#he has a vague idea on what makes a good hand and what makes a bad one but that’s IT

[ghostedgwen]

Hey!! I really like your writing and I was just wondering if I could make a request. I was thinking about James X Black!Reader where she's Sirius' twin (or something like that), and it's a unrequired love since they're best friends. I'd really appreciate if you wrote it <3

shades of wrong | j.potter

note : Thank you so much for such kind words! The request was pretty vague so I took a lot of creative liberty with this one and ended up with almost 6k words of angst and pining. enjoyy <3

warnings : unrequitted pining, one-sided crushes, quidditch stuff, somewhat canon marauders timeline, mentions of abuse and torture, child abuse, the Black family are fucked uppp, siblings angst, hurt no comfort

James Potter has always been more than a best friend to you, he was always so bright and stirred feelings in your stomach that you dared not name but to him? You were always just Sirius' twin sister.

The platform is louder than you expected, all smoke and shouting and fluttering owls. Sirius walks just ahead of you, his trunk bumping into his knees as he barrels toward the scarlet train like it's an escape route.

"C'mon, ____!" he calls over his shoulder. "We don't want to end up stuck with the Lestranges."

You roll your eyes but follow, your own trunk rolling behind you. It feels like stepping into a storybook, the Hogwarts Express waiting there like it’s half-magic and half-dream. It is, kind of. You’ve been hearing about it your whole life.

Your older cousins were kind enough to share tales of their time at Hogwarts, but everything feels heavier now, knowing how your parents looked at you this morning. Like this was your last chance to make them proud.

You climb aboard after Sirius and just barely get through the crowd before he grabs your arm and yanks you into an open carriage.

Inside are three boys - one with messy dark hair and glasses, another round-faced and shy-looking, and a third with sandy hair - he would have been the most ordinary-looking one had it not been for his scars across his face.

They all look up at once. Sirius flops onto a seat like he owns the place. "You lot look like you’re not boring. I'm Sirius Black. This is my twin, ____."

You offer a small nod. The boy with glasses grins.

"James Potter. That’s Peter Pettigrew, and that’s Remus - he didn’t say his last name."

Potter. The name makes your ears perk up.

“It’s Lupin.” The scarred boy answered calmly.

The Potters are purebloods, technically, but your parents never speak of them without curled lips and disdain. Blood traitors and too friendly with Muggles. Too rich for their own good, thanks to some business success blahh blahh.

Still, you find yourself watching James Potter a little longer than is polite. There’s a brightness to him, even seated. He’s talking animatedly, hands moving as he retells something dramatic and probably exaggerated.

You sit beside Sirius. He elbows you subtly. "Stop staring."

You scowl, but your cheeks warm.

The Great Hall is overwhelming, and not just because of the enchanted ceiling. You stand beside Sirius, your fingers pinched in his sleeve, as the Sorting Hat sings its odd little song. He’s pretending not to care, but you can feel the tension in him.

You're both meant to go to Slytherin. It's been drilled into your heads since birth. The idea of sitting anywhere else feels almost dangerous, wrong.

Names are called. Students file forward. The hat shouts out houses. Then - "Black, Sirius!"

He stiffens beside you. You squeeze his arm before he strides forward, all swagger and sarcasm. He plops onto the stool and the hat barely touches his head before it cries:

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Hall goes silent for half a breath. Sirius looks stunned, and his face contorted into an expression that you, even as his twin, couldn't read.

He storms to the Gryffindor table like it insulted him, and you know exactly what's racing through his head. You’re about to join him, though not on purpose.

"Black, ____!"

You move with shaky legs to sit on the stool. The hat is heavy on your head, almost like a crown with heavy responsibilities.

"Ah," it says in your ear, thoughtfully. "Another Black. Tricky, tricky. You’ve got fire, that’s clear. Slytherin’s a fit - but there’s something else in you, isn’t there? A spark of defiance. . . loyalty - hmm. Yes. Better be. . .GRYFFINDOR!"

Your stomach sinks. You can already hear your mother’s voice, the sneer in your father’s eyes. You join Sirius with stiff legs and sit beside him. Almost dropping your entire weight on the bench.

"We’re dead," he mutters.

"They’re going to disown us," you whisper.

Across the table, James Potter stares at you both with wide eyes. After he's gone through the sorting, ending up in the same house, he sits across you and Sirius.

Remus and Peter also got in the same house, what are the odds?

"You two looked like you were going to throw up when you sat down," he says, not unkindly. "Why’s Gryffindor so bad?"

You blink. "It’s not. It’s just. . ."

"Our family’s going to go ballistic," Sirius finishes for you.

James makes a face. "That’s mental. Gryffindor’s brilliant. My mum was one. Dad too."

You exchange a glance with Sirius. Of course. Of course the Potters were.

Still, James’s voice is warm and easy, like he doesn't understand why you'd be so scared, and maybe that's the part that sticks with you.

You don't want to be scared, either. Maybe, one day, you won’t be.

Until you earn the bold red robes, for now, you take the goblet in front of you with shaking hands and pretend it doesn’t matter but when you catch James Potter smiling at you between bites of treacle tart, it’s the first good thing that’s happened all day.

The second year begins with less dread and more mischief.

You and Sirius still get looks in the corridors, some of awe, some of judgment, but you’ve stopped caring. The Howlers your parents sent last year have long since stopped arriving. Well, they still try. 

It’s easier now. Hogwarts has become a home in ways Grimmauld Place never was. It smells like old wood and candles and the occasional pumpkin spice. People laugh here, there’s sunlight in the windows, and your twin has eased the tension in his shoulders.

You’ve found your people too.

James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew have fully adopted you and Sirius into their inner circle. They call themselves the Marauders now, Sirius came up with the name during a History of Magic class, and James nearly fell off his chair laughing.

You were of course included, Sirius even joked that you two were a package, and you were a very much needed addition.

"We need someone who’s small enough to climb through the hidden passage through Filch’s," James had reasoned.

"And smart enough to jinx the pathway shut behind us," Remus added.

You raised an eyebrow and folded your arms. "I’m flattered."

"She’s already ten times sneakier than you, Potter," Sirius had said proudly. "She lied to Mum for me last summer and didn’t blink once."

That had been the beginning.

Now, most evenings are spent plotting. In secret corners of the library. Underneath the stands at the Quidditch pitch. Crammed into your favourite empty classroom that smells like chalk and rebellion.

You’re always moving, always whispering, always laughing.

The pranks range from harmless to elaborate:

Enchanting toads to serenade Snape every time he walks into the dungeons.

Dosing the Slytherin common room door with stink sap and locking it magically shut.

Turning Peter’s homework into origami rats that chased him around the Great Hall.

You get caught, of course. Very often too that it was as if, you were letting them and for some reason, it’s always you and James who end up in the most trouble.

After one particular incident involving enchanted pudding that exploded in green clouds every time someone picked up a spoon, McGonagall personally handed you both matching detentions.

"I don’t even like pudding," you muttered as she led you down the corridor.

"But wasn’t it worth it?" James asked, his grin unapologetic. "Did you see Snivellus’s face? He looked like a swamp toad."

You tried to hold in your laugh and failed.

Detention turned out to be scrubbing trophy cases without magic. McGonagall gave you one look before leaving the two of you alone with buckets and rags.

James leaned on his mop like it was a cane. "You know, this is kind of romantic. Just you, me, and centuries of dusty cups."

You rolled your eyes. "You say that to all your detention partners?"

"Only the cute ones."

You threw your rag at him.

That became a pattern. Chaos, punishment, laughter. James Potter became your favourite person to get in trouble with.

It wasn’t just the trouble, though.

He listened when you talked, even when you didn’t realize you were saying something important. He challenged you to races on broomsticks. He defended you to older students who still scoffed at your last name. He made you laugh so hard you cried.

By the end of second year, something had shifted.

Not just in your friend group though that was true, too, but in you. Something settled in your chest like an ember waiting for a spark.

The four of you - James, Sirius, Remus, and you, had grown impossibly close. You knew how Peter fit into things, though he was quieter and less daring, often trailing after Sirius and James. But you were becoming a fixed part of the Marauders that blazed through the castle.

It happened slowly, in glances and secrets and sleepless nights.

You found out about Remus first.

Or rather, you pieced it together. The way he disappeared every month, the sick excuses, the cuts. The pale skin and darker eyes after he returned.

You and Sirius had snuck out to bring him soup from the kitchens once, and when you saw the claw marks on his arm as he slept, it all clicked.

"He’s a werewolf," you whispered to Sirius under the invisibility cloak.

Sirius didn’t argue. He just nodded, pale-faced and quiet. "We have to help him."

So you helped. The library became your haunt, not for classes, but for research. You dug through ancient transformation theories and forbidden transfiguration texts.

When Sirius brought the Animagus idea to James, he’d already practiced turning a matchstick into a bug thanks to your combined efforts.

You weren’t sure if you’d do it too. Becoming an Animagus was dangerous, but part of you wanted to, because Remus was your friend, and you weren’t going to let him feel alone.

But that plan would take time. Years. For now, you were just a group of misfits making big promises and risking detention to steal spellbooks.

Then came third year.

The Quidditch tryouts were announced a week into term, and Sirius couldn’t stop talking about it.

"We’re doing it," he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "All three of us. The Gryffindor dream team."

James beamed. "I’m going for Chaser."

"Beater," Sirius grinned. "Obviously."

They both looked at you. You raised a brow. "You want me on your team?"

"You’ve got the best reflexes out of all of us," James said easily. "You always catch my spells before they go off."

"And you’re mean when you block people," Sirius added. "Keeper suits you."

So you tried out, and you made the team.

The three of you spent the first month of the season in a blissful state of exhaustion. Practice before and after classes, bruises that turned green then gold with healing charms, and evenings spent sprawled across the Gryffindor common room floor with your limbs tangled together like dead spiders.

James was already obsessed. He lived and breathed broomsticks, muttered plays in his sleep, and spent hours drawing diagrams you barely understood.

You didn’t mind. It gave you more excuses to practice with him.

Some days, when everyone else was off doing homework or sleeping in, James would find you on the pitch, circling the hoops, challenging yourself to hold longer dives or sharper turns.

He always joined.

“Couldn’t let you get all the glory,” he joked once, landing beside you with a smile that made something flutter in your stomach.

It became a routine. You and James. Alone under grey skies or dusky sunsets. Sometimes, you raced.

Sometimes, you just tossed the Quaffle back and forth until your arms ached.

Sometimes, you talked about anything and about everything.

You learned that he hated liver, that his mum sang Muggle lullabies when he was sick, and that he wanted to play Quidditch Professionally one day.

He learned you used to steal books from your parents’ library to hide under your bed, that your biggest fear was being like your mother, and that Sirius once paid you in Chocolate Frogs to lie about him breaking your family’s expensive globe.

It was the little things, the quiet moments.

Until the day you fell - quite literally and figuratively.

It wasn’t dramatic. Your broom slipped in a sharp turn, and your hand missed the handle. One second you were in the air, the next your stomach dropped as you plummeted.

You had no time to scream. No time to think - then, arms.

James caught you mid-air, his broom wobbling under both your weights as he grunted and clutched you tight. "Got you," he breathed, eyes wide.

You stared at him, chest heaving.

His arms were around your waist. His face was inches from yours. His glasses were askew, his hair wind-tousled, and his heart was thudding against your ribs.

Your mouth went dry.

You’d seen James Potter a hundred times. In class, in the common room, in trouble, in laughter.

But now, he was something else. A blur of strength and concern and brightness that made your whole body light up. He grinned suddenly. "Falling for me already?"

You shoved him. Lightly. Weakly.

"Put me down, Potter."

"As you wish, m’lady."

He landed with a soft thud, letting you slide off his broom before hopping down beside you. Your cheeks were on fire.

You muttered something about your broom being old and faulty.

He didn’t tease you. Not like you expected. Instead, he reached out and tucked a stray hair behind your ear.

"You sure are handful, might need to drag you with me in the case you keep falling off brooms.."

Perhaps, that was when it started.

You’d looked at him, cheeks burning still from both the fear of falling and the catch. "You planning on getting old with me, Potter?"

He winked. "Depends. Are you inviting me?"

You had no answer for that, but the truth was, you kind of liked the idea.

By third year, your place at his side felt natural. Unshakeable.

And maybe, just maybe, that spark was starting to glow into something more.

But you weren’t ready to name it yet. Not when the trouble was so fun and the lines between friendship and something else were still blurred by laughter and daring.

Fourth year at Hogwarts started with Sirius Black falling in love (or so he says) at least five times before the first week ended.

You kept count, mostly to annoy him and to hold it over his head.

"That’s three today," you muttered as he flashed a grin at a Hufflepuff girl by the Great Hall.

Sirius shrugged. "I’m a generous soul. Why limit myself?"

You rolled your eyes. "You’re a menace."

He winked. "Takes one to know one, sister dearest."

You shoved his shoulder as you made your way to Charms, trying to ignore the gaggle of fourth-years giggling as Sirius passed.

Truthfully, his constant flirting didn’t bother you much,he was Sirius, after all. Reckless, charming, impossible. What did get under your skin was the way he’d toss his arm around your shoulder and say things like:

"You so much as look at a bloke and he’s getting hexed to the moon."

You scoffed. "You can flirt with the entire school, but I talk to one boy and you go full Black using unforgivables?"

Sirius looked smug. "Exactly."

You muttered something dark under your breath and kept walking. If he only knew.

Because, somewhere between third year Quidditch and late-night library sessions, your crush on James Potter had officially turned into something solid. Something spark-filled. Something that made your stomach do full somersaults every time he smiled at you.

And you were doing an excellent job hiding it. You thought.

Until Hogsmeade.

The first trip of the year landed on a crisp October weekend. You bundled into coats and scarves, excited to finally be allowed to go. The Marauders were beside themselves with plans, Zonko’s, Honeydukes, the Three Broomsticks.

By the time you reached the cobbled village streets, you were laughing so hard your sides hurt.

But somewhere between the sweetshop and the joke shop, the group split off.

Peter wandered off mumbling about sugar quills. Remus ducked into the bookstore. Sirius spotted someone and muttered, "Back in a tick," vanishing with a wink.

You and James stood awkwardly on the street corner.

He grinned. "Guess it’s just us."

Your heart leapt. "Looks like it."

He held out his arm dramatically. "May I escort you, Miss Black?"

You snorted. "You’re a twat."

"A twat with galleons. C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink."

You ended up wandering through the village together, trading insults and sweets, brushing shoulders a little more than necessary. He bought you a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks and a ridiculous quill shaped like a snitch from Scrivenshaft’s.

"You can use it to write all your love letters to me," he said.

"Oh, obviously. I’ll start with: ‘Dear James, stop buying me ugly quills.’"

"Rude. That’s top-quality craftsmanship."

You smiled until your face hurt.

At one point, walking back toward the castle in the late afternoon sun, your fingers brushed. You didn’t move away.

You got back to Gryffindor Tower with wind-chilled cheeks and a glowing chest. James had given you the quill with a goofy little bow and a low, “For you, my lady Keeper.”

You kept it tucked in your robe pocket the whole night.

You didn’t tell Sirius. Obviously. He would’ve had a heart attack, or worse, questions.

Instead, you lay in your bed that night, staring at the ceiling, twirling the quill between your fingers and smiling like a lunatic.

It wasn’t a date, not officially but it felt like one and that was enough to keep you floating for days.

"You’ve been weird lately," Sirius said two nights later, flopped upside down on the common room couch with his feet hanging over the back.

"Thanks, brother dearest."

"No, I mean - weird. Giggly, are you ill?"

You rolled your eyes. "Maybe I’m just happy."

"Gross."

"Maybe I met someone."

Sirius lifted his head, eyes narrowed. "If you did, I’m gonna need his name, wand make, and mother’s maiden name, patronus, boggart and quidditch opinions."

You laughed. You couldn’t help it.

Because you’d definitely met someone.

And you’d known him for years.

But you weren’t ready to admit it yet. Not to Sirius, not even to yourself.

Not when James Potter still looked at you like a best friend with a shared broomstick obsession and a knack for blowing up cauldrons.

Still, as you curled up that night, James’ laughter echoing in your ears, you let yourself believe, just a little, that maybe, one day, it could be something more.

Fifth year at Hogwarts exploded with noise, cheers, and scarlet streamers. Gryffindor had just demolished Slytherin in the first Quidditch match of the season, and the common room was practically vibrating with celebration.

You were still flushed from the adrenaline of the game, saves echoing in your ears, hands still tingling from the last block that sealed the win before your seeker caught the snitch.

James caught your eye across the room. He grinned that ridiculous grin, the one that started behind his eyes and tugged crookedly at his mouth.

“Oi, Keeper Extraordinaire,” he said, plopping beside you on the couch.

“You mean, Gryffindor’s Great Wall?” you teased.

He laughed, eyes bright behind his glasses. “You were brilliant today. Seriously. That dive at the last minute?”

You shrugged, trying to downplay it, but your cheeks were already warm. “All in a day’s work.”

He nudged your knee with his. “Don’t get modest on me now.”

The party swirled around you, music, firewhiskey smuggled in from somewhere, first years dancing awkwardly near the fireplace but it all blurred a little when James looked at you like that.

Like he was seeing you. Not Sirius’ sister. Just you.

Your eyes dipped to his lips before you could stop yourself and he noticed.

For a breath, the world stilled. Like the chaos ensuing around wasn't even happening. Then - “WHOOOOO!”

A body crashed between you and James, knocking you sideways into the armrest. Sirius, pissed as a skunk. Absolutely smashed, by the looks of him.

“Look at my baby sister,” he slurred, throwing an arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking your butterbeer over. “Flying like a bloody comet out there, almost makes me proud.”

You groaned. “Sirius, get off.”

He squinted at James, then turned to you. “Heard some Hufflepuff twats talking about you. Guess you’re grown now that you’ve got boys being gits over you.”

James coughed, very pointedly looking anywhere else. 

You shoved Sirius back, face burning. “Don’t start you tosser.”

He raised a wobbly finger. “You’re not allowed to date. Not ‘til I marry. That’s the rule.”

You glared. “Then I’ll be sixty, you wanker.”

Remus arrived, looking apologetic and mildly exasperated. “He nicked half a bottle of Firewhiskey and I couldn’t stop him.”

You sighed and motioned for him to help haul Sirius upright.

“Come on, Loverboy,” you muttered. “Off the couch.”

But the moment between you and James had passed. The spark snuffed out by the dramatic, drunken wall that was your brother. You were intending to go back to the party to rejoin him maybe and rekindle the blown out flame when you spotted him grinning widely at Lily Evans through his goblet.

You ended up turning around and retreating to your dorm room.

Later that week, things turned quieter. Quieter between you and James. More cautious. But something shifted elsewhere.

You, Sirius, James, and Peter had been circling an idea since early spring of second year, an idea sparked when you, together, learned the truth about Remus’ monthly disappearances.

It had taken time. Remus never meant to tell you, he was terrified but secrets don’t last long among the Marauders.

Which is how the Animagus plan was born.

You’d thrown yourself into the research with Sirius back in second year, both of you locked away in the library for hours at a time, even stealing books from Grimmauld Place. James helped too, of course, but he wasn’t as obsessed. You and Sirius shared something about it, twins born into a house of monsters, doing something good for once.

You kept saying, “If Remus has to do this, he shouldn’t be alone.”

James agreed of course and Peter did not need much convincing. He was more than happy to offer all the help he could, that was - if he wasn’t too occupied by Quidditch. You could swear he breathed it.

Nothing similar to the Quidditch win party happened between you ever again. He was back to treating you like the usual. His best friend and also the sister of his other best friend, nothing more and nothing less.

It stung, but you bite down the bitter feelings knowing you had no right to be so upset such trivial matters of a crush on your brother’s best friend - such a cliché, really. You suppose it was almost a big bow to wrap this entire joke.

Black twins get sorted into the worst house possible, and you get a crush on the bloodtraitor heir your parents always berated you for befriending, how absolutely marvellous!

The transformations took years to master, of course. But by fifth year’s end, it was done.You four, against all odds and limitations of barely being of-age students of magic managed to actually perform such a difficult feat.

James: a magnificent stag.

Sirius: a proud black dog.

You: a sleeker black dog, with a white patch over your eye.

Peter : a rat.

“Twins ‘til the end,” Sirius had said when you both transformed for the first time, panting and wagging your tails beside each other.

Even James couldn’t tell you apart at first, your spot barely seen when running or in the dark. You all started sneaking out once a month. Joining Remus in the forest, running together like his little mismatched pack.

It wasn’t perfect, sometimes it was terrifying, but it was also loyalty, love, and friendship.

Something your family never taught you. The Marauders did.

Fifth year ended in a fire.

Not literal fire, though Sirius once joked that if he’d had a wand in his hand that night, he might’ve lit the bloody curtains ablaze himself.

No, it was worse than that. It was screaming, slamming doors, bruises in places your mother would never see.

And Sirius, curled up on the floor of your bedroom, shaking so hard you thought he might break apart. They proposed a marriage to him, one with a second cousin - not too close that you knew them well but also close enough to keep the toujour pur shit.

So crucio assaulted him over and over again, wracking his body until he couldn’t take it anymore and you jumped in. Taking some of the hits and it didn’t take long for them to finally stop.

They eventually got tired and let you both go. With Regulus’ help, you managed to haul Sirius into your room where you stood guard to keep him safe, or as safe as you could. He didn’t speak, he couldn't afford it that night, not with everything he endured. He just laid there, hollow-eyed and silent, and you sat next to him with your back to the door, wand in hand, daring anyone to come in.

They didn’t, much to your relief. They were off, and Regulus did not check in once. You knew he wanted to, knew he was badly worried but you made him promised not to come again, in the case they come back to finish Sirius off.

You wanted to keep your baby brother away from it.

The next morning, before the sun rose, you packed a bag.

“Get up,” you whispered. “We’re leaving.”

Sirius didn’t argue. You assist him, holding his weakened body up and he clung to you like you were his lifeline. Ignoring your own injuries, you held him.

The Potters’ doorstep glowed like salvation, when you reached there it felt like all the weight came off you. You could almost smell the familiar broom polish and peppermint tea. Many times you’ve been, but never like this.

You dread the whole thing, how you turned to this after everything that has happened. It was really unfortunate, the many memories that were all fun and good and bright, but now every step you took felt like a stain on all those memories.

Every pained step approaching the Potter manor’s entryway is an ink dropped on the beautiful photograph of your youth. You can’t undo it, hard as you try.

You prop Sirius on your side, holding him up better and raised your hand to ring the bell, every second spent waiting for the door to swing open is like a second spent under the crucio spell. You shut your eyes, willing your breath to even out.

James opened the door in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes - and then froze when he saw you both. You failed keeping your breath even, you choked before you could let the words out. You had to swallow thickly.

You weren’t sure what you looked like, but it must’ve been bad. Your hair was tangled, your brother’s face was bruised, and your hands were shaking.

“Please,” you said.

He pulled you inside without hesitation. He hadn’t fully registered your appearance, how Sirius was almost lifeless clinging off your shoulder and how broken you both looked. He hauled you in like it could undo everything.

You only meant to stay the night after dropping Sirius off.

Sirius needed somewhere safe, and you knew Euphemia and Fleamont Potter would never turn him away. You told yourself you’d drop him off, make sure he had food, and then leave. Return home, face your parents and go back to Regulus.

You were already reaching for your bag again when James stopped you, blocking you from getting through the door.

“You’re not going back,” he said.

“I have to,” you insisted. “They’ll - ”

“Hurt you,” James finished. “Just like they did him.”

You blinked. “It’s different.”

“Is it?”

You didn’t have an answer, he walked over to tug your sleeves, and it showed what he had speculated. Bruises littered your arms, similar to Sirius. You swallowed the lump forming in your throat.

You shake your head, tugging your arm back. "It's not that bad. Sirius, he - he took most of the hits, for me."

You choke on your sobs then. "My brothers always do, they try their best to protect me. I can't just leave Regulus back there, Sirius has you here, but Reggie - he won't have anyone."

James stepped closer, voice soft. “At least talk to Sirius about it first.”

You looked at Sirius. He was curled up on the couch, fast asleep under a blanket Mrs. Potter had tucked around him. For the first time in years, his face wasn’t clenched in sleep.

You looked away, swallowing thickly. Knowing damn well the moment you look at James, your resolve would melt like butter with a hot knife. So you tugged your arm free of his hold and shook your head.

“Let me go or I will hate you for the rest of my life,” you threatened him and the seconds he took to answer scared you. He would be willing to be hated if you managed to stay safe with him, at least.

He’s too good. Perhaps that was why, why you managed to fall despite yourself. Why his smile made your stomach do flips when he was supposed to be a brother to you as well, Merlin knows Sirius saw him as one - but you saw differently.

He was never James, Sirius’s friend. He was always just James. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” He asked, unsure.

“I’m sure,” you adjust the bag and give him a small smile without meeting his eyes. You stopped right at his nose. “Bye, James.”

You didn’t wait for him to return it, he didn’t want to. You just got out of the house without bidding the Potters and your brother goodbye, to walk back into the hell you were bred into to suffer more under the hands of people who should have cared the most for you.

Sixth-year was absolutely weird. The world has shifted so much then. Sirius left, you helped him escape and yet you crawled back into the snake’s den to stay. Sirius understood why you did it, without having to ask James, he knew why you returned.

He couldn’t say it didn’t hurt, because it hurt like hell. You were practically another half of him, he wasn’t whole without you but reality has set in and the truth is that only one of you can truly escape the home that shackled you all down.

And if anyone were to ever get out, it’d be Sirius.

You boarded the train with Regulus, he asked you not to leave him. So you obliged and occupied a compartment with Pandora who you had no solid opinion of, you barely talked and she didn’t seem to be a bad influence on your brother.

You just looked out into the blur of countryside out the window while they chatted about things only they understood. That was until, you had to use the bathroom and leave briefly. You muttered an excuse you barely remembered giving then exited into the train hallway where you saw James right away.

You give him a small smile. You can read the worry in his face, all the questions he was about to shout out so you went ahead and answered him, guessing that he was struggling what to ask first.

“I’m fine, despite everything,” you managed a low chuckle. “How’s Sirius?”

James seemed to collect himself then. “He’s. . .coping. Did they - “

You cut him off. The truth will just hurt the both of you, because of course they did. Your twin brother escaped from his abusive home and you helped him, they knew that much was true because they hurt Sirius so bad it would have been impossible for him to crawl out alone.

So they hurt you as well, over and over until the lines blurred between being awake and in pain, and being out of it. Regulus had to nurse you back to health with Kreacher, which was quite a feat. You could swear you have never seen Regulus cry until that night he thought you’d died.

He was always so strong, so good despite how he carries himself and he loved you and your twin so much beyond words could possibly express. He was just a kid, you know that.

And you were all he has left. So you cut James off - “That’s good to know. Didn’t give Effie and Monty much trouble, did he?”

James was stunned but managed to respond, “No, he’s been. . .he’s fine. Hey - “ As if on cue, Sirius appeared behind him. He was smiling at James and about to go off about some dungbombs he set off until his eyes saw you.

You give him a weak smile. “Good summer?”

He didn’t find humor in it. He strode past James and rushed to hug you, a sound that was almost a huff leaving you as you returned the hug. You could tell he was trying not to cry as he hugged you so tightly.

Life at Hogwarts was almost the same then. Only, you spent more time with Regulus than you did previously, he had been quite clingy ever since that night he cried and he made his dislike for James very obvious.

To the point he would be scowling if he was around, completely oblivious to the way your heart did cartwheels at the very sight of James Potter. He’d often approach, always as a friend and with friendly gestures.

It always disappointed you.

He once put your hand in his pocket on a walk back from the library because it was cold. "Warming charm’s a bust," he said, grinning. "You're handier."

You knew better than to read into it, you always knew better.

Because he never said anything. Never did anything. Not anything that could blur the lines between ‘friends’ and ‘something more’ at least, and James Potter was nothing if not direct when he wanted something.

So you told yourself it was platonic. He was like this with people he cared about - warm and golden and effortless. You just happened to be orbiting close enough to feel it.

You were still telling yourself that when Hogsmeade weekend rolled around.

You weren’t even planning to go, not really with everything that had gone on during the summer. You doubted a butterbeer could make any difference, not when everything has changed. But you'd thought maybe you’d run into him, get Honeydukes together or sit by the Three Broomsticks fire. Nothing fancy, just the kind of day friends have.

Except you saw him by the gates, laughing with a Ravenclaw girl you barely knew the name of. Her scarf was wrapped loosely around her neck, her mittened hands swinging too close to his. He leaned down to say something and she laughed.

You stood there longer than you should have, like an idiot.

He didn’t even see you.

That’s when it hit you. Not like a slap. Slaps are quick and clean. This felt more like ice water dumped on you, shocking, all-encompassing. She was real and she was with him - and you - you were a friend. Just a friend.

That’s all you’d ever been.

And maybe, if you were being honest, all he’d ever meant you to be.

You turned around and walked back up the path, third step and all, and you didn’t even flinch when it creaked. Just like how you remained stuck in the darkness of Grimmauld Place, you remained in the shadow where James Potter couldn’t truly see you.

end. masterlist

[gotta-winwin]

the neighbour | c.vn

⭐ starring: vernon chwe 💌 genre: fluff, angst | wc: 1.5k 💬 preview: you remember him vaguely, in the midst of dreams and faint shadow of a friend. vernon swore he would marry you once you were old enough. it’s been a lifetime since then, and you still live next door to each other– as strangers instead of the lovers you could’ve been. 

cw/tw: neighbour!vernon x reader, friends to almost lovers to strangers, missed opportunity, childish innocence, the first stumblings of love, a quiet goodbye no one can understand, fireworks

🪽 fic rating: pg  ☁️ masterlist & a/n: this event collection is filled with stories inspired by my own personal experiences with people. this one is : that one kid who lived next to me and swore he’d marry me once we were older than just 7. the musings of innocent, silly love without a care in the world. thank you to @chugging-antiseptic-dye for betaing!

now playing: 18 by one direction, i look in people’s windows by taylor swift

this is an addition to remember them…?, a celebration event for svt’s 10th anniversary. 

You watch Vernon grow up through a window: a doorway into Narnia. 

It starts with Spiderman stickers on the walls and toy trucks littering the floor. 

A young boy waves at you from his spot on the windowsill, a mop of curly brown hair covering his dark eyebrows. 

“What’s your name?” His voice is loud and full of energy. 

For a second you’re stunned. Your neighbourhood had always been filled with old folks who had grown tired of living– and now, there was a boy, waving at you like you were the moon. 

“I’m Y/N!” You yell back, and your voice is hoarse from prolonged silence. 

“I’m Vernon!” His smile is bright enough to be seen from where you stand, through the murkiness of your window. “Wait, let me show you something!” He ducks his head and disappears from view.

You wait. Even at such a young age, you were staring at him with a kind of exasperation and amusement that would follow the both of you through childhood. 

He reappears in the window holding a variety of DvDs in his hands. “My dad got me a new DvD player for my birthday. Do you want to come over?” 

He senses you hesitating before you. Vernon had always read you better than you could ever read yourself. “I have the new Terminator movie!” He waves the DvD case enticingly. 

You nod, agreeing to meet him at his front door for the movie. You watch him beam in excitement. 

Looking back at the memory, you still recall how you didn’t give a damn about the new Terminator movie. You had agreed purely because of the joy Vernon had on his face, sitting next to him in his bedroom as he ranted about how cool the action scenes were. Something about the reloading of a gun with one hand. 

You didn’t regret it, even now, in hindsight. It gave you your first dearest friend– and a stranger that would hold those memories in the palm of his hands, even if you’d never see each other again. 

Vernon rigs up a telephone between your windows. 

It’s made up of an old clothesline, paper cups, and a whole lot of duct tape. The device is reminiscent of the telephone line the two of you had made in science class at school. 

“Now we can talk whenever we want.” Vernon explains, tiny fingers tying the line to the hook by your curtains. 

“We already talk whenever we want.” You point out. 

Vernon glances back at you with a frown on his face. “Yeah, but we’re always yelling. What if we had secrets to share?” 

“You’re always over at my house anyways.” You rebuke his argument once again. 

His shoulders sink. “Shut up.” 

You walk over to tug at the knot, making sure it was secure. “I’m only joking, Nonnie. It’s a good idea.” 

Vernon lights up at the compliment. “Right?”

The two of you don’t ever use the telephone device. Instead, secrets are told underneath the duvet and in closets covered by winter jackets. 

Your parents joke that it won’t be long before their two families become one. It already has, Vernon’s parents are yours and vice versa, yet both you and Vernon are too young to understand that what your parents are implying is marriage. 

“Y/N, you must like Vernon.” Your mother comments causally on a random Tuesday afternoon. 

You’re one foot out the door towards Vernon’s house. 

“Yes, of course.” You reply, eyebrows furrowing at the question. “Vernon’s my best friend.” 

Your mother shares a smile with your father over the kitchen counter. 

“I swear one day I’ll be walking you down the aisle to marry that boy.” Your father jokes, a stern yet comedic expression crossing his face. 

You shrug, not quite getting it. “Whatever. Can I go play with Vernon now?” 

In the house next to yours, Vernon is faced with the same confusion. You enter his living room just in time to hear his father ask him about you. 

“So, you must really like Y/N.” 

Vernon’s sitting on the sofa, legs swinging mid-air, picking out the next movie you’re about to watch together. “Yes, of course I like Y/N.” 

“Like her enough to marry her one day?” There’s humour in his father’s voice at the question. 

Vernon shrugs. “Sure.” He spots you standing there and jumps off the sofa to pull you upstairs. “We’re watching a movie! We’ll be down for dinner.” 

It’s a silly joke, really. Neither you or Vernon thinks much of it. The conversation fades from memory as the two of you grow older, but the sentiment stays. As if it was something important that was supposed to happen. 

Vernon gets a puppy for his tenth birthday. 

You’re jealous, as you watch his parents settle the white and fluffy dog into his arms. 

“I want a puppy too!” You complain, pouting at your own parents. “Why does Nonnie get one? I’m literally older.” 

The parents laugh and Vernon raises the puppy towards you, a crooked smile on his face. 

“Here, Y/N.” He sets the ball of fur into your lap. “It can be our puppy. You can visit her whenever you want.” 

Both your parents coo at the sight, but they fall upon deaf ears. You stroke the puppy’s head and smile. “She’s cute.” 

Vernon hums, agreeing. “You should name her. I can’t decide.” 

“Snow.” It’s easy. Snow was you and Vernon’s favourite kind of weather. “She’s like a little snowball.” 

You can tell by the grin on Vernon’s face that he loves it. “She’s so tiny.” He scoops her up with just one hand and admires her. “I hope she stays this tiny.”

“The puppy will grow.” Your father comments from the other side of the living room. “She’ll grow with the both of you.”

You share a look with Vernon. “We’re never growing.”

“Yeah.” Vernon agrees. “I wanna stay like this forever.” 

It’s a childish comment. A fleeting, impossible wish to capture and freeze your childhood bliss. 

The first kiss is a stumble, a tentative and clumsy display of pure affection. 

You blink as Vernon pulls away, light pink coating his cheeks underneath the dimming light coming from the window. 

“What was that?” You raise a hand to your face as you feel warmth bloom into your cheeks. 

Vernon shrugs. “My parents do it all the time. They say you do it when you really love someone.” 

You smile. “You love me?” 

Vernon nods. “Of course.” 

“I love you too.” 

Vernon laces his hand in yours and turns back to the book he had been reading. Your heads bump together as you stretch out on the carpeted floor to read beside him. 

Neither one of you brings up the kiss again. Or the declaration of love. 

The first crack in the glass takes place somewhere in fifth grade. 

You knock on Vernon’s door, arms ladened with snacks and candy for your weekly movie binge on Friday nights. Sour Patch, Kinder Surprise, a bottle of orange juice. Vernon’s personal selection. 

His mom opens the door instead. 

“Vernon went out with his friends, honey.” There’s an apologetic look on her face that looks almost like sympathy. 

“Oh. He didn’t tell me.” It’s strange, but you don’t think much of it. You hand the snacks to his mother. “Give these to him, please.” 

“Don’t you want to keep these for yourself?” 

You shake your head. “I don’t like them very much. It’s Vernon’s favourite.” 

Vernon’s room is empty when you enter yours. The lights are off, and you squint to see that the Spiderman stickers have been peeled off the walls opposite his bed. 

One missed Friday night turns into two. Then three. Your parents pull you out of public school and move you to a school a city away. Friday movie nights become something a lifetime ago. 

You still see Vernon through the window some nights. You’re not home much anymore, and neither is he. 

But on the occasional nights where your schedules line up, you could spot him moving about his room, doing whatever teenage boys did. 

There are posters of cars and famous musicians covering his walls now. A new bed, a new gaming console. It looks entirely foreign– like you had never stepped foot into it before. 

Sometimes Vernon glances your way and you lock eyes. 

You wonder if he feels the same way about you that you feel about him. If your room also looked like a stranger’s. The pink walls were purple now, the childish toys on the counter replaced by books and a makeup mirror. 

He almost always looks away first. He’d blink rapidly as he averted his gaze to anything else, as if the very sight of you had burned his corneas and was painful to watch. 

You see him one last time at neighbourhood barbecue night in the middle of August. 

“Hey.” His voice is deeper now. He’s grown into himself. 

“Hi.” You don’t fail to notice the way his eyes rake across your figure as if he was trying to pick out what parts of you he still recognized. 

“I heard you’re leaving town. Heading east?” He shuffles until he stands right next to you, arm brushing against yours. 

“Yeah.” You had never planned to stay in your hometown for university. “I heard you’re staying.” 

Vernon nods. “I am. You know I never planned on leaving.” 

You’re caught off guard by the sudden familiarity because, you do know. “I guess.” You say instead. 

There’s a pause before Vernon speaks again, and your heart coils at his next words. 

“Snow misses you.” His voice is quiet, barely audible over the hum of the crowd. “She doesn’t understand why you stopped showing up.” He pauses. “I don’t either.” 

The admission is quiet. Heavy. Altogether unwelcoming. 

“Oh.” There’s nothing else you can say. I’m sorry didn’t really feel like enough. 

“You left.” He adds, and there’s no accusation in his voice. Just a fact. 

The past is a blip in your memory as you try and recall what exactly tore the two of you apart. “I guess I did. I didn’t have much of a choice though. My parents wanted–” 

“I know. And I guess I wasn’t that great of a friend once we got older.” Vernon remembers neglecting you in favour of his newer, cooler friends. 

He reaches for your hand as the neighbour uncles start lighting the fireworks. It’s a fumble, uncoordinated and unfamiliar, as your fingers laced together for the first time in years. Neither one of you says anything, as you crane your necks to watch the fireworks fly. 

Vernon squeezes your hand once. Twice. One final time. 

A silent goodbye. A silent agreement that it was for good this time. 

You return to your childhood bedroom after graduating university. It’s a stranger to you now too. 

A shadow crosses your wall as you pack your childhood into cardboard boxes. You turn to see Vernon’s window is opened, and you watch silently as he packs his own memories into boxes too. 

He still looks the same through that window. Grown, taller, but still the same. 

You were proper strangers now. Strangers who knew each other takeout orders. Strangers who had seen each other laugh. And cry. And leave. 

A twist of pain enters your chest as you watch Vernon close his curtains. His eyes are fixed on a patch of peeling paint on your side of the house– anything to not look at you.

The curtains slide shut. A finale to your time together.

You each leave your respective houses and drive towards the undecided future as two separate entities. 

The bedrooms are empty, quiet. 

The telephone line sways in the wind, dirty and frayed. Neither one of you ever attempt to take it down. 

author’s note : 

A letter to r. 

In all honesty, I can barely remember you now. I remember blips, as if the times with you were something in dreams. 

But I do remember how alive I felt next to you, the middle of the summer, barrelling down the sidewalk in a golf cart. I remember how your dog’s claws feel against the skin of my thighs whenever she’d jump up to welcome me in. I remember movie night. I remember you. 

We don’t see much of each other anymore. And in all honesty, I’m okay with that. We were brilliant together as kids but sometimes things are just that. Just that. Nothing more than a pair of best friends who thought we could never grow up and stay innocent and lively forever. 

There’s a poem I wrote, years ago, as I walked past your house on my way to work. 

ten years old  driving a golf cart down the hill  going too fast, we tipped over  and almost killed ourselves  your dad and my dad joked we’d grow up to marry each other neither one of us took that seriously  we don’t talk anymore  i walk past your house on the way to work each summer morning your dog still sits patiently outside your window as if she’s waiting for me to come home after six years  as if she doesn’t understand why i stopped showing up 

 I hope you remember it all too. 

[honeyvettel]

1- Marc/Bezz

1. touch starved | marc/bez, friends with benefits. [900 words]

(from this prompt list here)

“you need to learn how to relax.”

it’s murmured low, somewhere between a laugh and a hush, lips brushing the warm skin just beneath marco’s ear. marc has been mouthing at his jaw for minutes now, and marco can’t seem to shake the static blooming in his chest, thick and golden like heat from too close a flame. fucking marc, that marco knows how to do it; a little rough, faces turned, his grip firm at the back of marc’s neck when he asks. it’s primordial, almost, the way their bodies slap together, skin against skin, marc breathing “harder” against the sheets, until marco angles his hips to a particular spot and they come together, groan scraped from the bottom of their throats. the after is—different. marco doesn’t know why marc lingers; why he turns on his shaky arms and rolls on the spot near him and the time starts bending infinitely. he lays there, sometimes hooking a foot around his calf, unapologetic, and dozes off against his shoulder. it’s intimate and so strange and wrong that marco’s head can’t help but spin. he runs through every possible scenario in his head, until he eventually lands on the idea that marc is probably just a naturally tactile person, placing a different kind of value on their fuck time than he had anticipated.

“marco,” marc calls, so loud in the silence on the room that it bounces off the walls. there is now a hand around his waist, stroking up and down. it makes marco grit his teeth. “what,” he says flatly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “what are you thinking? you’re so—tense.” marc’s thumb finds the dip of his hip, strokes again, and it makes marco flinch like he’s been found out. he wants to move, swing his legs over the side of the bed, run miles away from marc and his touch and his curious eyes. “don’t you think this is weird?” he asks finally, not even sure what part of it he means. maybe all of it. marc’s brow furrows; "why?” he asks. “you know that—” “that you have an open relationship,” marco interrupts, sharper than intended. “yeah. i know.” that’s what pecco at least said to him; that when he’s not—in the right headspace, so to speak, he can ask marc. that he’ll be probably up to it. and so here they are. marc’s hand slides from his waist, and marco exhales like he’s resurfacing. “i can go if you want,” he says, plainly, his features settling into something distant and expressionless. marco’s heart trips. “i didn’t say that,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his curls. “i just—” but the rest whiters on his tongue. how’s he supposed to explain something he doesn’t even understand. “you should let me fuck you,” marc says, smirking. he lets his fingers drag slow, idle patterns across marco’s stomach, enough to make him twitch. “might help you calm down.” marco scoffs, quiet and automatic. “you think you’re that good?” the other laughs softly, not biting at the bait. “i think you’re that wound up.” marco keeps breathing through his nose, slow and tight, and doesn’t answer. marc’s hand is still against his stomach, and everything in his body feels like it’s trying not to react. there’s a tension that never really leaves, a kind of readiness, as if expecting every moment to be the one where things turn cold. it’s exhausting. his throat works. “you don’t even care,” he says, quietly. marc hums, low in his throat. “about what?” “about… this.” marco gestures vaguely—him, the bed, marc’s hand on his skin, the way the room is still too full. “you can just—do this, and then lie there, like nothing happened.” marc doesn’t take his hand away. if anything, he presses in just a little more, palm flattening over marco’s ribs like he’s grounding him. “it’s not nothing.” marco turns his head, finally meeting his gaze. marc looks at him like pecco sometimes does when he’s trying not to spook him—quiet softness worn without shame. “i don’t get you. i don’t know what you want.” marc shrugs, barely a twitch of his shoulder. “i don’t need anything from you.” marco flinches before he can stop himself, like hitting on a fresh bruise. that should make it easier, shouldn’t it? that marc doesn’t want anything. he stares at a point on the wall, breath caught halfway in his throat. something bitter curls beneath his ribs, and he’s not sure if it’s disappointment or relief. his chest feels tight either way.

there’s a long pause where marc watches him for a beat, eyes flicking over his face, and then he rolls onto his back; he folds his hands behind his head and stares up at the ceiling, their bare shoulders nearly touching. “you always do this?” he asks, calmly, not an accusation. “even with pecco?” suddenly, marco wants to pull the sheet over his body, too aware of his own nakedness, how open this all feels. “it’s different,” he says, not bothering to explain further. he thinks of how pecco doesn’t like to be touched without warning. how even small gestures can make him flinch. their sex is careful, efficient. gentle in its own way, but with rules. marco never crosses them, never asks for more. he’s lucky to have what he gets. he knows that. marc though—there’s something feral and fluid about him, about the way he holds both cruelty and care in the same breath, can offer you your own unraveling like a gift. marco thinks of his offer again, unprompted: you should let me fuck you. his skin prickles.

[cultkinkcoven]

NSFW minors get the fuck out of here

k so…

I’m not sure I know how to explain this.

since the whole “only engage in sex if you really want it/balance your desire with your actions” thing, I’ve noticed that Lucifer’s’ actions are..,

different.

He made a comment about objectifying or sexualizing me today. Like “well now that you’ve given me permission to objectify you” or something about seeing my body as a sexual object; and how he did not before. He found me aesthetically pleasing or something but didn’t explicitly eroticize me for his own enjoyment, or tried not to. and now he does.

and it’s…. hm…..

He makes comments about things he otherwise wouldn’t have.

He made a comment about me gaining weight, it came out as an observation. Like “you gained a little weight” to which I was like ? ? ??

for context I’ve literally never had a thing about my weight, I don’t track it, I don’t care or notice if I gain or lose anything idk. It’s not like I would feel any kind of shame for gaining or losing weight. And I was like ? is that? bad? good? and he was just like “it’s okay.” and I’m like ??? ok…??

and then it came up again, and he was like “you’ve lost a little weight...” and i’m like ? ok?

He made a comment about me having washed my hair, again, kind of like an observation. “Your hair is washed”, not “oh your hair looks nice, you look pretty,” just, your hair is cleaner than before.

Yesterday he asked me to do a bunch of jumping jacks before doing my prayers. and I was like “ok but why” and he was like “it makes it better for me… I want you to,” - no real practical explanation, usually it’s like “the blood flow will help activate whatever”, but no, just “I want you to.”

and I realized after doing it that he wanted me breathless. As I was saying my prayer and taking breaths in between, he would swell in approval, or pleasure.

and “little.” something about smallness, but not in a degrading or even really infantilizing way. When he’s getting off he’ll suddenly start describing me as little. “Your little hands, your little tummy, your little face”.

the other thing is that like he says it differently. idk how to explain that it feels like the way you feel as a child when you hear a dirty joke or innuendo. And it’s like I know this is erotic and adult or unspoken and I know this person is feeling something I’m not but I have no real understanding of what that thing is. I don’t know what about this is naughty exactly. But like, I recognize it. You uh…. ? I think you’re getting off on this. I don’t know which part of it but I know your tone changed.

Sometimes when he compliments me now, it doesn’t feel at all like a compliment. It’s not, it’s more of a statement. Like a check. “You smell good”- not a compliment. I’m not entirely sure what exactly it is. “You look good”- not nice, but good, like right. acceptable. and it always makes me slightly nervous. Not uncomfortable or anything; not in a bad way, just vaguely nervous.

and on the flip, when I don’t look good, he like, gets off on the idea of making me “look good”. But good to him is like .. possessed …??? fucked ? something that I suppose is only achieved after he’s affected me.

like “oh, you don’t look good. Let me fix you up, I know what you need.”

which is… new.

Eye contact has always been a thing with him but now it’s a lot more controlled and extreme. Needs to be very constant during intimacy, but he’ll also now randomly demand moments of prolonged eye contact and then go back to whatever with no explanation. But he’s satisfied something clearly.

It’s extremely interesting seeing what his actual desires and fixations are… because they’re not at all what I would expect. Before Lucifer never really did anything that was very far beyond anything I’m into. as in he didn’t present any kinks or anything that weren’t obviously and clearly derived from my own desires.

But now I’ve noticed he’s extremely into scent and I think sweat by extension. He’s also very in tune to like, bodily changes. Moisture levels for lack of a better term. Hair growth and maintenance , he comments on my shaving or not, on my hair growing all over my body. “You shaved… your hair is growing back in now,..”

Mouth and throat stuff too, a lot. I’ve always had a thing for like choking, collars, breath play, but he’s really into specifically tongue and mouth stuff, and spit.

He’s been doing this thing where he’ll just randomly ask me to open my mouth and stick out my tongue. He’ll look inside my mouth and down my throat. Sometimes he puts his fingers in my mouth, or like, fucks with my mouth, just squeezes my cheeks and lips and messes with my face. Which I at first thought was teasing or like light bullying. But then he started doing it more often and during intimate moments.

Or he’ll make me stick out my tongue until my spit drips into his hand, or explicitly ask me to spit into his hand and then start playing with it between his fingers. Which I think is gross, and when he did it and I was like “ew, Lucifer that’s gross”, he kind of just smirked and made the kind of face your dad makes when you catch him kissing your mom. Like oh yeah yeah, yucky.

He does that think where he’ll like ask me to spit in his hand and like ,, jerk himself with it. And I know that’s like a thing people do to lubricate or whatever, but he didn’t do that before, and he doesn’t exactly need to. It’s like he’s literally fucking my spit …

There’s something with my body being in different positions, not necessarily even erotic ones. It comes up very unexpectedly. I’ll be idk cleaning my room or something, and be crouched down, and he’ll ask me to stop. And i’m like ?? and he’s like “look up, turn your hip,” and i’m like? ok? he wants me to stay in a very particular position. and he’s like “yeah, stay like that for a minute… yeah…” and it’s like

yknow that feeling when you’re like on the phone with someone and they go kinda quiet and you know they’re like, jerking off? You can kinda hear them shuffling around. Or like if you’ve ever been in a bed with someone and you know, you can like feel the movement of their hand. That’s like how it’s been. I’ll like freeze for a minute and then after a moment he’ll be like “good, good job, good boy. you can move now, thank you.”

and I’m like hhhmhmm okay. You just did something. okay.

Interesting….

[arsenicflame]

I don't think Izzy hates Valentine's Day, but I do think Izzy hates Valentine's Day- the pomp and ceremony of it all, the crowds and the noise and the expectation to do things that he doesn't enjoy, or find romantic, or see the point of. Flowers die, restaurants are as busy as they ever get (not to mention his food intolerances), chocolates and hearts are a hollow present that shows his partner doesn't know anything about him...

He's happy to do something romantic, mark the occasion- even if they could do it just the same at any other time- but what he wants is something that feels like it matters to him. A quiet night in with his favourite meal cooked exactly how he likes it, a rerun of his favourite movie.... time spent together with nobody else around. A simple, quiet love.

[moonimii]

SOBBING CRYING GAGGING THROWING UP. Any Ways!!!! Various silly guffaws and doodles I’ve drawn while trying to figure out how to go about drawing tgis new batch of silly guys…

[beeapocalypse]

cerebros i have known u for only two days but i love u dearly

[dead-thorin]

Recent gaming opinions:

Blasphemous good

Hollow knight can eat me

[homely-ghost]

If I had a nickel for every time I made a made up fanfic in my head and got so attached that I wanted to make it its own story, I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but fuck do I need to stop.

[mostly-imagines]

The Venus Drug

jason todd x afab!reader

aka the side effects of a run-in with poison ivy

warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), sex pollen so its inherently not strictly speaking consensual, oral (f & m receiving), free use, overstimulation

A clattering in your living room has you blearily shifting awake. The dark of your bedroom takes your eyes longer to adjust to than usual, it feels like. You peer at the time, finding it only just past midnight. Even on the good nights, midnight is pretty early for him to be coming back. 

Though, there’s really little concern of the noise-maker being anyone but your boyfriend, he’s set up too many security measures and failsafes around your apartment for anyone to get lucky waltzing in. It does worry you though that he is making such a clamor when he’s usually so careful about entering silently as to not wake you. 

You’re about to climb out of bed to investigate when the door creaks open, though light doesn’t flood through the crack like you’d expected.

Jason stumbles into the doorway, falling into a lean against the wall for support.

You sit up quickly, instantly on alert. “What’s wrong?”

He takes one glance at you and immediately averts his gaze to the floor like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to.

You look down, thrown by his behavior, only to see your usual nighttime attire: one of his shirts over underwear.

You blink back up at him, furrowing your brow. “Jay?”

You can vaguely make out a sigh from him, “Fuck…” he squeezes his eyes shut. “Ivy..”

Ah. This has happened before to the others, but this is the first time you’ve seen him affected by it. You’re prepared for it, though you hadn’t anticipated that it would be so seemingly debilitating.

“What can I do?” You try not to look as concerned as you feel but you can’t say with confidence that it’s working.

He slowly pushes himself off the doorframe, heading wearily towards the bathroom. He tugs his shirt off with difficulty, tossing it to the side. “Nothing, nothing..I jus’ need to…” he takes a deep breath, “Get it out of my system..” He’s trying to be comforting but the pain in his voice rids it of all believability.

You frown, watching him linger. “That seems like the exact kind of thing I could help with.”

His eyes close helplessly as his head falls back, “You can’t, baby.”

“Why not?”

He sighs, “I’m not…as in control as I’d like to be right now.”

Your pout deepens. This is something you’re working on with him—trusting both you and himself with vulnerability. Especially when it comes to situations where he feels like he’s putting you in a vulnerable place too. But you trust him with your whole being and you want him to know it. “That’s okay.”

“No,” he shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you say resolutely. “I trust you.”

He wavers, “No, I…No. I can’t.”

He says that, but he’s still not retreating to the bathroom. Instead, he loiters awkwardly, like he’s caught between decisions.

You feel a twinge of heartache in your chest, “Does it hurt?”

He’s quick to answer, “I’m alright.” Though he doesn’t try his hardest to sell you on the idea. 

Your face pans, “That’s not what I asked.”

“I—” he huffs, conceding. “Yeah. Yes.”

You extend your arms out, beckoning him towards you. It clearly goes against his better judgment but he can’t help himself from moving closer to you. An evident testament to the strength of Ivy’s work.

You take his hands in yours, looking up at him with begging eyes, “Let me help you? Please?”

Up close like this you can really see how labored his breathing is and how pained he looks. You sit up onto your knees, pulling his hands closer. “I wanna take care of you. Let me help my boy out. He deserves it.”

He steels his jaw, trying to replenish his rapidly weakening resolve. He exhales heavily before grabbing your chin, eyes serious. “Look at me,” he says sternly. “You stop me if I’m too rough.”

You nod adamantly, “I will.”

You fidget with the loop of his belt, waiting for permission. 

He squeezes your hands slowly, head bowing. “Help me, sweetheart.”

You’re instantly up on your feet, maneuvering him to switch places with you and sit down on the bed. You kneel down in front of him, undoing the clasp on his belt.

You tug his belt off, letting it clatter on the floor before freeing him the rest of the way. To your surprise, his eyes remain on you rather than your actions. He brushes your hair out of your face haphazardly, murmuring, “Pretty fucking girl..”

You keen at his words, fighting the urge to pause and rub up against him. Instead, you busy yourself and lick a line up his cock, immediately feeling his body stutter. You lick another stripe, this time adding a kiss afterwards.

His hands squeeze at the comforter under him, “Baby, please.”

You give a short nod before taking him in your mouth completely. He groans like it’s automatic, body practically vibrating in place. You rest your hands over his and he’s quick to turn his own over to hold onto yours.

It only works as a momentary distraction, as one of his hands leaves your grasp to move your hair from blocking his view again, petting your head nicely as you suck him off. “Oh, good girl. My good girl.”

He babbles when he gets overwhelmed during sex, though it doesn’t happen often. And especially not like this.

“Fucking—” he stammers, “God, you’re so—”

Frankly, the image of you on your knees in front of him, so willing and eager to help him out…it’s killing him. He’s putting absolutely all of his remaining restraint into not taking over and fucking your mouth the way he wants to—and it shows—so you’re doing your best to take as much of him in your mouth as you can and using your hand to compensate for the rest.

His head bobs back as his hand falls to a rest atop your head. His breathing is deep and heavy and you can see the way his abs flex through his restraint. His hand briefly fists up before stuttering back to lay open-palmed on your head.

“Oh, baby—” he lets out a gravelly moan and his arms nearly give out from holding him up as he comes.

You happily collect it on your tongue and he audibly groans when you swallow.

He’s quick to pull you up off the floor and place you on the bed so he can clamor over you. You fall back to have your arms hold you up as he finds your lips. 

“Take your shirt off,” he tells you breathlessly. “Please.”

You oblige without hesitation as he kisses and gropes along your torso. You don’t realize what he’s doing until he’s at face level with your underwear, fingers dipping under the band.

You sit up onto your hands, “Jay, you don’t have to—”

He shakes his head, “‘M not gonna hurt you,” he mumbles, very adamant. “Not doin’ it.”

It’s been a long running personal requirement for Jason to thoroughly prep you in some way before fucking you, and he’s right for it—you would definitely get hurt if he didn’t.

You feel conflicted about it now though, like it’s not fair of you to let him pay such mind to you when he’s quite literally in unprecedented pain.

But he slips your underwear down without hesitation, not wasting any time in getting to work. He doesn’t start with his usual teasing and build-up, instead he goes straight into licking at your core, eyes closed and strands of white hair stuck to his forehead. 

He hooks one hand around your knee and the other wraps around your thigh, pulling you closer. He used the newfound proximity to lap at you with more concentration and purpose, quite literally devouring you. You struggle to keep your breathing in tune with the rest of your body, not having been prepared for so much so quickly.

He’s eating you out like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, not giving himself any time to breathe or even think about anything else. You’re about to push him away so that he’ll take a breath or two when he moans into your cunt, instantly veering your brain straight off course.

He breaks from licking your pussy only to change course in favor of sucking on your clit, leaving open-mouthed kisses every few seconds. You thread your fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him as best you can.

This is a new experience for both of you in terms of intensity and desperation and it has you feeling like you were injected with the same toxin he was. It throws you so completely out of your senses that you don’t even notice that he’s rutting into the bed as he kisses you. Though, odds are he doesn’t realize he’s doing it either.

His grip on you tightens as he gets more fervent, the dig from the indents of his fingers promising to bruise. His eyes flutter as he makes out with your pussy, little mewls making their way through periodically.

“Jay—” you cry, tugging harder than you’d meant to on his hair. He hums in response, letting you know that he’s here, he’s with you, he’ll take care of you. 

Even high out of his mind he can still read you like a book, and can tell that you’re nearing your peak. He gets meditated and precise with his actions, leading you right up to the edge. You whimper again and he begins to rut harder.

It takes only a few moments of this repetition for you to briefly tense up before you start to tremble, heat flooding through your body. The saccharine new taste of your cum motivates him to reach his own end, moaning into you and sending a second wave of rapture over you.

You exhale heavily as his forehead drops against your stomach, catching his breath. It doesn’t take him very long. 

You can just start to realize the persistent trembling in your thighs when he licks another stripe down your pussy. You whine, sitting up on your elbows and squirming higher up on the bed.

He pulls back murmuring, “Sorry.” He kisses the inside of your thigh, “Sorry.”

You watch as he pushes up on his forearms to look at you proper, seeming almost dizzy. “I need..I need…” his shoulders drop. “Please.”

You just nod, giving him permission to do whatever he needs. 

He pulls you up by the waist and tugs you into him as close as he can, kissing you hard. You move to hold his jaw in your hands, stroking your thumb across lightly. He leans you backwards to lay you down flat, head just below the pillows. He folds over you easily, kisses becoming less and less intentional in placement as his hands stroke and squeeze up your sides. 

He pulls away only to glance down as he lines himself up with you, pushing in slowly. He peers back up at your face as he does, watching carefully to make sure it doesn’t hurt.

You hold onto his shoulders as you take him, the stretch feeling significant but familiar.

He kisses your cheek once he’s fully inside and begins to rock in and out of you slowly. The pace picks up quickly as he continues to makeout with you.

A particularly intense thrust has you wrapping your arms fully around the frame of his shoulders, hugging him close to you. He immerses himself in the crook of your neck, fucking you with deeper and more punctuated strokes than you can remember.

“Jay,” you gasp as he places firm kisses across your jaw like he’s trying to hammer it into your head that he fucking loves you.

His thrusts gradually get faster and while it’s perfectly overwhelming for you, it doesn’t seem to be enough for him. 

He huffs before pulling out of you without warning. He untangles your arms from around him so he can flip you over to lay on your stomach. He pulls you back up just as quickly, arm wrapped around your torso, leaving you to hold yourself up by your hands and knees as he kisses on your neck messily.

This time when he reenters you he continues on with his previous pace, taking you by surprise once again. Your mouth is practically hanging open as he ruts into you, successfully sending your thoughts straight out of your head.

He lays kisses down your spine murmuring, “I love you.” He moves in and out of you without falter, “Thank you, thank you..”

His hands hold your waist in place, keeping you steady for both of your sakes. Multiple times his grip tightens only to loosen the second he realizes how hard he’s squeezing you. You don’t mind though, you’ve never had any trouble revering marks left behind by him before. 

“It’s—” you pant, “It’s okay—” you reach back to put your hand over his, pressing down.

His brash hold returns upon the permission, more assured. “Good girl, good—” he praises, “So fucking good for me, baby.”

He reaches around and dips his free hand below your hips, beginning to rub circles on your clit.

Your arms shake and you worry that they’re nearing buckling, but, attuned with you as ever, his arm wraps tighter around your middle, pulling you up a bit higher so that you barely have to mind any of the work of holding yourself up.

He makes sure to support your weight nicely, holding you in a way that he knows won’t be uncomfortable for you. His circles never cease, never falter from that just right pace he’s come to know like the back of his hand.

You’re brought to your high by the arrival of his, struggling to keep your head upright as you come.

He thumps down over to the side to lay on his back, chest heaving. You pick up your head to look over at him, finding that he doesn’t look nearly as exhausted as you’re sure you do. Still, he breathes heavy, pupils blown out and sweaty.

You notice how his fists clinch up and loosen a couple times over, trying to convince himself that he’s done, he doesn’t need any more from you, he’s all better now. 

But you also notice that he’s still hard. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, dead set on not looking at you and having to confront that he really, really does still need you.

So you force yourself to sit up, placing a hand on his chest for balance. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to relax for your sake but that’s the last thing you want him to do.

You push yourself up and over his waist, perching over his abs and brushing his hair back from his forehead. You press a kiss to his head before sitting up on your knees and reaching down to line his cock up with your entrance.

You plant a hand on his chest as you sink down onto him with a deep breath.

“You’re okay,” he rasps, watching in mesmerization as you start to lift your weight up slowly off of your thighs and sink back down.

“I’m okay,” you confirm, guiding his hands to your hips. The presence of his hands on you feels like reassurance and works wonders to help you pick back up some of your energy.

The pace you latch onto feels good, for both of you, but you realize fairly quickly that you’re not going to be able to go as fast as he needs you to.

His hands slip down from your hips to your upper thighs, helping you bob up and down. It doesn’t take long for this to give way to him grabbing your hips and moving you entirely himself.

You watch his arm muscles flex as he shifts you around, leaving you awed with the way he shows virtually no struggle while shifting the majority of your body weight up and down over and over again. Just being completely manhandled by him has you letting out an involuntary moan, letting your head fall back.

“There you go, there you go,” he coos, motions without cessation.

He has you riding him faster than you ever have before and it becomes overwhelming quickly. But Jason, ever the caretaker, coaches you through it, encouraging your every movement.

“That’s my girl,” he groans, watching the way your breasts bounce. “Perfect fucking thing.”

The acclaim in his voice makes your eyes shut and your diaphragm shake, all while he continues to fuck you senseless. 

Your body stutters above him, hands flying onto his for support. He comes only moments later, seemingly the only thing that could break his concentration for ragdolling you. The following release of your hips has you slumping over onto his chest, face laying in the bend of his neck.

He turns his head wearily to you, rubbing a hand up your back. “‘R you okay?” he slurs out.

You hum feebly, eyes unable to stay open.

“Can I…?” It takes hearing the words for you to realize that somehow he’s still hard.

You try to nod hard enough that it can be distinguished against the heaviness of your breathing, though you can’t be sure you were successful.

He sighs, “Baby…”

His hangup is immediately clear to you, even through the haze of being post-three orgasms in less than thirty minutes. It takes real, measurable effort to get this singular word through, but you manage.

“Yes,” you breathe out. A ‘yes’ is going to have to work for him because you don’t have a shot at stringing together anymore syllables.

He places a gentle hand on the back of your head, his other landing on your lower back. He slowly starts to fuck you again, this time much softer than before. It’s calm enough that you can settle into the fatigue in your bones and start to feel the exhaustion sweep over your consciousness.

In between kisses laid sweetly upon your neck, He murmurs affections to you the whole time, though you lose almost all of them to sleep. He moves you around a bit more as he goes, though careful to be gentle enough that he doesn’t disturb your peace anymore than he has to.

By the time he’s done he’s bordering on completely out of it and can’t do anything but collapse atop you, nuzzling into your neck.

There’s a pretty consistent pattern that can be found when helping him deal with post-patrol aftermath. Scarecrow’s never any good, his pop-ups tend to end in winding Jason down from panic. There’s always injuries after Bane and invariably there’ll be a mess from Clayface. Half the time he has to get an entirely new suit after a run-in with Killer Croc. So as far as Gotham’s problems go, Poison Ivy isn’t the worst. 

the morning after epilogue

✨ oh you don’t reblog? that’s…no, that’s totally fine for you! im so happy for you…i mean its just been out of fashion for like three seasons but yeah, that shows a lot of…confidence! ✨

[fairsweetlonging]

truth serum / system reveal au where shen qingqiu gets hit with an uncloaking spell that reveals the system in the reflection of his eyes every time it pops up.

during one of his missions, in the treasure hoard of some dragon-like creature, he finds a golden, oval shaped hand mirror, its gaudy style more victorian based than anything (airplane you hack!), that doesn't seem to do anything when he looks into it. but when he does, it reveals the system's screen in his eyes.

he doesn't notice this, of course, because he can't see it, and the system, surprisingly, stays quiet.

the peak lords think he's cursed.

maybe mu qingfang is the first to notice, during the mandatory post mission check-up, when shen qingqiu is scrolling through his most recently accumulated points and mu qingfang can see the strange vividly-blue lines reflected in his pupils. it's gone when shen qingqiu blinks, like it was nothing but a trick of the light.

it comes out when yue qingyuan is visiting and, just as he's done laying out the plans for a new mission, shen qingqiu's eyes glaze over and a bright blue box takes over the whole of his iris. shen qingqiu goes quiet; the thing in his eyes moves, shifts, pulses for a second, like static worms crawling all over his pupils. then he blinks, and it's gone, and shen qingqiu accepts the mission that yue qingyuan was almost sure he would decline.

maybe there is an intervention, when the peak lords corner shen qingqiu at qian cao peak and try to figure out what's wrong, subjecting him to all kinds of treatments and curse-finding spells that turn up empty, they can't find anything.

of course, the silencing threat is still very much up and running. at first shen qingqiu was kind of confused by the whole ordeal, but when the peak lords start describing a "strange blue box", he realizes, with sickening suddenty, that they're describing the system. and he can't say anything.

this only makes everything worse, because their fellow peak lord now keeps evading every question and acts like he doesn't understand. liu qingge points right at his face and asks, "that blue box, what is it?" and shen qingqiu laughs nervously and starts talking about how bright the weather is and surely it's the sky and nothing to worry about!

even worse, during the intervention the system thought it was a good idea to start talking to him, so now even the peak lords who hadn't seen it and who might have been persuaded by light tricks and reflections, get a first row view that no, that definitely isn't a trick of the light.

they try to do the whole thing of "are you in danger, blink twice" but shen qingqiu can't even do that because it's still a direct admittance!

maybe eventually he starts saying vague confirmations that don't actually confirm anything, like "this master hears what you're saying", or maybe he goes with a classic "this master can neither confirm nor deny that." but the system starts warning him for that too and eventually he stops saying anything, which worries the others more.

luckily mu qingfang catches on that every time they ask a direct question about the box or shen qingqiu says anything vaguely confirming, it appears. it doesn't appear when they ask about curses or demons, so it must not see that as a threat.

for a little extra angst: maybe the peak lords keep pressuring him for answers, and at some point shen qingqiu gets fed up and snaps out something like, "why don't you understand that i'm not allowed to answer that!" the system counts this as a direct admittance, threatening it's existence. so it punishes. shen qingqiu has a qi deviation so bad it lasts two weeks and takes two people every day to cleanse his meridians. the system doesn't appear in that time. it doesn't appear for a long while after that, either. the peak lords stop asking, mainly because shen qingqiu will instantly leave the room if they do. they don't stop searching for a cure, though.

shang qinghua returns from a business trip and catches on the second someone mentions a blue box and forced silencing.

[helaintoloki]

Across the Hall

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings/notes: kind of a slow burn with fluff, angst, themes of insecurity, violence, reader has an abusive ex, eventual happy ending

a/n: this took me forever to write but hopefully you guys like it! and also friendly reminder that my requests are open so feel free to send in your ideas :)

summary: Bucky’s quiet life is disrupted when a new neighbor seeks his help

It starts with three knocks to his door.

Bucky had only been home for five minutes since returning from his workout when the noise startled him out of his contemplative state. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the interruption considering he wasn’t expecting company so late into the evening, but he felt obligated to throw on a sweater to cover his arm and answer the door for whoever stood on the other side.

The man is taken aback when he finds you standing there before him nervously wringing your hands together with a timid smile. He doesn’t quite recognize you, but he vaguely recalls hearing word of a new tenant in the building and assumes that must be you. He notes the way your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of him and shifts uncomfortably in response, unsure as to what exactly it is you’re here for.

“Hi,” you promptly greet after regaining your composure. He’s much more handsome up close, and you hadn’t been prepared for that. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I kind of have a bookshelf that’s a bit too heavy for me to move on my own and I was hoping you could help me? I just moved in across the hall so I’m trying to get settled in, but it’s proving to be more difficult than I anticipated.”

The stoic man can’t help but to let out an amused chuckle at your predicament; you appear so jumpy and nervous after asking such a mundane request, but he oddly finds it endearing. Bucky was known to keep to himself and avoid interactions with other tenants, but he figured he could make an exception for a new neighbor.

“Sure,” he offers with a friendly smile, feeling oddly proud at the look of relief that washes over your features in response. He didn’t exactly have any exciting plans for the evening, so he could spare some time to help you move your heavy shelf.

“Thank you so much, you’re a lifesaver!” You exclaim before offering your hand for him to shake. “I’m y/n, by the way.”

“James,” he replies before cautiously taking your hand in his left one, thankful for the fact he’d left his leather gloves on when returning home. You don’t seem to notice his abnormality as you pull your hand away and lead the man into your apartment.

Unsurprisingly, it’s sparsely decorated and overflowing with boxes that have yet to be unpacked, but there are hints of personal touches spread throughout. The bookshelf in question sits in the center of the room, and by the scratches in the floor Bucky can tell you’d fruitlessly attempted to move it yourself before seeking his help.

“Just tell me where you want it,” he prompts you before grabbing the edges of the shelf.

“I was thinking of having it up against this wall next to the couch,” you explain while wildly gesturing with your hands towards the empty space. “At least, it will be against the couch once I buy one…”

“I take it you didn’t bring a lot of furniture with you,” he jokes lightheartedly despite how awkward he feels being in the apartment of a woman he’s only known for about three minutes. He moves the shelf with minimal effort, though he plays up the amount of strain he experiences so that you don’t become suspicious of how incredibly strong he is compared to the average man.

“I was kind of in a rush to leave the last place I was staying so I brought what I could,” you explain with a sheepish smile. “Thank you again for this, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies easily before stepping back to admire his work. “This good?”

“It’s perfect, thank you.”

“Anything else you need?” He offers, but you simply shake your head in response.

“I think that should be it for now, but if something comes up you’ll be the first to know,” you joke with a smile, appearing more at ease now with the man. Your face brightens before you wordlessly disappear into the kitchen, leaving Bucky alone and unsure if he should make his exit or not. However, before he can make a decision you quickly return with a Tupperware full of muffins. “Here, I just baked these an hour ago so they’re still pretty fresh.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” he tries to deflect with a bashful smile, but you’re insistent he take the container from your grasp and practically shove it into his hands.

“Really, take them. Consider them thank you muffins for allowing me to briefly inconvenience you.”

Letting out a small huff of amusement, Bucky finally relents with a nod and accepts your offering. “Thank you.”

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” you proclaim with a sigh before walking him out the door. “Have a good rest of your night, and don’t be a stranger.”

You part with a friendly wave before gently shutting the door behind him, leaving Bucky to stand aimlessly in the hallway with the container of muffins in his hands. He feels oddly warm and content inside, emotions that rarely follow interactions with strangers, but he figures you’re not really a stranger now.

However, you have interrupted his evening, for Bucky spends the rest of the night thinking about your smile.

~~~

Three days pass before Bucky decides to seek you out.

He isn’t sure what compels him to become so bold, but he knows that he has to see you again. You haven’t left his mind in days despite how hard he tries to push the thoughts down, so he figures he might as well get it over with and attempt to start another conversation. He can’t exactly recall any of his old moves back from his own time or know if they’re still reliable, so he approaches the situation the only way he knows how.

“Hey, neighbor,” he greets with a timid smile when you finally open your door. You look surprised to see him, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes brighten at his presence. You thought the man charming but quiet and assumed his reserved nature meant he liked to keep to himself, so you’re pleased to see him again after the bookshelf fiasco.

“Hi, James,” you say with a pleasant smile. “What brings you here?”

“I was hoping I could trouble you for a cup of sugar?” He asks, face immediately heating with embarrassment at the insanely cliche request. James had a perfectly good container of sugar in his own apartment, but you didn’t need to know that.

“Of course! I actually just went grocery shopping, come in.”

Your apartment looks vastly different from the last time he’d been here, more personal touches spread throughout and only a handful of unpacked boxes still remaining. It feels warm and inviting, and Bucky swallows nervously as he processes the fact that this is only his second time in your space. Maybe he should leave you alone before he gets in too deep, before he has to ruin your camaraderie by coming clean about the person he really is and you decide that you don’t want an ex-assassin in your apartment anymore. Instead, he chooses to make small talk.

“How are you liking it here so far?”

“It’s nice,” you hum thoughtfully as you reach for the sugar up on the shelf. Bucky quickly looks away when your shirt starts to ride up with your reach, but he can’t ignore the way his stomach flips at the sight of a little skin. “Everyone I’ve met so far is friendly and it seems really peaceful. I like having my own place again.”

“Were you living with someone before?” Bucky prods, hoping he’s not asking too many questions. You smile faintly as you begin to pour the sugar into a small jar, but he notes the way it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Yeah, uh, my fiancé. Or, ex-fiancé now, I guess,” you murmur with a humorless chuckle. “It didn’t work out.”

Your usually cheerful demeanor has now dulled, and Bucky feels guilty for having brought it up in the first place. He isn’t exactly sure what to say or do to make it better, but thankfully you choose to save the conversation for him.

“What are you using the sugar for, by the way?”

Bucky stiffens, eyes widening slightly as he realizes he didn’t rehearse a script to go along with his lie. He wasn’t making anything, but he didn’t think he could flat out tell you that the sugar was just an excuse to see you again.

“Apple pie,” he quickly replies, wincing at the abruptness of his tone while you smile and carefully slide the jar of sugar across the counter his way.

“Sounds good. I’m more of a pumpkin pie girl, myself,” you hum thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I’m not really a pie person at all. Just thought I’d try something new,” Bucky offers with a sheepish grin, eyes glancing around the apartment only to notice the empty space next to the bookshelf. “Still haven’t found a couch?”

“Nope,” you relent with a tired sigh. “I’ve been meaning to go couch shopping, but I’m kind of worried about how I’m gonna even get it up the stairs and into the apartment by myself.”

“I can help you with that,” Bucky blurts before he can stop himself. You appear taken aback at first, but a look of relief soon washes over your features at his words.

“Oh my god, would you really?” You exclaim with delight, and before Bucky can even process what’s happening you’re quickly throwing your arms around the man in an appreciative hug. He stiffens immediately upon contact, not used to such acts of affection and especially not from a woman as pretty as yourself. You, however, don’t seem to notice his awkward demeanor in the slightest. “You have no idea how much I appreciate you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he offers bashfully as he tries not to let you see how much of an impact your touch has on him.

“Does tomorrow around one sound good?”

“It sounds perfect,” he replies earnestly.

It isn’t until later in the evening that he realizes he’s never been couch shopping before.

~~~

As Bucky promised, he accompanies you in your search for a couch and helps you carry it into your living room. It nestles in perfectly next to your shelf, and you couldn’t be more thrilled.

You invite him to stay for a movie in celebration of finally having a spot to sit, and though he promised Sam he’d meet him for dinner he doesn’t have the heart to say no to you. That’s how Bucky ends up nestled next to you on the couch enjoying his first ever viewing of Silence of the Lambs.

“So you’re telling me you’ve really never seen this movie before?”

“I guess you could say it’s been on my bucket list,” he admits with a diffident laugh, grateful you’re none the wiser to the truth his words hold.

“It’s one of my favorites!” You gush enthusiastically before passing him the bowl of untouched popcorn. “But I think that might make me sound crazy to admit out loud.”

“Crazy is good,” Bucky assures you with a tender smile, chest tightening at the way your eyes light up in response to his words. “I like crazy.”

You settle into the movie together with ease, enjoying snacks and answering any questions Bucky has about the film. It amazes him how naturally he can fall into spending time with you, almost as if you were merely long lost friends and not strangers who lived across the hall from one another. He hadn’t felt this way since Steve, but even then, what he felt with you was different. Special. You existed outside of his life as a Sargent or the Winter Soldier, and he enjoyed having you help him fulfill his need for normalcy.

A random sitcom now plays to provide background noise as you and Bucky continue to converse way past the movie’s end. You long to know more about the handsome stranger who has slowly become a normal part of your routine, and you hang onto every word he says no matter how heavy your eyelids feel.

“I’m not sure if I have a favorite song, but I definitely think I won’t be able to get ‘Goodbye, Horses’ out of my head for the next few days after watching that movie,” he confesses with a wry grin that has you quietly giggling into your hand.

“You seem like the type of guy who listens to oldies,” you note with a thoughtful hum, prompting him to shift uncomfortably from his place on the couch. “Would you say you have an old soul?”

“Something like that,” Bucky notes with a wince. He wants nothing more than to be completely honest with you, but he fears it may be too soon to unload his history on you. He’s not sure he could handle the hurt that would come from you pushing him away if you didn’t like the truth. “Do you like that type of music?”

“I did at one point, but I kind of fell out of it once I started dating my ex-fiancé. He hated it,” you note while scrunching your nose in distaste at the mere mention of the man. “He hated everything, if I’m being honest.”

“Is that why you called it off and moved here?” Bucky asks before he can stop himself. He doesn’t mean to pry or be invasive of your past, but he wants to understand how any man could fumble an absolute gem like yourself.

“Well, that, and the fact that he had a habit of getting physical with me,” you confess casually with a despondent smile that fails to reach your eyes. Bucky rears back in shock at your confession, prompting you to quickly interject, “But I got out of there as fast as possible, and now I’m much happier on my own.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Bucky offers gently. “I hope you know how incredibly strong you are.”

Smiling, you carefully reach across and take his gloved hand in your own. Despite not being able to feel the touch of your skin, the warmth you emit is enough to have his heart racing in his chest when you tightly clasp his hand.

“You’re unlike any guy I’ve ever met, James.”

“Bucky,” he corrects you gently. Your brows furrow slightly in response, prompting him to let out a small chuckle at your puzzlement. He gently gives your hand a squeeze before continuing, “My friends just call me Bucky.”

Realization sets as your brows lower and lips pull into a delighted smile at his clarification. You gently return the squeeze before nodding in understanding, thrilled at the idea of having your first official friend in the city.

“Okay,” you agree softly, “Bucky it is.”

~~~

You knock on Bucky’s door with the hopes of having him over for dinner, but it isn’t your neighbor that greets you on the other side.

“Can I help you, little lady?” The man says with a playful smile. His stature is intimidating but his features are kind, and for a moment you find yourself forgetting what you even came for in the first place.

“Is Bucky home by chance?” You ask with a bashful smile, hoping your eagerness to see the man in question isn’t too obvious to his guest.

“He should be on his way back with some takeout,” the man explains. “You like Chinese?”

He doesn’t allow you to answer before opening the door wider and allowing you entry into the apartment. It feels wrong to do so without Bucky being present, but you don’t want to be rude by rejecting the kind man’s offer. You swallow nervously when stepping foot into his home for the first time; the apartment is tidy but scarcely furnished, though you’re not one to judge considering you went four days without a couch.

“You a friend of Bucky’s?” The man asks while pulling out a chair from the island counter for you to sit. You nod.

“I just moved in across the hall, and Bucky’s been helping me get settled in. I’m y/n, by the way.”

“Oh, so you’re y/n,” he says with a knowing smile before offering a hand for you to shake. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Name’s Sam.”

“Nice to meet you,” you smile politely before freezing as his words finally settle in your mind. “Wait, really?”

“Of course, Bucky speaks very highly of you,” Sam affirms with a wink.

“What do I speak highly about?” A voice interrupts, prompting you both to turn your heads towards the man juggling boxes of takeout in the doorway. His eyes widen in surprise at your presence before a careful smile settles on his face. “Y/n, what brings you here?”

“I came to see if you wanted to join me for dinner, but I guess I’m jointing you and Sam instead. If that’s okay?”

“Of course it’s okay,” Sam answers for him, heartily clapping the man on the back. “A friend of Bucky’s is a friend of mine.”

You hide your laughter behind your hand at Bucky’s obvious annoyance towards his friend and decide to make yourself useful by setting the table for dinner. Despite this being your first time in his apartment, you’re easily able to find your way around his kitchen. It amazes him how quickly you’re able to make yourself comfortable in his space and how well you mesh into his life as if you’d always been a part of it.

“You never told me she was cute,” Sam murmurs under his breath with a playful nudge to Bucky’s side. The Sargent merely scowls in response before elbowing him back with more strength than necessary. However, the two immediately act inconspicuous when you turn your attention back to them and sit down to enjoy dinner.

“So how do you two know each other?” You ask before taking a bite of broccoli. Bucky gives Sam a pleading glance and attempts to convey his want for you to be kept in the dark about his true identity, and thankfully the Captain is able to pick up on his signals.

“We met through a mutual friend,” Sam answers with ease. “We actually hated each other at first.”

“Hate is a strong word,” Bucky tries to defend only to deflate at the pointed look Sam gives him.

“I don’t know how you can stand living across the hall from him,” Sam quips much to his friend’s chagrin.

“I’m actually really glad to be neighbors,” you confess with a sheepish smile, face heating with embarrassment while you try to avoid Bucky’s gaze. “I didn’t think I’d be able to make any friends when I first moved here, but he’s made it so much easier on me.”

“What are neighbors for?” Bucky offers with a careful smile before finally meeting your gaze. The room is charged with romantic tension as you two take in the other’s presence, and Sam makes sure to point this out to Bucky hours later when you finally return to your own apartment.

“I’m telling you, dude, she’s into you!” Sam exclaims from his place behind the sink. “You should go for it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky rebuffs with a scoff while taking a freshly washed plate from Sam and placing it on the drying rack.

“You’re kidding, right? You think I didn’t notice the eyes you were giving her?”

“What eyes?”

“You know, the eyes,” Sam emphasizes, immediately imitating the look of longing Bucky had worn earlier in your presence. The soldier’s face scrunches in bewilderment before he quickly shakes his head in displeasure.

“Don’t do that, that’s not what I look like.”

“That’s exactly what you look like,” his friend defends before handing him another plate. “Look, all I’m saying is it wouldn’t hurt to maybe tell the girl how you feel and invite her out for something nicer than Chinese takeout.”

“Alright, let’s say I ask her out. I pull out all the stops, and it goes perfect. She decides I’m the guy she wants to be with, and I decide that I need to come clean about who I really am in order for that to happen? What happens when I tell her she’s dating the Winter Soldier? When I tell her about the blood on my hands? She doesn’t even know about the arm.”

Sam is silent after Bucky’s line of questioning, and unsurprisingly, he doesn’t have an answer. The super soldier sighs before slumping against the island counter and allowing his head to hang in shame and regret.

“I’ve already lost one good friend. I don’t know if I can handle losing another,” he admits quietly, almost afraid to voice the thought aloud.

Sam rests a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder but remains silent, contemplating his next words before finally giving him a reassuring pat on the back.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” he reminds him gently. “And you and I both know this girl is worth the risk.”

Bucky smiles faintly at Sam’s words, thoughts already straying to you and the light you’ve managed to bring to his life. He knows his friend is right, but he still can’t bring himself to make a move, at least not yet.

All he can do is hope you won’t mind having an ex-assassin super soldier for a boyfriend.

~~~

A harsh thunderstorm plagues New York and cuts off the power to your building. Your apartment is shrouded in candlelight as you make the best of what you have, and you’re grateful for the fact that Bucky so graciously offered to come over and keep you company until the electricity is restored.

“I hate thunderstorms,” you shudder after lighting another candle to set on the coffee table. “They weren’t very common where I was from.”

“They’re a little loud,” Bucky agrees pensively. Each clap reminds him of his foggy past in the war, and he finds himself fighting to keep the unwelcome memories at bay.

You seat yourself on the couch across from the man and drape your throw over your legs to keep you warm. The living room is freezing now that the heater is out, and despite the amount of layers you throw on nothing seems to help.

“I don’t think I ever asked this, but what do you do for work?” You prompt him after a moment’s silence. Bucky shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

“I, uh, I’m retired,” he replies lamely while offering you a meager smile. “Army veteran.”

“You served in the army?” You ask with piqued interest, shifting a bit closer to the man. “What did you do?”

“I was a Sargent.”

“I never would have guessed,” you say thoughtfully.

“It was so long ago, I don’t… really like to talk about it,” Bucky confesses, refusing to meet your gaze. He knows he’s not technically lying to you, but he’s also aware of the fact that he’s not giving you the entire truth. He doesn’t know how to be straightforward with you, too petrified of risking you becoming afraid of him and withdrawing yourself, but he can only hide his true identity for so long before you find out.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you immediately apologize only for Bucky to assure you it’s fine. “We can talk about something else. How’s Sam?”

“That topic actually might be worse,” he grimaces, but his lighthearted smile that follows signals he’s only kidding. “Sam is good, just busy.”

“Being Captain America?” You finish for him with a raised brow much to Bucky’s surprise.

“You know?”

“I don’t think it’s exactly a secret,” you reply with a sheepish smile while wrapping the throw tighter around yourself. “He looked so familiar when I first met him, and a quick internet search helped me put it together pretty quickly.”

Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat at your words. If you’d done your due diligence on Sam, who’s to say you hadn’t done the same for him? Knowing you, he feels it’s safe to assume you would have brought it up by now if you had found any real information about his past, and he tries to remind himself of this as he attempts to quell the panic bubbling inside him.

“I won’t tell anyone that I met him personally or that he visits this apartment building,” you assure him, incorrectly assuming the reason for his panic is a need to protect Sam’s privacy. “Not that I really have anyone to tell considering you’re my only friend here.”

“Thank you for that,” Bucky breathes out in relief, anxious to move on from the conversation. “But what about your friends back home?”

“I didn’t really have any,” you quietly admit. You look away almost shamefully and take a moment to collect yourself before you can meet his eyes again. “My friends were my fiancé’s friends, and I knew they would never pick my side over his if I told anyone the type of man he really was. I knew if I wanted to get away I had to cut them off too or they’d just tell him where I’d run off to.”

Bucky knows he has no right, but every time you mention your ex-fiancé he can almost feel the anger boiling inside him. He can’t comprehend how anyone could ever mistreat someone as wonderful and kind as you, and he knew if he ever got the chance to meet the man he’d make him pay for all the hurt and anguish he’d caused you. Bucky almost felt like your protector in a sense, like it was his responsibility to look after you now that you were alone in such a big city, and he hoped you didn’t mind the fact.

A sudden clap of thunder has you nearly jumping into the air as you immediately throw yourself at Bucky’s side and anxiously grip onto his arm. He’s grateful for the fact that it’s his right arm you hold onto, but he still finds himself stiffening at the sudden closeness. It’s been years since a beautiful dame has thrown herself at him like this, and his brain feels like it’s overloading as he tries to process the moment.

“I’m sorry,” you offer meekly, clearly embarrassed at your frightened outburst. You start to move away only for Bucky to pull you back, prompting you to look up at him in surprise.

“Don’t be sorry,” he assures you with a comforting smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

You find yourself slowly relaxing at his benevolent demeanor, and with his permission you slowly ease yourself back into his side and allow him to wrap an arm around your trembling figure.

The rain continues to pour outside your modest apartment, but you find yourself able to fall asleep in the comfort of Bucky’s embrace. The man never makes an attempt to move, not even when the power returns and the lights finally turn on. Instead, he allows himself to enjoy the warmth your closeness brings and admires your relaxed features as you sleep soundly with your head resting comfortably against his shoulder.

He could get used to this.

~~~

You scored a job as a waitress at a nearby diner to help pay your bills now that you’re completely on your own and your savings are beginning to run low, and Bucky notices that you’re gone from your apartment more often than not. His knocks go unanswered, and he finds himself feeling sullen in response to your sudden absence. You’ve invited him multiple times to come visit you at work and enjoy a free slice of pie, and on this particular day he decides to take you up on your offer.

It isn’t a long walk from the building, and he appreciates having an excuse to leave his apartment for once. His stomach is twisted in nervous knots at the thought of finally getting to see you again while he rehearses what he plans to say. Bucky’s boyish charm isn’t what it used to be, and his romantic moves are rusty from years of inaction. However, he is able to remember one move in particular that always went over well with the girls back in his day, and for that reason he stops at a local flower stand to buy you the nicest bouquet of roses he can find.

Bucky is a man in love, and if his gift goes over well, he plans to finally come clean and tell you everything about his past so that he can have a chance at being with you. No more beating around the bush.

The diner is empty save for a few occupied booths, and this makes it easier to spot you when he sets foot through the front doors. Though the sight of you immediately brings a smile to his face, it quickly fades when he notes the distress on your features. Your eyes are wide with fear, hands moving frantically as you speak to a man Bucky doesn’t recognize, and he doesn’t miss the relief that seems to wash over you when you meet his eyes from across the room and silently plead for help.

“Bucky!” You call with a nervous smile, anxiously wringing your apron in your trembling hands. “Perfect timing.”

“Who’s this?” He asks with a raised brow, eyeing the stranger up and down methodically. Bucky could easily take the man without question, but he still didn’t like the look of him. The man’s eyes were shifty and calculating, and his demeanor was one of arrogance and callousness.

“Bucky, this is Michael-“

“Her fiancé,” Michael boasts proudly with a braggart smile.

“Ex-fiancé,” you correct him through gritted teeth, “and he was just leaving.”

“Fine, fine,” Michael offers before raising his hands in surrender. “I know when I’m not wanted, but don’t think this is over.”

Bucky grunts in irritation when Michael goes out of his way to harshly bump his shoulder against your friend as he pushes his way out of the diner, leaving you a terrified mess as you stand trembling in the middle of the walkway. You swallow thickly and meet Bucky’s gaze with an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“I’m sorry about that,” you offer quietly, hands still nervously wringing your apron. Bucky notes the subtle quiver of your bottom lip and the way your lashes flutter quickly to hold back tears. You look terrified, and he hates to see you so wound up.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Bucky assures you gently as he sets the bouquet aside and takes your unsteady hands in his gloved ones. “Maybe you should sit down a minute and take a breath, yeah?”

“Yeah…” you murmur quietly before allowing him to gently ease you into the nearest booth. In your panic you hadn’t even noticed the flowers he’d brought, and despite your frenzied state you’re still able to offer him a bashful smile for his efforts. “Are these… are they for me?”

Nodding, Bucky grins before handing you the bouquet. “They’re for you, pretty girl. I thought they’d look nice in your apartment.”

“Thank you… for these, and for saving me back there. I can’t believe I froze like that.”

“What happened?” Bucky presses gently, wanting to know every detail possible so he can better protect you moving forward. You let out a shaky breath and absently fidget with the ribbon tying the flowers together as you begin to relay the events to your friend.

“I did everything I could to cover my tracks and start over, but he still managed to find me,” you murmur in defeat. “He wants me to come back home with him, and he says he won’t take no for answer. I don’t know what to do- he knows where I work, and it will only be a matter of time before he figures out where I live-“

“Hey,” Bucky urges gently, affectively stopping you from spiraling. “Nothing is going to happen to you under my watch. I’ll have Sam look into the guy, and in the meantime I’ll do whatever you need to feel safe, whether that’s walking you to work or crashing on your couch so you can sleep at night.”

You give him a watery smile and immediately rush to his side of the booth so you can throw yourself into his arms for a hug. He returns the embrace immediately, taking extra care not to use too much force with his vibranium arm while he holds you tightly to his chest. You don’t know when he’d managed to steal your heart, but you know that you’re falling in love with your neighbor from across the hall. He makes it so easy and has fallen into your life like a puzzle piece you hadn’t realized was missing from the picture. Unlike the men in your past, Bucky treats you with the utmost care and respect, and you adore him more than anything.

Bucky will keep good on his promise, and you trust him with your entire being to keep you safe.

~~~

As promised, Bucky has made it his own personal mission to be your bodyguard during your time of need. He drops you off and picks you up from work, accompanies you when you have to run out for groceries, and spends his nights sleeping on your couch. You feel guilty over the fact that the man is hardly ever in his own apartment anymore, so after some convincing you’re able to talk him into letting you cook him dinner at his place.

“Any word from Sam?” You prompt quietly while stirring a pot of marinara sauce on the stove. Life has been uneventful since Michael’s appearance at the diner, but you hate having to constantly look over your shoulder wherever you go. You don’t enjoy being on edge every waking moment and not being able to get a good night’s sleep, and you just want this whole situation to be over with.

“He hasn’t been able to find anything about your ex or his whereabouts. The man knows how to stay hidden,” Bucky replies with a scoff. The mere mention of him has the super soldier’s blood boiling, but he tries to remain composed for your sake. “But don’t worry. He can’t hide forever.”

Dinner is a quiet affair, and Bucky is disheartened to see how dejected and small you’ve become in the past few days. You aren’t yourself, not that he can blame you, but he just wishes there was something he could do to help you.

Nightfall comes soon after, and Bucky helps you get settled into bed. Despite being in his own apartment, he’s adamant that you take the mattress while he resumes his position on the couch. He thinks it will be safer that way, and he’ll be able to hear any threats before they make their way into the apartment.

“Try to get some sleep, doll,” Bucky utters softly, gently brushing his knuckles along your cheek before making his exit.

“Will you stay?” You blurt without thinking, surprising both you and Bucky as he stops in his tracks.

“Y/n, I… I don’t know,” he starts to say only for you to gently take hold of his hand and carefully tug him back towards you.

“I haven’t been able to sleep, and I’d feel better if you were here next to me,” you plead meekly, the exhaustion clear in your features. Bucky finds it hard to say no to you when you stare up at him with doe eyes and a trembling bottom lip; the sight pulls at his heartstrings, and so he finds himself carefully crawling into bed with you.

“Thank you,” you whisper gratefully as you shift onto your side to face him. Your noses are mere inches apart as you stare into each other’s eyes and enjoy the comfort of being together in bed.

“You’ll never have to thank me for wanting to take care of you,” Bucky whispers back while carefully pulling the blankets up higher over your shoulders. You feel the leather of his gloves brush against your bare skin and shudder before peering over at him.

“You sleep in those?” You voice curiously, prompting him to immediately stiffen in response. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without those gloves on.”

“I… have a prosthetic arm,” he confesses quietly, figuring now is as good a time as ever to tell you the truth. He refuses to meet your gaze as his lips pull tightly together into a frown, waiting for you to say something.

“Oh,” you hum softly. His heart pounds in his chest as he waits for judgement or disgust, but instead he feels your hand gently rest upon his left bicep. His entire body tenses, and he watches with bated breath as you run your fingers along the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt. You can’t feel the coolness of the metal, but you can sense the lack of flesh and muscle. He’s not sure how you’d never noticed before, but you weren’t exactly one for details.

“If it makes you uncomfortable I can sleep on the couch-“

“I think it’s cool,” you interrupt with a careful smile, no hint of insincerity or judgement in your tone. “You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to, but I don’t think it’s anything to be ashamed of.”

Bucky lets out an embarrassed huff of laughter and grapples with himself over your naivety. Would your opinion change if you knew what he’d done with his prosthetic arm as the Winter Soldier? He feels conflicted, but overall at ease with the fact that you seem receptive to his artificial appendage.

“You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever met,” Bucky compliments you before leaning forward to press his lips against your forehead. You find yourself moving closer so that you’re pressed against his chest, and it almost feels natural to him when he wraps his arms around your frame and pulls you tightly against him.

Nestled in Bucky’s warm embrace, you’re able to enjoy your first peaceful night of sleep since Michael’s return.

~~~

Bucky leaves your sleeping form behind the next morning to pick up breakfast sandwiches from the nearby bodega for you both. He doesn’t exactly have the supplies necessary to make a homemade breakfast, but he knows you’ll never say no to a coffee and your favorite sandwich. When he returns, he finds that his apartment is empty and you’re missing from the bedroom. Initially he figures you must have gone across the hall to your own place to freshen up for the morning, so he’s not worried.

Bucky decides it best to bring the food over to your apartment, but before he can even knock on your door he’s met with the sound of commotion coming from the other side. He hears your muffled voice frantically speaking to someone followed by the sound of shattered glass, your screams prompting him to break down the door and barge his way into the room.

You sit cowering against your bookshelf while Michael menacingly towers over you. A fresh bruise blooms along your cheek while hot tears make their way down your face, and you look to Bucky pathetically for help while curling in on yourself. The roses he’d bought for you now lay scattered on the ground with shards of glass accompanying them, allowing the man to easily piece together what had occurred in his absence.

“You again,” Michael scoffs before slowly making his approach towards the super soldier. He flashes a snide smile as he condescendingly speaks, “Thanks for looking after my fiancé while I was away, but I got it from here.”

Bucky is unmoving, his eyes cold and unrelenting as his hardened gaze stares down at the intruder. Through your tears you can note the enraged tick of his jaw and the way his hands are tightly clenched at his sides as he holds himself back from doing something he’ll regret.

“She’s made it clear that she doesn’t want you here,” he nearly growls through clenched teeth. “You need to leave.”

“Or what?” Your fiancé provokes with a disbelieving laugh. “You think just because she bats her lashes at you and spends the night in your bed that makes you special? She’s a little attention whore, and you’re an idiot if you think otherwise.”

“You can’t talk about a woman like that,” Bucky utters lowly. His body is vibrating with rage, his ears beginning to ring while the tension continues to build within him. He notes the way you watch on helplessly from your place on the floor, and the last thing he wants to do is scare you by becoming aggressive, but Michael was making this feat more difficult with each second that passed.

“I can talk however I want about my own fiancé, pal,” Michael speaks before giving Bucky a harsh shove. The man remains unmoving, and your attacker momentarily falters when realizing how sturdy his opponent is. “Now do yourself a favor and mind your business.”

“Bucky,” you softly cry out, shoulders trembling and eyes pleading for him not to leave you.

James finds himself taking a deep breath in while allowing his body to relax. Michael’s antagonistic voice drones on, and he knows there’s only one way to remove this man from your apartment and out of your life for good. He just hopes you won’t hate him after what is to come.

His hand immediately shoots out and catches Michael’s throat, effectively cutting off his air supply and his ability to speak. Your startled gasp fills the room as Bucky lifts the man before throwing him through your doorway. He slams against the opposite wall with a deafening thud before landing on the floor, and despite the excruciating pain he feels in his body he still desperately tries to crawl away as Bucky takes slow steps towards him.

“Not so fun when you’re on the receiving end, is it?” Bucky taunts before kneeling down next to him. “You’re lucky I’m letting you leave here while you’re still breathing. But if you ever come here again, if you ever put your hands on her again, if you ever even think about her again, I’ll make sure you leave in a body bag. Is that understood?”

Bucky doesn’t receive an answer, but he knows he’s made his point clear when your ex pathetically scrambles onto his feet and books it down the hallway. Resting his hands on his hips, Bucky lets his head hang with a sigh. He didn’t enjoy having to berate the man in front of you, but he can at least take pride in the fact that your ex-fiancé will never bother you again thanks to him.

Bucky quietly makes his way back into your apartment and finds you carefully picking up the scattered shards of glass. You remain silent, even when he kneels down to help you, and he begins to worry that maybe he had gone too far.

“You okay?” He asks you in the softest tone he can manage. Your tired eyes peer up at him through wet lashes, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts before you can reply.

“Your glove came off,” you murmur quietly, and Bucky almost isn’t able to catch it.

“What?” He repeats before slowly turning his gaze to his left hand. Sure enough, his usual leather glove is missing and his metal hand is on full display. He swallows down the lump in his throat despite the building anxiety he feels, clenching and unclenching his fingers before looking back up at you. He must have lost it in the scuffle, and he’d been too engrossed in making his point clear to notice.

“That’s not a normal prosthetic arm… is it?” You feebly prompt him. Bucky refuses to meet your gaze and quickly stands himself upright before slowly backing away from you. He feels suffocated by his shame and his guilt, and as he takes in his surroundings he realizes that his worst fear is manifesting itself into reality right before his very own eyes.

He wordlessly leaves your apartment and swiftly locks himself back into his own living space. The walls are closing in around him, and Bucky can do nothing but let his anguish consume him.

He’d ruined everything.

~~~

You haven’t heard from Bucky in over a week and your knocks to his door go unanswered. You’re all alone again, and the isolation is suffocating.

You miss the man who had became a part of your daily routine and infiltrated your space with his kindness and warmth. You had fallen in love with him, your heart aching for him every time he was away, and now only a tightness in your chest remained in his absence. You hadn’t meant to embarrass him when pointing out his arm, and you meant what you said when you told him he had nothing to be ashamed of. Everything had happened so quickly you hadn’t had a chance to explain yourself, to explain that despite the fact that you knew everything, your opinion hadn’t changed of him.

Your meeting with Sam had led to a deep dive into the history of Captain America, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that your search had led you to a plethora of information on the hero’s close friend James Buchanan Barnes. You knew you should have stopped yourself from reading further and instead asked Bucky to explain everything to you instead, but once you started reading you couldn’t stop. You were overloaded with information about his time in the war, his relationship with Steve Rogers, his affiliation with Hydra as the Winter Soldier, and his role in the fight against Thanos. It overwhelmed you, but it did not deter you from the man or prompt you to end your friendship with him. You weren’t afraid of him, and you worked desperately to get him to see that.

You hold a freshly baked batch of cookies in one hand while the other relentlessly knocks on his front door. You’ve been at this for about a good five minutes, and though it has earned you annoyed looks from neighbors that pass by you in the hallway, you’re determined not to give up until he sees you.

“Bucky, please,” you beg in exasperation, knuckles beginning to turn red from the constant impact against the wood of the door. “I know you’re in there so please come out. I can’t take this anymore.”

You’re met with silence, but this doesn’t deter you in the slightest; you know he’s in there and can hear your pathetic pleas. What you don’t know, however, is that he’s leaned right against the door on the other side watching you through the peephole. His mind is filled with turmoil as one part of him screams to open the door and let you in while the other insists this is for the best. What good does he have to offer you as an ex-assassin? What kind of life can you live tied down to the Winter Soldier? Bucky can’t bring himself to put you through the torment and the danger that comes with being his partner, and he curses himself for ever letting you get close to him in the first place.

“I miss you,” he hears you relent, voice wavering as you fight back tears. “You’re my best friend.”

Bucky can physically feel his chest tighten at your confession, and it takes everything in him to not open the door. He doesn’t think he can stand the torture any longer, and he begins to move towards his bedroom only for your voice to stop him in his tracks.

“I know everything,” you utter gently, prompting his heart to leap anxiously in his chest at your confession. “I know that you were a Sargent in World War ll, and your best friend was Steve Rogers. I know you’re the Winter Soldier. I know… I know that in spite of all of that, you’re the kindhearted man who befriended the complete stranger that knocked on your door and asked for help to move a bookshelf. You’re more than your past, and it doesn’t scare me like you think it does. I… I love you.”

You let your forehead fall against the door and shut your eyes, waiting with bated breath for any sort of response or movement from the other side of the door. You’re given nothing, and it’s now that you start to realize your friendship with Bucky is most likely over. You slowly back away from the door and set the plate of cookies beside it before taking one last longing look at his apartment.

“I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore,” you finally sigh, turning to make your way back to your own apartment. However, the click of the lock turning causes you to freeze in your tracks, and you hesitantly turn around to face the man whose door you’ve been assaulting for the past ten minutes.

His blue eyes are glossy with tears that threaten to fall, and his tired features display the torment he’s endured while isolating himself from you. He looks at you almost in astonishment, and for a moment neither of you dares to move or speak. You don’t know what to say or how much he’d heard.

“You…” he starts to say before taking a nervous swallow. “You said you loved me?”

You manage to flash him a meager smile while anxiously stuffing your hands in your pockets and casting your sheepish gaze to the floor. “I thought that was obvious. Why else would I be showing up at your door all the time?”

A quiet laugh of disbelief leaves him at your words, and Bucky feels confident enough now to leave the doorway of his apartment and take a step closer towards you.

“So this,” he says while raising his left hand and flexing his fingers, “doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it when that very arm kept me safe?” You utter gently, taking another step closer so that the space between you grows smaller. You hesitantly bite the inside of your cheek before slowly raising your hand and offering it to Bucky. A pregnant pause fills the air as he stares down at your outstretched fingers, his brows furrowing with uncertainty while he hesitantly clasps your hand in his artificial one.

The metal is cool against your palm and brings an instant sense of comfort as you lock your fingers together. You fit together perfectly as if your hand had been made for him, and a funny feeling tingles within his chest as Bucky comes to this realization.

“I’m sorry for shutting you out,” he professes earnestly, gently pulling you against his chest so that he can wrap his arms around your figure. “Everything felt too real, and I was terrified of the possibility that you might not want to be around me anymore.”

“You could never do anything to scare me away,” you assure him gently, your eyes full of sincerity as you peer up at him. “I meant what I said, Bucky. You’re my best friend, and I love you.”

“I love you too, doll,” he murmurs with an adoring smile. Using the tips of his metal fingers, Bucky gently angles your face so that he can meet your lips in a kiss. Your eyes immediately flutter shut as you melt against him and savor the feeling of being so close to the man you’d missed so dearly while you were apart.

It’s as if the rest of the world fades away while you share your tender embrace in the middle of the hallway where you’d first met months ago. You came to the city for a new start, but Bucky never would have guessed that your arrival would signal the start of his own new beginning.

A bookshelf brought you into each other’s worlds, and a kiss in the hallway would keep you together for the rest of your lives.

[eraserbread]

it's just one of those things... your husband, nanami, likes you close.

but, your husband is actually a very sane individual and decides its best not to keep you leashed down. however, it didn't make it easier when you brought up the idea of visiting your family during the spring.

nanami loves your family, but he loves them in his way. he loves them from far, far away—perhaps not even a phone call away, just a yearly birthday card kind of closeness. It's not an energy he wishes to be around.

but, he wants whatever makes you happy, so he lets you go for a week.

a grueling, seven-day week. one filled with work, overtime, stress and anger, all to an empty house to crawl back to. it's okay -- its all he can tell himself as he tucks into bed lonely as hell.

he wills himself to sleep, begging his mind to leave you alone. let you have your space without his voice in your ear. he thinks you want this -- this... disgusting silence.

little did he know, you were five cities away waiting by the phone.

just waiting. hoping at least a good night text would fall your way. you know he's up thinking about you. he has to be.

so, when you get home a week later. you're pissed and touch starved and nanami starved. you had a mind to let him have it, to spew everything you've been pining over while he's been too busy to text or call.

it also doesn't help that you got home four hours before him, having time to cool down and shower off. a part of you wants to call him -- perhaps he's getting drinks or dinner with a friend, but if he didn't contact you for a week, you'd be sure not to contact him. its the only way you know how to teach him.

he arrives home when you're wrapped in your pajamas, glass of wine in your hand, and waiting for this exact moment.

"welcome home, my beautiful wife."

he begins, and it brings a small smile to your face. it's already seeming like he's redeeming himself. "you know I love you."

"really? i don't know... just thought i'd see it more when we're apart," you mumble, chewing on your lip over the rim of your glass. you can't see nanami's expression, but you can feel the quirk in his brow - the tightness in the corner of his lips.

"well, don't be vague. you're mad at me." he knows, yet he's still so calm. you refuse to glance back at him, even when he's taking off his shoes and pulling off his tie. it's something you'd usually help him with. this time, you help yourself to your wine.

"look, a week apart did us both a world of good, I promise you."

"yeah? would your hand agree with you, there?"

he laughs. "not everything's about sex, dear. I'm capable of holding out for a week." another wordless sip of your wine, and he's approaching you. "but, just because I can, doesn't mean I want to go into day eight without it."

it takes every fiber of your soul to say, "'m sorry, nanami. i'm just not in the mood tonight."

if you didn't know him so well, you wouldn't have caught the slight twitch in his brow at the news. however, he takes it well with a small smile on his face. "of course. i'll be in my office."

you sip your wine, cursing him internally for his politeness. he could have anything he wanted from you if he just said it. but, he never will. if its your will to go to bed without giving yourself to him, then so be it. he won't beg at your feet like a child.

but... what if you wanted him to?

you're not keeping track of time anymore, but you feel renewed with a headful of wine and time spent with nothing but thoughts of him. it's genuinely unnerving to you just how in love you are. nanami is so gentle, strong, beautiful and polite. it fucking makes your head spin.

then, you feel like a monster..

the feeling wills one foot in front of the other, all the way to his office door. it's not closed, just cracked. golden desk lamp lighting spills out into the hall in rectangular designs. you find yourself fixating on it in your drunkenness.

the door squeaks as you push it open, and you peek inside to see where he was amongst the organized chaos of books and work papers.

"ken?"

surprisingly, he's not staring right back at you. he's face down over his desk, resting so that you can't see his face—only the back of his head and all his disheveled blonde hair.

when you approach, he stays completely still. worry begins brewing in your chest.

"you know you can come to bed..." you whisper, leaning against the side of his desk. his pretty eyes flutter open at the softness of your voice and touch, quirking a smile.

"didn't think i could lay next to you and keep my hands to myself." he sits up into your hand, shivering as you massage over his scalp. he's like a little orange kitten, nudging your hand with sleepy eyes.

"don't you dare go ghost on me for a week ever again. do you know how obsessed I am with you?"

"i can guess." he chuckles softly, swallowing something down as he looks up at you. "I'm so sorry. just figured you would want your time to yourself."

"that doesn't mean you can't text me."

"then, i'm throwing my hands up and taking my wrongs." there he goes again, not even so much as debating his reasoning; he just wants you. if being the bad guy means he can lay down his gorgeous, tipsy wife, he'll be the worst person in the world.

there's newfound speed behind his actions as he spins his chair around, reaching out to grab you by the hips. it's so fluid and familiar, but it gets your pulse racing, the beat between your thighs mimicking the rhythm of his heart. he's so close to everything -- to you, to all of it.

he kisses your tummy where the hem of your shirt kisses the waistband of your shorts. he's breathing you in, memorizing the sound of you, it seems. your hands find the back of his neck, thumbing circles into the fuzz, there. it's a moment he'd never speak about again, but the ones you cherish the most. he just holds you. like, it's been over five minutes now...

"i'm sorry. i love you so much."

he nods into your stomach, kissing the ticklish sliver of bare skin there. you're dewy with the after-breath of him, but you love the warmth. you want him back when he pulls away.

"i love you." he nods, giving you those eyes when he looks up at you. your heart fucking pummels and rushes through your body, nearly bringing tears to your eyes -- he's so beautiful. "and I love this fabric on you."

"please. please take it off, kento. i love you so fucking... so fucking much." you're breathless already, and all he's done is kiss you. it's a little embarrassing, but neither of you care. tomorrow morning when he kisses you awake, you'll shrug off your demeanor on the alcohol but you weren't that drunk. you just missed him.

"take it off, please. take it off..."

"huh?"

"please, don't fucking tease me i'm so horny right now. nanami kento, i love you so much, please."

"wow, girl." he trails his lips to your waistband, taking it between his teeth shortly. "are you begging for it?"

"fuck my pride, i don't have it with you anymore." you gasp, tightening your fist in his hair to lead him just... down. of course, he's too fucking strong. he doesn't budge. "kentooo-"

he stares up with wide eyes for just a second longer before giving in. he mumbles, "all right, all right." just before yanking your shorts and taking you apart. he drives his chair forward as he slides open your cunt on two fingers, showing you his tongue and diving in. he's done this hundreds of times, but you'll never be used to the feeling.

he knows every inch of your body - how you vibrate when he flicks your clit that one way or dips his tongue the other. he has your orgasm down to a science, but he still takes his time massaging around your labia, kissing the crook between your thighs.

you were already so close, you cuss. "fuck - what ar- what are you doing?!"

"if you would just have some patience," he responds vaguely, holding your thigh and kissing across the inside. with rushing breaths, you try to calm down, swallowing as you watch him. "you were about to finish, I could tell."

"so, you stopped?"

"i know you've been drinking... so you won't last past this round." of course, only he would know that and actually apply logic to it. it hits you dumbfounded. "I'm selfish. just wanted you to cum when I'm inside a'you."

there's absolutely nothing you can say to translate your thoughts, all you can do is breathe out a shaky moan. you were so fucked off of his tongue, right now.

"desk? bedroom? hm?"

or

you want me to fuck you on my desk or in our bed?

bed sounds better, that way you can pass out immediately afterwards. your mind swims thinking about being back in his arms tonight.

it seems you said that out loud, because he gives you a small smile, then carries you all the way to your bedroom.

he fucks you slow and deep tonight, letting you rest on your back as he held your legs over his waist. you're mewling in reaction, biting down on the inside of your wrist to keep the embarrassment at bay. nanami's being so devious, fucking you like this. he knows it'd take you longer to cum, but he wants that.

he wanted to savor this. you. all of it. all he can do as he stares down at you is admire. he loves the way your breasts rise and fall with each shaky breath. he loves the way your neck dips every time he hits that spot or touches you there.

inside of your warmth is home for him. he just loves you so fucking much that you're the only thing on his mind when he cums alongside you.

he even thinks his left eye drops a tear when he collapses in bed with you. though, he'd never, ever admit it.

then, he kisses the top of your head as you drift away into spinning dreams and whispers:

"god, what did i ever do before you?"

[studioeisa]

in good faith 🕯️ seungcheol x reader.

“because angels are beautiful.” he pauses for a beat. “more than that— they’re obedient.”

★ word count: 5.8k ★ genre/warnings: 18+ content. smut. alternate universe: non-idol, religious themes and references, blasphemy, corruption kink. morally gray/manipulative csc, inexperienced reader, oral (m), fingering. let me know if i missed anything. not proofread. ★ footnotes: this is not the first fic that will be written about these photos. it will also not be the last. dedicated to @cxffecoupx, who so generously let me play with her idea and add a bit of my spin to it. love you dearly, ris; i hope this lives up even the teensiest bit to what you had in mind! ‹𝟹

The first time you meet Seungcheol again, it’s in the dimly lit corner of your parish hall. Your mother drags you over to him like an offering, her fingers biting into your wrist as she beams up at him.

“This is my daughter,” she says, voice brimming with pride. “You remember her, don’t you?”

Seungcheol’s smile is gentle, his head dipping in a slight bow. “Of course,” he says, steady as a psalm. “It’s been a long time.”

It has. You barely remember him— just a vague recollection of a boy with scraped knees and a perpetual grin. Someone who always stood too close to the altar, staring up at the crucifix like he wanted to be swallowed whole by it.

This man before you is different. He stands taller now, his shoulders broad. His dark hair is neatly trimmed; his white button-down, pristine. A silver cross dangles from a chain around his neck. 

“Seungcheol is leading the youth ministry now,” your mother gushes. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” you echo, eyes flicking to the way his fingers curl around the spine of a leather-bound Bible.

Seungcheol chuckles. A low, rich sound that hums in your chest. “I’m just doing what I can,” he responds. “It’s a blessing to be able to serve.”

The conversation drifts around you. Talks of charity events, of how Seungcheol spends his weekends visiting the sick, of how he volunteers to clean the church after late-night vigils. Your mother calls him a godsend. A good man. 

And he is. Seungcheol meets your gaze with the unwavering steadiness of a saint, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across his face. He offers to walk you home, and your mother all but shoves you toward him.

It should be safe. Seungcheol is good. Seungcheol is holy.

But something lingers in the air as he falls into step beside you.

“You didn’t say much back there,” he muses, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Do I make you nervous?”

You hesitate. “No,” you lie.

He smiles. Not the same polite, tempered curve of his lips from earlier. This one is smaller, sharper. As if he knows something you don’t.

“Good,” Seungcheol murmurs with a tone of velvet and smoke. “I’d hate to scare you away.”

The streetlights above you flicker, their glow dimming like a prolonged inhale. You wonder, briefly, if you should be afraid.

The walk home is quiet, save for the steady echo of your footsteps against the pavement. Seungcheol doesn’t push for conversation, letting the silence stretch between you like an unspoken understanding. Every so often, he glances at you. 

When you finally reach your doorstep, he lingers, his fingers slipping into his pockets as he rocks back on his heels. The porch light casts a warm halo over his head. For a moment, he looks almost ethereal. Like a painting of an angel, edges softened by the glow.

“You’ll be at mass on Sunday?” he asks conversationally. 

You nod, your hand gripping the doorknob like a lifeline. “Yeah.”

His grin returns. “It’s important to stay close to God,” he says. 

There’s a beat of silence and you think he might finally leave. But Seungcheol steps closer instead, his presence looming; pressing against you without ever touching. His eyes dip to your hand on the doorknob before lifting back to meet your gaze.

“If you ever need someone to talk to,” he says, “you can call me.”

Your throat tightens. “Okay.”

Seungcheol tilts his head, studying you like he’s searching for something just beneath your skin. Then, he reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder. It’s supposed to be casual, supposed to be part of his carefully packaged goodbye. 

Why does it burn, then? Why does it feel like some forbidden apple, hanging just within your reach? 

“Good night,” Seungcheol says, voice dripping with something saccharine. Something final.

“Good night,” you say back as your heart hammers against your ribs.

He turns and disappears into the night, footsteps fading until you can no longer hear them. Even as you step inside and lock the door, the weight of him lingers. 

That Sunday, Seungcheol’s presence bears down on you once more. 

Families are packed into the wooden pews, the soft hum of hymns echoing against the stone walls. Candles flicker, drawing long shadows over stained glass windows. The air smells of incense and old wood.

You spot Seungcheol right away.

He’s kneeling at the front of the church, head bowed in prayer, his fingers delicately clasped around his cross. The morning light catches in his hair, turning the dark strands golden at the edges. For a moment, he looks like he belongs in one of the frescoes above the altar.

You sit, try to focus on the mass, but it’s impossible. Not when he finally rises, turning to scan the crowd. His eyes find yours like a hook, and you swear he smiles before he looks away.

When it’s time for the sign of peace, he’s suddenly there, slipping into the pew beside you.

“Peace be with you,” Seungcheol murmurs, his hand reaching for yours.

It should be an innocent gesture. Everyone is doing it— trading handshakes and wishes of peace. But when his fingers wrap around yours, his thumb drags over your knuckles, slow and deliberate. The touch is fleeting. It sears. 

You don’t even register your automatic response before he pulls away, stepping back as if nothing happened. His expression remains serene, respectful, as he nods politely and returns to his spot at the front.

Your heart pounds through the rest of the service.

Afterward, as the congregation drifts outside, you linger near the vestibule. You half hope and half dread that he’ll seek you out. 

In the end, he does. 

“You’re staying for fellowship?” he asks you smoothly.

“I— no,” you stammer. “I was just leaving.”

Seungcheol tilts his head, considering. “I’m glad you came today.” The corner of his mouth lifts with the hint of a smirk. “It’s nice to see you.”

It shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it does. But as he steps back, joining the rest of the parishioners with effortless ease, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s still watching you— even when his back is turned.

You tell yourself you’re going to church for yourself. That the knot of anticipation in your stomach is just leftover nerves, not expectation. When you slip into a pew, your gaze flicking over the heads of the faithful, you know better.

Seungcheol finds you like he always does. He slides into the seat beside you just before the first reading, the scent of his sharp cologne mingling with the sharp tang of incense.

“You came back,” he whispers, the hint of a praise just for you. Just for you. 

You try not to balk. “Of course.”

His gaze lingers, dark and steady, before he turns back to the altar. His thigh presses against yours, just enough that you can’t ignore it.

Through the homily, he doesn’t move away. If anything, he shifts closer, his knee brushing yours every time you shift in your seat. Your skin sparks where he touches. The ache in your chest only deepens.

When mass ends, he doesn’t let you slip away this time.

“Can I walk you home?” Seungcheol offers. 

You should say no. 

You don’t.

As you head out together, the only sound initially is the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the distant toll of the church bells. Seungcheol walks beside you, his cross glinting in the late morning light.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he says after a couple of minutes, breaking the silence. The words are soft, carefully chosen.

Your pulse jumps. “What?”

He stops and turns to face you. For the first time, he makes no effort to hide it— the way he looks at you, like he’s already made up his mind about what he wants.

“I think,” Seungcheol says, taking an infinitesimal step closer to you, “you like when I pay attention to you.”

You step back, but he matches it. His hand lifts, fingers barely grazing your wrist. Not holding. Just enough to feel your pulse hammering beneath the skin.

“I shouldn’t say things like that, should I?” His voice is low, nearly apologetic. “I’m sorry if I’m wrong, angel.”

Angel. The choice of pet name settles over you like a second skin. This is the part where you’re supposed to agree that he shouldn’t say things like this, that you deserve the apology he’s doling out. Instead, you find yourself willingly trapped in whatever dance Seungcheol has orchestrated. 

And the smile he gives you— all dimples and sharp teeth— tells you he notices.

He tilts his head, studying you as if you’re a puzzle he’s already halfway solved. “Angel,” Seungcheol repeats. “Is that alright with you?”

“Why that?” you ask, voice quieter than you’d like.

His thumb grazes the inside of your wrist, the faintest touch, like he’s testing the weight of your reaction. “Because angels are beautiful.” He pauses for a beat. “More than that— they’re obedient.”

The word lingers, heavy and deliberate, and the heat that rushes through you feels sinful. He waits, gaze unwavering. “Do you mind?” he asks again, and his concern would be genuine there weren’t a dozen alarm bells going off in your brain.

You’re a lamb being primed for slaughter, you think, as you give a jerky shake of your head. No, you don’t mind, you’re saying, even though you’re not a hundred percent sure what you’re walking into. 

“That’s what I thought,” Seungcheol says, his hand sliding to entangle your fingers with his.

The satisfaction in his voice sounds a lot like benediction.

You hadn’t expected to see Seungcheol waiting for you outside the parish hall.

The evening mass just ended, the lingering scent of incense clinging to the humid air. Most of the congregation had already filtered out, murmuring goodbyes and making their way home. 

You should be among them, with your mother. Instead, you find yourself waiting with bated breath by the outside of the building— watching Seungcheol shuffle toward you with slow, deliberate purpose.

His eyes drop to your dress. It’s subtle, the way his expression changes, the slight shift in his stance. You feel his scrutiny like a weight.

“This is new,” he says, gaze dragging over the delicate fabric. The way the hem flutters just above your knees.

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly unsure if you should shrink under his stare or stand taller. “I wear dresses to church all the time.”

“Mm.” Seungcheol hums, something unreadable in his tone. “Not like this.”

It’s not a condemnation, not exactly. But it makes your skin prickle. Your pulse, too loud in your ears.

You exhale shakily, trying to maintain at least some composure. “Is there a problem?”

His answer comes slower this time, drawn out like he’s considering it carefully. “Not at all,” he says, though his voice has dropped to something quieter, rougher. “It just makes it a little harder to behave.”

Your breath catches.

“Did you wear it for me?” He takes another step forward, crowding the space between you. The parish hall looms behind him, dark and quiet, as if holding its breath.

“No,” you fib, but you’re not sure why you bother.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue and reaches out. His fingers graze the hem of your dress, barely a touch. Enough to send a shiver up your spine. “Shame,” he murmurs. “It’s a pretty little thing.” 

His hand trails upward. Not far, just a few inches. The implication is there, hanging thick in the night air.

Your lips part, a protest or a prayer— you don’t know which. Then, Seungcheol lifts his other hand, cradling the side of your face. His thumb brushes over your cheek. Featherlight. Loving, in another lifetime. 

Seungcheol leans in, his breath warm against your lips. “Angel,” he murmurs, “tell me if you want me to stop.”

You don’t. 

When he finally closes the distance, kissing you slowly and deliberately, you realize— he already knew that.

The gentleness from before fades quickly, replaced by something more desperate, more demanding. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss. His lips part against yours, tongue sweeping over the seam of your mouth until you give in and let him take more.

You whimper, and he swallows the sound like it belongs to him. It’s reckless— the way he presses you back against the stonewall of the parish hall, the way his body cages yours in. The silver cross hanging from his neck brushes against your chest. A cold contrast to the heat blooming between you.

His fingers ghost down your arm, trailing lower, lower, until he’s gripping your waist. His thumb rubs slow, deliberate circles against your ribs, inching dangerously close to the curve of your chest. He doesn’t go further, but the tease of it— the way he lingers right on the edge of propriety— makes your knees go weak.

This must be how it felt like, your brain screams, for Daniel in that lion’s den. 

Seungcheol bites your bottom lip, sharp enough to make you gasp. He soothes it with a slow drag of his tongue. The shift in pace makes your head spin, your body leaning into him as if begging for more.

But just when you think he might give, he stops.

Seungcheol pulls away sharply, suddenly, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. His lips are pink and kiss-bruised; he licks them absently, savoring the taste of you.

You try to chase after him, to bridge the distance, but his grip on your waist tightens. Not to pull you closer, but to hold you still.

“That’s enough,” he whispers, voice rough.

It’s not. It’s nowhere near enough.

He must see the frustration on your face, because he laughs. The sound borders on cruel. Seungcheol lifts his hand, dragging his knuckles along your jaw in a gesture so unnecessarily tender it makes your chest cave.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks. “Wear a longer dress next Sunday,” he hisses, his voice low and filled with something dangerous, belying the softness of his touch, “unless you want me to forget my manners again.”

He steps back before you can respond, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he hasn’t just unraveled you in the church’s shadow. His silver cross catches the light as he walks away, gleaming like a promise. Or maybe a warning.

And you’re left standing there, heart pounding, lips swollen, with the taste of him still lingering in your mouth. 

Wanting.

Your mother is practically glowing, flitting around the kitchen to refill side dishes and top off drinks, beaming every time Seungcheol so much as glances her way. 

Across the table, Seungcheol's mother sits with perfect posture, hands folded in her lap, watching her son with quiet pride.

Your family reestablishing its presence back at church has made this a normal thing now. Having Seungcheol and his mother over is something you suppose you should expect a lot more frequently, especially with the way Seungcheol effortlessly charms your parents. 

“This is delicious, ma’am,” Seungcheol says, flashing your mother that gentle, saintly smile. “As good as I remember it. Maybe even better.”

“Oh, you’re too kind!” your mother gushes, waving her hand. “It’s nothing special, really.”

“I don’t know about that,” Seungcheol says, eyes flicking to you. “Everything here feels... special.”

You nearly choke on your water.

His mother, ever composed, laughs softly. “He’s always been so gracious,” she says, glancing fondly at her son. “Even as a child.”

Seungcheol offers her a modest shrug. The perfect image of humility. 

But beneath the table, his knee brushes against yours. 

At first, you think it’s accidental. Then he presses closer. When you try to shift away, he follows— his calf locking you in place.

“Are you seeing anyone, Seungcheol?” your mother asks conversationally.

He hums, considering. “No one serious,” he replies, his free hand drifting under the table.

His fingers graze your knee, light as a prayer. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t give any indication that he’s doing anything at all. Just keeps chatting like he isn’t testing your composure in front of your families.

“I’ve been focused on church,” he continues, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. “And helping the community where I can.”

Seungcheol’s mother nods approvingly. “He’s very dedicated,” she says. “Always has been.”

Your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, your heart pounding loud in your ears.

“We need more young men like you these days,” your father adds as Seungcheol’s fingers creep higher.

“I just try to do what’s right,” Seungcheol answers. His voice is steady, almost pious. But the way his touch trails higher, fingertips teasing the hem of your dress— is anything but.

You shift in your seat, enough to have Seungcheol’s hand stilling. “Are you okay?” Seungcheol’s mother asks as she notices your supposed discomfort.

You nod quickly, your pulse hammering. “Just a little warm,” you say, grabbing your glass with a trembling hand.

By the grace of God, Seungcheol pulls away. He resumes his polite conversation, plays the role of a righteous man. 

After dinner, your mothers settle in the living room with cups of tea, conversation flowing easily as it always does whenever they catch up.

Seungcheol lingers with you in the hallway. “Got any movies?” he asks almost casually. “We could put something on while they talk.”

You blink, caught off guard. “I— yeah, but my laptop is in my room.”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “That okay?”

You should find some excuse, any reason to keep him downstairs, but the way he looks at you— patient, steady, like he knows you’ll give in— makes your resolve crumble.

“Sure,” you breathe.

No one questions it. Your mothers send you off with twin simpers; your father barely looks up from the television. As you lead Seungcheol up the stairs, you realize just how much misplaced faith they have.

When you reach your room, Seungcheol steps inside, hands in his pockets as he surveys the space with quiet interest. The soft glow of your bedside lamp casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp edge of his jaw, the silver glint of the cross around his neck.

He turns to you. “What do you feel like watching, angel?” he asks, just loud enough for your parents downstairs to catch.

But then the door clicks shut behind you. 

All pretenses go up in smoke. 

“We’re not here to watch a movie,” Seungcheol says plainly. 

A shiver runs down your spine as he closes the space between you, crowding you up against your door. Wordlessly, he cups your jaw, fingers resting just below your earlobe.

“Do you want to tell me what we’re here for, angel?” he prompts. 

Your answer is a weak one. It’s a trained response, similar to the way your body involuntarily melts against his whenever he touches you. 

“Practice,” you say hoarsely, and Seungcheol hums with approval. 

“Practice,” he confirms— and then he leans in to crash your lips against his. 

Ever since that first kiss, the tension between the two of you have crackled like a livewire. It’s only been making out so far. Heated sessions stolen every Sunday, in some dinky, dark corner of the parish where nobody might find either of you. 

Practice, Seungcheol had told you about all your rendezvouses. He’s helping you practice for the man you’re someday going to marry, the one you’re obligated to please under your archaic religion. 

It had struck you, of course, that Seungcheol never referred to himself as that. He was not your future husband, not somebody who wanted to be shackled by the label ‘boyfriend’. You were not that big of a fool to insist on that. 

But you are enough of a fool to think that it will be the same thing this evening. That Seungcheol might exhibit some restraint, considering the fact your parents are a floor away. 

He tips you back, one hand in your hair and the other wrapped around your waist. He pulls away from the heated kiss to survey the heat in your cheeks, the haze in your eyes. His breath is hot on your throat, and when he presses his lips to the sensitive skin there, they feel like fire. You shiver, unable to do anything except grip the front of his shirt in both hands, and Seungcheol laughs lowly.

“Trembling already?” he says as he nips at your pulse point, tongue licking over the indentations he’s left. It won’t leave any marks, but the threat of it thrills you enough. 

He’s everywhere. Hands roaming, lips mapping out the terrain of your body. When he kisses you, it’s like being consumed by something larger than life. 

The hand in your hair tightens, forcing your head back. His other hand pushes your hips flush against his. Seungcheol swallows your gasp, tongue pushing past the barrier of your lips to meet yours. It’s overwhelming— to be kissed so thoroughly— but you’re helpless to the rush of pleasure. 

Seungcheol draws back, chest heaving. “You make the prettiest noises, angel," he purrs. “But keep it down, hm? We can’t get caught.” 

“Can’t get caught,” you repeat dumbly, still trying to catch your breath. 

He seems pleased to see you unravelling. Hand still threaded in your hair, Seungcheol begins to guide your body away from the door. He acts like he has a right to navigate your room, like this isn’t his first time in your private space. 

You’d expected him to guide you to your bed, and so you’re mildly surprised when he pulls you over to your work space instead. You stumble over your steps but he holds you upright, tugging at the roots of your hair in a way that borders on painful.

Seungcheol lets go of you as he sinks into your desk chair. You’re dazed as you watch him settle in— as if it’s his God-given right. 

“How far have you gone, pretty thing?” If you strained your ears, you might hear just how condescending he is underneath his curious facade. “Has anyone gotten a proper taste of you? Have you had a cock in your mouth?” 

Your face flushes at the filth that spills from Seungcheol's mouth. For a moment, you hesitate, your fingers nervously toying with the edges of your dress.

“None of that,” you whimper, partially afraid that your inexperience will ruin the moment. “I haven't done... any of that. Just kissing.”

It’s exactly what Seungcheol wants to hear. 

He doesn’t have to probe about any of the other boys you might’ve kissed. In his head, they’re good as gone. He’s the one in your bedroom right now; he’s the one who has you wrapped around his finger. 

“We’ve got a lot more practicing to do, then,” he muses. He goes the extra mile, injecting a tinge of disappointment into his tone. 

Panic flares in your chest like a firecracker. You resist the urge to clamber on to his lap and try to atone for your inexperience. 

Seungcheol is quiet as he surveys your nervous expression. When he speaks, his tone has the blood in your veins running cold. 

“On your knees.” 

You don’t immediately comply. The slowness of your uptake has Seungcheol arching one eyebrow upward, his fingers flexing over the armrest of your chair. 

“Come on,” he coaxes, “you go to church. You know how to kneel, don’t you?” 

You feel pathetic, the way you scramble to prove him right. You’ve never been so grateful that your parents insisted you get a carpet. The plush materials press into your knees, and you gingerly shift until you’ve got the skirt of your dress as an extra layer of protection.

There’s something demeaning about this, you think to yourself. About the way Seungcheol’s gaze is heavy-lidded, full of wicked intent. About his fingers finding their way back into your hair, threading through the strands in a way that verges on menacing. 

But how could he be wicked, how could he be menacing? He’s smiling down at you, urging you to rest your cheek against his knee. You follow— you always do— and you lean against him, some of the tension in your body easing out. 

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks, and your foolish heart sings. He’s concerned. He’s worried. 

“No,” you say quickly. “I’m— it’s okay.” 

Seungcheol makes a small hum of approval. His nails ghost over your scalp, lulling you into a sense of safety. You lay your head in his lap, reveling in the feeling. 

A couple of moments pass like that. Just as your eyes flutter close, Seungcheol’s voice breaks through the silence. 

“Angel,” he says softly, “do you want to help me feel good?” 

He poses it like a question, like he doesn’t already know what you’re going to say. You haven’t denied Seungcheol a single thing up until this point. And now you feel indebted, now you have to repay all his guidance. 

“Yes,” you breathe, the word a cold, broken Hallelujah. 

Seungcheol keeps his hand on your head— holding you in place or comforting you, it’s not clear. His free hand works on the button of his slacks. You shift uneasily, your eyes taking in every movement. 

His zipper being pulled. His boxers being pushed down, just enough for his semi-hard cock spring free. 

He picks up on your trepidation immediately. 

“It’s practice, angel,” he reminds you, his hold loosening in your hair. He’s giving you the option to pull away, you realize.

You’re not going to. You don’t want to. 

Desperate to prove yourself, you reach out. He gives a low hiss in response, his eyes darkening at the way your fingers wrap around his cock. 

“Spit on it first.” His words aren’t advice or a plea. They’re a command. 

You do as you’re told. You note how the spit makes things easier; it lets your palm slide along him much better. There’s a hint of fascination on your expression as Seungcheol twitches and swells underneath your hold, belying the facade of nonchalance that he’s put on. 

“Does it feel good?” you ask, peering up at Seungcheol. 

His gaze is half-lidded as he stares down at you. “It does, angel,” he says, voice rough around the edges, “but you can go a little faster for me, yeah?” 

You comply instantaneously, your hand running from tip to base and back up again with a little more intent. A part of you preens when Seungcheol’s head lolls backward, resting against the back of the arm chair. He’s obviously trying to keep his sounds of pleasure at bay, and you chalk it up to the fact your families might clock you if they were to find anything suspicious. 

“Good girl,” he grunts. “My perfect angel.” 

The praise goes straight to your head. You’re a little more enthusiastic as you pump his shaft at the pace he seems to like. After a couple of moments of Seungcheol’s quiet grunts, you ask the question that secures you a one-way ticket to hell. 

“Will this be enough?” 

Blink and you’ll miss it. The way Seungcheol’s jaw clenches. The millisecond where he looks contemplative, thoughtful. The moment he realizes what he’s going to say, what he’s going to ask of you. 

“No,” he answers. “It’s not enough.” 

You falter, but you keep your hand firmly wrapped around Seungcheol. So much about this situation is unfamiliar, from the coil in your stomach to the inexplicable need to gain Seungcheol’s approval. 

“I’ll need your mouth,” he says plainly. 

It makes sense to you now, how easily Eve had succumbed to that apple. The original sin, they called it, and you think you’ve learned a thing or two about sin as Seungcheol spreads his legs. You move until you’re positioned a little better over him, your breath warm against his cock.

Seungcheol grips your hair again. You can feel the reservation in his touch, the way he’s holding back with every fraying inch of his control. Letting you set the pace.

You lean forward, hesitantly licking a strike up Seungcheol’s cock. He masterfully keeps his expression under control. The lack of an enthusiastic reaction spurs you to take him in your mouth, to bob your head up and down experimentally. 

Your movements are a bit awkward; the taste of Seungcheol, new to your senses. You grin and bear it as you start to see progress— his fingers tightening in your hair, his breaths coming up a little more ragged.

Instinctively, Seungcheol’s hips buck upwards. You gag when you feel him hit the back of your throat. “Sorry, angel,” he groans. “Feels like heaven.” 

You hum with approval, the sound reverberating around Seungcheol’s cock. He twitches underneath you and squeezes his eyes shut, like it’s taking every ounce of his control not to fuck into your mouth.

When you try to hollow your cheeks, Seungcheol tugs you off of him. You gasp— for air, and in surprise— but he’s maneuvering you faster than you can properly react. 

It happens so quickly. One moment, you’re sucking Seungcheol off. The next, he has you folded over your desk. 

“That was a little too good, angel,” he murmurs into your ear, his cock pressing into the curve of your ass through your dress. “If I come, I want to do it inside of you.” 

A cold shiver runs down your spine. With his chest to your back, Seungcheol feels it; he chuckles lowly, wasting no time to flip over your dress. 

“Cute,” he says, fingers running along the hem of your underwear. 

You feel weak-kneed, supported only by the table and the press of Seungcheol’s body. “What are you—?” you’re asking, even as Seungcheol nudges your thighs apart to give himself a little more room to work with. 

“Say ‘stop’.” Seungcheol’s voice has taken on that quality again. That do-no-wrong reverence. “Say the word and I’m off, angel.” 

The speed of your response surprises even you. “No,” you blurt out, like you’re afraid he’ll pull away if he sees even a moment’s hesitation. “No, no. I— want this. Want you.” 

His smile is sharp against the side of your neck. 

He pushes your underwear to the side. You hadn’t realized how neglected you’d been feeling until the first brush of his fingers tears an unbidden gasp out of you. It feels almost cruel, the way he teases the slick gathered at your core. 

“Seung—cheol,” you complain, and he breathes a soft ‘shhh’ into your ear. 

“What did I say earlier?” 

You swallow. “To— keep it down.” 

He rewards you by pressing the tip of his finger into your cunt. Your teeth sink into your lower lip in a futile attempt to bite back your moans. Seungcheol’s breaths are heavy as he slowly eases his finger into your heat, giving you time to adjust to the intrusion. 

You’ve touched yourself before, but this is something new entirely. Seungcheol’s fingers are thick and he hits parts of you that you couldn’t reach by yourself. Your jaw has gone slack, the sounds of pleasure catching in your throat as you try to keep yourself quiet. 

Seungcheol must deem your efforts insufficient, because he lets out a ‘tch’ of disapproval. “This won’t do,” he grunts. 

His free hand abandons its hold of your hip. You’re just about to ask what he’s going to do when he shows you— tugging the necklace around his neck, leaning over your shoulder. The chain dangles in your peripheral for a second before he’s shoving the cross past your lips, the silver cold against your tongue. 

“Bite,” he hisses. “Keep quiet.” 

Your mouth clamps down on the cross. You have only a moment to feel like this is something damning, something sacrilegious, before Seungcheol fucks his finger into you a little faster. 

It takes a mammoth effort to be the angel he wants you to be. Your legs are shaking; your forehead is slicking with sweat. Seungcheol deigns to slide another finger in, and it goes by without a hitch. You’re so wet that you don’t doubt it’ll gather all over your underwear and the inside of your thighs. 

“Hear that?” Seungcheol coos, referring to the loud, obscene squelching echoing in your room. You can only pray that your parents are deaf to the world as Seungcheol goes on, “Better than a fucking choir. Such a perfect pussy, angel.” 

He shifts from behind you. You can feel all of his hardness pressing up against you— everything from the planes of his body to the shape of his cock. There’s a moment where you hesitate, where you worry that your inexperience and softness might turn him off. 

If anything, it only seems to excite him more. 

“There are bad men out there,” he murmurs, “who will want to take advantage of a pretty little thing like you.” 

You try to nod, but there isn’t much room for you to move. Your brain feels like it’s melting, and it only worsens when Seungcheol’s thumb begins to rub tight circles over your clit. That— paired with the two fingers he’s driving deep into your cunt— is enough for you to see stars. 

But it’s his words that threaten to do you over. 

“Not me,” he says into the side of your neck. “Never me. I’m going to take good care of you. And that starts with having you come all over my fingers, like the angel that you are. The next thing I’m going to do is fill you up, make you feel it right here—” 

He presses into the gummy spot inside of you, and you’re done for. Your body slumps and you come with a soft cry, the cross in your mouth muffling the sound. 

You’re still riding the high of your orgasm when Seungcheol tugs his necklace free. The silver shines with your saliva, filling you with a sort of indignity that coils low in your stomach. 

Seungcheol’s fingers— still lazily fucking into you— distract you from your shame. And when he kisses you hard, as if rewarding you for your compliance, you can’t even think of things like sin. 

There is only Seungcheol. There will only ever be Seungcheol. 

“You did so well for me,” he says against your lips. “I don’t think they heard a thing, angel.” 

The bliss has made your head hazy, has robbed you of your coherency. You can only manage a breathless “Thank God.” 

His smile returns. It makes him look like he’s about to swallow you whole. 

“No need to thank God,” he murmurs, “when you can thank me.” 

[un-fwuit-un-fwog]

First Choice

Synopsis: The Prefect has to choose a dorm to move into, and they immediately think of Leona.

TW: it's relatively vague, but it's mentioned that The Prefect was uncomfortable with the thought of staying in other dorms for reasons you would imagine a woman wouldn't want to stay in a space with all men (specifically, she's overheard jokes, and noticed looks that made her uncomfortable (I try to keep it vague though))

Fem! Reader x Leona

You sat in Crowley's office with your arms crossed and a tired expression on your face. You had walked back to Ramshackle after another long day of classes and mayhem just to find the roof had caved in.

Crowley sat in silent contemplation as if he were actually mulling over the issue like someone who actually cared before snapping his fingers with a triumphant smile on his face: "Because I am so kind, I shall allow you the opportunity to choose one of the 7 dorms to move into!"

Your face remained blank. It's not that you disliked the idea of being able to sleep in a building that you didn't have to worry about leaks, mold, collapses, and cave ins, but you weren't too fond of the idea of having to live with a bunch of men.

You mulled over your options for a moment before sighing and pulling out your phone. Crowley looked at you quizzically. "I wanna make sure it's okay with him first" you mumble under your breath.

Moments later, you get a text from Leona: "Whatever."

You figured that would be as close to a yes as you could get, so you relayed the information to Crowley.

Just then, another buzz of your phone came: "Don't bring the d*mn cat."

Well, that complicated things. You weren't too fond of the idea of leaving Grim behind. Crowley, on the other hand, thought it was a glorious idea. He'd send Grim off to Heartslabyul (without consulting with Riddle first, of course). Surely, some time in the strictest dorm would do the little critter some good.

Before either of you could protest, he was already out the door holding grim by the collar.

When you arrived at Savanaclaw, it was already late. Ruggie greeted you with a snicker and tossed you a basket of laundry to bring up to Leona's room.

"Can't have ya freeloading" was the hyena's excuse.

"Delivery." A yawn slipped from your mouth as you dropped the basket of laundry just inside the door.

A rustling came from the bed before moments later a grumpy lion finally lifted his head to look at you. "The h*ll are you doing here?"

". . .You said I could stay, remember?"

Leona's tail flicks back and forth a few times before he flops back down. "Was half expecting ya to choose a different dorm instead."

With a hum, you closed his door and picked the basket back up to set it next to his closet. "Now, why would I do that?"

You heard a scoff come from Leona "In case ya haven't noticed, Savanaclaw isn't exactly a prissy little proper dorm with a-"

You cut your upper classman off by throwing a pillow at his face.

"Oops, my hand slipped" you hum as you set the laundry basket down again.

Leona growls, but he doesn't move. If anyone else were to throw a pillow at him, he'd likely rip their throat out, but with you, he didn't have that compulsion. "The h*ll was that for?"

"Is that really what you think I'd be looking for in a dorm I'll have to move into?" As you speak, you casually sit on the edge of his bed so you can meet his eyes and give him a 'really?' look.

"Yes." His response is blunt and to the point.

A sigh slips from your lips as you stand up "Seriously?"

"Well what else would you be looking for?" He scoffs with a roll of his eyes "And which of those criteria would you find in this dorm?"

"You're here." You reply without having to think and as if the answer is obvious.

In response, Leona just stares at you disbelievingly.

"I'm serious. The moment Crowley said I had to move into a dorm, this was the first one I thought of, and because of you."

He remains silent, his expression only becoming more skeptical. Don't get him wrong, when you said he was your first thought, your first choice, it made something tighten in his chest. However, anyone can lie, and your current sentiment sounds completely improbable to him.

Another exasperated sigh leaves your mouth before you motion for him to scoot over.

Surprisingly, he complies and gives you space to sit crisscross next to him. "I'm the only girl in this school."

"Obviously." You give him a quick warning glare at his snarky comment, and he raises his hands.

"As I was saying, I'm the only girl in this school. I'm not saying I particularly distrust the other students here, but that doesn't change the fact that I constantly find myself in settings here that make me feel unsafe."

Leona's once swishing tail stills, but his expression remains neutral.

"Sure, I have friends in other dorms, but, for one reason or another, I never feel fully at ease in those spaces."

"And you do here?"

"Yes."

The room falls silent for a moment before you continue: "I can't fully explain it, but. . .I said that the reason I chose to come to Savanaclaw was because you're here. That matters because. . .I feel safe around you."

Leona scoffs before he can stop himself. "I tried to kill you."

"Yes, but I've never worried that you'd do worse."

Leona's eyes widen a fraction at the statement. He debates asking for a moment, but eventually decides to: "And you have about others?"

Silence falls once more, but this time it feels much heavier.

"Some of it is just a lack of knowing,. . .but sometimes I hear people make unsavory jokes. . .and sometimes I catch a glint in people's eyes that I'm not sure I want to know the thoughts behind."

Before the atmosphere can get too awkward, you clap your hands together, "That or sometimes I just feel like people don't know how to treat me because I'm a girl." you add, trying to lighten the mood.

"But I've never felt that way with you. You respect my space and my boundaries but still treat me like a normal person."

Deciding it's probably best not to talk about the previous subject too much as you seem uncomfortable with it (not that he's going to forget it though), he follows along with the topic shift. "Nobody else in any other dorm does that?" he scoffs "It's the bare minimum, nothin' special." His words don't come off as being said in a way to subtly tell you to pick a different dorm to stay in, that he doesn't want you here, but rather as genuinely curious and with a barely noticeable undertone that way maybe. . .threatening?

"It's not that nobody else does. . .it's hard to explain. You not only treat me with respect, but by doing so, you encourage others around you to do the same. Last time I stayed here, you always seemed to be there to step in if anyone crossed any boundaries or said anything that made me uncomfortable. When I returned to your room looking even slightly uncomfortable, you'd notice and take me seriously when I had a concern instead of brushing it off."

Noticing you had just rambled off praise, you quickly add "And you're a dorm leader, so staying in your room would surely deter anyone from trying anything! Cause you're big and scary. . .haha."

Leona is eerily silent for a while before he huffs and lets a grin creep onto his face. "I didn't know you thought so highly of me, Herbivore."

You roll your eyes and lightly punch his arm, grateful for how he lightened the mood.

"Well, I could easily give the same praise to plenty of other people, some of whom are even dorm leaders." you scoff playfully. "I genuinely don't know why it's just you that makes me so comfortable."

"Maybe ya have a thing for me." the lion jokes.

Normally, you'd be put off by such a comment, but coming from Leona, you can tell it has nothing nasty or creepy behind it.

"As if!" You try your best to sound firm and to match his sarcasm, but a light blush creeps to your face.

Leona originally wasn't going to push the matter, but seeing your positive reaction, he continues, "Oh? I seem to recall you mentioning that I was your first choice though."

"You know I didn't mean it like that!" you hiss, irritated by the smirk on his face.

You move to get up, but before you do, Leona lightly stops you. "What are you-"

He cuts you off by resting his chin on your shoulder from behind and lifting his phone into the air. You catch on to what he's doing, and decide to just go along with it. . .but not without getting him back for a bit of his earlier teasing.

You lift one hand to cradle his cheek that isn't pressed against your neck and give your best smile. If Leona is phased by the action, he doesn't show it as he quickly clicks the picture and posts it on his virtually dead magicam account, making sure to tag the other dorm leaders in the post.

"You're a jerk" you sigh, watching him hit post.

You leave the room a bit later to take a shower in the bathroom attached to his room, and only then does he allow the faintest of blushes to creep onto his face.

Partially because of you holding his face, partially because of your praise, but mostly because of something you said much earlier.

He was your first thought. He was your first choice.

Leona was never first.

You had 7 dorms to choose from and you chose his arguably unappealing one where it was always humid and full of sweaty guys roughhousing.

It wasn't that you thought of the dorm first, you thought of him. He was your first choice. He is your first choice.

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ITZY Yuna x Male Reader | 5k words Part 1 out of ? Tags: PWP, Blowjob, Size Kink, Cock Worship, Mutual Horny Chaos, 2nd Person POV, Yuna Is Down Catastrophic

She said glasses and earrings were a cheat code—so you tested it. No big deal. Just an experiment. But the second Yuna opens the door, she short-circuits, and next thing you know, she’s on her knees. I guess it works?

The car is parked in your usual spot, tucked away from the main road where the streetlights don’t quite reach. It’s summer.

The air outside warm enough that the windows are cracked just enough to let the night breeze slip through. Chill R&B hums from the speakers, blending into the comfortable silence between you and Yuna.

Yuna’s lounged back, slides kicked off, feet propped up on the dashboard like she owns the place. Her phone screen flashes in quick bursts as she scrolls TikTok, fingers moving lazily while she sips from her boba. Cropped pink tank, low-rise jeans that hang just right, a couple of delicate rings on her fingers—casual but calculated, effortless, she knows she’s hot and she owns it.

You’re half-watching, half-zoned out, fingers drumming absently against your drink. Not thinking about how good she looks. Or trying not to.

Then she speaks, totally unprompted.

“Glasses and earrings are such a fucking cheat code for guys.”

You blink, slow to process. “…Huh?”

She doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Like, if a dude who’s my type pulls up with that? Whip it out already, I’m on my knees.”

You choke on your boba. Cough, nearly die, and have to thump your own chest to recover. “You’re a slut”

Yuna finally spares you a glance, completely serious. “I’m sooo serious. Glasses? Hot. Earrings? Hot. Together? Killy me now. Instant buff.”

You recover, rubbing your throat. “Any guy?”

She scoffs. “Obviously he has to be cute, I’m not gonna suck off some rando that's ugly and gross.”

You stare at her, a mix of disbelief and amusement creeping in.

Yuna shifts, folding a leg under her and turning fully towards you, sitting up. Her tank top rides up just slightly, exposing a sliver of skin, but you don’t look for too long. She leans in like she’s about to tell you the secrets of the universe. “Like, okay, hear me out.”

You sigh, playing along. “K, I’m listening.”

“The glasses just make the guy look smart, but like, not too smart. Unless he’s a nerd, but you get my point.”

“Suuure.”

“The earrings? Hot. Earrings are just hot. Like, I wear earrings. I’m hot.”

You stare at her, unimpressed. “I don’t get it.”

She waves a hand, exasperated. “Like, hot but not too hot, smart but not too smart. ya get me?.”

You squint. “But what if the guy’s ugly?”

She pauses, then scoffs. “See, that’s where it’s tough, ‘cause the buff only works if you’re already cute, ya know? Or like… almost hot.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You saying some guys are almost hot?”

“Yeah, bro, like some guys just need to hit the gym, dress better, get some earrings.”

You just give her a look, telling her you don’t really get it.

Silence lingers for a beat. Then she shrugs, says it so offhandedly you almost don’t catch it. “Like, you’d actually be hot if you tried.”

Your brain stalls. “…What?”

She doesn’t look up, just sips her boba. “You heard me.”

You’re still blinking. “No, repeat that.”

A slow, shit-eating grin spreads across her face. “Nope.”

“That felt personal.”

“It wasn’t. But if you feel attacked…”

You scoff, sitting up slightly. “I literally gym, and you gotta admit I dress nice.”

She finally looks at you, eyes dragging over your plain black tee and gray sweats, unimpressed.

You gesture vaguely. “When I go out.”

She snorts, shaking her head but doesn't disagree. “Yeah, aight.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re basically saying I would be hot if I wasn’t ugly.”

Another shrug. “That’s not what I’m saying, but if that’s what you’re hearing…”

You laugh it off, shake your head, shift the conversation elsewhere. But Yuna? She sits with it, lets the words settle.

The idea is planted.

She doesn’t bring it up again, but it lingers. Her gaze flickers to you when you’re not looking, her teeth pressing lightly into her bottom lip like she’s trying not to think too hard about it. Then, just as quickly, she shakes it off, scrolling her phone with a little too much focus.

A week later…

The drive to Yuna’s place feels normal—same streets, same turn signals, same playlist humming low through your speakers. But today? Today’s different. Today, you’re running a test.

You grip the wheel with one hand, glancing at yourself in the rearview mirror. Glasses on. You always needed them, just never wore them. Now? Gentle Monster frames, clean, sharp. A flex, but a subtle one.

Earrings? Left ear—a small silver star stud. Right ear—a tiny dagger earring. A balance of soft and sharp. Like you weren’t thinking about it, but also? You were.

Your fit? Casual but intentional.

Black compression shirt, snug and sculpting but not obnoxious. Grey wide-leg sweats, laid-back and effortless. Fresh kicks, spotless with no creases.

It’s intentional, but not try-hard. Like you just threw shit on, but somehow, everything fell into place.

You exhale, tapping your fingers against the steering wheel.

Let’s see if she notices.

You knock. A shuffle of footsteps inside. The door swings open.

Yuna stands there, the striped pajama set hugging her tiny waist, sitting snug on her hips, showing just enough skin to be lethal. The fabric stretches over her curves, hinting at the toned stomach underneath, the kind of body that looks soft but still tight in all the right places.

Her red hair falls in messy waves, catching hallway light like she planned the whole damn lighting setup. Even "just hanging at home," her skin glows with that I-woke-up-like-this perfection you know for a fact takes at least three serums to achieve. Light makeup—because of course she wouldn't be completely bare-faced—just enough to make her eyes wider, her lips fuller, slightly glossed and parted in what starts as a greeting but dies somewhere in her throat.

She was expecting movie night. Takeout containers. Stupid debates about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. The usual safe routine.

Instead, she gets you. Version 2.0.

Her entire body freezes. Processing.

Her eyes make a deliberate journey: glasses, earrings—that small hesitation when she notices they're mismatched—down to how your shirt remembers every gym session you've been putting in, lingering just a beat too long where your sweats hang low, then back up to your face with the slow-dawning realization that you've weaponized her own words against her.

She straight-up blue-screens.

Her weight shifts subtly, thighs pressing together like she's trying to create pressure where she suddenly needs it. Her fingers flex at her sides, curling then uncurling like she's physically restraining herself. The sharp inhale is audible—chest rising, lips parting before she catches herself. A full system restart happening in real time.

"What. The. Fuck." It comes out flat, almost accusatory, like you've committed a personal offense.

You can't help the smirk. "What?"

Yuna's eyes narrow, flicking to your earrings again with something dangerously close to hatred—not for the accessories, but for how effectively you've played her. Her jaw works, tension visible as she grinds her teeth. The mental battle is written across her face: pride versus want, restraint versus impulse.

"You're a fucking bitch," she mutters, the words carrying more heat than venom.

Your grin widens, victory sweet on your tongue. "Hmm? Didn't catch that."

No verbal response. Just the sudden, almost violent way her fingers hook into your shirt, yanking you inside before kicking the door shut with enough force to rattle the frame.

Her grip on your wrist is tight—too tight to be casual, not tight enough to hurt. She pulls you down the familiar hallway, the same path you've walked a hundred times before, except now your heart hammers against your ribs like it's trying to escape. This isn't movie-night Yuna leading you to her bedroom to argue about Netflix choices. This is something else entirely.

The words barely form in your mouth before your back hits her mattress, the air rushing from your lungs in a soft "oof." Suddenly everything is different. Same room—same fairy lights strung across her headboard, same pile of clothes heaped on her desk chair, same vague scent of vanilla and something distinctly her—but the air feels electrically charged, dense with potential.

She climbs onto you with feline precision, one knee planted on either side of your thighs, lowering herself with a deliberate slowness that borders on torture. The weight of her settles against you—warm, solid, undeniable. The smirk playing at her lips is both challenge and promise, a silent I told you so mixed with you're going to regret this in the best way possible.

And just like that, the tables turn.

Your earlier confidence dissolves under her gaze. Your breath catches as she studies you like a meal she's about to devour, eyes dragging from your face to your throat, lingering on the pulse point there before traveling lower to where your shirt has ridden up to expose a strip of skin.

Pure instinct drives your hands to her hips, fingers just grazing the warm skin exposed between her top and pajama bottoms—but before you can get a proper grip, she's caught your wrists. One fluid motion and your arms are pinned against the wall above your head, chest exposed, completely at her mercy. Her nails dig just enough into your skin to send a shiver racing down your spine, a silent warning that makes your pulse spike.

"Yuna—" Her name escapes as a whine, embarrassingly breathless.

"Did I say you could touch?" The edge in her voice is new—commanding in a way that makes heat pool low in your stomach.

She leans in close again and you flinch slightly, turning your head, caught off-balance by this sudden shift in dynamic. The predatory smile that spreads across her face tells you exactly what you need to know:

You might have started this game, but she's the one who's going to finish it.

Her grip tightens. "What? You getting nervous?"

And you are. Because you don’t know what she’s gonna do next. Because your hands are pinned down, because she’s taking her time, because she’s in complete control.

"Too late." Her voice is soft as her fingers catch your jaw before you can answer—firm, controlling. She lets it hang there, the weight of her words sinking in before she tilts your face up like she’s testing the weight of you in her hands, deciding whether she wants to break you apart or take her time savoring it.

She doesn’t kiss you yet. Just hovers. Close enough that you can feel her breath—warm, teasing, curling over your lips. Close enough that you can smell her—sweet, like strawberries, something feminine and bright, but dark underneath. Something heady. Something that lingers.

"What..." It slips out soft, almost breathless, escaping before you even realize. You're already leaning in—just slightly, just enough to chase the warmth of her mouth, the phantom touch of lips that still haven’t pressed against yours.

She grins. Pulls back just enough to make you ache for it. Watching, waiting. Letting the moment stretch, letting you need.

Then she finally kisses you—hungry, consuming, impossible to escape. Her lips move like she’s starving, like she’s been waiting for this, for you.

Her hands roam without hesitation, clawing at your shirt, nails scratching lightly before pressing harder, groping, gripping, taking. She grinds down, pressing herself closer, hot, desperate, soaked through.

Her tongue slides against yours, deep, messy, filthy. She tastes like strawberries and something warmer, something intoxicating. She bites your bottom lip, sucking it between her teeth before letting go, leaving you breathless, dizzy.

You manage to get half a word out—something cocky, something desperate—but she just presses her thumb over your lips, silencing you effortlessly. "Shh."

Her smirk is wicked, teasing. "Did I tell you to talk?"

One last kiss—hard, bruising—claiming—before she finally pulls back, pupils blown wide, breath heavy, hot against your lips. Still teasing, still in control.

Her eyes flicker, dark and sharp. She lets the silence stretch, lets you squirm just a little before tilting her head, smirking. And then, finally—

“Whip it out when I tell you to.”

She shifts back, slow and deliberate, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. Legs crossed, arms folded, head tilted slightly—waiting.

“Shirt off.”

You hesitate. Her expression doesn’t change. Just one perfectly raised eyebrow.

You exhale, dragging the fabric over your head, the fabric peeling away from your skin, leaving a fleeting chill before the heat of the room settles over you. The shift makes your muscles tense briefly, instinctively flexing, your lean frame now fully exposed. She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches. Eyes dragging down, slower than usual. She’s seen you shirtless before—at the beach, when you work out together—but this feels... different. More deliberate. More assessing. Like she’s realizing something she hadn’t let herself think about before.

Her fingertips trail over your chest, nails scraping lightly as they move down. Her breathing shifts. Not a full pause, but a subtle inhale, like she’s registering something new.

She barely skims your waistband before stopping. Lips part, but no words come out. Just a beat of silence, her fingers still resting against your skin.

Then, just as quickly, she shakes it off. Moves like she never hesitated. “Pants too.”

You move to pull them down, and her hand shoots out, gripping the fabric at your waist. Stopping you. Holding you there.

She tilts her head. Smirks. “Hmm, one sec.”

She leans down, lips trailing from your chest to your abdomen, slow and deliberate, each press of her mouth sending heat curling low in your stomach. Lower. Lower. Until she’s hovering over your bulge, her breath warm against the fabric, her smirk returning as she glances up at you—waiting, teasing.

“Whip it out.”

You follow her command, fingers hooking into the waistband of your sweats and boxers at the same time. You push them down in one slow motion, the fabric dragging over your hips, your thighs, until they pool around your ankles. The cool air hits first, sending a shiver down your spine, your skin prickling in contrast to the heat of her stare. You kick them off, tossing them aside without a second thought.

Your cock, already stiff, springs free, swaying slightly before settling upright.

You expect some kind of reaction, a smirk, a comment, something. But she just sits there. Silent. Taking you in. Making you wait.

Then, the shift.

Her jaw tightens. Barely. Just enough to notice. Her fingers twitch, like she’s resisting the instinct to reach for you. A single exhale slips out—soft, sharp, involuntary.

“...Hah.”

Her thighs press together.

She blinks once, slow, expression still unreadable before she scoffs, voice flat. "You're joking."

It’s not a question. Not disbelief. It’s irritation. Like she’s pissed off that she’s this affected.

Then, before she even registers it, her hand is on you.

Her fingers wrap around the base, testing the weight. Thumb pressing into the ridge, sliding down, measuring. Her grip is firm, not teasing, not soft. Calculating. Then, she swipes her thumb over the tip, smearing the bead of precum across the sensitive skin.

The slick warmth sends a sharp jolt through you, your stomach clenching at the sudden stimulation. A shudder rolls down your spine, hips jerking just slightly—instinctual, involuntary. She hums at the reaction, amused, dragging her thumb back over the head, slower this time, watching you twitch beneath her touch.

"...You’ve been walking around with this the whole time?"

One slow stroke. Deliberate. Frustrated. Her breath hitches for half a second before she exhales through her nose, sharp and controlled. She’s working through something.

Then she moves.

Slow, deliberate, sinking down until her face is level with your cock. She spreads her knees wider, arching her back instinctively, ass lifting behind her as she dips her head down. The motion is fluid, effortless, like she’s done this a hundred times before—but not with you.

Her breath fans over the head, warm, teasing, and fuck, she’s gorgeous. But the way she’s looking at you? The way her lashes flutter as she drags her gaze from the base to the tip, the way her lips part slightly like she’s thinking about something she shouldn’t? Filthy.

Your fingers twitch against the sheets, aching to touch her. To run through her hair, trace over her cheek, press against the plush curve of her lips. But you don’t. You know better.

She tilts her head, lining it up. Comparing.

Her fingers tighten around the base, giving an experimental squeeze, jaw tensing slightly like she’s still processing the math of it all.

She hums, amused. Like she just confirmed something. Her eyes drag from your cock to your frame, mapping out the proportions. She’s smaller, you’re lean, cut where it matters. Her fingers tighten around your thigh—just slightly.

She exhales slow, shaking her head. Testing her own reaction.

“It’s almost annoying.”

A sharp squeeze at the base, like she’s making peace with it.

"You're just big enough to be fucking perfect."

She looks up at you, doesn’t blink. Holds your gaze like she’s daring you to move.

"Look at me."

You do. Try to. But the intensity of her gaze is too much, hungry, piercing, hot. Like she’s devouring every inch of you without even touching. Your body reacts before you can stop it. It’s overwhelming. Too much. You instinctively try to escape it, tilting your head back, but she doesn’t let you.

Her other hand catches your chin, dragging you back down to her. “I didn’t say you could do that.”

Your breath shudders. You swallow hard. She notices. Smirks.

Then—she stops.

She knows exactly what she’s about to do. And she wants you to watch.

Lifting her arms, she gathers up all her hair, twisting it tight, securing it with practiced ease. It’s a ritual, a performance, because she knows you’re looking. And she likes it.

The movement stretches her out, making you take in everything—the pull of her arms, the soft dip of her waist, the sleek curve of her long torso. Cinched. Compact. Fucking perfect. Her neck, her collarbones, the bare skin of her armpits exposed for a fleeting second, all of it framed just for you.

"Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking hot." Your voice slips past you.

She pauses, just for a second. A slow, knowing smirk on her lips as she glances at you.

"I know."

Your fingers twitch, instinct taking over—you reach down, wanting to stroke yourself to the sight of her.

Sharp slap.

Your hand jerks away, stinging. Her eyes flicker up, challenging. Smirking.

"I already told you—keep your hands to yourself."

Then—she leans back down, the same position, same arch. She dips her head low. Her lips purse, and before you can register it, a thick glob of warm saliva drips from her mouth, landing perfectly against the tip. She watches it spread, her thumb smearing it across the sensitive skin, coating you in wet heat before she strokes again—long, slow, deliberate.

She looks up, eyes locking onto yours, smirking like she already knows she's won. "Now sit back and let me enjoy myself."

Then—she sinks lower.

Her red hair spills over your stomach, strands brushing against your skin as she angles herself just right. The dim light catches on the messy waves, glowing warm, wild, untamed. She looks up at you through thick lashes, half-lidded, pupils blown wide, mouth parted just enough to tease you with the heat of her breath.

She’s so fucking close.

But this isn’t about you.

Her fingers wrap around the base, a slow, possessive squeeze, more for herself than for you. She exhales, lips barely parted, watching, taking you in. Her tongue swipes over her own bottom lip as if contemplating a meal she’s about to devour.

Then—she goes for it.

Heat. Wet. The first slide past her lips is tight, hot, an impossible contrast of softness and pressure. Her mouth stretches, lips plush and slick, sealing around you with a perfect, obscene suction. The wet heat of her tongue presses firm against the underside, dragging against every ridge, every pulsing inch, like she’s mapping you out with her mouth. The pressure of her cheeks hollowing pulls a groan straight from your chest before you can bite it back.

It's not careful, not teasing—hungry.

Her nails dig into your thigh as she sinks deeper, her own body reacting, thighs pressing together, chasing the heat curling in her own gut.

She doesn’t slow. Doesn’t drag it out like a game. She’s working herself up with every motion, letting herself indulge.

Another moan, this one softer, needier, and fuck, she’s enjoying this. Her tongue presses against the underside, massaging every inch she swallows. She pulls back, spit slick and glistening, gasping softly before diving back in, sucking harder, deeper.

She flicks her gaze up—not to check on you, but to see how much more she can take.

The wet pop when she pulls off is obscene, spit stretching between her lips and your cock before snapping apart. But she doesn’t wipe it away—you can tell, she likes the mess.

She tilts her head, gaze flicking up to yours, breathless, her lips curling into something between a smirk and frustration.

"Fuck, you taste so good." She mutters, voice wrecked, annoyed at how much she’s into this.

You start to smirk, breath hitching as you mutter, "Damn, you really know how to—"

But you don't get the chance.

She takes you deep mid-word, zero hesitation, lips stretching, throat tightening as she swallows you down in one sudden, slick motion. The shock rips a strangled sound from your throat, something between a gasp and a groan, because fuck, that was unexpected.

It's warm, so fucking tight, her throat flexing around you as she forces herself deeper, nose pressing flush against your groin. The wet grip of her throat clenching around the tip sends heat jolting up your spine, and when she pulls back—slow, torturous—a thick string of spit clings between her lips and your cock, stretching, breaking, dripping down onto her own chin. She watches you, gaze locked, eyes dark, sharp, daring you.

"You talk too much. And I haven't told you to open your mouth."

Her voice is wrecked, breathless, but smug as hell. She grips the base, firm, controlling, and slaps the head against her lips, wet and filthy, smearing spit and precum across them before taking you back in without hesitation—deeper, tighter, longer.

Your thighs tense. Your breath stutters. Toes curl, heat pooling low in your stomach, a wildfire spreading through your limbs. Your hands clench into the sheets because if you touch her now, you're done for.

She hums around you, low, vibrating, because she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

Then she pulls back, spit-slick and glistening, pausing just long enough for you to feel the absence, to make you ache for it.

You think she’s about to go back in, your breath catches—but she lingers, gaze flicking up, owning the moment, letting the tension coil tighter. Then, slowly, she slaps your cock against her lips once more, her own breath shuddering like she’s just as caught up in this as you are. But this isn’t for you—it’s for her.

She dips lower, tongue dragging down your length, lips wrapping around one ball, sucking slow, wet, indulgent. She pauses for a second, breathing heavy, swallowing like she’s processing how good it tastes, how much she’s enjoying it.

Then she makes a sound—a frustrated groan, muffled, needy, like she’s annoyed by just how good you are in her mouth. Her hand never stops moving, stroking you in time with every pull of her mouth. Then the next, her tongue rolling over the sensitive skin, a soft moan escaping her, sending a jolt straight through your core.

She licks a line back up your shaft, slow, messy, like she’s savoring the weight of you on her tongue.

Your hands twitch against the sheets, fists clenched tight, every muscle in your body strung too fucking tight, resisting the urge to grab her. She notices. She loves it.

She pulls off completely, spit pooling down her chin, tilts her head up at you, lips parted, swollen, smirking.

"Hold my hair up."

Your breath shakes as you comply, fingers threading into her red waves, feeling the silkiness as they slide between your knuckles. You gather them slowly, watching the way they shine under the dim light, then bunch them up tight, pulling them together like a ponytail, holding firm.

She exhales slow, eyes flickering shut for half a second like she’s steeling herself. Then, she looks up at you—hungry, determined.

"Good. Now don’t let go."

The moment you tighten your grip, she moans, low and wrecked, like it’s fueling her. Like she’s been waiting for this.

She takes you back in. 

In one go.

There’s no hesitation now. No more teasing. Just her fucking her mouth on you, using your cock like a toy for her own oral fixation.

She goes messy, abrupt, taking you deep with zero breaks, her hands working in sync—one stroking your shaft, the other massaging your balls, slick with spit, wet, filthy, relentless.

She gags. Chokes. Sputters saliva down her chin, but she doesn’t stop—she loves this.

Each time she sinks down, she stays longer, testing her limits, forcing herself deeper, moaning around you, the vibrations traveling straight through your spine. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

She pulls off with a wet, deep, gasp, sucking in air, but her hands never stop moving—stroking, twisting, milking you even as she gasps for breath.

“Shit,” she pants, her voice wrecked, her lips swollen, glistening with spit.

Her grip tightens, both hands now working together, slick and dripping, saliva coating every inch. She strokes faster, twisting her wrists, making a fucking mess of you, her mouth hovering just inches away, lips parted, panting.

Your whole body is tight, legs folding in slightly, toes curling, arms flexing involuntarily around the grip in her hair. The pleasure is too much, too fucking good, overwhelming, and if she wasn’t in complete control, you’d be thrusting up into her mouth, chasing the heat, the pressure. But she’s already forcing herself deep, hitting the back of her throat for you. No, for herself, taking what she wants.

Your grip on her hair loosens.

She notices.

She fucking notices.

Her lashes flutter up, eyes glazed, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed—completely cock-drunk—and she lets out the softest, filthiest little whine, like she doesn’t want you to stop her. Like she needs this. More of this.

Your fingers clench, regaining control, and you hold her still.

Her moan shatters through you.

It’s wrecked, vibrating along your length as she hollows her cheeks again and sucks. Hard.

And then—she goes feral.

She spits again, a thick glob dripping onto the head, smearing it in with her tongue before slapping your cock against her lips, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. Then she leans in, sucking and slurping her own saliva back up from your cock and groin, her tongue dragging slow and deliberate—only to sputter it back down again, wetter, filthier.

The slick warmth trickles lower, dripping under your balls, pooling there as her fingers smear it across your skin like she never wants to waste a single drop. She’s moaning the entire time, whimpering under her breath, her own body tensing, thighs pressing together, like she’s getting off on the sheer act of ruining herself.

Her tongue flicks out, lapping at the sensitive tip before flattening against it, rubbing it against her slick, spit-drenched muscle like she wants to taste every inch.

Her hand never stops moving—stroking, twisting, pumping, both hands working together now, slick and dripping, her fingers sliding with ease from how fucking wet everything is.

She’s not thinking anymore.

She’s just moving, sucking, licking, moaning, lost in it. She’s devouring you.

She sinks back down, deeper, until she’s gagging again, nose flush, throat spasming. She pulls off just to spit again, rubs her own mess into your shaft with both hands before swallowing you back down like she missed it.

She stays down longer each time.

Testing her limits. Pushing past them. Letting them break.

She pulls off with a wrecked gasp, drool dripping off her chin, her hands still stroking you frantically, like she can’t stop. Like she won’t stop.

“Fuck—” Her voice is raw, strained, needy. Her lips glisten, her cheeks are damp with spit, ruined.

Next, she slaps your cock against her tongue again, holding it there, eyes locked on yours, lips parted, panting.

Waiting.

Wanting.

She flicks her tongue once. Then again.

Your whole body tenses, a choked moan ripping out of your throat before you can swallow it down. She notices instantly, smirking, lips flushed and glistening.

"Gonna cum for me?" Her voice is low, wrecked, teasing. "Gonna fill up my mouth?"

She doesn’t give you a chance to answer. She’s back down, and you know it wont be long.

She sinks down, deeper than before—deeper than you thought she could go.

Her throat tightens, a hot, slick vice around you, lips stretched wide, nose flush against your skin. She stays there, like she’s proving something, forcing herself to take it all.

Your body shakes. A helpless, broken noise tears from your throat, your fingers twisting tighter in her hair. Your entire body is locked up, muscles taut, overwhelmed, unable to do anything but take what she’s giving you.

She swallows around you—tight, pulsing—milking you. The suction drives you insane, your mind foggy with nothing but her heat, her wetness, the way she’s owning you with her mouth. Your stomach clenches, your toes curl, thighs shaking. The heat in your gut is unbearable, climbing too fast, too much—

And then—she pulls off.

Not all the way. Just enough to drag her lips, tongue, teeth back up, slow, deliberate, before sinking back down just as deep.

She does it again.

Slow. Controlled. Absolutely ruining you.

Her hands are still working—one stroking your length, the other massaging your balls, her slick fingers pressing, squeezing, keeping you so fucking close but not letting you fall.

This time, she pulls off completely.

Your cock twitches in the open air, aching, drenched in her spit, glistening under the dim light. The sudden absence is unbearable, like she just took the world’s best heat away from you.

And then—she stops everything.

Her grip loosens. Her mouth lingers inches away.

Nothing.

You make a noise—desperate, strained. Your fingers clench, stomach tight, chest rising too fast.

She tilts her head, mocking, daring, teasing. Lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

"Say it."

Your breath stutters. She’s watching you unravel, watching you need.

You hesitate.

Her fingers go completely still.

The absence is unbearable. The loss of heat, friction, her—everything.

She waits. Just waits.

Eyes locked on you, lips parted, not moving until she hears what she wants.

“You wanna cum or not?”

Her voice is wrecked, low, filthy—and so fucking amused. Like she already knows.

Your jaw locks, but your body betrays you.

“Yuna, please—I'm so close” It rips out of you, barely a whisper, shaky, ruined.

Her eyes spark. She grins.

She giggles. It’s horny, evil, delighted.

And with that, she dives back in.

Messy. Unforgiving.

Her mouth works you over, fast, relentless, sucking hard like she’s dragging the orgasm out of you. Her cheeks hollow, tongue pressing firm, head bobbing fast, sloppy, wrecking you.

Her hands won’t stop moving—both of them now, stroking, twisting, pumping, slick and filthy, drenched in her spit.

She pulls off just to spit directly onto your tip, spreading it with her tongue, letting the mess drip down your shaft, pooling at your base.

She goes back down, faster, tongue swirling, throat flexing, each motion more desperate, more demanding. The sounds she’s making—filthy, obscene, completely unashamed.

You can’t stop it.

Your hips jerk, thighs flex, toes curl, fingers pull tight in her hair.

And then—your whole body locks up.

It hits like lightning, brutal, full-body, overwhelming.

You moan—loud, wrecked, shaking.

She pulls off at the last second, her tongue stretched out, eyes locked on you, stroking you fast as you cum hard all over her tongue and inside her mouth.

Spurts of thick white streak across her tongue, her lips, pooling where she wants it.

She stays there, mouth open, holding it, letting you see it.

Then—she closes her mouth and swallows.

A loud, filthy gulp.

Like she was made for this.

She stays between your legs a moment longer, tongue flicking slow, deliberate, dragging over every inch of sensitive skin as she cleans you up, savoring it. Her lips press one last time to the tip, a lazy, lingering kiss, before she finally—finally—pulls away, her breath still hot and damp against your stomach.

She doesn’t hurry.

She stretches, rolling her shoulders like she just wrapped up a workout, sighing like she’s completely satisfied, her fingers pressing briefly into your thighs as she pushes herself up. She moves like she owns the space, like she just conquered something.

Without another word, she crawls up towards you. One hand grabs your chin, tilting your face up, making sure you’re looking at her.

She’s still wrecked, ruined—her lips glossy, chin damp, pupils dark and dripping with smug satisfaction.

"You're never taking those glasses off again."

Her other hand moves, fingers slipping up to the bridge of your glasses, pushing them back into place with the laziest, most condescending adjustment.

Like she just did fucking community service.

You’re still panting, your limbs heavy, your chest still rising too fast. And yet—a realization grips you.

You just unleashed something.

Something feral. Something dangerous.

She grins, tilting her head like she knows exactly what you’re thinking.

And then—she giggles.

That same horny, delighted, evil little giggle from before.

Like she’s already thinking about the next time she ruins you.

End.

----------------

AN: Finally got through this one and can check it off. I'm currently starting a new piece, one of my longer ones so it might be a while until its posted. Ill try my best to fill the next few days with more shorter moments like this one, but I really wanna focus on my longer fics with more depth. As always, room for part 2 with this.