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venusjeon · 8 months

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angel in the marble

after you fail to pickpocket him, the famous yet arrogant artist Jeon Jungkook takes you off the streets to make you his servant, and the more you know him, the more you realise he's not as detestable as everyone claims he is.

♔ PAIRING: michelangelo!jungkook x servant!reader

♔ GENRE: high renaissance au, angst, smut, humour

♔ WORD COUNT: 8k

♔ WARNINGS: homelessness, stealing, mild swearing/violence/drinking, 90% of this is bickering lmao, mentions of minor characters' death, jealousy and kinda possessiveness?, referenced unconsensual groping (not by jk), a bit of blasphemy, making out, groping, fingering, rough angry sexxx, choking, slapping

♔ AUTHOR'S NOTE: fun fact this is mostly historically accurate! jk's characterisation, the grocery list doodles, the sack of rome, the beef with his brother, the encounter with his rival (raphael)... are all taken from michelangelo's actual life, even some stuff is quoted from his letters lol. man was fanfic material.

1529, Rome

“How much for that one?”

“No, that one’s sold already.”

It was a lively morning. After days of heavy rainfall, those of high social class were eager to get out and meet under the gentle sun of spring, whose glare reflected on the precious stones of their jewellery; while those of low, out of necessity, couldn’t wait to reopen their businesses or set up their stalls and get back to work. You liked to eye them all as you strolled the streets of Rome.

“To whom?”

“Your friend Taehyung.”

“Agh… How much is that prick paying you?”

The point of the matter was that it was bustling, some colliding if they looked away from where they were going for more than a breath. It worked in your favour for it was then easier to make yourself scarce right after stealing bags of coins, such as those of the three men seemingly bargaining by a workshop’s entrance out of which a large block of marble was being dragged. Perfect.

“Three ducats.”

“Three?! He’s robbing you of two ducats. I’ll pay you the five it’s worth.”

You kept your head low as you approached the pair that seemed wealthier and with those stealthy hands of yours unfastened the bags tied to their belts. After all, pickpocketing was a skill you’d had under your own for some years now, so this was bound to go smoothly.

Because you didn’t realise there was a guardian with them, perhaps you’d grown arrogant.

“I’m sorry, maestro. It’s reserved.”

“But it’ll become a waste in his possession!”

As you slipped away into the crowd, mouth watering at the fresh-baked bread you were going to devour as soon as bought, this brown dog leaped up at you out of nowhere, ignoring your desperate efforts to shake him off. If anything, they caused him to bark.

No, no, no…

The three men turned to the scene playing out not so far, and thinking his dog was bothering you one of them shouted, “Bam, come here, boy!” but as he obediently ran to his owner, you were too slow to hide the bags in your hands. It only took the pair a second to make them out, check whether theirs still hung on their belts, find them not, work out you’d stolen them, look back up, and find you not either.

Of course, you’d made your escape by then, dived into the sea of people and swum through them as quickly as possible, only stopping when you reached an empty vaulted alley to catch your breath.

That was ridiculously close. If you weren’t more careful next–

Your train of thought was interrupted by someone grabbing you by the arm from behind and pushing you against the nearest wall. A grunt accompanied the thud, and a gasp followed at the sight of the two men from before—dog included. Pinned in place, it’d be a bad idea to fight back or attempt to run away again. Fuck’s sake.

“Do you know what happens to thieves?” the one cornering you asked so close that when the cold breeze rustled his hair, some strands grazed your face. You looked away to avoid the tickling rather than out of fear, or so you wanted to believe. “They have a hand cut off. Seems fair, doesn’t it, Jimin?”

By contrast, that Jimin didn’t look intimidating, otherwise still catching his breath from the chase, but he did snatch the coin bags from your hands. “It doesn’t have to be so, maestro. We got our money back. She’s… just a girl.”

“And that exempts her of crime?”

“Please, don’t report me,” you begged, humiliating as though it was.

“Why shouldn’t we?” the maestro scoffed. Maestro… You were being threatened by a damned craftsman, the other one probably his assistant.

“Because I don’t want to lose a hand?”

“Oh, but we wanted to lose money, did we?” You rolled your eyes, and he released his grip only to step away. “Take us to your father, brat. He’ll answer for you.”

It took you a moment to respond, “I don’t have a father, or anyone... Only I can answer for my actions.”

“You’re a beggar?” Jimin asked, taking pity as he studied your appearance for the first time. Dishevelled hair, tattered dress, unpleasant smell… Yes, they should’ve guessed.

“She doesn’t beg, though, does she? She steals.”

“Only from cunts.”

His head snapped to meet your glare, and Jimin laughed, “You seem to not know whom you speak to.” He could be Jesus for all you cared. Uninterested, you petted the dog, Bam, seeing as he’d leapt up at you again. “This is Jeon Jungkook.”

You froze. The Jeon Jungkook? The famous artist who painted and sculpted for the Pope? Whom faraway kings and even emperors commissioned? The one whose genius was said to be changing the world?

At the lack of attention, Bam returned to his master, and that snapped you out of your shock to ask, “Then why do you whine?” The two men frowned, having clearly expected an apology paired with the usual bootlicking. “As if you need that bag more than I!”

“What nerve,” he scoffed again, making you wince by grabbing your arm tighter than before and starting to drag you into the next street. “You’re going straight to the authorities!”

“Wait,” Jimin intervened, thank God. “Weren’t you in need of a servant, maestro?”

“So?”

Jimin pointed at you with his gaze as though it was obvious. “You’re in need of a servant, she’s in need of a roof.”

“I would rather have a hand cut off.”

“I would rather have her hand cut off too.”

Jungkook tried to resume dragging you, but Jimin blocked his way with a soft smile. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N…”

“Do you know how to take care of a household?” Slowly, you nodded, melancholy engulfing you at the memory of cooking or sweeping the floor with your mother once upon a time. Somehow, she always found a way to make chores fun... “Then you qualify for the job. You’ll have three meals a day and a bed to sleep on. And you, maestro, a servant who’ll work her hardest, lest you fire her and she ends up in the streets again.”

Both you and Jungkook reluctantly glanced at each other. Truth be told, you didn’t prefer losing a hand to living with him, you just didn’t like him. Despite being a celebrity, he was a stranger. It just wouldn’t work.

But then, why were you holding your breath, hoping he’d accept?

“We shouldn’t have left Namjoon’s workshop. The marble is about to be delivered,” he said walking away. The air left your lungs in disappointment. It seemed you were to remain a stray cat. Jimin pressed his plump lips apologetically as he gave you enough coins to buy that bread, and you nodded, grateful all the same for his trying. You watched him rush to Jungkook’s side but when this one saw him, he turned around. “Hurry up, brat. If Taehyung gets that block of marble, I’ll not take you in.”

Since the first day, you could attest to Jeon Jungkook’s nature being as rough and uncouth as the rumours claimed, and after living alone with him for two months still believed gossip such as that he’d got the scar on his left cheek in a tavern fight—in which, if you’d chanced to be present, you would’ve rooted for the other individual.

It appeared it wasn’t just others Jungkook was harsh to. However rich his talent had turned him, he behaved like a poor man, consuming food and drink sparingly and out of necessity instead of pleasure, spending only the money required to live decently, sleeping little in order to work on commissions from dawn to midnight…

Why he chose to take little care of himself was a mystery to someone who previously had not been allowed a choice, even if putting work before all was in order to thwart Kim Taehyung’s plans of ruining his career, as he claimed. You doubted his rival was obsessed with him so, but had learned to agree with whatever Jungkook grumbled to avoid disputes. Most times.

Deep down, you had a feeling your boldness amused him. Who else dared get on his nerves?

“I think all you artists fluttering around the Pope are no more than slaves to money,” you let drop once while making his bed. Bam was sleeping peacefully under the window, while Jungkook leaning against the door’s frame behind you, offended to the core. He could help, you thought, or at least loosen my corset a little…

“I, a slave? I’ll be damned… There is an angel inside every block of marble, and I’ll have you know I carve to set it free.”

“Is it the angel that charges the Pope, then, master?” You could feel him barely restraining the urge to throw you out the window, smiled as you finished smoothing out the blankets.

“You missed a wrinkle there.”

Hands on your hips and frown on your brows, you examined the neatly arranged coverings of his bed. “Where?”

“On your face,” he muttered before making his leave.

Not his finest jibe, but the metaphor did stay with you. An angel inside the marble… It perhaps applied to Jungkook himself, though you’d never tell him.

One instance it came to mind was recently, when his assistants and apprentices were invited over for dinner.

Usually, he’d tell you which meals he liked and you’d ask at the marketplace which ingredients to buy, but now that about ten meals were to be cooked a list was needed. So there he sat on his desk in his study, inking said list as you waited in front of him, fiddling with the undershirt that peeked out of your dress’ sleeves. Given that your eyes were fixed on it, you only learned Jungkook was done when the sound of his quill scratching the paper ceased.

“Be back no later than dusk,” he ordered, “I bet there are still Germans and Spaniards lurking about.”

A year had passed since the Sack of Rome, but the mention of it sent a shiver of fear down your spine. Whatever the political reasons for it, you hated everyone involved, for Hell itself would’ve been a more beautiful sight to behold those nine months when the Tiber’s waters remained painted red…

You were lucky to make it through. Your family wasn’t.

“Yes, master.”

“Here,” he said handing you the paper, then picked another letter from a pile of correspondence he’d been going through before your arrival. Jungkook was about to snap its wax seal when he looked up to realise you hadn’t moved an inch. “Why are you here? Away with you!” He saw the reason in the way you avoided eye contact. “You can’t read, can you?” Met with a silence charged with embarrassment, he leaned back in his chair and sighed, “Give me the list.”

Getting hold of the quill again, Jungkook began… doodling?

You tilted your head but couldn’t see well what he was drawing until he finished and returned the list to you. Then, your lips parted. Each item on the list was illustrated next to its name: ten loaves of bread, a jug of wine, tortellini, four anchovies, two fennel soups…

“I’ll teach you to read when I have time. This will do for now.”

“You’d do that?” For me?

Jungkook ignored you, before he went back to reading his letters complimenting the good gesture with an irritated, “Hurry up.”

That night his co-workers arrived one by one, Jimin the first. The sight of him when you opened the door brightened up your mood.

Unlike a certain someone he was always sweet to you, genuinely interested to know how you fared even if you were just a servant. He claimed that mattered not to him, that you were both commoners and thus equals.

“Look at this place, it’s spotless! And you know I’m furtive, so I won’t get in your way,” you told Jimin as you escorted him through a hallway, bright from the torches hung on the walls that you’d lit up earlier.

He laughed, “I cannot make you my servant, Y/N, you’re maestro’s.”

“But he’s going to drive me mad… To tell you one of many examples, he often falls asleep in his clothes, and who but I is to take his boots off so they don’t get the sheets dirty? If the chalk on his fingers or the dust from the chiseling on his hair won’t already. Bam is far cleaner…”

Jungkook had a workshop he barely set foot in, preferred his team made use of it instead to not be bothered by their idiocy. His words. So it was in a chamber on the ground floor of this house he gave way to artistic insanity. In your book, that meant constant cleaning.

Jimin looked at you fondly. “Sounds nightmarish.”

“It truly is!”

As soon as the two of you entered the dining hall, Bam ran from Jungkook’s side by the fireplace to Jimin, who was as excited to see him.

“Good night, maes–”

“Do you think I’m deaf, ungrateful brat?” Jungkook interrupted him to bark at you. “Rome is full of people begging to get a piece of me, so if you don’t like it here, I’ll just get someone else!”

“You say that and yet keep me like a prisoner!”

“As if you don’t have it better here than anywhere you’ve burdened with your presence before!”

“There, there…” Jimin interjected to de-escalate, kneeling to better stroke Bam. “Maestro, I’ve seen your latest sketch of the Virgin and Child. She resembles Y/N.”

Both you and Jungkook failed to fight off the embarrassment, gazes unable to find a place to settle. Sitting down on the large table, he explained, “It was just one time… I had used Yoongi as a model, but the Madonna looked too masculine... and rather than going through the trouble of finding some girl and hiring her, I had Y/N pose for me… So what! Why bring it up out of nowhere…”

“Because maybe you just need a bit of distance from time to time. With permission, I too would have Y/N pose for m–”

“Absolutely not.”

“Now, why the hell not?” you groaned stamping your foot, startling poor Bam. Hope had been born inside you in a second and cruelly crushed in the next.

“Because I say so. And watch your tone with me.” As usual, the mutual glaring would trick anyone into thinking the next step would be murder. Jimin, who knelt there awkwardly, certainly thought so, at least until the bell rang. “Now go answer the door!”

What happened later, though, rendered the fury Jungkook had evoked in your heart nonexistent and instead seized the thing in a clasp of distress.

In the morning, he walked in when you were sweeping the kitchen. At once you forced the sobs to stop and turned around so he wouldn’t see you wipe your tears.

“It’s past nine, where’s breakfast?” he asked in shock that you hadn’t even started making it, the table there empty.

You swore under your breath before leaving the broomstick leaning against the nearest wall, flushed face kept out of Jungkook’s sight, then in a haste fetched a plate, a knife, and a leftover bread loaf. “Apologies, master, I forgot. I’ll be upstairs in a minute.”

Sniffling betrayed you, at which Jungkook frowned. “Are you crying?”

Great, the question just about especially designed to make one well up. Not trusting your voice anymore, you shook your head. Jungkook approached, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from the task at hand, now cutting a few slices of the bread.

“Have you broken something?” You shook your head again, the suppressed sobs making your chin tremble. Jungkook took a deep breath before asking with a surprisingly soothing tone, “Then what’s wrong?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Within an hour, he’d summoned a meeting consisting of all who’d attended dinner the previous night.

A seemingly calm Jungkook was sat at the head of the table, elbows sunk on it and fingers interlocked. You stood behind him, head still low out of shame. A tense silence had fallen in the chamber some time ago, and sick of it, Jimin shattered it.

“Have you anything to tell us, maestro?”

“I was waiting for Biagio to do so.”

The man was one of Jungkook’s favourite assistants who had worked with him for years, even longer than Jimin. And if it was possible for your position to be trickier, he belonged to some noble family.

“Me? But I’ve nothing to say, maestro.”

Jungkook leaned back in his chair. “My servant will, then. Y/N?”

Bastard. If you are going to fire me, why make me go through this?

“Last night, w-when I left this hall to go refill the wine jug… Messer Biagio followed me into the kitchen, and… h-he trapped me from behind, and started t-to touch me…” Your vision soon blurred, hence why you couldn’t see clearly how concerned Jimin was for you, or how Biagio jumped up in outrage. “I managed to push him away, and ran upst–”

“How dare you slander me, wench? Maestro, you do not believe this!”

“Do I not?”

“She’s lying! I caught her stealing sketches from your study, likely to sell them, so she’s trying to get rid of me!”

You almost scoffed. Only an idiot would choose the one occasion guests had come over and her absence would be noticed to carry out a theft.

Jungkook tilted his head. “I thought you had nothing to say. Why would you keep such a thing just now?”

Biagio gulped. “I deemed it best to mention it later, in private... You won’t believe a pickpocket before an old friend, will you?”

Silence returned, your breath still as you saw all the assistants and apprentices visibly take pity on him. The only one who didn’t was Jimin, but even on his face there was a hint of hesitation. Jungkook’s, you couldn’t see from behind, but after an eternity he stood up and walked over only to put a hand on the shoulder of Biagio, who smiled in relief.

A quiet sob broke through your lips, heart sinking. You’d needed Jungkook to believe you in this. Not because of the consequences his protection as your master could save you from, but because, like it or not… he was the closest thing to family you had.

It turned out he did believe you, judging by the punch landed on Biagio’s jaw out of nowhere. And the next one on his cheekbone, and on his nose. Before everyone around the table had barely stood up to stop Jungkook, he’d already thrown Biagio down and straddled him, pulling his doublet’s collar in a close, tight grip as he continued beating him up. Blood was drawn, but for once, you didn’t mind having to scrub it later.

Jungkook’s influence trumped a whole noble house’s, you learned in the course of the months Biagio tried his mightiest and failed most miserably to have him arrested. Perhaps because of the Pope sitting on his shoulder.

That he’d taken your side was still hard to believe, all he’d grumbled with a shrug when you thanked him while tending to his wounds from the fight being, “I’d been waiting for the chance. I always thought Biagio was a weasel.”

With the matter resolved, life returned to normal—well, whatever that meant in Jeon Jungkook’s household. Because calling for you at the top of his lungs like a madman was not normal. The first time he’d done it you’d raced downstairs, afraid something horrible had happened, only for him to have you close a window as it was getting chilly. Devil rot him. You rushed no longer after that, much to his complaints.

Today, he didn’t notice right away when you appeared under the cased opening, and good thing he didn’t, for he was polishing a bust with sandpaper… shirtless.

Product of hours carving stone into his desired shape or occasionally beating someone up, he could brag of having muscles, which the current task had covered in a layer of sweat and dust. The way they flexed with each movement had you compelled, wanting to reach out, feel if his skin was as hot as the blood pumping through your veins faster and faster. Then your gaze moved to the bust and whatever spell you were under broke.

Hardly an angel was that widowed noblewoman, whom you wished had stayed trapped inside a block of marble. Her name was Madonna Maddalena, and she’d come some weeks past to make a commission covered in pearls, gold, and boldness.

“My friends refused to accompany me today. You’re said to be… disagreeable, which I’m sure is untrue. However, all of them do want to know if you’re as fine-looking as is also rumoured, maestro” she told Jungkook within minutes of meeting him, still by the entrance!

Now you can tell them he’s not, you bit your tongue before it remarked, as this wasn’t Jimin but a patron not to be scared away by your bickering. It wouldn’t be true anyway. All your master lacked in manners, he made up for with looks… Which you’d never say out loud. You’d never say either that he looked even better when irked.

“I’ve heard many rumours about myself, most of them nonsense. My appearance was involved in none.”

She smiled seductively. “I suppose I’ll have to be the one to spread them.”

“The weather is pleasant today,” Jungkook changed the subject, flustered beneath the formal demeanour. “Shall we have wine in the garden?” You left to prepare it not before catching Maddalena raise her brow at you in disapproval. She must’ve been able to tell you thought she was a pompous cunt.

The beautiful flowers you cared for tried their best outside, but the air didn’t get any better.

Sat around a small table, Maddalena explained she wanted a bust of herself by his talented hand to decorate the main hall of her palazzo. You served them wine, not really listening until Jungkook started playing hard to get. The hundred times you’d told him it wasn’t a good tactic to make his labour out to be too prestigious had apparently fallen on deaf ears.

“Any other artist could carry this out, Madonna. I am working for the Pope these days…” he subtly scolded her, a mere mortal, for wasting his precious time. And he wondered why he had a reputation for being arrogant.

Maddalena put his thoughts into plain words, “So why should you stoop to taking commissions from an insignificant widow?”

“Correct,” you said under your breath, luckily heard by none from the background, where you stood holding a wine jug until the madonna raised her cup and you approached to refill it.

“It is then fortunate I’m to marry a nephew of the Pope’s.”

Swayed by her future influence, Jungkook smiled back. “So it is.”

“But not for another week. ‘Till then, I belong to no man.” The suggestion in her tone almost drove you to spill wine all over her. No, better yet: order Bam to sic on her. He’d do it.

Just, who did this woman think she was? And why did Jungkook not kick her out right afterwards? It made you wonder whether he’d enjoyed the flirtation. Whether he would’ve been the one to take things further had his inconvenient servant not been present. It was common for men to have affairs and lovers, but it didn’t sit well with you that Jungkook might. Not that you ever imagined him doing any of that, for goodness’ sake–

“What took you so long?”

Jungkook’s voice brought you back to the present, under the cased opening.

“I was lazing about, as always,” you quoted his favourite false reprimand, making him roll his eyes, your own dropping to the floor when he walked closer.

“In that case, prepare a bath for me.”

“Yes, master.”

You sighed at all the work ahead. That being a servant was worlds better than living in the streets didn’t mean you looked forward to collecting gallons of water from a well, carrying them back, heating them, transferring them to a tub, then washing Jungkook—because you did wash him.

Biagio had hurt his left shoulder bad and ever since, he’d needed assistance in certain activities. Curious how he could otherwise chisel a goddamned bust without problem.

Jungkook’s full nudity only made you blush if you stopped scrubbing, so knelt with tucked up sleeves before the wooden tub he was reclined on, scrubbing away the dirt on his skin with lavender-scented soap you were. Maybe all the stupid feelings you’d been suffering lately stemmed from there…

Head resting on the edge, he was exhausted from the long day of work, taking your rubbing as a relaxing massage. You, however, couldn’t ignore the stinging guilt, what with the scar on his shoulder right in front of your face. He probably felt your breathing on it.

“I’m sorry you got hurt…”

Jungkook fought heavy lids only to see you avoid him. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable in front of him was embarrassing, as when he’d caught you crying, but he didn’t take advantage of the fact to humiliate you. Jungkook may be an ogre, but he wasn’t cruel.

“I’ve received worse for less,” he assured you in a calm, low voice. It sounded soothing to your ears.

“That, I don’t doubt,” you scoffed, glancing at his other scar on the cheek. “Did you also get that one in defence of some lady?”

“You’re nowhere close to a lady.” It could be done, you mused. Drowning him. “This was courtesy of my brother.”

“You have a brother?” It dawned on you how little you knew of him. Surely, most had heard it all about the divine Jeon Jungkook, but you’d never cared enough to learn past the shell of gossip, even after months of living with him. In fairness, he’d never asked about you either. You preferred it that way.

“Brothers,” he corrected you. “The one who did this to me was a wayward fool. Had to teach him a lesson.”

“Looks like he taught one to you.”

“I left with a scratch, he with a limp.” The conception of two brothers hurting each other so harshly widened your eyes for a second, and Jungkook noticed, for he added, “He was whoring around, wasting the money I worked hard to send, bullying our other brothers as well.”

Much made sense about Jungkook all of a sudden. Not his personality, that was incomprehensible. But why he killed himself to earn money and yet barely spent it… He had a family to provide for. Once again, you were reminded of his metaphor. Could an angel be in there?

Carrying on washing Jungkook, you dragged the sponge over to his neck. Then his collarbones, his chest, his abs just peaking above the water... They did look like a sculpture’s, especially wet and soaped, reminiscent of polished marble when the light of the torches reflected on them. Swallowing hard, the back of your fingers gingerly graced Jungkook’s muscles, both soft and firm. Slippery. Whatever possessed you to keep feeling them, you lacked the will to expel from your body, and so without realising your grip on the sponge loosened until it fell to float away, fingertips now free to roam over his abs.

You were slowly trailing downwards, past the water’s surface, when your wrist was seized and held in the air in a warning manner, the startle almost making you scream.

Sat upright, Jungkook was glaring at you so fiercely you feared for your life. But he didn’t say anything and instead just breathed hard, jaw clenched… almost as if he was holding back. Your rising heartbeat was deafening in the silence waiting for something to happen, anything, but what did wasn’t what a side of you anticipated with excitement.

Jungkook just let go of your wrist and returned to his previous position, and you got hold of the sponge and finished washing him, albeit holding your breath the entire time.

Days later, you came dangerously close to being fired.

The Pope had summoned Jungkook—something about a portrait commission—and you were to carry his bag filled with sketches for him due to his shoulder injury. As you navigated the ever-busy streets of Rome with him, the cold autumn breeze made you regret not putting on an overgown. The cioppa you’d bought with your own salary and not stolen. It brought a smile to your lips that faded at the realisation your mother would’ve reminded you to put it on before going out.

The sorrow pestering you turned to confusion when Jungkook stopped walking and tsked, telling you loud enough to be heard by all, “Look at him, the chief of police, with such an assemblage.”

A well-dressed man and what appeared to be his entourage walked in your direction, halting near enough. You didn’t have to ask to know this was his rival, the renowned painter Kim Taehyung.

“Whereas you, like an executioner, walk alone,” he mocked Jungkook, then noticed you standing behind him like a timid child. “Not completely, my mistake. Maestro, where in your barren soil did you plant such a flower?” He walked over to you, intentionally bumping Jungkook’s wounded shoulder as he passed, causing him to grunt lowly. From up close one was bound to marvel at how handsome Taehyung was, but you didn’t need proximity to tell he was a prick. Miles away, you would’ve known. “Why don’t you come work for me, flower? I’ll make you my muse.”

Jungkook scoffed again, “What, for your horseshit paintings? She’d be a fool to.”

Taehyung turned around to face him, feigning confusion with a smile. “But, maestro, how could they be so if you were once heard saying that all I have in art, I got from you?”

"You naturally have to resort to plagiarising my master’s genius if all you do is horseshit,” you countered, earning surprised looks from every man present, some laughs too, you were proud to say. Jungkook was certainly smirking. Taehyung opened his mouth, but you walked past him uninterested before a response came out of it.

“Good girl,” Jungkook laughed while leaving the crime scene, and for some reason your cheeks burned hot.

The incident happened once inside the Vatican.

Its grandiose corridors alone made you feel small, too unimportant to walk them, whereas Jungkook did so with determination, knowing he belonged at the top of the world. What with your tempestuous relationship, it was easy to forget he was famous throughout Europe. His feet would still never be kissed by you. Someone had to humble the man, right?

At some point the two of you arrived at a door flanked by guards, and averse, you grabbed the sleeve of Jungkook’s doublet.

“Do I have to go in?”

“Too good for the Pope, are you?” He shook you off. “Come on.”

“Damn you…” you muttered.

“What did you just say to me?”

“After you, master.”

Telling himself he’d be late if he scolded you, Jungkook turned and nodded at the guards, who opened the door of a chamber whose walls were frescoed with angels and saints, likely by Taehyung, giving off the impression one was in Heaven. When you saw him sat on a golden chair, old and grey, enjoying the tune of a lute player, you felt as though you’d just entered Hell.

The audience lasted for ever. While you stood by the door, Jungkook showed the Pope some sketches of the portrait for him to choose his favourite and then they talked and talked of politics. All you could do was fix your gaze somewhere on the floor and sigh.

“Yes, Your Holiness, this is the servant I mentioned…” A frown proceeded your looking up to see Jungkook somewhat embarrassed, scratching his nose as if to hide his face. He talked of you to others? Doubtless to complain…

With a sweet voice as if he was talking to a little girl, the Pope asked you, “What is your name?”

“None of your business, Your Holiness.”

The musician’s tune ceased abruptly, allowing Jungkook’s faint gasp to be heard. Then fell a short silence spent by the Pope blinking, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

Jungkook was quick to fake a laugh, though sweat formed at his temples. “A jest! She meant no offence, Your Holiness, but to make you laugh.”

You held the Pope’s glare in defiance, indifferent to the fact he was the most powerful man in the whole of Christendom.

By some miracle, he let it go, and you left that chamber minutes later with your head as yet attached to your body. Your arm wouldn’t be for much longer, though, given Jungkook was forcibly dragging you all the way out to the streets, pushing you into the first alley he saw.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he shouted, towering over you menacingly. Unlike the day you’d met, you weren’t scared, rather furious as him as you stood your ground. “That was the Pope, you fool!”

“So?”

Jungkook was in utter disbelief. “He could’ve ordered your execution– mine too!”

“Well, nothing happened!”

“Nothing?! I’m sure to fall out of favour!” He paced around, anxiety quickening his breath. “Years of pouring my soul into my craft, of grovelling before the right people, all thrown away! Good God, your attitude may cost me everything…”

“And what about me?! Everything lost to me does not matter?!”

Jungkook stopped to frown. “What the hell are you talking about?”

It was now you who walked up to him. “I didn’t have a job, or a reputation, or admirers. I had only a family, and I never wished for anything else! That monster you work for took them from me. When the foreigners’ armies came and everyone rushed to Castel Sant’Angelo, he gave the order to close the gates as soon as he was safe behind them! You must have been there with him, weren’t you? Well, we weren’t. We were left outside to be slaughtered. And I wish I had been, like my parents, so I didn’t have to suffer the likes of you any longer!”

Tears were streaming down your face by the end, Jungkook just staring back at you. It didn’t surprise him that your parents were dead or that they’d been killed during the Sack, but that it was so deep a wound left festering in your heart that you didn’t mind being put out of misery. He surmised your disrespectful behaviour towards him was also fruit of your pain, especially if you deemed him an ally of the one who caused it.

“The few things I own… They’re wasted on me. Throw them away or give them to your next servant,” you sobbed, taking for granted you were fired. Anyone with half a brain would indeed have you dismissed, and part of you knew it was bound to happen, that you would go back to breaking in fucking churches to spend the night.

So you turned around into the main street, set on wandering until your legs became too sore not to collapse. With any luck, a carriage would run over you. But warmth then surrounded your hand, and you looked down to see Jungkook’s holding it tight enough to force you to halt. Though still mad, a hint of compassion sparkled in his eyes.

“Let’s… Let us just go home.”

Home. His house had felt so for a while now, truth be told. Himself too.

After that, you non-verbally agreed on a ceasefire—avoiding quarrels, that is, which was quite the task for both.

Such as now that Jungkook had you inking down a letter in his name. First of all, did you look like a scribe? If you’d known in advance the lazy arse would teach you to read and write for this, you’d have chosen to remain illiterate. And second, this was your short break before making dinner, intended to be spent playing with Bam. The poor thing was also in the study, at least being stroked by his owner, who was sat beside you on the desk.

“… I send you my regards, may God keep you from all harm. Jeon Jungkook in Rome,” he finally finished dictating, and you recording. “Give it to me, I’ll seal it.”

He was melting the wax with which to do so when the bell rang, to his surprise. Sighing, you stood up and went to open the door to whom turned out to be Jimin. The sight of him brightened you up, and yours stretched his lips into a smile.

“Evening, Y/N.”

“Good evening! I didn’t know the master was expecting you.”

“He isn’t…” You welcomed him in, brows joining at how he continuously chewed on his aforementioned lip and breathed deep through his nose as he followed you. Had something happened…? A decision to eavesdrop was made en route to the study.

Though Jimin requested for you to stay once there, and nothing could have prepared you for the reason why.

“This actually concerns Y/N…” You and Jungkook exchanged confused looks, him leaning against the desk and crossing arms as though he didn’t like the sound of that. Jimin fixed his already perfect clothes before addressing him, “I’ve come to ask for her hand in marriage.” Your jaw dropped. “I know it’s sudden at the lack of previous courtship, but I thought I should ask for your permission before engaging in it, maestro. She’s a lovely girl… and I think she’d be happy as my wife. Worry not, I won’t ask for a dowry or for her to stop working… Although on second thought, fewer hours of service would be ideal.”

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be happening.

Jungkook must be thinking the same, for he squinted to ask, “Are you drunk?”

“N-No, of course not.”

“Are you sure? You want to marry a servant with little to her name.” He had a point, so you weren’t offended. If politics weren’t the reason for a union, did this mean… Jimin had feelings for you?

“Maestro, you say it as if I were a lord,” he chuckled. “I don’t care about Y/N’s possessions, I’ll provide for her anyway. I’ve… always been fond of her. And I dare say she shares the sentiment.”

Betrayal hid safely behind a look that asked if there was any truth to that. Obviously not! There was no romance in your own fondness for Jimin. If anything, you had thought he saw you as a younger sister to look after, therefore as a protective older brother you saw him. But so shocked were you still that no words managed to come out, and Jungkook’s gaze shifted back to Jimin.

“I’ll think about it. You may go.”

A curt tone was the norm for Jungkook, it was not being granted his blessing that disappointed Jimin. He knew for a fact he was an honourable man, so why wouldn't he entrust you to him?

“Quite well… I’ll show myself out.” he uttered, before making his leave failing to hide his low spirit by giving you one last shy smile you hadn’t the heart to return.

An awkward silence filled the air that even Bam daren’t break. Only once the front door was heard shutting did you walk closer to Jungkook.

“You won’t agree to this, will you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? I have to get rid of you at some point.”

“Rid of me? Like I’m a burden?” you asked, voice rising. How a servant could be so was unknown to you until, like wooden ship toys did when you’d submerge them in a bucket of water as a child, certain guesses surfaced in your thoughts. Trying to pickpocket him, the constant clashing, Biagio, that bath, the Pope… Yes, you may perhaps be described as a burden. But you didn’t want to leave. With a calmer tone, you pleaded, “I’ll behave from now on. I won’t cause any more trouble, I swear.”

Jungkook didn’t deign to look your way as he left, followed by Bam. “You have to marry at some point, Y/N. Otherwise people will gossip.”

Since when did he care about what people said of him? And why should you?

Winter having dropped its anchor, nightfall arrived early. Not early enough, you brooded as you cooked dinner, longing for the day to end once and for all. With any hope, all of this was a nightmare and upon waking up in the morning life would go back to normal. You didn’t even know why you wanted to stay with Jungkook, as the occasions in which you’d begged Jimin to employ you to leave this house were countless. The only certain thing was that you were upset.

Later, after washing all plates and cups, you began to put off all torches lighting the house, finding out in the hall that Jungkook hadn’t moved from the seat he’d dined in. You considered carrying on with your job and leaving him in the dark, but he wouldn’t find it as funny. Instead, you stood before him.

“Will that be all, master?”

The coldness in your expression made him sigh, “Y/N–”

“I shall retire, then.” You turned to leave but were made to stop in your tracks.

“It’s an advantageous proposal for you,” he lectured to whom he must believe an idiot. “Jimin works for me, he’s wealthy. A better match than you could ever aspire to. And he asks for no dowry because he doesn’t want money, he wants you…” His words were tainted with resentment. “He’ll take good care of you.”

Skirt of your dress swirling along, you faked a smile. “If you think so, master, then it must be so.”

He shook his head as he leaned back in defeat. “Suit yourself, but I won’t be the one to reject Jimin. You crush his heart.”

A laugh escaped you. “If you genuinely cared about him, you wouldn’t let him marry a woman in love with–” Oh no. It only hit you as you were saying it.

Jungkook had appeared annoyed, but now he was mad. “Who?” He stood up abruptly—chair’s feet scratching against the floor making you wince—and walked so close you were backed against the wall, face forced to turn to a side. In a low, deep voice, he repeated, less as a question and more as an order this time, “Who.”

There was no way in the nine circles of Hell you’d say it, when you didn’t want to believe it in the first place. For fuck’s sake, why? Jungkook only ever made you want to get away from him. That was the case right now, but then… why were your feet frozen?

Some unreasonable part of you seemed to have prevailed upon the others, casting away all resistance from your body and allowing yourself to indulge in Jungkook’s proximity. You met his eyes without fear, held his dark gaze. It didn’t take him long to work it out, yet he kept close, so close your unsteady breaths mingled, the effect akin to intoxication. He was visibly trying to hold back, telling himself it’d be a bad idea, but you prayed he wouldn’t care.

By God or the Devil, your prayers were heard.

Jungkook finally smashed his lips into yours, devouring them with a hunger you shared and felt growing as he gripped your waist to press you against him. A minute ago, you wouldn’t have imagined his tongue belonged inside your mouth, swirling around your own, and now you wanted it all over your body. As if reading your mind, Jungkook broke the ardent kiss to move down to your neck, which he licked painfully slowly before sucking hard, making you hiss with pleasure. He knew that would leave a mark, the bastard. You wondered if it was meant for Jimin, so he’d see you were Jungkook’s, and in such case you didn’t mind, let your eyelids close to enjoy it.

Steered by the lust possessing you, one hand grabbed his soft hair in a fistful, keeping his head in place where he was sweetly abusing your neck, while the other travelled southwards until it reached his crotch and held it over the trousers, feeling his cock stiffen. Jungkook groaned—a vibration to your skin—in retaliation lifting your skirt. You’d thought he'd take his time, tease you, but after ensuring you were wet enough by gliding his middle finger along your core, he slid it inside and began making beckoning motions.

“Master…” you moaned, legs shaking. Jungkook forsook your neck to pull back, watch how you struggled to keep it together as he added another finger, curling and uncurling them both, hitting all the right places, and unwilling to give him that satisfaction without consequences you groped his erection with the same vigour. Although he was in good control of his expression, his breath quivered against your lips, so he kissed them again, biting hard into your lower one.

He exhaled, “You’re driving me to sin…”

Indeed, the same fingers that held the brushes when he painted religious artwork were buried deep inside your cunt, bringing you the most sinful ecstasy. It made you chuckle. Jungkook took that as the mockery it was and, crossed, pulled his fingers out of you to drag you by the arm to the edge of the table, where he had you sit. Without delay he lifted your skirt again, only this time he also pulled down his trousers to reveal his cock, thick and throbbing, which he pumped as he watched you spread your legs eagerly, ready to take all of him.

With his free hand Jungkook cupped your cheek, thumb caressing your lower lip, coated with saliva and reddened still from when he’d bit it. He could sense your desire, that you craved him inside, had for a while. Desperately. And however much tempted he was to make you beg for it, his own arousal led his cock to your entrance and eased it inside already, another groan hitting the back of his bared teeth. You didn’t have time to gasp, his thrusts so quick they earned only moans, so wonderful did it feel.

Jungkook’s hand on your cheek then wrapped around your neck. “Do you know how often I’ve fantasised strangling you?”

You chuckled again as you slapped him across the face. Jungkook halted his movements in shock, glared at you. “And I slapping you?”

It took him a moment, but he scoffed and pushed you back so that you were lying down, climbing next atop you, confident that the wooden table was sturdy enough to hold both. So legs hooked around his torso and arms around his neck, you welcomed his thrusts, rough enough to make your eyes water. But it felt heavenly, how he ravished you... The mutual irritation and tension building up for over half a year translated into indescribable pleasure.

He kissed you again, flicking his tongue against yours as he pounded into you without mercy. Overwhelmed by the sensation, all you could do to express you were nearing your limit was sink your nails into Jungkook’s biceps at each side of you, moan inside his mouth. He took the hint and fucked you as fast as his body would allow, within mere seconds your walls clenching tight around him. The sight of you collapsing under him, overcome with bliss, made him reach his own highest shortly, spurting his warm seed inside you.

As his movements gradually ceased, so did your panting. Before a complete silence fell, you asked, “Am I still to marry Jimin?”

Jungkook grabbed your face and growled against your pouted lips, “You’re not going anywhere.”

#bts au #jeon jungkook #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #bts jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts #bts x reader #bts fanfiction #bts scenarios #bangtan imagine #bts smut #jeon jungkook scenarios #bts fic #jeongguk #bangtan #bts x you

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i-am-hungry-24-7 · 2 months

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[I almost killed your boss with my grilled cheese sandwich]- Mafia!TF141*F!Reader

Summary: You sigh when it's the fifth time someone fights in your poor tea shop this month. You just open it two months ago, in an area ruled by mafia called '141'. Maybe you should find their boss and give them money or what to stop the bullshit keeps happening in your shop. (well, here they come)

Mafia!TF141*F!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

After the unexpected encounter with Soap and Ghost, your shop finally owns the vibes of peace.

The customers become so ‘normal’, almost feels like you aren’t in the same area as before – if you ignore the blood on their shirts or recall the memory of seeing them punching someone across the street. You assume the men must tell them to behave in your shop, but you must say the minions become a bit overreacting. They call you ma'am, chat as quietly as possible, and one of them even apologizes when he accidentally touches your finger as if you will chop off his pinky. You start doubting if they view you as a secret henchman of 141.

It’s morning now, the shop usually has more people at this time, but you haven’t had a single customer since you opened it 30 minutes ago, they just vanished without any hint, hence you start testing out new recipes for your bread.

Lilting the song that’s fully out of tune, you slice the bread you just baked into pieces, and throw one into your mouth. Perfectly crunchy outside, fluffy like clouds inside. Oh my, you’re such a genius.

You’re totally unaware of your visitor until he stirs the air with a cough and his voice.

“Pardon me?” He calls you again, but you’re left in a trance when you land your eyes on him.

Damn, he looks just like your imagination of the man in the Dilf next door fic you just read yesterday on co5. Your eyes travel from his well-trim beard, south to his belted waist. Why does a man with a toned body – which his khaki coat can’t even hide – have such a tiny waist? Your mouth's agape at the sight as you’re about to respond.

“mmsadjsmm” The man raises his eyebrow in confusion, and you hear your voice not forming a proper sentence too. Ah, you forgot the bread’s still stuffed in your mouth.

“ehemm, Sorry Sir, I mean what would you like to have?” Quickly swallow the bread and try to pretend you didn’t just dumbfounded in front of him, you speak again.

“English breakfast, please.” He croons with an infatuating smile as he saunters to take a seat.

His voice is quite soothing, you admit in your mind as you start brewing said man’s tea, just like you presumed the Dilf in the fic… okay, you really should clear those nasty brainrots during work.

The tea is nicely served in the tea cup and brought to the man shortly after.

You can’t help the smile crawling onto your face when you see him grin at you after a sip. You love watching your customer enjoy your tea, and he obviously relaxes with it have you bask in your achievements.

“Don’t finish your breakfast?”

“Just trying a new recipe. I want to add it to my menu.” you reply with a shake of your head, and after a brief halt, you add a question “ Have you eaten breakfast yet, Sir”

“Call me John, love.” The man – John sets his cup on the table before continuing “And no, I haven’t”

“Then… would you like to have a grilled cheese sandwich? I can’t finish the bread myself, it would be great if someone could help me with it... Of course, it isn’t a must!" You hurriedly complement when John widens his eyes slightly at your suggestion, but he meets your eyes with interest within.

”I would love to.”

You beam up as you get the affirmation, and walk behind your counter again.

Slices of bread are already prepared. The pro tip for a delicious grilled cheese sandwich is giving the bread some nice seasoning first, so you pick up your black pepper jar before inquiring about John’s preference.

“How much pepper would you like, John?”

“Would be great if it’s more.”

“Alright.”

You turn back to season the bread, but when you pick up the pepper jar and about to shake it, a question slips into your brain making you pause.

How much is “more”?

The man doesn't have time to sit here and wait for you to contemplate the philosophy of seasoning, so after biting your bottom lip and thinking for 30 seconds, you shake the jar. More is better, you recall what John told you as your hand keeps moving.

You shake it 10 times, since more is better.

Apart from the bread, you hold full confidence in your grilled cheese sandwich. Placing generous amounts of cheese in between, the coveted smell flooded your little shop as you plate the well-toasted sandwich.

“It surely smells great.” John praises before diving in.

You hang a big expecting grin until John takes a bite and starts coughing like you will put him into the ER with a sandwich.

“It’s– it’s okay…love…” He tries to comfort you when you apologize abundantly and rush back to your counter to fill him a cup of water. Holy, isn’t more pepper better? Now you're going to send the man to heaven with a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Here’s water!” You go back to John as fast as you can with the cold water in your hand, you’re busy checking out John, who stops coughing madly but cheeks pink with the spices, and you don’t see the leg of the chair sticking out of its usual place.

A pair of arms catch you from slamming onto the floor, but the cup isn’t that lucky as it flies with Newton’s help and clatters on the floor.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!” You stabilize yourself in John’s support. But wow, now the man not only just recovered from a fatal attack to his throat, but also has a wet spot spreading along the chest part of his shirt.

“No worries, love. It’s just a shirt.”

Even though John attempts to calm you, you still can’t help the sheepishness creep to your cheeks and stain it with the same pink as John’s, or stop thinking about if the balance in your bank account is able to buy the man a new shirt. You remember you wanted to get some cash out of the cashpoint but it shoved an ‘insufficient funds :(‘ into your face.

You really don’t want any customers to come in right now, even if it means your little tea shop will close down because you only have one from the start of today, but fate always gifts you things you crave when you don’t need them.

“Sorry boss, I’m late.”

You look at the tan-skinned man standing like a model just escaped from his manager, staring at you shoving a towel on John’s chest and both of your cheeks smeared with suspicious red.

“What happened?”

I almost murdered your boss with my grilled cheese sandwich. Apparently, you can’t answer with this, so you face John for help.

and he’s looking at you too, with a sly smirk awaiting your explanation.

You wonder if you can just make two sandwiches to shut these men up, with one more for yourself to end this predicament now.

a/n: ty for reading :D have a nice day/night!

No John Price is harmed in this chapter.

tag list :D - @blackhawkfanatic @nexthyperfix @danielle143

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saintslaughter-a · 2 years

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ya boi found the secret to great meatloaf tonight and i think that means i passed at life and can quit whenever now.

#mun;;#tbd;;#we were out of bread crumbs and crackers so of course i used 2/3 of the last shake and bake #i had a silent breakdown in the car while my mom belted out ring of fire like its a thing to do

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peetaslefttoe · 1 year

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@dumbpuss

Peeta x Fem! Reader. Maybe they’re at the bakery? Like you know he’s teaching reader how to bake and how to knead bread and it’s all sensual. The reader and him are together but because of his games things have been like really stiff between them? You can go wild with the details!

warnings: p in v, slight choking, AFAB reader

summary: request above 🫶

author’s note: ahhh thank you for the request i love this idea, i hope i did it justice <33

Masterlist pinned xx

The sweet aroma of flour and cinnamon filled your nose. Peeta stood beside you wrapped in an apron, he’s hands preparing ingredients from memory. You finally got this time to be alone with him. Things had been tense between you two since his return from the arena and this was just what you needed. You sit on the wooden counter top beside him while he works on a loaf.

“Okay, so now that we’ve made the dough, you need to knead it out,” he patted your waist urging you to jump down. You stood between his warm arms watching his hands carefully. He massaged the dough, rolling it under his strong hands. You felt a warmth growing in your stomach, his steady hands against the palpable dough and his torso supporting your back. You leaned back into his heat looking up at him.

“The dough darling, look back at the dough,” he smirked noticing the way you looked at him. You obliged looking down once more. You couldn’t help your thoughts wandering looking at his large hands. Imagining them around your neck, his comforting touch all over your body, his skilled fingers working into you. After what felt like ages he had molded the dough onto a sheet.

“Okay, now we put it in the oven, just turn the heat up,” you turned the dial all the way. “Perfect,” his praise brought fire to your cheeks. You stood back admiring his handwork as he placed the loaf into the burning oven, shutting the metal door behind it. He turned back to the counter patting the wood in front of him expectantly. You hopped up sitting down and looking into his big hazel eyes. He placed his muscled arms on either side of your hips.

“You’re not very discreet sweet girl,” he whispered, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“What’do you mean?” you asked, your voice breaking when you felt his splayed hand on your lower back.

“What were you thinking about Y/N?” he smirked at you cheekily.

“The bread…?” you replied shakily, his hands coming to rest on your hips.

“Ah ah, don’t be sassy with me sweetheart, tell me what you were thinking about,” he said lowly, maintins eye contact.

“Your… hands,” you finally said looking down at your lap. He tilted your chin back up, looking you in your eyes.

“Mhm and what were my hands doing?” he pushed further.

“Touching me…” you whimpered, his hands dipping down to run along the waistband of your skirt.

“Like this?” Peeta whispered, before cupping your face and kissing you gently. He pulled you closer deepening the kiss, his tongue pushing into your mouth. He wound his hands into your hair tugging gently making you whimper.

“I wanted us to have a nice date after all the time apart, but your obsession with my hands is driving me crazy Y/N,” Peeta finally gasped out through the kiss. You leaned back capturing pointer figure in your mouth.

“Peeta,” you moaned against his hand, suckling on his finger.

“Fuck,” he whimpered, his dominant facade fading away with the dance of your tongue on his fingers.

“Peeta, please, fuck me,” you whispered, kissing his hand and dragging your fingers up his back. He untied his apron and reached for his belt buckle. You stopped him, pushing his hands out of the way and undoing it for him. You pulled his pants and boxers down, his hard cock slapped against his toned torso. He gathered up your skirt holding it firmly at your waist. He hooked his fingers into your panties teasingly, he dragged them slowly down your thighs.

“Peeta please, I need you,” you groaned begging him to move faster. He removed your underwear completely before lifting your legs so your feet were on the counter, spreading you for him.

“My hands really made you this wet darling?” he said smugly. You whined bucking towards him. He smirked up at you and ran his hand through your soaked folds.

“Peeta,” you whimpered.

“What’s wrong sweet girl? I thought you liked these hands?” he teases you further, circling your clit.

“Peeta! Please stop teasing, fuck me please,” you begged shamelessly for his cock. He stood, pressing a kiss to your lips before turning his attention to your neck suckling and nibbling on the exposed skin. Just as you were about to open your mouth and beg him once again you feel him start to push into you. His thick dick enters you inch by inch. You wrap your arms around him tightly adjusting to his size.

“Just breath sweetheart,” he whispers. “Tell me when I can move,” he presses a gentle kiss to your temple. You breath for a few moments before you nod against his chest signalling him. Sometimes the way Peeta switches from his sweet passionate self to confident and dominate surprises you. One second ago he was kissing you gently checking that you were okay the next he has you pinned to the counter, his hand firmly around your neck. You moan loudly as he squeezes your throat tightly while ramming into your wet cunt.

“This is what you wanted isn’t it, you wanted my hands wrapped around your throat didn’t you?”

“Yesss,” you gasp through his rough strokes.

“That’s my girl, taking me so well aren’t you?” he gruffly speaks your praise. He drills into you, the bakery filling with the sound of your skin meeting. He moves the hand around your neck onto the counter beside your head for support with the other he dips his fingers into your empty mouth. Without pause you pull his warm hand into your mouth, suckling and licking his finger tips. He grips your jaw tightly with his thumb while you drool onto your chin and along his wrist. You moaned around his fingers feeling tension build in your core.

“You’re close aren’t you? Cum for me, please Y/N, cum all over me,” you whine at his words thrusting against his dick. With his words the heat inside you snaps flooding you with euphoria. Your pussy clenches around his thick cock, he whimpers, slumping over you while he wildly fucks your pulsing hole, filling you with his warm cum. He slows his thrusts riding his high while you embrace him, stroking his blonde hair.

#fanfiction writer #imagines #smut #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark smut #peeta mellark #peeta supremacy #peeta x reader #peeta #peeta smut #the hunger games #thg x reader #thg #thg fanfiction #thg smut #team peeta #thg peeta #the hunger games peeta

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frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe · 4 months

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hey so i finally wrote more witch au!

enjoy, friends!! though it's significantly shorter than the first part

pairing: steddie | word count: 2,004 | rated: T

Mama thinks that Steve’s had a love spell on him this whole time.

“Since when?” He’d asked.

“I don’t know, my dear, maybe since before you were even born.”

“What?! How?! I thought you said there was no such thing as love spells!” He knows that’s not true.

“There are none that are worth the pain.” she repeats, trying to placate him.

“Yeah, well.” Steve huffs, dropping his hands to his hips and heaving a sigh.

“But there are some that are rumored to be true love spells, soulmate spells.” She continues on when she sees the look on his face. “Rumored, Steven, only ever rumors.”

“Okay, so what do the rumors have to say about them?”

“Every spell like that I’ve ever heard of of this nature is specific to each caster.”

“So I’ve had this spell on me for possibly my whole life, and there’s no way to know anything about it or about the caster.”

“...I’m sorry, honey.”

“Maybe there are clues in the words you have.” Robin cuts in, reaching for the notepad and sliding it in front of her.

Steve huffs, “I need to know the whole thing; there’s definitely words missing.”

“Should you eat more bread?” Robin asks, already sliding the previously abandoned plate of bread towards him.

“You shouldn’t overwhelm yourself.” Mama says, pushing the plate back. “We don’t know if there’s a trigger to the spell, or if you and the caster’s paths will just cross one day, maybe they don’t even know they cast it.”

Steve blinks at her. “So I have a true love and they might not even want me?”

“No!” Robin belts out immediately.

“No, of course not,” Mama says, continuing on. “The one known thing about any spell like this is that they only work on those who are receptive to it.”

“So some weirdo can’t put you under their spell?”

“Yes, exactly Robin; Steve, whatever this is, whoever this was, they love you with all that they are. And you them.”

“I don’t even know who it is! How can I?”

Mama doesn’t have an answer besides saying “Your soul must know them already.”; Their conversation was over soon after that.

Steve spends the next couple days silent and brooding. He can’t stop thinking about how he’s what, marked to love someone he doesn’t even know? How’s that fair?

It could be any random person on the street that thought he was hot, some weird old guy or a lovesick middle schooler..He only just turned 25 the day before the bread incident, but he’s saddled with this huge unknown that isn’t going to get better any time soon?

Okay, apparently not just some weirdo according to Mama, but still. Un-fucking fair all the same.

He’s also pissed that he can’t give anyone all the baked goods he’s made within that time. Each and every one of them ending up with a sour aftertaste.

“Damn witch bullshit…” he grumbles to himself, only half serious, as he scrapes another batch of sour sugar cookies into the trash.

He’s salty, okay? Pun intended. If he hadn’t ever learned the truth about the powers over food his grandmother (and now him too, apparently) has, he could’ve just excused the batch after batch being off on bad butter, or old flour.. Something other than his mood being what’s ruining his cookies.

That’s what he’d done every other time something he’s made tasted off, now he knows it was him the whole time.

Mama comes in then, he doesn’t have to look up to know the look she’s giving him.

Steve leaves the bowl of leftover dough on the counter, mumbles out a “I gotta go.”, then tromps out the back door and into the woods behind his grandparents’ home.

He supposes it’s good that they live just outside the city, really, having the trees to escape under like this has helped him before, and he’s hoping will help him now.

Meandering through the underbrush, he strolls along until he reaches the small clearing he’d claimed for himself when he was what, 8? 9? Doesn’t matter. It’s his spot to get away from anything he needs to.

He sits down against the big oak at the edge of the clearing and tips his head back toward the sun filtering down on him through a gap in the canopy above him. He breathes in the fresh air, focuses on the warmth hitting his face, and just exists there for a while, slipping in and out of a soft snooze.

Suddenly, he’s shocked out of his dozing by the sound of twigs snapping underfoot.

If it were coming from behind him, he’d expect it’d be Robin coming to find him here, but it’s not. It’s coming from ahead of him across the clearing.

Steve stands and presses back into the trunk of the tree, wondering if there’s bears in these woods when a person stumbles through the tree line.

The man is thin, about Steve’s age if he were to guess, and covered in dirt, his light wash overalls and his boots are caked in it. His hair is long, pulled half-back away from his face and full of bracken from the forest.

He also seems to be in a daze, staring with dark eyes at Steve with an unfathomable expression.

It shifts soon after, though, warming into a watery smile. “I’ve come home to you.” he says, clear as day, then collapses onto the grass.

“Oh, shit!” Steve rushes forward, kneeling down beside the man and quickly checking him over for injuries.

Steve presses his fingers to the man's pulse confirm it's still there (it is) and there don’t seem to be any bruises or breaks in his limbs, so he goes to his head, feeling quickly under the tangles in his hair for any blood, any knots.

Nothing. There’s nothing apparently outwardly wrong with him.

“Hey, hey, wake up! You gotta stay with me, man.” he says, shaking him lightly.

The other man’s head lolls to the side and his eyes open a crack, his lips quirking up into a smile. “M’love…”

“What is your name?” Steve insists in a slow, clear voice.

Instead of answering, the man raises his hand slowly to cup Steve’s cheek. “...v’wait’d so long..” he slurs, then goes limp again, his hand dropping to his chest.

“Oh no you don’t,” Steve gets his feet under him and gathers the man up into his arms in a bridal carry. His steps falter when he feels how light the man is in his arms, how much more thin he is than how he’d looked.

Steve adjusts his hold on him, making sure not to let his head hang backward over his forearm, and rushes back toward the house.

“Mama!” he shouts as soon as he clears the treeline into the yard.

She’s at the back sliding door as soon as he is. “Steve, honey, what—”

He pushes past her, hurrying to the spare room on the first floor with her on his heels. “I found him wandering the woods, I couldn’t just–I don’t know what’s wrong with him, Mama.”

She gestures him forward to the bed, “Put him there, on top the covers,”

He does, setting him down as if he’s made of glass.

As soon as the man is out of his arms, Mama takes his place. “Nothing seems broken, but he’s so light, he needs food, he needs water, should I call 911? I don’t even know his na—” he rambles on, not even realizing he’d started to pace until his grandma stops him in his tracks.

“Steve, listen to me.” she says, pulling at his wrists gently, removing his hands from his hair. “He will be fine. Now, go get a bowl of warm water and a washcloth and come straight back here.”

He nods dazedly, stumbling backward out the doorway and spinning to the kitchen.

Steve slides to a stop on the tile floor in front of the kitchen sink at the same time Robin gets home from her classes that day.

“I have a date!”

Wait, he needs the bowl first. He scrambles to the opposite counter for the large mixing bowl Mama uses for her damn bread and fishes it out with a clatter of everything that that had been in front of it on the shelf tumbling out to the floor.

“Steve?”

Should he put soap in it?

“Steve!”

No, Mama just said ‘warm water’, not ‘warm soapy water’. He nods to himself and turns on the tap, reaching under the sink next for a washcloth.

“Steven Otis Harrington.”

“Oh, hey Robin, you’re home.” The bowl’s almost full.

“Steve.” She spins him to face her, holding tightly to his shoulders.

He tries to twist back around futilely, “The bowl–”

“Steve. What. Is. Happening.”

He blinks at her a couple times. “Robin!” He pulls her to him in a tight hug. “Holy shit, you’re not gonna believe–”

“Steve, the bowl?”

“Shit,” It’s nearly full when he shuts off the tap, so he dumps a bit out and picks it up with both hands, “C’mon, he’s this way.”

“He? Who’s he?”

“Dunno, I found him in the woods.”

“Aw, Steve, you can’t just take in any ol’ stray dog you happen to find out in the wood—-” Robin cuts herself off as they get to the bedroom door. “Ohhkay…so..not a dog.”

“He looks to be dehydrated, but I don’t think he has any injuries.” Mama says in lieu of a greeting when they return. Steve sits down on the opposite edge of the bed that she is, and carefully passes over the bowl of water without looking at her.

The stranger immediately takes in his attention. His soft features, dark brows…Steve starts to pull the bits of brush out of the man’s hair, untangling twigs, leaves, and he can already see one of those pesky prickle things twisted into the hair next to his ear.

Mama sets the bowl on the sidetable, and gets to work immediately, wiping the dirt and grime from the man’s face and arms. “Robin dear, can you grab one of those sports drinks Pa loves so much outta the fridge? And a bottle of water.”

“Of course!” she says, darting back into the kitchen.

“We’ll need to get some food in him too,”

“We should make him scones.” Steve states apropos of nothing. “With chocolate chunks.”

“Maybe after he’s a bit better, sweetie.” Mama scoffs, wringing out the washcloth. “He needs healthy fats first, butter, oatmeal, avocado, things like that.”

“I can do that!” Steve says, jumping up excitedly. His former task forgotten, he rushes out of the bedroom and to the kitchen, nearly bowling Robin over in the process.

He gets to work on simple eggs and toast for their houseguest, avoiding Mama’s lucky bread in favor of his own store-bought stuff for now, he can make him his own later.

As he scrambles the eggs, he focuses everything in him on the stranger, on getting him better, making him healthy again. He’s not exactly quite sure how to do what Mama does, but the sour cookie dough says he’ll do it without thinking about it…kinda.

Whatever.

All he knows is that he’s telling the fuck outta these eggs to make his love better. Make him whole again.. Make him—

Wait..

Did he just refer to the random man laid up in the other room as his love?

Is…

The fugue state he’d been in since first laying eyes on the man crackles away just long enough for him to think.

What did he say before he collapsed? "I've come home to you."?

That..sounds right....why is that so famili—

Steve's eyes leave the pan of eggs in front of him and snap immediately to the scrap of paper he'd scrambled for a few nights ago.

Is he…?

And of course, as if the words weren't already plastered permanently onto his grey matter, there they are, plain as day.

tagging those that were interested on the last part!!! @mugloversonly @kittydeadbones @maybequizas @queenie-ofthe-void @newtstabber @angeldreamsoffanfic @eyesofshinigami @sunflower-trashbaby @perseus-notjackson @kaspurrcat @quinns-shadowy-arts

also, idk if this counts for it, but one of february's songs for @steddiesongfics is work song! which is what this fic is based on! 😊😊

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #witch!eddie #witch!steve #work song #hozier #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #stranger things #st #robin buckley #eddie munson x steve harrington #steve has good grandparents #steveddie #eddeve #witch au #noelle writes

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red1culous · 9 months

Text

Bite

You call out for her shutting the front door and rifling through the stack of letters you retrieved from the mailbox. Kicking off your shoes and haphazardly throwing your jacket onto the clotheshorse you mindlessly walk through the apartment.

“This place smells heavenly” you remark nose still buried in the stack of envelopes.

You hear her chuckle from the kitchen. “In here” she calls out to you.

You chuck the letters on the side table and walk into the kitchen. The oven must be on, you think to yourself as you’re enveloped by warmth and the sound of music playing softly.

Your eyes dance across the countertop. It looks as though everything is covered in a fine mist of flour. She turns to face you and smiles.

You scrunch your nose a little. “You’re baking” you say.

She answers with a chuckle. “You say that like you’re surprised.” She takes a sip of coffee from the large steaming mug beside her. Looking at you from over the rim of the mug you see her eyes twinkle mischievously.

“I mean…” you try.

“Wanda’s not the only one who can cook around here.” She says before turning her back on you to continue doing whatever she was doing before you got home.

The weirdness of the moment presses down on you. You were watching your badass assassin girlfriend making bread. You watch her add a tablespoon of flour, bit by bit to the dough before rolling it out and kneading it again and again.

You hop onto the counter beside her. She feels your eyes on her but declines to return the look this time.

“You have to make sure it mixes all the way through,” she says breaking the silence. “Otherwise one side will have too much flour.”

You hum. “Is that when it gets too dense?”

You see the side of her mouth curl up slightly. “That could be because it’s too wet.”

“Wet huh?” you tease.

She looks up at you smirking and flings some flour in your direction.

You laugh dusting yourself off. “Can’t you just bake it longer than?”

She shakes her head smiling to herself. “It doesn’t work that way. Everything needs to be just right. Even the room temperature has to be just right.”

You playfully groan hopping off the counter walking up behind her to wrap your arms around her waist. “Seems like a lot of work for bread.”

“Well perhaps” she answers while turning her face slightly to peck you on the cheek. “The only thing more fussy than man, is bread” she says as she goes back to kneading the dough.

You snuggle up closer to her and plant a wet kiss on the column of her neck.

She gasps and wriggles slightly. “Stop that, I need to finish this” she halfheartedly protests while offering you more of her neck.

“You think you could teach me how to do that?” you whisper and lick the shell of her ear.

You hear a soft moan emanating from deep within her. Your lips are soft on her skin as you tighten your grip around her waist. Pulling her closer to you she can feel the buckle of your belt dig into her lower back.

Playing along with you she blinks to clear her mind. “Just put your hands here and do what I’m doing.”

In one swift motion you shift your hands to under her shirt. She gasps as you gently cup her breasts and start copying her movements with the dough.

“Am I doing it right?” you ask innocently.

She groans loudly leaning back into you. She rests her head against your shoulder as you start to nibble on her neck soothing the gentle bites with your tongue. She’s completely forgotten about her dough as she’s helpless to break away from your ministrations. Arousal and longing washes over her.

“You’re doing it expertly” she almost moans as you slightly pinch her pert nipples.

Wriggling around to face you her eyes are dark and blown with lust. Your hands readjust on her just as she wraps hers around your neck and kisses you hard and deep.

You’re left breathless when she pulls apart. Your eyes remained closed and all you can hear are her heavy breaths. “Are they done yet?” you ask a tiny smirk playing on your lips.

She pecks you on the lips as she roughly pulls you out of the kitchen. “Wait…!” You laugh. “Baby…your bread?” you question pulling her back into the kitchen so that you could turn the oven off before she’s yanking you once again away in the direction of the bedroom.

“Leave it, the temperature’s way too hot in here for making bread anyway.”

----

Click here to join the taglist.

@arcturusseer @readings-stuff @blackwidow-3 @justyourwritter69 @cutelittleakira @jareguiromanoff @sk1nnyftt @official-clint-barton @nattysredhair @black-kittycat18 @owloftheshadows @angryalpacachaos @iliketozoneout @marvelonmymind @wastdstime @lovelyy-moonlight @beholdagaywriter @inluvwithfictionalwomen @33-mrvl @wandanats-goodgirl @natashasilverfox @poptartpoppyy @likefirenrain

#redfic #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #bite

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jobean12-blog · 9 months

Text

A Dash of Spice and Everything Nice

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (Mob!Bucky AU)

Word Count: 2,375

Summary: Every year you bake for the local charity event Bucky hosts- he might be the boss but he takes care of those in need-and this time you get some extra help.

Author's Note: This is for my ongoing Kinktober celebration and my absolute love for Mob!Bucky- he is one of my kinks forever. You all know how I love him soft and sweet but still in charge. Hope you enjoy, thank you all so much for reading! Much love always ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰

Warnings: it's soft and sweet and fluffy and spicy, reader is sassafrass and Bucky loves it, baking is involved but he really wants to eat something else...o-r-al, p i-n- the-v.

Kinktober Masterlist 2023

Before the front door of the house even closes you hear Bucky’s voice.

“Wow doll face. Smells so good in here.”

He walks into the kitchen and you rush into his outstretched arms. He cradles your face in his large hands, letting his eyes wander over your features before slowly bringing your lips to his. The kiss starts out soft and sweet but in the next moment he has you pinned against the refrigerator, his hand tugging at the tie of your apron.

“Wait, wait,” you whisper along his lips. “I have muffins about to come out of the oven and bread that needs to go in.”

“And I’ve missed you all day,” he counters, giving you a boyish smirk.

“Mm, missed you too,” you purr, kissing the corner of his mouth.

You slip from his grasp and flit around the kitchen, checking timers and dough.

The timer goes off seconds later and you pull the muffins from the oven, checking their readiness before sliding in the pan of chocolate pumpkin bread.

“There,” you say with a contented sigh. “Now for the cookies.”

You’re reaching up for a measuring cup when you feel him at your back, his lips skimming the shell of your ear with his whispered words. “Do you plan on baking all night doll?”

An involuntary shiver runs across your skin and you lean back into his embrace.

“No,” you gasp, craning your neck to the side when his lips meet your shoulder and he trails kisses along your throat. “But these have to be ready for the bake sale tomorrow and a little help will make it go faster.”

He stops, his lips still pressed to your skin.

“Bucky?” you ask with a smile in your voice.

“Fine doll. I’ll help you bake but as soon as we’re done we do what I want.”

You turn in his arms and dance your fingers up his suit jacket. “Don’t we always?”

His lips brush yours before his kiss and he quickly has you in his arms, lifting you onto the countertop.

“Bucky,” you admonish, your voice hardly stern and instead breathy and desperate.

“I know, I know,” he groans.

He steps back and runs a hand through his hair. “What should I do?”

You giggle as you slide off the counter.

“First of all,” you say, sauntering toward him. “You have to take off some of these clothes. Wouldn’t want you getting any flour on your Dior.”

His eyebrows raise. “Think I’m going to like baking.”

You playfully roll your eyes even as you start to gently push his suit jacket from his shoulders. Once it’s off you carefully drape it over the back of the chair and start to work on his button down.

With deft fingers you undo the first few buttons, smoothing your fingertips along his skin.

“Do you want me to get you a tee shirt?” you ask as you continue, pushing the sides of his shirt open to run your nails over his abs.

“Do you want to get me a tee shirt?” he teases back.

“No.”

You slowly remove his shirt and hang it over his suit jacket.

When you reach for his belt buckle he stops you with a firm hand on your wrist.

“Doll,” he warns. “You expect me to help you bake after all this?”

“You have to. I can’t show up to the event without my baked goodies…what will I tell everyone?”

“That your husband spent the whole night fucking your brains out and you didn’t have any time to bake,” he states with finality.

You lift your eyes from his flexing abs. “And they’ll all be too scared to say a word about it but then I won’t raise any money for our charity.”

Your pouty lips are too hard to resist and he takes your chin between his fingers, dragging your mouth to his for a heated kiss.

When he stops your eyes remain closed, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks as you sway on your feet.

“We just have to make two batches of cookies,” you whisper, still savoring his lips.

Your eyes open and you continue working on his belt. Once it hangs loosely at his hips you unbutton his pants and then pull the zipper down, revealing his patterned boxer briefs.

You drop to your knees and start to tug each pant leg off.

“Fuck doll,” he croons. “You always look so good on your knees for me.”

You look up at him and nibble your bottom lip. “You’re not making this any easier, you know.”

“I’m not trying to,” he smirks. “And this was your idea.”

As you stand you glide your fingers along his thighs, reaching up to kiss him when you say, “leave your socks on. Your feet will get cold.”

He chuckles and adjusts himself in his boxers, the outline of his arousal prominent in the tight fabric.

“You’re worried about my feet?”

You give him a look before sashaying out of the kitchen and returning moments later with his slippers. When you drop them at his feet he slides them on with a wry smile.

“You’re sassy when you bake Mrs. Barnes. I like it.”

“Don’t get any more ideas and get over there and read me that recipe,” you say as you shake your whisk his way with a no nonsense look.

“Mm bossy too,” he hums.

“Yeah, yeah…” you mutter, playfully glaring now. “And you’re just letting me do it because you like it.”

“Obviously,” he replies, holding your stare even as the corners of his eyes crinkle in delight.

“Recipe Barnes,” you repeat.

He blows you a kiss and then peers down at the paper, squinting his eyes before bringing it closer to his face. His mouth opens as he turns to you but before he can even get the question out you have his glasses in your hand and you’re holding them out for him.

“Thanks doll face,” he beams with a knowing smile, then looks back at the recipe. “Ok so first we need…”

Once you have the batter ready Bucky stands behind you at the counter, his arms on either side of you while he mixes and you watch.

You wiggle your ass into him and giggle when he growls and pins you with his hips.

“You’re not behaving,” he states.

“Who said anything about behaving?” you ask and do it again.

He stops mixing and grabs your waist. “Doll,” he warns.

You hum quietly and take the spatula to continue, ignoring his groans.

“Is it time to taste test?” he asks as he slides his finger toward the bowl.

“NO!” you shout and slap his hand. “It’s raw!”

“Ow,” he whines, making you laugh.

“Ow my ass! Come on, let’s get these on the pan and in the oven.”

“Can I at least taste something else?” he asks, his eyes sparkling with mischief and his hands pawing at your leggings.

“After,” you answer, trying to stop the tremble of anticipation that runs through you.

When the whole house smells of cinnamon, sugar and spice you sigh in relief and set the timer for the last time.

Bucky stalks toward you and takes you in his arms. “Finally,” he murmurs.

You flatten your palms on his chest. “Not yet. We have to clean up and wait for the cookies to come out. Otherwise, they might burn.”

His eyes darken and he holds you in place. “We’re using the dishwasher.”

“Of course,” you say in agreement, your smile saccharine.

He loads the dishwasher in record time while you wipe down the counters and wrap up the cooled muffins and bread.

The cookie timer goes off and before you can get to the oven he has it open and is pulling the tray out.

“Cookies are done!” he says.

“Let me check them. They might need another two minutes.”

You watch the muscles of his jaw flex as he clenches his teeth but he moves away so you can look them over.

You inspect each cookie carefully.

“Now you’re just trying to torture me doll.”

“They’re perfect,” you say after another perusal. “And I have to admit that it is just a little fun.”

“Is it?” he murmurs as he carefully moves the hot tray out of reach and cages you against the counter.

“Mm hm,” you answer and pull his glasses off.

Your fingertips brush along his cheek and he captures your wrist, softly pressing his lips to your pulse before he kisses your palm.

“Thank you for helping me.”

He nods as he continues to kiss along your skin. “For you, always…now turn around.”

Your breath hitches at his tone and you do as your told, slowly turning until his hard length is pressing into your ass.

He carefully unties your apron and lifts it over your head then drops it to the floor. Your shirt follows, his knuckles lightly skimming your back as he drags the fabric up.

You tremble, goosebumps erupting across your skin at his feather light touches. He kneels and hooks his fingers into your leggings, his every movement deliberate as he peels them off and reveals more of your skin.

His hand traces the curve of your ass before he gives it a hard squeeze and bites down on your soft skin.

You let out a squeal and squirm in his grasp.

A low rumble of approval runs through him as he tugs down your panties, leaving them wrapped around your ankles.

He gently slides two fingers along your calf and then higher until he reaches your inner thigh.

“Bend over and spread your legs,” he demands.

Again, you do as he says, the coolness of the counter a stark contrast to your heated skin.

Long, thick fingers tease your entrance and gather your arousal.

“So ready for me doll,” he praises.

You push back, needing more from him but he smacks your ass, hard, and holds you still with a firm grip.

“That doesn’t mean you get what you want yet,” he simpers, his fingers gliding lightly along your folds.

“Buckyyyyy,” you whine.

His lips brush along your skin, tracing the spot where you thigh meets your ass. He moves inward, sucking and licking and leaving marks in his wake.

When his nose runs along your slit you wiggle in his hold, your repeated pleas filling the air.

He continues to tease you with soft kisses and kitten licks, just barely flicking his tongue over your clit.

With both his hands he grabs hold of your ass cheeks and spreads them, burying his nose just above your pussy so he can slide his tongue through you.

You cry out his name and grip the edge of the counter, rocking back onto his face. He slides one hand between your legs and teases your clit, just enough to have you chasing your release with a cry of his name.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when soft hands lift you from the counter and he cradles you against his chest.

His hands wander reverently, the skim of his calloused fingertips making you clench around nothingness.

“Fuck me, Bucky,” you whisper, straining against him.

He runs his nose along your neck, bringing his lips just below your ear. “Say it again,” he demands.

You lift a hand behind you and curl it into his hair, tugging him closer. “Fuck me, Bucky,” you repeat, reveling in his warm breath as it caresses your skin.

His hands slide over your curves and he grips your hips. “You have no idea what it does to me when you say those words.”

You lean into him and sigh when his cock glides through your wetness. He grabs your chin and turns your head, pressing his lips to yours in a sweet and languid kiss that only fuels your impatience.

When you moan into it, whining his name, he shifts and fills you in one slow thrust.

“Oh my god,” you breathe against his lips. “Bucky…”

All you can feel is him inside of you, his heated skin pressed to yours, his hands, his lips. He’s everywhere and everything.

He deepens the kiss, sliding his hand down to the base of your neck and squeezing lightly. He groans out your name, breaking the kiss and pressing his face into your neck.

“Fuck fuck, fuck,” he chants every time he pounds into you.

“More Bucky. Harder,” you whine.

Suddenly everything is harder and deeper, the sound of skin slapping against skin mingling with your pleas for more.

You can feel the moment he starts to completely lose control, his labored breathing hot against your neck and his grip tightening as his cock thickens inside you. You finish with his name on your lips, your orgasm rushing through you, the squeeze of your walls taking him right over the edge at the same time.

His hips tense and he growls out your name.

You rest your head back against his strong chest and silently thank him for keeping you standing upright because you feel as if you could melt to the floor.

His hold is gentle when he pulls out and turns you around, his expression one of complete satisfaction as he studies you, catching your lower lip with his thumb. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Your smile is soft as you trace the hard outline of his jaw. “I could say the same about you.”

He chuckles and pulls you closer. “Nothing compares to you, doll.”

His hand slides up your back and he cups the nape of your neck, tilting your head back so he can trail kisses along your throat and collarbone.

“I can’t believe I let you finish that baking,” he whispers into your skin.

“Me either,” you giggle.

“I want more,” he murmurs as his lips find yours.

“I made an extra loaf of the chocolate pumpkin bread.”

At your deadpan words he tucks your hips against his, the feel of his hard cock making you gasp.

“There’s that sass again,” he tsks. “Guess I didn’t fuck you hard enough this time.”

“Guess not,” you mouth back.

“Good thing we’ve got all night then,” he simpers.

@book-dragon-13 @hiddles-rose @randomfandompenguin @goldylions @kmc1989

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #mob!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #mob!bucky #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #mob au #bucky barnes au #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader

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foreingersgod · 2 months

Note

Ok I loveee that you want to write for a country reader because I live in the country!

Can you write a CC x reader based on Beautiful Crazy by Luke combs??

Beautiful Crazy . CC

pairing: country!caitlin clark x country wife!reader

synopsis: life with country caitlin :)

A/N: i’m picturing like very domestic, sapphic farm life. enjoy lovelies !

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Her day starts with a coffee…

“good morning, baby” your voice cooed from the door frame of the bedroom. “brought you some coffee, d’you sleep ok?”

caitlin stirred, body entangled in linen sheets. it was incredibly early in the morning, early enough the sun was barely rising over the mountains. perfect time of day to get up and tend to the farm. her eyes fluttered open upon hearing your voice, adjusting to the rays of sunshine that prodded past the curtains.

she sat up, seeing you there. propped up against the door frame, wearing only one of caitlin’s button up flannels and your underwear, holding a mug of steaming coffee. your hair was still messy from when you had woken up, cascading around your face. your skin was glowing from the golden shimmer of the sun, illuminating your features. you looked absolutely irresistible.

“i slept great,” she yawned as you walked over to her, setting down the coffee on her night stand and crawling into bed next to her. “thank you”

you nestled in beside her, pulling the fluffy duvet and hand me down quilts back over you. her arm snaked around your waist quickly, bringing you into her embrace as tightly as possible. her fingers crept down to the space between your hips and thigh, rubbing softly at the hem of your underwear. you hummed at the warmth of her touch. you both laid there for a few minutes, revealing in the tranquility of the morning time, sipping coffee and sitting in silence.

eventually, caitlin sat up, getting out of bed and changing into her work clothes. you whimpered as her weight disappeared from the bed.

“stay a little longer” you implored “please?”

she couldn’t help but smirk, seeing you there. hardly clothed and begging for her to come back to bed. if there wasn’t a farm that needed her constant attention, she would’ve have laid there with you for as long as you wanted.

“you know i would if i could, but those cows need tended to” she countered, pulling up her jeans and buckling her belt “and last i remembered…someone needs to make some bread for the neighbors like she promised”

you groaned, falling back dramatically into the bed.

“and she also needs to help me build the fence” caitlin continued.

“yea, yea, im getting up” you dragged yourself out of bed, starting to get ready.

you began buttoning up your shirt, putting on your cargos and boots, and tying back your hair. eyes tired and fighting sleep still, you managed to finish your routine and follow cait out of the comfort of your shared room.

“love you, baby” cait smiled, kissing you deeply before heading to the barn.

…And ends with a wine

after a long day of work, baking bread and helping caitlin with the fence (which was really just you standing there drooling as you watched her muscles flex with each movement), you were ready to call it a night.

caitlin went to shower so you took advantage of the time and began making dinner, something simple. while you chopped and stirred and fried, you enjoyed the view outside. you couldn’t believe you had such beautiful mountains just outside your home.

caitlin came back down to the kitchen, hair still damp, noticing you finishing up dishes while dinner simmered on the stove. she meandered over behind you, hugging you from behind and rocking back and forth lightly.

“you’re too good t’me” she muttered into your shoulder “helping me with the farm, makin’ me dinner…”

her words lingered on the skin on your neck, lips dragging across the crease of your jaw. she kissed up and down your neck, hands making their way down your torso to tease at the button of your bottoms.

“keep it in your pants, clark” you resisted the urge to moan at her touch “eat dinner and pour me a glass of wine first and then you can do whatever you want to me”

“i’m likin’ the sound of that” she was already pulling out the good wine glasses and the bottle you had stashed away.

you finished dinner, plating it up while she poured the wine. you sat next to each other at the small dinner table in your farmhouse, shoulders almost touching. but you didn’t mind, you liked it intimate this way.

you made simple conversation as you ate, talking about the cows and other critters that control your entire day. when you finished, you put the dishes in the sink and retired to your bedroom, remainders of your glasses of wine still in hand.

you set your glass down, next to the mug of coffee that grew cold from this morning. caitlin was already pressed against you, sliding your shirt off your shoulders and tugging your pants down your legs. and true to your promise, you let her have her way with you.

as the night climbed up behind the mountains, taking over the orange and pink sky, you and caitlin were intertwined beneath the sheets. soft laughs and heavy sighs echoing throughout the bedroom.

Takes forever gettin' ready

So she's never on time for anything

“they’re gonna be askin’ about us if you don’t hurry up!” caitlin called from the bedroom, you were in the conjoined bathroom still getting ready.

you’re neighbors had invited you over for dinner and poker with a few of your mutual friends in the neighborhood. while it was a small, get together, you still took over an hour to get ready.

“i know! i’m almost done, quit your whining” you retorted, putting the finishing touches on your hair and makeup.

you smoothed out your top, your ‘special occasions’ denim jacket and a white tee, and slipped on your shoes. when you exited the bathroom, caitlin was sat at the foot of your bed waiting.

“you take my breathe away every time” she stood up, hands already roaming your body, caressing every curve and dip. her soft lips were inches from yours now.“i think we can spare a few minutes…or 10, don’t ya think?”

it didn’t take much, her strong arms already lifting you up and your legs wrapping around her waist. she carried you over to the bed, setting you down softly and climbing over top of you.

“yea i think they can wait a little longer”

When she gets that come-get-me look in her eyes

Well, it kinda scares me

it was late spring, your favorite time of the year. when the birds began singing in the morning, bees buzzing in the yard, grass and wildflowers thriving in the fields. you loved spending nights outside with your wife. having a drink by the fire with a blanket draped over your lap, horse rides along the backroads of your town, you adored it.

on this particular night, you two were walking along the fields surrounding your farm. you wanted to enjoy the view of the mountains and the smell of the long grasses and primroses as you strolled casually with caitlin. the air smelt woody and crisp, the breeze tickling the hairs of you arm just right.

“wait,” you said, picking one of the wildflowers nearby “come here”

caitlin stopped walking, turning to you. you took the flower, picking off the long stem, and tucked it behind her ear. you brushed the hair out of her face while admiring how cute she looked. she returned your smile, not necessarily caring about the flower in her hair, but how happy you looked because she let you do it.

while she was distracted, completely dazed by your beauty, you snuck in a chaste kiss to the tip of her nose.

“oh i’m gonna get you back for that” she teased as you jogged slightly ahead of her, laughing from the look on her face.

“oh yea?” you quirked an eyebrow and bit your lip, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

your nose was scrunched, eyes furrowed so ingeniously that it made caitlin chuckle under her breath. your lips rubbed together as you tried to hide your smile, she could tell you were close to laughing. the look you gave her, she hoped she’d remember forever. how you were practically saying ‘come get me’ with your eyes and how it made her anxious and eager with desire all at once.

she lunged towards you, and you ran away quickly, trying to escape her. she chased you through the fields and you dodged her past the trees and bushes. but she was too fast, grabbing a hold of you wrist. she spun you towards her and your arms fell onto her shoulder in defeat.

“told ya” she nuzzled her nose against yours. you couldn’t stop laughing.

The way that she drives me wild

And she drives me wild

you were always on caitlin’s mind. when she was feeding the chickens, when she was brushing the horses. even when she was in the shower, she thought of you, imaging you there with her. you were her purpose and the very reason she got up each morning.

she loved every thing about you. from the way you cried during rom coms, to the way you double checked the locks on the door each night. when you would refuse to go to bed unless she kissed you goodnight and how you offered to help her with extra farm chores even when you didn’t have to. you were the epitome of perfection.

there wasn’t a single thing that you could do that would make her stop loving you. even when you did things that rubbed her wrong, like leaving the keys in your truck or leaving your boots outside. she loved every quirk, even if they drove her crazy.

Beautiful, crazy

She can't help but amaze me

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

A/N: kind hate how this one turned out <\3

#caitlin clark x reader #wcbb #caitlin clark #wcbb x reader #iowa wbb

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avastrasposts · 7 months

Text

A Baker's Dozen - Two

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

I'm so overwhelmed and grateful for all the lovely comment you all left on the first part of A Baker's Dozen! I'm having so much fun exploring what it's like to write for different Pedro boys and finding their voices.

For those of you who are new, we've got twelve Pedro boys, twelve short stories, each set in the same bakery.

It's fluff and sweetness, lots of food and flirting. Series Master List

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3 @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring

The glare is what catches your eye first, sunlight bounces off the shiny metal surface and hits your face through the window. You shield your eyes and glance at the door as it swings open, for a second you can’t see who steps through, you’re almost blinded, but as the door swings closed, he, or she, comes into focus.

“Hi, welcome!” you say, trying to keep your voice steady as the imposing figure takes a few tentative steps into your bakery.

“Heading for a con?” you ask, glancing up and down the impressive outfit.

“A con?”

The voice that comes through the helmet is deep and resonates through what almost sounds like a speaker. It’s definitely a man, if the sheer size of the body didn’t give it away. He’s tall, broad and made even broader by the metal pauldrons on his shoulders. A heavy belt hangs around his narrow waist as if to emphasize the sheer build of this hunk of metal that’s standing in the middle of your shop, looking somewhat lost despite the fact that you can't see his face under a solid looking metal helmet.

“Yeah, like a convention, where people meet and dress as their favorite characters from tv-shows and stuff. Are you going to a con?”

“No,” comes the short answer.

He looks around the bakery, the black T of his visor seemingly scanning the selection of bread and cakes you have for sale today.

“Something smells…good,” he says, turning his helmet back onto you and you can’t help but smile.

“Thanks, yeah, I had a pretty tasty selection today, but most of it’s already been sold,” you wave your hand over the mostly empty display cases, “Do you want to buy something?”

“I…don’t think I have credit,” he hesitates but he takes another step into the shop, glancing down at the croissants stacked in a basket next to the till.

“We accept cash too,” you reply, “you don’t need a credit card.”

“No, I mean, I don’t have the right…currency for your world.”

“Oh…” you frown, did he just say ‘your world’?

You mentally shake your head, a misunderstanding, surely.

“I mean, I could let you sample something, then maybe you’ll come back with the right currency,” you say, smiling at the man. He sounds a bit confused and your customer service persona kicks in, unwilling to let someone leave without trying something that’ll get them to come back.

“I don't know what you sell here,” he says, “I have never seen food like this before.”

“Oh, really? What kind of baked goods do you have where you’re from?” you ask, surprised, you were sure pretty anyone would recognise at least a muffin and a cookie, both on display in your cases.

The tall metal man comes closer, standing next to the counter and looking at the selection, “We have many baked things where I’m from, but I have never tried any of them.”

“You’ve never had dessert?” you ask incredulously, “I have dessert every day, it’s a must!”.

“I’m Mandalorian, food is only energy for our bodies, we don’t indulge in it,” he straightens up when he says it, his hands falling to his hips. He looks imposing, like a warrior all of a sudden, and his voice takes on a serious note.

“Oh, wow, I didn’t know that was a thing, a mandalorian, huh” you raise your eyebrows, this guy doesn’t even seem like a cosplayer. Or he’s really in character.

“Are you not allowed to eat dessert at all, or is it just like, not an everyday kinda thing?”

“I can eat what I want but I’ve never had a need for dessert,” the voice coming through the helmet is a rich baritone, but holds a guarded edge, like the owner is trying to navigate something unfamiliar.

“I mean…technically there’s never a need for dessert, but I eat it everyday anyway. A good dessert is sometimes the only way to fix a bad day,” you give him your warmest smile, trying to make him feel a bit more at ease as you go back to straightening up your counter for the end of the day.

“What’s this?” The man points to the croissants on the counter and you pick one up with the tongs, holding it out to him.

“It’s a croissant, a French type of pastry. It’s not sweet, just has a metric ton of butter in it. It’s really flaky as you can see. Go on, try it.”

“I don’t remove my helmet in front of other people,” he replies and your eyebrows shoot even higher up into your hairline.

“What…but why?” The second the question comes out of your mouth you regret it, “Sorry, don’t answer that, it’s none of my business.”

“You can ask, I don’t mind,” he says and you think you hear a slight smile from behind the helmet. “I’m Mandalorian, it’s my religion, and we don’t remove our helmets in front of others, it is the way.”

“So you only eat alone?” you ask, curiosity overtaking your embarrassment and he nods.

“Yes, we never share a meal with others.”

“How sad, for me I mean,” you say, “One of the best parts about being a baker is seeing when others eat what I’ve made, I love seeing their reactions. If you try something, I won’t know what you think about it.”

“I can just turn my back to you and lift my helmet a little,” he replies, and you can definitely hear the smile in his voice now. It changes the tone of his voice, as it comes through the helmet, makes it warmer, softer, and you smile back at him.

“What do you want to try then?” you ask, “If you’ve never had dessert then I have to give you something special to try.”

“I don’t know,” he looks around the cakes and cookies on display and shakes his head, “I can read your signs but I don’t know what cinnamon or vanilla tastes like, or this one.” He points to a stack of millionaire’s shortbread, “I have never heard of peanuts.”

“Well, in that case, just in case you're allergic to peanuts, let’s not start with them,” you grin, “the last thing I need is you passing out from an allergic shock in my shop. That armor looks a lot heavier than what I can lift.”

The Mandalorian looks down at the plates that cover almost every part of his body, “It’s made from beskar, it’s a metal from my home world.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and you mean it. The metal is polished and rich looking, a light gray color that catches the light as he moves, “It’s a very beautiful armor.”

“Do you want to hold a piece?” he asks, looking over at you again, or at least you think he’s looking at you, it’s hard to tell with the helmet.

“Is that allowed?” you ask, “I don’t want you to break any rules in your religion.”

“There is no rule against this,” he says, reaching up and taking off one of the shoulder pauldrons. It has the image of a dangerous looking animal that you don’t recognise, and as he hands it over, you see him reverently brush his fingers over it. Carefully you take it from his gloved hands, the metal warm to the touch, and just as heavy as it looks.

“It’s warm!” you say surprised and he nods.

“It holds my body heat easily, good for cold climates.”

You don’t know why, maybe because you can’t see even a sliver of skin on the man, but the thought of holding something that’s been warmed by his body heat, makes you slightly aroused. He could look like anything underneath all that metal and cloth, but his voice, his rich, low voice through the helmet, and his sheer imposing presence, makes you almost subconsciously attracted to him.

He comes around the counter and stands close as you turn the pauldron over in your hands, tracing the outline of the animal, feeling the warmth of his body.

“What is this animal?” you ask, looking up at your own reflection in his visor, “I’ve never seen one like it before.”

“It’s a mudhorn, it’s the mark of my clan.” He traces his fingers along the animal too, brushing against yours as you marvel at the intricate work.

“Thank you,” you say, handing the pauldron back as the touch of his fingers against yours becomes too much to handle, “Thank you for letting me hold it.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice lower now that he’s standing next to you. You watch as he clicks the pauldron into place on his shoulder again.

How do you flirt with a man whose face you can’t even see? you wonder as he turns his visor back on you. It seems like he holds you in place for a few seconds before you slowly have to turn yourself away from him and the intensity of his sightless gaze.

“So you’ve never had dessert and you don’t know what any of this tastes like?” you say, giving your own cakes a critical look.

“No,” comes the voice from the man beside you, “Maybe you can choose for me?”

“Hmm…that’s a big ask. Your first dessert has to be something really special, but maybe not too overwhelming, and not too sweet either because if you’re not used to it, then sugar can be a bit too much. And it has to have the right combination of textures too so that you get the full experience and then maybe it should be-” you cut yourself off and look up at the man who’s shifted his weight, leaning against the counter and looking at you with his head cocked to the side. “Sorry, I’m rambling, I went into full baker mode.”

“No, go on, I enjoy hearing you analyze my first dessert experience,” he says, encouraging you to go on by putting his hand on your arm. The little touch makes you tremble slightly and you pray he doesn’t notice through the soft looking leather of his gloves.

“Really?” you ask, “Because I have an idea but I’d have to bake something for you, are you in a hurry?”

“No, I’m waiting for someone and they won’t be here until tomorrow,” he says, dropping his hand from your arm, “What would you make me?”

“Do you mind if I keep it a surprise? Only, I want you to have the best possible first dessert experience”

“I usually don’t like surprises but I’ll make an exception for dessert. And for you,” there’s a small chuckle from behind the helmet and it makes you smile.

“I’m honored,” you say, “come into my kitchen, I think I have what I need for what I was thinking of making.”

You sidestep him, making him turn sideways as you brush past him, and you don’t miss the way his hand comes up to the small of your back as he walks just behind you into the kitchen.

Your kitchen is big enough but the metal clad man takes up a lot of space as you direct him to stand by your workbench. He looks around it as you start going through your stores.

“I’ve never been inside a professional kitchen before,” he says, “I can see that you’re used to a lot of metal.”

You glance around at all the stainless steel counters and shelves that line the walls, stacked high with stainless steel pans, bowls and baking trays, and then the big shiny door that leads into your walk-in fridge before it hits you.

“Did you just make a joke about your armor?” you snort. But the man behind the helmet remains motionless and soundless as the giggle dies in your throat, afraid that you’ve somehow offended him. You look at him, your cheeks heating up, and then he chuckles loudly.

“Yes.”

“Oh fuck off, you’re terrible,” you exhale in relief, but smiling again, “I thought I’d insulted your religion or something.”

“No, jokes are allowed,” he says and you hear the mirth in his voice clearly this time, behind the visor he must be grinning widely.

“No more bad jokes, or you won’t get my dessert,” you give him a mock scolding look but he just tilts his head sideways.

“There’s another joke in that sentence,” he says, still a smile in his voice, “but I don’t want to miss out on your dessert.”

The innuendo is heavy and you have to bite back your grin, there’s no doubting his flirting tone, and instead focus on pulling lemons, sugar and butter from your stores.

“If you say so,” you huff and he chuckles, coming to stand next to you while you start prepping.

“So can you tell me what you’re doing at least?” he asks, picking up one of the lemons and turning over in his hand.

“I’m making you a pie, I already have the dough ready for the crust so I’m just going to roll it out and blind bake it before I make the filling,” you say, bringing out the rolling pin and the slab of pie dough you had in the fridge.

“I’ve never had pie,” he replies, “but I’ve seen them sold.”

“What do you eat?” you ask and you see him shrug, shifting a bit.

“Just…well, mostly freeze dried stuff that I can just add water to when I travel,” he says, “bone broth is nice too.” He shrugs again and you shake your head.

“You need to live a little, try some different food, life’s too short to live on freeze dried camping food and bone broth. Doesn’t your wife cook for you?” The last thing slips out without you thinking, your mouth racing ahead of your mind and you bite your tongue, apologizing again.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, or assume that you’re married, or that a wife should cook. Or that it would be a wife, just ignore me, I’m alone too much in the bakery,” you ramble, trying to catch up with yourself.

Beside you the Mandalorian shifts and stands with his hip leaning against the workbench so that he’s looking directly at you, he’s crossed his arms and cocked his head and it shouldn’t be that sexy, you can’t even see him, but it’s making your heart rate speed up as your cheeks go warm again.

“No, no wife,” he says, his voice somehow even lower than before, “no one to cook for me, and I wouldn’t expect my wife to cook for me either,” he shifts his weight, putting one hand down on the workbench, the other on his hip, “But it would be a wife.”

You refuse to look at him, it won’t give you anything, just that stupid shiny helmet. But you can hear the smirk in his voice, so you just nod your head.

“Good to know,” you press out, very much focused on rolling the dough to a perfect circle which isn’t strictly necessary.

“And you?” his asks, his low baritone vibrating the air around you as he seems to step even closer. His chest plate isn’t touching you but if you turn your head, your breath will fog on it. “Anyone to cook for you at home?”

“Uhm…no,” you stutter, “just me.”

If this was a normal man you’d expect to turn your head now and look at him and he’d ask if he could kiss you, or he’d lean in closer and just do it. But the helmet is in the way, how the hell is he so flirty with that damn helmet? He does know how to kiss, doesn’t he?

“I’m ju-just going to put this in the oven,” you say, trimming the edges of the pie crust, leaving the scraps of dough on the bench.

“Ok,” he says, still with a smile in his voice, watching as you line the pie with a sheet and then baking beads, before sliding it into the oven.

“What’s next, the filling?” he asks and you nod.

“Yeah, I’m going to zest and squeeze these lemons,” you pick up the one he’s left on the bench and show him how you get the zest off into a bowl.

“Have you had lemons before?” you ask and he nods.

“Yes, I think so, or something similar. But it was very sour,” he bends forward and looks closely at the zest you’ve mixed with some sugar. “It smells good though, do you often use them in pies?”

“Yeah, and they’re amazing in anything baked, as long as you have enough sugar.”

“I trust your skills as a baker,” he says and you smile at him.

“Thanks, I think you’ll really like this.”

He stays still a beat as you turn back to the lemons, “I already do,” he says, a whisper, just loud enough to escape the helmet. For a second you’re not sure he meant for you to hear it, and you let your hands continue squeezing the lemons before giving him a quick glance. It tells you nothing, the man might as well be a statue.

You start separating the eggs, letting the egg whites slip through your fingers, holding onto the yolks, until all five are neatly laying on the bottom of your mixing bowl. The silence is stretching between you and the man, still standing still, leaning slightly on the edge of the workbench. You can feel his eyes on you behind the helmet, watching as you stir together the filling, lemon juice, zest, sugar, corn starch, it all comes together.

“Can I ask you something?” You look up at him, slowly stirring the cubes of butter into the lemon mixture. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to though, it’s kinda personal.”

“Ok,” he says, cocking his head to the left.

“How…h-have…h-ow do you kiss if you can’t take the helmet off?”

He doesn’t move, the blank front of the visor steadily trained on you.

“Nevermind, it was a stupid question, don’t answer that,” you mumble, dropping your gaze back to the filling.

“No, it’s not a stupid question,” he says, and you feel the soft leather of his gloved hand under your chin, tilting it up, back to him. “There are…loopholes…in the creed. I’ve kissed someone, when they couldn’t see my face. But it requires a lot of trust.”

You’re staring at your own reflection in the visor, trying to discern where his eyes are. You wonder if he’s looking at your eyes or your lips, and you wonder what his lips look like.

What they would feel like.

“Does that answer your question?” he asks, that rich, warm baritone, distorted by whatever lets him speak through the helmet, makes your heart flutter, your breath catches in your throat.

“Y-yes…thank you,” you stutter, “yes.”

You bet he’s smiling at you again, as he lets go of your chin and you look back down at the filling.

“I’m going to fill the pie now, and then make the meringue that goes on top.”

“Ok,” he says, “I don’t know what that is but I bet it will be irresistible.”

It makes you smile, at the filling, as it pours, golden and thick, into the pie crust. It settles into a smooth layer, ready for the last step and you place the pie to the side and reach for the egg whites.

“Can I ask you a favor?” you ask and he nods.

“Of course, what is it?”

“The ancient looking mixer, up there, can you reach it?”

He steps behind you, over to the shelf and effortlessly lifts the heavy old Husqvarna machine, it looks almost weightless in his hands. Those hands, inside the soft gloves, are big, almost dwarfing the mixer and the thought crosses your mind, to have those hands on you, wrapped around your waist, or grabbing your thighs, lifting you up as effortlessly as the machine, placing you on the bench, pushing your legs apart and-

He carefully puts it next to you, and moves to stand on your other side. But his hand gently brushes over your back, just a small touch, but it makes you wish it lasted longer, and wasn’t so gentle.

The mixer is loud as you start it, whipping the egg whites into stiff peaks in just a few minutes.

“The trick,” you say, detaching the bowl, “is to whip them until you can hold the bowl upside down over your head and the meringue stays put.” You hold out the bowl to him with a grin, “Do you trust me?”

He chuckles behind the helmet and takes the bowl from your hand, “I guess I do, but you’re polishing the beskar if this falls on me.”

He carefully tips the bowl, holding it over himself, and the meringue stays put, not a drop falls on him and you give him a wide grin.

“I passed the test.”

“You did. Pity, my armor could do with a clean,” he says, his voice serious, but you can hear the smirk in it this time.

“Cheeky,” you laugh, “clean your own armor, I’m making you pie.”

You grab the bowl from him and start scoping out the thick meringue on top of the filling, creating swirls and peaks with your spoon. “It just needs to set now,” you say, taking the pie, “Could you open the fridge door, please?”

He takes a few long strides and works the handle, holding it open for you as you go inside and place the pie on a back shelf.

“I have never seen so many cakes before,” he says, coming in behind you, looking at the shelves of cake bottoms that are defrosting in preparation for your weekend orders.

The door behind you slips closed and the fridge is thrown into darkness.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you that the door needs to be wedged open, the light broke in here and I haven’t gotten round to replacing it,” you say, fumbling towards the door with your hand on the shelves, “I’ll get it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got night vision in my helmet,” he replies matter of factly, and you hear him walk to the door.

“You have night vision in your helmet?” You’re not sure he’s joking or not but judging by how quickly he moves across the small space, he must be seeing something.

“How does the handle work?” he asks as you hear the handle click and catch on something.

“You just pull it against you and it should open,” you say, carefully walking towards the sound of his voice.

“It’s not opening, it sounds as if the handle isn’t latching on correctly”.

“What? No, the door has to open!” You say, panic creeping into your voice, “I can’t…try it again, it has to work!”

You bump into him and his arm comes out around your waist, “Careful, don’t hurt yourself,” he says, his voice suddenly very close to you, steady and soothing, and it calms you down a little.

“Sorry, I’m- I’m not good with small places I can't get out of,” you mumble, holding onto his arm.

“The handle isn’t working, but I promise you, I can very easily get us out of here, don’t be scared.” He must’ve let go of the handle because his other hand comes up to rest on your cheek, the gloved thumb caressing your face with smooth motions. “Don’t be scared, mesh’la,” he says, his voice soft. If you move you think you’ll bump your head against the metal of his helmet, so you close your eyes and focus on his hands. One on your back, the other on your cheek, you take a long steadying breath.

“H-how can you get us out?”

“I have tools for it, in my belt, don’t be scared, I’ll get us out in no time…but…” he trails off, a small hint of uncertainty suddenly in his tone.

“I trust you,” he says, “and I want to kiss you.”

“You’ll take your helmet off?” you ask and in response you hear a low chuckle from inside it.

“Yes, it would be very difficult otherwise.”

“You don’t know that, maybe I’m used to making out with metal,” you say, biting your lip, and you’re rewarded with laughter in the darkness.

“Using my jokes against me, clever,” he smiles as his hands leave you. There’s a click, the soft hiss of air escaping, and you guess his helmet has come off. You feel him bend down, placing it on the ground next to him and standing up again.

“Ca-can you take your gloves off too?” you ask. “Yes,” comes his voice in the lightless room and it makes you inhale. Unfiltered it’s much richer, warmer, but somehow rougher, slipping around you, making you break out in goosebumps as you shiver, no voice has ever made you shiver before and now you want him to keep talking to you, to feel his voice in all your senses. It makes you lift your hands to find him in the darkness but he finds you first.

The soft sound of leather hitting the floor is the next thing you hear before his warm fingertips brush across your shoulder, finding your neck and trailing up over your chin.

“I’m as blind as you now,” he whispers, leaning closer, “tell me where your lips are.”

“Here,” you whisper in reply, taking his hand and guiding it to your mouth. He traces his thumb over your bottom lip, then the top, and you feel his hot breath skim over your skin.

His lips are soft, gentle, as he presses them against yours, a slight tickle of facial hair before he pulls away a fraction.

“Touch me,” he mumbles, “please,” a pleading tone to his voice.

“Where?” you ask, lifting your hands from your sides and searching for him, finding cold metal and a rough flight suit.

“Everywhere, my face, my hair, please touch me.”

He leans his face into your hand as you find his cheek, your other hand slipping around to the nape of his neck, the longer hair winding around your fingers. It’s messy and curly and so silky to the touch that you hum under your breath.

“You're so soft,” you say and it feels like he shakes his head.

“No, you are, can I kiss you again?” he whispers but you don’t reply, just find his lips with yours and he groans into your open mouth, your tongue coming out to taste his lips as he parts them, and you feel his tongue lick against yours.

His kisses are slow, and you match his pace, moving in the same lazy way as him, his tongue exploring and tasting every part of yours. Soft hands have come up to hold you close to him, his fingers in your hair, not letting you move from where he needs you. And it feels like a need, his soft presses turning needy, a soft moan escaping you as he pulls you closer, your whole body pressed up against his hard metal exterior. The contrast makes you feel disembodied, your legs, stomach, chest resting against cool armor, your face, your hands touching, and being touched by warm skin, soft hair, his demanding tongue growing in confidence by the second as he groans under your touch.

He suddenly takes hold of your waist, moving you without effort, pressing you against the door with his whole, tall frame.

“Your kisses are…” he pants, “please, I don’t want to stop, I…I…can’t.”

He’s mumbling between insistent kisses, his tongue dipping into your mouth, tasting, groaning as he needs more with every second that passes. And you would give it to him, you’re moaning into his mouth, pressing into him as eagerly as he’s pushing you up against the door. If he wants to fuck you on the floor of this fridge, you’d let him. His soft lips, rough hands, his heady groans, and when he finally gives in and grinds his hard cock into your hip, it makes you lose all sense of where you are, who you’re with.

“Mesh’la,” he mutters, another kiss on your lips, “Tell me to stop, mesh’la, I can’t stop on my own.” His tongue slips between your lips again and you thread your fingers through his hair and hold him close, keeping him from pulling back again.

“Don’t stop, keep kissing me,” you gasp, his thigh is between your legs, rubbing firm at your aching core.

He growls, his hand coming down to grab hold of your thigh, lifting it up onto his hip, and the door flies open. With a shriek you feel yourself falling backwards, crashing towards the hard kitchen floor. But his arms catches you, you hear the loud clunk as his metal covered legs and arm hits the surface beneath you, the other arm secure around your waist. “Don’t open your eyes,” he snaps, panic in his voice, and you squeeze your eyes shut, they almost flew open as he caught you. “I won’t, they’re closed, they’re closed,” you pant, the air knocked out of you.

“I’m going to put you down and then get my helmet, don’t move until I say so,” he says, still close, gently lowering you down to the floor.

“Ok,” you nod, staying still. But you don’t hear him above you, and his arm is still at your side. When he does move his chest comes flat against your own, his nose brushing over your cheek, bumping into yours, and then his lips are on yours again. Soft, warm, pliant, his beard tickling you, open mouth and gentle tongue, tasting and exploring with a low hum in his chest. When he finally pulls away and pushes himself up, you feel the loss of his lips like an imprint on your own, your fingers come up and trace across them, touching where he just was.

From the fridge you hear the click of his helmet being put in place and then his footsteps come back.

“You can open your eyes again,” he says, “thank you for keeping them closed.”

You blink your eyes open and look up at him, his face again hidden behind the visor, his expression unreadable. But his voice is soft and he holds out his hand to you, his gloves not on yet. You take it and he helps you to your feet, one arm around your waist as you find your balance again. Looking down at the hand holding yours, you trace your fingers along the thin white scars that crisscross the back of his tan skin. His hand is rugged, the pads of his fingertips rough and well used. It’s hard to imagine that these hands could touch you so softly in the dark.

“I…I hope I didn’t ask too much,” he hesitates as you keep touching his hand, holding it between your own, “I never kissed anyone like that before.”

“I liked it,” you mumble, looking up at his visor, his hand still between yours. “I’ve never kissed anyone like that before either. And I don’t even know what your name is.”

“Din,” he says, his voice low, like he’s telling you something guarded, “My name is Din, but I don’t tell many people that.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” you say and he nods, placing his hand on your cheek again. “Thank you, mesh’la.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you, Din,” you say, trying to find his eyes behind the black visor.

“I don’t think there’s any of my kind on your world,” he says with a small chuckle and you frown. “What do you mean, ‘your world’?”

He shakes his head, “Don’t think about it, it doesn’t matter, I just want to try your dessert now, like you promised,” his hand slips down to yours and he takes it, tugging you back towards the fridge, “Is it done yet?”

“Uuhm…yeah, I just need to torch the top a bit,” you say, confused, as he opens the fridge door again.

“I’ll hold it open this time,” Din tilts his head down towards you as you pass him, his hand trailing over your hand as you let go of him. The pie jiggles slightly when you tap it, so you pick it up and carefully bring it to the workbench again. Din closes the fridge door behind you and follows you back.

“I’ve never smelt anything like it,” he hums as you reach into your tools and pull out the small blow torch.

“Just wait until you taste it,” you smile, turning on the gas and igniting the torch. Din’s hand flies up to grab at your arm as the flame comes out but stops as he realizes what you’re doing.

“I have one of those too,” he chuckles, “But mine’s a bit bigger.”

“If I’d known, I would’ve used yours,” you grin and he shakes his head.

“It would’ve burnt down your kitchen, it's not really meant for this delicate work,” you can hear the smirk as he leans forward and looks on as you carefully caramelize the top of the meringue, painting the white swirls in toasty brown.

“There, it’s done,” you say as you turn off the blow torch and put it aside, “you’re very first dessert, a lemon meringue pie.”

“I can’t wait to try it,” he replies as you take down two plates, spoons and your sharpest knife.

“How do you want to eat it?” you ask, cutting a generous slice for him, bigger than you would serve to the customers. He looks at the pie for a few seconds and then cocks his head and looks at you. “I trust you,” he says, the smile in his voice evident under the unreadable helmet, “we can sit back to back and you can at least hear my reaction.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to do something you’re not comfortable with,” you hold out the plate to him and he lifts it up to eye level, looking closely at the bright yellow filling and white meringue on top.

“I’m sure, I trust you. And I want you to be happy when you hear my reaction.”

“I hope you like it then,” you laugh, “Or this is going to be very awkward.”

“If it tastes only half as good as it smells, this will be the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” he takes your hand and pulls you down onto the floor, you begin to protest that you have chairs but he just shrugs and sits down, crossing his legs with his back against you. You sink down behind him, crossing your legs too. “Lean against me, mesh’la,” he says, “and don’t turn around.”

“I won’t, I promise,” you rush out as you hear a soft woosh of air from the helmet.

“I know,” he replies, his voice unfiltered and rich again, a low baritone that seems to send a shiver down your spine. The spoon clinks on his plate and he seems to hesitate.

“I just put my spoon in it?” he asks and it makes you smile.

“Yes, just get some of everything, and tell me what you think.”

You hear the rustle of his flight suit as he seems to move around a little, it’s almost as if he’s trying to figure out how to tackle the slice on his plate. Eventually you hear the spoon scrap over the plate again as he cuts off a bite.

You listen intently, wishing you could see his expression, as he silently tastes the pie.

“Maker…” he breathes out after a few seconds, the spoon clinking again against the plate and you hear him take another bite.

“Maker….” his mouth full and the word is muffled, “this is…” the spoon scrapes over the plate and you hear him take one more mouthful. His head leans against yours as he tips it back, sighing deeply.

“Maker…I’ve never tasted anything like this before,” he groans, “It’s fresh and rich and sweet, how have I never tasted something like this before?”

“Because you’re a fool, obviously,” you laugh, taking a bite for yourself. You know this pie is good but Din’s reaction makes you feel giddy. Behind you, you hear him take another spoonful, humming as he savors the flavors.

“I am a fool,” he says after swallowing down another bite, “this is like nothing else. I want to eat only this for the rest of my life.”

“That might not be the healthiest choice,” you chuckle, “and wait until you try chocolate, that’s on a whole other level again.”

“Thank you,” he says from behind you, his hand reaching back and finding your arm, “Thank you for making this, I’m grateful.”

“No trouble, I like seeing how much you enjoy it, especially since you’ve never had dessert before, you strange man.”

At that you hear him laugh, “I’m not that strange, just maybe on your world, mesh’la.”

“What does that word mean?” you ask, “Mesh’la?”

“I’ll tell you, if you give me more pie,” his voice is so cheeky it makes you laugh out loud.

“I’ve got you addicted it seems,” you reply and he chuckles behind you, “I’ll keep my eyes closed and you can take as much as you want, take the whole pie.”

“I can’t do that,” he says as you feel him shift behind you, getting to his feet.

“Of course you can, you should take it, I can make another.”

“I would argue with you, but the pie is too good,” he sinks down behind you again and this time you hear his spoon scrape over the metal of the pie form.

“Din?” you ask and he stiffens.

“Yes?”

“Are you eating straight from the form?”

“Is…Is that wrong?”

“No,” you laugh, “just a very good review of my pie.”

He chuckles again, relaxing against your back as he takes another mouthful. Together you sit in silence, eating the pie, cross legged on the floor of your kitchen. Yours is soon gone and you happily listen to your strange guest hum and moan as he all but seems to demolish the rest of the pie. Maybe you should tell him to pace himself, but he seems to be enjoying himself immensely.

After a few more moments the pie form is placed on the floor and Din groans, “I’m so full, but I want to eat more.”

“I should’ve told you to go slow,” you smile, “but just take whatever you didn’t finish with you.”

“Hmm…I…I ate the whole thing,” he says sheepishly and you giggle.

“You might feel a bit sick in a while, but don’t blame me. But I really love how much you loved it.”

“I’ll come back for more pie whenever I can,” he says, finding your arm with his hand again, “Please keep your eyes closed.”

“I’ll make sure to have it on the menu all the time then,” you smile, your eyes squeezed shut.

Behind you, you feel him move and turn, his warm hand coming up to cup your face, a thumb sliding over your cheek. His lips are soft and gentle as he brushes them against yours, his tongue slipping out, your mouth opening. He tastes of sharp lemon, sugar and butter, and underneath, his own self. He lets himself linger for a few moments, his nose stroking over your cheek, before he pulls back, your eyes still firmly closed. The click of his helmet lets you know that he’s once more covered up and you open your eyes, slightly sad that he can’t let you see his face, you’d love to see what those soft lips look like.

“I should go,” he says, a tinge of regret in his voice, “I have other things I need to see to before I leave.” He takes your hands and helps you stand, the remains of the pie forgotten on the floor as you follow him out to the front of the bakery.

“This….was wizard…” he mumbles in a low voice, yet again standing by the door, “I’ve never…experienced something like this.”

“Me either, Din,” you mumble, suddenly very sad that he’s leaving, “Promise that you’ll come back some day.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise,” he says, his hand, gloved now, comes up to caress your cheek one last time.

He turns and puts his hand on the handle and something hits you, “Wait, hang on, just wait there.”

You rush back behind the counter and grab one of your bread bags and quickly put four croissants into it.

“Here,” you say, holding it out to him as you get back to the door, “For the road, or whatever you’re doing.”

He takes it, cocking his head to look down at the bag before he looks up at you again, “You’re going to make my armor fit very tight.” “Hey, I didn’t tell you to eat the entire pie in one sitting,” you grin and from behind the helmet comes a low chuckle.

“I still blame you for baking something far too irresistible.”

“Take care, Din, I hope I see you again sometime.”

“Me too, mesh’la,” he says, giving you a nod and opening the front door.

Part Three

If you want to try Din's Lemon Meringue Pie, here's the recipe I used!

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x you #the mandalorian

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mariacallous · 4 months

Text

(JTA) — As we mark the grim second anniversary of the Ukraine conflict this Shabbat, I’m reminded of a haunting melody I heard in the city of Poltava last month.

I was standing before Sonia Bunina, a plucky 17-year-old, when she opened her mouth to sing when an air raid siren rang out.

I flinched. Not Sonia — she didn’t miss a beat.

“Kol haolam kulo gesher t’zar meod, veha’ikar lo lifached k’lal,” she belted out before seeking shelter. “The whole world is a very narrow bridge, and the most important thing is to have no fear at all.”

Sonia, like so many Jews I know in Ukraine, is many things — determined, grieving, focused — but she’s certainly not cowering.

As she sang those words by Rebbe Nachman of Breslov — the Ukrainian Jewish sage whose followers continue to come by the tens of thousands to his grave in Uman annually — she embodied the prayer’s indomitable spirit.

Sonia and I met outside Poltava’s Hesed, part of the network of Jewish humanitarian hubs founded by my organization — the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, or JDC — more than three decades ago. Today they’re a lifeline to tens of thousands of Jews facing loss and strife. Since she was a toddler, Sonia has been attending activities at Hesed — her mother coordinates cultural programs for the elderly, and she connects teen volunteers like herself with isolated seniors, a critical source of comfort these last two years.

These days, traveling to Ukraine feels like a pilgrimage — there’s a pull in my soul to visit family near Lviv, to bear witness to Ukrainian Jewish resilience, and to be inspired by the clarity of purpose that is so palpable there. Since my first trip in 2011, I’ve been eight times. Last year, I wrote about how a year of crisis had transformed the ordinary into the sacred in Ukraine. Now, visiting feels even more essential with the worsening humanitarian situation.

Ukrainian Jews aren’t blasé about these challenges — far from it. Just take the delicate ballet of emotions on their faces when checking their phones during an air alert — contacting loved ones, scrolling through photos of devastation, and analyzing Telegram chats speculating on a given rocket’s make and trajectory.

But life goes on — there’s work to do — and though they’ve lost so much, they refuse to give any more away.

Showing up for each other, whatever it takes, is now baked into their very essence as Jews, and in Ukraine, there are tens of thousands to serve — hungry old women and displaced young families, disabled Holocaust survivors and stunned middle-aged professionals, shocked to now need help when they were once donors and volunteers.

They act fearlessly to ensure their communities make it through this crisis, body and soul intact. Can we expect anything less than boundless creativity from the people who birthed Sholem Aleichem and the Baal Shem Tov?

“These bombings, all these things that are killing people, destroying houses, leaving children homeless … it’s very scary,” Galina Limarenko, an 82-year-old retired nurse, told me in her small bedroom in Berezivka, taking note of the warm blanket, firewood, and other winter supplies my colleagues provided. “Thank God for the Jewish community, which never gives up and always shares even their very last piece of bread.”

I saw that irrepressible spirit again at our Beit Dan JCC in battered Kharkiv — a shapeshifting wellspring of strength just a few dozen kilometers from the eastern border. Shortly after Feb. 24, 2022, the center became a staging ground for truckloads of emergency aid — part of the 800 tons of humanitarian assistance we’ve delivered so far.

A few blocks from missile strikes, it now hosts children’s camps and soulful Shabbat services and operates a “kids hub,” offering academic enrichment to children who haven’t had in-person school for years — robbed of normal childhood by the pandemic and now the ongoing crisis.

And amidst blizzards and blackouts, Beit Dan has also become a “warm hub,” a safe place for beleaguered Jewish Kharkivites to charge their devices and obtain a hot drink and warm meal.

“If you share in our pain, and provide support where it’s needed, I’m forever grateful,” said Nika Simonova, Beit Dan’s program director. “The ability to remain human is the main thing. Done right, I believe that can save the world.”

That’s why we at JDC, aided by a coalition of partners including the Jewish Federations, Claims Conference, and International Fellowship of Christians and Jews, deployed a historic response to this conflict and remain committed to the Jewish future here.

We’re focused on ongoing humanitarian support for more than 41,000 Ukrainian Jews, expanding trauma relief, closing children’s educational gaps, and getting unemployed Jewish community members, among millions of Ukrainians plunged into poverty, back to work.

There is no doubt that the Jewish world is now responding to crises on multiple fronts, including this one, but we have been here so many times before. We must draw strength from our history and from the sure knowledge that this is what we’re built for. Our compassion and commitment, when leveraged with that timeless sense of mutual Jewish responsibility, means we can tackle the challenges we face — and come out on the other side even stronger.

As I walked through Lviv on my last day in Ukraine, I asked my cousin Anna Saprun, a 25-year-old business analyst, how this period has changed her.

“I hate what’s brought me here, but I love who I’ve become,” she said with a fierce and feisty smile. “Nothing scares me anymore. I feel powerful.”

Two years after the conflict began, Ukraine’s Jews are inspired anew each day, resolute in the sure knowledge that they know exactly who they’re working for — each other.

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greyeyedmonster-18 · 4 months

Text

best day

(For @goodboylupin’s Candy Hearts Challenge. My candy heart prompt was "best day". thank you for hosting this mini-fest once again.)

Days are bad. Life is hard. Love is the easiest thing in the world.

It was raining outside, wind howling through the cracks of the windows, rattling the pipes outside of Remus and Sirius's flat. Remus was wishing right about then he hadn't insisted on paying part of the rent. Maybe then they would be tucked away in some lavish home in London; someplace where they didn't have to shut the windows with such force and didn't seem to be swaying with the wind.

He knew it was going to be a bad day the moment he rolled out of bed and heard the sound of the steady rain. Because his joints ached, and his hands were stiff. Because he was going to be one of those idiots outside in this weather--the kind everyone pointed at from their car windows, snickering behind their palms--holding fast to a withering umbrella, hoping he didn't get blown away with everything. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have bothered leaving their flat on days like this. Ordinarily, he would have made himself comfortable on the armchair they had found at some woman's estate sale, that had stains on the arm from too many nights with wine and mornings with cups of coffee and not moved a single muscle.

Waving his wand to do the simplest tasks and asking Sirius to do the others.

But today he had an interview at the Ministry, which required a lot more than a wand wave. Moving.

Remus sighed as he rummaged through his closet, pushing past worn t-shirts that Sirius insisted be hung up to find his slightly less worn button-downs. He pulled a pale green one off the hanger. No holes. No stains. It would do.

Brown trousers and a fraying belt that had survived both sixth and seventh year. He was overdue for a replacement, but when did he wear belts? For interviews, almost exclusively. Maybe once he got a job. If? He got a job. Blame it on wartime, blame it on the weather, blame it on himself, the market had been bleak. The prospects had been bleaker. Hogwarts certainly hadn’t advertised how difficult it would be to find any type of job let alone something he could actually find himself doing in the long term or had any interest in. It was all well and good to “Join the Order!” and “Fight the Good Fight!”, which Remus had been doing (whether he was doing it particularly well was another story) when you didn’t have to worry about working or making money to support yourself.

James and Sirius had both offered.

Remus always said no.

Even if right now, as he pulled a navy sweater over his collared shirt, he was wishing he had said “yes”.

Remus was wishing a lot of things.

He sat on the bed, unrolling a pair of mustard-colored socks to put on his feet.

The toe gave way. How long had he had these socks? Had they been his Dads?

Remus stared down at his big toe, poking through the top of his sock, the rest of his toes safely tucked inside.

“Well, this seems about right,” he muttered to himself, putting on his other sock before slapping his hands to his thighs and forcing himself out of the bed again.

Brushed his teeth.

A hair on the top of his head wouldn’t lie flat.

He sniffed a bottle of hair potion Sirius had in the cabinet, contemplating taking his chances, but decided better of it. Brown loafers. Remus’s bare toe wiggled inside the material. Somehow already sweating.

“Sirius?” Remus called, lingering in the threshold, realizing the flat was quiet. There was no singing; bread wasn’t baking; it wasn’t the weather for Sirius to be outside tinkering with his bike. “Sirius?” he tried again.

He ignored the sinking feeling in his chest. It was early, maybe he had just stepped out to the shops. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Remus inhaled and reached for the door handle, the wind blowing it open. At least he could wave his wand for an umbrella.

The day got worse from there.

Before Remus could make it to the underground, a car rushed by, splashing his pants with mud and water. Loafers soaked, and it seemed pointless to keep drying them off. A spell wasn’t going to be able to fix the sweat under his arms, or his heart that only seemed to beat faster and faster, a racehorse trying its fucking best and going nowhere, as he got closer to the front desk of the Ministry to check in for his interview.

His shoes squeaked down the hallway; his toe poking through his sock, squelching and squirming.

His voice cracked through every answer—for a job he was certain he could and would do in his sleep. Filing for fucks sake! Putting things in drawers and sitting around waiting for more papers to go into drawers or be sent to the owlery and Remus couldn’t answer a single question without clearing his throat or sounding like he was en route to a second puberty.

He didn’t bother with the umbrella on the way home, letting rain soak through his clothes, drip down his face. At least the hair on his head was now flat.

Remus sighed as he walked in through his front door, beyond defeated, dropping his soaked RJ LUPIN briefcase on the floor with a thud.

“Is that you, Remus?”

“Who else would it be?” Remus shot back, rougher than perhaps warranted.

“The Queen. Invited her over for tea,” Sirius responded as he turned the corner, stopping in front of Remus and smile fading as he took in the sight before him. Remus returned with a weak jazz hand and a feeble grin. Ta-fucking-da. “Trying out a new look, are we?”

“Where were you?”

“When?”

“I don’t know, Sirius,” Remus said, shrugging off his jacket and letting it fall to the floor, “This morning?” This month?“I went—”

“In the pouring rain?”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Forget it.”

Sirius’s eyebrows were a straight line above his hooded eyes, and he opened his mouth to speak again, pick the fight Remus wanted him to. The wind groaned outside, Remus feeling like the flat was swaying and Sirius looked over his shoulder, breaking the irritated eye contact he had with Remus to make sure the “living room” windows were still holding fast.

Remus peeled off his stuck loafers, that probably needed to go straight to the bin. The hole in his sock was bigger now, his second toe trying to come to the surface for air. Sirius turned back around to face Remus, slowly scanning the pile of wet clothes, the umbrella that wasn’t used. The hole in his sock. A body that was a breath away from giving up hope and strength to keep him standing on two feet.

“Have you eaten?”

“I’m not particularly hungry.”

“But I have an idea.”

“For dinner?”

“No,” Sirius said with a slow grin, grey eyes turning up slightly, and he inclined his head toward the bedroom, “Sort of.”

“Sirius.” But Sirius just grabbed Remus’s hand and pulled him down the hallway through the door of their room. One by one Sirius slowly took off Remus’s soaked clothes, folding everything as Remus stood there near the bed. Too curious for what was going to happen next to want to continue a fight that neither of them wanted to have. But it was a hell of a lot easier than being afraid. Remus held his arms above his head, for Sirius to take off his sweater; watched deft fingers undo every single button on his nice shirt. Watched as Sirius took off his own clothing until they were both in their underwear. Remus swallowed and brought his hand up to push a long dark curl out of Sirius’s face, safely behind his ear.

“I think we need a redo,” Sirius said, putting his both of his hands around Remus’s waist, pulling him closer.

“A redo?”

“Of today. Fresh. Never happened.”

“What are you—”

“Shh, shh,” Sirius hushed him with a kiss to his mouth before pushing him backward onto the bed. Sirius made quick work of throwing the blanket over the top of them. Positioning Remus’s hand around his waist, and Sirius flicked his wrist, to turn the lights off. “Good night.”

“Are you out of your mind—”

“Remus I’m trying to sleep. Don’t you have a job interview tomorrow? You should really get some rest.”

“I—”

Sirius feigned a snore, and Remus fell silent, kissing the back of Sirius’s neck before getting comfortable underneath the blanket, resting his nose along Sirius’s shoulder the same way he did every night to fall asleep. It was probably only five minutes, maybe less, but when the sound of birds chirping magically filled the room, and gold and orange light appeared on the ceiling, Remus couldn’t help but feel restored.

Rejuvenated.

A brand-new day.

Sirius yawned and stretched. They took their time getting out from underneath the covers, throwing on sweatpants and old t-shirts. Toothpaste kisses in the bathroom, with matching foam goatees. A shower that was going to add some trouble to the water bill, but the steam, and the hands and the fancy bath soap Sirius liked pushed every worrying thought out of Remus’s mind.

A record played as they walked down the hallway into the kitchen, Sirius going to the cabinets and pulling out flour, while Remus went to the coffee machine.

“Fancy a Dutch Baby?” Sirius asked.

“Have you ever made one before?”

“No, but I do know how to read instructions.”

“Can you follow them though?”

“Where is the fun in that,” Sirius grinned, reaching for a recipe book on top of the fridge that had been a gift from Mrs. Potter, “If I recall, there’s one in here…”

The sun was getting close to setting outside. It was dark and gloomy, and the rain was determined to keep beating down on the pavement and windowpanes. Inside it was warm, sunlight radiating off of a boy with dark hair and big heart.

“Sirius, hey—”

“Forget about it,” Sirius said, “Don’t…think on it for another second, alright? Let’s…just have a good day. The best day even.”

A good day. They needed more of those.

Remus paused, before closing the lid of the coffee maker, “I love you.”

“Love you too, Moons. Now—remind me how the oven warms up,” Sirius said, gesturing to the stove and oven combination in their tiny kitchen. Remus shook his head and pressed a kissed to Sirius’s lips. Soft. Sighing. He looked down at his feet.

His socks were still on—Sirius hadn’t taken those off when the day restarted. The seam was intact.

#rscandyhearts #wolfstar #sirius black #remus lupin #and after the 900000th time attempting to post this i have been blessed #please enjoy this late love month dribble #thats not quite happy but not quite sad #and R is very very very wet

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anlian-aishang · 7 months

Note

For the practice drabble thingie, Sweat/Scent kink? 👁️ 👁️

I just. k n o w. I have this headcanon that Levi always uses baby/scented powder to avoid sweating so much on expeditions/missions, but maybe one day he just runs out of it or rushes out of his room, so Levi gets flustered or self-conscious for the rest of the day or smth, idk I don’t think he would smell **that much**, but… still, he smells pretty masculine, yknow?👁️👁️

Tags: levi x reader [mutual pining], sfw [but fetish-based material], sweat & scent stuff, canonverse, gn!reader Word count: 2700 A/N: Holy hell, thank you, this is exactly what I wanted. nsfw sequel is in the works <3

It was his fucking day off.

Levi was the most cautious when it came to anticipation. Sights no one should have to see had scarred him to the point of learning: if you never got your hopes up, nothing could let you down. That thought rained on most of his parades, but he supposed there was little letdown to be had when it came to the likewise little things. On returns from expeditions, he allowed himself to look forward to the removal of his heavy gear and tight belts. When the smell of fresh-baked bread wafted through the barracks, he let his tongue salivate and his stomach sing. Today would have been his first day off in - he couldn’t even remember - god knows how long. Last night, his stagnant stoicism seemed to float away, head in clouded daydream of how to make this day perfect.

But some days weren’t meant to be perfect.

Instead of birds chirping and the first rays of sunlight that Levi anticipated, it was a series of harsh knocks at the hour of indigo sky that woke him up. Levi startled out of sleep, snapping up with a breathless gasp.

In hindsight, maybe he should’ve said nothing, maybe then they would’ve left him alone. However, being woken suddenly, though a common occurrence, almost always meant disaster in the Scouts. His voice cracked a barely audible “W’What?” No response. Levi coughed and cleared his throat, the return of his scathing tone, “What?”

The knob swiveled. His door creaked. In the shadows of dawn stood a domineering, a commanding, six-foot figure. The leisurely pace with which he entered the room conveyed that there was no life-or-death emergency, and thus no good reason, for having barged in here on his day off. Levi rolled his eyes and scowled, “I didn’t say ‘come in.’”

Erwin ignored his remark and instead cut to the chase. “Supply transports were raided in Trost.”

His mind already set in vacation mode, it was remarkable how quickly his knowledge of the restock had left him, “What?”

“Tug-of-war with the Garrisons and MPs, scouring over the leftover scraps of the materials that were supposed to be.”

“The hell do the MPs need anything for?”

“I’m headed to the capital to find out.”

Too tired to think - let alone attempt - to disguise his confusion. Levi’s brows arced, lips parted as he tried to piece together what the hell this had to do with him. When it dawned, his trademark pout revived.

“...No.”

“So you’ll take my stand, running morning drills in -” Erwin checked his pocket watch - “twenty minutes.”

“I’m off today.” Levi refuted. “Get Miche or Hange to do it.”

“They’re coming with me.” Erwin’s eyes were dead set, nearly offended, don’t you know I’ve thought of this already? “Unless, of course, you want to make the trip.”

To yak with the higher-ups? He would sooner crawl through mud.

Though he was given a choice, he took pity at his situation: “Bullshit…” Levi cursed beneath his breath, his version of whining.

Impatient, Erwin tapped his foot, “Are you going to get up or would you like to sit here and talk about our feelings?” The commander’s voice was starkly monotone, despite the sarcasm dripping in his statement.

Levi could play that card, too. “Are you going to leave or are you just here to watch my bare ass roll out of bed?”

Right. Erwin turned on his heel, door slammed in his wake.

His impulse was to throw his head back on his pillow and an arm over his face, but twenty minutes - he didn’t even have the time for that. Levi bunched his sheets in his hands, so angry that his fists trembled, and swiveled his legs over the edge of his bed. A pang of nausea and a sharp headache, his body was pissed at him for the violent disruption of his sleep cycle. Levi held his forehead in hand and shook, blame eyebrows, not me.

Levi’s limbs felt heavy, like he had just come indoors from a rainstorm. Clouds of colorful swears and harsh grunts propelled him through his morning routine. A three-minute shower, trimming his bangs, toothpaste and mouthwash followed by tea. One of many identical uniforms was laid out on his dresser, but before that…

From head to toe - undercut nape, under the arms, the shelf of his pecs, between his thighs, and finally his feet - Levi always applied a handful of drying agent. At this time of year, headquarters could seriously reek, and Levi refused to contribute to that filth. Pressing his lips together and stifling a yawn, he turned the container upside down. Lips parted, though, when nothing fell out.

Shake. Shake shake.

A blockage, a clump, maybe? But there was no sound. The slightest of twitches in his fingers as Levi delicately, anxiously, twisted off the cap and peered inside.

That’s right. He had made a mental note yesterday, that part of his day off would be dedicated to visiting the market, buying tea leaves, some new briefs, and his astringent powder - all items he was too mortified to order through the Corps. Given the thieving that had just happened, it was not like those supplies would’ve arrived anyway, but now, he would not have the freedom to go out and get them.

With the jar completely open, he considered a few shakes in vain, but the bottle was so empty that he could see the reflection of his dark-circled eyes in the bottom of it. Levi allowed himself a heavy, exasperated sigh as he set the empty vessel back on his bathroom countertop just to loudly smack it into the trash can. Fucking shit.

At least he had showered, but peering out the window and onto the training grounds, he could already see waves of heat radiating off the pavement. Come noon, it would be far worse. Clock ticking, for now, his only solution was to cut down on layers. It was then that he realized how little leniency the uniform lent. Gritting his teeth, Levi reluctantly left his top drawer shut, forgoing his undershirt and underwear. Walking past his mirror, his reflection caught his own eyes: his ivory skin barely yet noticeably peeking through the buttons of his grey shirt. Goddammit, he ripped the brown, canvas coat off its hanger and crossed it tight across his chest. To the harmony of his soles on wooden floor, his inner voice melodized: Could an outfit be both breathable and modest?

Levi could not bring himself to abandon his cravat, so instead of tying it beneath his collar, he let it sling out his back pocket, at the ready to grasp for when he needed to wipe his sweat away. That moment was inevitable, but he preferred not to think about it. He ran his fingers through his hair, base of his hand lingered on his widow’s peak, grinding pressure away like a mortar and pestle. Whatever, he tried to assure himself, as long as no one was around…

At first, he thought he might manage. If they got close enough, they would surely notice the glimmer shining upon his skin. However, by terse orders and points of his fingers, he had maintained a perpetual distance from the hoard of trainees. He was more of a hands-on kind of teacher, opting to join them as they ran laps or learned to grapple through trees. Today, though, he was standing in the shade several yards from the action. If anyone gave him shit for lazying aside, he had an excuse in that he wasn’t even supposed to be on-call today anyways. However, perhaps because he looked particularly irritable and scary, no one dared question his bystanding.

Then came you.

“Levi?”

It was the first time you had ever seen startle on the captain. A simultaneous, steep flinch in each of his shoulders. Hairs stood on end, he whipped his gaze around, “What? What’re you doing here?”

The sight of panic on someone so fearless, it caused you to fret by proxy. “I - I uh…” You had never second-guessed him before, you had never had to. “I’m covering for -”

“Erwin?”

You knit your hands behind your back, a sheepish grin, “He said you’d need help. You know, given the heat…”

Levi crossed his arms and bit the inside of his cheek. How shitty could that oaf be? The truth was that this heat was getting to everyone, yet in his fluster, Levi was sure that not only Erwin knew about his secret susceptibility, but that he had spilled it to the last person Levi wanted to know. No words seemed adequate for response, so instead, he kicked his foot against the barrack wall, leaned back, and deferred to silence.

Something was off, your eyes darted in search for it. His cheeks had been tainted a light red. Luckily, you chalked it up to the temperature, though Levi knew that was not the sole factor. His hair was slicker than its usual light-and-airy allure, you figured he had just gotten out of the shower. That was true, but this damp was sweat, not soap. Your gaze started to descend down his body, and on the way, you noticed it: no cravat.

A dog without a collar. A missing puzzle piece. Mildly irksome yet disproportionately intriguing. It was like he had read your mind, the mocking timing with which he reached back into his pocket and lifted the cloth to his forehead, sighing and swiping. After a couple wringing flicks of his wrist, he folded it and shoved it inside the lining of his tan jacket. His left hand tucked it away, hidden, while his right hand lifted the coat away from his chest, granting him the space to do so. Again, his own state snagged his attention - the dark, drenched patch of fabric at his underarm jumped out like a bug on a wall. Fiercely, he snatched his jacket shut again, praying to whatever was out there that you had not seen.

And though you had not seen the soak of his shirt, his odd behavior was garnering more and more of your attention. Cruelly, that made him sweat even more: not only the sun’s rays, but the blaze of your stare burning onto his skin. He cursed the thickness of his leather boots, the ODM gear that strapped his clothing tight to his skin, the turn of events that had brought you to this moment, his stupid genetics, and his even stupider feelings for you. Thoughts spiraling, humidity could mess with him in ways that titans could not.

If you thought hard about it, you may have realized that his humidity induced the same haze in you. Bangs glued to his forehead. Chest rose high and fell deep - combined with his light panting - made your brain boggle. Now and then, a clear bead of sweat would fall from his temple, down his jawline and neck, before disappearing down his collar - where you noticed that his top button was uncharacteristically undone.

The loud pop! as he uncorked his canteen broke both of your thirsts. Head tilted far back, Adam’s apple deliciously bobbed as he gulped down his water. Lips absentmindedly fallen, your eyes drank as he did.

Levi recognized, pretending that he hadn’t noticed your stare had thus far failed to shake it. He scoffed internally: someone could use some self-awareness, he was literally dripping with it. With a straight-on side-eye, he maintained eye contact as he gradually lowered the canteen from his lips, only to thrash it and splash it upwards into his own face. Still, you gaped like an idiot. Finally, Levi decided: if you were going to be this indulgent, he would be, too. Maybe then, you’d realize. Levi thumbed a leaking drop from the corner of his mouth. After briefly sucking the digit dry, his tongue snuck between his lips to slowly lick them clean.

Stone-cold steel eyes and his soft pink tongue - that was what it took to break your concentration. Immediately, you snapped your gaze down to your toes and silently mouthed sorry.

Despite the heat, shivers somehow managed to seize his figure. With your gaze averted, you thankfully missed them. However, when you no longer had your sight to rely on, other senses instinctively took over. Particularly, scent: aged sandalwood, burnt charcoal, bitter tea. On the training grounds, these smells did not come naturally. And if it were anyone else, you may have cringed at the combination of scents, but upon realization of the one and only source of this musk, you felt your middle warm with inexplicable satisfaction.

Meanwhile, he was squirming: fuck, how badly he wanted to hit the showers. If Erwin had left this assignment to him, he had every right to leave it to the next person. The thing was, that next person was you, the blinking, doe-eyed, fresh promotion who hardly knew their blades from their gas. If you were anyone else, he could see himself saying: take this cash, head to the square and stop at this stand, buy the tallest bottle they have and bring it back to me. Say a word, you’re dead.

But you were the entire reason he strove to keep this secret under wraps. To give you such orders would essentially be a confession, erasing the whole point. Between a rock and a hard place, Levi stood frozen in fever.

The air was thick with moisture and silence. With each breath, the memory of that canteen escapade and his intensifying aura seemed to suffocate you. Internally, he was simmering over how to shoo you away from his disgusting sorry state. On the other hand, you were parsing over how to excuse yourself without being rude.

The 10:00 bell rang, you used it to craft a feigned excuse, “If you’ve got things under control -”

“I do.” In some ways, he did. In others, absolutely not.

“- I’m supposed to help mess out with lunch.”

Levi knit his brows, seemed unlikely, but he would not object. With a slight flick of his head, his gesture released you from post and encouraged you inside.

At the door frame and with his back turned, you could not help but take one last look. At his last end and assuming you had departed already, he finally shouldered that Scouts jacket off, revealing his light-grey button up having turned dark with his sweat. His fist clutched his collar and fanned ferociously, allowing his skin to breathe. Inaudible to the other, you both simultaneously reprieved, “Fuck me…”

At 11 on the dot, Levi and the platoon of morning athletes were in the cafeteria line. So what if it meant they called it quits prematurely? Inside, no one was complaining. Levi was relieved that he did not find you there, hopeful that you were in your room avoiding heat stroke, and oddly satisfied to have correctly suspected your “cafeteria-duties” bluff earlier.

Levi looked like he had been rained on then dunk-tanked. At least, that was how his squad put it, jeering and elbowing, “What happened to you out there?”

They didn’t want to know. He didn’t want them to know. Most of all, he would rather forget this day ever happened. He took his steel tray and made for his room to eat in private - but more importantly, to shower again.

The venture back to his quarters seemed to drag - maybe it was because the dampness of his clothes had weighed him down, or maybe it was because the empty, lone quiet of the halls allowed his consciousness to echo loud and clear: humiliating, huh?

He could not deny that it was fucking humiliating, but for as scathing as the memory of that embarrassment was, the recollection of your rose-colored stare was just as impactful. All along, he had feared that if you witnessed his weakness to heat - more so the sweat and stench that came with it, it would have sent you running the other direction. Self-doubt suggested: they did end up running, though. That mess-hall excuse, them being them, they were probably trying not to offend you as they took cover from your reek. Self-confidence objected, but remember the way they looked at you? Don’t play dumb. You know that look anywhere. They like you - and hell - maybe they liked it.

On his doormat, a tall white bottle and a handwritten note confirmed the latter.

Seemed like you were missing something… …not that I think you need it. - (Y/N)

// masterlist //

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi #levi ackerman #levi x you #levi ackerman x you #levi x y/n #levi ackerman x y/n #oneshot #request #weeeeeeeeeeeee #2023 #anlian writes #my writing #alias's #fluff

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