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frenchkisstheabyss · 7 months ago

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♡ Softer, Softest ♡

♡ Pairing: mafia!boss!san x stripper!chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: smut/angst/fluff

♡ Summary: A fun night of stripping takes a turn when an encounter with a particularly unpleasant customer leaves you in tears, running to your boss seeking comfort and protection. Both things he’s more than willing to give.

♡ Word Count: 3.6k-ish

♡ Warnings: explores themes of body insecurities, reader has her arm grabbed (nothing violent but brutal violence against the person who grabbed it), mentions of blood/injuries (not yours, babes), kissing, heavy body worship, san’s obsessed with you, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), clit sucking, nipple pinching, a lil manhandling, hair pulling, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, cream pie, low key mirror sex, pet names (baby, pretty).

♡ A/N: Hello my loves, I wrote this little fic for any of my chubby darlings out there who might not know or might need reminding that their bodies are gorgeous, worth loving, and desirable. I also really love myself a hot criminal and who better than San? K, let me shut up now. Just know I love you. Your body’s amazing. Never forget that ❤️

Midnight. Friday. The back alley of a strip club. The best in town. The strip club, not the alley. It’s a dark, starless night. The smell of fresh rain hangs in the air, the aftermath of a sudden downpour that left the ground slick with rain. Music from inside the club bleeds through the cracks of a heavy steel door. A neon red EXIT sign hangs overhead. The door creaks on its hinges as it swings open, sending the music blaring out into the night and with it comes a body. The blur of one at first, flying through the air, and then the weight of it. The heavy thud of bruised flesh and cracked bone colliding with the asphalt.

The man on the ground is unremarkable, nothing about him worth noting except the mangled nose that gushes blood down his face, leaking into the cavernous gash that is his busted lip. He said the wrong thing to the wrong person and now he can’t speak at all, only mumble. A brushed leather Dolce and Gabbana shoe collides with his cheek. His blood splashes scarlet against the pitch black soles, a horrible crack emitting from his jaw as more pressure’s applied. Now this man? He’s remarkable. He’s muscular, defined in every way so that, even through his black dress shirt, you can read the broadness of his shoulders. His features are sharp and intense. The kind you either fall for or fall victim to. There’s no in between. He’s a handsome devil but a devil all the same.

“You look like shit” San sighs, effortlessly kicking the man onto his back. He rolls his sleeves up, kneeling beside the man like a hunter inspecting its fallen prey. He stares down at him, emotionless, void of anything close to that thing we call remorse.

The man heaves in a breath of air before coughing it back out. “Mmm s-s-sorry” he croaks, “I didn’t know she was anyone fucking special.”

San grips the man’s face, grinning in a way that isn’t the least bit friendly. He squeezes tightly, forcing jagged teeth to press into the soft flesh of the man’s cheeks. “Well now you do.”

This is your boss and you, tucked away safe and warm in his office, are something special. But a part of you knew this already. You downplay it when the other girls point it out. You pretend not to notice the clear signs of favoritism but they’re there in even the smallest interaction between the two of you. Since day one San’s been your protector, your admirer. You’ve denied it a million times, convincing yourself you’re simply making more of things than what’s there. Still, after everything happened you couldn’t fathom running into the arms of anyone else.

You were dancing like any other night—working your section and getting your tips—when some asshole grabbed you by the arm, demanding your presence in one of the private rooms. Usually you could count on security to drag him out but on weekends the club gets packed and things slip through the cracks. Sadly tonight you were one of them so, like a proper lady, you told him to kiss your ass and sent the tip of your stiletto crashing into his balls. You might be a stripper but that doesn’t mean you’re some thing that men can treat however they wish. It’s a lesson he had to learn the hard way and you were happy to teach it to him. Two shots past drunk and embarrassed by your rejection he snapped, spewing the most vile things you’ve ever heard about yourself—about your body.

It isn’t news to you that you’re one of the bigger girls here. San says that’s what makes you special, why customers come in to blow a check on you and you alone. He’s right, your bank account says so. The customers love you, they eat up every inch of your plush body. By all means you should feel like the baddest bitch in this building, simply because you are, but in that moment his words had reduced you to nothing. A few seconds ago you were twirling around the pole like a goddess now you found yourself scurrying back to the dressing room with tears in your eyes.

At least that’s where you intended to go. Somewhere along the way you changed course, riding the velvet lined elevator to the third floor where San’s office sits at the end of a long hallway. At the time you hadn’t considered how much this might escalate the situation because, quite honestly, you didn’t care. More than feeling hurt, you were pissed the fuck off. Your tears were of anger and, whether you felt it at the time or not, you wanted that motherfucker to pay for it.

This place you work at. There’s more to it than what’s on the surface. It’s easy to get so distracted by the luxury and the lights and the pretty girls dancing that you miss the truth of it all. In fact, that’s the point, but you know a mafia front when you see one. You aren’t oblivious. You know what this is, who San is, and maybe that’s exactly why you were tapping at his door. A damsel in distress in black lace lingerie.

San’s heart dropped when he saw his favorite girl in tears. He stopped everything, sending his men away so he could place all of his focus on you. Resting his jacket over your shoulders, he gently cradled your cheeks, brushing the tears away to ask quite simply, “Who did it?”

You explained everything, how that asshole grabbed you and the things he said, and San’s anger grew quietly, simmering beneath a surface of calm. He took a seat at his desk, setting you down comfortably in his lap, and pulled up the security cameras. “Tell me when you see him, okay, baby?” he instructed sweetly, his palm massaging the smoothness of your thigh.

You nodded, struggling to focus on the screen with his hand on your thigh and him calling you “baby”. San touching you wasn’t a rare occasion but it was always something light. A hand on the small of your back or fingertips grazing your arm. Never this purposeful—this intimate. You couldn’t help imagining how it might feel if he gripped a little harder, moved a little higher. You felt your heart begin to race, your temperature rising the longer you sat there in his lap.

“That’s him” you sniffled, spotting that familiar face on the screen. San studied the screen a moment before turning back to you. “I’ll take care of it” he promised, his hand riding your thigh and coming to rest at the gentle curve of your hip. “And no more crying, baby. You’re too pretty to cry.” Too pretty to cry? Oh, but you were crying, absolutely weeping, only between your thighs this time.

San disappeared from the office, leaving you too lost in the lingering haze of his touch to even think about your insecurities, but that only lasted so long. Alone in the quiet of his office, the self doubt began to creep back in. You tried to distract yourself by exploring your surroundings—the impressive collection of vintage whiskey, the gorgeously framed art hanging from the walls—but nothing could distract you from how uncomfortable you’d become in your own skin. It didn’t help that the office was lined with mirrors, reflecting glimpses of your figure with every turn.

At last out of distractions, you turn to face the mirrored image of yourself, letting San’s jacket slip to the floor. You strike a pose, a half hearted copy of something cute you might do on stage, and watch the way the fat of your body squishes together here or there. You strike another then another then another but they’re there in every pose. Your face, your belly, your sides, your thighs. Your weight shows in all of them. Pinching your lower belly you think of how the other girls have had work done. Maybe if you got some done yourself…

“I left him out back. Clean him up before someone sees” San says, pushing through the door, his phone pressed to his ear.

You jump a bit at his arrival, scrambling to grab the jacket, but San slips in behind you, closing his arms around your waist before you can retrieve your safety blanket. You tense at first but find yourself settling into his embrace as if it’s the most natural place for you to be.

“So, what was that?” he asks, resting his chin on your shoulder. His breath tickles your neck as he inhales your perfume and the sweet scent of honey and jasmine fills his lungs. You smell as beautiful as you are, as beautiful as everything about you is.

“How’d everything go?” you press, quick to change the subject. Noticing a series of tiny red scrapes on the knuckles of his right hand, you carefully take it into yours, assessing the damage.

San shrugs it off like it’s nothing. It still stings but it’s far from the worst pain he’s ever felt. “I said I’d take care of it. It’s been taken care of.”

You giggle at the contrast of something so menacing being spoken by someone so regal. “San, you make it sound like you killed him.”

He leans into your neck, his lips grazing your skin on their way up to your ear. You shiver at the contact and his hold on you tightens, your bodies pressed flush against each other so that you can feel his bulge pressed into the plush of your ass.

“Killed him? Almost” he whispers, “I answered your question so it’s only fair you answer mine, isn’t it? What were you doing? I came in and you were…” San pinches your belly, his fingertips planting adoration where there was once doubt.

“I…uh…I was…” you stutter, searching your brain for a believable lie but you can’t find a single one.“There’s this doctor, a few of the girls have gone to him to get some work done, and I was just thinking, I don’t know, maybe...why am I even telling you this? You don’t care and anyway, it’s silly.”

“It is silly” he agrees, notes of that quiet, controlled anger you witnessed earlier resurfacing, “But you’re wrong to say that I don’t care. I care about how you feel about yourself, I care about you. You must know that.”

“I mean, I know you care about me. You care about all of the girls” you say, hesitant to accept this as a profession of anything in particular.

San spins you around, pinning you between the warmth of his body and the cool mahogany of the desk. “I don’t care for any other woman the way I do you.”

There it is, a profession of something very particular. He’d hoped that you’d seen it by now. He wonders if he didn’t do a good enough job of showing you. It’s been so long before you, years even, that he had feelings like this for anyone. The world he operates in doesn’t allow for soft spots. Soft spots are how you make mistakes and when mistakes are life or death you can’t afford to make them but he couldn’t help himself with you. You caught his eye the day you walked in for your audition and you’re all he’s been able to see since. You’re so delicate, so beautiful, a perfect contrast to the toughness of his life. It’s why he protects you—why he always will.

“Your body…” he says, his palms racing up and down your curves, “It’s perfect. There’s nothing about it that needs fixing. If you let that doctor touch you I’ll break both of his hands.” San’s gaze is heavy with lust, months of longing just begging to be satisfied. It burns him up inside, sets fire to his very being, and being kissed by the flames of that need is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

“Is that the way you romance women? With threats of violence?” you tease, draping your arms across his shoulders.

“Sometimes but usually it’s like this” he whispers, pressing his lips to yours. His tongue parts your lips, twining around yours to deepen the kiss. His movements are careful and deliberate. The kiss intoxicatingly slow.

San grabs you by the hips, lifting you onto the desk and you let out a little squeak of surprise as he sets you down. “You’re so fucking cute” he grins, spreading your thighs to fit perfectly between them.

“You think so?” you say so innocently it only makes him want to ravage you more.

Tangling his fingers in your hair, he tilts your head to look back at the mirror, “Don’t you?”

An unexpected wetness soaks the lace of your panties at the sight of your shared reflection. Nothing has changed about your body. It’s the same one you were picking apart, the same one you were doubting, and San loves everything about it. He praises it with his hands, with his fingertips, with whispered confessions of everything your body needs to hear.

”I watch you sometimes when you’re dancing” he says, effortlessly doing away with your bra, “I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself when you look the way you do. It’s like you’ve put a spell on me. My little witch.”

San captures one of your breasts, kneading the plump flesh in the palm of his hand. He pinches your bud between his fingers, tugging at it just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

“But I don’t have any magic” you whimper, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. They pop open one by one, revealing a body that had to be sculpted by some divine feminine deity. You push the fabric away, your fingertips delighting in the perfection of her creation.

San’s free hand reaches between you, stroking your clit through your panties. He groans at how soaked you are, your juices leaking through the lace to coat his fingers in your juices. “You do have magic, baby” he whispers, tucking your panties to the side, “It’s right here.”

“Aah, Sannie” you moan, your hands sliding down his abs as his fingers stretch you open.

Your body falls back, a sharp chill coursing through you as your bare back hits the desk. San sinks his fingers deeper into your core, his cock stiffening at the sight of your body moving as hypnotically as it does on the pole. Only now it’s for him and only him. This is how San likes it, how he’s always wanted it to be. Him with his fingers buried deep into the warmth of your pussy, your walls greedily clenching around them, and you spread out across his desk, your gorgeous body on full display and your lips spilling out moans meant for his ears alone.

Kneeling between your legs he pulls your panties aside harder this time, nearly tearing the fabric as he knots it in his fist. He brings his thumb to your clit, toying with it just to see how your body twitches with every touch. “How can a girl be this perfect?” he says, nearly salivating, “Even your pussy’s gorgeous.” There’s an audible wet sound, another sweet whimper escaping your throat, as his fingers slip out of your core and his tongue takes its place.

“San, wait…” you beg, grabbing at his hair, but you’re too late. Your attempt at pacing yourself is useless. His tongue’s already filling the space between your walls, wiggling and curling against your sweet spot. His dark hair knots around your fingers, your hips raising to ride every wave his tongue sends washing over you.

San drags his tongue up through your petal soft folds, swirling it around your clit before diving into you again. He suckles at your clit, gently at first then faster, more ravenous. His gaze flicks up to you, taking in the way your belly jiggles and your breasts bounce. He’s drunk on your juices, already addicted to the way you coat his tongue. You taste like heaven and look like it too. It takes all of the self control he has to pry his mouth free of your pussy, snatching your panties down as he does.

Standing back up, he grips your thighs, spreading you open to watch the arousal drip from your pussy, leaving pretty little drops on his desk. Your eyes are glued to him as he unzips his pants, letting his cock fall right between your legs. The swollen tip throbs against your lower belly, leaking precum, warm and sticky, on your skin. You rock your hips, clenching around air, craving friction from that deliciously veiny cock of his.

“You want it, baby?” San teases, tapping the head of his cock against your clit. His length slips between your folds. They’re so smooth, so slick. Toying with your pussy’s like splashing in a lake. You’re wet enough to drown in.

“I want it, Sannie, aah, fuck…” you moan, your eyes widening at the realization that his tip’s pressed to your entrance now, stretching you the faintest bit.

“Then tell me how perfect your body is. Tell me you love it.” He pushes in an inch more, stopping to leave your hole spread wide around his cock, still needy and deprived.

The stretch has the room spinning, a single taste of him already making you want more. “My body’s, mmph, beautiful” you manage as he gradually feeds you more of him, “I love it.”

“Don’t stop. Keep telling me. Make me believe you” San demands, thrusting into you so hard that he bottoms out.

You cry out at the force of the thrust, your lashes fluttering away tears, “I love, aah, my body. I love my body. It’s beautiful. It’s…it’s…”

Tucking his hands behind your knees, San pushes them to your chest, snapping his hips against you hard enough that your thighs jiggle around him. All of you does. Every stroke of his cock makes you tremble and he’s hardly able to keep still himself. You’re so tightly wound around his cock that he can feel all the finer details of your walls. They’re glued to him, sucking him in every time he even thinks about pulling back.

Through heavy lids you watch the man you’ve only ever known to be a mountain crumble to pieces all because of you. San’s muscles are slick with sweat and a glossy haze dances over his eyes. His fingers are digging into your thighs, completely devouring them. He does what he can to swallow his moans but it’s impossible when you’re making him feel like his entire soul’s being snatched from his body.

“You feel so fucking good” he grunts, planting breathless kisses up your leg, “Come here.”

San props your ankles up on his shoulders, hooking an arm around you and sitting you up so that you’re close enough to kiss. He grinds against your sweet spot, forcing his tongue down your throat so that every moan you set free echoes between his cheeks. Gripping the back of your neck, he slams into you, harder, faster, forcing your body to give into him. He fucks you until your eyes are rolling back, your mind too blank to recall anything that happened before this moment. There’s no thought of the incident, no thought of your insecurities. High on euphoria, your body feels beautiful, every inch of it.

“S-San…” you whine, a familiar pressure building behind your belly. Your fingers begin to tingle as they cling to his muscles, searching for any stability they can reach.

“You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he coos, not letting up on you, not even for a second.

Pulling his arm away he lets you fall back on the desk. With one hand cupping your breast and the other circling your clit, he watches you fall apart in the palms of his hands. For so long he’s had to watch you from afar, pretending that he wasn’t utterly obsessed with you, but now you’re all his. His pretty, moaning, teary eyed girl pouring your cum down his cock while you repeat his name like it’s the only word you know. He’s so singularly focused on watching you hit your high that his own takes him by surprise.

Grabbing him by the wrist, you lock eyes, a weak smile forming on your lips. “Fill me up, Sannie” you whisper, your voice sexy even in its brokenness.

San’s body shudders and you feel a new fullness inside of you. The warmth pools deep within you at first, cascading down your walls the more he empties himself into you. “Fuck, baby” he pants, catching himself before his body doubles over. He came so hard his ears are ringing and holding onto you is all he can do not to fall. You sit up to stroke his cheek and he kisses your wrist lovingly. You stare into each other’s eyes for a minute that lasts an eternity, letting yourselves get lost in one another’s gaze.

San breaks the trance with a kiss, holding you like one would the most precious thing they own. “Tell me, baby, how do you feel now?”

You contemplate his question, your attention drifting back to the reflection in the mirror. It’s all there. Your face, your belly, your sides, your thighs, and San looking at you like you’re the prettiest girl in the world. You turn back to him with a smile, “Beautiful.”

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yinyuedijun · 9 months ago

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SINCERITY

Flirting with Suo is never a good idea—you can never tell whether he means to charm you or make fun of you when you do it. Sometimes it feels like both. Occasionally it feels mean. More often than not, you like to entertain it. But you can't right now, not when his blood is all over the washroom sink. Your manager will be furious about the mess, and also about the fact that you're giving first aid to three delinquents while you're on the clock. If Suo makes one more joke about marrying you, you'll probably throw up and cry. (Or: Suo, Nirei, and Sakura get into a fight in the red light district and go to you to get patched up. Suo takes the opportunity to tease you mercilessly.)

4.5k words, suo x reader with implied one-sided sakura x reader, sfw with mature themes. set post-canon (they are all 18-19 years old), non-canon backstory details for suo and sakura (speculative as of ch. 146). fem reader – references to gendered professions, e.g. hostessing; reader wears a dress for her job in a girls’ bar. warning for inaccurate depictions of first aid! dividers by @/cafekitsune.

Suo’s never liked your job.

You suppose this is fair. The feeling is mutual. You’ve never liked the fact that Suo chose to go to a delinquent school rather than a proper high school, and he’s never liked the fact that you chose to drop out of your proper high school to go work in the red light district—first at a kyabakura, and now at a girls’ bar. His master, who also happens to be your master, has always told you that this was a natural reaction on his part. Having a secondary school certificate is important, after all. But Suo’s disapproval of your income sources, no matter how politely or subtly phrased, has always felt like it runs deeper than simple concern for your education.

Still, this has never stopped him from visiting you at your place of work, though he only tends to come by under the worst possible circumstances—tonight worse than any other.

When you see the three of them limping through the clamour and heat of the red light district—the neon glow of the street making the blood smeared across Suo’s face shine vibrantly—you entirely forget that you're on the clock. You chuck your sign onto the ground (3000¥ per hour! it reads) as you cut a path toward them, almost tripping in your stiletto heels. Your customer service voice gives way to your regular one, which is so outraged that it startles everyone around you.

“Suo, you motherfucker—are you trying to lose the only eye you have left?!”

Suo is unbothered. His smile is calm and deeply shameless as you approach him. It’s nothing like Nirei, who cringes at the furious look you give him, or Sakura, who looks like a deer caught in headlights when you round on him instead. Like he doesn’t know what to do at the fact that someone is worrying over him, and especially not when that person is wearing an extremely revealing evening gown. For a minute, you think he's going to bolt.

But Suo keeps him there, grip tight on his arm.

“Hi,” he says brightly, like there isn't blood all over his face and shoulder. “Are you busy? We might need to trouble you.”

“Of course I'm busy! I'm in the middle of a shift!” you fume at him. But you still extract Sakura from him, scruffing him by the neck before he can clam up and run. You pull him in the direction of your bar, and gesture for the other two to follow. “Hurry up before my manager sees you.”

Smuggling three delinquents into the washroom of a girls’ bar is not a skill you thought you'd ever need, but it is one that you've become an expert in. This is at least the third time you've done it. The Furin trio rarely ever loses fights, but they occasionally slip up in the part of the red light district that isn't controlled by Roppo-Ichiza. This is somewhat unavoidable, as Keyaki Street is a different beast from Keisei Street. It isn't just delinquents here, but bona fide criminals. “Like, actual fucking Yakuza,” you grouse at Suo for the millionth time. You wipe at the blood remaining on his face—most of it you've already rinsed off, staining the melamine sink with iron—and the paper towel in your hand blooms red.

“But these guys weren't Yakuza,” he says cheerfully.

“They still pulled weapons on you! Bladed weapons!”

“Mm… well, that's true. I'm sorry.”

You scowl at him. “No, you're not.”

“No, I'm not.” He’s still smiling. “In our defense, we didn't have much of a choice. They were about to do something terrible to an innocent person,” he says, and you deflate a little, because you know Suo can't stand to see injustice. This is something you love very dearly about him, and also a quality of his that constantly raises your blood pressure. But then you roll your eyes when he happily adds, “And in my defense, it’s all our Captain’s fault!”

“Oi!” Sakura yells from one of the stalls, where he’s sitting and holding a bag of ice to a knot on his head. “Wasn’t my fault we ended up fighting. They were practically beggin’ to have their asses kicked.”

“You did provoke them, Sakura,” Nirei says. He's in the other stall, trying to stay off his sprained ankle.

“Well, they were dangerous! Not like you wanted to just leave them alone either,” Sakura grumbles, and Nirei apologises, though Suo accurately points out there is no need for him to. After hearing this story, you can't help but agree, and you suppose you shouldn't have expected any differently. After three years at Furin, Sakura is no longer the type to pick fights for no reason. Whatever those guys were up to must have been pretty bad for him to start shit in unfamiliar territory.

Still. The red light district is what it is. Touts, street gangs, and Yakuza are constantly causing problems here, with violence of a scale and nature that Bofurin simply don't see on their own turf. Your street in particular makes someone like Endo look like a joke. “You should still learn to exercise some restraint,” you say to Sakura. “And you”—you give Suo a miserable look—“you know the area. You should have known better. At the very least, you should have called me for backup.”

“But you were on the clock,” Suo points out, and you frown. Despite having absolutely no need, you take out an alcohol wipe and swipe it over his cut. He winces.

“I'm still on the clock now,” you reply, voice dry, “and here you are, distracting me anyway. My boss is going to be on my ass about it if I don't bring in any customers tonight, you know.”

“We can be your customers,” Suo offers.

“You aren't old enough to drink!”

“Neither are you, yet you work here.” His gaze has turned a little sharp. His voice too. You blink, suddenly mollified.

“...okay. If each of you buys a drink after this, I’ll call us even.” Then you glance down at his changshan, which is sliced through, the pearly silk stained red at the shoulder. He’s insisted that the wound is unserious and said that he'd rather clean up his face first, and you're starting to question his priorities. “That is, if you don't have to go to the hospital after this.”

“I don't.”

“I don't know if I believe you.” You pull out some polysporin. “Come closer.”

Suo could do this on his own. His hands aren't incapacitated. But he humours you, as he's always humoured you, and allows you dab his cut with the antibiotic. You feel a little sentimental as you do it, and almost a little sad. Doing this reminds you of when he was a kid who had just started learning martial arts. Granted, he never got any real cuts back then, but sometimes he’d scrape his knees or his elbows or—god forbid—his face, and you would plaster bandaids all over him when he did. But none of those were real injuries.

More than anything, doing this reminds you of when he lost his eye. The state that he was in after the accident. The way his face was bandaged after the surgery. The texture of the gauze against your fingers when you asked to try swapping out the dressings for him.

If Suo notices the way your lip is trembling, he doesn't comment on it.

“You’re so mean—how come you never believe anything I say?” he asks. You press the gauze to his cut with more pressure than necessary, and he blinks. He opens his mouth again, but then the door rattles violently.

“Sorry!” you yell. “Washroom’s closed for cleaning!” You wince as you hear complaints in reply—you’ve been closed for half an hour!—and shoot Suo a sour look as the customer leaves. “I’m really risking it all for you three,” you remark.

“I'll make it up to you,” Suo says. “I'll stick around the whole night and buy as many drinks as you want. Your manager won't be able to hassle you about anything then.”

“No way. You're not wasting that much money on the red light district.” You frown. “Master will kill me if I let you piss away your inheritance like that.”

“I’m not wasting my money on the red light district. I'm wasting it on you.”

“Well, I'm employed at a girls’ bar, so when you waste money on me, you are in fact spending it on the red light district.”

“Then you should quit so I can spend as much money on you as I want.”

“Quit and then live on what income?” You set aside the first aid kit and grab some more paper towel. “Take off your shirt.”

“Oh? Right here? Right now?” His eye goes wide. “How forward.”

Sakura coughs very, very loudly from the stall. If you weren't so used to Suo saying this kind of thing just to mess with you, you'd probably do the same. In fact, you'd probably choke on your spit and die on the spot. But as it is, you only sigh and start unbuttoning Suo’s changshan, starting at the high collar. Any sentimentality or concern you previously felt is quickly drowned out by annoyance.

“Suo.”

“Don’t worry—I don't mind,” he adds. “I thought you'd never ask. I just didn't think it’d happen here. And so suddenly.”

“Don’t do that. I can't do this today.”

“Don’t do what?” he says innocently. He lets you slip his changshan off one shoulder. To your relief, the cut does look very shallow—he’s too quick for anything other than a bullet to land a serious hit on him, you guess—but you still swallow when you see it. It looks like he's bled a lot more than he probably actually has.

Or you hope so, anyway.

“Joke like that,” you reply after a moment. “It's very mean.”

“I’m not joking about anything.” You feel his eye on you as you start dabbing at all the red on his skin, the paper towel in your hands blotting crimson as if with ink. Your breath shakes as you study the wound. He lifts his hand, his knuckle brushing against your cheek. You smack it away, but he doesn't seem bothered. “I was being very serious,” he continues. “Quit working in the red light district and let me support you instead.”

“Suo,” you say, your voice flat, “there is no job you could qualify for on this planet that will let you earn more than what I'm making now. If anything, you should let me support you.”

“Ah,” he says brightly. “I get it now—you want me to be your trophy husband!”

Now you are choking on your spit and you do think you're dying. Sakura sounds like he's not doing much better—something bangs loudly against the washroom stall, and you assume it’s his forehead. Even Nirei is affected, not-so-subtly clearing his throat.

“I do not want you to be my trophy husband.”

“Just a regular husband, then?” he asks. “That’s alright. If I joined the Yakuza, I could make plenty of money. You could even stay at home if you wanted.”

“Suo you motherfucker you are not joining the fucking Yakuza! And I wouldn't be a stay at home wife!”

“Oh? You wouldn't want to be?”

“No, god! Do you know how much I could make if I scored a hostess gig at a high-end place? Why would I ever turn down that kind of money?!”

“Ah, so you want us to be dual income?”

“Of course I would want us to be dual income!”

“You could get a different job and we could still be dual income.”

“There’s no other job that would pay as well.”

Suo sighs, and your brow twitches. You've always been suspicious about why he disapproves of your choice in career. It’s not in his disposition to judge people, but sometimes you still worry that he's doing it to you.

“What,” you ask, “would you be so against marrying a hostess?”

“No, not at all. But I'd be worried if my spouse worked somewhere unsafe. What if you end up at a Yakuza-owned club?”

You pause, startled at the abruptly earnest tone of his voice. Suddenly you feel guilty.

“Oh… well, I wouldn’t work at a Yakuza-owned club.”

“Hm… then I guess it's fine.” Suo nods, as if arriving at a decision. “We’ll get married, we’ll be dual income, and neither of us will work for the Yakuza.”

“Yes, exactly. We’ll get married, we’ll be dual income, and neither of us—” Your eyes go wide as you realize what you're saying. You feel yourself flushing. “Wait.”

“What? Is there a problem?”

“Suo.”

“Don’t tell me you're going to change your mind now. That would just be mean.”

“I'm being mean?” you ask, flabbergasted.

“Well, yes. You don't think it would hurt if you changed your mind about marrying me? And so soon after agreeing, too.”

You stare at him in disbelief. You have a number of possible retorts that cross your mind, and somehow you pick the least relevant one: “You can't trick someone into marrying you.”

“Then can I trick you into dating me?”

“Suo! I said don't do that!”

“Don’t do what?”

“Joke about that kind of thing!”

“I'm not joking about anything.”

“Yes you are? You don't actually want to date me. Stop saying that you do!”

Suo leans in. He stares at you, his gaze distinctly vulpine. It's very attractive, and also intimidating, and you should be used to it by now, but your heart rate ticks up anyway. You swallow thickly as his thumb glides along your cheek again, your skin scorching beneath his fingertips. You forget to bat his hand away this time.

“You’re so mean,” he repeats, voice lilting, “how come you never believe anything I say?”

He's baiting you. He's obviously baiting you, and you consider for a moment whether you want to bite.

Flirting with Suo is never a good idea—you can never tell whether he means to charm you or make fun of you when you do it. Sometimes it feels like both. Occasionally it feels mean. More often than not, you like to entertain it. But you can't right now. His shirt’s stained with such a bright red that it keeps distracting you, just like the blood he's left all over the washroom sink. Your manager will be furious about the mess, and also about the fact that you're giving first aid to three delinquents while you're on the clock. You think they'd go broke before they could spend enough money here to appease her, were she to discover the four of you. You might even lose your job. Then you wouldn't be able to support yourself anymore, let alone Suo, who cracks jokes as easily about being your trophy husband as he does about being Leonardo DiCaprio.

If he makes one more joke about marrying you, you'll probably throw up and cry.

“You're not being very gentlemanly right now,” you finally point out. He raises a brow.

“No?”

“No. I'd even say you're being a menace, actually. Doing a very bad job of”—you almost laugh as you say this, because you've heard this speech so many times—“engaging with my feelings. Not being supportive at all. Really falling off the staircase to adulthood, you know.”

Suo studies you. Something complicated passes through his eye before he pulls away, his expression now back to normal. It's deceptive how innocent he looks.

“Sorry,” he says. “You’re right. I’ll play nice.”

“No, you won't,” you retort, and Suo smiles at you, not replying. But he does give you a break. You finish cleaning up the cut without incident, although you do get flecks of blood on your evening gown, which you hope won't be too noticeable against the black satin. You bemoan the lost cause of Suo's changshan too—made of Suzhou silk, a gift from your master—and silently make a note to buy him a replacement sometime.

You're in the middle of buttoning up his shirt when the door clicks and swings open. Met face to face with your coworker, you freeze up.

Your stage name leaves her mouth in an angry bark. “What are you doing? I told you you're not supposed to be having sex with customers here, you should be doing that someplace—” She stops, evidently spotting the blood on Suo’s shirt, and then the other two individuals locked up in here with you, one of whom is blushing violently and looks to be on the verge of dying from embarrassment. Beneath your hands, you feel Suo’s body go stiff too.

“Oh,” she says before either of them can comment. “It’s just your delinquent boyfriend and his buddies.” Suo waves at her, and she nods back before squinting at the sink. “Are you going to clean that up?”

“Yes,” you say quickly. “Please don't tell our boss.”

“Have I ever ratted you out?” she asks. “Just get out of here soon. People do have to piss, you know.” Then she stops, looking at Suo with a dubious expression. “And make sure your boyfriend doesn't die.”

You're too tired to correct her on the nature of your relationship. “I've been trying,” you say, and she gives you a sympathetic look before retreating. You hear her laughing with a customer about people fooling around in the washroom, and I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, sir, and could you please go downstairs while I clean up. You’re so relieved, you nearly fall to your knees. A calloused hand touches your back as you rub your temples.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” Suo says quietly—sincerely—and instead of saying no, you're not, you reply, “I know. I’m sorry too.”

Suo’s always hated your job.

He’s always hated your job, your boyfriends, your apartment, and a lot of other things about your life that Sakura doesn’t have any business prying into. And it's just as well. Sakura also hates your shitty job, and your shitty boyfriends, and considering that you live in the same shitty building as him, he isn't a fan of your rental situation either. Nirei’s too polite to say anything about it, but Sakura can tell that he disapproves as well. It’s not like any of them are living the most comfortable lives either—Sakura has personally been living from shithole to shithole, mostly alone, ever since his parents passed—but your lifestyle does make them all feel poorly.

You're just a very easy person to like. And it's very easy to want nice things for you. So Sakura gets it, how Suo feels about you.

What he doesn't quite get is how Suo acts about you.

One thing he’s learned over the years is that Suo is very good at reading people. Sometimes he understands Sakura better than Sakura understands himself, and he can convince Sakura to do things which he himself didn't think were possible for him to do. He's done the same with Nirei, and about half the other people in their grade, and at least a third of the guys in Bofurin. It’s frankly a terrifying skill. But Suo never uses it with you—not to get you to change jobs, or boyfriends, or even apartments.

At first Sakura thought that you were just immune to Suo’s tactics, but he's recently come to realise that Suo simply gets too emotional about you to know how to convince you of anything. He’s even emotional enough to get kind of petty and a little mean with you, which is something that Sakura has only witnessed from Suo during fights. Really bad fights.

It’s terribly uncomfortable, especially when you’re clearly head over heels for Suo.

Sakura doesn't have any business prying into your personal problems. Though truthfully, he’d be happy to thrash some random assholes for you anyway, if that would fix your heartbreak. (He's already done this to at least one of your exes, and it worked shockingly well.) The problem is, Suo is not a random asshole and Sakura isn't sure that you'd want him thrashed in the first place. But it's just fucking painful watching the two of you act like this around each other, so he ends up pulling Suo aside after you kick them out of the girls’ bar, scowling.

Suo looks at him, surprised. “Sakura? What's the matter?”

He doesn't mince words. “How come you were being such a dick to your friend?”

Nirei goes stiff. “Sakura,” he says in his panicked ‘why are you trying to pick a fight now’ voice, “where is this coming from? I don't think Suo was being rude…” But Sakura can tell, as Nirei’s finishing his own sentence, that he's second-guessing himself.

“No,” Suo replies. “I was being a bit terrible, wasn't I?” There’s no humour in either his words or his face, but the corner of his mouth lifts. He actually looks endeared. “I'm surprised you noticed, Sakura.”

“I mean”—Sakura feels himself going red, embarrassed at just the memory of how you looked at Suo; first so worried, then painfully fond, and then like you were going to burst into tears right there in the washroom and ask him to hold you, as if you were in a horrible getsuku drama—“it was kinda hard not to.”

Suo nods. “I suppose it’s natural to be sensitive to the feelings of someone you like.”

Heat floods his face. “I don't like her!”

“Did I say you did?” Suo’s mouth curls when Sakura can't answer. “Don’t be embarrassed. She's a very easy person to like.”

Sakura tries his hardest to ignore Suo—which should be easy, because Suo lies randomly and pointlessly all the time, whenever he thinks it's funny—and says, “If she's an easy person to like, how come you act like you don't like her at all?”

“Was I acting like that? Or was she acting like it was impossible for someone to like her?” Sakura stops. Suo gives him a long look, then smiles. “You would know how difficult it can be to accept being liked, Sakura. And how long it can take to understand that there are people who want to support you unconditionally.”

Sakura opens his mouth once, twice. A third time. Nirei sighs. The two of them watch as Suo—rather than walking in the direction of the subway—steps over to a vending machine and buys a bottle of oolong tea.

“Are you going to wait for her shift to finish?” Nirei asks.

“Mm, I think so.” Suo glances down at his ankle. “But you should go home, Nire-kun. You can’t fight like that. In case those guys come back here, I mean.” He opens the bottle, takes a sip. “They had bladed weapons. It would be bad if you risked it.”

Nirei glances at the entrance to your bar, worried. “But…”

Sakura understands without Nirei finishing his sentence. The security at your bar is terrible, and plenty of people like to exploit that. It was Nirei who noticed a group men eyeing you before anyone else did, following you all the way from Keisei Street to your place of work. And sure, Suo kicked the shit out of them in the end, did much worse to them than vice versa—but who knows if there aren't more of them.

Suo hates your job. All three of them do.

“It’s okay,” Sakura says. “I'm sure the two of us will be enough.”

“...I'll ask Tsubaki if he's free,” Nirei finally relents. “And I'll text Kiryu and Tsugeura too.”

“Thanks, Nire-kun.”

Suo gets a bottle of ramune after Nirei leaves, passes it to Sakura. Tsubaki comes by later, still in his pole outfit, with several pieces of taiyaki for them to share—I’m always snacky after dancing, he explains—and the three of them loiter in front of your bar until four in the morning. Tsubaki asks questions about you in a tone that has Sakura wanting to crawl into an alleyway just to hide, and Suo deflects masterfully with questions about Tsubaki’s new boyfriend. The guys from earlier don't show up. Maybe the sight of Roppo-Ichiza’s top fighter scares them off.

You're surprised to see them there when you emerge a little later. You give Tsubaki a happy but perplexed look as he hugs you.

“Tsubaki? What are you doing here?”

“Keeping these two company,” he replies. “And I wanted to say hi, of course. You should come by the club sometime, you know! I haven't seen you in forever.”

“Sure! That would be nice, but…” You turn to Sakura and Suo, puzzled. “Why are you guys still here?”

Sakura, on instinct, nearly recounts the whole evening to you—about the men tailing you, about how they got into a fight, about the kind of things they said they'd do once they caught you—but Suo answers first.

“Troubling you again,” is all he says. “It’s fine since your shift is over now, right?”

You give the two of them a long, curious look. For a moment, you look worried, but you're eventually disarmed by Suo’s expression.

“I guess it's fine,” you reply. You sound so happy. Suo’s gaze goes soft, and Sakura has to force himself not to look away. “Let's hurry up and go home.”

You smile at them, and it's the kind of smile that makes it very easy to like you. The kind of smile that makes it natural to want nice things for you. The kind of smile that would make anyone emotional, even if they're normally very controlled. It makes something in Sakura squeeze tightly, all knotted up and painful.

He’s starting to understand why Suo acts the way he does around you.

END

this wasn't meant to be a love triangle, my apologies…

this was also meant to be a very short piece (like 500w lol), but I kept thinking about what suo’s backstory might be, and why he was so comfortable in the red light district in the manga, and what these guys might realistically act like in an aged up, romantic context. that all coalesced into this very bizarre fic LOL. I'm not sure how it'll land, but I hope someone out here enjoyed it! I would like to write more about this triangle (+ nirei) but I'm not sure what the level of interest would be, or if it'll even make sense with the manga. I guess we’ll see eventually!

in any case, thank you for reading!! <3

#hayato suo x reader #suo hayato x reader #haruka sakura x reader #sakura haruka x reader #wind breaker x reader #wbk x reader #i cannot believe this was 4.5k words...#yueshuo.fics #divider by @/cafekitsune

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honey-tongued-devil · 4 months ago

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↠The last drop tour

This tour is designed to provide those who need it with a complete map of the Last Drop, as well as to help me (and anyone reading my fanfiction, Everytime it Rains) clearly envision the spaces while reading. This tour is incredibly detailed, and I’ll explain both the location and what you’re looking at. Let’s just say I’ll be your personal tour guide! Enjoy!

↠FIRST PART, THE BAR

Let’s start with the entrance! The door is massive, asymmetrical in true Zaun style, made of stained glass and steel. To the right of the door is the Last Drop’s electric meter, while on the left stands the iconic, battered jukebox. In these photos, it looks especially worse for wear because they were taken after the fight between Vi and Sevika.

And we can finally turn around to take in the Last Drop in its entirety! For accuracy, I’ve included both a screenshot from “Jinx Fixes Everything” and an image from Nikolai Lebedev’s ArtStation portfolio.

There are about four fairly large round tables scattered across the central area of the room. The floor is herringbone wood, and the lighting is spread out. While I didn’t take the photos myself, the LED lights are dispersed across the ceiling. On the second floor, you can still spot a yellowish-greenish sign featuring the Last Drop’s symbol, and the “columns” are adorned with blue lights.

If you’re looking for warm lighting, the yellow neon lights and the ones behind the bar are switched on; the cooler lights are positioned along the side walls of the venue.

Before moving on to show you what’s around the main rectangle, I’d like to point out that the staircase to the left of the bar leads to the upper floor. Next to it is a small corridor that takes you to arcade machines and the pool table seen in several scenes.

"What’s on the sides of the rectangle? What do you mean?"

Yeah, I wasn’t sure how else to describe it, but while the public and chaotic section where people dance is the central rectangle, to the right and left of that area are two booths on each side. These booths have fixed tables and heavy curtains that can be closed to ensure maximum privacy.

This is where customers strike deals—we see it in Act 1 when the two Bilgewater pirates threaten Huck. Since the Last Drop came under Silco’s control, the first booth now displays pictures of him (and two other chembarons, though theirs are small and insignificant), commemorating the venue’s inauguration.

So, if you’re looking for privacy, this is the perfect spot.

But follow me—before I take you to Silco’s office, I’ll bring you to another place I’m sure none of you expected to see. Through the door to the right of the bar, there’s a small flat area, perfect for storing spare drinks, followed by a long staircase leading down. But first, we need to grab the key. Silco cared deeply about keeping this place intact, so it’s been locked up the entire time. In the meantime, take a look at the bar!

The key is nailed to one of the planks of the bar—it was necessary to stop here to retrieve it. But let’s not dawdle, down we go!

I know you’d never have guessed, but Silco was an extremely sentimental person. He decided not to touch the little room where Vander and his kids used to live. Instead, he locked it up and let it remain "sacred" in its own way. The room is very small and packed with stuff, so it’s hard to move around. You’ll have to settle for a quick glimpse. Let me jog your memory by reminding you that when Vander talks to Vi and sends Mylo and Claggor out of the room, the staircase Claggor sits on is the same one we just came down.

What do you say—shall we head back up? Taking the staircase on the left side of the bar, we arrive at the upper floor! At first glance, it’s just a mezzanine, as it aligns with the "public" rectangle of the bar below. To the left of the stairs, we have Silco’s office, which I’ll show you in detail another time. Over there, where you now see the barrels, is where, in my story, there’s a door leading to the upstairs area—currently Vander and the kids’ home. That door gets covered during event nights to prevent any troublemakers from wandering into their house. On the right, we have the DJ’s console and more tables for those who’d rather enjoy their drinks in peace than join the dance floor.

The reason I suggest you take a break and grab a drink before entering Silco's office is that there's really a lot to see. Here you’ll find my Masterlist, which includes both Part 1 and Part 2 of the tour.

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neon11seo · 1 year ago

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suguann · 1 year ago

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Possessive!Geto who pretends he doesn't care when he overhears that a new high-paying customer comes to the club every Friday to watch you specifically perform on stage, knowing he can’t really do anything about it unless a patron breaks the rules printed on a neon sign above the bar—No touching the dancers unless you're tipping—even if he’s the one in charge.

He’ll smile and nod, shaking hands with big spenders with sleazy smiles in the VIP lounge while his eyes find you from the other side of the room as you climb into another man’s lap.

He can’t stop his jaw from clenching when that same customer tips a month’s worth of rent every week or asks about private shows even though you don't do them. How he notices you smiling prettily for this customer, eyelashes fluttering with stars in your eyes to match the glitter on your cheeks before you walk off stage toward the dressing rooms.

Sometimes you play the part of making a lonely man feel wanted too well.

Possessive!Geto whose hand tightens around his glass tumbler, watching the man who’s been coming to see you (now twice a week) slip a thick white card into the top of your stockings. The fact that he touched your thigh with his dirty hands irks Geto the most.

In times like this, he wishes he had never come up with the rule about keeping your relationship a secret—so nobody thinks I’m picking favorites—because regret is a thick pill to swallow.

When you walk up to his office later, Geto wastes no time by dragging you down onto his lap, trailing his nose down the slope of your neck where your soft-smelling perfume is strongest and sucking a bruise into the hollow of your throat for everyone to see.

You’re still wearing those cross-stitch stockings—the feel of them under his hands making him halfway hard—and he yanks the bodice of your dress down just underneath the swell of your breasts to get rid of the thought of another man touching you.

“B-but, Suguru, we’re at work—”

“Let me enjoy these pretty tits, huh?” he growls before sucking a nipple into his greedy mouth.

You whine his name, and it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

The blinds to his floor-to-ceiling windows are open, but it's tinted glass so nobody can tell what happens behind locked doors. Except, when he glances toward the busy club below, he wishes everyone in the building could witness what it looks like for you to fall apart under his hands—a personal show you put on just for him.

Only him. His fingers hook inside you to feel you tight and hot around him as a reminder.

Possessive!Geto who has enough one day after that customer asks for another private session—this time, he goes to Geto directly.

It’s a busy night, and every dancer works the floor. Well, almost.

You’re kneeling between his spread legs, spit dribbling down your chin, whimpering while trying to open your throat for him.

He brushes your hair away from your face, watching your mouth messily slurp around his cock under his desk—his jaw is slack, and his other hand clenches on the armrest of his chair. “So good—fuck, baby—so fucking pretty,” he mutters, his top teeth catching his bottom lip.

His head tilts back when you eagerly fill your mouth with him again and again until he feels you choke, making his thighs flex under your hands. Geto’s thumb smooths an arc across your cheek.

“There you go,” he huffs. “I love that little mouth—”

There’s a knock on his door, and he feels you panic, moving to pull off his cock. But the hand in your hair tightens, keeping you pressed against him. Your nails bite into his skin, tears prickling your lashline as small distressed mewls escape your lips.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop,” he hisses. “Not unless I say so.”

Another knock echoes in his office.

“Come in.”

The customer with the too-shiny tie and a penchant for slipping thousands into your g-string opens the door with a smile on his face and a glint in his eye, sauntering into the room like he owns the place. “How about that deal—”

Whatever he’s about to ask is lost on Geto because his ears are ringing when he feels you swallow around him, and his balls draw up tight against his body, and—

Possessive!Geto who grunts when you moan around his cock as he cums down your throat, his lips twitching at the look of shock on the customer’s face.

“I’ve heard your deal,” he says eventually, glancing down at your glazed eyes and wiping away what little mess escaped your mouth with his thumb. “But she’s not yours to take.”

#geto x reader #geto x you #geto smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen smut

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mrsbuckybarnes1917 · 1 month ago

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11: CROSSING LINES

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Summary: You wake up on the next morning to a flood of notifications on Instagram after posting the bracelet you designed for Bucky's birthday. Unknowingly, you included some of Bucky's vibranium arm in the shot, leading to unwanted attention and harsh comments online. Feeling guilty for exposing Bucky's private life, you seek advice from your besties before deciding to confess to Bucky.

Warnings: Mentions of online harassment, sexual content (explicit)

Word Count: 4365

Thank God for Sundays. No early rises and a whole day of respite from the duties of life. Bright sunlight was already filtering through the cracks in your blinds. You pulled your phone out of the charger and scrolled through the avalanche of notifications.

Your Instagram was on fire.

Your post from last night— the sleek, custom bracelet you’d designed for Bucky’s birthday— had exploded overnight. You opened the app and scrolled through the comments, your heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and dread.

The first few were kind enough:

@trulywicked: “This is such a unique design! I love how it feels like it tells a story all on its own.”

@tallyfitness: “Your work never fails to amaze me. This bracelet is an absolute masterpiece!”

@everydaydisco: “The detail on this bracelet is stunning! It feels so personal. Whoever it’s for is so lucky!”

But your stomach flipped as your gaze caught a few jarring words:

@givingscholar: “That arm in the corner… wait a minute, isn’t that…”

@juicybarbie: “The Winter Soldier? Didn’t see that coming.”

You scrolled up past the trolls as fast as you could, your cheeks flushing with heat. There it was in the photo— Bucky’s vibranium arm! How had you not noticed Bucky’s arm on the edge of the photo? It was just a partial shot on the side of the frame, but to the internet, it might as well be a giant neon sign.

@polymermaid: “Bucky Barnes?? Is this for him?”

@juicybarbie: “Can’t believe you’re making custom jewelry for ex-HYDRA operatives now. Bold choice.”

@longlaughs: “The Winter Soldier? Seriously? Guess you’re okay with a little war criminal PR for your business.”

@TheRealDealDude: “Winter Soldier rocking custom jewelry? The world really is upside down.”

@QueenOfQuips: “Guess you’ve got a thing for dangerous guys, huh?”

Your heart raced as you stared at the screen, overwhelmed by the sheer number of comments. Most of them were innocent or praising, but the bad harsher ones stung. You stared at the photo on your feed, the way it sat on Bucky’s wrist, remembering his face and the reverence with which he had put it on. It was one of your proudest creations.

You felt like a stab of guilt for thrusting him into the spotlight again. You knew how much he hated it, it was the reason he had avoided you in the first place. Your phone buzzed with a new notification. Someone had tagged you in a story. Bracing yourself, you opened it.

It was a repost of your bracelet with a caption: “Supporting war criminals is so in right now. Who knew accessory design could be this edgy?”

Your stomach churned as you stared at the repost, the caption was clearly written to judge both you and Bucky. It made you wonder why you’d posted the picture in the first place. You’d gotten too proud of yourself and it had ended up in you hurting Bucky. The last thing you wanted for him to feel uncomfortable again, or even worse, for him to think you’d intentionally exposed him.

In a panic you message your friends for advice.

8:33 AM - You: HELP!

8:36 AM - Hanna: What’s up? You okay?

8:36 AM - You: I fucked up... big time.

8:36 AM - Hanna: What happened?

8:37 AM - You: Okay, so yesterday, I posted the bracelet I made for Bucky on Instagram. It was just supposed to be a promo post— nothing major! But I accidentally left part of his vibranium arm in the photo.

8:37 AM - Aditi: And?

You sent them a link to your post.

8:40 AM - You: And now the comments section is blowing up. Like, some people are nice, but others are... not. I’m talking full-on trolls. People are calling him a war criminal, making gross jokes, and dragging my business into it.

8:41 AM - Aditi: Oh.

8:41 AM - Hanna: Ohhhh.

8:41 AM - You: Guys!!

8:41 AM - Aditi: Okay, deep breaths. This isn’t the end of the world.

8:42 AM - Hanna: Yeah, it’s not a big deal. People on the internet love to stir the pot.

8:42 AM - You: IT’S A HUGE DEAL! Look, I know we’ve not really talked about Bucky much, and I know you know who he is. But he’s a good guy— he’s been through so much, and he doesn’t want this kind of attention. He’s private for a reason.

There was a moment of silence from your friends.

8:45 AM - You: Are the two of you messaging each other privately rn?

8:45 AM - Hanna: Chill girl. I mean I get it, but it’s not like you posted this to expose him. It was totally an accident.

8:45 AM - You: I still feel awful. He trusted me enough to let me post this, and now I’ve put him in the spotlight without his consent. Should I tell him?

8:46 AM - Aditi: Does he even use Instagram? We couldn’t find him anywhere.

8:46 AM - You: Not really, but his friends do. Sam’s probably seen it already. And let’s be real— Sam will tell him. Fuck, Captain America already thinks I’m a fuck up. Now this!

You groaned. You didn’t want Bucky’s best friend to see you as a liability. For a moment you wondered why Sam’s opinion was so important to you. This relationship with Bucky was short lived, it had a very clear expiration date. Why did it even matter what his friends thought of you?

8:46 AM - Hanna: Why would they think you’re a fuck up?

Fuck! You didn’t want to get into the Leonard issue with them at the moment.

8:47 AM - You: That’s a story for another time.

8:47 AM - Hanna: Okay, let’s be logical about this. First, you didn’t do this with any bad intentions. You posted your work, which is incredible, by the way, and accidentally included a small detail. You’re not exactly TMZ.

8:47 AM - Aditi: Exactly. But honesty is probably the best move here. If you tell him before someone else does, you’re showing that you care about his feelings.

8:48 AM - You: But it feels like my fault! I should’ve noticed the arm in the photo before I posted it. He’s so private, and now… ugh, I feel like I’ve betrayed his trust.

8:48 AM - Hanna: I get it, but don’t spiral. Think about it this way: If you tell him, you’re being upfront and honest. He’ll appreciate that. If you don’t tell him, and Sam or someone else mentions it to him first, he might feel blindsided.

8:48 AM - Aditi: Hanna’s right. It’s better to tell him. But maybe don’t lead with “I posted your arm on Instagram and now everyone’s freaking out.

8:49 AM - You: Great, that’s great! THANKS! 🙄

8:49 AM - Hanna: Something like, “Hey, I posted a photo of the bracelet, and I didn’t realize part of your arm was in it. It’s getting some attention, and I wanted to tell you before you hear it from someone else.

8:49 AM - Aditi: And add, “If you want me to take it down, I will.”

You stared down at their advice, your gut feeling like it was tied in knots.

8:49 AM - You: I don’t know, guys. I feel like I’ve really fucked this up.

8:49 AM - Aditi: He’s your boyfriend. If he doesn’t understand that this was an accident, well then you need to dump him.

You sat on your bed, rereading your friends’ words.

8:50 AM - You: Thanks, guys.

8:50 AM - Hanna: You’ve got this.

8:50 AM - Aditi: Breathe honey. Everything will be fine.

*****************************************

It would have been easier to pull on a pair of sneakers and run away from the problem. You had considered it as you pulled on a flowy dress. You were still considering it as you stood outside Bucky’s front door. Just do it.

You knocked, half hoping he wouldn’t be home.

The door opened just as you were about to give up. Bucky was standing in front of you with a towel wrapped around his waist, dripping wet. His hair was damp, clinging to his neck and forehead, and the faint smell of soap lingered in the air, and the light glinted off his damp skin in a way that made your breath catch. “Hey,” he said, his brow furrowing in concern. “You okay?”

You stared for a moment, your brain practically short-circuiting at the sight of his abs, the towel just barely hanging on. “Uh, yeah,” you stammered, finally closing your mouth and dragging your gaze up to his face. “Sorry— I… I should’ve texted first. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “Give me a sec. I’ll go throw some clothes on.”

“Wait! I… I’m so sorry!” The words burst out of you in a flood, unrestrained by logic or timing. “But I posted your bracelet last night and didn’t notice your vibranium arm in the photo, but other people did notice it, and there are comments— so many comments— I mean, some are nice, but…” you faltered for a second before regaining your flow, “Others are kinda mean, and I swear, I didn’t mean to… I know you hate the attention, and I feel awful, and—”

“Whoa, slow down.” His brow furrowed as he leaned towards you, putting a hand on your shoulder to stop you talking. His touch was both firm but gentle, and the heat from his palm made your skin tingle. “Start again. What’s going on?”

You took a sharp breath in, trying to calm yourself before continuing. “You know we talked about me putting the photo of your gift on Instagram?”

Bucky nodded, his expression guarded. His hand still rested on your shoulder, sending tiny sparks of awareness through your body. It was very distracting. The bracelet sat on his wrist.

“Well I posted it last night but the photo had your—” you pointed at his vibranium arm, “It was in the shot. I swear I didn’t realize… but people noticed. And now they know it’s you. And the internet is being, well… the internet.”

You watched the expression on Bucky’s face change from confusion to understanding, then into a faint, weary sadness. It wasn’t directed at you, but the sight of it still felt like a punch to the gut.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky. I should’ve been more careful. I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

He let out a slow breath, his hand dropping from your shoulder as he stepped back, breaking the brief but electric connection between you. “I’m not mad. It’s just… people being people. They’ve always got something to say.” He shrugged, and the towel slipped a little lower on his hips, threatening to undo what little composure you had left.

You bit your lip, your gaze briefly flicking to the towel again before you forced yourself to focus on his face. “Still I… I feel terrible. I know how much you ate this kind of attention. Can I do something to fix—”

“Hey, you’ve apologized enough,” he said, cutting you off with a faint smile. “Besides, it’s not like this hasn’t happened before. You think it’s the first time people have lost their shit over a photo? At least I’m not associated with something bad this time.” His lips jerked up half heartedly, as if trying to lighten the mood, but his eyes still carried a tired, weary look.

Your shoulders relaxed slightly, but you couldn’t shake the guilt weighing down your stomach. Bucky could tell you weren’t convinced.

“Guess it’s a good thing you’re not a bad influence, huh?” he smiled mischievously.

And your heart skipped a beat. There was something about the way he was looking at you now, something daring, almost flirtatious. You pouted, but you couldn’t hide the way his presence was affecting you.

“Why do you care so much, anyway?” Bucky asked, tilting his head so he could lock his eyes onto yours. He looked at you with a mix of curiosity and… something else. His gaze moved over your face, dropping briefly to your lips before flicking back to your eyes. It made your stomach do somersaults.

His question took you by surprise. It wasn’t accusatory, just curious. The way he was looking at you was disarming, and for a moment, you couldn't remember how to breathe. “Because you’re my friend—”

Your voice faltered as he looked at you. His expression unreadable. You let out a small squeak as he stepped closer. Close enough that you could see the individual droplets of water still clinging to his skin. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that there wasn’t any space left between you. You could hear the soft rasp of his breath and you could feel your pulse hammering in your neck.

“Friend, huh?” he murmured, his tone teasing, a smirk pulling at his lips as he stopped even closer.

Your mouth went dry, your heart now thundering as he stepped even closer. He lowered his voice to something more intimate. “Friend?” he repeated. The word hanging between you, like an invitation. You could feel his breath on your face, practically taste the heat on his lips. Your body tensed, buzzing from his proximity.

You opened your mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words for a response. The air between you felt charged, your pulse was racing as he reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. It was the same motion from yesterday, but today it felt different. More intimate. His fingers lingering for a moment too long, his touch igniting something in you.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, his hand lingering near your cheek. His thumb grazed your skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

You swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “No, I’m not—”

He gently placed his thumb over your lips, cutting off your protest, and for a heartbeat, everything seemed to still. “You don’t have to be scared of me, you know.”

“I’m not scared of you,” you insisted in a soft whisper, your hands almost trembling at your sides. “I just—”

But you couldn’t finish your sentence. His fingers moved down to trace the line of your jaw, the feather-light touch sending electricity through your body, and your mind scrambled for any coherent thought. It was as though every inch of your skin had become sensitive to him.

His hand trailed down your neck, almost absentmindedly tracing a path over your collarbone, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Your heart was pounding so loudly, you were sure he could hear it.

His eyes flicked down to your lips for a second before he looked back up at you. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t. Instead, you closed the small distance between you, your lips brushing against his in a fiery kiss. Immediately Bucky’s vibranium hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, deepening the kiss. Hungry. Consuming. His tongue found yours, igniting a heat that coursed through your veins like wildfire. His grip on your waist tightened as the world around you seemed to dissolve into nothing but him. His touch, his scent, his hard body pressed against you.

Eventually you had to pull back for air, and Bucky rested his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily. His eyes met yours searchingly, making your heart start racing all over again.

“I, uh…” you huffed a small laugh as your mind scrambled for something coherent to say. “That wasn’t… I didn’t… not why I came.”

“No?” Bucky smirked, his voice far huskier than you’d ever heard it. “‘Cause I ain’t complaining.”

You let out a high-pitched, nervous laugh, letting your hands rest tentatively on his bare chest. “No, I mean… I guess I was just worried about the post and the comments and…”

“And?”

“And now I'm a little… distracted.” You glanced down at the towel which was shockingly still around his hips.

“Second thoughts?”

“No… no!” The second protest was more forceful than your first. “I just don't want you to think that I came here just for… that.”

“No, I understand. You came because you cared enough to tell me what was happening… before I heard it from someone else. That means more to me than you realize.”

The vulnerability in his words stole the last breath of air in your lungs. It's not what you'd expected when you had knocked on his door. The openness. The tenderness. The care he showed you. It made you want to reassure him, in the same way he was reassuring you. To close the distance between you.

So you did.

No longer hesitant about what you wanted, your kiss was slower this time, but the passion was still here. Your fingers scraped against his scalp as you ran your fingers through his damp hair. He pulled you closer and closer until all that separated you was that damn fluffy towel.

“Maybe we should move this somewhere more… comfortable?” he murmured, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze.

You nodded, your breath catching at the way his thumb brushed over your hip, his touch lingering. “The couch?” you offered. You weren't sure you were ready to see his bedroom.

He smiled. The small, almost shy curve of his lips made your heart skip a beat. “Couch works.”

Bucky took your hand, leading you into the living room. His fingers slid down, intertwining with yours, his touch electric. You lowered yourself onto the couch first, your movements careful and deliberate. But your eyes betrayed your eagerness as they flicked up to meet him, lingering on him for just a moment too long.

He lowered himself beside you, close enough that his knee brushed against yours. You could feel his heat seeping through the fabric of your dress.

“Come here,” he said quietly, his vibranium hand resting on your thigh. The coolness of the metal made a line of goosebumps erupt along the skin he stroked as it came to rest in your hip.

With a nervous swallow, you moved closer, the inside of your knee brushed against his as he helped you straddle his thigh.

“Like this?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his smile held a quiet reverence. “Yeah. Just like that.”

His hands were on your hips. Firm but gentle. Guiding you as you moved against his thigh. The friction sent waves of heat through you, straight into your core. It felt great, incredible, in fact. But it was the intensity of his gaze that was your undoing. Bucky was watching you like you were the only person in the world. The only thing that mattered. His normally blue eyes darkened with desire.

You moaned as you leaned towards him, letting your hands slide up his chest to anchor yourself. Grounding yourself. His muscles tensed under your touch. The quiet groan that escaped his lips only served to heighten your desire.

“Bucky—” you whispered. You couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a plea.

“I know, doll,” he murmured in answer, voice strained. His fingers dug into your hips as though he was trying to hold back. “I know.”

Feeling him gave you more confidence. The way he was responding to you. Growing under you. Your movements grew bolder. But it didn’t feel like enough. Not with the way heat was pooling between your thighs. Not with the way his hands were holding you. Like he couldn’t get enough. You wanted more. You needed more.

“Bucky, I—”

He cut you off with a kiss. His lips crashed against yours with a hunger that took your breath away. Desperate. Messy. His teeth caught your lip as his hands roamed over your back as he crushed your body against his.

You moaned into his mouth as he tensed his thigh. The new angle sent a jolt of pleasure into your core. Bucky groaned. The sound vibrated against your lips. The towel between you being put to the test as his swollen member pressed up on your knee. Hard. Straining.

“God, you’re killing me,” he rasped, between kisses.

His hands slid down to your thighs, he lifted the one between his legs, to straddle his lap, settling you firmly against him. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you moaned, pushing down against him. “Please, oh yes, please.”

He swallowed. Hard. His hands tightened on you, guiding you to move against him, his hips bucking up to meet yours. The friction between you felt exquisite. Every time your body met his sent sparks of pleasure through you.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his voice rough and broken as he buried his face in your neck. “You feel so good.”

Your fingers gripped his hair, pulling his mouth to yours. But as your movement grew more and more frantic, all you could do was rest your forehead against his. You were so dangerously close to him. The thin layers of clothing separating you only heightened the tension between you. Every thrust, even push, every grinding movement drove both of you closer to the edge.

“Bucky,” you whimpered. Your body trembled as his lips found your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses on your skin. They would definitely show later.

He reached under your skirt and grabbed the front of your underwear. Bucky pulled and twisted it so that the silky material slipped between your folds, making you cry out.

“I got you, doll,” he murmured. “I got you.”

The heat between you was building. Ravaging your bodies. It built up to a boiling point. Bucky fell apart first. His body tensed under yours as he went over the edge, his groan muffled against your shoulder. His grip on you tightened, his fist clenching and pulling your underwear against your clit. The extra pressure was your undoing. You barely had a moment to catch your breath as your orgasm hit you. Throwing your head back, you dug your nails into his back as you rode out the waves of ecstasy.

For a few moments, the only sound in the apartment was your mingled ragged breathing. Your forehead came to rest against his, the pressure grounding you in the aftermath of your activities.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice hoarse but laced with a tenderness.

You nodded, a small, breathless laugh escaping your lips. “More than okay.”

As the silence settled between you, the weight of your actions began to creep in. His hands were still on your waist, his touch warm and steady. But the rush of heat that had driven your actions only moments before had begun to fade, replaced by a quiet realization.

You shifted back a little, suddenly incredibly aware of how close you were to Bucky. “That was…” you started, but your voice trailed off as you tried to find the right words.

“Yeah,” he responded, hesitation in his tone. He glanced down at his hands, as if he was noticing for the first time where they were resting, how closely your bodies were pressed against each other. His hands fell away and he cleared his throat, looking at everything but you. “Uh—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no,” you interrupted quickly, sliding off his lap and smoothing down your dress, your face warm with embarrassment. “You didn’t… I mean, it’s not like you... I wanted to—”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, cutting you off. His gaze flickering to yours before darting away again. “It’s just— fast.”

“Really fast,” you agreed, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your dress as you glanced at the floor.

The air between you now felt awkward, the heat that had consumed you both had been replaced with an uncertainty.

Bucky shifted, leaning back against the couch, his hand running through his damp hair. “This doesn’t… mess things up, does it?” he asked hesitantly, his voice low.

You looked up at him, confusion flickering across your face. “What do you mean?”

“Our agreement,” he sighed, his jaw tightening slightly. “The whole fake dating thing. If this makes it… complicated.”

“Bucky,” you said softly. “Do you regret this?”

He met your eyes, his expression conflicted. “No. That’s the problem,” he admitted, his voice low. “I don’t regret it, but it feels… dangerous, you know? Like we’re walking a line here, and I don’t want to screw this up for you— or for us.”

“You didn’t screw anything up.”

He searched your face, as though trying to gauge your sincerity. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.” You reached out, your fingers brushing his flesh hand in reassurance. “But if we’re being honest here, I was kind of a mess when I walked in here and this probably wasn’t the best idea.” You let out a nervous laugh. “I mean there's a reason we have these rules for the relationship agreement. But you didn’t do anything wrong. And… I don’t regret this either.”

“Okay,” he said softly.

You bit your lip, guilt creeping back in as you remembered the reason you’d shown up in the first place. “I really am sorry about the Instagram thing,” you said, glancing away. “I know how much your privacy means to you, and I feel like I violated that.”

“You didn’t mean to. I know that. Don’t beat yourself up over it. But thank you for caring.”

His words sent a warmth through your chest, but the lingering awkwardness of the moment made you feel like it was time to leave. You stood, smoothing down your dress. “I should probably go,” you said lightly. “Let you get some rest.”

“You don’t—” he started, standing up as well.

You offered him a small smile. “I think I’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

Bucky stepped closer, his expression earnest. “We’re good, though, right?”

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “We’re good. You’re good, Bucky.”

His smile softened and you felt the unspoken connection between you again. But you stepped back, opening the door of his apartment, giving him a small wave as you slipped out.

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