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vanteguccir · 4 months

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── ୨୧ !　𝗧𝗥𝗔𝗜𝗧𝗢𝗥

　　　　　　　　　𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒐 x reader

SUMMARY: Y/N and Matt are in a complicated relationship, where Matt is still stuck in the past with his ex. In an angsty pathway, Y/N suffers when she realizes that Matt will never love her as she wants.

WARNING: Crying, panic attack, comparison, ANGST.

REQUESTED?: Yes, by anon

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

Part 2

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Y/N adjusted her stunning dress in front of the mirror. The bright red silk fabric hugged her curves in a way she knew would make heads turn that night. Her hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders, meticulously styled by her curling iron, and her makeup highlighted her features impeccably.

There was a palpable excitement in the air, an expectation of Matt's reaction; she always expected to receive showers of praise from her boy, just as she did for him. The party they were about to go to - a fancy one that celebrated the launch of the new Space Camp line - would be the perfect opportunity to show everyone, and especially him, how hard she worked to be perfect.

The low sound of the bedroom door's handle turning sounded through the silence, Matt's figure appearing through the wooden frame, and all Y/N could feel as she watched him through the mirror's reflection was her racing heart. He looked stunning in his black suit, the crooked tie relaxing the seriousness of his attire.

She waited for the compliment, for the spark in his eyes that would confirm that all the effort had been worth it.

"You look beautiful, Y/N." Blue eyes traveled over her body for some seconds, but before she could absorb the joy of that moment, he finished. "Did you know that Amanda has a dress similar to yours?"

Y/N felt her stomach tighten painfully as her heart felt like it was being broken by a hammer three times its size. Amanda. Always Amanda. Matt's ex-girlfriend was a constant shadow between them, a specter that Y/N could never completely dispel.

She forced a smile, swallowing the anguish rising in her throat.

"Oh, really?" Was all she could say, trying to keep her voice steady, her hands shaking slightly at the side of her hips.

Later that day, the party continued with Y/N by Matt's side, but her mind was far away. Every time someone praised her, she remembered Matt's comment. Even surrounded by people and with Matt by her side, she felt incredibly alone.

Her thoughts revolved around a single question: Why couldn't he see her for who she was instead of always comparing her to Amanda?

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

A few weeks later, a new day brought a new blow. Matt was in his shared room with Y/N, sitting in his gaming chair with his upper body resting on the wooden surface, his hands on his Macbook, busy answering emails sent to the triplets' mail.

Y/N entered quietly, carrying two glasses full of fresh watermelon juice, knowing that Matt would definitely be thirsty and hungry after hours of sitting there. But as she got closer, she saw his computer screen. The messaging app was open, and the open window wasn't just any texts — it was old conversations between Matt and Amanda.

He read them with a melancholic smile, his eyes shining with a longing that Y/N knew all too well.

"Matt..." Her voice came out in an involuntary whisper, the broken tone sounding louder than it was expected.

The boy startled, closing the laptop quickly.

"Babe, hey, you scared me!" The boy turned around suddenly, clearing his throat and laughing awkwardly, trying to look casual. "I was just... clearing out some old stuff."

Y/N just nodded, the pain growing inside her chest.

"It's fine. Here, I made this for you." She raised her hand that held the fullest glass, smiling brokenly and keeping her eyes open, taking note on how Matt didn't notice the tears shining in her orbs or pretended not to.

She knew he was lying. She knew he was stuck in the past, that Amanda still dominated his thoughts and his heart. But once again, she chose to ignore it, to stifle her own suffering out of love for him.

Because losing Matt was a fear that outweighed any pain she might feel.

Right?

Right! Until things reached an unbearable point.

Y/N had an appointment at the beauty salon, something she did to feel a little more in control, a little more beautiful in a reality where she always felt insufficient. Matt said he couldn't accompany her, claiming he had videos to film with his brothers. She understood, or at least she tried.

It was Saturday, they didn't film on Saturday.

Sitting in the salon chair, while her nails were being done and her hair was treated, Y/N took out her phone to pass the time, holding the device awkwardly for fear of smudging her sparkling nail polish.

Scrolling through Instagram while her ears caught some conversations around the salon, her heart almost flew out of its place and up her mouth when she saw a photo that one of the celebrity gossip pages had just posted.

Matt was in a coffee shop with Amanda.

His smile was radiant, a kind of joy Y/N hadn't seen on his face in a long time. He looked so… complete, so genuinely happy.

Y/N felt the world come crashing down around her. Tears burned her eyes, but she held them back, looking around at all the other radiant women before turning her attention back to the news, clutching her cell between her left fingers, a low "sorry" scaping her lips when her right hand trembled against the manicurist ones.

She didn't give a shit that they were talking in a cafe, she didn't mind if they wanted to be friends again - even though she had destroyed Matt, and Y/N was the one to put him together again -, it was something else that bothered her.

Matt had lied to her. He said he was going to film. What the fuck was he doing out with Amanda?

But the truth was right there, raw and painful: Matt would never be fully hers. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she sacrificed, he would always be stuck in the past in the love he had for Amanda. He would always go back to her.

Y/N took a deep breath, forcing a smile as the manicurist applied red nail polish to her nails on her left hand. The color perfectly matched the feelings she felt at that moment; dark.

Every move by the salon professionals seemed like a desperate attempt to beautify her for someone who would never see her true beauty. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop her mind from going back to that image of Matt smiling with Amanda. It was a smile she could never get out of him.

"You look amazing, Y/N!" Cintia, the girl's hairdresser for years now, praised excitedly, straightening the last strands of hair just finished and turning the chair so that Y/N could see herself in the mirror. "Matt will love it."

Y/N looked at her reflection, but all she saw was an improved version of herself that, despite all her effort, would never be enough for Matt. She would always be just a shadow, a pale substitute.

"Thank you..." The girl tried to say, but her voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper, fighting to keep the tears at bay.

The room around her seemed like a golden prison, full of mirrors that only reflected her internal pain. Every compliment, every word of encouragement, sounded hollow, meaningless, because the person whose opinion mattered most was, at that very moment, laughing and smiling with another woman; the woman he truly loved.

When Y/N finally left the salon, she felt exhausted, as if she had run an emotional marathon. She walked slowly to her home, opting not to call an Uber.

Her hands fished her phone out of her half-open purse, and, with trembling fingers decorated in red, she sent a text to Diana, her best friend.

"Diana, are you home? Can I sleep there tonight?"

As she waited for the answer, her mind wandered through a whirlwind of thoughts. The pain was constant but mixed with a new resolve.

She needed to get out of there. She needed space to breathe, to think.

"Of course, babes!"

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Getting home was an automatic process. The house she shared with the triplets seemed colder and more hostile than ever.

Y/N walked past the living room where Chris and Nick were sprawled awkwardly on the gray couch playing video games, their excited laughter, and screams a cruel contrast to the pain she felt.

"Y/N!" Nick smiled brightly when he saw his best friend out of the corner of his eye. "Want to play a round with us?"

"No thanks, Nick. I'm tired." She murmured, smiling wide and fake - even though he wasn't looking at her directly -, trying to appear normal.

She walked slowly down the path between the living room and kitchen, each step a reminder of what she was about to do.

Her hands worked automatically on the door, entering her shared room with Matt, closing it behind her, the sound of the lock clicking echoing like a period in her mind. She looked around, taking in the details that made the space a home - the photos on the wall, the personal items, the memories. But now, it all felt empty.

She grabbed a suitcase stored at the back of their shared closet and began filling it with her necessities. The simple act of opening the suitcase caused a wave of despair to hit her.

Every piece of clothing and every object that her hands roughly touched and threw blindly into the suitcase was a small stab in her heart. The tears finally started to stream down her face, and she didn't try to stop them. Reality was imposing itself in a cruel way.

Her movements became slower and slower, while her thoughts became more chaotic.

"I'll never be enough for him."

"I'll never be her."

"He'll never love me the way I love him."

"I'm destroying myself for someone who cares little about me."

"What did I do wrong?"

These thoughts repeated like a cruel mantra in her mind. She felt her breathing quicken. Her lungs seemed unable to take in enough air. The room, which had always been a refuge, now felt like an oppressive cell. Panic began to set in. Her chest felt tight, her hands shook, and the air seemed to escape.

The tears flowed like hot, relentless waterfalls. The suitcase was open in front of her, half full, but it seemed like an insurmountable abyss. Y/N tried to take a deep breath, but each attempt only resulted in more despair.

The sobs came strong and uncontrollable. The girl stopped in front of the bed, standing, after throwing the last piece taken by her hands, bending her upper body over the suitcase, gripping the edge of the thick fabric with such strength that it made her fingers take on a whitish color, fully throwing her weight on her arms as if they were a lifeboat in the middle of a storm.

"Why am I not good enough?"

"What is wrong with me?"

"Why can’t he love me?"

She felt completely alone, drowning in her own pain. The panic attack took over, stealing any trace of control she still had.

The walls of the room seemed to close in on Y/N, the contours of the furniture becoming indistinct and threatening as her breathing became increasingly rapid and shallow. Her heart hammered in her chest with an almost painful force, each beat ringing in her ears like deafening thunder. The air felt thick, sticky, and impossible to inhale properly.

"Am I really that hard to be loved?"

"I wish I was her."

"He was never mine, right?"

Her hands shook uncontrollably, her fingers tingling over her suitcase as a feeling of numbness spread through her arms. Sweat dripped down her forehead, leaving her feeling sticky and uncomfortable, while the cold began to spread throughout her body, generating incessant chills.

Her vision blurred, the edges of the room distorting into restless shadows that danced and pulsed, transforming the room into a place strangely familiar and frighteningly alien at the same time. Each sound seemed amplified and distant, the ones of laughter and the clicks of long and simple kisses played in memories in her head like a record player at its highest volume, creating a surreal echo that only intensified the feeling of isolation and despair.

Exhausted, Y/N let herself sink to the floor, her sobs echoing in the empty room, an expression of the pain and loneliness that she felt suffocating herself relentlessly. Her legs folded in front of her body, the front of her thighs sticking firmly against her stomach as her arms served as a shield for her head, her hands involuntarily going up to her own hair, gripping the strands tightly, trying to ground herself.

Meanwhile, Nick ran towards her and Matt's room with quick, excited steps. He had just finished the last round of his video game with Chris and was looking forward to seeing the outcome of Y/N's salon day, hoping it would make her happier after noticing the inconsistency in her voice when she got home.

His closed fist lightly knocked on the door before opening it, the smile on his face instantly disappearing as his eyes met the scene before him.

Y/N was on the floor, curled up in a fetal position, her hands now grabbing her arms in a desperate hug. Her face was wet with tears, her eyes wide and fixed on a distant, indistinct point. Her breathing was ragged, labored, as if she were trying to pull air through a narrow, clogged straw. The sound of her panting was interspersed with heavy sobs, creating a symphony of anguish that made Nick's heart tighten in his chest.

"Y/N!" Nick called, his voice thick with panic. But to Y/N, his words were like distant whispers, drowned out by the deafening noise of her own frantically beating heart.

Her mind was in a whirlwind of chaotic, disorganized thoughts, each competing for attention and increasing the feeling of panic. She felt trapped in an endless cycle of terror, unable to escape the downward spiral that consumed her.

The feeling of suffocation was overwhelming, as if an invisible weight was pressing down on her chest, making every desperate attempt to breathe difficult. The seconds seemed to stretch into a torturous eternity, each second carrying a new wave of fear and despair.

Nick ran up to her, the panic on his face intensifying by the second. He knelt beside Y/N, trying to find a way to reach her, to bring her back from that abyss of despair. His hands shook as he gently pulled her close, enveloping her in a tight, protective hug.

"I’m here, Y/N, I’m here." He repeated, his voice choked with emotion, praying to whatever was watching them to make her listen to him. But she didn't seem to be able to do it, lost in her own spiral of panic.

Nick closed his eyes for a moment, fighting to stay calm. He knew he needed to be strong for her, and he needed to find a way to calm her.

"Y/N, look at me, please." He pleaded, voice softer, trying to break the invisible barrier that kept her trapped in her own fear. The brunette held her face with his hands, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Breathe with me, okay? Breathe slowly."

He began to breathe deeply, exaggerating his movements so she could follow. He breathed in slowly and deeply through his nose, holding it for a moment before slowly exhaling through his mouth. He felt Y/N tremble in his arms, but he kept pace, trying to convey calmness through each breath.

"That's it, keep going, you can do it." Nick encouraged, feeling a small change in her breathing. Her panting began to synchronize with his, although it was still irregular. He continued to whisper words of comfort, repeating that he was there, that she wasn't alone.

Slowly, very slowly, he felt the stiffness in her body begin to ease. Y/N's breathing became a little steadier, although she was still shaking. Nick kept the hug tight, feeling her heart beat against his own chest. He knew she was still scared, still trapped in her mind, but she was starting to come back.

"You're safe, Y/N. I'm here." Nick said once again, his voice firm and reassuring. He didn't let go of her face, maintaining eye contact, grounding her to reality. "Let's get through this together, okay?"

Finally, after several minutes that felt like hours, Y/N began to breathe in a more controlled manner. Her sobs subsided, and her eyes, once wide with terror, began to focus on Nick's. Her blurred vision cleared a little, the walls of the room seeming less threatening.

Nick sighed in relief, still holding her tightly, feeling the tension gradually ease in her muscles.

His own heart was still beating fast, but now, for a different reason. He looked around, trying to understand the situation better, when his blue orbs stopped on the open suitcase above the bed. The sight of the packed suitcase made his heart sink. Confusion and fear settled in his chest. What was happening? Why was she packing her things? The thought of Y/N leaving caused him his own panic, an intense worry that he tried to suppress, deciding that the questions could wait.

With a conscious effort, he looked away from the suitcase and focused on the immediate task of taking care of Y/N. He stood up slowly, maintaining eye contact to ensure she didn't feel abandoned for even a moment. The boy grabbed the pink bottle of water from the bedside table on her side of the bed and quickly returned, sitting next to her on the cold floor again. The hard ground beneath him was a sharp contrast to the softness of concern he felt for Y/N.

"Here, drink some water." He asked softly, handing Y/N the bottle.

The fragile girl took the bottle with hands that were still shaking but managed to open the cap and take a few small sips, each one firmer than the last. Nick watched her every move, his mind still spinning around the suitcase. The silence in the room was heavy, filled with unspoken words and unasked questions. He waited patiently, without pressing, standing by her side like a pillar of support.

After long seconds of silence, Y/N took a deep breath, her gaze shifting from the bottle to the suitcase on the bed. She knew she needed to explain. Nick deserved to know what was going on, especially after helping her get through that panic attack. She straightened up a little, trying to find the strength to speak.

"Nick..." She began, her voice still trembling. "I... I'm packing because I need to get out of here for a while. I can't stay here any longer, the way things are between me and..." Her voice trailed off into the air before she could mention the name of the boy she loved most in the world.

Nick felt a lump form in his throat, but he remained calm, waiting for her to continue. Y/N took another sip of water before continuing, her words coming out in a halting, painful stream.

"I saw Matt with Amanda today, you know? They were together, and he looked so happy… happier than I've ever seen him with me." Her voice cracked again, but she took a deep breath and continued. "It made me realize that no matter how much I love him, he will never love me the same way. And I can't keep destroying myself like this. So, I'm going to spend the night at Diana's house. I need some time to think, to calm down. Get away from here. Get away from him. And maybe make him miss me... Or finally notice that I'm not what he wants." The last part came out in a broken whisper, her gaze lowering to her crossed legs.

Nick felt a wave of relief upon hearing that she wasn't leaving his life forever, but the worry and sadness over her situation still weighed heavily on him. He wanted to say something, anything to ease her pain, but the words seemed inadequate. Instead, he just nodded, offering silent support.

"And please, Nick, don't tell Matt anything yet." Y/N asked, her eyes pleading. "I need a little time to understand what I'm going to do. He really hurt me, but I can't act on impulse."

Nick held her hand firmly, offering her an expression of understanding and support.

"Of course, Y/N. I won't tell him. I promise." He murmured sincerely. "You can have all the time you need. And I'm here for you, no matter what. I love my little brother, but I won't defend him when he's in the wrong end. You deserve someone who sees you for who you are, Y/N. Someone who loves you completely, without shadows of the past."

They sat there for a few more minutes, sharing that moment of stillness and understanding. The cold of the ground seemed less intense with each other's comforting presence.

Eventually, Y/N stood up, with Nick helping her place her suitcase on the floor. She took one last look at the room she had shared with Matt, pain visible in her eyes but also a growing determination. She knew she needed to step away to heal, to find her own strength again.

"Let's go." Nick's voice woke her from her reverie, his hands picking up her suitcase and walking it to the door. "I'll uber you to Diana's house."

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Matt returned home with a beaming smile on his face, his heart still racing with the joy of the friendly encounter he had had. He had spent the afternoon with Amanda, talking and laughing like old times, and the feeling of familiarity and happiness was undeniable.

The boy climbed the stairs of the house with quick steps, eager to see Y/N and share his good mood with her. He wanted to hold her close on their bed, bury his nose in the curve of her neck, and smell her soft and natural perfume as he told her about his day.

But when he opened the bedroom door, a strange feeling of tension in the air made him stop. The environment felt different, as if something had changed, but he couldn't identify what it was. He entered the space, leaving the door open behind him, turning his body and letting his eyes roam the four walls, trying to find what was wrong. Nothing seemed out of place at first glance: the bed was made, his clothes were in the same place, the books were on the shelf, and the computer was on the computer desk. But there was an absence he still couldn't understand.

It was when he opened the closet that reality began to form in his mind. Y/N's side was almost empty. Where her dresses, skirts, and t-shirts once hung, now there were just a few lonely hangers. The empty space where her suitcase sat now felt like a black hole, sucking in all the light and joy he had felt moments before.

Matt felt his heart stop for a second, a feeling of panic starting to take over his chest.

"Y/N? Hey, baby? Are you cleaning out the closet by any chance?" Matt's broken voice sounded through the room in an echo, seeming to escape out the door and travel the entire floor of the house, his blue eyes still fixed on the empty hangers as his mind created the expectation of hearing the sweet, melodious voice back.

But nothing came.

Nick appeared silently in the doorway, watching his younger brother with a serious expression. Matt was so absorbed in his desperate search for answers that he didn't notice Nick's presence until he heard his voice.

"She left."

Matt turned abruptly, his wide, confused eyes meeting Nick's. The older triplet's expression was one of deep sadness, mixed with calm determination. Matt felt a wave of despair rise up inside him, like an overwhelming tide ready to swallow him.

"What do you mean 'she left'?" Matt asked, his voice trembling accompanied by an expression of terror. "Where- Where did she go?"

Nick sighed, taking a step forward, eyes shining with suppressed anger.

"That doesn't matter now. What matters is that you need to decide what you really want, Matt. She saw you with Amanda today, you know?"

Matt felt the ground disappear beneath his feet. He looked around the room again, this time with a clear understanding of what was missing. Y/N, the constant, loving presence in his life, was gone.

"I don't understand..." Matt muttered almost to himself. "I thought we were fine."

"Only you saw this. Seeing you with Amanda was the last straw for her. She loves you, she really does, but she can't keep living like this, Matt, not when she knows that you still have feelings for your ex." Nick scoffed, a disgusted tone echoing with his words, shaking his head and rolling his eyes in suppressed anger. "And you can't continue like this, dividing your attention between Y/N and Amanda. This is destroying Y/N, and you don't even realize it."

"But I... I was just trying to be friends with Amanda again. I don't have feelings for her anymore." Matt spluttered, confusion and guilt beginning to mix in his chest.

"Then why do you keep seeing her?" Nick countered, with no softness in his words. "Y/N loves you, Matt. She loves you so much that she is destroying herself because you don't treat her like you should. She needs you, and you're here, acting like nothing's wrong. And if you continue like this, you will permanently lose the only girl who has truly stuck by your side through thick and thin."

Matt felt a lump tighten in his throat. He tried to speak, but words failed him. The image of Y/N, the woman he loved, suffering in silence because of her insensitivity, was unbearable.

He felt foolish and insensitive. How had he not realized how much Y/N was suffering? All he wanted was to be able to hug her now, tell her that he loved her, and that she was the only person that mattered. But at that moment, he realized how late those words could be.

"I didn't cheat on her, Nick. I really was with Amanda, but I didn't… I didn't do anything wrong." Matt's voice sounded choked, tears beginning to well up in his eyes as anxiety rose through his body like rafters.

"You think you didn't, Matt. But sometimes, it's not about what you do but about how you make the other person feel. And honestly? Giving priority to your ex, the girl who broke you and made you suffer for days on end, over Y/N, who you say you love oh so much, is low blow. Right now, Y/N needs space to breathe to understand her own feelings. And you need to truly analyze what you did and recant with her when she is ready."

Matt walked with shaky steps towards the double bed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress, burying his face in his hands. The weight of guilt and regret was crushing. All he could think about was how he wanted to turn back in time, do things differently, show Y/N that she was the center of his world. Never have lunch with Amanda.

"I need to talk to her." Matt tightened his fingers around the brown strands of her hair, sniffling. "I need to tell her that I'm sorry, that I love her. I really do, Nick."

"I know. But give her a little time, Matt. Forcing a conversation now might make things worse. Let her process everything, and then you can try talking to her." Nick advised, watching him closely before he turned, walking towards the door. "And next time, treat her like the wonderful woman she is, not like a replacement."

Matt nodded slowly, begrudgingly, knowing his brother was right, the despair turning into a silent, constant pain. The room around him, which had once been a haven of love and shared memories, now seemed like an empty, desolate space. The mattress beneath his body, where both of their bodies lay together just the day before, now felt like an icy surface, sending horrible shivers through his body.

His mind betrayed him by making him remember the moments when he had treated Y/N with indifference and neglect, moments that he now saw with painful clarity. Each memory was like a stab to the heart, revealing the depth of his callousness. Y/N's smiles that he had taken for granted, the nights she waited up for him while he lost himself in thoughts of the past, the comparisons...

He could now see the small changes in her expression, the way her eyes sparkled less, how her smile became rarer with each passing day. She was withdrawing, and he was blindly contributing to that withdrawal.

Sitting there, now alone in the room, Matt felt the weight of his own guilt and regret. He realized that he had never made Y/N feel like the most important woman in her life. Instead, he had relegated her to the background, allowing the shadows of his former relationship to contaminate the present. Y/N's love and dedication towards him contrasted painfully with his own indifference.

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ejundo · 9 months

Text

★ . “friends with benefits… interesting…”

t✦ji fushiguro ⨯ ftm reader

★ — @ejundo

. warnings below .

use of: cunt, pussy, clit. purposely lowercase….

eating out, big dick toji. [dawg idk how to warning this stuff 🙁] — he cant pull out of a driveway. — aftercare!!!!!!!!!! :3 — inspired by this ai bot i found !! — UH ooc toji maybe?

breeding mention (sorta )

he was extremely pent up.

it all started when he started taking up on these jobs, hell even the prostitutes and hookers from the streets couldnt please him enough… continuous one night stands with randoms and he was still pent up!

so when you asked to be ‘friends with benefits’ he had no choice but to accept it.

your first time together he actually for once felt relieved. you were a whole miracle to him…

so he had came back every few nights to use you and go along with his day.

even this night.

toji had came back late at night from a job, smelling of sweat and blood- or rather iron. he was knocking at your door, and as soon as you opened the door. he was just restraining himself from fucking you right then and there.

but, you denied it and forced him to head to the showers as you couldnt handle that atrocious smell of— sweat. and iron. it was a bad headache and it made you gag just being in his presence.

what surprised you about toji is that— he never commited himself to anything. it always surprised you when he came knocking at your door with a look of lust. you already knowing what he wanted badly. just surprising that he had always made his way back to you, despite all of his many one night stands. friends with benefits sure did have this effect.. devoting himself to you was… a change.

as you sat on your bed stripped of your pants. he had emerged from the connected bathroom steam making its way into the cold room, his body had droplets rolling down his large muscular back and his hair visibly damp. the lazily wrapped towel around his waist showing off his defined v line.

he slowly made his way towards your small figure staring down at you as you observed his body. he refrained himself from touching you, not until you gave him permission to do so. “happy?” he said in a low voice. a smile decorated on your face as you nodded “mhm, im super happy.” you nodded, your hands travelled to below your waist hooking onto the hem of your undergarments as you slowly slid it off your legs the wet speck of your juices shown on them as you threw them somewhere.

toji’s eyes flickered down to the discarded undergarments a smirk displayed in his face taking a step closer his presence overpowering the space around you. “arent you just ready for me.. hm?..” his voice raspy and filled with a mix of desire and need. he leaned down onto the bed his arms on each side of you, his breath brushed against your ear as he whispered. “im not holding back tonight, so you better be ready baby.” and with that, he snaked an arm around your waist pulling you flush against him. pressing his lips softly against your neck, his kisses alternating between gentle and teasing nips. “tell me bunny, what’d ya want me to do with you?”

you rolled your eyes, “toji, dont act all lovey dovey with me.. just fuck me already.” a smirk displayed on your face as you said that so smoothly. he grinned as he removed the towel that held onto his waist discarding it and throwing it off the bed. his dick twitching as he watched you open your legs slightly, taking in the sight of your leaking cunt. he laid you down slowly and swiftly moved his hands downwards, his hands trailed down your soft skin. his hands stopping at your thighs, he kneaded with them and squished them before lowering his head.

opening your legs and placing them into his shoulders, he gazed up at you. your eyes having a watchful gaze as a smirk tugged at his lips. “so soaking wet for me… just for me…” his tongue stuck out and gently caressed your clit, dancing and grazing your folds. a soft moan escaping your lips. your back arched as he sucked on it. “f..nghuck… to—ji…” your hand quickly held his head. gently pulling on it as he ate you out passionately. he opened his eyes and looked at your sweet expression, the pure bliss on your face as your chest heaved up and down.

“such a pretty boy… mm.. its a shame you dont have a boyfriend to spoil you… so pretty…” he mumbled, his large a calloused hands pulled away from your thigh and grazed your wet entrance. “shut…up—“ he prodded at the wet hole, and slowly inserted his digits. with a shake in your legs you arched your back with a choked out gasp. “toji!…” he grinned as your voice moaned his name.

adding another finger, it made you squirm. breath hitched as his fingers moved at a speed, plunging in and out of you. touch firm and demanding. his fingers curled in an attempt to find that sweet spot. you held onto the messy bed sheets underneath you, your toes curling as he grazwd over that sweet spot. he couldnt help but chuckle at the sight, his fingers still continuing their relentless assault to your sensitive spot.

“so cute when you’re flustered… all because of my fingers too?…i'll make sure you're too busy moaning to tell me to shut up." his fingers moving skillfully with percision manipulating your body to elicit the most pleasurable sensations. continuing to curl and abuse your sensitive spots.”fuck!!… toji— please..” “mhm… thats right baby.. tell me. tell me hiw badly you want me to fuck you, tell me hiw much you want my cock pounding into you, fill you up completely..” his voice laced with lust and dominance his gazed fixated on your flushed face. “please… i need you in me….fuck me please…” you said, eyes masked with lust, desire and need.

his eyes darkened with desire as he heard your plea, his own need growing with each second. withdrawing his fingers from your dripping wet heat. “how could i deny you?” he growled as he stood from his stance, revealing his throbbing erection, already slick with anticipation.

he climbed into the bed and positioned himself above you. his tip directly at your slick enterance, coating himself with your wetness. he locked his eyes with yours, as he slowly inserted himself in. feeling pleasure and pure bliss as he felt your warmth and heat welcome him. savoring the sensation he leaned foward wrapping his hand under your head as your hands held his back, slowly he started thrusting at an easy pace, and eventually he started picking up the pace. his hips meeting yours with powerful and relentless force, groans and moans soon enveloped the room.

continuous and incoherent babbling heard from you as your back arched with pleasure, one hand holding your waist as he plunged inside you. each thrust hitting deep within you, hitting that sweet spot that made you writhe with pleasure. needy pleas and his own pleasure building with every movement. you clenched around him indicating your own orgasm, twitching violently as you scratched and clawed at toji’s back your head thrown back as your body twitched with pleasure. “nghfuck!….”

tojis own climax was slowly approaching as his thrust became more messy and erratic hinted with a bit of desperate need.. and with one final thrust he released himself inside you.. feeling the warm seed dripping inside you, a hitched moan escaping your throat as you covered your mouth and your eyes shut close.. heavy pants escaping toji as he slowly pulled out of you, his seed escaping.

he faltered as moved slightly to an open space. of course still collapsing ontop of you. “you did so good bunny…” his hand travelled to pet your head slowly, a kiss on your neck and shoulder as he quickly regained his composure. holding you in his arms as he made his way towards your bathroom. with you resting in his arms he placed you onto the counter and wet a towel with warn water.. taking care of you and cleaning you thoughtfully.

“can we… make this official… toji.” you managed to mumbled out, your voice hoarse as you looked at him. he smiled softly at you, “yeah. sure, whatever.” he answered with a warm smile. placing a kiss onto your lips, passionate and warm.

★.

@ejundo . xoxo

:3….. so lets pretend i was here the entire time and totes not being a lazy slacker working for my own living!.. ^^.

crazy how i finished this story in AN HOUR. and i cant even finish my other ones in a day. crazy mc dazy!

#. ♡ ejundo writes !#x male reader #male reader #bottom male reader #bottom reader #m reader #toji fushiguro #toji fushiguro x male reader #male reader x toji #toji fushiguro x m reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x male reader #sub reader #friends with benefits x male reader trope #i hate tagging #ejundo stupid #ejundo finally comes back

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onsomenewsht · 8 months

Text

now playing: Colorado

< track 2 || track 4 >

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: +1k

》 I'd choose the devil I know over the heaven I don't

The end starts with you finding the ring.

“Alexia, I swear to your good knee, if you’re not ready I’m gonna sell your Ballon d’Or”, your announcement resonating through the rooms.

You’ve been ready for an entire hour now, beaming and excited for the opportunity to present with your teammates a special award named after your captain. The only thing missing is your perfectionist girlfriend still hidden in the bathroom.

When you open the door, you cannot believe your eyes.

Alexia’s tattooed back is exposed in the criminally low backless dress she’s in, sure, but her hair is still dripping wet and she’s fighting with a makeup brush. Clearly losing, her frown is a well known hint for you.

She’s not ready and now you have to find your way on the black market.

“Need help?”

“No”

“Yes, vamos a llegar tarde” (we’re late)

“No voy a llegar tarde si ni quiero ir” (I can’t be late if I don’t wanna go in the first place)

Your chuckle filling the room is enough to make the blonde smirk, but you know her well enough to read the subtle lines on her face. Her worries are clear, the reasons to be discovered and a solution to be found.

Taking place behind her figure, you set your hands on her sides and plant a couple of strategically placed kisses on her back and shoulders. Her fitted form relaxes right away under your lips.

When your eyes meet in the mirror it's like a story is being narrated, an understanding of each other that goes beyond big words and great gestures but holds the deep love shared.

Your fingers move to untangle the blonde’s wet hair, taking the time to dry and straighten each lock just as she likes.

“Lo siento” (I’m sorry)

Shy Alexia is a version of her few people meet, her stance a lot less intimidating than the one she portrays on the field or in front of hundreds of cameras.

“No tienes nada de que arrepentirte, mi corazón” (Nothing to be sorry for)

“I lost time in the gym and I lost time in the shower and I guess I just don’t wanna go”, the English sentence giving away how much thought she put into it.

The catalan turns to look directly into your eyes for the first time all day, you realise. She really doesn’t want to go to this event, but your excitement and anticipation must have helped hide it throughout the week.

“Eres preciosa, mi amor” (You’re beautiful), she simply states, taking in the perfectly ironed black dress you’re wearing and the meticulously braided hair framing your face.

You smile at her, you love her.

“I know you don’t like the idea of this award, I know you don’t want us handing it to you with a carefully drafted speech”

“¡Lo escribiste!” (You wrote it, didn’t you?)

“Jana helped, all the team did”

Alexia’s eyebrow rises and you don't miss the fact she has a little bit more makeup on than usual, a sight she’s putting an effort.

“I supervised, don’t worry”

“No es reconfortante” (It’s no reassuring)

But her shoulders are relaxed, her frown no longer creasing her beautiful face. The blonde is calmer now and you take it as a victory she never actually asked you to ditch the all thing and hide together under a blanket with a mindless dating show in the background.

“Lo leerás?” (Will you read it?)

“Banned me to even come close to a microphone”, to be fair, it was a single accident and they should’ve not let the anchor’s line open when you just won a championship and your girlfriend’s literally glowing.

She bursts out laughing and you know she’s ready.

Almost ready.

“Take me the white heels while I finish esto”, her fingers moving somehow awkwardly around her mouth, “Y estamos listos!” (And we’re ready to go).

You place a soft but firm kiss on her lips, leaving for her shoes rack.

You’re looking for a pair of heels, one she hates to wear but well designed and a perfect fit with her dress. One she doesn’t wear much so it’s probably hidden in a box in the back of the closet.

That’s why you’re looking for a hidden box of shoes.

That’s where you notice a velvet little box.

That’s how you find the ring.

It’s a beautiful ring. Stunning cut, your precise size. A modest but expertly crafted gem complementing the simple band. It’s the perfect ring.

You don’t like shiny thing, Alexia could ask you to marry her with paper or grass from Camp Nou and you’re gonna say yes regardless.

But that’s exactly the problem.

You love her, you really do. You love her so much you gladly do whatever she asks, if she wants it enough to ask. You keep her love above your own and that’s fine, you’re happy with it. What she loves comes before what you love, naturally following immediately after anyway.

And what she loves the most is usually you, so you never questioned it.

However, when her love starts coming despite yours, you realise you can’t keep doing it.

The shift is difficult to perceive, coming at such a silent but excruciating pace that’s impossible to predict and devastating to take in.

The bomb dropped on you in the form of a tiny jewellery box that detonated when opened, shining ring inside.

“Està Narnia?” (You found Narnia?)

Closing the box and effectively concealing the ring from your gaze it’s a switch off. The silence that usually preempts a devastating explosion is coming after it, this one time.

“I’m ready!”

When she walks out of the bathroom, stunning as ever, you just stare. You never loved someone as much as you love her, that is obvious for a while now.

You never loved and you will never love someone as much as you love her.

Not even yourself.

“Estás bien?” (Are you okay?)

“T’estimo” (I love you)

Shining eyes almost give away all the meaning behind your words, but the captain fondly kisses you and it’s all good again.

Alexia takes the heels from your hands, when you manage to find them is not clear in your head, and sits on the bed. Your fingers intertwine as you bend on your knees and carefully tie the long white laces around her ankles.

“You good?”, she holds one of your hands and her stare is searching straight through your soul.

She has a ring hidden in a box, how long ago did she buy it?

“Let’s get you this award, mi corazón”

She wants to marry you, when will she ask?

Both your holds are firm and kind, she is calmed and ready. Now, somehow, she’s even happy to go to this event if you keep holding her hand like that.

If she asks, you will say yes.

#alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso #alexia #ap11 #here we go again #with a flashback i think #so theres fluff #my wo(rd)so #Spotify #now playing universe

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justblades · 1 year

Text

⌕ SEIZED, 18+

⟢ CHARACTER : luocha x afab! reader WC : 1.8k

⟢ WARNINGS : (EX)PLICIT, MDNI. lactation, breeding, netorare, d!ck deprived & d!ck drunk! reader

⟢ SUMMARY : an appointed family doctor visits a widowed mother to check up on her health, but it appears fate had other plans instead.

the incessant pelting rain continuously clatter against your home's rooftop, pitter pattering sounds ironically accompany the loneliness murking your heart. it has been a long week of just trying to get by with no hints where to continue next. without your husband, it's as if your pillar of support crumbled into smithereens, nothing but dusts of what were once a life being.

naturally, your peers and family come into the scene to help soothe your grieving soul, but as much as you hate to admit it, no words of theirs relieved the lingering sadness. feigning healing has been a routine so you don't worry your relatives too much— but then a surprising knock on the door veer your train of thoughts off course.

you check from the cameras to see who's the visitor and as you saw those familiar blond strands tied in a neat low ponytail and the foreign designed clothing, you swing the door open and give a greeting. "good evening, doctor. come in." he bows lightly, "pardon the intrusion."

with enough small talk while you lead the doctor to the vast living room of your own home, you bid your farewell for a moment to fetch some drinks, a kind gesture of welcoming your guest. "might i ask how's your girl? is she well?" the doctor queries kindly, viridescent hues flutter in curiosity. "yes, she's asleep actually. it's a little . . saddening to realize my husband never got to see our girl past 6 months." you reply, setting the tray on the long glossed table.

"my sincerest condolences. if ever you would like to seek help from a professional, i can name a few and refer you to them." his honeyed words felt rather wholesome. for some reason, being with someone you're not that particularly well acquainted with is refreshing. you've met with luocha several times from your husband's health check ups whenever you accompany him, so it's safe to assume luocha took up the role to be your family's doctor; after all, your husband is the type to entrust a reliable individual to support his wife.

luocha takes out his equipments so he can administer his check up regarding your physical health, bringing out his stethoscope and the familiar golden necklace laced around his gloved fingers. he proceeds with the usual basics, a question sparking one after another as a way to not bore his patient. "how are you faring nowadays?"

"honestly speaking, things are really bad." he nods, gesturing for you to continue. "i can't help but yearn for crumbs of intimacy sometimes." you chuckle at the end, coverig a light hand on your mouth. "from your husband exactly? or—" your gaze shifts to luocha's face, addled at the far fetched inquiry of his.

"—my apologies. that was below the belt." the blond male cuts himself off and an apologetic smile sits on his lips. however you dismiss it, "no no, don't worry about it. if anything, it feels nice to be accompanied once in a while. i can't open up my feelings to others given that i might cause them trouble," you pause, heaving a blue sigh and continue, "i doubt this will weigh you down, doctor. especially when you're in the medical field."

the vicinity then falls silent for a short while and your eyes gaze elsewhere, reminiscing the olden moments you were being showered with affection from a loved one. a gut feeling suddenly persuades you to look back at luocha; when you do so, the smile sculpted on his lips persists. his usual expressions were never eerie, but this time, for some reason . . it feels different from the usual. "it's a shame you're widowed at such a young age miss."

your eyes widen, heart beat racing against the hundreds of thoughts flaring up in your mind. "i don't know what you're hinting at, doctor." he closes in the remaining distances between the both of your bodies. you remain there sat on the wooden chair while the blond stands up and lowers himself just enough for your piercing, heating gazes to meet. "there is no need to bluff. it's okay." his voice deepens, jade hues reflecting a crystalline clear view of your curious expression.

as if the strings of your life become woven in a fruitful future once again, your sultry lips press against luocha's. getting a feel of his soft margins sends shockwaves of pleasure and longing in your system; you couldn't restrain yourself, restraint is not your forte. the kiss eventually transitions into a deeper one, tongues coming into the scene, tangling with each other's in sync.

luocha's eyes are shut, his breathing becomes sharp and ragged. it was clear cut that he's savoring your liquids, gloved hands now exploring your body. "miss, it was . . . supposed to be a lighthearted joke." he says in between the sloppy kisses, struggling to keep up with your fast rhythm. "drop the formalities, luocha." you retort, your stomach fluttering for more action.

it was his first time being referred to by his nickname from a favorite patient— fueling his carnal desire even more that it's impossible to extinguish its fervor flames at this point. luocha's hands quickly cup your clothed chest - his long fingers lightly dig on the plush of your tits, your breath hitches and the kiss finally ends, connecting your lips to luocha's with a naughty singular trail.

he skillfully rips the fabric apart, conferring him a full open view of your voluptuous tits— given that you're still breastfeeding. luocha's bulge underneath twitches, he bites his lips in impatience, a foreign feeling he has a hard time encountering. you let out a chuckle and take the initiative by pushing him back to his seat and straddle his lap, facing the doctor.

naturally, he's surprised, but you did not waste any more time by combing his lush flaxen hair with your hand and drag him to your boobs, perfectly aligning his mouth to your soft buds. a soft moan slips out once you got a feel of his tongue suckling on your nipple, "mhm, i never would've guessed you'd be into this as well."

the doctor doesn't reply but proceeds to toy with the other one, squeezing your flesh in an attempt to milk you dry - evident from how hard he's lapping your boobs up. your folds start to seep out of arousal from the lewd movements and you get a feel of luocha's erect crotch; you buck your hips to accumulate friction from the heating body part all the while urging luocha to drink more of your juices. in contrary to his gentlemanly, chivalrous nature, he's surprisingly greedy and rough as to how he nibbles on your hardened bud.

"h-how do i taste?" you skittishly ask and luocha pauses. "compelling." a mere singular word throws your mind in a daze, body tingling everytime luocha's feathery touches brush on your skin. "a flavor that's addictive, making me want to procreate with you so your supply wouldn't run out."

heat and blood rush all the way up to your cheeks, sexual passion brews in the depths of your lower abdomen. "i'll stand up as the father— we can be together . . ." he whispers to your ear, his hot breathe caressing your bare skin. your next move was more predictable: luocha watches with his predatory-like eyes while you strip yourself in front of him, legs farthest apart, muddy white beads trickling away from your lower lips.

your fingers spread your folds open, an immensely erotic view that will inevitably be etched in the male's mind for the longest time. "this is all yours." the corners of luocha's lips tug upwards as he removes his onyx glove with his teeth, proceeding to set it on the tabletop beside your vulnerable state. he resumes and brings his cock into full view for your eyes as well, stroking his girth until it stands tall and glorious. "you're surprisingly . . packing."

you were taken aback as he lifts your body up along with your left leg, draping it on his forearm while he teases his tip adjacent to your entrance. it happened too fast as if it occured in 20 machs speed, now rocking your hips, begging for him. "did you ever imagine this whenever you accompany your husband with his check ups?"

now that he mentioned it, you were left wondering. since when did you ever fantasize about your husband's doctor, much so that your façade as a goody two shoes wife immediately breaks down with the littlest, puny attempts?

just as when you were about to respond, he thrusts into your wet cunt, his girth filling all the remaining space inside your velvet walls. luocha's guttural moan erupts from his throat, gratification pooling inside him the more you clenched around his throbbing dick. you were tight, very tight that the doctor feels himself cum on the spot.

if it weren't for him pulling out from your slit, he'll have to instantly bury his seed of climax deep. "ah— luocha . . !" you yelp once he pistons in again, this time, his cock's tip kisses the surface of your cervix. ". . honestly. . y . . yes." you admit, embarrassment gnawing at your bones, words cut off everytime luocha pounces into your lewd hole.

his breathing becomes even more jagged, beads of sweat rivulet from his forehead, "i'm very close . ." your knees were about to give in as well, all the left strength in your body vanishing. "m-me too!" with another shared sloppy kiss in between the intercourse unraveling from both of your heated, lust brewed bodies, luocha pounds into your pussy swiftly, emitting squelching sounds both from his cock and the constant sucking and licking of your lips.

"hah . . please . . make sure you'll knock me up!" desperation heavily hints your words, enough to cater to luocha's preferences that were obvious the more time you got to spend with him. you figured it all out, how he likes your lactating tits, how he goes berserk just to procreate with you. although it all seemed a little too quick— perhaps this is how the higher entities planned it.

with one last balls deep thrust, all of his cum pool inside you, filling you to the brim. your melting moans of pleasure mesh along with luocha's, both satisfied from everything that transpired. luocha supports your trembling body with his figure and grabs ahold of your hand, bringing it closer to his saliva glossed lips. he places a chaste kiss on the back, leaving yet another ephemeral chill, running along your spine up and down.

"i'll take good care of you . . . your girl . . . and our soon to be baby. our newly built family."

my masterlist !

#luocha #luocha smut #luocha x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail smut #hsr x reader #hsr x reader smut #honkai star rail x reader smut #honkai star rail luocha

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inoreuct · 11 months

Note

would you agree that we all need more Sanji getting nosebleeds over Zoro in this fandom?

YES *pelting down a hill waving the proposal for this in my hand like a madman* YESSSSSS

the first time sanji gets a nosebleed over zoro is his clue-in that oh. i’m not straight, am i. the swordsman’s doing a bench press (shirtless, as always) as sanji walks by (and sanji sneaks a look, as always, because who wouldn’t?) and when he glances over the plates he has to do a double take because what the fuck. zoro’s pressing more than twice his body weight. zoro’s repping more than twice his body weight. he’s just registered that maybe he’s stared for a bit too long when he feels something warm and wet on his upper lip, iron dripping over his mouth, and he books it for the galley.

he slams the door shut and presses his back against it before he slides to the ground and screams into his knees because what. the fuck. it’s not even that he’s getting hot and bothered over a guy; it’s just that the guy’s zoro. he’s not supposed to get nosebleeds over zoro.

but he does.

and it gets worse.

zoro walking around shirtless on deck? nosebleed. zoro re-tying the sails and just hanging on with his legs around the mast? nosebleed. zoro strutting out of the shower door, damp with steam and hair dripping wet and a towel around his waist? nosebleed. zoro tsking irritably and grabbing all of sanji’s food and packages from him to haul the whole lot over his shoulder? NOSEBLEED.

and not even that. he starts getting breathless around zoro and his chest hurts. he kicks zoro back while they’re sparring one day and the swordsman grins, feral and unrestrained and all challenge and teeth, and sanji’s heart spasms so hard that he actually wonders if he’s about to go into cardiac arrest. he’s barely twenty, he isn’t ready to die— much less because of some stupid marimo. chiselled abs and a nice set of biceps are only worth so much of sanji’s dignity. he twists and smashes the sole of his shoe right into zoro’s pretty face.

still, it gets so, so bad that he’s elected to just. avoid zoro completely. he’s sneaking around corners and running across open expanses ducked low like some kind of goofy thief and he knows it’s so fucking stupid but he doesn’t. he doesn’t know if zoro likes— no. he doesn’t even think about it. there’s no way, and if he gives himself false hope he’ll just break his own heart. he doesn’t know if zoro likes men, or anyone, much less him; nobody in their right mind would, not really. he's nice to have but not to keep and he's come to terms with it.

…until zoro corners him in the galley and demands to know what the fuck’s going on.

sanji stays facing away, slowly washing the dishes even as his heart pounds so hard it hurts. he is painfully aware of the way zoro’s seething like an over-boiled kettle in one of the chairs behind him, arms crossed over his stupidly broad chest and stock-still because he never, ever shakes his leg even though sanji knows he wants to.

his sponge squeaks across ceramic. the water’s warm against his fingertips, and his eyes flick up to meet his own reflection in the porthole window; he looks… well, he doesn’t know. scared, maybe. nervous. his mouth is thin, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, a shudder running its fingers down his spine even as his heartbeat thumps between his ribs and god, fuck, it aches. and he knows. he looks himself in the eyes and he knows that somewhere along the line nosebleeds had turned into falling in love and he was the stupid idiot who had just let it happen because he was too weak to pry zoro out of his thoughts.

his gaze flicks down sharply when he hears the sudden scrape of the chair, and zoro spits, “look, i can’t fix whatever i did wrong if you don’t tell me what it is.”

sanji’s heart throbs. “what?”

he can hear zoro’s scowl. “what, what? i obviously did something. you’ve been avoiding me like the plague.”

the cook almost laughs. he bites it down and swallows his words, salty-sweet at the back of his throat. guilt nips at him; zoro’s his rival and and his personal annoyance and a blockhead but he might also, maybe, just maybe, be sanji’s best friend. and sanji hasn’t been very fair to him lately.

he swallows again, clears his throat silently. “you didn’t do anything, marimo,” he murmurs to the plate in his hands, trying for airy and getting more somewhat vaguely strangled. he coughs. “just forget about it. sorry i’ve been weird.”

sanji will deal. he will, somehow; he’d been careless and careless is dangerous and for perhaps the first time in his life, he has too much to lose. he’ll squash his heart into a box and lock it down tight like he always has and it’ll hurt, but when does it ever not? he mentally declares the matter done and dusted as he shakes off the plate and gently sets it on the drying rack.

his lungs hitch as a callused hand cups his elbow.

zoro pulls him around. he’s too weak to resist. the edge of the sink digs into his hip as stormy grey eyes scan his face and zoro looks tense, his jaw set in the way it only is when he faces off with a particularly vexing foe.

“did i not look happy enough at dinner?" he asks, and it could be mockery but it isn't, not with that edge to his voice; not desperation, but damn near. like filter paper burning its way to ash. "was it my clothes on the floor? my boots on the bed? what?”

sanji can't stand it anymore. he looks away, tries to twist out of the invisible bonds zoro has him trapped in, but fingers looped around his wrist are all it takes to make him stay and fuck, fuck, he's so fucked.

"sanji, what did i do?” zoro breathes, brow furrowed, voice too near and too damn earnest, and sanji's throat bobs as he digs the heel of his palm into his eye.

this isn't how it's supposed to go. zoro isn't supposed to care. zoro isn't supposed to be standing here in the galley saying his name in that tone of voice. a hand carefully pulls his own away from his face, and zoro doesn't fucking let go, and sanji feels too much like he's been stripped down to the bone.

"i know," zoro continues, gruff like he doesn't know how to be anything else, "that i upset you. so would you please tell me what i did so i can fix it?" he bends lower still, ducking to try and catch sanji’s line of sight but sanji just can't look at him. "i'll fix it, i—"

"you can't fix this." the words are out and in the air before he can stop them, and a bittersweet smile curves his mouth. "there's nothing to fix, so you can't fix it. just let it go, alright?"

zoro wants to argue. sanji can tell. but the swordsman lets out a measured exhale after a long moment and pulls back, face carefully neutral. "at least tell me what's going on, cook."

sanji looks down at his feet. "...i can't."

"like hell you can't," zoro replies immediately, and it's such an abrupt reminder of their normal banter that it wrenches a rough noise from sanji's chest. "i was the one who held your hair back after you had, like, seven margaritas too many. don't think you could tell me anything worse than the experience of trying to stop you from falling into your own puke."

"oh, jesus fuck," sanji swears on instinct, then laughs. it's unfortunately hollow. "that was one time, asshole."

"one time too many," zoro hums, raising an eyebrow. "so you gonna tell me what's going on, or do i have to make it a captain's order?"

sanji grits his teeth.

"i will drag luffy in here, i don't care—"

"fucking—" he holds his breath, flipping around to white-knuckle the edge of the sink and letting it out slow. "fine. you ever loved someone, marimo?"

"sure." zoro shrugs easily, crossing his arms as he looks out the window. "kuina, but i think i learned to love her memory more than anything else. luffy, nami—" a near-unnoticeable flutter of thick lashes. "you."

sanji exhales through his nose as he rocks back on his heels. squeezes out air till it hurts. "you know that's not what i meant."

"what did you mean, then?"

he turns to look at where zoro has settled lazily against the counter, the moon turning his eyes to silver. "I mean the kind of love that makes your blood race. that makes you want more even when you know you'll never take more than you're allowed. the kind that makes your heart hurt so badly you feel empty without it."

the swordsman's face is unreadable as he tilts his head slowly. "i did say i love you."

it hits sanji like a bullet. he sucks in a sharp breath, and his throat burns as he turns away and tries to stop his shoulders from heaving up. "don't fuck with me, zoro. not about this."

it feels rather like a cruel cosmic joke. he's so near yet so far, just one step away with a gauzy curtain between but he can't touch it. he won't. he's got too many things on the line and yet he can't even name one of them.

"hey."

he squeezes his eyes shut against the burn of salt that shouldn't even be there, and look at that. little sanji's gone and broken his own heart again.

"hey," zoro tries again, more insistent, one hand hovering in the space between them and sanji feels the pull of it like a magnet.

he doesn't turn away as it cups his cheek. doesn't run as fingers slide through the short hairs at his nape, a thumb behind his jaw. his lashes are damp. it is everything he wants and everything he cannot have and he can't—

"look at me."

"i can't," he breathes, lungs rising fast and shallow. he's afraid to open his eyes. he's afraid of what he'll see.

"yes, you can." zoro shifts closer and another hand joins the first. it's big and rough and warm and he holds sanji's face like he's the moon herself. "look at me, curly."

he can't.

he does.

zoro's gaze is almost painful to meet straight-on with how intense it is. he seems to realise, face softening as he leans closer, closer, posture loose enough that it would be no problem for sanji to shove him away. "you love me," he breathes. "yes or no?"

sanji's heart stops. his tongue is clumsy in his mouth, his brain a mess of yesnoyesyesnoiwon'tican’tido—

"don't think." zoro's voice cuts through the haze as he shakes his head slowly; a sword through smoke, silver-bright, singing in the air and leaving silence. "don't think. you love me, yes or no."

the galley swims around sanji as his vision blurs. he feels his tears spill hot down his cheek, knows the way zoro aches to brush them away and yet stays still. he opens his mouth and it feels like stepping out of the only shelter he's ever known; he is an open fucking wound and he's raw and everything hurts, everything but zoro. zoro. zoro. "yes."

just one word, three simple letters, and still it feels like damnation; if he'd never said it he could deny it but now it's real. the swordsman relaxes, shoulders dropping enough that his forehead brushes sanji's, and sanji tracks the way his throat bobs. the way steel-grey eyes flicker over his face, molten in the light of the electric lamps and the moonlight spilling through the window, gilding zoro like something out of a dream. a fairytale sanji read as a child until the edges of the pages fitted familiar to his thumbs as his little hands reached for a happy ending that was never meant to be his.

he shakes, now, as zoro reaches up to run tentative fingers through straw-pale hair. "let me love you. yes or no."

"i—" the sound that twists from his mouth is cracked jagged down the middle, unpolished as a common pebble picked up off the damn street. "you don't—"

"yes or no."

"i'm not what you want," he gasps, his face wet.

"yes or no."

sanji wants to break apart. because zoro sounds like he's begging, and he cannot fathom anybody possibly wanting him that much. he wants to scream and cry and claw at the walls until his nails break. he wants to shatter into pieces all over the floor without having to worry about putting himself back together. he wants. he wants, and zoro's looking at him with the closest thing to reverence he's seen in his life, and even that isn't enough for him to believe it. "i'm not what you want."

he can barely look at zoro. he can barely look at himself. the shame is clawing a pit into his stomach, and he lets it, feels every inch of it, because what kind of person doesn't know how to be loved? his breath catches wetly as zoro cups his jaw in both hands, tilting his face up, and once again sanji is too weak to pull away.

"you are everything i want."

the words are so fierce, so sure, and sanji is cracking apart at the seams. the stitches pulled tight by his own hand are unravelling and he can't stop it—

"yes or no."

zoro's breath ghosts warm across his mouth, fingertips in his hair, just far away enough for sanji to see the way his eyes are blazing and yet he waits. his thumb on sanji's cheek is the gentlest thing sanji has ever known.

"you'll get tired of me," he tries weakly, one last time for good measure, and zoro just shakes his head. the resolve in his expression does not waver even once.

sanji breaks.

"yes." the word scrapes itself out of his throat seconds before arms are going around him, and he sobs. lets the swordsman bring them both to the kitchen floor as he curls up in zoro's lap, fingers clawing into his white shirt, numb with how hard he cries because nobody, nobody has ever stayed. not without him getting hurt in the process. he pushes them away when he gets scared and they let him and then it becomes his fault when it all blows up in his face, but zoro's not leaving, and it's so foreign to him that he's shaking so badly and he can't stop.

a warm, heavy palm smooths over his spine and he lets himself be shifted closer, settles sideways as zoro wraps an arm over his shins and rocks them until his breathing evens out. the embarrassment hits like a gut punch; he knows he looks like a mess, face blotchy and hair everywhere and eyes puffy as hell, but zoro cards his bangs out of his eyes and looks at him like he doesn't care, and sanji turns away.

he feels... fragile. like he's made of tinted glass and spun sugar, like he'll cave in at the slightest touch. there is something melting in his chest and it drips down over his ribs; pools fresh as a river in spring, offset by the grounding presence of zoro's hands on his skin. "don't say i didn't warn you," he mumbles, masking his very real fear behind a layer of watery bravado as he hides his face in zoro's shoulder, and of course, of course zoro sees right through him.

the swordsman's thumb traces the swirl of his eyebrow before zoro rests his chin on top of sanji's head. "i don’t listen. you know that."

you know me, is what goes unsaid, and sanji doesn't deign to reply. he buries his face into zoro's chest and breathes in the smell of steel and sword oil and— he sits up slightly, eyes narrowing. "you've been stealing my deodorant, yes or no." the way zoro stills momentarily is a dead giveaway, and he yelps when the swordsman flicks his forehead.

"would you rather i be stinky?" zoro scoffs, rolling his eyes gently as sanji settles back down with a huff.

"you still are stinky. if we're gonna be together i'm expecting you to shower at least once every two days—" zoro groans, and he powers through, raising his voice, "—and if you aren't fussy i'll let you shower with me."

the way zoro instantly stops complaining cracks a laugh out of him. it's weak and watered-down, but it's a start. zoro's hands slide back into his hair and he hums as he lets his eyes fall shut.

the moon's full tonight. their ship rocks gently, and sanji gets comfortable; zoro's warm and solid and happens to make a perfectly respectable pillow. the thought that he can have this now sends a thrill through him.

he's not a fool. he's not optimistic when it comes to this. when it comes to love.

but with zoro's thumb rubbing mindless circles against the side of his thigh and a kiss pressed to the top of his head, he's got a pretty good feeling about this time around.

#er. this dragged me down the hill and i let it #this got so off-topic anon i apologise #but to be fair even after they start dating sanij gets absolutely HORRIFIC nosebleeds #like hello?? that man is hot as hell?? and he's MY man??? good lordy #cue him leaning against the wall in a dramatic swoon and yelling for zoro to catch him #(zoro does not catch him. sanji falls on his ass.)#(he does get a forehead kiss before zoro walks away cackling though so. a win is a win!)#black leg sanji #zosan #one piece zosan #zoro x sanji #roronoa zoro #one piece zoro #one piece sanji #one piece #ino writes #ino's ask box #sanji's issues deserve a tag of their own #my habit of segueing from chill fun rambling to emotionally damaging content should be studied. jesus christ.

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ohdeerfully · 6 months

Note

can you do a lil story abt alasor x chubby reader? Idk I've been getting kinda insecure lately especially abt all my stretch marks so please and thank you! Have a nice day also I love your story's and stuff

rahh i just had to write something for this even though its at the top of my list. hopefully you like it, and i hope youve been feeling better lately! heres some sickeningly sweet fluff!! rather short, around 1.5k words

Bare

Alastor x Reader (fluff/comfort)

TW: body dysmorphia, insecure reader, alastor ooc but hes a cutie pie so its ok really (coping)

join my discord!

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You purse your lips at your bare reflection, turning this way and that to peer at the different angles of your body and its curves. The expression on your face turned into a frown as your eyes trailed over the stripes that decorated the conjunction of your stomach and thighs, evidence of the weight you had gained over the last year.

The atmosphere was all too uncomfortable, which only made you feel worse. A mediocre shower had left your hair damp and skin cold, and the light breeze that wafted from your slightly cracked window chilled you. Your towel was lying, discarded, by your feet, but you had become too engrossed in looking at yourself in the body length mirror to really take note of the goosebumps that pricked up your arms.

You looked away from the mirror and down at your legs, lifting and twisting one to get a better look at your thighs. You sighed at the sight. You thought you might cry, but you didn't want to cry—

“Cher,” A familiar voice made you jump to attention, head whipping up and almost knocking against the chin of the culprit had he not placed his hand in the way to halt your motion. “We don’t want to catch a cold now, do we?” His voice was uncharacteristically low, and it lacked the usual intonation of static.

You met Alastor’s red gaze through the mirror as he stood behind you, bent slightly so his head was level with yours. You were embarrassed, standing here naked in front of the Radio Demon, but you were frozen in place. His hands rested gingerly against your shoulders, trailing up and down your arms, slow and gentle.

You fought back the urge to shove him away when his hands strayed from your arms, traveling under them and wrapping over your stomach. You swallowed. Tears started to blur your vision as numerous racing ideas filled your mind, casting doubt on the genuine nature of Alastor’s affections. You paused mentally when you felt another light touch of his lips against your cheek.

You didn’t blink, worried that a tear may slip down and concern the demon behind you. You caught his gaze again in the mirror and he stood silently for a moment, studying your expression. You knew your eyes looked glassy and your lips were pressed tightly in a thin line, but you prayed to God—ironically enough—that he wouldn’t notice. His brows knit, creating a slight crease on his forehead, and you timidly stood there wringing your hands together. You felt so vulnerable, so scrutinized, because why else would he be staring at you so intently if it wasn’t to judge your bared body?

“What a sight,” He said suddenly, promptly placing a featherlight kiss on the crook of your neck. “How lucky is a man to have you all to himself?” He eyed your face and your body, but his gaze lacked the typical glare of lust and hunger that you would expect from a man. Instead, they only conveyed some tender, unspoken feelings of affection for you. As strange as it was to see such a look on Alastor, you had grown accustomed and welcoming of it.

There was still doubt in your mind, but you knew to trust the gentle words he spoke to the best of your ability. Alastor was full of lies and manipulation, but he was different behind the doors of your shared room. You knew a side of him that was, for him, as equally vulnerable as you were currently. So, though there was still a part of you that fought against the idea of him loving you despite what you found in yourself to be so ugly, you allowed the reassurance of his touch and words to calm your mind.

“Now,” He said, standing up straight once more. He gingerly picked up the damp towel by your feet, contemplated it for a moment, and then vanished it in a dark plume of inky smoke. “Let’s get you something warm.”

He lightly placed his hand by your shoulder blade, pushing you with the lightest pressure to maneuver you away from the mirror. You cast one last look at yourself out of the corner of your eye, but noticed he was still watching you. You quickly looked away with an awkward, breathless laugh. He pulled you closer to himself as he walked you towards the bed. With a gentle shove from Alastor, you sat lightly on the edge of the mattress, bouncing your leg as you watched him cross the room.

He hummed as he sifted through the closet of your room, a finger on his chin as he looked too concerned about picking out pajamas. You figured he was just trying to be silly to lighten your mood, and you appreciated it. Plus, you had to admit to yourself, seeing him look so serious at a bunch of old, oversized shirts did cheer you up.

He returned after a moment with a simple red top and fuzzy black pants. He motioned his finger to prompt you to lift your arms, which had subconsciously come to rest over your stomach. You obeyed, albeit with some hesitance, and bit your lip as you lifted your arms from their protective position.

“You know,” He spoke as he aided you in pulling your arms and head through the shirt. He paused his words for a moment to shake out the pants so the fabric was straightened, and then he continued. “If the Gods were to exist, I’d say your beauty would make them rather jealous. I don’t think art even portrays them quite as enchanting.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” You said with a light eye roll and a too-sarcastic tone in your voice that you immediately regretted. He didn’t seem to mind, though.

“Oh, but it’s true!” He argued back with a light smile. He tenderly lifted one of your legs and slipped the fabric of the fuzzy pajamas over, and followed suit with your other leg. You lifted yourself up with your hands so he could slip the waist over your hips.

He stood, looking down at you for a moment, again just analyzing you. It was easier to feel more comfortable under his gaze—as comfortable as anyone could possibly be with Alastor looking at them so intently—when you were clothed.

He ruffled your hair, accompanying the movement with a pleased hum, before turning and beginning to change himself. You shuffled yourself up the bed, resting your back against the headboard as you carefully watched him.

His coat came off first, slipping down his shoulders and hung carefully in the closet. Your eyes were immediately drawn to the fluffy red tail that flicked as the cold air breezed through the fur. You made a mental note to ask to pet it later—maybe he would let you if you told him it would make you feel better. He then pulled at the hem of his undershirt, tugging it up and over his head and then down his arms. His hair tumbled down in soft locks from the neckline as he popped his head from the shirt.

God, how embarrassing you probably looked right now, watching Alastor undress in front of you with the sickest, lovestruck eyes. If you were a drawing, there would probably be hearts floating all over your head right now.

He bent at the hip slightly to rustle through a drawer of his own night shirts, and you watched the edges of his shoulder blades and the slight curvature of his lean muscles shift and contort under his pale skin with every move he made. Your eyes traveled up and down his back, drawing mental images with the lines of scars that marred his otherwise smooth flesh.

Heat flushed your cheeks when he turned his head slightly, looking at you through the corner of his eyes, catching you ogling him. His grin only grew wider, though, before he finally threw on a loose shirt. What a tease.

He made quick work of his pants, replacing them with some comfortable sweats that looked almost alien on him, considering his usual attire. He joined you in the bed, his body creating a sizable dip in the mattress that made you fall against him. His arm snaked behind your back, coming to cup you at the curves of your waist and pulling you closer. He pressed a kiss against the top of your head before resting his cheek against it.

There would be no discussion about what had been bothering you minutes prior, and you were perfectly okay with it. Alastor was useless at emotional discussions, and in extension comforting you directly, but he could, to the best of his ability, comfort you through his actions and presence. A light, soothing jazz tune reverberated in the dark room, manifesting from his cane that sat against the wall by the bed. You closed your eyes and sighed, tangling your legs into his underneath the sheets.

You purse your lips, a light curve at the corners as you smiled at your previous idea.

“Al, my love,” You said softly, moving your head so he would lift his own off of it and look at you. His red eyes had a light glow in the dark.

“Yes, ma moitie?” He lifted his clawed hand and gently placed his index under your chin. Your next words made his body jerk and tense.

“Could I pet your tail?”

#ohdeerfully #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #fluff #alastor x you #tw: body dysmorphia #dysmorphia #insecure reader #):#alastor tries his best really #love him

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lemoncrushh · 3 months

Text

Sweat

Summary: Some post-workout sex

Warnings: Smut obviously. 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 1020

A/N: This was a little blurb written in 2017 inspired by some white leggings Harry had been seen wearing. Really it was just an excuse to write some smut. Written in first person, but no name given.

Harry had gone for a run. I wasn't much of a runner myself, so on days that he decided to do that, I opted for a walk on the treadmill that we kept in our sunroom. I was content with the sounds 80s and 90s heavy metal pumping through the bluetooth speakers and my water bottle in its holder as I looked out into our backyard.

Halfway through an Iron Maiden song, I thought I heard the sound of the front door slamming shut and the beep of the alarm, followed by footsteps into the kitchen as Harry's trainers squeaked across the tile.

"Is that you, baby?" I called out, mostly as acknowledgement since I knew the answer.

"Yeah!" he replied, his voice exhausted from exertion.

"I'll be done in a few," I said as I began to slow my pace.

I continued to walk through one more song before coming to a stop and stepping off the treadmill. My heart rate was still up, my face and chest glistening with sweat as I reached for my water and drank the rest in one large gulp. Then reaching for my towel, I turned off the music and headed toward the doorway that led to the den. I stopped in my tracks when I saw him.

He was sat on the large leather sofa, his head back, his arms and legs open in a spread eagle. He had stripped himself of his clothing - hoodie, t-shirt, shorts, shoes and socks, even his beanie - all except a pair of tight white leggings that he'd worn underneath his shorts. His naked yet wet chest rose and fell with each heavy breath that puffed out between his lips, and his eyes were closed.

"Holy shit," I muttered, now weak in the knees, and not from my workout.

Suddenly his eyelids fluttered open, and he saw me gawking at him.

"Hi." I wasn't sure exactly how, but he managed to make one tiny word sound so sexy, and so smug at the same time.

"That must've been some run," I remarked, my heartbeat racing again.

"Yeah."

I stepped closer to him, patting my chest with my towel.

"Do you wanna shower first, or..." I started to ask, my speech faltering when I finally got a good look at what was before me.

His leggings were drenched, nearly transparent. The muscles in his thighs fought for release from the confines of the stretchy fabric. But it was what was in between that had my mouth watering. I could see everything. The outline of his erection was obvious, and it threatened to pop out of the waistband that sat low on his hips. The line of hair beneath his belly button was wet with sweat as it trailed seductively down to meet his thick thatch, also moist with perspiration that dampened the crotch of his leggings.

Catching me staring at him, Harry held out his hand to me.

"C'mere, love," he breathed, his voice still broken and raspy.

I lifted my eyes to his, an easy smirk rising from the corner of his mouth. I accepted his hand, taking two steps closer so that I was standing between his legs. Harry sat up, releasing my hand to graze his up the back of my thigh, his other hand mimicking the first until both crept up my jogging shorts and slid back down.

"I like these," he murmured as he repeated the action with both hands.

I blinked slowly, a hard breath releasing from my lungs. I watched his face for a moment more until returning my gaze to his leggings. I didn't reckon Harry would wear pants underneath something so confining, but Jesus Christ, did they have to be white?

"You want it?" Harry suddenly asked.

My eyes wide, I stared at him incredulously. "Sorry?"

Taking my hand once more, he guided it to his crotch.

"This," he said. "You want it?"

A sound rose from my throat then, and I'm not sure if it was a moan or a protest or sound of confusion. But luckily Harry copied it, grabbing me by the waist. He pulled my shorts down so quickly I didn't have time to think. Stepping out of them, I watched as he dipped his hands in his leggings and released himself. This time I knew I moaned, as I straddled him, my knees hitting the cool leather of the couch.

Our tongues met with a vengeance, the hunger overtaking any need to fully de-clothe ourselves.

"'m so fucking hard, baby," he groaned against my mouth.

I merely nodded as I sat up, allowing him to aim his cock at my entrance. I needed no extra lubrication. I usually worked up a good one of my own when I exercised, but regardless, I was so turned on by his insatiable desire.

I rode him slowly at first, but only for a bit. He wasn't having it.

"Fuck me," he demanded, grasping at my waist like his life depended on it, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.

I nodded, biting my lip as I rode him faster. His eyelids got heavy as his mouth twitched. Finally, he threw his head back, moaning my name as I felt him hit me deeper. My own breaths quickened, my hands gripping the back of the sofa. Harry's hips lifted up to meet mine as we both cried out.

I tried to catch my breath as I rested my head on his shoulder, taking in his scent. I felt him rake his fingers up my back, and back down again, soothing me in his gentle way.

"I love you," I whispered, words we'd exchanged many times already, but for some reason I wasn't sure if it was too sweet, too real to follow such an animalistic situation.

"I love you, too," he echoed before kissing me in the soft spot below my ear.

I sat up, studying his face. He raised a brow.

"You're incredibly sexy," he declared. "And amazing."

I smiled at him, my hands grazing his chest, my fingers tracing his tattoos.

"Now, about that shower..." he smirked.

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pisupsala · 2 months

Text

As I Walk Through The Valley of The Shadow of Death

Or how hell could not keep you away from each other.

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader

Part 3 of Are You Going My Way?

Words: 10.5k Warnings: war, blood, graphic descriptions of war and wounds, angst, 18+

He didn’t make it back.

The first time you see Bucky’s name on the list of missing, it’s like time freezes. You must have misstepped between dimensions, plummeting from the high heavens into a nightmare.

You blink, and it’s three days later. Your friends look at you, worried, whispering. Another blink and another day has passed.

Scrubbing the floor, folding sheets, assisting in the OR, night shift, day shifts, breakfast, study, the sun on your face, the raindrops in your hair, dinner with your friends, sleep, wake up, dream, scrubbing the floor again, medication rounds, changing bandages, crying in the shower, lumpy gravy for lunch, disinfecting instruments, again that dirty fucking floor, your fingers pruning from the soapy water, making beds, doing inventory, burning your tongue on hot coffee, ironing your uniform, debriding wounds, whispers of comfort, last rites, writing reports and a letter from home.

You don’t remember what happened; you’re just there, and it's gone again in the blink of an eye. But when you look up from the crumpled envelope in your hand, nothing has changed except the date on the calendar.

It’s shocking how quickly daily life around you settles back into the same patterns —��new faces replace the old, a new tragedy every day. There are so many to mourn in the Bloody 100th.

Once, you could shroud the harsh reality of war in a warm light, a semblance of normalcy on the dance floor, drinks with friends, card games, the way your heart beat faster when you looked into his eyes.

The intensity of being around Bucky, the persistence of his attention, his astounding presence—they fit so perfectly in that puzzle of insanity that you are suddenly and completely lost without him. In the mere hours you had together, over the days and weeks, somewhere between the flirtatious jokes, heated kisses, and sincere confessions, he altered something in you. Drastically. Permanently.

Nothing was normal, but it was the life you had come to accept, the mission you had chosen. It was a necessary delusion.

But it’s like a power surge popped every rose-colored bulb, and in the half-shadows cast by reality's bleak daylight, there’s nowhere to hide. This is what it always was; you lied just enough to yourself not to have to see it.

The flow of time stabilizes eventually — were days always this long? Did nights drag this much through fitful sleep? There is no news. No news is good news, they whisper, that means there’s still hope. But holding out hope hurts relentlessly. It’s like a stone in your shoe, a paper cut on your finger. You feel it over and over and over, with every breath, and each time, it hurts a little bit more.

When you look around the dance hall, it could be an evening like any other, but there are no blue eyes to meet yours from across the room. When you walk back to your quarters, you slow your step, listening for the sound of a bicycle bell. It never comes. The hollow feeling remains.

Sip your drink. It doesn’t taste good. Kick a stone from the path. Smile. Gossip. Read a book. Smokey whiskey doesn’t dull the pain; it just tastes acrid. Work. Work, work, work. Write home. Lie. Lie awake at night. Live your days in a daze. Wait. Keep waiting.

Never lose hope.

It’s sometime in the fall, with long gray days and even longer cold nights, when you start your day shift by preparing medication for the doctor’s morning round around the ward. The small, windowless room always smells of a strange mixture of chemicals and chalk emanating from the boxes and bottles stacked floor to ceiling — you always keep the door open to get at least some fresh air in. The stool at the small table is rickety; it’s a little bit too low, forcing you to painfully lean your forearms against the table's edge to keep your balance.

The sharp rap of knuckles on the door ruses you from the daze of your task. As you stand up, wiping your hands on the skirt of your dress, you expect to see Doctor Stover.

“Major Kidd.” You can’t keep the surprise out of your voice. You have seen him around, of course, but you’ve never spoken. He looks tired, leaning against the doorpost with his shoulder. “What can I do for you?” You add automatically, politely.

Major Kidd doesn’t reply immediately, glancing around the hallway. There’s the soft echo of footsteps, voices carrying from the ward.

“I have news about Major Egan,” He announces with little fanfare. Your mouth is dry instantly, and you involuntarily step back as if to brace yourself for whatever Major Kidd will say next. The stool scrapes over the floor noisily as your left shin connects with it. Your heart is beating so loudly now, making your chest hurt.

“Is he alive?” Your vocal cords strain to get the sound out, but you need to know, to rip the band-aid off. Major Kidd nods affirmatively. You release a breath, exhaling from your soul almost as much as your lungs.

“We received word last night that he’s been taken prisoner and held at Stalag Luft III,” he supplies. You exhale deeply. The heavy weight that suddenly fell from your shoulders is making you lightheaded. Blinking heavily, you try to focus on what Major Kidd is saying—you catch that Buck and several others from Thorpe Abbots are at the same prison.

He’s alive; he’s not alone.

Thank god.

“I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, Nurse,” Major Kidd glances around the hallway again, more nervously this time. “But Bucky - ehm, Major Egan always spoke fondly of you.”

You’re dying to ask what Bucky said about you, just how fondly he spoke about you, but you press your lips together to keep the words from pouring out. Not the place, not the time and not the person to ask, you remind yourself.

“Would you write to him?”

You find that you actually appreciate Major Kidd’s no-frills approach. He doesn’t waste words by dancing around the subject.

“It’s -” He hesitates for a few seconds, the tiredness in his face so much more apparent. “These camps are not nice places, as you can imagine, Nurse. A kind word from home can do a lot for a man.”

“Of course,” You croak out as if you haven’t used your voice in years, clearing your throat quickly and conjuring a smile onto your face. “I’d be happy to, Major.”

“The information you’ll need,” Major Kidd nods as he hands you a folded-up piece of paper. “And Nurse, choose your words carefully. Your letters will be read.” His tone is neither threatening nor warning, simply reminding you of wartime procedure.

“Thank you,” You nod earnestly. “Thank you for thinking of me—err—for Major Egan’s sake. I—I…”

I thought he was dead, and it was crushing me.

“Thank you for this, Major Kidd.” You conclude calmly, wrangling your emotions to prevent them from spilling out.

“Thank you, Major Kidd, for what?” Matron’s voice sounds exceptionally shrill as her sour face peeks out from behind Major Kidd. You stumble back again, nearly tripping over the stool. Major Kidd looks like the blood drained from his face as Matron muscles her way into the door opening. You crush the paper in your fist, demurely folding your hands to hide it.

She looks back and forth between you, her eyes so wide they almost bulge out of her skull.

Out of context, the situation looks odd; you have to admit that. Major Kidd has no reason to be in the infirmary, especially in the medicine stockroom. And there’s only you here, which makes it obvious he sought you out.

You know there were plenty of whispers about another Major popping up around you in places he shouldn’t be. Matron never confronted you about it because she didn’t have evidence, but you really don’t need the additional scrutiny.

“Well?” Matron zeroes in on you — of course, she can hardly confront a higher-ranking officer. You press your lips together, feverishly trying to think of an excuse.

“It’s a private matter, Captain,” Major Kidd speaks up in that same calm, almost dry tone.

“In the infirmary, my nurses don’t have private matters, Major,” Matron retorts — you can hear how much she holds back by how she wrenches out the words. You are really in for it now.

“My private matter.”

You blink. Major Kidd didn’t have to do that, but you appreciate it nonetheless. The paper crinkles softly in your folded hands. You’re not listening to Matron’s hurried apology, the way Major Kidd waves it away frostily — you can hardly keep the smile off your face at the sudden realization.

Even now, without being here, after all this time — Bucky is still getting you into trouble.

And by god, how you’ve missed it.

***

“Egan!”

In his lethargy, Bucky doesn’t react the first time his name is called. Only when Buck taps his shoulder he finally looks up from his place on the bed.

“Egan?”

“Here.”

Unceremoniously, the young man in the too-big overcoat lobs an envelope at Bucky. Bucky plucks it out of the air just by virtue of his reflexes because his brain —which seems to move at the speeds of goddam molasses on a winter day—sure hasn’t caught up on what is happening.

Hesitantly, he turns the envelope between his cold fingers. Buck cranes his neck to peek at the return address.

“Guess you set it better than you thought.” Buck grins, clapping him on the shoulder. Bucky doesn’t reply, unsure if the envelope in his hands is about to burst into flames, like it’ll go up in smoke before his eyes, and with it, another shred of sanity he’s been clawing onto.

He carefully peels the envelope open—clearly, he’s not the first one to do so, as the glue barely sticks to the paper. Your careful print fills the pages—two whole pages front and back—and it fills Bucky with a warmth he hasn’t felt in so long. You still thought about him. You cared about him enough to write these pages, even when you hadn’t heard from him in months.

In exceptionally dark moments, like demons clawing at Bucky, the thought would creep up that everyone had already forgotten him — that only that trail of chaos he left behind was some evidence of his existence.

His eyes fly over the lines; he rereads the letter two, three times in a row. It’s like a drug, a few minutes where he can forget he’s stuck in a crowded room in a shitty, drafty building, the bleak midwinter in Germany, the hunger and the cold.

You write openly and unabashedly that you miss him—how you look over your shoulder on the way home because you hope he’ll suddenly appear, search for him in every crowd, and your heart sinks a little when the band plays Blue Skies. You joke about how England has ruined your favorite season. Where the forests of your native Vermont are a sea of warm colors, in England, you’re drowning in monochrome gray. You apologize for copying the results from the World Series games from the newspaper, flippantly claiming you can’t make your roommates sit through another game on the radio (but then admitting you fell asleep during the broadcast).

You write in the way you speak. When Bucky closes his eyes, he can imagine exactly how you would look telling him all this: the emotions playing out on your face, the laughter in your voice as you joke, the calm steadfastness of your confession. He can see so clearly the way you would roll your eyes at the overwhelming lack of color around you as if it’s an offense aimed at you personally, the way your nose would crinkle at the prospect of sitting through another sports broadcast, or how your tongue would wet your lips as you whisper sweetly to him, your fingers lacing through his, rocking up onto your tiptoes to kiss him.

Of all the things you write about, you never mention any names. You don’t say anything about your work, the 100th, or even mention Thorpe Abbots explicitly. Any and all information you divulge is ultimately useless to anyone but Bucky.

Clever girl.

Bucky’s pencil often hovers over the paper, scratching the surface, but no word has made it to paper so far. He’s never really been at a loss for words, especially around you — if anything, you’ve become quite effective at shutting him up. But now that he desperately wants to tell you something, anything, he has nothing to say.

Bucky was never good at writing letters, considering it a tedious occupation. He never really cared that he wasn’t getting many letters; it saved him the trouble of writing back. And there was always enough distraction locally not to have to care.

You appear an accomplished writer, effortlessly and genuinely putting everything to paper —he doesn’t even know where to begin. Bucky doesn’t want to talk about his circumstances; he doesn’t want to fill your head with worry as much as he doesn’t want to commit his reality to paper, in some way preserving his darkest times. But just “thank you and I miss you” won’t cut it. Buck, like a good friend, would try to counsel him.

“Have you considered telling her just that?” Buck is sitting across the table from him with a faint grin on his face, hands deep into his coat pockets, and small puffs of condensation coming out of his mouth as he speaks. “That writing letters is not one of your many apparent talents, but you are grateful for her efforts?”

“I’d like her to write me more,” Bucky grumbles, starting at the empty paper. “Not torpedo the only chance I have at contact with the outside world.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“Shut up.”

Buck sits up straighter in his chair, looking at his friend struggling in a way he hasn’t seen before. Bucky is the kind of person who can make everything seem effortless because he is confident enough—some would say arrogant enough—in his innate abilities to pull everything off on the first try. Just that puts him miles ahead of everyone else on a good day because, by the time they catch up with Bucky, he has the experience to back up his boasting.

So, it’s rare to see him fail at anything. Painfully, Bucky himself is usually the cause of his failures. While others would argue that Bucky hated being Air Exec and that his deliberate sabotage to get rid of the job wasn’t a failure, Buck would disagree. It’s just exactly what he does. Faced with something that he hates and unable to shape reality to his desire through bluster and cleverness, Bucky will sooner self-destruct and take down everything with him than admit defeat.

The fact that Bucky is agonizing about something as simple as replying to a letter, to Buck, just makes it abundantly clear it’s not about the letter. It’s about you. He doesn’t want to fail you, and it’s paralyzing him into place. Because he might actually irrevocably fuck this up.

Bucky is his own worst enemy, as well as the only one who can talk himself out of that spiral. But that doesn’t mean he can’t use a push in the right direction.

“She’s put up with you so far, hasn’t she?”

Bucky stares at him with sullen annoyance, tapping the tip of his pencil against the paper in an erratic rhythm. Everyone in the room pretends the best they can that they are not listening in on the conversation.

“I’m sure she’ll gladly overlook your shoddy penmanship and poor prose as part of your many faults for the joy of receiving word from you in the first place.” Buck chuckles as he gets up from the table, the floorboards creaking under his shifting weight. On his way to the door, he stops next to Bucky. The page before him is littered with messy lines and dots where the pencil's tip has hit the paper in uncertainty and irritation.

“Just write her what you want to tell her, man.” Buck imparts on him calmly before he saunters out the door.

***

She is magnificent.

That pearly smile, those red lips, the carefully tailored dress uniform — with pants! — the shining oak leaves: Major Baker oozes charm. She is the picture-perfect nurse and officer, like she walked right out of a recruitment poster.

She’s not even looking at you as she passes you to the podium, but you pull up the sleeves of your too-large standard-issue cardigan anyway. Nervously, you tuck some stay hairs behind your ear. Being in Major Baker’s vicinity makes you feel like you should be better at… everything.

The moment she opens her mouth, the room full of chatty, gossiping nurses falls quiet.

“I am here today to talk to you about the 13th Field Hospital and your opportunity to join our outfit,” Major Baker says with a smile. “But let me warn you: the 13th is not for everyone. Actually, I’ll be honest with you ladies. It’s not for most.”

You are listening with rapt attention. You heard the Army was building field hospitals for the European theater, but you never really thought much about it. When you told your parents you joined the army as a nurse and were going to be stationed in England, they weren’t happy, to say the least. Up until the moment you were standing at the front door in your uniform, bag packed, your mother tried to convince you to forfeit your deployment. The first time you called home, your mother wouldn’t even come to the phone, leaving your younger sister to relay the latest to the home front. Your father still ends every letter with: Are you ready to come home now?

Major Baker served in the Pacific, following the front as part of an evacuation hospital. She speaks candidly about the harsh conditions, the lack of equipment, the bugs, and the rampant tropical disease.

“This was the best experience of my life and the worst. I hated it, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.” She’s not smiling when she says it, but you can see the fondness in her eyes, even from your spot in the middle of the room.

You are not ready to go home. How could you be? The war is nowhere near its end, and you know, you feel it in your bones, you are not done with your part. It’s your duty.

And you couldn’t leave Bucky behind—the thought springs up so raw and quick it almost hurts physically.

Your hands shook as you received that envelope weeks ago. It was bent, the edges crumpled, and the seal had a muddy streak. The letter was short, barely spanning two paragraphs on the small page, and your heart soared at Bucky referring to you as his beloved Dove. You laughed at his clearly sulky apology for not being much of a writer, but within a few sentences, tears rolled down your face — by the end, you were sobbing.

Please keep writing me.

In all its simplicity and sincerity, it’s seared into your soul.

“I am not looking for good nurses—I want great, brave nurses.” Major Baker suddenly picks up in volume, like she’s challenging you personally to pay attention to her, to challenge you. Clenching your jaw, you put the bandage back over your heart.

“I want committed nurses who are not afraid to take a spill in the mud and who won’t lose their heads under pressure. I’m looking for girls who have gotten their hands dirty in triage, the operating room, and emergency response and still look for the next challenge. Combat nursing is that challenge.”

She looks around the room pointedly. You want to shrink away under her scrutinizing gaze, acutely aware of every part of your uniform that’s not strictly complying with regulation. Your wandering thoughts are a mess, and you feel distinctly frumpy compared to Major Baker's flawless appearance and charm.

“If you have the experience, the references, and the attitude, I invite you to apply.” She smiles sweetly again. “And who knows, I might see you on the mainland.”

But you also want to jump out of your seat and hand in your application right now.

It’s late afternoon, and the fall sun is already dipping behind the horizon when you knock on Doctor Stover’s office door. The distinct smell of his ever-present pipe hangs around the room.

“I was expecting you,” he jokes when you enter. You try to look innocent, but a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as you greet him. “And I know what you’re going to ask —sit down, Nurse.”

“And will you, doctor?” The words leave your mouth before you’re even fully seated.

“The War Department sure trained Baker well,” Doctor Stover grumbles as he leafs through the papers on his desk. “You’re the fifth to come in today.”

You sit up straight, your shoulders relaxed, and your hands neatly folded in your lap. Calm and poised, just like you’ve been trained.

“You’re the only one who has a real shot at this,” he looks up at you. Even though he’s paying you a compliment, Doctor Stover looks mildly irritated by this.

“Thank you, doctor.” You reply serenely.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he retorts. Your eyes narrow, and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop the indignation from washing over you—you can’t help it. “You’re the one I’m most worried about precisely because of that.”

“You don’t want me to go.” It’s a sobering statement. You didn’t expect this. You have the experience and the attitude—you just need the reference.

“I’d be losing one of my best, but I’d rather lose you to another outfit than ship you off home.” He leans back in his chair, puffs of smoke billowing from his pipe. “You, however, must be sure you’re doing this for the right reasons.”

“I wan-”

“Major Baker has been trained, scripted, to make combat medicine sound like the ultimate challenge of your nursing career. The greatest call you could answer.” Doctor Stover doesn’t even acknowledge that he interrupted you. You’re biting your lip, trying to keep yourself from talking over him. “She fails to mention that once you’re in the field, there’s no way back unless you physically can’t do your job anymore, or you’re dead. I’ve been there, I’ve seen it all. Flying bullets kill nurses the same as soldiers.”

He leans forward. The look of determination on your face hasn’t wavered, but he knows how stubborn you are. Your stubbornness and diligence have served you well so far, making you an excellent nurse. He hopes you are stubborn enough to make it through the hell you’re volunteering for. “The field will grind away at everything that isn’t strong enough, so be very sure about why you’re doing this. For what. For whom.”

You wrinkle your nose as you move back a fraction, offended at the implication, offended that Doctor Stover deduced who’s been on your mind all this time. You tell yourself that wanting to go to mainland Europe has nothing to do with Bucky being there, that volunteering to join the front is not in part because you might find him and bring him back.

Only when the war ends will you be ready to go home.

“I have my reasons clear, Doctor.” You reply evenly, clenching your hands stubbornly.

“Sleep on it.”

“Doc-”

“That’s an order, nurse.” Doctor Stover waves his hand, dismissing you. He notices your look as you get up, noisily pushing your chair back—the flare in your nostrils, the narrowed eyes, and your mouth set into a stern line. It makes him smile, even though that will anger you further.

You will need every bit of that anger, every bit of that drive to prove yourself, every sliver of pure pigheaded stubbornness to arm you once you set foot on the European mainland.

Within weeks, you find yourself at the local train station waiting for the train to London. You only have what you can carry in your pack —besides the issued essentials, there is scarily little room for anything else. Just small comforts like an extra pair of socks, mittens, and a notebook for writing letters. There is no great fanfare to your goodbye, Matron—and you wish it had been anyone else, really—hurried you out of the barracks this morning before dropping you off.

It’s misting, and Matron is hurrying through the polite formalities. You thank her nicely, shake her hand, and nod along.

“I hope he is worth it,” It’s not kind, erring on the side of snide, but not overt enough to call out. You don’t flinch, simply staring her down. Matron doesn’t say anything else, whether she’s waiting for you to start defending yourself or it’s simply one final jab to let you know that nothing gets past her.

“Maybe he’s not,” you shrug, finally. She raises an eyebrow skeptically. It’ll make no difference.” You don’t really believe those words, but you’ll never give her that satisfaction. Me doing my job will.”

***

You set foot on the European mainland on June 7th, 1944, disembarking at Omaha Beach with your unit. There is not enough equipment or medicine, not enough people, not enough time. You’ve been stranded with the drab fatigues you’ve been issued, a too-big helmet, and whatever you have in your pack.

What you don’t realize yet in the chaos and bloodshed of those first days is that it will only get worse. Whenever you think the inferno has finally galvanized you, a new, deeper ring of hell is beckoning you.

Despite the drills, despite all the training, you are ill-equipped. You’ve seen air raids from a distance — but you’ve never experienced how mortars make the ground shake, the wave of sand they kick up, how tanks make your very bones tremble as they bulldozer past you. You’ve seen terrible burns, frozen flesh, torn by bullets, you’ve lost patients on the operating table — but the desperation of men dragging their buddy through the helm grass and sand, screaming, blown apart by mines, sliced to pieces on razor wire, and there is nothing you can do for them. What you have against the pain, you can’t give them because they are beyond saving.

They call it meatball surgery. Quick, hack, stitch, and out. The rate of operations is murderous, the surgeon’s hands shaking from exhaustion, bleary-eyed in the bright operating light, staring at the pooling blood. It makes you sick to your stomach.

On the first night, huddled in a foxhole with another nurse, watching Allied planes fly over, you try to remember why you signed up for this. You are so scared, you are sure you’ll sleep again.

You keep writing to Bucky because you promised him that. And for him, you will hold on out of sheer sense of duty and profound stubbornness. Even when there is so much you cannot tell him. You can’t share that you’ve left the 100th or are not even in England anymore — when you write about having the first sip of champagne you’ve had in years, you don’t mention that it was in Paris. You describe the pure joy at having cherries straight from the tree, but you leave out that it was on the side of the road outside Amiens. When you apologize that you haven’t written in a while because you fell ill, you don’t share it’s because you got pneumonia in the harsh Ardennes winter.

The stubborn cough and burn in your lungs linger, and with pain in your heart, you wait for the mail truck to come in, clutching your latest letter to Bucky. You haven’t heard from him since August last year—it’s February. In desperation, before Christmas, you wrote to Doctor Stover to ask if anyone back at the 100th had heard from him. He replied in a short chicken scratch note that there was no change in status.

Finally, your name is called. Wrapped up in a blanket that made it to you in exchange for some cigarettes, you accept the small stack of letters. Sitting down on a piece of concrete from a partially collapsed house, you close your eyes in silent prayer. Please let one of these be from Bucky.Nothing. It’s the kind of disappointment you cannot take anymore. Every day without word from him, you are forced to accept a little bit more that you are too late: something happened to Bucky, he is wounded, dead, and the enemy is in no particular hurry to report it. And why would they? A ranking officer like Bucky is more valuable as leverage alive than dead, so of course, they would stretch the truth.

A darker thought strikes you. What if he just simply doesn’t want to write you anymore? Bucky is smart. Either he figured out that you’ve been lying — lying by omission is still lying — or he is simply bored, and your letters are just good for kindle.

It would probably hurt less if something happened to him, and it would be easier to accept than his ignoring you.

The blood drains from your face at the realization of what you just wished for — you can feel it draw from your flesh in a hasty retreat. How much of a horrible, selfish, and undeserving person are you turning out to be? You feel lightheaded. Have you been ground down so deeply that only the ugliest parts of you remain?

Bucky would be better off without you.

Bending forward, you put your head between your knees, breathing in short, panicked bursts. The ground is spinning. Has this all been for nothing? When Matron asked if he was worth it, was it really because you were unworthy of him?

Someone is calling your name — but you can only reply with a whimpering sob. You can’t breathe, your lungs are burning — the world around you is swaying so violently now that you drop your letters on the frozen ground, desperately grasping at the jagged stone to stop yourself from pivoting off it.

Someone touches your shoulder, suddenly grinding everything to a halt. The content of your stomach covers your boots and letters in a vile splatter, the sour smell of the bile mixed in with this morning’s watery porridge making you feel even sicker. You sob pathetically, desperately clawing for breath, and for the first time, you realize something. It hits you so profoundly you feel it in your bones: you want to go home. You want your mom. You want your bed and your own room, your sisters, and your dad. You want the beautiful forests, not a cratered alien landscape that smells like death. You want chocolate milkshakes and coke floats, go dancing on Saturday night. You want socks without holes, feet without blisters, and you don’t want to feel fucking cold all the time.

You want Bucky to kiss you on the forehead and tell you everything will be okay.

Even if you don’t deserve any of it.

Time drags you, kicking and screaming, into spring and with the advancing front into southern Germany. The Lucky 13th has seen it all. You’ve been scared for so long you don’t feel it anymore — you sleep again. Whenever and wherever you can, really. On the back of the truck, the small hard cot when the hospital is in operation, on the side of the road waiting for orders, in a foxhole feeling the ground shake from the mortar fire.

Getting shut-eye is a luxury, like many things you’ve taken for granted. Warm showers, for one. Thorpe Abbots was far from the comforts you were used to at home, but the field has cured you of any prissiness. Scrubbing in for surgery has sometimes been the only hot water and soap you would touch in days.

Today is a good day. At least as good as any day in a field hospital can be. Your unit has set up shop in a doctor’s office in a small town south of Nuremberg — you have running water, warm water, real bathrooms, and a kitchen with a stove. You splash water on your face before you start scrubbing in. God, it feels divine. And that stove is going to make you a hot meal, coffee you can burn your tongue on — you can’t wait.

Casualties tend to come in waves, chaos erupting in seconds, hallways suddenly full of people, screaming, yelling, the ticking clock. Medics are wheeling the patient into your makeshift OR. As they push the curtain away, out of the corner of your eye, you see a flash of blonde hair, a familiar movement. You want to call out when you’re called to attention. Urgent. Heavy casualties. Immediate surgery.

You forget about it, like you forget a dream after waking up — a glimpse into a crack between the realities of a life that had once been.

The sun is high in the sky. Yawning, you roll your head, stretching your sore neck muscles. No amount of coffee will keep you awake anymore. The instant mashed potatoes are heavy on your stomach like a weighted blanket, lulling you to sleep. You have seven hours of blissful sleep ahead of you. Blinking against the bright light, your eyes prickling, you see it again.

A misplaced memory, casually walking down the street in front of you.

“Cl- Cleven!” Your voice hikes up in volume between syllables as you pick up speed. “Buck!”

He turns slowly, confusion etched on his face. Buck looks at you like he can’t quite place you here, like you are just as misplaced in his eyes as he is in yours. He looks tired. Worn.

He regards you carefully as you approach. You’re a far cry from the reserved nurse his friend once introduced him to, now dressed in the standard army green field uniform of tough woven cotton, scuffed and washed out in places, timeworn boots, and pants instead of the much more elegant wrap dress nurse uniform you used to wear. He smiles and calls out back to you. You wave at him as you start running.

You skid to a halt in front of him, beaming. It feels like you should hug him, but you’re not that close. He is Bucky’s friend, and you know him by proxy. He is also a very senior officer to you.

“I’m so glad to see you, Major.” You try to sound respectful, catching your breath, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. If Buck is here, that means… You don’t dare finish that thought.

“I am surprised to see you, nurse,” He replies, not unkindly. “But glad nonetheless.”

“Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?” You rattle off the questions in a frenzy because they’re not the questions you want to ask. Not really. Buck knows the question that is burning on your tongue—it is so apparent in your face—your jaw is tight, the slight frown on your forehead even as you smile—you are physically trying to stop yourself from the words just spilling out of you. You are too polite to let it.

It is strange seeing you here. It doesn’t quite fit.

“I’m fine. I’ve gotten the all-clear from the doctor,” Buck replies calmly, his tone conversational. “I have a few days of debriefing to go, and then I’m hopefully back on a plane out of here,” he adds with a wistful laugh.

“Back to Thorpe Abbots?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “We’ll see where they want me.”

A tense silence falls. You need to ask. Buck doesn’t really want to answer.

“Bucky…” It comes out tinged by uncertainty, and you look scared saying his name. Speaking it will make it real.

Buck shakes his head. Your stomach drops.

“He — he didn’t make it out with us,” Buck hesitates, trying to come up with a way to explain the horror of leaving his best friend behind. “We cooked up a plan, Bucky, George Neithammer, Aring, and I. We were going to make a run for it in the night. Down the street, over the wall, into the forest. Neithammer and Aring went first; I followed. A guard clocked us before we could make it over the wall.”

You think your heart just stopped beating as Buck draws in a slow breath.

“Bucky drew his attention, stopped him from firing, and gave us a chance. We made it over.” He recounts the events without flourish.

“And Bucky stayed behind,” you whisper—there’s little emotion to your voice; it’s just a statement of fact. You sound so calm, but the way your hands are clenching, and your eyebrows are knitted together in sorrow betrays just how much you are trying to keep it together.

“He did,” Buck affirms, pain evident in his eyes. He wants to explain and lay out the argument that Bucky knew what he was doing and that it was a testament to him as a man and a leader, but he doesn’t know if he can put it into words. Why him? Why is he standing before you instead of Bucky?

“That sounds like something he would do.” There is no accusation in your words, but it’s rather a heartfelt affirmation. An understanding between the two of you.

It was a strange infatuation, an altered state of the mind, a disbalance in your brain chemistry brought on by the force of nature that was John Egan. You never gave it a name; it was never really mutually acknowledged how deep it went; there was never time to explore it — you just followed the path, pulled by a string.

You are in love with him.

It started when you witnessed that the man who drove you to insanity with his overt attentions truly cared for the men under his command, the man who carried the burden of his responsibility sincerely. You know you are in love with the man who can’t resist a joke, thrives on antics that put him in the center of attention, and then selflessly, unquestionably, and without hesitation saves his best friend.

The realization is freeing; it makes your heart flutter — it fills your stomach with lead.

“You know what’s funny?” The irony in Buck’s voice seeps in bitterly as he chuckles humorlessly. It’s horrible to admit, and guilt burns in his gut. “Bucky had been the one talking about escaping all this time. I kept pushing back, saying we should ride this out.”

Teardrops drip onto your crumpled collar. You want to say something, but the sound that makes it out of your mouth is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. You clamp a hand over your mouth, screwing your eyes shut, you try to get your breathing under control. Buck reaches out, carefully consoling you, resting his hand on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, roughly running the sleeve of your jacket over your face, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry too,” Buck admits quietly, hand falling back to his side again. “I didn’t want — it should have turned out like this.”

You vaguely gesture at the crumbling houses around you, ten-ton trucks thundering past, kicking up clouds of dust, rattling the windows. Nothing should have turned out like this. Neither of you should be here.

“Bucky is going to be okay, isn’t he?” You hate how unsure you sound, traitorous in your lack of faith.

“If anyone would be, it would be him,” Buck looks sad, but a small, fond smile plays over his face. “Bucky would survive just to spite his captors, just because he can. He will survive because his men still depend on him.”

“And he promised he’d come back,” Melancholy echoes in your voice. It’s sort of a joke, wrapped up in the admission that you couldn’t accept a reality where Bucky wouldn’t make true on his promise.

“He owes us both that, I suppose,” Buck chuckles. You grin. There is a particular mercy in meeting Buck here and now, the only one who understands the emptiness, the cold of the shadow cast by Bucky’s absence. You’ve kept it close to your heart all this time, your little pet pain, carefully shielded from prying eyes and inquisition.

“I’ll remind him when I find him,” you quip dryly. Buck laughs, momentarily shedding the weariness that had been weighing him down. The sudden levity reminds you of that night at the pub, squabbling over cards, when everything seemed so very normal for a moment.

“I have to admit, I think I had you wrong, nurse,” Buck tells you soberly, although his grin remains. He casually puts his hands in his pockets, stance relaxed.

“How so?”

“You are just as insane and stubborn as Bucky is,” he states plainly. “You just hide it better.”

You open your mouth to protest. Surely, you are nothing like him. You wish you were. You wish you had that kind of confidence; if only you were that steadfast and always have an answer for everything. Instead, you find yourself increasingly and tragically falling short.

Buck raises his hand, stopping you as you start spluttering a reply.

“He needs someone like that.”

You purse your lips. It doesn’t feel like your place to correct Buck, who has known Bucky for much longer than you and is possibly just trying to be nice to you. Because whatever, or whomever Bucky needs — it’s not you, you think bitterly. If he did, if he truly did, he would have written. You’ve run out of excuses for him long ago, but you are still too embarrassed to ask if Buck knows why Bucky hasn’t sent you any letters. It feels too intimate, too personal, too raw.

You are simply too scared to hear the answer.

And ultimately, it doesn’t matter. The fact that you are here anyway, that you are still holding out for a glimmer of hope, that you are still discovering the depth of your feelings for Bucky— well, yes, that is a testament to your apparent insanity and stubbornness. Buck is right about that. The lack of letters broke your heart but never stopped you.

So you just smile, reeling the pain, wrapping it up close to your heart again.

***

Bucky is sitting on a beam wedged in the mud, leaning against the wall of one of the compound's overly full buildings. His eyes are closed, and the sun is on his face. He’s trying to remember how to relax as his crew around him is chatting. They are all waiting.

It’s been less than 48 hours since the tanks rolled in and the camp was secured — it doesn’t mean anyone gets to leave. Large trucks are thundering into the camp now. Engineers, quickly followed by the supply line with food and water, a detachment of military police, and a whole field hospital — everything is being set up at breakneck speed to get the thousands of POWs processed, checked, and sent back to their units.

Medics checked in on them, and since none of them is seriously hurt, they’ve been instructed to wait. In short, they’re going to be here for a while.

His thoughts wander, and when he allows them far enough, he can almost feel your hand in his. You are just at his fingertips.

“What about you, Major?” Hambone pipes up.

“What about me?” He replies, eyes still closed.

“What are you looking forward to most when you get out of here?”

“Many things.” He shrugs. “Decent food, a hot shower, a mattress on my bed, seeing my girl again. In that order, preferably.”

“Are you going back to Thorpe Abbots?” Crank asks.

“That’s where my Dove is.”

“Are you sure?” The way Crank phrases the question doesn’t sound like a joke, but it’s a cruel remark, even for light ribbing. Bucky cracks open an eye, irritated.

“Shut the fuck up, Crank.”

“No, I mean—” he points into the distance. “Isn’t that her?”

Bucky's line of sight follows where Crank is pointing, his heart suddenly thundering in his ears even though it cannot possibly, rationally, be you. It must be someone with a similar stature, just that shade of hair, and an eerily similar side profile to yours.

But it surely cannot be you.

You strain under the man's weight — his leg is in such bad shape he can’t put any weight on it, the wound weeping angrily in sickening shades of green, yellow, and black, which you’ve never seen coming out of a human body. He is fully leaning on you to keep upright, groaning and whimpering in pain. Pulling your mask down over your chin as you gasp for air, you grimace. You try to flag down medics with a stretcher, but everyone is so busy they don’t see you.

This place is a nightmare. You thought you had seen it all by now, but hell has many steps on its steep descent. Hungry, sick, and injured men stuck in the mud in half-built, half-burnt shelters. There is a stench of sickness and death that hangs around the perimeter of the sickeningly overcrowded camp. You don’t have the beds for the number of terribly wounded, days, weeks, months into suffering — and you don’t have the manpower to do effective triage. It’s monstrous.

“You’re okay,” you assure your patient calmly, fighting to keep your voice even under the physical effort. He looks pale, looking at you with panicked eyes, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“We are going to walk, slowly,” you continue evenly—if you don’t panic, he won’t either. “Then the medics will take over and get you to the doctor.”

He nods, his breath now coming out in short bursts. “Just focus on this now, okay?” You encourage him as you start moving, every step an awkward hobble, your boots sinking into the mud, the arm around your neck weighing you down. You don’t get very far when someone suddenly appears on the other side of your patient, taking the weight literally off your shoulders. Your face relaxes, and you take a deep breath, now that your lungs aren’t getting crushed anymore.

Your skin is prickling, like little bursts of static electricity dance over every inch of your body in excitement.

In foreboding.

You turn to thank whomever kindly came to help. Your eyes meet the stormy blue for a mere second, knocking the wind out of you, his name dying on your dry lips — but he turns away, not acknowledging you beyond the fleeting look, mouth set in a hard line.

Bucky looks worn.

He looks angry.

You avert your gaze, your frozen smile melting into a grimace — that once playful static electricity now feels like a lightning bolt to the heart, stunning you.

“You’re doing great.” You comfort your patient in the kindest tone you can muster under the loom of Bucky’s palpable anger. The smile feels awkward on your face. Still, you are grateful for his help; the muddy path toward the field hospital doesn’t seem that long anymore. It’s what comes after that scares you.

“We’re almost there.” The words of assurance come naturally, despite it leaving you feeling anxious.

Patient finally on a stretcher, your hand is — steady, keep it steady, damnit — as you make notes on the patient's card before smiling as you put it around his neck. He thanks you shakily. He’s going to lose that leg, you think sadly, but you keep a kind smile on your face. If you don’t panic, he won’t. Panic won’t do him any good right now. It sure won’t do anything for you.

Bucky is not standing close; he is just at that awkward distance where it’s clear he’s impatiently waiting for you to be done, and you are expected to follow him. You can feel his eyes boring into your back, but when you glance over your shoulder, he turns his head away from you. It hurts. It’s annoying.

“The doctor will come look you at you, okay?” You tell your patient kindly.

He nods, face still etched in terror.

“Deep breaths,” You remind him gently as you get up. Deep breaths, you remind yourself.

The feeling of impending doom is not wholly unfamiliar; it makes you feel like a child about to be scolded. When you were younger, you could always immediately tell if you were going to be in trouble as you walked through the front door. It was something in the air. Heavy, oppressive almost. It was how your mother put down her coffee cup a little too forcefully, and your father peered over the top of his newspaper as you crossed the room. You remember the suffocating feeling of panic, the powerlessness, desperately wishing you could hide while trying to figure out what upset them, what kind of fib your siblings might have told, if your teacher might have called, or if you simply forgot a chore.

You always tried hard to stay out of trouble so you’d never have to feel like that again.

This feels exactly the same, you think angrily. Nothing — no one — is worth feeling like this for. The thought flashes white-hot through your mind, making you ball your fists in anger at your sides.

You will face this head-on, confidently walking toward Bucky. He’s doing a great job of looking disinterested. It’s infuriating.

When you get close, he grabs you by the upper arm none-too-gently before you can say anything. He is so much taller than you; his grip hitches your entire shoulder up awkwardly.

You stumble after him as he pulls you away around the building. Sure, you weren’t exactly expecting a heartfelt confession from John Egan. The man barely wrote you. He always demonstrated his affection rather than verbalizing it, except for those rare times, in the heat of the moment, when his sudden candid admissions of vulnerability and tender words touched you where his hands couldn’t. But you also didn’t expect Bucky to grab you like he’s leading you to the gallows. He’s still not looking at you, simply glancing around for a place, somewhere, anywhere, with some privacy.

“Bucky—” you try gently. He ignores you, pulling you along. People are looking at you now, gawking at the spectacle of the Major hauling a nurse across camp. Under the curious stares, you feel horrendously embarrassed and uncomfortable in your own skin. Gallows actually sound kind of good now; otherwise, sinking into the mud and disappearing would be acceptable, too.

“John!” You dig your heels in forcefully, frowning. He stops, not because you have so much leverage against him, but if he pulls you any harder, the momentum will pivot you off your feet, most likely face-first into the mud.

The silence is tense. I hope he’s worth it.

“Why are you here?” He bites out, finally looking at you — feet planted, hand at his hip, fingers still tightly wrapped around your arm, towering over you menacingly. You refuse to shrink into yourself under his intense gaze.

“Why the fuck are you here?” He seethes.

“I’m doing my job,” You reply calmly, nails digging into your palms, pulling yourself up a little higher.

“Your job is at Thorpe Abbots.”

“I asked to be reassigned.” Your lip curls into a snarl, betraying how angry you are getting, but your voice stays even. “I’m with the 13th Field Hospital now.”

“Why?” Bucky hisses at you in disbelief as much as frustration. “Why on earth would you request to be reassigned to the front — to this hell?”

You stare at him. Bucky's angry look and thinly veiled disgust are making you sick to your stomach. The words bubble up so strongly that you think you might yell them at him—that’s what you want to do. But when they finally roll off your tongue, it comes out like an admission of guilt.

“Because of you,” You swallow heavily, trying to stave off the tears suddenly pooling in your eyes. You don’t want to cry. You hate that Bucky is making you feel like this — so small, like your very presence is offensive to him. It’s so unfair after, well, everything. “Because I wanted to find you and bring you back.”

Before he can react, you jerk your arm from his grasp, taking a step back, desperate to create some space between you. Bucky doesn’t do anything to stop you.

You dreamed about his touch, you dreamed about this moment, but all you want right now is to get away from this, from him. You can’t look at Bucky right now. You don’t want his hands on you; you want him to stop you from leaving.

Out of all the ways you thought seeing him again would go, you just never thought that… well, he wouldn’t be happy to see you.

In the end, you could just never conceive of that possibility.

You could never convince yourself that he might not be worth it.

Blinking rapidly, you shake your head, wrenching your face into a neutral look. “Forget it, Bucky,” It’s taking every ounce of your strength to keep your voice even. You look him right in the eye. He regards you coolly — it’s like a stab in the gut to realize that this is how you’ll remember him.

“I’m glad to see you — glad to see you’re okay,” You take a shuddering breath, but your voice doesn’t waver, so calm it’s clinical. You blink against the tears pressing at the back of your eyes. “I assume you didn’t get my last letter. I saw Buck a few weeks back near Nuremberg. George Aring was with him. He’s okay and en route to England.”

He deserves to know his best friend is alive and well—after all, it was Bucky’s self-sacrifice that let them escape. It has nothing to do with you. You’re going for a clean cut: You don’t want to owe him anything, and you don’t want to carry any guilt or have a grudge poison you.

If only you could school your features as coolly as Bucky does, but the harder you try, the more your face wants to crumple up in misery.

“I haven’t gotten a single letter from you in over a year.” Bucky scoffs in reply, purposefully not reacting to your news about Buck. He appreciates it, but right now, he doesn’t want to share that sentiment with you — your letters stopped coming when he needed them most, and now you appear with that same lovely and innocent look on your face and every syllable of his name so sweetly on your lips.

Suddenly seeing you cracks open the lingering hurt, the profound aggrievement, seeping from cuts so deep it’s staining what should be joy.

“Well, I’ve sent plenty of them despite the lack of reply.” You bite out so bitterly that your face suddenly morphs into an intense scowl, melting every trace of sadness away. “Sure you did.” His words are like a knife, and you don’t want to hear the hurt and defensiveness edging out the vulnerability in his tone.

“I guess we’ll never know,” You conclude frostily, rage contorting your features. “My patients need me. Goodbye.”

Taking a deep breath, you turn. Tears are rolling down your face now, but you refuse to make a single sound, clenching your jaw determinedly. Bucky has no right to your pain and tears; he doesn’t care anyway.

Clean cut. Walk away.

Bucky has seen you angry before, annoyed, exasperated. Usually at him even. The range of emotions always plays openly on your face. But the acute hurt, the cold insulted fury, the definiteness of your farewell — it gives him pause. What if he needs you?

You barely reach three steps before Bucky snatches you back, hand firmly on your upper arm again. Stumbling backward, you angrily start pulling away again immediately, trying to wrench yourself from his grip.

“Please let me go, Major.” Your tone is harsh, louder than it needs to be, but your voice is so thick and cracking that it’s clear you are crying. You try to wipe your face with your sleeve in vain with your free hand, but Bucky easily pulls you back into him, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders. The knuckles of his other hand skim over your wet cheek in a loving gesture — you jerk your head away like you’ve been burned, evading his touch. Your tears splatter onto the sleeve of his worn leather jacket.

“Jesus Christ, Dove,” He sounds pained, grappling for words, backtracking hurridly. “I don’t care about the letters, I’m sorry,”

“Let me go,” You whisper sadly, trying to push away again, although there is no real conviction behind your struggle. “Please.”

“After you came all the way here for me?” He tries, attempting playfulness, a careful smile pulling the corner of his mouth, but he just gets an elbow in the stomach in reply. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry -” He groans.

Bucky hesitates. You don’t say anything or move besides the soft tremor in your shoulders as you are obviously still crying quietly — Christ, your muted heartbreak is somehow so much more devastating than if you had screamed at him. A slap across the face would hurt less than this.

“I just — I imagined you’d be safe back in England.” He admits softy. “Out of the rain, out of the cold. It -”

He had thought about it for so many hours, and it kept him company in the deepest, darkest times. Even when the letters stopped coming, the memories were always there.

You on that path from the infirmary at Thorpe Abbots, casually walking ahead of him, the alluring sway of your hips, sweet smile on your lips. The lush trees, the young green grass, and the warm sunlight. Your perfume carrying on the breeze. Bucky kept going. Every step was one closer to you — you would be waiting for him at the end of this path.

In England.

He didn’t want you to see him like this, dragged through hell, sweaty, muddy, dirty, hungry. He was going back to England, and he would sweep you off your feet when he looked and felt like himself again. He would never tell you of the night marches, the hunger, the slow creep of insanity of prisonerhood — instead, he would delight in that you never had to suffer like that, revel in that you were untouched by that particular horror. You would remember him how he was, and he could become that again with you.

Bucky feels like the biggest heel in the world right now. While everyone still only dreams of home, you came to him, looking for him. He should be the luckiest man alive—this is the second time you followed him where no one else would go. Letters be damned. Even your patience and forgiveness will have limits; for a terrifying second, Bucky thinks he might have crossed them.

“It brought me comfort when I had nothing else.” He swallows. All the things he had wanted to write to you kept putting off because he convinced himself it would be easier to tell you, but the words are not coming now. Ironically.

You can hear how he’s trying to steady his breathing. You know he’s sincere. You feel how difficult it is for him. But you know you can’t forgive him just because he’s trying; you can’t amend his anger for him and take on his burden of apologizing. It needs to come from him. You have to be worth at least that for him.

Bucky can hear the tiniest sob escape you—it shakes your body in the most heart-tearing way.

“And seeing the girl of my dreams appear in my waking nightmare — I panicked.” He adds quietly. “Forgive this poor kriegie, Dove.”

You can hear the urgency in his voice, and you know your heart isn’t strong enough. You don’t want it to be. You only wanted to see that it meant as much to him as it did to you—that he had been worth it all—that you were worthy just as much. Slowly, you turn, your arms sneaking around his waist, tucking inside his jacket. Bucky finally allows himself to relax, tightening his embrace and resting his forehead in the crook of your neck.

“Most drops miss,” you utter tearfully, hearing his laughter rumble in his chest. You missed feeling his laugh, the vibrations moving through you. It’s an odd thing to say, but Bucky understands that this is how you forgive him—on your terms.

“I’m glad to see you, Dove. I’ve missed you so much.” His voice sounds raw, and you feel his breath on your neck.

“Why didn’t you lead with that?” You gently needle him, blinking, hoping your face isn’t as puffy as it feels right now.

“Can a man be worried about his girl?” He croons in your ear.

“No—yes, but…” You stumble, finally looking at him as you wipe your sleeve over your wet cheeks. “I didn’t deserve that.” Your voice is calm as ever, with no tremor, starkly contrasting with your tear-stained face.

Bucky regards you for a moment. Your eyes are still wet, and he really shouldn’t be thinking how cute that determined frown on your face is. “You didn’t, Dove.” He agrees sincerely.

“And I’m sorry too,” You continue softly. “I need you -”

“Tell me how much you need me, Dove,” His urgent whisper cuts you off, mouth tantalizingly close to yours. He doesn’t want to argue — he wants that kiss he’s been dreaming about for over a year. Bucky knows that you want it just as much by the way you rock onto your tiptoes, reaching for him. Your tongue peeks out between your lips for a second, wetting them in anticipation, static suddenly, pleasantly, buzzing through every cell in your body, your hands fist his shirt at his ribs. He arms envelop you against him.

He is so warm. He is so close.

“Because I need you like I need oxygen right now.” He mouths the words against your lips but doesn’t kiss you. Bucky cut off your apology because he doesn’t really need to hear the words. He desperately needs to feel that the spark that once ignited between you, that he’d been so carefully guarding all this time, is still there—that you still feel it, too.

You don’t disappoint—you never could. Hungrily capturing his lips, you pull Bucky into you, and he follows you eagerly. You could be on that path again, bike forgotten in the grass, hiding in the shadows between buildings, sweet wine on your tongue, tangled up in his sheet in the twilight of morning — like time hasn’t passed at all from that last kiss; it was only a blink since you touched him, just fleeting moments from when he felt your skin against his, your soft sighs trilling in his ears.

It all comes back so overwhelmingly, so wholly; it pushes out the bitterness and balms old wounds. The kiss isn’t tender, but it soothes in its intensity.

You hear someone calling your name. Involuntarily, you giggle into the kiss, Bucky taking the opportunity to bite down on your bottom lip, drawing the laughter into a delicate moan.

You are going to be in so much trouble.

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #john egan fic #john egan imagine #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfic #john egan x nurse!reader #are you going my way?

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monster-disaster · 1 year

Text

[orc] Zorag Iron - 3/3

orc!Zorag Iron x human!Reader - 3/3 Good to know: smut

Summary: Both you and Zorag want more.

A/N: The first journey in Ironridge reached its end. I hope you enjoyed it and you will stay to meet Zorag's brothers.

Almost a month goes by after your last encounter with Zorag in one of the storages. You barely meet, and when you do, both of you act like nothing happened. He is busy outside with the others while you do your job in the office. You take care of the orders and organize the deliveries. And try not to think about him too much for the sake of your sanity.

The sun is at the top of the sky. Bright and warm. The puddles left by the rain are nowhere anymore, and the lumberyard is busy and loud as usual. You can hear men shouting to each other through the vibration of the machines. The metal building in the middle of the yard is uncomfortable now that there are no clouds to protect you from the heat. You have to pull on your clothes every now and again so the fabric doesn't stick to your skin. You are hot and sweaty, and Zorag's sight through the window doesn't help.

You try everything to keep your mind away from Zorag, but the task seems impossible. You can still feel his hold on your legs, his nails digging into your flesh. At night, you imagine his face between your thighs as you touch yourself. Even the thought of his tongue on your folds and his finger in your pussy is enough to make you soaked.

Zorag is outside. You can see him from your seat behind the desk. Your fingers linger above the keyboard as your attention turns from your laptop to the orc. His trousers hang low on his hips. The fabric stretches on his thick thighs as he moves. His upper body is bare. His t-shirt hangs from his back pocket. To your surprise, he is smooth and shaved. You always imagined him hairy. His green skin seems lighter under the bright sunlight, and he is flushed by the heat. His black dreadlocks are tied back with a worn band. The beads and rings glint in his hair. Your fingers curl into fists as you imagine them gripping his locks.

Fuck.

Zorag feels your eyes on him the whole day. It burns his skin and twists his stomach. He has to force himself not to look at you through the office's window. And his willpower fails him rather often. Every now and again, when he is sure you are busy with something else, he dares to steal a few glances. You sit at the desk, your eyes on the laptop in front of you. A few sweaty locks of your hair are sticking to the delicate curve of your neck. The light summer dress you wear highlights the valley of your breasts and the curve of your waist. He saw you when you disappeared into the office early in the morning. The skirt swirled around your legs with each step you took. He couldn't help but imagine what you hid under the clothes. He jerks off more times at the memory of your taste than he would dare to admit it.

A relieved sigh leaves Zorag's lips when he arrives home, but the ache in his chest doesn't lessen. It's Friday, and he has a whole weekend ahead of him without seeing you. Not long ago, he would have been happy about it, but now… Now he just wants to grab his keys and go to your house.

While he decides to go and take a shower, you let your annoyance take over you.

You are angry, impatient, and horny.

Not even half an hour later, your car is parked in front of his house, and you are at the door, knocking on the wooden surface.

You are not even sure what you want to do if he opens the door. You can't ask him to have sex with you, can you? Then what? Should you talk about what happened? Clean the air between you two?

After a few seconds, the door of his home opens, and you forget how to breathe. Shock shows on his face, but you are too busy staring at his bare chest. Your gaze travels down, following the muscles of his stomach, until you pause on the white towel around his hips. The fabric barely reaches the middle of his thighs. Water still shines on his green skin.

"Ruby?" Zorag asks. His surprise quickly changes to smugness when he sees your reaction. Your lips open, and your eyes darken with desire. He still remembers your expression when you came because of his tongue and finger. The thought makes his cock jerk under the towel. The thin fabric does nothing to hide his half-hard erection. "What's wrong with you?" You snap at him, frowning. He doesn't get angry at your words. "You are the one who came here." "Yes," you agree. "Well…" Raising one of his brows, he finds amusement in your frustration. No matter how much you try to avoid the obvious bulge under the white towel, your gaze falls on it every now and again. "Did you come here for more?" He asks, leaning closer. Even though the neighbors can see him, he is not in a hurry. He is enjoying every minute of your struggle. "Of course not," you scoff. "I came here to clear the air between us. We can't work together like this." Lies. Lies. Lies. Zorag wants to kiss them off your mouth so you can scream the truth only. He hums, smirking. "Sure, Ruby. Come in, and we can talk about it." It's the worst idea you ever heard. "Okay."

The moment the door closes behind you, your back presses against the hard surface, and Zorag cages you in his embrace. His kiss is wild and out of control. His tusks dig into your lips, and his tongue invades your mouth. It's all need and demand. His lips are still open when he breaks the kiss and leans down to reach under your bottom. His hot breath fans over your neck, kissing down your collarbone and licking into your cleavage while hauling you up in his arms. Your legs curl around his waist immediately, and your fingers dig into the hard muscles of his shoulders. "Where are you taking me?" You gasp out. "Up to my room," he replies. His words are heavy with need. He moves like you weigh nothing. "I will fuck the bossiness out of you." The promise makes your pussy ache for him. A low groan rumbles through your skin when you start to grind yourself against him. "You love my bossiness," you tell him while he kisses up on the line of your neck. "I love it better when you are too fucked out to say anything." You land on his bed with a shriek. You are still in your clothes, and he is naked. The towel probably fell off somewhere on the stairs leading up to his bedroom. "Take off your clothes," he orders you. "It's time for you to learn how to be obedient." You scoff but do as he says. Kneeling in the middle of his bed, you grab the hem of your dress and pull it off of your body with one swift motion. You don't wear a bra, and when Zorag notices it, he groans at the sight. His hand is around his cock, already jerking off. "Stand up on the bed and come here." A part of you wants to argue with him, but in the end, you obey again. With the bed under you, the height difference is perfect for him to grab your waist with his free arm and pull you against himself until you are so close he can lick and suck your nipples. Your back arches at the feeling, pushing yourself into his greedy mouth more. Every swirl of his tongue goes straight between your legs. Your panties are ruined. You are sure of it. "Zorag," you croak out his name. "Please…" "What do you want?" He grunts. His tusk flicks over your nipple. Your breasts are soft and just enough for him to play with them to his heart's content. "You," you tell him. "I want you." Your words are breathy and impatient. "Take off your panties and lay down on your back if you want me to fuck that pretty pussy. I'm sure it's already wet for my cock."

Zorag still barely believes his own eyes. You are lying on his bed, naked and ready. Your legs are wide apart, showing him your hot center. Your nipples are hard and wet peaks, and your folds glint with your juices. You are the prettiest sight he has ever seen. His balls twitch with the need to cum, but a squeeze around the base of his shaft stops him at the last second.

"So pretty," he says, letting his eyes wander on your body. "You are so fucking pretty." "Then come and fuck me," you suggest, lifting your hips to entice him. "I need you, Zorag! Please!"

Your plea hits something in him because of your absolute delight; he is above you before you know it. He keeps his weight off you with his strong arms but his warmth still cages you into something safe and comfortable. His hard cock grazes your lower stomach, almost reaching the slit of your pussy where you need him the most.

"I need to get you ready," he says, mostly to remind himself of the size difference between you two. You are still a human, while he is an orc everywhere. Before he can lower himself, you grab his hair. "You don't have to." Zorag frowns. "I don't want to hurt you." "You won't," you promise. "I- I'm ready. I was ready when I got here." Your confession humiliates and excites you at the same time, and more heat creeps up on your cheeks when you see the recognition crossing Zorag's face. "Did you touch yourself before you came here?" His voice is nothing but a low growl. "Answer me, Ruby." "Yes." "Did you think of me?" He asks. One of his hands slides down your body, reaching between your legs. His finger brushes over your clit, sending shivers all over your body. "Did you think of my mouth? My tongue on your sweet pussy? You taste so good, Ruby. I want to eat you every day from now on." "Zorag!" You cry out his name when his finger pushes inside you. "Did you imagine my cock in this pretty hole? Did you think about how well I could stretch you out?" When you don't answer, he stops his finger from pushing into you deeper, and you sob out a croaked reply. "Yes, I thought of you. I thought of your mouth, your fingers, your cock. I only think about you." "And did you come? Or did you come here because your pretty fingers weren't enough anymore?" "I came here to fuck me," you tell him. Your hips move in sync with his thrusts. "I come here for your cock, Zorag." "And you will get it," he promises, leaving the warmth of your wet channel to adjust his cock at your entrance. "I will fuck you, Ruby." "Yes," you moan. "Do it! Please, Zorag, do it!"

You roll your hips to get him inside you faster. Your pussy stretches around the head of his cock. The orc pushes into you slowly and steadily. His heart beats in his throat at the feeling of your warm tightness around his shaft. Your walls already flutter and pulse to pull him deeper and deeper until he is inside you completely. "Oh, god," you groan. "So full." "That's right," he growls. "That's what you needed, Ruby. You don't have to use your fingers anymore. I'm here now." When he is sure you are adjusted to his size, he starts to move in and out rapidly. He pounds your pussy while you can do nothing but moan and shake under his heavy body. Your wetness coats his cock, dripping down on his balls. His eyes roll back at the feeling of your pussy clenching around him, demanding more, demanding everything he can give you. "Where do you want me to cum?" Zorag grunts. "Where do you want my seed, Ruby?" "Inside me," you cry. Tears roll down your cheeks at the pleasure that burns your veins and jerks your muscles. "I'm on the pill." Hearing you reply, Zorag moves even faster. You didn't know it was possible. The bed thuds against the wall in the background, mixing with the wet sound between your legs.

You both reach your high at the same time. Your walls flutter around his cock, your nails dig into the hard muscles of his back, and he can't keep up any longer. He pushes himself inside you entirely and cums. His seed fills you up, dripping down where you meet while your cunt milks him for more.

"Wow," you pant after long minutes of silence when he drops on the bed beside you. You start to miss his warmth immediately. "Yeah," he agrees. "Do you want to take a bath? I can make us something to eat in the meanwhile." You are not sure why you are surprised. Zorag is not the type who sends his partners away after everything is done. "That would be good," you reply. "Thank you." "Good," he smirks, leaning closer to press a quick kiss on your lips. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

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#monster x human #orc x human #monster x reader #orc x reader #ironridge #monster smut #orc smut #orc romance #monster romance #orc boyfriend #monster boyfriend

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