#will maybe scribble some of this down when i have a minute

[very-uncorrect]

Being told by adults to stop lying about something when telling the truth as a kid is one of the worst feelings ever

[guliexe]

━━━ONE ON ONE 18+

Nishimura Riki x Female!Reader — University AU

.ᐟwarnings/tags: study buddies to lovers, inexperienced reader, hard dom!riki, crush!riki, porn with some plot, texting, teasing, making out, praising, fingering, oral (f. receiving), choking, marking, slapping, possessive, demanding riki, spit, handjob, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare

♡ you start studying with your quiet crush, until one day, he invites you over, and you end up sobbing, ruined in his bed.

.ᐟwc: 7.4k

It wasn’t anything serious. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. You and Riki didn’t really talk. Not the way other classmates did—casual, loud, back-and-forth in lecture halls. He was… quiet. Always showing up late but somehow still getting a seat near the front. Always in dark clothes and expensive jewellery. Always watching more than speaking. He didn’t try to stand out. He didn’t raise his hand. And yet somehow, you noticed him first. Well. Maybe not “noticed”, more like kept noticing. Like your brain started analyzing him every time he walked into the room: black hoodie again, earphones in, notebook half-open but never messy. You never even thought he’d noticed you at all.

Until he did.

It was a Tuesday, and you were stuck. The professor handed out a printed exercise to be solved in pairs, but your usual friend wasn’t in class. You were halfway through trying to solve the second question alone, chewing the cap of your pen in mild panic, when you heard a voice behind you. “…You’re doing it backwards.” You looked up. He was already sitting in the empty chair beside you, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Riki. His voice was lower than you expected. He leaned over and tapped his pen against your sheet ,not correcting you, just quietly showing you. You blinked at him. “Oh. Thanks,” you managed. He didn’t reply. Just kept working beside you until the time ran out. And when the professor collected the papers, he stood up and left without saying anything else.That was it. Or… you thought that was it. Until a week later, when you were reviewing notes from the last lecture and couldn’t find a single readable thing in your handwriting. You remembered his — clean, sharp, borderline aesthetic. You didn’t know why, but you pulled up the class group chat, scrolled, found his number from a previous message, and tapped it. You weren’t even sure he’d remember who you were. You weren’t sure why you were nervous. But you texted him anyway.

You

hey riki!! do u still have the notes from class today? i zoned out halfway :(

♡

Riki

yeah

figured you would

♡

You

what’s that supposed to mean

♡

Riki

you always zone out around the halfway mark

kinda cute tbh

You stared at your screen, heat blooming in your cheeks.

You

i’m gonna take that as a compliment

♡

Riki

was one

He was so casual, unreadable, like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain. It started with a single text from him the next day:

Riki

still need help with the lecture stuff?

library’s dead today, come by if u want

Your stomach flipped a little when you read it, mostly from surprise. You hadn’t expected him to follow up. Definitely hadn’t expected him to remember your struggle with the content. So you said yes. You found him at a tucked-away table in the back corner of the campus library, hoodie pulled over his head, one earbud in, notebook already open. He looked up once when you arrived. Didn’t smile, just nodded. You sat beside him. Close, but not close enough to touch. You opened your laptop, pulled out your notes, and tried to pretend your hands weren’t slightly shaking. For the first ten minutes, neither of you spoke. He scribbled something down. You typed a few lines. It was quiet, comfortably quiet. But there was something about being this close to him that made it so fucking hard to focus and he smelled so good. You weren’t sure why it made your mouth dry. After a while, he leaned over just a little to glance at your screen. “You copied that part wrong,” he said. You blinked. “Huh, really?” He reached out, brushing your hand by accident—or maybe not—and pointed directly at the mistake. “This line. He was talking about this, not that. You flipped them.” “Oh,” you said, staring dumbly at the highlighted section. “That makes way more sense.” He hummed. Barely a sound. Then sat back again like he hadn’t just leaned close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek.

You tried to keep reading, but your eyes kept drifting.

To the way his fingers drummed against the edge of his notebook.

To the way he chewed on his cheek while concentrating.

To the way his sleeve slipped up just enough to show the veins in his wrist and arm.

You forced yourself to focus. Mostly.

You didn’t plan to run into him again. Not really. You were just looking for somewhere quiet, someplace your brain might actually work for once, and the upper floor had study rooms that no one ever used. It was a last resort. You walked in with your headphones already on and your brain half-fried. And then you saw him. Riki. Sitting alone in one of the back corners. Legs sprawled, earbuds in. A pen spinning between his fingers, that same black hoodie pulled halfway off one shoulder. You froze in the doorway. He looked up, and for a second, he just stared. Not surprised. Not curious. Just calm. Like he’d been expecting you. Then he jerked his chin, wordless, inviting you to sit with him. Your pulse jumped. You tried not to show it as you stepped inside. “You’re here a lot,” you said quietly, settling into the chair beside him. “Yeah,” he replied, eyes dropping back to his notebook. “Quiet’s good.” It was. Too good, maybe. Every time he shifted in his seat, every time he tapped the table or flipped a page, it felt louder than it should’ve. You tried to focus on your own material, but your eyes kept wandering. To the veins on his hands. The way he leaned back and chewed on his pen cap. The curve of his lip when he was thinking. God, you needed to get a grip. You were scribbling out notes on a problem you didn’t totally understand, squinting your eyes, when his voice came low beside you.

“You’re writing the wrong formula.” You blinked. He leaned in, arm brushing yours as he took your pen without asking and struck a line through your equation. His handwriting replaced it. Clean and annoyingly perfect. “That’s how you mess the whole thing up,” he said simply, handing your pen back. You stared at the page. “Thanks,” you said. Quiet. Maybe too quiet. He didn’t move away. Just sat there, watching the way your eyes lingered on the ink he’d left behind. Then finally, with a slight tilt of his head, “You always squint your eyes when you’re stuck?” You stiffened. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing that. You looked up, startled, and he was already looking at you. Calm. Casual. His gaze didn’t move. It felt like too much, suddenly.Too much eye contact. Too much attention. Too much heat. You forced a laugh, ducking your head. “Wow. You’re observant.” He didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either. And for the rest of the session, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still watching you. Not obviously, not openly, but just enough to make you not being able to focus. The study session lasted just under an hour. By the end of it, your head was clearer, and your notes were neater. You were packing up your bag when he finally spoke again. “You work better in silence,” he said simply. Not a compliment. Just an observation. You paused. “Do I?” He met your eyes. “Yeah. You get distracted too easily when it’s loud.” Something about the way he said it made you wonder what else he’d noticed.

He’d asked you after the last session — just kind of offhand, like it didn’t mean anything.“It’s quieter in my dorm,” he said, packing up his notes. “You can come by next time if you want.” That was it. No expression. No explanation. You’d nodded too fast. Now you were standing outside his door, staring at the number. You knocked twice before you lost your nerve. It took a second, but he answered. His dorm was small, neat, two desks, one unmade bed, the faint smell of detergent and whatever cologne he always wore. His roommate wasn’t home. He didn’t say that part, but it was obvious. The room felt still. You stepped inside carefully, clutching your bag, suddenly hyper-aware of your outfit. You hadn’t meant to dress like this, not for him, anyway. The kinda sheer tank top was just convenient, and the skirt? You told yourself it wasn’t that short. You’d worn it a million times. But Riki’s eyes dropped for just a second before he stepped aside to let you in. And that second? It lit your whole body on fire. He didn’t say anything about it. Of course not. He just sat at his desk, motioning to the chair beside his. “Here.” You took your seat.

For the first ten minutes, it was normal. Mostly quiet. His pencil scratched lightly against his notebook. You tried to copy a few things he wrote down, but your focus was elsewhere. You could feel the heat of him beside you. His knee brushed yours once, and it sent your heart into your throat. You didn’t move. Neither did he. You thought maybe he hadn’t noticed. But then, after a long pause, he spoke. “You wore that on purpose?” His voice was low and calm. Almost lazy. Your stomach dropped. “What?” you asked, too quickly. “That skirt.” You froze, heart hammering, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or deny it or what. You weren’t even sure if he was joking. But when you glanced at him, he was still staring at your thighs, then your face, with that unreadable, maddening expression. “I didn’t mean to,” you said, breath caught. “I just… it’s hot out.” Riki’s eyes dragged over you one more time, slowly. Like he was thinking about something. Measuring it. Then he looked away. “Shame,” he muttered. It was barely audible. And he didn’t elaborate. He just turned back to his page, pen in hand, like that was the end of it.

But your whole body was lit up. Nerves everywhere. Blood rushing to your face, your throat, your fingertips. And even though you tried to keep reading, keep writing, keep breathing normally, you couldn’t stop feeling the heat of his presence beside you. Still quiet. Still unbothered. You tried to keep your hands steady, not to squirm in your seat, not to think about the way his voice had dropped on that one word—Shame—like he meant more than he said. Riki hadn’t touched you. He hadn’t even looked at you again. But it didn’t matter. Everything between you had changed. You stole a glance at him. He was focused again, or at least pretending to be. The sharp angle of his jaw, the loose way he held his pen, the little crease between his brows , it all looked the same, but you knew it wasn’t. He had noticed. And worse, you couldn’t stop wondering what else he’d noticed. “Need help?” he asked, suddenly. You blinked. “Huh?” He nodded at your page. “You’ve been staring at that question for five minutes.” You scrambled to look down, pretending like you were just distracted. “Oh— yeah. I don’t get it.” “Let me see.” He reached for your notebook, leaned in close enough for your shoulders to brush, and took it gently from your hands. Your breath caught. His thigh pressed against yours. Just slightly. He didn’t move.

He explained the answer softly, pointing as he spoke, the tip of his pen gliding over your paper. You weren’t listening. You couldn’t. Because all you could feel was how close he was. How warm he felt. How good he smelled. How careful and deep his voice was. You swallowed hard. He handed your notebook back, fingers grazing yours. “You okay?” he asked. You nodded fast. “Yeah. Just— tired.” He studied you. His eyes flicked down your face, slow, deliberate. “You always get like this when you’re tired?” You blinked. “Like what?” Riki didn’t answer right away. He slightly shifted in his seat and turned toward you. Then, in that same dead-calm voice: “Fidgety. Quiet. All flushed.” Your breath stopped. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He looked completely composed like he was stating facts, which somehow made it worse. “I’m not—” you tried, voice weak. He cut you off. “You are.” Then silence again. The air between you was thick. Too heavy to breathe. And then, his hand moved. Slowly. He reached out and touched the side of your thigh, not high, not too far, just above your knee. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look away from your face. He just watched. Watched like he already knew what you were thinking. Your lips parted, but no words came out. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t move. And maybe that was all he needed. His touch dragged a little higher. Still slow and patient. Your chest rose with a sharp breath, and his eyes flicked down, just briefly, to your mouth, then back up. Debating.

You stared at the notebook in front of you like it might save you, but your body was already betraying you. Heat bloomed under your skin, your hands twitched in your lap. You couldn’t look at him, but you felt him. Silent. Watching you. Then, finally, his voice, low, right beside your ear. “You’re shaking. You bit the inside of your cheek. He didn’t move his hand, didn’t tease. You turned your face slightly, just enough to catch his eyes and he was already looking at you. Expression unreadable. Completely composed. Then, after a beat, his thumb dragged slightly along the inside of your thigh. Barely anything, but it lit you up. He leaned in, voice low and even, “You get like this for anyone else?” Your heart slammed in your chest. Your mouth parted, but the only sound you made was your breath hitching. He didn’t push, he just watched, already knowing the answer. You couldn’t answer him. Not with words. Not like that. So you just stared, lips parted, heart in your throat, too warm, too aware of every place his hand touched. Then, his fingers slipped slightly higher. Slow and measured. He was feeling it too, the shift in the room, the heat between you, the way your body leaned in before you even realized. He leaned closer, not fully, just enough that his shoulder brushed yours, his thigh pressed against the side of your leg.

You swore you heard the faintest breath from him like he was steadying himself. Then his hand slipped under the edge of your skirt. Bare skin. You sucked in a breath and finally looked at him. His expression hadn’t changed, but his dark eyes gave him away. There was nothing casual in that stare anymore. His fingers moved again, a little higher, then stopped just before the heat of your core. You tensed, but you didn’t pull away. “Knew you’d let me.” he said, softly. The words slammed through you like a current. Your breath hitched hard. Still, he didn’t move further. He just watched you squirm, fingers barely pressing into your thigh, letting the weight of everything unspoken hang thick between you. You weren’t sure if you were going to melt or burst. His hand moved again, slipping just a little further, fingers grazing the soft curve where your thigh met your hip. Your breath caught, shallow and quick. Riki’s breath hitched softly against your neck as he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the warmth, his steady, quiet presence like a steady flame flickering against your skin. You could feel him—so close now, that his chest brushed against your arm, his steady heartbeat like a silent drum beside you.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, loud and urgent. He stayed there, patient, watching. Then, the quietest sound, a breath, almost a sigh, right at the hollow of your neck. Your skin tingled. And then, his lips brushed your skin. A gentle ghost of a kiss that sent a shiver down your spine. You turned your head slightly, searching for more. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, holding yours with an intensity that made your heart leap. Without breaking eye contact, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to yours. It was soft at first, testing. But then it got deeper, firmer, as if he’d been holding back all along. Your hands twitched at his waist, unsure and desperate. The world shrank until there was only the two of you—breath mingling, heat pooling between you. He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, voice low and steady. “Finally.” His lips pulled away from yours just long enough to catch his breath. Then, without a word, Riki’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist, gripping firmly as he pulled you up and pressed you back against the edge of the desk. The smooth wood was cool beneath your palms, but his body was hot and heavy, looming over you, shadowing your smaller frame. You could feel the weight of him, the strength in his arms holding you in place. His mouth crashed back onto yours, more demanding now, hungry and fierce. His hands roamed freely, sliding up your sides, cupping your ribs, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your tummy.

You gasped when one hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers ghosting over bare skin, no barrier, nothing between you and him. Your back arched instinctively. His other hand found your throat, thumb brushing lightly, fingers framing your pulse. His eyes closed as he kissed you like he was starving, like he needed to devour every inch of you. Your hands tangled in his hair, desperate to hold on, to pull him closer. His mouth moved against yours with an urgent rhythm, deep, claiming. You felt every heartbeat, every breath, every touch. You were pinned but free all at once, lost in the heat of him. And even as his grip tightened just slightly at your throat, it wasn’t rough, it was possessive, controlled, making clear you belonged to him in this moment. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, pressed close, skin on skin, heat and hunger tangled in every kiss and touch. You couldn’t keep still anymore. Your legs squeezed together, your hands gripping the edge of the desk like you’d fall apart without it. His touch was everywhere—soft palms sliding under your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare chest, knuckles grazing places that made you gasp and twitch and whine without meaning to. You were dizzy with him. Every breath came out too fast, too shallow. He pulled back from the kiss just enough to look down at you. Your lips were parted, swollen. Your chest rising in frantic little jolts. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, gaze dragging across your face.

You whimpered. It slipped out before you could stop it—quiet, needy, helpless—and his eyes darkened instantly. He liked that. One hand splayed across your stomach, holding you still, the other slid higher, over your chest again, thumbs brushing your nipples until your head tipped back and a shaky moan slipped through your lips. You were panting now, thighs pressed together, aching. “Riki…” you breathed, barely a whisper. His hand came back up to your throat, firm but gentle, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look up at him. You were flushed. Eyes wide, lips wet, a total mess. And he looked down at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he said lowly, like he was talking to himself more than you. You blushed, a sigh leaving your mouth, back arching into his touch. His mouth crashed onto yours, hungrily, like he needed to shut you up before you begged. His hips pressed forward, caging you completely, and you felt him, hard through his jeans, pressed against your lower stomach. You made a soft, desperate sound in your throat, and he swallowed it down. Your hands moved without thinking, tugging at his shirt, trying to get closer, trying to do something with how badly you wanted him, but he didn’t rush. He kissed you harder, messier, until your legs felt weak and your body trembled beneath him. Until all you could do was gasp and whine and let him touch and take. You weren’t thinking anymore. Just feeling. Every brush of his fingers, every scrape of teeth, every low breath against your skin. And the worst part was how badly you wanted more, how badly you needed it. How you would’ve said yes to anything he asked.

Your chest rose and fell in short, shaky breaths as he pulled away just enough to look at you again, eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-bitten. His hand slipped down from your throat, trailing slowly along your collarbone, then lower, until his palm flattened over your ribs again. His eyes dragged slowly over your body—the way your chest heaved, the way your thighs pressed together like you were trying to hold yourself in place. Then he leaned in, voice brushing against your ear, low and steady, “Look at you,” he murmured. “So worked up and I haven’t even done anything yet.” Your breath caught, eyes fluttering shut for a second, because God, he was right. His fingers skimmed just above your waistband, dragging across your lower stomach, the touch featherlight, maddening. “You want it that bad, baby?” he asked, quietly, like he already knew the answer. You let out a whimper, soft and high, nodding before you could even think. That made him smile, just barely. Almost smug. His fingers dipped under the hem of your skirt, warm and unhurried. “Let me see how bad,” he said.

His hand moved with ease, sliding beneath your skirt, soft fingertips dragging the fabric of your panties down your thighs—slow, almost teasing. He didn’t take them off, just pushed them down, exposing you enough to make you shy. The cool air hit you, and then, his fingers. Two of them, thick and warm, sliding through your soaked folds like he was testing you. Your hips bucked. He chuckled, quiet, deep in his chest. “So wet already,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Dripping.” Your face burned, but you couldn’t look away. You were panting, lips parted, eyes wide as his fingers pressed in just a little. You whined. He exhaled slowly, enjoying every second of watching you unravel. And then, without warning, he pushed his fingers in—deep, smooth, filling you so easily your head fell back with a broken moan. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tense. “You feel insane.” Your walls clenched around him, and he felt it, smirked a little when your legs twitched, when your body rocked instinctively against his hand. His other hand slid up your thigh, settling on your hip to hold you still. Then he started moving. Slow thrusts of his fingers, curling just right, his thumb dragging over your clit in lazy, perfect circles.

You were gone. Melting. Whimpering with every curl, every press, every stroke. Your thighs trembled. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging in like you needed something to hold onto. “Riki—” you gasped, voice wrecked and whiny. “Please—” He leaned in again, his breath hot against your neck. “Please what, hm?” You whimpered, hips jerking. “Need m-more,” you managed. His fingers thrust a little deeper, a little faster, his thumb pressing harder on your clit. “You’ll cum for me like this,” he said lowly, lips brushing your ear, “and then I’ll give you more.” Your body arched. The pressure built fast, tight and overwhelming, and all you could do was nod, desperate little noises spilling from your lips as your climax started to crest. You were already close, right on the edge, hips twitching, thighs shaking, the pressure unbearable. But then his hand shot up, suddenly, firmly gripping your jaw. His fingers pressed into your cheeks, tilting your head up, forcing you to look at him. “Let go,” he whispered, fingers thrusting faster now, relentless. “Be a good girl and cum.” That was it. Your entire body shattered. You came with a cry, legs clamping around his wrist, hips jerking against his hand as waves of heat and pleasure rolled through you. Your eyes barely stayed open, wide and glossy, locked onto his as you came undone right there on the desk, whining, pulsing hard around his fingers. He watched you, tight grip still on your face, other hand working you through it like he wanted to see you lose control. “Good girl,” he muttered, lips brushing yours. “Just like that.”

You were still trembling, thighs twitching from the aftershocks, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. He pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way you flinched from the overstimulation. His hand was slick with you, dripping, and he stared at it for a beat, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he dropped to his knees. Your breath hitched. You barely had a second to react before his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth was on you. A gasp tore out of your throat as his tongue dragged through your folds, slow and greedy. “Ngh—Riki!” Your hand flew to his hair, the other on the desk, fingers gripping the edge until your knuckles turned white. He moaned softly into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His hands squeezed tighter, holding your thighs apart, keeping you open for him as he lapped up every drop of your release, messy, shameless. Your head fell back. Another whine escaped your lips, high and breathless, and still—still—he kept going, tongue swirling around your clit, flicking with just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back. When he finally pulled away, your skin was hot and damp, your whole body still twitching, breath caught in your throat. He stood, and then his hand wrapped around your neck again—firm, possessive—and he yanked you into a kiss. His mouth crashed into yours, lips slick with your taste, tongue sliding against yours with no warning, no hesitation. You whimpered against him, hands reaching for his shirt, for anything to ground yourself.

He kissed you like he owned you. Like he needed to devour you. His grip on your throat tightened and you moaned into his mouth, helpless and hazy, your whole body pliant against his. And when he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, his eyes dark, and his voice—fuck—his voice was low and raw when he spoke. “You’re mine,” he said, quiet but rough, meant for just you. “Got it?” Your heart stuttered. He’d barely said more than a few words to you since you met—always calm, unreadable, barely emoting—and now he was gripping your throat, kissing you like he wanted to ruin you, claiming you like you already belonged to him. You didn’t even hesitate. Your head nodded, small and shaky, your whole body still trembling under his touch. “I’m yours,” you whispered, breathless. It came out like a confession, sitting heavy in your chest for too long, just waiting for him to pull it out of you. Your eyes met his, wide and glossy, and the look on your face, sweet and desperate, giving him the biggest puppy eyes he’d ever seen. But you looked so pretty like that—wrecked and breathless, your lips parted, your thighs still shaking, feeling like you needed him more than air.

Riki’s jaw tightened, and something dark flickered across his expression. His grip on your face stayed firm, fingers digging just a little harder into your cheeks. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice rough, barely held back. “You’ll make me fucking crazy.” But he was already leaning in again, mouth finding yours in a mess of tongue and teeth, kissing you so hard your head tipped back from the force of it. You moaned into him, needy and sweet, letting him take whatever he wanted, and he did. Then suddenly, his arms wrapped around your thighs and he lifted you. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your body still trembling from the aftermath of his touch. He carried you the short distance from the desk to his bed and laid you down gently, never breaking contact. His body hovered over yours, eyes locked on your flushed, fucked-out face. Your shirt was rucked halfway up your stomach, your lips swollen from his kisses, thighs still twitching where they wrapped around his waist. He stared at you for a long, quiet second, trying to memorize you like this. Then his hands came down, one to your thigh, pushing it open wider, the other to your ribs, sliding up your bare skin under your shirt, slow and deliberate until his palm cupped your chest. No bra. Just you, soft and warm and whimpering under his touch. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he muttered. You bit your lip, hips shifting instinctively, seeking friction. Anything. But he didn’t give it to you, not yet. He just leaned down, mouth brushing your neck, tongue licking a slow stripe up to your jaw before he kissed you there, hot and open-mouthed, leaving a mark. Your fingers clutched at his shirt. “Riki…” He hummed lowly, like the sound of his name falling from your lips lit something in him.

His mouth found your ear, breath hot, “Tell me you want it,” he said. “Say it.” Your whole body was burning now, flushed from head to toe, your voice coming out in a shaky, helpless whisper, “I want it. I want you.” And that was all it took. He kissed you again, before his hands moved, yanking your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside without a second glance. Then he just stared. Your bare chest rising and falling, skin flushed, nipples already hard from his teasing. His hands dragged up from your waist, until they cupped your tits, thumbs brushing over them gently, considering the way his jaw clenched like he was barely holding back. “Look at you…” he muttered, voice ragged. “Fuck.” And then he was on you. Mouth hot and desperate, he ducked his head and devoured you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand kneaded the other, tongue flicking and sucking until your back arched off the bed with a gasp. He bit,not too hard, just enough to make you squeal, and soothed it with his tongue right after, moving between your breasts like he couldn’t choose which to ruin first. You were already panting, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs rubbing together. Sloppy kisses turned into bites. He left hickies on your neck, down your collarbone, over the swell of your tits, under them, across your ribs. You could feel the bruises blooming under his mouth, red and raw, one after the other like he wanted to brand every inch of you. He kissed down, mouthing at your tummy next, dragging his teeth over the soft skin before sucking another mark right beneath your navel.

And all that while watching you. Smirk barely there, eyes half-lidded but burning, soaking in every whimper, every twist of your body, every broken moan. “No one else gets to see you like this. Only me.” he said against your skin. He leaned back just enough to yank his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside carelessly. You barely had time to look—at the lean muscles, the toned arms, the sharp lines of his waist—before his hands were back on you again, sliding under the waistband of your skirt. “Lift your hips.” he said, and you obeyed without thinking. He dragged the skirt down your thighs, watching the way you shivered beneath him. He took his time peeling it off, letting his hands skim down your legs like he was memorizing the feel of you. Then he tossed it aside and looked down at you—naked, body covered in marks, chest rising and falling fast. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes roaming like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. His hands found your hips, big, warm and possessive, and then they started moving. One slid up your side, across your stomach, over your breast, the other to your jaw, fingers stroking gently before slipping between your lips. “Suck,” he said, low and commanding. Your lips parted automatically, and you wrapped them around his thumb, letting him press it down on your tongue. He watched you—watched your pretty, desperate mouth take it in, cheeks hollowing slightly as you sucked. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl.” You whimpered around his thumb, pussy pulsing, body practically buzzing from the tension. His other hand was still moving—down your ribs, over your tummy, lower, skimming just above your heat. Then he sat back a little on his knees, keeping his thumb in your mouth as he reached for his waistband.

He hooked his fingers into the edge of his sweats and slid them down just enough to reveal the outline of his cock through his boxers—thick, hard, straining against the fabric. Your breath caught, eyes flicking down before darting back up to his face. And he was already watching you. A soft smirk curved his lips as he tilted his head, thumb still resting on your tongue. “My cute girl,” he cooed. “So needy for me already… you really can’t help yourself, can you?” You hummed around his thumb, cheeks flushing even deeper, thighs pressing together as the heat pulsed harder between them. His hand drifted back to his waistband, and this time, he slipped his fingers under. You watched with wide eyes, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat when he finally pulled his cock free. So big and heavy, flushed at the tip, already leaking. The sight made your stomach flip, your mouth go dry, and you could barely look before your gaze darted away, face burning. “Aww,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “what’s wrong, baby?” You shook your head quickly, eyes flickering back up to his face, trying not to stare but completely failing. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively, your body so hot you could hardly stand it. He leaned in closer, one hand returning to your cheek, fingers stroking your flushed skin. “Shy all of a sudden?” he teased, a dark smile playing on his lips. “You were being so brave for me a second ago.” You whimpered, squirming under his gaze, his cock now resting heavy against his abs as he leaned. He took your hand and gently guided it to wrap around him. “Come on,” he whispered. “Touch me.” Your fingers curled around him, tentative and trembling, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t expected you to feel that good.

He swore under his breath, hips twitching slightly, and his head fell down. “That’s it,” he whispered, his hand covering yours, guiding your movements slow and steady. “Just like that.” You stroked him softly, your touch shy, eyes flickering between his flushed cock and his face—so close, so focused, the sight of your hand on him was driving him insane. Your hand stayed on him, guided by his, and the longer you touched him, the more confident your fingers became. You swallowed hard, heart racing at the weight of him in your palm, pulsing in your hand. His cock twitched again, and a low groan left his lips, rough and strained. “Fuck,” he muttered and leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours. His breath was warm and shaky, fingers tightening over yours. “Doing so good.” You looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. There was something in the way he stared back, eyes hooded, jaw tight, he was barely holding himself back. He took your hand away from him gently, kissed your wrist, and pressed your arm back against the bed “Spread your legs for me.” You obeyed. Slowly, nervously. But the second your thighs parted, his gaze dropped and darkened. “God,” he said under his breath. He crawled between your legs, hands running up your thighs.

He leaned down, kissed you—soft, slow, deceptively gentle—before lining himself up, one hand wrapped firmly around his cock, slowly moving it up and down your folds, the other resting over your ribs grounding himself. “You ready f’me, baby?” he asked, voice quiet, low against your mouth. You nodded, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips, but it wasn’t enough for him. His hand slid to your throat again, “Use your words.” “I—I want you,” you whispered, and the moment the words left your mouth, his hips pushed forward slowly. The stretch made your breath catch. His hand slid under your thigh, hitching it up. You could feel him, pressed just against your entrance, stretching you, but not moving yet, giving you time. His hand curled around your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip with surprising tenderness for someone who’s splitting you in half. You gripped the sheets beneath you, lips parting in a gasp as the pressure built inside you. Every inch filled you more than you expected, and it was overwhelming, unfamiliar, but somehow addictive. Riki’s mouth found your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly over your skin, like he was trying to distract you from the way he was sinking deeper. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured against your skin. You whimpered, your body tensing. “Breathe for me,” he said, and his voice was so calm, so steady, it soothed you even while you felt like falling apart. You let out a shaky exhale, eyes fluttering shut, and after another moment, he was fully inside.

Your eyes met his, teary and wide, and your lips trembled. “Riki—s’too much,” you admitted, voice almost shy. He smirked, “I know,” leaning down to kiss your jaw. “You’ll take it for me, won’t you?” Your stomach flipped at the words. You nodded, more sure this time. Then he pulled back just a little, before thrusting again, and your whole body shuddered at the sensation. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice ragged as he buried himself deeper. “So tight… fuck, y’feel so good.” His hips rolled into you slow, dragging against your walls, making you moan louder with each stroke. You clung to him, nails digging into his arms, breath coming in sharp little gasps as he set a rhythm. It was too much, too full, too good, and your body couldn’t keep up. Every time he moved, you clenched tighter around him. He pulled back slightly and grabbed your leg, lifting it high and pressing it over his shoulder. The angle changed everything—you cried out, high and helpless, your head tilting back against the mattress as he thrust deeper, harder, splitting you open with every roll of his hips. “Yeah,” he muttered, fingers digging into your thigh, mouth kissing it softly, as he started to lose control. “That’s it. Let me hear you.” You were loud. Whining, whimpering, trembling under his body, your hands gripping the sheets. “R-Riki—!” you sobbed his name, tears welling at the corners of your eyes as your body jolted under the force of each thrust.

And that did something to him. His hand shot to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. You were a mess. Eyes wet, lips trembling, mouth open in breathless, broken sounds, and when the first tear slipped down your cheek, he smiled. Not sweet. Not soft. A sharp, dark twist of his mouth like he was proud of it. And then he slapped you. A clean, firm hit across your cheek—quick and shocking—and you gasped, more in disbelief than pain. Your head whipped slightly to the side, your moan caught somewhere between pleasure and stunned heat. His hand lingered there, fingers spread across your cheek, claiming you. “Fucking love seeing you cry for me.” Your stomach dropped, heat flooding your veins, and you started sobbing harder—overwhelmed, aroused, completely undone. Your hands reached up, grabbing the one that had just hit you, fingers curling around his wrist, holding it like it anchored you. You couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that your crush—the one who barely spoke, who barely looked at anyone—had slapped you, and now he was fucking you like this, praising the tears he pulled from your eyes, and you fucking liked it. You needed more.

He shifted his weight, grabbed both of your thighs, and lifted—guiding your legs up and over his shoulders in one smooth, strong movement. The change in angle made you moan loudly, the new depth dizzying, the sound leaving your lips raw and wrecked. Your hands fumbled at the sheets, knuckles white as you held on, tears spilling down your cheeks again as the pleasure pushed you past the edge of sense. “Riki—” you choked out, completely gone, “I… I can’t—” “Yes, you can,” he groaned, slamming into you harder, his hand tightening on your jaw. “You’re gonna take every fucking inch.” Your eyes rolled back, body arching, sobs turning into moans, hands gripping him like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. His gaze locked onto yours, dark, possessive, mouth parted slightly as he caught the sight of you all spread out and shaking for him. “Open your mouth.” You gasped, but you did—lips parting, eyes wide and waiting. He leaned over you, hips never slowing down, and with a sharp breath through his nose, he spit into your mouth. “Swallow.” You did. Without thinking. Without hesitation. And that seemed to please him. His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear like he was calming you, and then—Slap.

A soft one. Just enough to make your breath catch, to light another spark under your skin. You whimpered and he firmly gripped your jaw, tilting your head to make sure you looked at him. “You’re fucking perfect,” he whisper softly. “You’ll do anything I say, won’t you?” Your pussy clenched around him, back arching from the bed. And still, you nodded, too far gone to form words, too desperate for him. You were gasping, moaning brokenly into the heat of his neck as he pounded into you, deep and rough, your legs high on his shoulders. His grip on your thighs was bruising, and you clung to the bedsheets, your vision blurred from tears and pleasure. Your body was stretched and aching, but it didn’t matter, not when he was murmuring filthy praise in your ear, not when every thrust perfectly hit your cervix. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “This pussy—” he snapped his hips hard, making you cry out, “—belongs to me.” You sobbed, nodding, walls fluttering around him. “Want you to cum with me,” he said roughly, teeth gritted as his rhythm got sloppy. “Let go, baby. Make a mess on my cock.” You couldn’t hold back anymore. You came hard, a cry catching in your throat as you clenched around his cock, trembling, unraveling. The moment your body gave out beneath him, he buried himself as deep as he could go and let go, filling you with a whimper, low and desperate in your ear. His cum making you feel so full, so warm inside you. “Mine,” he muttered again, softly kissing your neck.

Your breathing was still shaky when he pulled out, careful and slow. You winced a little at the sensitivity, and immediately, Riki’s expression changed. The fire in his eyes dimmed and his hand came to rest on your thigh, warm and gentle. “You okay, baby?” he asked quietly. “Yeah… just sore.” you blinked up at him. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Stay here.” You watched him move around his small dorm room, grabbing tissues. He cleaned you up gently, his touches surprisingly sweet and patient. When he was done, he tugged the sheets over your bare body, then slid in next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. It was quiet for a while. Your heart was still trying to calm down, and Riki just lay there, soft hand caressing your tummy. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke. “Wanna go to the movies tomorrow?” You blinked, turning your head to look at him. “What?” He glanced down at you, his face unreadable, but there was something softer around the eyes. “You heard me.” You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. After everything, after the rough, possessive way he’d claimed you, this was the last thing you expected. You buried your face in his chest, cheeks burning. “Okay,” you whispered. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Cool.”

my other works ➵ masterlist

a/n: i got a little carried away with this one yall lmao i've been so fucking obsessed with this man lately i can't stop thinking abt him please i need him so badddd :(

© guliexe

[jazziejax]

𝐉𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧’

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Modern AU | Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC & Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore | Modern AU

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - In which two twin gangsters return home after years in Chicago, to 2003 Jackson, Mississippi. Only to find that the chubby, brace-faced tomboy from across the street has grown into a woman they can’t ignore.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - drug use, swearing

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - something short because I literally have five other Smoke and Stack fics cooking in my drafts

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 2,178+

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ˖°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢

It always started with noise. Summer in Mississippi wasn’t just heat and humidity—it was loud. Between the swatting screen doors, the bugs flying, kids playing double dutch with mismatched ropes, and the rickety hum of box fans, it was hard to hear yourself think. But for young Juicy, the noise was a comfort… until it wasn’t.

Back in ‘95, Juicy was about eleven, braces still fresh, glasses sliding down her nose every five minutes, and dressed in a floral pattered dress that matches her sisters, though hers fit her more boxier than it did on the older girl. But she didn’t care much about appearances, and it didn’t help that her mama always compared her to her older sister, Sinclair, thin and pretty like the girls in those Jet beauty ads or the ones on the perm boxes. “If only you laid off them pork chops,” was her mama’s idea of encouragement. Her daddy didn’t say much at all.

Juicy found her peace elsewhere—mainly across the street.

The Moore twins, Elias and Elijah—known as Smoke and Stack to others—were about six years older, fast-mouthed, sharp-eyed boys sly grins and problems they never spoke too loudly about. Their father was known around the neighborhood for being the kind of man who left bruises instead of blessings, and their mother was long gone. But the Hall’s took to them like family. Martin, Juicy’s older brother, clicked with them right away over cassette tapes and corner store hustles. Sinclair even crushed on Stack for a while, though he never acted on it.

But it was Juicy—a little awkward, big-bodied, and always scribbling in her notebook—who lingered in the background. She wasn’t really friends with the boys, not like her siblings were. But some days, when things were too loud at her house and Mary, her only friend, couldn’t come out, Smoke would let her sit on the porch with them, passing her a freeze cup and tossing her lazy jokes that made her laugh until her gums showed. Or when Stack would let her old onto him as she rode on back of his bike as he made stops around the neighborhood.

Those little moments were enough. They made her feel seen.

And then, they were gone. Moved up to Chicago when she was fifteen, chasing something bigger—money, maybe, or just a way out. Life moved on. And the city was still as loud as ever.

But in 2003, the block got loud again in their return.

They came back in a long black Lincoln, rolling slow like they owned the pavement. Elias drove, toothpick between his teeth, silver chains glinting in the sun as she rubbed down his waves. Elijah was in the passenger seat, shades low on his nose, hair in tight cornrows. They’d filled out—solid, broad-shouldered men now, still dressed in dark clothes with just enough shine to show they had money. Word spread fast.

Smoke and Stack were home.

First stop was the gas station—for fuel and the liquor store next to it, then the old park where half the benches were gone and the other half were tagged up in Sharpie and knife scratches, looking for their homeboy in his usual spot. A few heads turned, so they dapped up old friends, nodded at familiar faces.

But the real reunion happened on Vernon Street.

Martin Hall was leaned up against his Impala, blunt behind his ear, gold ring glinting. He caught sight of the car before it even parked at the house across the street, and when he caught sight of the men in the car, he instantly grinned.

“Nahhh, I know this ain’t who I think it is.” He shouted, arms already wide open.

Stack stepped out first, grinning, and then Smoke followed. The three embraced like no time had passed at all, Martin falling the men up. Loud laughs, back slaps, the kind of reunion that made neighbors peek through blinds.

“Man, what the hell are yall doing back? And ain’t told a nigga?” Marin asked as he leaned backed against his hood, taking the blunt his girlfriend passed him from her place in his serving seat.

“It was quick to us too, man.” Smoke said, shaking his head a bit. “Them Chiraq niggas different, too much shit going on up there.” He said, placing his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, his baggy white tee hanging from underneath a bit.

“Money was good, though.” Stack smirked, moving his gaze away from the woman in the car that was eyeing him with a lustful glint in her, to look at the against the hood.

“I bet.” Martin smirked. “I could only imagine what you niggas got up to up there. Especially to come back as fly as that.” He said, nodding over to the cars in front of the boys old home as he blew away the smoke from the blunt.

“Shit, us?” Stack questioned. “Look at you. The jewelry, new whip. Seems money down here moving smooth.”

“Mmm…it’s aight.” Martin shrugged, causing the twins to chuckle with a shake of their heads.

“You know we gotta celebrate.”Martin said, standing from the car a bit as he handed the blunt to his shorty in the car. “Whole block been a bit dry without y’all. Let me throw something together for tonight.” He suggested. “Plus, I gotta clean some paper anyway.” He shrugged, trying to ease the blow of an unexpected gathering upon the men.

Smoke and Stack exchanged a glance before both men looked back at their old friend and shrugged Martin clapped his hands with a smirk. “Aight.” He nodded. “Tracy, go call yo homegirls and shit, tell ‘em to come through while I get shit situated.” He said to the girl in his drivers seat. Tracy didn’t even say anything, she simply got out the car and made her at into the house, bit before making a bit of a show of pulling down her booty shorts. Stack and Smoke exchanged another look at that, but nothing was said further.

Plans were made fast. A block party. Speakers, coolers, grills were pulled out faster than the men could think. Now they just had to get everything jumpin’.

The men sat around Martin’s car catching up, reminiscing on old scams, and laughing at things they never got caught for. Smoke lit a cigarette while Stack leaned back, tapping his fingers on the dashboard.

That’s when they saw her.

Juicy.

She came walking up the sidewalk with Mary next to her, both of them laughing at something too far to hear. Juicy was still thick, but this time, she wore it like armor. Curves hugged up in a baby pink Juicy Couture set, midriff peeking under the hoodie. Her wedged flip flops clicked against the concrete with purpose. Her acrylics—French tips—glinted when she lifted her lollipop to her lips. Lips lined and glossy, brown skin smooth and glowing, gold hoops in her ears catching sun. Her sunglasses were perched on her head, the blonde highlighted tresses in a bun, looking like it just came out of a fresh roller set. It was only when she got closer that they could see that she still had the tiniest gap when she smiled, but now it looked like part of the charm.

Mary had her own vibe—low-rise jeans, rhinestone tank and a high pony—but no one was looking at her. Not the twins at least.

It was Juicy who had the street paused.

Smoke sat up a little straighter. Stack cocked his head. “Lil’ Juicy?” He mumbled.

And just like that, the heat of Mississippi summer wasn’t the loudest thing on the block anymore.

The heat clung to the air, and the bass from someone’s backyard radio pulsed low in the distance. Juicy walked like she owned the sidewalk, hips swaying in perfect rhythm with the click of her heels. She was curvy in all the right places—thicker than the girls on TV, but built with softness and strength that couldn’t be ignored.

Smoke and Stack hadn’t said a word yet. They’d gone still the second they saw her. Not obviously—nothing as sloppy as ogling—but they noticed everything. The gloss, the tips, the squinting, whenever from the sun or her needing her prescription. They both could remember how they used to slide down her nose every few seconds.

She no longer looked like the quiet girl who used to sit on the porch with a notebook. She looked like a woman now. A whole one.

Martin lifted a hand. “Juice! Come say what’s up.” He called out, waving the girl over.

Juicy raised a brow as she stopped at the curb, Mary lingering just behind her. “You actin’ like I don’t live here.”he caused, causing Martin to smack his lips. “You know what I mean.”

Juicy clocked the twins as soon as she approached. But her eyes didn’t widen, she didn’t blink. She just popped that lollipop out her mouth slow, head tilted, and said—

“Well, well. Look who finally came home.” All soft like.

Smoke stepped forward, arms crossed, head tilted just slightly. “Ain’t seen you in years, Juicy.” He said, voice a little lower than usual.

Stack nodded. “You done grown all up now.” He said, his eyes subconsciously giving the girl before him a quick once over, one that had him wanting to trace his eyes over her body again.

Juicy didn’t blush—she never did. She just looked between them, slow and deliberate, then popped the lollipop from her mouth and smiled, tiny gap and all. “Y’all look the same.” She said, though they really didn’t. “Maybe taller. Maybe.” She shrugged, not hiding the way she analyzed the men from head to toe, taking in their otherwise plain street wear, which she knew had to still be a decent penny for.

Martin chuckled. “They back for good. Figured I’d throw a little somethin’ tonight. Let the block know.”

Juicy nodded, barely glancing back at the twins. “That’s cute. I’ll see what’s up.” Then to Mary, “Come on.”

She turned without another word, strutting toward the house, and the two men made it their mission to not look at the rhinestones bedazzled on her booty, reading ‘Juicy’ across the span of the area. Mary, however, lingered just a second longer. Her eyes locked on Stack like she was sizing him up for dessert. No shame at all. She flashed a grin that was all teeth and trouble before jogging up the steps behind Juicy.

When they were gone, Martin lit his blunt, shaking his head. “Y’all look like you saw a ghost.” He said as he blew the smoke out. “Was it Mary? Yeah, I know, still freaks me out a bit to see her down here.” He added, not even waiting for an explanation from them.

Smoke leaned against the hood, eyes still on the porch. “Nah.” He muttered, voice tight. “Yeah, you right. Just didn’t expect that.” He said, though he was simply agreeing to save face.

A few minutes later, it seemed as though this party was about to take off as people began to show up, their drinks of chose and blunts in their clutches. This made Martin head inside to grab more beers while the twins stayed posted at the car, quiet now that the noise of the street settled down.

It was silent between them for a bit before Stack spoke up, not even looking at his brother. “Juicy is far from the girl we left them heard back.” Stack said, rubbing the back of his neck, internally questioning himself over the quick flashes of ‘not so pure’ thoughts he had about the girl he grew up with.

“Yeah.” Smoke replied. “She is.”

They didn’t say anything else for a moment, both thinking the same thing—how time had a funny way of flipping the script. How the girl who used to scribble doodles on everything and watch them from the corner of the porch now walked like she didn’t owe anybody her attention.

Smoke remembered the way she used to listen when he talked—really listen—without judgment or noise. How he used to feel stupid for sharing some of his serpent moments with someone so young. How at first he just needed her for an ear, and she levered that, and when he needed some answers, she was quick to help as well. And she had those same eyes. Soft but knowing. That hadn’t changed.

Stack was still thinking about her walk. The way she didn’t give them a second glance, like she’d seen men like them a thousand times. It didn’t bruise his ego—it just made him curious.

“And I peep she’s got a smart mouth on her now.” He finally said, half a smile on his lips.

Smoke nodded, but his gaze didn’t leave the front door. “Yeah.” He muttered, and that’s all he seemed to be able to say, as if she had rendered him speechless.

Stack’s smirked widen, longing his lips as a thought crossed his mind.

“Wonder who she’s lettin’ have it.”

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 & 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 🗑️ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬★ ★ ★ ★ ★

[bi-writes]

how would simon react if his mail order bride got really really sick?

mail-order bride

the phone is ringing.

he's on leave, so normally he would never even touch the thing. but there are only two ringtones he has to answer to, and this one isn't price.

he picks it up, putting it to his ear. he wipes the sweat off his brow, letting out a sigh as he steps back under the shade. the sun is out today, of course choosing to beat down on him the one day he finally decided to build you better planters for your little garden.

you've taken to it quite nicely. you love being out here, tending to the little roots and the tiny leaves that have started to sprout. he thinks you look so cute when you're out here, on your knees. you always tie a scarf around your hair and wear these sage green gloves, and he thinks you look so fucking adorable when you come back inside with dirt along your brow and a sweet little smile on your face. you always give him an update. the carrots are so stubborn, you huff, and he tries to hide his grin as you bring out your little gardening journal and scribble in it all frustrated. look, simon! the tomatoes! look! look!--and he practically keens when you grab his hand to bring him outside so he can see.

but it's gotten too small. you've outgrown the little boxes of dirt, and simon knows you're itching to do more. the planter is only half done, so he's a little peeved to be interrupted while he's just starting to get it together.

"wot is it, luv, i'm--"

"s-simon?" your voice is a soft whimper, and you're sniffling on the other line. simon stands up straighter, dropping his tools immediately as he wipes his hands on his jeans and starts to go inside.

"oi. wot happened?"

"s-simon, i-i don't feel so good, c-could you come get me?"

simon lets out a low breath, shaking his head.

"fuckin' hell, luv," he mutters, grabbing his keys and wallet by the door. "still at the library?" you had asked him to drop you off in town, wanting to visit a few of the shops along the main road. your eyes had bugged when you saw the quaint little library and pastry shop, and he agreed to come back later after your little excursion.

"y-yeah, i-i..." you cough a little. "i-i got...i got sick. in the bathroom, i-i--"

"'s olright," he quiets you. "'m comin'. gimme a few minutes."

simon finds you in the family restroom of the little library, seated on the floor and hugging the toilet. he curses under his breath when he finds you, tears blurring your vision as you cry. you didn't sound so bad on the phone, but maybe you were just holding it together until you got yourself some help.

"ohhhh, swee'eart," he sighs, pushing the hood of his jacket off as he kneels down to your level. he wipes the sweat off your forehead with a gloved hand, cupping you under your jaw. "you olright?"

"no," you sob, gasping a little between tears. "i feel terrible, s-simon, i--"

"olright," he coos. "'m 'ere now. let's get ya 'ome. get ya into bed, tha' sound good?"

you nod. you look sickly, eyes dull, a cold sweat breaking out all over you. he suspects it might be the flu, considering the body aches you seem to have and the headache you tell him about as he helps you into the car. he gives you some water, stroking your face gently, and when you tell him how cold you are, he shucks his jacket off and drapes it over you before taking you back home.

you're in and out of consciousness over the next few hours. simon had helped you into your pajamas before tucking you into bed. he watched you with a glare to make sure you took the medicine he gave you, and he made you drink at least four glasses of water before he let you drift off to sleep.

when you wake up later in the evening, the cat is purring on her little bed hanging on the windowsill. simon had installed it a few weeks ago, a little perch bed so she could look outside and watch the little bunnies that came by in the morning. it's dark out now, and when you look around, simon has turned your little diffuser on, and it smells like lemons.

"s-simon?" you croak. your throat hurts. you hear a shuffle in the kitchen, and then simon is coming into the room. he doesn't turn the main light on, merely coming close and flicking the low lamp on beside you.

"'ow are ya feelin'?" he asks softly. your eyes are watery again, and he sighs, putting the back of his hand to your forehead and grimacing. "not as warm, at least. what do ya need, hmm?"

"my throat," you whisper. "i-it hurts--"

"i'll bring ya a cuppa, baby," simon murmurs. you sniffle, leaning into his hand. "do ya want somethin' ta eat? anythin'? got some bread...some soup if y'r up for it."

your lip wobbles, and he shakes his head, kissing your forehead gently.

"i'll bring ya some bread. if ya can keep it down, we'll try the soup, yeah?"

you just nod and shrug, and he picks up the box of tissues on the dresser and takes one out. he comes back to you, holding your cheek gently with one hand and wiping your tears with the other. he dabs at the sweat gently before he lets you relax again.

"i'll be right back."

you close your eyes when he leaves. you vaguely hear him in the kitchen, the sound of cookware and the whine of the kettle on the stove. simon comes back into the bedroom a little while later, holding a small plate and a steaming mug of tea. he sets down the tea, telling you it's something lemon with honey, and he shows you the thin slice of bread he's toasted with a little butter.

he sits with you while you eat small bites, and he helps you drink the warm tea that immediately soothes your insides. you start to cry again, but not from feeling so terrible.

"wot's wrong?" simon huffs, and you just look up at him, clinging to his shirt, pulling him onto the bed.

"t-thank you," you whisper, and simon just shakes his head.

"wot for?"

"f-for taking care of me. f-for c-coming to get me...for..."

simon meets your eyes, holding them, and he narrows his eyes.

"don't thank me," he says firmly. "wot fuckin' kind o' man would i be if i didn't take care of my wife, eh? sorry fuckin' wanker, is wot i'd be."

"b-but--"

"and when y'r better," he interrupts you, standing as he takes your plate, "got everythin' set up for ya outside. can move the lettuce, like ya wanted."

you sink into the cushions, happy tears in your eyes, and simon leaves, busying himself with the dishes as he tries to fight off the warm, aching feeling in his chest.

fuck, it feels so good to take care of you. to see you smile. to see your wobbly lip and those tear-filled eyes and know that he can make it all better--it feels so fucking good.

when he comes to bed later that night, you're still asleep, but you move towards him, seeking his warmth. it's instinctual now, easy.

there's a place at his side that's made only for you. it's shaped just how you are, it cannot be mistaken to be for anyone else.

when he whispers that he loves you into the dark, you don't hear him. but you scoot just that much closer.

[retrosabers]

𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

FICMAS DAY 3: GIFT-GIVING

bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: as bucky’s secret santa, you’re determined to give him the best christmas present he’s ever received.

contains: grumpy buck fluff, some angst, idiots who are crushing hard, swearing

word count: 2.4k

a/n: this is a long one i’m apologizing in advance

i am SO SORRY for crickets in the ficmas department the past week, i hit a big brick wall with this and i’ve been so all over the place with my own holiday planning and such that i ended up having to cut the masterlist in half because i knew i couldn’t get it all done. i’m very sorry to anyone who was looking forward to what got scrapped, but i couldn’t bring myself to rush through writing and put out something i don’t believe it my best work.

also, do people even want avengers fix it fics anymore?? i debated between the “everything is fine the team lives at the compound together” vibe and setting this post tfatws, but ultimately decided the former was easier to write. and i think it worked in my favor because this turned out really cute :)

!! divider by @strangergraphics !!

FICMAS MASTERLIST

your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your chest.

who’s idea was this again? wanda? tony? steve? it didn’t matter anymore. all that mattered right now was that you didn’t pass out in the elevator. a feat that was becoming more and more difficult the closer you got to your destination.

a secret santa is supposed to bring you joy, not near paralyzing anxiety.

at first, you were 100% on board with participating in a gift exchange. as much as you wanted to shower all of your teammates with presents galore, not everyone shared the same sentiment, and thus the idea of a secret santa was proposed.

excitement courses through your veins as you reach your hand into the cheap santa hat tony grabbed from god knows where in storage, with little pieces of paper containing the names of your fellow avengers. you decided to wait until you were back in the privacy of your room to open it up, afraid of any wandering eyes taking a peak. the last thing you wanted was the element of surprise to be stripped away. it was half the fun after all.

as sam pulls the last name, you quietly excuse yourself and all but rush upstairs, too eager to get in the holiday spirit and brainstorm. as soon as the door shuts behind you, you hurriedly reveal the contents of the paper.

if it’s natasha, i can get her a pair of ballet slippers. she’s been mentioning how she wants to start dancing again.

what about bruce? maybe a journal for all his ideas? he always seems to be losing sticky notes in the lab.

a million different ideas swirl around in your head, reminding you just how much joy this time of year brings. to you, there was nothing better than seeing the gleeful looks on people’s faces when they opened their gifts. the corners of your mouth turn up at the memory of your first christmas with the team. how shy and reluctant you were, afraid of going overboard. now, a few years later, you’re completely unabashed in showing just how much you care about them.

your bright smile morphs into a deep frown as you unfold the paper.

bucky barnes.

quite possibly the most difficult person you could’ve chosen.

to be clear, there’s nothing wrong with bucky. he may be a bit grumpy and standoffish, but it’s with good reason and you know it. that also doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to be impossible to try and shop for.

what do you get for the man who seemingly despises anything the modern world has to offer? the same man who you’re 99% sure hates your guts. come to think of it, how did you even pull him? he most definitely wasn’t downstairs 20 minutes ago when everyone scribbled down their names and tossed them in tony’s direction.

it was irrelevant now. you were stuck being his secret santa, and you’d be damned if you didn’t give james buchanan barnes the best christmas gift he’s ever gotten in his century-long lifetime.

the two weeks it took to come up with an idea sure felt like a century. if it wasn’t for the concerning amount of snooping you did, you’d probably be showing up empty handed. thankfully, at almost 1 in the morning on a random tuesday, a lightbulb went off in your brain. you scrambled bright and early the next day to go shopping, and by some lucky form of divine intervention, you acquired the perfect gift.

flash forward to now, and you’re carrying an insanely large box up to bucky’s room. in a blatant stray from what the rest of the team was doing, you decided to give him his present one on one, secluded from everyone else. partly because you were afraid of public embarrassment if he hated it, and partly because you knew bucky wasn’t very fond of being put on display.

you hope he’ll at least be grateful for that.

when the elevator finally chimes, signaling you’ve arrived at the dormitory floor, the box nearly slips from your grasp. not just from how heavy it was, but from the nervous sweat coating your palms.

the hallway is quiet enough to hear a pin drop, save for the faint sound of christmas music playing over the speakers. with careful, calculated steps, you make your way down the length of the corridor, dragging your feet the closer you get to bucky’s room. there’s a small part of you that hopes he’s downstairs in the gym, the kitchen, the backyard, anywhere but here. dropping and dashing wasn’t what you had in mind, but the anxious thumping of your heart was becoming unbearable. you know it will only amplify tenfold if you’re forced to stare into those steel blue eyes of his. the thought alone sends a chill down your spine.

you freeze in place when you hear the sound of a door knob clicking open.

please be wanda’s room, please be wanda’s room.

in front of you, the very last door on the left creaks open, revealing the tall and brooding super soldier whose company you were aiming to avoid.

it’s easy to forget how handsome bucky barnes is when he normally does nothing but grimace in your direction.

you still weren’t used to his new haircut, but it was clear he felt significantly more confident with it. is that a hint of aftershave, or cologne? whatever it was, the scent fit him perfectly; cedarwood with a hint of spice. the green henley he wears fits snugly against his broad frame, emphasizing all the muscles you’ve been caught staring at on more than one occasion. for once, he’s not wearing a scowl, though that changes when he catches sight of you.

surely you must look strange, standing dumbfounded in the middle of the hall with a box covered in santa-printed wrapping paper and a big bow that you can barely hold. right now the floor opening up and swallowing you whole was at the top of your wish list. and st. nick better make it quick.

bucky’s expression shifts from one of disdain to curiosity as he quirks a brow wordlessly. your own knit together in frustration, knowing you now had no choice but to do this exchange face to face.

“need any help?” he questions monotonously. as much as you want to be prideful and reject it, your arms feel like they’re going to fall off any second. he seems to catch your drift despite a verbal response, because in the blink of an eye he’s striding towards you, sweeping the gift from your arms and into his own with ease. you try not to gape at the way his biceps strain against fabric.

you stutter out a “thanks,” as you straighten out your sweater. bucky grunts in return and eyes the package in his hands cautiously. you’re half expecting him to shake it like a child when you catch the tiniest twitch of his upper lip.

it’s the closest thing to a smile he’s ever shown in your presence. something that gives you the courage to actually form a sentence instead of continuing to gawk at him.

here goes nothing.

“this is for you, actually,” you manage to shakily breathe out. bucky halts his observations, a glimmer of surprise briefly dancing across his face.

a beat of silence passes between you. “don’t remember asking for anything," he finally says. it’s still laced with his typical dry sarcasm, but there’s a legitimate amusement in his tone that can’t be missed.

you narrow your eyes at him playfully, feeling a little bit more at ease now that he didn’t completely rebuff you.

“i’m your secret santa, smartass,” you jab with your hands on your hips.

for the first time ever, bucky smirks at you.

“don’t recall asking for that either.”

you throw your hands up in defense, offering him a surprisingly nonchalant shrug. “don’t blame me, i’m pretty sure steve was the one who put your name in.”

“punk,” the man grumbles. he shakes his head, attention turning back to the present in hand once more.

despite his apparent annoyance, you can’t seem to stop yourself from continuing on.

“i know you’re supposed to do this kind of thing with everyone around,” you start off shaky, afraid of upsetting him any more than you may already have. his gaze immediately falls to you upon hearing your voice.

“i also know you’re not a big fan of being the center of attention,” you continue, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans. “figured you’d like this better if it was in private.”

bucky’s features soften. his jaw unclenched, his eyes not so narrow and judgmental. he looks relieved, flattered; a myriad of things you can’t name or place.

“i appreciate that,” he admits, suddenly shy and impish. for a second, he completely forgets about the gift you brought. the simple fact that you were kind enough to consider his feelings, despite how cold he could be to you, makes his heart skip a beat.

you simply nod your head in reply, teetering back and forth on your feet awkwardly trying to decipher your next move.

“you don’t have to open that right now you know.”

he sets the box down on the floor next to his door. “kinda defeats the purpose don’t you think?”

you shrug. “whatever you’re comfortable with. doesn’t matter what you’re “supposed to do.””

why did you care so much about his comfort level? he hardly showed any concern for yours. the notion consumes his thoughts, prohibiting him from offering anything except a nod of acknowledgement.

that awkward silence comes once again, signaling maybe you’ve overstayed your welcome, or that the moment of peace is over. you check your watch in hopes that father time was ending this exchange for you.

just your luck, he’s right on schedule.

“i uh, better get downstairs,” you announce, pointing your thumb in the direction of the elevator. “don’t wanna miss thor forcing everyone to do christmas karaoke.”

a noise akin to laughter snorts out of bucky’s nose, evoking a delightful warmth in your chest. it was different than all the other times you’ve been flustered in the presence of the super soldier. this was less about intimidation and more about…camaraderie. now wondering if maybe he doesn’t hate you as much as you thought.

it’s exactly what you need to reignite your holiday cheer and shed any remaining worries.

before you can second guess, you turn on your heels, closing the gap between your bodies. wrapping a hand around his arm, his metal arm, and offering a gentle caress, the sincerity in your words is clear as day.

“merry christmas buck.”

your touch burns straight through vibranium all the way to his chest. across his entire body, igniting every cell ablaze. a fire consuming him in ways unimaginable.

and yet. he enjoyed the burn.

as you pull away, much to his dismay, the tips of his fingers brush against the inside of your wrist. goosebumps errupt on your skin, from the cool metal, or that fact that bucky was so pretty this close, only time would tell.

“you too,” he murmurs with a faint grin. the soft crinkles by his eyes are likely going to be the subject of your daydreams for the next week.

you flash him a smile over your shoulder before turning down the hall and averting his gaze, not wanting him to see just how much you were blushing.

while unbeknownst to you, bucky was now a very bright shade of red.

he waits until he can hear the elevator doors close before slipping back into his room and very carefully unwrapping the box. there’s a nervousness in his stomach that’s unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. as the bare brown packaging becomes exposed, he begins ripping back the numerous layers of packing tape. you really took your time on this, he thinks to himself.

that funny feeling only amplifies when he sees the contents of the box.

a record player, a very expensive looking one at that, sits inside with another three wrapped items that he concludes are vinyls, judging from their flatness. on top of it all, there was a small note shrouded in luxe stationary. bucky’s heart stutters when he sees his name scribbled delicately in your handwriting.

his fingers falter briefly before he digs into the envelope.

i know this isn’t like the ones from the 40s, but it’s the closest thing i could find. also got a few of your favorite records, and one i think you’ll like too. don’t forget i have quite a collection of my own in case you ever want to try something new.

merry christmas ♡

bucky unceremoniously plops down on the edge of his bed. the normally stiff feeling mattress now mirrored a sea of clouds and feathers. he’d gladly sink into the abyss of softness, if it meant pumping the brakes on his thundering heartbeat.

from the moment he met you, bucky knew he was in trouble.

you had an aura about you that was magnetic, always drawing people in and bathing them in your light. your unconditional kindness and consideration, hell, even your mere presence in a room seemed to liven it up entirely. it was a hypnotizing, almost dangerous thing for the man, and if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to push people away. for their sake, and his. bucky was certain that once he started keeping his distance, that you’d eventually give up in trying to crack his tough outer shell, or that the silly feelings he had would disappear.

but right now, as he’s staring at your handwriting and rubbing his thumb repeatedly over that little heart, he knows it was all in vain.

later that night, he stares up at the ceiling, listening to the familiar croon of it’s been a long, long time wafting from his present. he tries to focus on the beauty of the song, or the lights he can see from his window twinkling out on the lawn, but it’s nearly impossible. you’re the subject of all his thoughts. have been since the moment he saw you standing out in the hall. from the scent of your perfume to the little intricacies of your penmanship. the thing that’s plaguing him the most, however, is your hand on his arm.

bucky’s real arm had been gone for over half a century, having stopped experiencing phantom limb syndrome ages ago. yet somehow he felt it there, clear as day. the same tactile sensations on his flesh, right arm, in the metal prosthetic of his left. an electric shock that he’s never recognized before, and that he wouldn’t be opposed to feeling again.

tomorrow, he plans to thank steve for mischievously adding his name into the lottery.

and to ask you about your record collection.

thanks for reading! <3

tag list: @alastor-simp @j4desblurbs @pandapetals

!! if you would like to be tagged in the rest of the ficmas blurbs, please send me an inbox message or leave a comment !!

[buckysleftbicep]

letters though time (3) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!fem!reader

warnings: angst.

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.5k

author's note: i love this chapter so much. please leave some feedback or a reblog if you enjoyed it! i tend to forget about tags, please be patient with me, thank you loves. stay safe out there!

series masterlist

You reread his letter so many times the edges began to curl.

He was leaving.

You stared at the letter in your hands, heart pounding like it was trying to outrun history. The words blurred at the edges, but you didn’t need to read them again. You already knew.

You knew the date, April 8th, 1944, etched into your memory long before his handwriting ever reached you. You had seen it in textbooks, beneath faded photographs, on a bronze plaque mounted inside the Smithsonian: Sergeant James Barnes, deployed with Captain Steve Rogers to intercept a HYDRA transport in the Austrian Alps.

You knew that mission. Everyone did.

It was the one where he fell. Where the world believed he died.

Except he didn’t.

You knew what came after, how HYDRA had found him in the wreckage and broken him in ways no one should ever be broken.

How their scientists, cruel and methodical, stripped him down to nothing. Rewrote him. Erased him. Until all that remained was a killing machine, sharp and merciless, a ghost with a metal arm and no name.

When you first started working at the museum, you had gone down that rabbit hole, read every article, studied every declassified file, perhaps even the ones you were specifically told not to read.

You had seen the stills, the grainy footage, the Winter Soldier moving like a machine, swift and ruthless, with eyes that held no trace of the man writing you these letters now. The man you had fallen in love with.

And now he was writing to you, sweet, hopeful, himself, without knowing what awaited him on the other side of that mission.

You gripped the letter until your knuckles turned white, heart lodged so high in your throat you could barely breathe. You blinked, hoping the words would change. That maybe this letter would say he wasn’t going, that he had changed his mind. That somehow, knowing you, and perhaps falling for you had altered the path of fate.

But the words stayed the same.

And so did history.

Please wait for me.

Your chest felt too tight to breathe.

You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn't.

You sat on the floor beside the cabinet, the old walnut drawer yawning open, its linen lining wrinkled and worn from too many anxious, trembling hands.

His letters were everywhere, scattered like fallen leaves around you. Pages upon pages, thick with ink and hope, with quiet jokes, whispered dreams, and all the soft, unspoken pieces of him that had stitched themselves gently into your heart.

And now history was threatening to take him away.

You couldn’t stop pacing the next morning.

Couldn’t stop chewing at your bottom lip, eyes flicking toward the drawer every five minutes like it would somehow answer you.

When the next letter came, you nearly dropped it from the tremor in your fingers.

April 1st, 1944 Sweetheart, You’ve gone quiet. Did I say something wrong? I hope I didn’t scare you with what I wrote. I just… I need you to know I’m serious. About all of this. About you. It’s crazy, isn’t it? Falling for someone through paper and time. But I have. I’ve fallen for you. And maybe it’s selfish, but I hope you feel the same. I’ll write again tomorrow. Just… say something, will you? Please. Always, James

You sat down that instant and scribbled out a reply with shaking hands.

Bucky, Please don’t go on this mission. I know that sounds ridiculous. I know you can’t just walk away from orders. But something terrible is going to happen. I can’t tell you how I know, it would change too much, but please… don’t go on this mission. You won’t come back the same. If you do come back at all. Please, just trust me. Please.

You folded the letter with trembling fingers and tucked it into the drawer.

So you waited. And waited.

But no letter came the next day. Or the one after that. Or the day after that.

The silence grew heavy, pressing. Like the space between heartbeats stretched too far apart.

By the fourth day, the ache settled deep in your chest—sharp and constant, like something vital was missing. You kept his photo tucked in your wallet, pulling it out so often the edges had started to wear.

You stared at it until the ink blurred behind tears you refused to wipe away. You paced the apartment like a ghost in your own life, whispering his name into the quiet, as if somehow, just somehow, it might find Bucky. Might bring him back.

On the fifth day, you found a letter.

But the paper wasn’t soft with affection, it was creased, angry.

April 4th, 1944 (Y/N), You ask me to trust you, but you won’t trust me to finish this mission. You want me to believe you, about this, about danger, but you won’t say why. Won’t explain. You just beg me not to go. You say I won’t come back the same. That I might not come back at all. Do you know how that feels to read? Like you’ve already written my end for me. Is this all just a game to you? Some story you’re writing? Because it stopped feeling like fiction to me a long time ago. I care about you. I’ve trusted you with more of myself than anyone else in years. And now I don’t know what to think. I need time. - J

You stared at the letter for a long time.

Then you sank to the floor, hands cradling your head.

Tears slipped down your cheeks soundlessly. You didn’t blame him. Not really. You couldn’t explain how you knew what was coming. No, you couldn’t tell him he’d be taken, tortured, frozen. You couldn't tell him that his future was a blur of blood and silence and death.

You couldn’t say it without breaking something sacred.

But still, it hurt. god, it hurt.

You didn’t write back. Not right away.

You told yourself he needed space. That maybe he would feel your silence and understand it wasn’t anger, it was fear. A fear too heavy to put into words.

You wanted to give him time. But you didn’t realise just how little time he had left.

Four days passed. Each one sharp around the edges, like they had been carved from glass. Fragile and ready to shatter.

And still...no letter.

And then, on the morning of April 8th, you opened the drawer and found his letter.

Your breath hitched before you even touched it.

The envelope was different. Heavier. The paper thicker than usual.

You unfolded it with trembling fingers.

April 8th, 1944 Doll, We leave for Germany in a few hours. I couldn’t go without writing you one last time. I didn’t want things to end on anger. I’m sorry I pushed you. I just...it scared me, that’s all. The way you spoke like you knew what would happen, I was shaken, and I don’t like feeling helpless. But I trust you. I do. I told Howard what you said. I didn’t give him details, just that someone I cared about, someone important, warned me something could go wrong. He seemed to believe me, said that maybe time’s not as solid as we think. He told me he’s been working on something. Said he might have a way to pull me through. So if I make it back, if I survive, maybe there’s a chance we would meet. I'll find you. Please wait for me, (Y/N). And if nothing else, just know this, I love you. Always yours, James

You folded the letter in silence, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The ache in your chest made it hard to sit upright, let alone think.

Your hands trembled as you reached for paper, fingers cold and clumsy around the pen. You didn’t write paragraphs, didn’t spill your heart across the page in desperate, sprawling confessions.

There was nothing left to say that could rewrite history. So instead, you wrote only three words, quiet, aching, infinite. Words that had lived in your chest for weeks. Words that felt both like a promise and a goodbye.

I love you.

You placed it in the drawer, fingertips lingering on the edge like a goodbye you weren’t ready to give. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve, like it carried every unspoken word you hadn’t dared to write.

You closed the drawer gently, too gently, like slamming it might break something irreparable.

And that was the last time.

You never got another letter again.

For days afterward, you couldn’t bring yourself to touch it. Couldn’t even glance at the cabinet without that familiar sting behind your eyes, without your chest tightening like your ribs were trying to hold something broken together.

The silence wasn’t just quiet, it was cruel. Loud in its finality.

You told yourself maybe tomorrow. Maybe the drawer would open and there would be something waiting. Another slanted signature. Another piece of him.

But there was nothing.

And eventually, the ache settled in deep, bone-deep, the kind of grief that didn’t scream but pressed down slowly. You found yourself avoiding the cabinet altogether, skirting around it like it might hurt you if you got too close.

You stopped checking.

Stopped hoping.

Because it felt like mourning someone who hadn’t died, but who had still somehow left you behind.

a/n: i hope you love this chapter as much as i did! thank you for stopping by!

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake @maryssong23 @mgchaser @hiraethmae @coffeecigsandcommentary @iyskgd @silverdoragon @lori19 @counterstr1ke @cyberxlust @throwmethroughawindow @keira-kaz2y5

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 8

A/N: that's the last of the chapters I have already wrote. Now I need to be locked in againnn. Thank you all for the support and that you're even reading this. 🥹

I opened the taglist again and why do some of you have the craziest longest names ever.😭.. jk love u guys!! 🩷 - poppy

The city skyline bled grey against the window.

Meetings stacked on his tablet. Stock reports in his inbox. A board call in twenty minutes.

And yet—

Bruce couldn’t stop staring at the box on his desk.

It had arrived with Alfred that morning.

No explanation. No label.

Just a quiet look. A subtle press of the old man’s hand on his shoulder.

“You may want to read this today, Master Bruce.”

He hadn’t opened it at first.

Didn’t think much of it.

Too many numbers. Too many decisions. Too many fires in Gotham to put out.

But now—he was exhausted.

And he needed something to distract him.

He opened the lid.

Dozens of envelopes.

All small. Some crooked. Many with bright, mismatched stickers and glitter residue.

A few had tiny pressed flowers taped to the corner. Others had faint crayon hearts scribbled along the fold.

He blinked.

Lifted one.

____

To Daddy

From: Y/N

____

The writing was messy.

Half the letters backward.

The “N” in her name was so big it crossed the entire envelope.

He hesitated.

Then slowly, carefully, peeled it open.

The paper inside was pink.

Lined notebook paper, torn at the edge. Crumpled. Wrinkled. Like it had been folded and unfolded dozens of times before she finally gave it to Alfred to deliver.

The handwriting inside made his throat tighten.

⸻

Hi Daddy.

I saw a movie yesterday with Alfred and it had a dad and a girl in it and they fed ducks. They looked very happy and the ducks were very cute. I want to feed ducks too.

Maybe if you are not busy we could go. There are ducks in the park. Alfred said so.

But it is okay if you are busy. You are Batman.

I still like you.

From,

Y/N

(PS I will bring the bread!!! Alfred baked it with me)

⸻

The final line was in all caps.

The “D” in bread looked like a flower.

He read it twice.

Then three more times.

By the fourth, he had to stop.

He closed his eyes.

The words burned.

The sweetness. The effort. The gentle apology woven into every sentence—as if even asking for a moment of his time was too much.

As if she already expected to be dismissed.

He reached into the box again.

Pulled another letter.

Then another.

And another.

⸻

Father, I got 100% on my test. Alfred says that means perfect.

I wrote a story with your name in it. Do you want to read it?

I miss you when you are gone. I am good, I promise. Please come say goodnight.

⸻

Some were barely legible.

Some were never even opened.

All were dated between age five to twelve.

All addressed to him.

⸻

He remembered the first time he saw her.

When Ivy had been cornered in that warehouse, she’d laughed in his face.

“Congratulations,” she hissed, as the chains tightened around her ankles. “You caught the eco-terrorist. Now go find your daughter.”

He’d thought she was bluffing.

But she wasn’t.

She led them to an address.

Run-down. Hidden.

And there—in Alfred‘s arms—was a girl.

Tiny. Pale. Eyes too wide for her face.

A stuffed elephant held in her hands.

Bruce had frozen.

Because when she looked up at him—

She smiled.

Small. Hopeful.

“Are you my daddy?”

He didn’t know how to answer.

Didn’t know how to hold her.

Didn’t even remember what he said that first day.

But she reached for him anyway.

⸻

Back in the present, Bruce pressed his hand to the letter again.

His breath shook.

⸻

Alfred

He had watched her for weeks.

Watched her smile politely. Lie sweetly. Slip in and out like a shadow.

And he had known something was wrong.

Something was cracking behind that smile.

He couldn’t do much.

Not anymore.

But he could make them see what they had done.

So he packed the letters.

Every single one he’d intercepted.

Every one she’d handed him, hopeful.

Every note that went unanswered.

Every truth her father never read.

He packed them in a box.

And gave them to Bruce.

“They always think they have time,” Alfred thought grimly, standing now in the empty kitchen.

Until one day… the girl is simply gone.

____

Bruce

He couldn’t stop shaking.

The box was spread out across his desk now—every envelope, every little folded note, laid out by date.

Color-coded by her own childish hand.

“2000—&—10”

“11 and a haf.”

“Thirtenth!!! (finally!!)”

“Fourtine”

He sat there, frozen, sorting them like pieces of a life he never bothered to memorize.

The birthdays.

The school plays.

The “Alfred let me help him make a cake today!” notes.

The “I got picked for science fair!”

The “I was the sunflower in the dance recital!”

The “Tim showed me the Batcomputer (don’t tell).”

He kept reading.

Letter after letter.

And what haunted him most wasn’t the content.

It was the tone.

How it changed.

At first, she always asked:

“Can we go to the park, Daddy?”

“Will you come see my painting?”

“Can we have breakfast together sometime, just us?”

And then she started writing more like:

“I know you’re busy. That’s okay.”

“I hope you’re safe tonight.”

“I watched the news. You looked brave.”

Then—

She stopped asking altogether.

Just sent updates.

“I won the English award this week.”

“Alfred said I looked pretty in green.”

“Leyla,my friend, let me braid her hair again.”

“It’s okay if you don’t have time. I just wanted to say hi.”

And still, he never wrote back.

He didn’t remember ever seeing these.

Had Alfred intercepted them?

Or had he just…

Not cared enough to notice.

His hand hovered over the last envelope.

It was dated exactly one year ago.

The handwriting was sharper now.

Grown.

Still soft. Still graceful.

But… no stickers. No drawings. No crayon hearts.

Just a white envelope.

Sealed with tape.

Her name signed in ink, small and clean:

From Y/N

He opened it.

His stomach dropped.

____

Dear Dad,

I hope you are well.

I know you are busy with work and the city and your responsibilities.

I just wanted to write this, maybe one last time.

I don’t think I’ll send more letters after this. It’s not because I’m mad. I’m not.

I just realized maybe I’ve been writing them wrong all these years.

I thought if I told you about me, you’d want to be part of it.

But maybe you already are part of too many things.

That’s okay.

I’ll still cheer for you. I’ll still think you’re amazing.

Thank you for giving me a home. Even if you couldn’t stay in it much.

I hope the city treats you kindly.

I hope I made you proud, even if you didn’t notice.

—Y/N

⸻

He didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t.

The weight of the paper in his hand felt heavier than any file, any blueprint, any death certificate he’d ever signed.

A whole year ago.

She had already stopped.

She had already stopped.

Stopped writing.

Stopped asking.

Stopped hoping.

But Bruce—

He wasn’t ready to believe that yet.

He didn’t call.

Didn’t ask Alfred to check.

He just left.

Tore out of Wayne Tower like a man with purpose, not panic. Like this wasn’t spiraling out of his control.

She’s just upset. She’ll come around and forget about it. She always does.

He told himself that. Over and over.

She’ll be there.

She’ll be home.

With Damian.

Back from school.

He just needed to be at the Manor when she walked in.

He just needed to see her. To hold her.

To apologize and make up for all the times he has been a terrible father.

The car couldn’t move fast enough.

He arrived at the manor in record time, stepping through the massive front doors with his jaw clenched, eyes searching the entry hall.

Empty.

Silent.

She’s probably upstairs.

“Miss Y/N hasn’t returned yet,” Alfred had said gently on the phone, moments before Bruce arrived. But Bruce hadn’t listened.

He was already in motion.

Then he heard the front door open behind him.

Footsteps.

Fast. Familiar.

Damian.

The boy stormed in, school blazer unbuttoned, tie yanked loose. He looked irritated—tense and brooding the way he always was after a fight.

Bruce turned to face him.

“Where’s your sister?”

Damian blinked. Frowned.

“…She’s not back yet?”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to bring her home.”

Damian scoffed, brushing past him with a grimace. “Tch. She probably left early.”

Bruce didn’t move.

Damian kept talking. “We had an argument, okay? She was being secretive. Again. I figured she’d run off to sulk like she always does.”

He sounded defensive.

But Bruce wasn’t listening anymore.

He was already walking.

Up the stairs.

Slow. Measured.

Damian hesitated in the hall, watching him ascend.

He sighed.

Fine. Might as well tell him now. Tell him everything.

About the Silas guy. The fake friend. The lies. She’s hiding something, and someone needs to say it.

He followed after his father, still stewing from the hallway encounter at school.

Bruce reached the end of the second-floor corridor.

The room furthest from the rest.

The door was cracked open.

He pushed it fully open.

And stopped.

Not because the room was plain.

He’d already noticed that last week.

Not because there were no flowers.

Not because the bed was neatly made.

Not because there were no shoes by the wall or coat on the hook.

But because—

Her elephant plush was gone.

The one thing she never went anywhere without.

The one thing he remembered from the very beginning.

It wasn’t there.

Something in his chest—

snapped.

He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, breathing shallow. The sound of his own heartbeat pulsed in his ears like thunder.

It was too quiet.

Behind him, footsteps slowed.

Alfred had just returned—his keys still in hand, grocery bags half-unpacked in the foyer when Bruce arrived.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He stood behind Bruce now.

Looked into the same empty space.

And his heart cracked.

Not from surprise.

But from confirmation.

He had feared this.

Felt it in his bones.

Watched her slip farther and farther from them like fog through fingers.

Bruce’s hands slowly curled at his sides.

His voice, when it came, was low. Cold.

“Where the hell is my daughter?”

Alfred didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The silence said it all.

Damian had just stepped into the hall behind them.

Ready to tattle. Ready to vent and snitch on his little sister.

Then he heard those words.

Froze.

Eyes narrowing.

“What…?”

His voice faltered.

“What do you mean by 'where'?”

Bruce turned, expression blank.

“She left.”

“Left where?”

No answer.

Alfred stepped into the doorway now.

Surveying the room. The bed. The desk. The missing pieces.

His voice was a whisper, breaking under the weight of it:

“She packed.”

“She’s not coming back.”

Damian took a step back.

His throat tightened.

He thought of their fight.

Thought of her eyes—wide and anxious. How she flinched. How she looked smaller than ever in that classroom, even when she tried to snap back.

And now she was gone.

She lied to him.

She smiled at him like nothing was wrong.

And then she disappeared.

Damian looked at the room again.

At the bed. The window.

And for the first time in his life—

He felt scared.

The room was still.

Frozen in time.

None of them knew how long they stood there—Bruce, Alfred, Damian—just staring at the doorway. The air felt heavy, like the oxygen had drained out of the house entirely.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Until—

“Hey—”

Tim’s voice cut in from down the hall.

Footsteps. Quick. Measured. He’d just returned from Wayne Enterprises, backpack slung over one shoulder, something clutched in his hand.

A carved wooden box. Small, chest-shaped. Slightly dented at the corners.

The chess box.

The one she had made for him years ago. He found it today in his office drawer—the only thing he’d never thrown out. He was ready to bring it to her. Start again.

His boots scuffed against the polished floor as he turned the corner—then stopped.

Three of them were standing there.

Bruce. Damian. Alfred.

Silent.

Their backs to him. Faces turned to her room.

Something in their posture—

Something wrong.

Tim blinked.

“…What’s going on?”

Bruce didn’t turn.

Alfred lowered his gaze.

And Damian—Damian didn’t answer at all. He was pale. Rigid. Eyes fixed forward like a predator who’d lost his target.

Tim stepped closer, confused.

Then—

He caught a glimpse inside the room.

Empty bed.

No color.

No presence.

And the phone.

Her phone.

Just sitting there. Quiet. Dead. Untouched.

His breath caught.

“…No.”

He was already moving, storming past them, gripping the edge of the desk and yanking the cord out of the wall.

Pulled up the tracking software on his watch.

The phone pinged.

Last location: Here.

Status: Offline.

No signal.

No trace.

Nothing.

“She left,” Bruce muttered, the words rasping out like they were cutting his throat on the way out.

Tim’s fingers fumbled across the screen. “No—no, she wouldn’t just—She’s—she’s a kid, she’s just a—she’s—”

He was already spiraling.

Then Damian moved.

Like a switch flipped in him.

He was tearing through her room now—no hesitation, no restraint.

Sheets flung. Mattress shoved aside like it weighed nothing. The small rug kicked out of place. Drawers yanked open with violent force.

“Master Damian—” Alfred began, but the boy didn’t even hear him.

He was on his knees, dragging his hand across the floorboards, searching for—something, anything.

And then—

His hand paused.

A soft click.

One of the planks wobbled.

He dug his nails beneath the edge and pulled.

A loose board lifted.

Underneath,

a box.

Not tech.

Not cash.

Not escape supplies.

Just—

A box.

Wooden. Worn. Carefully hidden.

Damian pulled it free, shoving the lid open with a rough breath.

And inside:

Drawings.

Letters.

Painted cards.

Handmade bracelets, crumpled origami bats, scribbled “I love you” notes.

All of it—

For them.

“Tim’s the smartest,” one said in crayon. “He doesn’t talk to me a lot but I hope he knows I think he’s amazing.”

“Dick said I could come to the arcade next week!! I can’t wait I can’t wait I can’t wait!!”

That never happened.

“To Jason—I made you a snack today but I left it in the fridge because I don’t want to bother you. Hope it makes you feel better.”

Even ones for Bruce:

“I don’t need anything fancy. I just want you to be home sometimes.”

“Happy birthday, Daddy. I don’t know if you want to celebrate, but I got you this drawing anyway.”

The drawings were aged.

Edges curled. Smudges at the corners. One or two had obvious water damage.

Most were never opened.

Others looked like they’d been recovered from the trash.

No one spoke.

Bruce knelt beside Damian now, one hand trembling as he picked up a folded note.

“You’re my favorite hero even if you don’t talk to me much. I hope I can be someone you’re proud of. I try really hard. Even if I mess up. I’m sorry if I mess up.”

Tim stared into the box.

Into the pieces of a girl none of them really knew.

A girl who begged for their attention, then slowly taught herself not to want it anymore.

Then the door burst open.

“I’m home!”

Dick’s voice.

Bright.

Hopeful.

He was holding a paper bag in one hand and a small wrapped box in the other.

“Got the pastries she liked on her instagram—figured I’d surprise her. Did she make it back yet?”

They didn’t answer.

He froze mid-step when he saw their faces.

“…What happened?”

He looked past them.

Into the room.

And saw it.

The phone.

The empty bed.

The missing elephant plush.

The blank silence.

The box in Bruce’s hands.

The raw devastation on Alfred’s face.

The panic in Tim’s fingers as they tapped furiously on his screen.

Damian crouched on the floor. Trembling. Jaw clenched. Hands shaking in his lap.

Dick’s voice cracked.

“…Where’s my little flower?”

_____

The window creaked.

The air shifted.

All heads turned.

Jason.

Boots heavy. Leather scuffed. Red helmet tucked under one arm. He stepped over the windowsill like it was nothing, pausing mid-motion as his boot hit the floor.

Unlocked?

He frowned.

That window was never left open.

He would have to scold her for being so careless.

The room hit him like a brick.

Scattered sheets. Overturned drawers. Empty desk. The low hum of tension in the air.

And the silence—the eerie, heavy silence—of a room that had been picked clean of a life.

Jason turned to the others, arching a brow.

“…Okay, why does it look like someone just got abducted in here?”

No one laughed.

No one even flinched.

That’s when he noticed it—Bruce, standing beside the bed, face blank, eyes darker than coal. Tim crouched beside the desk, still glued to his tech, sweat at his temples. Damian near the foot of the bed, fists clenched, lips curled in furious silence.

And Dick—

Dick was on the floor, kneeling beside a small wooden box with shaking hands. His gloves had been tossed aside, like they were getting in the way. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were wildfire.

Jason’s voice lost its sarcasm.

“…Where is she?”

No one answered.

He stepped forward, fast now. Eyes darted across the mess.

“What happened? What the hell happened?”

Then his eyes locked onto the pile in the box.

Small drawings. Crayon notes. Carefully tied bracelets, some frayed, some with beads missing. A hand-drawn sketch of the whole Batfamily… with a stick-figure Jason holding a cupcake labeled “Don’t be angry today.”

His throat tightened.

“…She made this?”

Dick didn’t speak.

Just slowly lifted a folded diary page and passed it to him.

Jason took it.

Read.

And everything inside him stopped.

“Today Dick smiled at me. He called me his little flower. He hasn’t said that in a long time, but I remember it every day. I hope maybe he says it again soon. I don’t know why he stopped. But it made me feel warm. It made me feel like maybe he loves me too.”

Jason lowered the page slowly.

“…She’s gone.”

Tim spoke, voice sharp. “We don’t know where. She left her phone, her tracker, everything.”

“She planned it,” Damian added bitterly. “She’s been planning it for a while.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. His helmet fell to the floor with a thud.

“Why the hell didn’t anyone notice?”

That was aimed at everyone, but especially at Bruce.

Bruce, who hadn’t moved in minutes.

“You,” Jason snapped, stepping forward now, finger pointed. “You’re her goddamn father. What the hell were you doing?”

“She was—” Bruce started, but Jason cut him off.

“She was invisible in this house for years, Bruce. She screamed for attention without making a sound. And you—what? You just let it happen?”

No one stopped him.

Not this time.

Alfred’s voice finally cut in—tired, gravel-soft.

“She left today. She was wearing her coat, and the plush was missing.”

Jason’s breath caught.

“The elephant?”

Dick nodded once. His face was still blank.

Jason cursed.

He spun toward Tim, voice sharp.

“You’re the genius—track her.”

“I’ve tried,” Tim snapped back, pushing to his feet. “She wiped her digital signature. Do you want to know what’s worse? We don’t even know her. We never bothered to. I have no clue what she listens to. Where she likes to go. What kind of clothes she wears. Hell—I just found out she’s the student rep two days ago.”

Dick finally stood up.

When he moved, he moved like a soldier.

Eyes dark. Expression flat. He took off his jacket, grabbed his comm from the desk, and clipped it to his belt without a word.

“Where are you going?” Jason asked.

“Where do you think?”

Dick’s voice was low. Controlled.

“I’m going to find my little flower.”

Damian stood too.

“If anyone finds her, it will be me.”

“No,” Tim said without looking at him. “If anyone finds her first, it’ll be whoever knows her best. And none of us do.”

His eyes finally lifted.

“But we’re going to learn.”

They didn’t speak again for a long moment. The weight of what they’d lost—what they had blindly let slip through their fingers—hung in the air like a curse.

But as the silence deepened, something else began to stir beneath it.

Resolve.

Not calm.

Not peace.

Something darker.

Possessive. Territorial. Obsessive.

She was theirs—their sweet, soft Y/N. The one with the doe eyes and sugar-laced voice. The one who baked for them and never asked for anything. The one they didn’t deserve—but still belonged to them.

And now?

She was out there. Alone. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

In a city like Gotham.

That was unacceptable.

Whether she wanted to be found or not didn’t matter.

She was going to be found.

She was going to be brought back.

And this time—she would never be allowed to slip away again.

Even if it meant burning Gotham down to find her.

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[dewdropdinosaur]

Kinktober Day 8: Cockwarming

Summary: You had no idea how you ended up in this position, slotted so prettily on your husband's aching cock as he left you to fend for yourself in the search for friction. Maybe you could convince him otherwise. Warnings: Cockwarming, the reader has a vagina, mentions of genitalia, pet names, etc. MDNI, 18+. You're responsible for your own media consumption. Kinktober Mention of the Day: @redvexillum Their writing is so scrumptious, I can't believe I am honored enough to exist in the same world as their masterpieces.

You could hardly stand it anymore, the teasing. How his smug smirk, nonchalant attention made your skin crawl in delicious ways that you wouldn’t dare to admit aloud. But he knew, you didn’t have to tell him. Your fingers dug into the plush velvet of your husband’s seat, weeping cunt slotted perfectly on his hard and angry cock. Hair disheveled, lips puffy and red from how hard his teeth had assulated them mere minutes ago…you couldn’t stand him anymore. 

The green light illuminated the office, allowing the soft pitter-patter of rain to take on an eerie glow through the oval window. Cascading streams of water glistened, letting the green street lights shake and shift across the floor with each passing droplet. When you had visited your husband late into the night, the Eye of Zaun hard at work scanning over various papers, you had no idea what would occur. With a steaming cup of tea in your hand, the whisps of steam wafting off it in a comforting air that could soothe even the worriest of worriers. You had crossed the hardwood floor, placed it gently on his desk as you propped yourself up on the corner. 

“Silco…it’s been hours.”

The world swam in that window’s green light, the hard maroon cushion,and those bi-colored eyes that penetrated your soul when he looked up to observe your form. Neither eye displayed much emotion to the untrained eye but after so long you could nearly tell what your husband was thinking. The orange eye held depths of a fire unknown and the loving rage of a thousand comets hurling towards each other with a fire too hot to be extinguished until they met. The blue, however,  the crystal blue one showed the most restraint surprisingly. You were wearing more casual clothes, a button up white shirt and a pair of maroon suit pants. Nothing you would have deemed anything worth the heated and lustful gaze you were receiving. 

“I know, my dear. But Zaun waits for no man.”

Filting around his chair, you sat in his lap, running your nimble fingers through the locks of his slicked back hair. Cooing softly as his head craned back in relaxation, you thought you had finally won him over for the night. 

“My dear, if you keep that up I will have no choice but to indulge myself in what else that heavenly body of yours can offer me.”

Choking back a surpirsed gasp, a frantic blush coating your cheeks, you halted your movements. You had no idea what had warranted such a bold reaction from the Industrailist, but here it seems that you had done something. 

That is how you ended up now, pussy full of cock, drooling onto the shoulder lining of Silco’s vest as he did nothing. Sliding slightly, attempting to get more friction, to feel him deeper inside you, his rough fingers came to grip your hips in a bruising manner. 

“Shhh now pet. You did this to yourself, looking so delicatable while I work.”  His breath was hot against the shell of your ear, one hand returning to scribble some notes down on the paper he was viewing while the other stayed on your hip. You let out a desperate whimper, grinding your hips down once more in a plea. Your nails dug into the fabric of his chair, tearing the material slightly. Growling into your ear that the friction you had caused, your husband roughly bucks his hips up into you. 

“Behave yourself. I’ll treat you well soon enough love…”

Guess you were here for a while then. 

[multiverse-menagerie]

Perhaps could I request the bg3 companions going through Tav's sketchbook and finding that it's riddled with drawings of each companion, but especially them. Maybe it's the early stages of a romance or smthn?

I’ve been slowly spinning this around in my head, yessss

Gale

At first, Gale thinks journal is a book you’ve left for him. He’s not really one to go through your personal belongings after all. But upon opening the journal and finding swaths of drawings of your party and him, he’s thrown a little off kilter

He returns it to you immediately (read as: he fights with himself for a good ten minutes to stop looking at the sketches of himself and return the book to you) but asks you about your hobby

Listens very intently to however much you’re willing to tell him. Gale would ask, “are those me? or do you know some other roguishly handsome wizard with a penchant for fancy robes?”

He’s trying Very Hard to downplay his feelings about the whole matter. He’s not used to being the admired one…but he’s certainly not complaining

Shadowheart

As she hopes everyone will respect her need for privacy, Shadowheart strives to do the same for others. Despite many opportunities to peak at your journal, she resists and eventually asks you about it directly, but with no pressure

shy!Tav, nervously showing off the sketches and trying to gloss over how many of these drawings are of Shadowheart - after a deep breath, Shadowheart ignores the blush rising on her skin and asks about some of the other drawings

Confident!Tav, flipping through the sketches and happily showing off the images of Shadowheart especially - Shadowheart flusters, sputters out a near incomprehensible jumble of words and rushes off

Either way, the moment lives Rent Free(tm) in her head and she hopes you’ll show her the journal again

Astarion

STUNNED. like, almost drops your sketch in surprise bc wait. Holy shit. Is that him??

recovers smoothly, plays down the way his adrenaline has spiked

It does not matter how good the portraits of him are, sketches or fully finished drawings, he is Memorizing those pages

If you draw him with any soft expression, he’ll point out that image to you and be like “I think you’ve messed up on that particular reaction, dear” (that’s how he looks at you, shh don’t tell him)

Wyll

He spots you watching him one day as he’s training, your eyes flipping between him and the journal in front of you. Eventually he gives in and wanders over, inquiring about what you’re up to

when you show him the spread, sketches of him doing swordplay (and a few close headshots) - Wyll is both very impressed and very flustered

He compliments your skills, though jokingly questions the subject of your drawings. Certainly someone else would make a more attractive drawing, he says, gesturing vaguely to his mismatched eyes and newly acquired horns

Is surprised by the fierce frown you give him, the disapproval in your voice at his suggestion. You’re drawing him for a reason. Thoroughly chastised and a little embarrassed, Wyll thanks you (he doesn’t elaborate beyond that but you get the idea)

Karlach

Karlach is too afraid to touch anything that seems even vaguely flammable, but she’s seen you scribbling into your journal on many an occasion. Eventually her curiosity gets the better of her and she asks you about it

If you’re hesitant to show her, she’ll back off…but kind of pout like a little kid. Not in an attempt to make you feel bad but just bc that’s who she is. If and when you decide to show her the sketches, she’s super hyped

Jaw on the floor. She’s not got the patience or skills for drawing, not really, but your talent blows her away. And then she sees the drawings of her and she’s like - mouth open, heart eyes

jokes about how you’ve drawn her, with a huge grin on her face the whole time “how long have you been staring at my thighs to get the drawing this accurate? should I get a new outfit for your next page?”

Lae’zel

She’s never really cared much for her appearance - don’t get me wrong, she thinks she looks great but she’s never really been the one to stare at her reflection or anything

But Lae’zel sees herself in your sketches, drawings of her in softer states, in relaxation, and shes…surprised

Part of her bristles - she’s a strong warrior on a mission, she doesn’t need you seeing her as soft. But a different part of her…eases. Relaxes. You see her as an individual worth affection.

Lae’zel wouldn’t comment much about the drawings, but she would ask to sit and watch you draw, if it wouldn’t bother you. Your skilled hands, the way your brow furrows as you draw. Yes. She likes that.

Halsin

At first, Halsin is simply impressed by your talents. Artistry has always been something he’s enjoyed, no matter the form, so he’s happy to get to see your work

When he comes across the pages devoted to him, he’s thrown off a little. He’s used to being admired, if we’re being honest. As long as he’s lived and as many people he’s been with, it happens. But he’s not used to…this. Being part of the art but without any expectation of him.

Traces a finger over the lines of his face - somehow you’ve captured a look that makes him seem so…heroic. Is that how you see him? Warmth feels his chest and he goes to seek you out

You don’t get much of an answer, when you ask why he’s scooped you and paying you extra attention, nuzzling his face into your hair

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

new normal. l Joel Miller

Summary: your life went on, only the worries were the same

Warnings: some smut (+18) but not too much, fluff, some worries, Reader is pregnant, Ellie and Tommy show up here, boring chapter

A/N: i wanted to write something before i leave and give it to you when i'm not home. i hope you'll welcome these scribbles warmly. i love their story so much and I hope you like it too.

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

Joel Miller was in bed when he felt a sweet-smelling weight settle on his back. Something wet touched his neck, and then someone kissed his cheek. A muffled groan escaped his throat.

"Are you asleep?" a quiet but self-satisfied voice sounded in his ear.

"Not anymore..." he murmured. Another kiss. He reached his hand back and felt wet and soft skin under his fingers. "What time is it?"

"It's almost seven." you replied. Another two kisses and a gentle bite on the ear.

Joel rolled over on his back with difficulty, because you weren't going to make it easy for him, and when he rubbed his eyes he saw the sweetest sight in the world. Your hair, still wet, fell over your face. Smiling eyes stared at him, and the open robe revealed that you had nothing underneath.

"You couldn't sleep?" you shook your head. "What's gotten into you, huh?"

"I have no idea, but you know what?" Joel raised his eyebrows and you leaned down and whispered in his ear. "I want you. Now. Please..."

"Please always works." he replied and a moment later he took your face in his hands and moved to capture your lips with his. 

You tasted like mint toothpaste. He didn't know why it was so important to him at that moment. Nimble fingers quickly took off your robe and a second later you were lying on your back and Joel was nestling between your spread thighs.

For the past few days you had been in a honeymoon state, or at least that's what Joel called it in his head. You were full of energy and your appetite for intimacy grew at a very fast pace. There were days when Joel would come home and you would greet him with such sparkling eyes that you didn't even have to say anything more. No, he wasn't complaining, but if he was fifteen or at least ten years younger, he would definitely be able to do more.

But there was something about it that pleased him the most - normalcy. His mind was filled with thoughts of everything that was happening, and most of all, you.

"Fuck, I love you so much..." he moaned as he started moving inside you.

"I love you too, Joel Miller." you replied and pulled him in to kiss him hard.

Sometimes he imagined the world was normal. Like in that bed, with your body right underneath his, that was a slice of normal. If it weren't for this fucking pandemic, that would be your normal. 

He'd be making love to you in your shared bed. You'd be married, engaged, or just together, because would that even matter? Sarah would be all grown up, maybe have her own family, kids... And you'd be carrying another child of his, a new beginning. Maybe it was crazy, but the thought was really beautiful to Joel. 

But then he'd remember Ellie. If Sarah were alive, he probably would never have met Ellie. She'd be living with her parents, her real ones. How could he not have her in his life? Joel didn't think he could give her up now.

And you? Did anyone really give him a guarantee that he would have met you if the world hadn't lost its mind? Maybe that was the only normality he could have. Maybe that was how his path was supposed to go.

But Joel really appreciated it, every single day. Every morning when he saw Ellie and you, every minute spent together, every kiss. It was like tearing something for himself from the claws of changing fate. And Joel wanted to hold on to it.

He met you at the moment when it was supposed to happen. In the place and time right for both of you. You had walked such a difficult path that he was already grateful for what you had together. And you were supposed to have even more. Fate was kind to him.

You didn't notice him when he entered the bedroom, too busy looking at yourself in the mirror. He watched as you rolled up your shirt, looking at your belly. Your clothes still hid it well.

Finally, you looked up and saw Joel's reflection. A smile formed on your lips.

"Hey, beautiful." he said quietly with a smirk.

"I look like I ate two solid meals at Russo's." you said with a sneer. "I thought it'd be bigger by now."

Dark eyes stared at you with awe but also amusement. Joel could see perfectly how your body changed almost every day. He loved it.

"It's perfect. It looks better than I could have imagined." he said and your face lit up. "Are you going to Ann?" You nodded reaching for your sweatshirt. "I can walk you out, I have to meet Tommy."

"Is something wrong?" 

He came closer and slid his hand under your sweatshirt where your treasure was hidden. The roundness of your belly was palpable under his fingers. A sweet kiss landed on your temple. "No, nothing like that. Don't worry."

After the attack on Jackson, you knew that many people had taken it badly. Fear and dread hung in the air like a strange fog for weeks. Even Joel was more restless, sleeping worse. You felt like he was awake at night, listening to every creak and rumble. Like the threat was standing on your porch, waiting.

He wanted to protect you, he still had it in him, and you understood that. Living in Jackson had let your guard down for a while, and now you couldn’t afford it.

“We need to reinforce the walls around Jackson. Maybe add more guard posts?”

Joel looked at the map on his desk and pointed to a few places. “We can put them here. But we’ll need more men to build them,” he said. “We’ll also reinforce the gates.”

“We’ll be working with more patrols over the next few weeks. I want to make sure there aren’t any strangers hanging around.”

“Jesse didn’t find any leads?”

Tommy shook his head. “Maybe it was just one group? But we can’t risk it.”

For a moment, they both thought. The faint rays of sunlight streamed into the room as both men were lost in their thoughts. Finally, Tommy spoke up.

"The ones we caught said there were no more. That it was just this one group."

Joel rubbed his chin and shook his head. "Possibly. But can we trust them?"

"Maybe two groups of Riders joined forces, huh? They wanted to try their luck. They're all dead, so we should be safe."

Joel leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, wondering something. "What if someone was watching from outside? They sent a message to the rest of the group."

"Do you think there might be more people like that?"

Joel shrugged. "I have no idea, Tommy. We need to reinforce the gates though. We have too many people here." Too valuable people, he wanted to add, but he stopped himself. It was already hard enough to convince Tommy to hide the weapons in the basement of the house. You didn't know that, but Joel preferred to be prepared for anything. Your backpacks were packed too, because if the need arose...

They both jumped when they heard footsteps on the stairs, then someone knocked on the door. Tommy's face lit up at the sight of you.

"Hi! Nice to see you." he greeted. Joel noticed how Tommy had instantly hidden all of his previous worries on his face so you wouldn't notice. Did he do the same? Did you read Tommy as well as you read Joel?

"I hope I'm not interrupting," you said, walking in and unzipping your jacket. "Beautiful weather, isn't it? I saw Maria and Benji. She told me to tell you she was waiting for you with dinner."

Tommy's smile widened. "Thanks. I'll be right over. And how's my favorite nephew or niece?"

“Good. We’re growing up slowly.” You looked at Joel, his hand clearly moving the papers to cover what he and Tommy had been poring over moments earlier. “Joel says he sees changes every day, but I’m not so sure.”

Tommy looked at his brother, clearly impressed. “That old guy is observant, isn’t he? When spring comes, you won’t be hiding anything anymore.” He stood up and gathered his things. “I’m going home. I promised Maria I’d take Benji. See you for dinner on Sunday?”

You both nodded, and Tommy left. You took his place in front of the desk, watching Joel carefully.

“How’s Ann?” he asked.

“Good. But she’s worried about Shane patrolling more often.” You sighed. “She understands it’s necessary, but… You get it.”

"Yes. But we have to get through this. Tommy wants us to reinforce the walls." 

"That's good, right? They got here pretty quickly last time." 

Joel nodded. "We can't let that happen again."

Quiet sounds reached the bedroom where you were changing the sheets. Joel and Ellie were sitting downstairs. The girl had been learning to play the guitar for a long time, and Joel was very involved in it. He had a lot of patience, and the time he spent with Ellie was very important to both of them.

The fact that you were a family was simply obvious to you. Back then, by the river, you didn't just find this young girl, you found a home. And now you created this home together. You were already finishing folding the laundry when Joel quietly slipped into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

“She went to Dina’s,” he sighed. “If this keeps up, we’ll forget what she looks like.”

You smiled. “You weren’t like that? I’m sure you were out late wandering around.”

“That’s why I know now why it bothered my mother so much. Sarah wasn’t like that.”

The name of his dead daughter fell from his lips so naturally that for a moment you didn’t even notice. It took a moment for you to speak up again.

“Do you think about her?”

He nodded, sitting on the bed. "Almost every day, and now even more often." He sighed. "Ellie's older than her now and we're having a new baby soon. I wonder what she'd think of that."

"Do you think she'd like Ellie?"

"Yeah. They're different, but they're teenagers, right? They'd get along." He ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck. "I think you'd love her too."

You smiled softly, putting his washed shirt aside. "She was a part of you. I'm sure I would have loved her in an instant."

You were silent for a moment. The warm memory of Sarah hung between you. Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence.

"When Sarah came along, I was too young. Now I feel too old." he said, as if he had blurted out something he'd been thinking about for a long time. He looked at you lovingly, but like he really needed you. “I love you so much and I really want this. I just hope I can do it.”

You stood up and carefully straddled his lap, placing your hands on his shoulders.

“We’re in this together, remember? You and me. I see how you feel about Ellie, I hear you talking about Sarah. Our baby will have the greatest father in the world.”

“I think you’re overestimating me.”

“And I think we have a lot more to worry about. You’re not as old as you say. And I wanted this too, so…” He placed his hands on your hips, and you brushed your lips against his. “I’m grateful for what I have. I never thought I’d ever have so much.”

“You’re too good for me, you know that?”

“Sometimes.” You chuckled. “Come on. We’re alone. Let’s take a shower together, and then I’ll show you how good I can be for you.” 

He captured your lips in a tender kiss. It was soft, full of what he wanted to tell you but couldn't put into words. But you understood. You knew him so well that he didn't need to say anything more.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @somedayheaven @underneath-the-sky-again @callmebyyournick-name @hiroikegawa @mandaloriankait @mmmunson @grace-928 @umadirectioner

[imagine-docx]

sugar on the night shift.

Summary: You've been stress baking because you've been stressed over work. Because you have so many desserts, you started leaving treats for the night shift security guard.

Warnings: None.

A/N: it's been almost 4 years since i've last posted something, and i deeply apologize. and i also deeply apologize if my work is rusty, i actually haven't wrote ANYTHING (other than research papers) since my last post. please accept this as an apology. - amanda

Remember when you were a kid and you always wanted to hurry up and grow up? If you could go back in time, you would definitely have smacked yourself or at least told yourself to cherish your youth.

Now, here you were, back aching, cookies baking, and your nails tapping against your computer keyboard attempting to finish a PowerPoint presentation on your newest marketing research findings due in the morning. 

For the past nine months you were tasked with finding out how to sell nostalgia for your company. Those nine months were absolutely brutal. Everyday you would come home and just work until 4 am. But everyday for the past 9 months you had the same hobby while working, baking. 

For some reason your brain knew it couldn’t turn off if there was something in the oven. Because of this project, you managed to produce pies, cookies, cakes, the whole nine yards. 

The first three baking expeditions, you kept the baked goods. But everyday there was something new being baked and you couldn’t consume the desserts fast enough. You were offering it to neighbours, coworkers, friends; if someone had a stomach, you were offering them your baked goods.

Somewhere around the four month mark, you started leaving baked goods for the night security staff. They were awake at ungodly hours protecting your building, they deserve something sweet. 

You were so entranced with finishing this PowerPoint, the only thing that broke your concentration was the kitchen timer blaring, indicating that your cookies were done.

You hopped off the chair and navigated towards the kitchen, you pulled the cookies out of the oven and let them cool on the wire rack you set up when you were done cleaning. 

You knew they had to cool for a few more minutes before taking it downstairs to the security guard. You picked up the sticky note and grabbed the pen that was next to your computer, and scribbled a quick note.

“Sorry for torturing you with all of these baked goods, I promise this is the last one.”

You went back to work for a little bit before another timer broke your concentration, you packed the cookies into a small takeout box and stuck the sticky note to the top of the lid. 

While in the elevator, you took a look at the time and winced. 3:17 am. You knew that you had to finish the PowerPoint by 4:30 am to even be able to get up and be able to present it to upper management. 

You were practically racing against the clock at this point. You walked to the front desk and saw that the night security guard was not there. This was not new. Everytime you came down, he was not there. You assumed that he was doing his rounds, or he was watching the cameras in the back, or maybe he went for a smoke break. 

You left the box on the front desk and practically ran back up to your apartment to finish your presentation.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The presentation was a success and upper management took your findings seriously. That was the only win you got for the day. Everything else was sleep deprived losses. Since you got off the train, your body was absolutely screaming at you to hurry up and get home and rest. 

You buzzed into your apartment complex and waved at the evening shift worker. You normally would hold a conversation but your eyes were so heavy that you might fall asleep mid-conversation. 

You got into your apartment, grabbed a cookie from the counter and made a beeline to the shower to wash the gunk of the office off you. 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

That night you slept like an absolute baby. Nine months of no sleep made you sleep almost a full thirteen hours. 

You were walking to the front door, phone in hand, cookie in mouth, checking up on the texts you missed while you were practically in a coma. Still oblivious to the world, you pull a pair of heels out and put them on. You finally broke contact with your phone to grab your keys when you noticed a white envelope on your floor.

You questioned if you dropped your mail walking in, but you were so tired yesterday that you didn’t even grab your mail. You shoved your phone in your bag and the remainder of your cookie in your mouth before picking up the envelope and inspecting it.

You thought maybe your mail went elsewhere and someone returned it. But there was nothing on the front with your name. You opened the envelope and there was a note inside.

If your company is even half as sweet as your pastries, I’m in trouble. Coffee sometime? - Bucky 

[lqveharrington]

I’m so glad your requests are open😫😫 could I request an Anthony bridgerton x wife reader angst where he’s really stressed so he becomes distant and hardly speaks to her while she’s being all nice to him so he ends up yelling at her. With a happy ending😭 sorry if it didn’t make sense English isn’t my first language

Enough | A.B.

Summary: When stress pushes Anthony Bridgerton into silence, his gentle wife tries to hold them together with kindness. But one outburst changes everything—until love brings them back to each other.

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x wife!reader

Includes: use of Y/N, smoking, arguing, angst, fluff at the end

a/n: I can’t believe we have to wait one year until the next season of Bridgerton drops 💔

It had been days since you last spoke to Anthony. He was always cooped up in his office, worried about so many different things that you didn’t even know what exactly was worrying him. He would be up before the sun in the morning, then get back right at midnight.

He never took a break.

Whenever you tried to pull him away from the letters consuming his every move, he would click his tongue and wave you away, telling you he would be there in a minute. You couldn’t remember the last time he actually had dinner with you or his family.

Even his siblings began to question his sudden disappearance.

“Where’s your poor excuse of a husband?” Eloise looped an arm around yours, finding you strolling in the garden with a blank look on your face. “Isn’t he always attached to you in some way?”

“Your brother,” You jump out of your stupor and correct her with a weary smile. “Is busy tending to all his duties as head of the household.”

“Yes yes, but he’s gone more so than usual now.” She plucked a hyacinth from the garden and carefully placed it into your basket, not noticing your far off look.

You thumb the small petals of the flower, blinking away the worry for your husband. “I’ll talk to him today. I’ve been meaning to anyway.”

“Get him to join us for dinner.” Eloise stopped walking and fiddled with the bow on her waist, taking your hands in hers and squeezing softly. “I don’t miss him, but I do miss bugging him whenever he’s around.”

“I’ll bring it up.” Your smile softens into a genuine one as she walked back toward the house, your lips instantly turning down into a frown when her figure disappears.

When Anthony had his mind set on something, he would make sure it would get done. No matter what force tried to pull him away, he would ensure that everything was done the same way he planned it in his mind. He was calculated with his actions.

And maybe that was the reason you couldn’t get through to him. In the center of a hurricane filled with chaos and uncertainty, it was silent. Perhaps Anthony couldn’t hear you, only the pressure of worry and stress echoed through him.

You stepped up to his office door and knocked. You waited a beat before slipping your hand on the knob and turning it ever so slightly, pushing inside to see him slumped over piles of letters and parchment.

“Anthony?” You call for him quietly, taking slow steps further into his office and closer to him.

He didn’t budge nor look up at you, he simply continued to scribble away in his oh-so familiar cursive. His eyes were locked onto the ink, words tumbling from his lips with each sentence he finished. He tapped the end of his quill on the desk, his leg bouncing in anxiety before breathing out and going back to writing again.

“My love, I think that’s enough for today.” You move to stand beside him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. When he didn’t move again, you squeezed, “Anthony—“

“Y/N, can’t you see I’m busy?” He whipped around to face you, tone laced with tiredness and irritation. His voice grew in volume as he accidentally spilled ink across his letter, making him huff and stand. “Great. It’s ruined now.”

“I’m sorry, I just—“

He snapped his head in your direction, his eyes seemingly red from all the pent up frustration he kept quiet about. “You’ve done enough.”

Your hands curled together as you felt the glass ball drop and shatter, mind and heart pounding at how clear and sharp his tone was. You bit your tongue and bowed your head down, removing yourself from his office.

Even after you shut the door, you could hear him cursing about his ruined work.

It was like his job as a Lord and head of the Bridgerton household was much more important than the relationships in his life. You couldn’t bear staying in the same room—same house—as him when he was locked in a state of distress and distraction.

So you left.

You only wanted to take a breather away from the suffocating air Anthony left. Yet somehow, you ended up at the park. Your feet had dragged you far from home and in front of the bench you first encountered Anthony all those years ago as a child.

“Of course.” You muttered as you took a seat on the bench, popping open your bag for a cigarette and lighter.

It was so rare for you to ever smoke. You only had it in your bag because Eloise kept sneaking away with several packs, so you took them from her. But you knew Benedict would give her the damn cancer stick anyway.

The sun had already set when you lit the end of the cigarette, the orange light glowing underneath the night sky. You inhaled deeply before releasing a breath, the smoke blowing softly through the air.

You were so tired.

Tired of always wearing a smile whenever someone asked where your husband was; Tired of watching Anthony drown in all the work; Tired of pretending to be okay. The world weighed on your shoulders and the outcome you got for carrying it was a scolding from your husband.

You tilt your head and let out a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment before you heard someone clear their throat beside you. Your eyes snap open and move to stomp out your cigarette when you met familiar brown eyes staring back at you.

“What are you doing here?” You ask softly, watching him as he moved to sit. You were upset with him, and he knew you were, but you still loved him. “Did you finish all your work? It seemed pretty important.”

He sighed and spun his wedding band, looking at his ink-stained hands. “No, it’s not finished. It won’t be for a while.”

“Really? Because you’ve been working all day and all night recently.” You reply coolly, taking another drag and blowing the smoke to the side.

The feeling, taste, and smell made you want to gag, but it was the only thing that kept you sane with how close Anthony was to you. He hurt you, telling you that what you had done was enough when all you were trying to do was help. It always was his least favorite thing. He never asked for or accepted help even when offered freely.

Anthony Bridgerton did not want to be viewed as unfit.

He looked over at you and frowned when he saw your glazed eyes, watching the gears in your mind tick with every passing second. He wanted to get down on his knees and plead—beg you for your forgiveness. But given the circumstances that you were out in the public eye, a man would never be caught doing such absurd things.

So he did the next best thing.

Gently, he took your free hand in his and began to trace patterns on your palm, feeling your tense figure relax under the familiar sensation.

“I’m a terrible husband, aren’t I?” He said softly as you met his eyes, the small smile forming on your lips making him chuckle quietly. “Yes, I figured. I was completely out of line today… And the past few days.”

You nodded, still watching his fidgeting. The cigarette burned faster, but you didn’t dare take another breath nor did you put it out. It just stayed burning under the darkness of the black night.

“You were just trying to keep me sane.” Anthony closed his hands around yours and squeezed softly. “I hurt you today and I will never forget it, nor will I forgive myself for ever raising my voice at you.” He met your eyes and watched your gaze soften at the sight of his tired and longing eyes, the dark circles more prominent than ever. “All I’m asking is for your forgiveness, my love. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

For several seconds, you simply stared at Anthony, trying to collect your own thoughts on his gesture. It wasn’t every day Anthony Bridgerton asked for forgiveness, and in the most intimate, loving way.

You squeezed his hand back as you threw the cigarette to the ground and put it out with your heel, watching the burning glow fade away into the dirt. He watched you in curiosity as you stood up, following suit after you dust your hands off and fixed your dress.

“You’re smart, Anthony.” You begin to say, looking over the lake as the moon shined across the small ripples the different living creatures were making. “I’ve seen what you can do and what you have done, but you push yourself far too hard. Your siblings miss you, your mother misses you… I miss you.”

He looked away in shame. He didn’t think anyone would ever miss him while he was working. Occasionally, he would make appearances to dinner or a small event. But, now, he knew five minutes were never enough to catch up with everything he’s missed, staying cooped up in his office all day.

You turn back around and face him, moving to stand directly in front of him. Tilting your head up, you met his eyes and sent a small smile, cupping his cheeks and softly thumbing the areas as he melted into your touch.

“I forgive you, Anthony, but promise me one thing.” You say barely above a whisper, the quiet wind almost blowing too loud for him to hear.

“Anything.” He said softly and in the same tone, bringing his hands up to cover yours, kissing your palms.

“Spend more time with your family. Work will always be there, but your family won’t be.” You look between his eyes and watch him nod ever so slightly.

Anthony pressed a kiss to your lips, not bothered by your cigarette taste at all. He dropped his hands to your waist and pulled you closer before resting his forehead on yours, breathing you in for the first time in so long.

“I promise.” He murmured, pressing another soft kiss to your lips. “And don’t you dare let me get mad at you again. Hit me on the head if I ever do it again.”

“Well, if you insist.” You tease before laughing as he gently tickled your sides. “Hey!”

“Hey, you.” Anthony laughed along with you before pulling you in for a hug, burying his head in your neck. “I’m forever going to be sorry, my love. I’ll keep my promise for as long as I live.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[ariestrxsh]

pervy!bsf!chris x innocent!bsf!reader

᧔•᧓ content warning: smut, innocence corruption, degradation, roleplay (reader wears a schoolgirl outfit), nipple play, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dumbification, (dare i say some brat-taming action?)

᧔•᧓ summary: chris returns the pair of underwear that he stole from you, but you catch him putting them back

requested/inspired by this ask, this ask, and this ask ᧔•᧓

dividers by @/anitalenia

Creeping

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 |

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It was late Monday afternoon, and you were perched at the edge of your chair, still in the same outfit you'd worn to class, a plaid mini-skirt and a white button-up. You were sitting at your desk, scanning your textbook and taking in all the information you could for your upcoming tests.

You were scribbling down some notes in the margins of your paper when your phone started to vibrate, and you glanced down to see your best friend's name lit up on the screen. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, your heart hammering away in your chest, as you answered.

"Hey Chris," you greeted him, trying to sound like you weren't as excited as you were while you pinned down the page of your textbook with your elbow. "Hey, I think I may have left my hoodie there the other night," he started off.

"Oh yeah?" You asked, peering around your room with a perplexed look on your face. You were certain he hadn't, considering you had just deep cleaned the night before. "I don't know, Chris. I don't think it's here."

"Well, I'm in the area. You mind if I swing by and check?" He wondered. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth at the thought of seeing Chris tonight, but it quickly faded when you remembered how much you had to get done. You let out a disappointed sigh.

"I don't mind. I just have a lot of homework to do with finals coming up and everything, so you shouldn't stay for long. Last thing I need is you distracting me and keeping me from getting my work done," you snidely remarked.

"Who? Me? Distract you? Never," Chris sarcastically replied. "Whatcha working on?" He asked, a bit of curiosity in his voice. "I'm just doing some reading for my psych class. We're studying the psychology of human sexual behavior," you told him, trying to hold back a smirk although he couldn't see you.

"Oh yeah?" He asked, his voice laced with lust. "Maybe I could help you study. I know a lot about sexual behavior." You giggled and rolled your eyes. "Just come up when you get here," you responded before ending the call.

Chris smirked to himself after you got off the phone with him. He wasn't just casually in the area, and he wasn't exactly coming over to look for a lost hoodie, but rather he was trying to replace your pair of underwear he'd stolen the other day before you noticed they were gone. Little did he know that you already had, especially because they were your favorite pair.

He pulled up to your house a few minutes later, his tires coming to a stop as he threw his transmission into park and cut the engine. As he approached your front door, he felt around in his back pocket for your panties.

He gently brushed his fingers against the silk, making sure they were easily accessible, so he could just quickly drop them off somewhere in your room discretely. He turned the doorknob, letting himself in, his heart racing as he remembered the last time he'd walked up to your room unannounced.

As he approached your partially-open bedroom door, he found himself hoping to find you in another compromising position despite the fact that he knew you were expecting him. He peeked in through the opening in your door, gently tapping on the wood with his knuckles to keep from startling you.

You swiveled around in your desk chair to face Chris, your face lighting up as you did. You were in a black and white plaid skirt that barely hit the middle of your thigh, a collared white polo shirt, and your hair in two neat french braids. Fuck, he thought silently to himself, admiring the way you looked just like a little schoolgirl who was working on her studies.

His eyes danced over your features and your body, remembering how you looked the other day when he caught you riding your pillow. Images of you rocking your hips back and forth flashed in his mind - your eyes screwed shut, your pink lips parted, and your sweet sounds filled the air while you desperately grinded against your bedding.

"I'm telling you, Chris. I've torn this whole room apart. Your hoodie isn't here," were the first words you said to him before you went back to chewing on the eraser of your pencil as you studied your notes, tearing him out of his daydream.

"Tore your room apart looking for my hoodie?" He asked, wrinkling his brow and wondering how you'd gotten the place looking so neat again in a matter of minutes. "No, I tore it apart the other night. I was.. looking for something else. Just an item of clothing I misplaced," you told him, pulling your gaze away from his.

You were too embarrassed to tell him that you were actually searching for an elusive pair of panties that seemed to have grown legs and walked off on their own. Shit, he thought to himself upon realizing you already knew they were missing.

"Well, I'm still gonna just peek around if you don't mind. Maybe you missed it," Chris replied, wandering further into your room and trying to make his search seem genuine. He reached into his back pocket, about to take out your underwear and shove them into a crack in your dresser drawer when he heard your voice from behind him. "Chris?"

"Yeah?" He asked, whipping around to face you, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. "Are those.. my panties?" You wondered aloud, gesturing towards the pink silk that you saw poking out of his back pocket. "What?" He asked, pretending to not understand what you meant, taking a few steps closer to you. You narrowed your gaze at him.

"Chris. You heard me. Why do you have my panties?" You asked, your face growing hot with embarrassment. "Don't worry. I washed them for you," he sweetly replied, dodging your question completely and reaching into his back pocket to hand them over.

He'd washed them twice actually.

He couldn't help himself that morning when he woke up with a hard on fueled by dreams of you. Your panties were just right there, and he couldn't control himself when he'd gotten the idea to jerk off using the soft, pretty fabric. He'd busted all over them in a matter of minutes, resulting in him needing to run them through the wash again before returning them.

Of course, he wasn't going to tell you that, but he knew exactly what he'd done.

You snatched them out of his hand, stuffing them into your desk drawer. "Why do you have them?" You huffed, furrowing your eyebrows and cocking your head to the side.

"C'mon. You know. The only reason any guy would take your panties," he replied in a low, quiet voice, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. "And what reason would that be?" You wondered, still not understanding his motive.

Although you were a virgin, you weren't clueless. You'd seen porn, and you'd masturbated, but you didn't understand why your best friend wanted your worn panties.

"I wanted to sniff them," he chuckled, taking another step closer to you. His blue eyes pierced through you, and your face grew hot under his scrutiny. "Chris! Gross! Why would you do that? They were dirty. I wore them. I.." you started to say, but your voice trailed off.

You didn't want to admit to what else you'd done with them on.

"You got off while wearing them?" He interjected, finishing your sentence. Your jaw dropped, your eyes widened, and your hand flew up to cover your open mouth.

"I have a lot of work to do. Your hoodie isn't here. Thanks for bringing back my panties. They're my favorite pair," you told him, pretending that he hadn't just said that. You peered back down at your textbook, getting back to your assignment and hoping he'd drop the subject, take the hint, and be on his way.

However, he was having a little too much fun with you.

"I can see why," Chris chuckled. "They're soft and pretty. I bet they felt really good rubbing against you when you were riding your pillow, hmm?" Your eyes widened as your gaze flicked back up at him from your work. "How do you know about that?" You shot back in a defensive voice, trying to figure out exactly when he snuck in and took them.

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have," he started off his sentence, innocently biting down on his lip and faking an apologetic tone. "I left my phone up here, and I came up to get it. I would have tried harder to get your attention, but you looked like you were really enjoying yourself. I didn't want to disturb you," he told you as if trying to paint it like he did you a favor by peeping on you through the crack in your door.

"You're such a fucking creep, Chris! Oh my god," you huffed. "But you were the one moaning my name while you were getting off, so what does that make you? A little slut?" He hissed, taking another step forward, leaning down, and gently tucking a stray strand of hair that had escaped your braid behind you ear.

You looked at him silently, your features softening, unable to hide how much you liked being called that.

"In fact, I bet you're turned on right now," he softly cooed, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand, his piercing blue eyes boring into you. "I am not," you scoffed, turning your head away from him. "Yeah? Then let me smell you," Chris smirked, reaching down and fiddling with the hem of your little plaid skirt.

"You can't tell something like that from my scent!" You exclaimed, whipping back around and narrowing your eyes at him as you batted away his hand. "Watch me," he lustfully replied, kneeling down in front of you.

"W-what are you doing?" You asked, peering down at him wide-eyed as he slowly hiked up your skirt, his fingertips brushing against the tops of your thighs. Your legs involuntarily fell open, inviting him in.

His stubble tickled the soft flesh of your inner thigh as he neared your heat, holding eye contact the entire time. He deeply inhaled, your arousal filling his senses. "Shit. You want it bad, don't you?" He replied without even touching or looking between your legs. "What?" You sharply replied, considering denying his claim for a moment. "How can you.. tell?"

Your heart pounded, and you grew even more wet at the thought that Chris could tell, on some level, what you were thinking about. You could feel his warm, labored breath hitting your clit through the fabric, and it made you shudder. He chuckled, paying attention to every subtle response.

"You smell different when you're turned on," he whispered, pressing his nose up to your panties and deeply inhaling your scent again. "Chris. That's so weird," you replied softly, feeling somewhat violated and wondering just how many times he'd deliberately sniffed your underwear.

Your mouth said it was weird, but your body language said otherwise.

You sunk further down into your seat, and Chris gave you a mischevious smirk from between your legs before leaning forward and gently kissing you through the damp fabric of your panties. The sensation made you jolt.

You tipped your head back, letting out a soft whine as you felt his soft lips against your clothed cunt. You gripped the arms of your chair, curling your fingers around the material and biting down on your lip as a look of desire washed over your face.

Chris pulled away, his eyes locked on yours as a dark smile spread across his lips. "I thought you had a lot of homework to do," he teased you, "or are you being a naughty little schoolgirl, hmm?" He reached up and gently tugged on one of your braids.

Your breath hitched in your throat, unable to give him a response, but he could tell he was driving you crazy. Chris hummed against the inside of your thigh as he lightly kissed your soft flesh again.

He started unbuttoning the top button of your shirt, his wandering hand slipping inside your top as he gently squeezed your breast, the pad of his thumb brushing against your hardening nipple. His touch was electric, sending a current of energy throughout your entire body with every carress and every word.

He undid the next few buttons, the white fabric falling open to reveal your tits. "Wow," Chris whispered, leaning forward to take one into his mouth. His soft, pink lips latched onto your stiff nipple, and you moaned as his tongue gently flitted over your sensitive bud. He started gently sucking and humming against your chest, your body relaxing into the wonderful feeling.

"Look at these! They're so pretty," Chris cooed, gently squeezing them with both hands, his mouth alternating back and forth between both the right and the left. "I thought you weren't gonna distract me," you whimpered, secretly hoping he wouldn't stop. "Then don't get distracted," he chuckled against your breast.

"Chris. I can't concentrate when you're doing that," you whimpered in a bratty tone. "Don't worry about me. You just keep being a good student and study," Chris demanded with a dominant edge to his voice.

You obediently nodded, your breath caught in your throat as he reached up your skirt, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your black cotton panties. You stabilized yourself on the arms of your chair, placing your feet on the ground below you and lifting your hips to help him take them off of you.

He slowly pulled the fabric down your legs, discarding them carelessly onto the floor. "C'mon. Pick up your book and start reading to me. Prove to me that you're actually learning something instead of just being a dumb little slut who daydreams about my cock all day," he taunted you, his words alone nearly sending you over the edge.

He lifted up the front of your skirt with a mischevious grin and roughly spread open your legs. His fingers jabbed into your supple flesh as he admired your wet cunt, licking his lips like a starving animal. You pulled your book off your desk, holding it up with shaky hands, but you couldn't take your eyes off Chris and the way he was teasing you, gently blowing cold air over your clit.

"C'mon. Quit being a little slut, and focus on your work, huh?" Chris purred, digging into your thighs so harshly that his fingers started to leave red marks. You nodded your head eagerly as you tried to focus your vision on the text. "Naughty little thing. You're drenched," he rasped, his mesmerized gaze fixed on your glistening folds as he spread them open with his fingers.

You clenched around nothing as Chris' words reached your ears. He smiled deviously at how submissive and responsive you were. You cleared your throat, getting ready to read from the introduction. "Sexual human behavior is a complex and multi- oh!" You were cut off by the soft feeling of Chris' tongue swiping over your clit.

You shuddered, clutching your book to your chest as you peered down at the boy grazing between your legs. You watched for a moment, soaking in the feeling of Chris slowly and gently running the length of his tongue from your cunt to your clit, but he wasn't letting you get away with not obeying him.

"I didn't say stop, did I? Start over," Chris sternly responded, his angry stare reaching yours. You slowly nodded and brought your eyes back down to your psychology textbook. "Human sexual behavior.." you started again, but you felt the blue-eyed boy wrap his plump lips around your clit, and you bit back a moan as you felt him gently suckling on it.

You squirmed around in your seat a bit as he held you in place. "You're not gonna do a very good job on this test if you can't focus while under a little pressure, are you?" He smugly asked you, pulling away for a moment. "Start over."

Before you could pick up where you left off, Chris suddenly spat on your pussy, and your whole body tensed up as you sharply gasped. You felt his saliva slowly dripping down your fold as he darkly chuckled from between your thighs, knowing he was driving you crazy.

"Human sexual behavior is a complex and multi-faceted aspect of human experience that is influenced by biological, psychological, social, and cultural factors," you managed to rush through the sentence, your voice trembling as Chris attached his lips to your sensitive bud again. You took a deep breath before you started the next sentence.

"When focusing on the psychological factors," you stopped again, gripping the cover of your textbook tightly as Chris gripped the edge of your seat, pulling you closer to him, "we must look at the motivation behind sex." You felt your breath involuntarily quickening as Chris explored you with his tongue, slowly licking up and down your slit as he teased your hole.

"Keep reading, naughty girl," Chris whispered before returning to his long, gentle licks. "Sexual desire - oh, Chris - is driven by - mmm - pleasure, intimacy, and procreation," you managed to get out, struggling to keep your concentration.

"Hmm. Interesting," he hummed before taking your clit between his lips again. "Chris, I don't know if I can do this," you whimpered, clutching your textbook to your chest again and tipping your head back, your eyelids fluttering closed.

"Such a bratty little thing. I should give you detention for not doing as I say, hmm? Keep reading," Chris purred, his warm breath hitting your heat. You shuddered, looked down at your book, and started reading from it again. Chris sped up the flicker of his tongue, and you gasped as you felt his middle finger pressing up against your hole.

Without hesitation, he pushed it inside, your jaw dropping as he inserted it to the knuckle. He started pumping in and out of you, pulling more desperate sounds from you while he continued to work his mouth on your most sensitive area. You peered down at the page, the text beginning to blur as your eyes lost focus.

You stumbled over your words, struggling to get through each sentence, your mind swirling with several thoughts, not one of them having to do with the homework you needed to get done. The longer Chris' relentless assault on your tender pussy went on, the less thoughts you had at all until you were a pathetic mess, babbling incoherently and squirming around in your seat.

"My pretty schoolgirl going all dumb on my tongue and my fingers?" Chris asked in a tantalizing tone, smirking against your most sensitive place, but you were too fucked out to answer or give any sign that you'd even comprehended what he'd said at all.

Chris gripped the seat of your chair, pulling you closer to him until he was devouring your pussy whole, softly nuzzling against your clit as more broken syllables and whimpers fell from your lips. You couldn't take it anymore. You couldn't focus on school right now, not when Chris was teasing you like this.

You pulled the textbook against your chest again, your gaze falling to the boy who was knelt between your legs, his blue eyes flickering up at you with a lustful glint as you started grinding against his face.

"Don't look at me, little slut. Look at your textbook. What are you gonna tell your professor if you don't finish your work, huh? Too busy getting your sweet pussy eaten?" Chris cooed in a condescending voice, gripping your hips to keep you still. "I don't think he'll think that's a very good excuse.."

Chris' words added to your pleasure, especially the way his breath ghosted over your hole while he spoke them. You shuddered at the sensation before lifting your book again in your trembling hands, your shaky voice struggling to get through the paragraph.

You felt a warmth spreading in your lower abdomen as Chris slipped another long finger into your cunt and started curling them, rutting up against your g-spot. "Oh!" You yelped as Chris hummed against you, his lips closing in on your clit.

Your body started to spasm beneath him, nearly dropping the book you weakly held in your hands. Chris peered up at you, the way you were struggling to hold on, feasting his eyes on the sight of you in your little plaid skirt about to finish on his tongue and his fingers.

After a few more seconds of suckling on your sensitive bundle of nerves, your orgasm was crashing over you. Chris didn't falter in his movements, softly grunting against your pussy in satisfaction as you released onto his tastebuds. He slowed the pumping of his fingers, but he left them inside of you, still feeling the way you throbbed around them as you came down.

"My slutty schoolgirl. I wonder what your teacher would think if he knew you were creaming all over my fingers instead of studying your work," his lips curled into a devious smirk. "I bet he'd fail you for being such a dumb little slut."

You gave Chris an embarrassed smile, blood rushing to your cheeks as you tried to catch your breath. He withdrew his fingers, standing to his feet, his eyes still locked on you as you closed your legs and smoothed your skirt out back down over your thighs.

You couldn't believe you'd let Chris do that and while calling you such degrading names, too.

He gave you a smug smile as he took his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean and humming in delight as he savored your flavor. He wiped his chin, that was glistening in your arousal, on the back of his hand. "I'll let you get back to your school work. Let me know if you find my hoodie," Chris winked, knowing damn well there was no hoodie to be found.

He ruffled your hair in a teasing manner, and you scoffed and rolled your eyes, trying to pretend that Chris didn't just have you stumbling over your words and finishing all over his face. After Chris left the room, you buried your face in your textbook, half-embarrassed and half-hoping he'd spontaneously turn around and take it a step further.

Chris trotted down the stairs and out the door, greeting your unsuspecting mother who had just pulled into the driveway and was starting to unload groceries. His blue eyes danced over her figure, appreciating the genetics that ran in your family as he headed towards his car.

"Hi, Chris. Leaving already?" Your mom called out to him, blissfully unaware of the names he had just called you upstairs as you came on his tongue. "Yeah, I just stopped by to look for a hoodie I thought I left here. She's got a lot of studying to do. I don't wanna distract her," Chris lied through his teeth, his lips curling into a smile as he reached up and innocently rubbed the back of his neck.

He gestured towards the bags in her trunk, silently offering to help carry them in. "Awh, Chris. You're so sweet," she replied, handing him a grocery bag. "Why don't you stay for dinner, sweetheart? We'd love to have you."

Chris was right about to thank her for the offer and politely decline when his phone started to vibrate. He peered down to see the name of the girl he'd hooked up with the other night while he was thinking about you, and even now, that was all he could do.

"I'm making spaghetti. Unless you've got somewhere to be," your mom motioned towards his vibrating cell.

After a few seconds of deliberation, Chris sent the call to voicemail, knowing exactly what the girl was calling for. "Nah, actually. I'd love to stay for dinner," Chris responded, his gaze raising to meet your mom's again. It wasn't like Chris to turn down a desperate girl who was calling to get her fix, but he didn't want to fuck anyone until he could have you.

"Let's get these groceries inside," your mom said, grabbing the remainder of the bags and shutting the trunk of her SUV. His eyes immediately dropped to her ass, watching the way her hips swayed as she made her way towards the entrance of the house.

"My daughter's so lucky to have you as a friend, Chris. You're always such a gentleman," your mom said as she turned around, glancing over her shoulder at the blue-eyed boy.

"Thanks, ma'am," Chris replied, getting off on the fact that your mom was practically inviting a wolf in sheep's clothing into her home to further defile her daughter. He followed her in through the front door, his smug grin never falling from his facial expression.

His phone vibrated again, but only once this time. Same girl. "Come over? I need you," her text read. Chris let out a sigh and rolled his eyes at her desperation. "Can't. Busy," he coldly responded, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

click to read part 3 ᧔•᧓

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Autographs

Fandom: Ted Lasso

Pairing: Jamie Tartt x GN!Reader

Summary: You’re the social media manager for AFC Richmond’s socials. You’ve been seeing a trend of asking players for their autograph so you decided to try it out with your team.

Ted Lasso Masterlist

You hold your phone up as you peek into the locker room. All of the boys are dressed so you enter with a grin on your face. You keep a stack of papers close to your chest as you quickly head into Coach Beard's office.

"Hey, coach, training doesn't start for another thirty minutes, right?"

Beard checks his watch and nods, "Affirmative."

You nod, "Cool. I'm going to film some content for the socials then," you turn to Roy, starting with you. You press record and hold out a picture to him, "Can I get your autograph, coach?"

"Fucking hell," Roy grumbles as he sees a younger version of himself staring back at him, "Where the fuck did you find this?"

"Did some digging. Love the curls, by the way," you hold out a marker and Roy glares at you. He still scribbles out his name on the photo, handing it back to you, "There. Now fuck off."

You snicker, "Thanks a bunch!"

You exit the office and zero in on your boyfriend, Jamie. You waltz right up to him with giddiness. He smiles up at you as he finishes lacing up his boots. He stands and pecks your lips, "What's with the look, babes?"

You hold out a picture of a small Jamie posing on a pitch, "Can I have your autograph?"

His brows shoot up in surprise, "No fuckin' way. Where'd you find this?"

"I asked your mom to send me a pic of when you were little."

He chuckles, "Look at me. A sexy lil thing, aren't I?" You snort and hand him the marker. He signs his name and draws a heart, writing his initials and yours inside it. He caps the marker and hands it back to you along with the picture, "There ya go, babes."

"I'll cherish it forever."

You look down at your next photo and go up to Sam, who gives you a polite grin, "Good afternoon, Y/N!"

"Hi, Sam! Can I get your autograph?"

"Of course!" you hand him a picture of when he was a young teen and he laughs, "Oh my."

Jamie, who decided to follow you, reaches for the picture, "Aw look at you, Sammy boy!" Jamie shows all the boys Sam's picture and Sam bashfully chuckles.

"Alright, give it here, Jamie!" Sam swipes it back and signs his name. When he gives it back to you, he asks, "Where did you find this picture?"

"I scrolled through your old Facebook photos."

Sam sighs and shakes his head, "I knew I should've deleted those."

The next person you go up to is Colin. He's a small skinny thing, donning his primary school uniform, smiling widely.

Colin looks up at you in disbelief, "Did you reach out to my parents for this?"

You give a nonchalant shrug, "Maybe."

Each interaction with the boys went this way. Each one was surprised to see a picture of a younger version of them being handed to them. The surrounding players hollering and teasing each other for how they looked back then.

Jamie stood beside you the entire time, watching each interaction and just hanging around you. How could he not? He's always drawn to your presence. Not only that, he just adores how well you get along with the guys. You're sweet and funny, which makes it easy for them to say "yes" to whatever kind of video you want to film for the team's socials. You're very good at your job.

After all the photos are signed, you set them out so everyone can see. You stand back, watching the boys mess around with each other. You're already uploading the videos to your dropbox so you can edit them all together on your work computer.

Jamie wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your temple, "Must be nice getting paid to make fun of footballers," he says with a smirk.

You giggle, "So fun! Seriously so glad Keeley hired me on! Probably the most fun I've ever had in any job!"

"Also probably the best job ever since you get to hang around your hot footballer boyfriend too, yeah?" He gives you a playfully nudge.

You snort, turning to completely face him, your arms hooking behind his neck, "Oh absolutely," you lean in to kiss him but Roy steps in, pushing you two away from each other, "Get a room, you disgustingly cute little shits."

You look at each other confused, but then shrugged as Roy yelled, "Whistle! WHISTLE!" The gaggle of football players quiet and you quickly wave at Jamie. You blow a kiss at him and mouth, "I'll see you later."

He blows you a kiss back and waves, earning him a slap on the head from Roy.

"Oi! What the hell, gramps?"

"Pay attention!" Roy grumbles and turns his attention back to the rest of the players, ready to prepare them for today's training.

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER FIVE

WARNINGS — a lot of angst!!!! rafe is a jerk and doesn’t defend the reader.

You’d been so excited.

Rafe had invited you to dinner at the country club—his world—and for once, it felt like he wasn’t keeping you hidden away. Like maybe you were important enough to be seen by the people who mattered to him.

So you spent hours getting ready, slipping into a delicate dress that made you feel elegant, dabbing perfume onto your wrists, even picking out a pair of heels that made your feet ache just standing in them. You wanted to fit in. You wanted to be good enough.

But from the moment you stepped inside, you realized how wrong you’d been.

The same group of men from before were already seated, laughing over drinks, their conversations dipping into easy arrogance. And when their eyes landed on you, their smirks turned sharp.

"Didn’t think we’d be seeing this one again," one of them mused, swirling his whiskey. "Guess she made the cut."

"For now," another chuckled, his gaze trailing over you in a way that made your stomach turn. "Can’t imagine she’s much for conversation, though. How’s she holding up, Rafe?"

Rafe barely reacted, just pulled out your chair like he hadn’t just heard them pick you apart.

"She’s fine," he said smoothly, placing a firm hand on your back as you sat down.

You forced a small smile, trying not to shrink under their scrutiny. But it only got worse.

"So, what’s she drinking tonight?" one of the men asked, flipping the menu lazily. "Let me guess—something pink and fruity?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but Rafe didn’t even give you the chance.

"She’ll have a glass of chardonnay," he said, not even glancing at you.

You hesitated. Chardonnay? You didn’t like chardonnay. But when you looked at Rafe, he just rested his hand on your thigh under the table, squeezing lightly.

A silent play along.

So you did.

"And for dinner?" the waiter asked.

You scanned the menu, searching for something safe—something you knew you’d like—but before you could say anything, Rafe spoke up again.

"She’ll have the filet, medium-rare," he said, sipping his drink.

You blinked.

You didn’t mind steak, but—medium-rare? You always ordered it well-done.

The waiter nodded, scribbling it down.

And Rafe?

Rafe didn’t even notice the way your fingers curled in your lap, the way you swallowed down your unease.

Because this was what he did, wasn’t it? This was the kind of control that used to make you feel safe. Like he knew what was best for you. Like he took care of you.

But tonight?

Tonight, it just felt wrong.

And then the teasing started.

"You know," one of them mused, "I was telling my wife about your girl the other day. Said she reminded me of my niece—collects those little dolls, what are they called?"

"Sonny Angels?" someone else supplied, smirking.

Your stomach twisted.

"That’s it," the first man laughed, shaking his head. "And those—what are they? Little animal things?"

"Calico Critters," another chuckled. "Real cute. Bet she’s got a pink princess bedroom too, huh?"

Rafe laughed.

Not a full laugh, not outright agreement—but a chuckle. A small, quiet one, like he thought it was funny too.

Your face burned.

"I mean, Jesus, Rafe," another one teased, nudging his glass toward you. "Where’d you even find this one? Babysitting gig?"

Rafe smirked. "Something like that."

Your stomach dropped.

He was joking. Just playing along. That’s what you told yourself, but—God, did it sting.

And then, as if you weren’t even there, they kept going.

"You got her drinking real cocktails yet, or is she still on the Shirley Temples?"

"Give her some credit," Rafe drawled, lifting his bourbon to his lips. "She’s learning."

Your throat felt tight.

Rafe had always teased you about your little collections, your girlish habits—but it had never felt like this. Never in front of them.

You barely tasted your drink. Barely touched your food.

And when you excused yourself to the bathroom, your hands were shaking.

You just needed a minute. A moment to breathe, to compose yourself. But as you reached the powder room, your steps halted.

The voices inside were sharp.

"God, did you see her?" one of the women scoffed. "She looks very young."

"It’s embarrassing," another said, her tone clipped. "Rafe used to have taste. Now he’s parading around some little girl with doll collections and—what did my husband say? Calico Critters?"

Laughter. Cruel, dismissive.

"I give it a month. She’ll be gone by summer."

Your vision blurred.

Heat rushed up your throat, hot and suffocating, but you forced yourself to breathe.

They didn’t matter. They didn’t know you.

But Rafe—Rafe had let this happen.

He had laughed.

The night was ruined.

And when Rafe drove you home, his hand resting lazily on the gear shift, he didn’t even notice how quiet you were.

Didn’t notice how stiffly you sat, how you avoided his touch, how your lip was caught between your teeth to keep from trembling.

"Something wrong?" he asked at one point, but it was offhanded, distracted. Like he already assumed the answer was no.

And you?

You just shook your head.

Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop yourself from crying.

—

It wasn’t until later, curled up in bed, your phone pressed to your ear, that the dam finally broke.

"He just let them say those things about me," you whispered, voice raw, hands clutching your blanket. "They were making fun of me, and he just—" Your breath hitched. "He laughed."

Your best friend didn’t even hesitate. "Are you fucking kidding?"

"And then—then I went to the bathroom, and these women—these wives of his friends—they were talking about me like I was some stupid little girl who wasn’t going to last, and—"

"Babe," your friend cut in, voice sharp with anger.

"He’s a dick. An absolute dick. He’s never deserved you, but this? No. He doesn’t get to treat you like this."

And so, without even meaning to, you started pulling away.

And Rafe?

Rafe noticed.

[poutysprouty]

GRAVEYARD SHIFT

Working the graveyard shift isn't so bad when your favorite regular customer is a certain 6-foot-tall pink haired man with a bad attitude and tattoos.

pairing: Reader x Sukuna

warnings: nothing too serious. bit of kissing, light fluff. Sukuna is actually down bad lol

wc: 4.2k

a/n: shout-out to the graveyard shift workers who have random crushes on cute regulars. I see you, I feel you, this is for us.

There’s a kind of silence that only exists at 3AM.

It creeps in under the door with the cold, and curls between the aisles like cigarette smoke. A hum that sits beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights and the stuttering wheeze of the broken freezer fan, stretching long and low behind the counter of the corner store where you spend 5 nights out of the week.

You’ve grown used to it. Maybe even come to appreciate it, in some strange way. There’s a rhythm to this job, to the sleepless hours and the hush that is customary to the graveyard shift. A stillness the daylight never allows.

You lean back in the plastic stool behind the register, one foot propped on the edge of the counter, notebook balanced on your knee. The pages are already scrawled with half-finished doodles, little notes-to-self, and fragments of songs you heard but could never name, and would probably forget to look up later, too. You tear off the corner of a receipt and scribble something useless just to give your hands something to do. The radio crackles faintly beside you, low enough not to disturb the silence, with just a ghost of melody buried under static.

Time doesn't move normally here. You don't count it in hours or minutes anymore. Instead, it passes in the whirr of the automatic coffee machines near the donut case. In the flicker of the security camera monitor. In the metallic clink of loose change dropped in the tip jar by the same drunks who come in every Friday night after the bar closes and can’t even focus their eyes long enough to aim properly.

Lately, you count time by him.

Sukuna showed up for the first time three, maybe four weeks ago. You noticed him the way you notice anything out of place during the witching hour. Tall, broad, draped in dark tones with heavy boots that echoed loudly on the tile floor. His tattoos were the first thing you noticed, peeking out from beneath his hoodie and catching your curiosity like a fish caught in a net.

His expression?

Nonexistent. Blank. Something close to, don’t talk to me.

You thought he was just passing through. He wasn’t a regular, you’d never seen him before. That first night, you brushed him off as one of those transient souls the night brings in, gone before they ever become a memory.

But then he came back the next night.

And the one after that.

Exactly 3AM every time. Like clockwork.

He never said more than a few words. Walked straight to the fridge in the back, third door on the right, and pulled out the same energy drink. Paid in cash. Always exact change, left in a neat stack on the counter.

You tried to figure him out. That first week, you watched him out of the corner of your eye, discreet. Told yourself it was just curiosity over a new regular, nothing more. Maybe he worked night shifts. Maybe he was an insomniac. Maybe he just liked the quiet of the night, like you.

But there was something about him that unsettled you, though it wasn’t necessarily in a bad way.

He didn’t browse. Didn’t linger. And while his expression rarely changed, never offered so much as a polite nod, you couldn’t shake the feeling he knew you were watching.

So now, every night, you find yourself waiting.

You won’t actually admit to yourself that you’re waiting. That would make it too real. But you check the clock more often as it ticks closer to 2:40. You wipe down the drink case near his favorite fridge. Straighten the stack of instant ramen cups by the register. Pretend you're doing something useful while your ears strain for the jingle of the front door.

The first time Sukuna ever said anything to you was on a rainy night that was so bad, the radio had cut out earlier with a flood watch notification.

It was summer, technically. But the air that night didn’t carry the warmth that you liked to imagine summer should. It was thick and slow, saturated with humidity, but there was just enough of a breeze to make your arms prickle when it blew in behind a customer. Too warm to be comfortable, too cool to settle into. Even inside the store, the temperature shifted depending on where you stood: sticky and stifling near the front windows, and chilled in the corners where the old freezers wheezed out inconsistent puffs of cold air.

It had been a quiet night. Not unusual. Most of your overnights passed that way. You’d stopped expecting excitement after your first few months. Solitude had long ago become your closest companion. You liked the quiet. Or, at the very least, you’d made peace with it.

You’d been reading for a few hours now, the storm keeping even the most diligent regulars at bay.

The newspaper had been dropped off at the usual time by the paper lady, a thin, wiry woman who always wore a red windbreaker no matter the season and nodded at you through the glass with a cigarette clenched between her teeth. She never stayed long enough to talk. You didn’t mind. Her delivery at 1AM was one of the few constants in your shift.

You’d perched on the stool behind the counter, your knees drawn up, feet tucked onto the lower rung, flipping through the paper’s pages with little more than half-interest. The news was the same as always, but reading it helped pass the time. You’d developed a ritual. Front page first. Then obituaries. Then the classifieds. Then whatever weird stories were buried in the back.

The clock had just flipped to 3AM when you heard it, the faint, familiar ding of the door’s motion sensor. You already knew who it was.

The first thing you noticed was the sound of the rain picking up outside, hitting against the large glass windows. The second was the smell—a sudden rush of cool, storm-soaked air that flooded the space the moment he stepped inside. It rolled in with him, replacing the musty scent of artificial pine and microwaved taquitos with something that smelled like rain-soaked pavement.

And Sukuna himself was soaked.

His hoodie, usually pulled up and shadowing his face, was drenched through. Deep maroon turned almost black from the water, it clung to his shoulders and arms, outlining the cut of him in a way you probably shouldn’t have noticed. His pink hair, wet and slicked back, curled in thick strands at his nape. Water dripped steadily from him, leaving small puddles on the tile behind him as he walked.

Like always, he didn’t say a word. Just headed straight to the cooler in the back, grabbed the same silver-and-black can of energy drink he always bought, and brought it up to the counter. 

He set the drink on the counter and reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a $5 bill instead of his usual exact change. That surprised you. You blinked down at it, caught off guard enough to hesitate before reaching for the register.

Then he spoke.

“Keep the change.”

Three words.

That was all.

His voice was quiet, almost too soft for a man like him. But it was low and gravelly, as though he didn’t use it often, like it had rusted around the edges from disuse. It was deep, but not booming. Rough, but not harsh. It was the kind of voice you could feel in your ribs, that made you want to lean in just to hear more of it.

And then he turned and walked away.

No pause, no glance back, no room for idle conversation.

You stood frozen behind the counter, the bill still between your fingers. You hadn’t even opened the register yet.

Keep the change.

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. He was already out the door, the bell chiming behind him. You just stood there. Staring at the door. Listening to the echo of his voice in your head, replaying it again and again like it was one of those songs that played on the radio on a loop.

After that night, something shifted. Subtle at first. But you noticed.

He still didn’t say much. Not at first. Sukuna came in like always, wrapped in black like he was seconds away from becoming one with the shadows of the night. Hood drawn up, broad frame half-shadowed by the crooked overhead lights, his face unreadable beneath the soft glow of the flickering sign above the storefront window. But now he lingered.

Just a few seconds longer by the cooler door. Just a glance held a breath longer than usual when he walked up to the register.

You’d begun to prepare for him without even realizing. Twenty minutes before three, you’d abandon your post at the counter to fuss over the drink fridge, organizing the rows of cans. You made sure the shelves were neat. That the exact energy drink he always picked was fully stocked, chilled, and not a single dented can in sight. You found yourself slicing open boxes from new shipments early, just to make sure there were backups ready.

And you waited.

He’d changed, too.

Not dramatically. Just in increments. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, barely there. The way his gaze would settle on you and stay. One night, after sliding the can across the counter, he met your eyes squarely and gave a crooked, lopsided smirk that ruined your entire night in the best possible way.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t even that attractive of a smirk. More like he’d forgotten how to smile and was trying it on again for the first time in years. But it hit you like a truck. Heat prickled under your skin, blooming in your chest so sudden and hot that you had to excuse yourself to the back storage room, plant your hands on a crate of mop heads, and chug half a gallon of water.

After that, you stopped telling yourself that you weren’t waiting for him.

The old routine faded. You stopped doodling in the margins of receipts or flipping through the paper out of boredom. You still read the daily when it came in, but now it barely held your attention. You kept one ear trained on the door, eyes flicking to the camera feed of the outside of the store just to see the flash of a familiar hoodie coming into frame.

He walked. Every night. You realized you had no idea where from. There were no apartments nearby, and the neighborhoods were too far off. It only furthered your belief that he probably worked nearby.

Then came the night everything tipped just a bit more.

You were rearranging the counter display when he walked in. You looked up to meet his eyes, already on you. This time, he didn’t look away. He just held your gaze like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And then he nodded.

And then, the next night, he said your name.

You didn’t usually wear your nametag. There were too many weirdos who came in at night. But your manager had scolded you before you left the morning prior, so you’d put it on before your shift started. You’d forgotten about it until you saw his eyes flick down toward your chest, just for a second, then back up. You were halfway through the transaction, the crumpled bills already being placed in the drawer, when he said it.

“Thanks, Y/N.”

You froze. Not visibly, you hoped. But your lungs stopped moving. You blinked at the register screen for far too long, then watched his retreating form as he left. You didn’t even pretend to go back to work after that. You just sat there, the echo of his voice ricocheting around in your skull.

It started happening more after that.

Little things. Fleeting conversations. A sarcastic quip, an eyebrow raise, a dry joke passed back and forth between customer and cashier.

One night, you caught him staring longer than usual at the cooler, one hand braced against the glass like he was trying to decide if this was the day he tried something else. You didn’t mean to say it, but it slipped out.

“You know there’s water, right?”

He didn’t even flinch.

“That’s for quitters.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Or people who want to live past thirty.”

He grinned. “You offering me advice now?”

“You’ve single-handedly paid for our entire energy drink section to be restocked twice this month. Sorta feels like my civic duty at this point.”

He chuckled. And just like that, the distance between you shrank by another inch.

You didn’t know what any of it meant, not really. He was just a regular, and you were just a cashier. You didn’t know each other outside his 3AM visits. But you liked how it felt, like something real was building in the quiet hours of the night.

That all led up to tonight.

Your shift had started like any other. Outside, the world was damp from an earlier storm, the pavement still slick beneath the orange glow of the parking lot lights. A moth beat itself senseless against the window by the door.

You were perched behind the register with your elbows propped on the counter, pretending to read the newspaper left by the delivery lady at 1AM but far from focusing, your leg bouncing beneath the counter.

Because it was 3AM, and he wasn’t here.

You looked up from the front page and stared out into the empty lot. The streetlights cast long, harsh shadows across the pavement, but there was no sign of a figure approaching.

You glanced at the digital clock on the register. 3:02.

He’d been late before, sure. Once by a minute. Twice by two. But never more than that. Your fingers curled around the edge of the newspaper, crinkling the cheap paper. You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat, trying not to feel ridiculous.

He’s not yours, you reminded yourself. He’s just some guy. A customer. You’re just the girl behind the counter.

Still, disappointment bubbled up inside.

By 3:10, you’d already resigned yourself to a quiet, uneventful night. You’d even gotten as far as folding the paper back up when—

Ding.

The door chime sounded.

Your head snapped up, and there he was.

Sukuna walked in, shoulders relaxed, but you noticed the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes scanned the store until they landed on you. No hoodie tonight. Just a fitted black tank and a pair of low-slung joggers. In one hand, he held a white plastic takeout bag, the handles twisted around his fingers.

Your heart thudded, relief crashing into you.

“You’re late,” you called, trying to sound like you were teasing.

He shrugged one shoulder and came up to the counter, setting the bag down with a soft thud. “You looked half-dead yesterday,” he said. “Figured you probably don’t get the chance to eat on shift often.”

You blinked, brain short-circuiting.

“I—what?”

He didn’t answer, just began untying the bag. The scent hit you instantly—soy and garlic, sweet spice, something fried. Your stomach growled so loudly you wanted to crawl under the counter.

“I mean,” you stammered, “You aren’t wrong, but… you didn’t have to do this.”

Sukuna glanced up through his lashes, mouth tilting into that same crooked almost-smirk that always made your pulse jump. “I didn’t ask if I had to,” he said, tone flat but not unkind. “Just eat.”

He pulled out two takeout containers and pushed one across the counter toward you. Your fingers brushed his for the briefest second, and your skin prickled like you’d been shocked.

You took the food with a murmured “Thanks,” and sat down on the tall stool behind the register, balancing the container on your knees. The harsh lighting of the store made the steam from the food glow faintly, curling up toward your face like an offering.  “Seriously. I didn’t even realize how hungry I was.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Sukuna leaned against the counter beside the lottery scratch-offs, arms crossed loosely, his own food unopened for now. He didn’t speak.

And you tried to act normal, like your hands weren’t trembling. This wasn’t some half-minute transaction over an energy drink. He’d brought you dinner.

You peeked up at him between bites, expecting him to be on his phone or glancing at the clock. But no, he was watching you. Not in a creepy way, just making sure you actually ate.

You finished eating slowly, reluctant to let the moment pass, dragging your chopsticks through the last of the rice until there was nothing left to pretend with. With a sigh, you finally peeled yourself off the stool and leaned over to drop the empty takeout box into the trash can behind the counter, brushing your hands clean on your jeans before wiping them down with a napkin.

Sukuna was still leaning against the counter, finally opening his container now that you’d finished.

You lingered behind the counter, watching him, arms crossed loosely as you sat on the stool. After a beat of silence, you spoke. “So, why do you come here every night?”

He didn’t answer right away. He chewed his bite slowly, thoughtfully. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer at all. But then his mouth curved, just slightly.

“Habit,” he muttered finally around a mouthful of rice. “I like routines.”

You lifted a brow at him. “There’s like, half a dozen places open at this hour that sell energy drinks.”

He shrugged, lips twitching. “Yeah. But none with you behind the counter.”

You felt your pulse skip. You looked away before your face could give you away, biting down a smile that tried to crawl across your lips.

Eventually, he broke the silence, glancing over at you between bites. “What about you? Why the night shift?” he asked. Like it had just occurred to him to ask, even though you got the sense he already had a theory.

You smiled. “I like the quiet.”

That earned you a small grunt, amused. He nodded slowly, like he understood. “Does it ever get crazy?”

“Not really,” you said. “A couple drunk guys every so often. Someone trying to pay in change for a thirty-pack of beer. But nothing dangerous. Just weird.”

He chuckled under his breath at that.

You hesitated, heart giving a sharp little kick against your ribs as your gaze lingered on him. You leaned forward just a little, fingers curling over the counter’s edge to anchor yourself, your voice softer than you meant it to be and far braver than you felt.

“You’re one of my favorite predictable things about this shift.”

That got his attention.

His head lifted slowly, and those crimson eyes locked with yours. For a second, you thought he might smirk like he usually did. But no, this time he smiled. Really smiled. It was crooked and sharp and far too pleased, like he liked what you’d said a little too much.

He dropped his chopsticks into the now-empty container and set it aside without breaking eye contact. His frame shifted as he leaned in just a fraction.

“Guess I should keep showing up then, huh?” he said, voice low.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, but you still managed to maintain eye contact.

“Guess you’re right,” you murmured.

And then you just looked at each other. For longer than necessary. Long enough that the sounds of the store faded away. It was like the whole world had gone still, holding its breath with you.

Then Sukuna shifted again, his tone unreadable as he said, “C’mere.”

You blinked, brows lifting. “What?”

He tipped his chin toward the open space beside the counter, that same lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “Come out from behind there.”

You didn’t move right away, watching him warily. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

The curiosity was too much to resist. So you rounded the counter slowly, arms crossed over your chest as you stepped up to him. And just like that, you were closer than you’d ever been. His height was suddenly more noticeable, the broad lines of his shoulders, the scent of spice and cigarette smoke lingering around him.

He tilted his head, eyes raking over your face, lips twitching. “You look prettier up close,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Smooth.”

“I try,” he said, reaching out without hesitation, fingers curling around the edge of your chin, tilting your face up toward him.

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

“Wanna thank me for the food with a kiss?” he asked, voice dropping low and dark, smooth like velvet.

You pretended to think about it, lips pursing, eyes narrowing in mock-consideration. “Hmm…”

But you didn’t get the chance to answer.

Because Sukuna leaned in without waiting, closing the distance between you. And just like that, he kissed you.

His mouth met yours like he’d been thinking about doing it for a long time. Like every night he showed up, every glance, every pause, every smirk had been leading here. There was no hesitation in it.

Your breath hitched, surprised, but you didn’t pull back. You leaned in, the warmth of him drawing you in like a tide. His fingers slid from where they cradled your chin up to your cheek, palm rough and warm, thumb brushing the curve of your jaw as he held you there.

And God, you melted.

Everything else faded. None of it mattered. Just him, just this. The kiss deepened.

His other hand came up, settling at your waist. He pulled you to him, fingers curling into your side. The space between you disappeared, and the press of his body against yours was electric.

His mouth moved against yours, coaxing rather than demanding, slow enough to savor but intense enough to spark fire inside. His lips were warm, parted just enough to catch your lower lip between his, a soft graze of teeth that sent a shiver down your spine.

Time stopped.

And when he finally pulled back, it was slow, like he was reluctant to stop. Like he might change his mind and kiss you again right then and there. His eyes opened, half-lidded and heavy with something you couldn’t name, his breath mingling with yours. His mouth hovered a breath from yours, swollen from the kiss, and curved into a smirk—lazy, cocky, and satisfied.

The high-pitched beep of the coffee machine broke through the stillness, loud and jarring in the otherwise quiet store. The sound snapped you out of the haze of the moment, and you jumped a bit, blinking as though waking from a dream.

Then, you laughed.

It was soft at first, almost disbelieving, and then fuller, breathless with lingering adrenaline and the warm buzz of Sukuna’s mouth still echoing against yours. The kind of laugh that started in your chest before spilling past your lips without permission. You felt flushed and ridiculous, like a teenager in a romance movie, except you were standing in a gas station at almost 4AM with the scent of teriyaki still in the air and your lips tingling.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed in amusement. He didn’t say anything at first, just reached out and tugged you back in before you could step away fully. One hand slid to your hips, the other curling behind your neck, and he dipped his head to steal another kiss. This one was quick, barely more than the press of lips, but it stole your breath anyway.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he murmured.

You stared up at him, your lips parted and heart thudding like a drum against your ribs. He released you and leaned back against the counter. He glanced toward the clock, then back at you.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked.

You still hadn’t fully caught your breath. “Only if you bring dinner again,” you said with a teasing smile, hoping it didn’t look as shaky as it felt.

That got you another smirk. Wider this time. Pleased. “Noted,” he murmured.

He pushed off the counter with one hand, raked the other through his tousled hair, and started toward the door with that same unhurried gait he always had. You watched him go, not ready to move yet. The automatic door slid open with, letting in a whisper of cool, damp air that smelled like car exhaust.

He paused with one hand on the door frame, and glanced back just long enough to give you one last look.

And then he was gone, swallowed up by the darkness.

You stood there for a bit, fingers brushing the countertop, smile still tugging at the corners of your mouth.

It wasn’t until you turned to walk back behind the counter that it hit you.

The energy drink.

He hadn’t bought his usual.

Your eyes flicked to the cooler, where the rows of brightly colored cans sat untouched.

You exhaled, a small laugh catching in your throat. He’d come all this way, just for you. Not an energy drink.

Just bringing you dinner and a kiss.

Your face warmed all over again, and you shook your head, grabbing the coffee machine cleaner from under the counter with a smile that wouldn’t quite fade, no matter how many times the damn machine beeped.