#for those wondering things are still touch and go

[goyardgoyangi]

street racer! sukuna flying you out

You’ve never flown this far for a man before. Not for a boyfriend. Not for family. And Sukuna’s neither of those things—not exactly. Not officially.

But when your phone lit up at 2:03 a.m. with his name and a text that read: Tickets in your email. I want you there, you didn’t even hesitate.

You stared at the screen for maybe thirty seconds, heart pounding like a drum in your throat, rereading the words until they didn’t look like real language anymore.

The airport is a blur of escalators, overpriced coffee, and stiff plastic seats. Your fingers wrap tight around the phone in your lap the entire time, like it might vanish if you let go. You keep checking the itinerary like the tickets will disappear, like he might change his mind.

The flight is quiet. Too quiet. You keep looking out the window even though the clouds all start to look the same after a while. You scroll through old texts—most of them short, chaotic, voice notes, a few shirtless selfies he never even commented on after sending. There’s one photo of you he took when you weren’t looking, sun hitting your skin just right.

You wonder if he looks at it too.

The room he booked was ridiculous—plush king bed, balcony overlooking the city, bathroom big enough to echo in. The towels are folded like little swans, and there’s a basket of fruit on the coffee table that you know he didn’t pick, but somehow it still feels like a love language.

You glance at the bed, then toward the empty side of the room. He’s not here.

Your heart dips before you catch yourself. You’re not here for him like that. Not officially. Not yet.

Still, your name is on the reservation. You wonder if he had to spell it out loud—if he got annoyed when they asked for your ID, or if he said it proud like it meant something. You picture him at the front desk, arms crossed, scowling while the poor receptionist stammers through the check-in. The thought makes your stomach flutter.

By the time you make it to the track, the sun is brutal and the crowd feels like it’s vibrating. Everything is loud: the engines revving like wild animals, bass-heavy music pulsing through the speakers, vendors yelling about merch and drinks and souvenir flags. And there it is—his banner. Sukuna’s face smirking down from the overhead display, tattoos sharp beneath the collar of his fireproof suit. He looks like he was born for this, like chaos bends around him.

You try to shrink into your hoodie. You feel like you shouldn’t be here—like you’re intruding on a moment that belongs to him. You’re just a girl in the crowd, aren’t you? A fly-in. Temporary.

But then— “Thought I told you to be in the VIP tent.”

You turn, heart skipping—and there he is.

Hair tied back, suit half unzipped and slung around his waist, black tank clinging to his chest like it was painted on. His tattoos coil around his biceps, disappearing beneath fabric in smooth lines that look almost sacred. He’s squinting against the sunlight, sunglasses dangling from one hand, and he’s looking at you like he’s been scanning the crowd for hours just to find you.

“Hey,” you breathe, surprised by how relieved you feel at the sight of him.

He looks you up and down, then sighs, “Didn’t I tell you to wait where it’s shady?”

You shrug, trying not to smile. “Didn’t want to be in the way.”

He steps closer, tugging on the sleeve of your jacket with two fingers. “You wearing sunscreen?”

“…No?”

He shakes his head, muttering something about stubborn girls under his breath, and pulls a small travel tube from his back pocket like he knew you'd be reckless. He doesn’t even say anything—just squeezes some into his palm and gently smooths it across your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, your forehead. His fingers are rough but careful, his brow furrowed in concentration like he’s tuning a car, not touching a girl.

You blink up at him, stunned silent.

“There,” he murmurs. “Can’t have you going back sunburned.”

“You always take care of your pit crew like this?”

He snorts. “You think I flew you out here just to keep you hidden?”

You roll your eyes at his sass. “Didn’t fly me first class either.”

“You liked that window seat or not?”

You try not to laugh, but he sees the way your mouth pulls into a smile, the way your eyes soften. He always sees it.

You always do this—pretend it’s casual, pretend he doesn’t mean more than he should. Pretend the butterflies are just nerves, pretend you’re just friends with benefits with frequent flyer miles. But the way he’s looking at you now… the way he touches you like you matter? It makes pretending feel stupid.

He steps in until your toes nearly touch. “Come with me.”

You blink. “Where?”

“To the pit. I want you there when I line up.”

Your brows lift. “Are you sure?”

He leans in, voice low. “I don’t want to look over and not see you.”

Your chest twists. “You’re gonna make me think you actually like me.”

“Maybe I fuckin’ do,” he says easily—like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true.

You’re still short-circuiting when he laces his fingers with yours and starts pulling you through the crowd. His hand is warm, a little calloused, his grip loose but certain. It’s not just for show. He doesn’t let go, not once. Not when security waves you through. Not when pit crew nod in passing, glancing at you like you’re familiar. Like you belong.

It’s chaos around you, heat and noise and movement, but he stays close—always checking if you’re still beside him. His thumb rubs across the back of your hand once, slow and thoughtless. You wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.

When you reach the pit, his car glints under the sun like a weapon. Matte black, red striping, the number 20 on the hood. Same number tattooed on his hands. You’re not even into cars, but you have to admit—this one looks mean. Fast. Like it has a heart that beats the same as his.

He lets go of your hand to shrug on his fireproof jacket and zip it up. A crew member hands him his helmet. You catch him sneaking a glance at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

“You nervous?” you ask, voice soft.

He’s quiet for a second, then glances at the track, then at you. “Nah. Not about the race.”

That shouldn’t hit the way it does, but it does.

You cross your arms, chewing the inside of your cheek while he tugs on his gloves. You don’t know what to say. You’re not even sure what you are to him.

But before the crew can herd him toward the lineup, Sukuna turns to you again.

“You stay right here, yeah?” His voice is low, almost drowned out by the rising engines. “Don’t disappear on me.”

“I won’t,” you say quietly.

He steps in close again, helmet tucked under his arm, eyes locked on yours.

Then—just when you think he might lean in to whisper something—

He kisses your forehead.

Not your cheek. Not your lips.

Your forehead.

It’s simple, but it knocks the air out of you.

He pulls back just a little. “Be good.”

You nod, a little dumb. A little dizzy.

And when he turns to walk toward the car, you already know—whether he wins or not, whether this thing between you ever has a name—you’ll remember this moment forever.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Declassified [10] - Damage Control

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: Self-doubt can appear out of nowhere.

Warnings: Explicit language, yearning, mentions of sexual acts.

Word Count: 5.8k

Series Masterlist

Contrary to popular belief, falling in love with one’s boss made life harder, not easier.

You kept seeing him at work, you lost your focus whenever you talked to him –or he walked by you, for that matter— and he was the main character of your dreams every night.

“Birdie, are you awake?”

Like now.

The daze of sleep disappeared, pulling you out of the pleasant dream and you let out a whine, burying your face into the pillow.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Caleb opened the door and stepped in, then sat by the edge of the bed. “Morning sunshine.”

You rolled onto your back, rubbing at your eyes before you dropped them. “I was dreaming about Bucky.”

“Like a sexy dream?”

You hummed. “It was basically a black and white movie.”

“Like a sexy black and white movie?”

“We were in a house,” you muttered. “It had a garden outside, I was wearing this vintage dress, and baking a pie—”

“So, not a sexy dream.”

“I don’t even know how to bake a pie.” You yawned, looking up at the ceiling with a frown. “And then he walked into the kitchen and kissed me, and asked where the kids were—actually, you know what? Now that I think about it; I feel like it was an episode of I Love Lucy.”

“Your subconscious is really not original.”

“I think I was wearing pearls or something,” you mused, making Caleb tilt his head.

“So you mixed a bunch of vintage movies together and decided that was the way to go?”

“To repeat, I don’t know how to bake a pie,” you insisted. “Obviously I didn’t dec—”

“Did you tell her yet?” Kelsey leaned on the doorframe with a cup of coffee in her hand and you looked between her and Caleb.

“Tell me what?”

Caleb paused for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Okay, first of all,” he said. “As Bucky’s communications director, I assure you that we can easily spin this.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach and you pulled yourself up into a sitting position, your breathing getting faster.

“Spin what?”

“In fact, I’m confident that if we focus on offense, we won’t even have to go that hard into defense—”

“Caleb,” you cut him off. “Spin what?”

He heaved a sigh, then pulled out his phone, touched the screen and turned it to you.

Shit.

Oh shit.

It was a blurry picture of you and Bucky in that pub last night, in one of those gossip accounts.

“Okay, before you panic,” Caleb said while you stared at the phone with wide eyes, trying to find your breath. “The fact that he has a girlfriend plays right into our hand, I’ve already planned the—nope, don’t check the comments.” He snatched the phone out of your hand. “Birdie, listen to me.”

“…I’ll have to resign.”

“Literally what the fuck did I just say about panicking?” Caleb asked while Kelsey stifled a laugh.

“Caleb already came up with a plan and sent it everywhere. We’re working on it.”

 You blinked back the tears, wiping at your eyes. “Um…”

“And for the first time, you should be glad that Bucky is dating Hazel,” Caleb said. “I just talked to Bucky, and apparently Hazel already called him because she saw this as well, and decided to visit Bucky sometime this week because she missed him, and so that they can join that gala thing together.”

“And she wants to make sure she still has him,” Kelsey muttered and took a sip of her coffee and you shook your head.

“No no, guys you don’t understand—”

“I think I understand it better than you,” Caleb said. “It was a good call to put that file on the table.”

You frowned, trying to focus. “What?”

Caleb zoomed in the picture. “There’s a file. On the table.”

“I took it to my parents’ place just in case I could work on—”

“Nope,” Caleb said. “You were trying to work on two bills at the same time, you were feeling very overwhelmed because a lot of people want you on their team and this is literally your first month in the Congress, so Bucky, being a very attentive boss, had to insist on taking you out so that you could work on it outside the office. As the file on the table suggests. There is no kiss, you don’t even hold hands, there is literally no foundation to those accusations other than some blurry picture of two people who have made waves in politics enough to intimidate people. And now drumroll please, for the offense.”

“Caleb—”

“This is a terrible smear campaign not only on Congressman Barnes, who by the way, is in a committed relationship with Miss Brooks, but also on Mr. Drexel—”

“My father would never agree to get dragged into this.”

“Tough shit, I am dragging him into this to save you,” Caleb said. “But also on Mr. Drexel, who has served this country as a consultant for decades working with multiple cabinets. It’s at best tabloid gossip, at worst a planned attack that is designed to use the first woman the tabloids saw around Mr. Barnes, who has maintained a professional relationship with him throughout his campaign and is deeply disturbed by these rumors. Too long didn’t read; the only crime these two have is that they’re both fucking hot, there’s a file on the table, bitch are you blind?”

 “He’s good, isn’t he?” Kelsey asked with a grin while Caleb took a bow like an actor on stage while you gawked at him.

“And people will believe that?”

“Not all of them obviously, but most will believe that as long as he’s dating Hazel, and there’s no picture of a kiss between you and him,” Caleb said. “The moment a picture like that comes out, we are gonna be fucked.”

You shook your head fervently. “There’s no picture like that because me and Bucky have never kissed.”

“When you do, please do it inside until I figure out how to work that angle.”

“Caleb,” you said warningly and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Come on, it will happen one day,” he said. “And hopefully by then, I’ll have found an idea how to use it in our benefit.”

“Can we focus on this?” you asked, motioning at the phone and Caleb shrugged.

“What’s there to focus? I already put out the statement, by now everyone in the Congress and their mothers read it.”

“You did all that in…?”

“An hour.”

“Jesus, you are good.” You took a look at your phone to check whether your father had called you or texted you, but he hadn’t.

“This is weird,” you muttered and ran a hand over your face. “Are you sure that will work?”

“Like I said. As long as there’s no picture of a kiss or anything to suggest that you two are fucking, we can spin it and even work it for our benefit.”

You took a shaky breath, then slipped a little in the bed, panic still pounding in your chest.

“I need to see Bucky—”

“You’re not going to see Bucky on a Sunday, the day after the rumor mill started,” Kelsey said. “No way. And if he’s smart, he will be on his way to New York right now to bring Hazel here on Monday so maybe it’s not the best idea to call him either. Or text him. Or do anything that might make Hazel think these rumors are true in case she’s with him.”

Jealousy twisted your gut and you bit inside your cheek, then nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “That makes sense I guess.”

“Great.” Caleb slapped his knees and got up. “Now, get dressed.”

“Why?”

“We found a great brunch spot,” Kelsey said while Caleb reached out to grab Blinky from your nightstand. “We’re going there.”

“I don’t think it’s the best idea for me to—”

“You’re not going into hiding because there’s nothing to hide,” Caleb said and put Blinky in your lap. “Well, I doubt we’re telling his girlfriend he changed cities just to get you your childhood plushie back so we’re hiding that, but you know. Other than that.”

You pursed your lips, playing with Blinky’s tail.

“Come on Birdie,” Kelsey said. “I’m giving you half an hour, then we’re going to brunch. I’m fucking starving!”

She and Caleb left your room and closed the door behind them, and you let out a breath, then looked down at Blinky.

“Well,” you said. “We’re in so much trouble.”

                                         *

Your whole Sunday was spent with convincing multiple people that there was nothing going on between you and Bucky. Perhaps the strangest part was that instead of calling you, your father had your mother call you and ask whether there was any truth to these rumors, and you had to swear on your grandmother’s grave.

Knowing that you were on speaker.

Well, whatever it was, it had worked. You didn’t think your father was very happy about this but at least for now, it looked like his approach was to watch it and analyze before interfering.

You had answered Bucky’s “Are we okay?” text with a curt “Tomorrow” and much to your surprise, he hadn’t insisted and instead let you spend your Sunday without also worrying about that part of the story.

Although, you had a feeling that Sarah had something to do with it.

And now that it was Monday morning and you were walking past the security, anxiety was heavy enough to tremble your hands as you held up your ID pass, then entered the hallway.

Okay.

It was going to be fine.

“Hey, Hurricane!”

I want to go back home.

You looked over your shoulder and tried to smile at Lucas. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he said with a grin. “I would ask you how your weekend was, but I have a pretty good idea.”

You ran a hand over your face. “Trust me, you have no idea.”

He gave you an apologetic look as you both turned the corner. “How are you holding up?”

Well, this was a good sign.

“Uh…” you trailed off. “Quite shaken, to be honest.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “I’ve been alone with Gray more times than I could count, and no one blinked twice. It’s just because of Barnes and his whole thing, not you.”

You frowned, ready to jump to Bucky’s defense. “His whole thing?”

“Yeah, the whole tall dark handsome guy with tortured but mysterious past?”

“I’ll make sure to let him know you find him handsome.” You grinned. “And his past is not exactly mysterious, HYDRA files are out there.”

“You know what I mean.”

You snorted a laugh. “Yeah, I guess,” you muttered. “Obviously there’s nothing there but I’m not sure people—”

“Don’t worry about it, no one here bought that shit.”

I will buy Caleb a month’s worth of coffee and also name my firstborn after him.

You raised your brows and stopped walking to look at him better. “No one?”

“No one with a brain,” he corrected himself, making you smile. “Come on. You’re pretty, he has a certain charm, people will talk. No matter how good you are at your job.”

You tilted your head, your smile growing bigger.

“Thanks,” you said. “I appreciate it.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky entering the hallway as well, talking to a congressman but he stopped dead in his tracks, then turned to the congressman, pretending to listen to him with a frown even though you knew very well that he was watching you. Your heartbeat got faster and you took a deep breath, trying to focus on Lucas who ran a hand through his hair.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “And it would be stupid, you know? Like as far as I’ve seen, you’re too smart for that.”

You forced a laugh. “Way too smart.”

“Not to mention, you probably have uh—have a boyfriend right?”

Bucky’s whole body stiffened, but the only clue any observer would have noticed was the way his jaw clenched.

Which, you were pretty sure that no one noticed but you.

“I actually just got out of a very long relationship,” you said, stealing a look at Bucky before smiling at Lucas. “Hey, you know what? I just remembered it was my turn to get coffee today and Kelsey needs her coffee so I need to get to the cafeteria. See you around?”

“Uh, sure!” he said as you started walking. “Hey, we still need to do the—”

“The report, working on it!” you called out and turned the corner, then let out a breath and leaned back to the wall.

Alright.

This was ridiculous.

It was a stupid rumor, and no matter how much you wanted Bucky, he still had a girlfriend.

A girlfriend who was coming by sometime this week.

You shut your eyes, willing yourself to calm down before you wiped the sweat off your forehead, then started making your way to the cafeteria. You went down the stairs and turned a corner but as soon as you did, someone grabbed your arm and pulled you into the nearest room, covering your mouth to cut off your scream.

It was only when the door closed shut that you realized who it was.

“What the fuck?” you whispered, panic still pounding in your head. “Bucky, I swear to God if someone saw—”

“That corner is a blind spot.”

You blinked a couple of times. “What?”

“The cameras don’t see that corner and here, so no one will know.”

You took a look at the supply closet you were in, trying to pull your thoughts together before you looked up at his stupidly handsome face.

“And why—why are we in a supply closet?”

“Did I or did I not say he wanted you?” he asked, pointing at the door that led outside and you raised your brows.

“Huh?”

“That guy. Lucas.”

“I feel like we have more important things to talk about rather than someone asking me out.”

“So you do accept he was asking you out?”

“We’re just going to ignore the elephant in the supply closet then? Alright, great.”

“Birdie, he was trying to find out if you had a boyfriend because he—”

“How was your weekend?” you cut him off. “Mine was a fucking disaster, thank you for asking.”

A look of guilt flashed across his face, his eyes darting over your face.

“…Sorry.”

You scoffed a breath from your nose, crossing your arms over your chest.

“How was it, really?” Bucky asked and you rolled your eyes.

“Bad,” you said. “Even my mom called, and I’m pretty sure my father was listening to every word I said. And you?”

“I was going to come and see you—”

“Terrible idea.”

“And then I texted you and you said tomorrow.”

You offered him a small smile. “Ah, thank you for listening to me.”

“Well to be honest, I was going to come anyway.”

“Of course.”

“I was losing my mind,” he insisted. “But uh, Sarah said I should give you your space, and she’s usually right about everything, so…”

Called it.

“And Hazel?”

He paused for a moment.

“She’s coming today, actually,” he said. “And she’ll stay until that gala nonsense.”

You tried to ignore the bitter taste at the back of your throat and nodded your head.

“That’s good. And like, in terms of optics—”

“Birdie, are we okay?” he cut you off as if he couldn’t keep it in anymore and you licked your lips.

“Depends,” you said. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t care about rumors, you know that.”

“You can’t say it didn’t bother you.”

“I honestly don’t give a—I don’t care.” He stopped himself from cursing and you bit back a smile.

“Nobody would blame you if you did,” you said. “If Caleb didn’t spin it, it could’ve affected your votes, the campaign next term, not to mention your work in here.”

“I don’t care,” he insisted. “I just…”

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed thickly like he was nervous all of a sudden, like he couldn’t get the words out. This wasn’t the first time you were seeing this, whenever Bucky needed to talk about his feelings he either faltered or shut down, but every single time he got that kicked puppy look on his face; brows pinched together, lips turned downwards in the most kissable way, his eyes cast down and his gaze turning distant.

It took everything in you not to pull him to yourself and kiss him just to make sure he would never look that sad or lost again.

“I need you to be okay,” he ended up saying quietly, still looking at the floor instead of your face. “For—” He gestured between you. “For us to be okay.”

Oh you had to get out of here before you started taking your clothes off.

Or got on your knees.

Or got on your knees while taking your clothes off.

“We’re okay,” you managed to breathe out, forcing yourself to focus. “We’re totally okay if you’re okay.”

He gave you a curt nod, biting inside his cheek. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” you said and repressed a smile. “And he wasn’t asking me out.”

That managed to pull him out of that shell he was retrieving into, making his head snap up.

“He was!” he said while you let out a laugh and opened the door to step outside with him following you. “No, Birdie I’m telling you—”

“He was just curious I’m sure,” you said, still grinning and he let out a groan, awakening those butterflies in your stomach again.

“He was fishing for information.”

You made a face. “Was he though?”

“Yes because he—where are we going?”

“We’re going to get coffee,” you said as you made your way to the cafeteria. “I feel like I’m going to need a lot of it today.”

                                      *

The rest of the day was relatively better. Apparently, Caleb’s approach to that whole scandal had worked on most people but he had warned you that you had to be careful in the following day not to do anything to fuel any more of that fire.

Which was fine.

It wasn’t like Bucky was asking you out to go to pubs anyway.

“Kels?” you asked without looking up from your computer. “Can you send me the report we had on the uh— on the I think the first week of last month, with the mental health resources for veterans?”

Kelsey tilted her head. “Weren’t you working on the clean energy bill with Mr. Rebound?”

You lifted your head to stare at her. “Mr. what now?”

“Mr. Rebound,” Kelsey said. “Because, you know, you need to get out there but he’s obviously not gonna be the one who get into a relationship with. He’s just a guy you sleep with a couple of times and then find someone else.”

You stole a look at Bucky’s closed door, then turned to her and grabbed the small fox figure on your desk.

“Okay, many things wrong with that theory,” you said, turning it in your hands. “First of all, I literally just got out of a relationship.”

“Yeah I know. Five Minutes Comma Max.”

“Well it—okay, that one is good,” you said with a huff of laughter. “Anyways, even if I were looking for a rebound, it wouldn’t be someone from work. I literally work with the guy.”

A smirk curled Kelsey’s lips and she jerked her head in the direction of Bucky’s office, and you pointed at her with the figure.

“Kelsey.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s true love,” she said, clutching at her chest dramatically and you rolled your eyes.

“It’s just different.”

Kelsey looked around the office, then pushed her chair back to come sit on your desk.

“Well you can keep yourself busy while…” she trailed off and stole a look at Bucky’s closed door before turning to you. “You know.”

You shook your head while she crossed her legs, leaning forward so that you could hear her murmur.

“Did I tell you she’s coming here for lunch?”

“Hazel?” you whispered and she nodded.

“Mm hm.”

Damn it.

Bucky had told you Hazel was coming today, but you had just assumed she was coming to the city and not the goddamn building you were in. You checked the time to see it was near lunch, and huffed out a breath.

“I cannot be here when she drops by,” you said. “She already wanted me fired before, and I don’t want to push my luck.”

“Bucky would never fire you.”

“I’m still not risking it,” you said. “I’ll just go to the bathroom and be right back, and then we can go to lunch? There’s no way we’ll be having lunch at the same place anyway.”

“You do realize you’ll have to see her at the gala?”

“That’s a problem for the future me, be right back,” you said and walked out of the office to go into the bathroom at the end of the hall.

While you were washing your hands, you were also trying to come up with excuses to skip the gala but none seemed convincing enough. It was going to be an important event so Bucky was going to want you there even if Hazel didn’t.

Maybe it would be crowded enough that you could avoid both of them for the whole night.

You finished washing your hands and went to the hand dryer but as soon as you took a step, the bathroom door opened, making you turn your head out of habit.

Fuck.

Oh fuck, oh fuck…

Hazel seemed as surprised to see you as you were to see her, and you offered her a small smile just because you didn’t know what the fuck you were supposed to do, then turned your attention to the hand dryer.

Okay.

You just had to walk out.

You had already smiled and acknowledged her presence, which was probably more interaction than she wanted from you, so you just had to walk out of the bathroom, go to the cafeteria and text Kelsey. You pulled your hands back from the dryer while Hazel refreshed her lipstick, her eyes on the mirror even though you knew she was paying attention to your every single movement.

Anne Boleyn worked for Catherine of Aragon for years, you can handle just walking out of the bathroom while Hazel is here.

Keep walking.

Just walking to the door, not saying anything—

But of course you had to turn around the moment you gripped the door handle: “Miss Brooks?”

Fuck.

She raised her brows as if she was taken aback by your audacity –which to be honest, you were as well— but she didn’t say anything, just looked at you in complete silence, waiting for you to say whatever you wanted to say. You could already feel the stomachache you were going to get from anxiety, but you took a deep breath and cleared your throat.

“Um, I just wanted to say—” you stammered. “I’m guessing you saw that gossip piece, and I know of course you didn’t believe it because it’s completely false, but I wanted to apologize anyway, if it…um, if I somehow crossed the line.”

The silence was not making things easy so of course your brain took it as a demand to fill it immediately.

“Because like, I can assure you everything between Mr. Barnes and I, it’s completely professional. I would never—I mean obviously also he would never—we— not that I’m referring to him and I as a unit or anything, what that piece suggested is just lies and—”

“I know it’s just lies.”

Her voice was completely calm, similar to the approach Bucky had adapted while you were freaking out at his doorstep, but unlike his, Hazel’s tone also held a condescending tinge in it. You gulped to ease the tightening in your throat, then nodded your head with a forced smile.

“Oh.”

“Obviously nothing is going on between you two.”

You shook your head fervently. “Oh, of course—”

“But it’s not from a lack of trying on your part.”

That managed to shut you up, your eyes snapping up to hers. She hadn’t even said it in a hostile way, it was phrased in such a matter-of-fact way that for a couple of seconds you just gawked at her, then managed to pull yourself together.

“Miss Brooks, I can assure you I would never do that.”

Hazel smiled at you as if she was entertained by your pitiful attempt to lie to her and you cleared your throat.

“Our relationship is completely professional—”

“If you’re gonna recite me some PR bullshit, you should just email that to my assistant,” she pointed out. “Listen, I’m not here to start a catfight, and I’m certainly not going to fight over a man, both of those are beneath me. Or any other woman. I’m not even trying to insult you, I’m just telling you that I know.”

You pursed your lips just so that you could stop the words threatening to spill from them.

“I get it,” she said and gestured at you. “You’re the pretty, starry-eyed girl and he’s…well, him. So to be honest, it would be surprising if this whole schoolgirl crush didn’t take place. Obviously it will.”

You gritted your teeth, barely noticing that you were wringing your hands to keep your calm.

“You are important to Bucky,” she said. “You’re good at what you do, and despite this whole thing, apparently you’re somehow smart…”

Fuck. You.

“But the fact that your relationship is professional is not because you’re keeping it professional,” she said. “It’s because he’s determined to ignore those cute lovesick smiles you keep throwing his way.”

Nope.

You were not going to take this bait, and you were certainly not going to react to this in any way.

“So you don’t need to worry about me,” she said with a small smile. “I don’t see you as any threat to my relationship.”

You tried to swallow the bitterness of anger at the back of your throat, and as much as you wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, what left your lips was very different.

“Have a nice day, Miss Brooks.”

With that, you pulled the door open and walked out of the bathroom, still shaking with fury.

                                            *

“I applaud your self-control because I would’ve gone full on high school bathroom fight on her, I don’t care how much money her family has.”

You rolled your eyes as you laid on the floor and Caleb filled Kelsey’s glass with wine.

“I mean,” he said, “it sounds like she kind of called you a whore.”

“A dumb whore,” Kelsey added and you pointed at her.

“Exactly!” you said. “Whore I could understand, but dumb? That’s just rude as hell.”

“Maybe you should’ve told her to ask her man why he’s throwing a fit every time Lucas so much as breathes within the perimeter,” Kelsey said with a smirk and you scoffed.

“He’s not throwing a fit.”

“Sorry, what do we call breaking a goddamn chair when Lucas asked you out?”

“And to repeat, I was in that chair.” Caleb wagged his finger in the air. “It could’ve been my fucking neck. I basically survived the Winter Soldier.”

“Oh and pulling you into a supply closet?” Kelsey asked, motioning at you and you heaved a sigh, then pulled yourself up into a sitting position, making a face when your back cracked.

“We really do need a couch.”

“What’s wrong with our pillows?” Caleb gestured at the pillows and you shook your head.

“We look like interns at a startup tech company that has an open buffet of cereals.”

“Great, now I’m craving cereal,” Caleb muttered and looked between you and Kelsey. “Do you guys think anyone tried cereal with wine?”

“Nope.”

“Let’s try it,” he said and walked to the kitchen while you let out a whine, pressing your hands on your eyes.

“Kels…”

“Listen, she does see you as a threat,” Kelsey said. “That’s why she gave you that condescending talk, but it doesn’t matter. That relationship won’t last, you know that, I know that, Sarah knows that, and most importantly, Hazel knows that.”

“I don’t know that actually.”

Kelsey rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Max was your first serious boyfriend and all, but even you can’t be that out of the loop when it comes to relationships.”

“And yet.” You took a sip of your wine. “Guess who he’s probably fucking right now?”

“Aw, guess who he’s probably imagining while he’s fucking her right now?”

“Bucky isn’t like that,” you said. “And I doubt anyone would imagine anyone else when they have Hazel in their bed. Have you seen that woman? She’s gorgeous.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kelsey sang and you rubbed your eyes.

“Kels, I can’t…” you trailed off. “Listen, what if she has a point? I—I have feelings for him but what if he sees me as some dumb girl with a crush that he entertains just because of my job?”

“You can’t let her get to you, and that’s not how he sees you.”

“But we don’t know that, do we? If he had any feelings for me, he would break up with Hazel.”

“Just like how you broke up with Max?” she asked, making you frown. “Because we both know your feelings for him started way before your break up and to repeat, Bucky is from a different century. He’s not gonna make a move on you while he’s in a relationship, but he’s trying to find a way to get out of that relationship without that breakup hurting Hazel’s…reputation.”

You scoffed. “Her reputation?”

“People couldn’t just drop relationships back in the 40s, Birdie.”

“Well, it’s not the—”

“Did you guys decide what you’re going to wear to that gala?” Caleb asked, coming back with a bowl of dry cereal and three spoons in his hand. “I mean we’ll be working and all, but we can’t just go with our usual clothes. And I don’t have a suit.”

“I’ll help you out, Cinderella.”

Caleb sat down. “You’re an angel, Kels.”

“I have a bunch of clothes from the time Max would drag me to events,” you said. “Kels, you can borrow one of mine if you’d like.”

“Oh I’d like that very much.”

“I mean they’re not exactly gowns but they should—” you started but was cut off when your phone started vibrating, making all three of you look at the caller ID, your heart doing a happy flip in your chest before you frowned at yourself.

“Well, what do you know?” Kelsey said and took a sip of her wine. “I guess he wasn’t fucking her after all.”

“Why does Bucky hate texting?” Caleb mused and Kelsey shrugged her shoulders.

“Probably because it reminds him of telegraphs from the front or something—”

“I’ll be back,” you said as you snatched the phone and stood up while Caleb reached for the wine bottle.

“Are we doing this or not?”

“Caleb, that sounds disgusting…” Kelsey whined and you walked to your room, then closed the door behind you and answered the call, your heart beating in your ears.

 “Hey.”

“Hi.” Bucky’s voice reached your ear, filling your stomach with butterflies. “Everything alright?”

You needed to pull your shit together.

Contrary to what Kelsey and Caleb told you, Hazel did have a point. You were acting like a starry-eyed idiot with a schoolgirl crush, and you couldn’t let Bucky think that about you, not when you had been trying so hard to prove yourself.

You swallowed nervously. “Yeah. Why?”

“You uh—” He paused. “You usually see me before you leave work?”

 You pursed your lips, sitting down on your bed to grab Blinky. Of course it hadn’t escaped his notice, with or without Hazel you always made sure to see him before you left work, ever since you had started working together.

However, you had a feeling that did not help the starry-eyed thing.

“Birdie?”

Your head snapped up and you closed your eyes, then took a deep breath and opened them again.

“I was busy with the clean energy thing,” you said. “Sorry about that.”

“No I didn’t ask for you to apologize,” he said quickly. “I just wanted to make sure.”

You ran a hand over your face, then looked down at Blinky, biting inside your cheek.

“Um,” you said. “Did you need me for something?”

You could almost see the frown on his face as he paused on the other line for a second.

“Alright, what’s going on?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

You wiped your eyes, then heaved a sigh. “Nothing is wrong.”

“Did someone say something?”

Oh yeah, funny you should ask. Your girlfriend.

You opened your mouth to say no, but turned your head when Caleb’s voice carried into the room.

“Birdie you need to come here, I think I discovered a new type of food!”

You scrunched up your face, playing with Blinky’s tail.

“I should go,” you rasped out and he let out a shaky breath.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I told you. Nothing is wrong.”

“No, something is wrong and I’m gonna—” He paused and you could almost see him pacing restlessly, running his hands through his hair like he always did whenever he was stressed. “I need to fix whatever is making you sad.”

“That’s not your responsibility.”

“Yes it is.”

“Why?” Your voice came out harsher than you intended and he fell quiet for a moment. You pursed your lips, then scoffed.

“See? Exactly.”

“Birdie, you…” he trailed off and let out a breath. “You know why.”

You didn’t trust your voice so you just stayed silent, turning Blinky’s tail around your finger.

“Come on,” he insisted in a soft whisper. “You have to know why.”

You dragged your tongue over your teeth, trying to keep yourself calm but the words had already left your lips before you could control yourself.

“How’s Hazel?”

Silence fell upon him and you clicked your tongue, nodding to yourself.

“Good night Bucky,” you said and hung up, then let yourself fall back to the bed, your eyes still burning with tears. You sniffled, holding Blinky to your chest and kicked at the covers at the foot of the bed just so that you could get some of the frustration out of your system.

If Bucky wanted to be with her, fine.

But you weren’t going to let anyone see you as an idiot.

“Birdie!”

“Coming!” you called out and wiped your eyes, then got up from the bed and put Blinky on the pillow, then made your way to the living room to find Caleb holding up the cereal bowl which seemed to be filled with wine, grinning at you.

“I’m a genius.”

“And I’m in the mood to get drunk,” you said as you sat down next to Kelsey. “Wine cereal it is.”

[letsdosciencetoit]

WIP - BuckTommy 5+1 - Part 3

Wanted to have this written yesterday, but got sick. Here's part 3 of 5 times the 118 worries about telling Buck that Tommy got married, and 1 time they realize they don't have to.

Part 1 Part 2

3. Hen

Hen has just finished her last 24 for the rotation and is looking forward to four days off.  Karen will be at work, while Denny and Mara are in school, so she has the day to herself until they get home.

She goes to the Trader Joes near the station before heading home to pick up some groceries, and the ingredients to make a big batch of Bobby’s chili.  It never comes out the same when she makes it.  The only other person who knew how to make it right was Buck, and she hasn’t seen him since the transfer.

There are no family meals at the station now, and she misses it. She wonders if she should reach out to Buck while she’s off, but she doesn’t know his schedule now. Maybe she should reach out to Chimney and see…

She stops before she rounds the corner when she hears a familiar voice in the next aisle.

“Sweetheart, I am not driving to Whole Foods if they don’t have fresh tagliatelle,” she hears Tommy argue, but the tone is fond, rather than exacerbated. He pauses to let the other person speak.  “Look, they have fettuccini or pappardelle.  Can I please grab one of those and come home?”

Hen pushes the cart forward, and sees Tommy leaning against a post with his phone up to his ear.  He’s smiling at whatever the other person is saying, then lets out a huff of laughter.  “I’m Italian, or course I know how to make tagliatelle. And you’d do that thing anyway.”

Hen takes Tommy in, seeing his smile, and how light he seems. The man pauses again, before he says, “Okay. I should be home in thirty. I love you, too.”

He hangs up the phone, and before he has the chance to clock Hen, she says, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Tommy’s head jerks up, and he offers her a small smile.  “I guess Chimney told you the news?”

Hen nodded.  “I’ll say I’m surprised you moved so quickly, but I’m not really one to talk considering how Karent and I got together.”

Tommy smiles wider, clearly remembering the whirlwind romance, buying a house, and adopting Denny in short order.  “Yeah, we weren’t quite that quick with the U-haul.”

Hen snorts at the teasing jab. “So what brings you all the way to our Trader Joes?  You move with the marriage?”

Tommy shakes his head. “Not exactly, but apparently this store has the best selection of pasta, and he’s unwilling to compromise on his recipe.  I offered to come out after I got off today, but apparently I’m stuck making it from scratch after I catch up on some sleep.”

Hen is happy to see Tommy so smitten with his new man.  Still, she wants to check in with him.  “Rough shift, or something else?”

“No worse than normal, but I’ve been having some late nights at home,” Tommy answers, and on anyone else it would be a leer, but with Tommy, his tone and expression just let her know that if she’s going to pry he’s going to give her more information that she wants.

“Okay!  Still in the honeymoon period!  I got it!” she says, laughing and putting her hands up in the air in surrender.  “If you can tear yourself away from your new beau, you two should come over for dinner with Karen and I.  I don’t want to lose touch with you again.”

Tommy’s face shutters a little, and Hen is quickly reminded about how they’d lost touch after the transfer, and again after he and Buck split.

“I mean it,” Hen implores.  “I don’t want it to be another 7 years before we see each other again.”

“Okay,” Tommy answers, and Hen can’t tell if he’s serious, or just humouring her. “I’ll check our schedules and give you a call.  But the phone works both ways, Hen.”

“Yeah,” Hen admitted. “I deserve that.  I’ll do better.”

“That’s all we can try to do,” Tommy acknowledged. “But I’d better get this home so I can nap before I’m put to work in the kitchen.”

Hen waves him on.  “Yeah, yeah!  Get out of here and get your beauty sleep.”

Tommy just smiled and shook his head before he walked off.

*** 9-1-1 ***

Hen has the chili done by the time everyone gets home for the evening.  She’s even made corn bread with a photocopied recipe card Buck had given her, along with annotations in his hand writing on how to make it fool-proof for her.

They enjoy the meal together, even if it isn’t as good as Bobby’s, and she counts her blessings at how lucky she is to have the little family they’ve built.

After they get the kids ready for bed, she and Karen sit on the couch together and scroll on their phones.

“Tommy got married,” she offers up to Karen.

“Good for him,” is all Karen responds.

“I’m worried about how Buck will take it, if he finds out,” Hen says.

Karen puts down her phone and looks directly at Hen. “When was the last time you spoke with Buck?”

If she really things about it, she knows it’s been more than a month since he transferred stations.

Karen looks at her knowingly.  “I don’t really think you need to be worried about breaking the news to Buck.”

Hen feels a little ashamed, and Tommy’s words ring in her head.  “The phone works both ways.”

Buck had been reaching out, and reaching out, and reaching out for connection before he’d transferred. Maybe it was her turn to reach out now.

She sends him a short text, given the hour. 

HEN: Let me know your schedule, Buckaroo.  We’re long overdue for a date with a bottle of Tequila.

The message remains unread until she goes to bed.  When she wakes up, Buck has left a thumbs up, and nothing else.

Part 4

Tag List: @fenrirscarsback

[afroslacks]

Hi I saw that you were taking requests and I was wondering if you were interested in doing something with girldad smoke whose teen daughter has his negotiation skills and her uncle's smart mouth and hustler mentality getting into trouble at school and reader being upset because obviously she get it from those two

Or a smoke x stack x reader where they are together and they meet readers family who don't know about them and how they react to the relationship maybe throw in an annoying old fling of readers who won't leave her alone

Obviously only if you're interested it's cool if you're not

ou, Smoke, and Stack have been in a relationship for one year. But your relationship is anything but normal. Not many people date two siblings at the same time. So, you’ve decided to keep things private to save yourself from public scrutiny and prying eyes. The boys don’t care, as long as you don’t take your love away — that’s all they want: your love and affection.

You're lying on the couch with Stack holding your feet in his lap and Smoke sitting beside you.

“So, when are we going to tell your parents about us?” Stack asks, breaking the peaceful silence as the three of you watch television.

At the sound of his words, your heart drops at the uncomfortable question. Your eyes bulge.

“What?” you ask, sitting up from your position.

“You heard him. When are you going to introduce us?” Smoke pauses the television and turns to you.

In your mind, you're scrambling to come up with a million excuses to put this meeting off. But ultimately, none of them seem believable.

The twins are anything but stupid — pushy, sure — but stupid? Not a chance in hell.

“Baby, I would love to, but… you know how my family is.”

At your reply, Stack’s face curls in annoyance at your lame excuse, and he moves your feet from his lap.

“Bullshit,” he spits, standing up from the couch.

Smoke silently shakes his head at the situation unfolding. You reach out to place your hand on his arm, but he moves it before you can touch his skin — he feels betrayed by your lies.

“Elijah,” you croak, hurt by your usually silent lover. Smoke has always been the type to still love you, no matter how upset he got. After dating them for a while, you’ve grown used to Stack’s chaotic, unpredictable energy. But you’ve also come to understand the quiet storm that is Smoke.

“Are you ashamed of us or something?” Smoke asks, raising a brow.

You immediately shake your head. “No, baby, I love you both too much for that.”

Stack scoffs at your pretty words. “You sure as hell ain’t acting like it. We wanna be like normal couples and meet your family. Nothing in our lives has been normal or peaceful — except for you.” He confesses this, locking his deep brown eyes onto yours.

You exhale at the weight of his words and start to feel ashamed for trying to shut them out of another part of your life.

“I only said no because my family might not accept our relationship. They may view it as… unnatural,” you explain, looking at them both.

Your family is very religious, while you identify as atheist or agnostic. You’re not as deep into faith as they are. You prefer facts over fiction or fairy tales, which always makes things awkward. Even when you bring up a progressive idea, for some reason, those old folks still fantasize about "the good ol' days."

“So what — we’re supposed to be your dirty little secret until you walk down the aisle and give them a nice surprise?” Smoke asks, not buying your explanation.

“No—” you begin, but Stack cuts you off.

“Are we always supposed to disappear every time you get on FaceTime with them?”

You sigh heavily, trying again.

“I’m not saying—”

Smoke adds in, “Nah, Stack, she wants to keep her famous lie going — you know, that she's 'focusing on herself,' whatever that shit means.”

You shut your mouth, having no good comeback to combat their words.

Instead, you dramatically flop onto the back of the couch, looking at the ceiling and wishing you could rewind time by five minutes.

“Oh, now you ain’t got nothing to say?” Stack crosses his arms, standing in front of the television, refusing to let the conversation die.

After some thought, you come to the conclusion that you have nothing left to lose. So, reluctantly, you agree.

“Okay.”

The Moore twins break into big grins.

One week later

You sit in the passenger seat of Smoke’s car as Stack leans forward from the back like an eager kid, eyes glued to your family home. Then he shifts his attention to your queasy, uneasy face.

“Calm down, we’ll behave,” he snickers, placing a hand on your cheek and rubbing his thumb soothingly.

You hastily push his hand away.

“Not right now, Stack. I don’t have time for your games. When we get inside, I need you to behave,” you say, turning to look at him directly.

You don’t even glance at Smoke — he knows better. He doesn’t act like a crazy man.

“Whatever. Let’s go. I’m ready to meet my in-laws,” Stack says as he gets out of the car. Then he opens your door, standing there with his hand out, ready for you to place your palm in his.

You look at him reluctantly, then slowly place your hand in his, wondering if it’s too late to back out.

Sensing your hesitation, both twins each grab one of your arms and begin walking you toward the door.

“Don’t run now — we haven’t even made it to the door yet,” Smoke says, tightening his grip.

Stack firmly knocks.

Moments later, your mother opens the door with a smile — which quickly fades when she sees your uneasy face.

“Honey, what’s wrong? I thought you said we were meeting your lover.”

You say nothing, heart racing, hoping she picks up on the situation herself.

She looks past you to the twins.

“Hello. I’m Elijah, and this is my brother Elias. We’re both taken with your child,” Smoke says in the most gentlemanly voice possible.

Your mother looks back at you, eyes wide — and promptly faints.

“Mama!” you cry, breaking free from the boys to check on her.

Leaning over her, you place a hand on her forehead. Then you turn to the twins, frustration bubbling.

“Now do you see why I didn’t want you to meet them?” you scoff, then turn back toward your mother. “Monica, what are you doing on the floor?” you hear your father call out as his footsteps approach.

Just when you think the day can’t get any worse, it does.

You remember — all of this started just because they were so desperate to meet your family.

Stack mutters, “Baby, your mama’s dramatic, and I don’t even know her yet,” adjusting his clothes.

Then your father finally appears at the door. He takes one look at the twins, then down at you.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, staring at you with a mix of anger and disappointment.

You focus on your mother, unable to meet his eyes.

[certified-sleep-deprived]

Hi

I hope you're doing well

I don’t know if your requests are open but if there are

I was wondering if you could write for Agatha Harkness x reader. Maybe Agatha finds reader humping against a pillow and smut

tysm <3

Pillow Humping

Hi anon! This has been sitting in my drafts for months and I apologize. I hit a huge creative block and I just haven't felt like doing anything, but I'm slowly crawling out and trying to get to the requests piling in my inbox. This was kinda buns so I'm sorry. My requests are always open unless specifically stated otherwise :D

Wc: 1.4k+

Warnings/notes: Top Agatha, bottom reader, r is sexually frustrated because her wife is away for a week, pillow humping, fingering (r receiving), mommy kink, slight degrading (a calls r a whore), cunnilingus, legal age gap (all characters over 18), 18+ NSFW under the cut!

This entire week has been absolute hell.

Your wife, Agatha, had been away on a trip for her job in Chicago with the promise of making it up to you as soon as she got back. But, in her words, “You are under no circumstance to touch yourself while I am away, or Mommy will have to punish you”. And this had made the entire week a slump before she even left.

Oh, it probably didn't help that she would call you at night and would be masturbating over the phone so nonchalantly you could be fooled she wasn't playing with her clit while she had the phone on speaker next to her.

By the second call, you couldn't even concentrate on her voice anymore. All you could hear was the visceral sounds of her fingering herself or using the dildo she fucks you with when she dons her strap.

It was pure fucking torture.

You had managed to not touch yourself the entire week, but you've had enough at this point. Your wife would continue to taunt and tease you, and you needed relief fast. Agatha's actions had you too pent up and sexually frustrated to even function on your own work, and it showed in your performance.

So, you know what you said? Fuck it.

Fuck her rules. Just this once can't hurt, right?

The air in your shared bedroom with her buzzed with arousal and pent-up desire. Your eyes flickered to her pillow beside your head, and the idea you had already made your loins hot and sticky. If you couldn't fuck her, then her pillow was the next best thing around.

Maybe you were a tad bit excited at the prospect because you scrambled out of those blankets and shucked your sleep pants, having forgone underwear for the evening all together.

As you grabbed her pillow, all you could smell was the lingering traces of her conditioner. Even after a week of her absence it still carried that familiar scent of jasmine and coconut she loved so much. The pillow slotted in between your legs, and you slowly lowered your hips to glide your folds along the seam. But you must have been really sensitive from a week of orgasm denial because when your clit connects with the seam, an obscene moan flies from your throat. It's loud enough that you don't even hear the front door open and close downstairs.

Agatha had gotten home early from her work trip and wanted to surprise her darling wife by fucking her thoroughly in their bed. She wanted to make the night about you as an apology for having to go away for so long. But you can imagine the older woman's surprise when she finds said wife humping a pillow–failing miserably may I add–which went against her rules of not touching herself.

And, Agatha realized, it wasn't just any pillow on the bed that you were humping; it was one of hers. You were humping her pillow. The pillow she slept on every night.

The sight was arousing as much as it was infuriating. No pillow could make you fall apart like she can. She's the real deal, and she was going to make sure you knew that.

First, her baby girl broke one of her rules, and second, she was trying to get off on her pillow. A fucking pillow. This wasn't going to fly with her at all. She finally broke your chain of frustrated grunts and moans with a taunt.

“Well, well, well. What is this?” She tsks. “An impatient wife of mine who is too much of a whore that she can't even wait for Mommy to come home?” Her face mimics an expression of mock hurt.

“And here I thought I could surprise you by coming home early.”

Her footsteps fall silent on the bedroom carpet as she stalks to the foot of the bed like she was caging in her prey.

It wasn't too far from the truth.

Once her voice had broken you from your incessant humping of her pillow, you knew you were absolutely fucked. You were caught breaking one of her rules and she was going to punish you.

She crawls on the bed and yanks the pillow out from between your bare legs, throwing it somewhere behind her and onto the floor.

You scramble up the bed until your back hits the headboard behind you, and apologies spill from your mouth.

“Agatha, I'm so sorry, I-”

“Is that how you address me?” She huffs and takes your hair in one of her hands, yanking your head close enough you could feel the humidity of her breath on your face.

“You fucked up, and I want you to address me properly, you brat. Who am I?”

She grabs your chin, not tightly, but firm enough that you can't turn your gaze away from hers. Agatha's eyes burn like a blazing inferno, but not out of rage. Her eyes reflect that of a woman who was equally pent-up with desire as you had been the past week. And the cerulean of her irises are nearly blown out by how dilated her pupils were.

“I'm sorry, Mommy. I tried to be a good girl!”

Your wife huffs in mock disbelief, and you can still smell the lingering traces of Starbucks on her breath. It's a smell you know so well due to how often you find her slaving away in the office downstairs.

“If you were a good girl, then you would have known better than to touch yourself, pet.”

She pulls you down by your thighs from the headboard slightly so your head is resting on the pillows. Her fingers softly glide and dance over your inner thighs, always stopping just short of your soaked folds before gliding back down. It was torture, and she knew what she was doing. She was the master of puppets, and by puppets, you were the only one stringed up in her web.

You roll your hips down to try and catch her hands, desperate for any sort of friction on your throbbing core.

“Mommy, please! Need your fingers inside of me!”

She smirks and trails her fingers to just grazing along your folds, and the ghostly touch makes your hips jump up.

“Do you think you deserve it? After all, you were a bad girl and broke one of Mommy's rules.”

A frustrated whine left your lips as she straddles your hips to keep you from squirming.

“Please, Mommy! I'll be a good girl. I promise!”, you whimper. It was an act of pure desperation, but it seemed to be enough for her because as soon as those words leave your mouth, her eyes darken and swirl with a hunger only you know you can satisfy. Her breathing is shallow and ragged as those same hungry eyes rake over your form, and she shimmies down your body until her face is eye-level with your groin.

You hook your thighs on her shoulders as her tongue delves in between your folds, licking a hot stripe up from your entrance to your clit, swirling circles around it, and then pulling away.

Her fingers replace her tongue only a moment later, pumping in and out of your quivering hole, desperate to bring you to your peak.

She wanted to punish you, but when she was sexually pent up for an extended period of time and then had you begging like that? She couldn't. Agatha needs this as much as you do.

Your g-spot was constantly being bumped by her fingers, the stimulation from it, and your overall neediness were bringing you to the edge faster than you expected. It was like a tsunami slowly rolling into the beach.

Agatha took note of this and navigated her mouth back to your clit to bring you over the waterfall. This woman always drank up your reactions and thrived to see you tumble over the precipice.

She was so consumed by your impending orgasm that she didn't even realize you had cum until she felt it gush all over her mouth. Her chin and mouth were dripping with the aftermath of said orgasm, and it only fueled her.

“Let me go get a towel to clean–” you start to move to the bathroom, but your wife stops you. She has a certain glint in her eyes, one that you're accustomed to by now.

“No,” she says firmly. “Its been too long since I've had you.” Agatha begins to undo her pants, and while she pushes them down, you can hear the unreleased desire in her voice as she speaks.

“It's Mommy's turn now.”

[yanyandam]

Hmm HIII again saw your request are open and wanted to make a request because your Rindou art gave me a dream/idea… NOT JOKING but I was wondering if u could write a fic of him

It’s basically a happy ending AU where Rindou and Ran own a club and Rindou is DJing and one night he sees reader dancing and drawing a big crowd. He thinks she’s cute and ends up talking to her they hit it off and hook up (U DONT HAVE TO WRITE THE HOOK UP PART) But when the reader’s leaving, she bumps into Ran outside and have small talk and she heads back to the club after a few days to dance and later, she finds Rindou at the bar, and just as they’re talking Ran shows up being the annoying older brother is like “Hey I remember you You were leaving my little bro’s room,” and starts talking about how Rindou’s been all emo since his ex dumped him and hasn’t hooked up in months embarrassing Rindou BUT in the end it turns out that moment was actually Ran giving his drunken best man speech at Rindou and reader’s wedding being super inappropriate talking about not kid friendly things while Rindou’s losing his mind yelling at his brother and reader is just drunk and laughing while their kid (gender your choice) who they had before getting married, is sitting there stuffing their face with cake asking “What’s is a hookup?”

AHHH sorry its long… AGAIN PLEASE know u don’t have to write this (it would be nice) BUT DONT FEEL THE NEED TO u probably have a BUNCH of requests that have built up over the months <3 (also that other sanzu one I requested DONT DO THAT ONE I asked for that because I missed u) Anyways Love LOVE your writing it’s always *chefs kiss*and just seeing u post makes me smile anyways sorry the request is long :p

HIII SORRY FOR MAKING YOU WAIT SO LONG!! Thanks for the support, as for the sanzu fic, I had accidentally deleted the request but when i wanted to ask whoever requested whatever, i forgor the acc lmao. You can ask it again if you want!! Whatever, did my best here, love ya

That night, he’d been watching you pacing back and forth.

The club was chaos and velvet. Low lights, flashing reds, shadows dancing on sweat-slick walls. Haitani Club, yeah: a name that echoed through Roppongi like a dirty secret. Too clean to be illegal, too powerful to be innocent. People whispered yakuza affiliations, but what was the point of accusing a Haitani of anything? When your name carries weight, who needs backup? But that’s not the point.

Rindou was pushing thirty and still spinning like the world owed him something. He liked to say that real DJs worshipped the vinyl, not SoundCloud remixes from some TikTok-brained kid in Harajuku. There was a sacred art in beat matching, in crate-digging for forgotten records. Tonight, though, he was going through the motions; head bobbing, cigarette burning dangerously close to the mixer, watching the crowd lose themselves to a bassline he barely cared about. And then he saw you.

It wasn’t even your face that caught him first, just the way you moved through the floor like the music owed you space. Your body, loose but intentional. Your hair stuck to your temple, glitter under your eyes. A deliberate error on your outfit, like a name tag ripped halfway, a strap falling down just so… the kind of thing that made sober men double take and drunk ones trip over their own feet. Then your head turned. Those eyes. Sharp. Bored. Beautiful. “Not bad,” he muttered to himself.

He exhaled smoke through his nose, flicked the volume down just a touch, then waved over one of the juniors to take over the deck. He didn’t bother explaining. Didn’t need to.He stepped down from the booth, adjusting the cuffs on his black shirt, feet hitting the floor with lazy confidence. His tattoos peeking just barely beneath his sleeves, face unreadable but locked in. Target acquired.

You feel someone watching you before you even see him. Not in a creepy way : just that instinct, that flicker at the back of your neck, that quiet pressure like heat before lightning. You glance up from your drink. There he is.

He’s leaning against the bar now, lit from behind in a haze of red neon and cigarette smoke. His shirt is half-unbuttoned like he forgot about it mid-task. He moves like a man who doesn’t rush for anyone.

“Your boy out there?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the dance floor.

You blink, caught off-guard. “Who?”

“The one spilling half his drink every time he moves. Kinda tragic.”

You raise an eyebrow, already half-smiling despite yourself. “You always this nosy?”

He shrugs, lazy. “Only when I see someone dancing like they deserve better company.”

His tone isn’t even smug. Just matter-of-fact. You look him over; the faint tattoo ink creeping out from under his sleeve, the tired eyes that somehow still scan like a laser, the faint scent of something expensive and careless.

“You hit on people often while hiding behind DJ booths?” you ask.

He actually smiles this time.

“Only when the bass isn’t the best thing I’ve seen tonight.”

Your stomach flips, stupidly. It shouldn't be working. But it is.

“You’re not subtle, are you?”

“Nope,” he says, eyes on your mouth. “I’m efficient.”

You laugh; a little sharp, a little defensive. It’s been a long time since someone spoke to you like that without sounding desperate.

“You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who hasn’t even offered a name.”

“Rindou,” he says, without missing a beat. “Now come on.”

He nods toward the quieter end of the club. There’s no pressure. No insistence. Just the expectation that you’ll follow.

The hotel wasn’t far, just a turn off the main strip, tucked behind a ramen joint that smelled like broth and cheap beer. Neon buzzed overhead, soft and sickly, casting the whole hallway in flickering pinks and greens. Rindou walked ahead of you, slow and unhurried, like he knew exactly where he was going. Like this wasn’t new to him. Maybe it wasn’t. His keycard beeped low and hollow. The door clicked open with a sigh.

He didn’t turn on the lights right away. The glow from the city outside filtered through the blackout curtains, just enough to outline his silhouette as he dropped his jacket over a chair and kicked off his shoes like it was his own place. He turned slightly, his voice low.

“You coming in, or…?”

You stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind you. It was quiet in here. Too quiet. You could still hear the pulse of bass faintly through the walls,  or maybe it was just your own heartbeat. Rindou didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you. Not with hunger, not even with heat, just with that slow, assessing calm of someone who knows they don’t need to rush. You caught your reflection in the mirror across the room. Smudged eyeliner. Slightly parted lips. A little dazed.

He was still watching you. “You okay?” he asked, finally.

You nodded. He cracked a smile. “Good. I don’t want you drunk and regretting shit.”

“I’m not drunk,” you said.

He raised a brow. “Sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

For a second, neither of you moved. And then he took a step forward. He reached out (not for your waist, not for your face) but for your hand. Just your hand. His palm was warm. Callused in a way that surprised you. “I don’t rush,” he said.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t need to. Not for the whole night.

—-

You left the hotel with your jacket barely on and the taste of cheap champagne still hanging on your tongue. The air hit different outside. Like the city was reminding you that you weren’t in some dim-lit bubble anymore. And then, just as you were lighting a cigarette and pulling your phone out to check the time, someone spoke behind you.

“Well shit, you’re not limping. I thought my little bro had more stamina than that.”

You turned. Tall guy, smirking, gold rings catching the glow of a nearby vending machine. Haitani Ran?

“Excuse me?” you said.

“Relax,” he chuckled. “I’m just messing. Saw you heading out of the hotel. Rindou’s room. You were, what, up there an hour? Two?”

You stared at him. He didn’t flinch.

“You always this nosy?” Probably a good adjective for them both.

He shrugged, taking a lazy drag from his cigarette like this was just another Tuesday.

“Only when it’s about my little brother. He’s been acting like a kicked puppy for months. You’re the first person I’ve seen him even look at like that. Just saying.”

You rolled your eyes, but something about his tone wasn’t mean. Just blunt. Maybe he didn’t know how to be anything else.

“Thanks for the update, I guess.”

“Anytime,” he said with a crooked grin. “Name’s Ran, by the way. If he ghosts you, you can always call the upgrade.”

You scoffed, but maybe, just maybe, you smiled a little too before walking away.

A few days passed. The memory should’ve faded. It didn’t. So, you went back. Not to chase anything, that’s what you told yourself anyway, but just to dance, to sweat it out, to maybe see if it was all just a one-night trick your brain played on you. You slipped through the front doors like you’d done it a hundred times. Same red lighting. Same pulsing bass. But this time, he wasn’t behind the booth.

Rindou was at the bar, one hand around a glass, the other scrolling through something on his phone like he was trying not to look bored. He didn’t notice you right away: or maybe he did, and just waited. You leaned against the bar next to him.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he muttered, voice low.

“I didn’t think I’d come back.”

He looked at you finally, eyes heavy but a little amused. “So… you here for the music, or for something else?”

You gave him a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He smirked, raised his glass in a half-toast. “Too late.”

You were mid-sip, pretending not to notice the way his leg had been tapping under the counter since you showed up. Conversation was still in that awkward limbo between “was that a one-time thing?” and “so… now what?”

Then, the atmosphere shifted, you didn’t even have to turn to know it.

“Yo,” a familiar voice called behind you, smooth and loud like it was born to interrupt. “I remember you. You were the one sneaking out of my little bro’s room the other night.”

You glanced over your shoulder. Ran Haitani, grinning like he was about to drop a bomb just for the fun of watching it blow. Rindou visibly tensed beside you, glass pausing midair. “Ran. Fuck off.”

But Ran was already leaning on the bar, way too comfortable, already making it worse.

“Bro, chill. I’m just saying. It was kind of adorable. You haven’t seen this guy lately, all broody and broken-hearted ever since his ex did him dirty. I was starting to think he forgot how to flirt.”

Rindou exhaled like he was trying to stay calm, but his knuckles were white around his drink. Ran didn’t stop. “Then boom. You come along. He’s got a spring in his step again. Guy even shaved his neck for once. That’s how I knew it was serious.”

You tried not to laugh, but it cracked out anyway. Rindou shot you a betrayed side-eye. “Don’t encourage him.”

But Ran was already on a roll. “He hadn’t even looked at anyone since, what was it? I was getting worried, for real. Thought he might start writing poetry or some shit.”

You turned to Rindou, raising an eyebrow. “Poetry?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Rindou muttered through clenched teeth, glaring at his brother. “He’s drunk. Or high. Or both.”

“I’m not drunk,” Ran said, clearly lying. “I’m observant. And supportive. This is me being supportive.”

Rindou slammed his drink down and stood. “I’m leaving.”

“Aw, come on-”

“Nope. Not doing this.”

He walked off, dragging his dignity behind him, and Ran just looked at you with that same smug expression. “See? Told you he gets all emotional. You want another drink?” God. The wedding was supposed to be elegant. 

That was the idea. Clean black suits, soft lights, imported champagne, and a string quartet nobody could hear over the sound of distant laughter and clinking glass. And then later Ran took the mic.

The room quieted a little, half-curious, half-afraid. Everyone knew this man had a mouth on him. Rindou was already shaking his head before a single word left his brother’s lips.

Ran raised his glass. “To love, right?”

A soft cheer rose, polite. Safe. But Ran kept going. “You know… I remember when I first met you,” he said, pointing directly at you in your wedding dress like it was a roast. “Leaving my little bro’s hotel room, hair all fucked up, walking like your knees lost the will to live.”

The crowd choked on their drinks. Rindou physically lunged, grabbing the mic, but Ran twisted away.

“Let me finish!” he yelled, already laughing at his own mess. “I’m being heartfelt!”

“Ran, shut the fuck up—”

“Nah nah, this is important. Because that night, right after, this idiot- ” He gestured to Rindou. “This quiet, emotionally-stunted loser came up to me and said, ‘I think I actually like her.’ Which was nuts, because before that, he’d been crying about his ex for three goddamn months and not touching a single soul.”

“Ran,” Rindou barked. “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

“He used to mope on the fucking couch,” Ran continued, ignoring him, “like a little Victorian widow. Refused to go out. Said modern women had no taste. And then—boom. She shows up, and suddenly he’s washing his hair and trimming his nails and-”

You were crying with laughter, doubled over at the table, wine glass threatening to slip from your hand. It was chaos. The good kind. Your cheeks hurt. You didn’t care that the whole guest list was horrified. You’d been through worse. “Ran, I swear to god” Rindou was red in the face, practically yanking the mic away now.

“Oh shut up, you married her, didn’t you?” Ran shouted into the mic before it finally cut.

There was a beat of silence, heavy. Charged. Then your kid, who was sitting nearby with cake all over their cheeks, looked up from their plate and said, loudly:

“What’s a hookup?”

And just like that, the room exploded. Rindou buried his face in his hands, groaning so deep it was almost a prayer. You were wheezing. Ran threw his head back and howled with laughter, arms spread like he just pulled off the greatest performance of his life.It wasn’t perfect. But it was yours. And somehow, it felt just right.

[foolish-watcher]

DPxDC IDEA #2

So this is just an extention of my previous idea so Hear me out.

Danny Phantom didn’t just become King of the Infinite Realms. He earned it. Twice.

First, he took down Pariah Dark, the old undead tyrant who ruled with screaming banshees and bone dragons. Everyone thought that was the big moment. But nope. That was just level one.

The real test? Dan Phantom. His own future self, the version of him that broke, snapped, and drowned the world in ash. Danny faced him. Fought him. Chose to be better. Ripped the crown off his own worst fear and said:

“If I become you, then who’s left to stop me?” And then he won. And the Infinite Realms saw that and went: “Yeah. That’s our king.”

But here’s the kicker: the Infinite Realms isn’t just ghost limbo. It’s deeper. Weirder. It touches everywhere. It’s the spiritual backend of the multiverse. It’s where souls go when Death claims them, where stray ideas from Dream float by, where Destiny’s threads get tangled, where Delirium’s chaos paints the sky, where Despair weeps, where Desire whispers. It’s not one place—it’s all places in-between.

And now Danny’s running it. With a hoodie, glowing green eyes, and a very tired expression.

That’s when the Endless stepped in. They didn’t fight him. They didn’t test him. They just… looked at him. Saw what he’d done. What he was doing.

And they gave him a name.

Deliberation. Because Danny chooses. Always. He weighs, he wonders, he hesitates—and then he jumps in headfirst anyway, because someone has to.

He’s the eighth now. The unexpected sibling.

Delirium loves him.

She showed up in the Realms once, riding a fish made of television static, screamed “NEW BROTHERRRRRR!!!” and tackled him midair. Danny screamed, Fright Knight almost decapitated her out of reflex, and Clockwork just sipped tea like this was normal.

“You’re sticky,” Delirium giggled, clinging to Danny’s arm. “You’re real,” Danny blinked, “Wait, are you—are those shoes made of bees??”

They’ve been chaos buddies ever since.

Clockwork, of course, is one of Destiny’s tools. A soft-spoken failsafe. A little cheat code Destiny made in case things got too messy. He watches over Danny like a tired dad/grandpa/supervisor with a headache.

“You are exceeding your quota of nonsense,” Clockwork sighs. “You made me king of ghost limbo, what did you expect?” Danny deadpans.

Fright Knight? Used to belong to Dream. A nightmare that got kicked out for being too edgy. Now he stands guard outside Danny’s throne room like a very dramatic emo uncle.

And the Neverborn? Souls that were almost, but not quite. Not ready for life. Formed from ectoplasm and longing. Danny tries to help them move on, guide them into reincarnation. But some… just don’t fit. So he places them gently in the hands of the sibling they belong to.

“This one dreams in colors that don’t exist yet,” he tells Dream. “This one burns for things she’s never known,” he says to Desire. “This one… hurts too much,” he murmurs, and hands her to Despair.

He’s the bridge. The balance. The one who does the in-between work the others don’t see—or maybe choose not to.

And even if he never asked for this, even if the title weighs heavy, he still shows up every day.

The crown he wears isn’t gold. It’s choice.

[charliegyrth]

The Summer You Got Fat

You got fat.

You’d spent your life as the hottest guy in every room. Jarringly handsome. Naturally athletic. The guy that everyone lusted after.

And then one summer in the mountains with Louie and BAM. You were fat.

For those three wonderful months, you lazed around with your doting boyfriend. Sure, you took hikes every day, and you swam in the lake whenever the weather was good, but you also ate. A lot. You knew that Louie was spoiling you, but you had no idea that he was changing you.

How could you? You didn’t know what it felt like to be fat, and the cabin didn’t have any mirrors to warn you about your double chin or softening belly.

You didn’t notice until you got back home and caught a glimpse of your reflection.

You didn’t believe it at first. The bulging gut. The wider hips. The thick arms that had lost their definition.

You literally had to feel your body to believe it. You jiggled your stomach and poked your fingers into your new love handles.

Yup, you were fat now.

Louie ran into the bathroom to see if you were okay. You didn’t realize that you’d screamed.

“I’m fat!” you whimpered as you fell into his arms.

“Well, yeah,” he said. “How did you not know this?”

That made you mad. You pushed him out of your way and ran to the scale.

215.

You couldn’t possibly be over 200 pounds? And yet, the number didn’t lie. Your body didn’t lie. The only thing that lied was your own subconscious, hiding the truth from you for three long months.

You hate to admit it, but you cried. Louie had to hold you and assure you that everything was okay. He said you looked handsome like this. He said he liked you with a bit of chub.

And that got you even angrier. You blamed him for ruining you. You screamed at him.

It got so bad that he drove off and spent the night at his sister’s place.

You couldn’t sleep, of course. You were so angry at yourself. It wasn’t Louie’s fault that he’d pampered you over the summer. He didn’t mean to make you fat.

The next day, you apologized and asked him to come back. He understood. He always understood.

He cooked all the food in your house, so he offered to only make healthy meals from now on. He even fixed you up some protein drinks to help you turn some of that fat into muscle.

You went to the gym daily, trying harder than you ever had before. It was awful. People used to envy you at the gym. Now they had to look away as you jiggled hopelessly on the treadmill and constantly pulled down your shirt to hide your belly.

All that work, and you were still gaining.

You were up ten more pounds in two weeks. Louie tried to cheer you up. He showered you with compliments. He kept touching you, showing you that he was still attracted despite how far you’d let yourself go. You believed him, too. Somehow, he loved you enough to look past the rolls of fat piling onto your once-athletic body.

And they just kept piling on. You stopped weighing yourself, because every day brought another pound or two. You went to the doctor, who gave you a clean bill of health. You saw a therapist, who couldn’t give you any explanations. Louie even connected you with a nutritionist (one of his friends from college) who said that the weight would start coming off if you stuck to your diet and kept drinking those protein shakes.

Nothing worked.

Soon, you were 250. Well past obese. Your sex life was incredible, and Louie loved you more than ever, but you still kept gaining. Pretty soon, running on the treadmill became too difficult. You focused on lifting weights, which had become much easier with your added heft.

You liked how your arms and chest were bulking up, but you hated the rest of yourself. The soft parts. The jiggling parts covered in cellulite and stretchmarks.

Those stretchmarks were the worst. It started with one on your left love handle. Then a matching one on your right. Then a whole cluster of them below your belly button. Soon, they were everywhere.

Your pecs got bigger but mostly kept their shape. And then you passed 300 and, as if overnight, they deflated into sacks of fat. You still had muscles under there. (You could bench press more than ever before.) But the fat had obscured your pecs completely.

Your face rounded out. You had a slight double chin at 250 but a full-on slab of flesh by 300. Your neck was completely swallowed up.

Once you crossed 325, showing no signs of slowing down, Louie brought you into the bedroom to have a talk. He said he loved how you looked, but he hated how self-conscious you were. He touched all your softest areas, the areas you hated, and told you why he loved them. He loved the new sensitivity in your chest. And how grabbable your love handles were. And the beautiful motion of your globular ass. He even loved your stretchmarks, which formed a unique pattern that only you had. Like a fingerprint.

He was so convincing, and his eyes were so filled with love, that you finally gave in. He made you realize that you liked your new body just as much as he did.

It felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. The burden of fat was gone, replaced with an appreciation of fat.

He made love to you all night, showing you how wonderful your new body felt.

And when you were done, and your overflowing body was lying next to him, he finally said the truth: “I wanted you this way.”

And very slowly, he explained how he’d tricked you into overeating at the cabin. How he’d wrecked your metabolism with herbal pills. How your protein shakes were jam-packed with calories. How he convinced his college buddy to pretend to be a nutritionist. How he’d sabotaged every step in your weight loss efforts because he wanted you bigger.

Then he apologized and waited for your reply.

You were angry, of course. You felt betrayed, and rightfully so. It took you a long time to process everything he’d told you, and then you felt him caressing your belly, swaying it, loving it, and you only had one response:

“Can you get me another protein shake, please?”

The End.

You can find all my stories here.

And you can check out this story, along with three other summer-focused gainer romances, in my ebook Beachside Bellies.

[andyrambles]

cowboy artrick x Smalltown Boy | sad + self indulgent af idc

Patrick left home the moment he turned 18. he’d packed the whole day prior, his whole life stuffed into one duffle back and a backpack, easily slipped over his shoulders. that’s all he really had, and it was a harsh reality. he’d left the night of his birthday, after being ignored and overlooked by his family the entire day. it wasn’t like he even needed to be quiet, not like anyone else in the house would care. he just slipped on his boots, grabbed his bags, and walked straight out the front door into the night.

it was quiet outside as he walked to the train station, the soft dew of the summer humidity clinging to everything in sight. it was almost nice, peaceful, more homey than he’d felt in years. it was easy to get to the station with how early in morning it was and before he knew it, he was standing on the platform waiting for the train out west. the dew had increased, the air pressured until rain started to fall from the dense clouds above his head. it felt almost atmospheric for the moment. mother nature knew what his soul was feeling as he stood in silence, the wind whipping the rain to to his skin, cooling his already cool demeanor.

in the back of his mind, he wondered if his mom would even care. he knew she wouldn’t understand but would she care? probably not. and it’s not like he hadn’t tried to explain but still, she wouldn’t understand. he just couldn’t stay here anymore in this dead end town with nowhere to go, no way to grow. he knew she’d never understand. but the answers he needed just couldn’t be found there, they could never be found at home. neither could the love he so desperately needed to feel from someone. but not from them.

Art was never a popular boy, not with the way others saw him. they saw his blonde locks, his baby blue eyes, his pale skin that with even the slightest touch would pinken. they saw him as weak, as a word he’d always take right to his heart whenever it was uttered at him. in the halls between classes, at tennis practice, in the locker room, the bathroom, anywhere. he couldn’t escape it, it was like a ghost haunting him. it didn’t even get better when things got physical, the word never stopped being shot at him, like a rubber bullet to the skin - not enough to pierce but enough to bump and knock the wind from his lungs.

but he’d never cry for them. never. it was his one rule to himself, he couldn’t show them how deeply their words and actions cut him. crying was reserved for when he was truly alone, locked in his bedroom in the silence of the late night. it was the only time he’d let those fat tears fall and stain his cheeks, his nose turning red, his head throbbing from the strain of attempting to stay silent. when he could let himself feel all the hate and anger and agony he kept bottled up at the time. that was his one sanctuary.

but now he was finding a new one, out on the rails heading west. it had been planned: he’d left after school, walking the opposite direction of his home straight to the station, his backpack stuffed with his essentials, his heart pounding hard. his blue eyes darted back and forth, scared of being found out, scared of being looked for. but even he knew, no one would come looking. he was free. no one would be able to hurt him ever again, they’d never be able to cut him down. he could be whoever he wanted out there in the hills. and it would never matter.

[writing-the-stars]

Quiet Withdrawals

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Fem!Reader

Summary: As Emily Prentiss begins to withdraw under the weight of a dangerous secret, her partner at the BAU struggles to understand the silence growing between them.

Warnings: ANGST (The self-proclaimed Queen of Angst has returned), No Happy Ending, Implied Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Distance/Distress, No Use of Y/N or Physical Descriptors (At least, not that I recall). Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: Hi guys! Thanks for tuning in. So happy and excited about this one. I have been working on this one for MONTHS. It's a multi-part series following the Ian Doyle arc from Season 6, so lots of sadness, lots of tragedy. All the things I love in a story. Anyway, thank you so much for reading! I truly hope you enjoy. Have a wonderful day!

Masterlist | Criminal Minds Masterlist

The plane ride back to Virginia is quiet. Still. The low hum of the engines is the only sound drumming through the jet. 

It was a hard case. Hostage situations usually are— especially when a child is involved. The waiting is the hardest part. Constantly on edge, holding your breath for the smallest window of opportunity. That tension, that emotional drain— it settles into your bones and refuses to let go. 

Across the cabin, your team decompresses in their own ways. But you can’t seem to settle. The adrenaline from the day is still cemented in your body, your fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest. 

Then— a gentle hand covers yours, grounding you with a quiet squeeze.

The warmth of the touch stills you. You smile softly, already knowing who it is. You look anyway, savoring one of those rare moments when you can openly admire her.

Emily’s eyes are closed, her face partially illuminated by the soft glow of the overhead lights. In the dimness of the jet, her sharp features seem softer. Her lips are pressed together in that familiar way she does when she’s thinking. If not for that subtle tell, you might think she was sleeping. There’s a steady calmness about her, a poised elegance you’ve come to rely on. It’s integral to her. 

But tonight… it’s different. There’s a quietness about her that does not feel like the usual Emily Prentiss calm. It’s heavier. 

She hadn’t said much on the way back to the jet— not that there was much to say— but something’s off. It makes you wonder if the case got to her more than she let on. The spree-killing addicts, the child… it had rattled everyone. But Emily is practiced at hiding the impact.

Still, you worry.

You wonder if she’d tell you if you ask. She’s been opening up to you more lately. Little things. Stories from her past. Some nights she even lets you hold her when the day’s been too much. But you crave more. You want her to let you in, to lean on you for once.

But you know better than to push. You respect her boundaries. You’re willing to wait— however long it takes. Share as many silences as needed until she feels safe. 

And you don’t mind the silences as much as you used to. In the beginning, they felt raw, uncertain. Now, they’re part of your rhythm.

You feel another gentle squeeze. When you glance back, Emily’s already watching you. You flush, caught staring. She’ll tease you for it later, you’re sure.

Her smile is soft— private. The kind of smile she only gives to you, when no one else is looking. It warms you in that quiet, weightless way, like the moment stretches just for the two of you. Your chest fills with a quiet sense of being chosen and you smile back, bashful under the weight of her gaze.

It’s the small things you love: the moments like this, the way she scans for you first when she walks into a room, the little notes passed during long meetings, the brush of her thumb over your knuckles when no one’s paying attention. This thing between you— it’s slow. Careful. But Emily feels worth it.

She shifts, picking up her phone from the armrest. 

You feel the moment she slips away. 

The brush of her thumb on your hand stops. Her posture changes— shoulders tightening, jaw clenching. Something flickers in her expression. The usual control she possesses falters, giving way to something more vulnerable. Then it’s gone.

But you feel it.

Your stomach tightens. You want to ask what’s wrong. The question rises but you stop it on your tongue, swallowing it down. Emily doesn’t like being cornered. Whatever this is, she’s not ready to talk about it.

Instead, you try something softer.

“It doesn’t seem like we’ll get back too late. Do you want to come over? We can finally try that recipe I’ve been telling you about.”

You say it casually, like it’s nothing. It isn’t unusual— your time together often spills into the quiet hours after cases. A bottle of wine. Old movies. Easy comfort. But there’s something hopeful in the offer. You’re reaching for her, even if she doesn’t realize it.

So when she simply says, "I’m tired," retracting her hand from yours, the disappointment hits you harder than you expected. It’s not just the words. It’s the way she retracts her hand. 

Quiet. 

Final.

A small gesture. But it cuts.

You don’t press. You’ve learned to be patient with Emily Prentiss.

Still, the weight of her withdrawal settles deep in your chest. The sting lingers longer than you want to admit.

-*-

You wish you could say that quiet little sting had dissipated, eased by some reassurance from Emily. But it metastasized— settled deep in your bones. A slow-burning ache that hasn’t left since that moment on the plane— since the line she drew, the one you had come so close to crossing.

Since then, she’s only drifted further away. Each day, the chasm between you further expands. Her absence isn’t loud, but it’s heavy— an invisible weight pressing into your chest. You feel it in every missed glance, every silence that stretches too long. Another boundary added to your relationship. Another wall you don’t dare climb. 

You try to bury the ache under profiles and evidence, throwing yourself into this new case with a sort of unbridled restraint. But her absence is constant— lingering like a shadow in the corner of your mind. It makes the pen heavier in your hand. Makes every profile harder to focus on. You can’t tell anymore if it’s the job wearing you down, or the emptiness she’s left behind.

Across from you, you watch Emily sit at her desk— it’s all you’ve been subjected to now— her attention fixed on her phone like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the world. Whatever’s on that screen has become more important than this— more important than you. The warmth she used to bring has cooled into something distant, unsettling. Like everything the two of you shared has been erased, leaving only a hollow echo in its wake.  

She’s been late more often, sliding in with weak smiles and vague excuses that don’t sound like her— too polished, too practiced. She won’t meet your eyes anymore, and when she does, it’s like she’s looking through you. Like you’re just another face in the bullpen.

This isn’t like her.

And you hate that thought. Hate how it lodges itself deep inside you every time she does something uncharacteristic to the version of her you’ve gotten to know so intimately. Because if this version of her is unfamiliar, then what does that mean for us?

You’ve tried reaching for her in all the small ways that used to matter, things that had won her over before— light-hearted jabs at Morgan or Reid, lunch from her favorite deli, kind words, small shared victories. Each attempt being met with a polite smile that never reaches her eyes. A flicker. Nothing more.

The ache in your chest deepens. You're not speaking the same language anymore. The connection you fought so hard to build feels like it’s unraveling in your hands.

Your eyes catch on her fingers. Fresh wounds along her nail beds. She’s picking again. You remember when she slipped her hands in yours to stop the habit— intertwined fingers, quiet comfort, a gentle squeeze that said I'm here. It worked. Her hands had healed. Now, they're raw again.

And this time, she’s not reaching for you to help her stop.

You can’t say anything. You want to— but every attempt feels like walking a tightrope over something fragile and doomed. The uncertainty gnaws at you. You wish you could reach across the divide and remind her that you’re still here, waiting— hoping she might let you in again.

You fiddle with the pen in your hand, a remnant from the discarded paperwork you are meant to be focusing on. The tapping is the only thing tethering you, your nervous energy echoing in the lull of your thoughts. You’re not even aware of it until you feel her gaze. 

Emily’s eyes flick to yours— sharp, fleeting. Her attention drops to the pen, then returns to you, just for a breath, before sliding away again.

It’s the first time she’s really looked at you in days.

You’re about to say something— anything— when she stands.

“I need some air.”

The words are clipped, a poor excuse— there’s plenty of air in the bullpen. But she’s already walking toward the door, every step tight with tension, her phone still clenched in her hand like a lifeline.

Your feet move before your mind does.

By the time you reach her, she’s already leaning against the balcony railing. The city sprawls beneath you— neon lights and the distant hum of traffic— but her gaze is far away, locked on something you can’t see. Her body is so still it hurts to look at. The cool night air doesn’t seem to reach her, and the distance between you both feels unbearable.

You stand there for a while, uncertain. The quiet stretches between you, taut with everything unsaid.

“Emily.”

She doesn’t move.

Your hands curl into fists, nails biting skin. “Are you okay?”

Silence.

The question hangs there, unanswered. Heavy. Cracking something in you. Your stomach twists— tight and bitter. 

You hate this. Hate that she won’t let you in. Hate that she’s shutting you out, not with harsh words but with this impenetrable wall of silence. Hate that you don’t even know why.

You contemplate leaving. Walking away from this, from her, would be so much easier, but your eyes fall to her hands. The raw flesh at her nail beds. The tension in her fists, clenching and unclenching like she’s barely holding herself together. And you can’t walk away from that.

So you take a step forward, slow and cautious.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But she doesn’t turn toward you either. Her body is rigid— like any contact might shatter her. Still, you reach for her hand— gently, cautiously, the way you’ve always done. No force, just an offering.

And, for a brief moment, she lets you.

Her fingers brush against yours. It’s like breathing again, like stepping back into something familiar, something you thought you had lost.

But then, she pulls away. Not cruelly. Not sharply. But with quiet, devastating finality. A soft, deliberate retreat that leaves your hand cold.

“I should get back inside,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. She’s already moving before you can respond. You don’t even try to chase after her this time.

You just stand there, rooted to the spot, the cool wind against your skin the only thing holding you upright. Your hands rest on the railing, the city lights blurring through the burn in your eyes.

She’s slipping away.

And you don’t know how to stop it. The fear— raw and suffocating— settles into your chest. What if this is how it ends— quietly, with no fight, no explanation, just the fading echo of something that once mattered? 

You want to scream. Demand answers. It shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. Because you thought you were moving forward. That you were building something real, something steady. You thought she wanted it too.

But now, all you have is the space where she used to be— and the silence she left behind.

-*-

 “You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Reid notes, his eyes flicking toward the pen in your hand— mid-bounce— before returning to the yellow legal pad in front of him. 

You freeze, blinking down at the pen you’re only now realizing is in your hand. The soft, steady tapping against the desk you realize had been anchoring your mind— keeping it from spiraling. 

"Sorry," you murmur, setting it down.

Reid doesn’t look up, still engrossed in deciphering the partial tattoo on the screen in front of him. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry— just states it like an observation, like a fact. But facts have weight. And this one lands heavy.

Because he’s right.

You have been doing that a lot lately.

Tapping your pen. Chewing the inside of your cheek. Crossing and uncrossing your legs. You’ve been restless, your chest a knot of unease. The anxiety from watching your relationship with Emily rapidly decline has only been compounded by the lingering aftermath of the shooting. The image of her and Derek collapsing in that dark alley, shots ringing out, still won’t leave you. You haven’t stopped watching her since, worried about how she’s handling the aftermath.

But Emily hasn’t let you get close. 

She’s pushing everyone away— especially you. And you can’t stop wondering what changed. What happened to the woman who once trusted you, even if only a little?

Every time you try to check in, she brushes you off with that same quick, sharp wave. “I’m fine,” she says. “It’s nothing.” But her voice is clipped, too sharp around the edges. She’s not convincing anyone— least of all herself.

You know she’s not fine. She’s carrying something. You can feel it.

You press your fingertips to your temples, trying to clear your head, but it only makes the discomfort worse. You’re frustrated, but more than that, you’re terrified. Why won’t she let you help? Why is she shutting you out?

Reid speaks again, soft this time. “You’ve been holding your breath, haven’t you?”

Your mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?”

Reid shrugs, his eyes flicking back to the screen. “I’ve seen you before— when you’re waiting for something that never comes. It’s like you’re bracing for a punch you’re not sure is coming, but you can’t stop holding your breath. It’s exhausting.”

You blink. It’s as if he just cracked open a window into your mind, exposing the rawest parts of you. How could he see it so clearly? Holding your breath... it’s a perfect description of what you’ve been doing. 

Just as you take a steadying breath, the door to the bullpen swings open. 

“Reid, you got anything?” Morgan’s voice cuts through the tension, his footsteps heavy on the floor as he strides in, leading the charge. 

Emily follows close behind him, her expression unreadable. But you recognize the tension in her shoulders instantly. You’ve come to expect that her eyes will no longer meet yours when she enters the room, but it doesn’t make the sting any less hurtful. Your fingers start inching toward the pen again, craving the comfort of the repetitive motion. But you force yourself to keep still, clasping your hands together. You direct your focus on the room, willing the nagging feeling in your chest to subside. You need to keep it together.

“The damage is pretty extensive, but luckily some of the tattoo remains,” he reports back, still hunched over his legal pad, eyes glued to the paper as he continues his quiet analysis.

“Seaver, get the victim’s photo out to the press,” Hotch commands the young blonde, his tone clipped and efficient as always. 

“I think I know who dug the hole,” Garcia bursts in, her energy jarring against the slow-burn anxiety that’s been building in your chest. She flips open her notepad, breathless, explaining how all the victims are tied to Clear Water Securities.

As Garcia talks, your attention slips toward Emily, whose eyes narrow in recognition as Reid finally pieces together the tattoo, the last clue falling into place. For a moment, her face lights up, as if the pieces of the case are finally coming together in her mind. But that brief spark of clarity quickly evaporates, replaced by something more guarded, more distant.

Before anyone can react, Emily’s already dashing out of the room, her movements sharp and quick, the air around her suddenly heavy with urgency. 

Garcia, who noticed the exact same thing, gives you a look. It’s one of understanding, an unspoken bond that passes between the two of you in the absence of words. You don’t need to say anything to her. She’s seen the same thing you have.

With a small nod, you break from the group, a knot forming in your gut. That feeling returns— the one that tells you something is wrong. That she’s slipping further away, and you don’t know how much time you have before she’s completely gone.

You follow Emily out of the bullpen, your footsteps quiet but deliberate. She’s already halfway down the corridor, her pace quick and rigid— faster than usual, like she’s trying to outrun something. You jog to catch up, your heart hammering in your chest, not from exertion— not from exertion, but from the quiet storm of everything that's been left unsaid. The heavy weight of your unspoken questions presses down on you, but it’s not enough to hold you back. You need answers. You need something— anything— to bridge this gap that’s growing between you.

You push the restroom door open just in time to catch a glimpse of her as she snatches the phone away from her ear, the movement sharp and defensive.

“Emily, what’s going on?”

The words spill out before you can stop them. The careful caution from before is gone. It’s replaced by frustration, a biting edge in your voice. You’re done dancing around it, done tiptoeing over the cracks in your relationship. You need the truth. You need her to stop hiding from you. 

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“I don’t have time for this.” Her voice is sharp, dismissive. It cuts through the air between you like a blade, and your stomach clenches painfully.

This. She says it like you’re a problem. An obstacle.

“I just–” Your voice falters, softer now, her words draining all the fight out of you, “I’m just worried about you, Em. You’ve been different. Distant. And you were shot at. I’m allowed to be concerned.” 

She stiffens. Her jaw tightens, and when she speaks again, her voice is colder than before.

“Worried?” she echoes, bitterness lacing the word. “You’ve been clingy. Needy. I don’t need someone hovering over me every second, asking if I’m okay.”

The words slam into you, sharp and sudden. You flinch, eyes stinging. “That’s not fair,” you breathe. “I’m not hovering— I’m trying to be there for you. Because I care.”

The air thickens with tension, the space between you both charged with something unspoken, raw. Her lips press into a thin line, the silence stretching for a beat before she speaks again.

“I just–” her voice raises slightly, causing you to tense. “I need space.” 

That professional detachment creeps back in, sealing the distance between you like a door closing. “I’ve been through enough without feeling like I can’t breathe around you.”

The words wind you. You stagger under the weight of them, unable to speak for a beat. When you finally do, pushing past the ache in your throat, your voice is hoarse.

“I’m just trying to help,” you whisper. “I don’t know what happened, but I’m not going to let you go through this alone.”

Emily exhales sharply, eyes hardening. Arms folding across her chest.

“You’re suffocating me,” she spits, her words bitter, burning you like acid.

It’s the final blow. Brutal in its precision. You feel it crack something inside you.

You nod, barely able to force the word out. “Okay.”

It leaves the tart taste of defeat on your tongue. The weight of it settles on you like a stone, every syllable heavy with the crushing finality of it all. The reality that she’s shutting you out— completely, unequivocally— sinks in. There’s no coming back from this.

Emily exhales again, and for a split second, her posture softens. It’s brief— so brief it’s almost imperceptible— but you catch it. For just a heartbeat, you think she might regret her words, might take them back. But before she can say anything, the door swings open.

Seaver bursts in, oblivious to the tension, her presence a sudden interruption. “Hotch needs you in the SCIF,” she announces to Emily, her voice bright with urgency, unaware of the quiet devastation unfolding between you.

Emily swallows whatever emotion she was feeling and turns toward Seaver, the remnants of whatever she was about to say fading away. Without a glance back at you, she turns and walks out, leaving you standing in the hollowed-out space of what used to be something— whatever it was— between you.

If you want to be a part of my tag list, please submit an ask specifying series, fandom, or all and I will happily add you (If you don’t specify, I’ll just assume you want to be on the general list)!

[queenofmorningstar]

Can I ask please for like (Sub!)Lucifer x FEM(!Dom)! Reader? But, BUT! What if Lucifer, likes to explore new things, curious also wondering, ask Y/n (maybe during mid-making out, heh) if they can like change they're gender and fully swap roles?

I've been searching for genderswap Lucifer x Reader/fully roleswap Lucifer x Reader 😭😭

Gender swap Lucifer x Reader

Notes: This is such a unique request and I loved writing it! I tried lol so pls spare me. Credits of images rest with the editors! Since you didn't mention you wanted nsfw, but included sub/dom, so I'm doing both sfw and nsfw(will be under cut).

CW: reader explores fem! Luci body thoroughly 😏(body worship) Genderfluid! Lucifer, NSFW under the cut.

Lucifer laughed, breathless and flushed, as you leaned in to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

You were curled up with him, limbs tangled lazily. His jacket was abandoned somewhere on the floor, bowtie undone and hanging uselessly around his neck. "You've got that look again," he said, blinking up at you with a dopey smile. “Like you’re about to kiss me stupid.”

“Wouldn’t dream of stopping,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his.

And you didn’t. You kissed him slowly, thoroughly, until he was giggling again into your mouth, his hands sliding up your back, clutching gently.

He let out a whimpery little laugh as your hands slipped beneath his shirt, palms skating over his ribs. The heat started to build, your bodies shifting together with more urgency now, the kisses getting deeper, needier, slower in a way that said neither of you wanted to come up for air just yet.

And then—Lucifer froze. Just slightly. Not enough to be obvious. But you noticed the subtle hitch in his breath. The way his fingers twitched at your waist. The way he was thinking now, instead of feeling.

You leaned back just an inch. “Lucifer?”

He looked at you with those star-struck eyes, but hesitating.

“I, uh…” He laughed nervously. “Can I say something kinda… weird?”

You tilted your head. “Of course.”

Lucifer sat up a little, biting his bottom lip. He looked everywhere but at you. “So I’ve been thinking lately,” he began, way too fast, “about trying new things. Different roles. Different me’s. Not just in bed—though yes—but, um… more than that.”

You watched him gently, waiting.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Like, what if I weren’t… you know. This me. What if I were… a different version of me? Not a man. Just… me, but changed. New shape.”

He stopped. Winced. “Oh God, that sounded way cooler in my head. I knew I was going to make it weird—”

“Lucifer.”

“I'm sorry! I just—listen, I’ve tried so many things in my eternal existence and this is something I’ve never really—well, I have thought about it, but not with anyone, and I figured if anyone would be open to it it’d be you, but–”

You kissed him. Not to shut him up this time, but to tell him he was safe. That you understood.

When you pulled back, you smiled and cupped his cheek, brushing your thumb gently under his eye. “You want to try something new?” you said softly. “Something that feels more like you?”

He nodded, eyes wide, hopeful, nervous.

“Then I’m in,” you whispered. “Wherever you go, I’ll go with you.”

Lucifer stared at you, lips parted, expression stunned. Then he let out a shaky laugh. “You really are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Lucifer had vanished behind the dressing room curtain with his usual flourish, muttering something about “artistic reinvention” while you sat patiently nearby. You would’ve liked to see how he changed, but he insisted he would be too nervous then.

You looked up, as he entered. For a moment… you didn’t breathe.

He —She stood there—Lucifer, still unmistakably him, but different now. More curved, more delicate, her blonde hair cascading in loose waves past her shoulders. 

She fidgeted, one hand hovered awkwardly at her hip. The other rubbed the back of her neck. “…Well?” she said, voice a touch higher, still unmistakably Lucifer but now with a different lilt. “Do I look ridiculous?”

You stood up slowly, walking toward her without saying a word.

Lucifer braced herself but instead, you reached out and cupped her face. Your thumb brushed along her cheekbone. “You look beautiful,” you whispered.

She blinked. “Beautiful?” she echoed, like the word had never been said to her like that before.

“Stunning. Mesmerizing. Drop-dead gorgeous. Want me to keep going?”

Lucifer gave a nervous laugh, cheeks turning a bright golden. You laughed, pulling her into a gentle hug. Her body fit against yours in a new way now but all the warmth was exactly the same.

You pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. “You feel more like yourself this way, don’t you?”

Lucifer nodded slowly. “Today, yeah, I think I do.”

“And I’m really glad I get to see you like this.”

There was a pause.

“…Even if I don’t know what to do with my boobs yet,” she mumbled.

You grinned. “I can help you with that.”

Lucifer gasped. “Scandalous!”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against hers, smiling. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Lucifer sighed into your mouth as you guided her gently back toward the bed, step by step, your hands never leaving her waist. Her new frame trembled slightly under your touch, though not from fear. From anticipation. Every glance you gave her was a caress. Every kiss, a promise.

She fell back onto the silk sheets with a quiet laugh, legs still draped over the edge. Her jacket had been discarded somewhere on the way to the mattress, her shirt hung open just enough to tease. 

You crawled over her, slow and deliberate, until you were hovering above her. Lucifer’s breath hitched. Her hands lifted to your sides, gripping you lightly, like she still wasn’t quite sure this was real.

You leaned down again, brushing your lips just barely over her jaw. “Luci?”

“Hm?” she breathed, eyes fluttering shut at your touch.

“Can I take this further?” you asked softly. “I need to hear it from you.”

She stilled beneath you for a moment, opening her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, voice steady this time. “Please.”

With a smile, you kissed her again, deep and claiming and began to undress her piece by piece. You didn’t rush. This wasn’t about just intimacy but about letting her know that this version of her, too, was wanted and desired.

Lucifer whimpered beneath you as your fingers grazed new curves, your mouth following close behind. She squirmed at the sensations—so familiar, yet wildly different in this new skin. But never once did she pull away. And you—god, you were so careful. So hungry and loving and patient all at once. 

You dipped your head and took one golden peak into your mouth. Lucifer’s back arching as a startled moan tore from her throat. Her hands flew to your hair instinctively, fingers threading through with trembling reverence.

“Oh, god,” she whimpered, voice pitched and ragged. “You’re—ohhh—mmngh…”

Your tongue circled the sensitive nub, slow and deliberate. You sucked gently, and Lucifer’s thighs pressed together with a helpless whine. 

Her flushed chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, golden nipples still glistening from your mouth’s attention. Your hand slid slowly down her side, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, the soft slope of her hip. She shivered, hips twitching slightly as your palm eased lower.

“You’re trembling,” you murmured against her throat, kissing just below her ear.

“I—Fuck—” Lucifer gasped, arching into you.

Your hand slipped beneath the hem of her dress.

Lucifer’s words turned into a strangled whimper as your fingers ghosted over the soaked heat between her thighs, her entire body jolting with the contact.

“Oh—oh god,” she breathed, voice cracking around the edges. “You… you’re not wasting any time, are you?”

You grinned, slow and dangerous, nipping at her ear. “You’re already soaked, love.”

Lucifer threw her head back with a groan, hiding her blushing face in the crook of her elbow. “You don’t have to say it like that—!”

“But it’s true,” you teased, fingers pressing a little more firmly now, stroking slow circles on her clit. “You’re absolutely dripping for me.”

Her legs instinctively parted wider, offering herself with a breathless shudder. She bit her lip to keep in a moan, but you leaned down and kissed it away. Lucifer finally let out a sound between a sob and a laugh, wrapping her arms around your neck to pull you closer. “Please… don’t stop.”

Your fingers moved with slow, deliberate precision, stroking through the slick heat you found between her legs, teasing the sensitive spot that made her hips jerk and her thighs clamp around your wrist. The fabric of her dress was hiked up now, bunched around her waist, forgotten in the fever of the moment.

You leaned over her, lips at her ear. “You’re doing so well for me, Luci.”

“You’re so sensitive,” you murmured as your fingers slipped past her soaked folds, easing inside with practiced care. “So soft. So wet. This body was made to be loved like this.”

“Don’t say things like that,” she gasped.

“Why?” You curled your fingers just right, and her thighs twitched. “Because you’ll come?”

“Yes!” she sobbed.

You pressed your lips to her neck, whispering, “Then let go. I’ve got you. Just let it happen.”

Your thumb found her swollen bundle of nerves and rubbed gently, in perfect time with the motion of your fingers inside her. The wet sounds of your touch filled the room, mingling with her gasps and little whimpering cries as her body climbed higher and higher, teetering on the edge.

Her hand covered her mouth, eyes squeezed shut, trying desperately to hold back the noise rising in her throat.

You gently pulled her hand away. “Let me hear you,” you said, voice firm but tender. “Don’t hide from me.”

Her body convulsed under your touch as her orgasm tore through her with a sharp, desperate cry, her hands fisting in the sheets, mouth open in a wordless moan as she rode every wave of it.

And when it was over, when her body finally sagged back into the mattress, boneless and breathless, a dazed smile on her lips, you kissed her temple and eased your fingers free, holding her gently as she curled into your arms.

Lucifer blinked up at you with tears in her eyes and a flush still painted across her cheeks.

“I… that was…” she tried to speak, but her voice failed her.

You smiled, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “Perfect?”

She gave a small, dazed laugh. “Yeah. That.”

You kissed her again, slow and sweet. “You deserve to feel this good,” you whispered. “Always.”

[azzifudd10]

Chapter 24: You Are The Best Thing That's Ever Been Mine

The beach was almost empty when they arrived. It was one of those early spring evenings in California when the sun still lingered too long on the horizon and the waves glittered like spilled diamonds. The breeze was warm but carried a salty chill that tugged lightly at Paige’s hair as they stepped out of the car. She held Azzi’s hand. It wasn’t unusual for them to go for beach walks. Sometimes, after a game or on a Sunday afternoon, they’d pack a blanket, maybe some snacks, and let Jazlyn collect seashells until her pockets were weighed down like anchors. But tonight was different. Tonight was just them. No Jazlyn. No cameras. No noise. Just the rhythm of the tide and the weight of the velvet box tucked deep in Paige’s jacket pocket, burning against her like a secret that might set her whole chest on fire. Azzi leaned against the passenger door, watching the horizon. “You okay, Ma?” Paige’s breath caught at the nickname. Azzi didn’t use it often — usually only when she was being affectionate in quiet, hidden ways. “Yeah,” Paige said softly. “Just needed this. You. Tonight.” Azzi smiled. “I’m yours.” Paige’s fingers tightened around hers. “Yeah. You are.” They walked for a while. Barefoot, hands laced together, silent.

Paige had been planning this for weeks. Months, really — ever since Jazlyn asked Azzi, in the softest voice imaginable, if she could call her “Mommy forever.” She had called Katie first. Then Tim. She’d cried on the phone to both of them, her voice shaking with nerves and hope and all the things she still didn’t know how to say without stammering. They were kind. They told her she didn’t need their permission — but they gave it anyway. With full hearts. Then came the rings. Paige had gone alone. She didn’t want help. She wanted it to be hers — not a stylist's or a friend’s idea of what Azzi would like. She wanted to picture Azzi’s fingers, her hands, the way they moved when she brushed Jaz’s hair or laced up her shoes before a game or covered her face when she cried. She wanted a ring that looked like home. Something simple. Strong. Brilliant when it caught the light. Like Azzi. And now it was here. Now she was standing next to the woman who rebuilt her life with gentle hands, holding a love Paige never believed she deserved — and wondering how she could ever make her understand the depth of what she felt. They sat down on the sand near the rocks, where a tiny alcove had formed in the cliffside. Azzi tucked her legs beneath her and leaned into Paige, who wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “I used to come here a lot when I first moved out,” Paige said softly. Azzi turned her head. “Alone?” “Yeah. I didn’t want to be around people. It felt easier to just… disappear. Let the waves swallow the noise.” Azzi rested her chin on her shoulder. “Do you still feel that way?” “No,” Paige whispered. “Not since you.” Azzi’s breath caught. “I think…” Paige swallowed, suddenly choked with emotion. “I think I started breathing again the moment you looked at me and didn’t flinch.” Azzi blinked. “Paige…” “I was so scared of being known. Like, really known. And you looked at me, saw all of it — the past, the pain, the baggage — and you stayed. You loved me through the wreckage.” Azzi cupped her face gently. “You’ve loved me through mine too.” Paige nodded, leaning into the touch. Then she pulled back just slightly. Just enough. She reached into her jacket pocket and took out the ring box. Azzi froze. “Paige…” “Wait.” Her voice cracked. “Let me do this right.” Paige took a breath. Then another. And then she dropped to one knee in the sand. Her fingers trembled as she opened the box. Azzi gasped — not at the size or the sparkle, but at the way it looked like it was meant for her. “Azzi Jazlyn Fudd,” Paige began. Her voice was quiet, steady despite the wind and the crashing tide and the pounding of her own heart. “I don’t want a perfect life. I just want this. You. Me. Jazlyn. Late nights. Hard days. Wins and losses and the way you look at me when you say my name.” Azzi’s hand covered her mouth. “I want the kind of love that doesn’t need fixing,” Paige went on. “That already fits. The kind where your hurt is mine and your joy is mine and your name is the one I’ll say every time I’m lost.” Azzi’s eyes shimmered. “I want forever,” Paige said. “With you.” A pause. A breath. Then — “Will you marry me?” Silence. And then Azzi dropped to her knees too. She wrapped her arms around Paige and nodded against her shoulder, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, a million times yes.” They didn’t move for a while. They just held each other, the ring glinting between them, the salt of the sea mixing with the salt of their tears.

Later that night, they returned home. The house was quiet. Azzi’s parents had taken Jazlyn to a movie and were keeping her overnight. There were no interruptions. No distractions. Just them. Paige kissed her before the door had even shut. Azzi smiled against her lips, backing her into the hallway, then the living room, then down the hall toward their bedroom. Each step was a promise. Each touch, a vow. “You sure?” Paige whispered against her collarbone. Azzi cupped her face. “I’ve never been more sure.” Clothes fell to the floor like flower petals. They made love slowly — reverently. No rush, no edge. Just hands that knew where to go, mouths that whispered names like prayers, limbs tangled in devotion. Paige kissed the curve of Azzi’s hip and said, “You feel like peace.” Azzi looked down at her, wrecked and glowing. “You feel like home.” And when they finally collapsed into each other, hearts thudding in sync, Paige whispered into the quiet: “Call it what you want — this? This is forever.”

[yanderes-galore]

Hello :> I was wondering if you could do a more angsty yandere scenario for Sans. Maybe he wakes up from a nightmare (he has plenty of reasons for them) and looks for comfort in his darling? How darling reacts is up to you ^^

Sure! I struggled with a plot here so this may be a short little story if that's okay?

Lonely Nights

Yandere! Sans Short

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Post-Kidnapping plot, One-sided love, Trauma, Yandere wants to be a better person, Forced companionship/relationship.

Nightmares are a common occurrence for Sans.

When it comes to night Sans can never seem to get a good night's sleep. He always looks tired and others always ask what's up. He simply responds that his sleep schedule is off due to his constant naps.

In reality, Sans is plagued with nightmares that no one else can comprehend. Memories of timelines where people die, of pleasant memories being torn away from him. It's a constant cycle.

Lately they've even been including you, the one he loves.

He knows you two are in a rough patch lately. You're the only person who can distract him from his own fears. Yet lately... well... It's complicated.

There's been arguments since he had you move in with him and Papyrus. Things have been tense between you. You always lash out when he tries to come close... You never leave your room....

His fears are definitely part of it.

Due to his latest nightmares, Sans has been scared to lose you. Perhaps at one point you two got along, having pleasant conversations and subjecting each other to pranks. He thinks of those times fondly... They're his favorite.

Nowadays though... You haven't wanted to speak to him. It's been... a week now. You ignore him... His delusions have made it so he doesn't let you talk to others for long.

He wants to be better, he really does. Yet he fears being better will mean letting you go. His nightmares make him hesitate, they convince him keeping you locked here is a better decision.

He should really just let you go.

Another nightmare strikes through the skeleton's mind, one where he lost everything once again. His brother... you... all his friends. It makes him shoot up in his bed, breathing heavy as he looks around the chaotic mess that is his room

He knows he shouldn't disturb you. At the very least he should let you sleep after everything he's done. Yet... before he can stop himself... he's getting up.

Within the blink of an eye, Sans arrives at your room. It's quiet, you're no doubt sleeping. But, his selfish desire for comfort makes him open the door.

The door shuts with a soft click once he's inside. Looking at the bed he can see you sleeping softly. He takes a moment to observe you, then sighs as he walks over to the bed.

You stir slightly when he sits on the bed, the bed dipping enough to wake you. You tiredly grumble and look up at the skeleton's nervous gaze. You look like you're going to tell him off...

But he stops you with a pleading gaze.

"... I'm sorry... I just need you... One night, alright?"

His plea seems to make you hesitate. You hated him, he knew you did. He made you go through so much already.

You didn't seem to hate him enough to push him away though.

Quietly you comply with his plea, rolling over just enough. The skeleton seems relieved, tucking himself against you as you hold him close. You don't complain, not like you usually do...

Is it just because you're tired...?

He doesn't complain though. He's missed your touch. You may hate him... yet it seems you care enough to soothe his nightmares even now.

It's a quiet night. For him, it's full of comfort. To you... it's just your typical night. You still don't feel happy, exactly....

You still feel lonely. While Sans enjoys your comfort, you're still alone. He's still the one that's keeping you locked away... He's still keeping you from having friends.

Part of you hopes if you help with the fears... his nightmares... maybe you can have your life back. Maybe if you are supportive, things can go back to normal. You yearn for normalcy....

Yet as Sans settles closer, seeming to finally get some sort of comforting rest, you sigh. It doesn't matter what you feel right now. You're surprised you even care about him now.

You ignore the part of you that feels a slight bit of comfort. You may enjoy this moment... but you know what he's done. You still hate him...

Yet if your life isn't back to normal anytime soon...

Part of you doesn't mind if nights like this become your new normalcy... Anything for comfort, right?

[thetrasha]

Cookie giver here 🍪 !

Coming again for Brook 👹 (please tell us if we should give you some rest days 😂)

With what you wrote about how Brook would "confess" his feelings, I was wondering, how do you think he would be at the beginning of the relationship ? Would he overcome all of his insecurities rather quickly or do you think it would make them worse somehow ?

Thanks again for everything you write and have a nice day !!

Hello anon (●'◡'●)

I admit - I haven't thought about that part, so this was very fun for me! I think he'd be quite the mixed bag, have some great and some bad moments where his confidence falters... but I actually don't think he'd get worse!! He seems, despite all the weirdness, like a well-adjusted person who trusts fully once he's committed to someone. I put a phrase somewhere in those Brook posts, basically saying that he trusts you more than himself - that rings true 100%... That being said, the bad moments are him just essentially trying to punish himself‼️I think he'd cope with humour, so we would absolutely have to put him in his place 😤Not on my watch, Brook-

I wrote a cute little scenario :D (Requests don't bother me at all, I LOVE THEM)

No Grave Can Hold My Body Down

BROOK EDITION

“Anything interesting happening lately?”

You entered the room with a yawn, having slept in and only ever appearing after the others have already left the kitchen after breakfast. As was your routine, Brook was still sipping on some Earl Grey Tea while reading the newspaper, but ever since you two became a true couple, you became a lot more casually affectionate with each other. Thus, you plopped yourself down next to your skeleton lover and nestled up into his side. Your nose scrunched up at his orange feather boa, throwing one side of the garment over his shoulder to cling to him properly.

Brook hummed in satisfaction, smiling down at you.

As you reached over to pick up a breakfast croissant with jam, he began explaining,

“Hmmm, not really, my love. Impel Down has been fully rebuilt, a politically unstable Summer Island has been experiencing severe drought and, get this, the satanic cult of Namakura Island has been getting into trouble with the World Government. They’re getting investigated.”

You blinked at him before breaking out into laughter, “Isn’t that the island you were sent to by Kuma?! I-… I literally can’t!!”

Brook nodded, “Yohoho~! The very same, yes.”

You had a twinkle in your eye, smirking. Your partner desperately tried to ignore looking your way, knowing that you were up to something. Your little streak of mischief has been amusing him, because he knew that you just wanted to reassure him that you were okay with… whatever this was. Brook couldn’t help but make jokes at his expense sometimes – far crueller than the ones pointing out that he had no eyes that were doing double-takes, and no skin to itch in discomfort. He tried to give you an out, thinking that you’ll magically wake up and realise that ‘oh my God, the skeleton man is actually dead and cannot kiss me, he is not as warm as a human man would be, among other things…’

“I still cannot believe they called you ‘Satan-sama’.”

Your snort alerted him, his head snapping towards you. He shook his head in mock disapproval, but his grin was wide.

“Well, it did make me famous. You don’t see a horror show like tha-”

“I happen to like that horror show.”, you retorted, pressing up against him. He had no lungs to speak of, but you could hear his breath hitch. You thought he was insane for speaking so lowly of himself, when he went through the entire range of human emotions all the same. Lips or no lips, he nuzzled his jaw against your neck every night before you separated, going into your respective quarters; heart or no heart, you could feel his chest bones thrum in anticipation when you leaned in to plant a kiss on his face; blood or no blood, he was still hot to the touch and able to blush around you. How his bones managed to acquire a delicately rosé tone was shrouded in mystery, but you suspected that his soul just shone through. Humans are adaptable creations, which means he just learnt to live with his circumstances, just like how you’re learning every day.

Brook was ecstatic when he petted your hair as your boyfriend for the first time, his long fingers scratching your scalp and making you succumb to pleasure, but he almost cried as soon as you let out a yelp, some strands of yours holding onto the space between his bones and causing a nasty knot to form around his wrist as you both tried to free you again.

He hasn’t had the courage to do it ever since, but he has been on a learning curve.

“I love you, Brook”, you uttered, looking up into the hollowness of his eye sockets. You could literally peer right into him. Sometimes, if you just looked hard enough, you could see his soul you knew that his love for you burnt through his every bone, keeping him alive – maybe more alive than he’d been previously.

You heard a sniffle. He averted his gaze, but pressed himself against you, chasing your warmth.

He was getting comfortable being with you, and in return, he’s slowly getting comfortable being himself.

[stellarparallaxcomic]

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[aethersea]

normally I don't bother questioning when a high fantasy is all "ooh the prophesied one will break the world or save it" bc that's what high fantasy is for. don't worry about it, focus on the journey, we'll get to the prophecy when we get to it. but this show has got me wondering what that even means.

the innkeeper who served the Dark said that the Dragon could break the Wheel so that there would be no more suffering, no war or famine or poverty. and the Wheel, we have been told many times, is the Wheel of reincarnation and of fate. It's the metaphor for how all of history has a cyclical bent to it, and it's a real religious belief that souls return to the world many times to live many lives.

how do you break that Wheel such that there is no more suffering? you can't bring about a perfect utopia by breaking such a Wheel. the two concepts just aren't connected at all. the only way I can see is to just......end everything. to live is to suffer, right? there's no suffering if everyone is dead.

kind of a defeatist cause to pledge yourself to, really.