#it all just. it plays right into his hand too damn well.

[vunblr]

A Star Without a Sky (#5)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: 8.4k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The plan went smoothly into motion.

She began making the trips to town more frequently, as they agreed, three times a week, sometimes more. Always with a new errand in hand, never anything urgent. A thimble. A skein of thread. A tin of baking soda. The kind of things that didn’t look like much, but made it clear she couldn’t stay away.

And he was always somewhere at just the right time to offer his arm, to tip his hat low, to carry her things.

Sam had started calling them the town's slowest-moving scandal.

The first week passed without any noticeable events. She wore a new working dress with small flowers stitched at the hem and a ribbon she’d dyed to match. And her hair was no longer pinned in a bun but looped into a neat french braid.

He saw her like that for the first time, not at the office, but inside the bakery. She was already there when he stepped in for pie, her back to him, talking to Mrs. Marshall. He paused in the doorway a second too long, then stepped inside, boots scuffing against the boards.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said, voice tighter than it needed to be.

She turned with that practiced little smile, and her eyes twinkling. “Why, Sheriff. What a nice surprise.” She blinked up at him through her lashes, just as he’d coached her.

His ears turned pink. Before he could scrape together a response, the baker asked what he’d be having, saving him from his own damn silence.

After that, things shifted.

Every shared glance, every feigned brush of the hand, every time her fingers accidentally tugged a wrinkle from his coat, it all began to press against the rim of what they were pretending.

She played her part well. Maybe too well. And if there was guilt in how she leaned into it, looping her arm tightly through his on the street, letting herself walk pressed close to his side,  she didn't let it show.

Because it felt good.

Because, when else would she get to touch a man like that without shame?

She told herself it was harmless. That it was part of the game. But when his arm flexed under her hand as they stepped off the boardwalk… when he looked down at her like he was memorizing her lips… it didn’t feel fake. Not even a little.

He, on the other hand, was losing his mind.

He damn well knew it was his idea. Told her how to flirt, coached her through every step like a fool digging his own grave. He hadn’t expected to get buried in it.

What started as a passing interest, something small, born in the comfort of her home while she’d fed and stitched and sat with him, was no longer manageable. It had grown. Rooted itself somewhere deep.

Now she was always there. Sitting too close. Laughing too softly. Touching his sleeve in front of others like she had every right. She wasn’t his, but she touched him like she could be.

And he basked in it.

Because it felt good. Because it was all he was going to get.

But God help him, he needed to stop picturing her hands on him. Stop imagining how it would feel to kiss her just once. No game. No justification. Just… her mouth under his.

She had no idea.

And maybe that was for the best.

Sam noticed, of course. Teased him once -offhand, something about lawmen playing house in the office- and Bucky had nearly decked him for it.

The nights in the barn didn’t help.

Not sleeping much. Not with the wind rattling the door and her house glowing warm just a few feet away. Not with the memory of her voice in his head, of what they shared behind those walls.

He told himself it was part of the job.

Just like he told himself, he didn’t miss her every time she left.

----

She arrived just as he’d expected. Cart wheels crunching frostbitten dirt, mare snorting softly with the final pull. Bucky was already standing casually at the office’s door, arms crossed, leaning slightly on one boot without a care in the world. The truth was, he’d been watching the bend in the road like a man waiting for spring.

She didn’t see the way his shoulders relaxed when her cart came into view.

He straightened and stepped forward, slow, casual, calculated. By the time she pulled the reins, he was nearly to the wheel, ready to offer his hand.

Only she didn’t wait.

She gathered her skirt and moved to dismount, graceful as ever, except her boot caught in a patch of frozen mud. It slipped sideways, and she lost her balance before her hands could catch on anything. Her leg struck the side of the cart with a hollow thump, then she half-fell, half-slid to the ground with a stifled yelp.

Bucky reached her a beat too late, cursing under his breath. “Dammit! hey, hold on-”

“I’m fine,” she hissed, more mortified than anything else. “I’m fine-”

But he was already there, crouched beside her in the mud, his hands warm and firm on her arms as he checked her balance and her limbs. “You’re shakin’.”

“No, I’m just mortified,” she muttered, brushing at her coat and trying to rise.

Her face was contorted, and not from pain. From having fallen like some helpless town belle in the middle of the street, right at his damn feet.

He scooped her up without asking.

She yelped softly, “Bucky!”

“Hush,” he muttered. “Let me get you inside.”

He carried her like she weighed less than a sack of flour. The front door creaked as he pushed it open with his shoulder, warmth spilling out around them from the stove still glowing near the far wall. Sam wasn’t around. For once, thank God.

He set her down on the bench nearest the stove and knelt in front of her without thinking, scanning her face, her posture, like he was still not convinced she hadn’t broken something.

She waved a hand, breathing fast. “Told you, just hurt my pride.”

It was her leg that caught his eye. Fabric torn jaggedly at the side seam, a few inches of skin streaked with crimson. Mid-thigh.

The color drained from his face, just a little, and he hissed a low curse through his teeth. “You’re bleedin’.”

She followed his gaze and flinched. “It’s nothing. A scrape.”

“You don’t know that,” he said flatly. “Could be deeper than you think.”

“Bucky, I-”

“I need to look,” He was already standing, striding to the door. She twisted in place as he threw the lock, then yanked the heavy curtains shut. Shadows fell across the office.

“What are you-?”

“I ain’t gonna have someone come in here, see your skirts up and me on my knees, and jump to conclusions.” He turned back to her, hands already tugging his gloves off finger by finger.

Her breath caught in her chest.

He walked back to her calmly, then knelt again, his broad and warm hands gentle against her calf as he looked up.

“May I?”

Her throat bobbed once. She nodded.

With slow, deliberate fingers, he lifted the torn edge of her dress and pantalettes just enough to see the scratch. The skin beneath was reddened and streaked with a line of blood from where the wheel had scraped her. Not deep. But angry-looking.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

His hands didn’t shake. Not once. But the muscle in his jaw ticked as he stared.

“You’ll need it cleaned. Wrapped too.”

“I can do that at home.” She tried to dismiss.

He didn’t answer. Just let the skirt fall back into place and stood up, moving to grab the little wooden kit they kept in the back for injuries.

She watched him the whole time, her skin prickling with heat.

He braced her leg above her knee with one hand, steadying her as he reached into the kit with the other. Her skin was warm beneath his palm, softer than anything he had a right to touch. She shifted, just slightly, maybe from discomfort, but it was enough. That little movement, her thigh pressing deeper into his grip, went straight to his bloodstream like whiskey.

Christ.

He wasn’t thinking about her thighs, not at first. Not until he had one in his fucking hand.

He cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes as he uncorked the tincture. Doused a clean cloth and set to work, dabbing carefully, methodically, focusing on the scrap, not on the heat of her skin under his fingers. Not on the soft hitch in her breath when it stung her.

One of her hands gripped the bench edge tightly, knuckles white. The skirt was hiked indecently high, same as her underwear, bunched at her hips, her leg bare from knee to upper thigh. She had never sat like that in front of a man who wasn’t her husband. And even then, not like this. Not feeling exposed, not trembling slightly, not aching in places that had nothing to do with the wound.

“I told you I could’ve done this at home,” she said, but her voice wasn’t nearly as firm as before.

He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

“You were shakin’,” he muttered, rinsing the cloth, wringing it out with one sharp twist. “Didn’t trust you not to faint.”

“I don’t faint.”

“Still.” His jaw flexed. “Better safe than sorry.”

She didn’t reply.

The cloth dragged slowly down her thigh, the backs of his fingers brushing along her skin, as his palm held her firmly on the outer edge of her leg. She bit the inside of her cheek and looked anywhere but at him. The stove, the grain in the floorboards, the hem of her own dress.

It wasn’t even the touch that undid her, it was the tenderness. He moved with care. And it ruined her.

She hated the way her throat closed.

Hated that the only thought in her mind was if I reached out now, just to touch his hair, would he lean into it or flinch?

He finished, finally, and let the skirt fall back into place with more gentleness than necessary. Still didn’t look up. Just sat back on his heels, breathing like he’d run a mile uphill.

“Won’t scar,” he said, lowly.

“I’ve got others,” she murmured.

His eyes snapped up. Damn if he didn’t want to trace every mark she carried with his mouth. Map them. Know where she’d hurt and where she’d healed.

She noticed his stare. Could feel her pulse behind her ears, feel the warmth of where his hand had been like an imprint burned into her thigh.

And in that moment, she realized she didn’t want to be looked at that way just in passing.

She wanted to be seen like that again.

And again.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Just sat there. His hands on his knees now, hers curled in the folds of her skirt, both of them pretending they hadn’t felt what they felt. That her body hadn’t leaned into his. That he hadn’t held her like something precious.

“You should- uh,” he broke the spell, voice hoarse. “Wait a while. Warm up. You took a hit.”

She nodded, smoothing her skirt with a hand that trembled faintly. “Alright.”

She tugged at the torn hem of her dress, inspecting the gash that ran all the way through to her pantalettes. The fabric was frayed where the wheel axle had caught it, split like a mouth, and still damp with the mud of the street. She grimaced, more at the thought of walking around town like that than at the ache in her leg.

“I’ll need to stitch it,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

Bucky was still standing by the stove, his arms stiff at his sides, and his hands flexed once, then again.

She reached for her satchel and pulled out the little tin that held her sewing kit. “You have someplace private?” she asked. “To mend it, I mean. I need to take it off.”

His jaw shifted. He didn’t look at her.

There was the back room -the one where the armory and ledgers were kept- but it was cold, all wood and iron and dust. It didn’t feel right. And if Sam came back, needing a rifle or looking for a report, well...

So he cleared his throat. Rubbed a hand along the nape of his neck. “You can use my room.”

She looked up. “You sure?”

He nodded once, curt. “Ain’t much, but it’s clean. Has a lock.”

That last part came out softer. Like maybe he meant safe, but couldn’t quite say it out loud.

She offered a small smile. “That’s plenty.”

He stepped toward the hallway that led to the quarters, his boots heavy across the worn boards. At the door, he turned the knob and pushed it open, gesturing with one hand without stepping inside.

She followed.

The room was simple. Spartan, really. A narrow bed tucked against the far wall with a gray wool blanket folded back neatly. A side table with a dented oil lamp, a drawer with a cracked basin, a shaving cup, a comb, and a folded hand towel. Nothing decorative. No framed pictures. No clutter.

But it smelled like soap and pine. Clean. Private.

“I’ll wait out front,” he said, still not meeting her eyes.

She stepped past him and gave a polite nod. “Thank you.”

----

She closed the door softly behind her and let the latch click into place.

The room was still, dim with the curtains drawn, and the air had the faint scent of soap, old wood, and something that was just him. She set her satchel on the hanger at the door and stood for a moment, taking it in.

It was so plain it made her chest ache. No pictures or paintings. No keepsakes. No color. Just the bare minimum, arranged with the kind of precision you only learn when you’ve lived long without the basics.

With the sheriff’s pay, he could’ve rented a modest place in town. A little cabin or a loft above one of the shops. But this room, tucked behind the office like an afterthought, was clearly enough for him.

And that, somehow, made her sadder than it should.

She undressed quickly, folding the torn dress over her knees as she sat on the edge of his bed. The wool blanket scratched a little against her bare thighs.

That realization made her pause.

She wasn’t a girl. She’d been married. She wasn’t supposed to get fluttery sitting in a man’s bed, especially not a man who’d never offered more than a few stilted compliments and a handful of careful touches for the sake of a charade.

But still, here she was.

Her cheeks warmed. She opened her sewing kit, forcing her hands into the rhythm she knew by heart. Needle through fabric. Pull. Knot. Tie off. Her fingers were quick, but calm, but her thoughts wouldn’t quiet.

She was sitting where he slept. She could picture him here, the long sprawl of his body across the narrow mattress, maybe one arm thrown over his eyes, boots kicked off, shirtless.

She wondered what he dreamed about.

She pushed the needle through the torn edge again and pursed her lips.

It was silly. She knew that. Foolish to let herself get carried away just because she could smell him on the pillow or see the careful way he folded his towel. But it was the first glimpse she’d had of his private life, and it hit her harder than expected.

The room screamed of a man who didn’t expect to stay. A man who’d never really unpacked.

----

His palm still remembered the shape of her leg.

Her warmth lingered on him like a brand. The curve of her thigh, the way her breath hitched -not from pain, but from surprise- as his fingers steadied her so he could clean the wound. He hadn’t meant for it to feel intimate. Wasn’t thinking like that. But the moment her body gave under his hand, pliant and warm and trusting, something lit low in his stomach and burned all the way down.

Now, she was in his room.

Naked.

Fixing a tear on her dress, needle and thread working in some quiet rhythm while he sat frozen behind his desk, pretending to focus on the reports in front of him. His eyes weren’t reading. Not really. The ink blurred, smudged. His thoughts were halfway across the damn building, behind that shut door.

She was naked. In his room. On his bed. Fixing what had torn when she slipped in front of him like some poor fool in a dime novel.

He ran a hand down his face.

And he’d carried her instinctively. Like she belonged in his arms.

His hand clenched slowly on the table’s edge.

Rumlow hadn’t made a move yet.

Not directly.

Hadn’t cornered her on the street. Hadn’t stopped by her house. Hell, hadn’t even looked her way when they passed by the feed store last week, but that meant nothing. That snake was patient. And smart. The kind of smart who smiled at you while holding a knife behind his back. He had eyes in this town, ears tucked into corners of the saloon and the smokehouse and the damn church pews, probably.

And every single one of them had surely seen the sheriff helping the widow down from her cart, brushing dust off her skirt, carrying her parcels like he had a claim.

His stomach soured.

Maybe it wasn’t boldness holding Rumlow back, but calculation. Waiting for the right moment. For proof, the woman he thought of as his had slipped out of reach. Bucky’s teeth ground.

She didn’t see it. That was the damn thing. She didn’t see him. Not the way a man like that looked at a woman alone for too long. She thought Rumlow was just… unpleasant. A little strange. Too forward in his apologies, maybe. But she hadn’t seen the way his eyes dragged over her. Like he was picking a cut of meat. Like he already owned it.

She didn’t see it. Because she wasn’t used to being hunted.

His jaw ticked. He’d known a lot of things in his life. Violence. Scarcity. The cold bite of loneliness. But nothing made him feel the kind of wrong he felt imagining Rumlow’s hands on her.

He leaned back in the chair and dragged a slow breath through his nose.

She was smart. Kind. Capable as hell. But too used to assuming that what didn’t feel like danger wasn’t. That because she’d survived worse -death, grief, loneliness- she could handle whatever came next.

But wolves don’t knock.

They wait. Circle. Smile with their teeth hidden behind words that sound an awful lot like help.

And right now, that wolf was watching.

----

The door to Bucky’s room creaked open softly, and she stepped out with her dress freshly mended, brushing one palm down the front like she could smooth the whole morning away. He looked up only once, just enough to make sure she was upright, not limping.

“Thank you for lettin’ me use your room,” she said, casually as she moved past him toward the stove. Like she wasn’t acutely aware she’d just stepped out of the place he slept, wearing nothing but her own skin, not ten minutes before.

He didn’t turn. Just shrugged one shoulder, eyes back on the papers he hadn’t read since she fell. “You let me use yours for much more than the time you needed to mend those clothes,” he muttered. “Reckon there’s nothin’ to thank me for.”

His gaze flicked toward her legs, then darted quickly back to the report in his hands.

“You shouldn’t be wanderin’ around if you hurt yourself. Why don’t you sit a while near the stove?”

She arched a brow, already reaching for the kettle. “I’ve been sittin’ on your bed for nearly half an hour. What if I want to make you some decent coffee? As a thank you. For carrying me. You shouldn’t’ve done that, could’ve hurt your back.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, his shoulders pulling a little straighter. “I prefer if you sit down,” he said, deadpan. “And I find it insultin’ you think my back’s so fragile it’d give out from a few steps accommodatin’ you.”

He didn’t lift his head. But his ears itched red.

She tilted her head, leaning her hip against the edge of the stove. “Ok. What if I want a decent coffee?”

He muttered something low, unintelligible, and flipped a page with more force than necessary. “Woman, I know what you’re doin’. If you want a beverage, I can offer you a decent tea. Just keep your-” he stopped himself short, jaw twitching, “-yourself sittin’ there.”

She smiled behind her hand. “Decent tea? I could accept that.”

He didn’t answer.

Because his hand was already reaching for the little tin near the cupboard, rough fingers curling around the handle like maybe it was easier to serve her tea than admit he’d just pictured her ass in his bed for the second time that morning.

He poured for himself, too. It wasn’t every day he drank tea, but there were mornings it hit the spot, and this one had turned into something strange enough to warrant it. The tin rattled a little when he opened it. Baker Marshall had given it to him not long after he took the badge, after he caught some shit-stained teenager trying to make off with one of her trifles. She’d thrust the tin at him all stern-voiced gratitude, and it’d stayed in his drawer since, barely touched.

She took a careful sip from the enamel mug he’d handed her, then tucked her legs a little closer to the stove’s warmth. “So,” she said after a moment, casual but tight, “it doesn’t seem like Rumlow’s really interested in what’s going on between us.”

Bucky looked up, gaze unreadable.

“In all these days I came to town,” she went on, “I haven’t seen him once. And before, every time I passed by, he was always in my way.”

He set his mug down gently, curling his fingers loosely around the handle.

“And that don’t tell you anythin’?” he asked, in a low voice.

“The fact that people start seein’ somethin’ between us and he suddenly vanishes? That ain’t nothin’. That’s everything. It’s affectin’ him,” Bucky continued. “Man like that doesn’t just stop lurkin’. He’s either waitin’, or he’s recalculatin’. Tryin’ to figure how to handle a change he didn’t see comin’.”

She held her mug tighter.

“I can’t picture yet if he’s gonna take it out on me,” he added, “or if he’ll slip and try to take it out on you. Try to finish the job, scare you back toward his arms.”

The room went quiet after that. The stove hissed softly. Outside, boots crunched somewhere on the street, a dog barked once.

She looked at him over the rim of her mug. “I don’t think he’d-” she started.

“Don’t think,” Bucky cut gently. “Know. That man’s been playin’ a long game, and now that it ain’t playin’ in his favor, he’ll change tactics.”

Her voice was smaller when she asked, “And what do we do?”

He reached for the kettle again, refilled her cup before she could stop him.

“We keep goin’,” he said. “Let him stew. Make him think he’s losin’ ground.”

She wrapped her hands tighter around the cup, heat blooming in her palms.

“And in the meantime?” she asked.

He paused. Met her eyes.

“In the meantime,” Bucky murmured, “you stick close. And don’t go wanderin’ that prairie alone.”

----

The dress felt strange against her skin. Not ill-fitting, but unfamiliar. Ghost-heavy.

She hadn’t touched it in nearly two years. It was soft, cornflower blue, its buttons delicate as raindrops. Cole had picked it out at the fair before the fever took him. Said she’d look like spring itself in it. She had used it once, then folded it away, and let it sit in the box like it might lose its charge over time.

It didn’t.

She’d bought that other dress -the one that tore- just to avoid ever wearing this one. But now... maybe the tear had been the sign. Maybe things only waited so long to be chosen before choosing for themselves.

And now here she was, tugging it over her hips like it hadn’t sat folded beneath two years of dust and grief.

She rested the braid over her shoulder, settled her hat low on her head, and stepped onto the cart. If she looked in the mirror too long, she’d change her mind.

----

She wore a different dress that morning. Blue with little white flowers stitched along the bodice, and a line of faint embroidery just beneath the collarbone. Her hair was braided differently, too, somehow more... delicate. It looked like something chosen on purpose.

Bucky noticed all of it. Which was part of the problem.

They hadn’t said much when she pulled up with the cart. He’d stepped out of the sheriff’s office like he hadn’t been waiting by the window the last fifteen minutes, muttering to himself about keeping things professional. But when she hopped down and suggested lunch at the hotel restaurant -casual as anything- and he had to tie the reins with more force than needed just to keep his hands steady.

“You sure?” he’d asked.

She’d nodded. “Yeah. Thought we could change the scenery a little.”

But as they started walking, the silence between them stretched too thin. Not quite uncomfortable, but close enough to feel like it.

He didn’t look at her. Not directly. Not with that dress on, or that braid. Not when his thoughts were busy drowning him in a glass of water. What if he embarrassed himself at the restaurant? What if his manners betrayed just how far he’d lived from polite company?

Beside him, she glanced his way. Noticed the distance between their steps. The way his hands stayed stuffed deep in his coat, like he didn’t want them near her.

“Shouldn’t you offer me your arm to walk?” she asked lightly, though her eyes were sharp.

That pulled him up short. “What?”

She tilted her head, mouth drawing into something wry. “Sheriff, I’m a little at a loss here. This whole pretense, it was your idea, wasn’t it? But the way you’re carryin’ on since I got off the cart, feels like I’m pesterin’ you instead of being courted.”

It landed. Hard.

Bucky wanted to slap the heel of his hand to his forehead, but instead, he swallowed and shook his head, ashamed.

“Uh no,” he said quickly. “Just... got other things on my mind. Distracted. ‘M sorry.”

He moved then, awkwardly, and lifted his arm toward her.

She took it without hesitation, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

“There,” she murmured, her fingers warm through the leather. “Now it looks like we mean it.”

He didn’t trust his mouth to respond. Just gave a short nod and kept walking, even as every brush of her skirt against his thigh felt like temptation wrapped in calico.

----

They were shown to a small table near the window. The dining room was quiet at that hour, just the low murmur of plates and cutlery, a cough from the kitchen, the warm scent of meat stew and baked butter crust swirling in the air.

Bucky pulled her chair out before she could reach for it herself. Said nothing as she sat. Just adjusted his coat as he lowered himself into the chair across from her, resting his hat on his thigh.

A waiter drifted near. Bucky asked for two menus, not just one, like some men would’ve done. Like Brock had done, ordering for her without asking.

“Pick what you want,” he said, settling back against the creaking wood with a slow exhale. “God knows I’m starving, and since this... performance of ours was my idea, I’ll cover it.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, Bucky, I was the one who suggested we come today, but it wasn’t my intention to-”

“And I accepted,” he cut in, casual but firmly. “So it’s on me.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head, tugging his lips into something dry and nearly amused. “‘Sides,” he added, with a small shrug, “not like I do much with my income. I can afford a damn plate at this excuse of a hotel.”

That pulled a huff of breath from her, halfway to a laugh. She tucked her hands beneath the napkin on her lap.

“W-well,” she murmured, glancing down at the menu but not reading a word of it, “thank you, then.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her fingers fuss with the corner of the page like they didn’t quite know what to do with the gesture. She wasn’t pretending. Not with that tone. Not with that half-stammer and the biting on her lower lip. She wasn’t used to being taken out, that much was clear.

And something about that made a stupid warmth spread in his chest. Like pride. “Least I can do,” he muttered, busying himself with the menu. “‘Specially for my darling.”

Her head snapped up slightly. His eyes didn’t lift from the page.

“Your darling?” she asked, playing along but not unaffected.

“For appearances,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “Isn’t that what folks are supposed to think?”

She smiled, a slow, sideways thing. But it reached her eyes.

“Then I’ll have the roast,” she said, looking straight at him now. “Might as well order properly if it’s your money we’re spending.”

He grinned into his water glass and didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The flush crawling up the back of his neck said plenty.

----

The food arrived with a soft clatter of plates. Across the table, Bucky had already picked up his fork, but his grip on it shifted once, then twice, like it didn’t feel quite right in his hand. His movements were slow and deliberate, every bite taken with too much care. He didn’t look up and barely spoke. He was always quiet, but today was on another level.

She watched him for a few more moments, then set her fork down gently.

“Are you feeling unwell?” she asked warmly, with concern.

His brow furrowed faintly. He paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Not at all. Why?”

She hesitated. “You seem… tense. While eating, I mean.”

His eyes dropped to the plate again. He swallowed. “Do I?”

She nodded slightly. “Kind of.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t the comfortable kind they’d shared before. She was already wondering if she’d overstepped when he finally exhaled through his nose.

“You know about my upbringing,” he said quietly, eyes still not lifting from the edge of his plate. “The… places I was in.”

She gave the smallest nod, her chest already clenching.

“They didn’t teach us much about table manners. I mean, they taught us how to stand in line. How to keep quiet. How to sit straight with a plate in front of you and eat fast before it gets taken. Like they already knew what we’d be used for. Not how to… act like we belonged in places like this.” He waved faintly at the table.

His voice dropped lower, almost a rasp. “Later on, workin’ ranches or bounty ridin’... you ate what you caught or what didn’t spoil. It didn’t exactly… polish anything.”

Her heart twisted a little in her chest. A sharp ache for the boy he’d been.

Bucky glanced away, tapping his fingers on the table’s edge before stilling. “I guess I taught myself some civil behavior over the years, but…” His mouth twisted. “Sometimes, in places like this, or even back at your house, those first few days… I get caught up in my head. Feel like I’m bein’ watched, like it’ll show. That I don’t know what I’m doin’. That I don’t belong.”

He looked up at her then, his river-glass eyes were unreadable but so damn open she could’ve wept for it.

“I know it’s stupid,” he muttered.

She slowly reached across the table and laid her hand over his.

Not for show. Not for Rumlow. Not for whatever roles they were pretending to play.

Just for him.

“It’s not stupid,” she said gently. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing just fine.”

His breath hitched, subtle but real. His eyes widened a fraction, startled not by her touch but by how much it disarmed him. And before he could talk himself out of it, he turned his hand under hers, palm up, curling his fingers gently around hers, sweeping his thumb once over the ridges of her knuckles.

He didn’t speak. Just held on for a breath longer than he should’ve.

Then he cleared his throat softly and released her hand, reaching for his fork with a firmer grip this time.

----

They’d finished the meal in the kind of quiet neither of them seemed eager to break. Bucky wiped the corner of his mouth with the cloth napkin, then folded it carefully, like buying time for a sentence he didn’t want to say.

“I should get back to the office,” he muttered, not quite looking at her. His fingers tapped once on the table before reaching for his hat. “As much as I’d rather be sittin’ right here, if folks catch me foolin’ around too long they’ll think I’ve forgotten the badge is real.”

He flagged the waiter and settled the bill without fanfare. Like it was just another part of his job, another duty to tend to.

She didn’t argue. Didn’t thank him, not right away. Not in front of the waiter.

He stood, took a step toward her chair, and offered his hand.

She hesitated, then slid her fingers into his palm. His grip was warm. He helped her up like he’d always do it, if given the chance.

Once they were outside, sun catching on the dusty street, she turned and looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you sure you don’t want me to cover my part?”

His eyes flicked to hers then, sharp and bright, his mouth twitched just slightly. “Told you already,” he said. “It’s the least I can do… for my darlin’.”

He said it like it wasn’t staged. Like the words had come out without permission.

Her heart kicked once in her chest. She didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh or tease. Just slid her hand through the crook of his arm when he offered it.

The sun lit the edges of his face as he glanced away, casting his eyes to something across the street. His profile caught in the light -riverglass blue and sharp edges- and she thought: damn it, I’m doomed.

“All right then,” she said, masking her. “But I’m not headin’ to the cart yet. Gotta stop by the fabric store. Finally settin’ my mind to makin’ new curtains.”

He nodded and slightly shifted his stance to guide her toward the corner. His arm tightened just a bit beneath her hand.

“Drop you there,” he murmured, voice a touch rougher than before. “Then I’ll head back.”

They walked in silence, not too close, not too far. Her fingers rested lightly against the thick fabric of his coat, and he didn’t look down at them, but he felt it. Every brush. Every point of contact.

He stopped outside the shop when she did, stepping aside just enough to let her pass, and held the door without needing to be asked.

She looked up at him once before going inside. Her eyes lingered, warm and unreadable.

“See you tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, already missing the way her hand felt on his arm.

He watched her disappear into the soft clatter of the store, then stood still a long moment. Then he turned, pulled low the brim of his hat, and walked back toward the badge like it weighed double today.

----

The bell above the shop door jingled as she stepped out, a neat bundle of fabric bolts balanced in her arms. She squinted at the late sun, as the wind teased a loose strand of hair from behind her ear.

She barely made two steps when a shadow fell over her path.

“Well now,” a voice drawled, smooth as molasses, slick as snake oil. “Didn’t think I’d catch you walkin’ around without your shadow today. Or any other day soon.”

Her chest thudded.

“Mr. Rumlow,” she greeted, polite as a preacher’s wife. “Didn’t know you kept such sharp eyes on my whereabouts.”

Brock tipped his hat with the slow smugness of a man too comfortable in his skin. “Just happened to be nearby,” he said, though she could smell the lie under the sweetness.

“I’m just buyin’ some cloth,” she said, shifting the bundles in her arms. “New curtains.”

“New curtains,” he repeated, like the phrase amused him. His gaze swept over her, from braid to hem. “You look nice today. The braid suits you. Thought about tellin’ you that last time you passed by, but…” He lifted his brows with that familiar insinuation, the kind that made her want to scrub herself clean.

“Thank you,” she said flatly, resisting the urge to look around. “Figured it was time for a change.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Sometimes change is good.”

Then he stepped forward.

Too close.

She didn’t move, not yet, but her grip on the parcels tightened.

Brock looked at her hands, made a show of tilting his head. “Well, look at me, standin’ here like a brute while a lady juggles half a store.” Before she could answer, he reached out and took the fabric from her arms without asking.

She stiffened.

“Let me help,” he said, all charm. “Ain’t no trouble.”

“T-thanks,” she muttered, glancing around the street again.

He stepped beside her, too casual, too sure.

They walked together a few feet, slowly, like nothing was wrong. But everything in her gut twisted.

“Used to be,” Brock murmured, voice dipping low, “you’d look folks in the eye. Smile easily. That was before the sheriff put you in his pocket.”

She stopped walking.

Turned to him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, tone even, hands still.

His smile sharpened. “No? Just seems like you used to be a lot friendlier. Now you’re walkin’ around like someone’s claimed you.”

She swallowed. “If that’s meant to be a question, you’ll have to speak plainer.”

He laughed once, low in his throat. “Don’t need to. Just sayin’, some of us have been lookin’ out for you a lot longer than he has.”

She blinked.

It wasn’t just the words, it was how easy they came to him. Like he believed them. Like it wasn’t slander, just a fact.

"Well," she said slowly, "I appreciate folks lookin' out for me without being asked. This town’s always been mighty generous like that." She tilted her head, the tone was pleasant but just sharp enough to carry a note of warning. “But maybe it’s time I let myself be looked after again. By a man I chose.”

A pause. Delicate as lace, taut as wire.

Brock’s smile never reached his eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you about him.”

“I appreciate-”

“He’s not good for you,” he cut in, voice low, hardening like cooled steel. “And you’re too naive to see it.”

Her spine stiffened.

“As I told you before,” he went on, softer now but colder somehow, “I always had the best intentions toward you. Always. I’m sayin’ this as a friend, someone who's watched you two foolin' around like children, for him to hit the saloon and fancy some whore the same day he helps you into a cart.”

The words struck like a slap.

Before she could answer, before she could gather breath or fury or anything in between, he went on.

“Ask about lil’ Lucy,” he said, quieter now, like he was offering a kindness instead of driving a blade under her ribs. “That petite blonde always smokin’ on the balcony. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

He leaned in, and she caught the faint scent of tobacco, the crisp edge of his cologne. “I’d hate seein’ you sufferin’ again,” he murmured, almost sweet. “When you could just…”

A pause. A beat too close.

“…look in the right direction.”

And then, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just tried to slip poison under her skin, he dropped her parcels into the cart and touched the brim of his hat with a smile that didn’t reach anything near decent.

Then he was gone.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for the reins. Didn’t even blink.

Lucy.

It could’ve meant nothing. But his voice, God, the way he’d said it. She stared at the fabric in the cart. All it gave her was the echo of his voice, smug and thin and dripping false concern.

A part of her wanted to turn around. March after him and throw the words back in his smug face.

Another part, the quieter, more dangerous part-

She hadn’t meant to walk straight from the fabric store to the sheriff’s office, but somehow her boots had carried her there anyway.

Not for comfort.

Just for… well, she didn’t know what for. To confront him? To ask about something she had no right to even think about?

It could’ve been just another one of Rumlow’s lies. The man had a tongue like a snake and eyes that gleamed when they saw hurt coming. Stirring trouble with a whisper was probably how he fed himself.

And if she and Bucky really were courting -if this weren’t some stupid charade they cooked up over jam and damaged trees- maybe she’d have the right to be mad. Jealous. Hurt.

But they weren’t. Not really.

So should she ask? Could she?

She’d seen how some women in town looked at him. And she wasn’t blind, he was a man like any other, one who’d walked harder paths than most and likely taken comfort where he found it. The idea of knowing details about it, though? That made her stomach clench. She didn’t want to know. She really didn’t.

But if he was getting sloppy -if he was letting the mask slip while they played this game- then maybe he needed a reminder. Not for her sake. For the plan’s.

Still, the thought of it -him, being with some woman after walking her to her cart, after touching her hand, her waist, speaking softly like it mattered- bruised her chest in a way she hadn’t expected.

So, after too much pacing and too many second-guessings, she squared her shoulders and crossed the street stiff-legged, like she was stomping down the doubt with every step.

The town moved around her, same as ever. Someone’s horse whinnied near the stables. A pair of women passed her with quiet chatter and narrowed eyes.

The wood of the door gave a tired creak under her hand, and the warm smell of old paper and stronger coffee hit her nose like something familiar, damn it.

Inside, Sam leaned back in his chair with his boots up on the edge of the desk, whining about something. Bucky stood at the cabinet, holding a half-eaten roll, with a crease deep between his brows.

“-I said I’d bring you somethin’,” Bucky muttered, exasperated. “Didn’t mean I was gonna carry half the bakery in my coat.”

Sam gestured lazily with one hand. “You said lunch, not a crusty leftover like I’m your stray mutt.”

“You are a stray mutt.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the stray’s emotionally repressed cousin, so-”

The door thunked shut behind her.

Two pairs of eyes turned toward her. Sam’s stance didn’t falter, but Bucky’s whole body changed, his shoulders lifted, and his fingers pressed harder around the roll.

She hadn’t planned how she was going to do this. She never did when it came to him.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, lips curved into something polite. Her gaze stayed on Bucky. “Can I talk to you?”

Bucky blinked once, then again. Swallowed.

Sam stood, all mock offense melting into something more curious as he snagged his coat off the hook. “And that’s my cue,” he said, moving toward the door. “If y’all need sugar, flour, or the Lord’s forgiveness, I’m headed to the store.”

“Sugar,” she said calmly. “I’m out.”

Sam grinned widely. “Knew it. Deputy’s work is never done.”

He tipped an imaginary hat and slipped out, the door shutting with a final little thunk.

And then it was quiet.

She took a slow breath. Then looked right at Bucky.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” she said, voice even. “But figured, if we’re meant to be convincin’, I can’t just storm off after lunch without a word.”

He didn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw gave him away.

“There’s a man in town sayin’ he’s seen you,” she continued, stepping forward. “After we... spend time.”

That got him. His head jerked up, brows pulled together.

“Said you visit the saloon. Regular-like.”

He blinked. His mouth opened, then shut again.

She held his gaze, even if it nearly burned to do it. “I ain’t your keeper, Bucky. Lord knows I ain’t got the right to dictate how you spend your evenings, and I don’t want details,” she said quickly. “Don’t want names or stories or nothin’. It ain’t really my business. But if folks are watchin’, and you’re makin’ rounds that don’t match the story we’re tellin’, maybe you should be more careful when takin’ a stroll.”

Still, nothing.

She crossed her arms. “Just thought you should know. And, the one-”

He licked his bottom lip. Voice low. “Who said it?”

“I was going to get there when you asked. The one who said it was Rumlow.”

And that was it.

His whole body language changed. His eyes narrowed, his free hand closed into a fist.

“Said I should ask you ‘bout ‘little Lucy” she cast her eyes down. Damn. She wasn’t planning on telling him that part.

His body stilled like a trap had just been sprung. The muscles in his jaw ticked once, twice, silent, tight fury winded through his frame.

“Did he, now,” Bucky said, voice flat as a dead road.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her arms stayed crossed over her chest, like she was bracing for something that hadn’t hit yet but sure as hell would.

He stared at nothing, his jaw working slowly like he was biting on a nail. “Lucy ain’t a name I’ve heard in months,” he said finally, rubbing his thumb hard along the desk’s edge. Like he meant to sand something down that wouldn’t smooth. “She was never-” he stopped. Shook his head once, sharply. “She ain’t important.”

“It’s alright…” she tried to shrug it off. “ain’t as naïve as you think I am, Sheriff. We ain’t nothin’. I know you’re a man. And as a man, you got certain-”

“I don’t want Lucy,” he cut her, quiet but clear. “Ain’t wanted her. Ain’t thought of her. Not once since the day I fucked her after reachin’ town.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t go touchin’ a woman after walkin’ beside you.”

She swallowed, and her arms dropped slowly to her sides.

“Yes, we are pretendin’,” he said. “But I’ll be damned if I ever let you think I’d treat you like that. Be that kind of man.”

He almost spilled all out. That she’d taken up space in his mind longer than he’d ever admit, twining through his hollowed spaces of like ivy creeping over ruin. That ever since the day she pressed a damp cloth to his fevered skin, she’d been undoing something in him he didn’t know how to hold together. That he wanted her, not politely, not like a neighbor tipping his hat.

But it wasn’t the time to exploit her vulnerability, with all that’s been happening to her, and he was sure as hell she deserved better than him.

So he bit down on it. Let it rot on his tongue.

A long silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid things.

“Alright,” she murmured at last. “Um- I just wanted… to tell you what he said, that’s all.”

She tried to sound casual, but the relief was stupid and obvious. Like some foolish part of her had needed to hear he hadn’t been out bedding a whore.

He cleared his throat. “Well. Seems our little game’s workin’, then,” he muttered. “If that snake’s feelin’ bold enough to show his teeth.”

The room felt smaller than it had a minute ago.

“Yeah… seems so.” She managed to say. The silence stretched. Her hands smoothed down the front of her skirt like she needed something to do. “I should go,” she said, glancing toward the door. “Before the sun drops too low.”

He gave a small nod, and she turned around, boots soft on the boards, reaching for the handle, but she didn’t make it that far.

The sound of his boots moved behind her, fast and quiet. Not a hand on her, not a word. But suddenly he was there, close. Too close. One palm pressed to the wood beside her head, the other, closing slowly around the knob, stopping her short. His chest hovered just behind her back, radiating heat.

And she felt him.

The scent of his body. Then his breath brushing a loose strand of hair near her cheek.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The world shrank to the space between them.

His jaw ticked once beside her ear. She heard it. Felt it.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

Seconds passed, slow and charged, until he exhaled hard through his nose, cursed softly under his breath, and let go of the handle.

He reached around her, opened the door, and stared somewhere past her shoulder as the wind cut in.

“Safe travel,” he muttered.

“Thank you.” She stepped out, heartbeat loud in her ears.

He watched her go. Stood in the doorway until she reached the cart. Only then did he shut the door. Then, he leaned his forehead against the wood and didn’t move for a long, long time.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @pandaxnienke @whitewolfluvr @webbedwonders @ddrewcameron @globetrotter28 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @maryevm @nojudgmentjustsupport @jaderabbitt @hi172826 @littlesuniee @lonelyghosts-stuff @vxllys @mrsalexstan @winter107soldier @muchwita @gentlelimerence @gotminho @alaskaloveposts @oldernotwiser26 @daylighthazzz @dollface-xoxo @danzer8705 @ana27qz @carrotlove @valyriantarg @mgchaser @kittieboo @buckysbbydoll @purplefluffycows @yes-ilovetowrite @greatenthusiasttidalwave @technicallytinyheart @y0urgrl @wintrsoldrluvr @neyr100 @shortlikerdj @alexfms97 @escapefromrealitylol @thedonswife13 @stop-stealing-the-good-usernames @identity2212 @unicornqueen05 @bakugouswh0r3

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[fallintower]

i still get notes on this post from people liking and reblogging it and every time i do i feel like the guy from the end of the usual suspects after he realizes that he has totally and utterly fallen for an elaborate ruse. not only was i a victim of Tony's Trick but i also went so far as to make this image, unwittingly spreading the wrong memetic idea even further than it already had. pluey was never a "who". we'd been asking the wrong question the entire goddamn time. as soon as i realized that, as soon as i put it together that they had given us the detail to let us figure out what pluey really was during the sweepstakes silence ending event, i considered making a big long theory post about it, but i decided against it, assuming that someone else would realize. that someone else would notice it and make a post or a video or something and spread the word. well if anybody ever did, i didnt see it. ive seen joker memes. ive seen people pointing out that jongler had been mentioned in the game itself before. but i have seen not a SINGLE mention of the same reasoning i went through ANYWHERE online. and now its too late. in just two days now we will all know The Truth About Pluey for certain. we will know whether image_friend is a french cat or not. and im terrified that i might be right. i might have been right, and i stayed silent. im terrified that everyone will know theyve been had, and that i will have had a part to play in it. through my silly little goofy guy art, and through my silence. i played right into his hands. god damn you toby fox

alright everybody lets see those Pluey designs

[jesuistrestriste]

more art x milf reader! we all say in unison 🙇‍♀️

cw (18+) : needy!art donaldson, milf!reader, jealousy, masturbation, mention of alcohol/intoxication, pillow humping, mommy kink

it was usually hard to tell if she was flirting with him or just being her usual, saccharine-sweet self. whenever he and her would converse, a generally rare and heaven-sent occasion, he’d pay careful attention to her appearance and the little details she seemed to keep consistent each time; deep mauve lipstick perfectly slicked to her pout, freshly manicured nails, low rise jeans that hugged her curves in a way that made his stomach fizzle and flood with heat.

right after the most recent match on campus, he’d been granted another opportunity to have a full, lengthy discussion with her. he was absolutely dripping with salty sweat and panting like a dog, but she didn’t seem to mind too much at the time—batting her lashes and patting the seat next to her to invite him closer. he had wiped at his damp brow when they began to talk, pulling at his collar afterwards (burning up from the inside out), and then made sure that he was smiling at all of the right times as he listened to her speak. he tried his hardest to focus on the words leaving her mouth: tennis player.. thrilling match point.. congratulations.. you’re a star. the nervous laugh that clogged his throat when he registered her praising sentiment only caused his cheeks to flare a deeper shade of pink, and his fingers reflexively squeezed the metal edge of the bleachers underneath him. she’d smiled in return and only doubled-down on her compliments then. he just had to sit there and take it, fidgeting and folding his legs into different positions to try to hide the swell of his desire. it was a mess of an interaction, and art was well-aware how embarrassing it was for him to be acting like a teenage boy in front of such a sophisticated, charming, yet down-to-earth older woman, but he sincerely could not help himself. it was impossible to stay sane in her presence.

the universe gifted him a couple more similar interactions with her in the following month, and this only worked to solidify his (wildly inappropriate) obsession. he’d go to class and think about her bubbly laughter, he’d eat in the dining hall and forget to chew when thoughts of her mouth infected his mind, and he’d even started to lose himself in her image when he was playing tennis—which, for him, was incredibly damning. tennis was usually a healthy distraction, a coping mechanism, as it rarely allowed him to get lost in irrelevant ideas. his head was almost always in the game. so, when he was in the middle of a practice singles match with another stanford player one evening and missed a shot because a flash of her thighs rendered him boneless and swallowing a whimper, he knew he had a real problem.

masturbation didn’t even help.

not in the slightest.

he jerked off in the showers regularly, fisting his aching, angry cock with urgency as he pressed his forehead into the tile wall and moaned her name into the running water. he’d buck his hips to gain friction against his palm when he orgasmed, clapping his free hand over his mouth to stifle his repetitive mewling, and then would watch as his wasted load swirled down the drain.

it was all very routine. it usually was a temporary solution to the desperate and persistent yearning he felt during every agonizing minute of every torturous day. more broadly, it was just hard to ignore the reality that he’d never been so horny in his entire life—and it was all because of her, though he could never truly blame her beauty. his perverse nature was the real culprit.

the only time that he’d successfully been able to get off and get over her for longer than an hour happened when he came back to his dorm room after a party thrown by a handful of the other members of the tennis team. he’d gotten drunk on beer and cheap shots, egregiously so, but still found himself stumbling into his room with half of an erection bulging in the front of his pants. as he kicked off his shoes and peeled off his bottoms, he recalled what one of his teammates had said about her in the middle of the function—

“she’s so fucking hot, isn’t she? i mean, shit, i’d do anything to fuck her.”

art had never considered himself a violently jealous person, but in that very moment at the party something ugly had reared its head and he’d wanted nothing more than to put his fist to the guy’s teeth until his own knuckles cracked and bled. the guy had never even talked to her before, whereas it could be argued that art and her were almost friends. if anyone deserved to squeeze her plush tits and slide their unworthy dick into her perfect pussy, it was him. he ended up having to walk away from that cesspool of locker-room talk in order to avoid starting something that would surely land him in hot water with the university.

he took off his shirt and dropped it down onto his floor to meet his other garments as he staggered deeper into his cramped living space, crawling up to lay on his twin xl. his hand was immediately in his boxers in the next moment, fondling his warm flesh as it swelled hungrily in his touch, and he groaned and shuddered as he felt his head spin wildly. art then turned to flip himself gracelessly over onto his stomach, limbs moving uncoordinatedly with each brief shift of his weight. his jaw slacked and he gasped pathetically into his sheets as he humped his curled set of digits. though, when he blinked his eyes open blearily, his wasted brain formed a filthy idea..

“ohhh, fuck me,” he whimpered, shoving a pillow from the top of his mattress between his legs, his pelvis arching back only to rut forward and smush his clothed shaft into the cushion, “i’m all yours.. please, use m’cock.. don’t take anyone else’s, i wan’ be the only one—!”

he slurred through every lewd word that left his mouth. his abdomen curled and tensed as he began to feverishly hump the softness under him, his cock throbbing with incoming drizzles of pleasure. he clawed at his bedding like he was some sort of drooling, snarling, chained-up monstrosity. felt like one too with all of the arousal paralyzing his frame. every cell in his being was on fire with the debilitating need to be nestled in her sopping cunt, hugged by her slick walls and pleasing her any way that he was able. he imagined sucking on her nipples until she pulled his hair.. her soft tongue on the seam of his sack.. her fingers at the back of his throat, fluttering and giving him something to worship as he pounded up into her. his thrusts quickened to sync with the rapid beating of his heart in his ribcage. he was so close that he almost felt sick with it all.

art's noises raised in pitch and volume with every second; everything was boiling over in record time.

“oh no—“ he drunkenly choked and moaned, teetering on the edge, “mommy, i’m gonna come inside you—i’m, i’m so—it feels s’good, i can’t hol’ it anymore—please don’t b’mad, i really like y—HAAH—“

he pushed himself up onto his palms and let out a strangled, wet cry as he suddenly felt the world close in on him. head tipped back, toes curled, muscles flexed. white flashes erupted behind his low lids, something hot gushing copiously from his tip and into his underwear.. over and over and over and over again. a final curse flew from his lips as his climax wrapped its arms around his body and flooded him with the last bits of boiling gratification—so much so that it was almost numbing. his hips moved jerkily through the lingering sensations; they snapped downward several times until the spilling of fluids ceased and was only replaced by the feeling of all-consuming oversensitivity. art quaked from his head down to his toes, squirming and hiccuping against the stimulation that only he could save himself from.

when he finally collapsed into a panting heap, the fantasy of her core wringing him dry starting to fade out, he'd sucked at his bottom lip and let out the tiniest of whines.

“mommy.. mommy, mommy, mommy..”

he whimpered it until he fell asleep.

tags : @voidsuites @asheepinfrance @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @andyrambles @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist

[fic-girlie]

Can you write something about Tommy talking to Joel about reader, about how beautiful and hot she is and how she must be something else in bed. Joel gets all defensive and kinda angry/jealous at Tommy's words because he is secretly in love with reader. Tommy notices and teases him about it, telling him how he should act on it if he wants her and stop being a miserable old man lol

Say it, Joel

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: A few teasing words from Tommy push Joel's jealousy to the surface—and force him to finally admit what he's been feeling for you all along. Warnings: fluff, slow-burn, Tommy teasing Joel, protective Joel, sweetness

The midday sun filters through the dusty blinds of the workshop, casting long stripes of gold across the workbench where Tommy leans back, arms crossed and that damn smirk playing on his face. You’re outside somewhere—probably helping Maria with the garden beds or handing off soup to the older folks down by the hall—and the faint sound of your laughter drifts in through the open window like a hook dragging right through Joel’s ribs.

“You ever notice how good she looks in those jeans?” Tommy says, breaking the silence with a lazy grin, the kind that always means trouble. “I mean, c’mon, Joel. Woman like that? Hell of a distraction around here.”

Joel doesn’t look up from the mess of tools he’s organizing, but his jaw clenches tight enough to ache. He knows where this is going. Knows his brother well enough to recognize the start of a long, needling poke. He grunts instead of answering, but Tommy—like always—presses anyway.

“Beautiful as hell,” he continues, almost thoughtfully now, as if he’s just observing facts. “Real sweet smile. And that body? Lord. Bet she’s somethin’ else in bed.”

That does it.

Joel straightens abruptly, a wrench in his hand like it might do something to help with the sudden flare of heat in his chest. Not the kind of heat you want. Not the kind that’s welcome. It’s molten, ugly, jealous. And it rises quick, curling tight around his throat.

“You mind not talkin’ about her like that?” he snaps, voice low and taut like a wire pulled too tight. His eyes finally lift to meet Tommy’s, dark and stormy. “Ain’t your business.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows in mock surprise, like he didn’t just deliberately shove a stick in a bear’s den.

“Jesus, calm down,” he says with a laugh, hands lifted in faux surrender. “Didn’t realize she was off-limits.”

“She ain’t…” Joel trails off, then mutters, “She’s just—she ain’t like that.”

Tommy watches him for a beat, then leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, still grinning but softer now. More knowing. That kind of grin that’s less about teasing and more about pulling the truth out where it’s been buried.

“Ohhh,” he says slowly, and Joel hates the way he draws it out, like the dawning of a secret. “You’re in love with her.”

Joel glares, the look sharp enough to slice skin, but it doesn’t hit the mark. Tommy’s already laughing, low and delighted like a dog who’s finally dug up the bone he’s been sniffing after.

“You are,” he says again, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s why you’re all grumbly and pissy every time someone mentions her. Goddamn, Joel, how long you been sittin’ on that one?”

“Shut up.”

Tommy just keeps grinning. “Nah. Nah, this is good. You need to hear this. I mean, you’ve been walking around like your boots are full of wet gravel every time she ain’t near you. It’s pathetic.”

Joel turns away, jaw clenched so hard he hears it pop. He busies his hands again with the wrench, turning it uselessly in his grip.

Tommy leans back and shakes his head. “You oughta do somethin’ about it. Tell her. Ask her to dinner. Hell, just say somethin’ more than your usual ‘mm-hmm’ and grimace combo. You know she looks at you like she sees right through all that tough shit, right?”

Joel doesn’t answer. He can’t. The truth of it sticks in his throat. Because yeah, he’s thought about it. More than he should. He’s memorized the curve of your smile, the way your hand lingers when you pass him something, the way you laugh at his dry jokes like they’re worth gold. He knows your laugh. Your scent. The way your eyes find him in a crowd like you’re searching for some unspoken comfort only he can give.

And he’s tried—God, he’s tried—not to let it take root. Not when the world is still broken. Not when he’s still broken. But it’s there. It’s deep. It’s old. A steady ache that sits beside his guilt and his fear, warming the edges even when it hurts like hell.

Tommy must see something in his silence because his voice shifts—loses the edge, gains something almost like softness.

“You think she don’t feel it too?” he asks quietly. “Joel, you ain’t as invisible as you think. She lights up when you walk into a room. Always finds her way back to you.”

Joel swallows hard. “It ain’t that simple.”

Tommy gives him a long look. “Nothin’ ever is. But you wait too long, she’s gonna think you don’t want her. Or worse—think you’re not capable of wantin’ anything anymore.”

Joel looks up at that, sharply. Tommy just shrugs. “All I’m sayin’ is, if you want her, stop bein’ a miserable old bastard and do somethin’. ‘Cause I ain’t gonna stop noticing how hot she is just ‘cause you can’t speak up.”

Joel growls low in his throat, but there’s no real anger in it now—just tension. Heat. A warning. Tommy knows better than to push more today.

“Fine, fine,” he says, laughing again as he stands and stretches. “I’ll leave it alone. For now.”

He claps Joel on the shoulder, hard and brotherly. “But if I see her first, I’m tellin’ her you’ve been pining like a schoolboy for the last six months.”

The workshop door creaks shut behind Tommy, and it takes a few minutes for the silence to settle again, thick and humming with what’s just been said. You don’t know that your name just passed between brothers like a lit match, don’t know that Joel’s hands are still clenching around a wrench that doesn’t need tightening. Doesn’t know that the sound of your voice—just barely carrying on the breeze from outside—makes him feel like someone’s peeled him open, raw and too visible.

He shouldn’t let Tommy get to him. Should’ve brushed it off. Should’ve rolled his eyes, thrown back a comment, maybe even laughed, if he were the kind of man who could do that anymore. But the second Tommy started talking about you—about your body, about your laugh, about what you might be like in the quiet dark of a bedroom—something inside him coiled tight and snapped.

Because Joel knows.

Not because he’s touched you—not because he’s dared that much—but because he’s thought about it more times than he’ll ever admit. The things he’d never say out loud, not even to himself at night. The way your eyes drop to his mouth sometimes when he talks. How your hand lingers a little too long when you pass him a plate or a folded jacket or a pair of gloves. The way you lean into him when you’re standing close, like it’s natural. Like you’re drawn to his gravity and you don’t even realize it.

He hears you again—closer now—and the wrench is back on the table before he even realizes he’s moving. Wipes his hands on the rag hanging from his belt, breath steadying. He knows he can’t face you yet. Not while his pulse is still thumping heavy with the aftershock of jealousy, his skin still warm from the thought of someone else touching you—someone who isn’t him.

He paces the far side of the room like it’ll help. Like he can walk the wanting out of his system. But it’s no good. All he sees is you—your hands in the dirt, the stretch of your back when you reach for something, the way your mouth curls when you laugh at something only halfway funny. He hates that it’s Tommy who said it, but he isn’t wrong.

You are beautiful. And it does something to him that he can’t control.

What scares him more than anything is how easy it would be to let it happen. To take a step toward you, close the space, let his hand brush yours, see if you hold on. Ask you to dinner. Ask you to walk with him when the streets are quiet and the sky’s gone purple. He could do that. He wants to.

But he’s Joel Miller.

And Joel Miller ruins things.

Still, Tommy’s words needle in deep.

She lights up when you walk in. Always finds her way back to you.

Is that true? Or is that just another cruel little hope, born from loneliness and softness and too many damn quiet nights with no one to hold?

There’s a sound near the window, a shuffle of boots on gravel, and then your voice again—closer now, just on the other side of the wall. Talking to someone. Laughing. And for a second, he lets himself go still. Just listens.

It’s unfair how much peace your voice brings him. Like warmth in his chest, like the sun finally hitting skin after too long in the cold. And God, he wants to be close to that. He wants to give you something in return. Something soft. Something real.

But Tommy’s right—he’s been a miserable old bastard for too long. Walking around like life’s already over, like he doesn’t still have breath left to spend on someone. On you.

His fingers twitch by his side.

Maybe it’s not too late.

Maybe if he stepped outside, right now, walked up to you and said something honest—something real, not gruff or half-swallowed—he could start something. Maybe you’d smile up at him with that little tilt to your head like you always do. Maybe you’d say yes.

Maybe all this wanting wouldn’t just have to stay locked up behind his teeth.

The door creaks again as he reaches for it—hand on the handle, heart beating a little too fast for a man who’s faced worse things than love.

But this?

You?

That’s the bravest thing he’s ever considered doing.

And if Tommy’s right—and you’re out there lighting up at the sight of him, searching for him in the crowd—then maybe it’s time to stop hiding behind grief and age and guilt. Time to stop being the man who watches the fire from a distance.

Maybe he gets to feel warm again.

And maybe, just maybe, that warmth has your name on it.

——

The light outside hits your eyes first—soft gold, late afternoon, the kind of warmth that slides against skin and makes everything feel a little more forgiving. You’re standing there just off the porch, arms crossed against the breeze, head tilted like you’re listening to something intently. Joel freezes in the doorway before you notice him, caught for a second in the sight of you like a man coming up for air after being too long underwater.

He hadn’t meant to look at you like this—like he’s starving—but God help him, he can’t stop.

There’s dirt smudged on your hands from the garden, a streak of it across your cheek where you must’ve wiped sweat without thinking. Your lips are slightly parted, eyes bright even in the shade of the trees. And when you turn your head and spot him, that smile appears—slow and easy, like it was waiting just for him.

And suddenly, everything Tommy said stirs up again in Joel’s gut like a fire that hasn’t quite gone out.

How the hell are you not all over her? Look at her, Joel. You’re not blind. You’re just scared.

You don’t say anything right away—just give him that look. That look that softens your whole face when he’s around, that look that makes him feel like maybe he’s not a ruin of a man after all.

“Hey,” you say, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And maybe it is for you. But not for him. For him, every word feels like it scrapes his throat on the way out. “Didn’t think I’d catch you outside before dinner.”

Joel nods, slow. He steps down off the porch, hands in his jacket pockets, trying to seem casual. Like his pulse isn’t thudding stupidly. “Had some… things on my mind.”

You cock your head, watching him. “Everything alright?”

And he should lie. He should nod, grunt, say it’s nothing, like he always does.

But something in him cracks. Maybe it’s your voice. Maybe it’s the sun catching your hair just so. Maybe it’s Tommy’s voice in his ear still, teasing, goading, daring him to stop being such a damn coward.

He huffs a dry, humorless sound. “Tommy was runnin’ his mouth.”

You laugh softly. “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.”

Joel looks at you then—really looks. And it’s dangerous. Because his face softens without permission, because you’re too close and the air smells like you and dirt and sun. “Was talkin’ about you.”

Your brows raise slightly, but you don’t step back. If anything, you shift closer, eyes narrowing a little with interest. “Oh yeah? What about me?”

Joel tenses his jaw, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. He thinks of Tommy’s words.

She’s gotta be somethin’ else in bed.

The way his brother grinned when he said it. The heat that crawled up Joel’s neck, the way his hands balled into fists like some jealous schoolboy. He remembers that flash of protectiveness, of possessiveness. Like your name didn’t belong in anyone’s mouth but his.

“Talkin’ shit, mostly,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to the gravel. “Sayin’ how you’re beautiful. Hot. How you must be…” He trails off, biting the inside of his cheek.

Your gaze sharpens, and you say nothing for a beat.

Then, carefully, “And you didn’t like that.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Soft, edged with understanding. And suddenly Joel feels seen in a way he hasn’t in years.

He shifts on his feet, breath heavy in his chest. “No. I didn’t.”

You step forward—closer now, within arm’s reach—and he feels your presence like a gravitational pull. “Why?”

Goddamn.

This is the moment. The one he’s been running from for weeks, maybe months. The answer is right there, pulsing in his throat. Because he wants you. Because it drives him damn near insane to think about anyone else touching you. Because every time you laugh at his stupid muttered jokes, or brush his arm, or look at him like he’s something worth staying close to—it kills him not to reach out and claim it.

His jaw flexes. He forces himself to meet your eyes. “Because I… care about you. More than I should.”

You go quiet. No teasing. No playing dumb. Just stillness, as the words hang between you.

Joel exhales, like it physically hurt to let that out. “And I know I ain’t got the right. I know I ain’t good for much. But I look at you, and it’s like somethin’ in me wakes up again. And when he said those things, it made me want to knock his damn teeth in.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

Then your voice, soft and steady: “You could’ve just told me.”

His heart stutters. “Would you have believed me?”

You smile—slow, warm, a little sad. “You really think I’d be hovering around your workshop, bringing you coffee every other day, if I wasn’t hoping you’d eventually notice?”

Joel blinks.

And you laugh under your breath, stepping even closer now, close enough he can see the little line between your brows, the hope shimmering just behind your eyes. “Of course I wanted you to notice, Joel.”

You reach out—your fingers brushing his jacket, tentative but sure—and that small, simple touch damn near undoes him.

He swallows hard. “You sure about this?”

“I’ve been sure,” you say. “You’re the one who’s been slow.”

And then—finally—he lets himself smile. Just a little. A private, crooked thing like maybe—for once—he’s not too late.

Maybe he was always what you were waiting for.

And this time, he doesn’t walk away.

[omniphilic]

WAIT MARK ACCIDENTALLY KNOCKING YOU UP???, (from the last bit of the other ask) I just got to know how that would play out because omg 😭😭😭

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀18+ content below / MDNI tw: pregnancy stuff, baby stuff, medical intervention (it's reader's choice), angst ig?? but also a little fluffy

You see, if you were the responsible, reasonable, rational individual you should have been, you wouldn’t have let this boy in your bed in the first damn place.

But you did. And at first, you had sense. As much as you can have granted, you are fucking around with your daughter’s boyfriend.

Rule number one: Condoms always. If he's not wrapping, he's not tapping.

Rule number two: He can't linger afterward for too long. He needs to be gone before Amber is even thinking about coming home, and if he's planning to spend time with her then he's not supposed to be thinking about you.

Rule number three: No kissing.

"What?" He said to you, the exasperation on him audacious. "What do you mean no kissing? That's like, the best part?" He's crawling atop you as if he's the kind of boy that breaks rules and you have to be firm, place your hand on his chest and give him the spray bottle.

"No Mark," you shake your head and the boy wilts. "It's too personal. I don't need you falling in love with me or some nonsense like that." It's already too late for that, but he doesn't correct you. "We're already," he gesticulates, finger-in-hole, "You know? That seems plenty personal to me already, so what's a little kiss?" He says with that lilt he does when he's trying to convince you, his finger tucked under your chin to lift. "C'mon," he goads, lips puckered as he leans into you. "Just humor me?" You're not laughing as you place a finger over his lips and push him back. "Aww... not even a little one?" You scoff.

"There are other lips you could be kissing right now." He shrugs in concession. "You right." And between your thighs he goes.

He always was great at wearing you down though, he got into your bed after all.

Mark Grayson breaks your rules because as it turns out he’s not a very good boy at all. He weakens your defenses—warming you up to the idea, he lies—undressing you, starting from the bottom and going up.

He hides orgasms behind paywalls, if you really want to cum as bad as you mewl, then you'll give him a kiss right? It's like a reward, he persuades, for all his hard work. If he’s making you feel sooo good, show him how good, as if your crossed eyes and his fucked up back don't speak for themselves. You want to rationalize it's just "whatever" when you two are tongue kissing on the bed; considering you've already fucked him, which now makes sense in a way it never had before. Your reservations turned to hoops and hurdles, mere obstacles in your race to completion. It doesn't help that Mark comes pre-equipped with justifications as well, ever eager to whittle your boundaries away with those soft brown puppy-dog eyes.

He starts being messy with his entrances and exits. He can start the day in Amber's arms but still somehow in your bed at night, holding you still as the post-orgasm exhaustion sets in, eyelids and limbs leadened, skin tacky with sweat and... other things.

So eventually, it makes sense that you stick your hand up when he pulls out the dreaded condom, waving it away.

"Just put it in, Mark."

And what kind of man would he be if he didn't oblige?

(Assuming you don't have your tubes tied.)

Arguably letting that boy into your bed was the dumbest decision you've ever made in your life. The second was letting him hit it raw. In most cases birth control would have all your bases covered. But this is not one such instance.

You don't know he's a Viltrumite. Which probably needn't be disclosed if you two maintained a more appropriate relationship with the other--but I digress.

You guys haven't seen each other since you've last had sex, and that was about... four weeks ago. Your birth control has been effective with other partners, so you didn't anticipate any issues. Couldn't have, in your stubborn mind, because it was easier to evade the guilt by not thinking about it; however, it is much harder to brush off when you feel that telltale rise of bile in your throat some early morning, a dizzying nausea gripping your stomach and pulling your heart down into it.

Clearblue, Pregnate and Nautilus all come out positive and by the end of it you're sitting on the toilet, wiping hysterical tears from the corners of your eyes as you're frantically flipping through contacts, trying to call Mark. You hesitate. Should you even? He's too young to be a father and he's still dating your daughter. Maybe it's better if he just doesn't know.

If You Tell Him, but you're not keeping it:

He's appalled, ecstatic and terrified all at once. He's fully prepared to commit to supporting you (in whatever ways he can) too, which is what concerned you the most. He doesn't have the time to spare to care for a kid, and you weren't exactly looking to give Amber a sibling at any point. So, you do the reasonable, actionable thing, and terminate the pregnancy.

Mark is devastated in a way he never expected to be. So are you, in a way. You wonder what could have been, almost, then dash the thought.

You're doing the smart, actionable thing. You tell yourself that whenever you feel your stomach turn, the hormones fogging up your reality, forcing tears to your eyes.

You probably stop seeing each other around that time. You realize sneaking around isn't worth the headache or heart attack. Mark is upset about it reflexively, but you drew your line in the sand, and he'd be one to respect that. If you don't tell him, you still break it off anyway.

You Get Pregnant and Keep It:

Maybe it's a bad case of baby fever that seduced you into your second bout with motherhood. Whatever the case may be, Amber is gonna have a baby sister soon! She's excited at first. Then grossed out. "...ewwwww, Mom..."

"Listen, you asked about my belly bump first. As far as I'm concerned, this TMI is all your fault."

Mark is just as frightened as he is aroused by the idea. He likes the way you look laid up and relaxed, how you're a little more helpless, crawling all over him for things. He thinks it's cute when you're needy.

You get really horny, too. It's really fun for you though, cause as bad of a boy that Mark Grayson is, he's at least a gentleman.

He'd visit more often, though his behavior/attitude towards the pregnancy changes depending on how he learns about it. Amber's attitude about little sibling changes depending on who the parent looks like.

What if you don't tell him, but the child looks like him completely? You had a hookup, and maybe it just sort of happened on accident. Or that's what you say, whether you're telling the truth or a lie is for you to know.

But you gave birth to a twin. From his cute brown eyes, to his nose, to the jet-black hair. They even have the same beauty marks. Amber keeps giving her odd looks in the crib. She seemed so familiar, but Amber could never quite place it.

But she's showing her off to whoever she can find, posts about it on her socials. Mark goes to see the baby in person as soon as he can and... he knows that's his kid.

It kind of makes him feel odd, like he's gone back in time and plopped himself in this crib. He feels like he should be panicking, sweating shaking, crying. But he just... holds her.

It's not going to be easy, but maybe not terrible? Of course, his relationship with Amber will end, your daughter is going up and it becomes an unignorable and uncanny resemblance.

Don't even mention when her powers start to come in.

She'd will put two and two together, eventually. Say goodbye to your daughter. Probably most of your friends?

But at least you have Mark, right? Whenever he's not saving the world, you guess.

But he really does love you <3 Though, I think it would be your mortality that saddens him. You're too soft, too sweet for his life. He'd just die if anyone got their hands on you.

Overprotective as shit as a partner, though. He's a sweet little golden retriever up until he sees someone eyeing you up and then he's just in go mode dude. Anybody who steps to him is getting thrown over the bar.

But,,, no Amber. Your daughter hates you. Forever. Would probably keep in contact with her sister, and eventually she's gonna know the truth of her birth. Who knows if she'll want to talk to you after?

But you made your bed, and Mark chose to lie in it.

[bumblebeeonthistle]

Truth or dare

Tags: Fluff, crack, shenanigans, reverse-harem, teen romance, secret identity.

Summary: You're a girl disguised as a boy, with the alias ‘Ryo’, in order to join Bofurin. You got hurt after your fight with KEEL, but luckily, no one discovered your secret. Now, however, you're all having a sleepover at Kiryu's and he wants to play truth or dare.

You think you might have a heart attack.

And you’re only in your mid-teens, for God’s sake. Aren’t heart attacks supposed to be something old people get?

But then again, how else would you explain your racing heart and the feeling of your skin being on fire? 

You’re currently siting on Kiryu’s bed, hands slapped over your face and eyes closed so tightly that the muscles around them are beginning to hurt, wishing that you could erase the images burned into your retinas.

But alas, you don’t think that’s possible. Oh gosh, you’re gonna die. Die from embarrassment. 

Because as soon as you had all settled into Kiryu’s room, all the boys had proceeded to strip, right in front of you. 

Forget that thing about not being embarrassed about sleeping in the same room as all your guy friends. You severely underestimated yourself because there’s no denying it: You’re way beyond embarrassed.

���Are you alright, Ryo-san?” Nirei asks anxiously. “Does it hurt somewhere? Should we go back to the hospital?”

“No no,” you reassure him, although your voice still sounds way too high-pitched to be natural. “I’m fine. All good.”

“Are you sure?” Suo asks, voice laced with worry. You dare to peek through your fingers, but regret it immediately afterwards when you see Suo nonchalantly pulling off his shirt, revealing a very…toned stomach.

Seriously, you think you might just die now.

You thought this would be the same as when you have sleepovers with your brother. But no. For some reason, this is very different.

“Ryo-kun, are you sure you’re alright?” Suo places a hand on your shoulder, and you want to slap yourself for not being able to get even a single word out. “Maybe, you’ll feel better after changing into pyjamas and lying down for a bit.”

“Ryo-san, you have to tell us if you’re feeling unwell!” Nirei says sternly.

“Yeah, cut the bullshit,” Sakura – who, bless him, still has his clothes on since he’ll be going home later – growls from beside you.

“Yes, even if your virtue is to be strong for your comrades, it’s also important to admit when you’re hurt!” Tsugeura bellows as he places his hands on his hips, standing before you in nothing but his boxers.

Oh, why can’t he just put on some God damn clothes, you think desperately as you try to control your breathing.

“Oh shit, he’s hyperventilating!”

“Do we have a bag somewhere?”

“What, that’s actually a thing?!”

“Yeah, it’s because you’re exhaling all of your CO2 which causes cerebral vasoconstriction, so if you breathe in a bag, it helps with--”

“Please spare us the lengthy details Nire-kun.”

Shortly after, a plastic bag is shoved into your hands.

Well, might as well give it a try, you think as you begin breathing into the bag.

In, out, in out, in out.

And lo and behold, it does help with the growing dizziness and tingling in your fingertips.

“It’s perfectly normal to feel like this after everything that happened,” Suo tells you as he rubs soothing circles on your back.

You don’t correct the assumption that you’re having a panic attack because of the fight with KEEL, and not because you’re in a room full of half-naked boys.

And just as you’ve finally gotten some control over your breathing, Kiryu just has to ruin it all for you again by coming out of the showers…in nothing but a towel.

Really, what happened to modesty?

But then again, you guess it’s not that uncommon for boys to be able to be naked together without being weird about it. Like, didn’t you do that kind of stuff when you went to onsens and such?

Not that you’ve ever tried it. And you beg to whatever Gods are out there that your friends will never, ever get the idea to organize a hangout at an onsen.

When you’re all in pyjamas (you fled to Kiryu’s bathroom to change once he had finished up), you sit down in a circle, per Kiryu’s request.

“So, what’s the point of this, Kiryu-kun?” Tsugeura asks curiously, looking around the room as if he’s waiting for something to happen.

“Now,” Kiryu says excitedly, clapping his hands together, “we play a game!”

“A game?!”

“Hm,” Kiryu nods confirmatively, “we’re gonna play ‘Truth or dare’!”

“Huh?!”

“Isn’t that a game for kids? Or like, teenage girls?” Suo asks, frowning slightly.

“Who says boys can’t do what girls do? Or vice versa?” Kiryu lifts his eyebrows, challenging someone to disagree with this statement.

Nobody does.

“Well, it’s settled then! I’ll start by spinning this bottle,” he fishes out an empty Ramune glass bottle from his bag and places it in the centre of your circle. “And whoever it lands on must either answer one of my questions truthfully or do a dare that I decide.”

“Alright, that sounds simple enough,” Tsugeura shrugs.

“Sounds stupid,” Sakura mumbles, glaring at the bottle as if it’s containing an explosive instead of the sticky remains of blue soda.

“Can I add a rule?” Nirei says, hand raised. “No unreasonable questions or dares. And if there’s something you reallydon’t want to answer or do, you don’t have to.”

“Hm, I guess that would be fair,” Kiryu admits, although he pouts disappointedly when he says it.

“Is something wrong, Ryo-kun?” Suo asks. He’s noticed that you’ve been awfully quiet ever since Kiryu suggested that you play this game.

“Well, I just don’t really like this game,” you mumble. “Last time I played with some kids from the orphanage, they asked me to eat dirt. And jump out the window from fourth floor. And hold my hand over the stove for as long as--”

“Okay, we promise that we won’t ask you to hurt yourself!” Nirei hurries to reassure you. Your four friends are all looking at each other, then at you, stricken. They didn’t expect you to suddenly trauma dump them.

“Okay, we could also play ‘Never have I ever’?” Kiryu suggests, but you shake your head.

“No no, it’s alright. I want to try this.”

“Okay. But we can stop anytime you want.”

And with that, Kiryu spins the bottle. You all watch, mesmerized, as the bottle spins and spins and spins before finally slowing down and landing on…

“Nire-chan!”

“…oh no.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Uhm, uhm, uhm…”

“No need to overthink it!”

“Right, right…uhm, I’m gonna go with truth.”

“Did you actually think that horrible purple shirt you wore on our first day of school was cool?”

“…”

“Pffft!”

“That’s what you wanted to ask me?” Nirei splutters while the rest you snicker.

“Well, did you?” Kiryu persists. He looks genuinely curious.

“Well, no. Actually, I don’t really like those loud colours…”

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Kiryu winks. “Okay, now it’s your turn to spin the bottle, Nire-chan!”

Nirei spins the bottle, and it lands on you.

“T-t-truth or d-dare?” he stutters (it seems like he’s back to his usual self, to your relief).

“Truth?”

“Alright, uhm…right, I need to ask you a question,” Nirei mutters to himself while you patiently wait for him to tear down your dignity with whatever he’s going to ask you next.

“Right, uhm…”

There’re tons of thinks Nirei wants to ask you. He wants to ask you why you wear make-up. He wants to ask what the bandages are for. He wants to ask what it is that you hide – because he knows that you’re hiding something.

But despite the curiosity burning within him, he doesn’t ask you any of those things. All those questions seem too…personal. He knows that that’s what this game is about, but he also wants to respect your privacy.

So, instead, he decides to ask a rather dull, but hopefully safe, question,

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Why’re you so boooring?” Kiryu complains. But you take Nirei’s question seriously and mull over it for a bit before telling him what your favourite colour is.

Then, it’s your turn to spin the bottle.

The game goes on like this for quite some time and you have to admit that you’re having fun learning more about your friends.

You learn that Suo likes teacakes and that he’s wearing an eyepatch because of an accident from when he was a child and not to seal in an ancient Chinese spirit like he claimed the first time you met him. You learn what type of protein powder Tsugeura prefers (Sakas Protein) and that it’s one of his virtues always to let his opponent get the first hit when he’s in a fight. You learn that Kiryu once accidentally dyed his hair orange instead of pink, and that his pet peeve is people who underestimate girls. You learn that Nirei has more clothes than can fit in his closet and that he loves hats and sunglasses, while Sakura only has one type of t-shirt in his closet and that he hates hats and sunglasses. 

The first one to choose “dare” is Kiryu himself, and Suo asks him to show you the most embarrassing photo on his phone.

Reluctantly, Kiryu pulls out his phone and begins flipping through his absurdly many photos. The rest of you can’t see what he’s looking at, but at some point, he turns bright red in the face.

“I think I’m gonna choose truth instead,” he says, hastily turning off his phone.

Or well, he would have turned off his phone if not Sakura had snatched it from right under his nose.

Sakura looks down at the picture Kiryu tried to hide from you and scrunches up his nose.

“What is it, Sakura-kun?” Suo asks. Sakura scoffs and throws the phone to Suo, too high for Kiryu to reach it. Instead, the pink-haired boy opts to hide his face in his hands in embarrassment.

You, Nirei, and Tsugeura look over Suo’s shoulder to get a look at the photo too – because although you do feel a bit guilty for invading Kiryu’s privacy like this, then you also have to admit that you’re rather curious.

Because what could possibly make Kiryu, who usually never gets flustered like this, blush so hard that he could be put in the same league as Sakura?

Well, it turns out that it’s a photo of you. Or well, not only you. It also has Sakura, Suo, and Nirei in it, but you are still the one in focus while the other boys are slightly blurry, half out of the frame. You’re laughing at something, sitting on a table in your classroom at Furin High, and the sun is filtering in through the window, hitting you at an angle that makes it look a bit like you’re glowing.

“What’s embarrassing about that?” Tsugeura asks, bewildered.

“Well, it’s taken from before you even spoke to Ryo-kun the first time,” Suo grits out accusingly, eye darting between the phone and its owner as if he can’t decide which one deserves his ire more at the moment. 

“Creep.” Sakura mumbles, glaring daggers at Kiryu.

“I wasn’t trying to be a pervert or anything!” Kiryu hurries to defend himself. “I was just-- well, it was just-- I mean…”

“I don’t mind,” you reassure him because really, you don’t. You know Kiryu didn’t mean any harm, and besides, it is a rather flattering photo of you.

“You’re too nice, Ryo-kun,” Suo mumbles, features softening as he looks at you.

After Kiryu chose dare, your other friends become more adventurous too. Tsugeura dares Suo to do twenty push-ups, and you have to avert your eyes to stop staring at the way Suo’s arms flex every time he does a push-up. You dare Nirei to shout out the window “I’M NOT LIKE A REGULAR MOM I’M A COOL MOM!!!” and Nirei dares Tsugeura to sing the Japanese national anthem backwards. Suo dares Sakura to say something nice about each of you, which makes Sakura turn red in the face and splutter as if the words are choking him on their way out.

“Y-y-y-y-our…you’re not as annoying when you aren’t shouting,” Sakura tells Tsugeura without looking at him.

“Wow, thanks, Sakura-kun, that’s really nice of you to say!” Tsugeura shouts, making Sakura’s eye twitch. 

“Okay, that was one, Sakura-kun,” Suo says cheerfully, “now, what about me?”

“Uhh…”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Suo pouts.

“Just wait a moment, godammit!”

After a moment, Sakura finally says,

“Nirei isn’t as lame as I thought he’d be when I met him.”

“Well, you already told me that once,” Nirei points out, “but thank you, Sakura-san.”

“A-a-and I guess...” Sakura continues, looking like he’d rather go at it with KEEL again than saying what he’s going to say next, “I guess Kiryu’s got some pretty cool moves when he fights…”

“Awww, thank you!” Kiryu coos, batting his eyelashes at Sakura.

“And, uhh…” Sakura makes eye contact with you, his face going from bright red to burning-hot-red in an instant before averting his gaze again.

“I guess Ryo’s pretty cool too…and strong. And fast. ‘s got good reflexes,” Sakura mumbles to the clenched fists in his lap.

“Sakura-kun, you still haven’t said anything nice about me,” Suo reminds him.

“But Ryo-kun got a whole four compliments, so I think we’re moving on!” Kiryu declares and Sakura doesn’t hesitate to spin the bottle again before Suo can make any more unreasonable demands.

At some point, it’s Kiryu’s turn to spin the bottle, and the flask ends up pointing at you. And because you’re finally feeling safe enough, you choose ‘dare’

…only to immediately regret your decision when you see the smirk on Kiryu’s face. You’re just about to bury yourself underneath the covers when he says,

“Kiss me.”

Chaos ensues.

Nirei lets out a shrill shriek, Tsugeura kicks a chair, making it topple over him, Suo begins shouting profanities at Kiryu (you’ve never, ever heard Suo swear before), while Sakura turns even more red in the face than you do (poor boy’s gotta take care not to get an aneurism). Kiryu just giggles maniacally at their reactions. 

“I thought we agreed on no unreasonable dares,” Suo hisses through gritted teeth.

“You really are a creep,” Sakura scowls.

“Well, he’s free to say no if he doesn’t want to,” Kiryu points out.

“Of course he doesn’t want to!” Suo seethes, eye twitching as he glares at Kiryu.

At this point, you’re not sure if you’re more shocked about Kiryu’s dare or the others’ reactions – especially Suo’s. Maybe, he’s still on edge after the fight with KEEL and that’s why he’s so overprotective of you.

Although, you don’t really see a reason for him to be. This is just Kiryu, after all.

“You don’t mind, do you, Ryo-chan?” Kiryu asks, and suddenly, all attention is on you.

“Well…”

Honestly, you’re a bit unsure of what to say. Because it’s not like you mind kissing Kiryu, but the murderous glare Suo sends him kind of deters you a bit. It’s not like you want to be responsible for one of your friends murdering your other friend.

“You don’t have to if you really don’t want to,” Kiryu says, but you can’t help but notice the slight wavering of his voice. There’s really no way to make all of them happy, is there?

In the end, you make up your mind.

“I’ll just give you a small peck on the cheek, alright?”

Immediately, Kiryu’s eyes lighten up, and he nods enthusiastically at your suggestion. He scoots over to you and you lean in, closing your eyes.

When your lips hit his cheek, you can’t help but think that this isn’t at all what a cheek should feel like. It’s soft and smooth, yes, but also oddly bony and uneven. 

You open your eyes. And are met with the sight of Suo’s fingers.

“Eh?”

It turns out that the moment both you and Kiryu closed your eyes, Suo had placed his hand in between your lips and Kiryu’s cheek.

“What did you do that for?” Kiryu whines, swatting Suo’s hand away from his face.

Suo just looks awfully smug as he cradles the hand you just kissed as if it’s something precious, while he continues to smile sweetly at the extremely disappointed Kiryu.

Sakura also can’t help but feel relieved that you didn’t actually kiss Kiryu, although he isn’t gloating openly the way Suo is. 

“Ehem.” You clear your throat. “It’s my turn to spin the bottle, right?”

You continue your game for a little while longer, although no one chooses ‘dare’ again. Not that you’re complaining – you also prefer ‘truth’ anyways because that way, you get to know your friends better. 

“Alright,” Suo declares, bringing you out of your thoughts, “Ryo-kun, truth or dare?”

You hadn’t even noticed the bottle pointing at you.

“Uhm, truth, I guess.”

“Hm…” Suo hums thoughtfully. He suddenly looks serious – way too serious for a silly game like this.

“Ryo-kun, you know that we’re your friends, right? And that you can tell us everything?”

You freeze.

Your first thought is that somehow, Suo has figured out that you’re a girl. It wouldn’t surprise you if he had – he’s awfully perceptive and it’s just a matter of time before he sees right through you.

But you know you also can’t just jump to conclusions. Because you’re not 100 percent sure that Suo knows yet, and if you barf out your secret now, not only will Suo with 100 percent certainty know, but the rest of your friends will too.

So, you try to play it cool…

“W-w-what d-d-do you mean, S-Suo-kun?” 

…and fail miserably.

“I mean, why didn’t you tell us that you were in a fight this weekend?”

You blink.

“Huh?”

“The marks. On your neck,” Suo clarifies, jaw clenching as he gestures at your bandaged neck.

“We didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Nirei adds, looking crestfallen, “but we…we couldn’t help but overhear the doctor mentioning those marks. Those that looks like strangulation marks.”

Oh.

So that’s what Suo meant.

You can’t say that you’re as relieved as you thought you would be to find out that Suo has not, in fact, figured you out (yet). Because this is just another one of your secrets that has to remain just that – a secret.

But then again, if your friends just think that you were in a fight, which technically isn’t entirely untrue…

“Yeah, I was in a fight,” you shrug. You’ve always been a terrible liar – you don’t believe in lying (except about your gender, but that you deem a necessary evil in the name of the greater good), so you’re trying to mix in a bit of truth in the story you’re about to tell your friends. 

“Just some random thug I bumped into on my way home from work.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Sakura asks angrily, although you know that his anger isn’t directed at you.

“Uhm well, it’s just that I didn’t think it was that important.”

Your friends exchange glances for the second time tonight.

“Ryo-kun,” Suo says sternly, “Everything that happens to you is important to us.” The rest of your friends nod in agreement. “And if anyone as much as touches a hair on your head…” The temperature in your apartment suddenly seems to drop several degrees.

“They’ll have us to answer to,” Kiryu finishes for him.

“Did you at least beat the guy to a pulp?” Sakura asks after a moment of silence.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” you wince, “But really, it’s no prob!” 

Suo hums again. He trusts that you can take care of yourself from common thugs and random nobodies but still…he wishes that he knew who had laid his grubby hands on you so that he could make sure that the guy never got the use of them again.

“It’s getting rather late guys, maybe we should just call it a day?” Tsugeura asks because even though he might be a bit dense, even he can sense the tension that has sprouted between his friends.

As if on cue, you yawn.

Sakura immediately gets to his feet, mumbles a half-hearted “G’night,” and unceremoniously proceeds to stomp out of the annex.

“Wait!”

You shoot to your feet to follow Sakura out the door. Your head begins to spin and your vision blackens, but you still tumble out after Sakura, looking like a drunkard while ignoring the cries of alarm from your friends.

“Sakura-kun!”

He turns around just in time to see you stumble over your own feet and, before he can think, he’s at your side, catching you before you fall into the pond or something.

This gives him a strange sense of déjà-vu.

“Watch where you’re going, will ya?” he grumbles as he steadies you. “And what do you want?”

You fiddle a bit with your pyjamas and glance around the garden, gathering your thoughts. You think you catch a glimpse of a girl, observing you from the main house, smiling and winking at you. But she disappears again so suddenly that you think you might have imagined it.

“Well?”

Sakura’s voice snaps you back to the present. You clear your throat.

“Well, I just wanted to say…thank you.”

Sakura’s eyes widen in surprise. You take a deep breath before continuing,

“Thank you, Sakura-kun. For taking care of us, I mean. You only just became Grade Captain, and you’re already leading everyone. And this might sound presumptuous, but I also want to say that…I’m proud of you. Of course, I knew you would make a great leader – ever since I saw how you protected Kotoha-chan that day we met – but still. I’m proud of you.”

To no one’s surprise, Sakura is blushing by the time you’ve finished your little speech and despite himself, he can’t help but feel happy that you think that about him.

But at the same time, he also hates that your words make him happy because he doesn’t deserve your praise. Sakura knows Nirei blames himself for what happened to you, but really, he shouldn’t.

Because if it’s anyone’s fault that you got hurt, it’s Sakura’s.

“As I told the others, I didn’t do shit,” he scowls. “We were losing that brawl big time before the second years showed up, and that was only thanks to you and Nirei…”

“Nire-kun?” you ask, confused.

“Yeah, he wrote to Kaji-san before everything went to shit.”

“Huh. Well, anyways, if it weren’t for you, Sakura-kun, then we probably wouldn’t even have gone to KEEL in the first place, and then, who knows what would have happened to Anzai-kun and Nagato-kun?” you say rhetorically.

“You ran after Anzai when he got that photo too!” Sakura protests, and just then, you’ve just about had enough.

“Why can’t you just take a fucking compliment god dammit?!” you yell.

“…”

Sakura looks taken aback. He’s never heard you raise your voice once, let alone swear before – at least not when speaking to a…friend (for some reason he can’t explain, when that word applies to you, it doesn’t trigger the same warmth spreading in his chest as when Nirei asked him if they were friends earlier today. A bit like food just about to go bad, but not as spoiled yet that his tastebuds can detect it – it just tastes off…).

And then, you do something that makes him yelp in surprise.

The two of you are already standing pretty close, but you just slung your arms around him and are now hugging him, your still damp hair tickling his face.

Now, normally, Sakura’s first instinct would be to push anyone away who tried to initiate intimate contact with him like this. But for some reason, he can’t bring himself to push you away – no, scratch that. He doesn’t want to push you away. Even if he’s just standing there, stiff as a board, heart hammering in his chest and his cheeks so hot that you could fry eggs on them while you have your arms around him in this very one-way hug.

He screams at himself to just return your hug, but when he tries to lift his arms, they won’t move.

Then, after what seems like forever, but still not enough time, you pull away.

“Good night, Sakura-kun.”

And with that, you stumble back into Kiryu’s private shed.

Meanwhile, Sakura just stands there. His heart is racing, and his cheeks are burning, and he’s still just standing there like some God damn idiot.

He wonders what is wrong with him.

Then, he slaps himself, hard.

That finally seems to get his body moving.

Read the rest on ao3: Defy || Various X Reader

[midnightquips]

What We Never Were

Jake Seresin x Reader

Summary: Y/N needs a fake boyfriend for her sister’s wedding. Jake Seresin, her childhood best friend, is all too happy to play the part—until pretending starts to feel dangerously real. One bed. Old feelings. A week of dancing around the truth.

She thinks he’s out of reach. He’s just been waiting for her to see him.

Themes: fake dating, bestfriends to lovers, pining, slow burn, fluff, smut, mild praise kink, foreplay, 18+

Author's note: HAPPY MONDAY & Finally SMUT!!!!! I always feel really unsure posting smut. I just feel I don't write it very well so please do let me know your thoughts.

What We Never Were Masterlist

Sign Up for TAGLIST here

Chapter 4

Part IV – You Were Always Mine

Your back hits the bedroom door with a soft thud, the sound muffled by Jake’s mouth crashing into yours again. There’s no hesitation now—just hands and breath and heat. He kisses like a man deprived of oxygen, like your mouth was the only source of life. Every kiss feels like he’s making up for every night he stayed silent, every time he didn’t say what he felt. A silent confession with every stroke of his tongue against yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your lips, voice hoarse. “Tell me you want me.”

You grab his face, kiss him harder, and whisper, “I want you, Jake. I’ve always wanted you.”

That’s all he needs.

His fingers are already tugging at the zipper of your dress. “Take this off,” he growls, voice dark and rough in your ear. “Now.”

You tremble as you reach behind you, sliding the zipper down, the dress loosening instantly. Jake steps back just long enough to watch it fall to the floor. His eyes drink you in—hungry, reverent. His tongue drags over his bottom lip slowly. 

You’re in barely anything but lace and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees.

You bite your lower lip. “You’re still overdressed.”

Jake smirks. He tugs off his coat first, then unbuttons his shirt. You watch his hand drift down to unbutton his pants and your mouth involuntarily opens. Eyes glazy, breath held. Just knowing the anticipation is reciprocated has Jake on the edge.

Once he steps out of his pants, he immediately grabs your waist one more and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Your legs instinctively wrap around him. He kisses you again—deep, possessive—while carrying you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re precious. Like you’re his.

Because you are.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he whispers. “you’re unreal. I’ve thought about this—about you—for so damn long.”

Jake’s mouth trails down your neck, your collarbone, between your breasts. He doesn’t rush—he lingers, kissing the underside of each breast, sucking lightly until you’re gasping. He murmurs things between each kiss—

“So soft… so sweet for me...”

You writhe under him, heat pulsing between your legs, every word tightening the coil inside you. His kisses move lower while his hands stroke your hips, your thighs, reverent and possessive.

He lightly kisses your inner thigh, to tease,then bites down just enough to make you gasp.

“I want to hear you beg, baby,” he says, voice dark. “You’re gonna ask me for it. Let me hear how much you need me.”

Your lips part, already whimpering. “Please, Jake. I need you. I need your mouth—need to feel you—please.”

He grins against your skin. “That’s my girl.”

You arch under him, a moan slipping out, your fingers tangling in his hair as his mouth reaches the lace between your thighs.

He pauses, eyes meeting yours.

“Admit you’ve been thinking about this too.” he murmurs, lips grazing the edge of your panties.

You nod, breathless.

“Good,” he growls, “because I’m about to ruin you for anyone else.”

His mouth is on you before you can answer, his tongue sliding against your clit, slow and devastating. Your hips jerk, but his strong hands pin you open, keep you right where he wants you.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmurs, his tongue flicking expertly. “Wanna make you fall apart on my tongue.”

You gasp, clutching the sheets, helpless under the rhythm of his mouth. The heat builds fast—too fast. You try to warn him, but he doesn’t let up.

“Jake–GOD!” You come hard, thighs trembling around his head, a strangled cry muffled against your arm.

But Jake doesn’t stop.

He slides two fingers inside you, curling expertly, his mouth back on your clit. You sob out his name.

“Again,” he says, voice like gravel. “I want to see you fall apart for me again.”

You do. It rushes through you like a wave, your whole body clenching, falling, spiraling. And still, he doesn’t let up.

Your second orgasm hits you before you even realize it’s coming. You’re shaking, wrung out, tears in your eyes from the intensity. Jake finally pulls back, wiping his mouth, eyes blazing. “Fucking perfect. Better than I dreamed. Makes me wanna keep you here forever, just like this.”

You reach for him, desperate. “Jake—please.”

He quickly removes his boxers and moves over you, settling between your thighs. Stroking his cock, he runs the head through your slick folds, groaning low.

“No condom,” you gasp.

He stills, eyes searching yours.

“I’m on the pill,” you whisper. “I want to feel you.”

Jake’s jaw tightens like he’s holding back.

“Christ,” he breathes. “You’re gonna be the death of me. You know how long I’ve dreamed of this?”

He pushes in slowly, stretching you inch by inch, watching every part of you open for him. You both gasp.

“Sweetheart,” he groans. “You’re so fucking tight. Like you were built for me.”

You grip his shoulders, nails digging in as he bottoms out, full and perfect and overwhelming. He starts to move—deep, slow thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you.

He kisses you again, more gently this time. “You feel that?” he whispers. “That’s me. That’s what it feels like when something’s real.”

You moan his name, your hands sliding up into his hair. He groans as your walls flutter around him.

“Mine,” he pants, fucking into you deeper now. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back. He holds your face, watching you unravel beneath him.

“You belong to me,” he growls. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Jake.”

He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers with his as he keeps moving inside you. Your eyes lock with his, and it’s too much. The intimacy. The emotion.

“Don’t ever run from this again,” he says, voice cracking.

You don’t answer with words.

You flip onto your stomach, rising onto your knees. He takes the hint immediately, hands gripping your hips, guiding himself back in. He thrusts deep, hard. The angle has you crying out, fingers clawing the sheets.

One hand slides around your front, rubbing your clit in tight, ruthless circles.

You fall apart again—your third, trembling orgasm ripping through you like a storm.

Jake holds on just long enough to follow, slamming deep one final time as he spills inside you with a hoarse, broken moan.

He slumps over you, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your back, your neck. You both collapse sideways, tangled in each other.

His chest is still heaving, his face buried in your hair.

“You’re mine, Y/N Y/L/N,” he whispers again. “You always have been.”

And for the first time—you believe it.

You don’t argue. You just pull the covers over both of you and press your forehead to his.

“Yours,” you whisper back.

And fall asleep with his arms around you.

TAGLIST: @kvmitchell @mrsevans90 @natureartisian @purplefluffycows @eolsens @lunatygerqueen @deadlybeauty16 @ronniesreverie @anony1080 @vicky199625 @teacupsandtopgun @dizzybee03 @stillinracooncity @7dreambaby @pogueprincesa @jackiehollanderr @cozyjess @mrsnikolestan @midnighttithe @Lynnevanss @laserpente @cheyrenee @malindacath @girlypopmymelody @antheiagoddessofnarnia @yellowjm @itllbefineeeeee @dancethroughthethunder @ravenmourningstar @coldmuffinbanditshoe @ifilwtmfc @AnglophileForLife @violet-loves-to-write @itsmaytimetosaygoodbye

[ashthesalamipiece]

Can u do dad Bakugo x mom reader, They have a two year old daughter, they take a trip to the beach, long car ride with tantrums along the way, with class A and they are swimming, making sand castles, collecting sea shells, having a good time, can you make this long too? Ty either way 💖

Enjoy♡

"Sun, Sand, and Tantrums"

The car had been packed since early morning—beach towels, sunscreen, juice boxes, snacks, inflatable floaties shaped like tiny animals, and a diaper bag that could probably be mistaken for a tactical supply kit. You were halfway through double-checking it when a tiny shriek pierced the air.

"NOOOO!! I WAN' THE PURPLE ONE!!"

You sighed, smiling despite yourself, and turned around. Your two-year-old daughter stood in the hallway wearing a bright orange swimsuit, a floppy sunhat two sizes too big, and clutching a blue sand bucket like it betrayed her.

"Sweetheart," you knelt down in front of her, "we packed the purple one in the car, remember? Daddy got it just for you."

Bakugo entered right on cue, rubbing at his temples. “I told her the purple one’s already in the trunk, but she won’t listen,” he grumbled, clearly losing the battle of wills with his own daughter.

"Because it’s too in the trunk, Daddy!" she huffed, tiny arms crossed. “I wan' it now.”

You exchanged a knowing look with your husband and gently scooped her into your arms.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” you said in your ‘mom voice,’ the one that always worked (well—usually). “If you can wait until we get in the car, Mommy will give you a surprise snack. What do you say?”

Her eyes lit up with suspicion and curiosity. “A surprise snack?”

Bakugo raised an eyebrow. “You bribin’ our kid again?”

“Desperate times,” you replied.

Eventually, she nodded solemnly. “Okay. But it better not be carrots.”

---

The Long, Long Car Ride

With your daughter finally settled in her car seat—armed with a snack, a stuffed bear in a swimsuit, and Bakugo’s phone playing toddler songs on loop—you both joined Class A in a convoy of vans heading toward the beach.

It had been Kirishima’s idea—“We all need a break! Plus, Bakugo’s gotta show us he can build the best sandcastle, right?”

“Damn right I will.”

You were in the front passenger seat, Bakugo at the wheel, one hand steady on the wheel and the other resting casually on your thigh. You loved this—these quiet pockets of time where your wild, powerful husband was soft and domestic.

That lasted about 30 minutes.

Then came the first meltdown.

"I DROPPED BEEEAAAARRRRR!"

You turned around instantly, seeing the stuffed bear wedged between her car seat and the door. Her eyes filled with tears as if it were the end of the world.

“Okay, okay, I got it—” you unbuckled your seatbelt while Bakugo grunted.

“Don’t climb back there—are you nuts? We’re on the highway!”

“I’m a mom. Highway rules don’t apply.”

He muttered something about you being insane but eased off the gas just enough to let you shimmy half your body into the backseat to retrieve the bear.

You managed to soothe her—again—with a sticker book and a few verses of her favorite lullaby. She clutched your hand for the next hour and eventually dozed off, just as the salty air began wafting through the open windows.

Bakugo reached over and laced his fingers with yours.

“You’re a badass,” he said.

“Tell me again when we’re chasing her down the beach.”

---

Beach Chaos (and Bliss)

By the time you arrived, the beach was full of color. Class A had already staked a big spot with umbrellas, coolers, and a giant inflatable All Might tube that Kaminari insisted was “vintage.”

Your daughter squealed the moment her feet touched the sand, her earlier tantrums forgotten. She took off running with surprising speed, straight toward the water.

“NOPE!” Bakugo bolted after her. “Get back here, little gremlin!”

She shrieked in laughter as he scooped her up just before she could dive in. “The water’s COLD, you psycho!”

“Daddy said a bad word!” she announced proudly, giggling as Bakugo groaned.

Meanwhile, you helped Jirou and Uraraka set up a blanket. “You’d think after fighting villains, he could handle a toddler.”

“He looks scared of her,” Jirou said, sipping from her juice box.

“He should be,” you grinned.

---

Sandcastles, Seashells, and Sunshine

Later in the afternoon, you and Bakugo helped your daughter build what was, in her words, “the BIGGEST CASTLE IN THE WOOORLD!” Bakugo took it way too seriously, using seashells for crenellations and digging a moat with surgical precision.

“She’s just gonna stomp on it,” you warned.

“I dare her,” he muttered.

Seconds later: STOMP.

Bakugo stared at the ruined tower, then fake-sobbed dramatically while your daughter rolled in the sand, laughing.

“I raised a villain,” he said.

“I blame your genes.”

Afterward, you all went on a seashell hunt—your daughter holding one in each chubby hand, proudly showing them off to Todoroki like she had found ancient treasure.

Todoroki blinked. “These are… very nice shells.”

She gave him one. “This one’s for your ice powers.”

“…Thank you.”

Bakugo took pictures, pretending he wasn’t smiling like a dork every time she handed him a rock or shell “for your BOOM BOOMS, Daddy!”

---

Evening Glow

As the sun dipped low, painting the sky in purples and pinks, Class A lit a little bonfire. Bakugo wrapped you and your daughter in a shared beach towel while she curled up in your lap, cheeks rosy from sun and laughter.

“Did you have fun today?” you whispered.

“Uh huh…” she murmured, already dozing. “My family’s da best.”

Bakugo looked down at you, the firelight catching in his eyes. “She’s right.”

You smiled up at him, heart full, and kissed the corner of his mouth. “We’re a mess, but we’re a good mess.”

He smirked. “The best kinda mess.”

[saturnsag3]

Study Buddy - will smith x macklin celebrini

summary: this isn’t in the same universe as my other nerd!mack x frat!will blurb but sort of the same vibe

wc: 3,367

The thing about college was—well, okay, there were a lot of things about college that Will Smith didn’t like. Early classes, walking uphill in the snow, overpriced textbooks he never cracked open. But right now, the biggest thing was Statistics 2104.

He didn’t care about z-scores or regression models. Didn’t care about T-tests or p-values or whatever fresh hell was on this week’s quiz. What he did care about was the fact that his coach had just benched him until his grade went up.

“You’re a leader on this team, Smith,” Coach had said, pacing his office like he was delivering a TED Talk on discipline. “You want to play Friday? Show me you can pass your damn class.”

So here he was, sitting in Professor Delaney’s office with an empty water bottle, an even emptier brain, and just enough charm left in the tank to try and convince her not to ruin his life.

She peered at him over her glasses. “Will, you’ve failed the last two quizzes. Your attendance is spotty. Your last submitted assignment—” she held up a stapled packet with what looked like red blood all over it, “—was missing three of the assigned pages and cited TikTok as a source.”

Will cleared his throat. “Technically, it was on the STEM tab so—“

“I’m assigning you a tutor,” she cut him off. “You don’t get a say in it.”

“I wasn’t gonna argue,” he said quickly. “Actually, I—yeah. No. A tutor sounds... great. Productive. Go team.”

She raised a brow. “Macklin Celebrini. Pre-med. One of my top students.”

Will sat up straighter. The name sounded familiar—he was pretty sure they shared a row in lecture.

“The guy who sits across from me?” he asked. “Dark hair, kind of quiet?”

Delaney nodded. “That’s the one. He already agreed to help you.”

Will exhaled, half in relief, half in... something else. He didn’t know Macklin, not really, but he’d noticed him. Always early, always prepared, the kind of student who probably had color-coded notes and didn’t miss a single lecture. The kind of student Will needed if he was going to survive this class.

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. I can work with that.”

Delaney didn’t smile. “Library. Four o’clock. Don’t waste his time.”

---

Will was late.

Not by much—five minutes, tops—but enough that he had to jog the last stretch to the library and burst through the glass doors like he was arriving at a frat party instead of a study session. His hoodie was half-zipped, one earbud still in, sunglasses perched cockily on his head like he hadn’t realized they were indoors now. The tail-end of someone’s coffee order announcement trailed behind him as he spotted the table near the back.

There he was.

Macklin Celebrini.

No laptop screen could hide the fact that he was objectively good-looking, and unfortunately for Will’s ability to focus, the kid looked way too composed for someone voluntarily hanging out with a failing jock. His brown, straight hair sat fluffy and light on his head, a single AirPod sat idle on the table next to his tea, and his notes were already spread out in neat rows—highlighters uncapped, stats textbook open, a few post-its stuck to the top margin.

One of them read: WILL, in sharp, all-caps pen.

Will pointed as he slid into the seat across from him. “You made me a place card? That’s kinda cute.”

Macklin didn’t look up right away. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show up, so I figured I’d at least get something useful out of this and work on labeling things.”

Will grinned. “You label your friends?”

“We’re not friends.” Macklin replied flatly.

Ouch.

Will put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Damn. Cold start.”

“I’m not here to warm you up,” Macklin said, flipping a page in his notebook. “I’m here to help you not fail. So let’s focus.”

Will leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, eyes very much not on the textbook. “I’m focused.”

Macklin didn’t look up, but his pen paused mid-sentence. “Staring at me doesn’t count as focusing.”

“I disagree,” Will said smoothly. “You’re clearly the smartest guy in this room, so I figure if I just absorb your aura or whatever, I’ll magically learn the difference between a mode and a median.”

Macklin exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “You’re literally going to fail.”

Will shrugged. “Not if I have you.”

That got him a look. Macklin finally glanced up, slow and measured, eyes scanning over Will like he was solving for X and the answer was deeply disappointing. “Flirting won’t fix your GPA.”

“Is it flirting if I’m just being honest?” Will shot back, smirking. “You’re kind of famous on campus, you know. Pre-med, full ride, on first-name basis with every professor. You walk like you’ve got somewhere more important to be.”

Macklin blinked once, then turned his laptop so the screen faced Will. “Do you know what a mean is?”

Will smiled, unbothered. “You don’t have to be so mean about it.”

Macklin didn’t so much as twitch. “Wow. A stats pun. That’s original.”

“You wound me, Mack.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“See, this is going well already,” Will said, propping his feet on the empty chair next to him. “I’ve learned your name and a boundary. Next time we might even get to standard deviation.”

Macklin closed his notebook, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been here seven minutes and you haven’t absorbed a single number.”

“I’ve absorbed plenty,” Will said, eyes very obviously dropping to Macklin’s hands. “Mostly visual.”

Macklin’s jaw flexed. “You know this isn’t a date, right?”

“Yet,” Will said, and winked.

It earned him silence. Not shocked silence—just the kind that came from someone who was very used to being hit on and very used to not caring.

Still, Will thought he saw it—just the slightest twitch at the corner of Macklin’s mouth. Not a smile. Definitely not. But something... almost amused. Almost.

“I’ll quiz you,” Macklin said finally, turning the notebook back to himself. “If you fail, we’re moving to the basement study rooms where there’s no one to perform for.”

Will’s smile widened. “So you are looking at me.”

Macklin didn’t look up. “One more word and I start charging you by the minute.”

“So, the mean,” Macklin began, tapping his pen against the textbook like he was trying to summon patience from its pages. “Is the average. You just add all the numbers and divide by how many there are.”

Will didn’t respond.

Macklin glanced up. “Will.”

Will was already looking at him—had been, actually, this whole time. Chin still in his hand, elbow on the table, eyes dragging unapologetically over Macklin’s face like it was more interesting than anything numbers had to offer.

“What?” Will asked, all faux-innocence.

“You’re not listening.”

“I am listening,” Will protested, straightening up a little. “Mean equals average. Add, divide, boom. Got it.”

Macklin narrowed his eyes. “Then give me the mean of these five numbers.”

He scribbled them down on a post-it and slid it across the table.

Will didn’t even glance at it. “I’ll calculate it if you smile.”

Macklin blinked. “Excuse me?”

“One smile,” Will said. “Just a little one. Then I’ll do the math.”

“I’m not a vending machine. You don’t insert charm and get expressions back.”

“Worth a try.”

Will leaned over the table, reaching for Macklin’s pen. His fingers brushed Macklin’s knuckles—on purpose—and lingered just a half-second too long before he pulled the pen back and uncapped it with his teeth.

Macklin stared at him. “You have your own pens.”

“But yours looks smarter.”

“That’s not how pens work.”

“It is when you use them,” Will said smoothly.

Macklin said nothing, just looked vaguely toward the ceiling like he was regretting every life choice that led him to this exact moment.

Will finally looked at the post-it. “Okay, so—five numbers. Add them. Divide. Easy.”

“Not if you take forever doing it.”

Will pretended to scribble something down, then paused and looked up again. “You smell good, by the way.”

Macklin’s pen froze mid-word. “What?”

“Didn’t think you’d be the type,” Will continued, leaning back and drumming his fingers against the table. “But it’s subtle. Clean. Like—you just did laundry and read for pleasure.”

Macklin blinked. “What does reading for pleasure even smell like?”

“Vanilla and rubbing alcohol.”

“...Are you high?”

Will grinned. “No, but you’re starting to sound like my type.”

Macklin huffed and looked back at his notes. “I’m not your type.”

Will tilted his head, genuinely curious. “How do you know that?”

“Because I know you.”

That gave Will pause.

Macklin didn’t look up when he said it—didn’t act like he’d dropped a bomb or anything—but the words hung there, heavy and real.

“You know of me,” Will said slowly.

“I know you,” Macklin said again, more evenly this time. “Will Smith. Greek life king. Wing night champion. Campus hockey god. Very good at pretending nothing matters until it suddenly does.”

Will stared at him, surprised.

“And now that your season’s on the line, here you are. Failing statistics, flirting with your tutor instead of learning the material.”

Will opened his mouth, closed it, then leaned forward again—this time more serious, less performative.

“Okay,” he said. “That was... a little hot.”

Macklin rolled his eyes, but there was definite color rising in his cheeks now, high and pink and fast.

“You’re exhausting,” Macklin muttered.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Do you ever stop?” he asked, flipping a page aggressively.

Will tapped his pen against the table. “You could make me.”

Macklin gave him a long look. “How?”

Will leaned in again, close enough to make Macklin’s shoulders go stiff.

“Tell me to stop and mean it,” Will said, voice low.

Macklin didn’t answer right away. For a second, he just stared, expression unreadable.

“Do the math problem, Will.”

Will smirked. “What if I get it wrong on purpose so you’ll yell at me again?”

“I swear to God—”

“I like when you’re mean to me,” Will said, smug.

“Try me again and I’ll make you do flashcards,” Macklin threatened, standing his ground.

Will put both hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. No need for violence.”

He finally leaned back and actually looked at the numbers this time. Macklin watched him from the corner of his eye, like he didn’t trust him to even attempt the problem without saying something ridiculous.

Will scratched something down. “So the mean is... 12.6?”

Macklin blinked. “That’s actually correct.”

Will lit up like a kid who just got goldfish and a sticker. “Look at us! Learning and bonding.”

Macklin just shook his head, but his mouth twitched again—almost smiling, almost giving in.

Will leaned across the table again, sliding Macklin’s pen back toward him with two fingers. “You’re really good at this, by the way.”

“Tutoring?”

“No. Looking unimpressed. It’s hot.”

“Jesus Christ,” Macklin muttered.

Will grinned. “You’re thinking about smiling, I know it.”

“I’m thinking about faking a medical emergency so I can leave.”

Will leaned in once more, voice dropped low, like a secret. “Just so you know... you already make stats my favorite subject.”

Macklin didn’t respond. But  when he looked up, there was a definite smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—and he didn’t even try to fight it.

---

By their third session, Will had stopped pretending he hated statistics.

Not because he liked it but because he liked the way Macklin’s expression twitched every time he said something just dumb enough to be funny. He liked how Macklin always showed up early, already halfway through a green tea and flipping through his meticulously highlighted notes like he hadn't spent the last two hours prepping for a tutoring session he claimed not to care about.

Will noticed everything.

The way Macklin tapped his pen against the side of his mug when he was thinking. The way he curled his hand protectively over his notes when Will leaned too close. The way he tried very hard not to laugh whenever Will made some inappropriate joke about frequency distributions and one-night stands.

It was slow—painfully slow—but Macklin was cracking.

Just a little.

It started with the eye rolls. Then the muttered "You're impossible"’s. Then, the fifth session in, Will made some dumb pun about regression and Macklin actually laughed. Like, a real, startled huff of a laugh that caught both of them off guard.

Will had blinked at him. “Was that a giggle?”

Macklin had gone red instantly. “Shut up.”

So of course Will spent the rest of the session trying to make him do it again.

He started taking the tutoring slightly more seriously—not enough to stop flirting, obviously, but enough that Macklin stopped threatening to quit every ten minutes. Will showed up (mostly) on time. He answered practice questions with slightly less whining. He even—once—brought Macklin a green tea before he could get one himself.

Macklin stared at it like it was poison.

“You memorized my order?” he asked, flatly.

Will grinned. “What can I say? I’m observant. Also, the barista said you go there so often they thought you lived upstairs.”

Macklin tried not to smile, and failed.

“Don’t read into this,” he warned, taking the cup anyway.

Will just leaned back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and said, “Too late.”

Their sessions kept going like that: Will making jokes, Macklin pretending not to like them. Macklin explaining concepts, Will interrupting every five minutes to ask why he smelled like vanilla and pain suppression. Somehow, amidst all the chaos, Will’s test scores climbed. Not by much, but enough.

And Macklin... stopped acting like he hated being there.

He didn’t say it, of course. Would probably deny it if Will ever asked. But he didn’t flinch when Will leaned in close anymore. Didn’t move his hand when Will’s brushed his under the table. Didn’t sigh as loud when Will texted him outside of tutoring hours.

In fact, by week four, Macklin texted him first.

Just once.

Just a curt: bring your notes this time. and try not to smell like gym bag + cologne. see you at 4.

Will had smiled at his phone like an idiot for a full ten minutes after that.

---

Will practically burst into the library like he’d just scored the game-winner in double overtime. He didn’t even try to hide the shit-eating grin on his face, practically jogging over to their usual table with a paper clutched in his hand and his backwards cap hanging off one ear.

Macklin didn’t even look up. “If you’re about to show me a meme, I’m leaving.”

Will slapped the graded exam onto the table like it was a trophy. “Seventy-seven.”

That got Macklin’s attention.

He blinked. Then again. “Out of... a hundred?”

Will snorted. “No, Macklin, out of a thousand.”

Macklin’s brows shot up. He leaned forward, snatching the test and scanning it like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Wait—this is actually... wow.”

Will beamed, obnoxiously proud. “Say it.”

Macklin frowned. “Say what?”

“Say I’m a genius.”

“You got a C.”

“A strong C,” Will corrected. “A C with ambition.”

And then—just for a second—Macklin actually smiled.

It was quick, and it wasn’t cocky or sarcastic or tight-lipped. It was genuine. His whole face lit up, eyes crinkling, like he couldn’t stop it even if he tried.

Will saw it.

“You’re proud of me,” Will said, voice sing-songy.

“I’m—no.”

“You are.”

“It’s just—” Macklin floundered, pushing the paper back across the table like it had burned him. “I didn’t think you’d break 70, so... congratulations, I guess.”

Will leaned his elbows on the table and tilted his head. “That was dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Will smirked. “Too late.”

Macklin tried to recover, but his ears were pink, and he was avoiding eye contact like the test score had personally offended him.

Will, of course, couldn’t leave it there.

“So,” he said, stretching casually. “What happens if I get an 80 on the next one?”

Macklin raised an eyebrow, wary. “You get a slightly better grade.”

Will shook his head. “No, no. I mean, what happens between us.”

Macklin blinked, already regretting everything. “Nothing happens between us.”

Will gave him the look. “You smiled when I said ‘77.’ That was basically second base.”

Macklin rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

Will leaned forward, grinning. “If I get an 80 on our next test, you have to let me take you out.”

Macklin stared.

Will held up a hand. “No games. Just one date. Could be coffee. Could be dinner. Could be that weird farmer’s market you pretend not to like even though I saw reusable tote bags in your car.”

“You went through my car?”

“I didn’t go through it. I walked past it. Noticed things. I’m observant.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet you keep tutoring me.”

Macklin hesitated. He was quiet for a second too long, and Will knew he was considering it. Like, actually weighing the pros and cons of Will asking him out.

Finally, Macklin sighed, slow and dramatic.

“Fine,” he said. “Deal.”

Will blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

“If—and I mean if—you get an 80 or higher.”

“Oh, I will.”

“But—” Macklin added, holding up a finger. “Rules.”

Will grinned. “Lay ‘em on me.”

“One: no bragging to your friends. Two: it’s not a date, it’s a hang out. And three: if you’re late, I walk.”

Will laughed. “That’s... actually reasonable.”

Macklin shook his head, but he was smiling again—smaller this time, secretive. Like part of him really did want Will to get that 80.

Will sat back, already plotting flashcards and study sessions and possibly bribing the professor (kidding—kind of).

“Better clear your schedule, Macklin,” he said, eyes bright with promise. “I’ve never wanted an 80 more in my life.”

sages thoughts⋆˙⟡: i love this dynamic so much and if you guys want you can send me requests for them, i hope u enjoyed!!

[timble-tumble]

SHIDOU FALLS DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS AND THEN YOU START BRAWLING IT OUT

TAGS: Absolute pure crack, slightly suggestive (if you squint)?, gn!reader x Shidou, Shidou being Shidou, mentions of boners (Shidou.), minor injuries (both of you), established relationship (not hinting towards anything too romantic tho)

A/N: You can tell this is a personal reflection about how much I despise what I'm learning abt in math (and math in general) 🙏💔 I had a lot of fun writing this tho

You and Shidou had barely made it through the last and worst period of the day– math. Even though you barely did any work and instead opted to muck around and play fight at the back of the class, it felt like several weeks before the sweet chime of the bell whisked you out of that classroom.

Shidou stretches his arms up, cracking his neck, “ugh, finally! I’m so done with math, why do I needa know how to calculate linear equations? It’s not like I’m gonna need y= mx+c to know how to score a goal.”

You continue the conversation, complaining with him. “I know right, I CANNOT wrap my head around this. I refuse to believe I’m ever gonna use this in the future, like when am I even going to say, ‘oh yeah that’s y=19x+5’ to some random cashier?”

While you two bitch and yap about how useless math– well at least linear is, you trudge down the hard concrete staircase, barely giving a thought (just like in math class) about where you two are stepping, when from across you hear Shidou let out a loud, “OH FUCK ME-”

You quickly turn towards his now comically tumbling body thunking and rolling its way down the rest of the steps.

“OH MY GOD SHIDOU-”

“Owie…..” Shidou rubs his lower back like an old man as he wobbles, attempting to stand up, looking back and glaring at you, “You gonna help and injured person or what?”

Before you can run down to check on him, you can’t help let out a small snort.

Then just a tinsy-winsy cackle.

And then burst out laughing.

“BAHAHAHAHAHA I CAN’T- I’M CRYING, OH MY GOD THAT’S TOO FUNNY– NO ‘CAUSE THE WAY YOU JUST ROLLED LIKE A FUCKING TUMBLEWEED DOWN THE DAMN STAIRS, I’M SORRY I CAN’T STOP LAUGHING BAHAHAHAHAHAH-”

Shidou narrows his eyes as you wipe away your slowly forming tears from how hard you were laughing. “…” He shoves his hands into his pockets, limping over to your figure still tweaking on the staircase.

“..Hey man, you like explosions?”

You pause and stare him dead in the eye like he’s called you an idiot in 50 different languages. “What? Did the fall rearrange your brain or something-”

Before you can finish, Shidou sprints up the stairs, jumping a step before swinging his leg right at your head. He laughs maniacally as you barely manage to slip down a step in an attempt to dodge his attack.

“SHIDOU WHAT THE HELL-”

“THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR LAUGHING AT ME.”

He chases you down the stairs, into the hall while swinging a few kicks just right above your head. “USE YOUR LINEAR EQUATIONS TO DODGE THIS-”

“RYUSEI SHIDOU GO FUCK YOURSELF STOP TRYING TO GET ME CONCUSSED AS WELL.”

You duck down, sweeping your lower leg at his shins to try and trip him. He dodges, stepping back as he wipes a little bit of drool escaping out of his mouth while he grins. You grab a hair-tie slung around your wrist, narrowing your eyes at him. Shidou waits for you to finish, circling closer and closer towards your figure like a shark smelling fresh blood.

“Come at me,” you taunt.

Like a command, he lunges forward, knee flying right at your face. You quickly react, slapping your hand right down on it and pushing it away as you go on the offence and aim a kick right at Shidou’s groin.

He springs backwards, “Woah woah, my beautiful soccer shooter is OFF LIMITS. Touch it again and I’ll touch yo-”

You jump, swinging your leg down on him, “STOP CALLING YOUR PENIS YOUR SOCCER SHOOTER.”

“But it’s my glorious goal scorer! My very soccer genes and cells are all in this bad boy,” He points down to his crotch area as he grips your calf, throwing you off him.

With a loud BANG!, you hit the floor, grunting as you hear your heart throbbing in your ears. You hazily look up, trying to focus on the yellow and pink blob smirking deviously down on you as your vision rapidly blacks out.

He kneels down, extending his hand a little for you to grab onto. “Admit defeat?”

“Shit, that really hurt…” You rub your neck as you place your hand on top his.

“Whoopsies,” Shidou hoists you up, dusting the potential dirt that could’ve gotten on your uniform.

You glare at Shidou, immediately pushing your hand up to his forearm and gripping it hard, as you slam! him down onto the floor, his body facing impact for a second time.

“You dick.”

He grins wildly, body still limp, “oh man, talk about explosions! That was wild, I’m basically hard-”

You squat down, lightly poking his cheek. “don’t start, you creep."

jumpscare

[sylusonychinus]

🌹 EPISODE 4 – “The Ones Who Bite Back”

🎥 Confessional – Reader

“I’ve survived worse than Lila. I’ve survived worse than this whole damn show. But Sylus? He’s dangerous in a way I don’t know how to brace for.”

🎬 Scene: Morning After the No-Rose Night

Whispers fill the mansion. No roses. No elimination. Everyone's walking on edge. Girls start turning on each other. Speculation is a blood sport now.

Lila’s grinning like she already has the final rose pinned to her chest. You sit quietly at the table, stirring your tea, pretending not to notice.

Lila (loudly): “Maybe some of us should be more worried about their past catching up to them than who got a pity save.”

You (calmly): “You’re right. Some of us should be worried.”

She falters — just enough. You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

💌 Date Card:

“Let’s play a different kind of game. Just the two of us. -S.”

It’s your name on the card.

🎬 Scene: One-on-One Date – Abandoned Carnival

It’s eerie. Beautiful. A little broken — like both of you. Lights flicker to life on an old carousel. Music plays. No crowd. Just you and Sylus walking through the memories of something once golden.

Sylus: “You look disappointed.” You: “I just expected more… fire-breathing dragons. Gladiator fights. Betrayals.” Sylus: dryly “That’s next week.”

He hands you cotton candy. You take it, barely, brushing his fingers. He flinches. You notice.

You: “Scared?” Sylus: “Of?” You: “That I might see the parts of you you’ve been hiding.”

He stops walking.

Sylus: “What if you already did?”

🎥 Confessional – Sylus

“She doesn’t chase. She digs. And I want her to stop, but I can’t seem to look away while she does.”

🎬 Scene: On the Ferris Wheel

The silence stretches. The view is gorgeous. So is he — unfortunately.

You: “Is this the part where you tell me about your tragic backstory so I’ll fall for you?”

Sylus: “No. This is the part where I tell you that you already are. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You don’t respond. Your jaw tightens.

You: “You don’t get to say things like that when you’re still kissing other girls.” Sylus: softly “And you don’t get to act like you don’t care when I know damn well you do.”

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him. You do neither.

🎬 Scene: Back at the Mansion – Lila’s Scheme

She’s alone in the confessional room with a producer, holding up a printed photo of you and a man — your ex.

Lila: “Let’s see how Mr. Dangerous reacts to her dangerous past.”

The producer hesitates. But this is television. The photo gets tucked into a folder.

🎬 Scene: Return to the Mansion

You walk back in, heels in your hand, exhausted but unreadable. The girls swarm you, desperate for details. You offer none.

Reese: “Did you kiss him?” You: “Didn’t ask for permission. Did you?”

You head straight to your room. Lila watches, quiet. Too quiet.

🎥 Confessional – Reader

“I told myself not to want anything from him. But now he’s in my head. In my bloodstream. And I think that might be the most dangerous thing of all.”

🌹 Ending Scene – Pre-Rose Ceremony

The host steps out holding a black envelope.

Host: “Sylus has requested a private meeting… with one contestant. Now.”

He says your name.

The other girls are stunned.

You don’t flinch. You stand. Walk. Enter the room where he waits, alone.

He doesn’t smile.

Sylus: “Who is he?”

Your blood turns to ice.

You: “Who gave you that photo?”

He tosses it on the table. You don’t look at it.

Sylus: “I don’t care about your past. But I care that you lied.”

You: quietly “I never lied. You just never asked.”

He stares at you like he’s trying to read a book in a language he doesn’t want to understand.

Sylus: “You’re not what I expected.”

You: “And you’re everything I was warned about.”

Neither of you move.

🎥 Final Confessional – Sylus

“She’s not mine. But I want her to be. And that’s going to ruin both of us.”

taglist: @mcdepressed290 @nezuswritingdesk @beaconsxd @butlereyepatchbunny @zomqiez @seris-the-amious @empress-irish-writes @placeholdddddd @angelkazusstuff

[kindacreepy-kindaugly]

I need to know if it was intentional

Did he let the other one do all the shit he did to me so he could then swoop in n make me feel like he rescued me

Or was it just coincidence? Was he only sweet cause he's tryin to get back on Doll's good side n treatin me better is the fastest way to prove himself, not cause he's intentionally usin the dissonance between em to confuse me?

[cobaltfluff]

what is his deal ???

[psuejo]

❥ sukuna n baby fever...

your husband has been at this for hours.

you don’t know what it is, what’s slipped through a crack in the thick wall around his mind, but something is different. he has you folded into a filthy mating press, legs only being held up thanks to a pair of squeezing hands as he repeatedly slams into you, pushing the previous two loads of cum deeper and deeper into your overstuffed pussy.

your nails rake red, thin stripes down sukuna’s broad back, and instead of tutting like he usually would and smacking your ass, he just groans.

he is gone.

“hah— don’t tap out now, woman. t-this... this is your fault,” he huffs, and you barely manage to glare at him through the haze of lust, vision blurry with overstimulated tears. “thought we agreed to no kids, yet you insisted on playin’ with those stupid brats.”

sukuna swears he doesn’t have a paternal bone in his body. he can’t stand kids with their sticky hands and constant crying and stupid, unintelligible babble. they’re like little leeches — sucking people dry and weary, but it’s “okay” because they’re “cute and don’t know any better”, according to you.

bullshit, he thinks. or, well, thought.

because the second he saw you playing with one, a bright, warm smile on your face as the little rascal served you a plastic carrot and a radish, his cold, dead heart crumbled.

he could almost imagine that tiny brat not belonging to the neighbor, but to you two, with pink hair like his and gorgeous eyes like yours. a sweet little princess, the curve of her gummy smile matching yours as she babbles out insane demands.

oh, he has to have it. he needs it, needs a darling babygirl to dote on, needs to make you a mama. you’d be so pretty, tummy all nice and swollen, skin glowing and hormones all over the place. sukuna would help you through it all, too — the cravings, the crying and anger, the aches and nausea, and especially the neediness.

he’s not one to be obedient (he answers to no one and lives for himself), but, well, he can’t disappoint his wife.

whatever you say goes. that’s how it is, even if sukuna’s pride would prefer that he not admit it.

“b-bet... fuck,” he groans, a dollop of drool escaping his slack jaw and landing somewhere on your already-slick skin. “bet you wanted kids all along, didn’t you? wanted me to make you a mama?”

the lingering in the aisle whenever you two go shopping, how you looked almost sad to leave that little snot, the constant baby videos on your feed... you’re just so damn obvious.

“yesss... fuck, yes!” you squeeze down around him, right on that sensitive crown, and you swear you hear the beginnings of a whimper in sukuna’s throat. “w’na be a mommy, ‘kuna—”

... damn you, woman.

sukuna’s hips press flush against yours, the sheets tearing from where he’s gripping, and a long, rough yet ever so needy groan spills from his open mouth as he dumps another load into you, hot and gooey.

“don’t lie next time,” he adds after a moment, breaths hard and heavy. “we’ll have as many brats as you want.”

the world is yours. he’ll make sure of it.

[tojisteddy]

Ruthless

or: Country!Simon catches you attempting to tag his property, of course he has to teach you a lesson.

cw: 3.6k words, 18+ mdni, Country!Simon, alt universe, no use of y/n, some plot with smut, dub-con, spanking, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, age gap (Simon 29, reader 23), primal play & reencounter (if you tilt your head), pet names (little girl, city broad, lucky), fingering, lite pussy pronouns, degradation, lucky!reader

a/n: a scrapped Drabble turned into a full story cause I love plot

part 2!!! <3

You were running like your life depended on it.

It was dumb for you to even attempt to tag the Riley barn to begin with.

You knew that, your friends knew that, anyone in town would’ve warned you otherwise.

It all started with a little end of college fun, wreck havoc like the good ole days. Nothing out the ordinary. Something that supposed to be a silly little prank, saying goodbye to college and hello to adulthood by spray paint and a little egging.

Was it a little too much for your liking? Yes.

Just plain rude and disgusting because at the end of the day, what exactly did Ghost do to deserve any of this? But peer pressure is a nasty, annoying, bitch. Regardless of age.

The Riley Ranch had been rumored as evil and haunted, the only people who really interacted with the land being other farmers. Even when Simon Riley, the last standing of the family, came to church (on the rarest occasions), people kept their distance. Afraid his families “bad” energy would spread over to them.

They called him Ghost.

There was a fire at the families home, started by Ghosts father who was always in a rage. Your father made sure your family stayed clear of him when you visited, he wasn’t too kind to quote, ‘big headed, posey, no good, city slickers.’ No one thought his rage would grow so large into trying to kill his whole family.

No one one besides Ghost made it out that night, there was rumored to be a large burn mark on his back to prove it.

You’d gotten found too fucking quick, “What the hell do you think you’re doin?” His voice booming on the highway road.

Simon Riley was blessed to have ears like an owl. Heard the car pull up and stop on his property, the rumbling of the engine— a beat passes— the car doors slamming shut and the far off hushed giggles. Nothing new, people had passed his property to spook whoever the hell they were with. Try to show how “evil spirits” ran rampant on his land, even if they were, he hadn’t ask for them to be there. But they’d never stop. They’d do it before.

They’d do it again.

But he heard that can of spray paint shake and his boots hit the floor before he even realized it.

Not the brown farmhouse gate he’d spent so long sanding down as a child with the help of his grandfather. Not the white ranch fence he’d spend so long getting together as soon as the land was properly handed to him and in his name, that’d he hand painted himself and fixed up the grass so people knew better than to drop any litter there.

No fucking way.

Your friends were already in the mustang you’d arrived in, those bastards, revving the engine and zooming off. You dropped the can, more spray getting on the grass fuck, fuck, fuck— your brown eyes slowly looked up, meeting a more than livid pair blue eyes.

You wanted to squeak out, ‘im sorry’ but where would there be room for that? Not in between the ranch fence that already had a squiggly line and crooked smiley face with black spray paint on it created by yours truly. There would absolutely be no room for an apology when his face was already screwed up, jaw clenching from underneath the bandana that hid his face, eyes narrowing into slits.

Well duh, babe. Move those feet!

And you did, turning at a 90 degree angle and sprinting like it was the end of the world. Ghost mumbled a ‘god damn it’, and ran right after you, his boot quickly meeting a carton of unopened eggs.

Oh you were definitely in for it now.

You ran through the Egyptian wheat, tall as the eye can see, green leaves scratching your arms and legs. You prayed to God there wasn’t any crazy animals hiding in there. You were panting, taking a quick glance behind you and you could only hear rustling of the large plants that surrounded you, feet hitting the floor.

Then you heard a distant yell in the field, “[+], you get back here!”

Well it wasn’t exactly the hardest to spot you out, you looked like your mother— who looked like her mother. You came from a family known for actually being good people, never hesitating to help or providing when need be. You’d met Mr. Riley a couple times in your 23 years of life. Quick instances that you vaguely remember. But you knew his face, and he knew yours.

Your mom had been one of the few good people making sure he was well taken care of when he was younger, she couldn’t raise him like she had wanted to with having to travel back and forth from the city for work as a children’s author. But she’d made sure he was taken care of in whatever home he was placed in, encouraged him to join the Boys and Girls club, something to ground him.

“Just needs someone to look after ‘em is all,” she’d ensisted while braiding your hair one night before heading to meet him at his group home, fingers weaving through your curls with purpose, you were around eight. “Some kids need a lil extra love, show ‘em someone’s there for ‘em. Simon’s one of those kids, so is your older brother, even though he’s a pain in my side at times. They’re all good in their core— their heart. It’s important to have someone nurture it. Gods called me to do that.”

Though, the relationship strained when the foster system let him go. “He’s just having boy troubles. Boys go through those weird hormones when they hit a certain age. Wants to prove ‘imself as a man. They get real hard headed [+]. He’ll get over it ‘nd pull through. He always does,” she’d say. So certain. Undoubting. Like a sixth sense.

And Simon did manage well enough, clearly, for him to have a proper farm for himself, one that was properly taken care of and thriving. You’d visited with your mom two years back. It was so clear to you now. Your mother practically smothering him in a hug when she got close enough. Simon was awkward at first, but accepted it. His eyes and whole body softing by her touch. She’d been family when no one else would be.

He looked towards you, you met a gorgeous shade of blue, long blonde lashes to match his short blonde hair, face with a few noticeable scars and half his face hidden under a black bandana. You were standing a ways off so you couldn’t hear what he or your mother was saying, but you saw him nod toward you. Your mother saying something and him nodding in response. She waved you over,

“[+] you know Simon— I mean, Mr. Riley since you’re a grown man now, ain’t that right.” She laughed.

“Whatever you want ma’am.” He looks down at you and extends his hand. You take it, butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and give it a firm shake.

“Good seein you.” It wasn’t just words, he was sincere, caring. Like seeing an old friend.

You nodded, “ ‘S good seeing you too.”

He showed you the farm after that in his truck. The big house that was farther toward the woods, properly fixed after the fire a decade ago, the Egyptian wheat field, the horses and chickens and the new blue barn he was building to accommodate them, the horse training area used to break in horses no one else would. It was a lot of land, a lot of work, but you could tell by the sound of his husk voice, he was proud of himself and the work he’d been able to accomplish. Even more happy when your mom praised him.

It finally clicked: that barn— and right on time, you’d caught sight of it. Not the one Mr. Riley had been fixing when you visited, the old one. Large and in charge that had old wood, and was definitely falling apart. But you made a bee line for it anyway.

What other option did you have?

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, nerves on a high because you didn’t even notice how close Ghost was to you before you ducked so he couldn’t grab you. Kicking his shin and dashing towards the barn that was bones.

“You damn brat! fuck me!” He cursed, hopping to ease the new pain on his leg before running right after you.

You undid the large wooden latch, sliding the doors open and immediately trying to slide them close. But his hand shot through the opening, a shiver runs down your spin.

Up the steps you went, the only place you could go, and Ghost was right on your heels, quick, almost silent— didn’t call him Ghost for no reason. You tripped and fell on a pile of hay and wild chickens went fluttering and clucking down to the barn floor, clouding your vision. Next thing you knew, Ghost finally caught you. His hands grabbed hold of both of your arms as you rolled around and thrashed underneath him.

“You fuckin asshole! Let me go!” You grunted, trying to kick your legs where the sun didn’t shine but completely missing when the older man closed your legs, gripping them together under your knees in his hands. He had you like a pig about to be roasted.

“You ruin my property but I’m the asshole?” The fucking audacity of you. “Gonna teach you a fuckin lesson cause clearly they don’t teach you city folk manners.”

With ease, Ghost sat himself down on one of the old hay bails, bringing you over his lap. He grunts, keeping you as still as you can, and then like thunder— his large calloused hand comes down to your plump ass, echoing in the empty barn.

“Mr. Riley!” You gasp, your head shoots up, eyes widening— there’s no way- was he giving you a spanking? The next one yanks you out of your thoughts, brutal, harsh, that makes you scream his name again, “Mr. Riley, that’s enough!” But he’s completely ignoring you.

“Spray painting my fences,” SMACK!

“Tryin to egg my house,” SMACK!

“‘Nd Ruinin my fuckin crops?!” SMACK!

“You’ve lost,” SMACK! “you’re damn,” SMACK! “mind! little girl!” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!

You’re crying and whimpering, as his hand continues forming ripples in your ass. You’d gotten one singular whopping your whole life, from your grandma for breaking her good vase when she told you no ball throwing in the house. Life altering from one incident that made you into the goodest girl there ever was.

And then there’s this predicament, one that ripped your soul in two. One half fueled with hatred for doing something so crude— so audacious. And then the other that’s struggling to keep itself contained. one more hit that meets your tender bottom, one that hits you in a place you didn’t realize was boiling over— a smack to the ass that forces an egregious moan out of your trembling plump lips.

Simon stills, his eyes flicking over the state of you. You’re shaking, head down and legs finally not kicking. But he sees the way you try to hide yourself further into his lap, because you and he both know you just moaned because of a little whooping.

Oh— you're crazy.

You’d unknowingly created a fire and Simon would add lighter fluid to it.

He lifts the bottom of your short flower patterned dress, just to peak, you jump but still, your heart pounding even louder than it had before. And it’s a sight for the man to behold— your underwear soaked like the damn ocean. You squeeze your thighs together, trying to bring the hands down to hide the slick that was ever growing.

“D-don’t look.” You sniffle. Too damn cute.

But there’s a snicker, something that makes you look back at him and his eyes are shining with mischief, “My god, you’re a filthy lil thang, aren’t’chu?” It’s almost rhetorical, he’s not asking you, he’s asking your cunt. “Didn’t know you city broads were like that, learn somethin new every day, don’t you?”

You yelp when he yanks your underwear down to your knees, thrashing around once again, but Simon keeps you still. Your pretty pussys glistening as bright as sun on water, slick all over your fat second pair of lips. He brushes his fingers against them, sending shivers up your spine, you cant help but arch further into his touch.

You whine, “Mr. Riley-“

“—Shhhhh, gotta hear her,” he murmured, slowly slipping a finger in your drenched hole. Your pussys practically sputtering out with every thrust of his finger, slipping another one and coating it perfectly. He takes them out, sucking up the juices on his tongue that you’ve left on them, spitting down on your hole before stuffing his fingers back into you. He hums in satisfaction as you lose your mind, “such a fuckin slut, you just get this wet for anyone, don’t you?”

Your eyes reach the back of your head, breath hitching, “Nooo, I don’t- I wouldn’t!— ooh- agh- Mr. Riley!” your interrupting yourself with your own moans. Whatever anger you had before, folding into nothing.

He finally let’s go of your hands and you grip on to his leg, nails clawing at his jean cover thighs. Your stomach tightens running away as your orgasm builds but Simon follows, thrusting his fingers into your gummy walls even more, curving them to find your sweet spot with determination.

“Eaaasy now, don’t want to hurt you. Be good ‘nd cum. Know you want to, make a mess all over me darlin’.”

And that’s all it takes, with a twitch and a squeal, your cumming all over his hand. Simon thrusts his fingers a couple times, watching the wave of euphoria wash over you before sucking one of fingers clean, then bringing the other to your mouth.

“Come on, don’t be fuckin uppity, taste it lil girl” he tsked, you take the middle finger in your mouth, tasting your own arousol, swirling your tongue around it. Slowly pulling your head back with a ‘pop.’ It all goes straight to the blondes aching dick.

You hear it, the unbuckling of his belt, your stomach touching the tint that had built because of you. your mind finally snaps out of the trance he’s got you in. You barley manage to get out of his lap, scrambling through the hay, tripping over your underwear, on your as knees. Giving Simon the perfect view of your tender ass and the slick that’s dripping down to your thigh before you turn when you meet a wall. Pushing yourself into it.

“We- shit- someone- someone’ll come!” You ramble out, panting, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm. Your eyes avert to anything in this barn besides the man infront of you. But he made his way over to you, slow, stalking. And once he’s on his knees and hovering above you, he springs his cock from from his boxers. The blonde is hung, large and girthy, his tip strawberry red and leaking pre cum.

He bends down, sliding his fat cock between your wet folds, and then smacking his tip on your clit creating a plap, plap, plap. You can’t help but whimper at the sensation.

“You want it don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, taunting you, goosebumps wave over your skin. “Don’t want me all the way,” he traces over your belly, and then pokes right where your uterus is, “up here, hm?”

“Don’t want me to make you feel good pretty girl? Don’t wanna feel it once?”

Maybe it’s the adrenaline that’s pulsing through you, the way he’s looking down on you like you’re pathetic, dick crazed maniac. And maybe that’s exactly what you are, just once— you just want feel him stir your guts just. this. once.

“I do.”

And your soft voice is just enough for the brute to yank your legs open, Simon throwing your legs over his forearms and spreading your pretty hole open with just the tip. The man starts bullying himself inside the tightness of your pink walls.

He’s big. He’s too big. You hiccup, shoving at his shoulder while he’s splitting you in half, “Mr.Riley, ‘s so much! hicc- can’t. I can’t.”

He croons, slowly thrust more and more of his veiny length into you. “Come oooon city broad, thought you could take it? Don’t go runnin. Been runnin from me alllll this time little girl.”

“Bet you won’t do no shit like that again, ruining my damn property,” Simon hissed, smacking down your clit a few times. “Gonna fuck that nonsense outta that lil brain ‘f yours.”

“I won’t! I promise! Mmmph- I’ll be good! S-so good just for you. Always for you.” You mewled, one hands clawing at the wall behind you and other hand at his shoulder. He finally feels it, his cock reaching the very hilt of you, balls smacking your ass crack. The damn obscene sounds your syrupy pussy is making to keep him inside you, and his tip giving your cervix the messiest and he’s sure, the first kiss it’s ever received.

A baby.

You’d look so fucking sexy, being all plump with his fucking baby. He pushes your thighs back to you head further, jackhammering into your heat rough and mean.

“Five,” he mumbles, groping at one of your tits in his hand. Squeezing and kneading it like a vice.

“Wha-“

“You’ll give me five ‘f ‘em, won’t’cha? Make me a daddy.”

He’s talking nonsense, partially. Simon wasn’t dead set on five, he’d wanted a baseball team but he’d settle for whatever you wanted. One would do if it caused you too much strain. He’d take care of you and the baby, buy you whatever you asked for, have you sat on that back porch, in a rocking chair. Your hand on your full belly, watching him as he worked all lovingly.

Simon breath hitches, rolling his hips into yours with a grunt, fucking drunk at the thought of it. The thought of you, all while your pussy was squeezing on him like you were reading his fucking mind.

“C-christ almighty, I got lucky with you huh? A snug lil cunt like this deserves to be up filled up with my cum.”

You still couldn’t believe it, thee Simon Ghost Riley, was with you in this old barn fucking your brains out like you were fucking Eve in that damn garden, on top of a pile of hay. Both of you letting out moans and groans like animals that you’re sure anyone who stepped foot on property would be able to hear. It’s hot, and sweat is forming on both of your foreheads, your skin is sticky. Simon’s big balls hitting your ass every punch of his tip into you G Spot. both of your eyes hazy, stupid off the other getting off.

“Feel so gooood M-Mr. Riley! So much!” You keen, reach for the bandana hiding his face. He always pushes your hand away but then he remembers what you’re about to be— his lover, his wife— the mother of hic children.

“Mamma’s gotta know the face of ‘er children’s daddy right? pull it off.” And you do, tugging it. And god, maybe this whole ordeal got you lucky.

So damn pretty. A scar on his nose, another one at the end of his pink lips, blonde strands swaying everytime he ruts into you, “Mr. Riley’s sooo pretty,” you slur, talking to him like it’s some secret. You’re lucid in his cock, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure while you stomach coils up.

“Uh-uh, eyes on me city broad, look at me!” He squeezes your cheeks together, planting a fat kiss on your smooshed lips. He snaps his hips forward, and your head would’ve hit the wall from how good you feel. But Simons still got your pretty face in his hands.

“Gonna have ya allll bare foot ‘nd pregnant, waddlin yer cute ass ‘round here with a ring on that finger.” He’s telling you, as if this is already happened and he’s seein it with his own eyes. All you can do is moan at his words. You can’t even form a sentence at this point. Just nodding your ditzy little head while he gives you his dick.

“Gonna be a pretty fuckin mamma too, fu- shit baby, your pretty tits all full with milk for our kin— damn, you love the sound ‘f that dontcha? You can deny it all ya wont, but she’s achin for it.”

God, you are. She is too. You didn’t even know how greedy your pussy was being as he pistoned in and out of you, “Gonna— gonna cum, fuck I’m gonna-“

“-Yeah, thaaat’s it lucky, come all over your husbands cock.”

All you can utter is a ‘s-shit’ when your orgasm smacks you, your toes curling in your converses, thighs shaking in Simons hold.

The blonde gets you in a headlock, smooshing you down into the floor further, brushing your curls with hay out of your gorgeous face. rutting into you as your walls clamp onto him, begging for his all milk he’s able to give you.

Simon growls, and the strings of cum fill your womb. Your clammy bodies are still stuck together as he rocks the last bit of cum into. Mumbling while kissing your neck, “take it lucky it’s all yours. Gotta keep you nice ‘nd full if you’re gonna get pregnant.”

It’s quiet finally. The barn itself is old and creaks but you can hear the chickens right down the steps clucking, the cicadas chirping, the breeze passing through the trees. The only think you hear are his and your pants,

Simon scoops you up in his arms, adjusting your dress to cover the mess he’s created thats dripping down on that barn floor with every steps he takes.

“Mr. Riley, where are we- where are we going?” You hiccup, gripping onto his shirt. All you can look at is him, a little in shock, a little blissed out. The only thing your able to focus on is the handsome man holding you against his chest. The way his heart pounds louder as he looks down at you.

“To the house. It just won’t take after one go.”

a/n: a draft that’s sitting since last month. Luv you bubs. Can’t wait to write more country!simon

most recent masterlist

[swytdoll]

𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆!𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 [art: @hunnismokah :)]

𝒮𝒴𝒩𝒪𝒫𝒮𝐼𝒮: toji’s bulking and you’re ovulating! how can you keep your hands to yourself when all you want to do is touch? 𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒯𝐸𝒩𝒯 𝒲𝒜𝑅𝒩𝐼𝒩𝒢: any color can read<3 size difference (toji has a monster cock ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა), blowjob, female oral, choking, pussy slapping, unprotected sex, cream-pie, explicit language, mirror sex, 69, toji fucks you in a headlock ݁𖥔 ݁˖

BULKING!TOJI who always seems to be wearing the sluttiest clothing. muscle tees that grip his meaty arms enticingly, showing off every curve and bulge of his well-defined biceps. his sweats always seem to hang too low on his hips, revealing a dark happy trail that leads down to his waistband. the fabric clinging to his thick thighs.

BULKING!TOJI who religiously carries a protein shaker with him, even on date nights, because he's serious about his bulking diet. he’s got a variety of protein powders, from chocolate to vanilla, and he loves mixing them with different fruits and oats to keep things interesting.

BULKING!TOJI who loves trying out new high-calorie recipes and often ropes you into cooking massive meals with him. you two have fun experimenting in the kitchen, making everything from giant stacks of protein pancakes to hearty chicken and rice dishes, always ensuring they meet his caloric needs. he’s genuinely grateful. often, hugging you from behind while you cook, placing the sloppiest kisses behind your ears, his tattooed arms coiled around your frame. his gratitude is evident in the way he nuzzles into your neck, whispering sweet nothings about how much he appreciates your efforts. “i love you, y’know that. . .right?”

BULKING!TOJI who’s noticeably chubbier, you like it. really like it, often burying yourself into his pudgy side with a satisfied sigh. “i could die like this.”

BULKING!TOJI who despite his intense workouts, always makes time to cuddle and watch movies, using you as his favorite "recovery" time. he loves resting his head on your lap while you binge-watch your favorite series, feeling your fingers run through his hair as he relaxes. “i hate this scene.”

BULKING!TOJI who gets annoyed and sleeps on the couch when you won’t stop playing with his tits. “you’re so damn annoying.”

BULKING!TOJI who you make sure has a secret stash of snacks in his gym bag for when he needs extra calories on the go. protein bars, nuts, and dried fruits are his go-to, and he always has a little something to munch on between sets or during quick breaks.

have a good workout<3 - signed your amazing beautiful girlfriend

BULKING!TOJI who becomes an expert at meal prepping, and his mini fridge is always stocked with containers of chicken, rice, and veggies. each container meticulously measured to ensure he gets the right amount of protein, carbs, and fats, and he takes pride in his perfectly organized fridge.

BULKING!TOJI who likes wearing your crop tops, flexing in front of the mirror. “take it off! you’re stretching my shit toji.” “no.”

BULKING!TOJI who can’t resist squeezing your face in his bicep, laughing as your chubby cheeks push together. “haha!”

BULKING!TOJI who just throws you over his shoulder during arguments. “i’ll put you down when you’re done being a brat.”

BULKINGTOJI! who thinks it’s dumb as you tie a pink ribbon around his wrist, demanding he stay still. he thinks it’s even dumber when you record it, the video boasting one-million likes on tiktok. “they loveeeeee you!”

BULKING!TOJI who’s entire hand covers your face. jeez, your poor cunt, he thinks.

BULKING!TOJI who can’t help but admire the way your swollen sticky lips suckle at his thick cock, pulling him back in greedily. usually, it’d take some time for him to ease into your tiny hole. but, you were ovulating today and after seeing your boyfriend walking around shirtless with nothing but boxers on, you practically jumped his bones.

BULKING!TOJI who presses all his weight onto you as he fucks your soppy pussy, the pressure in your back dull as he prods into that sweet spot from behind. pale veiny hands pull your cheeks apart, spreading you, revealing your puckering hole. a glob of warm spit followed by his thumb lubricating your asshole has you arching your back in anticipation. “papaaaa,” glossy eyes squeeze shut as he gently sinks his thumb into your asshole, pelvis relentlessly slapping into your sore ass. the sight has his dick twitching, “humph, look so pretty with both holes filled.”

BULKING!TOJI who doesn’t care that you’re overstimulated, rocking his dick into your tight velvety walls at a mean pace. you don’t know how many orgasms the man has yanked from you. “i know baby, doing so good. takin’ all of me like a big girl, fuckkkk.” glazed eyes watching the way you glisten on him as he folds you against the wooden headboard, your legs flush to your chest. “tojiiii,” you whine, he could get drunk off the way you whimper his name. “am i deep baby?” he groans, thick cream building on his base. “mhm!”

BULKING!TOJI who has you in the nastiest headlock, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other forcing you to look into the mirror. you’re a mess, disheveled hair, tear-stained cheeks, swollen lips. the man’s so fucking huge he covers your entire body. “unt, unt. eyes open beautiful.” he sends a particularly deep thrust that has you shivering. slick, slick, slick, a repetitive noise that has him grunting deeply into your ear.

BULKING!TOJI who eats your pussy while you suck his dick. it’s a struggle taking him, drool seeping down your chin as you slurp at the veiny masterpiece. it’s also a struggle to concentrate as he eats you out like a starved man, spitting, slapping, fingering. god, you’re gonna cum again. “cummin!”

BULKING!TOJI who watches as his cum trickles out of your pulsing hole, pushing it back inside with a frown. “stay.”