels like time slows. The warmth of her hands bleeds through your shirt, and you’re close enough to see the quick rise and fall of her chest.

And then her hands slide up, cupping your face, her thumbs skimming over your skin.

Your breath stutters.

She hesitates, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up—like she’s waiting for you to stop her.

You don’t.

And then, softly (almost shyly) Haerin kisses you.

Your breath stutters as her mouth moves hesitantly at first—like she’s bracing for you to pull away. But you don’t. Your hands curl into the fabric of her flannel as she leans in deeper, her thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Problem solved,” she whispers.

You’ve always gone to the parties.

Seriously—always. If there’s a party happening, your name is on the guest. People expect you to be there. You have a reputation for it, being the life of the party, the one who knows exactly where the good drinks are, who’s sneaking into the pool after midnight, and which couple is probably going to break up by the end of the night.

Skipping a party? That’s not really your thing.

So when Haerin asks, “You’re really going?” it’s not a weird question. Of course you’re going.

Or… you were.

Your lips are still tingling when Haerin pulls back, just barely, her face hovering so close that you can feel her breath against your skin. Her glasses have slipped down her nose again, and her hands are still cradling your face like she’s afraid to let go.

Your heart is pounding. Actually, pounding might be an understatement —it’s doing backflips and somersaults and possibly breaking Olympic records right now.

“Now, Stay,” Haerin whispers.

Your eyes widen. “Wha—”

She leans in again, a soft kiss against the corner of your mouth this time. So soft you barely feel it, but it sends a hot spark shooting down your spine.

“Stay,” she says again.

You’re starting to feel dizzy. “Haerin—”

Another kiss—this time against your jaw. Her lips linger there for a second longer than they should, and you swear you feel her breath hitch against your skin.

In Haerin’s head, everything’s loud and quiet at the same time.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t real. Just a dumb plan to make your ex jealous. That’s what Haerin had told herself, over and over, every time you held her hand in public, every time you leaned into her side, every time someone called her your girlfriend. It was supposed to be harmless.

But somewhere between the ice cream dates and the way you smiled at her, it stopped feeling fake.

She should pull away. She should stop.

But she can’t.

Because the truth is, Haerin doesn’t want it to be fake anymore.

“Stay.”

Your brain is short-circuiting. Haerin’s hands slide from your cheeks to the back of your neck, her fingertips pressing lightly into your skin.

What the hell is happening right now??

Her lips brush the tip of your nose next —so soft it almost makes you laugh if you weren’t so busy trying not to combust.

“Stay.”

Her voice is steadier this time — more sure of itself.

You can’t breathe. Your hands are gripping the front of her flannel now, your knuckles white from how hard you’re holding on.

Her lips press lightly to the side of your neck next, just below your ear. Warm. Careful. She pulls away slowly, like she’s testing the reaction—and oh god, if your face gets any hotter you’re going to actually catch fire.

You can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t do anything except sit there, wide-eyed and very much on the verge of collapse.

Haerin tilts her head, brushing her lips over yours one more time—so soft and slow that it feels almost dreamlike. And when she pulls back, her eyes are dark behind her glasses, her cheeks flushed.

“Stay,” she whispers.

And then-

“...Please?”

Your whole body jolts like someone just hit you with a defibrillator. Haerin’s hands are still cupping the back of your neck, her forehead pressed against yours. Her lips are parted, her breath coming out as shaky.

Your mouth opens and nothing comes out. Your heart is beating so loud you can’t even hear yourself think.

“Uh—”

Haerin’s eyes flick to your lips again— and for a second, you think she’s going to kiss you again

“Okay,” you breathe.

You don’t even know if you said it out loud or just thought it, but Haerin’s face relaxes, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.

And just like that

This was the first time you didn’t attend a party.

_______________

Your phone buzzes from where it’s balanced on the edge of the couch. You reach for it, trying not to disturb Haerin—who is currently asleep on top of you, her face buried in the crook of your neck, her arms lazily draped around your waist.

You squint at the screen. Hanni.

You sigh and swipe to answer the call, careful to keep your voice low.

“Hello?” you whisper.

“DUDE, WHERE ARE YOU?” Hanni’s voice is practically vibrating through the phone, loud enough to make you wince. You can barely hear her over the sound of music thumping in the background.

“I’m… not coming,” you murmur.

“What?!” Hanni’s voice sharpens. “What do you mean you’re not coming? Are you sick???”

You open your mouth to respond, but then Haerin shifts, her arms tightening slightly around your waist as she nuzzles closer. A soft hum escapes her lips.

And suddenly, you can't think of a single reason to leave.

“…I just don’t feel like it,” you say, your voice barely above a breath.

“You don’t feel like it?” Hanni scoffs. “Girl, Since when?”

You hesitate, shifting your phone to your other hand. Haerin shifts too, her breath warm against your neck. You don’t dare move, the same way you’d stay still if a cat had settled in your lap.

That’s when Hanni’s gaze sharpens. Her eyes narrow as she squints at the screen.

“Wait… why are you whispering?”

“I—”

Her gaze drops. Her eyes widen.

“Wait.” Hanni leans closer to the camera, her brows furrowing. “Are those—”

You frown. “What?”

“Y/N.”

“What??” you panic.

“Are those lipstick marks?”

Hanni’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “IS THAT HAE—”

You hang up.

______________________________

hey guys...i may have a dani version of this if anyone’s interested😈😈

taglist: @arihiu @fruityg0rl @keiji-jin @hazel-tanthamore22 @yjiminswallet @idkwhatim-doinghere101 @gtfoiydlyj @loliue @Mj.Db @jkwsel @saysirhc @peranoo @syronns @angiisss @hwonnrinji @nnewjeansstuff @popasi @greenniee @imsogay504 @wintersgff @kki1ooo @sh1ba100 @tashasmywife

#njz x reader #njz haerin #njz #kang haerin x reader #haerin x reader #kang haerin #haerin #newjeans x reader #newjeans #kang haerin x fem!reader

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mollygrass · 20 days ago

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Preacher Girl part 2

Remmick x Female reader

Summary: Regretful and shameful for losing your virginity before marriage, you avoid Remmick for the whole week until guilt eventually pulls you back at his porch in hopes of his forgiveness.

Tags & Warnings: religious themes, female reader, ambiguous reader, blood drinking, turning into vampire, smut, power imbalance dynamics

A/N: proofread only once, so sorry for any errors I’m lazy

Word count: 4k

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺ ‧⁺ ‧

In his bedroom the curtains block out the bright sun rays, keeping the room dim. You lie next to Remmick, cuddled close and cozily warm. Slowly your eyelids flutter open. Each blink clears the blurry fog of slumber. On his side he lies comfortably, chin held up in one hand as the other caresses your smooth cheek.

“Mornin, darlin.”

In a flash, you spring to life, sitting up. The covers sink low to your bare waist. Your eyes fall down to your exposed chest. It all pieces together in your brain like a puzzle. Unholy, vomit inducing memories makes your heart thump as your tummy twists endlessly on loop.

“Oh…oh, heavens,” you murmur, feeling terribly sick.

A mistake. Last night. It was all a horrible regretful mistake you made. All you wanted was to talk about your feelings with him. But here you are, waking up nude next to Remmick.

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re regretting last night.”

Unease strings your breaths out in erratic rhythms and your hands quiver in your lap. You refuse to spare glance his way, eyes more interested in the dry walls.

“I need to go home.”

“You can’t go yet. I ain’t even offered you breakfast,” he insists.

The gloom cracking his voice nearly splits your heart in two. Any other day you would have loved to stay for breakfast. However, today isn’t just any other day.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go, Remmick. I’m sorry, really.”

Swiftly, you collect your discarded clothes on the floor and put them on, guilt mixed together with shame plaguing your brain. Then without uttering another word you dash out the bedroom with him hot on your trail like a lost puppy. Brown eyes round and wide, brimming with disbelief as he helplessly watches you leave.

How can someone as angelic as you treat him in such a way? Stiff, cold and distant, instead of the usual cheery, bubbly you. He wants to scream out to you. Yank you tightly into an eternal embrace, never letting you escape out the front door in the living room. He doesn’t. Limbs made of stone, adhered to the floor, Remmick is frozen in time as he watches you walk out the door. And when he does dare to bravely reach a hand out to you it’s too late.

You’re already long gone down the street at home.

…………………..

The days blur together in one messy chain of events, tangled all over the place. Each passing day you keep yourself occupied with mind numbing tasks. From helping out around town to volunteering at church. Yet it never fully eradicates that night tattooed in your brain. Like an angry, bitter spirit it haunts you endlessly.

The worst of it always seems to find you in your devoted worship to God. As you say prayers, his lewd voice whispers in your ears. While you sit in church listening to the pastor's graceful praises of the high lord, images of Remmick from that night dusts your skin in shameful goosebumps. In fact because of these unwanted reminders of your sinful acts you’re beginning to hate going to church or let alone anything that relates to God.

The day of the lord is nearly over as the sun drifts lower and lower from the sky. Your home is packed with your fellow believers from church. As promised, you serve Sunday supper for them.

Chatter and laughter fills your home as everyone stuffs their mouths at your dinner table. Golden crispy fried chicken, creamy buttery mashed potatoes, well seasoned string beans and your famous tooth-rotting dessert–peach cobbler. It brings everyone together in blissful joy and harmony to eat your delicious cooking.

“By now you would’ve been down the street with a wrapped plate for that odd fella. You finally realize how weird he is or something?” A man who always sits in the front row at church, snickers.

Out of everyone in town and especially at church, he never missed an opportunity to urge you to stay away from Remmick in all his “unholiness” as he always puts it. It always puzzles your brain why he does it, and usually shrugs it off like a harmless bug. Though, today his words hold power to them.

A woman sitting at his side jabs a sharp elbow in his gut. “Stop that, John!” She snaps in a hushed whisper, an annoyed glint in her eyes.

The mention of Remmick makes your heart thud wildly. He’s the last somebody you want to talk about with this crowd of folks. It’ll only make the overwhelming shame you feel eat you whole.

You ignore John, pretending to eat your food.

“Hmmp, I must be right. I’ve been watching you since Monday and you ain’t not once visited that man.” He points his silverware at you. “See, this is why you should’ve taken heed to my warnings before you found out the hard way, sweetheart.”

The dinner table falls silent. Their eyes all lock on you. Curious and nosy about if John’s words hold truth.

You clear your throat, lips pursed. “I’ve just been under the weather, so please, let’s talk about something else.”

The soft smile etched on your lips reassures everyone. Well, except for him–John.

He scoffs, shaking his head disapprovingly. The table’s lighthearted atmosphere returns and everyone goes back to chatting up storms. You don’t join in the conversations, mind battling off storms of shame. Instead you act as if you're listening and smile as John suspiciously eyes you from across the table.

After dinner, they all hang around for a bit longer until the moon glows in the sky. One after the other they leave until only one person remains–John. He halts on the porch, turning on his heels to face you in the doorframe. Eyes intense, brows knitting, lips in a fine line. He extends an arm, hand lightly gripping your shoulder.

“Let this be my last warning, girl. Stay far away from that damn man. There’s something evil and demonic surrounding him. A soul pure and sweet as yours is just perfect for somebody like him to destroy.” He adjusts the black hat on his head and turns for the steps. “May our heavenly father be with you, goodnight.”

You watch him get in an automobile as his grim final warning plummets your stomach. His car drives off into the distance, darkness of the night swallowing his car.

In bed you toss and turn relentlessly. John’s warning and Remmick haunt your mind. One minute your conscience agrees with the latter. This side of you urges you to stay away from your outcasted neighbor. On the flip side the other half shames you for how you have been treating Remmick lately. In all honesty it shocks you that you feel this way because throughout the week you never once felt bad for it until now. Maybe it’s from what John said at dinner or possibly the guilt is finally kicking in. Afterall, you don’t normally treat people with such cruelty.

Once more you wash away all the pesky thoughts, but they all come slamming back and this time heavier than a bag of bricks. It forces you to make up your mind and that’s just what you do.

Easily, you chose Remmick.

You hold a nice plate full of leftover food from dinner, neatly wrapped. Your shoes slap against the dry pavement. Humid summer wind blows your night gown in wild ripples. This time around you don’t pray to god for Remmick to answer the door. In fact you don’t pray at all. All you do is focus on getting to his home.

At his house, you knock on the door. A long minute passes and you knock again just to meet silence. All you hear is crickets singing in the nearby woods paired with whispers of the soft breeze. Sighing, you turn to leave his porch.

“What was I thinking? Of course he’s not going to let me in after I ignored him for a week,” you mumble, sulking.

As you begin dragging your feet to leave, a bitter taste filling your mouth, his door groans open.

“Come in,” is all he says.

He doesn’t say anything else as you slip past the doorframe. Rather loudly, the door slaps shut. It jolts your slouchy spine in a fine line and your aching heart racing. He must still be upset with you still. Understandable. You don’t knock him for his valid emotions. It’s the whole reason you're here in the first place. To make it up to him.

The wooden planks squeak as he walks deeper into the house, but the usual bright light never comes. It’s puzzling and odd. But still you don’t judge him. Well, that’s the case until a potent smell overwhelms your nostrils—wet pennies.

“Remmick, what’s that smell?”

You no longer hear the floor moaning under his feet.

“Do you really want to know?” His voice rumbles low, something wicked brews deep within it.

John’s goosebump inducing warning loudly echoes in your ears. You gulp, wondering if he’s right about your odd neighbor.

“Yes.”

The room lights up in a blink of an eye. You carefully eye the room and everything seems to be the same as the day you left. Untouched, neat and clean. It’s another story as your eyes land on Remmick. Eyes widening, the plate slips from your hands. It crashes on the floor with a soft thud. Cold food and the plates glass shards decorate the floor.

you finally look at him though, your eyes widen. The plate slips out of your hands. It crashes onto the floor with a soft thud. The cold food spills everywhere mixed with glass shards.

He stands there, frozen in his tracks. Blood, still wet and fresh, drenches his chin all the way down to his ivory collared shirt. An unreadable blank mask sits upon his bloody stained handsome face.

“Do you know why they fear me? Why everyone avoids me like I’m the devil’s spawn?”

Backing away from him, you trip over your own feet, landing on your butt. Dread sneaks up your spine as you crab walk away from him. Words bundle, sticky as glue in your mouth. You can’t speak as you take in the horrific view of Remmick.

He prowls closer, glowing eyes matching the color of blood staining his shirt. Crouching down at your level, his head tilts. As usual his eyes are round, but a sinister darkness storms within them. “You’re right, I’m sinful. Unholy. Everything the Bible curses. Yet you,” he pauses, gliding a clawed finger under your chin to look up at him. “Always seemed to flock to me, the so-called devil. How can that be when you’re pure and sweet?”

You remain silent. Limbs too scared to dare move an inch.

“Can’t answer that, can you, darlin?”

You frantically shake your head, heart drumming in your ears.

He inhales deeply, eyes sealed shut. Then exhales. Eyes open again. “Didn’t think so.”

Your trembling frame pulls his bloody lips in a gentle smile. Oh, how he hates what he’s planning to do to you next. But it must be done, otherwise you’ll never be his.

“Well, you wanted to know what that smell was, right?” He motions his long talon fingers at himself. A wide smile reveals his vile fangs.

The sight of his unholy, devilish teeth only chokes you tighter with fear. A breathless gasp chokes past your parted lips.

“One of your little friends from church.”

Your heart drops. “No, you didn’t!”

He laughs, shaking his head like a deranged asylum patient. He’s enjoying every second of this. “No, not the ones from your little dinner party, darlin.”

Shamefully, your chest deflates, relieved Yet guilt tears you to shreds at the fact that some innocent person you worshipped God with has been killed by Remmick’s hands.

“Unlike y’all, I don’t find regular ole food appetizing. I prefer something warm, liquidy and fresh, darlin.”

“W-What type of monster are you? You’re not Remmick…you can’t be! He would never do such a disgraceful, disgusting thing.” Tears stream down your cheeks. Your chest heaves heavily, burning hot.

“Ain’t you just the sweetest thing. Too naive for your own good, really. Don’t be deluded, I am indeed Remmick.”

“Lies, you wretched devil!”

Twisting on all fours, you spring to your feet and dash for the door. He idly catches your night gown, its fabric bundled in his fist and yanks you back. Hitting the floor knocks you breathless as pain blossoms in your backside. A quiet whimper slips past your lips.

“Uhn-Uhn, I ain’t finished with ya yet. You ain’t going nowhere, not till I’m done with you.”

The danger coating his voice raises a new concern in your limbs. You thrash on the floor as he drags you through the hall leading to his bedroom.

He sighs heavily, still not looking forward to what’s coming next. Remmick knows how you’ll react. How your screams and cries will slice his heart to pieces. The way you’ll squirm as pins you down in the mattress.

Just as his previous wife did many sunrises ago.

Together they lived happily under the moon together, traveling the world. Until she gruesomely died at the hands of vampire hunters without a drip of mercy. After her death he always figured he’d live out the rest of his days, miserable and bitter in the night. That’s what he thought until you.

Years stacked on top of years fleeing towns, Remmick finally settled down in a small quiet town deep in Mississippi. His days of hunting poor helpless souls for the gift to bring spirits forth from both the past and the future was over. All he craved was to live a quiet, mundane life as he mourned his wife.

He got his wish, but at what cost? Everyone in town damned him for his strangeness. They’re a religious town of people. So, when he never showed his face in church people began wondering things. Curiosity turned to sympathy. Then sympathy became hatred. At first folks thought he was a shy man, until they didn’t.

But one person out of the entire town did show him kindness. A warmth, Remmick never thought he’d feel again after his wife. Maybe it’s because you were new to the town or simply because it’s just who you are. Sweeter than honey, everyday bringing him gifts. Spending time with him. In the beginning he found you. Then suddenly he found himself smitten with you.

“Sorry. I really am, darlin. But after you left me. Abandoned me, I can’t risk having that again.”

He kicks the bedroom door shut, locking it with a key fished from his pocket. Then he lifts you with ease in his strong arms. Like a wild rabbit caught by the neck, your flailing persists till you're dropped on the bed. Its spring wires whine under your weight. Swiftly, you sit up. But Remmick is more swift, shoving you back on the mattress.

“Let me go! You vile demon,” you wail, voice cracking.

“Hush all that racket now.” He hovers you on the bed. With only one hand he effortlessly pins your wrists above your head.

“S-Somebody help! Help!” You scream.

Just as your lips part, ready to cry for help again, Remmick’s calloused palm gags you. It silences your every scream.

“Make me repeat myself again, you’ll be gagged and not with my hand.”

As his hand draws back you don’t dare utter a single word. All you do is quietly whine.

“Good girl,” he coos, red eyes softening. Though his iron grip never falters around your wrists. “Now this next part is gonna hurt. But don’t freight, I promise to take good care of you, darlin. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Do what? What are you going to do to me?”

He huffs a raspy laugh. “Don’t worry, you’ll see soon enough.”

His head dips down to your face. Soft lips gently press against your forehead and slowly trail to your neck. Each kiss he litters, your body trembles. Even after experiencing sex, your reactions are still pure as if he never explored your body’s every crevice. So cute and sweet. Just for him only.

His tongue takes its time gliding across your neck’s feverish flesh. Its slick wetness drags unbalanced breaths from your chest.

Truly, you can’t fathom why he’s doing this to you. All the kindness you showed him when no one else in town did. The chance you alone offered when no one else did. How could he?

Your vision blurs as tears stain your flushed cheeks. “W-Why?”

He buries his face deep in your saliva coated neck. “Hmm?” He hums, drowned in total bliss, inhaling your mouth watering sweet scent.

“This…why are you doing this? I thought we were friends?” You sniffle, voice shattered. “Even if you are some kind of monster, Remmick, why?”

He keeps his face nuzzled in your neck’s warmth. “Because you’re mine. I want you to be mine. I can’t have you if you’re avoiding me, now can I? And once I’m done with you, you’ll be mine for eternity.”

“You can’t.”

“And why’s that?”

“My being, my soul, everything. It all belongs to the lord above and no one else.” You draw out a quivering breath, eyes glassy and stained red.

He laughs, the mockery in steals your breath away. It feels like a slap to your face, watching amusement shake his shoulders. Remmick’s chest deflates in satisfaction. Grinning ear to ear, his fangs show.

“And that’s why I’m doing this.”

“What—”

Deep in the side of your neck an unbearable pain erupts and burns. Your wailing voice fills the bedroom as your limbs freeze. Blood gushes in endless waves, soaking your gown’s bust area.

As expected, it shatters Remmick’s heart. Though, in the same breath euphoria fogs his mind. Filling his mouth, your blood is richly divine and deliciously sweet. He could feed on you all day and night, but that would be no fun and too cruel for his liking. He doesn’t want to hurt you or break you.

Freeing your flesh of his pointy fangs, he leans back, moaning. Mouth gapping. He devours the sight underneath him. Nonstop, tears stream and shock and pain shakes your frame. Remmick hates to admit it, but he’s savoring every minute of this. To you it’s probably mind spinning and heart wrenching. To him it's heaven on earth.

He releases your wrists. It’s no longer of use or necessary to do so.

“R-Remmick. I-It hurts…Blood…my neck won’t stop b-bleeding,” You manage to stammer through sobs.

“Shh, I know. It’ll stop eventually.”

He sits up on the bed and scoops your trembling frame into a gentle embrace, bridal style. Instinctively, lost to fear and dread, your arms hook around his neck.

“I’m scared. The blood won’t stop. I’m gonna die if it doesn’t, Remmick.” You hide your face in his chest. The stench of blood fills your nostrils. It rises bile up your dry throat.

His hand strokes your back gently as if dealing with fragile glass. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

“G-God… please…help me,” you breathe one last time. Then in his warm embrace your body runs cold to the touch. Your shoulders slump as your head rolls to the side like an empty doll.

Remmick sighs, embracing your stiff head close to his chest. He didn’t want to do this, but you left him no choice. You could’ve lived as a regular human like everyone else did in town. To be kissed by the lovely sun as humans should. Too bad. Now, all you’ll ever know is darkness and the dim light of the moon.

He pecks your forehead and lightly rocks back and forth. Low and soft, he hums an Irish lullaby as he awaits your arrival.

For the rebirth of a graceful fallen angel.

…………………..

When you rise to life it’s a new day. High in the sky the sun blazes making the house sweat feverishly hot. Wrapped in his arms skin to skin, you stir awake. Your night gown sticks to your skin, doused in warm sweat. Sharp teeth in the top and bottom row of your mouth pokes your curious tongue.

Leisurely peeling away from his embrace in bed, you slip from the room out into the hall.

Home. You need to get home and fast before that vile devil awakens.

Though fog plagues your brain, memories of his cruelty still remain. Each step drains your energy and you find yourself grabbing the rough walls as if your life depends on it. More sweat glosses your skin as your body burns. You draw out ragged breaths, mind spinning like a twister. The closer you get to the door in the living room the hazier your vision becomes.

Then a stomach aching pain yanks you down on your knees. It doesn’t stop. Each stab in your gut comes in waves, sharp and acute. It’s as if your belly is devouring itself from the inside. No longer on your knees, you lay crumpled like paper, whimpering as the pain rips you apart.

“It hurts…”

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Remmick’s voice echoes from the hallway, deep and raspy from slumber. He strolls into the living room and halts before you on the floor. Disappointment fills his eyes as he watches you, still standing tall.

“Stay away from me,” you snarl.

He only sighs. “I can’t do that.”

Easily he lifts you in his arms. Your limbs lie stiff, lacking energy to move.

“What have you done to me?”

Remmick’s feet halt, frozen. His brown round eyes meet yours. “Want me to show you?”

You don’t nod. Don’t speak. You only gaze back at him. He takes it for a yes and lazily heads for the door. The door cracks open with a soft click and a groan. He hisses as the blinding beams, stinging and smoking his skin. Remmick, he’s ancient as the sun and moon. Therefore, he can withstand the brutal heat of the sun’s light.

You on the other hand…

A gut wrenching gasp rips from your throat, skin searing into nasty open wounds. Your flesh boils and smokes as you thrash like a rabid animal. It shatters his heart seeing you cry and claw at him, desperate to hide away from the sun.

“You wanted the truth. Now you have it. Do you understand now?”

…………………..

As you two hide away from the sun’s dangerous rays, now both creatures of the dark, the entire day you avoid Remmick in every way you can. You don’t speak, touch, or even spare glances his way. Sure, the stomach aching hunger collapsing your stomach in on itself drives you mad. But the overwhelming new hatred thumping through your heart is stronger.

It breaks him. On the surface he comes off as if he’s given up on you, but underneath that long frown dragging his lips down, he knows something you don’t. Soon you’ll come around. If your brain and heart doesn’t, then surely your hollow stomach will.

So, he waits.

The days blur by and each day you never cave in to your stomach’s will nor to Remmick. Everyday he tempts you with what you eventually learned your mouth craves—blood. At first it churned your gut, but as time dragged on you began to not care. Though you never let him know.

Some days Remmick leaves the house, hunting for blood as you reside in his home. Those days are the worst for you because he comes back he’s dripping in blood. From his sharp claws, to his shirt and chin. The smell drives you insane as drool threads down your lips.

Tonight he’s gone again and you’re weaker than ever. By now even you expected Remmick to force blood down your throat. But he doesn’t. In fact he barely speaks to you anymore these past couple of days.

You lie on the couch in the living room. Its stale smell fills your senses as you toss and turn, mind haunted by mouth watering thoughts of blood. Time drags on endlessly until the front door whines open.

As usual, blood stains his shirt all the way up to the corners of his lips. The smell yanks you off the couch in one swift breath. You stand, slouched, eyes wide and frantic. Saliva drowns your mouth, seeping out the corners. Your heart thumps wildly. You need it. Want it.

Blood. It’s all your brain can fathom as he strolls across the room.

“Remmick,” you call out sharply, body trembling with an aching need.

He halts in his steps. “Yes, darlin?”

A raw whine claws its way through your throat. “Hungry…I’m hungry.”

The corners of his lips curl.

Finally.

He always knew you would come around.

………………

His blood, rich and ancient floods your tastebuds. It draws loud ragged breaths from your chest, euphoria swallowing you whole.

You don’t remember how this happened—body cradled in his lap, hips frantically rocking—needy for more. His white tailored shirt, bundled tightly in your fist as you hold on for dear life. Head buried deep in his neck, your fangs sink into his flesh. Greedily, you suck his blood as his hands guide your hips in a never ending bounce on his cock.

“That’s it, darlin. You drink as much as you want,” he breathes, chest rising and falling on loop.

You moan into his neck, eyes rolling, spine arching. Everything, it all turns you on. His blood filling your tummy, the fullness of his warm throbbing cock separating you tight walls. It’s blissful, liberating and illuminating.

You release his neck with a pop, blood decorates your lips and chin. Eyes, gazing up at nothing, breathy moans fall past your open plump lips.

“So good, Remmick. It feels good.”

“It feels good, darlin? Yeah?” He purrs, raspy and low through pants.

“Mhmm, so good.”

Your eyes glow crimson and he smiles at the sight. The irony of it all pulls a chuckle past his lips. You, the town’s sweet little preacher girl is now his. The thought swells his chest with pride.

Sounds of skin slapping, wet and sloppy fill the air, soaking your pussy wet more. Remmick’s hands drift to your asscheeks, gripping them. Starving for more of your delicious heat, he desperately bounces you on his dick. The pace, deadly quick.

“Fuck,” he grits, bitting his lips.

Your moans evolve into screams as he moves at an ungodly speed. The pleasure draws your head back, revealing your bare neck to him. Stars shiny and pretty envelope your visions as your eyes roll back.

“G-Gonna cum. I-I’m gonna cum,” you utter, spit trickling down your chin.

“Cum for me, baby.”

On his command, you cum and hard. Your body goes stiff, quivering as he keeps pumping his cock in. Like your nothing but an empty doll, he uses your tightening cunt. The endless pleasure he gives you pools tears in your eyes and your body crumples against him, shaking. Wrapping your weak arms around his neck, you hold on tightly.

“That’s it, baby. Being such a sweet girl for me. I love you so much. You’re all mine,” he huffs, voice breathy and hot.

Deep between your walls his cock throbs, releasing his creamy seed. He keeps rocking your hips against his, making sure to milk every last bit. Then when he’s done, he falls limp. His strong arms flex around your frame in a warm embrace.

The bedroom fills with your pants.

“I love you, darlin.”

Words you never would’ve uttered slip past your lips. “I love you too.”

“You belong to me, and I to you, understand?”

“Yes, Remmick,” you mutter, eyelids heavy.

“Together we’ll live together.”

“Okay.”

With him still deep inside your walls, you drift off to sleep. Soon after you he joins you, happily.

Now you’re his and he’s yours. No longer does your soul belong to God. You’re now free.

The End

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺ ‧⁺ ‧

A/N: Comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! I like to know what people think, hehe

#remmick #remmick fanfic #remmick x reader #remmick x female reader #remmick x y/n #remmick x you #remmick x fem!reader #remmick fic #remmick imagine #remmick smut #remmick sinners #sinners fanfiction #sinners #sinners fandom #sinners 2025 #sinners smut #smut #female reader #reader insert

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deezee112 · 2 months ago

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The Birthday Doll

Masterlist | Ending 1

Yandere!Platonic!Twisted Wonderland x GN!kid!Reader

A/N : I’ve decided to combine both the prologue and the first two episodes into one because I’m lazy yes, I admit it! But overall, I think it turned out pretty well. The writing might be a little confusing since I’ve been feeling kinda out of it lately, plus I’ve been busy with stuff at home. Still, I think it’s okay.

Oh, and one more thing! Most of the guys’ endings will be randomized, so whether they get a good or bad ending totally depends on what I roll.

Warning : Child reader , platonic yandere , lifelike doll. , Parental neglect , loneliness , y/n taller than 160 cm.

Tags :

@sherryclover

English is not my first language.

It’s your birthday.

You woke up hoping something would feel different. Special, even. But the house still smelled like dust and reheated coffee, and the same early morning silence pressed against the walls like always.

You sat at the kitchen table, legs dangling off the too-tall chair, waiting for the sound of footsteps or maybe even just a voice. But only the hum of the refrigerator answered you.

Your parents had already left.

You found the note on the counter in your mother’s familiar, rushed handwriting.

“ Happy birthday, sweetie. There’s cereal in the cabinet. We’ll be home late tonight, but your gift should be delivered around 2. We love you. ”

There was a smiley face at the end, drawn so perfectly it didn’t feel like hers at all.

You read the note twice before folding it up and tucking it into your hoodie pocket.

You don’t cry. That’s not new. You’ve learned to expect this kind of birthday. Quiet. Empty. No candles, no wrapping paper ripped open while people cheer, no clapping over a misshapen cake. Just cereal and silence and maybe a screen if you’re lucky.

You were never a loud child. Too quiet, your teachers used to say. “ y/n very polite, very reserved. A bit shy, maybe. ” That’s how adults say you’re not the kind of kid they understand.

Other kids don’t really talk to you much either. You’re not sure if it’s because you’re bad at talking first or if they just think you’re weird. Probably both. You’ve heard them whisper about you before things like “ she’s kind of scary ” or “ she doesn’t smile much, does she? ”

You’ve tried to make friends. Once or twice. But it never really stuck. So you stopped trying.

At exactly 2:03 p.m., there’s a knock at the door.

You hesitate. You weren’t expecting someone to actually show up. Your heart picks up a little as you approach the door and peek through the peephole.

There’s a delivery man outside. Average height. Wears a uniform. Bored expression. No one you know. You open the door, and he gestures to something behind him a tall, rectangular package on a wheeled dolly, wrapped in thick, silver-colored material.

“ Delivery for y/n l/n ” he says, reading off a clipboard. “ From…Hightower Corp.? ”

You just nod, not sure what else to say.

He has you sign something with a pen that barely works, then wheels the thing inside. It takes up most of the hallway. Almost as tall as the coat rack. When he leaves, the silence comes back. He doesn’t say happy birthday.

You close the door. Lock it. Then turn and just stare at the thing.

It’s a gift, you guess. It’s probably the one mother mentioned in the note. You wonder if it’s one of those expensive toys you saw on TV once. The ones that cost too much, look too real.

You wait for a few minutes before slowly tugging the plastic away.

What’s inside isn’t like the toys you’ve seen on television.

It looks like a person.

An adult. Life-sized. Fully dressed in soft clothes that look brand new. The face is still, eyes closed, with features so detailed you feel your stomach drop a little. Even the hair looks real soft, brushed neatly into place.

For a moment, you wonder if this is a prank. But it’s not funny.

You reach out and barely touch its sleeve with your fingertips. The fabric is warm.

That’s when the doll opens its eyes.

The eyes opened.

You screamed.

Not loud your scream barely got past your throat but it was sharp and real, the kind of sound you only make when something shakes your sense of what's supposed to be real.

You bolted.

Your feet thudded across the hallway floor as you ran past the shoe rack, past the empty living room with the turned-off TV, up the stairs two at a time. You didn’t look back. You didn’t want to look back.

You slammed your bedroom door shut and dove into bed, crawling under the covers like they were the only armor you had.

The fabric smelled faintly like the detergent your mom always uses. It used to make you feel safe. Right now, you weren’t sure if it was working.

Your heart raced. Your body felt too hot under the blanket, but you didn’t dare pull it down. You were eight years old. You knew dolls weren’t supposed to open their eyes. Not on their own. Not unless someone turned a switch or pressed a button.

You hadn’t touched anything.

Your hands clenched the blanket tighter.

You’d never had anything like this before. It wasn’t just a doll. It wasn’t just a toy. It was human. Or…it looked human. That was enough to terrify you.

Then…a sound.

Soft footsteps. They were careful, slow, quiet.

You held your breath.

The door creaked open just a little.

There was silence. Then something even stranger happened.

A voice.

“ Hello? ” it said, softly. “ Are you okay? ”

It was calm. Gentle. The way grown-ups talk in children’s books like someone reading aloud on a rainy night. It didn’t sound robotic or fake. It sounded…concerned.

But you didn’t answer.

The blanket muffled everything now. You curled up tighter, pressing your knees to your chest. You didn’t care if it was your birthday. You didn’t want anything like this.

You heard a small knock. Not from the door closer. Lower.

“ I’m sorry I scared you. I shouldn’t have moved so suddenly. ”

The voice was coming from the floor. Maybe just outside your door.

You peeked just a tiny bit pulling down the blanket an inch or two. Still no footsteps. No shouting. No threats.

Just…that voice. Soft. Gentle. Like it really meant it.

“ I’m here to keep you company. ” it said. “ I know I look strange. And I know you weren’t expecting me. ”

There was a pause. Then a breath.

“ I don’t want to hurt you. I just…I’d like to stay. If that’s alright. ”

You didn’t say anything for a long time.

You just listened.

The voice outside your room didn’t grow louder. It didn’t repeat itself. It didn’t try to open the door. It simply....waited.

Whoever or whatever this was, it didn’t act like a toy.

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. Your body still curled under the blanket, stiff and wired like a coiled spring, but your mind was starting to catch up.

It hadn’t chased you.

It hadn’t knocked down your door.

It hadn’t even moved since it came up the stairs.

That was…weird. But in a different way. In a quiet way. Maybe even a good way.

Another minute passed. Two. Then three. Still nothing.

Your fingers slowly loosened from the blanket’s edge. The panic hadn’t disappeared, not really but something else was growing in its place. Something softer.

Loneliness.

You turned your head toward the sound of the door and whispered, your voice small and muffled. “ ...You’re not gonna come in? ”

There was a brief silence.

Then the voice responded, gentle as ever. “ Only if you say I can. ”

You hesitated. You weren’t sure what to do with that. Most adults didn’t ask permission for things. Not teachers. Not your parents. Not anyone, really.

“ …Okay. ” you whispered.

The door creaked open just an inch, then another. Then slowly, slowly, the figure stepped into the room.

You peeked from under the covers.

It no, they stood quietly in the doorway. Still. Calm. Their posture relaxed, but not slouched. Their clothes were soft-looking. Pale-colored. Comfortable. Their face was kind, shaped like someone who might work at a bookstore or serve soup at a quiet café. Nothing too sharp or flashy. ( In fact, you can imagine them as whatever you want in your mind. )

They had a warmth to them, like a lamp turned on in the early evening.

You couldn’t believe how real they looked. How normal. The movement of their arms. The expression in their eyes. You stared at their hands as they clasped them gently in front, like they were waiting to be told what to do.

“ I can sit on the floor. ” they said, offering it like a gift. “ Or leave. Whatever you want. ”

“ …You can sit. ” you said, barely above a whisper.

They nodded. Then, without a word, they moved to the edge of the carpet and carefully lowered themself down, cross-legged. Like they didn’t want to scare you again.

Silence settled between you. But this time, it didn’t feel like the silence in the rest of the house. Not cold. Not empty. Just quiet.

You kept staring.

They didn’t look back. Not directly. They looked around the room instead at the posters on your walls, the pile of books near your bed, the toy you hadn’t touched in months.

They were giving you time.

After a while, you slid down from the bed, still wrapped in your blanket like a cocoon, and sat at the edge, watching.

“ …You’re not a real person. ” you said cautiously.

They looked up and smiled a little not with their mouth, but with their eyes.

“ No. Not in the way you mean. ”

“ Then what are you? ”

They thought about that. “ I’m…here to take care of you. ”

“ Like a babysitter? ”

They shook their head. “ Not quite. ”

“ …Like a friend? ”

A pause.

“ If that’s what you want me to be. ”

You stared at them for a long time.

You weren’t used to people asking what you wanted. Not really. You weren’t sure what to do with that kind of question. Most days, you felt like a side character in your own house someone to be left with instructions, not asked for opinions.

You pulled your blanket closer and thought hard.

“ …You scared me. ” you said finally.

“ I know. ” they replied. “ I’m sorry. ”

“ But you waited. ”

“ I wanted to make sure you felt safe. ”

You looked down at the blanket in your hands. Your fingers picked at the edge, nerves making little knots in the threads. You glanced back at them again.

“ Are you…gonna be here a long time? ”

“ If you want me to be. ”

You blinked. You didn’t know what to say to that.

Then, without realizing it, your voice came out a little smaller. A little softer.

“ …Do you have a name? ”

They shook their head gently.

“ No. Not yet. ”

You tilted your head.

“ …Someone just made you without a name? ”

“ Someone made me to be given one. That part’s up to you. ”

You blinked again. Your lips parted slightly, unsure what emotion was about to come out. You weren’t used to choosing something that mattered.

Your heart fluttered in a strange, new way half nervous, half…excited?

You looked at them, sitting patiently on the floor like they’d wait forever if that’s what it took.

You felt your blanket slip from your shoulders just a little as you leaned forward.

Then, in a small, careful voice, you asked

“ …What’s your name…? ”

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst x reader #au doll #platonic yandere #Platonic Yandere Twisted Wonderland #Child Readers #kid reader #gn reader

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chaotic-for-good · 2 months ago

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peach card

Luigi Mangione x Reader

no use of y/n

NSFW as heck

summary: a lighthearted game inspires you and Luigi to explore lands yet untouched.

cw: anal sex, soft dom lulu, dirty talk, you know the drill

author’s note: first off, apologies I have not yet had the brain power to address prior requests. to be honest, I wasn’t really sure I’d come back to this, and all of my attempts to write anything else I’d discussed before had me nearly tearing out my hair. for whatever reason, the thing that finally yanked me from my grief cave and into a sexy enough mindset to write smut was… butt stuff. so! if that’s not your thing, this is not the fic for you. if it is! 🤭😏 hehehe

word count: 3.6k

🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑🍑

“I mean, I’ve always been intrigued. Just… only if the other party was, too,” you clarified, arching a brow. “Not your thing?”

You cast him a look from across the picnic table. He looked unfairly radiant, all lit up with the late afternoon sun playing in his chocolate curls. You chuckled lightly—he was holding the card tight to his chest like one of the screaming kids playing tag nearby might somehow decode “have you ever done anal?” from four feet away.

The brewery probably hadn’t realized what kind of game this was when they stuck it on the shelf next to Uno and dominoes.

He’d pulled down his Ray-Bans, squinting slightly, pinching his lower lip with that pointy incisor you adored.

“I think I’m on the same page,” he said after a beat, exhaling. “It’s not something I’ve been dying to do, so it just never happened… but. I’d be down.”

He flushed as he finished the last swig of his beer, glancing over at you. “Now that I think about it? Be hot to have a first time with you.”

“One pure part of me left for you to have,” you teased, winking as you plucked the card from his hand. He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth turned upward as the two of you started scooping the rainbow of cards back into their cracked plastic container.

✨🍑✨🍑✨🍑

He was practically vibrating in the kitchen. Taut, contemplative, lips pressed together as he squinted down at the pan. He ran a hand along the back of his neck as he let the onions sweat—a dead giveaway. You always knew when that big brain of his was firing on multiple cylinders. It was like watching the air tense around a storm.

“Something on your mind, big guy?” you asked, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. You kissed the dip between his shoulder blades, resting your cheek against the solid warmth of his back.

He peeked at you over his shoulder, his fingers skimming gently along the forearm you had draped across his stomach.

“Remember that card game?” he asked, hesitant.

“The anal card?” you snorted, tracing lazy circles into the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

He huffed a quiet laugh, nodding as a flush crept into his cheeks.

You paused, sensing the shift. Peering up at him, your smile turned mischievous.

“You really are obsessed with my ass, huh, babe?” You squeezed his sides playfully for emphasis. He groaned, leaning into you, but your teasing cracked through his apprehension.

Turning around in your arms, he slid his palm down the small of your back.

“‘Kay, fine, pretend that’s news,” he said, voice soft, earnest. “I’m obsessed with you, alright? And… honestly? I want all of you.”

“Well, it just so happens—” you drew his chin down to yours, pressing a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “—I think about what that would feel like. Like… When I’m alone. Touching myself, thinking of you.”

His mouth dropped open, brows lifting. “Fuck,” he choked out, grabbing your chin in his hand.

He turned the dial on the stove off before backing you slowly against the wall across from the counter, moving his hand to wrap lightly but authoritatively around your neck.

“You think about me taking you like that, pretty girl?” He breathed, grazing his teeth along your lower lip.

“Yeah, baby,” you purred.

“Feels so good when you eat me,” you babbled. “Makes me want to feel it, feel that full of you.”

“Shit,” he groaned against your throat, your fingers threading through his hair. “Like, right now?”

He pawed at your breast, kicking one leg out to open you up, slotting himself between your hips. You were already warm, already buzzing.

“You’ll get me ready?” you asked him, voice smaller, but certain.

“It would be my honor,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock theater.

Then softer, eyes locking with yours: “Seriously. I just want to make you feel good. We can stop anytime. I’d be thrilled just to spend time with you. Especially in or around your perfect ass,” he added, winking.

You laughed, wrapping your arm around his neck. Somehow, he understood. No hesitation. No panic. Just the kind of yes that blooms quietly in your chest when you feel safe.

“Okay,” you whispered, nodding against his forehead.

He exhaled like you’d handed him a gift he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Then, wordlessly, he scooped you up—one arm under your thighs, the other wrapped around your back, pressing you close to his chest. You clung to him, heart thudding, grinning into the warmth of his neck.

He carried you out of the kitchen, turned the corner into the bedroom, and kicked the door shut with his heel.

“Obviously, I’m big on setting the vibe, as well you know,” he said, peppering you with kisses before tossing you—gently but deliberately—onto the bed.

“While I get to work on that front,” he added, tugging on the hem of your shirt, “take that off for me?”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching as he pulled out his phone. A soft click of the screen and the lamps on either side of the bed dimmed to a warm, golden hue. The speaker on the dresser chimed to life, the low pulse of music filling the room.

He listened for a moment, then nodded in approval. “That’s better. Now I can focus on my girl.”

He pulled his shirt over his head, muscles flexing as the fabric dragged upward. His slightly crooked happy trail carved a line from his navel down. He was already half hard, and your mouth went dry just looking at him. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively.

He moved toward the bed with an easy kind of hunger, crouching over you just long enough to kiss your temple.

“You talk to me, yeah, baby?” he murmured, voice low as his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. “I need to know how you feel every second.”

He slid them down slowly, pressing his lips against your thighs as they were revealed inch by inch. He wasn’t in a rush. That was his way—especially in the bedroom. Every motion was measured.

“There she is,” he whispered against your belly, sighing. Then he licked a long stripe from your hole up through your slit.

You gasped, arching beneath him as his tongue got to work.

He half moaned, half mmm’ed, slashing his tongue back and forth over your clit with just the right pressure. His left hand stayed high, thumb circling your bud in sync with his mouth, while his right moved lower—rubbing soft, deliberate circles around your ass, teasing but patient.

He looked up at you through dark lashes, then plunged his tongue into your core. His thumb never left your clit as his other hand resumed its gentle, grounding rhythm below.

He groaned low in his throat as he pushed your legs up, presenting you. The sound vibrated against your skin. He began pressing soft kisses just below your entrance. Slinging one forearm over your thigh to keep his fingers on your clit, he worked with maddening patience—but his mouth shifted lower, breath hot against the tight circle of muscle.

His lips brushed against you.

He used both hands to part your cheeks, thumbs stroking lazy circles into your skin as his mouth lapped and sucked with slow, confident pressure.

You whimpered as he dipped the tip of one long finger inside, barely opening you.

“Yes,” you gasped, threading your fingers into his hair. You felt deliciously full. It made you wonder how it would feel to have a little bit of him in every hole you had.

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice thick as he pressed a kiss to your hip. Half a finger was inside you now. “God, you feel so fucking good already.”

He pulled back just far enough to reach for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. You watched him pump some onto his fingers, then rub them together—warming it, working it in. His expression was focused—tender, almost reverent.

“You’re doing perfect,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss your inner thigh as he brought his slick fingers back to your ass. “Tell me if anything feels off. We’ll take our time.”

You nodded, breath shaky, but your legs relaxed instinctively. You trusted him completely—there was no part of yourself you had to hide from him.

He resumed slowly—pressing the first finger in again, now slick and smooth, easing deeper with care. He didn’t rush. He worked in shallow, gentle strokes, stopping when your breath hitched and pulling back just enough to let you catch up.

“You’re opening up for me,” he whispered, nuzzling into your skin. “Just like that. That’s my good girl.”

You whimpered again, so loud you were almost embarrassed, as he worked you open a little more. He added more lube, circling your hole slowly before sliding in deeper.

His mouth found your clit again, and the combination sent heat curling low in your belly.

“Need more?” he asked against your mound, voice breathless but controlled.

“Yes,” you rasped. “Please.”

He moaned into you, grinding his hips against the bed. “Fuck. You don’t know what that does to me.”

Then he added a second finger—slower this time, stretching you just enough to make your back arch. His free hand cradled your hip, grounding you. His mouth stayed on you, lips working your clit like he wanted to undo you from the inside out.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he grunted, pumping two digits inside you in earnest now. “Almost ready to take me. Okay to keep going?”

He cocked his head, flashing that devilish half-smile of his. It made your nerves vanish and your pelvic floor flutter. You bit your lip, nodding.

“Use your words, baby,” he tutted, catching your clit between his lips and stilling his movements both there and behind. That tone always made your heart stutter, your body go weightless. Like you were floating right above your skin.

“Want more,” you breathed, squirming. “I can take it.”

At that he practically growled, deep in his chest, before reaching for the bottle again. You watched, breathless, as he pumped more lube onto his ring finger, rubbing it in with deliberate care.

“You sure?” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “Gonna stretch you real slow, sweet thing. Want you to feel how ready you are.”

You nodded again, letting your mouth fall open. Needy and soft and completely his.

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, then shifted, hand cupping your hip as the slick pads of his fingers circled your entrance once more. Then, with infinite patience, he began to push—two fingers already seated, the third easing in beside them.

You sucked in a breath, body going tense for half a second—until his other hand found yours, fingers lacing tight.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered. “That’s it. You’re doing so fucking good.”

Just like that, you opened for him.

An almost guttural moan punctuated by a sigh escaped his lips. Then you realized: the soft, rhythmic shudder of the bed wasn’t from you. It was him—rutting into the duvet, chasing relief like he couldn’t take one more second.

“Babe,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I’m dying to be inside you.”

Hearing him that desperate almost made you come on the spot—and the moan you let out in response was absolutely pornographic. “Please,” you panted, bucking into his fingers. “Please.”

He pulled all three digits from you, slow but urgent, making you gasp at the sudden emptiness. Then he was shoving down his shorts and briefs, cock springing free—pink tip flushed, leaking, beautifully hard.

“Oh! One sec,” he said suddenly, catching himself. His voice dropped into that commanding register you loved. “Touch that pretty clit for me. I wanna hear you from the hallway. Understood?”

You nodded, lips wrapping around two of your fingers before reaching down between your legs. He bolted from the room, heavy cock swinging obscenely, and your pussy pulsated in response. Oh, you could make noise for that boy.

“Lu—” you gasped, swirling slick fingers over your clit, “I need you—”

Your other hand found your breast, thumb teasing your nipple as you writhed on the sheets.

“Need you to take me,” you whispered, voice gravelly, trembling.

“Atta girl,” he said when he returned, tone thick. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, spreading a towel across the bed as his chest heaved.

“Roll over onto your side for me, love.”

You obeyed immediately—of course you did. You were his good girl.

He flopped down beside you, a small glass bottle of lube in one hand, already squirting it into his palm as he wrapped his fist around his dick.

“I’m gonna take you just like this,” he murmured, slotting himself behind you. “That okay, gorgeous? I read it’ll be more comfortable. And I can still see your face.”

Propped up on one elbow, he looked down at you—somehow soft and feral all at once. Then he brushed a strand of hair back from your cheek and kissed your temple, his voice barely a breath:

“We’ll go real slow. And we’ll stop whenever you need. You ready for me?”

Instead of answering, you reached down and grasped his thick length, guiding it between your cheeks, dragging it right where you wanted him.

“Oh,” he rasped, grabbing your top thigh beneath the knee to open you up. He nodded in understanding, pressing the flushed head of his cock to your entrance. His eyes never left yours as he began to ease in—so slowly.

Just the tip.

“Holyfuckingshit,” he panted, voice fraying as an inch or two slid inside. Your breath hitched, chest rising, overwhelmed in the best way.

“How’s that feel?” he murmured against your lips. “Want me to stay like this for a second?”

Your sweet boy. Always checking in.

“Move,” you whispered, “but don’t go deeper yet.” You dragged your tongue along his in an open-mouthed kiss—the filthy kind he loved when he was buried inside you.

He groaned, low and broken. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

He eased out slightly, then pressed back in—just enough to make you clutch the sheets.

Yes.

You tilted your head back, pressing your cheek to his, your neck exposed. He didn’t hesitate—his tongue ran along the tender spot below your ear, teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder.

Restraint was written all over him: jaw clenched, breath shallow, eyes wide. He looked beautiful like this—lips pink and plush, sweat beading at his temple, every muscle in his body focused on not giving you too much, too fast.

“More, baby,” you crooned, pulling at his hip. “Make me yours, Gi.”

His breath caught—sharp and audible. He tilted your head up by the base of your skull, and he continued sliding in, centimeters at a time.

“Mine,” he gritted out. “All mine.”

You barely stopped yourself from crying out, stretched full, the ache blooming and exquisite. He was inside you, and somehow not done yet.

You wrapped a hand around the column of his neck, grounding yourself. “How much to go?”

He looked down at where your bodies met, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest—affectionate, familiar. Then he gave you that look: one corner of his mouth tugging down, brow dipping just slightly. Not quite a smile, not quite a wink. Like a shared joke. He knew how big he was—and that you’d still take all of him.

“Half,” he murmured, mouth twitching. “Not even.”

You took a steadying breath. Met his gaze.

“All the way,” you said. “I want you to.”

“That’s my girl.” His face lit with something like pride, and something hungry. He wrapped his hand around your inner thigh, lifting, holding you open.

“Take a deep breath,” he guided. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

His eyes never left yours as he pushed in deeper, slower than before.

You nodded, sucking in air as your whole body tensed. Your pussy and ass clenched together, trying to make sense of how full you were, how good it already felt.

And then he was seated fully inside you.

His hips nestled against yours, the coarse hairs on his thighs brushing the backs of yours. Holy. Fucking. Shit. You could barely breathe.

You weren’t sure where pain ended and pleasure began—the lines were so blurred, the sting in concert with the rapture. Your body was reeling, craving movement but not quite ready yet.

To steady yourself, you turned toward the hand cradling your head and slipped two of his long fingers into your mouth, sucking greedily, eyes fluttering closed.

He panted, mouth open, breath ragged. The sound alone made your body clench around him again.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, mouth slack—like he was trying to make sense of what he was feeling, trying not to come from just being inside you.

You could see him fighting it—struggling to stay still, to not lose it.

“I want to feel myself inside you,” he nearly begged, sliding a hand between your thighs.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chanted, fingers still partly in your mouth, the rest of you already unraveling.

He let out a ragged moan, swirling two slick fingers over your clit before sliding them lower, inside. His eyes locked on your face, studying every twitch and gasp.

His other hand steadied you at your neck, grounding you. You could feel the press of his cock inside you as his fingers slid into your pussy, the dual sensation dizzying.

And from the look on his face—jaw slack, lashes fluttering—you knew he felt it too: the surreal, world altering awareness of being in you twice, surrounded by you completely.

“You belong to me,” he breathed, voice hoarse with awe and want.

His fingers moved idly between your legs, stroking your pussy even as he began to thrust in earnest—pulling almost all the way out of your taut hole before plunging back in, slowly, taking you apart piece by piece.

You fucked him back as best you could, hips rocking, your back arching, your hands trailing down the length of his muscled arm like you were trying to hang on.

“Just like that, baby,” he cooed, undone by your responsiveness. His thumb found your clit again and circled, steady and skilled.

“Oh, shit,” you cried out, every nerve on fire. You could hardly believe how good he made you feel—your body adjusting around him, the press against both sets of walls sending you spiraling.

“Lu—” you gasped, voice trembling, confusion blooming with arousal. “I think—”

He hissed against your neck. “I can’t hold off if you come, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

His hips were stuttering now, thrusts sloppier, more erratic—but he never let up on your clit. Kept working you. Kept chasing it.

“I want it,” you whined. “I want it, I want it—”

The coil inside you was pulling tight, too tight, with different nerve endings flaring, both familiar and not. Shimmering on the edge of something bright and impossible, like you didn’t know if you were going to come or shatter.

What finally sent you both over the edge was your own voice, nearly screamed aloud: “You own me—”

You felt him swell suddenly, impossibly—his cock pulsing inside you as he cried out, voice wrecked, face contorted in ecstatic agony. His brows drew together, eyes squeezed shut.

And at the same time, you bucked beneath him, vision blowing white, ass and pussy clenching down hard. Your whole body convulsed in a release so deep it made time feel slippery, like the moment stretched out around you.

Your arm twitched. Your head lilted back against him, mouth open, trembling.

“Jesus,” you finally managed, laughing breathlessly in disbelief.

“Not Jesus,” he murmured, nudging a knuckle under your chin. “Luigi.”

You shook your head, letting out a husky, giddy giggle just as he gently pulled out. Cum spilled from you, warm and slick, making you flinch, still sensitive.

Smart guy, bringing that towel.

“You okay?” he whispered, already rolling you toward him, foreheads brushing.

“I was half a virgin when I met you!” you responded dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest.

He groaned. “I’ll take that as a good thing, Regina.”

You both laughed genuinely as he kissed you, deep and sweet. “Love you, baby.”

“Love you, mister,” you replied, dragging a fingernail along his cheek. “And I’m honored to take your virginity—even if it is a bullshit construct designed to commodify women.”

He snorted. “The pleasure was mine, beautiful.” Then, raising a brow and tilting his head like he was offering candy: “Bath time?”

“Mmm. That sounds incredible,” you sighed, stretching. The bed shifted as he rose.

You heard the squeak of the faucet, followed by a wicked little giggle.

The speaker chirped to life again as the song changed. Lyrics washed over the room: Booty had me like… Luigi cackled from the bathroom, clearly proud of himself.

“Fucking frat boys,” you muttered under your breath.

“What’s that, princess?” he called out, voice sing-song. “Come say it to my face! In the tub!” He punctuated with a splash, smacking the water with excitement.

You groaned, hoisting yourself up from the bed—but you were melting. His.

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