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vanesycho · 1 month ago

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chan + fem!reader • warning! slow burn sensual smut. use of aphrodisiac. soft dom!chan. oral(f receiving). dry humping. light kink (breeding kink implied). • 4,6k • m.list

Teaser ⟩ a candle lit during a power outage filled the room with a soft vanilla scent—completely unaware of the aphrodisiac hidden within. as the night grew warmer, so did chan’s need, his hands wandering with a desperate hunger he couldn’t deny.

the sound of rain tapping against the window pulled your attention away from your phone. It was pouring, like the sky was dumping buckets, and yet chan was still locked away in his studio. you didn’t want to go to bed without him, so you decided to wait—but his work was taking longer than expected.

a flash of lightning suddenly lit up the entire room, followed by a loud clap of thunder that echoed through the walls. you decided to check on him one last time, but as soon as your feet slid off the edge of the bed, darkness swallowed the room whole.

the power had gone out.

the house, already quiet, grew even more still, but the silence didn’t last long. footsteps made their way to your door, slow and steady, and moments later, chan stepped into the room—with the flashlight on his phone lighting his path.

despite how tired he looked, his lips curled into a soft smile the second he saw you. “I almost thought you cut the power just to stop me from working,” he teased lightly, stepping closer. he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead—and somehow, the simple warmth of his lips against your skin made the heaviness in your chest loosen for a moment.

“I guess it’s finally time to use those candles we bought,” chan said, his voice suddenly excited. you let out a quiet laugh—he always had a thing for scented candles, always talked about how those sweet, hazy scents helped him relax during stressful work nights.

you followed after him as he left the room, his flashlight guiding you to the kitchen. he rummaged through one of the drawers for a while—until he finally pulled out a few candles, smiling softly as he found the ones he’d been looking for.

lifting one up, he brought it closer to his nose, inhaling the familiar scent before handing it to you.

he watched you closely as you leaned in toward it. “like it?”

a soft vanilla aroma spread around you, not too strong, but enough to gently tickle your nose, and make your head feel just a little hazy. “mhm...yeah,” you nodded, meeting his eyes, “It’s already warming me up somehow.”

after lighting the second candle, chan joined you on the bed, the soft glow and warm scent wrapping around you like a blanket. you felt a deep sense of calm settle in, the room quiet except for the rain tapping gently against the windows.

a comfortable silence lingered for a while—

until you felt his hand resting over yours.

“you’re cold,” he said softly, pulling you closer to his chest. he guided your hand over his heart, fingers intertwining as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

In that moment, you both quietly thanked the power outage. as if the universe had turned everything off just to make room for this.

“your skin... it’s so soft.” his voice came out barely above a whisper. his thumb continued to caress the back of your hand in slow, almost reverent circles. but something shifted—like the gentle touch wasn't enough anymore.

his fingers traveled upward, brushing past your wrist with featherlight strokes, gliding along your arm with deliberate slowness. when he reached your shoulder, he paused for a moment—then changed direction, sliding down along your side until his hand slipped beneath your shirt.

the sudden contrast of his warm palm on your bare waist made you inhale sharply, your breath hitching in your throat. the scent of vanilla that once felt comforting now wrapped around your senses more densely, almost dizzying.

you blinked, realizing the drowsiness from earlier had completely dissolved.

and It wasn’t just you.

beneath your hand, you felt his chest rise and fall—uneven, shaky, like he was trying to suppress something. your eyes met his, and in an instant, his gaze dropped to your lips. “something...” he muttered, voice hoarse, thick with tension. “It’s burning inside me.”

a tremor rippled through him as he exhaled—

not from fear, but restraint. like he was fighting the instinct to pull you closer, to drown in whatever was growing between you.

you weren’t any different from him. the heat pooling between your legs was almost dizzying, making it hard to keep your body still. your senses felt heightened—like every breath, every touch, was amplified and humming under your skin.

chan noticed the way your body tensed beneath him, and without a word, he gently laid you back against the mattress, sliding on top of you with careful precision. his hands braced on either side of your head, framing your face in the flickering glow of candlelight. the shadows danced across his features, but it was his eyes that truly pulled you in.

“do you feel it too?” his voice was low, gravelly, as if each word scraped against the edge of restraint. his gaze was locked on yours, but there was a tremble in his eyes—not his hands, not his breath—just his eyes. he looked torn. like he was fighting something inside him—a need, an ache, that had started small but was now unbearable.

something was crawling under his skin, not just lust, but something deeper, something possessive… addictive. the scent, the warmth of you, the way you looked at him—it was undoing him slowly.

his fingertips hovered near your cheek but didn’t quite touch. the space between you buzzed with tension, thick and electric. It felt like…if you reached for him, just once—he’d give in entirely. but for now, he was holding on by a thread.

waiting.

needing your permission to fall apart.

you didn’t answer. there was a burning lump in your throat, like your body was reacting faster than your words ever could. so you simply nodded—just the slightest movement. but it was enough for him.

chan’s breath hitched, his chest rising in one deep inhale as he closed his eyes. something shifted. he moved slowly, his hand sliding down to your wrist. even that soft touch made your whole body flinch, from the sheer sensitivity that had taken over you. everything felt amplified. It was like every nerve was tuned to him.

he wrapped his fingers around your wrist, not harshly, but firm—like he needed to keep you grounded, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he let go.

then, he leaned in. you felt his breath ghost across your neck, hot and slow—and your own breath stuttered in your chest.

“my heart’s racing,"

he whispered, voice nearly cracking under the weight of it. his eyes were shut, his lips barely grazing your skin as he breathed you in. “I feel like I’m touching you for the first time…”

the brush of his nose against your neck made your thighs press together, a quiet plea your body whispered before your voice could.

“chan…” his name slipped out, soft and broken—barely a breath. but even that was enough to draw a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat. you heard the muttered curse under his breath, thick with restraint.

he lifted his head. his eyes met yours—blazing, dark, desperate.

and there it was.

a single bead of sweat rolling down his temple, catching the flicker of candlelight as it fell. but you knew. that heat wasn’t from the room. It was from him. from whatever it was coursing through his veins, setting him on fire.

he leaned in closer, one hand planted firmly beside your head, the other still wrapped around your wrist like a lifeline.

“I can’t—” his voice cracked, low and wrecked. “I can’t hold back much longer.”

just after those last words left his lips, chan leaned in and captured your mouth with his. the kiss was messy—rushed, almost desperate. he moved like he was chasing something he couldn’t quite reach, each press of his lips followed by a shallow breath, only to dive back in like it still wasn’t enough. his hands didn’t move much, but his mouth said everything; hungry, breathless, wanting.

when the kiss finally broke with a soft, wet sound, his lips didn’t stop. they traveled down to your chin, then dipped lower to your neck. you felt him there—teeth grazing the skin, a delicate bite that sent a wave through your body. his breath was scalding hot against your throat, so vivid it made your pulse thrum louder. you closed your eyes, letting yourself melt into him completely, silently offering your body up to be explored. and he did—like he’d waited too long for this, like he wasn’t just touching your skin, but claiming every inch of it with reverence and quiet hunger.

his hands were restless, moving with a clear intention. before you knew it, they slipped under your shirt. the moment his fingers brushed over your already stiffened nipples, a low, satisfied sound escaped his lips.

he pulled back for a second, just enough to create distance, though the pressure below was already starting to ache. his hand found yours, guiding it slowly down—right to where he was hardest.

"can you feel that?" he whispered, voice barely audible yet full of desire. the second your palm cupped the heat of his arousal, he shut his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath that trembled between control and need. you nodded silently in response. "good," he murmured, lips curling just slightly. "now come here."

within seconds, you were straddling his lap, the heat of your body settling right over his aching length. the thin layers of clothing between you did nothing to dull the friction—if anything, it made everything worse. chan’s hands gripped your hips firmly, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. he pulled you against him, grinding you down with a desperation he could barely contain. a guttural sound rumbled from his throat, low and raw. "f-fuck—" he choked out, his voice ragged.

the pleasure shot through him like lightning, overwhelming and fast and almost too much. the way your weight pressed down on him, how your heat aligned perfectly with his swollen arousal—it was driving him insane. for a second, he thought he might actually come undone right there, just from the pressure, from the way you fit against him like that.

every breath he took was heavy, laced with need. his head dropped against your shoulder as he muttered, “fuck, why does this feel so... intense?" for a moment, he seemed lost—like he couldn’t quite place what was happening to him—but the hunger in his eyes said it all. he didn’t want to stop. not now. not ever.

he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to stop. every time your clit brushed against his hardness, a sharp pulse throbbed deep inside you, demanding more. you couldn’t hold back, your hips began to move slowly, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence.

chan clenched his jaw, fingers digging harder into your hips as if trying to anchor you down. your name slipped from his lips, not as a plea but almost like a reprimand—like you were doing something you shouldn’t, and he was supposed to warn you.

"If you keep going—" he warned, voice low and strained, "I’m gonna... come right here, in my pants."

gross, chan thought, a flash of embarrassment prickling through him at the idea of coming just from the friction—without a single finger inside his pants. but his body didn’t care.

It was too warm. too damn hot.

every piece of fabric on him suddenly felt heavier, like a suffocating weight pressing down, making it impossible to think clearly.

chan’s pre-cum seeped slowly through the fabric, warm and slick, pooling in places that made it impossible to think straight. his breath was shallow, unsteady as a bead of sweat traced a slow path from the curve of his neck down to his collarbone. he inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, but his mind was already consumed.

his hands slid from your hips up to your shirt without hesitation, gripping and pulling it up. you raised your arms to help, your bare skin coming into view, heart pounding against his gaze.

a shaky breath escaped him as his eyes locked onto your chest. unable to resist, he took you beneath him again, his gaze never leaving your breasts. fingers toyed with the edge of your shorts, exploring with deliberate intent while his lips descended to your skin.

he licked your nipples slowly, tasting, teasing, then bit gently—soft enough to make you shiver but sharp enough to mark the moment. every sound you made, every subtle reaction of your body, was etched into his memory, fueling his hunger all the more.

his lips traveled downward, tracing a slow path to your stomach. he glanced up at you, eyes dark and intense, before murmuring a gentle command, “lift your hips, baby.”

you obeyed without hesitation, helping him pull your shorts and underwear down together. his hands reached your inner thighs, urging you to part them just for him.

a deep sigh escaped him as his eyes took in the glistening wetness, illuminated softly by the flickering candlelight. you caught the subtle swallow he tried to hide, the raw hunger barely contained beneath his calm exterior.

then he leaned down, fingers sliding out slowly from your slit to feel just how wet you were. his two thumbs gently parted your lips. he didn't care how messy or soaked you were. he wanted more. a slow drip of spit slid down, warm and deliberate, and at the touch of his breath, your hips jerked involuntarily.

chan bent to the spot where his saliva had landed, dragging his tongue over you in a slow, hungry lick from bottom to top. a satisfied sound rumbled deep in his throat as a subtle vibration pulsed through your pussy, sending shivers that echoed deep inside you.

his tongue lingered around your entrance, circling it with slow, deliberate motions, tasting you like something forbidden and sacred. then, as if the need consumed him whole, he buried his face deeper between your thighs, like he wanted to disappear inside you.

your moans came out louder, less controlled. your chest rose and fell rapidly, the heat overwhelming, his mouth relentless. there was a rhythm to his tongue, steady and calculated, but maddening—perfectly torturous.

when he finally pulled back for just a moment, you saw it—the glistening shine on his lips, your wetness coating him like proof of his obsession. he looked wrecked. chest heaving, pupils blown wide. and then, in a rough growl that came from deep in his throat, he muttered, completely undone "you're dripping… fuck, you're soaking my face."

and still, his fingers dug into your thighs like he never wanted to let go, like your taste was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"come on my face, yeah?" he asked in a single, ragged breath, his voice cracked open with desperation. his eyes —those eyes— never left yours, dark and heavy with hunger, dragging every last bit of restraint out of you. something stirred deep inside you at the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever crave. everything already felt too much, too warm, too intense...and his gaze made it impossible to hold on.

and despite asking, he didn’t wait for an answer.

he dove back in. tongue relentless, lips messy, completely lost in the taste of you. your hands found his hair, fingers curling, hips moving without thought. the pressure in your core tightened, unbearable, unbearable, until—

your breath shattered.

It hit all at once, like a wave crashing through you, body seizing as you cried out, a broken moan torn from your throat. he didn’t move an inch, didn’t ease up, not even as you came. Instead, he groaned into you, deeper than before, letting your release coat his face. you could feel how soaked he was, how wet everything had become —his mouth, his chin, the noises he made— obscene, low, needy.

when he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving, lips swollen and glistening, jaw tight like he was barely holding it together. he looked up at you like he’d just been baptized, completely wrecked. “you’re so beautiful when you fall apart for me.”

he whispered—his voice low, reverent. the corners of your lips lifted ever so slightly at the praise, a breath of calm wrapping around you both, if only for a heartbeat.

but then you felt it—his bulge, twitching and throbbing beneath the strained fabric of his pants, pressed firm against your thigh. that quiet moment shattered in the heat pooling between you.

a soft grunt left his lips, and he pressed his forehead to yours, breath hot and uneven. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t keep these on,” he muttered, almost to himself. desperation dripped from his voice.

he pulled back just enough to shove his pants down with shaky hands, underwear following fast, revealing just how painfully hard he was. his cock sprang free, flushed, veined, the tip glistening from how worked up he’d been just from pleasuring you.

“I need to be inside you,” he growled, voice tight and raw. “I’ve waited long enough…”

he lined himself up, the tip of his cock brushing against your entrance—hot, leaking, throbbing with the kind of need that made his breath catch. his eyes fluttered closed for a second, fighting the urge to just sink in all at once.

but he didn’t. he couldn’t. not when you were looking up at him like that. not when every shaky breath of yours curled around his ribs like a soft plea.

“I’m gonna go slow, okay?” he whispered, voice thin and trembling. “wanna feel every inch of you…”

one hand gripped your thigh, anchoring himself, while the other gently caressed your cheek—his thumb brushing over your lips like he was grounding himself through touch.

and then, so slowly it made your breath hitch, he pushed in. just the tip.

a low moan spilled from his mouth, half-choked, needy and raw. “fuck—so warm… you’re gonna ruin me already” he murmured, barely above a whisper, like the words weren’t even meant to be heard.

he paused, panting softly as he tried not to lose himself right then and there. his fingers dug into your skin as he pressed in a little deeper, inch by inch, reverent, almost shaking. he whispered again, like it still hadn’t fully hit him. “feels too good…”

his hips trembled, not from movement, but from restraint. every time he sank deeper, it was followed by a quiet, desperate sound—something between a sigh and a moan—like your body was unraveling him second by second.

chan stayed still inside you for a moment, not daring to move. his fingers gently caressed the softness of your hips, forehead resting against yours, breaths tangled in the warm space between. chest to chest, skin slick with sweat, the silence around you was only filled by your shared, shaky exhales.

the candle’s flickering light danced lazily across the walls, casting golden shadows that curled and slid along chan’s back. every time the flame wavered, the glow would shift, revealing the tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles strained from holding back.

you had just come undone from his mouth—your body still trembling, overly sensitive. so when he slid into you, slow and deliberate, the stretch was overwhelming. your eyes fluttered shut, lips parted with a breathless gasp. the fullness was too much. too intimate. too good.

he noticed.

"too much?" he whispered, his voice strained, as if he was barely holding himself together. “fuck. you’re so tight, I can feel everything…”

his own sensitivity showed all over his face. his brows were furrowed, lower lip caught between his teeth. he’d been waiting—aching—for this, and now that he was finally inside, every second was electric. but he still didn’t move. his hands just roamed over you softly, and he leaned into your neck, breathing you in.

“just… let me stay here for a second,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “I can’t move yet, I’ll fucking lose it.”

your chest was rising and falling quickly, body still buzzing with leftover waves. the pressure between you both was intense—almost unbearable in the best way. his breath grazed your skin as he clung to the moment, buried in you, not even fully inside yet, but already trembling from the closeness.

and then—the candle flickered again, the flame making a soft crackling sound just as chan began to move. carefully. gently. but with something trembling beneath the surface, something desperate.

he pulled out slowly, barely halfway, just to ease back in again, deeper this time. the stretch burned just right, your walls fluttering around him, still soaked and pulsing from before. you gasped, hands gripping his arms, fingertips sinking into the muscle like you needed something to hold onto before you lost yourself again.

“c-chan,” you whimpered, voice shaking. “too deep…”

he froze instantly, chest heaving against yours, clearly affected by the sound of your voice—by the way you said his name. his hand found your jaw, tilting your face to look at him.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, breath warm against your lips. “I’ll stop—fuck, I’ll stop if you need.”

but you didn’t want him to stop. not even close. you shook your head, a soft breathless, “don’t,” escaping your lips.

that was all he needed.

he rolled his hips again, still slow, but firmer now. every thrust was calculated, intentional. he wasn’t slamming into you. no. he was feeling everything. memorizing everything. letting himself get drunk off the tight heat around him, the way you clenched every time he pushed a little deeper. the candlelight flickered again, briefly illuminating his flushed face, the raw emotion in his eyes.

“oh my god..” you breathed out, arching your back, your body moving to meet his rhythm without even thinking. he groaned softly, lips ghosting over your collarbone. “you feel so fucking good… fuck, baby, you're perfect—just like that, yeah?”

his thrusts grew slightly faster, a little deeper with every push. you felt everything. the wetness. the fullness. the way he pulled out almost completely before sliding back in with a soft, desperate sound caught in his throat.

“please,” you whispered, voice cracking. he looked up, eyes wild and glassy, breath caught. “what do you need, sweetheart?” he asked, barely able to speak through how much he was holding back.

“you. just—don’t stop.” and he didn’t. his rhythm built slowly, pressure curling deep inside you with every thrust. he reached places that made your toes curl, your eyes roll back. each movement was rougher, needier. controlled at first—but clearly unraveling.

“you’re taking me so well,” he murmured into your skin. “so fuckin' tight around me… it’s driving me insane.” you moaned his name again, and it nearly broke him.

your body trembled beneath him, every thrust pushing you closer to that dizzying edge. your nails dragged down his back, leaving faint red trails he wouldn’t mind seeing the next morning. “chan— fuck— I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he gasped, voice cracking as he tried to keep his pace steady—but it was slipping. “I feel you. you're so close… I can feel it.” his hips snapped forward harder now, rhythm reckless, losing any restraint he had left. the slap of skin meeting skin echoed louder, messier, more desperate. his breath stuttered against your neck as he muttered broken praises—"so good," "so tight," "my pretty baby taking it all"—like a prayer on repeat.

“you’re squeezing me—fuck, just like that—don’t stop, please don’t stop—” his voice cracked on the last word, and his hand slid down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. “let go for me, sweetheart. wanna feel you come on me again. need it.”

your legs wrapped tighter around his waist instinctively, pulling him impossibly close as your climax finally crashed over you—sharp, electric, overwhelming. you cried out his name like it was the only word you knew, body spasming beneath him, and he nearly collapsed from the way you pulsed around him.

“shit—fuck—” he groaned, losing rhythm entirely as you clenched down, milking every last bit of control out of him. he buried his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged, hips stuttering.

“where do you want it, baby?” he rasped, voice barely holding together, needy and frantic. “tell me. please."

his rhythm turned frantic, deeper, rougher, chasing the edge with all the restraint of a man starved. your body was still trembling from your orgasm, oversensitive, twitching with every thrust—and he could feel it. feel how you clenched around him, how your walls fluttered, inviting him in deeper, tighter.

“shit—baby—” he hissed, voice cracking into a moan. “you’re gonna make me—fuck—”

he barely managed to lift his head, his gaze locking with yours, pupils blown wide, lips parted and trembling. “wanna come inside,” he breathed. “let me… wanna fill you up. need to—fuck, I need to.”

you nodded, barely coherent, breath catching. “yes, please… inside, chan.”

that was it. he let out a raw, guttural sound—somewhere between a sob and a growl—as he sank deep and stilled, buried to the hilt. his body tensed above you, head dropping to your shoulder as his hips twitched through the release. warmth flooded into you as he came, wave after wave, chanting your name like a lifeline.

“you’re mine,” he whispered, breath shaky. “fuck.. I’m so deep in you… you take it so well. you’re meant for me.”

you could feel every throb, every pulse of him inside, and it only made you cling tighter. the air was thick with the sound of your breaths, your heartbeats syncing, bodies tangled, still trembling from the intensity.

after a moment, he raised his head, kissed your temple with a soft hum. “you okay, baby?” he whispered, voice hoarse and full of warmth.

and god, despite the sweat, the mess, the ruined sheets—everything felt perfect.

the air felt heavier now—not from lust, but from the silence that came with release. the rhythm had slowed, and so had time. your skin buzzed with the aftermath, oversensitive, warm, kissed all over with sweat and love. chan collapsed beside you with a soft groan, still catching his breath, hand reaching for yours instantly, fingers locking like it was instinct.

neither of you spoke for a few seconds. just… breath. the kind that came from letting go too much and feeling too much.

he nuzzled into your shoulder, hair damp, his voice barely a whisper. "you okay? was that… too much?" you shook your head softly, too blissed out to form words. so instead, you turned, tucked your nose under his chin, and let out a hum—content, safe, full.

“I can’t believe we actually—” he started, then cut himself off with a sheepish laugh. you felt it rumble in his chest before he said, “I think I literally begged you to come on my face. that—uh. that happened.”

you burst into a breathy laugh, your body jolting slightly from the sudden movement. “yeah, you were kind of…” you paused, pretending to think, “feral.”

chan groaned and covered his face. “nooo, don’t remind me. that damn candle or whatever was in that incense—pure evil.” you looked over. the candle on the desk flickered innocently, as if it hadn't just witnessed the filthiest hour of your lives.

“It’s still going,” you teased, “should we be scared?”

“we should file a restraining order.” he deadpanned.

but then, he got quiet again. and his hand came up to trace slow circles on your side, his voice barely a breath. “but seriously… you’re so beautiful when you fall apart for me.” the words hit different now. no lust behind them. just warmth.

and for the first time since it all started, your eyes met in the dim candlelight—no tension, no rush. just two people wrapped up in each other, sweaty, tired, and impossibly soft.

If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments and see a reblog! thank you so much for your support!

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wingedhallows · 4 months ago

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— RUSTLING MAPLE LEAVES —

— ✩₊˚.⋆☾ PAIRING southern!vi x citygirl!reader / 2.5 k words — ✩₊˚.⋆☾ SYNOPSIS When you inherit your grandmother’s farm in the heart of Georgia, the last thing you expect is Violet Lane—your rugged, maddeningly charming neighbor with a slow drawl and a smirk that could bring anyone to their knees. What starts as a simple favor—a little help with the land—quickly turns into something far more dangerous. Because Vi isn’t just good with her hands; she knows exactly how to unravel you, one lingering touch at a time. And resisting her? Well, that might just be impossible. — ✩₊˚.⋆☾ WARNING smut (minors DNI) — ✩₊˚.⋆☾ AUTHORS NOTE hey babes, i'm super late with this but it's my first time attempting to write actual smut. I thought you might enjoy this as a thanks for 400 & 500 followers. thanks babes, love u

♡︎ navigation ♡︎

Moving into your grandma’s old flat in Georgia wasn’t exactly on your bucket list this year. But when she decided she was done with the ranch—tired of the early mornings and aching bones—she signed it over to you and packed her bags for a nursing home.

And now, here you stand.

Hands on your hips, staring up at the massive oak tree out front. It’s old, gnarled, and overgrown—a mess of tangled branches just waiting to drop and split someone’s skull open.

"Surely needs trimmin’, ma’am."

The voice is smooth, warm, dipped in something slow and syrupy. You whirl around—and nearly forget how to breathe.

A woman stands there, tipping her hat with a lazy smirk. Pink hair peeks out from beneath the brim, catching the golden light just right. One hand rests on the belt of her worn jeans, and the way she carries herself—easy, confident, like she’s got all the time in the world—makes your stomach flip.

Jesus.

Since when did you have a thing for Southern women?

"Violet Lane. Pleasure. Call me Vi."

She pauses, giving the tree a once-over, and for a moment, you swear you catch a sharp cut along the edge of her jaw—like she was carved from something wild and unyielding.

"Shimmer Farm’s mine." She nods down the road, and just like that, it clicks.

Your new neighbor. And, quite possibly, your newest problem.

You finally manage to clear your throat, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from the sun. It’s too damn bright, or maybe it’s just her.

"Bonnie’s my granny—left all this to me." You gesture vaguely at the ranch around you, hoping the motion hides the slight tremor in your fingers.

Violet—or Vi, as you’re already calling her in your head—gives a short nod before leaning against the white fence. The wood creaks beneath her weight, but all you can focus on is the way her flannel stretches over her arms—sleeves rolled up just enough to show off tanned, sinewy forearms and biceps that look like they could throw you clean over her shoulder.

Jesus. Get a fucking grip.

"She mentioned it—nice lady." Her voice is slow, deliberate, dipped in molasses, and you find yourself watching her like she’s something out of a dream.

Of course, she’d know your granny. They were neighbors.

"Tell you what, city girl—I’ll trim it for ya'."

She pushes off the fence with a lazy sort of grace, nodding toward the tree.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “What? No, no—you don’t have to.”

You shake your head quickly, hoping she’ll back off, because if she gets any closer, you might just lose the battle against your absolutely feral urges.

But Vi just smirks, the kind of smirk that’s all trouble, all slow-drawled confidence that makes your stomach flip.

"Nonsense, sugar. ‘S what we do ‘round here."

And then—she winks.

You stand there, completely useless, as she turns and strides back down the driveway, hands tucked in the pockets of her beat-up jeans.

All you can do is stare after her, mouth slightly open, and hope to God nobody catches you drooling like a love-struck teenager.

Vi returns not long after, carrying a ladder, a hedge trimmer, and—oh, hell—without the flannel.

The wife beater she’s wearing should be illegal. It clings to her like a second skin, outlining lean muscle and sun-kissed shoulders, and as if that wasn’t enough to completely fry your brain, your gaze catches on the ink stretching across her upper back. Bold, intricate—something that probably runs the length of her spine.

You stand there on the porch, awkward as hell, gripping the railing like it might keep you from falling over. God, help me.

Vi doesn’t say a word as she props the ladder against the thick trunk of the tree, adjusts her hat, and climbs up like she’s done this a thousand times before.

And maybe it’s your imagination—or maybe she flexes, just a little, when she lifts the trimmer.

She knows you’re watching. And she sure as hell doesn’t mind.

The hedge trimmer hums to life, and you realize you should probably say something—anything—to make this feel a little less like you’re shamelessly ogling her.

"So… what kind of farm is ‘Shimmer’?" Your voice is quieter than you intended, but steady.

Vi doesn’t look away from her work, but she answers anyway, cool and easy.

"Horse farm. Got some sheep, too. Ma’ Pop, and my sister run it with me."

You nod, soaking that in. So, she works on a horse farm, probably rides, probably knows how to rope cattle, probably looks stupidly good doing it.

One question lingers in the back of your mind, burning at the tip of your tongue before you can stop it.

"Just you three? No boyfriend?"

You swear you hear her chuckle—low, rough, the kind of sound that zips straight through your bloodstream and leaves a warm ache in its wake.

Then she turns her head, baby blues locking onto yours, lazy smirk playing at her lips.

"Nah. I don’t swing that way."

Her voice is amused, like she already knows the effect it’s having on you.

And just like that, your brain short circuits.

She’s into women.

Oh.

A few hours later, the tree is neatly trimmed, the stray branches hauled off to God knows where—somewhere in the back of Vi’s truck, probably, but you’d been a little too distracted watching her maneuver the damn thing like she was born with a steering wheel in her hand.

She’d backed into your driveway with one arm slung over the passenger seat, her other hand steady on the wheel, and you swear your heart flipped clean over in your chest.

Now, you lean over the railing of the porch, holding out a cold bottle of beer. A peace offering. Or maybe just an excuse to keep her around a little longer.

Vi takes it with a soft huff, swiping the back of her hand across her damp forehead before twisting off the cap. "Thanks, sugar."

Her voice is a little rough, a little breathless, and it sends a spark straight through your bloodstream.

You watch as she tilts the bottle back, throat bobbing as she takes a sip—your eyes helplessly tracking the way a single droplet of sweat slides from her temple down the curve of her jaw.

And suddenly, you forget how to breathe.

"Are you hungry?" The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, blurting out in a rush of reckless impulse.

Vi lowers the bottle, her smirk slow and knowing as she tips her head. "Don’t wanna trouble ya', city girl."

Her voice is low, husky, damn near sinful, and you—God help you—have to press your thighs together, because how the hell is this woman the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen?

"It’s the least I can do, please." You nod toward the house, pushing the door open in silent invitation.

Vi takes her time stepping forward, letting her gaze drag over you in a way that feels deliberate.

And she’s doing her best not to stare at your ass too long—because, fuck.

Inside the house, you make your way to the kitchen, racking your brain for something—anything—you can throw together. Not like you’ve got much to work with. You’ve only been here a week, and your fridge is a sad excuse for a meal.

Behind you, Vi leans against the counter, the beer bottle dangling lazily from her fingers. She’s watching you—no, devouring you with her gaze—slow and deliberate, like she’s got all the time in the world.

You pretend not to notice. Or maybe you just don’t know how to function under the weight of her attention.

She shifts, brushing a few strands of hair from her face, and you let out an awkward chuckle, tugging open the fridge with a grimace.

"I, uh—I don’t really have much. I just moved in, and… grocery shopping…” Your words fumble over each other, and the sheer intensity of her gaze makes you regret speaking at all.

Vi waves you off with a slow flick of her wrist, stepping closer.

And that’s when you catch it—the faintest hint of her cologne beneath the scent of sweat and sun-warmed skin, the lingering trace of sawdust from working on that damned maple tree.

You swear your knees go weak.

"S’alright, hun," she murmurs, voice richer, huskier than before.

Your back presses against the counter, your pulse skittering as she closes the space between you.

The air shifts—thicker now, charged with something electric, something dangerous.

And suddenly, food is the last thing on your mind.

Vi moves in, slow and deliberate, until her arms cage you in against the counter, the scent of her—leather, sweat, a hint of cedar and smoke—wrapping around you like a trap you don’t want to escape.

Her gaze roves over you, heavy and smoldering, like she’s sizing up a meal she’s about to devour.

“Ain’t that hungry—least not for food.”

Her voice dips lower, like a secret meant just for you, like something sinful curling between your legs. Your breath shudders, your fingers gripping the countertop behind you as if that’ll keep you grounded.

She leans in, breath hot against the shell of your ear, and your knees damn near buckle.

"Wanna repay me another way?"

It’s not even a question—it’s a promise wrapped in velvet.

Your lips part, but words fail you. All you manage is a nod, shaky, desperate.

Vi tilts her head, a slow, knowing smirk playing at her lips. Her hands find your waist, calloused fingers curling into the soft skin beneath your sundress, sending a rush of fire through your veins.

And then—before you can even think to touch her—she grips beneath your thighs and hoists you onto the counter like you weigh nothing.

Your legs part, a breathless gasp slipping from your lips as she presses in close—solid, hot, the heat of her searing through thin fabric.

You lean back against the cabinet, exhaling a shaky sigh, your whole body thrumming with want, with anticipation.

And Vi—she just watches you, like she’s got all the time in the world.

Vi’s lips find your neck, warm and insistent, each kiss slow and deliberate, a teasing drag of softness against your skin. The heat of her breath lingers, sending a delicious shiver down your spine.

You tip your head back instinctively, granting her better access, and she hums in approval, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the curve of your throat.

Her hands roam—rough fingertips skimming the curve of your waist, slipping beneath the thin fabric of your sundress with a slow, knowing touch. Your breath hitches, fingers clutching at her shoulders, a feeble attempt to ground yourself against the way she unravels you.

Then—her palms slide lower, brushing over the sensitive skin of your thighs, pushing your dress up inch by torturous inch.

Her fingertips graze over the damp fabric of your clothed cunt, and a shaky gasp tumbles from your lips, your thighs twitching at the featherlight contact.

Vi chuckles, low and deep, the sound rolling through you like a slow Southern drawl, thick and sinful.

“Oh, sugar,” she murmurs, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re drippin’ for me, ain’t ya?”

She grins against your skin, her voice sultry and smug, and all you can do is nod, breathless, aching, already at her mercy.

Vi presses one last, lingering kiss behind your ear before she sinks to her knees, slow and deliberate. The sight alone—her looking up at you, eyes dark and hungry, that damn smirk playing on her lips—has your grip tightening on the edge of the counter.

Her hands skate over your thighs, warm and teasing, pushing your dress higher, higher, until the cool air ghosts over your skin.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, her fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, a mischievous glint flickering in those baby blues as she drags them down.

A soft gasp slips past your lips when her knuckles brush against your heated skin, and you barely catch the way she tucks your soiled panties into the back pocket of her jeans like a prize.

She doesn’t even try to hide her amusement, lips quirking as her thumb presses against your aching bundle of nerves—just enough pressure to make you tremble.

“Mmm, she’s screamin’ for me, sugar,” Vi drawls, her voice all honey and gravel, thick enough to drown in.

Your mouth parts, a protest, a plea—but before you can even think to speak, she leans in and drags her tongue in a slow, sinful stripe up your slit.

A breathless hiss escapes you, thighs twitching, and when she pulls back, her tongue flicks over her bottom lip, savoring.

“Delicious,” Vi hums, that cocky smirk only deepening.

A breathless moan tumbles from your lips as Vi leans in again, her tongue plunging between your folds—hungry, unapologetic, like she’s been starving for you all her life. The sensation is blinding, white-hot, and when your fingers thread into her hair, tugging at the soft strands, she hums against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

Her grip tightens around your thighs, keeping you right where she wants you—helpless, unraveling beneath her touch. Each flick of her tongue, every sinful suck against your aching clit, has you teetering on the edge, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“Vi—” Your voice is shaky, breath hitching as the coil in your belly winds tighter, tighter. “I-I’m gonna—”

She pulls back just enough, her lips glistening, pupils blown wide as she watches you fall apart. That smirk is there again, the one that makes your stomach dip.

“I know, sweet girl,” she murmurs, her voice thick and dripping with something wicked. Then, as if to seal your fate, she licks one slow, deliberate stripe up your pussy - from entrance to clit, savoring the taste, before whispering—

“Cum for me.”

And you do—helpless against the force of your own undoing. The coil inside you snaps with breathtaking intensity, pleasure crashing over you in waves so strong it leaves you gasping.

Vi doesn’t let up, doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath—her strong hands keep you steady, gripping your hips with enough force to hold you together as you shatter.

The kitchen is filled with the sounds of your pleasure—high, breathy moans mixing with the wet, obscene sounds of Vi’s tongue working you through it. You barely register the way she groans against you, drinking in every last bit of your release like it’s something sacred.

And when the aftershocks leave you trembling, thighs still twitching in her grasp, Vi finally pulls back—chin glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and smirks up at you, voice thick as molasses when she drawls—

“Sweetest damn thing I ever tasted.”

#vi arcane #vi x reader #vi arcane x reader #vi fanfic #vi smut #vi x you #vi league of legends #arcane #vi imagine #vi au #vi arcane imagine #vi arcane smut #violet arcane #violet arcane smut #violet arcane imagine #violet arcane au #violet arcane x reader

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houseofhyde · 18 days ago

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I LOVE MANCHILD BUCKY SO MUCHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! can u pretty pretty please do something literally anything where he picks the reader up and he's so strong and whatnot 😛😛😛 love ya thankssssss ur the best

wine, dine, whine. a manchild drabble.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader. synopsis. bucky's plans go to shit on the night of your birthday. yet, beneath city lights and raining skies, he learns how little you require to have a good time. it turns out, all you need is bucky's strong arms. warnings. smut ( unprotected piv, strength kink, sex against a door, clothed sex, creampie bc i'm a whore with a very specific kink 🧍‍♂️, fingers are getting put in pussies and mouths!, the bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™ continues, lowkey sub!bucky ), protective!bucky aka guard dog!bucky, anger issues, banter, unlabelled relationship bc i like torturing these two losers, angst, fluff, the overall vibe when it comes to the narration of this is a little bit different to manchild due to this being told from bucky's pov but hopefully it's still enjoyable! reader inclusivity. bucky is able to pick the reader up (which, duh, he's a super soldier, bestie <3) and one mention of his jacket being too big for her. wordcount. 3.6k (we're playing fast and loose with the term 'drabble') hyde's input. i've realised i have a strange obsession with having it rain a lot when it comes to these two ( as y'all will see in the next full-length fic i'm writing abt them ), but they just give me such rainy couple vibes, y'know? ( i sound stupid 🤠 ) i hope you enjoy, anon! thank you for requesting, you are the best <33

Fate is either a gigantic cunt, or she simply hates one James Buchanan Barnes.

Every little thing that should have gone right tonight has taken the left exit into wrong-ville. First, it was the missed reservation — Bucky tried to argue the ten minute delay was out of your control but the restaurant had already handed your table off to someone else. Before the soldier could choose between grovelling and threatening, your hand clasped onto his and you dragged him someplace else. Just when he settled into the perfect routine of sipping his wine and admiring the glow of you across a candle-lit table, your dinner arrived and, with it, more problems: the edge of your plate had been ‘decorated’ with crushed almonds. While he was red with anger, you were calmly apologising to the waiter for not having mentioned your allergy. In the end, you both ate the food off his plate.

Slipping off to the bathroom at one point , he’d been confronted with a crooked tie and the fact he’d put his cuff links on wrong — meanwhile, back at the table, you were the image of a goddess, elegant and effortless, wrapped in a pretty black dress and a pair of stilettos. Another disaster struck after dinner, back out on the streets, when a stranger shoulder-checked you and caused the ice cream you’d just bought to fly out your hand; while he wanted to grab the stranger by the scruff of the neck and force them to apologise, you busied yourself with stealing a bite from his cone.

Then came the rain. Unwarned, unreported. The sky simply gave a deep cry and the heavens opened up, dropping buckets worth of water down. Bucky hurried to cover you with his suit’s jacket and you used the downpour as an excuse to tuck yourself into his side, arms curling around his mid-riff and head finding rest against his shoulder.

Now here you both are walking the rainy streets of New York, clothes reduced to soaked rags that cling to each inch of skin, and Bucky’s wondering if this is all his fault.

When he’d first learned it was your birthday this morning, a confession that cut off any loose threads of sleep still clinging to him, you had been adamant that it wasn’t a big deal.

“Birthdays are like assholes, Barnes,” you swat at his butt with the tea-towel you’ve been using to dry the dishes — this is the routine as of late, he washes them and you dry them. “We all have one, doesn’t mean we need to go around announcing it.”

Looking back, he should have left it well-enough alone. But he hadn’t been able to ignore that something that wouldn’t sit right in his chest when you told him you had no intention to celebrate yourself. As far as Bucky is aware, your existence is a blessing, an admittedly irritating flickering light illuminating the tunnel of infinite dark he’s spent most of his life wandering through.

How could he possibly sit back and not let you shine?

“I spy my with my little eye,” your voice pulls him out the pit of guilt he’s digging for himself, drags him back up to street level where you’re soft and present at his side. An arm over your shoulder, he encourages you to burrow deeper against him. “Something beginning with… P!”

You must not be very good at this game, as the likely answer is glaring at him from across the street in red neon lights: Pizzeria.

“What are you, four?” Bucky’s rolling his eyes and fighting off the red of endearment rushing to his cheeks.

“Watch it, soldier,” one of your fingers pokes into his side. “You’re already towing the line of predatory with our age-gap.”

The rain is but a drizzle now, and Bucky despises the way it has you stepping out from his embrace, curious and excited to let feel the drops of water run down your face.

“You can’t say I’m not the strongest centenarian you know,” he states, without even knowing the reason why.

Perhaps a part of him craves to prove to you he’s a worthy choice, more than just a nighttime companion but someone you can let yourself rely on, rest against, plant new roots in your life with.

He’s been thinking about it lately, more often than a man of his nature would dare voice aloud, how much of your time he’s allowed to pollute, and how much of your heart he’s allowed to consume. For all his wondering, he can’t bring himself to ask, in fear of finding out the story of you two he’s been writing in his head ends sooner than he intends.

“You’re the only centenarian I know,” you’re ahead of him on the sidewalk now, walking backwards and turned towards him to see his reaction as you tease him. “Not even my grandparents, rest their souls, would be as old as you.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” he’s trying to reach for you, feigning annoyance as the excuse to pull you back against him, where he wants you to belong.

But you’re nimble, faster on your heels than he expects you to be, and he marvels at how easily you evade his hands, feet moving so easily they almost seem to dance along the ground.

“Don’t worry, give me the greenlight and I’ll happily call you great-granddaddy while you hit it from the back-”

Like a lion pounces on a gazelle, he dashes to close the distance between you and swoops you up into his arms.

“What have I told you about watching where you’re going?” It’s an empty chastise, one that not even he pays any mind to, not when he’s so enthralled with the weight of you clinging to his neck, a vibranium arm holding up your back while his flesh one is tucked beneath your bent knees.

Your eyes are watching him, a smile upon your face that tells him you have no intention of looking at the river of a puddle he’s just rescued you from stepping into, sacrificing the polished leather of his shoes and the hem of his trousers as he walks you both across it.

“It’s more fun when you do it for me,” you wink at him, and Bucky’s in pain.

He’s known war. He’s known torture. He’s known what it means to lose every thread of autonomy, becoming nothing but a vehicle through which to kill. Never has he known ache quite like the one you carve into his heart, with something as simple as a smile and as soft as a kiss.

Deflecting his own thoughts, he jolts you higher up into his hold, closer to his chest, and renews the grip his hands carry you with. No puddles lay ahead anymore, left behind for you to finally spot over his shoulder, yet the soldier shows no intention of putting you down.

“You just had to prove your point, huh? Strongest man I know.”

The breeze brushes the skirt of your dress a little too high for Bucky’s comfort, not when there’s a group of men spilling out from a bar across the street. He readjusts his right arm, making sure the fabric stays caught beneath his iron grip.

Maybe that’s why it takes him a moment to notice you’ve altered his earlier claim, taking his age right out of the discussion.

“I never said man-”

You gasp, Bucky freezes.

“Put me down,” a command he obeys with heartbreak yet no hesitation, returning you gently to the pavement and keeping a hold on you until he’s sure you’re steady on your feet. Before he can step back, you shake your head, “Come here.”

Like a puppet, he gives himself up to you. Lets you tug him closer by his tie. Watches you place his hands firmly around your waist. Relishes in the squeeze of your arms interlocking behind his head.

Standing right in front of him, Bucky feels like he’s seeing you properly for the first time tonight.

Rivulets of rain run rampant down your face, smudged mascara paints an image of modern art across your cheeks, your lipstick has faded away to reveal the real hue of the lips he’s forever longing to kiss, the pretty shape of your dress has melted into your figure and the sleeves of his jacket keep sliding down over your hands. For every sense of the word, you’re a mess. A completely and utterly different woman to the one he stepped out onto the streets with hours earlier, before everything had gone wrong. And you’ve never been more beautiful.

Or more demanding, “Ok, now spin me.”

“Spin you?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to spin you?” It’s not outrageous, he’d argue, to seek confirmation when faced with such a strange request.

“Am I speaking fucking latin? S, P, I, N me, Barnes!”

Let the record show that there’s not a single thing, no matter how confused or skeptical it may leave him, that Bucky wouldn’t do for you. So, of course he spins you.

Gripping on tight to your waist and straightening his back, he lets his feet shuffle around in a circle and watches how your own lift off the ground.

“Happy?” He asks, his own existence hinging on your answer, as he puts you back down.

“No,” you shake your head, lips splitting in an eye-twinkling smile. “Again!

He does it again, and again, and again. Until you’re a twirling, giggling, grinning mess surrounding him. Until he feels himself begin to struggle for balance. Until a group of strangers are holding up their phones and recording the private bubble you two are living in. And, for a moment, he can almost picture it.

The before, the normal. A 1940s kind of New York, stained in the smell of cigarettes and gunpowder, and playing main stage to a love story for the ages. He imagines all the ways he would have won over your family, all the old-fashioned traditions he’d play privy to just to earn your hand. His sister would have loved you, and not just because she’d always complained at being stuck with only a brother, but because you’d be as loud, and as outspoken, and as crass as she’d always believed women should be. The kind of life where he’d leave for war with a promise to return to you, and he’d make damn sure of keeping that promise, arriving back at shore to greet you with a kiss and a ring.

When the fog around his wishful eyes clears, he’s left with the blinding lights of modern New York and the smell of your perfume. There’s no bitter feeling, however, no hatred towards the life he finds himself in now, leagues and bounds away from what could have been. It’s not perfect but there’s you, and that seems about as close to it as Bucky can imagine.

“Oh no!” You exclaim, laying a hand across your forehead as you pretend to fall faint against him. “I’m just ever so dizzy, Mr Barnes, I think you’ll have to carry me home!”

“Do you think I’m some sort of walking cab?” Despite the annoyance put behind his question, he’s eagerly offering you his back to hop onto.

“No, no,” you’re swatting him around, pulling on his strings again to command him just how you want him. He willingly gives himself to you every time. “Do it the same as before.”

One arm at your back, the other at the back of your knees, he’s lifting you against him again. For a moment, the creative part of his brain, that had painted a picture of another decade, tempts him with the thought of how this is the very same way a man carries his bride. The thought of such devotion makes him sick with shame and anticipation.

“Everyday you sound more like a spoiled brat,” and he’s the one to blame, giving way to your every whim and plea.

Your response is physical, a hand grabbing onto either side of his jaw and giving his head a shake, “God forbid a girl wants to enjoy the view of this handsome face!”

Even though he tries to frown, he can’t help the way he turns to putty with your touch.

The rain comes to a complete stop and leaves behind a satisfying freshness in the air, one that smells like hope and tastes like possibility. Or maybe that’s just the effect of having you pressed up against him, not only seeking safety in his arms but finding rest, head atop the very point where metal welds into flesh.

Here he is, a creature more disjointed than anything Frankenstein could create, and wanted only ever for causing harm, providing respite to a soul he’s spent months trying to save from herself.

Perhaps fate doesn’t hate him so much.

“The answer was party-pooper,” you interrupt his dwelling, like you do best, and make quick to clarify for his questioning glance. “To my I-Spy prompt.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

Carrying you is child’s play, as easy as breathing to the super soldier. That doesn’t stop him from putting on a show of readjusting his grip, jolting you enough into the air to earn a huff out of you.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” a finger trails over his mouth, catching on his lower lip and giving it a gentle tap. “You’re the one that’s been sulking up a storm all night.”

“I wasn’t sulking-”

“You literally were pouting at me from across the table, James.”

“I just wanted you to have a good night.”

Do you notice blood staining the tips of his ears with a blush? And, if you do, would you believe him if he said it was from the bite of the wind?

“I am having a goodnight, how could I not?” As your arms secure themselves around his neck again, he feels the brush of your lips atop the collar of his shirt. If only your lipstick were still intact, he could wake up tomorrow to a visceral stain of your kiss on the fabric. “I’m wearing a pretty dress and being carried by a hunky man.”

“Sometimes I think you only want me for my biceps,” a sarcastic comment feels easier than letting himself sink into the knowledge that he’s made the cut in your requirements for a good time.

“Guilty as charged! I’m using you for this hot bod and fine piece of ass.”

Just when he’s thinking of kissing you, you beat him to it, pulling yourself up to press your lips against his.

It’s short, it’s sweet, and it’s chaste. The kind of kiss one could blink and completely miss, but Bucky savours every second of it. Even if it does cause him to stumble with his next step.

Drawing nearer to your apartment, he wonders if you notice the way his pace is slowing, the way his feet are beginning to drag, the way he’s stretching out each step for as long as he can.

When he grows tired of the sound of passing cars and the muffled music from bars, he seeks out your voice.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Depends what you want to hear,” you’re back at his shoulder, eyes slipped closed as you enjoy the subtle sway of your dangling legs. “There’s two things I’m thinking about.”

“Two or a million things,” his own voice is falling into a whisper, something sacred he wants to save for your ears only. “I want to hear all of it.”

For a moment, there’s only the tread of his footfall, and the calm of your breathing, and the wind singing a solemn tune. Then you speak and drown him deeper in his melancholy.

“You don’t need to get angry for me,” a montage of deep breaths, flaring nostrils, clenching jaws, all from tonight and completely selfish, born out of an ire that you had met only with kind eyes and forgiving words. “I don’t want a weapon, I just want you. And if that anger is the real you, then I want it too, but not if you’re forcing yourself to get worked up because it's what you think I expect.”

“Anger kept me safe,” and, if it could do that for him, then surely it could keep you safe too. “I don’t know who I am without it.”

“Then we can find out together,” you say it so sincerely he wants nothing more than to make it a reality.

Not just the prospect of relearning himself, but the togetherness of it all. A unit, a pair, a couple. Not just a man and woman living under the same roof. Would you want the same, though? Or is the way he touches you just something you enjoy, no deeper feeling buried beneath layers of skin?

“Do you wanna know the second thing I’m thinking?” There you are again to pull the brakes on his train of thought.

He nods, too afraid of the tight feeling in his throat to speak. But you, his little spitfire, are afraid of nothing and lean up to shamelessly whisper into his ear.

“About how good you’re gonna fuck me when we get home.”

The two of you barely make it past the threshold of the door.

Despite the fact his hands are on you, you’re the one leading the charge, pulling him in by his tie to meet your welcoming tongue. There’s a noticeable thud as your back hits the door but your grip tightens him against you before he can worry.

“Want you to show me how strong these arms are, Buck,” you hiss against him, clutching onto the bicep of the arm that’s snuck itself beneath your dress and writhing as his fingers swipe over your soaked folds.

Sanity has long departed from him, abandoning him to the wreckage of you. He’s barely cognisant of his own undoing, losing himself in the way you react so perfectly to his fingers curling into your cunt. You don’t let him enjoy it for too long, barely a moan ripped out of you before you’re unbuckling his belt and setting his dick free from the confines of cotton.

Following your orders, his arms hike your legs up around his waist and settle your back a little higher up the door, forcing him to gaze up at you in worship. It’s a blessing, he concludes, to watch your mouth drop into an ‘o’ as he guides you down fully onto his cock.

There’s no time for teasing. Everything is desperate and reckless, teeth clashing against teeth, hands digging into hips, skin slapping against skin. The hinges of the door shake at your back, in perfect tune with each thrust of Bucky’s cock, and, when he catches your hand gripping onto the handle, he redirects it to his shoulder and relishes in the sting of your nails digging into his flesh.

“Please,” he’s not sure what he’s asking for, but his mind tells him to grovel, to plead, to pray. “Oh, please, fuck!”

“Yes James, that’s exactly what we’re doing,” you somehow find the time to giggle, and he swears he might just lose his mind when he feels your walls squeeze around him. “I didn’t think you’d have a senior moment so soon.”

You’re so irritating, and maddening, and endearing. Bucky’s all confused, mind oscillating between turning you around, pressing your face into the wood, and showing you just how ‘unsenior’ he is, or focusing on how ridiculously breathtaking you are to gaze up at.

If you’re a siren, then he’s a sailor who’s more willing than ever to drown in the waves with you and your melodic moans. Hungry eyes pull up the hem of your dress and seek out the sight of your pussy fucking itself down onto his cock. Lost in the sight of your bodies syncing together, he’s none the wiser to his open jaw until he tastes your fingers sink inside it.

“Look at you,” you coo, and he loves it, works harder and fucks deeper to hear more of it. “A big, bad soldier who’s whining for me.”

And he is. Pathetically, unabashedly, lips wrapped around the girth of your two fingers and letting you feel the vibrations of his pleasured whines.

Bucky is the first to crescendo, with a fractured whisper of your name followed by stuttering hips. His eyes roll back as your legs lock around him and force him to deliver, devote every last drop of himself inside of you. He comes through just in time to press his thumb to your clit and guide you off your own edge into paradise, squealing and cheering against the door before he swallows your sounds with his lips.

In the dark of the apartment, you two search for a single breath between you, lazy-boned against the door as hands simply trail over one another’s outline.

“So,” your hand in his hair, tugging lightly until his chin rests on your chest and his hazy eyes stare up at yours. “Was tonight our first date?”

“No,” he almost laughs at how quickly the smile falls off your face, but he’s too busy rushing to fight away the disappointment that seeks to replace it. “You won’t have to ask when it’s our first date, you’ll know.”

And there it is again, the smile he likes best.

“Aww, does that mean I’m not getting a goodnight’s kiss?”

This time he does laugh, slowly bringing your feet back onto the ground and bumping the tip of his nose against yours.

“What you’re getting is tied to the bed and ruined until you forget your own name.”

+ extra hyde

· reader really loves to walk bucky like a dog (as she should!) · also its been a week since i posted manchild &, i don't mean to sound pathetic and emotional but i'm on my period so give me a break, i'm really happy that you all liked it enough to not only give me really kind feedback but to want more of them :( i love writing so much but i kind of hit a wall creatively about 8 months ago. i'm currently getting a degree and part of that degree requires me to not only write a lot but to write outside of my comfort zone (romance) and, despite achieving a first, it really just drained me and sucked the fun out of writing. so it's been really nice to feel myself slowly chip away at the writer's block & a big part of that has been thanks to every like, comment, reblog, and ask you guys have sent. thank you for making this loser (me) happy <3

#( 📘 ) — manchild #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #james buchanan barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader

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shouyuus · 8 months ago

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counting stars

violet; 4,988 words; hurt/comfort, fluff, slightly suggestive moments, no "y/n", wlw (duh), self-indulgent to the point of lunacy, lots of kissing, mentions of bodily harm (not self-inflicted), teeth-rotting fluff mostly, popstar!reader x vi au

summary: when vi shows up at your door, what to do but to let her in?

a/n: bc nothing bad is allowed to happen to vi in my fictional world(s). and also im literally cackling ofc the fic that ppl r the least interested in posted first is the one that i post first; i guess i just like to be contrary but also i want to spoil vi and this is the only way i know how

─── Ⅵ SHE SHOWS UP UNANNOUNCED, split lip and bloody knuckles, leaning against your doorframe on a thursday night; you answer the door in your sheer pink nightgown and fluffy slippers, a bottle of rose chilling in a bucket on the table.

“vi?”

“hey princess —” she clears her throat, her smirk going lopsided as she tries to hide a clear wince. a bead of blood seeps out the corner of her mouth as she sucks in a shaky breath, “miss me?”

your lashes flutter with worry as you step aside to let her through — there’s a distinct limp to her gait that she can’t quite hide with her usual swagger.

“what happened?” you ask, letting the door click shut, following half a step behind her as she drags herself into your penthouse flat, letting out a low whistle as she looks around.

“nice place you got here. fits though, pretty castle for a pretty princess —”

“violet…”

you reach out with delicate fingers, taking slow steps forward; she hisses out a breath, her eyes sharp and wild as a wounded lion’s, her mouth a blunt-edged slash as she swallows, gaze flickering between your fingertips and your face as if she’s unsure what you might do.

she winces as you rub a light thumb along her cheek; your finger pulls away red.

“sorry —” the word rips from her at your touch. her eyes drop, her whole body shakes. “i — i didn’t know where else to go — and i — i remembered seeing that stupid 100 questions video you did here for —”

“for the fashion magazine, yeah,” you say, your voice soft as a baby’s breath. your hand lingers, a palm against her cheek. she leans into your touch, the movement small as heartbreak, but just as heavy.

“c’mon, lets get you cleaned up.”

you let your hand trail down her arm till your fingers link, and you lead her to you expansive couch, pressing her down firmly even as she frowns at her grime-covered clothes against your pristine white sofa.

“i’d offer to pay for dry cleaning but —”

you cut her off with a sharp look.

“don’t you dare. and plus, i’ve been meaning to change up the upholstery forever.”

you grab a bottle of vodka from the top shelf and a box of cotton balls, plopping down across from her on the couch in a flurry of pink-colored satin, inching forward till you’re nearly parked in her lap.

vi’s eyebrows hike as you pop the top off the vodka bottle, a grin twitching at her lips.

you roll your eyes.

“it’s not for drinking —” you soak a few cotton balls in the vodka even as vi’s expression falls. you lean in; vi’s hands find their way to bend of your waist, settling there as you daub gingerly at the blotches of drying blood on her face.

“ouch —” vi winces dramatically as you press down on a particularly deep cut, her lips pushing up into a pout, “not even a little bit? might help dull out the pain —”

she cuts off as you swipe a thumb along her bottom lip, breath hitching as you frown slightly, making to tug away for a fresh cotton ball.

“don’t — don’t leave —” her voice comes out harsh, desperate. you still, expression softening impossibly.

“i’m not,” you say, patient. she finds her fingers digging into your hips but you only smile. “i’m not going anywhere. promise. but i do need another cotton ball.”

she worries at her bottom lip, and already, you can see the fresh blood collecting in at the corner of her mouth. you press back into her space, wiping the blood away. her entire body slants towards you, her shoulders tight, her arms flexed, as if she’s bracing for a punch or a kiss.

you nudge her nose with yours, lifting up ever so slightly to press your lips to her forehead.

the dam breaks — all the pieces falling, her head tipping forward onto your shoulder, her hands wrapping around you tight, and then tighter. you feel yourself being hauled into her lap as she buries her face in the crook of your neck, a sound caught halfway between a gasp and a sob wrenching from her throat.

“f-fuck — shit —”

there’s heat to her skin, the roughness of her bandages, fraying at the edges, the worn-in material of her pants, the damp streaks of her hair tickling your cheek. her breath is uneven as it splays out against your collarbones, and when she finally tugs away to wipe at her face with the back of her hand, looking anywhere but at you, her lashes blink away wet.

“sorry — god this must be real sexy, right? mm — fuck —” she sniffles, shaking out her hand, her other one coming up to caress your cheek. her gaze is unfocused even as she skims her fingers over your skin. “god, you’re so soft. it’s like you’re made of — of marshmallows or something —”

you catch her hand with a tiny sigh, letting your gaze flicker over the bloodied bandages before you rub a thumb along an unmarred patch of skin.

“and you can be too. if you ever wanted to learn.”

she goes quiet then, the bravado bleeding from her as you continue your quiet work of cleaning all her varied injuries, disinfecting the cuts and bandaging the bruises. for the most part, she stays quiet, offering up the bloodied parts of herself for your perusal without resistance. it’s only when you shift back or make to tug away for a second that she jerks forward, resolute in her all-consuming need to keep you close.

“there. that’s about as much as i can do right now,” you say, heaving a sigh as you brush away several strands of black-pink hair from her face, letting your thumb skim over the tattoo on her cheek.

“thanks.” her voice comes out slightly hoarse, her eyes cutting away from you for a second before flickering back.

“i’d say it’s nothing but…” you let your thumb trail down the line of her jaw, tracing over her fluttering pulse as you work your slow way down her neck, “i mean —” you let out a soft laugh, hiccupping slightly as she takes the chance to tug you even closer, pressing you to her, chest to chest, so that you have to brace both your palms against her shoulders just to keep steady. neither of you mentions the fact that her arms are shaking.

“it was a bad night,” she says. and it’s all she offers for a few minutes, but you don’t push her, content to rest against her, let her run circles into your skin with her fingers against the small of your back, her breaths evening out till she looks back up at you with a wry grin.

“let me guess,” you say, linking your fingers behind her neck, “you should see the other guy though, right?” you drop your voice in a mocking imitation; it sounds nothing like her but it manages to draw out a laugh, the sound ricocheting between the pair of you like an echo till it dissipates, leaving the air somehow slightly warmer than before.

“yeah. somethin’ like that,” she murmurs, leaning forward to nudge your nose with hers, eyes going dark.

you cup her cheeks and let her kiss you, lips on lips and gasping breaths, till her fingers are inching up the thin material of your night dress, bunching it up, her thumbs tracing the ridges of your ribs, the weight of her body pressing you back into the plush couch, far too big for the pair of you —

“v-vi — wait —” you gasp away from her, fingers tangled in her oil slick hair, her mouth trailing hot and wet down the side of your neck. she makes a grumbling sound, nipping at your collarbones before resting her chin on your sternum, her hands still grazing further and further up your nightgown.

“c’mon princess — you got to play doctor, so now lemme pay you back proper —“

“vi.” the sharpness to your voice jolts her, and a frown creases her forehead as she blinks up at you with her gunpowder eyes, her fingers now still against your skin. you puff out a breath, pushing yourself back up to cup her cheeks, squeezing them slightly between your palms.

“i don’t want you to ‘pay me back’ for anything.”

hurt and confusion chase each other in a butterfly-wing flutter of emotions across her eyes before she pulls back.

“you don’t want this?”

you fight back the urge the roll your eyes as you sigh, reaching out to tug her back, this time, it’s you crowding into her personal space, leaning in to kiss her solidly on the lips. you feel her go soft against you, her hands cupping the ridges of your ribs once more.

“of course i want this,” you murmur against her lips, “but i — i don’t want it as ‘payback’ for anything. i…” your breath catches as vi leans in to nip at your bottom lip, heat pluming up the back of your neck, cresting into your chest as you blink at her, “i want this… if you want to give it. and �� and i want it because — because i want you.”

she makes a strange, pitched noise in the back of her throat as she crushes you to her, her mouth slotting over yours so desperately that your teeth clack, but when she pulls back, she’s shaking her head, resting her forehead against yours with a sigh.

“shit princess — you can’t say shit like that and not expect me to lose my fuckin’ mind — fuck —“

you let out a tinkling laugh, fingers now massaging the cords of muscle at the nape of her neck. a shiver runs through her, her lashes a sweep of ink and shadow.

“relax… i’m not going anywhere. promise,” you remind her even as she tips into you once more, a whine working from her throat into yours as her fingers dig into the supple skin of your waist, dragging you down the length of the couch till you’re pinned beneath her thighs.

she pulls away panting, your own chest a staccato rise and fall. but your eyes are steady when she finds them again and you reach up to trace her cheek.

“when’s the last time you’ve had a bath?”

the question catches her off-guard, making her jerk back slightly, a frown ticking down between her brows.

“what?”

you giggle, “a bath. like, a proper one.”

one of her eyebrows kick up, “you sayin’ i smell or something?”

you sigh, yet again fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you push yourself up onto your elbows, your pink nightgown rucked up to your thighs, your hair falling out of the messy bun you’d twisted it up into earlier that evening.

“no,” you let your voice linger on the word, pinning vi with a look, “but you do taste like the inside of a paint can so.”

her eyes narrow but she lets you wiggle out from beneath her, your fingers trailing down her arm to tug her behind you as you lead her into the master bathroom. the light clicks on and vi scoffs.

“wow.”

“pick a bubble-bath, any bubble-bath — my favorite’s the —”

“rose one?” she finishes, lifting up the nearly empty bottle of light pink bubbly water displayed on a white marble shelf full of multi-colored liquids.

you allow yourself a blush as you shrug, twisting on the taps and testing the temperature, drying off your hand before turning back towards her.

“so i know what i like. sue me.”

vi smirks in honest this time, uncapping the bottle and wafting it beneath her nose.

“mm, delicious.”

you don’t miss the licentious lilt to her voice, nor the flicker of dark, hungry light in her eyes.

you turn away, leaning across the vast bathtub to grab a white can.

“if you think that’s delicious — wait till you see the sugar scrub — oh!”

a pair of arms snakes around your middle, pulling you back against abs and a bandaged up chest. vi’s voice is hot by your ear as she noses into the side of your cheek.

“yeah? is it gonna make me taste less like the inside of a paint can?”

“mhm,” you say, letting your free hand rest naturally over both of hers, the other hand dipping into the sugar scrub to swipe a dollop of sticky white crystals onto her nose. she gasps, jerking back for just a second, going slightly cross-eyed before a mischievous expression eclipses her features and she hoists you up into her arms, holding you suspended over the slowly filling bathtub.

“don’t play this game with me, princess — there’s only one way it’ll end.”

you let out a bright peal of laughter that echoes around the soft marble walls, looping both your arms around her neck.

“try me.”

for a second, she makes as if to drop you, but she pulls you back into her chest at the last second, cradling you against her.

“alright princess, let’s see how good this bath is,” she says, her voice soft as she sets you back down on your feet. you lean up to give her a quick peck before taking the rose-scented bubble bath and pouring it into the swirling water.

by the time the tub is filled, the room is filled with a thin gauze of steam, and when you turn, you find vi standing awkwardly behind you, watching with one hand on her opposite elbow, rocking on the balls of her feet.

“in general,” you say, pushing to your feet, “people take baths with their clothes off.”

vi’s cheeks go blotchy, and her eyes skitter about the room.

“what, i’m just supposed to strip here and —”

her words cut off abruptly as you turn your back on her and tug your night gown from your body, stepping into the bubble-filled water, glancing over your shoulder.

“you coming?”

vi nearly trips out of her tight-fitting pants, tugging haphazardly at the bandages wrapped around her torso. when she finally steps into the water opposite you, she drops down with a soft splash, a loud groan rolling from her as her eyes flutter shut.

when she forces them open again, it’s to find you watching her with your round doe eyes, a sweet, knowing smile perched over your very kissable lips. she wonders at the heat in her cheeks, at the way it prickles at her skin, thinks to herself that it must be the steam, must be the hot water currently melting away at the knots that had braided themselves into her muscles the past few weeks, but she when she feels your calf nudging against her’s she can’t help the way her breath skids inside her chest.

“c’mere,” you motion, and vi blinks at you for a second before shifting till you’re face to face, her hovering uncertainly between your legs before you jerk your chin for her to turn around.

the bathtub is more than big enough to fit the both of you, and for a while, a comfortable quiet settles as she leans her back against your chest, your fingers dancing up the length of her arms, trailing warm water along her shoulders, tangling in the rapidly lightening tips of her hair.

the dark dye runs off her, pluming in the water like spilled ink. you steadily work your fingers through her tresses, smoothing out the knots, occasionally letting your nails scrape against her scalp.

“holy fuck that feels nice…”

you smile, washing as much the dye out as you can before rubbing your thumbs into her shoulders, feeling the tightness coiled there like springs. she grunts, shifting beneath your touch.

“y-you don’t have to do this y’know —” she tries to pull away, only to have you click your tongue impatiently and tug her right back.

“lemme know if i’m hurting you, okay?” is the only thing you say as you continue to massage her shoulders.

she softens, letting out a long sigh and a small chuckle.

“you’d have to try real hard to manage that, sweetcheeks.”

you puff out a tiny breath before digging your thumb into a particularly tender knot, her entire body buckling away from you.

“ow!” she twists around, eyes wide, even as you cast her a look that has her turning back again, but not before she flicks a bit of water at you, her other hand resting easy on your knee, bent next to her hip as she leans against you once more.

“this is the first thing they teach you how to do in a brothel,” you say, your voice light as you slowly work the tightness from each of vi’s muscles, applying gentle pressure, using the bubbles as lubricant.

“wait what?” she tries to turn around again, only for you to pinch lightly at one of her loosening knots, tutting.

“stay still and i’ll tell you the story.”

she stills, though her breath is still short, and the hand that had so recently been lolling against your knee is now stiff, her fingers wrapped around your limb as if to brace herself for what you’re about to say next.

“most people don’t know this, but i’m actually from the undercity — all my earliest memories are of the brothel, the girls there braiding my hair, or letting me sit on their vanities, smearing bits of lipstick on my cheeks as rouge. i think my mother must’ve been one of those girls once but… i never knew her. and it didn’t really matter anyway — i think… i was one of the lucky ones. at least i always had water and a hot bath when i wanted it.”

vi’s fingers tighten on your thigh before she lets up her grip, sighing as she presses her back more firmly against you.

“i’m sorry.”

you shrug, shifting a bit of hair from one shoulder to the other as you continue to dig your meticulous fingers into her weary muscles.

“don’t be. like i said, i was one of the lucky ones. but… i always knew that we were living a hard life. sometimes, one of the girls would vanish and… we’d never know where she went. sometimes, a guest would get a bit too rough and —” you let out a tiny laugh, “well i got pretty good at patching up cuts and bruises.”

you flatten your palms against her skin, running them along the expanse of her shoulders before pushing down her arms to squeeze at her firm biceps.

“there. how’s that feel?”

vi sits up, rolling her neck and shoulders with a loud groan.

“damn. that feels amazing but —” her expression softens as she reaches for you, running tender thumbs along the bend of your cheek.

“you — you don’t have to tell me this if you don’t want to.”

“i know.” you catch her hand in yours, fingers curling in. all around you, perfumed mist hangs light in the air, hazing out the already diffused lighting. “but i want to.”

vi smiles, nodding.

you take another breath. your interlaced fingers sink into the murky water.

“when i turned thirteen, they started teaching me the ropes — massages first —”

“thirteen,” vi’s voice is harsh in the mist-hung room, the syllables cracking as they reverberate against the slick tiles.

you lilt your head, “how old were you when you ran your first job?”

vi stares, her mouth agape, “b-but — that’s — that’s different!”

“is it?”

she sputters for a few more seconds before deflating, shaking her head, tugging her hand from your grasp to splash water into her face, running both hands over her eyes with a groan.

somehow, she could picture it perfectly, you with your sweet smile and darling eyes, running deft fingers over the shoulders and necks of the unnamed girls at babette’s as they talk you through how to press just so, how to lull someone into your lap, and later, into your bed.

“but like i said… i was one of the lucky ones. really, really lucky — because one day, while i was refilling the water and tidying up the rooms, a guest heard me singing and… he offered me a gig topside.” you let yourself sink into the slowly cooling water, your hair flowing in a soft halo around your shoulders.

vi watches you with an inexplicable expression on her face — half-sadness, half-wonder.

“and the rest, well —” you flick a bit of water towards her; she blinks it away before pulling you into her chest, “you know the rest. or, i mean, i don’t know if you watched that entire 100-questions video —”

“i did.”

vi loops her arms around you, hooking her chin over your shoulder.

and once again, the quiet settles around you both, hanging solid in the air like so much dissipating steam.

“all that to say…” you murmur, turning slightly to face her, searching her eyes with your own, “you don’t have to pretend with me. not with me. not when it’s just the two of us.”

you watch her eyes widen ever so slightly, watch as her lips part and she hesitates over the words hanging at the tip of her tongue.

“thanks,” she finally manages, “for… for telling me this.”

you smile, pulling back to reach for the white can, unscrewing the top.

“okay. sugar-scrub time.”

by the time the pair of you leave the bath, the water’s cooled to a tepid chill at best. you offer vi a fluffy towel, wrapping one around yourself as you pad from the room in search for some clean loungewear.

you return with a large t-shirt and some shorts, which vi eyes for a second before pulling on, her cheeks darkening as she sees you watching her.

“quit looking at me like that…” she huffs as you tug on a loose shirt yourself, pulling on a pair of pink, lace-trimmed panties.

“like what? like you deserve to be looked at?” you ask, voice even as you run a towel over your damp hair. vi crinkles her nose, frowning down at her dirty clothes, piled in a lump on your bathroom floor. you shrug.

“leave it. that’s a tomorrow-problem. c’mon, bed-time.”

vi sighs, ruffling at her hair with the white towel, staring at the gray streaks she leaves behind. she glances up to find you standing by the bathroom door, a hand outstretched behind you, waiting.

she licks her lips before tossing the towel over her pile of clothes and reaching out to take your hand.

your bedroom is dark, lit only by the scatter of city lights from beyond your windows. through it, the city is a pulsing maze of tiny lights and spectral towers. you pause, glancing towards the skyline with a sigh.

“it’s a beautiful view,” vi says, coming up to stand behind you, looping an arm around your waist. you lean into her touch, her warmth, turning slightly to find her eyes just as faraway.

“yeah,” you grin, reaching up to touch her cheek, “you are.”

she turns, blinking at you for a second before your words register. she groans even as you laugh, the sound fizzling through her till her skin prickles with warmth and goosepimples.

“c’mon. bed.” she says, and you grin, allowing yourself to be led to your own bed, pulling back the silken covers, slipping beneath and watching as vi inches in next to you, pillowing her cheek on her arm. you angle your body towards hers, letting out a long, steadying breath.

she mirrors you — one breath, then another, then another.

“thanks, princess,” she says, after a few long moments.

you shuffle forward beneath the blankets, reaching out to wrap an arm around her waist. she closes her eyes, bending her head till you’re nose to nose.

“for what?”

vi lets out a puffed laugh, her lashes fluttering open again.

“for… letting me in.”

you press you lips, your eyes searching her’s. and here, in the dim moon-lit night, her eyes shone like twin stars, bright as firelights. you inch just a bit closer, letting your foreheads press as she shifts an arm to slip around your waist as well.

you hook your ankle over hers, shimmying till you’re hip to hip, your bodies arched into each other, bend for bend. she bites down on her lip, if only to stop it from quivering. you graze your hand up her arm to rest on her cheek.

“you know you’re always welcome here.”

vi laughs, the sound strangely watery as she blinks away the hot prickle biting up the back of her throat. it’s been so long since she’s had anywhere to come back to. and here you are, offering it up to her on a gold-gilded platter.

“yeah?” she says, even though her voice shakes and she has to swallow hard over the lump in her throat as she coaxes your chin up, angling your lips towards hers, “careful… i might actually take you up on that.”

“whatever’s mine is —” your breath hitches high as vi tugs you into her, crushing your lips to hers, a thick groan working it’s way through her chest. you taste salt on your tongue, even as she trails her mouth along your jawline to suck a dark, blossoming hickey into the side of your throat.

“— yours.” you finish, spearing your fingers through her hair to pull her back, your eyes soft in the gathering darkness. vi lets out a tiny, pitched whine as she buries her face in your chest, her body curling in on itself. you rock her against you, letting her grapple her fingers into your nightshirt, clutching you to her even as you sooth your palms over her head and neck, shushing her gently.

“fuck, princess…” she says, her voice slightly muffled, “you’re tryna spoil me rotten, huh.”

you smile, letting her pull back just far enough to catch a glimpse of your face.

“well, someone’s gotta do it.”

vi chuckles, the sound rumbling from her chest to yours.

“yeah well… i’m glad you’re the one angling for the job, sweets.”

you hum, letting your eyes fall shut as vi’s grip on you loosens, and the pair of you sink into the liquid warmth of each others bodies.

vi shifts, tucking you deeper into her arms as you content yourself with sighing into her skin, and it’s an almost automatic spin-click of both your bodies, your limbs settling into and against each other, your torsos turning to just the right spot, just the right angles to fit against one another.

you settle, and feel the world settle around you — time itself seems to breathe and slacken, the evening-shaped seconds and minutes ticking each into its own place, like the teeth on a set of cogs, catching one rung into another, spinning one after the other till everything starts to hum into place.

sleep slips its gossamer gauze over your eyes and vi shifts, her lips ghosting your forehead.

“whatever gods up there that put you in my life…” she whispers, her voice tight, you make a soft noise, like a question, or perhaps a confirmation, leaning up to level your faces once more. your eyes open and vi finds her own reflection staring back at her, the shape somehow softened by your gaze, and she wonders, not for the first time, what you see in her, what you’ve always seen in her, that makes you so…

“there’s already a shrine set up for them in the living room,” you murmur, and for a second, vi stares, her own mind quiet for the first time in a long while. you smile sleepily at her confusion, nuzzling her nose with yours, “what, you didn’t know? i’d been thanking them for you since the first day we met.”

vi makes a sound like a hiccup, shaking her head as warmth bubbles through her, a champagne-colored shake-fizzle-pop of emotions welling up behind her eyes, making her head spin.

“well shit —” she grins, tugging you ever closer, “you’re always one step ahead of me, aren’t you princess?”

you hum, carding your fingers through her hair as she settles against you once more.

“mhm,” a tired little yawn, “and maybe tomorrow morning, if you’re feeling up to it —”

“yeah?” vi’s voice is soft, is sweet, is almost reverent as she kisses the skin of your sternum, her lips lingering right beneath your collarbones.

“i could show you some of the other things i picked up at the brothel.”

vi groans, her fingers digging into your hips at the tantalizing thought.

“mm, you mean other than giving people amazing shoulder massages?”

you laugh, and outside, a large neon sign flickers off, tossing the room into a deeper, richer dark.

“yep. but for now…”

“sleep?” vi asks.

you nod, watching as her eyelids flutter shut, and you let yours do the same. your fingers find hers beneath the blankets; your palms press and she gives you a tiny squeeze. you squeeze back and smile.

“sleep.”

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hybbart · 7 months ago

Text

Day 2655: As winter trucks on, everyone hauls up as the snow piles up in the city below...

Short story below the cut

Snow accumulated along the penthouse's enormous balconies, and the many large windows. Beyond was a landscape whited out by the frosty blanket, difficult to discern the shapes of any of the distant buildings through the heavy weather.

Tango's arm quietly ached. These days he could almost ignore it. Jimmy would chastise him if he knew, say it was not healthy, but what was there to do about it? hypocrite that he was, the avian had his own issues, even if it normally was not painful. They'd spent all morning pretending like Tango couldn't hear his unnaturally deep breaths, or that he'd turned his machine up higher. It was already high compared to before they'd been separated.

Today, though, was an okay day for Tango. He could almost ignore it. His prosthetic couldn't, but it was far too cold for it anyways. There was little to do while hauled up, he'd taken to hardly wearing it the past two weeks as the cold settled in. If not for their few chores and Jimmy's returning energy they'd both be hauled up in their room still.

But they still needed to clean and they still needed to eat. So, while he waited for False to return from taking care of the animals for them and the signal from Wels that his brother was still safely locked up, he cleaned. Plucked the dead leaves from the plants, moved muddy clothing to the laundry room, put away the last game they'd played, anything he saw that he could do.

Humming echoed from the hall, riding the same breeze that wafted a lovely smell of spices and meat. The last of a deer False had found. It was easy to mindlessly work with the smells and sounds of Jimmy cooking nearby. Or maybe it was just easier because he knew there was something tasty waiting at the end of it all. His thoughts were quick to get lost imagining the various dishes, unwilling to risk a fork getting thrown at him for interrupting to ask. It couldn't hurt, though, to take a peak..?

The room dimmed as great ruddy wings blocked the whiteout. False's terrifyingly sharp talons seemed like they might crush the railing beneath them, and Tango was silently glad Jimmy's were that of a songbird and not a raptor like their new companions. It wasn't as graceful as Wels' or Grian's landings either, the woman lurching slightly before hopping down to the ground. A few months ago Tango might not have noticed, but he'd seen the three avians come and go so often from that window he couldn't help notice the differences.

"All the chickens are accounted for, and your horse is fed." She announced, giving a salute with her smile that Tango returned.

"Thanks again for this." He said for the fourth time that day. "Jimmy can't even get himself off the ground this week, never mind carrying-"

"I told you it's fine." False waved him off as she slipped off her cap. even just the short flight from ground level to the 40th some-odd floor had it coated in a heavy blanket of snow.

Tango opened his mouth to protest but a yelp escaped instead, accompanied by clattering metal and plastic. It took them both a moment to realize it hadn't been him at all. Both spun towards the hall, a squeaky curse echoing. Tango was the first to rush forward.

Jimmy was leaned over the counter, head in one hand and the other limply stretched over the kitchen island where his leftovers bucket had spilled over the edge. His breaths came heavy and quick, much worse than earlier. Feathered ears twitched, well aware of his new company but unable to pick himself back up to say anything. At least until Tango had his arm around him. Then, he found the ability to give a weak protest, easily ignored as Tango guided him towards the bench-chest on the far wall.

Tango only glanced to False for a second, to check she had followed, "Go turn up the airificator." He directed.

"I'm fine." Jimmy wheezed. It was as though he'd just ran several miles, his hand clutched to his chest to catch a breath of air that would not come to him. "I just got a bit dizzy and dropped my knife."

"Is that all." Tango muttered, running his hands down Jimmy's tubes looking for any knots or breaks. A wing smacked his head until he backed away.

Jimmy huffed, though it wasn't entirely clear if it was frustration or his inability to breathe. "Just give me a minute! It's already high enough. I don't need to get used to it being even higher."

It was pure stubbornness. And if Tango was honest, he wasn't sure what to do with it. Normally it was himself being stubborn about his arm and Jimmy knocking sense into him. Jimmy could be as stubborn as a mule, but it'd never been directed at his health.

Sheepishly, False appeared around the corner. "I turned it up, there's not much room for higher, though."

"See?" Jimmy said pointedly. It was true, that it wasn't good for Jimmy to have it so high for extended time. But if that's what his body needed right now, then what could they do? Suffer and almost drop a knife on himself, apparently. Tango's brows knit together.

"You go lay down, I'll finish the cooking."

Jimmy balked. "You have one hand!"

"That's one more than you right now." He knelt down, allowing the hunched avian to look down on him. "It's not going to get better if you push yourself."

There was a look in his rancher's eyes, one that quickly shifted between several emotions until they were almost glassy, before he dropped his head, his grown out hair curtaining his face out of view. Tango sat there, running his hand up and down Jimmy's arm, until a weak voice escaped between gasps, "What if it doesn't?"

If it didn't? There wasn't much to be done if it didn't. They'd live with it like they did every time things became incrementally worse, and a bad day became a regular day. But if this was a regular day, what would be a bad day? Tango couldn't bring to let himself think about the thought that seemed to be consuming Jimmy at that moment. Not while Revy was still in the back of his mind. So, instead he says, "It will."

There was nothing in Jimmy's expression that conveyed any faith in those words.

"You need to let yourself rest." False interjected, hesitant to step forward when both men's eyes turned to her. She fiddled with the tube in her gloves, still having yet to even remove her coat. "Your lungs, if they're straining you need to let them rest for now, build up strength."

"For how long?" Muttered Jimmy, expression resigned. He'd already spent weeks in bed.

False wasn't one for complicated answers. "As long as it takes. You've been straining them for months, it'll take a while. And there's no better time to do it while we're all cooped up in here anyways."

"But it's just cooking. If I can't even do that-"

"Singing while running back and forth and wielding heavy utensils and pots? Your muscles aren't exactly in great shape either after that, it's probably taking it out of your entire body. And there's a difference between exercise and straining yourself."

She pushed he hand to her chest, "If you rest now I can help you with your breathing."

Both ranchers blinked in shock. "What?" Tango asked.

She ignored them at first, taking her time to pull off her scarf and coat, hanging both up on the back of a chair. Hands went to her clothed ribs, and she took a deep breath as her wings flexed. They stuttered, that same oddity Tango had noticed in her movement. "Look, you've met my sister, right? H?"

"Yeah..."

"Then you must have noticed she has a few less limbs." False nodded, fluttering her wings. "She's basic."

"That's a bit rude." Tango couldn't help joke, earning a shoulder bump from Jimmy to quiet down.

She groaned, and then threw her arms out, "I was born from an alteration of her genetics, I wasn't naturally an avian."

That made sense to Tango, knowing what they could do to Doc when he was already alive. It quickly cascaded, other pieces of the puzzle clicking into place.

"I had to learn things you already know, and make up for things that didn't quite take. This included an obnoxious amount of physical therapy, especially dedicated to lung capacity." She put her hands on her hips, taking in a deep breath as if it were an example of her newfound capabilities before releasing. "I don't exactly know all the doctor-y mumbo jumbo behind how it all works, and we don't have all the big fancy equipment, but I know what helped me and what will probably help you some."

"False..." Jimmy sounded torn, and Tango couldn't blame him. It was hard to have any hope after living with his lung damage for seven years, steadily watching it get worse and worse. Their conditions had been very different, but was there really something False could offer that Scar hadn't already offered them in the past? How much was there that she could realistically do? At some point there had to be nothing at all. But it was tempting, even if just to get back to what it had been before, or at the very least prevent it from getting worse. There wasn't much farther it could fall, after all, any lifeline looks tempting.

"It's worth a shot, innit?" She shrugged, giving a tentative smile. "It's the least I could do, is at least try. At worst it does nothing."

"At worst I get my hopes up." Jimmy sighed, leaning his head against Tango. It seemed his body was beginning to decide for him that it was time to rest.

Tango brought his hand up to his rancher's hair, running his claws through the long strands in comfort. Whatever you want to do, I support it. That was how they always operated, wasn't it? He let his tail curl around Jimmy's talons. "I think either way, for now rest is in order."

That Jimmy found the strength to grumble about. "Fine, all of you can go hungry. I don't care."

"That's the spirit!" Tango chirped, hauling the whining avian to his feet. He couldn't pick him up with only one arm, so he resigned to dragging him down the hall. He stopped as they reached False, giving her a grateful smile before shuffling past her. He hissed as his stump bumped against the wall. Jimmy's head shot up immediately. "It's fine, I'm used to it." Tango strained to say through the jolt of pain. He'd forgotten just how tender it had been that day.

"You shouldn't be used to it." Jimmy chastised. "It's not healthy."

Tango gaped at him then burst out laughing, "Okay, Mister Hypocrite. Time to go to bed."

"Excuse me!"

#solidaritygaming #tango tek #falsesymmetry #team rancher #rancher apocalypse au #fanart #fanfic #biopunk #character #scene #background #art #writing #sketch #colour #Hybbart

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ak319 · 18 days ago

Note

Reader has a cut or bad bruise on her shin and Arthur has to lift her skirt all the way up to her knee to look at it (How scandalous!! 🫣🫣)

🌹anon

Warnings/MDNI: Age gap (you are in early 20's and Arthur is 30-31), fluff, him being lovesick- b(￣▽￣)

┆ ⤿ ❀ m.list

You don’t even know why you’re walking funny.

Okay, you do.

You tripped.

On a bucket.

A stupid, traitorous bucket someone left by the horses. Now there’s a bruise blooming on your shin and a limp you’re desperately trying to hide.

But Arthur’s eyes track you like a damn hawk.

"You’re limpin’."

"No, I’m not. It’s jus' the ground’s uneven."

"You are."

You try to walk faster. He walks faster. You slow down. He slows down. You finally stop and throw your hands in the air.

"I tripped on a bucket, alright? I’m not dyin’. Go play lawman somewhere else."

He squints, already crouching down in front of you before you can escape. "Lemme see."

"No."

"Darlin’."

"I’m not pullin’ up my skirt in front of half the camp so you can stare at my legs."

Arthur smirks faintly. "Fine."

You blink. "Fine?"

Before you can ask what he means, his large hands are already guiding you backwards, firm but careful. You stumble slightly, and the next thing you know, you’re being sat down on an old crate like some misbehaving schoolgirl.

"Arthur-"

"Lemme take a look," he says calmly, crouching in front of you. One hand wraps around your ankle, steady and warm. The other slides up to your calf, rough thumb brushing your skin as he gently but firmly pushes your skirt up past your knee.

You freeze.

Scandalous.

Unthinkable-

"Arthur!-"

"Relax. I ain’t lookin’ at nothin’ you don’t want me to see."

But he’s focused now, all trace of teasing gone, eyes narrowed at the angry bruise blooming across your shin.

You freeze.

"Arthur-"

"Damn," he mutters. "That’s worse than I thought."

"Saw it? Happy now?"

You try to pull your skirt back down. He stops you with a warm palm on your knee.

"You really weren’t gonna tell me?"

"It’s just a scratch!"

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just breathes in slow, jaw tense, thumb ghosting around the tender skin like he’s scared to make it worse.

"You shouldn’t’ve been walkin’ on this," he murmurs finally, voice low and gravel-soft.

"I told you it's nothing, stop," you mutter, but even you know that’s a lie.

Arthur huffs through his nose , not angry, just... aching. Then, before you can react, he leans down.

His lips press softly to the edge of the bruise.

You stiffen, heartbeat thudding so loud you’re sure he hears it. But Arthur doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even look up.

He kisses a little further up, where the swelling dips. Another kiss, right over the worst part. Feather-light, like he thinks love might mend what ointment can’t.

"You’re killin’ me," he whispers between kisses. "Walkin’ around like this... actin’ like you’re made of stone when I know damn well you’re not."

His hand smooths up the side of your leg, never straying, just holding you steady.

"I’d take this pain if I could. Hell, I’d take ten of ’em. Rather me than you."

You swallow, staring at the top of his head. "Arthur..."

He looks up at you, finally, eyes soft, lips still brushing your skin. "Next time you’re hurtin’, you tell me. I ain’t lettin’ you suffer in silence. Not when I’m here to do somethin’ about it."

He looks up at you then, expression unreadable. "It’s you. There ain’t such a thing as 'just' when it comes to you."

You open your mouth, something snarky ready on your tongue-

But he kisses your knee. And it’s not just tenderness now, it’s possession. A quiet, firm declaration:

Mine.

"Arthur, I---OH!"

Sean. Again.

"Didn’t see nothin’, I swear-"

Arthur doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just turns his head slightly, voice cold as a rifle barrel.

"You keep lookin’, Sean, and I’ll make sure you walk funny too."

The poor Irishman turns full-circle on his heel the moment he catches sight of Arthur crouched between your knees, your skirt hiked up to your thighs.

"Already gone!" Sean yells over his shoulder. "Didn’t see a damn thing!"

Arthur sighs, visibly restraining the urge to commit a murder. "I’m gonna kill him one of these days."

"Oh, perfect, I always dreamed of being camp gossip. Really, thanks, Arthur, you lumbering oaf."

Arthur smirks, brushing his thumb gently over the edge of the bruise. "Good. Maybe now someone’ll finally marry you."

You swat at his shoulder. He catches your hand, kisses the inside of your wrist, then the other.

"I ain’t lettin’ you walk ‘round like this anymore. You fall, you yell for me."

"I tripped over a bucket, Arthur."

He leans in, lips brushing the inside of your knee , "Next time you fall,” he murmurs, "I better be the one catchin’ you."

You think you're in the clear.

You think maybe Arthur’ll kiss your wrist one last time and let you limp off with whatever pride you have left.

But then he straightens up and, before you can react, hooks an arm under your knees and the other around your back.

“Arthur, NO---ARTHUR, what are you doing?!"

He lifts you off the ground like you weigh nothing, settling you against his chest while your skirt flutters traitorously in the breeze.

"Gettin’ you off that leg before it gets worse."

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU-"

"Relax, darlin'."

You glance around, and half the camp has stopped what they’re doing.

Karen drops her coffee. Tilly’s grinning. Charles doesn’t even bother hiding his chuckle. Bill looks confused, but that’s normal.

And Sean? Sean’s somewhere in the distance screaming, "I TOLD Y’ALL THEY WAS CANOODLIN"!"

You bury your face in Arthur’s shirt. "This is humiliating."

"Nah. This is me takin’ care of what’s mine."

Your heart skips. You don’t reply. You can’t.

He lowers his voice near your ear, tone suddenly soft again. "You think I care what they say? I’d carry you every day if it meant you didn’t walk a step in pain.”

You go quiet. Your hand slowly grips the fabric at his chest.

He walks you straight to his tent, ignoring every whistle, every stare, every amused comment.

You hiss again as he gently lowers you onto the cot like he’s handling glass.

"See? Not so bad," he says, brushing your hair from your face.

"I hope you know that I hate you."

He grins. "Love you too, pretty girl".

He props your foot on his thigh once more, knees bent as he kneels beside the cot. The warmth of his palm settles over your shin, and you watch in silence as he unscrews the bottle and soaks the cloth.

"This might sting," he says, voice softer now.

The first dab burns, and you tense , but his other hand immediately slides up to steady your thigh, thumb rubbing slow, absentminded circles into your skin.

"You ever think about being a nurse?"

Arthur chuckles low in his throat. "Only for you, sweetheart."

When the bruise is clean, he tears off a strip of bandage with his teeth and starts wrapping, slow and methodical. His hands are rough from years of gunpowder and rope, but he handles you like you’re something fragile.

He ties the knot off neatly, then rubs his thumb once over the finished wrap like he’s sealing it.

"You didn’t have to do all that," you sigh, thankful it's over.

"Course I did," he says, setting your leg down gently. "You’re my girl. Gettin’ hurt’s not just your problem anymore."

You don’t reply, you couldn't, not with the way your chest aches at his words. So instead, you let him lift the blanket back up over your legs, tucking it around you with the same care he’d give a wounded bird.

Then, without a word, he leans forward and presses a kiss to the bandage. One more to your ankle. And one just over your knee, slow and reverent.

"You rest," he whispers, brushing your hair back again. "I’ll be right here, darlin'."

And he means it. He doesn’t leave the cot, just settles beside it on the ground, arms folded on the edge, head resting close to your hip, watching over you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Because to him, you are.

AN: to be cared for like this-🤧

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sunsetmade · 14 days ago

Note

fic idea.

Reader who was originally a pouge but started dating rafe, the pouges all ignore her and fast forward to whenever she’s married and preggers with rafe idk lol?

Love this idea!! I’m going to do a part two so that will posted tomorrow!

His Pouge

Rafe Cameron x Pouge! Reader

Everyone had something to say about it—about them.

And honestly? She got it.

It wasn’t like she’d planned to fall for Rafe Cameron. Not even close. Growing up on The Cut, the Camerons were more cautionary tale than reality—like whispers in the dark about what happened when you trusted the wrong people. Everyone had a story. Everyone had a warning. And Rafe? He was the one they all swore was too far gone to come back.

So no, falling for him had never been part of the plan.

But plans didn’t mean much when he looked at her like she hung the moon. Like the chaos of the world went quiet when she walked into the room. And when he said her name low and teasing, with that barely-there grin like it was just for her… the edge he wore around everyone else faded into something almost gentle.

Especially when he reached out with that careful touch, like brushing a strand of hair from her face was sacred somehow. Like he was afraid she’d slip through his fingers if he wasn’t soft with her.

And now, curled up in the back of his truck—her legs tucked over his, her cheek resting against the worn fabric of his hoodie—it almost didn’t hurt so much. Almost.

“You’re quiet,” Rafe murmured, his fingers grazing lazy patterns against her thigh, just under the hem of her cutoff shorts. “Too quiet. You only get this quiet when you’re either spiraling or trying not to cry. Which is it?”

She didn’t answer right away. The steady drag of his fingertips, the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek—it made it harder to say out loud.

“Pope won’t even look at me,” she whispered eventually, voice barely audible over the crickets in the woods behind them.

Rafe exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah.”

“JJ called me a traitor,” she continued, throat tightening. “And Kiara just… walked off. Like I wasn’t even standing there.”

She felt it then—his whole body go taut. The subtle way his arm firmed around her back, the shift of his jaw against the top of her head. He didn’t like her feeling this way. And he definitely didn’t like anyone else making her feel this way.

“They don’t know us,” he said after a beat, voice low, a little rough. “Don’t get it.”

She sat with that for a moment, blinking up at the stars peeking through the tree branches overhead. Her heart ached, not just from the distance between her and the Pogues, but from knowing how easy it was for them to walk away.

“That’s the hardest part,” she said softly. “They don’t want to understand. They’ve already decided I’m wrong for loving you. That you haven’t really changed. But… I know you have.”

Rafe didn’t respond right away. He didn’t have to. She knew what he was thinking. What he was carrying. They both knew the version of him people remembered wasn’t easy to forget. Or forgive.

But she also knew the version of him who made her laugh when she didn’t want to smile. The one who checked her tire pressure because he “didn’t trust that rust bucket” she drove, and who kissed her forehead like it was a promise. He wasn’t perfect. But he was trying. And with her, he was someone softer. Calmer. Safer.

He held her tighter, tucking her closer into his chest like she was something breakable. His nose brushed her hair, his breath steady against her skin.

“You want me to talk to them?” he asked quietly, like he was already ready to go to war for her. “Tell ‘em to back off? Not that it’s any of their damn business—”

“No.” She cut him off gently, leaning back just enough to look up at him. “I don’t want this to be a fight. I don’t want us to feel like we can’t enjoy being together. I don’t want to have to defend us. ”

Rafe frowned, brows pulling together as his eyes searched hers. “You’re hurting,” he said, like it offended him on some deep, personal level. “You shouldn’t be hurting.”

A soft, sad smile tugged at her lips. “I just… I feel like I’m stuck between two worlds. Like I don’t really belong anywhere right now.”

He didn’t speak. Just shifted her fully into his lap, arms wrapped around her waist now, his body shielding her from the world like he could protect her from every sharp word ever thrown her way. One hand reached over to the glove compartment, pulling out the beat-up old lighter he always fidgeted with. He turned it over in his fingers for a second before placing it gently in her palm.

“Here,” Rafe said, his voice quiet as he pressed something small and familiar into her hand. “Click it. You like doing that.”

She glanced down, blinking. It was his lighter—the old beat-up one he always had in his pocket, the one he flicked open and shut whenever he was thinking too hard.

“Rafe…” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“You always mess with it when you’re nervous,” he said gently, eyes locked on hers. “Figured it might help.”

Her throat tightened instantly. There it was again—that way he saw her. Not just the parts everyone else noticed. But the quieter things. The little habits. The flickers of anxiety she never spoke out loud.

She took it with careful fingers, the metal cool against her skin. Her thumb slid over the hinge and she clicked it open. Then shut. Then open again. The soft snap echoed in the stillness of the truck cab. And slowly—like turning down the volume on all her noise—the motion started to calm her.

Rafe let her settle into the rhythm for a moment before his nose brushed hers in a soft nudge that made her look up.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” he murmured.

She blinked. “For what?”

“For being brave enough to want what you want.” His lips twitched into the faintest, crooked smile. “Even if it’s complicated. Even if it’s… me.”

Something caught in her chest. Like her heart had hiccupped. The kind of ache that came when someone said the exact right thing at the exact right time and meant every word of it.

Her fingers squeezed around the lighter. “You make it easy to want you.”

His eyes darkened at that—just a little. Enough to make her stomach flip. “Don’t say stuff like that unless you want me to kiss you.”

“I do.” She whispered with a small smile rested on her face.

That was all he needed.

His lips met hers, slow and certain, like he’d been thinking about this moment all day. There was no rush. No frenzy. Just the kind of kiss that felt like a secret—soft, sure, and full of something real.

She melted into him, arms wrapping around his neck like she was afraid he’d slip away. The world outside—the broken friendships, the whispers, the judgment—it all fell away. This didn’t feel like taking. This didn’t feel like a rebellion.

It felt like home.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed resting against hers, breath mingling with hers in the quiet.

“They’ll come around,” he whispered. “And if they don’t, fuck ‘em. I’ve got you.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks before she even realized they were coming. Rafe caught them gently, wiping each one with the pad of his thumb like they mattered. Like she mattered.

“You’re not alone,” he said, barely louder than the wind outside the window. “Not while I’m around. You hear me?”

She nodded, unable to speak through the knot in her throat.

“And I know I’ve messed up. I know what they say about me.” His hand came up to cradle her jaw, thumb grazing the edge of her cheek. “But with you? I’d never mess that up. I swear I’d never let anyone hurt you. Not even your friends.”

She swallowed hard. “What if they never forgive me?”

“They don’t have to,” he said, without hesitation. “You don’t need to apologize for being happy. You don’t need to feel guilty because your heart picked somethin’ messy. But this?” His voice softened. “You and me? That’s not somethin’ you should be ashamed of.”

Her fingers threaded through his, her grip firm like she finally believed him.

For a long while, neither of them said anything. They just sat in the cab of his truck with the windows cracked, the summer air rustling the trees around them. Her head rested against his shoulder, and his arm held her like he didn’t plan to let go.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple, the softest one yet.

Then he whispered, “Let me take you home.”

She turned her face toward him, brushing her nose against his cheek. “Will you stay?”

His answer was a smile so tender it made her chest ache all over again.

“You don’t even have to ask.”

⸻

The ride to her house was quiet. Music carefully spilling through the radio creating a calming effect.

She leaned against the passenger door, one of his hoodies drowning her frame. It still smelled like him—cologne and campfire and something vaguely like pine. Her fingers were tangled with his across the console the whole time, and neither of them let go, even when he parked.

“You sure you don’t mind staying?” she asked once they were inside, locking the door behind them.

Rafe didn’t answer right away. Just dropped his keys on the counter, kicked off his boots, and gave her that slow half-smile she’d come to recognize as his you’re cute when you worry face.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said simply. And meant it.

She offered a small nod and padded toward the bathroom, tugging her hair down from where it had been tied up. He watched her disappear, then looked around the room.

It was small. A little cluttered. A blanket on the couch, half a pack of gum on the coffee table, a mug with a chipped handle by the sink. Her world was lived-in. Warm. So her. No matter how many times he had been in her house it always had the same effect on him.

Rafe had been in hundreds of houses—too big, too polished, too cold—but hers made his chest loosen in a way none of them ever had.

From down the hall, he could hear the soft sounds of her getting ready for bed: the quiet squeak of the faucet, the muffled hum of her toothbrush, the rustle of drawers opening and closing.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with an easy fondness as she moved through her routine. There was something calming about the way she went through each step—methodical, familiar. She didn’t rush. She was just herself. And for once, she wasn’t trying to be okay. She was just being.

She glanced up mid-moisturizer, catching his reflection in the mirror. “You’re staring,” she mumbled through a sleepy smile.

Rafe shrugged. “I like watching you.”

She blinked, cheeks warming. “Doing what? Brushing my teeth?”

“Just being you.” He said it like it was obvious.

She rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered on her lips.

When she was finished, she turned off the bathroom light and walked past him in an oversized t-shirt that hung off one shoulder. Rafe caught her hand before she could pass, tugging her back into him for a second.

“I like this version of you,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “The sleepy, makeup-off, extra-cute version.”

She hummed a quiet laugh against his chest. “You’re dangerously close to being sweet again.”

“Shhh.” He grinned. “Don’t ruin my street cred.”

They crawled into bed a few minutes later. She pulled the blankets up around them while he kicked off his jeans, leaving only his t-shirt and boxers before climbing in beside her.

She was still settling when he reached out and pulled her into him—her back against his chest, his arm slipping around her waist. His nose nuzzled into the space behind her ear, warm breath against her skin.

“You always cuddle like you’re afraid I’ll disappear,” she murmured, teasing.

“That’s because I might wake up and find out this was a dream.”

She turned in his arms at that, enough to face him in the dim light spilling through her curtains. His hair was messy, eyes half-lidded, expression softer than anyone else had ever seen on him. She reached up, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead.

“You’re not dreaming.”

He leaned in and kissed her again—just once. Slow. Certain.

She tucked herself against his chest, her legs tangled with his, and his arms wrapped around her like they belonged there.

And when her breathing finally evened out, when she was warm and tucked into his chest, he let his own eyes close—pressing one last kiss to the crown of her head.

She didn’t know it, but that night, Rafe Cameron slept better than he had in years.

Part two is posted!

#outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fanfics #outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron #rafe imagine #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x reader #obx fic #obx x reader #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fluff #rafe angst #rafe fluff #sunsetmade

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brookghaib-blog · 2 months ago

Text

The quiet things that remain - II

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Bob and Y/N used to be the best of friends, he went to Malaysia to be better, only to leave her just with a ghost in the past and unresponded messages and calls. And return, but never to her. Never to the love she didn't had the courage to announce.

Word count: 10,1k

Warning: angst, depreesive thoughts, unrequited love, stalking, drug addiction

chapter I

The room in the Watchtower was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that brought peace — no, it was the other kind. The kind that echoed. That clawed at your ears and made every breath feel too loud, too alive. Bob sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, palms over his face, trying to hold in thoughts that had long since stopped asking permission to haunt him.

His thumb brushed something in his pocket, and his heart sank the way it always did when he remembered it was still there. He pulled it out — crumpled a little at the edges now, creased right through the middle from being folded and unfolded too many times.

It was a picture.

Their picture.

Prom night.

God, she looked beautiful. Not in the way people tossed that word around casually. Not like the glittering girls who bought their dresses a year early and posted rehearsed photos. No, her beauty was the quiet kind — the kind that struck him like lightning when she smiled, like she didn’t know she was doing it, like it just slipped out of her without warning. That night she wore this soft blue dress that barely fit right because they had bought it from a second-hand store, and her hair had been curled by her neighbor’s niece for free. But she was his.

And he — he was the guy in the too-big suit with a tie that Y/N had to fix twice. The guy who had dropped out months before, barely scraping by on gigs, sleeping in someone else’s garage most nights. He hadn’t been invited to prom, not really. He wasn’t part of that world anymore. But he had asked her. Not because she wouldn’t get an invitation — although, he knew she probably wouldn’t. Not because he pitied her, not even for a second.

But because he had wanted to. Before anyone else could see what he saw. Before someone could try to swoop in and act like they knew how to treat her better. He asked before it all changed. Before the Void got stronger. Before he started unraveling.

He remembered the way they danced — stiff, awkward, swaying in place while others moved around them with practiced ease. He had stepped on her toes so many times she just laughed and kicked his shin in retaliation. And he laughed, too. And for those few hours, he felt worthy.

But that was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.

When he went to Malaysia, it wasn’t because he had an adventurous spirit or some soul-searching excuse to make it noble. He went because he was a coward. Because every day in the States was a mirror to everything he had destroyed. Especially her.

She had held him through the worst nights. Nights when he was vomiting into buckets, shaking, crying, begging something he couldn’t name to just end it. She had held his face in her hands and whispered, “You’re not a monster, Bob. You’re sick, not broken.”

But he was broken.

And she wasted everything. Thousands of dollars in bail money. Rent money she didn’t have. Grocery runs that somehow always included his favorite cereal, even if it meant she’d only eat canned soup for the week. She gave him her bed when he had nowhere to crash. Washed blood out of his shirts when he’d get in fights. Hid his stash when he said he wanted to get clean. And when he failed, she still made him tea and said maybe tomorrow would be better.

He remembered one night, when she had worked a double shift and still came home to find him passed out in the hallway outside her apartment door. She dragged his half-conscious body inside and cried while she bandaged the new cuts on his knuckles.

That was love. That was her. And he let her drown.

No — worse. He pulled her under with him.

And still, she had smiled for the prom photo. Still, she had leaned her head on his shoulder like he was someone worth leaning on.

He wiped a thumb gently across the image of her face.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered to the picture, to the room, to the version of her that existed in the only place he could still hold her — memory.

Bob leaned back against the wall, eyes stinging, his chest tight with something unspoken. She could have had everything. College. A home. A future. But instead, she got him. And all he gave her in return was pain, fear, and an apology that never seemed enough.

The world saw the Sentry — a glowing god with impossible strength. But Bob? Bob saw a coward in a chicken suit who used to spin signs for cash and couldn’t even dance. A boy who ran to another continent because he was too ashamed to be seen by the only person who ever really looked at him.

And now he lived in a tower in the sky, surrounded by people who respected his power but would never understand his shame.

All he wanted — more than redemption, more than recognition — was to go back to that night. To that version of himself that hadn’t yet failed her. To hear the music again. To dance — even if badly — and know she was in his arms.

Because he hadn’t asked her to prom to fix her. He asked her because for one night, he didn’t want to feel like a mistake. And she had made that possible.

She had always made the impossible feel possible.

And he had walked away.

And now all he had left was a worn-out photo and the haunting question he would never stop asking himself:

What if I’d stayed?

God, he loved her. He loved her like a man dying of thirst in a desert, stumbling toward a mirage he knew wasn’t real but couldn’t stop chasing. He had always loved her. From the first time she rolled her eyes at his terrible attempt to fix a coffee machine, to the night she fell asleep on his shoulder during a movie marathon they couldn’t afford snacks for. She’d been his anchor when everything else in his life had slipped away, a lighthouse in the middle of a violent, black sea.

But he left.

Because loving her was easy.

Staying was the hard part.

He hadn’t run because he stopped loving her — he ran because he did. Because the deeper that love grew, the more the truth screamed inside him: she deserved a life that wasn’t spent waiting outside police stations or hospitals. She deserved a partner, not a project. She deserved poetry, not paranoia. A home, not hiding spots for narcotics.

And now? Now the drugs were gone, the sickness replaced by something far worse — power. The kind that shattered bones with a flick of the wrist, melted steel with a scream, erased cities in a blink.

He had nearly destroyed a building last week because of a nightmare. He didn’t even remember doing it until they showed him the damage. And he had thought addiction was the scariest part of him. Now he had to live every second fearing the thing inside him, this thing that wanted to hurt, to unravel, to destroy.

What if she had been there?

What if she had whispered to him in his sleep like she used to, trying to soothe him from a nightmare, and he’d woken in fear, in power, and — God.

The images haunted him. Her broken body in his arms. Blood he couldn’t heal. Screams he couldn’t undo.

He couldn’t even risk it.

Bob squeezed the photo tighter, fingers trembling as tears finally broke through the wall he tried so hard to keep up. He bowed his head, forehead resting on his knuckles, as if praying to a god he didn’t believe in anymore.

She was too good. Too kind. Too alive. And he was a man half-alive, stitched together by trauma and chemicals and cosmic radiation, held together only because people were too afraid to let him fall apart.

He wanted her.

He wanted her laugh in the kitchen again. Her sleepy voice asking him to turn off the lights. Her hair in his hands. Her nose wrinkling at his burnt eggs. He wanted the sound of her humming while folding laundry, the way her lip twitched when she was concentrating on a book.

He wanted to dance with her again. Properly. Without stepping on her toes. Maybe in the living room, barefoot, no music, just the sound of her breath close to his ear.

But what did he have to offer her now? A room in a tower that he wasn’t allowed to leave? A body that pulsed with danger? A mind that barely held itself together?

She didn’t love him like he loved her — he had always known that.

He would’ve taken her love at the slightest sign. God, he would’ve fallen to his knees for it. But love like that, love he wanted from her — it didn’t come out of guilt or pity. It came from freedom. And he had never given her that.

So he mourned.

Mourned a life that never got to bloom.

Mourned all the ordinary things he’d never have with her: birthdays, burnt dinners, arguments about dumb things, the feel of her hand in his during a movie neither of them liked. A child, maybe. A home. A Sunday morning.

He had loved her when he was nothing. Loved her as he became something terrifying. And now, as he stood on the edge of being unrecognizable even to himself, he still loved her.

But he couldn’t reach for her.

Because loving her meant letting her go.

Even if it destroyed him.

Even if every day he had to wake up in this tower, look down at the world that held her, and remind himself:

She is safer without me.

Even if it was a lie he barely believed anymore.

He hadn’t meant to walk that far.

It had started as a simple attempt to stretch his legs, to escape the suffocating stillness of his reality — the Watchtower walls too clean, too sterile, too artificial to hold any version of peace. So he slipped into the streets of New York, a hoodie pulled low over his brow, sunglasses covering the burden of his eyes. No one knew him, not like this. Not without the cape. Not without the glow.

He walked slowly, headphones in, music pouring soundscapes over his thoughts. The playlist hadn’t changed in years — songs she once liked, songs she might’ve liked. Tracks with lyrics that spelled out everything he couldn’t say to her, and never had the right to.

He thought about her every day.

In the quiet, between missions. During briefings. While shaving. While trying and failing to sleep. Her voice was a ghost he welcomed, a hallucination he refused to fight. She lived in the melody of certain words. In the shape of his pillow. In the steam from his mug. In every peaceful thing he encountered, she was there. And in every violent thing, she was the reason he hesitated.

That morning, the wind had that strange, biting softness of early spring — too cold for comfort, but gentle enough to pretend. She used to love days like that, he remembered. Said they felt like a promise. Like the world trying again.

He turned a corner, not really paying attention. Passed bakeries, coffee carts, flower shops. All things she loved. All things he remembered seeing through her eyes.

Books. Coffee. Birds.

She once told him that birds were proof life could be both messy and beautiful. That they shat everywhere but still carried the sky. That’s why she liked them. That’s why he liked her.

And then he saw it.

The bookstore.

It was unassuming. Brick walls faded by weather, a neon sign that flickered “Open,” its ‘O’ stubbornly dim. The display window was filled with paperbacks stacked in uneven rows, a handwritten note on the glass: Buy 2, escape twice. He almost smiled. It sounded like something she would say.

Maybe he’d buy one. She always said reading gave you extra lives. And God knew he needed another one.

He approached the window.

And that’s when he saw her.

She was standing on a wooden stool inside, rearranging a top shelf, her fingers running lightly over the spines of books like they were sacred. Her hair was tucked behind her ear the way it always did when she was focused. Her mouth moved slightly as she read titles to herself, and when one fell, she caught it with a flustered laugh, looking around to see if anyone had noticed.

Y/N.

Bob’s heart stopped. His breath caught. The world tilted.

He reached out before he even realized it, fingers brushing against the cool glass between them.

It was her.

Not a memory. Not a dream. Not a hallucination conjured by grief or the Void’s twisted games.

Her. In the flesh. In her world. Moving on. Living. Smiling. Alive.

He almost collapsed.

His knees buckled under the weight of it all. His fingers curled against his chest, against the photo tucked always in his jacket. The same face. The same girl.

He wanted to run inside. God, he wanted to run. Grab her. Bury himself in her arms and sob like the wreck of a man he was. Tell her everything. That he never stopped loving her. That he missed her so much it ached every moment of his cursed existence. That he was sorry. So sorry.

He wanted to say he still remembered the way her voice cracked when she tried to sing along to love songs. That he still carried the tissue she once wrote a grocery list on, with her doodles in the margins. That every moment he lived, she lived in it.

He wanted to scream, “Please. Just look up.”

But he didn’t move.

Because in that second, the world reminded him of the one unshakable truth: he did not belong to her anymore.

He didn’t belong to anything.

Not the streets of New York. Not the weight of a future. Not even to himself.

He was a ghost. A ticking bomb wrapped in skin. And she was... safe.

She looked so at peace. Like she had found a place in the world. A place he could never, ever risk stepping into. She looked home. And if he entered that bookstore, that sacred little world she had carved out for herself, he would bring chaos. He would ruin it. Just like he always did.

So he turned.

And he walked.

Every step away from that window was like slicing open his own chest.

He didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

But a part of him, the part that still dared to dream, smiled through the pain.

She did always look like a pretty girl who’d work at a bookstore. That had been his fantasy for years — her behind a counter, coffee on her desk, recommending books to strangers, changing their lives with a sentence. She used to say that stories could save people. That if you spent just an hour in a fantasy world, maybe you could make it through reality.

And now she lived inside one.

He hoped she believed it. He hoped it saved her.

Because no matter how much he loved her, and oh — he loved her beyond reason — he could not be the reason her life unraveled again.

So he walked until his legs burned. Until the city blurred behind him. Until the only sound was his own heartbeat whispering her name.

Y/N.

His home. His ghost.

The Watchtower was quiet. Too quiet.

A sanctuary of glass and steel floating above the world, above cities he no longer felt he belonged to, above streets where real life happened — the Watchtower was cold. Polished. Functional. Beautiful in that sterile, untouchable way. It had everything he could need, yet it felt like nothing at all.

He wandered its halls like a ghost in a mansion too big for him, surrounded by everything and still lacking the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t that he hated it. No — Bob Reynolds understood what this place meant. What he meant. The world needed him to be here. Needed Sentry to show up to the galas, the photo ops, the charity balls with champagne flutes and polite clapping. They needed the godlike figure in golden light, the tragic redemption arc in spandex. A symbol. A story they could control.

And for once, Bob didn’t resent it. Not really. Because he had a room with a bed that was always made. He had clean clothes. He had the luxury of silence, of warm food, of people who at least pretended to care. He had friends now — of sorts. People who texted sometimes. Who invited him to rooftop dinners with wine bottles and awkward laughter. He had space.

He wasn’t locked in a cell or passed out in some alley. He wasn’t high. He wasn’t screaming at the Void inside his skull. He was safe.

And for a long time, he thought that would be enough.

But Bob learned something in that safety: The difference between being alone and being lonely.

Alone was what he craved when the world overwhelmed him. Alone was where he hid when he felt the darkness clawing behind his ribs. Alone was silence and choice.

Lonely? Lonely was after. Lonely was standing in a room full of people who only knew the surface of you. It was going home to nothing. It was the silence you didn't ask for. The kind that whispered her name.

He had time now — too much of it. And with time came thoughts, and with thoughts came her.

So he started walking. Every day, every chance he got. He’d vanish from the Watchtower, put on a hoodie and a cap and sunglasses, and disappear into the city. Into her world.

He told himself it was just to pass time. That the city soothed him. That walking helped clear his head.

But the truth was simple. Ugly. Raw.

He walked because she was there. Somewhere. And part of him was still trying to be close to her, even if she didn’t know it.

After all, he had found out where she worked.

A bookstore.

He wasn’t surprised. Not really. It made too much sense. She always smelled like paperbacks and cinnamon, always carried books in her purse, always talked about fiction like it was real and reality like it was negotiable. She had dreamed of quiet things. Soft lives. And now she was living one.

He’d walk by and see her sometimes through the window — standing behind the counter with her hair pulled back, cat hair on her sweater, a mug that said “books over bros” in her hand. She would laugh with customers, bend down to hand a little girl a picture book, roll her eyes at an old man flirting near the mystery section. He’d stare through the glass like it was a screen and he was watching the life they never got to have.

Other days, he’d see her at the park.

She had a routine, it seemed. Mornings or late afternoons, always with coffee in hand. She’d sit on a specific bench, the one they used to nap on during summer breaks. She’d sketch. Crochet. Read. Talk to an old woman who fed pigeons. And beside her — a cat. Dusty, he’d overheard someone say. A fluffball with attitude who’d perch in her lap like royalty.

He watched it all from a distance. Sat across the street, behind trees, across café windows. He never got too close. Never dared. But he learned her life like scripture. Memorized the way her hair curled in humidity. The way she tucked her feet under herself when she sat.

And she looked... peaceful.

Painfully so.

She looked like someone who had finally found her rhythm. Someone who had survived. Who had let go.

And God — he should’ve been happy about that. And he was. Part of him was.

Because he wanted her to be okay. Of all people in this world, she deserved a life that didn’t hurt. She had given so much, bled for him, cried herself sick, thrown away her dreams trying to pull him out of the fire again and again.

She had saved him, over and over. And what did he do?

He dragged her down with him. Burned her. Broke her. Left her.

So yes. She deserved this peace.

But watching her smile at strangers, or hum softly while threading yarn, or lean into a warm coat with that soft, familiar sigh — it felt like a knife in his chest.

Because she looked like someone who didn’t miss him. At all.

And that? That shattered something inside him.

It wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t fair. He had no right to want anything from her. He had given up that right the moment he left, the moment he decided she was better off without the burden of loving him. And she was. Objectively.

But it still tore him apart to see her world thriving without him.

He used to be her world. He used to be the reason her eyes lit up. Now, she didn’t even flinch when he passed by her block. Didn’t even glance at the door like maybe he’d walk through it.

He used to be her Monday lunches, her midnight phone calls, her “let me show you this funny thing.” Now?

He was a ghost.

A man watching the love of his life become a stranger with a smile. A story he didn’t get to finish. A home he could no longer walk into.

He walked miles every week just to see her for five minutes. Just to remember that she was real. Just to remind himself that once — for a flicker of time — she had been his.

And every time he turned around and walked away again, he left a piece of himself behind. Until he wasn’t sure how much of him was even left anymore.

They never asked about her.

Not directly.

Maybe out of respect. Maybe fear. Maybe because they already knew.

They all knew that somewhere, buried beneath Bob's shattered psyche and the nuclear firepower of the Sentry, there was someone he couldn’t let go of. A name that never left his mouth, but lived in his silence. In the way he flinched when certain songs came on. In the way he sat at the edge of team dinners, eyes somewhere far away. In the way he would sometimes disappear from the Watchtower, returning hollow-eyed and quiet, the smell of old bookstores or street coffee still clinging to his clothes.

They didn’t need to ask. The Void had shown them.

It was during the final confrontation — when the entity burrowed into each of their minds like a serpent, peeling back their worst fears, their lowest moments. It knew them. It was them. It didn’t just attack with brute strength — it weaponized memory, shame, the things they hid from even themselves.

But Bob?

Bob got the worst of it.

The Void lived in him. Knew every crack in his soul. Every scarred-over memory he tried to forget. And when the battle turned mental — turned personal — it didn’t use monsters or fire or screams. No. It showed her.

Y/N.

On the bathroom floor.

Her knees bruised from the tiles. Her shirt stained with something brown and sharp-smelling — coffee, maybe, or old blood. Her hands trembling, but still gentle, as they wiped vomit from his face, cradling his unconscious body like something precious.

His limbs were limp. His lips blue-tinged. An overdose — or the edge of one.

And she didn’t cry loud. No, that wasn’t her. Her sobs were quiet. Desperate. The kind of crying that comes when you don’t want to wake someone, even if you’re terrified they might never wake again.

She whispered to him in broken, soothing words, rocking him just slightly, whispering apologies to him, as if he were the one in pain.

She wiped his face. Changed his shirt. Brushed back his matted hair.

“You didn’t mean it,” she whispered. “It’s okay. You’re still here. I’m still here.”

And the worst part?

She looked so tired.

Not just physically — but soul-deep tired. The kind of exhaustion you don’t come back from. And still, still, she didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t curse him. She didn’t scream or throw things or leave.

She just held him.

And loved him.

When no one else could. When no one else should.

And the Void made them all watch.

Every teammate. Every soldier. Every person who had seen Bob level cities or snap metal in his hands like candy. They watched as the strongest being on Earth was reduced to a twitching body on a bathroom floor, and the only thing keeping him tethered to life was a woman — too soft for this world — whispering that he mattered, even when he didn’t believe it.

When the battle ended, and they staggered out of that hellscape, blinking in daylight and breathing like they’d been underwater too long — no one mentioned it. No one said her name.

But they all remembered her.

And days later, when the question finally came — in a rare moment of honesty, maybe over whiskey or after a nightmare — it was Bucky who asked.

Just a quiet, low, “You loved her, didn’t you?”

Bob didn’t even look up.

He just sat on the floor, back against the wall of the common room, hands hanging loosely between his knees. There was blood still under his fingernails from the mission. A tear in his shirt. He looked like something that had survived an execution.

“She was…” he started, and then stopped. His throat tightened, jaw working around a sentence that would never do her justice.

“She was the only thing I ever did right.”

The silence that followed was sharp. No one interrupted. Not even Alexei, who always had something to say. Not even Walker, whose tolerance for emotion was about as deep as a puddle. Not even Yelena, who had seen the worst kinds of pain, but still flinched when she remembered the image of that girl on the floor.

“She was the one who pulled me out,” Bob said softly. “Again and again. When I got too deep. When the Void got too loud. When I couldn’t remember who I was anymore. She… she made me feel like I was a person. Not a god. Not a monster. Just a man. Her best friend.”

He smiled, but it broke halfway through. Twisted into something hollow.

“I told her I loved her, in a message, I never even told her in her face, I still want to be able to fantasize that she did love me back. But I wasn’t a man when I said it. I was still broken. Still sick. Still—too much. And I left.”

No one moved. No one breathed.

“I told myself it was to protect her. That if I stayed, I’d destroy everything.”

He swallowed hard. His voice cracked.

“She forgave me for everything. Every relapse. Every blackout. Every time I disappeared for days and came back bleeding or high or worse. She’d cry, but she’d still hold me. She’d whisper that I was still in there. That she saw me.”

He clenched his hands. His shoulders shook.

“And I still left.”

For a long time, no one said a word.

Finally, Bucky asked, “Why are you telling us this now?”

Bob looked up at him. And for once, it wasn’t Sentry who answered. It wasn’t the calm, press-ready voice. It wasn’t the controlled, trained tone of a soldier.

It was just Bob.

His eyes were glassy. His mouth trembled.

He stood slowly. Wavered. Like the weight of all those memories was still dragging at his spine.

“She was the one thing that made me feel alive.”

He turned his face toward the window. Watched the city skyline like maybe she was out there somewhere, reading a book, sipping coffee, living a life where she didn’t have to remember him.

“And I will spend the rest of my life paying for what I did to her.”

He stayed across the street — or sometimes on the opposite sidewalk, tucked in behind a delivery van or under the shadow of a lamppost. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of a worn jacket, the same one she used to hang by her front door whenever he passed out on her couch.

He came to see her.

Sometimes she was restocking books in the front window. Sometimes she was sweeping the leaves off the front steps. Sometimes she was just reading, perched behind the register with a soft, furrowed expression — brows knitted in thought, nose crinkled just slightly like she did when a sentence made her feel too much.

He loved watching her read. She was the kind of person who felt books — who mourned endings and fell in love with characters and whispered “no” out loud when something bad happened on the page. Her face gave everything away. No armor. No filters.

God, she's beautiful.

Even now — even after everything.

He remembered the first time he saw her again, properly, in the park. He hadn’t been trying to find her that day. He was just… wandering. Trying to walk off the pressure in his chest. The static in his head. And then he saw her.

Sitting alone on a bench, no coffee, no cat, no old lady from the neighborhood chatting her ear off. Just her. Her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. Crying.

Not sobbing. Not theatrically.

Just… quiet, crumbling tears.

Like her chest had caved in and she didn’t know how to fix it. Like the world had knocked the wind out of her and left her to fold in on herself without a word.

She looked thinner. Not unhealthy, but not like before. Her style had changed a little — different colors, less softness, a longer coat like she was hiding from something. But her face… her face hadn’t changed.

Still that same quiet grace. That same storm of kindness behind her eyes. Like she could still save people if she tried hard enough — even when she couldn’t save herself.

He’d almost gone to her. Almost crossed the grass. Almost knelt beside her and put a hand on her knee and said her name.

But then he remembered who he was.

What he’d done.

He stayed frozen, half-behind a tree like a ghost in someone else’s story. A man without a place in the only life he wanted.

She wiped her face eventually. Stood. Pulled her coat tighter. Walked away.

And he watched. Did nothing.

But the guilt from that day didn’t leave. It never left.

He started coming around more. Just to check. Just to make sure she was okay.

That’s when the plan started to take shape.

He knew he couldn’t do it himself. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he knew someone who could — someone she might not push away. Someone big enough to take the hit if she got mad, but kind enough to genuinely want to help.

Alexei.

Bob waited for the right moment to ask. When the team wasn’t dealing with a crisis. When they were sitting in the Watchtower kitchen late one night, drinking tea instead of whiskey because Bob couldn’t handle the burn anymore.

“She’s not okay,” Bob said, out of nowhere.

Alexei looked up from his mug. “Who?”

“You know who.”

Alexei said nothing for a beat. Just nodded. Quiet. Respectful.

“I saw her crying,” Bob whispered, his voice barely audible. “She was alone. No one… no one should cry like that alone.”

“You didn’t go to her?”

“I couldn’t.”

Alexei sighed. “Why not?”

“She would want me there even if I'm still dangerous.”

Bob let the silence hang, heavy and pulsing. Then he looked up, eyes glassy, haunted.

“But I can’t… I can’t just not do anything.”

Alexei set his mug down. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

So Bob told him. About the bookstore. The bench. Her eyes. Her loneliness.

“I don’t want her to know it’s from me. Not yet. I just… I want her to have something good. Something stable. Something that isn’t pain or loss or… me.”

Alexei nodded slowly. Thought about it.

“Book club,” he said eventually. “She works in one, yes?”

Bob nodded. “Yeah. Tuesdays. I saw the flyer in the window.”

Alexei smiled. “Then I suppose I have some reading to do.”

Bob’s breath hitched.

“Thank you. I will help you with that.”

Alexei leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it because she deserves someone to show up for her.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll keep you updated. And I’ll be subtle.”

Bob smiled, watery. “As subtle as you can be?”

Alexei chuckled. “As subtle as a brick, but I’ll try.”

And so it began.

Alexei would show up to the bookstore every so often. Chat with her. Talk about books he didn’t really understand. Laugh too loudly. Always brief, always respectful, never pushing. Just… being there.

And eventually, she’d invited him to book club.

The plan was working.

And Bob?

Bob stayed where he was — on the edges, in the shadows, watching from far away. Letting Alexei become his eyes and ears. His quiet penance.

At first, it was simple.

Alexei joined the club to spend more time with her — to talk, to listen, to make sure she was still putting one foot in front of the other. That was the arrangement. A quiet mission with no glory. No weapons. No enemies to punch or gods to fight. Just a lonely girl who used to know a man that was already half-dead inside.

Bob didn’t expect more than that. A brief update. A kind word. The knowledge that she was still smiling. Still breathing.

But then Alexei came back from that first meeting with a glimmer in his eye — not joy, but something softer. Protective. He told Bob how she spoke about stories like they were sacred. How she laughed at a joke in Pride and Prejudice that no one else caught. How she paused in the middle of reading aloud because a single line made her voice catch, and she had to turn away so no one would see.

“She’s... she’s still her,” Alexei had said, like it was a miracle.

And Bob had cried when he heard it.

Because he didn’t know. He hadn’t known. If she was still her — still the girl who made mix CDs for rainy days and hugged people like she could stitch them back together — then maybe the world hadn’t ruined her completely. Maybe he hadn’t ruined her completely.

That’s when the idea started.

It was stupid. Pointless, maybe. But it gave Bob something to wake up for.

Books.

Not just any books — his books. The ones he read in the quietest hours of the night, when his mind wasn’t screaming and the Void wasn’t clawing at the walls. The ones he’d never admit to reading aloud, just to imagine what it might sound like if she was there beside him.

He began highlighting passages. Dog-earing pages. Scribbling notes in the margins like she used to in college, back when she made a game of arguing with the authors in ink.

He would hand them to Alexei with no explanation. Just a book. A quiet nod.

“Give her this one next.”

And Alexei would. Without question.

Week after week, a new title. A new story. Always something with meaning. A message buried in the pages. A secret only she might understand, if she read between the lines. If she knew how Bob’s mind worked the way she used to.

“I would have followed you anywhere.”

“I think I started dying the moment you left the room.”

“I loved you before I knew what it meant.”

They weren’t written outright. Never a full confession. Just sentences, thoughts, little crumbs of devotion scattered through prose.

Bob would stay up all night before each session, rereading and re-noting the pages. Sometimes he’d circle the same line six times. Sometimes he’d write “This is how I see you” beside a character’s monologue, and then cross it out until the paper tore.

He knew she never said anything to Alexei about it. Never mentioned the ink, or the handwriting, or the way every book felt like someone was whispering to her from another life.

But that didn’t matter.

Because he knew.

He knew she was holding something he touched. Reading the words he bled into the paper. Feeling something he could no longer say out loud.

In that tiny room above the bookstore, while Alexei sat in a too-small chair and cracked jokes to cover the silences, Bob was there too.

He was in the pages. In the sentences. In every comma and breath and pause.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe that was all he had left.

He’d debated confessing before. So many times. Long before he became the Sentry. Long before he became a weapon. Back when he was just Bob, and she was just the girl who always picked out the marshmallows from her cereal and let him sleep on her floor when he was too drunk to remember where he lived.

But he never did. Because he knew — he knew — she didn’t feel the same way.

Not because she didn’t care. She cared too much. That was the problem.

She saw him as something worth saving. Something broken, but fixable.

Not someone you fall in love with.

Not someone you keep.

He could have handled that. He would have swallowed it whole just to have her in his life. But then the powers came. The weight. The blackness behind his eyes that pulsed like a second heartbeat.

And everything changed.

He wasn’t just a man who loved her anymore. He was a threat to her. A danger. A possible end.

To confess now would be cruel.

So he didn’t.

He gave her books.

He gave her himself.

And in the stillness between chapters, when no one was looking, he let himself pretend.

Pretend that maybe she read a line and smiled. That maybe she knew. That maybe she looked up from the page and whispered, “I miss you too.”

He would die a thousand times just to hear her say it once.

The despair came in waves.

Some days, Bob could float in it, numb, like a body in cold water—arms limp, eyes unfocused, just waiting for it to take him under. Other days, it crashed into him so hard he thought he’d drown before morning. He would lie on the floor of the Watchtower, fists clenched, the ceiling spinning above him as his mind screamed with every face he couldn’t forget. But it was always her face that brought the deepest ache.

Y/N.

He had built a life around her absence. That was the truth of it. A fragile routine of restraint and silence. He watched from a distance. He wrote messages in books. He let Alexei carry little pieces of him to her like a smuggler moving contraband across a border he could never cross.

It was the only way he could be near her—and the closest he dared to come.

But it wasn’t enough.

God, it wasn’t enough.

He missed her. And not just the memory of her. Not just the idea. He missed her voice in the morning when it was still hoarse. The sound of her laugh when she was trying not to. The weight of her hand on his arm when he said something reckless. He missed the smell of her shampoo, the warmth of her sweaters, the way she hummed when she didn’t know he was listening.

His body remembered it all.

And it was killing him.

He was touch-starved in a way no one could fix. Not just for warmth, or comfort, or sex. He was starving for her. For the way her presence once made the world seem a little less heavy. For the way she looked at him like he was still in there, like maybe he wasn’t all lost, not yet. That kind of belief—that kind of grace—was more dangerous than the Void itself.

Because it made him hope.

And hope, for Bob, was a curse dressed like mercy.

Every time he let himself think, Maybe I could just see her. Just once. Just for a moment, his mind betrayed him. Because it wasn’t just Bob anymore. It was Sentry. It was Void. It was the monster and the hero and the broken man trapped in between.

And what if they took over?

What if she smiled at him—and Sentry ripped the sky open behind her?

What if she said his name—and Void answered?

What if, by standing too close to her, by breathing the same air, he doomed her?

He couldn’t bear it.

So he stayed away.

But he was so tired.

Tired of living on crumbs. Tired of writing love letters she didn’t know were letters. Tired of watching Alexei carry his heart in paperback covers while he sat alone, drinking coffee that always went cold, with no one to tell.

He thought about ending it. Not his life—not exactly. But the visits. The watching. The books. All of it.

He thought about telling Alexei, It’s over. Don’t go anymore. Don’t mention her. Don’t bring her up. Let her go. Let her be.

Maybe if he stopped seeing her face from afar, his heart would quiet. Maybe if he stopped imagining what she looked like crying, or laughing, or reading his underlined notes, he could be free of this need.

Maybe.

But then the selfishness crept in.

It always did.

Because this—this pathetic, distant, hollow little routine—it was all he had.

He had no family. No home. No future. He had fists and firepower and a mind that split into two monsters depending on the day.

But this—this was still hers.

The bookstore. The book club. The books.

The way she once tucked a note into his coat pocket when he was dope-sick and barely breathing. The way she never turned away from him, even when she should have.

That love. That impossible, unspoken love that never got to breathe? It was still alive inside him. Mummified maybe, but still intact. And giving it up felt like murdering the only beautiful thing he’d ever been allowed to feel.

So he kept the books coming.

He kept watching her from across the street like a ghost with a heartbeat.

He kept dying for her in private.

He told himself it wasn’t love. That it was guilt. Or nostalgia. Or some warped savior complex. But he knew better.

He loved her.

He always had.

He loved her from the moment she laughed at his shitty joke in chemistry class and offered to share her lunch with him because she thought he looked hungry.

He loved her through every detox, every lie, every time he screamed and she didn’t flinch.

He loved her the day she fell asleep sitting against his door because he refused to let her in, but she still didn’t leave.

And he loved her now, more than ever.

But what good was that?

What good was a love you had to hide like a weapon?

What good was a heart full of devotion if it could level buildings when it broke?

Bob wanted her arms. He wanted her voice telling him he was okay. He wanted her fingers to touch his temple and whisper, “You’re still you, somewhere in there.”

But he couldn’t have that. He couldn’t ever have that.

So he took what he could.

He underlined another sentence. Highlighted another confession. Dog-eared another page.

He gave her pieces of his soul, one book at a time, and prayed she never figured it out.

Because if she did—if she knew it was him—it might give her hope.

And he didn’t want that for her. Hope was what killed people like him.

And she was never meant to die loving a ghost.

The Watchtower was quiet that night. Quieter than usual.

Bob was sitting by the window in his room, legs pulled to his chest like a child who hadn’t yet figured out how to stop shaking. He’d been staring at the stars for hours, pretending they were blinking just for him—pretending they meant something. Sometimes the silence helped. Sometimes it pressed down so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Tonight, it was both.

He almost didn’t hear Alexei come in.

His footsteps were heavier than usual, but not in the theatrical, attention-seeking way. No, this was something different. There was weight in them. Real weight. Emotional weight.

Bob didn’t turn to look at him.

“Tea and cookies,” Alexei said quietly, easing himself into the old chair across from Bob, setting down a book neither of them would read.

Bob blinked, not understanding. “What?”

“She made tea. There were these little shortbread cookies. She always brings some to the club. But tonight she invited me to stay after.”

Bob felt it instantly. That subtle shift in his chest—recognition, fear, hope. A name curled on his tongue like a prayer.

“Y/N.”

Alexei nodded.

Silence passed between them like static.

“I wasn’t going to stay,” Alexei said. “Didn’t feel right, you know? She looked tired. But she offered. Said she didn’t want to be alone. So I sat. And for a while, it was nothing. Just two people eating cookies and being quiet.”

Bob’s throat tightened. He could picture it too clearly—her small, chipped mug, her socks pulled up too high, maybe a blanket draped around her shoulders. She always had trouble sitting still when she was anxious. She’d shift, fidget, adjust the books near her elbows, touch her hair.

“And then?” Bob whispered.

Alexei looked at him. Really looked. Not like a soldier. Not like a friend. Like someone about to hand you your own soul.

“She asked me if I’d ever loved someone enough to ruin myself for them.”

Bob stopped breathing.

“I told her… yeah. I did. A long time ago. And that it hurt. That sometimes love isn’t enough. That you can want someone more than anything in the world and still have to walk away.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Bob knew there was more in that silence than Alexei could ever say. But the words weren’t the part that undid him.

It was what came next.

“She started crying.”

Bob’s heart cracked so loud in his chest he thought it might split the room in two.

“She didn’t even try to stop it. She just let it happen. Tears down her cheeks, her hands shaking around that stupid little mug. And she said…” Alexei’s voice softened. “She said she was still waiting for someone.”

Bob gripped the windowsill so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“She said there was a man who left. And he never came back. And she knows he was broken—knows he had problems, things she might never understand. But she loved him anyway. Or maybe she didn’t even know she did. Not until it was too late. And even now, even after all the pain, some pathetic part of her—those were her words, not mine—still wanted him. Still waited.”

The tears came without warning.

Bob didn’t cry pretty. It was never cinematic. It was raw. Silent. Heaving. His face contorted as the sobs tore through him like glass down his throat.

She was waiting for him.

After everything. After all the ways he’d failed her. After the vomit and the relapses. After the bruised knuckles and broken promises. After disappearing without a goodbye, like a coward.

She was still waiting.

“Alexei—” he tried, but his voice shattered.

Alexei stood and walked over, putting a firm hand on Bob’s shoulder. “She misses you, man.”

“She shouldn’t,” Bob rasped. “She deserves better.”

“Maybe. But she doesn’t want better. She wants you.”

Bob bent forward, forehead pressed to his knees, shoulders trembling like the ceiling might cave in on him.

He could see her now—eyes red, voice cracking, wrapped in that old cardigan she used to wear when she felt small. Crying not because she was weak, but because something inside her had finally broken under the weight of everything she’d been carrying.

His name. His ghost. The ache that never left her chest.

“She said she never got to tell him,” Alexei added quietly. “That she was proud of him, even when he thought there was nothing left to be proud of.”

Bob shook his head violently, tears soaking through his sleeves.

“I don’t deserve her,” he choked. “I don’t deserve one second of her kindness. I left her. I left her.”

“But you never stopped loving her.”

Bob lifted his eyes, watery and wild.

Alexei knelt down in front of him, squeezing his shoulder. “That counts for something.”

Bob wanted to believe that. He needed to. But the guilt was too thick, too rooted. He’d buried his love like a landmine—sooner or later, someone was always going to get hurt.

But tonight… for the first time in weeks, in months, maybe in years… he had something to hold on to.

Hope.

Alexei wasn’t the kind of man who usually gave pep talks. He broke bones, not hearts. But that night, something in the room shifted. The weight in the air was different. Bob sat hunched on the floor again, as he often did when his thoughts got too loud, too dangerous. His hands were clenched in his hair, tears drying on his face in the silence. It wasn’t a silence of peace. It was one of surrender.

“I can’t go,” Bob whispered. “I can’t.”

Alexei sat in the chair beside him, eyes fixed on the floor. “Yes. You can.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” Bob snapped, voice raw and thick. “You’ve seen the surface—what the Void lets you see. But I know what I’ve done. What I’ve almost done. I could’ve killed her. Just because I wanted to be loved.”

Alexei was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice like gravel and mercy.

“Do you think love is safe?” he asked. “Do you think any of us walk into it without risk? I have done worse things, Bob. To people who trusted me. To people I loved. You think I sleep easy at night? No. I just… don’t run from it anymore.”

“I never stopped running,” Bob muttered, choking on the words. “Even when I had her. Especially then. She tried so hard. God, Alexei, she tried so hard for me.”

Bob pressed the heel of his palm into his eye until stars burst behind the lid.

“Do you think…” he asked in a hoarse whisper, “that my love can undo what I’ve done? Do you think that’s enough? That just because I love her, it makes the nights she cried worth it? That it fixes the way I shattered her, again and again?”

“No,” Alexei said bluntly. “Love isn’t enough. Not on its own. But it’s a start. It’s a reason to try. And Bob—she hasn’t stopped trying either.”

Bob shook his head, lips trembling. “She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. She thinks I’m someone worth saving.”

Alexei reached into his coat pocket.

“Then maybe you should read this.”

He held out a single, folded post-it.

It was pale yellow, edges a little crumpled. Familiar. Too familiar.

Bob stared.

He didn’t reach for it at first. Didn’t trust his hands not to crumble it in disbelief. But Alexei held steady, offering it like an answer.

Bob finally took it.

He didn’t even have to open it. He knew the handwriting. Slanted, careful but with bursts of impatience in the curls of the letters.

And he knew the words.

“I’ll come back. For you. Always.”

And he remembered it again—the worst nights. The ones he could barely piece together through the fog. The clatter of the bathroom door, the stench of vomit, her hands trembling as she wiped his face with a warm cloth, whispering things he couldn’t hear but felt in his bones. No disgust. No anger. Just… tired love. Quiet devotion.

And the guilt that came after—so thick, it coated his skin. He stopped opening the door. Stopped letting her see him like that. She’d still come, knock softly, wait longer than she should’ve. And when he said nothing, did nothing—she’d slide a little post-it under the door.

“I’ll come back. For you. Always.”

His breath hitched.

“This—this is—” He stared at the note like it was the most sacred thing in the world. Like it could breathe.

“She gave it to me tonight,” Alexei said softly. “Slipped it into my book. Didn’t say anything. Just smiled. I think… I think she wanted you to know that she’s still there. Still waiting.”

Bob folded in half, pressing the note to his chest like it could stop the bleeding.

“But how—how would she know—?”

Alexei chuckled under his breath, and it wasn’t unkind.

“She’s not stupid, Bob. She knew from the beginning. From the first book.”

Bob lifted his head, dazed.

“She told me tonight. She recognized me right away. She remembered me from the photos. And the first time I brought a book with your handwriting in it? She didn’t say a word. But her whole face changed. Like a light she didn’t expect. Like a ghost she thought she’d never see again.”

Bob’s lips parted. “But she never said—”

“She didn’t have to. She knew you were talking to her. And she answered. She let it happen until she was ready.”

Bob’s mouth quivered.

“Every time she brought a specific book to the club. That was for you.”

He was silent.

“She chose them for you, Bob. You weren’t the only one using me to speak. She was doing it too.”

Bob broke.

"You know what Bob, I've had many experiences in life, but seeing two people love each other while thinking the same unrequited love bullshit it's the most frustating thing I've lived through."

The book club had ended hours ago.

The chairs were stacked, the lights dimmed except for one hanging low over the back counter where the tea kettle still hummed. The scent of old paper, lavender, and stale sugar cookies lingered in the air.

Alexei lingered too.

He never stayed this late, usually offering a polite farewell and a practiced smile before retreating into the night like he had somewhere else to be. But tonight, he hesitated, eyes trailing to the table where Y/N stood quietly, tidying up a few leftover napkins like she wasn’t just waiting for something—like she wasn’t bracing herself for it.

“I should go,” Alexei said, half-hearted.

She didn’t look up right away. “One second,” she murmured.

And then she turned to him, slowly. In her hand was a tiny yellow square of paper, slightly curled at the edges like it had been held too many times. There was no name on it. Just handwriting—familiar and aching and soft in its certainty.

“I’ll come back. For you. Always.”

Alexei froze.

His blood stopped.

He hadn’t seen one of those in years. Not since—

Y/N stepped forward and gently pressed the post-it into his hand.

“Please give this to Bob.”

Silence.

Alexei’s mouth opened, then closed. His eyes searched hers, stunned, confused—exposed. He thought he had been careful. Thought the quiet drop-ins, the vague discussions, the books marked with gentle nuance and wordless confessions had been subtle enough. He thought he’d played the messenger without giving himself—or Bob—away.

But she had known.

She had always known.

“...You knew?” he asked softly, barely breathing.

Y/N gave a tired smile, the kind that looked like it hurt to wear.

“Since the first book,” she said. “The underlined sentences. The margin notes. The way you looked at me when I laughed, like someone had told you a joke days ago and you were just now getting it.”

Alexei blinked, overwhelmed. “You never said anything.”

“I didn’t need to.” She let out a breath, bitter and sweet all at once. “It was the only way I could hear him again. I didn’t want to break it.”

She stepped away then, folding her arms as if trying to hold herself together. Her shoulders trembled.

“But tonight… I just needed him to know,” she whispered.

Alexei’s grip tightened on the post-it.

He didn’t know what to say. How to tell her that Bob had read every word she spoke, that he lived in the seconds she laughed, that he measured time by the days she showed up with her hair down or a new sweater or a different tea. That Bob was starving just to be near her. That every night he watched from the shadows was both punishment and penance.

But he couldn't say those things.

Because they weren’t his to give.

So he just stood there, useless in his stillness.

And then she broke.

“Why didn’t he come back?” she asked, voice crumbling like wet paper. “I waited. I waited, Alexei.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks in slow, silent rivers. Her hands trembled at her sides.

“I was angry. So angry when he left. I hated him. I told myself I did. But then I’d go to the places we used to go. I’d drink the same coffee. Sit on the same benches. And every time the door opened, I thought it might be him.”

Alexei swallowed hard, chest tightening.

“I’m not asking for an apology,” she continued, voice rising with the dam of grief. “I just want to know why. Was I not enough? Was I… was I too much?”

“No,” Alexei whispered, pained. “Y/N, no.”

“Then why did he leave me like that?” Her voice broke. “Why didn’t he come back like I always did for him?”

She sank into the chair beside her, covering her face with one hand, wiping at tears that kept falling no matter how hard she tried to stop them.

Alexei stepped forward but hesitated.

He couldn’t tell her everything. He couldn’t say that Bob had been dragged through every layer of his own personal hell—had been broken, drugged, used like a weapon, haunted by the very love he didn’t think he deserved. That every time he thought about her, it wasn’t with joy, but with agony, because he believed he’d poisoned every beautiful thing in his life.

He couldn’t say that Bob cried in his sleep.

He couldn’t say that he never went more than three days without watching her from afar, just to be sure she was alive.

He couldn’t say any of that.

Because those words were Bob’s to give.

But his voice was soft as he spoke.

“He never stopped thinking about you.”

Y/N let out a small, helpless sound, somewhere between a sob and a breath.

“I just want it to be over,” she whispered. “The waiting. The not-knowing. I took the first step. Again.”

Alexei knelt beside her, gently placing the post-it in his coat pocket.

“I hope,” she said through tears, “I hope this is the last time I have to.”

And then she wept.

Not quietly. Not daintily.

She cried like someone who had carried too many sleepless nights in her chest. Like someone who had waited at every metaphorical door, only to find them locked. Like someone who knew she had loved without boundaries and had bled for it.

Alexei didn’t say anything else.

He just sat beside her, listening to the sound of her heart breaking again—for someone who had never stopped holding it.

And in the quiet, somewhere between sorrow and forgiveness, the post-it in his pocket burned like a lighthouse finally being lit after years of storm.

He would give it to Bob.

And for the first time in years, Bob would understand:

He could hide, protect her all he wanted, run away from her from years on end. She will always find a way to make him come back. Even if it made her rot from the inside out.

"If I had someone fight for me this hard and I still made them doubt the value of their presence while living with that thought day after day Bob. Maybe that's why you will never be happy. No family, no friends, no hope, for years it was just her. What even made you think you could stay away when you're just as miserable as her?"

Bob looked up to Alexei.

Part of him confused, she wasn't miserable she was living, he saw her.

But...if that was the truth for her, what has she been thinking all this time seeing him.

It was kinda funny. How could two people who only had one another know so little of each other's mind.

Both seemed happy. Both were dying for each other.

695 notes · View notes

maxtermind · 10 months ago

Note

“your opinion of me won't change, right?” + lando (who kinda has a fuckboy reputation but fell for the reader)

“your opinion of me won't change, right?”

( event masterlist \ main masterlist \ drop a request ) ★:summary:: the one where a fuckboy gets turned into a loverboy? ★:feat:: lando norris x reader ★:genre:: hurt/comfort

the knock on your door comes around midnight when you're almost going to bed. you don’t expect anyone, especially not him.

for a second, you stand still, unsure of what to do with heart thudding. but the persistent rapping doesn’t stop, and despite the days of silence between you two, you already know who it is.

when you swing the door open, lando stumbles in, his shoulders slumped, eyes clouded with alcohol and something darker. his hair is a mess, damp from the rain, and he reeks of whiskey and regret.

“y/n,” he breathes out, almost as if he’s relieved to see you. but you’re not relieved at all. you’re angry, confused, and hurt and looking at him really hit you so hard that you had to squeeze the ends of your his t-shirt to not stumble.

you close the door behind him, and he sways unsteadily. he’s drunk—drunker than you’ve ever seen him. his clothes are disheveled, his usual cool confidence replaced by something pitiful, something raw.

"lando, what the hell are you doing here?" your voice is sharp, meant to sting, because his presence alone already rips at the wounds that haven't even started healing yet.

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he looks at you with those familiar blue eyes, the same ones that once made you weak in the knees, but now… they just bring back the pain. his lips tremble as if he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t.

"you—" lando slurs slightly, stepping forward, hands outstretched. "you weren't… supposed to leave. you—" it washed over you like a bucket of cold water and you're already moving away from his touch.

"don't." your voice cracks, and you hate how fragile you sound. you take another step back, putting more space between you two. "don’t come here like this again."

lando rubs his face, pacing around your small living room slowly, stumbling over air. he’s spiraling, trying to collect his thoughts, but the alcohol muddles his brain and you can see the struggle on his face.

“i didn’t mean to… i didn’t want you to leave,” he mutters. he turns to you, desperation in his eyes. "i messed up, okay? i know that. but i… fuck, i’m trying, y/n."

you cross your arms, every muscle tense. "trying? you’re drunk, lando. that’s not trying."

his face crumples at your words, and he stumbles back, this time collapsing onto the couch like his legs can’t hold him up anymore. his hands run through his hair, pulling at it in frustration, in agony.

you vividly remember what happened a few nights ago when a girl texted him asking if he was up for 'another' great night. it wasn't easy being with someone while knowing he could have anyone in the entire world and with his past, you were already always on the edge of letting your insecurities out.

it just led to a bigger argument where instead of assuring you how you were the only one he ever wanted, he asked you to either start trusting him or leave.

so you left.

"do you know how much i fucking hate myself?" his voice is hoarse now, barely above a whisper, but the rawness in it cuts through you like a knife as it brings you back to the present. "i tried to be better for you. i… i tried."

you swallow the lump forming in your throat, trying to stay firm, but it’s hard. it's always been hard with him. "you have a funny way of showing it."

he lifts his head slowly, tears brimming in his eyes now, and the sight is enough to make your resolve crack just a little. you've never seen him cry before. not like this.

“your opinion of me won’t change, right?” his voice breaks, and you freeze. the vulnerability in his question sends a jolt of pain straight to your chest. he sounds small, defeated, like the weight of everything he’s been carrying has finally crushed him.

“lando…” you whisper, but he doesn’t let you finish.

"because everyone else—" he pauses, taking in a shaky breath. "they all think they know me? that i’m just some… some asshole who doesn’t care, who’s not capable of… anything real? but i’m not. i’m not, y/n. you know that, right?"

the room feels heavy, like the air is thickening with every word. you want to say something, to tell him that you believed in him once, that you saw the good in him, the real lando, but it’s not that simple anymore.

"i fell for you," he says, voice trembling, eyes glistening as he stares up at you like you're the only thing that can save him. with the rapid blinking of his eyes, tears start to fall and so does your resolve. "i wish i didn’t put you through this, but i did. and i didn’t know how to be that guy… the one you deserved. but i tried. i’m still trying."

it’s quiet for a moment, just the sound of his ragged breathing and your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

you look at him, really look at him. his face is flushed from the alcohol and the tears, but beneath that, you see something more. he’s broken in ways you never let yourself see before.

all the cockiness, the bravado, the charm—it was all just a shield. he never thought he was good enough for you either, and maybe that’s why you left. you repeat it to yourself but it was a losing war.

the old lando wouldn’t be here, in front of you, crying and baring his soul. he wouldn’t have admitted any of this. isn't that reason enough to give him another chance?

he was selfish before, reckless, hiding behind his reputation as the playboy, the fun guy who never cared too deeply about anything. but now, now you see the cracks. you see the vulnerability he’s tried so hard to bury and it kills you to give in but the words leave you before you can stop yourself.

"i thought you didn’t care," you admit softly, feeling all your defenses start to crumble. "that’s why i left, lando. i didn’t think you could care."

"i fucking love you," he lets out a bitter laugh, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. not believing what you were saying at all. "i care too fucking much. i just… maybe i don’t know how to show it right."

you sigh, sitting down beside him on the couch, still keeping a little distance between you. "it’s not about showing it right. it’s about showing it at all."

he looks at you, his gaze softer now, more open. "i’m sorry. i know i’ve been… i know i fucked up. but i’m… i love you, y/n. i really fucking love you. and i didn’t know how much until you weren’t there."

his words hang in the air, and for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel anger or hurt. you just feel… sad. sad for him, sad for you, sad for all the misunderstandings that led you here.

you reach out, gently brushing a lock of his hair from his forehead. he closes his eyes at the touch, leaning into it like he’s starved for your touch. he probably is because so are you.

"i’ve changed," he murmurs, his voice thick with exhaustion. "i swear loving you has changed me."

you don’t respond right away. instead, you lean forward and press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. his skin is warm beneath your lips, and the simple gesture feels more intimate than anything you’ve ever shared before.

when you pull back, lando looks at you through heavy-lidded eyes, his emotions raw and exposed. "i love you too," he mumbles, his voice barely audible, like he’s falling asleep or slipping into a dream where things are better, where you’re together again.

you don’t know what’s going to happen next, or if you can really fix what’s broken between you. but for the first time in a long while, you feel like maybe… just maybe, you can try.

and maybe this time, it’ll be different.

©maxtermind // do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platforms.

★:a/n:: thanks for the request love! feedback and reblogs are appreciated :3

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izzih22 · 1 month ago

Note

Gemme some jealous and slight possessive paige. it's kinda hot

What Happens When You Push Her

Note: This is as dirty as yall are prolly ever gonna get from me. Also your welcome😂😂

Warning: Smut

Everyone knew Paige Bueckers was in the room before she even walked in.

You felt her before you saw her like the bass dropped when the door opened. Loud music, low lights, and somehow she still cut through the chaos like gravity. She wasn’t trying to draw eyes. She never did. But they always landed on her anyway.

Paige was the kind of person who made space by standing still.

Tonight she was wearing low-waisted joggers and a tight black crop top that clung in all the right places, a backwards UConn cap tugged low over her eyes. She barely made it two steps into the house before people started calling her name, offering drinks, pulling her into conversations.

She smiled easily. Dapped people up. Gave hugs. Moved through the crowd like she was on stage.

But her eyes were already scanning the room for one person.

Azzi was here somewhere. They’d come together along with KK and Ice, who had shouted something out the window about “hot people arriving” when they pulled up but the moment they walked in, the wave of attention hit, and they got separated.

Paige hadn’t seen her in twenty minutes.

Not a problem. Yet.

Until she caught a glimpse of her.

Azzi was near the bar. Laughing. Talking to some guy with perfect teeth and a shirt two sizes too tight. Paige didn’t recognize him probably not an athlete. Just one of those party crashers who showed up for free drinks and the hope of proximity.

His hand was hovering just above Azzi’s lower back. Not touching. But close enough to make Paige’s jaw tick.

Azzi didn’t move away.

Didn’t look uncomfortable either.

She was smiling.

Paige stared, cup in hand, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Yo,” KK said, stepping up beside her, already clocking the shift in her vibe. “You good?”

“No.”

KK followed her line of sight. “Ohhh.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Pretty sure that’s just one of Jana’s friends. Chill.”

“I’m chill.”

“You’re literally crushing that cup.”

Paige looked down. Her fingers had crumpled the Solo cup without her noticing.

Ice strolled by, clapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Don’t start a fight, Buckets. Not before we even hit midnight.”

Paige didn’t answer. She was too focused.

Because Azzi still hadn’t looked over.

Still hadn’t moved.

Still hadn’t given any indication that she knew exactly what she was doing.

Which, of course, meant she knew exactly what she was doing.

⸻

Azzi felt her before she saw her.

Like always.

It was second nature by now the way her body tuned itself to Paige’s presence, like her muscles leaned toward her on instinct. She didn’t even have to hear her voice to know Paige was here. Didn’t have to turn around to know she was watching.

Azzi could feel it.

She was talking to some guy whose name she already forgot, half-listening to something about pre-law internships, when her skin lit up like a live wire.

She knew that heat.

It was Paige. Watching her.

And Azzi? She didn’t look. Not yet.

She smiled at whatever the guy said. Let her hand rest a little longer than it needed to on the edge of the counter. Tucked a curl behind her ear. Tilted her head like she was so interested.

She knew Paige hated this kind of thing. Hated seeing Azzi entertained by other people. Hated it even more when Azzi did it on purpose.

But Paige had been locked in all week barely there outside of practice, quiet during their nights in, and quick kisses.

Azzi wasn’t mad. She knew the season was long. But she was tired of waiting for Paige to look at her.

So tonight?

She was going to make her.

⸻

Paige let it stew.

Didn’t storm over. Didn’t cause a scene. Just stood back and watched.

Because Azzi wanted her attention?

She had it.

She had all of it.

Paige didn’t take her eyes off her not once. She tracked every touch, every lean-in, every soft smile Azzi gave away like it didn’t belong to someone else.

And when the guy leaned just a little closer when Azzi didn’t move back?

That was it.

Paige didn’t say a word. Just handed her drink off to someone, cracked her neck once, and started walking.

The team noticed immediately.

“She’s about to wreck someone’s life,” Ice said, nudging KK.

“Should we stop her?”

KK shook her head. “Nah. Azzi knows exactly what she’s doing.”

⸻

Azzi heard her first.

Sneakers against hardwood. A steady, deliberate rhythm.

She looked up, and there she was.

Paige. Backwards hat, jaw tight, eyes burning a hole through the guy she was talking to.

Azzi almost smiled.

Almost.

Paige didn’t stop when she reached them. Just slid in between them, so smoothly it looked natural, and put her hand flat on the bar beside Azzi.

“Having fun?” she asked, eyes still on the guy.

Azzi blinked, feigning innocence. “So far.”

The guy, clearly nervous now, glanced between them. “Uh, I didn’t know y’all were…”

“We are,” Paige said. Still not looking at him. “You good?”

He blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

“Then leave.”

He did.

And then it was just them.

Azzi leaned back against the bar, slow, deliberate. “Someone’s grumpy.”

“You really want to test me right now?”

Azzi licked her lips. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You let him touch you.”

“He didn’t touch me.”

“He wanted to.”

Azzi tilted her head. “So?”

“So you’re mine.”

Azzi’s breath caught.

And Paige leaned in voice low, dark, and close. “Keep playing if you want. Just know I’m not gonna be nice about it when I finally take you home.”

⸻

Azzi thought Paige would drag her out of the party right then and there.

She was wrong.

Paige stepped back, said nothing, and just… walked away.

Azzi blinked.

“What the—”

Paige didn’t look back.

She wove through the crowd, cool and effortless, slipping into the center of it like gravity. In minutes, she was surrounded with guys she knew from the rec gym, a few upperclassmen athletes, even a couple girls who clearly didn’t mind standing too close when they laughed at whatever she was saying.

And Paige? She let them.

She smiled. She cracked jokes. She leaned against the counter like she didn’t just corner Azzi ten seconds ago and whisper threats against her skin.

Azzi stood there, drink forgotten in her hand, stomach twisted in the best and worst way possible.

Paige was ignoring her.

On purpose.

Azzi’s chest tightened.

She knew Paige. Knew her moods, her silences. Knew the calm before the storm. And this? This was Paige in full control punishing her without even touching her.

Azzi watched her work the room. The little things how people leaned in when she talked, how she laughed with her whole mouth and threw her head back when she really meant it, how she carried herself like nothing and no one could shake her.

She was magnetic.

And she wasn’t looking at Azzi once.

Azzi shifted on her feet. Her palms were damp. She’d started this game, but Paige was winning it.

Badly.

⸻

“Yo,” KK said, sidling up to her with a lopsided grin. “You alive?”

Azzi didn’t answer.

“She’s making you sit in it, huh?”

Azzi sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I thought she’d pull me out of here.”

KK whistled. “You must’ve really pissed her off.”

“She’s not mad.”

“Oh, she’s mad,” Ice said, sipping something neon green from a Gatorade bottle. “But the hot kind of mad. Like, wait-until-we’re-alone mad.”

Azzi swallowed hard.

KK gave her a sympathetic pat on the back.

⸻

Azzi tried to stay normal.

Tried to talk to people, tried to finish her drink, tried not to keep glancing over at Paige like a puppy waiting for a command.

But it didn’t work.

Because every time Paige laughed with someone else, every time someone else touched her arm or leaned in a little too long, Azzi’s stomach flipped.

And Paige still didn’t look at her.

Not once.

⸻

It took 40 minutes.

Forty minutes of Azzi pretending not to care. Of Paige pretending she didn’t notice. Of everyone else pretending they weren’t watching this slow, silent war between them unfold in real time.

And then, without a word, Paige looked over her shoulder finally and locked eyes with Azzi from across the room.

Azzi straightened instantly.

Paige lifted her chin once. Just once.

Let’s go.

Azzi moved without hesitation.

No goodbye. No hesitation. She just followed.

⸻

They didn’t speak during the walk back.

Not across the street. Not through campus. Not in the elevator. Not in the hallway of Paige’s dorm building.

Azzi was wound tight. Breathing shallow.

Paige walked in front of her, calm and slow, keys in hand.

She didn’t say a word as she pushed open the door, stepped aside, and waited for Azzi to walk in.

Azzi did.

The door closed behind them.

And then?

Silence.

Azzi turned to say something—

But Paige was already moving.

⸻

It wasn’t a kiss. Not really.

It was a claim.

Paige backed her into the nearest wall and pressed their mouths together with the kind of force that made Azzi gasp. Her hands came up to Paige’s hoodie, fisting it on instinct.

Paige didn’t let her catch her breath.

Just kissed her deeper, mouth hot and demanding, tongue sliding in like she’d waited hours for it.

Azzi moaned into it, her knees going weak instantly.

“Paige—”

“You think that was funny?” Paige growled against her mouth.

Azzi shook her head, lips parted. “No.”

“You think I like watching people look at you like that?”

Azzi swallowed hard. “No.”

Paige grabbed her jaw gently but firmly. “You liked teasing me.”

Azzi blinked, already flushed. “I wanted your attention.”

“You had it,” Paige snapped. “You always have it.”

She kissed her again harder this time until Azzi whimpered and clutched at her shirt like she might fall apart.

And then Paige pulled back just enough to let Azzi breathe.

“Strip,” she said simply. “Then sit on the bed.”

Azzi went without a word.

⸻

Azzi had never been this close to falling apart.

Her whole body trembled, flushed from her chest down to her toes, skin damp with sweat and need. Her thighs shook every time Paige so much as breathed on them. Her voice was hoarse from begging three times denied, three times brought to the edge and yanked cruelly back like a wave that never crashed.

She was flat on her back, legs spread, hands still obediently gripping the edge of the bed like Paige had told her to.

Paige knelt between her legs calm, in control, eyes dark with something dangerous and beautiful.

“You wanted attention,” she murmured, dragging her fingers up Azzi’s thigh so slowly it was unbearable. “Now you’ve got it.”

Azzi moaned, barely able to speak. “Paige…”

Paige leaned in, her mouth brushing hot against her ear. “You don’t come until I say.”

Azzi whimpered, nodding desperately. “I won’t. I won’t.”

“Good girl.”

Paige kissed her again deep and slow and let her hand slide back between Azzi’s thighs.

Azzi gasped.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. It was everything she needed.

Paige moved her fingers with that same maddening rhythm press, curl, slow drag and Azzi’s entire body arched like a bowstring ready to snap.

She was close.

Too close.

“I—I’m gonna—”

Paige pulled back.

Again.

Azzi cried out, a broken, aching sound that cut the air in half.

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes.

She was so far gone it didn’t even feel like teasing anymore. It felt like worship and torture in the same breath.

Paige moved back up, straddling Azzi’s hips, holding her down.

“You feel that?” she whispered. “That ache?”

Azzi nodded, frantic.

“That’s mine.”

Paige leaned down, kissing the tears off her cheek.

“That desperation? That’s mine too.”

Azzi sobbed a little, still trembling. “Please. I can’t—I can’t take anymore. I need you.”

Paige stroked her cheek, finally softening. “You gonna be good?”

“Yes,” Azzi breathed. “I’ll be so good.”

“You gonna remember who you belong to?”

“I never forgot.”

Paige kissed her slow, firm, unforgiving.

“Then come for me.”

Her fingers moved again and this time, Paige didn’t stop.

Azzi’s body snapped.

She cried out Paige’s name, eyes squeezing shut, back arching as pleasure ripped through her like a flood. Her legs shook uncontrollably, and Paige held her through it kept her grounded, kept her anchored, whispered her through the high as her whole world shattered around her.

It hit her so hard she nearly sobbed.

By the time it passed, she was spent barely breathing, legs twitching, skin slick, tears on her cheeks from the sheer intensity.

Paige kissed her forehead, then her jaw, then the corner of her mouth.

“You did so good,” she whispered. “That’s my girl.”

Azzi clung to her weakly. “That was so mean.”

Paige smiled against her neck. “You started it.”

“I’m never teasing you in public again.”

Paige brushed sweaty curls from her face. “You are. And I’ll do this again.”

Azzi made a soft, exhausted sound and nuzzled into her chest.

Paige pulled the blanket up around her, tucked her close.

“Sleep,” she murmured.

“I love you,” Azzi mumbled.

“I know. I’ve got you.”

Paige kissed her temple, holding her while her breathing slowed.

And for once Azzi didn’t dream.

She didn’t have to.

Paige was already everything she wanted.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi #paige and azzi #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #azzi fudd #pazzi smut

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cheralith · 1 year ago

Text

wish you well — 「 celebrity!gojo x manager!reader (drabble & headcanons 」

synopsis ; after being one of the nation's most well-loved celebrity's manager for nine years, it's time to call it quits. said celebrity, however, doesn't take it too well.

content tags/warnings ; gn!reader, no pronouns for reader used, mild angst, some parts not edited/not beta read

contains ; celebrity!au, a-list actor!gojo satoru, manager!reader, no powers au

notes ; plot inspired by "what's wrong with secretary kim" after my nth rewatch haha

now playing ; i wish you love - nancy wilson

Everyone goes to lean forward in their seats, gripping the edge of it as the music that’s singing from the movie theatre’s speakers suddenly stops, letting the sound effects of rain pebble through instead. The screen displays a running, drenched man in the rain of a lonesome road in the middle of the countryside, his crystal blue eyes hazy with a brim of tears balancing in them as he huffs and puffs, the exhaustion within him visible. The camera cuts to a woman seated safely under a bus stop as the rain pours down with the same view of a descending countryside town still blurred in the distance. She grips the handle of her suitcase as her head goes to gaze solemnly at her shoes.

A bus goes to a screeching halt, only the tender wheel of it visible as the woman’s gaze is still stuck on the floor before she looks up to see the bus doors opening before her. The running man appears before the screen, desperation clear on his face before the camera slowly turns towards the bus stop the formerly-sitting woman is now standing under.

“Loretta! Don’t you dare get on that bus!” the man yells out, earning the woman’s attention.

The woman widens her pale green eyes at the sight of him breaking out into a sprint. She swallows a nervous gulp, too frozen to move from her spot until the man enters under the shelter of the bus stop. His chest engraved with the lining of visible muscles are evident through his pale blue button-down that’s slicked with water and the sight earns a couple of lip bites from women in the theatre.

The woman stammers, “Y-you know I need to do this…”

“No you don’t,” the man mutters, the camera panning to show his eyes holding desperation and a slight flicker of anger. “Your father wants you to do this, but I know you. I know you don’t want to.”

“But it’s my duty, Vincent—”

“Don’t give me that ‘duty’ shit!” The man shakes his head, letting droplets of water fling all over. “Loretta, please… just stay here with me,” he pleads, holding her face in his hands and forcing the woman to look up at him as his thumbs wipe away her tears that grab onto mascara. “We can stay here… get a house together… build a family… die old together like you said we would. You’re not gonna break your promise, are you?”

“Vincent, that was when we were six!” the woman exclaims sadly, “Don’t tell me you’re still hanging onto that.”

“I’m not hanging onto that promise,” he whispers, pulling her face closer to his.

The instrumental of a music track begins to play softly in the background, obvious tension rising to the surface in the theatre as the scene continues. A couple of hands shovel into large popcorn buckets and without thinking, shove the popcorn into their salivating mouths. Nails dig into the palms of hands as some chew on them out of anticipation. Eyes wide and unblinking, they give their full attention to the screen.

“Say the line…” whispers one person.

The man tenderly kisses her in a short, but passionate kiss, letting her release from him with a dreamy sigh.

“I’m holding on to you,” he murmurs ever so softly.

Compared to the quietness of the man on the screen, the theatre goes absolutely crazy. Shouts and cheers ring through the air as numerous rounds of applause go to harmonize with them.

The scene in the movie finalizes with Loretta finally swallowing her pride and nodding to Vincent’s agreement, sealing the movie with a kiss that lasts until the screen slowly fades to black.

“Annnd… that’s a wrap,” the director of the movie jokes as he stands up from his seat. He earns a few laughs from the cast and the crew of the movie. The theatre begins to light up once more and gives a clear view of everyone, including the section that holds the main cast up near the back. “I’d like to give one last thank you to Satoru Gojo and Yuki Tsukumo one last time for giving an amazing performance and dedicating their time for the past year and a half. Thank you both ever so dearly.”

Satoru Gojo, also known as Vincent, goes to stand up with his co-star, also known as Loretta, and they give a synchronized bow to the people in the theatre as the premier for his latest movie finally draws the curtains from behind the audience. “Thank you for directing another outstanding movie. I truly do look forward to working with you again in the future,” he gives another dazzling smile as he and Yuki elegantly walk down the stairs together. They say their final goodbyes as co-stars and depart to opposite sides of the theatre where they’re greeted with their teams.

You go to hand him his coat you’ve been hanging on to for the past ninety minutes, the scent of cologne finally fading after a suffocating hour and a half. Glancing at the director who heartily laughs with some of the editors of the movie, you let out a light chuckle.

“Hm? What’s so funny?” Satoru inquires as he shoves on his coat.

“You’re such a liar,” you say, shrugging as you and him exit the movie’s premiere together, some of the actor’s team following shortly after, conversing with another about how spectacular the movie was. “You’d rather throw yourself off a cliff than work with that guy again.”

Without looking at you, Satoru grins ahead. “You know me so well.”

Ijichi, the chauffeur, is waiting patiently outside the venue despite the winter cold. When he sights the many delighted smiles and laughter, he asks, “I take it the premiere went well?”

“Very,” you nod, getting into the car to enjoy its warmth.

The car ride is nothing out of the usual, just quiet jazz playing in the background and the city lights glimmer from above.

“Oh, what’s the agenda for tomorrow by the way?” Satoru asks, his gaze turning from the window to you, who still is focused on the tablet that checks off today’s draining tasks for the celebrity.

Photoshoot for Ray Ban… done. Look over next month’s plans for Season Two of Jujutsu Kaisen… done. Suit fitting for movie premiere… done. Movie premiere… done!

“(Y/N)~” Satoru calls again but dragging the last syllable of your name and snapping his fingers in front of you to capture your attention. He chuckles when you jolt in your seat.

“Sorry,” you mutter before swiping to tomorrow’s agenda. “Alright, nothing too big. You just gotta sign that contract that you’ll be the spokesperson for Chaumet, then right after, you have an Elle interview regarding the movie. Then, you’ll have a final dinner with the entire cast and that’s it for the week.”

Satoru nods in approval and obviously ready to take on tomorrow’s attacks. Only three things? He can handle that with ease. If anything, it’s been less of a load to bring on from the recent events that had been happening as of lately. His feet could really use a break from walking over so many red carpets.

The road begins to lead down a familiar path as you realize you pass the local family diner, your apartment’s entrance shortly coming to view. Ijichi slows to a stop and unlocks the door, letting you out. Before Satoru can say goodbye to his beloved manager, however, you stop the window from rolling up and lean down into the car again.

“Oh, I forgot to say this earlier, but,” you pause, making sure his attention is all on you for this short, but possibly life-alternating moment. “You’re also meeting your new manager tomorrow, too. She’s really sweet and—”

Time freezes for a moment.

“Wait a minute,” Satoru furrows his brows and faces his body completely towards you, his countenance pulling the curtains to reveal a confused, serious expression that rarely appears on his face. “New manager…? What do you mean?”

The question comes out more as a demand. Breath hitching for a short moment, you release it and smile gently with the corners not letting your eyes curve. You had been anticipating this moment for the longest time now—around half a year of decision making and weighing the pros and cons, then three months deciding when the right time to break the news would be. But at this time, you’ve ran out of time and you’ve ultimately decided to push it towards the day before the deadline, something you almost never do. A little solemnly, you sigh out softly and finally declare the groundbreaking news to the A-list celebrity, your head still high.

“I’ll be quitting as your manager, soon.”

Actor!Gojo, who doesn't get a good night sleep after that abrupt statement, in which you barely gave him time to try and ask why on earth you're giving up the job that many people would kill for, only leaving him with a small wave and a subtle "goodnight." Your voice replayed in his head the entire night, the sentence resembling nails on a chalkboard the more he repeated it to himself—"I'll be quitting as your manager, soon."

Actor!Gojo, who thinks you have the nerve to put on a smile and greet him good morning the following sunrise as if nothing happened, as if you weren't breaking a bond of nearly nine years with him. Your words for today’s plans go in and out of his ears as Satoru wearily examines your appearance and movements in the kitchen that he almost never uses as he rounds up his thoughts that poisoned his head ever since you said that all-too-bold statement last night that shifted his entire world in the matter of seconds.

Actor!Gojo, who cuts you off mid-sentence, asking you sharply why you're quitting as his manager out of the blue, his usually-playful baby blue hues piercing right into you. He notices your smile faltering a bit, but never completely dissipating, though it comes severely close to doing so when you tell him why.

Actor!Gojo, who listens much too intently for his liking when he hears you out, a feat he rarely does. "The past nine years have been wonderful, don't get me wrong," you murmur as you slather on a sugary marmalade on his toast. "But I don't think I'm really getting much out of life just being someone's manager."

Actor!Gojo, who pretends as if those last two words don't sting his chest. Someone's manager... as if he's not one of the most worshipped and celebrated A-list actors in the industry right now. But he supposes that's why he stuck by you, since you understood that he, too, was just a regular human being at the end of the day like the rest of humanity, even with his godlike good looks.

Actor!Gojo, whose mouth runs dry when you continue. "I don't want to be the side character to someone's story. I deserve to live fully too." you finish, pushing Gojo's plate of breakfast towards him before snacking on the leftovers. You stare at him, awaiting his response. You understand that despite you thinking over such a big decision for a few months, that it was better to rip off the bandaid and avoid any further complications by quitting unexpectedly, even though you knew Gojo better than anyone.

Actor!Gojo, who attempts to understand where you're coming from. Yes, he can get that maybe this life wasn't the most exciting, but then again, what other jobs out there are? At least with this one, you're guaranteed good—dare he say, great—pay and stability, along with experiencing second-hand what it's like to see all the glitz and glamour most of the population fiend for. It's thanks to him that you've been draped in designer clothes for premiers, that you've tried Michelin delicacies, that you've travelled the world. So... why ditch all of that for a more simple life? Aren't you content?

Actor!Gojo, whose mind flashes back to the moment where you stared a little too longingly at a lovesick couple in the window of a coffee shop, or when your eyes lingered on the engagement rings in a shop window that one day he had to get a suit tailored. He suddenly remembers the one dress rehearsal where he witnessed an extra asking for your number before you declined politely. He had asked you jokingly that you were blind to reject such a handsome guy (second to him, of course), only for you to reply you smiled gently at him and said you had no time to date.

Actor!Gojo, who suddenly blurts out without any restraint, and with a little more edge than expected, "What? D'you want to get married or something?"

Actor!Gojo, who regrets the sentence as soon as it escapes his lips. He swallows thickly and attempts to organize the right words for a proper apology. You stare blankly at him for a moment, and before Gojo can say anything, you nod. "Yeah. It's been a dream of mine to, actually..."

Actor!Gojo, who thinks his coffee tastes much bitter than usual, silently nods after a moment of awkward silence. You open your mouth first to try and cut it through, but he beats you to it. "I'm sure I could re-arrange some stuff in the schedule so you can get out there and meet someone. There's no need to quit." He ignores the weird pang in his chest the moment he says "someone."

Actor!Gojo, who frowns when you shake your head. You explain it would still be hard, as he'd remain your first priority despite it all. You mention that you've already submitted your resignation letter to his agency three weeks ago and that it's been processed, that it'll be your last two weeks as you being his manager and that you'll be saying goodbye to what had been nearly a decade of companionship with the celebrity.

Actor!Gojo, who flinches as the doorbell rings and watches miserably as you fetch the person at the door. She's a young girl, around the age when you first started as his manager, with choppy bangs and long blue hair, along with a bright and ready smile. You introduce her as his to-be manager, but Gojo can't shake off the thought of being greeted by her face in the morning and seeing her face as the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep instead of yours.

Actor!Gojo, who thinks this week is going much too fast for his liking. Despite essentially begging for the director of his latest TV show to give him some extra scenes to shoot, he was excused early with the rest of the crew after all the required scenes were shot nicely. Somehow, the brand deal commercial and meeting flew by much faster than usual, too. But despite it all, Gojo couldn't help his eyes constantly flickering to your figure whenever you were in his field of vision, even receiving multiple warnings from the director from the commercial to stop getting distracted.

Actor!Gojo, who finds his gaze lingering on a rather old picture of you and him, along with some blurry figures in the background. Nine years younger, both of you, with outdated fashion and makeup. He remembers you were just shy of being his manager for four months, when he was still trying to break out of the shell of being a nepotism baby and attempting to create a name for himself. Gojo prided himself on his independence, but he'd be fooling himself if he didn't give a hefty amount of credit of his success to you. After all, you were the one that was in charge of his many brand deals and were the one that landed him roles that granted him film awards.

Actor!Gojo, who can't find the right words to say during the drives home, hating how the air is always thick whenever you were alone with him. He doesn't think he can get used to not pulling up to your apartment when the night comes to an end before going to his, despite your affirmations that him and Miwa would get along great. He murmurs a good night to you, not facing you despite watching your reflection intently in the window, but before you wish him a good evening, you say something that forces him to face you.

"I have... a dinner reservation with someone at 6:30 p.m., so I'll be leaving early tomorrow."

Gojo blinks. "Is that implying you have a date?"

"I..." you swallow anticipatingly. "I suppose you could say that."

Actor!Gojo, who feels the familiar pang of his chest as the thought of someone else sharing a dinner with you, something you've been doing with him since the very beginning of his career. He can't even imagine a person, only some sort of foggy figure sitting across from you, sharing a shabby meal. He can tell you're waiting a response from him before you head into your apartment, and he wryly says, "That's great... Hope you have a good time or whatever..." before commanding the driver to drive off, not even waiting for another word from you.

Actor!Gojo, who drums his fingers with great boredom against the door's handle, fighting off the nuisance that was the city's insane traffic this evening. When he gazes out the window to find some other distraction other than his phone, however, he instantly finds himself drawn to a familiar figure being seated at the window a few stories up in the restaurant his car was stuck in front of. You're up there, dressed regally for another, giggling with them at something they said (something stupid, Gojo thinks to himself). Teeth grit against themselves when they feed you a small portion of their food with their fork, the indirect kiss making his eyes narrow.

Actor!Gojo, whose spontaneous anger suddenly dispels when he repeats your words from earlier that week.

"What? D'you want to get married or something?"

"Yeah. It's been a dream of mine to, actually..."

Gojo suddenly pauses and goes still for a while, thinking over something incredulous. He blinks repeatedly, before a grin etches on his face as his plan settles into his consciousness. Gojo may not give you anything you desire if you're just his mere manager...

... but if he were your husband, then that meant your dream would be fulfilled and you could stay at his side for what was essentially the rest of his life and give you anything you wanted. He'd never have to fret about you leaving his life ever again.

Satoru Gojo, you absolute Einstein... he compliments himself proudly in his mind. Letting out a confident huff as the car begins to drive on, he tells the driver to head on over to the nearest jewelry store before heading home.

a/n: hi sorry it's been a while! i was finishing up a semester at uni, so forgive my absence with this little weird hybrid ficlet of mine featuring the one and only

i hope you enjoyed and thank you for taking time out of your day to enjoy my writing! likes/comments/reblogs are always noticed and are always appreciated (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ !!!

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojou satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo x you #satoru x reader #gojo fluff #gojo smut #jjk fluff #jjk angst #geto suguru x reader #nanami x reader #drabbles #headcanons #jjk fanfic

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hollyoongs · 3 months ago

Text

𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ 𝗝𝗔𝗬's 𝗩𝗘𝗥 !

prólogo Patience. A virtue that Jay knew very well, used a lot when treating members or as when he expected an online purchase, he had it very controlled. Although you knew exactly how to make that virtue go to zero. [MASTERLIST]

elenco park jongseong x f!reader

género smut with plot

antes de leer brat!reader, brat tammer!jay, mean dom!jay, edging, use of sexual toy (vibrator), bondage (jay ties reader wrists), alcohol consumption, alcohol play (briefly by Jay), unprotected sex (are we surprised atp), orgasm denial, edging, rough sex, breeding, pet names (slut, brat, baby), degradation, let me know if i missed anything.

# palabras + 4k

You have lost count of how many warning looks Jay has given you in the last five minutes.

After finishing their last Coachella performance, all the members felt light knowing how they gave their all, no remorse, and checked that stage off their bucket lists. Being backstage with his dad beside you was a whole new experience, even more so when you two found yourselves tearing up, not being able to contain the pride.

You stayed for a while, congratulating the members left and right, and he didn't make you leave his side, nor your lips, not caring at all about the teasing comments made by his members—you could only laugh between kisses, your cheeks burning with happiness rather than embarrassment. The members started doing their own thing.

"Are you going to stay to see the rest of the shows?" You said, kissing the tip of his nose, an action that made him scrunch it.

"No, I’m actually going to the hotel room. They want me to make a Weverse live for my birthday." After he said that, you smiled. "Why?"

“Because I’m also leaving for the hotel. Your dad insists on taking me to the hotel safely.” He rolled his eyes before looking at his dad, who was more occupied taking pictures of the achievements of his son.

“Good thing we are staying in the same hotel.” You smiled at his words before giving him a peck.

“See you later, baby. Bye, guys!” The last part you screamed at, catching their attention as you waved dramatically with both hands, prompted a chorus of cheers and a few exaggerated whistles from the members.

You walked away backwards, still smiling, still waving, and caught one last look at him: tired but glowing, shoulders relaxed after all the performance.

The ride to the hotel was quiet and calm; it was a comfortable silence. His dad made some light conversation, but you could tell he was just as emotionally spent. When you got to the lobby, he handed you your room key, gave you a sincere pat on the back, and gave you a knowing smile.

Back in your room, the first thing you did was to open your bag. The first thing that catches your eye is exactly what you were looking for, a black plastic bag that contained your very first lingerie, something that you bought a few weeks ago for this day. You neatly put the pieces on top of your bed, and your eyes widen a little bit when you see the lack of coverage. Sure, lingerie was supposed to do that.

The pieces themselves were beautiful; the black color with delicate lace was eye-catching, but it was bold itself—and definitely bolder than anything you’d ever worn before. You ran your fingers over the soft fabric, the intricate patterns of the lace. The bra had thin straps and a dainty bow in the center, while the bottoms were barely there, cut high and trimmed with the same lace. Your heart pounded just a little harder now.

You entered the shower, this time, your routine even more elaborate than usual. Shampoo, conditioner, hair gloss, bar soap, body scrub—you used everything because tonight felt like it deserved more. The steam wrapped around you like a gentle hug, and you took your time, the intention clear as the day, to feel like your best self for him and you. The fact that you were doing this out of love and confidence, not obligation, crashed you, bringing a smile to your face.

By the time you stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged. You wiped a small circle and caught your reflection—flushed and glistening. You wrapped yourself in a towel and padded back into the bedroom, where the lingerie still waited patiently on the bed.

Getting dressed felt like stepping into another version of yourself—one that was still you, just sexier. Hair and makeup were done many songs later, you stood again to go to the bathroom to grab the body lotion, unconsciously checking yourself out.

“Fuck, I look hot,” you admit to your reflection, and even though it made you giggle, the words felt good—true. You noticed the way the lace hugged your curves, the bold contrast against your skin, and, of course, the minimal changes to your makeup that made the look complete.

You dabbed on your favorite perfume—ears, thighs, every key point of your body that you knew he loved to kiss. The scent mingled with the soft air of the hotel room, mixing with the scent of the apple cinnamon candles you lit up. Walking back to your back, you took out the outfit of the night, the same outfit as your first date: a black leather mini skirt with your loose white cropped button-up, his oversized leather jacket of the same color that you stole, and your boots.

You dressed up easily, satisfied with the overall result after not seeing the lingerie peeking. The gloss you accidentally brought to the bathroom was now useful as you gave your lips another coat of it. You speed up, blowing off all the candles to pick up your phone. Jay has been live for almost fifteen minutes, even sending you a message that he would be alone doing that live way before he started it. Oh, you truly took your sweet time.

With the room key card in hand, you rushed to the elevator. The elevator dinged softly as you reached Jay’s floor, stepping out quietly while keeping your head low. The hallway was empty, and you padded toward his door with the same knock you used every time you visited him under the radar.

“Oh, wait. It’s probably a staff member.” You could hear the chair being moved, and soon the door opened. He looked at you completely wide-eyed, mouth agape, as his eyes scanned you. “Wow… you look, wow.”

“Came a little early, hope you don’t mind.” You said low enough so only he can be the only one hearing, and his hand travels to yours to make you do a small turn on the same spot, seeing a smile on his face.

“Is this the outfit that I think it is?” You smiled in affirmation, and he happily nodded. “Wait for me for five minutes; I’m still answering questions right now.” You softly pecked his lips before moving away, easily making your way to the sofa in his room thanks to the wide distance that helped you pass without touching the camera.

The space where he was streaming was decorated with a shiny blue metallic tinsel curtain, silver ‘Happy Birthday’ balloons with other ones, and on top of the table a cake shaped like a guitar. “Sorry, the staff came to check on everything.”

He went back to answer questions in both English and Korean; his voice for you was magnetic. How he always found the words so easily and expressed himself with such grace was the first thing that attracted you to him. He looked so relaxed, phone in his hand as he comfortably manspread on the chair.

You sat quietly on the couch, legs crossed, hands neatly intertwined over your skirt to behave as patiently as possible. Five minutes turned into fifteen, and you found yourself growing a little desperate; the idea that was creating in your head was risky, way too risky. You took your jacket off and later your shoes. After neatly folding the jacket, you stood up, walking right behind the camera so that Jay could have a look at you.

His eyes went directly to yours for a quick moment before looking at the camera again, your fingers going directly to the buttons of your shirt to reveal the top part of the lingerie. Jay's eyes went back to you in an instant; his face was using every muscle of it to not make a face, but his eyes couldn't leave alone your nipples that were visible on that lingerie and the way the lace curved perfectly over your chest.

You watched him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, his hand subtly tightening around the phone as he answered another comment, his voice wavering while responding with something generic about his favorite birthday memory. He couldn’t fool you; his eyes focused on the lens, but they kept darting back to you. He was being too patient.

You could tell you were playing with his patience as you kept going, fingers now working slowly on the zipper of your skirt and carefully taking it off your body, bare legs revealed, and so your thong. The entire image of you made his ears turn pink. He shifted in his seat before sighing.

“Hold on, let me take this cake off. I promise I will eat this later." He took the cake and quickly moved to you, leaving the cake on another table in the hotel room. “Can you please behave?”

“No, and you know how excited I get when I give you a present.” You covered your index finger with a little of the whipped cream from the cake, licking it as you locked eyes with him; his jaw got tense, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

“I will finish in a couple of minutes. Cut it,” he said, before leaving you to go back to sit and focus on the last few minutes of the stream. You smiled innocently, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb. He sat back down, and before you did on the couch, you went to grab the wine bottle. You felt his gaze on your ass as you carefully poured the liquid into a glass. When you sat on the couch, you purposely let your legs fall open just enough to let him see the string that barely covered your entrance.

The moment you decided to look back at him, your free hand had a mind of its own, slowly making its way to your entrance. The route that your fingers were taking, so did Jay’s eyes, after going back to the phone.

You tapped a little before concentrating your index and middle fingers on your clit, causing a delicious friction that caused you to softly bite your lower lip, covering the whimper that was threatening to escape from your mouth. Jay didn’t look at you again after that. Not even once. He kept his gaze firmly on his phone, answering the last few comments, bowing politely, and thanking fans for their birthday wishes in that gentle tone of his.

You kept your movements slow through the lace, head falling back against your couch with your eyes fluttering, but you made sure he got the full view of just how much you were enjoying yourself, preparing for him.

“I’ll see you in our next album… Uh, what was it?” Jay’s voice stumbled slightly when he was finally saying his last words, the smallest stumble in his normally flawless tone—and it made you feel like you won.

You pressed a little harder, hips subtly lifting from the couch, the friction driving you mad as much as you knew it was driving him mad. His eyes were moving quickly as he was trying to remember and not to look at you. “Desire: Unleash. I’ll see you there. Thank you.”

You didn’t even hear how he stood up to end the stream, only hearing how rushed it was, footsteps loud enough to make you know he was coming. You barely had time to breathe before Jay was standing over you, grabbing the wine glass from your hand and setting it down with a sharp clink on the side table. His hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, pulling it away from your core, your wetness glistening on your fingertips.

"Such a fucking brat," he muttered under his breath.

You smirked up at him, truly enjoying the moment. "You were taking too long. I had to entertain myself. I even prepared myself, see?"

You took his hand as you guided him inside the throng, letting him feel just how soaked you were. His fingers slipped easily against your folds, the lace doing little to hide the heat of your skin. Jay's breath stopped for a second—just for a second—before he yanked his hand back with a low growl.

There was no humor in the way he dragged you up from the couch and into his chest, holding your wrists behind your back with one hand. You gasped at the sudden loss of freedom, knowing how you fucked it up, but it will be worth it.

"You think you can touch what's mine without permission?" He said lowly against your ear, his lips brushing your skin and making you shiver. "You think you can act like a little slut in front of me and not expect consequences?"

Your knees nearly buckled at his words, but he suddenly threw you to the bed. There were a few presents in the room, and he undid the bow of one gift, coming back to you to tie it around your wrist to the headboard of the bed. “Since you can’t behave, you don’t get to touch anything unless I say so.”

Your head got tilted up by him, his eyes showing dominance as he scanned the lingerie, your legs closed. “What are you wearing?”

“Your birthday present, wanted to try something new,” you said in a sweet tone, even batting your lashes —causing Jay to smirk. His fingertips traced the bow at your wrists with an almost featherlight touch.

“You always think you can get away with anything just because you look cute.” You tried shifting your legs, but he caught the movement instantly, his hands gripping your thighs and pushing them apart so you could be completely exposed to him. “And this is supposed to be my birthday present?”

He stood up to grab the glass of wine you left forgotten and soon came back. He drank a little himself, and you could see his Adam's apple going up and down, savoring the alcohol.

“You were touching yourself without my permission.” He looked at the amount he left on the glass, bringing it closer to your chest and pouring a little on top of your breasts, his tongue touching your skin as it went up to your neck. You moaned at the feeling, unconsciously turning your head to the opposite side he was going for.

His lips grazed your ear, biting it lightly. “You think that’s allowed, baby?”

You shook your head, more focused on trying not to think about the fire between your thighs that was turning unbearable. “No… but it felt so good,” you whined, tugging the restraint instinctively, the need to touch him increasing.

“And you are still being a brat.” With his free hand, he tore the thong down your legs, the fabric snapping against your skin before it hit the floor; the sudden roughness made your eyes wide. The glass was forgotten once again on the table next to his bed, soon positioning himself between your trembling thighs.

“You want to be good for me now, baby?” He asked, kissing on top of your knee, slowly working his way up your thigh.

“Y-yes,”

“Too late,” Jay smirked, his hands now on your hip to hold you down. “Brats get punished.” Before you could beg, his mouth was on you — everywhere but where you needed him the most. From his thighs to even the curve of your belly, he delivered kisses and even little nips. You whimpered, tugging uselessly at the ribbon.

“Jay, please…” you moaned as he sucked a spot on the back of your ear. His hand grabbed your face, and his lips were on yours. You were surprised by how he sucked your tongue, the new sensation stimulating enough to make you moan into his mouth; your head was already fuzzy.

His touch left your body again to look for his bag, moving around until he found something; your mouth opened a little when you focused your whole attention on it. “I bought this to use after Coachella since I remembered how badly you wanted one.”

He left the small vibrator on the table to take off all his clothes, right in front of you, chuckling a little as you got yourself loose in his body, “But I will ask you, can I use it on you?”

“Yes, love. Y-you can; you earned it.” A satisfied smile appeared on his face; he grabbed his phone to connect it and then placed it right on top of your aching clit. The chair that he used to sit in minutes before was dragged to be in front of the bed, right where you were. He sat there, his right hand grabbing his cock while the left one was holding his phone.

Jay leaned back lazily, stroking himself at a very slow pace at the view of you. The sudden movement of the vibrator made your whole body jolt, making you gasp as your hips bucked against the buzz. The noises you made were music to Jay’s ears.

“You’re such a view, baby. All tied up, dripping just from a little toy, and my cock in your line of sight.” Your body heated even more, bothered by the fact of how good he was making you feel even without doing anything. “Not so cocky now, baby?”

You licked your lips when you saw how his thumb was running over the head of his cock, spreading the precum that was already leaking there; your answer was a broken moan, tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

Jay tilted his head at you, and you wanted to assume it was almost sympathetic. "You’re close already, aren't you?" he said, smirking when he saw the way your body shivered in a desperate attempt to hold yourself back. "Poor thing. Haven't even touched you properly yet."

You nodded frantically; your body was screaming for him. He leaned forward slightly, teasing himself with long, quite lazy strokes while his thumb on his phone hovered over the intensity levels of the vibrator.

"Here’s the deal, baby," he murmured. "You're not allowed to cum until I say so. You even think about cumming without permission, and I'll leave you tied up and begging all night. Understood?"

"Y-yes,"

"Good girl." The praise nearly shattered you, but not as much as the vibrator that turned up a notch.

“Fuck, Jay!” You sobbed his name, feeling your body jerk with the sudden spike in pleasure. He watched you like it was the best show he’d ever seen; his hand also sped up into stroking his cock.

"You look so fucking pretty when you're desperate," Jay growled. "Bet your pussy's clenching around nothing, huh? So empty, so needy for me…"

“Yes, baby.” You whimpered, rolling your hips in tiny circles against the vibrator without thinking, chasing the high that was building far too fast.

Jay caught that instantly. "Ah, ah," he said sharply, turning the toy off completely.

You cried out in frustration, shaking your head. "No, no, please, Jay, please—"

"You're not listening," he tsked, standing up from the chair and towering over you. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, so close, yet so out of reach. "Bad girls don't get to cum."

The tears that welled up in your eyes were actually threatening to fall from how devastatingly good he made you feel even when he was denying you everything. He knelt on the bed, one hand gripping your chin roughly to make you look him dead in the eyes.

"You’re going to learn," he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours for a second, "that your pussy belongs to me and my cock is yours, baby."

His lips went to yours again, a sharp slap on your pussy that caused you to let out a gasp against his lips. "And you’ll cum when I tell you to," he said, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you moan before pulling back.

Without another word, he turned the vibrator back on, pressing it harder against your swollen, throbbing clit, immediately throwing you back into a writhing mess. He teased you completely — turning it up, then down, removing it altogether just when you felt yourself start to tip over the edge, smirking every time you sobbed in frustration, your consistent hip movements making the bed move.

"I could do this all night," he said, dragging the vibrator slowly up and down your folds, teasing your entrance before bringing it back to your clit. "Until you're crying and begging properly."

"Please," you gasped out, voice shaking, tears finally slipping down your temples. "I'll be good, Jay, I swear, just—"

"That's it," he said, finally satisfied. "That's the voice I wanted." Jay climbed fully onto the bed now, lining himself up between your trembling thighs. He turned off the vibrator, tossing it aside, and you cried out again at the loss, only for him to grip the base of his cock and rub the head along your dripping entrance, a relieved gasp leaving your mouth.

"You want this?" he asked, his voice wrecked with restraint.

"Yes," you sobbed. "God, yes, Jay. I need you so bad." Without warning, he slammed into you in one hard, perfect thrust. Your scream echoed off the walls, and you were sorry for the member next door. He didn’t give you time to adjust, starting to pound into you mercilessly, hands gripping your legs to be up so tight you knew there would be bruises later. His cock stretched you perfectly, every thrust hitting so deep you saw stars behind your eyes.

"You're mine," he growled into your ear. "Say it."

"Yours, yours, only yours," you babbled, delirious with pleasure, mindless under the feeling of him finally fucking you the way you needed. His right hand went to the ribbon, untying it fast just to have you grab your own legs, his hands now on the headboard as he increased his speed. “I love you, Jay.”

“I love you more, baby. Fuck, this pussy feels like heaven.” You two were a vocal mess, so consumed by the pleasure that you were not caring about anything. “Wrap your legs around me.”

You did as he said; he pushed you up a little so you two were face-to-face, his pace never slowed down, and despite you trying to actually look at his eyes, the orgasm you had to hold was ready to snap.

“Shit, Jay, let me cum, please.” Your walls were squeezing him, his cock twitching inside you as he tried so hard to hold himself back just a little longer, but you felt so good he would do it at the same time as you.

"Cum for me," he finally ordered with his forehead pressed to yours, the same desperation you had plastered on his tone. “Let go, baby. Give it to me.”

You came so hard it was blinding, your body locking up, squeezing his cock so tightly he cursed loudly, fucking you through it, not slowing down for a second. A few messy and frantic strokes were enough to bury himself deep as his hot and overwhelming release stayed inside you.

Jay kissed you as you broke apart underneath him, his hands everywhere soothing you. “You did so good for me.” Soft kisses were now delivered over your jaw and cheeks. “So fucking perfect for me.”

He pulled out as carefully as he could, laying you back down, and he did the same right next to you, pulling you into his chest immediately, his arms wrapping tightly around you. You nuzzled into him; your body was completely spent, and your heart was pounding against your ribs.

You tilted your chin up, gazing up to meet his eyes, the same eyes he always puts on when he sees you, or how he likes to say, ‘the look of love.’

“Happy birthday and wrap of Coachella,” you said against his lips. Your throat was hurting, although that was not your concern at the moment. He laughed a little at the sudden sentence.

“Best birthday ever… Sorry if I was too rough, baby.”

“I loved it; I would do that again.”

TAGLIST (OPEN): @heesexual74 @vixialuvs @riqomi @beomgyus11 @starry-eyed-bimbo @rawrrxan @veilstqr @k1ttyjwon @fancypeacepersona @kittympirty (COMMENT TO BE ADDED)

─── JAYCHELLA! posted right on time (11: 15) i think this one is the longest of all this serie, i decided to not only do jaychella but also join his birthday with it, two in one you can say. see you tomorrow with jake's!

#𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗹𝑦𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠! ৎ ˚⋅#enhypen x reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #enhypen jay #jay smut #park jongseong smut #enhypen coachella #enchella

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heliosunny · 2 months ago

Text

Steam beneath the surface

Veritas Ratio x Reader

You never understood what you did to make him hate you. First day of class and Dr. Ratio already had it out for you.

“Since no one is volunteering” he said flatly, “you’ll answer, Y/N.”

Again.

That made three times today.

The others chuckled under their breath, some with pity, some with that cruel glee that came from not being the one in the crosshairs. You sat stiffly at your desk, mind racing as you tried to recall whatever abstract theory he was droning about just seconds ago. You muttered a passable answer. He tilted his head—barely.

“Acceptable,” he murmured. “If we’re grading on mercy.”

What was his problem?

Because what you didn’t know -what none of his students knew- was that when the sun dipped and the academic world clocked out, Ratio worked another job. Not for the money, of course. No, he worked at the bathhouse in the old part of town. The quiet, traditional kind.

> One Week Before the Semester <

You had just passed the bathhouse's old stone gate, scrolling your phone, barely glancing at the sign outside. There was something vaguely elegant about the place, but you were just cutting through to shave a few minutes off your walk home.

You didn’t even notice the man in the open hallway.

“Don’t use your phone around here” came his voice.

You didn’t hear him. Your music was too loud.

He stood still, watching your retreating back, a shadow stretching behind him in the lantern light.

You hadn’t meant to trespass into his sanctuary.

But you had.

> Present <

“Y/N!” Dr. Ratio called from the front of the classroom, barely glancing up from the papers he was sorting. “Stay after class. We need to discuss your participation.”

A few classmates ooh’d quietly. This was the third time this week.

You gathered your things slowly, annoyed but trying not to show it. You hadn’t even done anything wrong. But Dr. Ratio had zeroed in on you from day one. Always picking you for questions, assigning you "extra practice" making snide comments about your "disengaged energy."

“Tell me, Y/N,” he said, setting down his pen and folding his hands on the desk, “do you enjoy underperforming, or is this a performance art piece I should grade more generously?”

“I’m not underperforming.”

“You’re not present,” he said. “Mentally, emotionally, or otherwise.”

You frowned. “I think you’re reading way too much into this.”

“Oh, I always read too much into things,” he murmured, “It’s how I stay ahead.”

“I’m assigning you weekly reports. On everything we cover. Typed. Double length.”

“What? Why?”

“To help you focus. And because I said so.”

You clenched your jaw. “Isn’t that excessive?”

“Excess,” he said, “is what’s required when prevention is the goal.”

You stared at him, baffled.

> Later That Week – The Bathhouse <

You were tired. Between the surprise reports, Ratio’s constant hovering, and whatever personal vendetta he seemed to have against your existence, you needed a reset. And where better than the bathhouse you passed by so often?

It was quiet that evening, just like before. The air inside was warm, damp, and heavy with the scent of wood and herbal steam. You slipped off your shoes, dropped some coins into the slot, and entered the changing room without a second thought.

A cold splash suddenly hit your side.

You gasped, twisting sharply as water soaked the edge of your clothes. A wooden bucket clattered against the tile, still dripping.

“What the hell—?”

“Oh,” came a voice you knew too well, “it’s you.”

There he was. Wearing a simple yukata tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up, a mop leaning against the wall beside him. His damp hair clung slightly to his forehead.

“You… work here?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“I clean,” he said simply. “Among other things.”

“You splashed me.”

“I was cleaning,” he repeated, his tone was everything but apologetic.

“…Right.”

You turned slightly, intending to just continue whatever you were doing, maybe pretend none of this happened.

But Ratio’s voice followed you like a hook behind the ribs.

“Planning to tell anyone?”

“What?”

“About seeing me here.”

You scoffed, frowning. “Why would I care?”

You finished your soak in the mineral bath, tension slowly easing from your shoulders. The brief exchange with Ratio still lingered in your mind but you pushed it aside. He was just your teacher. Weird, maybe even a little paranoid—but harmless.

You dried off, changed, and left, humming to yourself.

It wasn’t until you got home that you realized your headphones were gone.

> The Next Morning – Faculty Office <

You tapped on the frame of the open door. Ratio’s office was dark except for the natural light pouring through the blinds, slanting across piles of paper. And there, sitting right on the edge of his desk, were your headphones.

He looked up from a stack of graded essays. “You’re early.”

“I left those at the bathhouse,” you said, trying to sound neutral. “Can I have them back?”

“I’m holding them for observation” he said.

You blinked. “They’re just headphones.”

“Which is what I would say, too, if I were trying to convince someone they weren’t bugged.”

“…What?”

He set his pen down slowly, folding his hands in front of him. “You think very little of my intelligence, if you assume I’d overlook the possibility of surveillance.”

You stared. “They're literally from a convenience store—”

“Low-budget cover. Clever. But not clever enough.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You couldn’t be rude. He was your teacher.

So you just sat there.

That’s it, you thought later that day. He asked for it.

You started small.

Chalk balanced on the door.

He caught it.

Switched the sugar in his office drawer with salt.

He sipped his coffee, adjusted his glasses, and said, “My tolerance for bitterness must be improving.”

You tried slipping a fake notice into his inbox about a mandatory dress code violation.

He didn’t even react, just circled the typo in red ink and pinned it to the board labeled “AMATEUR ATTEMPTS” with your handwriting copied underneath.

It was infuriating.

Despite his personality, or maybe because of it, Dr. Ratio had a strange pull in the school. Students tried to flirt with him, constantly.

None of it landed.

He never entertained it beyond a dry “I’d advise focusing on graduating before fantasizing.”

But the weirdest part?

They liked that.

And he wasn’t the only one.

There was another teacher, Aventurine, who always hovered close to Ratio’s orbit.

They were opposites, but close.

Rumor had it they shared lunch daily.

Students’ attempts to flirt or get attention were met with condescending amusement. Like watching children play pretend.

> Two Weeks Later <

You stopped going to the bathhouse.

Whatever peace it once gave you had been ruined.

The idea of seeing him in that setting again made your stomach twist. Curse him. Curse his cryptic attitude and his obsession with making you the center of everything. You hoped his numbers dropped now that you were gone.

Your focus shifted. With all the extra reports he assigned, you didn’t have much choice. Pages and pages of analysis, summaries, theories—Ratio turned your free time into a footnote. But strangely… after a while… he stopped.

He stopped assigning you extra work.

It was like the storm had passed.

Maybe he realized he overdid it. Maybe he was wrong, and too prideful to admit it out loud. Either way, you weren’t about to ask.

Fine. Let him go back to whatever twisted little schemes he cooked up in his free time.

You ignored him.

You reminded yourself—he’s just a teacher.

That afternoon, your grandma sent you out with a neat list folded in half. Groceries: soy sauce, tofu, green onions, some sweet buns she liked. You took the usual shortcut through the shopping street.

As you exited the small bakery, plastic bag in hand, you heard laughter.

Your eyes flicked toward the source instinctively.

There he was, standing under the warm glow of an old lamp post, speaking with a small group of bathhouse guests—well-dressed, older types who clearly respected him. He wore his casual yukata again.

He smiled at something one of them said.

And then—his eyes caught yours.

He soon looked away.

You stood there for a beat longer than you should’ve, then kept walking. Your feet hit the pavement faster now. You didn't look back.

You returned home in silence.

But the entire way, you felt the heat of his gaze pressed against your back, even though he wasn’t following.

----

It was just a quiet Saturday afternoon. You were upstairs, scrolling through your phone while half-listening to music.

Then you heard voices. The first one is your grandma's.

You frowned, sitting up. You didn’t remember her saying anyone was coming over.

You stood at the top of the stairs, then froze.

Him. In your house.

Your first instinct was to retreat. Maybe out the window. Maybe fake illness. Anything but dealing with this. But it was too late. Your grandma called out sweetly, “Why didn’t you tell me your teacher was visiting, dear? You should’ve warned me so I could prepare tea!”

You descended slowly, blinking in disbelief. “I didn’t know he was coming…”

Ratio sat on the floor cushion.

He gave a faint, respectful bow. “Apologies for the sudden visit. I was nearby delivering materials to another household. I figured I’d return this before it got forgotten.”

He held up your headphones.

You stepped forward hesitantly. “You could’ve just… given them to me at school.”

“Some things are better returned in a proper setting.”

What the hell did that mean? You took them quickly. Your fingers brushed his. His skin was colder than expected.

Your grandma kept talking, but you barely registered it. All you could think of was the way he looked at you.

Like he was dissecting something.

After a quick chat and polite exchange, he excused himself and asked if he could speak with you 'briefly outside.'

You obliged, unsure why.

“You stopped showing up.”

“…To the bathhouse? It’s not like we had a standing appointment.”

"No. But you didn’t even say goodbye."

You scoffed. "Why would I?"

"Fair." His tone didn’t change, but something in his stare sharpened. "Just thought you’d be more consistent."

Then he stepped away with a nod, as if this was perfectly normal behavior.

-----

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

What was he trying to prove?

You lost track of time during his lecture. Your notes trailed off into nonsense halfway through the second blackboard.

“Y/N” he called, not even turning from his writing.

You snapped to attention.

A piece of chalk whizzed past your head.

“Focus” he said, still facing the board.

Later that week, you were sent to deliver a stack of paperwork—probably punishment for not dodging Ratio’s chalk faster the day before. You balanced the forms carefully as you navigated the quiet hallway.

The door to Ratio’s office was already ajar.

You knocked lightly and stepped in, only to freeze mid-step.

A student stood in front of his desk, clearly flustered, holding out a small envelope, probably spritzed with perfume if the scent in the air meant anything.

Dammit. You walked in on a confession.

“…I’ve admired you since last semester. I—I just thought you should know.”

He reached for a stamp. Pressed it onto a document without lifting his eyes.

“Admiration is not the same as understanding,” he said. “Please redirect your energy toward something measurable—like improving your test scores.”

The student’s expression crumbled.

You slowly backed up, trying to pretend you were not there, not part of this disaster. But his eyes flicked toward you in the same moment the student turned to leave.

You quickly approached his desk, dumped the paperwork, and muttered, “Delivery.”

Ratio’s voice followed as you turned to leave. “Do try to watch your step.”

“Huh?”

Your foot hit a small box.

You yelped as your balance vanished, but you didn’t land on the floor.

Your hands gripped his sleeves.

Well that was...

Then a laugh echoed behind you.

“Ohhh, what’s this now?”

You turned, and there stood Aventurine, leaning in the doorway. His grin said everything.

“I leave for five minutes and you’re already catching students in your arms?” Aventurine teased, striding in with a swagger that made you want to melt into the floor. “Is this what the paperwork’s hiding these days?”

Ratio gave him a withering look. “It’s your toy box.”

“Crafting kit,” Aventurine corrected, reaching for the package you’d tripped on. “Limited edition. Very important.”

You stepped away from Ratio quickly, brushing off your sleeves. “I didn’t see anything. I’m going.”

But Aventurine wasn’t done.

“Oh, no no.” He stopped you from leaving, facing Ratio with a wider grin. “I never thought you’d fall before me. You owe me dinner if you make it official, you know.”

Ratio simply returned to stamping papers.

You fled before either of them could say another word.

You cursed every god that ever existed when you saw Aventurine.

Leaning against your school gate with the same smirk, the same posture, the same glint in his eyes that had always meant trouble. You knew that smirk.

He used to live next door to you. You used to babysit his pet.

And now he was a teacher.

Worse, he remembered everything.

“Hey, neighbor. Or is it ex-neighbor?” he greeted, sliding into step beside you as if he hadn’t been absent from your life for years. “You know, I’ve been thinking—I should drop by again sometime. Say hi to your grandma. Maybe dig up that photo album she keeps. You remember the one with the duck pajamas?”

You glared. “That was ten years ago.”

He winked. “And yet, timeless.”

From that day forward, he never left you alone. Probably, just probably, he was trying to get anything from you that could be used against Ratio.

Between classes. After school. Even during lunch, he’d somehow “run into you.” Ruffling your hair. Poking your cheek and saying things like, “Still as pouty as ever.”

And of course, always right in front of Ratio.

He didn’t say anything at first.

When Aventurine appeared beside you, Dr. Ratio’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

To avoid anything that would happen out of his control.

He’d call on you to run some errands.

That day you stayed after class, Ratio set a new boundary.

“Do you enjoy his company?” Ratio asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“You know who. He seems to be around you quite a bit.”

“We’ve known each other for a while. He’s just teasing.”

“Is that all it takes to make you smile like that?”

“…Excuse me?”

He didn’t clarify. “Just an observation.”

He dismissed you with a wave.

But the truth is, he’d underestimated you. He couldn't sleep that night, thinking back everything he has ever done.

At first, he thought you were a troublemaker.

Well he hates people figuring out his second job and all.

And you somehow kept showing up in this peaceful life of his.

But now?

He’d grown used to your presence.

No.

Maybe if he stop worrying over such things, his life will be just like before.

Yes, that's it.

-----

You swore you’d never come back here.

And yet, here you were. Because your grandma had that look in her eye. The “I want to relax, and I’m dragging you with me” kind of look. You couldn’t say no, not after everything she’s done for you. So while she headed off for a soak, you wandered near the refreshment corner, cracking open a cold bottle of milk and parking yourself on a stool by the fogged-up window.

And then he walked in.

His hair was still damp, slightly messy like he’d just run a hand through it. The robe hung loose, gaping just enough to show a glimpse of toned collarbones and a frame that looked more like a personal trainer’s than a teacher’s. A towel was draped over one shoulder, but unlike the rest of us, flushed and scrambling after practice, he looked completely unbothered.

You looked. Just a flicker of attention, half a second longer than you meant to.

He noticed. His foot hovered mid-step. Then that slow tilt of his head, eyes locking onto yours with quiet, amused precision. Like he’d been waiting for it.

“Staring at others in public isn’t polite, you know.”

“I wasn’t—!”

“You were. I wonder, should I assign you a reflection paper on boundaries and professionalism?”

You glared, taking another sip of milk just to avoid speaking. You couldn’t argue. Not here. Not in front of your grandma, who was somewhere behind the sliding doors and would not tolerate “talking back to adults.”

A voice cut through the air.

“There you are!”

You both turned at the same time.

A woman, clearly a guest, approached with an air of flirtation so thick it made your teeth ache. She didn’t even glance your way, too busy pressing into Ratio’s space, her fingers grazing his arm like she had every right to.

“Oh, you’re so tense,” she purred, tracing a line down his bicep. “Do you work out? Or is it just natural…?”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t move, but he didn’t return the gesture either. You couldn't watch another second of this trainwreck. The pawing, the baby-talk voice - fucking disgusting. She might as well have started licking him right there in public.

“That’s enough,” you said sharply, stepping between them. “You’re making him uncomfortable.”

The woman blinked, as if noticing you for the first time. Her lip curled.

“And who are you?”

Ratio’s voice cut clean through the tension.

“We’re in a relationship.”

Your stomach dropped, like -what the hell? but you recovered fast. “Security, actually.”

You snatched the towel off Ratio’s shoulder and dunked it in the nearby basin. “And you’re harassing guests.”

The woman barely had time to shriek before you flicked a wall of water straight at her. “The fuck—?”

“Bathhouse rules.” You wrung out the towel with a sharp twist. “Now move.”

Ratio watched, impassive, as she scrambled back, makeup running. “You—you—” She finally stomped off, slippers slapping like a drowned cat retreating.

You tossed the towel back at Ratio. “In a relationship? Seriously?”

He caught it without blinking. "It was the first thing that came to mind."

"Wow." You wiped your hands on your pants, grinning. "You suck at chasing women away, huh?"

"And you're exceptionally good at it. I should assign extra credit. A 5,000-word essay on conflict de-escalation techniques, perhaps?"

"You wouldn't."

"3,000 words. Due Monday."

"I yield!" You threw your hands up. "Next time I'll just let her climb you like a jungle gym!"

----

You started dreaming of him.

Not his voice. Not his face.

Just… him. Specifically: Professor Ratio shirtless in the bathhouse steam, towel hanging dangerously loose, water sliding down those unfairly sculpted shoulders like even physics was simping.

You’d wake up pissed.

Why him? Why your brain’s insistence on rendering him in 4K detail?

But dreams don’t negotiate.

Last Tuesday, you dreamed he hugged you, except it was less hug and more biceps chokehold. You tapped out. He didn’t let go. You woke up wheezing into your pillow, half-convinced you could still smell his cologne.

Then came the bad one: Ratio waiting in a dark classroom, idly curling a 50lb dumbbell. "You’ve been skipping lectures" he said, smiling. "Let’s… discuss your attendance." You ran, then woke up as the dumbbell whooshed toward your face.

You tried to ignore it at school. You really did.

But then the tiniest things started catching your attention.

Like how he always wore his shirt buttoned perfectly, until he was too distracted grading to notice one undone near his collarbone.

Or the way his sleeves rolled up just enough when he leaned over a desk.

The line of his throat when he tilted his head.

It got harder to hate him.

----

The exam period hit Ratio like a freight train.

You barely saw him on campus anymore, just fleeting glimpses of his back as he vanished into faculty meetings, or the ominous click of his office door locking mid-conversation with the dean. Rumor was he’d taken over grading three departments’ worth of papers after a colleague quit.

Which made it infuriating that he somehow still worked more shifts at the bathhouse.

You caught him one evening, as he scrubbed the mineral stains from the soaking pools. His hair was a mess, his knuckles red from hot water.

“Staring is rude.”

You jerked your gaze up. Ratio hadn’t even turned around.

“I wasn’t— You look like hell.”

“Eloquent.” He wrung out his rag. “If you’re here to complain about your exam score, I finished grading those at 4 AM. My patience is—”

“I’m here to help.”

Ratio finally turned around.

“Help, huh?”

“You’re clearly drowning.” You snatched the spare apron off the hook. “So here’s the deal: I work your bathhouse shifts. You get to sleep for once. And in exchange…”

You paused. He waited.

“You stop failing people for breathing wrong in class.”

Ratio’s expression didn’t change. “No.”

“And,” you barreled on, “you teach me how to get—” You gestured vaguely at all of him.

“…A doctorate?”

“That!” You pointed accusingly. “That right there is why no one likes you!”

Ratio exhaled through his nose. For a terrifying second, you thought he might actually laugh. Instead, he tossed you the rag.

“Terms amended: You assist, I consider curbing fail rates. The rest is delusional.”

“You literally look like a Renaissance statue.”

“And you,” he said, stepping past you to grab a bucket, “have the work ethic of a napping cat.”

You grinned. “So we’re agreed?”

Ratio didn’t answer. But when you showed up the next day, he’d left an extra uniform out.

---

Aventurine’s entrance was about as subtle as a firework in a library.

One moment, you were elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the bathhouse tiles. The next, a familiar voice purred directly into your ear

“Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little workaholic.”

You jumped, sending suds flying—straight into the face of your childhood menace-turned-unwelcome-admirer. Aventurine blinked, water dripping from his unfairly long lashes. Then, slowly, he grinned.

“Missed me that much, huh?”

“I missed the days when you moved away.” you shot back, wiping your hands on your apron.

Aventurine just laughed, leaning against the counter like he owned the place. “Heard you were playing bathhouse attendant now. Had to see it for myself.” His gaze flicked over your uniform.

You were about to retort when the temperature in the room dropped.

“The standard bathing time,” came a voice like iced tea, “is thirty minutes.”

“Professor! Didn’t know you moonlighted as a lifeguard.”

“Twenty-five minutes”

Aventurine opened his mouth.

“Twenty.”

“Oh-ho? Someone’s territorial—”

“Fifteen.”

Aventurine, wisely, threw his hands up and sauntered off—but not before winking at you. “Save me the hot spring next time, yeah?”

The second he vanished, Ratio exhaled through his nose. “That is your neighbor? You sure he didn't escape from any prison or mental hospital?”

“Regrettably.”

“He’s banned from the cedar baths.”

“We don’t have cedar baths.”

Ratio didn’t smile. But the way he nudged the hot water valve just a little hotter as Aventurine yelped in the distance? That was something.

----

Ratio had insisted you stop working at the bathhouse. "Your academics take priority" he’d said, as if he hadn’t been the one drowning you in extra assignments before.

You obeyed, what else could you do.

"Ohhhhhh~ He’s into you!" Aventurine declared like a self-proclaimed romance expert. "But the man’s emotionally constipated. So! We help."

You eyed the fake love letter in his hands. "What is that?"

"This is strategy! You ‘confess.’ We reveal it’s a joke. He gets mad—which means he cares—then boom! Clarity!"

"Or he fails me."

"Risk versus reward, sweetheart." He grinned. "Besides, when have my plans ever backfired?"

Every time. But you still agreed.

You waited until after school, as you slipped into Ratio’s office. "You’re late for your club."

"I—" You shoved the letter at him. "I have something to say."

Ratio’s expression didn’t change as he read. But his grip creased the paper.

"This is… Unprofessional."

"But do you—"

The door slammed open.

"GOTCHA!" Aventurine crowed, phone out to film the whole thing. "Ohhh, Professor~! You should’ve seen your face—"

Ratio stood.

"Out."

Aventurine blinked. "Huh?"

"Get. Out. Now."

Aventurine fled. You didn’t.

Ratio didn’t look at you. "You too."

-----

You tried everything. Morning greetings, putting his favorite drink on his desk, volunteering to grade papers,.. Nothing works.

Even Aventurine, now banned from your texts, had the decency to look guilty. "Okay, maybe I underestimated how petty he could be."

You gave up.

When your grandma invited you to the bathhouse, you begged off. "Not feeling it today."

She eyed you. "You’ve been moping like a kicked puppy."

"I’m fine."

She went there on her own.

The bathhouse storage room door creaked open. "Young man? Could you help an old woman with these buckets?"

Ratio looked up from his inventory logs to your grandmother struggling with two overfilled water pails. As he took the buckets from her, she squinted up at his face in the dim light.

"Well now," she chuckled, "I know you. You're that strict professor from the university." Her eyes twinkled with sudden recognition. "The one who's got my grandchild moping around like a wet chick these past weeks."

Ratio nearly dropped the buckets. "I—"

"Ah, ah." She waved a finger. "No need for teacher talk here. This is bathhouse business." Taking one bucket back, she gestured for him to follow. "Come, come. These won't carry themselves."

As they walked, she continued as if discussing the weather: "You know, when I was young, there was a boy who fancied me something terrible. Handsome as sunrise, dumb as a post." She laughed at Ratio's expression. "Oh yes! He once stood outside my window for three hours holding a turnip because he heard I liked soup."

Ratio opened his mouth, then closed it. The grandmother hummed as they set the buckets by the soaking pools.

"Took me years to realize - men either say too much or nothing at all." She fixed Ratio with a knowing look. "The smart ones are worst for it. Think they need perfect words when really..." She patted his arm. "Even a turnip would do."

Ratio stared at the rising steam. "It's... complicated."

"Is it?" She tilted her head. "Or have you just been thinking so hard you forgot to feel?" With that, she shuffled off.

That night, your phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Your grandmother is terrifying.

You sat up.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Meet me at the bathhouse. 8 PM.

YOU: Are you going to yell at me again?

RATIO: No.

RATIO: I’m bringing tea.

You arrived at the bathhouse to find Ratio already there, two steaming cups of tea set neatly on the counter. He didn’t look up when you entered, but his shoulders tensed—just slightly.

"You came" he said, as if he hadn’t been the one to text you.

"You asked"

Finally, Ratio exhaled. "Your grandmother is… persuasive."

You snorted. "She threatened you or something?"

He pushed one of the cups toward you. "Drink. I brewed it the way you like"

"You remember that?"

"I remember many things. Including how… unfairly I acted."

You sipped the tea. It was perfect. "Yeah, well. Aventurine’s the one who should be apologizing, not you."

"He will. Extensively."

"I overreacted," he admitted, staring into his cup. "Because the idea of you… pretending to care for me was…"

"It was a stupid prank. But you ignored me for days. You don’t get to be the wounded party here."

"You’re right."

"And if you had just talked to me instead of sulking—"

"I know." He finally met your eyes. "But I did care. That’s the problem."

"I hated how much it mattered," he continued "And then you—"

"I what?"

"Nothing.."

"If you’d just talked to me instead of being a drama queen, maybe we could’ve figured this out sooner."

"So what now?"

The door slammed open.

"DON’T HIT ME I BROUGHT SNACKS—" Aventurine skidded to a halt, arms full of convenience store bags, eyes darting between you and Ratio. "…Oh."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Ohhh." He grinned, "You two made up."

"Get out."

"Nope! I’m here to apologize." Aventurine dropped the snacks on the counter with a flourish. "And also to witness whatever this is."

You sighed. "We’re talking. Like adults."

"Boring." He ripped open a bag of chips. "But fine. I’ll be your emotional support menace."

And for the first time in days, you both sighed in unison.

-----

You could tell were the inspiration came from.

#hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #dr ratio x you #veritas ratio #ratio #dr ratio

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pforestsims · 9 months ago

Text

These are mostly edits of Animal Crossing conversions from this set by Decat @decat2 (or new clones with the same GUID) plus 2 new objects and 2 add-ons. Dollhouse is functional.

ACNH decor stuff / edits

Download: SFS | BOX

More info under the cut.

*This is for The Sims 2

I couldn't stop myself from rearranging "cleaning set WC" model, moved the plunger to the back where it belongs.

All objects have shadows added and sharp edges sorted out. Recolor textures were re-done (thanks for the files @episims ) I've applied original normal maps and AO shading*. (BTW anyone converting from Animal Crossing to TS2 please check out this post ).

Books and book stand now have two subsets - fixing integrity would break these objects so I had to make new clones but I've recycled Decat's GUIDs.

Experiment Set went through a general makeover, I've switched glass subset to bottle fluids and made a new recolor for these. I've also enlarged the object, now it fits one-tile desk.

Mop and bucket is a new mesh - Decat also converted it ( file called "cleaning tools") but my mesh has two subsets and different proportions, as I edited the model to make it more realistic. I've modified textures to add more mop/rag colors.

Texture sizes for these objects range between 512x512 - 384x384 (yes).

AO maps (basically - baked shadowing) in case of AC objects are a part of "mix" texture, so you have to separate the green channel, desaturate and make overlay out of it - set to multiply or similar. It's also necessary to improve quality or at least smooth it out a bit, these are quite crunchy. I give it brownish tones for dark areas + pale blue hues for the light areas, works better than just grey.

#sims 2 #the sims 2 #ts2 cc #ts2 decor

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shotmrmiller · 1 year ago

Text

pornstar au

f!reader x ghost x price :)

2.7k words

tw: teacher-student scenario again, just for the sake of the porn. also, DP. first time writing it, so be NICE!

big thanks to @waves-against-a-cliff for reading what i won't

You sat on Professor Riley's lap after class, his rigid length smearing precum in between your soft, bare thighs as he fucked them. His large hands curled around your waist, long fingers creating tiny dents where he dug them into the supple flesh.

His breath warmed the delicate skin of your throat, as pants escaped his lips. You deliberately pressed your legs closer together— hoping that it provided enough amount of friction for him to finish.

You need this extra credit, after all.

Ghost inhaled sharply when you did, the grip he had on you almost painful.

"Fuckin' hell." His rich groan resonated in your chest. The gusset of your knickers was damp with arousal, both yours and his. The languid drag of his cock against your clothed pussy was so tantalizing, your core ached to be filled.

You were about to urge him to forget intercrural sex— to undress and fuck you already when a sharp knock on the door cuts through the fog in your head; a sudden rush of clarity pouring over you like a bucket of ice-cold water.

Shit.

Your back straightens at the interruption and quickly move to get off of Ghost's lap when he wraps an arm around your middle, keeping you firmly in place. A strangled noise claws up your throat. He cannot be serious.

"Come in," he calls out.

"No. No no no, you can't— you'll be fired, I'll be expelled, Professor Riley, please—" your voice warbles in your panic. His hold on you is as strong as steel, leaving no room for escape or resistance. You're helpless as the doors creep open and Professor Price steps in.

Of course, it's the most pretentious asshole teacher in existence.

"Hey, Riley, have you gotten the ema—" he trails off. His striking blue eyes flick down to your legs. Or more precisely, to what's still in between them fully erect.

"I was unaware you were busy with a...student." The sound of his footsteps draws closer. "Is this what you call detention?" Price leans on the desk with his hip, eyes never straying from you.

Ghost stifles a laugh. "Ask a better question, Price."

Heat licks up your jaw and cheeks when he resumes his thrusting as if there isn't another whole grown man in the room— one who can potentially ruin both his career and your collegiate one.

"Like what, Riley? Want me to ask if I can get a taste?" You look at Price and notice that his eyes are dark, limpid blue rings around the edges— knuckles stained white with how tightly he's clenching his hands. "You've never been a sharing type."

"Well, this sweet toy of mine loves being shared, doesn't she?" Swiftly, Ghost lifts you, his manhood now nestled against the curve of your back. His clever fingers move to your covered center, and draw featherlight circles on your hood, right above your clit. A whimper falls from your lips at the feeling.

"Answer him, pet. Tell Price ya don't mind gettin' this pretty pussy licked by him." He presses down on your bundle of nerves firmly with the pad of his thumb when you take a second too long to answer.

"I, I don't," you hiss when he rubs, "d-don't mind." Ghost gives your cunt a gentle tap.

"Don't mind what?" You swallow the lump lodged in your throat.

"I don't mind getting my pussy licked by Professor Price." His teeth tenderly graze the shell of your ear, followed by a small nip.

"Good girl," he mutters into your hair. Then directs his attention to Price, who's biting his bottom lip— the look he's giving you making your head swim. "She answered, so get down here or get out," he commands.

Ghost clasps his hands under your thighs and lifts until your feet rest flat above his knees. He hooks a finger into the sodden fabric of your knickers and drags it to the side, baring your glistening slit to the cold air of the room, erupting your heated skin in goosebumps. "On your knees, old man, unless they're too creaky to handle this."

Price's lip curls with unveiled amusement. "I was simply admirin' the view, Riley. Don't get your pants in a twist." He lowers himself to the floor smoothly until he's kneeled within inches of your exposed sex.

His prickly beard tickles the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and his mouth is warm and wet as his tongue slides between your folds.

Another former industry giant devouring your passion with the hunger of a starved man at a lavish feast. Each stroke of his tongue spreads the warmth in your stomach, a pressure slowly rising, building—

"Sit her on you," Price mouths against your cunt.

When you find yourself wedged between two burly men, there's not much you can do except surrender to their wishes. That means being lowered onto Ghost— instinctively closing your eyes as you savor the stretch and biting the inside of your gummy cheek at the mildly uncomfortable burn.

Gravity does most of the work as you sink into him in one gentle stroke.

And without reprieve, Price dives right back in. The dull ache from where Ghost's tip presses into the plug of your womb, to the pleasure coming from the attention given to your swollen bundle of nerves.

An intoxicating mix of bliss with pain furling at the edges.

It's so good, teetering on the edge of too much, but when Price sucks lightly on your clit, your body seizes. You scrabble to grab his dark brown hair, blunt nails biting into his scalp as your shatter around Ghost's cock and Price's mouth.

Ecstasy pulses through you like the steady beat of your heart, white-hot euphoria coursing through your veins. There's a ringing in your ears, shrill and deafening, and your breathing comes in ragged pants as you come down from your high.

Your face glistens with sweat as droplets trickle down your temples, hair plastered to your forehead.

Jesus.

Price lapped at the arousal that dripped down Ghost's length, softly groaning at the taste before giving you a wolfish grin behind his coarse facial hair that was damp with your desire.

"Welcome back, sweetheart," he murmurs.

You relax the tight hold you have on his hair as he tenderly kisses where you and Ghost are joined.

Ghost nudges your ear with his nose, and his deep voice rolls over you like a wave. "Greedy little cunt jus' about cut off my circulation, pet." He shifts under you, sliding even deeper than before, a hiss escaping from behind your teeth.

"I think Price is feelin' a little left out, don't you?" With a shaky nod and a quiet mhm, you feel his lips press against the side of your neck.

"Think you can take us both?" It feels more like a warning of what's to come than a genuine question. The idea of being stuffed by both of them sends a thrill up your back.

Price sits back on his haunches, palming himself from outside his trousers. "Think so, sweetheart?" He rises to his feet and promptly sweeps away everything from the wooden desk, scattering them across the floor. Taking a seat on the desk, he positions himself comfortably, his legs slightly bent and his feet firmly touching the ground. How unfair.

With a hand, Price beckons you to him.

Your legs tremble almost comically after having them in such an unnatural position for so long; tingling when you finally stretch them out in front of you. Ghost's hands at your waist help you stand, wincing when he pulls out of you unceremoniously.

Under his breath, he apologizes and gently nudges you towards Price by pressing his hand on your shoulder blades. "Go on, it's rude to keep him waiting." You're then guided forward as warm hands wrap around your biceps, leading you to stand in front of Price.

You drag your eyes from his down to his groin, where his erection is confined behind the strained zipper. Suddenly, Ghost's toned arms surround you, his hands eagerly reaching for the button on the front. "Lemme help ya out, love."

In seconds, Price's heavy manhood bobs as it springs out, ruddy tip hitting just below his navel. Simon firmly grabs your hand and swiftly turns it, exposing your palm. Without warning, he shamelessly spits on it before wrapping it around Price.

A guttural noise escapes him when you squeeze the thick of it tightly. He bucks his hips in a deliberate rhythm— taking hold of your wrist, ensuring your hand remains in position as he continues to thrust upwards until his cock is slick with his precum.

You can't help but rub your thighs together in hopes of getting some of the friction you're desperate for.

"Not gonna come already, are ya Price? We haven't even gotten started." Ghost ignores his scoff, rapping his knuckles on the desk. "Knickers off and climb up, pet."

You hastily tear off your smallclothes, shucking them to the side with your foot before hopping up on the desk, one leg at a time. Price steadies you with his hands on your waist. As you straddle him, your muscles ignite with a satisfying burn as they adjust the expanse of his thighs.

His voice is soft, gentle even, when he whispers into your ear. "Good?" You gasp sharply when Ghost spanks your arsecheeks before nodding at Price. "Jus' like we practiced, yeah?"

Yeah, just like you practiced. The plug you had to wear throughout the week whenever they both weren't tearing you in half should be more than enough prep. You hope.

Ghost taps the side of your thigh. "Cockwarm him while I get this perfect arse ready."

The stretch is intense as you lower yourself on Price— his cock thicker than Ghost's just not as long— it pushes the air out of your lungs. He bites his lip til it reddens, his eyes fixed onto where he disappears inside of you, fingers digging into the meat of your waist.

Your eyes flutter closed when he finally bottoms out, his girth splitting your swollen walls apart mercilessly.

God, he feels so good.

And then the sting of one thick, lubed finger pressing into your tight ring of muscle smothers some of that pleasure.

"Hey, hey. Look at me." Price tips your chin up with his hand, your eyes meeting his. "Good. Breathe for me, sweetheart." He leans forward to place open-mouthed prickly kisses on your neck. "Breathe, love. You've already taken us before. You did beautifully then, and you'll do beautifully now."

He distracts you from the discomfort by suckling on your skin, leaving red little love bites behind. Then, a second finger, so much bigger than your own. Price hisses sympathetically when you do— a tiny whimper coming from the back of your throat.

This time it's Ghost that breathes into your ear. "Doin' so good f'me."

Then he works a third finger in, and your back arches at the jolt of pain that licks up your spine.

Words of praise fall upon your ears, syrupy and saccharine, dulling the ache. He scissors and stretches gingerly, as he's always done. Ghost takes his time, curling his fingers inside— a slow and steady in and out that eventually has you clamping around Price.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth when you do. "So bloody tight."

"Alrigh' Price." Ghost takes you by the hips and cants them forward slightly, a cry falling from your lips at the change in angle. "Hold her open f'me."

He does just that; rough, worn hands spreading you open almost embarrassingly. There's a hot and heavy weight tapping your arse once, thrice— and then there's a blunt pressure pushing into your other much smaller hole. Your spine bows at the thick invasion, it burns, it throbs, but smart fingers find your neglected pearl and start to circle it.

The pain is merely physical, it can be overcome. Focus on the touch on your clit, focus on the hands that hold you, the heat that radiates from both of them. The harsh breathing of the man behind you as he fights to keep himself from fucking himself into you unfettered. Strained noises spilled from Price's parted lips as he felt your channel constrict, your sex beginning to get slick with your desire.

Ghost hilts, leaning forward until his barrel chest hits your back, a strangled groan coming from him. You felt unbearably full, about to tear at the bloody seams. Every single nerve from your navel down to the tips of your toes was on fire. You felt a throbbing sensation radiating from the back of your skull.

It was scalding hot, searing. The thin membrane that separated them felt stretched beyond its limit.

"Y'okay?" You can't even tell who asked you that past the rushing of blood that's in your ears. Your head feels too heavy on your shoulders, letting it lull forward until your forehead rests on Price's collarbone.

Ghost's chest vibrates as he speaks, the low rumble sinking into your skin, warming you from the inside. "Breathe for us, love. Deep in, slow out."

Right.

You remember what Price had said the very first time they fucked you. 'Breathing helps to process any pain and supports the nervous system.'

As you inhale deeply, your lungs expand to the point where you can feel a twinge of discomfort. But as you exhale, the tension in your body melts, your muscles gradually slackening.

Ghost undulates his hips once languidly, and while the ache flared back to life, below that was the pleasure you've become well acquainted with, desperately clawing its way to the surface.

A moan slips out of you unbidden.

"Perfect. So fuckin' perfect." Price's praise makes you dig your fingers into his broad shoulders, nails biting into his skin.

Then you're lifted by two sets of hands— one on your hips, the other on the underside of your thighs and brought back down. Fuck.

"Tha's it, love. Takin' us both so well," Ghost murmurs. When you begin to mewl, a clear sign of pleasure, Price plants his feet on the floor, and snaps his hips up. Black spots dot your vision, a euphoria shooting through your veins.

God, you hope your hips hold out.

They begin to move in tandem, one pushing in completely, while the other pulls out until just an inch stays inside.

It's sublime, obscene squelching coming from both your front and back. Once your body gives in to their assault, everything starts to blur at the edges, from your sight to your thoughts. You melt in their hands, softening under their touch as they take their pleasure from you.

They begin to fuck you in earnest, breath punched out of you with every thrust, and when Ghost takes control by grabbing a fistful of your hair, it sends waves of something through your stomach. The loud whine that comes from you is filthy.

"Always meltin' into a puddle over a firm hand, pet. Isn't tha' right?" He asks you as if you could even dream of answering. Your tongue is heavy in your dry mouth, and throat like sandpaper.

"Ready to make Price come? Choke his cock with tha' vice-like cunt, love. Wrench it outta him, take every drop of his cum, and then take mine."

Who are you to disobey such an edict?

The snarl Price lets out is animalistic when you squeeze him snugly, his thrusts turn jarring as he swells and stills— twitching inside of you, warmth pooling in your belly.

Only to realize that Ghost finished simultaneously.

There's a joke in there somewhere, about a couple finishing together, but you've been thoroughly fucked stupid.

Cut.

Simon takes you home— his home, and soaks you in a warm, bubble bath that smells like something he shouldn't have.

"I bough' it for you," he hums.

His callused palms knead into your sore calf muscles, hand making its way down to press into the arch of your foot.

"Don't go makin' those noises, love."

Eventually, you address the elephant in the room, and his answer makes your pulse race. "Gotta create a soft safe place f'you to land after somethin' tha' intense. Ya need to wind down, catch your breath."

He says it so casually as if it was common sense.

"Here. Drink your water." The bottle in your hands is room temperature, just how you like it.

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