#deciding for YOURSELF if that even matters

[firingstars]

match made [one-shot]

congressman!bucky x matchmaker!reader

summary: as a politician, bucky can no longer be caught swiping around on dating apps. sam decides to sign up his romantically stunted friend for a more sophisticated service instead.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), you get backshots B), soft dom (?) bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky doesn't understand how dating works in the 21st century, you get jealoussss and end up pissing bucky off momentarily

word count: 12.7k

a/n: so this is obviously inspired by the movie materialists LOL but there aren't any spoilers for the movie in here... i just have been thinking about the movie nonstop since i saw it and i will actually be rewatching it with my mother soon

masterlist

You’re used to meeting in more inconspicuous locations for your clients. Those with higher profiles often don’t want to be seen in public at coffee shops or cafes, and you don’t mind it. You weren't surprised when your newest client requested for you to meet at a restaurant. You checked in with the hostess under the reservation of James B. and surprise was still nowhere to be found when you were led into a private room away from prying eyes.

It didn't matter where the first meeting with your client took place anyway. This was a consultation, and your company normally picks up the first bill. It’s to make your client feel less pressured about the fact they’re paying you to find them a life partner.

You check yourself over in the small compact mirror in your hand. There’s no lipstick in your teeth. The mascara you’re wearing hasn’t smudged and your eyeliner hasn’t shifted out of place. Your hair is tamed and will continue to be as long as you had a say in it. You know your posture is impeccable, and you’re dressed professionally, but still chic enough to turn heads.

You had your purse hanging on your seat, phone face down on the table and already set to record so you could take notes later on for your conversation to pick up anything else that you may have missed, and you waited. You were early, but it was your job to be early. 

The door to the private room opened sooner than you thought. You stood, turning to meet your client– pausing when you saw two men walk into the room. Two men that you recognized from news channels, articles you skimmed over, and from your own clients describing their ideal physical types.

You kept the shock off of your face as you held out a hand to introduce yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you smiled. ���I’m your matchmaker from Ador. I’ll be taking good care of you from this point forth.”

“Bucky,” he introduced himself, his voice stiff as he shook your hand. You take a quick glance at him, eyes scanning his figure as your mind runs numbers over his entire physique. He doesn’t even need to tell you, but you already know.

Six feet or taller. He had pretty, white teeth that you briefly saw when he spoke. His eyes were piercing, but they carried the weight of something that you couldn’t imagine holding yourself. His dark brown hair was carefully done, not a single hair out of place. He wore a suit that only seemed to accentuate the broadness of his shoulders and chest, and didn’t hide the muscular build of his body. Your eyes caught the dark metal hand that rested by his side.

You turned to the other man, who shook your hand with a lot more enthusiasm. He returned your smile, giving you a toothy grin.

“I’m Sam. Don’t mind him– He’s always like that. Just a grumpy old guy,” he said, patting Bucky’s back to push him further into the room and towards the table. “His age shouldn’t be an issue, right?”

“He’s a very attractive man, I’m sure there are a lot of women in New York that wouldn’t mind,” you replied smoothly, watching Sam let out a breath of relief. 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him, but I’m glad the words came from the professionals’ mouth!” Sam exclaimed, clapping a hand over Bucky’s shoulder.

The three of you sat down together, a waiter coming over to bring over a bottle of wine, pouring glasses for the three of you as you all looked over the menu.

“Thank you for making time out of your schedule to come meet with this guy,” Sam continued, clearing his throat. “I actually signed him up for your service. Spoke to your boss and asked for the best of the best at your company, and she said that you were booked and busy, but– I really appreciate you being able to fit him into your clientele.”

You give Sam a well trained smile– one that you have perfected over the years of staring at yourself in the mirror. “Of course. I’m always happy to help someone meet their destined partner.”

Bucky lets out a scoff beside Sam, who elbows his side roughly. The man doesn’t even flinch at the contact. Your smile doesn’t falter at his obvious disapproval of your honeyed words.

“Between you and me,” Sam said, looking back at you, “The reason I got him on this program is because I’m really trying to get this guy on a date. And he’s a Congressman now, you know? He can’t really be swiping on Tinder anymore. It’s not a good look for someone trying to pass government bills.”

“I get it,” you nodded, agreeing with him. “I have a lot of clients that are in the same boat. Many of those who are in more sensitive occupations that can’t be seen in the more… open areas of society. I hold no judgement at all. After all, I’m simply here for him.”

Sam looked satisfied with your answer, and the waiter came back to take your orders. 

This consultation was unlike anything you had before– in your entire five years of matchmaking. Bucky didn’t say a single word, even when you tried to speak to him. He kept his eyes on you, which was slightly unnerving since he refused to speak. 

Sam had to keep swooping in to respond your questions, but you still barely got any answers. You had nothing to work with. No ideal type. Nothing that he was looking forward to in the future. 

You left the restaurant with another handshake to both men, and a promise to call Bucky to meet up with him again to discuss his potential options. 

You even listened to that damn recording over and over again, but you couldn’t even find a single thing that indicated what Congressman James Barnes would want in a woman or man. You looked through the files and consent forms that were submitted to you – that he signed– and found only the vaguest of answers.

Name: James Buchanan Barnes DOB: 1917, March 10 Occupation: Ex-Assassin, Current Congressman

What are your strengths and weaknesses? Left arm is strong. Right arm is slightly less strong.

Does your social media accounts accurately represent you? Please include your handles! Don’t have accounts.

How do you handle conflict? Fists and/or guns.

What does your ideal partner look like? Not part of The Big Three.

What characteristics do you hope to find in a partner? Human.

How do you spend your free time? Work.

What are your core beliefs? Loyalty. 

What are your expectations for a long term relationship? Peace.

Are you seeking marriage, a serious partnership, or something casual? ?

Do you have any deal breakers? Liars.

Why did your last relationship end? I was drafted into WWII and didn’t come home.

You want to slam your head into your desk. You usually received essay answers from your clients. You were beginning to understand why your boss handed you this client without regard for your current workload– she saw the responses he submitted. There was no one in this company that would be able to handle the shit that Bucky gave you to work with. You weren’t even sure that you would be able to work with this. 

You did your research on the congressman in between work of your other clients to try and get a hold of his personality because he wasn’t answering your calls. You wanted to pretend that he was a busy man working to pass bills in the government, but deep down you know that he’s trying to avoid you all together. 

He was a mysterious man– that was for sure. He had enough controversy to put a celebrity to shame, but with his looks and his financial state, you were certain that there were enough bachelor women in New York that would be more than willing to throw that behind them. There was also the benefit that he was a soldier. Lots of women enjoyed having a protector in the home, especially in the tough times of impending doom that was constantly looming over the city you lived in.

Bucky was almost the ideal man that everyone was looking for. Handsome. Smart. Strong. He had an edgy vibe to him that was alluring– almost like the bad boy type that girls would chase in high school. He also had the politician’s salary that would definitely make panties drop. He thankfully did not have the politician’s shady background, either. 

You’re still thinking about him when you’re sitting across from your next client, Mel, who’s telling you about her last date. 

“It was okay,” she said with a deep sigh. You know that look on her face. She’s detached. You’ve seen it painted on her features more than once before, and you don’t allow the dread to show up on your own face. 

“I hear a but coming on,” you said, fixing a smile on your face.

“It’s just difficult to date these days,” she admitted, slouching a bit in her seat as her hands clasped over her cup of coffee. “I had to cancel on him three times before we finally went on that date the other day. And it was nice, it really was, but I just… I don’t know. I feel bad.”

“Is it because of work?” you guessed, reaching over the table to place your hand over hers. “I know it’s hard working for the government. Really. I get it. It’s demanding, and you’re the personal assistant to someone that just wants you on your feet twenty-five hours of the day.”

She gives you a sad smile, and nods at your words. “He asked me to go on another date tomorrow night. And I want to, but– there’s this charity gala tomorrow that my boss is throwing. I have to go.”

“You can’t invite him as a plus one?” you offered as a solution.

“God, I wish,” she groaned. “Working for the government like I do– I could explain it to you, but it would be so much easier if I could just show you–”

Mel cut herself off, straightening in her seat as she locked eyes with you. She adjusted both her hands to hold yours in hers. 

“Mel?” you asked, still smiling at her.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” she asked, serious. “Can I ask you to be my plus one? Maybe you’ll be able to see the life I live– and it’ll help you figure out the kind of man that will be suitable for the life I live. Trust me, Daniel is great. Amazing guy. He’s just too… free spirited. Too spontaneous. I need structure and plans and I need you to see my life in order to really grasp it.”

You let out a sigh as you weighed the pros and cons. 

This sounded like a bad idea. Getting too involved with a client was never a good thing. In fact, it crossed a lot of boundaries and raised a lot of alarm bells in your head. You may have gone to your client’s weddings– the weddings of matches that you put together– but that was another form of networking. This was a charity gala for a government event. You would be completely out of your own element. 

However, you really didn’t have anything to do tomorrow. You had no appointments with your clients in the evening. You did have enough dresses in your closet that you could go through– and Mel was your favorite client. You had set her up on more than a few dates since she had enlisted your service, and she had turned down more than enough men for you to know that she was struggling. She wasn’t old by any means, but she was still a hopeless romantic that just needed some assistance, and you really wanted to help her out.

“Please?” Mel tried again, pulling you out of your own thoughts.

“Okay,” you relented, letting out a small sigh through your nose as you did.

She squealed, excited. “I will text you the details. I’ll let the staff know your name so you don’t have to worry about a single thing. Just show up pretty like you always do!” 

You gave her a smile, one more genuine than the ones that you normally show your clients.

You step up the stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, thankful that there aren’t any photographers trying to stop you for a quick photo. Around you, you recognize several celebrities here for the charity event along with politicians of varying levels of influence. Your eyes fall on the banners, seeing the past heroes of the Avengers staring right back at you.

A small sense of nostalgia flows through you as you continue your way to the doors, only stopping momentarily to check in with the doormen. 

As you move towards the second floor to get a better view of the entire floor, a server comes by with a tray, offering you a flute of champagne that you gratefully take. You take a small sip as you move through the museum, eyes flitting over the different people in the gala. You rest your elbows against the railing, scanning over the entire crowd. Your eyes can’t help but run numbers over every single person that you see. 

You see the brand of their suits and dresses scream at you. The wear of their purses and shoes let you know exactly how disposable their income is. How tall they hold their head gives you insight on how insecure they are. You watch how each woman communicates with each man. Every gentle touch, flutter of eyelashes, subtle drop of eye contact from the eyes to the lips. 

You can easily tell who is single, who is taken, who is pretending to be single, and who wishes they were anything but single. 

“You made it!” a cheery voice calls your name from behind you. 

You straighten your spine as you turn around, a smile fitting over your lips. Then, you raise an eyebrow at Mel. She’s wearing a blazer and skirt, holding a tablet in hand with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

“You texted me that this was a formal event, Mel. What are you wearing?” you teased lightly, looking her up and down. “My plan was to find you a date tonight.”

“I’m working right now,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “I saw you from downstairs, so I slipped away to say hello real quick. You look great, by the way. Not that you don’t look amazing usually.”

You let out a small laugh, looking down at yourself briefly. Your dress was simple, a strapless black evening gown that clung effortlessly to you, with a cascading, sheer, flowing hem that moved with each step that you took. You paired it with a simple golden necklace matched with a timeless gold wristwatch. The purse that hung off your shoulder finished off the look, adding to the overall sophistication to the look. 

You didn’t deny her compliment, smile widening at her. “Would’ve loved to see you in something similar.”

“Maybe next time,” she smiled back, moving to loop your arm through hers. “We’ll be starting the dinner service soon, so let’s find your seat.”

You allowed her to lead you away, noticing the crowd was also moving towards the banquet hall now. Mel dropped you off at a round table towards the end of the room, though you didn’t necessarily mind. There was a placard with your name on the charge plate. You allowed your purse to hang from the seat as you took your phone out, allowing yourself to rest for a few moments.

Others were still filtering in, finding their seats at the seating chart at the front. You lost sight of Mel the second she left your side. It was becoming increasingly clear that she needed to be matched with someone as busy as her. You let out a sigh as you pulled up profiles on your phone, removing some men that you thought would work with her. 

You didn’t even look up as someone took a seat beside you. 

“I don’t answer your calls, so you come directly to where I work?”

You paused at the voice, looking up. Bucky is sitting beside you, champagne in hand as he flicks away a placard that is definitely not his own. He replaces it with his as you watch the random name get discarded somewhere on the floor behind him. 

You blink at him– it somehow didn’t even cross your mind that he would be here tonight. You curse yourself slightly. For a man that you thought about constantly, you completely missed the mark with this one. Why wouldn’t he be here? 

“I was invited,” you said, placing your phone faced down on the table. You cross one leg over the other, shifting your body to face his. “Though, I am hurt that you don’t answer my calls.”

A sigh escapes his lips as he shakes his head. You watch as his fingers play with the folded piece of paper with his name written with perfect calligraphy– hands that are slightly calloused from the years of war and battles that he’s fought.

“What business does a matchmaker have at a government charity event?” he finally asked, stormy eyes meeting yours. 

“You would be surprised to find there are many highly influential and single government workers that are looking for my company’s services,” you said, giving him a small shrug. “Call it networking.”

He watched you for a few moments, eyes scanning your figure. If he was anyone else, if you didn’t do prior research to know that he was a former assassin and spy, you would have thought he was checking you out. No– he wasn’t. He was searching for something. 

You didn’t give him any answers. 

When Bucky’s eyes finally settled on your face again, you gave him a polite smile. His eyebrows twitched as his eyes narrowed at you.

“Is something the matter, Congressman Barnes?” you asked, folding your hands in your lap. 

“I don’t need your services. Take me off the list,” he said, his voice gruff and low.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Wilson has paid in advance for us to serve you. The contract extends until you have found a match,” you reminded him. “You signed the consent form to allow us to give Mr. Wilson updates on how your dates go as well. We have to continue to at least try to reach out to you, even if you ignore my calls.”

“I will sue your office for harassment,” he threatened.

“You signed consent forms allowing for me to call, text, and email your direct lines of contact as per agreement,” you repeated, smiling at him as you tilted your head. “It would make things so much easier for both of us if we met regularly so I can get you on at least one date a week, Congressman.”

Bucky drags his metal hand down his face as he fights back groaning out loud. You can only keep your smile trained on your face as you watch him. 

“Can I perhaps order you a drink, Congressman? You strike me as a whiskey kind of guy,”  you hummed, raising a hand towards the waiter that was walking by.

“Make it neat,” he muttered beside you, completely defeated as you ordered drinks for the two of you.

Dinner service goes by without another hiccup. The two of you don’t discuss the nature of your relationship as others join your table. You don’t recognize the others at the table, but they recognize Bucky. That’s enough for you to pretend that you don’t know Bucky like that.

However, you do take the chance to spread your business card around the table with a pretty smile and a flutter of your lashes as you give your well rehearsed spiel.

“And you’re responsible for… how many marriages between your matches?” one of the women at your table asks, surprised.

“Goodness..” you sigh dramatically for effect, placing a hand over your chest. “I would say– about eight now? They are all lovely people that I have taken time to connect with. Amazing friends that I have grown to love, and I’m happy to have been able to bring them together for life.”

“Then you’re an expert,” Bucky suddenly said beside you as he picked up his whiskey glass. “What do you think makes a perfect partner?”

“Of course, that depends from person to person,” you respond, smiling at him before looking at the rest of the table. “I’m not here to build a person out of thin air for you. I am here to show you that love exists, and that you are worthy of it. Even if you don’t believe that there is someone out there for you, I believe it. There’s someone out there for everyone.”

The women were captivated by your sugared words, sliding over their own business cards to you, asking you to call them on the next business day. You grin as you take each card, sliding them into your purse. You ignore Bucky’s eyes on the side of your face as you continue to chat with everyone else. 

You tune out during the speeches that Mel’s boss has. You don’t necessarily care for it, though you do your best to look like you’re paying attention. You’ll read some reverbed version of this long winded monologue tomorrow morning, and Mel will definitely let you know how she feels about it later. 

When the talking is over and the music turns on, you find yourself being dragged by the other women at your table to be introduced to some other single women attending the gala. At the very least, you didn’t end up lying to Bucky. You ended up doing networking here after all. 

By the time you managed to get out of the hands of single men and women trying to enlist your services, your purse was stuffed to the brim with business cards that weren’t yours, and you would need to order some more cards of your own on Monday. 

You managed to slip out to a secluded hallway, away from the music and festivities. You kept walking, running a hand through your hair as you sighed. You found an open balcony, the cool New York air blowing through it and a bench calling your name.

You rested your aching feet, and decided to look through the cards you got– trying to organize who you would delegate to some of your coworkers and who you would take on as your own from the short conversations that you had. Your workload was already heavy as it was, and you still had a certain man that wasn’t making your life any easier for you. 

“Can I pay you to get me off your list?”

Speak of the devil.

“Maybe if you say please,” you respond, still shuffling the cards into two separate stacks.

The devil doesn’t respond to you. You let out a deep sigh.

You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe of the balcony door. His hands are tucked in his pocket, looking at you. You close your purse, resting your hands on the cement bench as you let your eyes scan him up and down.

“I have a great match for you. She works in the government as well. She’s a personal assistant, so she understands the kind of work that you do as a Congressman. Just as busy as you are. She has her ideal type as someone taller than 5’10’’. Doesn’t have a preference for age, but has told me that she wants someone with an old soul. She’s cute. Somewhat of a busy-body, but that means that she’s pretty low maintenance, and you don’t have to worry that much about dates,” you said. 

His eyes narrowed at you. “Are you setting me up on a date or selling me a product?”

“Depends on the angle that you look at it,” you shrugged. 

Bucky sighed, closing his eyes tight. “If I go on this one date, will you leave me alone?” 

“If it goes well on your end and hers, then yes,” you nodded. “However, the company does assist in setting up the first, second, and third date. From there, it is up to you and her to decide if you two will be an official couple. If you do, you both are obligated to report it to the company. I will then check up on you during the milestones of your relationship.”

“Milestones?” he asked, frowning at you.

“You know, your anniversaries. First month. Six months. One year. If you even need help proposing to her one day, then we can definitely help you with that as well– Mr. Wilson paid for the full Ador Matchmaking Package, so it’s included,” you informed him. 

Bucky stared at you like you had two heads and six pairs of eyes on each head. You continued to smile at him, and moved to stand in front of him. 

“I am not here to make your life difficult, Congressman. In fact, I think that finding you a partner can be a wonderful thing. I find that being able to share your life with someone– share your struggles with someone– can relieve a lot of the stress that you may have,” you said, locking eyes with him.

“Are you speaking from your own experience?” he asked, clenching his jaw tight. Your smile faltered for the first time. You quickly fixed it back into place. 

“I have seen and matched many successful couples,” you answered, ignoring the true intentions of his question. “Just trust me.”

Bucky let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looked to be contemplating his options here.

“I’m not ready for a date. I have my own issues that I just… I have issues,” he admitted to you, lowering his hand. “You left me a voicemail– saying you wanted to discuss more of my… desires with a partner. Let’s start with that.”

“Of course,” you said, trying to hide the giddiness in your chest. Finally. You were getting somewhere with him. “We’ll take this at your pace.”

On your first meeting with him, you had to explain the dating in this century. Bucky still continues to stare at you like you were insane, and you can only sigh as you try to break down the new lingo of the year for him.

"What do you mean by that?"

"By what?"

"Talking stage. Situationship. What is that?"

"Just because you go on dates with someone, doesn't mean that you are dating them, Congressman. Same thing with talking. You can be talking with them, but are you talking with them? It's all in the nuances. Situationships are a bit more... sensual."

Bucky still doesn't get it, and you're worried about sending him off on dates with women- some of your older clients even know about these phrases. You're afraid Bucky might think he's going steady with someone who isn't serious about him at all.

The second meeting included texting etiquette and dating terms. Bucky couldn't wrap his head around why people sent emoticons to each other- he hated phone calls already. He despised having to send those cute emojis to express his emotions over text.

"Ghosting?" he deadpanned at you. "Did you ask me if I have ever been ghosted before?"

"It's a general question, Congressman-"

"No- I don't know what that means," he cut you off. "Did someone fucking die?"

You stare at him like he's crazy, but you clearly slip your mask back into place and remind yourself that he was born in the late 1910s.

"It's when someone that you were previously talking to just randomly disappears. Remember we were talking about the talking stage during our last meeting? Say you thought your date went really well, and you're looking forward to your next date, and you try meeting up with her again, but she just- poof! Disappears. Gone without a trace."

"You can search her up in the database and find her easily."

You almost want to cry at how serious he looks and sounds at this moment.

"Not everyone is an ex-assassin, Congressman."

Your next meeting has you handing in your resignation on the spot. You never thought you would have to explain what a thirst trap is to someone over the age of thirteen, but here you were. It came up during the topic of dating apps, and how he despised every single moment that he was on them.

"I saw girls in tiger outfits," he told you.

"Like... full fur suits?" you asked.

"No, like bikinis."

"Oh. Like a costume?"

"Yeah. Why do they do that?" he asked, frowning at you.

"To look sexy," you shrugged at him. "Some people are attracted to that."

"People are attracted to tigers?"

"No, Congressman. They are attracted to the girl showing the wildly inappropriate amount of skin," you said, fighting back the laugh bubbling up in your throat. He looked utterly disgusted right now.

"Why would anyone put that shit on?"

"Some people enjoy it as a kink," you said, clearing your throat to hide your laughter. "Some see it as an acts of service kind of thing. You know, love languages."

Bucky looked like he was about to combust in his seat. "Love languages? Since when the hell did love have a language?"

"Words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch- just to name a few," you said, nodding at him.

"Isn't that the basics of romance? All of that, combined?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed at you. He almost sounded scandalized.

You gave Bucky a wide grin-- one that wasn't your practiced smile. "That's what I like to hear. Keep that in mind while I try to find you a match, okay?"

It's on your fourth meeting when you officially dub Bucky as your most stubborn client that you've ever had. You are losing patience, and you thought you had an astounding amount of it. You didn’t think that he could be worse than the questionnaire that he filled out.

Bucky spoke a lot, but he didn’t say anything in his words. He talked in circles that had your mind running. 

Over four meetings, you could barely managed to figure out that he wanted a partner that would be able to keep up with his busy schedule, and not get upset with him for being closed off. You could work with that– someone understanding. That was basic level, but that should have been something that he could have said within the first minute of speaking to you. Not over the eighteen hours that you have sat down with him and talked.

You know Bucky is also getting increasingly frustrated as your meetings go along, too. You’re questioning him in different ways that he’s not used to– he’s not used to being on the opposite end of an interrogation, especially not about his desires in a woman.

“I still don’t understand why we have to meet like this,” Bucky said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I told you– the questionnaire that you submitted to us was damn near empty, Congressman,” you stressed. “I have nothing to work with here. I can’t find you a partner if you put a question mark as an answer!’

“I think it’s pretty straight forward,” he grunted in his seat.

“You have to have a physical type that you’re attracted to, at least,” you finally said, exasperated as you dropped rubbed circles into your temples. 

Your notebook was filled with scribbles that you would try to make sense of later, but you knew there was nothing substantial from this latest meeting with your stubborn client. This is your fifth meeting with him and you still have nothing. 

“I… I don’t. Not really,” he answered, looking down at his desk.

 Bucky’s leg was bouncing up and down under his desk, an anxious habit you observed he did when he was over the meeting and you knew that it was time for you to wrap it up for the day.

“James,” you said, exasperated. “Everyone has a type. Someone that they see on the street that their eyes linger on just a little more than the next person. Nothing comes to mind? Not even just one feature?”

He stopped bouncing for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat at the unexpected contact, and you held it. You watched him just as intently as he watched you, waiting for him to speak as your heart began to uncharacteristically thump in your chest.

“Eyes,” he finally said, never breaking those stormy orbs away from you. “You can tell a lot about a person by looking them in the eyes. I like a person’s eyes.”

You swallowed thickly, swiping your tongue over your bottom lip as you cleared your throat. You tore your eyes away from him to look down at your notes, scribbling the word down, and circling it twice.

“Thank you. That’s progress. Not a lot for me to work off of, but I can find someone with pretty eyes for you,” you replied, giving him a smile of relief. 

“Add smiles to your notes. Pretty smiles are good, too.”

 You pause at his words, eyes narrowing at him for a moment. He smiled back at you before you went ahead and wrote down the word next to ‘eyes.’

“Do you really think there is someone out there that is willing to date an ex-assassin that committed several war crimes?” he asked, leaning back in his seat. “Not to mention, I’m old enough to be a lot of these people’s grandfather’s.”

“Great grandfather’s,” you corrected him.

“Wow,” he scoffed, but a smile fit over his face.

“I think you need to give yourself a little more credit. You deserve it,” you said, closing your notebook. You shoved it into your tote purse, and stood up to straighten your blazer. Bucky’s eyes followed your figure as you moved. “You may have done things that you’re not proud of, but haven’t we all? What matters now is that you’re doing your best to rectify the things that you didn’t even have control over.”

“It was still me that did it,” he said, sucking in a breath.

“And the man in front of me is a great match for a lot of women out there, if he just allows me to set him up with someone,” you replied. You watched as his eyes fell on your face again, and you smiled at him. “I promise, Congressman. There’s someone for everyone. Including you. Someone that accepts your past, and looks forward to the future that you envision– that you won’t even share with me even though it’s my job to try and find someone that fits that future.”

A chuckle falls from his lips as he shakes his head. He straightens in his seat, busying his hands with organizing the manila folders on his desk. 

“I still don’t think I’m ready to just get out there and meet people, sweetheart. That’s not… I haven’t dated in a long time.”

You stared at him for a few moments. He’s avoiding looking at you right now– there’s a sheepish tone in his voice. He’s trying to glide over the vulnerability of his confession by organizing pens that are already color coded, and a calendar that is properly filled. 

“Go on a date with me,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His metal hand closes over a pen, and stops. “What?”

“A trial date,” you clarified, squaring your shoulders off to hide the embarrassment creeping up your neck. “You haven’t been on a date in a long time, and I’m the one trying to get you on dates. Let’s see how you are on dates, and once it’s over then I can give you a few pointers. Tell you if there’s anything that you need to work on– or let you know that you’re simply overthinking this whole thing.”

“Is this part of the service Sam bought?”

“No,” you answered honestly. “But it’s my job to help you, and you’re not confident in yourself. I need to build your confidence so you can meet some of my clients. No woman likes an insecure man.”

Bucky’s searching your figure again– doing that same thing he did at the gala. Searching for something in you. Hesitation maybe? Regret, you guess. Maybe he thinks you’ll take back your words. You stare right back at him, unwavering. 

You’re breaking a lot of your own personal rules, and boundaries these days, but you don’t say that out loud. You’re doing a lot to help your clients– starting with Mel’s charity gala, and now offering to do a test run with Bucky. It seems that you just can’t help yourself. 

“When’s your next free night, Congressman?” you asked, taking your phone out from your purse to pull up your calendar. “I’ll clear my evening for you.”

You met him at an upscale restaurant of your choosing, telling him that you would plan the date as is normal by Ador standards when it comes to the matchmaking dates. All he needed to do was show up and look nice. You thought you would be early, just like last time. You’re pleasantly surprised to find him opening the door to your Uber, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

“Hi there,” you smiled at him.

“Hi,” Bucky replied, a bit stiff. You kept your laugh to yourself as he took a few steps back to allow you to get out of the car, and then he shut it behind you. “This is– uh– for you.”

He holds out the bouquet– one that you can tell is on the pricier end of the market. The scent is strong, the buds are young, and the colors are vivid. The bow wrapped tight around it is pristine and sharp as well. Your smile only seemed to grow a bit wider as you took it from his hands, brushing your fingertips against his as you did. 

“They’re beautiful. I love them, thank you,” you told him, truthful.

“Thank God,” he muttered, leading you towards the restaurant. “Sam said something about women in this era not enjoying flowers. I almost didn’t get you any.”

“Women still like flowers,” you said, eyebrows raising at him.

“That’s what I told him, and I’m glad that you agree. I’ll have to tell him that the professional sides with me,” Bucky chuckled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he held the door open for you to enter first. 

You felt his hand rest on the small of your back as he joined behind you, and you made the mental note in your head– he really wasn’t all that closed off. In just a few moments, he proved to be extremely charming. What was his issue with dating?

The two of you were shown to a quieter table towards the back of the restaurant, with Bucky pulling out your seat. You’re getting more impressed by the second here. Maybe it’s the fact he was around during the prime time of men being chivalrous, but you were certain that this would have a lot of your clients sinking their claws into him and never letting him go. You just had to find him someone that he didn’t want to let go of.

The dinner was a set course that you both ate quietly save for small comments on how the fish was cooked perfectly. Otherwise, you didn’t say much until the table was cleared and more wine was poured into your glasses. You both thank the waiter before turning your attention back to each other.

“So, Congressman. Was the last date you really had back in the forties?” you asked, resting your chin in your palm as you stared at him.

He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Bucky– Just… Bucky is fine for right now. And no. I went on a date a year or so ago.”

“Okay, Bucky,” you said, testing the name on your tongue. You watched as the corners of his lips curled slightly. “How did that date go?”

“Ran out on her,” he recalled, and you furrowed your eyebrows at him. He let out a deep sigh. “Not my best moment, but she said something that kind of… triggered me, I guess. Couldn’t really stay for much longer without having a panic attack.”

You keep your eyes on him for a few moments before you decide to reach for your wine glass and take a slow sip, digesting his words as the liquid runs down your throat. You let out a small hum. 

“Well, you can’t run from me,” you smiled at him, “I already know your past. There’s nothing that you need to hide from me that I’ll be scared of.”

“I’m sure you’ll show up at my office if I run away from you,” he chuckled with a shake of his head. 

“I will. You are notorious for not answering your phone,” you reminded him.

“I honestly hate that thing,” he said with a deep sigh. “I preferred when people sent each other letters. They were much more personal. You could see people’s handwriting, and how they felt with each stroke of their pen.”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised. You didn’t expect this. However, it made sense. Bucky did strike you as a guy that would prefer sentimental gifts over expensive, over the top trinkets.

“If I send you a letter or write you a sticky note, will you be more inclined to meet with me again?” you asked.

Bucky can’t help but laugh at your question. “Sure, sweetheart. I’ll meet with you again if you send me a heartfelt letter.”

“I’ll spray my perfume and add a kiss mark next to my signature, just for you,” you teased. “Send it straight to your door.”

He shakes his head at your antics, though his smile never falters. His fingers play with the stem of the wine glass, twirling the glass in his flesh hand for a few moments as a comfortable silence fills the air between you two. The live pianist in the restaurant fills in the gaps between your conversation, allowing the two of you a moment of peace as you watch over each other. 

Bucky looks handsome tonight. He’s ditched the usual tie that he wears with his suits, and a couple of the buttons are undone at the top of his shirt. You can see the shining necklace of what you assume is his dog tags hiding against his chest. His blazer is hung at his chair, the material matching the slacks he wears. His hair, which is normally gelled back, is slightly out of place from the day. A few strands are framing his face and you find that you like it better this way. It looks a little fluffy. His beard is well maintained as per usual, a little shorter than you remember seeing it last week. 

He’s scanning you the same way you’re scanning him. This time, you know that he’s not searching your body for answers like he had done previously. You feel oddly exposed under his gaze, but not uncomfortable. A shiver runs down your spine as his eyes continue to drag up and down your figure.

“I’m surprised your boyfriend is alright with you going on dates like this,” he finally said, your eyes meeting his. “Even if this is supposed to be something that is meant to help a client of yours.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, finger circling the rim of your wine glass. You wet your lips as you suck in a small breath, preparing for the questions to come after you respond to his statement.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you told him.

It’s Bucky’s turn to raise an eyebrow at you. He rested his arms on the table, leaning in closer to you. “You’re telling me that my matchmaker that’s supposed to find me a girlfriend isn’t taken? This sounds like a scam, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes at his blatant sarcasm, sighing deeply. “I don’t have to be in a relationship to know how relationships work, Bucky.”

“Then, why? What’s the reason that the professional relationship maker doesn’t want to be in a relationship?” he asked.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the question weighing heavy on your mind. Out of your coworkers, you are the only one that is without a partner. They are all going strong with someone– on the path of getting engaged, or already married. You are the only one alone, and you’re the best employee in the company. You look down at the table for a moment before lifting your eyes to meet his. 

The truth is- you're afraid. You fear allowing someone into your heart, seeing the vulnerability of everything that you are. It's such a small reason that everyone holds close to their heart, a reason that you have coerced others out of their shells... but you still can't seem to get out of your own.

“I haven’t found the right match,” you answered. 

“Who’s the right match for you?”

You sighed, leaning back in your seat for a moment. “I have a deal breaker. I need to watch the guy climb a fence. If they look fucking stupid while doing it, then I’m out.”

“What?” Bucky whispered, staring at you in disbelief.

You smiled at him- a pretty smile that you knew he liked.

“I like athletic guys. Ones that can preferably pick me up like I don’t weigh anything. And that can carry all the groceries into the house in one trip, or all the bags when I go shopping. I make enough money to sustain myself, and I’ll continue working even after I get married to keep my own income separate from a joint account. A guy that will let me do whatever I want without questioning me or my decisions because he trusts me. I’m not really a homemaker, if you understand what I’m saying. So, it’s a little difficult. My preferences in the bedroom differ from what I enjoy in reality, so the men I seek don’t want to date all of me. They want someone submissive 24/7, and that’s not typically who I am.”

You’re more than certain you gave Bucky more than he asked you for, but you don’t really care. You’re trying to gain his trust so that he opens up to you, tells you more about what he wants in a partner, so that you can find someone for him.

“So,” you continued, picking up your wine glass again. “What are your preferences in the bedroom– or have you not done anything since the forties?”

Bucky’s lips parted, then shut. His mind looked to be short circuiting in real time, still processing your words. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Are all women as forward as you while on dates in this time period?” he finally asked.

“Not all,” you chuckled, taking a sip of the wine. You can’t help but tease him, “I just find myself comfortable enough to speak with you like this. What about you, Congressman? I feel like we’ve known each other long enough for you to talk to me about this kind of thing.”

Bucky downs the rest of the wine in his glass, surprising you with his actions. His eyes are dark when they lock onto yours, and his voice is low. The gravely tone makes goosebumps rise on your skin, and you instinctively straighten in your seat at the commanding presence he’s giving off. You don’t dare look away from him.

“I don’t prefer to talk about my preferences in the bedroom. I'd rather just show you.”

Bucky’s hand is cradling the back of your head, a soft barrier to keep your head safe as he pushes you back against the wall. Your lips are still connected to his, head angled upwards to deepen the kiss with him. Your purse is sliding down your arm, about to hit the floor with a soft thud when he parts from you to grab it, securing it over his own shoulder before returning back to your lips.

He really is a gentleman at heart.

Your moans are swallowed greedily into his throat as if the two of you didn’t just have a five course meal an hour ago, and his hands are moving to your thighs, bunching up your dress to your hips. Once he feels your skin against him, he groans against your lips, a tingle racing down your spine and going straight to your core. 

He tastes like wine, but faintly of cinnamon, too. With him so close to you, you’re overwhelmed and wrapped by the scent of smoke and wood, and you don’t hate it. There’s cologne somewhere in the mix here– something that you can’t detect since it’s so late in the night, but you can smell the smell of him on his neck.

“Bucky,” you whimpered, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thighs.

“I got you,” he muttered in response, hands moving to the underside of your thighs to scoop you up. 

Bucky easily shifted to have your legs wrap around his hips, and tilted his head upwards to trail kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh, angling your neck to the side to let him have more space to play.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he grunted before nipping at the soft skin at your neck. You let out a soft moan, gripping at the lapels of his blazer.

“What?” you whispered back as his tongue moved to soothe the wound.

“You said you wanted a man that could pick you up like you weigh nothing. I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You barely have time to process his words before you’re being pulled off the wall. He still has you in his arms, and your lips are caught in his again. Bucky moves through his apartment without having to see anything, going straight to his bedroom. He opens the door, holding you with only one arm as he carries you to bed. 

Sitting down, you’re straddling his lap. 

You grab his face in your hands, hungry for him. You can’t get enough. 

“You’re so handsome,” you whispered between kisses. 

“Not too insecure for you?” he chuckled softly.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” you huffed, biting his bottom lip softly. 

Bucky’s hands fall to your hips once more before moving to your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He unzips the piece without hesitation, and you briefly part from him to allow him to pull it off of your body. 

“God,” he groaned, taking a moment to look at you. His hands are on your waist, and your body shivered involuntarily at the cool touch of his metal hand. “You were hiding all of this from me, sweetheart?”

You weren’t wearing a bra. You couldn’t– not with the strappy dress that you were wearing. Of course, you had a jacket on earlier, and the material of your dress had one of those built in bras. You didn’t feel the need to explain it to him, not when Bucky was already taking a nipple in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand.

A moan fell from your lips as you arched your back into him– his free arm going to your back to support you and pull you even closer. You grabbed onto his shoulder, his hair, grounding your hips into his as he hummed into your chest.

You locked eyes with him, watched him as he swirled his tongue over the stiff peak of your nipple. Shit– this man was so hot. There was no way he was real. You couldn’t understand why this man was still single– age or lack of confidence aside. You didn’t get it. 

“Sit on my face,” he ordered you, your eyes widening slightly. 

You’re not certain you heard him right. 

“What–”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he clicked his tongue, already moving the two of you deeper into his bed. He’s still fully dressed, laid back on the pillows, and you’re still sitting on his lap. He has his metal hand under his head, staring at you as he waits.

“My underwear–” you tried to start, lifting your hips to remove the last garment between what he wanted you to do. 

Bucky’s hands move faster than you can swing your leg over his body. A resounding rip fills the air, and you see the fabric of your underwear get thrown off to the side of his bed. His hands settle over your hips, and you are once again being effortlessly lifted towards him– heart thundering in your chest.

You didn’t have any mental preparation before his tongue met your heat. His arms locked around your thighs, holding you in place so you couldn’t even attempt to hover over him. No, he had the full weight of you on him, and he was moaning into you. The vibrations alone had your thighs tensing around his head, hands reaching down for his hair for some stability.

His tongue flatted against your core, licking up all the wetness that had seeped through without him touching you earlier. Bucky moaned at the taste, absolutely floored at your excitement. He angled his head just slightly, nose nudging at the sensitive bundle of nerves that made your body flinch. 

He chuckled beneath you at your reaction, pressing harder against you, nuzzling his nose deeper into you– putting more pressure on your clit as he began to piston his tongue in and out of your aching pussy.

“Bucky!” you moaned his name, like it was the only thing you could say.

He groaned in response, eyes opening just briefly to lock on yours– those same piercing eyes were dark, blown out– and you realized he enjoyed eating you out just as much as you enjoyed having his tongue lap against you. 

Bucky liked this. He enjoyed  this– got off on this. You falling apart above him, unable to run from his ministrations as he brought you closer and closer to the edge where he could watch you without any restraint. He could see everything. He could see the way your chest rose and fell erratically, the way your skin flushed, the way you bit your lip, the way your eyes were dilated as you looked down at him.

“Bucky– I’m so close,” you whimpered, tugging on his hair.

And he lifted you up and away from his mouth.

You felt a sense of loss immediately, panic rushing through your body as he chuckled beneath you. You watched as he licked his lips from your juices, and he pushed you back down to straddle him once again.

“What– why?” you whispered, damn near close to tears. 

Bucky pushed himself up to sit, unbuttoning his shirt as he did. He let out a small hum as he took off the garment, wiping off the last bits of you off of his face and beard before tossing it to the side. Then, he grabbed your face with one hand, yanking you back into a deep kiss. 

You melted into him, pliant, trembling, needy. You tasted yourself on his tongue as he licked into your mouth. The gripping hand that held your face softened, moving to stroke your cheek affectionately moments afterwards. 

“You didn’t say please, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. 

Your eyes widened slightly– oh. You were going to kill him when you got out of this bedroom. He chuckled against your lips, knowing that you knew what he was referencing to. However, your irritation faded away as you heard the clink of his belt against his metal hand– noting that it was being taken off and discarded to the edge of the bed.

In one swift movement, you were on your back with Bucky in between your legs, lips on yours once more. 

You sighed into his mouth, closing your eyes as you felt his bare skin against yours. You could feel the scars of his shoulder under your left hand, the muscles of his right arm– his broad chest. You felt the ripples of his abs as your hands trailed down. 

Then you felt his length slide against your folds, coating itself in your slick. 

Bucky’s head rested in the crook of your neck, both of you letting out a soft moan as the tip of his cock briefly caught on your clit. You could feel the warm bead of precum drip onto your skin, your eyes falling shut at the sensation as a shiver of anticipation rushes through your body.

“Tell me what you want,” Bucky muttered, hands running up and down your sides. 

“You,” you responded instantly, a bit breathless. 

He chuckles, shaking his head before moving to press a kiss against your hairline. Bucky’s hands stop at your breasts, and you whine as he rolls both nipples in between his pointer fingers and thumbs.

“Gotta be a little more descriptive than that, doll, because I’m right here. Where do you want me?” he hummed, rutting his hips against yours again.

“Fu–ck,” you gasped, the word coming out broken from your throat. You collect yourself briefly, opening your eyes to look at him. “God, Bucky– you. I need your cock in me– please, I wanna cum all over your cock– I need it so bad, need you so bad–”

Your words die on your lips, cut off by the feeling of being stuffed absolutely full. Bucky’s forehead rested against yours, lips parted in a noiseless moan as he slid all the way to the hilt. Neither of you can say or move or breathe for a few moments– you’re both too overwhelmed. You can feel him so deeply inside of you, you’re sure he’s at your cervix.

“It’s like you were fucking made for me,” he finally groaned before pulling out, only leaving the tip of his cock in before thrusting all the way back in, starting a punishing pace. 

You can’t keep up with him, but you don’t even have to. Bucky’s doing all the work for you, his hips snapping into yours in perfect rhythm. When your back arches off the bed from the overwhelming pleasure of him, he scoops his arm underneath you to lock you in place as his other hand grabs both of your wrists to pin overhead to keep you from scrambling away from the intensity of the thrill.

Your first orgasm crept on you without any warning– but you were already wound up, and he knew it. You were a mess beneath him, moaning his name like it was the only thing you knew, hips rising to grind up to meet his, overstimulated by his lips all over your neck and chest.

He whispered pretty praises into your ear when you came around his cock, feeling his hips stutter slightly, and listening to him moan as you clenched around him tightly. Bucky didn’t stop there, though.

You didn’t have time to even come down from your high before he was flipping you over onto your stomach, him still inside of you. 

Your face was shoved into the pillow, his hand buried into your hair as the other hand grabbed at your hips to pull back into his own. He moaned behind you– and he was hitting you at a deeper, more delicious angle that made you see stars.

“Oh– Bucky– it’s too much,” you whined into the pillow, turning your head to breathe.

“You can take it,” he chuckled, letting out a soft moan after. “Your pussy is swallowing me up, can’t you feel it? She’s so greedy for me.”

You can only moan in response, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. You fisted the pillows beside your head for some stability, some purchase– something– and Bucky thought you looked so pretty like this. Back arched, lips parted, trying to hold on for dear life while your walls clamped onto him desperately as moans kept escaping your lips.

He wouldn’t be able to last much longer, and you could feel it with the way his thrusts grew more erratically. 

Bucky’s hand left your hair, moving to hold onto your hips in a way you were sure you would have bruises in the morning that you would admire in the mirror. You could feel pressure building once more– another orgasm as he fucked harder into you– and a moaned out your name as you felt fuller than you thought you could. Your walls spasmed around him a second time, and you heard him let out a soft laugh above you as you struggled to breathe.

His hands moved to either side of your head, lowering himself to press kisses up your spine. You could feel his cock still throbbing inside of you, both of your releases beginning to dribble out of your abused hole and drip onto the sheets beneath you by the time his kisses made its way to your shoulder blades.

“Came a second time, sweetheart?” he murmured against your skin.

“Why the fuck are you still single?” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He smiled against your skin. “Waiting for the right match.”

You need to draw the line somewhere. There needs to be a boundary, even though you’ve already crossed every single one there is. You’re certain if someone finds out, you’re fired and blacklisted from the industry without any sort of defense from your side.

You ran the hell out of Bucky’s apartment the morning after. You rejected his offer for breakfast, and his offer for a ride back to your apartment. You wouldn't allow him to do that for you, not when you were in the middle of a crisis in your own head. 

You were trying to find him a girlfriend, but you weren’t sure if you could be his girlfriend, not when you weren’t even certain of love yourself.

You skillfully filled up your calendar for two weeks, apologizing to Bucky and letting him know you had emergency clients that needed your help, and you had a destination wedding to get to. It wasn’t a total lie, but it was also something to help you get your mind off of everything– to help you clear your head. 

It was contradictory– being a matchmaker and preaching for love, but refusing to fall in love yourself. You know that, but you didn’t want to think about it. Being in love meant being vulnerable with someone. It meant showing somebody the softest parts of you. It meant giving Bucky more than what he saw of you that night you spent together, and it terrified you. 

You don’t know if you were ready to give up the façade of control you had over your life, and it was so easy for him to strip it all away from you.

However, you knew you had to face him and your own feelings. You also know yourself better than anyone else.

“Let me get this straight– you want me to go on this date with your other client. After we went on a date, and we slept together?” Bucky asked you, eyebrows raised.

“Technically, you are my client, too. It’s my job to put two clients together,” you responded, nodding.

Bucky is staring at you, and you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with the bouquet of roses that he got you. Your heart is breaking, and you’re trying not to let it show. You’re really trying to be professional here, and you already broke so many rules. You went to a charity gala that wasn’t work related. You went on a date with a client. You slept with said client. 

“So us sleeping together– is that something that you just do with all you clients?” he asked, a scoff escaping his lips.

Your eye twitches just slightly. “I don’t even offer the trial date to any of my clients, Congressman,” you said, your lips in a thin line.

“Then why me?” he demanded. “Because I certainly had a good time. Both on the date and after– or was that just me?”

You bite your lip as you take in a deep breath. You had a great time. An amazing time. In fact– you enjoy a lot of your time with Bucky, as much as you hate to admit it. When you’re not interrogating him, he’s fun to talk to. The date banter was cute. The aftercare was top tier– he drew you a bath and sat in the soapy water with you and washed your hair. 

“You are my client,” you dismissed, ignoring his question. “Mr. Wilson has paid for my services, and we went on the trial date for me to evaluate how you are on the field. You aren’t bad on dates. You’re great. I think you’re ready to meet people– like that girl I told you about at the gala.”

“We slept together,” he said again. 

“And it was nice,” you nodded.

“That’s it? Just… nice? It didn’t mean anything else to you?” he asked. He was doing it again. Searching you for an answer. You hoped that your body didn’t give it away– hoped that he didn’t explore you well enough to know all your tells.

You fixed your smile on your face. “Is there something that you’d like to say, Congressman?”

Bucky’s lips part, as he watches you, eyebrows furrowed. He’s mad, and you know it. Guilt and dread builds up in your stomach, and you, for once, feel small. You watch as he sucks in a breath, and leans back in his seat.

“Fine. Set up the date. Just send me the details,” he said, looking away from you. “I have a meeting to get to, if you’d excuse me.”

He’s lying, and you know it. The windows of time he blocks out for you are usually at least three hours long. You’ve only been here for about thirty minutes. You don’t comment.

You can only manage a tight smile before you turn away from him. You don’t take the flowers with you, as much as you want to. Those flowers did nothing to deserve your cold shoulder. You close the door on your way out, taking your phone out of your purse as you dial a number. It picks up on the third ring.

“Hey Mel. Found you a date,” you said, trying to hide the jealousy in your voice.

You give her the details of Bucky, and you hate the way she sounds so excited because you know she is– she’s a good girl, and a great match. You wouldn’t be surprised if they got along well, if you were being honest.

You can only go back to the office, set up the date, then email both of them the details after going through their schedule to find the best time for the both of them. You receive a confirmation email back from both parties within minutes, and the dread in your stomach only grows larger.

You try to busy yourself when the date night comes along, staying in your apartment with a cheap beer and shitty romance movies that make you wonder if love exists or if you’re just too stupid to really think properly.

Mel must be having a great time right now, you think. The time of her life, even. You feel ugly with jealousy at this current moment in time, and you’re trying to shove it all away with greasy take out because you like Mel. She’s sweet. Bucky is the best match you could have found for her. Out of all the men in your books– he is the best out of the best.

And you’re so green with envy that you want to scream.

You wonder what flowers he bought her. You wonder if he pulled her chair for her to sit when they got to dinner. Maybe he even draped his fucking blazer over her shoulder if she got cold and didn’t wear a jacket– fuck! You should’ve pretended to forget your jacket so you could’ve pulled that move on him on your date.

You wonder if he decided to take her home. 

You clench your jaw as you pick up your phone, finding no notifications. There are no calls from either of them– no updates on their date. Could be a bad sign, but also could be a good sign. You groan into your hands.

You don’t get any restful sleep that night, and you’re scheduled to meet Mel at a coffee shop the next morning for a debrief on her date.

She looks great, which only seems to piss you off some more. You do your best to hide it. 

“Bucky was very handsome, like you said. I think he was taller than six foot though,” Mel started off with.

You smiled at her, “Sounds like the date went well?”

“He was a gentleman,” she grinned at you. “Very sweet the entire night. Almost too sweet, I think.”

You paused at that, tilting your head slightly. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Um… Not necessarily?” she chuckled slightly. “I don’t know. It just seemed like his mind was somewhere else most of the time. He would answer when I talked– most of his questions to me were generic, but it felt like he was just kinda talking through me, not to me.”

“First dates are generally awkward for some,” you said, mentally kicking Bucky in the shin while kissing his face at the same time. “Did you want to see him again?”

“Actually… at the end of the date, he told me there was someone that he was already interested in,” she said, giving you a small smile as she reached into her purse. “And that he discussed handwritten, sentimental letters with her. He said that you walked away from him last time, but he was certain that I would see you again, so he asked me to give this to you.”

Your eyes widened as Mel slid over the envelope over the table, your lips parting as you saw your name sprawled over the paper in his handwriting. Panic flashed over your face as you looked up at her, and her smile only grew wider.

“Like I said– he was very sweet to me, but he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else than with me last night,” Mel said. “And he apologized profusely to me for wasting my time, and told me that I didn’t have to do this if I didn’t have to– but I like you, and I think this is really cute. You don’t see guys write love letters to girls these days. However, I expect a wedding invitation if that happens.”

She leaves you in the coffee shop with the letter that takes you too long to open. When you finally do, you find several pages folded up. Behind the handwritten letter, you find the Ador Matchmaker questionnaire as well. Your eyes widened– he filled it out. Completely. To the brim, with full answers. 

You don’t know how long you spend in the café, rereading both the letter and his answers before you’re booking a ride towards his office

You stand in the hall, his handwritten letter tucked safely in your purse as you try to will your heart to calm down in your chest. The receptionist let you know that he was definitely in the building somewhere. You don't know if he’s in the middle of a meeting or an appointment, but you’re willing to wait. 

Eventually, you hear footsteps against the marble floor, and you hear the chatter of different voices echoing against the walls. Then, it slows, and the voices come to a stop. You look up, finding Bucky in the center of a crowd of other men in suits. They’re all looking at him, waiting– and he dismissed them with a nod and a mutter of a couple words. They disperse immediately.

He fixed his suit with his hands, walking past you and to his door, unlocking the office. He doesn’t say a word, but holds it open for you to step in first. Your heart squeezes at the gesture, and you move. 

Your eyes fall on the wilting roses first. He put them in a vase, in the corner of his office where he can see them from his desk. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. The door shuts as he walks in behind you, and he goes towards his chair. Bucky cleared his throat, taking a seat. 

“Yes,” you said, sitting at the chair opposite from his desk. “I’m here to follow up on your date with Mel.”

You watch as his eyebrow twitches in annoyance. “I see. This couldn’t have been a phone call? An email?”

“You are very infamous for avoiding my phone calls, Congressman. Should I send you a letter for my clients to deliver to you, too?” you asked.

Bucky stared at you for a few moments, before sighing. He relaxed in his seat, closing his eyes. 

“Is this the part where you tell me that this is unprofessional? That you can’t be in a relationship with me?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Is that why you pulled away from me so quickly after the date?”

“Because it was unprofessional,” you argued back. “It shouldn’t have happened the way it did– part of me feels like I took advantage of you.”

“You didn’t,” he immediately said, eyes snapping open to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat. “You did not take advantage of me. I wanted you– I want you just as bad as you wanted me.”

“Your letter said that I make you feel human,” you said, letting out a shaky breath. “You mean it?”

“I rewrote that thing five times before I got the proper wording down, sweetheart,” he confessed, sighing. He dragged his hand over his face, shaking his head. “The first four drafts didn’t convey what I wanted it to.”

“And you really think that I can make you happy?” you whispered.

“You said it yourself. You find it easy to talk to me,” he said, a laugh escaping his lips. “I agree with you. You are the easiest person for me to talk to. I think I could tell you everything, and that scares me.”

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. “It scares you– but you still want me?”

“I have lived through war upon war,” he said. “I think I know better than anyone than to let fear overtake what I want in life.”

You’re scared, and you know he can see it from the way he’s looking at you. You tried to ignore that look in bed– the way he looked at you like you were precious and gentle beneath him as you came undone. The way his eyes weren’t just full of lust, but affection, too.

“I’ll jump a fence for you,” he added, making you laugh. 

You stood up out of your chair, feeling the weight of his eyes on you as you rounded the side of his desk. You placed a hand on the back of his chair, turning it to the side so you could have full access to him.

“I am so scared of love,” you admitted to him, moving to straddle his lap. 

“I figured,” he said, resting his hands on your hips. There’s a smile on his face that you can’t help but return. “We can take this slow. At your own pace.”

“I promise I’m good at my job though,” you murmured, sliding your hands up his chest and linking your fingers behind his neck. Your lips meet his in a sweet kiss, a sigh escaping him as you finally connect.

“Mm… I beg to differ. Can I fire you now, sweetheart?” he whispered, lips barely ghosting over yours, “I don’t need your help planning a second date.”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla

let me know if you would like to be added/removed to a general bucky fanfic taglist :)

[cod-bin]

you always looked fine to me

gym bro!simon x insecure!chubby!reader

ask

wc: 3k

a/n: omg anon this one hit close to home 🥺 literally whenever i go to the gym this is literally me so it was lowkey easy to write 🫶

You’ve been going to the gym for months now. Same time every evening. Same locker in the corner. Same oversized shirts and sweatpants, no matter how hot it gets. Not because you’re lazy. Not because you’re sloppy. But because every time you tried to wear something tighter—something even remotely flattering—you caught a look. A side-eye. A smirk. A whisper.

“If I looked like that, I wouldn’t wear that.”

That one stayed with you for weeks.

You didn’t even finish the set that day. Just left early and sat in your car with your heart in your throat.

Since then, it’s been full coverage. No skin. No curves. Nothing to point at or judge. Just baggy clothes, headphones in, and eyes on the floor.

Still, the comments find you sometimes. Not always mean. Sometimes fake-nice. Sometimes stupid little jokes you pretend not to hear.

“You’re here every day—where’s the progress?”

“Damn, it’s 90 degrees and she’s still dressed like it’s January.”

“Probably just here to feel better about eating later.”

You never react. That’s the worst part. You just lower your head and keep going, even when your face burns and your throat tightens. Even when it takes everything in you not to disappear.

But someone always notices.

And his name is Simon Riley.

He’s hard to miss. Built like a wall. Hood always up. Giant hands gripping weights like they’re nothing. People move when he walks by. Girls preen when he’s near. He never reacts. Never flirts back. Just keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing and nods at people when they say hi.

He’s never said more than a few words to you.

A quick, “You done with this?”

Once, a low “Need a spot?” when you nearly dropped a barbell.

And one quiet, raspy “You alright?” when you accidentally wiped your eyes too hard after a whisper that hit too close.

But lately… something’s changed.

You feel his gaze sometimes. Not in a creepy way. Not like the others. But like he’s checking—watching. You’ll finish a set and look up and he’s already looking away. You’ll walk past and he’ll move slightly, like he’s clearing the way just for you.

One time you caught him staring after a squat set—your sweats riding low on your waist, your baggy tee damp with sweat—and his jaw clenched like he was holding something back. You told yourself you imagined it.

Until the night he actually waited.

You’d finished your workout, earbuds in, head down, already planning what you’d eat in secret later, and then—

“Hey.”

You turned. He was leaning against the front desk, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes on you like he had every right.

“Me?”

He nodded once. “You free Friday?”

Your throat closed. “Uh. Why?”

His lip twitched—just a hint of a smirk. “Thought you might wanna get food.”

You blinked. Stared. Tried to decide if this was some kind of joke.

“You’re asking me out?”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You nodded. “Okay. Sure. Yeah.”

He just nodded again, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Pick you up?”

You nodded again, stupid and flushed and already spiraling.

And now it’s Friday night. He’s on his way. You’ve changed clothes four times. Cried twice. You don’t own anything “hot girl cute.” You don’t even own jeans that make you feel good.

So when he knocks, you answer in your sweats and an oversized tee.

Still thinking maybe this was all a mistake.

And there he is.

Simon Riley. All 6’4 of gym-bro intimidation, in a plain black tee that fits him like a second skin, his arms crossed, hood down, eyes soft but unreadable. He glances down at you—at your flushed face, your bare collarbones, the baggy tee that probably looks ridiculous—and frowns just a little.

“You alright?” His voice is low, warm. The kind of voice that wraps around you without asking.

You nod. “Y-Yeah. I just—um. I couldn’t decide what to wear.”

His brow twitches. “So you picked nothing?”

You freeze.

“I mean—not nothing,” you say, tugging at your shirt, cheeks going hot. “I just… couldn’t find anything I felt good in.”

Simon tilts his head. His eyes sweep over you, quick but careful. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate. It’s messy. You’re a mess. But you step aside anyway.

He steps inside, boots heavy on the floor, and turns to look at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “So that’s it?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re just gonna tell me you couldn’t find anything,” he says, “and expect me to believe that’s why you were panicking behind the door?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I wasn’t panicking—”

“You were.” His voice is so calm it makes your chest ache. “I heard you trip.”

You let out a weak laugh and hug your arms over your middle. “It’s dumb. I just—”

“You don’t feel good in anything.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

He looks at you. Not with pity. Not with confusion. Just with this weird, heavy softness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

“You look good now,” he says simply.

You stare at him like he just said the sky’s purple.

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I’ve seen you at the gym. You always look good.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Yeah, in my giant sweatpants and hoodie.”

“Exactly.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, steps a little closer. “Not even a bit. You think I’ve just been sitting there watching you squat for fun?”

You blink at him.

He smiles, faint and slow. “Okay, maybe a little for fun.”

“Simon—”

“I like how you look,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. “And I like how you carry yourself. Even when people stare. Even when you keep your head down and pretend you don’t hear ’em. I notice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He doesn’t say it like it’s romantic. He says it like it’s true. Like he’s been thinking it for a while. Like it’s obvious.

Then he glances at your couch. “We’re staying in.”

“What?” you blink.

“Not letting you spiral over clothes for the rest of the night.” He moves past you and plops onto your couch, legs spread, one arm thrown over the back like it’s his now. “C’mon. I’ll even let you put on one of those dumb romcoms you pretend not to like.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. “You haven’t even seen my Netflix.”

“I’ve seen your hoodie rotation,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Don’t need to.”

You roll your eyes but feel a flutter in your chest.

He pats the cushion next to him. “C’mere.”

You hesitate.

“You’re not hiding,” he says, quieter now. “Not from me.”

You sit beside him, cross-legged, still hugging your arms like a shield. He’s warm beside you. Way too big for your couch, thigh pressing lightly against yours. It feels dangerous. Familiar. Safe.

“You seriously don’t think I look—” you start, then stop.

He turns to you. “Bad? No. Not once. Not ever.”

You look down. “I always feel like I have to prove something. Like if I’m not shrinking, people think I’m lazy or gross or… I don’t know.”

Simon shifts closer. “Fuck ’em.”

“Easy for you to say. You look like you were built in a lab.”

“Still insecure,” he says. “Still hate my reflection sometimes. Still overthink every time I talk to someone like you.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Like me?”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Yeah. You’re funny. And sweet. And every time I’ve seen you, you’re kind. Even when people are dicks.”

Your throat burns. “That’s not—”

He cuts you off gently. “I like you.”

You stare.

“You don’t have to say it back.” His voice is quiet now. “Just don’t sit there thinking you’re not worth being liked.”

You bite your lip. “I just never thought… someone like you would want to…”

“Someone like me?” he echoes, brow raised.

“You’re intimidating. Like. Hot intimidating.”

Simon snorts. “You ever seen yourself stretch after a lift?”

Your cheeks go nuclear. “Simon!”

“What?” he grins. “Not my fault you look good with your hair up and those little flushed cheeks—”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, then tosses it aside and grabs your hand before you can look away.

His hand is so much bigger than yours. Warm. A little rough.

“You don’t have to be anyone else tonight,” he says. “Not for me.”

Your chest is tight. But it’s not painful. It’s full. Like he just cracked something open inside you, and now all the air’s rushing in.

You lean into him, just slightly.

He wraps his arm around you and pulls you in fully.

Your head fits against his chest like it’s been there before. Like it’s home. His other hand rests lightly on your knee, not moving, just grounding you there.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to watch a movie.”

“That’s alright,” he murmurs.

“I just want to sit here for a bit.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

And he means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you. The way he settles in, like this is all he wanted.

You exhale slowly, finally letting your body relax against him.

Maybe you’ll wear something cute next time.

Maybe you won’t.

But right now, you’re not thinking about how you look.

You’re just thinking about the weight of his arm, the way his fingers graze your wrist, and how good it feels to not hide—for once.

He notices.

He always has.

☆taglist☆

@poshestpigeon @avgdestitute @eremika104 @lostintransist @little-mini-me-world @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @h0lydrag0ns @trixilove257 @fertilise-me

[tangyneon]

You have no idea when exactly grocery stores became such a dangerous place for your heart.

But if you must guess one time, you will say it's probably sometime between the shelves of noodles and tofu, which—coincidentally, of course—is also where Gojo decides to exist, all the while looking as though he is on a magazine spread titled "Casually Gorgeous Men Who Should Come With A Warning Label".

He is squatting down in front of the miso paste collection, staring at a tub of white miso like it personally offended him in a past life or eight. His sunglasses are perched on top of his fluffy white hair, giving you a front-row seat to the full devastating power of his eyes—blue like the heart of a glacier—framed by lashes that really should be illegal.

You are—objectively speaking, simply speaking—doomed.

Also: married.

To him.

You are married to Gojo Satoru.

But no matter how many times you say it—in your head, out loud, into your pillow at 1:10 a.m.—it never feels any less absurd. Or wonderful. Or dangerously distracting, especially when he is in that loose grey hoodie and those matching joggers, soft and comfy and utterly unfair to your heart right now.

You blink, then blink again. But the vision before you stays the same: Gojo, crouched like a gangly cryptid in athleisure, holding two tubs of fermented soybean paste like they hold the secrets of the multiverse.

You came here to get soy sauce.

That was the only job you gave yourself after having collected the onions, tomatoes and bell peppers.

Instead, here you are, standing and staring at your incredibly hot, outrageously powerful husband while he argues with himself over soup stock.

"I just think the white miso is playing it safe," he comments aloud, squinting at the label, "Like yeah, you're sweet, you're light—but where's the drama? The edge? Give me flavour, sweetie. Give me sizzling scandal."

"...Are you buying miso paste or judging a contestant on a dating show, 'Toru?"

Your tone is slow, almost hesitant. Still, Gojo turns to look at you with so much faux offense, it's a miracle he hasn't been cast in a soap opera yet. He definitely has the talent for it.

"Excuse you," he sniffs, "This is an important decision I'm making. This miso will define our married life."

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Oh. So fermented soybeans are now deciding our marriage theme, huh?"

"Exactly," he nods gravely, "White miso is us going to bed early and paying taxes. Red miso? Passion. Intensity. It's quite literally the flavour of romance, wifey."

You snort. "Pretty sure romance tastes a little like salt, though."

He gasps, scandalised. "Are you saying I taste salty?"

"Emotionally?" You snort again. "Absolutely, 'Toru."

Rising, Gojo lunges towards you at that. You squeak, but don't really fight, laughing as he wraps an arm around your waist and spins you once, nearly knocking over an endcap of sesame oil.

An old lady nearby tuts disapprovingly. A child tugs at his mother's sleeve to point at you and your husband. Still, as uncaring as always, Gojo dips you slightly, like you're dancing in the condiments section.

"Apologise," he whispers, grinning, "Or I drop you right here in front of the natto."

You roll your eyes, trying to hide how your heart has been doing backflips all this while. You loop your arms around his neck with exaggerated flair. "Oh wise and all-knowing Flavour Connoisseur," you sigh, all dramatic defeat, "Forgive this unworthy soul for her ignorant taste. She was but a naive fool in the presence of greatness."

Your husband straightens up with a hum and a proud little smirk, clearly satisfied as he lets you go. And you smooth down your dress, trying your best not to show how wildly in love you are.

Which you are, by the way.

You love him.

You have always been in love with him.

Even when you were five and he was seven and he wouldn't make eye contact with you and acted like he was way too cool to sit next to you during those boring clan meetings. Even when he was twelve and you were ten and you told all your friends you were "practically married" and they all teased you mercilessly for it. Even when he got taller and stronger and shinier and more unreachable—

You never stopped loving him.

And now?

Now, eighteen years after his clan and yours fixed your engagement, he is yours. And you think you love him so much more just for it.

Except. Well. Your husband has never said it. Not out loud. Not those three precious words.

Gojo has never told you—not even once—"I love you".

You know he does, though. You do know.

You see it in the way he always carries your bags, even if it's just two cones of ice cream and nothing more. In how he instinctively keeps you on the inside of the sidewalk. In how he buys your favourite snacks and restocks the pantry days before you even notice they are running low. In how he watches those terrible reality shows with you, even though he complains they're "rotting his brain".

Still—no matter how much you try—your heart pauses in the quiet moments. In the late-night silences, when he's dozing on top of you, sprawled across the sofa. When he plants a kiss on the crown of your head and murmurs something ridiculous like, "You're lucky I'm this obsessed with you."

You smile, but a part of you aches—just a little—from that small, ever-present want to hear it.

But you don't push—you've never even considered it. You know he's always been careful with his heart. You're just happy, very much grateful he's handed it to you at all—even if he never says the words.

Gojo elbows you gently, pulling you out of your thoughts. He holds up a tub of red miso with a self-satisfied look. "Let's buy this one. It's dramatic. Just like me."

"And spicy," you add, "Also like you."

"Exactly," he flashes you a grin, unjustifiably proud of his spice status, "You get me so well, wifey."

You shake your head, biting back a terribly fond smile. "I married you, so unfortunately, I do."

"Unfortunately!?" The shift in his demeanour is instant.

He clutches his chest, eyes brimming with more betrayal than Caesar's when Brutus stabbed him. "Wow, wifey, wow. And here I was thinking of making you miso soup later with a tiny heart-shaped tofu cube in it. Guess I'll just poison yours instead."

You giggle and bump your cart into his hip. The dramatic man that he is, he yelps like you've hit him with a brick. Then, when people stare, Gojo bows to them as if he's onstage. "Sorry, sorry—my wife's violent. Part of her charm, you see."

You roll your eyes, but the grin still blooms when he slings an arm over your shoulders and pulls you close, leading you towards the next aisle.

"Hey," he says, more quietly, when you are halfway past the aisle of rice, "I like shopping with you."

You blink. Because—well—that's new.

"Like... a lot," he adds, a little sheepish this time, "Even if you do bully me in front of the miso."

Your heart does a stupid little flip, and you bite back a giddy giggle.

"I like shopping with you too," you hum, slowly, gently.

He squeezes your shoulder, then—like it's the most natural thing in the world—bends and presses a kiss to your temple.

You sigh into it, partly intentionally and partly not, heart a little aching but still so warm.

And you think, as you wander into the dairy section, that—yes, it's true. He hasn't said it yet. He hasn't said anything yet.

But this—all of this—is love in your husband's language. The teasing. The carrying. The laughing. The kissing. Every ridiculous, loud, sweet, messy, golden moment with him tells you: he loves you too.

And honestly?

You wouldn't want him to be any other way.

Because even if he never says "I love you" out loud—he has been saying it, every day, in all the ways that matter.

© tangyneon 2025 || please don't plagiarise, translate or repost this || characters used here aren't mine || masterlist.

[pinkpurplesunrises]

Cleat Me Baby One More Time - the short story - Alexia Putellas x Pregnant!Reader - that time you morning sicked all over Alexia's cleats

Writer's note: will be on a week break. Though, when I get back, would you like to see more of Pregnant!Reader?

It started as such a good idea.

You. Sweet. Slightly delirious. Newly-pregnant you. Had decided to surprise Alexia at training. Nothing dramatic. Just a little midday drop-in with her favorite smoothie (because she’d left the last one in the fridge, and you (the heroic partner you are) refused to let it go to waste.

You were eight weeks along. Glowing... if “glowing” meant greasy from nausea and crying randomly during car commercials.

Still, your heart was full. You were carrying her baby, after all. Hormonal. Emotional. Kind of clammy? Yes. But full of love.

You stepped into the training complex like a romantic spy. You’d texted Ingrid earlier to make sure the coast was clear. She’d responded with: “yes, locker room’s empty, but bring snacks next time.” Fair.

You tiptoed inside like a cartoon burglar in leggings and flip-flops. The moment you opened the door to the locker room, though, the second the smell of turf sweat and fabric softener mixed with death hit your nostrils... It happened.

Your stomach flipped.

And then… betrayed you.

No warning. No chance for a heroic pivot to the bin. Just a horrible noise and a splatter.

Right onto a pair of freshly cleaned, pink-accented, absolutely-very-expensive Nike cleats.

Alexia’s cleats.

You stared at them. Then at your hands. Then at the vomit. Then at the smoothie. Still in your hand. Then back at the cleats. “Okay,” you whispered to yourself. “This is fine. This is fine. I can clean this. I’ll burn them. We’ll buy her new ones. I’ll fake a robbery.”

Then you burst into tears. Of course. Hormones. Pregnancy. Cleat-based trauma. The trifecta.

You were still crying when Alexia walked in.

“Mi amor?” she said from the doorway. “They said you... wait. Are you crying?”

You didn’t even try to be smooth. You just pointed at the cleats. “I THREW UP ON YOUR SHOES.”

Alexia blinked. Took in the crime scene. The smoothie in your hand. The puddle of regret. The puddle of you.

She moved toward you calmly, slowly. Like someone approaching a wounded animal. “Okay, okay. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not! They were your favorite pair! The gold-tipped ones! I was going to bring you a snack and be sexy and supportive and instead I’m a barf goblin who desecrated your equipment!”

Alexia burst out laughing.

You stared at her like she’d gone mad. “You’re laughing?!”

She carefully stepped over the carnage, wrapped her arms around you (YES, VOMIT AND ALL), and pulled you into her chest.

“Mi vida… do you think I care about some shoes?”

“They were limited edition!” you wailed into her collarbone.

She kissed the top of your head. “You are carrying our baby. You could throw up on all of my shoes. You could throw up on my jersey. On me. I don’t care.”

You sniffled. “You’d care if I threw up on your Ballon d’Or.”

She paused. “Okay. Maybe I’d flinch.”

You laughed, finally. A gross, congested, teary laugh... but a laugh all the same.

“Why are you like this?” you mumbled.

“Because I love you,” she said, wiping your cheeks with her sleeve, “and because shoes can be washed. And because the idea of you trying to be sexy while eight weeks pregnant and pale green is both adorable and completely unhinged.”

“Bold of you to mock me when I literally have a weaponized uterus,” you muttered, curling into her.

“I’m just saying,” she whispered, “if you’re going to throw up on my stuff, at least do it on Patri’s next time.”

You both giggled, still wrapped in each other like nothing else mattered. Because, honestly, nothing else did.

Except maybe buying a new pair of cleats.

Later that night, you tried to surprise her again. This time with new shoes. You wrapped them in tissue paper and wrote a card that said:

“Sorry for puking on your sole-mates. Love, your walking science experiment.”

She framed the card. And kept the old cleats, puke stains and all, tucked away in a box labeled:

“First gift from the baby.”

[vbecker10]

Bucky's Favorite Person

Pairing: Bucky x female reader (Y/N - not dating... yet?)

Summary: Bucky dislikes how the team is taking advantage of you while your bosses are out and decides to take matters into his own hands to help you relax.

A/N: I'm supposed to be working on a lot of other things but my brain decided to do this instead... I've been kicking this idea around for a while and it won't leave me alone so I need to write it just to get it out of. I hope you all like it ❤️

Sitting at the end of the oval table in the conference room, you glance anxiously at your watch. If this meeting ends on time, I should have exactly fifteen minutes before my next one. I think that'll be enough time to head upstairs and make another cup of coffee. Your leg bounces under the desk restlessly while you listen to Agent Hill wrap up the meeting.

"Remember, if you need to order any new tech, equipment or weaponry, Y/N will be able to help," she says and you force a smile as you close your laptop.

Yay me, you think sarcastically when all of the Avengers look in your direction briefly before getting up.

You're not supposed to be the go-to person for requests of this type but for the last two weeks, you have been running the Supply Chain Subsection of the Logistics Division for SHIELD. Your manager is on maternity leave for the next few months and as luck would have it, the day after she left the section director was called away for jury duty. The decision was then made to place the most senior analyst in charge of the supply chain for the foreseeable future and that just so happened to be you.

You sigh deeply as you skim through the emails on your phone, nearly a dozen new requests have been submitted since you checked this morning. I should just deny all of them at once and close my inbox, you think when you begin to see duplicate forms and requests you've already refused to approve this week. You know you can't though. As acting head of supply chain, you need to formally respond to each with a detailed explanation of why it was denied. With your head down and your attention still on your phone, you enter the kitchen and walk straight to your favorite appliance in the Tower.

You let out a surprised yelp as you walk directly into what feels like a very muscular wall, causing you to drop your phone but thankfully not your laptop. "Oh crap, I'm really sorry," you apologize quickly when you realize you've bumped into a super soldier and not an immovable object. Taking a step back, you watch Bucky's metal fingers wrap gently around your phone before you even think to bend down and get it yourself.

"It's okay," he says when his eyes meet yours, your stress melting quickly when he smiles.

"Thanks," you can't stop the nervous giggle that escapes you when his vibranium hand brushes against your warm skin when you take your phone back. Between the unbroken eye contact and his unbearably cute smile, you briefly forget why you came into the kitchen in the first place. It's not until he talks again that you remember your mission to get coffee.

"Long day?" he asks with a lighthearted chuckle.

"Very long," you answer, walking past him towards the coffee maker.

Bucky walks away, taking a seat at the island with an open book and a drink from the fridge but you focus on the task at hand. You open the drawer that holds the coffee pods and quickly select your usual, happy to see there are plenty to get you through the rest of the week. Before you can put the pod in the machine, a familiar voice causes you to turn around.

"It's a little better now that you saw me though right?" Bucky jokes from behind you.

You smile and answer him in a sarcastic tone, "Of course, because you're my favorite person." You keep up your long standing joke with your crush, hoping he can't tell you're being honest or that just hearing him laugh made your day ten times better.

"Hey Y/N, the request Peter and I submitted for new lab equipment got denied," Bruce complains. "Again. It's like the third time. Can you see what's going on?"

"Sure, have him send in another one and I'll see what I can do," you offer even though you are the one who keeps refusing to sign off on it when the form crosses your desk. The new equipment he is asking for is almost twice his department's budget for the quarter, there's no way my bosses would ever approve it if they were here, you think. I'm pretty sure that's why he waited until they were out to request it in the first place. This also confirms my theory that no one reads the rejection emails I send cause I already told him why I denied it.

"Great, thanks," he smiles as he leaves. "You're the best."

"Yep," you mumble and turn back to the coffee maker, pushing the button but nothing happens.

You groan and push it again as you begin to get frustrated when Bucky says, "You didn't put the coffee in."

A blush spreads across your cheeks at the realization that he's watching you struggle from the island instead of reading. "Right, thanks," you look at him briefly over your shoulder to see him smiling then open the top to add the coffee. "That's why you're my favorite, always keeping an eye on me," you joke as you push the button for a third time then look up when someone calls your name from the doorway.

"Sorry to bother you here but I know you have a ton of meetings this afternoon," your intern bites her lip anxiously, holding her tablet tightly to her chest.

"It's fine," you offer her a smile knowing she's probably just as stressed as you are since her first day was also your managers last day. "What do you need?"

She let's out a breath of relief then walks closer to you quickly. "I have a question about this form Thor sent, he marked it urgent but I don't know why. Would you be able to help me?"

"Of course," you take the tablet from her and read it over quickly, shaking your head then you give it back to her. "Forward this to me and I'll take care of it."

"Thanks!" she smiles and types on the tablet while exiting the kitchen.

You can't help but look towards the island and notice Bucky's eyes on you instead of his book. "It's the second time this week Thor has ordered pop tarts and claimed they were necessary equipment for a mission," you explain, shaking your head lightly.

He chuckles, "If you've been around Thor when he's hungry you know they absolutely are."

"He's still not getting them," you laugh then pick up your coffee mug and take a sip. Scrunching your nose, you set the mug down and open the drawer to find the sugar you forgot to add.

"Hey, just who I was looking for," the newest member of the Avengers says as he walks over to you.

"Hi Scott," you try not to seem annoyed by yet another interruption during your very short break. "What can I do for you?" You stir your coffee after adding the sugar, blowing on it lightly before taking a sip and setting it back down.

"I tried filling out that form to request a new suit but I can't figure it how to submit it," he shrugs. "All the little code boxes turn red but I don't know where to get any of that information. Clint said to just send it to you and you'd fill it out for me."

You force yourself not to roll your eyes then tell him, "I'm really not supposed to fill out the request forms for you guys. That kind of defeats the purpose." He frowns as you begin to explain the reasoning behind the process but your phone beeps, alerting you that your next meeting is starting in five minutes. "Just send it over and I'll take a look. I gotta go."

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver," he calls after you as you leave quickly and head down the hall.

It's not until you push the button for the elevator that you realize you're holding your laptop in one hand and your phone in your other hand. "Crap," you mumble when the doors open, knowing you don't have enough time to go back for your coffee.

Staring at your computer screen, you pinch the bridge of your nose when you hear a knock on the door. Oh come on, it's almost 5. Can't I get out of here on time just once, you wonder as you tell the mystery person to come in.

"Hey Y/N," Bucky's friendly voice fills your office and you relax for a moment until you see he's holding two coffee mugs.

"Hi," you sink into your chair a little as he comes closer to your desk. "What do you need help with?"

"Nothing," he answers, setting one cup down in front of you.

"Come on Bucky, you only bring me things when you need something," you slide the mug closer while he sits across from you.

"Oh, I didn't realize that," he responds a little hesitantly.

"Don't worry about it, it's why you're my favorite person here," you say with your typical sarcastic tone and the smile reappears on Bucky's face. "But it's only cause you bring me snacks when you have questions," you remind him playfully.

Last week he came to your office with a strawberry donut, telling you they were leftover from a morning briefing. While in your office, he just so happened to mention that he needed a replacement part for his bike and couldn't figure out how to fill out the forms. The super soldier has brought you cookies, coffee, pastries and a few other treats over the last couple of months and it's where you're joke about him being your favorite began. You truthfully never mind when Bucky has questions or issues, even if he didn't bring you a little treat in return for your help. He is the only person you work with who seems to value your time and apologizes for not being able to keep up with the newer systems.

"Well I don't have any questions this time I promise. I just dropped by to make sure you got your coffee fix," he explains and you hide your widening smile behind your mug. "I know it's late but every time I checked, you were in a meeting."

Taking a sip, you sigh happily when you realize he made it exactly the way you like it. "This is perfect, thanks Bucky," you smile and he grins proudly. A loud knock on your door pulls your attention away from the super soldier and you miss how quickly his smile fades. "Come in," you call hoping whoever it is doesn't need anything important.

"Hey Y/N, oh... and Bucky," Tony greets you both as he walks in.

You take another sip of your coffee, not wanting it to get cold since Bucky went through the trouble of hand delivering it to you. "Hi, what's up Tony?"

"I just sent in a handful of requests for some tech upgrades and your intern said you aren't going to get to them until tomorrow," he says in a disappointed tone.

"Oh yeah," you agree with your intern's response to him. "You sent..." you turn to open a few windows on your screen, "...twelve requests. A little more than a handful, it's gonna take me a while to go through all of them."

"I really need an answer on them tonight," Tony stands right behind Bucky who is holding his mug tightly in his metal hand.

"Tonight?" you check the clock on your desktop and sigh then look back at him. "Sure, yeah I guess I could work late again-"

"You've worked late every night for the last two weeks," Bucky interrupts your response. While you wonder if you complained to him about that and forgot he adds, "Whatever you need can wait until tomorrow."

"It'll only take a few hours and it's not like she doesn't get paid overtime," Tony counters and instead of Bucky letting you agree like you were going to do, he stands up to face Tony.

"I'm taking Y/N to dinner. She can deny whatever ridiculous requests for equipment you don't need in the morning because we both know you and everyone else keeps asking for things her bosses would never approve of," his words take you by complete surprise but thankfully it doesn't seem like he's expecting a response from either of you. "Grab your coat," he turns to you with that cute smile you can't get enough of and you nod, closing your laptop as you blush.

"I- uh... yeah, tomorrow is fine," Tony takes a step towards the door but Bucky's already forgotten he's in your office.

"So, where would you like to go?" he asks and you barely notice the door closing when he moves next to you behind your desk.

Giggling at his sudden closeness, you look up at him, "Honestly, I'm just excited to eat a meal that's not at my desk. You can pick since it was your idea to go out for a date." Your cheeks flush with embarrassment and you shake your head, "Dinner, I mean dinner, sorry."

He smiles and cups your cheek gently with his metal fingers, "It's a date Y/N and don't worry, I think I know just where I want to take you."

"Oh really?" you ask, trying to sound calmer than you really are when his other hand settles on your lower back and he pulls you closer.

"Yep," he leans closer to you and just when you think he's going to kiss you he pulls back with a smirk, "But it's a secret. Come on, if we stay here any longer someone else might have a question for you."

You agree quickly and giggle when he takes your hand and leads you out of your office. While you wait for the elevator, Bucky let's go of your hand to wrap his arm around you and pull you closer. Smiling, you look up at him and joke, "Is this cause I said you were my favorite person?"

He chuckles, "It's because you're my favorite person."

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[jraker4]

Well, no, because for starters, 'Nazi' isn't just a word that means 'bad person'. Or even 'fascist'. Jew hate, like yours, is central to Nazism. You can be a fascist without being a Nazi, but you cannot be a Nazi without hating Jews. It's not complicated. Nor am I a Holocaust denier-or even a holocaust denier, since you decided your chickenshit lower-case 'h' evasion was compelling. Urban war and poverty, while both quite terrible really, aren't holocausts. And they're absolutely not a Holocaust. Some people in Israel are 'crying genocide' in response to Iranian missile strikes, that's true. (Though I'll note that, as usual, you haven't provided any evidence of that.) They're wrong to do so...but it's understandable since Iran routinely promises to visit genocide on Israel. You yourself openly wish for genocide of Israelis, so frankly your own sensors on this matter are absurdly, hilariously out of whack. You know about as much about Gaza as you do missile defense or hostage nationality: jack shit. A documentary? From you? Potentially. I'm certainly not going to do so with you behaving as you are now, though. And no, I don't mean 'you have to admit you're wrong about Israel' or anything like that. But for starters, you'd have to admit some basic, factual truths about lies you've told. Not even matters of opinion, but flat-out lies. I'm definitely not going to take this from my little hobby of mocking bigots to do homework unless you can manage that. We can start with your claim that the Iron Dome is 'useless', remember that? You didn't qualify that statement, you just said it was useless. Do you still stand by that? Don't worry, I don't expect you to admit when you're wrong. That'd be bad for the revolution, or whatever tedious bullshit you tell yourself. But I've been wrong before.

while we're at it, tearing down the hostage posters was always evil and fucked up.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Marks of the harem when you turn chibi-sized

I've teased about Chibivincibles but imagine the Marks of the harem dealing with you getting shrunk into doll/figurine/plushie size.

Flaxan would act like he’s been shot by Cupid for the second time. He actually talks now, much to the surprise and annoyance of the others. Think “dad who didn’t want the dog” except he has always loved you and his affection only grew exponentially.

Full Mask wants to keep you in his pocket forever. What? There’s no way to turn you back? “What a shame,” he says, gently pouring warm water into your doll-sized porcelain tub. (He has schematics for a functional dollhouse bathroom, but there’s no rush.)

Head Cap thought it was cute at first, being able to literally carry you on the palm of his hand and seeing how his home-baked cakes dwarf you made him feral. When he’s making the doe you try to help him but always end up eating your share and pass out. With the proper clothes even you looked like a pastry yourself. It’s super cute. But he misses wrapping his arms around you. 

Maskless was concerned with how possessive everyone became and wanted to keep you in his room until everyone else calmed down. You thank him for being the voice of reason, deciding to ignore the “successful transaction" notifications on his phone and dozens of pictures of doll paraphernalia. 

Mohawk laughed out loud when he saw you in pipsqueak size. Takes as many pictures as possible and teases about dressing you up in doll clothes. He leads the charge in finding a way to cure you though. He wants to hold you as nature intended: butt naked and skin to skin.

No Goggles makes bestial sounds with his mouth every time he sees you in your new form. He insists on carrying you on his head, like Ratatoullie. But he is so hyperactive, you’re terrified of falling so you beg him to just hold you on his palm like the others.

Omni-Mark is stone-faced but inside his chest is a storm of emotions, mainly cuteness aggression. He doesn’t say it but he loves seeing you in this form. He will even take you with him to interrogations. Big, scary alien-man looms over a suspect with his arms crossed–what’s that on his shoulder? A sassy-looking doll? You’re standing with arms crossed, too, grinning arrogantly like you’re not several inches tall. 

Prisoner is scared to touch you. He was already paranoid of being with you when you were you, now he has to deal with miniature you. What happens if he suffers an episode and he accidentally hits you? A million gory scenarios race through his head, shaking him, but tiny hands reach for his finger and he calms down instantly. Once he chills out, he lets you “assist” him with cooking. You are to stay away from the stove and ovens or anything electrical or hot. Or cold. He also teams up with Shiesty to sew your clothes. He’s responsible for making your loungewear. 

Shiesty geeks out. This is his dream come true. His room is filled with expensive figurines from video games, anime and cartoons, but not one of them is as priceless as you. Because he cosplays and customizes a lot of his merch and gear, he’s good with his hands. He builds you a doll house that he reluctantly leaves in the living room “for fairness.” He also designs your more stylish clothes; suits, robes, dresses–it doesn’t matter what you identify as, clothes have no gender so you must wear them all! He begs you to model for him and then makes photo cards to bribe the other variants with. Dude has made a new currency with your limited edition photos.

Sinister jokes about swallowing you whole. The others think it’s in poor taste and scold him for it, but it’s not until you start crying because you realize how even more helpless you’ve become, that he falls to his nose and knees, begging for forgiveness. You make him promise not to eat you and he will agree with a light laugh. He likes to watch you do your own thing in your miniature house. He doesn’t say anything. He just sits there and observes. A normal person would be unable to go on with their day, but you’ve forgotten what normal means.

Target gets all emotional and realizes how delicate you are. He has a strong fascination with toys and plushies, but unlike Shiesty, he thinks it’s lame to show that interest so he buries it. But with you appearing before him like a doll, his inner child resurfaces. He draws clothes for you (they’re too fancy for your taste but you don’t say that because he’s having fun). He demands the others make the clothes but he’s a jerk so they refuse. You’re the one who steps in and ask Shiesty to pretty please bring Target’s designs to life. You even volunteer to model them because Target’s boyish smile is so rare and precious.

Viltrumite always carries you with both hands. Like Prisoner, he’s afraid of accidentally crushing you. He’s been into playing with clay lately and he wants to make model clays based on your small form. You once fell asleep on the tiny bed he built for you, and when you woke up over fifty statues surrounded the bed. Like Sinister, he enjoys watching you. 

a/n: there may be grammar mistakes because i'm exhausted as heck, i promise to reply to your messages when i wake from my nap. good night (noon for me)

(_ _) ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

Disclaimer: The image used in this post does not belong to writerclaire. It was lifted from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-all-alternate-dimension-invincibles-fates/

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Any questions for the author? Ask here.

[florexyy]

𝓗𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓻 - ✗♡✗♡

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ♡ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

ㄨpairing: Playboy!San x Fem!Reader

ㄨsummary: Y/N never paid much attention to Choi San: campus heartbreaker, walking red flag, and notorious for ruining girls with just one crooked smile. He had a reputation for chewing people up and spitting them out before sunrise. Shes spent months avoiding his games. But one drink fueled night at Hongjoongs dorm changes everything. Lingering stares turn into something heavier. The tension snaps when theyre left alone and resisting him stops being an option.

ㄨcontent: nsfw! mdni!, smut, sexual tension, p in v, fingering, eating out, blow job, bite marks, dirty talk, san being rough, hair pulling, pet names(princess,good girl), ons, alcohol consume, san being possessive asf(and crazy jealous of hongjoong + mentioned while fucking) IF U DONT LIKE ANYTHING ROUGH DONT READ THIS(╥‸╥)

ㄨwc: 4k

ㄨa/n: hi guys im back with another smut story, since the last one literally blew up, tysm for all the reblogs n likes!! i hope u like it(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

(also the ending feels a bit rushed mb D:)

The first time you heard Choi San’s name, it came like a warning soft, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

“Dont even think about it. He will flirt just to watch you fall.” “Hes hot as fuck, sure, but trust me, look away.” “He will say youre different. He says that to everyone.”

You never put much belief in gossip. But San? He was the gossip.

The cocky grin. The loose hoodie always half-untied. A girl curled up in his lap, or his hand casually splayed on someones waist, like it was his campus.

Youd only met him once, a half-asleep introduction when your best friend, Hongjoong, dragged you to his dorm to pick something up. San was shirtless on the couch, eyes heavy-lidded, like he couldnt decide whether to irritate you or ruin you.

He said your name once. Smirked. Went right back to sleep.

You still remember how he said it.

Lately, though… somethings changed. Or maybe hes just actually seeing you now.

Youve caught him watching from across the quad, by the cafeteria, leaning against some wall like time doesnt apply to him. And when your eyes meet?

He doesnt look away.

He holds it, just long enough to settle in your stomach. Then that damn smile, like he knows something you havent figured out yet.

Fucking jerk.

This morning, you spot him again, just outside the lit building as youre leaving class. Your notebook is clutched to your chest, your focus on not tripping down the stairs.

Hes there, leaning against a random wall like he always does waiting for the next girl to talk to him and end up breaking her heart, one earbud in, casually scrolling through his phone like nothing around him matters. Like the whole worlds moving, and hes just waiting for it to catch up.

Then he looks up.

Your eyes meet without thinking. Reflex. You couldve looked away. Maybe you shouldve.

Definitely shouldve.

But you dont.

This time, he doesnt smile. Just tilts his head, eyeing you slow and deliberate, like hes studying something hes seen a hundred times but never really looked at before. Like maybe youre no longer part of the background.

Which sucked.

Youre the first to look away. You feel it, tight in your chest. And you know he sees it.

He always does.

Later that day a message from your best friend pops up on your phone.

joong⋆˙⟡: “dorm hangout tn. bring urself + your tolerance lol”

You pause, thumbs hovering.

You already know San shares that dorm. And suddenly, your stomach flips.

You tell yourself its not about him.

Its just a chill night, with your best friend, and his friends...

Just drinks. Just games. Just a couch and some music and a few bad decisions.

Nothings going to happen. Probably.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ♡ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You hadnt planned to stay long.

Well guess who was sprawled across the beanbag chair in the corner, already a drink in hand,

Right

San

His gaze lifts lazily from his red cup to your face, and that grin widens.

“Well, well… look who it is.”

You roll your eyes and walk in like hes not even worth acknowledging. The couch cushions dip as you squeeze between two mutual friends, and someone passes you a drink without asking.

Across the room, you can feel him watching you.

“You know San, right?” someone says to you, like youve never met.

“Unfortunately,” you mutter under your breath, taking a sip.

He hears it.

“She acts like she hates me” San tells the room, his voice smooth and loud enough to cut through the music, “but she never actually leaves when I show up.”

The room laughs. You don't.

You glance at Hongjoong, who raises his eyebrows like dont start. You wont. You swear.

But when your eyes flick back to San, hes still looking at you.

Not smirking now. Not teasing. Just watching.

You turn away.

A while later, the lights are lower. The drinks are stronger. A half-circle has formed on the floor for some classic chaotic college game, Never Have I Ever.

You get roped in.

People are already tipsy, confessions flying across the room like grenades.

“Never have I ever made out with someones ex.” “Never have I ever had a one night stand.” “Never have I ever sent a nude to the wrong person.”

Laughter. Groans. People are getting louder. Bolder. Sloppier.

And San, fucking San, is sitting directly across from you now, legs spread, leaning back on his hands like hes right where he belongs.

Your eyes meet.

He lifts his drink slowly, watching you over the rim of the cup.

“Never have I ever wanted someone I shouldnt have.”

He drinks. So do you.

Silence.

Then a couple people ooh and giggle, but youre barely listening.

Because San is still watching you. Like he knows.

Most people have cleared out.

The musics still playing in the background, but its quieter now, muted by the foggy haze of alcohol and half shut doors. A few bodies remain scattered across the couch and carpet, tipsy, distracted.

But you only notice him.

San is leaning against the wall, red solo cup dangling lazily from his fingers, eyes still fixed on you like hes waiting for something.

Thats it.

You slam your empty cup on the table and get up.

Walk straight across the room. Grab his wrist.

He lets you, doesnt resist for a second, just arches an eyebrow as you pull him down the narrow hall toward the back of the dorm.

“Y/N” he drawls, half amused, “you planning to fight me or fuck me?”

You dont answer.

You shove open the door to Hongjoongs room, thankfully empty and drag him inside.

It clicks shut behind you.

You release his wrist and turn to face him, jaw tight. Your hearts pounding, but you ignore it.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap.

He blinks. “My problem?”

"Yeah, San. You stare at me all night like you own me. You say shit like that in front of everyone. What are you trying to do? Embarrass me? Make me part of your collection?”

I pause.

"Why are you so obsessed with me being next on your "who i played" list "

He’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Then… a laugh. Soft. Dangerous.

He steps forward.

“You really think Im trying to play you?” he says, voice low. “Youve been ignoring me for months. Dodging me like Im contagious. But the moment I look at you a little too long, you drag me into a room and ask me what my problem is?”

Hes in front of you now. So close you can smell the cologne clinging to his shirt, spicy, smoky, infuriatingly good.

You hold your ground, even tho you could practically feel your heart jumping out your chest.

“I dragged you in here to tell you to stop.”

“Then say it.”

“What?”

His voice drops.

“Say it. Tell me you dont want me. Right now. Ill walk out that door.”

Silence.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.

And you hated yourself for that.

Because hes looking at you like he knows. And the worst part is, hes right.

He takes one more step, and suddenly his hand is on your hip. Gentle. Testing. Like hes giving you time to push him away.

You dont.

His breath ghosts along your cheek as he whispers.

“Didnt think so.”

You lift your head, looking up at the tall boy standing in front of you, your eyes meeting his. His gaze softens for a split second as he notices your vulnerable expression, but then hardens again.

“Those eyes... theyre going to be the death of me” he mutters before leaning down, his lips hovering near yours.

Your eyes flick down to his soft, plump lips, then to his Adams apple as it bobs while he swallows. Your face heats up a rush of alcohol and flusteredness mixing in your cheeks.

He holds the tension there, close enough you can feel his breath, but not quite touching. Then his voice drops lower “Say it. Tell me you dont want me.”

You can barely breathe, caught between wanting to push him away and the pull of every inch of him so close. The room feels smaller, the world narrowing down to just the two of you.

His lips press against yours, slow and teasing at first, then deepening with an urgent hunger that makes your heart pound. You reach up, trying to wrap your hands around his neck, but youre a little too short, and its harder than you expected. Your fingers barely graze the nape of his neck, but he just chuckles softly against your mouth.

Without missing a beat, his hands find your waist and lift you up effortlessly. You gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips to steady yourself.

“Wrap your legs around me. Now,” he commands, his voice low and rough, but there’s something almost desperate in it.

You obey, pulling him closer as your fingers finally find their way to the back of his neck, tightening your grip as the kiss deepens again.

He grunts in approval against your lips, the heat between you igniting something fierce. His hands tighten around your waist as he carries you forward, closing the small distance to Hongjoongs bed.

Without hesitation, he spins you around and slams you down onto the mattress, his body pressing against yours with delicious force.

Your breath catches, heart hammering as his hands roam, and the air between you crackles with raw, unspoken promises.

"So you did plan on fucking me?" He whispers between sloppy kisses.

Before you can answer, he leans back down and kisses you.

Sans eyes darken with lust as he looks down at your disheveled state, chest rising and falling, lips kiss swollen and parted. His hands grip the hem of your shirt, knuckles brushing the warm skin underneath.

His fingers trail upward slowly, brushing against your stomach, light, teasing touches that make your breath hitch. His gaze flicks up to meet yours, and for a moment, everything slows.

“Youre so fucking pretty like this” he mutters, voice thick and strained.

Your right hand grabs the back of his head, pulling him closer to your mouth as your lips brush his jaw, desperate and breathless.

“Cross me off your list” you whisper, voice trembling. “I dont care about it anymore… just take me already.”

You whimper the words against his skin, and it breaks something in him.

His body shudders, a low groan escaping his throat as he crushes his mouth back to yours, rougher this time, deeper, like hes been holding back for far too long and finally snapped.

A predatory grin spreads across Sans face at your words, his patience snapping completely.

“You asked for it, princess” he growls, his voice dark and full of promise.

In one fluid motion, his fingers find the hem of your shirt again, only this time, theres no teasing. He yanks it upward and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.

Your breath catches, skin prickling at the sudden exposure, but before you can say a word, his lips crash back onto yours, hungry, wild, and unapologetic.

His hands slide over your bare skin like hes claiming every inch, fingertips burning trails across your waist, your sides, the curve of your back as he presses you deeper into the mattress.

You moan into the kiss, the sound slipping out before you can even think. Its not just from the way his mouth moves against yours, but from the way the tension thats been coiling in your chest all night finally snaps, spilling out in that one broken, breathless sound. Its messy, needy, and it makes him kiss you harder.

Your hands move instinctively, driven by something primal, sliding up his chest until they find his broad shoulders. Your fingers spread wide as you grip him, feeling the firm muscle flex under your touch. Theres something grounding in it, something solid and safe beneath the chaos. You cling to him, like if you let go now, you might fall apart completely.

His body reacts immediately, a low growl vibrating from his throat as your nails graze his skin. He pushes into you more firmly, the kiss deepening, hotter, rougher, like hes been waiting for you to unravel in his hands.

Sans hands roam up your back, fingers quickly finding the clasp of your bra. With practiced ease, he unhooks it, the soft click echoing in the quiet room as the straps slip off your shoulders.

You grow impatient, breath hitching as you lean closer and say, “San just do something already.”

His grin widens, dark and hungry, as he pulls you back into a heated kiss, eager to answer your challenge.

A dark chuckle escapes him once again as he slides your bra straps down your arms.

“Patience, princess. I want to savor this.”

But his hands betray his words as they roam greedily.

Your head falls back against the smooth fabric of Hongjoongs pillow. Fuck, were really doing this in my best friends bed, you mumble softly to yourself.

San pauses for a moment, a flicker of amusement flashing across his face before he leans down to nip at your neck.

“I dont care whose bed this is” he murmurs, biting harder, clearly unfazed by the location.

A-ah! San- you moan softly as his teeth gently sink into your skin.

He sucks on the bite mark, making sure itll leave a dark mark, his hands gripping your waist possessively, kissing down your chest.

You feel a familiar heat pooling between your legs. “Dont tease me” you whisper, voice thick with need.

Sans eyes flash with mischief as he notices your growing desperation, deliberately steering clear of where you want him most.

“But I love teasing you… its too fun watching you squirm.” He presses a soft kiss to your stomach instead.

Your hand quickly snakes into his hair, gripping a handful and pulling him closer down your body.

“Please” you whine, voice trembling, probably sounding needy as hell.

He lets out a low grunt at your boldness but finally yields, lowering himself until his face is just above the waistband of your jeans.

His fingers hook into the fabric, tracing the edge of your pants with deliberate intent.

There was nothing innocent in the way he looked at you. You whimper, hips arching up slightly.

San hooks his fingers into your jeans and underwear simultaneously, his breath growing heavier as he slowly tugs them down.

“Youre gonna regret being so demanding… Ill punish you for it.”

You quickly glance upward, suddenly finding the ceiling incredibly fascinating the moment he pulls your pants down in one smooth motion.

A soft ahem escapes you.

Embarrassment washing over you.

He catches your sudden shyness and smirks, swiftly pulling your pants all the way off and tossing them aside. "Dont act shy now, you were the one begging for this. Look at me" His voice is firm and commanding as his hands slide to spread your thighs apart.

You let out a soft groan as his strong hands spread your thighs apart, your pussy completely exposed and on full display beneath his touch.

Sans gaze turns almost feral as he drinks in the sight of you, pupils blown wide with desire. His thumbs glide in slow, teasing cirlces along your inner thighs, spreading warmth and tension with every pass. "So fucking pretty…and all mine to ruin" he mutters, voice low and wrecked. He leans in, breath hot against your trembling skin, making you twitch beneath his touch before he even lays his mouth on you.

He finally gives in to your pleading, lowering his mouth to you with a hunger he no longer tries to hide. His tongue slides out, giving you one slow, deliberate lick that makes your whole body jolt. "Mmm…you taste even better than I imagined" he growls against you, voice low and ruined. Without another word, his tongue begins to move with purpose circling flicking, devouring you like hes starved and youre the only thing thats ever mattered.

“Fuck, San… please” you gasp, your voice shaky with need as you throw your head back, sinking deeper into the pillow.

Your fingers stay tangled in his hair, gripping tighter, desperate to keep him right where you want him.

You bite your lip gently at the sudden contact of his tongue on your wet hole, a soft gasp escaping you as the sensation sends a shiver down your spine.

San flicks his tongue faster, one hand gripping tight to steady your wild movements as you try to buck beneath him.

“Dont hold back those sounds, i want to hear every one of them” he growls, voice thick with heat, before diving back in deeper.

You whine between broken moans, "Fuck, Sannie, please…use a finger."

He lifts his head slightly, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes.

“Since you asked so nicely…” he murmurs, sliding one finger inside your as his mouth returns to worshipping your needy cunt.

"Oh fuck, please… yes", you gasp, bucking your hips upward with desperate need.

He slips another finger in, curling them expertly as he pumps in and out, "Youre so wet for me… dripping all over my hand" he growls, voice rough with desire. "My fingers arent enough, are they?"

“Mh, San… I’m gonna—cum!” you moan, struggling to catch your breath as waves of sensation overflow your body.

San doesn’t stop, his fingers repeatedly finding that sweet spot as he growls against your skin.

“Cum for me, Y/N. Cum all over my fingers and scream my name” he commands, voice low and urgent.

The familiar rush of your climax builds faster than you anticipated. “Shit- I-”

It doesn’t take long before you finally fall apart, your breath coming in heavy, ragged gasps.

He senses your approaching climax and presses down harder, his fingers coiling inside you as he watches your face twist with pleasure. "Let go, princess… Ive got you" he whispers, eyes locked on you as you unravel completely.

San slowly slides his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth to taste you as you catch your breath.

“That was just the beginning” he murmurs, wiping his chin before reaching for his belt buckle.

You swallow hard, your head still spinning from the alcohol as your eyes fixate on the noticeable bulge beneath his clothes.

He unbuckles his belt with deliberate slowness, savoring the way your eyes are locked onto the movement.

With a smooth motion, he unzips his jeans, releasing his hard cock from the confines of fabric.

Your eyes widen, saliva pooling in your mouth as you realize hes already leaking beads of pre cum.

San notices your reaction and lets out a deep chuckle, wrapping his hand firmly around himself.

“You look hungry… come here and taste it. Unless youre too scared,” he challenges, slowly stroking with deliberate intent.

You slowly inch forward, your hand wrapping around his shaft.

“Im not,” you whisper, voice steady and filled with quiet confidence.

His breath catches the moment your fingers brush him, but he keeps his cool, eyes locking onto yours with steady confidence.

“Prove it, then. Show me what that pretty mouth can do” he hums tilting his head back slightly, patiently waiting for you to make the next move.

You softly wrap your hands around him, stroking lazily before opening your mouth and shoving him in. A moan escapes as he hits the back of your throat causing you to gag.

Sans hips jerk forward instinctively at the sensation, his hand quickly gripping your hair. "Fuck… just like that. Take it deeper. Y/N. I know you can" He pulls your hair slightly, urging you on.

Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes as his cock twitched in your mouth, signaling he was already close.

He looks down at you with dark, intense eyes, noticing the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

“Youre crying, but you’re still sucking me so well. Such a messy girl” he groans, his thighs tightening. “I’m gonna cum…”

You quickly pull away, a thin strand of saliva stretching from your lips to the tip of his dick.

San curses under his breath, chest rising and falling rapidly as he watches the string break.

“Whyd you stop? I was so close to filling that pretty little throat” he growls, gripping himself tightly, struggling to hold back his release.

You whine softly, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “I want you to fuck me” you say, your needy hole throbbing painfully.

His eyes flash with raw desire as he grips your chin firmly, compelling you to meet his gaze.

“Turn around. Now.” His voice is sharp and commanding, thick with lust as he moves to position himself behind you.

You turn around in one swift motion, obeying him, arching your back and lifting your hips, presenting yourself to him without hesitation.

San grabs you firmly as he aligns his cock with your entrance.

“This what you want? My cock inside you?” he teases, pressing the tip gently against your wet folds but deliberately not pushing in yet.

You desperately wiggle your ass against his cock, eyes pleading.

“Please, Sannie,” you beg softly.

He roughly slaps your ass, making you jolt forward before he finally thrusts into you with rough urgency.

“Youre so desperate, its pathetic,” he growls, burying himself fully and setting a brutal pace as he moves inside you.

Your eyes roll back at the sudden stretch as he bottoms out.

“Fuck!” you scream, breath catching in your throat.

He pulls your hair once more, using it as leverage to pull you even closer, tightening his embrace around you.

You open your mouth, broken moans and whimpers escaping as he pounds into you, every movement sending waves of heat crashing through your body.

San leans down to bite your shoulder, his movements becoming erratic as he repeatedly hits your sweet spot.

“Youre so good… squeezing me so damn tight. Im gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

“Fuck, you feel so good… so big-” you gasp, clenching tightly around him.

He groans deeply as you clench around him, his grip tightening on your waist with just enough pressure to make you gasp. A crooked grin on his face despite the intensity between you. "Youre gonna cum again, arent you?" he mutter, voice low and rough. "I can feel it… your pussy is trembling" With that, he snaps his hips harder, driving deeper with every thrust.

“Ah- so good! I dont wanna cum yet,” you whine, voice trembling as your body fights to hold back the overwhelming release building inside you.

He lets out a dark, breathless laugh, slowing his movements but staying buried deep inside you, his chest pressed firmly against your back.

“Then dont. Hold it in” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “But Im not stopping until you break.” He grinds deliberately against your g spot.

You bite down on your lip hard, so hard, youre sure you can taste the faint metallic hint of blood.

His hand tangled in your hair tightens suddenly, slamming your head down firmly into Hongjoongs pillow, claiming control without hesitation.

The sharp scent of Hongjoongs cologne floods your senses as San presses you down into the pillow,

“Smell that?” he growls low in your ear. “Thats Joongs pillow. Makes me want to mark you even more.” His voice drips with eager possessiveness.

You feel the air catch in your throat, forcing muffled sounds to spill into the pillow as you struggle to breathe through the intensity.

San keeps you firmly pinned, his every thrust pressing you deeper into the mattress, your muffled sounds swallowed by the pillow beneath you, only feeding the fire in his eyes. "Thats it" he growls, voice low and commanding. "Let Joongs pillow muffle those screams… while I ruin you like this."

You couldnt help but notice how often San mentioned Hongjoong. Was it… jealousy lacing his voice?

He pulls your head up again, jaw clenched tight as his eyes lock onto the pillow with a sharp glare.

“Why do you always smell like him? It pisses me off” he growls, jealousy thick in his voice as he thrusts harder.

“H-hes my best friend” you moan softly, your voice trembling with a mix of nerves and need.

San lets out a low, dangerous growl, his eyes blazing with possessive fire.

“Best friend or not, you belong to me now.” He sinks his teeth aggresively into your neck again, leaving his mark.

You finally feel your second high building, clenching around him one last time.

“San, I’m gonna cum!” you gasp, breath hitching with desperate need.

He growls against your neck, teeth still harshly biting as he feels you tightening around him.

“Cum for me. Cum all over my cock” he demands, his own release drawing near.

“Cl-close!” you scream, your release spilling over his cock as you tremble with overwhelming pleasure.

San lets out a raw roar as he feels your release wash over him, his cum swelling deep inside you.

“Fuck yes, good girl.” He thrusts inside you one last time, locking himself firmly inside.

San collapses beside you on the bed, breathing heavily.

“Shit” you mumble quietly, still catching your breath.

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Don’t ‘shit’ me” he pants, breath ragged but voice firm. “You loved every second of it.”

"shut the fuck up youre an asshole" You whisper softly as your heavy eyelids begin to close.

Until you quickly drift off to sleep.

Was he still the schools heartthrob, the boy every eye chased and every rumor circled? Maybe to the outside world, he kept that title effortless, untouchable.

Or was he fully yours now?

Who knows.

[orimuraa]

• To say I love you - 양정원 ↳ ┊: really like you - babymonster

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆jungwon finally musters up the courage to ask you out ⨾

۶ৎ idol!jungwon x fem barista!reader┆fluff┆kissing, members tease wonnie, petnames┆wc 619

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬:

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

part 1

“jesus hyung! what’s gotten into you!? you’ve been up in the clouds practically all week! you know we have a comeback to prepare for, right?” ni-ki questions, despite knowing the exact answer.

“god- but ni-ki! she was gorgeous!! and she’s only texted me once! i don’t know what to do…” jungwon frowns, biting the inside of his cheek.

and it’s true. you only reached out to jungwon once because you were scared that you might ruin his whole career if you made one wrong move.

so, jungwon decided to take matters into his own hands after practice that day.

the day felt like an eternity as jungwon was waiting for it to just be over so he could run to you. throughout the dance practice though, heeseung and jake kept teasing jungwon about how he just needed to grow some balls and get the girl. so he did.

he bolted out of the practice room as soon as they were done, leaving his members chuckling. he quickly ran up to the café floor, hoping you were still there.

and luckily for him, you were just packing your stuff up.

“is it too late to order?” he smiles, causing you to whip your head around at him, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

“jungwon! you scared me oh my gosh,” you gasp, hand shooting up to cover your face.

“sorry pretty girl,” he says lightly, walking slowly over to you.

“unfortunately, we’re closed as of now,” you frown. “but if you needed something else i’m happy to help!”

jungwon felt his heart flutter again, your smile immediately brightening his mood.

“oh- well you see…” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “i actually wanted to see if you maybe wanted to go out…with me?…”

you pinched yourself once, twice, three times to make sure you weren’t dreaming. yang jungwon of enhypen—your bias since i-land—just asked you out. what the fu-

you were at a loss of words. you trued to say something but no words were forming.

“it’s okay if you don’t want to! sorry that was so out there…” jungwon said frantically, unsure of what your reaction was.

“no!! i- i do want to go out..” you mutter shyly, unable to look him in the eyes anymore. “i actually really want to get to know the real you, not just the idol you.” you smile sheepishly, your ears heating up.

jungwon tried so hard not to coo at you but you were just too adorable.

“aww angel, you’re making my heart melt,” he laughs lightly, stepping even closer to you, causing your breath hitch.

you both stood there, a few inches apart, eyes searching each other’s for any unspoken words. the mood was soft and sweet, jungwon’s arm finding a place on the small of your back while he gently touched your cheek with his other hand.

“can i kiss you?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes scanning your face. he admired your gorgeous eyes, your soft lips, and the beauty marks delicately placed around your face.

you nod, too lost in his sparkling eyes to speak. and with that, jungwon slowly leans in, hid hand carefully placed on your cheek, rubbing soft circles.

his lips press against yours and it feels like the last piece in a puzzle. they’re soft against yours but they’re claiming as well. jungwon wants this. he wants you.

when you both pull away, he leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and soaking in the moment.

“god angel- you drive me insane,” jungwon smiles against your lips. “gonna make you mine, all mine.”

and from behind the wall, there was some snickering:

“jake, you owe me $10.”

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝐉𝐢𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean, @annybah, @ijustwannareadstuff20, @chaeneu, @17ericas, @firstclassjaylee, @riribelle, @right-person-wrong-time, @cheruphic, @woniefication, @melodiessvy, @soona-huh, @kiwicup, @yuuuraaa, @manariee

[zablife]

The Perfect Girl

dark!Tommy x female reader

Summary: In the wake of Grace's abrupt departure, Polly attempts to settle her troubled nephew in the perfect home with the perfect wife. But how will the volatile Tommy react to being told what to do?

A/N: This idea came to me after chatting with @peakysgiri. If there's interest I'll cont, but be warned this will be a dark fic!

Divider credit: @olenvasynyt

The expansion of Shelby Co. Limited was going well, providing enough wealth for every member of the family. The dream of escaping the mud and smoke of Birmingham was finally a reality and the Shelbys were realizing their dream of owning homes in the countryside. John was the first to purchase a sprawling farmhouse and enough land for his children to run and Esme to raise her chickens. Arthur followed suit just after his son Billy was born, wanting to provide the fresh air he'd never had as a child.

Ada and Polly chose homes with manicured gardens full of sweet smelling roses that rivaled the scent of their Parisian perfume. They took enjoyment in furnishing them with expensive antiques and enough staff to ensure they'd never cook a meal or run a bath for themselves again. Life was even improving for young Finn who took a flat close to Ada so his older sister could look in on him from time to time.

The only person yet to be settled properly was Tommy. For some reason, he hesitated to reap the benefits of his success. Perhaps it was because he spent all his time locked away in a lavish office that often doubled as his bedroom. However, Polly suspected he hadn't made a home for other reasons.

It had only been a year since Grace entered his life and swiftly exited on a boat to New York. "Don't you think it's time you forgot about her?" Polly asked, stamping out her cigarette wishing it could be so easy to push Grace from his memory.

"Forgot about who?" Tommy replied, raising a glass to his lips to hide the lie from her hawklike gaze. Half a bottle of whisky down, but no closer to forgetting the woman who betrayed him. He knew his aunt was right when she insisted he move on, but he felt a greater sense of urgency to see his family happy and settled.

"Anyway, I have the family to think of," Tommy insisted.

Polly rolled her eyes at her nephew's penchant for drama, always acting the martyr. She knew as well as Arthur and John that Tommy would expect repayment in the form of perfect loyalty. Until Tommy was tucked away with a wife, they wouldn't have a moment's peace.

"You ought to concern yourself with creating your own family," Polly warned before leaving him to his thoughts.

---------------------

Another six months went by in the same fashion, Tommy insisting he had business occupying his mind. His dedicated soldiers, Arthur and John, felt the pressing burden and begged Polly to intervene once more.

She adamantly declined another conversation with her stubborn nephew, deciding to take matters into her own hands. Efficient, yet ruthless in her approach, she soon secured a large estate for Tommy complete with stables which would surely entice him. She decided not to tell him just how the previous owner came to give it up, swearing Arthur to secrecy about his trips to the opium dens with a young lord who also harbored a gambling addiction.

A redecorated Arrow House and an army of staff now sat in waiting for its new master. The only thing missing was the lady of the house. And while Polly hoped to solve this problem as swiftly as the last, she knew the matter required delicate finesse. She took her time thinking on the subject of Tommy's ideal partner, scouring the city for the perfect girl.

Despite the seemingly simple criteria, Polly was perplexed by the difficulty of her task. After all, she only required Tommy's future wife to be young, pretty and slightly foolish in her notions of love. Without the armor of wisdom or judgement, such a girl could easily be molded into anything Tommy desired. However, naivete was in short supply among the world weary cynics bred in Small Heath. That's why an offhand comment from John about the wholesome sweetness of farm girls changed her approach.

It was in a small village not far from Arrow House that Polly eventually found you, the perfect girl.

--------------

As a young child you watched the family residing in Arrow House arrive in the village, your eyes wide at the beautiful horses that drew their carriage. Peeking out from your mother's skirts, you stared at the brilliantly polished shoes they wore, wishing you had any at all. It was a humbling early memory of your family's poverty which turned you into a hopeless dreamer who read fairy tales long past childhood.

An unabashed optimism in your very own Prince Charming made life more bearable, even though you were often the butt of your sisters' jokes. However, there was nothing to stop you from daydreaming of the day you'd leave them behind to live happily ever after in a castle.

You had no idea that daydream was within reach when a fashionable woman with dark curls approached you at the market. "Aren't you a pretty, young thing," she cooed at you, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear in a way that sent shivers down your spine. Yet you came to look forward to her visits, especially when she slipped you a few extra coins, curling her hand over yours with a sly wink.

With each subsequent visit, you fell under her spell of elegance and poise. She asked you to call her Polly on her third visit, though it took you some time to break the habit of using the more formal sounding Mrs. Gray. When the moniker finally tumbled from your lips, you were rewarded with her glowing smile which shone in her hazel eyes.

In your mind you'd already cast her as your fairy godmother come to rescue you. The notion was solidified the day she first mentioned her handsome nephew who would be moving into the nearby estate.

"Arrow House?" you asked excitedly.

"The very one," she confirmed, registering your enthusiasm instantly.

"Why don't you come to luncheon tomorrow and meet him? I'm sure he'd be pleased to know someone in the village," she explained rather nonchalantly. As you hesitated to answer she added, "He employs the best chef so I'm certain you'll find something there to enjoy."

There was no need for such enticements, however. Without the power of speech, you confirmed your agreement with a vigorous nod. "Then it's decided, you'll join us both at noon," she declared before disappearing into the crowd.

You gulped as you wondered what to wear for such an occasion and ran home to decide with your brilliant future sparkling at you through the sun dappled trees.

[beastyeastfreak]

Ancients / GN! Shape shifting reader

Well yall wanted me to write for ancients too, so i figured why not return to my roots and rewrite the first post i did on this blog but for the ancients now that im writing for them!

Ill be prioritising beast asks though, sorry this is a beast fan account lolll

Cw and tags: collection of oneshits, takes place before beast yeast episodes, definitely not vague lots of defined reader lore for each oneshot, romantic, implied depression, reader has some connection to the beasts, angsty

Dark Cacao

⚔️ - Your appearances were few but each strike was enough to cause ripples across the kingdoms nearby. It wasn’t often you attacked. You weren’t exactly hostile, just a being that pillaged a town then moved onto the next, surprisingly no fatalities just survivors with injuries both mental and physical. Dark Cacao’s kingdom was not the first to meet you. You traveled all along the cold areas of crispia before trailing closer and closer.

⚔️ - Dark Cacao had heard incessant gossiping from the aristocrats. A horrendous creature, they said. One day they spoke of it being a bulky armored covered monster, the next a cookie who looked just a little off… Another would whisper that their cousin had faced it head on, it had no specific form but to scare them it had taken the form of a great dragon. His interest had peaked, and the sword at his side resonated with the same interest. If this shifter decided to show its face, he would handle it personally. He assigned more guards at the borders, tension grew. A town just shy of the kingdom had been torn up in the night, help arrived in the morning. No fatalities still.

⚔️ - Your arrival had fanfare, not loud but it was announced. The birds stopped chirping and the animals hid all day in burrows. Even some larger predators seem to shy from the open areas. The day dragged, everyone seemed on edge, everyone now assigned to civilisation of any kind, the being only attacked small towns so as threat loomed he ensured citizens would be protected.

⚔️ - Dusk settled on pristine snow, he began to patrol the castle walls. Below, against the snow he saw a lone cake hound, he watched quietly as it innocently trotted up to the wall of the citadel, looked around and suddenly turned into a robed cookie. Ah, it intended on stealing from him, and here he was preparing all the weaker points. He did not move, he stood still, then when you climbed to the top he grabbed you by the arm. Standing without a word while you began to claw, and change, and scratch, regardless he held on staring coldly. Eventually you loosen up, his grip does not waver. You’re no dragon, you actually seem quite frail for a cookie. “You would have been wise to steer away from this kingdom,” his brows knit. “Fine! I’ll go, put me down.” You hiss and kick at his chest, its like kicking a brick wall. “No, you must answer for what you’ve done,” he says and places you down so you can walk but still holding your arm. “What?! Seriously! I didn’t do anything!” You yell out as he drags you into the fortress.

⚔️ - You’re placed in a cell impossible to escape from no matter how small or large you make yourself, apparently its mercy by their standards. You gain the affection of whoever’s bringing you food in the beginning. If fact new guards have to constantly be appointed because of how you continue to win their hearts over. Finally, he decides to just bring you your food every day, and unfortunately he falls victim to it too. The first instance of resolution slowly cracking was pity, you scarfed down food like you hadn’t been fed in years. He occasionally spotted you looking longingly out a window or the sound of your form shifting.

⚔️ - He cracked, one day he delivered food and asked, “why did you harm those beneath you?” He says, you’re throwing a ball up at the ceiling and back down again, except the ball also seemed apart of your body. “We all gotta eat, not that it really matters i guess since we’re all going to die anyway,” you respond nonchalantly. “So you’d hurt the innocent to feed yourself?” He said incredulously. “I didn’t hurt anyone, just stole… and broke some stuff,” you say. He stares for a moment then leaves.

⚔️ - He comes back the next day and opens the door, “you will join my kingdom, i will keep you fed and you will listen to me.” He says, ecstatically you agree.

⚔️ - The next few months were hard work, you had to regain the trust of cookies you once saw as stepping stones. Many of those who you now had to stand beside at meetings you would have had to scare off. Your talents were indispensable, a jack of all trades one could say.

⚔️ - Once you were fed, out of a crummy cell and out and about you were flourishing. Obviously Dark Cacao kept a close eye on you for his own interest, to train you, and course you not getting away. That allowed you to become close with him, there were many times you found yourself in his cloak, or sleeping on his shoulder in the form of a small animal. Though in many cookies eyes you were an outcast, when you two were by yourself you were close. He had never been this close with anyone, you had little chance to be.

⚔️ - As you adjusted to the snow, dapples of white or a snowy coat would become frequent on your body. At first thats where he thought it’s end, just a new shade of camouflage. Then the closer you two seemed to get and the longer you stayed, he noticed occasionally within the black were small sharp diamond shaped specs. Any time he’d run his hand over your bare back as you slept or hold your cheek before a kiss, those specks seemed to temporarily grow in size. He finds it amusing, he wishes he had something he could keep on himself that reminded him of you.

⚔️ - He found himself more and more fond of you by the day. He was a mighty king, unmoving in the face of danger. He showed nothing, just stalwart silence. Yet you didn’t do that, you proudly displayed colors. You were always changing, even in deep sleep where your best dreams were black and purple. There was always a new pattern, a little change but even then, some part of him remained there. You were one of his subjects now, he’d protect you as such.

Golden Cheese

☀️ - The golden city was a perfect, pristine paradise she had carefully planned and constructed for her citizens and only her citizens. So it irked her to no and that pesky bugs would dare try inflitrate and harm what was hers! Of course her assistants would always do an impeccable job in maintaining the city, keeping everything in order and above all prevent it from happening again. Yet one day, something unfamiliar wormed its way into the city.

☀️ - Mozzarella cookie had spotted a rather hefty glitch one day, quite large for a beetle but took care of it regardless. Well, the very next day another bug popped up in the same place, the ritual would be repeated again, and again and again until Golden Cheese herself took notice. “It’s almost like the same entity is trying to break in under different forms.. i haven’t seen anything like this.” Mozzarella cookie would say. Insulted was the first emotion, some one was desperately clawing their way in to harm her subjects?! Her treasure?! But then it became sharp fear, a pit in her stomach. Someone was getting in. She of course did not let this fear show, she told Mozzarella cookie to let this entity in and track them down so she could have a word with them.

☀️ - Things are quiet for a while, no bugs, no issues, no mention of some terrible cookie rampaging about. The relative silence only makes her more anxious. At some point she does find you though, although not realizing its you. She visits her room filled with treasure, coins stacked to the roof, golden chalices filled with never ending ambrosia and shiny rare trinkets litter the shelves. Her treasure, just the mere sight of it, calms her down. She gazes upon art while idly swirling a shiny cup. Somewhere down another room she hears movement. With haste she walks over, “is someone there? This room is off limits,” she called out and heard scrambling. She opens the door to find…

A cat?

☀️ - She watches as this feline jumps onto a pile of gold and tries to escape out a window with a scroll in its mouth. She quickly flies over and grabs it, “what a greedy little creature you are! Stealing from my treasures are you?” She pulls the scroll from the cat’s mouth, it was a map of the old kingdom. She had it in a tightly closed box on the wall, how this cat managed to pull it out was beyond her. It began to try and pull away, swatting and hissing. She just laughed, finding it cute. “I think i will keep you, very few have the ability to trespass into my abode.” She says, your disappointment is plentiful.

☀️ - You tried to escape the first night she captured you, but that very night Smoked Cheese caught you and placed an irremovable collar that would track your position on you. You were stuck, beginning to wish you had chosen a different kingdom to hide in. As for how you’re treated? In the beginning it was degrading, stupid outfits, horrible name ideas, being petted. Then it began to work a little, you hinted at whatever your name actually was and she took it, she began to give you more regal attire and you got your own servant strangely. You felt, weirdly enough, worshipped which even being given a place to stay was more than you usually had. She seemed like she needed a companion especially after all she went through, it made it harder to leave.

☀️ - You knew you couldn’t stay though, you were a whole cookie hiding as a cat, you couldn’t abuse her trust like this (besides her assistants were becoming suspicious). So you plotted your escape, after a month of lounging around in luxury, cared for by Golden Cheese, you snuck out in your actual form. You assumed that in a different form, the tracking wouldn’t work. You were wrong. You got about 20 feet within the glitch you escaped from before you were caught and dragged back to golden cheese.

☀️ - At first, it seemed as though she would be angry, but she wasn’t. Standing tall like a judge with the face of someone who found this all amusing if anything. Through conversation she understood your motives and why you decided to leave despite the fact you could have just lied and stayed a cat the rest of your life. To your surprise, she offers to let you stay. You accept obviously, you didn’t want to go back to a place of battle and hardship.

☀️ - She stays close to you even after you aren’t a cat anymore. She does find interest in your ability to become other animals and even more mythical beings. She seems to slowly get closer to you again over time, still lavishing you in gifts, still talking about her day to you, making sure you’re well fed. She still refers to you as ‘pet’ or ‘treasure’ as a nickname, but she still sees you as a cookie of course. Once you begin to return the affection it only multiplies, she practically pulls you into her lap sometimes without much of a warning. She’ll string a necklace of pure gold around your neck and tell you its yours without asking if you wanted it. She feeds every greedy desire of yours.

☀️ - Eventually you start to realize how in place you were here, as in you were changing to mold against her. Any markings on your face slowly began to shimmer before completely changing to accentuate whatever she gave you. The animals you changed into were more often naturally occurring in the area. Whenever she was close to you, you seemed to naturally glow. She notices this, makes sure you’re constantly near her. Kissing along your neck watching pulses of color matching hers appear. Where once you were rough and unpolished she had undone that and revealed new colors you thought incapable.

Hollyberry

🍻 - Your skills as a shape shifting warrior were well known during the Dark Flour War resonated loudly among your kingdom. You defended the Hollyberry kingdom with such intensity and ferocity, even the ancients took notice of it, more specifically your queen Hollyberry. As battles raged with no clear end, when you had everyone’s back she was there to provide her shield and her encouragement.

🍻 - Everything was looking up for you, at least you thought it was. After the Dark Flour war she left the kingdom, she left you. You were given your titles worthy of your fighting, but Hollyberry was not there. In her absence, her son Royalberry had taken over who often invited you to the palace. You shared war stories at a dinner table, you uplifted as many cookies as you could. All the while searching for any sign of Hollyberry returning, and every search you came back with less hope. All the things you wanted to say to her, all the cups you could have shared before she left…

🍻 - You would always be there to protect anyone and everyone, even if Hollyberry was missing. The feeling of constant impending attack always loomed over you. On lonely nights you wonder if thats why she left, among other reasons. To try and fight this constant dread and fear, you shift less, take on less responsibilities in defense, you lose passion and color. Slowly, you faded into just another cookie, your transformation only quickened when the dragon came. Invasive was the beast, it made its home sipping juice and eating jelly’s and all were powerless to stop it, including you. It felt hopeless, you couldn’t even return the looks at you when they stared at you for help.

🍻 - Pitaya Dragon knew of your battle prowess, but when you hid away it only angered them. They became rowdy and impatient for someone to fight, some questioned why you weren’t fighting back. Finally the dam broke and you weren’t sure why. What sounded like buildings falling echoed through the entire palace, followed by roars and people running. What seemed like a great day had turned into a disaster in minutes.

🍻 - You stood in the crowd of nobles running away, your eyes catch onto a tall figure standing still. That pink hair, those eyes.. could it be? She sees you and walks over, “Y/N! i barely recognized you! Come on, let’s give this dragon a piece of our mind!” She says patting your back and beginning to walk ahead with great confidence. She hadn’t changed, you walked behind her. You exclaimed, “i can’t!” She stopped and turned to you, “come on! You have me, we can take them on!” You stared up at her, scared of what she’d think. “I cant shape shift anymore,” you blurted.

🍻 - “Im sure you can!” She says but you cannot respond before her hands come to your shoulders. “I know you can, if you can’t for the sake of fighting this dragon, then do it for me! I need your help, will you fight beside me one more time, friend?” She speaks, and a fire that had long been extinguished arose in your heart. What were you saying, of course you could fight with her, you were a shape shifting, Hollyberrian, enemy wiping machine! Valiantly, you both ran into battle, and for the first time in many years you changed, you fought and you won.

🍻 - It seemed like once all the damage was repaired, the first thing she did was drag you to the juice cellar and down a barrel or two with you. You both recalled your tales and got close as you did all those years ago. A couple good sparring matches got you back in fighting order, and it made you realize how good it felt to move around in a different body! She seems to encourage your shifting, when it starts to get monotonous she’ll pat your back and tell you “you tapping out already?” She understands breaks though, and she helps you readjust to the way things used to be.

🍻 - Unsaid feelings seem to come out quicker when they’ve been hidden away for so long, thankfully (to no ones surprise) it’s reciprocated. You’re spending practically every day with her to make up for lost time. She holds you so close you swear you hear your dough cracking, her gaze always lingers on you like its the last time she’ll get the chance. She relishes each form, relating it to past forms you’ve taken mostly. You’ve both grown, gain scars, you compare them often.

🍻 - Theres never a dull moment, always a promise of excitement with her. Even at night within sleep it’s a battlefield of blanket hogging and kicking, or attempting to smother the other in their sleep. She ensures you that come what may, whatever beasts she faces and battles you fight she’ll always make sure you’re behind her shield when you need it or in her arms when you’re in too deep.

Pure Vanilla

🍦 - The mysterious and frankly horribly uncharted woods around the floating vanilla kingdom was festered with dangerous creatures. Cookies were a great target, monsters loved to sink their teeth into crunchy dough, which meant as king (and a healer) he needed to limit who ventures into rough lands and their exact travels. Of course, where there was danger there was reward, and someone had found something particularly significant. One of the explorers had came up to him and handed him a scroll, holding it up to his staffs eye to read it. It was a map to a seemingly mythical structure holding scrolls of knowledge dating back to long ago, guarded by a massive shape shifting being.

🍦 - At first, Pure Vanilla shut it down, war was on the horizon and the kingdom needed to prepare. Though, for a few nights as he drifted to sleep he was kept awake by the fact he would never know what was in there. If it was real then someone else could find it, someone like Dark Enchantress cookie. Finally he caved, he assembled a team and someone to watch the kingdom in his absence. They set out in the morning, after a day of walking they arrived at an overgrown stone gate, the letters worn off. Within the walls was a once beautiful garden, many places to read and write. The building was still intact, teeming with ancient magic.

🍦 - He began to walk the path to the entrance ahead of the others, a statue stood of a cookie but it was so overgrown he could only see the worn down base. He took a step forward and the statue began to crack and move and soon the vines fell of revealing a great monster wound in sharp vines. “Begone, travelers, I will not repeat myself,” It bellowed shaking the earth. As it moved, it roared and began to swipe and attack. With each new form it took on came an unexpected challenge. The team began to fight back, but Pure Vanilla noticed something. The way it moved, although frightening and certainly dangerous it’s stance felt uncomfortable. It took on another shape, he began to realize the thorny vines it wrapped itself in were digging into it, and no matter what size they changed to it was the same.

🍦 - The only reason that would be is unkept magic, this being was left behind by its creator but the magic binding it to its duty had to be maintained like the garden. The being was in pain, and there was no defeating it at this rate, he commanded his team to stop. The soldiers stepped back, the guardian did too, assuming they were leaving. Pure Vanilla came forward with all the respect he could give for this ancient being. “If you do not want us inside, we will go, but please allow me to help you.” He says and the monstrous form they were taking becomes small, they were now a cookie still wound in thorns. “I do not need help,” you say. “Leave.”

🍦 - “Your fighting begs to differ, tell me, does defending a building full of paper merit suffering for a thousand more years?” Pure Vanilla steps forward again, still calm. “I have defended this place for many years, when my master returns he will fix this.” You respond. “Do you know when that is?” He asks, your silence is loud. You speak again, “the vines were once.. not thorn ridden, but what was once a proud colorful display of loyalty is now my chains.” You explain, he nods. “If this place is so special, i can help you keep it safe, but these vines will grow, and soon you will be unable to defend your home.” He steps forward again but you do not react so he continues. “Even if if means you are not bound to this building, please, let me remove your chains.”

🍦 - Unable to say no, you nod and offer your arms to him. With his own magic, he runs his hands over them and they slowly unravel as light passes within. For a moment you’re completely glowing, and then you are free. Weight has been lifted off your shoulders though it does not appear like that on the outside. While Pure Vanilla tends to the deep cuts in your flesh and tells you about the Vanilla kingdom and who he was, the others scout inside. When they return they speak, “the scrolls are.. all blank.” Then what have you been defending?! You desperately explain this place used to be lively with scholars and even after your master stopped coming here this place was full of cookies. Pure Vanilla investigates and tells you that they were replaced a long time ago, you were defending blank scrolls and dilapidated walls. Without purpose and little dignity, you decide to part with the building and try life in the Vanilla kingdom.

🍦 - Most would call the expedition a failure, but Pure Vanilla saw it as an astounding success. While they gained no knowledge or material they saved you from much more unnecessary pain and toiling. You didn’t know how cookies worked to be frank, any time you tried to talk to someone you came off odd. You had made a habit of clinging to Pure Vanilla, he taught you the new languages and etiquettes, all the new kingdoms that arose. It was almost embarrassing that a mighty guardian was hiding behind such a gentle cookie.

🍦 - Your fondness for nature connects you two, throughout your years waiting, nature was your friend. You watched the world around you become infested and weeded but in a way you couldn’t help but admire. He often allows you to accompany him while gardening which is where most of your bonding happens. It takes a while for you to choose a form that matches this new modern style, he’s extremely patient with each change. He has nothing but love and admiration for you, you wanted to change and he wanted you to be comfortable.

🍦 - At some point close friendship delves into something romantic. Kneeling in dirt surrounded by flowers during sunset, you cant tell if he was noticing the changes you made to yourself or the way you were looking at him. His free hand off his staff comes to your arm like he wanted you to be closer while he told you how amazing you were. His words cloud your mind, you’re lost in the features of his face slowly approaching. Soon, you’re kissing tenderly, trying to hold onto this form and keep it from spontaneously changing from the emotions. When he leans away he thinks it’s cute, your entire body now mismatched except your face.

White Lily

🪻 - It was a particularly calm day out, birds were singing their unique songs and flowers blooming out and about. White Lily would have to depart today though, she needed to go to beast yeast to find answers on why cookies were made and there she would find it. She had let her friends know, it was hard to leave but she knew it was the right choice. Her thirst to know and enlighten had been discouraged by her teachers and friends. She did not leave without a gift, with a gentle tap of her staff the ground around her began to glow and become full of lilies winding around trees and sprouting deep within the woods. They curled around her feet like a goodbye hug. She broke free and began to walk, slowly the field of flowers became more scarce.

🪻 - It had not been more than a few minutes when she heard movement within the trees along the path. She turned her head to see another cookie on a parallel path who quickly noticed her. She expected them to wave or something but to her surprise they suddenly turned into a bird and flew over to her, flying over her head. “Well hi there! Are you the one who made that big pretty field back there?”

🪻 - She smiles and nods, they drop back down now a cookie again. “Why’d you do it? I mean.. no one anyone randomly creates a bunch of flowers,” they say walking backwards to face her. “It��s a goodbye gift for my friends, i have to leave for beast yeast and i wanted to give something to be remembered by.” She says quietly, the other cookie seems to perk up. “Im from beast yeast! Im heading there right now, what are the odds!” They exclaim and she seems more interested now. “Really?” She says and you nod quickly. “This is actually the third time ive tried to go back, i.. keep getting lost before i even get to the border,” you admit slightly embarrassed. She laughs softly, “it seems you should probably stay with me.” She suggests and you quickly replied “it seems you’re right, My name is (Y/N) cookie by the way,” you say now walking beside her. “White Lily cookie,” she returns the introduction.

🪻 - The trek to beast yeast would take a month on foot, thankfully you both had each other’s company. She talked about her friends and their kingdoms, her burning desire to know why cookies were made and asked a lot of questions about beast yeast. You answered those queries and talked about yourself. That or sharing tales beside a campfire of strange tales of powerful cookies gone bad and a kingdom of silver and faeries. You turned into various exotic animals from around the world or kept watch while she rested. It seemed when you spend every day and night with someone you get close quickly.

🪻 - One cold night she sits beside a fire unable to sleep when she hears odd snoring coming from your tent. Hesitantly, and with a little inner fighting, she peers in to see a fluffy cream lynx lying inside and nearly jumps out of her dough at the sight. You, in the form of a cold weather creature to stay warm jumps awake thinking there was danger. You halfhazardly turn back to a cookie to reassure her you were just cold. Then the thought occurs, was she cold too? She says she hasn’t been able to sleep and has been staying by the fire, you offer to let her sleep in your tent. She agrees, needing the rest. For the rest of the trip, even though it got warmer she spent every night in your embrace.

🪻 - Then you cross the border into beast yeast, it becomes harder to protect eachother. In a moment of peace one day, she says that they should head towards the faerie kingdom. You seem like you dislike the idea but go anyway. It takes a few days to find the kingdom. When she finally comes to the entrance, suddenly you’re gone. It doesn’t matter though, the faeries needed her help so she’d have to find you later. When she sealed up the tree and was celebrated by the Faeries, she began to try and find you. Elder Faerie, confused why she wasn’t at the feast in her honor, approaches her. She explains who you are and their journey. Elder faerie recognizes you and explains your story to her. Long ago, you were once a faerie, a beast of silence, once of solidarity, saw you and despised how you were constantly surrounded by friends and helping your people without reward. So the beast approached you alone, offered to take you in, you declined with disgust. The beast, angered by the response, placed a curse on you. Never would you rejoin your kingdom and never would you be in your body again. Forever, a silent outcast.

🪻 - When he is done, he says you will likely be found somewhere close outside of the kingdom. If she cannot find you, he’ll send scouts. She leaves immediately, its hard to find a shape shifter but she knows she’ll find you. She spends all afternoon but soon she spots you beside a still pond. She says nothing, sits down and holds your hand. You tell her, “you have celebrations in your name, you should go to them. You wont find any enlightenment with me, only loneliness.” You seemed to know that he told her. She doesn’t go though, “maybe theres a way to reverse this,” she tells you. “It’s too powerful, no cookie can fix this,” you sigh. “Maybe.. a witch?” She responds with a small smile, you look at her like she was insane.

🪻 - “I am going to the witches.. and i want you to come with me. There i will find answers and maybe you will become un-cursed.” She says hopefully, a little surprised you aren’t sure what to say. Moonlight shining down on the both of you by a mirror like pond, it all felt perfect. “What if they can’t reverse this?..” you say trying to pull away but she keeps you there. “Then we can be alone together, no matter what happens there i’ll stay with you,” she smiles quietly, pink tinting her cheeks. It feels impossible to say no, so you don’t. You smile back and speak “ok, i’ll go with you.” You clasp a hand over hers. You weren’t sure when you got so close but it’s awfully convenient. Your intentions are pretty clear, hers are too. Both of you now flustered, nervous and unsure what to do, you stare at each other before she leans in and kisses you. Even after it ended you were fairly certain your heart didn’t stop pounding all night long.

[princessaffliction]

sweet nothings.

♡ info -> rafayel x you • 3.4k words • fluffy smut ♡ summary -> when rafayel returns home exhausted from a last-minute meeting which interrupted your date night plans, you decide your tired beloved deserves a little extra spoiling ♡ warnings -> MDNI, bratty as hell rafayel, crying (slight dacryphilia), overstim, handjobs, slightly too much plot for what was supposed to be smut

In your defense, the first time you make Rafayel cry during sex, it is unequivocally his fault.

Nothing about the evening is going right. First, you snap the strap on your heels and have to return to your apartment for a change of shoes. When you finally arrive to Rafayel's close to forty minutes late, you nearly collide head-first with him as he shoulders through the door. He doesn't have time to stop or explain why he's leaving beyond the words “last minute meeting, sorry,” a kiss pressed to each of your cheeks, and the suggestion that you wait for him to return. Judging by the scowl on his face, he's no more happy about the interruption to your date night plans than you are.

So much for a relaxing dinner to end the week for you both. Not that anything between the two of you ever goes to plan. In some ways its fitting that more often than not, your dates are foiled by unforeseen chaos. Maybe you'd been foolish to think this night would be different.

At least you don't have to feel guilty about being late.

You wander back and forth the span of his bedroom, alternating between basking in the warm summer breeze rising through the window and looking over a book he’d left open on his bed. It’s more of a magazine, filled with elegantly shot nature photography.

After just under an hour, the door opens and Rafayel strides through. Without a word of greeting, he collapses onto his settee in a flourish. You wait, expecting him to launch into an explanation of where he’s been, no doubt filled with his usual grumbling and colorful derision.

It doesn’t come.

"Is everything alright?" you ask, coming to stand at his side.

Rafayel sighs and drops an arm over his face.

"I’m alive if that's what your asking," he says, evidentially still capable of dramatics. "It's like the universe has a sixth sense for when I want an evening off."

He loosens his tie and tosses it haphazardly over the back of the sofa. You can't help but cringe as you watch the no doubt exorbitantly expensive silk material flutter to the floor.

His fingers close around your wrist, dragging your hand to his hair. "If you're going to stare, Miss Bodyguard, you might as well be of use."

Rolling your eyes, you oblige him and card your fingers through his hair. The violet waves glide smoothly below your touch.

"Your hair's really soft today."

For the dozenth time, you remind yourself to ask just what he uses to make it so unnaturally silky. Tara had been looking for a new hair product. Perhaps he'd have a suggestion you could pass along.

"So that means it's not always this soft, huh? And here I thought you liked my hair." Rafayel's brows pinch together. "I don't pay you to insult me, you know."

You don't bother pointing out that Rafayel doesn't pay you at all. Still, some of the tension has seeped out of his posture and his eyes flutter shut as you drag your nails lightly across his scalp. For all that he dislikes cats, in moments like this you can't help but compare him to one. Especially when your ministrations cease momentarily and he bumps his forehead into your palm, a demand that you resume petting him.

"That bad of a meeting, huh?"

Instantly, you regret your question as he tenses up once more. "Meetings at night should be illegal. What if I fell gravely ill from the cold?"

You don't bother pointing out that it's the best weather you've had in weeks. It doesn’t matter. You're certain there's something else on his mind, with the way his eyes flicker to yours before looking away.

"You feel fine to me." You press a hand to his forehead. "Clammy as usual."

His frown deepens. "Ha-ha."

"What's bothering you? You have meetings all the time. What made this one different?"

For a long moment he doesn't reply, dropping his head back against the arm of the sofa.

"Cat got your tongue?"

His eyes snap open. "You're quite the comedian tonight."

"Not a very good one apparently." You poke his cheek. "C'mon, what's got you so moody?"

He grumbles something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I've been invited to teach a summer course for promising youth at a prestigious art school," he repeats, as though doing so is a herculean effort.

"Wow, really? Rafayel, that's amazing."

He sits up, nearly hitting your foreheads together as he does. "Do you hear yourself? This is the worst thing that they could possibly ask of me."

"What? How so?" You neglect to point out that you’re almost certain he said the same thing about the last work request that was made of him.

He grimaces and shakes his head. "Kids are so loud."

"So you'll get along with them fine," you say, dryly.

"It's the whole summer. I'd be gone. For the entire summer."

"Yes, you mentioned that." You shrug. "If it’s a prestigious school and you’re the guest of honor, I'm certain that the accommodations will be up to your standards."

That's a white lie. It would be impossible for anyone to make a temporary living arrangement anywhere close to Rafayel's preferences without decimating their entire budget for the bathtub alone. Champagne tastes to say the least.

Even as you try to think of something else positive to say, you can't shake the twinge of disappointment in your chest. After all, you'd spent a good chunk of winter discussing all the things you wanted to do together this summer: the festivals and getaways. Trips to seaside cafes and museums. The exact hopes for the future you take comfort in on long nights of hunting wanderers or tackling the piles of paperwork you never seem to get to the bottom of.

"I still think it's something you should do," you say. "But I can admit that it's...a bit of a bummer too. We had a lot of plans that I was looking forward to."

"Finally you're making some sense," he huffs. "If you insist, then I'll cancel."

"That's not what I said!"

"Well, I'm still canceling." He folds his arms.

Were you to look up stubbornness in the dictionary, you're certain it would be this exact sight of Rafayel, his mouth pinched with determination.

"Canceling is not the answer."

"Maybe not to you."

"We'll just have to squeeze in a little extra fun, to make up for things."

He continues pouting, but you can see him straighten up ever so slightly. "And what is your idea of some 'extra' fun?"

"I've got time off that I need to use. Before, I'd planned on using my days this summer, but if you won't be around for part of it let's just move up the dates."

He purses his lips, clearly turning over his options in his mind. When you'd first met, no doubt he would have attempted to continue arguing, but now, he knows better. After all, if there's anyone who can rival his own stubbornness, it's you.

"Fine," he says. "But you better write to me."

You manage to keep from rolling your eyes. "I'm going to text you every day. You'll probably be sick of hearing from me."

"You say a lot of dumb things," he sighs.

"I guess you're rubbing off on me."

Rafayel opens his mouth before shutting it again. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over the edge of the couch where it slips to the floor alongside his tie.

"I know we had planned to go out tonight," he says. "But I think stepping foot outside again might kill me. So if you really insist on me doing this summer program, it's probably for the best that we don't go to dinner."

That doesn't come as a surprise. By now, you were well aware of Rafayel's occasional need for solitude to decompress. You take a step back and glance around for your purse. If you head out now, you should still be able to pick up take out on your way back home and save yourself the trouble of cooking.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks.

"Er, you want to be alone, right? To think?"

"Did I say that?" He looks away. "But if you want to leave then go ahead. I'm tired anyway."

Something in the resigned yet displeased look he casts your way makes it click together in your head:

"Are you upset because you're going to miss me?"

He starts to respond before grimacing, "You're still not funny."

Evidentially, leaving isn’t the right answer tonight, but talking doesn’t seem to be working either. You walk back to the settee and step within reach, looking down at him.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” you say. “Let's drop it for now.”

Rafayel doesn’t answer but stands and unceremoniously strides to his bed, dropping down onto the plush duvet. A handful of his many throw pillows bounce off of the mattress to scatter on the floor. How he manages not to trip on a daily basis is still a mystery to you. Careful not to step on any of the intricately embroidered cushions, you make your way over and lie down beside him.

His eyes remain closed so you take the moment to examine your beloved. He really is a sight to behold. Pretty, like a statue crafted with a delicacy that would take a thousand years...and yet, as changeable as the sea itself, with movement beneath the surface. Despite the time you’ve spent together, there are moments when he still feels far away. Like a story written in a language you don’t know. Or worse, that you’ve forgotten.

He cracks an eye to peer at you, still frowning. Even among the ridiculously soft bedspread, you can read the tension in him. You reach up and cup his cheek. There’s no words that are going to fix things for now.

However, perhaps words are the not the form of communication most suited to a night like this.

Rafayel stares at you, waiting. You run your thumb along his cheekbone, down his jaw, and over his bottom lip that is stuck out in a near-pout once more. It feel as inevitable as the tide when your mouths meet, a territory so familiar you’re unsure who leaned in to kiss who.

“You can’t win me over with kisses,” he says, pulling back after a few minutes.

The dark, blown-wide look of his pupils would argue otherwise, but you refrain from pointing out as much.

“Alright.”

Rafayel leans closer and takes one of your hands, manipulating your fingers gently to pop the top button on his shirt.

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try it though,” he says.

You kiss him again, rolling your eyes as you do so.

One more kiss turns into another dozen, accompanied by your fingers undoing his shirt and belt buckle. It ends with you sitting against the headboard and Rafayel laid bare. He's sprawled along the mattress, his back to your chest. Not a typical arrangement for you but tonight you can't shake the desire to smooth away some of his stress. To spoil him, despite knowing there's perhaps no better word to describe your love than ‘spoiled’ already. Not that you mind. You wouldn't change him, not for the world.

He's all long limbs like this, reflective scales surfacing as he comes back down from his orgasm. You press a kiss to the side of his head, his temple slightly sweaty. As fond as he is of messy sex while it's happening, Rafayel is less keen on the ensuing tackiness afterward. Usually one of you will think to grab a washcloth to clean up, but thinking didn't seem to be in the cards for either of you tonight.

You shift to climb off the bed and go in search of tissues but his hand on your arm stops you.

“Everything, okay?”

He swallows, throat bobbing."Again, please?"

Despite the mess on his stomach and chest, a glance reveals that he's still achingly hard. His cock lays rosy and eager against his hip. Gently, you wrap your fingers around him once more. As soon as you do he's squirming from the overstimulation. You can't tell if he's trying to rut into your touch or rid himself of it.

"Are you sure?" you ask, pausing in spite of his demand. "You just came."

"It’s not enough tonight," he pants. "More, please."

You can’t help but enjoy his desperation a little. As though he’s forgotten how utterly incapable you are of not indulging him when he looks at you like that. Like you are the sole being responsible for the push and pull of the tides. The person keeping the very world on its axis.

“So you do now how to ask for things nicely,” you say, relishing in your ability to work him up to the point he recalls manners.

“So mean.”

“Am I mean or are you just bossy?” you shoot back.

Rafayel doesn’t answer aside from a needy sound as you squeeze around the base of his cock. His head drops back onto your shoulder. Painful or not, he seems to be enjoying himself, his hips twitching to chase your hand whenever you draw it up his length once more.

“I’m honestly just surprised that you’re so worked up.”

He twists in a half-hearted attempt to bury his face in your throat. You don’t let him, using your free hand to catch his chin and force him to meet your gaze.

Rafayel looks as lovely as you’ve ever seen him. His cheeks are flushed, bottom lip bitten ruby. His eyes, though bright, are red-rimmed. Tears that haven’t yet spilled pooling in the corners and clinging to his dark lashes.

“Raf—”

He interrupts you before you can ask if he’s alright. “Please don’t stop.”

His hand covers yours as though to ensure you don’t let go, even though you have no intention too. He guides you to stroke along his cock more firmly than before. As you do, his lips part, desperate whimpers spilling free.

“Of course not, I won’t,” you assure him. “You’re really pretty like this.” The words that have been vying to slip free all night popping out before you can overthink them.

His cock throbs in your grasp. You don't bother to hide the grin which spreads across your face. Rafayel’s blush only deepens and he squirms in your arms.

You should have put two and two together prior to now. How could your beloved not like praise? After all, you’d seen the way his eyes would light up when you complimented him, even if he would deny it, or play it off as expected, no, entitled.

You were learning a lot of things tonight it would seem.

Craning your neck slightly, you lean closer so that you can speak into his ear.

“Is this what you’ve been wanting? For me to say sweet things to you?”

“No,” he says, bucking into your hand.

“No?” You let go of his cock and he whines at the loss of contact. “But look at the mess you’re making already.”

It’s true, your hand is slick with precum, more leaking down the flushed shaft. He was telling the truth before: none of it seems to be enough for him tonight. Rafayel does his best to muster a glare, though the effect is diminished by the sheer need written across his face.

“Come on, ask me,” you murmur and return your hand to where he wants you most. “I can’t give you what you want if you don’t tell me what it is.”

The renewed attention earns you a choked out moan and fresh tears cutting their way down his cheeks.

“Please, please keep talking, I can’t—”

“Shh, of course, I will.”

So you do. You let all of the sweet things you’ve thought but not said to him run over in a babble of praise. You tell him how much you adore him. How gorgeous he looks. How good he is. How lucky you feel to be able to have him in your arms, in your life. Every single thing you would normally think twice about saying, lest they bring down a tidal wave of mischief upon you.

It’s too much for him and soon Rafayel’s shaking. He clutches at your arm, words slurred, “It’s too much, I’m going to come, fuck, I—”

“It’s alright, my love.” You lean down and fit your mouths together.

Rafayel kisses you back clumsily before letting out a bitten-off moan. He throbs in your hand, spilling his second release of the night onto his stomach with a sob.

You rest your chin on his shoulder, holding him close as he shivers through the aftershocks. For a long moment there’s nothing but the quiet sounds of the distant city and his shaky exhales as he tries to get his breathing back under control.

“Was that—”

He cuts you off. “You know how much I’m going to miss you, right?”

Even though it’s said with little inflection, you catch the undercurrent of nerves.

“I know.”

He swallows. “And you know I love you?”

“I do.”

Despite the fact that you’re impossibly close, he manages to press closer to you somehow. “So you won’t forget me while I’m away for the summer?”

“Do you really think I could forget you?”

He doesn’t answer, so you press another kiss against the shell of his ear.

“I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be right here when you get back,” you say.

Rafayel lets out a long breath, the last bit of tension slipping away from him. The pair of you lay there for another long moment, before he shifts, pushing himself up with shaky arms.

“Sticky.” He grimaces as he uses his discarded shirt to wipe up the mess on his chest.

“And whose fault is that?”

Somehow, despite the fact that he’s still pink-cheeked with pleasure, he manages to look offended.

“Yours,” he pronounces, lurching up to stand on wobbly legs. “Now, since it’s your job, Miss Bodyguard, I assume you’ll come and make sure I don’t get attacked by Wanderers while I take a bath?”

"We should probably bathe together, just to be safe." You stretch and climb to your feet as well. “Wouldn’t want you to get caught unaware. You’d be like a fish out of water.”

“Still not funny,” he says, turning away, but not before you can get a glimpse of him smiling.

You slip an arm around his waist, tugging him towards your side.

“I can walk you know.” It’s a halfhearted protest as he allows himself to be led toward the bathroom.

“Tell that to your knees,” you reply. “Besides, we don’t need you to get taken out by another paintbrush on the floor like last time.”

Before he can reply you press your lips to his, drowning his witty comeback with a kiss.

Summer might not go the way either of you had planned, but if tonight is any indication, you’ll be able to make up for it.

[rika-mmendmethings]

Terms & Conditions Apply | Sylus

Prologue I Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 dropping on 10 July

Summary: What begins as a financial lifeline quickly transforms into an emotional labyrinth once you agree to become both the surrogate and ova donor for the Qin family. With an entire year remaining under their roof, you begin to unravel the hidden truths behind their seemingly perfect façade. Worse still, you find yourself confronted with things that were never outlined in the terms and conditions.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story. For this chapter: Violence, mentions of guns and blood, injury to main character, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of miscarriage, some ooc characters, mild angst.

Word count: 2.9k

Notes: This won't have a schedule at least until Interdimensional Epiphany ends. This series can be considered an alternate universe because Sylus has no powers in this but still runs a criminal organization, and he and MC are married. But there's no change in the characters or places. Also, no-one come at me for encouraging affair, I'm not. You're just saying that because you don't know what will happen later into the plot, I do. So, trust me on this. Anyways, hopefully you enjoy this and decide to tune in for the series. My asks are open if you wish to know more about this series. Lmk if you wish to be added to the tag list for this ♥

You're seated in a recliner that smells faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish, its synthetic leather squeaking beneath your shifting weight. The room is quiet, almost too quiet, save for the steady tick of the wall clock overhead and the distant hum of air conditioning pushing recycled calm into sterile corners. You glance down at the folder resting in your lap, its corners slightly dog-eared from nervous fidgeting. The gynecologist’s findings were conclusive: you’re in excellent reproductive health. The report, thick with clinical jargon, has been marked with a bright orange sticker instructing you to share it with the psychologist for a full-profile assessment.

Earlier this morning, a driver, polite, and clearly instructed not to talk unless spoken to,had arrived this morning to collect you in a black luxury sedan. He told you, rather matter-of-factly, that Mikayla had arranged and prepaid the day’s medical tests. You hadn’t seen her or Sylus since the early morning check-in, assuming that they’d arrive later when they were needed.

The door swings open, and in steps the psychologist — Dr. Hayley, according to her name tag — her demeanor brisk but not unfriendly. She is followed by the Qins. Mikayla enters first, her presence like a fresh breeze cutting through the room’s sterilized stillness. She’s clad in a pastel yellow summer gown that drapes around her like liquid sunshine and her hair is pinned up carelessly, a few curls escaping to frame her face in soft spirals. She smiles at you, and it’s warm enough to melt the tension in your shoulders, if only just.

Sylus trails behind her, an opposing force entirely. Dressed in a black button-down tucked neatly into tailored charcoal slacks, he carries his blazer folded over one forearm like a knight entering court. When his crimson eyes pass over you, he doesn’t even bother with a nod. 

You’re starting to feel underdressed now in front of people of such stature. Makes you wonder again why they chose you among a million other options.

Dr. Hayley greets you with a polite nod, then motions for the Qins to take a seat on the adjacent couch and they settle in quietly. Mikayla perches on the edge, hands folded in her lap while Sylus sits back with one leg crossed over the other, his gaze dropping to examine his manicured nails.

The psychologist settles beside you and clicks her pen with a crisp finality. “Ready for evaluations?” she asks, her tone efficient.

You nod once, pulling yourself upright and crossing your legs to ground yourself.

She begins with a simple, pointed question: “Are you comfortable being both the egg donor and the surrogate? Won’t the genetic tie make letting go more difficult?”

You pause, crafting your words carefully. “I’m comfortable,” you say, voice even. “I’ve reached a point in life where stability outweighs sentiment. I’m not searching for roots or relationships. I know myself well enough to say that any emotional attachment — genetic or otherwise — won’t interfere. I love children, just... not when they’re mine.”

Dr. Hayley doesn’t smile, but her pen moves swiftly across the page. You glance sideways and see Mikayla giving you a discreet thumbs up, eyes bright with approval. You resist the twitch of a smile. Sylus hasn’t moved an inch —still languid in his seat, his fingers now idle — but when you glance his way, his eyes lock with yours. You feel the weight of his gaze, waiting for you to take one misstep. You shift your focus back to the doctor quickly, pulse skipping.

“Do you have a partner? Any family?” she asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

She makes another note, then picks up the medical folder from your lap and flips through it silently.

“I understand the important documents are already signed,” she murmurs, half to herself. “Your health is more than sufficient. If, during the surrogacy, complications arise — would you consider abortion or selective reduction?”

You inhale, slowly. “I wouldn’t default to either,” you admit. “I understand the need for caution, and I won’t be reckless, but I won’t make a choice that feels wrong for me. I’ll weigh it, but my instinct is to persevere unless I’m absolutely sure I can’t.”

A soft hum leaves Dr. Halden’s lips, contemplative, as her pen resumes its dance. The silence stretches comfortably now, filled only by the scratch of ink and the gentle rustle of paper. 

“Now, some questions for you, Mr. and Mrs. Qin,” she begins after turning to them. “Why have you chosen genetic surrogacy instead of gestational surrogacy?”

For the first time since entering the room, Mikayla falters. It’s subtle — the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Her hands, previously clasped neatly in her lap, tense ever so slightly. You watch her inhale, lips parting as if she means to speak, but no words come. Sylus answers for her.

“We’re both fertile,” he begins, his voice refined like aged scotch. “But biologically incompatible.”

He speaks with the precision of someone who’s rehearsed this — who’s had to say it more times than he’d be willing to. “We discovered this the hard way,” he continues, “after my wife suffered an early miscarriage. Tests revealed that while our individual fertility is intact, my DNA is highly fragmented, and her body rejects any embryo we create together. That is why we’re opting for the traditional route since it is the only way forward.”

Mikayla, back to herself now, gives a small nod, the corners of her mouth lifting in a soft, solemn attempt at composure. The expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

The doctor nods, scribbles something, and then moves on, asking a string of questions you barely register — income brackets, family support, post-birth intentions. Your eyes wander back to Mikayla, who now sits with her back a touch straighter, answering with careful sincerity while Sylus remains still as though nothing in this world could ruffle his tailored veneer.

Then comes the question that grips your attention in a chokehold.

“If your surrogate undergoes complications during delivery,” Dr. Hayley asks plainly, “who would you choose to save — the surrogate or the child?”

Time halts for a beat too long. Sylus doesn’t blink. “The child,” he says instantly. His tone holds all the warmth of a winter stone.

Your breath catches slightly, but what pierces deeper is Mikayla’s silence. She doesn’t speak nor looks at you. Just lowers her eyes and folds her hands tighter, as if her silence might soften his words by omission.

Dr. Hayley’s brow furrows. “Why so, Mr. Qin? The surrogate is under your care throughout the duration of this process. Isn’t her life a priority as well?”

Sylus leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the couch’s armrest as he taps a single finger there in quiet rhythm.

“She is,” he agrees evenly. “But this agreement exists because we are all united in our pursuit of a single purpose: the child. If, god forbid, such a moment comes... our choice would be the one we’ve invested our lives into creating. I believe our surrogate herself would understand — perhaps even agree.”

He glances toward you again, crimson eyes watching far too closely and you are a second too late to veil the conflict reflecting in your eyes. You curse under your breath, knowing that he has caught on. “It is only natural to choose the one who is yours.”

The words linger like smoke in your lungs. You know this is logical. You signed the contract and knew the risks. You are the vessel, not the destination. Still, something about hearing it aloud so easily nicks a nerve you weren’t expecting to bleed. You try not to look at either of them as your throat tightens. You clear it instead, forcing your voice into something steady.

“I mean, yeah,” you say, eyes fixed on the floor’s muted beige. “That’s what’s outlined in the terms and conditions which I... agreed to.”

You offer a small shrug, as if it’s nothing. As if your body isn’t tensing like a pulled thread that might unravel at any second. You’re not sure if the hurt came from the decision itself or from how swiftly they made it.

Dr. Hayley observes you a moment longer than is comfortable, then jots down a few more lines in her pad. You wonder if she’s writing down your answer — or the observation that your fingers are now wringing the hem of your sleeve like it’s your only anchor.

The session begins to wind down, the questions tapering into logistics and schedules. Mikayla eventually offers you a smile, tender and apologetic, as if it could patch over the earlier silence. Sylus says nothing else, and you don’t offer another glance in his direction.

“Very well,” she says as she stands, smoothing her blouse. “I’ll send both the gynecologist and my reports and within some time, I’ll come back with the compiled evaluations if everything is fit to go. You’ll receive a schedule and begin hormone treatment soon after.”

Dr. Hayley bids you farewell and shakes hands with the couple. As you and the couple step into the sterile corridor outside his office, the fluorescent lights above hum with their usual artificial buzz, and for a moment, everything feels normal. Just as you are all walking out of the consultation room, a deafening gunshot fractures the calm. The sterile halls of the hospital shudder with its echo, and within seconds, a crescendo of terrified screams rises as panic erupts like wildfire. Doctors abandon their charts, nurses duck behind trolleys, and patients flee in every direction.

From the far end of the corridor, a group of armed men in tactical black emerge, their faces obscured by balaclavas, their boots thundering against the linoleum. They carry military-grade rifles, held with the familiarity of killers. Without a word, they herd everyone into the central lobby, corralling patients, doctors, and staff alike into a trembling huddle. They keep their guns pointed at the people, fingers curled tight around triggers. You’re swept with the crowd into the lobby, your heart thudding erratically. This isn’t random, it’s orchestrated.

A man steps forward from the group of assailants. He’s built like a hammer — broad shoulders, square jaw, his stance full of barely restrained aggression. Unlike the others, he wears a dark shirt bearing a crudely-stitched gang emblem. His voice rips through the panic.

"Sylus Qin!" he bellows, his eyes scanning the crowd. "You treacherous bastard. You really thought you could cross our boss and disappear like a ghost? Step out. Now. Or I swear on his name, I’ll put a bullet through every skull in this room.”

The words hang in the air like poison. You barely have time to process what’s just been said — Sylus Qin, the man you had just agreed to become a surrogate for, is apparently entangled in something far more lethal than his façade of a wealthy, aloof exterior let on. And then he moves.

Sylus steps forward with a calm that is unnerving. His face is unreadable, but there is a smoldering fire behind his crimson eyes. With a slow precision, he unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up to the elbows, exposing forearms marred with faint scars and veins.

“So desperate theatrics is what he’s indulging into lately?” His voice is smooth, but laced with a cutting edge.

In a blur, he steps into the leader’s space, striking the man’s rifle upward with the heel of his palm. The gun clangs out of the man’s grasp. Before the leader can register the disarm, Sylus lands a brutal right hook across his jaw — the crunch of bone audible even over the gasps of the crowd. The gang insignia bearer crumples without resistance. The others hesitate — but only for a moment before charging at him.

Five of them fan out, rifles raised, but Sylus is already in motion. He dives forward, low and fast, sweeping the legs out from the closest attacker. As the man falls, Sylus grabs his rifle mid-air, twists it around, and slams the butt into another soldier’s knee, shattering it with a wet pop. The scream is short-lived — Sylus spins, driving his fist into the man’s throat. He collapses like a puppet with severed strings.

Another aims for Sylus’ chest. Sylus twists, grabs the barrel, and shoves it upward as the rifle discharges. The bullet punctures the ceiling. He twists the weapon from the attacker’s grasp and uses it like a club, knocking out the man beside him with a single, controlled swing.

Bullets slice through the lobby — glass shatters, potted plants explode into leaves and soil, and the pristine reception desk is torn apart by stray fire. Shards of glass rain down like jagged confetti.

By now, the floor is littered with groaning bodies, broken rifles, and blood — not Sylus'.

And in the midst of it all—a child.

You see him in your peripheral vision. A boy, no older than five, bolts from beneath a gurney someone had shoved him under. Hands pressed to his ears, tears streaking down his cheeks, he runs blindly toward his mother’s voice—soft and desperate amidst the chaos.

Then you see a soldier, bloodied but still conscious, leveling his rifle at Sylus, his finger twitching on the trigger. Sylus hurls a body at the shooter. The impact jolts the rifle, and the bullet veers—

Straight toward the boy.

You don’t think. You act.

Your body throws itself forward, a desperate burst of adrenaline and instinct. You crash into the child, wrapping him tightly in your arms as the bullet whistles past and grazes your left temple. Pain sears through you like fire, blood running hot down your face.

You don’t even notice Sylus spinning around.

The shooter who fired doesn’t get another breath — Sylus lunges with a feral rage, tackling the man, and without mercy, snaps his neck with a sickening crack. Silence reigns for a moment. Then, the final soldier falls. The air vibrates with the aftershock of what just happened.

Police sirens wail in the distance, faint but growing louder. Someone must have managed to call them.

You sit with your back against a wall, your pulse thunderous in your ears. Your arms release the child when you hear his mother cry his name. He stumbles away from you, unharmed. You’re thankful — but the world is beginning to blur, your head heavy, vision dim.

Staff moved quickly and quietly, their faces pale but focused. Some were assessing structural damage — checking for what could still be saved. Others tended to the injured who, like you, were caught in the crossfire.

You watch through hazy eyes as Mikayla speaks with arriving officers, briefing them on the situation. That surprises you — her husband a criminal, yet she speaks to law enforcement with familiarity, even authority. Strange.

A nurse hurries toward you with a first aid kit. But before she can reach you, Sylus intercepts her, takes the kit from her hands, and kneels at your side. He’s bleeding ten times more than you — gashes down his forearms, a nasty cut above his brow, yet he focuses only on you. He’s breathing hard, but his hands are steady as he unzips the kit and pulls out antiseptic, gauze, and cotton.

His hand is deft as he presses antiseptic-soaked cotton to your wound. You wince as the sting cuts through your skin like ice.

“You realize what you just did, don’t you?” His fingers work to bandage your wound. "You realize you threw yourself in front of a kid right before you're supposed to carry mine. What am I supposed to expect later — suicidal heroics every trimester?"

You can’t help the soft groan that escapes you — whether from the pain or the sharpness of his words, you’re not sure. Your shoulders slump, the weight of pain and exhaustion finally pulling you downward. Darkness presses at the edges of your vision, warm and inviting, and your eyelids begin to flutter shut. 

Sylus's free hand rests against your arm, and his fingers tap rhythmically giving a silent command: stay awake. It’s not gentle, but it’s grounding — like an anchor in the spiraling fog trying to drag you under. And somehow, that small, repetitive motion is enough to keep your consciousness tethered to the present. 

And you answer, breathing shallow but voice steady.“You can expect that if your child’s ever in danger... I won’t hesitate to protect them. Just like I did for that one.”

Sylus’s hands pause, the bandage halfway tied. His gaze pierces into yours, unreadable. “That one wasn’t yours.”

You meet his gaze, unwavering despite your fading strength. “Didn’t have to be.”

There it is — the difference between you, etched like a scar. He sees lives as assets, threats, liabilities. You see them as something else entirely. You don’t need a blood tie or legal bond to see worth in innocence, to feel protective of it. 

He finishes tying the bandage. His crimson gaze drifts over your face — searching, as if trying to unravel you. He scans your face, then the rest of you, ensuring you’ve taken no further damage. His gaze lingers a moment longer than expected.

A loose curl falls over your cheek. His fingers twitch — then reach. He brushes the curl back, tucking it behind your ear with an unlikely gentleness that startles you more than the violence he showed ever could. You blink, caught off guard.

“This part wasn’t outlined in the terms and conditions.” Your voice is weak, laced with wry humor.

There’s a flicker, barely there, but his lips twitch in something resembling a smirk. It's gone in a blink.

“Couldn’t risk an infection,” he mutters, tone neutral, brushing imaginary dust from your cheek as if to mask the gesture.

Your head lolls slightly and the last thing you remember is being lifted up before you surrender to sleep.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[indecisiveavocado]

ALSO what the fuck??????????

can we just talk about 'deserving what they get'??

Story time, because this is one of the best examples of universal human rights ever. And it's true.

In the 60s, foreign agents (I assume Jewish but I'm not sure) captured Eichmann from where he was in Argentina.

Now. This guy was as close as you're gonna get to Hitler. The urge to just kill him must have been overwhelming. One of the people on that team was probably either a Holocaust survivor or the kid of one.

They did not kill him.

They took him to their country.

They held a trial.

When no one there was willing to defend Eichmann, they let a foreign lawyer come.

When Eichmann couldn't pay for said lawyer, they did.

The state used its money--contributed to by Holocaust survivors--to pay for the legal defense of a Nazi.

And that was not in doubt.

The defense's objections were considered. All of them.

When Nazis who did not want to get tried themselves wanted to testify for the defense, procedures were made to do so from afar.

The defense appealed to a higher court. Again, a fair trial, and again rejected.

Eichmann wrote a letter to the president asking for mercy, causing a cabinet meeting to consider said request.

In the end, it didn't do anything, and he was hanged.

But he was hanged after every opportunity was given for him to defend himself. He was hanged because that was what the courts decided on, fairly, neutrally.

Oh, I didn't mention the state, did I?

Israel.

This was Israel.

Do you know why they went to such lengths?

Because they're called human rights (that's a link, to be clear).

They're not called 'non-Nazi rights'. They're not called 'good people rights'. They're called human rights.

And you cannot stop being human. You can stop being a Nazi. You can also, on the other end of the spectrum, stop being good. But you cannot stop being human. There is no action you can take so horrific it abrogates that. Human rights are universal.

No one deserves to be murdered because of their nationality alone. Period, end of sentence.

It doesn't matter what Sarah did. It doesn't matter what Yaron did.

They could have kicked puppies for fun.

Elias Rodriguez didn't know that.

Elias Rodriguez knew only that they had left a Jewish museum, and so he shot them.

You don't know who the Israelis you're speaking of are.

Maybe they're evil. Grotesque monsters.

Doesn't matter. If they deserve to die, it's not for being Israeli.

You're not evil for where you're born, or where you live, or any of that.

You're evil for your actions.

You're evil for what you support.

That's what the left stands for.

That's what I thought it did, anyway.

That's what I loved about it. I thought it truly believed in universal rights. Rights for all. Even if they were assholes. Even if they'd voted against granting others those same rights. The hard choice, but the right one.

I thought they believed in innocence until proven guilty. I thought they believed in believing women. I thought they meant those things.

And maybe the so-called leftists who claim to be leftists while loudly supporting denial of rights to others based on 'morality' (jerks should still get healthcare) or nationality or what-have-you are right, and that is the left. Maybe so.

Maybe my hope was just misplaced. Maybe there isn't a party that believes in universal rights.

But I still miss when the left pretended to.

Anyway.

@scooperdipoop I don't really expect you to respond. I don't even know what I would say to this ill-formed rant, (and I apologize if it's incoherent).

Then again, I don't know how I'd get to genocidal. I can't even really picture myself in your shoes, with your twisted, shriveled, void of a heart.

Because that's what you would do, if you had the power.

You'd kill a group, attempt to exterminate them, based solely on their national origin.

Sometimes I wonder what goes on in the heads of people like you. How do you sleep? How do you think yourself moral? How did you get so far along that calling for the death of ten million people based on nothing but where they happened to be born seems not only normal, not only typical, but good?

I hope one day, you wake up, and you know.

You know what I know. The words, the numbers, the dates, the names, are seared into your head, as they are into mine, repeating when you wake up and when you go to sleep, at home and away. Repeating when you see small children with red hair. Repeating when it's Simchat Torah, and you can only think of those who aren't rejoicing. Repeating and repeating.

I hope you get the testimonies of October 7 beamed into your head.

And the testimonies of the Farhud. The Shoah. The Kishinev Pogrom. Khmielnitsky genocide. Russian civil war genocide. Tsarist genocide (those last three aren't usually referred to as such but they clearly meet the criteria).

I hope you know.

I hope you know, and I hope you carry that knowledge with you. I hope it chases you and your twisted heart to the corners of the earth. I hope it laughs in Baghdad, grins in Bamako, and breaks down in Bialystok. I hope it's there in Berlin, Basra, Beirut, Bucharest, Barcelona, and Bukhara.

I hope you see it in Atlanta. I hope you see it in Athens, in Algiers, in Alexandria, Aleppo, Aden, in Ahvaz, in Amman, and in Al Ashir Min Ramadan (10th of Ramadan; located by the 6th of October, to commemorate that time they tried to wipe out Israel on the holiest day of the Jewish year). I hope you see it in Massena, in Moscow, in Minsk, Mosul, Manama, Marrakech, and Medina.

I hope it chases you. I hope you see it. I hope you see the blood and the tears and the hasty fleeing. I hope you see the history. I hope when you see photos of Jerusalem, you see Jews fleeing in terror as the Romans--or the Arabs, or the Ottomans, or the Jordanians--come. I hope you see the past, layered, on every photograph, behind every word.

I hope you know what you want to forget.

edit: didn't tag right

[igorluvr]

‘POWER | kwon jiyong x reader

PAIRING: gdragon x reader

CONTENT: smut, angst, situationship/toxic relationship, power imbalance, praise & degrading, fingering, dacryphilia (the tiniest bit), accidentally wrote him with a neck fetish or smth idk, bondage, oral & unprotected sex, orgasm denial, knife play, he’s not emotionally abusive he’s misunderstood i swear !!

SYNOPSIS: you knew who he was to the world: confident, untouchable, power incarnate. but behind closed doors, you saw something else— something raw. when he touched you, it wasn't just desire— it was desperation.

AUTHORS NOTE: first smut fic ahhhh 😓 i honestly had sm fun with this what the flip, writing this made me miss my ex #comebackhomebae

also apart of the übermensch series !!

words: [2.6k]

YOU should’ve known the moment the line between love and lust blurred, everything would fall apart. At first, it was sweet, innocent, perfect. But as the months went by, your relationship warped into something more depraved.

Every day, there was a new issue at work. Usually, you’d comfort him and reassure him that it would pass, but over time, he started growing cold toward you. He ignored your messages, passed you without a word— like you were already gone, and every time it happened, a sharp ache spread through your chest.

You kept telling yourself it would get better, but it never did. Whenever you tried to talk to him about it, another argument would start. It was like he didn’t care about fixing things anymore.

So, you ended things. Told him if he wasn’t going to try, then what was the point? What hurt the most was that he didn’t even seem to care. Instead of accepting his mistakes and trying to make things right, he acted like none of it had ever mattered to begin with.

“Jiyong, I can’t do this anymore,” you said, voice trembling as tears threatened to spill from your eyes, throat raw from holding everything in for too long.

He didn’t even look at you. “Do what?”

“This! Us! I’ve tried so many fucking times to get through to you, but you don’t even care!” Your voice cracked as the tears finally fell, cheeks wet and burning. “I understand work is hard, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like I’m nothing. I’m not your punching bag— I’m not just here to take your anger!”

He let out a slow exhale and shrugged. “Then don’t.”

You froze, eyes wide. He didn’t even flinch. You stared at him in disbelief. After everything— after every night you held him as he cried over the pressure, every time you stayed up just to hear about his day— this was his answer?

“If you’re so tired, just leave. What do you want me to do? I can’t change how you feel.” he muttered, still refusing to meet your gaze, as if your pain was a burden to him.

You stepped back like he’d slapped you. “Unbelievable.” you whispered. “Do you even hear yourself? You really don’t give a shit, do you?”

He scoffed under his breath and leaned back, arms crossed as if he'd already checked out of the conversation.

And just like that, something inside you snapped.

Your sadness turned into blinding rage. All the late nights, the ignored calls, the way he made you feel invisible— it all came rushing up like fire in your throat. You snatched your purse, your keys, anything that belonged to you with shaking hands.

“I fucking hate you,” you spat, pain laced in every syllable. You didn’t mean it— you loved him so deeply it hurt— but in that moment, you needed him to hurt too. You wanted him to feel every bit of the pain he left you with.

Fuming, you stomped out the front door with your arms full, not bothering to look back. You decided that if he never cared, you wouldn’t either.

That had been a month ago. At first, your breakup went somewhat smoothly. Neither of you called each other— no texts, no profile views, nothing.

But after the first week, none other than Jiyong appeared at your front door, claiming he left some of his things.

Long story short, you ended up doing more than just finding his belongings— being left with countless hickies and rather sore legs. It didn’t stop after that, though. Every couple days since then, Jiyong stopped by with another lame excuse— and you let him in each time. Because as much as you hated yourself for it, having a piece of him still felt better than having nothing at all.

Now, it had been over a week since he last came, and as much as you hated to admit, you missed him. The smell of his cologne on your sheets, the way his voice rasped your name against your skin, the weight of his body tangled with yours like you were something he couldn’t let go of— even if you both knew that wasn’t true.

Your life dulled into a head-throbbing silence after the breakup. No unexpected knocks at the door, nobody to hold as you went to sleep after a long day. It was just you now — you and the thoughts you tried so desperately to outrun.

Hooking up with Jiyong, if even for a few hours, had been the only thing that made you feel alive. It was toxic— you knew it. But he brought you to your highest highs, even if he plunged you into your lowest lows right after.

You stared at your phone, debating whether to break the silence. Just one message, just to see if he’d respond. You hated how desperate you felt, hated that your body still ached for someone who had emotionally abandoned you long before the breakup.

But before you could talk yourself out of it, there was a knock at the door. Your heart jumped, you didn’t need to check who it was— you already knew.

Your hand trembled on the doorknob, torn between shutting him out and the part of you that still craved his touch. Finally, with a shaky breath, you gave in— unlocking the door because, deep down, you wanted this.

He stood there, hood up, hands in his pockets like nothing had changed. “Left my charger,” he mumbled, voice low, as if he didn't want anyone else to hear him.

Bullshit.

You didn’t answer. You just stepped aside and let him in, even though every rational part of you screamed not to. Because even now, after everything, a piece of him still felt better than none.

Walking around, Jiyong entered and exited rooms as if he were actually looking for something— but you knew why he was here. It was the same reason everytime.

You hated how much power he had over you. He literally just walked in your house as if he owned it after a week of no contact, and you just let it happen. It was like he put a spell on you.

Leaving your room empty handed, Jiyong turned to you.

“Can’t find it” He said with a smirk on his face that told you everything you needed to know. “Can you help me look?”

You smiled, already knowing exactly where this was going. Your body moved willingly, betraying every protest your mind tried to whisper. You stepped into your room, pretending to search— eyes scanning drawers, fingers tugging open a basket next to your bed, doing anything to look busy.

You told yourself you were only playing along, just going through the motions. But deep down, a part of you wanted this, needed it. Because no matter how twisted he made things, Jiyong was the only one who could make your body forget it all.

You were crouched beside the bed, fingers aimlessly shifting things around when you heard him behind you— voice low, lazy, and dripping with heat.

“You look good like that— bent over.”

A flash of heat rose to your cheeks. You tried to hide the smirk tugging at your lips as you answered, loud and dry. “Whatever, Jiyong.”

But you didn’t move, you didn’t stop him. And he didn’t hesitate.

He stepped closer, voice low and rough. “Can I?”

You swallowed hard, breathless, and nodded. His hand then grazed your lower back, sliding down over the curve of your ass.

His fingers pressed firmly, possessively— like he was reminding you who you belonged to. “I missed this,” he murmured into your ear, lips barely grazing your skin. “Missed you.”

“I need you, now.” you whispered, breath hitching when his hand slipped between your thighs, cupping you through the fabric of your shorts. Your hips jolted instinctively, a soft gasp escaping your lips.

“I know you do, baby.” he whispered, pressing his mouth to the side of your neck, biting just hard enough to make you whimper. “No matter how much you say you hate me.”

You could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t want to— not tonight. Not when your whole body remembered what it felt like to be his. Leaning into him, back arching, your head tilted back to give him more access.

You yearned for his touch, your past issues leaving your mind as soon as he laid a finger on you. He was your weakness, your addiction.

His fingers broke the waistband of your shorts, teasing the skin just beneath as his lips dragged along your neck. The way he touched you made you dizzy— slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you piece by piece.

“Already so wet” he murmured, voice low and smug, fingers now gliding through your folds with a dazing rhythm. “Missed me that bad, huh?”

You didn’t respond— you couldn’t. Your body betrayed you with every shaky breath, every low moan spilling from your lips as his thumb brushed your clit, rubbing tight, deliberate circles that had your hips grinding back into him instinctively.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your spine as he pulled you closer, hand gripping your waist like he was holding himself back from completely losing control.

“God, you’re so needy,” he growled, his voice rougher now, almost breathless. Your moans turned into gibberish and incoherent whines as you felt your stomach tighten familiarly, but just when you thought you were about to fall over the edge, he stopped.

“Do you want this, princess?” He asked, removing his hand from your waist to turn your head towards his. “Say the word, and I’ll make you forget every reason you left.”

All your pride, all the promises you made to never let him do this again, evaporated on your tongue as you spoke up, practically whining, “Fuck—yes, Jiyong, please.”

He smirked, satisfied with your desperation, and in one swift motion, picked you up and threw you onto the bed. You barely had time to react before he practically tore both of your shirts off and latched onto your mouth.

“You beg so pretty for me,” he said, pulling away and panting like he’d just run a marathon. “You always do.”

His mouth found your neck in no time, sucking on that spot he knew drove you crazy, while he fondled your breast using his free hand. With each bite to your neck, he rolled your nipple between his fingers, making you grind up against him out of pure need.

“Not yet, pretty,” he teased. “Gotta get you ready first. Don’t you wanna have fun?” He smiled— just as cocky as he was when you were together.

You whimpered under him, the ache between your thighs unbearable as he continued to toy with your body like it belonged to him— because in a way, it always had.

“Jiyong,” you breathed, fingers curling into the sheets as his tongue dragged lazily along the edge of your collarbone. “Please…”

“Oh? Now you’re polite?” he teased, voice soaked in poison. “Didn’t sound so sweet when you walked out that door, did you?”

His words stung, but the way his fingers slipped between your legs silenced every ounce of pride you had left. He pushed your shorts down your thighs, then leaned back to take in the sight of you— panting, flushed, and needy for him.

“Look at you.” he muttered, dragging his fingers slowly over your soaked panties. “You hate me, right? But your body…” he smirked as he pressed against your clit through the fabric, causing you to gasp, “doesn’t lie.”

The way his fingers circled and teased was enough to have your back arching, your chest heaving as your body screamed for more. Jiyong held your hips down, forcing you to stay in place and endure his restless teasing.

He leaned down again, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me how bad you want it.” he whispered, “Beg for me like you mean it.”

You bit your lip, not wanting to give up your pride— but the words fell out anyway, breathless and broken. “I want you, Jiyong. I need you.”

With that, he yanked your panties down and spread your legs, gaze darkening as he settled between them. “Good girl,” he said lowly, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Let me remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Then his mouth was on you— hot, skilled, relentless. Every flick of his tongue, every graze of his teeth had you unraveling more and more beneath him, gripping the sheets like a lifeline as he devoured you without mercy.

Your thighs trembled as his tongue worked you over with slow, devastating precision. He knew every inch of your body— every spot that made you squirm, every rhythm that made your eyes roll back, and he didn’t let up— not even for a second.

“Fuck— Jiyong,” you moaned, back arching as you tugged at his hair, needing something— anything—to ground you.

He groaned at the sound of his name on your lips, gripping your thighs tighter as he sucked on your clit just long enough to have your legs threatening to close around his head.

“Oh no, baby,” he muttered, pulling back from inbetween your thighs just enough to look up at you, lips glistening, eyes dark and full of lust. “Keep those legs open for me. You wanted this, remember?”

You nodded frantically, too close to stop, too far gone to care about anything but the knot building inside you— tight, hot, and on the verge of snapping.

He slipped two fingers inside you with no warning, curling them perfectly as his mouth returned to its place between your thighs. His pace was brutal, overwhelming, yet perfect.

“I can feel how close you are.” he muttered against your core. “You gonna come already? Hm?”

A string of broken cries left your lips as your hips bucked against his face. He held you down firmly, tipping you over the edge with a deep suck to your clit that sent your vision blurring.

You came with a gasp, voice catching in your throat as your body flooded with pleasure. He didn’t stop until you were shaking and whimpering from the overstimulation, trying to push him away.

Only then did he pull back, licking his lips with a smug grin like he hadn’t just completely ruined you. “Still hate me?” he asked, voice low and hoarse as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

You blinked up at him, chest rising and falling rapidly, as your lips hung open, unable to speak— because the truth was, you didn’t even know anymore.

Your breathing was still uneven, body trembling from the sensitivity when Jiyong stood slowly, towering over you like he owned every inch of you. His eyes were dark, hungry— but calculated. Like he had more in store.

“You think we’re done, baby?” he asked, voice low and commanding, tugging your jaw up to meet his gaze.

Before you could even answer, he gripped both of your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand. His grip was tight, possessive—but beneath it, you caught a flicker of desperation. Like he was afraid of losing you more than anything.

You heard the faint clink of something metal before you felt the cool press of leather circling your wrists. He strapped you to the headboard with deliberate care, then tugged on your arms a couple times, making sure you couldn’t move.

“Jiyong,” you whispered, testing the restraints, “What are you—”

“Shh.” He kissed your temple. “You okay? Are you comfortable with this?” he asked, eyes still on the belt as he pulled it snug.

Nodding quickly, Jiyong made a low ‘tsk’ sound as he shook his head. “Gotta use your words, baby.”

“Yes, please touch me, Jiyong.” you breathed.

A dark smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “That’s my good girl.” He reached into his back pocket and, to your surprise, pulled out a small, familiar knife. Your body tensed, heart pounding in your chest. Not from fear— from thrill.

“You know I’d never hurt you” he murmured, dragging the blunt edge of the blade down the center of your stomach— slow, teasing, just like the other times. “I just like watching you squirm.”

The cold steel drew along your skin, just enough to make you shiver. Then, it slipped beneath the bridge of your bra. With one clean flick, he sliced it straight down the middle— fabric popping loose, freeing your boobs like they’d been trapped for too long.

You gasped, nipples hardening at the air hitting them. Jiyong returned to your neck once again, hands wandering all around your body as if he were admiring a work of art.

“Spread.” he said as he lifted himself from your body, not raising his voice. You obeyed, opening your legs to display yourself for him under the dim lights.

“Look at that,” he whispered, letting the ice cold blade trail up the inside of your thigh lightly. “You let me back in after everything— and now you’re dripping for me.”

He tossed the knife aside safely, then leaned in, his lips brushing your neck as his fingers slid between your legs. But instead of giving you what you wanted, he hovered, traced, toyed.

One finger pressed in, achingly slow— then out. You felt so embarrassingly empty, like there was nothing but air in your body. You whimpered, pulling against your restraints. “Please, Jiyong… please.”

He kissed your throat, open-mouthed and slow, tongue dragging against your pulse. His mouth left wet trails on your skin, giving you goosebumps from the cold air clashing with it.

“You don’t get to come,” he whispered, lips against your ear, “not until I say so. Not until I’ve fucked the memory of any life without me out of that pretty little head.”

Your breath hitched. You hated how much you wanted that.

He moved between your thighs and dragged his tongue through your folds— slow, precise, agonizing. Every movement was calculated, every groan from his throat deliberate— all to make his teasing that much more unbearable.

“You sound so pretty for me.” he spoke, slipping two fingers inside you and curling them just right. “You always do.”

As you stretched out by his thick fingers, your moans increased in volume. And when your body started to tighten; hips twitching, breath turning shallow— he pulled away again.

You cried out, frustrated, desperate.

He leaned over you, rubbing slow circles on your clit with maddening restraint, just enough to edge you again and again. “Not yet,” he warned with a smirk. “You wanna come, baby? You’re going to earn it.”

Even knowing how wrong it was, you still wanted him— wanted this. You weren’t giving in, you were choosing it. Nodding quickly, your voice nearly broke as you pleaded. “I’ll do anything. Please.”

“Good,” he said, kissing your bound wrists. “Then stay just like that.”

Fondling with the button on his jeans, he unfastened his pants, dragging them down along with his boxers simultaneously. His cock sprang free, slapping against his abdomen with a wet, heavy sound that made your mouth go dry.

He stroked himself once, twice— slow and controlled, eyes locked on you the entire time. “You see what you do to me?” he asked, voice rough, teasing. “You’ve been teasing me too, princess. All those days without texting me… acting like I didn’t exist.”

He climbed over you again, the head of his cock dragging through your soaked folds but never pushing in. Just enough to make you squirm in desperation.

“But now I’ve got you tied to your bed,” he whispered, lining himself up and gripping your hips. “Now you’re mine again.”

He ran the thick head of his cock through your folds once again, gathering every drop of your slick, making you shiver as he teased your entrance. He didn’t rush it. He took his time— dragging the tip up and down, groaning low in his throat as you whimpered beneath him.

When he finally pushed in, it wasn’t aggressive, he had just the right amount of force that made your eyes water.

A steady, stretching pressure that had your back arching, mouth falling open. He eased in inch by inch, watching every expression wash across your face, his hand rubbing gentle circles into your thigh to ground you.

“That’s it, good job, love.” he muttered, voice rough. “Taking me so well.”

Once he was fully seated inside you, he gave you just a second to adjust— his hand running soothingly over your stomach, your wrists still bound above you, completely at his mercy.

Then he pulled out halfway and thrust back in, harder this time, setting a rhythm that was rough enough to leave you gasping, but not enough to hurt. Every thrust was deep yet controlled, performed to drive you crazy, not break you.

“You feel that?” he growled into your ear, hips slamming into yours with a sharp snap. “Every inch of me inside you, stretching you open. You were made for me.”

You moaned helplessly, legs trembling as he kept going, his grip on your thighs tightening just enough to anchor you in place, to let you know you weren’t going anywhere.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice breathless against your neck. “Say who you belong to.” He dipped down to place wet kisses on your chest, tongue drawing patterns on your skin.

“Fuck— You, Jiyong. Im all yours.” You whined, throat going dry as you struggled to get your words out. Jiyong let out a satisfied hum as he kept going, hips snapping into you even faster.

Tears of overwhelming pleasure welled in your eyes as he hit the spot that drove you wild. Suddenly, he lifted your legs up, pressing your knees onto your chest.

The new angle pushed him even deeper inside you as you cried out in pleasure. You tugged at your restraints as he pounded into you relentlessly.

The sound of the headboard knocking against the wall echoed through the room, but you barely registered it. Your focus was on Jiyong— on the way his body moved against yours like he knew you inside and out, like this was the only place you belonged; beneath and completely giving yourself to him.

Your thighs trembled against his hips, legs still folded against your chest as he buried himself deeper, over and over, with an overwhelming rhythm. Your wrists ached in their restraints, every ounce of control you once had belonged to him now.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice low and dark as his thumb traces firm circles on your clit. “Falling apart just because I’m inside you. Crying for me, begging for me... this is what you needed, isn’t it?”

You whimpered, nodding as your back arched again. The burn in your stomach was unbearable, once again feeling that your pressure in your core. You were close, and he could feel it.

“Not yet,” Jiyong hissed against your ear, slowing down just enough to make you sob out of frustration. “Not until I say so.”

“Please— please, Jiyong,” you choked out, tears slipping down your temples as your body trembled under him. “I can’t... I need to—”

He cut you off with a sharp kiss, biting down on your lower lip before pulling away. “You can. And you will— for me.”

Then, without warning, he shifted his grip, pulled out almost completely, and slammed back into you hard enough to pull the breath from your lungs. Again, then again.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a flood. It ripped through your body with an intensity you hadn’t felt in months— your muscles clenching, vision blurring, cries spilling freely from your lips.

“Good girl,” he praised, voice thick and hoarse now as he chased his own high. “That’s it. Just like that.”

After a few more brutal thrusts, his climax followed. Jiyong's head dropped against your neck, breath hot against your skin as his body tensed above yours.

The room fell silent, filled with your combined panting rather than words. The sheets tangled beneath your bodies like evidence of everything you promised yourself you wouldn't do again.

A heavy ache settled in your chest as reality began to return, creeping in through the cracks his touch temporarily sealed shut. You looked up at the ceiling, wrists still tied, lips swollen, heart pounding for reasons far beyond lust.

After a few minutes, Jiyong finally moved. He slid out of bed without saying a word, pulling on his boxers before disappearing into the connected bathroom. The sound of water running filled the silence, and for a brief moment, you thought maybe he was going to leave.

But he didn’t.

The water shut off, and not long after, he returned— shirtless, damp hair pushed back, a wet washcloth in one hand and one of his oversized shirts in the other.

Without a word, he climbed back onto the bed, gently untying your wrists before wiping you down with the warm cloth. The soft heat of it contrasted with the cool air and the sting still lingering on your skin. He moved slowly, carefully— like he hadn’t just torn you open in every way imaginable.

“Too much?” he asked softly.

You shook your head. “No. It’s what I needed.” Sometimes, you hated how tender he was afterward— how it made your chest hurt in a different way. But this time you felt yourself melting into his touch, as if he were healing all your problems.

After cleaning you up, he helped you into the shirt, his fingers brushing your hips as he slid it over your arms. You winced slightly when the fabric grazed a sore spot, and he stilled, eyes flicking to yours.

“Sorry” he whispered, rubbing your skin with his hands softly to ease the pain

You managed a small smile. “It’s okay, I’ll feel better soon.”

Once you were dressed, Jiyong laid beside you again. The space between you was small but felt so much bigger. The silence was heavy with things neither of you knew how to say.

Your eyes wandered toward your ruined bra, the torn fabric laying limp near the edge of the bed. You gave Jiyong a sharp look.

He caught it immediately, smirking faintly as he leaned back against the headboard. “Don’t worry, jagi,” he said. “I’ll buy you five more.”

After the storm of lust passed, he traced circles on your back softly. “I’m sorry for hurting you,” he whispered, voice raw and honest. You wanted to believe him, and for a moment, you did.

Unfortunately, you both knew that tomorrow, nothing would be fixed. Nothing would be different. Yet here you were again, wrapped in the same cycle.

He knew how much power he had. The way he kissed you like a promise, only to vanish like a ghost. He always came back. And you always let him.

Neither of you spoke, but the silence said enough.

When you looked at him, neither of you said it out loud, but you both knew. This cycle would repeat, no matter how much you wished it wouldn’t.

You hated him and you hated how happy you were to let him in, but most of all— you hated how you still loved him.

taglist: @breakmeoff @steponupbabe @tabibabib @mintymuse @heartubeatusalon @sternilei @julseysmel

[magnuspirate]

As some of you know, I was part of the @kidpirateszinePirates and I had the honor of contributing two Art pieces to it.

Here’s my little NSFW add-on and I actually decided to expand it with a written scene, just to give it some extra flavor.

It’s awkward. It’s steamy. It’s deeply unhinged in the best way. Enjoy 💀💦

The Shower

The day had worn you down. Cleaning duty had turned into a full-blown battle against dust, clutter, and cobwebs. The hideout’s narrow, sun-heated passages and stale air clung to your skin like a second, grimy layer. You smelled like sweat and old stone, your hair tangled with threads of old webs, and your nose irritated from hours of sneezing through it all.

You wanted nothing more than a shower. Hot or cold, it didn’t matter. You needed the filth washed away, physically, emotionally, entirely.

Your footsteps dragged down the corridor. Normally, most of the crew bunked together, but this week you’d claimed one of the side rooms for yourself. Everyone respected those boundaries… mostly. Still, the idea of solitude felt like a rare treasure.

Stripping off your sticky clothes without a care, you left them scattered across your room. You could deal with them later. You padded toward the bathroom, the promise of water making your limbs a little lighter.

But as you reached the door, you heard it - the shower was already running. Odd. No one had asked to use your space.

Not that it would’ve bothered you. You were all used to sharing. Privacy wasn’t exactly sacred among the crew, and you’d seen your crewmates naked more times than you could count: stumbling drunk, crashing after missions, or during one of those chaotic group showers where clothes ended up forgotten somewhere along the way. You didn’t mind. None of you really did.

But still, normally you’d ask. It was just a thing you did. You waited for the telltale sounds - splashing, scrubbing, humming - but none came. Just the steady, heavy stream of water. That was it.

Cautiously, you nudged the door open. Steam billowed out, curling around you like a living thing. You called softly, voice hoarse from the dust: "HellooOoo? Who’s in there?"

No answer.

You tried again. Nothing. Maybe they couldn’t hear over the water pressure?

Curiosity got the better of you. You pushed the door open wider, just enough to peek inside.

And what you saw rooted you in place.

The steam was thick, almost dreamlike, but even through the haze, there was no mistaking the silhouette.

The unmistakable height.

Wet blue locs clung to broad shoulders, above spiked tattoos circling his neck and running down his arms.

It was Heat.

Your breath hitched.

At first, your brain struggled to connect the dots. You weren’t seeing him clearly, just impressions, outlines, muscle beneath water, hand… movement.

Then realization hit you like a punch to the chest.

He was touching himself.

Right there.

In your shower.

And gods, he was beautiful.

(full image on ToyHouse)

You should have closed the door. You should have turned away. But you couldn’t. Your body betrayed you, heat rushing through your limbs, down your stomach, into your core. You had liked Heat from the beginning. Every accidental brush of skin, every shared laugh, every quiet moment in passing - it had always stirred something in you.

And now here he was, bare, vulnerable… aroused.

You watched, heart thundering, as his motions grew faster, more urgent. The soft sound of water masked the hitch in your breath as he groaned, low and rough, and tipped his head forward.

He was close. You knew it before it happened.

And then… release.

The only thing you could think about now was ripping that door wide open, walking straight up to him, and taking all of him in - catching him in your hands, in your mouth, and swallowing him whole. You should leave. You had to leave.

But your legs wouldn’t move. Just as your brain caught up with your shame, he looked up.

His eyes met yours.

You were frozen in place, naked yourself, cheeks flushed for reasons far beyond temperature. His face was red, maybe from the heat, maybe from embarrassment - maybe both.

There was silence. A strange kind of quiet that buzzed louder than anything else in that room.

Then, finally, he spoke. "How long… have you been standing there?"

You stammered. "I - I just got here, I didn’t mean - I thought - you weren’t answering, so…"

He looked away, rubbing a hand through his wet hair. "I didn’t know anyone was around. I just needed to clear my head. This wasn’t… I didn’t mean to invade your space."

Sure, you thought. Because obviously, clearing your head requires a full-on jerk session in someone else’s shower.

You felt the guilt twist inside you.

You grabbed a towel and offered it to him, avoiding his gaze. "Sorry for staring. I should’ve looked away. I… couldn’t."

His eyes flickered up to yours. You stepped back. "I’ll wait outside."

A minute passed. Then the door opened again. Heat stood there, towel around his waist, water still glistening on his skin. You both stared at each other, and no one said a word.

But something had changed.

The silence pressed down on you like wet fabric, heavy, clinging, suffocating. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, just to make it less unbearable. But as soon as the words started to come, they tripped over each other and fell out in a mortifying mess.

"Look, it’s absolutely fine that you used the shower. It really doesn’t bother me. Like, at all. And I mean, we’ve all - you know, it’s not like we haven’t seen each other naked before. Gods, no - pfff - I mean, you - before - well, not like this. Not that I think about that. I mean…"

You gave a small shrug and a crooked smile, trying to play it off.

"Not all the time. Or, you know…."

You glanced up at him, just for a second. Heat was staring.

Eyes a little wider than before, lips slightly parted, like he wasn’t sure whether to breathe, laugh, or brace himself.

You immediately looked down. Left. Right. Anywhere but at him.

"I just… I walked in and I didn’t hear anything and then I looked and there you were and I - I should’ve just backed out, I really should have, but I didn’t, and instead I stood there like an creep just… watching, and I swear I’m not a creep-creep, okay?! I mean, I am a little, apparently, but not in a bad way, I mean - oh gods, shut up, shut up."

Another quick glance.

He was still staring. Eyes even wider now. Still with that stunned expression, brows lifted just slightly, like he was bracing for whatever else might come out of your mouth.

And then you did it.

You said the one thing that really should have stayed inside your head.

"It was really big."

....

Your soul detached from your body.

Heat blinked. Slowly. You scrambled.

"I MEAN ... not like I was LOOKING-looking. I just… noticed. You. You know, as one does when someone’s standing there in your shower doing..."

You waved your hand in his direction, a messy, open-palmed gesture somewhere between pointing and helpless flailing. It moved vaguely between him and the running water, as if your body hoped the motion would explain what your words absolutely couldn’t.

"...that."

Your voice cracked.

"And I mean, you looked really good doing it. Like… really good. No, wait--I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I did, but not like--oh god, I'm.."

A heartbeat of silence followed, like the world itself paused to cringe with you

...

Was this truly the purpose of my creation?

To exist solely for this one mortifying moment –

a trembling soul wrapped in a towel, collapsing beneath the weight of his gaze and my own disgrace?

...

Then, in the calmest voice you could muster - one that betrayed just how done you were with existing - you said, "I’m just gonna lie down and die now."

Without another word, you turned around, quiet, steady, and walked toward the bed. You didn’t need to look back to know he was watching you. You felt it.

The weight of his gaze clung to your back like heat, following every step, as if he could see right through the thin towel wrapped hastily around you. You were exposed, in more ways than one.

Reaching the bed, you pulled the blanket up and slid underneath, curling into yourself. Small. Humiliated. Hoping the fabric might somehow absorb you completely.

And in a whisper meant only for the silence, you murmured, "I’m so sorry. Just forget I exist."

And then…You heard it. That laugh.

That low, warm, sweet laugh - the kind that makes your stomach flip even while your ears burn.

He was laughing. Not mockingly. Not cruelly.

He was genuinely amused. Because he knew you. And this? This blabbering, spiraling, utterly undone version of you?

It was real.

And somehow, it was endearing. You heard his footsteps approaching, then the bed shifted under his weight.

Before you could react, the blanket was ripped off with a single, confident tug.

You blinked up at him, frozen in deer-in-headlights mode.

He leaned in. One arm planted on either side of your head. His body close. Too close. That smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Next time," he murmured, voice low and certain, "just interrupt me."

His eyes stayed locked on yours -- dark, unwavering, that rough, hungry look that made it hard to breathe.

"And join me."