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devotedtodevon · 26 days ago

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AAAAAGHH I NEED HIM TO HOLD ME. 😭😭😭

windows to the soul

a/n: "jess wtf is this??" well it's an idea that wouldn't leave my brain until it was done ok. i don't even know who would fuck with this but here you go enjoy patrick jane being soft. is this the thing that gets me back into writi g period?? who knows man but this felt nice to write enjoy yall

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“What are you doing on my couch?” The soft voice that worms into your ears only makes the pressure behind your eyes pound even more.

"It’s not your couch, Jane," you grumble, "and it should be pretty obvious what I'm doing."

Even with your eyes closed, you can still hear the faint smile in Jane's voice. "Okay, fine. I'll redirect. Why are you on my couch?"

You take a grounding breath through your nose; your exhale escapes like a whistle from your lips. It helps. A bit. "Guess?"

If it's even possible, you can hear Jane's grin get wider. "That's no fun."

"It's all you do, guess," you grumble. The leather underneath you squeaks as you shift your weight. "Shoot, Sherlock."

Jane goes silent a moment. You think he's probably scrutinizing you the way he does your suspects, with those unreadable eyes of his and a vague smile on his lips.

His footsteps shuffle against the floor of the station, echoing against its silent interior. It's just you and him tonight. You make quite the duo - insomniacs whose jobs are never done.

The air shifts. When you crack one eye open - against your better judgement, as the harsh lamplight bores into you and into your brain - Jane has crouched down to meet your gaze.

The quip you have behind your lips dies when you actually see Jane's face. Instead of the wry smirk you're expecting him to wear, he looks strange. The look in his eyes is as unreadable as ever, of course, but it's not assured or even amused. It's something else you can't place, something duller.

"Are you okay?" you ask. You move to sit up - he gently, but firmly, lays one hand on your shoulder.

"That's my line," he quips. His other hand lifts to your forehead, his fingers gently coming to rest against your chilled skin. Under his breath, he mutters, "I was right."

"Aren't you always?"

The look in his eyes snaps away, that strange look disappearing the moment one side of his lips curls upwards. "I suppose." He releases your shoulder but keeps his other hand on your forehead. “Time for my line. You okay?"

You shrug noncommittally. "It's not that bad. Just a headache. Figured I could crash on your couch."

The other corner of his lips lifts. "So you think it's my couch."

"Shut up, Jane,” you grumble. Jane’s hold on your shoulder relaxes, but he doesn’t let go. “Let me rest my eyes in peace, will you?”

“No,” he says simply. No? He cocks his head to the side. “Lift your head up.”

You quirk an eyebrow, but do as he says. He smoothly moves to sit where your head once was, places his fingers gently on your face, and guides you so your head lies - surprisingly comfortably - in his lap.

Something is wrong, yes, but it’s not the headache drumming behind your eyes or the growing chill in your bones that makes you ache. It’s the fact that your head is in Patrick Jane’s lap and it’s… fine. It feels normal. What it should be doing is making your heart beat out of your chest, not slowing it down.

"That’s good, thank you,” Jane murmurs. He brushes his fingertips against your forehead. He squints at you. Frowns. That strange look appears again. His eyes seem focused, but vacant, sad. His pupils dart around your face, searching for something. “Sure you’re not sick? Pretty sure you’re burning up right now.”

“Scorching?” you ask, trying to smile.

He mirrors it, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Positively. Third degree burns.”

One of Jane’s hands comes to rest in your hair, the other settling on your shoulder once again. And again, against your better judgement (which you’re beginning to believe just may not be in the room with you right now), you raise your hand to your shoulder, placing it above his.

His eyes widen a fraction, then soften. “You don’t have to do that. You’re the one who’s sick. I'm just trying to help.”

“Had to do something.” Thinking is getting harder to do. You let him hold your hand. It’s firm, and comforting, and is he rubbing his thumb against your palm? “You’re doing that that thing you do.”

“I don’t do a thing,” he protests, then frowns. “Correction, I do many things, but I’m not doing one right now. You’ll have to be specific.”

“With your face.” God, has Jane always been this warm? “Your eyes.”

Jane smiles. This time it reaches his eyes. They crinkle kindly, but something lingers.

“Windows to the soul,” he murmurs, running his fingers through your hair. The pressure against your scalp feels amazing, and he must notice, because he doesn’t stop. “You should try to sleep. You’ll feel better.”

"No,” you mumble, but Jane’s warmth and the way he’s running his fingers through your hair and how he’s holding your hand is taking you away, somewhere far and soft and gentle, away from your body’s aches and pains. You can feel his chest as he slows his breathing, buoying you into the clement waves of sleep.

The last thing you remember before sleep pulls you under is the soft brush of lips against your forehead.

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devotedtodevon · 1 month ago

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😩😩😩😩😮‍💨😮‍💨

plssss do rodrick x whimsigoth reader i beg 😢😢

whimsygoth!reader x rodrick ⛧°.⋆

❦︎ loves going to vintage shops with you watching you with knitted brows and focused eyes looking through racks of clothes.

❦︎ during these thrift shop visits, he loves the way your face lights up and grabs trinkets that resembles you and him in the slightest and says 'this is so us'

❦︎ loves your taste in jewellery and often steals your necklaces to wear to gigs and he totally doesn't wear it because it smells like you..

❦︎ without fail whenever he walks into your room he hits his head on your string of beads and moons like this when entering your room.

❦︎ always thinks of you whenever he sees candles

❦︎ if you're into astrology/witchcraft he calls you his 'little witch'

❦︎ when you taught him about star signs and told him your star signs are compatible, he grinned ear to ear and said "so God wants us to stay together forever?"

❦︎ he just thinks you're the most gorgeous girl ever. your intricate outfits especially velvet tops (he likes running his hands down them), your jewellery, your bag full of books and trinkets: loves it. always shows you off.

and also, he finds your tights everywhere when he's around the house, getting ready for gigs, school, everywhere.

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devotedtodevon · 1 month ago

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ANYONE who disrespects Devon bostick is disrespecting ME

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devotedtodevon · 2 months ago

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😭😭😭

Hi, thank you for writing cute Rodrick stuff! I hope your exams go well 🍀

If you’re up for scenarios, maybe Rodrick and shy gf being equally awkward with each other, maybe first kiss 😌

a/n: thankyou pretty!!! only 4 exams left until I'm free !!

rodrick kissing shy!reader for the first time ⋆. 𐙚

It was late. Only the streetlamps illuminate the strips of cars passing.

You and Rodrick sat on one of your strawberry throws that was always neatly folded at the edge of your bed. The sounds of grasshoppers chirping were heard as if they were encouraging Rodrick to do anything as the awkward silence taunted them both. The silence allowed you to enjoy the grass, the way the flowers twirled at the slight gust of wind, the way the trees swayed.

His hand carefully moved behind your back onto the fluffy throw, and the rest of his body followed inching closer to yours. "hi," he murmured, a dorky grin curling his lips.

"hi," you smile back, the straw of your slushie between your lips. You can see the tint of red on his lips from his slushie.

He looks up at you as if you hung the stars, only the moonlight lights up certain places of his face accentuating some of his features. "You're pretty," he says under his breath.

Your cheeks tint a bright pink, you manage to murmur a "thankyou," The awkward silence creeps up again leaving you two to bask in the comfortable silence. But, it's soon interrupted by Rodrick.

He clears his throat before murmuring "can I kiss you?" Your eyes widen as his question repeats in your head locking onto his which were crinkled by his smile.

"yeah..sure.." you utter. His head leans closer to yours, your lips mere inches apart. His plush lips met yours. You break away from the kiss with a giggle, "so cold," you whisper against his lips.

"oh, sorry," he murmurs, embarrassed. You shake your head, still close. "no, it's nice." He smiles sheepishly before connecting your lips again.

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devotedtodevon · 2 months ago

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giggling and kicking my feet rn.

Hii can you write for rodrick PLEASE, we need more of him (I love him so much) can you write something like him going over to readers house? Like their neighbors or something and it’s all cute 🤗

Girl Next Dore

Summary: you live next door to Rodrick, and he is obsessed with you. One night you catch him looking, again, out his window and this time you invite him over.

Rodrick Heffley x fem!reader

notes/warnings: just fluff, cute Rodrick. {i got you girl/guy} :)

WC:1483

Rodrick wasn't smooth.

Like, at all.

Which was unfortunate, considering he was very much in love with the girl who lived exactly fifteen feet away from his bedroom window.

You.

You, with your messy hair and oversized t-shirt sleeves too long for your arms. You, who left your window open while blasting music way better than anything he’d admit he liked. You, who always rolled your eyes when his band practiced but never actually told him to stop.

Rodrick noticed things. Even if he acted like a total moron about them.

He noticed the way you bit your lip when you were reading. The way you talked back to your teachers without even raising your voice. The way your laugh carried across the driveway on Saturday mornings when your friends picked you up.

And he noticed that he was completely screwed.

Because he never liked someone this much before, other than heather. It made him stupid. Like, stupider than usual.

So when he saw your bedroom light flick on that night, he practically dove across his room to the window. He kept the blinds low enough to pretend he wasn't looking.

But he was.

You stepped into view, hair in a lazy ponytail, wearing pajamas ants with little skulls on them. His heart tripped over itself.

And then, like you knew, you looked right at him through the window.

His eyes widened. He looked away so fast he practically gave himself whiplash.

You laughed.

He felt like he was going to die, then your window slid open.

“Hey, stalker.”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands before poking his head out. “I wasn't stalking. I was just…breathing. Loudly. Near a window.”

You smirked. “Right. So, you coincidentally stare out your window every time i turn my light on?”

“I'm not staring.” he shot back. “Im…observing. Like a scientist.”

“Oh, are you studying me, Dr Heffley?”

His face turned red. His brain short-circuited. There was a full four seconds of silence before he muttered, “Yeah, and you're failing the experiment.”

You laughed again, and he had to pretend it didn't sound like his new favorite song.

“Wanna come over?” you said suddenly. “I just made popcorn.”

He blinked. “Like…now?”

“No, Rodrick. Next Tuesday.”

“...Okay. Cool. Chill.” he stood up too fast and nearly tripped over a pair of socks. “Just gimme, like…two minutes.”

“You have one.”

You shut your window, and he stood there in the dark for a second, silently screaming into his hands before grabbing the least wrinkled shirt he could find.

She asked you to come over, he kept repeating to himself. That means something. That has to mean something.

And if it didn't? Well… at least he’d get popcorn out of it.

He nearly tripped once again just trying to put on socks, then decided against them entirely because that took too long. His brain was short-circuiting, but he tried to walk cooly down the hall, shoulders slouched, eyes half-lidded, like he hadn't just completely combusted inside his own room.

“Where you goin’?” Greg's voice rang from the living room, a little too curious for his liking.

“Out.” he muttered, blowing past.

“You never go out,” Greg pointed out with suspicion. “Wait-are you going to her house?”

Rodrick froze mid-step. “Who's her?”

“The girl next door her. The one you ‘don't like.’” Greg made obnoxious air quotes.

He turned halfway and pointed a sockless foot at him. “You say one word to Mom and I will replace your shampoo with mayonnaise.”

Greg recoiled. “That's disgusting.’

“Exactly.”

He slipped out the front door before greg could follow up with more questions, pacing across the narrow strip of lawn between their houses. He swore it felt like a hike through the Himalayas. His palms were clammy. He kept replaying the moment you invited him over like it was a hallucination he might've made up.

The porch light was on at your place. You must've turned it on for him.

He knocked once, then rubbed his hands on his jeans to dry them. Your footsteps padded softly from inside. The door opened. You stood there, leaning against the frame like this was a scene from a movie and you somehow didn't realize how stupid pretty you looked in pajama pants and a t-shirt.

“You took longer than a minute,” you said, holding a bowl of popcorn.

“Yeah, well, I had to put on deodorant. I don't want you to suffer.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” you deadpanned. “Chivalry isn't dead.”

You stepped back, and he walked in, trying to look like this was no big deal, like he didn't nearly pass out on your front porch. The house smelled like vanilla and popcorn, and there was music playing faintly from your speaker, The Smashing Pumpkins, which made his heart stutter because he had that exact album under his bed right now.

You flopped down on the couch and patted the seat next to you. He hesitated before sitting, making sure there was just enough distance to keep from fully combusting, but not enough to look like he was avoiding you.

You tossed him a throw pillow. “Use that. Your hair sheds.”

He rolled his eyes but took the pillow anyway. “You act like I'm a golden retriever.”

You smiled. “You do bark when someone insults your band.”

He pressed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Loaded Diaper is a very serious musical institution.”

“You guys miss half your cues.”

“That's called artistic timing.”

You snorted and hit play on the remote. A movie flickered to life on the screen, something classic and just a little weird, the kind of offbeat pick that made him think you weren't like the other people at school. You weren't trying to be cool. You didn't wear layers of fake attitude like everyone else. You were just…you. And it killed him a little.

About twenty minutes in, you were elbow deep in popcorn and quoting lines under your breath. He wasn't watching the movie. Not really. He was hyper aware of the way your knee brushed his every few minutes. The way you leaned in when you laughed, just a little, like gravity favored him.

At one point, you turned and caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, almost amused.

He blinked. “You've got, uh…” he reached out before thinking and brushed his thumb across your cheek. “Popcorn salt.”

There was no salt.

You went still.

His hand lingered for a second too long, then dropped like it had burned him.

“Oh,” you said softly. You didn't pull away. “Thanks.”

He nodded. Looked forward. Tried not to turn red.

Silence settled again, thicker, heavier. Something shifted, but neither of you spoke about it.

The movie ended eventually. You both sat in the glow of the credits, neither of you moving.

He coughed. “So, uh…thanks for inviting me. To your popcorn party.”

“Anytime,” you said, and when you looked at him this time, your smile was quieter. “You're actually…kind of fun when you're not acting like a total idiot.”

“That's literally never.” he deadpanned, but he was smiling.

You didn't say anything for a second. Then, casually, “So…were you ever gonna tell me you liked me, or were you planning to keep blushing at my window for the rest of your life?”

His brain short circuited so hard he physically twitched.

“Wha- i don't- i wasn't blushing. That's a medical condition.”

“Sure it is.”

He looked at you. “You knew?”

You shrugged, leaning back against the cushions, arms folded. “You're not exactly subtle. And Greg kind of screamed it out his bedroom window last week.”

“I'm going to kill him,”

“Dont. He's a valuable source of entertainment.”

He swallowed, trying to collect himself. “So, what…you've just been laughing at me this whole time?”

“No,” your voice softened. “I've just been waiting for you to stop being such a coward.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Then, quietly, he said, “I'm not trying to be. A coward, i mean.”

You nodded once, and for the first time, your expression cracked open a little, less teasing, more real. “I know.”

He inhaled slowly. His hand moved toward yours, hesitated, then rested beside it on the couch cushion, close enough to touch, but waiting.

You didn't move away.

“I like you,” he said, voice low, honest.

“I know,” you whispered.

And then you reached over and laced your fingers through his, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn't say anything. He just smiled, wide, dopey, a little dazed. The kind of smile he only ever smiled when he was looking at you.

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devotedtodevon · 2 months ago

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he's a babygirl.

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devotedtodevon · 2 months ago

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devotedtodevon · 2 months ago

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this is literally the best i could've read (i work at a flower shop and i'm in love with this man).

((SOMEONE PLS MAKE THIS IN C.AI))

𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩

Patrick Jane x fem!reader

I know I said it would take a while, but that was a great reason (actually a great excuse) to procrastinate.

WC: 1 331

Based on this request

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The doorbell rang for the fifth time that morning, you were finishing the last details of the arrangement – a simple bouquet of pink and white tulips. The woody scent with hints of lemon hit you, you didn't need to look to know who it was.

"I need your help."

You looked up slowly, finishing the satin bow around the bouquet. Jane was standing near the door, leaning against the frame with her arms behind her back. Light blue dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, impeccable gray vest, with that look of a child about to do mischief.

"Hello to you too, dear," you murmured, wiping your hands on a cloth.

Jane laughed, approaching you with a wry smile on her lips. He held your face gently, one hand on each side of your cheek, planting a series of kisses on your lips.

"Hello, dear. Better now?"

You just hummed in response, turning to clean the table.

“I need your help,” he repeated, coming around the table and standing in front of you. “I promise it will be quick. And fun. Nothing illegal… technically.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the laugh that threatened to escape.

He tilted his head a little confused, watching your reaction. “What’s wrong? Are you really busy today?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Sorry, that sounded… incredibly suggestive.”

He blinked twice before giving you a mischievous smile. “Well,” he began, too casual to be innocent. He glanced at the greenhouse door behind the shop. “Since you mentioned it, that bench by the orchids looks comfortable.”

“Patrick,” you hummed, warning.

“Okay, no distractions,” he held up his hands in mock surrender. “But seriously, I need you for twenty minutes.”

You crossed your arms with a wry smile. "Where and how exactly are you trying to kill us today?"

"It's not dangerous at all," he begins, as if that were reliable coming from him. "I wouldn't ask if it was."

You sigh, crossing your arms. "Okay, where do I fit into this story?"

"You're beautiful, dangerously sweet, smell like spring, and dress like you stepped out of a 1950s movie." He points to your black A-line dress, hidden behind a beige apron that perfectly matched the atmosphere of the flower shop.

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at the string of compliments. "And?"

"He's vain, obsessed with aesthetics and elegant women. He likes to talk and brag about his younger days. I just need you to talk to him and pretend to find the old stories he has to tell interesting."

You were silent for a while, before letting out a laugh. "Oh, great, a plan based on vanity and seduction, how noble."

Jane grimaced, almost theatrically. "You make it sound grim." He placed his hand on your shoulder, fiddling with the strap of your dress. "I just need you to distract him so I can walk around the store."

You let out a dramatic sigh, taking off your apron and placing it on the table.

"I'll help you, but if it results in arrest, you'll be sleeping on the couch for a month." You warned, walking around the table.

Jane pursed her lips into a straight line, trying to gauge how serious you were, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Even if it's just for one night?"

You handed the finished bouquet to a passing employee. "Patrick?"

"Yes, love?"

"One. Month."

He placed his hand over his heart, as if the words had physically hurt him.

"You're mean."

"Come on, before I give up."

–

You stopped in front of the antique shop, taking in the facade. Dark brown wood worn by time. Large glass windows. The interior was dimly lit, shadows gathering in the corners of the store.

You walked in, your heels clicking on the wooden floor, creaking in places. The place smelled exactly as you imagined, a mix of wood, cheap varnish and dust. Jane walked in beside you, her gaze calm, as if she wasn’t about to search the store of a murder suspect. He took your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours, placing a quick kiss on the back.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmured with a smile, before letting go of your hand and walking away.

This seems much more dangerous now.

Where is my common sense?

The man behind the counter looked up – he was wearing a three-piece suit, a red handkerchief neatly folded in his jacket pocket. His eyes roamed over you, studying you as if you were a valuable piece hidden in a thrift store – which wasn’t far from the truth. Not that you thought you were extremely valuable, but you were lost in a thrift store anyway.

“Well, they didn’t tell me spring would come early this year.” His tone was so saccharine it made your stomach turn.

You forced a polite smile, approaching the counter. “Do you have any porcelain dishes?”

Jane had already disappeared between the shelves, her eyes scanning the trinkets as if they were a puzzle. Her eyes focused on an old dresser, noticing the thin layer of dust missing from the base of the piece of furniture. He bent down, pretending to fix his shoe. Looking closer, the baseboard was crooked, and there was a slight misalignment in the wooden floor. He pushed the wooden board away millimeter by millimeter, only to see a metallic shine. He smiled, standing up and wiping his hands on a blanket that was next to the dresser.

“Lisbon, I found something interesting… You might need a court order.”

You were looking at the plates and sets of cups he had spread across the counter – most of them with designs of flowers and fruits. Inspecting each piece as if he knew what he was doing.

You looked up when you heard Jane’s voice. The man turned subtly, his smile wavering when he noticed that you weren’t alone in the store.

“A friend of yours?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Before you could answer, Jane was already at your side, placing her hand on your waist with a smug smile. “Husband.”

You frowned in surprise. He squeezed your waist, an innocent gesture to say “Play along.” You quickly covered it with a smile.

The antique shop owner stared at the two of you for a minute, before hiding it with a low chuckle.

“What good taste, young man.”

Jane smiled, pretending to kiss your tempura to whisper, “A little possessiveness will get us on your radar.”

You lifted a plate, pretending to inspect it more closely. “Sure, but next time can I be invited to my wedding?” you whispered back, your tone dripping with sarcasm.

He smile. "Of course, maybe…"

The wood creaked under the footsteps of another person approaching.

“Mr. Randall? We have a court order to search your establishment.” Lisbon’s voice cut through the silence like a sharp blade. Her eyes turned to you and Jane, and she frowned. “Um, Rigsby, accompany Mr. Randall. Cho and Van Pelt start in the back.”

“You dragged her into this?” she approached you, whispering in disbelief.

“She actually did very well, as I had predicted.” He replied, with disturbing calm.

You watched the confused exchange. “Wait,” you slapped his hand that was still on your waist, stepping away. “Did you even tell her?”

He clicked his tongue, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Details.”

“Lisbon,” Cho approached with a few bullets inside an evidence bag. “We found it in a false bottom in the floor. The bullet matches the caliber that was found in the victim. We found a gun next to it, fresh traces of gunpowder.”

Jane’s smile widened, irritatingly pleased. “There you have it. We solved a crime, I got married, and we’ve already had our first fight. This marriage is going to last forever.” He kissed the top of your head, testing the waters as you looked up at him with an arched eyebrow.

“If you survive the first day,” Lisbon muttered as she walked past you.

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sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language :)

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devotedtodevon · 2 months ago

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oh my god...

"College boy." Rodrick Heffley x male!reader pt 2

THIS IS AN ABSOLUTELY GOATED request for part 2 from 🌾🍞 anon, who asked for a part 2 and I'm flattered!! I'M SORRY, ITS BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOU REQUESTED A PART 2, I HAVE EXAMS AAAAA- Hope you enjoy this part too (they get freaky)...!! Mwaaaaa asks always open guys, I love them!

cw: period-typical attitudes to being gay (not homophobia though), male/amab reader, older/college reader (21), Rodrick in last year of highschool, so he's 18, awkward first-time blowjobs, rude/crude teenage boy humour

★ It's been a while since Rodrick tripped over his sexuality, thinking of you so badly he actually couldn't escape a speeding ticket when driving his van. So now he actually has to walk home and he hates it. Even worse when a certain convertible pulls up and he REALLY doesn't want to decline a free ride... click here for part 1

Rodrick needed to back-track this all. Okay, he'll admit, he WAS thinking about it. Thinking about it all day, all week.

It all started when he got Heather's number when he flirted with her outside the bowling alley, and told him to "swing by sometime." And he had. Of course he had. He was Rodrick Fucking Heffley, who got punked by a group of highschool girls.

So how the hell did he end up slammed against a granite countertop, gripping a stranger's expensive shirt while their tongue was halfway down his throat?

Well, turns out Heather's older brother wasn't just some preppy dude with a nice car. He was hot. Older, confident, smug as hell — the kind of guy who looked at Rodrick like he was a stray dog he was about to either adopt or put in his lap just to see what would happen.

And Rodrick let it happen.

No one knew. He hadn't talked about it. Who would he even tell? Rodrick hadn't even looked him in the eye the next time he came around to pick Heather up — just stayed silent, face hot, like he was afraid his dick was gonna remember what happened if he said more than a sentence.

Now it's been a couple weeks.

And today, Rodrick was trying so hard to look cool.

He was waiting out front of the school with his bandmates, sprawled across the sidewalk like they owned the place, cracking jokes and pretending they weren't all probably failing. Rodrick had his jacket off his shoulders like it was a cape. Fingerless gloves, shirt unbuttoned just enough to say yeah, 'I know I'm hot,' eyeliner smudged on purpose.

It was a whole look. And you were eating it up.

Heather was taking forever. Probably reapplying lip gloss or bullying freshmen or whatever she did.

His friends were trickling off, getting picked up or peeling away on their sad little skateboards one by one. Rodrick stayed put, tapping his boot against the pavement, adjusting his chain wallet, glancing at his phone for no reason. Just vibing.

And then?

Then he heard it.

A car horn — short, sharp, and obnoxious — ripped through the air like a slap across the face.

Rodrick's head snapped up.

He finally noticed you.

Window down. Arm draped out the side, knuckles loose on the wheel. Designer sunglasses. Lip between your teeth, chewing gum slow and deliberately like you were in a goddamn commercial. The engine purred like a threat. You looked like sin on legs and a fat inheritance.

And you were looking right at him.

Rodrick froze like he'd just been caught with his pants down.

Because in a way, he had. And after what happened last time? He doesn't want to imagine having his pants down, because... well, that's obvious.

The car didn't roll past. It lingered. Engine purring low AGAIN like it was laughing at him.

Rodrick squinted against the sun, already feeling the heat crawl up his neck. He didn't move. He could've walked away, sure. Pretended he didn't see you. Kept his pride and maybe a shred of sanity.

But he didn't.

Instead, he stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw clenched like he was trying to win a fight he didn't even know he was in yet.

The convertible idled in front of him, all sleek lines and ego. Then came the voice.

"Hey, loser."

You were leaned out the window, sunglasses low on your nose, gum clicking against your teeth. That grin on your face? It was unholy. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Rodrick rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw the moment you kissed him play out in the back of his skull. "Real original," he muttered, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Aw, don't pout." You stretched your arm a little farther out the window, flexing your fingers mockingly. "I figured you'd be flattered I remembered you."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not." He puffed up a little, angling his shoulder like he wanted to block your view but couldn't stop himself from inching closer to the car. "What're you even doing here?"

You popped your gum. Loud. "Picking up my bitchy little sister. What else?"

Rodrick blinked. "Heather?"

"Duh."

His brows knit together, mouth twitching like he couldn't decide between confusion or sarcasm. "She left like... fifteen minutes ago."

You tilted your head, mock confusion on your face.

"Did she now?"

You slammed your palm hard against the outside of the door with a thunk, arm still draped lazily out the window, wrist dangling like you owned the whole damn parking lot. The car jumped slightly under your force, and Rodrick actually flinched.

You didn't smile, cursing obnoxiously loud, "That bitch."

For a second, his face was all wide eyes and instinct, like a feral cat cornered behind a dumpster.

Then he burst out laughing.

Not just a chuckle—a full, mocking cackle that cracked out of his chest like he was watching a soap opera and you were the main character having a meltdown. "Holy shit," he snorted, "You look like a pissy brat. Relax, man."

You narrowed your eyes. "Shut the hell up."

Rodrick took a step forward, one arm just above the driver's window, leaning in casually and milking this new authority—like he'd won something. "Touchy, huh? Thought you were all grown up—"

"Touchy?" you cut him off sharply, voice low now, almost a growl. "You wanna talk about touchy? Last time I recall you're the kid—a kid with a raging boner."

The laugh caught in his throat.

Rodrick's mouth opened, then closed. Like maybe if he stared at you long enough, you'd take it back. His ears turned a distinct, traitorous red.

You popped your gum again, the sound sharp as a slap, and let your arm hang loose again like you weren't even phased. You stared into his face, his more rigid posture and his fist against your car. You weren't phased, god no, you saw pathetic, barely legal teens running their mouths all the time. But this time, you wanted that mouth on something else—eyeliner, cracked lips and smudged makeup all.

Rodrick, however, looked like someone had just unplugged his amp mid-set.

"Well?" You grin, eyes flicking from his face down to his studded belt then back up again, "You better run home, buddy. Before your mommy tells y' off or something?"

Rodrick didn't move.

His hand curled into a loose fist against the top of your car door, knuckles pale like he was using it to stay grounded. His eyes flicked down to the tires, then your rims, then back to your face. He was quiet for a second too long, and that silence said everything.

You raised an eyebrow. "What, cat got your tongue?"

"No," he muttered, voice tighter now, jaw clenched like he'd just bit down on glass. "Just thinkin'."

You leaned your cheek into your shoulder, blinking at him real slow. "Let me guess. Van trouble?"

Rodrick's eyes narrowed.

You huffed a little laugh, shifting in your seat. "Right. You've been walking, haven't you? What happened, Daddy find out you drive like a bat outta hell?"

He didn't respond, just gave you a glare that tried to be threatening but only made you smirk harder.

You dragged your tongue across your teeth and clicked your gum again. "I'll give you a ride."

Rodrick perked up ever so slightly, but you held up a hand like a cop issuing a citation.

"Backseat."

His face dropped.

"What?"

You popped the car door lock with a little click, lazily jabbing your thumb over your shoulder. "You heard me. You wanna get driven, you sit in the back. Can't have you near the stereo, you might get ideas."

"Are you serious?" His voice cracked with disbelief and something dangerously close to a whine.

You smiled now, mean and slow. "Dead serious."

Rodrick looked at the door, then at you, jaw working like he was chewing rocks. "You treat me like a fuckin' dog, man."

You shrugged. "Nah. I like dogs."

He muttered something under his breath—definitely a curse, probably directed at you—but he opened the back door anyway, dragging his feet like he was being escorted to a prison van.

You watched him slump into the seat through the rearview mirror. "Good boy."

Rodrick flipped you off immediately, middle finger directed at you through the mirror, leanign against the window like a little shit.

You didn't start the car.

Instead, you leaned forward, grabbing a fresh piece of gum from the center console, slow and deliberate like you were on a break instead of chauffeuring some crusty eyeliner gremlin with control issues. You unwrapped it with a flick of your wrist, popped it in your mouth, and started chewing again, slow like molasses.

Rodrick squinted at you through the rearview mirror. "Dude. What are you—?"

You turned, not your whole body, just your head, resting your elbow on the wheel like you had all the time in the world. "You want some?"

He looked at the pack, then at you, suspicious. "Is that the weed kind?"

You rolled your eyes. "No, princess. I wouldn't waste the good shit on you. Pink lemonade. Super innocent. Calm down."

Rodrick gave a little scoff but didn't move.

"Suit yourself," you said with a hum, stretching just enough to spit the old gum into a tissue and stuff it into the door pocket. "More for me."

A pause.

"Just drive," Rodrick gritted, leaning his forehead against the glass like he was trying to escape by osmosis or something.

You made a soft noise of protest, exaggerated and bratty. "Can't. Finishing my gum. Can't you see? My mouth's busy."

Rodrick groaned, leaning back again, both hands in his hair now.

You caught his eye in the mirror, that same mirror where he'd glared at you, flipped you off, bit back a dozen smartass retorts. And now?

Now his gaze was stuck. Jaw clenched. Thighs spread just a little too wide.

Your smirk curved wider, and you tilted your head.

"Unless," you said, voice dropping slow and sticky, "you want your mouth busy too?"

Rodrick stopped breathing.

Like actually. You saw it. His chest locked up, and his eyes darted from your mouth to the back of your headrest and then down to his lap like maybe that would save him. He HAD been thinking about it all week. He was basically semi-hard for days, honestly (though he'd never admit it), too embarrassed to jack it off.

You didn't turn around. Just stayed staring into the rearview, chewing your gum, letting the quiet buzz of the car hold the moment taut.

And now Rodrick Heffley looked less like a punk and more like a problem about to beg for one himself.

"Well?"

Rodrick cleared his throat. Loud. Like maybe that'd distract from the very obvious urge

"I'm not— gay— or into...that—," he muttered.

You raised your brows at the mirror. "Cool. Neither is gum, but you've been chewing on me with your eyes since the kitchen."

"Jesus," he groaned, pushing his palms to his face. "You don't get it."

"No, I do." You smirked and let your tongue flick against the gum once. "You're not gay. You just—what? Accidentally had your tongue down my throat? Accidentally got hard? Accidentally stood in the shower for twenty minutes thinking about it, but didn't jack off because that would make it gay?"

Rodrick flinched. You grinned. You knew.

His hands dropped to his lap again. "I didn't—fuck off, dude—"

"Aw, c'mon," you crooned, turning your head just slightly now, still leaned casually against the wheel like you had all the cards. "I'm just saying. If you're gonna moan about being straight, you might wanna stop looking like you're one lip-bite away from crawling up here and asking me to fuck you."

He scowled, flustered, but didn't deny it.

You let the silence crawl back in, slow and viscous, like syrup in the heat. Then, softly but it wasn't meant to soothe him or anything—the exact opposite actually,

"Unless that's not what you want. Maybe you don't wanna fuck. Maybe you just wanna suck."

Rodrick blinked, almost spluttering over nothing. "What the hell—"

"Not a bad option." You popped your gum again. "Start slow. Feel it out. Literally. Could be an experiment. You're in high school, right? Great time for science."

Rodrick looked like he might short-circuit. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

He's a highschooler, a dude at that too—sex and porn is meant to be funny, obnoxious and excite him. Not nervous, god why is he nervous?

Then, very softly, his gaze dropped and he muttered something that sounded like:

"...I mean—not...I dunno..."

It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no either. You could work with that.

You reached up and killed the engine. The quiet thud echoed loud in the space between you. You unbuckled your seatbelt, smooth and slow, then rolled your neck like you had time to kill.

Then, one hand shoved casually in your pocket, you stepped out of the car.

Rodrick straightened in the backseat, heart pounding like the drums he thought made him cool.

And you rounded the side, steps easy. Measured. Like you weren't about to absolutely ruin him, "Let's take care of that week-long boner, loser."

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Rodrick had to stop himself from backing away, cursing at first but shut up immediately. No time wasted — your fingers curled around his collar, tugging him forward until your mouths collided in a kiss so messy it knocked your teeth together. He tasted like Coke and teenage desperation, and you still tasted like that gum you'd been chewing, artificial mint and sugar, sweet and sharp on his tongue. It made his knees weak.

He leaned back against the seat, trying to match your rhythm, but he was all nerves and fidgeting hands, kissing like someone who'd had a few hot dreams and maybe tried it once behind a garage in seventh grade. Your lips moved slow, dragging over his in a way that had him chasing after the contact, heat rising up his neck. Every time your teeth scraped his lower lip, he gasped into your mouth like you'd stolen all the air from the car.

You kissed like you were used to this. Like you knew how to melt someone down to mush without even breaking a sweat. And Rodrick, poor Rodrick, who always tried so hard to look cool with his flannels and black nail polish and that stupidly smug walk, was crumbling already.

You gripped the sides of his unbuttoned flannel, easing it off his shoulders, one arm at a time, and he let you, blinking up at you like you were something holy and dangerous. Underneath, his vintage Iron Maiden tee clung to his chest, collar stretched and sleeves rolled, like he'd tried way too hard to look effortless that morning. He wasn't pulling it off now—he looked flustered, cheeks pink and lips slick, like he'd been caught in something too big for him.

He shifted, sitting up slightly, and fumbled at the button of your jeans. His fingers were trembling. He missed the catch the first time, then the second. His nails scraped your waistband. You didn't help—just watched, still half-straddling him in the cramped backseat, licking your lips like you were enjoying the show.

"Take your time," you said, slow and syrupy, practically crooning it against his jaw.

Rodrick froze. Looked up at you, eyes wild, like you'd just pulled a gun on him. His face twisted, flustered and furious, and he scoffed, "Fuck you. You're takin' the piss right now."

You laughed, quiet and rich, leaning in until your forehead bumped his. "Nah," you whispered, your lips brushing his again, so soft it made him twitch. "I just like watching you try."

His breath hitched. You kissed him again—this time slower, letting him taste the gum still on your tongue, sticky-sweet and minty. It pissed him off on how good it tasted—he made a mental note to actually take the gum next time you offered.

Next time? God, why is he even thinking about a "next time"?

It took Rodrick a solid thirty seconds to finally undo your belt. He kept tugging at the wrong loop, too forceful, too clumsy, and you leaned your weight back on your palms, watching him like this was entertainment. Maybe it was. His brows were drawn together, lips parted in concentration. When he finally got the tongue of the belt through the buckle, he let out a breath like he'd just cracked a safe.

The zipper was easier—he tugged it down in one slow motion, the sound loud in the heated silence of the car. He paused when your cock was free, stiff and flushed, the tip already glistening. His eyes widened just a little. You didn't miss it. You never did. You've done this a few times before, but he clearly hasn't even seen porn of two dudes before.

"You're a guy too, Rodrick," you said, voice warm with amusement. "You know what feels good, right?"

He nodded, hesitant. One hand cupped you awkwardly, his fingers twitching like he wasn't sure where to start, then finally curled around your cock. His touch was cautious at first—slow pumps, like he was still testing the waters. But it only took a few strokes before he found a rhythm, the kind that made your hips jerk slightly forward into his hand.

"Mmph," you exhaled, half-laughing, half-moaning. "Damn. You're pretty good at this."

That did it—Rodrick's cheeks lit up instantly, a flush rising from his collar to the tips of his ears.

You tilted your head, grin sharp. "So how often do you jerk off to get this good at handling dick, huh?"

He choked on air—literally coughed, pulling his hand back like your cock had burned him or something. "What the fuck—?!"

You laughed outright this time, low and throaty, grabbing his wrist and guiding it back to your crotch. "Relax. I said you were good. Don't go getting all shy on me now."

Rodrick muttered something again—something that might've been fuck off or I hate you or Jesus Christ—but he was still holding you, still moving his hand, and you were still panting through your teeth, barely holding in a groan.

"Don't just use your hands," you said slowly, your voice going silkier, heavier. "Use your mouth. C'mon."

His eyes snapped to yours like you'd just pulled the emergency brake mid-highway. "What?!"

You just tilted your hips forward, cock tapping lightly against his lower lip, a bead of precum catching on the edge of his mouth. "C'mon. I've seen how you stare. Open up. I'll tell you what to do."

He was frozen. And then, so slowly it was almost comical, his lips parted, breath trembling.

"Keep your head down. Windows are glass, y'know?" you murmured, your fingers threading into his hair, guiding his head down to hollow out his mouth. "Now choke on something for real, babe."

Rodrick pulled off for a moment, panting and wet lips against your tip, brows furrowed in a weak glare, "Call me babe again, I'll bite your fucking dick off."

You huffed a laugh, "Sure, sweetheart."

And before he could snap back, you nudged his mouth open again with a firm, guiding hand on his scalp.

He went back down slower this time. Less out of hesitation—more like...curiosity. His lips wrapped around your tip, warm and tentative, and you felt the way he breathed through his nose, nostrils flaring as the weight of your cock settled onto his tongue. The taste hit him in waves—salty, bitter, heady—and his whole face twitched like he didn't know if he hated it or if he wanted more.

He tried to hide it. Tried to pretend he was indifferent. But you saw the way his lashes fluttered, the way his eyes briefly closed when you twitched in his mouth. That tiny throb of your cock against his tongue? He felt it. And it made him shift in his seat.

He was getting hard.

You caught the way his thighs pressed together. How his hips squirmed, almost guilty, like maybe if he clenched up tight enough his dick wouldn't be leaking against the inside of his jeans right now.

You groaned, low and pleased, hips barely tilting forward. "That's it. Good, fuck..."

Rodrick didn't answer. Couldn't—not with his mouth full, and your fingers tugging lightly at his hair to keep him there. But his eyes flashed up at you, defiant and pink-cheeked, watery with effort. You were thick, and he still wasn't used to it. His jaw ached, his throat was trying to suppress a gag, and yet he didn't pull off again.

You gave a shallow thrust—just enough for him to feel your cock stiffen inside his mouth.

He shuddered.

Rodrick groaned, and the sound vibrated down your length. He didn't want to answer. But his mouth stayed open. He sucked back down, slower, deeper this time, spit dragging from his chin to your base.

He liked it.

He hated that he liked it.

And you could feel the tremble in his thighs when your cock bumped the back of his throat again—could see the way he rocked ever so subtly into his seat, chasing a little friction, desperate not to make a sound.

You noted it through hazy vision, furrowing your brows to make use of it. A little surprise never hurt anyone, right?

Your hips twitched once—just once, experimentally—up into the wet heat of his mouth. And that was all it took.

Rodrick flinched with a surprised grunt, the motion nudging him deeper, forcing him to adjust and—fuck—he didn't back off. He actually followed through, the shift in pressure making your thighs tense.

"Oh—fuck..." you groaned under your breath, fingers tightening in his hair, guiding him just enough, but letting him choose to keep going.

And he did. Mouth working messily and drooling now, rhythm shaky but there, flushed red from his ears down his throat, like sucking you off was getting him off too—and it was. His own hips kept shifting like he didn't know what to do with the ache in his jeans. Because he really didn't—the closest thing he's ever been to cumming untouched was a wet dream.

You caught it just between the messy fold of his clothes —the way his hand hovered near his waistband, unsure, then gave in.

Your hand clenched against the car seat. The air felt thinner, charged, like it was vibrating around you both.

And when it hit, it hit hard. Your breath shuddered out, spine arching just a little, and Rodrick jerked at the taste, the sudden strange texture filling his mouth, but didn't pull back. Didn't flinch. He stayed right there, like he didn't know what else to do except ride it out with your cock in his mouth.

A second later, he slumped forward with a stifled gasp, forehead thudding lightly against your thigh. His mouth still damp. His belt half undone. He was breathing like he'd just sprinted a mile, and the way he clung to your leg like it was anchoring him made your lips twitch into a slow, smug smile.

His face was pink. Embarrassed and glowing all at once.

You ran a hand through his sweaty bangs, barely brushing your knuckles over the back of his neck.

"Damn," you muttered, catching your breath. "You're wayyy too good at that for a guy who's not into dudes."

Rodrick groaned into your thigh, trying to burrow and hide his face. "Shut up."

You couldn't. Not when he looked so cute— his face was a warm, flushed colour and eyeliner that began to run after sucking your cock pricked a few tears at his eyes.

You noticed the stickiness against the loosened waist of his jeans, his hips twitching in tiny, involuntary aftershocks. A huff of laughter slipped out of you before you could stop it—mean, but kind of stunned, too.

He's still catching his breath like he's fighting off the shame. You take the bait, whistling slightly as you motion to the crotch of his jeans where he'd cum, "Didn't even have to touch you, damn. Liked it that much?"

Rodrick groaned loudly, dragging the sleeves of his discarded flannel over his face like he could disappear inside them. His whole face went about as red as the knobs on your car radio, and when he didn't snap back right away—not with a joke, not with a shove, not even a middle finger—you blinked.

He was mortified. It would be too easy to push him further, but you decide to let up this time.

Your teasing tapered instantly. "Hey," you said, voice gentler now. Your fingers skimmed along his shoulder, grounding. "Hey, I'm not—"

He didn't lift his head, "Oh, fuck off."

You shifted, letting your palm settle between his shoulder blades. "Look, I'm not gonna keep going if you're freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," His voice was still muffled into your jeans, but more steady, holding more vigour now, "Just. Shut the fuck up."

You did, scoffing and half-relieved his bite came back. "...You think your parents'll care if you stay out a few more hours? Or are you some curfew princess."

His head tilted, just slightly. "What?"

"Just asking," you shrugged, voice casual, but your thumb brushed behind his ear, playing with the fake cuff on them.

Rodrick's still reeling from the mess he just made, but he lifts his head, blinking at you. His face is a mess of emotions—still a little red but some sort of gratitude that you aren't totally making fun of him at least.

"Yeah..." he mutters, still avoiding your gaze. "They're not home for a while."

You give him a wink, rubbing your thumb on his bottom lip now—feeling the stickiness of it from whatever of your cum he couldn't swallow. Or rather, coughed back up when trying to. "I'm staying my whole break here this time. If you're up for it."

Rodrick's eyes narrow in warning and disbelief. "You really are an asshole."

You shrug, still chewing your gum and leaning back in your seat. "I'm not heartless though."

He props himself up on his elbows, cogs turning in his head. Did you mean what he thought you meant?

"What?" You look at him, mumbling for the first time since you've met him. "I got hobbies besides being college fuckboy-trash."

Rodrick stares at you, eyes narrowed like he's trying to figure out if you're screwing with him again—but there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying the smile he's fighting. He exhales a shaky laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, well...your other hobbies better include food. I'm starving."

You reach for the keys from your back pocket, gum snapping between your teeth in a smile you pray he didn't catch. "Guess it's your lucky night, Heffley. Hope you like drive-thru food and post-nut clarity."

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

divider creds: @cursed-carmine

#rodrick heffley #rodrick x reader #rodrick heffley x reader #rodrick x male reader #holy shit

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