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bluemotifofsleep · 2 days ago

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The tongue piercing of unimaginable joy |

Sukuna x Fem! Reader

Inspired by the delicious fan art above by @/hunnismokah!!!

MDNI

Content: piercer! Reader, sukuna is a freak, inappropriate use of a stomach mouth, needles, making out with sukuna’s stomach, face sitting (kind of?), oral f. receiving, p i v, doggy style, creampie

A/N: finally got it done after like three weeks. this is absolutely freaked right out to the max. Enjoy🫶🏻

As a piercer, you’ve seen a lot of freaky shit. Some scary shit, honestly.

Rejected and angry piercings of all kinds, insane requests for you to poke holes in body parts that shouldn’t be named. You’ve seen people faint and vomit. You’ve seen blood, pus, and other bodily fluids.

You’ve quite literally seen it all.

Or- well, you thought you had.

Your whole world tilted on its axis on what started as a relatively normal day.

The sun was shining through the shop windows, and some soothing music played through a small speaker on your station desk. Nobody had passed out yet, and you had an appointment for a midline tongue piercing later, something you’d done a hundred times.

Easy.

Then, he showed up. Tattoos all over his body- wide, dark bands that marked his thick muscles, and a general air about him that said “don’t fuck with me if you want to keep all of your teeth”. Your immediate thought was that a tongue piercing would look good on him.

Too good, maybe.

Now imagine your surprise, when he caught you staring at his tongue while he spoke, said “not that tongue, stupid.” and lifted his shirt to reveal a second mouth with- you guessed it, a second tongue. It flopped out comically and waved at you through sharp canines as if to say “down here, dummy!”

So, yes, the day started off normally. But it ended with you crouching in front of a very toned abdomen, gripping a flexing, wide tongue with P-clamps, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with its owner.

The situation was bizarre enough, but the added stress of the simple fact that he was objectively an extremely hot man creeped up your spine like wildfire, leaving your cheeks hot. You were made aware, too aware of the strong thighs clad only in adidas shorts while fit snugly between them, watching the muscle flex while he shifted his legs wider around you. And you were definitely made aware of the bulging abs you kept accidentally making eye contact with, slopes of muscle that had you unconsciously clenching your thighs together.

You just wanted to get this weird- and strangely, inappropriately arousing ass situation over with. It was the last appointment of the day, and all the other piercers were already cleaning and packing up, heading out the front door to leave you with this strange, sexy monster you couldn’t figure out if you were scared of or insanely attracted to.

Probably both.

You grabbed the sterilized 14 gauge needle, told him to take in a deep breath (he ignored you in favour of staring intently at your face like he was trying to explode you with his mind) and slid it through the anomaly of a tongue.

He hadn’t even flinched- not a breath, not a blink. Just stared at you in that searching way, like he was peeling back layers of you and making himself cozy under your skin- like he belonged there.

“I was told they were pleasurable.” He grunted down at you in a voice that did strange things to your thoughts while you slipped the silver jewelry inside.

You squinted up at him, unconsciously eyeing the beautiful way his features were put together, confused at his words.

“Tongue piercings.” He clarified, almost exasperated like you should have figured it out already, like you instantly should have caught the direction the conversation was going in.

You paused while screwing the threaded end on, eyes flickering back upwards to meet red ones. “Pleasurable?” The questioned slipped out while you tried to ignore the drool dripping down your gloved hand.

Tried.

Was he some kind of masochist? getting off from the pain of a needle going through his tongue? He didn’t really look like the type. Honestly, he sort of looked like the opposite of a masochist-

“For the receiver.” He bluntly cut off your unprofessional train of thought, but unfortunately led you down an even darker alleyway of sinful visualizations.

Oh.

For the receiver.

You stared at him after you’d finished inserting the jewelry, your gloved hands lying limply at your sides. You didn’t instantly move to get up, and he grinned down at you like the sight of his teeth alone could swallow you whole.

You cleared your throat, maybe trying to break whatever spell was being cast between you, before finally moving back from the overwhelming heat of his body to fiddle with the tools at your station.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Guess I’ve heard that.” But he stayed seated, eyeing you like you were a snack he wanted to feed to his stomach mouth for easy digestion.

“So you’ve tried it.” It wasn’t a question, more of an angry statement while he stared at you like there was a magnetic pull from his eyes to your body.

What was this guys fucking deal?

You raised a brow, flicking your tongue over the roof of your mouth to confirm you didn’t have a polished piece of metal there. “Uh, I don’t have a-“

“I was talking about being on the receiving end, dumbass.” The parchment crinkled under him when he stood from the bench, stalking forward to crowd you against your desk.

Your brain stalled.

He was asking if you’ve ever been eaten out with a tongue piercing.

Right…

“I- uh…” you stared dumbly up at him, suddenly all too aware of the dwindling inches between you- all too aware of his red eyes that set every inch of you on fire, that were flickering up and down like he was sizing you up.

For some reason, you were afraid to tell the truth. Afraid of what this failed science experiment turned extremely hot man was going to take from it- take from you.

But his prying gaze was too much, and it forced out a tiny “no” from your clenched teeth.

He seemed to like that answer, judging by his wolfish grin and the way he dragged a big hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, trailing his fingers down your neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Good.” He hummed. “I’ll let you be the first to try it out then.”

Any normal, respectable piercer would have scoffed and shoved him out the door. You, however, were clearly not one, because instead of saying no, you whispered out “you need to let the piercing heal for five weeks first.” hurriedly like it would shield you from him and the things his presence was doing to your body.

And, of course, Sukuna just smirked like he’d won a million dollars. “See you in five weeks, then.”

And then he was gone, the shop bell jingling with his exit. You had stood there, a strange intoxicating concoction of fear and arousal swirling in your lower stomach while your heart pounded away in your chest like you’d just narrowly escaped a bear attack.

You hadn’t expected to ever see him again.

Now, imagine your surprise when exactly five weeks after your appointment you spot a large, tattooed, unmistakable form standing at the bar while you’re out for some drinks with a couple of piercer friends.

“Oh my god, is that him??? Mr. stomach mouth? Wow, he really is hot. Like, smoking. Like, I’d let him ruin my life hot.”

While your friend Mia was a great piercer, unfortunately she was really bad at keeping her mouth shut. And, unfortunately, she was already several drinks in. Enough to squash her volume control into nothing.

Sukuna’s head whips around to your table like a shark that just smelled blood in the water.

You barely contain a gasp when his heated eyes land on you, drinking you up like you’d just been served over the bar counter for him.

“Oh my god, he’s totally coming over here! Dude, he looks like he’s going to-“

“- shutupshutupshutup- oh, uh- hey! Long time no see.” Your smile wobbles when your eyes drag up his large frame, noting the way his shirt hugs the abs that you were already eerily familiar with.

Jesus, did he somehow get bigger from last time?

Sukuna peers down his nose at you like you’re gum he’s trying to peel off the table. “I need you to check if my piercing is healed.”

Wow, okay. Has he ever heard of the word hello?Are pleasantries a foreign concept to him, just like getting a shirt that isn’t two sizes too small seems to be?

Your friends cast bewildered glances at you, like you have any explanation for why this freakshow of a man was so damn strange. “I’ll- uh… need to wash my hands first.”

He just grunts and follows you like a dog when you head to the washroom, into the single stall and locking the door behind you two.

You- admittedly stupidly- don’t protest because, well, it would probably be better to do it in private without people gazing at you like you’re inspecting a gaping hole in his stomach.

That might raise some unwanted questions.

You wash your hands intricately, making sure to get every crevice a germ could possibly be hiding in, for health and safety reasons. Sukuna glares a hole in your back, tapping his foot impatiently like he’s never heard of health and safety in his goddamn life.

“Jesus, are you scrubbing in for surgery? Hurry the fuck up.”

You sigh and turn the tap off with your elbow, drying your hands on a paper towel before approaching him, cautiously. “You don’t want it to get infected, right?” He grumbles, peeling his shirt up to give you access to the bizarre piece of him you unfortunately hadn’t hallucinated.

Like it had a mind of its own, it grins at you sharply before opening wide. Sharp, white canines split to frame his pink tongue, nesting the metal ball you’d placed there weeks ago.

You notice then, acutely, that it does not drop its tongue out for you.

With a jostling shiver, you come to the dazzling conclusion that you really, really don’t want to stick your fingers in there.

Sharply, accusingly, you glare up at him. “Are you going to bite my fingers off?”

he just rolls his red eyes like he doesn’t look like the type. “If I wanted to bite your fingers off, I would have done it already.”

Alright… that doesn’t really help you feel any better, but whatever.

With a deep breath, you power on, hesitantly sticking your thumb and pointer in between too-large canines that you’re trying not to look at.

He sighs when you grab the muscle gently, and you can’t tell if it’s a happy sound or not. But you slowly drag the slick muscle out anyways- eager to free yourself from his wide jaws that look like they have the same psi as a pit bull.

Looking for any signs of irritation, you eye the smooth ball of metal in the centre of his large tongue, watching as saliva pools in the centre. There’s no redness, pus, or blood.

The tongue wiggles in your hold, as if trying to pull you in closer. You shudder.

“Well, doc? What do you think?” You ignore the jab at your earlier hand washing with an eye roll, taking one last lingering look at the metal.

“Looks healed to me.”

Just as you’re about to pull away, a big hand lands on the back of your head, keeping you in place right in front of his stomach mouth.

Your back is hunched uncomfortably like this, and as much as you don’t want to kneel on the grimy bathroom floor, your knees are forced to hit the tile with a thud anyways. Your hands fly out to his thighs to stabilize yourself, accidentally squeezing at the hard muscle there.

“Prove it.”

You squint up at him through the flickering bathroom light, wondering if maybe he’s lost his goddamn mind. (Though you’re starting to suspect he never had it in the first place. Guy with the stomach mouth? Huh, who would have thought).

“What? how?” The fabric of your pants shuffle in the silence from the way you rub your thighs together, because this scene was starting to do some very, very naughty things to your brain. Who can blame you, when he glares down at you like that, when his hand shuffles in your hair and his nails scrape against your scalp.

“Prove it’s healed, with your tongue.” He grunts out, and you almost think your knees are going to give out underneath you.

Prove it’s healed. With your tongue.

Makeout with his stomach.

He doesn’t really give you time to process or make any sort of decision, because he drags your head forward- gently, and shoves you into his second mouth.

It’s… odd. Not in an entirely unpleasant way, but it’s definitely different. Especially when a too-big tongue slides into your mouth, nearly filling it, licking along your gums and sliding between your teeth like it owned the damn place.

When you feel the telltale hot metal ball running over your own tongue though, sliding pointedly along the nerves there, your head spins and your thighs shake. You lost in it, running your tongue over the crevice of the piercing and moaning when his tongue pushes in further. Almost forgetting what you’re even there for, until he drags you away from his mouth.

The world spins, the mouth-watering abs in front of you coming into focus until he uses his grip on your hair to tilt your head back to look him in his eyes.

“so?” You might be imagining it, but his voice sounds deeper, rougher than before.

all you can reply is a breathless “huh?”

“Is. it. healed.” He somehow always manages to make questions sound like threats, and it makes your eyes widen, thighs grip each other tighter.

“I- uh- yeah. It’s healed.” His eyes darken then, into something sharp and promising, and he reaches down to grab you under the elbows like a stray cat, setting you down on two unsteady feet.

“Great. Let’s not waste any more time then.” He ushers you out of the stall bathroom like his stomach hadn’t just kissed you stupid, like you had any idea at all of where you were headed.

“Uh- okay.”

He certainly wastes no time getting out of the bar, barely giving you a chance to wave goodbye to your smirking friends before dragging you out into the cool street, over to the parking lot where he ushers you in to the passenger side of what you assume (hope) is his car.

Despite every self defence and women’s safety book you’ve ever read, your guardian angel cringes when you let him shut the door, buckling yourself in while you watch him get in the drivers side.

“So, where are we going, exactly?”

Sukuna seems to be getting tired of how slow you are on the uptake, an angry tick forming in his brow. “Back to mine, obviously.” He grumbles.

“Why the fuck would that be obvious?”

“I already told you, that you’re going to be the first to try out my piercing. Now shut up and sit tight.”

Normally, you would squawk back after someone told you to shut up- especially a man. but you’re too busy hanging onto the first part of his sentence to really fight back all that much.

With a jolt to your stomach, your mind reels back to that conversation you had all those weeks ago, when sukuna promised to eat you out with his brand new tongue piercing once it was healed.

And now, it’s healed.

Before you know it, he’s pulling up to an unfamiliar apartment building in a well-off neighbourhood, practically dragging you out of the car while you barely manage to get your seatbelt off.

During the elevator ride up to his apartment, he makes sure to get you familiar with his face mouth, too. Kissing you silly against the ugly wallpaper and groping at anything he can reach until you mewl into his mouth.

You know now that both mouths are greedy, both tongues slide against your own like they’ve got something to prove, like they’re telling you what else they can do.

When the elevator dings, you squeal as your view tilts and he lifts you into his shoulder like a wriggling sack of potatoes, fisting the back of his shirt in panic. He has one hand gripping the back of your thigh while he makes his way to his apartment, dangerously close to where you know you’re dripping wet for him, and you squeeze your eyes shut as blood rushes to your head, heating your cheeks red-hot.

You half expect him to bang your head on his doorway in his haste, but you’re pleasantly surprised when he carefully steps through, probably deciding to leave all the brain damage for when he’s fucking you stupid.

you certainly won’t complain about that.

You do squawk in protest when he drops you from his shoulder onto his mattress, though. But quickly forget about it when he climbs over you, placing two possessive hands on either side of your head.

“Been waiting to do this forever.” And like he has absolutely no patience left in his system, he tears off your shirt like it just flipped him off, giving the same rough treatment to your pants, taking your underwear along with them while he’s at it.

“It was just five- ah! w-weeks.” His sheets are soft under your head when it tilts back in pleasure, a moan ripping from your throat while he sucks a dark bruise into the curve of your neck.

“Felt like five fucking months.”

For a guy who seemed oh so impatient to get you here, he spends an awfully long amount of time marking your throat, dragging his teeth down to suck a nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive skin.

You squirm under him, back arching up into his greedy mouth, unconsciously grinding down against his thigh in between your legs, moaning at the friction while he smirks into your chest.

“Desperate little thing, aren’t you?” He pulls back from you to tare his shirt off, staring at the ruined look on your face, eyeing the way your hips squirm in search of any friction he’ll allow.

You huff, ready to argue that he was the one who dragged you from the bar and was definitely the only desperate one here. but like he sensed you were about to disagree, his grip on your waist turns to steel and he flips the two of you around, setting you down on his lower stomach.

Right in front of his … friend, who was grinning at you like it knew what was coming.

Sukuna grinds his hips upwards, jostling you forward and making you catch yourself on his chest, hands instantly gripping the thick muscle there greedily.

“C’mon, brat, sit-“ he uses his grip on your waist to drag you forward those few extra inches, right over top of his second mouth, instantly pressing you down, hard.

The first broad, wet swipe has you keening, your hips instinctively jerking back at the overwhelming pleasure but sukuna holds you steady.

It’s odd- he has full view of your face like this, he can stare at the way your eyes squeeze shut, the way your mouth drops open in a moan while his other mouth does all the work. He doesn’t have to split his attention, and it makes you feel all the more exposed. He can watch every single reaction- can calculate exactly how good he’s making you feel.

Does this count as face sitting or ab riding? Can it be both? How many unspoken rules are you breaking here, exactly?

All thoughts are jolted from your head when you feel it- that little ball of metal. An addition to his tongue that honestly should be illegal with the way it allows him to pinpoint your clit, circling around while your arms give out underneath you, crushing you against Sukuna’s broad chest while you moan into his neck.

“Mmh, does that feel good?” His breath is hot against your ear, his teasing tone shooting straight down your spine and into your pussy.

All you can do is moan in response, hips twitching forward and back- unsure of whether to run away or towards the blinding pleasure, but his iron grip gives no leeway.

You can feel the moment he doubles down, the curl of his tongue against you turning mean, all malicious intent behind every swirl. And you swiftly realize that you severely underestimated the control he has over his second tongue, because the way he flicks the piercing against you feels damn near weaponized- like he’s thought about it a thousand times before.

You can feel the promise of your orgasm creeping up the base of your spine, hips starting to grind down into his wet muscle, feeling the hot metal roll against you. But it’s only when he grips a hand into your hair and tilts your head back to watch your face intently that it roars through you like a punch to the gut, choking out all the air in your lungs while your jaw drops open and hips lock up against him.

His tongue pushes you through your orgasm, right until the last aftershocks.

But then, it doesn’t stop. Even while you twitch in overstimulation, your eyes widening in panic.

“W-wait! I can’t-“ he just grips your twitching hips harder against him, dragging his tongue down to your entrance to push inside while you groan at the stretch.

“Can’t what, brat?” You’re trying to listen to his words, but the curl of his tongue inside you has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. “You made me wait five whole weeks and you’re only going to give me one? Fuck, no.”

And just like that, he’s fucking you with his studded tongue until you’re moaning brokenly, gripping a hand into his pink hair while he groans at the feeling of you clenching down on him.

Impossibly, the second orgasm is even sharper, more intense than the first. It sears through you like wildfire until you lay boneless on top of him, and only then does he stop.

- only to flip you back over underneath him, grinning at the whine that falls from your lips when he frees his throbbing dick to rub it against your clit, circling down to tease your entrance.

“Think you’re ready for me, sweetheart?” He doesn’t even give you a chance to say yes before he’s pushing in that first inch, stretching you out until your head presses back and your jaw drops open, unable to make a sound at the overwhelming stretch.

He groans- something deep and guttural as his hips twitch forward like they want to slam home all in one. He hesitates though, just barely. Probably conscious of the fact that his dick is a monster and would split you open in one go. So he slowly grinds into you instead, giving you time to adjust, time to feel every vein rub against your walls. Spreading you in slow thrusts until he’s bumping against your cervix.

You pant into the air between you, meeting his heated gaze with your own, watching the way his eyes flick from where the two of you are connected and back up to your face.

The restraint on his features is clear, along with the iron grip on your waist- and watching him struggle to keep his hips from moving sends flares of heat through you.

You don’t really mean to- it’s more of an experiment, really, when you squeeze down around him, hard. But the breath is knocked out of you when he groans deeply and drags his hips back, slamming them forward again.

He glares down at you, gripping the back of your thighs and bending forward until you’re squashed against the mattress like a bug.

“You want to play dirty, brat?”

And then he’s fucking you for real. Long, hard snaps of his strong hips that have your eyes rolling back into your head. Your moans getting caught in his mouth when he leans down and connects it to yours.

His hips are just as mean as his tongue, like they were made precisely to ruin you, genetically engineered to make you see stars, especially when he thrusts up and-

“Fuck!” All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut when he rams into your sweet spot, sending jolts of lightning through your nerves.

You can already feel it- the telltale heat creeping up your spine, just from a few snaps of his hips.

“Yeah? Right there-?“ he emphasizes the word with a precise thrust in the exact same spot like it’s a bullseye he’s aiming at, leaving your jaw hanging open with moans that you couldn’t stop if you tried. And then he does it again, and again, and again until you’re locking up underneath him, moaning his name with your orgasm.

You spasm, thighs twitching under his hands and eyes rolling back into your head at the absolute bliss that washes over you. Every sharp pound into the back of your pussy pushing you further and further.

Sukuna moans while you clench, his grip turning harder against you.

“Shit, you’re fucking- tight-” It’s almost a struggle for him to keep fucking you through it while you squeeze around him, sucking the thoughts right out of his brain. He almost cums right there- but the sheer need to feel you reach another high keeps his hips still, waiting for you to stop spasming around him like you were trying to cut off his blood flow.

You’re spent, panting up into the air, barely conscious as he pulls out and flips you onto your stomach underneath him, tilting your hips up and rubbing through your folds until you whine.

He lines himself back up, both of you groaning while he slides in.

Everything is tighter at this angle- when he bottoms out, he hits up against something devastating inside you, something that makes tears gather at your lower lash line.

Then he pulls out, and slams back in, and you’re officially fucked right out. Your arms collapse underneath you, muffling your squealed moans against his sheets, until he plants a big hand in your hair and drags you up so his breath hits the back of your neck.

“Tell me how good I’m fucking you.” He thrusts harder, faster- making you choke up, your eyes rolling back at the searing heat- fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

You don’t reply, too brainless to even process a response.

“Tell-“ one thrust. “-me.” Then another, meaner thrust, until you’re babbling-

“Yes! S-so- ah! So good! Fucking me sooo good-“ your words are choked off when he doubles down, reaching a hand around to circle your clit while he angles his hips upwards and fucks you until you cum around him, hard.

Probably the hardest you ever have.

“Fuuuuuck yes, give it to me. Keep fucking squeezing-“ the feeling of your walls around him pushes him into his own high. Thick spurts of cum hit the very back of your pussy while he groans brokenly, his chest collapsing onto you and effectively squashing you to the mattress while you both twitch.

Panting in the aftermath, you can feel him smirk against your shoulder blade, and a rush of adrenaline and fear surge through you.

“Now it’s your turn.” His words are husky, panted against you.

Huh? What could he possibly want from you now, after he fucked you completely brainless into his mattress? You couldn’t stand up right now if your fucking life depended on it.

“It’s your turn to get a tongue piercing.” His smirk turns evil against your skin. You can feel his teeth. “It’s only fair. don’t you think, brat?”

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bloomseishiro · 2 days ago

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in which rin listens to your voice texts whenever he misses you ₊˚ෆ⊹.ᐟ

As much as he struggles to admit it, Rin misses you quite a lot when he’s out of the country for a game.

It grows exceedingly harder when he has multiple away games back-to-back, making it near impossible to coordinate even a simple video call that lasts longer than two minutes when he’s gone. The only way he survives is by listening to your voice memos over and over again.

He makes sure to save each one you send, no matter how silly or trivial the topic at hand is (which, in all honesty, most of them were).

Like yesterday, you were telling him about how you made eggs for breakfast and one yolk was darker than the other. Completely useless and mundane information, but when it comes from your mouth, Rin treats it like it’s a lecture from Socrates. Groundbreaking and reverent.

Even just hearing your laugh makes his bad days brighter. The only thing that could make it even better is if he heard it in person. But seeing as you’re halfway across the globe, it doesn’t seem like that’s much of an option.

Rin sighs. Only three more days until he returns to Japan and gets to see you, but for now, he has to throw his focus into soccer.

It’s in the early afternoon when he receives a call from you—meaning it’s well past midnight over in Kamakura.

Confused and slightly concerned that you’re awake at these hours, Rin pauses the video footage he’s currently reviewing before his one-on-one meeting and answers your call.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Hey, Rinnie! I miss you sooo much,” you whine, and he can only picture the little pout on your face.

Rin takes a sip of water to hide his smile. “I miss you, too. Why are you still awake?”

You exhale a deep breath. “Well, after analyzing your schedule and carefully noting what times you usually text me,” Rin snorts at your admission, “I’ve come to a conclusion that this is probably the best time to catch you. So I stayed awake.”

A chuckle escapes him at your antics. “Thoughtful.”

“I know,” you chirp. “I just wanted to hear your voice on a call for longer than one minute.”

Rin nods though you can’t see him. “It’s been hard to coordinate. Still, you should prioritize your rest.”

“I’ll sleep after we talk!”

“Okay,” he says softly. Because as selfish as it is, he’s missed you too. And if this is the only time you can catch each other, he’s glad you’re awake to do it. “I have a meeting in—”

“Twenty minutes,” you finished knowingly.

He blinks.

“Told you I analyzed your schedule,” you say proudly.

“You realize that’d be insanely weird. If it weren’t you.”

“Yeah.”

Rin rolls his eyes at your unapologetic tone, smiling despite himself. “I was saying my meeting’s soon, but until then, I’m all yours.”

He silently glances at the paused footage he really should be studying, but he pushes the thought away. If you could sacrifice some sleep, he’s willing to put up with getting an earful from his manager.

“Tell me about your day,” you say. “I miss hearing your voice.”

“There’s not much to say since you already know my entire routine anyway,” he says dryly.

You laugh in surprise and Rin feels lighter at the simple sound.

“Tell me about yours instead. Did you have eggs for breakfast again? Was another yolk darker?”

“My yolks were the same color this time,” you giggle. “Breakfast was great. Work, however… Horrible. It was really stressful this week. I just wish you were here right now to give me a hug.”

Rin frowns, upset that he can’t be there when you need him. “What if you take the rest of the week off and come here for the weekend?”

You hum to yourself, deep in thought. “You make a tempting proposal,” you praise. “I do need a break after everything that happened. And I do want to see your game this weekend…”

“Then come. I’ll book your flight.”

“What will I tell my work?”

“You’re sick and have a fever and a migraine?”

You laugh at his suggestion, but Rin really is serious. Half-serious, at least. You deserve time off to relax and destress. Plus, it’s not like you have to worry about staying at work for money with him around.

Only a minute passes by before you relent. “I guess a few days won’t hurt,” you relent. “When’s the soonest flight?”

“I’ll set one up for tomorrow,” he says. Then, further clarifies, “As in, ten hours or so from now. So you can have time to get enough sleep and pack.”

“How thoughtful,” you playfully swoon. “So I can hug you in person tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he says. And that means Rin no longer has to re-listen to all your voice memos tomorrow. Instead, he can hear your voice in person. His favorite thing.

A loud yawn draws him away from his thoughts and his brows furrow in concern.

“You should sleep now.”

“But you have five more minutes until your meeting,” you murmur, voice muffled from tiredness.

“Stalker,” he mocks gently.

You’re too tired to even protest.

“Sleep,” he says once more. “I’ll see you soon enough.”

“Mhm,” you mumble. Rin hears shuffling and static from your line. Likely you burying yourself in your blankets. He smiles to himself, wishing he could join. “Goodnight, baby. ’ll see you soon. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And Rin has to say, getting grilled by his manager is definitely worth the call with you.

439 notes · View notes

rex-rambles · 24 hours ago

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➤ OBLIVIOUS | F1 SMAU + FIC

pairing: f1 grid x albon!reader (platonic!)

summary: the f1 drivers make the mistake of saying they're always aware of their surroundings, so you start an Instagram account to prove them wrong...by seeing how long it takes them to realize you're taking photos of them.

warnings: none!

➤ MASTERLIST

Liked by alex_albon, georgerussell63, and others

visacashapprb Do your F1 drivers know when we're recording them? Or anyone, for that matter? Seems like the answer is yes!

↳ yn_albon really @/alexalbon?

↳ alex_albon I am very observant, thank you very much

↳ yn_albon we'll see about that

↳ fan44 there's literally paparazzi footage of the drivers every other day, of course they notice, they just pretend like they don't

Liked by yn_albon and others

oblivious_f1_drivers the guys said they know when they're being photographed, my camera roll says otherwise

↳ mclar_win Oscar's side eye is crazy

↳ brocedes this HAS to be like George or someone proving a point

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers George wishes he was me

↳ fan16 this is either a prank or a stalker...watch out guys

Liked by alex_albon and others

oblivious_f1_drivers first up: dumb and dumber 🧡 i should start timing how long it takes for them to notice

↳ alex_albon if I end up in one of these, I'm telling everyone

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers no promises

↳ f1_fantatic alex, our chronically online king

↳ fan44 oscar and lando together = fork found in kitchen

Liked by alex_albon and others

oblivious_f1_drivers in the lead as always, Max Verstappen comes in first by taking two days to notice!

↳ mclar_win max always has to be first, doesn't he?

↳ fan44 no wonder he looks so happy

↳ mad_maxxx why is the second picture lowkey...

Liked by alex_albon and others

oblivious_f1_drivers i got too cocky 😔 tried to go for the super close up and got caught :( current record: three days

↳ fan16 so both Max and Charles now know your identity??

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers they've already been sworn to secrecy

↳ carcarcar who could this be?? charles was happy to see them so it wasn't a stranger

↳ f1_fanatic i mean, alex is lurking in the likes 👀

Liked by alex_albon, yn_albon, and others

oblivious_f1_drivers idk what made him more mad, the fact that he crashed or the fact he caught me

↳ alex_albon we had a promise

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers i literally said no promises

↳ alex_albon get ready to give up this account

↳ mclar_win it has to be George, right?

↳ carcarcar if it were George he'd be smiling liked by oblivious_f1_drivers

Liked by lando, georgerussell63 and others

oblivious_f1_drivers a week and a half for Mr. Lando Norris! i would've taken more but this man was too excited to catch me

↳ lando See? I'm very observant

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers it took you a week and a half to catch me

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers even alex got it in less time

↳ alex_albon hey!

↳ georgerussell63 any chance I can beg for immunity?

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers send me photos of oblivious drivers, and then maybe we'll talk

Liked by alex_albon and others

oblivious_f1_drivers someone tipped him off...at least I snuck one in

↳ alex_albon 😇

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers we could've had something, alex

↳ alex_albon you're the one who broke their promise

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers I NEVER PROMISED

↳ alex_albon wait why are you that close to lance in the third photo

↳ alex_albon answer your texts!!

Liked by lando, oscarpiastri, and others

oblivious_f1_drivers what's this? oscar finally noticed? after TWO WEEKS? enjoy all the photos

↳ oscarpiastri listen we have a lot to do during race weeks

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers like pay attention to your photographers??

↳ oscarpiastri that's not even your job

↳ nicolepiastri so it's not just me being ignored?

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers @/oscarpiastri text your mom or I'm stealing her

↳ oscarpiastri will do 🫡

↳ brocedes so we KNOW its not a photographer

Liked by alex_albon, georgerussell63 and others

oblivious_f1_drivers looks like we're not the ONLY oblivious ones #/hacked #/alexandgeorgehaveyourphone #/thebetteralbon

↳ yn_albon GEORGE???

↳ georgerussell63 why are you mad at me?? be mad at alex!

↳ alex_albon yeah george, how could you do this?

↳ f1_fanatic the albon siblings causing trouble on track as usual

↳ lando payback for having to look over my shoulder all week

You hold your hand out to Alex, who reluctantly drops your phone into your palm. Sometimes, you think, people forget you were actual siblings, who had just the same amount of fun annoying each other as any other pair of siblings in the world. The only difference, however, was that your brother happened to be a world-famous F1 driver, and you were a journalist trailing him around all day.

So honestly? You were perfectly within your rights to post all those silly photos of him and his friends. After all, it was something to occupy you in the rare moments you weren't hearing about being an Albon, or growing up around all the drivers, or waiting for Alex to come to an interview ten minutes late because you couldn't really say anything about it.

"I can't believe you," You direct both towards Alex and George, checking to make sure they didn't mess with anything else on your phone.

You had to give them some credit in their retaliation. Alex must have been sneaking photos of you all week, and then airdropped them to your phone to put onto your Instagram account. You'd never say that out loud, however.

Lord knows he didn't need the extra ego.

"Me?" Alex asks, looking rather insulted. "You're the one out here taking photos of us secretly."

"You're the one who said you weren't oblivious. I've seen you walk into a pole! Be serious." There's a joke to be made about him walking into poles yet never getting pole, but that's a bit too harsh, even for you.

"Be serious?" Alex parrots, rubbing a hand over his face. "Be serious! You are so lucky you're family, or I would've kicked you out of the paddock by now."

With the same grin you'd been pulling on him since you were a kid, you force him to reconcile with the fact that he actually did this to himself. "Unfortunately, you did also get me a job with F1, so you couldn't even kick me out if you tried."

"I'm sure they'd let me kick someone out if I needed to." He mutters, shaking his head, and before you can open your mouth, he raises a finger. "We're not making another bet about this."

George, finally content with how the conversation has ended, speaks up. "I can't believe it took Oscar so long to notice."

"I know, I thought it would be Charles." Alex answers honestly, and George pauses for a moment before turning to you.

"Should I be concerned I never caught you taking pictures of me?" His expression is stuck somewhere between the horror of potentially not noticing you and relief that you might have excluded him, considering the deal you struck up. To your surprise, George actually did supply you with oblivious photos of the drivers, a sort of double blackmail you can't wait to spring.

And, while he hasn't ended up on the account yet, there's still time.

He did help steal your phone, after all. He will pay. "I just didn't get to post yours. You're also pretty oblivious."

"No, I'm not!" He says, pointing down at your phone. "We checked the camera roll, there was nothing of me on there!"

"You think I'd leave those on my camera roll?" You ask with the same grin, now pointed at him. "Oh, I keep my secrets much more guarded, thank you." Alex offers a look, and you shove his shoulder. So maybe he had a point about you leaving your phone unattended around a man who knew the password and knew you ran a secret account, but still! "This secret doesn't count."

"I'm sure it doesn't," Alex says with a laugh before leaning in closer. "Any good ones of George?"

"Got one of him picking his nose?"

With a screech you can only describe as inhuman, George loses all the colour in his face. "You do not!" Then, as he reaches for your phone, both you and Alex take a step back. "Albons, don't do this to me!"

You and Alex are running before George even has a chance to catch up.

It's a rare time Alex ever actually beats George in a race.

Liked by lando, alex_albon, and others

oblivious_f1_drivers my cover has been blown :( it was fun while it lasted

↳ alex_albon I'm really glad I got you hired as a journalist and not a photographer, these are terrible

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers ow??

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers I can't even be a nepo sister in peace

↳ isackhadjar oh come on

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers your expression captures how I feel, it deserves the first slide

↳ georgerussell63 hey, i thought we had a deal

↳ alex_albon you made a deal with george and not me??

↳ oblivious_f1_drivers @/georgerussell63 the deal ended when YOU STOLE MY PHONE

a/n: my friends have started playing photo tag on campus, which is the only way i can describe where this came from - enjoy?

#➤ rex works #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 grid x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 imagines #f1 reactions #f1 fluff #f1 smau #f1 social media au #f1 texts #albon!reader #alex albon #george russell #lando norris #oscar piastri #max verstappen #carlos sainz jr

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redlinespeedster · 1 day ago

Note

pretty please oscar piastri degradation im feral over his post-spain photos

CRAVING THE NEW !! ☆

oscar piastri 𝒙 fem!reader

[summary] Oscar was the perfect boyfriend—sweet, thoughtful, chivalrous to the extreme. You were used to his soft whispers, those breathy I-love-yous even in the middle of moans. But that night, right after he took the win at the Spanish Grand Prix, you looked at him with this different kind of spark in your eyes and dropped a request that knocked the air out of him: you wanted him to degrade you, no holding back. And there was no way he could say no. (1.7k)

[warnings] smut !! rough sex, degrading dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, Oscar is mean. Spanish is my first language, and I usually write all my fics in Spanish first, then translate them myself with a lot of effort. Sorry if anything sounds off or if there are mistakes.

[notes] I’ve been drooling over those pics for like three days. Damn, he looks so freaking good. Wish I were Lily, seriously. 😫

Your whole life, you had always liked the good guys—the ones with sweet words, the ones who brought you flowers on dates and opened the car door or any door wherever you went together. You always thought good guys were simply better. And Oscar proved it every single time.

He blushed every time he talked about you. He loved showing you off, and his words always carried that sweet tone—even when he had you tangled in his sheets. Oscar was talented at many things beyond motorsport, but his greatest gift was knowing exactly how to make you feel desired, cherished… one of a kind.

But over time, your darker desires began to awaken inside you. They were fantasies you’d been suppressing for years, but now they became frequent—impossible to ignore. It wasn’t about wanting someone else or being unsatisfied with the way you and him made love—not at all. There was simply a smoldering hunger within you, a need to explore something new… with him.

At first, you felt afraid. Afraid that Oscar might get offended, that he’d take your request as a criticism or a warning that your sex life wasn’t working. A lot of people don’t even have a mind open enough to understand that wanting to try new things doesn’t mean what came before was bad; sometimes, it’s simply about the curiosity for the unexpected.

You waited all race weekend to tell him officially. You wanted to do it when you were both home, alone, with no one who could interrupt the conversation by knocking on the door.

Oscar was genuinely happy—you could see it on his face, mostly in the way his cheeks lifted when he smiled. You, on the other hand, were anxious, anticipating how things might go, and unfortunately, he noticed.

“Baby… is everything okay? You’ve seemed kinda off since we got off the plane,” he asks, placing a hand on your knee in a gentle, understanding gesture.

Your eyes fill with tears from the anxiety. You didn’t mean to cry, but the idea of telling Oscar what’s going on makes you uncomfortable. You knew you could trust him with anything; what you didn’t know was how he’d react.

“Something’s going on with me. It’s not that I don’t love you or that I don’t like the way we have sex, but…” You stop when you see Oscar looking at you, confused and worried, so you decide to just be direct. “I want you to degrade me.”

The weirdest part? He doesn’t even seem surprised. There’s no trace of disappointment on his face either—none of that dramatic “you want this because you don’t love me anymore” stuff. Nothing like that. On the contrary, he grabs you by the hips and pulls you into that perfect space between his legs. His warm breath brushes against your ear—soft, steady—as his fingers slowly slide through your hair.

“You really want that? How come you never told me?” he asks. You turn your head to look him in the eyes, and there’s something about the way your pupils dilate that sparks an odd tenderness in him.

“It’s just… I didn’t know how you’d take it” you admit. Your body shivers when he lets out a low laugh, dry and almost amused.

There’s a sexual tension in the room that practically scorches you, stealing your breath. You feel his hands rest on your shoulders, then slowly slide down. He traces your collarbone with the tip of his fingers in a way that makes you shiver, and starts unbuttoning your tiny shirt. Your cheeks flush instantly, intimidated by how his gaze stays locked on you.

“Embarrassed, huh?” he asks, but you’re not really sure what to say—you just stay quiet. His hands move over your chest on top of your shirt, and your heart starts racing. “Why though, babe? It’s not like you’ve ever had a dirty mind or anything.”

His thumbs start teasing your nipples through the thin fabric of your white shirt. He immediately notices you’re not wearing a bra and smirks. Not a big smile—more like a cocky one, like he’s lowkey amused by how easy it is to get you like this.

“I bet you’re soaked. You always get like this. Acting like a bitch in heat.”

A slight jolt of arousal runs through your body. His voice, deeper than usual, and his words catch you off guard. You’re still not completely used to hearing him talk like that, but you don’t mind… if anything, you want more.

He's not wrong, your pussy is dripping.

He notices the second his hand moves down and his fingers slide over the denim fabric of your shorts. Your nose brushes against his; he’s calm, eyes half-lidded, with an almost taunting stillness. You, on the other hand, are a mess—you can barely breathe.

“You’re not even trying to hide it. I spent the whole damn weekend focused on my race, stressing about losing, and all you could think about was riding me like the filthy little slut you are. Am I wrong, babe?

His hand unbuttoned your pants until they dropped and bunched up around your ankles. He can see the wet stain on your panties—sticky and damp. You’d soaked through the fabric. He presses his fingers gently over it, and as a result, they get wet too. But what really gets to you is the moan that slips out, caused by how sensitive you are.

He doesn’t even bother taking your panties off; he just lazily pushes the fabric aside, leaving you completely exposed. Eager anticipation made your clit throb.

Oscar used to touch you slowly, taking his time to gently slide his fingers through your wet folds and then sweetly rub your clit. But this time, it’s different. He quickly slips two fingers into your hole, curling them into a hook to hit that exact spot inside you. Then, once you’ve gotten used to it, he starts moving them in and out with steady force, pulling deep moans from your throat that fill the room.

“Fuck, Osc!” you moan out loud, and you feel him pull his fingers out just to slap your pussy gently—a move that sends an instant jolt through your body and makes you squirm.

“Shut up, slut.” he orders, and you feel his fingers curl back inside you, pounding your poor hole with a near-brutal rhythm, thrusting in and out without mercy. The way he timed each thrust to hit that perfect spot inside you before pulling back was just unreal.

His hand grips your hips, trying to pull you even closer, making your ass rub against his hardness. You can feel his erection—still clothed—pressing firmly against your skin. His hands move down with urgency to get rid of the fabric in the way, unbuckling his belt without wasting a second.

His damp hands grip your hips tightly before he throws you onto the bed without a second thought, making you bounce against the mattress with a muffled moan. He grabs you by the ankles and drags you toward him, settling between your legs as his body drops over yours, trapping you with no room to escape.

“I can only imagine the agony,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours while his hands grip your bare thighs. Then he lifts them firmly, spreading them and pushing them toward your body until your knees are nearly pressed against your stomach. “You spent the whole week watching me race, dying for me to wreck you. You don’t like it when I talk sweet, do you? When I tell you how good you look or how amazing you feel. What really turns you on is when I treat you like my throwaway toy.”

You feel him drip slowly onto the lower part of your stomach—warm and wet—leaving a sticky sensation clinging to your skin. Then his cock slides gently through your folds, not entering, just teasing; he only wants to watch you lose control.

“Oscar… please.” you sob between moans, clinging tightly to his back like letting go would mean losing your mind. “I can’t take it… I can’t.”

He shifts, kneeling in front of your pussy—completely exposed, utterly wrecked. The tip of his cock slides in slowly until it disappears inside you, filling you up completely. He pauses for a second to let you adjust, and in the next, he’s thrusting hard, the sound of your bodies slapping echoing through every corner of your house.

Oscar moans too. He moans because you’re squeezing him just right—hot, wet, and perfect—driving him insane. His hands dig into your thighs, pushing your legs toward your chest to spread you open wider, so he can bury himself as deep as possible and fuck you without mercy.

“Fuck…” he groans, voice rough as his face twists in pure pleasure. The look on his face—that mix of ecstasy and desperation—sets you off instantly. Your walls tighten around him, like your body’s trying to keep him there till the very end. You’re right on the edge, seconds away from turning the moment into a glorious mess. “You want me to fill you up? I will. I’ll stuff you so full my cum’ll be dripping out of that pathetic pussy for days.”

You can feel how tightly you’re clenching around him, until you finally make him come inside you, milking him for every last drop. Your pussy takes it all in, savoring every bit until you’re left a creamy mess, mixed with your own orgasm that bursts inside you too. The pleasure hits so hard it leaves you dazed, gasping, your body trembling and your legs on the verge of giving out.

He looks at you tenderly, finally letting go of that dominant side once he sees you’re satisfied with what he gave you. He smiles softly and leans in again to kiss your forehead. Your cheeks, inevitably, flush all over again.

“I like this…” he murmurs quietly, his hand gently caressing your cheek. You raise an eyebrow, curious, not really getting what he means. “Fucking you till you can’t breathe and then watching you blush like a virgin. That’s just something I’ll never get tired of, huh baby?”

#oscar piastri #oscar piastri smut #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri fanfic #f1 #formula 1 #formula one #f1 smut #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #formula 1 smut #formula 1 x reader

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helshollowhalls · 2 days ago

Text

Oh boy, have I read it.

As far as I know, Eragon is classified as a YA series, no?

I started reading Eragon when I was about nine years old.

I first saw my parent reading it and went 'ewww books you are reading?' - Jokes on me. I was hyperlexic. And at some point, 'age-appropriate' books weren't enough for me. And I went through most of the local libraries books at lightning speed anyways, so I started reading Eragon.

And I became obsessed. My first bigger story idea was taking heavy (and I mean heavy) inspiration from the series, I got the hardcover fourth book fresh off the printing press when the translation released for Christmas that year from my dad.

I devoured the book - Apart from my three day break that I had to take from reading because all the battle scenes bored me out of my mind (mind you, I was not even a teen at the time).

In the last two years of high school I noticed that one of the two school libraries I had access to had the first three volumes in English and started reading the originals as well. I still own all four books and apart from Skullduggery Pleasant and Twilight (Lots of regrets about the latter), the Eragon books are problably the books I have reread the most.

To this day, 85% of my story ideas in some way, shape or form go back to these three series.

I don't have any of the newer releases, sadly. And I'm not really someone who goes out of their way to engage a lot in fandoms, especially when I was younger. So there's that.

I don't really read a lot anymore, mostly due to health reasons, but occasionally rereading Eragon when I can makes me appreciate Paolini's writing even more now in my comparatively old age to when I first began.

I have been holding onto a story idea involving Nasuada and Murtagh (and Elva and two more dragons) for years at this point, if I'll ever actually write any of it down is between... Two sides and I'm neither lmao

If you have read Eragon (The Inheritance Cycle ) reblog this.

My friend doesn’t belive there are others whom have read it.

#eragon #the inheritance cycle #christopher paolini

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sugary-strawberry-shortcake · 1 day ago

Text

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfamily x Neglected! Poison Ivy's Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 5

A/N: oki here we get to know more about my boy Tim!! and quite a lot about Y/N's emotions. I'm going to start writing for other fandoms soon too!! and are any of you fellow lactose intolerant people and get the feeling when you consume too much dairy (ice cream in my case) and now you're regretting all of your life choices...

btw I tried to add everyone from my taglist post on the taglist, if you‘re still not on it then text me privately:)

There was too much to figure out.

And too little time.

YN sat on the floor of her room, knees tucked to her chest, her back pressed to the side of her bed. The faint hum of her phone charging on the desk, the scent of dying lavender in the corner, and the emptiness of the room made it feel like she was caged in glass.

Seven days.

That’s all she had.

One week before the landlord gave the apartment to someone else.

One week to fake a signature.

One week to secure enough money to hold the place.

One week to find freedom.

Or at least— survival.

⸻

Her heart was pounding in that quiet, pulsing way that made everything feel wrong. Her fingers wouldn’t stop picking at the threads of her sleeves. Her thoughts looped in circles.

She’d never done anything like this.

She didn’t lie.

She didn’t forge.

She got straight As. Smiled at teachers. Shared her notes. Brought cookies to class on test days.

She wasn’t supposed to know how to survive alone.

But she didn’t have a choice now.

Not after she knows what her fate will be in the future. Not after her brother‘s weird behavior and how she does not want to get even more hurt by them once again.

Her phone buzzed with a low battery warning. She glanced at it, then reached for the notebook on her desk. The one she used to plan out real things—school schedules, homework lists.

Now she flipped to a blank page.

And started writing:

✦ Money

• trust fund balance: ❌ (can’t touch it, Bruce sees it)

• Cash on hand: ~$400

• Part-time jobs? No ID

• Fake bank account?

✦ Signature

• Needs to look like a Italian parent

• Has to pass legally

• Needs someone good. Discreet. No questions.

She stared at the words for a long time.

Then, almost against her better judgment, she wrote down what she’d been avoiding:

One week or I lose the place.

Her stomach twisted.

But then—

A spark.

A memory.

She’d overheard some classmates once. Talking in the hallway. About a guy at school who could “fix grades,” “clear detentions,” even “make permission slips appear.”

Not a real criminal.

But the type of person who existed in the gray space.

She didn’t know his name.

But someone would.

_____

The next day, she was sitting with her school friends at the launch table.

The courtyard buzzed with spring breeze and quiet laughter. YN’s friend group was circled under the trees as usual, books and bento boxes spread around them.

She smiled. Laughed. Ate half a sandwich.

And then, when the conversation shifted to something else—she leaned a little closer to the girl beside her.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Can I ask you something… a little weird?”

The girl blinked. “Sure?”

“I, um…” Y/N played with her straw. “I kind of need someone who can fake a signature. Just once. For something small.”

Immediately, three heads turned toward her.

“What?”

“You?”

“Why?!”

YN let out a soft, nervous laugh and waved her hands.

“No, no—it’s nothing bad, I swear. I just—my dad’s been super busy and stressed lately, and I didn’t want to bother him for something this small. But I need this form signed or I can’t submit my entry for a scholarship program. It’s silly.”

Her voice was light. Sweet. Convincing.

It always was.

They believed her.

Of course they did.

YN Wayne didn’t lie.

Didn’t cheat.

Didn’t need to fake anything.

⸻

One of the girls bit her lip. “I mean… there is someone.”

“Who?”

The group exchanged looks.

“He’s kind of… off-limits,” one of them whispered. “Not in a scary way, just… he’s not exactly PTA-approved.”

“People go to him when they want things handled,” another said.

“Things they don’t want teachers—or parents—to know.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Handled how?”

“Fake IDs. Signature work. Lab grade bumps. Stuff like that.”

She tried not to flinch.

“Do you know his name?”

A pause.

Then one of them finally leaned in and said it.

“His name’s Silas.”

She found him exactly where her friend said he’d be.

Back wall of the school, behind the arts building, where the vines were dry and the shadows hid the rusted fences. A place students weren’t supposed to linger—let alone the sweetheart of Gotham Academy.

He was sitting on a low concrete ledge, knees wide, blazer unbuttoned, a black pen flipping rhythmically between his fingers. The faint scent of cologne, cigarettes, and old ink hung in the air. He was an average tall teenage boy with dirty blonde hair and sharp facial features. His brown eyes showed a maturity above his age.

She stopped just short of the wall.

He looked up.

And blinked.

“…Huh.”

His voice wasn’t surprised exactly. Just curious. Dry. Like the universe had just dropped a snowflake into his cigarette ash.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Princess.”

Y/N clasped her hands in front of her.

Her uniform was perfect. White shirt tucked, skirt neat, hair braided into soft waves over her shoulder. Stockings uncreased. Shoes polished.

She looked like she belonged in a floral ad campaign, not standing in shadows near someone like him.

“I need a favor,” she said.

Silas raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you were gonna report me for existing too close to the east wing.”

“I won’t ask questions,” she said calmly, “if you don’t.”

He leaned back on his palms.

“Now this,” he said, eyeing her with quiet amusement, “this is interesting.”

YN reached into her bag and pulled out the folded application form.

“I need a signature,” she said softly. “A parent one. For someone named Lucia Forenzi. Can you do it?”

Silas took the paper, flipping it once in his hand.

“Lucia Forenzi,” he repeated, smirking. “Let me guess. Italian ballet prodigy studying abroad?”

Something twisted in her throat.

She didn’t answer.

Just looked at him, wide-eyed and pleading.

He studied her.

She wasn’t shaking.

But her eyes were too still.

Too trained.

Too controlled.

It was the kind of look people had when they were lying about something they were terrified of anyone finding out.

“Right,” he muttered, sitting up straighter and pulling a different pen from his inner pocket. “No questions.”

He clicked the cap.

“Still gotta charge you, sweetheart.”

“Of course,” she said quietly. “How much?”

He looked her over, calculated something she wouldn’t understand.

“Sixty-five.”

Her brows lifted for a breath—but then she nodded, already reaching into her bag.

No hesitation.

No negotiation.

Definitely hiding something.

She passed him the cash folded neatly in an envelope.

“Neat,” he muttered, sliding it into his jacket. “Didn’t even crumple it.”

He bent over the paper and began working the signature with practiced, deliberate strokes—flourishes, pressure points, the little inconsistencies that made fakes real. He was good. Too good.

She watched silently.

When he finished, he blew lightly on the ink and handed the form back to her.

YN took it carefully. Slipped it into the protective folder in her bag.

Silas leaned back again, like the job meant nothing.

“You’re not built for this, you know,” he said lazily.

Her gaze flicked to him. “For what?”

“Lying.” He smirked. “You twitch every time you breathe wrong.”

She looked away. “I’m not lying.”

“Sure.”

She hesitated—then, voice lower:

“Do you know how to make money?”

He tilted his head.

“I mean… quickly,” she added. “A lot. Like… maybe a few thousand.”

That got his full attention.

His brows lifted.

Silas straightened slowly, eyes scanning her again, this time truly seeing the stress behind her face.

“You asking for you?” he asked.

She nodded.

Barely.

Silas looked at her longer than he should have.

Her question—so quiet, so sincere—echoed oddly in the air between them.

A few thousand dollars. Quickly.

Not pocket change. Not school lunch money.

Real money.

And from her.

He should’ve shrugged it off.

Should’ve handed her a few names, offered her options—favors-for-cash setups, under-the-table digital work, hush-hush favors for the rich kids who liked to get dirt without getting dirty.

He knew all those doors.

But he didn’t say a word about any of them.

Because she wasn’t the type of girl who knocked on those doors.

And he’d seen enough people walk through them and never come back out right.

⸻

“Why do you even need cash?” he asked, tapping the edge of the concrete beside him. “You’re Bruce Wayne’s daughter, aren’t you?”

Her eyes darted away.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t lie.

But the silence stretched.

Her shoulders were stiff. Her eyes fixed on the sidewalk. Her cheeks flushed pink—not the pretty kind, the embarrassed kind. Ashamed.

And in that moment, Silas actually pitied her.

Because she really didn’t belong here.

Not in his part of Gotham.

He watched her for another second, then exhaled slowly.

“You don’t want to do what it takes to make that kind of money,” he said flatly. “Trust me.”

She looked up at him again, startled.

“You’re not like the others who come to me,” he added. “They already made peace with the kind of things they’re willing to do. You? You’d cry if you saw how fast that road burns.”

Y/N’s mouth parted.

But she didn’t speak.

She just listened.

Silas reached back, adjusting the chain around his neck, then muttered, “I’m not gonna say anything about this. Don’t worry. But don’t come back here asking about that again.”

She blinked fast.

Then nodded.

And smiled—gently, sweetly, the kind of smile that shouldn’t belong on someone trying to break the law.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Really. And… I hope you find your way, too. I think you could.”

Silas didn’t respond right away.

But he watched her walk away.

Watched her braid swaying behind her, her shoes clicking too neatly on cracked pavement.

She didn’t look back.

Unbeknownst to her, three boys down the alley had been watching.

One of them stepped forward the moment she was gone.

“Yo, that was her, right? The Wayne girl?”

"Did she just pay you for something?”

“What’d she want?”

Silas didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

He just lit a half-burnt cigarette and said flatly:

“She wanted nothing.”

______

The building still smelled like old cigarette smoke and forgotten furniture polish.

The same chipped door. Same crooked number on the outside.

Same old man behind the cluttered desk, now flipping through paperwork and scratching his balding head with a tired sigh.

When she stepped in, he barely glanced up.

Until he did.

And blinked.

“Oh. You again.”

She nodded. “I brought the signature.”

She walked across the dusty floor, careful not to make her footsteps too loud, and handed him the form tucked in its sleeve.

The man squinted at it, pulled on his reading glasses, and grumbled under his breath as he scanned it.

“Lucia Forenzi… yeah, this’ll work.” He leaned back, letting the form rest on top of a stack. “Now we just gotta finalize the rest once you get your deposit together.”

YN hesitated.

She folded her hands together. “Do you think I could ask… for one more week? For the deposit, I mean?”

He eyed her.

She wasn’t trembling. But her voice was gentle. Careful. Like she’d been rehearsing it in her head for hours.

He sighed again.

“Kid… I usually don’t let stuff slide like this.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just—my ID is still stuck in customs back in Milan. And my bank account—American one—isn’t ready yet. I’m trying to… get something together.”

He stared at her.

Young face. Braided hair. Nervous posture. Accent just strong enough to carry the lie.

If she’d been anyone else—he’d have told her to get lost.

But she looked like a girl completely alone.

And despite the fact that he spent half his pension at poker tables and owed a guy named Ray twenty bucks from last month’s betting pool…

He had a daughter once.

Long ago.

She never looked this scared.

“One more week,” he said finally. “That’s it. No more games.”

She smiled—grateful, glowing, almost guilty.

“Thank you. Really.”

He cleared his throat. “You said you don’t have cash yet, right?”

She nodded. “I… I was actually thinking of trying to get a job.”

“A job?” He barked a short laugh. “You got papers for that?”

“No,” she admitted, softly. “But I’m good with plants.”

He squinted again.

“Plants?”

“I grew up around a lot of gardens. I know how to take care of things. Keep them alive.”

He looked around his office.

Half-dead potted thing in the corner. Wilting ivy on the window ledge.

“Tell you what,” he muttered. “The building’s got some rooftop planters the old tenants abandoned. Overgrown with weeds now. You clean ’em out, replant something nice, keep it alive? I’ll knock a bit off your deposit. Even give you a little cash if you do a good job.”

YN’s eyes lit up.

“You’d let me?”

He waved a hand. “Not gonna stop someone from doing free labor. Especially if it means I don’t gotta call some overpriced nursery.”

She smiled—real this time.

And for a moment, she didn’t feel like she was running.

Just planting something new.

“Thank you,” she said again, shouldering her bag. “I’ll come back after school tomorrow. If that’s okay?”

“Door’ll be open.”

She nodded once.

Turned.

And left.

The air outside smelled like pavement and car exhaust and early spring.

She took the bus home.

One hand on her bag.

One hand curled quietly in her coat pocket.

___

Tim

The hum of cooling fans filled his room.

Screens glowed softly around him—multiple tabs open, city feeds on low volume, encrypted Wayne Enterprises backend files half-scrolled through. He didn’t really need to be there. Most of his work for the day had been finished hours ago.

But he was restless. Edgy.

Something was gnawing at the edge of his mind.

He didn’t know what.

That’s when he saw it.

An unlabeled USB left near the base of one of the older servers—something Alfred had probably pulled from the manor archives or the mainframe logs.

Tim plugged it in without much thought.

Inside: dozens of folders. Video files. Unmarked. Untouched.

Most were labeled by year.

He opened one at random.

Then stared.

The footage was grainy but clear.

A school auditorium.

A handmade banner above the stage: Gotham Academy Winter Performance.

Kids lined up in stiff uniforms and glittery costumes.

And there—center left, third row—YN.

Maybe six. Seven.

Singing. Slightly off-pitch, swaying back and forth like she’d practiced a hundred times.

In the bottom corner of the footage, he could hear the applause.

Not much of it.

Definitely no one from the family.

Tim frowned.

Why hadn’t he seen this before?

He clicked through another.

Grade 4 Science Fair. YN Wayne.

Her booth was filled with little potted flowers and soil diagrams. He saw her holding a laminated sheet, explaining something with shy excitement to a panel of judges.

And again—no one from their family there.

Not even Alfred.

⸻

Tim leaned back slowly.

And something in his chest twisted.

He hadn’t seen her in weeks—months even.

Not really.

She’d always just… been there.

Quiet. Predictable. Not part of the mission. Not part of the crime board, or the investigations, or the emergency Gotham alerts.

Just soft footsteps in the hallway. Soft baking smells from the kitchen.

A small knock on his door, back when she used to knock.

He remembered when he first arrived.

Jason had just died. Bruce was… hollowed out.

And Tim, desperate for validation, had stepped into Robin’s boots with too much weight and not enough air.

She was small back then. Four? Maybe five.

Always trailing behind Alfred with wide green eyes. Always hugging something—blanket, plush rabbit, her own braid.

She’d tried to talk to him.

At first, it was just questions.

“Do you know how to make things explode without hurting the garden?”

“Why do your hands always have ink on them?”

“Do you like stories about space?”

Tim had nodded politely. Answered once or twice.

But Bruce needed him.

Dick kept him moving.

There wasn’t time.

And when she tried harder—when she came into his workshop with sticky notes and clumsily drawn circuit boards, when she made him a chess board with mismatched floral pieces to match the ones in the cave—

He’d smiled.

“Thanks. Maybe later.”

Then closed the door.

Later, he said something to Dick.

He didn’t even remember what sparked it.

Just a comment about how she was “always hanging around,” how she was “cute, but a distraction.”

“She’s kind of a liability,” he’d said.

And behind him—

She had been standing in the doorway.

Chessboard in hand.

⸻

Y/N

She hadn’t cried.

Not then.

Just smiled and nodded and said it was okay.

But she never brought him another project again.

She still helped him, sometimes, when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Repaired a snapped wire. Left tea near his monitor. Cleaned up wires on the floor.

But she stopped knocking.

Stopped asking.

Stopped trying.

Because what was the point?

He didn’t want her.

None of them did.

⸻

Tim

Tim sat still, staring at the paused frame.

Her tiny hands. Her proud smile.

And not a single member of the family had shown up.

Not even once.

His gut twisted.

How had he missed her?

How had they all missed her?

He opened another folder.

And another.

And slowly, it stopped feeling like research.

And started feeling like regret.

He searched her full name on instinct.

He wasn’t expecting much—maybe a locked account, maybe nothing at all.

But it popped up right away. She was not that secretive or paranoid to even have a private account. Not that that would have stopped him.

@y/n.wayne_loves_poppies

Gotham Academy | Greenheart Club 🌿 | 🧁 Sometimes I bake, sometimes I bloom 💚

Her profile picture was soft. Smiling. Just slightly blurred in that way that made it feel unfiltered, uncalculated.

It hit him harder than it should’ve.

She looked… older. Not by much. Just enough to make his stomach twist.

He hadn’t even known what her current face looked like.

She still had the same eyes. Same gentle expression.

Same softness. Same adorable delicateness.

He opened her highlights.

“Flowers” was the first one.

Clips of blooming vines, petals unfolding in slow motion. Her fingers gently touching the edge of a stem.

“Baking” came next. A video of cupcakes she made for a class birthday. Another of heart-shaped sugar cookies dusted in gold powder. Kids laughing in the background. Her voice behind the camera, barely heard.

She’d tagged her friends. Liked their comments. Replied with hearts.

There were no comments from any of them.

None of her family.

Not one from him.

Tim swallowed.

He scrolled down to her posts. The oldest one still up was from two years ago. Her sitting in the greenhouse. A short caption:

“🌸 Sometimes things only grow when they’re ignored.”

He hadn’t seen it.

Didn’t even know she had an Instagram.

He clicked through dozens of pictures.

Birthday cupcakes she made herself.

Class awards she never mentioned.

Photos at the museum—her smiling with two friends in front of a lunar exhibit.

She liked astronomy.

He hadn’t known that.

She liked baking.

She liked poppies.

She watched weird indie romance films with sad endings.

He hadn’t known any of it.

Tim leaned back in his chair.

His throat was tight.

His chest was quiet—but hollow.

He had missed everything.

She had been right there.

For years.

And he’d let her walk past him like she was just background noise.

But not anymore.

He reached forward slowly. Hands steady. Mind turning.

I’ll fix it.

He could ask her to play chess.

Tell her about his newest case.

Ask her about her favorite constellations.

Share her posts. Leave comments. Make her feel like she mattered.

Like she existed.

It wouldn’t happen all at once. She wouldn’t trust him yet.

But that was okay.

He had time.

He’d be different now.

He’d be better.

He’d be her brother.

_____________

Y/N

The familiar scent of lemon polish and old books greeted her as she stepped through the manor’s doors.

Alfred was in the hallway, arranging a vase of cut lilies—probably delivered by a vendor she’d never met, for a dinner party she’d never be invited to.

He turned when he heard her.

“Miss YN,” he said, surprised. “You’re home early.”

She gave him her usual small, polite smile. “I didn’t feel well. Just a stomach ache.”

He didn’t respond right away. His eyes stayed on her face longer than usual.

Searching.

Reading.

He’d always been the only one who looked.

But even now, his gaze held something else—worry.

She shifted under it.

He finally nodded.

“I’ll bring you some tea. Chamomile?”

She nodded quickly. “That would be perfect, Alfred. Thank you.”

⸻

She walked up the stairs without another word.

Every step felt heavier.

Her bag weighed more now—holding the fake signature, the crumpled plan, the reality of how little time she had left before she needed to vanish.

When she stepped into her room, she took a moment.

Let the door close behind her.

Then just stood there.

It used to be pink.

Green lace trim.

Fairy lights.

Stuffed animals in the corner.

After she came back—after she knew what was coming—it all went away.

She changed the curtains to gray. Folded the soft blankets into storage boxes. Swapped her old bedspread for something plain, something neutral.

Something invisible.

Because that’s what they wanted from her, wasn’t it?

Not sweetness.

Not softness.

Not the girl who drew them family portraits and wrote their names in glitter pens.

They wanted quiet.

So she became quiet.

She sat at her desk and slowly unpacked her notebook.

To-do lists. Rent deadlines. Sketches of job plans. A fake identity plan she knew would fall apart in front of any real system—but she had to try anyway.

She stared at it blankly, trying to remember which lie came next.

And that’s when the knock came.

It was soft.

Two short taps.

She blinked.

“Alfred?” she called, gently.

She opened the door—

And stopped.

Her fingers froze around the knob.

Because it wasn’t Alfred.

It was Tim.

⸻

He stood in the hallway, backlit by the glow of the antique sconces, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them.

His hair was slightly messy—like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. His posture unsure. His eyes… searching.

And behind all that awkwardness—there was a smile.

Forced.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet. “Didn’t know you were home early.”

She stared at him.

He was tall. Way taller now. Broader than she remembered. Dressed in one of his clean-casual post-Enterprise outfits, too neat to be an accident.

And she felt tiny.

Small. Frail.

Forgettable.

Her doe eyes flicked up to meet his for a second.

Then away.

She stiffened without meaning to.

Her voice came out softer than she intended.

“…Hi.”

Tim’s gaze drifted over her head, into her room, and lingered.

His brows pulled together slightly.

He wasn’t trying to be obvious, but he couldn’t help it.

The room was… muted.

Clean, neat, and stripped bare of her.

No soft colors. No floral bedspread. No paper flowers, no paintings on the walls. The only thing alive was the half-drained diffuser on her desk and a dying succulent on the windowsill.

It didn’t match what he’d seen online.

Not the photos. Not the tone of her captions. Not the girl who made cupcakes in cat-shaped molds and cut strawberries into hearts for her friends.

The Y/N on Instagram smiled in pink and baked things for people who didn’t deserve it.

This one?

This one was standing in a doorway, blinking up at him like he was a ghost.

Tim pulled his eyes back to her and offered a slightly nervous smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

She didn’t say anything.

He scratched the back of his neck and stepped back, giving her space.

“I, uh… I realized I hadn’t talked to you in a while. Just wanted to check in.”

Still no response.

So he tried again.

“School going okay?”

Her fingers curled slightly around the doorframe.

She gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

He tried not to fidget.

“And… you’re feeling alright? I heard you left school early today.”

Her eyes widened—just for a second. A flash of instinctive fear.

Then she quickly covered it with a half-smile. “Just a headache. I’m okay now.”

But her voice was tight. Careful.

Like she wasn’t sure what game he was playing.

Tim could feel the wall between them.

He hated it.

But he also knew he’d helped build it.

He cleared his throat.

“Cool. That’s good. Uh… I was thinking maybe sometime—if you want—we could play chess again? I still have that old board. The one you made when you were little.”

He smiled at the memory.

She didn’t.

Her lips parted slightly.

Her eyes dropped.

And then—quiet, confused, almost painful:

“…Why are you here?”

Not angry.

Just… asking.

Like it didn’t make sense to her that he’d show up at all.

Because it didn’t.

Not in her first life.

Not in the years where she had knocked on his door a hundred times and only ever heard “I’m busy.”

Tim blinked.

And for the first time, his smile dropped entirely.

He looked at her.

Really looked at her.

And all the data in the world couldn’t tell him why the question hurt so much more than he thought it would.

Tim’s awkward smile didn’t quite match his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, scratching the back of his neck. “I just—y’know. Miss my baby sister, I guess.”

It didn’t sound right in her ears.

Not with the years of silence still echoing in her memory.

Not when she remembered standing outside his door for hours, holding something she’d made for him—only to be brushed off again and again.

But now he was here. Smiling.

Like it hadn’t all happened.

Like none of it mattered.

He stood for a second longer, maybe expecting her to say something.

She didn’t.

So he nodded toward her desk. “Need help with schoolwork?”

“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “It’s… a group project. I have to call Maya soon.”

That name again. The lie she’d built to protect her escape.

Tim nodded. “Got it. Well… I’ll let you get back to it then.”

She gave a small nod. “Okay.”

He hesitated.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Then didn’t.

He stepped back and left.

She closed the door behind him slowly.

Then locked it.

And exhaled.

⸻

The light outside was dimming into gold.

She sat cross-legged on her floor, her notebook open, sketches of furniture and ornaments she’d seen lying unused around the mansion: antique vases, decorative trays, crystal bookends—small enough to pack into a backpack, valuable enough to sell at any downtown collector’s shop.

She hated it.

She hated the idea of stealing.

But this wasn’t theft—it was a last resort.

And she was careful.

Nothing from the family’s main rooms.

Nothing with names etched into them.

Nothing anyone would miss.

They already forgot her birthday every year.

Already forgot her when she left the table.

This wasn’t new. They were good at not missing lost things.

In the back of her notebook, she was already drafting the lie she’d tell her friends:

Mom is an Italian businesswoman. Wants me back home to get more familiar with my roots.

No forwarding address. Just a long goodbye.

Her fingers trembled a little as she wrote.

But her voice in her head was calm.

You can do this. Just make it through one more week.

That’s when the knock came.

Sharp. Heavy.

Not gentle like Alfred.

Not hesitant like Tim.

Her heart froze.

She scrambled, grabbing her notebook, papers, burner phone, shoving them under the blanket and pulling it flat with both hands.

She stood up, forcing her face into something neutral—her eyes wide, breath tight.

And then she opened the door.

He stood there like a statue.

Tall. Broad. Impossibly built.

Bruce Wayne.

Her father.

Dark suit, no tie. Shirt collar open. Shoulders squared, posture perfectly relaxed—yet utterly intimidating. Shadowed jaw, sharp cheekbones, tired, steely eyes. His presence filled the doorway like a wall.

And her body forgot how to breathe.

He had never stood there before.

Not since she was three years old and Alfred had shown her the room.

Never once.

And now?

Now he looked at her like he was searching for something he’d misplaced.

She stared up at him.

Small. Still. Shaking without showing it.

Bruce

It had been a week since Alfred brought it up.

A full week since that quiet, direct conversation—the kind Alfred rarely initiated unless he knew something was slipping too far.

“She’s asked for money, Master Bruce. Not out of greed. Out of fear.”

Bruce had nodded, said he’d look into it.

And then he hadn’t.

Not because he didn’t care.

But because some part of him had locked the thought away. Too proud to admit what it really meant.

Too afraid to admit that somewhere along the way—he’d forgotten her face.

Until now.

He walked through the upper hallway slowly, unfamiliar with this wing despite technically owning it. The shadows here were deeper. The air, stiller. This part of the manor was quiet in a way none of the other children’s corridors were.

And when he reached the end of the hall and saw her name—engraved gently on the door, the paint fading—his chest clenched.

Why was she this far away?

From everyone?

From him?

He made a decision right then.

She’d be moved.

Her room was too far.

Too far from him.

That would change.

He lifted a hand and knocked twice.

Sharp. Measured.

And the door opened.

⸻

Y/N

She looked up at him, and the breath stalled in his lungs.

She was…

Still small.

Still delicate.

Still had those wide, soft doe eyes he remembered vaguely from the time Alfred had first placed her in his arms. Her hair a little longer now. Her expression tighter. Guarded.

But the girl who had once followed him with awe and silent hopes was standing there, now looking at him like—

She didn’t know who he was.

Or maybe, like she remembered too well.

⸻

Bruce

Bruce’s voice didn’t crack, but it softened more than he expected.

“…Hi, little leaf.”

It was a name he’d never said before.

A nickname he’d never used.

Not even when she was a toddler.

But it came to him then—natural, instinctive, like something that had always waited behind his tongue.

“Little leaf.”

Because she was so small.

So quiet.

So easy to miss in the wind.

He glanced over her head with ease—she didn’t even came past his chest.

His eyes swept her room.

Muted.

Cold.

Devoid of life.

Nothing on the walls. No bright colors. No scattered crafts. No signs of who she was—just a blanket on the bed covering something, maybe books.

It looked less like a home.

More like a holding space.

Something in him twisted sharply.

⸻

Y/N

What. The. Hell.

Her thoughts were loud.

Exploding behind her face as she tried to keep her features neutral.

First Dick and Damian

Then Tim.

Now him.

Bruce Wayne.

Her father—in name and blood only—who hadn’t stepped into her room since she was two years old.

He looked… the same. Towering. Dark. Dressed in one of his half-armored casuals, broad enough to block the entire hallway behind him.

His voice had been low. Calm.

Little leaf.

She nearly recoiled.

He’d never called her anything before. No pet names. No warm nicknames. He barely called her by her name at all.

So why now?

She stared up at him, stunned, her hand still gripping the doorframe. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Her thoughts twisted violently in her head.

Why is he here? Why is he suddenly pretending like I exist? What is wrong with them?

Is this some game?

Is this part of whatever’s going on with Tim and Dick? Did something happen?

Did someone tell them to prank me now?

Her fingers curled tighter.

She wanted to scream.

To ask what the hell do you want?

But she couldn’t.

Because he was Bruce Wayne.

Because she was YN Wayne.

Because her entire plan depended on no one noticing her.

And now—suddenly—everyone was.

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333 notes · View notes

shortnfreaky · 2 days ago

Note

Please I need a one shot of Bucky as a boy dad, I did a survey on Twitter and the option of a girl dad is winning but I think Bucky looks better being a boy dad soooo please please <3

ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ೃ⁀➷ ⋆·˚ ༘ * ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

a/n: omg, i'm so undecided, i feel like i could see him as both.

warnings: the word "mama" is mentioned once

word count: 1k

masterlist ✶ requests are open!

The Softest Soldier

The sound of giggles breaks through the sleepy quiet of your apartment.

You glance up from your spot on the couch just in time to see Bucky sprint past the doorway, a toddler in footie pajamas slung under one metal arm like a sack of potatoes. Your son is shrieking with laughter, legs kicking wildly, fingers trying to pry Bucky’s arm loose.

“Help, Mama!” he squeals, breathless between giggles. “Daddy’s being a villain!”

Bucky peeks back into the room, eyes bright. “Don’t help him,” he warns you, mock-serious. “He’s committed crimes against bedtime.”

You try not to smile, failing instantly. “What’s the charge?”

Bucky adjusts his grip, tucking your son’s little body snug to his chest. “Conspiring with a known accomplice—his stuffed dinosaur—to escape bedtime. Again.”

You fold your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds serious.”

“It is,” Bucky agrees solemnly, then blows a raspberry on your son’s cheek.

Your boy lets out another high-pitched squeal, squirming like crazy.

It’s a scene that shouldn’t look natural—an ex-assassin turned supersoldier wrestling a three-year-old while wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt that says #1 Dad (your Father’s Day gift, cheesy and perfect). But somehow it fits. Completely.

You’ve seen Bucky in a lot of roles. Friend. Fighter. Fugitive. Lover. But this one—boy dad Bucky—is your favorite by far.

He’s all softness with your son. No trace of Winter Soldier in the way he kneels down to tie tiny sneakers or sits cross-legged in the living room building Lego towers. He’s not afraid to get messy, to get silly. To be the kind of man who reads bedtime stories in character voices and carries a sippy cup in his tactical bag “just in case.”

He doesn’t always realize he’s doing it. That he’s healing. That every moment like this is proof.

“Alright, punk,” Bucky says now, swinging your son gently into his arms and cradling him against his chest. “Say goodnight to Mommy.”

Your son twists toward you, lip wobbling. “But I’m not sweepy…”

“You can not be sleepy in bed,” you say, brushing a hand through his hair. “That’s allowed.”

He considers this. “Okay. But Daddy has to cuddle me.”

Bucky kisses the top of his head. “I was gonna do that anyway.”

And he does. You follow them to the bedroom and watch from the door as Bucky settles your son beneath the covers, adjusting the nightlight just so. He lays beside him, metal arm stretched protectively around his small frame, voice low and gentle as he starts telling some made-up story about a boy and his dinosaur on a mission to save the moon.

You watch until your son’s eyes drift shut. Until Bucky��s voice trails off.

Later, when he eases out of the room and closes the door behind him, you’re waiting in the hallway with a smile.

“What?” he says, pretending not to notice the look on your face.

You just wrap your arms around his waist. “You’re really good at this.”

“At what?” He rests his chin on your head.

“Being a dad. Being his dad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a second, and when he finally answers, his voice is soft in a way that hits something deep.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever have this. A family. A kid who looks at me like I hung the stars. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”

You tilt your head up, hands cupping his face. “It’s real.”

He kisses you like he believes it.

You kiss him back, slow and sure, and when you pull away, he still looks a little dazed — like he’s not quite used to having this. To being this.

“Come on,” you say gently, lacing your fingers through his. “Let’s sit for a bit. He’s out cold — you earned at least one couch snuggle.”

Bucky lets out a breathy laugh and lets you tug him back to the living room. He drops onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, sprawling out and tugging you down with him. Your head ends up on his chest, his arms around you like he never wants to let go.

“You ever think he’s too good to be real?” he murmurs after a while, his fingers drifting idly over your back. “Like, he’s this little perfect human and we somehow didn’t mess him up yet.”

You smile into his shirt. “He tried to put a jellybean in the outlet today. So… maybe not perfect.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “Okay, reckless. Like his mom.”

You poke his side. “Excuse you. I have never attempted to electrocute myself with candy.”

“No, but you did try to climb on top of the fridge to hide the Halloween stash from me.”

“That’s called strategy.”

“Dangerous strategy.” He kisses your forehead. “Just like him.”

You fall into comfortable silence again. The kind that comes easy with Bucky now. No tension, no guarded edges. Just warmth and the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath you.

Then, softly: “Do you ever think about having another?”

Your head lifts slightly, just enough to look at him. His face is open, unsure. He’s not pressuring — just wondering. Hoping, maybe. You think about your son’s laugh. His stubbornness. The way Bucky looks at him like he hung the damn stars.

You smile. “Yeah. I do.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. He needs someone to share the Halloween candy with.”

Bucky grins, that crooked, boyish thing that still knocks the breath out of you. “I can’t believe I get to do this with you.”

“I can. You’re kind. You’re patient. And you do all the bedtime voices.”

“Yeah, but the dinosaur gives me a sore throat.”

“Worth it.”

He leans down and kisses you again — soft and slow and full of promise.

You fall asleep on the couch together like that, tangled up in each other, the quiet sounds of your home wrapped around you like a blanket. In the next room, your son snores lightly, the nightlight casting gentle stars on the ceiling. And Bucky, boy dad and bedtime villain, smiles in his sleep like maybe — just maybe — he’s finally home.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x you #the winter soldier x reader #winter soldier fanfiction #winter soldier fanfic #winter soldier x reader

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alchemistc · 2 days ago

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Robbie slaps a glossy looking flyer on the table. Palm down, eyes narrowed, pretending like hell the slap of her hand against the wood grain didn't sting as she squares up, all four-feet-three-inches of her, like she's preparing for battle.

Tommy's slumped in his chair and still half a head taller than her.

He doesn't quite cower, at her glare, but at thirteen she's just about ready to explode at any given moment.

They don't talk about the time he sat on the floor with the bathroom door at his back and read the instructions for inserting a tampon in the calm, cool tones of a man so far out of his depth he might as well have turned into pressurized meat juice mist while Robbie had a panic attack just inside.

They don't talk about the massive argument they'd had in the middle of TJ's the first time Robbie back talked Evan with all the angst of a girl about to experience the pimpliest, testosterone fueled ragiest few years of her life. (Evan had gotten a kick out of it and Tommy had spent a week listening to his deep dives into the Beauty Of Puberty with the skepticism of an only child who never shared a bathroom).

Robbie rolls her jaw. Grabs the flyer and shakes it in Tommy's face. It's a riot of color, and Tommy has to squint to make out the words. Fuck, he does need those reading glasses.

"Why is the paper making you look homicidal?"

"We never go to Pride, dad!"

Ah.

Well.

That.

Tommy slumps further in his seat, which puts Robbie at eye level, and boy howdy is she gonna make his life a living hell until the hormones settle in...a decade or so. The glare is all Evan, emotions unchecked and just out there for the world to see. He's so fucking grateful neither of his kids took to his 'repress until you pancake yourself' way of handling a single emotion.

Tommy never bought into the rainbow crap, couldn't ever push himself into participating in a world he'd denied himself so long. Nothing against it, himself, just - a line he kept somewhere off behind and to the left where he couldn't look it in the eye.

And Evan...

Well. Being an 'ally' switched to throwing up the Bi Flag in his Instagram profile and he never really shifted any further than that.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Tommy asks, because last week she'd spent an hour in the yard yanking weeds with the ferociousness of a terrier with a nest of rats over some kid in her class named Michael and to this point hasn't shown that her interests stray farther than that. Fuck. Has he missed something?

"Uh, yeah, that my gay dads are quiet homophobes who won't take their kids to a fuckin' parade."

Oh well that's a lot of different things to put in check, right there.

It's his own damn fault for laughing hysterically every time their toddler dropped an F bomb.

It's his own damn fault for blowing off the drag queens with petitions outside the library a month ago.

"Your father is a Kinsey two-and-a-half on a good day, and don't say fuck."

"Internalized homophobia is still homophobia, dad." She rolls her tongue over her teeth. Sends him a challenging look. "Fuck." She pronounces it like it has seven syllables.

"If you're gonna challenge me you better be able to use it in a sentence properly."

"I want to fucking go to fucking Pride with my fucked up not straight dads but they're both fucking repressed fucking losers."

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Tommy jokes, and the flyer crumples in his daughters fist. And - yep, there's the shriek.

Evan's gonna be pissed that he isn't curbing the language a little more.

Which he absolutely will do. Later. Once Robbie isn't a good leap away from the knife block.

His kids aren't violent people, by nature. Robbie has a mean left hook and an eye for taking people out at the ankles he encouraged far too much before she hit ten. Danny cradles spiders in the cup of his hands on the way out the door while giving Tommy a wide-eyed and judgemental berth.

Robbie crumples up the flyer a little more. Stares at him like she's wishing there was enough weight to it to cause damage to his thick fucking skull if she were to throw it.

She blinks, and those are - yep, those are tears.

"Sweetheart," Tommy starts, and Robbie launches herself forward, embraces Tommy just in time for some sobs to really kick in, nonsensical phrases leaking out of her as she cries, and cries, and cries.

He's good at this part. The part where they can't see his face, where he can cradle them to him and rub their back and murmur nonsense back while they do a better job feeling, and then regulating their emotions than he had until his late thirties.

"Ms. Frankie said she'd take me but I don't wanna go with Ms. Frankie," he gets, as another wave breaks, and he has to shift his weight against the onslaught of two sharp ass knees heading straight for his belly. "Ms. Frankie has a crush on Dad and I hate her."

Ms. Frankie absolutely has the hots for Evan. Ms. Frankie's son is a bully who thinks he's better than everyone else by virtue of accepting and picking on everyone equal-opportunity style.

Ms. Frankie is definitely not taking his kid to her first Pride.

Shit.

God damnit.

The tears dry up, eventually.

Tommy tries not to think about the fact that he's not gonna be allowed to comfort his pre-teen like this for much longer. Tries not to think about the fact that she's gonna stop asking for it, soon enough, and he'll have to make do with words from the other side of a slammed door.

"I'm not wearing rainbow anything," he says, like he's surrendering a crucial air base, and Robbie leans back with narrowed eyes.

"I have that face paint Jee gave me for Christmas."

"You get one cheek to work with," he negotiates, even though he's well aware he's gonna leave the house with more color than he's worn in twenty-five years.

"Dad let me do his whole face for New Years," she wheedles.

"Dad has better coloring than I do. Those jewel tones make his eyes pop. And Dad doesn't have to know how many times you dropped an F-bomb on me ten minutes ago."

He's fucking up his kids. Teaching an almost teenager how to properly blackmail someone is just one of many ways he's doing it while he digs his own grave.

At least they're not fucking scared of him.

"Two cheeks, and we post a picture on Dad's Insta because Ms. Frankie stalks him there and she'll be so jealous."

"You're diabolical," Tommy tells her, and her wet, snotty, lopsided grin makes something in his heart swoop. She's all Evan, and he loves her so fucking much he stopped trying to figure out where to put it the first time she latched a tiny little hand around his pointer finger and burst into the exhausted tears of something new to this world. "If you ever teach Danny how to manipulate someone like this I'm gonna start reporting you for war crimes."

"Danny's too nice, it would hurt his feelings to even think about it."

Yeah. Not sure where the fuck he got that from.

"You watch out for him, don't you?"

He's aware there's a dynamic at play here that he shouldn't overly encourage. Doesn't want her feeling like she's gotta parent her younger brother, it's just -

"He doesn't need it. Sometimes when he says nice things to people I think he destroys their whole world for a few days."

Tommy takes her out for ice cream and broaches the subject of the parade before Evan realizes Tommy's spoiled her dinner.

Danny's eyes go bright and gleaming and he sends a look at his sister that Tommy is absolutely certain he should be worried about, because they've clearly been plotting and scheming for days.

When June sixth rolls around Danny wakes up early, pounces on the bed, and hands Tommy the ugliest fucking shirt Tommy's ever seen, bright and lurid and awful, and Robbie doesn't even have the decency to hide her smug look when she stumbles blearily into the kitchen, following the smell of scrambled eggs Tommy spends an extra ten minutes dyeing with the organic shit Evan brought home last week.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #i have a bunch of kidfic drafts sitting around rn that are all in this 'verse #just know ms frankie is on bucks shitlist all the gd time #happy pride 🌈

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slockblue · 2 days ago

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Sometimes I feel like Harry Potter monopolised its demographic and genre. Now that the Author is widely understood to be extremely nasty I feel although people have gotten stuck in a trap, where their anger at the horrible politics of the author have caused people to be lash out at people not reading other books - Even if they were hard to find at the time and even now (some google search deterioration anyone?). Giving JK money is destructive, yes, but lets be constructive. Well. I’d rather be, doing something constructive is much more fun.

Jk is nasty. Rubbish, chuck it out. Yes. Now. There’s some amazing overlooked stories out there! How awesome is that? Lets pay attention to some of these, because there is a lot of joy and whimsy in stories that you may not have touched, so lets let these stories breathe to their own merit instead of prop up some fetid scarecrow of transphobia… There are things that deserve way more attention. Since we have some wonderful book selections provided already lets keep that ball rolling. Let me give you a wonderful recommendation from my expertise: comics!

Want a great comic about an english boarding school with magic, heartfelt characters, and politcal intrigue? Well you asked the right nerd. So let me reccomend Gunnerkrigg Court - by Tom Siddel... Wait! Did I mention its also free?

Gunnerkrigg court is a magnificent comic. It is one of my top 5 of all time, but maybe I’m biased.

The story takes place in a Liverpool based fantasy world, with the race of industrial man on one side of the gorge, magical nature on the other, and the supernatural tugging at every corner. A thin bridge connects the two. Our main character walks up to her new steel fortress of a boarding school, pauses, then notes a fake shadow has attached itself to her. A supernatural creature. This doesn’t urk her. Its a wonderful opening. The lead is an outskirt character, she is cold, methodical, and completely unphased by the occult when others faint at the sight. She is a wonderful protagonist who wades through this rich world of factories, magic, monsters, and ghosts with a non judgmental lense.

The world itself is vivid, based of the authors childhood in Liverpool with its claustrophobic industrial pipes, Polish immigrants (one character only speaks Polish), and cluttered skyline. You could feel the care and warmth and care he brings to all of his locations, breathing life into what would otherwise be a harsh industrial wasteland.

Also tonnes of queer characters and a magic system that deals with gender? What a bonus!

The art work starts off a little rougher, but honestly it still has its charms right at the beginning. So don’t let that deter you. In my opinion it still perfectly expresses the scene even at its roughest.

Gunnerkrigg court is a fantastic comic. For anyone looking to pick up a heartfelt fantasy story where the characters grow up alongside the volumes, this is my suggestion. Below is the archive by Tom Siddel to read it for free.

I could talk more about this comic, but I’ll cut it short. There are plenty of comics and books that have been overshadowed by harry potter. And most of them don’t try and kneecap trans people going about there day. So if you’re looking for readings that don’t support that, good on ya’. Hopefully, this is a good recomendation.

Cheers fuck-ios, out. 🏳️‍⚧️

"the best way to screw jkr over is by making her characters queer!" actually. The best way to screw jkr over is to stop engaging with the property she still profits off of and read a different fucking book

#gunnerkrigg court #anti jkr

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katscki · 3 days ago

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Keep Going

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Bakugou x fem!reader - they are in their third year nsfw

You guys had never really explored the true intimacy of a relationship only having been dating for three months, but god you just can’t take it anymore

Bkg is nervie, making out for the first time, dry humping

M-list

As soon as he opened the door, you practically mauled him. Pushing him in far enough so that you could slam the door then pull him back so he was pressing you against the wood. Eager lips worked against his in a new found haste bakugou hasn’t seen before.

“Fuck” kiss “Not that I’m” kiss “complaining” kiss “but whyre ya jumping me?” kiss. He says between your saliva mixing with his, palms growing sweaty at the unsureness.

You guys had never really… made out before. For a teenage boy, he sure did have a lot of self control and it drove you nuts. I mean who the fuck puts on pawn stars actually expecting to watch it, you just wanted his tongue down your throat. Every time you tried though, he unknowingly shut you down. You’ve learned to be frank with him and if that means showing up at his door with hearts in your eyes, then so be it.

You wrap both legs around him and let him hold you in the air against the door, hands tangling in his hair. “Just had a hard day,” kiss “wanted blow off some steam…” your mouth detaches from his earning a very disappointed grunt from the boy, but he wasn’t left unattended for long when you put your lips on his neck and suck.

“Fuck~ baby.” His head tips back like a whore as he moans out to you. “Sensitive neck?” You say as you just return to kissing his jaw. “Guess so, never done this before idiot…”

He’s embarrassed but you would rather die than let him know you know that, the chance to see him like this outweighing the fun of teasing.

“D-do it again…” he whispers and boy do you listen. Less than a millisecond later you’re on him again. Before you know it you’re moaning yourself as his hips jerk forward right into where you need it the most.

“Fuck sorry baby m sorry didn’t mean to…” he whispers on deaf ears. “K-keep going Kats… felt good…” you say as you roll your hips back into his.

The thud your head makes when it hits the door sounds like it hurt but you can’t be bothered to care with the way his dick feels against you. Half lidded eyes keep contact with yours as soft mewls fall out of your lips at the pleasure.

However just as it came it was now gone. Bakugou stopped moving completely eyes shut so hard you think they’ll never open.

“Nonono f-felt good please kats…” you whine hips beginning to move on there own again. His hands shoot up to hold you in place, “m gonna fucking cum in my pants if you don’t stop.” It was more of a threat than a warning, a threat that you don’t listen to of course.

“So?” You continue to grind against him, pleasure in your lower belly starting to pool and before you know it he is letting out a string of curses as he jerks wildly into you.

“F-fuck m sorry baby… did you cum?” He asks already knowing the answer, but it’s confirmed when you shake your head no, hearts in your eyes. He lets you back onto one leg, the other still around him and you feel his hand trail down to your panties. “Let’s change that, yeah?”

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Not proofread sorey

#mha #bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bnha #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff #bakugou imagine #bakugou x you #fanfic #katsuki x reader #bakugou smut

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heartyluv · 6 hours ago

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Note: I already yapped my head off —here— but I will never stop saying it because it means so much to me…thank you so much my luvlys for over 1K followers. This fic literally became something of its own—the characters, the information, the story. Like I want to know more myself LOLLL!!!

Creds to @/strangergraphics-archive for the dividers! + The images below do not belong to me!

Warning: Caleb is eating that 🐱

Word count: 4.5K (bigger than i thought -that’s what she said-)

Summary: Avoiding him wasn’t bound to last forever.

TattooArtist!Caleb/Reader

You sighed after you put the car in park, looking over at your best friend. Currently, Bea was grumbling to herself as she rummaged through her purse to find her phone before she heads into work. You smiled as she kept tucking her deep blue hair behind her ear each time it fell into her face, opting to hold it back for her with your palm gently pressed against the rebel strands.

She looked at you with a quick smile of gratitude, flashing her smiley piercing before returning to her bag that was too big to be hauling around on a regular basis. It was her favorite thing in the world, though, so she’d never get rid of it.

You and Bea have been attached at the hip since you were in third grade. As time went on, even if you two knew one another like the back of your hand, you were polar opposites. Where you were a clean slate, simple, and reserved, Bea was decorated in stunning tattoos, flashy bangles, bracelets and jewelry, and the most outgoing individual you’ve ever experienced. And you absolutely loved her for it.

“I might’ve left it in your fucking room,” she groaned loudly in annoyance. Bea had spent the night in your apartment for the last few days and it was for no reason in particular. She liked coming over, you loved her company, so she stayed. You’re someone who works from home—thankfully—so you’re with each other all day until she has to go to work. Since she’s been with you, you didn’t mind driving her there and picking her up after for dinner. Especially on days like today where you were off.

Bea is one of the best tattoo artists in the world—sure it may be biased, but you didn’t care. Though, it was a fact that she’s one of the best in the state. She even has a plaque at her place to prove it and you have the photos when she and other artists were rewarded for it. Her range and ability to bring her art to life on a human being has always fascinated you.

The parlor she works in is one that has been a monument in the tattoo community for three decades now, owned by an uncle and his nephew. You’ve been in there a few times—a lot of them for reasons you keep tucked away.

“I can go get it and bring it back, if you want,” you offered. She frowned, but she was nothing but appreciative as she leaned over the center console to hug you.

“You’d literally be my hero.”

“When am I not?” you chuckle. “You’ll still be available for my appointment, right?”

“Of course, duh!” she exclaimed. “No one gets to see those beautiful nips but me and maybe your future baby. And whatever guy is lucky enough one day.” She waggles her eyebrows and shimmies her shoulders.

You shake your head, ushering her out the car so she isn’t late. Once she’s inside, your mind immediately drifts to the fact that Bea is supposed to be doing something for you. Something that she convinced you would boost your sexiness and confidence, even if no one but you would see them.

Nipple piercings.

You never would’ve thought you’d even consider doing something like that since the mere thought of a needle getting near you makes you nervous—let alone near your nipples. But you wanted something new. You wanted change. You wanted to have something about you that made you feel good.

Traffic was insane to and back, making you a whopping seven extra minutes late.

Thankfully, you got ahold of Bea’s phone quicker than you expected, finding it right under the pillow she slept on last night. She was in a little bit of a hurry this morning, so you’re not surprised that she forgot it as she focused all her attention on getting it together.

Once you gathered your things, you made your way inside Luvly Inkz. Immediately, you’re greeted by Sleep Token playing on the speakers and the subtle buzz of tattoo guns at work. With a quick once over, you don’t see Bea, but you’re nothing short of relieved when you don’t see him.

“Hey, there’s our girl!” shouts Uncle Wiz. The dark skinned older man grins at you from where he sits as he works on a client. Everyone calls him Uncle when they meet him because that’s always the type of relationship you get with the kind hearted gentleman who is completely decked out in ink. He’s like a magician with the way he executes his work, so being called Wiz isn’t too far fetched.

“Hey, Wiz. Hey, everybody,” you announce and they all offer a quick warm welcoming. “I know it’s been a while. You can thank Bea for my presence today. She in the back? I got her phone.”

“Nah,” Wiz focuses back on the lady listening to music through her earbuds as he fills in the large outline on her side. “Her and her dude got into again. He hasn’t even clocked in yet—had her sitting there losing her cool over the work phone. Told her to go take a breather.”

The need to go and find your best friend is strong, especially knowing that she’s out there with no phone or way for you to reach her efficiently. But you know her better than anyone to understand that she could handle herself, she didn’t like being crowded, and that the best thing right now was to let her do as Wiz said, and breathe.

Bea and her boyfriend Marquis work together at Luvly Inkz, which one could argue has its pros and cons. When they’re good, they’re like a power couple—an unstoppable force. But when it gets like this? When they fight and argue about something that ranges from completely stupid to detrimental enough to break up over, they’re like ticking time bombs that have a higher probability of detonating if they stay close.

But Uncle Wiz would never fire them because their bickering and disputes never stopped them from doing what they needed to do. Work was always done on time, correctly, and clients always walked out happy. It was a level of professionalism he knew he could trust them with, even with their personal problems.

But it wasn’t working out for you right now because you were supposed to be laying on Bea’s table, ready to get your nipples stabbed.

“Were you scheduled with her? I might be able to get it done for you really fast, depending on what it is.”

“It was a…piercing,” you say simply. Uncle Wiz nods.

“She finally broke you, huh?” he chuckled before looking around the room. “All of our girls are busy right now, but we’ve got Caleb here. He actually came in, despite me telling him to take off for his birthday. He got in not too long ago, and if you’re comfortable with him doing it, he won’t mind. Just tell him what it is since he’s qualified to do them all.”

Your whole body freezes.

Caleb.

The same Caleb who took your virginity and made you know what it was like to be desperate for dick for the first and only time in your life.

The same Caleb who you have regretted sleeping with ever since you learned he…gets around.

The same Caleb who admittedly never did anything wrong, but you were embarrassed and ashamed for succumbing to him so easily when you were certain—without viable proof—that the way he got you was by utilizing a technique he’s likely used too many times to count.

Bea was the one who—accidentally—told you after she wondered where you and him disappeared off to during the night of the party she threw for Marquis’ birthday at a luxury house she rented for the event.

You and Caleb were pretty cool before you had sex, having actually been acquaintances for a good few years. There wasn’t much you knew about him, other than that his talent rivaled Bea, he was annoyingly attractive, and had the body of a fucking god. You met him almost six years ago when she started working at Luvly Inkz and just clicked instantly about a lot of things.

So when he and you sat on the balcony that night just talking about everything and nothing like you knew each other so well, it was so hard for the crush you had formed over time to remain at bay. You never thought the attraction was mutual, but then, when he ended up kissing you? When he asked you if you’d let him fuck you? You knew you should’ve told him no, but the way he pressed his hardness into you and called you pretty—you were a goner.

He made—what you thought at the time—sweet love to you as his hips rocked back and forth slowly to let you adjust. You touch yourself at night when you think about the way he rolled the condom onto his heavy cock, when he filled you up like he was made to complete you.

After it all and you fixed yourself to face everyone again, you couldn’t stop smiling. But unintentionally, the words Bea spoke when she found you alone in the kitchen is what caused the rift.

“Dude, where were you and Caleb? Please don’t tell me you fucked him!” she joked with a nudge. “Seriously he’s like a walking attraction or something. Never heard the words “thank you for last night” so many times by so many different women in my life, ugh!”

You’ve been distant ever since. Every phone call and text was ignored and you stopped coming into the parlor entirely. You beat yourself up a lot about that.

How could you not have known better?

He literally carried a condom on him and the way he worked your body was not a man who kept to himself.

Bea felt awful because both of you are her friends and she hated that you felt the way you did after you admitted your truth, but she respected it.

You told her how you thought it was a special thing, that you and him were going to become more. Maybe you would’ve, but you’d never know now.

It wasn’t that you judged Caleb. Him having a past doesn’t dictate him, but the way he is wasn’t something he grew out of. You slept with that version. Before you had that information, you felt like what you shared with him was something special, but you concluded that it was just another day for him. To think you would be the one to become some life altering catalyst was foolish—so it was safer to rid him of your system entirely. It hurt and it stung as your brain worked to convince yourself that he just wanted to get his dick wet and you were easy enough to do it for him.

Being here today only happened because like Uncle Wiz was saying and based on what Bea had told you, he wasn’t supposed to be working because he originally took off for his birthday.

As you prepare to shake off and decline Wiz’s request, Caleb walks into the wide open space. In that moment, every single emotion, thought, and feeling you worked hard to suppress after all these months came rushing back like a hurricane fueled flood.

“We were just talking about you,” Wiz said as he told Caleb to come closer. You refused to look at him. But you could feel his eyes burning into you the closer he got.

Then when his cinnamon apple like scent flooded your nostrils, you tried to hold your breath like you were a vampire trying not to pounce on a human being whose blood smelled equivalent to ambrosia.

“She’s looking to get a piercing done, but Bea was supposed to do it and…well, you saw the tail-end of her and Marquis’ argument. If she’s cool with you doing it, you mind?”

“I don’t mind at—”

“I can come back another time,” you interrupt, keeping your focus on Wiz.

Caleb chuckles at your dismissive tone. But he’s not letting you get away again so easily. “If you don’t want your piercing done, fine. But I’m sure you at least want to know about Bea?” You turn your head slightly, but still not giving him your eyes.

“Marquis called me, but I don’t think you or them want the entire parlor in their business.”

Caleb and Marquis are similar to you and Bea in terms of friendship—really close and tight knit. They’ve been friends since high school and found their way through the tattoo world together.

You can see in the corner of his eye how he tilts his head in the direction he came. “Cmon, I’ll tell you what he told me so you don’t worry.”

Every part of you wants to leave and not be in any secluded area with this man, but you are concerned about Bea. You don’t want to cause a scene of trying to get out of this by curtly denying him and making Uncle Wiz wonder what your deal is.

Honestly, you didn’t know if anybody else knew what happened between you and Caleb. You know you never said anything, Bea never said anything, and you’re sure Caleb didn’t.

And you would like to keep that under wraps forever, if you could. So you just nod, still looking at everything but Caleb until he begins to walk. As you follow him, you can’t help but begin to admire his strong tattooed arms in his sleeveless black shirt and the black jeans that hug his waist so well.

His boots thud against the floor on your journey down the vintage-esque hallway with several photos and copious amounts of unique artwork.

Once Caleb approaches the second to last door at the end, he steps aside to let you enter. You’re greeted by a slightly messy room with pencils and markers, rough drafts of pieces pinned across the walls, as well as a table with a light and equipment that seems like it was just in use.

“Sorry for the mess,” he apologizes as he shuts the door and flips the light switch to illuminate everything. “Was working on a project for a client—”

“Is Bea okay?” You stare at the floor as if your sneaker clad feet would be the one to answer your question.

“She’s fine. Marquis told me he was able to find her at some park they usually go to. He said they were talking everything out and that they’d be here before either of their first appointments.” It goes silent. “He said Bea appreciates you getting her phone and that she’ll make it up to you about these piercings you were getting.”

“Okay,” you huff. “Thank you.”

You get ready to walk out the door he stands besides, but he grabs your arm gently.

“Don’t…go.” He scoffs out a laugh. “I mean, fuck, can we talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“That’s bullshit. We fucked, or have you seem to forgotten that like you have my existence, apparently?” He gets closer to you, but you move back. “And when I tried to reach out, you ignored me, Bea wouldn’t tell me shit, and then I haven’t seen your face in months.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” you say sharply.

“Okay, but I do. You don’t get to make a decision about us without giving me a say so.”

For the first time in months, you put your eyes directly on his. And fuck…is he ethereal.

“Us?” you repeat in disbelief. “There is no us. There was never an us. We were barely considered friends!”

“There she is,” he grins like his plan that you didn’t even know he had, worked perfectly. “Now that you gave me your eyes, you gonna tell me why you ghosted me after the night we had, or am I supposed to try and figure it out through your scowls?”

“Caleb, get out the way.”

“Make me get out of the way,” he dares. “I let up on you before out of respect and I don’t care how you viewed the dynamic between us—I don’t like how you apparently chose to end it after what we did. Did I fuck up? Was I too rough?”

“Why does it fucking matter? We’re not a thing! We don’t owe each other anything!”

“So there was a problem,” he concludes.

The only way you’re getting out of this room is if you tell him something. Unfortunately, your brain decides to tell him the truth instead of sticking with the lie that you curated on the tip of your tongue.

“We were never close enough for what we did to be more than what it was. I simply removed myself so that you could get back to being the way that you are.”

Immediately he’s insulted, shaking his head like he has to jumble your words up again to make sure he understood you. “The fuck do you mean the way that I am? How exactly am I?”

“It seems like everyone but you knows,” you mumble.

He wipes his hand down his face in frustration. “Could you cut the riddle bullshit and just say it?”

“No.” Your determination is admirable, but he sees through your facade. He sees the way your nipples strain against your ribbed tank top, the way you can’t stop staring at the tattoos along his fingers, the piercing in his brow, or the one on his tongue when he licks his lips out of habit.

“I have to get it out of you, then?”

“You’re not doing anything but moving so that I can leave.”

“You wanna bet?”

Caleb couldn’t understand why you going cold bothered him so much. You’re not the first girl to be one and done with him, but you’re the first where he felt—no, knew—that there was something specific that made you pull away from him. He wanted to let it go, to let it be, but he also promised himself that if he ever saw you again, he’d get his answer one way or another.

You watch with wary eyes as his hand goes to the lock behind him, clicking it into place to keep you stuck in here with him.

“If you tell me no—if you tell me that you’re serious and that you want me to back off, I’ll never bother you again. But if you don’t utter that word before I get my hands on you, since I couldn’t get you to tell me what your problem is…I’ll have to make you.”

The thought of Caleb never talking to you again sends a wave of sadness through you. You know you should be protesting, but in truth…you don’t want to. Much to his liking, you don’t answer.

“Figured,” he says confidently.

Your body feels like it’s made of jello with the way you wobble where you stand.

“No bra and Bea being the one to do it for you…” he shifts the conversation, smiling widely as it settles in. “You were piercing your nipples, baby?”

“That’s none of your business.” Your face immediately grows hot.

“My tongue is about to be in your pussy in the next few seconds, so yeah. It is my business.”

Your eyebrows furrow, but there’s no time to be confused because he takes two grand steps your way, lifting you just enough to sit you down on the padded piercing table.

He doesn’t bother teasing or playing with you anymore, sucking on your nipples through your shirt when your tits are in his face. Your back arches into his hot mouth instinctively, your pussy throbbing in your jeans because of the metal ball in his mouth that swipes against your sensitive peaks each time he alternates between which one he thinks needs some more love.

“I’ll pierce them for you when I’m done. I know them better than Bea, don’t I?” he chuckles when your objection shifts into a moan that you have to suppress with your hand to your mouth.

“Tell me why,” he mumbles into your tits, gently biting on them when you pull his hair a little too hard from the intensity.

“I’m scared I’ll be wrong,” you shockingly admit through unshed tears when he starts to kiss up your neck, feeling the chill of his month being away from where you need them to return.

That thought crossed your mind a lot. That you shot yourself in the foot over something underlying that you weren’t ready to admit.

Caleb may sleep around, but what if he really did want you in ways you didn’t know?

What if you would’ve just went and fucking asked him instead of assuming?

But the fear of it being the opposite, experiencing that realization and embarrassment, trumped any other potential belief.

“Let me take that fear away, then.”

You remain focused on the way he brings your hips to the edge of the table, undoing your jeans as he kisses your lips. Your hands frantically grasp at his hair that he’s cut a little shorter, but it’s a difference you like. Skillfully, he holds the kiss as he guides you to lift your hips to get your pants down your legs without needing to say a word.

“Tell me yes,” he pecks your lips several times, a string of saliva constantly forming from how wet the exchange is. “Like the first time. The way you begged me. Let me hear you again, pretty. You don’t understand how much I’ve missed it.”

There’s so many emotions and questions coursing through you as you nod quickly, your eyes prickling with tears. You pull at the hair on the nape of his neck, your fingertips finding their way to the simple quote down the side of it. It’s like you’re trying to trace him to commit him to memory in case this really is something you’ll never have again.

“Please…Please taste me, Caleb..”

“You’re so good, baby,” he breathes, falling to his knees so that he can worship you better than he did when he slid inside your pussy. Immediately, he covers your mound with his mouth. You can’t sit up like this anymore when he starts to suck your clit, your body giving out on you as you slowly fall back and onto the cool leather.

The metal in his mouth teases your sensitive nub while his tongue writes his name into your flesh. Each stroke of the thick muscle between your sensitive lips is enough to finally pull the tears from your ducts to cascade down your temples.

He pulls back, gathering his spit to drench your cunt in it before delving back into you like a second wasted will make you realize that this isn’t where you want to be.

“I fucking missed you,” he declares, licking long stripes up and down your pretty pussy. “I haven’t touched anyone since you let me have you. I couldn’t get you off my mind.”

You choke on your cries, a foreign warmth completing you at the sincerity of his words.

He indulges in you like a man starved of what is rightfully his and all you can do is become a mess under his spell. The wet sounds of your juices as his tongue opens you up like a wallflower, drives you to be incapable of holding on any longer.

“I’m gonna come…” Your hold in his dark strands grow tighter.

“I know...You’re so sensitive, just like I remember. Like I always dream about.”

The confidence in his response, like the one time with your body was all it took for him to know it so well, makes you bite your lip hard as your body jerks when you orgasm makes you feel what it’s like to be torn between two realms.

His nose moves back and forth in your warmth, your walls clenching around his tongue while he continues to spread your slick everywhere he can.

You can’t control your moans, your legs raising to give him room at the same time your tits rise and fall in an effort to ground yourself.

Caleb quickly separates from you, standing up to climb over your body, attacking your lips so that he can swallow your cries. Your taste on his tongue makes you whine into the kiss the more he licks into your mouth. He rests his forehead against yours, his breath fanning against your face.

“I thought I was just another notch on your belt,” you finally voice the truth to him. “I thought you used me, and I was too scared to find out if it was true.”

“Oh, baby…” he breathed in defeat as if your words have crushed his heart. “You thought you were a fling?”

“How could I not? You have…a history, Caleb.”

“That’s fair—if we were strangers.”

“We might as well have been.” Your breath finally settles. “I didn’t exactly know how you moved until after, when Bea told me. We don’t know each other as much as you seem to think we do.”

“You seem to not know me, but pretty girl,” he kisses your neck. “I know you.”

“I feel like that needs some explaining.”

“It does,” he smiles. “Let me take you home after I get off. I’ll tell you everything you don’t know. That can be your other birthday gift to me.”

You ruminate on his proposition before you agree, but every single nerve in your body—aside from having the orgasm—is raised.

What does he know? What has he been hiding?

But it’s no point in pondering on something you have zero clue about. Like he said—tonight, you’ll learn.

True to his word, after Caleb cleans you up, he sanitizes your nipples, prepares his station like its second nature, and pierces them for you. He guided you through every breath and praised you for each successful puncture. He even admired them with you as he stood in front of a mirror with you in front of him so that you could admire yourself.

You didn’t know if it was Caleb, the piercings, or both, but you could feel and understand that confidence Bea spoke of.

“I can’t wait until they heal,” he kisses down your neck, pressing his bare chest to your back. He never brought up the fact that he didn’t come, so you assumed the reason the poor man behind you got so heated that he had to take his shirt off, is because he needs to come.

But you’re not going to say anything either. Since he apparently has something’s he’s kept secret, maybe he needs this little punishment.

But you can’t deny that the view of the few tattoos on his body doesn’t make you want to put his cock in your mouth.

“What will you do once they are?”

“You’ll see. Just don’t disappear on me again, yeah? It’s good to check in with your piercer. Have to make sure everything is healing nicely.” He grips your waist, making you suppress a smile.

When you’re finished, Caleb gives you a large spare shirt of his since your tank top is still wet from where he sucked on your nipples.

At the same time that you leave the room with him right on your tail, Bea and Marquis walk in. Thankfully, they look way happier than whatever was being said about them earlier. But, Bea’s eyes look at you, then Caleb, the shirt you wear, and the slight flush on his cheeks.

That’s all she needs to know that you two have a whole bunch of hours of crucial information to exchange ahead of you, but when you tell her where you’ll be tonight, she’s going to wish she was a fly on the wall.

A/N: I really enjoyed writing this, like it honestly felt like I was writing a chapter for a novel in a weird way. I can only hope you luvlys actually enjoyed this as it’s more of a full fledged out story than it is straight up sex going on and it wasn’t even really any of that in this. I’m sorry if that’s what you were looking for, by my masterlist is full of it, so I’m sure you’ll be fine LOLLL.

Tags 🏷️: @innergardentoadpony @teacupwaifu @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @ajyoursgirl @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @inutrasha94 @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv @goochfiddler99 @torturedbabyapple @kiyadeleine

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deespace smut #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x you #caleb x reader #caleb smut #lads x you #lads smut #lads caleb

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demie90s · 2 days ago

Note

Girlll you gonna get so tired of me but can you do platonic geno with menace reader?? Like more on their dynamic?

(I COULD NEVER GET TIRED OF YOU‼️)

Coach, I Swear It Was an Accident (It Wasn’t)

ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ ɢᴇɴᴏ ᴀᴜʀɪᴇᴍᴍᴀ x ᴍᴇɴᴀᴄᴇ!ꜰᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: You’ve been testing Geno’s patience since the moment you stepped on UConn’s campus. You’re talented, unbothered, and just enough of a smartass to keep your scholarship hanging by a thread. But deep down, you’re his favorite headache.

Vibe: Whistle slams, eye rolls, chaotic love, and the emotional damage of saying “you’re like my kid” with his whole chest

No one stresses Geno out like you.

And no one lives for it like you do.

You’ve been on thin ice since the first time you called a press conference “ghetto fabulous” under your breath while mic’d up. Geno almost choked on his coffee. Azzi fell off the bench. Paige had to cover her face to keep from laughing.

“Did you really just say that into an NCAA broadcast feed?” Geno asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.

You shrugged. “It was.”

He turned red. “You are going to ruin me.”

“I’m not the one who approved these chairs,” you replied, sitting in one like you were posing for Vogue and not a ranked post-game Q&A.

From that day on, you were his #1 problem child. But God, he’d go to war for you.

⸻

He yells at you the most. Because you deserve it.

“You think that behind-the-back pass was smart?” he snaps during practice.

“I thought it was flavorful,” you say, wiping sweat from your face.

“Flavorful?” he repeats. “You are one tech away from me throwing you out of the building.”

“Cool, I’ll just Uber to my NIL shoot.” He throws his clipboard. You wink.

⸻

But it’s not all jokes. Sometimes you check on him when nobody else does.

You bring him an iced coffee before early practices. Put ibuprofen next to his water when he rubs his temples too long. You sit in his office when you’re having a bad day, head down, quiet for once.

He doesn’t say much. Just passes you a protein bar and keeps typing. That’s how y’all say I love you. In chaos and quiet.

⸻

And even when he’s mad, furious, pacing the sideline and yelling your name after a steal you didn’t convert or a stunt you weren’t supposed to pull?

He still defends you to everyone else.

“Yeah, she’s a pain in my ass,” he tells reporters. “But she’s my pain in the ass.”

Bonus:

You Benched Me. I took it personal.

Okay… maybe not messed up. But you definitely pulled a fast break reverse layup, stared down the girl you just scored on, and said, “I thought y’all were ranked?”

Geno yanked you off the court so fast your sneakers squeaked.

“You’re done,” he snapped, waving you toward the bench. “SIT.”

You threw your hands up like you didn’t understand why you, of all people, were getting benched.

“Coach, come on—”

“No. Sit down before I sit you in the parking lot.”

You flopped into the seat next to KK like you’d just been hit with war crimes. She was biting her lip, trying not to laugh.

Azzi looked at you with the world’s deepest sigh. Paige was already reaching over with a towel and a muttered “You really can’t help yourself, huh?”

⸻

You were petty the whole time.

Refused to make eye contact with Geno. Didn’t speak during timeouts. Sat with your arms crossed like someone grounded you from your phone.

Even when the team got hype, you clapped in slow motion with a deadpan expression like a robot being forced to show spirit.

You deserved that benching. But you weren’t gonna act like it.

⸻

Third quarter, two turnovers in a row, Geno’s eye twitched.

“Get in,” he finally muttered, not looking at you.

You stood up so slow.

“Oh, I’m allowed to play again?” you said, stretching dramatically.

“Reader,” he growled. “Don’t.”

You walked past him with the fakest smile ever. “Love you, Coach.”

“Drop 10 or don’t come back.”

You dropped 26.

⸻

Reverse layup. Stepback three. Full-court pass with your off-hand.

You lit the gym up like it was personal. Because it was.

And after you hit the last three and jogged back on defense, you looked over at Geno and mouthed, “Still wanna bench me?”

He didn’t smile. But you saw him shake his head and mutter, “Unbelievable.”

⸻

After the game, while media swarmed Azzi and Paige, you walked past Geno in the tunnel, pretending to look at your nails.

He cleared his throat. You turned slowly.

“…Good job,” he said under his breath, like it physically hurt him.

You gasped, hand to your chest. “Wait—what was that? I blacked out.”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m framing that.”

He rolled his eyes. “I should’ve gone into real estate.”

You slung your arm over his shoulder and whispered, “Nah. Then you never would’ve met your favorite problem.”

He groaned. But he didn’t push you off.

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 2 days ago

Text

Oh shit I’m late||Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader

Summary—your period is late so that can only mean one thing that you are pregnant.

Warnings: Anxiety spiral, late period/pregnancy scare, mention of children, mild language, lots of emotional support

Word count 1010

A/n— my period still hasn’t shown up so…. Also I’m doing a Lance stroll version of this

You’d been tracking it on your phone.

At first, it was just a passing “huh.” A two-day delay, barely even enough to raise an eyebrow. You’d had stressful weeks before, late nights and irregular meals, and your body always caught up eventually. But when day five rolled into day eight, and then into week three, your stomach had been in a constant state of low-grade panic.

You’d stared down at the calendar that morning, mind a blur, fingers shaking slightly around your toothbrush as you did the math again. And again. And again.

You weren’t ready. Not for this. Not for anything close to this.

And Charles oh god. You loved him. You adored him. But his life was fast, full-throttle, and the thought of bringing a child into the whirlwind of Formula one,prying eyes and the constant travel made your chest clench painfully. Not because he wouldn’t be supportive because he would, that's just who he was and he would be amazing at it.

But you weren’t ready to be anything other than his girlfriend. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You’d barely spoken all day, and by the time Charles came home from sim work, the anxiety had pooled so deeply inside you that it sat like a stone in your stomach.

“Mon amour?” he called softly, pushing the door to your shared apartment open, the usual quiet thud of keys in the bowl. “You didn’t text me back, are you okay?”

You were curled up on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. You hadn’t even turned on the lights.

His eyes adjusted quickly. He was kneeling in front of you a second later.

“Hey,” Charles murmured, concern blooming across his face. “Talk to me.”

You blinked, eyes burning. “I think I might be pregnant.”

The words tumbled out in one breath, one trembling rush. And then silence. That awful, echoing silence where your heart pounded against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

Charles’s eyes widened slightly, lips parting but not with panic. Not anger. Just quiet understanding.

“Oh.”

“I haven’t taken a test,” you rushed on, fingers twisting in your sleeves. “I…God, I know it could just be stress, or maybe I’m off because of travel, or because I haven’t been eating great, or…I don’t know…but I just… I don’t feel right, Charles, and I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he reached forward and took your hands gently, thumbs rubbing slow, grounding circles across your knuckles.

“Okay,” he said softly. “First things first—breathe with me, alright?”

You hated how shaky your inhale was. But you followed him. In for four. Hold. Out for four.

When you opened your eyes again, you found him watching you with the kind of quiet care that made your throat ache.

“I’m not mad,” he said, like he needed you to know it before anything else. “And whatever’s happening, you’re not alone in it. Not for one second. I won’t allow it.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “I’m not ready, Charles. I don’t think I ever will be.”

“That’s okay,” he said instantly. “We don’t have to be. We’re allowed to just be us. And if this is just a scare, we learn from it. If it’s more, we talk. We decide together. But you don’t have to carry this alone, chérie.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. The tears spilled over, not from fear anymore, but from sheer relief.

He moved up onto the couch beside you, wrapping you tightly in his arms. You pressed your face into his shoulder and let yourself breathe for the first time in days.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Charles kissed the side of your head. “I love you more. And I’ve got you. No matter what.”

The next morning, you woke up to the dull ache in your lower abdomen that you’d been dreading but deep down you were happy for.

It took a moment to register, your brain still hazy with sleep. You blinked at the sunlight filtering through the curtains, curled deeper into Charles’s warmth beside you, then you sat up slowly. That familiar heaviness settled between your hips. You got up quietly, padded to the bathroom, and confirmed it.

There it was. Your period. Almost three weeks late. But here.

You sank down onto the closed toilet lid, shoulders sagging with relief. No tests, no doctors, no life-altering decisions looming over your head like a storm cloud.

Just you. Just your body saying, Hey. You’re okay.

When you finally came back to bed, Charles was still half-asleep, cheek squished against the pillow, messy hair tumbling over his forehead.

He blinked one eye open when you slid under the covers.

“You alright?” he mumbled, voice raspy with sleep.

You nodded, nose scrunching a little. “I got my period.”

His other eye opened. A beat of silence, then:

“…Oh. Oh.”

You both just stared at each other for a second, then burst out laughing—quiet, relieved, slightly hysterical giggles muffled by the blankets. You pressed your forehead against his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you tightly.

“Thank God,” he said, half laughing, half groaning. “I was trying to act calm but I was losing my mind last night.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes narrowing playfully. “You were so calm! I thought you were fine.”

“I was lying,” he admitted. “So hard. I was like, Charles, be mature, do not panic, do not cry, do not propose marriage out of fear—”

“Oh my God.”

“—and now I’m allowed to freak out a little bit, yes?”

You both dissolved into laughter again, arms wrapped around each other like you were the only solid things in the world.

When the laughter faded, he kissed your forehead gently.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “We’re okay.”

You nodded into his chest. “We really are.”

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samkerrworshipper · 2 days ago

Text

young and in love

kyra cooney cross x reader

you and kyra have always been together.. just not together?

probably one of my less structured fics. basically i get stressed when i write fluff. i don’t love how it’s written but cbs rewriting so here we go. might cop some hate for the story line but if you have a issue keep it to yourself xo also aware that this is short(er) for me but i struggle so much with writing fluff. hopefully you guys enjoy <3

warnings: none? that i’m aware of.

You can’t really remember a time when you and Kyra weren’t together. You’ve been a pair for your whole life, from mothers group to kindergarten to school to the Matildas to Sweden and then to North London. It’s a thing, she’s like your third arm and you’re like her third leg. It’s always been that way, you don’t remember a time or day where you haven’t been side by side.

You never really think about it, you’ve never known otherwise. The two of you are one, in every way possible. It’s never been an issue, whenever a new club or contract has always come up you’ve always been a two in one deal, the Australian midfield and forward duo that never fail to tear up whatever opponents you face.

It’s never been defined but there’s an understanding with everybody around you that you and Kyra are simply you and Kyra.

You suppose that Harper is the first person to question it all. In the same innocent way that children seem to.

“Are you and Kywa going to get married like mummy and Klara one day?”

Harper is hanging off your neck, Kobe sitting a few feet away with a duplo block in his mouth. Kyra is in the room next door supposedly making dinner for the kids whilst Kat and Klara are out for their monthly date night.

“What makes you ask that, huh monkey?”

You reach onto your shoulders and pull Harper down, laying her down on the carpet before assaulting her with tickles all over her tummy.

“Mummy says that her and Rara are getting married because they love each other very much and they live together. She says that if people want to be married then they should love each other, you and auntie kyra love each other lots.”

You can’t really argue the toddlers point, she’s right, you and Kyra do love each other a lot.

“And you kiss when you think I’m not looking, and you make fun of each other like mummy and Rara and you wear her clothes.”

You’ve never thought about it in that way, Kyra and you have always just been together, not in any way besides that. It’s simple really, or at least that’s how it feels.

“Well someone’s an observant little girl aren’t they. Would you want me and Kyra to get married?”

The thought has never crossed your mind, not for you and Kyra at least. Although you wouldn’t say no to it either.

“Only if I get to carry the flowers like I am for Rara and mummy and I have to get a pretty dress.”

You think about it for a second, white dresses and suits, flowers, an aisle, all of it. It flashes through your head like a little move and then it stops. You and Kyra aren’t like that, you don’t know what you are but you aren’t that. Or at least you don’t want to get your hopes up about it.

“Oi, munchkins, dinner is served.”

Harper scrambles off of you, as if she hasn’t eaten in three months and bolts into the kitchen, leaving just you and Kobe.

“What do you think Mister, is your sister crazy?”

Kobe just gives you a gummy smile.

“I’m talking to a baby, aren’t I? Maybe I’m the crazy one.”

Your coos at Kobe manage to elicit a giggle from the baby as you swoop him up off the ground and carry him into the dining room.

You place him down in his highchair before trailing into the kitchen, finding Harper hanging onto Kyra’s legs as she tries to plate up their meal.

“It’s not burnt, that’s an improvement.”

Kyra drops her spatula to hit you.

“Hey, not cool. I don’t see you helping with feeding the monsters.”

You smirked and reached down to pick up Harper, bringing her up onto your hip to give Kyra a moment of peace.

“That’s because I take my job as chief monster wrangler very seriously, it’s not for the faint of heart.”

Kyra snorts, picking up the two plates she’s made for the kid and leading out to the dining room.

Dinner goes by fairly well until Kobe throws a dino nugget at Harper and she retaliates by throwing her peas. Kobe’s easy enough to get into bed, two books and a warm bottle of milk and he’s out. Harper is a little bit more of a project with bathtime, three books, half an hour of cuddles and then death gripping you in her sleep. It takes you about ten minutes to pry her from your arms slowly before you’re finally free.

Kyra is already stretched out on the sofa, a premier league game playing on the TV that she looks like she’s hardly paying any attention to.

“How did chief wrangler go about getting the monsters to bed?”

You plop down on top of her, ignoring the way she groans as your body relaxes into hers.

“5 books and a lot of cuddles. It’s hard work being the favourite.”

Kyra reaches around you, her hands finding their place on your stomach and hips.

“I would be the favourite if you were injured less, not my fault that you have more free time then me.”

Kyra’s hands find their space so naturally, it’s from years of practice and muscle memory.

“What can I say, I have a talent for clumsiness.”

You roll over, stomach to stomach with Kyra, eye to eye.

“Trust me I know, it was only last week that you woke me up in the middle of the night cause you hit your head on our bedside table.”

You don’t really have a comeback in response, so you let your eyes float to the TV.

“Harper asked if we were going to get married someday.”

You expect Kyra to laugh, or say something, but instead her body just jolts.

“Funny, right? She was telling me about all the ways we were like Kat and Klara so that should mean we should get married as well.”

Kyra laughs finally, but it’s not in the same way she normally does. It’s kind of choked and stuck in the back of her throat.

“Yeah funny what kids come up with.”

You take your eyes off the TV and back to Kyra’s face, her eyes flash away as soon as yours land on hers.

“I thought about it for a minute, the dresses, our families, on the beach. It was stupid but it would have been nice.”

Kyra laughs again, the exact same way. You try to ignore the way it twists around your throat and makes you feel like it’s harder to breathe.

“Cause we’re just us, and I just love us, you know?”

You know you’ve well and truly fucked up when Kyra nods, still averting your eye contact completely. You don’t want to risk it completely though by going all in, it’s all uncharted territory.

“Yeah, it’s not us.”

You consciously ignore the way that Kyra’s face scrunches up as she says it.

If Harper is the first to question then in typical Meado fashion Beth is second.

It happens in the midst of a team bonding session at Kim’s house, it might be the midst of London winter but for whatever reason the occasion for the day is a barbeque and pizzas. Steph’s on barbeque because everyone agrees that the Australian way is the best way and Lia, Manu and Codi are all in charge of pizzas and everyone else is tasked with a variation of tasks like making drinks and for the most part having fun. It’s one of your first team bonding nights, so you’re yet to have been tasked with a specific role and aren’t quick to give up your spot lounging in Kim’s backyard. For whatever reason Beth has managed to weasel out of her own job to join you and a group of the other girls as you enjoy the very rare occurrence of the sun in the winter months.

Kyra, who should be enjoying it as well, is in a particularly pesty mood and has tasked herself with the job of seeing how much she can get on everybody else's nerves without being screamed at. So far you’ve observed as she’s stuck the clothes pegs from Kim’s washing line to whatever article of clothing or ponytail she can, pull a chair out from underneath three of your teammates and steal Steph’s tongs 6 times only for her to put them back three minutes later once Steph had gone off in search of them. It’s entertaining for you, mostly because you’re the only one who's used to her antics. You’ve seen every prank from the past 23 years of life, you basically have a detector inside of you that goes off when Kyra is plotting something.

You watch, you observe and you laugh a little bit to yourself at the obliviousness of your teammates as Kyra continues her mostly harmless attacks on your teammates.

“It’s disgusting how in love the two of you are.”

You lean over to look at Beth, your eyes still trained on Kyra in your peripherals.

“She’s my best friend, dork.”

You shrug it off like it’s nothing, because it kind of is.

“Your best friend who you sleep in the same bed with, fuck when we win, kiss when you’re drunk, don’t date or look at anybody else and have wrapped around your finger. Sounds totally like best friends, really gay, really in love with each other, best friends.”

You look away from Beth to stop her from seeing your blush, but partly to look back at Kyra.

“Kyra, no.”

Kyra in your lapse of attention has managed to somehow find a watering can and is hovering a few feet behind Vic as she watches the barbeque whilst Steph has gone on her seventh search for her tongs.

In a matter of seconds, possibly milliseconds the watering can is dropped, deserted on a bench beside her as she glares at you as if you’ve wrecked her master plan.

“And you can get her to stop her pranks. You can’t fool me, the two of you are clandestined lovers and I cannot be convinced otherwise.”

Kyra continues to pout at you, completely oblivious to the conversation happening between you and Beth. You pat down on the cushion beside you and Kyra trudges over like a kid who has just been told off even when they know that they’re being naughty. She collapses down next to you, her arms knotting themselves over your shoulders as she does so.

“Meado, why are you smiling at us like that?”

There becomes a common understanding amongst the team that you and Kyra’s dynamic is not quite like anything else. It kind of becomes an unspoken rule that most people don’t talk about it, but there are a few people who take it upon themselves to try and force you and Kyra to take your heads out of your asses and just acknowledge that you are more than the two of you seem to think. There are other people, some of your teammates, who believe it’s easier to let the two of you live. You’re both so happy, it’s so clear to see. People like Steph, Caitlin and Kat are so used to it that they hardly bat an eye at the two of you. At least that’s how it goes for the most part.

Kyra is at Steph’s house for dinner whilst you’re in London for the night at a brand event.

It’s mostly a nice dinner, Beth pops in and out but Viv’s over so for the most part they do their own thing.

Steph makes a great bolognese, life changing almost.

For the most part their conversations revolve solely around football until it somehow lands to you.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get the plus one invite tonight, huh?”

Steph doesn’t miss the way that Kyra’s lips immediately perk up at the mention of you, it’s the same way it’s always been.

“We’re not like that.”

Steph also doesn’t miss the way Kyra’s face scrunches up as she says it.

“But you want to be?”

Kyra bites her tongue, and then her lip. She doesn’t really know what to say to that. Not when you’re so adamant that you two are just that.

“We’re best mates.”

Steph wants to pick up a piece of garlic bread and throw it at Kyra, she really does.

“Best mates who spend every single minute together or on the phone with each other, best mates who can’t sleep without being next to each other, best mates who I’ve seen kiss multiple times, best friends who plan their whole lives around each other. You are not best mates, not in the way that most people are with their best mates. Beth and I are best friends, do you see us kissing and fucking when we feel like it? Do you see us bloody buying houses based on the fact that it accommodates the other person. Do we plan our whole holiday break based on which place is going to make the both of us the happiest? Look Kyra, you’re clearly in love. I’ve never seen a person more whipped in my entire life. You’ve only been like that in the few years that I’ve known you, but the two of you have been doing this your whole lives. You’re going to keep doing it, that’s fine, but it’s also okay to want more. Look, I’m not saying one way is better than the other but it seems like you’re struggling and if you need the sway I’m happy to help.”

Kyra’s whole body tenses, like she’s been caught out on the prank of the century. Except her usual cheekiness is completely gone.

“She likes us how we are. I don’t want to be greedy and end up losing her forever. What we have is good, being just us is enough.”

Kyra pushes her fork around her plate because she doesn’t know what else to do with Steph staring at her.

“You don’t have to settle for enough. I can guarantee that she is just as scared as you to say anything. The both of you will spend your life wondering what if. If you love her, more than she knows then you have to tell her, you will spend the rest of your life regretting it if you don’t.”

Steph thinks she’s watched enough romance movies to know it’s true, it’s always the case of two people being so in love that they don’t know how to tell the other.

“She-She doesn’t want me like that. She always says that we’re just us, every time anybody mentions anything else she always says no. I have enough, asking for anything else would be stupid.”

Steph’s heart throbs at the words, this really is like the rom coms she watches.

“But if the opportunity was there, if she asked, you’d say yes.”

Kyra doesn’t say anything but the twinkle in her eyes tells Steph everything.

“You need to take your head out of your ass and tell Kyra how you feel because she thinks that you don’t want her.”

You’re lying on a physio bed, half awake whilst your calf gets massaged when Leah shakes your whole body. You haven’t even had your coffee yet, you struggle to understand half of the words that leave her mouth.

“Sorry, what?”

Leah sticks her head underneath the table, looking up at you.

“All I’ve heard from Steph all morning is all the plans revolving around somehow getting you and Kyra to realise that you’re in love with each other. Kyra’s worried that you don’t want her that way, you’re a doofus, yadayada. I’m telling you now to pull your finger out and tell her that you liked her more than just being companions or whatever the fuck you are because if I have to hear another second of it I will combust.”

You don’t know whether it’s the decaffeination or how fast Leah is speaking but you still struggle to understand what she’s saying.

“I’m sorry, what are we talking about?”

Leah looks like she wants to hit you.

“You and Kyra and your stupid fucking situationship that nobody understands. Tell her you love her and not in the stupid way you do now but in a I love you and I want you to be my girlfriend even though you already are and get married and spend the rest of my life with you.”

You blink a few times because you don’t really know what to say.

“Okay?”

Leah smiles.

“Glad we have this talk, you have until the end of day or else Steph is locking the two of you in a storage closet until you can work it all out.”

You still feel like you’re in a fever haze by the time you find Kyra. She’s in a recovery room using compression boots when you come in.

“You know I love you right?”

Kyra smirks, lazily like it’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.

“I know, I love you too idiot.”

You ignore the fact that sitting next to Kyra is Vic, Codi and Lessi.

“No, like I love you because you're the person I want to spend my life with, like my girlfriend or partner or whatever. I love you like that, just not as a friend.”

Kyra’s mouth gapes, big and wide and then she clamps it shut.

“O-Okay.”

It’s kind of cute, actually, it’s really cute. It makes you feel bad for having not established this earlier.

“You’re cool with that, life, marriage, kids. All of that, if not maybe tell me now and we can like move out or whatever. Just wanted to let you know that’s how I feel. I’m sure we can talk about it at home, just thought I’d make sure before we get locked in a closet together.”

Kyra nods, her mouth still gaping a bit.

“Yeah, I’m cool with that.”

You smile in the same way you have since you were 6 and the two of you were taking kindergarten photos.

“Good to hear, I’ll see you at training.”

You’re gone before Kyra can ask much more.

Alessia is the first one to speak.

“I’m so confused, please tell me everybody else is confused.”

Everyone else nods, almost the same look on their faces as Kyra.

“Wait-closet? What about a closet?”

#sammykworshipper thoughts #woso #woso community #arsenal wfc #sammykworshipperfics #arsenalwfc #kyra cooney cross is a menace #kyra cooney cross x reader #baby kyra #kyra #kyra cooney cross #leah williamson #steph catley #beth mead #arsenal shithousery #arsenal imagine #arsenal women

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cosmicalily · 3 days ago

Text

"talk about: pop music" - a mini series by @cosmicalily. view series masterlist, and outline here

2. 'omg' | gang member!lee minho x reader “i don't often use your name, but i'm craving to.”

author's note: sorry this took me so long to get out !! it's lowkey angsty af but i wanted to bust out something a bit deeper/more meaningful since my recent uploads have just been silly smaus #duality warnings: mentions of substance use and violence (not towards reader), prison, police, unspecified relationship

You and Minho hadn’t even technically broken up. After all, was it really a breakup if the two of you were never officially together at any point? He was everything you’d expected. Like a stray cat, he would lurk around, never staying for longer than an hour, but always returning when you had something he wanted. Only ever inviting you over when he wanted to make out or get blackout drunk. It was always on his terms, not that you had issues with that. You appreciated the distraction, the change of scenery.

He told you that he loved you, that you were his favourite girl, and called you pretty. You loved the affection and attention, even if it was the same script he’d repeated to several girls in the same day. You knew he saw other people. You saw other people too, although maybe not as frequently. However, you knew that he was telling the truth when he called you his favourite girl. The others were all backups, second options for if you were away, not in the mood or with someone else.

So you were special, to some degree.

You knew the relationship was a mess. Neither of you were willing to commit to more than a few hours a few times a week, usually late at night or early in the morning. He didn’t occupy your mind the way a lover should. He was like a way to wind down, a way to escape the monotony of your life, but without having to worry about it permanently. Because your mind changed fast. You liked lots of people. You didn’t want to be tied down to one, and he didn’t particularly want to be, either.

And if fingers were to be pointed, you had been the one to tell him you were fed up.

Lee Minho was in jail for the fourth time, even though he’d promised you he wouldn’t go back. Each time he left, you brought his cat, Nero, over to stay at your apartment until he returned. Usually it was only a few weeks, sometimes a month or so. His cat, no matter how much it rubbed itself on your furniture or nuzzled into your perfumed skin, always smelled like Minho.

He’d promised you that he was done, that he’d been clean for a month and hadn’t even thought about getting high again. That he hadn’t fought anyone or even witnessed blood and bruises, let alone been the one to bear them, in weeks.

Yet three days ago, he’d been convicted again. It had been so stupid, so repetitive, so predictable. You knew who was knocking at the door before it had even opened. You’d known from the way he’d tensed against you, his arms tight around your waist. Even though you’d wriggled in an attempt to get off him and open the door, he’d held you firm and close for a moment, taking a deep breath.

When you’d finally slipped out of his grasp, the look in his eyes was pained. Minho often experienced fury, not towards you, but rarely sadness. Or disappointment. Maybe in others, but not in himself.

His eyes were glassy.

The officer had known; you’d been somewhat acquainted with him by now. His name was Chan, and he was quiet but authoritative. He’d come the last time Minho had been arrested. Maybe even the time before.

“You should be careful, ma’am,” he’d warned you. “You don’t want to be associated with things like this.”

And this time, like every time, you’d agreed. You shook your head at Minho, tears streaking your cheeks.

As the car drove off, you caught his eyes through the window.

The first time, you’d blown him a kiss.

Today, you flipped him off.

It was late in the evening, your hair still damp from your shower, when you heard a knock on the door. The noise startled Nero, who had been sleeping soundly on your thigh as you painted your nails a deep shade of burgundy.

With a sigh and an apology to Nero, you hauled yourself off the rug on your living room floor and made your way over to the door of your apartment. Glancing through the peephole, you saw a familiar face.

Your neighbour, Felix.

You opened the door, offering him a smile. He returned it, but there was a look of concern in his eyes. “Hey, Y/N. I think the mailman delivered a letter for you to mine,” he paused, pulling the envelope out of his pocket, lowering his voice to a whisper. “It’s from prison.”

Your chest tightened, and you turned over the envelope in your hands. From Lee Minho. “Thanks, Felix,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Well, depending on what this says. Thanks again, though.”

Felix hovered a second longer, despite your dismissal. “If it isn’t, remember you can talk to me, yeah? I do care.”

“Thanks, Lix,” you smiled, squeezing his shoulder and giving him a wave as you slipped back inside your apartment, locking the door behind you.

Your heartbeat was hammering, breathing quickened. You’d never heard from Minho while he was in jail before, never visited or even associated with him. It was like a secret the two of you suppressed, something you pretended wasn’t happening. So he didn’t feel guilty for disappointing you, and so you didn’t feel guilty for disappointing yourself.

Tearing the edge of the envelope, you realised you’d never actually seen his handwriting before. It was rigid, but soft at the curves, a flick at the loop of a ‘u’ and a sharp line at the top of a ‘t’. Reading through, your body ached. In pain, but also in longing. His words were clear, direct, everything your relationship hadn’t been. He claimed he was in a rehab program, that he’d started getting therapy from the counsellors and was doing everything in his capacity to try and get better, to never have to return. To be present for you. “And Nero,” he’d added, with a little smiley face scrawled beside it.

You remembered the warnings.

Yet when you pulled up in the parking lot two and a half days later, spotting Minho standing with his hands in his pockets, you felt nothing but relief. Comfort.

The hug he gave you was genuine, a touch that wasn’t driven by some kind of force of desire. Yearning.

He’d always been the one to come back to you, but this time, you came to him.

Because he had asked for you.

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