#paper cups and plates making machine

[knsus]

Project Report: Paper Cups and Plates Manufacturing Unit

Project Report: Paper Cups and Plates Manufacturing Unit Paper Cups and Plates Manufacturing 1. Introduction- Paper Cups and Plates Manufacturing The plastic cup and Plate Manufacturing industry is facing increasing environmental concerns, and the ban on single-use plastics has led to a surge in demand for eco-friendly alternatives like paper cups and plates. These products are not only…

[gojosconsort]

breaking nanami's restraint

𓂃୨ৎ as a young barista, you tease nanami kento’s calm with shameless flirting because it’s just so fun until one night, he breaks.

𓂃୨ৎ pairing. afab!reader x older!office-worker!nanami

𓂃୨ৎ warnings. mdni. age gap (reader in early 20s, nanami in mid-40s), oral (both receiving), unprotected sex, cum play, dirty talk, begging, overstimulation, workplace setting, degradation (use of terms like "slut")

the café’s bell jingles, and your head snaps up. it’s him—nanami kento, the man who’s been driving you wild for weeks. mid-forties, tailored suit hugging his broad shoulders, blonde hair neat but just tousled enough to make your fingers itch.

he’s so hot, the kind of guy who could silence a room without trying. you’re barely out of college, working this downtown coffee shop to pay rent, and every time he steps in, you feel like you’re burning up.

“afternoon,” he says, voice deep and clipped, like he’s rationing words. he orders the same thing every time: black coffee, no sugar, croissant he picks at. it’s not about the food—you can tell by the way he watches you instead of the plate.

“hey, fancy seeing you,” you say, popping your hip against the counter, letting your skirt ride up just a bit. you’re not shy about it—leaning forward, cleavage peeking out of your low-cut top, giving him a smile that’s more heat than hospitality. his eyes flick down, just for a second, before locking onto yours. it’s quick, but you catch it, and it fuels you.

“usual?” you ask, already knowing the answer. you turn to the espresso machine, swaying your hips more than necessary, feeling his gaze like a weight on your skin. the café’s dead today, just the buzz of the fridge and some soft jazz you picked to set the mood. every move you make is for him—stretching to grab a cup, letting your shirt lift to show a little skin.

he nods, settling at his window table, tie knotted tight. he’s reserved, always is, but you’ve seen the cracks—those brief glances, the way his jaw ticks when you get too close. you want to shatter that composure, make him react, make him want you the way you’re dying for him.

you bring his order over, bending a little too far as you set it down, your hair brushing his hand. “so, you ever gonna mix it up, or is boring your thing?” you tease.

he glances up, expression unreadable. “i like what i like,” he says, flat but deliberate, and you swear there’s a spark in his eyes. it’s enough to keep you hooked.

“bet i could change your mind,” you say, winking, and saunter back to the counter, feeling his stare follow you. you’re shameless—flipping your hair, licking your lips when you catch him looking, dropping a spoon just to bend over and pick it up slow.

he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blush, just sips his coffee like you’re not putting on a show. but he’s here, isn’t he? every other day, same time, same table. he likes it, even if he won’t admit it.

days went by, and you crank it up. one afternoon, it’s raining hard, and he’s the only one in the shop. you’re wiping tables near him, skirt short enough to make you blush if you cared. “you never tell me anything,” you pout, leaning close enough that your arm brushes his. “what’s a guy like you do all day? save the world? break hearts?”

“work,” he says, not looking up from his paper. “spreadsheets. meetings. nothing you’d care about.”

“oh, i care,” you say, voice low, resting your hand on the table, fingers grazing his. he doesn’t pull away, but his grip on the paper tightens. “you look like you could do anything and make it sexy.”

his eyes meet yours, steady and piercing. “you’re bold,” he says, and it’s not a compliment or an insult—just a fact. but the way his voice dips makes your thighs clench.

“you keep coming back, so it’s working,” you shoot back, grinning. you let your hand linger a second longer before pulling away, swaying back to the counter. you’re buzzing, heart racing, but he just goes back to his paper like nothing happened.

it’s maddening, and you love it.

the touches start small, always you initiating. you hand him his coffee, letting your fingers slide over his, slow and deliberate. he doesn’t react, but he doesn’t pull away either. another day, you’re passing him a napkin, and your wrist brushes his, skin on skin for a heartbeat. his eyes flick to yours, dark and unreadable, and you smile like you’ve won something.

one busy afternoon, the café’s packed, and you’re weaving through the crowd. he’s at his table, and you “accidentally” bump into him, your hip grazing his shoulder. “oops,” you say, turning to give him a coy look. his jaw clenches, just for a second, and you feel a rush knowing you got under his skin.

you keep pushing. wiping down his table, you lean over just enough to let him see down your shirt, pretending you don’t notice. you drop a pen near his chair and take your time picking it up, skirt riding up. every time, he’s stone—calm, controlled, sipping his damn coffee. but he’s here, and that’s your victory. he could go anywhere, but he picks your café, your teasing, your shameless flirting.

one night, you’re closing up, and he’s the last one left. you’re bold tonight, high on the thrill of the game. you lock the door, flip the sign to “closed,” and saunter over, leaning against his table, skirt barely covering your thighs. “you’re gonna miss your train,” you say.

he looks up, folding his paper with agonizing slowness. “i’ll manage.”

you tilt your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. “you know, i’m starting to think you like me making a fool of myself for you.”

he stands, towering over you, and for the first time, he steps close—close enough you can smell his cologne, feel the heat off him. his hand brushes your arm as he reaches for his coat, the touch so light you almost miss it, but it sends a jolt through you. “you’re not a fool,” he says, voice low, almost rough. “but you’re playing a dangerous game.”

your breath catches, but you don’t back down. “good thing i like danger,” you whisper, looking up through your lashes.

he holds your gaze, and for a second, you think he might break—might grab you, kiss you, something. but then he steps back, slipping on his coat. “see you tomorrow,” he says, and he’s gone, leaving you trembling and aching in the empty café.

that night, you’re sprawled across your bed, the faint hum of the city outside your window drowned out by the heat coursing through you. nanami’s burned into your mind, his sharp jaw, the way his suit clings to his frame, that maddening restraint in his eyes when you push his buttons.

you close your eyes, and he’s there—tie loose, sleeves rolled up, standing over you in the empty café. your hand’s already between your thighs, fingers slick, but it’s not enough. it’s never enough when it’s him you’re craving.

you imagine him grabbing your wrists, pinning them to the counter, his voice low and rough in your ear. “you’ve been teasing me for weeks,” he’d say, breath hot against your neck. “think i don’t notice?” you picture him pressing himself against you, his fat cock hard and heavy through his slacks, grinding into your hip until you’re whimpering.

your fingers move faster, desperate, but they’re a pale substitute for what you want—him, thick and stretching you, filling you so deep you’d feel it for days. you’d beg for it, you know you would, thighs spread wide on that counter, skirt hiked up, pleading for him to fuck you senseless.

in your fantasy, he’s not gentle. he’d yank your blouse open, buttons popping, mouth on your tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks. you’d arch into him, moaning his name—kento—and he’d growl, finally losing that iron grip on his control.

you imagine his hands, big and calloused, spreading your thighs, his cock nudging against you, teasing until you’re shaking. “this what you wanted?” he’d ask, voice dark, and then he’d thrust in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, every vein, until he’s buried to the hilt.

your fingers curl inside you, trying to mimic the stretch, but it’s nothing compared to how you know he’d ruin you, pounding you until the café’s tables rattle, until you’re sobbing his name.

you want his weight on you, his sweat mixing with yours, his cock splitting you open while he mutters filthy things about how you’ve been asking for this, how you’ve been dripping for him every time you bent over in that short skirt. you’d claw at his back, legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper, needing more, always more.

your orgasm builds, sharp and fast, as you picture him coming, groaning low in his throat, spilling inside you, hot and thick, claiming you in a way your fingers never could.

you cum with a gasp, body trembling, but it’s hollow. your hand’s not him, not his fat cock, not his hands or his mouth or the way he’d make you scream. you lie there, panting, wishing he was there to see you like this—wrecked, needy, all because of him.

the next day, you’re wired, the memory of your fantasy making you bold. the bell chimes, and nanami walks in, same suit, same stoic face, but you’re done playing subtle. “hey, you,” you say, voice dripping with mischief as you lean forward, letting your blouse gape just enough. “usual?”

he nods, eyes flicking over you, lingering a second too long. “yes. thank you.”

you pour his coffee, swaying your hips as you move, making sure he’s watching. when you bring it to his table, you lean in close, closer than necessary, your hair brushing his shoulder. “had a long night,” you say, voice low, teasing. “couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

his hand pauses on the cup, fingers tightening just slightly. he doesn’t look up, but you catch the faintest tic in his jaw. “that so?” he says, voice even, like he’s not fazed. but you’re not buying it.

“mmhm,” you hum, resting a hand on the table, fingers inches from his. “kept me up way too late. had to… take care of things myself.” you let the words hang, heavy and deliberate, watching for any crack in that stoic facade.

his eyes snap to yours, dark and intense, and you see it—the bulge in his slacks, unmistakable, growing as your words sink in. his jaw clenches, knuckles white around the cup, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. you smirk, knowing you’ve got him, and saunter back to the counter, hips swaying. “you’re here every day,” you call over your shoulder. “guess i’m not the only one who can’t stay away.”

he stays silent, but his stare burns into you, and you know you’re chipping away at that restraint. you’re not done—not until he breaks and gives you everything you’ve been fantasizing about.

the next day, the bell chimes, and nanami steps in, suit crisp, face as unreadable as ever, but you’re not fooled. he’s here, same time, same table.

that’s all the proof you need.

you’re behind the counter, blouse unbuttoned just enough to tease, skirt clinging to your hips. “usual, handsome?” you call out, voice dripping with intent, leaning forward so he gets a good view.

he nods, eyes flicking over you, lingering on the curve of your chest before meeting your gaze. “yes,” he says, voice steady, but there’s a tightness there, like he’s holding himself in check.

you pour his coffee, making a show of it, bending slightly to let your skirt ride up. when you bring it to his table, you lean in close, your hand brushing his as you set the cup down. “so,” you murmur, low and sultry, “you ever touch yourself thinking about me? ‘cause i sure as hell do thinking about you.”

his eyes narrow, and for a second, you think you’ve got him—his breath catches, just barely. but then he leans back, folding his arms, studying you like you’re a problem he’s solving. “how old are you?” he asks, voice calm but pointed.

you grin, undeterred, propping a hand on your hip. “early twenties. why, you worried i’m too young for you?”

he exhales, almost a scoff, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “i’m old enough to be your dad.”

your pulse spikes, and you lean closer, letting your voice drop to a purr. “even better.”

his jaw tightens, and there it was again—the bulge in his slacks, betraying him. he shifts in his seat, trying to hide it, but you’re already smirking, knowing you’ve hit a nerve. “you’re playing with fire,” he says, low and rough, but he doesn’t get up, doesn’t leave.

“good,” you whisper, straightening up, giving him a view of your ass as you saunter back to the counter. “i like it hot.”

he doesn’t respond, just watches you with that heavy, unreadable stare, but he stays, sipping his coffee, and you know you’re wearing him down, inch by filthy inch.

that evening, you’re closing up, the café dark except for the glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows. nanami’s still there, the last one, lingering at his table with his coffee long gone, pretending to read his paper. you know he’s watching you, and you’re not about to waste the chance. you lock the door, flip the sign to “closed,” and turn up the heat.

you saunter toward him, rag in hand and stop at his table, leaning over to grab his empty cup, “accidentally” knocking over a water glass. it splashes across his slacks, soaking the fabric over his thigh. “oh, shit,” you say, fake-apologetic, grabbing the rag. “let me fix that.”

before he can protest, you’re on your knees between his legs, right there in the dim café. you press the rag to his thigh, rubbing slow, your hands dangerously close to the obvious bulge straining against his pants.

he’s hard—so hard—and you feel a thrill knowing it’s because of you. you look up at him, all innocent, but your eyes say something else. “can’t let you leave all messy,” you murmur, and then, bold as hell, you lean in and drag your tongue over the wet spot on his slacks, tasting the faint salt of the water and the heat of him beneath.

his breath hitches, loud in the quiet, and you feel his thigh tense under your hands. you glance up, and his control’s gone—eyes dark, jaw clenched, hands gripping the table like he’s holding himself back. “what the hell are you doing?” he growls, voice rough, but he doesn’t push you away.

“cleaning up,” you say, all coy, licking your lips as you hold his gaze. you press your palm against his bulge, just enough to make him hiss, and that’s it—he snaps.

nanami grabs your arms, hauling you up and onto the table in one swift move, papers and cups scattering. his mouth crashes into yours, hard and hungry, all that pent-up restraint pouring out. it’s messy, desperate—his tongue claiming yours, teeth grazing your lip, one hand fisting in your hair while the other grips your hip, pulling you flush against him. you moan into his mouth, tasting coffee and him, your hands clawing at his tie, yanking it loose.

“you’ve been begging for this,” he mutters against your lips, voice raw, his hard-on pressing into your thigh through his slacks. “fucking relentless.”

“and you love it,” you gasp, arching into him, skirt riding up as he slots himself between your legs. his kiss is bruising, all control and want, and you’re dizzy with it, with him finally giving in, ready to see how much further you can push him.

nanami’s hands are everywhere—yanking your hair, gripping your hips, his hard-on grinding into you through his slacks. you’re dizzy, thighs trembling, but he’s not done. not even close. he pulls back, eyes black with want, and you see the moment he decides to ruin you.

“you’ve been asking for this,” he growls, voice thick with need. your skirt’s already bunched up, and he doesn’t bother with finesse—his hands shove your thighs apart, rough and impatient, spreading you open. you’re soaked, panties clinging to you, and the way he looks at you, like he’s starving, makes your core clench.

“fuck, look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself, as he hooks his fingers under your panties and rips them down, tossing them somewhere behind the counter. you gasp, but it’s cut off when he drops to his knees, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider. his hands dig into your thighs, holding you in place, and then his mouth’s on you, no warning, no teasing—just raw, filthy hunger.

his tongue dives into your folds, lapping at you like he’s been deprived for years. it’s messy, wet, obscene—his lips sucking your clit, tongue flicking over it before plunging inside you, tasting every inch of your dripping cunt. you moan, loud and shameless, hands fisting in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him groan against you. the vibrations shoot through you, and your hips buck, grinding against his face, but he holds you down, fingers bruising your skin.

“stay still,” he orders, voice muffled but sharp, and you try, but it’s impossible when he’s eating you out like this, like he wants to devour every last drop. his tongue fucks into you, deep and relentless, then drags up to circle your clit, sucking hard until you’re whimpering, thighs shaking. you’re a mess—slick dripping down your thighs, coating his chin, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t let up, just licks you harder, greedier.

“kento,” you gasp, voice breaking, and he growls, doubling down. he’s sloppy, unhinged, nothing like the controlled man who orders black coffee. his hands slide to your ass, pulling you closer, tongue working you open as he moans into your pussy, like he’s getting off on this as much as you are. you can feel him, hard and straining in his slacks, but he’s too focused on you, on making you feel good.

you’re close, so close, the heat coiling tight in your belly. he knows it—senses it in the way you tighten around his tongue—and he pushes harder, sucking your clit into his mouth, flicking it with quick, brutal strokes. “come for me,” he demands, voice rough against your skin, and that’s all it takes. you shatter, crying out, hips jerking as your orgasm rips through you, slick gushing against his mouth. he doesn’t stop, lapping up every bit, drawing it out until you’re whining, oversensitive, legs trembling.

he pulls back, finally, lips glistening, eyes wild as he looks up at you. his hair’s a mess from your hands, tie hanging loose, and you can see the bulge in his slacks, bigger than before, straining like he’s about to burst. you’re panting, still catching your breath, but you manage a shaky grin. “fuck, nanami, you’re filthy.”

“you have no idea,” he says, standing, voice dark with promise as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, already reaching for his belt.

“my turn,” you purr, sliding off the table, legs shaky but determined. you drop to your knees in front of him, the café’s dim light casting shadows over his sharp features. his jaw tightens as you reach for his zipper, tugging it down slow, teasing, until his cock springs free. it’s thick, heavy, veins pulsing, and your mouth waters at the sight. he’s bigger than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a lot.

“fuck,” you whisper, gripping him at the base, feeling him twitch in your hand. you look up, meeting his dark gaze, and give him a wicked grin before leaning in, dragging your tongue along the underside, slow and deliberate. he groans, low and guttural, one hand bracing against the table as you swirl your tongue around the tip, tasting the bead of precum there.

you don’t ease him into it. you take him deep, lips stretching around his girth, hollowing your cheeks as you bob your head, sloppy and eager. he’s so thick it’s a struggle, but you love it—the way he fills your mouth, the way his hips jerk slightly, like he’s fighting to stay in control. you push further, nose brushing his pelvis, throat constricting as you swallow around him.

“shit,” he hisses, hand fisting in your hair, not gentle but not cruel—yet. “you’re too fucking good at this.”

you hum, the vibration making him curse again, and you pick up the pace, sucking hard, letting spit drip down your chin. it’s messy, rough, your hands gripping his thighs for leverage as you take him deeper, faster. he’s close, you can feel it—his breaths ragged, his grip tightening, hips starting to thrust, shallow at first, then harder, fucking your mouth like he can’t hold back anymore.

“look at you,” he growls, voice raw, “taking it so well, so fucking greedy.” his words send a jolt through you, and you moan around him, letting him use you, loving the way he’s losing it. he’s rough now, thrusting deep, hitting the back of your throat until your eyes water, but you don’t care—you want him wrecked, want him to break.

his control slips completely, hips snapping, hand guiding your head as he fucks your mouth. you’re a mess—spit slicking your lips, tears streaking your cheeks, but you keep going, hollowing your cheeks, sucking like you’re starving for him. “gonna come,” he warns, voice strained, and you double down, taking him as deep as you can, moaning to push him over the edge.

he snaps, a low groan ripping from his throat as he comes, hard and sudden, flooding your mouth with hot, thick spurts. it’s so much, more than you expected, spilling past your lips, dripping down your chin as you try to swallow it all. he keeps thrusting, shallow now, riding it out, and you let him, milking every last drop until he’s shuddering, grip loosening in your hair.

you pull back, gasping, his cum smeared across your lips, dripping onto your chest, staining your blouse. you swipe a finger through the mess on your chin, sucking it clean while holding his gaze, and he groans again, like you’re killing him.

“fuck,” he mutters, still catching his breath, looking down at you like he’s seeing you for the first time—wrecked, filthy, perfect. “you’re a goddamn menace.”

you grin, voice hoarse. “and you’re still hard.” you nod at his cock, still half-erect, and his eyes darken.

“get up,” he orders, voice low and rough, sending a shiver through you. you stand, legs wobbly, and he grabs your waist, spinning you around to face the table. his hands are rough, shoving you forward until your hips slam against the edge, your palms slapping the surface to brace yourself.

he’s behind you, heat radiating off him, and you feel his cock—hard again, impossibly thick—press against your ass.

“you wanted this,” he growls, yanking your skirt up higher, exposing you completely and you’re dripping, slick coating your thighs. his hand slides between your legs, fingers grazing your folds, and you gasp, pushing back against him. he chuckles, dark and mean. “so fucking wet. you’re desperate, aren’t you?”

“please, kento,” you whine, wiggling your hips, but he slaps your ass, sharp enough to sting, making you yelp.

“not yet,” he says, voice cold, controlled, but you hear the edge in it, the hunger he’s barely reining in. “you’ve been teasing me for weeks, acting like a little slut. you don’t get it that easy.”

his fingers tease you, circling your clit, slow and torturous, never giving you enough. you squirm, trying to grind against his hand, but he grips your hip, holding you still. “beg,” he demands, leaning over you, his breath hot against your ear. “tell me how bad you want it.”

“fuck, please,” you gasp, voice breaking. “i need you, kento, need your cock, please, just fuck me.”

“not good enough,” he says, pulling his hand away, leaving you empty and aching. you whimper, frustration burning, but he’s relentless, sliding his cock between your thighs, letting it glide against your slick folds without entering. it’s torture—his thick length so close, brushing your clit, but not giving you what you need. “say it like you mean it.”

“kento, please, i’m begging,” you sob, pushing back, desperate. “i need you inside me, need you to fuck me so hard i can’t walk, please, i’ll do anything.”

he groans, low and primal, and you feel him line up, the fat tip of his cock nudging your entrance. “that’s better,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move, just holds himself there, stretching you just enough to make you whine. “you sure you can take it? i’m not small, and you’re so fucking tight.”

“i can take it,” you pant, though you’re not sure, not with how massive he feels, but you want it, want him to ruin you. “please, just do it.”

he doesn’t ease in. he thrusts, hard and deep, forcing his cock into you in one brutal stroke. you cry out, the stretch burning, overwhelming—he’s so big, so thick, it feels like he’s splitting you open.

your walls clench around him, struggling to take him, and he hisses, gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. “fuck, you’re tight,” he growls, pulling back just to slam in again, rough and unforgiving.

it hurts, but it’s good, so fucking good, the way he fills you completely, hitting spots you didn’t know existed. you’re moaning, incoherent, nails scratching the table as he sets a punishing pace, each thrust jarring your body, the table digging into your hips. “kento, oh god,” you gasp, barely able to speak, and he laughs, low and cruel.

“thought you could handle it,” he taunts, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back. “look at you, barely taking half.” he thrusts harder, deeper, and you scream, feeling him bully his way into your core, stretching you to your limit. “beg me to slow down.”

“no,” you choke out, defiant even as tears prick your eyes. “harder, please, fuck me harder.”

he groans, like your words snap something in him, and he gives it to you—pounding into you, relentless, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the café. your legs shake, barely holding you up, but his hands keep you in place, fucking you like he’s trying to break you. “greedy little thing,” he mutters, one hand sliding to your clit, rubbing rough circles that make you see stars. “come on, beg for it again.”

“please, kento, make me come,” you sob, so close but not there, his cock overwhelming, his fingers merciless. “need it, need you, please.”

“not yet,” he says, slowing just enough to drag it out, torturing you with long, deep strokes that keep you teetering on the edge. you’re whimpering, pleading, but he holds you there, making you feel every inch of him, every brutal thrust. “you come when i say.”

you’re a wreck, body trembling, cunt clenching around him, and finally, finally, he picks up the pace again, slamming into you, fingers working your clit until you’re screaming, your orgasm crashing over you, gushing around his cock. he doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, chasing his own release, and you’re oversensitive, whining, but he doesn’t care.

“fuck, gonna fill you up,” he groans, thrusts erratic, and then he’s coming, hot and thick, so much it spills out, dripping down your thighs. he keeps moving, milking it, until you’re both panting, spent, your body limp against the table.

he pulls out, slow, and you whimper at the emptiness, his cum leaking from you, pooling on the floor. he steps back, breathing hard, watching you—messy, dripping, barely able to stand—and mutters, “look at the mess you made.”

you try to catch your breath, grinning shakily. “worth it,” you rasp, voice hoarse from screaming his name. but he doesn’t smile back, doesn’t soften. instead, he steps closer, towering over you, one hand gripping your hip to keep you in place.

“you think we’re done?” he growls, voice low and dangerous, sending a fresh pulse of heat through you. his other hand slides between your legs, fingers finding the mess he left, his cum dripping from your swollen cunt. you gasp, oversensitive, as he scoops it up, thick and warm, and pushes it back inside you with two fingers, slow and deliberate.

“kento—fuck,” you whimper, hips jerking as he curls his fingers, shoving his cum deeper, your walls fluttering around him. it’s obscene, the wet squelch of it, the way he’s claiming you again, making sure every drop stays inside. you’re trembling, barely able to stand, but he doesn’t let up, fucking his cum back into you with a focus that makes your head spin.

“you’re gonna keep this,” he murmurs, almost to himself, eyes locked on where his fingers disappear inside you. “every fucking bit of it.” his thumb brushes your clit, rough and relentless, and you cry out, oversensitive but helpless under his touch. he’s not gentle—his fingers pump deeper, harder, like he’s punishing you for how much you want it, how much you’re still clenching around him.

“look at you,” he says, “dripping with me, still so fucking needy.” he leans in, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot. “you’re mine now, you know that? gonna fuck you so full you’ll feel me for days.”

you moan, head falling back against the table, your body arching into his hand. his fingers are relentless, pushing his cum deeper, stretching you, and you’re already building again, despite the ache, despite how wrecked you are. “please, kento,” you beg, voice breaking, “make me come again.”

he chuckles, dark and cruel, and adds a third finger, the stretch making you gasp, his cum and your slick coating his hand. “greedy little slut,” he mutters, but there’s heat in it, like he’s loving every second of your desperation. he works you harder, thumb circling your clit, fingers fucking you until you’re sobbing, another orgasm ripping through you, gushing around his hand, mixing with his cum.

he doesn’t pull out right away, keeping his fingers inside, holding his release there like a promise. you’re panting, limp, his cum still leaking despite his efforts, and he smirks, finally pulling his hand free. he brings his fingers to your lips, smeared with both of you, and you suck them clean without hesitation, tasting him, tasting yourself, eyes locked on his.

“filthy,” he says, almost proud, wiping his hand on your thigh before stepping back, adjusting his tie like nothing happened. “clean yourself up. i’ll see you tomorrow.”

you’re left there, shaking, his cum still inside you, knowing you’ll feel him every time you move, and already craving the next time he walks through that door.

[lilhughesy]

The Luke piece ground my heart into dust. Yes I will spend the rest of the day daydreaming about Luke now in the apartment alone, making one cup of coffee in silence, eating alone, and realizing that he did still love her. What can I say, I like men being pathetic, begging, and groveling.

I Remember Everything | Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

part one. part three.

warnings! angst!!!! reminiscing old memories, dealing with a break up, and I think thats it? word count: 3.1k

summary: He hasn't been the same since the last time you spoke. He's been playing terribly, his coffee doesn't taste right, and it's been too quiet. Everything in his life reminds him of you and he doesn't know where to go now and it doesn't help that he remembers everything about you.

a/n: eek! part 2 to Look at You Now!! I was so surprised to see how much attention that fic received considering it was something that I wrote without any plan or idea of what I wanted it to be. Thank you so much for the love and support, you have no idea how much it means to me! I hope you like part 2!! <3

He couldn’t remember the last time he woke up to a cold and empty bed and found it normal. Like when he used to cherish having a large bed to himself in high school. His body instinctively rolled over to reach for you, only to find nothing there. Your pillow remained untouched and in its original upright position, the comforter laid perfectly. He frowned to himself, feeling his heart sink slightly at your absence.

It had been just over a week since he came home from morning skate to see all of your belongings missing from your apartment. Your matching shoes were no longer on the rack by the door, your fluffy throw blankets gone from the couches, the stack of your read books all evaporated into thin air. He was confused at where you had put everything, maybe you were doing some cleaning.

“Hey baby?” He called out, placing his wallet and keys on the kitchen counter before his eyes started to scan over the space. He took his shaker bottle from his bag and rinsed it with water from the sink before putting it in the drying rack. He went to open the dishwasher to start putting away the cleaned dishes, as he typically did — only to realize that they were already put away.

He opened the cabinet doors to see the plates stacked up, but he also noticed how your various mugs that were stored in the cupboard were gone.

“Babe?” He repeated, cautiously closing the small door and heading towards your shared bedroom. He pushed the door open, only to see it vacant.

The bed was perfectly made, the sheets all tucked and the pillows stacked in place. But the spare hoodie you always left on your side of the bed for easy access wasn’t there, and the candle on your side of the bed wasn’t there either. In fact, there was nothing on your night stand other than the singular lamp.

Panic set into his gut, he immediately went to your side of the bed and opened the small drawer where you kept your journal, past cards he had written you, lip balm, photos of the two of you and a few other trinkets. They were all gone. The drawer was empty.

He rushed over to your shared closet, to see the racks bare, dresser was empty and not a singular trace of you was left behind.

Other than his old UMich hoodie that you loved so much, folded and placed on the top of his dresser. Along with a small piece of paper which read:

I can’t do this with you anymore Luke. I can’t keeping waiting for you to love me back. I went back home. Don’t try to call me or to find me. Good luck with everything, I hope you get everything that you deserve in life.

His feet carried him to the kitchen where he started to make his morning coffee. He stood by the coffee machine, watching it slowly pour the steaming dark liquid into the only clean mug he found at the back of the cupboard. The bitter scent of the coffee filtered into the air of the kitchen, the faint steam swirling around the machine as it brewed.

He held the warm ceramic in his hands, taking an inhale before a sip of the drink.

It didn’t taste right, even though it had been the same coffee pod that you always bought. He had used the same milk and creamer, but the ratio hadn't been the same. It didn't taste the same as how you made it for him every morning. It left a taste in his mouth that was a little too bitter. It was a bit too strong. He sighed, placing the mug on the counter whilst sitting on the cold bar stool. Like muscle memory, his body twisted towards the left, only to see your seat empty.

“What are you gonna do while I’m gone this weekend?” He asked you, as you rested your head on his shoulder. You shrugged in response,

“There’s a new cafe that opened a few blocks away that I wanted to check out,” You told him, glancing up to meet his eyes, “And maybe do some shopping… Artizia released new colours for their sweat fleeces so maybe I’ll treat myself to a new sweat suit.”

A smile filled with adoration grew on his face, “That sounds nice. Maybe you should get us matching sweat suits so we can be cozy together.”

You perked at his suggestion, “You’d wear an Artizia sweat suit to match with me?!”

“Yeah, they’re super comfortable.” He chuckled, relaxing into his seat, “I wear that black hoodie you got a while ago all the time”

“What?” Your eyes widened, placing your mug near his, “I’ve been looking for that hoodie for so long! You’ve had it this whole time?”

He grinned, fully amused at your reactions, “So it’s fine whenever you take my clothes and the second I take one of your hoodies, it’s a crime?”

You rolled your eyes playfully and pouted, “I’ll get over it if you let me pick the colour for our matching sweat suits.”

“Fine by me.” He reached for his phone and fiddled with it for a moment before placing it screen down, “I’m going to miss you this weekend.”

“I’ll miss you more,” You sighed, “It’s always so quiet and lonely when you’re on your roadies.”

He leaned to you, planting a tender kiss on your lips, “I know baby, I’m sorry. I’ll call you the second we land.”

“I love you.” You smiled against his lips, “I’m always so proud of you.”

“I love you, my gorgeous girl.” He said softly before standing up from his seat, “I have to get my things ready, Jack’s probably coming soon.”

You nodded, “Okay.”

He finished the rest of his morning coffee, walking over to place it in the sink before wandering towards your shared bedroom. He looked over his shoulder to see you pulling out your phone as he entered the room. He grabbed his suit that you had steamed for him the night before that was hanging on the door. He quickly changed, buttoning his shirt before going to the bathroom. He ran his hands through his hair a few times to adjust his curls. They didn’t look right, so he opted for a black beanie to hide the mess of his curls before starting to brush his teeth.

“Babe? Why did you send me $300?” He heard your voice coming from the main room.

He chuckled to himself, placing his toothbrush on the edge of the sink, “For your shopping!”

“What?!” You exclaimed, “You do realize I can pay for my own things right?”

“It turns me on,” He laughed, shaking his head slightly while grabbing his toothbrush again, “I like when you spend my money, babe.”

“You’re so weird.” You giggled, now leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom and admiring your boyfriend, “Thank you, my love.”

He rinsed his mouth, using the hand towel to wipe his face before approaching you. He kissed your temple, “You’re welcome, sweet girl.”

You helped him slip on his suit jacket, your hands smoothing out the material on his chest. Your hands rest on his shoulders, “I like this suit on you.”

“Yeah?” He smirked, raising an eyebrow at you with his hands falling to your waist.

You hummed, eyes shamelessly scanning your boyfriend’s body, “Yeah.”

He kissed your hair, “I should get going.”

His fingers interlaced with yours, guiding you towards the front door where his travel bags were. His strong arms wrapped around your middle, embracing you tightly, “I love you and I’ll miss you.”

“I love you.”

He leaned down to kiss you, before kissing your forehead.

His eyes lingered on the empty chair, nearly visualizing your typical morning self sitting next to him. Your gorgeous legs crossing over, your fluffy socks clad feet, his shirt or a hoodie fitting large on your smaller frame. Your hair twisted on the top of your head, the smaller strands falling from your claw clip to frame your beautiful face. The softness in your eyes when you looked at him, the constant warmth in your smile whenever you spoke to him.

He remembered it all.

His phone screen lit up with a text notification from Quinn, likely checking up on him. But he wasn't focused on his brother's message, rather being fixated on his lock screen photo that he has yet to change since setting it six-months ago. It was a photo of you cuddled into his side on the boat during the summer, you were engulfed in your favourite UMich hoodie that he gave to you. The warm summer air blowing your hair across your face, but it didn't take away the bright smile that you wore while looking at him. His favourite smile shining at him and he looked like the happiest he's ever been. And ever will be.

It was the picture perfect summer day. Mid-July, the sun was radiating in the sky during its peak hours which brought out the freckles on his face, made his hair a few shades lighter, and brought his skin a sun-kissed coloured tan. The breeze from the lake running through their hair as music and laughter filled the air.

The sun had started to set, bringing out the beautiful hues of pinks and oranges across the sky like a watercolour painting. It was a tinge colder with the night air trickling in. He was worried about you getting cold on the water, especially with the additional wind created as the boat drove around the lake. Luckily, he made sure to have packed your comfort hoodie which you were currently wrapped up in.

He had an arm lazily draped over your shoulders as you leaned into his side, laughing at whatever Cole had said from across the boat. You were nursing a High Noon in one hand, the other resting comfortably on his knee. He leaned down to press a small kiss on your shoulder and then one more on your temple.

Jack was watching the two of you, his heart softening at how his younger brother stared at you with such love in his eyes. Jack had watched him grow up, yet he only started to act with this level of softness and care when he started dating you. You grounded the hyper in your boyfriend, allowing him to be calmer, at peace, and move through life with a new level of ease. Jack claimed that any one, including those who have never experienced love, would be able to see how in love his younger brother was. It was written all over his face.

Your hair was whipping around your face, causing you to giggle at yourself from imaging how ridiculous you looked. You turned to face your boyfriend, a goofy smile drawing upon your lips, "Help me," You laughed as another strand of hair flies into your face.

He chuckled, his two hands moving to brush your hair out of your face then moving to gently caress your temples. His larger hands cupped your cheeks, they turned rosy as he looked at you deeply with that sparkle in his eyes.

"Hi my gorgeous girl, there you are." He said to you softly, his finger occasionally moving away another loose strand.

"Hi Lukey." You beamed, admiring how perfect he looked with the slight sun burn on his nose, his summertime freckles more evident than ever, how his hair appeared almost golden with the amount of sun its received. Not to mention the most amazing array of colours that were streaking through the sky.

Jack, in that moment, pulled up the camera app on his phone and sniped a photo of the two of you.

He snapped out of his daze, finally reading the notification that was displayed on his screen.

Q: Hey Lukey, just checking in to see how you've been holding up

Q: You know that you can call me whenever you need me. Always here for you bro

He sighed, placing his phone screen down on the counter. His hand ran through his curls and dragged across his jaw as old memories flooded his head. The apartment was quiet, too quiet for his own liking. It gave him too much freedom in overthinking, about you, how terrible he had been playing this past week, how Nico and Jack have been on his ass lately. He didn't like the silence. He had grown accustomed to the sounds of your show playing on the TV quietly or your voice humming to music or how you would call out his name when you missed him.

The only sounds in the entire apartment was the hum of the fridge and the quiet patter of rain outside the windows. He frowned, reaching to turn on the speaker that lived in the kitchen for those mid-cooking dances. He turned on his usual playlist, hoping that overriding the silence with music would resolve his trip down memory lane. He waited a few moments before realizing which song was playing: your favourite one.

His heart twisted, multiple memories of you singing and dancing your heart out to your song overwhelming his sense. So, he skipped it. The next song wasn't any better, it brought back memories of the two of you singing it together on late night drives. Old Morgan Wallen was always played on those occasions, it got skipped. The following song was one that the both of you held very dear to your hearts. It was the song that was playing in your dorm when he asked you to be his girlfriend.

The two of you hung out pretty often whenever he wasn't at Yost. He enjoyed your company, you were always able to match his energy. Whether if he was amped up before a game or tired from a long practice, you were always able to make him feel comfortable. He was able to be himself around you.

He found himself being drawn more towards you than any one else that he knew. He liked how his heart would flutter at the sight of you, or how his stomach would do summersaults the you leaned closer to him to whisper something at the library. He loved how you were so authentically yourself.

The two of you were laying on your bed as the two of you listened to 7 Summers, as you claimed that it was the summer song. He just loved hearing you talk. He swore you had honey dripping from your voice which made it so addictive.

He was fully aware that you had him wrapped around your finger, he had been completely enamoured by you since the first moment you met.

"Will you be my girlfriend?" He asked, interrupting your explanation of the song.

He watched as you face turned pink and how you stumbled out a response, "I- Wha- I just- Did- Actually? Like really?" You stuttered, your hands clamping over your blushing cheeks.

He nodded, "Yeah, I've been wanting to ask you for awhile now."

"I'd love to be your girlfriend, Lukey." And so the song of the summer was suddenly given a whole new meaning to you.

It felt so wrong to listen to all these songs without you. They used to bring him his favourite happy memories that revolved around you, but now all they do is hurt him. He remembered everything, every detail, every memory of you. They haunt him for what he messed up on.

The thought of you was the only thing that was keeping him company in the void that you had left in his life and his heart when you left a week ago. He didn't know how to navigate through life without you by his side. You were always such a constant that it was normalized for you to be there for him every step of the way. You cheered him on, you celebrated the wins, you held him up during the lows, you relit his flame when things got dark, you supported him when no one else did, and you loved him so deeply and weren't ever afraid to show it.

He missed you more than anything. He knew that he had taken you and your love for granted, when you were one of the people who helped him get to where he was now. Without you, he wouldn't have had the courage to move to New Jersey to achieve his dreams. He was always scared of the backlash he would get or the comparisons he'd receive between him and his super star brothers. But you understood him, and you saw him. You told him that you believed in him and that you were proud of him. You told him to go get that dream that dreamt ever since he was a little boy.

All you ever shown him was love and kindness, your love was soft and tender yet it lit his entire soul on fire. You loved him from multiple state lines away for years and he never felt concerned about the strength of your relationship.

He felt hollow and empty without you.

He was himself when he was with you, you brought out the best in him. It was your love that brought colour to his life; he only realized now that you lost your colour with the absence of his love. You were once all the colours at full brightness and vibrancy, but day-by-day he turned away from you. He focused towards things that he couldn't even remember now, and the vibrancy dimmed and your brightness faded and you became a shell of the woman you used to be. Just like how he was now just a shell of the man he used to be.

He knew he shouldn't, you asked him to leave you alone. He was selfish before. But he knew he couldn't continue to move through life the way he had the past week, so he decided to be selfish again.

Luke: Hey, do you have time to talk?

Luke: I know that I'm probably the last person you want to hear from right now, but please this is important.

part three.

[comatosebunny09]

merry christmas, mr. sylus [ fin ]

— summary: the one where you nearly tear your hair out, trying to find the perfect christmas gift for your office crush. — cw: fluff, romance, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, reader is not mc, ceo verse, modern au, aged-up characters, mutual pining, misunderstanding trope, mild language, silliness, angst — notes: the finale for this. edit: i lied. this is the finale for this series. thank you for reading! — now playing: swan serenade - piano house

You spend the remainder of the party avoiding your boss like the plague. But running into him is inevitable. You work directly for the man, after all.

As the staff trickles out, taking with them their drunken merriment, you’re left to pick up the pieces of your wounded heart and the party’s aftermath. 

You shove Solo cups and decorative paper plates into a trash bin. Snatch off tablecloths and roll the karaoke machine into the broom closet. Wipe off tables, tear down garland. You do everything you can to stay busy, your self-loathing an ever-present rain cloud hanging overhead.

What were you expecting? For Mr. Sylus to fall to his knees for you? For him to sever whatever bond he has with Ms. Hunter for you? You snort at yourself as a wet film of heat slides over your eyes, impairing your vision. You feel ridiculous. Sick to your stomach. 

The trash bin slips from your fingers, thudding dully on the carpeted floor. In an attempt to collect yourself, you prop your hands on the edge of a table, releasing a shaky sigh. You blink away the new commination of tears. You’d been doing good so far, having given yourself a lengthy pep-talk in the bathroom earlier. Something to get you through what remained of the night without wearing your anguish on your sleeves.

So what if he doesn’t view you in the same light as you view him? This isn’t the first time you’ve faced rejection, and it most certainly won’t be the last. It doesn’t make this iteration hurt any less. You’re his secretary, for God’s sake. Not a friend nor a potential love interest. The quips and laughter you exchange daily are nothing more than him being polite. The model gentleman, maintaining the peace between himself and the person responsible for organizing his life. 

You are so swept up in the turmoil of your mind that you hardly register your name being called. Someone beckons to you again, this time more assertive, though not scolding. You whip your head around to the source of the sound, homing in on a familiar shock of white. 

Tamping down the emotions swelling in your chest, you straighten, fixing your sweater, and a superficial smile takes up residence on your face.

“Yes, sir?”

He studies you for a beat from the slab of space permitted by his half-opened door, long fingers wrapped around the oakwood like spindly spider limbs. He gives you a once over, his brows slightly wrinkled. His lips quiver, gaze pensive like he wants to say something. Something other than what next comes out. 

“Would you mind assisting me with something?” he asks, his tone deceptively impassive. 

Your stomach lurches, the feeling akin to cresting over the slope of a roller coaster. You swallow, pushing your disappointment to the back burner. What did you expect him to say? Sorry? Like he even knows you’re upset. Like he knows why you’re upset. 

Like he cares. 

You nod curtly, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. “Of course, sir.”

You move to your desk, your nerves exploding like solar flares beneath your skin while Sylus slinks back into his office. He promptly reappears, thrusting a thick stack of envelopes of varying sizes and colors towards you. Your vision blurs and adjusts as you glance between him and the envelopes.

“Christmas cards,” he answers flatly with a shrug. “I could use some help opening and drafting up responses to them all.” 

“Oh.” Try to sound more disappointed, why don’t you? 

Your fingers graze the clutch of his hand when you reach for the cards. And the worn, warm glide of his skin beneath your fingertips makes you stiffen. You wonder what it would feel like to purposely hold his hand. To commit the feel of his palm to memory. But you banish such thoughts, bowing your head and ducking away.

“Sorry,” you pinch out, moving to the chaise sofa against the wall by his office door. 

He’s wordless as he plops down beside you, releasing a weighted sigh. He drapes his arm along the back of the seat. You try vainly to ignore his slender fingers near your shoulder, drumming against the polished leather. 

You lapse into a rigid silence, your shoulders and jaw set. You find your resolve trickling away, the warmth he exudes beside you making you feel dizzy and shameless. He even has the audacity to smell good, that unmistakable mixture of birch wood, pressed clothing, and his natural musk, conspiring together to overhaul your senses. 

You wonder if he would be offended if you just… leaned a little this way and—forget it. The bubbly’s getting to you. You’re not testing your luck tonight. You worked your ass off to secure this job, enduring tireless screenings and background checks. Worked even harder to gain his trust. No sense in allowing your feelings to compromise your position. 

Besides, you know where you stand with him. Or don’t stand. The spectacle before with the darling Ms. Hunter was all the confirmation you needed. The words you never stood a chance resound in your head like a struck gong. You scoff, tearing into a crimson envelope, dispelling the cacophony in your head. 

“This one is from Mrs. Carter over in HR,” you say, waving the card around. You don your usual playful mask, praying your hurt doesn’t show through the fissures. He acknowledges you with a gruff sound, immersed in a card of his own. You take that as your cue to continue.

Feigning nonchalance, you flip the card open. You clear your throat, repositioning yourself on the sticky, squeaky sofa, crossing your legs, and leaning towards the opposite chair arm. You rattle off the card’s contents aloud. A generic greeting, hollow praise, a bidding for a successful new year. 

“Send her a gift card,” he answers dismissively. You scoff, tucking the card between your thigh and the chair’s arm. Is it just you, or is he being unbearably cold? You’re the one with the wounded pride here.

You occupy yourself with another letter, trying to quell the new swell of emotions burbling in your chest. You’ve reread the same line repeatedly, the cursive scrawl embedded into the cardstock blurring and bending. It’s exceedingly difficult to focus with him so close. And you find yourself stealing little glimpses of him in your peripheral.

He looks even better beneath the incandescent lights like this, like a Roman sculpture bred from patient hands. His cheeks are mottled red, probably from throwing back one too many glasses of champagne. Delicate, alabaster strands fall from their usual coiffure, sweeping over set brows and hollow cheeks. Dark lashes dust over warm ivory skin, scarlet irises dancing beneath as he reads over another Christmas card. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. Find yourself, too, swallowing against the dry, scratchy feeling in your throat.

You tug in the neckline of your sweater. It’s itchy and thick, and the heater’s turned up in the building to combat the cold outside. You’re uncomfortable because of the temperature and not because your boss is so unbearably close.

With a sigh, you peel yourself from the lounge. You venture to your desk in search of a letter opener. If you’re going to spend the rest of your night working, you might as well make the task a little less daunting. Rifling through your drawers, you happen upon the biggest one. And your breath catches, grip white-knuckled on the brass knob when you catch sight of it. Inside lies your present—his present—the intricate foil wrapping gleaming condescendingly.

Something pulls in your chest. Your hand shakes. Your lips pull into a taut line, embarrassment spuming like a hot geyser into your face. You’re about to slam the drawer shut, but a streak of warm skin stains your peripheral vision. And as horror descends onto your features, he snatches up the contents of your drawer faster than you can process things. 

“What’s this now?” your boss asks, intrigue mixed with amusement hanging in the boughs of his voice. 

Wide-eyed and mortified, you look at him. Your flight or fight instincts kick in, pushing you towards the latter. He dons a wolfish grin as you swipe at the box in his hand, and he holds it just out of reach. Damn him for being so absurdly tall!

“Sir!” you clip, swiping at the gift like an enraged feline. He doesn’t relent, instead spurred by your reaction, and the contents of the box shift about as he continues his childish game of keep away. Your chest slides against him each time you strain on tippy-toe. And you try to ignore how pleasant he feels, warm and hard-bodied against you.

Spinning out of reach, your boss chuckles at your expense. He seems to enjoy this, watching you hop after him like a field mouse, trying vainly to swipe the object from his hand. 

“You think I didn’t notice you fretting over this all night?” he teases once you’ve stopped—at least for now—your cheeks puffing out, nostrils flaring. 

“Mr. Sylus, I—”

“And you weren’t even going to give it to me.” He clicks his tongue, feigning hurt. “What have I done to warrant such cruelty?”

Reality slowly seeps in. He’s one step closer to opening your gift and discovering how much of a useless spazz you are. Switching tactics, you hold out a placating hand, stepping towards him like he’s holding a charged explosive.

“Sir, I need that back!”

His mouth forms a pensive line as his gaze shifts between you and the box clutched in his fingers. “Why? It’s mine, isn’t it? It has my name on it.” He squints at the meticulous scrawl of your penmanship, and when you make a surprise lunge toward the box when you think he’s distracted, he swings his arm out of reach, baiting you like a bull.

He laughs low, a mirthful crease to his eyes. You’d take time to appreciate it if you weren’t fighting for your life. 

“What’s got you so worked up? What could possibly be in here that you’re willing to bite my head off to get it back?”

You swallow thickly, chest heaving as you watch Sylus drop onto your leather rolling chair, cross-legged and smiling like the cat who caught the canary. He shakes the box near his ear, its contents rattling about. 

“Sir, don’t.” But it’s too late. The sound of paper ripping is jarring in the stillness of your office space. 

You’re stiff as stone, mouth hinged open, terror screwing up your features. Eventually, you concede to your fate, hands falling listlessly at your sides whilst your boss uncovers what lurks beneath the pretty foil paper you’d spent so much time wrapping his present in. You pour yourself onto the chaise lounge, your shoulders touching your ears, feeling like a child waiting with their parents at the principal’s office. You sneak little glances at his hands, each tear making you wince like a scrape against your heart.

Sylus quirks a quizzical brow at you, looking between the matte grey box he uncovered in his hand and you. You don’t contest him, too busy trying to remember how to breathe. He takes your cue, slowly peeling the lid off the box. He reaches inside to procure yet another box, slightly smaller than the one it’s nested in, neatly wrapped in paper similar to what he just tore off. 

Giving you a perturbed look, Sylus repeats the previous process. And again, he’s faced with matte gray. He carries on like this, peeling back a lid, finding another box nested inside, and tearing through wrapping paper for another three iterations.

“How long does this go on?” he prods, faced with another box. “And how many trees did you kill to pull this off?”

You press the tips of your index fingers together, pursing your lips as you look elsewhere. “You’re almost there.” You’re half-grateful he decided to be shit about it. You don’t feel as bad for nesting his gift away like matryoshka dolls. He deserves to feel the same distress he subjected you to mere minutes ago.

Vexation rolls off him in waves when he reaches yet another box, and he fixes you with a look that bodes danger. There aren’t too many times you’ve witnessed him this annoyed. He’s normally like this when his afternoon nap is interrupted by anyone but you or he’s dealing with a particularly ornery client. 

You stand from the couch with a nervous titter in your throat, snatching up the discarded red bow and ribbons you adorned his gift with and tacking it onto the crown of your head. You do a little jig, something to dispel the tension, wordlessly cheering him on. 

Sylus rolls his eyes with a resigned sigh. A ghostly smile rounds his lips thereafter, and you could swear you see something like fondness shining in his eyes at your antics. It disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by a determined pinch between his brows. 

You continue swaying your hips from side to side and pumping your fists in the air, the bow's ribbons falling comically over your eyes and water-falling off your shoulders. 

Finally, finally, Sylus exposes a matte, black box that’s the size of his palm. Wrapping paper lies like carnage at his feet, bent-up cardboard boxes piled atop your desk. You sigh in relief, though it’s short-lived, as he opens the final barrier between him and his gift.

He studies the contents of this new box, eerily quiet. You swallow as he reaches inside, producing something garish and pink from within. “What the hell is this?” he queries, waving the plastic novelty revolver around.  

You snort, the flatness of his tone catching you off guard. “A gun,” you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Sylus scoffs. “Clearly. But what is it for?”

Flourishing your arms, you plaster on a grin. “For you to put me down in case you no longer find any use for me!”

Looking between the pink revolver and you, he crooks his finger around the trigger, huffing a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to ‘Old Yeller’ you?”   

“If that’s what it comes down to.” And what comedic timing he has, pulling the trigger, a banner with Bang printed in bright Comic Sans popping out, complimented by a flurry of rainbow paper confetti.

Silence lapses between you as the confetti flutters to the floor. You caution a look at your boss, and he shakes his head, his lips crooked into a smirk, though the knit of his brows reveals his disappointment. 

“You can also use it during your meetings when someone pisses you off,” you warily add, shifting your weight between your feet. He doesn’t honor you with a response, instead setting the revolver on your desk with a definitive clack. He studies something in the distance, seemingly ignoring you.

If you weren’t already feeling silly before, you most certainly do now. You figured something unconventional would suit your boss. Something to define your work relationship, the pair of you often trading morbid and esoteric jokes to make the day's hustle a little less daunting. It seemed like a good idea when it caught your eye in the mall. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t a good buy after all. Especially when compared to Ms. Hunter's gift, and the recollection makes something cold wash over your innards.

You press the tips of your index fingers together, gaze cast on the floor. You’ve screwed up, and you’ll probably lose your job over this. Either that or your working relationship will turn to shit. You’d honestly rather be relieved of your position when considering the latter option. Turning to leave, to pick up the jagged shards of your pride and finish tidying up, you gasp when you feel a warm presence behind you, the fine hairs littering your body standing at attention. 

You turn to acknowledge him, wincing away, expecting to be struck. Mr. Sylus has never raised a hand at you before, only lightly flicking your forehead or tapping your nose when he felt playful that day. You realize how ridiculous you must look and sound, but you steel yourself against the worst possible outcome regardless.

A hit never comes. You’re instead greeted with the hard press of a body against yours. With arms loosely winding about your middle and a chin finding the crook of your shoulder. His scent is overwhelming. The heat he exudes is dizzying, wit-pilfering. 

Wide-eyed, with your hands opening and closing awkwardly at your sides, you stiffen as you grapple with the notion that your boss is hugging you. Mr. Sylus. Hugging you. No matter how many times you turn the words over in your mind, you can’t process them. You didn’t even know he was capable of such an act.

“Thank you,” he intones, his voice a pleasant vibration in your body. He rubs over the notches of your spine, nuzzling into you further like you’re his security blanket. Once your common sense returns, an affectionate smile touches your lips. 

You clumsily return his hug, unsure of the proper conduct in this situation. But you throw caution to the wind, full-on embracing him, your eyes twinkling with tears. “Of course, sir,” you murmur, swallowing against the swell of emotions in your throat.

The hug ends much too soon for your liking. Sylus peels away, his hands clasping your arms. You tilt your head quizzically as he studies you, the bow's ribbons brushing off your shoulder. You must be quite the doe-eyed sight. His eyes darken as his gaze falls to your lips, his own mouth slightly parting. He looks as if he’s wrestling with something in his mind. Turning it over, at war with himself. He seems to win whatever battle is taking place behind his eyes, for he slowly pans in, his lashes bowing.

And maybe you’re swept up in the moment, too, his hug having buried your defenses in the sand. You don’t fight him, only awkwardly shifting when your lips meet before relaxing beneath the slight chap of his lips. 

Beneath the ethereal twinkle of the fairy lights you hadn’t yet snatched down, through the stillness of the investment firm’s tenth floor, and with your pulse thundering in your throat, Mr. Sylus kisses you. A full press of lips, his grip on your arms tightening the barest as if to keep you rooted to the spot. Not that you would run, feeling weightless, like navigating a dream. 

As quickly as reality floats onto your shoulders like a wispy shawl, he pulls back, wild-eyed and panting. And it’s as if you’re the greatest sin he was never meant to indulge in. He releases you before tearing a shaky hand through his tresses, pushing out a weighted exhale. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping away from you before you can think, each hurried thump of his loafers across the floor like a strike to your racing heart.

You strain your ears for every bit of sound until the elevator around the corner pings, and you hear him step inside, the doors swishing shut. And you’re left to the swell of static and impenetrable silence, staring after the faint afterimage left by his tall visage. 

You turn towards the ceiling high-window, dazed. Touch your lips with shaky fingers, the sensitive skin still tingling with the remnants of your kiss. Flecks of white streak the violet canvas beyond the window, the first snowfall fluttering in gossamer patterns towards the ground. 

You got what you wanted. What you’d maybe consider the greatest Christmas gift you've ever received. But as a bitter smile tugs at your lips, your eyesight glossing over with a warm film, and you clutch your chest, your thoughts seep in.

Why does it feel like it’s not what he wanted? 

[carbonfiction]

A little suprise

Summary: After another cosy Christmas morning shared together, it’s time for the gifts. Little things thoughtfully bought, wrapped and passed over. This year however, theres something else. Something you've meticulously managed to keep hidden for a little while now.

Master list. Words: 1.2k

Warnings: tw mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy announcement. (Chosen to tw this simply bc im aware of how tough it can be for those struggling with conception/fertility ect, especially this time time of year. i want you to know my heart is with you, your time will come🫶) Lumberjack Logan is a sweetheart, mostly just a nice lil finding-out-he’s-gonna-be-a-dad Logan fluff with a smiiiiige of swearing. Lo calls reader “momma”

The parasites in me yearned for origins dad Logan, so I had to write origins dad Logan. Or in other words, its Christmas and I desperately can’t stop thinking about that large man with a teeeeny tiny baby.. Tadaaaaaa <33 merry Christmas loves!

Christmas morning was always peaceful in the howlett household. It would begin with sleep laced kisses, limbs tangled together as you hold each other close. It's hours before either of you actually leave the bed, too warm and content with eachothers presence to even consider it.

But when you do the first place you go, after the bathroom of course, is to the kitchen. Logan begins breakfast- or nearer brunch by then. While you make sure the coffee machine is switched on and freshly brewing the hot liquid into your usual cups- a cheesy wedding present from a friend, mugs that read 'Mr' and 'Mrs'.

Then, once dinner is roasting slowly in the oven for later, come the gifts. All soundtracked by a movie playing in the background. Little things wrapped and passed over- for you comes a cosy pair of pajamas with matching socks that you'd pointed out a while back, along with a little hamper full of your favorite treats; a perfect mix of sweet and savory to snack on when the mood takes you; or when wrapped up tighter watching a movie.

While you gift him a fresh collection of cigars and workboots that offer a little extra comfort to those long days he spends at the yard on his feet.

But.. Theres also something else. Something you've meticulously managed to keep hidden for a little while now.

You steady yourself with an anxious exhale before you tap logan on the knee. "Theres one last one.." you say with a smile, quickly retreating to the bedroom and coming back to stand infront of him with a neatly wrapped box in hand.

Logans brow rises, a crease then wedging between them as he looks over the gift and its carefully tied bow. "Thought we agreed on a couple things each?" he murmers.

Hes right, you had agreed that, both having felt like each others company was all you really needed..

"Well, its a Surprise..” you trail, urging him to open it as nuterally as you could. Anxiety festering deep in your chest, part of you unsure just how this would go down.

Its silent as his fingers pluck and pull at the ribbon, deftly untieing it until its left in a pile besides him on the couch. Next is the lid, decorative tissue paper also following as his eyes rake over the unveiled contense.

"Sweetheart?.." logan questions in a whisper, fingers gently lifting out a pair of tiny booties and a matching flannel shirt; Both purposely mirroring items he owned. "what.. what’s all this?”

Logan feels his heart hammer in his chest, mouth going dry. are you telling him what he thinks you are?

“What’s it look like Logan?" you giggle softly, a hint of nerves in your eyes as you look down at him. You grasp an ultrasound photo and the positive test from the pocket of your sweats then, placing them in his hands over the little shirt.

You watch as his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, crease flying away from his brows as he takes in the words written on the test; illuminated by the soft glow of the tree lights. 'Positive'

“You-" he starts, words trembling dryly from his tongue. "you’re really pregnant?”

Tears begin to sting at your waterline as he looks up, your gazes meeting as you nod, bottom lip bitten tight between your teeth. "yeah, ‘m really pregnant.. gonna be a dad lo”

Sure, you'd had conversations in the past about this situation, had both agreed kids would be something you'd like to share one day, but you never actively began trying. Never fucked for the sake of conception. It had just.. happened.

A birthday celebration mixing with a slip up in taking your birth control- an accident you weren't sure you felt guilty for at this point, not with the look clouding over logans features.

Features soon shared by the little you or him growing inside you.

You wobble forward as Logans arms engulf your waist, pulling you toward him with the enthusiasm of a child receiving a toy they'd wanted forever.

Tears begin to stream down your cheeks, landing wetly on your fingers as they find home in the soft tufts of his hair.

“I’m gonna be a dad.." he murmers incredulous and full of wonder as his forehead presses into the fabric of your shirt. You dont know if hes talking to you or himself, but its just quiet enough for you to hear it through your now hiccuped sobs.

“Are you happy?” you sniffle, still slightly unsure. He feels you pull at his hair until his gaze meets you, chin resting gently on your ribs.

“shit sweetheart, yeah" he smiles and its bright on his face as he stands to hold you properly. Logans lips press against yours, the kiss filled with unspoken emotions as the addictive taste of him hits your tongue.

He holds you tightly at the waist for a few moments and its with trembling fingers he pulls back. His head dipping to look you in the eyes, touch twice as gentle when his hands come up from your sides to gently cup your cheeks. Calloused thumbs swiping at the tears that still fall "course I'm happy, are you?"

"Yeah. Yeah Im happy" you assure, teary eyes brightening. "beyond happy even"

A grin lights logans expression as he looks down, glittering as bright as the Christmas lights surrounding you.

"You know, I was.." he starts, clearing his throat as it crackles with emotion. "God i was just thinkin what a pretty momma you’ll make but.. you already are a momma huh.." one of his hands move again, deft fingers creeping under your shirt now until his large palm sits gently against the small swell of your stomach. Your heart skipping at the feel of the cool metal of his wedding band. "growing our kid in there..”

“Well, it’s technically sill early d-“ you go to say, but he cuts you off. “Your glowing already you know that sweetheart?"

His lips find yours again, fingers still cupping your jaw as his next words press against your mouth in a soft coo. "My beautiful girl.. Our baby's gorgeous momma"

Your arms wrap around his neck, swaying gently as love drunk grins adorn both your faces. The room filled with a new kind of excitement. A memory made you know both of you will remember forever. “i Love you Logan...” you affirm, hushed.

"Love you more sweetheart, like you wouldnt believe." he honeys back softly, stroking his thumb over your belly again "Giving me the damn world here"

Its silent then for a while after, appart from the crackle of the fire. Post dinner you both rest full, wrapped up in each others arms on the couch. you lying curled onto his chest.

Your fingers alternate drawing shapes and drumming on his left pectoral, wide grins still adorning your faces as you peek over at the test, photo, boots and flannel still sitting on the coffee table.

You hum softly then, breaking the silence with a simple whisper of his name. "Logan?"

He responds just as quiet, hand still not having left its new home on your tummy. "Yeah sweet girl?"

"Once i get huge.." you start with a teasing glint making logan cock a brow as he listens. "Im reserving the right to be carried around the house.."

That makes Logan chuckle, the louder rumble shaking beneath where you lay as you too break into a fit of giggles.

He shakes his head, lips kissing your hair softly as he speaks, still deeply amused. “Whatever you want momma, whatever you want."

Is this my best work? Fuck no, fluff is my kryptonite. But Was it a sweet thought? Yeaaa..

[luciemggio]

The Girl Who Smiled at Me

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Setting: Brooklyn, Present Day, Post-Endgame

Warnings: soft and non explicit smut

Summary: A quiet girl with a warm smile teaches Bucky Barnes how to love—and stay.

The first time Bucky saw her, she was humming.

Not loudly—just soft, like something private she didn’t mind sharing. A worn-down jazz tune, like it came from somewhere far away and golden. She was standing outside the apartment next to his, juggling her keys, a tote bag, and a paper coffee cup that was too full and already leaking through the lid.

She saw him and beamed.

“Hi! You must be the new neighbor. I’m in 3B.”

He blinked, one hand tightening on the strap of the duffel bag over his shoulder. It was too early. His brain wasn’t online yet, not for this.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “3C.”

She stuck out her hand, the one not holding the coffee. “Well, hello, 3C. I’m Y/N.”

He hesitated. Then, slowly, he shook her hand. Her fingers were warm. And soft. Like kindness in physical form.

“Bucky.”

“Nice to meet you, Bucky. Let me know if you need anything. I’ve lived here a while—I know which laundry machines eat quarters and which ones make your socks smell like weird mint.”

She grinned at him like she’d known him forever.

He stared.

And nodded.

And retreated into his apartment like she was a wildfire.

After that, she made a habit of saying hi every morning.

He’d leave his apartment at 7:30, head down to the park for a run, trying to keep the ghosts quiet with rhythm and sweat. And every morning, like clockwork, she’d be there—getting her mail, locking her door, chatting with a neighbor’s dog.

“Morning, Bucky!”

He grunted the first few times. Then he gave a half-nod. Then a full nod. Then, one cursed morning, he actually said “Morning” back.

She looked like he’d handed her flowers.

He couldn’t stop watching her.

She was… warm. And weird. She laughed a lot—big, belly-deep laughs, even when she was alone. She wore paint-splattered overalls sometimes and sang in the hallway when she thought no one could hear. She helped the old woman on the first floor with her groceries every Wednesday and brought her own Tupperware down to share leftovers.

She made the building feel… safe.

And he hated how much he started waiting for her.

Then came the Tuesday with the muffin.

She knocked on his door. Actually knocked. He was in sweats and a t-shirt, still damp from his post-run shower, hair curling slightly at the ends.

When he opened the door, she was standing there holding a muffin on a tiny plate.

“Banana walnut,” she said, smile hopeful. “Made them last night and immediately thought of you. You look like a banana-walnut guy.”

He blinked at her. “Do I?”

She shrugged. “You have that ‘I don’t eat sugar but secretly love it’ look.”

He stared. Then—God help him—he laughed. Just a low sound from deep in his chest.

She looked a little stunned. “Was that…? Was that a laugh?”

“Maybe.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, delighted. “Well, miracles do happen.”

He took the plate. Their fingers brushed. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, softer now. “Let me know if you want more. I make a mean pumpkin bread.”

He started looking for her after that.

He tried not to. He told himself it was nothing. But his mornings felt… lighter when she waved at him, her hair pulled up, earbuds in, dancing a little at her door. She smelled like cinnamon and rosemary. She made bad puns and good coffee.

And one night, when he came home after a long walk and saw her sitting on the front steps reading a book, he sat down beside her.

Without a word.

Just… sat there.

She blinked in surprise, then offered him half her bag of trail mix without asking.

He took it.

And they sat in comfortable silence for almost an hour, the sounds of the city moving around them like water.

Their first real conversation happened by accident.

She was struggling to carry a box of books up the stairs. He saw her from the second floor and immediately started down.

“You don’t have to—” she started to say, but he took the box from her arms anyway.

“It’s heavy.”

“So am I. Doesn’t mean I’m impossible to carry.”

He snorted before he could help it. “You always talk like this?”

“Only when nervous or around very attractive men who could kill me with one arm.”

He faltered mid-step. She froze.

Then they both burst out laughing.

It felt… good. Real. Like something he’d lost long ago and didn’t know how to find again.

He didn’t ask her out for a long time.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But what did he have to offer? A broken past, a hundred pounds of guilt, nights filled with nightmares and silence. What if she saw too much? What if she saw the soldier and not the man?

But she never looked at him like that.

She looked at him like he was here. Now. Human.

And one night, as they stood in the laundry room folding towels and she told him a story about a raccoon that stole her sandwich in Central Park, he finally said—

“There’s this jazz bar. In Brooklyn. Small place. I used to go before… everything.”

She blinked. Then smiled.

“Are you asking me out, Barnes?”

“I’m trying.”

Her grin widened. “Then you’re doing great.”

The jazz bar was low-lit, tucked between two shops that had long since closed for the night. The stage was small. The chairs were mismatched. But the saxophone player was brilliant and the drinks were strong and she looked like heaven in a navy dress with stars on it.

Bucky couldn’t stop looking at her.

“You okay?” she asked after the second song, her voice barely audible over the music.

He nodded. “I just haven’t done this in a long time.”

“Gone on a date?”

“…Yeah.”

She leaned forward, hand resting lightly on his. “Me neither.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she added, “You picked a great place. This feels like something out of a memory.”

He looked at her, and something in his chest tightened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what I wanted.”

They sipped their drinks, shared stories. He told her about growing up in Brooklyn, the food carts, the stoop where he kissed a girl for the first time. She told him about her mom’s record collection, the way jazz always felt like home to her.

“I used to dance in the living room,” she said, laughing. “Badly. Still do, actually.”

He smiled. “I’d like to see that.”

“Oh, you will. But not unless you promise to dance too.”

He shook his head, grinning into his drink. “I’m a hundred and six years old, sweetheart. My dancing days are over.”

She leaned closer. “That sounds like a challenge.”

And later, when the music slowed and the lights dimmed, he let her pull him onto the tiny dance floor. His hand settled on her waist. Her fingers laced through his. Their bodies moved, swaying, quiet and close.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky didn’t feel like a man made of pieces.

He felt whole.

Afterward, on the walk home, she slipped her hand into his.

He squeezed it gently. “Thanks for saying yes.”

She smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

Then she turned to him, eyes shimmering under the streetlight, and said, “You don’t have to be perfect, Bucky. Just… let me be near you. That’s all I want.”

He didn’t reply.

He just leaned in.

And kissed her.

Soft. Steady. Like it was the first step toward something he hadn’t dared hope for.

Something warm.

Something human.

Something real.

And then it started with a text.

[7:04 a.m.]

You: Morning, Sarge. Coffee on the roof later?

[7:06 a.m.]

Bucky: Sure. I’ll bring muffins.

[7:07 a.m.]

You: Aren’t YOU the domestic dream.

[7:07 a.m.]

Bucky: Don’t push it.

She laughed at her phone, still curled in bed, the sunlight creeping through her blinds like golden fingers. He was learning how to tease her now. How to loosen the gravel in his voice. She could feel the shift—something unfurling in him. Something fragile and warm and real.

The rooftop of their building was nothing special—concrete floor, a crooked lawn chair someone left in the spring, two old crates posing as a table. But to her, it was peace.

And when Bucky stepped through the creaky door with a small paper bag in one hand and two mismatched mugs in the other, she felt her chest tighten like a secret.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.”

He handed her the coffee. Still hot. Just the way she liked it—cream, two sugars. He remembered.

“You really brought muffins?” she asked, leaning against the ledge.

He sat beside her, legs stretched out, boots scuffing the rooftop. “I bribed the guy at the bakery with a story about my grandma.”

She grinned. “Was it true?”

“Not even close. But he liked it.”

She took a bite and made a sound so content that it made Bucky look away, jaw tight.

“God,” she said, mouth still full, “I think I’d marry you for this muffin alone.”

He glanced sideways at her, quiet for a second. “That’s dangerous talk.”

Her smile faded just a little. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes soft now. “I might believe you.”

The air stretched between them like a string pulled tight. She reached for his hand—not the metal one, the other. His fingers twitched, then relaxed into hers.

“I like being around you,” she said quietly.

He looked down at their hands. “You’re the first person who’s made me feel like I can just… be.”

“With me, you don’t have to pretend,” she said, brushing her thumb along his knuckle. “Not ever.”

Their second date happened four days later.

He knocked on her door with a cautious smile and a bouquet of wildflowers that looked like they came from the corner market—imperfect and cheerful.

“You brought me flowers?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

“I thought that’s what people do,” he said, awkwardly holding them out. “I haven’t exactly done this in—well. Ever.”

She took them, brushing her fingers along the stems. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” A beat. “You look… wow.”

She laughed. “That’s not a full sentence, Barnes.”

He stared, earnest. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

He took her to a quiet Italian place tucked between a bookstore and a tattoo shop. The lights were low, candles flickering on the tables, and a pianist in the corner played songs older than both of them.

Halfway through dinner, as she twirled her pasta, she looked up and asked, “Can I ask you something kind of serious?”

He paused, setting his fork down. “Yeah.”

“What scares you the most?”

Bucky went still.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “That was too much.”

“No,” he said softly. “No, it’s not.”

He stared at the candle between them for a moment. “I’m scared that if someone really knows me—the real me, all the darkness, all the history—they’ll walk away. Or worse… they’ll stay and regret it.”

Her eyes didn’t waver. “Do you regret sitting here with me?”

He looked at her then—really looked. “No. Not even for a second.”

“Then trust me when I say this,” she said gently, leaning closer. “You don’t scare me. Not even a little.”

Later, walking her back to her apartment, he was quiet. Reflective.

They stopped outside her door, and she looked up at him with soft eyes.

“Would you… want to come in for a while?” she asked, unsure.

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to. But because the offer felt like more than just a casual invitation—it felt like trust. And he didn’t want to ruin it.

“Not tonight,” he said quietly. “But soon.”

She nodded, understanding. “Okay.”

He reached out then, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

She smiled. “You never have to ask.”

He kissed her gently. Slowly. One hand on her waist, the other in her hair. Like he was afraid she’d disappear if he held too tightly. But she didn’t. She kissed him back, hands gripping the front of his jacket, grounding him.

And when he pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, he whispered, “You make me feel like I’m allowed to want things again.”

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Then want me.”

That night, he didn’t sleep.

Not from nightmares this time—but from hope.

A slow, quiet hope that crept in through the cracks she’d made in his walls.

It had been two weeks since their second date.

Two weeks since she’d kissed him in her doorway, breathless and trembling, whispering “Then want me.”

Two weeks of quiet rooftop coffees, warm glances across the hallway, hands brushing in elevators, dinner in sweatpants, long walks in silence, and hearts learning how to breathe again.

She didn’t push.

And he… showed up. More and more.

In small ways—like remembering how she took her tea, texting her when the moon was full because he knew she loved it, walking her dog when she had a bad day.

But also in the way he’d look at her now—like she was a lighthouse and he was tired of drowning.

Tonight, she was curled up on the couch, her apartment dimly lit by string lights and a sleepy jazz record playing in the background. She wore one of his sweatshirts—he’d left it there a few days ago “by accident”—and it smelled like him. Like cedarwood and old leather and something deeper.

There was a knock at the door.

When she opened it, Bucky stood there, hands in his jacket pockets, wind-flushed cheeks, hair damp from the misting rain.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She blinked in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know,” he said, glancing down. “Can I come in?”

She stepped aside, heart already thudding. “Of course.”

He paced a little in the entryway, wet boots leaving small prints on the rug. She waited, giving him space. He didn’t need questions—he needed stillness.

Finally, he turned toward her, eyes darker than usual.

“I was gonna walk past,” he said. “I told myself I’d just walk by, clear my head. But my feet stopped at your door.”

Her brows knit gently. “What were you thinking about?”

He hesitated. Then: “You.”

She waited.

“I can’t stop thinking about how you looked that night,” he said. “The jazz bar. That stupid little smile you gave me when you took my hand across the table. The way you kissed me like I was something worth loving.”

His voice caught.

She moved closer. “Bucky…”

He looked up at her with a kind of desperation. “I don’t want to go home tonight.”

Her breath hitched.

“Not because I want to rush this,” he added quickly. “But because when I’m not near you, I feel like I’m somewhere wrong.”

Her heart cracked open like a sun through clouds.

“Then stay,” she said gently. “Please.”

He kissed her like he’d been holding his breath for years.

There was no rush—only heat, and longing, and deep, reverent need. The kind of kiss that said thank you for waiting. The kind of kiss that left her toes curled and her fingers trembling in his hair.

She pulled back just enough to whisper, “Are you sure?”

He touched her cheek, nodding. “Only if you are.”

“I’ve been sure,” she breathed. “Since the first time you smiled at me. Even if it took you a month to do it.”

He laughed—just a quiet breath—but it was full of something sacred.

In her bedroom, he was slow. Gentle. As if every inch of her was something to discover, not conquer. He took his time—removing her clothes like unwrapping a gift, kissing her shoulder, her collarbone, her stomach.

“Tell me if I go too fast,” he whispered.

“You’re not,” she said, pulling him down to her. “You’re perfect.”

She touched every scar. Every inch of metal and skin. Not with pity—but with love.

When he was finally inside her, it wasn’t frantic. It was full. It was everything.

Their hands tangled. Mouths found each other again and again. His metal fingers dug into the pillow beside her head while his other hand clung to her hip, grounding him.

“You feel like home,” he whispered into her skin, breath shuddering.

Her eyes welled. “Then stay with me. Just stay.”

He kissed her, and when they came undone, it was together—quiet, trembling, like prayer.

Later, he lay beside her, head on her bare chest, arm wrapped tight around her waist.

“I’ve never made love like that before,” he murmured.

She smiled against his hair. “That’s because you never let someone love you first.”

He looked up, blue eyes soft and open.

“Is that what this is?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, Bucky. That’s exactly what this is.”

He pressed his forehead to her collarbone, letting out a long breath.

“I’m not used to being wanted like this.”

“Well,” she whispered, kissing his temple, “get used to it. I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t sleep much that night—not because of nightmares, but because she held him, warm and naked and real, and for the first time in forever, he felt safe enough to stay.

And he did.

The room was still.

Early morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting soft gold across the floor and the sheets tangled at the foot of the bed. The air smelled like skin and sleep, the ghost of last night still lingering in the quiet.

Bucky stirred first.

He didn’t open his eyes right away. He just… felt.

Warmth.

A soft weight against his chest — her. Legs tangled with his. Her hand resting just above his heart. Her cheek pressed over it like she was listening.

And then he remembered.

Every second. Every breath.

Her hands on him, steady and kind. Her body underneath his, welcoming, trusting. Her voice whispering his name like it meant something.

It did. To her, it did.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because for the first time in years, he had no instinct to run.

Her fingers twitched against his chest, and he realized she was waking.

[rhiannonsknife]

── ❆ DAY 19: the gazette’s annual christmas party with rhiannon lewis

— summary: hooking up with one of your coworkers after the gazette’s christmas party.

— warnings: coworkers to lovers. alcohol/drinking. fem!reader. nsfw content. mdni. this might be my longest rhiannon fic so far. also i didn’t beta read.

the office party is in full swing by the time you arrive, the scent of cheap punch and questionable appetizers filling the air. you’ve barely stepped inside when you start to regret coming: the decorations look like they were thrown together by someone who hates christmas: half-hearted tinsel draped over cubicles, a lopsided tree in the corner, and a sad-looking banner reading merry holidays in comic sans.

grabbing a drink to make the night bearable, you glance around, your eyes drifting over your coworkers. most of them are already several drinks deep, laughing too loudly or shouting over the blaring music. seems like you’ll have to do something to catch up.

that’s when you see her: rhiannon lewis. sweetpea, as you’ve heard some of the others call her. not that anyone ever says it with much kindness. she’s standing off to the side near the sad excuse for a buffet, picking at the edge of a paper plate, looking as uncomfortable as you feel.

she’s not overdressed like the others. while everyone else is wearing horrendous holiday sweaters or sparkly party dresses, rhiannon’s in a simple black button-up and jeans. her hair falls in loose waves.

you’ve worked with her for months, seen her around the office, but she’s always been quiet. your other colleagues never seem to notice her much, in spite of her obvious potential; you’ve seen how hardworking she is and how she’s not met with half the respect she deserves.

fueled by the warm buzz of cheap booze and a flicker of impulsive confidence, you grab another drink from the table for good measure and make your way over.

“hey,” you blurt out before you can overthink it. rhiannon glances up, her brows furrowing slightly as she takes in the sight of you, looking like she hadn’t expected to be approached at all.

“you’re rhiannon, right? junior reporter?”

“yeah..?” she says simply, her voice wary. she’s looking skeptical.

“i’m…uh, i’m from editorial” you shuffle awkwardly. “i just- god, these parties are brutal, huh? i mean, who thought a karaoke machine was a good idea?”

for a moment, she doesn’t respond, and you almost regret interrupting her clearly intentional solitude. but then, the corner of her mouth quirks up. just slightly, but enough to make your heart skip. you can’t remember seeing her smile before, even just slightly.

“yeah,” rhiannon says, her voice laced with dry humor. “it’s tragic, really. but i guess they’re trying.”

you latch onto that tiny smile like it’s the only lifeline in the room. “trying is generous,” you reply, letting out a nervous laugh. “honestly, i wasn’t even planning on staying long, but…well, here i am” you glance at her plate, desperate to keep the conversation going. “how’s the buffet? any good?”

she huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “i wouldn’t risk it”

there’s a long pause, and you can’t tell if you’re making a fool of yourself or if she’s just slow to warm up. either way, she doesn’t walk away, doesn’t tell you to leave, so you take it as a win and grin at her.

“well,” you say, raising your cup in a mock toast, “here’s to surviving the night, i guess”

rhiannon’s smile lingers this time, a flicker of something softer passing across her face. “i’ll drink to that,” she murmurs, clinking her cup against yours before taking a sip.

“you know” you start after forcing the lukewarm liquor down your throat, grimacing slightly. “i didn’t think you’d be here tonight. thought you’d be the type to, i don’t know, skip out on all this festive stuff”

rhiannon quirks a brow at you, her lips twitching in something that could almost pass as amusement: it’s not quite a smile, but it’s close. that’s an improvement. “what makes you think I’m not wishing i had?” she asks, seemingly warming up to you as well.

“fair point” you chuckle. “fair point”

suddenly, this party doesn’t seem all that unbearable anymore.

later that night, after a few shared drinks and some awkward-but-fun chatter about work, the gazette’s terrible christmas playlists, and your colleagues, you and rhiannon find yourselves tucked away in a quieter corner. the music isn’t quite as loud here, and the muffled laughter of the party fade into the background. it’s not exactly private, but it feels removed enough to let the conversation flow easier.

with another round in hand, your confidence starts to build. you’re still toeing the line between friendly and bold, but the buzz in your system makes it feel less risky.

“so, rhiannon,” you start, leaning a little closer, “what’s your favorite part of this delightfully tacky soirée? the off-key carols or the soggy finger sandwiches?”

she snorts softly and takes a sip of her drink. “definitely the carols. nothing gets me into the holiday spirit like hearing jeff butcher jingle bell rock for the third time tonight”

you laugh, nudging her lightly. “poor jeff. he’s trying his best out there. he’s got…enthusiasm, at least”

“sure,” she deadpans, tilting her glass in another mock toast. “to enthusiasm.” her lips close around the edge of her cup, but this time, her eyes linger on you for a moment longer than they did before.

you nod, leaning your elbow on the nearest desk. “you’re like…the only person here who doesn’t look like they want to die from secondhand embarrassment every time jeff hits a high note”

“i’ve accepted my fate” rhiannon replies with a shrug, her tone so dry it pulls another laugh from you.

“come on!” you press, motioning vaguely around the room. “entertain me. there’s gotta be something you find redeemable about all this. cookies? the lights? the…joy of corporate holiday bonding?”

she raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “you mean the joy of awkward small talk and secondhand embarrassment? truly riveting”

“well, i think the lights are nice” you counter, glancing up at the string of multicolored lights casting a warm glow over the room. “kind of makes everyone look- i dunno…festive” without knowing why you blurt an additional: “especially you”

the words slip out before you can stop them, and you freeze for half a second, gauging her reaction. rhiannon blinks, a little caught off guard, but instead of brushing it off, she quirks an eyebrow. “festive?” she echoes, her lips curving into a skeptical grin. “what, do i look like a christmas ornament to you?”

yeah, right, maybe festive wasn’t the best way of putting it.

you laugh awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck. “okay, maybe not the best word choice”

she scoffs lightly, but the flicker of a smile remains. “you’re really trying hard to sell this whole thing, huh?”

“only because it’s true,” you shoot back. “don’t tell me i’m the first person to tell you that you look amazing tonight”

rhiannon’s gaze drops briefly, almost self-consciously, as she glances down at herself. “it’s just a blouse,” she mutters.

“yeah, but it’s you in the blouse,” you say smoothly, leaning in just a little closer. the confidence, or maybe the alcohol, makes the words come easier than they would sober. you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been waiting for an opportunity to finally approach her, though maybe doing it tipsy isn’t the smartest move.

rhiannon pauses, her drink halfway to her lips. her eyes meet yours again, a flicker of surprise behind them. “you’re laying it on a little thick,” she says finally, but there’s no sharpness in her voice.

“am i?” you tilt your head, playing innocent. “and here i was, thinking it was just the right amount of festive cheer. the season of giving, and all that”

“and i’m guessing you’re real generous with that, huh?”

“only with the right people,” you reply, the words slipping out easier than they should. you’re either deep enough into the buzz to believe rhiannon’s teasing is genuine interest or maybe she actually is flirting back. you can’t tell yet, but you’re too far gone to back out now.

“so? what’s next?” she asks.

“well, i’d offer you another drink…?”

rhiannon’s laugh is quiet but genuine, her head shaking slightly. “you’re more ridiculous than i thought you would be” she mutters. the way her gaze flicks down to your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to your eyes momentarily distracts you from what she’s said.

“what?” you chuckle finally.

for a heartbeat, rhiannon looks like she’s been caught red handed. your mind is too foggy to put two and two together at this point.

“nothing” she shakes it off, keeping herself together by drowning her cup.

you really must’ve done something right, because time passes and somehow rhiannon lingers close. the evening turns out a lot more fun than you had anticipated, all thanks to her unexpected presence. between long conversations with her somewhere in your more or less secluded corner even the never-ending off-key karaoke and cheap liquor don’t seem so bad with her by your side.

at some point, after another off-tune rendition of ‘merry christmas everyone’ rhiannon eyes you critically. “you’re looking kind of…wobbly,” she notes. “you sure you’re okay to get home?”

“are you volunteering?” you reply, trying for flirty but landing somewhere closer to hopeful.

she doesn’t answer right away. instead, she looks you over, her gaze lingering before she sighs. “come on. i’ll take you!”

you follow her out of the party without hesitation, stepping into the crisp winter air. the chill feels sharper than you expected, cutting through the haze of the alcohol and helping you think a little more clearly. snow is falling lightly now, already settling in a thin, untouched layer on the ground.

rhiannon keeps glancing back to make sure you’re still steady on your feet.

it’s only after a few blocks that something strikes you as odd. you glance around, squinting against the snowflakes. “wait, this isn’t the right way. my place is-“ you point vaguely in the opposite direction, your voice trailing off in confusion.

“don’t worry about it,” rhiannon cuts in smoothly, her hand brushing yours to guide you across an icy patch of sidewalk. “the walk to your place would’ve taken too long anyway”

you blink at her, your alcohol-hazed brain catching up a moment too late. “how do you…?”

she doesn’t let you finish the question. “lucky guess,” she says quickly, her tone dismissive as she shrugs. there’s something in the way she avoids your eyes that makes you wonder if there’s more to it.

by the time you reach her building, your curiosity is drowned out by the warmth of her hand on your arm as she steadies you. you’re about to thank her, maybe even joke about your terrible sense of direction, when she hesitates just before unlocking the door.

her breath fogs in the cold air as she turns to you, her eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. “you really didn’t have to stay and…i don’t know. talk to me. you’re not like the rest of them”

“neither are you,” you say, stepping a little closer.

rhiannon lets out a small laugh, one that sounds almost disbelieving. “you’re drunk”

“not that drunk,” you reply firmly, your breath curling in the space between you. it’s true: for all the cheap liquor you’ve had, you’re thinking crystal clear.

her jaw tightens like she’s debating something, her eyes flickering briefly to the snow-covered ground before meeting yours again. “you’re too good for…this,” she murmurs, almost like she’s talking to herself.

for a moment, neither of you moves, the world narrowing down to the space between your bodies and the sound of your breathing in the cold. then, so suddenly it makes your heart skip, rhiannon leans in.

her lips press to yours, warm and surprisingly soft, and the rest of the world falls away. the kiss is hesitant at first, but when your hands find her coat and hers rise to cradle your face, she deepens it with a quiet intensity that makes your knees weak.

when you pull apart, your breath mingling in the cold air, your forehead brushes hers. rhiannon hesitates again, then, softly, she whispers, “you should come inside. it’s freezing out here.”

there’s a nervous edge to her voice, as if she’s actually worried you could turn the invitation down. you nod, letting her lead you inside, your heart still racing from the kiss as the door closes behind you.

the door creaks open, and you follow her inside, shivering as the warmth of her house wraps around you. a small dog barks once from a worn dog bed in the corner before bounding over, tail wagging wildly and interrupting the two of you.

“tink, stop,” rhiannon laughs. she scoops the little dog up with one arm, cradling it like a fidgety child.

“hi tink” you greet, reaching out to scratch her head.

rhiannon smiles as tink sniffs your fingers, deciding you’re acceptable. “she’s all bark, no bite.”

you laugh softly, but your attention shifts as you glance around the room. the lack of christmas decorations is glaring, especially compared to the obnoxiously festive lights and wreaths you’ve seen strung up in other windows tonight. no tree, no stockings, no hint that the holiday is mere days away, save for a half-empty bottle of eggnog left on the counter.

“you’re really not a…christmas person, huh?” you ask, glancing back at her.

she shrugs, setting tink down before running a hand through her hair. “it’s just another day, i suppose”

your gaze shifts again, curiously taking in her space before landing on a small pile of clothes draped over a chair by the couch. one shirt is smeared with a dark, reddish stain. you hesitate before pointing to it. “what happened there?”

rhiannon follows your outstretched finger and her expression tightens for just a second before she snatches the shirt up, tossing it into a nearby hamper. “nothing. just so illed some…wine!”

you nod slowly. you don’t press it, not now. instead, you let your eyes drift over the rest of the house. it’s nice, though a bit big for just one person to live in.

“it’s cozy,” you offer, trying to keep the mood light.

rhiannon snorts softly, kicking off her boots by the door. “it’s my childhood home” she explains as she joins you in the living room.

she gestures toward the couch. “you wanna…uh- sit? i’d offer you something festive, but…” she shrugs, nodding toward the eggnog.“i’m good,” you say with a soft laugh, moving to sit down. “i think i’ve had enough for today, anyway” the couch is worn but surprisingly comfortable, and tink hops up beside you immediately, curling into your side.

rhiannon hesitates for a moment before sitting beside you, closer than you expected. the room feels smaller now, quieter, the weight of the earlier kiss still lingering between you.

“you’re really okay with being here?” she asks suddenly.

you glance over, meeting her gaze. “of course i am. why wouldn’t i be?”

rhiannon exhales a shaky breath, her fingers twitching as though she’s not sure whether to reach for you or pull away entirely. “just…not used to this. people sticking around, i mean.”

you smile, your hand finding hers on the cushion between you two. “well, get used to it. i’m not going anywhere”

for a moment, rhiannon just looks at you, taking in every detail her eyes can reach from where she’s sitting. then, slowly, she leans in again, brushing her lips against yours in a kiss that’s softer this time, slower. you gladly let her and it’s not long before she’s sliding into your lap…

you’re stumbling down rhiannon’s hall before you know it. once the gentle kiss on the couch had turned into a full blown make-put session, you’re all over each other. whether this is a good idea or not, to hook up with one of your coworkers, neither of you cares to consider.

rhiannon, without letting go of your face once, guides you up the stairs to where the bedroom is. you’re moving uncoordinated, bumping into furniture and corners on your way upstairs. neither of you minds.

the mattress bounces when you drop your weight onto the bed and rhiannon is quick to follow. for all her awkward fumbling earlier, she’s surprisingly smooth as she crawls up your body and settles in on top of you, straddling your hips.

you settle your hands on the small of her back and you look up at her in breathless amazement. rhiannon really is beautiful, even more when she’s got you pinned down onto the mattress.

her fingers eagerly roam your body, mapping out every inch of skin she can reach through the layers of clothing you’re still wearing. this isn’t enough for you. the buttons of her blouse come loose first, right before she pushes up your sweater and you unzip her skirt with a quick pull.

“is this okay?” she asks between every item that comes off, her hands pausing patiently until she’s got your approval.

once you’re both undressed to the underwear, you take a moment to lean your head back into her plush pillows and admire her. she’s in a mismatched pair of underwear; a plain black bra and white panties, but rhiannon makes it work. still, she ducks her head shyly when she notices your staring.

“no” you quickly apologize, shaking your head and nudging hers back up so she’s looking down at you. “no, you’re beautiful”

you’re back to kissing each other before you know it. now that only your underwear is separating your bodies, you can’t help but grind against her from beneath, relishing in the sharp breaths rhiannon inhales at the pressure of your center against her own. you can feel how wet she is already, even through the thin fabric, and groan against her mouth.

“what do you want?” you ask when she’s practically humping your leg in search for friction. rhiannon head is tilted back and she’s panting heavily already.

“can i-” she bites her lip, then says it anyway. “i wanna ride you”

you furrow your brows, but her glance towards her bedside table is explanation enough.

“is that okay?”

you don’t have to be asked twice, instantly scrambling towards it. you don’t have to search for long. in the top drawer, you find what rhiannon must be referring to: a strap and, a bit lower, a bottle of lube. you take out both for good measure and turn around to find rhiannon watching you expectantly.

you’re back by her side in an instant, though when you try to climb up her body, she’s quick to toss you around and flip you over so she’s on top all over again. rhiannon is much stronger than anticipated but it’s not like you’re complaining when she glares down at you from above, her eyes wide and eager.

you’ve never been on this side of things before, but she makes it easy: whereas you’re unsure where to put your hands, rhiannon seems more confident in securing the toy to your abdomen.

she's so gentle and patient with you, kissing the buckles of the harness in ways the at have you sucking in your breath, then whispering words of encouragement to you as she secures them in place.

you want to hide your face in the soft pillows, but when rhiannon is done and settles on top of you, it’s impossible to look away. like this, you can clearly feel the spot where she has soaked through the panties.

“still okay?” she breathes once she's straddling your thighs, open mouth ghosting along your jaw slowly. the strap is resting against her belly like this. you nod, "yes", and even with both eyes fluttering closed you can sense the soft smile that curls up her lips against your skin.

“good” rhiannon hums as she places a featherlight kiss to the side of your neck. before you can say anything else, you suddenly feel her fingers against your bottom lip and your eyes fly open.

“open up” her voice instructs. rhiannon is holding out two of her fingers, her eyes studying every single move you make. she doesn’t have to tell you what to do; you part your lips obediently and the two digits sink into your mouth. rhiannon’s jaw goes slack whilst she watches them disappear past your lips.

“look at me” she says when your lashes flutter shut. she won’t have you looking away from her when you gently suck her fingers into your mouth. rhiannon’s mouth hangs open and she involuntarily grinds against the silicone toy as she watches you through hooded eyes. her fingers feel surprisingly good in your mouth, a firm pressure sitting on your tongue.

rhiannon makes sure they're both nice and wet before she withdraws them. a string of your spit connects them to your mouth as she brings her hand down, all the way down, until she wraps them around the toy that's strapped to your body.

the side of her nose brushes yours playfully when she leans in, smiling softly against your mouth as she pumps her fist along the length of it, using your spit to lube it up. she presses a quick kiss to your lips before she removes her hand from around the silicone shaft and sits up on her knees.

“i'm gonna-” she reaches around the strap and lines it up with her entrance, quickly pushing the fabric of her panties to the side. you haven't had the chance to feel her yourself yet, but you're almost certain she's soaked. “sit now. okay?”

all you can do is manage a soft whimper of “mhm” and a nod.

rhiannon takes this as enough of an answer and lowers her weight onto the strap, slowly letting it slide into herself. she sighs as she goes lower and her lashes flutter when she takes it in as far as it’ll go, until her body sits flush on yours. she takes a moment to adjust to the new sensation before she looks down at you.

she smiles breathlessly, then, and cups your face in her hands.

she wiggles her hips from left to right slightly, trying to find the perfect angle on top of you. all you can do is watch, look at her like she asked you to, stunned by the sight above you. you can hardly believe that this is the same woman everyone else at the gazette is purposely ignoring. you can hardly believe you are the one who gets to see this side of her.

her arm comes down to rest her palm against the headboard behind you. you yourself are still unsure where to put your own hands; too many places to choose from, a seemingly endless amount of skin exposed to you just like that.

"you're so beautiful" you finally manage, running your hands up her side. rhiannon full-body shivers. she runs her free hand over your rosy cheeks, letting you adjust to the new situation, the new position you’re now in, as well.

“can i move?” she finally whispers.

“yes!” you reply immediately, sounding just a little too eager for your own liking. “yes”

“here” rhiannon offers helpfully as she lifts your hand to her hips. “hold me like this and-”

she lifts herself, the muscles in her thighs flexing, just to drop her weight back down onto the strap, your legs nestling against hers.

“oh!” she moans. her head falls back and her lashes flutter when the strap strokes against her g-spot. instinctively, you tighten your grip on rhiannon’s body to hold her against you.

she arches her back beautifully, raises her hips, right before thrusting them back down. she does this, again and again, until she’s built a steady rhythm, all while still watching you like a hawk. not once does rhiannon allow your gaze to drop anywhere else that’s not her eyes. she instantly pulls your chin back up, still bouncing on the strap as she sharply reminds you: “look at me”

except for those occasional, hissed reminders, rhiannon is vocal. “oh my god” she chants every time her skin slaps against yours. “that’s so good, right there”

the longer you go on like this, the more confident you become in yourself. and with her constant moans of pleasure, you start taking matters into your own hands as well: shyly lifting your hips from the mattress to fuck the strap deeper into her. 

rhiannon cries out when you find the exact angle that she’d been looking for. her cunt practically throbs around you and you’re sure you can feel bits of her arousal dripping against your skin.

even like this, she still musters up enough self control to reach for your cheeks and hold you in place.

“fuck” rhiannon moans and you watch how her eyes roll back in her head. her bangs are stuck to the thin layer of sweat on her forehead, and her bra is doing nothing to stop the way her chest moves each time she rocks herself against you. “fuck, look at me” even though she’s the one doing most of the physical exercise, you’re panting as well. you can hear it each time the strap sinks into her, without looking at all; her cunt squelching obscenely.

“god” rhiannon moans, amongst other things like sharp cries of your name and short ‘ah, ah, ah’ sounds.

your own body is pulsing at this point, aching to be touched, aching for any sort of relief while you’re watching her move like this. you’re pretty sure you’re leaving a stain on her sheets. even though you can’t find it in you to be embarrassed or even slightly sorry, you’re still able to feel how you’re leaking through your underwear. you regret keeping it on already: with more freedom without the extra layer, you’re sure you could get some friction from the harness against your clit.

“you’re- god- so good” rhiannon’s praise snaps you back to reality. she’s grunting, both in exhaustion and pleasure. you can sense her pace faltering. her thighs start to tremble and her hips stutter. she’s getting close.

without breaking the eye contact rhiannon seems so desperate for, you reach between her legs. an audible gasp falls from your lips when you get a feel of the sheer amount of wetness that awaits you there; smeared all over her inner thighs.

“holy shit rhiannon-” you manage.

“touch me” she urges, her fingers closing around your wrist to hold you there. “i’m so close. please touch me”

you instantly do as you’re told and bring two of your fingers up against her stiff clit, rubbing it in circular motions and matching the pace of rhiannon’s body. she whines and lets her head fall back mindlessly. you can still feel her gaze on you, though. she’s no longer riding you, either, just desperately rocks back and forth on the strap, chasing her height.

“i’m gonna come” rhiannon finally moans. “you’re- you’re gonna make me come! look at me”

you nod, unable to tear your gaze away even if you wanted to, and press your fingers against her harder so she can grind against them however she pleases.

she manages another breathless gasps of your name, before she cries out: “fuck! god, i’m gonna- i’m cumming fuck!”

rhiannon cums with a loud shout of your name. you’re grateful her house is so far off from any large neighborhoods, grateful that she’s taken you to her place. in your apartment, your neighbors definitely would’ve heard.

her eyes press shut tightly, for the very first time, and her body goes slack after a long moment where it’s trembling with unreleased tension. you’re vaguely aware of her release gushing over your thighs, forcing the strap almost all the way out, but even without rhiannon’s reminder, you won’t look away from the sight above you.

you’ve spent enough time watching her in the office, but you’ve never seen rhiannon so beautiful. her face is contorting in pleasure and her jaw is slack, her legs tremble around yours until she moment where she finally stills her hips. she keeps grinding against it softly, until she truly can’t take any more. then, and only then, she drops forward against you and you wrap your arms around her shaking form.

“fuck” she mumbles against your neck after a minute of catching her breath.

you run your fingers through her hair gently. “you okay?”

rhiannon huffs, lifting her head from your skin reluctantly. “i’m good” she assures, nodding weakly. “so, so good. are you? was this- was it okay?”

“okay?” you repeat in disbelief. “rhiannon this was-“

for a general lack of a better word, all you do is pull her in. you can feel the rumble of her chuckle go through her chest as it presses against your own torso.

“come here” she murmurs, lifting her weight to meet you halfway, ready to return the favor.

[77gigabytes]

Bittersweet {Barista!Sylus x Reader}

I'M ALIVE FRENS, I SWEAR ╭( ๐_๐)╮

Soooo, this one (and a bunch of others) have been in my notes for ages, and I guess my writing juice only comes once a year and finishes them off...

Right, now I'm trying to flesh out my Model!Sylus x Photographer!Reader - I'm planning for it to be a series so please look forward to it! Hopefully I have enough writing juice to finish it ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

|| Masterlist ||

Amidst the clinking of teacups and the occasional whir of the coffee machine, your pen scritches against the endless amount of HA papers you have to fill. For every mission, every single move, is another report, another piece of paper to fill out.

You sigh, bracing your chin against your hand and gaze out the window. Your finger taps against your cheek in time with the clock.

7:39 PM

Tara’s late.

Just as the thought crosses your mind, Tara whips the door open and slides herself into the chair across from you.

“My goodness, MC, I don’t know why you choose here of all places to do your work.” She carelessly tosses her bag in the chair beside her and slumps into her own chair, “I swear I had to cross three rivers and climb two mountain on the way here.”

You chuckle, “Don’t forget the about the zip-line and the protofield at the start.”

She kicks your foot under the table and fans herself with the menu, “What’s so good about this place anyway?”

You smirk a little, “The barista’s cute.” You joke and nod your head in the direction of the kitchen behind her.

Tara subtly turns her head and pretends to look at the overhead menu in the kitchen before dropping her gaze to where Sylus was tending to other customers.

Her head whips back to you and she begins to fan herself with her hand, “Hooo, please, I’d cross another swamp to get here if that’s the face I’ll see at the end.”

You smile but turn back to your work, “Jokes aside,” you say without looking at Tara, “The coffee’s just the perfect blend of bittersweet. And… I like the atmosphere.” You shrug.

...

Not long after, as Tara finally picks a drink to order, Sylus approaches your table.

“One house special.” Sylus says as he places your cup on the table followed by a plate of cookies.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t order the-”

“It’s on the house, sweetie.” He gives you a wink and a boyish smile before walking back behind the counter to make the other customers’ drinks.

As if holding her breath Tara sighs out, “Gee, killer looks and a smooth voice to boot, no wonder you’re crossing all of Linkon just to do some documents.”

You give her a kick on the shin, “It’s the atmosphere and the coffee.” You argue.

“Sure, sure.”

❖· ────── ·

A few weeks have gone by, and now visiting this little coffee shop on the outskirts of Bloomshore has very much become a part of your daily routine. You can no longer use your work as an excuse to visit the café because you’ve come to visit it even on your days off.

You’ve learnt a few things throughout the weeks:

This is the only cafe in Bloomshore open until 1:30 in the morning. Or maybe even later than that, you’ve never stayed past 1:30.

Sylus must be making a whole lot of money for him to be giving you desserts on the house with every drink you order (You’ve also learnt that it’s futile to protest)

#2 can’t be possible since his coffee shop isn’t exactly overflowing with customers. There must be something else.

There’s two boys - Luke and Kieran, you overheard - who visit every Friday to collect some packages from Sylus. You’ve convinced yourself that it’s just coffee beans, or 'something else'.

But on top of that there was another instance where you realised that there was more to Sylus than what meets the eye.

As usual, you were doing some paperwork and Sylus brought your drink and a choc chip muffin this time.

The sun has long since dipped below the horizon, you wouldn’t be surprised if it was already time for it to return to the sky.

At this point, only you and a few other customers are left in the café. Some, students glued to their laptops, and others, dozing off on the tables. Either way, it’s quite peaceful tonight and you’ve gotten through two thirds of the report for your last mission. Yehey!

But alas, all good things come to an end.

Your watch beeps just as the tv, previously playing music in the background, switches to an emergency broadcast.

“Attention all. Attention all.” The newscaster frowns a little, “This is an emergency message from the Hunter’s Association - Wanderers have been sighted in the Bloomshore district.” A map pops up on the screen right where the coffee shop is located. The newscaster points to it, “If you are in this area, seek shelter immediately.”

Just as the message repeats, your watch vibrates against your wrist. A similar map is displayed - a live update of where the wanderer is headed - right in your direction.

Overhead, you hear the whir of helicopter blades and the other customers begin scrambling towards the entrance.

You stand at the entrance stopping one customer from leaving, “Stop! Stay calm everyone.” You show your badge to the customers, “I’m from the HA. At the moment, it’s best if we stay in the cafe. Stay under the tables.”

“Screw that!” one of the customers yells and pushes past you.

“Sir! The wanderer is-” You turn to grasp at his arm but not long after he bumps into Sylus, who had come to your side from behind the counter.

He towers over the customer with a stance imposing and unfamiliar as compared to the sweet barista you know.

“I suggest, sir, that you listen to miss hunter over here before you lose your life.” He narrows his eyes at the customer who gulps but still has the audacity to reply.

“If.. If I’m going to die, it sure as hell won’t be here in a coffee shop.” He insists.

Sylus simply gestures to the door, “Be my guest.” He says with a taunting smirk.

You look at him incredulously, “Ugh, why would you-”

“What? I have to honour a man’s dying wish. I would also prefer not to have a death in my coffee shop.”

Just as he finishes the sentence, the small coffee shop rumbles with the roar of the wanderer. The customers scream and scramble in all directions.

You click your tongue and push past him to follow after the customers who ran out in fear.

He just smiles and turns on his heel to follow after you.

Too engrossed in protecting the civilians, you don’t realise that Sylus is trailing behind you taking care of any straggling wanderers coming from behind.

When you hear the shrieks of the wanderers from behind, you see Sylus throwing blow after blow to its body.

Much too smooth and calculated to simply be a barista.

❖· ────── ·

As if that day had never happened, you’re back in your usual spot at the café. At the time of the incident, you were the closest hunter to the scene so naturally, you were tasked with writing up the report.

With your laptop propped on your thighs, your fingers are gliding over your keyboard as you type up the report - noting the time of the incident, to the nature of the incident, to those involved.

Your fingers tap lightly at the keyboard, not enough to input any letters, but to rid yourself of your anxiety. Write too much and the HA will investigate this place, and unfortunately, the packages that you’ve convinced yourself were coffee beans are in fact not coffee beans, but bombs.

Writing as vaguely as possible, you work you lip between your teeth as you eye Sylus from the edge of you laptop. How much can you say without really saying anything at all?

Time flies by with every word you type and every sip of coffee you take. It’s bitter today, but that’s exactly what you need to stay up and finish this report.

Speaking of which… What time is it anyway?

You spare a glance at the clock at the bottom of your screen.

2:32 AM!

You jolt awake and look around the café. Every other table is void of its usual occupant and their belongings.

Sylus lifts his eyes to your figure, noticing your unease, but continues to clean the teacup in his hands, “Do you need something, sweetie? Another cup, maybe?”

You stand up to gather your things, “No. I’m sorry.” You stuff your laptop in your bag, “I didn’t realise how late it was, I-”

He only flashes you a smile, “I don’t mind.” He averts his gaze for a moment, “I have nothing scheduled for tonight, and… and I don’t mind the company.”

You’re frozen in place unsure if he was being courteous or if you were imposing.

Sensing the conflict in your head, he waves his hand and shakes his head, “Sit down,” He walks over to your table and picks up your empty cup, “I’ll make you another drink. You don’t seem to be finishing up any time soon anyways.”

“No, no.” You wave both of your hands in front of you, “I couldn’t. I’m already overstepping my bounds.”

“I insist, kitten.”

Hesitantly, you slot yourself back into the booth and say, “I don’t think I have it in me to finish that report today.” you scratch at your cheek.

“Then, at least stay until I’ve made you another drink.” He’s back behind the counter and shoots you another smile that has your stomach doing backflips, “What will it be, sweetheart?”

“Hot chocolate?” You tilt you head a little.

“Mmmm.” He hums, “Whatever my dearest customer wants, she gets. A warm cup of cocoa to stave of a snowy night, coming right up.” He chimes and the coffee machine whirs to life again.

Shortly after, as you’ve warmed your cold hands against the mug, Luke and Kieran waltz through the entrance.

You glance at the clock - 2:54 AM.

When your eyes return to the two boys, they seem just as shocked as you are that anyone else was still here.

You lift the mug up to acknowledge them and they simply smirk.

“Late night, miss hunter?” One of them says, you’re not quite sure who is who.

You simply hum in response and take another sip of the hot chocolate.

Luke and Kieran make their way to the back as usual, and before they return with the ‘coffee beans’, you’ve emptied your cup and left the shop.

When Sylus leads the twins out (only so they don’t harass you more than you can tolerate) he notices the empty table.

“A special drink for a special lady so late at night, boss man?” Kieran asks.

“Did we interrupt a romantic rendezvous in the middle of the night, boss man?” Luke wiggles his eyebrows.

Sylus merely shakes his head, “Get out of here before I send Mephisto to end the both of you.” He says as he clears your table. Although his voice is dripping in malice, his eyes are soft as he reads the little note you left.

Thank you for the hot chocolate. Sorry for staying so late, I’ll make it up to you. -MC

❖· ────── ·

It wasn’t for another ten days did you make it up to him. Not that anyone was counting…

You felt a little guilty albeit a little flattered by how sweetly he was treating you. But also confused…Does he like you? Is he being nice? Does he do this for others? Is it a ruse with underhanded motives?

Honestly, it’s all so confusing. From how sweetly he was treating you, to the shady deals going on in that dainty little coffee shop. You really don’t know what to believe anymore.

You thought maybe if you stopped visiting for a little while, everything would clear itself up. But the more you restrained yourself, the more thoughts of him surfaced.

With an exasperated huff, you convinced yourself that you were just having caffeine withdrawals and none of the other coffee shops in Linkon satisfied you like the small coffee shop at the edge of Bloomshore. Definitely, the coffee and not the barista… the coffee.

…

When you shuffle into the coffee shop, it busier than usual. So much so that Sylus hasn’t even realised that you’re here.

Why would he though? I’m just like any other customer getting a drink.

You let out a breath. For whatever reason, your traitorous heart is pounding away. By the time you get to the counter you heartbeat is in your ears and you can barely hear yourself say, “One house special, please.”

At your voice, Sylus’ head fwips up from where his hands were holding a milk jug to the coffee machine, “I though my little hunter was injured, or that I was too forward.” he sends you a smile that makes your heart race a little faster.

“Sorry, I was… I was busy.” You avert your gaze and begin to reach into you bag, “I do have something to give you. A little thank you gift, if you will.” You pass a little mug set over the counter.

He quickly wipes his hands on a dish cloth and receives your gift. He opens the set and smirks.

Your brows furrow, “What?” What could he possibly find amusing?

He looks into the mug and reads, “I love you a latte?”

“Huh?” You lean over the counter and grab the mug from his hands. Just as he read, the words “I love you a latte” are printed at the bottom of the mug.

You stare at it, baffled as heat rises to your cheeks “I-”

He chuckles, “This one says, ‘mugs and kisses’.” He looks back at you, “Are you trying to tell me something, sweetie.”

“No! I didn’t know they had those printed at the bottom! I just liked the designs at the front!” You’re leaning over the counter reaching for the mugs.

“You’re more forward than me it seems.”

“Just…just give them back to me, I can return them and get you something else.”

He pulls the both mugs further away from the counter and above his head, “I can’t. This your first gift to me, kitten.” He holds them to his chest, “It would be a waste to return them now.”

“No, Sylus, I’m serious.”

“And so am I.” He places the mugs on one of the shelves and turns back to you, “Now go sit down, I’ll bring your drink once it’s ready.”

With your head in your hands you take your usual seat.

❖· ────── ·

Your mind spent half the day replaying the events from this morning, so now you’re only a fifth of the way through your report.

You groan and plop your forehead on the table with a thud. You turn your head to the side and rest it atop your hands.

Most of the other customers have left for the night, and Sylus is finishing up, cleaning all his equipment.

Shortly after, he walks over with two take away cups in hand. He’s donned his long black coat and a scarf. “Come,” He says, “You need a break, let me take you somewhere.” He nods to the entrance.

You raise a brow at him, “You’re not taking me somewhere to kill me, are you?” You joke as you gather your things, “I know how to fight, you know?” you add with a chuckle.

“Oh? Shall I take you to spar then, miss hunter?” He says as he hands you the drinks.

With both of your hands occupied, he takes the opportunity to wrap his scarf around your neck. He ties it up and tidies the edges so that your neck is fully covered. Leaning back a little he admires his work with a chuckle and flicks your forehead.

“Hey!”

“Let’s go.” He guides you with a hand at the small of your back.

After a short walk, he opens the car door for you with his other hand at the roof of the car so you don’t bump your head.

You mumble a quick “Thank you.” and adjust yourself in the seat as he walks around to the driver’s side.

When the car rumbles to life and he begins to drive, you ask, “Are one of these for me?”

He gives you a quick glance and can’t resist teasing you with the way your eyes sparkle at the drinks.

“Of course, but you’ll have to guess which one.”

“Mmm.” You take a sip of one of the cups but shake your head as intense bitterness bites at your tongue, “Bleghh. How many shots did you put in this?”

He stifles a laugh with his hand, “Cute.” He mumbles.

…

When you exit the car, he guides you towards a bridge overlooking the city and the river.

in the middle of the bridge, he leads you to a railing and leans against it with his drink in his hands.

“You’re not going to jump, are you?” You tease.

He scoffs, but adjusts your scarf to cover your nose and ears that have gone red from the cold.

“Well, now how am I supposed to drink this cocoa with my mouth covered, Sylus?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, kitten.”

I think this one turned out a little cuter than I expected, but I love it either way hahaha. I hope you enjoyed! ✧(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

-Seven

|| Masterlist ||

[theseventhdimension]

if it isn’t too much of a struggle could you possibly write smt about spencer reid x aussie reader🙏🏽🙏🏽absolutely need to know how this man would react (local aussie here lolz the concept of spencer with an aussie partner is so funny to me)

Down Under Discoveries

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Word count: 1.9k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: Hope this is okay!! I didn't really have any idea where i wanted to go with this plot-wise soo.. This is the best i could come upp with lol. I've only lived in Australia for 6 years, the rest in the UK, so I'm still a little unsure if i have a good grip on "Aussie culture" or not. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

As always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy /ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\

The break room looked like a United Nations potluck had crashed into a school fête.

Paper flags hung from the ceiling on curling bits of string. Crockpots simmered beside foil trays and mismatched containers, the smells clashing and mingling into a strange but mouthwatering fog. A handmade sign read:

World Day for Cultural Diversity “Celebrate your culture. Eat like someone else’s nan cooked for you.”

You stood proudly behind your section of the buffet table, which could only be described as chaotically Australian — sausage rolls with sauce in a takeaway cup, lamingtons in bite-sized chunks, a full container of fairy bread glittering with 100s and 1000s, and, at the centre like a crown jewel, a stack of pristine Tim Tams.

Across from you, Spencer hovered like a confused giraffe at a vending machine. He squinted at your offerings with the analytical intensity of someone trying to understand how fairy bread qualified as food.

“You’ve been standing there for three minutes, mate,” you called, suppressing a grin. “It’s not gonna bite you. Probably.”

Spencer blinked, adjusting the plate in his hands — which currently held cautious spoonfuls of butter chicken, jollof rice, and what looked suspiciously like pickled herring. “I just… don’t know what half of this is.”

“That’s the idea,” you said, nudging the Tim Tams toward him like you were making a peace offering. “Cultural exchange. Try something weird. Expand your biscuit horizons.”

He glanced between you and the chocolate-coated treat. “Okay. What's this one called again?”

“Tim Tam. National treasure. It’s a chocolate biscuit but not like your American ones. You could eat it 'normally', but why would you want to? You bite off the corners, use it as a straw for tea, and then it melts in your mouth in like, three seconds. It’s called a Tim Tam Slam. It’s a rite of passage back home.”

Reid tilted his head. “That sounds both illogical and messy.”

You smirked. “That’s the Australian way.”

He hesitated, then gestured toward your thermos. “Show me.”

Grinning like a devil with a good deed to do, you poured him a cup of tea — just strong enough, just hot enough — and handed over a Tim Tam with ceremonial flair.

“Corner here, corner there. Suck the tea through it—quick, before it disintegrates—then slam it straight into your mouth.”

Reid followed the steps precisely, brows furrowed in concentration. The moment the tea reached the biscuit’s core, his eyes widened like he’d just unlocked a new level of existence.

“Oh my God.”

“Told ya,” you said, watching fondly as he scrambled to get the rapidly softening Tim Tam into his mouth before it collapsed into chocolate sludge. He chewed, swallowed, looked stunned.

“That’s absurd,” he said hoarsely. “That’s the best biscuit-to-beverage integration I’ve ever experienced.”

“You sound like a review site,” you laughed. “‘Four out of five stars. Got a bit melty on the hands.’”

He licked a bit of melted chocolate from his thumb, still blinking like he wasn’t quite over the experience. You stepped forward without thinking and gently reached out — thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where a smear of chocolate lingered.

His whole body froze.

Your touch lingered half a second too long. You both seemed to realise it at once, and your hand dropped as heat crawled into your cheeks.

He cleared his throat, gaze flicking away — but not before you caught the way his ears had gone red.

“No, seriously,” he said quickly, “that defies several structural principles of cookie engineering.”

You leaned on your elbow, amused but flustered. “Mate, we’re not building bridges. We’re just ruining our teeth and loving it.”

He was smiling now — that rare, warm kind that reached his eyes and softened his whole face.

“What’s that one?” he asked, nodding at the glittering white triangles on your tray.

“Ah. Fairy bread,” you said solemnly. “White bread, butter, and sprinkles. The food of Australian children’s parties. Absolute chaos. No nutritional value whatsoever.”

Reid stared. “This looks like something from a dream I had during a fever.”

“And now it’s real,” you said, offering him a slice like it was a sacrament. “Eat it.”

He took a tentative bite… then froze. Chewed. Swallowed. Looked at you like you’d just shown him colour for the first time.

“I… can’t tell if this is awful or amazing.”

You grinned, watching him with just a bit too much fondness — the way his lips puckered slightly in confusion, the way he blinked as the sugar hit him. And he noticed.

A flush rose faintly along his neck. He looked away, flustered but clearly flattered. You caught yourself and cleared your throat, hiding the heat behind another grin.

“That’s part of the magic.”

Nearby, Morgan was loudly arguing with Garcia about something spicy she’d snuck onto his plate, while Hotch tried to nod politely through Rossi’s enthusiastic explanation of his “nonna’s real marinara.” The room buzzed with overlapping dialects, laughter, and clinking cutlery — a strange kind of harmony.

Reid leaned a little closer. “I brought something too, you know.”

“Oh?”

He pointed to a ceramic dish tucked in among the tinfoil trays. “It’s mămăligă. Romanian cornmeal. I added sautéed mushrooms and cheese. My mom used to make it.”

You took a bite, surprised by the creamy texture and smoky bite of mushroom. “Spence… this is gorgeous. You’ve been holding out on me.”

He flushed. “I just didn’t want to compete with things like… fairy bread.”

“Oh, that’s not food,” you said. “It’s a nostalgic fever dream.”

He laughed, genuinely now, eyes crinkling. “This was a good idea. I like this. The cultural… bridging.”

He looked at you then — not just looked, but looked. And it wasn’t analytical this time. It was open and earnest and a little too long. Your heart stumbled.

“I like it too,” you said softly. “You being curious. Letting me share this stuff with you.”

Spencer hesitated, then reached — completely unprompted — for a second Tim Tam.

You gawked. “Look at you. Already going back for more.”

He gave you a small smile, and this time it wasn’t analytical at all.

“You’re a good influence.”

He kept looking at you. Longer than was strictly necessary. Long enough to make your stomach flip.

You looked away, suddenly very focused on rearranging the fairy bread.

A week after the team’s cultural food day, Spencer started asking questions. Innocent ones. Curious, careful ones. Stuff like, “Is Milo more like hot chocolate or a malted milk?” or “You mentioned something called a sausage sizzle—was that a joke?”

You should’ve seen it coming.

The next week, you showed up to work with a small esky tucked under your arm and a mission in your eyes.

Spencer looked up from a file like he’d sensed food from three cubicles away. “What’s in the box?”

“Science experiment,” you said, setting it on the break room bench. “For your palate.”

He looked intrigued. Then slightly alarmed when you pulled out a paper plate and placed down a single slice of toast.

A thin scrape of dark brown spread gleamed against the butter.

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s not Nutella.”

“Nope,” you said brightly. “Vegemite.”

He blinked. “I’ve read about this. People have opinions.”

“They do,” you said. “Because Americans eat it like peanut butter. You’re not meant to lather it on. You want restraint. Just enough to make your tastebuds panic.”

“…Encouraging.”

“Eat it.”

He picked up the toast like it might dissolve on contact. Took a small bite. Chewed.

Immediately, his face twisted into an expression of alarmed betrayal.

“That’s… deeply salty.”

You burst out laughing and rested a hand on his arm for balance, doubling over slightly.

Spencer glanced down at where your hand touched him, but didn’t move away.

You tried to stifle it. “Too much?”

“It’s like… soy sauce had a breakdown and turned into a paste.”

Still laughing, you patted his arm. “We all went through it. Give it a week. You’ll start craving it without meaning to.”

He gave you a skeptical look. “I’m not sure I want to develop that particular coping mechanism.”

“To be fair,” you said, digging back into the esky, “I didn’t start you off with the fan favourite.”

You unwrapped a foil parcel and the smell alone was enough to make him lean forward slightly.

“Okay, this smells promising.”

You held it out. “Sausage sizzle. Classic beach day or hardware store treat. It’s basically a sausage in bread with onion and sauce, but somehow—magic.”

He took a cautious bite and immediately made a pleased sound. “Okay. This I understand. This is excellent.”

“Right?” You smiled. “Simple. Greasy. Fills the hole.”

He nodded, already taking a second bite. “Ten out of ten. No confusing aftertaste.”

“People’ll set up barbies at the beach, hand out these to the kids while they run around in thongs—”

He choked.

“In what?”

You blinked. “Thongs.”

He gave you a look. “You mean…”

You stared back, then laughed. “Sandals, Spence. Flip-flops. No one’s running around in underwear at the beach.”

He looked vaguely betrayed. “That’s… a very misleading word choice.”

“We don’t think so,” you said, still grinning. “You’re the ones calling them flip-flops. What is that, the sound they make?”

He pointed at your esky with his sausage. “How many more of these moments are in there?”

“Define ‘these moments.’”

“Cultural whiplash.”

You shrugged. “I dunno. One or two. Depends if you’re brave enough for dessert.”

He raised a brow. “What’s dessert?”

You pulled out a ziplock bag. “Lamingtons.”

He bit into one, and coconut fell immediately onto his lap. You giggled.

“You’ve got coconut on your—yeah, no, it’s gone,” you said, watching him brush at it with no success.

You both sat down at the break room bench, shoulder to shoulder, legs pressed close enough to notice but neither of you moving.

He gave up brushing. “So. Vegemite: no. Sausage sizzle: yes. Lamingtons: also yes.”

You nodded. “That’s a good strike rate. Better than most.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then glanced at you. “You really do have a whole separate language, huh?”

“Pretty much. Slang’s half the fun. I’ve probably said five things you didn’t understand just today.”

He smirked. “Like Macca’s? You said that yesterday and I genuinely thought it was a person.”

“It’s McDonald’s. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he echoed, deadpan.

You watched him finish the last bite of lamington, and something about it all—the way he sat comfortably beside you now, the faint chocolate smudge at the corner of his mouth, the fact that he’d asked for this—made you feel warmer than the break room tea ever could.

He wasn’t doing this to tick off cultural boxes.

He was doing it because you were the one offering.

You bumped his knee with yours. “So. What I’m hearing is you want me to keep bringing snacks.”

He nodded seriously. “For science.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course.”

He paused. “Also, maybe… I just like hearing you talk about home.”

That caught you off guard.

You looked at him for a beat, surprised by the quiet sincerity. Then smiled.

“Yeah. Well. You’re welcome in the esky club anytime.”

He offered you the last lamington half from the bag without a word.

[ssspace-cadet]

cant stop thinking about the 141 being your caregivers. it’s just such a comforting thought 🥰

lazy sunday mornings making pancakes. ghosts washing strawberries and blueberries, making sure to chop the strawberries into little chunks. price is in charge of the stove, flipping the pancakes every so often. soap stirs the batter, being precise with the measurements. gaz helps you set the table, plates out for everybody, maple syrup and butter waiting to be used.

mondays are rough, so i’m thinking a quiet afternoon at home. maybe playing some video games with gaz and soap, or just laying beside them and watching. sitting with price as he does his reports, helping him put papers into the shredding machine and watching it eat them up! cuddles with ghost on the couch, watching a good show with some snacks.

crafty tuesdays!!! coloring little pictures and gaz helping you make them all shiny with glitter glue! stringing together friendship bracelets with ghost and sharing little charms! making paper airplanes with soap and then seeing whose goes the farthest! finger painting with price and measuring the sizes of your hands!!

wednesdays are chore days :P helping soap tidy up the floors, zooming around like a spaceship and picking up toys and pillows. ghost picking you up or giving you a piggy back ride so you can reach the top shelves/cabinets to dust them. helping gaz wipe down counters while he teases that you keep on missing a spot. picking out soft, pretty bedsheets and watching price put them on the mattresses while you change pillow cases.

thursday you all eat out 😋 price plating your favorite food onto a plate, making sure you get a good meal and eat everything. gaz sneakily eating two or three of your veggies because he knows you probably won’t eat all of them. soap cracking jokes, starting conversations and livening up the table. ghost holding your hand beneath the table, making sure you know he’s there if you need him.

fridays are movie nights!! ghost gets the popcorn all buttered and ready, while soap helps you get out blankets and extra pillows to make everything extra comfy. price sighs as he lays back into the couch, nursing a cup of tea and flicking through films. gaz settles beside him, recommending the latest movies. ghost comes back with two large bowls of popcorn, settling beside price and you, letting you lean your head onto his shoulder as he pets your head.

and lastly, saturday you all go on a nice walk outside 💕 price holds one of your hands, ghost holding the other, as they lift you up and swing you over the cracks in the sidewalk. soap challenged you to a race to the nearest tree, of course letting you win and acting like he’s out of breath. there’s a gentle breeze in the air making the trees sway slowly, and gaz holds out your water bottle for you to take with a chuckle.

[ilikesoupandcookies]

i had a strange dream we stayed in a hotel in northern virginia for maybe a week. believe it or not, with all 6 hours of sleep i got that night, it really did take a whole damn week for that dream to end, but i didnt mind. i was under the impression that we had eloped in this dream and had chosen to run away to somewhere we could take good pictures of each other for whatever kind of honeymoon we could afford. the first night we made love for hours, until the exhaustion wore us to be fastly asleep in each others arms. the moment this dream became strange is when i woke up in the kitchen i worked in when we first met. the only other person working was you. you had come over to me and given me a kiss on the forehead, and told me it was about time i had woken up. in our real hours i had told you i always thought it was strange how dreams give everything a very believable context when you are in them, how everything feels like it makes sense, and this dream was no different. you brought me a cup of coffee as i lit the range, and the ticket machine started to whirr, and then ceaselessly printed the name of every person i had met in my entire life, one by one, on receipt paper. youd read their names and ask me odd questions about each one while bringing me clean pans and utensils, plating dishes. i was endlessly cooking for nobody. there was a clock that would move, but only if i didnt look at it. there came a point where a bell rang, and the machine stopped. we mindlessly cleaned and walked back to the hotel. for every day of this week that passed, the hotel felt a little closer, and the room started to look a little more like ours at your house. this pattern repeated for every day of the dream, working, returning, making love, waking up in the restaurant, until the last day. i woke up in your room, and it was real, and you were right next to me, and we had never been married, but only living together for a few months, and you were so warm, and you were so quiet while you slept, and i couldnt stop kissing your head while you tossed and turned into me. when you finally woke up, we had coffee, and a cigarette, laughed around and watched shows and made art and played poker for the day in your room, then we made love until we slept.

[bloodmoonmuses]

mediocre party crashers: the x-mas special! | mark lee

read part one here! genre: mark lee x reader, fluff

summary: Your message in a bottle has found his way back to you. You hope the tide wasn’t too bad. or You and Mark are reunited at a corporate holiday party.

Crashing parties has now become a hobby of yours. A real, habitual thing with methods and strategies and memories… From galas, to masquerade balls, frat parties and the occasional wedding, it’s safe to say you’re a pro. 

Your identity is something you’ve made malleable and mutable. Everchanging and morphing. Slowly shifting like a mood ring. You’re everyone and no one at the same time. You’re a paradox. And even in all the grandiose you’ve experienced, your absolute favorite type of party to crash was corporate holiday parties. They’re no-man’s land, really. The gaudy festiveness of them coupled with hollow smiles. The hum of a near broken radiator and a shitty karaoke machine. Lukewarm instant hot cocoa made with water instead of milk. 

The atmosphere is electric in the weirdest way- so palpable to be shrouded in such greyish mundanity. 

Tonight is no more different than many of your other outings. You and your partner in crime, Ningning, lock elbows as you wander around an office building. You had fought for an hour about what’s appropriate to wear to an office party (which resulted in you having to unpack Ningning’s understanding of an office siren. “-I wanna look hot!” she had said. To which you replied, “Time and place. We’re not amateurs anymore.”)

And so here you are, clad in an itchy sweater and pencil skirt, scouting out the scenery of some podunk town’s marketing firm. The manager has seemingly insisted on not updating any of the technology, filing cabinets lining the walls and chunky monitors on the cubicle desks. Tinsel has been strewn gingerly on a real fir tree, and plastic tablecloths cover foldable tables. Wrapping paper has been taped along the back of the cubicle walls to give the office a festive feeling. 

“Ugh,” says Ningning, as the two of you load up paper plates with homemade desserts. (Banana pudding for you. Caramel cake for Ningning.) “Fluorescent lighting.” Then, as if on cue, the bulb above her begins to flicker. Then she says, “Let’s mingle.”

You sidle up to a sharply dressed man, who you assume is the owner of the firm based on the wayward glances of the other attendees. He introduces himself as Doyoung and eyes you curiously. “Do I know you?”

“A friend of a friend… of a friend,” you say. “Here for moral support. How were the quarter four stats?” A classic diversion.

“Good enough for Christmas bonuses for the first time in three years. Finally bounced back from Covid.” Greyish mundanity, but the most beautiful variation of it. Will persevering through catastrophe. The human tendency to endure and endure together.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” you say. And you mean it.

“Cheers to the new year?” says Doyoung, extending a paper cup with snowflakes on it in your direction.

“Cheers indeed.” 

The night progresses with twinkling optimism. You like intertwining yourself in people’s life stories. Hearing about their kids, the new boutique that’s opening on the square, or how some of the upper management can be real assholes. Small talk and human connection. Contentedness wafting off warm bodies. 

“We were nearly snowed out,” says an older gentleman, who you’d think were cute if not for the hideous mustache adorning his face. He had just regaled you with the details of planning this highbrow shindig. “And who are you again?”

However, you’re too distracted to answer him, having now noticed a suspiciously young-looking guy assembling a cup of cocoa. As you walk up to the table, he shifts to the left, giving you access to the other side of it. Through your periphery, he seems familiar, but you can’t seem to place him.

“This might sound weird-”

“Do I know you? -” You begin speaking at the same time. When the two of you make eye contact, both of you are stricken with recognition. Mark Lee.

“No way. Preppie!” he exclaims, putting his cup down and scooping you into an embrace.

“Preppie? That’s what you remember me as?”

He pulls back from the hug and scans your features, almost as if to confirm his eyes aren’t deceiving him. “From that yacht party, like, a year ago. You never texted me back!”

“I didn’t text you back? You never texted me!” you counter.

“Here, I’ll show you.” Mark takes out his phone, scrolls for a bit, then shows you an unanswered text message from a year ago. 

July 25, 2023

Mark: Sooo…. How about that rodeo party? [unopened]

Upon closer inspection, however, you see your number is incorrect.

“It’s an 8 at the end, not a 9.” you respond, taking his phone and updating your contact without question.

“I thought you got creeped out or something,” Mark says, sighing in relief as enter the number. When you’re done, he asks, “How have you been? What are you doing here?”

“Fine. Good. Ning and I have basically hit up all the companies in the city this year, so we figured we’d try the ‘burbs. Gotta love a company Christmas Party.” He nods in agreement. “You look dapper,” you add. 

He’s wearing a slate gray suit and a holly-printed tie.

“A little overdressed. It’s my wedding suit,” says Mark. “You look…”

“Like a middle-aged salary worker?”

“I was gonna say cozy.”

“Right.”

Suddenly, Ningning walks up from behind, poking your ribs with her fingers. “ Hey, nerd, they’re gonna play Pin the Nose on the Reindeer! First place gets a $20 Target gift card!” Then, when she notices Mark, she says, “Oh! Hey, Bottle Boy.”

You glare at her. How does she even remember him?

Mark’s face twists in confusion as he asks, “What does that mean?”

“Nothing!” you shout. Mark shrugs and shuffles off to join the festivities. Before she can walk away, you yank Ningning by the elbow and whisper into her ear. “Ningning, you did read my journal!?”

“Perhaps I’ve been a part of one of his lifetimes- a message in a bottle finally surfacing on a beach’s shore. I believed in the existence of fate, but only for a night..” she says, mocking you as she recites lines from your diary like a monologue.

“You’re the worst,” you sigh, facepalming. You remind yourself to change the hiding spot for your journal…

“What happened with that whole situation, anyway? Hasn’t it been over a year?” asks Ningning.

“Gave him the wrong number, apparently.”

She scoffs, taking your elbow in hers once more. “You idiot.”

“I know.”

When you walk into the conference room where the game is being held, you notice Mark lingering in the doorway at the back of it. You make your way to him slowly, trying not to look too excited when you catch his eye and he promptly smiles.

“I’m dyingggg to see them play this game,” says Mark, watching as Doyoung gets a blindfold tied over his eyes.

Then, again, Ningning appears out of nowhere. “Don’t look up!” she exclaims to the both of you.

And, of course, the two of you do. Placed squarely above the door frame is a mistletoe, now glaringly obvious as you look at it with your neck craned. Mark stifles a cough and you feel the back of your neck heat up.

Mark looks at you nervously. “Uh, are you a mistletoe observer?”

“‘Mistletoe Observer’? Why are you asking like it’s a religious practice?” you ask.

Mark shrugs and says, “I dunno, man! Just trying to be respectful!”

“Respectful? It’s an arbitrary tradition. Are you a mistletoe observer?” you retort, half-joking. But Mark looks at you with such intensity, if only for half a second, that it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“I mean," he starts, already regretting his words and looking at his feet, “I’m not not a mistletoe observer…”

“You can’t keep saying ‘mistletoe observer’ and acting like it’s a thing.”

Mark pouts. “So we’re not about to kiss right now?”

You grab Mark’s stupid tie and pull him closer, giggling as the smirk is wiped off his face. 

Then you kiss him, melting into it like snow in the morning sun. Mark’s hands come up to grasp your face, deepening the fervor of the display of affection. You’re awestruck. Your message in a bottle has found his way back to you. 

You hope the tide wasn’t too bad.

When the kiss comes to an end and you open your eyes, you see and hear the rest of the partygoers cheering you on. Ningning has snapped a photo with her digital camera. Doyoung pipes up, still blindfolded and ready for the game.  “What’s happening? Are we playing the game or not?”

a/n: merry christmas and happy holidays! hope you enjoyed!

[itsjustapumpkin]

I like how I look (Part 5)

Tmnt Bayverse Leonardo x (Fem) Reader

⚠️ MDNI 18+ ⚠️

Description -You were already hanging on by a thread—working late shifts, battling anxiety, and going through the motions of a life that never felt like yours.But one wrong turn after work leaves you bleeding, disoriented, and running for your life. A desperate escape drops you straight into the underbelly of New York—literally.When you wake up, you’re surrounded by four mutant turtles, all questions and secrets. As you heal, learn, and try to reclaim some sense of control, you find yourself drawn to the one who holds himself the tightest.

Part 3 -> Here

Part 4 -> Here

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The matcha’s too sweet again.

You sip it anyway as you walk to work, the warm paper cup pressed to your fingers like it’ll anchor you. It doesn’t. You’d been trying to wean yourself off coffee for the sake of your anxiety. Thought matcha might be the answer. But today’s blend is watery and saccharine, like the person behind the counter dumped in half a bottle of syrup to compensate for the bitterness.

You toss the rest into a trash bin and wipe your hands on your jacket. Something about the city feels off today—too loud, too fast, too much. You swear you keep seeing someone across the street every few blocks. A man in a gray hoodie. He turns when you look. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe your brain’s playing tricks. But you pick up your pace anyway. paranoid he might be out there searching for you.

Everything’s changed. You’re not who you were. Not in bad ways—at least, not entirely. But in different ones. You don’t flinch when Leo touches your wrist anymore to guide a block. You don’t cry in your sleep every night. You know how to roll your weight through a fall, how to break a chokehold, how to recognize when someone’s following you. You also know how it feels to sit beside a Six-foot-tall turtle with ocean-blue eyes who watches you like the sky might fall if he blinks too long.

That’s new.

— — — —

The second you walk through the diner’s back door, the sound hits you like a punch—clinking plates, sizzling grease, the jukebox skipping again on some ’80s hit that sounds like it’s been tortured through a blender.

Nicole’s already elbow-deep in the ice machine, her frizzy hair tied up in a pink bandana, Marlboro Lights tucked behind her ear like a crown.

“You’re late, sugar tits,” she barks without looking up. “Where’s my matcha? You didn’t stop at the good place, did you?” You toss your apron over your head and groan. “I did. They made it gross. Like if toothpaste fucked a vanilla bean.” Nicole snorts, finally looking at you. Her eyeliner’s smudged, and one of her press-on nails is missing.

“That’s cause you’re drinkin’ witch piss. Shoulda just got coffee and suffered like the rest of us.” You give a half-hearted laugh and grab your notepad. The bell over the door jingles again.

“Hey,” she says, suddenly quieter. “You okay?”

You pause. She sees right through you every time.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“Mmm. You get tired a lot these days.” She doesn’t press. Just tosses you a stick of gum and slaps your butt on the way past. “Go charm the creeps. The suits at Table Nine are already foaming.”

You regret going to Table Nine the second you make eye contact. They’re older, mid-forties maybe, in loosened ties with drinks already sweating onto the laminate. One of them winks. Another whispers something into his friend’s ear and they laugh.

“What can I get you?” you ask, pen poised.

“Smile a little, sweetheart. Don’t look so serious.”

“Yeah, ain’t that face supposed to sell the food?”

You grit your teeth. “We’re running a ‘piss off and die’ special tonight. You want that medium or well-done?”

Nicole cackles from behind the bar. They laughed awkwardly but got the hint and shut up after that, but the feeling sticks—like oil under your skin. By the time your shift ends, your shoulders are locked, your face hurts from fake smiling, and all you want is to disappear.

— — — —

You’re already off your game. You’ve been at this for 3 weeks now. Why are you fucking it up all over again?!

The air in the lair is thick and heavy, and your body feels like it’s made of wet sand. Leo stands across from you, his arms crossed while you shake out your wrists and try to reset. Your cheeks are flushed, your shirt sticking to your back, and every breath you take feels like it gets caught on something inside your chest. You’re spiraling. You know it.

“Again,” Leo says simply, stepping back into a neutral stance. You nod. Get into position.

He comes at you slow—clearly giving you time to react. You try to remember what he told you: elbow up, pivot your foot, strike the pressure point. But you fumble it again, your footing off. And when he grabs your wrist to correct your motion, something just snaps in you. You throw your free arm out with too much force—your palm landing square against his jaw with a smack.

The sound echoes. Your heart stops.

Leo doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. He just closes his eyes, exhales slowly through his nose.

“…Okay,” he says flatly. “I think we’re done for today.”

Your stomach drops.

“What? No—Leo, I’m so sorry—”

“You’re frustrated,” he says, already turning away. His voice is low. Calm. But not soft. “You’re not listening to your body. You’re in your head.”

You follow him, flustered, hands out like you’re trying to physically grab the moment and fix it. “I didn’t mean to hit you—”

“I know,” he says, turning back to you now. His face is unreadable. Calm. Way too calm. If it were Raph, he would’ve barked. If it were Mikey, he would’ve joked. If it were Donnie, he would’ve pulled the cameras to run the footage frame by frame and prove your mistake. But Leo? Leo just breathes. Deep. Measured. Controlled.

You hate that he’s so calm. You hate that you’re not.

“You could yell at me,” you mutter under your breath, folding your arms tight to your chest. “Like you do with them. I can take it.”

He’s close now. Real close. Standing right in front of you with his blue eyes steady and burning into you.

“I’m not training them right now,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. “I’m training you.”

His words send a chill down your spine. Not because they’re cold—but because they’re intimate. He sees you. He knows you. And he knows you’re not okay right now.

You swallow hard. Your voice is small. “I just—I’ve had a bad day and—”

“I know, I could tell the moment you messed up the easiest move I taught you.” He says it so quietly that it silences you instantly.

You look up at him. His gaze softens—not pity, not sympathy. Just… understanding.

“You don’t have to be okay every time you walk in here,” he says. “But when you’re not, tell me. So I can show you patience instead of expecting your precision.”

You stare at him. His voice… God. It’s like honey poured over steel. Deep, grounded, warm—but laced with something dangerous underneath. And he’s so close. If you leaned forward just a little, your forehead would touch his plastron.

He tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing. “You’re holding onto too much, you know that?”

You nod slowly. Your throat tight.

“Let it go. Not in here.” He then taps a finger to his temple. “Here.”

You exhale shakily. He doesn’t move. Just watches you for another moment—his gaze lingering on your face like he’s memorizing it.

“Go home,” he finally murmurs. “Get some rest.”

God, why couldn’t you be patient like him? You nod, turning away before your eyes give you away. Your whole body hums with something hot and needy, not just from the embarrassment, but from the way he speaks to you. The way he never raised his voice. The way he always holds the line—with you.

You gather your things, say a quiet goodbye, and step into the tunnels. And that feeling follows you all the way home.

— — — —

The city blurs around you—static faces, flickering fluorescent lights, the mechanical jolt of the tracks underneath. Your fingers curl around the pole in the subway car like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. By the time you unlock your apartment door, it’s past nine. The place is dark. Quiet. You kick your shoes off, drop your bag by the wall, and shrug off your jacket. It falls to the floor in a crumpled heap.

You should eat. But the thought of food turns your stomach. You’re too wired. Too worn out.

You head straight to the bathroom instead. The light above the mirror buzzes when you flick it on—flickering like it’s trying to decide if it wants to stay alive. You peel off your clothes slowly, your movements robotic, every muscle sore from tension more than exertion. The hot water is already steaming when you step into the shower.

At first, you just stand there. Letting the heat soak into your skin, hoping it’ll melt the ache in your chest. But it doesn’t. If anything, the warmth makes it worse—like it’s loosening something you’ve kept tightly locked up all day.

You sink down onto the shower floor.

You sit with your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them. The water rains down, turning your hair heavy, drenching your eyelashes.

You start crying before you even realize it. Silent. Exhausted. Ugly sobs. Your body shakes from the effort of holding yourself together, even now, even here. You’ve been so good about staying strong. Pretending you’re okay. Smiling at Nicole’s bullshit jokes. Laughing when creeps at the diner comment on your ass. Showing up to train. Trying to improve.

But tonight—you can’t fake it.

You press your forehead to your knees and squeeze your eyes shut, Leo’s voice echoing in your head.

“Let it go. Not in here… Here.”

That voice… that calm, even strength. Patience. Control. Things you don’t have. Things you crave. You let your mind drift to what you’ve been craving. You try to think of the things you used to do to calm down—reading, painting, music—but they all feel like work now. Like chores. They don’t light you up anymore.

The only thing that’s made you feel anything in months… is him. His hands, firm but careful, when he corrects your stance. His breath, close against your cheek when he speaks low and quiet. The weight of his gaze on you—watching, noticing, understanding.

You know it’s wrong. You know how it sounds—thinking about him like that. He’s not even human. And yet… You exhale hard, gripping your calves tighter. You shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t touch yourself thinking about him. It’s weird. It’s gross. He’s your friend. Your protector. He doesn’t even know how bad you’ve been spiraling lately. How much you’ve let your mind go there when he’s talking. Teaching. Breathing. But even now—with your head on your knees and tears in your eyes—you can feel him.

That deep voice. That quiet intensity. That moment when he stood in front of you tonight, so close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, telling you it was okay. That you didn’t have to be perfect.

You let out a soft, broken sound and tilt your head back against the wall.

Your skin burns, not from the water, but from the ache crawling under it. The need. You want to feel something that isn’t panic. Something that isn’t fear.

You want to feel wanted. Held. Seen. You want to feel him. You stay like that for a long time, motionless on the floor, listening to the sound of the water as it drums around you—trying to make peace with how fucked up it is that he’s the only thing that makes you feel safe… and the only thing that turns you on enough to make you want to touch yourself at all.

Eventually, you stand.

— — — —

You towel off, skin still warm and flushed, and pull on one of your softest oversized t-shirts. Nothing underneath but your favorite pair of dark blue lace panties—just delicate enough to feel pretty. The cotton drapes over your thighs like second skin. And when you walk past your standing mirror on the way to bed, you freeze. It’s the way you’re standing—hips soft, shoulders loose, legs bare and legs open.

Your breath catches. You look at yourself for a long time. The lace clings to the curve of your hips, the dark blue nearly black against your skin. You shift your weight and the shirt rises just enough to show more. Your fingers drift across your waist.You don’t speak. But the thoughts pour in like heat behind your ribs.

I like how I look.

Your hand slides over the front of your panties, cupping yourself gently. You sigh—low, soft, already tingling.

I like how I look thinking about you.

You sink to the floor, legs folding underneath you on the rug in front of the mirror. The city lights outside paint soft lines on your skin. You sit back against the dresser, one hand tugging your shirt up above your breasts, exposing the slope of your ribs and the lace stretched across your thighs. You look up at your reflection. Flushed. Breathless. Needy.

I like how I’d look on you.

Your fingers slip past the lace—slick, warm, soaked.

And then his voice is in your head.

“Touch yourself like that.”

Your breath stutters. Your free hand presses against your stomach like he would, like he always does when he’s grounding you in training. Your hips roll into your fingers, slow and rhythmic.

“Keep going. You’re doing so good for me.”

The moan that slips out is soft, restrained. You imagine him kneeling behind you, one arm caging you in, his mouth next to your ear, voice thick with control.

“Open your legs more. I want to see you fall apart.”

You do—your knees spread wider, lace tugged to the side, fingers working faster now. Your back arches against the floor. Your thighs tremble.

“That’s it. Let go. Let me see you.”

You stare into your own eyes in the mirror—red-rimmed, wild, aching.

“Cum for me.”

And you do. Hard.

Your legs jerk, your hand stutters, your mouth falls open in a silent cry. Your body writhes against the floor, shirt bunched under your chin, panties clinging to your wet thighs. It rolls through you like a wave—hot, breathless, endless. When it fades, You stare at the ceiling. Panting. Shaking. Spent. Your hand slips away, fingers slick and trembling. You look back into the mirror—lips parted, eyes glassy, skin flushed and glowing. You don’t smile. But something about the look in your eyes—heavy-lidded and dazed and soft—feels like one.

I like how I look… when I’m yours.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

~ Little Taglist ~

@wantsnuggles

@pheradream-15

@yelena2002

@uniqueoutlierblog

@heretoreadcirca1980s

(There was some trouble with tagging people— it wouldn’t let me tag for some reason! I’m so very sorry!!)

[ladyhoneydarlinglove]

{one piece ficlet, nami & zoro} nightmare

(got an AU project i’m brewing up that’s got a lot of nami and zoro interactions so i wanted to get some practice in.) Rating: G Notes: takes place between arlong park and alabasta. based off a personal headcanon i have that zoro’s blunt force honesty is actually extremely effective at warding off things like nightmares or panic attacks. ~~~~~

Nami wakes alone in the dark with a scream caught in her throat, and only the gentle rocking of the ocean waves and the soft sound of Vivi’s snores from the other side of her cabin keep it down.

Instead she bolts upright, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Arlong’s laughter echoes inside her head, sharp and cruel as his awful smile. Those teeth have haunted Nami for years, and even now, after the real ones were shattered into a million pieces by Luffy, the ghost of them remains inside her dreams.

It’s no use trying to go back to sleep. Nami glances at the clock by her bedside and grimaces; only 2am. She briefly considers trying to work on some of her charts, but her mind feels foggy, a soup of lingering fear and exhaustion. Too easy to make a mistake, she decides. Besides, Vivi is still asleep, and Nami would hate to wake her.

She slips out of bed and dresses quietly before heading up to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and hopefully a snack; Sanji always makes something for whoever’s on the night watch. Tonight that’s Zoro, and he’s only on the second of three onigiri when she enters the galley. Nami snags it off his plate and shoves it into her mouth before he can stop her. 

“Hey!” he protests, scowling deeply. “That was mine!”

“Tough shit,” Nami shoots back, except it comes out more like ‘uuff ith’ with how stuffed her cheeks are with rice and salmon. Zoro flips her off.

“What are you even doing up?” he grouses. “You’re not on watch tonight.”

Nami shrugs, stepping over to the coffee maker. “Couldn’t sleep,” she says, which is true enough. She doesn’t plan on saying anymore, because Zoro doesn’t need to know, but then as she’s opening a cupboard to grab a bag of grounds he asks—

“Nightmare?”

Nami pauses, surprised. “How…?”

“You’re shaking.”

She blinks, then looks at her hands. The one holding the bag of grounds is trembling, ever so slightly; the one against the counter isn’t, but only because it’s gripping the formica white-knuckle tight. When Nami breathes, she hears a wobble in her lungs on the exhale.

“… Yeah,” she says after a moment, pulling the bag of coffee grounds to her chest like a shield. As if brown paper and bitter beans could save her from anything besides a caffeine headache.

Zoro doesn’t ask, and yet as the moments tick by while they exist in awkward silence, Nami feels more and more compelled to say something, until finally she blurts out, “Sometimes I dream that Arlong’s come to take me away again.”

She’s not looking at Zoro, but she can picture the confused tilt of his head perfectly in her mind’s eye as he says, “Huh?”

Nami swallows around the sudden lump in her throat. “Arlong,” she repeats quietly, measuring scoops of coffee into the basket. “Sometimes I dream that he… That he’s followed me, all the way from the East Blue. And he takes me away and drags me back to Arlong Park and there’s… There’s nothing I can do but scream.”

There’s a prickle underneath her eyes now, a quiver in her bottom lip. Nami bites it as she presses the brew button on the coffee machine, willing herself not to cry. It’s not like Zoro hasn’t seen it before, but she doesn’t particularly relish the idea of it happening now; comfort is like a foreign concept to the swordsman, and she’s pretty sure he would only make her feel worse.

“That’s stupid.”

Case in point.

Nami grits her teeth, hands balling into fists at her sides. She doesn’t know why she bothered—of course Zoro doesn’t get it, muscle-headed brute that he is. She opens her mouth to yell as much, to scream that not all of them have so little brain in their heads that they can’t bother to process things like worry and fear—

“If Arlong comes back, we’ll just kick his ass. Same as last time.”

Nami pauses. Processes. Blinks.

“Huh?” she says, turning to look at him. Zoro has the audacity to roll his eyes, like she’s somehow the dumb one here. 

“We beat that stupid shark to a pulp, remember? And that was with me half dead and down two swords. Now I’m all healed up, I’ve got Kitetsu and Yubashiri—“ He pats two of the swords at his side with the same tenderness one might show a beloved pet “—and all of us are already stronger than we were back then. Plus we’ve got a doctor now. Which means we can really go all out ‘cause there’s someone around to patch us up.”

He grins, wide and feral, and now it’s Nami’s turn to roll her eyes. She opens her mouth to lament poor Chopper’s plight, but before she can, Zoro’s expression turns serious. 

“Besides, even if all of that wasn’t true, you don’t really think we’d let Arlong take you away from us again, do you?”

Nami blinks again. 

The lump returns to her throat as she thinks about four men—boys, really—that she unquestionably betrayed. Boys that stood up and fought for her freedom anyway. Sanji, who barely even knew her back then, save that she was a girl who needed help. Usopp, self-proclaimed coward, taking on a fishman that veteran Marines wouldn’t have fought, all by himself. Zoro, barely back from death’s door, wounds still open and bleeding as he dared to try and fight Arlong himself. Luffy, punching through the wreckage of her former prison, his straw hat still warm where it sat on her head.

She laughs suddenly, watery and weak but bright as a sun-ripened mikan. 

Zoro’s right, she realizes. It is stupid. As if Arlong could ever hope to fight his way through the rest of the crew to get at Nami.

As if Nami herself would ever let him drag her back to her own personal hell, now that she has friends worth fighting for.

“No,” she says sheepishly. “I guess I don’t.”

“Then what are you worried about?” Zoro asks, and Nami just shakes her head with a soft sigh.

“Do you want this coffee? I think I’m gonna try and go back to sleep after all.”

Zoro grunts, which Nami takes as a yes. She pours Zoro a cup, setting it down next to his empty plate. “Thanks,” she says, and Zoro raises an eyebrow.

“For what?” he asks, and Nami realizes it’s a genuine question when he tilts his head, one eyebrow raised. It makes her want to laugh. That’s Zoro, she thinks. Profound. Stupid. Profoundly stupid.

She wouldn’t have it any other way.

[univac1219]

Does your 1219 have a nickname?

Also, I was wondering if you have any fun stories surrounding it! Strange quirks it has or anything like that.

I'd love to see more photos if you're allowed to post them!

Thanks for the question! These are my favorite part about my blog by far.

Not exactly, the UNIVAC 1219 doesn’t have a nickname. I did realize recently that I should specify the pronunciation (Twelve-Nineteen), but it doesn’t have any nicknames. Apart from ‘the 1219’, it’s also regularly referred to as the CPU or just ‘the computer’.

Fun stories or weird quirks? Boy, I could fill a book with this machine’s weird quirks (or as we say, intermittent issues), but I’ll try to blitz through the most common ones:

Sometimes the computer will stop running and enter a WAIT mode. No reason, it just needs a break. We can’t fix it, it just has to decide to go back into operating mode.

The computer will often start attempting to communicate on IO channel 13. We’re not telling it to talk to anything, it just decides to try to.

One of our teletypes (the Kleinshmidt) stamps ink splotches into the paper rather than characters most of the time. However, this weekend it worked for the first time in 10 months! We didn’t change anything, it just had an extra cup of coffee or something.

The Digital Data Recorder, or the tape drive, has the most gremlins out of any of our units. The top handler works fairly well, but the bottom handler won’t properly read data, write data, move the tape forward, initialize the tape, or any number of other issues.

There’s more but hopefully this satisfies your curiosity.

Fun stories? Well, I can’t name any specific ones, but I can say it’s a very endearing machine. It’s the very last of its kind and being one of three individuals in the world responsible for it makes every issue that more frustrating. There is no real forum for it, the subject matter experts sit next to me and are often just as exasperated as I am.

But the unique nature of this situation make every successful diagnostic test that much sweeter. Every new addition (5.25” floppy drive via serial) that much cooler. I have an IBM PC-XT clone at home, but I thank my lucky stars every day that this big iron is what I get to specialize in.

As for more photos, I have none that are as grandiose as you would probably expect. I do have my working photos though. I took all my photos when I first started working on it and now I am more dedicated to fixes than photo-ops.

This is a photo of our finicky Kleinshmidt teletype. Still has blotches but it actually printed!

This is the back of the bottom handler. Pictured is the vacuum pump in the bottom left (so sudden stops just yank magnetic tape slack rather than ripping tape). The big cylinder in the center is a motor for running the magnetic tape handler itself. The big black ‘hose’ of wires coming out of the steel plate contains all the cables that come right off the handler’s head for reading and writing data!

This is the forward pinch roller of the bottom handler. It was replaced after this photo was taken as you can see the rubber has deteriorated in the 55 years this machine has been operating.

As for being allowed to post photos, that’s not an issue. The last 1219 was decommissioned in 2014 and now you can find all of its documentation online at http://www.bitsavers.org/pdf/univac/military/1219/