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aurorawritestoescape · 2 months ago

Text

WINTER HEAT

Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader || 4,1k

Summary: Joel helps you to get warm after a patrol.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, FLUFF, comfort, kinda grumpy and sunshine reversed, soft!Joel, reader hates winter (me-coded), Joel’s reading glasses, consensual somno, wet dreams, pet names, fingering, squirting, unprotected piv, creampie. No tlou2 spoilers! Reader has no specific physical features.

A/n: this is written for @sizzlingcloudmentality and @guiltyasdave ‘s Writing through the seasons challenge. Thank you for such a cool event, lovelies!💞 I got Winter with Joel and a wonderful mb that you can see at the end of the fic❤️ Kisses to my love @milla-frenchy for the fireplace idea and for beta-ing�� And a shout out to a blizzard we had here in April that fueled my hate for the cold :/ Anyway, I hope you all will like the story and it brings you comfort, too. Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST

You arrived in Jackson in spring. The sun was bright and warm and the town looked heavenly in its golden rays. The white mountain tops against the blue of the endless sky took your breath away. You felt at home right away, welcomed by the beauty of nature, greeted by the kind people who lived there. Although, one person in particular stood out to you immediately.

Tall, broad and handsone, with a ’don’t fuck with me’ glare, a man by the name Joel was asked to help you settle in your new place. You got to know him better when he became your first patrol partner — experienced and capable, Joel was chosen to keep an eye on a newbie like you. At first, you scoffed at him teaching you things you already knew, but as soon as you proved yourself to be an excellent shot, cool headed and careful, Joel stopped acting like your babysitter. You two worked so well together, that no one wanted to separate you afterwards.

Days passed and it became obvious that Joel and you were a perfect match not only as patrol partners. Like two lonely souls you drifted towards each other and a month after meeting him, you found yourself sleeping in his bed, and a week later living in his house.

You heard rumours about his past here and there, but it never bothered you. Who hadn’t done some shit during a literal apocalypse? Once a drunk guy at ‘The Tipsy Bison’ called Joel a monster and immediately got bitch-slapped by you. You were fuming, but Joel remained calm and led you away, his arm around your waist.

You couldn’t believe what some were saying. Joel was caring and kind and you were happy to share your present and your future with him, to help each other heal the wounds of the past.

The summer came and Joel made it magical. Your patrols felt more like dates — the scent of meadows in the air, two of you on a horseback, talking and laughing quietly, trying not to attract clickers. You relished every minute with him, even out of the safety of the town walls.

Fortunately, you had enough time to get lost in Joel completely, forget the dangers of the world you were living in and focus on its beauty.

Your now common home became your favourite place. You spent every possible moment outside in the backyard, basking in the sun, flowers in your hair, Joel’s lips on your neck. He grumbled about his aching knees but still fucked you on the grass every time you were sunbathing in your simple bikini you’d found at the clothes shop.

“Can’t walk past when you’re splayed like this,” he gruffed in your ear, thrusting his cock into you, your bikini bottoms pulled to the side.

“I was —ahh- jus’ enjoying the sun, Joel.”

“Yeah and now I'm enjoyin you.”

You felt his smile on your cheek and playfully licked his sweaty face, earning a light slap on your hip and a low chuckle from the man. When he grazed that magical spot inside your core, you squeezed your eyes shut and came on his cock, your loud moan fused with the bird chirping in the tree over your heads.

Now

You’re shielding your eyes with your gloved hand, covering them from a chilling wind. A shiver hits your body so hard that even Joel notices you trembling.

”Gonna be home soon, honey!” he shouts to you, grabbing the reins of his horse tighter as you two are riding to the gates. You grumble an ‘ok’, which immediately gets swallowed by the howling of the blizzard, and try to keep your teeth from banging but in vain.

As soon as you get home, you throw off your clothes, the cold woven into every inch of the fabric, and run upstairs to the only place that can warm you up - a bath. When Joel comes home from the stables, you’ve already dried yourself, put on a few layers of home clothes and nestled under a duvet.

This is how he finds you in the bedroom — an unmoving lump on the bed.

You feel the mattress dip next to you, a light pat lands on your ass.

“Ya hungry?”

“No.” Your voice is barely audible, your sad eyes set on the window. Joel sighs and asks softly,

“What is it, baby?”

“I hate winter. Hate snow. I’m tired of freezing my ass off every patrol.”

Joel hums and after following your line of vision stares at the blizzard, raging outside.

“I can make you some hot tea.”

”I don’t want any tea,” you mumble, covering your face with the duvet, hiding your sour expression and trying to warm up your still cold nose. Joel’s heavy hand rests on your back and he starts slowly rubbing it, giving you the comfort that you need so much yet refuse to accept because of your mood.

“What if I ask Tommy to assign you something else?”

“No!”

You yank the duvet off your face and glare at him.

“Don’t! I’m not a quitter.”

Joel stares at you, his brows raised, and you add, a little softer now, “I'll be fine.”

Your tone is far from fine and Joel knows that it’s better to leave you alone right now.

“Ok, I’m gonna have dinner. Hope you’ll join me.”

He gets up and leaves the bedroom. You watch the blizzard for a few minutes and then fall asleep, your body exhausted by constant shivering.

You wake up when it’s dark outside, the clock says you’ve slept for 3 hours. The wind has calmed down and fluffy snowflakes are floating by the window. You hate to leave the bed but your stomach is grumbling and, not risking the cold of the room creeping into your cocoon of warmth, you wrap the duvet around yourself and head downstairs.

You see Joel crouching in front of the fireplace in the living room, his back to you. He’s wearing a white tee and a pair of sweatpants and just the sight of his exposed arms makes you shiver.

“Hey,” you call softly, hating to startle him, and when he doesn’t hear you, because of the crackle of the fire or his bad ear, you say his name louder. Joel glances back and you see the fire burning bright behind him.

“Wow. Big one.” You widen your eyes, watching Joel carefully stir the logs.

“Made it for ya. And this.”

He nods to a pile of pillows and blankets, lying on the floor.

“Are we making a fort?” you laugh, looking at the mess on the floor, and Joel glares up at you with a fake annoyance in his sparkling eyes.

“‘s for you to sit on.”

“Oh,” you nod, realizing that he’s made this cozy warming place for you.

“Sit down. I’ll bring you dinner.”

“Oh,” you repeat but now your voice wavers and you get overcome with love and gratitude for the man. How could anyone call him a monster? And how the hell did you get so lucky?

You have your dinner in your makeshift nest, your eyes set on the fire dancing vividly in the fireplace, while Joel is reading next to you on the couch, the flames reflecting in his glasses.

The orange light is the only thing illuminating the room and you get mesmerized by the changing shadows on the walls. Your duvet is a cape on your shoulders right now, the heat from the fire warming you perfectly.

“Thank you, Joel,” you say, placing the empty plate on the side table and throwing the duvet off. He hums but his eyes are still set on the book.

You stand on your knees between his legs and tentatively take the book out of his hands. Your lips curve with a mischievous smile as you pull him down by his wrist.

“Nah-ah, I ain’t sittin on the floor.”

“Hey, you made this comfy bed, now come join me. Please,” you add, your puppy eyes begging.

Joel sighs, takes his glasses off and gets up with a grumble. He settles next to you in front of the fireplace, leans against the couch, and you quickly get comfortable between his legs, your back against his broad chest. His arms wrap around you and you smile like a cat in the sun.

It’s much easier for you to apologize when you’re not looking at him.

“I’m sorry, Joel. I’ve been a grumpy grump.”

“‘s ok. I know you’re snappy when you’re cold. Or hungry. Or sleepy. Or..”

“OK, stop it!” you laugh, playfully hitting his forearm. “You make me sound like such a pleasure to live with.”

“You are a pleasure. It’s jus‘ winter.”

“Yeah. I hate winter.”

You sink into his embrace and a warm wave runs from the place between your legs up to your belly and then chest. A happy sigh falls from your lips — fed, warmed up, wrapped in Joel’s arms, you finally feel content.

You tilt your head up to look at Joel and he gives you a soft smile, the light of the fire making his handsome face golden. His gaze slides from your eyes to your mouth before he leans down and kisses you. His lips are chapped, his beard is scruffy and harsh against your delicate skin, but you’ve never had a more tender kiss in your life.

Craving more, you part your lips to let him slip inside and he licks into your mouth, tasting you. You're languidly making out, but with the flames of the fire in front of you, and the furnace that is Joel Miller at your back, you get overheated in seconds and start squirming between Joel’s legs. You whine into his mouth and he parts from you, his brow raised up in question.

“Mm?”

“Too hot.” You sit up with a grunt while Joel looks extremely pleased with himself.

“Good. You’re finally warm.”

“I’m not warm, Joel, I’m hot,” you complain and start pulling your sweater and a long sleeve off, but immediately get tangled in the layers.

“D’ya need a hand?” Joel chuckles, watching you struggle. You’re huffing and puffing until he hears a muffled ‘yeah’ behind all the clothes and helps you to take the excess off. Finally, you can breathe, left wearing a tee with nothing underneath. You don’t remember the last time you had only a t-shirt on at home, but the fire has warmed up the air so nicely that you don’t feel it on your skin at all.

You lean back against Joel’s chest again, his arms find their place around your shoulders, and it takes only a few minutes of cozy silence and Joel’s slow breathing at your ear to lull you to sleep.

You dream of summer and Joel. He's lying in your backyard, right on the grass, waiting for you with his arms open, and you fall into his embrace like it's the warmest ocean. He rolls you onto your back, pinning you with his comforting weight, and gives you a kiss. It's a hot day and your back dampens with sweat, but you don't squirm under him, don't show a trace of discomfort. There isn't any. You revel in the heat of the sun over your heads, in the warmth of Joel's body, big and strong, caging you against the soft grass.

A wave of heat rises deep inside your core, when Joel's hand slithers between your bodies and he cups your pussy over your clothes. His thick fingers, confident but gentle, start massaging your folds, and you moan into his mouth, slowly melting into your underwear. You break the kiss, and, wishing to see his dear face, flutter your eyes open.

Instead of Joel, a bright orange light appears in front of you, but it's not the summer sun you've been dreaming about. The burning fireplace blinds you for a second and, startled by its intensity, you jerk.

"Shhh, baby, ‘s fine."

You hear a soft baritone, feel a firm chest at your back, and reality slowly seeps back into your mind, calming you down.

“Joel,“ you croak and a sudden whimper falls from your lips, when you realize that not everything in the dream was the result of your imagination. You look down and see Joel’s hand cupping your pussy over your panties and leggings, his thumb gently rubbing your folds. It moves just over your covered clit, stimulating it slowly, nonetheless building your pleasure drop by drop.

“Joel,” you murmur again but it’s a moan now, coated in need and want. He presses his lips to your temple, his voice echoes your desire.

“I’m here, honey. Jus’ playin with her a little. ‘s ok?”

“Mmm, always,” you breathe out as your finger traces the veins on his hand. The hand that protects you, takes care of you, makes you see stars.

His palm is resting on the place that belongs to him and he has a right to use you whenever he pleases. You don’t mind one bit. You talked about it before and you gave him a green light to do whatever he wanted to you in your sleep. The idea of waking up wet and stretched around his cock or with his lips wrapped around your clit always made your head spin.

Now the warmth of his hand seeps through your leggings and your cunt purrs like a kitten at the feather-light stimulation. Your eyelids get so heavy it’s impossible to keep them open, and you close them, concentrating on Joel’s fingers dancing over your pussy. You take a deep breath and drift off again.

Your body slumps against Joel’s chest so he knows you’re sleeping. He keeps holding your beating heat in his hand, enjoying your warmth, feeling your pulse against his skin. Soon his composure gets overtaken by the need to feel you fully - your wetness on his skin, your pussy fluttering in his palm, your body unraveling around his fingers, flooding them with your juices.

Carefully, inch by inch, holding his breath, Joel pulls your leggings and panties down, not too low, but enough to free your beautiful cunt. The heat of the fire brings the scent of your need to Joel’s nostrils and he takes a deep breath, sharp and shaky, devouring it, his desire for you already stiff in his pants.

Joel knows you need him too, judging by a soft moan escaping your half parted lips, and he hooks your leg with his knee and opens you up, so his hand could find place between your thighs. He cups your naked cunt and his cock twitches and grows, demanding to stuff your soft hole. He contemplates taking you right now, fucking you slowly and steadily, keeping you asleep, but he loves playing with your pussy too much. She’s always warm and wet for him and the little noises you make are the prettiest he’s ever heard.

The sight of your wet folds, glistening with arousal, sends a shiver down his spine and Joel slightly squeezes your pussy in his huge hand. You hum and he reads it like a signal.

Joel’s middle finger pushes between your slick petals and into your warm hole, carefully, knuckle after knuckle. He grits his teeth, swallowing a groan that’s crawling up his throat, while he feels just how wet you’re for him, your pussy craving him too.

He moves his finger in and out a few times and then pushes another one in.

The effect on you is immediate. Your chest starts rising and falling fast, your eyelids flutter and you moan again and again, your song is barely audible with the fire crackling so close. Joel’s fingers are moving in and out your cunt, but one thing is missing and his desperation for it grows. Your beautiful eyes.

”Honey,” he calls through your sleep, “please.. need you to wake up.”

You open your eyes with a long whimper, a wave of pleasure swallowing you all at once, it overwhelms you. Joel’s fingers buried inside your hole, your thighs already trembling, your belly heaving, your core burning like the fire in front of your eyes.

“Gonna make you come… Look at me… Need to see..”

Joel’s voice is strained with lust, impatience turns his breath heavy, and you tilt your head to face him, to give him what he wants. You desire it, too, desperately, to come, to unravel with him drinking up the pleasure on your face.

Joel manhandles you to rest your head against his shoulder and you bite your lip, seeing what you’ve done to him— his eyes are dark as the night outside, his lips are wet, his forehead is glistening with sweat. The sight sends a new surge of wetness from your pussy and into his palm and you feel and hear a rumble in his chest. .

Joel feels you perfectly, sees your face perfectly — the tears on your lashes from the bliss he’s giving you, your half parted lips, ready to sing for him. He doesn’t make you wait and resumes pumping his thick fingers in and out of your pussy, curling them inside you while the heel of his palm is rhythmically hitting your clit, drawing shamelessly loud moans out of you. Soon the heat boils over in your core.

“Oh, Joel… don’t stop, please,” you beg, your needy voice mixing with Joel’s breathing and the squelching of your sopping pussy.

“Never.. never,” he assures you and leans down to give you a heady kiss. He scratches your delicate skin with his beard and moustache but you don’t care — any discomfort is drowned in the ocean of pleasure, devastating your body.

Joel presses his forehead to yours, but his hand is moving tirelessly, generously filling the glass of your pleasure, until it overflows, and your pussy explodes around his fingers. Wetness sprays out of your hole, wetting Joel’s hand, the blanket under you, your quivering thighs.

“Holy shit…,” you gasp at the sight but the quickly following orgasm hits you so hard, your head falls on his shoulder and, squeezing your eyes tight, you come with a loud cry. You’re moaning and shaking against Joel, every cell in your body lights up, your mind shuts down, while Joel’s fingers are fucking into your drenched hole again and again, dragging out your unforgettable climax. The squelching would probably make you embarrassed any other day but right now it sounds like music, a serenade of your love and lust for each other.

When the burn of overstimulation licks at your core, you close your legs and Joel pulls his fingers out. He drags his soaked hand along your body, up, up, and with your hazy eyes, you see a wet path he’s drawing on your skin.

“Look at that,” Joel pants, excitement rich in his voice. “Ya never done it with me before.”

“Never done it with anyone before,” you breathe out, locking eyes with him.

“Really?” He furrows his brows, as if in disbelief, but his chest expands with pride under your back, a corner of his mouth rises.

You’ve just had the best orgasm of your life but the hunger comes back quickly when you’re with Joel. Having given yourself just a few moments of respite, you clumsily get on your knees, your limbs shaky, throw your clothes off and plop down on the blankets, tugging Joel down with you.

“Need you… imagine how.. how wet I am...”

“Oh damn, right.”

Joel’s tired, you can see it in his droopy eyes, but with the agility of a much younger man, he hurries to settle between your spread legs. He’s still panting, pulling his pants and boxers down and freeing his hard cock, but suddenly he freezes.

“What is it?” You ask, your brows pulled together. ”You ok?”

Joel’s hand holding his leaking cock, the other on your bent knee, his gaze is sliding over your glistening cunt, your sweaty body as he rasps,

“Yeah.. ‘m jus’ lookin. You’re beautiful. In this light…glowin like an angel.”

“Thank you,” you whisper with a smile, feeling a lump in your throat, tears welling up in your eyes. The fire is warming you up so well, but nothing compares to the soft heat of Joel’s love. Needing him close, you reach your arms out to him and he gets on top of you, holding himself up on an elbow, and slides his hot tip between your dripping folds.

”Oh, fuck. You’re killin me, baby.”

“Hope not,” you giggle and sneak your hand between your bodies. Your palm wraps around the base of his stiff cock and you mumble,

“Let me.” Joel nods and plants both elbows on the blanket while you notch your pussy with the head of his member.

You move your hips up, spread your thighs wider and slowly start piercing yourself with his cock. You both moan at the feeling of being united, and when Joel’s length is fully sheathed inside your cunt, his lips brush yours as he murmurs,

”So warm, baby— wanna live inside you.”

You smile against his mouth and kiss him. Like a missing puzzle piece, Joel always makes you feel complete. Thoroughly opened by his fingers, you’re taking his cock with ease, while he’s rolling his hips into you at a slow but steady pace, and you meet him halfway, desperate to make it less strenuous on his exhausted body.

Joel’s face finds place in the crook of your neck and you’re holding him close, running your fingers over his skin, through his hair, caressing him as softly as you can.

His eyes soon find yours as he rasps,

“‘s too good, baby… gonna come soon. ‘m sorry.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “Come, my love.” His eyes radiate wrinkles as he smiles at your words.

“Where, honey?”

“Inside. Please, inside.”

”Hnggg, want my hot cum?” Joel grunts, picking up the pace of his hips, ”to keep your pussy warm, too?”

“Ahhh, yeah, warm and wet for longer.”

Lust is shining in his gaze as Joel gruffs,

“Give me one more and I’ll fill you up.”

Knowing well how to make you unwind, he bends down and takes your nipple in his hot mouth. He starts sucking on it, swirling his tongue around the bud and it makes your eyes roll back into your head before a second orgasm starts shaking your body, your pussy choking Joel’s cock. He squeezes you between his strong arms and begins coming, too. His heavy balls are sticking to your ass, as he keeps thrusting into you with every rope of cum his cock pumps into your already sloppy pussy. He adds more and more and you don’t stop milking him with your clenching walls until the last drop is deep inside you.

Not pulling out, Joel moves you both on the side and you’re holding each other, your bodies tingling in the afterglow.

Your face is buried in his neck and your giggle comes out muffled.

“If you keep warming me up like this, I might survive this winter.”

“If ya come for me like this, I’m gonna do it every damn day… till the spring comes.” You feel Joel’s smile against your forehead.

“No, ‘s too much. I’ll get dehydrated,” you laugh and he chuckles with you before you say,

“After every patrol then, ‘k?”

“Ya got it.”

Joel lies on his back and you take your favorite sleeping position- your head on his shoulder, your leg bent over his thigh, Joel’s arm holding you close.

Soon you hear his slow and deep breathing- he’s asleep. You watch the fire dance for a few minutes, remembering the hard patrol, the cold tormenting your body and soul, the wonderful surprise Joel has given you, and a thought crosses your mind,

“Maybe winter isn’t that bad.”

With a happy smile on your lips you follow Joel and fall asleep, too.

moodboard by @guiltyasdave and @sizzlingcloudmentality 💞

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic! Your feedback means the world🌺

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40 @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name @tateypots

People who were interested in the wip post (no pressure to read, bbs) @604to647 @arcanefox207 @sawymredfox @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal

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mercurial-chuckles · 8 months ago

Text

Pluvial Kisses!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 664

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff, Bucky being the absolute fuckin dream of a man! *heavy sigh*

A/N: I took a walk around my home today. It was my kind of weather, and I got inspired!

Note: Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work! I wanted to post a photo, but the sound of the rain was so soothing that I decided to post the video I took instead.

Video credits to me! GIF credits to the creators! Thank you! Unedited—written it on my phone. :D

Thanks @buck-star for the divider!

Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Full from a delicious meal, you and Bucky decided to wander around your home together.

As you walked, the drizzle began as a mist, just light enough to be romantic without soaking through your clothes. Up here in the hills, surrounded by trees showing off their best shades of amber and crimson, it was almost impossible not to get lost in the beauty of the place, even with the gentle fog settling around you both.

Bucky grumbled, casting a longing glance back at the house, clearly itching to drag you into its warmth.

"You'll fall sick," he muttered, though the crisp air and the gentle drizzle felt too perfect to leave behind. When you resorted to your best puppy-dog eyes, his resolve crumbled.

He narrowed his eyes, giving in with a sigh, "Got me fucking wrapped around your finger," he groaned, pulling you snugly against his side as you walked, each step perfectly in sync in the cozy silence.

The path wound up toward the hill's edge, leading to a small pond nestled in a hollow, its surface dancing with delicate ripples as the rain tapped lightly against it.

You both stopped, breathing in the earthy, damp air. The pond shimmered under the mist, casting an almost magical glow around the place. His warmth seeped through his light jacket, and a little sigh escaped you in contentment.

A stray lock of hair fell onto your forehead and tickled, so you tried to push it behind your ear, and in the process, your beanie fell into a puddle beside you.

"Oh, shit," you giggled. Bucky leaned down and picked it up but it was too drenched.

"Tragic. My absolute klutz," he teased, his low voice teasing.

"Oops," you grinned, holding out your hand to take the beanie from him, but he rolled his eyes, moving it just out of your reach. Instead, he pulled you closer, one arm enveloping you and your sweater-clad form.

You looked up into his eyes, and he chuckled, crouching down to your level. He rubbed his sharp, cold nose against yours before moving up to place a wet kiss on your forehead, tickling your skin in the process.

You sighed happily as Bucky moved your chin up, his thumb rough against your skin as he caressed your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine. His blue eyes locked onto yours, a smirk tugging at his pink lips, and you instinctively licked yours in anticipation. His gaze shifted to your lips, his fingers moving to caress your cheek, and you leaned into his touch.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, placing a soft kiss on the tip of your nose before capturing your lips. The kiss was anything but gentle. At the first taste of your lips, he tugged at your lower lip and deepened the kiss, groaning at the sensation. You leaned into him fully, your hands gripping the back of his neck, your fingers threading through his beanie-covered hair.

'Wait? Where's his beanie?'

When you pulled back with a hint of worry, half-expecting to have dropped it, you saw his short, thick hair in disarray--no beanie in sight.

He chuckled at the confused, dazed expression on your face, the sound vibrating through his chest as he looked down at you, his eyes twinkling.

His fingers patted your head, and you instinctively touched your hair, realizing he'd slipped his beanie onto you instead.

Smooth move, Sergeant.

"Bucky..." you started, but he simply leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your cold cheek, his nose brushing your skin with warmth.

"Not a word, or I'll keep shutting you up," he warned, his voice low as he murmured against the corner of your mouth, his lips brushing your skin with a teasing tickle.

"Such a controlling little shit," you replied playfully. He snickered, a low, fond sound, as he brought his other arm around you, completely engulfing you.

"I know," he shrugged, "And you absolutely love me," he chuckled, his forehead now against yours, eyes soft and loving as he pulled you close, his warm breath mingling with yours.

"I love you," you whispered, and he grinned, kissing you again, slow and gentle.

You could smell the wintry pine clinging to him, a scent as cozy and familiar as the woods surrounding you. The warmth of his kiss made the rain feel like it sizzled against your skin, his scent and closeness grounding you, making everything feel perfectly right.

"I love you," he whispered back, hugging you tighter as he sighed contentedly.

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kxsagi · 23 days ago

Note

blue lock characters reaction to us picking them up like they weigh nothing? 🤭🤭

“𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫”

a/n: more muscle mommy content i am LIVING for this

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, shidou ryusei, kaiser michael, karasu tabito, ness alexis, kunigami rensuke, itoshi sae

isagi yoichi

you just wanted to hug him. he walked in the door, sweaty from practice, shirt clinging to him in all the right places, and you just impulsively wrapped your arms around his waist and lifted him off the ground like a puppy.

"h-hey?? wait– ARE MY FEET OFF THE FLOOR?"

flails like a surprised cat. immediately wraps his arms around your neck just in case you drop him (which you won’t, you’re a queen).

absolutely shook that you did it so easily. he’s like “okay, no offense, but i’m literally built?? i train?? gym membership?? professional striker???”

the second you put him down, he just stares at you like you’re made of magic. “can you do that again? but like. next time warn me. i almost ascended.”

10 minutes later he's trying to pick you up in revenge. struggling. failing. “i got it this time– wait no– MY KNEE–”

itoshi rin

he was not prepared.

you tugged his sleeve and said, “you’re cute today,” then immediately dipped under his arms and picked him up bridal-style like it was nothing.

he blinked. twice.

“put me down.”

but you didn’t. and rin.exe just started buffering. standing there in your arms, silent, face slowly turning pink, because you weren’t even struggling???

“you’ve been working out?” he asks after a beat. like he’s suspicious. like you’ve been training behind his back to dominate him emotionally and physically.

now he’s weirdly competitive about it. starts squatting 100kg the next morning. accuses you of being on steroids.

but lowkey? the second you leave the room? he’s smiling at his phone and changing your contact name to “dangerously strong gf🖤”

nagi seishiro

he was lying across the couch like usual, completely melted into the cushions.

“come cuddle,” he mumbled.

so you scooped him up like a princess, blanket and all, and he literally cooed.

“wah... comfy.” he curls into you immediately. no resistance. zero shame. like this is the most natural thing in the world.

your arms? his bed now. your chest? his pillow.

he does not care that he’s like six foot four. he just lets you carry him around the house like a lazy cat.

but now you’ve awakened something. he starts asking for piggyback rides.

dramatically fake faints into your arms. “babe, i’m weak… pick me up again… i’ve collapsed… my legs no longer function…”

calls you his “portable nap unit.” affectionate. parasitic.

mikage reo

you picked him up and he was SO caught off guard he straight up gasped like an anime girl getting confessions under a cherry blossom tree.

“wait wait wait– i’m off the floor??? HOLY SH–”

he clutches your shoulders like he’s on a rollercoaster. and then laughs, completely flustered but also like… loving it?

“is this what it feels like to be a princess??”

his ego is only slightly dented. like, 10% dented and 90% down bad.

will spend the next 20 minutes flexing in the mirror and muttering “okay, but she lifted this like it was nothing…”

brings it up in conversation all the time. “my girlfriend’s stronger than yours.” “shut up reo no one asked–” “SHE LIFTED ME BRIDAL STYLE LIKE I WAS A TISSUE BOX. RESPECT HER.”

shidou ryusei

you picked him up mid-rant.

he was in the middle of some unhinged monologue about wanting to headbutt a goalie when you just… lifted him. off. the ground.

his jaw dropped. he looked genuinely betrayed.

“DID YOU JUST MANHANDLE ME??”

“yes. now shut up.”

he’s blushing, giggling, and kicking his feet.

you’ve just unlocked a new kink. congratulations. he will now demand to be picked up every time he gets in trouble.

“babe, i almost set the kitchen on fire.” “you what–” “PICK ME UP. PUNISH ME.”

tries to get stronger to pick you up back, but every time he fails he goes “ugh whatever. just throw me around like a ragdoll again 😍”

at this point you’re not even dating a soccer player anymore. you’re dating a chaotic toddler with abs and zero shame.

kaiser michael

this man has never been picked up by anyone in his life. his ego wouldn’t allow it.

so when you did it? when you walked up and lifted him up into your arms like he weighed no more than a bag of flour??? oh he MALFUNCTIONED.

“how dare thee defy gravity and my authority?”

tries to act unaffected but he’s blushing like crazy. stiff in your arms. sputtering half-insults.

“you’re embarrassing me. put me down– no wait not like that, gently, i’m worth millions–”

he will never admit it, but he keeps replaying the moment in his head for weeks.

flirts differently now. “wanna carry me to bed tonight, liebling?” “wanna press me against the wall while you do it?”

karasu tabito

you picked him up and he yelled.

not a scared yell. an “EXCUSE ME???” yell. like his pride just got drop kicked.

“WHAT THE HELL– HOW ARE YOU SO STRONG???”

flails for a second, realizes you're steady, and just. dies laughing.

“okay okay, this is lowkey hot. dangerous. terrifying. i respect it.”

the most dramatic about it. calls you “the hulk” in the group chat. makes memes. photoshops your face onto powerlifters.

but then he gets clingy. starts jumping into your arms at random. “catch me, babe! TRUST FALL–”

accidentally exposes his deepest fantasy when he’s drunk, which is apparently you pinning him to a wall with brute force. “wait, i didn’t mean to say that out loud–”

ness alexis

ness is already a believer in magic. like he genuinely thinks love is a spell and that his soulmate will float down from the heavens or something.

so when you pick him up off the ground effortlessly while talking to him sweetly, he’s like: “… am i dreaming or did an angel just lift me like a plastic chair???”

instantly puts both hands over his chest like a victorian maiden fainting. “oh mein gott–”

he’s giddy. he loves it. his toes dangle in the air and he giggles.

“this is like one of those romance manga!!! where the girl is strong and the boy is just…there. i love it i love it i love it!”

clings to you like a backpack the rest of the day. refuses to walk. “carry me again… please… i’ll trade you my rarest tarot card…”

tells kaiser and immediately regrets it. “your girlfriend WHAT??” cue endless teasing.

but you know what? ness starts doing it on live streams. jumps into your arms while the camera’s rolling. the fanbase explodes. "POWER COUPLE ENERGY 😭"

kunigami rensuke (post-wild card)

okay, listen. kunigami is built like a literal truck. muscle on muscle. like the final boss of a protein shake company.

so when you pick him up? when your arms scoop around his waist and lift him clean off the ground???? his soul LEAVES HIS BODY.

“you… picked me up?”

he stares at you. eyes narrowed. jaw tense. like you just challenged his entire post-wild card masculinity arc in one move.

“put me down.”

“why? :(”

kunigami is blushing furiously like “because i… i don’t know how to handle this emotionally.”

he’s never been picked up. never dreamed of it. and now he’s rethinking his whole gym routine because you didn’t even grunt.

the next morning? deadlifts 300 pounds out of spite.

but lowkey… gets addicted. like he’ll be brooding in a corner and you just lift him up gently and he softens immediately.

mumbles into your neck like, “this stays between us. if you ever do this in front of anyone else, i’m jumping into traffic.”

itoshi sae

you warned him. you literally said “come here for a second,” and he raised an eyebrow and walked over and the next thing he knew: airborne.

"did you just pick me up?" he says, blinking. completely monotone. but there’s a vibrating silence between you where you can tell he’s going through every stage of grief.

he’s not mad. just confused. and processing. slowly.

“you’re stronger than you look,” he mutters. still calm. still deadpan. but now his ears are pink.

he thinks about it all day. ALL. DAY.

can’t focus at training. forgets his protein shake. accidentally nods at rin like they're friends or something.

he will never tell you this, but he secretly loved it.

and he wants you to do it again. but he refuses to ask.

so instead, he starts doing stuff like standing really close and tilting his head like, “ugh. my legs are sore today. if only someone were strong enough to–” “GET IN MY ARMS, PRINCESS!”

you eventually catch on. “sae, do you want me to carry you?”

“uh… no comment.”

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dior-luxury · 1 month ago

Note

Hi, I just want to say that I love your writing and blog, and I love how trey, jack, jade, jamil, epel and silver propose, can you do one with leona, malleus, riddle, azul, ace and deuce propose please?

How'd They Propose To You

PT.1 [trey clover . jack howl . jade leech . jamil viper . epel felmier . silver] PT.2 [cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek] PT.3 [riddle . ace . deuce . leona . azul . malleus]

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/romance - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] riddle . ace . deuce . leona . azul . malleus

- [𝐩:𝐬] Emotional vulnerability/intense emotional moments . Mentions of insecurity/self-doubt . Romantic proposals/Marriage themes . Fantasy setting/magical elements

Note: I'm back at it again chat, I'M CONTINUEING THIS SERIES! Also thank you for the compliments anon!! You're too sweet!

Riddle Rosehearts

With Riddle, you knew it wouldn’t be impulsive. It wouldn’t be wild or loud or rushed. But what you didn’t expect was just how much of his heart he’d pour into every word, every step.

It started with a formal letter—inviting you to a “private tea engagement” in the Rose Garden, signed in his perfect cursive, sealed with his house crest. You smiled, knowing full well he didn’t need to go full etiquette mode with you anymore. But you appreciated it. That was Riddle’s love language: thought, intention, care.

The garden had been transformed when you arrived. There was a single round table with porcelain tea sets, fresh macarons (his handmade specialty), and enchanted roses blooming in perfectly coordinated reds and whites. A soft classical piano played from a gramophone tucked under a tree. No one else was in sight.

And then, Riddle appeared.

He wore a tailored white suit with subtle red accents, crisp gloves, and a pocket watch glinting in the sun. His hair was combed neatly, though you noticed he kept touching it nervously.

“I wanted this to be perfect,” he admitted, guiding you to your seat. “Not just because I enjoy order, but because… you deserve something beautiful. Because you've given me beauty where I once saw only duty.”

You talked, sipped tea, and shared stories like always. But eventually, he grew quiet.

He stood from the table, stepped in front of you, and reached into his coat. His hands were shaking. Riddle Rosehearts—who once had no room for nonsense—was trembling with emotion.

“I was taught rules. I lived by them. But no one taught me how to fall in love. I had to learn that on my own. With you.”

He knelt, stiff and awkward, but there was something deeply endearing about how hard he was trying to do this right.

“You made me believe that love isn’t chaos—it’s growth. Not something to fear, but something to nurture. Like a rose, it only blooms when given time, space… and a little rebellion against expectation.”

He opened the ring box.

It was elegant and timeless—rose-gold with a deep red ruby shaped like a heart within a crown. Subtle vine motifs twined around the band.

“I love you,” he said, voice steady now. “Not because it’s logical. Not because it’s proper. But because you are the one truth I know beyond all reason. Will you marry me?”

And in that moment, Riddle—who once feared breaking rules—broke every one that kept him from living fully.

Ace Trappola

With Ace, you always expected surprises. A prank here, a flirty smirk there, a joke when things got too serious. But when he started acting weird—like, really weird—you knew something was up. No teasing, no dumb games, just him being... nervous.

He invited you on a late-night walk through the empty halls of Night Raven College, casually tossing a “Let’s ditch curfew. Just once.” over his shoulder. Typical Ace.

But the walk didn’t end with some hidden snack stash or silly joke. He led you to the old botanical greenhouse—long since overgrown, half-forgotten—and flipped on a string of charm-lit bulbs overhead. It was suddenly filled with warm golden light, the scent of jasmine and roses, and a blanket set in the middle of the vines.

“Okay, okay, I know what you're thinking,” he grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Real cheesy, right? Bet you're waiting for me to pull a rabbit out of a hat or something.”

He sat across from you, fiddling with a tiny velvet box in his pocket like it might explode.

“I used to think love was just another game. You play your hand, you bluff, you fold. But then you came along and wrecked that theory like a house of cards.” He paused, mouth twitching between a smirk and a tremble. “I thought I had you figured out, y'know? But I kept losing track of the rules. Because every time I made you laugh, every time you saw through my B.S., it felt like I’d already won.”

Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a card deck, fanned it with practiced ease… until one card stuck out—slightly thicker than the rest. He pulled it free and handed it to you.

On it, in bold red script: “Marry me?”

He opened the box. Inside was a ring shaped like a curled heart made from rose-gold metal, a single ruby sitting crookedly at its center—just enough to look like him. Daring. Flashy. And real.

“I didn’t want to just ask,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “I wanted it to be us. So, will you do me the honor of being the only one I don’t want to trick? My player two? My heart card?”

You laughed. You cried. And Ace? He laughed too—because for once, this wasn’t a joke.

It was everything he’d ever meant but never said until now.

Deuce Spade

Deuce had always said he wanted to be a man you could be proud of. And he worked hard for it—climbing from “troublemaker” to “model student,” all because he wanted to stand next to you with confidence. But when it came time to propose… all of that bravery? Yeah, it went out the window.

You noticed it weeks before it happened. He was fidgety. Overly serious. Practicing things in mirrors when he thought no one was watching. You’d ask what was wrong, and he’d just go red and mumble something about “school stuff.”

So it wasn’t surprising when one day, he showed up at your doorstep, dressed in his ceremonial Heartslabyul uniform—neatly pressed, crimson and black with gold trim. His hair was slicked back the way he used to wear it when he tried to “look proper,” and in his hand was a single white rose.

“I… uh… I was wondering if you'd go somewhere with me?” he asked, clearly trying to sound casual. His voice cracked.

He took you to a quiet hill just outside campus—one you'd both picnicked on before, overlooking the mirror lake where the sky turned glassy at sunset. He spread out a small blanket, revealed a homemade bento box (his cooking still needed work, but you loved the effort), and talked. About memories. About dreams.

Then, the air changed.

He stood, suddenly fumbling with something in his pocket. “I had a speech,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wrote it like, ten times. Wanted it to be perfect. But now I’m standing here, and my hands won’t stop shaking, and I realized… I just need to say it how it is.”

He took your hands in his. His grip was warm and tight, like he was anchoring himself.

“I used to think love was something you had to earn. Like, if I wasn’t good enough, I didn’t deserve it. But then I met you. And you didn’t ask me to be perfect. You just asked me to try.”

He dropped to one knee so fast he almost stumbled. “I want to keep trying—for the rest of my life. I want to grow old with you, build a life where I never have to say goodbye. So… will you marry me?”

In his hand, a ring gleamed—a silver band shaped like interlocking wings, with a small gem nestled in the center. Not expensive, but chosen with care. The stone reminded him of your eyes, he’d say later.

You didn’t even have to answer right away—Deuce’s eyes were already watering, full of every hope and fear he'd ever carried.

And when you said yes, he hugged you like he’d never let go again.

Leona Kingscsholar

The desert air was thick with heat, but you barely noticed it. You were in the Sunset Savanna for a royal festival, something Leona had insisted you join him for—though not without his usual grumbling. He didn’t admit it, but everyone could see he was different around you. Lighter. Less guarded.

The festivities were loud, colorful, full of roaring laughter and dancing drums. But when the celebration reached its peak, Leona disappeared.

You found him hours later—not in the palace, not at the feast, but far beyond the city, in the heart of the savanna. The stars burned overhead, and the winds whispered across golden dunes. He was lying in the sand, arms behind his head, eyes locked on the sky.

“You really are a royal pain in my ass, following me all the way out here,” he muttered when he heard your footsteps.

But then he sat up—and you noticed something rare in his face: nervousness. No lazy smirk, no dry sarcasm. Just... silence. Thought.

“Sit down. You’re gonna want to be eye-level for this,” he said, patting the sand beside him.

When you did, he glanced at you for a long time. That warm gaze, always sharp, had softened.

“You know, when I first met you, I didn’t give a damn what you thought of me. I figured you'd see the same thing everyone else does—a second-born who’s too dangerous to trust and too lazy to respect.” He looked away. “But you didn’t. You looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just a shadow behind someone else’s throne.”

He pulled something from the folds of his pocket—a ring. The band was forged from dark gold, almost bronze, etched with Savannian patterns and tiny lion paw prints around the base. In the center sat a blood-red garnet, catching the starlight.

“You made me want more. Not power, not revenge. Just… mornings where I wake up and you’re there. Even when I’m a pain. Even when I forget how to say what I feel.”

Leona knelt—not because tradition asked, but because his pride could bow for you.

“I’m never gonna be perfect. Hell, I’ll probably mess this up a dozen times before I get it right. But I want you. Always. So, herbivore—” his voice cracked, just slightly, “—will you marry me?”

And for once, the desert wind stilled. As if even the stars were holding their breath.

Azul Ashengrotto

The Mostro Lounge was closed for a “private event,” though no one quite knew what that meant. Azul had been acting secretive for days—more so than usual. Jade and Floyd wore matching smirks and refused to answer any questions. You knew something was coming. You just didn’t know what.

You arrived at the Lounge that evening, finding the entrance framed by soft, flickering lanterns. Instead of the usual deep blues and rich violets, the decor was ethereal—pearlescent whites, translucent fabrics flowing like sea foam, and the soft sound of a harp echoing through the air. Azul was nowhere to be seen.

Then, Jade appeared with a small bow. “Right this way,” he said smoothly, leading you past the dining area and into a completely transformed underwater-themed room. Coral structures glowed gently, and magic reflected soft ripples across the walls, making you feel like you’d sunk to the ocean floor.

At the center of the room, Azul stood—nervous.

He wasn’t in his usual double-breasted suit. Instead, he wore something reminiscent of his mer-form—a flowing robe that caught the light like the inside of a shell, sea-green embroidery glinting around his cuffs. He adjusted his glasses, clearly trying to maintain composure, but you could see his fingers trembling slightly.

“You always said I was dramatic,” he began with a sheepish smile. “So I thought… why not embrace it?”

He motioned to a table beside him, set with mementos of your relationship—photos, the first menu he designed with your favorite dish, even a little keepsake from your first festival together. “You changed everything. You saw me when I didn’t want to be seen. Not as the businessman. Not as the ‘dangerous Octavinelle housewarden.’ You saw Azul. Just Azul.”

He walked closer, taking your hands. “For the longest time, I thought love was a transaction. That giving meant losing. But you… you proved me wrong. You taught me that the right deal isn’t a trap—it’s a promise.”

Suddenly, the floor beneath you shimmered. A magic circle lit up—a contract glyph. Azul chuckled softly at your surprise. “I drafted something,” he murmured, pulling out a single scroll sealed with a soft blue wax sigil. “No fine print. No loopholes. Just one clause: ‘To love and be loved, without condition, for as long as we both shall breathe—on land or in sea.’”

With a flick of his fingers, the scroll vanished, replaced by a velvet box. Inside was a ring crafted of polished coral and silver, twined like sea vines, with a glistening pearl set in the center. “This isn’t a contract, not really,” he said, voice almost a whisper. “It’s a question.”

Azul lowered himself to one knee—not to outmaneuver or manipulate, but to offer something honest.

“I want to build a future with you. Not behind negotiations or smiles I wear for profit—but beside you, where I am most myself. Will you marry me?”

And in that moment, the ocean 'prince', who once feared vulnerability more than anything, had placed his heart in your hands.

Malleus Draconia

The night had fallen in a way only Briar Valley could conjure—an otherworldly hush blanketed the earth, and the trees glowed with faelight, their branches heavy with crystal dew. You had grown used to the eerie majesty of this land after many visits, but tonight, something different lingered in the air.

Malleus had asked you to accompany him to the ruins near the edge of the Valley—a place he said was “woven into his memory.” His expression had been unusually solemn when he extended the invitation, yet behind that stoic face, his eyes glimmered with anticipation.

As you walked through the tall, whispering grass, the ruins came into view. Marble columns entwined with ivy stood like sentinels of time, and the remnants of an ancient arch framed the star-filled sky. Malleus stood there, his back to you, arms clasped behind him.

When he turned, you saw he had changed into ceremonial fae robes—deep emerald silk embroidered with silver dragons, the crest of his royal lineage stitched over his heart. It was a vision straight from a fairytale. He didn’t speak at first, simply walked toward you, each step heavy with emotion.

“I brought you here because... this was once the place where my ancestors pledged themselves in union,” he began, voice a low rumble. “Even when it was reduced to ruin, I found myself returning. At first, for solitude. But now… for something far more precious.”

He extended his hand, and small orbs of green light danced from his fingertips, floating upward like will-o’-the-wisps. Slowly, the ruins came to life—not physically, but in illusion. Stone mended itself, the columns rose whole again, and fae music hummed softly through the air. It was as if he was summoning the past just to share it with you.

Then, he knelt.

Not because tradition demanded it, but because he chose to—offering the humility of a prince to the one who held his heart.

“I have lived longer than most humans will ever dream. I have seen kingdoms fall, and empires rise. And yet… the time I’ve spent with you feels more fleeting, more treasured, than centuries alone. You are not merely the light that softens my shadow—you are the home I never knew I was searching for.”

In his hand, he held a ring unlike any other—twisted vines of silver and black onyx forming a delicate, open dragon’s wing, with a single tear-shaped emerald nestled at the base.

“Will you allow me to build eternity with you? Not as a ruler, not as a fae… but simply as Malleus, the one who loves you?”

Your answer would not change the stars above—but in that moment, you knew you had become his North Star.

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natalianovnas · 2 months ago

Text

༄ `. 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 & 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ─ ⌗01

summary : raised in the heart of the countryside, you, Y/N Langford, has always known the rhythm of ranch life—early mornings on horseback, sun-drenched vineyards, and a quiet kind of freedom carved into the land passed down through generations. however, your father's recent colleague is interesting enough.

genre : country!au, countryside life, (turned into) cowgirl!nat x cowgirl!reader.

warnings : beefy!nat, femme!reader, age-gap (r is 24 and nat is 32).

words count : 2.6k || masterlist

𖦹 part one 𖦹 part two 𖦹 part three 𖦹 part four 𖦹 part five 𖦹

HORSES & ROMANCE :

— Baked Goods & Conversations

📍Langford's Estate,

Clare Valley, Southern Australia

The sun rose slow over the rolling hills of Langford Ranch, lighting up the sea of golden grass and rows of early-spring grapevines like it had every morning for as long as you could remember.

It painted the landscape in brush strokes of amber and coral, and even though you'd seen it a thousand times before, it never lost its magic.

You leaned against the fence post, one boot perched on the lower rail, the familiar weight of your hat tipped just enough to shield your eyes. The morning breeze brought with it the scent of hay, dew, and something sweet—probably the peach trees blooming behind the barn.

Your mare, Alba, huffed behind you, nudging at your shoulder with the soft impatience only a horse could get away with.

"Alright, alright," You chuckled, patting Alba's muzzle. "You'd think I forgot breakfast was a sacred ritual around here."

The sound of boots on gravel made you turn. Your father, Georges Langford, was walking up from the lower fields with his usual purposeful gait— sun-baked, worn-in, and always moving like the land wouldn't let him sit still for too long.

The man was the backbone of Langford Ranch and he looked it —broad-shouldered, silver at the temples, with lines carved deep from years of working under sun and storm alike.

"Mornin', sunshine," He greeted, pulling off his hat to wipe his brow.

"Mornin', Dad. Thought you were checking fence lines today?"

"I was. Had Carter do the west end. That post by the creek needs more than nails—it needs a prayer."

You grinned. "Doesn't everything out here?"

You both stood in comfortable silence for a beat, eyes drifting across the property. The vineyards curved along the hills like ribbons, and the stables were starting to come alive with movement—hooves on wood, snorts in the air, Carter hollering something at the barn cat.

Georges cleared his throat, one hand resting on his belt.

"By the way," he began, in that tone he used when he was about to drop something mildly important but wanted it to sound casual, "We've got someone movin' into one of the guest houses tomorrow."

At the news, you arched a brow. "Oh, yeah? One of the hands?"

"No. She's not a ranch hand, a colleague, technically. Been working in livestock management and field logistics the past few years—real sharp, quiet. Does good work, and I could use the extra brain with the contracts we've got coming up. She'll be helping out part-time on the cattle rotation too."

"She?"

Georges gave a grunt of acknowledgment. "Her name's Natasha Romanoff. Comes with strong references—worked some rough terrain in Texas and Idaho. Kept to herself but got a rep for being dependable. Heard about her through Greg Havens. You remember him, used to run those horse clinics down in Abilene?"

"Sure. He's the one who taught Brandy how to sit for carrots."

You replied casually, looking over at Alba as you fed her a carrot. She gruffed quietly, then you ran you other free hand over her muzzle to soothe whatever was threatening to upset her.

Georges nodded, chuckling. "Same guy. He vouched for her, and that's good enough for me."

You bit the inside of your cheek thoughtfully.

New faces weren't exactly common out here—Langford Ranch didn't have a revolving door. People came, worked, and stayed for seasons, sometimes years. Others never left. So someone moving into one of the guesthouses —someone your father trusted enough to share work and land with— wasn't something you could ignore.

"She knows what she's walking into?" You questioned, "This place isn't exactly a weekend retreat."

Georges smirked, the kind of smile that meant he was already ten steps ahead, patting Alba's head in a gentle manner. "She's got boots older than Carter. She'll manage."

A low whistle went past your lips. "Well, damn. Guess we'll see."

He started walking back toward the barn, calling over his shoulder, "And don't scare her off before she even unpacks."

"No promises!" You hollered back, grinning as you turned to your horse. "What do you think, Albs? Sounds like trouble to me."

Your chestnut mare whinnied, flicking her tail like she agreed.

The sun kept rising, golden over the fields, and you found yourself staring in the direction of the empty guest house—the one with the white porch swing and the wraparound view of the west hills.

You had no idea what this Natasha Romanoff looked like. But something in your chest shifted—a quiet hum of interest, like the first stirrings of wind before a storm.

Not that you minded a little storm now and then.

Especially if it came with sharp eyes, rolled-up sleeves, and a story worth unfolding.

. . .

The vineyard stretched endlessly, rows upon rows of grapevines curling around the earth like veins of the land itself.

The estate had been in the Langford's hands for generations, a legacy carried through the years by blood, sweat, and a relentless passion for the soil beneath their feet.

To those who visited, it was a picturesque sanctuary, a symbol of hard work and perseverance. But to the Langford's, it was everything—family, history, and identity.

Natasha had been in the business of wine for a while now, though her path to the Langford Estate was as unconventional as she was. A successful winemaker in her own right, Natasha was known for her larger-than-life presence, a woman whose strength was both literal and figurative.

With arms built from years of physical labor and a back as strong as any farmer's, she was an imposing figure, even among the burly, weathered men and women who worked in the vineyards.

She was no stranger to hard work, though her reputation often preceded her—a reputation built on an iron will, business acumen, and a certain raw magnetism that pulled people in, even when they weren't sure they wanted to be.

The guest house she had been owning for almost a day sat on ten acres of mostly flat earth. It had a porch that creaked under her boots and a wind chime made of spoons that clinked gently in the breeze. It was a fixer-upper. Natasha liked fixing things.

The redhead stretched her arms above her head, boots scuffing against the wood of her porch as she eyed the grass lining the front.

Her flannel clung lightly to her frame from the morning work, sleeves rolled up, exposing strong forearms. She had been there all of twenty minutes when she heard the distant sound of an engine, then a dog barking. She glanced toward the road and there you were, driving a red ford pick-up truck, the golden retriever settled in the passenger seat.

"You must be the new neighbor," You spoke up, stepping out of the vehicle before letting your dog out. "Heard from my father that someone finally brought the Cross property."

Natasha leaned one shoulder against the porch column as she watched you cut the engine, arms crossed, eyes scanning with interest.

All while not even trying to hide it.

The elder woman's lip curled. "Is that what they call it?"

"Sure is," You held up the basket of warm goodies you held in hand. "I brought you some cinnamon rolls. Freshly homemade from this morning."

She raised an eyebrow, stepping down to meet you. "Cinnamon rolls? Are you trying to seduce me already?"

You smirked, "Damn, you catch on fast."

The redhead smirked, taking the basket from your hands. Her fingers brushed yours, rough calluses meeting warm skin. If Georges Langford was a great co-worker to be around, Natasha was sure she'd appreciate his daughter's. "Name's Natasha."

You tilted your head, gaze sweeping over her like you were sizing her up. And who wouldn't? Biceps under sun-kissed skin, a scar just over her eyebrow, so faint that you would've missed it if you didn't look so closely, and the kind of posture that said she didn't run from anything. You chewed on the inside of your bottom lip and cleared your throat.

You introduced yourself next, and she let the name roll around in her mind, pairing it with your smile. It suited you. There was a light to you, more like an ease.

The redhead hadn't felt ease in a long time.

"You plannin' on staying around more often?"

"Depends," Natasha replied, eyes steady on yours. "Are you planning on bringing me baked goods every day?"

You shrugged. "Maybe. Depends on if you're worth the flour."

She laughed as you turned to go with a smirk, your dog trailing behind. You called out while walking back to the pickup.

"Nice meeting you, Natasha."

"Believe me," The redhead called back, watching the sway of your hips. "The pleasure was all mine."

The scent of warm earth filled the air as midday settled across Langford Ranch.

. . .

The sun rode high above the valley, glinting off metal fence posts and the waxy leaves of grapevines stretching in neat rows as far as the eye could see.

Georges Langford’s voice cut through the quiet as he stood beside Natasha Romanoff, gesturing out over the vast spread of land like a king showing off his kingdom.

“This vineyard’s been in my family for four generations. My great-grandfather planted the first vines himself back in the early 1900s. Clare Valley wasn’t what it is now. Just dry heat and stubborn soil.”

Natasha listened, eyes scanning the curves of the land, the way each line of vines bent gently with the slope. “You’ve made something out of it.”

“We didn’t have much choice,” he replied with a chuckle. “We were Langfords before we were winemakers. And Langfords don’t quit easy.”

They paused at the vineyard’s edge, where symmetrical rows of early-season vines curled along the gentle hillsides like organized chaos. The sun cast their shadows long between the rows, and Georges ran a hand along a twisted vine like it was part of his body.

“These grapes—Shiraz, mostly—go into the reserve reds we bottle each March. We sell local, export some to the States. My wife—God rest her soul—used to say you could taste the earth in every drop.”

An old well house nearby that had been converted into a wine cellar, its stones weathered by time, came into view.

He pointed out the fermentation shed, the mechanical harvester they only used in a pinch, and the solar panels that lined the western slope.

“Hard to imagine this place any other way,” The Russian admitted.

“That’s how you know it’s in your blood,” Georges said, glancing sideways at her. “You start seeing it not just as land, but as story. As legacy.”

He paused to pick up a handful of dry earth, let it sift through his fingers.

“You got family, Natasha?”

She hesitated. “Not in the way most people mean it.”

He didn’t press further. Just nodded like he understood and changed the subject.

They continued past the cattle paddocks—wide, open pastures edged with eucalyptus trees—where Georges pointed out the rotational system they used for grazing. Natasha absorbed every detail, asking questions here and there, sharp and precise. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, it was clear she’d done her homework.

When they came up the path near the back stables, Georges paused, brow furrowing slightly.

“There she is,” he said, and the redhead followed his gaze.

You were across the field, just beyond the fence, seated effortlessly atop Alba. The mare’s coat shimmered like brushed copper under the midday sun, and your posture was easy, confident. One hand rested lightly on the reins, the other lifting to wave when you noticed them.

The wind lifted your hat slightly, sending loose strands of hair brushing across your face. Romanoff’s eyes lingered.

“Y/N grew up in that saddle,” Georges said with a hint of pride. “Taught her how to ride before she could tie her own boots. Girl’s got her mother’s balance and her own kind of grit.”

Natasha didn’t answer immediately. She watched as you guided Alba into a smooth canter, posture fluid, in perfect rhythm with the horse. You rode like you belonged there. Like the land bent to you out of love, not force.

Georges watched his daughter for a beat, pride softening the lines of his face.

“She grew up on that horse,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Alba was born the same spring Y/N turned three. They're a pair, those two. I swear that horse listens to her better than most people.”

“She’s got good instincts,” She finally murmured, her eyes locked on your figure.

“That she does,” Langford agreed. “She knows this land better than anyone alive. And don’t let her fool you—she acts like she’s all mischief and cinnamon rolls, but she’s got steel under all that charm.”

Nat smirked faintly. “I noticed.”

You trotted over, reigning Alba in just a few feet from the fence. You slid off

the horse in one smooth motion, boots landing in the dust with a satisfying thud. The redhead watched the way you walked—loose, unhurried, confident.

“Everything alright with the tour?” You asked, brushing dust off your jeans.

“Your dad runs a tight ship,” Natasha said. “Impressive place.”

You nodded, offering a small, proud smile. “It’s home. And a hell lot of work.”

There was something in the way you said it—not arrogance, but ownership. Natasha respected that. She respected people who didn’t just show up, but showed up for the land, for the animals, for the legacy.

You scratched behind Alba’s ear, then looked at Natasha again. Your voice quietening but also softening as you spoke.

“You settling in okay?”

She nodded, “Starting to.”

“Well,” You began, “if you ever need anything...wine, fence wire, conversation—I’m usually around.”

The way you said conversation was light, but it wasn’t nothing. The Russian caught it, held it for a second, then let it pass.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” She said, voice low.

Your father cleared his throat, clearly sensing something unspoken pass between the two of you. “Alright, I’ll leave you two to flirt while I go pretend I’ve got paperwork to do.”

“Dad,” You said flatly, cheeks blooming a hint of color.

Natasha just chuckled, deeply amused. “Thanks for the tour, Georges.”

"And also, we always have dinner out on the porch around six-thirty. Nothing fancy, but real food and even better company. You’re more than welcome, Red.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” She tilted her head for a nod.

He tipped his hat. “Try not to let her talk your ear off.”

And with that, he walked off toward the barn, leaving the two of you standing under the shade of the gum trees, horses grazing nearby, breeze rustling through the dry grass.

Natasha followed the curve of your form as you walked—long legs, dust on your boots, and a playful tilt to your hips that didn’t feel like an accident.

You glanced back at Natasha, a lopsided smile playing on your lips. “So,” you said, brushing back a windblown strand of hair, “You going to take the dinner invite?”

“Maybe.”

You looked her up and down, not shy. “I’d recommend it. My grandma’s lasagna recipe still makes grown men cry.”

Natasha huffed a quiet laugh, her expression unreadable. “You always this charming?”

You leaned against the fence casually. “Only when I know it works.”

For a moment, the wind quieted. The dog—Cooper—came loping up the trail behind you, flopped down in the dirt, tongue out and panting.

Natasha looked down at him, then back up at you. “Guess I’ll see you tonight.”

With a nod, you concluded, “Looking forward to it.”

And somewhere deep inside Natasha, something settled—like boots finding firm ground.

She hadn’t come here looking for anything beyond work and quiet. But life, like land, had a way of growing things you didn’t expect.

➪ next part.

. . . first post ! thank you for making it all the way down here ♡ . . .

#𓂃 ๋ ࣭ 𔘓 natalianovnas #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #natasha smut #scarlett johansson

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brownsugarcoffy · 2 months ago

Text

The Vine Between Us

Summary

Annie left the Mississippi Delta with a broken heart and a full-ride scholarship, determined never to look back. Now a celebrated professor in Chicago, she’s called home to care for her mother—and the last thing she expects is to run straight into him.

Elijah "Smoke". Her first love. Her first everything.

He disappeared the summer after graduation, leaving only unanswered calls and a goodbye she never got. Now he's back in town, running a moody, magnetic blues lounge with his twin brother, playing late into the humid Southern nights like he’s pouring his soul out just for her.

Annie wants to hate him. She wants to forget the way he made her feel. But one look from those stormy eyes, and she’s seventeen again. Burning, aching, and lost in the man he’s become.

He left without a word. But now? He wants to finish the story they never got to end.

Characters: Annie x Elijah " Smoke" Moore (Modern AU)

Themes: Angst, Fluff, Mention of Abuse, Vulgar Language, Sexual content & more...

Chapters: PART (2) , PART (3), PART (4)

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Annie guided the rental car slowly down the winding gravel road, watching as the wild, familiar landscape unfolded around her like an old love letter—creased at the corners, worn with time, but still humming with truth. After years of Chicago’s sharp wind and steel-gray skies, Mississippi felt like a fever dream she’d been trying to forget.

She rolled the window down. The air was thick with magnolia, turned soil, and the faintest burn of distant woodsmoke. Summer here always carried the weight of something sacred and forgotten. Cicadas buzzed a low lullaby through the trees, and Spanish moss hung like secrets from the branches.

The past was stitched into everything. The way the breeze moved through the fields, the angle of the sunlight as it dipped behind the old church steeple in the distance. This place didn’t change. It waited.

Her mother’s house stood stubbornly on the edge of the fields. Its porch sagging, paint peeling, the garden unruly and overgrown. Honeysuckle and jasmine curled up the columns like offerings, scenting the air with wild sweetness.

And just beyond the clothesline and the crooked birdbath sat the old greenhouse—her grandmother’s pride, her mother’s joy, and Annie’s first taste of magic. Once, it had been a wonderland of heirloom tomatoes, hot peppers, and lemon verbena, the windows fogged with life and labor. Now, it was a glass skeleton swallowed by ivy and time. One panel was cracked, another missing, and vines crept through the seams like nature reclaiming what was hers.

Even in its ruin, it stood like a memory refusing to be forgotten.

She hadn’t been home in nearly nine years.

Annie stepped out of the car, adjusting her wrap blouse and brushing the travel from her thighs. She was tall, solid, striking—a woman who took up space with quiet grace. Her brown skin glistened in the heat, and her dark curls, loosened by the humidity, tumbled freely around her shoulders.

The screen door creaked open.

“Annie?”

Her mother’s voice carried out like a memory. She stood in the doorway, frail but radiant in her own way—wrapped in a floral housecoat and a pink scarf tied neatly at her nape.

Annie swallowed the sudden emotion rising in her chest. “Hey, Mama.”

They held each other on the porch for a long moment, their bodies pressed together in the kind of embrace that says everything words can’t. Her mother smelled like lavender, cooking oil, and love.

“You smell like city,” her mother murmured, pulling back with a soft smile. “But your heart still beats Delta.”

Annie laughed, eyes misty. “Something like that.”

Inside, the house hadn’t changed. The wood floors creaked the same way, the photos on the walls—sun-faded and reverent—watched her pass like quiet witnesses. A fan turned lazily in the corner, and gospel music played faintly from the old radio.

Her mother moved slower now. “I’m fixin’ your favorite tonight,” she said, reaching into the fridge with a frown. “But I forgot the buttermilk. You mind runnin’ into town?”

“Of course not Mama.”

Her mother smiled. “I want this meal to welcome you proper. Cornbread and catfish, greens and all.”

She lingered, her eyes drifting through the kitchen window toward the back of the property. Beyond the tangle of overgrown grass and wilting wildflowers stood the greenhouse—leaning slightly now, but still there. Stubborn. Waiting.

She stepped out onto the porch, the boards groaning under her weight. Heat shimmered across the yard. And with it came the pull of memory.

She remembered the way the crickets hushed as they crept through the backyard, their bodies close, movements careful, the house behind them dark and still. Her parents were fast asleep, the old box fan in their window humming loud enough to cover the sound of the creaking porch.

“Elijah,” she had whispered, pausing in the dew-kissed grass.

“You sure they won’t wake up?” he whispered back.

Annie turned, grinning, barefoot. “Not unless you knock over Mama’s canning jars again.”

“I was thirteen,” he muttered, mock offended.

“You were clumsy.”

“You were bossy.”

She rolled her eyes, and he followed her like he always did.

The greenhouse door had groaned on its hinges when she pulled it open. Inside, the air turned warm and wet, filled with the sharp green scent of tomato vines and damp soil. Moonlight spilled through the foggy panels, casting a ghostly glow across the rows of plants. The place was overgrown, wild with summer—grapevines tangled overhead, basil thick at their ankles.

“Feels like a jungle,” he murmured.

“It is,” she’d said, tugging him deeper inside. “A jungle we built.”

They had spent whole summers in that greenhouse, helping her grandmother weed and plant, falling asleep on burlap sacks, eating strawberries straight from the vine. It had been their hideout. Their secret. Their sanctuary.

Annie had sat down on an overturned crate, the hem of her nightgown catching on a nail. Elijah sat beside her, knees touching. Close—too close. His scent mingled with the smell of night: soap, soil, and something citrus just beneath it.

“I still think about that day,” he’d said, voice low. “When you kissed me in here.”

Her breath caught. She had been fifteen. He, just a few months older. It was midsummer, sticky, and loud with cicadas. She had leaned in, sunburned and barefoot, pressing her mouth to his before either of them really knew how to do it. He tasted like watermelon and nerves.

They had laughed. And kissed again.

“I remember,” she whispered now, alone in the yard.

The greenhouse stood still, a skeleton of memory wrapped in ivy. Annie swallowed thickly, fingers brushing the wooden frame. She didn’t open the door. Some things were too sacred—or too dangerous—to disturb just yet.

With one last look, she turned back toward the car. The keys jingled in her hand. She had buttermilk to buy. And no idea that Bo Chow’s Market held more than groceries. It held the beginning of everything she thought she’d left behind.

Bo Chow’s smelled like hot grease, bleach, and forgotten secrets. The kind of scent that clung to linoleum floors and lived in the cracks of old ceiling tiles. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a yellowish tint over jars of pickled okra, canned peaches, and family-sized boxes of instant grits. The air was cool, but not fresh—more like recycled and reheated across decades.

Annie pushed open the front door, greeted by the metallic chime of a bell that rang like an old church warning. She stepped inside and was instantly swallowed by the hush of small-town routine. A red plastic basket swung from her arm as she walked, heels clicking softly across tile floors worn smooth by generations of tired feet.

She moved quickly, head down, aiming for the dairy case.

Milk. Eggs. Out.

She didn’t want to linger. Not here. Not now.

But then she heard it.

That voice.

Low. Warm. Smooth like molasses poured over whiskey.“Bo, you barely can handle this place since Grace went to visit her people. She only been gone three days.”

Annie stopped mid-step. The chill from the freezer case crawled up her spine and wrapped around her neck like cold hands.

Every muscle in her body tensed.

Elijah.

Smoke.

Time folded in on itself. Her fingers gripped the basket like it was an anchor. Her breath caught in her throat—shallow, sharp, and instinctive.

She didn’t need to see him to know it was him.

The way he dragged out vowels like he had all the time in the world. That same sleepy southern rhythm that used to whisper down her skin at midnight.

She ducked into the cereal aisle, heart hammering. A box of Honey Smacks nearly toppled from the shelf as she backed up too fast.

And slammed into someone.

“Damn! Girl, you always been clumsy.”

Annie spun around. “Pearline?”

Pearline stood there with one hand on her hip and the other gripping a can of green beans, her face a perfect mix of amusement and mild judgment. “I knew I was gon’ run into somebody today, but I ain’t think it’d be you.”

“I—I'm sorry, I just—”

Pearline leaned in, eyes narrowing playfully. “Don’t even bother lyin’. You heard him, didn’t you?”

Annie nodded, barely breathing. “Yeah.”

“Well, sugar, you too late now. Look.”

Pearline tilted her chin toward the counter.

Annie followed her gaze—and the breath left her lungs.

Elijah stood at the register, framed by the buzz of the lights above and the dusty glass doors behind him. He looked older. Sharper. Not the boy who used to sneak through her bedroom window smelling like night rain and bourbon. No, this was a man now. Solid. Weathered. Still dangerous.

He wore a black tee that clung to his chest and forearms like a second skin. Faded jeans hung low on his hips, and his boots were scuffed and worn, like they’d seen too many miles of regret. His dark brown skin caught the fluorescent glare, highlighting the strength in his jawline, the fullness of his beard. That mustache he used to trim with a razor’s edge was thicker now—more defiant.

But it was the eyes that undid her.

Still deep. Still unreadable. Still pulling at something under her ribs.

Her skin flushed under the weight of his stare. The blouse she wore suddenly felt too thin, her denim skirt too snug. She was exposed. Unraveled. Every part of her remembered him. And she could feel it—he remembered too.

She whispered, “Elijah.”

Her voice cracked like old wood.

His eyes softened for a breath. “Annie.”

Her name sounded different in his mouth. Like something sacred. Or maybe something buried.

She didn’t move toward him. Didn’t dare. The floor between them was heavy with everything they never said.

Then the front door blew open with a gust of hot Delta wind.

“There he is!” Stack burst in like a Sunday sermon—loud, smiling, and just a little too proud. “Come on, man, liquor drop comin’ in hot!”

He stopped dead when he saw her. His grin widened.

“Well hot damn. Look what the Delta blew in.”

Annie was bracing herself when his arms swept her up into a quick hug. “Stack,” she murmured, a half-laugh catching in her throat. The kind that masked the shake in her hands.

“You look like a cool drink on a hard day,” Stack said, eyes twinkling. “Where you been hidin’ that smile?”

“Trying to stay outta trouble.”

“Well, you came to the wrong place for that, baby girl.”

Her eyes flicked past him, to Elijah. Still watching. Still quiet.

Still burning.

“You oughta come by the lounge tonight,” Stack said, still holding her hand. “Me and Smoke got The Cypress lookin’ right. New lights, cold drinks, and our cousin Sammie singin’ like he just got kissed by God himself.”

“Lil Sammie sings now?”

“Sure do. Boy done grew outta his onesie and into a voice that’ll make your knees buckle.”

Pearline laughed behind her. “He ain’t lyin’. That boy good.”

“You should come see,” Stack said, brushing a thumb gently across Annie’s wrist. “Come for the music. Or the hush puppies. Or… you know—unfinished business.”

Annie stiffened. Her gaze flicked to Elijah. He didn’t look away.

“I promised my mama dinner tonight,” she said finally, her voice cool again. Measured. “Can’t break a promise.”

The air between her and Elijah changed.

Thickened.

His jaw ticked once. Hands slid into his pockets like he was holding himself back.

“Then we’ll let you be,” Stacks said, throwing a look at his brother. “We don’t want Mama Jean mad at us.”

Elijah nodded slowly. “Good to see you, Annie.”But the way he said it wasn’t polite. It was personal. Intimate. Like he meant it all the way down.

She held his gaze. “You too.”

And then they were gone.The bell over the door jingled once, then nothing.

Silence wrapped around her again, pressing heavy on her chest.

Pearline stepped close, resting a hand on her elbow. “You okay?”

“Hell no.”

Annie’s eyes lingered on the door like it might open again. Maybe it wasn’t too late for all the things they never said, but was Annie ready to unpack her resentment.

TAGLIST:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @brattyfics @chaneajoyyy

#sinners fanfiction #smoke x annie #Smoke Elijah Moore #blackwriters #sinners #modern au #michael b jordan x reader #wunmi mosaku #michael b jordan #elijah smoke moore

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d-z20 · 7 months ago

Text

The Familiar's Return (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: After a quiet night takes an unexpected turn, you find yourself drawn back into the orbit of two witches who once owned your soul. Your bond as their Familiar begins to pull tighter, reigniting flames you’d long buried. In the shadows of magic and desire, you must navigate old connections, simmering tension, and a power that refuses to let you go.

- OR -

You flirt with Alice to make Agatha and Rio jealous so they fuck you to put you back in your place

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, bratty reader, top agathario, magical restraints, smidge of begging, mention of orgasm denial, fingering (Reader recv)

Words: 3.7k

A/N: totally didn’t write reader flirting with Alice because I want to flirt with her. This was written for this request that's been sat in my inbox for a while oops

AO3 | Masterlist

You’re lying on your bed, unwinding after a long, mundane day. A book in your hands, a mug of tea on the bedside table—just another ordinary evening. But then your eyelids grow heavy, and the pull of sleep becomes too much. You set the book down, curling into the warmth of your bed and closing your eyes for a moment...

The next thing you know, you’re waking up with a groan. You blink a few times, confusion clouding your mind. It’s dark, but the air feels different—charged somehow. You stretch and sit up, a little too quickly. That’s when you hear a voice above you.

"Uhhhh, guys, does the road usually have people just lying around sleeping?"

You blink again. The road? You glance around, confusion rising. This isn’t your room. You’re not even in your house. Instead, you’re on a strange dirt path, surrounded by towering trees that stretch endlessly in every direction, bathed in an eerie, otherworldly light.

You rub your eyes. That’s when you see her: Rio Vidal, one of your old owners.

She grins, flashing a wild, flirtatious smile. She’s clearly surprised, but there’s no hiding her amusement at seeing you again. “Well, well, look who decided to show up.”

The familiar tug at your soul confirms it: Agatha is here too. You don’t even need to see her to feel the connection. That bond... it’s been so long. You’d almost forgotten how strong it could be.

That must be how you ended up here. Their reunion summoning you to their side. Just when you thought you were free of their messes. Fucking brilliant.

Before you can finish that thought, a witch with red streaks in her hair walks over, frowning down at you.

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing on the Witches’ Road?”

You freeze. The Witches’ Road? You knew it to be a con—something Agatha had fabricated to further her own power. But this place? It looks real. Too real. So what the hell are they doing here? And where exactly is here?

"Hey, answer the question!" The witch snaps, her tone sharper this time. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

You smirk up at her, unbothered. “Oh, just your average wanderer, looking for a bit of fun.” You stand up, brushing yourself off and raising an eyebrow at the confused faces around you. “I’m Y/N, by the way. Familiar extraordinaire, at your service.” You bow, bringing her hand to your lips for a playful kiss. “I was Agatha’s and Rio’s little pet back in the day.”

The witch blushes at your gesture, and the rest of the coven stares at you, unsure how to respond. But before anyone can say anything, Agatha’s voice cuts through the awkward silence.

“Alice, sit back down,” she orders, before her attention shifts to you. “What are you doing here, Y/N?”

You meet her gaze, a cocky grin spreading across your face. “Guess I got summoned by your delightful company,” you say, glancing at Rio. “Seems like the connection still works, even after all this time.”

You cock your head to the side, glancing around at the others. "Well, this is... interesting. Always thought the Witches’ Road was a little too good to be real, right, Agatha?" You wink at her, and Rio laughs from beside Agatha, clearly entertained by your antics.

"Oh, this is definitely real," Rio says with a smirk. "Good to see you haven’t changed."

You flash a wicked grin. "Oh, you have no idea just how much I’ve changed, darling." The words hang heavy with implication. Before, you’d followed them around like a loyal, obedient plaything. Not anymore. Tonight, you were going to have some fun with them.

As the others chat, you notice Alice still watching you. Her gaze is intense; curiosity piqued.

You sit next to her, leaning back and crossing your arms to flex your muscles. “I have to admit, I’m intrigued by you, Alice. What's your story? I’ve always had a soft spot for women with a bit of edge.”

Alice blushes again, trying to maintain composure.

Rio laughs, clearly enjoying the way you’re provoking Agatha. She plays along, her voice laced with amusement. “You are exactly their type, Alice,” she says with a wink.

Agatha glares at you from across the fire, but there’s something more in her eyes—a flicker of jealousy she can’t hide. It’s that same old dance, and you’ve missed it. You love pushing her buttons, even when she tries to act indifferent.

Alice clears her throat, breaking the tension. She eyes the symbol on your arm, her voice dipping into something more serious. “That mark... what is it? Some sort of spell?” She lifts her sleeve to reveal a small tattoo. “My mother made me get this. Protection, she said.”

You glance at her arm, then back to her face, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Protection, huh? That’s cute.”

You lean in just a little, your fingers tracing lightly over her tattoo. “But no, my mark isn’t a spell. It’s the sign of a familiar. A scar that binds your soul to another.”

You let the words sink in, your fingers lingering a moment too long on her skin. Alice shivers slightly, caught off guard by your touch, her breath hitching. You enjoy the effect you’re having on her, the flush on her face making it all the more satisfying.

“So,” you ask teasingly, “do all you witches have a little family tradition of getting tattoos, or is that just an Alice thing?”

Alice laughs nervously, trying to hide her growing discomfort, but you can see the tension building. She’s trying so hard to stay in control, but you’re making it harder and harder to resist.

The rest of the coven continues chatting, but you remain focused on Alice, your body language making your intentions clear. You lean in closer, your touch deliberate, your words sweet but laced with something far less innocent.

You glance over at Agatha and Rio, seeing jealousy on both of their faces now. You knew flirting with someone else would get a rise out of them. Agatha’s eyes narrow, while Rio hides her irritation behind a smirk.

But Agatha’s had enough. She stands abruptly, her voice laced with fury. “Alright, pet,” she says, her tone unmistakably warning. “We need to have a word.”

You stand, cocking an eyebrow at her. “Oh, do we now? I’m not sure I’m in the mood for a ‘word.’”

Before you can protest further, Rio grabs your arm, pulling you away from the fire and into the shadows, out of the coven’s sight.

“I guess duty calls,” you tease, glancing back at the others as Rio pulls you further into the dark.

Once you’re out of sight, Agatha steps forward, her eyes smouldering with frustration. “You’ve been all over her since you got here,” she growls, her voice thick with something possessive. “Have you forgotten you belong to us?”

You pull back, laughing lightly. “Oh, really? You think I’m just going to roll over and—”

Before you can finish, Rio’s lips crash against yours—hard and demanding. Agatha follows suit, her kiss searing as she pulls you between them. The bond crackles to life around you, familiar and undeniable. Oh, how you’ve missed this.

You give in for a moment, allowing yourself to be swept up in the intensity. But then, with a mischievous smirk, you pull away. “As much as I’m enjoying this,” you say, breathless, “I’d rather be doing it with Alice.” You turn on your heel, leaving them standing in stunned silence. It was a lie, of course. Another taunt to see how far you can push them before they make you submit.

Agatha calls after you, fury and desire mixing in her voice. “You can’t just walk away from us.”

You roll your eyes, halting mid-step and turning to face them. “Oh, am I supposed to beg for your attention, Agatha? Like the good old days?”

Rio steps in, her playful side still evident as she pulls you closer. “We’re giving you the option to do it willing; we could just make you. You’re still our familiar, after all.”

pleasemakemepleasemakemepleasemakemepleasemakemepleasemakeme

You lean back, eyes glittering with defiance. "I’m not begging for anything from either of you." At least not yet. You turn and walk back to the fire.

As you sit, you flick your wrist, conjuring up a spread of food and drink. The coven watches in awe, unsure how to process your sudden display of magic.

You smirk, explaining with a sly grin, “Being a familiar means I can do things other witches can’t. Just a perk of the job.”

The coven, unsure whether to be impressed or confused, starts reaching for drinks and food, the alcohol loosening them up. Soon, laughter fills the air, and their earlier wariness is forgotten.

You continue to flirt with Alice, enjoying every blush you pull from her, knowing you’ll face the consequences later.

—

By the time the fire burns low and the coven is scattered around in various states of drunken stupor, you’re left with Agatha and Rio—both simmering with desire, their eyes locked on you.

"Okay, you’ve had your fun," Rio murmurs, voice thick with something darker. "But now, it’s our turn."

Agatha steps closer, her lips curling into a sly smirk as she tilts her head, eyes dark with challenge. "Still think you’re in control, pet?" she purrs, her voice low and full of authority.

Before you can retort, Rio sidesteps you, her presence a heat against your back. Her fingers trail along your shoulders, her touch feather-light, but there’s no mistaking the strength behind it. Her voice, husky and teasing, whispers close to your ear. "Oh, love, you don’t seem to understand. This is our game, and you don’t get to change the rules."

You scoff, trying to summon some of that bravado from earlier.

But before you can say anything, Rio’s magic snaps into place. Vines, glowing faintly with her energy, erupt from the earth, curling around your ankles and locking you in place. You glance down, startled, but the roots are unyielding, pulsing with her power. You tug once, then twice, and realise you’re trapped.

Agatha moves to stand in front of you, her piercing gaze meeting yours. She doesn’t touch you, but the weight of her presence alone has your pulse quickening. "Not so bold now, are we?" she says, her tone mocking, but there’s an undeniable heat behind her words.

Rio leans against you from behind, her lips brushing the shell of your ear as her hands rest on your hips, holding you firmly. "Don’t worry," she murmurs, her voice almost soothing if not for the edge of danger. "We’ll remind you where you belong."

To your shock, they don’t focus on you. Instead, Agatha steps into Rio’s space, their lips meeting in a slow, deliberate kiss, filled with hunger and command. It’s magnetic, their power crackling in the air, and you feel your body react against your will, heat flooding to your core, and you squeeze your legs together.

"Enjoying the view?" Agatha asks, her voice dripping with amusement as she pulls back just enough to smirk at you.

While your time apart means they’ve lost the ability to peer into your mind, they can still pick up on your feelings, especially when they’re this strong.

You glare, trying to fight the growing heat pooling in your core, but your voice betrays you. "Is that all you’ve got?" you challenge, though your voice wavers slightly.

Rio chuckles, a rich, sultry sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Still so defiant. Let’s see how long that lasts." With a small twitch of her finger, the vines force your legs apart, removing what little relief you had given yourself.

Agatha leans in again, her kiss with Rio deepening, more passionate now, as if daring you to watch, to feel your own irrelevance in the moment. You bite your lip, fighting the whimper, threatening to escape as you struggle against the vines keeping you rooted.

And then, Rio’s magic flares again. The roots tighten, pulling you slightly forward, locking you in place with perfect precision to watch them. Your arms tingle with the same sensation, her magic wrapping around your wrists as if sensing you might lash out.

Agatha glances back at you, her eyes alight with mischief. "What’s the matter, love? Jealous?" She tilts her head mockingly. "You didn’t seem to want our attention before, did you? Now you’re going to beg for it."

You feel a flush of frustration mixed with undeniable arousal. "I don’t beg," you snap, though the words lack conviction.

Rio arches an eyebrow, turning just enough to glance at you. "Oh, you will." Her voice is a promise, smooth and unrelenting. She leans back into Agatha, her hands trailing along the other witch’s waist, pulling her closer. Suddenly your legs feel cold and you look down to see your pants have vanished. There’s a vine snaking its way up your leg and between your thighs. It starts to stroke up and down your crotch, and you buck your hips trying to get more pressure. You thought you’d gained at least a scrap of dignity after all those years apart, yet here you are grinding down on a fucking plant, making it impossibly wet from your arousal, just because they’re making out in front of you.

Their kisses grow hungrier, more deliberate, and every movement feels calculated to remind you of your place. The tension in the air is suffocating, their bond radiating power and control. You watch as Agatha’s nails rake lightly down Rio’s back, eliciting a small gasp from the witch.

You tug harder at the magical restraints, a desperate sound bubbling in your throat despite your pride. Your body betrays you, heat pooling in every nerve as the intensity of their connection pulls at something deep within you.

Agatha turns to you again, her lips swollen from Rio’s kisses, her smirk sharper than ever. "Say it," she commands simply, her voice firm but not unkind.

You shake your head stubbornly, your pride warring with the growing need inside you. "Not a chance," you manage, though your voice is barely a whisper.

Rio chuckles again, her magic tightening the restraints around you just enough to keep you aware of how completely at their mercy you are. She presses a kiss to Agatha’s neck, murmuring something you can’t quite hear but feel in the air—a promise, a plan.

They turn to you together now, their combined presence overwhelming. Agatha steps closer, her hand reaching out to cup your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes. "You’re trembling," she observes, her tone teasing. Her fingers trail down your jaw, leaving a tingling heat in their wake. "You can end this, you know. All you have to do is beg."

You bite your lip, your pride a fragile shield against their dominance. "I don’t—"

Rio cuts you off, her magic surging, pulling you taut against the vines. "Try again," she says softly, but the threat in her tone is clear.

Agatha’s lips brush against your ear, her breath warm and sending shivers down your spine. "Say it, pet. Or maybe we’ll just leave you here to simmer while we enjoy each other properly."

The thought sends a sharp pang through you; the idea of being left out, of missing their touch, their power, their presence, is more unbearable than you want to admit. Your resolve crumbles just slightly, enough for your voice to tremble as you whisper, "Please..."

Agatha’s eyes light up, her smirk widening as she leans back to survey you. "Not good enough," she chides.

Rio steps in, her hands on your shoulders now, grounding you. "Louder, love," she purrs. "We want to hear it."

Your pride shatters under their combined weight, and you finally let the words tumble from your lips. "Please, Agatha... Rio... I—" You swallow hard, your voice cracking with a mixture of need and surrender. "I need you. Please."

Rio lets the magical restraints fall away, disappearing into the ground, and Agatha’s lips come crashing down on yours. The kiss is fierce, hungry—more than just a reclaiming, it's a possession. You feel your mark burn with desire, the familiar sting that always came with them, only this time it’s more intense, more urgent. They embrace you fully now, and you melt into the sensation, every inch of you on fire, every breath shared between the three of you.

Rio’s hands are everywhere, teasing, possessive, pulling you tighter against her. She presses you into Agatha’s chest, feeling the magic thrumming in your veins, making every part of you ache for more. Agatha’s fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head back, allowing Rio to trail kisses down your throat, her teeth grazing your skin, setting your nerves ablaze. It’s overwhelming, all-consuming—your resistance dissolving entirely under their combined touch.

The moment Rio pushes a finger inside you, you feel your walls tighten immediately. A benefit of being their familiar was how easily they could make you cum; the downside was it also meant they were the only people who could make you cum, so in all your decades apart, you haven’t been able to climax even once. Talk about orgasm denial.

They can feel your desire, the way your body trembles in anticipation, and they’re more than happy to give you exactly what you need. Rio, her eyes burning with possessive hunger, inserts another finger, pressing her palm firmly against your clit. Her fingers flex, teasing, sending waves of heat through you as they start to move, driving you crazy with the slow, deliberate pressure. Every touch from her feels like an electrifying promise, like the world is collapsing into the space between you. You can barely focus, drowning in the sensation as she doesn’t stop, guiding you into a rhythm that has you gasping for more.

Meanwhile, Agatha is relentless. Her lips find yours again, but this time it’s different—her kiss is sharper, more urgent. She bites down on your bottom lip, hard enough to sting, but it’s the kind of pain you crave, the kind of roughness that always ignites something dark and hungry within you. You gasp, the sensation intensifying as she takes advantage of your breathless moment. Her teeth graze your lip one more time, a reminder that she holds the power in this dance.

Before you can process, she pushes her tongue into your mouth, deep and possessive. The kiss becomes an exploration, a claim, as Agatha takes what she wants, making sure you feel every movement, every shift of her body against yours. You kiss her back hungrily, matching her intensity, responding to the pull of her control. It’s familiar—this frantic need to give in, to let go, to surrender. And yet, it feels different this time—there’s no escape, no hesitation, only the heat of their presence enveloping you, pulling you further under their spell.

Your breath hitches as Rio shifts her focus, pressing harder into you, moving with purpose, her touch as commanding as Agatha’s kiss. It’s a beautiful chaos—the push and pull of their desire, the control they hold over you. You can’t tell where one touch ends and the other begins, everything blending together into one overwhelming sensation that leaves you gasping for air, for more.

"That's it," Agatha murmurs against your lips, her voice low and throaty. "You’ll always be ours, and ours alone."

The words sink deep, pushing you past the breaking point. You finally let go completely, surrendering to the tidal wave of sensation. Your entire body tenses, every nerve lit up with a white-hot intensity as you reach your peak. It’s as if time itself halts in reverence of the moment, and all you can feel is them—their hands, their lips, their presence anchoring you even as they unravel you. It’s overwhelming, raw, and impossible to contain. Your breath catches, breaking into a shuddering gasp as your orgasm consumes you, leaving you trembling in their hold.

The aftermath is a blur of warmth and relief, your body melting against theirs as the world slowly rights itself. Still high on the ecstasy of your climax, clarity seeps in through the haze. For the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself think about how much you’ve missed them—not just their touch, but them, the soul-deep connection that once defined your bond. The longing you’d buried, the emptiness you’d ignored, rushes to the surface, overwhelming in its magnitude.

Agatha’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and familiar, sending shivers down your spine. “We’ve missed you too.”

You blink, startled, because her lips haven’t moved. The realisation strikes you like a spark catching flame—they’re in your mind again. The bond has fully reignited, glowing brighter than ever, their thoughts brushing against yours like the softest caress.

A grin tugs at your lips, even as a lump forms in your throat. For so long, you’ve felt stretched too thin, as though your soul had grown just a little too large, leaving a space that nothing else could fill. You hadn’t realised just how incomplete you’d been until now, until this. With them.

For the first time in what feels like forever, the missing pieces are back in place. The weight of their presence settles over you, grounding and comforting, like the steady pulse of a heartbeat you’d forgotten you needed. You close your eyes and lean into them, basking in the completeness of it, a smile playing at your lips as the warmth of their bond wraps around you.

Rio chuckles softly, her fingers brushing through your hair. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. There’s no need to say anything. They already know, as deeply and completely as you do. Whatever comes next, you’re no longer alone—and that, more than anything, is what you’ve missed the most.

-----

I know you didn't ask for the soft finish but I'm an absolute sucker for a happy ending

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evilgwrl · 11 months ago

Text

TF 141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: Three

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 series (MDNI)

CW: Suggestive themes (smut is coming I promise)

I literally wrote a whole chapter and it deleted </3

Masterlist

You woke up, body slumped against the door as you groaned. The soft strum of pain vibrated through your lower back, the dull ache sending a small zap through you as you stood up.

Groggy eyes drifted to the stained window, the barely visible streak of sun peaking over the forest as you sighed, feet padding against the floors as soft creaks spoke back to you.

You stared in the mirror, dull eyes staring back. You rubbed your face, small streaks of sticky sleep dragging across your palms as you picked them off.

Mortification is all you could feel. Not only are four men in your house, but you touched yourself to one, and another walked in on you. MID ORGASM. You silently prayed they had packed up their stuff and left. Or maybe it never happened and Ghost hadn’t seen anything. Or maybe- fuck it. There wasn’t much use denying.

The chill of the water woke you up as you scrubbed vigorously, almost as if you could wash away the embarrassment you felt.

You dressed yourself before heading to the barn, the acreage becoming more and more visible by the minute as you fed the animals, collecting any eggs in your makeshift apron, before letting the horses roam in the paddock

You took note of the overcast, thick smog of clouds littering across the barely visible sky. You needed the rain, but you also knew it would make it harder for them to leave if it did.

Conjuring that it would make things easier if they woke up and you were gone, you cooked yourself breakfast before heading out, planning to target a small set of shops you were yet to raid, tucked away on a more secluded part of the area. In fear of waking them up, you rolled out the rusting bike from the garage, a small woven basket adorned with half broken flowers as you rolled the worn wheels onto the gravel road.

You didn’t take much with you. Only a bottle of water, a pistol (incase you magically needed it) and two apples as well the large backpack stitched on your back.

The trail was mostly flat, a few rocks causing you to wobble from time to time, but for the most part it was an enjoyable ride. The soft flicker of the sun stretched through the adorned trees, the heaviness of the clouds beginning to weigh on you as you peddled faster.

It was an hour or two trek, you believed, the roaring ache of your thighs begging for the needed break as you pulled into the abandoned town. Sometimes you expect people to run out, waving you down in celebration, but it never came.

You could hear the soft groans of nearby dead, wobbling their rotting limbs towards the bike before turning around. The tinkle of the rusted bell greeted you as you ducked through the aisles. It was a small store, only supplying anything for a couple hundred, most items expired now anyway, but it was worth a look.

You held your bag open, dumping a few cans of tinned vegetables in as well as a bag of sugar, a pack of razors and some long-life cartons of skim milk. With achy thighs, you jumped over the counter, mess everywhere, register half open with nothing inside. It was funny, even during an apocalypse people found the time for money.

You rattled at the metal knob on the staff door, growing frustrated when it wouldn’t budge before you began to kick, slamming your boots against it repeatedly before it eventually swung open. It might have taken you 15 minutes, but it was sure worth it as you snatched up the golden sweetness many would refer to as whiskey.

You headed off with a few other things, half open stock boxes tipped everywhere as your hands grabbed for anything that hadn’t expire, or was about to. With a heavier bag, and a smug smile on your face, you peddled your way home.

“Y’ think she got scared and buggered off?” Soap quipped, mouth half full with an apple, juices spurting across the room as Ghost glared back.

“If it wasn’t for him,” Gaz interjected, thumb pointing towards the masked-man, “she probably would have let us stay.”

Ghost rolled his eyes, replaying the scene in his head for the hundredth time. Sure, he should’ve knocked but he’s glad he didn’t. Half of him wanted her to ask him to stay, to fully satisfy her, to fully satisfy him.

“She wouldn’t have just packed up and left- put far too much effort into all this place to leave,” Price said, voice deeper than usual as he took a swig of water. Time ticked slowly as they waited around, searching every crevice of the house before they landed on a bow and arrow.

Soap snatched it, veiny hands clawing at the weapon as if it was gold. “What’dya say, LT? Fancy hunting some deer?”

“I ain’t hunting for anybody if I ain’t staying-“

“Go hunt a f’cking deer,” Price huffed.

The two me disappeared into the forest as Gaz stepped outside, bottom plonked in the barely comfortable porch chair. The Captain knew you would probably bitch them out, but a sick part of him wanted you to let them stay, wanted you to realise they were what you needed, that they magically landed on your farm for some Godforsaken purpose.

He would make you realise. He knew he would.

You felt like vomiting now, your bones burning as if they had clawed through your flesh, attempting to escape the treacherous journey that you forced yourself to endure.

You almost felt lost. Why did it feel so much longer on the way back?

You smiled to yourself softly as you passed the tree you marked a few months ago, the unmistakable smiley face almost greeting you. Your smile quickly faded when you felt a spit land on your cheek. And then another. And another. Until you were peddling faster as wet pellets hit the ground.

Slippery hands clutched the leather handles as you neared the entrance of the farm. You were drenched now, hair matted to your neck and face as you flicked it behind you, annoyed that you neglected your clip.

Your boots squelched against the ground as you slammed the garage door shut, weak arms clutching your bag as you swung it around your shoulder, weaving in and out of trees as you stumbled up the front steps.

Tumbling inside, you took note of the cleaner house, a small wrapped bowl of vegetables and a bowl of tomato soup (that was probably cold now) greeting you as you kicked off your boots. You stood over the sink as you scrunched your hair out, the trickle of water tapping as you shrugged off your coat, fumbling outside to hang it on the underground clothes line.

For a minute you thought they had left, no manly faces greeting you until you heard the soft clearing of a throat. “Made you some lunch,” he said.

“Thank you… Gaz, isn’t it?” Clammy hands gripped the bowls as you sat down on the couch, the lukewarm mixture sliding down your oesophagus.

“That’s right,” he replied, gentle smile adorning his face as he watched you, trying to observe you, almost as if you were a war criminal he wanted to break in. Military men, you thought.

You sat in silence, yet didn’t find it to be uncomfortable. Though Gaz was incredibly handsome, and well built, you almost felt comfortable in his presence and you couldn’t quite place why.

“Where did you go?” He asked, almost as if he was hesitant to speak. Your eyes flickered to his lap, hands gently rubbing together before rubbing against his denim-covered thighs. He has nice thighs.

“Uh, I went into a town.. bout two hours from here. Got a few things and I also just wanted to.. get out, I guess.”

He nodded.

Once you finished up, you braced yourself as you ran outside, yet found no horses frolicking frightened in the paddock. Fear ran through you as you sprinted to the barn, heavy footsteps slapping against the mud as you took in the closed door.

You let out a shaky sigh, relieved, when you saw two large, longer heads staring at you from inside, the gentle squawks of hens sounding across the room.

“I hope you don’t mind that I put them inside, figured you would hav’ done that anyway when you got back.” You jumped at the voice, body jolting as you snapped your head.

Price stood there, rough hands clutching a wooden broom as he swept, a beanie now plonked on his head instead of the hat he greeted you with.

“Uh- thanks. Yeah, they’re afraid of the rain.”

“Y’r a good owner, picking up the slack after they were abandoned.”

“I guess so,” you conceded. You looked at him, taking in the way his eyes flickered down your drenched frame, a cerulean blue darkening into a navy.

“Y’r wet.” His tone was sharp, even while stating the obvious, a visible clench of his jaw causing you to tense as you wobbled, suddenly nervous under his gaze.

“Well, I was out in the rain,” you said, almost like it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world. You looked away but could feel him walking closer to you.

“Y’r gonna catch a cold if you don’t change.”

“I’ll survive,” you replied, your voice now dropping to a low whisper. You looked at him, his stare heavy, almost like it was weighting you down. He smiled at you, a hand reaching out before it landed on the flesh of your waist, squeezing as you felt the familiar heat you encountered last night, prickling through you again.

Your breathing was shallow, an occasional hick passing through you as his hand lingered. “Pretty thing, hm?” He gestured, nodding towards your chest as you noticed the faint outline of the rose-coloured brassiere you chose today. You blushed and you were sure you looked silly, a red hue across your face as you barely stuttered a reply.

You turned, almost feeling like you were about to choke. Feeling betrayed by your own body, you pressed your thighs together and you were sure he noticed.

“Y’n need any help staying warm,” he began, “just tell me, sweetheart.”

#poly 141 x reader #141 x reader #call of duty x reader #simon riley #ghost #john soap mactavish #soap #captain john price #price #kyle gaz garrick #gaz #ghost smut #soap smut #gaz smut #captain price smut #141 au #141 smut #poly!141 smut

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helpimstuckposting · 6 months ago

Text

From Santa

Prompt: Magic | Rating: G | Wordcount: 2,957 | AO3 | @steddiebingo

Steve was seven when he found out that Santa did not exist. He tried, once, the whole ‘Santa’ thing. After hearing the stories from kids at school, he ran over to Melvald’s and bought a tin of cookies with his allowance before skipping excitedly home. Some of the kids mentioned feeding the magic deer, because flying took a lot out of them obviously, and Steve wasn’t quite sure what magic deer ate, but he left out a few carrots in the yard just in case.

He was so excited, setting out the cookies in front of the big tree in the living room and hoping he’d wake up to find a present underneath, just for him. Maybe it would be a cool Hess Truck like Tommy wanted, or maybe it would be an action figure, or comic books, or maybe his parents would come home. The other kids said Santa was magic, that he could do anything, so Steve wasn’t picky.

He went to bed excited and could barely close his eyes to sleep, but the other kids said Santa didn’t come if you were awake so Steve tried his very best. He finally fell asleep with the taste of ginger snaps on his tongue (there was a whole tin, and Santa had hundreds, maybe thousands of cookies every night, so he didn’t think Santa would mind one less).

He woke up to a spotless and quiet house, no puddles from snow on Santa’s boots, no bites out of the cookies, and no present under the tree. No parents either. Steve didn’t have any more cookies that day. He couldn’t bear it.

When his parents arrived a week later, Steve was greeted not by hugs and exclamations of how much his parents missed him, but by his mother loudly and forcefully demanding answers to why her yard was scattered with gross old carrots, drying and cracking and covered in mud from the melted snow. So he told her. He told her about Santa and how he wanted him to come, how he went to bed early like a good boy, and waited all night. How he didn’t show up.

She laughed.

It was cold and icy, like the shards still hanging from the gutters on their roof. She told him he shouldn’t be impatient for his presents — they were in the car like always — and really, Steven, it doesn’t look good for a boy to be so demanding, and the presents certainly weren’t from Santa because the man did not exist.

Santa didn’t exist.

So yes, Steve knew from a young age that the jolly man in the coat and hat was simply a lie — told to children to excite them and give them something to look forward to. He didn’t really get it at first; were the presents not enough? Was the week off from school not exciting? Did they not look forward to Christmas morning without the story of a man sneaking down the chimney? But he’d also fallen for it. He was so excited, he liked the idea of feeding the magic deer, and leaving a treat out for someone delivering gifts out of kindness. He liked the story, that a man with so much power wanted to use it to make children happy. He liked being thought of, liked being remembered by someone he didn’t even know, liked that it was a reward for being nice throughout the year.

But it wasn’t true. And that was fine, Steve tried to convince himself. He still got the presents, and he still got his parents, even if they were a week late. He still got a hug from his nanny, and his mom let him have the rest of the ginger snaps, and he didn’t even have to clean up the carrots from the yard.

His parents left again, and school started again, and it was fine.

It was fine, until Tommy came barreling through the door with his Hess Truck held high and the praise of Santa spewing from his lips, and Steve noticed that not everyone shared in Tommy’s delight. Most of them did, and a lot of them brought their favorite toy to school just like Tommy, but a few kids (maybe three) sat still in their chairs — like they could avoid any questions if they blended into the background. They ducked their heads and they sank in their seats, and Steve wondered if they also found out Santa wasn’t real.

But Tommy singled one kid out at recess. He dragged him out, to the center of the playground, and told everyone that Santa didn’t go to trailer parks, that the kids in Forest Hills didn’t get presents from Santa, because only good kids got presents, and how could they be good if they lived in a junk yard. Those words didn’t sound like Tommy, but he was always repeating things his dad said, copying him and taking his word as gospel.

The kid, scrawny with a shaved head and angry brown eyes, sank into his shoes. Not in retreat, not in a cowering way. He sank into his shoes like he was grounding himself, like he was making sure his footing was firm and steady, and he shoved Tommy right into the ground.

Of course, only then did a teacher interject, and only the boy Steve didn’t know the name of was dragged away to the office. Tommy angrily scrambled to his feet and spat at the ground where the kid had stood, remarking that he was right and the Forrest Hills kids were definitely on the naughty list, Steve, wasn’t he right? Did he see that? What a freak that kids was.

Steve rolled his eyes and didn’t say anything. He knew interrupting Tommy was just more hassle than it was worth, and Tommy was wrong anyway because Santa wasn’t real. He’d figure it out eventually, Steve supposed, but he wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

It was his walk home that gave him an idea. He saw the bus pass by as he trudged along, down the road and off in the direction of Forrest Hills trailer park. He wondered if that kid from recess was there, if he saw Steve out the window as he passed, if he really didn’t get any presents. He thought about all the gifts his parents gave him that were still packaged up in his closet because he had too many and he didn’t really like them all. And he thought about how much he wanted someone to think about him on Christmas, with no other purpose or desire but to make him happy.

So, with an inkling of an idea creeping its way through his head, he ran the rest of the way home and pulled out the phone book from the hallway table, as well as his yearbook from the previous year. There weren’t many numbers from Forrest Hills, but he did find the three kids from his class and a couple from the year above. He picked out which of his unopened presents he thought they’d like the most, and he wrapped them crudely in leftover paper he found in the study. He ripped off a few pages from the note pad by the phone, and wrote out in his best writing:

From Santa, sorry I was late

And then:

P.S. my elf wrote this

Because his best writing was still pretty bad.

It took him a couple days to plan and gather things, but in the dead of night — after his neighbors clicked off their porch lights — he piled all five presents into a little red wagon and tied the wagon to the end of his bike. He took off toward Forrest Hills, a little list of names and addresses crinkled in his pocket. He tip-toed around the dirt paths, freezing in fear every time his little wagon’s wheels squeaked, and placed the presents and the notes from ‘Santa’ on the doorsteps that matched his little list. He checked it twice, just for fun.

He felt lighter on the ride back home, and not just because his wagon was empty.

Steve was seven when he decided to become Santa himself.

It wasn’t obvious, the next day at school, and Steve didn’t do it just to listen to kids whisper about Santa visiting Forrest Hills a week late, but he did notice something. The three kids who had sunk low in their seats the first day back, who avoided talking to the others to brag about their presents, were no longer trying to blend into the background. They sat comfortably in their seats, and whispered among themselves, eyes twinkling a little more than they had a few days ago. Steve was ecstatic. He sat, buzzing silently with excitement as he tried to keep his face blank and neutral. Santa had to be kept secret, after all.

He did it again the next year, adding the newest kids to his list from the years below him, and saved up his allowance to get some cuter presents for the girls; some nail polish and art supplies, some coloring books and beads. This time he wasn’t late, and his handwriting had improved a lot from the year before (though he still blamed the elves for his wonky letters).

He had fun, learning how to wrap the paper around each gift, saving up his money to pick out presents he hoped the other kids would like, wondering what their faces looked like when they opened the door to find a present on their front step.

He was a little worried that the kids would be concerned Santa hadn’t made it inside, being magic and all, but he also noticed that none of the trailers had chimneys so maybe that was okay. He also learned that most of the kids in Forrest Hills did get presents, and he felt a little stupid for assuming they didn’t just from Tommy’s dumb comments, but he also knew they weren’t the fancy presents other kids got like bikes and new games.

He tried making his Santa presents a little more extravagant. After all, why would Santa give Tommy a brand new Lego set, but give Willie across town a pack of baseball cards? Steve just wanted to even the playing field a bit, knock Tommy down a peg or two when he tried humiliating another kid on the playground and that kid said Actually Tommy, I got the new Hess Truck from Santa, too! And Steve remembered wrapping it up, much neater this time, and almost getting caught on the stoop when a dog started barking at him. He muffled a giggle into his hand when Tommy floundered for something to say, coming up empty handed.

As the years passed and the kids in his grade stopped believing in Santa, he scratched their names off his list. He kept adding to it as well, though. He paid attention to the new kids in each grade, noticed if they had a little less than those around them, noticed if they were on the outskirts or if they looked a little nervous as the holidays drew nearer and nearer. He left presents for the Byers one year when he heard that Jon’s mom lost her job after his dad left. He left presents almost all over town, had the phone book highlighted with every address he wrote down in his notebook — a much needed upgrade from the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket. He wrote a list, he checked it twice, and he made sure to slip through the dark like a shadow, avoiding anything that might give him away.

He was always surprised when no adults tried to stop him. Surely, the stoop presents were well known throughout town by the time Steve reached high school, but maybe they didn’t want to know who was behind it. Maybe they wanted to keep the magic alive, too. Either way, Steve played a successful Santa for nearly two decades before anyone found out.

It was Eddie.

It was always Eddie.

Eddie, the boy who knocked Tommy clear to the ground that first winter. Eddie, the boy who made Steve want to help. Eddie, the boy who received the first ever gift from Hawkin’s own Santa, though Steve kind of hoped that was a secret he could keep.

They were putting up the tree in their apartment, the first Christmas they were spending together. Eddie had brought several old ornaments from the trailer, ones that he stole from right under Wayne’s nose because lord knows the man wouldn’t want to part with them if he didn’t have to — a collector, that man was. Steve picked up one that, at first, had been unassuming, a clear bauble filled with glitter. Hanging it on the sad twiggy branch of their Charlie Brown tree, however, he noticed a little piece of paper inside. It was aged and a bit crumpled, but not too shabby for how old it was.

From Santa, sorry I was late, it read in squiggled, messy handwriting, the wonky letters leaning to one side more than the other.

P.S. my elf wrote this

Steve stared at it for entirely too long, catching Eddie’s attention as he hung the last ornament.

“Wayne made that one, if you can believe it,” Eddie said, tapping the plastic bauble with the nail of his pointer finger. “I mean, not the note,” he clarified, “that was Santa.” He whispered the last part conspiratorially, as if letting Steve in on a huge secret. Steve felt like he was going to cry, suddenly, the tears pricking behind his eyes. With a start he realized, selfishly, that he didn’t want Eddie to know. He wanted to keep this mystery alive for just a little longer, like a parent too sad to let their child grow out of the world of magic and wonder, like it was too soon though the secret had been brewing for nearly twenty years.

Eddie wrapped a cautious arm around Steve’s shoulders, unsure of where his sudden teary-eyed expression came from. Instead of facing his questioning look, Steve tucked his head into the crook of Eddie’s neck and listened as the man regaled him with the story of his first ever gift from the Santa Claus.

That year, Wayne had lost his job as a trucker because Eddie had fallen into his lap. He couldn’t leave the kid all alone, had to stay and take care of him, and he was between jobs until the holiday snuck right up on them both. They had a tree, just as shabby and sparse as the one they currently stood in front of, but there was no money to spare for gifts. Wayne had apologized, and Eddie had been very understanding for an eight year old — after all, he had been learning not to rely on adults, anyway.

He’d gotten in trouble when the school year resumed, however, for shoving an insufferable Tommy Hagan to the ground during recess. Of course Tommy hadn’t gotten in trouble, since vigilantism was an under appreciated form of justice, Eddie declared. Steve snorted into Eddie’s neck, just imagining the ranting tirade the skinny boy with a shaved head must have gone on, trying to defend himself to the principal.

Eddie was furious as he got back home, pissed off at Hagan, pissed off at his parents, pissed off at the world. And then — what to his wondering eyes did appear — two days later, Wayne had opened the door to the shittiest wrapped present he’d ever seen. Steve bit his tongue. It was for Eddie, according to the name scribbled onto the wrapping paper, and the little note declared it was a lost gift from Santa.

“Like magic,” Eddie smiled.

Steve had no idea that was his first Christmas at Wayne’s, and he had no clue what that first shove on the playground could lead to. He could still picture Eddie’s scrunched brow as he glared daggers at Tommy, could still remember the way he sank into his shoes and grounded himself for a fight, like he was used to it, like he knew what was coming. He wished he could picture Eddie’s face as he realized Santa hadn’t forgotten about him.

“Anyway,” he said, startling Steve from his thoughts, still tucked away in Eddie’s neck, “Wayne kept that note, and I think he’s got the one from the next year, too. He’d saved enough money for a couple presents that year, but I think he was grateful for a little extra help.”

Steve pictured himself, a tiny little thing, curled up in the living room, all alone on Christmas Eve as he wrapped up presents and wrote out his Santa letters. He remembered feeling less alone for the first Christmas in forever, because he was too busy sticking too much tape onto glittery wrapping paper and worrying about not getting caught to care that his parents weren’t home again.

He thought about the bag full of presents, tucked away in the back of the closet so Eddie wouldn’t find them, and his list of kids he collected from the library’s giving tree. He had planned on sneaking out, planned to slip away from Eddie’s prone form and deliver the gifts alone, like always, but Eddie squeezed his shoulder and kissed the top of his head and he realized that he didn’t have to be alone anymore. Maybe this year there could be two Santas, delivering gifts to the children of Hawkins in the dead of night. Maybe this year he could have some help. Maybe this year, there could be twice as much magic as the year before.

—

Bingo Prompts

#made myself cry with this one #because I’m a sucker #also it’s 3am and I was possessed by the spirit of Christmas #also tiny Eddie was modeled after me #because I also stood for vigilante justice in kindergarten #if you said something mean #you were getting HIT #but of course only I got in trouble #😒😒😒#stranger things #steddie #steddie bingo #steddie bingo 2025 #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fic #helpimstuckwriting #steddiebingo2025

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