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elryuse · 27 days ago

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She's Unforgettable

Winter X Male Reader

Tags : Bartender Male Reader, Angsty, Depression, Kissing, Teasing, Romance, Words : 4,203 Words

The bar was empty, save for the soft hum of the neon sign flickering outside. You wiped down the counter for the third time, the rag slipping through your fingers as you paused. The air smelled of whiskey and regret, the kind of place people came to bury their secrets or stumble into new ones. Normally, you liked it this way — quiet, predictable, nothing but the clink of glasses and the occasional murmur of the TV in the corner. But tonight, the stillness felt heavier, like it was waiting for something. Or someone.

Then she walked in.

Winter.

Her name suited her — cold, sharp, beautiful in a way that made your chest ache. She didn’t look like a regular; her eyes scanned the room like she was testing the water, hesitant but determined. She slid onto a stool at the end of the bar, her coat pooling around her like a shadow. You moved toward her, your steps deliberate, though you couldn’t say why.

“What’ll it be?” Your voice was steady, but something in the air between you wasn’t.

She looked up, and her gaze pinned you. Not in a flashy, dramatic way. It was quieter than that. Like she was seeing past the bartender, past the man, to something raw and unguarded. “Something strong,” she said, her voice low, almost a murmur. “But not too sweet.”

You nodded, turning to the shelves behind you. Your hands moved automatically, pulling a bottle of bourbon, but your mind was elsewhere. Why her? Why now? You poured the drink with practiced ease, sliding it across the counter. She reached for it, and her fingers brushed yours. Just barely. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

The warmth of her skin lingered, quiet and uncertain, like she hadn’t meant to reach across that distance. But you didn’t pull away. You froze, and in that stillness, something unspoken rose between you.

“I feel safe here,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the bar.

You didn’t respond. Not because you didn’t want to. You just didn’t know how. It had been so long since someone looked at you like that — not as a bartender, not as a mistake in the shape of a man, but something steady. Someone she could trust.

But it scared the hell out of you.

Because women like Winter didn’t stay. People with ghosts behind their smiles and cities tucked beneath their eyes didn’t settle for dim bars and broken men. They drifted. And you — you didn’t get to be the anchor. You were just the stop between storms.

Still, that touch lingered. You carried it in your palms, felt it each time you wiped a glass or struck a match for someone’s cigarette. It was ridiculous, but it was real.

She kept coming back.

And she stayed longer now. Sometimes until the chairs were stacked, the lights were low, and the city outside felt like a distant memory. The bar became a world of its own — dim, quiet, and raw. It wasn’t much, but in those hours, it was enough.

She talked more. Sometimes barely above a whisper, like her truths might vanish if she spoke too loud.

“I used to dance,” she said one night, her eyes drifting toward the dusty speaker playing Chet Baker in the background. “Ballet, jazz, contemporary. I used to move like I had somewhere to go.”

“What happened?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

She shrugged, took a sip of her drink. “Life. A cracked rib, an empty wallet, a man who said he loved me and left bruises instead.”

Your grip tightened around the bar rag, the fabric digging into your palm.

She didn’t cry. Winter never cried. But her voice wavered when she added, “I wanted to leave Seoul. Change my name. Become someone else. But I never left. The city clung to me. Or maybe I clung to it.”

You told her things too. Not all at once. In pieces.

How you used to sketch buildings in the margins of your notebooks. How you’d once dreamed of architecture school, of leaving behind a legacy of glass and steel. How your hands, once meant to build, now just poured.

She listened. Really listened. Her gaze never wandered. She absorbed everything like it mattered.

And for the first time in years, you didn’t feel invisible.

One night, she leaned closer, her chin resting against the back of her hand. Her eyes held yours, and for a moment, the bar faded away.

“Do you believe in second chances?” she asked.

You paused, then glanced at her. “No,” you answered honestly. “But I believe in people who need them.”

That earned you the faintest of smiles.

The night deepened.

You were cleaning up, stacking glasses, when she moved from her stool and walked behind the bar. You didn’t stop her. She stood beside you in that quiet space that only two people carrying too much can share without words.

She picked up a lemon wedge, rolled it between her fingers, then set it down.

“I don’t think I’m the kind of girl you should want,” she said. “I ruin things.”

You laughed under your breath. Not at her. At the irony.

“I’ve been broken for a long time, Winter,” you murmured. “Maybe ruined things just fit together easier.”

She looked at you for a long time.

And then she kissed you.

Not deeply. Not hungrily. Just… softly. Like she was asking a question she didn’t expect an answer to.

Her lips were cold from her drink, but her breath was warm.

You didn’t kiss her back. Not yet. But your hands twitched like they wanted to. You were scared, and she felt it. She pulled away, but not far. Just enough to see you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” she said. “I just don’t want to feel alone tonight.”

So you let her stay.

You locked the door. Dimmed the lights. The two of you sat on the floor of the bar with your backs against the liquor shelf, drinking straight from the bottle, knees almost touching.

She talked about stars she’d never seen. Oceans she wanted to visit. Names she’d tried on in her head but never spoken aloud.

You talked about your father. How he used to build model trains and let you help. How he died before you graduated. How you stopped drawing after that.

It wasn’t romantic.

It was something else.

It was survival, woven between sips of whiskey and unfinished stories.

And when she finally leaned against your shoulder and drifted off — her breath steady, her chest rising slow — you realized you weren’t afraid anymore.

You were something worse.

You were hopeful.

And hope was dangerous.

Because girls like Winter didn’t stay.

But she stayed that night.

And when she left, the door didn’t close completely.

It stayed ajar, like an invitation — or maybe a warning.

You didn’t know which.

But when she walked back in the next night, her eyes searching for yours, you knew you were already in too deep.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” you said, your voice low.

She smiled, but it was tinged with something sad. “Neither did I.”

She stepped closer, and this time, her hand found yours.

The bar was empty, but it felt full.

And then, without a word, she kissed you again — harder this time, like she wasn’t afraid to pull you under.

You kissed her back.

And everything else fell away.

She pulls back, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and desire. Her breath is shallow, her lips trembling as they part to speak. “I want to show you something,” she whispers, her voice low, almost fragile, like it might shatter if she spoke too loud.

You don’t hesitate. You nod, the weight of her gaze pulling you forward. Her fingers brush against yours, cold but electric, as she leads you to a small room in the back of the bar. The door creaks shut behind you, the sound echoing in the dimly lit space. The air is thick with anticipation, heavy with the scent of old wood and something unspoken.

The room is small, barely more than a storage closet. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with dusty bottles and forgotten supplies. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a soft, yellow glow over everything. Winter stands in the center of it all, her back to you, her shoulders tense.

She turns slowly, her eyes meeting yours. There’s a vulnerability in them that you’ve never seen before. “I’ve been running for so long,” she says, her voice trembling. “From him. From myself. But when I’m with you, I feel… I feel like I can stop. Like I can breathe.”

Your heart aches for her. Without thinking, you step closer, your hands reaching out to cup her face. Her skin is cold, but it warms beneath your touch. “You don’t have to run anymore,” you murmur, your thumbs brushing gently over her cheeks. “Not from me.”

She leans into your touch, her eyes closing for a moment. When she opens them again, there’s a fire there, a hunger that burns through the fear. “I want to trust you,” she says, her voice a whisper. “But I’m scared. Scared that I’ll ruin this. Scared that I’ll ruin you.”

You shake your head, your hands sliding down to rest on her shoulders. “You won’t ruin me,” you say firmly. “And you’re not alone anymore. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re scared of, you don’t have to face it alone. Not anymore.”

Her breath hitches, and for a moment, she just looks at you. Then, without warning, she kisses you. It’s not soft, like before. It’s deep, desperate, fueled by a hunger that’s been buried for far too long. Her hands clutch at your shirt, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your arms wrapping around her, holding her as if she might disappear.

Her lips are cold, but they warm quickly, melting against yours. The kiss is wild, unrelenting, a storm that sweeps you both away. She pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against yours. “I need you,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I need to feel something real. Please.”

You don’t need to be asked twice. Your hands slide down her sides, feeling the way her body trembles beneath your touch. She’s delicate, fragile, but there’s a strength in her that’s undeniable. She’s a survivor, and in this moment, she’s choosing to live.

Your lips find hers again, and the kiss deepens. Her hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, seeking the warmth of your skin. You let her take control, let her guide the pace, because this is her moment. Her need. And you’re more than willing to give her whatever she needs.

Her fingers fumble with the buttons of your shirt, and you help her, shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor. Her hands splay across your chest, her touch sending shivers down your spine. She’s hesitant at first, as if she’s afraid to touch you, but then her fingers dig into your skin, her nails leaving faint marks in their wake.

“You’re real,” she murmurs, her voice filled with awe. “You’re here. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m here,” you assure her, your hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She kisses you again, her lips moving against yours with a desperation that’s almost painful. Her hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, and you let her unbutton them, let her push them down until they pool at your feet.

She’s trembling, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. “I’ve never felt like this before,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.”

Her words are a plea, a confession, and you can’t ignore them. Your hands move to the hem of her shirt, and you pull it over her head, revealing the soft, pale skin beneath. She’s beautiful, her body a map of scars and stories, each one a testament to her strength.

Your lips find her neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against her skin. She gasps, her hands tangling in your hair, holding you close. “I need you,” she whispers again, her voice breaking. “Please.”

You lift her, carrying her to the small, makeshift cot in the corner of the room. She’s light in your arms, her body fitting perfectly against yours. You lay her down gently, your eyes never leaving hers. “Are you sure?” you ask, your voice low, rough with desire.

She nods, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and need. “I’m sure,” she says, her voice trembling. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You kiss her again, your hands exploring every inch of her body. She’s responsive, her hips arching up to meet your touch. She’s desperate, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps as you strip away the last of her clothing.

Her body is a revelation, a masterpiece of curves and softness. You kiss your way down her neck, her chest, her stomach, savoring every gasp, every moan that escapes her lips. When your mouth finally finds her, she nearly comes undone, her hands clutching at the sheets, her back arching off the cot.

“Please,” she begs, her voice a broken whisper. “I need you.”

You can’t deny her. You move up her body, your lips finding hers again. She’s trembling, her legs wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer. When you finally enter her, she lets out a cry, her nails digging into your back.

She’s tight, warm, and you have to fight to hold back, to keep from losing yourself in the feel of her. But she’s the one who sets the pace, her hips rocking against yours, her breath hot against your ear. “Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice trembling. “Please, don’t stop.”

You don’t. You couldn’t if you wanted to. She’s everything, her body, her voice, her need. She’s consuming you, leaving no room for anything else. Her hands clutch at your back, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

When she finally comes, it’s with a cry that’s half pain, half pleasure. Her body trembles beneath you, her nails digging into your skin. You follow her over the edge, your own release tearing through you like a wildfire.

For a long moment, you just stay there, wrapped in each other, your breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. She’s trembling, her body pressed tight against yours. “You’re real,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” you assure her, your arms tightening around her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and hope. “Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me you won’t leave.”

“I promise,” you say, your voice firm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She kisses you again, her lips soft against yours. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice trembling. “Thank you for being here.”

You hold her close, your heart aching for her. She’s been through so much, suffered in ways you can’t even imagine. But in this moment, she’s here, with you, and that’s all that matters.

The room is quiet, the air heavy with the weight of what’s just happened. She’s trembling in your arms, her body pressed tight against yours. “I’m scared,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “I’m scared of what happens next.”

“Whatever happens,” you say, your voice firm. “We’ll face it together.”

She looks up at you, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and hope. “Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me we’ll face it together.”

You don’t say a word. You don’t need to. The way you cradle her in your arms, the way your fingers brush against her skin—it’s enough. You lift her effortlessly, her body light against your chest, her breath hot against your neck. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t question. She just clings to you, her arms looping around your shoulders, her face buried in the crook of your neck.

The walk to your apartment is a blur. The city lights blur into streaks of gold and red, the night air cool against your skin, but all you feel is her. Her warmth. Her weight. Her trust. She’s quiet, but you can feel her heart racing, her fingers gripping you tighter with every step.

You reach your door, fumble with the keys, and push it open. The apartment is dim, the moonlight spilling through the blinds, casting long shadows across the floor. You don’t turn on the lights. You don’t need to. The way she looks at you, the way her eyes catch the faint glow—it’s all you need.

You set her down gently, her feet barely touching the ground, and she doesn’t let go. Her hands slide up to your face, her fingers trembling as they trace the line of your jaw. “I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, but the words cut through the silence like a knife.

“Don’t be,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m here.”

Her lips press against yours, soft at first, tentative, like she’s testing the waters. But when you don’t pull away, when your hands settle on her hips and pull her closer, she deepens the kiss. Her tongue slips past your lips, and the taste of her—whiskey, salt, and something sweet—sends a shiver down your spine. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and you let her. You let her take what she needs, give her what she’s asking for without words.

You back her up against the wall, your body pinning hers, and she gasps into your mouth, her chest rising and falling with every breath. Her hands slide down your back, nails digging into your skin, and the pain is sharp, immediate. But it’s not unwelcome. It’s a reminder that she’s here, that she’s real, that she needs you as much as you need her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and you can hear the fear in it, the uncertainty.

“You won’t,” you promise, your lips brushing against hers. “You could never.”

She kisses you again, harder this time, more desperate, and you match her pace, your hands roaming her body, exploring every curve, every dip. Her breath hitches when your fingers slide beneath the hem of her shirt, tracing the soft skin of her waist, and she arches into your touch, her body begging for more.

You pull her shirt over her head, tossing it aside, and she stands there in nothing but her jeans and a black lace bra that clings to her skin like a second shadow. She’s beautiful, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen, and for a moment, you just stare, drinking her in, memorizing every inch of her.

“Don’t stop,” she pleads, her voice trembling, and you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands move to the clasp of her bra, fumbling slightly, but she helps you, her fingers brushing against yours as the fabric falls away. Her breasts are small but perfect, the nipples hard and begging for attention, and you give it to her. Your mouth descends on one, your tongue swirling around the peak, and she gasps, her hands gripping your shoulders for support. Her head falls back, her eyes fluttering shut, and you take your time, exploring every inch of her, making her feel things she’s probably never felt before.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against her skin, your lips trailing up to her neck, and she shivers, her body trembling under your touch.

“I don’t feel beautiful,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, and it breaks your heart.

“You are,” you insist, your hands cupping her face, forcing her to look at you. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her eyes search yours, and for a moment, she looks like she doesn’t believe you. But then she kisses you again, her lips soft but insistent, and any doubt fades away. She’s here. She’s real. And she’s yours—at least for tonight.

You pick her up again, her legs wrapping around your waist, and carry her to the bed. The mattress dips under your weight as you lay her down, your body hovering over hers, and she looks up at you with those piercing eyes, her lips swollen from your kisses.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, and this time, you know why. She’s scared of what this means, scared of letting someone in, scared of being vulnerable. But she’s also scared of losing this, of losing you.

“I’m here,” you repeat, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She nods, her eyes filling with tears, and you kiss her again, slower this time, more tender. Your hands move to her jeans, unbuttoning them, pulling them down her legs, and she helps you, her body lifting to make it easier. She’s naked now, completely exposed, and she’s beautiful. More beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen.

You strip off your own clothes, your eyes never leaving hers, and when you’re both bare, you pause, giving her a moment to adjust, to process. But she doesn’t need it. Her hands reach for you, pulling you down to her, and you don’t resist.

The first thrust is slow, careful, and she gasps, her nails digging into your back. But she doesn’t tell you to stop. She pulls you closer, her legs wrapping around your waist, and you move inside her, your bodies falling into a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.

“You feel so good,” she whispers, her voice trembling, and you can feel the truth in her words. She’s tight, warm, and so wet, and you can’t believe you’re inside her, that she’s letting you be this close, this intimate.

“You feel amazing,” you murmur, your lips brushing against hers, and she kisses you again, her body arching into yours.

The pace quickens, the bed creaking beneath you, and she moans, the sound muffled by your mouth. Her hands roam your body, exploring every inch of you, and you let her. You let her take what she needs, give her what she’s asking for without words.

“I’m close,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and you nod, your thrusts becoming more urgent, more desperate.

“Let go,” you murmur, your lips brushing against her ear. “I’ve got you.”

And she does. Her body tightens, her nails digging into your skin, and she cries out, her orgasm washing over her like a wave. You follow her, your own release hitting you hard, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of you, lost in each other, and it’s perfect.

When it’s over, you collapse beside her, your bodies tangled together, your breaths mingling. She’s quiet, her eyes closed, but you can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, against your chest.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, and this time, it’s different. She’s not scared of what just happened. She’s scared of what comes next.

“We’ll face it together,” you promise, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t need to. Her body curls into yours, her head resting on your chest, and you hold her, your fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. The way she clings to you, the way her breath evens out as she drifts off to sleep—it’s enough.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“Let go,” you murmur, your lips brushing against her ear. “I’ve got you.”

When it’s over, you collapse beside her, your bodies tangled together, your breaths mingling. She’s quiet, her eyes closed, but you can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, against your chest.

“I’m scared,” she whispers again, her voice barely audible, and this time, it’s different. She’s not scared of what just happened. She’s scared of what comes next.

“We’ll face it together,” you promise, your hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.”

She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t need to. Her body curls into yours, her head resting on your chest, and you hold her, your fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

“I’m here,” you murmur, your voice low, steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. The way she clings to you, the way her breath evens out as she drifts off to sleep—it’s enough.

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mindmelter · 6 months ago

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A Body Stealer Tale: A Capture To Remember

When I arrived in Italy, I found out my camera was broken from the travel. Frustrated, I wandered through Italy until I found a small, dusty shop tucked between old buildings. Inside, an elderly shopkeeper offered me an old camera model, calling it "special." I was desperate, so I bought it, not realizing just how “special” this camera would actually be.

I’d only been in Italy for a day when I spotted him—an absolute Adonis. I was just wandering through the cobbled streets of the old town, camera in hand, getting lost in the architecture and the vibes, taking photos of every old building I saw. Suddenly, there he was: this hot Italian guy walking alone past me. I couldn’t resist. I knew it was a little risky, but I raised my new camera to grab a quick shot of him without him noticing.

I mean, I would never see him again after that, so I should as well capture the moment to remember.

But then, the moment I pressed the shutter, there was a flash of bright light. It wasn’t from my camera. It was like a white ball of light bursting out from the man's back and zipping straight into my camera, vanishing without a trace.

And before I could even gasp, his whole body crumpled like a pile of clothes, totally hollowed out. I blinked, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. I mean, there was this whole empty Italian guy lying there on the street—skin, hair, face, everything—but no bones, no organs, nothing inside. Just a bodysuit.

I just stood there, completely dumbfounded, staring at the bodysuit that had been a whole man only seconds before. Luckily, there was no one on the street but me, which honestly was a miracle. My heart was racing, but curiosity got the better of me. I glanced around, making sure I was alone, and slowly crouched down, reaching out to touch the hollowed man's face. It was surreal, it felt smooth, soft, and very real, I mean... it was real. As I caressed his stubble beard and admired his slack empty face, I noticed an opening on his nape. Curious, I pulled his sagging head by the hair and noticed a small opening on his back, it was the exact place where the ball of light had come out of him.

An idea popped into my head—completely insane, but somehow, I knew I had to do it. Before I could second-guess myself, I slipped off my shoes and started undressing right there on the sidewalk. Yeah, risky, but I wasn’t gonna let this opportunity slip away.

One leg at a time, I stepped into the suit's open hole, pulling his muscular calves and thighs over my own legs. The fabric—no, the *skin*—wrapped around me like a second layer. I could feel his muscles molding to my shape as I slid my arms into his and finally tugged his handsome face over mine like a mask.

Then… something amazing happened. I could feel the strength of his body taking over, the weight of his muscles filling me up, the opening in his back closing, and even his face settling into place over mine. I wasn’t just wearing him—I *was* him.

I glanced down and saw those fit pecs, those ripped abs, and a big flaccid cock that now belonged to me. The guy was very hung, I thought.

I couldn't help but give my new cock a few strokes. I chuckled at the thought of someone walking and seeing this stud jerking off naked on the street.

But I wasn't in the mood to spend my new hot body in an Italian jail, so I grabbed the man's jeans from the ground and pulled them back up. His wallet fell out of his pocket, so I grabbed it and looked for his ID.

"Luca Moretti, 23 years old," It said.

Well, I guess that's my new name for now, I thought as I put a shirt on.

I grabbed the camera from the ground and looked at the lens, my eyes squinted as I tried to look inside for any sign of life, "Hello? Do you hear me?" I waited for a response and chuckled at how ridiculous I looked talking to a camera. I was about to put it inside my backpack when I heard a distant voice in my head. It was a male voice, and it was screaming in Italian.

"Che cazzo sta succedendo? Non sento più nulla… posso solo vedere attraverso questa maledetta lente! Ma cosa mi è successo? Sono intrappolato qui dentro? Non può essere vero… Aiuto! Qualcuno mi tiri fuori da qui, vi prego!"

I couldn't understand what he was saying—I don't speak Italian! I gazed into the lens, letting a look of gentle compassion soften my new features.

"I'm sorry man, I can't understand what you're saying. But it looks like that's your new home now. Your body is mine and It's going to be so fun being you, I hope you don't have a girlfriend because I'm really going to put this ass to use. But don't worry though, I will make sure you get some company soon."

I put the camera inside my backpack and casually walked away as if I’d always been him. I’d never felt this confident in my life, and proof of that was the huge bulge I proudly displayed in my jeans. This is going to be one unforgettable trip.

Next time, I won't be taking photos of old buildings, but of hot men whose bodies I want to capture.

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