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formylovetodaryldixon · 2 days ago

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"His only one." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

You are his only one, he told you that the day you got married, that's why you don't mind the neighbors' blatant flirting with your husband, but the third time's the charm, and at that moment, you make clear to her that his ass belongs to you (literally)

A/N: I saw a post here about someone asking to write about Daryl and the flirty neighbors making him feel uncomfortable haha so this is my failed attempt, although it made me smile a little so I hope you like it at least a little, too. Thanks!

The first time it happens, you let it go.

It's not that you don’t care, but you know that a relationship is built on trust, and if there is one person you trust even if someone had put a blindfold on you, it would be Daryl. Daryl was quiet most of the time, but his personality was actually very funny after you saw who he really was when you two were alone, when you saw his true self behind his crossbow and the way he used to push others away for fear of getting too attached. But when Daryl became open about showing his own vulnerabilities, only with you, it was so easy to fall for him, plus, the love and shyness in his gaze every time he saw you coming was sweet—a love only reserved for you.

After he let you in, you realized he had a lot to offer as a person with a good and brave heart, so willing to protect others even if it put his own at risk. Daryl was always a good company: he spoke little but paid attention, remembering even the smallest detail that you swore was unimportant, just because to him, everything related to you was important. But when he asked you to marry him along the way, that was a big surprise, however, you found a shelter in his arms, a real home with him: and maybe because his gaze always made you trust that there would be no one else, you never doubted him even after you saw how the neighbors turned to look at him. Maybe it was also because everyone was focused on his exterior, on that almost pornographic image that he was, (with his broad shoulders, his arms in that sassy sleeveless shirt, and that face that seemed carved by God when HE was in a VERY good mood) but no one paid attention beyond the obvious, so you never felt threatened.

Now, slowly, like a pretty moving photograph, the sun starts to hide away in the infinite horizon, painting the calm sky of that new world with beautiful shades of orange. The end of the day is quiet on your home, with your husband sitting on the porch steps, carving an arrow because several are never enough, Carol on the wooden floor close to you while she solves another crossword puzzle, and you, rocking lazily in the rocking chair, eyes and mind on the book you managed to find in the last search for supplies.

A comfortable silence abounds in the air, until Miss Ellis walks by on her way to her own home.

"Hi, neighbor." She purrs, with a bright smile and the way the corner of her lip curls like a kitten's.

Like meerkats when danger is latent, the three of you raise your heads (almost in a comical way) to see her walking away, watching her lowering the hand with which she had just greeted Daryl, and only Daryl: although his first reaction is to look in your direction, like he’s asking for help to understand what the hell was that. You know Daryl has a tough exterior, but his personality, when it came to accepting flirtations, almost reached the point of stuttering.

“Wait a sec, weren't there three of us here?” Carol asks, frowning playfully.

“Yeah… did we suddenly become Casper the damn Friendly Ghost?” You chuckle, turning your attention back to the book. “Not to state the obvious, but I think the neighbor has a crush on you, love.”

Carol chuckles too, but your disinterest in the matter and his best friend's mockery makes Daryl frown.

“What are ya waitin' for, woman? Go over there and defend yer husband’s honor.”

Carol shrugs, agreeing with him.

“Well, she just looked at Daryl like he was a piece of meat, (Y/N).”

You nod, but you don’t even bother to look up.

“I know. But going there would only prove that Daryl have some interest in her, and since I know he doesn’t, I don’t see why I should bother.”

Daryl scoffs, but he knows you are absolutely right, so he returns his attention to the arrow.

“I see ya're not even the slightest bit afraid of losin’ me, woman.”

Carol chuckles at your silence.

"Yeah, (Y/N), I mean, Daryl's such a great catch, especially with his gruff personality."

You chuckle.

“I know. I know the neighbors have been staring at him ever since we arrived in the community, but I don't blame them because, look at him..." From top to bottom, you point at him with one hand, still paying attention to the words in the book. "Daryl is like walking porn."

Carol laughs, longer this time, but your unfiltered words make Daryl blush under the sunset as he keeps his eyes down, still carving the same arrow.

The second time it happens, you are a little far to say something.

At the end of the day, you arrive last to the community meeting after your rotating job at the infirmary, taking your place against the concrete wall in Deanna’s backyard. Alexandria’s head keeps talking, directing people and you pay attention for a moment, until your sight catches the image of Mary, probably one of the most striking neighbors, and the way her mischievous fingers try to touch the exposed skin of Daryl’s bare arm as she keeps trying to make a conversation with him, who looks like a kitten cornered in an alley by a pack of dogs.

The comparison makes you laugh, but you stifle the laughter with a gentle smile when some of the neighbors in front of you turn to look at you. Waving back, they turn their attention to the front, and you keep your eyes ahead too even after you feel your husband’s presence next to you, after a very short while.

“What did I miss?”

Daryl shrugs.

“The same shit as always. How was work?”

“Quiet, just two people with a cold and a baby who came for his second vaccine.” You try to keep a calm expression as you speak your next words through a softer voice. “You are a grown ass man, Daryl Dixon, and yet you looked terrified of a small woman.”

Embarrassed, he grunts.

“What do ya want me to do? Fight her? That’s yer job n ya ain’t doin’ it.”

You chuckle.

“I don’t fight over a man, love, never did, never will.”

Daryl crosses his arms over his chest, eyes still ahead.

“I forgot ma wife is the most unbothered person in this damn world.”

You chuckle again.

“There are priorities even in this life, my dear husband, but if you want, next time we go on a supply run we can take her with us, and something mysterious can happen to her. We can make it look like an accident.”

You’re joking and Daryl knows it, but he chuckles, the corner of his lips curling adorably.

When the meeting is over and everyone returns to the safety of their homes, you and Daryl are one of the first to leave, walking side by side to your house that is almost on the other side of the community. The weather is warm during that season, and for the first time in a long time, the night doesn't grow deeper, darker or scarier. However, your gaze travels from the moon illuminating your path to your hand when you feel your husband's on yours.

You frown, making an amused expression.

"What are you doing?"

Daryl mimics the look on your face.

"What? I can't take ma wife's hand?" He scoffs, making you shrug, so you look ahead again, ignoring some neighbors behind you, with Mary between them since her house is close to yours.

But you know why he's doing that like never before. Daryl is reserved with his married life, always keeping his displays of affection within four walls, too shy and slightly awkward to let other people see who needy for your love he became sometimes.

"But… ain’t yer job to mark yer territory or some shit like that? Like, make it clear for her that I'm yer husband?"

You frown playfully, looking back at him.

“I'm not a damn dog, Daryl. Or do you want me to pee on your leg or something?"

A little surprised, Daryl chuckles.

"Are ya really not worried? Or slightly jealous?"

You shrug again.

“No. I mean, I trust you, but if you start bringing squirrels just for her, that’s when I will get worried. You are like those cute penguins who bring the most beautiful stone to the love of their life: believe me, the squirrels are your stones.”

Daryl chuckles, letting go of your hand only to slide it over your shoulders and pull you into him, doing it because he wants to.

The third time it happens, you intervene.

A few minutes earlier, you walked out of your house to sit on the rocking chair with a sandwich on a plate, eager to continue with your book after a successful supply run. Daryl and Rick took the lead to leave the things found in the community warehouse, walking down the street towards your house about half an hour later. But too engrossed in old poems from the last century, you miss the way Daryl is intercepted by Ellie two houses away, until the voice of one of your family members catches your attention.

"Aren't you going to save your husband, (Y/N)?" Rick chuckles, standing near the porch steps. You follow his gaze, lingering on the way that every time the female neighbor tries to make a subtle step, Daryl takes one back. “Please, do, this went from being funny to being sad.”

You roll your eyes, leaving the book aside.

“Fine.”

“Wait... are you going to fight her?” With his gaze slightly more open, Rick stands there as you walk past him. “Because I've seen you take out walkers for less.”

“Goodnight, Rick.”

He chuckles, walking towards his own home.

Maybe it's your height, maybe it's the way your gaze turned deep, serious, with a quiet but menacing personality when the occasion called for it, but there's something about you that makes the neighbor take a step back when you stop next to them, slapping your husband’s butt playfully but almost shamelessly, almost making him jump in place.

“Whatcha doing, buttercup?” You smile at him, with his surprised look on you, even after you turn your attention to Ellie. “Hi, neighbor, I didn’t see you there like the way you didn't notice me last week when you greeted my husband. Ellie, right?”

She nods, surprised by your calm outburst.

“Don’t be scared please, I’m not going to hurt you, although, I could, you know? But I just wanted to ask you nicely not to try to suck all the air out of my husband’s face because you make him uncomfortable, and he’s not going to do anything about it, but I will: trust me, I’ve killed people for less, so imagine what I’d do for his ass, which is mine, so… yep, I guess that’s it.” Keeping the cutest smile you can muster, you take Daryl’s hand to make him walk with you. “Say goodbye to the neighbor, sweetheart.”

As all words have left Daryl’s mind, he simply waves goodbye once. And he lets himself be guided in silence until you are within the four walls of your home, but once the door lock has clicked and a second after you let go of his hand, he catches it again to pull you towards him, lifting you up in those strong arms of his until you have no choice but to tighten your legs around his waist.

Daryl is smiling, in the way he only does with you.

"Fuck, woman, I don' know if I'm scared of ya, impressed, or turned on."

You chuckle, holding his face in your hands.

"Your ass is mine, Dixon, why do you think I married you?"

He chuckles along with you, before pressing his lips to yours.

@fluffy-dixon

#daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl x y/n #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you

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sincerelybubbles · 3 days ago

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Caught in the Teeth

James Potter is sunlight—warm, golden, impossible to ignore. And you? You’ve spent your life convinced you’re anything but worthy of his orbit. But James has never been one to let something slip through his fingers without a fight, and he’ll prove it, even if he has to bare his teeth to do it. Warnings: Allusions to the body, blood, hunger, and longing in a way that may feel emotionally heavy. wc: 5.2k

James doesn’t seem deterred by your skepticism. If anything, he looks more determined, eyes bright with something unreadable, something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. It would be easier if this were a joke. If he were just playing at it, letting his natural charm smooth over the edges of something that isn’t real.

But his gaze doesn’t waver.

"I’m serious," he says again, quieter this time, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes you grip your books just a little tighter. Like if you don’t hold onto something solid, you might lose your footing entirely.

"James." You exhale his name, like it might be enough to remind him what you are—what you aren’t. You don’t belong in the whirlwind of James Potter’s affections, in the grand, elaborate way he loves things. James falls fast, hard, and all at once, and you are steady. You do not dive headfirst. You do not know how to be the kind of person who gets caught.

But James only grins, tilting his head slightly, eyes still locked on yours. "I know what you’re thinking," he murmurs.

You shake your head. "You don’t."

"I do." He takes a half-step closer, and it’s nothing, really—nothing but space disappearing between you, nothing but the warmth of him seeping into the cold air around you. But it feels like everything. "You think I’m playing some game, that I just love a challenge. You think if I got you, I’d get bored."

You swallow, looking away, because it’s true. It’s exactly what you think.

James exhales, and for the first time, he almost sounds frustrated. Not in an angry way—just in that way he gets when he’s trying to explain something that matters and no one is listening. "You’re wrong, you know," he says. "I wouldn’t get bored of you."

It’s a simple sentence, but it lands heavy. You can feel the weight of it settling in your chest, in the space between your ribs.

"You fall in love too fast," you whisper.

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "No. I just know when something’s real." His fingers brush against yours, barely there, a fleeting touch that could have been an accident—except it isn’t. "And this is real."

Your breath catches, and you hate that it does, hate that he sees it, that he hears it in the way your next inhale stutters slightly. You shake your head again, as if that might be enough to shake the feeling away.

"James."

"I’ll wait," he interrupts, voice steady. "If you need time, I’ll wait."

And that—that—is what truly unravels you. Because James Potter has never been the kind of person who waits. But here he is, standing in front of you, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them, telling you that for you, he would.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

||||

It continues over breakfast.

James slides into the seat beside you, close enough that his knee knocks against yours beneath the table. You go stiff, eyes flickering to the rest of the Marauders—Sirius lounging across from you with an infuriating smirk, Remus with his usual quiet amusement, Peter already half-distracted by his plate. None of them look surprised.

You force yourself to focus on your toast, even as James leans in, voice just loud enough for the people around you to hear. "You know, I’ve been thinking about it a lot," he muses, stealing a bit of bacon off your plate like he’s been doing it forever. "You and me, dove. I think we’d be good together."

The words send heat crawling up your neck, but you shake your head, exhaling sharply. "James." His name comes out tight, more exasperation than anything else, but it only makes him grin wider.

"I’m serious." The table falls silent, James winks. "I mean, I'm James, obviously, but I'm also serious."

"You're never serious," you counter, refusing to fall into his jokes, speaking barely above a whisper. You can't stand the eyes on you, sure the other boys are studying your every reaction to use for teasing material later.

"About you, I am."

There’s a clatter of silverware as Sirius dramatically drops his fork. "This again?" He sighs, loud and exaggerated. "Mate, just put her out of her misery and snog her already."

Your face burns, and you glare at him, but James only laughs, unfazed. "I would, but she insists I’m not actually interested," he says, as if the idea is absurd. As if he isn’t James Potter, the boy everyone watches when he walks into a room, the one people whisper about, the one who is certainly not looking at you.

You shake your head, barely resisting the urge to push your chair back and flee. "You’re making a scene."

"Good," James says, undeterred. "Maybe if I make a big enough one, you’ll actually believe me."

You swallow hard, trying not to let the words sink in. "Why me?" It slips out before you can stop it, quiet and unsure, but James hears it. Of course he does.

He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked onto yours like they hold all the answers. "Because you make me nervous," he admits, and that—that stops you cold.

James Potter doesn’t get nervous.

Certainly not now, not as he holds your gaze, eyes bright behind his glasses. He doesn't look nervous, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

You ignore, of course, the way his hands clench the corner of his table, a possible tell for something lingering behind his blasse exterior.

"I think about you when I shouldn’t," he continues, softer now, like it’s just the two of you, even with everyone listening. "I look for you first when I walk into a room. I make up excuses to talk to you, even if it’s just to hear your voice." He tilts his head, like he’s studying you, like he’s waiting for you to finally see what he’s been trying to tell you all along. "So, yeah, I’d say I’m pretty well gone on you."

Your fingers curl around the edge of your sweater, gripping the fabric like it might hold you together. The weight of his words presses against you, sinking into the places you’ve tried to keep protected.

Despite the late night conversations with Lily, insisting this is a bad idea, you feel yourself faltering.

But it’s not enough. Not yet.

You lower your gaze, shaking your head. "It’s not real," you murmur. "I'm far too intune with your jokes, Potter. I know a prank when I see one."

James exhales slowly, and you brace yourself for frustration, for exasperation, for him to finally get tired of proving himself.

But instead, his hand brushes against yours under the table—gentle, steady. "I’ll just have to keep proving it to you, then."

And Merlin help you, but you believe him.

||||

It’s late. The sky is painted with the last dregs of sunset, streaks of pink and orange fading into the deep blue of night. The Quidditch pitch is empty, save for the figure circling above you—James, of course, looping lazily through the air like he has all the time in the world.

You don’t know why you agreed to this.

Actually, you do. James had caught you in the common room, full of his usual bravado, promising that if you didn’t come to watch his practice, he’d just have to resort to desperate measures—like standing on the Gryffindor table at breakfast and declaring his undying love in front of everyone.

"I don’t think that’s an appropriate use of the word ‘desperate,’" you’d muttered, trying to focus on your book.

James had grinned, victorious, because you hadn’t said no.

So here you are, sitting on the grass at the edge of the pitch, hugging your knees to your chest, watching as he tilts into a steep dive, the wind roaring in his ears. You know he’s showing off, and you hate the way your stomach twists every time he pulls out of a particularly reckless maneuver, a little voice in the back of your head whispering what if he falls?

He doesn’t, of course. He’s James Potter.

And, as if sensing your gaze, he makes a final sharp turn and lands right in front of you, dismounting in one fluid motion.

"Enjoying the show?" he asks, pushing his hair out of his face, still grinning like he owns the world.

You roll your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you. "You’re ridiculous."

"Ridiculously charming?" He waggles his brows, twirling his broom between his fingers. "Devastatingly handsome? The love of your life?"

You scoff, looking away. "You’re incorrigible."

"Big words. Pretty ones, too. Just say the word, dove, and I’ll let you tutor me sometime. Preferably in a secluded corner of the library where I can stare at your lips while you try to explain whatever it is you’re always scribbling in that notebook of yours."

Your heart stutters, and he knows it. You can see it in the way his grin softens, in the way his eyes flicker to your mouth like he’s imagining it now.

You force yourself to keep your voice steady. "You should go back to practice."

James hums, tapping his broom against his shoulder. "Nah. Think I’ve done enough."

He drops onto the grass beside you, stretching his legs out like he plans to stay for a while. You shift, suddenly hyperaware of his presence, of the warmth radiating from his skin, of the way he turns to look at you like there’s no one else in the world.

"You ever been on a broom before?" he asks, and the casualness of his tone is almost convincing. Almost.

You frown, suspicious. "Once or twice."

"Good," he says, pushing himself back onto his feet before offering you a hand. "Because I think it’s time you take a ride with me."

Your stomach plummets. "James—"

"Come on," he urges, tilting his head. "One lap. You and me. Hold on tight and I’ll do the rest."

You hesitate, looking between him and the broom like it’s some kind of test. And maybe it is. Maybe this is just another one of his ploys, another attempt to break past the walls you’ve so carefully built.

But when you meet his eyes, there’s nothing mocking there, nothing insincere. Just that same infuriating patience, the same quiet certainty that he’s had all along.

And that’s what makes you reach for his hand.

James grins, pulling you to your feet, steadying you as he swings a leg over his broom before patting the space in front of him. "Come on, then," he murmurs, softer now. "I’ve got you."

You take a shaky breath and climb on.

James shifts closer, arms caging you in as his hands grip the broom handle just beside yours. You can feel his breath at the back of your neck, warm and steady. "See?" he murmurs, voice just below your ear. "Not so bad."

You barely have time to process it before he kicks off the ground, and suddenly, you’re soaring.

The wind bites at your skin, your stomach lurching as the world below shrinks. Your fingers clutch at the broom instinctively, knuckles white, but James—James is steady behind you, unshaken. His arms are firm on either side of you, his chest pressed close to your back, solid and warm.

"You’re alright," he murmurs, just beneath your ear. You can barely hear him over the rush of the wind, but you feel the words more than anything, sinking into your bones. "I’ve got you."

And you believe him. That’s the terrifying part.

James Potter is many things—brilliant, untouchable, unshakable—but he has never once let you fall.

You don’t let yourself think too hard about the weight of that.

Instead, you squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling against the cold air whipping against your cheeks. "I hate this," you mutter, but your voice is breathless, betraying you.

James laughs, his chin brushing your shoulder as he dips the broom lower. "No, you don’t."

And you don’t. Not really. It’s just him. His hands over yours, the way he’s tucked close behind you like you matter. Like you belong there. The way his warmth is the only thing keeping the cold from settling in too deep.

It’s the way it always is with him.

He is warmth. He is light. He is James Potter, and he is everything you are not.

It clenches at something deep inside your chest, that awful, aching reminder—James is James.

You have seen him in every possible light, have watched the way rooms shift when he enters, how people gravitate to him without hesitation. He belongs in the center of things, his presence too big for the edges of the world where you reside. He is brilliant. A force of nature, undeniable, blindingly golden.

And you?

You are not the kind of girl James Potter should want.

You’re not the one who turns heads when she walks into a room, not the kind who pulls people into her orbit without trying. You’re not outgoing, not effortlessly charming. You hesitate where James leaps. You second-guess where he is certain. He is so sure of himself, of what he wants, and you—

You are not.

You are not sure that you are worth this. Not sure that you are worth him.

The thought makes your stomach twist, guilt curdling beneath your ribs. James deserves someone who can match his light, who can meet him where he stands, arms wide open, unafraid. He deserves someone who loves as fully as he does, someone who doesn’t hesitate before diving into the deep end. Someone who doesn’t hold back.

And that isn’t you.

You hesitate. You hold back.

And James—James loves so wholly, so recklessly, that the idea of disappointing him makes your throat tighten.

What if you ruin this? What if you let yourself believe him, let yourself reach for him, and it’s a mistake? What if he changes his mind? What if you lose him entirely?

What if losing him this way—bit by bit, in small moments, in long glances and whispered confessions—is still easier than losing him all at once?

"Oi, stop thinking so hard."

James’s voice pulls you back, warm and teasing, his arms tightening just slightly around you.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. "I wasn’t—"

"You were," he says, and somehow, it isn’t an accusation. Just an observation, a knowing smile in his voice. He dips the broom slightly, letting it glide through the air with ease, smooth and effortless. "You always do, love."

Love.

It’s an accident, probably. A slip of the tongue. A nothing sort of thing.

And yet it lodges in your chest like something sharp, something dangerous.

James shifts slightly behind you, the movement sending a fresh wave of warmth down your spine. His chin nearly brushes against your temple, his voice softer now. "Tell me what you’re thinking."

I think you are everything good in the world, and I am afraid to break it.

You wet your lips, staring out at the empty sky in front of you. "I think," you say, forcing your voice to stay even, "that I’d like to get back on the ground now."

James is quiet for a beat. Not in disappointment, not in frustration. Just quiet.

Then, finally, he sighs. "Alright, dove."

He guides the broom downward, slow and steady, easing you both toward the ground. His grip never falters, never shifts from where it anchors you. And when your feet touch solid earth again, when he swings off the broom and turns to face you, you brace yourself for something.

A quip. A knowing look. A playful shove to break the tension you refuse to name.

But James just watches you.

And then, softer than anything, he murmurs, "You know I’m not going anywhere, yeah?"

Your fingers curl into your sleeves, nails pressing into your palms. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.

Because you don’t know that. You don’t know anything.

All you know is that James Potter is warm and bright and golden, and you are terrified of losing the only light keeping you awake.

So instead of answering, you muster a small, fleeting smile. "Goodnight, James."

And before he can say anything else, before you can let yourself falter any further, you turn and walk away.

||||

Weeks pass, and you're certain James has given up.

He's been ever-steady, a lingering presence just at the corner of your life. He's in classes, he's in the hallways, he's in your dreams.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. That the space between you is necessary, that the ache in your chest will dull with time. That James Potter is a passing thing, a bright light that was never meant to stay.

And yet—

He is still there.

Not pressing, not pushing, just... there.

You catch him watching you in class, the tilt of his head, the crease between his brows when you don’t meet his gaze. You hear his voice before you see him, laughter warm in the space between conversations, lingering at the edges of every room. When you pass him in the corridors, he falls into step beside you like he belongs there, like he always has. He nudges your shoulder in greeting, tosses a casual alright, love? into the air like it doesn’t set something alight inside you.

And it should feel different now. It should feel like he's given up. Should feel like he’s moved on, like he’s let you slip back into the background where you belong.

But it doesn’t.

Because James hasn’t given up.

He’s just waiting.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

So you do what you always do—you pretend not to notice. You fold your arms tighter across your chest when he looks at you too long, you take careful steps backward when he leans in too close, you laugh at all the wrong times just to keep the air light. You keep your head down, keep your hands to yourself, keep the walls steady.

You keep pretending.

But James Potter is not someone you can ignore forever.

It happens on an evening when the corridors are quieter than usual, the last rush of students fading toward the common rooms. You’re gathering your things from the library, stacking your books in your arms when you feel him before you see him.

"Alright, love?"

You don’t startle. His voice is too familiar for that. You just exhale slowly and turn. "James."

And there he is, leaning against the doorframe like he belongs there, like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.

You glance behind him, expecting to see Sirius, Remus, maybe Peter lingering somewhere close, but the corridor is empty. Just you and him and the silence between you.

He smiles, and it’s softer than usual. Less cocky, less playful—just James.

"You’ve been avoiding me," he says, tilting his head, watching you carefully.

You shift the books in your arms. "I haven’t."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Liar."

You inhale sharply, grip tightening around the covers. "James—"

"Just tell me," he says, stepping closer, voice quiet but steady. "Tell me what I did wrong."

Your breath catches in your throat. "What?"

"You won’t look at me anymore." His voice is gentle, but there’s something beneath it, something aching. "You barely talk to me unless you have to. You keep running, and I—" He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it."

You stare at him, heart pounding. "You didn’t do anything, James."

"Then why are you pushing me away?"

Because you can’t have this. Because you don’t deserve him. Because you’re terrified that if you let yourself believe him, if you let yourself want him, it will end in ruin.

Because James Potter is everything good in the world, and you are afraid you’ll break him.

"I just…" You swallow hard, throat tight, and shake your head. "You don’t have to—"

"Yes, I do."

James steps forward, and you don’t move away this time.

"Don’t you get it?" His voice is quiet but certain, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s already been decided. "I want to."

You can’t breathe.

His gaze searches yours, warm and steady, and for once, you don’t look away.

"You don’t have to want me back," he says, so gentle it makes your ribs ache. "But stop acting like I don’t mean it."

Your throat tightens.

You should push him away. You should tell him he’s wrong. That you aren’t worth this, that he should find someone who is.

But you can’t say any of it.

Because James Potter is looking at you like you matter. Like he’s already made his choice, like he’s just waiting for you to make yours.

And you don’t know how to do anything except want.

So you stand there, caught in the weight of it, in the warmth of him, in the unbearable truth of everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

And for the first time, you don’t walk away.

"I mean, Merlin. I've been chasing you for weeks. I can't sleep, I can hardly eat. The teams been ragging on me for playing like shit. I know, I'm a lot. I'm loud, I'm impulsive, I really don't deserve you. But give me a chance. I can prove I'm worth you dove."

You stare at him, throat tight, words stuck somewhere between your ribs.

James Potter, golden boy, brightest thing in any room, James fucking Potter—is standing in front of you, unraveled.

His shoulders are tense, fingers restless where they hover at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. His usual confidence—the easy charm, the practiced bravado—is nowhere to be found. This is him, stripped raw, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen.

And it terrifies you.

Because James is supposed to be sure. James is supposed to be steady, unwavering, untouchable. Not… this. Not standing here with his heart in his hands, waiting for you to decide whether or not you’ll break it.

"I know I'm not easy," he exhales, running a hand through his hair, making a mess of it like he always does when he’s too wound up. "I know I talk too much, and I think with my heart first, and I don’t always know when to stop—" He pauses, swallowing hard, eyes flickering over your face like he’s searching for something, some sign that you’re listening, that you hear him.

"I just—I keep thinking, maybe if I was different, if I was quieter, if I wasn’t so much, then maybe you’d let me have you." His voice is barely above a whisper now, raw and uneven. "But I don’t know how to be anything but this."

Your breath catches.

James Potter, who walks into every room like he owns it, who never seems to doubt himself for a second—doubts this. Doubts you.

And you hate it.

You hate that he’s standing here, picking himself apart like you’re something better, something higher than him, like he hasn’t been the brightest part of your world for years. Like he isn’t exactly the kind of person you should want, if only you weren’t so afraid.

"James," you whisper, and your voice wavers.

He exhales, shaking his head. "You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know. I just—" His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes darting away. "I love you, you know?"

The words punch the air from your lungs.

He says it like it’s easy, like it’s inevitable, like it’s just fact.

And maybe, for him, it is.

Maybe he’s known longer than you. Maybe he’s been waiting for you to see it, to believe it.

But you don’t know how to hold something like that.

Because James Potter is love without hesitation. He is all in, always. And you—

You don’t know how to be loved like that.

"I can’t," you whisper, barely choking the words out.

His face falls, just slightly, but he nods. "Okay."

"James—"

"It’s okay," he says again, and somehow, he’s still gentle, still trying to make this easier for you when it should be the other way around. "I just—needed you to know."

He takes a step back, and something inside you lurches, something instinctive, something that wants to reach for him, to tell him to wait.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

So you let him go.

And it feels like ripping your own heart out.

James takes a step back. Then another.

And then he turns.

And walks away.

No hesitation, no lingering glance over his shoulder. Just leaving.

Something in your chest lurches, a sharp, ugly thing clawing its way up your throat, twisting through your ribs like vines tightening around fragile bone. You can feel your pulse thrumming at your temples, pressing against your skin like it’s trying to escape.

Your body knows before your mind does.

A breath—sharp, uneven—catches in your throat, and then you move.

Your legs stumble before they run, like your body is caught between hesitation and instinct, but once you start, you can’t stop.

Your feet hit the stone floor hard, the sound of them echoing too loud in the empty corridor. The air is thick, choking, like you’re running against a tide, pushing against something unseen but heavy. Your blood is thrumming, rushing beneath your skin, beating against the cage of your ribs like a desperate thing, like it knows—

You can’t let him leave.

"James."

His name rips from your throat, raw and desperate, but he doesn’t stop.

His pace quickens, and something inside you clenches, pulses. You chase after him, heart hammering against your ribs, breath coming too fast, too shallow. Your fingers twitch at your sides, reaching for him, but he’s always just out of reach.

"James, stop—"

He doesn’t.

It feels like drowning. Like something vital is slipping between your fingers, water rushing through a clenched fist, a slow-motion tragedy you can see but can’t stop.

The hall stretches before you, long and endless, and James is slipping further and further away.

Your throat is dry. Your chest burns. Your blood screams.

And then—

Then something breaks.

"James, please."

His steps falter.

It’s barely a moment, barely a hesitation, but it’s enough.

You push forward, lungs burning, body aching, and reach for him, finally catching his wrist. Your fingers curl around his pulse, warm and alive, and the contact sends a shock through your bones, something deep and primal, something that roots you.

He stills.

His back is to you, shoulders tense beneath his sweater, and you can feel the way he’s holding himself together, like one wrong move might shatter him entirely.

You don’t know what to say.

You don’t know.

Only that his skin is warm, and his pulse is steady beneath your fingers, and that if you let go now, you’ll never forgive yourself.

So you don’t.

You swallow hard, pressing your fingertips against the inside of his wrist, feeling the blood rushing beneath his skin, proof of him, of his existence, of this.

"James," you whisper, softer now.

His breath shudders. You feel it, more than you hear it.

"I—" Your voice wavers, words tangled between your ribs, a mess of longing and fear and want want want.

He turns.

Slowly, like he’s afraid to look at you, like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t want to hear.

And you—

You break.

Because he’s right there.

James Potter, with his flushed cheeks and furrowed brows and parted lips, looking at you like he doesn’t know whether to hope or to hurt.

Like he’s trying not to need.

Like you aren’t already his.

Your throat is too tight, your heart hammering against your ribs, your hands shaking. You feel it in every inch of your body, the pull of something inevitable, something larger than just want.

James swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

"Don’t do this if you don’t mean it."

The words are careful, controlled, but his eyes—

His eyes burn.

And you think—blood is not the only thing that keeps a body alive.

It’s this.

This ache, this yearning, this thing between you that has always been reaching, always been growing, always been something you were too afraid to name.

And now, here you are, standing on the edge of it, the weight of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips, the shape of his name forming behind your teeth, and—

You take a breath.

And fall.

||||

It settles into your bones like warmth after winter.

Loving James.

It doesn’t strike like lightning, doesn’t drown like a flood. It seeps in slow, curling around your ribs, pouring into the hollow spaces of your chest like honey pooling in a jar—thick, golden, steady.

You feel it in the quiet moments, in the small things.

The way his fingers find yours beneath the breakfast table, tracing soft, lazy patterns against your palm. The way he grins into your neck when he wakes up, nuzzling into you like he’s still half-dreaming, like even unconscious, you’re the thing he wants most. The way he tugs at the hem of your sweater when you’re standing too far away, like he’s anchoring himself to you, like if he lets go, he’ll drift.

James loves the way the sun rises—slow and inevitable, golden in the way that means something—and you think, maybe, that’s how he loves you too.

He is warmth, always. Even in the dead of winter, even when the castle corridors are drafty and cold, even when you’re tucked beneath layers of blankets, your feet still frozen from the stone floors—James is warm.

And you drink him in like a starved thing, like a flower turning toward the sun, like a body that has been aching for heat its entire life.

"You’re staring," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, arm slung heavy across your waist.

You hum, tucked beneath the covers, fingers drifting absently over the plane of his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your palm, rhythmic, lulling. You press your fingers there, curling them just slightly, like you could dig past skin and muscle, past blood and bone, past everything solid and reach the grotesque, beating heart of him.

As if you don’t already have it.

James exhales, tilting his head slightly to meet your gaze, eyes still heavy-lidded, hazy with sleep. His lips curve, slow and lazy, a smile meant only for you.

"You’re mine," he murmurs, and it isn’t a question.

You feel it in your bones. In the honey-thick heat of his body, in the quiet of the early morning, in the way your heart swells and swells and swells.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I am."

James hums, pleased, and tucks you closer, pressing his lips against your hair.

And you let yourself sink into it.

The warmth. The ease.

The love.

Like honey. Like sunlight. Like something that has always, always been yours.

#bubbs.writes #x reader #fluff #mentions of blood #james potter x reader #james x reader #potter x reader #angst #slightly #pining #friends to lovers #marauders #marauders x reader #marauders fic #harry potter marauders

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luvashli · 2 days ago

Text

CRAWLING BACK TO YOU

SYNOPSIS -> Your Ex Jungwon and you share a passionate night that revives your connection. Amid the heat of the moment and the challenges of his idol life, you begin to rebuild trust and explore your bond in a deeper way.

PAIRING: idol!ex!jungwon x nonidol!ex!reader

GENRE: romance, drama, slice of life, fluff, suggestive (no smut)

STARTED: 2/13/2025

STATUS: complete

WC: 4.5k

Note: Inspired by "Do I Wanna Know?" by Arctic Monkeys. While suggestive, it focuses on rebuilding trust and connection without explicit content.

click here for the song

Masterlist

Jungwon had always been a dreamer. The kind of boy who carried the weight of his ambitions like second skin, who burned so brightly that you knew if you got too close, you’d end up scorched.

When you met him, he was already on the cusp of something bigger than himself—on the verge of debuting, of stepping into the world as ENHYPEN’s leader, of trading the ordinary for the extraordinary.

And you? You were just someone who happened to be there at the right time. Or maybe the wrong time.

It was never supposed to be anything serious. A late-night conversation that turned into another, and then another. Stolen hours between practices, secret glances in crowded rooms, whispered confessions in the dark when no one else was listening.

You loved him in the quiet moments—when he wasn’t Jungwon, the idol, but Jungwon, the boy who still got nervous before performances, who laughed until his stomach hurt, who traced absent-minded patterns on your skin when he thought you were asleep.

But love wasn’t always enough.

The distance started small. Missed calls. Unread messages. Promises of next time that never came.

Then came the rumors. The late-night schedules. The growing realization that no matter how much he loved you, he belonged to the world first.

You had never been naïve—you knew what dating an idol meant. You knew what it meant to be someone’s secret, to exist in the spaces between rehearsals and fan meetings, to never be the name in his thank-you speeches.

Still, you stayed.

Until one night, when he showed up at your door, exhausted, drenched from the rain, eyes pleading in a way that made your chest ache.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Do what?”

“This. Us.”

Your heart cracked right down the middle. Because you knew. You knew.

That no matter how much he wanted you, he would never be able to hold onto you the way he wanted.

And so you let him go.

Or at least, you tried.

But some loves aren’t meant to be severed cleanly. Some linger like ghosts, haunting you in the songs that play late at night, in the drinks you sip too slowly, in the quiet moments where you swear you still feel his warmth beside you.

You both told yourselves it was over.

But the truth was, neither of you ever really let go.

---

Jungwon knew he should have moved on by now.

It would have been easier if you had hated him. If you had slammed the door in his face that night, screamed at him, told him he was selfish for making you wait, for loving you in half-measures. But you didn’t. You just looked at him with those tired, knowing eyes, and let him go.

And that was the problem. You never fought him on it. Never begged him to stay. You just understood—and somehow, that made it worse.

Because Jungwon had spent so much of his life fighting. Fighting to be good enough, to prove himself, to lead a group at an age where most people were still figuring themselves out. Fighting to keep up, to stay ahead, to be the version of himself that the world expected him to be.

But you? You never asked him to fight for you. And maybe that was why he couldn’t let go.

Because late at night, when the exhaustion crept in and the hotel room felt too empty, he found himself wondering—what if he had fought? What if he had been braver, had held onto you a little tighter instead of letting the weight of his world push you away?

Would you still be his?

Or had he already lost you to the life he chose?

Jungwon sighed, dragging a hand through his hair as he stared at his phone, your name still pinned at the top of his messages.

He could text you.

He wanted to.

But what would he even say?

"I still think about you."

"I still dream about you."

"I still don’t know how to let you go."

But none of those would change the fact that he had already walked away.

And he wasn’t sure if he had the right to crawl back.

---

Jungwon never drank much.

He was careful—always had been. Careful with his words, his actions, the way he carried himself in public. Careful because he had no choice but to be. As an idol, there was always a camera, always a headline waiting to be written, always someone watching.

But tonight, he didn’t care.

The bar was tucked away in some dimly lit alley, the kind of place where no one would expect to find him. It was quiet, not crowded, the low hum of conversation blending into the soft music playing through the speakers.

He sat in the corner, hoodie pulled low over his face, fingers wrapped around a glass he’d barely touched. The ice clinked against the sides as he swirled it absentmindedly, watching the liquid slosh against the rim.

He wasn’t sure why he was here.

Or maybe he was.

Maybe it was because it was late, and he was alone, and the weight of everything felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was because he kept seeing your face in the glow of streetlights, kept hearing your voice in the spaces between songs, kept feeling your presence like a phantom in the air.

Or maybe it was because drinking felt like the closest thing to recklessness he could afford.

He exhaled sharply, bringing the glass to his lips, letting the bitterness burn its way down.

It didn’t help.

Didn’t drown out the memories.

Didn’t silence the thought that if he picked up his phone right now—if he called you, even though it was stupid and selfish—you might still answer.

Would you?

Would you pick up, or would you let it ring? Would you be annoyed, or would you already know why he was calling?

Would you tell him to stop? To move on?

Or would you let him come back, just one more time?

The thought made his chest tighten.

Jungwon ran a hand over his face, pushing his hair back as he leaned against the wall. He knew he should leave. Should go home before someone recognized him, before this turned into something it shouldn’t.

But he stayed.

Because here, in the haze of alcohol and dim lights, it was easier to pretend that he wasn’t an idol. That he wasn’t ENHYPEN’s leader, that he wasn’t someone with expectations suffocating him at every turn.

Here, he was just a boy with a broken heart, drinking alone in a place where no one knew his name.

And for now, that was enough.

The bass of some distant song rattles the walls.

It’s your song. The one that somehow became yours, the one that drags him back to you no matter how far he tries to run.

He leans against the counter, fingers curled around the rim of a half-empty glass. The ice has melted, watering down whatever courage he thought he had. His phone sits beside him, screen dimmed, your name perched at the top of his messages—untouched but never ignored.

He wonders if you feel the same. If your fingers hover over his contact late at night, if his name lingers on your lips when no one else is around. If you ever get that ache in your chest, the one that stays like something stuck between your teeth—impossible to shake, impossible to ignore.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before grabbing his phone. His pulse thrums in his ears as he types, erases, types again. He’s never been good at this—at closing doors, at walking away, at pretending he doesn’t dream about you nearly every damn night.

Jungwon: Are you still awake?

The message sends before he can second-guess himself, before he can remind himself that maybe you’ve moved on. That maybe he should move on.

Three dots appear. Vanish. Reappear.

You: Shouldn’t you be sleeping?

His lips curve, a bitter smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jungwon: Shouldn’t you?

A pause. Then—

You: Where are you?

It’s an invitation. Maybe not the one he should accept, but the one he wants. The one he always will.

___

The city hums beneath him as he walks, hands in his pockets, breath curling in the cool night air. He doesn’t have to think about where he’s going—his feet already know the way.

Your door is unlocked. A small act of trust, or maybe just a quiet expectation.

You’re there, curled up on the couch, the glow from the streetlights painting soft shadows on your face. There’s a drink on the table, condensation pooling around the base. You don’t say anything as he steps inside, don’t ask why he’s here—because you both already know the answer.

Maybe tomorrow, he’ll regret this. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll tell himself it should’ve ended a long time ago. But for now, with your warmth seeping into his side and your scent filling his lungs—

For now, he’s yours.

The air in your apartment is thick—humid from the warmth of too many emotions left unspoken, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked fabric and something undeniably him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, but there’s no real conviction in your voice.

His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smirk, isn’t quite regret. “You let me in.”

You don’t answer, because what is there to say? That you knew it was a mistake the moment you saw his name on your phone? That even after everything, after the distance, the silence, the aching months of trying to forget—you still wanted him?

Jungwon exhales, stepping further inside, closing the door behind him. The sound of it clicking shut sends a shiver down your spine.

It’s always like this. Always him showing up at your doorstep with the weight of the world on his shoulders, always you letting him in even when you shouldn’t.

“Jungwon—”

But you don’t get to finish, because suddenly, he’s closer. Close enough that you can see the way his damp hair clings to his forehead, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him despite the chill outside.

His fingers brush your wrist—barely there, like a question, like he’s waiting for permission. Your breath catches.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs.

You should. You know you should.

Instead, your fingers curl around the front of his hoodie, tugging him forward, and that’s all he needs.

He exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding his breath all this time, as if this—you—is the only thing he’s been aching for. His hands find your waist, sliding beneath the hem of your sweater, fingertips ghosting over your skin, sending heat curling down your spine.

Your back hits the wall, his body pressing against yours, and suddenly, there’s no space left between you. His breath is warm against your cheek, his nose brushing against yours, his lips hovering—so damn close—

“You’re drunk,” you murmur, but you don’t push him away.

Jungwon chuckles, low and rough. “Barely.”

And then, finally, he closes the distance.

His lips are warm, insistent, tasting faintly of whiskey and something undeniably him. He kisses you slowly, like he’s memorizing the way you feel against him, like he’s trying to make up for all the times he had to pretend he didn’t want this.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly, and the sound he makes in response—deep, breathy, almost desperate—sends a shiver straight through you. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, until you can feel every inch of him against you.

It’s dangerous, the way you fit so perfectly together.

His lips trail down to your jaw, your neck, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch. “I shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs against your skin.

But neither of you stop.

Because in this moment, with his hands on your body and his lips leaving a trail of heat in their wake, there is no past, no future.

There is only this.

And neither of you want to let go.

Jungwon’s breath is hot against your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin like a question he already knows the answer to. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and he exhales sharply, his grip on your waist shifting—tighter, hungrier.

Your back presses further into the wall as he leans in, his body fitting against yours like he belongs there. Like he’s never left. His hands slip under your sweater, fingertips tracing slow, deliberate circles against your bare skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, but the way his lips brush over your pulse, the way his fingers flex against your hips, tells you he’s praying you won’t.

You don’t.

Instead, your hands slide beneath the hem of his hoodie, pushing it up, desperate to feel more of him. His skin is warm beneath your touch, muscles tensing slightly as your palms explore the familiar planes of his back. You feel the way his breath stutters against your neck when your nails drag lightly down his spine, the way his lips part as if he’s about to say something—

But then he kisses you again, and this time, there’s no hesitation.

It’s slow but deep, like he’s savoring every second, like he’s afraid this moment might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t take his time. His hands move to your thighs, gripping them just hard enough to make your breath hitch before he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist like it’s second nature.

You feel the sharp inhale he takes against your lips as your body presses flush against his. His fingers dig into your skin, holding you steady, his grip possessive—like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets go.

But you’re not going anywhere.

Not when his lips trail lower, not when he murmurs your name against your collarbone like a prayer, not when his teeth graze over sensitive skin, leaving a mark that neither of you will acknowledge in the morning but both of you will remember.

Your hands push his hoodie up further, your fingertips pressing into his toned stomach, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He groans softly at that, the sound vibrating against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Jungwon,” you whisper, and it’s all it takes—

For him to press you harder against the wall, for his lips to find yours again, for the heat between you to grow unbearable, undeniable.

For a moment, nothing else exists. Not the past, not the consequences, not the inevitable morning that will come too soon.

There is only this.

Only the way he kisses you like he’s never stopped wanting you.

Only the way your body responds to him like you were made for each other.

Only the way neither of you say the words lingering between you—

"I never stopped thinking about you."

"I don’t know how to let you go."

“Stay."

Because right now, neither of you need to say it.

Right now, you’re both exactly where you want to be.

---

After everything, the room feels quieter, almost serene. The weight of their shared silence lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that says everything needs time. Both of you, tangled together, breathing in sync, a gentle hum of the city filling the background.

Jungwon pulls you close, his hand resting on your back as you both lie on the couch, the warmth of his body enveloping you. His hoodie, now discarded somewhere on the floor, leaves a faint smell of him on your skin, a reminder that tonight was not just physical, but something much more profound.

His thumb runs gentle circles along your back, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, a rhythm that calms the racing thoughts in your head. There’s an ease in the way he holds you, a comfort in the way he breathes like he’s found something he’s been searching for. Something he’s been missing.

The night still feels alive between you, the intensity of it lingering in the way his fingers trace your skin. But there’s a tenderness now. An unspoken promise.

“Y/n,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His words hang in the air like they’re fragile, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “I know we’ve been through a lot... I’ve been messed up for so long, I didn’t know how to fix it.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, and you can see the vulnerability in them—the raw, unguarded part of him he rarely lets anyone see. The part that aches for connection, for understanding.

“I’ve missed you, Jungwon,” you say softly, your voice cracking just slightly. “I didn’t want to let go, either.”

He sighs, pressing his forehead to yours, the touch comforting, grounding. His lips brush against your skin in a gesture that’s almost reverent. “I never should’ve let you go. I’ve realized that now.”

You nod, closing your eyes, trying to fight back the emotion threatening to spill over. The pain that had existed between you two for so long now felt like it had been washed away—washed away by this night, by this quiet moment, by the understanding that, in the end, it wasn’t about the time lost, but the time you were still willing to give each other.

“We don’t have to figure everything out tonight,” you whisper. “But we can start again. Together. If you want that.”

Jungwon’s eyes soften, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he brushes his thumb over your skin, his gaze never leaving yours. “I do. I really do.”

And that’s all you need to hear. The future feels less uncertain now, even if it’s unclear exactly where it will lead. Right now, all that matters is that you’ve found your way back to each other.

As you settle deeper into his embrace, the night stretches on—quiet, gentle, full of new beginnings. The warmth of his body beside you is all the reassurance you need.

No more questions. No more doubt.

Just the certainty that, this time, you won’t let go.

---

The days after that night are a blur of quiet efforts and small, meaningful gestures. Jungwon wants to show you—wants to prove that this time is different, that this time he’s really ready to do the work.

It starts with the flowers.

One morning, you wake up to a soft knock at your door. When you open it, a delivery man is standing there, holding a bouquet of white roses, tied with a delicate ribbon. The note is simple, but it’s enough to make your heart skip a beat.

For you, always. - Jungwon.

A smile tugs at your lips. You can’t help it. His sincerity is overwhelming. He’s always been careful with his words, but now there’s something more—something genuine in the way he’s making an effort to show you, not just tell you.

Later that day, your phone buzzes with a message from him.

---

Jungwon:

Good morning, y/n. I hope your day’s as beautiful as you are. I was thinking about you. I know things haven’t been easy, but I’m here, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work. No more running away. I’m staying. ❤️

You feel a warmth spread through you as you read his words. The night you shared feels so fresh in your mind, but it’s these little moments—the flowers, the messages—that help ease the heaviness you had been carrying. Jungwon isn’t just saying the right things, he’s showing you the changes, taking action to rebuild the trust that had been shaken.

---

Jungwon’s members start to notice the difference too. His smile is brighter, lighter, and there’s a certain determination in his step. They can tell something’s changed, but it’s not just because of his mood—it’s because he’s clearly trying.

One evening, Sunghoon, Ni-ki, and Sunoo are all hanging out in the dorm when Jungwon walks into the room, a slight nervousness in his eyes but also a quiet sense of contentment.

“Hyung, what’s with you today?” Ni-ki teases, raising an eyebrow. “You’re glowing, man.”

Jungwon grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… I’m just... trying to make up for things.”

Sunoo squints at him, a playful smirk forming. “Is this about y/n?”

Jungwon hesitates for a split second, but then he nods, his cheeks going pink. “Yeah, we’re... we’re back together.”

Sunghoon’s eyes widen in surprise, then he smirks. “Back together, huh? Didn’t see that coming.”

Sunoo laughs, clapping Jungwon on the back. “Honestly, I’m glad to hear it. You’ve been all over the place, man. I can tell you’re really trying now.”

Jungwon nods earnestly, his voice softer. “I’m not taking any chances this time. I really want it to work.”

Ni-ki, who had been watching Jungwon closely, finally smiles. “Well, if you’re going to do this, do it right. We’re rooting for you.”

There’s a quiet moment where Jungwon just absorbs the words from his members, a warm sense of belonging flooding him. He’s not alone in this. They’re behind him, supporting him. And that feeling of solidarity, of knowing that his efforts to redeem himself are being noticed, makes him more determined than ever.

As the days go by, Jungwon continues to send you messages, little updates, sweet reminders that he’s here and he’s serious. Sometimes, it’s a simple good morning text. Other times, it’s a song he’s found that reminds him of you. He keeps his word, showing you that his feelings are genuine.

With each message, each gesture, he’s slowly chipping away at the wall of doubt you’d built around your heart. And, bit by bit, you’re beginning to trust him again.

---

The weeks after Jungwon’s apology are a gentle progression. Both of you take your time, step by step, to rebuild what had once been broken. It’s not perfect, nor is it always easy, but the foundation is there. With each passing day, the cracks between you start to heal, the trust slowly returning as you both work toward a fresh start.

Jungwon makes the effort. He’s present. He’s here. And this time, when he tells you he loves you, you feel it in every action he takes—whether it’s a text at the start of the day, a song he dedicates to you during a live broadcast, or a spontaneous surprise like a hand-written note hidden in your coat pocket.

But you both know that the biggest hurdle you face isn’t just about trust—it’s the reality of his life as an idol. The public eye. The need to keep your relationship quiet, for both your sakes.

At first, it’s an adjustment. There are days when he’s gone for hours, sometimes even days, caught up in the whirlwind of schedules, rehearsals, and performances. You’re used to seeing his face on TV, his smile on stage, but it’s also a reminder of how careful you both have to be. Any hint of your relationship could lead to rumors—rumors that could hurt both of you in ways you’re not prepared for.

Jungwon is the one who sets the boundaries early on. He tells you, quietly, one night when he’s sitting next to you on the couch, his hand gently holding yours.

“I know it’s hard,” he says, his voice low and serious, “but we have to be careful. If people find out… it could mess everything up. For me, for you. I want us to be happy, but I also need to protect this, protect you.”

You nod, understanding the weight of his words. It’s not just about the two of you anymore. His career, his public persona, is something neither of you can ignore. It’s a balancing act—a dance between holding on to what’s personal and keeping it under wraps, for the sake of your relationship and his career.

“I get it,” you reply softly, squeezing his hand. “We can make it work. We’ll be careful.”

And you are. You spend most of your time together behind closed doors, in quiet, private moments. But every once in a while, when the chance comes, you steal moments in public. Small touches that go unnoticed by most. A hand brushing against his when you walk side-by-side, a quick kiss on the cheek when you think no one’s looking. It’s subtle but meaningful, the little things that remind you both of the love you’ve found again.

There are days when the stress of keeping everything a secret weighs on you. It’s hard. It’s lonely at times. You can’t go out for spontaneous dates or hold hands in public like normal couples do. But in those moments, Jungwon reassures you, reminding you that you’re not alone in this. He texts you when he’s on the move, always finding a way to check in, even when his schedule is packed. Sometimes it’s a quick “I miss you,” other times it’s a photo of a sunset he’s caught from his hotel room—anything to bridge the distance between you.

But what makes it work is the trust. You trust him now—completely. You know that he’s serious, that he’s not going anywhere. He’s shown you that, not with grand gestures, but with quiet, consistent love.

You’ve learned to navigate the highs and lows of his idol life together, understanding that there will be tough days when he’s exhausted or when the pressure of fame gets to him. You’ve learned to give each other space when needed, but you’ve also found comfort in those shared moments—those quiet nights when he comes home after a long day, finally free to unwind in the safety of your shared space.

When things get difficult, when the rumors or the pressure of his public life start to weigh heavily on both of you, Jungwon is always the one to remind you why it’s worth it. “We’re in this together,” he’ll say, his hand resting on your shoulder, his voice steady and unwavering. “This is real. What we have—it’s worth everything.”

And you believe him.

The key to making it work is balance. You’ve learned how to stay grounded, to protect each other’s privacy while also nurturing your love. It’s not always easy, but in the end, it feels worth it. There’s a peace that settles between you both as you continue to build your relationship, one day at a time, trusting that with each step forward, you’re stronger than before.

No matter the challenges that come with being with someone in the spotlight, no matter the secrets you have to keep, you both know that this—what you have—is real. And that’s all that matters.

Together, you can handle anything.

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pinkslipxox · 3 days ago

Note

Mom!Billie is left alone with the twins (toddlers) for a week b/c her wife had a work trip on the east coast. The first few days are smooth sailing, until one day, the twins won’t stop crying and keep throwing tantrums all day. Eventually, Billie breaks down and everyone is in inconsolable tears.

hola, mi cariño! Omg yes, i hope you like it 🥰🙈

——————————————————————————

You’re miles away on the East Coast, wrapped up in a whirlwind of meetings and conference calls. You know your wife, Billie, is at home with the twins, Ava and Mia, but you can’t fully shake that nagging worry in the back of your mind. You have a huge presentation today, an important milestone, yet your heart pulls you home to the chaos that you know must be unfolding.

Back home, Billie is valiantly attempting to manage the twins, but the day has taken its toll. The morning starts off with cheerful giggles that quickly turn into a cacophony of shrieks and tears. It feels like the universe has conspired to unleash the toddler tempest upon her. The house is a mess— the scattered toys, the half-eaten snacks, the colorful crayon drawings that might have started as art but are now more akin to modern chaos.

No matter how sweetly she hums their favorite lullabies or how many games of peek-a-boo she plays, nothing seems to quell their cries. Billie takes a deep breath, trying to channel patience, but her heart aches as their little faces contort in frustration. After what feels like an eternity of trying to soothe them, Billie finally manages to get the twins settled, but not without tears spilling over from her own eyes. The overwhelming sense of love mixed with exhaustion washes over her, leaving her breathless.

As she gently lays them down for their much-needed nap, tears swell in her eyes, blurring her vision. In this quiet moment, she reaches for her phone, her finger trembling slightly as she dials your number. It connects almost instantly.

“Y/N...” Her voice breaks slightly, audible strain threading through it. You’re on the other end, immediately alert to the catch in her voice, dropping everything as you hear her call your name. The worry melts away as your heart aches for her, even from a distance.

“Billie, my love, what’s wrong?” You ask, your voice soft and soothing.

“It’s just…everything. I thought today would be easier but the girls…” She swallows hard, a sob escaping as she tries to squeeze the words out. “They won’t stop crying, and I—”

You can feel every ounce of her struggle. You wish you could teleport home, to wrap your arms around her, whisper sweet reassurances, and give her the comforting squeeze she needs. “Breathe, baby. Breathe. You’re doing an amazing job. They love you so much. You’ve got this.”

At the sound of your voice, she settles a bit, needing the warmth of your love to wash over her. “I miss you,” she admits, her voice fragile but laced with affection. “I don’t know how you do this without losing it.”

You chuckle softly, imagining her tousled hair and kind eyes framed with the soft hues of their cozy home. “I don’t do it alone, remember? You’re always with me. Just like I’m with you now. You can do this until I’m home, I believe in you,” you reassure her, your heart swelling with admiration for everything she’s juggling.

“I wish you were here,” she whispers, a pout forming on her lips as her tired eyes close momentarily, comforting herself with the thought of you. “You usually know how to make it all better.”

“I promise, I’ll be there before you know it. Just a few more meetings to power through, okay?” you coo back, your voice gentle and soothing, reminding her of those quiet moments you've shared. “And remember, I love you and I love our little girls so very much.”

“I love you too, Mama,” she murmurs softly, blissfully sinking into the warmth of your affection even through the distance. You can almost feel her snuggling into the phone, enveloped by your spirit.

After hanging up, Billie wipes her tear-streaked cheeks and breathes deeply, feeling a flicker of energy return. She walks back to the twins’ room, brushing her fingers over the slumbering forms of Ava and Mia with a tender smile. There's a deep-rooted love in her gaze, the kind that triumphs over the toughness of the day.

For that moment, the room feels lighter. The storm may rage outside, but inside, your connection remains steady, a comforting reminder that even on the hardest days, she is never truly alone. And the way she whispers “Mama” to herself makes her heart swell with a mix of love and gratitude, knowing that with you by her side — even when you’re far away — they’ll get through the day together.

#billie eilish #billie eilish x female reader #billie eilish fic #billie eilish x you #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish fanfic #billie eilish imagine #billie eilish blurb #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish angst

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jakesaverse · 2 days ago

Text

LOVE IN THE LITTLE THINGS | SUNGHOON

sunghoon x reader

synopsis: you and sunghoon agreed to skip Valentine’s Day this year, but neither could resist showing your love in small, meaningful ways.

word count: 831

author notes: I know Valentine’s Day isn’t here yet, but here’s a special treat for you all! Hope you enjoy it!

————————————————————————————-

The cold February air follows you as you make your way home, the weight of exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Work had been long, draining, and all you could think about was curling up in bed with Sunghoon, feeling the warmth of his embrace chase away the day’s stress.

But as tired as you are, you can’t help but smile down at the small paper bag in your hands. Inside sits a heart-shaped donut, freshly bought from the little bakery next to your job. It’s nothing extravagant, but it means something.

You and Sunghoon had agreed to skip Valentine’s this year. Money was tight, and neither of you could afford fancy gifts or elaborate plans. It made sense, and yet… you couldn’t resist. Sunghoon had been your rock for the past three years, the person who made every tough day a little easier, every small moment feel like something worth cherishing. Even if it was just a simple donut, you wanted to do something for him.

With that thought in mind, you finally reach your apartment, unlocking the door with a familiar click. But as you step inside, you freeze.

The usually dim space is glowing with soft, golden light. Fairy lights are draped across the walls, casting a warm hue over the small living room. Tiny candles flicker on the coffee table, their gentle flames illuminating an array of snacks—your favorite chips, a neatly arranged stack of chocolate bars, and even a steaming cup of instant ramen.

And in the middle of it all stands Sunghoon.

He looks almost shy, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants, lips curling into that familiar, boyish smile that never fails to make your heart stutter.

“I…” You struggle to find the words, your eyes flickering between him and the cozy setup he’s created. “Sunghoon, what is all this?”

He takes a step toward you, eyes filled with nothing but warmth. “I know we agreed not to do anything this year,” he says softly, “but how could I not?”

Your heart swells at his words. Sunghoon has never been the type for grand gestures or overly dramatic declarations of love, but he doesn’t need to be. His love is quiet, steady—woven into the little things, like making sure your favorite snacks are always stocked or holding you close when the world feels too heavy.

A small laugh escapes you, shaking your head as you step forward. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckles, tilting his head. “I get that a lot.”

Without another word, you reach into your bag and pull out the heart-shaped donut, holding it up between you. “Looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t know how to listen.”

His eyes flicker to the donut, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Unbelievable,” he teases, mimicking your earlier tone. “We’re both terrible at following rules.”

You let out a soft laugh before he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in the kind of hug that makes the rest of the world fade away. He smells like home—like fresh laundry and the faintest hint of the cologne you got him last year.

His arms tighten around you, like he never wants to let go. And for a while, neither of you do.

Then, he slowly pulls back, his hands cupping your face with gentle familiarity. His thumbs brush over your cheeks as he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It’s slow, unhurried—like he’s savoring the moment, like you’re the only thing that matters.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours and whispers, “Happy Valentine’s to my favorite girl.”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Favorite girl?”

Sunghoon scoffs, shaking his head as he lets out a quiet laugh. “My only girl.”

“That’s more like it.”

He grins, stealing another quick kiss before tugging you toward the couch. “Come on, I got all your favorites. And yes, before you ask, I left the last chocolate bar for you because I’m obviously the best boyfriend ever.”

Your jaw drops in playful disbelief. “No way. The last chocolate bar? You must really love me.”

Sunghoon smirks, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. “Obviously.”

You roll your eyes but can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips as you settle in beside him. The two of you spend the night exactly like this—sharing snacks, making dumb jokes, and laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

Despite your tiny apartment, despite the lack of extravagant gifts, despite the promise to skip Valentine’s—this moment, with him, is perfect.

Because at the end of the day, love isn’t about expensive gifts or grand gestures. It’s about Sunghoon saving you the last chocolate bar. It’s about you surprising him with a simple heart-shaped donut.

It’s about the way he holds you close, whispering, “I love you,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And as you rest your head against his shoulder, you realize—this is more than enough.

#enhypen #park sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x you #kim sunoo #lee heeseung #park jongseong #enhypen fluff #sunghoon fluff #enhypen au #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen sunghoon

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bread-crum206 · 2 days ago

Text

A Game of Hearts

Chapter thirty-four: Lines Crossed

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

previous | 34 | next

Series Masterlist

The silence between you stretched, thick and suffocating.

In-ho didn’t move from the doorway. He stood there, his mask betraying nothing, but the weight of his gaze felt heavier than ever. His gloved hands flexed slightly at his sides, a barely perceptible movement, but you caught it.

He knew.

He knew you had seen.

You swallowed hard, willing yourself to keep your expression neutral, though your pulse was a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The drawer was closed now, the photos tucked away as if they had never been disturbed. But that didn’t matter.

He knew.

A long moment passed before he finally stepped forward, his movements slow, calculated. The door shut behind him with a soft click, locking you both inside.

Your fingers curled against the sides of your thighs as you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “You took too long.”

His head tilted slightly, as if weighing your words. “And you got impatient.”

You exhaled through your nose, trying to steady yourself. “I wanted to understand you.”

“Did you?” His voice was quiet, dangerously unreadable.

You hesitated. “I think so.”

Another beat of silence. Then, he stepped closer, until there was barely a foot of space between you. His presence was suffocating, demanding, but you refused to back down.

“Then tell me,” he murmured. “What exactly do you think you understand?”

Your throat went dry. He was challenging you, pushing you to say it out loud.

You clenched your jaw. “That you had a wife.” Your voice was steadier than you expected. “A child.”

Something in the air shifted.

He didn’t confirm it. Didn’t deny it. But he also didn’t look away.

Your chest tightened. “That you had a brother.”

This time, the silence was longer. His gloved fingers twitched at his sides.

Still, no confirmation.

But he didn’t have to say it.

You had seen the truth written in the way he kept those pictures—hidden yet untouched, as if moving them would make them feel less real.

“In-ho…” You hesitated before continuing, your voice softer. “What happened to them?”

His shoulders tensed.

For a long time, he said nothing. Then—

“They’re gone.”

His tone was flat. Final.

And yet, beneath those two words, you heard everything.

The pain. The loss. The guilt.

Gone.

You didn’t ask how. You weren’t sure if you were ready to hear the answer.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head at you. “You crossed a line.”

Your pulse quickened. “Maybe.”

His fingers twitched again. “And what should I do about that?”

You held your ground. “Whatever you want.”

The words hung between you, charged with something unspoken. His mask tilted slightly, as if he were studying you, searching for something.

And then, he did something unexpected.

He turned away.

Without another word, he walked past you, toward his desk. The tension in the room remained, but he didn’t touch you, didn’t lash out. Instead, he picked up the glass of whiskey he had abandoned earlier and took a slow sip.

His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “You should go to bed.”

Your heart twisted. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even lashing out.

He was retreating.

Shutting down.

Because talking about them—acknowledging them—made them real again.

You watched him for a moment before sighing. “You can’t avoid this forever.”

He didn’t look at you. “Go to bed, Y/N.”

You hesitated. Then, finally, you turned and walked toward the door.

Just before you stepped out, you glanced back.

He was still standing by the desk, staring down at his glass like it held all the answers.

But you knew the truth.

Nothing in this place could bring back what he lost.

And nothing could fix the parts of him that were still breaking.

———————

Chapter thirty four!! Let me know what you think! Thank you!

Tag list

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#in ho x reader #squid game #squid game x y/n #squid games x reader #x reader #arranged marriage #frontman x reader #marriage au #the front man #squid game x reader

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dulcescorderitas · 2 days ago

Text

parings: clark kent x reader

song: nothing matters but you by madison beer

warnings: 18+, smut

i don't know how i survived

the rain taps against the old kent farmhouse like an insistent whisper, the kind that seeps into the skin, into the bones. you sit curled up on the couch, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped around them like if you let go, you’ll fall apart completely. your breaths are shallow, uneven, and no matter how many times you tell yourself you’re being ridiculous, the weight in your chest doesn’t lift.

before i met you

“y/n?”

his voice is a quiet thing, gentle, warm, so achingly familiar it nearly undoes you. clark stands in the doorway of the living room, socked feet silent against the floor, brows knitted in concern. you don’t have to look at him to know his eyes are soft, filled with the kind of patience and understanding that makes it impossible to keep anything from him.

watching you through glassy eyes

“hey,” you whisper, forcing a small smile. “couldn’t sleep?”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he moves closer, sinking onto the couch beside you. he’s warm, always warm, radiating this quiet, steady heat that makes you want to crawl into his arms and never leave. he nudges your knee with his, tipping his head slightly. “you’re crying.”

sinking into blue

“it’s nothing.”

his expression doesn’t change, but his silence speaks louder than words. clark has never been one to push, but he doesn’t let things go either. he waits, ever patient, ever steady, until you sigh, letting your forehead rest against your arms.

if you never stop me (stop me)

“it’s stupid,” you murmur. “i just—” you exhale sharply, voice trembling. “i don’t know why it’s so hard to say it.”

then i'll just keep falling

he frowns slightly. “say what?”

“that i—” your throat tightens. the words are right there, clawing at your chest, but they won’t come out. the weight of them presses down, heavy and suffocating, until it spills over in another sharp breath, a quiet, shuddering sob.

Nothing matters but you

clark doesn’t hesitate. in an instant, he shifts closer, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you against him. you bury your face in his shoulder, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline as his arms tighten around you, anchoring you to the moment, to him.

hold me while i cry (hold me while i cry)

his hand moves gently, soothing over your back, slow and careful, like he’s afraid you might break apart in his arms. “it’s okay,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you.”

swimming underneath moonlight

it’s so easy to believe him. so easy to let yourself sink into the warmth of him, the safety. minutes pass, maybe hours, before your breathing slows, before the ache in your chest dulls just enough to let you lift your head.

taken by the tide (taken by the tide)

his face is close, impossibly close, and you can see every detail—the way his dark lashes frame those impossibly blue eyes, the soft furrow of his brows, the way his lips part slightly like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should.

“clark,” you whisper, voice barely more than breath.

nothing matters but you

he swallows. “yeah?”

“i love you.”

nothing matters but you

the words hang between you, a fragile, trembling thing, and for a moment, the world holds its breath. then, before doubt can creep in, before you can take it back, clark exhales, a quiet, relieved sound, and cups your face with both hands.

nothing matters but

“i love you too.”

you make a girl think the world’s only spinning for you

his lips are soft when they meet yours, slow and searching, as if he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you feel in his arms. his hands stay gentle, fingertips brushing along your jaw, your cheek, like he’s afraid you might disappear.

you belong to me tonight

when you pull back, breathless, his forehead presses against yours, his thumbs tracing soft circles against your skin. “you're mine, princess,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

nothing matters but you

something shifts. the air between you thickens, charged, and when he kisses you again, it’s different—deeper, needier, full of every unsaid word, every stolen glance, every moment that led you here.

nothing matters but you

his hands skim down your sides, careful, reverent, as he guides you back against the couch. his touch never rushes, never demands, only gives, and gives, and gives. he’s patient, unhurried, taking his time to map out every inch of you, like he’s memorizing the way you come undone beneath his fingertips.

nothing matters but

his lips trail down your throat, warm and lingering, pressing soft kisses over the racing pulse at your neck. his hands press against your waist, fingers tracing reverent patterns as he peels away layers of fabric, baring you to him. the heat of his body against yours is overwhelming, grounding, every touch sending slow, aching tremors through you.

you make a girl think the world’s only spinning for you

his mouth moves lower, trailing slow, deliberate kisses down your stomach, worshiping every inch of you. his hands part your thighs gently, spreading you open as he presses a lingering kiss to your inner thigh, teasing, savoring. his breath is warm against your skin, lips ghosting over your most sensitive spots as he whispers your name, voice thick with hunger.

his tongue glides over you, slow and torturous, tracing circles around your clit before sucking it between his lips, his moan vibrating against you. his fingers dig into your hips, keeping you still as he devours you with aching precision, lapping up every drop of wetness, his tongue plunging deep before swirling back up to flick and tease.

he eats you like he’s starving, like he needs this as much as you do, his pace unrelenting yet measured, making sure every stroke, every flick, every hot exhale against you sends waves of pleasure crashing over your body. he groans into you, the sound vibrating through your core, his tongue never ceasing, never slowing until your thighs shake around his head, your fingers buried deep in his dark curls, pulling, pleading for more.

his hands slide up, thumbs brushing over your trembling stomach as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge, drinking in every gasp, every breathless plea. he flicks his tongue faster, alternating between deep strokes and gentle teasing, every motion designed to unravel you completely. he wants you lost in this, lost in him, no doubt in your mind that he is yours, and you are his.

he whispers your name against your soaked heat, voice thick with reverence, with possessive devotion, as he keeps going, keeps making you fall apart on his tongue. and when you do, when your body tightens, thighs clenching around his head, when your back arches and his name leaves your lips in a desperate, wrecked cry, he doesn’t stop—he works you through it, lets you ride it out, his tongue still stroking, still loving you, refusing to let you go until he’s sure you feel everything, until there is no part of you left untouched by his devotion.

"i love you" he finishes panting, his mouth wet with your arousal.

nothing matters but you

taglist: @legalmente-loca @soangelbaby

#dulce's valentine❀25 #clark kent x reader #smallville x reader #clark kent #tom welling #smallville #clark kent fluff #clark kent smut #clark kent x you #clark kent smallville imagine #clark kent x y/n #superman comics #clark kent x female reader #superman #smallville clark kent #smallville 2001 #clark #kent

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m-jelly · 2 days ago

Note

hey! I wanted to request a fic so if you're not taking any, pls ignore this. So i wanted to ask for a Levi x fem!reader (she's the same age and levi's second in command in the og levi squad)where they're already dating long term, they love and trust each other a lot. She's loving and doting to him but she's grumpy,quiet,stoic like him(he loves it tho). 1 day she gets insecure about her nature because of a trigger(u decide)and hopes she can be more bubbly n cries but levi comforts her

Comparison

Levi x fem reader

Canon world, being a couple, insecure reader, fluff, romance, Levi comforting you.

After hearing some cadets talking about romance and couples, you become very aware of how you are with your love, Levi. Filled with guilt and worry you talk to Levi and he comforts you.

"I got into a fight with my boyfriend." The blonde sighed.

"Again?" The red hair raised a brow. "What was it this time?"

"You make it sound like it's all the time." She snapped. "It's not."

Red lifted her hands. "I didn't mean to offend. So, what now?"

"He's just so cold and uncaring." Blonde sniffed back tears. "I told him I need him to connect with me more." She patted her chest. "I need him to be present, but he's so emotionless and distant."

"Like he's mentally checked out?" Red tilted her head a bit. "That's not good. It's hard when they're so stoic and quiet. It's impossible to love someone like that."

You walked away as a sob caught in your throat. A strong deep guilt wrapped its horrible hands around your throat. You couldn't, no matter how hard you gulped or tried to get air. Your love for Levi was so deep and unbreakable but the words of the young ladies played on your mind so much.

You wanted to be more perky and outgoing around Levi. It's not like you neglected him, you did cuddle often, you were loving to him and doted on him in your own way. However, those girls' thoughts made you consider the way you acted.

You grabbed some pretty wildflowers, like normal for Levi, before rushing over to him as he finished training. "Levi!"

Levi flinched at your cheery greeting. He blinked a bit as it took him to register it was you. He softly said your name. "Everything okay?"

You gave him the flowers before kissing his cheek. "Peachy!"

He gazed at the stunning flowers, his heart always fluttered when you gave him some. As he admired them a moment a thought crossed his mind, you were smiling but your eyes held pain. He reached over and caressed your cheek allowing him to really look at you, he was right you were close to crying.

He took your hand. "Come with me."

You trotted behind him. "Sure.

He dragged you through the halls as you chatted with him in a very upbeat way, which wasn't like you at all, but he replied and was sweet back. Levi knew you so well because you'd been a couple since he joined and that'd been a few years now. You were incredibly strong together and he knew you were his soulmate.

He fixed his flowers in a vase as you carried on chatting happily while making tea. He approached you and called your name making you sweetly look at him. "What's going on?"

"I just..."

He picked you up making you squeak before carrying you to his sofa. He sat with you on his lap. "Talk to me. You're acting like you've got a painful shit."

You laughed at his comment. "You always know how to make me smile."

"I know my darling brat."

You released a long sigh and told him about the two girls. After a bit of silence, you spoke again. "I guess I'm just worried that maybe I'm too grumpy, or stoic, or quiet." You pulled at the straps on your thighs. "Maybe you want someone more fluffy." You sniffed back tears. "Someone positive and bouncy. Someone who is more present. I'm impossible to love like this."

He squeezed you. "So, you're not fluffy? I thought you were. You're my fluffy cuddly sweet brat that I always want to eat." He kissed your cheek before wiping your tears. "You're not impossible to love because I've been loving you all these years." He kissed you making you hum. "I love you, all of you." He clicked his tongue. "Tch, damn it brat I fell in love with the woman sitting on my lap right now. You are the most perfect woman for me."

Your eyes sparkled with tears. "Really?"

He cupped your face. "Yes. I don't like, brat. You know I'm blunt and honest." He wiggled your face. "I adore you for you. You dote on me so much. You're incredibly loving. You get me gifts, write me love letters, gift me flowers, cuddle me and give me a lot of kisses. You're always asking me if I'm okay and checking in on me. You communicate all the time and help me. You're my dream girl."

You hugged Levi tightly and hid your face. "You...you..."

He rubbed your back. "I've flustered you, right?"

"Mm."

He played with your hair. "Ignore those shitty girls, they're only talking about what they want in a partner. Their views are different to others. What I want in a partner is you. All of you. There is no one else for me."

"I love you, Levi."

"I love you too." He squeezed you as he said your name. "Don't ever change. Keep being your wonderful self."

Tags under cut

@ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @nbinairyn @bts-spnlvr12 @darkstarlight82 @emilyyyy-08 @levistealeaf @pelicanpizza @hideandgopeep @notgoodforlife @demonic-bird @searriously @abiatackerman @minminroie @dreamerofthewest

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tribalmajesty05 · 16 hours ago

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Title: The Number Game

Roman Reigns X Reader

It was a quiet evening in the Anoa’i household. The kids were asleep, the house was peaceful, and I was curled up on the couch beside Joe, lazily scrolling through my phone while he absentmindedly watched TV.

Then, for no apparent reason, a random thought popped into my head.

“Hey, babe?” I asked, turning to him.

Joe hummed in response, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“How many women have you slept with?”

That got his attention. His head snapped toward me so fast I thought he might’ve given himself whiplash. “What?”

I smirked. “You heard me.”

Joe blinked at me like I had just asked him to recite the Constitution backward. “Why the hell you asking me that?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, biting back a grin. “I was just curious.”

Joe scoffed. “Nah, see, that’s a setup. You tryna start something.”

I laughed. “No, I’m not! I swear. I just wanna know. So? What’s the number?”

He ran a hand down his face and muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” I leaned in.

“Why does it matter?” he deflected, suddenly looking real interested in the TV.

“It doesn’t!” I said quickly. “I just wanna know what kinda numbers you were working with before you landed this—” I motioned to myself dramatically. “—top-tier wife right here.”

Joe side-eyed me. “You sure you ain’t gon’ get mad?”

I scoffed. “Please. You think I can’t handle it? Boy, I know you were out here in these streets before you met me.”

Joe exhaled heavily, leaning back into the couch. “Alright. Fine. The truth is…I don’t even know.”

My jaw dropped. “You lost count?!”

Joe held his hands up defensively. “Hold up! That ain’t what I said!”

“Joe!” I gasped, smacking his arm.

“Why you hittin’ me?!” he laughed, dodging the next slap.

“You really lost track?!” I accused, eyes wide.

“I mean…I wasn’t keepin’ a damn diary!” he argued, his deep laugh shaking his chest.

I dramatically placed a hand over my heart. “I cannot believe I married a former hoe.”

Joe burst out laughing. “Oh, so now I’m a hoe?”

“You said it yourself! You don’t even know the number, Joe!”

“Okay, okay,” he grinned, rubbing his jaw. “What if I just give you a ballpark estimate?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Go ahead. But if the number’s too high, I might just file for divorce tonight.”

Joe laughed again before schooling his expression into something more serious. He pretended to count on his fingers, muttering numbers under his breath like he was solving a damn equation.

Finally, he looked up at me. “Alright…I’d say…less than a hundred.”

I gasped so loud I swear I woke up the neighbors. “LESS THAN A HUNDRED?! JOE, THAT IS NOT REASSURING!”

Joe started wheezing. “Baby, chill! I meant waaaay less than a hundred!”

“But you ain’t say way at first!” I pointed an accusing finger at him. “Oh my God, I really married a hoe!”

Joe was laughing so hard at this point he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “You actin’ like I was out here on the damn Hoe Hall of Fame!”

“If they had one, you’d have a plaque!”

He threw his head back, still cracking up, before pulling me onto his lap. “C’mere, crazy woman.”

I huffed, folding my arms as I sat on his lap. “You nasty.”

Joe smirked, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “Yeah? Well, clearly, you like nasty since you married me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. But if I find out your number is actually close to a hundred, I swear—”

Joe kissed my cheek to shut me up. “Relax, babe. It ain’t that high. You’re the only number that matters now anyway.”

I narrowed my eyes at him before sighing dramatically. “Fine. But just know if a woman ever comes up to me talking ’bout some Hey, girl! I used to mess with your man! I’m squaring up on sight.”

Joe laughed, holding me closer. “Damn, I love you.”

I smirked. “I know. Even if you was a hoe.”

Joe groaned while I laughed, and that was the end of our ridiculous little argument.

#roman reigns #wwe raw #wwe smackdown #john cena #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns x reader #the bloodline #divas #jey uso #jimmy uso #roman reigns x oc #roman reigns smut #roman empire #roman reigns x you #wwe fanfiction #the tribal chief #wwe fandom #wwe

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gohyemi · 3 days ago

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his miss butterfly

" Wonwoo ah~" Y/N skipped happily toward him. He smiled and opened his arms for her. She ran into his embrace and hugged him tightly. They both laughed and enjoyed the moment. Well, that is what she imagined, though.

————

"Oh Lord, not again..."Wonwoo mumbled. Beside him, Mingyu let out a small chuckle and patted his back. Wonwoo shook his head. Her head was already pounding, thinking what kind of shenanigans she had today.

"What a lovely girl you have... I'll see you in the gym this evening, bro." Then he left his bestfriend alone with Y/N.

"Lovely, my foot" Taehyung smiled sarcastically, but it faded as he looked at Y/n. He knew what was coming and wasn't ready for it. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the conversation to come.

She grins sheepishly, "I was asked by my mother to give you this," she showed a small box of cookies, "but I wanted to make special cookies for you, not her hand-made..." and continued. She opened the box to show the homemade cookies she had made. "I hope you-.”

"Thanks." He didn't even let her end her speech about the cookies. He fastly make his way to his class leaving her there.

Y/n is always happy, always making the whole school feel like there's a floating flower everywhere, a positive-thinking and smart girl, too. But Wonwoo believes she's just another annoying girl who gives him a headache and suddenly enters his quiet and peaceful world. He immediately disliked her when they first met and tried to keep his distance. But no matter how hard he tried, Y/n always found a way to him.

In the end, Wonwoo couldn't help but admit she did have a special charm. Also, thanks to his father, Y/n is his fiance. This is despite their father being a best friend since college, living as a neighbor, a window mate, and now a fiance. Yes, typical childhood lover.

Wonwoo just could not reject his father's proposal to be her fiance. Since they were children, Wonwoo was never close to her. He always does his best to avoid her, but living next door just makes it impossible for him to do so. Especially when their window face each other.

"It's choco chip, your favorite!" she shouted, making most of the people in the hall stop for a second to look at them both, seeing that Wonwoo had fastened his pace to avoid the crowd. Wonwoo blushed and smiled, but he quickly hid it, not wanting anyone to see it. As time goes by, Wonwoo starts to like her stubbornness and the effort she makes to have his attention. He doesn’t know why at first he was disgust by the fluttering feels he got but eventually he use to it.

" Crazy girl," Wonwoo muttered.

Y/n smiled fell for a moment after he already out of sight. As always, she tried to win his heart, but he never opened up. If he doesn't like her, why? She sometimes questions why he agreed to the engagement. Y/n has liked Wonwoo since their family moved. Being his neighbor, Wonwoo doesn't enjoy making friends with anyone, especially with the girls, except for Mingyu. Mingyu is an introvert collector kind of person, ends up being his best friend.

" Did you already give up?" someone asked from behind. Y/n turned around to see her best friend, Hana, standing there. Instantly, her smile returned.

She grinned eagerly. "Hell, I'm not!"

"Good, I want you to be my sister-in-law, and nobody can change that", Hana stated. And yes, she's Wonwoo's sister, twin sister.

---------------------

-nighttime-

"Seriously, bro, I can't stand her anymore; she just- too much", Wonwoo whined on the phone call, laying down on his bed with his small towel hanging on his neck.

“Then why have you agreed to be her future husband, Wonwoo shii~" Mingyu replied,

" I-I don't know" He shifted to lay on his side, his gaze thrown to his bedside table where the box of cookies she blabbered excitedly about this morning. Slowly, he got up from his bed to grab that box. She decorated it with blue ribbon along with a sticky note that read, 'hope this makes your tummy tickle’.

Her actions sometimes made his day. He opened the box and saw the stars-shaped cookies, his favorite shape. He smiled and felt warmth in his heart.

"Bittery, maybe you feel disturbed because you look at her like all those girls out there. Maybe opening up a bit, give the key to that locked heart and let her enter it. She knows the limit. Don't you worry; I believe after that it will make you feel tickled by those butterflies she sent," Mingyu advised.

Wonwoo look at the sticky note hearing Mingyu

Wonwoo walked to his curtain and opened it a little to peek outside, and there is his view, Y/n. He sees her trying to grab the book on her shelf that she placed higher than she was able to reach.

‘Why would she place it there if she can’t reach it?’ he mumbled

A few books fell after she stepped on the wrong side, hitting her head. Wonwoo let out a small snort, entertained by her clumsiness. "Stupid," he whispered.

"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?" shouted Mingyu.

"Not you, stupid."

Wonwoo reconsidered his best friend's words. Sometimes, he felt a little butterfly looking at her, but he quickly said it was just a disgusting feeling. “Whatever, back to the topic. She's a nice girl, Bittery. I can guarantee you she can make you the happiest guy after this," said Mingyu.

Y/n seems to notice some light on the other side of her window. She looked outside and saw Wonwoo standing there, seemingly having a conversation over the phone but looking at her. Despite the butterflies in her stomach, her heart was racing, and she raised her hand triumphantly, waving at him with her usual smile.

Likewise, Wonwoo feels again those tingling caused by her action, and his body starts feeling the same way he described before, disgusted but somehow good. He let out a big sigh.

“Well, Mingyu, I think you're right. Maybe I should give it a try. Talk to you later"

“Wait wha-” Before Mingyu could respond, He hung up. Wonwoo still maintained eye contact with her. He cautiously and slowly waves back to her.

"Oh my god..." Y/n cupped his mouth and gasped. His action just now was the first time in her life that she had seen such a thing. It never Wonwoo to respond to anything that she do, not even when she spill the drink onto him that one day. But now is just different that making her feel overwhelmed.

She didn't even realize her tears had started falling. Wonwoo saw it and started to panic. He signaled from afar, asking if she was all right. But she abruptly closed her curtain, feeling embarrassed at the time, and she quickly took out her phone to message him. "I'm okay. That book hit my head and hurt my head a bit; I hope it's not going to bleed.” Along with emoji thumbs up.

Wonwoo looked at his phone notification that came from her. After he read the message, he noticed Y/n sticking out only her hand from the window showing a thumbs up.

He let out a sigh and chuckled. "Oh boy, I hope this was a smart decision." He felt that this was going to be a roller-coaster ride, but at least he was going to try. Maybe accepting her future wife will not be a bad decision at all

#mingyu x reader #svt x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen x reader #svt imagines #wonwoo #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo fluff #seventeen au #oneshot #imagines

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waynes-multiverse · 12 hours ago

Text

Lover – Part 3

Series Summary: Free from his past, Ben’s trying to move on and find a little drop of happiness in this new world. But when he finally holds everything he ever wanted in his hands, it threatens to slip through the cracks, and he has to fight one final time with everything he’s got to keep it.

🫡 Catch up here! Sequel to Rehab & Video Games.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female!Reader

Warnings: 18+ due to language & mature themes, established relationship, Soldier Boy x wife!reader, human!Soldier Boy, the fluffiest of fluff, the smuttiest of smut (watch out for the breeding kink lol) 😉

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day to you all, loves! 💕 Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments over the last few days. I've seen and appreciate them all and will catch up with you guys over the weekend 🥰 For now, excuse this poor mama, 'cause she is fucking beat 😂

Enjoy the happy end 🩵

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Part 3: Lovestruck

Three fucking days he had waited in front of that goddamn door.

He slept in front of that door, ate in front of that door, and he silently panicked in front of that door. He hated that fucking door, had raging murder fantasies about it, but he never, ever opened said fucking door, no matter how much his fingers were twitching. Mostly because every time his hand did wrap around the knob, she’d yell at him to ‘stay the fuck out.’

Ben only unwillingly complied.

But when the quiet came and all other noises stopped, he finally dared to set a foot inside. The bedroom looked normal, even if disarrayed – but the bathroom surely needed a fucking remodel.

All that remained of their bathtub was a solidified puddle of acrylic. There was also a hole in the floor – burned right through the tiles. He’d wondered why it’d been so cold in there till he'd noticed the giant hole in the wall too that gave a perfect view of their backyard. But he found Y/N resting and curled up on the cool, white tiles – alive.

His heart might have fucking soared higher than an eagle.

When Ben asked her how she felt, she only replied with “Like I fucking survived D-Day.”

At that, Ben had snorted and said, “At least one of us did.”

And when they were both sure the worst was over and she wouldn’t turn the car into bubbling liquid as well, Ben finally drove her to a hospital. She was still weak, mostly from not eating a thing in four days. The doctors thought she must’ve had a severe case of the flu, gave her an IV drip with plenty of nutrients, and then released her after a few tests.

She’s been exhausted since then, drifting in and out of dreamland as he holds her in his embrace. She begins to stir again, and soon enough, she glances tiredly up at him through her eyelashes and gives him a lazy smile when she realizes he’s still here, exactly where he was hours ago when she last woke up.

“How late is it?” she asks and stretches a little in his arms but only ends up snuggling closer to him.

“Close to three,” he replies, and judging by the darkness outside their bedroom window, she guesses he doesn’t mean in the afternoon. “How are you feeling?”

Y/N almost breaks a smile. She can’t remember if he had ever asked this much about her well-being before. Her little brush with death might have shaken his steeled core more than she’d initially figured, and her heart swells slightly at the thought.

Sometimes, she still thinks he only keeps her around because he doesn’t know any better. It’s like getting an abused dog from the shelter – you never know if they really love you or if they only tolerate you because you’re nice enough to feed them.

He’s a creature of habit, after all.

But the affection and genuine worry gleaming in his pine green eyes tells her he might see more in her than that – whatever the hell that is.

“Better.” She nods, letting her fingers trace patterns around the golden freckles on his chest. Much better, she thinks as she feels the familiar heat pool between her legs. She bites down on her lower lip and presses herself closer to his perfectly toned and muscular body. It’s been too long since she’s worshipped every fucking glorious inch of him. “I think the fried chicken and noodles helped,” she adds with a small grin.

He chuckles – but not at her words. He can feel how she’s rubbing her thighs together now to get a little friction.

“Oh, I’m sure the burger, fries, sushi, and tacos helped, too,” he teases her. He came this close to entering her in one of those eating competitions as he watched her empty take-out container after container.

“Don’t forget the churros.” She giggles, and on cue, she rolls fully on top of him and straddles his waist, spreading featherlight kisses along the paths her fingers trailed.

“Not surprising. I already know how much you can stuff in that fucking mouth, doll.” Ben’s wide smirk is full of pride, and it causes her to giggle.

To make his point even clearer, his massive hands smooth down her sides and grip the globes of her ass, grinding her core against his proudly standing member. She mewls into the crook of his neck when she feels how fucking hard he is already. He lets out a grunt that carries the same desperate need to be inside of her as two of his thick fingers delve into her tight channel without much of a warning.

“Fucking drenched,” he mutters appreciatively as she arches her back with another moan on top of him. His free hand winds itself in her hair, giving it a slight tug that parts her lips with a pleasurable hiss as he drags her closer to his face. His amusement doesn’t fade, though, nor do his fingers in her pussy as he works her into a frenzy. “Sure you’re ready enough for the big guns, baby girl?”

She giggles breathily at his relentless teasing. “I’m literally about to come any second now,” she replies, soon followed by a harsh bite of her lip when his calloused thumb finds her clit. “Fuck…”

“Oh, I don’t think you fucking are.” Ben smirks and withdraws his fingers from her heat in the same breath. He laughs a little when she falls against his chest with a whimper of real loss.

Her hand finds his length between their burning bodies and wraps around it, already dragging his tip through her dripping folds. But Ben only entertains her plans for a second before snatching her wrist and pulling her away from him.

She whines this time and looks up at him. “Dear God, what do you want?” A laugh rumbles through his chest at the exasperation on her face. “I’ll do anything you want, anywhere you want. Just tell me. What’s Soldier Boy’s deepest, darkest fantasy, huh?”

Ben knows she’s teasing him, and a smile of amusement twitches on his lips, but a part of him actually seriously considers her question.

“What?” Her brow knits curiously as she observes the contemplative purse of his pillowy lips. “It’s okay. You can tell me,” she assures him and grins cheekily. “How fucking dirty is it?”

Ben swipes his tongue over his teeth and subtly swallows the lump in the back of his throat. He doesn’t reply instantly, however, pulling her ear to his lips as he whispers his little wish.

When he’s done, she blinks at him in surprise (and a hint of amusement). She certainly hasn’t expected that, but she places a loving kiss on his lips. The asshole can be charmingly sweet once in a blue moon.

“You sure about that?” she checks, but her tone is more than a little teasing. “There’s a lot of kinks to pick from.”

“Why does your generation always have to label fucking everything? It’s fucking sex. That’s it.” He huffs a bit too defensively, and she tries her best to muzzle her laugh. “What’s fucking wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” she assures him, giggling, and tries to soothe the furious lines of offense on his brow with little kisses. “It’s just surprising. It’s usually what super-old, married couples do.”

“Well, there you go,” he retorts. “I’m super fucking old and married. You’re gonna keep fucking chit-chatting or are you gonna do it now?”

“Fine, I’ll make love to you,” she relents with a smirk as she voices his little secret out loud.

“Jesus fuck!” He throws his head back into the pillow with a theatric eye roll.

His patience has run out. He grabs her fast and rough and flips them both over in a blink of an eye, her back landing in the plush mattress with a bubble of giggles. His weight presses down on her and deliciously threatens to squeeze the air from her lungs.

“Let me show you how it’s fucking done, my love,” Ben says with a cocky smile and begins to ravage a path of destruction down her throat. She’s sure she’ll be more colorful than a rainbow in the morning.

His teeth nib on her skin, hands pawing at the only clothing item that still covers her body from him, soon tearing the shirt over her head. His mouth stops attacking her clavicle then, green eyes focusing on her tits with a rising smirk.

“There’s my girls. Daddy’s home…”

Before she can even reply with a laugh at his comment, his mouth is swallowing her left tit, tongue roughly swirling over her nipple till it peaks against his wet muscle. She moans and arches off the mattress when his other hand massages, palms, and squeezes her other breast with the same fervent hunger.

Her hands find purchase on his strong upper arms, bicep flexing underneath her pads. His mouth devoutly licks lower and lower down her belly. She can feel his smirk rise against her skin the further he travels before his tongue dives straight into her folds.

“Fuck!” Her hips instantly buck forward, everything below her belly button clenching at the welcome intrusion.

And God, that man is skilled when it comes to sex. If he takes nothing else in his life seriously, this is his goddamn Olympics. He always gives it his all, just aiming for that gold medal over and over again.

It’s why she honestly forgives him for most of the shit he does or says, and she’s pretty sure he knows it, too.

His arms wrap around her thighs and pull her even closer against his sinful mouth. Her ankles cross behind his head, calves resting on those broad shoulders that seem to be made just for that purpose. Her toes tease his scalp, scratch the back of his head that cause little groans of his against her center that sound both submissive and primal, as if it's the most natural thing to give his everything to her.

His nose deliciously rubs her clit, and then the bastard fucking inhales and sucks the air right out of her when his lips seal around her bundle of nerves. She cries out his name, her cunt clenching with aching emptiness.

“Don’t worry. I know what you need,” Ben hums against her mound and shoves two thick fingers into her wet channel. “So fucking tight. You think you can take three? It’s been a while. Gotta get you into shape again…”

Fucking Olympics.

His digits then pump her so purposefully, mouth sucking her so religiously, she soon soars so fucking high she can see fucking Cupid himself. Her head falls back into the clouds when that fucking arrow hits, and she falls apart under his binding spell.

She thinks she might have passed out there for a second or two. When she steals a glance south, he still works her zealously through her glorious high as her pussy grips his fingers so tight she’s baffled they don’t break.

If she still had been a supe, they would’ve have.

And my God, she knows Ben’s never wasteful, not with his drugs nor with her arousal, but the way his tongue cleans her and licks his own fingers reaches a new level of obscenity she hasn’t witnessed before.

He acts like he’s been fucking parched for decades, and her juices are the elixir of life.

Then, when there's not a drop left to drink, and only then, does he decide to resurface with the laziest and proudest fucking smirk she’s ever seen. He leans so close to her face their foreheads touch, and she can smell her own scent in his glistening beard before he makes her taste herself, too.

“You’re still the same shithead.” She smirks breathlessly, her tits heaving as she breaks from the kiss. His chuckles fill her soul. She cards her fingers through his beard and brushes the hair back that falls into his mesmerizingly green eyes. “You’re gonna make love to me now?”

A smile widens on his plump and swollen lips, even at the hint of teasing in her voice, but he doesn’t respond with words, only nods and claims her lips in a blazing kiss. He angles his hips between her thighs then and spreads her legs further apart as they secure around his middle.

His lips leave hers and force her eyes open, staring straight into his. There’s an abundance of devotion and love in the lush greens that fill her heart. He makes her fucking feel it – every goddamn thing she is to him.

She feels his love when their fingers interlace and he pins them above her head. She feels his dedication with every thick, long inch he pushes inside of her. And she feels his fucking loyalty with each deliberate stroke.

He doesn’t rush, even keeps the dirty talk to a minimum. This is just for her.

It’s his fucking Olympics.

But most of all, she sees their vows shimmering in his eyes and knows he’ll never fucking break them.

“I love you,” she moans breathily into his ear, wounding herself tighter around him. She’s fucking close, ready for that next arrow with his name on it to pierce right through her heart.

He smirks a little in response, like he’s been waiting to hear it first. “Trust me. I fucking love you more,” he says, voice husky and thick with love. He emphasizes his promise with a snap of his hips, driving his cock right against her cervix. “Gonna pump a full fucking load deep into that little pussy till you’re fucking knocked up with a whole litter.”

Fucking shit. That should not turn her on as much as it does, but it’s hard to goddamn deny it when she comes right then and there as soon as he’s finished that filthy sentence.

“That’s it. Fucking milk my cock,” Ben rasps into her ear and feels his balls tighten when her pussy quakes around his shaft. “Like a fucking faucet,” he murmurs appreciatively and sucks marks into her neck. He’s missed making her his work of art, too.

When he spills his seed into her, hot and raw, he ensures their eye contact never breaks. He wants her to see what she’s fucking doing to him, how he falls apart just for her, too.

Two months later…

“What the fuck is taking you so long?” Ben stretches his neck and tries to peer into the kitchen. He begrudgingly eyes the green, glittery party hat on the dining table in front of him. “‘M not putting the fucking hat on, by the way.”

“Dude, you think it’s fucking easy lighting 108 candles on a fucking cake?” she retorts from the kitchen with a bit of bite before she strolls out with a sort of wonky buttercream cake, but the smile on her face is even brighter than the million candles.

“There’s no fucking way you put 108 candles on there,” Ben scoffs and grumpily crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back with a creak in his chair.

He’s been a bit of a party pooper all day. It also didn’t help when their son pointed that out at breakfast.

However, Ben probably shouldn’t have replied with: “Yeah, you would be too if your wife said no to blow.”

And yup, you bet your ass he woke her up bright and early in the morning, requesting she’d lick the snow off his dick. He’d termed it a super blow job and was rather disappointed when she'd declined.

“No, but I managed to get 53 on there, so it’s an A for effort,” she replies patiently. God, she needs so much fucking patience every day, but especially today.

“What fucking hippie school did you go to, huh?” Ben huffs and only encounters an annoyed frown when he looks at her.

“Blow out your fucking candles and make your wish, caveman,” she orders him dryly.

With a pissy eye roll, he does, puffing the life out of each little flame. “Are we fucking done with this now?”

Just then, the oven timer goes off, and Y/N straightens in the seat across from him.

“Uh, almost,” she says. “Got something in the oven. Can you check?”

“It’s my fucking birthday. How about you check yourself?” he retorts like a fucking princess.

“Ben, c’mon, I just spent six hours in the kitchen, baking you that cake,” she argues.

“Surprising it took six hours for this fucking thing,” Ben mutters, and she’s about to goddamn choke him.

Patience is a virtue, patience is a virtue…

“Baby, please, my feet hurt really bad.” She pouts, and he finally gets up with a deep sigh. She smiles wickedly.

“The oven isn’t even fucking on!” Ben yells soon from the kitchen. “And there’s nothing fucking inside!”

“Are you sure?” she acts as best as she can. “I thought I put something on the baking sheet.”

She listens to the clattering metal before a beat of silence follows. She’s sure his brows are densely knit in confusion (and frustration) at this point.

“What the fuck is this? Why would you put a fucking plastic stick in there?” The question finishes when he returns to the dining room, a small, white stick still in hand. He then holds it to his nose. “Why the fuck does it smell like piss?”

“Because I fucking peed on it,” she responds but sees he’s still not fully catching on.

“Ew! Why the fuck would you put that in the fucking oven?!” His brow furrows so comically she tries her hardest to stifle her laughter.

God, she hopes the kid gets her brains.

“Why is there a fucking smiley on it?”

“Because you’re supposed to be fucking happy, you moron,” she says.

“Why would I be fucking happy over a piss stick? Not exactly the fucking Rolex I wanted, is it?”

“Ben.”

His green eyes narrow at her and then blink. “Wait…”

“Yup.”

“Are you–“

“Yup.”

The stick in his hand drops to the floor before he scoops her up into his arms so fast she feels slightly dizzy from the motion. Happily, her legs wrap around his waist and arms lock behind his neck. She kisses him deeply, and he kisses her back with the same passionate devotion.

He squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter, forcing the tears to stay in, but she can still see the remnants of them when she draws back from his lips.

“I’m pregnant,” she says in case he still needed the verbal confirmation.

“Best fucking birthday ever,” he replies, swallowing the fucking lump in his dry throat.

She grins mischievously. “Told you it would be a good one, but no super blow jobs for a while.”

He snorts a chuckle. “Got it. I’ll take the regular ones, too.”

Ben once used to hate everything, his heart, much like the Grinch’s, a few sizes too small for anything else. But now, there’s barely enough space in his chest to contain it all. These days, he certainly considers himself a lover of all things life has to fucking offer.

The End 💕

Didn't I fucking say I would fix it?! Well, there ya go! Sid and Nancy got a happy end 🌅❣️

Do you guys think Ben wished for a baby or a fucking Rolex when he blew out those candles? 😂

(@zepskies 💜 – Not sure you remember this, but you sent me this ask for Dirty Drabbles about a year ago lol: What if Ben's girlfriend/wife/partner agrees to help fulfill one of his dirty fantasies. She's fully prepared for it to be insane (a la Ben), but what he requests is actually something surprisingly sweet (in its own way lol) And I immediately had this for this miniseries in mind! It fit those two perfectly!! 🥰🫶)

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magicalbats · 8 hours ago

Text

Persist and Resist (Sunday x Reader)

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 7730

Warnings: afab!reader, handjob, cum eating, a pinch of femdom, canon typical Catholic guilt

A/N: Happy Valentine's everyone! I actually started writing this one in response to an ask I got back when I was working on last years kinktober but at some point in shuffling the text around from here to Google docs it seems Tumblr ate the initial message, which is a big bummer. I do, however, recall that the sender wanted to know what I liked about Sunday ... and the answer to that is clearly 7730 words long! lol Please enjoy the fic and if you're still around, anon ... this one is for you. ❤️

⭐

“Just relax,” you murmur, ignoring his startled gasp when you lean in from behind to rest your chin against his shoulder. “You’re always so stiff. That’s not good for your health, y’know.”

He hesitates, seems to think about it. Deciding how he should react.

Forcing himself to draw a slow, carefully measured breath this time and further betraying his feelings on the matter, Sunday grits out a terse laugh. It’s soft and quiet. A barely there chuckle that carries with it only a very small fraction of the self assured confidence he’d displayed back on Penacony.

You knew now that the real Sunday was not quite so sure of himself or as comfortable in his own skin as he’d first appeared, although he still tries very hard to hide that insecurity from you despite being far, far away from his old home. Like some sort of defense mechanism meant to protect and shield the delicate fragile parts of him from threat of the outside world, but it doesn’t work. Not when you were sitting so damn close to him as to feel every stuttering beat of his heart.

Pressed right up against his back like this, there’s not much he can keep from you, in fact. You’re keenly aware of even the most imperceptible shift in him, from the steady expansion of his lungs down to the loose flex of his hands where they’re resting across his lap. His body language makes it clear that he’s not accustomed to sharing such close proximity with another person and he’s not quite sure what to do with it. Right down to the molecular level it’s obvious he’s way out of his comfort zone given his subtle fidgeting, as if he just couldn’t help himself.

He was nervous. Maybe even a little scared, too.

“How interesting.” He finally murmurs. “I wasn’t aware you filled the important role of medical expert on board the Express. I’ll have to make note not to end up in need of your services again.”

Turning his head, Sunday pointedly looks elsewhere in your new room on the train, much preferring to focus on anything other than its owner at the moment.

Situated above the party car and effectively cut off from the more heavily used common areas, the privacy here is absolute and precisely why you’d extended an invitation to him. There was more than enough room for you to share this space with the wayward traveler who, as far as you could tell, had been sleeping on the bench seats in the car below while you worked to get everything set up to your liking. But he never complained about it or tried to demand better accommodations even though you were certain it was a drastic downgrade in the comfortability he was used to. Like some self flagellating martyr, almost.

The thought that he might be using the Express’ lack of additional rooms to further punish himself, convinced he deserved that or even less, was what ultimately swayed your decision to open your door to him. You wanted to show Sunday that there were still good things in this world that he could have, things he could enjoy and appreciate the same way he had in his previous life even if they weren’t quite as luxurious or posh as he was accustomed to.

You also wanted to show him that you were willing to forgive him and, in the process, maybe even convince him to forgive himself.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No.” He insists, just a bit too tightly for it to be believable. “But I’ve seen you in action before. You’re not exactly what I’d call a gentle hand, and this … bedside manner is beyond me.”

That makes you smile into his shoulder as you wind your arms more securely around him, gently nudging Sunday back against your front. Still, he refuses to relent though. Staying perfectly motionless and straight as a board now, he almost feels like a statue made of solid granite sitting on the edge of the haphazardly made bed with you. Would have, were it not for the slightest hitch in his chest.

You realize in a distant, immaterial sort of way that his subconscious reaction was in response to your breasts pressing into his spine. He must like it then, even if he was loathe to say it. This was admittedly something you found to be charmingly cute in its guileless unassuming but it also made you want to tease him even more for it at the same time.

“That might be for the best,” You softly coo at him, keeping your voice light and barely more than a whisper as you trail a single hand higher up to pull at one of the clasps on his jacket. “I don’t have a medical license, after all.”

He sucks in another inhale, sharper this time. “You’re shameless.”

“That may be true, but I don’t see you trying to stop me.”

A strange little sound puffs out of him, something equally torn between indignation and fluster.

He either can’t or he won’t bring himself to reject your advances though, and he just sits there while you make careful work of unfastening his cozy coat. Idly, you wonder if this was the first time he’s ever had someone touching him like this. But he’s either making an attempt to be more polite than he otherwise would have been when someone was invading his personal bubble like this or, more likely, he considered it another facet of his penance. Further punishment for a sin he’s already been punished for twice over in your eyes.

Sighing a quiet sound against his neck, you tentatively slip your hand into the inner layer of his shirt once you’ve got it nudged up enough to reach inside.

The skin along his stomach is enviously soft and smooth when you brush your fingers against it, and he outright jolts at that first hint of contact. Even then he still does not protest or try to pull away, though. His breathing deepens, coming slightly harder and faster now, but he makes no move to disengage from you, and you finally rouse yourself to tip your face up at him in question.

“I was only joking, Sunday. You can tell me if you don’t want me to keep going.”

“So you can hold it over my head later? I think not, Miss Stellaron. Against all odds, I still have some pride left in me.”

You frown at that. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re not a prisoner here and I’m not your jailer, so you’re free to make your own choices. I just want to help you.”

For a drawn out moment it doesn’t look like you’re going to get any kind of response from him, and you’re just a bit disappointed about that. But then, ever so slowly, he turns his head to cautiously glance back at you. The deeply embarrassed flush staining his cheekbones manages to surprise you, making your brows climb up to your hairline before you can suppress the reaction and stop it.

“I fail to see how this could be in any way helpful to me.” He intones, keeping his wing tucked forward across the lower half of his face so he can hide his mouth from your line of sight. Acting as a final barrier in case you were to decide to take that last inch from him.

“I thought this might help you relax. You are pretty stiff, you know. I wasn’t joking about that.”

That defensively tucked in wing gives a brief flutter to make the soft feathers ruffle slightly, like a helpless bird trying to puff itself up to look bigger. It would have been adorable had his eyes not narrowed at you in warning in the same breath.

“I’ve never heard of such a method for relaxation. This isn’t how the Family does things.”

“But you’re not part of the Family anymore, are you? It’s okay to do things differently now.” Holding the air in your lungs, anticipating the coin drop, you slide the hand inside his shirt a little higher up to rub over a tiny nipple. “Let me show you, Sunday. Please?”

He twitches at the touch of your fingertips and quickly swings his attention back around to avoid having to look at you any longer. You can feel the shudder that runs through him but he still refuses to utter the one word that would make you back off. ‘Stop’. That’s all he needed to say. And you would, if he really wanted that.

Something told you he didn’t completely hate what you were doing though, and it’s not like he’d ever admit to liking it anyway.

So you take your time softly petting over the petite bud, coaxing it to full stiffness which even then doesn’t leave much for you to play with. Every part of him was so slim and compact that as you feel over his chest you find yourself wondering if he was perhaps malnourished despite the life of relative luxury he’d lived back on Penacony. He shouldn’t have had to go without food, at the very least.

Deciding to find him a slice of cake in the kitchen after this, or at least a cookie, you redirect your hand to the opposite side of his chest to tease that nipple as well. Sunday stiffly arches against you in response, nudging his narrow chest up at the sensation even as he whimpers a quiet noise into the still room. He was slowly getting more and more fidgety, like he wasn’t quite sure how to react to what you were doing. How to process it or how to reconcile any of it in his mind.

But a simple glance down at the front of him tells you everything you need to know without having to break the static charged silence by asking him how he was feeling. He wouldn’t have been honest with you anyway, of that you were certain, so there would have been no point in it.

The reluctant tent pushing up through his pants speaks for itself though, and this part of him could not lie. No matter how much he tried to fight it or wrestle it back under control, there was simply no subjugating the natural urges of his body. He couldn’t fully control it no matter how much he might want to and you can tell that bothers him a great deal in the way he softly seethes under his breath.

He was supposed to be disciplined and steadfast, not easily swayed by the compunctions of flesh and blood. And after rejecting it for so long, stuffing it down into a sealed box in the back of his mind where he wouldn’t have to look at it or think about it, he was now quickly succumbing to the full brunt of his neglected sensitivity. All you’ve done so far was tease his nipples a little bit and his cock was already needily flexing up into the placket of his slacks as if with a mind of its own. A hungry beast that couldn’t be contained no matter how hard its master might yank on the leash trying to bring it back to heel.

It’s a little sad, in a way. You can’t help feeling sorry for him and all the simple pleasures he’s denied himself for the sake of exerting some amount of control over his own existence when he otherwise had none, but you also feel a sharp stab of arousal too. There were so many things you could teach him, if given half the chance. So many different avenues of pleasure and satisfaction, and intimacy that the two of you could explore together if he’d just allow himself the freedom to experience them for once in his life.

In truth you’d found Sunday quite interesting from the moment you first set eyes on him in front of the check-in counter of the Penacony Grand Hotel, like there was some sort of magnetic force at work urging you closer into his orbit. You knew now that at least part of that compulsion was a result of the Harmony and the other was his natural charisma as a Halovian. But there’s something else there too, something not so easily explained or written off.

He was not that much unlike you, was he? Someone who was so utterly bereft of a home to call his own in this vast cosmos that the nomadic existence of a star-bound wanderer was the only feasible option left to him. Everything from his identity right down to his own sister had been taken from him and he was alone now, save you and the rest of the Astral Express crew. You could understand that well enough even if you didn’t have any memories of what you’d lost before ending up here, just the same as he eventually had.

But you wanted to show him what having that freedom was really like, even if it was just a tiny glimpse of what awaited him on the other side now that he was free of Penacony’s slumbering birdcage.

“Do you trust me, Sunday?”

He tries to laugh again, fails miserably at it, and all that comes out is an odd little croak instead. “I don’t see that I have much of a choice in the matter, do I?”

“Of course you do.”

Carefully sliding your hand out of his shirt, you reach down to tug at his belt buckle with deliberate slowness, giving him ample opportunity to protest. He just groans the most threadbare little sound you’ve ever heard though, and finally allows himself to reluctantly ease back into you. Still unfalteringly stiff and halting, but at least you were making progress.

With a brief clink and a rattle, his belt comes loose. You set your sights on his pants next, fumbling with the top button just as slowly so as not to spook or startle him. He really was like a defenseless bird caught in the sights of a much larger predator and unable to fly, to flee or to fight. He remains passive in your arms, luckily, but the building anticipation of what you were doing does make him start to squirm. He quickly forces himself to stop and be still though, merely watching what your hands are doing with his face tipped down towards his lap.

Soon enough you have those neatly pressed slacks open and you slip your fingers inside to feel along the band of his underwear before trailing even lower. You find his straining cock easily when it’s already stiff and rigidly pushing up from his body, giving it a gentle squeeze through the last layer of laughably thin cotton, and he responds with a tortured, half choked gasp.

“M - Miss Stellaron …”

You can hear the hoarse rattle in his voice as much as you feel it where you’re pressed right up against him like you are. At some point your breathing seems to have synced with his and you find yourself quietly panting right along with him as you work to nudge his pants down far enough to free him from them.

Clearly picking up on your intent, Sunday hesitates to do it and he sways almost unsteadily between your arms before he at last manages to shyly angle his hips off the edge of the mattress to help you in your endeavor. He whimpers softly while he does it, and you consolingly coo at him as you press your face into the crook of his elegant neck to breathe deep the smell of him. Soap and clean linen, and a hint of downy fuzz that makes your head feel light with the impression of warmth. Perfect for cuddling.

“Shh. Just relax for me. I promise I’ll take good care of you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Tipping forward, you place a tender kiss to his drooping wing and you’re delighted by the sensitive inhale he sucks in at the sensation of your lips brushing against the feathers. You’d always wondered if they were as delicately receptive as they looked and you were glad to have your answer even as you tug at his underwear to slide the band underneath his straining length.

And it immediately springs up into the air, already flushed and leaking as it weakly twitches in his lap as if in a desperate bid for attention. You’re amazed at not only how beautiful his cock is, average in size at best and yet so perfectly shaped as to look somehow beyond the pale of mere flesh, but also at how satiny soft and smooth it is. The flawless texture almost makes it look like something made of alabaster, and you eagerly reach around to take him in your hand.

“Oh!” His back dramatically arches against you, his hands flying up where they hesitate over yours for a harrowing moment before he allows himself to latch onto your wrists. It’s the first hint of reciprocity on his part, intentionally touching you instead of remaining a bystander as he had up until now, but you still hold your breath as you wait to see what he’ll do next.

If he was going to push you away this would be the time. The situation had clearly escalated beyond what could be excused as simple platonic affection and you brace for his reaction. His rejection.

To your genuine surprise, however, Sunday just holds onto you by the wrists and weakly rolls his hips up in a shuddering, painfully stiff thrust. The motion sends his cock stuttering across your fingers before pulling back when he eases down to sit fully on the mattress again, wheezing softly at just that brief stimulation. You sorely wished you could see his face again but Sunday’s attention remains down and that fluttering wing stays an ever present screen for him to hide behind as well.

No matter though. You didn’t really have need for visual cues when you could feel everything in stunning high definition through the point of contact between his body and yours.

Closing your fist tighter around his cock, you gently begin to pump him, hand dragging from the base where ticklishly coarse hairs tease your knuckles straight up to the tip to make his foreskin bunch over the head. You can hear the sticky wet click of precum but it’s quickly lost under the harsh, frazzled gasp he raggedly pulls in. And it almost manages to surprise you, how sensitive he really is and how vigorously he twitches at your ministrations. There was some part of you that hadn’t been sure if he was even able to put on such an animated display, thinking he’d fight tooth and nail to keep up that implacable facade no matter what manner of duress he was made to endure.

That is not what happens though.

Instead he suddenly comes alive, unable to stop himself from full on shuddering and twisting his narrow hips against your hold. Hissing an overwrought sound into the otherwise still and silent room, he clutches at your arms in such a tight deathgrip that the leather of his gloves softly creaks. Not to stop you or to push you away, you dully realize when he groans your name like a plea. But because it felt good and it overwhelmed him, and he needed to hold onto something or risk shattering into a million pieces right then and there.

Stealing another quick, almost giddy look down at the cock gripped in your fist, you don’t think that’s going to help him or stop the inevitable though. He’s flushed pink and raw from nothing more than just a few brief pumps of your hand, and you can feel the intense throb of him pulsing under your fingers. Not only was he going to cum quick and hard, considering how fiercely he shakes for you, but it was also going to take an embarrassing lack of effort on your part to get him there.

“Oh, Sunny. Are you enjoying yourself now?” You purr into his shoulder, delighted at how abruptly he’d changed his songbird’s tune. From proud and immovable to a writhing, pathetically whimpering mess in just the blink of an eye. And all it had taken was the firm hold of your hand on him. It was in many ways astounding. “I always knew you had it in you.”

“I told you — nnghn! Not to … not to call me that.”

Humming a low sound of agreement, you slowly drag your hand back down the length of him to peel away his foreskin in a tortuously stilted motion. Another sticky click hits your ears and he grunts a harried noise of distress when the cool air wafts against his exposed glans unimpeded, making him judder wildly in response. But you keep him held tightly against you even when his back dramatically bows, using your anchoring arm wrapped around his flexing stomach to keep Sunday pressed into you while the opposite hand gives his base a pinched squeeze to stave off his release. It wouldn’t hold it back for long but you were happy with even just those few extra seconds you’re given to admire him.

And admire him you do. He’s sticky with an excess of eager, dribbling precum that coats the glistening head in a filmy sheen, inviting you to reach out and rub him there. You knew that would undo him in alarmingly short order though, so you hold off for the moment. Rather, you gently smooth your touch down to caress over his balls and wrap your fingers around their delicate weight, cradling them in the palm of your hand.

Surprising you a great deal, Sunday outright yelps at the sensation and jolts as if you’d just electrocuted him despite how careful you’d been in handling his testes. Slim chest heaving on an uncontrollable, stuttering rhythm, he heavily leans back into you and tips his head to keen up at the ceiling. The sound itself as much as the volume of it makes your heart leap into your throat where it threatens to suffocate you. He was getting much too loud, wasn’t he?

Your thoughts immediately flash upon the idea that someone might be just downstairs in the party car but you aren’t sure how well sound travels between the two floors, and that makes you nervous. Would they be able to hear him clearly and figure out what was happening just over their heads, or would it only seem like muffled and distant noise? Hell, even if one of your other crewmates wasn’t down there Shush almost certainly was. That damned robot hardly ever moved from behind the polished bar unless it was to pester someone with its awful jokes. What would it even say about the things it could hear going on up in your room?

Quickly deciding you really didn’t want to test fate like that, you unlock your arm from around his middle and reach up to lightly palm over the graceful line of his throat instead. His Adam’s apple bobs thickly under your hand with the rough inhale he pulls in, swaying between your thighs when he turns his head to blink at you as if he were drunk and seeing double. But at least it looked like you had his attention again.

“You need to watch your volume. If someone hears us, that's going to make having breakfast together way more awkward than I’d like.” You warn him, keeping your voice gentle and soft. For someone who’d acted with such overwhelming confidence on his home turf he’d quickly proven himself skittish and easy to fluster once you got your hands on him. You didn’t want to scare him off after all the effort you’d had to put in just to get this far.

“I … I’m sorry.” He mutters with no shortage of Herculean effort. Gone are the impeccable manners and lofty words of the head of the Oak Family, and in their place there was now only a raw vulnerability you hadn’t expected to see in him. “It seems I’ve — forgotten myself. How embarrassing. I - I’ve never …”

“Been touched like this?” You supply, giving his balls a featherlight palpitation for emphasis.

It’s enough to make Sunday hiss through tightly clenched teeth though, squeezing his eyes shut against the sensation as he turns his head away. “Yes. I mean n - no. This is my … first time.”

That makes you smile. “I can tell. You’re so sensitive, Sunny. Haven’t you ever thought to touch yourself before?”

His little wings flutter in response, flapping an irritable rhythm that makes the feathers softly smack against your face as if to bat you away. It’s hard to say if he was offended that you would even think to ask that of him in the first place or if it was because you’d used that insufferable nickname again but either way his reaction makes you laugh.

Yes, there were a great many avenues of mischief the two of you could get into. It would be fun exploring them together, and this was only the first activity on a very long list of things you wanted to introduce him to. It was a bit out of order but maybe you could try kissing next.

Your own excitement grows at the thought, and you eagerly swing your attention back around to Sunday’s lap. Giving his balls one last, gentle squeeze, you curl your hand upward so you can wrap it around his shaft and feel that silken skin under your fingers again. The seething noise he makes sounds suspiciously like that of a tea kettle getting close to boiling but he makes a valid attempt to keep his voice in check when you offer that rigid length another slow, savory tug.

Unfortunately he quickly loses hold of that threadbare control as you reach the glans and the drag of your fist makes his foreskin slide up to bunch over the fleshy slit. The sensation seems to nearly bowl him over and he judders helplessly, squawking an oversensitized sound. Even with the threat of discovery an ever present danger, you still can’t quite stop yourself from grinning at his decidedly innocent, unassuming reaction.

“Oh, Sunday … what are we going to do if someone comes knocking on the door because they heard you? Something tells me that look on your face would give us away no matter how we tried to explain ourselves.”

He full on whimpers at that, sounding sad and deeply ashamed in at the implication of guilt. It’s clearly getting harder for him to maintain his usual cool the longer your hands are on him though, and you realize you’re going to have to do something to help him out. He was much too sensitive, too easily overwhelmed to roll the dice in this particular situation when getting caught together could mean the end of everything.

Licking your lips, you momentarily consider choking him just enough to cut off his air supply and make it impossible for him to cry out. Your fingers idly flex around the bobbing curve of his throat at the thought. Although it’s certainly a tempting idea you ultimately think better of it, sliding your hand higher up to brush over his jaw instead.

Finding Sunday’s mouth, you slide your palm over it and press down firmly to elicit a startled yet blissfully muffled sound from him. He jolts and lurches in your hold, as if only just now realizing the true scope of the danger he was in, but it’s much too late.

Readjusting your hold on his cock in the other hand, you firmly drag your fist down and then back up, settling into a steady rhythm that continuously works the foreskin over his receptive glans. Back and forth, back and forth, up and down; rubbing, sliding, sticky slick clicking in your ears. And Sunday outright shrieks behind your fingers, twisting and tossing his head like a wild animal caught in a trap. His belt rattles softly where it’s spread open across his thighs, still twisted up in his pants, and his wings slap a furious beat that has you turning your face into his shoulder to avoid the full brunt of his ratcheting alarm.

He’s hard to keep ahold of like this, especially when he digs his heels into the floor and tries to wrench himself free, but your physical strength proves greater. Despite being a man and in spite of having a few inches on you in height, he just isn’t equipped to fight you off. Not when you’ve got his cock in one hand, stroking it with the continuous glide of your palm over all of that sinfully smooth flesh, and the halfhearted way he shoves at your arms quickly morphs into desperate grabbing instead.

Blindly, he latches onto you; your thighs where they bracket his shuddering hips, the bend of your arm, so he can squeeze tight and hold on for dear life. His muffled sounds of pleasure turn dazed and intoxicated as he rigidly slumps against you at last. And when he tips his head back to rest along your shoulder, tiny wings still fluttering helplessly but starting to weaken and droop, you dare to lift your face to look at him.

Wrecked is the only word that immediately comes to mind. His usually perfectly styled hair is tousled and sweat damp where it sticks to his skin in a few places. Cheeks so hot with color you know he’d be warm to the touch. It’s the far-away glisten in his golden eyes, once so sharp and pointed, now distant and too heavy to keep fully open anymore, that really seals the deal though. Sunday’s higher functioning mind may still have been fighting against it but his body was singing like a deftly plucked chord while the violently crashing waves of pleasure slam into him with every slide of your fist.

Feeling devious and a little too eager to stop yourself, you take advantage of his draining will to fight it and adjust your hand over his mouth so you can plunge two of the fingers inside. He squawks a decidedly undignified sound at the sudden intrusion but even his attempt to turn his head away is half hearted at best. Only somewhat reluctantly does he allow you to probe at his squirming tongue, feeling the perfect line of his teeth scrape over your knuckles when you reach back just far enough to make him gag.

The compulsion is an odd one, you understand that much, but it’s as if your own pounding excitement won’t be satisfied until you’ve thoroughly torn down every one of his mile wide defenses. You needed to leave him debauched and utterly disillusioned from his old role, his previous identity, or this wasn’t going to accomplish what it was supposed to. How else could he be expected to move on and undertake the journey ahead of him if he was still clinging to his old ways and holding himself to the same standards as before?

Sunday needed to see that despite his once high-minded ideals he was still just human, that his flesh and blood body was not some great sin for him to reject or punish. That he didn’t need to self sacrifice and martyr himself just for his life to have meaning. You wanted him to understand that it’s okay to be a little messy sometimes, and there’s nothing wrong with letting go of his almost fanatically held control.

So it is with a great deal of pleasure that you keep his jaw wedged open with your fingers, carefully moving them back and forth over his tongue while he whimpers and whines so sweetly for you. It doesn’t take long for the excess of saliva to build up and dribble out at the corners of his lips, his spine dramatically flexing when he feels that first unseemly rivulet run down his jaw. His mouth works futilely around your digits, alternating between trying to spit them out or to somehow swallow around them but it doesn’t work. The drool just keeps coming, slowly bubbling out to track sticky paths down his face.

You even catch a glimpse of shuddering moisture wetting his lash lines but you politely look away despite the eager jump in your pulse at the sight of those tears. It would have been all too easy for you to tease him for them, really lean into the humiliation he was probably feeling, but that was not your goal here. Not this time, at least.

Instead you focus your attention back on the hand wrapped around his cock. Your ministrations had slowed to a stop while you were stuffing his mouth full and now you can see the length of him, flushed a pretty pink that almost matches his face, flexing needily against your hold. He was leaking enough precum to smooth the glide of your next upward stroke, watching in fascinated wonder as the fleshy hood of his foreskin comes up with another soft click to make the clear discharge slowly ooze down the sides of his shaft.

His hips wildly buck and he wails a garbled noise as he needily arches up off the bed, jutting his pelvis out as if in desperate supplication for more. Both of his hands have latched onto your thighs now and he squeezes them tight enough to hurt. But you give him what he wants, what he so clearly needs, pumping your fist up and down the length of him on a steady, energetic rhythm.

Sunday freezes like that, poised with his back bowed and his body flexed away from the mattress. Distantly, you realize that he seems to have stopped breathing altogether, holding the air in his aching lungs while the rest of him stiffly shudders and twitches steadily closer to the edge of oblivion. He was beautiful like this, like something out of a tawdry, lurid painting of some ethereal being from legend or myth.

“Oh, Sunday,” You coo at him, so soft and gentle. Coaxing him ever towards his own ruination. “Are you going to cum for me?”

Wailing a frazzled sound of distress around your spit soaked fingers, he gives his head the barest shake as if to deny the simple reality of what was happening. Unfortunately his own body betrays him almost instantly, and you stare in rapt fascination when his narrow hips stiffly lock up before nudging forward in a reluctant thrust. He’s holding himself far too unrelentingly to execute the full range of motion but it’s enough to have him fucking into your hand in painful, tortuously slow increments.

He just can’t seem to help himself or smother the urge completely, even when the rolling grind of his pelvis was clearly something foreign to him. But it’s instinctive and hard coded, muscle memory carved into the very atoms of his body more than anything else. And you can see the musculature in his slim thighs trembling fiercely, the flex of his stomach dramatic while he wheezes and gasps his pleasure into the otherwise still air. You knew your fingers weren’t doing as sufficient a job at muffling him as your palm would have, but you can’t quite bring yourself to move or even care very much about that right now.

Especially not when he gives one final, stuttering thrust into the squeeze of your hand and his cock positively erupts in a sudden spray of white. Creamy and thick, it shoots up into the air on what you would consider an impressive arc before splattering across his front. A second jet quickly follows the first, and then a third, while Sunday all but sobs through his orgasm, wetly choking on it even as he gradually sinks back down to the bed in a drained heap of splayed limbs.

The eager pulse along his length quickly slows, oozing yet more of that clear discharge to dribble down the length of his shaft in sticky tracks before at last subsiding completely. He’s already a complete mess with various bodily fluids coating his skin but you still give him one final squeeze and drag your hand up to draw the last little bit of his release out of his flagging cock. He seethes a delirious sound in response, head lolling back in doped out bliss while he tries to even out his breathing again to no avail.

“How was that?” You prod, smiling to yourself as you withdraw your fingers from his mouth. A sticky wad of saliva follows after you, catching on his bottom lip, and you brush your thumb up to helpfully wipe it away, ignoring the mirthless, gasping laugh he rattles out. “It looked like you enjoyed it to me. Was that really your first orgasm?”

Somewhat awkwardly clearing his no doubt dry and scratchy throat, Sunday pointedly turns his head to look elsewhere. Still shy and reticent to openly show any of his emotions, but he certainly felt more relaxed in your arms than he had before. “I wouldn’t have any reason to lie about that, would I? Or do you take me for some kind of shameless masochist?”

Allowing a brief giggle to slip out, you lean further into him so you can find his neck and deliver a soft peck to the still thrumming pulse under his skin. Sucking in a deeply flustered inhale, he snaps his attention back around to look at you with wide, startled eyes. That makes you laugh too, much to his pouting confusion.

“What?” He demands at last.

“Nothing. I was just thinking how cute you really are, that’s all.”

His brows shoot up almost too fast for you to track the motion. “Cute? M - me? But I don’t —“

“It’s alright, Sunday. Just go with the flow. You feel pretty good right now, don’t you?” Grinning at the uncertainty that flashes across his face, you lower your chin to rest against his shoulder, much like how you’d first started. Realistically only a few minutes had passed but it felt like an entire lifetime had come and gone, and yet you were still right back to this again.

In the following silence while Sunday chews on that and mulls it over, you rove your attention down to inspect the damage you’d caused. Luckily his coat had been more or less out of the way where you’d spread it open earlier, and it looked like the quickly cooling evidence of this sneaky tryst had mostly landed in harmless flecks across the darker inner shirt underneath. That was a small relief, if you were being honest. You didn’t even want to think about all the fussing he’d do if you stained his white jacket like that.

“Well,” he says at last, rousing you from your thoughts. “While I still think your methods are unscrupulous and incredibly underhanded … I suppose I still owe you my thanks. I do indeed feel more at ease than I did before. Now if you’ll excuse me —“

Quickly looping your arms around his middle when he makes a move to stand up, you yank him back against you with another laugh. “Nuh-uh. We’re not done yet, Sunny. I need to help you clean up that mess first.”

Choking on a protest, he reaches down to shove at your arms but you don’t budge, pointedly nuzzling into him from behind as if to prove that he wasn’t going anywhere until you decided to let him go. After another brief moment of cursory struggle, he finally gives up and slumps against you with a terse click of his tongue.

“Really, is this truly necessary?” He grumbles under his breath, lifting a hand to subconsciously wipe the remaining spit off his chin with an air of distaste. “Haven’t you gotten what you wanted out of me already? I'd think you would be satisfied by now, Miss Stellaron.”

You hum a sly sound at that, coquettishly walking two of your fingers up the front of his shirt to one of the bigger globs of milky white bleeding into the material. He goes still against you, mouth dropping open in what could only be abject shock when you swipe one of the digits through the mess before lifting it up to your face.

Looking appropriately scandalized now, Sunday tracks the motion with wide, horrified eyes. “Wh - what are you doing? That’s —“

Popping your cum coated fingertip into your mouth earns you a strangled gasp and he tries to reel back from you as if in disgust. But you keep your arm locked around his middle, holding him firmly in place while you suck the digit clean. Sunday’s wings flutter an anxious beat and tuck forward to curl defensively over the lower half of his face but it does very little to hide the furious blush staining his cheeks. He looked even more like a ripe cherry ready to be plucked than when you’d been holding his cock in your hand.

“It’s nothing to be so embarrassed about.” You tell him candidly when you slide your finger out and reach back down to swipe it through the sticky fluid on his shirt again. “You don’t taste bad, if that’s what you’re thinking. I like how you feel in my mouth.”

His eyes nervously darting from side to side, up and down, anywhere but directly at you, he tries to speak, croaks, and then awkwardly clears his throat again. “But - but that’s … unhygienic, isn’t it? That came out of my … my - -“

Softly laughing at how dangerously close he seems to fainting dead away like some sort of swooning maiden in an old movie, you catch a clinging glob of his spend and lift it up towards his face this time. “It’s fine, I promise. You taste good, Sunday. I wouldn’t lie to you. Here, try it for yourself?”

He makes a face at that, reminding you of a kid that doesn’t want to take his medicine, but at your gentle prodding he slowly lowers his wings. The drooping feathers brush against your curled fingers just so, almost making you tremble at their light touch as you watch him differentially drop his gaze. Submissive and pliable, a clear sign of his bending to your will.

Your earlier arousal flares back to life with a vengeance, making you feel uncomfortably warm and damp between the legs. Holding the air in your lungs, you nudge your hand closer and he obediently parts his lips for you with a tiny, shuddering whimper. Eyes slipping shut when you slide into his mouth again so you can drag your fingertip across his tongue and smear the salty discharge, making sure he got a good taste of it, he issues a faltering breath that puffs against your knuckles.

“See? Not so terrible, is it?” You murmur, your voice drawling at a lower octave than usual. Watching him come to terms with his own body was almost as distracting as the need pulsing in your loins, demanding attention and relief in equal measure. You wanted him. More of him. All of him.

But would he have you?

Groaning a threadbare little sound, Sunday flutters his lashes and cautiously opens them to peer over at you. For a drawn out moment the two of you just stare at one another, gazes locked and searching. Questioning. Begging.

And then, ever so sweetly, he closes his mouth and gives your finger an experimental suck, swallowing down the evidence of your illicit activities. A stuttering exhale escapes him as you slowly withdraw your hand, giving him just enough space to breathe for a second. You wanted him to decide for himself how he wanted to proceed, what his next move should be.

Because what you’d said earlier was the truth. You were not his jailer, nor were you going to willingly facilitate that self flagellating streak of his either. If he wanted to come to you it would be in mutual pleasure and enjoyment, as equals with a vested interest in each other's happiness. Not as punishment or penance for something you’d already decided to forgive him for.

“M - Miss Stellaron, I …”

The way his wings start to shyly curl inward again, wanting to hide behind them, brings another smile to your face. He really was too cute like this. “What is it, Sunny?”

He sucks in a mildly bothered breath at that. “I told you not to — never mind. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose. And you were right. It wasn’t terrible. In all honesty, nothing you’ve done today was … entirely disagreeable in my eyes. So if you’d like to … I mean, if it pleases you we could …”

“Keep going?” You helpfully offer up, making his expression pinch in obvious embarrassment.

“W - well, should you insist I … I guess I wouldn’t have any complaints about that. But only if you want to. I don’t care either way.”

“Sure you don’t.” Practically grinning from ear to ear now, you place your hand against his shoulder and push to get him turned around. He still refuses to look directly at you, evidently finding the pattern on your bedspread far more interesting in that moment, but he doesn’t change his mind or try to pull away when you lean into him.

Tipping your head so you can dip into the space between his nervously fluttering wings, you find Sunday’s mouth and kiss him. Tentatively at first to see how he’ll react, but when all he does is whimper a flustered sound against your lips you press harder, letting your hunger for him dictate your actions. His hands carefully come up to slide around your neck while his wings slowly fall open, letting you in as he holds you against him, and you feel like you just might burst.

To be wanted by someone like him felt like a blessing and a curse all wrapped up in one. By initiating this had you only sped up his ruination from perfect and holy to mere mortal, or had you just engineered your own downfall in the same breath?

You’d find out soon enough.

⭐

Cross posted: here

#honkai star rail #sunday #sunday x reader #self insert bullshit

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