#Compact Coffee Mug | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckyseternaldoll · 25 days ago

Text

Five Seconds, Five Years (Part III)

header from: pinterest

✮⋆˙ Part I | Part II

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes proposed just days before the world ended — afraid he might never get another chance. Then he vanished in Wakanda. Five years later, he’s at your door — unchanged, while your whole life has moved on. Some love survives time. But what happens when life doesn’t wait?

Disclaimer: Unexpected emotional reunion, long-term separation and time displacement, vulnerable confessions, hesitation and emotional complexity, mention of Steve Rogers’ peaceful death (old age), post-trauma recovery arc, references to mental health improvement (off-grid healing), rebuilding emotional connection, gentle confrontation of past pain, pure comfort and soft domesticity, post-trauma peace arc, references to past emotional pain and healing. **This story stretches between several timelines in MCU (only loosely, not to be strictly following the year gaps)

Word Count: 4,846

You didn’t usually skip class.

Not after everything it took to get here—the money you scraped together, the fight to stay afloat, the way you had finally started taking your life seriously again.

But this morning felt… wrong.

Off.

You woke up to soft light spilling between the blinds, your duvet tangled around your legs. Your chest felt heavy, like something was sitting on it. A pressure you couldn’t name, just pressing.

Your fingers wrapped around the warm mug of coffee. You sat there in the kitchen nook of your Seoul loft, barely sipping.

Not scrolling.

Not thinking.

Just… sensing something.

A pull in your ribs.

A flutter in your gut.

And when you passed the small flower stall outside the station—the one with handwritten notes tucked into every bundle—that’s when it hit you.

A sign, scribbled in smudged black ink (translated to English):

“March 10—Pisces. Heavy-hearted. Brave. Forgiving.”

Your hands went cold.

Your breath caught.

His birthday.

Of course.

Of course your body remembered even if your calendar didn’t.

—

You didn’t go to class.

Instead, you walked.

Wandered.

Through crooked alleys and boulevards of mid-morning traffic, past the crisp scent of roasted chestnuts and motor oil, past students chattering about exams and café music echoing through glass.

You didn’t want silence.

You wanted noise.

People. Traffic. Motion. Something to drown out whatever this feeling was.

—

Sinchon was perfect for that.

Young people everywhere—students hustling through subway exits, tote bags heavy with books and iced americanos in hand. Girls linking arms, stopping to fix each other’s makeup in compact mirrors. Lines forming outside trendy cafés for limited-edition drinks.

And couples.

God—there were so many couples.

Matching outfits, matching sneakers. Holding hands in crosswalks. Taking selfies by store murals or booking time inside photobooths with sparkly filters and pastel props. You watched one couple fuss over a printout from a four-cut booth, giggling and sticking heart stickers on each other’s cheeks.

It was adorable. It was soft.

It was everything you thought you’d be doing by now.

But it wasn’t you.

And maybe that was the worst part.

You weren’t bitter—not exactly. But the loneliness scraped a little sharper on days like this. When love seemed so visible. So effortless. So normal. And you were just here, floating through a city of warm hands and soft smiles, still trying to remember how to breathe without aching.

Music bled from shopfronts—different rhythms overlapping in the air. Delivery riders zipped past on scooters, navigating the maze of alleyways like it was second nature.

It was loud.

It was full.

It was exactly the kind of place where no one paid attention to anyone else.

You wanted to be anonymous.

You wanted to disappear for just a little while.

—

You turned down the main road—the one just past the movie theater and the underground station exit—and crossed toward the bookstore that had the good imported titles in the back.

You waited at the crosswalk.

You were just one of dozens.

And that’s when you saw him.

—

At first, it was nothing.

Just a shape.

Tall. Broad shoulders under a dark jacket. Face angled down. Hair shorter than you remembered, but unmistakably him.

He turned.

Your heart nearly stopped.

He was leaner now.

Older.

More tired.

But that face—

Still the most handsome thing you’d ever seen.

And those eyes.

Cerulean burn.

That impossible, searing shade of blue you used to trace in the dark, whispering his name into the hollow of his throat. The kind of blue that saw through you. The kind of blue you didn’t forget, no matter how many calendars you turned.

And they were locked on you.

Wide.

Disbelieving.

Like he couldn’t quite trust what he was seeing.

Like maybe he thought you were the ghost.

You couldn’t breathe.

Your fingers curled at your sides.

Your mouth parted.

You didn’t even realize you were shaking until a warm gust of wind brushed against your cheek, and the world tilted.

The crosswalk light turned green.

The city surged forward.

People began to walk.

But Bucky?

He ran.

Straight into the street.

Straight through the crowd.

Eyes never leaving yours.

A delivery bike honked and veered, a girl shrieked with laughter nearby, someone cursed in Korean under their breath—and still he kept coming.

Like the world had fallen away.

Like he had waited too long to take one more step.

Like he didn’t believe in anything until he saw you again.

—

You didn’t know how you moved.

One second he was across the street, running.

The next, he was right there.

Close enough to breathe in.

Close enough to touch.

Close enough that you forgot every reason you were supposed to be okay without him.

“Bucky—”

Your voice cracked. Your lungs caught fire. You barely got his name out.

His expression was everything at once—relief, disbelief, joy so raw it looked almost painful.

And then he pulled you into him.

The hug broke you.

Not with sobs. Not with words. Just… with the sheer, overwhelming familiarity of it.

His arms.

Strong as ever.

The same way they used to wrap around you at night when the world felt too loud.

One hand against your spine, the other curling at the back of your head.

His scent.

God—it hadn’t changed.

Still that grounding mix of cedar, worn cotton, and something warm and his that clung to your hoodie like a memory that never really faded.

You buried your face in his chest.

And for a second, you forgot everything.

Forgot the years.

Forgot the pain.

Forgot that you were no longer lovers. No longer engaged.

Just two bodies clinging to the only truth that had ever made sense—this.

—

The hug lingered longer than it should have.

And when he finally pulled back, his hands still rested lightly on your arms.

He looked at you like someone who needed to double-check that you were real.

“Are you—are you travelling here?” he asked, almost shy.

You blinked at him.

Then smiled. A little broken. A little whole.

“No,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I live here now.”

“You—what?”

“I moved here. Started over. Enrolled in a language program. Fourth month in.”

His mouth parted in quiet awe.

“You did it,” he said. “You actually chased that dream.”

“You used to tease me for crying over Korean dramas.”

“I stand by it,” he smirked. “The amount of chicken and beer scenes alone—”

“Don’t you dare slander it,” you laughed, hand half-swatting his shoulder.

“God, I missed this.”

Your smile faltered. Just for a breath. But he caught it.

Before it could sink, you motioned ahead.

“There’s a little café just down the alley. I go there all the time. It’s quiet.”

“Lead the way.”

—

The café was tucked between a bingsu shop and a bookstore.

Inside, it smelled like roasted barley tea, honey, and worn books. The kind of place that felt like a warm hug on a rainy day.

The old man behind the counter—you always called him Halabeoji—lit up when he saw you.

“Ah! You’re skipping class today,” he teased in Korean.

“Only this once,” you grinned back, motioning to Bucky. “I have… a friend visiting.”

Halabeoji gave a little approving nod, then pointed to your usual spot by the window.

“For you, always the best seat.”

—

You both sat down.

Two mugs of warm yujacha arrived, unprompted. Yours had a slice of lemon. His was plain.

Bucky looked around.

“This place feels like you.”

“How so?”

“Quiet. Understated. A little cozy. A little sad.”

You snorted softly. “Thanks?”

“No, I mean it in a good way. It’s peaceful. It feels like it’s survived something.”

He sipped his tea, then glanced at you.

“I didn’t think I’d find you here.”

“I didn’t think anyone was still looking.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Sam sent me. Intel mission.”

“Here? In Korea?”

“Yeah. That’s what surprised me too. We don’t usually get assigned Asia without a team. But Sam insisted I come alone.”

You blinked, suspicion already blooming in your chest.

“Wait. Sam’s been in touch with you?”

Bucky’s smile tilted crooked.

“Yeah. For a while.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“You blocked everyone, remember?” he said gently. “When you left the country, they respected your space. Sam said they didn’t want to track you unless it was urgent. Privacy and all that.”

You exhaled slowly.

“Still feels like… a weird coincidence.”

“It’s not,” Bucky said, looking down at his tea. “This ‘mission’? No briefing. No real intel. No partner. Just some vague excuse to look into a low-level smuggling ring. It didn’t add up. And Sam kept nudging me. ‘Take it, Buck. Just go.’”

He looked up at you then.

“I think… he wanted this to happen.”

Your heart thudded.

He swirled his tea slowly, like it helped him think.

“I think he wanted me to find you.”

You looked at him.

Carefully.

The mug in your hands had gone warm, forgotten. Your thumb traced the rim once, then twice.

“How about you?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Did you want to find me? Or was it just… the mission?”

He stilled.

His shoulders sank slightly, as though the words themselves added weight.

And he didn’t answer.

Not right away.

He took another sip of yujacha.

Let the silence stretch.

Watched the steam drift upward, as if it might form the right answer for him.

You didn’t press.

You just watched him.

The set of his jaw.

The faint crease between his brows.

The scar just beneath his left eye, one you didn’t remember—and one you ached to ask about.

Finally, Bucky set the cup down.

He leaned forward a little.

Not casual.

Not composed.

Just… tired of silence.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said, voice low.

“After I left,” he continued, “after I sent that message… I shut everything off. Burned my last favor for extraction clearance and disappeared.”

“I landed in Kuala Lumpur. Rented a place above a tailor shop with broken stairs and a mosquito problem.”

He huffed a small breath of something that almost passed for a smile.

“It was the kind of place no one would look twice at. Exactly what I needed.”

You didn’t interrupt.

You could already feel the ache growing in your throat.

Because of course he didn’t just vanish. He rebuilt. In pieces.

“There was a group of pakcik (uncles) who sold breakfast near the bus stop. Half their stalls were barely standing. So I started showing up. Fixing legs. Rewiring lights. Buying kopi (coffee) at dawn. They’d laugh at my accent, make fun of my appetite, that I couldn't stand the spice—the heat. But after a while, they called me family.”

“I stayed longer than I thought I would. There was peace in it. Simple, quiet peace.”

“But every night… I’d see you.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“In dreams. On the street. In a song. Everything reminded me of you.”

“I didn’t come back because I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t enough for you. Not like that. Not with everything so broken.”

You couldn’t breathe for a second.

You felt something burn behind your eyes—but you held it together.

Because he wasn’t done.

“After Malaysia, I went back to Romania. Spent a couple months in the mountains. Then tried Dubai—got lost in the crowd, worked off the radar, stayed low.”

“Eventually, I made my way back to the States,” Bucky said, eyes fixed on the rim of his cup. “Didn’t know where I was going. Just knew I couldn’t keep drifting.”

“I stopped by the old spot—the safehouse near Quantico. Figured someone might still show up now and then.”

He paused, huffing a quiet breath.

“That’s where I ran into Torres. Joaquin. You’d like him—fast talker, smart, good heart. He recognized me right away. Told me where to find Sam.”

“I almost didn’t go. Thought maybe it wasn’t my place anymore. But… I needed to see someone who remembered who I used to be. Someone who knew Steve.”

“So I found Sam.”

Bucky’s voice softened, his thumb slowly brushing the condensation from his mug, tracing the arc like it helped him hold onto the moment.

“I already knew Steve was gone before I saw Sam.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t look up—just kept circling the rim of his cup with a kind of quiet reverence, like speaking Steve’s name too quickly might cause it to vanish from the air.

“I saw it in a headline. Some international outlet. It was just a small article. No flashy photos. Just… ‘War Hero Steve Rogers Dies at Age 106.’”

“No ceremony. No fanfare.”

“Just a footnote in history. A paragraph about a man who changed the world.”

He finally looked up, and his eyes were tired. Still and hollow in a way that only grief knows.

“That headline didn’t even mention Peggy. Or the serum. Or that he was the only reason I ever got a second chance.”

You reached across the table without thinking. Your fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull away.

But he also didn’t move.

He just let the silence sit for a beat before continuing.

“I think that was the moment I knew I had to stop running. Like something clicked.”

“I couldn’t keep drifting through cities pretending I didn’t still belong somewhere. That I didn’t owe it to him—or to you—to try.”

He took a breath, steadying himself.

“So I flew back. No plan. No contacts. Just showed up at the old safehouse near Thibodaux. Figured if anyone would still be in orbit… it’d be someone like Joaquin.”

“He recognized me right away. Thought I was some kind of mirage.”

“Told me Sam was down in Louisiana with his family. And before I could second-guess it, I was already halfway there.”

You could see it now—Bucky at the edge of a dock, his boots wet with salt and sweat, the sun making him squint against the bayou light. Sam turning, seeing a ghost from a past life standing ten feet away.

“He was still down in Louisiana,” Bucky murmured. “Running things with his sister, fixing up the boat.”

“Looked… tired. A little older. But he still had that fire in his eyes, you know?”

“Like the kind of man who chooses to carry the weight instead of letting it crush him.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump building in your throat. You didn’t realize how much you missed hearing Sam’s name spoken with warmth.

“I didn’t call ahead,” Bucky said. “Just walked up one morning while he was hauling crab traps out of the water.”

“He saw me and dropped the bucket. Took one look and said, ‘Damn, Barnes. Thought you died again.’”

“I told him I was starting to think that too.”

He let out a rough breath—a half-laugh, half-sigh—and shook his head a little.

“He didn’t ask for an explanation. Not right away. Just pointed to the porch and told me to sit.”

“Made me coffee. Gave me toast with way too much jam. Didn’t say a word for almost twenty minutes.”

You smiled. That sounded like Sam.

That sounded like family.

“Eventually, I told him where I’d been. Malaysia. Romania. Dubai. How I didn’t make it back in time to say goodbye to Steve.”

“He just looked at me and said, ‘Steve never doubted you’d find your way back.’”

“And I said maybe Steve was wrong.”

“And Sam called me a goddamn idiot and said, ‘Then prove him right instead.’”

You let your gaze linger on him. He looked smaller at that moment. Not weak—just stripped down. Honest.

Worn in all the places love tends to wear through.

“That’s when he offered the mission,” Bucky said, voice quieter now. “Told me there was a minor op in Seoul. Something about tech smuggling. Solo op. No backup. Real low risk.”

He looked over at you, and the edge of his mouth pulled into the faintest smile.

“But the way he pitched it? I knew. I knew it wasn’t about the mission.”

His gaze settled on you fully now. No deflection. No mask.

Just Bucky—exposed and aching.

“It was about you.”

—

The sunlight slanted deeper through the café window, bathing your table in amber-gold.

The world outside buzzed with students and bikes and the kind of everyday chaos you used to crave to feel less alone.

But inside this little café, it was still.

Quiet.

Safe.

Bucky leaned forward, the faintest smile curling at the edge of his mouth as he nudged his now-empty mug aside.

“I’ve been filling you in with all my wandering,” he murmured, “and I haven’t heard a damn thing about you.”

You blinked. Then you looked away.

He didn’t press.

“What’ve you been doing all this time, sweetheart?”

The pet name slipped out so naturally, so gently, that it made your chest ache. You didn’t even think he noticed—but of course he did. Bucky always noticed.

You drew in a slow breath.

And then, you began.

“I tried to find you,” you said, voice soft. “For months. I drained my accounts. Traveled across Europe, Asia. I retraced everywhere you might’ve gone. Asked the compound. Asked Wakanda. Sat on fire escapes and left letters and kept talking to ghosts.”

Bucky’s expression didn’t shift much—but you could see it in his eyes. The flinch.

“I lost you. And in the process… I lost someone else too.”

You didn’t say Dean’s name aloud.

Bucky didn’t ask.

“He was kind. Met him in grief therapy. And we… we tried. But I think part of me was still bleeding. I never gave him the whole version of me. And eventually… he walked away.”

You looked down at your hands, fingers curling slightly around the mug’s warm ceramic.

“I don’t blame him.”

Bucky stayed quiet—his knuckles pale, hands loosely interlaced on the table.

“Steve and Sam—they helped a lot. Kept checking in. Reminded me to eat. To sleep. To exist. When I moved here, they didn’t question it. Just… supported it.”

You reached up and tapped the necklace around your neck.

The tiny glint of metal caught in the windowlight.

“I still wear the ring you gave me,” you said quietly. “It’s always been here. Even when I tried to let go.”

Bucky’s breath hitched—almost too subtle to notice.

“Do you…” he began, then stopped, adjusting his position like the question itself hurt. “Do you still have the other one?”

You knew what he meant.

You shook your head once.

“No. I gave it back to him when we said goodbye. Told him… maybe we weren’t meant to keep holding each other.”

You hesitated, then offered a small smile.

“He was a chapter I needed. Not a replacement. Just… someone who helped me breathe again.”

Bucky nodded.

You didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until then.

—

A while later, after the café had dimmed its overhead lights and Halabeoji gave you his usual “go, go before sunset leaves you behind” wave, you and Bucky stepped out into the warm Seoul evening.

The sidewalks glowed peach from the setting sun. The air smelled like roasting chestnuts and fresh laundry.

You didn’t talk much as you walked toward Banpo.

The silence wasn’t heavy.

Just full.

—

When the Han River came into view, you turned to Bucky with a little grin.

“I’ve been coming here a lot,” you said, tilting your chin toward the park benches. “You can’t beat the view during sunset.”

“Guess I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’ve also been riding the KTX,” you continued, tone a little lighter. “Busan, Jeonju, Gyeongju. You’d love Gyeongju, actually—so much history. And I hiked with a group of ahjumma last spring. They brought me kimchi in tupperwares. Called me their baby goat.”

That earned a low, rough laugh from Bucky—the kind that melted something deep in your chest.

He glanced sideways.

“Did you finally try chicken-and-beer?”

“Chimaek's disappointing, actually,” you replied. “Tastes fine. But it’s not really fun without someone to share it with.”

Bucky’s smile lingered longer this time. Quiet. Full of something unreadable.

But the look he gave you was unmistakable:

I wish I had been there.

—

You found your favorite bench—the one tucked under the sycamore tree that had the best angle for catching the full sweep of golden light on the river.

It was miraculously empty.

You sat side by side.

Close, but not quite touching.

Not yet.

—

The sky bled gold and lavender over the Han River, the final edge of the sun slipping beneath the city’s jagged horizon. Lights flickered to life across bridges and distant towers, but the world at your bench stayed quiet, cocooned in soft shadows and late summer warmth.

You leaned back slightly on the bench and exhaled, your eyes following a boat carving a slow arc in the distance.

“Do you think,” you murmured, voice gentle, “we’d still be the same if none of that ever happened? If there was no war. No blip. No lost time?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. So you kept going, like the questions could fill the unease blooming in your stomach.

“Do you think we’d have found a place together? Had a cat? Two coffee mugs and a broken couch and some ridiculous cable bill because I forgot to cancel it?”

That pulled a soft breath from him—a chuckle, but one laced with something tender.

“You’d forget to cancel the cable. I’d pay for it anyway. You’d thank me by stealing all the blankets.”

You laughed quietly.

“What if we’d married before everything fell apart? What if you’d never gone to Wakanda? What if we never made promises we couldn’t keep?”

The breeze ruffled your hair, and you tucked a strand behind your ear—then stilled.

Bucky wasn’t watching the river.

He was watching you.

And he hadn’t looked away once.

You turned your head just slightly—enough to notice how close his hand had shifted.

Fingers curled near yours. Not quite touching. Just… there. A single breath away.

“You’re not looking at the sunset,” you said, quieter now.

“I’ve seen sunsets,” he murmured. “I haven’t seen you.”

The silence grew thick, and suddenly your chest felt too small for the ache curling inside it.

And then—

“I never tried to find someone else,” Bucky said, voice steady, low. “I didn’t want to.”

“I couldn’t.”

Your breath caught, but he pressed on, gaze still locked with yours.

“I told myself I should. That it made sense. That you’d moved on. That someone like me… shouldn’t hold on to something already lost.”

He paused, eyes softer now. Open.

“But my love for you never faded. It never dimmed. It just… waited. Quiet. Burning low. Still alive.”

You looked down. Your fingers shifted unconsciously—toward your necklace, where the promise ring rested against your skin. You fiddled with it gently, just to feel something solid.

“I know it’s been years,” he said. “I know you’ve walked through a hundred different lives since me. And if you tell me that you don’t feel the same anymore… I’ll understand. I won’t ask you for anything.”

His hand inched closer.

The backs of your fingers brushed.

“But if there’s still something left… even a sliver,” he whispered, “I’d stay. I’d build a life here. In Seoul.”

You turned toward him fully now, breath trembling.

“You would?”

He nodded, voice rough with conviction.

“I think I’m ready for peace. For trains and quiet mornings. For markets and cats and walks by the river. I’m ready for a life that isn’t built around running or fighting.”

“I’m ready for a life with you.”

—

You didn’t speak at first.

The sun had nearly disappeared now, its last glow stretching long shadows over the water. Everything smelled like warm stone and river breeze and late-blooming flowers.

You looked at your fingers curled around the ring on yournecklace.

You thought of Kuala Lumpur. Of him fixing street stalls and drinking kopi with strangers. Of his nightmares alone in small rooms.

You thought of Seoul. Of your Korean textbooks. Your scarf flapped in the wind as you ran for the KTX. The nights you sat right here, aching for a ghost.

You thought of Dean’s last words—we’re learning to walk without them beside us.

But Bucky was here now. Beside you. Breathing the same air. Wearing the same scars.

And for once, not asking to be saved—just to begin again.

—

Your hand slipped forward—fingers sliding between his.

He stilled.

Then looked at you like he never wanted to look away again.

“There’s more than a sliver,” you whispered. “There’s still so much of you in me.”

Bucky’s breath shuddered out.

“You sure?”

You nodded once, eyes burning, voice fragile but firm.

“Just don’t disappear again.”

He smiled. Soft. Aching. Real.

“Not unless you’re coming with me.”

He lifted your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

You rested your head on his shoulder as the last light dipped below the river, and Seoul hummed to life around you.

And for the first time in years, your heartbeat didn’t feel like mourning.

It felt like home.

— Epilogue:

The morning light spilled gently through the linen curtains, pale gold and peach against the hardwood floor. Outside, the faint sound of a delivery scooter buzzed past. Birds chirped from the gingko trees across the quiet lane.

Inside, everything was still.

Bucky had woken early—as he always did—but for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the urge to reach for a weapon, or check a perimeter, or brace for another goodbye.

Instead, he reached for you.

Curled beside him, blanket tangled around your waist, lips slightly parted as you breathed steady and deep. One hand splayed against the center of his chest—always finding him, even in sleep.

He didn’t move at first.

He just stared.

You made the tiniest snuffling noise in your sleep—the same one you always made when your nose was pressed into the pillow too hard. It never failed to make his heart ache.

“God, you’re cute,” he whispered.

Then, with painstaking gentleness, he leaned in and pressed a feather-soft kiss to your temple. Then one on your cheek. Another near the corner of your mouth.

Your lashes fluttered. But you didn’t wake—not yet.

That was okay.

He could wait.

It had been six months since he called Sam to say he was done.

No more missions. No more deployments.

“I’ve given enough,” Bucky had said. “It’s time I learn how to keep something.”

Sam hadn’t argued.

In fact, he’d laughed.

Then paused.

“You sure Korea’s where you want to plant roots?”

“She’s there,” Bucky replied simply. “And I think that’s all I need.”

The South Korean government—with a quiet push from Wakandan allies and a few whispered favors from old S.H.I.E.L.D. contacts—had arranged for Bucky to live there legally under an assumed but cleared identity. James Buchanan Barnes was officially granted permanent residency under a “global protection and peacekeeping” clause that hadn’t been used in over a decade.

He rented a two-bedroom loft in Mapo-gu, not far from your university—enough space for mismatched furniture, two bookshelves full of your K-pop albums and his war novels, and one ridiculously oversized rice cooker you insisted on keeping.

It felt like home.

No missions.

Just laundry, groceries, slow breakfasts, and love that didn’t ask for anything except presence.

—

Most mornings now, Bucky walked you to class before heading to the local park. Sometimes he joined the ahjummas on their hikes—though they insisted on calling him “Baki-ssi” and feeding him dried persimmons.

One time, they tried setting him up with someone.

“Too late,” he said, holding up his hand where your ring glinted from its new place on his finger. “Mine’s better.”

They squealed. And then gave him more persimmons.

The ahjussi downstairs—Mr. Gu—had made it his mission to teach Bucky the art of drinking makgeolli like a proper local.

“Slow. Steady. Don’t stand up too fast.”

“Kind of like my whole life,” Bucky muttered.

—

You stirred beside him now—eyes still closed, hand twitching slightly against his chest.

“Mm… that better not be sunlight I feel,” you mumbled sleepily.

“Sorry, doll,” he whispered, brushing a thumb down your cheek. “But you were too pretty to let sleep through it.”

Your lips tugged up into a crooked, sleepy smile.

“You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

You finally opened your eyes.

Bleary. Beautiful.

Bucky leaned in again, this time kissing your forehead with something reverent—like he was still learning he was allowed to.

“Let’s stay in today,” you murmured.

“Even if the ahjumma text me angry hiking emojis?”

“Even then.”

You turned your face toward him and kissed his jaw—lazy, unhurried, like you had forever.

And you did.

—

Later, he’d make you pancakes—the slightly uneven kind you always claimed tasted better because they were made by him.

You’d curl up together by the window with coffee and soft jazz playing low in the background.

The world would keep spinning. The past would always be there.

But for once, so would the future.

And for James Buchanan Barnes—a man once lost to time, memory, and war—that was more than enough.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #જ⁀➴ by elle #bucky barnes angst #bucky angst #bucky barnes fan fiction #bucky fics

257 notes · View notes

isak-dot-gov · 10 months ago

Text

Compact and efficient

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Short!reader

Word count: 1044

Based on this request.

My masterlist :)

...............................................

Living with Paige Bueckers had its perks—she was kind, funny, and always up for an adventure. There was never a dull moment when she was around, whether it was spontaneous road trips, surprise date nights, or even something as simple as cozy movie marathons on the couch. But one of the unexpected challenges of dating someone much taller than you was...reaching things.

You would think that after all this time, you’d have gotten used to it. You’d have figured out some clever system or bought a stool specifically for this kind of thing. But no, there you were again, standing on your tiptoes in the kitchen, straining to grab a mug from the top shelf. Your fingers brushed against the handle, but it remained just out of reach.

You huffed in frustration, glaring at the cupboard as if it were the one responsible for your vertically challenged situation. Why did everything have to be placed so high up? And why did Paige insist on putting things away in the hardest-to-reach places? You weren’t sure if it was intentional or if her long limbs just made her oblivious to your struggle, but either way, it was maddening.

Just as you were about to give up and make do with a different mug—the purple one that you didn’t really like, but could actually reach—you heard a familiar laugh behind you.

“Need some help, short stuff?” Paige’s voice was filled with amusement as she leaned against the doorway with that signature smirk on her face.

You turned around and shot her a playful glare, crossing your arms in mock annoyance. “You know, not everyone can be a giant like you.”

Paige walked over, her tall frame effortlessly filling the small kitchen. She didn’t even have to stretch as she reached up, grabbing the mug from the shelf with one hand and handing it to you with a mockingly exaggerated bow. “Your mug, milady,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. This was a regular occurrence between you two—Paige teasing you about your height, and you pretending to be annoyed, even though you secretly loved the attention. There was something endearing about the way she always came to your rescue, even if she never let you forget it afterward.

“Thanks,” you muttered, taking the mug from her. “One of these days, I’ll figure out how to do this on my own.”

“Sure you will,” she said with a wink, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into her side. Her warmth was comforting, and you couldn’t help but relax against her. “But until then, I’ll be here to rescue you from all those high shelves.”

You leaned into her, enjoying the closeness, the way her arm felt like a protective shield around you. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” Paige said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Her lips lingered there for a moment, and you felt a shiver of warmth spread through you. “Teasing you is one of my favourite things.”

You groaned, but the smile on your face betrayed you. “I should’ve known what I was getting into when I started dating a basketball player.”

“Hey, you knew what you signed up for,” Paige said with a laugh. “It’s not my fault you’re so tiny.”

“Tiny?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow as you turned to look up at her. “I prefer ‘compact and efficient.’”

“Uh-huh, whatever you say.” She chuckled, giving you a playful squeeze before letting you go. Her hands lingered on your hips for a moment longer than necessary, making your heart skip a beat. “Anyway, what do you need the mug for? Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea,” you said, turning back to the counter. You tried to focus on preparing the tea, but Paige’s presence behind you was impossible to ignore. Even when she wasn’t trying, she had a way of commanding the space around her. “Want to join me?”

Paige smiled, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms as she watched you. “Sure, why not? I’ll even reach for the sugar for you, if you ask nicely.”

You threw a kitchen towel at her, and she dodged it effortlessly, her laughter filling the small kitchen. Despite her teasing, you knew that Paige loved taking care of you in her own way. Whether it was reaching things on the top shelf, holding your hand in a crowded place, or just being there when you needed her, she always had your back.

As you poured the hot water into the mugs, you glanced over at her, feeling a surge of affection for the woman who had become such a huge part of your life—literally and figuratively. It wasn’t just her height that made her presence so big. It was the way she filled every room with her energy, the way she made you feel safe, loved, and never alone.

“Thanks, P,” you said after a moment, your tone softer now.

She tilted her head, her teasing expression melting into something more tender. “For what?”

“For always being there when I need you,” you said, glancing up at her with a small smile. “Even if you make fun of me for it.”

Paige’s grin softened into a warm smile as she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you into a hug. She rested her chin on top of your head, and for a moment, the world outside the kitchen seemed to disappear. It was just the two of you, wrapped up in each other.

“Always, babe,” she whispered, her voice low and comforting. “I’ve got you.”

You closed your eyes, sinking into the embrace. In moments like these, it didn’t matter that she teased you about your height or that you sometimes struggled to reach things. What mattered was that she was there—always, without fail, making sure you were okay, making sure you knew you were loved.

As you stood there in her arms, you realised that while being shorter than your girlfriend might have its challenges, it also came with a whole lot of love, laughter, and—yes—teasing. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

........................................................

#uconn wbb #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #wbb x reader #tall people piss me off

454 notes · View notes

hellinistical · 5 months ago

Text

in which the lemurian you work for is dealing with some things...good thing you can help him! happens after ebb and flow. Sub! Rafayel x afab. reader. mdni.

a/n: for @venomaniyah

tw: heat. piv. nipple play (sucking, teasing, pulling, ect.). oral (m. receiving). semi-plot. hand jobs. edging. teasing. "good boy". dacriphyllia. slight dub con. reader is kinda a bully. whiny rafayel. he's desperate to all hell.

wc: 8k

The apartment was small but inviting, with its warm, honey-colored hardwood floors that creaked in greeting with every step. Soft, natural light filtered through sheer white curtains, which swayed slightly in the breeze from a cracked-open window. A hand-me-down sofa, its cushions sagging just enough to show years of use but still firm and comfortable, sat against one wall. A colorful patchwork quilt, likely handmade, was draped over its back, adding a splash of personality to the otherwise neutral tones of the room.

The kitchenette was compact but functional, with a stove that looked older than the apartment itself and a tiny, round table tucked into the corner. A single vase holding fresh daisies served as the centerpiece, hinting at a quiet care for the space. Above the sink hung a row of mismatched mugs, each telling a different story—one from a tourist trap in Paris, another adorned with a faded cartoon character, and a plain one chipped at the rim.

Books lined a modest shelf in the corner, their spines worn but loved, while a few framed photos leaned casually against the wall, featuring smiling faces frozen in candid moments. The apartment had the faint smell of freshly brewed coffee, mixed with a hint of lavender from a diffuser on the table.

Though the space was humble, it lacked of nothing essential. Every detail, from the carefully folded throw on the armchair to the small cactus perched on the windowsill, spoke of a life not defined by abundance, but by contentment and care.

And yet, even though it was well into the day and there were sure to be other things to do, you found yourself staring. Staring at just how pretty he was, dozing off on your couch.

Rafayel’s face was softer in sleep, the usual sharpness of his features dulled by the even rise and fall of his chest. His lavender hair fanned out across the pillow you’d wedged beneath his head, catching the light in a way that made it seem almost otherworldly. His nose twitched every now and then, and his lips parted slightly with each breath, almost as if he were mid-thought, even in dreams.

Yeah, maybe it was creepy. Okay, definitely creepy.

But you told yourself you were just watching over him, making sure he stayed warm and comfortable while he recovered from his fever. The faint pink flush on his cheeks wasn’t entirely gone yet, and his brows furrowed every so often, like even in sleep he was trying to work something out.

The quilt you’d draped over him rose and fell with his breathing, and you noticed he’d unconsciously grabbed hold of one corner, clutching it like a lifeline. It was such a small, uncharacteristic thing for someone who always seemed so composed, so larger-than-life, and it made your chest ache in a way you weren’t sure how to describe.

You wanted to do something—anything—to keep that fevered look from returning. To see his eyes open and find them clear again, their usual sharp, captivating hue instead of the dull, glassy sheen they’d had when he’d stumbled through your door. For now, though, he just needed rest, and maybe you needed this moment, too. “Your scales are so pretty…” you murmur softly, trailing your fingers against the ones on his cheekbones, down his jaw, almost about to linger on his plush bottom lip. And they were. The most beautiful blue you ever did see.

You press a kiss to the one under his right eye. “Get better, Rafayel.”

It had started slowly. The occasional sharp inhale, the restless shifting, the way his breath had begun coming in shallow pants. At first, you’d thought his fever was just worsening, maybe a bad dream, maybe some kind of delirium. You’d knelt beside him, brushing damp strands of hair away from his forehead, whispering reassurances you weren’t even sure he could hear.

Then he had grabbed your wrist.

His grip had been desperate, trembling, but strong. When his eyes cracked open—hazy, dazed, pupils blown wide—you’d barely had a second to process before he had shuddered, body arching slightly, and let out a soft, wrecked sound that sent heat pooling in your stomach.

He was awake.

You turn, eyes wide when you meet his own blue-pink gaze. “You mean it?” Pearly tears pricked at his eyes, dripping down the sun-bleached ends of his lower lashes, accompanying them to grace his skin with butterfly kisses.

His cheeks were rosy, ears tinged with embarrassment and bashfulness.

“How long were you awake?”

“That- that doesn’t matter. Did you mean it?”

***

That was hours ago. Now? Now Rafayel- and you- are a mess.

A mess of sweat, drool, tears, and soon enough, exhaustion.

The fever had been a warning, a quiet tremor before the storm. But you hadn’t known. How could you have?

Now? Now, Rafayel was sprawled beneath you, a mess of sweat, trembling limbs, and ragged breaths. His skin was hot—too hot—his usual pale flush now a feverish pink, iridescent blue scales glistening with sweat. His hands, usually so careful, so hesitant, clutched at the fabric of your shirt like a lifeline, fingers tightening every time a wave of whatever-this-was crashed over him.

You had no idea what to do.

That was hours ago.

Now, the apartment was thick with it—heat, tension, the scent of sweat and something else, something uniquely him, something that curled into your lungs and refused to let go. It was sickeningly sweet.

"Rafayel," you rasped, trying to keep your voice steady. "You—you're burning up. You need to—"

A whimper, a needy, helpless sound, cut you off. His grip on you tightened, nails digging in just enough to make you shiver. His demeanor normally so elegant and fluid, was curled awkwardly against the couch, scales twitching in an unfocused rhythm.

He was shaking.

Your heart pounded.

It was sudden.

His hands fisted in your shirt, pulling you down so suddenly you barely had time to gasp before his lips crashed against yours. It was messy—desperate, awkward, like he didn’t know what he was doing, only that he needed to do it. His feverish body pressed against yours, trembling with something too raw to name, and his breath hitched as his lips moved clumsily over yours, needy and unpracticed.

Your teeth knocked together, the kiss more heat than finesse, but Rafayel didn’t care. He made a small, helpless sound—something between a whimper and a growl—as if frustrated he couldn’t get closer, couldn’t melt into you completely. His fingers were shaking, gripping you like you might disappear, like letting go wasn’t an option.

“Rafayel—” you barely managed, voice muffled against his mouth, but he only made another needy noise, tilting his head and kissing you deeper, more insistent, as if silence was the only answer he’d accept. His breath came in ragged gasps, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, seeping into you, making your skin prickle with warmth.

He was burning up.

His lips dragged against yours, wet and desperate, his sharp canines scraping at your bottom lip like he didn’t know how to be gentle—like he couldn’t. His body trembled under you, fevered and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before, in a way that made your chest tighten with something dangerously close to want.

You swallowed thickly, hands bracing against the couch as you tried to steady yourself, tried to think past the heat curling through your veins. But Rafayel only whined softly, frustrated, needy, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

You had no idea what to do.

But Rafayel needed you.

And gods help you—part of you wanted to give in.

Your head was spinning, your breath uneven, but no. No.

If Rafayel needed you this badly, then he was going to have to play by your rules.

You pushed against his chest—firm, but not cruel—breaking the messy kiss with a wet gasp. He let out a desperate, frustrated whimper, eyes fluttering open, unfocused and glassy. His pupils were wide, swallowing the sea-blue and pink of his irises, his flushed lips slightly parted as he panted.

“Rafayel,” you warned, voice low, steady.

His hands twitched where they still clung to your shirt, fingers flexing like he wanted to pull you back down, like he couldn’t stand even the inches of space you’d put between you. But you stayed firm, watching the way his legs curled tighter, his whole body shuddering.

“Please,” he breathed, voice wrecked, needy. His nails dragged lightly against your skin, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that he was still desperate, still burning, still aching.

But you weren’t going to let him lose himself like this. Not without control. Not without you in control.

You exhaled slowly, tilting his chin up with your fingers, forcing him to meet your gaze. “If you need me so bad,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the fevered heat of his skin, “then you’re gonna have to listen.”

His breath hitched.

“You’re gonna have to be good for me.”

A shiver ran down his spine, his lashes fluttering. You could feel his legs twitch against the cushions, restless, a telltale sign of his struggle. His lips parted as if he wanted to argue, to protest, but instead, he nodded, slow, hesitant—obedient.

A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Good.”

Now this was how you played the game.

His breath was uneven, hot against your throat, and his grip on you was tight—like if he let go, he’d lose himself completely. It was honestly a strange situation. Here you were, perched on the crappy couch you hadn’t even fully paid off yet, straddling him—this Lemurian, this siren of a man who, by all accounts, should have been the one in control.

And yet, it was you he was desperate for.

You swallowed, watching the way his lavender hair clung to his forehead, damp from fever and sweat. It curled just slightly at the ends, framing his face like seafoam against the tide. He was beautiful, infuriatingly so—his features sharp and delicate at the same time, otherworldly in a way that made your stomach twist. The iridescent sheen of his scales caught the dim light of the apartment, casting soft glimmers across his fever-flushed skin.

He shuddered beneath you, fingers twitching at your waist, like he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to pull you closer. He looked up at you through heavy lids, his slit pupils dilated, his expression raw and vulnerable in a way that made your chest tighten.

It was intoxicating, having him like this—this creature who could command the ocean itself, who carried an air of danger, of mystery, reduced to a trembling mess beneath you. And it was you he was reaching for.

A sharp exhale left his lips, and he swallowed thickly. “Miss body guard…you’re… cruel,” he rasped, his voice wrecked, hushed.

"Cruel?" Your brow furrowed, lips parting slightly as you studied him.

Rafayel let out a shaky breath, his fingers flexing at your waist, as if torn between pushing and pulling. His expression was something raw, something caught between desperation and frustration, his flushed skin practically glowing in the dim light.

“You are,” he murmured, voice uneven, a touch hoarse. His eyes, blown wide and glossy, flickered over your face like he was searching for something—permission, relief, control. “You sit here, watching me like this, knowing I—” He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. His breath hitched as your fingers ghosted over the faint ridges of scales along his ribs. “And you do nothing.”

Your lips curled at the accusation, at the way his voice wavered. You tilted your head, fingers trailing upward, just barely brushing against the curve of his throat. Rafayel swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His lashes fluttered, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips, torn between frustration and yearning. His fingers twitched at your waist, grip tightening just slightly—like he wanted to pull you closer but knew better than to push his luck.

“You tease me. You—” He exhaled sharply, his head tipping back against the couch, exposing the pale column of his throat. “You make me wait.”

You huffed, tilting your head. “And you hate that?”

His lips parted, hesitation flickering across his face—his pride at war with his need. His legs curled against the cushions, restless, his body tense beneath you.

“… No,” he admitted finally, voice softer, raw. “I—” His breath hitched, and his fingers flexed against your hips. “I like it.”

“Rafayel.”

He shivered at the way you said his name, and gods, the sight of him—half-lidded, lips parted, body tense beneath you—sent a thrill through your veins. He was trying so hard to keep it together, to keep some semblance of control. But you saw the way his hands twitched, the way his grip tightened, the way his breath hitched every time you so much as shifted against him.

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, it looked like he wanted to argue, to snap at you. But all that came out was a soft, needy sound—one that sent heat curling low in your stomach.

Rafayel’s eyes flickered down to your hands as they rested on his chest, then back to your face, his breath still coming in shallow, erratic bursts. His lips parted as if to say something, but then he hesitated, shifting beneath you in frustration. The usual smoothness of his voice was gone, replaced with something rougher, more desperate.

“I don’t…” He swallowed, shaking his head as though trying to gather his thoughts. “I don’t know how to handle this,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands twitched again, but he didn’t make a move to touch you, his fingers almost trembling with the effort to resist. “I’ve never felt—like this—before. You—” He exhaled sharply, almost like a growl. “You make me weak.”

You paused, staring at him, the words sinking in. It was strange, hearing him say it out loud. This creature, who’d seen things you couldn’t even imagine, who lived a life full of power and mystery, confessing that you—you—had somehow unraveled him.

For a moment, you almost forgot the tension, the power play, the strange game you were playing. You were staring at him, really staring, noticing the vulnerability in his gaze, in the way his body shook beneath yours.

You wanted to say something, anything that could make sense of this situation. But for once, you were at a loss for words.

“Be good for me,” you murmured, lips ghosting just over his,

You pressed a kiss to his lips, soft, inviting—just a hint of warmth, just a taste of what might come. His breath caught as your lips brushed against his, a feather-light kiss that could’ve easily been pulled away from, that could’ve left him hanging. It was your test, your way of gauging whether he could control himself for even a moment.

But the moment he felt it, the moment he sensed your willingness, Rafayel tried to take a mile when you only gave him an inch. His hand shot up, gripping your face as his lips crashed against yours, frantic and desperate, demanding. He pushed, hard, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together, until the kiss was no longer gentle, no longer soft.

You pulled back, a sharp breath slipping past your lips, but Rafayel, still holding you tightly, tried to pull you right back into the kiss, his lips urgent and needy against yours.

“Rafayel,” you breathed, voice low and almost scolding. But you weren’t sure if you could be mad at him, not when he was so completely consumed by whatever feverish, wild desire had taken hold of him. His desperation was palpable, the heat between you two thickening with every second.

The desperation in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. He was so far gone, lost in the intensity of whatever feverish longing had taken hold of him. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils dark and blown wide, his breath ragged as his hands twisted at the fabric of your shirt, fingers trembling with the need to rid you of it.

“Please—just—take these damned clothes off,” he begged, his voice hoarse and raw, full of frustration. His breath came in jagged gasps, chest heaving, and you could see just how far he was willing to push for whatever he needed in this moment.

You couldn’t ignore the way his body pressed against yours, his skin fevered and hot under your hands, every part of him calling out for something more.

“I…” You sighed, faltering for just a moment, the heat of the situation almost overwhelming. You had to maintain control, but the way he was looking at you, the desperation on his face, it was starting to make your resolve slip. You could feel your own breath quicken, the tension rising, but just as you opened your mouth to say something, Rafayel made his move.

With a sudden shift, his hands were at your shirt, undoing it with a speed you weren’t prepared for. His fingers were sure, eager—almost frantic—as he peeled the fabric from your body. Before you could even react, his own shirt was gone too, his chest exposed, the scales on his skin shimmering under the dim light.

He was bare now, his body trembling slightly from the fever, but his expression was anything but weak. It was raw, hungry—unashamed. His chest rose and fell rapidly, a desperate fire in his eyes as he leaned in, hands roaming over you, pulling you in closer.

The moment was slipping away from you, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself feel it—the heat, the pull between you both, the need so palpable it was almost suffocating.

But just as quickly, your mind sharpened again. You had to pull back. You had to stay in control.

“Rafayel…” you breathed, voice shaking slightly, but firm. "Not yet."

But as you tried to regain that distance, his hands slid down your sides, pulling you closer as he groaned low, his lips already at your neck. “Please,” he whispered, his voice trembling, raw, like he couldn’t hold back anymore. "I need you..."

“I know—I know, baby, just…” You half-joked, the words leaving your lips breathlessly as you pulled away just slightly, feeling the tension between you rise and fall like an unsteady wave. “We can’t do much on this couch.”

You blew a weak, cool breath toward his face, hoping to ease the heat radiating off of him, but the air was barely enough to touch his flushed skin. His eyes fluttered for a moment, a tremor running through his body as he leaned in closer, not satisfied by the brief space between you. His hands were still gripping at you, searching for more—more of your skin, more of your touch, more of anything to soothe the ache.

His lips parted, breath warm against your cheek as he groaned. “Then let’s move,” he muttered, more demand than suggestion.

You could feel the tug of temptation, the pull of his need, but you held onto that sliver of control. "Easy, Rafayel," you warned softly, your hand pressing lightly against his chest to hold him back just a fraction, just enough to catch your breath. "We need to take it slow, alright?"

He groaned, head tilting back in frustration, his legs twitching with impatience. "You're killing me," he rasped, the fire in his eyes still burning bright, but there was a flicker of understanding there too. He wasn’t ready to let go, but he was starting to grasp that you weren’t going to make it easy on him.

“I’ll be good,” he promised, voice hoarse, still desperate, but laced with that same vulnerability you’d seen earlier. "Just—just please."

Fuck.

You heard the frustration in his voice, and despite the resolve you had to keep the reins in your hands, something about the way he said “just—just please” got to you. The vulnerability, the desperation—it was hard to resist. He had let his guard down, just for a moment, and you could see it.

"Fine," you breathed out in exasperation, your voice a mix of teasing and concession.

His eyes flashed with that dangerous, hungry gleam again, and before you knew it, he was pulling you back into him, more assertive now. His lips found yours, urgent and demanding, and there was no more hesitation, no more games. The heat between you was undeniable, and you could feel the way he melted into the kiss, pressing into you like he had to, like he couldn’t wait any longer. You pushed him down further into the couch, your hands sliding over his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin under your touch. The shift in position only heightened the tension, your body pressing into his, the sensation of him beneath you intoxicating. There was no room for restraint now—only the raw, unspoken need that hung in the air.

Breaking the kiss, you trailed your lips to his neck, tasting the salty warmth of his skin. His breath hitched as your mouth brushed against the sensitive spot just below his ear, and he groaned, his hands tightening around you, pulling you even closer as if he couldn’t get enough.

"Gods…" His voice was barely above a whisper, thick with need. His chest rose and fell with each breath, his body arching into yours as you continued to explore the curve of his neck with your lips.

You grasp his chin with your index and thumb, tilting his head to give him a quick peck before grasping his arm. Your fingers traced the heat of his skin, gliding up his arm with slow, deliberate intent before finding his hand. His grip was tight, almost instinctual, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he didn’t hold on. But instead of pulling, instead of giving in to the urgency that burned between you both, you laced your fingers with his, grounding him.

Lifting his hand, you pressed a soft kiss to the back of his palm. It was a contrast to the heat of everything else—gentle, reverent, like you were reminding him that he was yours, that he didn't have to chase or beg for what you were already giving.

Rafayel let out a shaky breath, his body shuddering beneath you. His free hand curled around your waist, squeezing as if he could hold onto the moment, as if he needed something solid to keep himself from unraveling completely. His eyes, hazy and desperate, searched yours.

"You’re so unfair," he murmured, voice hoarse, breathless.

You only smirked, pressing another kiss to his knuckles before whispering, “I never said this would be easy, baby.”

You let go of his hand, watching the way his fingers twitched in the empty space where yours had been. Then, slowly, deliberately, you adjusted yourself, shifting your weight until you were fully straddling his hips. His breath hitched as your hands found his chest, palms pressing against the warmth of his skin, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath your fingertips.

Rafayel looked up at you, lips parted, his iridescent eyes blown wide with something between frustration and helpless want. His legs curled against the couch, twitching, betraying just how much restraint he was holding onto—if he was holding onto any at all.

You tilted your head, dragging your thumbs over his collarbones, watching the way his body responded to even the smallest touch. “You’re burning up,” you murmured, voice teasing, though there was genuine concern beneath it.

He swallowed hard, hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you, but he was waiting—waiting to see what you would allow. “Then help me,” he pleaded, voice thick, almost desperate.

You leaned in, just enough so your lips hovered above his, just enough for him to feel your breath against his skin. “Patience, baby.” You dragged your nails lightly down his chest, reveling in the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

A frustrated groan rumbled from his throat, his head pressing back into the couch. “You’re torturing me,” he muttered.

You chuckled, the sound light and teasing as you watched his scowl deepen. “Always so dramatic, fish-for-brains.”

His grip tightened on the zipper of your hoodie, yanking it down with more force than necessary. “I’m not dramatic,” he grumbled, though the slight flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

You arched a brow, amused. “Really? Because you sound like you’re one second away from throwing a tantrum.”

He huffed, pushing the hoodie off your shoulders with an impatient tug, his hands lingering against your arms, warm and just a little unsteady. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You smirked, tilting your head. “A little bit.”

Rafayel rolled his eyes, but you caught the way his breath stuttered when your hands slid back up his chest, nails grazing his skin. He was trying so hard to play it cool, but you could feel the tension in his body, see the way his tail flicked against the couch in restless anticipation.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his jaw, barely touching, just enough to make him chase the contact. “You’re cute when you pout,” you murmured.

His hands tightened on your waist, his voice lower now, almost a growl. “Keep testing me.”

You giggled at his half-hearted threat, feeling the way his hands slipped beneath the fabric of your clothes, warm and greedy. He wasted no time, fingers splaying against your sides, tracing up your back, like he needed to touch everything at once. Pushing him down harder, guiding his body to really settle into the couch, feeling the weight of him beneath you, the heat from his skin searing through the thin barrier of clothing between you. Your hands slid over his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles beneath the smoothness of his skin, pressing yourself into him now, just as desperate.

Rafayel’s hands immediately found their place against your back, pulling you closer, fingers digging into your flesh, but you held control.

You trailed your lips down his jawline, then to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin, the warmth, feeling the flutter of his pulse beneath your lips. You could hear the hitch in his breath, the subtle shiver that ran through him as you nipped gently at the sensitive skin of his neck. His hands gripped your hips harder, trying to pull you even closer, but you refused to give him that.

“Someone’s impatient,” you teased, shifting slightly in his lap just to hear the sharp inhale he tried—and failed—to suppress.

Rafayel’s grip tightened, his nails lightly dragging against your skin. “You started this,” he muttered, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as if that would hide the way he was practically trembling beneath you.

You hummed, your fingers threading through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “Mmm, did I?” He groaned, frustrated, before nipping playfully at your shoulder in retaliation. “You know you did.” You laughed, letting him tug your hoodie the rest of the way off, his touch growing more eager, more desperate, as he worked on whatever layers remained between you.

Sliding his hands under your shirt, his fingers worked with practiced ease, undoing the clasps of your bra beneath your shirt as if he’d done it a hundred times before. But just as he started to slide the straps down, you caught his wrists, stopping him in his tracks.

Rafayel blinked up at you, startled, his pupils blown wide with need. “What—” His voice was rough, breathless.

You released his wrists, the subtle tension easing as you slowly took off your hoodie, then your shirt, letting the fabric fall to the floor. The movement was deliberate, giving him just enough time to fully appreciate the shift before you leaned back in, watching him watch you, your gaze daring him to speak, to move.

Rafayel’s breath caught, his eyes flicking between you and the space where his hands had been moments ago. He didn't say anything, just a low, desperate sound escaping him as his gaze heated further, taking in every inch of you like he couldn't quite believe it.

You gave him the smallest, teasing smile. "Easier for you now."

The sound that escaped him—low and almost reverent—made your pulse quicken. His hands came to rest against your chest, flat and careful, like he was in awe of the way you felt under his touch. The tension between you, that delicate balance of wanting and restraint, hummed in the air.

"Gods…" His voice was soft, a little shaky, as if he couldn't quite believe this moment. His thumbs gently brushed over your skin, tracing the lines of your chest with a reverence that sent a shiver down your spine.

You held his gaze, a smirk pulling at the corner of your lips, teasing him, but inside, there was a soft warmth that you couldn’t quite ignore.

"Careful," you warned softly, your breath catching slightly. "I might get used to you looking at me like that."

His hands faltered. "N-no, no, I want you to get used to it- please, if you’ll let me,"

His words were desperate, trembling with an intensity that made your chest tighten. The raw vulnerability in his voice, the way he looked at you like he was begging for permission to do more, hit you in a way you weren't expecting.

His hands remained on you, tender yet needy, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. “I want you to get used to it,” he repeated, his voice rough, pleading. “Please, if you’ll let me…”

You could feel the heat radiating off him, the intensity of everything building as his eyes locked onto yours, as though this moment was something more—something deeper—than just the heat between you.

There was no teasing, no games now. Just a raw, open honesty that left you breathless.

“You’re not as good at hiding what you want as you think,” you murmured, voice soft but laced with the heat of the moment.

His words were soft, but there was a tremor in them—vulnerable, unguarded, like he was afraid of the answer. His gaze searched yours, intense and almost desperate for reassurance.

“Wasn’t tryin’ to hide nothin’.” His voice had a quiet edge, a mix of frustration and something deeper. “You... you said I was beautiful… did you mean it?”

You could see the way his throat worked, the way his body seemed to hold itself back, waiting for your response. His question felt so much more than just a passing curiosity—it felt like he was seeking something from you. For a moment, you just looked at him, taking in the way he trembled beneath you, the earnestness in his voice. The way he needed to hear it again, needed to feel validated in a way that went beyond just the physical.

You let your fingers brush gently across his cheek, tracing the sharp line of his jaw as you gazed into his eyes. “I meant it,” you whispered, your voice soft, but full of the sincerity he needed to hear. “You’re gorgeous, Rafayel.”

His breath hitched at your words, his eyes darkening, but there was something different this time. The need had shifted, the hunger now mingled with something deeper—something more emotional.

***

The cool air from the A.C. blasted over your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from both of you. The scene was almost surreal—the hum of the air, the mess of tangled sheets, and the feeling of Rafayel beneath you, his body taut with anticipation, but still yielding, soft to your touch.

You weren’t sure exactly how you got here. It was all a blur of sensations—his hands on you, the heat of his body, his desperate kisses—and now you found yourself in your bed, his breath ragged as your teeth sank into the soft skin of his neck. His back arched up to meet you, responding to your touch with an almost frantic need.

You could feel the pulse of his heart beneath your lips, the way he shuddered every time your teeth made contact, leaving behind dark, angry love bites that were sure to last. He moaned, a low, guttural sound, as if he couldn’t get close enough, as if he needed more.

His legs were tangled with yours, bodies pressed so close that it was impossible to tell where one of you ended and the other began. You were so absorbed in him—his scent, his warmth, the way he writhed beneath you

Rafayel groaned, the sound deep and guttural, as your tongue traced over the sensitive mark you'd left on his neck, his hips bucking upward in response. His skin was hot, slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your hands as your fingers splayed across his bare chest.

You could feel his heart racing beneath your fingertips, the tension in his body only building as you met his hips with yours, the sensation of him pressing up into you sending a jolt through your own body. His eyes were half-lidded, mouth parted as he gasped for air, his grip on the sheets tight as though he was trying to ground himself in the moment.

Rafayel's breath hitched at the nickname, the teasing tone in your voice cutting through the haze of heat that clouded his mind. His body twitched beneath yours, his chest rising as your hands kneaded his skin with gentle insistence.

"Careful now, fishie baby," you murmured, lips pressing to the bite you had left on his neck, a soft kiss that made him shudder in response. He closed his eyes, a soft groan slipping from his throat as your hands worked over his chest.

“Don’t,” he panted, his fingers curling into the sheets beside him, but his voice was soft, almost pleading. “You know I can’t... I can’t control—”

He stopped mid-sentence as your hips rocked against his, making him forget whatever he was about to say. Instead, his breath hitched, and his back arched up again, trying to meet your movements.

“You can control it,” you whispered, lips curving against his skin as you kissed him again. The teasing, the soft touches, the way you knew just what buttons to press—it was intoxicating. “But you just don’t want to.”

His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh with urgency, as if trying to pull you closer, desperate for more. The heat between you both was almost unbearable, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way he ached for you.

You hummed in approval, your lips brushing his as your hands moved to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse under your fingertips. The way he was holding you, the way his body responded to every small movement, made the air feel thick with anticipation.

He was right on the edge, barely hanging on, and you could feel the way his muscles tensed, his breath hitching with each passing second. "I know you want more," you whispered, your voice low and teasing, knowing how badly he needed you to push him further.

But you held back just long enough to let the tension build, feeling his frustration mix with the desire in the air, until he couldn't take it any longer.

You kissed down his body, the sensation of your lips trailing over his skin sending a shiver through him. Each kiss, each gentle brush of your lips, left him breathless, his body taut beneath you. When you reached his chest, you paused for a moment, taking in the way his muscles twitched under your touch, the way his breath quickened.

He moaned softly as your lips pressed to the sensitive skin there, your hands sliding along his ribs, feeling the heat radiating off of him. His fingers found your hair, tangling in it as he pulled you closer, desperate for more of that touch, that connection.

The air was thick with the unspoken tension between you both, and as your lips moved lower, he let out a strangled gasp, his back arching into you again, searching for the next wave of sensation. He was completely undone, lost in the feeling of your touch, and you couldn’t help but smile at the power you had over him.

Rafayel’s nipples were a pretty shade of pink, his areolas and the buds formerly puffy- you had made sure of that with your teasing groping and kneading, taking them between your fingers and teasing them. You take a nipple into your mouth, tongue flicking over it as it stiffens impossibly more, peeking against your wet muscle, your free hand going to play with his other nipple, giving both attention., Biting it softly, you tug on it before sucking it. He mewls, throwing an arm over his eyes. The sound of his whine, soft and desperate, sent a shiver through you, making your heart race. His body tensed beneath you, every nerve alive with anticipation, and the vulnerability in his voice made it impossible to ignore how much he needed you.

“S’good- ah, Miss Bodyguard, mm,” Rafayel’s voice was shaky, lip quivering in want.

You paused for a moment, looking up at him through your lashes, your lips still hovering just above his skin. His chest rose and fell quickly, eyes locked on you after he lifted his arm with a mix of longing and something deeper—something more desperate.

"What's wrong?" you teased softly, your voice low and almost playful as you brushed your fingers over his skin, just enough to make him ache, but not enough to give him what he wanted. His whine only grew louder, more pleading.

He shifted beneath you, hands tugging at your hair again, trying to pull you closer, his breath ragged. "Please," he gasped, voice cracking slightly. "Please, don't tease... not now."

“Mmm….but what about what I want?”

His breath stuttered at your words, the weight of them settling over him like a slow burn. He lifted his head, eyes dark with need, lips parted in a silent plea for you to understand. His hands grab at you, and they tighten around your wrists, pulling you just a little closer but not enough to get what he wants. His body, still so tense and aching beneath you, was desperate to meet yours in every way, and yet, he couldn't quite push forward.

"Anything," he whispered, voice raw. "I’ll do anything, just—" He cut himself off, unable to finish the sentence, the frustration evident in his eyes.

"You'll do anything?" you whispered, your voice teasing, almost mocking. "What if I want you to wait?"

His plea came out in a rush, his voice thick with frustration and need, like a confession he couldn't keep in any longer. His hands clenched tighter around your wrists, pulling you even closer, his body pressing up against yours as though he couldn’t wait another second. The vulnerability in his eyes, the desperation in his voice—it was almost too much to resist.

"Please," he repeated, his words shaky, his breath shallow. "I can't take it... not like this." His lips parted, the tension in his body making every word sound almost like a plea for mercy.

You really couldn’t deny him. Not when he looked at you like that—eyes blown wide, lips parted, body trembling beneath you as he clung to your wrists like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

A shaky breath left your lips as you finally, finally gave in, pressing yourself flush against him, your fingers threading into his hair. His whole body shuddered, his grip on you tightening as if afraid you might pull away again.

"Alright, fishie baby," you murmured against his lips, the teasing lilt in your voice softened by the warmth in your gaze. "I'll give you what you want."

And with that, you closed the space between you, letting him have everything.

So you sit up- just a little over him now, and look at his aching dick.

Because fuck. Even his dick was pretty. You’d have to take a mental note to really admire it later. A grower, but still. It wasn’t like it was hard to get him up. Lining him up with you was easy enough, but sinking down on him?

His tip was flushed, crying. A pearl of pre building up, like he was just seconds away from just coming undone and you hadn’t even done anything except tease him and make out.

It was adorable, really.

So you don’t put it in.

Because fuck that.

Scooting down albeit a little awkwardly, you lay on his thighs, looking at him cheekily. Rafayel’s eyes meet yours, and he swallows thickly.

“Silly Rafayel- I think we’re on a first-name basis by now, wouldn’t you agree?” “I…”

You kiss his tip, and he gasps, arching his back off of the couch. “F-uck!”

And how cruel of you, to just grin, pressing your hand down on the soft of his stomach, forcing him to lay down, to hold back his twitching as you tease his dick with your licks and kisses.

He lets out a sharp gasp, his head knocking back against the pillow as your palm presses firm against his stomach, grounding him. His body jerks, instinctively trying to follow every sensation, but you don’t allow it.

“Stay still,” you murmur, voice low and commanding, watching the way he shivers beneath you. His breath is ragged, his chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven movements as he stares down at you with wide, desperate eyes.

“I—I’m trying,” he whimpers, his fingers twitching against the sheets, like he doesn’t know whether to grab onto you or tear them apart.

You smirk, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach, watching as his muscles jump under your touch. “Trying isn’t doing, fishie.”

Rafayel whines, head tilting to the side, but he obeys—barely. His tail thrashes behind him, his fingers gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles pale, his whole body trembling with the effort of not moving, of letting you take control.

“Good boy,” you praise, and the way he shudders—gods, it’s almost enough to make you lose your patience. Almost.

Taking him into your mouth, you hollow your cheeks, letting out a moan as your spit all but covers his shaft.

“F-fuck, fuck, fuck- I’m, o-oh!”

You had started to pump him in your hand as you worshiped his tip, the sounds of squelching skin too much for his red ears to bear.

“Y/n- oh, g-Y/n, mm-ah!”

A mess. A nasty, lewd, beautiful mess.

Rafayel was trembling, panting, his skin glistening with sweat, his body writhing despite his best efforts to obey. His hands fisted in the sheets, his knuckles turning white as he tried, tried so hard to stay still like you told him. But the pleasure was too much—too overwhelming, too intoxicating—and he was losing himself to it, drowning in sensation.

His chest heaved with every ragged breath, his lips parted, wet and swollen from all his whimpering and moaning. His lavender hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, his legs twitching and thrumming, seeking something to hold onto, anything to ground him.

"P-please," he choked out, his voice cracking, desperate, needy. His body arched again, barely able to contain himself, his fingers twitching like they wanted to grab you, to pull you closer, to make you move faster.

But you pull off of his dick completely, your lips connected to him with a string of spit before you wipe it off with the back of your hand. You grab his tip again, pressing your thumb into the pretty slit as you look at him. “God, I just wanna eat you up when you’re like this. Can I? Can you beg f’me pretty boy? C’mon, beg f’me.”

And now the Lemurian is just reduced to nothing but his own spit and tears, his cock pitifully hard and angry as he helplessly tried to get some kind of friction. But Rafayel wouldn’t beg anymore, oh no. He had said ‘please’ far too many times for his tastes.

But when he reached to grab his length to give himself some semblance of relief, he cried out; you had swatted his hand away.

“Gods- what the he- mmph!”

You were quick to fix yourself over him, delighting in the way his breath hitched.

The plummet was a slow one.

Whether to tease him or to enjoy yourself, you didn’t know. Maybe both. His angry tip kissed your folds, and that alone had him squirming- as if he wasn’t already, though.

“Steady, Raf’. Be a good boy, yeah?” “I- y-yeah, yeah, I’m a good boy,”

He of course, would never in the right state of mind call himself that, but god did he need it. So you sink down, gasping as he fills you up, the odd ridges of his cock against your walls making you nearly melt. Because how.

It’s like the fish-for-brain’s dick was designed to fill you. What could you compare it to….

It wasn’t fat or anything, not super super long..-

A knot? Yeah. But not exactly.

As soon as you bottomed out, he threw his head back, gasping like it was too much. Okay, it was too much. But you’re helping him!

“Fuck- are all Lemurians like this, pretty boy?”

He doesn’t answer, his grip on the fat of your hips almost bruising. You start to move, rolling your hips to really get that motion

Up and down, up and down, up and down. His eyes were bleary, pretty and swollen from his tears, the pink almost matching his sore nipples. He’s grabbing onto you anywhere he could- your thighs, your tummy, your chest, your hips or waist… he just couldn’t ground himself!

“Y/n, oh gods, please, please- more-” You don’t answer, suddenly too focused on reaching a high, pretty lips forming a cute lil ‘o’ in surprise.

Your surprise gives way to him finally able to take some semblance of control, hips bucking up into you like a wild animal. He kinda was a wild animal.

“I-i need to- I’m sorry, ‘m sorry cutie, ‘m sorry miss body guard, ‘m sorry Y/-”

Your lips slam onto his again in a teeth-clashing kiss, letting him chase his high too as it suddenly dawned on you that you weren’t gonna last like you thought you would. The sound of skin slapping on skin, the lewd squelches, and fuck, the taste of him- it was simply too much!

Sucking his tongue, he mewls into your mouth, and you swallow his pretty moans.

And you both come early. There was no warning, or no warning you paid attention to, when he suddenly started bucking his hips faster, his cock dragging and kissin’, dragging and kissin’ all along your pretty pussy walls and shooting straight to your womb.

“Rafayel- mmph!”

It happens fast, how he flips you over to be the one laying on your back, hovering over you while he cries pathetically about how sorry he was for finishing inside, kissing your forehead, gasping for breath before ultimately falling over you, collapsing.

***

The room is quiet now, save for the low hum of the A.C. and the steady rhythm of Rafayel’s breathing. His body is slack against the sheets, his chest rising and falling in the aftermath, completely spent. His lavender hair is a tousled mess against the pillow, damp strands sticking to his flushed skin.

You huff out a breath, watching him. He’s knocked out, utterly exhausted—but at least his ache has been alleviated. Finally.

Rolling onto your side, you brush a few strands of hair away from his face. He looks peaceful now, the tension that had wracked his body completely melted away.

You let out a soft chuckle, pressing a fleeting kiss to his temple before stretching out with a satisfied sigh.

You’d let him sleep.

Gods know he needed it.

#hellinistical #pandoras box writing #x y/n #love and deepspace #afab reader #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x you #rafayel x mc #lads #qi yu #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel smut #lnds smut #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace fic #lads x reader #rafayel l&ds

157 notes · View notes

themoooooonhauntsyou · 1 month ago

Text

Heyo! This is my first post, something I wasn't originally planning on doing on this app since I don't know how.

@magicalbunbun has a post where reader is some kind of security or night guard that works at the museum and I just so happened to write a little story snippet of something along those lines with reader being a shifter. (Someone who goes to another reality while sleeping.)

I have my own weird experience with shifting that I used for it but I am an amateur so don't expect much.

---

—No loving arms to hold him—

Y/N woke with a jolt, blinking hard against the soft blue light flooding the room. His head throbbed faintly as he sat up, groggy and disoriented. The hum of electronics filled the air, along with the faint scent of instant coffee and disinfectant. Around him, the glow of multiple monitors flickered across his face. The room was compact and dim, cluttered with mugs, paperwork, and a rack of security tapes that looked like they hadn’t been touched since 2005.

He looked down.

Navy-blue security uniform. Black boots. A utility belt with a flashlight, keys, and radio clipped to it. His name printed in block letters on a laminated ID badge hanging from his chest.

Y/N L/N – Night Security – National Art Gallery, London.

His heart stuttered. Then he let out a slow, slightly amused exhale.

“Ah...Another one of these, huh?”

He recognized the feeling—the surreal vividness, the unshakable realism of everything. He’d experienced it before. Lucid shifting dreams where he slipped into different worlds, usually fictional and rarely reality. And this one? The details were crisp. The textures were right. He could feel the cool vinyl of the chair beneath him. Hear the slight crackle of static from the monitors. Smell the stale air.

Definitely a dream. Just a very..very intense one.

He stood up and stretched, then began poking around the room for any hints. Papers. Sticky notes. Wall calendars. Anything to tell him where exactly he'd ended up this time. But nothing was obvious. Nothing screamed sci-fi or fantasy or apocalypse. It all just looked normal.

“Alright,” he mumbled. “So I’m a rent-a-cop in a museum in dreamland. Love that for me.”

Finally, he turned to the monitors.

Most showed quiet corridors filled with statues and ancient artifacts. One camera showed the Egyptian wing—dark and eerie even with the emergency lighting on. Everything seemed still…

Then something moved.

He leaned closer.

A dark shape lurched across one of the exhibits. Low to the ground. Four-legged. At first glance, it looked like a dog. Maybe a big stray? But the longer Y/N watched, the more wrong it looked.

Its limbs were too long and bony, the fur patchy and uneven. Its back was hunched like it had broken something important and never healed. The head was elongated, almost like a weird dog or what a jackal would look like if it crawled out of someone’s nightmares. Most likely his own nightmares.

“…What the hell is thaat??” Y/N whispered, grimacing.

He squinted, trying to make out the grainy figure, but the cameras weren’t doing him any favors. No audio, of course, and the video feed looked like it was recorded on a potato. The weird dog thing paced in a jerky, unnatural rhythm—then suddenly whipped its head to the side.

Another shape darted into frame—a man. Hard to see who it was, but he seemed terrified. He stumbled and nearly knocked over a vase then ran for the opposite end of the exhibit. The jackal didn’t hesitate to follow. It howled—at least, Y/N assumed it howled; he couldn’t hear a damn thing—and gave chase, disappearing offscreen like something from a found-footage horror film he would watch in YouTube.

Y/N stared at the blank feed in stunned silence.

“What the actual fuck is going on?”

He had no idea who the guy was—grainy cameras didn’t help with identification—but clearly, whoever he was, he’d just gotten himself into a bad situation. Y/N glanced toward the radio on the desk, briefly considered picking it up and then sighed as he remembered he has free will so it wasn't his problem at the moment. At least, not until it turned into a nightmare. He hates when that happens.

Despite his better judgment and thoughts on his own safety, he found his hand drifting toward the flashlight clipped at his waist. The museum was dark, and while this was 'just a dream', he still didn’t fancy running into something that looked like it could chew through bone.

He flicked on the flashlight, watching the beam slice through the shadows.

Something about the light—how steady and bright it was—made him feel safer. Even if it was all illusion. Even if he had no idea what he was doing or where he was going.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself once again, opening the door. “Let’s go explore. Quietly. Carefully. And away from whatever Scooby-Doo-from-hell situation that was.”

The hallway was silent. Cold.

He stepped out, flashlight leading the way, and started down the corridor, each footstep echoing off marble floors. Statues lined the walls, frozen and watchful. He told himself over and over again: it’s just a dream. But the pounding of his heart, the sweat on his palms, and the way the shadows seemed to move when he wasn’t looking?

They felt real.

Y/N wandered deeper into the museum’s labyrinthine halls, his flashlight sweeping over glass displays and ancient stone. As much as he told himself it was a dream, he couldn’t help the little flutter of awe that stirred in his chest.

His dreams had never felt this real before.

The cold floor beneath his boots. The subtle echo of his steps bouncing off the marble and glass. The faint scent of aged parchment and polished wood in the air. He could even feel the weight of the flashlight in his hand like it belonged there.

Usually, things blurred around the edges in shift-dreams. Places melted into one another. Faces were fuzzy.

But here? Every little detail—the sand-worn edges of a sarcophagus, the faded reds and golds of ceremonial masks, even the old security camera silently panning above him—was painfully crisp.

He found himself drawn to a particular hallway, one lined with relics of the sun god Ra. The golden iconography gleamed faintly under the emergency lights, casting long, eerily beautiful shadows across the floor. Panels on the wall depicted Ra in his falcon-headed form, soaring across the sky on a solar barque, eternally battling darkness.

Y/N slowed, intrigued. “Damn…This is really detailed. Shout-out to my subconscious.”

He moved to read a placard near an elaborately carved bust of Ra when he accidentally bumped into a display stand behind him. The sudden clunk startled him enough that he flinched—and in doing so, fumbled his flashlight.

“oh sHIT!”

It clattered to the floor, skidding a short distance before coming to a stop—right next to a carved statue’s feet. The battery popped loose, rolling off and disappearing under a nearby bench.

Groaning, Y/N crouched down, reaching beneath the bench. “In a dream and still dropping things like a dumbass.”

He retrieved the battery, snapped it back into place, and flicked the flashlight on again.

The light shot directly into the face of a bust of Ra, casting harsh shadows across its falcon features.

Y/N jumped back with a startled yelp.

“GAH—!”

He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, then let out a laugh. “Oh, okay. Wow. Yeah. You got me. That’s fair.”

“Oh my god—I mean��Ra! Jeez—dude!” He exhaled, heart hammering. “Okay, okay. That was cheap but fair. You got me...almost kicked you to the next exhibit though.”

After a moment, he looked up at the statue again.

“Sorry for bumping into you, though. Didn’t mean to disrespect your…big bird energy. Whatever you call it.”

Heart still racing, he slowly stepped back toward the statue and gave it a sheepish glance.

“Sorry for bumping into you, my guy. Didn’t mean to be disrespectful. You look good though. Very, uh…regal.”

He kept walking, chuckling softly to himself. “God, I’m apologizing to a statue. What’s next—having tea with Anubis?”

The museum remained quiet—almost too quiet. But the more Y/N explored, the more his curiosity outweighed his nerves. Everything about the dream was stunning. Immersive. Uncanny.

Eventually, he found himself near a tiled corridor with a faded "RESTROOMS" sign overhead. A sense of mundane comfort filled him—bathrooms meant normalcy, even in a dream.

But as he stepped toward the door, something odd happened.

The flashlight in his hand began to grow strangely warm.

He paused, frowning down at it. The plastic casing was heating up—not burning, but definitely warmer than it should’ve been. The beam of light, too, was brighter now. Whiter. As if it had been infused with something more than just electricity.

“…Okay. That’s not normal.” Y/N muttered, narrowing his eyes.

He stopped in front of the restroom, staring down at the flashlight as it buzzed faintly in his palm, confused and a little unsettled.

Y/N continued staring at his flashlight, now pulsing softly with unnatural warmth, when the sound of frantic footsteps shattered the quiet.

He snapped his head up.

A blur of motion flew past him.

A man—disheveled, panicked, and unmistakably British—bolted around the corner and ran straight into the men’s bathroom.

“…Was that—?”

Before Y/N could finish the thought, another shape skidded into view behind the man. Long limbs. Twisted joints. That grotesque, jackal-dog-thing from the camera feed.

It snarled.

Y/N didn’t think—he ran straight into the bathroom after the man, just as the jackal lunged.

He slammed the door shut and threw all his weight against it.

BANG.

The jackal hit the door like a truck.

Y/N swore, bracing his feet as the entire frame buckled under the impact. The creature scratched and clawed, snarling low and guttural on the other side, as if it was peeling the metal like a tin can.

“Jesus Christ,” Y/N hissed, straining. “That thing is gonna rip this door off the hinges!”

Inside the bathroom, the other man was panicking—pacing, gasping, muttering to himself. His voice trembled, caught between terror and confusion.

“No no no—this isn't real, this isn’t happening, I can’t—”

Y/N glanced back—and froze.

He recognized that voice.

That curly hair. That accent. That panicked mumbling.

Steven Grant.

Y/N blinked, groaning internally as the full realization hit him like a truck. This isn’t just some dream. This is one of his favorite shows, Moon Knight.

Out of all the worlds he could’ve shifted into—this had to be the one with ancient gods, scary jackal monsters, and a guy with multiple personalities fighting for control through mirrors.

Don’t get him wrong—he loved the show. But watching it and living it? Two very different things. One had popcorn. The other had razor claws trying to gut him through a bathroom door.

Steven gripped his hair as he talked to marc, backing away. “I’m not letting you take over again! I can’t—please!”

Y/N turned his attention back to the door as it rattled violently in its frame. The jackal was still trying to force its way in. He reached down, fumbling with the manual lock on the door, trying to buy them any more time.

Click!

The lock slid into place.

A beat of silence—then CRASH.

A twisted claw slammed through the metal panel, swiping blindly.

One of the talons caught Y/N’s arm.

He cried out as the pain flared sharp and white-hot, stumbling backward as the jackal retracted its claw. Blood trickled down his arm in quick, hot lines, staining his sleeve.

He hit the tile floor hard, breathing raggedly.

Y/N let out a sharp, involuntary yelp as the jackal’s claw tore through the metal and raked across his arm. The impact knocked him back, and he crashed to the cold bathroom floor with a grunt.

The pain hit immediately—hot, searing, real. A white flash pulsed behind his eyes as he clutched his arm.

“Ah—damn it—!”

The wound stung, worse than anything he’d ever felt in a dream before. His fingers pressed down on the torn fabric of his uniform sleeve, now dark and sticky with blood. The pain throbbed in his muscles, sharp and insistent.

Y/N sat up slowly, back against the wall, his breath catching in his throat. He glanced down at his hand—and froze.

His palm was slick with blood. His own blood.

It stained his fingertips, his sleeve, the floor.

His heart skipped a beat.

That’s not supposed to happen.

Pain was one thing in his dreams that didn't last long, he usually woke up seconds after getting hurt in any sort of way—but seeing his own blood, thick and warm, spilling in a place that was supposed to be a dream? That was something else entirely.

A look of horror settled on his face as the realization sank in, slow and cold: this wasn’t like the other shifting dreams. Not even close.

This was real.

Too real.

Across the room, Steven spun around at the sound, eyes wide in shock.

“You’re hurt—? Oh God—!”

His gaze dropped to the blood trailing down Y/N’s forearm, and panic set in fast. “Bloody hell, you’re bleeding—you’re really—” He staggered back a step, bumping into the sinks, hands trembling.

Behind him, the mirror caught his reflection—except it wasn’t mirroring him at all.

“Steven.”

The voice was calm. Controlled. Not Steven, but Marc.

Steven’s reflection leaned forward in the glass, though Steven himself hadn’t moved. Marc’s expression was hard, focused.

“If you don’t let me take control right now, we're going to die, Steven.”

Steven’s eyes flicked to the mirror, frantic. “No—I can’t—”

Marc cut him off, voice sharp. “He'll die too.”

Steven glanced over at Y/N again, who was sitting slumped against the wall, pale, his free hand gripping the flashlight like a lifeline. Blood smeared the floor beside him.

“A civilian, Steven,” Marc pressed. “You okay with letting someone die because you were too scared?”

Steven’s breath caught. His eyes filled with conflict, horror, guilt. “But I—he’s not supposed to be here—I don’t even know who he is—”

“That doesn’t matter. He’s here. And you can’t protect him like this.”

Steven swallowed hard, hands clenched at his sides. He looked from Y/N—bleeding, confused, still bracing for another strike—to the mirror, where Marc stared back at him with grim determination.

“…You’ll stop it?” he whispered.

“I swear.”

A tense silence stretched, broken only by the snarls and pounding claws against the nearly broken door.

Finally, Steven gave a tiny, trembling nod.

“...Alright, Just don’t let him die.”

---

Hope ya liked my garbage 😍

#steven grant #male reader #marc spector #x reader #moon knight #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you #avatar of ra #male reader insert #steven grant x reader #steven grant x y/n #steven grant x you #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector x y/n

83 notes · View notes

misshoneyimhome · 5 months ago

Text

What's up buttercups! 💕

Chapter three is here, and things are starting to take shape! I know, we’re still keeping a steady pace, but trust me—good things take time (at least that’s what I keep telling myself while writing this f-ing slow burn…🙈).

As always, I hope you enjoy it. Happy reading, darlings! 😊✨

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, smut 18+, Auston x unknown female character, protected vaginal penetration

Word count: 6.8k Chapter one ; Chapter two

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter Three: Pucks, Plans, and Pretences*

“Dearest Toronto readers, it seems our Ice King has traded his signature cool for something decidedly warmer. A newly surfaced photo from the depths of the Scotiabank Arena has set the internet alight, capturing Auston Matthews and his now-infamous Mystery Queen in a moment that could rival any story.

The city can’t stop talking.

But what’s the real story? Is this the beginning of something genuine or a strategic distraction for Toronto’s captain? Matthews, ever the enigma, isn’t saying much—but that smirk of his has done little to quell the rumours.

As for his Mystery Queen, she’s still just that—a mystery. Ambitious, poised, and undeniably captivating, she’s become the city’s obsession overnight.

Whether this is love, strategy, or something in between, Toronto is hooked. And with Matthews at the helm of this unfolding drama, one thing is certain: it’s going to be a season to remember.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

Tuesday –

Sitting by the high table in the compact kitchen of your small studio flat, you traced the rim of your coffee mug absentmindedly. The faint hum of the city outside was a comforting white noise, a familiar backdrop to your mornings. But the fragile peace didn’t last long.

Your phone buzzed sharply, shattering the moment. You groaned, setting down your mug to glance at the screen. Of course, it was Jess and Maya. The two of them had wasted no time diving into what was clearly the hot topic of the day.

Jess (7:13 AM): “Spotted: You and Auston. AGAIN. Girl, explain.”

Maya (7:15 AM): “We need a FULL breakdown. Coffee tonight. No excuses!”

You sighed, gripping the warm mug a little tighter as you composed a response. Your fingers hovered over the screen, hesitating.

You (7:18 AM): “There’s really nothing to explain.”

The reply came almost instantly.

Maya (7:19 AM): “Oh, please. You’re trending AGAIN. #MysteryQueen is still going strong. Spill.”

Jess (7:20 AM): “You can’t brush this off. Coffee tonight after work, our usual spot. Don’t make me come to your place.”

You let out a soft laugh despite the tension knotting in your chest. Jess and Maya were relentless, but their concern came from a good place. They were your best friends—your constants in a world that felt increasingly chaotic.

Still, the guilt nagged at you. They were cheering for you, defending you, believing you were swept up in some whirlwind romance. And here you were, dodging their excitement with half-truths and carefully constructed vagueness.

You (7:22 AM): “Fine. Coffee tonight. But it’s really not as exciting as you think, ladies.”

Jess (7:23 AM): “We’ll be the judges of that.”

Maya (7:24 AM): “Don’t forget the juicy details. We need to know EVERYTHING.”

You set your phone down with a heavy sigh, your appetite fading as stress settled over you like an unwelcome houseguest. It wasn’t just the messages. It was the weight of everything that had piled up over the past few days.

You stirred your coffee absentmindedly, watching the liquid swirl. The events of the gala played on a loop in your mind, every moment amplified now that the media had latched onto you. And then there was Auston.

Had you really agreed to fake-date Auston Matthews, the Ice King himself? The words “Let’s do it” echoed in your mind, making you wince. What had possessed you?

You knew the answer: desperation.

Auston’s reasons were crystal clear. He wanted control over the narrative. He needed a way to silence the incessant speculation about his personal life. His pitch had been logical, almost clinical. And you, standing at the crossroads of your career, had agreed.

You rolled your eyes at the thought. If his biggest problem is dodging rumours about his love life, he’s got it easy.

Your problems felt heavier. Tangible. Your boss’s voice rang in your ears, his warnings cutting through your thoughts: “No distractions. No drama. No more headlines.” The gala had already pushed you to the edge of his patience. And now? Now you were willingly diving into a situation that could unravel everything you’d worked for.

But wasn’t this what you wanted? A chance to make your mark, to prove you weren’t just another cog in the machine? Maybe this was the universe’s way of throwing you a lifeline—wrapped in chaos, sure, but a lifeline, nonetheless.

Or maybe you were just grasping at straws.

You sighed, pushing your barely touched breakfast aside. The decision had been made. There was no turning back now. Auston had given you an option, and you’d taken it.

Your to-do list for the day felt overwhelming. Face your boss. Navigate the fallout. And later, coffee with Jess and Maya. They’d want answers—real ones, not the half-hearted deflections you’d been giving them.

You weren’t sure how much you could—or should—tell them. But one thing was certain: you needed to pull yourself together. Time was ticking, and the last thing you could afford was to let it all spiral out of control.

Auston Matthews awoke with nothing but a grin on his face. The kind of grin that wasn’t about a win or a goal, but about the sheer satisfaction of knowing he’d set the board perfectly for the game ahead. Sunlight filtered through his bedroom window, casting warm, golden rays across the room. Felix, his Australien Bernedoodle, was already wagging his tail eagerly, sensing that his human was in a particularly good mood.

“Alright, Snuff�� Auston muttered, stretching as he reached for the dog’s leash. “Let’s go.”

The grin stayed fixed on his face as he walked Felix through the quiet morning streets of Toronto, hidden just slightly under the brim of his cap. The rhythm of his steps matched the upbeat hum in his chest. Felix trotted ahead, pausing every so often to sniff a tree or a fire hydrant. Auston’s thoughts, however, were far from their usual pre-game routine.

You’d said yes. The moment replayed in his mind, not because he doubted it had happened, but because of the satisfying sense of control it gave him. You had agreed to his plan. Fake dating. It was genius, really. It ticked every box: no questions about his personal life, no endless media speculation about who he was seeing, and the cherry on top—it made him unavailable. Off the market. And if anything, it made him even more unattainable.

Felix barked once, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Alright, alright,” Auston chuckled, tugging the leash gently to keep his dog moving. “Don’t get too excited.”

Back at home, Felix flopped onto his dog bed with a satisfied huff while Auston grabbed his duffel bag and packed for the day. The grin still hadn’t faded. Tonight was a game night, and he had an away trip to Columbus. Normally, his thoughts would already be on the ice, visualising plays, but today his mind kept drifting back to you and the whirlwind of events from the past few days.

Auston wasn’t an idiot. He knew how the media worked. They’d dissect every glance, every move, every word exchanged between the two of you. That was the world he lived in—a world of scrutiny, where even his most mundane actions were twisted into headlines. And yet, for once, he didn’t mind. You weren’t like the others who had flitted through his orbit.

Most women in this position would’ve jumped at the chance to bask in the glow of his fame. But you? You seemed determined to avoid it entirely, almost as if the spotlight burned too bright for your liking. That was refreshing. It intrigued him. And maybe—just maybe—it was part of why this plan felt so right.

He paused mid-pack, considering for a moment if he should bring his PR manager into the loop. Ultimately, he decided against it. The man hadn’t even batted an eye at the first photo. For someone like Auston, these kinds of headlines were par for the course. A fake relationship wouldn’t even register as a blip on his radar. And besides, Auston didn’t want anyone meddling. This was his game, and he intended to play it his way.

His teammates? They didn’t need to know. Not yet, anyway. They’d complicate things with relentless teasing, and Auston wasn’t in the mood to deal with Mitch Marner’s inevitable barrage of questions. And his family? Absolutely not. All they needed to know was that he wasn’t available. End of story.

The airport was bustling with the usual pre-travel chaos. Players joked and jostled each other, tossing bags into overhead bins and making playful bets about who would score the first goal of the night. Auston moved through the commotion with his usual calm, but the grin remained—a subtle, smug reminder to himself that he had everything under control.

“Yo, Tony!” Mitch’s voice rang out as he flopped into the seat beside Auston. “What’s with the face? You win the lottery or something?”

Auston smirked, adjusting his noise-cancelling headphones. “Something like that.”

Mitch squinted at him suspiciously. “This have anything to do with the latest post? You know, the one that’s got X losing its mind?”

“Don’t start, Marner,” Auston replied, his voice even but amused.

“Oh, I’m starting,” Mitch said, leaning closer with a conspiratorial grin. “Come on, man. Spill. Who is she? I mean we know what she works with, but… She’s not another one of those random girls you keep fucking, is she?”

Auston sighed, pulling one side of his headphones down. “She’s just someone I’m getting to know. Relax.”

“Someone you’re getting to know?” Mitch echoed, his grin widening. “That’s all we get? Not even a compliment about her ass?”

“Drop it,” Auston said, though his tone lacked any real bite.

Across the aisle, William piped up. “If she’s just someone you’re getting to know, why’s she all over your social media? You’re usually better at keeping things under wraps.”

Auston shrugged, playing it cool. “She’s not all over my social media. That’s the media doing what they do.”

But Mitch wasn’t about to let it go. “You don’t talk about the other girls, but you’re dodging questions about her? That’s new.”

Auston shot him a look. “Maybe because it’s none of your business, Mitchy.”

The banter continued as the plane took off, Mitch throwing playful jabs from across the aisle and William chiming in with his usual teasing smirk. Auston brushed it off with ease, keeping his replies curt and nonchalant. But their questions lingered in his mind, nagging at the edges of his thoughts like a loose thread.

If his teammates were already this curious, what would happen when the media started digging deeper? And they would dig deeper. It wasn’t a matter of if but when. They’d dissect every detail, every inconsistency, every crack in the story. That’s when it hit him—he didn’t know enough about you. Not the kind of things that would make a fabricated relationship believable, at least.

Your favourite coffee order. Your go-to excuse for leaving a party early. The kind of music you liked to blast when no one else was around.

He needed to know something—anything—that could make this story feel authentic. His teammates might have been satisfied with the vague details he’d given them for now, but they nor the media wouldn’t let it slide. This had to look real. And for it to look real, he had to be able to talk about you like he’d known you for longer than a fleeting gala moment.

Auston leaned back in his seat, letting out a small breath. The team’s chatter faded into the background as he turned his focus inward. He’d have to talk to you, but it couldn’t feel forced. It had to be casual, natural. Just enough to set things straight and make sure the narrative stayed intact.

Satisfied with the plan forming in his mind, Auston allowed himself to relax, the familiar hum of the plane’s engines lulling him into a moment of calm. He adjusted his noise-cancelling headphones and gazed out the window as the city faded into the distance. The grin he’d worn all morning crept back onto his face, a mixture of confidence and anticipation.

This was going to work. It had to.

You might not realise it yet, but Auston Matthews had chosen you for a reason. You weren’t just a pawn in his game. You were the perfect partner in crime for the plan he was about to execute.

As you walked into the office, you held your chin high, shoulders back, just like Jess always encouraged during your frantic late-night phone calls. Her voice still echoed in your head: “Own it. Whatever you do, don’t let them see you sweat.” Easier said than done.

Your heels clicked against the polished floor with a rhythm that you hoped exuded confidence. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of the charade pressing against your chest. The office buzzed with its usual energy—keyboards clacking, phones ringing, snippets of conversations floating through the air. But today, the atmosphere seemed to hum with something sharper, something just shy of gossip. Again, you didn’t have to hear the whispers to know they were about you.

You felt their eyes on you as you passed, a few heads turning slightly as you walked by. It was subtle—an extra glance, a barely concealed smirk, a phone quickly tucked away as if you’d interrupted someone mid-scroll through the latest viral photos. You’d expected this, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Your phone vibrated in your bag, but you ignored it. No doubt Jess or Maya was checking in to remind you of your coffee date later. Or worse, your boss with a sharp-edged “we need to talk.” Neither option felt appealing.

By the time you reached your desk, the tension in your chest had settled into a dull ache. You sat down, carefully placing your bag at your feet, and took a steadying breath. The screen of your laptop glowed to life as you opened it, the familiar sight of your inbox providing a small sense of normalcy.

But even as you sifted through emails, your thoughts kept circling back to the lie you were living. You felt bad for keeping Jess and Maya in the dark. They were your best friends, your ride-or-die crew, the people who’d been there for you through every triumph and heartbreak. But you couldn’t risk telling them the truth.

What would happen if anyone found out? The question lingered in your mind like a persistent shadow. Even the smallest crack in the story you and Auston would be concocting could lead to an avalanche. If word got back to your boss that this wasn’t just an accidental photo op but a deliberate ruse? You didn’t even want to imagine the fallout.

So, you kept your cards close to your chest, smiling politely when a co-worker passed by, nodding along to the faint hum of office chatter. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Jess and Maya—it was that you didn't want to burden them with this. The stakes were too high. Or maybe, just maybe, you felt a bit embarrassed about having agreed to it?

For now, your best move was to stick to the plan: keep your head down, stay professional, and pray the whirlwind around you would eventually settle.

But as the day stretched on and the whispers persisted, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were walking a tightrope with no safety net.

During the workday, you did your best to stay under the radar, skirting through the office with a practiced air of nonchalance. Your strategy was simple: avoid your boss at all costs. Fortunately, his schedule was jam-packed with back-to-back meetings, giving you a much-needed buffer.

Still, you weren’t entirely off the hook. You’d barely rounded the corner when he appeared, laptop in hand, his expression sharp and unreadable.

“Y/N,” he called out, his tone clipped.

Your stomach flipped, but you kept your face neutral. “Good day, Mr. Manion.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Yes, well. Care to explain why half the office is suddenly fixated on some hockey romance conspiracy theories? Or why your face seems to be at the centre of it, again?”

You swallowed hard, scrambling for a response that sounded calm and collected. “Just media being media,” you said lightly, forcing a small shrug. “They’re spinning something out of nothing. It’ll die down soon enough.”

Manion stared at you for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as if he were trying to dissect the truth. “It better. We’ll discuss this later. My office, tomorrow morning. Or… when I have time for this mess.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you with the sinking feeling that you’d just delayed the inevitable.

The rest of the day dragged on in a blur of emails and half-hearted attempts at productivity. No matter how much you tried to focus, the looming conversation with your boss weighed heavily on your mind.

By the time the clock struck five, you were almost relieved to escape the office and head to the coffee shop where Jess and Maya were waiting.

The café was warm and bustling, the scent of freshly brewed espresso mingling with the faint sweetness of baked goods. Jess and Maya were already seated in the corner, their expressions a mix of curiosity and impatience as they spotted you walking in.

“Well, well,” Maya teased, her grin widening as you slid into the chair opposite her. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

Jess smirked, crossing her arms. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, Y/N. Spill. Now.”

You sighed, wrapping your hands around the mug the barista had just placed in front of you. “Please, calm down. It’s not as exciting as you think. I promise.”

“Bullshit,” Jess said bluntly. “You’re trending. You don’t just get to brush this off.”

Maya leaned in, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Come on. We’re your best friends. If you can’t tell us, who can you tell?”

There it was—the guilt. It crept into your chest like a cold weight, but you couldn’t let it show. You had to stick to the story.

“We met at the gala,” you began, keeping your voice as casual as possible. “He was… well, exactly how you’d expect. Arrogant, cocky, a total smartass.”

Jess arched a brow. “So, what? He just walked up to you and swept you off your feet?”

You hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Not exactly. I sort of… tripped, and he caught me. It was all very cliché.”

Maya gasped, her hands flying to her chest. “Like something out of a movie! I knew it!”

“It wasn’t like that,” you said quickly, laughing nervously. “He was just being polite. Honestly, I thought he’d forget about me the second I walked away.”

Jess tilted her head, her gaze sharp. “But he didn’t.”

You shook your head, taking a sip of your coffee to buy yourself a moment. “No, he didn’t. He’s been… persistent. But it’s not what you’re thinking. He’s not really my type.”

Maya’s jaw dropped. “Not your type? Are you serious? He’s Auston Matthews. Literal perfection.”

“Perfection isn’t exactly charming when it comes with an ego the size of the CN Tower,” you shot back, earning a laugh from Jess.

“Fair,” she said, smirking. “But don’t pretend you’re immune. Something about him must’ve worked if he’s got you responding.”

You shrugged, feigning indifference. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the media doing what it does best—blowing things out of proportion.”

Maya studied you for a moment, her expression softening. “You’re really into him, aren’t you?”

You nearly choked on your coffee. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

Jess leaned forward, her grin devilish. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not,” you protested, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrayed you.

The conversation continued, a whirlwind of teasing and speculation, but you managed to hold your ground, weaving just enough truth into your story to keep them from digging deeper. By the time you left the café, your nerves were frayed, but at least you’d survived the first round of questions.

As you stepped into the cool night air, you couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that this was only the beginning.

The training rink in Columbus carried the usual buzz of pre-game preparation: the slap of pucks against the boards, the hum of skates carving into the ice, and the low murmur of coaches directing drills. But something about the energy felt off. Auston could sense it in the way passes missed by inches and shots rang off the crossbar instead of finding the back of the net.

The Leafs were coming off a high, but the weight of expectations clung to the team like an anchor. By the time practice wrapped up, the locker room was filled with subdued chatter, players trying to shake off the tension as they prepared for the night’s game.

Auston, ever the focal point, felt the weight more than most. Captaincy wasn’t just about leading on the ice—it was about carrying the team’s hopes and shielding them from criticism when things went sideways. And tonight, things went very sideways.

The game was a mess from start to finish. Columbus exploited every crack in the Leafs’ defence, while Toronto’s offense sputtered, unable to capitalise on power plays or momentum. Auston had his moments—a slick assist here, a near-miss there—but it wasn’t enough. By the time the final buzzer sounded, the scoreboard told the story: a 4-1 loss.

Auston’s jaw tightened as he skated off the ice, his grip on his stick like a vice. The locker room was eerily quiet post-game, the usual camaraderie replaced with a heavy silence. Players peeled off their gear in near silence, a few murmuring frustrations under their breath. Auston exchanged a few words with the coaches, but the sting of defeat lingered long after he left the rink.

Back at the hotel, the air in Auston’s room felt heavy—thick with the weight of the night’s loss and the expectations that always seemed to grow louder in defeat. He sat on the edge of the bed, his duffel bag still untouched by the door, scrolling aimlessly through his phone.

Down the hall, his teammates were decompressing in their own ways—some glued to their gaming consoles, others nursing quiet drinks in the lounge—but none of those options appealed to him. Auston’s frustration needed a different outlet.

Without much thought, he opened his DMs, the endless flood of messages a familiar distraction. His name was a magnet, his inbox teeming with invitations, compliments, and the occasional overly bold proposition. One message caught his eye—a familiar face from Columbus. They’d met on a previous trip, a fleeting encounter that left no lasting impression, which was exactly what he needed now.

Auston: “In town for the night. What’s up?”

Her: “Still waiting for you to call. Thought you forgot about me ;)”

Auston: “Never.”

The exchange was simple, transactional, and within the hour, she was knocking on his door.

Auston opened it, leaning casually against the frame. His expression was unreadable, save for the faint smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. She smiled up at him, dressed to impress—or undress. As always, no pleasantries were exchanged; none were necessary. She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her, sealing off the outside world.

It was exactly what Auston needed—a reprieve from the relentless noise in his head. She was eager, uncomplicated, and predictable, offering a distraction that required nothing from him emotionally. He let himself sink into the physicality of it, her hands trailing across his chest as she whispered something flirtatious. But her words barely registered. His thoughts were elsewhere.

They were on the ice, replaying the game in relentless detail: the missed chances, the failed plays, the sting of another loss. They drifted to the media frenzy surrounding his so-called “Mystery Queen” and the elaborate charade he was now orchestrating with you. No matter how much he tried to focus on the present, the weight of everything he was juggling refused to let go.

Still, he allowed her to take the lead, lying back as she straddled him with practiced confidence. The friction, the heat, the rhythm—it was enough to stoke his hardening member. She felt good, but it was a fleeting, surface-level pleasure. The connection was purely physical, and Auston was fine with that.

Her fingers dug into his chest, as she rode him expertly. Auston felt his climax slowly building, her tight cunt wrapped so neatly around his throbbing cock. He didn’t need more than this. Shutting his eyes he could imagine her to be anyone he’d like. His mind wandered as he heard himself let out a moan. She was good to him, picking up her pace as she too chased her own high.

Her moans filled the room, crescendoing as she announced her climax with exaggerated fervour. Auston stayed silent, his body tense beneath her, waiting for the moment to pass. And when she slumped forward, her chest rising and falling against his, he decided to take control in order to reach the rush.

Flipping her onto her back, he moved with renewed intensity, chasing his own release. His hips slammed against hers in a steady, unrelenting rhythm. His fingers clenched the sheets as he gave up holding back. He was merciless. Ruthless. Her cries of his name echoed in his ears, a mantra that boosted his ego but did little to penetrate the hollow space inside him.

And when his climax finally hit, it was like a tidal wave, crashing through him with a force that left him momentarily breathless. His low, guttural grunt filled the air as he spilled into the condom, his movements slowing until they finally stopped.

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for their heavy breathing. She brushed her fingers through his hair, her touch lingering as though she hoped it might spark something deeper. But Auston rolled away, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. The message was clear, though unspoken.

So, within minutes, she was dressed, smoothing her hair and offering a coy smile as she slung her bag over her shoulder. “See you around,” she said lightly, though they both knew she wouldn’t.

“Yeah,” Auston replied, his tone indifferent as he closed the door behind her. The lock clicked, and just like that, she was gone.

He sank back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as the hollow feeling settled in—a familiar, unwelcome companion. The release had been satisfying enough, but it hadn’t erased the gnawing frustration or the pressure weighing on his shoulders. It never did.

His phone buzzed again, and he glanced at the screen. Notifications flooded in: highlights from the game, speculative articles dissecting the team’s loss, and the ever-present hashtag: #MysteryQueen.

A small, wry smirk tugged at his lips despite himself. The plan was working, and that was something. For all the chaos, for all the noise, the narrative was moving exactly as he’d intended. Now all he had to do was keep it that way.

He set his phone back on the nightstand and let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. Tomorrow, he’d regroup. Tomorrow, he’d strategise with you, fine-tune the story you were selling. For tonight, survival was enough.

As exhaustion finally crept in, Auston closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting to you once more. You weren’t like the others—too smart, too grounded to fall for someone like him. That was part of the appeal, he realised. You weren’t here for him, not really. And maybe that made you the most intriguing person he’d met in a long time.

But that was a problem for another day. Tonight, all that mattered was that the noise had faded, if only for a moment.

“Oh, Toronto, isn’t it fascinating how our beloved Ice King chooses to thaw? While the Leafs are licking their wounds after a tough night in Columbus, it seems Auston Matthews is sticking to his tried-and-true method of post-game ‘recovery.’ Word on the street—or rather, whispers through the grapevine—suggests that our captain might not be as unavailable as the Mystery Queen narrative wants us to believe. Curious, isn’t it?

But here’s the thing, dear readers—there’s always more beneath the surface. Matthews might play the media like a maestro, but even the best orchestrations can hit a sour note. Will the cracks start to show? Or will our Ice King’s dual life—both on and off the rink—continue to skate by unscathed?

As for his Mystery Queen? One has to wonder how she fits into this symphony of appearances. Is she just another carefully placed pawn in Auston’s game, or is there something more stirring beneath the headlines?

For now, Toronto, we’re left with a tantalising mix of speculation and intrigue. The season is still young, and the drama is only just beginning. - The Benchwarmer”

Wednesday -

Auston tried to enjoy the breakfast with his teammates. A hotel was a part of their routines, yet it never truly felt like home. His phone buzzed relentlessly with notifications, but one headline in particular caught his eye: “The Ice King’s Double Life? Drama Heats Up Around Toronto’s Star Captain and His #MysteryQueen.”

Auston clicked the link and was greeted by The Benchwarmer’s latest post. The commentary was sharp, hinting at cracks in his narrative and questioning whether the supposed romance with you was genuine—or just another fleeting distraction. The subtext was clear: his actions in Columbus hadn’t gone unnoticed.

He let out a groan, running a hand down his face. Reckless, Matthews. Really reckless. Sure, the plan with you was still in its infancy, but if this was going to work, it needed direction—intent. Otherwise, it would just look like every other shallow story he’d been a part of.

He needed to fix this. Fast.

Grabbing his phone, Auston scrolled to your contact—“PR Genius”—and fired off a quick text.

Auston: “Coffee today? We need to strategize.”

You: “Agreed. When and where?”

Auston: “3 PM. A café on Yonge. I’ll message the address later. Bring your game face.”

As the message was sent, Auston stared at the screen for a moment longer. This wasn’t just about keeping the media at bay—it was about keeping you on his side. If this plan unravelled, it would take both of you down with it.

A bit further North, your morning was no less chaotic than Auston’s. Jess, ever the early riser, was already on fire by the time your phone buzzed with the first notification.

Jess (7:15 AM): “HOW DARE HE???”

Maya (7:16 AM): “Is he seriously doing this to you? I’m ready to slash some tires.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, even as you groaned at their intensity. To them, it was a betrayal of epic proportions. To you, it was just another complication in the tangled web of your arrangement with Auston. But how could they know that? All they saw was a man seemingly toying with your feelings, and as your best friends, they were ready to go to war on your behalf.

You (7:18 AM): “Guys, relax. It’s not like we’re official or anything.”

Maya (7:19 AM): “Not official?! You’re trending as #MysteryQueen, Y/N! That’s practically a royal engagement!”

Jess (7:20 AM): “I swear, if he breaks your heart… bad things will happen!”

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head at their over-the-top reactions. It was sweet how protective they were, but you couldn’t let them spiral into full-blown outrage.

You (7:22 AM): “Look, it’s still early. He can do whatever he wants—we haven’t even been on a real date yet.”

The group chat fell silent for a moment, long enough for you to think maybe they’d finally let it go. But Jess’s response proved otherwise.

Jess (7:30 AM): “Fine. But he better get his shit together, or I’m hunting him down.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately, setting your phone down as you leaned back in your chair with a sigh. Jess and Maya were reacting the way anyone would if they thought their friend was being strung along. You couldn’t exactly blame them for jumping to conclusions—it wasn’t like they knew the truth.

Still, it left you with a heavy feeling you couldn’t quite shake. Sure, you weren’t dating Auston—not really. But even you couldn’t ignore how bad it looked. His actions might not have stung personally, but they made everything feel messier, more complicated. You were suddenly questioning whether this whole arrangement was as foolproof as he’d made it seem.

You stared into your half-empty coffee mug, the quiet of your kitchen contrasting sharply with the chaos in your head. By now, the plan you and Auston had agreed on felt more like a house of cards, ready to collapse at the slightest push.

The afternoon coffee with him couldn’t come soon enough. If this ridiculous plan was going to work, you needed to lay everything out on the table and get on the same page—and fast.

The coffee shop was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon when you arrived, your workday still clinging to you in the form of a slight tension in your shoulders. You pushed open the door, letting the comforting aroma of roasted beans and the soft murmur of conversation wash over you. The café was the perfect midpoint between your home and Auston’s—a cosy, unassuming spot where you could blend in without drawing too much attention.

You spotted him immediately, leaning casually against the counter, waiting for his order. He was dressed in dark jeans and a simple hoodie, a baseball cap pulled low over his face. Felix, his ever-loyal best friend, sat patiently by his side, drawing a few admiring glances from other patrons. Auston, as always, looked like he belonged anywhere and nowhere at once, exuding an ease that made people take notice without realising they were doing so.

Auston caught sight of you as the barista handed him his drink. He gave you a quick nod, that trademark smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Hey,” he greeted as you approached. “Long day?”

“You could say that,” you replied, offering a small smile as you ordered your coffee.

As Auston watched you at the counter, his gaze lingered longer than he’d intended. You were dressed in your workday attire—professional yet effortless, like you hadn’t spent a second longer than necessary pulling yourself together. But it was the way you carried yourself that intrigued him. Even with the slight tension in your shoulders, there was a quiet determination in your movements, a resilience that he couldn’t help but notice.

Once you had your drinks, you stepped outside, where Felix immediately perked up, tail wagging enthusiastically. “He’s got more energy than I do,” you said, watching the dog sniff at a nearby patch of grass.

“Good thing he burns it off fast,” Auston replied, handing you Felix’s leash with an easy confidence that caught you off guard. “Here, you take him for a bit.”

“Me?” You stared at the leash, then at Felix, who was now looking at you with expectant eyes.

“Yeah, you,” Auston said, his grin widening. “It’s not that hard. Just don’t let him drag you into traffic.”

You rolled your eyes but took the leash, letting Felix lead the way as the three of you started down the quiet street. Auston glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, amused by the way you held the leash like it might bite you. Despite your initial awkwardness, he had a feeling Felix would win you over in no time.

“You’re stiff,” Auston said after a few moments, his tone casual but observant. “Relax. It’s just a walk.”

“It’s not just a walk,” you muttered, glancing around. “There are probably a dozen people ready to take a picture right now.”

“And what if there are?” He shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

You huffed but didn’t argue. He wasn’t wrong. Still, the weight of being “seen” felt heavier than you’d anticipated.

“You’re overthinking it,” Auston said after a moment. “We’re just two people, walking a dog. Act like it.”

“I’m trying,” you shot back, but the edge in your voice made him smirk.

“Try harder,” he teased.

As Felix tugged you toward a nearby lamppost, Auston found himself studying you again. You didn’t fit the mold of the people who usually surrounded him. There was no pretense, no calculated charm. You were genuine—maybe to a fault, given how uncomfortable you seemed in the spotlight. He found it oddly refreshing.

“He’s really into this whole sniffing thing,” you said, changing the subject as Felix investigated another patch of grass.

“He’s thorough,” Auston said with a chuckle. “Doesn’t miss a single blade of grass.”

The light banter helped ease the awkwardness, and soon, the conversation shifted to more neutral topics. He asked about your day, and to his surprise, you opened up with a candid rundown of your work. You asked him about his travel schedule and the demands of his career, your questions more thoughtful than the usual superficial ones he was used to. And for the first time in a while, he felt like someone was genuinely interested in him, not the player or the famous persona.

“You’re used to it, though, right?” you asked. “The attention?”

“Yeah,” he said, his tone almost dismissive. “It comes with the job. You get good at tuning it out.”

“Must be nice,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

He caught it anyway. “You’ll get there,” he said simply.

You raised an eyebrow. “You sound awfully confident.”

He smirked. “Someone has to be.”

The conversation gradually turned more personal as you walked, Felix weaving between the two of you. Auston told you about growing up in Scottsdale, his early days in hockey, and how he adjusted to life in Toronto. In return, you shared snippets of your own life—your family, your job, your goals.

Yet, as you spoke, Auston couldn’t help but notice how you deflected any kind of praise. If he complimented your work ethic, you’d shrug it off. If he mentioned your ambition, you’d redirect the conversation. It was clear you weren’t comfortable taking credit for your own strengths, and that baffled him. In his world, confidence was currency, and yours seemed to be in short supply.

By the time you circled back toward the coffee shop, the awkwardness from earlier had all but evaporated. Felix was panting happily, his energy finally burned off, and you felt a little lighter too.

As you handed the leash back to Auston, he gave you a considering look. “You should come to the game tomorrow.”

“The home game?” you asked, caught off guard.

“Yeah,” he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re supposed to be my…” He trailed off, his smirk turning playful. “It’ll look good. You know, for the act.”

You hesitated, unsure, but he pressed on. “Come on. VIP seats, good company. What’s there to think about?”

You rolled your eyes but found yourself nodding. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

“Good,” he said, pulling Felix closer as he grinned down at you. “And don’t forget your game face.”

As he walked away, Auston couldn’t help but glance back, his thoughts lingering on you longer than he expected. For all your insecurities, there was something undeniably compelling about you. This arrangement might have started as a strategy, but he was beginning to wonder if it could be something else too.

“Oh, Toronto. What a tangled web our Ice King is weaving. One moment he’s dominating the ice (or, well, trying to), and the next, he’s walking through the city with his Mystery Queen by his side—dog in tow, coffee in hand, and cameras lurking around every corner.

It’s a scene straight out of a romance novel: casual smiles, shared laughs, and the kind of chemistry that can’t be ignored (even if it’s staged, we see you, Matthews). Yet, there’s something undeniably intriguing about this pairing. She’s poised, seemingly unbothered by the chaos surrounding him, and he? Well, let’s just say he doesn’t seem to mind the added spotlight when she’s in the frame.

But don’t get too comfortable, dear readers. There are cracks in every façade, and this one is no exception. The whispers in the hockey world are growing louder, and if there’s one thing we know, it’s that the truth has a funny way of coming to light—especially when the stakes are this high.

So, what’s the endgame here? Is this truly a strategic pairing, or are we witnessing the beginning of something that neither of them saw coming? Whatever the answer, you can bet your last sip of Tim’s coffee that I’ll be here to spill the tea.

Until next time, Toronto. Keep your eyes on the ice—and the streets. The season is young, and this story is just getting started.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”

#The Benchwarmer #inexperienced!reader x Auston #auston matthews fanfic #Toronto maple leafs fanfic #nhl fanfiction #nhl romance #nhl imagines

130 notes · View notes

ryomenslvr · 13 days ago

Text

faculty

kento nanami x fem!reader

synopsis: MDNI! when two teachers at jujutsu high are assigned to work more closely together, totally not because of two certain students, a slow-burning connection begins to stir.

content warnings: smut, fingering, breast play, groping, penetration, dirty talk

a/n: this is my first smut, i honestly feel like i rushed it 😭 if there are any grammar mistakes, pls let me know!!!

The bell rang, sharp and clear.

Students spilled into the corridors of Jujutsu High in a blur of voices, backpacks, and half-eaten breakfast bars. The floor trembled faintly with the thunder of their footsteps, the usual morning stampede before class.

Kento Nanami stood beside his office window, coffee in hand, watching the movement through the glass pane as if he were separate from it all.

His door hung slightly ajar, the scent of dark roast wafting out in soft curls. The mug was warm in his hand, fingers curled with exact, almost ceremonial precision around the handle.

He adjusted his tie. Precise, practiced. A routine rooted in comfort. Another day of teaching economics to students who would rather be anywhere else. Predictable. Structured. He liked it that way. Structure made sense. It didn’t lie.

A rustle in the hallway made his eyes flicker.

You passed by his door, the shuffle of papers under your arm preceding your presence. Your stride was confident, casual. You wore the weight of the day lightly, like it had never occurred to you to be anything but composed.

“Morning, Mr. Nanami,” you said with a soft hum of a voice that caught him slightly off guard every time. Smooth and warm like something meant for late evenings, not chaotic mornings.

He straightened instinctively. “Good morning,” he replied, voice level. A small nod.

Your eyes flicked to the desk behind him, then back to his face. “Rough morning already?”

He followed your gaze. “Just… paperwork.” His tone was flat, but there was something almost sheepish in the way he gestured toward the neatly stacked files on his desk. Even his chaos was organized.

You smiled. Quick, genuine, a little crooked. “Story of our lives,” you murmured.

Then you kept walking.

Your footsteps echoed down the hallway, soft but steady.

Nanami didn’t move for a moment. He just watched your retreating form, brows furrowed faintly. That flicker. That brief, unwelcome warmth in his chest, had returned. Fleeting. Dangerous.

He took another sip of his coffee. It had cooled faster than expected. “Focus, Nanami,” he muttered under his breath, as if scolding a student.

This was not the time. Not the place. He had already walked through fire and grief once. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to chase warmth again.

But still… he turned his eyes toward the hallway just a second longer.

And for a man who lived by clean lines and boundaries, that second was its own kind of confession.

Yuji Itadori stretched in his desk, arms flung dramatically behind his head, back cracking like popcorn. Second period had barely started, and already, he was vibrating with restless energy.

He was a first-year student. He loved PE. He loved lunch. And, perhaps most of all, he loved people-watching. Especially when the people in question were his favorite pair of emotionally constipated adults.

His eyes drifted to the front of the classroom where you and Nanami were mid-discussion over a shared clipboard. You were leaning in slightly, your expression calm, friendly, entirely unaware of the tension that came off Nanami like heat from asphalt. He stood perfectly still, hands behind his back, but his eyes flickered to you just a little too often to be casual.

Yuji sighed dreamily. “They’re doing it again.”

Nobara Kugisaki didn’t look up from her compact mirror, where she was adjusting her mascara with the precision of a trained sniper. “Still staring, moron?” she asked without missing a beat.

“They’re so dense, Nobara!” Yuji whispered dramatically, inching his desk closer to hers. “He looks at her like she’s the last piece of milk bread. She smiles at him like he just gave her a puppy. How do they not know?”

In front of them, Megumi Fushiguro twirled a pen between his fingers. His other hand rested against his cheek, posture slouched but still somehow intimidating.

“Who cares?” he muttered.

Yuji gasped. “We care, Megumi. This is romance! This is history! This is—”

“Painful,” Nobara cut in. She snapped her compact shut and turned to face them properly. “It’s like watching two snails try to pass each other on a highway. One’s too professional, the other’s too nice, and neither of them knows how to initiate a damn conversation that doesn’t involve spreadsheets or coffee brands.”

Megumi muttered something that sounded like “tragic” but was muffled by his sleeve.

Yuji leaned in, eyes gleaming with barely suppressed chaos. “So what’s the plan?”

Nobara’s grin spread slow and wicked across her face. “We make it impossible for them to keep ignoring it.”

Megumi sighed. Loudly. “I’m not helping.”

Yuji was already scribbling something in his notebook. “Operation Get-Your-Shit-Together: Phase One.”

Megumi groaned. “Please rename that.”

But Yuji didn’t hear him. He was too busy drawing a very enthusiastic diagram involving heart-shaped arrows, an exaggerated stick-figure Nanami wearing a tie, and you drawn with sparkles around your head.

Megumi rubbed his temples. “This is ridiculous.”

“Romantic,” Yuji corrected.

“Tragic,” Megumi insisted again.

“Necessary,” Nobara said, already plotting.

And as the bell rang again and the lesson began, none of the teachers at the front had any idea that the chaos in the back row had just set a very meddling plan in motion.

The slowest-burning romance in Jujutsu High was about to get a very deliberate nudge.

A week later, Nanami arrived at his desk just after lunch, expecting a few quiet hours to grade assignments and refine lecture notes. Instead, a crisp sheet of paper greeted him, centered neatly on his otherwise immaculate desk.

Revised Schedule: 2:00 PM – Joint Curriculum Meeting Room 3A

Nanami blinked once, then twice. His gaze lingered on the name beside his.

His planning period… replaced? With this? With you?

No prior warning. No memo in his inbox. No announcement in the staff group chat. Just a mysteriously restructured schedule and one shared meeting with the person who had been hovering at the edges of his thoughts all week.

He stared at the paper a moment longer, then stood and straightened his tie with practiced precision. Whatever this was, he’d face it head-on.

The staff room was quiet, its fluorescent lights humming gently overhead. And there you were, already inside.

You stood near the whiteboard, sketching something quickly but thoughtfully. A diagram. Clean lines, arrows, a labeled timeline. It looked like the breakdown of a historical event, possibly for your literature class. Your brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the cap of the marker tucked between your fingers.

Your hair caught the late afternoon light streaming in from the tall windows, giving it a faint glow. Nanami hesitated for a half-second at the threshold, something tight shifting in his chest.

Then he spoke, his voice low and even. “Afternoon.”

You turned, surprised but pleased. “Oh! Kento. You got the memo too? About this… joint meeting?”

“I did.” His tone was neutral, but his eyebrow twitched. “Odd that no one mentioned it.”

“Very odd,” you agreed, glancing around. “I assumed it was a scheduling error. But maybe it’s real?”

“If it is,” he said, pulling out a chair across from you, “it’s the most unannounced meeting I’ve ever attended.”

The table between you was narrow. As he sat, your knees almost brushed beneath it. He noticed, of course he noticed. The space was small, but it felt like the air between you had been compressed tighter than ever.

He ignored the heat climbing the back of his neck.

You leaned forward slightly, tapping your marker against the table. “So… any idea what this collaboration is supposed to look like?”

Nanami exhaled softly, his voice flat with dry humor. “The word ‘collaborate’ often precedes poorly defined objectives and forced mingling.”

You laughed, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the dull hum of the room like light through a cloud. It was genuine, and it made something in his chest stir in a way that was becoming alarmingly familiar.

“Well, I’m open to ideas,” you said with a shrug, settling into your chair.

He nodded once, taking out his own folder, though it was more for composure than necessity.

You reached for a second marker, your fingers brushing his by accident.

A spark, subtle, but real, jumped between your skin and his.

Nanami froze. It wasn’t the contact that startled him, but his reaction to it. A reflexive pull, like he’d touched something dangerously warm.

He drew his hand back immediately, murmuring, “Apologies.”

But you were just as flustered. “No, no! Mine. I wasn’t watching.”

There was a slight pinkness in your cheeks now. You didn’t quite meet his eyes as you uncapped the marker.

For a few moments, the only sound was the squeak of ink on the board and the faint shuffle of papers. The meeting, if it could even be called that, drifted into a rhythm. You talked about interdisciplinary units, finding ways to tie literature to economics, themes of value, of labor, of scarcity in human decisions and relationships.

And Nanami was surprised by how natural it felt. Too natural.

He found himself actually talking, not just responding. His usual terseness softened, his words carried by a genuine interest in what you had to say. Your thoughts were sharp, layered with quiet wit and insight, and he found himself leaning in without realizing it.

At some point, you laughed again, something about some silly fictional character, and he looked up, truly looked.

The curve of your jaw when you smiled. The way your eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. There was something careful in your posture, but open too, like you were hoping, quietly, that he might see more than just the surface.

And he did.

Too well.

He looked away quickly, gaze returning to the page in front of him like it held answers to questions he hadn’t yet asked himself.

He cleared his throat. “You’re surprisingly good at merging disciplines.”

You smiled, softer now. “You’re surprisingly fun to talk to, Mr. Nanami.”

His fingers twitched slightly.

The meeting wound down. The sun dipped lower behind the windows, casting long shadows across the table. No one came to check on them. No administrator arrived to explain the scheduling mix-up.

By the end, Nanami was convinced of two things.

One: This meeting was never officially scheduled. And two: It was the most important hour he’d spent in months.

As he gathered his papers, your voice stopped him. “Same time next week?”

His eyes met yours. Steady. Searching. “Yes,” he said, after a beat. “That would be… acceptable.”

You smiled again, that same soft curve that tugged at something beneath his ribs.

And for the first time in a long time, Nanami Kento walked out of a meeting feeling like something had shifted. Slightly. Delicately. But unmistakably.

Something was beginning.

Yuji burst into the classroom, a triumphant glint in his eyes, practically vibrating with excitement. He slid into his seat beside Nobara, nearly knocking over her iced latte in the process.

“Nobara,” he whispered like he was delivering state secrets. “Phase one worked!”

She looked up from her mirror, where she’d been adjusting her eyeliner with lethal precision. “The ‘joint meeting’?”

He nodded eagerly, chest puffed out. “Yup. Alone in the staff room for a full hour. Together. Just the two of them.”

She leaned forward. “And?”

Yuji deflated like a balloon. “And they just talked about… school stuff. Curriculum. Lesson plans. Budgeting time for learning or whatever. No sparks. No tension. Not even an accidental hand touch, unless they’re super stealthy about it.” He buried his head in his arms. “They’re hopeless. I’m losing faith.”

Nobara scoffed and flicked him on the back of the head. “Amateur.”

“Ow!”

“Patience, grasshopper,” she said with a knowing smile, fixing her hair like she was plotting world domination. “One meeting isn’t enough. We’re dealing with the two most unknowingly lovestruck idiots on the planet. They need a little… push.”

Yuji lifted his head slowly, cautiously hopeful. “You have a plan?”

“Oh, I have several.” Her grin widened, dangerous and dazzling. “Phase two: accidental intimacy. Bumping into each other in cramped spaces. Subtle romantic ambiance. Forced proximity. All the classics.”

Yuji blinked. “Like… making them get stuck in a supply closet together?”

“Too cliché,” she said, wagging a finger. “We’re aiming for tasteful drama, not sitcom nonsense. Maybe a shared tutoring session where they have to sit close. Dim lighting. One chair too few. That sort of thing.”

Megumi, who had been minding his own business by his locker but clearly eavesdropping the whole time, let out a long, suffering sigh.

“You two are insane,” he said without turning around.

“We prefer the term ‘emotionally invested,’” Nobara replied smoothly, pulling out a notebook titled Operation: Get Nanami Laid in bold pink letters.

Yuji giggled. “Can we please call it that officially?”

Megumi finally turned, arms crossed. “You know this is completely unnecessary, right? If they’re going to figure it out, they will. Without all of… this.”

“You say that,” Nobara said, eyes narrowing at him, “but last week you were the one who said they had ‘palpable tension’ after they walked out of the library together.”

Megumi flushed slightly. “I meant that in a general sense.”

Yuji beamed. “Which means you noticed! You care!”

Megumi groaned and slammed his locker shut harder than necessary. “I care about not getting roped into whatever weird rom-com scheme you two are cooking up.”

“Too late,” Nobara called sweetly as he walked away. “You’re already emotionally compromised.”

Yuji leaned toward her, eyes gleaming. “So, what’s next? When do we launch Phase Two?”

She flipped open her notebook, already outlining diagrams and contingency plans like a seasoned general preparing for war.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Right before lunch.”

And with that, the next phase of their ridiculous, well-meaning meddling was set into motion.

The copy machine wheezed like it was on its last breath, then made a sound that could only be described as mechanical agony. You groaned, hands buried in its insides as it spat out wrinkled, half-burned paper.

“Seriously? Again?” you muttered, yanking on a sheet that had welded itself halfway into the feeder.

A shadow stretched across the floor. You glanced up.

Nanami stood there, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, tie perfectly knotted despite the late hour, and that ever-serious expression resting on his face like a well-worn accessory.

“Need assistance?” he asked in his low, even voice.

You slumped against the machine in mock despair. “Please, for the love of all that is quiet. This machine is possessed. I think it actually growled at me.”

He blinked once. “Unlikely. But I’ll take your word for it.”

Without another word, he crouched beside you, unbothered by the cramped space. His knees brushed yours. You tried not to notice. Tried not to lean back into the warmth radiating from his body. You failed.

The scent of his cologne drifted toward you, warm cedarwood and something deeper, like ink and stormclouds. He smelled like how he looked. Sharp, clean, grounded.

You had your hand on a stubborn strip of paper, fingers caught mid-tug. Nanami reached forward to inspect the same jam, and his hand covered yours. Not just touched, covered. His palm was warm and solid, and the moment his skin met yours, your breath caught.

His thumb grazed across your knuckles, unintentionally, or perhaps not. A shiver darted up your spine. The copy room suddenly felt too small. Too still. The buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead dulled into background haze.

Nanami paused.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes. They were focused, not in the way he usually zeroed in on disobedient students, but in a quieter, almost stunned kind of way. Like he hadn’t meant to touch you, but now that he had, he didn’t quite know how to move away.

You were so close now. Too close.

He noticed the soft curve of your lips, the quick, shallow breaths. He felt a slow, dangerous pull toward you, an ache to bridge the gap, to taste the silence that bloomed in the space between your mouths.

Your lips parted slightly, as if in invitation.

And then…

“Got it,” he said, voice just a touch lower than usual. He tugged the crumpled page free, releasing your hand at last. The jam surrendered with a final, spiteful click.

You blinked, dazed. “Oh. That’s… good. Thank you, Kento. You’re a lifesaver.”

He stood immediately, straightening his jacket with clinical precision. “It was nothing,” he replied, eyes fixed firmly on the copy machine and not on your face.

But you both felt it.

That something.

Your fingers still tingled where his hand had touched them.

He glanced down, just once, and saw the flush creeping along your collarbone, rising up your neck. His own face warmed in response, a rare crack in his practiced composure.

“Well,” you said awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck, “if this machine comes back from the dead again, I’ll know who to call.”

He cleared his throat, his mouth holding a very faint smile. “Let’s hope it doesn’t require an exorcism.”

You laughed, a short, breathy sound, and gathered the now unwrinkled papers. Your fingers brushed his again when he handed you the last sheet. This time, he didn’t move away as quickly.

And when you finally left the room, the air still buzzing faintly between you, Nanami stayed behind for a moment longer, staring at the empty space you’d just occupied.

He pressed a hand to the back of his neck, exhaled slowly, and muttered under his breath.

“…Beautiful.”

The school festival. A chaotic, vibrant day filled with music, laughter, and the scent of fried snacks lingering in the air. Nanami Kento disliked chaos. It grated against the carefully constructed rhythms of his life. Yet here he was, assigned to the snack stand.

And so were you.

“It smells like burnt sugar,” he muttered, slipping an apron over his shirt and tie. It clashed with his usual businesslike appearance, and yet, strangely, it suited him.

You turned toward him with a sheepish grin. “That’s me. I tried making takoyaki. It ended… badly.” You held up the pan in question, charred and very much beyond saving.

He allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch. “I’ll handle the fryer.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” You wiped your hands on your apron, smearing flour over the fabric. He noticed the way your hair was styled, a few strands clinging to your temple. You looked flushed, bright-eyed, alive.

He forced his gaze away.

The stand was soon mobbed by students. A dozen voices calling out orders at once. Then… chaos. The fryer sputtered violently. Oil bubbled and leapt toward the edge.

Nanami reacted on instinct. “Careful!” he barked, stepping in.

You flinched at the sound, and then froze as his arm slid behind your back, steadying both you and the fryer. He stood behind you now, pressed closer than propriety allowed. His body warm, steady. Your back molded to his chest. Your hands trembled slightly as he reached forward, flicking off the fryer switch. His other hand remained flat against your lower back. Protective.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice low and firm near your ear.

You nodded, but the motion was shallow. “Y-yeah.” The heat between you wasn’t just from the fryer anymore.

You could hear his breath, steady and close. Could feel the strength in his arms, the quiet calm he exuded even under pressure. He didn’t move right away. Neither did you.

Your eyes met when you turned your head. His were darker than usual, like honey thickened with rain. He was looking at you as if he were trying to memorize something. Like this moment was dangerous, but necessary.

Then, reluctantly, he stepped back.

“We should clean this up,” he said, his voice rougher than before.

You nodded wordlessly. The words wouldn’t come.

Across the quad, Yuji nearly spilled his mochi. “Did you see that?!”

Nobara grabbed his arm. “Yuji. That was not just a hug. That was practically foreplay.”

Megumi, still chewing, didn’t even look up. “You two need therapy.”

Later that evening, the lights were dimming. Students had gone. Only the faint glow of lanterns remained, casting soft golden hues across the empty festival grounds. You and Nanami were back in the staff room, cleaning up what was left.

Plates clinked. Chairs scraped. But it was quiet. Too quiet.

You stood on your toes, trying to place the last stack of cleaned plates on the top shelf. It was just out of reach.

Then warmth. A presence at your back.

Nanami stepped behind you, his body brushing yours. Not quite touching. Not entirely distant.

“I’ve got it,” he murmured.

You froze as his arm reached up, his torso pressing gently against your back for balance. His other hand came to rest beside your waist, steadying you. You could feel him. Solid, real, quietly powerful. His scent lingered. Something clean, woodsy. Unmistakably him.

His hand brushed yours as he set the plates down. Your fingers curled instinctively. He didn’t pull away immediately.

Instead, his palm lightly cupped your waist. Reassuring. Protective. There was no pressure, but there was intent.

You turned your head. His face was so close. The faintest brush of his jaw against your cheek. His lips hovered, uncertain, mere inches from yours.

The air thickened. Every breath was shared. Every thought dissolved into feeling.

“Kento…” you whispered. A question. A confession. A breath.

His hand tightened slightly. His head dipped.

Then—

Clatter.

The mop bucket slammed against the doorframe.

Nanami practically jumped back. His hand vanished. His composure shattered for just a second.

Megumi stood there, bucket in one hand, mop in the other.

“…Just cleaning,” he said flatly.

You turned, face burning.

Nanami, for once, looked entirely lost. “Of course. Cleaning.”

Megumi gave them a slow, unimpressed glance. “Don’t let me interrupt your… shelving.”

Then he walked away.

You and Nanami stood there. Silent. The moment gone, but not forgotten.

Your eyes met again. And this time, even without words, the tension remained unchanged. Unresolved. But undeniably mutual.

The next morning, Nanami sat alone in his office. The golden morning light streamed through the blinds, striping his desk in warm lines. But the warmth did little to quiet the echo of last night.

He hadn’t slept well. Not from nightmares, but from memory.

The way your back had pressed against his chest. The softness of your shirt. The faint, dizzying scent of you. The moment your breath caught when his hand found your waist. The sound of your voice, small and unsure.

He hadn’t imagined it. That closeness. That electricity.

He pressed two fingers to his temple and sighed. Unprofessional. He was your colleague. You were brilliant. Kind. Focused. And he was… him. Stoic. Strict. Predictable.

But the desire had been so strong it frightened him. A slow-burning want that had simmered under his skin for weeks, maybe months, had finally begun to surface.

A knock broke his spiral.

He straightened in his seat, spine stiffening automatically. “Come in.”

The door creaked open. You stood there, framed in soft light, holding two steaming mugs. Your posture was casual, but your eyes, curious, hopeful.

“Coffee?” you offered, voice light, hesitant.

His heart gave an unexpected lurch. “Please,” he said, standing a little too quickly.

You stepped forward and extended a mug. Your fingers brushed his as he took it, warm, delicate, familiar. And there it was again, that faint jolt. Like static. Like a pulse shared between your skin and his.

You took your usual seat across from his desk, curling your fingers around your mug. You didn’t sip. You were watching him.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be here yet,” you said softly.

“I’m always early,” he replied automatically. But his tone lacked its usual sharpness. His eyes hadn’t left yours.

There was a silence. A charged one. You glanced down at your drink, then back up at him.

“About last night,” you said, finally.

Nanami’s grip on his mug tightened. The ceramic felt fragile suddenly.

He braced himself for awkwardness, for a deflection, for the clean severing of tension.

“I…” you hesitated, then took a breath. “I didn’t mind it.”

His heart stuttered.

You met his gaze fully now, and something in your expression, honest, open, steady, unlocked the breath in his lungs.

“In fact,” you continued, “I… liked it.”

His mouth parted slightly. His hands, still around his mug, were trembling just enough for the surface of the coffee to ripple.

He placed the mug gently on the desk.

“I didn’t mind it either,” he said. His voice was lower than usual. Rougher. Like gravel under silk.

Your lips curved, just a little. It wasn’t a grin. It was something softer. Something more intimate.

“Good,” you murmured.

The silence that followed was different than before. No longer stiff or uncertain, it was full. Comfortable. Expectant. Like a page waiting to be turned.

Nanami leaned forward, resting his elbows lightly on the desk. His brows furrowed slightly. Not in frustration, but consideration. His next words were careful, measured. But there was a spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday.

“Perhaps… another meeting,” he said. “One that doesn’t involve student rosters or lesson plans.”

You blinked. Then smiled wider. “Is that your way of asking me on a date, Kento?”

He exhaled through a small laugh, short, but real. “Possibly.”

Your eyes softened. “I think that’s an excellent idea, Ken.”

It was the first time you had ever called him that.

He noticed. And he liked it more than he was willing to admit.

Just outside the office door, three shadows crouched low behind a bookshelf.

“I knew it,” Nobara hissed, barely containing her squeal. “Did you hear that? Date. She said date!”

Yuji nearly knocked over a broom. “They’re actually doing it! This is better than any rom-com!”

Megumi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re going to get detention for this.”

“They’re falling in love, Fushiguro. History is being made,” Nobara whispered dramatically.

“Yeah,” Yuji grinned, eyes wide with wonder. “And we’re the witnesses.”

Inside, Nanami paused mid-sentence. “Did you hear something?”

You squinted toward the door knowingly. “Probably just the wind,” you said, followed by a giggle.

Outside, the wind tried very hard to cover Yuji’s very loud whisper, “Do you think they’ll kiss at lunch?!”

Megumi groaned.

It was a quiet Friday evening. The kind of evening where the world felt softer, slower, like it was pausing just long enough to let something meaningful unfold.

Nanami picked you up precisely on time, of course. He wore a dark, collared shirt. Simple, elegant, like everything he did, and a faint scent of cedar lingered around him. When he saw you at the door, dressed in something that made you feel just a little nervous, his eyes lingered. “You look…” he began, then stopped himself. “Beautiful,” he finished, a bit quieter.

Dinner was at a tucked-away place you had once mentioned in passing, he remembered. The lighting was dim, the atmosphere warm. You sat across from each other, sharing plates and small smiles. He listened intently when you spoke, eyes fixed on yours, never once distracted. When you laughed, he smiled, soft and sincere, the kind that made your heart ache just a little.

You teased him gently about the takoyaki incident, and he quirked an eyebrow. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“Never,” you replied, grinning. “It’s one of my favorite memories now.”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something more, but instead he just reached across the table and brushed your fingers with his.

After dinner, the walk back to your place was quiet but not awkward. The conversation was slow, filled with shared glances and comfortable silences. The night air was cool, and at some point, he slipped his hand into yours. You didn’t let go.

At your door, you both hesitated. The moment stretched.

“I had a good time,” he said, voice low.

“Me too.”

You unlocked the door, heart racing.

As you step into your living room, you can feel Nanami’s presence behind you, a warm, solid force that makes your skin tingle. You turn to face him, and the look in his eyes.. it’s intense, focused, hungry and it takes your breath away.

He doesn't say a word. Instead, he reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against your lips. Your heart pounds in your chest, your body responding to his touch, to the silent promise in his eyes.

You lean into his hand, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment, before opening again to meet his gaze. "Ken," you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He responds by stepping closer, his other hand finding your waist, pulling you against him. And a soft moan almost escapes your lips due to the proximity. His eyes are soft, his thumb trailing from your lips down to your chin, tilting your head up to meet his.

“Can I?” He asked so softly, it’s almost inaudible.

And at first you nod, which in return he shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Words, pretty.”

“Yes, Ken.”

He kisses you then, not like a soft, hesitant kiss, but with a fierce, consuming passion that sets your blood on fire. His lips move against yours, demanding, insistent, his tongue exploring your mouth, tasting you as if he can't get enough. You respond in kind, your hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer, deeper.

The kiss is a dance, a battle, a claiming, and you're both eager participants, lost in the heat, the need, the long-denied desire that's finally been unleashed.

His hands roam, exploring the curves of your body, tracing the lines of your hips, your back, your thighs. He finds the hem of your dress, his fingers slipping underneath, caressing the soft skin of your legs, making you shiver. You gasp into his mouth, your body arching against his, wanting more, needing more.

He takes the hint, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your dress up as he goes. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, his breath hot on your skin. You tilt your head to give him better access, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him close.

Eventually, he reaches the top of your thighs, his fingers brushing against the lace of your panties, making you shudder. He pauses, looking up at you, his eyes asking for permission. You nod, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body throbbing with anticipation.

He smiles.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his voice a low, husky growl against your neck. His fingers trace the edge of your panties, a featherlight touch that drives you wild.

You moan, your hips shifting, seeking more friction. "You," you pant. "I want you.."

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. "Be more specific," he demands, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."

You blush, your body heating at his words. You've never been one for dirty talk, but there's something about the way he's looking at you, the way he's touching you, that makes you want to try.

"I want... I want your fingers inside me," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "I want you to touch me, to make me come."

He groans, his eyes darkening with desire. "Fuck," he says, his fingers finally slipping beneath the fabric of your panties, finding your wet heat. "You're so wet, baby. You're dripping for me, aren't you?"

You nod, your eyes fluttering closed as his fingers stroke you, teasing you, making you squirm with need.

He growls, a sound of pure hunger, and pushes two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that sweet spot that makes you gasp. "Like that?" he asks, his voice a low, dirty purr. "Is this what you want, my love? My fingers inside your tight pussy?"

"Yes," you cry out, your hips moving in time with his hand, chasing the pleasure he's building inside you. "More, Ken. Give me more."

He obliges, adding a third finger, stretching you, filling you. His thumb finds your clit, circling it, pressing down, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. "You're so fucking tight," he groans, his eyes locked on yours. "I can't wait to feel you around my cock, baby. I'm going to stretch you even more, fill you up completely. You're going to take every inch of me, aren't you?"

You moan, your body clenching around his fingers at the thought. "Yes," you gasp. "I want that. I want you inside me."

He growls, his fingers moving faster, harder, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit that have your vision blurring. "You're going to come for me first, my love," he demands.

You nod, your body tensing, the pleasure building, building, until it's too much. "K-ken!” you cry out, your body convulsing as you come, your pussy clenching around his fingers, your orgasm ripping through you.

He watches you, his eyes dark with desire, his breath coming in ragged gasps. As soon as you come down from your high, he withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth, sucking them clean. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours. "Now, let's get you out of this dress."

He reaches for the zipper at the back of your dress, pulling it down slowly, his knuckles brushing against your skin, making you shiver. You help him, sliding the straps off your shoulders, letting the dress fall to the floor, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your bra and, soaked, panties.

That is, until he strips you of those too.

He takes a moment to appreciate the sight, his eyes roaming over your body, a slow, hungry smile spreading across his face. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined," he says, his voice low, reverent.

You blush at his words, your body heating with desire. He reaches for you, his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing against your nipples, making them harden. He leans down, capturing one in his mouth, his tongue swirling, his teeth grazing, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

You moan, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him close. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same attention, making you squirm with need. "Ken," you gasp, your body aching for more. "Please, I need you."

He chuckles, a low, dirty sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Alright, my love," he murmurs.

He reaches for his belt, unbuckling it, unbuttoning his pants, letting them fall to the floor. You can see the outline of his cock through his boxers, hard and ready, staining against the fabric.

He steps closer, his hands gripping your ass, lifting you up. You wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, your bodies pressed together, skin to skin. "I need you inside me," you whisper,

He reaches for you, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. Then, his voice low, gentle. "I want to make sure you're comfortable, that you're enjoying every second of this as much as I am."

He leans in, kissing you softly, his lips moving against yours in a slow, tender dance.

He leads you to your bed, with your help of course, his hands guiding you down onto the soft sheets. He joins you, his body pressing against yours.

"Ken," you moan, your hands gripping his hair, pulling him closer. "I need you inside me. Now."

“So needy,” he teases with a smile, a slow, sexy smile that makes your heart flutter. He climbs up your body, his lips finding yours, kissing you deeply. Then He reaches for his wallet, pulling out a condom, tearing it open, before slipping off his boxers and rolling it on his cock.

He’s big, but you barely have time to register it before he’s positioning himself at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours. "I'm going to go slow," he murmurs, his voice low, reassuring. "I want you to feel every inch of me, my love."

He pushes inside you, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to his size. You gasp at the feeling of him filling you up, your body stretching to accommodate him. He pauses, letting you get used to the feeling, his eyes never leaving yours.

He starts to move, his hips pulling back slightly before pushing back in, setting a slow, steady rhythm. He takes his time, his body moving in a slow dance, his eyes never leaving yours.

He leans down, his lips finding yours, kissing you deeply, his tongue moving in time with his hips. You move with him, your bodies in perfect sync, the pleasure building slowly, steadily, like a slow burn.

He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing soft circles, adding to the pleasure. You moan into his mouth, your body tensing, the pleasure building, building, until you're teetering on the edge.

"Kento," you gasp, your nails digging into his back. "I'm-I’m going to come," you moan, your body tensing, your pussy clenching around him. "Oh my god, ‘feels so good!” You whimper.

He groans, his fingers rubbing faster, his hips moving in short, sharp thrusts, hitting that sweet spot inside you that sends you over the edge. "Come for me, baby," he growls, his voice rough with desire. "Come all over my cock."

And with that, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around him, your orgasm ripping through you, making you scream his name. He rides out your orgasm with you, his following soon after as his hips continue moving in slow, deep thrusts, drawing out your pleasure.

When you finally come down, he leans over, kissing you softly, his body still moving inside you. "That was...incredible," you whisper.

He rolls to the side, pulling you with him, your bodies still connected, your legs tangled together.

He kisses you softly, his lips moving against yours in a slow, tender dance. "That was...perfect," he murmurs, his voice filled with wonder. "You're perfect,"

You smile, blushing, your body languid, satisfied. "You're not so bad yourself," you tease, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest.

He chuckles, his arms tightening around you. "I'm glad you think so," he says, his voice soft, content. "I want to do this again. A lot."

You laugh, your heart fluttering at the thought. "I'd like that," you whisper, your eyes already starting to close, your body relaxed, sated.

He kisses you again, his lips moving against yours in a soft, sweet kiss.

Thank god for Yuji and Nobara.

dividers by @/dollywons

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento nanami #nanami kento #jjk kento nanami #kento nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader smut #kento nanami smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #nanami kento smut #mei’s fics 🪷

71 notes · View notes

airandyeah · 29 days ago

Text

Crying For Help (Alpha!Higuruma X Omega!Reader X Alpha!Nanami) Pt.15

My Masterlist Series Masterlist

It had been a few weeks since the move.

Nanami’s apartment, sleek and spacious with its clean lines and soft, muted tones, was now less bachelor-pad, more home. Somehow, your mugs had multiplied in the kitchen cabinets, your sweaters were draped over the back of the couch, and Higuruma’s collection of legal thrillers had made their way onto the built-in bookshelves alongside Nanami’s first editions. The three of you had slid into the shared space with an ease none of you had dared expect.

It helped that the apartment was closest to the firm—just a short commute. One vehicle most days, quiet conversations over coffee during traffic. You usually took the middle seat, Nanami driving with one hand on the wheel and Higuruma beside you, reading case notes or stealing sleepy kisses when the red lights lingered too long.

Mornings were slow but efficient: Nanami made the coffee, Higuruma read headlines aloud, and you tried not to burn the toast. You all moved around each other like you'd been doing it forever, a rhythm built on touch and unspoken cues—hand brushes at the sink, shirt cuffs fixed, scenting nuzzles tucked in before work. The occasional soft growl if someone got too possessive over the last croissant.

At night, Nanami cooked when he wasn’t buried in paperwork, and Higuruma insisted on cleaning up even if you all took turns. Sometimes you fell asleep on the couch while the two of them talked work across the table. Sometimes it was the other way around—you catching Higuruma half-asleep with his tie askew, Nanami’s shoulder a pillow.

There was a comfort in it. A warmth. Even in the silence, you felt tethered.

It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes Nanami got too in his head, worrying about stability, about boundaries. Sometimes Higuruma retreated into a quiet storm of thoughts and you had to draw him out gently. And you—well, some nights your omega instincts curled like a tide and you had to seek them both out, bury yourself between them like your nest wasn’t complete without their weight.

But they were yours. And you were theirs. ~~~

The day started like any other.

You sat between them in the car—Nanami driving with his usual calm precision, Higuruma sipping coffee beside you, his knee gently bumping yours every time the car hit a rough patch of road. Everything felt normal. Stable. Warm.

Until you walked into the office.

It started small—just a few glances, subtle and fleeting. You chalked it up to coincidence. Maybe they were just surprised to see you all arriving together again. But then came the whispers. The way eyes trailed after you when you moved down the hallway. A few poorly concealed sniffs.

Your stomach knotted. Was your blouse inside out? Did you spill something on yourself at breakfast?

You made it to your desk with a practiced grace, setting your bag down and pulling out the day’s case notes, but your pulse was ticking too fast. Something was off.

When you caught Gojo dramatically fanning himself as he passed your desk—nose crinkled and grinning—you narrowed your eyes.

“What,” you asked, voice low, “the hell are you doing?”

He waggled his brows, leaned in, and whispered, “Didn’t know you were so busy last night, sweetheart. Bold move not replacing the scent patch.”

Your blood ran cold. “What?”

Gojo only laughed, breezing away with a wink. You blinked, hand immediately darting to the side of your neck where your scent patch sat. It was still there—still pressed neatly against your gland—but when you sniffed… you caught it.

Faint, but unmistakable.

A blend of cedar and smoke. Earth and honeyed spice.

Them.

The patch hadn’t worked. You reeked of them. Of two Alphas. Of nights wrapped between bodies and hands and growls that still echoed in your bones.

You almost died on the spot.

Face burning, you bolted to the nearest bathroom, locked the stall, and pulled your compact mirror from your purse. With trembling fingers, you peeled back the patch.

Defective. There was a tear in the edge—subtle, but just enough.

Just enough for the whole damn office to smell your embarrassment.

You cursed softly under your breath, face in your hands.

This day was going to be hell.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Nanami.

Nanami: “Stay in the restroom. I’m handling it.”

You didn’t even have time to respond before another message followed:

Nanami: “Someone is on their way with a fresh patch. Don’t move.”

A wave of relief flooded you, but it did nothing to quell the embarrassment burning beneath your skin. You sat on the toilet lid, legs bouncing, palms slick with residual panic. How many people had caught it? How many more would?

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door. “Omega coming in,” a gentle, feminine voice called. You stood quickly and cracked the stall open.

She was older, kind-faced, and moved with the calm authority of someone who had been through worse a hundred times over. She didn’t comment on your flushed face or the way you barely met her eyes.

“He sent me with a spare,” she said softly, handing over the sealed patch from a small pouch. “Always keeps extras in his office. Said it might happen one day.”

Of course he did.

Nanami Kento, ever the planner.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice a little hoarse.

She offered a knowing smile. “It happens to the best of us. Don’t sweat it.”

And then she was gone, the soft click of the door echoing behind her.

You changed patches quickly, peeled away the defective one and wiped the gland with a cool cloth from your bag before applying the new patch firmly. The scent cut off instantly, the air finally sterile again.

You exhaled and leaned back against the stall, letting your eyes close for a second.

God, you owed him for this one.

And when you finally stepped out of the restroom, a message was waiting.

Nanami: “Crisis averted?”

You bit your lip and typed back:

You: “You’re a lifesaver. I owe you. Lunch on me?”

His reply was near-instant.

Nanami: “No need. Just… next time, let me check your patch before we leave the house.”

Later that afternoon, when the office buzz had dulled to quiet clicks of keyboards and the distant hum of the copier, you found yourself passing by the break room. Unfortunately, that also meant walking into Gojo Satoru’s line of sight.

His grin was immediate.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the little omega heartbreaker,” he sing-songed, leaning dramatically against the counter. “Tell me, sweetheart, what would HR say about that little scent bomb this morning?”

You froze, coffee halfway to your lips. Your entire body tensed.

He clicked his tongue, eyes glittering with mischief. “Actually—don’t answer that. I think I already know. Scandalous.” He gasped. “Unprofessional. Alpha bait.”

You opened your mouth, either to snap or to stammer—you weren’t sure which—but you didn’t get the chance.

“Satoru.”

The deep, unimpressed rumble of Suguru’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

You turned just in time to see Geto walking over, hand reaching out calmly… and then grabbing Gojo by the ear.

“Wha—OW! Babe, not in front of everyone!” Gojo whined, flailing uselessly as he was tugged away like a delinquent schoolboy.

Suguru didn’t even blink. “Apologize and be nice, or I’ll make you review budget sheets for the next month.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Gojo sent you one last glance over his shoulder, eyes watering from the ear pull, but still grinning. “You’re lucky your alphas are hot and terrifying.”

And then they were gone.

You blinked, sipped your coffee, and muttered under your breath, “I need hazard pay.” ~~~ Just as you were settling back at your desk, phone finally on Do Not Disturb and coffee halfway gone, your screen buzzed with a quiet notification.

Suguru Geto

Apologies for Gojo earlier. Would you and your alphas be open to a double date sometime soon? Nothing formal—just dinner. A chance to talk about a few things.

You stared at the message, reading it twice.

Double date.

You, Nanami, Higuruma.

Him and Gojo.

The implications weren’t lost on you—but neither was the intent. It wasn’t about prying. If anything, it felt like a peace offering. A bridge. There were things only another unconventional pairing could understand. Especially in a firm like this, where instincts simmered just beneath tailored suits and office protocol.

You

Depends. Will Gojo be muzzled? 👀

The response was instant.

Suguru Geto

Emotionally or physically?

You laughed out loud, earning a few glances from nearby desks.

You

Either works. We’re in. Just tell us when.

There was a pause before Suguru’s next message came through.

Suguru Geto

Friday evening. We’ll make a reservation. And don’t worry—I’ll keep him in line.

Your phone buzzed again almost immediately after.

Gojo Satoru

I HEARD THAT.

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. The week just got a little more interesting.

Alpha Suguru always has me fanning myself Taglist is always open for anyone! Just comment, send an ask, or a DM and I'll add you! Taglist: @ollyissleepy , @erintaro , @hellv1ra Perma Tags: @thenightperson , @makingtimemine , @nina-from-317

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #x reader #nanami kento #jjk nanami #a/b/o #omegaverse #jjk higuruma #higuruma hiromi #Alpha Nanami #Alpha Higuruma

39 notes · View notes

saebyeokbliss · 5 months ago

Text

ONCE MORE TO SEE YOU— PART VII.

synopsis: on a cold january day, you were worrying about the reason your girlfriend wasn’t texting back. when she finally does and asks to meet at your apartment, you’re met with heartbreak as she ends your relationship. no explanation. two years later, you run into her at a cafe with someone new. what are you to do? warnings: angst, threats, deok-su, stress (??)

pairing: sae-byeok x fem!reader

Sae-byeok woke before the sun.

Her alarm clock didn’t wake her—she never needed it. Her body operated on a routine, conditioned by years of necessity. The small apartment was still dark, the faint hum of traffic outside the only sound. For a moment, she lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of the day settle over her like a familiar blanket. There was no time to linger in bed—there never was.

She pushed the covers off and swung her legs to the floor, the cold linoleum sending a shock up her spine. Her room was tiny, barely more than a closet, with a bed pressed against one wall and a small dresser crammed into the corner. There were no decorations, no personal touches. Just the bare essentials.

After a quick shower, she dressed in her usual attire—jeans, a plain t-shirt, and a hoodie. Functional, comfortable, forgettable. She pulled her hair back into a low ponytail, tugged on her sneakers, and grabbed her bag from the chair by the door. Before leaving her room, she reached under her pillow and slipped her pocket knife into her hoodie’s front pocket. She never left home without it.

The scent of instant coffee greeted her as she stepped into the main living area. Ji-yeong was leaning against the counter, sipping from a chipped mug, her hair still damp from her own shower.

“Morning,” Ji-yeong said, her voice groggy.

“Morning,” Sae-byeok replied, grabbing a slice of bread and popping it into the toaster. “Cheol awake?”

“Yeah. He’s getting dressed.” Ji-yeong smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Took him three tries to tie his shoes yesterday. You might want to give him a refresher.”

Sae-byeok huffed a quiet laugh. “He’ll get there.”

Her toast popped up, and she grabbed it, eating it plain as she moved around the kitchen, packing Cheol’s lunch. A peanut butter sandwich, an apple, and a juice box—simple but enough to get him through the day. She tucked it into his worn backpack just as he shuffled into the room, rubbing his eyes.

“Morning,” she said, crouching down to his level. “Ready for school?”

Cheol nodded sleepily, his small face lighting up as he spotted his sister. “Yeah. I have a spelling test today. I practiced like you said.”

“Good,” she said, ruffling his hair. “You’ll do great.”

He grinned, the gap where his front tooth used to be making him look even younger than his eight years. He was the only part of her life that felt pure, untouched by the weight of the world.

Ji-yeong finished her coffee and grabbed her jacket. “You’re dropping me off first, right?”

“Yeah,” Sae-byeok replied. “Let’s go.”

The drive to Cheol’s school was quiet, the streets just starting to come alive with the hum of early commuters. Their car wasn’t much to look at—an old, beat-up compact sedan that rattled every time it hit a pothole—but it got them where they needed to go.

Cheol sat in the back, his backpack clutched to his chest as he stared out the window. Ji-yeong rode shotgun, fiddling with the radio until she found a station playing soft pop music.

When they reached Cheol’s school, Sae-byeok parked and walked him to the gate. She crouched down in front of him, her hands resting on his small shoulders.

“Be good,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “And don’t forget your lunch.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his eyes wide and earnest.

She pulled him into a quick hug, her chest tightening as she let him go. Watching him walk into the schoolyard was always the hardest part of her day. He looked so small compared to the other kids, his backpack almost too big for his frame. But he was strong. He had to be.

Next was Ji-yeong’s stop—a factory on the edge of the city where she worked long hours on an assembly line. The pay was terrible, and the conditions weren’t much better, but it was steady work, and Ji-yeong needed the money as much as Sae-byeok did.

“Don’t forget to eat,” Sae-byeok said as Ji-yeong climbed out of the car.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Ji-yeong shot back, giving her a teasing smile.

Sae-byeok rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at her lips. Ji-yeong was one of the few people who could still make her smile.

By the time Sae-byeok arrived at the diner, the sun was fully up, casting long shadows across the pavement. She parked in the small lot behind the building, grabbing her bag and stepping out into the crisp morning air.

But as she rounded the corner, her stomach twisted. Standing near the back entrance, leaning casually against the wall, was Deok-su.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She’d been avoiding him for weeks, dodging his calls and taking alternate routes home to keep from running into him. But she knew it was only a matter of time before he caught up with her.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Kang Sae-byeok,” he drawled, pushing off the wall and blocking her path. His lips curled into a smug grin, but his eyes were cold, calculating. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said coolly, keeping her voice steady.

“Too busy to pay what you owe?” he asked, his tone mockingly sweet.

Sae-byeok’s jaw tightened. “I told you, I just need more time.”

“Time doesn’t pay my bills, sweetheart,” he said, stepping closer. “You think I’m running a charity here?”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. “You’ll get your money. Just not today.”

Deok-su chuckled, the sound low and menacing. “You’ve been saying that for weeks. I’m starting to think you’re not taking me seriously.”

His hand darted out, grabbing her wrist. She froze, her pulse spiking, but her expression remained steady. Slowly, she reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out her knife, flicking it open with practiced ease.

“Let go,” she said, her voice calm but laced with steel.

Deok-su’s eyes flicked to the blade, and for a moment, his grin faltered. But then he laughed, releasing her wrist and holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Relax, Kang. No need to get all stabby. I’m just reminding you who you’re dealing with.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said, slipping the knife back into her pocket. “Now get out of my way.”

He stepped aside, but as she walked past him, his voice followed her. “You can’t keep running, you know. Sooner or later, you’ll have to pay up.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t look back. But as she pushed through the diner’s back door, a familiar knot of dread settled in her chest. She knew he was right. The knife might have scared him off this time, but it wouldn’t keep him away forever.

Inside the diner, the familiar sounds of clinking dishes and murmured conversations greeted her. She took a deep breath, shaking off the encounter with Deok-su as best she could. There was no room for weakness here, no room for fear.

Sae-byeok tied on her apron, stuffed her bag into her locker, and stepped out onto the floor. The weight of the morning lingered in the back of her mind, but she pushed it aside. There was work to be done, and she couldn’t afford to let anything—or anyone—get in the way.

The days bled together in a haze of exhaustion.

Every morning, you woke up to the same suffocating reality: there was too much to do and not enough time, money, or energy to do it all. You were stretched thin, pulled in every direction by responsibilities that didn’t seem to care whether you could handle them or not. Tuition loomed over you like an immovable boulder, your rent was due in less than two weeks, and whatever was left of your paycheck after expenses went straight to your parents for your sister’s medical bills.

You had given them half of your last paycheck—a decision that made you feel like you were drowning. With your father out of work, your family depended on you in a way that felt crushing, and though your mom’s guilt-tripping still stung, it wasn’t her words that kept you up at night. It was the thought of your sister in that hospital bed, hooked up to machines, her future uncertain. You couldn’t let her down.

But at what cost?

Your world narrowed to a relentless cycle of classes, work, and stress. Each day started earlier, ended later, and left you with less energy than the one before. You stopped counting the hours of sleep you were getting because the answer was always the same: not enough.

It wasn’t just physical exhaustion that weighed on you—it was the mental toll of constantly doing the math in your head. If you worked extra shifts this week, would you have enough time to study for your exams? If you skipped buying groceries for yourself, could you stretch your paycheck far enough to cover both your rent and the next payment to your parents? Every decision felt like a gamble, and no matter how carefully you planned, you were always one step away from losing control.

You started skipping meals, too distracted to eat or too busy to cook. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, but your body disagreed. Your hands shook more often, your vision blurred when you stood up too quickly, and the headaches came like clockwork—dull throbs that settled behind your eyes and refused to leave.

At work, you began to notice the whispers. Minji, Hyejin, and Yuna tried to be discreet, but you weren’t oblivious. Their glances lingered a little too long, their hushed conversations stopped just a little too abruptly when you walked into the room. You weren’t angry at them—they were probably just worried—but you didn’t have the energy to reassure them. Besides, what could you say? That everything was fine? That you had it under control? It would’ve been a lie.

It was a Thursday when it all came crashing down.

You had barely slept the night before, staying up until the early hours of the morning to finish an essay that was due later that day. By the time you dragged yourself out of bed and stumbled into class, you felt like a zombie. Your professor’s words barely registered, your notes were a mess of half-finished sentences, and your hands ached from gripping your pen too tightly.

Work was no better. The diner was busier than usual, and every table felt like a marathon. By the time your lunch break rolled around, you were running on fumes. You grabbed your food and headed to the break room, collapsing into a chair with a sigh. The room was quiet, a refuge from the chaos outside, and for the first time all day, you allowed yourself to close your eyes—just for a moment.

That moment stretched longer than you intended.

When you opened your eyes, the break room was empty, the remains of your untouched lunch sitting cold on the table in front of you. You blinked in confusion, your mind sluggish as you tried to piece together what had happened. How long had you been asleep?

Before you could check the time, the door to the break room creaked open, and Minji poked her head inside. Her eyes widened when she saw you. “Oh my God, you’re still here?”

“What?” you asked groggily, sitting up. Your heart began to race as the realization hit you. “What time is it?”

“It’s been, like, thirty minutes since lunch ended,” Minji said, stepping into the room. “We thought you just left early or something. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, though the heaviness in your limbs betrayed you. “I just—must’ve dozed off.”

Before Minji could respond, Hyejin and Yuna appeared behind her, their expressions mirroring her concern.

“She’s still in here?” Hyejin asked, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. “What happened? You never take breaks this long.”

“She fell asleep,” Minji said, her voice soft with concern. “I think she’s exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, standing up too quickly. A wave of dizziness washed over you, forcing you to grip the edge of the table for support. “I just lost track of time.”

“You’re not fine,” Yuna said, her tone unusually firm. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground for weeks. This isn’t normal.”

“Look, I don’t need a lecture,” you snapped, your frustration bubbling over. “I’m fine. Just drop it.”

The three of them exchanged a look, their concern only deepening. It made your chest tighten. You didn’t want their pity. You didn’t want their sympathy. You just wanted to get through the day without falling apart.

But then Minji bit her lip, hesitating before blurting out, “We should tell Sae-byeok.”

Your stomach dropped. “What? No. Don’t do that.”

“She’s the manager,” Minji said, her voice uncertain but resolute. “She should know.”

“She’s already been watching me like a hawk,” you said, panic creeping into your voice. “I don’t need her breathing down my neck any more than she already is.”

“Maybe she can help,” Yuna said quietly. “She’s not as cold as she seems, you know.”

“I don’t need her help,” you said sharply, your voice rising. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

But it was too late. Hyejin had already slipped out of the room, and you could hear her calling for Sae-byeok. Your heart pounded in your chest as you sank back into the chair, burying your face in your hands. This was the last thing you needed.

Sae-byeok entered the break room moments later, her expression unreadable. She glanced at Minji and Yuna, who quickly muttered excuses and left, leaving the two of you alone.

Her sharp eyes flicked to you, taking in your disheveled appearance and the untouched lunch on the table. She didn’t say anything right away, but her silence was heavy, pressing down on you like a weight.

“What’s going on with you?” she asked finally, her voice low but firm.

You didn’t look at her. Your throat felt tight, and the words you wanted to say—I’m fine, I can handle it, just leave me alone—stuck in your throat.

Sae-byeok stepped closer, her gaze steady and unrelenting. “You’re pushing yourself too hard. It’s obvious to everyone.”

“I’m fine,” you said weakly, though the crack in your voice betrayed you.

“No, you’re not,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “And if you keep this up, you’re going to collapse.”

Her words hit too close to home, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, her presence too overwhelming. You stood up abruptly, avoiding her gaze as you grabbed your bag.

“I need to get back to work,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re not going anywhere until we talk,” she said, blocking your path.

taglist: @monroesturnns@everly-summers-solace@holyshtimgay@knfthxv@delfinadolphin@madebysae@jetaimeeeee@m0rtifiedg0th@katieschry1@erika-mon2-blog@tcvazq

#angst #fanfic #sae byeok #saebyeok x reader #squid game #squidgameseasonone #wlw fiction #kang sae byeok x reader

60 notes · View notes

akshayaquapri · 8 days ago

Text

Insulated Coffee Mugs

Insulated Coffee Mugs are designed to keep your beverages hot or cold for extended periods. Featuring double-wall construction—often stainless steel or BPA-free plastic—these mugs maintain drink temperature while keeping the outer surface cool to touch. With spill-proof lids and sleek, travel-friendly designs, they’re perfect for home, office, or on-the-go sipping. Durable, reusable, and stylish, insulated mugs are a must-have for coffee lovers who value convenience and sustainability.

https://quapri.in/product/insulated-coffee-mugs/

0 notes

wanderingsimsfinds · 2 years ago

Text

WanderingSims Fave CC - Kitchen Decor List 2

1 - Ameriko Steelie - 4t3 Mechtasims Back To School Mini Fridge

2 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Kitchenware Set Stand Mixer Kitchen Aid V2

3-4 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Aira Daisy Set Colorful Marbled Plates & Bowl A

5 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 novvvas Holz Kitchen Basket

6 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Keurig Coffee Maker Functional

7, 21 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Kitchenware Set Utensils in a Jar & Vintage Cutting Board

8 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Boba Tea Mini Fridge

9, 17 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Leosims Free May 2023 Content Coffee Mug Rack & Electric Whisk

10-11 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Sims-KKB Kitchen Utensils 2 Dish Drying Stand & Rice Cooker

12-15 - breadcrumbss3 - Modern Farmhouse Kitchen (Pot, Smeg Water Heater, Jars, Utensils)

16, 25 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Destruam Life Is Strange 2 Objects Pack 1 Knife Block & Spice Rack

18 - sim_man123 - Akira Mug Rack (TSR)

19 - Kelly & Co - Kitchen Shelving

20 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Neko Tea Pot Functional

22, 24 - kriselizabethsims - 4t3 Slox Compact Kitchen Pan 1 & 2

23 - SugarSSims - 4t3 ddaengsims Lemon Drop Set Kettle

#ts3cc #s3cc #s3ccfinds #cc list

231 notes · View notes

luvsizedfrellie · 4 months ago

Text

I am curious, how would Ellie's apartment in a modern au would look? this is just a mashup of ideas that i have, if you got a bunch of them add 'em!

Would she live closer to Joel? like her apartment will be located in a quiet neighborhood, she's just a few blocks from Joel's house (a 10-minute walk, tops), he likes knowing she's close just in case, even if she cringes every time he casually drops in with leftovers from dinner, maybe the building has a modest brick-and-wood exterior with a small communal staircase that creaks a little when you walk up to her door? the space itself is relatively compact, cozy but big enough for one person to stretch out without bumping elbows with furniture, there's nothing too fancy here but Ellie makes it hers in little ways that give it character, her door has a simple number plaque, someone's scribbled a doodle of an alien over it with permanent marker, she'd laugh about it every time she walked in if she weren't pretending to hate it lmao next to the alien, there's a faded band sticker peeling at the edges, i believe the apartment always smells faintly of coffee and whatever candle she's currently burning, maybe something woodsy or spicy? (there's a faint lil smell of weed lingering in the air, no matter how much she tries to air it out), her apartment overlooks a small park, where she likes to sit and sketch sometimes, she's got a bird feeder hanging outside of it, and she enjoys watching the birds come and go.

(i like to headcanon that she works with Joel as a handyman)

She got a second-hand couch covered with a few mismatched blankets thrown over the back, one of the blankets definitely has a dinosaur print that she adores, there's also a beanbag and a coffee bag of course, there are indents from drinks, stray paint streaks from an old project, and scratches and does Ellie have plants? maybe she got a small collection of succulents (that she can't kill kinda, they can die if you don't water them after a looong time) one by Joel and a bunch you two got together, it's a little collection of them in cute terracotta pots, maybe some different shapes and sizes (there are some colorful and silly stickers around the pots), she'd probably have them lined up on a windowsill, getting all the sunlight, you've been keeping them alive by quietly watering them behind her back when she invites you over, Ellie doesn't actually notice, but hey, they look great! she's even named some of them 'Captain Sprout', 'Groot Jr', Ellie is still trying to come up with a name for the others, give her some time poor sweetie), she's also got a small aloe vera plant that she actually does remember to water occasionally because she uses it for burns.

Oh, scattered on the shelves you can find little figurines, like the plastic T-Rex you got her and a LEGO spaceship she built and refuses to move because it's too fragile, next to them a few knick-knacks, like a cool rock she found on a hike (that she swears glows at night even though it absolutely doesn't, the "glowing" rock gets moved around every so often, as if Ellie is trying to find the perfect spot to amplify its non-existent glow, she's so silly i am gonna marry her one day) and two LEGO figurines, of you and Ellie, that she swore up and down were 'just something to mess with.' whatever Ellie. She got a decent set of speakers and a record player with some vinyl (don't ask me which one, i honestly don't know what type of music she would listen, sorry El, ily), her bluetooth speaker, she has def some funko pop figures still in the box because she's weirdly protective of them.

oh there's also a blu-ray because Star Wars owns a corner of her heart, and she has definitely mismatched mugs hanging on hooks ranging from a cheesy one that says "World's Okayest Lesbian" to some diy pottery mugs she found at a thrift shop (and one with a chipped handle that you gave her that says 'I Need Space' with stars on it), a coffee maker that’s clearly her lifeline to civilization... and next to it, a mug with a rubber dinosaur figurine glued randomly on the side (an early diy project from when she was bored, but you found it cute af, you called him 'Mr. Bitey'), the fridge is def decorated with an embarrassing collection of magnets you two brought from road trip stops, ticket from a concert that you two went to or of a museum (def not a date, no no), a photo booth strips with you and her making dumb faces (her precious treasure) she keeps it tucked under one of the magnets, sticking out from under one of the magnets, there is also a folded-up takeout menu from a local pizza place she likes and a chalkboard with a grocery list, what she has to do or just random doodles that you, the others and Joel made when you visit her, there's always a new passive-aggressive chalk scribble urging her to eat better ('ELLIE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, EAT SOMETHING BESIDES RAMEN - J') her own notes are rarer, but things like 'chocolate milk' or 'buy that good cereals' peek between the doodles, there's one goofy smiley face you drew the last time you were over and she hasn't erased them both

anddd she totes has a PS4/5 where she can play tlou (lolll jk jk or not, but if she does, you've caught her tearing up during the giraffe scene more than once) Skyrim, Red Dead Redemption, The Witcher, even Mario Kart which she keeps the number of how many times she's beaten you at it (She rages hard at Mario Kart, especially when you use the blue shell on her right before the finish line), and a pc with a gaming chair (the gaming chair is covered sometimes in cat hair, even though she doesn't have a cat. It's a mystery for both of you, it's actually the neighbor cat getting inside her apartment whenever she's out), she has this gaming keyboard with customizable rgb lighting that she sets to a rainbow pattern for now, she wants to decorate it but got no idea how, she has a bookshelves filled with comics, Savage Starlight is always on top, it's her holy grail, then there's dinosaur encyclopedias, space encyclopedias..sci-fi novels with titles that sound way too complicated for my liking and a gardening book is jammed in there too

Ellie also has a small flatscreen TV mounted on the wall, where she watches movies or plays games, the remote is perpetually buried in the couch cushions and you two always lose a good time for finding it, oh and Joel gifted a digital drawing tablet to her for her bday (there's a toons of dinosaurs, rockets, and lesbian pride rainbow stickers haphazardly slapped on the back of it) for art even if if she still likes to draw in the traditional way too (sketchbooks, pencils, maybe some paints tucked away in a drawer), posters of movies Alien, Star Wards Jurassic Park etc and of some bands she likes, she has a corkboard covered in snapshots of her, her friends and of you two (some are silly, some are sweet, and some are blurry messes), there's also a goofy one of her flipping off the camera shot by you.

On her nightstand there's her current read a novel (Gideon the ninth), a pair of earbuds she stole from you, her lip balm, her diary, a charging cable, and a half-empty glass of water you remember to bring with her when she's going to sleep, she has a dreamcatcher hanging above her bed even though she doesn't believe in that stuff, you gave it to her as a 'joke' (for her nightmares hoping it would actually help her a little), hidden somewhere are her half-done, guilty attempts at your portrait she swears aren't of you in her drawer, ooh she def has string lights strung above her bed too, instead under her bed she keeps a shoebox filled with old letters, a dried flower from the first time you brought her flowers, a movie ticket stub from the first movie you two saw together and other mementos from her life, it's her little time capsule of memories.

There's a mountain of clothes scattered everywhere, with one very particular section of it with your clothes. She swears it's because she needs to wash them (she did ofc), but the truth is, it's not the fully truth, she keeps your clothes just because she likes the scent but don't call her out of it, nono! when she's feeling particularly lonely, she'll wear one of your hoodies to bed. Don't tell her i told you that btw.

For the plushies...she has plushies, she def does. She has a good bunch of dino plushies but her fav ones are these, they're named "cucumber', 'mr snuggles' (cliché) and 'george' (museum gift shop), they're her bed buddies!

When you're over at her place, you might catch her absentmindedly adjusting them or giving one a quick squeeze, she'll immediately act like she didn't do anything, but you'll know the truth.

#god #i really want to hear your ideas over it #ellie x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie tlou

26 notes · View notes

stereopticons · 4 months ago

Text

On This Day in Schitt's Creek: March 7

2018

Holding On [david/patrick, T, 1,107] by whoaaitsmichelle

SPOILERS FOR 4.07 Basically a fix it fic for the end of the episode.

2019

One Week [david/patrick, E, 51,513] by lettered

Every day of the first week of David and Patrick's relationship.

2020

my mind is set on you [david/patrick, T, 3,642] by @kiranerys42

David and Patrick end up having a sleepover after all.

Summer is More Than Freedom [david/patrick, E, 46,691] by @eponymiad @ships-to-sail

“My family, um. We — they — actually own the camp?” “Oh,” is all Patrick says, and it’s a two-letter word with two million meanings and David doesn’t know how he’s supposed to hear it when it comes out of Patrick’s mouth. “That’s, um. Wow.” “What ‘wow’?” “I’ve just never met anyone whose parents owned a summer camp before.” “It’s a camp, not the diamond from Titanic.” “The what?” *David and Patrick spend six summers together, first as campers, then as counselors, always as best friends.

Surprised [david/patrick, T, 11,624] by @delilah-mcmuffin

What if Johnny never inadvertently outed Patrick at the start of Meet the Parents? How would things have gone down?

To The Great Unknown [david/patrick, M, 75,956] by @deenerann

Alternate Universe- David owns a gay bar in New York. Patrick mistakenly stumbles into it on his first day there. It's the best mistake he ever made.

2021

Cause you're there for me, too [david/patrick, G, 3,438] by @designatedgrape

“Um, why did Alexis send you a package?” Patrick pulls out the layers of paper meant to protect whatever it is during shipping, and reveals a white coffee mug with black lettering. “Oh my god,” he breathes. “What?” Patrick lifts the mug reverently out of the box and presents it to David. David rears back in horror. “She’s dead.”

Desperate Times [david/patrick, T, 5,100] by @trueillusion82

It started in the middle of the night, with a soft whine that roused Patrick from sleep. But Patrick was a light sleeper and David was a talker who was also prone to nightmares, so that was nothing unusual. Patrick was used to providing comfort in the wee hours of the morning, be it because of a bad dream or an anxiety attack, or anything in between. “Hey,” Patrick said softly as he flicked on the bedside lamp and rolled over to face his husband, his hand already gravitating toward David’s arm. “You okay?” Normally, David’s response would be to give a short, quick nod, despite the tightly closed eyes and occasional tears that always belied his answer. This time, however, there was no nod -- only another pained groan as David squeezed his eyes shut and curled even further in on himself.

Equatorial Guinea [gen, G, 300] by Rosey_Peach

Gossip is the devil's telephone [david/patrick, T, 4,555] by @grapehyasynth

Meet the Parents redux - David and Patrick really are just business partners, even though the entire town seems to think they're secretly dating. When the Brewers come to town for Patrick's birthday, Johnny's just trying to find out if they know anything about that whole situation. Turns out they knew even less than he did.

I Want Them To Know [stevie & david, T, 1,761] by @agoodpersonrose

“I have to tell you something.” Stevie comes out to two of the most important people in her life.

Kiss me in the morning [david/patrick, T, 499] by @lastchancecafe13

David planned to take full advantage of this chance to wake up together. He kept his eyes closed, luxuriating in the late morning sun. He pulled his husband’s warm, compact, body against him and snuggled into their shared pillow. Patrick shifted and let out a sleepy sigh but he didn’t move to get up. David let his hand trace an abstract pattern across Patrick’s chest as his own mind wandered. _____________________ Just some soft morning husbands.

my breath and my heart (got taken by you) [david/patrick, T, 1,826] by @blackandwhiteandrose

David shifts his weight from foot to foot, squirming like an impatient child. Something about the way Patrick is looking at him has him pinned in place, unable to break away from the intensity of his gaze. He doesn’t even know how to interpret what he’s seeing, because he’s sure no one has ever looked at him like that before.

the missing piece i need [david/patrick, G, 1,021] by @swiftlythebest

Everything's the same except Patrick sings the Camp Rock classic, Gotta Find You, at the open mic night.

2022

[Podfic] The Last Rose Video [david/patrick, M, podfic] by Amanita_Fierce

Patrick Brewer is the owner of the last Rose Video in the world in the tiny town of Schitt's Creek. His life and his business are turned upside down when David Rose is sent by his father to close the store for good. A temporary truce and a growing attraction have the potential to forever alter the future of the store and the men involved. Podfic of The Last Rose Video by Distractivate.

A Life Extraordinary [david/patrick, G, 1,270] by @fictasticvoyage

It's Patrick's birthday! He and David take a trip to celebrate.

i'll be loving you if you just dare me [david/patrick, M, 5,586] by @simplymarleycat

After his Blouse Barn windfall, David treats himself to a weekend of clubbing (and maybe a random or two) in Toronto before he decides his next steps in Schitt's Creek. But when things don't go quite to plan, a chance meeting might just send David on a new and better path. A meet-cute (and a couple other tropes) about changing plans, daring yourself to be honest, and finally going for what you want.

Surface Tension [david/patrick, E, 6,894] by @im-televisions-moira-rose

Patrick watches him and waits to hear the bathroom door shut before following, legs still a little numb. He grabs another towel from the linen closet and then, once in his room, spreads it on the bed, laying the jacket carefully on top of it and flipping on his ceiling fan, using the pull cord to turn it to its highest setting. Then he steps back from the bed as it picks up speed, leaning against his dresser and scrubbing his hands over his face; there’s an eighty percent chance that he humiliates himself completely before this is all over. David Rose is naked in his bathroom. David Rose is wet and naked in his bathroom. He might never recover from this. David gets caught in a sudden downpour and ends up on Ray's doorstep.

you, emboldened you [david/patrick, T, 2,466] by AnnieMallistic

I know that this wasn’t brand new for you. You’d already asked somebody else. The secret I continue to keep is that it wasn’t new ground for me either. In this, we are not each other’s first. But we are each other’s second chance. A David introspection wherein someone else proposed to him in his youth

2023

[Art] is this too much of a #thirsttrap? [gen, T, art] by @lizzie-bennetdarcy

A scene from nontoxic's "I'd Swing With You for the Fences". David's Instagram #thirsttrap for Patrick

Enter Left [david/patrick, G, script] by mallpretzles

A transcript of David entering Patrick’s apartment inspired by I Love Lucy.

Hurried [david/patrick, M, 100] by @sspaz1000

After the I love you's, David and Patrick get some alone time at Rays.

Ink [david/patrick, G, 100] by @ramonaflow

100 words based on the Tumblr prompt: Ink

2024

Secretly Admiring You [david/patrick, NR, 9,103] by @vanillahigh00

David wants someone to care about him however is feeling pretty hopeless about finding his person while living in Schitt's Creek. The new guy in town is distracting David while someone else is trying to attract David's attention. Will he find his person?

Stats

No fanworks for 2017 2018: 1 fic/1,107 words 2019: 1 fic/51,513 words 2020: 4 fics/137,913 words 2021: 8 fics/18,500 words 2022: 5 fanworks (4 fics, 1 podfic)/16,411 words 2023: 4 fanworks (2 fics, 1 fanart, 1 script)/200 words 2024: 1 fic/9,103 words Total: 24 fanworks (21 fics, 1 podfic, 1 fanart, 1 script)/234,747 words

#on this day in sc #schitt's creek #sc fanfic #sc fanworks #david rose #patrick brewer #david x patrick #patrick x david #stevie budd

28 notes · View notes

allwaswell16 · 1 year ago

Text

[4 pics, 4 quotes, 4 iconic 1D fics]

Iconic Fics by... - LadyLondonderry -

[1]

When the moon finally reaches directly overhead (which Louis mostly notices because Niall grabs his hand and squeezes it like he’s trying to pop the eyes off a trout), Lady Oich swims up before them and recites the ceremonial vows, her mermaid tongue twisting the words into a haunting song about being bound for life to one’s lover. Louis shivers as the words wash over him, at the magnitude of their meaning.

When she ends her speech, Louis suddenly realises he wishes badly that he wasn’t one of the best looking omegas here, because he really doesn’t want to be first.

But then Lady Oich makes eye contact with him and raises her hand, and Louis’ heart nearly stops in his chest. She’s signalled that he’s first, and that his choosing begins now.

[2]

He’s been up at the Help Desk for about half an hour when someone in a fireman uniform who is not Liam comes up to him.

This man, this not-Liam man, is probably the most attractive man Harry has ever seen. Did he say the other day that Liam was hot? That was a lie. No one could hold a candle to this perfect human specimen right in front of him. He’s got soft chestnut coloured hair that Harry would like to run his hands through, a bit of stubble that defines the set of his jaw, the cutest button nose Harry has ever seen, and the curve of his neck… This man cannot possibly be a mere human. Perhaps this Christmas is the second coming of Christ, because this man is compact perfection.

“Hello,” Perfection says when he reaches the counter.

Harry squeaks, and tries to cover it up with a cough.

“I’m Louis,” says Perfection. He sticks his hand out and… shit, is this what Liam felt like? What hand does Harry use? Which is the right one?

[3]

By the time Harry gets back to the office, Louis’ arrived and is sipping coffee from his signature fox mug. He waves at Harry. “You’re not dead!”

“I’m not dead,” Harry agrees. “Just had to go rescue my roommate.”

“Ah,” says Louis. “Nick said you had one hour vomiting sickness.”

“That too,” Harry says. He sits down and goes back to his stack of plans that he had barely started copying. His head still hurts. He doesn’t want to have to go stand at the copier for the next hour fighting with it, so he takes the six that were successfully copied and brings them up on his screen, indexing and archiving them.

The plans that Harry copies are supposed to have no paperclips, no staples, no sticky notes.

The people who create these packets are what Mitch likes to call “incompetent nutters”.

On the wall behind him, Harry’s started a collection of sticky notes that he’s pulled out of the copier when the pages jam. He cuts them up to protect privacy information which makes them unique and wonky and wonderful. He takes a moment to flip through the six on his desk, and adds two to the collage; Please add blood and dissenting opinion. That’s satisfying at least.

[4]

Now trying to distract himself from the faint salmon smell that seems to be growing stronger, Louis starts people-watching with a purpose. There’s a woman with a young child in her arms who has a stuffed bear in her arms, and all three of them are in matching blue dresses. The person now sitting opposite him has purple hair and earrings that hang past their shoulders in a tangle of tiny glinting beads. Louis wonders how often they get stuck on things. He can see what he thinks is a soulmate tattoo just below their jawline, something short. Good for them.

There’s a man at the far end of the tube who is wearing a chunky oversized sweater, colourful knit squares patched together like a clown outfit made for winter. Louis isn’t sure, but he thinks it might be hideous. The guy is turned around, though, so he can only see the back of it.

- answers below -

[1] Moon Dances Over

Louis knows that his tail is, frankly, stunning. His iridescent blue scales shimmer in even the slightest sunlight, and his fins have grown since he presented, delicate and almost transparent in their webbing.

He also knows that that means he’ll be one of the first to pick tonight, as the most beautiful omegas are blessed to pick their mates first. It’s considered a huge honour, since the guppies they’ll eventually birth will certainly be beautiful as well, bringing favour on the whole clan.

Louis has a stubborn streak, though. He’s always been rather a fan of mating for love, and there’s someone he’s had his eye on for a long time now.

[2] Frankincense-ational

Harry Styles works at the Hillsyde Library with his friend Zayn and best mate Niall. It’s December, which means Christmas, which should be the happiest month of the year…

Except Niall just broke up with his boyfriend, Zayn needs to let up on the rules a little, and the library is getting their fire alarm system replaced, which means that for the next few weeks there are going to be firemen patrolling the library ‘looking for fires’ while the system is down.

Harry almost hits one of them with his car right off the bat - and of course he’s the hot one.

Happy Christmas, here’s to many more.

A 2017 Advent Fic

[3] Give A Little Sing To The Singles

Harry Styles is an adult now, with a real adult job (and benefits! Whatever those are!). He spends his days at the copier. Copying things.

That being said, no one told Harry that being an adult came with a confusingly chaotic boss, a copier machine that would be hell-bent on ruining his life, and a coworker so good looking that Harry might just have to quit. After all, Christmas is coming and if their office doesn’t win the decorating contest, Louis has threatened to break several laws and kneecaps in retaliation.

Happy Christmas, here’s to many more.

[4] Things Unsaid

"That chunky oversized sweater is like a clown outfit made for winter."

It feels like time slows down.

Those words echo in his mind, familiar. Why are they familiar? The— the sweater he saw last week. The one with all the knit squares.

The train slows to a stop and Louis just— he doesn’t move. He feels frozen in place as people surge around him. Suddenly everyone is moving too fast and then just as suddenly the car is near empty, taking off again.

The man is gone.

His soulmate is gone.

Or, where you have a tattoo of the first thought your soulmate has when they see you.

#ficrec #hlcreators #hljournal #1dsquad #1dficvillage #ladylondonderry #londonfoginacup

56 notes · View notes

short-honey-badger · 1 year ago

Text

Peppermint Tea 24

Alright lovelies. This part had me struggling a little bit. It's got some plot. Got some fluffy heavy petting. No Shanks today. Just the Hawk.

This is also where I start to do my own thing with our reader's devil fruit. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings! Kissing, heavy petting. Wine drinking

Masterlist

Your boys leave the island together when you are back to one hundred percent. Both drag you in for kisses that last forever, memorizing the feel of your lips, and Mihawk surprises his partner by tugging Shanks down for a quick kiss before stalking away with a blush and a farewell. You laugh at the redhead’s flush, but Shanks gets you back for making fun of him by tickling you until you cry, uncle.

It's quiet with them gone, but you are glad that you're feeling better. The first thing you do is finish up any chores that your boys hadn't done for you while you'd been sick. There isn't much, but you're particular with the way you weed the garden. Neal stays by your side, eating any greenery that you hand him. The goat makes you smile, and you recall the day that Miahwk had left him here. The poor man had been lied to, the seller telling the warlord that Neal was indeed female, and Mihawk hadn't bothered to check.

You leave Neal to his own devices once you're finished in the garden. Sukuna and Hank greet you when you go inside, the big mutt lying sprawled out in front of the dead fireplace. Your cat yowls at you for pets, and you make sure to love on them both for a bit before pulling away.

Before Mihawk and Shanks had left, they had sat you down and explained that you needed to stop being so fearful of your devil fruit. Hongo didn't understand where your sudden sickness had come from, and after some brainstorming with Mihawk, both came to the tentative conclusion that maybe your lack of use had caused It. You told the men that unless needed, you didn't use your powers. You didn't like them, especially when your snow could be so dangerous.

The three of you came up with a game plan. You would take at least two hours of your day and train with your devil fruit. For now, the boys wanted you to keep it simple and focus on creating snow and turning your body into the cold substance. It was hard, and it took way more out of you than you expected it to, but eventually, the difficulty lessened, and you were able to manipulate your body without a thought.

Your island, bright and tropical, made the training even more difficult. At first, you're only able to create small piles of snow that Hank had a blast diving in, but the more you use your powers, the stronger you become. Your body temperature evened out, the fear disappeared, and you felt better than ever, and soon began to grow curious about what else you were capable of.

You grew bolder, forgetting about pacing yourself, and began to experiment with what you could do. How cold you could make your snow, and how much you could still control the liquid when it began to melt. Creating ice was beyond your abilities, but you can still compact your snow, and you start out by making a rough club out of the packed snow. You had cowed in victory, your screech echoing across the island when your fruit did its job and your creation stabilized. You'd scared the hell out of Hank and Neal, but the excitement had been well worth it.

When you weren't trying to make defensive weapons, you were seeing how large you could make snowflakes. The biggest you had achieved so far was around the size of a coffee mug, and you noticed just how pretty your snow could be. The individual flakes looked like flowers, each one unique to the other, and you grew to love them.

The more you used your fruit, the better you felt, as if the fruit had been waiting for you to accept it, instead of fighting against its abilities. You felt more comfortable with yourself, a hole you didn't realize you had filling up and making you feel whole. It was…nice, and you couldn't wait to show your boys all the things you learned about yourself.

It'd been three weeks since they left, and you missed them something awful. Sukuna and Hank filled the void when Mihawk or Shanks wasn't here, but your animals couldn’t cuddle or kiss you or hold a conversation like your boys could.

You mosie back outside, mind now preoccupied with thinking about the two men who had changed your life.

While you had been eager to add Shanks to the connection you shared with Mihawk, you couldn't help the trepidation you felt. You and the warlord had a comfortable relationship, built on affection and mutual trust. Shanks was a wildcard, and it still astounded you that the two men had been a thing long ago. How? You weren't sure, and unless they wanted to tell you, then you didn't plan on asking.

The two were complete opposites in almost everything. Sake and wine. Comfortable silence and rowdy parties. Quiet poetry and raunchy shanties. Mihawk screamed proprietary, and Shanks didn't have a proper bone in his body. Even the way they kissed you was different. Mihawk is always careful, and Shanks never knows when to stop.

You sigh from where you now lay in the middle of your front yard. Thinking about your boys only made you miss them more. You raise your hands, activate your fruit, and send a scattering of snow above you. The flakes are massive, though still around the same size as a coffee mug, and you smile watching the beautiful patterns fall around you.

You lay there for a long time, welcoming the cool that falls around you. With the acceptance of your devil fruit came your lack of care for the cold. Gone was the ever-present shivering and the need to bundle up constantly. You've stopped dressing in your thick leggings and sweaters, and the fireplace hasn't been touched in over a week. Today, you were dressed in one of the button-ups that Shanks had left behind and a pair of, much thinner, leggings. You liked how the baggy shirt fits you, giving you more range of motion.

Hank had even followed you around the entire island the other day, and the two of you explored the nooks and crannies of the jungle and the small mountain range to the west. The cove on the north side had rewarded your long walk with pretty sea glass and shells the size of your head.

You eventually rise out of the snow drift you've created around yourself, and with a wave of your hand, it begins to melt until there is nothing left but wet ground. You didn't need to be lying around daydreaming when there were still things that could be done. You'd rather not have to do any chores when your boys showed back up.

-------------

Sixteen days later, at least that's what your calendar says. You hear the sound of booted feet against the hardwood of your floor. A grin splits your face, and you turn around to see Mihawk stalking through your kitchen, a smirk on his lovely face and his arms already open and ready for you to jump into them.

You do just that, flinging yourself into his arms. You hug your warlord tightly and then pull away to accept the kiss that Mihawk bestows upon you. It's been longer than either of you expected for him to be gone, and Dracule makes up for it in the way he holds you close and lingers to press his lips to your brow, “Hello, Dear One. I have missed you.”

“I've missed you, too,” you murmur and tug him down for another kiss before releasing your lover to meet his gaze. His eyes swim with content glee, and you flush at having it trained on you. It's been almost a year and four months since you've met the dark-haired man, and he could still make butterflies erupt in your stomach.

Mihawk lets you go after one last kiss, and you go about making the two a glass of wine. You've learned to appreciate the fancy drink, and you were still too chicken to try the strong sake and rum that Shanks preferred.

The two of you catch up inside the kitchen, the warlord telling you of Perona's newest escapades and of the letter Zoro had sent him. You listened intently, eyes never leaving the handsome man as he told you about his time away. Listening to the stories the two men always had available was definitely one of your favorite pastimes. Both your boys had such rich, soothing voices that they'd put you to sleep more than once.

“Enough about me, I want to know how you've been. You look radiant, Dear One,” Mihawk murmurs and reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, fingers sliding under your chin to turn you this way and that. It was true. You looked brighter today, a light he hadn't seen before glowing in your eyes.

You set your glass in the sink and come to a stop between Mihaek’s parted legs. You watch his eyes narrow in on you, and he shifts to sit up a little straighter, “How about I show you, instead?”

Dracule licks his lips, hands reaching for your hips to pull you closer. His thumbs rub soothing circles into the sensitive skin there and he leans in to place a delicate kiss on your stomach, golden eyes catching your own, “Looks more like you’re trying to distract me, my dear.”

You can’t help the smirk that curls your lips, but you shake your head, “No, nothing like that.”

Now more curious than anything, Mihawk sits back in his chair but doesn’t move his hands. You raise your own and concentrate on activating your devil fruit, eyes narrowed, and tongue caught between your teeth. You want to make Mihawk a special one. One that would last.

It starts as a tiny flake, hardly bigger than what the eye could see before it begins to grow. It solidifies, branching out like a growing sapling and sprouting snowy leaves. The snowflake is about the size of a baseball, beautiful and perfectly symmetrical.

“If I did this correctly, then this shouldn't melt unless I want it to, or like. I die or something,” you explain, tone full of morbid curiosity. Mihawk pinches your hip in retaliation.

“It's beautiful, Darling,” Mihawk murmurs and carefully takes the gift in his hands when you hold it out to him. It's incredibly cold, but very impressive, “I'm proud of you for keeping up your training plan. You've not overworked yourself, have you?”

You flush at his praise, cheeks lighting up in delight, “Nope. I feel good, actually. Like I have more energy. Hank and I went around the whole island the other day.”

Dracule ticks a brow up, impressed by your jaunt around this island. He had offered before to explore the island with you, but you'd always be content to stay at the cottage and read your books. He hadn't complained since he was still getting to spend time with you, and this new development pleased him. He was glad that you seemed to be doing much better.

“Find anything interesting?” Miahwk asks you, and the sound of your voice soothes him as he listens to you ramble about all the bits and bobs you'd found in the cove.

After a while, you seem to run out of steam, excited babbling coming to a stop. By now, the two of you had moved to the living room, and you sat in his lap facing the warlord. Mihawk takes advantage of the quiet moment to slip his hands under your shirt, fingertips trailing over your cool skin and sending shivers racing up your spine. The more he looks at your shirt, the more he realizes that it doesn't belong to you.

“Wearing our clothes, sweet thing?” Dracule points out and extracts a hand to gently tug at the ruffles that fall down your chest. The top button pops open without much prompt, and Mihawk smirks when he gets a view of your cleavage. He leans in and presses a kiss to the valley between your breasts, humming in pleasure when your hands find his shoulders and dig your fingers in.

You blush and shrug, “They're more comfortable, and my old clothes were too constricting.”

Dracule smiles as a thought passes by. If you no longer wanted to wear your old wardrobe, then that was just an opportunity for him to go clothes shopping. He would love to whisk you away from your island and take you with him, just so he could see the wonder on your face with all the different fabrics and colors, but alas. His worries kept you safe, and Mihawk would not risk you over clothes.

“What would you like me to bring you next time?” He asks and feels pride in you when you immediately start listing off the things that you would like. It had taken his angel a long time to start asking for things instead of making careful suggestions. Mihawk took mental notes, already making plans to stop at several shopping islands to look for what you wanted.

It's nearing midnight before the two of you decide to head to bed. You've already dressed in your sleep clothes and snuggled in bed by the time Dracule steps out of the shower. He slips into a pair of soft sleep pants and slides under the covers, manhandling you until you lay spread across his chest. His mind is a little sluggish from the amount of wine the two of you had through the evening, and maybe that's why he doesn't protest when you scoot up and begin to suck gentle marks into his skin.

Mihawk sags into the mattress, hands finding your hips as he allows you your fun for now. Your lips feel delightful against his heated skin, and he hisses in pleasure when you nip the hollow of his throat. Feeling impatient, he tightens his hold on your hips and grinds up into your waiting heat. The friction is a sweet drag along his cock and Mihawk wants more than anything to be inside of you.

The warlord had yet to push for sex, and you had yet to offer it to him. Mihawk felt more like a handsy teenager than his fourth three years, but he felt like he's waited long enough, and tonight felt like a breaking point

“_,”Mihawk rumbles, and you slow to a stop, shifting to hold yourself up by his shoulders and catching his gaze. Even in your slightly inebriated state, you could hear the seriousness of his tone, and it made you pay close attention to him, “I want to have sex with you. I want to feel you around me as you come on my cock. Do you want me, too?”

@writingmysanity @djbumblebee @goth-mami-writer @myradiaz @fluffybunnyu @bookandstar @foggyturtleknightangel @browneyedhufflepuff @anastasiyax

#one piece #fanfic #reader insert #fluff #dracule mihawk #mihawk x reader #hawkeye mihawk #mihawk x you #opla mihawk #shanks x reader #opla mihawk x reader #peppermint tea #smut #opla x reader #mihawk x shanks #mishanks x reader #opla shanks x you

129 notes · View notes