#alright time for bed home this is understandable | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

twistedsistas-stuff · 2 days ago

Text

Pregame Jitters

Request from: @blowmymbackout

Oj Haywood x Reader

It started off sweet. You on top of him, grindin’ slow, lettin’ your hands trail up under his shirt like you been wantin’ to do for weeks now. He was breathin’ hard, eyes hooded, lips parted just so—lookin’ at you like you were a dream he ain’t think he was allowed to have.

You kissed him again, deeper this time. Your fingers brushed down his chest, over the ridges of muscle that came from throwin’ hay bales and mendin’ fences. He smelled like sun and sweat and saddle oil. Felt like home.

But then you paused.

Somethin’ was off. His hands weren’t movin’. His breath was shallow—not from want, but from thinkin’. And when you shifted against him, lookin’ for that telltale pressure—you didn’t feel nothin’.

You leaned back a little, blinkin’ down at him.

“OJ?”

He turned his face away just a bit, jaw tight, eyes stuck on the ceiling like maybe it’d offer an excuse for him. But he didn’t speak.

You sat up straighter, slid off his lap real gentle-like. Not accusin’, not shamed. Just tryin’ to understand.

“It’s alright,” you said, voice soft. “You don’t gotta… we don’t gotta do nothin’ you ain’t ready for.”

OJ finally looked at you, eyes wide and a little panicked—like he hated he’d let you down. Like he was scared you’d get up and leave.

“It ain’t you,” he muttered, sittin’ up with a sigh, rubbin’ at his jaw with one hand, the other clenchin’ the sheet beside him. “It damn sure ain’t you.”

You just waited. Didn’t rush him. That’s one thing you learned about OJ—silence was part of his speakin’.

He swallowed hard, voice like gravel when he finally found it again. “I just… I don’t know how to do this. I mean… not with somebody like you. You so soft, so fine, got me feelin’ like I’m messin it up before I even start.”

You smiled, just barely, touched his arm. “You ain’t messin’ up nothin’, baby.”

“I ain’t—” He looked down at his lap, clearly frustrated. “I ain’t used to… folk wantin’ me like that. Like this.”

You scooted closer, slid your hand up his back, felt the tightness in his shoulders.

“I know,” you whispered. “You been out here on this ranch, workin’ yourself to the bone, barely talkin’ to folks outside your sister and them horses. You don’t think I see that? I know you don’t do this often. Or maybe ever.”

He gave a dry little laugh. “Ain’t had time for it. Or the words.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Don’t need words right now. Just you. However you come.”

OJ stayed quiet a minute, just breathin’. Then finally, he spoke again, voice so low you almost missed it:

“Felt like I had to get it right. Make it perfect. Show you I could be what you wanted.”

You tilted your head, made him look at you. “I ain’t here for perfect. I’m here for you.”

His throat worked as he swallowed that. “What if I don’t know how to let go?”

“You don’t have to. Not all at once.” You kissed the edge of his jaw, soft and slow. “We got time. You ain’t gotta prove nothin’. Just let me be here with you.”

He nodded, real slow. Eyes wet, but he blinked it back.

And you didn’t try again. Didn’t push nothin’.

You just curled up with him on that bed—limbs tangled, the window fan hummin’, moonlight spillin’ over the two of you like some kind of quiet grace.

And OJ—he held you tight. Tighter than before. Like he was finally lettin’ himself believe you wanted to stay.

And Lord, you did

You must’ve both drifted off sometime after that—his arm curled around your waist, your face tucked up under his chin. The fan hummed lazy over y’all, the world outside quiet ‘cept for the distant whine of crickets and the creak of the barn settling into night.

OJ slept hard, breathin’ slow and deep, one hand still resting gentle on your hip like he didn’t wanna lose hold even in his dreams. And you—your nerves had finally settled. You wasn’t mad. Wasn’t even disappointed. Just… a little confused. A little unsure.

But not cold.

You felt him stir after what must’ve been an hour, maybe two. Sun was slidin’ down behind the hills now, turnin’ the room amber gold. He blinked slow, then looked down at you like he was still tryin’ to figure out if this was real.

“I gotta get you home,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

“You sure?” you asked, thumb brushing across his chest.

He gave a little nod, kissed your temple with a featherlight press. “Yeah. Let’s get you back.”

Y’all didn’t say much on the walk out. Just quiet smiles, little glances, the kind that hold too much to put into words yet. He helped you up in the truck, hand warm at your back like always, then walked around slow, slid behind the wheel, and turned the key.

The engine rumbled to life, and so did your phone.

Group Chat: 🐍Snakes & Saints🐍

Keke 🖤: 👀 well???

Raye 💅🏾: don’t play w me girl what happened

Mel 😭: did he flip you like a bale of hay or nah??

You smiled, thumbs tappin’ as you snuck a glance at OJ—his hand firm on the wheel, eyes on the dirt road stretchin’ out ahead.

You: y’all… he couldn’t get up 😩

You: said I was too fine

You: like… literally

They lit up like fireworks.

Raye 💅🏾: GIRL BYE 😭😭😭

Mel 😭: i KNOW you lyin. not mr horse whisperer foldin over a lil booty

Keke 🖤: nah he on B.S. lmao “too fine” ?? he too scared

Raye 💅🏾: he said “you beautiful” and his dick said “nope”

You bit your lip trying not to laugh, phone buzzin’ nonstop in your lap.

You: what i do?? 😭

Mel 😭: nothingggg boo

Keke 🖤: just let him be nervous. maybe he ain’t used to women like you.

Raye 💅🏾: mmhmm he been on that dusty ranch too long

Raye 💅🏾: you prolly the first soft thang he seen that ain’t got hooves

You: y’all ain’t right 😭

Keke 🖤: but fr? just keep being you. he’ll come around. probably when you not tryna jump him 😭😭😭

You smiled, heart warm now. They were right. You didn’t need to push nothin’. OJ was quiet, raised up on that land with barely anyone but his sister and the horses. You? You was a lot. Beautiful, bold, soft in all the places life hadn’t hardened.

Maybe you really did make him nervous.

Good.

You slipped your phone back in your bag and looked over at him. He caught your gaze for half a second, a little smile tuggin’ at the corner of his mouth like he knew you’d been textin’ about him.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low and smooth like molasses.

“I’m good,” you said, leaning back in the seat, eyes soft. “You?”

OJ kept his eyes on the road. But he nodded, hand flexin’ once on the wheel.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just… gon’ take my time with you.”

That right there? It was more than enough.

You wasn’t sure what to expect the next time you saw him.

OJ had texted the next morning just a simple, “You sleep okay?” Nothing big, nothing flashy. But it meant somethin’. Meant he was still thinkin’ about you. Still wanted to know how you was after everything. And when he asked if you wanted to come by the next weekend, just hang out—ride if the weather was good—you said yes without even thinkin’.

You pulled up late afternoon, sun sittin’ low and fat in the sky, the kind of heat that clings to your skin but don’t quite burn. OJ was already outside, leaned against the fence, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, lookin’ like that same quiet dream you’d first seen out by the stables.

But this time, when he saw you, somethin’ passed over his face.

Not nerves.

Hunger.

“You look good,” he said, eyes runnin’ down your frame slow like syrup.

You raised a brow. “Just good?”

He gave that little side-smile of his. “I’m bein’ polite.”

You laughed, walked over to him, and he met you halfway. Didn’t rush. But his hand found your lower back this time. Real firm. Stayed there a second longer than it needed to.

Y’all rode a while, easy conversation, horses trottin’ gentle under y’all. But even then, he was different. His gaze stuck to you longer. His voice dropped lower when he spoke your name. When you leaned forward in the saddle to adjust the stirrups, you caught him starin’, jaw set like he was tryin’ not to react.

You ain’t say nothin’. You just smiled.

Back at the barn, you helped him unsaddle Lucky. OJ moved close behind you, reaching past to grab a brush from the shelf. His chest brushed your back—on accident, maybe. But he didn’t move away right after. Just lingered. Let the heat of him settle into your skin.

“You always get this close to folks when you brush a horse?” you asked, lookin’ back at him over your shoulder.

His voice was damn near a murmur. “Only when I want to.”

You turned around real slow, still holdin’ the reins in one hand. “You flirtin’ with me, OJ?”

He didn’t blink. Just looked you dead in the eye, voice steady as a stone. “I’m tryin’ to.”

That was new.

No hesitation. No nerves.

By the time y’all got back inside, dusk was spillin’ through the windows, pink and lavender paintin’ the walls. He poured y’all some water, handed you a glass, his fingers brushing yours on purpose this time. You sat on the couch, sipped slow, tryin’ to pretend your pulse wasn’t jumpin’.

He sat beside you. Not across the room. Not in the chair like last time.

Right next to you. Close enough that his knee bumped yours.

Y’all talked a little—about work, your friends clownin’, the horses. But then that quiet settled again. The kind that buzzed with every breath. You felt it in your chest, in your thighs, in your fingertips.

He set his cup down.

Turned toward you.

“You still thinkin’ ‘bout what happened last time?” he asked, low and real.

You hesitated. “A little.”

He nodded, eyes dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes. “I been thinkin’ ‘bout it too.”

You tilted your head. “You still nervous?”

OJ let out a breath, leaned in a little closer. “Not nervous. Just don’t wanna mess up. But I… I want you, girl.”

That did somethin’ to you. The way he said it—I want you, girl—like it’d been sittin’ in his chest for days.

You reached out, slid your hand across his thigh. “Then show me.”

And he did.

First with his hands—warm and steady on your hips, your waist, your face. Then with his mouth—kissin’ you slow, deep, confident now, like he was finally lettin’ that quiet fire out. His hands didn’t tremble. His lips didn’t hesitate. He kissed you like he meant it.

Like he knew what he was doin’ this time.

You didn’t even make it to the bed at first. Just the couch, bodies pressed together, breaths tangled, heat risin’ between y’all like a storm about to break.

And when you finally did start headin’ toward the bedroom, he stopped you at the door, pressed you up against the frame, kissed you again like he’d been waitin’ his whole life.

This time—he was ready.

Y’all were halfway to the bedroom—him kissin’ you like he meant to carve your name in his breath—when your phone lit up on the couch.

Buzzin’ loud against the cushion.

You didn’t pay it no mind. Not at first. But it kept goin’.

And OJ… he noticed.

He pulled back just a little, chest still pressin’ against yours, breath warm on your neck. His brow furrowed, gaze flickin’ to the source of the noise. He leaned back, one arm still around your waist, and reached for the phone with two fingers.

Screen lit up bright in his palm.

And there it was.

🐍Snakes & Saints🐍

Keke 🖤: he couldn’t get up cause she was too fine 😭😭😭

Mel 😭: LAWD his dick said “nope”

Raye 💅🏾: 😭 don’t roast him too bad y’all

Keke 🖤: i bet he scared now. poor lil horseboy

Raye 💅🏾: girl don’t do too much he still cute. he just folded

Mel 😭: she gon have to carry this one sexually

OJ’s jaw locked.

Eyes shifted slow from the screen… to you.

That stoic glare settlin’ in. That unreadable stillness—like the kind the horses get when they sense a storm comin’. He didn’t speak for a beat. Just held the phone out so you could see it, the light from the screen flickerin’ in his dark eyes.

Then—real calm. Too calm.

“Oh. So you think I can’t get up?”

Your mouth opened. “OJ, no, I ain’t—”

He dropped the phone back on the couch with a thud. Stepped closer. His whole energy changed—still quiet, but with a weight behind it now. His voice low and even, but laced with somethin’ sharp. Somethin’ personal.

“You tellin’ your little friends I folded?” he said, eyes boring into yours.

You blinked, caught between flustered and frozen. “It wasn’t like that. I—”

He cut you off with a kiss.

Not like before. This wasn’t soft. This was declaration.

He grabbed your thighs, hoisted you clean off the floor like you weighed nothin’, and your breath hitched. He carried you down the hall, mouth never leavin’ yours, teeth grazin’ your bottom lip like a promise.

Dropped you onto the bed. Climbed over you, slow and sure.

“You so sure I can’t handle you?” he asked, voice like thunder rollin’ under his breath. “That what you think?”

Your lips parted, but nothin’ came out. All you could do was look up at him, heat floodin’ every inch of you.

OJ smirked.

“That’s alright.”

He slid his hand down your leg, lifted it over his shoulder, leaned in so close his words hit your neck.

“I’ma show you.”

He didn’t break eye contact as he lifted your leg higher on his shoulder, hand sliding beneath your thigh, thumb pressin’ slow circles into your skin. You felt the muscles in his forearm flex as he leaned in, weight sinking down over you inch by inch, until your hips dipped into the mattress, caught underneath the full heat of him.

That quiet, heavy air between y’all buzzed now—electric.

“You feel that?” he murmured, lips barely brushing your cheek, his breath thick and warm as molasses.

His hips pressed against yours, real slow, just enough friction to make your eyes flutter, your breath catch. The firmness of him against your core—still clothed but insistent—made your whole body ache. It wasn’t even him movin’, not yet. Just pressure. A slow, deep grind that pulled a gasp from your throat.

“Mhm,” you managed, hand clutchin’ at the back of his neck, the other slidin’ across his back like you could anchor yourself to the moment.

OJ kissed you again.

But this one wasn’t sweet.

It was deep. Hungry.

His tongue met yours with purpose now, his lips partin’ yours like he’d been studyin’ your mouth, waitin’ for this. That hand on your thigh slid down slow to grip the back of your knee, pressin’ it just a little further up so your hips tilted—givin’ him that perfect angle to lean his weight into the seam of you again.

You moaned into his mouth, hips twitchin’ against his.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, your eyes half-lidded, mouth glossy from his kiss.

“Still think I was nervous?”

“No,” you whispered, voice all shaky and sweet.

OJ smirked—just a little. His mouth dipped to your neck, tongue draggin’ slow along your pulse before his teeth grazed your skin, settin’ your whole body on fire.

“You gon’ stop tellin’ folks I folded now?”

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a soft, breathless sound when he rolled his hips forward again, the drag of his length through your soaked panties makin’ your thighs clench.

“That’s what I thought,” he said low, that Southern grit in his voice rumblin’ through your chest like a second heartbeat.

He kissed down your throat, across your collarbone, takin’ his time like he had somethin’ to prove with every inch of skin he claimed.

And you knew—this was just the beginning.

That slow grind?

Just a glimpse of what was comin’.

Because OJ Haywood didn’t need to talk big.

He just needed to show you.

His mouth was still on you when those big hands of his started movin’, one trailin’ up the soft of your thigh, rough calloused fingers draggin’ slow across skin that’d never been touched like this. The pads of his fingers were dry, textured from years on reins, rope, and rust—each pass up your leg makin’ your breath hitch, makin’ your core tighten with every inch he climbed.

His other hand cupped your lower back, slidin’ upward in a firm, possessive stroke that made you arch into him, chest pressin’ to his with a gasp. He was holdin’ you close like you was delicate—but you felt how strong he was. How easy it’d be for him to pick you up and walk through fire if you asked him to.

He leaned back, just enough to get a good look at you, and you saw it—that look like he was starin’ at something he couldn’t believe he got to keep.

Then he reached down and kicked off those beat-up boots, one at a time, heel to toe, not lookin’ away from you even once. He wasn’t movin’ fast—but he wasn’t lettin’ go of you, either. Just keepin’ one hand on your thigh, thumb circlin’ slow, steady. That pressure did somethin’—your hips rolled into his, just a little, and you felt him press back, thick and heavy through his jeans.

Your pulse fluttered hard.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, chest vibratin’ against yours like a second heartbeat.

You nodded, tryin’ to catch your breath. “I’m sure.”

“Say it.”

“I’m sure, OJ.”

He grunted real quiet, almost to himself. Like maybe he’d been needin’ that.

Then those hands got to work.

He slipped your shirt up inch by inch, fingertips brushing the skin underneath, and God, you felt them like fire—like your whole body was waiting for this. The way his knuckles brushed your ribs, the drag of his palms across your back as he raised the fabric, not just takin’ it off but learnin’ you as he did it.

When the shirt hit the floor, his fingers found your bra strap. Didn’t rush. He slid it down your shoulder slow, lips followin’ the trail like it was a path only he got to walk. His mouth was warm and steady on your skin, open and reverent. When he unhooked your bra, he didn’t stare—he just leaned in and pressed his face between your breasts like he was home.

Then his hands found yours.

Placed them right at the hem of his shirt.

Didn’t have to say nothin’.

You looked up at him, breath tremblin’, and pulled it off.

OJ was solid. Thick across the chest, arms coiled tight with muscle that meant somethin’. Ain’t no gym-built show pony—he was a worker. You could see the strength in his forearms, the way they bulged slightly even when relaxed, veins prominent, hands so damn big they made you feel small just bein’ near ‘em. His chest was broad and warm, the lightest smatterin’ of hair across it, and when your fingers ran over his pecs, down that line between his abs—he shuddered.

Like your touch surprised him.

Like he wasn’t used to bein’ handled soft.

You kissed down his chest, lips skimmin’ his skin, and he let out a sound low in his throat. You could feel him twitch against you, hard and pulsin’ through his jeans now, nothin’ shy about it.

But he wasn’t about to let you take the lead just yet.

He caught your hand again—guidin’ it to the button of his jeans.

“Take ‘em off,” he said, rough now, his voice scratchin’ the base of your spine.

You popped that button, slid the zipper down slow, and he watched you the whole time. Eyes dark. Unblinking. When your hand brushed the outline of him through his boxers, he exhaled hard, jaw clenching just once.

You pushed his jeans down and he stepped out of ‘em, then tugged his boxers low enough to let it all fall free.

And Lord.

He was built like the rest of him—thick, heavy, real. Not just big but right, perfectly matched to that solid frame, hangin’ with weight and heat that made your thighs press together.

OJ didn’t gloat.

Didn’t smirk.

Just let you look—silent, grounded, present.

Then he stepped in close, pressed you back onto the bed like he was settin’ you down real gentle—but still heavy enough to let you feel what was comin’. He knelt over you, hand slidin’ down to your panties.

“You good?” he asked, voice soft now, but still scratchy and deep.

You nodded, whisperin’ yes before you even knew you were speakin’.

He pulled them down with both hands, thumbs draggin’ slow along your hips, not missin’ an inch of skin. You lifted for him, legs partin’ instinctively, barin’ yourself without shame.

And when he looked at you, laid bare beneath him, he leaned down—kissin’ your knee, then your thigh, then higher still—like he meant to devour you slow.

Like he was about to make up for everything he didn’t do last time.

OJ moved between your thighs with a weight that made your breath catch, one of them thick arms slid up under your knee, liftin’ your leg easy like you weighed nothin’ to him. His hand rested against the inside of your thigh, just above your knee, holdin’ you open, thumb strokin’ lazy circles into your skin. The pressure wasn’t hard—but it was final. You weren’t goin’ nowhere. Not till he was done.

He kissed the inside of your knee first.

Then a little lower.

Then higher.

Lips draggin’ warm and slow, the faint scrape of his stubble makin’ your skin feel raw and wanted. And he ain’t look away. He watched you—watched your mouth part, your back twitch, your thighs tense beneath his grip.

“Mm,” he hummed against your skin, his voice rough and low like he’d been savin’ it just for this. “You already shakin’, baby.”

You swallowed, tryin’ to breathe, but your chest was tight, your belly hot. His mouth found the crease of your thigh and lingered there, kissin’ and suckin’ like the taste of your skin alone was enough to undo him.

Then, finally—finally—he lowered his head.

You gasped the second his tongue touched you.

Warm. Firm. Slow.

OJ licked up your slit like he was feelin’ out the rhythm first, testin’ what you liked—then flattened his tongue and did it again, harder. He moaned into it, deep in his chest, and that vibration shook you right to the bone.

“Oh God—OJ,” you gasped, hand flyin’ to his head.

But he didn’t let up. Didn’t even pause.

His hand slid further under your thigh, holdin’ you open tight now, his other arm restin’ heavy across your lower belly, pinning you. That grip was solid—years of throwin’ bales and ropin’ wild horses translated now into keepin’ you still while he devoured you.

You tried to move.

Couldn’t.

Didn’t want to.

He flicked the tip of his tongue over your clit in slow, precise strokes, then sucked it into his mouth with a gentleness that wrecked you. Your legs twitched in his grip, your body tryin’ to curl in on itself, but he just leaned in heavier, buryin’ his face deeper.

“You gon’ keep runnin’?” he murmured against you, lips brushing your slick folds as he spoke. “Hm?”

You whimpered, tryin’ to answer, but the words came out high and broken.

He chuckled—low, gravelly, hungry.

“Can’t even talk now, huh?”

His tongue circled your clit again, slow and lazy, like he had all damn night. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, diggin’ into the muscle there—real, thick under your hands, the way only a man who worked sunup to sundown could be. His back flexed when you squeezed him, but he didn’t lose focus. If anything, he doubled down.

“Wanted to tease me in front of your little group chat,” he murmured against you, kissin’ your inner thigh again before draggin’ his tongue all the way up your center. “Tell ‘em I couldn’t handle you?”

You sobbed out a sound—half moan, half apology.

“Tell me again,” he growled, “that I can’t get it up.”

You couldn’t. You couldn’t speak.

And he knew it.

He shifted, lifted your hips a little higher, his mouth sealin’ back over your clit while two thick fingers slid inside you slow, stretchin’ you open in a way that made your thighs shake, your whole body arch up into his mouth.

You cried out—choked and raw.

OJ just grunted again, fingers curlin’, tongue flickin’ in time with the roll of your hips. He owned you in that moment. Strong, solid, anchored between your thighs like he was built to be there and nowhere else.

“You gon’ finish for me like this,” he muttered, his breath hot, his voice thick with want. “Right on my tongue.”

You nodded, mouth open, gaspin’—but still couldn’t form a single word.

Didn’t need to.

OJ could feel the way your body was climbin’, twitchin’, tightenin’ around his fingers. He knew. He kept goin’. Harder. Slower. Deep.

And you? You came with a cry you couldn’t bite back, hips liftin’ off the bed, OJ’s arms holdin’ you down, still, while he drank every last drop of you.

Didn’t stop ‘til you were twitchin’, whimperin’, too sensitive to move. You ain’t know it could feel like that. Not just good—but shattering.

OJ kept goin’ even after your first climax broke through you like a wave crashin’ against the shore. That heavy tongue movin’ just right, those thick fingers curled up inside you, hittin’ that spot so steady your body didn’t know what to do but react. You were shakin’, legs twitchin’ around him, hands clutchin’ at the sheets—but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

“Come on,” he muttered low, mouth still workin’ your clit with purpose, voice thick with heat. “Lemme feel you gush, baby. I know you got it.”

You moaned—loud, helpless.

He adjusted just a little, hooked your hips tighter in his arms, spread you wider, and damn, it hit different. That pressure, that pace—tongue flickin’, then suckin’ gentle and slow just to snap back harder—until it was too much.

You cried out, eyes rollin’ back as your release hit, hot and wet and sudden, gushing over his mouth, your whole body jerkin’ against the flood of it. Your thighs clamped tight ‘round his head on instinct, hips buckin’ even as you tried to push him away, overstimulated and sobbing—but OJ didn’t move.

He grunted into it, breathin’ you in like that was exactly what he’d been after all along.

Your hands flew to his scalp, fingers diggin’ into those soft curls, scratchin’ at the back of his neck, then slidin’ down to clutch his broad shoulders, still tremblin’, still comin’.

Finally—finally—when your legs locked around him and wouldn’t let go, he slowed down.

Kissed you once, soft and wet, right on the inner thigh, his beard damp, jaw flexed from holdin’ back all that hunger.

Then he pulled back.

And Lord.

You looked down at him, sprawled between your thighs, his lips glistenin’, face flushed with heat and effort—and even then, his breathin’ was measured. Chest rising slow and deep like he just walked through a storm and ain’t even winded.

Light was low now, sun spillin’ in soft from the window, catchin’ on the slope of his shoulders, the sweat along his collarbone. His skin was golden, warm, almost glowin’ in the light—and he looked like he was carved from the land itself. A man who worked with the earth, slept under it, and rose every morning with purpose.

And damn, you admired him.

“Mm,” he said, voice raspy now, still thick from the taste of you. “All that talk…”

You blinked, lips parted, still breathless.

He licked his lips, wiped his beard with the back of his hand slow.

“You wanted me up?” he asked, standing now—towering, body casting a shadow across you. “Well, I’m up.”

His dick was hard—rock hard—hangin’ heavy and full between those strong thighs, and when he stepped back just a bit, you saw the twitch of it. The need. All that heat bottled up now ready to be poured back into you.

“Now go ‘head.” he said, voice low.

You pushed up, legs still weak, body hummin’ with aftershocks—and crawled to him on hands and knees.

Slow. Deliberate.

Head swimmin’ with everything he just did to you.

When you reached him, you looked up—his eyes already locked on yours. Hands restin’ heavy on his hips, jaw clenched, nostrils flared like he was fightin’ the urge to take over.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t rush.

Just let you come to him, earn it.

And baby, you were ready to do whatever it took.

You reached for him slow, hand wrappin’ around the base of his dick, thick and heavy in your palm. Your breath caught a little, just lookin’ at him like that—long, veiny, the tip already glistenin’ with precum. He watched you, his eyes dark and low, one hand draggin’ back through his curls, the other hangin’ loose by his side until—

You leaned in and kissed the tip.

Real slow.

OJ’s fingers twitched.

“Mmph,” he muttered, breath catchin’. “Aight.”

You looked up, lips kiss-slick, smilin’ a little. “Aight?” you teased, tongue flickin’ out again. “That all you got for me?”

He gave a low grunt—like a warning—but didn’t stop you. Just watched. Waited. Let you take the lead.

Your lips wrapped around him, and you started slow, suckin’ the head with soft pressure, hand pumpin’ his shaft, twistin’ just how you liked it done to you. He was warm in your mouth, salty on your tongue, and thick. It took a little effort to ease down, jaw stretchin’ wide, breath comin’ short—but you wanted all of him. Wanted to feel him in your throat.

“Shit,” he whispered, voice rough now, hand liftin’ to the back of your head. His fingers curled in your hair—not pushin’, just holdin’.

“You good?” you asked, voice soft, breathless.

He nodded, chest rising heavy. “Just like that.”

You went down again—deeper this time—and your eyes watered when the tip brushed the back of your throat. You pulled back with a gasp, drool stringin’ from your lips, hand pumpin’ him a little faster now.

“Goddamn, OJ,” you said, half-laugh, half-moan. “What you feedin’ this thing?”

He chuckled, breath stutterin’, hips shiftin’ just a little forward. “Hay bales and stress,” he muttered.

You grinned—then took him back in.

This time, you went slow—deliberate. Learnin’ the weight of him, the way his body flexed when you moaned low, the little twitch of his fingers in your hair when your tongue swirled just beneath the head.

He groaned deep in his chest. “Shit—yeah. Yeah, right there.”

His hand gripped tighter, not hard, but firm, guidin’ you into a rhythm—his rhythm. You caught on fast, lettin’ him lead just a little, your mouth gettin’ wetter, throat startin’ to relax into him. He started mutterin’ under his breath then, voice low, breathless.

“You tryna kill me?” he said, barely audible.

You popped off him, gaspin’, hand still strokin’ him wet. “Not kill. Just humble.”

That made him grunt, deep and dark, his eyes burnin’ low as he looked down at you.

“You talk too much.”

You smirked, lickin’ up the underside of his shaft real slow. “Then shut me up.”

That flipped a switch.

OJ gripped your hair a little tighter, guidin’ you back down on him—and you let him. Mouth open, takin’ him deeper now, eyes locked up on his while you moaned around him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, hips startin’ to rock. “There you go… just like that. Keep goin’.”

You did. Mouth workin’, tongue rollin’, hand followin’ every stroke your throat couldn’t take. He was losin’ that calm now—his face tense, body flexin’ beneath your hands, his abs tight, thighs twitchin’ when you hollowed your cheeks.

You loved the way he sounded like he was tryin’ to stay quiet but couldn’t.

Loved the way his voice cracked when he said your name, the way he cursed under his breath, the way he groaned when you swallowed around him just right.

You had him deep—his hips twitchin’, breath catchin’, that steady quiet unravelin’ the longer you kept him in your mouth. You were takin’ your time with it, makin’ it messy, moanin’ low just to feel him pulse on your tongue, suckin’ him like it was the only thing that could keep you full. You didn’t care if your mascara ran or if your jaw ached. You wanted him wrecked. Wanted to make him lose that calm he wore like a second skin.

But just when you were pickin’ up speed, eyes waterin’, moanin’ around him, about to finish the job—

His hand slid down.

Not rough—deliberate.

Fingers grazin’ your cheek, then slidin’ under your chin… down the soft curve of your throat.

He wrapped his hand around it, firm but gentle, and pulled you up.

You gasped, mouth still wet, lips parted, brows raisin’ in surprise—but you didn’t fight it. You looked up, breathless, flushed, and ready.

OJ’s eyes were locked on yours.

And that quiet look he always had? That far-off, steady-cowboy stillness?

Gone.

He stared at you like you’d just lit a fire under his skin.

Then—real slow—he smirked.

“Look at you,” he muttered, thumb brushin’ your lower lip. “Mascara all down your face… pretty lil’ mouth all messy.”

You didn’t blink. Just licked your lips, eyes locked on his. “You ain’t stoppin’ me ‘cause you scared to finish, are you?”

He let out this low grunt of a laugh, deep in his chest. That was your only warning.

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

Heavy.

Like he needed to taste himself on your tongue. His hands slid to your hips, and the second he pulled back—his breath was ragged now, lips still brushin’ yours—he whispered:

“Turn over.”

You shivered.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t need to.

You turned around slow, heart poundin’, layin’ on your stomach, ass up just enough to let him see what he was about to claim.

OJ didn’t rush.

He took a second—hand draggin’ down your back, his calloused palm slidin’ over the curve of your ass, down to your thigh. He gripped you firm, fingers sinkin’ into soft flesh, and damn if it didn’t make your whole body hum.

“You think you in charge?” he said low, leanin’ over you now, his voice draggin’ heat across the back of your neck.

“Nah,” you whispered back, eyes flutterin’. “I know I am.”

Wrong move.

He growled low, grabbed your wrists, and pinned ‘em behind your back, his weight pressin’ into you just enough to remind you he was built for this—all that strength, all that quiet control comin’ down hard and real now.

“You gon’ feel me now,” he murmured, kissin’ the back of your shoulder. “You want me up? You got me up.”

His hips aligned with yours—and baby, you felt that thick length just pressin’ against your soaked folds, not even in yet, but your body already aching for it.

“Say you ready,” he said.

You whined, archin’ back against him. “I’m ready, Jay, Please…”

“You sure?” he asked, teeth grazin’ your ear, hands still holdin’ you down.

You moaned, desperate now. “Quit teasin’—fuckin’ do it.”

He slid in slow—that stretch hittin’ you deep and thick, makin’ your mouth fall open, makin’ you claw at the sheets while he pushed in to the hilt.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t ask again.

And once he was buried deep inside, he leaned down, mouth warm against your ear, his voice quiet but cuttin’ clean through your breathless moan.

“You talk too much,” you managed to whisper, a shaky grin pullin’ at your lips.

He let the silence stretch for just a second—just long enough for you to think you’d gotten away with that.

Then he smirked.

He pulled back—and drove into you hard enough to knock the sass clean outta your throat.

You ain’t sayin’ nothin’ now.

And OJ? He planned on keepin’ it that way.

Your face pressed into the pillow, mouth open, breath already catchin’ off that first stroke—and he was still deep inside you, not movin’, just lettin’ you feel the weight, the fullness of him. That stretch made your legs shake, made your hips buck back involuntarily, like your body couldn’t believe it finally had him—all of him—right where it needed.

OJ leaned over, chest draggin’ heat down your spine, one hand comin’ up to your arms and lockin’ both your wrists in his grip—firm, unmovin’. That thick forearm settled over yours like a damn armband, holdin’ you in place, claimin’ you like it was just another piece of the ranch he meant to keep.

“Still feelin’ in charge?” he murmured, his voice low, steady, and laced with that quiet fire.

You turned your head, lips grazin’ the sheets, your voice breathy but defiant.

“Might need a few more strokes to convince me.”

OJ let out the kind of laugh that sounded like a threat.

“Aight.”

He pulled back.

Then sank into you again—slow and deep, like he was diggin’ for something inside you.

Your mouth dropped open, a sob mixin’ with a moan, back archin’ hard. But he didn’t let go. That arm around yours tightened, holdin’ you down like he was wrestlin’ a wild thing.

“Yeah, keep talkin’,” he growled, hips rockin’ now in a hard, slow rhythm that had your thighs tremblin’. “You got all that mouth ‘til I get up in it. But now look at you.”

You tried to answer, tried to throw somethin’ back—but it came out a whimper, high and helpless.

“Uh huh,” he said, lips right against your shoulder now. “What happened to all that sass?”

You writhed under him, eyes rollin’, toes curlin’ into the sheets, and he loved it—loved the way your body met him stroke for stroke, even as your arms stayed pinned, helpless under his weight.

“Fuck—OJ—damn,” you gasped, voice crackin’.

“I know,” he rasped, rollin’ his hips deeper, slower, draggin’ every inch through you like it was the last one. “That’s why you was actin’ out. Wanted it rough. Wanted me to hold you.”

And he did.

That arm didn’t budge—held your wrists like you was nothin’ but his to use, his to keep, his to wreck.

Your hands flexed against his forearm, tryin’ to get leverage, but he tightened his grip and drove into you hard, makin’ your whole body jolt up the bed.

You screamed into the mattress.

“Y’all hear that?” he mocked, low and breathin’ heavy, sweat drippin’ down his back. “She was real bold earlier. Now she cryin’ into the sheets.”

You looked back at him, dazed, makeup smeared, sweat glistin’ on your skin.

“ain’t cryin ,” you managed, voice hoarse.

He grinned—eyes dark and dangerous.

“Look at you. Still runnin’ that mouth.”

Then he let go of your arms—and before you could move, grabbed your hips with both hands, spread your legs wider, and picked up the pace. Slow no more.

Ruthless now.

Heavy strokes, hips slammin’ into yours, skin clappin’ loud and nasty. The sound of it echo’d in that room like gospel and sin.

You clawed the sheets, eyes wide, mouth open—but the moans wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t slow.

“God—OJ—please—”

“You want me to stop?” he said, damn near daring you to lie.

You shook your head frantically. “No!”

His fingers dug into your hips, pullin’ you back into every thrust, makin’ sure you took all of him.

“Good,” he said, leanin’ over you again, his breath hot and jagged against your neck. “Cause I ain’t done.”

He reached around, hand slidin’ down your belly—then lower—fingers findin’ your pearl and rubbin’ slow, small circles just as he kept that brutal rhythm goin’. Your whole body jolted.

“You feel that?” he said, voice growlin’. “Soaked for me.”

“Shut—shut up,” you moaned, eyes rollin’ back.

“Make me,” he muttered, and slammed into you harder.

You couldn’t. You didn’t.

And he knew it.

You ain’t even know what words you were sayin’ anymore—just syllables, gasps, little half-sobbed “right there” spillin’ from your lips as he kept strokin’ you deep, his grip bruisin’ your hips, his fingers rubbin’ your pearl with that same steady, maddening rhythm.

It was too much.

Too much and just enough.

Your thighs were tremblin’ uncontrollably, stomach tightenin’ down, vision goin’ blurry. Your hands reached back, grabbin’ anything you could—his wrist, the sheets, air—and your voice cracked as your whole body locked up.

You came hard.

With a scream and a sob, your legs locked around him, back archin’ high, pleasure crashin’ through you like a goddamn flood.

You shook.

trembled.

cried.

And OJ ain’t stop—not until your body went limp under him, until your breath turned ragged and your hands finally fell away, open and empty.

That’s when he slowed.

Pulled out gently, breathin’ heavy himself, eyes trailin’ over your wrecked, boneless form like he just tamed a wild thing.

He leaned over you, one hand slidin’ up your side, the other brushin’ over your cheek.

You was still sniffin’, tearin’ up, chest risin’ fast from all that overstimulation.

And OJ?

He looked over your face slow.

Gentle.

“Look at you,” he whispered, low and almost sweet. “Told you I had it in me.”

His hands slid down your thighs, grippin’ ‘em just above the knees, slow and steady—then he turned you over, gentle but strong, flippin’ your limp body onto your back like you ain’t weigh a thing.

You blinked up at him, eyes glassy, chest still heaving.

OJ hovered over you, breathin’ heavy, sweat slickin’ down his chest and abs, that quiet look in his eyes still there—but darker now. Focused. Hungry. That kind of hunger you don’t just feed once.

He leaned down, thumb brushin’ under your eye, catchin’ the tear trail before it could reach your ear. His other hand cradled your jaw, fingers slidin’ behind your neck to pull you into a kiss.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t soft, either.

It was full—like he wanted you to taste what you’d done to him.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, “You still with me?”

You nodded, voice barely a breath. “Mhm…”

“Good,” he said, smirkin’. “Don’t go nowhere.”

Then he hooked your legs—lifted them up just like when y’all was kissin’ earlier, bendin’ your knees high, pushin’ them back ‘til your thighs nearly kissed your chest.

He lined up again, thick and soaked with your mess, and this time when he slid in?

Slow.

So slow you could feel everything—every ridge, every inch, every place your body stretched and welcomed him back in like he never left.

You moaned loud, hand grippin’ his forearm while the other slapped over your own mouth.

“Nuh uh,” he muttered, knockin’ your hand away, eyes locked on yours. “I wanna hear all that.”

He moved deliberate now.

Long strokes.

Deep.

The kind that hit up—not just in—kissin’ that sweet spot with every push, makin’ your eyes roll back and your hands clutch at the sheets again.

You could barely speak. “O-OJ… baby—fuck…”

He licked his lips, jaw tight, arms flexin’ as he braced himself over you, muscles workin’ like a goddamn machine. “Yeah. Right there, huh?”

You nodded, whimperin’. “Yesyesyesyes—right there, don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

Just worked you, hips rollin’ like waves, that slow rhythm punchin’ deep and dirty, like he was diggin’ into the part of you that only he could reach.

Your legs trembled in his grip, feet twitchin’ in the air, and he loved it.

“Keep ‘em right there,” he muttered, pushin’ your knees back further, foldin’ you up and sinkin’ even deeper. “Let me in all the way.”

You choked on a sob.

“God—OJ—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, thumb slidin’ over your lips. “You wanted me up… I’m here now. You gon’ take all this.”

He circled his hips, grindin’ against that spot so slow, so filthy, your toes curled and your back bowed off the bed.

You couldn’t do nothin’ but feel. Hands in his hair, mouth open, body fallin’ apart under every thick, relentless push.

“You feelin’ that?” he growled, one hand slidin’ down to grip your thigh tight. “Feelin’ me all up in it?”

You nodded, cryin’ out, “Yes—fuck—yes I feel you—”

He kissed you hard, deep, tongue slidin’ into your mouth like he owned every part of you.

“You gon’ remember this,” he grunted between thrusts. “Next time you get smart, next time your girls start runnin’ they mouth—gon’ be thinkin’ ‘bout this stroke. This dick.”

You moaned into his mouth, legs startin’ to shake again, pressure buildin’ fast.

“I’m close—I can’t—OJ—”

“Yes you can,” he breathed, voice tight, grittin’ his teeth as his pace picked up, rougher now, hips slammin’ into yours just right. “You gon’ finish again. Just like this. With me watchin’.”

And you did.

Right there, legs up, body folded beneath him, mouth wide open as pleasure broke over you again, shakin’ through every limb.

And OJ?

He held you there.

Your body was tremblin’, eyes wet, chest heavin’ like you’d run a mile—but OJ didn’t slow.

Didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even blink.

He watched you finish—watched it wash over you like a storm, those hips still rollin’ steady through every aftershock while your breath caught in your throat. Eyes dark. Focused. Possessive.

Sweat dripped off his jaw to your chest, slid down between your breasts, and he licked his lips slow before that same calm, dangerous smile curved across his face. Not wide. Not cocky. Just sure.

Like he knew—you his now.

“Finished?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You nodded, legs twitchin’.

He raised a brow. “Nah. Tell me.”

Your voice barely made it out. “I—I finished…”

He leaned in, lips grazin’ your ear, heat from his breath makin’ you shiver again.

“Good,” he said. “Now lay back. I’m gon’ take mine.”

And before you could even breathe, he pulled out halfway—then slammed back in, thick and hard, the stretch meaner now, draggin’ a sharp gasp outta you.

You tried to reach for his chest.

“OJ—!”

But he caught your wrist mid-air and pressed it back down against the sheets, firm and final.

“Nah,” he said, voice dark as Mississippi mud. “Don’t touch. Just relax. You wanted this, right?”

You nodded, eyes wide.

He pushed your knees higher, planted them up by your shoulders, and folded you—deep and tight. Then he snapped his hips forward again, slow but powerful, grindin’ so deep it felt like he was tryin’ to reach your damn soul.

“So take it.” he muttered.

His strokes got deeper.

Longer.

His strength—unreal.

Built off years of wrestlin’ horses and haulin’ feed, them thick arms flexed every time he moved, his hips hittin’ like thunder rollin’ across open pasture. You could feel the control in him—the rhythm, the pace, the way he held back just enough to keep you right on the edge again.

You tried again, fingers brushin’ his side, but he grabbed your hand and pushed it back.

“I said don’t. Let me handle it.”

His tone didn’t raise. Didn’t need to. The weight in it alone had your thighs shakin’.

“Just take it,” he said again, lips by your throat now. “Ain’t no need for nothin’ else.”

You moaned—soft, near soundless—while he started really workin’ you.

He locked your legs around his waist and rolled his hips slow but heavy, hittin’ that same spot over and over ‘til your whole body went tight again.

“Nah,” he muttered when he felt you start to clench again. “I ain’t done.”

You whimpered, already past the edge, but his strokes just got deeper.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Thought you was finished? You gon’ finish with me. I want all of it.”

You shook your head, words lost.

He grabbed your thighs tighter, rolled forward harder—so deep it felt like you was splitting open again.

Your hands clawed at the pillow, mouth open in another silent cry.

“Tell me you mine,” he growled.

“I’m—OJ—I’m—”

“Say it.”

“I’m yours!”

He kissed you—hard, tongue in your mouth, breath hot. Then he pulled back, that storm in his eyes finally breakin’ loose.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “You mine. So finish wit’ me.”

His body locked up then—hips stutterin’, abs flexin’, that thick vein down his arm poppin’ while he dug in deep.

You felt it.

That final build in him.

His moans—low and full of gravel.

The heat—the pressure—the stretch.

You finished again, whole body tight, back archin’ up into him while your legs shook. You cried out his name while his thrusts lost rhythm, gettin’ messy, desperate, like he was chasin’ that final high with everything in him.

Then he buried himself in you, full and deep.

Groaned into your shoulder.

You felt the heat—all of it—and the way he held still for a beat, lettin’ it wash over him like a man who finally got what he’d been fightin’ against.

“Damn,” he whispered, jaw clenched, breath caught.

He let your legs down slow, movin’ like his body still remembered every stroke. Stayed on top of you for a minute, lettin’ you feel that weight, that heat, that strength still pressin’ into you.

Then he pulled back—kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

You blinked up at him, dazed, tears still slidin’ down your face from all that pleasure.

He wiped them with his thumb, leaned close, whisperin’ into your ear like it was a prayer.

“You good?”

You nodded, chest still flutterin’. “Better than good…”

He smiled, a little more of it this time—soft and satisfied. He laid down beside you, slid his arm around your waist and pulled you into him, lettin’ your bare skin meet all that heat and strength.

His lips pressed to your shoulder. “Mmm,” he hummed. “Next time you text them girls… tell ‘em this country boy handled every inch.”

You laughed, breathless.

Still twitchin’.

Still feelin’ it in your gut and in your chest.

And the way he held you after?

You slept like you ain’t never had a worry in your whole damn life.

————————————-

Wooohhhhh 200 followers yall gimmie a kiss.😏💕💕 I’m finna be writing for 200hours

#black reader #x reader #smut #oj haywood #nope movie #x black fem reader #reader insert

56 notes · View notes

its-luna-noel · 18 hours ago

Text

soul tied | gojo x reader

04. wildflowers

"You're not going to die on me." "My love, not even death could keep me from you." When the love of your life - or one of your lives - is on death's door, you perform a soul tie ritual to make sure you'll meet again. This tie binds you across time, space, and every universe; your souls now belong to each other. But even a soul tie doesn't make love easy.

content: f!reader, reincarnation au, soulmates au, threads of fate, angst, pining, slow burn, fluff, meet cutes in every life, non-linear storytelling, fake dating, one bed, drinking

word count: 3.1k

chapter 4/? prev. chapter | next chapter

masterlist | link to ao3

notes: hi there! sorry it's been a while, i have been swamped with an upcoming move and honestly just struggling with this chapter. i hope it's not too boring, there's not as much dialogue as usual which is why i struggled. thanks for reading!

1173, Brittania

The sound of horse hooves thundering against the ground catches your attention.

You stand from your kneeling position, head poking up from your gardens as you watch the knights’ convoy gallop out of the city. You like to watch them pass, to watch their banners fly; even if you’re not welcomed into the city because of your spiritual beliefs, you like to think you’re still a citizen of the kingdom.

This time, though, the knights are headed straight to your cottage.

You brush soil off of your long skirts and head towards the small hut, your hair covered by a long cloth to hide your scalp from the summer sun. You traverse the low hill that your garden sits at the foot of, holding your large herb basket in the crook of one elbow.

You meet the men in front of your home.

The lead knight holds his horse’s reins lightly in one hand, his face hidden by his silver helm. “Greetings!” he says, his voice light and friendly, despite the one hand on the hilt of his sword. “We’ve come at the request of the court physician.”

You quirk a brow. “And what would he ask of me?”

“She,” the knight corrects, “would call upon you in a time of need. King Tengen has fallen ill, and no remedy that the court physician tries has been effective. She requests that you come to join her at the castle and, perhaps, try an…alternate solution.”

You look bewildered. “She would call on witchcraft?”

At this, the surrounding knights shift uncomfortably in their seats. It’s clear they do not approve entirely of what the court physician wants. The lead knight dismounts from his horse and walks forward, his armor making sharp chink noisese as he steps.

Then he reaches up and takes off his helmet, and your heart flutters.

He’s handsome; white-haired and blue-eyed, so fair he would surely burn in the sun you work in all day. He’s wearing a soft smile as he tucks his helm beneath his arm and leans in, and the perfume poultice he has smells fresh and clean as he does.

“Better not to proclaim what you’re really there for, alright?” he suggests, eyes brighter than the summer sky as he examines you. “We’re trying to keep the king’s sickness confidential, you see. So the loyal subjects don’t question things or, worse, revolt. I’m sure you understand.” As he speaks, his voice low and smooth, he reaches into the basket and picks up a flower, spinning it between two fingers.

You watch him pick up the blossom and examine it. “I’m unsure what you would have me tell someone who asked, sir…” you trail off, not knowing his name.

With a charming smile, the knight tucks the flower behind your ear, pinning it into your hair. “Sir Gojo,” he says. “And as long as you work to heal the king, we will keep your identity a secret from the rest of the castle.”

You blush at his forward advancement, but you nod in agreement. “Let me gather my things.”

And so you do, going into your cottage and gathering necessities and supplies for healing any type of ailment you can think of. You come out with a woven bag, and Sir Gojo hands it to one of his men.

Then he grabs your waist and hoists you up onto his horse as if you weigh nothing.

He climbs up behind you, wrapping one arm securely around your waist. He whispers in your ear, “Ever ridden before?”

You gulp and shake your head. “No, sir.”

You can hear the grin in his voice. “Just hold on. I’ve got you.”

Then you make the slow journey back to the castle with his arm around you, holding you tightly against his chest as you ride.

2024, Outside Karuizawa

You dream of your grandfather.

It was a mundane dream, nothing special. Just you and your grandpa playing cards at the coffee shop. You told him about your strange, slightly annoying date for this wedding, and he laughed.

When you wake up, your heart feels like an empty pit. You miss that laugh.

You sit up on the edge of the bed, reaching for your phone, which shows you’ve woken up a few short minutes before your alarm. You sigh, rubbing your eyes and gently rise from the bed, trying not to wake Satoru.

It’s an unsuccessful endeavor; Satoru is a light sleeper. He stirs quietly and blinks open his eyes. “Morning,” he mumbles.

“Morning,” you whisper back. “Sorry for waking you.”

He waves you off, pushing himself up in bed. His white t-shirt clings to his muscular form, and you force yourself to look away. He checks his phone. “We’ve got a few hours before we have to be at the venue,” he says, his voice raspy from sleep. “Want to go check around town for a while? It’s supposed to be a nice tourist area.”

“Um, sure,” you reply. “I’m…just gonna shower.”

He nods and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll be here,” he jokes.

You get in the shower, thoughts muddled between your dream of your grandfather and reality. Your heart aches to think that you wish he really was here; he was as close to a father figure you had, so you would’ve liked to tell him about your peculiar but handsome wedding date.

Would’ve liked, one day, to have him walk you down the aisle yourself.

Your throat tightens at the thought, and you have to clear it to refocus yourself on your shower.

You step out of the shower and get dressed in an outfit suitable for exploring the nature walks and shops of central Karuizawa. Then you exit the bathroom and tie up your shoes, seeing Satoru dressed in joggers and a hoodie.

He grins and sits beside you on the end of the bed, slipping his sneakers on as well.

The two of you head out and take his car back into the city, where you get out and make your way to the shopping center in the inner city. Despite it being winter and no longer the prime months of tourism, the streets are still busy with vendors and buyers, all milling around together.

Satoru walks beside you through the random shops, steering you towards the stands that sell sweet treats and luxury items you’d never be able to afford. You buy a touristy bucket hat, packing it into your bag instead of wearing it so you don’t ruin your hair for later.

The two of you chat endlessly, talking about family, work, anything to pass the time. Satoru tells you about his students – especially the young teen he mentors personally, Megumi – and you tell him about your coworkers’ various dramatics.

Then you head back to the hotel, where Satoru lets you get ready in the bathroom while he simply puts on his clothes and lounges on the pullout couch.

When you emerge from the bathroom, dressed in your purple gown and your hair pinned up in a pretty twist, you see Satoru dressed handsomely in his slacks – perfectly tailored to fit his body – and a button-down shirt. His suit jacket is draped over the end of the bed, and he looks up from adjusting his cuff when you come out.

“You look nice,” he says, smiling at you.

You offer a small smile back. “Thanks, you too.”

“Ready to go?”

You nod, grabbing the little clutch you packed and sticking your essentials in there before following him out.

You can hear the muffled commotion of your neighbors getting ready. Satoru shares a silly smirk with you before you head out towards the car.

It’s a bit more of a drive to the gardens where the wedding is being held, and it passes quietly, the two of you having wasted all your material on your walk in the shopping center. You simply listen to music and hum along, watching the scenery pass as you make your way to the outskirts of the city.

When you reach the venue, it takes your breath away.

A small brick building greets you, covered in ivy and other greenery. It’s a beautiful sight, but once you’re ushered through the building towards the outdoor gardens, that’s when it really takes your breath away. Winter blossoms and strings of greenery create a surprisingly vibrant scene for the season, and you and Satoru are both rendered speechless by your surroundings.

It’s enchanting.

Climbing branches of winter jasmine decorate the fence surrounding the gardens, bright yellow blossoms vibrant in the winter sun. Satoru leans down and picks one of the flowers, holding it delicately between long fingers, before he brings it up in front of your face. “Pretty,” he says.

You smile a little and nod, looking at the slight excitement in his eyes; it’s almost childlike, the wonder he’s exuding. “Pretty,” you agree.

“Here,” he says, and his hands come up to your hair, gently arranging it before sliding the small blossom between tresses. The yellow compliments the color of your dress, bringing out the purple tones. He nods, satisfied.

You gaze up at him for a moment. He blinks. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, turning away. “Come on, let’s go.”

He follows your lead back towards the main hall. You take your seats beside the rest of his family.

It’s a beautiful ceremony, full of love and laughter. You don’t get the inside jokes, and neither does Satoru, it seems, because he doesn’t laugh either. But you enjoy yourself nonetheless, because you’ve always been somewhat of a romantic.

You like to see someone’s story go right.

When the ceremony is over, both of you stand, and you follow him to the dining room for the reception. You’re both sitting – conveniently – with Satoru’s cousin from the hotel, Akari. She smiles warmly at you as she takes her seat to the left of Satoru, you on his right.

“I’m starving,” she leans over and whispers conspiratorially, and you offer a smile back. You can tell she’s trying to be friendly, but you’re really too anxious about maintaining the appearance that you and Satoru are actually dating to answer.

Then, an older man and woman come by. The man has the familial white hair, while the woman’s hair is dark blonde with gray streaks starting to pepper her forelock. Satoru stiffens a little, but he puts a big smile on his face as they approach.

The man puts his hands on Satoru’s shoulders. “Satoru,” he says, his voice a very similar tenor to Satoru’s, “it’s good to see you.”

The woman, in turn, smiles at you and holds out her hand. “And you must be his lovely date. We’re Satoru’s parents; it’s nice to meet you.”

You try to keep your eyes from bugging out, and your heart drops into your stomach.

You knew this was a possibility when you learned that this was a family event, but it still couldn’t have prepared you for the feeling of meeting someone’s parents on the first “date.” You barely know this man, and now his parents are staring at you expectantly, waiting for you to introduce yourself, to say something coherent, intelligent even, and all you have to offer is a shaky smile.

“Hello,” you say, and you hold your hand out to Satoru’s mother. You tell her your name, then move to shake his father’s hand.

Satoru watches the interaction, obviously hiding a smirk when he makes eye contact with you. You put in a mental note to kill him when you get back to the hotel. He looks up at his mother. “She works at the library,” he supplies helpfully, and you begrudgingly decide maybe he deserves to live.

She brightens. “Oh, lovely. I volunteer at the local library in our hometown. Isn’t it such fulfilling work?”

You nod, relieved to have found common ground, even with Satoru’s help. “I love it; it’s been my dream for years. I want to go back and get a second masters to work at a university library one day.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” As Satoru’s mother bubbles over with excitement, his father stands with his hands over Satoru’s shoulder. Both of them look tense, and you make another mental note to ask about it one day.

If you ever see him again after this, you suppose.

Satoru’s mother smiles and takes her husband’s arm. “Well, we’ll leave you to eat your dinner.” She turns to Satoru and gently strokes his hair, and Satoru visibly softens when he looks up at her. “We’ll talk later, okay, sweetie?” And with that she and her husband return to their table.

You watch them retreat for a moment before turning your eyes back to Satoru. He looks tense again, like he’s worried you’ll ask about it now, so you don’t. You simply smile and say, “They were nice.”

He lets out a little huff of a laugh and nods a little. “I think they liked you,” he says, reaching forward to grab the glass of water.

You watch him take a drink. Watch him raise the glass to his lips, watch him tip his head back, watch his throat bob as he swallows. He glances at you as he sets the glass back down, and you quickly avert your eyes, blushing at being caught.

He smirks and leans in slightly, head tilted teasingly to the side. “Aw,” he croons playfully, “caught you staring.” Then he leans in further and whispers, “It’s okay, I know I’m too gorgeous not to look at.”

Your blush deepens. “Shut up,” you mumble.

He just chuckles and leans back into his seat.

The servers bring around food, and a beautiful plate is placed before you. You eat quietly, listening to the conversations around you. Listening to Satoru and his cousins laugh about their childhood, about the antics they used to get up to at family holidays. Satoru’s grinning and joining in on the fun, shit-talking his cousins right back, but you notice the joy doesn’t really touch his eyes.

You notice, and your own expression softens. You wonder why he’s so uncomfortable with his family, wonder what happened between them that seemingly created an insurmountable space.

You wonder, but you don’t ask.

Dinner passes, and then the dancing begins. It’s a beautiful first dance, and it brings a smile to your face. Then the rest of the crowd stands and joins in on the dance floor, and Satoru looks over at you.

He stands from his seat and reaches for you, grinning. You pull your hands away, giving him a wary look, but he just huffs playfully and takes both your hands in his. “Come on,” he whispers, smiling down at you. “Just a quick dance.” Then he brings you to the dance floor and guides one of your hands to his shoulder, holding the other in his. One of his hands goes to your back, pulling you in, and he starts to gently sway side to side with you.

You look up at him, into those crystal blue eyes, and you find yourself swimming in their ocean depths. They’re so soft, so gentle, even when he so easily teases you and makes you laugh.

You hope that, maybe, he will want to take you somewhere else someday. Maybe on a real date.

You dance for a while longer, and you don’t even notice that it’s been more than one song now, you’re just so lost in him, and you wonder if he’s lost in you.

You hope he is.

Then you both come back to yourselves and notice that the party is slowly dying down, people going their separate ways. The two of you break apart, your hand sliding down his arm as you lower your eyes. You step away from him.

“Come on,” he says softly, letting go of your hand. “I want to say goodbye to my parents.”

You nod and follow after him, watching as he says goodbye. His mother, smiling kindly, waves goodbye to you and wishes you well. Then the two of you walk up to the beautiful bride, Emi, and congratulate her and give her well wishes.

Then you walk out, your gown swishing against your ankles as you walk to Satoru’s car.

The drive is quiet between you; you’re exhausted after a long day of exploring and putting on a smiling face for strangers, and you just can’t wait to get back to the hotel and get to bed. But another part of you wants to stretch this out, wants it to never end, wants to spend more time with Satoru, because it turns out you actually enjoy his company.

When you return to the hotel, he brushes his hand against the small of your back to guide you inside the shared room. You shiver, but Satoru doesn’t seem to notice. Too preoccupied with the thoughts of his family, of whatever is troubling him.

You clear your throat softly. “I’m gonna get changed,” you tell him, gathering your pajamas from your suitcase and heading toward the bathroom.

He nods, already slipping off his suit jacket. Your eyes linger for a moment longer before you shut yourself in the bathroom.

You sigh at your reflection in the mirror as you start to remove your makeup and take your hair down. You reach up and remove the small yellow blossom from behind your ear, looking down at it for a long moment. Such a bright little flower, a perfect reminder of such a bright little day, and you wish you could keep it forever, but instead you simply leave it there on the bathroom counter so you can take one last look at it in the morning when you get ready.

You slip out of your dress and hang it back in the garment bag, then change into your matching pajama set, soft shorts and an oversized shirt. When you exit the bathroom, you find Satoru already dressed in his basketball shorts and a white t-shirt, sitting on the end of the bed watching TikToks again.

He glances up and smiles before standing to use the bathroom himself. When you climb into bed, on all fours for a moment too long, you hope he’s watching.

Then you hear the door close, and you sigh again as you bury yourself under the covers. You close your eyes, settling against the pillows, and when he comes back, you almost hope he leans over and kisses you, celebrates the good day you had together.

He doesn’t. He simply lies down in bed, turning his back to you, and falls asleep to the sound of an endless scroll of videos.

His soft snores start to fill the space, and you smile to yourself before closing your eyes and falling asleep beside him.

thanks for reading! -luna xx link to ao3 | next

(taglist: @inlove-maze, @jotarohat, @elitesanjisimp)

#banners by cafekitsune #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo fluff #jjk gojo #jujutsu gojo #satoru gojo #fanfiction

45 notes · View notes

femme-plant-mom · 2 days ago

Text

Make This Place Your Home

summary: Will and Nico move into their new home together.

rating: G

for @willsolaceweek Day 4! Will + romantic partner. In this case, Nico!

Every inch of their new house was covered with boxes or furniture or packing materials recently removed from the boxes or furniture and Nico was fine, totally fine, handling it really well, actually.

“When did we accumulate so many things? I don’t understand, I used to live out of a knapsack and you had to share a cabin with twenty people, where did we keep everything?”

Will set down the last of the boxes and brushed off his hands before he put them on his hips. “Was your knapsack actually the Tardis?”

“Huh?” Nico looked up at Will from where he was trying to navigate through the maze of stuff.

“The Tardis. Y’know, Doctor Who?” At Nico’s continued blank stare, Will groaned. “Babe, we’ve seen Doctor Who. I made you watch it at Camp.”

Nico flailed his arms in no particular direction. “I’m sorry you’re warm! And soothing! And I fall asleep on you!” Nico stepped over the last box and stumbled a little, but Will’s hand shot out to steady him. Nico braced his hand on Will’s forearm.

Will pursed his lips, obviously trying to keep a laugh in check, but the mirth in his eyes betrayed him. “‘Bigger on the inside’, darlin’. The Tardis is bigger on the inside.”

“Oh!” Nico brightened. “Like Mary Poppins’ bag!”

“When did you watch Mary Poppins? We haven’t watched that,” Will asked, tilting his head to the side.

Nico gave him an unimpressed look. “I read it.”

“Never watched it?” Will confirmed, incredulous. Nico shook his head. “Oh my gods, that’s the first movie we’re watching when we get the TV set up, you have to experience the songs.”

Nico snorted. “Okay, dork.”

Will laughed, “I’m the dork? You’re the one who’s read the book!” He pulled Nico close, putting the son of Hades’ head on the blond’s shoulder. Nico wrapped his arms loosely around Will’s waist, settling against his warm and letting it sooth him, surrounded by this mess.

“Well, it was a book first,” Nico replied, just to be annoying. Will ruffled a noogie in Nico’s hair, holding him tight while Nico shrieked and tried to push his hand away. “Aw, come on! I was having a good hair day!”

“It looks better now,” Will quipped back before he planted a kiss on the crown of said hair and released Nico. “Okay, so, where is the First Night Box?” He looked at the boxes around him as if he’d get lucky and it’d be right in front.

Nico stilled. “Um, the what?”

“You know, the First Night Box. For our first night. With, like, our PJs and some dishes and the coffee maker for tomorrow.” Will looked up at Nico, noted the guilty shift of his eyes. “We don’t have a First Night Box, do we?”

“Did I mention I used to live out of a knapsack? That was my First Night and Every-Night-After Everything.” Nico at least had the good grace to look sheepish while he said this.

Will sighed, letting his lungs deflate entirely. “Alright, you go find us take-out, I’ll look for our PJs and toothbrushes.”

Nico nodded quickly and bound out the door before Will could swap on their roles.

Thirty minutes later, Nico returned with pad thai and fried rice. Will hadn’t located the plates, but he had uncovered the couch, so they curled up together and stole bites from each other's boxes.

“Well, I found our toothbrushes and shower things, but I only found your boxers and shirts to sleep in. I don’t want to stretch out your shirt, but I think I can manage in a pair of your boxers tonight, sorry.”

“Oh, no,” Nico deadpanned, “my super hot husband will be shirtless in our bed wearing something of mine.” Will flushed and stole an extra good piece of broccoli from Nico’s box. He regretted it, though, just a little, because Nico intentionally timed, “I think we should christen the house tonight,” for the exact moment Will swallowed the bite. Nico smirked while Will coughed.

When he was finished hacking up a lung, Will paused for a moment and then asked, “Wait, right now?”

Nico laughed and leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. “Later tonight, carissimo. Finish your dinner.”

Will did as told, as did Nico, and then Nico went in search of something to use as a trash bag until they located the new roll, which was currently in its box inside a bigger box. Somewhere.

While he was doing so, Will turned on a playlist for their unpacking.

No better place to start than the kitchen, Will figured, so they worked in tandem to empty and break down boxes. When the sun was below the horizon and the cabinets were full, Nico rose to his feet and crossed his arms.

“Well, I think that will do for tonight.”

Will sighed, rising, too. “Yeah, we should probably go put the sheets on our bed and shower.”

“Uh-oh,” Nico murmured, so quiet Will almost didn’t catch it.

“What?” He looked around at the cabinets from next to Nico, mentally checking everything’s place made sense.

“I, uh, I see the point of a First Night Box now.”

Will looked sideways at Nico for a moment, his lips parted in surprise, and then bent double with laughter. “Oh my gods,” he wheezed, “will we be ‘christening the house’ on a bare mattress?”

Nico harrumphed, but Will’s laughter pulled a smile to his lips as it always did.

When he got his giggles under control, Will said, “If we move again, I’ll make sure to pack the box for us.”

Nico opened his mouth to protest that he would be perfectly capable of packing the box, thank you very much, now that he knew they would need one, but Will’s phone started playing their song. His face softened into a smile, mirrored back at him with more love than he knew what to do with when he looked at Will.

Will pulled Nico in close—one hand on Nico’s waist and the other clasping Nico’s hand—and began crooning the song in his ear, his breath warmly puffing against the son of Hades’ neck. Despite both of his parents, Will Solace didn’t have a voice for the ages. It wasn’t for sold-out stadiums or chart-topping singles or Best Album of the Year. It was for lullabies, showers, and this: slow dancing in their new kitchen.Nico relaxed into the familiar song, familiar movements. He leaned his head into the crook of Will’s neck and closed his eyes, letting his senses be filled with Will. There was still a lot to do, but they’d do it together, and soon this house would be their home.

---

In case you're curious or have read my other work, I imagine this as taking place before (way before) And I'm Still My Father's Son. Like they're moving into the house that story takes place in. Neither story is reliant on the other, though!

#will solace #will solace week #will solace fanfiction #rrverse #pjo fandom #nico di angelo #pjo hoo toa #solangelo #rick riordan #pjo hoo toa tsats #solangelo fanfiction

33 notes · View notes

toasttt11 · 18 hours ago

Text

denver

February 24, 2025

“Goose? Covey? Allison!”

Allison jerked her head back snapping out of her thoughts seeing Luke, Jack and Nico all looking at her in concern she realized they have been calling her, “Sorry what?” She cleared her throat and took a sip of her iced coffee.

“You okay?” Jack asked softly he knew something happened in Boston as the morning they left Allison was tense and spacing out all the way home at first he thought it was about losing but seeing her staying quieter he knew it was something more.

“Yeah fine.” Allison muttered and shoved a scoop of yogurt in her mouth to avoid talking.

Luke raised an eyebrow not believing they for a second but knew better than to push because Allison can be like a feral cat when you push her.

All Luke knew is something had to have happened in Boston and it might have something to with the hickeys he saw on her before she shoved a hoodie on.

Allison rubbed her eyes yawning a bit. She was eating a very late breakfast with most of the team as they got into Denver late last night after the shut out win Nashville.

“I’ll see you guys later.” Allison stood up talking her dishes with her.

Jack, Luke and Nico shared a look.

“She’s not okay.” Jack said quietly.

Allison tucked her hands in her hoodie pocket as she walked outside and her lips quirked up a bit seeing Zeev waiting for her.

“There’s my gorgeous best friend.” Zeev grinned widely and they quickly hugged each other gripping into one another tightly. This has been the longest they have ever been apart and they just missed each other.

“Hi Zee.” Allison mumbled softly finally feeling a little bit better being back with her best friend.

Zeev heard the sadness in her tone and didn’t know why but just hugged her harder rubbing her back softly.

“Come on we have best friend time waiting for us.” Zeev gave her a silly smile as they slowly pulled back from each other.

Allison managed a small smile and they headed to Zeev’s car and Zeev started driving them back to his dorm.

“Liv made sure that i told you she says hi and that i’ll be on my best behavior for you.” Zeev shook his head grinning at his girlfriend’s teasing.

Allison smiled a bit, Olivia has become a good friend to Allison since she started dating Zeev.

“Ah she’s too pretty for you.” Allison chirped a bit making Zeev smile glad to see her feeling a tiny bit better.

Zeev always just shakes his head at how his girlfriend and best friend love to flirt with each other just to mess with him.

Allison got out of the car and followed Zeev up to his dorm.

She slipped her shoes and raised an eyebrow seeing very fluffy pink blanket.

Zeev rolled his eyes fondly, “Liv insisted i have a blanket good enough for you.” Zeev couldn’t have gotten more luckily than having his girlfriend and best friend being so close and they Olivia completely understands his friendship with Allison.

“Tell her thank you for me.” Allison smiled a bit picking up the blanket, she never had a friendship with girls growing up but now because of teammates she has girl friends now.

Allison wrapped the blanket around her and sat down on Zeev’s double bed that he managed to get with not ending up with a roommate.

“Alright spill what’s going on?” Zeev looked serious as he sat down next to her and gave her a small nudge.

Allison fiddled with her bracelet blowing out a breath, “I slept with James.” She closed her eyes after she blurted that out.

Zeev rapidly blinked having never seen any signs of anything more than friendship between the two, “James? Hags? Our James?” Zeev looked so incredibly shocked he would have never of guessed those two but thinking about it now he could see how those would be good for each other.

“Yes that James.” Allison muttered.

“Okay what’s wrong there?” Zeev asked knowing James was involved with whatever is making her sad.

“He doesn’t feel the same.” Allison quietly admitted making Zeev realize what was wrong.

“You like him.” Zeev stated he has never seen her actually like someone romantic.

Allison clenched her jaw and slowly nodded.

“Okay why don’t you start from the beginning.” Zeev encouraged pulling up the back up onto her shoulder as it was sliding off.

“He called me after you guys won World juniors and he was totally drunk but told me was in love with me, i obviously didn’t believe him as he was drunk so i said we would talk in the morning.” Allison began to calling still looking down at her bracelet.

“He didn’t call in the morning so i called him and he had no idea we spoke and he told me to forget what ever he said because he was so drunk and definitely mean anything he said.” Allison quietly admitted.

“Oh.” Zeev muttered understanding, “But him telling you made you start thinking about having what your feelings were then he told you he didn’t mean anything he said.” Zeev looked a bit annoyed at James’s actions even if he was drunk.

“I’ve never done romantic feelings before Zee.” She looked at him with wide sad eyes, “And now i have all these feelings for someone who only sees me as their friend.”

Zeev wrapped his arm around her shoulder pulling her into his side, “If he can’t realize how awesome you are then it’s his loss.”

Allison smiled a tiny bit.

“Now continue.” Zeev snipped with a smirk.

“I kinda was ignoring him or just not answering at much trying to figure everything out.” Allison admitted making Zeev hum understanding because that his sounds like her.

“I saw him when i saw all the boys in Boston and he asked to talk before i left and i agreed.” Allison told him.

“It slipped my mind to make a time to see him so he showed up after the gold medal game and he wanted to know what he did wrong.” Allison continued to tell Zeev.

“So i told him what he told me on the call and he froze and i couldn’t hear a rejection not yet so i kissed him?” Allison winced a bit at the end of her sentence as Zeev raised his eyebrow.

“I left in the morning before he woke up.” Allison grimaced a bit at her action but couldn’t fully regret it because she was protecting her self, “And now we haven’t spoken since then.”

Zeev just rubbed her arm processing everything, “He just paused?”

“For at least for thirty seconds looking at me with wide eyes.” Allison nodded slowly not her favorite thing to remember.

“He’s an idiot if he doesn’t feel the same.” Zeev said strongly as he is always on Allison’s side.

“And if he truly doesn’t feel the same then there will be so many guys lining up for you.” Zeev gave her a reassuring smirk.

He understood why this is hurting her more knowing this is her first ever real crush and on one of her best friends who confused and doesn’t seem like he has any feelings for her.

Allison nodded softly resting her head ok her best friends shoulders, “Thanks Zee.” She knew she would feel better after talking with Zeev.

“Anytime Allie Cat.” Zeev shook her shoulders softly, “Now come on we have a show to catch up on.

Allison laughed softly at his words.

Allison doesn’t have practice tomorrow getting an off day because of the four nations so once Zeev finished his classes he was going to show Allison around Denver and all of his spots. The day after Allison had her game against Colorado that Zeev was going too.

Allison really needed the three full days with her best friend.

26 notes · View notes

supasolaa · 23 days ago

Text

pretty little baby…i’m so in love with you….

romantic reader

romantic reader with her and rafe’s baby

(not canon to romantic reader, just a blurb!<3)

while you and the baby quietly layed in the bed, rafe had been working late, you smile gently. it’s been 3 or 4 weeks since the birth of your baby girl. she was so pretty… and you both adored her. though it came with it’s challenges…waking up all night, feeding her, learning things you’d never known. and all while healing. thankfully rafe had helped as much as he could but had to go back into work this past week. it wasn’t that bad in the day, plus half of her day was napping so…then it would also be napping time for you. you were in love with her. even with all the pain it took. it was worth it. she smiled and giggled with her gummy teeth as you quietly sang, though she’d fall asleep soon.

“pretty— —little— —baby— —i’m— —so— —in— —love— —with— —youuu….” you quietly sang out though choked, you had also been as tired as her. you quietly look up as you hear rafe coming up the stairs, then coming into the room. “im home…” he quietly said, you smile softly, but she starts to cry, probably sensing her daddy already… you get up picking her up. then carrying her over to him “i think your girl missed you…” you quietly said “ i missed her too. both my girls.” he said smiling at you softly, though just as tired as you. “i’ll put her down, you can go get ready to bathe….ill be there in a moment.” nodding quietly, you hand her over then going off to the bathroom.

after a few moments, rafe came in to see you sitting down on the chair in the bathroom. he knelt down, helping you get your clothes off. “she trouble you that much, today..?” he gently asked taking off your bra. “not that much…we were sleeping a lot…” you quietly said tired. he knew you were tired, probably didn’t want to talk. so he didn’t. not making you talk either. he gently pulled you up to walk, leading you to the tub. he layed you in carefully, starting to wet you softly. “not too hot…cold?” quietly humming, he’d understand that it was fine. you’d say something if it was.

once getting out and getting you into pj’s. doing your routine for you, just as you usually would…she started crying again, thankfully he’d take over but… he couldn’t find out what was wrong with her. well until you later in the bed next to her. and it was okay again once more. “ im going to go take a shower alright, love?” you nodded, starting to drift back to sleep once more. when he came back, he tucked you under the blankets gently kissing you. the baby coos in her sleep as he picked her up, placing her into the crib. you slightly wake up as rafe gets into bed. “go back to sleep my love.”

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron #fanfic #x reader #xreader #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #rafe fic #rafe imagine #rafe #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron imagine #obx rafe cameron

1K notes · View notes

peachesofteal · 2 months ago

Text

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ daddy kink, size kink, forced orgasm.

“Ghost.”

He looks over the rim of his glasses before sliding them off completely and tossing them onto the stack of papers spread out in front of him. "Gaz."

“You out of here soon?” Kyle’s in the doorway with his arms crossed, slight smirk twisting his lips.

“Tryin’ to be.” The administrative side of this job will be the death of him one day, leaving him buried beneath mountains of paperwork. “Guys get their gear done?” He nods. “Shoot test?”

“All complete. Evals loaded in the portal.” He’s frighteningly efficient, something Simon’s come to rely on.

Kyle has no idea there’s a recommendation for promotion in this stack of nonsense on his desk.

He’s going to miss him when he makes captain.

“Good work as always then.” His phone buzzes. Three times.

>I think I should be another hour, or maybe less.

>But of course don’t feel like you have to rush over here, I’m fine to wait. I don’t mind. I know I gave you a time estimate this morning so of course I don’t expect you to work around me.

>I just meant to say I’m ready whenever. That’s all. But no rush, again.

Kyle sighs with a chuckle. "That your girl?" Simon waves him away.

“Have a good weekend, Lieutenant.”

“You too, Captain.”

“Hi.” Something in him settles at the sight of you. Tired, but excited. Half ready for bed, half ready for him, you’re standing in the shop next to one of the little tables, your work bag and jacket slung on a chair.

“Hi sweetheart.” You’ve shed some layers in the last week, become a little less inhibited with him, a little more confident, slowly adjusting, and he’s proud of you.

You’ve been good.

“How was your day?”

“Oh, fine. I’m tired.” Your eyes go wide with panic. “Not too tired though, not like t-tired I want to go home. Like, to mine uh, I still-” It doesn’t take much to knock you off balance, still exploring this new world, the one he’s building for you, his sweet fresh fawn.

“It’s alright.” He reaches, cupping your cheek. Physical contact seems to soothe you. He thinks it’s because there’s a live, tangible tether connecting you to the now, to him, instead of whatever is going on in your head. “You were up really early sweetheart, it’s understandable you’re tired.” You were awake before him this morning. Sent your usual wake up text well before the sun rose with a hurried explanation about a last minute catering order and a panicking bride.

I said I’d do it. I felt bad.

It wouldn’t be so rough if you hadn’t been at work late the night before for something else.

It’s clearly wiped you out, and he’ll need to shift gears. “Are you ready to go?” You take a half step back and hold up your pointer finger, inclining your head towards to the back of the bakery.

“Uh, wait. I forgot something, one sec.”

You return with a big white box cradled in your hands.

“What’s in there?”

“Oh I made you something. Us. I made us something. For after dinner, if you want. Obviously if you don’t want it that’s fine you don’t have to eat it, it might not even be your thing, which is fine, I just-” He steps into your space and you trail off, eyes going to his without prompting. He blocks the world out, closes in, palms the back of your neck.

“It’s me baby. Just you and me, and there's nothing to worry about. You’ll never make a single thing I won’t like, right?”

“R-right. I know that.” You’re bobbing in a continuous nod, looking away to study something on his shirt.

“What is it?”

“Pie. Boston cream pie.” Cream pie. Blood flows to his cock and he momentarily gets lost in his own head.

“Tell me.” Fat tears roll down your cheeks, hands following him desperately as he rears back and folds your knees to your chest, staring at where his cock is moving in and out of your body, everything about him too big, nearly too big to fit inside you. “Where do you want daddy to put his cum?”

“I-inside. I want your cum inside me daddy, pl- oh- please.” His balls tighten as he grinds his hips, licking an errant tear running down your face. His girl. His. In his arms, his bed, crying on his cock.

“Only good little girls get daddy’s cum, baby. Have you been good?”

“I’ve been good, I’ve b-been so- ah- f-fuck-” The wand buzzes to life, hovering just over your clit as you shake your head frantically. “No nonono, I can’t anymore, I c-can’t.”

“Yes you can,” he thrusts deep and you gasp. You’ve already come four times, but he wants more, needs more, wants to wring every single one he can get out of you before he empties his balls inside your pussy.

When he finally slides it across your swollen little nub, you howl.

“Oh- no-” you whine, nails digging into his forearms, muscles already bearing down on him, breaths turning into short rasps.

“I know. Breathe baby,” he glides it back and forth, kisses your cheek, your mouth. “Breathe through it- that’s my girl. You can take it.” You’re oversensitive, battling a war between pleasure and pain, and your legs instinctively try to close, prevent the impending explosion you know is coming. “Keep your knees open.” He gives the head of the wand firmer pressure, and you cry, shaking your head no again.

“It’s too- too much.” Your feet are on his sides, partially bent in half, and he forces one of your thighs wide, giving him a better view of your puffy, tortured clit.

“Knees open baby girl. One more and daddy will fill you up nice and deep.” You nod, already so close he can feel it, scorching heat pulsing around him, legs trembling as they go lax. “There you go…” he pets your hip, mouth at your ear, soothing and comforting as it rips through you. It pushes him over the edge and he tosses the wand, pins you. Traps you beneath him. All his.

“Oh my god,” you slur, still riding the wave of your own orgasm, eyes rolling back in your head. It pushes him over the edge.

“Good girl, good fucking girl, so proud of you, takin’ my cum- fuck-” his own voice is choked off as he floods you, ruts like an animal, instinctively forcing as much of his seed into your belly as he can.

When it’s over, he drinks in the sight of the milky white cream dripping out of your hole before scooping it up with two fingers and pushing it back inside. You’re limp the whole time, and when he slips the plug in, you barely notice. You’ll be pumped full of him until later, and he’ll take it out to give you more.

“Daddy?” You mumble, half asleep, and he brushes his lips across yours, tucking you into his chest.

“Right here, baby. I’m right here.”

“- it’s not really. I mean, the best part about it is the cream, you know? That’s what makes the cake but the layers have to be moist on their own. You can’t just rely on the…” He swallows your words, licks them out of your mouth, cups your face and presses his thumb into your bottom lip afterwards, edging it across your top teeth. “Oh.” You blink, blindsided, and he runs a hand down the back of your head, strokes the back of your neck.

“Ready then?” You lean into him, a little dazed, off kilter.

“Y-yeah.”

Your toes scrunch at the threshold of the living room, afraid to cross until he flattens his palm on the small of your back.

“Go get comfortable sweetheart.” Battling nerves with a need for sleep, you were unsettled at dinner, sitting at the table, swallowing over and over again long after your food was chewed. There’s something more at play, something larger weighing on you. You left your plate half empty, fork resting at three oclock, twirl of spaghetti and red sauce waiting, and he should have told you to finish, or take one more bite.

But it's a slow game right now. A careful one.

“Alright.” You scamper towards the couch, settling into the far side, toes tucked between the cushions. It’s a balancing act, not too much, too too little, and when he sits down next to you with a giant slice of the cake on a plate, you watching him anxiously. Curiously.

He forks a piece free, and holds it in front of your mouth. “Open.” You do. Immediately. You trust him to feed you, and it calls to the thirst thrumming in his blood, the power of control. “Good girl.” He waits, patiently, ignores the flex of your throat, the butterfly flutter of your lashes. There’s plenty of time for it all. There will be a lifetime (if he’s alive to live it) with you. "What do you say?"

“Thank you.”

“Thank you…” He leads, and you follow. His good fucking girl.

“Daddy,” your whisper is shy, cautious and brave at the same time. “Thank you daddy.” A kiss finds its place on the corner of your mouth, then the full furl of your lips, and you burn alive, flames flickering in your eyes. He takes a bite himself and groans

“Christ baby.”

“Do you like it?” When he nods, you grin.

“Not everyone likes them because they expect a cream pie and that’s not what they get, it’s a cake with vanilla cream between the layers, see?” You point to the thick custard. “It’s not like coconut cream pie, or a banana cream pie, you know?” Cream pie. If you say cream pie one more time.

“It’s really good sweetheart. Too good.” He helps himself to another bite, offers you one, and then has a third before finally setting the plate down. Silence hovers in the air and he lets it languish, giving you time, all the space you need to give him the worry, the doubt, the weight that's holding you back.

“Simon.” He smothers his surprise. It’s not the first time you’ve used his name, but your voice wavers on it. Wide doe eyes stare back at him, and then they find the floor. That won’t do. “I don’t know what to do with…”

“With what sweetheart?”

“You. This. U-us? If that’s… if that’s what-”

“That’s what it is.” He closes what little gap there was between the two of you and pulls your knotted together fingers free, dwarfing your hand with his. “That’s what this is, baby.” The hope, the happiness, blooms across your cheeks and lasts for all of two seconds before worry overtakes it, and you begin tracing the lines in his palm, head down, focusing on the task, slightly shaking. Giving you a chance to walk away would be the right thing to do.

But he won’t.

He can’t.

He’d never give you up now.

“I’m not… I’ve never… done something like this, I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay sweet girl, you don’t have to.” The nervous tracing turns to a light scratch. He lets it continue for a beat before folding your hand between his, stopping the movement.

“I don’t?”

“No. I’m here, and I’m going to take care of you, make sure you have everything you need. I’m going to keep you happy and healthy and safe, and you don’t need to worry.” A shaky exhale rattles free from your chest, weight of a thousand questions evaporating into thin air, decisions and deliberations rapidly falling away as you settle into a new reality, a new life. One where you’re cared for, supported, and loved. “All you need to do is listen, okay?”

“Okay daddy.”

#peaches writes #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #raspberry girl fic

3K notes · View notes

streetlamp-amber · 11 months ago

Text

never ending night

bruce wayne x femwife!reader

word count: 1.7k | divider by @saradika | requests are open!

CW: pregnancy, pure fluff NOTES: hello hi i’m ailís and i’ve been meaning to start a blog where i can post some one shots that i’ve been thinking of as a way to motivate myself to finally write down my ideas so this is it. i’ll be double posting my stuff on ao3 (which you can find in my bio) and will eventually make a masterlist as well as a navigation post with a list of fandoms/characters i write for. also, english isn’t my first language.

It was close to three in the morning when Bruce finally joined you in bed after a long night of patrolling and fighting bottom of the barrel criminals all night. He showered in the bathroom on the first floor of the manor to avoid making too much noise and waking you up, but when he finally walked in your shared bedroom, you were already awake, sitting up against the headboard.

“Darling, what are you doing still up?” Bruce asked you as he reached his side of the bed.

The room was dark par for the moonlight filtering through the gap between the curtains, meaning your husband had yet to notice the state you were in.

“Dick had a nightmare,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper due to how tired you were. “It took me two hours to get him to fall back asleep and when I finally came back here, this little one started kickboxing me and keeping me awake for another hour,” you continued rubbing your round belly in hopes of soothing your baby to finally catch some sleep.

“I’m sorry I wasn't here to help,” Bruce apologised, planting a kiss on your temple as he held you close to his body.

“It’s alright, Gotham needs you,” you dismissed, not at all angry.

“Still, you’re six months pregnant. You’re growing our child inside your body, you need all the rest you can get,” he softly argued. “I would've come home earlier but all the amateur criminals came out tonight.”

“Bruce, it’s fine,” you brought your hand up to his cheek and he leaned his head into your touch. “You’ve already been cutting your patrols shorter since we found out about the baby. As long as you keep coming back home to us, alive, then I’m not mad.”

Not knowing what to say – his gratefulness for having someone so accepting of his duty as Batman was almost overwhelming, even after all those years – Bruce kissed your palm while staring at you with the same look full of love that he has been sporting since the first time he met you six years ago.

“How’d I get so lucky to fall in love with the most understanding and selfless person I know?” He asked while grabbing your hand on his cheek, wrapping his fingers around yours and squeezing them gently.

“Now that’s a lie,” you rebutted, a loving smile on your lips, lowering your joined hands on the bed. “You’re more selfless than I am. You’re the most selfless man in the world.”

“Let’s not start this never ending argument again,” Bruce chuckled, now his turn to hold your face as he brought you in for a kiss.

You happily sighed against his lips, the feeling of home that overtook you every time you tasted them was a nice welcome in this interminable night. But the kiss was cut short as you felt your baby kick again and you let your head fall back as you groaned.

“She’s still kicking?” Bruce asked you, he couldn't see the movements under your skin due to the darkness of the room and your hand on your belly.

“We don't know it's a she,” you reminded him instead of answering. You had both decided to wait until the birth to know the gender.

“And I’m telling you, I know it's a girl,” your husband repeated for what could be the hundredth time.

You also secretly hoped it was a girl, but Dick really wanted a little brother. Bruce and you were still in the process of warming him up to the idea of a little sister and it was slowly starting to work.

“As long as she doesn't come in my room,” your eight year old son had said last week, with his arms crossed over his chest and a pout on his lips.

“I doubt she’ll be doing that for the first few years, chum,” Bruce reassured him, fighting off a slightly amused grin.

“And the baby will have its own room with its own toys,” you added.

“Will I still be able to play with the baby?” Dick asked after a moment, uncrossing his arms and a hopeful look filling up his blue eyes.

“Of course you will, bubs,” you said, your fingers threading through his black hair that fell over his forehead.

“But only with her toys at first, some of yours are not suited for a baby,” Bruce pointed out, ever the overprotective father.

Bruce had lowered himself down under the blanket so he could be laying head levelled with your belly, his hand now replacing yours over the bump.

“Hey trouble,” he whispered to your child and the baby kicked again, making him smile lovingly at the movement he felt under his hand. “You shouldn't be awake this late at night, you know.”

“You're one to talk,” you commented, tone almost reprimanding.

“She doesn't know that,” Bruce looked up at you as he defended himself before his gaze fell back on your belly. “Mommy is really tired,” he continued talking to your baby, his hand now rubbing soothingly over your round stomach, “and she needs her rest to do all the work so you can come out all healthy and beautiful. Well, you're definitely gonna be the most beautiful baby if you end up looking like your mother, but that's not the point.”

You smiled at the cheesy comment and your fingers found their place in Bruce’s hair, brushing through it and nails occasionally scratching his scalp.

“Your brother Dick can't wait for you to come around,” he carried on. “Said he will teach you all sorts of acrobatic tricks once you know how to walk. And he asked Alfred if he could help paint the nursery when we finally decide on a colour.”

“And I keep telling you we should do soft green,” you argued.

“I’m not changing my mind from primrose pink,” he told you with a sly grin.

“The room won’t be pink, even if it’s a girl. And that’s final,” you firmly said. Your husband will not be winning this one argument, no sir.

Bruce sighed, rolling his eyes before focusing back on your belly. “I hope you’re not as stubborn as your mother,” he whispered to the baby, as if he was having a private conversation with them and that you weren’t there. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s one of the many reasons why I fell in love with her, but I won’t be able to say no to you even when I have to, so it would save me a lot of reprimanding from Mommy if you’re not as tenacious as her.”

You smiled to yourself as you continued listening to your husband talk to your unborn child as you threaded your fingers through his hair, enjoying the softness it had after a shower. Bruce usually gelled his hair to appear more professional when he was working in the day, and then it would get all mixed up with his sweat under his cowl when he was working as Batman. When he would come back to you after the day was over, you would refuse to touch his hair until he had showered, the texture of the gel and sweat too gross on your fingers for you to ignore.

As Bruce continued talking to your baby, his voice started lulling the two of you to sleep. The baby hadn’t kicked in over almost ten minutes now, and the peace you had waited for so long to arrive made you aware of how heavy your eyelids were. You slowly lowered yourself down the bed, getting in a comfortable position with Bruce’s help where you could finally lay your head on your pillow and it didn’t take long for sleep to catch up on you.

At the sound of your soft, barely audible snores, Bruce turned his head away from your bump to find you asleep with your free hand raised next to your head on your pillow, the other one still tangled in his hair.

He planted a soft kiss on the exposed skin of your belly, eyes closed as he took a moment to absorb the fact that a baby that was half you and half him would be joining your world in a little more than three months. Bruce wasn't known to cry, the only time you ever saw him cry was as you walked down the aisle at your wedding, but tonight, a lonesome tear rolled down his cheek and fell on your stomach, where your child was growing, because Bruce never believed he would ever get to experience again the amount of love he hadn't felt since he was eight years old.

As he observed you, sleeping soundly with his child coming to life inside you, after you comforted Dick back to sleep, Bruce, for a moment, felt overwhelmed by all the love in his life. When he became Batman, he crossed out the idea of ever having a family (other than Alfred), of settling down with someone he loved and who loved him back.

But somehow, the universe put you on his path, as a miracle or a guardian angel or simply as an anchor to life outside of Batman, he didn't know. You walked into his home, into his life, to remind him that he, Bruce Wayne, was also deserving of love, of family, of happiness. Then Dick came along, rather unexpectedly but still no less welcomed, and Bruce started entertaining the idea of having children with you. He definitely wasn't opposed to it, but it wasn't something he wanted to jump right into, especially with Dick having just entered your lives. You were both young, he in his early thirties and you in your late twenties, you could allow yourselves a couple of years just the three of you (four with Alfred) before expanding the family.

So it was rather shocking when two months after you and Bruce had officially adopted Dick that you found out you were pregnant. It both took you by surprise but after talking through it together, you couldn't be happier. And the two of you haven't stopped being happy about this new little addition ever since.

Bruce rose up from his position next to your belly, your limp hand fell from his head as he did so, and he laid on the bed next to you. He delicately kissed your forehead, then your nose before falling back on his pillow and whispered “I love you” as he curled around your body, his hand resting on your belly as he fell asleep.

4K notes · View notes

livingmybestfakelife · 2 months ago

Text

Love Rollercoaster

Elias “Stack” x Reader (Pt. 2)

“You hungry? My mama has some leftovers from the fish fry earlier.”

He chuckled softly while shaking his head. “I’m alright….come here”

“Just thought I’d go ahead and freshen up before going back home”

“Whatchu rushing for? The room is still hot and we’re still sweaty, you didn’t even give me a chance to do my finishing move”

You chuckle at his playful but serious complaining, usually you two just laid there, cuddled in each other’s arms fresh after making love, he felt like something was up, and he had a strong feeling of what it might be about.

“Your finishing move will have me paralyzed all day tomorrow, you’ve done enough moves for the night, Elias”

He smirks and sits up further on the bed, gesturing you to come back to bed with his head.

You finally give in and lay back down, your head on his chest. He wraps his strong, warm arms around you and pecks the top of your head.

“You don’t have to run off back to him tonight, ain’t he gone for the weekend?”

“Yeah, on business in the city”

“So that means I have you all to myself”

“El-“

“Soooo that means I have you all to myself”

“Yeah….”

As he holds you tighter. You can hear his heart beat getting faster, his frustration is evident.

“I thought we had an agreement, you and me, remember? When it’s my time with you it’s MY time, that nigga don’t even exist when it’s our time together, ya understand?”

“Yes I understand…..don’t get upset”

You reach up and play with his ear, the way he always liked you to, it always calmed him, even when it slightly tickled at times. His heart beat slows down and he releases a deep exhale, he’s relaxing now, thank God.

“I’m not ladybug, I just don’t like the thought of you forgetting about me, I was here long before that boy walked into your life and I’ll be here afterwards”

You didn’t like the insinuated threat towards Donny.

“Elias….don’t go talking crazy now” you leaned and kissed him to shut him up, he could be a big baby at times.

He pulls you on top of him after your make out session was over.

“You remember what you promised me right?”

“Yes darling….soon okay, just not now, but I am leaving him”

He nods, still having some doubt in your planning, but he doesn’t let it bother him too much, because should you decide to prolong it longer than what you both agreed to, he’d make the decision for you.

#michael b jordan #michael b jordan imagine #sinners #sinners imagine

1K notes · View notes

luveline · 3 months ago

Note

angsty request coming!!! hotch taking care of an overworked reader who hasn’t been sleeping!! maybe the team notices r has been a bit scattered or feverish and hotch steps in!!!

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k Hotch knows, technically, that what he’s doing tonight is out of bounds. He just doesn’t care —can’t find it in himself to regret his actions as he shepherds you from the office and into his car. Doesn’t give your wide-eyed surprise any notice, doesn’t offer explanation as he takes you into the department store between the office and his apartment and tells you to choose.

“I don’t understand.”

He nods toward the lines of pointelle camisoles and shorts, gestures to the longer silken trousers, “Choose something to wear.”

You blink hotly. He’s flustered you, but that’s easy lately. “Do they have anything warmer?” you ask.

He takes your arm gently into his hand and turns you an inch, where the jersey material pajamas hang from the wall. There’s a nice brown coordinating set right in front of you. He guesses your size (he knows it from practice), pulling a hanger from up high to offer you. “Yes?” he asks.

“Why?”

“You’ll need them.”

You rub your face. “Okay, yeah. I like those ones.”

He folds them over his arm. He can feel you gaze on the side of his face as he takes you to the register and pays without giving the total any mind. Hotch doesn’t care how much anything costs, he only wants it to be soft. If it weren’t crossing a line, he would’ve found you new underwear, too.

He accepts the bag from the cashier and guides you out again. “Is there anything else you need?” he asks you.

“For what?”

“You aren’t going home.”

“I’m not?”

He shakes his head gently. He isn’t being intimidating, only straight forward. Hotch obviously isn’t in the business of kidnapping women, especially coworkers, friends, he just knows now that this won’t be solved without some tough love. “You’re staying with me, if you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind?”

Lethargic, you follow him to the car and get back in the front seat. He turns the heated seats on and watches you sink into the leather, clearly pleased, tired eyes slipping closed every now and then in the ensuing silence.

Regretfully, you startle as he parks, roused from whatever hooks that had finally managed to hold you. Heat, he thinks, is key here.

“I’m making oatmeal and cocoa,” he says as he opens the door, waiting for you to follow suit before he continues, “and you can go and get changed. You know where my room is?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, good. You can make yourself comfortable there.”

“In your room?”

He sends you a loving and agitated look over the door. Really? it says. You and Hotch have been trapped in an excitable will-they won’t-they situation for months, and he’d think by now the obvious answer to it all is we most certainly will. “Honey, yes. Unless you’d be more comfortable in Jack’s?”

“Does he still have the race car bed?”

“Afraid so.”

You hum, and lead the way to the house. Hotch hands you his keys, something in his chest tightly squeezed to see you turn the house key in the lock, to let yourself in, and to hold out your hand expectantly for the department bag. You head to his room like you do it everyday. Hotch resists the urge to call you back and kiss you with your jaw held in his hand —it’s not the point.

He gets a strange pang a few minutes later, stirring the pot of easy-sachet oatmeal, a rare pang of regret. Perhaps he’s being too headstrong, letting his worry guide him like this, pushing you to come home with him and to sleep in his bed. You might be at the same level as he is, but it still feels a little like pulling Spencer home with him and demanding he dress and eat as Hotch likes.

I’ll apologise, he thinks, setting your oatmeal and cocoa on a tray, conscious of the sun setting outside, night swiftly falling. If he really is going to say sorry and have you go home, you’ll be disrupted again. There’s a possibility Hotch has made this ten times worse.

He climbs the stairs and finds you laying on his side of the bed with your nose turned into his pillow, a damp sheen to your skin. You’ve washed your face, and changed into the new pajamas, just a little too big for you where you’ve curled around your hands.

“Honey?” he asks softly.

“Sorry,” you say, twice as quietly as he had, “just, it smells so nice in here.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’ll move.”

“Just sit up,” he says, thinking of you in the office with your jittering and your glass-eyed stare. “I’ve brought you something.”

You nod heavily and do as he’s asked, again. He sets the tray on your lap and you look up at him. It’s the look that does it, really. The half circles under your eyes are nothing to him beyond proof that you aren’t sleeping, the bloodshot in your sclera, it’s all inconsequential. What floors him is the unquestioning trust to be found when you look at him. He doesn't kid himself when he thinks that this could lend itself to love.

“You know why I’ve asked you to come home with me?” he asks carefully.

“I worried you.”

He puts the tray in your waiting lap, gracing your chin with a quick stroke underneath, feather-light. “I haven’t abused my power?”

“Buying me new clothes and making me dinner?” you ask softly, evident delight on your face as you notice the squares of chocolate that have begun to melt into your oatmeal.

“Forcing you home with me and sequestering you in my bedroom.”

“It’s not how I thought it would happen,” you confess, gathering a heaping mountain of oatmeal onto your spoon, “not the first time, at least. I guess I should worry you more often.”

“No,” he says, holding your chin between his fingers until you meet his serious gaze. “You shouldn’t.”

Your eyebrows do something he can’t name, but there’s a word for what it inspires in his chest. “I won’t,” you promise.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble #criminal minds

2K notes · View notes

kenyummy · 3 months ago

Text

✰ 01. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 01. sparkless life.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: guys i couldnt resist posting criesssss . also master is used as a gender neutral term!!!! couldn't be bothered to put master/mistress every time so

prev. ✰ masterlist. ✰ next.

When you wake up, your eyes are permeated by a hard light. Your eyes are squinted hard and you're having a difficult time getting your eyes to focus.

Your brain is fuzzy and feels like melted candy in your head. What was going on, again...? This bed... it's really comfy. It's like laying on a bed made of clouds, fairy dust, and your hopes and dreams.

(Nothing like your lumpy mattress back home... May told you it built character.)

You reach your hand up, to try and block out the harsh glare directed right into your retina. It dims in a second, and for a moment—you think you've finally developed mutant powers of telekinesis. You sit up—only to discover you were not actually the one who turned off said lights.

"Apologies, Master [name]." An older man with a distinct British accent stands in the door—a few feet away from the bed you're resting on. "I did not realise you had awoken already. I would've turned down the lights, if I was aware."

You blink, surveying the room around you. It's big. Unfamiliar, as well. Modern. Really big. Wait, did he just call you—

"Master [name]?" Your mouth moves faster than your mind, and your brows furrow deep. "What... where am I?"

The older man looks genuinely puzzled at how defensive your stance is. "Oh dear. Perhaps you did end up getting lead poisoning. Or a concussion. ... No matter. This recent amnesia is common within traumatic injuries."

He clears his throat with strict elegance and straightens his posture, "[name]. I believe you were attacked in an alleyway, when your brother found you. You were in the hospital for a few days, and brought back here—back home—this morning. You're currently in one of your father's guest rooms. The doctors said you were healing miraculously fast."

You hiss lowly. You really hope they hadn't gotten a blood sample—you haven't had the best of experiences with people getting your blood.

"You seem to be alright now. A bit..." He looks at your exposed, scarred shoulders. "Scuffed up—but better than when Master Jason had found you."

Your brother... Jason...? Who even...?

What's going on here?

Your heart seems to skip a beat as the calculations start going off in your head. A world you had never heard of... a place you'd never seen before—perhaps you weren't on a different world, and like you had suspected... it was definetly some multiverse shenanigans again.

You knew you should've made Jess take that mission instead of you. Damn. You and your dumb rivalry with Doc.

But you couldn't understand why this random man knows you. He speaks as if you've lived a life with him—like he's known you since...

You chew down on your bottom lip. "... This is... my home. I live here, don't I...?"

You play with words cautiously, speaking slow and methodical. It only serves to confuse the man even further.

"Yes, you... do? Master [name], perhaps you should go back to the hospital. You're sounding rather frazzled—"

You almost jump up, out of the sheets, "Uh—no! I... I'm fine. My head's just a bit... messed up right now. Sorry."

It's not—after that flashbang, you're feeling fine. Your shoulder only burns with a stretch whenever you put too much pressure on it—but you're completely okay otherwise. But you don't think you should let him know that just yet.

"If you insist, Master [name]." He bows his head. "Do you require any further assistance?"

You blink, considering your choices.

Eventually, you land on the safest option. Search your surroundings. Find out what's going on here before going all Spider-ham on them. For all you know—they're super skrulls waiting for the right moment to strike. You need to be smart about this.

"Yes... I would like to go to my room... could you... walk me there?" You don't meet his stern gaze. "I'm not sure I'm able to walk on my own two feet just yet. I'm sorry."

You don't see how his stare softens at your words. "Of course, Master [name]."

He walks over to the edge of the bed and steadies you with a hand on your shoulder as you shakily stumble out of the bed. It's bouncy enough to launch you forward slightly—and it takes every muscle in your body to stop your Spidey-instincts from taking over and jumping backwards.

He slips your arm within his and steadies you as you both slowly walk out of the large guest room. If this was a guest room—you wonder what your room looked like.

The hallways weren't anything to sneeze at, either. Decorated with contemporary art pieces—sleek and so shiny you could see your face in the tiles below your bare feet. You felt so out of place—the civilian clothes you sported since you got here still dressed your body, and it wasn't even close to fitting in.

As you stumble down the halls with a bit of overdramacy, a man suddenly appears from around a corner. Deep black hair and the brightest blue eyes you'd ever seen. His smile is wide and he waves enthusiastically, "Hey, Alfred! I got back from Blüdhaven after uh—I heard what happened."

"Hello, Master Dick. It's lovely to see you back home again." Alfred nods his head. The man in question—Dick, apparently, which makes the immature teen in you giggle—gives you a sorrowful expression.

But... doesn't say anything past that. He continues small talk with Alfred—and you're left propped up in the older man's arms with a lost expression.

Did he... just blow you off?

One—that was pretty rude. Two, did he not just say he came back after he heard what happened? Not to toot your own horn or anything—but you'd assume being shot kind of counts as a "what happened".

You press your lips firmly together. This was getting awkward for you, especially seeing how comfortable this huge Dick (yeah, you're taking it and running with it) seemed to be with leaving this sickly, wounded (maybe you're being a tad dramatic) person to stumble like a baby fawn, in silence.

Alfred, however—catches sight of your one-sided tension, and abruptly ends his conversation. "My apologies, Master Dick, but I must help [name] to their room. I would love to continue this conversation at a later date."

"Oh yeah, no sweat, Alfred." He gives the older man a gleeful thumbs up. Then, his eyes meet yours. "Get better soon, okay?"

You avert his stare and only nod in response. Well, at least he noticed you were there. You're still in mild shock, but you somehow manage to keep a pleasant expression. With one last small smile, Dick walks away—where, you don't really care about.

Alfred slowly helps you up a flight of stairs. He only breaks the silence after you find yourself standing in front of a room with a faded name on it. Your name. "... All these years, and only now, you've suddenly changed. I wonder..."

His words are cryptic, but his expression even more so. What was he talking about? "... Huh?"

A small smile fades on his face. "Ah... no. It's nothing. I was thinking out loud. Call me if you need anything else, Master [name]. I am at your service. And please... get better soon."

Somehow, it sounds nicer when he says it. You smile a little, and give him a nod.

"Thank you..." You test out his name on your tongue. It feels natural. "Alfred. I'll try my best."

He leaves with a curt nod and not another word. You finally slide the door open, and take a look around.

You step inside, and it's like you've entered a whole new world, again.

It's... small. Not by regular standards—it's almost double the size of your room at home—but compared to a guest bedroom in this overly massive home... it's rather small. Like a closet, more than a bedroom.

It's empty, too. Your room at home is decorated with posters and trinkets of your favourite shows, pictures of you with Harry and MJ (sometimes even the four), and memorable items you've collected with your friends and family over the years.

Memories. You had memories.

There is nothing here.

It's like you're standing in a blank slate—in a world where you are nothing and yet everything you've ever had. It sends a chill down your spine.

You walk barefoot across cold wood and take a seat on the bedsheets. Bare white with a childish print. Something a young child would use. It looks pretty scuffed up. Old. The mattress creaks under your weight and you wince.

There's a bookshelf just opposite to you. There's not much in it—in fact, it's smaller than small and is almost completely empty. There's nothing but school textbooks and thick novels. And...

It catches your eye almost immediately. A little pink slip in the midst of deep black and brown colours. You stand up—ignoring the creak that follows—and walk over to the shelf.

You slip the book out, and immediately take in its cover. Pink, and with your name in wonky cursive. It's rather dusty, as if it hadn't even been touched in years.

You flip open the cover. Big bubble letters spelling out My diary flash you and you quickly flip the page before the glitter sears into your eyelids.

The first entry is there. Exactly seven years and two months ago. It's nothing like those entries you've seen on those corny 2000's TV shows for tweens—nor is it like those aesthetic journaling girls on Pwinterest.

It's something, familiarly, you. A short clunk of text about your day, on days that had some sort of exciting event going on—something you'd undoubtedly do. It almost makes you grimace.

This whole multiverse thing might be worse than you thought.

Two days ago I moved into a new house. My mom said she couldn't take care of me anymore, and I had to live with my dad. I've never seen him until today, but he's really busy, so we don't talk much. Alfred is nice to me, and his cooking is really yummy.

There's a little sketch of a baked dinner—and despite your pre-tween art skills, it does seem rather tasty looking.

You flip the page. The next entry is a week after the last.

I still haven't talked with dad yet. But I did meet two new people. Alfred said that they're my new brothers. Mom never wanted any more babies, so I was very excited to meet them! Jason is fun to play with. He's really bad at hide and go seek, though—I always win! Dick is fun too, but he's busy a lot, like dad. But he always makes time for me and Jason. I really like it here.

There's a small picture of three stick people holding hands. One is significantly short than the other two—labelled with your name above. The one on the left to you is Jason, with black curls and a wide grin. The one on the right is labelled Dickie, much taller than the other two and with shaggy black hair.

The drawing is innocent. Cute. Wholesome, if you will. There's even heart stickers pasted (and peeling, by now) between each of your heads.

You flip the page with a small, fond smile. The next entry is three days after that one.

Dad played with me, Jason, and Dickie today. He was really bad at hide and go seek too—but Dad and Jason chased each other all around the house before I caught both of them. I was so happy I won today! Dad took us all out for dinner, even Alfred. Alfred said he only came because I always look very happy when we're together. The dinner was really yummy!!!!

The drawing underneath is a picture of what looked like a smaller version of you, standing triumphantly with a little tiara on your head.

You flip the page. This time—there's a significant gap between the dates. This was a whole 5 months after you last wrote in your diary.

I don't know where Jason is. Dad and Dickie look really sad. They've been really busy for a long time, and we don't play much anymore. The only times I see Dad is at dinner. But we don't talk. Sometimes he doesn't eat dinner, either. Alfred still puts my drawings on the fridge, and he says that Dad and Dickie are just sad now, and they'll be better soon. I miss Jason. I want him back home.

There's no silly-looking drawing to go underneath this entry. This Jason—apparently the man who saved you—seemed rather fun-loving, despite whatever happened to him. You wonder what it was.

You flip the page, again. This entry was 3 months after the last.

I miss Dad, and Dickie. Dickie told me he had to go away for a bit, because he has something important to do somewhere else. Dad is busy all the time. I haven't seen him in 4 days. I don't play with anyone but Alfred now, but he's not that fun to play with, because he's so serious all the time. Dad tells me to go on my iPad and not bother Alfred when I'm bored, but I miss them.

Next one is 2 days after.

I met a new boy today. Dad told me he's my new brother. I was pretty excited because he's my age. But he didn't want to talk to me. He said he was too caught up in important stuff, and that I should just come back later. But he looked real annoyed when saying it—so I didn't come back. He didn't say anything, so I don't think he cared.

A week later.

My dad is Batman, and my new brother is Robin. I'm freaking out. He never told me—I saw them sneaking out one day and I got really mad. Why didn't he tell me? Did Dickie and Jason know? Was I the only one who didn't? Tim got mad at me when I started yelling. I felt really sad so I hid in my room to get away from them. I've been here since. Alfred brought me dinner, but I'm not hungry.

So... this Batman who you saw before, is actually your dad? In this world, this is your father? You almost drop the diary in shock, but you can't tear your eyes away. You can't stop reading.

The next few entries don't catch your eye—it's all teen angst about how you're sick of how busy your dad is, how annoying Tim can be, how Dick won't even visit your room anymore—until something else catches your eye.

3 years later.

Jason is back. He's back home. I don't know why, but he's back. I was so excited to see him again—everyone else has become so busy and won't even talk to me. Nobody else has time for me, but Jason did. But he looked different. He's way older than me, now. He won't even look at me. I tried to hug him but he just put a mask on and walked away. Why is everyone doing this to me? What did I do? It's not fair.

Your writing grows into chicken scratch near the end—as if conveying your frustration. You skim through a few more entries. More teen angst. More about how you can't even hold a conversation with your siblings anymore.

Some were sweet, like how you met some people, unnamed, and treasured their friendship so deeply, but they were few and far between.

I met a girl today. She's my sister now. Her name is Cassandra, and she has very pretty eyes. I tried to talk to her, but dad got pretty mad at me because apparently she doesn't like to talk much. How was I supposed to know that? She didn't even look at me as dad pulled her away. Who even is she? Why does my dad like her better than me? Why does he like them all better than me? It's not fair.

You're bitter. You're upset, and so, so bitter. It's so abundantly clear that as time went on, you became progressively more and more spiteful. It was rather sad to watch.

This stupid little kid tried to kill me. Claimed I was unworthy. I couldn't give less of a shit what he thinks—but my family couldn't give less of a shit about me. They said he's troubled, that he needs patience.

The new few words were less than family friendly. Unkind? Definitely. Deserved? Possibly.

I can't believe this. I'm so sick of this. I want to get out. I can't take this anymore. Jason kills people now, but Bruce still loves him. Even Steph and Babs get more love from Bruce than me. They're not even in the family, but they're better. Because they're superheroes, they're better. Maybe I'll be a hero myself. Maybe then, they'll see me.

You flip the page. That's the last entry. The last page of the book—but behind it, there's a page made of sticky notes on the back cover. Your eyes widen in shock at what you see.

It's all...

"Spidey," you read out the name atop this pasted page in a low whisper.

Your fingertips trace over the detailed drawings. Your costume. Though not made of nanotech—the suit was intricately designed with spider patterns falling all around your arms and legs, with a large spider torso. It looked somewhat like Silk's suit.

Web shooters, with thorough calculations on how much you'd have to bulk up to swing without taking your arm off (which, by what you're reading, was humanly impossible for a regular you), and detailed explanations on what the web fluid was made out of.

More environmentally sustainable than your ones. You'd have to take these notes back home.

It wasn't like your family would go looking—you can't help but think, chewing on your cheek. This was incredible. You must've been a real genius to figure all this out.

Back home, you had Reed and Tony help you with all your spider stuff. Sure, you were the one who came up with all the base ideas and constructed it all yourself—but they helped out a lot with all the technicalities. But to come up with something like, from what you can tell, all on your own...

It was nothing short of incredible. And your family had no idea.

You snap the book shut, eyes narrowing down at the ground. Your Aunt May never would've treated you like this—and if you were correct, this other you must be with your aunt right now.

Good for them, you think. Maybe they'd be happier there, anyway.

A sudden knock at your door brings you out of your stupor. You slip the book away quickly as Alfred opens the door, bowing his head slightly. "Master [name], dinner is ready. If you're feeling better, please come down."

The prospect of a family dinner leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, especially after all you've read from this diary. No matter. You don't know how this you behaved before, but you have bigger issues to deal with than becoming a copy of this sad child.

But despite everything... Alfred really did seem to care for them—for you. You nod, smoothing out your cami. "Thanks. Let's go."

You and he both head down the stairs, and you finally come face to face with the family you've heard so much about.

They're all grinning from ear-to-ear, laughing about something that "happened on patrol" as you take a seat at the end of the table—beside a blonde girl who you think was called Stephanie—chewing on the food.

It was good. Really good. Almost as good as Aunt May's meatloaf. The thought makes you feel a little homesick, but you persevere. The hard glare given to you across the table by this small kid (definitely Damian) isn't helping, though.

Dick catches the look and follows his little brothers gaze to you. He doesn't say anything about it—only ruffles the boy's hair, chuckling, and asks why he seems so glum. The child hisses and starts trying to stab the man with a steak knife, to no avail—of course.

That was the last time you were even glanced at for the rest of the dinner. You almost can't believe it. How could somebody really fade into the background like that? How could such a family let it happen?

How could they be so ignorant? You lose your appetite soon enough, and stand up. The chatter dies down for a second. Stephanie—being the closest toward you, gives you an uncomfortable smile, "Are you not going to finish? You were out for a while... you need energy to get back up and do..."

Whatever it is you do at home, you guess that's probably what she was thinking. Who said you hadn't gotten a telepathic mutation?

She doesn't finish her sentence. You'd just met these people and already you were sick of this. Seriously, you don't think you could get any more uncomfortable if somebody strapped you to a chair and tossed you down a dark well.

You miss the most fantastic of fours you know. They'd never do this to you. Sue was far too sweet.

You shake your head, plate held tight in your hand. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. There's much more important things out there in Gotham, isn't there? Besides—I have more than enough time to heal. Not like I'm doing any hero stuff, huh?"

Your laugh lacks any kind of humour, and you walk out in your typical Spidey fashion. The chatter doesn't spike up for a good ten minutes until after you leave.

You meet Alfred in the kitchen, and he's doing countless dishes alone. There's a stack of plates almost as tall as he is. You roll up your sleeves.

He gives you a confused look. "Master [name]? I have told you before, you—"

"I don't care what you told me." You say, suddenly—but you backtrack when you realise how flat your tone was. Cheeks flushed, you correct yourself, "Ah—sorry. I meant... I don't care what you told me, because it doesn't matter if you don't want help... I'll offer it anyway, you know? I can't help it. It's how I am."

It's why I'm Spidey. Not because I have powers. Not because I'm good at swinging around. Not even because the costume is awesome.

It's because you can't help but help others. You have the power to do so—now it's your responsibility.

You take a sponge, and douse it in dishwashing liquid. You scrub down a porcelain plate beside Alfred in silence.

The pensive look on his face was now replaced by a small, fond smile.

we getting into the typical diary entry stuff okokokkkk but. love interests next chapter. smirks let me cook!!!@

taglist: @hello-bina @cosmosluckycharms @1abi @yhin-gg @insideoutjulie @bluepanda08 @omnivirgo @vanessa-boo @dind1n @welpthisisboring @lunaetiicsaystuff @marsmabe @atanukileaf @findingjaxx @4mrplumi

if you asked to be on the taglist but aren't there, your account couldn't be tagged for whatever reason. im not too sure how tumblr works, but if you manage to fix it, ask me again!!!

2K notes · View notes