#i got lazy with the shelves | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

strangerexee · 16 days ago

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ꜱɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰɪɴᴇ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

The bell over the door gave a tired little jingle when you pushed it open, stepping in from the heat and dust of the street — 𝓑𝓸 𝓒��𝓸𝔀 & 𝓒𝓸 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐀 ɢʀᴏᴄᴇʀʏ & ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴛ Your shoes were worn thin. Your dress was simple cotton, sticking to the back of your knees.

And you were tired — bone-tired — from chasing one dead-end job after another across this godforsaken town.

You needed work. Or a miracle. Or both.

The store smelled like tobacco and dry wood, with a hint of something sweeter — maybe the candy in the jar by the counter, or the bright bruised apples piled up in baskets.

Shelves lined the walls, packed with everything from flour sacks to pistol rounds. It was the kind of place where a man could buy a loaf of bread, a hammer, and a coffin without walking more than twenty feet.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, wiping sweat from your forehead, trying not to look as desperate as you felt. It was quiet inside, but not empty.

There, behind the counter, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, stood a man.

And Lord Almighty. You almost forgot how to breathe.

He was fine — broad through the shoulders, lean through the waist — and the worn suspenders crossing his chest did nothing to hide it. Dark hair, a little mussed like he'd run his fingers through it a hundred times that morning already. Sharp jaw. Sleeves pushed up. And a cigarette dangling careless between his lips.

He watched you over the top of the ledger he was scribbling in, one eyebrow tilting up slow, like he wasn't quite sure if you were real or a heat mirage rolling in off the road.

"You lost, darlin'?" His voice was rough, low. Not unfriendly. But not soft, either.

You swallowed. Your cheeks burned hotter than the sun outside.

"No, sir," you managed, clearing your throat. "I'm lookin' for work."

He tilted his head a little. The cigarette bobbed between his fingers as he tapped ash into a tin. There was a long, heavy pause, stretching thin between you like taffy pulled too far.

He leaned forward, arms braced on the counter, and you caught the faint scar along the side of his throat — a rough, pale line disappearing beneath his shirt. He smelled like leather and smoke and maybe something wilder, something you couldn’t name.

"Ain't much work left 'round here," he said finally. "Dust's got more jobs than we do."

Your heart sank. You started to thank him anyway — ready to turn, ready to leave with your pride shriveled up tight inside you —

But then he said, almost too casual:

"You know how to tally numbers? Take stock? Keep folks from stealin' when I ain't lookin'?"

You blinked up at him. Nodded fast.

"Yes sir. I can read, write, count. And I can run a register." (You prayed you didn’t sound as breathless as you felt.)

Bo Chow smiled then — real slow, real lazy. Like maybe he hadn't smiled all day until now. Maybe longer.

And damn if it didn’t feel like that smile was just for you.

"Might have somethin' for you after all," he said, nodding toward the back room. "Mornings, couple hours. Pay ain't much, but it's clean work. And you get first pick if any more fruit comes in."

You tried to smile back, tried not to look like a fool.

"I'd be grateful," you said. "Truly."

"Name's Bo Chow," he said, holding out a calloused hand across the counter. "Most folks just call me Bo."

You put your hand in his, and he squeezed it firm — just enough to make your stomach flip once, twice. His skin was warm. Rough in the right way.

Your name felt small and clumsy on your tongue when you said it. He repeated it once under his breath — tasting it — like he was putting it away somewhere safe.

You heard boots scuffing behind you — a couple old-timers coming in, hats low over their faces — and Bo dropped your hand slow, like he hated letting go.

"Be here six sharp tomorrow," he said, voice dropping a little lower. "Don't make me come hunt you down."

And Lord, the way he said it — like it was a promise, like it was a threat, like maybe he wouldn't mind hunting you down at all —

You walked out of that store with your heart rattling around in your ribs, a stupid grin tugging at your mouth. The dust hit your boots. The sun hit your eyes. But you hardly felt it.

All you could think about was him. About Bo Chow, the cigarette smoke curling around his smile. About how, maybe you'd finally found something worth staying for.

The next morning, you showed up just before six — hair pinned back, boots polished best you could manage, apron folded under your arm.

The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, just a pale silver smear over the flat line of the fields.

The streets were empty except for a stray dog.

You hesitated at the door, heart hammering. What if he changed his mind? What if he realized you weren’t worth the trouble?

But the second you pushed inside, the warm smell of tobacco and cedar wrapped around you like an old blanket — and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled again over those damn forearms, shirt tucked messy into dark trousers, suspenders hanging low on his hips like he hadn’t bothered to fix them yet. He was counting cash, cigarette stuck lazy between his teeth, the smoke curling up in slow silver ribbons.

He glanced up when he heard the door — and you swear, you swear, for a half second he smiled. A real one. That soft kind, just at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

"You're early," he said, voice rough with sleep. "Good."

You nodded, setting your things down behind the counter.

Your hands shook a little, but you kept busy — dusting, sweeping, checking the register like he told you. He didn’t hover. Just gave quiet instructions here and there, moving around the store slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world.

And it was the little things — God, it was the little things — that drove you crazy.

You noticed it first when he leaned down to pull a crate from under the counter — how his shirt stretched tight over his back, fabric whispering against muscle. How a lock of dark hair fell over his brow and he huffed it out of the way without even noticing.

You caught yourself staring. Snapped your head down fast, pretending to reorganize the fruits and vegetables.

Then it was the way he stood — shoulders wide, hips cocked lazy — arms crossed over his chest as he watched you figure out how to load the till.

There was something about the way he moved — no wasted steps, no fidgeting — like he didn’t have to try to own the space around him. He just did.

And Lord, when he laughed —

Low, unexpected — a real rough chuckle that rumbled from his chest when you nearly dropped the glass candy jar and caught it at the last second — God, you felt it down to your toes.

"Careful, sunshine," he drawled. "Ain't but one of you, and glass is expensive."

You ducked your head, face burning. But you couldn’t help smiling.

Around mid-morning, after he nailed up a new shelf in the back, Bo wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. You offered him the water you packed — nervous, feeling silly. He took it with a little nod, mouth brushing the rim where yours had been without hesitation.

And when he handed it back — his fingers brushed yours. Calloused. Warm.

You felt it like a jolt of lightning, sharp and sweet under your skin.

"You doin' alright?" he asked, voice low. "Ain't scarin' you off yet?"

You shook your head fast.

"No, sir."

That slow smile again — like he was proud of you, somehow. It made your chest ache.

The rest of the day passed in slow, golden hours. He showed you how to track inventory, how to read the order forms, how to spot the difference between good grain sacks and ones chewed through by mice.

And every little thing — the way he squinted against the sun when he stepped outside, the way he twirled the pencil between his fingers when he thought, the way he touched the brim of his hat polite to the older ladies who passed by — every little thing made you fall harder.

You were a fool. You knew it. But God help you, you couldn’t stop.

Near closing time, when the shadows stretched long across the floorboards, Bo lit the oil lamps and turned the sign to CLOSED.

The town settled into quiet outside, the cicadas starting up their low hum.

You packed up your things, heart heavy. You didn’t want to leave.

He leaned back against the counter, cigarette smoke curling around his head like a halo, watching you with that unreadable look. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching.

And before you left — just as you reached the door — he said:

"You did good today."

You turned, surprised.

He flicked ash into a tin, voice casual, almost too casual:

"Could use someone steady around here. Someone like you." "If you want it — job’s yours."

You tried to speak — tried to say yes, of course, yes, thank you, yes — but all that came out was a breathless little whisper.

"I'd like that."

Bo nodded slow, eyes never leaving yours.

"Good," he said. "Real good."

You just huffed and left the store.

You showed up early again the next morning. Couldn’t help yourself. You barely slept — just laid in your bed all night staring at the ceiling, heart banging around your ribs like a fist.

You kept seeing him — that rough smile, that lazy slouch against the counter, the way his hands moved — big and calloused and sure — like he could tear the whole damn world down if he wanted, but he didn’t. He was gentle with you.

You dressed careful — simple skirt, neat tucked-in blouse, hair tied back. Nothing fancy. But you caught yourself smoothing it down a dozen times on the walk to the store.

You weren’t scared of work. You weren’t scared of Bo, either. Not really.

What scared you — if you were honest — was how badly you wanted him to look at you again the way he had yesterday. Like he saw you.

The bell over the door jingled when you pushed inside — and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Good Lord.

You almost had to grab the doorframe to keep from sliding down it.

Today he had the vest on — rich brown canvas, snug over his shoulders and chest — shirt rolled at the sleeves again, forearms out, tan skin dusted with faint scars like old stories he never bothered to tell. Trousers fit firm around his slutty waist, boots scuffed from work.

He looked up from stocking the shelves — and when he saw you, a flash of something warm crossed his face. Almost hidden. Almost.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he said, voice low and gravelly. "Thought you might show."

You swallowed hard, managed a nod.

He stood up slow, dusting his hands off on a rag. That damn vest hugged him in all the right places. Made your stomach flip and knot in ways that felt dangerous.

You got to work without being told, moving behind the counter, checking the inventory list. Trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t about to explode out your chest.

It didn’t help that Bo kept brushing close — not on purpose, not really — but every time you turned around he was there.

At one point, you bent to grab a crate from under the counter — and when you stood up, you bumped right into him.

Hard, solid chest — vest scratchy and warm against your back — his hand catching your waist automatically to steady you.

Big palm. Firm grip. Fingers splaying wide before he yanked them back like he touched a hot stove.

You both froze.

For one wild second, the whole store was silent — just the sound of the clock ticking on the wall — his breath brushing the back of your neck.

Then he cleared his throat, stepping back.

"Easy, now," he said rough, almost scolding. "Ain't tryna bust that pretty nose, are ya?"

You flushed so hot you thought you might catch fire. Mumbled something — you didn’t even know what — and ducked your head fast.

Later, you were coming out of the storage closet — arms full of ledgers — right as Bo was striding in.

Instead of waiting — instead of shrinking back — you moved right past him. Real smooth. Real bold.

Except — the space was too damn narrow.

Your hip brushed his thigh — your shoulder scraped his chest — and your ass — oh, Lord — your ass skimmed right up against his front when you slid by.

You felt him go still — felt his hand twitch at his side like he had to physically stop himself from grabbing you. You didn’t dare look up.

You just kept moving, pretending you didn’t notice, pretending your whole body wasn’t screaming at you.

Behind you — you swore you heard him swear low under his breath. Real soft. Real dangerous.

You bit your lip so hard it hurt just to keep from smiling.

By noon, the air inside the store was thick and heavy with heat. Bo shed the vest finally, slinging it over a hook near the door. You caught a glimpse of the way his shirt clung to him — the long line of his back, the strong slope of his shoulders.

You caught yourself staring again — caught yourself wanting — and forced yourself to look away.

But Bo must’ve noticed, because a minute later he drifted close — reached past you for something on the shelf — his hand landing light on your waist to move you out the way.

He didn’t even think about it. Just did it. Like you were his already.

Your breath hitched so fast you nearly dropped the jar in your hands.

"‘Scuse me, sunshine’," he said, real soft in your ear. "You’re in the way."

You stood there dumb, blinking, as he brushed past — close enough to smell the salt and sun and cigarette smoke on him.

It wasn’t until later — after closing — when you were wiping down the counters and Bo was locking the door — that he spoke again.

"You work good," he said, voice low and thick. "Real good. Smarter than most the men that come through here."

You turned, heart hammering.

Bo was leaning back against the door — arms crossed — watching you. Face unreadable. Eyes dark.

You opened your mouth — to thank him, maybe — but he cut you off.

"How old are you, anyway?"

You stiffened.

You knew what he was asking. Knew why he was asking it.

You met his eyes steady, chin tilting up just a little.

"Turned eighteen last month," you said. "I'm grown, sir."

For a second — just a breath — something flickered across his face. Something hungry and dangerous and real.

Then it was gone, shuttered behind that calm mask he wore like a second skin.

He nodded once. Slow. Like he was making peace with something ugly inside himself.

"Alright, sunshine," he said rough. "Long as you know what you’re doin’."

You smiled — small and sweet and secret — because you did. You really, really did.

And Lord help you — you weren't planning on stopping.

The day dragged in slow — hot and heavy, same as always — but you didn’t mind.

Not when you got to watch him.

Bo moved like he wasn’t even trying. Stacking crates, counting stock, slouching against counters — and all you could do was sneak glances every chance you got.

The way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows — showing off strong forearms, tan and scarred, veins running beneath the skin like little rivers. The way the muscles flexed under the fabric when he lifted something heavy.

His hands — God, his hands.

Big and rough, palms calloused from years of work. Knuckles scarred like he’d been in more fights than he’d ever admit.

You imagined what they’d feel like — skimming your skin, wrapping around your throat, curling in your hair.

It got harder and harder to focus on anything else.

You were wiping down the counter again — pretending to clean when you were really just looking at him — when you realized:

No customers.

None.

Just you and Bo. Alone. Heat swirling between you like smoke.

Your heart kicked up — wild, reckless.

And before you could talk yourself out of it — before you could remember to be scared or shy or good —

You moved.

Not too fast — a normal shaky pace.

You crossed the space between you in a few quick steps — grabbed his hand — and tugged him toward the back.

He let you.

No questions. No hesitation. Just a soft grunt, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he followed.

"What’s this, sunshine?" His voice was rough, curious, amused. "You stealin' me?"

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him through the narrow back door — into the storeroom, dim and warm and empty — and shoved him back against the wall.

You stood there, breathing hard. Heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it.

Bo looked down at you — those dark eyes burning — and for a second you thought maybe he’d laugh, maybe he’d brush you off, maybe he’d tell you to run along like the little girl you weren’t anymore.

But he didn’t.

He tipped his chin down — lips brushing yours — and said low:

"You sure, sunshine?"

You nodded. Didn’t trust your voice.

That was all he needed.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it. Hard. Hungry. Hands grabbing your hips, dragging you against him.

Your head spun. The world tilted.

His mouth was hot and rough, teeth scraping your lower lip just enough to make you whimper — and God, the sound you made must’ve lit him on fire because he growled low in his chest and kissed you harder.

You clutched at him — hands fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer — and he let you, let you crawl all over him, like he was starving for it.

Like he’d die if you stopped.

At one point, you stumbled — tried to pull back to catch your breath — but he chased you, mouth claiming yours again, hands framing your face so careful, so tender even with how rough the kiss was.

You were dizzy with it — with him — with the feel of his body pressed against yours, all hard heat and steady muscle.

And then —

You did it.

Hands shaking, you grabbed his wrist — guided it up — placed his big, rough hand around your throat.

Gently. Like a question.

Like a please.

Bo froze.

For one hot, crackling second — everything in the room stopped moving.

His thumb brushed the side of your throat — slow, thoughtful. Not squeezing, just holding — just letting you feel the strength there, the weight of him.

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye — something dangerous and filthy gleaming behind his gaze.

And he grinned — slow, wicked — all teeth and bad intentions.

"You into that shit, sunshine?" His voice was dark velvet, wrapping around you, making you shiver.

You nodded — breathless — grinding your hips against him like you couldn’t help it. (You couldn’t.)

His fingers flexed slightly, tightening just a fraction — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was bigger, stronger, in charge.

You whimpered — so soft, so needy — and he laughed, low and rough, like you were the best damn thing he’d ever seen.

"Goddamn," he muttered, voice rough and reverent. "You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me."

Then he kissed you again — deeper, dirtier — hand still cradling your throat, the other roaming down your spine to pull you flush against him.

You melted into him — opened for him — let him take whatever he wanted.

Bo’s hand stayed loose around your throat a moment longer — thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, his breath ragged against your mouth — before he finally let go.

Not because he wanted to stop touching you — no. Because he wanted more.

He gave you a rough, breathless little grin — one you could feel in your knees — then reached down and grabbed you by the waist like you weighed nothing.

Lifted you right up.

Set you down on the nearest wooden stool — still warm from the heat of the barn outside, a little unsteady, but solid enough.

Your hands grabbed the edge of the stool instinctively — steadying yourself — eyes wide, heart pounding so hard you could barely hear.

Bo leaned back a half-step — just enough to drink you in.

The way your dress rode up, baring the soft skin of your thighs. The way you sat there all breathless, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and desperate for him.

He dragged a hand down his face — as if trying to keep himself together — and then just said low, almost to himself:

"Christ, you're pretty."

You didn’t even realize you were doing it — but your eyes kept dropping.

To his hands. Those big, rough, dangerous hands — scarred and calloused and strong.

You could feel the strength of them from here. Could imagine them wrapped around your hips, your waist, your throat — holding you down, holding you up, whatever he damn well pleased.

Your mouth went dry.

And Bo noticed.

His mouth curled into a wicked, knowing smirk.

"Yeah?" he rasped, voice dropping. "You like the look of my hands, sunshine?"

You swallowed hard — nodded.

You didn't even try to hide it.

And that was all he needed.

Bo stepped between your knees — crowding you close, body heat washing over you like a furnace — and ducked his head down.

Started kissing along your jaw — slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower and lower.

You gasped when he found the spot just under your ear — sucked there hard enough to leave a mark — and he grinned against your skin when you tilted your head for him, helpless and wanting.

"Good girl," he muttered into your neck. "Gimme that pretty throat."

You could’ve melted right then and there.

His hands were everywhere — roaming up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, dragging along the soft curves of your waist like he was memorizing you.

You arched into him — not even trying to play coy anymore.

You wanted him.

All of him.

And Bo — he was starving for you.

Before you could blink, he dropped to his knees.

Big, broad body sinking down in front of you — pressing your knees wider apart with those strong hands, pulling your panties down — looking up at you with something almost feral in his eyes.

"Gotta taste you, baby," he rasped, voice half-broken with need. "Been fuckin' dying for it."

You whimpered — hand flying to his hair instinctively — fisting in the thick dark strands as he shoved your dress up higher, higher, exposing you.

No hesitation.

Bo dove in like a man half out of his mind.

The first press of his mouth against you made you cry out — sharp and sweet — hips bucking up without you meaning to.

Bo groaned — like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted — and grabbed your thighs, holding you down, forcing you to stay right there for him.

His mouth was ravenous — lips and tongue working you open, devouring you like you were his last meal.

Messy. Loud. Absolutely, devastatingly good.

You tried to pull away once — overwhelmed, shaking, breath hitching in your throat — but he groaned and pulled you back down harder.

"Nah, baby." "You take it." "You let me eat this pretty little pussy just like this." "You fuckin’ taste how bad I want you."

You sobbed his name — it was pathetic, really. Hips grinding helplessly against his mouth — and Bo just groaned again, deeper, like he could come from this alone.

The wet slide of his tongue. The scrape of his teeth just barely grazing. The way he sucked your clit into his mouth and held it there until you were shaking.

He licked you like he owned you. Like he wasn’t gonna let you walk outta this storeroom until you knew exactly who you belonged to.

And when you finally came — loud and desperate, thighs clamping around his head — Bo just kept going.

Didn’t stop. Didn’t let up.

Made you ride it out — every shudder, every whimper, every sweet little broken cry.

When you finally slumped forward, boneless and ruined, hands still fisting in his hair —

Bo looked up at you — mouth slick with you, eyes dark and wild — and said, low and rough:

"Ain’t done with you yet, sunshine." "Not even close."

And you believed him.

You wanted him.

God help you — you wanted everything Bo Chow was about to give you.

A/N: LAWDDDD — I love me some Bo Chow...

#bo chow #sinners #michael b jordan #sinners movie #yao #bo chow oneshot #bo chow x reader #bo chow imagine #bo chow smut #sinners smut #sinners imagine #sinners 2025 #ryan coogler #sinners spoilers #sinners x reader

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dark-orca-dynasty · 26 days ago

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quick-ish mockup of Finn's room, technically it took me a few days to do this but I didn't spend that much time per day, so.

He sleeps on the middle bunk, bottom and top bunks are empty, and the top bunk opens into the crawlspace of the sub. They're shaped like this so the occupants can sit up in them, but all I can offer you as proof of this claim is this really small photo I found online.

Still no energy for writing or drawing, but here are some references I collected for Finn's room (and technically the other bunk rooms aboard the dark orca) that may or may not end up being relevant to the next chapter of Sea Change.

These are the kind of bunks the US Navy uses apparently? I can't find many pictures of them, anyway Finn's room has one set of these on one wall and a desk set against the other. He has the room to himself, and has kinda filled the two extra beds with miscellaneous stuff.

#the deep 2015 #the deep cartoon #smiling finn #the dark orca #I didn't add the drawer pulls or the latches because I was lazy so pretend they're there #if I could draw a trumpet I would have drawn one tucked in on the bottom bunk #Maddy's room is slightly more personalised - she's got a rope ladder leading to the top bunk #and shelves on the walls with netting so her trinkets don't fall off when there's turbulence #also books and posters of mermaids and pirates #Finn is less sure of what he wants to be and what he likes to do #so there's sort of less things I can think of to decorate his room with

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ozzgin · 6 months ago

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i ADORE sleepy character so much

i just love a man who cant barely keeps his eyes open but still loves us regardless of that sleepiness <3

I feel like Clumsy!Yandere and Lazy!Yandere make the perfect duo when it comes to yandere failures. One is doing his best, but is terrible at it, the other one just can't be bothered. Do they love you? 1000%. They just need the occasional guiding hand.

"Guess what," Clumsy!Yandere exclaims with a smug grin, staring down his rival. "I know you sent (Y/N) a love letter. It's in the shredder now. You should stay in your lane next time."

Lazy!Yandere lets out a deep yawn.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I fell asleep on the bus, so I only got here a moment ago."

Clumsy!Yandere turns around with a horrified gasp. His rival follows him with his eyes.

"That isn't even (Y/N)'s locker, by the way."

"What? But-"

Two desks away, a student begins to weep. Their admission letter has mysteriously vanished from their shelves.

[Lazy!Sleepy!Yandere] | [Clumsy!Yandere]

#doodle #yandere #clumsy yandere #lazy yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere scenarios #yandere parody

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brunchable · 7 months ago

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How's retirement, Bucky? | Bucky Barnes x f!reader.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Themes: Funny. Bucky trying to find things to do to kill time, while also being a menace to Y/N and the neighbours. Prequel to 'Ouch, My face.'

Summary: Bucky decides to retire and leave the super hero world behind, but now he doesn't know how to be normal citizen.

A/N: Just another scenario tha rudely popped into my head. . .

Bucky Barnes was retired.

It still felt strange, even after months of settling into a life of quiet mornings and unhurried afternoons. He had fought in wars, spent decades as an agent of chaos, and dedicated years to redemption and healing. Now, here he was—waking up whenever he pleased, making breakfast in a house that didn’t have bullet-proof glass windows or a panic room, and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his day.

Today, like most others, started off simple enough: a run through the neighbourhood, a cup of coffee, and a lazy scan of the news. He’d even managed to fix the leaky faucet that had been bothering you for weeks, earning a soft kiss on the cheek as a reward.

But then… the day stretched on. There were no missions, no tactical planning, no world to save. Just the quiet ticking of the clock and the gentle hum of suburban life around him.

So, Bucky set his sights on something—or rather, someone—far more interesting: annoying you.

And thus began the saga of Bucky Barnes’ Retirement Phases.

Phase 1: The Handyman Hero Phase

Duration: One Month

Bucky started off strong, becoming the ultimate handyman of the household. Everything was fair game for improvement. Leaky faucets, creaky floorboards, wobbly shelves—if there was a screw to tighten, Bucky was on it like a well-oiled machine.

“Bucky, what are you doing?” you asked one morning, sipping your coffee as you watched him carefully measuring the distance between each picture frame on the living room wall.

“Making sure they’re exactly one inch apart,” he said without looking up, his voice deadly serious.

“Why?”

“Because last night, I noticed this one—” he pointed to a frame on the far left “—was slightly off-center, and it’s been bothering me ever since.”

You blinked. “Bucky, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, Y/N. It’s one and a quarter inch apart. Do you know what happens when things aren’t balanced?” He gave you a haunted look, as if you’d just suggested destabilizing the world order.

“Chaos,” you muttered.

“Exactly.”

Within weeks, Bucky had rebuilt half the house, repainted the walls (twice), and installed a state-of-the-art security system that even Tony Stark would envy. You came home one day to find the couch moved three inches to the left, the coffee table completely gone (“I dismantled it; we don’t need it”), and Bucky seriously contemplating whether the kitchen would look better with marble or granite countertops.

“Bucky,” you said slowly, trying to remain calm, “I’m begging you—stop fixing things.”

He blinked at you. “What do you want me to do then?”

You panicked. “Anything. Just—find a hobby!”

He gave a solemn nod, as if you’d just entrusted him with a new mission. “Okay. A hobby. Got it.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. If only you’d known what was coming next.

Phase 2: The Google Scholar Phase

Duration: Two Weeks

With his newfound free time, Bucky discovered the internet. And when Bucky Barnes discovers the internet, chaos ensues.

It started innocently enough. You’d come home to find him glued to his laptop, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What are you doing?” you asked, setting down your bag.

“Research,” he said ominously, fingers flying over the keys.

“Research on… what?”

He glanced up, his eyes wide. “Did you know sharks have been around longer than trees?”

“Uh—”

“And that banana slugs can grow up to 9 inches long?” He leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s a whole website dedicated to weird animal facts. I’ve been reading for hours.”

And so, you were subjected to two weeks of nonstop trivia.

“Hey, Y/N!” he’d shout from the kitchen. “Did you know an octopus has three hearts?”

Or: “Did you know cows have best friends?”

And: “Do you want to hear about the deepest point in the ocean?”

“Not really—”

“It’s called the Mariana Trench, and it’s seven miles down!”

You tried banning Wikipedia, but he just switched to obscure forums. You blocked YouTube, and he found a random chicken fact blog. The worst part? He’d share his newfound knowledge with anyone who’d listen.

“I’m calling Sam,” you muttered one evening after hearing Bucky recite the entire history of the humble potato to the mailman. “You need social intervention.”

Phase 3: The Home Décor Perfectionist Phase

Duration: Two Exasperating Weeks

Denied access to his newfound internet pursuits, Bucky turned to interior design. You were caught off guard one Saturday morning when he asked, “What do you think of paisley?”

“What’s a paisley?”

“Pattern. I’m thinking of reupholstering the couch.”

“Bucky, no—”

Too late. Within days, every room was a different colour. You came home to find polka-dotted curtains in the bathroom, and he’d somehow managed to install a chandelier in the laundry room.

“Bucky, why is there a 10-foot mirror in the hallway?”

“It makes the space feel bigger.”

“Bucky, this is a two-bedroom house!”

He paused, squinting at the living room wall. “I think the polka dots need to go.”

You nearly wept with relief when he announced he was moving on to the garden.

Phase 4: The Amateur Detective Phase

Duration: One Overly Suspicious Month

After redecorating the entire house, Bucky set his sights on the neighborhood.

“Y/N, did you see that guy across the street?” he whispered one morning, peering through the blinds with a pair of binoculars.

“That’s Mr. Henderson. He’s eighty-five.”

“Yeah, and he’s up to something. No one goes to the mailbox that often.”

“Maybe he likes getting his mail?”

“I’m telling you, something��s not right.” He tapped the binoculars. “I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.”

And so began Operation: Neighborhood Watch. Every delivery truck was scrutinised. Every dog walker received a full background check. The poor Girl Scouts who came to sell cookies left looking slightly shell-shocked.

The Girl Scout Incident: When Bucky Barnes Met Thin Mints

The Girl Scout incident started out innocent enough—just a kid selling cookies to the neighborhood. But when Bucky Barnes answered the door, things took a turn.

It was a sunny Saturday morning. You were in the kitchen, enjoying a rare moment of peace, when you heard the doorbell ring. Before you could even get up to check, Bucky’s voice echoed from the living room.

“I got it!” he called out, already making his way to the front door.

Curious, you peeked around the corner just in time to see him open it. Standing on the porch was a sweet-looking little girl, no more than nine or ten, decked out in her green uniform, clutching a clipboard and flashing a bright, eager smile.

“Hi, mister!” she chirped, clearly undeterred by the stern look on Bucky’s face. “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies today?”

You watched as Bucky’s expression softened just a bit, his head tilting to the side in confusion.

“Cookies?” he repeated, as if she’d just offered him nuclear launch codes.

“Yep!” She held up a laminated chart with pictures of the various cookies, pointing to each one with a tiny, rainbow-colored pen. “We have Thin Mints, Tagalongs, Samoas—uh, I mean, Caramel deLites—”

He squinted at the chart, clearly trying to make sense of it all. “Why would you need to sell cookies?”

You nearly face-palmed. Oh no.

The girl’s enthusiasm didn’t waver. “It’s a fundraiser! To support our troop activities and trips.”

“Fundraiser?” Bucky’s voice dropped suspiciously. “Who’s your troop leader?”

The girl blinked, a little taken aback. “Uh, Mrs. Patterson?”

“Uh-huh. And how many boxes of these so-called ‘cookies’ are you supposed to sell?”

Her smile wavered just a fraction. “Um, as many as possible?”

Bucky crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “And where does all this money go?”

“Bucky—” you tried to interrupt, stepping forward, but he held up a hand without looking back, eyes still locked on the bewildered Girl Scout.

“It goes to our troop!” she answered nervously, glancing down at her clipboard as if for reassurance. “For badges and supplies and—”

“Supplies,” Bucky echoed, his tone suddenly sharp. “What kind of supplies?”

“Uh… arts and crafts…?” she stammered, clearly starting to get uncomfortable.

“Arts and crafts?” He leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Or something else?”

You saw the poor girl’s eyes widen, her grip tightening on her clipboard as if she was contemplating using it as a shield.

“Bucky, stop,” you hissed, stepping forward to intervene. But he was on a roll now.

“Who gets the money, huh?” He narrowed his eyes, peering down at her like she was an enemy combatant. “Do you get it?

“Or does it go to some mysterious ‘troop leader’ who’s hiding behind a desk somewhere, raking in profits from innocent cookie sales?”

“M-Mister, it’s just cookies,” she squeaked, glancing nervously at the boxes stacked beside her. “We just wanna go camping this summer.”

“Camping?” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “And what kind of ‘camping’ are we talking about here? Deep-woods recon training? SERE training?”

The girl blinked up at him, clearly having no idea what he was talking about.

“Bucky, she’s nine!” you practically shouted, rushing over to save the poor child from what was rapidly escalating into a full-blown interrogation.

“But Y/N, this could be—”

“It’s not a conspiracy, Bucky!” you snapped, turning to the girl and giving her what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “Sweetie, how much for a box of Thin Mints?”

“Uh… f-five dollars?” she stammered, still eyeing Bucky like he might suddenly sprout fangs.

You reached for your wallet, pulling out a ten-dollar bill and handing it to her. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, ma’am!” she squeaked, stuffing the money into her pouch with trembling hands.

You shot Bucky a glare. “Apologize.”

He crossed his arms, looking mulish. “But—”

“Bucky.”

He let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Uh… sorry… for, um… asking about your troop leader and, uh… the money laundering?”

The girl blinked up at him, clearly not following.

“Bucky!” you hissed, elbowing him sharply.

“I mean, sorry for… for… being weird,” he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The girl gave a hesitant nod, glancing back at her stack of cookies. “Um… would you like another box, mister?”

Bucky frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe. Which one’s the best?”

“Bucky—” you started, but he was already leaning down, listening intently as the girl launched into a detailed explanation of the flavour profiles of Samoas versus Tagalongs.

Twenty minutes later, Bucky was the proud owner of a dozen boxes of Girl Scout cookies, which the girl somehow managed to upsell him into buying. The look of relief on her face as she walked away was palpable.

You turned to Bucky, hands on your hips. “Really, Buck?”

“What?” he said defensively, clutching his armful of cookies. “I needed to make sure it was legit!”

“Uh-huh. And that’s why we now have enough cookies to feed an army?”

He shrugged, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I guess I got carried away.”

“Just… try not to scare any more children, okay?”

“Hey, I was just being thorough,” he muttered, glancing down at the boxes. “Besides… these ‘Samoas’ are actually pretty good.”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Because only Bucky Barnes could turn a simple cookie sale into a full-scale interrogation—and then end up buying out the entire stock.

“Whatever you say, Bucky. Whatever you say.”

He gave you a sheepish grin, holding up a box of Thin Mints. “Want one?”

“Sure,” you sighed, reaching out to grab a cookie. Because, at the end of the day, this was Bucky Barnes: ex-assassin, super-soldier, and now… terrifyingly dedicated Girl Scout cookie connoisseur.

The Girl Scout incident, unfortunately, didn’t mark the end of Bucky’s neighbourhood watch endeavours.

“Hey, Y/N, that’s the third day in a row Mrs. Higginson has gone jogging past our house,” Bucky muttered a few days later, scribbling furiously in his notebook.

You glanced over from your spot on the couch, raising an eyebrow. “Uh-huh,” you replied absently, already wondering if now would be a good time to text Steve for a little ‘rescue mission.’ “Maybe she likes jogging?”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not natural. It’s a cover for something. Probably espionage.”

“Bucky, she’s seventy.”

“Exactly. No one that age moves like that. She’s gotta be a retired agent.”

“Or she’s trying to stay in shape?”

“Or she’s spying on us.” He narrowed his eyes, peering through the blinds. “Maybe she’s HYDRA.”

“Bucky, she brought us homemade banana bread last week.”

“Which tasted suspiciously good,” he muttered darkly, tapping his pen against his chin. “I’m keeping an eye on her.”

It didn’t stop there. He began obsessively tracking patterns—when neighbors took out their trash, when they left for work, who picked up their mail first thing in the morning. His conspiracy board rivaled the one you’d seen at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, complete with photos, string, and a suspiciously large map of the neighborhood.

“Y/N, I need to talk to you.”

You blinked, looking up from your book. “What’s up, Buck?”

He leaned in, his voice low and serious. “Did you know Mrs. Patterson’s dog peed on our lawn three times this week?”

“I—what?”

“And Mr. Thompson left his house twice yesterday. Twice.”

“…is that a crime?”

“Yes. Who leaves the house twice in one day? He’s clearly up to something.”

“Like… groceries?”

Bucky frowned. “No. Something bigger. I saw him walking to his car, get this—without any bags.”

“Maybe he forgot something?”

He shook his head, eyes narrowed. “It’s a diversion tactic. I’m keeping a close watch on him.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re stalking the neighbours.”

“Of course not!” He paused. “I’m… observing. For science.”

“For science?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, Buck. I’m putting my foot down,” you finally managed. “You need to stop this. The neighbours think we’re crazy. You’re scaring the kids and… the mailman won’t come to the door anymore.”

Bucky looked genuinely confused. “Why not?”

“Because you interrogated him about his route last week!”

“He was being shady!”

“He’s a mailman!”

There was a long pause as you stared each other down, Bucky looking defiant and you looking exhausted. Finally, you sighed and ran a hand through your hair.

“Buck… I know retirement is hard. But you need a new outlet. Maybe something a little less—”

“Paranoid?” he offered, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. And a little less terrifying for the neighbours.”

He sighed deeply, like you’d just asked him to hang up his shield all over again. “I was just… trying to be useful.”

Your heart softened immediately. Because that was what it all boiled down to, wasn’t it? The man who’d spent his life fighting wars and doing battle against his own mind was now left trying to figure out how to fit into a world that no longer needed him to save it.

You walked over, placing your hands on his shoulders and giving him a soft smile. “You’re always useful, Buck. Even if you’re not interrogating the mailman about federal postal regulations or… spying on seventy-year-old retirees.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “I might’ve gone a little overboard, huh?”

“A little,” you agreed with a grin. “Maybe you should find something else to watch over.”

“Like what?” he asked, looking genuinely curious.

You bit your lip, thinking. “I don’t know… Maybe get a pet? You could… I don’t know, babysit a cat or something.”

Bucky blinked at you. Then his eyes lit up like you’d just handed him the Holy Grail of retirement activities.

“A cat,” he murmured slowly, as if testing the word. “A cat.”

“Yes, a cat,” you repeated cautiously, wondering if you’d just unleashed some new kind of havoc on the house. “You could train it to… I don’t know, not scratch the furniture or something.”

“Or… I could train it to keep an eye on the pigeons,” he muttered to himself, looking thoughtful.

“Wait, what?”

But Bucky had already gone inside, the gears in his mind clearly turning. You shook your head, deciding to let him have this one. After all, how much trouble could he really get into with a cat?

Phase 5: The Pet Phase (aka Operation: Find a Feline Friend)

Duration: Ongoing, with Fur Everywhere

You didn’t think he’d take it seriously. Until you came home the next day to find Bucky sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, a small, white ball of fluff curled up in his lap.

“This is Alpine,” he announced proudly.

You stared at the kitten, then at Bucky, then back at the kitten. “Bucky, what… why…?”

“You said get a pet,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “So I did.”

And that’s how Alpine, the grumpy old woman in a cat’s body, became part of your household. Bucky spent weeks trying to train him (“Sit, Alpine! Sit! … Okay, fine, just glare at me, that works too.”), set up elaborate obstacle courses (“Alpine, jump! No, don’t walk away—okay, you know what, just do your thing”), and spoiled her rotten with toys and treats.

With each phase, Bucky’s retirement became a new adventure. And while it drove you absolutely crazy at times, you couldn’t help but smile when you saw Bucky lying on the couch, Alpine curled up on his chest, both looking completely content.

“Retirement isn’t so bad, huh?” you teased one evening, curling up beside him.

He hummed thoughtfully, scratching behind Alpine’s ears. “I don’t know… I think I could use a new project.”

You groaned, but your groan turned into a laugh when he grinned at you, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Oh no,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “No more projects, Barnes. You’ve nearly redecorated us out of house and home, scared the mailman half to death, and—”

“Don’t forget the gourmet cookies,” he interjected with a cheeky smile.

You shot him a playful glare. “I’m trying to forget the cookies, thank you.”

“Aw, come on. I think I finally got the recipe down. I’ll just try one more—”

“No!” you practically shouted, your voice echoing through the living room. Alpine, unbothered, merely lifted her head, gave you both a disinterested look, and went back to napping.

Bucky chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. No more cookies. No more redecorating. No more… scaring the Girl Scouts.”

“Or spying on the neighbors.”

“Or spying on the neighbors,” he agreed, still looking a little too amused for your liking.

You sighed, leaning back into the couch and resting your head on his shoulder. “You know, most people take up hobbies like gardening or painting in retirement.”

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, but those aren’t as exciting.”

“They’re not supposed to be exciting. They’re supposed to be calm. That’s the whole point of retirement, Buck.”

He glanced down at you, his gaze softening. “You really think I’m the ‘calm’ type, doll?”

You snorted. “No, not really. But it would be nice if, just once, I didn’t come home to find you plotting to build a moat around the house.”

“Moats are an excellent defense mechanism,” he said matter-of-factly. “But okay, I get it. I’ll tone it down.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “You promise?”

“Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up his right hand. The glint in his eye, however, told you he was already planning something new.

“Bucky…”

“What?” he asked, all innocence. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not for a second.”

He chuckled, then pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. “Alright, no more projects. I’ll just focus on Alpine. She’s a full-time job anyway.”

You glanced at the cat, who was now sprawled out like she owned the place. “You’ve turned her into a diva, you know.”

“He’s just refined,” Bucky said defensively. “He’s got standards.”

“Uh-huh. Like the way he refuses to eat unless you hand-feed her?”

“Refined,” Bucky insisted.

“And how she sleeps on your side of the bed and shoves you off with her tiny, evil paws?”

“Selective.”

“And how she sits on the counter staring at you like she’s plotting your demise?”

“Observant.”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’ve created a monster, Bucky.”

“Eh,” he said with a shrug, smirking down at you. “I’ve handled worse monsters. She’s a good one. Besides,” he added, scratching Alpine’s head fondly, “she’s family.”

Your heart softened at his words, and you smiled up at him. “Yeah, I guess she is.”

There was a comfortable silence as you both sat there, content in the peaceful moment.

Then Bucky cleared his throat, and you glanced up to see him shifting slightly, like he was working up the nerve to say something.

“So… I was thinking…” he began slowly.

“Bucky.”

“No, no, hear me out,” he said quickly, raising his hands as if to ward off your incoming refusal. “What if we… I dunno… made a baby?”

You blinked, certain you hadn’t heard him correctly. “What?”

“A baby,” he repeated, his voice steady, though there was a telltale blush creeping up his neck. “You know, a little human—our human. Someone we can train to take over the world… or at least keep me entertained.”

Your jaw dropped open. “You want to have a baby—because you’re bored?”

Bucky gave you a sheepish grin. “I mean, I was thinking it could be a good project… long-term investment… future troublemaker…”

“Bucky,” you interrupted, placing your hands on his shoulders and staring at him, bewildered. “Are you seriously suggesting having a child like it’s another DIY project?”

He shrugged, looking as nonchalant as ever, but his eyes were soft and serious. “Maybe. But I was also thinking it’d be nice to have something, or someone, that’s just… ours. A mix of you and me. Something that isn’t tied to the past, or fighting, or… all the other stuff.”

You stared at him, trying to wrap your mind around the sudden turn the conversation had taken. “You really want a baby, Bucky?”

He nodded slowly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I do. Don’t get me wrong, Alpine’s great and all, but…” He sighed, his smile turning tender. “I just think it’d be amazing to have something more. I’ve spent so much of my life taking orders or fighting ghosts. But starting a family with you? That’s something I get to build. Something that’s ours.”

You bit your lip, heart swelling at his words. Despite the completely unromantic way he’d suggested it, there was sincerity in his gaze, a yearning for something deeper than fixing leaky faucets or buying out the Girl Scouts’ entire cookie stock.

“And you think you’d be a good dad?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Please,” he scoffed, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’d be the best damn dad. I’d teach our kid how to throw a proper punch by age five, dismantle a toaster by six—”

You laughed, shaking your head. “So, what you’re saying is… you want to raise a tiny super-soldier?”

His grin widened. “Hell yeah.”

“Bucky, we are not turning our child into a mini-Winter Soldier.”

He pouted dramatically. “Not even a little bit?”

“Not even a little bit,” you affirmed with a chuckle. You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “But… maybe we could talk about it. You know, actually talk. Not just… plan a tactical baby mission.”

Bucky’s eyes softened as he brushed his thumb along your cheek. “Yeah. We can talk about it.” He paused, then added with a mischievous glint, “After we practice a little more.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Oh my God, Bucky.”

“What?” he asked innocently, his grin widening. “Practice makes perfect, right?”

You shook your head, letting out a breathy laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love me for it,” he murmured, leaning in to capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

“Yeah,” you whispered when he pulled away, your heart fluttering in your chest. “I do.”

You glanced down at Alpine, who was still sprawled across Bucky’s lap, looking utterly uninterested in the conversation. A baby. You hadn’t really thought about it seriously before, but now that Bucky had put the idea in your head… you couldn’t help but wonder.

There was a brief pause as Bucky gazed at you, his expression growing thoughtful. “You know,” he began quietly, “after that whole Girl Scout cookie fiasco… I kinda started thinking… I’d really like to have a daughter.”

You blinked at him, surprised. “A daughter?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice softening. “That kid was just so… brave, you know? Standing there, staring me down even though I was being a total idiot. It reminded me of you—fierce and unafraid. I couldn’t stop thinking… what if we had a daughter like that? Strong, smart, and completely capable of putting me in my place when I get out of line.”

You felt your heart clench at his words, his quiet admission making your chest ache. “You want a little girl because she’d keep you in check?”

“That,” he said, smiling softly, “and I think I’d like the challenge. I’ve spent so much of my life dealing with people who only saw me as a weapon. I just… want to prove that I can be something else. That I can be gentle… and kind… and love someone unconditionally. The way I love you.”

You reached up, cupping his face gently. “Bucky, you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“I know,” he murmured, his gaze warm and intense. “But I still want to try. And I want to be the kind of dad who isn’t just a protector, but a friend. Someone who’d sit through endless tea parties and help her build pillow forts… and buy all the Girl Scout cookies she wants without scaring anyone.”

You laughed softly, tears stinging your eyes at the picture he painted. “You’d be a great dad, Bucky.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice low and hopeful.

“Yeah,” you whispered, smiling up at him.

There was another beat of silence before Bucky leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “So… when do we start?”

You felt your cheeks heat, a mix of laughter and surprise bubbling up in your chest. “Bucky!”

“What?” he asked, his smile as innocent as ever. “I’m just asking. I mean, you know I’m a man of action. Gotta have a timeline.”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands as Bucky laughed softly, his arms wrapping around you.

“Okay, okay,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “No rush. We’ll take it one day at a time, sweetheart. But just know… I’m ready whenever you are.”

And somehow, you knew this next phase—whatever it looked like—was going to be the best one yet.

× × × ×

Ten months later

The soft glow of the nightlight bathed the nursery in a warm, golden hue, casting gentle shadows on the pale blue walls. The room was still, save for the quiet creak of the rocking chair as Bucky swayed back and forth, holding the tiniest bundle of joy in his strong, yet tender arms.

His daughter, barely a week old, was nestled against his chest, her small, delicate breaths in sync with the steady rhythm of his own. Her tiny fist curled around the fabric of his shirt, as if she knew just how safe and loved she was in her daddy's arms.

Bucky hummed quietly, the familiar melody of an old lullaby drifting into the air. It was a song his mother used to sing to him when he was no older than his sweet little girl was now. The words came softly, almost whispered, as if they were sacred—meant only for his daughter.

“Darling, you're my bloodYou have my heartbeatYou have my heartbeat, beating loud,”

His voice was gruff, yet softened by emotion as he sang, the gentle rocking lulling his daughter further into her peaceful slumber. His fingers brushed through her soft, downy hair as he looked down at her with nothing short of awe. How had he, of all people, gotten so lucky?

He had been through so much darkness in his life—seen and done things he would never be able to forget—but here, in this quiet moment, everything seemed to fade away. The world outside could wait. Right now, his whole universe was cradled in his arms, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes felt at peace.

Unbeknownst to him, you stood at the door, your heart swelling at the sight before you. You had come to check on them both, worried that Bucky might need help with the baby. But when you saw him there, rocking your little girl and singing so sweetly, you couldn’t bring yourself to interrupt.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you leaned against the doorframe, content to watch the love of your life in this vulnerable, beautiful moment.

Bucky was a natural, even if he didn’t believe it. You had seen the worry in his eyes when you first brought your daughter home—the fear that he wouldn’t be good enough, that he wouldn’t know what to do. But here he was, proving himself wrong in the most heart-melting way possible.

The lullaby continued, each note filled with so much love it made your eyes mist over.

"You are my lighthouseA peak of light from the dark cloudsI've lived under my whole life. . .And there's nothing I won't do for you."

Bucky’s voice cracked just a little on the last line, overcome with emotion as he gazed down at his daughter and carefully wiped his tears away.

She had his eyes—bright and full of wonder, even when they were closed in slumber. He couldn’t help but trace the delicate features of her face with his gaze, committing every tiny detail to memory.

Finally, you couldn’t resist any longer. You stepped into the room quietly, not wanting to startle him. Bucky looked up, surprise flickering across his face when he saw you standing there. His expression softened when he realised you had been watching him.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked, his voice low so as not to wake the baby.

“Long enough,” you replied, your smile widening as you walked over to him.

Bucky blushed, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “I’m not exactly a professional.”

“I beg to differ, I think you’re the best dad in the world.” you whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his temple.

Bucky’s heart swelled at your words. He never imagined he would be here—sitting in a nursery, holding his newborn daughter while the love of his life stood beside him, calling him the best dad in the world. It still felt like a dream.

“She’s so small,” he murmured, looking back down at the baby. “So fragile. I didn’t think…I didn’t think I could love someone I barely knew this much.”

Your hand gently rested on his shoulder as you gazed down at your daughter. “You’ve got a big heart, James. I always knew you’d be amazing as a father.”

He glanced up at you, eyes soft and full of affection. “You’re the amazing one.”

You reached out to gently stroke the baby’s cheek, and Bucky leaned into your touch, feeling more complete than he ever thought possible.

“I never thought I’d have this,” he admitted after a long silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “A family. A reason to feel…whole again.”

You knelt down beside him, resting your head against his shoulder. “You deserve it, Bucky. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

Bucky kissed the top of youe head, holding you close as he continued to rock your daughter. The world outside could be chaotic and unforgiving, but in this room, in this moment, everything was perfect.

× × × ×

Baby at six months

The house was peaceful, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow through the windows. You were out running errands, leaving Bucky home with their now six-month-old daughter, who was currently kicking her chubby little legs and babbling on her playmat. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she reached for her favorite stuffed bear, the one Bucky had given her the day she was born.

Bucky sat beside her, legs crossed, watching her every move like she was the most fascinating thing on the planet. He leaned down, his voice dropping to a playful whisper.

“You know, blossom,” he began, glancing over his shoulder dramatically as if checking to make sure Y/N wasn’t around. “Your mom thinks she’s the boss.”

Their daughter let out a high-pitched squeal, and Bucky grinned.

“Right? Can you believe it?” he continued, keeping his voice low as if sharing the biggest secret in the world. “She thinks she’s in charge around here. But between you and me, we know the truth.”

His little girl giggled again, her tiny hands grasping at the air as if she was agreeing with him.

“See, you and I?” Bucky said, tapping his finger gently on her nose, “We’re a team. We know how to get things done. I mean, just look at us—surviving nap time, figuring out how to stack those weird little ring toys, and we don’t even need to look at the instructions. Meanwhile, your mom still thinks I can’t fold laundry properly.”

He paused for dramatic effect, raising his brows. “Can you believe that? Laundry. I fought in World War II, and she’s worried I’ll mess up the towels.”

His daughter let out a delighted shriek, her little legs kicking excitedly. Bucky reached over and tickled her belly gently, making her burst into even more giggles.

“Oh, yeah, I know you think it’s funny,” Bucky chuckled. “But trust me, your mom’s got some pretty high laundry standards. I tried to fold one towel, just one, and she came over with this look like I’d committed a crime. 'Bucky, that’s not how you fold them!' she said. And I’m standing there like, ‘It’s a towel, not a top-secret mission.’”

He leaned in closer, as if telling her something top-secret. “She doesn’t know this, but I might’ve folded them wrong on purpose so I wouldn’t have to do it anymore.”

His daughter cooed, her tiny hand reaching out to grab his finger, which she promptly brought to her mouth to chew on. Bucky let her, his heart melting at the sight. She was his little sidekick, always hanging on his every word, even if she didn’t fully understand yet.

“And don’t even get me started on the bedtime routine,” Bucky continued, shaking his head in mock exasperation. “Your mom’s got this whole plan—bath, story, lights out. Meanwhile, you and me? We’ve got a better plan. We chill, we rock, maybe sing a little. You get all cozy, and bam—out like a light.”

“Bababababa,” His daughter babbled something back at him, her little voice full of enthusiasm, and Bucky nodded seriously.

“Exactly. That’s what I’ve been saying. We’ve got this figured out.”

He scooped her up from the mat and held her close, her head resting comfortably against his chest as he walked them over to the couch. He sat down, cradling her in his arms, and continued his lighthearted rant.

“And the thing is, she’s always right, which drives me crazy. Like, the other day, she told me you were gonna try to crawl soon. I thought, ‘Nah, she’s too young.’ But then what happens? Two days later, you’re scooting around like you’ve got places to be. I swear, your mom’s a psychic or something.”

Bucky gazed down at his daughter, who was now looking up at him with those wide blue eyes that never failed to melt his heart. She let out a happy gurgle, and Bucky chuckled softly, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“You know I’m just kidding, right? Your mom’s the best. She takes care of both of us.” He sighed, feeling a rush of affection as he thought about Y/N. “Don’t tell her, but I’m pretty lucky to have her. She keeps me in line.”

Just then, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the house, and Bucky’s head shot up in mock panic.

“Uh-oh,” he whispered to his daughter, his eyes wide with exaggerated worry. “The boss is back. Don’t say anything.”

You appeared in the doorway, raising an eyebrow as you saw Bucky and the baby cozied up on the couch. “What are you two up to?” you asked, a knowing smile on your lips.

Bucky gave you his most innocent look, bouncing your daughter gently in his arms. “Oh, nothing. Just hanging out with my best girl here. Right, darling?”

The baby let out a little squeal, clearly delighted by the attention.

“Mmhmm,” You said, stepping closer and giving Bucky a playful look. “You haven’t been filling her head with nonsense, have you?”

“Me? Never,” Bucky replied, trying to keep a straight face. “We were just talking about how great you are. Isn’t that right, kiddo?”

Bianca, oblivious to the conversation, giggled and reached for you, and took her from Bucky’s arms and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Well, if she grows up thinking she’s in charge, I’ll know who to blame,” You teased, casting a glance at Bucky.

He grinned, leaning back on the couch. “Hey, she’s gotta learn from the best.”

You smiled, shaking your head in mock defeat. “You’re lucky she likes you so much.”

Bucky stood and wrapped his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both looked down at your little girl, now happily nestled between you. “I’m lucky to have both of you,” he murmured softly, kissing the side of your head.

And in that moment, with his two favorite girls in his arms, Bucky couldn’t imagine a better kind of luck.

1K notes · View notes

thedilfdiaries · 2 months ago

Text

sweet surrender

Clint x f!reader // 6k

summary: your sleazy boss convinces you to fuck in the break room to a shitty porn tape he rented

warnings: mdni, 18+, porn with minimal plot, sleazy!clint, daddy kink, oral f! and m! receiving, unprotected p in v, fucking at work, fucking to a porn video, reader has titties, edging, orgasm denial

notes: a big huge thank you to @itwasntimethatdidit40 for reading this and being the sweetest cheerleader and for making me a moodboard when I was going through this crisis I love you so very much, @milla-frenchy for reading and leaving me the best comments you are the sweetest bb <3 and a big thank you to @evolnoomym for reading this over too. You are all the best and I love you veryyyyy much. // ty @/darkissoulmybody on Pinterest for the clint pic <3

masterlist

The bell above the door jingles as you step into the dimly lit video store, the scent of old VHS cases and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The neon glow from the ADULT SECTION sign flickers in the back, casting shadows over the rows of tapes Clint probably hasn’t dusted in a decade.

You spot him behind the counter, feet kicked up, flipping through a magazine like he’s got all the time in the world. His aviators rest low on his nose, and when he glances up at you, a slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

You roll your eyes, tossing your bag onto the counter. “I’m five minutes early.”

Clint shrugs, shutting the magazine with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Coulda fooled me. Felt like I was sittin’ here all alone for hours.”

“Tragic.”

“You have no idea.” He leans forward, elbows on the counter, eyes raking over you in that way that’s become annoyingly familiar. “Lucky for me, I’ve got entertainment.”

You don’t have to ask. You already know. Like clockwork, there’s a VHS case sitting right by the register, an X-rated title in bold, red letters across the front. He picks out one every damn week like it’s just part of his routine. Sometimes he even makes you ring it up for him, just to see if you’ll get flustered.

Clint taps the tape with two fingers. “Think this one’s gonna be good?”

You glance at it. Sweet Surrender. Jesus.

You arch a brow. “Didn’t take you for a romance guy.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Clint drawls, grinning like he’s got you right where he wants you. “I got layers.”

You scoff, moving past him to clock in. Clint watches you go, the heat of his gaze pressing into your back. It’s always like this—him looking, teasing, toeing the line just enough to make you wonder if he’d ever actually cross it.

You haven’t figured out yet if you’d let him.

The night drags on slowly, the hum of the old fluorescent lights blending with the occasional creak of the front door. A couple of regulars come and go, renting their usuals, nodding at Clint. You organize the counter, stock a few shelves, and pretend you don’t notice the way Clint always seems to be near.

At some point, you duck into the break room, craving a moment of quiet. The tiny space is cluttered—half-empty soda cans, an old couch that smells like dust, and a mini fridge stocked with questionable leftovers. You lean against the counter, letting out a slow breath.

And then Clint’s there, filling the doorway.

“Escapin’ from me already?” he muses, arms crossing over his broad chest.

You don’t look at him, reaching for the fridge instead. “Just needed a break from your endless charm.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “That so?”

You grab a soda, cracking it open. “Mhm.”

Clint takes another step closer, and this time, you feel it. The heat of him, the scent of cigarettes and cheap aftershave, the way his presence always seems bigger than it should be in a room this small.

"Y’know, sweetheart," he drawls, voice dipped in that slow, southern thing he does when he’s feeling extra cocky, "I don’t think you appreciate me enough."

You take a sip of your soda, deadpan. "So sad."

"That’s what I’m sayin’." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I’m here, night after night, keeping this fine establishment running—"

"You sit behind the counter and read Hustler."

"—And in return, do I get so much as a thank you?" He sighs, like he’s been personally victimized. "No, I do not."

You roll your eyes, setting your soda down with more force than necessary. "Thank you, Clint, for gracing this dump with your presence."

He smirks. "Anytime, sweetheart."

You turn to leave, but before you can, Clint starts talking.

"You ever get curious?" he asks, voice all low and knowing.

You frown. "About what?"

Clint taps the VHS tape in his hand. The one he brought into the break room with him. The one he’s now pushing into the old, busted TV set in the corner like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Your stomach drops. "Clint—"

The screen crackles to life. A grainy, oversaturated image flickers on—the unmistakable opening of Sweet Surrender, complete with cheesy saxophone music and a woman moaning through the static.

You stare at the TV. Then at Clint.

"What the fuck, dude?"

Clint just grins, sinking down onto the old couch like this is all one big joke. Like he planned for this reaction. He stretches out, legs spread wide, arm slung over the back like he owns the place.

Like he’s settling in.

"What?" He gestures lazily at the screen. "Figured we could do some, y’know, quality control."

You gape at him. "You did not just put on a fucking porno in the break room."

Clint shrugs, completely unbothered. "Looks like I did."

You’re about to cuss him out, maybe throw your soda at him, when he takes it a step further—because of course he does.

He pats the cushion beside him, smirking. "C’mon, sweetheart. Scared you might like it?"

You scoff, folding your arms tight across your chest. "Oh, fuck off, Clint."

But he just grins wider, eyes glinting. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

"That a no?" he drawls, tilting his head. "Shame. Thought we were friends."

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Friends don’t put on softcore porn in the break room."

"Softcore?" Clint clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I’d waste my time on soft anything?"

You open your mouth to fire back, but then a particularly loud, breathy moan cuts through the static, and you feel your face heats up.

Jesus Christ.

Clint watches you, eyes flicking between you and the screen like he’s waiting—hoping—to catch you slipping.

"Y’know," he muses, stretching his arms up behind his head, "you could just not watch. Seems like you’re thinkin’ about it awful hard, though."

You shake your head, biting back the urge to tell him to go to hell. "I’m not thinking about shit."

Clint hums like he doesn’t believe you, like he can see right through you. He stays lounging, legs spread, fingers drumming lazily against his thigh as he turns his attention back to the screen.

Another moan filters through the static.

You grab your soda gripping it tighter. "You’re disgusting."

"And yet, here you are. Still talkin’ to me."

You glare at him, turning for the door. "I have actual work to do."

But before you can take a step, Clint clicks his tongue. "Ah, ah, ah—why don’t you sit down, sweetheart?"

Your spine goes stiff. "What?"

He gestures to the empty space beside him. "Take a load off. Ain’t like we’re busy."

You scoff. "Not happening."

Clint exhales, long and slow, like this is just another inconvenience to him. Then, he says it.

"You sure? ‘Cause if you’re not in the mood to be a team player…" He lets the words hang, lazy and sharp at the same time. "I could always find someone else to cover your shifts."

Your stomach drops. "Are you—" You stop yourself, clenching your jaw. "Seriously?"

He grins, all teeth. "Dead serious."

Your pulse kicks up, anger boiling under your skin. "You’re gonna fire me—because I won’t watch your shitty porn with you?"

"Don’t be dramatic," Clint says, patting the cushion again. "Just tryna boost morale. You don’t wanna be a team player? That’s fine. I’ll just start lookin’ for someone who will."

You glare at him, every part of you screaming to tell him to fuck off, to storm out and never come back.

But rent is due. Your car needs gas. And Clint knows it.

You don’t sit right away. You stand there, arms locked tight, fighting every instinct telling you not to give him the satisfaction.

And Clint just sits there, watching, waiting for you to crack.

Finally, with a sharp inhale, you place your soda down again and drop onto the couch beside him, arms still crossed.

He chuckles low, tilting his head toward you. "See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

Your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. "Go to hell, Clint."

Clint just smirks. "Darlin’, I’m already there. Might as well enjoy the view."

Clint spreads his legs enough to make sure you notice. His arm drapes across the back, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, like he’s settling in with you. Like this is comfortable.

For him, anyway.

For you, it’s fucking not.

"Ain’t too bad, huh?" he murmurs, voice all slow and smug.

You fix your gaze on the TV, jaw clenched. "Shut up."

But Clint isn’t the type to shut up.

He watches you instead of the screen, studying the stiff set of your shoulders, the way your arms stay locked tight across your chest. Like you think you can make yourself smaller. Like you think you can ignore him.

But he’s relentless.

He leans in, breath warm against your ear. "Relax, sweetheart. You act like I just asked you to do somethin’ real dirty."

You whip your head toward him, scowling. "This is dirty."

He grins, slow and lazy. "Yeah?" His gaze dips lower, raking over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. "Ain’t even touched you yet."

Fucking hell.

You snap your head back toward the TV, desperate to look anywhere else. The scene playing out is typical cheap VHS smut—bad lighting, a low-budget set, and a woman fake moaning as some guy runs his hands all over her. They’re both already naked, sprawled across a tacky, leopard-print couch that looks stiff and uncomfortable. Her curls bounce as she arches exaggeratedly, lips parted in an over-the-top gasp.

“Mmm, yeah, just like that,” she purrs, dragging her nails lightly down his back, though the gesture looks more like a routine than genuine pleasure.

The guy—tan lines stark against his skin, hair slicked back with too much gel—grunts, his expression unfocused. “You like that?” His voice is low, but the words sound hollow, like he’s said them a hundred times before.

She lets out another moan, forced, too high-pitched to be real. The camera lingers on his hands moving over her, on the way she spreads her legs obligingly, even as her expression flickers—boredom creeping in beneath the act. The whole thing feels mechanical, like they’re just going through the motions, a loop they’ve rehearsed a hundred times before.

“God, you feel so good,” she sighs, her voice sweet, syrupy, and just a little too rehearsed.

The man doesn’t respond, just keeps moving, his rhythm unchanged, like he’s punching a clock. The camera zooms in slightly, grainy and unflattering, the colors oversaturated in that distinct VHS way. It’s all so obvious—cheap, impersonal, bodies going through the motions for the sake of getting paid.

And yet, you can’t quite look away.

Clint hums, tapping his fingers against the couch. "Gotta say, Sweet Surrender ain’t half bad. Got a nice lil’ build-up to it."

You exhale sharply, your patience hanging by a thread. "Do you ever stop talking?"

Clint just chuckles, low and amused. "Not when I’m enjoyin’ myself."

And then—he sprawls out even more, shifting so his knee knocks against yours.

You jerk away. "Clint—"

"What?" He feigns innocence, head tilting. "Ain’t my fault there's not much room on this ratty ol’ couch."

Your hands ball into fists in your lap. "You’re the one who told me to sit here."

He grins again, wolfish and filthy. "And lucky for you, I’m real good at sharin’."

You’re about to snap, about to say something vicious—but then his fingers brush your thigh. Just a ghost of a touch, casual as anything, but pointed.

Deliberate.

Your breath catches, and he notices.

His smirk deepens, voice dropping lower. "Aw, sweetheart. You nervous?"

You swallow hard, forcing your body to stay still. "No."

Clint tsks, shaking his head. "Liar."

And then, the fucker has the nerve to nudge his knee against yours again, slow and deliberate, his fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your thigh.

"You sit here actin’ all stiff, like you don’t wanna be here," he murmurs, his voice damn near silky. "But you haven't left yet."

Your nails dig into your palms. "Because you threatened to fire me."

Clint just grins. "Uh-huh." He leans in again, voice dipping into something rougher. "That the only reason?"

Your heart slams against your chest.

You should get up. Should shove him away, tell him to fuck off, storm out and let him deal with this shitty store all by himself.

But your legs won’t move. Your body won’t move.

And Clint? He just keeps watching you, looking at you like he’s already won.

Like he knows something you don’t.

His smirk turns downright predatory, all lazy amusement and smug satisfaction. "See," he drawls, fingers still moving up your thigh, "you talk a big game, sweetheart, but you like this, don’t you?"

You inhale sharply, turning your head to glare at him. "I do not—"

He chuckles, slow and deep. "Mmm.”

His hand drags a little higher, not quite a grope, but enough to feel. Enough to let you know he’s testing you, waiting for you to stop him.

You should stop him.

But your body betrays you, staying right there, locked in place, heat curling in your stomach in a way you hate.

Clint grins like he can taste your hesitation. "See? Ain’t so bad, am I?"

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady. "You’re a fucking creep."

He hums, unconcerned. "Maybe."

The TV hums in the background, the flickering glow casting shadows across his face. Another moan filters through the static, obscene and drawn out.

And Clint? He doesn’t look at the screen.

He looks at you and winks.

"Y’know," he muses, voice all slow and smug, "coulda left five minutes ago. Could leave now." His fingers press a little firmer, teasing the edge of your inner thigh. "But you won’t."

Your breath shudders, hands curling into fists.

His lips twitch. "So, tell me, sweetheart. You gonna sit here, act all mad, or you gonna do what we both know you wanna do?"

Your whole body is burning—rage, humiliation, something else you refuse to name.

You need to leave.

And Clint fucking knows it.

His smirk deepens, hand creeping higher, his voice dipping into something rougher, darker.

"That’s my girl."

Your whole body is wound tight, muscles locked, breath shallow.

And that’s when he knows he’s got you.

His smirk turns downright wicked. "C’mon, sweetheart," he murmurs, tilting his head toward his lap. "Why don’t you get a little more comfortable?"

Your breath catches. "Excuse me?"

Clint just pats his thigh, lazy and casual like he’s offering you the comfiest seat in the house. "Ain’t gonna bite. Unless, y’know, you ask real nice."

You should slap him.

He leans in a little more, breath warm against your ear. "I ain’t making you do nothing, doll," he says, slow and deliberate. "You wanna leave? Walk. But you stay sitting here, pretending like you don’t want it? Now that’s just wastin’ both our time."

Your stomach twists, heat coiling low. "You’re so fucking full of yourself."

Clint chuckles, dark and knowing. "Yeah? You ain't gotta pretend you don't like it.”

You hate that he’s right.

Hate that your thighs press together, that your breath is shaky.

You inhale sharply.

Then, slowly, finally—you move.

You shift, hesitating for just a second before you swing your leg over and settle onto his lap.

His hands immediately slide to your hips, gripping firm, like he’s been waiting for this all goddamn night.

"Atta girl," he murmurs, voice all rough approval. His hands flex on your hips, warm and steady, holding you like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he knew you’d end up here eventually. You hate how he leans back just enough to take you in, like he’s already imagining exactly how this is gonna go.

You glare down at him. "Wipe that look off your face."

His smirk only deepens. "What look?"

You don’t answer, because if you do, your voice might shake. Might give something away. Instead, you grab the collar of his cheap button-up, fisting it tight like you’re considering shoving him away. He doesn’t look concerned. If anything, he looks even more pleased.

"Feisty," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. "Always figured you had a little fight in ya."

You roll your eyes. And then you do it.

You yank him in and crash your mouth against his, all heat and frustration, and fuck you wrapped up in a kiss. Clint makes a sound—low, satisfied, almost like he’d been daring you to do it. His hands tighten, fingers digging in, and then he’s kissing you back, deep and consuming, dragging you under like he owns you.

It’s messy, all clashing teeth and the faint taste of cheap beer and cigarettes on his tongue, but fuck, it’s good. Too good. His hands slide up your sides, rough and sure, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt, teasing warm skin. You arch into it without thinking, and that’s all the invitation Clint needs—he groans, low in his throat, and suddenly you're moving, flipped onto your back before you can blink.

"Fucking finally," he mutters against your mouth, hands already pushing up your shirt.

You barely have time to register the old couch beneath you before Clint is on you, pressing you down, pinning you like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. His weight is solid, and grounding, and when he dips his head, dragging his lips down the side of your neck, you barely bite back a sound.

"Damn, you smell good," he rasps, voice thick, rough like gravel. "Been driving me fuckin’ crazy for weeks."

Your breath stutters as his teeth scrape over your pulse, the heat of his mouth making your head swim. You should say something, throw one last smartass remark his way—but then his hands are everywhere, tugging your shirt up, palming greedily over your ribs, thumbs teasing just beneath the edge of your bra.

"You gonna help me out here?" he drawls, mouthing along your jaw. "Or you just gonna lay there all pretty and let me do all the work?"

His voice is thick with something dark and amused, but there’s a heat behind it that makes your stomach tighten. You lift your arms, giving him exactly what he wants, and he wastes no time pulling your shirt over your head. The cool air hits your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake, but it's nothing compared to the warmth of his hands as they slide over your bare shoulders, and down your sides. Your bra follows, unhooked with practiced ease, and he groans as he takes you in—eyes dark, hands already reaching.

"Look at you," he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your nipples, watching the way they pebble under his touch. "Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen."

Then he dips down, mouth hot and eager, dragging wet kisses along the swell of your breast before he takes one into his mouth. His tongue is slow, deliberate, circling, flicking, while one of his hands kneads the other, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

He hums against your skin, lips dragging lower before he sucks at the sensitive underside, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him.

"That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice rough, breath warm against your skin. His other hand rolls your nipple between his fingers, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet you like being taken care of, don't you?”

You let out a shaky breath, head tilting back as heat coils low in your belly. His mouth is everywhere—kissing, sucking, teasing—turning you pliant under him. His words send a shiver down your spine, and you barely realize you’re nodding before your lips part to speak.

"Yeah," you admit, voice soft, a little breathless. "I— I like it."

Clint hums against your skin, dragging his teeth along the curve of your breast. "Yeah, I bet you do," he murmurs, fingers rolling your nipple, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet no one's ever really taken care of you before, huh? Not like this." His voice is all gravel and heat, thick with certainty. "Not by a real man.”

Your breath stutters, your fingers twitching where they rest against the couch. The way he’s looking at you—hungry, possessive, like he already knows the answer—makes your pulse race.

"S’okay, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss between your breasts. "Daddy’s gonna take real good care of you."

Before you can even process the rush of heat his words send through you, Clint just grins, teeth flashing, and suddenly his hands are on yours, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one quick, easy motion.

You open your mouth—to argue, to tell him he’s full of shit—but then he grinds himself against you, and whatever insult you were about to spit out melts into a choked-off gasp.

Clint’s breath is hot against your skin as he leans over you, the flickering light of the TV casting a sinful glow over his face. The low, breathy moans from the video playing beside him fill the cramped break room, mixing with the sound of your own unsteady breathing. His grip on your wrists is firm, keeping you pinned as his hips press hard against yours, the thick outline of his cock grinding insistently where you need him most.

“You hear that? You sound even prettier than she does.”

You bite back a whimper, but he catches it anyway, grinning like the devil himself. His free hand slips under your pants, between your thighs, fingers stroking over the damp fabric of your panties, slow and teasing. The woman on the screen lets out a desperate little cry as the man behind her fucks into her deep, and Clint groans low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You wanna try it?”

Your breath stutters. “What?”

His teeth scrape over your jaw, fingers curling tighter around your wrists as his other hand slides beneath your waistband, fingers dipping into your slick heat. “The way he’s got her. Bent over that couch, takin’ it like a good girl.” He drags his fingers under your panties and through your wetness, teasing, torturing. “Bet you’d look real pretty like that.”

A shiver runs through you, half defiance, half raw, burning need. “And if I say no?”

Clint chuckles, a dark, knowing sound as he draws his fingers out of you, lifting them to his lips to suck them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “Then I’ll just have to fuck you right here, just like this.” His hips press harder, the thick length of him straining against his jeans. “Either way, you’re gettin’ wrecked, sweetheart.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears, breath shallow as you glance at the screen—at the way the man’s hands are gripping the woman’s waist, pulling her back onto him, the obscene sounds of slick skin meeting skin filling the air. Clint’s watching too, tongue swiping across his bottom lip like he can already taste the way you’ll come apart for him.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he orders, voice rough, commanding. “Tell him how you wanna be fucked.”

Your pride wars with your arousal, but the heat in his eyes, the way he’s holding you down, leaves you with only one answer.

“Like that.” Your voice is breathless, shaky, but firm. “Fuck me like that.”

Clint exhales a low chuckle, fingers tightening on your wrists. “Yeah? Knew you had it in you, baby. Knew you’d give in.” His voice is smug, dripping with satisfaction as he leans in, breath hot against your ear. “Say it again. But sweeter this time.” His lips brush your jaw, teasing. “Come on, princess. Call me daddy like you fuckin’ mean it.”

Heat prickles down your spine, your body betraying you as a shiver rolls through you. You grit your teeth, but the way he’s looking at you—like he owns you, like you’re already his—makes resistance feel impossible.

“Fuck me like that… Daddy.”

His eyes darken, his cock twitching against his jeans. “That’s my good girl.”

In one swift movement, he releases your wrists, flipping you onto your stomach against the couch. The cushions sink beneath you as Clint tugs your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, his large hands knead at your ass before delivering a sharp slap that makes you gasp. “Goddamn, look at that,” he groans, spreading you open with both hands, his thumbs pressing into your skin. “Can’t wait to see this pretty ass bounce on my cock—gonna make you work for it, baby.” he groans, palming himself through his jeans before undoing his belt.

He tugs the leather free with one sharp pull, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. Then he slides a hand down between your thighs, his fingers spreading you open even further.

“And look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, baby, she’s already so wet for daddy.” He drags a finger through your slick folds, slow and teasing, before bringing it to his mouth. His groan is low, filthy, as he sucks your taste from his fingers.

“Sweet as fuck,” he mutters, gripping your hips, dragging you back toward him. He leans in and his tongue flicks out, tasting you properly this time. His groan vibrates against you as he licks a slow, wet stripe up your cunt, his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave marks.

“Mmm,” he hums, licking his lips. “Gonna make a fuckin’ mess outta you.”

He leans back, and the sound of his zipper sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your body humming with anticipation. He doesn’t waste any time, shoving his jeans down over his hips, kicking them off completely along with his boxers. His cock stands thick and heavy, already leaking at the tip as he wraps a hand around the base, giving himself a slow stroke while his other hand spreads you open again.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, making you squirm. “Just like in the video, huh?” He presses in just enough to drive you insane before pulling back, smirking when you whine.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he taunts, rubbing the tip against your clit, making you jerk. “Gonna make a nice mess for me?”

Please,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whine.

He stills, his grip on your hips tightening. “Please what, baby?” His voice is smug, low, full of satisfaction as he waits, knowing exactly what he wants to hear.

You bite your lip, pride warring with need—but the way he’s holding you, the way he’s teasing you, makes it impossible to resist.

“Please, daddy,” you whisper.

Clint groans, his cock twitching against you. And then he’s sliding into you, slow but deep, stretching you open until you’re gasping. His hands grip your hips tight as he bottoms out, his head falling forward with a low, guttural moan. “Oh baby, she feels good,” he grits out. “Takin’ daddy so damn good, like you were made just for me.”

The video is still playing, the sounds of pleasure in the background spurring him on as he starts to move. His pace is steady at first, measured, but you don’t want slow—you want exactly what he promised. You want to be fucked like the woman on the screen, raw and dirty and desperate.

“Harder,” you gasp.

Clint growls, snapping his hips forward with a punishing thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. His fingers dig into your hips as he sets a brutal pace, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the tiny room. The couch creaks beneath you, but you barely notice—your body is burning, strung tight, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

His grip tightens as he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Look up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice dark and commanding. “Look at the TV.”

Your dazed eyes flutter open, and the sight in front of you makes your breath hitch. On the screen, a woman is getting absolutely wrecked, her body bouncing with every deep, relentless thrust. Clint moans at the way your gaze locks onto it, his fingers move to your neck and tighten around your throat just enough to make your pulse race.

“See that?” he murmurs, thrusting harder, deeper, making your body jolt with each snap of his hips. “She looks so pretty takin’ it—just like you.” His hand slides down to your chest, squeezing rough, fingers rolling your nipple.. “Look at how her tits bounce, baby. Just like yours. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You whimper, your back arching into his touch, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

Clint’s grip moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back so you can’t look anywhere but the TV. “Bet you like watchin’ it, don’t you?” he taunts, voice thick with sin. “Bet you love seein’ how good she takes it while I fuck you just the same.”

A deep, broken moan rips from your throat, your nails clawing at the couch as pleasure coils tight, ready to snap.

Clint groans, hips stuttering as he watches your body shudder beneath him. “Shit, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna let daddy wreck you just like that?”

You let out a choked-off whimper as the scene on the TV shifts—the man shoving the woman onto her back, spreading her wide before diving between her legs. Clint watches, his breath going ragged, and then his dark eyes flick back to you.

“Mmmm.” he murmurs, dragging his fingers down your trembling body. “Bet you want that too, huh?”

You don’t even get the chance to answer before he moves, gripping your thighs and yanking you to the edge of the couch. The sudden motion has you gasping, but Clint just grins as he kneels between your legs.

“Keep watchin’,” he orders, voice low and rough.

Then his mouth is on you, hot and wet and devastating. His tongue drags over your clit in slow, deliberate circles, teasing, making you squirm. You grip his hair, tugging hard, but Clint just groans, sucking harder in retaliation.

“Look at you,” he mutters against your skin. “drooling for me. You like this, don’t you? Bein’ my plaything while we watch?”

The only response you can manage is a desperate, breathless moan.

Clint chuckles, the vibration making you shudder. He glances up at the screen, where the woman’s back is arching, her hands gripping the couch as the man devours her. Clint growls and follows suit, wrapping his hands tight around your thighs and burying his face between them, licking and sucking you deep, messy, like he’s starving.

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice muffled against you. “Lemme hear those pretty little sounds, sweetheart. Show me who does it better—me or him?”

Clint groans against you, his tongue flicking faster, rougher, his fingers digging into your thighs as he devours you like he’s got something to prove. The filthy, wet sounds of his mouth on you mix with the moans from the TV, the whole thing makes your head spin.

You’re so close—right on the edge, your body tensing, ready to snap—when suddenly, Clint pulls away. You whine at the loss, your hips bucking up instinctively, but he just grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he coos. “You’ll get to come—just not yet.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s gripping your wrist, pulling you up off the couch and onto your knees in front of him. His cock is right there, flushed, thick, slick at the tip from how worked up he is. He fists himself lazily, giving it a slow stroke as he watches you, his other hand brushing through your hair.

“Open up, baby,” he murmurs, tapping the head of his cock against your lips. “Wanna feel that pretty mouth on me.”

You part your lips, letting your tongue flick over the tip, and Clint groans, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Goddamn, you look so fuckin’ pretty like this.” His hips jerk slightly as you take him deeper, your tongue dragging along the thick vein on the underside. “Knew you’d be good for me. Knew you’d suck Daddy’s cock like a fuckin’ dream.”

He tilts your head up, making you look at him as you hollow your cheeks, taking more of him. His jaw clenches, a dark look flashing in his eyes. “Fuck, baby—look at you,” he groans. “So fuckin’ eager. You like it, don’t you? Like being on your knees for me, takin’ Daddy’s cock like a good little thing?”

You hum around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your pace, making you take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him use you, and the sound he makes is downright filthy.

“Shit, baby,” he grits out, his abs tightening as he thrusts a little deeper, a little rougher. “Gonna fuck this pretty mouth—gonna come down your throat.”

His other hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, feeling how full your mouth is. “You’re gonna swallow every drop, ain’tcha, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, almost desperate now. “Gonna take it all like the good girl you are.”

His pace stutters, his hips jerking as his breathing goes ragged. “Fuck, fuck, that’s it—look at you, so perfect for me—”

With a deep, wrecked groan, he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat, his fingers gripping your hair tight as he holds you there. You swallow around him, taking every drop just like he told you, and the way his body shudders from it sends another pulse of heat straight to your core.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb swipes across your bottom lip, gathering the last drop of his release before pressing it against your tongue.

You swirl your tongue around his thumb, sucking it into your mouth just to tease him, hoping he’ll get the hint—hoping he’ll finally give you what you need. But instead of pulling you back onto the couch, instead of touching you the way you’re aching for, Clint just chuckles, leaning back against the cushions with a lazy, satisfied grin.

Your brows furrow as you shift on your knees, the dull throb of your own arousal making you restless. “What the fuck?” you snap, your voice breathless and frustrated.

Clint sighs, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s already settling in for the night. “Sorry, baby,” he drawls, his tone dripping with smug amusement. “Daddy’s tired.”

Your mouth drops open in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”

He smirks, reaching down to tuck himself back into his jeans before grabbing a nearby tissue to wipe his hand. “Nope.” His gaze flicks over your flushed, trembling body, your thighs still pressed together, desperate for friction. He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn, look at you—so fuckin’ needy.”

You glare at him, gripping his knee, half tempted to crawl onto his lap and take what you need yourself. “Clint—”

But he just tuts, wagging a finger at you. “Uh-uh. Don’t be such a fuckin’ brat about it.” He reaches forward, tilting your chin up so you’re looking at him, his smirk deepening. “Tell you what, sweetheart—bring me another tape tomorrow. Somethin’ real dirty.” He runs his thumb over your bottom lip again, grinning when you shiver. “Then maybe—maybe—Daddy’ll let you come.”

Your breath hitches, your thighs clenching together involuntarily.

“Better be a good one,” he murmurs. “Now be a good girl and clean up, yeah?”

npt to those interested in the wips: @yxtkiwiyxt @baronessvonglitter @mushgloomz @arcanefox207 @gothcsz @probablyreadinsmut @iknowisoundcrazy @almostfoxglove @sawymredfox @whocaresstillthelouvre @myownwholewildworld @ace-turned-confused @jokesonthem

#clint freaky tales x reader #clint x f!reader #clint freaky tales #pedro pascal characters

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aleese1111 · 3 days ago

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hii! Could you pleaaase make a baekjin x fem!reader x seongje, i haven’t seen anything like this and ik you’ll write it goooddd 🥹🫶🏻

three wolves, one flame | geum seong je x union!reader x na baek jin

summary: they run the city’s shadows with cold hands and colder eyes—two boys circling the same girl like orbiting wolves, too stubborn to say they care, too loyal to walk away. in smoke, silence, and bruised affection, they protect what they won't name.

warnings: [slow burn] violence, blood, language, implied emotional trauma, smoking,

author's note: i lowkey fell in love with this one. contemplating if i should turn this into a series or just mini chapters because i have no idea on how to continue this.. so please lmk, anyway! requests ,,

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

the air inside baek jin’s office always smelled like old paper, cigarette smoke, and something faintly metallic—like blood that never quite left the floor. the room was small but efficient. a modest desk sat tucked against the far wall, cluttered with files and an aging laptop baek jin used for both homework and union logistics. behind him, shelves groaned under the weight of ledgers, envelopes, and binders—some labeled, some not. a coat rack stood near the door, his school uniform jacket hanging neatly as always, untouched and ghost-like.

on the couch, which was barely wide enough for two, she sat cross-legged, a thick folder open on her lap. her fingers were stained with ink and nicotine, flipping pages with practiced speed. her brows were drawn tight in concentration, but her mouth was already forming insults.

“you’re breathing too loud. move.”

beside her, seong je let out a long, lazy exhale, smoke trailing from his lips. “it’s my lungs. want me to stop breathing next?” his thumb scrolled absently on his phone.

“you say that like it’s a bad idea.”

“you like having me around. admit it.”

she snorted. “i’d rather put out this cigarette in my eye.”

baek jin didn’t look up from his desk. this was routine. predictable. he only paused for a second when seong je flicked a crumpled receipt at her face, smirking when it bounced off her forehead.

“touch me again, i will rip your ears off and mail them to your mother,” she said, without even flinching.

“joke’s on you, she’s already deaf.”

that earned him a hard jab to the ribs with the sharp edge of a folder. he groaned theatrically, tipping his head back against the couch and blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

“i swear to god, you're like a feral cat with a calculator,” he muttered.

“and you’re a hemorrhoid with a motorcycle license.”

baek jin turned a page. the yelling had escalated, but it was background noise. normal. expected.

the argument died the same way it always did—abruptly and without resolution.

she slammed the folder shut and stood. the air shifted. joon and gyung, who had been waiting outside the office door like loyal shadows, straightened as she stepped out.

“collection day,” she said simply, already moving.

seong je rolled his shoulders and stood with her, but she didn’t wait. joon and gyung fell in line behind her like trained dogs, their footsteps echoing as the group left the safe walls of the bowling alley and stepped into the dusk.

@ . !

they found them behind a school, deep in the alley that smelled like piss and motor oil. it was a place for things that didn’t want to be seen—perfect for business.

a few boys loitered under the flickering light. low-ranking union lackeys, careless with the rules. she stopped a few feet away, her presence slicing through the tension like a box cutter.

“you’ve got my money?” she asked, voice cool, indifferent.

one of the boys stepped forward. too confident. too dumb. “you don’t get to bark orders at us, bitch.”

seong je was sitting nearby, on a low concrete barrier, smoking. he didn’t move. not yet. he was watching, the way a wolf watches another predator test its luck.

she didn’t blink. “you’re two days late.”

the guy stepped closer, nudging her shoulder. once. twice.

“maybe you wait a little longer,” he said with a smirk. “maybe say please.”

behind her, joon and gyung tensed. she didn’t say anything, just gave a lazy glance to her left.

gyung understood the signal.

the jab to the gut was fast and brutal—air left the guy’s lungs like a popped balloon. he stumbled back, wheezing, while the others flinched. two of them ran.

“go,” she said calmly.

joon darted after them.

only two remained: the one bent over in pain, and another who hadn’t moved yet, watching with wide eyes, deciding if he wanted to be stupid or not.

she crouched beside the first guy, lit another cigarette with a flick of her lighter, and exhaled slowly.

“you work for me,” she said. “you pay, or you bleed. got it?”

the second guy tensed—fight won the war in his brain.

he lunged.

he never reached her.

seong je was a blur of violence—one second on the edge of the scene, the next driving a fist into the boy’s face hard enough to drop him instantly. no words. no warning. just pure, sharp brutality.

he didn’t stop.

fists rained down, calculated and furious. blood splattered against the wall. the sound of bone meeting flesh echoed through the alley.

she stood slowly, arms crossed, cigarette glowing.

“enough,” she said.

seong je didn’t look at her right away. his fists paused mid-motion. then he stood, blood staining his knuckles, breathing hard.

she met his eyes for a moment. something silent passed between them. then she turned and walked away.

“get the cash,” she called over her shoulder.

gyung moved without question.

seong je wiped his hand on his shirt and lit a new cigarette. he glanced once at the boy groaning on the ground and then followed her into the dark.

business, as always, was done.

@ . !

the streets were quieter now. the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows that swallowed the cracks in the pavement. she walked ahead, cigarette still burning between her fingers, the orange tip flaring with every drag. her steps were calm, composed, like she hadn’t just threatened teenagers and watched one get half-pulped into a brick wall.

behind her, seong je followed. blood still clung to the ridges of his knuckles, crusting dry in the creases, but he didn’t care. he never did. he flicked his own cigarette aside and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

they walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing softly in rhythm. the kind of quiet that buzzed—static thick with unspoken things.

“you know,” seong je finally said, “you could’ve told gyung to handle it before that dumbass even touched you.”

she didn’t look at him. “he barely touched me.”

“he pushed you.”

“and i didn’t fall. so?”

he scoffed, catching up until they walked shoulder to shoulder. “you’re insane.”

“says the guy who beat someone half to death over a shoulder nudge.”

he grinned. “you like it when i get violent.”

she rolled her eyes. “i like it when you shut the fuck up.”

“but you let me handle it.”

“i let you burn calories.”

seong je laughed under his breath, a short, dry sound. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

“for what?”

“for being your unhinged guard dog.”

“you’re not my anything.”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he glanced sideways at her—at the bruise just barely starting to form on her collarbone where the guy had pushed her, at the cigarette held steady between her fingers, at the calm, calculated cold in her eyes.

he liked her too much. it was a problem he hadn’t figured out how to fix.

“...you patched me up last week,” he muttered. “don’t pretend like you don’t care.”

“i patched you up so you wouldn’t bleed on baek jin’s couch.”

“sure,” he said. “totally believable.”

she slowed a bit, enough that he noticed but didn’t comment. she glanced over, squinting at him through the dimming light.

“you’re bleeding,” she said flatly.

“you always say that like it’s a surprise.”

she stopped walking. so did he.

“you’re an idiot,” she said, stepping in close. her hand reached for his face, thumb brushing a cut on his cheekbone. it was rough, not tender—like everything she did. “you didn’t have to go that far.”

“he was gonna hit you.”

“i had it handled.”

“yeah,” he muttered, not smiling anymore. “but i don’t like watching people touch you.”

her expression didn’t change. not much. maybe a flicker in her eyes. maybe.

she shoved his face gently to the side with the palm of her hand. “possessive freak.”

he grinned again. “you love it.”

“i tolerate it.”

“that’s practically a love confession coming from you.”

she started walking again. “say one more word and i’ll smoke my cigarette out on your forehead.”

he laughed, trailing behind her.

and behind the sarcasm and bruised knuckles, there was something solid between them—twisted, loud, dysfunctional.

@ . !

by the time they reached the back entrance of the bowling alley, the sky had faded to charcoal grey. the neon sign buzzed above them, flickering like it was trying to decide whether to die or hang on another day. she pushed the door open with her shoulder and stepped inside, the familiar scent of oil, dust, and stale air greeting her like a second home.

seong je followed her, hands still in his pockets, quieter now. at the door to baek jin’s office, he hesitated. she paused, looking back at him.

“i’m heading to the internet café,” he said, voice casual, but his eyes lingered on her a little longer than necessary. “need to blow off some steam.”

she shrugged, already reaching for the doorknob. “go waste your brain cells.”

he smirked. “you love me dumb.”

“don’t flatter yourself.”

she pushed the door open and stepped inside. he didn’t follow.

“patch your hand,” she added over her shoulder. “or don’t. maybe it’ll rot off.”

“aw, worried about me,” he teased.

she gave him the finger without turning around.

he chuckled and walked off, footsteps fading down the hall.

inside, baek jin didn’t look up as she entered. he was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, pencil in hand, methodically underlining something in one of the ledgers. the room felt quieter without seong je in it—thicker, somehow.

she dropped her bag beside the couch and sank into it with a tired exhale. the tension hadn’t left her body yet, but it always faded in here. in this space where time moved slower, where baek jin never asked more than she wanted to give.

“you’re back early,” he said after a moment, eyes still on the paper.

“boys ran faster than usual.”

he nodded once. “anyone give you trouble?”

she pulled another cigarette from her pocket. “one tried. he didn’t try again.”

this time, baek jin did look up. his eyes flicked to her shoulder, narrowing slightly. “you’re bruised.”

“occupational hazard,” she muttered, lighting up.

he stared at her a second longer, then stood. she watched him cross the room in that quiet, deliberate way he moved—like he didn’t waste energy on anything that didn’t matter. he disappeared behind her for a moment. when he came back, he tossed his jacket over her.

she stiffened slightly, cigarette hovering near her lips.

“still cold,” he said simply, sitting back down.

“i’m not cold.”

“you always say that.”

she didn’t take it off.

they sat like that for a while. just the two of them. him scribbling quietly. her smoking in silence, baek jin’s jacket draped over her shoulders like it belonged there.

no yelling. no banter.

just stillness.

the only sound for a long while was the scratch of baek jin’s pencil against paper and the occasional soft crackle of her cigarette.

“you let seong je come with you again,” baek jin said eventually, not looking up.

she snorted. “he follows me around like a leech. what am i supposed to do? spray him with bug repellent?”

“he’s loud,” baek jin replied calmly.

“so are you, when you feel like it.”

“not with fists.”

she gave a half-smirk, flicking ash into the tray on the coffee table. “you jealous?”

“no,” he said plainly. “he’s reckless. you’re not.”

“he only steps in when i let him.” she tilted her head against the back of the couch, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “you know that.”

baek jin hummed, noncommittal, and went back to his work.

for a while, there was nothing but silence again. not awkward. not empty. just their kind of quiet.

“you still live off convenience store food?” she asked after a minute, squinting at him.

“i eat what’s easy.”

“that’s not eating. that’s survival.”

“i survive just fine.”

“could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, stretching out along the couch. “you’re gonna die from sodium poisoning before you even graduate.”

“and you’ll die from chain-smoking before i do.”

“touché,” she murmured, a tired smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

her voice grew softer, like sleep was already tugging at her edges. “...how do you do it?”

baek jin paused, pencil hovering over the paper. “do what?”

“stay calm all the time. even when shit hits the fan. even when everyone’s losing their heads.” her voice had dropped low. “how do you not break?”

he was quiet for a beat.

then, “because if i break, everything else does.”

she didn’t answer. her breathing was slowing now, cigarette burned out in the ashtray. she was curled on her side, one arm under her head, the other tugging baek jin’s jacket closer around her like she hadn’t meant to.

he glanced up, setting his pencil down soundlessly.

she was already asleep.

he stood, walked over with soft steps, and crouched beside the couch. carefully, he pulled the jacket tighter over her frame and adjusted the pillow under her head. for a second, his hand hovered near her temple, like he wanted to brush the hair away from her face—but didn’t.

baek jin’s face didn’t show much. it never did.

but something flickered in his eyes. something quiet. protective.

then he stood, returned to his desk, and went back to work.

behind him, she slept soundly under his jacket, breathing even and steady.

and outside, the world kept turning. dangerous. unforgiving.

but in here, for a little while longer, it was still.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

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zuzu-tries-to-write · 2 months ago

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Title: Seven Minutes Too Long (Or Not Long Enough)

Pairing: Bakugo Katsuki x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Romance, a little Tension

Summary: Getting stuck in a tiny closet with Bakugo for seven minutes? Worst. Luck. Ever. You want nothing more than to get it over with—but then the tension shifts. The space gets smaller, the air gets heavier, and suddenly, seven minutes might not be long enough.

Tbh I got butterflies when writing it, hope you enjoy!!

⸻

You regretted coming to this party.

You regretted sitting in that stupid circle.

And most of all, you regretted letting Mina spin the damn bottle.

The room had erupted into laughter and cheers when the bottle landed perfectly between you and Bakugo. You swore it was rigged, but before you could protest, you were being dragged toward the closet, your fate sealed by a group of very nosy, very entertained friends.

“Get in there, lovebirds!” Mina cackled, shoving you forward.

“I’m gonna kill you when this is over,” Bakugo growled at her before stepping inside.

The door shut behind you both, and suddenly, you were trapped in a tiny, dark closet with Bakugo Katsuki.

Wonderful.

⸻

Crowded and Uncomfortable

The closet was way too small.

The moment the door clicked shut, you realized just how little space there was. You were practically pressed against Bakugo’s chest, your back against the shelves behind you.

“This is stupid,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “Seven minutes is way too long.”

Bakugo scoffed. “No shit. The hell are we supposed to do in here?”

“Stand here and suffer?”

“Tch. You act like being near me is so unbearable.”

You didn’t respond to that. Because truthfully? You weren’t sure how to respond.

Bakugo was warm. The kind of warm that seeped into your skin, that made you hyper-aware of how close he was. His scent—smoky, a little like caramel—lingered in the air, and it was annoyingly distracting.

You had been able to ignore a lot of things about him before. His stupid smirks. The way he always made your heart race (for reasons you refused to admit). But here? Trapped in this tiny space? There was no ignoring anything.

And then—

The closet shifted.

Or, more accurately, Bakugo shifted.

His arm brushed against yours as he adjusted his stance, and suddenly, his face was a little too close.

His crimson eyes flickered down to your lips. Just for a second.

You swallowed.

“You keep looking at me like that, dumbass, and people are gonna get ideas,” Bakugo muttered, his voice lower than before.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” you shot back, your breath catching slightly.

“Yeah?” His smirk was almost lazy now. “Then why are you nervous?”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

His voice had dropped even more, and you hated how much it affected you.

The air was thick—so thick that it made your head spin. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the only sound between you being the slightly uneven rhythm of your breathing.

You could just… kiss him.

No. That was insane.

But then—

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Bakugo muttered, tilting his head slightly.

Your breath hitched. “Thinking about what?”

“Kissing me.”

Your heart practically stopped.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t act dumb.” His smirk widened, but there was something else behind it now. A quiet sort of challenge. “I know you want to.”

You scoffed. “You’re ridiculous.”

And then he did something that made your brain short-circuit.

He leaned in.

Not all the way. Not enough to actually kiss you. Just enough for his lips to hover a breath away from yours, waiting.

Testing you.

Your resolve cracked.

Screw it.

You surged forward and kissed him.

And holy hell.

The second your lips touched his, Bakugo made a low noise in the back of his throat, one of surprise and something else entirely. But he didn’t hesitate. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back, hard and deep.

It was messy, rushed—like you’d both been waiting for this way longer than you’d ever admit. His lips moved against yours with purpose, his fingers tightening on your hips like he was afraid you’d change your mind.

You weren’t changing your mind. Not when he kissed like this.

You gasped slightly when he nipped your bottom lip, and he took full advantage, deepening the kiss as his hand slid up your back.

Seven minutes wasn’t going to be enough.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, tangled up in each other, but the second you heard footsteps outside, you barely had time to pull away before the door swung open.

Mina’s grin was nothing short of evil. “So… how’d it go?”

Bakugo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking. “None of your damn business.”

You, on the other hand, just stood there, dazed, your lips still tingling.

And then, as Bakugo walked past you, he leaned down, just enough for only you to hear—

“This ain’t over, dumbass.”

No. It definitely wasn’t.

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rebelfell · 3 months ago

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Sooo this started out being all cute and fluffy but veered over the edge into the flangst canyon…my bad. 💌 1.8k

Thinking about bestfriend!eddie who shows up your boyfriend on Valentine’s Day.

Unintentionally, of course.

It was never something he planned to do.

He just happened to be in CVS the night before, blazed out of his mind and wandering aimlessly while the guys argued about what snacks to get. And when he made the mistake of turning onto the designated holiday aisle, he was met with a barrage of pink and red glitter and sparkles and hearts exploding off every shelf—an absolute affrontal assault to his cynical sensibilities.

But then he picks up this one card that catches his eye. It’s got a watercolor painting of this cute little porcupine who’s holding a heart-shaped box of chocolates, and there’s a speech bubble at the top that says “I Porcu-PINE for you!”

Eddie absolutely loses it.

He stands there making these stuttering giggling sounds and they’re coming out way louder than he intended, and the pimply and dead-eyed clerk behind the register leans over to give the laziest evil eye Eddie has ever seen. He does his best to stifle himself, but more little snickers still eke out as he picks up the envelope that goes with the card, and starts scanning the shelves for the Valentine’s variation of your favorite candy.

(Because it would be weird just to do the card, right? If he throws in some other stuff too, maybe it’ll be less conspicuous. Yeah? That makes sense, doesn’t it? Yeah, totally it does.)

Before he knows it, he’s collected a whole armload of crap. Two bags of the candies (they’re 2 for $5, that just makes good business sense), a little plushie with giant sparkly eyes (its stare is hypnotizing in an odd way, it kind of reminds him of you), and a small (tiny, honestly) bouquet of daisies wrapped in crinkly cellophane (he knows you like those way more than you like roses.)

He puts it all down on the counter and gets another withering glare from the cashier after he’s rung it all up. Eddie wonders if this guy is judging him; thinks he’s some lazy, loser boyfriend buying a bunch of junk gifts at the last possible minute. But Eddie doesn’t have the mental capability at the moment to explain that he’s not even buying these for a girlfriend—they’re all for his best friend, who he sometimes, occasionally, has some slightly inappropriate thoughts about, which yeah, is kind of inconvenient in a lot of ways, but it’s cool, he’s fine with that—

There’s another huff from the cashier as he repeats the total due, and Eddie realizes this guy doesn’t give a shit that Eddie might be a crappy boyfriend, he’s much more annoyed by the fact that he has yet to take out his wallet. And as he scrambles to do so, the rest of Corroded Coffin comes up to the front, still loudly arguing about the snacks they’re carrying in their hands.

They all give Eddie a funny look when they see what he’s getting, Grant being the first to bluntly ask who it’s for. They fall silent, exchanging wary glances when Eddie mumbles your name under his breath as he hands over a creased and wrinkled bill to pay at long last.

“That’s super weird, man, don’t do that,” Jeff argues immediately. “Just give it to Gareth, and he can give it to Annie instead. Problem solved.”

“Excuse me,” Gareth snaps, “but I’ve gotten my girl her gifts and they’re a hell of a lot better than this crap. Er, uhh…no offense.”

Their drummer winces, and his eyes dart guiltily between Eddie and his purchases.

“No—” Eddie’s face scrunches and he shakes his head defiantly. “They’re not, like, serious gifts. It doesn’t mean anything. And she’s dating that rich asshole, I’m sure he’s gonna bury her in expensive shit. This is barely gonna land on her radar,” he insists, now clutching his bag in his fist.

“So then why bother?” Jeff asks, widening his annoyingly perceptive eyes under arched brows.

But Eddie doesn’t respond. He just stomps out to the parking lot and waits by the car. All the while thinking about all the things he can never quite manage to say out loud when it comes to you.

The next day, Eddie’s rethinking everything.

Sober now and staring down at the offerings piled up in the van’s passenger seat, he can’t help but think this might be the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life. And that’s saying something.

He talks himself in and out of going through with it about twenty times just in the ten minute drive it takes him to get to your apartment. And even as he climbs the stairs and raises his hand to knock, he has yet to decide if this is a good idea or not.

He came over semi-early, figuring you’d likely be busy later getting ready for some fancy dinner at some restaurant where Eddie probably couldn’t afford to order so much as a glass of water.

But when you open the door, he can’t help but frown at your appearance. You don’t look like you are getting ready to go out, if anything you look like you’ve retired for the evening before 5pm.

Your face is bare except for a couple spots of zit cream, and you have on an old headband pushing your hair back out of your face. You’re swathed in the kind of baggy, oversized clothes he only sees you in when you’re ass deep in a cold or some other similarly debilitating illness.

You don’t look sick, though. Just…sad?

How can you be sad on Love’s birthday?

“Hey, uhhh,” he says, forcing a tight smile. His palms start to sweat around the plastic handles he’s clutching behind his back. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” you reply.

There’s no sharpness to it, yet it still comes out kind of flat. Like you’re trying not to sound upset. But Eddie doesn’t push it as he follows you to the kitchen, sliding into his usual seat at your bar.

“What’s that?” you ask, eyes falling to the bag he plopped down on top of the counter.

“It’s stupid,” Eddie starts, “just some dumb little things I picked up.” For you, he adds in his head.

A small smile finally breaks the thin line your lips had been set in since he arrived and Eddie’s back broke out in a cold sweat under his leather jacket as he bashfully pushed the bag over to you.

He then watches, choking on his own heart, as you start pulling things out one by one.

You grin at the daisies, bringing them to your nose to sniff even though they probably smell more like weed than flowers after spending all night in the trailer. You squeal over the plushie, holding it up next to your face and squishing it. You hum excitedly at the first bag of candies, and laugh when you pull out a second one.

Then you get to the card.

Your eyes roll, but you can’t help smiling when you see Eddie’s nickname for you scrawled on the front of the envelope in his chicken scratch. And you’re still smiling as you slide your finger under the flap to tear through the bright red casing.

Then you read it, and your smile falls.

Your whole face does, in fact. It starts with a minute tremble of your chin that escalates into your brow pinching and your mouth crumpling into a frown. And you seem to clench every single muscle in your face to stop yourself from crying, but you just can’t keep it from happening.

“Hey, hey, wait, no, no, nooooo—”

Eddie doesn’t think, he doesn’t take a second to consider doing anything differently, he just jumps to his feet and comes around the counter to your side. He puts his arms around you automatically, letting you bury your face in his chest as you cling to him and try to settle yourself.

“I’m so-sorry, I’m s-so sorry, I’m sorry,” you babble, blubbering through the words.

“No, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I swear, I just thought it was cute, I didn’t mean to—”

“It is cute,” you wail as tears stream down your cheeks, “It’s fucking adorable!”

“Okay, then what’s the problem?” Eddie chuckles, pulling back slightly and ducking his head to look you in the eye, trying to get you to smile back.

You sniffle a few more times before you manage to collect yourself and swipe your fingers under your eyes to smear the wetness of your tears across your cheeks. Eddie’s fists clench at his sides to stop them from reaching up to do it again for you when you miss a stray one.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been in such a weird funk all day since Matt, um…”

Your voice wobbled again and Eddie’s expression turned stony, scolding himself inwardly for letting even a tiny bit of excitement rise in his chest at the thought that you might have broken up.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “I mean, did you guys…are you…”

“No, nothing like that,” you inhaled shakily. “He just…he doesn’t really do Valentine’s Day. And it feels so stupid to get upset over it. Like it’s just a dumb holiday, and I don’t need, like, presents or a dinner or flowers or anything like that. I just…”

Your arms crossed, as if you were trying to hug yourself. Eddie wished he could do it for you.

“I don’t know, I thought we’d do something,” you finally add quietly.

“He’s not even coming over?” Eddie scoffs. Suddenly the outfit made more sense. “At all?”

Your eyes closed in a pained wince. “Don’t make me feel worse, please,” you beg him somberly.

“No, I—” Eddie sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to upset you. Honest.”

His head dropped guiltily, eyes glued to his sneakers that stood out against the tile in your kitchen. He glanced one last time at all the stupid stuff he bought now strewn across your counter.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you told him firmly. “That was really sweet, Eddie. Seriously, like the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Your hand reaches out for the plushie again and you cradle it in your palm as you swoop in to drop a light peck on his cheek. The warmth of it makes Eddie’s whole face hot and he feels his neck tense from how much he wishes he could turn his head to the side and allow for his lips to meet yours.

But of course he doesn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

He sure would think about it, though.

Eddie was still staring at his feet, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off you for long. He glanced back up to see you pushing through all of the extraneous things you were feeling to give him a smile, small as it was. He nodded and opened his arms, welcoming you back into them.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he whispered into your hair. Too quiet even for you to hear him.

I thought for a while about whether or not this is them, but I think this might be an entirely different set of idiots.

also is it just me or is v-day particularly oppressive this year?

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson stranger things

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excusemyobsessions · 3 months ago

Text

Will you read it to me?

Zayne x MC/You

Genre: Smut, One Shot, Afab reader POV(no use of gender specific wording)

Word count: 1700 words

Little note: Listen, I once saw a video of two girls in which one was reading out loud while the other fingered her and it altered my brain chemistry. So much so that you get this Zayne one shot because let's be honest; he would.

Disclaimer: the poems you will read are not mine. They are a semi-translation of two poems by the Portuguese author Maria Teresa Horta. They are called (by order of appearance) Não Quero Viver and Fazer Amor Contigo.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, breast play, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, fluff, afab reader, no use of gender specific wording

Minors please do not interact.

(Also posted on AO3)

It was a slow, lazy morning.

You’d woken up within Zayne’s arms, kissed his forehead, each of his closed eyelids, whispered sweet nothings into his ear until he silenced you with tender kisses. Smiles and hushed giggles were lost between the sheets until you two finally got up.

Breakfast was followed by a nice stroll, replacing his usual morning jog, hand in hand, fingers intertwined.

When you got home, he told you to shower first while he checked his email and you did.

Wrapped up in the biggest, fluffiest bathrobe he’d bought just for you, you found yourself sprawled out on Zayne’s bed, a poetry book in hand.

After he’d hopped in the shower, you’d sautered into his office, to peruse his bookshelves. Much to your surprise, among all the medical texts he’d collected over the years, there was a smaller book. The cover was red although the color was slowly fading, the edges of the spine slightly frayed. When you flipped it open, you noticed the pages were already yellowing, showing signs of handling, perhaps not too gentle. And so, you were intrigued.

The mattress dipped under another added weight as Zayne crawled into bed with you, lying on his stomach next to you, one arm lazily draped over your torso.

“What have you got there?” he questioned languidly.

He slotted his head on your shoulder to take a look at the book in your hands.

“A poetry book,” you answered, turning the pages towards him. “I was quite surprised to find it on your shelves.”

Zayne hummed, and you could hear his smile in the quiet chuckle he let out. He lifted his head high enough to allow you to see his face.

“Contrary to your belief, I don’t just read medical texts,” he retorted, a single eyebrow lifted.

“Hmm, of course, you’re a man of eclectic tastes.”

He chuckled again, utterly amused by your teasing tone.

He returned his head to your shoulder, relaxing against you.

“Any interesting poems?”

“Actually,” you responded, turning back a few pages. “These are quite romantic,” and your voice assumed this almost impressed tone, perhaps a little surprised.

“Hmm, I actually don’t remember reading that book,” he told you, shifting his head just a little against your shoulder.

You could feel him nuzzle the fluffy fabric and you heard him inhale deeply.

“Will you read it to me?” he requested in a low tone.

You snickered and let out a hum of agreement.

“This one is called ‘I do not want to live’,” you began, earning an encouraging hum from him.

You cleared your throat.

“I do not want to live

Without you

Any longer,

Not even a second

Of your sleep...”

Zayne shifted against you and scooched in closer, elbows resting on each side of you, propping himself up. You glanced towards him and he was very serious, listening to you attentively. He looked soft and relaxed, wrapped up in his own bathrobe, hair damp from the shower, brushed but unstyled.

You switched the book to one hand, moving the other out to cup his cheek.

“Leaning my whole being onto you

You are my whole existence, always.” you concluded.

Zayne turned his head to press his lips to the palm of your hand, eyelids fluttering.

“Is there more?” he questioned, jade green eyes returning to you.

His gaze was tender, unworried. It wasn’t pressing or demanding. You smiled into those eyes.

You had to move your hand to turn the page and he took the opportunity to rest his chin on your chest. He nuzzled his nose against your skin right where the bathrobe was slightly parted and the sigh that left you was of one of content.

“This one is called ‘Make love to you’,” you told him, feeling your cheeks warm up at the title.

He hummed again, against your chest, and this time you could hear the amusement and the very clear peak in his interest.

“Undress me quickly

Until I am bare…”

You felt Zayne's hands make their way to the ties of your robe, fingers slowly tugging the knot apart.

“What are you doing?” you questioned, suddenly even more flustered.

“Just keep reading,” he told you, voice low, mellow.

You felt your thighs squeeze together at the mere tone of his voice.

“Alright,” you mumbled.

You felt him lift himself up from your chest and you shifted your hands, holding the book higher, to accommodate him.

“I deliver to you unconcealed

My desire…”

Knot undone, his long fingers slid up the collar of your robe, the two sides which were draped over your chest, and slowly tugged it open. Goosebumps rose instantly on your now exposed skin and a little shiver ran up your spine at the shift in temperature. Your nipples hardened in an embarrassing way.

“Zayne…” you whispered.

He smiled down at you.

“Go on,” he encouraged you.

You took in a breath through your nose and swallowed down the excess saliva pooling on your tongue before you returned your gaze to the book. You continued.

“I want to make love to you

Take all at once

Your mouth, a kiss…”

Zayne lowered his mouth onto your skin. His lips slid over your chest in a featherlight touch, from the very center, lower, between your breasts. He pressed his nose to your skin and inhaled deeply.

“And the parts of your body

Which I do not say?”

He kissed your skin once and then a few more times, leaving a trail of little pecks all the way until he reached a nipple. His lips parted then to take the little hardened bud into his mouth, sucking on it, nibbling lightly, licking.

Your attention was no longer on the poem, however he hummed at you, once again encouraging you to continue.

Your voice was no longer as steady as you read the next verses.

“And the things you do to me

Under the moonlight?”

His hand took hold of the breast he’d just abused and continued threading it while his mouth moved on to your other nipple. Your chest slowly but surely began arching off the mattress and into his mouth.

“While I taint you

With pleasure…”

He sucked harder and a shuddering breath fell from your lips. When he bit down, it was a sweet little moan that escaped you.

But you continued, so close to the end of the poem now.

“Slowly showing you

I am yours.” you concluded.

One finger still locked in place between the pages, you lowered the book onto the mattress and let your other hand slip into his hair, holding his face against your chest.

Zayne’s eyes flickered up to your face, fire burning inside those deep jade hues, as he continued suckling on your nipple for a while longer. By then your thighs were tightly pressed together, knees rubbing against each other.

When he pulled away, there was a thread of saliva connecting his mouth to your tit.

“Hmm, you were right… those poems did sound quite romantic,” he noted, with a little smirk. “I dare say they were delightful.”

He lowered his head again to press a chaste kiss to your abused bud, as if he wasn’t the one making it as red as it already was.

Embarrassed as you were, you hid your face with your arm, a nervous little chuckle leaving you.

You heard him shift his position and when you dared a little peek at him, his face was barely a few inches away from yours. He looked amused.

“Next time, you should read me a whole novel,” he told you, voice hushed, dripping in honey.

You tossed your arms around his neck and crushed your lips against his, the book long forgotten somewhere upon the duvet.

His knee slipped in between your thighs, to part them and slot his hips in between them as he tasted your tongue. You were dripping wet and he was rock hard.

“Hmm, who would have guessed you would get off on listening to me read,” you teased against his mouth.

You lifted your hips to rub yourself against his length and Zayne shuddered against you.

“You know your voice is my weakness,” he answered sincerely, unreserved.

He reached down to position his head right against your entrance, rubbing himself against you a few times before he slid his cock into your wet, sweet little hole.

Your eyes rolled back and you arched off the mattress, biting down on your lower lip, feeling so good, so full.

“What else would you like to hear me say?” you questioned, under your breath, gazing up at him.

Your grip had loosened around his neck and you were now laying down under him, watching the taut muscles on his chest as he held himself above you.

He pulled his hips back and then rolled them back in, grunting his appreciation at how good you felt around him.

“My name,” he answered.

He lowered himself down onto his elbows again, chest pressed to yours, hips rolling out and back in again. You let your hands slide under his robe and push it off his shoulders, baring his skin to your lips. You kissed and sucked on his tensed trapezius muscle as he pumped into you, his nose buried in your hair, quiet little grunts hushed against your temple.

You moved higher, suckled on his neck, feeling his rapid pulse under your tongue until you finally reached his earlobe.

“Zayne…” you moaned into his ear.

He moaned against your shoulder, hips stuttering, making you shiver.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes gazing directly into your soul.

“Do it again, please,” he asked, voice getting slightly whiny.

You could see the blush spread out across his cheeks.

And so you did. As he fucked you good, you moaned out his name as if it was the only word you knew, the only word that felt right on your tongue.

Regardless to say, this wasn’t the only time you read out loud to him.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne #lads #lads zayne #love and deepspace x reader #zayne #Li Shen #rei #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #zayne x reader #lads x reader #zayne smut #excusemyobsessions

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gweelczz · 15 days ago

Text

“Home”

Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore x Y/N (Sugar)

Genre: Angst, Fluff, smut (Y’all KNOW he a FREAK) MDNI

Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap your Willy!) mentions of child abuse, this fic is LONGGGG I got a bit carried away y’all I’m sorry!!!

Summary: A lover’s quarrel breaks out between the two love birds and it’s up to Sammie to choose what he goin do

The Mississippi sun had dipped low, bleeding red across the fields when the shouting started. Folks in Clarksdale knew better than to pay too much mind to lovers’ quarrels, but when it was Preacher Boy Sammie Moore and his girl Sugar — everybody knew.

“You always talking ’bout dreams, Sammie,” Sugar snapped, arms crossed tight against her chest, her voice trembling more with hurt than anger. “But you too scared to chase ‘em. Scared of your daddy. Scared of what folks gon’ say.”

Sammie’s fists were balled at his sides. Not to strike — Lord, no. Just trying to hold it all in. His pride. His shame. His fear.

“I ain’t scared,” he bit out, jaw tight.

“Then prove it,” she shot back, tears glassing her big brown eyes. Her skin, a rich dark ebony with that gold shimmer whenever the light caught her just right, looked like it belonged to some goddess out the old stories. Her coily hair framed her face, a wild crown she didn’t even know she wore.

He said nothing.

That silence — heavier than any slap — broke her heart clean in two.

Sugar turned on her heel, dust kicking up under her bare feet.

“You ain’t ready,” she said, voice small now. “And I ain’t waitin’ ‘round watchin’ you let yourself rot.”

He watched her walk away. Watched until the blue of her skirt disappeared down the road toward the woods where Annie’s shack sat hidden behind a crooked fence of bones and bottle trees.

——

Annie’s place smelled of sweetgrass and turpentine, smoke curling out the chimney like lazy fingers. Inside, herbs hung in bunches from the rafters. Jars of oil, roots, and stones lined the shelves. Every color and spirit of the Delta lived in that little shack.

Sugar slumped into a chair, head in her hands.

Annie — full-figured, dark-skinned, with a warmth about her like a heavy quilt — sat across from her, shelling peas slow and easy. She was only a few years older than Sugar, but the way she moved, the way she looked at you, made her seem like she’d lived two lifetimes already.

She watched Sugar for a long minute, not rushing her.

“Man’s got chains on his soul,” Annie finally said, voice low and knowing. “Ain’t easy breakin’ ’em. ’Specially when them chains was put there by his own blood.”

“I just…” Sugar started, but her throat caught. She shook her head. “I just want him to see what he could be. Not what folks tell him he gotta be.”

Annie smiled, soft and sure.

“Don’t give up on him, girl. Some seeds take longer to sprout. But when they do, Lord, do they grow strong.”

Outside, the night thickened. Crickets sang. Somewhere, a hound barked long and low.

And then — a knock at the door.

Sugar turned, heart thudding.

There he was. Sammie.

Hat crushed in one hand. A scraggly bunch of wildflowers in the other. Dirt smudged on his knees from where he’d fallen once, maybe twice, on the way over.

He looked at her like a man standing at the edge of a cliff. Like he knew the fall would kill him but he was ready to jump anyway.

“I cain’t do this without you, Sugar,” he said, voice raw. He dropped the flowers, sank to his knees right there on Annie’s worn floorboards.

“You hear me?” he begged, hands trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bein’ a fool. I’m sorry for not fightin’ harder. I’m gon’ be better. I swear it on my life.”

Sugar’s chest squeezed so tight she thought she might fall over.

Annie sat still, shelling peas, not saying a word. She knew some things had to be worked out without her hand in it.

Sammie looked up at Sugar, eyes wide and wet, heart cracked open for the whole world to see.

“You my home, Sugar,” he whispered. “Ain’t no point in dreamin’ if you ain’t in it.”

The flowers were crushed. His hands were dirty. His voice was breaking.

But it was real.

God help her, it was real.

Sugar knelt too, lifting his face in her hands.

“Don’t you ever make me walk away again,” she said, voice shaking.

“I won’t,” he promised. “I swear it.”

And in that little shack, under the watchful eyes of the ancestors hanging thick in the smoky air, Sugar forgave him.

——

Sammie led her back to his daddy’s house, hand in hand, heads bowed against the heavy southern night. He didn’t care if his father was sitting on the porch with a belt or a bottle.

This time, he wasn’t walking alone.

And this time, he wasn’t running from himself either.

The porch light was nothing but a flickering bulb, casting long, mean shadows across the yard. Sammie slowed his steps when they reached the gate, hand tightening around Sugar’s.

There he was — Preacher Moore — sitting in his rocking chair, a half-drained bottle of corn liquor at his feet, the old hunting belt looped lazy across his lap like a coiled snake. His face, carved rough like old wood, didn’t flinch when he saw them coming.

Sammie’s throat dried up. Every memory of every beating, every harsh word, every dream stomped down under his father’s heavy hand — it all came rushing back like a flood.

Sugar gave his hand a squeeze.

“You got this, baby,” she whispered.

Sammie swallowed hard and stepped forward.

The porch boards groaned under his weight, but he didn’t falter.

Preacher Moore watched him, slow drag on his cigarette, eyes hard as river stones.

“You finally decide to come back with your tail tucked?” he rasped.

Sammie stood straight. For the first time, he didn’t look away.

“I come back a man,” he said, voice steady. “And I ain’t askin’ your permission no more.”

The cigarette paused halfway to Preacher Moore’s mouth. A dangerous flicker lit in his eyes.

“You gettin’ mighty bold for a boy livin’ under my roof,” Preacher Moore growled.

“I ain’t just livin’ under your roof,” Sammie said, taking another step closer. “I’m buildin’ somethin’. And if you can’t see that, then maybe I need to build it somewhere else.”

Sugar stayed right behind him, her presence a warmth at his back, a shield he hadn’t even known he needed.

“I wanna sing,” Sammie said, the words dragging out of him rough and painful like pulling a thorn from flesh. “Not just in church. Not just in secret. I wanna sing the blues. I wanna write my own songs. Play my own music. And I ain’t gonna be ashamed no more.”

The porch went still. The crickets even seemed to hush.

Preacher Moore’s face cracked — not much — but enough for Sammie to see something raw underneath. A flash of fear. A flash of sorrow.

“You think singin’ them devil songs gonna feed you? Gonna save you?” Preacher Moore spat.

Sammie shook his head.

“No, sir,” he said. “I think bein’ me gon’ save me.”

He reached back, took Sugar’s hand in his again.

“I got folks standin’ with me now. Folks who believe I ain’t just some broken piece of you.”

Preacher Moore set the cigarette down. The belt slid off his lap and onto the porch with a soft thud.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just rocked. Just stared.

And then, like a levee finally giving way after too many rains, the fight drained out of him. His shoulders sagged. His chin dipped. His pride — that big, ugly thing that had ruled the Moore house for two generations — cracked and crumbled like old clay.

Preacher Moore dragged a hand down his face, voice rough with something like regret.

“You your own man now,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothin’ I can do to change that.”

Sammie felt the breath he didn’t know he was holding rush out of him.

“You sure that’s what you want, boy?” Preacher Moore asked, almost gentle now.

“I’m sure,” Sammie said. “Been sure.”

Preacher Moore nodded once, stiff and slow.

“Then go on,” he said. “Go sing your songs.”

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was enough. Enough for tonight.

Sammie turned to Sugar, who was smiling through tears, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand.

Together, they stepped off that porch — not as preacher boy and dreamer girl — but as something new. Something stronger.

The night wrapped around them as they walked into a future that, for the first time, was theirs to claim.

———

The road to Sugar’s house twisted through cotton fields and thick woods, the night air humming with the slow, secret music of the Delta. Sammie held Sugar’s hand tight as they walked, his heart still hammering from what he’d left behind on that porch.

Preacher Moore’s voice still echoed in his ears, but it was faint now, like a storm rumbling far off. What mattered was the hand in his, the steady light ahead — the little house Sugar’s granddaddy had left her when he passed.

The place wasn’t much to look at to anybody else. A two-room clapboard house, porch sagging a little, white paint peeling like old bark. But to Sammie, it looked like freedom. Looked like home.

Sugar fished the key from her pocket and unlocked the door. She didn’t say much, just pulled him inside by the hand. The house smelled like lavender and fresh bread, warm and good.

Sammie had only been here a handful of times, always with the nervous, guilty feeling of a boy sneaking into someplace he didn’t belong. But tonight was different. Tonight, she opened the door wide and left it open behind him, like she meant for him to stay.

“Granddaddy wanted me to have it,” Sugar said, setting her purse down. “Said a woman needs her own land to stand on.”

Sammie nodded, drinking it all in — the soft quilt folded on the couch, the little wooden cross nailed above the door, the framed picture of Sugar’s granddaddy smiling wide in his Sunday suit.

“You know,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him, “I got my own shop now too. Folks come from all over for my oils and teas. I do good.”

He smiled, proud in a way he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“I know you do,” he said. “Ain’t nobody like you, Sugar.”

She laughed, light and low.

“One day,” Sammie said, voice almost breaking with the bigness of it, “I wanna be able to take care of you too. Not ’cause you need it. But ’cause you deserve it.”

Sugar crossed the room in two quick steps and pressed her forehead to his.

“You already do,” she whispered.

They stood there a long moment, breathing each other in, letting the world fall away.

Sammie knew he didn’t have much. A voice. A few songs still trapped inside him, scratching to get out. A heart bigger than he knew what to do with.

But somehow, standing there in the warm light of Sugar’s house, it felt like enough.

Tomorrow, there would be work to do. Songs to write. Battles to fight. Maybe even more nights spent arguing with ghosts and memories.

But tonight — tonight he had her.

Tonight they had a roof, four walls, and a world of dreams between them.

And sometimes, Sammie thought, that was more than enough to start a whole life on.

The hum of cicadas mixed with the soft shuffle of feet on the old wooden floors of Sugar’s house, and Sammie, still buzzin’ from the confrontation with his father, felt the weight of it all.

Sugar’s house was quiet now, the air in the room feelin’ as heavy as the memories. The house was sturdy and worn, like time had kissed it just right. A little faded around the edges, but still standin’, just like her. Just like him.

Sammie’s fingers trembled as he rubbed the back of his neck, still feelin’ the heat from his father’s words mixed with the pride he hadn’t known he could hold. But Sugar… she was the one who’d always seen it in him, even when he’d been too blind to see it himself.

She sat beside him, her body close but not touchin’, her presence like a balm for all his frayed nerves. He could feel the heat of her, the warmth of her gaze that was so full of pride, so full of somethin’ deeper that he couldn’t quite put into words.

“You did it, Sammie,” she said, her voice soft but steady like a slow river. “I’m so proud of you, baby. I always knew you had it in you.”

He let out a breath, a small chuckle escaping his lips. “I ain’t never thought I’d be here, Sugar. Never thought I’d be standin’ up to him like that. Didn’t think I had the strength to fight for what I wanted. Hell, didn’t think I deserved it.”

Sugar’s eyes softened, her lips parting like she was about to speak but then she just shook her head. Her hand reached out, like it always did when he needed it most, and she placed it over his.

“You deserve every bit of it, Sammie,” she said, her voice full of that calm confidence that always made him feel like maybe he wasn’t so lost after all. “And you’ve got so much more in you than you even know.”

His chest tightened, and he didn’t know if it was from the weight of her words or the way she made him feel like a man again. A real one, with dreams and a purpose. And as she looked at him, that proud smile on her face, Sammie couldn’t help but feel a pull deep in his gut. She always did that to him — made him feel seen in a way no one else ever had.

“Sugar…” he breathed, his voice a little rough. “You’ve always seen me. Always been the only one who believed in me when I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror.”

Sugar moved closer, her body just inches from his, and he could feel the heat of her against his arm. Her touch was like a spark, and Sammie swore his heart skipped a beat. She was always so sure, so confident in everything she did. But tonight, he saw something else in her eyes — something softer. Something real.

“I ain’t never stopped believin’ in you, Sammie. You’ve got this, baby. You always had it in you.”

Her words were like a lullaby, and as they lingered in the air between them, Sammie couldn’t help but draw her in closer. He wrapped his arms around her, pullin’ her to him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He held her tight, his chest full of so many emotions he couldn’t even name.

The softness of her body against his made his breath hitch. Sugar felt like home. Like everything that had ever mattered. Her scent filled his senses, and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

“You make me feel like I can take on the world, Sugar,” he murmured, his voice low, rough with the weight of what he was feelin’. “Like I ain’t never been broken, like I’m whole again. I ain’t never been able to thank you for that.”

Sugar’s hand slid up his back, her fingers light against his skin, and she pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were dark with emotion, and the softness in her gaze made Sammie’s heart ache.

“You don’t have to thank me, Sammie,” she said, her voice a whisper now, like the words were only meant for him. “I’ve always been here for you. Always will be.”

Sammie’s chest tightened again, and this time, he didn’t fight the urge to kiss her. His lips brushed hers, soft at first, like he was askin’ for permission. But when she didn’t pull away, when she leaned into him, it felt like a release. He kissed her deeper, the tension in his chest unwinding as he pulled her closer, feeling her warmth flood him.

He didn’t know how long they’d been sittin’ there, lost in each other, but when he pulled away, breathless, he looked at her with all the words he hadn’t said, all the things he still needed to say.

“Sugar, I ain’t never been more sure of somethin’ in my life. I need you. I’ve needed you since the first day I laid eyes on you. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Sugar smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and her fingers grazed the side of his face, tender but firm.

“You don’t need to say nothin’, Sammie. I’ve known. I’ve always known.”

And before he could say another word, she leaned in again, kissing him with the kind of tenderness that made him ache deep inside. He held her tighter, his hands roaming to the small of her back as the heat between them built, the air thick with need.

Sammie pulled Sugar into his lap allowing his hands to rest on her waist not going any lower than that, pulling he looked into her eyes silently asking for permission to touch her which she gladly granted. Leaning forward he kissed her once more, the kiss full of want, need and hunger. His hands moved down to grab handfuls of her ass causing them to moan into each other’s mouths, their breaths mingling together.

Sugar’s hips ground themselves against Sammie’s making him bite down onto her lip, she pulls away swirling her tongue around his ear before biting down onto it. She trails her lips lower kissing on his neck tasting the salty sweat with her tongue. Meanwhile he’s lifted up her dress with permission, unbuckling his pants afterwards letting her sink down slowly onto his cock.

They moan into each other’s mouths once again, Sugar wrapping her hand around his throat and his fingers tangled in her hair as she rides him. “Sugar? Lemme try somethin hear?” He speaks through moans and she answers with a breathy “yes”. With permission granted he flips them so she’s now under him, his hips rolling into her while his free hand protects her head from slamming into the arm of the chair.

Pulling down the straps of her dress he exposes her breasts to him, lowering his head he takes a nipple into his mouth. His free hand reaches down between them finding her clit giving it tight fast circles to match the pace of his thrusts. “Sammie… Baby…” Sugar pants out watching him angle his hips to go deeper hitting her spot without knowing.

“Baby right there” he pulls off her nipple long enough to respond in his baritone voice “right there sugar?” To which she nods gripping the back of his head when he dove back in sucking on her nipple. She gasps arching her back slightly moaning loudly into the air not caring about who heard. “Sammie… I’m gonna…” he keeps his tempo the same while rubbing her clit, pulling off to rest his forehead against hers. “C’mon sugar, cum for me, let go”

The coil in her stomach snaps and she swears she sees white as she cums around his cock, Sammie thrusts a few more times before pulling out cumming on her stomach with a low groan. They lay there for a few moments before Sammie gets up picking Sugar up bridal style carrying her down the hall.

“Let me take care of you, Sugar,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur. “I ain’t gonna leave you like this.”

He lifted her into his arms, holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body press against his. Her head rested on his shoulder as he carried her, every step slow and deliberate as if he didn’t want to break the moment. The bed creaked softly as he laid her down, his hand lingering on her side for a moment longer than necessary.

Sugar closed her eyes, her body still humming with the aftereffects of everything they’d shared. But Sammie knew there was more to do. He wasn’t about to leave her just like that.

He stepped away briefly, his movements purposeful as he went to the basin in the corner. He ran his hands under the water filling up a huge pot heating up the water on the stove, the steam rising in the small space. He grabbed a soft cloth and soap, his hands shaking slightly with the anticipation of what was next.

When the water was ready, Sammie dumps it all into the bathtub before he returned to Sugar, who was propped up on the pillows, her eyes fluttering open to meet his gaze. She smiled weakly, her voice soft. “You don’t have to do all this, Sammie. I’m fine.”

He shook his head, his expression serious. “You deserve every bit of care, Sugar. You trusted me, and I’m gonna show you how much you mean to me.”

With a gentle touch, he helped lift her into his arms again, guiding her to the edge of the bed. He carefully wiped her skin with the warm cloth, his touch slow and steady as he cleaned the traces of their love from her body. Each stroke was soft, as if he was worshipping every inch of her, every curve, every part of her that he cherished. He then lifts her into the tub gently washing her body. The cloth moved over her belly, down her legs, until every trace of him was gone, and all that was left was the soft heat of her skin.

Sugar looked up at him, her eyes full of vulnerability and trust. “You make me feel safe, Sammie. Like I’m the only one that matters.”

Sammie’s heart ached. He placed the cloth back in the bowl, then turned his attention to the small copper pot of warm water he’d heated. He poured it gently into a shallow basin, setting it between them.

“I’m gonna wash your hair now, Sugar,” he said, his voice low. “Let me take care of you, just like you took care of me.”

She nodded, a soft, grateful smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He was so gentle with her, so focused, his every movement thoughtful and deliberate. He poured the warm water over her hair slowly, his hands cradling the back of her neck as he worked the lather into her thick curls. His fingers massaged her scalp, and she let out a soft, contented sigh.

“Mm, that feels good, Sammie,” she murmured, her eyes closing as she relaxed into his touch.

Sammie continued to work, washing her hair with tender care, making sure every strand was clean, every inch of her body pampered. He rinsed her hair, his hands careful and slow as he ran them through the curls, feeling the smoothness of her wet locks slip between his fingers. There was something so intimate about it — the way he was taking care of her, the way she let him in.

When he was finished, he dried her off gently, wrapping a soft towel around her shoulders, letting the warmth of it sink into her skin.

“You’re perfect, Sugar,” he whispered, his eyes full of adoration. “I just want you to know that. You’re perfect.”

Sugar looked at him, her eyes full of gratitude, and Sammie swore his heart skipped a beat. She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb tracing the edge of his jawline.

“You don’t have to do all this for me, Sammie,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “But I’m glad you do.”

Sammie smiled, his hand brushing through her damp curls, his heart full. “I’ll always do this for you, Sugar. I’ll always take care of you.”

He laid beside her then, pulling the covers over them both, his arm around her waist. Sugar nestled into his chest, her breathing slow and steady as she drifted into a peaceful sleep, the weight of the day finally settling in. Sammie held her close, his heart full of love and pride, knowing that, for once, everything was exactly as it should be.

#sinners film #sammie sinners #stack sinners #smoke sinners #sinners fanfiction #sinners #sammie moore #Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore #preacher boy #Sammie Moore fanfic #Sammie Moore x reader #x black!reader #x black! fem reader #preacher boy x reader #Sammie ‘Preacher boy’ Moore x reader

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victorluvsalice · 2 years ago

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-->And, as Victor replanted his oversized crops (which I’m not actually intending to make oversized this time! Smaller ones make a bit more sense to sell in the store), Smiler scheduled a weenie roast for the next day! They hadn’t thrown a party in a while, and I figured that would be appropriate for it being summer, especially with SimCity Founding coming up. They invited their friends Heath, Aleah (the Hermit from Granite Falls), Cecilia, Nalani, and Grace, and had the whole thing start at 3 PM, as that felt like a decent start time for me for a cookout. And I just crossed my fingers and hoped that it wouldn’t be as chaotic and glitchy as some of my OTHER weenie roasts had been. . .

-->And with that, all that remained was for Victor to finish up his planting and for Smiler and Alice to have a little bonding time (including synchronized showering in the rain -- Erratic Sims *sigh*) before it was back off to the store! Smiler of course made another flower arrangement while Alice started making more cakes and pies for the bakery and Victor began doing bulk bread processing -- and then I discovered two things:

A) The new update, which added slots to the tops of a bunch of the toilets and sinks? It has a dark side, and that dark side is that Sims WILL put random shit on those slots. As seen with Victor putting his bread on top of the toilet in the bathroom stall. *facepalm* I moved it out of the bathroom with haste and quickly put -- I don’t recall what it’s called, I think it’s related to the menstrual cycle stuff in Wonderful Whims, which I don’t use, but it’s like a little spray bottle that you MIGHT find in a bathroom like this, and it took up one of the slots on top of each toilet, making them less of a good place to drop baked goods.

B) Smiler actually didn’t have that much to do, as the flower arrangement shelves were full, and there was no more room for any of the baked goods from the cupcake machine in the bakery section. Whoops. ^^; Fortunately, there was another protest going on nearby in the little square, and when Smiler batted over to say hello, who should they encounter but Jameson, the guy they met over in Henford-On-Bagley on fair day! :D Smiler promptly renewed the acquaintance, and they had a nice chat together. Them being the most social of all my Sims DOES make keeping them occupied easier. XD

-->And while THAT was going on, I decided it was about time I had Victor test out his Copypasto skills! Now, as I reported back in the Finchwick Fair update, there was no way for me to have him Copypasto any of the cans and boxes from the Simsonian Canning Factory mod (you know, like the canned peas and such). . .but he COULD Copypasto the various sauces and preserves, since those are the same as the ones you get from Cottage Living itself! And so Victor set about copying as many jars of jam and sauce as he could. . .

#sims 4 #the lazy save #victor van dort #alice liddell #smiler always #yeaaah that showering in the rain does get old #I think I let them just finish it out because they could use a little hygiene #but guys come on work with me here #really should retrait them at some point #someone recommend a good mental health thing for Alice she's the one who needs it #and yes I got to the store set everyone working #put Smiler's latest arrangement out #and was like 'shit the shelves are full whoops'#good thing Jameson was there to keep them company!#I mean I feel like what I really need is another bulk food processing machine #but that involves making the store BIGGER AGAIN #...unless I go down #hmmm #basement processing center while the upstairs room becomes more of a chill-out place?#thought #we'll see if I implement it!#they've actually got a lot of non-store stuff coming up #let me make a note though #queued

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corameiwrites · 3 months ago

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𖦹 searching for love pt. 2𖦹

pair: jason todd x gn!reader

plot: going back to work, you wonder if you'll see your handsome stranger again...

wc: 1.6k

For once, being forced to wake up and leave your warm cocoon of blankets and stuffed animals at nine in the morning didn’t seem so terrible. Your cat, however, thought differently. To her, it was routine to be awoken by your ruffling of the sheets and complaining about the day to come.

There was none of that this morning, and she seemed to take notice. Rather than stay in bed scrolling until the absolute last minute, you sprang up and went to your bathroom. Meowing in some form of complaint and stretching, she jumped down soundlessly to join you. She watched as you did your normal routine from the toilet seat as she did every morning. Then it was off to the closet. Padding softly on the wooden floors, she went to her bed she rarely used situated next to a floor length mirror and got comfortable. With lazy eyes, she observed you sorting through clothes and digging in laundry baskets.

Unknowingly, she had fallen asleep but was awoken by a scratch on her head. Looking up, she saw you fully dressed, smiling down on her. Meowing in content, she stretched and rested a paw on your outstretched arm.

“Do you want breakfast, girl?”

Her ears perked up at that, and in an instant she was up and across the room, meowing boisterously at you to follow.

“Of course you do.” You followed your noisy cat into the kitchen, almost tripping over her when she circled between your legs. “Hey, watch it.”

After pouring some kibble into her tray and getting no more than a mere meow in thanks, you double checked you had everything in your bag before sitting down on the couch to put on your shoes.

“Do you think he’ll be there today?”

Her tail swung slowly from side to side as she ate her food.

“I hope he will.” You stood, running to the mirror for one last look at yourself before grabbing your keys and walking to the front door. Your cat followed, meowing insistently again. Leaning down, you scoop her into your arms and snuggle her. You walk to your room, cat still in your arms.

“I'm sorry girl, but we can’t have a repeat of last time.” Her head lifts to look at you, and before she knows it you’ve thrown her on the bed and run out of the room all the way to the front door. She, again, meows loudly before rushing to the door only to catch it closing.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ♡ ✩˚｡⋆𖦹｡°⋆✮

For some unknown reason, everybody and their mother wanted to come to the cozy bookstore on a late Tuesday afternoon. This had kept you and your other coworker on your feet all day, alternating between stocking, running the register, and walking around asking kids to please not climb on bookshelves. Had it not been for the hope of seeing your “mystery hunk” (as your coworker lovingly named him), you probably would have looked dead on your feet.

Your coworker was teasing you nonstop about volunteering to actually walk around the store and shelve in hopes of seeing him. You took it in stride though, because at least you were self aware of how insane and a little delusional you were being.

With every ring of the front door, your head would instantly turn, checking to see if it was him. When shelving, you lingered around the Austen area in case he wanted to pick up another book. Constantly looking through the crowd, you hoped to find a wisp of white hair somewhere. The only white hair you saw was from one of your regulars, Agnes, an old lady who fit every stereotype of a fairytale grandma. You were chatting with her before your coworker asked you to take over the register.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ♡ ✩˚｡⋆𖦹｡°⋆✮

Jason had been sitting in the coffee shop across the street from the bookstore for more than twenty minutes, scared shitless for absolutely no reason. Maybe it was the fact that he still felt awful about keeping you thirty minutes past closing—unknowingly, but it didn’t take away the shame. You had been so nice about it too, telling him not to worry. But how could he not? It was the only thing on his mind the last couple hours. The least he could have done was make sure you got home safe, so he followed protected your walk home.

Tim had given him so much shit about abandoning him for 40 minutes and purposefully leading Condiment King to him that Jason had ended up agreeing to take care of the dry cleaning and “trauma compensation” (Tim’s words, not his). Whatever that meant.

That's what led him to this coffee shop after dropping off the ruined suit, which was conveniently across the street from your work, the little time-warp of a bookstore. He was watching people file in and out periodically through the window, but didn’t see you at the register. Not that he was looking for you specifically. He just wanted to thank you and apologize once more, that's all.

It looked rather busy, and he didn’t feel like walking in to explain the whole lost wallet and books on hold thing to the worker. After some more internal shaming and nonsensical overthinking, Jason decided he wouldn’t go back to that bookstore today, and probably ever again despite his gut telling him otherwise. He couldn’t just stroll in with a clean conscience knowing he kept you so late past closing. It was a crime comparable to his nighttime-persona.

Groaning as he got up from his table, he threw his empty cup away. He had taken a pretty hard fall this morning grappling back to his safehouse and bruised half his right side. He was just glad Tim wasn’t there to see it. Walking to his bike parked outside, he took one last look at the bookstore. The sight of you at the register made him do a double take.

Stalling next to his motorcycle, his hand began to fidget with the ignition key in his pocket. You were checking out a mother and a little kid, who was practically bouncing on his feet. You were smiling and talking to the boy, and he must have said something cute or blunt in the way only little kids are, because suddenly you were laughing.

The sight unconsciously brought a smile to his lips.

Bagging their books, you handed something to the kid. They walked out and you continued onto the next customer, and Jason watched as the kid plastered a shiny gold star sticker onto his chest just outside the store.

Sighing, he abandoned his bike and made his way across the street.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ ♡ ✩˚｡⋆𖦹｡°⋆✮

The bell to the front door chimed, and mostly on professional training and only a little bit delusion, you looked up to greet the person.

“Welcome—oh!” Realizing it was your mysterious hunk, you smiled a little brighter. He smiled back, a small one, but still there. Slowly, he approached the front counter, lingering a little awkwardly as you hurried to bag someone's books. After telling them to come again, he approached the register.

“Hi.” he said, a little breathlessly.

“Hey.” Your smile widened at his stiff posture and shy demeanor. “Any luck finding your wallet?”

“Oh,” his eyebrows raised, and it was as if you speaking had broken him out of a daze. You found this far too endearing. “Yeah, I uh, actually left it at home—but I brought it today, so…”

“Yeah, I’ve definitely done that before.” You say, letting out an airy chuckle. Neither of you say anymore for a moment, both looking at the other. He’s dressed more casually today, his heavy cargo pants traded out for an old pair of baggy jeans. He’s wearing a dark green sweater under another leather jacket; black this time. Something about it makes his eyes pop just a little brighter you think. His eyes meet yours, and he looks away briefly, chewing his lip slightly.

“You still have those books behind the counter?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Um–yeah, sorry.” Quickly turning, you bend down, mentally slapping yourself for checking him out so obviously. The books are in the same place you stored them last night. Picking them up, you rush to stand back up. “Ow!”

“Oh shit, are you okay?” He sounds very concerned.

“Yep, just a little scratch.” There's no way you will ever recover from hitting your head on the counter in front of a hot customer.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I am totally fine. Um…” Trailing off and trying desperately to escape his piercing gaze, you ask if he wants a bag.

“Sure, yeah.”

Trying your hardest to not shrivel up and die of embarrassment, you carefully put his books into a paper bag, watching as he whips out a leather wallet and handing you a twenty dollar bill. Noting his clear affinity to leather, you get his change before turning back to him, $5.67 in your hand. His own brushes against yours slightly as he takes the change, and you're a little ashamed at how much that small contact made your heart soar.

Instantly, he puts the extra money into a small tip jar. You smile, and as you're about to thank him, Old Agnes puts her books down on the counter. Noticing, he grabs his bag and steps back, looking at you.

“Thanks for holding these back there, and sorry for keeping you up late last night.” You decide to ignore the look Agnes gives you.

“It's alright. Come back soon?”

He hesitates, glancing around the store and back at you. He smiles, nodding. “I’m planning on it.”

You watch as he leaves, walking recklessly across the street (a car honked at him) to a red motorcycle. You gape a little, eyeing him as he puts on a helmet and leaves. You focus back on checking out Old Agnes’ books.

“...so what were you two up to last night?"

#Agnes definitely thinks you guys fucked #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd #red hood #fanfiction #bookstore au #tim drake #red robin #corameiwrites

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manmuncher777 · 20 days ago

Text

Taken in tension

✧༺ Roommate toji x reader

✧༺ trigger warnings

✧༺ a/n - roommate tonji is my fucking favourite trope ever. Hi, impregnate me sir. Enjoy sexies xx

You didn’t see a lot of Toji.

That was half the reason why this whole roommate situation worked.

You both had your own lives, your own schedules. He was usually out — at the gym, running errands, disappearing for hours without a word — and you were busy enough your own things that you rarely crossed paths except in passing.

When you did, it was… easy. Surprisingly easy.

You were actually greatful you got landed with a roommate like Toji, he was there when you needed him, always fixing whatever you had broken, or helping you with heavy lifting. And you were quite happy to repay him in your own ways. You cooked dinner for the both of you most nights, and on the nights you couldn’t be bothered you would grab takeout.

He wasn’t messy — not enough to piss you off — and when he was, you didn’t mind picking up after him because he always noticed, always threw you a grateful look or a lazy, gruff thanks, sweetheart that made your stomach stupidly flutter.

Besides, he pulled his weight in other ways.

Fixing the broken sink without you having to ask. Carrying all the groceries up in one go without a complaint. Reaching things off the highest shelves, half-laughing when you glared at him for making it look too easy.

You got along well.

It was chill. It was safe.

Still…

Sometimes, you caught yourself noticing things you shouldn’t.

Like the way Toji would drag his shirt off after a run, tossing it over his shoulder, his body glistening faintly with sweat — thick arms flexing, abs hard and cut deep, the waistband of his shorts hanging low enough to reveal the sliver of a v-line that made you bite your lip and look away fast.

Or the way his voice sounded in the mornings — rough and low, rumbling out of his chest when he mumbled a half-asleep ‘mornin’ and shuffled into the kitchen in nothing but sweats.

Or the way he sometimes smelled — fresh soap and something deep, earthy and masculine that clung to the air long after he left the room, leaving you dizzy if you stayed too long.

Not that you thought about it.

Not that you let yourself think about it.

Because this arrangement was comfortable, and you weren’t about to screw it up just because your stupid brain couldn’t help but drool over your hot, sometimes-shirtless, way-too-casual roommate.

No.

You had self-control.

You were fine.

Totally fine.

But you werent always aware that you werent the only one finding this arrangement a little… testing.

I mean you couldn’t always blame him, the apartment wasnt massive, so sometime it was hard for him not to notice you creeping towards your room from the bathroom in only a towel, or strutting past him while he was watching tv, shouting a quick goodbye with your tiny little dress on, something about a girls night. He wasnt listening in that moment.

And it took everything in him not to pocket those little panties of your he finds when sorting the washing, all outs of images flashing into his mind of you wearing nothing else but those little panties, waiting for home to get home.

Of course he did his best to remain respectful, only letting his eyes linger ling enough you wouldn’t notice.

One rule that you both kept in the apartment was no partners are allowed over, one night stands of girlfriends were a strict no no on both sides. You didn’t want to be disturbed by that, and well you were single as fuck so he didnt really have to worry. The walls were thin and the last thing you needed was some girl keeping you up all night.

Only issue for you with the thins walls is that if you ever want some ‘personal time’ you have to wait until you know Toji would be out. You would be mortified if he ever heard you like that, so you keep very discreet. Just you and your little box of toys.

The box of toys that you were currently rummaging through because he had finally left, popping out to grab some cigarette or something, then he’d just hop back on his Xbox or something. You had just got home from work, and needed a moment to destress, he would be 20 minutes, surely thats enough time.

Work clothes off, T-shirt and panties on. Candles lit and you were finally ready for a relaxing evening

Your box of toys that was open, despite you not touching it recently, the box that was left rather visible under your bed when you usually have it tucked away. And the one toy you wanted, that you would be finished fast with, was now missing its batteries. The slip of plastic to place the batteries in was left visibly opened with no batteries in there.

Where the fuck were the batteries?

You knew you had left them in there.

Tucked right inside your little velvet pouch — with your trusty toy buried safely beneath sweaters and old scarves — reserved for nights like tonight.

Nights when the sexual frustration got so bad it made you antsy, desperate for even a tiny bit of release.

Single. Stressed. Stupidly horny.

It wasn’t much to ask, was it?

Apparently, the universe — or more specifically, your goddamn roommate — had other plans.

You searched everywhere, in your desk, in drawers, not a single triple a battery to be found. And on such perfect timing, Toji was back.

Fucking great, looks like you were getting nothing tonight. ON all the days this could have happened.

You stared at the opened box, jaw ticking, the empty slot where the batteries once sat practically mocking you.

There was only one person who could’ve done this.

Your mind finally clicking, you live with one other person, and your certainly didn’t just throw away those batteries

One muscle-headed, thoughtless, lazy bastard who would rather loot your private stash than walk ten feet to the store.

You stormed down the hall, chest tight with irritation.

It was petty — objectively — but you didn’t care.

Because now you were still horny and now also pissed off, which was a dangerous combination.

Without even knocking, you shoved open Toji’s bedroom door.

He barely glanced up from his spot on the bed — legs spread wide, controller in hand, headset slung around his neck as he mashed buttons aggressively.

Casual. Relaxed. Like he hadn’t just committed the ultimate betrayal.

You crossed your arms and glared at him.

He finally looked up, pausing his game.

One dark brow lifted lazily.

“Problem, sweetheart?”

You wanted to punch him.

You also wanted to climb him like a tree. Eyes glancing over him fully now, only just registering the fact he was shirtless, grey sweats hanging slutily low on his hips, enough to make a woman drool.

Neither urge was helpful right now.

“You stole my batteries,” you said flatly.

Toji gave a slow, exaggerated blink.

Then — fucking smirked.

“Needed ’em,” he said, shrugging, like that excused everything. “Controller was dead. Emergency.”

“Emergency?” you hissed, stepping further into the room. “Emergency? I needed them! Toji, you went through my shit! That was private”

His eyes flicked over you — lingering for a second too long on your flushed cheeks, the way your chest was rising and falling a little too fast.

It was obvious, wasn’t it?

What you had been about to do before he ruined it.

Obvious in the way your thighs pressed together, your arms crossed like you were trying to physically contain yourself.

Toji’s smirk widened.

“Ohh,” he drawled, voice low and amused. “That kind of emergency.”

You wanted to die.

You also wanted to hit him.

You also maybe wanted to straddle him and shut him the fuck up.

Instead, you ground out, “I want them back. Now.”

He set the controller down beside him, stretching like he had all the time in the world — the way his muscles flexed beneath the dim light of his room should’ve been illegal — and then patted the space next to him on the bed.

“An emergency?” you scoff, already frustrated beyond belief. “The hell do you need my batteries for? Your fucking remote? Seriously, I’ve been looking for those—”

He interrupts you with a lazy shrug. “Yeah, my controller died.” He repeated casually “You weren’t gonna use ‘em anyway, right?”

You stop mid-sentence, the realization dawning on you, but it doesn’t stop the heat rising in your cheeks. “I—I was going to,” you mumble, fuming. “I was going to use them, but now they’re gone because of you. You went through my stuff, Toji. Personal shit.”

Toji slowly rises from the bed, a calculated glint in his eyes. He’s still half-smirking, clearly enjoying the way your irritation is building. He walks toward you, the tension thickening with every step he takes. His large frame seems to fill the room as he stops just a few inches away, his presence overwhelming.

“You really need to chill, ma,” he says lowly, his voice like honey, but there’s a subtle hint of mockery in it. His hand reaches up, brushing past you as he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Seems to me like you were relying on some pretty weak shit to get off.”

The words hit you like a slap, but it’s his tone—condescending, taunting—that gets to you. Your lips part as you try to retort, but the heat in his gaze leaves you speechless for a moment

“I mean, really,” he continues, stepping in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “That plastic shit really get you off? Don’t you need something a bit more real?”

You grit your teeth, trying to hold your ground, but the tension between you is palpable. “I was fine before you came in and took everything,” you snap, although the desperation you feel is practically dripping from your words.

Toji smirks at your reaction, clearly reveling in the power he has over you. “Yeah? I don’t think so,” he says, leaning in a little closer. “I think you were getting a little too used to that weak little thing. You were probably so frustrated you didn’t know what to do with yourself.”

Your heart races, and you can barely focus on what he’s saying because of the raw, intoxicating way he’s looking at you. You hate how much you want to shove him up against the wall and take control, but you’re pinned under his gaze, unable to move.

Toji’s hand moves down your arm slowly, teasing, not quite touching, just enough to make you tingle with need. His voice lowers even more. “Now, I think I could give you something much more satisfying… if you let me.”

You open your mouth, but words fail you. Instead, you let out a frustrated sigh, your hands trembling as they fall to your sides.

Toji chuckles softly, sensing your growing desperation. “You still upset about the batteries, baby? Or do you need something else?

“Come get ’em,” he said, grin turning absolutely devilish. “Might even help you out, if you ask real nice.”

Your mouth went dry.

Your whole body heated.

Because suddenly you weren’t sure if you were mad anymore — or just aching for something else entirely.

You stayed planted near the door, arms crossed so tight it hurt, glaring daggers at him — but he only lounged back further against the headboard, hands resting behind his head, looking like he didn’t have a goddamn care in the world.

He tilted his head at you, that cocky little smirk pulling at his mouth.

“Poor girl,” he drawled, voice thick and mocking. “So flustered. Bet you were all set up too, huh? Lights off, blanket pulled up real nice… fingers already creeping down your stomach—”

“Shut the fuck up, Toji,” you snapped, face burning.

His eyes glinted — dark and full of something downright wicked.

“Ooh. Touchy,” he teased. “What’s the matter? Mad ’cause you couldn’t get yourself off? Or mad because you haven’t had a proper fuck in too long?”

You hated him.

You hated how well he knew you, how easy you were to read. You hated how he was right.

You hated how good he looked, sprawled out like that — broad shoulders, abs flexing, that slutty v-line, messy dark hair falling into his eyes, those big thighs spread wide like an invitation.

He smelled like bodywash and something sharp and masculine underneath, and it was doing terrible, terrible things to your self-control.

Your nails dug into your arms.

“I needed the fucking batteries,” you bit out. “Not some — some asshole with no respect for personal property.”

Toji chuckled — actually laughed at you — low and rumbly in his chest.

“You’re real cute when you’re mad, y’know that?”

He shifted slightly — not enough to stand, but enough that the mattress dipped under his weight.

He was closer now, lazy but predatory. Like a tiger deciding whether or not it wanted to play with its food.

“And real fuckin’ cute when you’re needy, too.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could barely hear yourself think.

You needed to leave.

You needed to keep your pride.

You needed to not imagine what it would feel like to march over there and straddle him and grind the attitude out of him.

But then Toji gave you a slow once-over — lingering, heavy, filthy — and your body betrayed you.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, thighs pressing together instinctively.

He caught it immediately.

“Aw, baby,” he cooed mockingly. “Don’t go shy on me now.”

He patted his thigh, slow and deliberate.

Like he was inviting a fucking pet into his lap.

“C’mere. If you ask real pretty, might even let you put that mouth to good use first.”

You sucked in a shaky breath — the edges of your anger bleeding into raw, desperate want.

“You’re disgusting,” you said — but your voice wobbled. Trembled.

His smirk sharpened.

“You want disgusting, sweetheart?”

He leaned forward, voice dropping low, gravelly, dangerous. “I’ll show you disgusting. I’ll have you makin’ sounds you didn’t even know you could make. Have you crying on my cock, beggin’ me not to stop.”

Your knees almost buckled.

Your mind was screaming at you to turn around, to hold onto some shred of dignity — but your body had already decided.

You were burning. Frustrated.

So damn needy it hurt.

And Toji — he was right fucking there.

Arrogant and filthy and perfect.

You licked your dry lips, fists clenching at your sides.

“I’m not begging,” you muttered — trying and failing to sound strong.

Toji’s grin widened into something positively sinful.

“Not yet, you’re not.”

He patted his thigh again — slow, taunting. “Now. Be a good girl and get over here. Before I make you.”

You glared at him for a second longer — daring him to back down — but Toji just smirked, the arrogant bastard, and patted his thigh again.

Fine.

If he wanted to play?

You could play.

Jaw set, you crossed the room in a few stiff steps and planted yourself right on his thigh — hands braced on his shoulders, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of his sweats.

For a moment, you felt smug — victorious even — but then—

Toji’s hands landed on your waist, big and heavy, fingers flexing lightly against your sides.

And he didn’t grab you.

Didn’t drag you down and grind you where you wanted.

No — he just let them sit there.

Warm. Teasing.

Promising.

You tried to shift your hips, chasing friction — and that’s when he bounced his thigh once, slow and deliberate.

The jolt ran through you like a live wire.

You gasped — clutched at his shoulders — and he laughed.

“Ohhhh,” he cooed, voice dripping with mockery. “There she is, theres my needy girl.”

You scowled, but it melted into a breathless sound when he bounced his thigh again, just slightly, making you rub against him.

“Go on, then,” he murmured, voice dropping low and mean. “Use it.

You wanted this so bad, right?

Your cheeks burned.

You couldn’t believe this — couldn’t believe you were actually — actually—

But your clit throbbed insistently between your thighs, the frustration and humiliation and desperation all bleeding together until you were moving — slow little rocks of your hips, dragging yourself along the hard muscle of his thigh.

Toji leaned back against the headboard, arms folding behind his head again like he didn’t have a damn care in the world — like he wasn’t sitting there letting you humiliate yourself on him.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute,” he drawled lazily, watching you.

“Look at you. So desperate you’re ridin’ my fuckin’ thigh like some lil’ bitch in heat.”

You whimpered — hated yourself for it — hated the way it made him chuckle, deep and low in his chest.

His hands slid up — finally — trailing slow and lazy under the hem of your shirt, skimming your waist, teasing along the curve of your tits without really touching where you wanted him to.

You ground down harder, chasing the friction, dizzy with need.

“Toji~” the broken whine leaving your throat, a beg. A need for something more.

“Nuh-uh,” Toji tutted, voice smug. “Not gonna help you, sweetheart. You wanna cum? Gotta work for it.”

He bounced his thigh a little harder — just once — and you cried out, grabbing his shoulders tighter for balance.

“Yeahhh,” he rasped, voice dark and gleeful. “That’s it. Use me, baby. Grind that pretty lil’ pussy on my thigh like you fuckin’ mean it.” You were beyond embarrassed now — little gasps and whines spilling from your lips as you rode him harder, chasing the sharp little sparks of pleasure building in your gut.

“Feelin’ good, huh?” Toji teased, voice thick with amusement. “Bet you’re so fuckin’ wet. Bet I could slide my fingers right in without even tryin’.”The thought made you moan brokenly — hips stuttering — and Toji’s grin widened like he could feel you getting closer.

“Come on,” he coaxed — voice low and rough and cruel. “Cum for me, baby. Show me how pathetic you are. Show me how bad you needed it.” It was too much — the filthy words, the heat of him under you, the cruel bounce of his thigh grinding against your clit just right—

You cried out, breaking apart with a full-body shudder, clutching him desperately as you came — hips jerking against his thigh in messy, helpless little rolls.

Toji laughed — laughed — one hand finally smoothing down your back as you trembled and gasped against him. The feeling soothing you as rode out your high, grounding you to the presence of the man beneath you.

“There she is,” he murmured mockingly, patting your ass like he was proud. “Good girl.”

You were still catching your breath, slumped against him, when you felt it —

the heavy, deliberate grip of Toji’s hands sliding down to your hips. The sensation buzzing against your already prickled skin, waves of pleasure still flowing through you from that much needed orgasm. The tension inside of you now nothing but a distant memory, now replaced with something needier

“Aw, poor thing,” he murmured, voice dark with mock sympathy. “Thought that was enough for you?”

You barely had time to register the teasing before he hauled you up — manhandling you like you weighed nothing — turning you around and bending you over the edge of the bed.

Your hands scrabbled for purchase on the comforter, your mind slow and syrupy with the aftershocks of your orgasm. You felt drunk — high — boneless and pliant under his rough touch.

“Still so fuckin’ needy,” Toji rasped behind you, thumbs hooking into your shorts and yanking them down your thighs in one swift, ruthless motion.

The cool air hit your slick folds and you whimpered — humiliated at how wet you still were, how badly you wanted him. Being so vulnerable in front of him despite moments ago using his thigh to get off.

He leaned over you, big and overwhelming, and you felt the thick press of him, heavy and hot against your bare ass. You swallow thickly, he was bigger than your toys, and you were sure he knew it.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “I’ll take care of you, baby.”

You gasped when you felt his fingers between your thighs — thick and calloused, slipping through your slick with an obscene wet sound.

“So fuckin’ wet already,” Toji grunted approvingly.

“Messy little thing. Bet I could slide right in.”

You whined — hips arching back into him without thinking — and Toji just chuckled low in his throat. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, almost fondly.

“I know, baby. I’ll give you what you need.”

Wasting not a second more to give you what you wanted, what he wanted. He slides his joggers just far enough down to free his throbbing cock. His tip a pretty shade of pink, adorned with small pearls of pre.

You felt the blunt, thick head of his cock nudge at your entrance, stretching you wider than any toy — and then he was pushing in, slow and devastating, splitting you open with a low, gravelly groan from his chest.

You gasped, frozen against the bed as you felt him sink into you so sinfully, it was so much better than your toys. His thick cock gliding into your welcoming walls. Mouth hanging open at the feeling of his pressing so deep inside you

“Better than your toys huh?” A chuckle sounds out from behind you and you curse your fucked out brain for speaking out loud. You werent lying however,

You gasped — tried to rock back against him — but Toji grabbed your hips in a bruising grip, holding you still.

“Uh-uh,” he hissed, sinking deeper. “Take it. Let me fuckin’ stretch you out.”

It was too much — the overwhelming stretch, the filthy, sticky heat between your thighs, the way your body just took him greedily, still trembling from your first orgasm.Toji bottomed out with a heavy, satisfied grunt — hips flush against your ass — and for a moment, he just stayed there, savoring the way you clung to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice thick and ragged.“You feel so good. Better than I imagined. Fuckin’ made for me, huh?”

Your fucked out brain couldn’t even process what he was saying, imagined? Had he thought about this too?

You nodded helplessly, whining when he gave a shallow thrust — hips grinding into you slow and deep, dragging the thick length of him against your fluttering walls.He fucked you lazily at first — deep, heavy strokes that made you sob into the mattress — placing all of his weight behind his merciless strokes, rocking into you slow and sharp. Relishing in the feeling of your tight cunt wrapped around him.

He was so deep you were sure you could feel him in your throat, you could feel every ridge, every vein, Like you were moulded to him.

But his patience didn’t last for long

Soon he was pounding into you, rough and relentless, your hips slapping against his with every brutal thrust.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Toji growled, watching the way your body shook under him.“Take it. Take it all.”

You babbled something incoherent — something desperate — but Toji just laughed and grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so he could murmur filth into your ear.

“What’s that, baby?” he teased, voice all syrupy condescension. “Can’t even talk, huh? Fucked you stupid already?”

You whined, blinking up at him, lips parted — brain mushy and overloaded.

“That’s alright,” Toji rasped, fucking you harder, crueler. “You don’t gotta think. Just gotta cum for me.”

And you did — with a wrecked cry, clenching around him so hard he cursed under his breath, hips stuttering as he chased his own release.

You felt it when he came — the hot pulse of it inside you, the low, guttural groan he let out against your shoulder — and then he collapsed over you, still buried deep, his body trembling from the force of it.

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing — the sticky, filthy aftermath of it hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Toji nuzzled against your neck, pressing a lazy kiss there, voice rough and low:

“Y’still mad about the batteries, princess?”

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk fanfic #toji fushiguro smut #toji x you #toji smut #jujutsu toji #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji zenin #toji fushiguro #fushiguro toji #toji x reader #toji zenin smut

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acosmicbee · 3 months ago

Text

The Regular

(Platonic Yandere x Gender Neutral Teen Reader)

You hated your job. It was your typical crappy customer service job mostly offered to teens because they had no where else to apply. It felt like an opportunity to let customers berate you without the higher-ups having to step up to protect the workers.

But, while you hated your job, you loved your day shift manager, Chad. He was a chill college student who let workers listen to music or whatever as long as they still were able to help out customers and do their work. He also would let people go home early during exam season or if they got yelled at by a customer.

Your night manager, however, was the opposite. She was an older lady who loved to yell at absolutely everyone. There was no music allowed on her watch, even for people working in the stock rooms in the back where customers weren't allowed. She was a bitter woman and there were running bets on how many times she'd been divorced due to her horrid personality.

Unfortunately for you, it was another long weekend, which meant taking on a night shift. Your day manager had already clocked out with an apologetic expression as Mrs.Karen started her rounds. You weren't even being funny, that was actually what she made everyone call her because just Karen was too informal.

Immediately, there was a scramble to either take out earbuds or hide them behind hair or hats. You immediately shoved on a nearby hat with the store's logo on it and Mrs.Karen didn't seem to notice your earbuds as she stalked off to yell at one of the cashiers. You could only grimace and return to stocking the shelves, hoping your coworker was okay.

It wasn't the quietest of nights, but you were left alone for the most part so you listened to some streamer playing the Sims 4. Obviously, you wished you were actually watching the video, but if you did that Karen would 100% catch you.

As your shift continued you helped a couple of people around the store and most of them were decent human beings. For example, the mother who looked like she was about to cry when you offered to watch her kid for a second so she could use the bathroom. Or the older couple who kept on asking you for snack recommendations for their grandson who was about your age.

Of course, the peace couldn't last forever. Right as the stream ended and your earbuds went silent some guy came up to you pissed off about not having a certain brand of frozen peas.

"Well I always get this exact brand! So go find it!" Of course the yelling attracted Karen who glared at you for upsetting the customer. Because it was somehow your fault that the exact brand of frozen peas wasn't in stock at that exact time.

"L/N. Go check in the back." Karen hissed before turning to the customer. "I am so sorry sir! You know how lazy this generation is. L/N probably forgot to stock them."

Despite knowing for sure you'd stocked everything frozen, you walked into the backroom, quickly pulling out your earbuds when you were out of eyesight. Karen was already mad, and if she saw those, she would kill you.

"Joe? Karen wants to know if we have any frozen peas. Specifically 'Green Garden Frozen Peas'." Your coworker, who was a better person than you, actually took a moment to look before shaking his head. "Nope. None here. Good luck facing the beast, Y/N."

You steeled yourself before walking out of the backroom. "I am so sorry, sir, but I just checked with stocking, and we are unfortunately out of the Green Garden Frozen Peas. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

You flinched as the man started yelling again as Karen tried desperately to pacify him. As he stormed off, she ran after him, but not before shooting you a killer glare. You really hated her. But you quickly finished stocking the empty shelves before you came back and proceeded to hide behind Joe for the rest of your shift.

The two of you had finished counting and labeling the rest of the boxes early, so you'd found another video by the same streamer you'd been listening to earlier. It was another Sims 4 video, and you let her soothing voice quell your anxiety until it was time to clock out. You, thankfully, didn't see Karen again and hoped she'd have forgotten all about this next time you had to work a night shift.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎧 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

You'd started listening to different streamers more and more as time wore on. You were almost always on stocking, or in the back where it was easier to get away with having your earbuds in. Chad had even begun to recommend you different streamers after one friendly conversation in the break room.

Of course, Karen was still as much of a monster as always. It was getting worse now that midterms were right around the corner. Listening to streams was your only escape from Karen's tyranny.

You began to listen more to a streamer you'd discovered over the last few months, 'LadyInRed'. She had a medium sized following and mostly played games. She had a soothing voice and the way she talked to her chat was almost motherly. Her streams were a nice way to calm down after being yelled at by both customers and Karen all night. Especially now that Chad was taking some time off to study for his college midterms.

Unfortunately for you, one of your co-workers had the flu so you were on the cash register today. LadyInRed wasn't streaming so you'd opted for your playlist instead of the generic pop songs blasting through the store. Of course, your earbuds were covered by your hat but you had to be even more careful than normal.

However, your last straw came in the form of a customer you recognized. It was the Pea Man from a couple of shifts ago. Despite the fact that you weren't even on stocking today he locked in on you and stormed over to your register.

Luckily before he could get there a woman pushed her full cart into your lane and began loading her groceries onto the belt. She gave you a friendly smile as you began to ring her up. Behind her the man was getting increasingly agitated to the point that your co-workers were sending you sympathetic looks.

The woman wasn't even out of the lane, just beginning to bag up her things into reusable bags she'd brought, when the man began to go off on you. He was yelling about anything and everything.

The store was still out of his peas, bummer but you weren't the one who decided what to order for the store. He claimed that you looked unprofessional, you were wearing your uniform just like everyone else. The store was too cold, you didn't control the thermostat. You were at your breaking point and were about to do something that would lose you your job when the lady in your lane stepped up.

"Sir, you are berating a child for things that are way out of their control. Does it make you feel powerful to yell at a teenager who's just trying to do their job? Are you proud of yourself for making someone's day worse to make yourself feel better because you probably hate your life?" The man's mouth fell open and Karen, who was probably on her way over to do damage control and glare at you stopped in her tracks.

"Honestly, how low do you have to go to bully a child?!" The woman huffed, before turning back to you. "I am so sorry sweetheart, are you okay?"

"Oh, um, yes? Thank you, miss." You stuttered out. You were a bit surprised that someone would stand up for you, seeing how no one besides Chad had ever done that before. The woman smiled at you apologetically before taking her bags. She sent the man, who was now quiet, one last dirty look before leaving with her shopping.

The Pea Man slipped out of the store after her, pointedly ignoring you and Karen went back to supervising and yelling at people. But as you continued to ring up customers something about that one lady just felt familiar to you...

But you brushed it off, instead staring at the clock and counting down the hours until the end of your shift.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎧 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

You expected to never see the helpful customer again. She wasn't anyone you'd seen before and you doubted she'd come back after what had happened, but you were wrong. Since that first shift, she'd become a bit of a regular.

Even on the nights you didn't work the register and were stocking, you'd see her. She'd always come up to you with a smile, asking where something was or needing help. Every single time, something inside you would activate some intense feelings of deja vu. You swore you knew her from somewhere, maybe one of your mom's work parties?

Either way, the days continued. After school you'd work til closing and on weekends you'd work the whole day. Without fail, you'd see her at some point, unless you were in the back. And even though she provided a small reprieve from the normal condescending and outright rude patrons, something about her made you squirm a little.

Maybe it was the way she appeared every single shift without fail. Maybe it was the strange smile on her face when she thought you weren't looking. Or maybe you were just going crazy from being treated like an equal for once. On the bright side, you never saw the pea man again. Seriously, who gets that attached to a brand of frozen peas?

Everything was fine until you were on your way home one night. You were too young to drive, a couple of months away from getting your learners permit, so you biked. You had a light on your bike and wore a reflective vest because it was dark, but some people are apparently blind because you still got side swiped by a car, which then sped off as you tumbled from your bike.

Thankfully, someone who was walking nearby helped you and you were taken to the hospital for a broken arm and some road rash from where you'd tumbled. By the time your mom was able to pick you up, the problems with having a business woman for a mom, you were just exhausted.

You sent a text to Chad, telling him you'd be off for at least two days because of your arm. Of course he was understanding and promised to break it to Karen for you. It was nearly 5 AM when you finally collapsed into bed and fell asleep.

You woke up the next afternoon to a note from your mom that she'd excused you from school for the next couple of days. Smart of her, because it was nearly 3 PM and the school day would've been over.

When you checked your phone you also saw a few texts from Chad. You didn't think much of it, clumsily trying to eat some leftovers with one hand before you looked them over.

Chad

>Hey Y/N 2:28PM

>Some lady came in today asking about you 2:28PM

>Got a weird vibe so I just told her that you were in the back 2:29PM

>Be safe, ok? 2:29PM

Your mind immediately jumped to the strange woman. She had asked about you? That was odd and only made you even more uncomfortable. You thanked Chad before lying back in bed and trying to find some chill gaming stream or something. When you stumbled across your regular streamer, 'LadyInRed'.

It was only when you clicked onto her stream when your heart began to race. That was where you recognized your new regular from! They had the same voice, and the same speaking pattern. Not to mention since she'd become a regular, she never streamed during your shift. Instead, you'd listen to old streams that you'd missed while working.

The thing was, you weren't sure what to do with that information. It would feel wrong to just confront her about it so you decided to let sleeping dogs lie next time you saw her.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎧 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

"Y/N, you're on register until your arm heals. I don't want you hurting yourself further." Chad all but ordered you when you showed up for your next shift. Your arm was wrapped in a white cast and you were still getting used to not using it. Either way, you took up your position at the register.

It was a calm day, for a Saturday. Even when Chad left and Karen took over, it was rather quiet. You were trying to subtly turn up the volume of the song you were listening to on your phone when you heard a shocked gasp. Thinking it was Karen, your head shot up ready with an excuse, but it wasn't. Instead, it was your regular, staring in horror at your cast and sling.

"Oh dear! What happened to you?! Should you be working right now?" She asked, which felt a little strange to have a stranger worry so openly over you.

"It was a small accident. The doctor said as long as I don't use it, I'm fine to continue working." You explained. "I might be a little slower so if you want to be checked out faster you can go to one of the other registers or self checkout."

"Oh you poor dear, I don't mind at all." As she began to load her groceries onto the belt she continued talking. "You got into an accident?"

"Yeah. I got side swiped by a car while biking home. It was a hit and run but someone saw and called an ambulance for me."

"That's absolutely horrible! Don't your parents drive you home? I'm pretty sure this store is open until at least 10 or 11, there's no way it's safe for you to be biking home." She said. You just sighed as you began to scan her groceries.

"My mom is in corporate business and works a lot. But I like biking home and nothing bad ever happened before then." You said, beginning to ring her up. She hadn't bought much, just some tea and a brand of snack you'd happened to like. "Your total is $19.47, will that be cash or card?"

"Card please. Are you sure you don't need a ride? With your arm it can't be easy to bike." She offered.

"It's fine. I already asked one of my coworkers for a ride. Get home safe, miss." You lied, handing over the bag of snacks with a smile.

"Thank you. You get home safe too, okay? It's not safe for someone your age to be biking home at night alone." With that she took the bag containing her groceries and left the store, leaving you with a strange gut feeling.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎧 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

"What do you mean you can't get me today? I thought you said you were free. Everyone's already left, it's not like I can just get a ride with someone." Your mom had canceled on getting you at the last second. She'd already promised to get you so you hadn't thought to get a backup ride.

"Listen Y/N. You're old enough to walk home by yourself. You know the neighborhood and it's at most a 30 minute walk. Just suck it up. I don't have time to argue with you right now." Your mom stated cooly. She always got like this when she was stressed, closed off and snappy.

Normally you would've just hung up there, but tonight something felt off. You knew you shouldn't walk home alone, that something bad would happen. Especially with your broken arm, you couldn't exactly defend yourself very well.

"Mom, I really can't. Something-!"

"I'm hanging up Y/N. Just text me when you get home." With that the line went dead. Your hands shook as you put your phone in your bag, beginning the walk home. Every passing car was a threat. Every stranger walking down the sidewalk was an enemy.

There was one block in particular you dreaded walking down. While it was lit by streetlights, it was silent. There was no one around, no storefronts to duck into if something happened. So you took a deep breath, held your bag close, and ran for it. You were nearing the end of the street and had just made it to the corner when you were grabbed from the side.

You could barely react before a needle was jammed into the side of your neck. It burned but you couldn't struggle without possibly snapping off the needle in your neck and the stranger had a strong grip on your non-injured arm.

You were forced to succumb to chemically induced unconsciousness in your attacker's arms.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ 🎧 ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Your senses came back to you slowly. You still couldn't move or see, but you could hear. At first it was just muffled talking, enough to convince yourself you'd fallen asleep watching a video or tv show or something. It wasn't until you listened to the words that you realized something was wrong.

"You have to be very careful with what restraints you decide to use. It should never be anything a child could injure themselves with. I recommend soft but strong fabric. That way, it'll be harder to break through but your child will be unable to injure themselves trying to escape." Someone walked closer to you. You could hear them directly behind you but you still were unable to move. You heard the whir of a camera lens zooming in.

"As you can see, my child got into an accident before their adoption so I had to be extra careful when restraining them. For most looking to adopt, I would recommend holding off in this circumstance and waiting for your child to heal first. However, I have past medical training and can help look after their injury." The person moved closer to your head, and there was another whirr from a camera lens.

"Now, I chose to use a blindfold because my sweetheart needed some sleep and I couldn't have them waking up while I got them settled. Blindfolds, however are completely optional and that is your decision to make as a parent. I'm not going to show their face on here for privacy reasons but trust me when I say they look so adorable with it on." You twitched as you felt someone touch your head. That voice sounded so robotic and fake, likely someone with a voice changer of some sort.

"But that will be all for today! My baby is finally beginning to wake up and we should have some private bonding time. I'll probably post later this week trying out some new toys to keep them occupied while I do my day job. Later, guys!" There was a click as you assumed whatever camera your captor had shut off.

"Are you awake yet? Maybe that was a little bit too much knockout juice..." The voice murmured, slowly slipping from automated to familiar. That voice... it belonged to your regular customer. She had kidnapped you?

You tried to move, struggling harder this time, but you could barely twitch your muscles. There was no way you would be up and moving soon. Beside you, your regular, or you guess you should call her your captor now, giggled.

"You're alright honey. Soon enough, we'll get you all nice and adjusted to your new home where you don't have to worry about anything! I make enough money from streaming that you'll never have to worry again! Maybe if you're really good, we can play a game together during my daytime streams!" She hummed, running a hand through your hair. The sudden touch made you jump, even if your body barely twitched.

"Then at night, when I do my private streams for other potential... adopters you can be my little helper, okay? All you need to do is relax, Mommy will take care of you."

#platonic yandere #yandere platonic #teen reader #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #parental yandere

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