#looking for answers looking for who they are

[wileycap]

I think the most hilarious place to put Post-Canon Sokka would have been the university at Ba Sing Se. I think he would have made a great unhinged professor. Also, in true Sokka fashion, he should have completely dodged fame. Momo is more famous than he is.

He wants to demonstrate to the class how this thing called electricity works, so he's going to be bringing in a Firebender, so everybody be cool, we're all friends here... and in walks Princess Azula of the Fire Nation. One-time conqueror of the city. One of the students is currently writing an essay on how her brief rule of the city affected fruit trade. She says she considers the class to still be her subjects as she doesn't acknowledge any pretenders to any of her thrones, but for now you're exempted from bowing and "Your Highness" will do. It's a really interesting lecture.

"Okay, guys - hey, listen up, everyone - I won't be here next week, me and Aang are going to-" yeah right, sure, Professor Sokka knows the Avatar. Except, of course, the Avatar walks in sheepishly and says that Appa might have gotten into Sokka's hybrid crops, and then you all have to sit there and watch your professor chase the Avatar around with a sword.

One postgrad student is specializing in Water Tribe Cultures. She's currently studying the massive cultural shift that happened in the Northern Water Tribe at the end of the war - oh, and Professor, I absolutely know that you're from the Southern Water Tribe, but it's just that the shift started with Master Katara, and of course I don't think that every person from the South knows one another haha it's just that I need to ask her some questions and I thought maybe you could help me write a letter or write a letter of introduction or...

Sokka looks at her blankly and goes "yeah, she's my sister. KATARA!" which is followed by a faint answering "fuck you!" from Somewhere and to the horror/elation of our postgrad, Master Katara bursts in and is promptly beaned in the head with a rock by Professor Sokka. Her brother. her hero and her professor are siblings and currently brawling on the floor.

Sokka does not teach or study history, but he does sometimes sit in on lectures about recent history. Whenever he does, several doctoral students flock in to sit near him (even if it's an intro course) so that they can eavesdrop on his grumbling. (No matter how they try, an "overheard utterance" is not a valid source according to their professors. No, we have no sources on the Avatar's bison taking part in combat - sky bison are not war animals and...)

He gets regular deliveries with the Beifong family crest on them, and he goes "sweet, Toph must have found some new minerals" and at this point nobody needs to ask which Toph. He seems to have friends everywhere, literally everywhere. Wang was headed out to this massive swamp to study if it's one big organism, and Sokka told him to find some guy named Hue and "don't mind the loincloth." One time the university gets shut down because the Earth King wants to visit. Oh, visit the University? What an honor- Of fucking course not, he wants to visit Professor Sokka, who yells at him and his royal guards for interrupting his day. The Earth King and his many, many royal guards then sheepishly say sorry and file out.

The last straw is when - not a week after he yelled at the Earth King - the assistant head of the Political Science dept walks in to the faculty lounge to find Sokka having tea with a nice normal man dressed in Earth greens for once, and can't resist a little joke. "Let me guess, you're having tea with the Fire Lord." And then she can instantly tell that she fucked up, because both of them go stock still.

So when the two men awkwardly stand up and proceed to introduce the Fire Lord whose portrait she has in her office because she is the assistant head of Political Science as Li, a server at the Jasmine Dragon, she just says "hello Li" and leaves to find a bottle of something strong.

[madamechrissy]

Yandere! CEO Sukuna

pairings - Yandere! CEO Sukuna x asst! fem reader

warnings - MDNI - MEAN Sukuna, dark content, gaslighting, he's psychotic asf, stalking, videoing without consent, degradation, A TON of sexual tension (unresolved for now lol) manipulation, jealousy, toxic ass behaviors, thigh riding, masturbation (m and f) power dynamics, trapping - basically yandere behavior

Gonna make this a full oneshot so drop a comment if you wanna get tagged

Yandere! CEO Sukuna who loves watching his pretty assistant bend over right in front of him, because he's kicked something over that you have to pick up. God, especially when you're on your knees, and scowl up at him like that. He can picture smearing your pretty red lipstick with the tip of his cock.

Yandere! CEO Sukuna grins like the psycho he is when you finally pick up his stack of papers, throwing them unceremoniously on his desk. He's watched you for so long, all he can think of is how badly he can't wait till you beg for him, till you realize he's the only one for you. The amounts of times he's jerked it watching you underneath your desk where he has his cameras set up is ridiculous, surely at some point you'd come ask for him, need him. But the words that spill from your lips next stop him in his tracks - 'I'm putting in my two weeks notice, Mr. Sukuna'

Yandere! CEO Sukuna stands up now, so tall over you in a suit that barely stretches enough to fit his broad chest, his shoulders. Maybe if you didn't have any self respect, maybe if you didn't have a boyfriend, you'd beg to be bent over his cherry wood desk, see that bulge in his dark black slacks for yourself. But you can never stoop that low, to the asshole that treats you like shit. 'You get paid this fucking good and you're gonna leave?' he demands, raising a slutty- yes, slutty - fucking eyebrow now, two slits in one of them where surely he must have had piercings before he went corporate. You just smile, tilting your head now. 'I'll be making less, but he's one hell of a boss I hear,' you go to turn and Sukuna grabs your wrist, squeezing it so hard you gasp.

Yandere! CEO Sukuna hovers so fucking tall and big over you, over everyone, hand gripping your wrist so tightly you cry out, a sound he's heard over and over in the confines of your room without your knowledge. 'Who the fuck are you going to work for?' he demands, you smile back at him, a mean little smile that makes him want to fuck your throat till you cry. 'Asked ya a question, brat, ya too stupid to fucking answer?' you scoff now. 'Brat!? Stupid!? This is why I'm leaving - oh and it's Mr. Gojo, he runs the Gojo corporation, pretty sure you've heard of him. Two weeks.' you scowl and stomp off as Sukuna curses, punching his wall, the plaster cracks and breaks, as he realizes he is fucking losing you before he had you.

Yandere! CEO Sukuna is stuck in the office late, as usual, the moonlight is filtering in as he zooms in on the camera he has in your bedroom. He knows your night routine since he came there one day, with the pretense of bringing you a check, only to ask to use your bathroom and plant it right on your dresser. The panties he stole that day have lost your scent now, a whole fucking tragedy, they're discarded in the bottom of his desk drawer. He unzips his slacks when he hears it, soft moans from outside your door, only to pause when he sees a tall, lanky man carrying you over to your bed. 'this little fucking slut!?'

Yandere! CEO Sukuna can't believe you'd want anyone else - fuck all he wants is you, and now not only are you quitting, you've got a man laid on your bed, and you're straddling him as he grabs your ass. Sukuna watches you rock against him, gripping his desk so hard the wood is scratched up from his fucking nails. He hears your sexy little moans that should only be for him, scowling as he looks at just who the man is. Once he recognizes him as his own employee, he fucking loses it, instantly pulling up the man's file as he flips you over, he's clearly got his hands between your thighs and you're moaning just a bit - he scoffs as he scowls at the name. If it were him you'd be fucking screaming, choking, crying - not whatever noise that was. In fact, once the man leaves after apparently cumming in his pants from touching you - you pull out your vibrator to finish the job.

Yandere! CEO Sukuna can't have someone near you, and he sure the fuck can't have you leaving him - which leads him to the next moves that morning. The boy who'd had his fingers inside you - when your cunt is so obviously Sukuna's - is terrified as Sukuna throws him right on a wall, lifting him by the collar and letting him dangle, chuckling like the psychotic mother fucker he is as he threatens him 'leave, and I'll give you a hell of a severance package, what do you think?' the boy nods, turning red with the lack of breath, Sukuna's ruby eyes light up with delight, it's just been too long since he's gotten to beat anyone up. Corporate life is boring, and the only bright spot is you. 'Good boy,' he pats his cheek and lets him fall to the ground. 'Don't ever talk to her again, fucking got me? Or you won't have a tongue in your mouth anymore'

Yandere! CEO Sukuna can't help but grin when you run into the office, tears streaking down your cheeks - fuck you look pretty like that. 'What did you do to him!? You're such a dick!' you shove at him now, when he grips you, turning you like it's nothing and pressing you against the desk. Your heart races, you've never been this close to him, with his big fucking hand wrapping your throat, his hard body pressing you against the cool wood. His breath tickles your ear as he chuckles and whispers - 'you're mad I sent your little boyfriend home? aw, poor little slut, ya gonna be okay?' you glare, trying to turn around and slap him, but he doesn't let you, instead gripping your throat. 'I can't wait to go work for Gojo, I'm not even giving you two fucking weeks' he chuckles again, turning your chin, your lips are a breath away. 'Sure you are'

Yandere! CEO Sukuna makes sure that you will need him, that you can never leave him, when he pays your landlord a hefty fucking sum to kick you out, and writes a letter of job declination in your exact handwriting to Satoru Gojo. He can't help but smirk when you walk into his office, much more resigned, and he finally gives you just a bit of feigned kindness. 'Yes, what is it?' he asks arrogantly, yet the tone is soft, when you shut the door, then break down in tears. 'C'mere, tch, stop that,' he tugs you against him, as you're sobbing, pretending your tears don't make him leak precum, when you look up at him with your pretty eyes. 'What's wrong, huh?' you take a shaky breath, shaking your head - Were you wrong about him?

Yandere! CEO Sukuna feels his heart beat in his chest when you murmur his name - 'Mr. Sukuna... I'm s-sorry that I... I really need this job now, and I have n-nowhere to go as of next week. C-can you let me stay?' he bites back his grin, instead burying it in your hair. 'Of course I can, you can stay with me till you get another place too' you gasp, looking up at him now. 'No, you can't do all that, I can stay with my mom...' he shakes his head. 'nonsense, she's out of town,' you pause, blinking. 'how'd you know that?' he just tugs you back to his chest again, you inhale his expensive cologne. 'I've been a little too harsh on you, yeah?' you nod, sobbing more, and soon Sukuna gets to have you all to himself.

Yandere! CEO Sukuna wants to fold, to beg for you, but he has to make sure you need him, and need him in every fucking way. When you move in 'temporarily' to his giant, spotless penthouse, he makes sure to walk around in nothing but a towel, or nothing but his boxers, watching the way your eyes drift down his tattoos, his hard abdomen, and lower. But he never, ever touches you, aside from torturous brushes of his fingertips, tugs at your hair with a grin, sadistic as ever. He'd brush against you as you cooked dinner - you said it's the least you could do - and every touch kept sending you higher. He's nicer in his home - still gruff, but he buys you anything you want, things you tell him not to, he lets you lay your head on his shoulder as the two of you sit on the balcony at night, sipping wine.

Yandere! CEO Sukuna at work is mean as usual, but even there, he's a little softer, and you wonder if you just didn't know him truly. You start to bend over a little more in front of him, start to walk around in next to nothing at home, wondering if he'll ever want more, but he doesn't, he just eyes you with bright red eyes, like they're touching you, but never crossing the line. You find yourself fantasizing more and more about a man you used to hate, when finally you can't stand it, the desire, the need, and you decide if he's not gonna fuck you, someone needs to. That's when Sukuna finds you about to go on a fucking date when he gets home from a meeting, looking all slutty in your little black dress - tits out, thighs out - your body is all his, his, his, how fucking dare you show it off!?

Yandere! CEO Sukuna scowls as you ask 'how do I look, Mr. Sukuna?' and he scoffs, fingers itching to rip the material off you. 'The fuck are you doing?' he demands, walking closer, until you're pressed against the counter, his thigh between yours, feeling your heat. You back up, gasping out, biting your lower lip now. 'I'm going on a date, also I think I'll have a place soon, there are condos being built across the street. I'll be out of your hair,' you murmur, even as you arch your hips again, and he grips your hips, scowling down at you, lifting his thigh up. 'Oh yeah? leaving so soon, huh? I was just getting used to you annoying me, brat,' he tugs you on his thigh, you're soaking his slacks, gasping as your eyes roll back. 'need something from me?' you shake your head, and he chuckles, tugging you down again. 'Nothing at all, huh?' you roll your hips again, cunt soaking him, clit pressing just right when he pulls back.

Yandere! CEO Sukuna eyes the dark spot you've made, thumbing the slick arousal that's darkened his pants. 'Hmm, made quite a mess, didn't you?' he murmurs, brushing his thumb, painted black nail sharp as he puts it to his mouth, licking it with a wicked fucking grin. You gasp at it, heart pounding, when he uses your cum to gloss his lips and leans forward. 'Need me to take you on your little date?' you shake your head, thighs pressing together. 'No? What if he's a psycho, a weirdo - some creep?' as if he's not all those things. But he's so obsessed with you, he'd never hurt you - not really, not unless it brought you pleasure. He watches you straighten your dress now, sighing. 'No, he's neither of those things. I'll be late so...' he scowls at that now, brows lowering over his eyes, when you rush out the door, leaving him to desperately search your room, so he can drink more of you, hating you for what you're doing to his fucking mind.

Yandere! CEO Sukuna has already put a tracker in your car, so he knows the fancy fucking restaurant you're at. You're giggling and smiling as he sees you from the car window when he pulls up an hour later to watch you. You're leaning forward at that dinner table, and kissing your date, the man has his hand entangled in your hair, as Sukuna studies you, more and more furious. He's imagining every way he'd beat your fucking ass till it's black and blue when he drives home, the way he'll fuck your throat till you can't swallow for days. He texts you, curiously, and you have the audacity to fucking ignore him, his jaw clenches, hand rushing through the pink locks of his hair, heart pounding in anger. Don't you fucking know you're his!?

Yandere! CEO Sukuna watches you unlock the door later that night, sitting alone in the darkness, sipping on a glass of whiskey while he waits - to show you who the fuck you belong to, since you clearly won't just be a good girl and beg for it. He chuckles when you catch sight of him and scream out, standing and walking over to you now, hands on either side of you, leaning low. 'Sukuna, what the fuck are you doing, sitting in the dark!? Like some creep?' he grips your chin so hard it hurts then, his other hand entangling in your hair, yanking out all the pins you had, they clatter to his hardwood floor now. He pulls so hard you gasp, blinking back tears. 'Get. On. Your. Fucking. Knees.' you bite back a retort, but part of you fucking wants it. You shake your head, earning his teeth glinting with a mean fucking grin in the dark. 'Then I'll put you there, fucking brat,' he shoves you down now, bare knees on the floor, as you look up at him, wondering where the fuck your survival instincts have gone.

because you want him to punish you - you want him to hurt you, gag you and choke you. But even then, you try to get up, only earning him shoving you down further, and your cunt just drips against previously soaked panties - you want yandere! ceo sukuna to ruin you.

ahhh so if ya'll want the full oneshot lmk hehe - I'm thinking of doing it for my one year on tumblr coming this week :')

Kofi link if you wanna buy me a glass of wine 🍷

[sc3ptre]

Off the record

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: I just had to and if you’ve seen the movie and that scene, you’ll understand why

Warning: SMUT +18 (with plot) | safe sex, p-in-v, oral f! receiving during a professional environment, praise, superpowered sex?, power imbalance, destruction of property during sex Disclaimer: This scene is loosely based on content shown in the trailers for Superman (2025) — so technically, no major spoilers! That being said, if you're trying to go into the movie completely fresh, feel free to skip this for now and come back later.

Word count: 3.3k

You got home late, again. The city was quiet in that way it only ever was past midnight with streetlights buzzing faintly, the sound of your boots echoing in the stairwell and your coat carrying the weight of the day like a second skin. 

Once inside, you kicked off your heels, pulled your scarf free in one motion and slung your bag onto the hallway hook like muscle memory. The apartment welcomed you with familiar silence and the gentle creak of old pipes. It smelled like dust and the faint ghost of coffee and maybe the takeout you didn’t finish yesterday.

You locked the door behind you without looking and then you heard it, a sound that shouldn’t be there, one of a pan shifting.

It was soft and deliberate, like someone trying not to make noise in your kitchen.

You froze, coat still half-off. Your brain went cold before your hands did, every hair on your arm standing. You moved without breathing, slow and smooth, peeling the coat the rest of the way off and dropping it on the hook while simultaneously reaching for the bat you kept stashed by the door, the one with the worn grip and the cracked stripe of duct tape at the end. You hadn’t used it in years, not seriously, but your fingers still curled around it like you’d never stopped.

The hallway felt longer than usual as you crept toward the sound. Your breath came shallow and the refrigerator hum gave away nothing. You rounded the corner, raised the bat and swung hard without thinking twice.

The bat made solid contact with something unmoving and unbothered, and then cracked violently in half. It felt like hitting a steel beam with a stick of chalk.

“Shit–!”

You staggered back in pure panic, already wincing and then realized, mid-heart-attack, that the man now holding the broken bat with one hand and a sauté pan in the other was, in fact, Clark.

Still wearing his work clothes, pressed dress pants and the white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his chest just barely stretching at the buttons. His hair was tousled, his eyes unfairly soft and he smelled like butter, basil and the kind of quiet only he seemed to carry in your space.

You stared at him, wide-eyed while he looked at you, entirely unfazed, holding half your weapon like it was a bouquet.

“I’ll get you a steel one,” he said calmly, as if the most normal thing in the world was letting you try to brain him with a Louisville Slugger and then continuing to sauté garlic.

“I knew it was you and I still panicked,” you said, chest still tight, adrenaline peaking. “I am so sorry. God, did I–did I hurt you?”

“You can’t hurt me...physically that is, so if you’re planning on breaking up with me tonight then the answer would be yes, emotionally.”

“I’m not and that’s not the point. The point is I hit you with a bat.”

“And I made you dinner,” he said mildly, nodding toward the stove. “One of us is clearly ahead in this relationship.”

You blinked then laughed, nerves breaking like surface tension. You stepped closer, smelling whatever he was cooking, pasta, maybe. Something with cream, pepper, garlic and fresh herbs, because of course he would make it taste better than the best restaurant in Metropolis. 

Of course he would do this without asking. 

Of course he would smell like rosemary and feel like a safe house in the middle of a war.

He didn’t even wait for you to react or respond. After setting the pan down, he just leaned forward, touched your hips gently and lifted you like you weighed nothing, placing you on the kitchen counter with a softness that felt like something sacred. He stepped in between your knees, pulled you forward by the waist and kissed you slowly, like the world didn’t matter.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt and kissed him back, melting and losing track of everything except the solid warmth of his hands and the way his mouth moved like he already knew what you needed but eventually, your brain kicked back in and you pulled back slightly.

“Mmmm…you’re hiding, aren’t you?”

He paused, forehead leaning against yours.

“You made dinner,” you continued softly, “...You never make dinner unless you’re avoiding headlines.”

“I’m not hiding,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your jaw.

“You’re literally in the middle of a political firestorm, Clark. There’s a subcommittee meeting about you on four separate networks.” You shifted your head back slightly, forcing him to meet your gaze. “They’re calling it a ‘failed interventional conflict.’ They're saying you lost a war you started.”

He didn’t flinch but he didn’t meet your eyes, either. You exhaled, pressing your palm to his chest. “Let me help, let me do something. I’m not just…whatever this is. I’m still good at my job and you can’t interview yourself forever, it’s suspicious.”

“It’s really not.”

“Oh yeah? Not to mention it’s wildly unprofessional, unethical and quite simply stupid–”

“That’s taking it too far…and I know you’re very good at your job,” he said quietly, one hand brushing your thigh. “Too good.”

“Then let me interview you…him. You know how much it matters, and–”

He was quiet for a second but then nodded. “Fine.”

“…What?” you paused, registering his words. “You’ll let me interview you as…Superman?”

“Yeah… sure,” he agreed, voice sheepish with a slight edge of doubt.

You slid off the counter then, still buzzing from his kiss and went to your bag, pulling out your small field recorder, the one you kept for quick takes and on-the-fly quotes. You placed it on the counter, clicked it on and gave him a small smile as you sat back up on the counter and crossed your legs.

“Alright,” you said, in your best calm-journalist tone, the one that always made people lean in without realizing it, “Superman.”

Something in him changed instantly. You heard it more than saw it, that shift. The register of his voice dropping a full octave, steady, strong and smooth like ocean pressure. It was calm and assured, the voice the world believed in.

“Miss Y/l/n,” he said and just that tone, sent a ripple down your spine that made your knees tighten.

You cleared your throat. “There’s been a lot of controversy around the UN vote last week. Some say you overstepped–”

“I acted on intelligence I believed to be urgent,” he said. “And I take full responsibility for my actions, but I believe they prevented greater loss of life.”

You nodded, swallowing. “And the report about your…uh, withdrawal–”

“I withdrew because I was asked to. Not because I was defeated.”

You were about to ask the next question when he stepped between your legs again, parting them with ease, close enough to touch and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.

You jolted slightly. “Clark.”

“I’m still answering.” He murmured, voice dipping lower, kisses trailing now to the base of your neck, each one melting something inside your chest. His voice was unsurprisingly steady when he spoke again.  “I intervene when the scale of a disaster surpasses what human systems can handle…I don’t weigh in on politics.”

“You entered a country illegally.”

“I stopped a war.” 

"You crossed borders without permission, ignored airspace alerts, made a decision entire governments didn’t agree on…what–” you began, breath hitching slightly when his fingers gently swept higher, drawing slow circles through the fabric of your pants “–what happens when the public perception of your involvement shifts?”

He tilted his head slightly. “If I’d waited for permission, there wouldn’t have been anyone left to thank me. Bottom line is, I care what the truth is, I care about the people who are afraid and I care when I become a reason they feel unsafe, which I’m not.”

You let out an embarrassing moan which was supposed to be a warning. “Fuck, Clark–”

“Superman,” he corrected, deep and rich in your ear, the sound of it sending something hot and traitorous spiraling in your stomach. “I thought this was formal.”

“It was, Superman.” You gritted out, watching as his hands went higher and higher, “I swear to God–”

Before you could protest any further and remind him of the running recorder, of your journalistic integrity…of anything remotely rational, he kissed you. Full and deliberate, every part of your body folded into it like you’d been waiting to be touched like this again.

The recorder was still on and the interview far from over but neither of you seemed to remember.

His mouth was everywhere, devouring your lips, tracing a desperate path down your jaw, your throat and the hollow where your pulse thundered so loud you were sure he could hear it. His large hands roamed under your shirt, dragging it up inch by inch, fingertips so broad but gentle– always so careful—even when he was trembling with need.

The countertop was cold beneath your thighs but the rest of you was burning. Clark stood between your knees, pressing himself forward until there was nothing but heat and fabric between you.

His hands found the buttons of your blouse, undoing them with almost superhuman precision except when he lost patience, then the fabric tore apart, seams splitting and buttons flying beneath his grip. Your bra followed, straps flicking off your shoulders before his mouth found you again, hot, wet and all teeth scraping gently around your nipples as he sucked and groaned, letting you hear how much he ached for you. 

You arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair as he lavished attention on your hardened nipples, causing your lips to part in pleasure. Your legs parted for him in anticipation as your panties clung to you with unabashed heat. When you gasped, Clark grinned against your skin, catching every tremble in your voice and every spike in your breathing. 

“Your heart,” he growled, moving up to kiss under your jaw, leaving wet kisses and soft bites you wished pierced through your heated skin, “it’s racing. Like you’re about to run or come from me just touching you…so which one is it? Mm? I can hear the blood rushing in your veins.”

His voice vibrated everywhere, inside your chest and especially between your legs in a way that made you grind against the cold marble, erupting soft whimpers from your plumped lips. He brought you even closer to the edge so you could rock your hips against the hardened tent in his pants, desperate for more friction. Your head fell back as he gained more access to your neck, groaning into it as you continued to rub your clothed center against his erection.

The sheer understanding of what was missing settled between the both of you and Clark acted on his desperation first by grabbing the sides of your pants and yanking them down your legs, your panties disappearing with them in one smooth motion as air cooled your swollen and wet folds, making you whine as if it had been your lover’s touch, suddenly withdrawn. He looked down at your nakedness then, eyes darkening with pure want as its sweetness filled his nostrils.

He dropped to his knees as if he’d been defeated, a sight that nearly undid you, spreading you wide on the countertop before he shamelessly buried his face between your thighs, tongue broad and hot, licking a slow stripe from entrance to clit, spreading your folds apart to accommodate him.

Clark groaned at the taste of you, pressing a kiss to your swollen and aching clit before sucking and flicking his tongue against it at just the right pressure. It was never random, he listened to every thud of your heart, every tiny gasp or shuddering inhale, adjusting his rhythm to what made you crazy. His spit mixed with your sweet arousal, coated his lips and chin as he penetrated you with the tip of his tongue. You closed your eyes and gently grinded your hips against his mouth as he continued, eliciting the softest of moans from your beautiful throat while you pulled him closer to you by his hair.

His fingers slid inside you then, replacing his tongue as he let it flick against your bundle of nerves again, making you shudder. His digits were long and thick, curling up to hit a perfect spot that made your vision go white and your eyes roll, a sight he couldn’t help but grin at. He worked you over with a skill that could only come from pattern recognition beyond human ability, sensing precisely when your pulse jumped and when your breath caught just when you were about to fall apart.

“Let go,” he murmured against you, tongue relentlessly moving against you until he felt you pulse. “I know you’re there.”

You cried out, fingers clutching at his hair so hard you were thankful you couldn't hurt him, as you came for him with your hips jerking helplessly against his tongue and fingers. You could feel him smile against your heat as he worked you through every aftershock, sucking and licking you off all you had to offer him.

He stood in a rush, eyes wild, moving with the kind of urgency that said patience was not on the menu tonight and just as your fingers fumbled at his belt, he froze.

“Hang on,” he murmured and vanished in a gust of air so fast it nearly knocked the blender clean off the counter. It teetered for half a second and whoosh he was back, one hand catching it casually mid-air while the other held up a foil square like he hadn’t just broken the sound barrier to practice safe sex. You reached for his belt then but he was already outpacing you, ripping his shirt open like it had personally wronged him and then flinging it aside, exposing the stretch of muscle he was made out of. You ran your hands across his chest causing him to shudder under your soft and warm hands, your lustful gaze heating his skin more than a thousand suns ever could.

He shoved his pants down, boxers barely cleared before his cock sprung free, thick, flushed and achingly hard. You wrapped a hand around him and he groaned like he was a second short of combusting, the sound vibrating in your bones as you watched him roll the condom on. He pulled you to the very edge of the counter guiding his cock against your entrance and slowly pushing in with a clenched jaw and a deathly grip to your thighs. The sight of your pussy leaking and fluttering around it made his hips jerk forward then retract pulling a wince out of you. He paused only to look into your eyes.

“Tell me if I’m too much,” he said, voice hoarse but utterly tender.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, tilting your pelvis back and pulling him in slowly, moaning as he slid deep inside with ease, stretching you so wide you could hardly breathe. Clark gritted his teeth, fighting not to move too fast but the way you squeezed around him made his control snap slightly.

He thrusted slowly at first, savoring every inch of your slick pussy as his lips fell apart, letting out soft gasps of pleasure that made your nipples harder as they tickled his chest. Your hands grabbed at any skin available, nails digging into almost unbreakable skin as his rhythm sped up, fueled by the overwhelming pleasure building between you. Each movement was deep, powerful, filling you so perfectly you could barely hold yourself together.

You both moaned in the same space, sharing breaths as you kissed while your tongues fought for control. You could taste yourself on his lips, the same sweet slick that was now leaking onto the counter and between your naked bodies as he delivered unforgiving thrusts that seemed to split you open, while his hands were around you, making it impossible to even think about pulling back.

“You don’t know how many times…I’ve thought about fucking you over your desk afterhours.” He mumbled onto your mouth with a grin that could’ve made you come. Your heart had staggered and he knew it. “Like the sound of tha’?”

You nodded quickly, messily as pleasure took over your brain and the only thing you could voice were moans and drawled whines.

“Uhhh–What? Want me to…write a piece…about how well Superman f–fucks?”

He chuckled deeply and the counter creaked, threatening to give beneath the force of his grip on the edge whenever he couldn’t force his hands to be gentle on you. He wanted them everywhere, really…on your ass, your thighs, cradling your head while he kissed you silly while his dick caused addicting damage within you. He whispered your name like a secret prayer between grunts and moans that made you forget he wasn’t an ordinary man.

“So beautiful…fuck… sweeter than any sunrise. I’m never giving this up.”

He listened to your body, tuning his pace to the staccato of your heart as it started to climb again and your nails failed to dig deeper into his skin. “That’s it,” he panted. “There, just like that…you’re so close, breathe, baby.”

You were both getting louder now, his voice rougher, needier, while yours was high and desperate as he pounded into you harder, faster, until the counter and everything on it shook violently around you.

“Clark…I–” You broke off into a wail as he hit just the right spot over and over, until your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave. Your whole body went tight around him and he lost whatever little restraint he had left when your head fell back against the upper cabinet, lips parted and letting out the most sinful sounds he had ever heard. Your pulse points were on full display as blood rushed down, making your pussy and clit pulse for him.

He slammed in hard one last time and crack!. The edge of the countertop sank under his grip as he came inside the condom with a helpless and guttural moan, hips locked tight to yours, burying himself deep inside you so you could feel his cock throb. 

You collapsed against each other, sweat-slick and shaking, his arms still holding you close like he never wanted to let go. Then came the sharp press of something under your hip, the cracked edge of the countertop, jagged and out of place.

You winced and instantly, he lifted you like you weighed nothing, cradling you against him as he stepped back, brows furrowed with guilt.

He pressed soft kisses all over your face and shoulders while you caught your breath. “Sorry about the mess…I’ll pay for it.” he added with a sheepish little smile, leaning in to kiss the spot behind your ear he knew made you sigh.

You brushed a kiss over his lips and chuckled breathlessly. “Yes you will.”

Clark grinned against your mouth, his hands still sliding softly over your sides but then your gaze drifted and landed on something that made your stomach drop.

The recorder. Still blinking and running.

“Shit,” you whispered, pulling back slightly as panic flooded your chest. “Shit, shit. The interview.”

He blinked, lips parted and twitching into a smile as he fumbled for the stop button like it might bite him. “I trust you’ll keep this part off the record.”

You turned your head to glare at him. “You have to say that before you rail me into the countertop!”

He smirked, hugging you closer like the most unbothered man alive. “Noted. I’ll…make sure to think about that the next time”

You stared at him, still breathless, ruined and absolutely already planning on letting him destroy you again…after you destroyed the recording, of course. Just in case.

[firingstars]

passion project

bucky barnes x reader

summary: based on this request — as bucky’s best friend, you had the honor of being subjected to his constant teasing and charms, none of which you thought were truthful. it all comes to a head when he starts distancing himself from you after a night out.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, piv, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, pull out game is very strong, praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby, doll, pretty girl, handsome), alcohol consumption, language, bucky big flirt in this fic, reader is a little dramatic, jealous bucky, you and bucky have an? argument?, no use of y/n

word count: 11.6k

a/n: YIPPPEEE my first request finished <3 (everyone disregard that it took me like two weeks to finish this i got stuck at the argument scene and didn't know how to progress bc i didnt wanna make bucky an asshole)

masterlist

Distance is not something that you know when it comes to Bucky. In fact, your first meeting with him was him pretending to be your boyfriend.

You had a particularly rough day at work. You weren’t with your friends or anyone else– you just wanted to spend a night alone at the bar near your apartment before going home for the night. However, men in New York just didn’t enjoy giving you a chance of peace.

You leaned away from the man that was giving you advances that you didn’t want, trying to deny drinks that you were sure he had tampered with. You gave dry responses to the man that you don’t even remember anymore, but you supposed you have to thank him.

A scent of cedarwood and clean soap filled your nostrils as a warm arm gently slipped over your shoulders. A body was beside yours, standing protectively. Someone that you didn’t know. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small smile. His words were spoken loud, as if he was giving a performance. “Thanks for waiting for me. Who’s your friend?”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. Then, you saw the look in his eyes. He was giving you an out. In a matter of a few seconds, you weighed your options. It was either this man with dangerously striking blue eyes that smelled good, or the drunkard that smelled like throw up and shit. So, you leaned into this stranger’s embrace, gave him a pretty smile, and hummed.

“Didn’t wait for too long, baby,” you sighed. “Missed you.”

You didn’t even answer the question about your “friend,” and the two of you just ignored him until he took the hint, and walked away. Except the hint was your savior glaring at him with murderous intent in his eyes. You didn’t know it at the time, but Bucky was fully capable of committing those kinds of crimes for you. 

When the drunkard was far enough away, his arm slid off your shoulders, his hand moving down your back, but not low enough to make you uncomfortable.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you asked him, grateful. “You kinda saved me back there, handsome.”

He laughed at your words. “I was going to ask you if you wanted a drink since you just went through something traumatizing, pretty girl.” 

“I’ll pay for yours, you pay for mine?” you offered. 

“Deal,” he grinned. 

The two of you introduced yourselves to each other not too long afterwards, toasted, and found out that you were both alone that night. Bucky spent the rest of the night by your side at the bar, the two of you just chatting. 

It was the start of a friendship that you weren’t looking for, but welcomed easily with open arms. Bucky was easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and he was comfortable for you to be around. 

Around the beginning of your friendship, you noticed he would sometimes come to hang out with you with a busted lip or a cut on his face. You were sure there was another injury somewhere under the layers of clothes he was wearing, too. When you finally asked– when you finally felt ready to ask, he was honest with you when he told you what he did for work. At first, you thought he was shitting with you. Then, he told you to look up his name online. 

“You’re ancient,” you said, your eyes falling on the birthdate of the man titled as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry Unit in World War II. Then, the name of the Winter Soldier came next on the articles you were reading. 

“Yes, because every man wants a beautiful woman to call them old, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his eyes at you.

“You look good for being over a century old though, handsome,” you grinned.

“I’m like, ninety-something. Don’t age me up.”

Bucky showed you his metal arm that night. He took off the gloves he wore, and took off the jacket that seemed to be glued to his body. You inspected the dark metal in awe– asked if you could touch it.

He was patient with you. Answered all of your questions. You learned that he could feel sensations on the prosthetic– that his friends in Wakanda made sure of it. He told you it was made of vibranium, which was the same material made of Captain America’s shield– his best friend.

You learned a lot about Bucky that night. That night, you became more than just his friend. You became someone important to him. He didn’t know it, but he was already important to you before the confessions of his past. 

He asked you if you were scared of him. If you wanted him to leave. 

“Where would you go if you left?” you asked, frowning at him. “We’re supposed to watch those shitty reality shows tonight. Are you going to leave me to watch them by myself?”

You’ve never felt more relieved to see that smile come back to his face, to watch the tension leave his shoulders. Bucky shifted on the couch, assuming the same position that you two always did. 

Distance was not something that you two were familiar with from the start of your friendship together. Whenever you waited for him at your meeting spots, he would come up behind you like some sort of ghost. You started to get used to it– being randomly held by him.

“Sweetheart,” he would greet you, an arm slipping over your shoulders. “Missed me?”

“Take a lap, Sarge,” you’d tell him, shoving his arm off of you only to loop your arm through his. “Who would miss your face around here?”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, shaking his head at you. “And here I thought– I believed you when you said I was handsome.”

“Oh, you are,” you hummed, tugging him along to get in line for the aquarium– Bucky’s choice for your hangout that day. “I’m trying to keep you humble.”

Most of your time would be spent hanging out in your apartment. The two of you would talk about anything and everything. Well– you were talking. Bucky was listening to you. 

“Sounds a little stressful,” he said, patting his lap once you were finished with your long winded tirade about how your girl friends were horrible on night outs, and you weren’t looking forward to next Saturday night.

“Very,” you agreed, and dropped your head on his thigh, just as he was indicating for you to do.

You closed your eyes, sighing deeply as he started to card his hands through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. To comfort you, maybe. You were certain that he had no idea how to navigate the struggles of a friend group of five women– your four friends– that were trying to get laid, while you were desperately trying to make sure none of them ended up kidnapped or dead by the end of the night. 

“You gonna find someone to spend the night with on Saturday, too?” he murmured to you, and you opened your eyes. 

You raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled teasingly. “Why? You want me to include you in the same girl talk debrief that the other girls get on Sunday mornings?”

“Gross,” he scoffed, clasping his entire hand over your face, making your entire body jolt with surprise. 

“You’re the one that asked,” you huffed. You grabbed his wrist, pulling it away from your face and raising it up in the air. Bucky let you, his limb being pliant under your touch as he allowed you to flail it around like it was made of nothing at all. You watched as his fingers moved like noodles in the air, mildly amused for a few moments. “I’d tell you if you’re really interested, y’know.”

“I’m just asking so I know where you’ll be, doll. You’re stressin’ about your friends, so let me stress about you,” he said, his voice going softer for just a moment. 

You stopped thrashing his hand around the air, and looked at him. He was looking down at you, eyes never leaving your face. There was something unreadable in his gaze that made you pause. Your lips parted, closed, then you gave him a smile. 

“I’ll text you if I go home with someone, handsome. I don’t think I will, but I’ll let you know if I do,” you promised him, dropping his hand to your stomach. 

Bucky hummed, a little noncommittally as he patted your abdomen a few times before resting completely. His other hand continued to run through your hair, sending shivers down your spine. 

“I’m sure it won’t be difficult for you if you do decide for it,” Bucky said. “Guys flirt with you all the time.”

“That was one time, and I was alone at the worst bar on the street, Buck. It wasn’t even flirting. That was harassment,” you corrected him, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re a little oblivious when people flirt with you, pretty girl.”

The rest of the night was spent arguing over the fact that you were not oblivious towards men flirting with you. Bucky was very adamant that you were. You denied all accusations like a politician that had something to hide. 

Neither of you managed to find common ground, and you ended up falling asleep on his lap. Woke up the next morning to find that Bucky didn’t leave. In fact, he didn’t even move you off his lap. He fell asleep, sitting upright, and refused to move in fear of waking you up. He refused to accept any apology from you and swore your couch was comfortable. You disagreed, but quickly shut up when he said that it was better than the hard dirt grounds of World War II. 

You hated it when Bucky pulled that shit on you. Bucky loved doing it. He always had a smug grin on his face.

Other times would include quieter moments. Where you both ended up in your bed. By this point in your friendship, Bucky had a drawer in your dresser of spare, comfortable clothes. He would get changed in pajamas for the night, and you two would be laying in bed. Bucky would be reading one of your more raunchy fantasy novels with confusion all over his face as to why you read these books, but still continued to turn the page. He’d have his head against your shoulder, and you’d scroll through your phone watching videos before falling asleep.

Flirting and touching was his default, you believed. Your assumption was only strengthened when he told you stories about the forties, and how he used to try to get Steve to go out on dates with girls that he set him up with. You managed to get him to admit that he was quite the charmer back in the forties. 

The only time there wasn’t any flirting was when he opened up about himself– when the conversation went serious on both of your ends. Then, the banter would stop and you both would give each other your undivided attention.

The touching wouldn’t stop, though. Even if he was the one leading the conversation, exposing you to the depths of his mind, he would play with your fingers. Touch your hair. You figured it was to busy himself from the fact that he was being so vulnerable with you. You never brought attention to it, allowed him to do what he needed to get through the words that he was forcing out of his throat– to tell you the things that he wanted you to hear.

You generally assumed that Bucky was just a touch starved man once you learned about his past. Coupled with him returning to the world and coming back to his personality, you figured he was just returning to his roots as a charismatic guy. You never thought anything of it, if you were being honest. Until you did. 

You should’ve realized it when you started taking pictures of him during your outings together. Your camera that only shot still life or animals gravitated towards him without even noticing. Your very first photo of him was a candid shot.

Bucky wasn’t looking at you. He was smiling at the cat that you both had taken interest in, that was at the park that you two were strolling through. He had crouched down, holding a hand out for the cat to come to him if it wanted to. And it did. Came and sniffed his palm, then nuzzled the warmth of his hand. Bucky smiled. A soft, gentle smile that took your breath away– and you took the picture without thinking.

It started your collection of photos of Bucky.

Bucky, the only person you had ever taken pictures of. The only person you wanted to take pictures of. He became your subject matter overnight. Your phone camera roll was filled with photos of him from your apartment— pictures of him on your couch, in your kitchen cooking, asleep in your bed. 

Your favorite picture of him right now was when the two of you went out to a bookstore together. He was walking down the aisles in front of you, and you meant to take a picture of his back. Another candid photo, another photo where he was unknowing. Except, he turned around. He was going to point out something to you, but stopped when he saw you had your camera in hand. You were caught. 

“What are you doing, pretty girl?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Smile. You’re looking exceptionally handsome right now,” you said, lifting your camera to your eye, so you could see him through the viewfinder. 

Bucky let out a small laugh, shaking his head at your words. However, he didn’t argue. Didn’t fight back. His hands found their way naturally into his pockets. He tilted his head at you in a kind of boyish way that reminded you of the old photos you saw at the Smithsonian when the two of you went together. 

And just like you asked him to, he smiled. Not at your camera, but at you. Your heart stuttered for a few moments, your finger froze over the button, and you had to remind yourself to take the picture. 

You were forever glad that you did. 

You stared at the photo for a long time, smiling to yourself– smiling back at Bucky’s face caught in time. You had the picture printed out on a mini Polaroid printer, and attached it to the back of your phone, but turned around so only you would know what was there. That was enough for you. You simply wanted to carry his smile with you wherever you went.

“What does it mean when your closest guy friend is always touching you, but doesn’t seem to like… make a move?” you brought up one day during a Sunday brunch with the girls. 

Your friends looked up at you, raising an eyebrow. It was only the three out of the five of your group– you’d known the two of them since the beginning of high school. The three of you were generally closer since the other two had joined your little circle during the last couple years of university. 

“Is this about your mysterious best friend that you won’t tell us anything about?” Leah teased you, a fat grin on her face. “What was his name again? Jamie?”

“James,” you corrected, clearing your throat. “And there’s nothing to tell about him. Just answer the question.”

“Well,” Mel hummed, picking up her mimosa. “What kind of touches are we talking about? Like just accidental hand brushing or…?”

You were thankful that Mel was taking you seriously at least. 

“Like… Cuddling on the couch during movies. Head on each other’s lap when we talk. He has a drawer at my place because he sleeps over sometimes– not intentionally. It just gets late, and I tell him it’s fine and to just stay over. So I told him to just bring a change of clothes, and I just wash his stuff whenever he uses them.”

“He sleeps… on your couch?” Leah asked slowly.

“No, we sleep in my bed together. Like when you guys come over…” you trailed off, voice dying down, looking down at your breakfast. 

“Like when we— when all of us cuddle in your fucking bed? Like when we were in college cramped onto a twin bed?” Leah demanded, eyebrows shooting to her hairline.

You don’t answer her. You stab a fork into your pancakes, and poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue awkwardly. You can’t look at either of them in the eyes right now. They’re a little too judgmental for your taste.

“How does he talk to you? Like sweetly or?” Mel asked, frowning at you.

“I mean– he calls me all these pet names. All the time. Calls me pretty and beautiful.”

“So you sleep next to the guy in the same bed, he’s always touching you, calls you all these sweet and cute things– never popped a boner or anything? Never tried to get a little handsy with you?” Leah asked.

“Leah!” you hissed, looking around at the other patrons in the restaurant to see if anyone heard her. “We are in public. Can you keep your voice down?”

“No, but she’s right though,” Mel said quickly, placing a hand down on the table. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she leans in, “Is he gay?”

You’re taken aback for a moment. “Uh– I… I don’t know. It never came up. I don’t think so? He’s had girlfriends before.”

You’re suddenly brought back to memories of your conversations with Bucky where he talks about Steve and Sam very fondly. 

He has plenty of memories with Steve that he speaks of with nostalgia. There are times when he talks about not Captain America, but Steve Rogers with so much pride in his voice that you can’t help but smile. At this point, you were certain that you could meet Steve on the street at any time, and you would know him like he was your own childhood friend.

Then there’s Sam. Bucky swears he hates the man, but you can hear the smile trying to crack through his words. Like he’s trying to hide how he really feels for a long winded bit that he’s doing. Despite all his sharp words, Bucky still talks about Sam. That has to count for something. 

“He might swing both ways, maybe leaning towards men,” Leah hummed, leaning back in her seat like the code was just cracked. “I mean, has to be, right? You’ve known him for almost what, an entire year now and nothing’s happened? Men don’t just befriend women at this age just to be friends.”

“I disagree with that last statement, but I do think that you’re reading too much into him,” Mel quickly said, nodding. “Men and women can definitely be friends without expecting anything from each other.”

You drown out the rest of their talk– the debate of whether or not men and women can just be friends. You’re spiraling. The polaroid hidden in the back of your phone case is weighing your purse down exponentially as the realization hits you. 

You were in the perpetual friendzone. Bucky didn’t bat an eye at you. He flirted with you, touched you without flinching, and laid down next to you in your own bed without his gaze lingering.

This was a man that was raised in the forties, and if you were correct in the little that you knew about that time period, anything premarital was some sort of sin. People were shamed. Disowned. Stoned. Excommunicated from the church.

And here Bucky was– doing just that. Doing all that and much more.

Yeah.

You were fucked. 

A light buzz within your purse caught your attention. You reached for your phone, eyes falling onto the notification of the man you were just talking about. 

You read the message over and over again, unable to believe what you were seeing for a few moments. 

Handsome [11:32am]: Stark’s throwing a party next Friday night. Do you want to come meet everyone?

The jet landed down, and the sound of the decompressors of the jet doors opening signaled the end of a successful mission. 

While the others clambered off with ease, good moods, and joy, Bucky couldn’t help but feel a wave of irritation wash through his body. The mission wasn’t difficult by any means, but the load of missions was what pissed him off. 

It’d been two weeks since he last saw you.

Bucky was simply surviving off of stupid images that he learned were called ‘memes’ that you sent him every day. That, and your cute good morning! and sleep well :) text messages which never failed to truly make him have a great morning and a well rested sleep.

Sometimes, if he got lucky, you sent him a picture of yourself. The first time that you did, he had to Google how to save images to his camera roll. After that, it was over for you. It didn’t matter what kind of picture that you sent. Even if you weren’t the full subject, he saved it. 

There was a picture where you were only partially in it, and you were trying to show off the matcha lavender drink that you bought. Another photo where your face was cut off at the top because you were cuddling with Mel’s puppy at her house. Some more stupidly angled photos of just your eyes— Bucky learned those ones being sent to him meant you wanted his attention. 

He also had pictures that he took of you. None of which, you were aware that he took. It was easy to hide. You often walked ahead of him when you were together, or your attention was focused on something else. It wasn’t difficult for a trained assassin to steal a photo or two.

Besides that, you slept like the dead next to him. Slept on his shoulder, and his lap like you owned the space. Bucky had a collection of you sleeping, though he wouldn’t admit it. It sounds creepy, but he found it endearing. 

The first time he was in your bed, and you sleeping beside him— he couldn’t fucking close his eyes. 

Were you stupid? That oblivious?

Bucky knew that you were comfortable with him, but to invite him into your bed without assuming anything? Yes, he was your friend, yes he was respectful, but he’d also been flirting with you for months on end waiting for you to pick up on the hints. 

Obviously, he wasn’t going to do anything. With each repeated time, it got a little bit easier. He found himself being able to take a small nap beside you in your bed. 

It was a comforting feeling— the warmth radiating off of your body. He was surrounded by the smell of your clean sheets, the scent of the laundry detergent that you used mixing with the shampoo you washed your hair with, and the perfume that stuck to your skin.

You moved in your sleep. Towards him. He would wake up to find you curled up beside him, like you would be if the two of you were cuddling on the couch and watching something. Bucky never pushed you away during these moments, but he never pulled you closer. 

Part of him felt guilty, if he really thought about it. 

You were normal. Someone that trusted him outside of the heroics. You treated him like any other guy on the street. You didn’t expect him to be anything else other than your friend. 

And Bucky was. He was a damn good friend to you, and he considered you one of his closest friends, too.

Simply, somewhere along the way… it shifted. He couldn’t tell when. There was no epiphany. Just a quiet realization one day. When he looked at you… he saw peace. A possible future with him, as something more than just a weapon.

Beside you, he felt different. As if the years and the war hadn’t affected him, hadn’t altered his brain in some sort of way that made him headstrong and tough around the edges the way he acted with the rest of his friends. 

With you, he felt softer. As if the walls were broken down without any fanfare or gracious ending. There wasn’t anything special that you needed to do or say to him. You just existed, and made breathing easier for him. 

Bucky quietly decided that even if you never looked his way, that it was okay. He would stay by your side, simply as another friend of yours if that’s all you’d ever want from him. Your presence alone was all he needed. You, without even realizing it, gave him something that he didn’t know was possible anymore. 

You gave him hope.

“We’re gonna meet your so-called friend that you always bail on us tonight?” Sam asked as Bucky came out into the common areas. 

The mission was finally showered off of him, and Bucky felt a bit lighter now. He just needed to change into that semi-formal attire that Stark shoved into his hands— the same clothes that were tied with a threat if Bucky didn’t wear it. 

“She said she would,” Bucky replied.

“Are we sure she’s even real?” Natasha asked, walking by to grab an apple from the fruit bowl. “Pretty sure Barnes is just strolling through New York getting fresh air by himself these days.”

“Sure,” Bucky shrugged, ignoring the chuckles of laughter at Natasha’s half-hearted jab. 

Bucky fished his phone out of his pocket, turning it back on. There should be some texts from you, waiting for him after his mission. And he was right. 

Pretty Girl [12:03pm]: what do the other girls wear 

Pretty Girl [12:05pm]: i googled iron man parties and they look rly fucking fancy sarge WHAT DOES BLACK WIDOW WEAR 

Pretty Girl [12:27pm]: i think ur saving the world… save my outfit when ur free pls </3

Bucky couldn’t help the smile that came onto his face, trying to imagine the panicked look on yours as you floated through your closet. 

Bucky [6:42pm]: Natasha and Wanda wear dresses. 

Your reply comes instantaneously. Bucky still can’t understand how you text so quickly.

Pretty Girl [6:42pm]: like?? floor length??? 

Bucky [6:45pm]: No. I’m wearing just a button up and slacks, if that makes you feel better. 

Pretty Girl [6:45pm]: what color

Bucky [6:46pm]: Black

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: mmm.. very nice. brings out your eyes

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: i’ll see you in a couple hours :) 

Bucky hated Stark’s parties with a passion. Despised them. This time? He couldn’t wait for it to come any sooner. 

In fact, he turned straight back to his room and got ready like a teenager waiting for his very first date to come. And he sat there, on the edge of his bed, waiting for the time to come. 

When the sounds of the party started, he went outside. Slowly but surely, guests started filtering in. Tony put on his best facade, greeting everyone with much vigor. Bucky didn’t understand how he could do it every single time. 

“Why are you hanging by the door for?” Sam asked, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’ll come when she comes— and she’ll find you when she does.”

“Just… making sure she gets in safe,” Bucky grunted.

“Ugh. Just drink, dude,” Sam groaned, pushing a glass of amber liquid into his hands as he guided him towards a group of them— Natasha, Clint, and Rhodey. All three of them were sitting together at the conversation pit, chatting together. 

Bucky supposed he could wait here. You would text him if you didn’t find him right away, too. He relaxed beside Sam, though he was still on edge. 

He couldn’t focus too much on the conversation in front of him. They were talking about Rhodey’s most recent date, if he was correct. A disaster, by the sounds of it. Bucky let out a chuckle when they all laughed, just to sound like he was absorbed into the conversation just like the rest of them. 

“Speaking of dating— looks like Cap’s found someone he’s finally interested in,” Natasha said, a smirk on her face. “She’s cute. Anyone know who she is?”

Bucky’s eyebrows raised. “No way. Steve?”

“Turn around,” Natasha said, pointing behind him. “They’ve been chatting for the past ten minutes.”

Both Bucky and Sam turned to look, only for a pit to form in Bucky’s stomach.

You were there. Absolutely beautiful— dressed so effortlessly stunningly in a way that made the breath get caught in his throat. Then again, you could be in pajamas and an old hoodie, and Bucky would be a fool for you. 

You sat at the bar counter, absolutely flushed. Not from drinking too much alcohol, no, the drink in your hand was completely full. The skin of your cheeks are tinted a shade of red from embarrassment and shyness in a way that Bucky had never been able to see before. Your eyelashes are fluttering against your cheeks as you struggle to maintain eye contact with Bucky’s oldest and longest friend. 

Steve stood beside you, so fucking close. He leaned onto the bar counter with an elbow, a small smile on his face as he talked to you. His eyes never left your face, even when you couldn’t look him in the eyes. 

The conversation between you two is never ending. You’re both responding in quick succession despite the fluttering party around you, ignoring the noise and the chatter. You two are completely absorbed in each other’s words. It’s like nothing else matters. 

You say something that makes Steve chuckle. His head hangs low just for a moment, and he shakes his head. You have a shy smile on your face as you trace the rim of your glass, speaking to him softly. You’re nervous. You’re shy. You look almost a little scared of what he’ll say next. 

When he does respond, you let out a soft laugh, pulling your lip between your teeth before shaking your head shyly. Your cheeks are getting redder by the second.

Then, Steve leans in— whispers something in your ear. 

You freeze for a second, your lips part, and you stare at Steve. You’re flustered. Steve’s grin goes even wider as he pulls back to look at you, and he finishes the rest of his drink. 

Steve looks quite satisfied with himself for your reaction, the pure flushed and embarrassed look on your face. You’re unable to react for a few moments before you’re turning away from him quickly, unable to look him in the eyes— and Steve is laughing at you while you’re fanning your face with your hands. 

“Since when has Steve had moves like that?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised. “She’s like butter for him.”

Bucky has never seen you like this before. There’s never been a moment where you have ever acted like this for him before. Not once, not ever. 

Despite the fact you’re so embarrassed at whatever he had to say to you, you’re still talking to him. You can’t even look him in the eyes, but you’re responding to each and every single thing he’s saying to you. Just like Sam said— you’re melting for his words. 

Bucky has a pit of despair in his gut. He has to look away. He can’t watch the scene in front of him anymore. A long breath enters and exits his chest as he slowly tries to think rationally. 

Rationality fully leaves when Sam’s voice breaks his meditation. 

“There he is!” Sam exclaimed, standing. “Introduce us to your friend, Steve!”

Steve’s walking over, with you. Steve’s hand is on your back, leading you over to the group of them. You look relaxed, the blush is mostly gone from your cheeks, but Bucky can’t focus on anything except for the fact you’re extremely close to Steve. 

Sam moves to greet Steve, and two hands clap together before chests hit in a brother hug, their other hands hitting each other’s back. 

“Well, I’m not the one who should introduce her,” Steve chuckled, shaking his head.

You give Sam a polite smile before sidestepping both men, going around them, dropping onto the couch beside Bucky. Immediately, he shifted over to give you space. You notice, and Bucky tries not to react to your gaze. 

As you settle, you give a nod to Natasha and Rhodey on the opposite couch. Natasha gives you a smile in return, but she looks a bit confused. 

You introduce yourself as Bucky’s friend— the one that Bucky goes to see all the time. 

“The one that’s not real?” Sam asked, surprised. 

“You tell them I’m not real?” you asked, looking at Bucky as you lean back into the cushions.

“They say it on their own,” Bucky muttered. You stared at him for a few moments. You heard the edge to his voice, and he cursed in his head for being so blatant with his irritation. 

“Are you okay?” you whispered, your voice softer, only for him to hear. He wanted to scream. Not at you, but at himself. 

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Instead, he gets up, handing you his drink before walking away without another word. He can feel your eyes on him, feel the way you straightened on the couch in panic as he left without warning. 

He fucking hates this. 

Only two tells. He only needed to do one thing, say one thing, and you immediately could tell something was off about him. He hates even more that he just walked away from you without even saying a word, but he needs a second to collect his thoughts. 

For the rest of the party, Bucky avoided you like the plague. He felt your eyes on him. He refused to look at you. Even when the crowd thinned out, and the party dwindled down to just the team and you, Bucky avoided you. 

Eventually, you took your leave. 

It was Steve who saw you to the door. Steve offered to give you a ride home. You rejected, giving him a smile and saying you’ll just call an Uber or something, and wait in the lobby. Steve wasn’t having it. Something about it being too late at night, and he was right. 

Bucky could see, out of the corner of his eye, you looking at him. He didn’t look back. 

So, you left with Steve, Steve’s jacket on your shoulders to keep you warm for when the night air hit you. 

Shortly after, Bucky excused himself to his room, and his phone went off in his pocket. He re-read your text, feeling more and more like a fucking asshole with each read. 

He tossed his phone to the side, dragging a hand down his face. Bucky couldn’t answer you. Not tonight. 

Pretty Girl [1:32am]: is everything okay?

Just like you thought, you and Steve became extremely good friends right away. You practically knew him and everything about him right away from the very beginning, thanks to Bucky. 

You didn’t even mean to approach him first, but your eyes found him when you were looking in the crowd when you arrived. He was attempting to get a drink when you dropped in on the bar, and opened up with—

“Is Bucky gay and not telling me?”

Steve choked on the water he originally had in his hands before looking at you. You belatedly introduced yourself to him, telling him who exactly you were to Bucky before repeating yourself, asking him if he and Bucky were dating or if Bucky and Sam were dating or if all three of them were in some… throuple… situation. 

Thankfully, Steve took it like a champ. He laughed so loud it made you grin before he shook his head and confirmed that Bucky is indeed single, and has been since the forties. 

Then, he asked you why you even assumed. 

Your next question—

“How the hell do I get your dumbass friend to like me then?”

Steve looked intrigued at that point. Leaned against the bar, hooked on your every word. You told him about your situation with him— how touchy Bucky was with you. The cute names he called you. How he was always at your place.

You told him how your friends thought he must not like girls, which is why you even had to ask Steve in the first place. 

Then he whispers to you, in your ear for only you to hear—

“I’m certain he’s already in love with you if he’s doing all of that.”

Steve had such a big grin on his face after saying it— and he couldn’t stop telling you how happy he was to meet you. How he’d noticed how Bucky was just a generally brighter guy these days, but wouldn’t say much about you, as if he wanted to keep you to himself. 

Steve said he understood why Bucky fell for you, from how you were talking about him.

“My words don’t mean much,” Steve said, smiling at you, “but thank you for looking at Bucky like this. Like he’s a man.”

That first half of the party was almost like a blur for you. You had practically reached enlightenment just by speaking to Captain America. All of your world’s issues had been solved by your conversation with the man, and you could only remember bits and pieces from how scrambled your brain was.

You were so embarrassed from admitting all of it to Bucky’s friend. Your feelings about having to ask for advice on how to get Bucky to look your way to Steve telling you that you already had Bucky wrapped around your finger. All of it had you on a euphoric level that you had never experienced before.

Yet, if Steve’s so fucking certain, then why is Bucky ignoring you? 

You remembered the second half of the party better than the first. Bucky moving away from you on the couch. At first, you thought it was because his friends were around. You tried not to let it bother you– the way that he created distance between the both of you. 

Despite the fact your heart was racing because you received verbal confirmation from Bucky’s best friend that Bucky had feelings for you, you tried acting normal. The same way that you always acted with him. Touchy. Casual. The same flirting routine that you two always use.

Yet, you don’t think he looked your way once the entire night. You tried. You desperately tried to corner him, to talk to him. You should’ve known better to try to get the former Winter Soldier alone.

Bucky doesn’t know this because you’ve never told him, but he has read receipts on. You know he’s seen every single one of your text messages. You know he’s read every single one of them the second you’ve sent them, which means there’s no mission.

You’ve gone over a week without contact with him. You’ve gone longer without seeing him, but never without any form of communication. There was always some sort of text or call, something to connect the two of you together. 

You didn’t have the clearance to go in and out of the Avengers compound. You couldn’t just waltz in there. All you could do was text and attempt to call him, and wait for him to text you back. 

But you don’t want to bother him if he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore. You’re better than that— you’re not going to chase attention from someone who clearly didn’t want yours. You’re still not sure what you did to offend him, but you’d try one last time. 

Feelings aside, you valued him deeply as your friend. You thought he felt the same way. You weren’t sure if you were hurt from feeling a friend breakup, or having to get over your crush over him. Either option fucking sucked.

You call him one more time during your lunch break, only for the phone to go immediately to voicemail. You let out a deep sigh, and wait for the prompt to allow you to record your message. 

“I’ll stop calling and texting you now,” you said, your heart beating so wildly in your chest you’re certain that your phone’s microphone can pick it up. “I don’t know what I did, but… Yeah. I’ll leave you alone now. I wish you the best, I guess. Stay safe, handsome.”

You hang up, sending the message. You turn your phone off next. You don’t want to know if he’s texted you or called you back, and you don’t trust yourself by just simply turning on the do not disturb feature on your phone. You’re the type to still look at notifications to see if you were disturbed. 

You try to power through the rest of your day on autopilot. 

Your plan is to complete your menial work tasks. Tasks that should have been so easy to complete without a single bat of an eye, but no. The universe wanted to make your life harder. As if to just laugh at you, add onto your plate, and make you feel even more miserable.

The emails you received from your team were full of dumpster fires that you needed to put out for your clients. You were pulled into emergency meetings that you didn’t have time for. Those same clients were calling you, frantic and fucking pissed that your company wasn’t delivering what you had promised them. 

All at the same time, your upper management was cracking down on your boss, who was then taking it out on all of you— and you had no time to deal with his tantrum. You were one fucking person, dealing with your own meltdown in your own personal life, but expected to deal with everyone else’s. 

You didn’t get out of work on time. You couldn’t. It was impossible. You had a mountain of tasks that had no end in sight. You didn’t take your final break at the end of the day. Honestly, your head was pounding. 

Still, you didn’t go home right away. Didn’t turn your phone back on. You went to the grocery store instead. You couldn’t handle the thought of sitting in your lonely home, by yourself with your own thoughts. 

You should’ve just gone home. 

You roamed up and down aisles that you didn’t need to go down, only for a rambunctious child to slam into you with an open container of fruit juice in his hands, spilling all over your clothes before falling backwards. The kid’s parent had the audacity to yell at you.

You barely had half the mind to walk away before breaking down in tears yourself because why is your kid drinking unbought juice in the store and running around unsupervised? while the kid’s mom screamed at you to pay for the juice. 

You didn’t even buy anything at the store. Just dropped your basket off at the register and left before you ended up exploding. Apologized to the cashier for the inconvenience before making the walk home. 

A soft curse fell from your lips as you shoved your key into the door— it was fucking jammed again. You shook the door, tears prickling in your eyes. You were sticky, uncomfortable, angry, overstimulated, and so fucking sad. You’re about to slam your fist into the door in utter rage and frustration when it opens.

“You really need to tell your landlord to fix your door, doll,” Bucky murmured to you, “Even I had trouble getting in earlier.”

You’re staring at him, like a deer caught in headlights. He looks sheepish, eyes trained on the ground at your feet. For a moment, you wonder how the fuck he’s in your apartment. Then you remember you gave him a key a long time ago for emergencies.

Your silence must’ve alerted him. His eyes finally drag upwards, and widen when he sees the state you’re in. His eyebrows furrowed. He’s quiet, for just a moment. Then, his inner thoughts come forth.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah. Because that’s exactly what I want to fucking hear from you after uncalled for radio silence,” you said dryly, coming to your senses. You watch him cringe at your tone before you push past him, walking into your apartment. 

Your work bag is unceremoniously dropped onto the nearest chair, and you shrug off your cardigan next. You can hear Bucky shuffling behind you as you make your way to your bedroom for another change of clothes before you drown yourself in hot water. 

By the time you come out of the bathroom, no longer sticky, muscles slightly relaxed from the spray of the water, you find that Bucky had made dinner for the two of you. It’s nothing fancy or extreme– just some pasta and chicken that you definitely didn’t have in your fridge before. You vaguely wondered if he had gone shopping before he even came over. 

You want to press him. Tell him to get the fuck out of your house. But God, the food smells good, he looks good in his stupid fucking sweatshirt and jeans that screams boyfriend material, and you’re so tired. 

You can feel his eyes on you, cautious. The tension in the air is thick. You could probably eat it for dessert, if you wanted to. For now, you take your time stabbing into the pasta in front of you and bringing it to your lips. You fill your stomach, ignore his stare, and ignore the way that he doesn’t eat his own share of food. 

“I got your message,” Bucky finally spoke.

“Great. Why are you here then?” you replied, dropping your fork onto the plate. It clattered loudly against the ceramic, and you finally sat back in your seat. Your arms crossed over your chest as you finally looked at him.

Bucky was still looking at you. His lips were parted, as if he was trying to come up with the words to speak. His fists were clenched on either side of his plate, and then his mouth shut. He took in a deep breath from his nostrils, and shook his head, lowering it as he did.

“Are you here to return my apartment key? Didn’t have to make me dinner to do that. You could’ve slipped it through the mail slot, but whatever. Hand it over,” you said, holding out your hand to him.

His head immediately snapped up, and a crease formed between his eyebrows. He looked hurt– but not in a kicked puppy kind of way. Almost scandalized, like he was offended that you even suggested that to begin with. 

“I’m not returning your fuckin’ key,” he responded, voice a little tight. 

You frowned, raising your eyebrows at him. You lowered your hand back down, and tilted your head at him as you observed him for a few moments. You were both in a quiet standoff, one that you didn’t fully get. 

 “I’m sorry, did I misunderstand something between us?” you finally asked, tone clipped. “I’ve texted you. Called you– like an obsessive fucking girlfriend for nearly two weeks now. I can’t even say that you ghosted me because ghosting is a term that you use for people in relationships or people in talking stages, and we clearly aren’t in either of those–”

“What the fuck is ghosting?” he cut you off, exasperated. 

“I just fucking told you!” you shouted back, throwing your hands into the air. 

Then, you looked at him. Really looked at him. Despite his tone, he was genuine. Confused. He wanted to know, and you were going off on a tangent on him. It wouldn’t be fair to him or you to keep going if he had no clue what you were saying. So, you took in a slow breath of air before you explained. 

“It means you ignored me. Fell off the face of the Earth without any explanation– no rhyme or reason. I had no clue what happened to you, or if I did something to hurt you. There was no closure, no understanding. I don’t know what I did to piss you off, so now I’m pissed off at you,” you said, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. “And now, you come into my fucking apartment, make me dinner, and try to act like everything is okay? That’s just a load of bullshit, James. I have to get texts from Steve to make sure that you’re alive, and not dead in some random country!”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, and he sat back in his own seat. You watched as he sucked on his teeth, and slowly exhaled. 

“You and Steve text? How often does that happen?” he asked, his voice low.

“Are you for real?” you asked, a laugh escaping your lips. You couldn’t even try to mask the confusion that was on your face now. You stared at him, blinking. “Out of everything I just said– that’s what you’re going to take away from that? Not that I’m mad– you’re not even going to apologize?”

“Just answer the question, please,” he murmured, his shoulders rising as he took in another, small breath.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at him. You couldn’t read his face. There was something distant in his eyes. He was guarded, far away, and not the Bucky that you knew. 

“I’ve texted him more than you’ve texted me these past couple weeks,” you answered, clenching your jaw. “Which, by the way– you texted me absolutely nothing. So you can guess how often me and Steve text.”

“So you two really hit it off then, huh?” Bucky said, though it sounds more to himself than to you. He’s looking down at this full plate of food now, avoiding your gaze as his tongue is poking at his cheek. He almost looks pissed off. 

“What the hell are you even talking about?” 

His eyes flickered up. “You and Steve. At the party. That’s where you met, right? He brought you home, didn’t he?”

“He did, since the person that I assumed was going to be my ride home avoided me all night,” you shot back. You could feel your already thinning patience dissolving into nothing at all. “How is this relevant to the conversation that we’re having?”

Silence settled like a stone wall as you stared at each other. The two of you met another dead end to your conversation, with nowhere to go. This was the first time you had ever argued with Bucky like this, and you could feel your relationship with him slipping through your fingertips. You don’t know this side of Bucky. Your agitation was already through the roof, and Bucky was mad about something that you didn’t even understand, but you could see it in his eyes. 

Then, you watch his anger dissipate. It cracks, like he’s conceding. Like he doesn’t want to be mad. He’s fighting an internal battle, struggling with himself in his mind. You don’t know which part of him is winning yet.

Bucky scrubs a hand down his face as he slouches in his seat, and rests his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands for a few moments. He takes two, slow, deep breaths as he tries to compose himself. 

“Steve’s a good guy,” he finally spoke through a clenched jaw. “A great guy even. I’m glad you two seem to be getting along.”

Your temper freezes in its place as you stare at him. What?

Bucky lifts his head, lacing his fingers together in front of his mouth. He’s still not looking at you, eyes trained somewhere behind your head. 

“I– I haven’t seen someone make him laugh like that in so damn long, and I know you really well, so I don’t doubt that you’ll make him happy either. And I’ve never seen you act so fucking shy in front of guy before, and I’m glad it’s Steve that made you act like that–”

The words are spilling out of Bucky’s mouth faster than you can comprehend. Your mind is trying to keep up with the clusterfuck of information that you’re suddenly receiving from him. You’re doing your best to decipher what he’s saying to you, while sitting in front of you, looking like a sad, lonely, kicked fucking puppy. He looks like you’ve just abandoned him. 

“–and God I just wish that it was me that you looked at like that because I’ve been with you this entire time for over a year now, and I’ve been flirting with you every single fucking day that I’m with you and you never seem to notice–”

“You’re jealous?” you finally cut him off, your mind finally catching up with his words. “You’ve been ignoring me because you’re jealous that I was talking to Steve at the party?”

You watch as Bucky’s lips part, and he slowly falls backwards into his seat. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he attempts to catch his breath from the long winded, incoherent rant. He clenches his jaw like he’s about to break his teeth into pieces. Then, he nods once, swallows thickly, and looks you in the eyes. Nervously.

You can't believe what you're hearing. He's jealous. The guy you've been ripping your hair out over, the one you've embarrassed yourself in front of Captain America over is jealous.

You got up from your chair, and went over to your bookshelf. You could feel him watching you as you pulled out one of your photo albums– a black binder. Sleek, inconspicuous, unassuming. You brought it back to the table, dropping it down in front of him before sitting back in your seat, taking a slow breath. 

Silently, you gestured for him to open it, looking down at it before looking back at him. You watched as he slowly reached for it, moving his plate away to make more space. 

Then, he saw it. 

Your possession of candid photos, spanning over the last five months. Just Bucky, and Bucky alone. In nearly all of them, Bucky wasn’t looking at you. You thought that he would have been aware that you were taking the photos, with his assassin senses, but Steve told you otherwise– he trusts you, he said. 

You watched as Bucky continued flipping through the photo album, page by page, confusion riddling his features with each turn, each new photo that he saw. There were photos from your excursions together.

The photos taken on your DSLR camera were the ones where he wasn’t facing you. Where he had no clue that you were even pointing the camera at him. These photos were taken outdoors, when you were outside doing something else in the world. At an aquarium. At the park. At a nice cafe that you saw online that you dragged him to. You had made sure the flash was turned off on your camera, made sure that he wouldn’t be able to see you sneaking photos. You always tried to be sure there was something near him that you could pretend to be taking a photo of instead, too. 

In some of the recent photos, his face was clearly shown. At some point throughout your process of sneaking photos of him, you realized that he thought you were just tapping away at your screen. It was one of the many benefits that you had from the fact that Bucky didn’t use his phone often, other than to contact you. 

These were photos of him in your kitchen when he made dinner or of him on your couch, your legs on his lap. Some photos were of him sleeping on the other side of your bed, completely unaware that you had put your camera to his face

“You don’t take pictures of people,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the photos. “You told me you think people become the fakest version of themselves on camera.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I fucking hate it,” you answered with a shrug. “And they do.”

“Then what’s all this?”

“Photos of you through my eyes– exactly how I see you. An entire collection of it, actually. I hoard those photos. I have more of them that I need to go get developed, and add to that album, actually,” you admitted. 

“Why?” 

You could only stare at him for a few moments, your heart thumping wildly in your chest, threatening to crawl up your esophagus and show itself to Bucky. He looked like he was putting together the pieces, just as you had done yourself. But he needed the confirmation.  

“I asked Steve if you two were dating. That’s what we were talking about at the party.”

You watched as Bucky’s head snapped up towards you, eyebrows raised up to his hairline. You’re certain that if he had water, he would’ve choked like Steve did. 

“Sweetheart, what the fuck–”

“And then we kept talking about you,” you cut him off, looking away from him, clearing your throat. “And I asked Steve how I could get you to like me– to notice me– and stop just flirting with me like a friend. He told me that if you were flirting with me at all, there’s a pretty good chance that you already like me. Which is why I got shy.”

You can feel heat crawling up your neck, blossoming under your cheeks, and on either side of your head to your ears. It was your turn to avoid his gaze. You kept your eyes down on your hands, which were folded onto your lap. You could hear your heart in your ears. Your stomach flipped over in your body in unnatural ways, and you wish you didn’t eat any of the food Bucky made. 

Then, you saw Bucky’s metal hand on top of yours. You didn’t even hear him stand or get out of his chair. It was moments like this that you forgot how quiet he could be– how he made himself loud for you, how he made his presence known for your own comfort. It was one of the many things that he did for you without you even realizing it. 

Your breath hitched as you turned, finding him on one knee beside your chair, looking up at you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, gently, comfortingly, sweetly, in a way that made your heart stutter in your chest. 

You met his eyes. They were soft. Just like how he had looked at you that day in the bookstore, when you told him to smile for you. A small smile was on his lips as he looked up at you, unguarded and raw. 

“I’m really sorry, doll,” he whispered, and you released a soft breath. “I didn’t– I should’ve just talked to you instead of running from you. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I… didn’t want to be rejected by you.”

“So you thought pushing me away completely would be better?” you shot back with a frown, but there was no real anger to your words, and Bucky could tell.

“Can I make it up to you?” he asked. “Take you on a date? An actual date– maybe one where we can take a photo together instead of you taking ones of me like a creep hiding something.”

A laugh fell from your lips as Bucky squeezed your hands. His smile only grows at the sound of your laughter, and you can’t find it in you to be a brat to him. Not when he’s kneeling beside you, holding your hands, and asking so nicely. Then again, you were always soft for him. 

Then, you reached for him. You grabbed him by the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him up as you leaned down, meeting him somewhere in the middle. His lips are on yours within seconds, and they’re as soft as you had imagined– as you know they are because you’ve put your lip masks on his lips with your fingers more times than you can count. But God, feeling them directly on yours is a different sense of euphoria that you never would’ve known until now. 

You slowly slink out of your chair for comfort, until you’re on the floor with Bucky, body pressed against his. Your hands are on his shoulders, his wrapped around your back to hold you tight against him. You’re breathless against his lips, slotted against him perfectly like he was made for you. You could probably stay like this forever. Kissing him slowly in the dining area of your apartment. 

When you finally parted, his forehead pressed against yours. Your breaths mingle, fanning against each other’s faces as you look at each other. The tension is back, but different. You both react at the same time.

Bucky dives back in for another kiss, a hand coming to cradle the back of your neck to support you. You can feel his tongue swipe the seam of your lips, requesting entry that you would never deny him. He immediately takes the chance to explore, while your hands explore underneath his clothes, searching for skin.  

A low, guttural groan escapes his throat. “This is backwards, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “We should be going on dates first before all of this.”

“Are you complaining?” you asked, hands moving up his abdomen, and resting on his sides. 

“No, but I wanna be a gentleman for you, make it up to you for the bullshit I put you through–”

“Technically, we have been going on dates this entire time,” you reassured, peppering a series of kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Bucky lets out a soft sigh, moving his head to the side to allow you space to keep pressing your lips to his skin. “Since we both liked each other, we just never said it out loud.”

You can feel his resolve of being a gentleman breaking with each kiss. His hands tighten around you, and you can feel his pulse quicken under your lips. Gently, you nip onto a soft spot, listening to him let out another groan before you placate the ache with your tongue. 

Then, you’re being hoisted off the floor with a shriek falling from your lips. You grab onto Bucky’s shoulders quickly, and you look at his face– there’s determination all over his features as he makes his way down the hall to your bedroom. The resolve has shattered. You’ve broken him. 

Bucky’s been in your bedroom before. He’s been in your bed before, been under your sheets, slept comfortably through the night with him on the other side of the bed– but God, this is so much better.

Clothes are thrown off, damn near ripped at the seams, littered all over your floor, and Bucky’s hands are all over you. He’s laid you down onto your pillows, and his head is between your legs before you can come to your senses– and you feel the warmth of his tongue flattening against your aching core.

You both moan into the room at the same time, almost in harmony. You weakly push yourself onto your elbows to look at him, to watch him, and he’s hooking your thighs over his shoulders, pulling you deeper into him to lock you in place. Then, you meet his eyes as he takes another pass. 

Bucky doesn’t need to say a single word for you to understand that he’s been waiting to taste you on his tongue for months. He eats like a man that’s been starved, like a man that had spent years in the desert, and you were the first drop of water that he’s had. 

You can only fall back against the pillows, reaching for him, grabbing onto his hair– which makes him groan against you. The vibrations alone make your body tremble against him. He’s enjoying every single moment, eyes falling shut. His hand shifts, thumb moving to press against your clit, and your body reacts instantly, thighs clenching around him. 

“Bucky– fuck–” you gasped out, and you fall apart instantly. He groans into you, almost in approval as he licks up all of your arousal and juices until there’s nothing left. You’re twitching, sensitive, and pushing on his head– damn near sobbing for him to give you a break. 

Reluctantly, he does get up. And he looks like he’s the one who just came. He’s breathless, chest rising and falling, expression fucked out and beautiful. Bucky licks his lips, then wipes the area surrounding his mouth before he slots himself between your legs, lowering himself down to you.

“So good for me, baby,” he praised softly, kissing your forehead as his elbows rested on either side of your head. His kisses moved further down your face until his lips met yours again in a slow, gentle kiss. “So, so good for me. Can you keep going?”

“God, if you don’t fuck me I might kill you.”

You could feel him grin against you as he slowly shifted, and you felt him slowly drag the length of his cock against your folds, coating himself in your slick. A soft gasp fell from your lips as he moaned out your name. He dropped his head into your shoulder, trying to ground himself as he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pushed in.

You can feel him deep– every ridge and vein, pulsing inside of you. He’s thick and girthy, long, stretching you out more than you’d ever been before, and it’s too much, and not enough at the same time. You need him painting the inside of you, staining you, claiming you– you can’t tell him that right now. Not yet. You just got the man. 

You know that you’re not much better. You’re wet around him, walls twitching and crying at the feel of him. Your legs are trembling around his hips, fingernails clawing at his shoulders and digging deep as you try to catch your breath. You’re impossibly full, but you need him to move.

And he does.

The first pull back has you seeing the gates of heaven. When he sinks all the way back in, you’re sent straight to hell. 

Bucky fucks you into the bed like a man on a mission, full of sin and no regrets. His hands are all over you, grabbing at your waist to hold you in place while his lips are busy marking your chest in places where only you and he will know. When your back arches off the bed, his lips close around a stiff nipple, tongue lapping around the hardened peak and sucking. 

You’re sensitive, breaths erratic, and he’s too good. 

“I can’t– I can’t–” you whimpered, fingers digging into his chest. 

“Oh, but you’re doing so well, baby,” Bucky praised softly. 

You can barely open your eyes to look at him, but when you do? There’s a light sheen of sweat that’s coating his skin, and his eyes are on you, watching every single part of you, burning you into his memory– the way you look under him as he fucks you– how your breasts move in correspondence with each thrust of his hips, how fucked out and cock drunk you look, how your body spasms and twitches under his ministrations. He’s compartmentalizing every single detail of you. 

“Bucky, please,” you moaned out, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

“Gimme one more, doll– Can you do that for me?” he groaned, his hips picking up speed, “Need you to cum on my cock, pretty thing.”

There’s a neediness in his voice that makes your walls flutter around him, that shoves you off the edge a second time that night– just like he wanted you to. A curse falls from his lips as his hips stutter against you, and he rides out your orgasm as long as possible before he’s pulling out of you, his own release spilling all over your stomach and chest. Bucky catches himself on his elbows before he collapses on top of you, breathing heavily.

Part of you wants to tell him what a waste. You keep it to yourself for now. 

“Kiss, Bucky,” you muttered instead, reaching for his face.

He chuckles, almost breathy, and leans back down to you. He’s careful to avoid the hot, sticky mess that he’s left behind on your body, but he kisses you regardless. A sigh escapes your throat as he meets your lips.

Before long, he’s completely leaving you, muttering something about needing to clean you up. You stay there, boneless and sated, drifting off to sleep. You don’t even realize he’d come back until you feel a warm washcloth on your skin, wiping away the remnants of misdeed that you two had committed just moments prior. 

Then, you’re being hoisted into his arms again, and the sheets are pulled over your bodies. His lips press against your forehead as his arms wrap around you, tugging you closer to his chest. Once again, Bucky is in your bed. Like he’s been countless times before, but this is different. It’s changed. You like it better this way.

You’re listening to the steady beat of his heart, allowing it to be your lullaby for the night when he breaks the silence. 

“Is this a yes to the date?” Bucky whispered.

A grin breaks out on your face, and you press a kiss to his bare chest. “Yes, handsome. You can take me out on a date.”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian

[midatwrtr]

A New Beginning

NMIXX Sullyoon x Male Reader

Genre: Fluff, Angst & Smut | Word count: 14k | Tags: Maid, Headpats, Virgin, Blowjob, Missionary, Creampie

Synopsis: You receive a former slave as a gift. What follows is a journey of healing with your new maid.

Warning: Mentions of past bodily harm and psychological distress.

Credits

I. The arrival

It was common knowledge that a 19th-century man in possession of a successful company and a rich heritage was to own a maid. His being didn’t belong in a kitchen; his time wasn’t to be wasted doing laundry. Yet you had little regard for such traditions. Your kin speculated—stinginess, secrets, perhaps a scandal—but the truth was far simpler: you didn’t need a reason. Self-reliance suited you. 

For two years, you’d lived alone in your estate nestled deep in the woods, not only tending to yourself but also hosting guests without assistance. To the surprise of many, the master poured the tea.

It was near dusk, late winter when a carriage crunched its way down the moss-softened path to your door. The horses snorted, breath misting in the cooling air. No grand stone steps. No footman. Only pine wind and silence.

You had just returned from the forest, mushrooms in your hand, sleeves rolled, your white shirt tucked sloppily into worn pants. Had you known visitors were arriving, perhaps you'd have worn one of the jackets your father gifted you long ago.

A knock. You opened the door. There stood a man in a heavy frock coat, posture straight, eyes familiar.

“John,” you exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve never forgotten, my Lord,” the gentleman said. “The help you gave me in the past… I remember you once said you weren’t in the possession of a servant.”

You nodded. “I still am not.”

“Good,” he replied with a faint smile. “Because I have one here with me. And I would like you to accept her as a gift.”

“You want to gift me… a slave?”

“Precisely.” From his pocket, he pulled a golden pin, the symbol of his new title. “I have been appointed royal couturier to the Duke’s daughter. And I owe it all to you—your introductions, your patronage, your faith in a man who once sold thread in the dirtiest corner of the city.”

“You flatter me,” you said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “But it was your talent that took you to the palace.”

He inclined his head in gratitude, then stepped down and opened the carriage. A girl emerged. Barefoot. Wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Her eyes are wide and hollow. Her feet met moss rather than gravel, and her thin shoulders shivered in the cold.

“Please accept this slave, my Lord,” the man said. “I made sure to buy the most beautiful one in the county.”

“She is beautiful,” you acknowledged, “but where are her clothes?”

“She had a shirt and trousers when I bought her. I saw no reason to waste fine fabric on a slave.”

“You’re a dressmaker,” you said, your voice flat. “You should know better.”

He didn’t answer. The girl stared at the ground, her shackled ankles trembling. Her skin was marked with scars—especially her back—but her face had been kept untouched, carefully preserved like fine porcelain.

You sighed and opened the door wider. “Your gift is appreciated,” you said quietly. “I will take care of her.”

“The girl is yours now,” he said, bowing reverently. “Do as you please. My gratitude is eternal.”

The girl turned to you and bowed low. “Good evening, master. Thank you for taking me in. I promise I will be good to you.”

Realising you were still holding the mushrooms, you quickly set them aside and offered your hand. She looked at it, puzzled.

You smiled gently. “It’s a handshake.”

Hesitantly, she reached out and touched your hand, her fingers trembling uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, master. Owners don’t usually greet us with such… respect.”

“That’s the bare minimum,” you said. “Come inside.”

She stepped in lightly, nearly silent. The warmth of the house—faint smoke, pressed leaves—hit her like a foreign scent. You closed the door behind her. There was little needed for a bolt and key. No one lived in these woods anyways.

She clutched a small satchel—too small for any valuable possession. Her clothes were thin and frayed. Her eyes flicked nervously across the room. No canes. No bells. No inked ledgers of punishment.

“You may speak freely here,” you said, like offering her a blanket.

“No need, master. I won’t be in any trouble. You won’t even see me.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

She bowed her head. “I’ll do everything you want, whenever you want.”

You reached for a robe hanging near the door. As your hand passed near her head, she flinched—visibly, sharply. Years of training had taught her to stay still, but reflexes didn’t lie.

“Sorry. Did I touch you?”

“No, master. My fault. I’m sorry.”

You held the robe out. “Take this. You look cold.”

“Thank you very much, master. You’re… very kind.”

You inhaled deeply. “I’m not used to having… uhm… someone to look after me. I have no footman. No housekeeper. No cook. There’s little to do,” you said as you scratched your head. “Sorry about that.”

“I’ll make myself useful,” she said. There’s no reason to keep a maid if she’s not deemed useful. She had to find an occupation, or who knows where she might end up.

“I’m sure you will,” you replied gently. “But not tonight. You’ve traveled far.”

You led her down the hallway—not to the scullery, nor a cot in the corner of the kitchen—but to a guest room. A real bed. A folded quilt. A window without shutters.

She stood at the threshold, silent, unsure.

“This will be your room,” you announced. “It is a guest room but I never have guests over so it is a bit dusty. I apologize for that. However, the bed is quite comfy, I hope that makes up for it.” 

You paused for a moment and gestured for her to come in.

“Are you sure, master? A whole room for me?”

“Where else should you stay?” you asked. That statement alone sounded ridiculous to you. Of course, she needed a room. “Thank you very much. I’m forever grateful,” she said, bowing down in gratitude. 

You tried to imagine her previous owner. The aristocrats you have met at the “parties” always seemed to be polite, but they were never kind. Judging by her responses, she must have had a ruthless man. Maybe he let her sleep in a barn, maybe in the basement, or whatever space she found.

“You can rest,” you replied. “No work tonight.”

She nodded. She seemed surprised but grateful. You gave her a nod as well. “Make yourself comfortable,” you told her. 

Then, as you turned to climb the stairs, her voice halted you.

“Please don’t send me back,” she begged. Her voice was frail and trembled. 

You turned to meet her eyes—worn, weary, yet pleading—and your heart was torn to pieces. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said. You pondered on what could have comforted her but chose to leave it. Nothing could have given her security, only time.

When she was finally left alone, Sullyoon took the deepest breath of her life. She was almost afraid to let the air fill her lungs with the freedom you were letting her have. She wanted to believe you. She wanted to believe you were the gift that the sky had given her in exchange for her pains. For the first time in weeks, she let her satchel slip from her shoulder. It hit the floor with a soft thud. She sat down on the edge of the bed. 

And for once, she could breathe.

When she heard your footsteps leave the floor, she let herself go down on the bed. It was as if all the clouds in the sky had gathered under her back in a warm embrace. She hasn’t felt such softness since she was held in her mother’s arms. It was like a miracle. It must have been a dream. She had to wake up or she’d cry in the morning, again.

Her mother used to tell her that miracles always happened to good people. But she wasn’t a good person, was she? She always got things wrong, and her masters always beat her up for it. Surely, she was a bad person; otherwise, they’d never beat her, right?

While you left the girl in her room, you made your way back into the garden. You wanted to take a look at the sky before doing anything else. However, you were greeted at the sight of the gentleman again.

“You’re still here, John?” you asked.

“My lord, sorry, I’m packing up in preparation,” he said. “I’ll leave immediately.”

“No, no, that is not what I meant,” you corrected yourself. “Do you want to come in? I have some food and drinks inside. You have traveled a lot after all.”

“I wish I could, my lord but I’m in quite a hurry,” he said. “I stopped by your mansion because it was on the path but I have to go to the next kingdom as soon as possible.”

“In that case,” you said. “Wait a moment, please.”

You ran inside and took out the pie and cookies you had prepared the other day, and a bottle of beer and wrapped them in a cloth. You went back outside and gave it to John. He looked surprised at first but then smiled widely.

“Please accept this, it will accompany you on your journey.”

“Oh, my lord, you’re too kind, like you have always been. Thank you.” John accepted your gift with jittery hands and quickly stuffed it in his leather bag.

“That said,” you started, brushing your hands. “Do you have like a… dress? For a servant?”

“For the slave?” he said.

“Well, yeah, the girl.”

“I do have some simple shirts here… I think she might fit in them,” he said taking something out from his carriage. “There’s always somebody who might want to buy them so I always carry them with me… here it is.” He took out a gown, a corset, and some shoes.

“Well that should be fine, I guess.”

“Oh, I have a cap as well.”

“That’s perfect,” you said and got your purse. “I think this should do.”

“Oh, no, please, my lord,” he exclaimed. “I will not let you pay. This is a gift. You have done enough for me, so many investments, it would be an insult to make you pay. Please take it.”

“Very well. They have a good trip, John.”

“Thank you very much, till the next time.” 

John departed. You only had a few memories about the gentleman and had to shake your memories to jot back up the other ones. Nothing seemed to have changed. He was still the same joyful, quirky man that you had met years ago. Still working hard, relentlessly.

You ran back up. The girl heard your heels clacking on the hardwood. She immediately stood up, put her satchel in a more presentable position, and awaited you in front of her room. A maid wasn’t allowed to laze around. 

Reaching her room, you were puzzled by her strange behavior. She was upright against the wall, staring blankly at the wall.

“Hey, so I got you some new clothes,” you said and gave them to her. 

Her eyes moved down to the white cloth in your hands. She nodded and looked at you, waiting for an order. Then she looked at them again, realizing they actually were for her.

Her eyes widened, shimmering with disbelief as she stared at the neatly folded clothes in your hands. For a moment, she didn’t move; she just stood there, frozen, as if the world had briefly stopped turning. Her lips parted slightly, trembling with words she couldn’t quite form. Then, almost shyly, her hands reached out, hesitant, as though she feared the kindness might vanish if she touched it. A soft gasp escaped her, and her voice, barely more than a whisper, carried both awe and quiet gratitude:

“F-For me? I… I’ve never…”

Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and a gentle, almost disbelieving smile slowly bloomed. “Thank you very much, master.” 

When she finally took them, she held them against her chest—not protectively, but tenderly, like they were something precious.

“Anyways, I have a bath down the hall. You can go there and wash up.” 

Her disbelief continued but you quickly left before she could question the words that had entered her ears.

The girl took everything in her hands and went in the direction you pointed. She was overwhelmed by your kindness, which she had never received, for most of her life.

Steam fogged the mirror and curled up from the copper tub in slow, visible breaths. A folded cloth lay beside it—clean, soft, white—and a bar of soap that smelled faintly of lavender. There was no bark in the water, no sting of lye, no frozen bite. Only quiet warmth.

She didn’t move at first. Her hands trembled in her lap, curled inward like they might claw back the memory of cold stone floors and cracked nails.

In the last house, water was punishment. Poured cold in the early dark, scrubbed in silence until her skin burned and bled, always watched. There had been no privacy. No soap unless she stole it. She learned not to feel.

“Take your time,” you said, your voice so mild it made her flinch. You kept a stove in the bathroom as well, since you didn’t want to go back and forth to the kitchen. Luckily for both of her, it was that time of the day when you washed up, so there was already boiling water on the stove. You mixed it with lukewarm water in the basin so she wouldn’t burn.

You didn’t stay, you left her alone to herself after showing her everything she needed in the bathroom and closed the door behind you.

She rose slowly. Her fingers hovered over the basin. Then she touched it.

Warm.

Real.

A sound left her—half gasp, half laugh, the kind no one taught her to make. She pulled her hands back as if she’d done something wrong. Waited. No door opened. No voice shouted. The warmth clung to her fingers.

She dipped them again, then her wrists, then leaned forward and buried her face in her wet palms. And there, in the small wooden room, alone for the first time in what felt like years, she cried—not from pain, but from the terrifying unfamiliarity of comfort.

When she finally undressed and stepped into the bath, she did it slowly, reverently. As though the water might vanish if she moved too quickly. She washed herself in silence, not knowing where to begin or how she were a person who deserved this.

But when she emerged, her skin flushed pink and her hair smelling of herbs, she stood a little straighter. Just a little.

When she was done, she went out to the hallway with her old clothes in her hands and simply stood there. She didn’t know what to do. No order, no task to complete, no other maid to tend to. Hearing your rustling in the other room, she figured she might have to ask you.

She stood in the doorway like a shadow that hadn’t decided whether to enter.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting amber light across the wooden floor. The stew simmered on the table, thick with root vegetables and herbs—its scent rich and foreign. You had set two bowls and two spoons. Her hands twisted into her skirts.

She stood in front of you, bathed in the soft light from the hallway, the simple white clothes draping gently over her frame. They weren't extravagant, just clean, fresh, and unmistakably hers now. The white gave her a new innocence, instead of the torn grey drapes that she was wearing when you first met her.

Her eyes met yours, uncertain but open, searching for a sign—approval, maybe.

“It looks really good on you,” you said with a warm smile. Her cheeks blushed.

“Thank you really much.”

“It seems to be a bit big though. Well, it wasn’t really tailored for you.”

“No, it’s perfectly fine, master.”

“Come here, I’ll be ready in a second,” you said, turning back to the pot to taste the stew you had just finished cooking. She didn’t move. Perhaps she didn’t realize you were talking about dinner—her dinner. She was used to stale bread, scraps, and whatever was left behind. 

So she stood there silently, unsure, confused. She didn’t ask—afraid that it could have irritated you.

The firelight flickered low in the modest kitchen, casting long shadows that danced across the dark wooden walls. She stood near the worn wooden table, hands folded tightly before her, eyes fixed on the scuffed floorboards. You watched her quietly from the doorway.

Finally, you spoke, low and gentle, careful not to startle. “May I ask your name?”

There was a question in her eyes, unspoken but impossible to miss. “Why?”

You stepped forward, slowly, making no move to close the distance too quickly. “If you prefer, I don’t have to call you anything at all. But I would like to. It makes things easier… for me.” 

The smallest tremor shook her frame. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Sullyoon.”

You nodded once, “Sullyoon. I’m glad to know it.”

For the first time since she arrived, she lifted her gaze to meet yours. “You can sit,” you said gently, motioning to the chair in front of you.

She didn’t move.

“It's for you,” you added, pointing at the plate on the table. “It’ll go cold.”

She stepped forward like someone crossing into sacred ground. Her fingers grazed the back of the chair before she dared to pull it out. The legs scraped faintly on the floor, and she winced at the sound.

You served her a ladleful first, then yourself.

Steam coiled up from the bowl—thick, fragrant, unfamiliar. She stared into it like it might be a trick or a test. Then she looked at you, and there was something close to pleading in her voice when she whispered: “I don’t… I don’t know what it is.”

“Just stew,” you said, not looking at her too hard. “Carrots, turnip, a bit of venison. Nothing special.”

She wrapped her fingers around the bowl, just to feel the heat. Her eyes went glassy. Her hands didn’t shake—but only because she was holding herself so tightly together, she had no spare strength left to tremble.

You took a bite, casually, so she’d know it was safe. Only then did she lift the spoon. Clumsily. The first mouthful nearly made her choke. Not because it was too hot, or too strange—but because she had never tasted anything like it. You stared at her, looking at her weird gestures.

She chewed slowly and swallowed slower. Her shoulders stiffened like she expected to be struck by the sound. Then, after the second bite, her eyes welled. She set the spoon down. Not roughly. Reverently.

“I don’t deserve this,” she said in a voice that cracked. Her shoulders shrank.

You didn’t reach for her; she might have flinched like before. Didn’t correct her. You only replied, soft and without ceremony: “You deserve it. You deserve to be fed, everyone does.”

Silence stretched for a long moment, broken only by the quiet clink of  your spoon against the bowl. Then, slowly, she picked up her spoon again. Her mouth moved—almost imperceptibly—into a shape that might one day become a smile.

You continued to eat quietly. She didn’t say anything nor lift her eyes.

II. First days

The first time you saw her washing linen at the stone basin, the sun had not yet reached your windows. You had woken out of habit—there was something about the air just before sunrise that always pulled you from sleep. Outside, the forest was slowly earning the name of the morning. Mist curled along the ground, brushing against the cottage walls, and the trees murmured with the soft voices of waking birds.

She was already working. Of course she was.

She looked small and rigid. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, half hidden beneath a plain brown dress that hung too loosely on her frame. She stood at the basin carved into the back wall of the house, scrubbing shirts in icy water with quick, almost angry strokes. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, her forearms red from the cold.

You didn’t intend to sneak up on her—but you moved quietly by habit. Insects don’t care for boots or sudden motion. You stopped under the old oak in the garden, arms full of pressed ferns wrapped in muslin. You were supposed to bring them inside, but something about the steady rhythm of the fabric against the stone held you in place.

She didn’t react to your presence. Either she hadn’t heard you—or, more likely, she had and chose not to respond. Servants were taught not to acknowledge presence unless spoken to.

You cleared your throat.

Her hands froze, suddenly and sharply. The linen twisted in her grip. Her shoulders tensed as if bracing for instruction—or something worse. Then she turned. Her eyes were wide and unsure.

“Good morning, master,” she said softly and dipped her head in a small bow.

“Good morning, Sullyoon,” you said. “Uh… you may use warm water. If it helps.”

Her voice was quiet, rough from disuse. “Thank you.”

That simple word made something tighten in your chest.

A few silent seconds passed. She resumed scrubbing—not with less effort, but with less violence.

You turned toward the moss patch beneath the elm, kneeling to unwrap your bundle. The maidenhair fern curled like a sleeping creature, damp with morning air. You dipped your pen into ink and began to sketch it in your notebook, trying not to glance too often at her hands.

You both continued your work, side by side in silence. You found yourself curious about her. You hoped she didn’t mind you sitting nearby. You hoped she didn’t think you were strange for that. But she showed no reaction—not a single flicker of thought. You weren’t exactly worried… but it wasn’t a good sign either.

It felt like trying to speak to a wall.

You went on with your day in complete silence. Sullyoon minded her own business. Somehow, she always found something to do. 

In the afternoon, you went back to your studio to complete your notes. The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, casting long, dappled shadows across the polished wooden floor. The study was quiet, save for the soft scrape of cloth on wood. 

Being the clumsy person you were, you spilled a whole bottle of ink on the floor. 

You were on your knees, sleeves rolled up, rubbing at a stubborn stain on the floorboards. The room was sparse, but orderly bookshelves lined with well-thumbed volumes, a sturdy desk cluttered with notes and dried flowers, a simple bed neatly made in the corner.

This was the sort of space your uncle would have loved.

You probably got your character from him. Like you, he didn’t care much for aristocratic life. The rigid etiquette, the hollow smiles at those strange gatherings where everyone pretended to adore one another. The constant presence of servants, hovering like shadows, waiting to tie your shoes or pour your drink—as if you were some fragile, incompetent child. He always said it dulled the instincts. That it made people soft.

Your father had called him a wild cat, but he secretly admired him. He’d vanish into the woods for days and return carrying the carcass of some animal he’d tracked, or a satchel of strange roots and herbs no one could name. “You should do things for yourself,” he once told you, handing you a knife that felt far too large for your hands. 

“Because when the people you depend on are gone, what will you do then?”

He taught you how to hunt a rabbit, which, thinking about it, wasn’t the best thing to teach a seven-year-old. But more than that, he taught you responsibility—real responsibility. That if you broke something, you fixed it. No excuses. No waiting around for someone else to clean up after you.

Which was why you were here now, scrubbing the floor like a fool because you’d been careless enough not to tighten the cap of your flask. The ink had spilled and bled across the boards in a dark, blotchy mess. You could still smell it: metallic, bitter. And with every pass of the cloth, you muttered something under your breath that your uncle would’ve approved of but your mother definitely wouldn’t.

Your knees ached. Your fingers were cramping. But you didn’t stop. This was yours to fix.

Sullyoon paused at the doorway, watching quietly. Her eyes followed the steady movement of your hands, the way you bent low to the floor with focused care. No one wearing a shirt like that had ever knelt like this before, and no one had ever rolled up the sleeves of such a fine shirt.

He’s cleaning. Without asking me.He thinks I’m useless. That I can’t even do the smallest thing right.

Her heart pounded. She could not bear to be seen as idle, or worse, a disappointment. Before you noticed, she stepped inside, clutching a worn cloth she’d found folded in a drawer. “Let me,” she said, voice trembling. “I should be doing this.”

You glanced up, “Huh?”

She dropped to her knees beside you, hands shaking as she took the cloth. She scrubbed at the floor, willing herself to do it faster, better—anything to erase the doubt, the shame that sat heavily on her like a stone.

You watched her for a moment longer, then spoke softly: “You… you don’t have to, I was doing it.”

She bit her lip, refusing to meet your eyes. “I must. It is my duty.”

“Thank you Sullyoon, I appreciate it, but I made this stain, I have to clean it myself,” you said but she didn’t budge and kept her hands glued to the floor. You touched her shoulder to get her to stand up but it was useless. She was convinced. Only then did you notice how skinny she was; you could feel her bones.

You got up and sighed. “Thank you again, Sullyoon. I’ll leave you to it.”

Sullyoon was broken. You understood it from the very first moment you saw her, but you didn’t completely grasp its severity until you started living with her. You felt bad for her and you hated being the reason why she was so restless. 

You were cooking again this evening when it happened again. 

You told her that you’d be the one making the dinner while Sullyoon would be putting away the washed cups. She handled the dishes like they were relics. She cleaned them, dried them, and polished them, giving them the attention that you never did.

Then came the sound.  Small—barely more than a clink—but sharp enough to cut through the soft rhythm of your stirring.

You turned just in time to see the cup slip from her hand and fall. It struck the stone floor with a crisp, brittle crack, then burst—blue and white shards scattering across the tiles like startled birds.

Before you could even speak, she dropped to her knees.

“I—I’m sorry, sir—I’ll pay for it, I swear—I’ll fix it, just please—” Her voice was thin and panicked, words tumbling too fast. She was already reaching for the pieces, heedless of the sharp edges, her breath shallow and wild. She cut herself. Blood bloomed along her thumb, but she didn’t react, she was in complete panic.

You set the spoon down and stepped forward. “Sullyoon, no…”

The moment your voice reached her, she flinched—hard. As if struck. As if she expected to be. And when you reached out instinctively, just to help, she recoiled with wide, frightened eyes. She stared at your palm as if a blade was being lowered on her neck.

Your hand froze in the air.

And then, slowly, you did something else. You stepped in and wrapped your arms around her—not tightly, not forcefully. Just enough. You couldn’t do anything else. She had to know. She was safe.

She stiffened at first. You were absolutely still and didn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” you murmured into her hair. “It’s just a cup. It’s all right.”

For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Then—slowly—her fingers, still streaked with blood and trembling, curled slightly into the fabric of your shirt.

You held her in silence. Not to fix everything. Just to let her know nothing else would fall apart today. Not here. Not now. You pulled back only when she did, just enough to meet her eyes.

“There’s a bandage in the drawer,” you said softly, nodding toward the cabinet. “But you can use my handkerchief if you’d rather.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice trembling. She was fidgeting with her fingers, and tears were pooling on her eyelids. “It must have cost a lot.”

“No, it didn’t,” you said. “It’s just a cup, it’s not important. It happens. We make mistakes.”

“I’m terribly sorry, I stained your shirt with my blood.”

“It’s okay, you can clean it later” 

She didn’t answer. But her gaze lingered. Not direct. Just enough. And in it, you saw something fragile and flickering, like the wick of a candle just catching flame. She didn’t trust you yet. But for the first time, she didn’t fear you.

III. Connections

The sun filtered lazily through the tall windows, draping long lines of gold across the floorboards. Dust swirled like pollen in the beams of light, and the soft scritch of a broom was the only sound in the room.

She swept slowly, carefully around the cluttered corners of the study—shelves burdened with books, small rocks labeled in neat handwriting, glass jars filled with dried herbs and oddities. The air smelled faintly of ink, old wood, and lavender crushed long ago between pages.

You were sitting on the floor by the fireplace, head bowed over something in your lap. She might have ignored you—she usually did when you were immersed in your own silence—but the way you held the little bundle in your hands caught her eye. 

She paused, tilting her head. She took a long breath and spoke to you: “…Are those flowers, sir?”

You looked up, blinking as if returning from a long dream. A faint smile curved your mouth. “They were. Now they’re bookmarks.”

“Bookmarks?” she questioned.

You lifted a small cloth-wrapped book from your lap and turned it toward her. “Pressed specimens,” you said. “Wild orchids, mostly. Some foxglove, a few I haven’t named yet. I gather them when they bloom and dry them between pages.” You flipped the book open carefully, revealing delicate silhouettes flattened and faded, their once-vivid petals like ghosts of color.

She stepped forward, broom forgotten. “You keep them in books? On purpose?”

“Absolutely. Some men press their legacy into ledgers; I press mine into my herbariums.” You glanced up at Sullyoon. “So that they can learn about themselves.”

Her laugh was soft, surprised, imperceptible. A hum at most.

“They’re beautiful,” she said, fingers hovering near the open page but not touching. “I didn’t know they’d keep their shape like that.”

“Sit here beside me, Sullyoon,” you said. Immediately she obeyed, folding her skirt neatly between her legs and sitting on the floor. She looked at the book open in your hands.

“Some fall apart,” you admitted. “Some stain the paper too much. But the patient ones stay.” Your tone was casual, but something about the way you said it made her calm down.

She met your eyes and didn’t look away this time.

“I think you’d like the marsh violets,” you added. “They grow in shadows and low water, but bloom all the same.”

She listened and gave you a small nod. “I might.”

A pause settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Her apron was damp at the hem, and her hair had fallen slightly out of its pins. She didn’t fix it.

You pointed to one of the flowers in the book. “That one there? I found it half-crushed beneath a deer’s print. Saved what I could. I thought it was ruined, but look how the stem curved when it dried.”

She studied the page, then said softly, “Still lovely.”

“A bit like some people I know,” you said, then cleared your throat as if embarrassed by your own sincerity. “Not naming names, of course.”

She laughed again—this time, a little louder. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like that in front of a man.

“Have you ever pressed one yourself?” you asked.

She shook her head. “I’ve only pulled weeds”

“Then let’s change that,” you said and stood up. “Let’s go to the woods. You’ll choose your own flowers.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Come.”

Sullyoon hesitated before putting the broom down and shuffled behind you. 

The woods were quiet in the late afternoon, touched by that soft, golden hour when the light slants through the trees and everything seems to pause. The birds had grown quieter, and only the occasional breeze rustled through the canopy overhead, brushing against your cheeks like a whisper.

You walked a little ahead, basket in one hand and the herbarium in the other. Sullyoon followed behind—quiet, as always, but no longer shrinking. Her footsteps were light on the moss, almost inaudible, but they didn’t hesitate the way they used to.

“This way,” you said, nudging a low branch aside for her to pass. “There are plenty of flowers you can pick.”

She blinked up at you, uncertain.

“Just pick a couple,” you added. “If you see anything you like. We’ll bring them back and press them in parchment between books. They’ll last forever that way.”

She hesitated, then nodded softly. You watched her eyes wander to the forest floor—ferns uncurling at the base of trees, clusters of pale bellflowers, wild violets tangled in the roots.

You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. You just wandered with her, pointing out little things along the way. A dew-wet spiderweb stretched between two brambles. A patch of moss that smelled like rain. A quiet clearing where blue stars bloomed low to the earth.

She knelt suddenly.

Her fingers hovered over a cluster of soft, peach-pink wood sorrel growing in the shade of a fallen log. She didn’t pick them—just studied them for a long moment, as if unsure she had the right to touch something so delicate.

“You can take a few,” you said gently. “They won’t mind.”

She glanced at you, then carefully snipped one with the shears you handed her. Then another. And another. Her hands were slow and deliberate, treating each stem like a secret. With time, you began to pick flowers with your bare hands, but Sullyoon didn’t act this way. She was deliberate and gentle.

By the time the light began to fade, your basket was half-full with the things she chose. Nothing bright or showy—just soft, quiet flowers. The kind people usually overlook.

You didn’t say anything, but you noticed.

Back in the mansion, you laid them on the table and took them one by one between the books that you reserved for her. “Put it here.”

She hesitated. “Won’t I ruin it?”

“If it happens, let it happen,” you reassured her. “But your hands are way more gentle than mine so don’t worry about it.”

You guided her through the steps—folding the parchment, arranging the bloom, pressing it between two pages. “What if it comes out all crumpled?” she asked.

You smiled. “Then we call it art and pretend it was meant to be.”

She smiled quietly and stared at the flowers. She felt a subtle connection with them. The phrase lingered in her ears as if the words were about her.

You did it again the next day. Sullyoon asked you with such a gentle voice that you dropped everything you were doing and ran outside.

The day was warm enough that the breeze smelled of sap and soil, soft and green like something just woken. She followed you, her boots crunching gently over pine needles. You told her there was a place you wanted to show her—a clearing, tucked behind the ridge, where the trees gave way to open sky and the ground was covered in wildflowers.

She didn’t know what to expect. You continued to describe it with excitement and wonder but she didn’t relieve you. Not until the trees suddenly parted and they stepped into a world that looked as though it had spilled from a painting.

A carpet of color stretched out before them—blues, golds, whites, and purples swaying in the light like a quiet celebration. Butterflies darted low, undisturbed. Somewhere, a lark sang into the sky.

She stopped dead. Her mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. You stepped into the clearing. The flowers brushed against her skirts, and she turned slowly, her fingers grazing the tops as though afraid they might vanish.

“How did you find this?” she asked.

“I got lost once,” you said. “Found something better than the path back.”

She looked at you. You were standing with your arms crossed, head tilted to the sky, the sunlight catching in your hair. It was like the sun was hugging its long-lost son, and you were telling him about all the things it missed about the night sky. Sullyoon was enchanted. 

Then you stepped forward—overconfident on the uneven ground—and your boot caught on a root hidden under the grass.

You pitched forward with a startled grunt, arms flailing. There was no dramatic recovery. Just a loud, undignified thud as you hit the earth.

For half a second, she froze—her old instincts flaring. Then, unexpectedly, a sound escaped her—a single, breathless laugh. Then another. And then she was laughing, truly laughing, the sound bubbling out of her like water from a long-clogged spring.

You rolled over onto your back and looked up at her.

She quickly covered her mouth, mortified. “I’m—I’m so sorry—sir—”

But you were already grinning, one hand behind his head as if reclining on purpose. “Don’t you dare apologize for that,” you said gently.

She blinked.

“That laugh,” you said, “was worth every bruised rib.”

A blush crept up her neck.

You sat up slowly, brushing pollen from his sleeves. “I hadn’t heard it before. Thought maybe you still haven’t learned to laugh”

“I didn’t know I did either,” she said softly, surprised by her own honesty.

The two of you sat there in the grass, surrounded by the hush and hum of flowers. You plucked a stem of clover and rolled it between your fingers. “I know you weren’t allowed to laugh,” you said after a while. “But I hope you’ll do it more. Even if it’s at my expense.”

She looked down at her hands, then back at you. “I might,” she said. And then she smiled.

IV. Nightmares

The house is completely silent, and so is the outside, if not for the calm breeze of the night. All animals are asleep, and you have told your maid to go to sleep first while you finish your work.

Sullyoon lies curled on the narrow bed, her thin frame trembling beneath a threadbare blanket. The chill in the air does nothing to quiet the storm raging inside her mind. The pupils under her eyelids spin and flutter, her limbs are tensed, and sweat pours down her forehead.

She remembers the cold floor of the basement, the smell of the moldy walls, and the sound of dripping water. The cane is raised high, a looming shadow falling over her small body. Orders, insults, screams—they all come back. The pain sears her skin, but worse is the silence. The suffocating, unbearable silence. She has not been allowed to cry, or to speak, or to exist in any way that is truly her own.

Suddenly, a strangled scream tears from her lips—raw, involuntary, and desperate. It shatters the stillness of the night like porcelain on stone.

You immediately stand up from your desk and listen carefully. It is definitely from inside your mansion. Robbers?

You move swiftly through the hallway, guided by the flicker of candlelight and the urgency in your steps. At her door, you knock once and open it.

“Are you awake?” you ask, trying to be as gentle as possible but still worried.

Inside, Sullyoon sits upright, heart pounding, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Shadows dance at the edges of her vision, and her fingers clutch at the blanket. She turns around, and when she sees you, relief washes over her. She takes deep breaths.

“I… I cannot sleep,” she whispers, barely audible.

The door opens slowly.

You step in, candle in hand, its warm glow softening the harsh edges of the room. “May I come in?”

She nods, unable to find her voice again.

You cross the room carefully and sit at the edge of the bed, leaving space between you. “Did you have a nightmare, Sullyoon? Was it… a past memory?”

“Yeah, it was,” she says apologetically. She has been working on herself these past weeks to not bother you again, yet here you are, awake, having to tend to her again. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It could have happened to anyone. Especially you, after what you had been through.”

“I tried to forget, like you told me, but I don’t know why, tonight…”

“It’s okay, we’ll just have to give you more happy memories to remember instead,” you say. You sit down beside her on the bed. You figure it could make her more comfortable. Sullyoon scoots herself closer to you and sheepishly looks at you.

“Thank you for being here,” she says. “You have always been so kind to me.”

“You’re safe here,” you say. “No one will hurt you.”

Her throat tightens, and for a moment, she can’t speak. “The nightmares…” she whispers finally, “They come when the house is quiet. I always try to keep myself busy because of that.”

You nod. “Would it help to talk about them?”

She doesn’t speak right away. Her eyes are distant, unfocused, as though looking past the walls of the cottage into a place far colder and darker. Her hands, which have been trembling on her lap, grip the edge of her nightgown.

You can see the hesitation in her shoulders and the stiffness in her posture. Her breath hitches. She is trying to push it down but can’t anymore.

Then she lets the words spill, halting and rough. Her voice comes in fragments, not full words at first but broken letters. The way her lips curl slightly in disgust at the memory, the way her eyes blink hard as everything flashes before her pupils—you understand.

“They beat me for looking wrong. Speaking wrong. For breathing wrong. I wasn’t allowed to cry or rest. I had to be what they wanted. A shadow. Not a person. And sometimes… it was worse.”

Your heart aches, but your expression doesn’t shift. Only your hand moves, slowly, until it rests lightly over hers. Sullyoon takes it and holds it tight. It gives her courage.

There has been pain. Not the kind that bruises the skin alone, but the kind that creeps into the deepest parts of a person—their dignity, their voice, their sense of worth. There has been punishment for things so small, so human, that to remember them now makes her seem ashamed of having once hoped to be treated kindly.

And there has been silence. Long silences. She has no one to talk to, not a pen to write it down, not a hand to hold. She is trained to stay silent and obey. She shrinks herself smaller and smaller until even her thoughts feel too loud.

“I have to confess, sir,” she starts again, after a long pause. “When I learned that they were going to send me to a new master, I was fearing for my life. If my previous master was this cruel, who knew what my next master would have been like?”

“John brought you here, didn’t he?” you ask.

“Yes. My old master died, and afterward, I was sold along with the other slaves. You call me your maid—which feels like a very noble title to me—but where I came from, we didn’t have such names. And yes, John bought me and brought me here.”

Sullyoon takes another pause and this time her grip lightens. “You surprised me, master. You gave me nicer food on my first night than I’ve ever received during my whole life. And you gave me a room, a bed to sleep in, clothes… I couldn’t believe what was happening.”

“Those were the bare minimums,” you say.

“That’s what you believe in because your heart was so pure,” she points out, “but for me, they were a miracle.” She leans closer to you. “I know I was tense the first few days, but I thought punishment was just waiting for me.”

Sullyoon now looks you directly in the eyes. “And when I broke that cup, I was terrified. Breaking something is the worst thing a slave can do and instead, you hugged… me. That was the first time in my life someone had ever hugged me and it happened when I broke something. I don’t even remember my parents hugging me…”

You smile and turn to face her directly, holding her shoulders with your hands. You hug her. Because she needs it now more than ever. She melts right into your arms, a quiet sob leaving her lips. You pat her head and try to make her feel as safe as possible. She does.

“It feels unreal every time,” she says.

“I will be here every time you need it,” you tell her. “Don’t even ask.”

In the days after the nightmare, something shifted between them. It wasn’t sudden, it was a feeling. Silence no longer felt strained. She no longer flinched when you entered a room. Her shoulders, once tense, began to soften in your presence. When you spoke, she met your eyes more often. Briefly at first, then loner.

You didn’t force her to do anything. You didn’t pry. Instead, you showed her day by day that you cared about her. You’d leave a thicker blanket by her door on colder days, a sprig of dried lavender tucked into her cupboard, books by her nightstand. 

When she dropped something, you’d help her pick it up without comment. At first, she still felt fear when it happened but slowly, she started to smile.

Sometimes, she would sit near you as you sketched plants or wrote notes. She said little, but her presence was steady, and one day, she fell asleep in the chair beside you. It wouldn’t have meant much if it was anyone else but for you, it was huge. You didn’t wake her, you just adjusted the blanket so her shoulders wouldn’t chill. When she stirred and her eyes met yours, she panicked. 

“Sorry! I’m so sorry! I fell asleep,” she would say and bow over and over.

You just chuckled and told her it wasn’t a big deal. It just showed that she felt comfortable around you and she needed that rest anyways.

It wasn’t long before her steps took her to your room on the quiet nights when the dreams came back. She would stand in the doorway with the pillow in her hands, making her small in the shadow of the door. She didn’t ask but she hoped you’d take her. You would always move aside and make room for her. She never spoke much on those nights but sometimes she would hold your hand until sleep returned to her. Other times, she would rest her head against your shoulder so that your breaths would guide her back to calm.

Then Sullyoon became more needy.

On a late morning, she stood in the doorway of the study, hands clasped in front of her apron. She had just finished tidying the herb jars, lined them up perfectly by species and potency, just as you liked them. She lingered there, hesitant, watchin you work. She was fidgeting around with the hem and only looked down.

When you noticed her, you smiled, “They look perfect, Sullyoon, thank you.”

Her fingers tightened slightly. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

You tilted your head. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head quickly. “No it’s just…” Then her voice dropped in a barely audible whisper. “May I… have a hug?”

You blinked once, then set the pen down without a word and crossed the room. Your arms opened without hesitation. She stepped into them with caution but she melted into your embrace as soon as she made contact. Her hands clutched the back of your shirted, face hidden in your shoulder. You swore you could hear her purr.

“You never asked before,” you murmured into her hair. “But I’m glad you did.”

From then, it became more usual. She still didn’t want to be too much of a bother so she only asked it when she did big tasks or after a lot of time. When she swept the entire house and cut the weeds of the garden, she would appear at your side a half-hidden smile and her hands between her ribbons. You would chuckle softly and open your arms.

When she learnt the names of every plant in your collection or finally managed to bake the spiced bread without burning it, she’d look up to you, eyes bright, and murmur, “Do I get a hug now?”

You always said yes.

And sometimes, after she completed a task with extra care, you’d rest a hand gently on her head, brushing her hair back and say, “Well done.” She never said much when you did it, but her eyes always fluttered shut for a moment, and her lips curled into the most contented smile. You always gave her headpats when she looked cute, which was most of the time you saw her.

Sullyoon had gone to the city a couple of times to buy you bread and other groceries before. But it was never for herself. So one time, you tagged alone with her. The town was right at the bottom of your hill so it was about a half an hour walk. The people were lovely, friendly and bright. Most of them were your friends and your name was common knowledge at this opint.

When you arrived, she hesitated at the edge of the main square. Every thursday, there was a big market where the streets became alive with voices, bells, and carts full of summer goods. Her eyes swept across the stalls and storefronts, it never looked this lively.

You offered your arm and she took it to anchor herself.

“I brought you here to buy you something,” you said as you passed the tailor’s window. “You’ve been working hard, and you deserve rewards. Whenever you want something, just ask me.”

Her gaze flicked up to you, startled. “But… I don’t need anything.”

“That’s not the same as not wanting anything.”

She looked away again, uncertain. You didn't press her, only guided her toward the dressmaker’s shop. Inside, it was quiet and warm, sunlight pooling on polished floorboards and bolts of fabric spilling like rivers from their shelves.

The seamstress welcomed you both and stepped aside as Sullyoon took cautious steps around the room.

“Hey, how are you doing?” the seamstress said to you. “Need me to reinforce your pants again? I told you that all that squatting would tear them.”

“Shhh shhh—don’t say that with her here,” you quickly shut her.

“Ohhhhh… sorry about that,” she laughed. “Who is she?”

“She’s my maid.” Sullyoon’s fingers hovered over a bolt of lavender linen, then pulled back before they touched it. 

“You can touch them, you know,” you said, smiling. “You’re allowed, right?”

“Yes, of course,” said the seamstress.

She blinked, hesitated, then finally ran her fingertips along the fabric. Something in her shoulders eased.

The seamstress brought down a few samples and quietly asked Sullyoon to pick a color she liked. After a long pause, she pointed to a pale blue cotton with a soft, woven texture. “That one,” she said quietly. “It reminds me of the sky outside your study window.”

You nodded, pleased. “That’s a fine choice.”

As the seamstress took her measurements, Sullyoon stood still and straight, clearly unsure how to react to being fussed over. But when she stepped out from behind the curtain in a simple try-on dress—light and neat, with a ribbon tied carefully at her waist—you saw her glance into the mirror and pause.

“I… I don’t look like me,” she said under her breath.

“You look like someone becoming herself,” you said.

Her cheeks flushed faintly.

“Yes, I think it’s beautiful. It’s perfect, what do you think?”

“I like it too,” Sullyoon said.

The seamstress folded the chosen fabric with care, wrapping it in brown paper and tying it neatly with twine. Sullyoon stood beside you, her hands clasped in front of her, gaze lowered but flickering with something close to awe.

She hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t even dared to suggest it. But when you saw the way her fingers lingered on that pale blue cloth, the way she tried not to seem too interested, you knew.

You stepped forward, drawing your coin pouch from your coat.

“I’ll take this one,” you said to the seamstress, nodding toward the fabric. “And the fitting for the dress we discussed. Please make it simple, but well-fitted. Something she can move in.”

Sullyoon’s head lifted slightly, eyes wide.

The seamstress gave you a nod, already scribbling notes. “It’ll be ready in three days. Sooner if I can help it.”

As the payment exchanged hands, Sullyoon shifted beside you. “Wait… you’re buying it?”

You turned to her, gentle. “Of course. I said you could choose something.”

“I didn’t think you meant it.”

“I did,” you said softly. “You deserve rewards. Whenever you want something, just ask me.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Just a breath—a fragile, disbelieving breath—as she stared at the wrapped parcel the seamstress handed to you.

You turned and offered it to her, holding it out with both hands like something delicate. “Here. It’s yours.”

She reached for it slowly, like it might vanish if she moved too fast. Her fingers brushed yours as she took it, and her hands trembled just faintly as she cradled the package to her chest.

“I’ve never… had something new,” she murmured. “Something just for me.”

You smiled. “Now you do.”

As you stepped outside into the street again, the wind lifted a strand of her hair. She looked back over her shoulder once at the shopfront, then ahead, holding the little bundle close like it might anchor her to the moment.

And maybe, in a way, it did.

V. It’s love

The rain had been falling gently for hours, painting silver lines down the windows and filling the house with the steady hush of water and wind. Evening had settled in, soft and dim, with only a few candles lit in the sitting room where you sat reading by the hearth.

Not a lot of work to do today, so Sullyoon had plenty of time for herself to think.

Sullyoon lingered in the hallway.

You noticed her there—partially hidden by the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the wall as if steadying herself. Her hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, damp at the ends from the short dash back from the woodshed earlier, where she’d gone to bring in more kindling. She was still in her blue dress, but something in her eyes made her look entirely different.

“Is something wrong?” you asked gently, setting the book aside.

She hesitated. Then stepped into the room, fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve.

“No,” she said softly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

You waited.

“I…” Her voice caught, and she tried again, quieter. “I wanted to ask if you could come to my room. There’s something I… I want to say.”

Your chest tightened at the trembling sincerity in her voice. She wasn’t afraid—not like before—but she was uncertain. Like someone offering a fragile thing into another’s hands, hoping it wouldn’t be broken.

“,Of course, whenever you need” you slowly stood up, careful not to startle her.

She turned, wordlessly, and led you through the narrow hallway. The candlelight flickered as you passed, shadows slipping across the floor. Her door was already open, and when she stepped inside, she paused near the bed and sat down. You did the same.

Her gaze was lowered. Her hands clasped in front of her skirt, knuckles pale.

“I’ve been thinking about something for a while,” she said. “But I didn’t know how to say it. Or if I should. But now I feel like… if I don’t say it, I’ll regret it.”

You took a small step closer, but said nothing.

“I’ve never had someone listen to me. Never had someone stay. And I don’t know how to be someone worth staying for…” Her voice faltered. “But when you’re kind to me, and when you trust me with little things, like the pressed flowers or your books or just—your company… it means more than I know how to say.”

You were close now. Not touching, just close.

“And I think,” she continued, barely louder than the rain, “that I’m starting to… love you. And it scares me. Because I don’t know what that’s supposed to look like.”

She finally lifted her eyes to yours.

“I just needed you to know.”

You took a slow breath, heart swelling with something warm and full. She stood there, vulnerable and brave all at once, the candlelight brushing soft gold across her cheekbones and the tremble of her lip.

You reached out gently, so she could see your hand coming, and touched her cheek with your knuckles—lightly, reverently. She didn’t flinch. Her eyes shimmered with something close to disbelief.

Then you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, your lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary, as if to seal something unspoken between you.

“I love you too, Sullyoon,” you said quietly.

It was not grand or dramatic. Just true.

Her breath hitched. Her hands, which had been clenched tightly against her skirt, slowly unfurled. Her shoulders loosened. A single tear slipped down her cheek—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming gentleness of the moment.

“You mean it?” she asked, almost like she was afraid to believe it.

“I do,” you said. “Not because you serve me. Not because you’ve been kind or quiet or patient. But because you’re you. And I’ve been falling for you without even realizing how deeply.”

“I’ve also- I’ve been thinking about the books in your library. I’ve read them and I wondered about what they called “love” and what two people do when they love each other.” Sullyoon gulps. Her insides are stirring and her head is starting to go haywire. But she holds your hand and speaks again. 

“Sullyoon…”

“I want to service you, Master. To show you my gratitude.”

“You don’t have to do that, Sullyoon. There are many ways you have to thank me. You should do it only with…”

“I know. But I want this too,” she confesses. “I remember that you said I should be rewarded as well. This is what I want, master, please.” Sullyoon’s breath is getting warmer. She gets closer to you, this time your shoulders touch, and you can feel the heat of her body.

“I want to be closer to you. A hug is no longer enough. If this feeling…”

“Love?”

“Yeah, love. If what I feel is truly love, I want you to take me, master.” Sullyoon swallows her last hesitation. “My body is scarred and damaged. So I understand if you don’t find me desirable. But I still wish to offer myself to you. This is all I have and I want you to have it.”

“Oh, Sullyoon, I do. And I feel honored that you have these feelings.” You say truthfully.

“Really?” She says. “Master… I will show you everything.”

She takes a deep breath and slowly takes off her clothes. First, her long socks, revealing her long, luscious legs, then her nightgown at once, finally revealing her white porcelain skin, shining under the moonlight. Her whole figure, slender and smooth, together with her small breasts, tempt you. Then you saw her scars. Most of them healed, but there were still marks, and some were deeply etched into her skin.

“H-here I am, all of me.”

Your hand gently brushes against them. You observe how her skin reacted and trembled. Sullyoon’s breath is irregular; she tries to hold it and is surprised by the chills that go down her spine.

“Sullyoon you are… beautiful.”

The girl gasped. “...what?! Me? Beautiful…?” She says, trembling. “You really think so? How could you?”

Your hand goes up to her cheek, brushing under her jaw, and you kiss her. Deeply. Because she wouldn’t have believed any other word that came out of your mouth, you just had to show her. Sullyoon accepts it wholeheartedly. She tries her best to kiss you back, moving her lips with yours, but it is her first time.

She doesn’t know what to do and just sits there, feeling your hands around her face and your lips lovingly kissing her like she never knew.

She looks straight into you, with love, desire, “Master… I feel like my heart is gonna jump out of my chest.”

Sullyoon smiles, and your heart flutters.

“Please, master, I want to do it. Sex, I mean. I want you to show me all of these feelings.” She begs you with the smallest of voices. A whisper. Seductive and pleading. “Please. Won’t you allow it?”

You couldn’t resist. How could you? “I will,” you simply say, trying to maintain your composure. She wants you badly but you only want her more. Now more than anything.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Just lie down, here on the bed,” you say, and pat the pillow next to you. Sullyoon follows, making herself comfortable, resting her hands on her belly. She trembles from anticipation.

“Now what—mmh” she’s interrupted by your kiss again. Her hands go on your shoulders as she welcomes you, pulling you in.

A soft gasp escapes Sullyoon's lips as your mouth travels down her neck, her back arching slightly in response. Her breath quickens, her chest rising and falling with increased rhythm.

Your hands come on her chest, caressing and fondling her small breasts. Your fingertips gently pinch one nipple while you massage the flesh of the other. With stimulation coming from two places, Sullyoon has a hard time keeping up with you and starts to whimper helplessly. She breathes deeply between your kisses to accommodate this new feeling.

Your fingers trace lower, skimming across her stomach. Sullyoon's hands tighten into fists, then slowly release. She bites her lower lip, attempting to stifle any further audible reactions.

"Please..." she whispers, though whether it's a plea for more or restraint is unclear. Her body remains mostly still but it’s reacting to every stimulation.

“Arch your back for me,” you whisper into her ear. She complies.

Sullyoon's breathing becomes more labored as you tug her underwear down her legs. She’s desperate. Your hands are so close and she’s so naked in front of you but it’s exactly where she wants to be. She looks at you with eagerness, yearning for your next move.

Once her panties are removed, she’s half-sitting on the cushion before you with legs parted, exposed, and vulnerable. Her expression is still controlled, but the flush on her cheeks deepens, and a bead of sweat trickles down her temple.

She slowly opens her legs wider. “I’m yours now, please do what you want, master.”Her voice wavers slightly, betraying her heightened state of arousal.

Very gently, you start rubbing her swollen clit. Sullyoon's body jerks involuntarily at the first touch, a choked whimper escaping her lips. Her hands fly to her mouth, silencing any further sounds as she struggles to maintain her facade of composure. 

Then you insert your fingers inside her, finding her G-spot and slowly massaging it. You can feel the wetness pooling into your hands, aiding your movement. 

Her hips buck upwards, seeking more of your fingers' movement. The telltale signs of her escalating desire are written across her body - the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the sheen of sweat on her skin, the way her thighs tremble with need. "More… please," Sullyoon manages to say through gritted teeth, her words barely audible over her ragged breathing.

Sullyoon's eyelids flutter closed as she focuses on the sensations coursing through her body. She takes a shaky breath, then opens her eyes to meet yours with a steady gaze.

“Are you okay?” you ask before it gets too much. “Any pain?”

"No pain," she says, her voice a husky whisper. "Please continue…"

Sullyoon inhales sharply as your fingers slide deeper inside her, stretching her to accommodate the added length. Her back arches, nails digging into your hand as she adjusts to the newfound sensation. "Yes," she breathes, "that's it... more."

Sullyoon's hips grind against your palm, clit throbbing in time with the rhythm of your fingers pumping in and out of her. She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood in a desperate attempt to overcome the overwhelming pleasure coursing through her veins.

You take out your hand, now dripping with her juices. She looks at you with confusion and disappointment in her eyes. “Is there a problem?” she asks. No problem. Looking at how much liquid was spilling out of her made you incredibly hungry. You had to get a taste.

As you lower your head down between her legs, Sullyoon gets more worried by the sudden movement. “What are you doing, master?” she pants. “Don’t go there, it’s dirty—ah!”

Sullyoon's eyes fly open as your mouth makes contact with her sensitive flesh, her initial shock giving way to moans of pleasure. Her thighs tremble, muscles clenching around your tongue as you lap at her folds and delve into her core.

"Oh gods, Master!" she cries out, fingers digging into the sheets as you lavishly attend to her most intimate area. "That's... incredible!"

You slurp up her sweetest nectar, nibbling on her lips, sucking on her clit, pushing your tongue into the depth of her hole. Every single movement makes her go crazier. She tastes just as sweet as she looks, and her moans beg you to continue.

Its delightful.

She’s delightful 

Sullyoon's hips undulate against your face, meeting each lick and stroke with increasing urgency. The sensation of your tongue exploring her depths sends jolts of electricity coursing through her veins, reigniting the embers of her arousal.

"Yes, right there," Sullyoon gasps, needy. Her hands finally come onto your head and softly pull you into her. She’s helpless but there’s still that instinct behind her actions that tells her to know her place and not interfere with you. 

But as your mouth seals over her clit, Sullyoon's world descends into chaos. Your two fingers go back into her, stroking her spot, while your other hand pushes down onto her womb to get closer to your fingertips. The pressure on her stomach amplifies her pleasure and her moans turn to screams. She doesn’t know what to say, nor is she able to. You only suck harder and move faster.

“W-wa-wait!” you can barely hear. “Some—something is coming…!” Sullyoon says, almost scared about what her body might do. But you know. You have to make her cum.

A keening wail tears from her throat as the first wave of climax crashes over her, sending shockwaves rippling through every nerve ending.

Her body convulses violently, her back arching as her vision blurs behind a kaleidoscope of colors. Sullyoon's inner walls clench and ripple around your finger, gushing nectar that floods your mouth and dribbles down your chin. It’s thick, white and coats your tongue completely. You carefully lick it all up, scared that it might go to waste.

"P-please, Master!" she sobs, voice breaking as the onslaught of pleasure threatens to consume her entirely. "Don't stop, I can't... I can't..."

As if driven by a primal instinct, Sullyoon starts to grind against your face aggressively, riding out the tsunami of ecstasy. Her moans escalate into cries of pure abandon, echoing off the walls as she surrenders utterly to the sensation.

Finally, with a hoarse scream, Sullyoon's climax crests and breaks, leaving her shuddering and spent in the aftermath. As the tremors subside, she collapses back onto the bed, panting heavily, her chest heaving with each ragged breath.

She collapsed back onto the bed, limbs trembling and lungs heaving as if each breath had to be pulled from deep inside her chest. Sweat clung to her skin in a shining sheen, dripping from her brow, soaking the sheet under her, making her skin saltier. Her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, strands of damp hair plastered to her forehead.

Sprawled on her side, one arm draped limply over her stomach, she lay still for a moment, gulping at the air like it might steady the pounding in her head. Her heart thudded in her ears, louder than her breaths.

“M-master?” she started. “What was that? What was that feeling? I—something happened, I don’t know…”

You chuckled. “It was an orgasm. You came. That’s the final part of sex, usually. It feels good, right?”

“Y-yeah…”

“Was it the first time?”

A weak nod tells you everything you needed. For a while, she stayed where she was, letting the fire in her lungs dim to a flicker. Her breath slowed—still deep, but no longer desperate. The pounding in her chest began to settle, fading into a steady rhythm.

Slowly, she rose and sat on the bed. “Master, can we do it now? The real thing?” she asked you, even needier than before. If what you just did felt like heaven coming down on her, she couldn’t even imagine what was next.

You started to undress. Sullyoon looked at the bulge in your pants, unattended, that now was starting to hurt from how rock hard it got. You quickly took off your shirt, trousers, and underwear, showing your penis in front of her.

A quiet gasp escaped her lips. She stared at you with excitement. “So… this is your manhood, right?”

You nodded and you kneeled back into the bed. Sullyoon looked into your eyes and asked, “Can I touch it?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” you tell her.

Sullyoon reaches out tentatively, her fingers wrapping around your thick shaft. She strokes you with a gentle, exploratory touch, her touch tentative at first, then growing bolder as she becomes more confident.

"It's so warm and firm," she murmurs, her voice filled with wonder. "I had no idea it would feel this way."

Sullyoon's thumb rubs against the sensitive underside of your cockhead as she pumps her hand along your length. She leans in closer, inhaling deeply as if trying to absorb every scent and texture. She tries to stroke with you more speed, worried she might be doing a bad job but really you’re enchanted by the sight of her doing her best. She’s adorable and it’s turning you on more than you anticipated. 

Her fingertips make you shiver. Despite her hard work, her palms are still smooth and soft.

"I saw the girls doing stuff like this. I want to try it. May I put it in my mouth?" Sullyoon asks, her gaze locked with yours, desire and curiosity burning bright in her eyes. “Yes,” you whisper. It was your turn now to be completely turned on and yearning for her.

With a subtle nod, Sullyoon aligns your head with her lips, then takes you into her mouth, inch by inch. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks gently, her tongue swirling around the sensitive glans. Sullyoon's hands move to caress your thighs, urging you deeper as she begins to bob her head in a slow, rhythmic motion. Her eyelids flutter shut, lost in the sensations of exploring this new intimacy.

After a few moments, Sullyoon pulls back, releasing your cock with a wet pop. She gazes up at you, her lips glossy and swollen, eyes heavy-lidded with desire.

"Is this pleasing to you, Master?" Sullyoon asks, her voice husky from the act.

“Yes, you are doing well, Sullyoon,” you say and pat her head. Sullyoon's lips curve into a sly smile at your praise, her confidence growing with each word. She takes a deep breath, then plunges back onto your cock,determined to take you even deeper.

Sullyoon's throat constricts around the head of your shaft as she gulps you down, her nose brushing against your pubic bone. She relaxes her jaw, allowing you to slide further until the tip kisses the back of her throat.

The vibrations of her moan resonate around your length as she sucks harder, cheeks hollowing and lips stretched tautly. Sullyoon's tongue swirls and teases the sensitive underside, her fingers kneading your thighs for added leverage.

“Mmmh… your lips feel so good,” you let out a heavy groan.

She pulls back slightly, just enough to catch her breath, before diving back down, setting a more rhythmic pace. Sullyoon's fingers dig into your thighs as she suckles greedily, her throat working to take every inch. Sullyoon's head bobs, saliva streaming down her chin as she devours your cock like a starving woman. Her moans grow louder, more urgent, as if she was pleasuring herself.

Her eyes lock with yours, wild and unfocused, as she loses herself in the act. Her mind clouds with lust, every thought centered on bringing you to the brink of ecstasy. With each stroke of her tongue and suck of her lips, Sullyoon strives to prove herself worthy for you.

When you felt like you were getting too close, you pulled out of her mouth. She looked at you, almost disappointed. “That’s enough… i think we are ready” you say, but she can feel the shakiness of your voice.

Sullyoon gazes up at you, her eyes shining with triumph and arousal at your praise. She smiles, the curve of her lips dripping with saliva.

Your hands go around her head and you pull her into a kiss, which she accepts happily. You savor her lips, trying to recover yourself, and adorn her with praises and compliments. Your words alone cause her bodily pleasure and her wetness is pooling into the sheets. 

“I’ll put it inside you now,” you whisper at the end.

Sullyoon's eyes widen slightly at your declaration, a flutter of apprehension momentarily clouding her expression. However, she quickly recovers, nodding resolutely as she realizes your intentions. "I am prepared, Master," Sullyoon says, her voice calm and measured.

She lies down on the bed and shifts position, spreading her legs wider in silent invitation. Sullyoon lifts her hips slightly, helping guide your cock to her slick entrance. Her body tenses ever so slightly as the head of your shaft presses against her, the first barrier to your joining.

"Please…" Sullyoon urges. "Take me now."

Sullyoon's breath catches as the broad head of your cock nudges past her delicate folds, the intrusion is both thrilling and slightly uncomfortable. She bites her lip, tensing as you gradually work your way deeper, the stretch exquisite yet unfamiliar.

You’re knocked back into your senses as well. Her walls are extremely tight, squeezing your cock in its entire length. It’s thanks to her dripping wetness that you can enter her easily. You grit your teeth, you can already feel it coming.

As you continue your measured advance, Sullyoon begins to relax, her body adapting to the new sensation. Her walls clench around your length, welcoming you completely. Sullyoon's eyes lock with yours, you can see the love in her eyes, she’s happy. With a slow nod, she grants permission for you to take control, trusting in your guidance.

"I am ready," Sullyoon confirms, her voice husky with anticipation. "Please… do it."

As your lips meet hers, Sullyoon melts into the kiss, her body responding instinctively to the gentle rocking motion of your hips. She tastes your tongue, finding comfort in your taste while the new feeling between her legs starts to cloud her mind.

Sullyoon's hands come up to frame your face, fingers tangling in your hair as she deepens the kiss. She moans softly into your mouth, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine. Her thighs wrap around your waist, pulling you in tighter, urging you to continue the slow, sensual thrusts.

Breaking the kiss, Sullyoon gazes up at you with hooded eyes, her chest heaving with each breath. "More…" she whispers, her voice husky with need. "Please, Master…"

You were trying to hold back for her, but the tone in her voice was irresistible. You start to let go, speeding up the rhythm of your hips bucking into hers.

With renewed fervor, Sullyoon starts to meet your thrusts, rolling her hips to take you deeper. Her inner walls clench around your shaft, the friction sending sparks of pleasure coursing through her veins. Sullyoon's moans grow louder, more urgent, her mind turning hazy from lust, losing herself into your rhythm.

“Mmmh!” she moans. You continue fucking her. You’re chasing your own release now. Sullyoon doesn’t care what you do. Every movement, even the smallest, brings her the most pleasure she’s ever experienced.

You don’t want to last longer. You’ve endured enough. Her nails dig into your shoulders, urging you on, silently pleading for more of the exquisite friction.

"I love you," Sullyoon gasps, her voice strained with effort. "Don't stop, Master. Please, don't ever stop."

The room fills with the rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, the lewd squelch of their joined hips. You didn’t think she could get wetter but she did. You were sliding in and out of her without much effort at all. Your hips were now smashing into hers, kissing her womb at every thrust.

"Yes, Master!" Sullyoon cries out, her voice rising in pitch and volume as she surrenders to the brutal pace. "Harder, please! Make me yours!"

With each brutal slam of his hips, Sullyoon's body is driven up the bed, the headboard crashing against the wall. Sullyoon clings to you desperately, nails digging into your back as she tries to anchor herself against the torrent of sensations crashing over her.

Her breasts bounce wildly with each thrust, the hard nipples grazing your chest. Sullyoon's inner walls clench, milking your cock. The pressure builds rapidly, her orgasm coiling tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

"Master, I'm... I'm almost—" Sullyoon gasps, her words cut short by a loud, uncontrollable moan as her climax rips through her. Her body seizes, back arching as she comes hard, inner muscles rippling around your shaft.

Her orgasm hits her hard—Sullyoon's hips thrust wildly, and her words turn into a mix of incoherent moans. In the chaos, your cock slips out of her climaxing pussy, and you feel her squirt splattering against you. Your fingers quickly deep into her and you finger her pussy to help her ride it out. She creates quite a mess—not only is her cum all over your legs and cock, yet you keep on fucking more of it out of her.

Her body goes limp, sated, and spent. She pants heavily, trying to catch her breath amidst the aftershocks of her intense orgasm. Then she looks at you, with your penis still rock hard. “Master—you—you haven’t orgasmed yet,” she says apologetically.

“Well, no—” you start but Sullyoon interrupts you. “Please use me,” she begs you. “You have to cum too.”

With your fresh instructions, you get back to what you were doing with Sullyoon earlier. You hold her by the waist, and before long, you're back to pounding her pussy with thrusts. Sullyoon handles each thrust like a champ—she even pushes herself back onto your cock while moaning like crazy. Her eyes are glazed over, her jaw loose, but she still knows how to ride your cock and match every thrust flawlessly.

You thrust your cock deep into Sullyoon's cunt. Sullyoon screams at the rhythm—she's still sensitive from the orgasm, and your pounding of her tight cunt drives her wild—but somehow she still manages to bounce herself on your cock. 

You pull Sullyoon down roughly onto your cock, burying yourself deep inside her. Your cock erupts with thick, hot semen, shooting deep into her cunt, and you hardly move at all—just staying hilted in Sullyoon as you let your orgasm wash over you. All you do is shudder and thrust your hips as each wave of cum leaves your body and fills her up. The only thing Sullyoon can do is moan as the warmth of your release floods deep inside her, coating her walls white with shot after shot of your seed filling her womb.

She finally relaxes when you’re done and can barely raise her head to look at you. “Master… what is that? What’s that white liquid.”

“Oh, well that’s semen. Uhm, that’s what males let out when they cum,” you say, shyly. It’s embarrassing to have to explain such things, even after what you just did.

“As long as it’s from you, it’s fine,” she says. Sullyoon lifts her fingers from between her legs, her digits glistening with a thick layer of your cum and juices.

You see Sullyoon bring her fingers to her mouth. Her tongue peeks out from between her lips, and she savors your cum off her fingers as if it were a treat. She maintains her gaze on you while she cleans her fingers of your seed. 

“It tastes good,” she says casually and laughs. You chuckle as well to brush off the awkwardness. You both remain silent for a few minutes, processing what just happened.

“Thank you, master,” she whispers at last. “You never treated me like a slave. I just… I’m so happy to have you.”

“And I’m happy to have you,” you say, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I love you.”

She looks up at you, tears welling, her voice trembling. “Thank you, master.”

You smile gently, shaking your head. “I’m not your master anymore, Sullyoon. Not after this. You’re more than that. More than a maid. More than a title.”

She blinks slowly, her lips parting. “Then… what should I call you?”

“I don’t know,” you say, a little sheepishly.

She hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking down before rising to meet yours again, a soft light blooming in them. “What about… darling? I saw it once, in one of your books. It’s what people say when their hearts belong to each other.”

You smile, your chest tightening in the best way. “That’s perfect.”

A breathless laugh escapes her, half joy, half disbelief. She leans into you, her head finding its place against your chest, where your heartbeat thuds steadily and surely. Your arms come around her, not to hold her tightly, but completely. She isn’t just in your arms—she is where she belongs.

Outside, the forest stirs with the hush of wind through leaves, but inside, all is quiet.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” you murmur. “Not of the past. Not of tomorrow. As long as I’m breathing, I’ll keep you safe. Because I love you more than anything in this world.”

Her body shakes with quiet sobs—not of sorrow, but release. She clings to you, trembling with emotion, with the enormity of being loved without condition.

“Thank you,” she breathes through her tears. “Thank you… darling. I love you, too.”

The candle flickers low beside you, casting soft golden light over the two of you as the night folds gently around the house. She had never felt so safe in silence before.

THE END

Written, 27 May 2025 - 9 July 2025

Closing notes:

I promised to write this fic almost a year ago after my post received 160 notes. It took a really long time since I was busy, but I never forgot. It turns out I'm more of a summer writer who returns once a year. I hope you enjoyed the story if you arrived at this message.

I'd like to thank @usedpidemo, @leafostuff, and @4m1rz for editing this story. I would also like to thank @erospandemos, who helped write this story and made the cover art.

[lillilybells]

I know you only posted part 3 of family dinner 17 hours ago BUT I NEED MORE like I crave it I’m on my hands and knees begging I need a part 4 MAYBEEE a part 5 btw I love your writing so much it’s helping me get more into DC than I already is

Family dinner IV✧₊⁺

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing|damian wayne x reader (feat. The batfamily)

summary|meeting the family.. again?

word count|1216 warnings|punching, tears, teen romance.

notes|thank you anon!! im definitely gonna do more parts for this series, i hope you like this one<3

prologue part1 part2 part3

You were just at the manor, minding your own business. Damian had invited you over for what was supposed to be a quiet night—until the emergency alert came through and he had to leave with the rest of his family.

It wasn’t unusual. You were used to nights like these: hanging out with Alfred, playing with Titus and Alfred-the-cat, doing your nightly routine, then crashing in Damian’s massive bed like a cozy cryptid. You were practically part of the wallpaper at this point.

Except tonight, Alfred wasn’t home either. So you were alone in the huge, echoey manor with just Damian’s pets for company.

It was eerie, but manageable—until you wandered into the Batcave.

You’d only gone down to grab your jacket. You weren’t expecting to get punched in the face.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Barbara had picked up on a potential data breach tied to Wayne Enterprises. Coincidentally, she’d been having a girls’ night with Stephanie when she spotted the alert.

They figured they’d swing by the cave—check the systems, poke around, maybe catch a weird anomaly or two.

What they didn’t expect was a random teenage girl in sleep shorts, poking around the Batcave like she owned the place.

"...Did Bruce adopt another one while I wasn’t looking?" Steph whispered.

Barbara squinted. "No way. We’d have heard something. She’s not in the system."

The two of them exchanged a silent nod and did what Batfam members do best when faced with an unknown variable: they blindsided you.

Steph hit you first. You hit the floor next.

“Great,” Steph muttered, brushing hair out of her eyes. “Now what?”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Your head throbbed as you came to. Muffled voices floated in and out—then a sharp voice cut through:

“We should call them-”

Blink.

A tall blonde with a smug expression and a bo staff pushing your head up by your chin.

Blink again.

A red-haired woman in a wheelchair, arms crossed, gaze like steel.

You were tied to a chair. Very securely.

“Okay,” Stephanie started, looming over you, “who the hell are you, and how’d you get in here??”

“I—this is a huge misunderstanding—I'm Damian’s girlfriend—” you started to explain, panic bubbling.

Steph let out a laugh so loud it echoed.

“Damian Wayne? Our Damian? You’re his what?”

“I swear! I’m (Name), we’ve been dating for a while. He invited me over— you can ask him!”

Barbara frowned and moved to the computer console. “I’ll call him. Stay put.”

“Not going anywhere,” you muttered, tugging lightly at the rope.

“Let me get this straight,” Steph leaned in again, “You really expect us to believe that emotionally constipated kid has the capacity to actually date anyone? Someone like you? What would you even see in him?”

“Hey! He has a lot of great qualities,” you huffed. “He’s thoughtful and smart, and... and gentle—sometimes.”

Both women exchanged glances.

“Okay,” Barbara said, coming back. “He’s not answering.”

“Convenient,” Steph mumbled. Then louder, “Tell us who sent you.”

“No one! I already told you, I’m his girlfriend—”

“You’re not even his type,” Steph interrupted, shaking her head. “No offense, but he usually goes for goth murder girls.”

“What.. what do you mean? What type? Since when did Damian have a type?” You questioned, expression going pouty, Steph’s hand around her staff relaxed a little.

“Well, there was Flatline—super deadly, undead-ish, wore skull makeup. You’re... not that.”

You blinked. “He dated someone named Flatline?” The fact that he dated someone besides you was news to you.

Barbara nodded. “She’s tough. Killed him once, actually.”

“She what?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Then there was Emiko,” Steph added. “Total badass archer—”

“They never dated,” Babs cut in.

“Really? But they were like, a thing—”

“Mutual crush. Never happened.”

“And I think he had a thing for Raven once—”

“Oh, gross,” Steph gagged.

“Who’s Raven?” you asked weakly, trying to process it all.

“demon girl goth chick with trauma,” Steph deadpanned. “He has a type. And no offense, you’re... kind of sunshine and slippers. It just doesn’t add up.”

That’s when you started crying.

Not a dramatic sob—just quiet, messy tears that betrayed how much their words stung.

Barbara softened. “Hey—”

“She’s faking,” Steph snapped. “Classic distraction tactic—”

Just then, the Batcave’s entrance hissed open.

Dick stepped in. “Hey—what’re you guys doing down he—”

His eyes landed on you.

“Why is (name) tied to a chair?”

Steph and Barbara froze.

“You know her?” Steph asked, voice high-pitched.

“Of course we do.” Jason strolled in behind him, helmet under his arm. “That’s Damian’s girl.”

Duke followed next. “Wait—why is (name) crying?”

Tim popped in from the shadows. “You guys made (name) cry? Oh, you’re dead.”

The girls shared a look. This was not going as planned.

Then—

“What the hell is going on here?!”

Damian’s voice boomed through the cave, sharper than a throwing knife. He stormed in, cape billowing, eyes wide when he saw you.

He was by your side in a second, slicing the ropes with a batarang.

“Well, it was nice knowing you guys” Jason quipped, the rest watching from beside him from a safe distance.

“Beloved—what did they do to you? Who touched you? Are you okay?” he asked, voice unusually soft now, his hands gently cupping your wrists.

“I’m fine,” you sniffled.

Then came the burst of apologies.

“We’re so sorry Damian-“ 

“We didn’t know-“

“And we didn’t do anything to her- we didn’t even hit her-“ Stephanie tried salvaging the situation.

“They punched me!” you corrected, glaring at the girl.

“Okay—to be fair—” she started.

“You punched her?” Damian growled, turning to them with a look that could’ve made even Bruce nervous.

“Well, we thought she was an intruder—”

“She didn’t seem like your type,” Steph mumbled.

A deadly look was sent her way, contradicting his soft touch soothing your bruised wrists.

Barbara sighed. “Look, we’re sorry, but you should’ve given us a heads up.”

Bruce walked in then, scanning the scene. “...Do I want to know?”

“Steph and Babs met (name),” Tim supplied.

Bruce raised a brow. “And tied her up?”

“We were caught off guard,” Steph defended weakly.

“clearly weren’t the only one.” Dick mumbled.

Bruce turned to you. “You alright?”

You nodded.

“Everyone else—out.”

They scattered out like cockroaches, murmuring apologies and complaints as they fled. Bruce gave Damian a look, then followed them out.

Once it was just the two of you, Damian finally took a breath.

“They’re fools. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that,” he muttered, brushing a tear off your cheek.

“It’s not just that...” you admitted. “They told me about Flatline. And Raven. And... Emiko. You never told me about..”

He tensed.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said after a beat. “They weren’t you.”

You sniffed again. “It’s not like I’m mad, I just... I thought I was the first you let in. With how your family acted, I assumed...”

He tilted your chin up. “You are the first I let in.”

You blinked up at him.

“The rest? Names in the wind. You're the one I trust with everything.”

You smiled softly, eyes a little red, but finally at peace.

“So... I finally met all your family.”

“You haven’t even met half of them yet.”

[mintmatcha]

Having evil thoughts at work about your Sukuna finding another dude's boxers in your room or showing up unannounced at your place late at night only for you to answer the door with messy hair in nothing but someone else's t-shirt and tell him you're busy. I want to give him an aneurysm -rosie

you asked to be offical, he told you he wanted to be casual. "I dont like to be tied down," he had insisted. You had just shrugged at the moment, barely looking up from your phone. his girls usually pouted and whined and cried, much to his delight, and he wasnt prepared for your nonchalance.

and then. you just. stopped showing up to his place. You left him on read, dodged his calls.

You answer the door in your panties-- the nice ones, the lacy ones, the ones he bought for you and never got to see. The lights are dimmed low in your apartment, just the way you like them when you're about to be fucked.

"I'm busy," you say, totally unbothered. Sukuna cant even bring himself to look at your tits.

"Who the fuck is in there?" he seethes. "You fucking someone else?"

"Loyalty is a girlfriend only perk."

"Are you kidding me?"

You shrug your shoulders. "I gotta go. The boys are ready for round two."

Before Sukuna can react, you close the door right in his face.

[pitlanepeach]

White Mercedes | Chapter One

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — Please be very careful and re-read the warnings to ensure that you will be safe as you read. Love you lots. I hope you love this story as much as I already do. Send me all of your reactions!

CHAPTER ONE

The bathroom floor was cold.

Tile against skin. Grime in the grout. Her cheek pressed to it, breath shallow and sticky. Someone’s coat hung above her—too large, not hers. Not important.

Her body felt like paper—crumpled, used, left behind.

She didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t have the energy to care beyond that one, fleeting thought. 

There was vomit on her dress. A huge run in her tights. Her left wrist—bruised, maybe fractured, she couldn’t remember what had happened to it—throbbed in sync with the pounding in her skull.

Her chest felt hollow. Like someone had scooped out her heart and left the cavity empty.

She wasn’t sure where she was. A house? A hotel? Her dealers penthouse?

She tried to sit up. Couldn’t. Limbs uncooperative—too heavy or too light, she wasn’t sure. Her stomach turned. She swallowed back a mouthful of bile.

There had been pills. Needle pricks. Lines of something powdered. Champagne in endless flutes. Music that shook her skull.

There had been hands. A voice in her ear. A laugh that didn’t sound kind.

Her dress was askew. One heel missing.

She blinked hard. Tried to focus on the flickering yellow bathroom light overhead, humming like it might explode.

No one had come to find her.

That hurt more than the bruises.

She closed her eyes. ‘I’m not even a person anymore. I’m just a failure.’

The thought lodged in the soft parts of her brain.

Her throat was raw—she’d screamed, she remembered that. Not words. Just noise. Just desperation.

No one had listened. No one had come to save her. 

With shaking fingers, she reached into her pocket. Pulled out a chipped silver ring. A birthday gift. She couldn’t remember when it had been broken. She turned it over like a coin.

You were someone once, she thought. A pretty girl who smiled on TV. Who knew every engineer’s name. A daughter. A sister. A prodigy.

The sob hit before she could stop it.

Ripped through her—ugly and sharp.

And then she was crying—snot-and-tears, breathless, silent. The kind of crying that knows no one’s coming.

She curled tighter. Knees to chest. Forehead to tile.

A knock at the door. Once. Silence.

A man’s voice: “Hey. You okay?”

She didn’t answer.

The door stayed shut.

She was alone again.

Far away, the city roared. Monaco gleamed like a diamond made of teeth.

And Anneliese Wolff lay curled on a stranger’s floor, nothing left in her but ghosts and ache.

This is where it ends, she thought. This is where I die.

—

The room was small.

Two twin beds. A window that barely opened. Beige walls that made time blur. Quiet, except for the ticking clock and the soft thud of someone pacing the hallway.

Anneliese sat on the floor beside her bed, back pressed to the frame. Knees drawn up. Arms wrapped tight.

She couldn’t cry. Not anymore.

What she felt now was worse than upset—clarity.

The kind that arrives after the dust has settled and you're forced to look at what you've done.

She stared at her hands. Slim, dry, callused from karting years ago. A nurse had painted her nails on day five. “To make you feel more human,” she’d said. The polish was chipped now.

Her name was still trending on social media—she was sure of it. She’d seen the headlines on a contraband iPhone that one of the other women in the ward kept hidden inside a slit in her mattress. 

F1 Heiress Spirals Out of Control.

Tragic Fall of Wolff’s Youngest Daughter.

Her mugshot. Red-rimmed eyes. Mascara streaks. Paparazzi outside her family’s house.

Team statements. Lawyer statements.

Her father’s stoic silence.

She would never forget the night she finally dragged herself home. Dignity in shreds. Lost. Scared. Strung out and desperate. 

Her father hadn’t shouted. He hadn’t needed to. His silence had said everything.

The look in his eyes: disappointment carved into heartbreak.

Her brother had shouted. Punched a wall. Stormed out. "You don’t get to crawl back just because you’re tired of being a fucking mess."

She hadn’t seen him since.

But Susie. Sweet, steady Susie.

She’d picked Ana off the front steps. Held her as she shook. Made the calls.

Sat beside her in the hospital all night while Ana whispered “I’m sorry” on loop.

Brushed the hair from her face like she was still a child worth comforting.

Anneliese bit her lip until it stung.

She didn’t deserve that kind of kindness.

The rehab centre was quiet. Peaceful in a way that hurt. Nothing moved fast.

Everything was slow. Measured. Like breathing underwater.

She looked toward the window. The sun was sinking behind the trees, casting long shadows on the tile.

Tomorrow, she’d have to speak in group. Say her name. Say scary, terrible things out loud.

She leaned her head against the bed-frame and closed her eyes.

In her mind, she pictured the racetrack at dusk. The hum of engines. Her father’s voice, low and proud. Lewis’s laugh. Susie’s hand in hers.

Hold on, she told herself. Just one more corner.

—

The circle was quiet. Buzzing fluorescent lights. A soft, rhythmic leg bounce across the room.

“Anneliese,” the counsellor said gently, clipboard in lap. “Would you like to share today?”

Her name sounded too clean in this room. Too sharp.

She swallowed. Nodded. Cleared her throat.

“I was fifteen,” she said. “The first time I used.”

No one flinched. No one gasped. This was rehab. There were no surprises here.

But her hands trembled.

“It was Monaco. After the Grand Prix. The team—my dad’s team—had done well. He was… ecstatic. Distracted.” She gave a hollow laugh. “He didn’t notice I’d slipped away.”

She remembered the neon lights. Marble floors. The gold wristband a man slapped on her like a badge. Legacy Kid, it might as well have said.

“There was an afterparty. Drivers, sponsors, models. I wore a silver dress. I remember thinking I looked like the chassis.”

She glanced down at her knees—bare today under her rehab-issued sweatshirt. The contrast stung.

“I wanted to belong. I wanted to be someone worth noticing.” She paused. “A guy offered me a drink. Then a line on a mirror. ‘Everyone does it,’ he said. ‘It’s Monaco.’” She bit her lip. “And I didn’t even hesitate. That’s what kills me now—how easy it was to say yes.”

She looked at her hands again. Steady now.

“I felt—magical. I danced all night long. I laughed. I’d never experienced a thrill like it. But when I came down, I hated myself so much that I thought—I thought the only way to like myself was to use. So I didn’t stop.” Her voice dropped. “I liked pretending to br someone else. Even if it was only for a little while.”

The room was silent. Not judging. Not clapping. Just listening.

“I don’t want to be whoever that girl was ever again,” she whispered. “I just want to be me.”

—

Later that night, the hallway outside is quiet. Just the creak of linoleum and the occasional cough.

Anneliese sits cross-legged on her bed, a notepad on her knees. A single lamp glows golden beside her.

She bites the pen cap. Stares at the crossed-out start.

Dear Lewis,

I got your letter.

I’m sorry I didn’t write back sooner—

She sighs. Tears the page out. Starts over.

Dear Lewis,

I got your letter.

Rehab is hard.

Thank you for writing.

I hope you’re well. I hope you’re winning.

Love, Anneliese

She folds the letter with careful fingers, hands still trembling slightly.

Tomorrow, she’ll give it to the centre’s admin to mail.

Tonight, she tucks it under her pillow. And sleeps.

—

Anneliese sat in the courtyard, back straight, fingers clenched around a paper cup of herbal tea she wasn’t drinking. The sun was sharp—too cheerful for how hollow she felt. Around her, other residents murmured quietly with loved ones: awkward hugs, tentative smiles, small redemptions in folding chairs.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

She hadn’t expected anyone in weeks.

So when the counsellor approached, clipboard tucked under her arm, and said softly, “Your father’s here,” Ana almost didn’t believe it.

Didn’t move.

“Do you want to see him?”

She nodded. Because she had to. Because not seeing him would be so much worse.

He was waiting by the edge of the garden, hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, posture tight. Toto Wolff, in aviators and a suit, still somehow managing to look like a man who belonged in control rooms and pit walls, not pastel-painted rehab centres with chipped benches and dandelions pushing through gravel.

He looked tired.

She hadn’t seen him in person since that night. The night she’d shown up shaking, barely upright. She wasn’t shaking now. She sat down across from him on the wooden bench. She didn’t know what to say.

He took off his sunglasses slowly. His eyes—sharp, familiar, rimmed with something softer than she expected—met hers. “I like your hair like that,” he said, voice low. “It suits you.”

It wasn’t what she expected. It made something sting behind her eyes.

She laughed wetly. “They made me cut it when I came in. Said the ends were too matted to be saved.”

He nodded, like that made sense.

Another silence. She watched a butterfly land on the fence.

“I miss you very much.”

Ana’s stomach clenched. “I miss you too. Every single day.” Her throat felt tight. She looked at him, searching for anger, disappointment, judgment. But his face was unreadable. Familiar in a way that hurt. “I’m trying really hard to be a better person,” she said.

It came out too quiet.

But he heard it.

“I know.” He said. 

She blinked. He didn’t say it like a comfort. He said it like a fact.

And then, something cracked. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just enough that she reached out—fingertips brushing his jacket sleeve, tentative.

The sun crested through the cloud cover. 

—

She stood in the foyer of the rehab centre with her duffel bag slung over one shoulder and her release papers clutched in her fist like they might vanish. Her palms were sweating. Her knees itched under the soft fabric of the only pair of jeans that still fit her properly. The nurse had hugged her goodbye. So had her counsellor. Her roommate wept and pressed a woven bracelet into her palm, the threads frayed but sturdy.

“You’ll be okay,” she’d said.

Anneliese didn’t know if she believed her yet.

The lobby doors slid open with a pneumatic sigh, and the light outside was gold and far too honest. For a heartbeat, she couldn’t step through. Couldn’t lift her foot. Couldn’t breathe.

Then she saw him.

Her father.

Car parked crookedly at the curb, like he’d pulled up too fast to care about lines. Sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. Hands deep in his pockets.

He had come.

Mid-season. With Spa on the calendar. With half the F1 world screaming for his attention.

He had come anyway.

Her eyes filled before she could stop them.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her. Not like a broken thing, not like a public scandal, not like a daughter he didn’t know how to save. Just… looked. At her.

Then, softly, “Are you ready to come home?”

She nodded.

He reached for the duffel. She let him take it.

And when they got into the car, and the seatbelt clicked into place, and the hum of the road filled the silence between them, he said—quiet and careful like he was afraid to break the moment, “I’ve missed you, Ana.”

And she whispered back, “I missed me too.”

He didn’t reply. But she caught the way his knuckles went white around the steering wheel. And when they crossed the bridge out of town, he reached over and turned the music on low—some old song she remembered from childhood. The one he used to hum while working late.

They drove in silence, but it wasn’t cold. It was steady. It was full of love.

And as the centre faded into the rearview, and the road curved toward home, Anneliese leaned her head against the glass, breathing deep. 

She didn’t know what came next.

But she had her papa. 

—

“Again,” Jack whispered, drawing the word out with a dramatic whine. “Just one more?”

Anneliese smiled, brushing a damp curl from his forehead. He was freshly showered, tucked up in his Bluey pyjamas with minty breath and heavy eyelids. The scent of vanilla bubble bath still clung to his skin.

“You already got three more times, little dragon. That’s my limit.”

“But I like when you do the voices,” he mumbled, rubbing his nose against the soft patch on his singed bear’s ear. “Especially the grumpy goat one.”

“I know,” she said softly, pressing a kiss to his warm brow. “We’ll do them tomorrow night. And the night after that. And the night after that.”

He yawned, long and slow, eyelids sagging as she tucked the duvet up to his chin. His fingers curled tight around the bear—the one that still smelled faintly of cinnamon and melted plastic from the birthday candle incident three months ago. He’d cried for hours. She’d found a replacement online the next day but he refused it, insisting this one was the only real one.

His eyes fluttered shut mid-blink. Lashes fanned over flushed cheeks. His breath settled into an even rhythm, like the ocean in miniature.

Anneliese stayed longer than she needed to. Just... watching.

This was what safe looked like. The soft, sacred quiet. No monitors. No sterile lighting. No clipped voices telling her how long it’d been since her last relapse.

Just the sound of breathing. Steady. Innocent. Trusting.

Jack didn’t remember the trembling hands. The slammed doors. The ambulance lights. The headlines. 

He wasn’t old enough to know what she’d done—what she’d nearly become.

To him, she was just Anneliese.

Warm hands. Funny story-time voices. Magic in the dark.

She liked that version of herself. Even if it only existed in Jack’s head. 

Quietly, she stood and eased the door partway shut. The soft glow of the nightlight spilled across her heels like moonlight, fading into the dim hallway beyond.

Downstairs, the scent of chamomile tea and lemon balm drifted from the kitchen. Susie was rinsing mugs in the sink, sleeves pushed to her elbows, humming something under her breath. Her hair was twisted into a loose bun. She looked tired in the way that mothers always do—but solid. Present. Steady.

Her papa was standing by the counter, one hand resting on the back of a bar stool. He turned when he heard Ana’s footsteps.

“He’s out cold,” Ana said, gesturing vaguely upward.

Her papa nodded. “He sleeps fast when it’s you.”

“I think he’s mostly into the sound effects,” she said, smiling faintly. “I’m not sure my goat impression is actually any good.”

“You’re his favourite human. You could read him tax law and he’d be thrilled.”

She laughed softly, then pursed her lips. “I’m heading out. There’s a meeting at St. Mary’s tonight. I don��t want to miss it.”

Her papa’s mouth pressed into a line, but he nodded once. “Call us if you need anything. You have the number for the driver?”

“I’m okay walking. It’s still light out.”

Susie dried her hands and stepped forward, wrapping Ana in a brief but fierce hug. “Proud of you.”

“I know.” Ana’s voice caught a little. “Thank you.”

She shrugged on a hoodie and grabbed her keys, stepping out into the warm evening air. The streets were golden, dusky, full of that peculiar summer stillness where even the birds seemed contemplative.

The church basement was familiar now. Folding chairs. Lukewarm coffee. The same chipped name tags reused every week. It wasn’t where she’d ever pictured herself belonging, but it was where she’d been saved a hundred times over.

The meeting was short, quiet. Some new people. Some old ones. A woman read a poem about guilt and forgiveness that stuck somewhere under Ana’s ribs and didn’t let go.

She left with her hands deep in her hoodie pocket, earbuds in, listening to a playlist Lewis had made her—instrumentals and soft things. She walked with her head down. Still carried herself like a wrong breath might break her open.

She was three blocks from home when she felt someone watching her.

She turned—nervous, instinctual—and saw a girl leaning against the brick wall of a laundromat, smoking a cigarette. Sharp black bob, chipped pink nails, combat boots, denim jacket covered in safety pins.

Their eyes met. The girl blinked, and her expression shifted—softened. “I know that look,” the girl said.

Ana froze. “What look?”

“The one that says you’re still surprised to be alive.”

Ana’s mouth went dry.

“I used to walk like that,” the girl said, tapping ash into a coffee cup. 

Ana blinked. Couldn’t speak.

The girl smiled—crooked, kind, not pitying. “You headed home, or just… far away?”

Ana hesitated. “Home.”

The girl stubbed her cigarette out. Slung a bag over one shoulder. “I’m Jules.”

“Anneliese.”

Jules nodded. “I know. Recognise you. Think everyone in Monaco would recognise you from a mile away.” She said, wryly. “You want company for your walk?”

Ana should’ve said no. She didn’t know this girl. But something in her chest shifted—tilted toward yes. Toward not being alone. “Yeah,” she said, quieter than she meant to. “Yeah, whatever. Okay.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes. 

Jules didn’t ask questions. 

She just matched her pace to Ana’s and offered her a piece of gum.

—

Saturdays had become sacred.

A quiet kind of ritual: yoga at that sun-drenched studio with the candles and overpriced mats, then iced oat lattes at the cafe next door, where the servers all had tattoos and called everyone babe. The world moved slower on those mornings—like grief and guilt took the weekend off.

Ana had stopped flinching at the mirror in the yoga room. Mostly. She could hold a warrior pose now without shaking, without hating her own reflection. Jules always rolled her mat out beside her, long limbs and chipped black toenails, and whispered things during the quiet parts that made Ana snort-laugh mid-child’s pose.

They were getting better. In tandem. In sync.

Today, they’d claimed their usual corner table by the window. Ana was halfway through her drink, fingers wrapped around the condensation-slick cup. Jules stirred hers with a compostable straw, then looked up with that particular gleam in her eye—the one that meant she was about to say something completely unexpected.  “So,” Jules said, casual as hell, “have you ever messed around with BDSM?”

Ana choked.

Like, actually choked.

Coughed into her elbow, sputtered, nearly dropped her cup. “Jesus Christ, Jules.”

Jules raised her eyebrows, unbothered. “I take it that’s a no.”

Ana wiped her mouth, glaring but also laughing. “No! I mean—God, no. Like... whips and stuff?”

Jules looked personally offended. “Seriously? Have you ever read a book in your life?”

Ana rolled her eyes. “Between the ages of sixteen and nineteen, I was strung out like, every night. I didn’t exactly prioritise reading in bubble baths.”

Jules smirked, sipping her drink. “Okay, that’s fair. But like... not even one stolen copy of Black Lace?”

“I barely had the attention span to read a text message.”

“Tragic,” Jules sighed. “Anyway, it’s not about whips. Not always. It’s about control. About choosing to give it up. Or take it. It can be... really healing. Honestly.”

Ana blinked. That word. Healing.

She shifted in her seat. “You’re telling me getting tied up makes you feel better?”

“I’m telling you,” Jules said, “that being in a space where you’re safe, and seen, and in charge of what happens to your body... it can undo a lot of damage. The right person, the right boundaries—it’s like... rewiring the way you experience touch. Power. Intimacy.”

Ana stared at her, mouth slightly open. “Okay, what the fuck, Jules? How do you know so much about this?”

“I contain multitudes,” Jules said, fluttering her lashes. “Also I’ve done a lot of therapy. Like, a lot.”

Ana laughed—real, sudden, from somewhere warm and startled in her chest. She leaned back in her chair, hand pressed lightly over her sternum, like she could keep the feeling from escaping too fast.

Jules grinned, slow and sure. “There she is.”

They didn’t talk about Ana’s history with touch. Not out loud. Not yet. Jules never asked. She didn’t need to. There were things she read in Ana’s body language—the flinch when someone got too close in the grocery store aisle, the way she always chose the seat with her back to the wall, how she held her coffee with both hands like she might drop it if she didn’t anchor herself.

Ana’s body remembered things her mouth still didn’t have words for.

And Jules, in her strange, irreverent, fiercely gentle way, was offering something Ana didn’t quite know how to name.

A different way of being inside a body that had once only known pain.

Ana looked out the window. A pigeon strutted across the pavement like it owned the world, chest puffed out, unbothered. She smiled faintly at the absurdity of it.

She sipped the last of her latte and muttered, “Okay. Maybe you can give me a book rec. Something... gentle.”

Jules cocked her head. “You want soft doms only?”

“Jesus,” Ana muttered, flushing.

But Jules didn’t laugh. Not this time.

“I think,” she said carefully, “it might actually... suit you.”

Ana blinked. “What—what might?”

“Submission,” Jules said, quiet but clear. “I’m not saying like, jump into latex and rope workshops tomorrow, but… when it’s done right, some people find it grounding. Calming. Especially when everything else in their head feels too loud.”

Ana stilled. Her cup was empty now, but she held it anyway.

She looked down at her lap. “I spent years trying to feel nothing. Numb was the only thing that ever worked. I don’t even know what it’s like to trust someone with my body anymore. Hell, I don’t know if I ever did.”

Jules didn’t try to fix it. Just leaned forward, elbow on the table, voice low and certain. “Then maybe now’s the time to learn. At your own pace. With people who know how to hold that kind of responsibility without hurting you.”

Ana looked up. Met Jules’s eyes.

There was no pressure there. No heat. Just kindness. And the quiet, unwavering presence of someone who had walked through fire and still had a hand to offer.

Ana swallowed hard.

“Okay,” she said again, but this time with more certainty. “Something gentle. Like... training wheels for my trauma.”

Jules snorted. “I’ve got just the book for that.”

—

The bathwater was still warm. Lavender-scented bubbles clung to her collarbones, slowly dissolving as the steam curled upward toward the cracked bathroom window.

Ana had lit a candle. One of the fancy ones Susie kept stocked in the cupboard: bergamot and cedarwood, or something equally pretentious. It flickered against the tile, casting soft gold light across the bathroom. There was music playing low on her phone—some lo-fi playlist Jules had sent her, all muted piano and gentle synths.

Her book sat propped on her knees, its spine bent just enough to show how deeply she was already in.

It was absurd.

It was ridiculous, actually. The main character was a former special forces soldier with a tragic past and a jaw “like it was carved from marble by gods who knew what women wanted.” He’d rescued the heroine from a snowstorm and immediately started bossing her around in ways that should’ve been irritating.

But weren’t.

Ana kept reading. One page turned into five. Then twenty. She didn't notice the water cooling.

It was the way he touched her—not possessive, not lewd. Just... present. Confident. Like he knew her body better than she did. Like he could see where she was tired before she said a word. He ran her a bath. Cooked her dinner. Tucked her under a blanket and told her, calmly, that she didn’t need to worry about anything now.

He’d take care of it.

That line—I’ve got you now. You’re safe.—hit Ana like a punch to the ribs.

Her throat tightened.

She closed the book, pressed it against her sternum. Let her head fall back against the edge of the tub.

What was this? It was just a silly romance novel with slightly too-perfect dialogue and cover art that looked like it belonged in a supermarket checkout aisle. But her whole body felt...

Tingly. Light. Weirdly safe.

And that scared the hell out of her.

Because she liked it. She really liked it. Not just the way he kissed her senseless or carried her inside when she was cold. She liked the way he said things like “You don’t have to be in control tonight.”

Ana hadn’t realised how much control she kept clenched in her fists until she imagined setting it down.

The water sloshed slightly as she shifted.

It wasn’t arousal—not exactly. It was relief. Like the part of her that had been standing guard for years finally saw the faintest outline of a place to rest. A voice that said, You don’t have to carry everything alone.

Her eyes burned, unexpectedly. She blinked hard.

Get a grip, she thought. It’s fiction. He’s not real. You’re just tired.

But she was already pulling the book back open. Already looking for the page where he murmured “Good girl” in a way that wasn’t condescending, just proud.

And it did something strange to her chest—something warm. Something whole.

Ana read for another hour in the water, lips parted, cheeks flushed, bubbles nearly gone.

By the time she climbed out and wrapped herself in a towel, the night air felt gentler.

The candle burned low. The playlist had ended.

And somewhere, deep in her body, Ana thought, Maybe I want that. Not him. But that feeling.

Not chaos. Not fear.

Safety. Chosen softness.

She dried her hands and texted Jules.

—

iMessage — Ana Banana > Julesy

Ana Banana 

okay. i think i get it now.

Julesy

I’ll text Lucian <3

Ana Banana 

lol who’s lucian????????

Julesy

He owns Valhalla. 

He’s also my brother. 

Ana Banana 

your brother owns a sex club??????!!

julsey wtf that’s wild 

Julsey

Lol I know

He said you’re welcome anytime

Ana Banana

idk if im like… that into it though 

Julsey

Lol okay. 

Coffee tomorrow?

Ana Banana 

yes please

—

The cafe was tucked into a side street near the marina, all pressed linen and aged wood, the kind of place where nobody cared who you were unless you tipped badly.

Jules stirred her oat latte, watching Ana fidget with the edge of her napkin.

“So,” Jules said casually. “Lucian thinks you’ll like the club.”

Ana let out a slow breath. “That’s not creepy at all.”

Jules smirked. “I showed him a pic of you. He thinks that you’re pretty. And that you have... potential.”

Ana blinked. “Potential for what?”

“For letting someone treat you like something precious.” Jules shrugged. “Which, if you ask me, is exactly the kind of thing you need right now.”

Ana looked down at her chipped nails. “I don’t think I’m anyone’s idea of precious.”

“You’re mine,” Jules said without hesitation. “And probably your little brother’s. And your dad’s. And your therapist’s. And if Lucian says it, it’s not flattery—it’s truth.”

Ana snorted. “Your brother sounds scary.”

Jules grinned. “He kind of is. Sometimes.”

There was a beat of quiet. The soft clink of cutlery. The distant drone of a Vespa outside.

Ana finally spoke, her voice quieter. “It’s not that I’m scared of the, like… BDSM part.”

Jules didn’t interrupt.

“I guess I’m just scared of the… the being known.” Her fingers tapped out an uneven rhythm. “It sounds like too much.”

“It might be,” Jules said. “But you’re not the girl on the bathroom floor anymore, Ana. You get to choose who touches you. How. When. Why. You get to rewrite all of it.”

Ana looked out the window. The sun was low, bleeding gold into the sea. For a second, she could almost hear the engine whine of her father’s car, feel the static of race-day nerves in her veins.

She said, “If I go, I want you there.”

Jules nodded, smiling softly. “I’ll be your shadow. Your bodyguard. Your sexy emotional support bestie.”

Ana laughed, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah.” Jules laughed. 

Ana picked up her tea, staring into the dark surface like it might offer a vision. “So, hypothetically what does one wear to a place like Valhalla?”

Jules shrugged. “Whatever makes you feel… beautiful.”

—

Jack’s room smelled like lavender and clean laundry. The humidifier made soft huffing noises in the corner, casting misty swirls through the faint nightlight glow. Jack was already half-asleep, legs tangled in his dinosaur blanket, one sock off, the other bunched halfway down his ankle.

Ana sat on the edge of the bed, brushing his curls gently back from his face.

"Okay," she whispered. "Last one. For real this time."

Jack cracked one eye open. “Promise?”

“I swear on everything good. Like pancakes. And Paw Patrol.”

That earned a sleepy smile. She read softly, letting her voice dip and rise with the rhythm of the story. When she got to the part where the little fox found its way home, she paused, just for a second, her fingers curling tighter around the spine of the book.

Home.

When the final words slipped into the still air, she closed the book, leaned down, and kissed Jack’s temple.

“You’re my favourite person,” she murmured.

“Mmm. ‘Night, Ana,” he mumbled, already halfway to dreaming.

She stood, adjusting the blanket, then crept out quietly, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Downstairs, the kitchen lights were low. Susie was at the table with her laptop and a mug of tea, hair up in a twist, her glasses slipping a little on her nose. The scene was so familiar it made Ana’s heart ache with gratitude.

Susie glanced up, smiling. “He asleep?”

“Like a rock,” Ana said. She hesitated by the counter, fingers tracing the edge of a fruit bowl. “Hey, um… I need something.”

Susie set her mug down. “What kind of something?”

“A dress. Or... something nice. Pretty, I guess?” Ana made a face. “God, that sounds so silly coming out of my mouth.”

Susie raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Ana took a breath. “Not a party. I swear. It’s… it’s a club. Kind of a private thing. Jules invited me.”

That got a longer look. Not judgmental—just maternal. Careful. “Ana…”

“I know,” Ana said quickly. “I know how that sounds. But it’s not drugs, it’s not some underground rave, I swear. Jules’ brother owns the place. It’s invitation-only. And she’ll be with me the whole time.”

Susie folded her arms, tilting her head. “You trust her?”

Ana nodded, smiled softly. “Yeah. I do.”

“Okay,” Susie said, voice gentle. “Then I trust her too.”

Ana blinked. “Really?”

“You’ve come home every night for six months,” Susie said. “You’ve done the work. You show up for Jack. For yourself. You ask for help when you need it.” She stood and crossed the kitchen, placing a hand on Ana’s shoulder. “You don’t need my permission. But for what it’s worth—you have it.”

Ana bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry.

“And,” Susie added, with a sly smile, “I think I have something in the back of the closet that might fit you.”

Ana let out a breathless laugh. “What, like—‘back in the day’ Susie?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

Ana pursed her lips to hide her smile. 

There was a long list of things that she was grateful for these days. 

Susie’s forgiveness was very high up on that list. 

—

The study still smelled like cedar and old books, like pipe smoke from a time long past. The walls were lined with trophies and photographs—frozen victories and polite smiles—but the air always felt a little too still in here. As if everything inside had stopped breathing the year she first overdosed.

Anneliese stood in the doorway, fingers curled loosely around the frame.

Her father looked up from a folder of paperwork. He wore a dark polo and his glasses sat low on his nose. “You’re going out.”

It wasn’t a question.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just for a little while.”

His eyes drifted over her—black dress, soft silk jacket, her hair pulled back neatly, earrings subtle and expensive-looking. She’d gone for elegant. Respectable. Something that said: I’m stable, I promise!

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.

Something tightened in his jaw as he said it. His hand remained still on the desk, but Ana could see the tension in the way his knuckles whitened—like he was holding himself in place.

“Thanks,” she said, trying to sound casual.

He gave a soft, almost sad smile. “Where are you going?”

She hesitated. “A club. Jules invited me.”

His nostrils flared, almost imperceptibly. “Club” was a loaded word in this house.

“She’ll be staying with me,” Ana added quickly. “The whole time. It’s... not like before.”

He looked down at the papers in front of him but didn’t turn a single page. “I want to believe you,” he said. “You know that?”

“I know.”

“You’ve been doing so well.” 

“I’m not going backwards,” she said, firmly. “I’m just trying something new. Something... safe. I’m not going to drink. I’m not going to… use. I’ll be home in a few hours.”

His gaze met hers again—sharper now. Assessing. Protective in that quietly suffocating way only a father could be. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

For a moment, she imagined what he wanted to say: “Don’t go. What if you relapse? What if this is just another chapter in the same spiral? What if I lose you again, and this time you don’t come back?”

But instead, he said, “Don’t forget to lock the patio doors when you get home.”

She smiled faintly. “I won’t.”

He stood, crossed the room slowly. His hand came up to rest against the side of her face, thumb brushing under her eye like she was five again, scraped-kneed and teary.

“I hate how much I still want to lock you in the house just to keep you safe,” he admitted, voice quiet. “Even when I know that’s not love. Not really.”

She leaned into his touch, just for a second. “I know. But I’ll be okay. I promise.”

He kissed her forehead, let his hand fall away. “Be smart, Ana.”

“Okay, Papa,” she said with a crooked smile, then turned to go—heels clicking softly on the marble floor.

He didn’t follow her out, but she knew he was still standing there, watching the door long after it closed behind her.

—

The sound of tires on gravel made Ana glance out the front window. A sleek black car slid into the driveway, elegant and low to the ground, humming. 

She took one last look in the mirror. The black lace dress that Susie had picked out clung to her shoulders like it had been spun for her specifically—delicate, sheer in places, but not obscene. Just enough mystery to feel... not like armour, but something close. Something beautiful and lethal in equal measure.

She smoothed her hair, grabbed her clutch, and opened the door before the knock came.

Jules stood there, all legs and red lipstick, wearing wide-legged satin trousers and a silky black blouse with no back. Effortless glamour. Her eyes lit up when she saw Ana.

“Holy shit,” she said, dragging the word out like it tasted good. “You look like a fever dream.”

Ana laughed, nervous. “It’s okay? I wasn’t sure.”

“It’s perfect.” Jules stepped in and took her hand, spinning her slowly in the foyer like they were going to prom. Ana rolled her eyes, but let herself be turned.

“You’re going to be a jewel tonight,” Jules murmured, a bit more serious now. “In so many people’s eyes. I hope you let yourself feel that. Even if it’s just for a few minutes.”

Ana swallowed, her throat tight. “That sounds terrifying.”

“It’s not,” Jules said. “It won’t be.” 

Ana looked away. “What if I don’t know how to handle it? Being… stared at?”

“We can leave whenever you want,” Jules said softly, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. “But… it’s just a few hours. Let yourself be admired.”

Ana exhaled slowly, trying not to shake. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“You won’t. You’ll float.” Jules stepped back, squeezing her hand once. “Let’s go, pretty lady. Valhalla waits for no one.”

—

The car pulled up to an unmarked entrance on a quiet street tucked behind a row of high-end boutiques. There was no sign, no valet, no obvious doorway—just a sleek black panel and a small intercom. Monaco disguised its secrets well.

Jules stepped out first, heels clicking against the marble. Ana followed, heart hammering.

Inside was... unexpected.

No neon strip lights. No gaudy signs. No loud music. Just low, golden light and the hush of velvet and leather. A private foyer—dim, elegant, cavernous in its quiet. The air smelled like sandalwood and something sweeter, almost floral.

A man waited near the base of a dark staircase, standing beside a heavy oak door.

He looked like the male version of Jules. 

Lucian.

He looked nothing like Ana expected, but exactly like someone who would run the most exclusive BDSM club in the world.

Tall, sharply dressed in a tailored charcoal suit with no tie, shirt collar undone just enough to be deliberate. His hair was dark, neatly slicked back. Clean-shaven, eyes unreadable.

He turned toward them as they entered, gaze landing on Ana. He didn’t smile. Not at first. Just studied her, the way someone might study a rare book they weren’t yet sure they were allowed to touch.

Then he inclined his head. “Anneliese,” he said, his voice low and sure. “Welcome to Valhalla.”

Ana felt her spine straighten at the way he said her name. Not a question. Not a challenge. Just… her name. 

Jules grinned, sliding between them for a moment like a buffer. “Lucian, play nice.”

“I always do,” he replied mildly. Then, to Ana, “You’re safe here. You don’t have to participate. You don’t even have to stick around. But I want you to understand one thing; everyone in this building is here because they have chosen to be.”

Ana nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He stepped aside, gesturing toward the oak door. “Jules will give you the tour. If at any point you feel overwhelmed, you tell her. Or you run away from my crazy sister and you find me. Understand?”

“Yes,” she said, voice steadier than she expected.

For the first time, he smiled. Just a little. “Good.”

Jules took her hand as they passed through the door, into the warmth and velvet and hush of something vast and strange and beautiful.

“Ready, darling?” she whispered.

Ana wasn’t. Not really.

But she nodded anyway.

—

They snuck inside quietly, giggling like teenagers breaking curfew—heels in hand, makeup smudged, cheeks flushed not from any substance, but purely adrenaline. The house was dark, save for Jack’s soft nightlight glowing in the upstairs hall. Everyone was asleep.

They tiptoed to Ana’s room, muffling their laughter behind hands as the door clicked shut behind them.

Jules collapsed back-first onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. “My god, that was fun. You, in that dress? You made at least ten grown, very experienced men forget how to blink.”

Ana laughed, toeing off her shoes and shimmying out of the black lace dress. She pulled on an old t-shirt—one of her dad’s from years past—and flopped onto the mattress opposite Jules, their legs forming a tangled X.

“You looked just as good,” Ana teased, tugging at the hem of Jules’s corset. “How can you even breathe in this?”

“Babe, pain is couture,” Jules said solemnly, but pulled it off anyway, sighing with relief as she shrugged herself into the hoodie Ana tossed at her. 

For a while they just lay there—side by side but reversed, Ana’s head near Jules’s feet, Jules’s near Ana’s. The ceiling fan hummed gently overhead. The room smelled like sleep and vanilla lotion and faint remnants of Ana’s perfume.

“You okay?” Jules asked softly, voice losing some of its usual theatrical lilt.

Ana was quiet for a beat too long. “Yeah. Actually… yeah.”

Jules looked over at her, upside-down and curious.

Ana stared up at the ceiling, tracing the lines of the fan blades with her eyes. “It was just... I don’t know. I thought I’d be scared. Feel completely out of place. But I didn’t. Not in the way I expected. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t like before.” She swallowed. “It felt like… I don’t know.” 

Jules smiled gently. “You felt at home?”

Ana nodded, and whispered, “Yeah. I did.”

Silence settled for a moment. Then Jules said, “You know, I think that’s the highest compliment Valhalla’s ever received. My brother might cry.”

Ana laughed, a soft sound, muffled in her pillow.

They stayed like that—legs tangled, hearts steady, girls in the dark whispering their truths into the safety of night.

It had been a long road back to this kind of softness. This kind of trust.

But tonight, Ana let herself have it.

—

The house was still, the kind of stillness that only came in the small hours—after the dishwasher had finished humming, after the nightlight in Jack’s room had cast the last flicker of comfort against the wall.

Toto lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched across the sheets to where Susie’s fingers waited for him in the dark. Their hands met naturally, without a word. Familiar. Anchoring.

They’d both heard the front door open, soft footsteps on the stairs, the low burst of laughter that cracked the hush like a champagne cork.

Then the muffled thump of two bodies collapsing onto a mattress. Giggles. Snippets of whispered gossip, half-sung lyrics, a bad attempt at a French accent that sent the girls into another round of hysterics.

Susie smiled into the darkness. “God, remember the nights we prayed we’d hear her laugh again?”

Toto nodded slowly, throat tight. “I can remember every single one.”

They lay in silence for a while, the sounds of youthful joy bleeding through the ceiling above them like music through a wall.

“She missed out on so much,” Susie murmured. “Proms. Study groups. The silly things. The safe things. Just... being a teenager.”

“She’s catching up,” Toto said, voice rough. 

Another laugh, Ana’s this time, bright and free; and Susie’s hand tightened around his.

“She’s okay,” she whispered, like a spell. “She’s really okay.”

Toto blinked hard at the ceiling, his thumb tracing slow circles over the back of Susie’s hand.

In the stillness, they stayed—hand in hand—listening to the soft echo of their daughter healing, one stolen piece of girlhood at a time.

—

Ana stirred first, woken by the weight of something small and warm wriggling beneath the duvet. For a second, still half-lost to sleep, she thought it was a cat.

“’Nana,” came a sleepy, yawning whisper. “Are you ‘wake?”

She cracked one eye open and found Jack nose-to-nose with her, his curls a wild halo, his cheeks pink flushed with sleep. His stuffed bear was tucked under one arm like always, trailing one limp paw across her pillow.

“Good morning, little dragon,” she murmured, voice gravelly.

He beamed. “You’re home.”

“I said I would be,” she said, brushing a hand through his curls. “Did you sneak out of your bedroom all by yourself?”

Jack nodded, proud. “Climbed over the gate. Missed you.”

Before she could reply, there was a dramatic groan from the other end of the bed.

“Ugh, small feet,” Jules mumbled, surfacing from under the duvet with a crumpled expression. “Is that you, Jack Attack?”

Jack grinned and launched himself toward her, limbs flailing. “Jules!” he crowed, burrowing into her side. “You sleep weird. On the wrong end!”

“Shut up,” Jules replied, pulling the duvet over their heads like a tent. “You’re just jealous that I got to have a sleepover with your sister and you didn’t.” 

Ana laughed. “Can you two stop wriggling? I’ve got a foot in my rib!”

“Your fault.” Jules stuck her tongue out at Jack. 

“No fault,” Jack giggled, snuggling in between them. 

The three of them laid tangled in a soft heap, the room warm with the morning sunshine leaking through a gap in the curtains. 

Ana stared up at the ceiling, heart full to bursting.

This—this—was the part she’d never known she needed. The softness. The safety. The quiet mornings filled with nothing but love and sleepy teasing.

“Can we have pancakes?” Jack asked suddenly. “With the smiley faces?”

“Only if you help make them,” Jules said, poking his belly.

“I’ll crack the eggs!”

“You got so much shell in the mix last time.” Jules complained. 

“No I didn’t!” Jack screeched. 

Jules chucked a pillow at him, and he tumbled onto the floor with a loud giggle. 

Ana looked at them both, her beautiful, tiny chaos crew, and whispered, “I’m really glad you’re my friend, Jules.”

Jules looked over at her and smiled. Not her usual mischievous grin—something gentler. Softer. Something that said I’m not going anywhere, you’re stuck with me forever.

“Pancakes?” she asked.

“Pancakes.” Ana agreed. 

—

The front door shut behind her with a quiet, satisfying click.

Ana shifted the smoothie to her other hand, kicked off her slides, and padded barefoot down the hall. The kitchen still smelled faintly of syrup and cinnamon from that morning—Jack’s giggles still ghosted in the walls. The house felt full. Safe.

She hummed to herself as she climbed the stairs. Yoga had been good. Jules had made her laugh so hard she snorted almond milk out her nose. There was something so stupidly, deeply wonderful about that.

Her bedroom door was already ajar.

That was the first wrong thing.

Ana paused, smoothie straw caught between her lips. Her fingers tightened around the cup. She nudged the door open with one hand.

And everything inside her went still.

Her bed was buried.

Sheets of paper. Dozens—hundreds maybe. Spread across her duvet like snow, scattered across the rug, tucked between the pillows. Headlines in bold, grotesque fonts. Photos she hadn’t seen in years. Photos she couldn’t forget.

The back of an ambulance. A bathroom floor. Her body, too thin. Her eyes, vacant. Her arms, fresh track marks and all — in HD.

Her mugshot. Still in that glittered Balmain dress, mascara bleeding down her cheeks.

One printout sat square in the centre of her pillows.

"WOLFF CHILD SPIRALS AGAIN—'SHE’S A LOST CAUSE' SAYS SOURCE CLOSE TO FAMILY”

Ana didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her chest ached with something breathless and feral. For a few seconds, her brain refused to compute it—like it was a bad dream she could blink away.

Then it clicked.

Someone did this.

Her fingers loosened, and the smoothie slipped from her hand. It hit the hardwood with a wet splat. Straw clattered. Purple liquid bloomed like bruising across the pale wood.

She took one shaky step forward. Another. Her bare foot pressed into a sheet:

"REHAB ROYALTY: ANA WOLFF’S FOURTH TIME’S THE CHARM?"

Ana ripped it up. Then another. And another. Her breath came sharp and fast. She tore at the papers, half-sobbing now, until her bed was a graveyard of shredded ink and grief.

A framed photo of Jack toppled from her nightstand. She lunged to catch it—missed. The glass cracked across his little face.

She sank to her knees.

The breath left her lungs like a punched balloon. Her arms wrapped around her stomach, trying to hold something inside her still together.

Footsteps thundered on the stairs.

Then a voice. “Ana?”

Susie. God. Susie.

The door flung open and Susie stopped dead, her face registering every detail in a single sharp breath.

“Oh sweetheart,” she said, and crossed the room in three steps.

Ana didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just curled tighter and let Susie kneel beside her and gather her in like she’d done a hundred times when Ana was small and skinned her knees but refused to admit she was hurting.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Ana whispered, hoarse. “I was doing so good. I was—I was okay.”

“I know, love,” Susie murmured, brushing her hair back. “I know. I don’t know who— God, I can’t believe—.”

Ana’s face pressed into her collar. “Why would someone do this?” She hiccuped. 

She didn’t get an answer. 

Susie didn’t have one. 

—

She didn’t knock.

The door to his office was cracked open—same as always, like he was just so busy the world should be grateful he even left a gap.

Ana pushed it open with the flat of her hand. Her knuckles were red and raw, skin split on the middle finger from where she’d punched her nightstand in a blind rage.

He looked up from his laptop, stylus in hand, Bluetooth headset in his ear. “You’re bleeding on the carpet,” he said flatly.

She didn’t blink. “Was it you?”

He stared. “What?”

“The print-outs. The photos. My room. All of it.” Her voice was shaking, but her body wasn’t. Not yet. “Did you do that?”

There was a beat—too long—and then he leaned back in his chair, pulled the earpiece out, and sighed. Like she was a client. An inconvenience. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

Ana’s breath hitched. It was stupid, how much that hurt. She had known. But the confirmation sliced deeper than expected. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she said. “You went into my room—my safe space—and spread out reminders of my lowest moments all over my bed? Like… like some kind of twisted punishment?”

He stood slowly, calmly, as if she were the one making a scene. “I just thought you might need a reminder.”

She took a step back like he’d slapped her. “You...?” Her voice cracked. “Why the fuck—what is wrong with you? What kind of person—what kind of brother does that?”

He didn’t blink. “The kind who’d been cleaning up after you since high school.”

She stared at him. “You hate me,” she whispered.

“I should,” he said. “But I don’t. Not really. I just think that you should hate yourself.”

The words hit harder than anything else could have. Ana felt her throat tighten until she could barely breathe.

“You think I don’t?” she whispered. “You think I haven’t lived in my own misery, drowned in it every day for the last four years?”

“Oh, spare me the self-pity,” he said. “You OD’d the night before my college graduation. Remember that? Mom was on the plane when she got the call. I had to walk across that stage alone and pretend I wasn’t wondering whether my sister had finally killed herself.”

“I’ve told you how sorry I am a million—”

“You don’t even remember it. How could you possibly be sorry?”

Ana blinked.

She did remember it, now—that was the hardest part. The hospital ceiling. The white light. Her mother’s mascara streaking down her perfect cheekbones. Her father’s haunted shouts when he finally arrived at the hospital.

“You said you forgave me,” she whispered.

“I lied. Just like you always did.”

There was silence. She wasn’t crying anymore. She just looked at him. Like she didn’t know him. Like maybe she never had. “You’re my big brother,” she said finally, her voice breaking. “I thought you’d want me to be better.”

“I did,” he said. “I waited. I fucking hoped. And you kept choosing the needle. The spectacle. There’s nothing left to wait for, Ana. I don’t care if you get a fucking sainthood. I was done with you then and I’m done with you now.”

Her whole body trembled. Rage, yes—but underneath it, something thinner. Sadder. Like the floor inside her had given way. “I was sick,” she said. “I am sick. Do you… Do you think that I wanted any of this?”

He just stared at her. 

“I’m trying,” she said, hoarse. “I’m trying so hard. And I thought maybe—maybe—I was going to be allowed to feel a little joy again.”

“That’s what scares me,” he said. “That you think you deserve it.”

Ana flinched.

Her fingers curled at her sides—tight, trembling, not fists, just claws trying to hold something inside from spilling out. “You don’t want me better,” she said. “You want me to suffer. You always have.”

“I want you accountable.”

“I was dying.”

“You were killing us.”

She blinked hard. Swallowed. Then, quietly—almost like it hurt to say—“I came home because I thought maybe you loved me enough to forgive me.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

So she nodded, once. “I’m sorry I’m still here,” she said. “Sorry I ruined your graduation. Sorry I’m not the sister you wanted.”

Then she turned and walked out.

No door slam. No parting shot.

Just silence.

And the quiet end of something she’d never imagined she would lose.

—

She didn’t remember getting into her car.

One moment she was walking out of his office, her heart cracked open and bleeding. The next, she was gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles burned white.

It was dark. Or it felt dark. Her brain was static. Her hands were shaking.

She couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The shoebox buried in the deepest depths of her closet.

The kit in the lining of her old Céline tote she never threw away, just in case.

She hadn’t thought about it like this in months. Not really. Not like this.

Not hunger. Not thirst.

This was need.

The kind that buzzed under her skin and made her mouth taste like copper.

The kind that said: One hit. Just one. Come on. You’ve earned it.

She pulled into a parking lot and killed the engine. Just sat there.

Every part of her was lit up. Shaking. Hollow.

She opened her messages.

—

iMessage — Ana Banana > Julesy

Ana Banana 

jules.

please

i need you

please call me

please

—

Nothing. 

She stared at the screen. Watched the message stay delivered. No typing bubbles. No read receipt.

Her pulse crashed like surf in her ears. Her throat was closing up.

She couldn’t go home.

Couldn’t sit in that house with the ghosts.

Couldn’t go to her brother, not now, not ever again.

Couldn’t call her parents.

Couldn’t walk into a meeting—not like this, not so close to snapping.

Her fingers moved without her brain catching up.

—

New iMessage — Anneliese Wolff > Lucian (Jules' Brother)

Anneliese Wolff

hi

i know this is probably not okay

but jules isn’t answering

and i don’t know what to do

Lucian (Jules' Brother)

You okay?

Anneliese Wolff

no i rly want to relapse lol

—

She stared at the screen, fingers frozen above the keyboard. The lol was a cracked mask—thin, brittle, about to shatter. It wasn’t funny. Not in the slightest.

Her chest tightened, panic rising fast and sharp. Her skin buzzed with craving, teeth on edge, brain screaming for the needle, for the familiar chemical quiet. But Jules wasn’t answering. And she couldn’t go crawling to the usual places. Not again. Not tonight.

Then his reply appeared.

—

Lucian (Jules' Brother)

Come to Valhalla. I’ll be waiting at the door.

Now, Anneliese. Not in 5 minutes. Now.

—

The words cut through the chaos—sharp, clear. No judgment. No pity. Just direction. A lifeline.

Ana felt something like relief crack open in her chest.

Not because she was better. But because she didn’t have to decide. Because someone had told her what to do that wasn’t picking up, wasn’t disappearing into a stranger’s bathroom, wasn’t finding temporary peace that always came with a price.

She typed back quickly.

—

Anneliese Wolff

on my way

—

The heavy door to Valhalla opened before Ana could knock.

Lucian was already there, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence filling the space like a held breath. His eyes locked onto hers—calm, unreadable, knowing.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t scold.

Instead, he reached out and caught her by the arm—gently, steadying her as she stumbled forward. She didn’t resist. The city noise died behind her as he pulled the door closed.

Lucian led her down a quiet hall, the air inside dim and muted, a stark contrast to the roar in her head. Past closed doors, velvet shadows, and the low pulse of a building that never really slept. Until they reached a small office—warm light, a battered sofa, a blanket thrown across the back like it lived there for nights like this.

He didn’t speak. Just pulled the blanket from the chair and wrapped it around her shoulders, slow and careful. Then crossed the room, grabbed a hot water bottle from a small heater, and placed it in her hands.

“Go to sleep,” he said. Low, firm. Not unkind.

Ana blinked, thrown by the softness. This was Lucian—the terrifying man with a reputation whispered in corners. She hadn’t expected this. This gentleness. This quiet kind of care.

Her body didn’t argue. She was bone-deep exhausted. Hollowed out.

She curled onto the sofa, the blanket cocooning her like a shield against the storm still rattling in her chest. Clutching the hot water bottle to her stomach, she looked up at him, eyes wide, searching—for disappointment, for disdain. For something sharp to match the voice in her own head.

But Lucian only watched her from the doorway, arms crossed, jaw set. Present.

A single tear slipped down her cheek.

“Don’t cry,” he muttered. “I’m shit with tears.”

She let out a cracked, shaky laugh. “Okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise for being sad,” he said. After a beat, he said, “I think I’ve got a man for you.”

Her breath caught. “You—really?”

Lucian nodded. “New to the Monaco scene. Young but experienced. Bit awkward around the edges, but solid. Kind. A soft landing.”

She stared at him. “He might not like me,” she said quietly. “I’m not… experienced.”

“That’s okay,” Lucian said. “He’s got a corruption kink.”

She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t know what that means.” 

Lucian smirked. “He’ll like you. Now—I won’t tell you again, little miss. Sleep.” 

She closed her eyes. Sucked on her bottom lip. 

Tried to picture the man Lucian had in mind for her, but fell asleep before she could create anything solid. 

NEXT CHAPTER

[dykebehaviour]

cram session

cw: comfort, crying, finals week stress, oral (r!receiving), strapping (r!receiving), fluff, love, ellie being a soft dom, college au.

a/n: i wrote this while i was in the worsts of my final exams and completely forgot about it lol, so here it is !!

ellie didn’t panic until the third text went unanswered.

the first one:

you good, baby?

was sent casually around five, right as she left campus. the second:

you said you’d be done by six. want me to bring food?

followed by seven. then, by 7:47, she’s at your dorm building with a lukewarm burrito bowl, a hoodie in her backpack, and her heart hammering.

she knows you. and she knows finals week.

the stress. the tears. the insomnia. that one time last semester where you forgot how to spell the word “schedule” and cried about it for 30 minutes while clutching an iced coffee like it was morphine.

so yeah, she’s worried. not panicked… just worried enough to walk into your building without buzzing and knock on your door with the side of her fist.

nothing.

she tries the handle. unlocked. she sighs.

“babe?”

the moment she steps inside, her heart cracks a little.

you’re curled up at the edge of your bed, hoodie sleeves pulled down over your hands, eyes red and puffy. a half-finished paper glows from your laptop. a mug of untouched tea sits next to it, cold. your knees are hugged to your chest and your breath hitches when you look up at her.

“oh, baby,” ellie breathes. she drops the food immediately, crosses the room in two strides. “why didn’t you answer me?”

you open your mouth, but your chin wobbles, and instead of answering, you burst into tears.

ellie’s arms are around you in seconds. “hey-hey, hey, come here. it’s okay.”

you’re crying against her chest, full-body shaking, letting out the kind of broken gasps that make ellie’s stomach twist. she rubs your back, murmuring softly.

“i have three essays due and a final tomorrow,” you choke out, voice muffled by her sweatshirt. “and i missed a quiz this morning because i slept through my alarm, and i haven’t eaten anything except peanut butter crackers, and i hate everything, and i’m so tired.”

ellie hugs you tighter. “god, you are a disaster.”

you laugh through the tears, weakly punching her shoulder.

“i love you,” she adds, kissing the top of your head. “even when you smell like stress and sadness.”

“do i actually smell?”

“like a sleep-deprived angel. who hasn’t brushed her hair in three days.”

you sniffle, sit up a little. “you brought food?”

“of course. because i’m your sexy emotional support girlfriend.”

you laugh again, genuinely this time, and ellie beams.

thirty minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing ellie’s hoodie and finally eating the burrito bowl while she scrolls through your quizlet decks like she’s your chaotic little tutor.

“what’s the difference between classical and operant conditioning?” she asks.

you groan. “don’t quiz me while i’m chewing.”

ellie tosses her phone onto the desk and flops down beside you, draping an arm across your waist.

“alright, no more school talk,” she mumbles into your shoulder. “you’ve cried. you’ve eaten. you look like a real human again. which means i can say the thing i’ve wanted to say since i walked in.”

you raise an eyebrow. “what?”

“you’re hot when you’re a mess.”

you snort. “you’re so weird.”

ellie hums. “weird and in love with you. dangerous combo.”

her hand starts to slip under the hem of the hoodie you’re wearing - hers, soft and oversized and draped over your bare thighs like a blanket.

“you okay if i…?” she murmurs.

you nod instantly. “please. i need to not think for a while.”

ellie kisses you; slow, warm, coaxing. her hand traces down your stomach, over your waistband, and slides into your panties. you gasp when her fingers stroke through your wetness.

“fuck,” she mutters. “you’re already dripping.”

“finals are so sexy,” you whisper sarcastically.

ellie grins. “shut up and lie back.”

she kisses down your stomach, nudging your thighs apart, dragging your panties down slowly. and when she lays between your legs, her mouth is already open, her tongue soft and warm as she licks a slow stripe through your folds.

you moan softly, your hands moving to her hair.

she loves this. being between your legs. making you forget everything else - the papers, the deadlines, the chaos. her tongue circles your clit slowly, lovingly, then flicks against it in short, rhythmic strokes.

you grip her hair. “ellie…fuck-i needed this so bad.”

“i know, baby,” she murmurs, breath hot against you. “let me take care of you.”

she eats you like it’s the only thing she came here for. deep licks. gentle suck. she pushes a finger in, then two, curling just right as her tongue keeps flicking - building your orgasm slowly, letting it simmer until your thighs are trembling around her.

you come with a gasp, back arching, hips bucking as she holds you down.

ellie stays there, licking through it, humming like she’s proud of herself. which she is.

when she finally comes up, her mouth is shiny and her grin is cocky.

“i’m amazing,” she says.

you giggle, breathless. “you are.”

“you’re not done.”

your eyes widen. “oh?”

she gives you water first. kisses your forehead. strips off her clothes. then she pulls the harness from her backpack like it’s a damn prize.

you’re already on your hands and knees by the time she slides it on.

she kneels behind you, one hand on your hip, the other guiding the strap between your folds, sliding it through your wetness before easing it in slowly.

“fuck,” you gasp. “god, it’s so deep-“

ellie groans. “look at you. fucking taking it.”

she builds a rhythm, steady and deep, her hands gripping your hips, her strap hitting the perfect spot as she mutters behind you:

“you gonna think about this when you’re in your exam tomorrow?”

“gonna be dripping onto your seat, huh?”

“can’t focus ‘cause your brain’s still full of me?”

you come again embarrassingly fast, clenching around nothing, moaning into the mattress as ellie rocks you through it.

but she doesn’t stop.

she pulls out slowly, kisses your shoulder, and murmurs:

“wanna ride me, baby?”

you straddle her thighs, the strap pressed against you, and ellie holds it steady as you sink down.

you both moan at the same time.

you start to move - hips rolling, thighs trembling, hands braced on her chest. ellie groans and grips your waist, watching you with hungry, adoring eyes.

“that’s it, baby. just like that.”

you grind harder, chasing your own high, body already shaking from the earlier orgasm. ellie keeps praising you - soft, encouraging, hot as hell:

“look at you.”

“so pretty when you ride me.”

“my good girl.”

when you come for the third time, you collapse forward, forehead pressed to hers, your bodies tangled and sweat-slick.

ellie strokes your back gently. feel better?”

you let out a weak laugh. “finals who?”

she helps you clean up. wraps you in a blanket. you lie in bed, legs tangled, her hand stroking your thigh absentmindedly.

“can’t believe you carry that strap around like it’s your wallet,” you mumble.

ellie shrugs. “never know when my girl’s gonna have a breakdown and need a deep dicking.”

you laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

and for the first time all week, you feel okay again.

perm taglist: @yasmilks , @frosttbitten , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool , @0phantom0 , @ggutpunch , @leeidk87 , @mikellie , @celiacallsitcasual , @gurlbownerr , @l0veylace , @bluminescent-moon , @oatmatchalatte , @hitmehardmommy , @iadorefineshyt , @jksevendays , @liztreez , @clemrules , @yourl0caltrash , @rootytootymeow , @thebadwritersposts , @vanillacigarettes777 <3

[rulerofstars]

told you i’d come

oneshot: you send him one wet, towel-clad pic while he's away on a mission. next thing you know? you're waking up to his tongue in your pussy and his cock buried so deep you’ll be walking funny for days.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

tags: (18+). 3.2k words. SMUT. feral yearning. phone sex. video call tease. sex on phone. creampie. post-mission bucky who books a damn flight just to ruin you. fingering. oral sex f!receiving (waking-up edition). overstimulation. raw dogstyle & missionary bc he needs it that deep. listening to earned it by the weeknd will be the cherry on top of this filth. minors dni.

You shouldn't send it.

Oh, darling, you really shouldn't. This is a reckless, deliciously terrible idea—teetering on the edge of moral ambiguity and an international scandal wrapped in a single, impulsive click.

And yet.

Here you are, standing before your mirror, a vision of damp locks and wet skin, the towel clinging to your curves like a lover's desperate grasp. Droplets of water trail down your neck, catching the light. There's something wild in your eyes, something about your heavy lids and parted lips, like you've unlocked a secret angle of yourself that only a front-facing camera could capture.

And you? You're going to send it.

Because Bucky Barnes—your Bucky, with his storm-blue eyes and that vibranium arm that hums with quiet power is a thousand miles away.

Prague, maybe. Serbia, possibly. He's on a mission, one of those shadowy, leather-gloved affairs that probably involves scaling rooftops or disarming a bomb with seconds to spare. You don't know the details. But the ache in your chest? That's all the intel you need.

Ten days.

Ten days since you've felt the heat of his body pressed against yours, since you've tasted the soft, devastating edge of his mouth. Ten days since you've run your fingers through his dark hair, felt the shudder in his breath when you tug just a little too hard. You're unraveling, fraying at the edges, a woman starved for the man who's both her anchor and her storm.

So, naturally, you do what any rational, touch-starved, love-drunk soul would do. You grab your phone. You swipe open the camera. And you pose.

It's not graceful. You're not some sultry vixen trained in the art of seduction. You're just you—heart pounding, towel slipping just enough to tease, hips tilted in a way that feels like a dare. You stare into the lens and think, What would make Bucky lose his mind?

The answer is this: you, glistening from the shower, skin dewy and warm, the towel barely holding on, one hip cocked, your lips parted in a look that's half-innocent, half-come get me. It's a snapshot of longing, of I miss you laced with I dare you.

You snap the photo. Your thumb hovers over the send button for a heartbeat—two, three. Then you press it.

The wait is electric.

Your phone buzzes, and your pulse spikes.

Bucky Jesus, sweetheart.

Another buzz, and it's like his voice is in the room, low and rough, curling around you like smoke.

Bucky What are you doing to me?

I'm in a goddamn surveillance van with two other agents and a shared screen. Had to throw a blanket over my lap like some kid who can't control himself.

You bite your lip, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. The towel feels heavier now, like it's conspiring with your racing heart. You type back, fingers trembling with mischief.

oops! just wanted to say hi... all clean and wet. is that a crime now?

Bucky You're lucky I'm not there, doll. You wouldn't be standing.

Your breath catches, a soft laugh spilling from your lips. Heat pools low in your belly, and you can almost feel the ghost of his hands—calloused, warm, possessive and grazing your skin. You type again.

hmm, i'm all wet and lonely. you're out there being dangerous and armed... we're not playing fair, are we?

Bucky Say that one more time, and I'm on the next flight home. Mission be damned.

You laugh again, loud and unguarded, because you know he means it. He'd burn the world down to get to you if you asked. And that's the sweetest, most dangerous part of all—this love that's so big, so consuming, it's hard to breathe without pulling him into your orbit.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, still clutching the phone, the towel slipping just a fraction lower. Your skin hums with the memory of him, and you wonder how long it'll be before he's back, before you can trade these teasing texts for the real thing—his hands, his mouth, his everything.

Until then, you'll just have to keep torturing him. One sultry selfie at a time.You spend the next three hours doing completely ordinary, non-sinister things like brushing your hair and moisturizing your soul. Also, watching Mamma Mia! for the hundredth time and pretending you don't keep glancing at your phone every seven minutes.

You do. You absolutely do. And yes, you are tracking Bucky's location like the clingy menace you are.

And it turns out he's checked into his hotel.

Which means—oh.

He's alone.

And probably grumpy.

Which means Bucky Barnes, Sergeant of Chaos, is probably somewhere in Europe brooding shirtless in soft lamplight. All sharp jawline and stormy eyes, still simmering from the situation you personally orchestrated.

Your body hums. Full-body anticipation. Wicked little pulses of mine mine mine under your skin. So naturally, you do what any well-adjusted, emotionally stable girlfriend would do.

You hit the video call button.

He answers on the first ring.

His face fills your screen—all chiseled bone structure and dark stubble and mussed hair like he's been running his hands through it since your last message. His voice is a low growl, sleep-rough and laced with something entirely more dangerous.

"Baby,"

You sprawl across your bed, the towel you're still wearing—barely—slipping dangerously low, exposing the curve of your thigh, the dip of your collarbone. You tilt your phone just right, letting him catch the glint of your damp skin in the soft light. "Hi, Sergeant," you purr, your voice a velvet blade, sharp and sweet.

He groans, head tipping back against the headboard, the sound vibrating through you like a physical touch. "Don't start with that Sergeant shit," he warns, but his eyes are already darkening, pupils blown wide as they rake over you. "I'm barely holding it together."

"Why?" You tilt your head, letting a damp curl fall across your shoulder, your lips curving into a smirk that's pure sin. "I'm just being respectful. Honoring your rank." You shift, the towel riding up just enough to make his jaw clench.

"Fuck," he mutters, the word a prayer and a curse. You hear the creak of his hotel bed, the rustle of sheets as he adjusts himself, and it's enough to make your thighs press together. "That picture you sent? I've been hard since. Had to lock myself in this room just to breathe."

You laugh, low and sultry, stretching out on your bed, letting the towel slip another inch, teasing the edge of decency. "Poor baby," you coo, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. "All worked up because of little ol' me?"

"You know exactly what you're doing," he growls, his eyes narrowing as he leans closer to the screen, like he could reach through it and grab you. "You're a fucking menace."

"I miss you," you whisper, and it's not just teasing now—it's raw, aching truth. Ten days without him, without his hands, his mouth, his weight pinning you down. It's too long. Too empty.

His expression softens, just for a second, before the hunger takes over again. "Miss you so damn much, sweetheart," he says, his voice thick, almost reverent. "It's killing me. Ten days, and I'm dreaming about you, waking up hard, thinking about your taste, your smell, the way you fucking move."

Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your belly. "Then show me," you challenge, your voice a husky whisper. You prop your phone against a pillow, angling it so he can see every inch of you—towel barely clinging to your hips, your skin flushed and glistening. "Show me how much you miss me."

His eyes go molten, and he shifts, the camera catching the flex of his vibranium arm as he adjusts himself. "You want to play dirty?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to that dangerous, filthy register that makes your toes curl. 

He shifts, grunts softly, and sets his phone down too—somewhere low, tilted up just enough to give you the full view. And oh. Oh, God.

He's shirtless. Hair a mess. His thighs spread wide and bare.

And his cock. Thick, flushed, already hard rests heavy against his stomach.

"Like that, baby?" he asks, a little breathless, a little too smug for someone stroking himself with a metal arm like he's trying to kill you with lust via satellite.

You whimper. That's it. That's your only response. A noise of full-body, feral yearning.

Because his vibranium fingers? Wrapped around the base of his cock like a fucking vice. The gold plating catches in the low light, gleaming wickedly as he strokes once—slow and deliberate, like he wants to ruin you before he even touches himself properly.

"I thought about you all day," he murmurs, lazy now, letting his thumb rub over the head, watching your mouth fall open. "Tried so fucking hard not to do this until I saw you. But then you called, lookin' like you wanted me to lose it... Take that towel off, baby. Let me see you."

You comply, agonizingly slow, peeling the fabric away until it pools beneath you, leaving you bare and breathless under his gaze. His groan is primal, a sound that vibrates through your core. "Fuck, look at you," he breathes, his hand disappearing below the frame, the motion unmistakable. "So fucking perfect. You know what I'd do if I was there? I'd bury my face between those thighs. Lick you so slow, so deep, you'd be begging me to let you come."

You whimper, your fingers trailing down your stomach, teasing yourself as his words burn through you. "Bucky," you gasp, your voice trembling with need. "Keep talking."

"Oh, I'm just getting started," he says, his voice a low, filthy promise. "I'd spread you open, taste every inch of that sweet pussy. Fuck, I can still taste you from last time, all wet and warm and mine. I'd suck that clit until you're screaming, until you're pulling my hair so hard it hurts. You'd be dripping for me, wouldn't you? Soaking the sheets, begging for my cock."

Your fingers move faster against your hot core, chasing the heat of his words, your hips bucking as you moan his name. "Yes," you pant, your body arching off the bed. "God, Bucky, I need you."

"You have no idea," he growls, his breath hitching as he matches your rhythm, his camera shaking slightly as he moves. "I'd fuck you so deep, baby. Pin you down, make you take every inch. You'd feel me for days. I'd fill you up, make you scream my name until your voice gives out."

"Fuck, Bucky—" Your hand trails down again, desperate, twitchy.

He smirks. "Go ahead. Touch yourself while you watch me." His jaw flexes, the vibranium grip stroking tighter. "Wanna see how wet you are for me."

And you do. With him watching. With him moaning. With the sound of slick metal pumping against his cock, slow and devastating.

"I'm gonna fuck you so deep when I get back," he growls, voice wrecked now, gaze locked on you like a threat. "You won't be able to walk straight, baby. Not after this. Not after seeing me fuck my fist thinking about that perfect pussy of yours."

You gasp, your rhythm matching his, your thighs trembling.

"I'm gonna come all over this hand," he grits out. "And the second I land, I'm putting my mouth where this hand's been. Gonna taste you, taste me on you. Make you take it."

The words push you over the edge, your body shuddering as you come, his name a broken cry on your lips. He's not far behind, his groans rough and ragged, the camera catching the tense line of his jaw, the way his eyes flutter shut as he chases his own release.

For a moment, there's just the sound of your heavy breathing, the shared silence of two people wrecked and sated. You're sweaty, flushed, your body still trembling, but you feel alive, tethered to him through the screen.

"Jesus Christ," he pants. "I'm booking the next fucking flight."

You collapse into sleep, hard and heavy, your body still humming from the filthy promises of Bucky's voice over the video call. The blankets cocoon you, your pulse a lazy flutter, your skin tingling with the ghost of his words. You're not even sure if you ended the call, too drunk on pleasure to care. One moment, you're sinking into the soft haze of afterglow. The next—

Oh. Fuck.

You wake to a sensation so sinful it rips you from sleep. A wet, searing heat between your thighs, deliberate and unrelenting. Your hips buck instinctively, a sharp, needy jolt as your eyes flutter open, vision blurry with confusion and want.

Another slow, possessive lick drags up your core, and your brain stutters, short-circuits, melts. Your breath catches, a broken gasp, as you blink down and see him—Bucky Barnes, all six-foot-something of him, nestled between your legs like he was made for it. His hair's a tousled mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, his beard scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. Those broad shoulders, carved from years of violence and redemption, pin your thighs open against the sheets. And his tongue—fuck, his tongue—is inside you, lapping at you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

"Bucky—what—?" Your voice cracks, half a moan, as you try to process the impossible. "How—?"

"Shh, pretty girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing your clit, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of heat through you. "Heard you whimpering my name in your sleep. Fuck, you sounded so needy. Couldn't just lie there and listen."

"You're here?" you gasp, trying to sit up, but his vibranium arm curls over your hip, pinning you down with gentle, unyielding strength. "You—ohmygod—Bucky."

"Told you I'd be on the next flight," he growls, his voice rough with hunger, his eyes dark and feral as they meet yours. "Couldn't stay away. Not after that little show you put on." He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep, dragging a wrecked moan from your throat. "You taste better than I remember. So fucking sweet."

Your hands fist the sheets, your hips grinding up to meet his mouth as he devours you, slow and reverent, like he's worshiping every inch of you. His tongue flicks and curls, teasing your entrance before plunging inside, and you're already trembling, your body a live wire under his touch. "Bucky—please," you whimper, your thighs quaking as he hooks them over his shoulders, spreading you wider, claiming you completely.

"Love hearing you beg," he murmurs against your pussy, his beard scraping your inner thighs, the burn only amplifying the pleasure. "Missed this. Missed you. Been dreaming about this pretty cunt every fucking night." He sucks your clit hard, a deliberate pull that makes your vision blur, your body arching off the bed as you cry out. "Gonna make you come so hard you forget how to breathe."

You do. You come so fast, so violently, it's like a supernova bursting behind your eyes, your entire body seizing as you scream his name. He doesn't stop, lapping at you through the aftershocks, drawing out every shudder, every broken gasp, until you're a boneless mess beneath him.

But he's not done. Not even close.

Before you can catch your breath, he's up, his hands—flesh and metal—flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength. "Ass up, sweetheart," he growls, his voice a dark, filthy promise that makes your core clench all over again. You scramble to obey, your knees sinking into the mattress, your back arching as you press your hips back toward him, desperate, aching, needy.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs spreading you open as he kneels behind you. "So wet for me. So fucking perfect." You hear the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt, and then he's there, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

Not yet.

Instead, he presses the hot, leaking head of his cock on your wet pussy and just… holds it there. Teasing. Taunting. Letting you feel the weight of him, the heat, the pressure, everything you want but not giving you an inch.

He grinds in slow, maddening circles, rubbing right where you're soaked and aching, coating his tip in your slick. The sensation is enough to make your knees shake.

You whimper. Push back against him. Beg with your body.

But he only chuckles, low and wrecked. "You want it that bad, sweetheart?" he rasps, dragging his tip up through your folds, nudging your clit before sliding back down and rubbing against your entrance again. "Fuck, look how wet you are for me. Just from my voice. Just from thinking about me."

You sob his name, fingers curling in the sheets, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him.

But Bucky stays exactly where he is. Letting the swollen tip of his cock press against your cunt without breaching it, just enough to make your whole body burn. Just enough to make you feel like you're going to snap.

He groans like he's punishing himself. Like this is torture for him, too. "Could slide in so easy," he murmurs, grinding slow and shallow against you, your slick coating both of you now. "You're begging for it, baby. This tight little cunt's fuckin' fluttering, pulling me in."

Your hips buck helplessly. "Bucky... please—"

"Please what?" he growls, jaw tight. "Please put it in? Please fuck you stupid? You want this cock, doll?"

"Yes—fuck—yes," you cry, nearly delirious. "Please, don't tease, just fuck me..."

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you," he says, his tone dripping with dark, delicious intent. "Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for days. Gonna ruin this pussy." He slides in slow, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you, filling you, until you're gasping, your hands clawing at the sheets. 

"You're mine, baby. This tight little cunt? Mine."

He starts moving, hard and deliberate, each thrust driving you into the mattress, his hips snapping against yours with a filthy rhythm that makes you sob with pleasure. His vibranium hand grips your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides under you, finding your breasts, cupping them possessively. His fingers pinch your nipples, rolling them just hard enough to make you gasp, your body arching further into him as he groans against your skin. "These fucking tits," he growls, squeezing them from beneath, his touch rough and reverent. "Been dreaming about these, too. So soft, so perfect in my hands."

"Yes—yes," you moan, your body shaking as he pounds into you, each thrust hitting that perfect spot that makes you see stars. "Love it. Love you. Bucky, harder."

He growls, low and feral, and gives you exactly what you want, his pace turning brutal, his cock slamming into you so deep you feel it in your bones. "Fuck, I want to taste you again," he rasps, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back, his lips grazing your ear.

It's too much. It's everything. Your body is a live wire, oversensitive and overstimulated, but you can't stop, can't pull away from the way he's claiming you, body and soul. His filthy promises, his bites, the way he fills yoU, it's all-consuming. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, white-hot and blinding, your walls clenching so tight around him you feel him falter. You scream his name, a broken, desperate sound, your body shaking as you come so hard your vision goes dark, your pussy gripping him like it's trying to keep him forever.

"Fuck—fuck," he chokes out, his thrusts stuttering as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, hot and thick, wave after wave filling you up. His forehead presses against your spine, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as they lock onto your hips, anchoring himself to you like you're his only tether to the world.

But he's not done. Oh, God, he's not done.

He pulls out just enough to catch his breath, his cock still slick and half-hard, and then he flips you over with a strength that steals the air from your lungs. You land on your back with a startled gasp, your legs trembling as he nudges them apart with his knee, his vibranium hand curling around the back of your neck, possessive and grounding. His dark, wild, starving eyes—lock onto yours as he lines himself up again, pushing back inside with a slow, deliberate thrust that makes you whimper.

"Need to see you," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, his lips brushing your temple as he rocks into you, deep and unhurried, like he's savoring every second. "Need to come inside you while I watch those pretty eyes fall apart." His flesh hand slides down to your thigh, hooking it over his waist, opening you up so he can fuck you deeper, his cock hitting places that make your breath hitch.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips rolling with a rhythm that's both tender and devastating. "Feel how full you are? That's all me. Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for weeks. Wanna mark you inside and out, make sure you're dripping with me." His vibranium hand slides up to your breast, squeezing hard, his thumb brushing your nipple until you're gasping, your body clenching around him again.

He bites your shoulder again, harder this time, his teeth sinking in as he growls against your skin, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure of his cock filling you. "Love these fucking tits," he murmurs, his hand kneading your breast, his fingers pinching just enough to make you moan. "Love how you shake for me, how you take every inch like you're made for my cock."

You're a mess, slick with sweat, your body trembling as another orgasm builds, unstoppable and overwhelming. "Bucky," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders, his back, anything to hold onto as he drives you higher. "I love you. I love you so fucking much."

That's what breaks him. A shattered groan of your name spilling from his lips as he comes again, his cock pulsing deep inside you, filling you until you're dripping, claimed in every way. His thrusts slow but don't stop, drawing out your pleasure until you're shaking, your own release crashing through you, your moans mingling with his as you cling to him, utterly ruined.

He collapses over you, chest heaving, his body a warm, heavy weight pinning you to the mattress. He doesn't pull out, just stays there, softening inside you, his lips brushing soft, reverent kisses over the bite marks on your shoulder, soothing the sting he left behind. "Missed you so fucking much," he whispers, his voice raw, trembling with something deeper than lust. "Couldn't stay away from you. Never can."

You hum, too fucked-out to speak, your arms wrapping around his back, holding him close as your body thrums with the afterglow, the marks on your shoulder a delicious reminder of his claim.

"You okay?" he murmurs after a moment, nudging your nose with his, his voice a mix of concern and that smug, bastardly charm.

You manage a breathless laugh, your head still spinning. "I think I died. Twice."

He grins. Smug bastard.

"Good."

You roll your eyes. "You and your fucking audacity," you mumble, barely coherent.

He chuckles, still inside you, still hardening slowly. Still not done.

"I am so in love with you," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. "'And I'm not going anywhere."

[itzpookiepooh]

My Boyfriend vs His Mouth

This trend but funnier (and nicer)

Caleb was sassy no lie but he was also random for the most part. He was especially random in the middle of the night when he was getting sleepy. You were in the car getting sleepy after a road trip with Caleb when he decided to speak.

“Deers have the survival instincts of a graham cracker.” He blurted his eyes not leaving the road. You sit up and look over at him.

“Uh—sure. I guess…” You mumble with confusion. What is he talking about? You side eye him before relaxing again.

“Also do you see people on the side of the road when you drive at night?” He asks making you fully turn to him.

“Caleb pull over. You’re done.” You stated firmly. You drove the rest of the way while he kept you company with his randomness.

Xavier, you, and Jeremiah were sitting in the car. The heat was high today making everyone a bit on edge. You were fanning yourself as you all waited for the air to circulate. Jeremiah was all for sunny days and the heat wasn’t bothering him so he kept asking questions.

Everyone knows not to ask questions in this heat. Unfortunately Jeremiah asked a melting Xavier another question.

“Can you hand me that charger?” He asked you making Xavier side eye him.

“Can you see it?” Xavier asked Jeremiah making Jeremiah’s eyebrows scrunch.

“Yes?” He answered making Xavier nod slowly.

“So you can do it yourself correct?” He sassed making you hit his chest. You handed Jeremiah the cord and glared at Xavier.

“Be nice.” You whisper harshly. “I’m trying.” He mumbles softly as he shuts his eyes.

“Also can you turn the air up a bit?” Now it was your turn to look at him crazy. Your eyes shifted to Xavier who was already pulling his sword.

“Xavier no!”

“Cutie, sweetie, and patootie are all such cute little names.” You coo to Sylus who nods. He holds his finger up to add to what you said.

“And die.” He stated making the room go silent as you stare at him with exhaustion.

“Do you ever think positively?” You sighed softly as you nods.

“Only on my days off.” He said making you face palm and slide down the couch.

Rafayel was talking with one of the elders at the event who was being pretty rude. Rafayel was already very irritated with the summers heat today so hearing this man drone on and on about art he wasn’t going to buy was exhausting.

“I also don’t think this red went well with the contrast of orange.” Rafayel sighed dramatically making you grip his arm tightly. He has a mouth on him and you know it.

“If I wanted to hear white noise I would’ve turned on my sound machine.” He bluntly told the man making his jaw drop.

“Rafayel—“ He continued before you could finish, “And you’re—“ You cover his mouth before giving a polite smile to everyone else.

“He’s just a bit…overstimulated? We gotta go.” You drag him and his sassy mouth away from the crowd.

“I wish this ibuprofen would kick in.” You mumble as you lean into the couch.

“It’s trying to figure out what to work on first.” He said without missing a beat. You slowly turn to him and look around.

“Are you saying that something’s wrong with me?” You question as he stops what he’s doing to look at you.

“No, it tries to stick to the problem.” He explained making you cross your arms.

“So I’m the problem?” You ask before Zayne blankly stares at you. He was going to give you what you were asking for.

“Yes.” He said bluntly. Your jaw dropped as you clutched your chest. “Zayne!”

This was a bit challenging but I wanted to try and have them do sassy remarks

[reallyromealone]

Title: Idol

Chapter: 1

Part 2 part 3

Fandom: Kpop demon hunters

Genre: omegaverse

Warnings: omegaverse, male reader, soulmate au

Notes:

Summary: Mira's younger brother meets the Saja boys, to the university students horror his soul beats for them and us horrified when they answer back.

🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛

(name) was excited at the snacks he got, the Omega holding his convenience store haul close while walking through the plaza and back to his apartment, his elder sister texting him about their newest single and he couldn't not be excited for her.

Good for her!

"You're my soda pop~!"

Confused at the singing, he looked up to see a group of men dancing and singing, the song was catchy he wouldn't deny that, the Omega keeping a calm expression while watching but something... Felt odd.

It wasn't until he locked eyes with them he felt it, a spark within him... But it wasn't until he saw their eyes flash that he felt fear.

No.

Absolutely not.

And with that, he got the hell out of there.

Rushing back to his apartment with his snacks safe in his arms, he locked the door before slinking down and sitting against the front door in his entrance, the realization of what happened sinked in.

His soulmates were demons....

Nope.

He wasn't going to even remotely entertain that! What would his sister say! Mira would be pissed if he got with demons and demons were bad! They ate souls and hurt people!

Rubbing at his bite choker he sat up and shakily walked into his small livingroom, shoes kicked off by the door and plopped on his plush couch, his sister claiming it to be a housewarming gift but when Rumi and Zoey wanted to give housewarming gifts... Well they bought his entire apartments furniture.

And the espresso machine.

"You know what, they are just a dime a dozen idol group... They will be gone in a week"

They weren't gone in a week.

And apparently they felt the spark too because there were... Gifts?

Could they be called that?

More like creepy merch items.

Seriously, a body pillow?

Eugh.

The frustrating thing was, he couldn't ignore the spark and tingle in his chest after seeing them and feeling cold, as if the warmth stolen from him and they held it with them, taunting him to come get it.

It was hard to ignore his instincts between university and his shrine duties but he mate it work, texting his big sister and his friends when he had free time. His life was busy more often than not, his sister sending him money "focus on school and that internship you want!" She would bark at him when he argued with her, her worry evident and that's why he didn't tell her about the soulmate thing... She was already so worried and with the idol thing...

He couldn't afford to risk it.

He couldn't make her worry more.

"Ah, there you are" a voice spoke behind him and he quickly turned to see Jinu, eyes calculating the omegas movements carefully and when he stepped forward, (name) stepped back into romances chest and yelped at the sensation, instantly turning to look around. He was surrounded by demons, his heart picked up in panic at the realization he may die at that moment.

This was when he was going to die.

Great.

"You know, it's not healthy for an Omega to be away from their alphas, right?" Abby whispered to the other, mouth pressed against his ear and (name) pulled away immediately "I am not your Omega!" (Name) Growled out and the alphas cooed at his hostile reaction, like an angry puppy.

"You guys don't even have souls! How could I be mates with demons!"

"We were once human, you know that right?" Baby stared with a bland voice, eyes holding nothing behind them but his stare was intense, making (name) want to submit but he refused.

He refused to give into the pretty demons who claimed their position as his mates.

Jinu gently cupped his face, eyes soft and sweet "let us show you, Omega" he said sweetly, like (name) was his world "let us worship you..."

He was almost tempted by those sweet words, the way his eyes gazed at (name) like he was his world..

He was almost tempted.

Almost.

Ducking down he pushed passed mystery and baby "nope nope!" He yelled and ran into the crowd to avoid the alphas who stared at him like he was their next meal and for all he knew, he was.

Just not the way he was thinking.

-

It was late when the HUNTR/X girls came into his apartment with seals and salt "this is for your safety (name)! Those saja boys are demons and we don't want anything happening to you!"

"About... About the saja boys..." (Name) Mumbled and the three turned and looked at him intensely "don't tell us you're a fan" Rumi mumbled worried and the Omega shook his head fast "no! Uh... It's worse"

"Mates?"

"....soulmates..."

"No..." Mira mumbled, eyes widened with horror and then rage slowly twisted "those fucking demons won't lay a hand on you, mark my words" she promised with a cold stare but love towards her baby brother, her last piece of her family that still loved her, supported her no matter what.

"Don't leave your apartment, we will notify the shrine on the situation and do online classes" she said and Zoey ordered a metric ton of groceries for the other "what about my heat?"

"I'll come and care for you, make sure you don't die" Mira said softly and the others smiled at him "we got your back, (name)"

[hearts4hughes]

LOVED the rafe is an asshole but soft for reader!! Can you do reader gets a minor injury and rafe LOSES it and is blaming it on his friends?

you don’t cry. not over things like this. it’s just a scrape, a hot line of pain stinging across the outside of your thigh, already crusting over where blood’s drying beneath the edge of your hem. it happened fast. there were the wooden stairs—half-rotted and slick with river mud—and you’d been laughing too hard to notice. the kind of fall that stuns you more than it hurts. just your luck rafe had been ten steps behind.

you hear him before you see him. “what the fuck did you let her go down there for?” your head snaps up. he’s not talking to you. not even looking. he’s turned on topper and kelce like they killed someone, like he’s ready to make them pay for it with their own skin.

“rafe,” you warn, but it’s low, unsure. you’re still sitting in the grass, palm smudged with dirt, leg bent awkwardly beneath you. his eyes land on you and the noise just…stops. the rush of it, the fury. something shifts behind his expression and he’s moving, fast, rough, like he doesn’t trust his own body not to make it worse.

he drops to his knees. grabs your ankle too hard and mutters “sorry” right after, but doesn’t let go. “what the hell happened?” he says, quieter now, all that rage corralled behind his teeth. “you fall?”

you nod, lips pressed tight. “it’s not bad.”

he doesn’t answer. just peels your skirt up like it’s nothing, like you’re not outside, like his friends aren’t two feet away watching him fall to pieces over a little blood. his jaw twitches when he sees the cut. it’s red and ugly and shallow. it’s as if he could feel your pain.

“you could’ve broken something,” he says, voice sharp but low, like he’s trying not to scare you. “could’ve hit your head. what the fuck were you thinking?”

and yeah, there it is—blame as a love language. you roll your eyes. “i was thinking maybe i could go five minutes without a lecture.” but it doesn’t land. he’s not teasing back. not this time. he looks haunted. you reach for his hand. his fingers are cold. “rafe,” you say, softer, like you’re trying to call him back from wherever his head just went. “i’m okay.”

his eyes flick to yours. his mouth parts like he might argue, then snaps shut again. you watch him breathe. then he stands up too fast and rounds on topper, who’s leaning against the fence looking mildly concerned but mostly bored.

“you were supposed to go down with her,” rafe says, dark and deadly. his eyebrows are furrowed, cheeks flushed. “wasn’t that the whole fucking point? why the hell are you even here if you can’t pay attention?”

topper scoffs. “jesus, rafe, she slipped. you think i shoved her down the stairs?”

but rafe’s already moving, fists clenched like he doesn’t trust himself not to swing. “okay,” you say quickly, pushing yourself to your feet. your thigh protests but you hide the wince. “we’re done now. no one’s dying today.”

he turns back toward you, all storm and ruin, but the second your eyes meet his, it’s like something breaks open. his chest rises and falls. “come here,” he says, voice taunt like a bow.

you hesitate, but only for a beat. then you’re stepping into him, and he’s pulling you close like he needs to feel you breathing.

his hand curls around the back of your neck. he presses his forehead to yours. “don’t do that again,” he murmurs, not angry now. just wrecked. “don’t scare me like that.”

your heart stumbles. you almost smile—almost. “you gonna yell at the river next?” you whisper.

he exhales through his nose, amused in that barely-there way. pulling back, he presses a kiss to your cheek like a secret. “might,” he says. “river’s got a fucking attitude.”

you laugh, quiet and warm against his collarbone. it’s not fair the way he’s poison to everyone else, but medicine to you. you pull back enough to look him in the eye. “rafe?”

“yeah.”

“next time i trip, just help me up.”

he gives you a long look. his eyes flickering between your gaze and your lips. something possessive flickers in his gaze. “next time you trip,” he says, “i’m burning the stairs.”

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04 @kelbrave @bebebambs @leviathan0000 @yolgart @jkmylove97 @blushhbambi @lightreadingty

[rafecameronssl4t]

could you do Rafe x kook!reader where they’re friends with benefits and maybe inspired by Maddie from euphoria when she says “idk if ur head is all scrambled from all the molly u take but I never said that.” maybe reader is in argument with Rafe because he was telling a guy reader was seeing that her and Rafe were exclusive reader is mad abt it?? Idk just a thought, I love ur writing sm 🫶

We good? || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: I love this idea thank you!!!

Warnings: angst!!!! Toxic!rafe, fwb

Word count: 1,654

MASTERLIST

The glow of the bonfire cast golden streaks across the sand, crackling and spitting up into the dark Carolina sky. The usual people were scattered around the beach—red Solo cups in hand, some half-drunk, others halfway to blackout. Music thumped from the Bluetooth speaker Topper had half-buried in the sand.

It was your scene. Your crowd. But you hadn’t cracked a smile all night. You were sitting on the arm of a wicker lounge chair with your legs crossed, nursing the same drink for the past hour. Your eyes kept flicking toward Rafe. He was surrounded by his friends near the firepit, grinning like he hadn’t just fucked up your night.

Because he had. You knew it the second Jonah stopped texting you. Jonah Blackwood—Chapel Hill college boy home for the summer. He was sweet, preppy, clean-cut in a way that promised safety instead of chaos. You’d gone on a few dates. He liked you. Liked-liked you.

There was potential, and you needed that—needed someone who didn’t live in the constant chaos that followed Rafe like a shadow. But out of nowhere, he just stopped texting. You’d seen him yesterday at The Wreck, and he couldn’t even look you in the eye.

Then today, you got the message: “Didn’t know you were with Rafe Cameron. Should’ve told me.” You had blinked at your phone like it had personally slapped you. You’d never said that. Never claimed Rafe, never pretended this arrangement between you two was anything more than backseat sex and bad decisions.

And he knew that. He knew. So why the hell was he chasing off anyone who got close to you like you were his to protect—or keep? That question had been simmering under your skin all night, hot and sharp. And now? Watching him laugh with his boys like he hadn’t just blown up the first decent thing you’d had in a while? You could feel the anger rising in your throat, ready to spill over.

You stood. Tossed your cup into the sand. And walked straight toward him. A few heads turned. You didn’t care. Rafe was mid-laugh when he noticed you coming—his grin faltered for half a second, like some distant warning bell had gone off in his head. He stood up straighter, cocked his head, his usual lazy smirk settling into place.

“Hey, look who’s finally decided to—” “What the fuck did you say to Jonah?” you cut in, voice ice-cold. His smile dropped entirely. The group around him—Topper, Kelce, Jason, that junior Tyler—went quiet. Tense. A couple of them traded looks, the kind you give when you know shit’s about to go sideways. “Jonah who?” Rafe asked, all faux-innocence and drug-fueled arrogance.

You stepped closer, toe to toe with him now. “Jonah Blackwood. The guy I was seeing.” Rafe raised his eyebrows like you’d just told him you were dating a garbage man. “That the UNC kid? Button-downs and baby-blue loafers?” You didn’t blink. “Yeah. Him. He stopped talking to me. Know what he said?”

Rafe didn’t answer. You said it for him. “Didn’t know you were with Rafe Cameron.” The fire crackled behind you. Sand shifted under your feet. Rafe didn’t move. “I didn’t tell him that,” you continued, voice rising slightly. “I never said we were together. So I’m gonna ask again—what did you say to him?” His jaw tightened. You saw it. Quick, subtle.

His mask slipped for half a second. “I just told him he should know who he’s dealing with,” Rafe said smoothly, voice low and infuriatingly calm. “Didn’t think you’d want some guy disrespecting you.” “Disrespecting me?” you snapped, your eyes narrowing. “Or just not treating me like you do?” A sharp pause. Topper gave a low whistle under his breath.

Kelce took a step back. Jason muttered something and grabbed a beer from the cooler, clearly not wanting to be part of what was about to go down. One by one, the guys peeled off. Now it was just you and Rafe. “You think just because I let you touch me, you get to make decisions for me?” you asked, teeth clenched. “I wasn’t making a decision for you,” Rafe bit out. “I was looking out for you.” “Bullshit.” His jaw ticked. “He was a fucking joke—”

“No, you’re the joke,” you snapped, stepping in closer. “And I don’t know if your brain is all scrambled from all the coke you take—” His expression cracked. “Watch it.” “—but I never said that,” you went on, voice hard and venomous. “I never said I was yours. So whatever little fantasy you’ve got playing in that fucked-up head of yours? Cut it. Because if you ever spread some shit like that again, I will fucking come for you, Rafe. Don’t test me.”

You could see it—the pulse in his neck, ticking like a warning. His chest rose and fell a little too fast, breath starting to shallow. But you didn’t stop. “You ruined something for me,” you said, voice steady but low, thick with heat. “Something normal. Something that didn’t involve back rooms, secrets, or pretending I don’t exist in the daylight.” You took a step closer, your eyes locked on his.

“And if you ever pull that shit again, Rafe? I swear to God, I’ll make sure you’re the one getting ghosted.” Silence. The kind that buzzed in your ears. That made the air feel thick. You let out a breath, sharp and shaky, your hands still curled into fists at your sides. Adrenaline still clinging to your skin. Rafe just stared at you—like you’d ripped him open and left him bleeding on the sand. No smug comebacks. No smartass grin.

Just that look. Like whatever was left inside him had just been scraped raw. He didn’t answer. Not right away. The only sounds were the fire cracking behind you and the music thumping from somewhere down the beach—distant, muffled, completely irrelevant now. Then, after a beat, his voice—low and tight: “You done?”

You let out a sharp scoff, half a laugh, half something darker. “Yeah. I’m done.” You turned and started walking. But behind you, you heard it—the sudden crash of glass, a chair scraping violently across the sand, someone cursing under their breath as Rafe kicked something hard enough to send it flying.

[thatonegrimm]

HIHI!!!how about how the Saja boys would react to reader having a big fluffy dog she likes to cuddle with and they get jealous cus like, uh that’s my spot not the dogs what????LOVE LOVE LOVE YOUR WRITING!!! Make sure to take care of yourself!

Thank you for the request! This is such a mood. Im glad your enjoying my writing, take care of yourself too❤️❤️ Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Reader—”That's My Spot”

----------------------

🧿 Jinu 

Jinu had finally worked up the courage to sit next to you on the couch, cup of tea in hand, mentally preparing to maybe brush his pinky against yours or, if the stars aligned, put his arm around you.

Unfortunately, your golden retriever had other plans.

The dog flopped between you like it was claiming real estate, big head plopped in your lap with a content sigh.

Jinu stared. “...You weren’t sitting there two seconds ago.”

The dog thumped its tail once.

You gave a sheepish smile, fingers already stroking soft ears. “He’s needy today.”

“I’m needy every day,” Jinu mumbled under his breath.

You looked up. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, sipping his tea with the air of a man who was definitely not silently competing with an animal.

Still, a minute later, he reached out and gave the dog a stiff little pat.

“...You win. But I was supposed to be the emotional support today.”

----------------------

💪 Abby 

It was movie night. You were curled up on the floor in a pile of blankets, half-asleep, your big fluffy dog tucked against you like a protective cloud.

Abby stepped into the room, popcorn in hand, and stopped mid-step.

He blinked. “I thought I was movie cuddle guy.”

You peeked up from under the dog’s tail. “You are. He’s just a good heater.”

“I have a literal body temperature of lava.”

You giggled. “Yeah, but he doesn’t talk during movies.”

Abby narrowed his eyes, feigning betrayal, and slowly sank to the floor beside you. The dog gave him a disinterested glance.

“Alright,” Abby muttered, glaring at the back of the dog’s head. “I’m gonna start carrying him around the house until he learns who’s Alpha.”

You grinned. “You’re not actually jealous, are you?”

“I’m not not jealous.”

----------------------

📚 Mystery

The dog was always there. Quiet. Present. Massive.

Today, it was curled next to you on the window seat, your legs draped over its warm body as you read quietly. It had its head tucked under your chin like it belonged there.

Mystery stood across the room, watching.

Just watching.

You glanced up. “...You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, in a completely flat tone, he said, “He’s smug.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The dog. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

You laughed, leaning down to kiss the top of your pup’s fluffy head. “He’s just cuddly.”

“He’s taking my spot,” Mystery said, coming to kneel by the seat. “And smirking about it.”

“He can’t smirk. He’s a dog.”

“Open your eyes,” Mystery muttered. Then he gently nudged the dog’s foot off the cushion and sat down beside it.

He didn’t move the dog. But he did wedge himself right between you both.

You said nothing.

Mystery said nothing.

The dog sighed dramatically.

----------------------

💋 Romance 

You were lying on the bed with your massive fluffball draped across your chest, one hand absently scratching its side, the other scrolling your phone.

Romance opened the door, stopped short, and dropped his water bottle in mock horror.

“...I’ve been replaced.”

You snorted. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“You said I was the softest thing in your life,” he whined, pointing accusingly at the dog. “And now look at this betrayal.”

“He’s been with me since before I met you!”

Romance placed a hand over his heart, staggered to the foot of the bed, and collapsed face-first into the blanket. “You’ve wounded me. Deeply.”

The dog just looked at him. Blank. Unmoved.

Romance popped his head up. “Oh, so it’s like that?”

You were already laughing when he climbed onto the bed and threw an arm over both you and the dog. The dog groaned.

“I hope he knows,” Romance muttered dramatically, “that this is a shared custody situation now.”

----------------------

🔥 Baby 

You were curled up on the couch in your favorite hoodie, your giant fluffy mutt sprawled across your legs like a smug, oversized pillow.

Baby paused in the doorway, chewing his snack slowly.

“You always let him do that?” he asked, eyebrow twitching.

You shrugged. “He’s comfortable.”

“I’m supposed to sit there.”

You blinked at him. “He was here first.”

“He’s not even watching the show,” Baby snapped, gesturing wildly. “He’s just lying there like he owns you.”

“He does live here.”

Baby walked over, knelt beside the dog, and leaned in close. “I will not be disrespected by a creature who eats garbage off the sidewalk.”

The dog sneezed.

You covered your mouth to hide a laugh. Baby pointed at you without looking.

“Don’t take his side.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He muttered something under his breath, then squeezed himself onto the couch anyway, half-shoving the dog with his leg until he was pressed against your side.

“He can have your lap,” Baby grumbled. “But your hand is mine.”

And he held it for the rest of the episode.

----------------------

M-List

[mooningningg]

★ neighbor!toji wasn’t someone who liked talking to people. he kept to himself— work, eat, sleep, repeat. same routine. same silence. no nosy neighbors, no forced conversations, no pointless small talk. just how he liked it. so when there’s a soft knock at his door, he almost doesn’t answer. almost. but then he does— and standing there, like a damn painting, is you.

young. probably still in college.hair up in some lazy style, lashes long, skin dewy from the sun. and in your hands, a neatly packed bento wrapped in cloth, like something out of a magazine ad.

he blinks once. then again. “yeah?” his voice comes out rougher than usual.

you shift your weight, gripping the bento tighter. “um. my mom wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” your voice is small. soft. nervous. something flickers in his expression— just a twitch of the lip. a little smug tilt. you were nervous. around him. cute.

“that so?” he mutters, eyeing the bento. “she always send her kid to do the dirty work?” you flush a little. “i’m not a kid.” his brows rise just slightly, amused. “sure.”

you thrust the bento forward like a peace offering. “it’s karaage, tamagoyaki, some mochi too. she went all out.” toji takes it from you — rough, calloused fingers brushing yours for a split second. you feel the heat of his skin and try not to let it show.

he just hums. looks at the neat wrapping. “smells good,” he mutters.

he doesn’t invite you in. doesn’t ask your name. just stands there on the doorstep in a black shirt stretched across his chest, sweat still clinging to his collarbone, jaw unshaven. you look up at him—up—and clear your throat. “okay, well. um. enjoy. i guess.”

you start to turn when— “what’s your name?”

you pause. glance back. “me?”

he gives you a look. “you see anyone else here?”

“…y/n.”

he nods once. “toji.”

you nod back, trying not to smile too wide. but you don’t miss the way his eyes linger. don’t miss how his gaze drops to your legs, then quickly flicks away like he didn’t mean to. you don’t mention it. and he doesn’t explain. you’re halfway down the path when he calls out again.

“hey.”

you look over your shoulder. toji tilts the bento slightly in one hand. “tell your mom thanks. it’s been a while since i had food that looked this good.”

you shrug, coy. “i’ll tell her. but she’ll say it was me.”

his smirk returns, crooked and knowing. “then i’ll owe you instead.”

you turn away, but he watches you until you’re out of sight. his door shuts a little slower this time. inside, he sets the bento on the table. stares at it for a moment. too young for him, probably. too sweet. too polite.

and yet, when he takes the first bite, he thinks about your voice, your hands, your little frown when he called you a kid. the food’s good. but the thought of you— soft and nervous on his porch— is even better.

notes, im corrupted, also started writing in lowercase.