#somebody write me this fic I will love you forever

[katballesteros]

“I felt him, mama, he moved! He moved!”

#inukag had more babies after moroha in my headcanon #it is only right #moroha calling the baby a him because she wants a brother to rough house with aside from her dad #but then he turns out to be a gentle boy like his mama #somebody write me this fic I will love you forever #inukag #kat draws #inuyasha #moroha #inukagmor

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hey I was wondering if you would be up for writing a fic where the reader just showers Buggy in affection and just takes care of him. He could definitely do with some tlc

When you first shown Buggy any form of affection or love, his natural reaction was to pull away, to flinch, to push you away for the sake of upholding the gimmick he had thrusted onto him by others. He just wasn’t use to someone being genuine, being so kindhearted, patient and filled to the brim with unconditional love and adoration towards him like you have that it made him fearful, for the first time for he finally had something he was so scared to loose.

Buggy knew now that he couldn’t run away from this fight against letting himself drop his guard and fall apart within your arms forever, no matter how much he wanted to. He knew that one day he’d have to raise the white flag and admit defeat, little did Buggy know that he’d wave that white flag long ago and had admitted defeat whilst in the comfort of your arms and your sweet honeyed words. You provided Buggy with the safe space to be vulnerable, to be able to be rid of his make up, allow for you to see the beautiful man beneath the flashiness, the gimmicks and the theatrics; He even remembered the words you told him when he first allowed himself to sink deeply into your embrace, which opened his eyes to the route he was leading himself down towards.

‘Just because one person destroyed your ability to put your trust in others doesn’t mean that everyone else is going to do the same.’ You whispered into his ear as your hands ran through his beautiful blue hair with care. ‘The actions of one person isn’t a reflection of others. You can choose to not trust but live to regret to be open with that one special somebody or open up to everybody and blindly hope that they don’t use your kindness to stab you in the back.’

Not that Buggy would ever tell you but you held his glass heart within your hands and instead of smashing it like he originally thought you would, you surprised him by holding it close to your chest; looking down at it adoringly and so full of love that it made Buggy a tad teary eyed, for if someone as beautiful and downright perfect as you could ever love someone as flawed as him without being forced into loving him…then he guessed that he was finally doing something right. Soon enough your arms and being smothered in your kisses and honeyed words had become Buggy’s most favoured place to lay his aching self to rest after a seemingly stressful day, where nothing seemed to go exactly to plan.

‘You look comfortable there? Hard day?’ You asked softly as Buggy grunts as he buries his head into your neck, his arms quickly latching onto your waist tightly. Normally you’d have to be the one who initiated affection, which you still do on most occasions, but you also wanted Buggy to feel comfortable to come seek you out on his own terms rather then force him to. ‘Just cuddle me will ya?’ He said groggily and you couldn’t help but chuckle at his neediness.

‘What’s the magic word?’ You teased, trying so hard to bite back your snickers when Buggy lifted his head from your neck to glare at you softly but before he could say anything, you pressed a quick kiss to his cute nose, rendering him wide eyed and speechless before going in to plant a kiss directly to his lips. ‘Cute.’ You whispered against him, getting off on the expressions you pull out of him from gifting him basic levels of love and affection, before pulling away to look back into his gorgeous eyes that you never went a day without complimenting.

‘I’m not cute.’ Buggy said, his cheeks warm as the arms at your waist tightened their grip. ‘Dogs are cute, cats are cute, but I am not cute. I’m terrifying, people look at me and shit themselves from running away with their tails between there legs. And even then the ones that are stupid enough to stay behind are made examples of, so please tell me again how I’m apparently cute.’ He finished, choosing not to look into those soft, understanding and patient eyes of yours that he oh so loved. ‘You’re always cute to me Buggy,’ you started, raising his head to look directly at you by his chin, allowing your hand to drop back to his waist when you were confident he wouldn’t drop his gaze again.

‘Just like how you’re not only just cute but you’re also handsome, strategic, expressive with the way you talk and how you move your hands whilst you talk, flashy, dramatic, and above all you’re beautiful.’ Between each word you’d press a kiss to some part of his face, ignoring his adorable squeals and squawks of surprise that were music to your ears, not caring that you were smudging his make up and getting it on yourself as you held nothing but pride in your love for your Buggy, for as on rare occasions you would openly express your love towards him but saved a majority of it for behind closed doors; Not as though Buggy was anything but boisterous of his love for you and would shout it to the rooftops for all to hear in a possessive sort of way.

‘Really?’ Buggy asked once the flurry of kisses came to an end, looking at you with bright, hopeful eyes it melted your heart. ‘Yes, of course I do Buggy. How could I not? I’m extremely lucky to have you in my life and I couldn’t be more happier.’ You told him, watching as a goofy smile graced his lips as a chuckle fell out from his lips before Buggy decided to burying his head back into your neck, where he whispered against the skin there. ‘If either one of us is the lucky one, it’s me because you could’ve listened to everyone else and avoid me like the plague but you didn’t and I’m glad you didn’t because without you I wouldn’t know where or who I’d be. So thank you for never giving up on me…I love you.’

#opla x reader #opla buggy #opla buggy x reader #one piece live action #opla #buggy x reader

[leclsrc]

stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum. 

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you. 

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while. 

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.” 

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same. 

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more. 

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along. 

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?! 

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat. 

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook. 

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch. 

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered. 

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily. 

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It’s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you’d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully. 

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic. 

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again. 

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him. 

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something. 

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?” 

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing. 

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code. 

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement. 

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite. 

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language. 

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now. 

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles’ meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it. 

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t. 

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc angst #f1 x reader

[bitchinfawkseh]

Hii!! I was wondering if you could do a fic of dean with a coquette reader? Like a super femme reader who is obsessed with bows pink stuff ect? Ps I really like your tt🫶🏻

Pages of Affection

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Summary: You and Dean go to the library to investigate a case. While searching through some old papers and clippings, you discover a series of old love letters. Dean thinks they're stupid - you think they are romantic. In an attempt to make you feel special, he writes you a love letter.

W.C: 1288

A/N: ahhhh my first req! ty! Sorry this took so long for me to write. I've been very busy with school and work.

Book after book, page after page, and still nothing. Nothing that would help you with this case or future cases - and Dean's grumbling and complaining was getting annoying. You adjusted the bow that was pinning your hair back away from your face - sometimes it got all slanted and looked weird. And you'd rather not have Dean tease you about it again. 

"We should have just made Sammy do the research." Dean started. You rolled your eyes and let out a deep, heavy sigh. "I can't focus when you're whining." 

"I'm not whining -" 

"You are!" You interrupted, shooting him a mean glare. Dean went silent, and you decided to enjoy it while it lasted. You flipped open an older and more worn heavy book, the edges were frayed, and there were tons of scratches on the cover. Two flimsy pieces of paper fell out, landing in your lap. They looked to be old, too, with how dirty the paper was and how it smelt amazing. 

You purse your lips together and carefully pick it up, rubbing the material between your fingers. It felt more like parchment rather than modern-day printer paper. "What's that?" Dean asked, trying to peek at the papers. You shook your head and shrugged, you weren't sure what it was until you unfolded it. Messy scrawl and an easily read "My love," addressed at the top. You slowly smiled as you read through the love letter, it was so sweet… so romantic. 

My love, 

You've been on my mind for quite some time now, and it's getting harder each day to forget about you. I have known you for close to six years now. And as time passes, I fall deeper in love with you. Sometimes, it's tough for me to express myself. Whenever I talk to you, I get flustered. Whenever I talk to somebody else about you, I get tongue-tied. You make my heart jump every time I see you. It's crazy that you are oblivious to your effect on me. But that is a part of your charm. The moment I laid my eyes upon you, I knew that my heart would forever be yours. Your beauty, both inside and out, is unmatched and your kind and loving spirit only adds to my admiration for you. 

You are my heart, my soul, my everything. I cannot imagine a life without you, and I will do everything in my power to make you happy. I love you now and forever. 

Forever yours, 

George

"Oh… Dean, look." You said, passing him the letter as you went to read the second one. This might be the sweetest thing you've ever read, this George guy sure had a way with words. Dean watched with raised brows as you scanned the second letter, a soft happy smile on your face. Who knew someone else's love life could make you so happy? He swallowed hard and started to read what you handed him. It was… cheesy to say the least. It sort of made him cringe, to be honest. "You like this stuff?" He snorted. 

You frowned. "It's romantic." 

"It's cheesy, is what it is." 

"He loved whoever he sent this to very much, who cares if it's cheesy?" You asked. Dean cocked a brow and looked you up and down, from your floral dress to your mary-janes. Something you'd only ever wear if it was a "chill day", when you were out in the action, you'd opt for jeans and boots. "You like this stuff?" He asked. You nodded and your eyes briefly met his. "It's sweet." 

His lips thinned slightly, "Huh." 

And here he was, hours after you and Sam had both gone to bed, trying to write you a love letter. Dean tried to go with a rhyming scheme for a while - until he tried to rhyme your name with something that wasn't completely stupid and couldn't think of anything and scrapped that idea. 

He thought about just copying the love letter you found - or something from online but that would be stupid. You could tell, and it wouldn't show he tried to put any effort in at all. Dean glanced over at your curled-up sleeping form, wearing a cute pink vintage nightgown that you nearly flipped your lid over when you saw it in the thrift store. You did love all of that… girly stuff. It was very endearing. 

Then, he suddenly got some inspiration. Dean picked up his pen again, scribbling some things down on the paper. He knew what he wanted to write - but he didn't know how to word it. Dean appreciated you too much for it to be half-assed - or something that could be taken the wrong way with how it was worded. 

And soon, the words just started to flow. 

The next morning, Dean took you out for a coffee and some pastries at the local shop. The letter he wrote for you was snug in his coat pocket - waiting for your eyes and only your eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat and wiped one of his clammy palms on the expanse of his jeans as he sat down on the bench next to you. You briefly looked over at him, taking a tiny sip from the herbal tea he had gotten for you. “So, what’s the occasion?” You asked. Dean’s brows furrowed and he chuckled nervously, he swore that his heart was going to beat right out of his chest. “What? No occasion…” 

Your eyes narrowed, “Dean.” 

“Okay! Okay, I… I have something for you - but don’t laugh, okay?” He swallowed hard and started to dig through his pocket. Your face immediately softened and you turned to face him, whatever it was - it was important to him. 

Then, he pulled out a folded piece of paper with your name addressed on the front of it. “I tried real hard, okay? So… don’t laugh.” Dean warned - but with the slight waver in his voice, you could tell that he was very nervous. You took the delicate piece of paper from him and carefully unfolded it. The first line was enough to make your heart swell and for butterflies to form in your stomach. 

Hey, 

I don’t really know what to write… you know I’m not the mushy-gushy kinda guy, but I wanna try for you. I wanna start this off by saying I think you’re the prettiest woman out there, no doubt in my mind (and the bows you like to wear in your hair are damn cute.) You’re my whole goddamn world… you know, I purposefully try to make you laugh all the time too because it honestly sounds better than any Zeppelin song (don’t tell anyone I said that.) All it needs is a good guitar solo… kidding. Anyway, you’re my sweet girl who adores all that cute girly and flowery stuff, hell, I even let ya put that old heart key chain on my keys for Baby - nobody gets to fuck with Baby, except for you. I love you, more than words can say. I know I don’t tell you a lot, but I do. 

I love you. 

Your bottom lip jutted out and you clutched the piece of paper to your chest, “Dean…” He surveyed your reaction carefully with wide eyes, did you like it? Did you hate it? Finally, you practically threw yourself into his arms and buried your face in the crook of his neck. “This is the sweetest thing ever.” You beamed. Dean let out a relieved chuckle and tightly wrapped his arms around your waist, he (not so) discreetly inhaled the scent of your hair, smiling faintly when the light fragrance of flowers hit him. “Glad ya like it, sweetheart.”

#dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spnfandom

[whore-for-chris-evans]

I lack the wisdom required to write this fic, but I hope someone skilled enough takes the initiative to.

Have any of you ever thought about Steve Rogers waking up from the ice and not going back to fighting?

He wakes up, Fury tells him he needs him, and Steve makes a choice for himself and says no, at least for now. Fury respects that choice, Steve gets a therapist (a good one, not Dr. Christina Passive-Aggressive Raynor) and uses his second chance in life to do the things he actually wanted to. Art. History. Maybe he goes to college again.

On top of all this, he figures out the internet (come on, he's a smart man. He's not gonna be clueless forever) and you know golden boy Steve would jump at the chance of using social media for a good cause.

And I also think Steve would be great at debates. The fucker (affectionate) has a way with words. He's also a nerd. He's well informed and has quick thinking skills. He gets into online fights a lot. Tweets and retweets a hell lot.

Gets Tumblr. (Steve would love tumblr don't lie to me) Reblogs things like it's his last day on earth. (But somehow makes sure to utilise the tag feature perfectly so everything is organised).

Some dudebro makes a misogynistic comment and he's there to verbally drop kick Dudebro into the next week.

Somebody makes an offhand comment regarding something historical and Steve gets his trusty motorcycle and drives his star spangled fine ass to the library and the next day there's a video circulating the internet of him citing sources (down the page number, paragraph number and line number) to prove why the offhand comment was grossly incorrect.

Someone angrily reposts his tweet saying "THAT IS NOT THE AMERICA OF MY DREAMS TALKING" and Steve proceeds to respond with "I'm a person. I can't be a country. What I can try to be is a good human being." and then absolutely demolishes the other person. (Yes to Steve reclaiming himself as Steve Rogers and not Captain America)

He also posts art. Like, everyday. But it gets slightly overshadowed by everything else he does and says.

He has a separate Instagram. For more personal stuff. Pictures of himself? Rarely. Pictures of birds and animals and trees and sunrises and sunsets? Absolutely. Pictures of the cat and the dog he rescued and now is a proud dad to? Everyday. (He's definitely a both person.) Maybe someday he'll step out of his comfort zone and start going live. Everyone loves him. Everyone rational, that is.

He stays away from tiktok.

2014. Fury shows up at his apartment and gets shot. Something stirs in Steve's brain as the masked assassin catches his shield. Those eyes seem familiar. Despite his reservations, he jumps back into the fray. The whole CATWS thing happens.

He finds Bucky. Brings him home. Fights tooth and nail for the charges against him to be dropped. He's got 70 years of military back-pay, he's got no problem getting the best lawyers (Matt Murdock is definitely among them) for the love of his life.

Anyways Bucky is set free. Moves in with Steve. People start gushing over him too. He stays out of Steve's internet life at first, but then the old Bucky comes back little by little. Maybe he'll join the livestreams. Maybe he'll make an Instagram of his own to post more of Steve.

People, being people, start shipping them. The two of them have a good laugh over it.

One day, out of nowhere, Steve shows up on one of his livestreams wearing a wedding ring. Comments go crazy. Bucky joins him on the couch, throws an arm around his shoulder, flashing his own matching band, smirking lazily.

The rest is mayhem. But they don't care. For Steve, life is perfect.

[I'd love to see Steve Rogers vs internet troll he'd eat that up]

I hope the good Steve Rogers authors see this. This has potential I think.

#steve rogers #steve and bucky #bucky barnes #stucky #steve rogers and bucky barnes #captain america #marvel #avengers #chris evans #sebastian stan

[shutupineedtothink]

Ok so my friend and I just recorded 4 HOURS of raw audio breaking down the OUAT pilot, season 1 finale, and discussing the show in general for our new podcast where we make each other watch episodes of our favorite shows and talk about them together. It’s exactly as fun as you would imagine. :)

But even after all that, I still have things I forgot to say or didn’t get to. So here’s a few of them:

1. “Evil” as addiction: the OUAT writers treat the concept of being evil like addiction/substance abuse which is really interesting and kind of a bold choice for a 2011 show about fairytales. Then within that structure they show basically the two choices you have when facing addiction: choose not to use and become a better, healed version of yourself (Regina) or keep using and stay stuck in your patterns and hurt everyone you love forever (Rumple). As a child of an alcoholic who has chosen the latter, I loved watching Regina’s journey in this context and while she stumbles a lot, she keeps striving to be good even though she gets the short end of the stick most of the time. And her North Star is always Henry, which I think is important to show that you don’t just change because you feel like it, there usually has to be the threat of something worse happening if you don’t change (in this case, losing Henry physically and emotionally).

2. Regina Mills might be the most psychologically complex and interesting character on prime time tv in the 2010s? Period??

3. I rambled a good bit in the podcast about the costumes and color symbolism but here’s a bit more for you: Once Regina is on team heroes she often wears some kind of red top (the hero’s color) with a black jacket/coat over it showing that she’s changed on the inside but she still *looks* like the evil queen on the outside and can now use that persona/power to her advantage instead of being consumed by it. By the end of S5 this contrasts with Emma who wears her signature red jacket but a black/white/gray sweater underneath, showing that she’s a little more of a mix of good and evil these days post-dark one. In a color sense, they’re almost mirror images of each other at this point, and it’s really cool.

4. I know a lot of people are really salty about how Emma’s light kind of dims toward S4, 5, 6, and I’m right there with you. Her character feels flatter, and honestly kind of depressed. Now idk if this was a real choice on the writers’/JMo’s part, if she was going through some stuff at this time and it just showed up in the character, or what. That said, it does track for me in a way, especially post-dark one. She should be kind of thrown off by everything that’s happened! She should be changed! I just wish they had done something with it instead of pretending it was normal. If Regina’s struggle with evil is analogous to addiction, why can’t Emma’s struggle with evil be analogous to depression? It would have been an interesting take. Somebody write the fic.

I could keep going but I’ll stop here for now. Stay tuned for the podcast!

#OUAT #Regina mills #Emma swan #swan queen #Henry mills #once upon a time #analysis

[freedomfireflies]

July Fic Recs 🤍

Rabbit Rabbit!! I hope June was a beautiful month for you all! Filled with love, relaxation, and really good stories!!

I feel like this is one of the best places to be on the internet because I always meet so many kind, talented, and insanely creative people! The stories I've gotten to disappear into this month are some of my favs so, without further ado...

~ Not Another Time by @be-with-me-so-happily

Summary: Harry is used to things getting crazy on tour. What he wasn't ready for is how much he misses YN during the Latin American leg of his tour. But at the Rio de Janeiro show, he needs to expect the unexpected.

The sequel to Could We Not, and a beautiful depiction of Harry's love and fear for somebody he loves! It felt so realistic, and I could actually feel Harry's stress while I read 😭💞

~ One More by @harry-on-broadway

"It never failed to surprise you just how well you fit in his arms."

This was so cute, I'm actually still crying??? A sweet blurb about the show before the last show. I wished on every star to be able to crawl into this story and live in it. Sadly, it hasn't worked yet.

~ Been There All Along by @lonelycowgirls

Summary: Where Stella goes to Harry’s last night at Madison Square Garden and gets a call that could change everything.

If really Harry isn't somewhat like this...I'm suing. Honestly

~ Zipper by @1d1195

"Harry was a smart guy, but he truly hadn’t a clue as to why he was so mad at the prospect of liking her."

The cutest, the most beautifully written, the sweetest story IN. THE. WORLD. The title alone deserves every award ever, but the connection to the plot??????? I'm still thinking about it

~ Love Don't Cost A Thing by @justmystyles

Such a beautiful concept!! I like conversations and stories like this because they really do feel so real! It helps really immerse you in the every day life of a relationship with him. And the line, "It's an us thing," LIVES IN MY HEAD RENT FREE!!!

~ Mutually Beneficial by @cherryjuiceblues

Summary: Y/N finds life difficult and Harry just wants to make her feel good.

I mean...we all just want a man that wants to make us feel good as much as this one does...AM I WRONG???

~ Guilty by @jarofstyles

Best Friend's Dad!

Everything they write is perfection and this sexy ass age gap story is no different, I am actually still sweating and convulsing I AM A SIMP

~ I Want Forever by @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite

Summary- Harry and Y/N broke up early into Love On Tour. Harry struggled to truly move on, as did Y/N. With tour over, a lost soul shows up at Y/N’s door one night, ready for forever.

Straight perfection, let's be real! A ring, the final show, AND AN ANGSTY, FLUFFY HARRY?? *chefs kiss*

~ Eros (Cupid) Harry by @0nlythrowharrybeaux

Harry is Eros and he is absolutely smitten with a human.

Listen, he absolutely would be this cute and you BEST BELIEVE I'm so down bad for this man...I literally foam at the mouth when I think about it, AND HE'S FUNNY?? Dead on sight

~ Personal by @shawnxstyles

summary: you and harry are best friends who tell each other everything. or so you thought. when harry finds out you’ve barely done anything sexual, he offers to change that. and then things get a little… personal.

Best friend Harry helping you out. Need I say more?? I NEEDN'T

~ Scared by @adorebeaa

You and Harry have your first argument right before his final show in Italy, about his final show in Italy.

THE CUTEST MOST DEVASTATING ADDITION TO THE FINAL SHOW!!! CRIED FOR HOURS

~ Y/N and Harry are expecting a baby, and they’re both very impatient by @tobesolonely

I mean...delicious honestly 😭 Just...wow

~ Sex Therapist by @tsumtsumrry

in which Harry helps you out a bit, and he’s not actually a sex therapist. (but he might as well be)

I am...scarily attracted to this man. And I am okay with that 😭💞

~ Brother's Best Friend by @helladirections

Summary: Harry is YN’s brother’s best friend and YN isn’t a little kid anymore. Featuring Italrry, teasing, and a sea view. 

He is....so hot. I genuinely have no other words to describe it honestly. It's...it's bad over here for me

~ Complicated Freak by @lukesaprince

Summary: Where you’ve been hooking up with your best friend’s dad and decide to tease him with a tiny bikini.

I think about this man once a week at least...okay fine, once a day. oKAY FINE I THINK ABOUT HIM ALL THE TIME and I'm okay with that

And a shout-out to @londonharry for providing us with all the gifs we've been needing to help us through our depression 🫶 You do the Lord's work, thank you!!

I hope you all find some amazing things to discover!! Cannot wait to see you again next month!! 💞

Previous Recs:

~ Fic Rec Number 1

~ Fic Rec Number 2

~ Fic Rec Number 3

#harry #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles fan #harry styles fic rec #fic rec #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction

[tokkiwrites]

FUCK YOU, DON'T LEAVE ME HERE.

tokkis note : this is a short story for @iamasaddie 's mood board game/ ✏️ challenge. i was so excited to start writing for this omg. it's also my first ever angsty fic,can u believe it!?? again, thank you, @iamasaddie, for the beautiful mood board and happy reading <3

c.w : dieter bravo x reader, gn reader, angsty ?? toxic rs mentioned, dieter bravo is your superstar fuck buddy but you wish he was more than that & he wishes he wasn't.

"shit, you know this isn't ㅡ we aren't meant to be." he covers his face with both pals, heaving out a long sigh of frustration. "I'm not cut for this shit, yeah?"

"so you think you have the right to tell me when and how to forget about you?" you scream back at him, tears already spilling. you didn't know why you were crying at this point: happiness because after months you are finally near him, so near his cologne is clogging up your sensesㅡ or out of frustration because you knew this would happen. yet you always let him in.

"I really don't wanna hurt youㅡ fuck, baby, look at me." dieter steps in closer, reaching out to wipe the tears that stain your cheeks. "you're a hypocrite. you can't fuck your way into my heart andㅡ and then tell me you don't wanna hurt me!" slapping his palm away, you turn your back, sucking in a deep breath. you hated to let him see you cry, let him see what effect this has on you.

"I thought you knew what this all was...from the beginning." he chuckles as if the situation didn't make you feel stupid enough. of course you knewㅡ deep down you hoped he'd see you as his and not a temporary somebody. people in his life come and go, the risks of a movie star you could say, but fuck wouldn't you want to be someone that stays forever.

"I knew, butㅡ"

"but what?" he interrupts. "thought you could 'change' me?" he shakes his head in disbelief, grabbing you by the shoulder and turning your body around to face him again.

"look me in the eyes and tell meㅡ tell me you don't love me." you manage to speak, through wispered sobs. "fuck you for trying to make me the bad guy in all of this!" dieter gasps, laughing as he point his index directly to your chest. "Aren't you?" mustering your voice again, you ask rhetorically.

"What is up with you and needing to point the finger at someone, huh? has it ever occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, it's both our fucking faults?" he bawls his fist in holds it up to his chest. "both of us. me, because i gave you more than I needed to give and you because you ate every crumble of it." Dieter groans, frowning as you let his words wash over you. "Aren't we both fucked up?"

and you sit in silence, unable to unravel the knots tied in your throat. no tears are willing to fall, nothing is left to be spilled ㅡ only the thoughts that maybe he is right.

Dieter's frustration simmers as he watches your internal struggle unfold. The weight of his words lingers between you, and for a moment, neither of you knows how to navigate the intricacies of your shared pain.

"I never wanted to hurt you," Dieter murmurs again, his tone softer now, a hint of remorse breaking through the intensity. "But, fuckㅡ we're stuck in this cycle, tearing each other apart. Is this really what we both deserve?"

"I don't want to hate you," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "then don't." he replies, gaze fixed onto the ground. your eyes search his, seeking answers in the depths of his turmoil. "I can't keep doing this." you admit. "I can't let you go and come back to me wheneverㅡ i can't stand to see you on that screen with anybody else, and i know-" you swallow "i know you can't control that, but please...please don't tell me this was nothingㅡ I was nothing.."

"You were never nothing," he says, his voice holding a sincerity that cuts through the tension. "I don't want you to be nothing," Dieter finally admits, his gaze softening. "and you know it."

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo #dieter x reader #dieter bravo fic #✏️ #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfiction

[myangelhaven]

This is my recommendations of HYUNJIN fics! It will be updated once in a while for new stories I have read. Hopefully the links work (lemme know if it doesnt)

Credits to the authors!! All informations written are taken from the authors' post and has not been modified. Reminder that some fics are NOT for minors, so please read the key and avoid 18+ contents.

HAPPY READING!!

KEY:

[❀]: fluff [𖤓]: angst [☄]: sad [☾]:smut [⟡]:smau [✮]: my favs

˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖✮-------------HYUNJIN-------------✮˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖

ONESHOTS

ten things hwang hyunjin says when he thinks you’re asleep by @soobnny [❀]

Photobooth kisses by @yyx2 [❀]

you're in the wind, i'm in the water by @astraystayyh [❀][𖤓][✮][f2l][unrequited but not] NEW

The Kisses You Left (Marked My Soul) by @seo--changbin [❀][✮][soulmateau] NEW

a drabble inspired by hyunjin's mole

Love potion by @ppiri-bahng [❀] NEW

you try to slip Hyunjin a love potion thinking that he could never love you back

Waiting for us by @ppiri-bahng [𖤓][☄][happy ending][suggestive]

you’re afraid to let hyunjin love you, but he’d wait forever for you

Say yes to heaven by @astraystayyh [❀][𖤓]

seven minutes in heaven except you're heartbroken and hyunjin has a huge crush on you. angst and slightly suggestive in the end.

Say yes to me: after your seven minutes in heaven, hyunjin wants to plan out how he'll finally confess to you. except you come knocking on the door of his rented cabin unannounced. at 10:53 pm. the perfect time for love, he comes to learn.

Somebody else by @astraystayyh [𖤓][☄][ex2l][happy ending]

You and Hyunjin have broken up, guilt and blame simmering between you both. He doesn't care anymore, or so he thought. Then why does it hurt him to see you with someone else?

Untitled by @hwanghyunjinenthusiast [❀][𖤓][☾][e2l?] NEW

Hwang Hyunjin is insufferable. You can't stand him despite the treacherous thoughts that cross your mind. Hyunjin decides to really call into question just how much you seemingly can't stand him.

Erubescent by @cle1024 [❀][𖤓][e2l]

why are my cheeks erubescent? i shouldn’t be feeling this way about you; i’m not supposed to trust you.  

Spilled tea by @quokkawritesarchive[☾][roommatesau] NEW

Request: maybe like a hot roomate smut,? y/n and hyunjin are roomates for a while now but they barely interact and talk. one day late at night while y/n is drinking water in their shared kitchen (in just panties and a oversized shirt) hyunjin barges in for a midnight snack too (shirtless as he was sleeping) they both awkwardly bump into eachother seeing each other in such less clothing but they finally suck it up and have a good deep convo for the 1st time as roomates and they get to know a lot abt eachother. just to mention y/n is sitting on the kitchen counter while hyun is standing and the sexual tension arises mid convo. can this smut be limited to dry humping and tons of marking lolol

Places, places! By @forlix [❀][𖤓][fwb?][idolhyunjin][suggestive] 1.3K NEW

you’re just trying to do your job; your client has other ideas.

Straykids soulmate aus by @sweetkpopmusings [❀][soulmate au] 1.3k

each soulmate has half a quote that is important to their relationship tattooed on their body.

Pretty cute by @scxrlettwxtches [❀] 1.6k NEW

The moment Hwang Hyunjin snatched the unofficial confession from your desk (which he was definitely not supposed to read), you knew you were royally screwed.

It's a scream, baby! by @luvyeni [❀][☾][ghostfaceau][knifeplay] 1.7k NEW

you can’t help but tease the man in the mask, that’s until he catches you

Mistletoe by @iinie [❀][bff2l][mutual pining] 1.8k

pushing your feelings for him aside, you’re determined to get hyunjin under the mistletoe with his crush. what you’re not aware of, though, is that he’s crushing on you, his long-time best friend.

I didn't actually love you by @amelee23 [❀][✮] 3.1k

Your friends forced you to become part of a poetry club, and when you receive a task to write a poem about sadness, you realize you accidentally write it about Hyunjin, the guy you had a crush on and tried to forget about. And he finds out.

Gleam and glitter by @jishyucks [❀][f2l][richkidau] 3.4k NEW

You’ve quickly established that no one at this damn charity gala cares about the event’s purpose. They were just there to party. And you wanted nothing else but to leave; alternatively, in which Hyunjin saves you from your misery to see the city’s Christmas lights.

Just like you by @milkandhyunnie [𖤓][☾][exes] 3.7k NEW

you’re trying to move on from your toxic ex boyfriend when you run into him at the club—only to find out that he has a brand new girlfriend that looks just like you

Third wheel by @cb97percent [☾☾][3some] w/ bangchan 4.1k NEW

It would be wrong if you were attracted to one of your best friends since they are in a relationship, but you don't know what the protocol is when you have the hots for both of them.

Boy next door by @strayed-quokka [❀][𖤓][☾][✮][chf2l][brother's bff2l] 4.9k NEW

you’d known hyunjin for most of your life, introduced as a friend of your brothers and quickly someone who cared for you. he was there as you grew up, driving you home from parties, getting you out of lectures from your parents, or checking on you when your brother couldn’t. 

so when you’d asked the favor of renting his extra room for a year whilst you adjusted living in a new city for university, your brother didn’t even blink or question it. 

maybe he should’ve. 

Not a monster by @sunnytaes [❀][𖤓][chf2l][vampireau][victorian era][gothichorror] 5.1k NEW

Y/N and Hyunjin had been inseparable since birth, but Hyunjin’s father’s concern over his illness put an end to their friendship. What happens when they meet again, years after Y/N had presumed Hyunjin dead, only to find that he is no longer the same Hyunjin that she knew?

It's knot you by @changbeanie [❀][𖤓][✮][soulmate au] 5.8k

Two people connected by the red string of fate are destined to be lovers regardless of circumstance. What happens when the red cord malfunctions and miraculously appears between two strangers?

Hate you! Use you! Baby @seo--changbin [❀][☾][e2l] 7.3k

Money was never easy to come by with, especially if you were never born with a silver spoon in your mouth. So, you did what you had to do in order to survive, but what happens when the person that you hate the most happens to find out about your dirty little secret?

Burning sensations by @matryosika [𖤓][☾][✮][e2l] 7.8k

Love in Times New Roman by @leggomylino [❀][secret admirer au] 8k

You studied the envelope you were holding, flipping it over a few times in your hands. The quality of the paper was nicer than normal, almost like whatever inside was more important than just a regular letter. You weren’t expecting anything, let alone anything important or special.

But it was definitely your name on the front.

The bet by @chvnnie [☾][3some] 8.2k

hyunjin and jisung make a bet. the prize? you.

Boys like you by @temptaetions [❀][𖤓][☾][pining][established relationship][breakup au] 8.5k

hwang hyunjin is like a burning fire - dangerous, passionate, and at times, hard to dissipate. you were frozen from within, your exterior only soft to his touch. when you are his polar opposite, it should be easy to melt at his fingertips, shouldn’t it?

The sound of your name by @blossomwritesthings [𖤓][☾][✮][dark academia][e2l][academic rivals] 10.6k NEW

ever since you started studying at korean national university of arts in seoul, hwang hyunjin, the other top student of the school and the dean's son, has been an absolute thorn in your ass. although, it turns out that not all thorns are necessarily bad.

Bad ideas by @yuggyee [❀][fakedating] 13.8k

When your crush, Sam Hwang, is adamant about setting you up with his twin brother, Hyunjin, you both decide to fake date. Maybe that’s a bad idea though.

Candy hearts by @skzsauce01 [❀][𖤓][✮][e2l] 15k

He just makes you flustered in the worst way possible. All is fair in love, war, and business. When the bakery and café across from Candy Pop starts selling custom candy heart cakes two weeks before Valentine’s Day, you are livid. Bakery/Café AU, Candy Shop AU.

Just stay with me by @straywrds [❀][𖤓][☾][mutual pining][hurt/comfort][coworkers-to-lovers] 17k

It's time for the yearly winter getaway organized by your boss. You haven't participated in a little while, but this year you're determined to spend some quality time with your coworkers.

Black rose by @decembermoonskz [❀][𖤓][✮][e2l][soulmate au] 21.9k

what’s it like to know your soulmate is someone you hate? no one talks about those soulmates who despise each other and wish they could trade. this is that story.

SERIES

Yes, miss by @scribblemetae [❀][☾][teacherxstudent][camboy][slowburn] ONGOING

It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t know this was going to happen, how were you to know the person behind the videos you used to get off to was none other than your favourite straight A student Hwang Hyunjin. How would you ever look at the boy with thick black glasses properly again?

Ask Mr Loverboy by @cosmic-railwayxo [❀][𖤓][e2l][chf2l][suggestive][rivals][soulmateau][doublelife] ONGOING

Ask Mr Loverboy is a column in the university’s newspaper that gives the students love advice. However, there’s a twist: Mr Loverboy himself has never been in love. He keeps going on dates with a new person every weekend in hopes of finding that spark he always talks about to his readers but so far, his strategy hasn’t been working.

In the search for his soulmate, he stumbles upon you – the person he absolutely cannot stand and is sure he never will. Yet, despite your history, you end up teaching Hyunjin the most valuable lesson of them all. Will he push through and finally find his one and only, or will Hyunjin give up on love forever?

What a complicated question. Too bad he can’t ask Mr Loverboy about it, he could really use his wisdom.

Crush culture by @kyufiber [❀][𖤓][⟡] 44 parts

there are a few rules to follow when you’re drunk, sleep deficit, or dangerously bored: never create fake social media accounts, never use those accounts to incite general chaos and mischief, and never ever lie about your identity, especially if it’s to the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen. unfortunately for him, hyunjin’s broken all three.

Only fools fall for you by @hyunjinspark [❀][𖤓][☾] [⟡][✮✮][fwb][slowburn] 70 parts

you're excited to finally get a new start at university, majoring in the thing you love the most; dancing, and you're positive that absolutely nothing can ruin the quintessential college experience for you.

that is, until you run into your lifelong rival, hwang hyunjin and to make things worse...you can't seem to get rid of him.

Sweet like candy by @staysuki [𖤓] [⟡][✮][e2l][s2l][suggestive] 70 parts

long time rival hwang hyunjin has been the bane of your existence for as long as you can remember. thank god your secret anon textmate always has your back— sweet, caring, and good with words. definitely not like hwang at all.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄more to come!⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

☆-------------------skz masterlist-------------------☆

#skz masterlist #hyunjin x reader #skz recs #hyunjin recs

[harmonicakai]

harmonicakai's txt fic masterlist <3

Anyone Else But You, a six-part series

Pairing: Huening Kai x Reader Summary: It seems like you’re the only person on the planet that Huening Kai doesn’t like, but after an awkward encounter, the trajectory of your relationship is altered forever. Tropes: enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, fluff, stylist!reader Word Count: 17.3k (and counting!) Warnings: swearing, sexual tension (mdni), reader is insecure, lots of miscommunication and pent up feelings, alcohol

Somebody Else, a ?-part series

Pairing: Soobin x Reader, Yeonjun x Reader Summary: Ever since he met you, Soobin has had the biggest crush on you. The only thing standing in his way is his college roommate, Yeonjun, who you’ve been in love with ever since you were little. Tropes: love triangle, unrequited love, fake dating, frat boy!yeonjun, nerd!soobin, roommates, college AU, childhood best friends Word Count: 2.4k (and counting!) Warnings: swearing, alcohol, sexual tension (mdni), yj is an asshole

Mr. Know It All

Pairing: Taehyun x Reader Summary: When you finally find yourself sleeping over at Taehyun’s dorm, you start to wonder if you and him could ever be something more serious. Tropes: friends with benefits, mutual pining, angst, fluff, college AU, tutor!taehyun Word Count: 1.2k Warnings: mentions of sex (mdni), LOTS of overthinking

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Taglist: @orangesodafoam @deezbutz28 @ur-mother-realnotclickbait @iyeeeverydee @internet-folks @darlingz99 @foxyjun @stardustmooncakes @giaalorine @beomgyubabybear @niningtori @goquokka @csbenthusiast @moarmyjkhk @lizdevorak @sooberryworld @lonelybutterflytae @midnight-mochii @theresawtf @nowadays56 @jjklvr9 @baekberrie

P.S.: Please shoot me an ask or a reply if you’d like to be added to (or removed from) the taglist! Also, I struggle to keep up with different lists for individual members, but if you really don't want to be tagged on all of my works, just let me know and I will do my best to keep things separate <3

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A/N: I'm planning on writing something for Beomgyu soon, but hope you can still enjoy what I've got so far for these four :-)

#soobin x reader #soobin #soobin txt #txt #tomorrow x together #txt imagines #txt fic #txt soobin #yeonjun x reader #txt x reader #txt fluff #txt angst #yeonjun angst #yeonjun imagines #yeonjun #yeonjun txt #txt yeonjun #soobin angst #soobin imagines #soobin fluff #yeonjun fluff #huening txt #hueningkai #hueningkai angst #hueningkai fluff #hueningkai imagines #hueningkai x reader #hyuka x reader

[littledollll]

Hello my love, do you do brienne of tarth fics? If so, could you do one where reader is a princess and brienne is her bodyguard? And reader is convinced that no one will ever truly love her because of past partners and only icky men are interested in her cause she's a royal and women never even look at her, or at least not past the fact that she's a princess; so she can kinda just throws herself at people in tries to love people into loving her until Brienne eventually confesses and they kiss and it's a littlw angsty and emotional?

I do, my lady

Bodyguard Brienne x princess!reader

Warnings: uhh none?

A/n: im am speed. This came to me actually pretty quickly which I’m happy about, I like it but I don’t love it so I sure hope it’s good enough! Also it’s kinda short, I’m running so low on ideas for writing Brienne so I’m very sorry!

“All the men are either pervs or assholes and the women don’t care about anything other than the fact I have a damn crown on my head sometimes- I mean it’s stupid! I thought girls were supposed to be better!” You were laying on the floor looking up at Brienne as you ranted while she made adjustments to her armor. She only hummed and continued working.

You sighed. “Do you know how many dates I’ve gone on and have had arranged-“ “Around 7 if I remember correctly.” She stated, turning her head and arching a brow at you. “Are you judging me?” You frowned. “No, not at all, my lady, you simply questioned it like I didn’t join you in every single one” she chuckled when you visibly came to the realization that, that was indeed true. “And none of them have worked out, everything feels so fake! What if I never find love!”

“I don’t want to be lonely forever.. isn’t it simply human to yearn for human connection? Affection and company? I just have horrible luck. I’m tired of seeing tons of happy couples all around while I’m just sought out for power or- you know.”

“I doubt that will be the case, and yes, it’s very human, something a lot of people want, princess, unfortunately a lot of people can be shallow, what’s important to you may not be important to them.” Brienne peaked your interest with that. “Why do you say that? are you implying some big strong man is gonna come around and give me everything I ever dreamed of?”

Shaking her head, amused, she looked down at you. “Are you comfortable there?” “Quite actually- hold on don’t change the subject.” Brienne smiled and turned back to working on her armor. “Some people seek power in life because they think it’s the way to happiness, you want human connection, love and care. It’s traits a lot of people look for, you just haven’t noticed.”

“Point me out a single person who thinks that way so I can throw myself at them.” Brienne sighed. “Maybe you’re going all wrong about it, find somebody you really like, not just anyone you might have a chance with, somebody with existing connection, a person you can and want to talk to and be around.” You whined. “I’m desperate.” “There lies your mistake. You can’t force a bond, with all due respect my lady, wanting somebody and wanting love are two very different things, I’m afraid you want the latter.”

“Is that so wrong?” Again, she shook her head. “No, I think it’s close minded though, no offense, you should focus on wanting a connection with somebody than a relationship with anybody. Surely you know you’re worth more than that.” Humming, you turned around to lay stomach down, sitting up on your elbows. “None taken. When’d you get so good at this love advice?”

You noticed how flustered she got, and then proceeded to ignore your question. “It’s getting late. Would you like me to escort you back to your room?” You stood. “Nu-uh answer the question is The Brienne of Tarth... falling for someone?!” “Frankly that’s none of your business.” Her cold reply made you flinch. “Right. Well goodnight then.” Sucking in a breath she turned around. “I’m sorry. That was cold and rather rude of me forgive me, my lady, stay I will walk with you when you truly wish to leave.”

“You’re lucky you’re you” you smiled sitting back down. “Oh do I get privileges? Or pity points.” You pouted. “None do the above.” you walked over to her. “You’re lucky I like you.” She didn’t think much of it after she said it, but you did. “You like me?” She nodded absentmindedly. “Yeah, you’re talkative and energetic, you really do have a kind heart and pure intentions, and all you really want is to be loved, I think that makes you wonderful..”

Briennes eyes widened when she realized what she just did, then she refused to meet your own, opting to just stay quiet until you said something or left. “Brienne-“ she interrupted you. “I’m sorry. That was- I don’t know I just spoke and I didn’t register what I was saying until I was done. I apologize.” You tilted your head searching her eyes, only to find embarrassment and adoration in them, you cupped her face and made her look at you. “Don’t apologize for that. You made me realize something.” She nodded, quiet and confused. “Do you really mean it?” Again a nod. “I do, my lady.” And you kissed her.

#brienne of tarth x reader #gwendoline christie #brienne x reader #brienne of tarth #ser brienne #idk how to tag this #bodyguard!brienne

[heartcereql]

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗱𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀

☆neteyam sully x fem!omaticaya!reader

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒-  quaritch was defeated, yes, but it cost neteyam the light of his life.

𝐂𝐖- minor cursing, implied reader's death.

𝐀/𝐍- it's short (like my ex's peepee but oh well), buuuuut i'm working on some longer fics mwah.

dearest y/n,

i know it's pretty stupid to write to you now, especially now, but dad said it might do me good. said he wrote to grace when she left.

i miss you. i miss you so incredibly much. there is not one second i spend without thinking about you. and about how unfair it was. if i had known it would be the last time, i would have kissed you harder. what the fuck am i saying; if i had known it would be the last time i would've taken your place. because you didn't deserve it. nobody does, but especially not you. you were the best, you are the best anyone who knew you has in their lives.

i see you everywhere. i can still make out your figure dancing under the pale moonlight. remember that night? your did your hair up- i think you let tuk help you. you looked so alluring. we were laughing and dancing and just enjoying, you know? feeling alive. feeling electric. see, you had a gift with words. you always knew how to make things sound so melodic. my mind will subconsciously drift to you when i hear a beautiful word.

i know what you would say, yet i can't help but feel guilty. i let you come to the reef with us. if i had been more rational, if i hadn't been so easily convinced, i could've persuaded you to stay. and none of this would've happened. so let me blame myself a bit, yeah? just because i put my feelings first, because i wanted you with me, i lost everything.

and here i though i had it all. i thought nothing scared me anymore. guess you have to lose something to really miss it, as they say. you completed me, y/n. in a way no one else could. so, losing you was losing a part of me. and i know for a fact that i'm not the only one feeling like this. you left your mark on everyone. the whole clan grieves. even the metkayinas, even the ones that barely knew you.

i know you'd want me to move on. hell, i can even hear you. "i'm no longer here, but you are. you go on. you have a life to live to its fullest, doesn't matter if i'm here or not". something along those lines. and though i can't feel nothing but utter love for you, aching to be in your arms again, it enrages me that you could ever think- and would probably think- that i could keep going without you. that my life would eventually brim with colour and light again, that i would find somebody, that i'll be able to bury your memory, to just keep you in a corner of my heart. because that's not possible. it's not and it never will be, y/n.

i'll miss you forever. like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky. sounds like something you would say. and i'll remember you forever. i'll remember you when i glance up at the moon, i'll remember you when i find a flower i'd like to keep forever, i'll remember you when i hear a beautiful melody, i'll remember you everytime someone takes care of me. i'll remember you for the rest of my life. someone once told me that nobody is truly gone if there's someone who remembers them. well, you've got plenty of those.

teach the stars how to shine, my angel.

forever yours,

neteyam.

© heartcereql, 2023 || thank you for reading ! 𓆩 ♱ 𓆪

#avatar the way of water #avatar x reader #atwow x reader #neteyam x reader #neteyam sully #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam imagine #neteyam #heartcereql

[unrequitedloveletter]

Hello! I saw that you have your requests open! Could you do one with Aaron Warner and him and reader just have a slow fluffy morning? Maybe it be winter and it’s snowing because I’m missing the cold weather with this horrible Texas heat that practically makes me melt just thinking about going outside 😭

Snow- A.W x gn! reader

Hi, I am so sorry that this took me forever! Thank you for sending it in, though, it's been very warm where I am too so writing a fic set in winter was oddly refreshing while waiting for the light, breezy air of autumn to kick in.

Anon, if you're reading, I hope you enjoy this one and again, I am so sorry for how long it's taken to be written and put out!

Fic type- fluff

Warnings- a mention of murdering someone (the reader tells aaron that they'll kill someone if he tries to rope them into leaving the house in the beginnings of a storm) aaron might be a little ooc, and this is also unedited

The first thing that you registered as you woke up was the sound of snow falling so delicately against your windowsill. The second thing you registered was Aarons arm around your waist, his chin against your shoulder, and the feeling of the blanket you'd tossed over yourselves in an attempt to negate the cold, sitting just beneath your elbow as you woke and found it was morning.

You blinked, gaze turning to the curtains and finding they were slightly open, giving yourself a clear display of the snow as it fell to the ground. It was the first snow of the season, and judging by the fact that a storm was suspect, you anticipated that you wouldn't feel motivated to do anything that day.

You knew that Aaron, for all of his efforts with the Resistance and everything he, Juliette, Kenji and the others had accomplished in the time leading up to that day, would appreciate the day of relative nothingness.

The two of you had taken the day off as it were, so even though you'd planned to at least try to do a few things, you knew that nothing very relevant would be done, but you didn't mind that. There could be days of productivity later, but as you turned your gaze to your beloved, ran a hand along the line of his jaw, you decided that that day would not be one of them.

"Good morning, love," Aaron said as he woke.

"Hi," you said, pressing a kiss to his jawline as he pulled you in closer. "Seems like we're in for a storm, so if you try to rope me into leaving this house while we're in the beginnings of it, I might genuinely kill somebody."

That incited the glorious sound of his laughter. "All right, then," he said. "We were due in for a lazy day anyway."

You got up, catching his grin and laughing a bit when he hugged you from behind as you left your bedroom, headed down the hall for the stairs, and moved to the kitchen.

You made your coffee in contented silence, with Warners chin against your shoulder, his arms around your waist, and the cold still biting at you slightly.

You'd long learned to cherish mornings like those, ones where you made coffee and set up the gramophone and grabbed books off of your shelves to read to each other, a blanket draped over your legs while your feet rested in Warners lap and one of his hands ran up and down your calf idly.

And, as you made your coffee and laughed with Warner in between quick kisses, you knew that that morning was going to pan out just like those days did, and you simply couldn't wait.

Mornings like those were few and far between but, with coffee and the impending snowstorm, you knew and Aaron knew that it was going to be a good, relaxing day.

It was one you couldn't wait for.

#aaron warner #aaron warner x reader #shatter me #shatter me series

[a-hearts-a-heavy-burden]

Can somebody rec me some fluffy Aether fics?? I mean, Aether as the MC not just as a secondary, barely there side character.

It's so hard to find and yes, I know I can filter on AO3, and I have but still don't find what I want.

Do people just not enjoy writing my boyfriend?? Do I have to do it myself?? I will, but I'm lazy and I'd rather read them than write them.

Doesn't need to be Dewther but absolutely can be. ((I will love you forever if it is Aether x Cumulus))

I need more Aether fluff in my life

#Ghost band #Ghouls #Aether ghoul #Aether #fics #AO3 #fluff #pretty please

[pinkiebieberpie]

summer of your dreams ୨୧*॰¨̮

(dad's best friend!bucky barnes x f!reader)

a few days ago after nycc i made a moodboard with this and yeah... now it's a fic, enjoy!! <33 @buckycuddlebuddy made me write it, love you elif!! ♡ also i'm not much of a writer, so feedback and reblogs are really appreciated!! please be nice to me sksjslak

words: 1.7k

warnings: age gap (reader is over 18), office romance, horny thoughts, pet names (sweetheart, honey, baby), kissing, dirty talk, unprotected sex, mention of eating pussy, mention of choking, bucky is also a ceo, so yeah he is hot, older AND rich - let me know if i've missed something

there is a few things you can do during summer break and one of them is finding a job. vision of wasting your time and just staying at home for all summer wasn't really appealing to y/n. but she also knew it can take her whole month to find a job or she may not find it at all. that's when her dad suggested she should ask his friend if they are not looking for someone in his company.

y/n knew that friend, one and only bucky barnes. he and her dad were friends since forever, bucky was the one who taught her how to ride a bike, he was a few years younger than y/n's father but still way older than her. trust me when i say that he was attractive. y/n was 100% sure he looked better and better every year. she probably shouldn't be thinking about him like that but it just happened. he was a very good looking man and she was just a young girl having a little crush, there is nothing wrong with that, right?

she was a little bit stressed out when she arrived at bucky's company to ask him a big favor, luckily he said he would do anything for her dad and for her. this is where everything started.

×××

y/n was working for bucky for two weeks and she absolutely loved it. his secretary was at maternity leave so y/n had a perfect opportunity to take her spot.

"you need anything else, mr. barnes?" she asked politely when she gave him his morning coffee, bucky just chuckled.

"i told you so many times not to call me that, i know you since you were four, y/n and no, i don't need anything else, thank you" bucky answered and smiled at her. y/n could look at his smiling face for hours. okay, let's be honest: not only smiling face, just his face. this man was doing something for her, something for her body and her mind. maybe was it because he was older? maybe because he was wearing a suit everyday? and he looked so damn good in them. the only thing that was on her mind was bucky. everyday there were more and more thoughts, dirty thoughts about him and y/n started getting more clumsy.

bucky noticed that and asked her to come to his office so they can talk about what's going on.

"is it something at home? or somebody here told you something mean? i don't know, problems with boyfriend?" he was truly worried and he just wanted to find a reason of y/n's strange behavior.

"no, it's no- it's really nothing, at home everthing is just fine, this job is amazing and boyfriend problems aren't- yeah, i'm not seeing anyone, so..." y/n started mumbling, she was also too scared to look him in the eyes.

"oh, really? i'm not gonna lie, that part about being single is hard to believe, sweetheart"

y/n's heart stopped for a second when she heard what he just said to her.

"look at me, y/n" bucky ordered and that's what she did, she never felt this small and vulnerable with him "what is going on here? you are... disctracted lately" bucky asked her again and she had no idea what to tell him. saying that she developed a feeling, a strong feeling, a crush maybe. on him. she wasn't able to focus on her tasks with him in the same room, y/n was thinking about her boss, her dad's best friend all the time. and she knew her dad won't be happy about it. he would be furious and very disappointed in her - that's why neither bucky nor her dad can find out.

"it's nothing, i swear" she finally said and just nodded, but bucky still was worried and asked her to come closer to him. he stood up and copped her face in his hands when she was close enough. y/n's breath was stuck in her lungs and she was sure she is going to have a heart attack. he was too close and it doesn't matter that this is the same man she was hugging thousands of times at family parties before, now it was different.

"you are shaking, honey, maybe you are sick? i can drive you home" she wasn't sick, but now she knew that he was. holding her like this? his face so fuckin close to her face? y/n had no idea what was she thinking (she probably wasn't thinking at all) but she said to herself "fuck it, what's the worst that can happen?" and she just kissed him.

he kissed her back. after a few seconds.

bucky's lips were soft and they tasted like mint and something a little bit citrusy. she loved it. but what's more important he loved it too. his hands soon found a new place on y/n's hips and bucky pulled her closer, she moaned at this action. bucky felt like this moan awakened something in him. something maybe primal even.

"that's why you were shaking, baby" he licked his lips and looked her in the eyes "this is what you want? that's why you wanted this job? so you can be closer to me?" he asked her with a cocky smile on his face. y/n had no idea what to tell him, because that was not the reason she wanted this job, this was something... unexpected.

"what else do you want, y/n? kiss me more? touch me? maybe you want me to touch you? right here, in my office? huh?" bucky was confident, she never saw him like this, but oh god this was so hot and if she wanted him before, now she needed him. when she was too focused on his words and still hasn't said anything, he just grabbed her and sat on his desk.

"this is wrong and... and so unethical" y/n's voice was weak and quiet.

"but it feels so right, and so good" he smiled at her "and it can be even better" she believed him, y/n was doubtless that bucky can make everything even better. he was almost twice her age, that thought was just desirable for her, so she kissed him again and now this kiss was way more lustful than the first one.

she felt his hands everywhere, her whole body was on fire and her mind went foggy long time ago. she did't care about doors not being locked or about important phone calls that he should be taking right now. in that moment his lips on her lips and on her neck were the only thing that mattered. y/n tried to be quiet, even though bucky loved the idea of her moaning and screaming his name.

"i need you" he moaned himself with his lips close to her earlobe. y/n shivered. his voice was deep, yet needy.

she needed him too, so she pulled him even closer to herself by his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt. once again his hands were everywhere. y/n moved eagerly on bucky's desk. she wanted his hands in only one place, maybe two. the idea of him choking her was also appealing. her little moan said it for her and bucky touched her right where she needed to be touched.

"give me more, please" she whined and bit her lower lip. bucky also liked that sound.

"you have to tell me what do you want me to do and be specific about it" bucky was still kissing her neck "what do you need, honey? your dad's best friend's lips? or maybe my dick? just tell me, i can give you everything you want and more"

"oh fuck..." y/n whimpered "fuck me, please, here, i want you here, deep inside me, so deep, on that desk" bucky didn't waste any time, he pulled up her dress and started taking off his pants.

"i had no idea you are so dirty, baby, and fuck, you are so wet for me already" he just loved what he saw, her legs wide open for him and only for him. y/n had no time to think because two seconds later he was inside her and the loudest moan escaped her mouth.

bucky barnes knew what he was doing. he knew he would fuck his best friend's daughter so good she would have flashbacks about it the next day. or week. she was a moaning mess underneath him, unable to form one coherent thought. he also knew that she was very loud and vocal in bed, trying to be quiet was like a punishment for her. that's what made bucky move his hips faster and faster until she came hard on his cock.

"oh baby, you are so pretty like this" he was still moving inside her and chasing his own pleasure. he was loud too, y/n could have come again just by this sound.

bucky looked even better after sex, hair messy, his breath uneven, lips swollen and in a very deep shade of pink.

y/n took her hair from her face and just smiled, bucky noticed that.

"what?" he simply asked "was it good?"

"better than good, but next time i need your face between my legs, this beard of yours is going to make me crazy" y/n winked at him. i guess you can tell that orgasm gave her a boost of confidence. and that day was a beginning of very spicy romance, which wouldn't be approved by y/n's father, but he doesn't have to know everything, right? like that one time when bucky ate her out on his balcony for breakfast after they spent a whole night together at his place or the other time when she was riding him just 15 minutes before really important meeting. it's just between them and their perfect summer.

#sebastian stan #bucky barnes #bucky barnes moodboard #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes ff #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes blurb #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes oneshot #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan smut #dbf!bucky #dadsbestfriend!bucky #ceo!bucky #bucky barnes x reader smut #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x y/n