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yenhan · 2 months ago

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TF141 X Retail worker!Reader

Masterlist

a/n: tf141 x retail worker!reader because the international student au reader is busy, lol

Synopsis: Kyle is the best customer you could ask for, but his teammates aren't as easy.

At first, London seemed like a dream. Hustle, grit, fashion week, the chaos of creativity all bottled into a city that never took a breath. Too bad the reality was different. It wasn’t the long hours that crushed you, it was the people, the endless ladder climbing, the sneers hidden behind faux-kind smiles, the stinging burn of rejection from agencies that only saw numbers, not vision. For someone like you, soft around the edges, it was suffocating. So, you left. “I didn’t fail,” you told yourself. “I just chose something else.”

Now, you were here, in a sleepy tiny town tucked far from madness, working in retail in a cozy boutique on the corner of a cobbled high street. The shop had charm. All reclaimed wood shelves and vintage Edison bulbs, racks lined with pre-loved jackets, silk scarves, old military coats with stories stitched into their hems. Some days were slow. Most were, but you liked the pace. You liked knowing the regulars by name, their styles by heart.

Your signature Ferrari bomber jacket hung over your shoulder, bright red, bold white racing stripes down the sleeves. It had survived seven years and at least three attempted red wine assassinations. Half the people who walked in complimented it. The other half gave you a knowing look when they spotted the prancing horse.

“I know,” you’d sigh with a smirk. “Being a Ferrari fan is practically a tragic personality trait.” The jacket made people smile. It made you smile. And in your world, that was enough.

Your favorite customers were a group of four men who’d started showing up sometime last year. You didn’t know how they found you, though it wasn’t surprising. Most of your customers came from word-of-mouth; a recommendation from a friend, or sheer luck during a caffeine-fueled detour. Either way, once they got in, they kept coming back.

Kyle was the first. Friendly, easygoing, with a sparkle of curiosity behind those warm chocolate eyes. He liked trying new styles, often picked your brain about fabrics and cuts, and wasn’t shy about flipping through racks with genuine enthusiasm. The two of you hit it off quickly. You’d talk fashion—designers, eras, tailoring techniques, so on and so forth. Every now and then, you’d catch him scribbling notes into his phone like he didn’t want to forget what you’d said. You had a stupid smile plastered on your face for the rest of the shift.

Johnny followed soon after. Something about his roguish charm and mischief wrapped in a thick Scottish accent made your heart flip. He made a game of flirting with you, asking which shirt made him look like a rockstar, which trousers “hugged the right bits.” You didn’t mind. It wasn’t sleazy and disgustingly creepy like Mr. Lambert’s comments; it was just cheeky. “’s fun, right, hen?”

The Scot had been through something, there was a scar that curved into his hairline, and sometimes, you caught him checking exits a little too carefully, but he always smiled at you as if the world wasn’t heavy on his back.

One day, Kyle told you the others would drop by the shop for a quick tour. “The captain and lieutenant,” he explained, hanging a pressed crimson sweater on the rack. “Figured you might help. Price—John—needs to stop dressing like a dad who bought a motorcycle to impress his ex. And Ghost... well, he’s allergic to color. I won’t be there, love. Good luck.”

You laughed, finding his concerns exaggerated. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

And oh boy, you did.

—

The bell above the door chimed, and in walked two figures whose attires screamed ‘suspicious crime syndicate members.’ One was broad-shouldered, bearded, and wore a low cap over his brow. The other looming shadow wore black jeans and a hoodie, eyes unreadable under a dark skull-printed mask.

“Y’alright?” John Price’s voice was gravel and warmth, all wrapped in one delicious burrito. “You’re the one tryin’ to make us fashionable?”

“I try to guide people. Whether they listen is another matter.” You corrected him.

Ghost didn’t say anything. He stood by the door like a gothic statue, gazing from wall to window to floor, like the entire place might collapse under the weight of vintage cardigans. You offered him a polite smile. He didn’t return it.

So. That was Simon, you’d find out his birth name much much later.

Gaz had warned you. But warnings didn’t quite prepare you for the presence of someone who could dissolve into a shadow if he really wanted to. You felt your smile falter a little. “Be gentle with the lieutenant, bonnie. He’s got the fashion sense of a funeral director. Easily spooked, tha’ one.” You remembered Johnny saying it. That Hulk of a man didn’t really seem easily spooked or affected by anything at all. But you’d learned not to trust the Scotsman’s judgement on people. Last time he said your newborn nephew looked like Sid from Ice Age and you’d never felt so offended.

“Well, let me know if anything makes you feel like you’re on a runway show,” you offered lightly, mostly to Price. “Or at least less of a fashion crime.”

That earned you a huff of amusement from the captain. “That obvious, huh?”

You studied him openly, eyes running over his old leather jacket, faded jeans, boots that looked like they’d seen more mud than pavement. “I'm getting 'I'm about to start a podcast about whisky and post-divorce toxic masculinity' vibes.”

Ghost let out a short snort. Yes, that sound had come from him. Price, on the other hand, barked a laugh and pointed a finger at you.

“Cheeky. Sorry for the trouble, birdie.”

—

The next thirty minutes were… interesting.

Price started by rejecting everything. Every coat was too soft, every shirt too ‘bloody posh’, every jumper looked like something his dad would’ve worn to the pub. But he kept trying them on, kept letting you adjust the collar, roll up sleeves, hold a mirror just right. “Don’t see what’s wrong with the leather one I’ve got.”

“John, you don’t want women to guess you’re divorced and why just by your looks.” You deadpanned behind a rack. The man stopped complaining after that.

“Tell me the truth,” he inquired once, eyeing a fitted navy peacoat. “Do I look like someone who owns a boat?”

“You look like someone who pretends to own a boat to impress his Tinder date.”

He gave you a mildly confused look. “What’s Tinder?”

Meanwhile, Ghost hadn’t moved an inch. You tried subtle nudges. Held up a long black coat with silver snap buttons. No response. Picked out a designer knit jumper with a high neck. Nothing. Finally, you took a risk.

You stepped closer, gentle but not meek. “Look, I’m not gonna try and make you wear lime green or anything. But you’re a tall guy. Broad frame. You could make half of this stuff look terrifying in a clever way.”

He tilted his head just enough to make the skull motif shift with him. “Not here to impress anyone.”

“Fair. But comfort isn’t just about fabric. It’s about feeling like yourself. Or... the version of you that you don’t mind being seen.”

Silence. Again. After a moment, he reached out and you had to stifle your holy hell as he plucked the coat you’d offered off the rack. Then he disappeared into the changing room.

You turned back to Price, whose eyes held something vaguely amused. “I owe Kyle a pint,” he winked.

Ghost walked out of the fitting room, and the entire shop seemed to still for a moment. The coat suited him like it had been tailored specifically for his bulk. The wool draped across his shoulders and the belt cinched just enough to emphasize the lean strength of his torso.

…

“Could be worse.”

You beamed. That was a five-star review coming from him.

Eventually, both men found something they liked. Price left with the peacoat and a rugged forest green henley. Ghost kept the long coat and to your absolute delight, picked up a navy blue shirt as they were checking out. You didn’t mention it. You figured calling attention to it might break the spell.

At the register, Price handed over his card with a smirk. “Suppose I owe you an apology, birdie. Thought this’d be a waste of time...”

“Don’t worry. I’ll pretend you were a nightmare and insulted my entire stock.”

“Attagirl.”

—

Later that evening, Kyle poked his head back in while you tidied the place back into shape. “They liked you,” he cheered.

“I’m irresistible.”

“Nah, seriously. You made Ghost wear something that wasn’t from a tactical catalog. That’s magic.” You rolled your eyes. However, when he left and you locked the door behind him, a little glow lingered in your chest.

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almostwisegalaxy · 2 months ago

Note

PLEEEEASE DO MORE SEONGJE HEADCANONS IF YOU HAVE THEM

씨발(Shibal)...

Geum Seongje x fem!reader

The reader has a shy character in this story

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

It wasn't that cold that night, but the asphalt smelled of rust. Geum Seong-je sat on a bench, looking vacant, a limp cigarette stuck between his teeth, almost completely burned out. He wasn't even really smoking it. His eyes followed the car headlights like flies around a bulb.

The screech of tires, the screams, the dull thud of a body being thrown, none of it made him move. It had happened right in front of him. He had turned his head, cast a lazy glance, seen a figure mowed down on the ground. He had cursed under his breath.

He hadn't snapped out of his torpor to help her. Not out of shock, not out of fear. He just didn't give a damn. But he had called the ambulance. Out of habit, maybe, or because he didn't want the hassle of a non-assistance investigation. He wasn't there to play the hero; he just wanted to be left alone.

But that face. Pale. Frozen. That face had disturbed him. Not because he found it beautiful or innocent. But because he hated seeing something broken, weak, fragile. And that girl, Y/N, was all of that, at that moment.

He found himself at the hospital, standing, leaning against the window of her room, watching her, unconscious, connected to tubes. He was going to leave, do what he always did: ignore the consequences. But as he was about to turn on his heel, the nurse called out to him.

"You're not going to leave her alone, not now. She talked about you in her sleep. 'My love,' that's what she said. It's you, isn't it?"

He had burst out laughing. Dry, humorless. He had wanted to deny it. But the police were already there, the rumors, the eyes fixed on him as if he were the reason for her accident. He had felt suffocated. So he had lied.

"Yeah. It's me .She's my girl..."

The following days were a punishment. For him. For her. He had to come back every day, bring things. Romantic crap: disgusting stuffed animals, candies, little notes folded into hearts. He had grabbed everything from the most cliché shops in town. And he called Y/N "jagiya," "yeobo," or even "my little bunny" with that drawling voice, twisted with sarcasm. But his gaze remained that of a madman, hungry, unstable.

He hid nothing. Neither his fights, nor his offenses, nor the scars on his fists. He even showed them, barely concealed under dirty bandages. He wanted her to be afraid. To understand who he was. To look at him with horror. He needed that fear to exist.

But what really haunted him was what it did to him. This feeling of being expected. Even if it was based on a damn misunderstanding. Even if she had never seen him before. He had started watching her sleep longer than necessary. He noticed the movements of her hands under the sheets, her lips that moved when she dreamed. He hated it. He hated feeling connected to someone.

A week after the accident, she had woken up.

"Who are you?" she had asked, her voice trembling.

He had dropped the water bottle he was handing her.

— Shibal... Are you serious? You sleep for eight days, moan my name like a lovelorn child, and now you're looking at me like a fucking stranger?

She had curled up. He had felt that fear. It ran through him. And it made him smile, a smile that was anything but tender. But inside, it turned his stomach. He felt dirty. Awkward. He didn't know how to get out of this mess.

He had kept coming. Every day. He brought the most ridiculous flowers, the most absurd declarations scribbled on Post-it notes, teen magazines, bags of cookies. He played the game. With an unhealthy intensity. Because he had never had this. Someone to see. Someone who looks at him, even with fear.

But it wasn't love. Not yet. It was need. Panic. As if she were the only thing that could keep the mess he was on a leash. He wasn't nice. He wasn't romantic. He was twisted. He was getting attached in the wrong way. He was becoming possessive before he even had the right to anything.

One day, she had said to him:

"I don't want you to come back."

He had replied, his teeth clenched:

"You don't get a say, jagi. They believe me, not you. You want me to leave? Then explain to them that I'm an asshole. Go on. Look them in the eyes and tell them you're all alone. You want that? Huh?"

She had said nothing. She couldn't. And he had clung to that silence like a rope.

Geum Seong-je didn't understand himself. He fought in the streets because he had never learned to talk. He lied because he had never trusted anything. He got angry with her because she was calm. Because she was gentle. Because everything about her reminded him of what he would never be.

But he was there. Every day. Sitting in the chair next to her bed. He ate her cookies, he sometimes fell asleep listening to the beeping of the machines. He expected nothing. Just for it to last a little longer.

The hospital had become his world. And Y/N, his fixation. It wasn't a fairy tale, it was a cell. And in his deranged mind, it was almost enough.

---

He refused to leave.

Y/N had asked him, even begged him, one morning when the pale sun filtered through the hospital blinds, but he had remained rooted there, staring at her with his split, distorted smile that never reached his eyes.

"Are you kidding me? You're the one who landed me here, jagiya. You're the one who got me into this mess. So now you deal with it."

She had turned her face away, trying to ignore him, as if that could make him disappear. But Seong-je wasn't a draft. He was a sticky, insistent presence, like an oil stain on a white tablecloth.

When the nurses passed by, he resumed his act. He laughed, offered her stuffed animals, strawberry chewing gum, little notes that he read aloud, punctuating them with saccharine nicknames.

"You remember when we stole that bike together, huh, yeobo? That was our first couple adventure, wasn't it?"

And when they moved away, his gaze changed. He leaned towards her, his sour breath on her cheek.

"Don't play smart with me. Say one more time that you want me to leave, and I swear you'll really know what it means to be alone."

He knew exactly when the staff changed shifts, which corridors were empty, which stolen moments he could use to whisper vile threats in her ear. He didn't need to shout. He inflicted pain with a few words, spoken softly.

"I have your first name. Your address. Your life, now, belongs to me. You wanted to put on a show by calling me in your sleep? You thought there would be no consequences? Well, here they are. You've earned yourself a monster, my dear."

Y/N tried to sit up in bed when she had the strength. Sometimes she struggled to reach the call button, but he would discreetly unplug it before anyone could see. Just to silence her.

"Come on, rest," he murmured, stroking her hair. "I don't want them to think you're hysterical, you know. It's not good for you."

He had to be careful. The cops kept coming by. Twice already, they had come to ask questions. First about the accident. Then about him. He played the desperate lover perfectly—a tear in the corner of his eye, stories of pseudo-memories with Y/N, a trembling voice when he spoke of his "fear of losing her."

"I'm just here for her, that's all," he had said to one of them, his hand placed over his heart. "We haven't always been an easy couple, but she's my world."

And it worked.

It worked because people preferred slightly dark love stories to disturbing truths. It worked because he knew how to manipulate silences, how to shed tears at will, how to create an illusion credible enough to be believed.

But with Y/N, he wasn't acting.

With her, he was what he truly was: unstable, violent, possessive. He swung between a distorted tenderness and an icy rage. One day, he brought macarons; the next, he smashed a bouquet against the wall when she wasn't looking.

He resented her. For what she had triggered. For the space she occupied in his head. For this obsession he couldn't control. He felt trapped, and his only way out was her.

"You can't push me away. You don't have the right. Not after what you made me believe. Now you put up with me. You endure me, just like I endure myself every damn day."

He sometimes slept in the armchair, his body tense, his arms crossed. Sometimes, he would get up in the middle of the night and stand, leaning over her, watching her. For a long time. Too long.

And in the morning, he would resume his act. Smile. Wink. Silly little nickname.

And when no one was watching:

"If you say one wrong word, I swear I'll make a scene. They think I'm the perfect boyfriend. You're just a fragile little girl. You know who they'll believe."

And the worst part was, he was right.

---

The days in the hospital dragged by with a devouring slowness, and Seong-je had had enough of every second spent in that sterile room, with Y/N lying on her bed, unconscious of everything happening around her. But it was even worse when she was awake. The heavy air of the room seemed strangely more oppressive. Every sigh he let out, every movement he made, seemed as desperate as it was useless. He felt suffocated, invisible in that overly silent room.

But a nightmare repeated itself every night. A nightmare that was gradually turning into an unbearable obsession.

Y/N was all he had. All he believed he had. And every night, he saw her leave. Not in an explosion of light or in a grand theatrical act. No. Y/N left in a much simpler, much more destructive way. She would look at him one last time, without emotion, then turn and disappear into the void. He couldn't hold her back, he couldn't even move. He was frozen, paralyzed in his own nightmare. And with each awakening, anguish washed over him, an irrepressible fear that dug even deeper into his twisted mind.

He was tired of feeling this way, of drowning in this inner void. So, he had hurt himself. Nothing serious, just enough to get Y/N's attention. It wasn't suffering he sought, but the moment when he would finally become real to her. He had slammed his fist against the bathroom wall until there was blood, and when he saw the red staining his skin, he had felt a little more alive. The taste of iron in his mouth, the burning pain, all of it had become almost… comforting. Then he had waited.

He had appeared in Y/N's room, a blank expression on his face, his wounds barely bandaged. He said nothing, he didn't move, just there, in the shadow of his own desire.

Y/N had woken up to muffled sounds. She had turned her head, her eyes blurry, and had seen him. He was there, sitting next to her, holding his arm where the blood had formed a small pool. He looked like nothing was wrong. But she… she couldn't ignore it.

He was looking at her. He had that look, both pleading and threatening, a mixture that no one else could understand. For a second, he had thought she would push him away again. For a second, he had thought he was too broken, too dirty for her to still pity him. But no, she had sat up, her face marked by fear and worry.

"Seong-je! What are you doing? You're hurt?!"

She had rushed towards him, panic in her movements. She had grabbed his arm, scrutinizing his wound as if the whole world depended on knowing he was safe. He could feel her fingers trembling on his skin. He could hear her short breaths. And he felt… loved. Not in a normal way, no. But it was enough.

"It's nothing," he had replied in a hoarse voice, a barely perceptible smile on his lips. "Just a little accident."

Y/N hadn't replied immediately. She had lowered her eyes to his hand, still tightly gripping his arm. He could see her fingers closing a little tighter, as if to make sure he wouldn't disappear. She had slid up his shirt sleeve to get a better look at the wound. Her eyes were hard, focused, almost overwhelmed.

"But why did you do that? Why are you… Why are you still here, Seong-je? Why?"

The words had flowed from her lips, but he hadn't answered immediately. He felt almost trapped in the tenderness she was offering him without really meaning to. She was there, worried about him, touching his arm as if it were the most precious thing she had.

"Because you won't let me leave," he had murmured. "Because you gave me something. And I'm going to hold onto it."

He had seen the look she gave him, hesitant, confused, full of guilt. He wasn't sure she understood. But he knew. She was worried. And that was all he needed to feel that love could exist, even in this twisted version of himself.

But he didn't have time to think further. A nurse, a young trainee, entered the room. Her name was Joo-hyun ,made up like a failed idol, and she didn't seem to notice that Y/N was awake. She approached Seong-je, who was still standing in that strange position, and began to speak to him without paying attention.

"You're really stubborn, you know, aren't you? Not wanting anyone to touch you, and now you have another wound to take care of."

She spoke in a slightly casual, almost flirtatious tone, settling near him. Joo-hyun hadn't noticed that Y/N was awake, and she leaned a little too close to Seong-je, as if it were nothing special.

But Y/N had noticed. Every word Joo-hyun spoke, every movement she made towards him, all of it ignited an anger that Y/N didn't understand. She sat up slowly, her gaze hardening. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She knew it wasn't an innocent gesture. Not in this room.

Joo-hyun looked so carefree, too self-assured, too familiar with him. She had gently caressed Seong-je's shoulder, and her fingers had slipped a little too low, lingering on his skin. Y/N felt heat spread through her, but it wasn't the warmth of desire. It was a fever of anger, of frustration.

Without warning, Y/N stood up, looking tense, almost threatening.

"You… you should leave," she said, her voice louder, more authoritative than usual.

Joo-hyun jumped, raising her eyes to her, surprised by the coldness in her voice. Seong-je, for his part, watched silently, as if a strange smile was slowly spreading across his lips.

"What?" Joo-hyun asked, a little lost.

"I told you to leave. Right now," Y/N replied, her voice sharp.

Joo-hyun hesitated, then straightened up. A last furtive glance at Seong-je and she turned on her heel, leaving the room without a word.

Y/N sat back down on the edge of the bed. She didn't really understand why she had reacted that way. But what she had felt was something new. A feeling she had never had before. Jealousy. An emotion that was completely foreign to her.

She turned her gaze to Seong-je, who was still there, silent, his eyes fixed on her. It wasn't love. It wasn't even compassion. It was just… a need. A possession. She was afraid of it. And at the same time, something inside her tightened, a discomfort she couldn't identify.

Seong-je looked at her, then, as if nothing had happened, leaned towards her and whispered:

"Thank you. That's love, you know. The kind I can get. The kind you give me without meaning to."

She shivered at his words, but this time, she didn't react. She simply let herself be invaded by this strange sensation which, little by little, was making Seong-je someone more than he seemed. Someone essential.

And in Seong-je's tormented mind, this moment was just one small step further towards what he believed to be his own love. A love he would impose. A love she would never be able to get rid of again.

---

Seong-je no longer knew exactly when obsession had taken over everything else. When the anguish of losing her had become that black fire, that creeping thing that scratched at every corner of his mind. Maybe at the hospital, or even before. But one thing was certain: from the moment Y/N had placed her hands on him, worried, desperate to know if he was alright, something had broken for good within him.

It wasn't love. Not really. It was deeper, darker. A morbid need. He didn't want her to love him. He wanted her to need no one but him. To breathe only through him. For every beat of her heart to be linked to him. It was the only way he knew how to love. It had to hurt.

When Y/N finally left the hospital, she expected Seong-je to disappear. Maybe not immediately, but that he would understand, with time. But she saw him in the lobby, as if everything were perfectly normal. He was there, sitting calmly at a table, signing the discharge papers. As if he were her husband, her guarantor, her everything.

"What are you doing?" she asked, hesitant.

He turned to her with that small, split smile, the one she never knew how to interpret.

"I reassured them. I'm taking you home. You're my girlfriend, remember?"

He gently, almost tenderly, brought his hand to hers and intertwined their fingers. Like an ordinary scene between two lovers. But Y/N couldn't ignore that strange pressure in her chest. A suffocating sensation.

He had accompanied her home. She had expected him to leave afterwards. He had even said goodbye, a kiss on her forehead. And she had believed, truly believed, that he would go.

But Seong-je had returned.

That same evening, he had come back, his arms full. A few personal belongings, a worn travel bag, and groceries. As if he planned to stay for a long time.

"I... I have nowhere to go. And with the storm approaching, it's dangerous outside. Just a few days, okay?"

She hadn't answered. He had already entered. He already knew where the kitchen was, where to put the dishes, where to place his clothes. As if he already lived there.

The storm broke that night. Howling winds, driving rain, lightning streaking across the sky. And Y/N found herself stuck with him. Alone. Trapped. The perfect closed-door setting for the emotional tension that had been building for days.

But Seong-je, for his part, was calm. Almost too calm. He prepared food, chopping vegetables with military precision. Y/N had never said she liked spicy tofu dishes. But she had confided in a nurse once, half-asleep, thinking no one was listening. He had listened. He always listened.

They ate in silence, their fingers occasionally brushing. Heavy silences, followed by glances that lingered too long. Sometimes their arms touched, and she didn't pull away. Sometimes her eyes lingered on his lips, and she turned her head. Until he kissed her.

A kiss that was initially soft, almost clumsy. Then more intense. As if he wanted to bite her, devour her. And she, lost between confusion and attraction, hadn't known how to react. She hadn't managed to say no. Not right away.

But the storm hadn't only carried away the rain. It had unleashed another tornado, far more dangerous.

They were in the living room, the lightning barely visible behind the curtains. Y/N wanted to talk, to set boundaries. But he had approached with a step that was too assured. And she had backed away.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.

"No... I just want some space, Seong-je. You're not supposed to be here."

He had laughed. A dry, slightly bitter laugh.

"You always say that when you feel like you might love someone. You're afraid of yourself, not me."

"That's not true."

"Oh no? Didn't you see yourself at the hospital, worried about me, as if your life depended on it? You kicked that nurse out just because she touched my arm."

He moved closer again.

"I need you, Y/N. And you know you need me too."

"This isn't... healthy."

"Maybe it's not healthy. But it's real. You can feel it."

He placed a hand on the back of her neck, gently. But there was strength in that touch.

"You think you can forget me? I'm in your apartment. In your head. You still breathe in my scent on your sheets. Every time you close your eyes, I'm there."

"You're manipulating me."

"No. I'm just revealing what you're hiding. You didn't reject me when I kissed you. You wanted it. You still do."

His words were like needles. And she had nothing to say. Because deep down, a part of her wanted to believe he was right. A tiny part, lost, wounded.

And that night, as the storm continued to beat against the walls of the apartment, they found themselves entwined on the sofa, between hatred and passion, between fear and desire. Prisoners of a love that wasn't supposed to exist, but that consumed them, slowly, dangerously.

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

New Geum Seongje fanfictions

Okay... She has a Trespassers in her house. But maybe she has this kind of view in the morning.

(⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

@mariii-0001

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elixirfromthestars · 6 months ago

Text

Tangled Up In You

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Avenger!Reader

Summary: When you and Steve get tasked with decorating the living room of the Avengers Compound, it seems like the perfect opportunity to spend some time with your crush. However, a certain tangled mess of lights would prove to make decorating a bit more difficult than you had anticipated.

Word Count: 1.5k

Warning(s): none. pure fluff. established nickname -> angel

Prompt/Event: @the-slumberparty december daze -> putting up christmas lights isn't as easy as it looks

a/n: And the secret is out! ₊˚⊹☆ This little winter drabble event was started because I wanted to do some gift giving for the holiday season. ˚୨୧⋆｡ So this fluffy fic is my holiday gift to you my dear Jo!! @neverthatsirius-jo ♡ I know how much you adore Steve, so I knew I had to write something for him just for you!! Thank you for reading! ₊˚⊹♡ Likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated!! ♡♡♡

main masterlist ♡ || fluffy winter drabbles masterlist ❆

You grumble an incoherence under your breath, stepping back and looking at the piles of cardboard boxes littering the living room of the Avengers Compound. Each one is filled with various holiday decorations you and Steve have been “tasked” adorning the living room with.

Last night, during the team’s weekly game night, it was decided that the two people who lost the most games by the end of the night would be stuck with the responsibility of decorating the only undecorated room left in the Compound—the living room.

Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately for you—you and Steve were the two losers of the night. You didn’t mind having to decorate on your day off, and you certainly didn’t mind spending the afternoon with Steve. He was one of your closest friends—a friend you have been secretly crushing on for months. You were hoping that this time together could help you muster up the courage to finally ask him out on a date.

Fingers crossed that, unlike last night, luck would be on your side when asking him.

While Steve brought in the remaining boxes from the storage room, you were going through each of the cardboard boxes to try and get an idea of what you had to work with. This was your first holiday season at the Compound, so you didn’t have last year's decor to reference back on.

You make your way over to one of the larger cardboard boxes, one whose height goes up to your waist. You notice the word lights scribbled on the side of it in black permanent marker before you open it. Inside, as you expected, are an abundance of Christmas lights. All an extensive tangled web of cords and bulbs. You couldn’t tell how many sets of lights were inside, but you did know whoever stored them previously did so without a care in the world. Now, they were left in a mangled knot you’d have to find the patience to undo.

Maybe luck wasn’t on your side today…

You huff as you begin pulling the strands of lights out of the box. Your eyes go wider by the second as they appear to be never-ending. Almost as if you were pulling the lights from a magician’s hat, yards upon yards of string poured out. It made you wonder if Wanda had enchanted the box for it to have been able to fit so much.

By the time the box was empty, you were in the midst of the pile of lights, carefully trying to make a path by sweeping the cords on the ground with your foot. This backfires on you quickly as the cords end up around your ankles. When you try to free them, your wrists somehow end up joining in on the vine-like restriction.

The pattern of you trying to free yourself from the web of lights only to end up getting more entrapped by them continues until you can no longer discern where you start and where the lights end. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the ridiculous situation you have gotten yourself into.

“I think there’s only—” Steve's words freeze in midair along with himself as he walks into the living room and sees the predicament you’re in. The Christmas lights cover you from head to toe as if you had been decorating yourself in them. His eyes sparkle with amusement, but he keeps his lips in a tight line to stop himself from laughing.

“Y/n, how did you…?”

“Please help.”

Embarrassment bubbles within every ounce of you—to say the least—and with no dignified explanation of how you got like this, you look everywhere but at Steve. Staring intently at the ground when he sets down the boxes in his arms and carefully makes his way over to you.

“I think you took out the lights Tony used last year to outline the roof. That’s why there’s so many of them,” Steve explains kindly as a way to make you feel better, delicately pulling at the lights around your body to find the ones easiest to take off of you first. Your eyes slowly make their way to meet his baby blue ones. Your embarrassment melts away at the gentle way he’s staring at you—no judgment in sight. However, you don’t miss the way the corners of his lips twitch as he holds back a smile.

“You can laugh, it's okay. This is pretty funny.”

“I’m not going to laugh at you, angel.”

“Laugh with me then.”

The nickname he uses only for you is enough to bring a smile to your face, but when a few light chuckles leave his lips at your permission—your smile widens until your soft laughter joins his.

What happens next will forever be unexplainable to both of you. Somehow, in the midst of trying to untangle you, the string of lights find themselves around Steve’s chest constricting his movement. You try to help him, but you’re not in the best position to. So from here on out, you go back and forth trying to help one another only to end up enveloped further by the lights.

You both laugh it off until you realize how close the lights have tangled you to each other. If you step any closer you’d be pressed up against Steve, the mere possibility sends your heart racing. Your nerves get the better of you, attempting to step back only to almost slip backward if it weren’t for Steve reaching out to catch you before you did.

Ultimately, pressing you up against him so you wouldn’t fall.

“You alright, angel?” He asks you tentatively, scanning you over as if you had fallen.

You nod slowly, the words getting caught in your throat at his proximity. The scent of his cologne, an earthy spice that is mixed with something that is entirely him fills your senses, causing the butterflies in your stomach to flutter dreamily.

Your eyes gravitate to his lips and when they do his breath hitches. Your gaze shoots up to meet his and in his pretty blues you swear you see the same desire you hold.

You’re dying to kiss him, and you think he is too.

Steve’s eyes lock on your lips, and that’s all the confirmation you need to gather the courage to pull him in for a kiss. It starts hesitant, yet sweet, both of you testing the waters of what it feels like to kiss one another. It doesn’t take long for Steve to deepen the kiss, wanting to pour his feelings for you out in the open. The dilemma of the lights is long forgotten as the kiss consumes all of your thoughts.

The snapping sound of a phone camera isn’t enough to break the kiss, but the flash that follows it is. You look over to see Bucky smirking proudly at the sight of his best friend kissing you and Sam making fun of Bucky for not knowing how to take a photo without the flash on.

“Seriously, you two?” Steve shakes his head at his friends, his cheeks rosy with a hint of bashfulness at the way his best friends are acting. You can feel your face getting hot as well, knowing there was no way you were ever going to live down getting tangled up in Christmas lights with Steve.

As for the picture of the kiss…you were definitely going to ask Bucky for a copy later.

When you tune back into their conversation, Sam has a shit-eating grin on his face, “You should make that this year's Christmas card.”

“Sam!”

You giggle at Sam’s teasing and at Steve’s attempt at scolding him. Steve seems mortified until he notices the way you don’t seem to mind the teasing. He stares at you with a fond expression, wanting more than anything to be alone with you again.

“Don’t you two have chores to do? Y/n and I are kind of busy here,” Steve motions to the web of lights that cover you and him from head to toe. Despite that, the twinkle of mischief in Sam’s eyes tells you he’s not done with either of you yet.

“Kissing or decorating?”

“Sam!”

After a few more rounds of teasing that leave Steve wondering when the earth will swallow him whole, Sam and Bucky finally retreat—leaving him alone with you once more.

“I’m sorry about that. I’ll make it up to you angel—I promise,” Steve apologizes to you, an endearing embarrassment on his features. You shake your head with a soft smile, intending to tell him not to worry about it until an idea pops into your head.

“How about you make it up to me tomorrow? We can check out that new coffee place down on Orchard if you’d like,” you suggest, your heart beating wildly in your chest as you await his answer. He lights up at your suggestion, “I’d love to. It’s a date then?” That last part comes out as a whispered question, wondering if you’d see it the same way he did.

“It’s a date,” you confirm, moving against the restricting lights enough to place a soft kiss on his cheek.

So it seems luck was on your side all along after all.

#glimpses of love in the snowfall #elixirs snowfall daydreams #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers drabble #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x y/n #captain america x reader #captain america fluff #captain america x you

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peach-top · 6 months ago

Note

boo! miss me! can i get a shadow milk cookie and yn cookie who's a faerie, (gn reader) yn cookie is researching dark moon magic which catches shadow milk cookies attention and he finds them amusing!! :3c

❝ TRICKSTER'S FAVORITE RESEARCHER ❞

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: fluff

𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗: gender neutral

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: shadow milk cookie x gn!reader

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌: none

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: you somehow captured the interest of shadow milk cookie

everyone knows. ALMOST everyone knows that dark moon magic is forbidden. pure vanilla and white lily are one of the few cookies who use such dangerous magic when they were students and there's you. a faerie here at the faerie kingdom, secretly doing research on forbidden magic. the reasoning for this is unknown or you wish to learn dark magic?

you have books and strolls scattered around your desk in your room for your research, scribbling notes about some spells, “Interesting…This magic is truly fascinating. I can see why it's forbidden.”

unbeknownst to you, a figure floated above you, watching you with an amusing look in his eyes. he has been watching you for a while the moment you start researching dark moon magic.

“They truly are fascinating, huh?” a voice snickered. you jumped and stumbled back against your desk, knocking over some books. the figure laughed, “Did I scare ya?”

“Huh?”

“I won't harm ya. It'll be a pity…or maybe not~” shadow milk cookie chuckled. “Anywayyyyy~ What a little faerie like you are researching dark moon magic for, hmmm?”

you adjusted your glasses (sucker for glasses) and responded, “That's nothing you need to know. Who are you?”

shadow milk cookie dramatically gasps, “Whattt?! It breaks my heart to know that you've never heard of Shadow Milk Cookie!”

you rub your chin, trying to recognize the name. you heard this name from somewhere, but where. shadow milk knocks on your head, “Knock, knock~ Anyone home?”

shadow milk cookie then click on a light bulb from above your head when you finally figure it out, “Shadow Milk Cookie, one of the beast cookies.”

“Ding-a-ling! Correct!” the beast cookie beamed, but he was expecting something from you. fear. he thought you might tattle on him like a tattletale, but nah. as much as he despises bravery and hope, but something about you seems different which interests him more. he's not gonna question it.

shadow milk cookie take a seat on the desk and pick up one of the books, “Let me ask again: What a little faerie like you are researching dark moon magic for, hmmm?”

“...I want to test it. I would like to understand why it's so dangerous, so I wanted to see for myself.” you responded. shadow milk cookie grabbed your glasses from your face and placed it on himself, ignoring a protest from you, “Nerd, but I like your guts, my little faerie. I've heard you've been doing some dark secret behind the fool king's back. Unlike that annoying White Lily Cookie, you're not as twice as annoying as she is.”

you grabbed a back-up glasses from your cabinet, “...Not like I wish to do something bad, just doing this because of curiosity.”

“Curiousity, of course. It's pretty risky, ya know~” the beast cookie grinned as he lie on the desk while kicking his feet.

“I'm a researcher faerie. I did plenty of risky shit around here. I don't need anyone's approval, not even Elder Faerie.” you huffed.

“Oh-ho~ I like you~” shadow milk cookie snickered, leaning closer face-to-face with you, “All bite and bark~”

“Don't you mean, “All bite and no bite”?” you raised your eyebrows.

shadow milk cookie pouted, “Don't correct me. I know what I'm saying!”

“Might as well need to go or you'll get caught.” you told the beast cookie. shadow milk cookie sulked, “Awwwwww~ I wanna stay a little longer. I know how to myself hidden.”

“...” you sighed. it's not like you can get him to leave, so you just let him stay, “Fine, but don't cause trouble for me.”

shadow milk cookie beamed, “Ok, pookie~”

“Don't call me that…” you cringed.

╰┈➤ author note: please note that this is a slow update. i will still accept your request, but it will take a while since i'll be working on other stories, too.

rules

crk masterlist

#cookie run kingdom #cookie run #cookie run x reader #crk x reader #crk x you #cookie run x you #crk x gender neutral reader #cookie run x gender neutral reader #shadow milk cookie

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thecordelialetters · 6 months ago

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The Art of Science

Viktor x artist!fem!reader

WC: 1.4k

An unlikely meeting of a lonely scientist and a student of the arts finding the beauty in themselves and each other.

Viktor never considered himself beautiful. His dimly lit room contained the basic human needs, a bed, a desk, and a sofa, all provided by the academy. There were no big mirrors besides the foggy one that sat above his bathroom sink. He barely glanced at it other than to fix his bedhead. The bags under his eyes and paling skin were hard to look at. Viktor believed in his work; he couldn't care less about vanity when he poured his energy into the lab daily. In the same way, he cared about his looks he gave the same effort into cultivating relationships. Like the mirror, Viktor didn't spare a glance at someone who wasn't interested in conversing about his projects or his vision for a better world. You were the complete opposite. You took life one step at a time, a personification of stopping to smell the roses come to life. As an artist, you look to beauty in the everyday. Perhaps it was fate your paths crossed, usually, you never dared enter the science wing of the academy but you had finished your painting early and wanted to go on a stroll to clear your mind. It was intimidating being around the brightest minds in Piltover. Most of them looked down on your profession. What was art compared to science? They'd mock you as you passed them, believing their work was revolutionary and way more important than a simple painting. It unnerved you but you'd never show it. A string of curses left Viktor's lips at another failed attempt at the Hexcore. Progress day was just a few weeks away and he had nothing to show for. As he hit his hand on the table in frustration, the vibration pushed the lab door open. The light from the small room shone on your face as you passed. Hearing a man's frustration you cautiously peaked your head through the door. You couldn't see exactly who was in the room but you could make out his back. The man was slender but had broader shoulders clad in a maroon button-up and white vest. His hair was a deep brown that flitted out over his ears. The room was messy, not as messy as your studio. You could see the genius behind the papers strewn over the desks and the many machines being worked on with the smell of oil in the air. Feeling the unusual sensation of being watched, Viktor turned his head to the side finding the door had been breached open. With a cramped hand, smeared graphite from all the writing he had been doing, he grabbed his cane and made his way to close the door. He pushed the opening gently finding the scene of you sitting on the floor, scribbling furiously in your notebook. His amber eyes drifted over your, messy locks tied in a ponytail, paired with gentle features that harmoniously made your face look perfect if it wasn't for the paint smudges on your cheek. He took a peak at your sketchbook finding familiar figures on the page of him in the lab. "What are you doing here little mouse?" He spoke in his soft accent. You stopped sketching and looked up, eyes widening at his presence. "I um...I was just passing by. I'm (y/n) part of the arts department." You looked down at your drawing, cheeks flushed with embarrassment at being caught. The handsome inventor crouched in front of you to sit. He held out one hand, "May I see?" You nodded and pushed your book into his hands, eyes boring into his face. Even under the dimly lit hallway of the academy, he was much more attractive. The flicker from the bulbs danced on his high cheekbones and you swore you could see the specks of brown in his amber eyes. Viktor scanned the page in detail. It was fascinating how you were able to so accurately portray his figure and inventions. Every nutt and bolt and every curve of his body you conveyed beautifully. "This is amazing (y/n)." He gave you a small smile. You beamed shyly in response. Tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear you spoke up, "May I? Sit with you and draw you?" Albeit shocked at your request his eyes widened.

Frighted you might have scared him off you waved your hands, "If not its okay, I should be getting back anyways." You grabbed the book from his hand and shoved your supplies in your bag.

Before you could bolt away a firm grasp held onto your wrist. "You did not give me a chance to answer little mouse." He smiled gently looking down at you. "Come, sit next to me, I would love to be your muse." You smiled giddly and hopped up dashing into the lab. Viktor chuckled at your antics. He had not experienced meeting someone as sparkling as you. It was as if someone had collected a burst of a newborn star and embodied it into a girl. You carefully danced your way around the lab not wanting to knock anything over but also letting your curiosity draw you in. You turned to the sound of a chair scraping the floor. Viktor had sat down and began writing his research again. Dragging a chair next to him you position yourself at his side with enough space to give you the perfect angle of his face and upper body. The almost burnt-out candle on Viktor's desk cleared the way of the darkness while the two of you worked on your delicate craft in silence. The sounds of scratching pencils battled each other as your furious ideas filled the page. Feeling the way your eyes bore into his skin Viktor couldn't help but feel nervous. What if you actually wanted to leave and were staying here out of pity. Why would you want to stay anyways? He wasn't conversing with you nor was he doing anything worth viewing.

Unable to resist his interest any longer he turned to look at you. Your eyes met paired with the warmest smile he's received in a long time. Your smile made his heart flutter in a way that was concerning. Perhaps it was his condition acting up again. Silently you held up your notebook to his face. The breath in his lungs had dissipated. It was...stunning. Was that really him? The page contained 3 versions of himself. Every wrinkle on his face, the curve of his jaw, and even the bags under his eyes were present. Somehow you had made him look...decent, attractive even. "You flatter me too much little mouse, this looks far better than I do in person." You leaned forward pushing your book on the table. "No this is you. This is exactly what you look like." You brought up a slender finger and traced his features. "See this here? Is also here." One had felt his face the other pointed to different places in your picture. "You are beautiful Viktor." With a soft smile, the light flickered on your face showing the freckles that danced on your skin. "Well, thank you little mouse I like your drawings very much." You nodded and flipped the page to continue. The two of you worked in silence for hours. Neither of you spoke a word but the atmosphere felt like a home on a Christmas night. Quiet but comfortable, filled with some kind of magic. "I wish I had my watercolors." Viktor paused at your honey-smooth voice. "Why is that?" He questioned. His eyes fluttered back and forth over your figure. Fresh laundry, paint, and lavender filled his lungs as you let your hair down from your ponytail. "You have these gorgeous amber eyes that I just want to paint but I can't" You pout. Viktor laughed heartily at your confession. "Well, why don't you come tomorrow night. I will be here again and you can paint me." He took an insecure pause. "If you want of course." You nodded before looking at the time. "Oh my it's so late, I'm so sorry for keeping you. I should head back now." Viktor gently held your hand that laid on his shoulder.

"Do not worry, I was going to be here regardless. Actually, I would like to thank you, your presence was most enjoyable." You blushed and brushed a few locks of hair from Viktor's face. "Well, then I'm glad I could be of good company." Packing up your supplies you couldn't help but notice Viktor's disappointed face. With a smooth tear, you ripped the drawing from your sketchbook. Surprised he jumped up thinking you tore the picture.

"Here! Have it. It will be a promise I'll come tomorrow." Realizing you were giving the drawing to him, he gingerly held the drawing staring at the multitude of strokes that somehow compiled into his likeliness. He swore the room was growing warming, what else could excuse the heat filling his chest. "I'll hold you to that, little mouse."

Authors Note: This is currently unedited and a short but maybe Ill come back to it. I just got a burst of energy to write again.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor league of legends #viktor lol #arcane #arcane s2 #league of legends #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #arcane x reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x you

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daily-lightbulbii · 1 year ago

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#inanimate insanity #ii #ii lightbulb #daily lightbulb #so sorry gang i had such a bad day yesterday and forgot to queue #im better now though so the bulbs will continue :thumbsup:#79 #scribbly bulb

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lordprettyflackotara · 10 months ago

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betrayed || masky

tw: SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. abuse? masky beats the shit out of you, gun play for like five seconds, choking, hate sex, breeding, size kink

a/n: everyone do me a favor and pretend the plot to this isn’t kinda all over the place

“You fucking bitch!”

Masky’s voice was hoarse, his fist colliding with your nose once more. You had lost track of time of how long you’d been here, your head hanging as you gasped for air. The beating was one you could handle, Slenderman having trained you well, but the guilt Masky was attempting to make you feel was something you couldn’t have prepared for. “After all these years, you’re going to betray us? You’re going to leave? To do what? Work for Trenderman?!” He hissed. He stomped before you, gripping the handles of your wooden chair with his gloved hands. His eyes were cold and merciless, peering at you from behind the mask he refused to take off. Your hands were bound behind you, the chains rattling as you attempted to breath with them wrapped around your ribcage.

Trenderman had offered you a position at his mansion. You’d continue being a proxy, but you’d be under his management instead of Slender’s. The Trenderman mansion was a more poised and mindful group of creeps, his proxies the same way. Cat Hunter and Kate had been assigned to him first, them being gifts from Slender. However they lacked leadership. That’s where you came in. Slender had four proxies including you, Trenderman had two. You were the newest member. It only made sense to formally invite you to lead the duo. Trenderman was classy like that, he wasn’t going to force you to do anything. Plus it would make him even with his brother, something he knew Slenderman would understand.

However, Masky did not understand.

Masky had discovered your invitation, as well as your agreement scribbled on it. It enraged him, leading him to drag you into his hellish chambers. The proxies were not afraid to torture someone and you were no exception. Toby and Hoodie were unaware of your choice, but Masky’s interpretation was betrayal. “After everything i’ve done for you, you leave to go be an uppity proxy for the goddamn Trender mansion?!” Masky snarled. The brunette had saved you time and time again. Being a female proxy with some sanity left meant you were a target, constantly. On missions, to the creeps. He fought off all of them for you. “What’s he offering you huh? To be the group leader?” He questioned. You briefly managed to meet his gaze, before looking back down as you panted.

You were sure one of your ribs was cracked, if not at the very least bruised to hell. Masky didn’t know how to control his anger, you knew that. Thats why you didn’t tell him or anyone except for Slender. You knew Slenderman let his mansion residents do pretty much whatever they wanted, but he was bound to his word. You knew he wouldn’t talk. What you hadn’t accounted for was Masky’s snooping. He had gone into your room, searching for you to join him for training. An ominous red envelope sat on your dresser and Masky will admit it, he couldn’t resist the temptation to open it. His lack of will power landed you covered in sweat and blood, the light bulb that dimly illuminated the room flickering. “So that’s it. None of us matter, as long as you’re in a position of power,” He concluded. He swiftly turned around, grabbing his small wooden chair and chucking it against the concrete wall.

The wood shattered into chips, causing you to cringe at the loud noise. “After everything i’ve done for you. Do you think taking a stab wound from Candypop was easy? Huh? All because he looked at you funny?” Masky rambled. You managed to clear your throat, swallowing the remaining saliva and blood that occupied your mouth. “You’re a shit leader Masky. You handle all of your problems just like this. Hot headed and without logic,” You hissed. Masky glared at the floor below, bracing himself against the concrete wall. “Let’s face it. Without Hoodie you wouldn’t know how to do shit. You may be the muscle but he’s the brains. You’re not the leader, you’re the fucking puppet for the puppeteer!” You yelled, venom lacing your words. Masky turned toward you suddenly, grabbing you by the collar of your shirt. “Dont forget what you are princess. You’re a proxy just like the rest of us. This isn’t a promotion. You’re still going to be a filthy slave just like the rest of us. Do you really think it’s smart to burn bridges with the people you’re going to spend entirety with?” Masky seethed.

You shuddered under the feeling of his gloves, the material rough as you boldly stared back at him. He noticed the slight shift in your facial expression, the way your willpower was cracking. He chuckled darkly, a sadistic grin spreading across his lips under his mask. “Cmon princess I thought you were smart. Don’t tell me you really thought you were climbing up the corporate ladder,” Masky said. You wanted better. You wanted something better for yourself. Trenderman’s mansion seemed like a way out. A way to have some sort of structure and honor, even if your freedom was stripped away. “Fuck you Masky. You’re just pissed your hard work hasn’t paid off,” You growled. The brunette stood up, glaring down at you. You could feel blood droplets still trickling down your nose, threatening to spill over your lips. Masky grabbed your face, wiping his gloved thumb over the crimson paint.

You hated how flustered his touch made you, his large hands for once demonstrating some form of compassion. You snapped out of your trance, cringing at his tough. “Dont touch me,” You snapped, jerking your head away from him. Masky gritted his teeth, before smacking you across the face. This time you could taste blood, the metallic flavor dancing across your tastebuds. You choked, gasping for air as you spat onto the floor. “You call yourself a proxy? Unchain me and fight me like a man you bastard!” You hissed. Truthfully you didn’t know how much damage you could inflict in your position. You expected your nose to be broken somehow, blunt force trauma causing your nose to become a faucet. Your ribs were fucked, your jaw was popped just almost out of its socket. You were also sweaty, tired, and hungry. However you knew without a shadow of a doubt Masky was taking it easy on you. You had been tasked to torture people together. You knew what the sick fuck could do.

“You wanna fight? Fine. Prove to me you deserve to be a leader,” Masky grumbled. He huffed behind you, undoing your shackles. The chain clanked to the floor, immediately relief washing over your bruised wrist. The minute you were free, you caught Masky off guard. You swiped around him, grabbing his gun that was tucked into his back waistband. You knew exactly where he kept it, you didn’t need any other attack. You pointed the gun directly at his temple, backing him against the wall. He slowly raised his hands, scrawling at you from behind the mask. “Pathetic. I expected more from you,” You spat. Forcefully you grabbed his mask off his face, revealing the hateful expression he wore proudly. “You betrayed us. You betrayed me,” Masky argued. You took the end of the gun, removing it from his temple and shoving it past his lips. “Open your mouth or i’ll break your teeth in,” You threatened. In an odd way you liked this, humiliating him like this. After how much he had put you through, putting the end of a gun in his mouth was the least you could get away with.

Masky stared wide eyed as he loosened his jaw, allowing the gun to go inside of his mouth. There was something about it, something erotic he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was the danger that he knew his gun brought. Or the amount of blood that the weapon had produced. Or maybe it was the determined stare you were giving him, your eyebrows furrowed and face hardened. You were so cute like this, so angry. You were always feisty, Masky knew that was a character trait of yours long before you joined his little band of misfits. And honestly, with the blood dripping down your face and messy hair, he had never been more turned on his life. You picked up on the subtle body language changes Masky was making, the sight causing you to raise your furrowed eyebrows. His face was turning a light tint of pink. “What’s your problem?” You asked, genuinely confused. You glanced down, Masky’s boner visible through his jeans. “What the fuck-” You whispered. Masky used your shock to his advantage, swiftly flipping you both around.

He disarmed his gun from you, pinning you against the wall. Lazily he tossed the weapon aside, using his hands to corner you. “Enough games princess. Let’s face it. We’ve always had tension. It’s always been you and me. The late night car rides when we’re the only ones awake. The way we make each other coffee. I see the way you look at me. You can’t lie,” Masky hissed. He wedged his knee in between your thighs, rubbing up against your clothed cunt. “You wanna up and leave? You wanna leave me?” He asked. For a brief moment he looked upset, insulted even. “The real betrayal is not you trying to leave, it’s you trying to leave and act like there’s nothing between us princess,” He snarled. His face hardened once more, your core beginning to throb from the pressure his knee was providing. “Please, just let me have a taste of heaven once,” He mumbled lowly. You stared up at him, grabbing handfuls of his jacket. You pulled him towards you, pressing your blood stained lips against his. His lips were rough against yours, desperate and hungry.

How long had he waited for this? To grab your waist, tugging at the hem of your shirt. You both were like feral animals, tearing at each other clothes. “Someone’s eager, hmm?” Masky teased, relieved to see you match his energy. You pushed him, forcing to sit down in the chair you once sat in. You straddled his hips, rolling them against his aching cock. “Fucking hell princess, you’re killing me here,” Masky groaned. His large hands gripped your ass, squeezing it harshly. Your shirt was long discarded, your hands beginning to fiddle with the clip of your bra. “Please, allow me,” Masky grinned, reaching around and unclipping your bra in a swift motion. He began peppering kisses against your chest, your hips continuing to roll against his. “I didn’t think you’d even know what a bra was, you’re such a virgin,” You smirked, tilting your head back. Masky began sucking at your breast, purposefully missing your exposed hardened nipples. He was littering your skin with marks, his chocolate eyes never straying from yours. He released your skin with a pop, his lips a darker pink. “I don’t fuck like one, but you’ll find that out first hand,” He argued.

Finally he brought your left nipple to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. He had waited so long to hear that mouth of yours moan his name, your head tilted back and his name falling off of your tongue. You were soaking through your panties, the dampness forming a wet spot through your shorts and onto Masky’s jeans. “Fuck, Masky,” You whined, his tongue swirling around your nipple. He grunted as he grabbed you, throwing you onto the hard concrete floor before crawling on top of you. “You’re such an inconsiderate asshole,” You gritted through your teeth, lifting your hips to help him remove your shorts. Masky tossed them aside carelessly, before undoing his belt. The sound of clinking metal sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. “Funny, coming from the traitor,” He huffed. He shoved down his jeans and boxers, his hard cock visibly twitching as Masky eyed your cunt. He leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear as the concrete pricked at your bare back. “In all my fantasies i’ve eaten you out for hours, made you squirm beneath me and beg for more. But if i’m being honest with myself, your betrayal has never made me want to fuck you more. I’m not going to wait,” Masky whispered.

His teeth grazed your earlobe, causing you to shiver as you felt the tip of his cock brush against your swollen sex. You whimpered, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Brace yourself princess,” He grumbled, before abruptly shoving himself inside of you. You gasped, your eyes wide and staring at the flickering lightbulb above as he split you in half. Your nails dug into his back, the sharp pain making him grit his teeth. “You can take it. I know you can,” He grunted, pushing himself in further. Your gummy walls were clinging to him, milking his cock in further even as you struggled to take him. Your body was screaming in an odd mixture of pain and pleasure, Masky’s lips pecking sloppy kisses against your ear and down to your neck. “I fucking hate you Masky. I always have. I hate the way you make me feel,” You confessed. You screwed your eyes shut as your body began to relax, Masky’s lips not letting up for a second. “You wanna know why i’m transferring to Trender’s? I refuse to fall in love with you. You sick twisted fuck,” You admitted, your last insult turning into a groan as Masky bottomed out inside of you. He lifted himself, just enough to where he was hovering over you. “I hate you too princess. But don’t lie to yourself. I feel the way you’re squeezing me. It’s a little too late for that,” Masky barked, before slowly moving his hips.

You moaned as he began to snap his hips into yours, your legs wrapping around his waist. His gloved hand came to your throat, viscously beginning to choke you. You gasped, your moans becoming restricted as he fucked you. “You’re such a fucking whore. You know that? Those little shorts you wear on missions. You think i’m the only one who noticed?” Masky rambled. His anger fueled his thrust, his cock abusing your g spot with each thrust. He choked you harder, your groans becoming choked sounds as he plowed into you. “Toby jerks off to you behind closed doors. Did you know that? And Hoodie has secretly recorded you showering so many times I can’t recall how many of those shitty cameras i’ve destroyed,” Masky continued, His eyes were full of darkness and rage, staring down at you intimidatingly. Your nails sank deeper into his back, Masky’s cock twitching at the sensation. He began to fuck you harder, releasing your throat and relishing in the sight of you gasping for air. “You’re never gonna forget me, i’m not going to let you,” Masky grumbled. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, listening to you mercilessly moan his name. It was the sweetest mantra he had ever heard and he attempted to ingrain it into his memory as he fucked you.

“I’m gonna fill you to the fuckin brim with my cum. You wanna play games? You’ll never get rid of me. I’ll leave you with a kid that looks just like me,” Masky groaned. Your walls squeezed his tighter, a sadistic smirk forming across his lips. “Oh you like that you sick little slut? Being bred by me? Why didn’t you just say so?” He questioned mockingly. You could feel your own orgasm approaching quickly, his filthy words making you come closer and closer to the edge of euphoria. “Masky, please, so close,” You whined, your fingers now entangling themselves with his thick brown hair. Masky rewrapped his fingers around your throat, pushing you down further against the pavement as he grunted into your neck. This was humiliating and borderline disgusting, yet you were on a high not even Slenderman himself could ruin. Your orgasm was sudden, Masky’s thrust not halting for a second as he fucked you through your orgasm. Your brain didn’t have time to process anything, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as your walls milked Masky to his own high. Your name fell off of his lips as he came buried inside of you, both of you panting messes as his seed painted your inner walls.

“I think I may stay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

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cece693 · 1 month ago

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Promise To Return Pt. 3

RECAP: He pressed his hands to his face, unable to stop the torrent of tears. All he could see was the half-faded memory of you—your warm smile, the way you used to loop an arm around his shoulders or tug Bucky into a playful headlock. All he could hear was Bucky’s agonized accusation: 'maybe you never really believed in him coming back at all.' “It’s not true,” Steve whispered to the empty air, voice cracking. “I swear it’s not.” But there was no one around to hear him. Nothing but the echo of silence, and the ghost of your promise that you’d find your way home—somehow.

The first thing you notice—every time you wake—is the stench. The cot beneath you is nothing but two sagging strips of army-issue canvas, always a little damp, always gritty with rust. Disinfectant and wet iron cling to the fabric so thickly you taste it when you breathe. You have learned to lie perfectly still in that stink: if your chains clink, if the mattress whispers, boots come pounding down the passage and the guards start shouting guttural orders you still can’t translate.

So you drift. In the strip of darkness between one interrogation and the next, you summon the memory of a bedroom on Dean Street in Brooklyn: wallpaper peeling in fern-shaped curls, a radiator that clanged like church bells at sunrise, the bitter half-cup of coffee Steve always forgot on the night-stand. In that memory Steve lies on your left—small shoulders braced against yours. Bucky stretches on your right, grin crooked, hair pushed off his forehead the way you used to tease it back for him.

Hold on, Steve murmurs in the daydream, mouth brushing the column of your throat, fingers combing through your hair with agonizing tenderness. We’ll come get you.

Damn right, Bucky adds, nipping your ear just to wrench a laugh out of you. Nobody keeps our boy for long.

The vision falters when the real shackles bite into your wrists. One blink and the dream burns away like a film strip that’s caught fire. You are back in a stone bunker somewhere in occupied Europe, walls slick with condensation, one bare bulb buzzing overhead. Your wrists are chafed raw from being yanked above your head during “sessions,” and your ribs bloom fresh violets and indigos with every daybreak.

They call themselves Hydra. Some guards spit the word like a curse; the scientists whisper it like a benediction. You stopped counting interrogations after the tenth, stopped counting days when the bruises began to overlap until they were a single mottled shield. The questions were never about troop movements for long. Soon they started measuring your pulse, your lung capacity, the elasticity of your skin.

Every session ends the same. Thick needles—long as knitting needles—slide beneath your clavicle or into the meat of your thigh. An icy solution floods your veins while a bespectacled man with nicotine-stained fingertips and an onion-sweet smell scribbles notes. He clucks his tongue when you pass out too quickly. “The formula is close,” he tells the guards in stilted English. “One more adjustment. Then we perfect our soldier.”

You repeat Steve’s promise like a prayer between your teeth, each syllable a bead on a rosary: I will come home. I will come home. You do not let yourself think about calendars or moon phases. Time is only the number of times you mistake hallucination for memory and the tally of bruises you can see without twisting your shoulders.

BROOKLYN—FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE LAST LETTER ARRIVED

Colonel Phillips’s makeshift office smells like stale cigars and damp wool. Steve perches on one edge of a map-strewn desk, Bucky on the other, the distance between them suddenly unbridgeable. Center stage lies a single Western Union telegram, its block letters dark as a grave marker:

UNIT KIA/MIA. NO SURVIVORS LOCATED. SEARCH EFFORTS SUSPENDED.

“Suspended,” Steve echoes, voice too quiet for the room. Even pumped full of Dr. Erskine’s serum, he suddenly seems small beneath the fluorescent glare. “They’re leaving him out there like he’s a misplaced crate.”

Bucky’s jaw grinds. “Then we don’t ask permission.” He slams the full magazine into the Colt and holsters it. “You’ve got the shield, the Howlies, the whole damn band. Tell Phillips Captain America is leading a reconnaissance extraction—and you’re taking me.”

Steve’s mouth twists. “The colonel says one unsanctioned raid could compromise—”

“Colonel can shove it.” Bucky surges to his feet; the chair skitters back and thuds against a filing cabinet. Then softer, voice fissuring: “He’s our man, Stevie. Our heart.”

Steve’s eyes sting as if someone’s flung powder in them. “I know. Sometimes I swear I feel him reach for my hand in the dark.” He palms the space over his sternum where pain lodges like shrapnel. “But tearing across enemy lines blind is suicide. We need coordinates, we need—”

“You need faith.” Bucky snaps. “Faith like he had when he wrote us those damn letters! He believed we'd find each other. Don’t make a liar of him.”

Steve’s temper finally snaps, voice dropping into the bassy snarl the Howling Commandos obey without thinking. “And I need you alive to reach him. Charging in half-cocked means three body bags instead of one.” Silence knifes between them. At last Steve’s glare falters, the hardness melting into grief.

“I love you,” he says, barely a whisper, like confession in church. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Silence settles, heavy as snowfall after shellfire. Bucky’s chin tips downward—perhaps to hide the quake in his lower lip. For weeks now neither of them has said those words, not since telegrams started talking of friendlies captured, bodies unclaimed. But the confession cracks something open between them, and when Bucky finally lifts his gaze, determination burns hotter than grief.

“Then don’t.” He reaches out, fingers brushing the star on Steve’s chest. “Lead the way. I’ll have your back. Like always.” Steve laces their hands and nods—once, hard enough to set his jaw. Neither knows your captors wear a serpent on their sleeves.

A FEW WEEKS LATER—HYDRA FACILITY, ALPINE SECTOR

The screech of un-oiled hinges detonates in the dark like artillery. You jolt awake, lungs dragging rank bunker-air that tastes of copper and damp limestone. Floodlights bloom, wiping the world to white. Before your pupils can shrink, two guards—faces hidden behind gas-mask snouts—seize your arms. Your legs forget how to stand; boots skid as they haul you into a corridor lit sickly yellow.

Walls on either side are chalked with looping equations—spidery Greek letters and jagged rune-like sigils. Behind iron slats, cages shudder and clang. Something inside them growls deep and wet, a bass thunder that does not belong to rats. You keep your eyes forward. Knowing the shapes of monsters never saved anyone here.

The final door yawns open with a refrigerated hiss. The laboratory reminds you of an abattoir scrubbed obsessively clean: stainless tables bead antiseptic sweat, surgical lamps hover like pale moons, and the floor drains gurgle faintly, as if remembering last night’s spill. In the center stands Dr. Arnim Zola, all paunch and pince-nez, round lenses glinting like freshly honed blades.

“Our resilient volunteer returns,” he trills, precise Swiss vowels wrapping the words in gift-paper menace. “Tonight, herr Liebling, we perfect greatness.”

You’re slammed onto a steel gurney. Leather cinches your wrists, ankles, chest, throat—each buckle tugged one notch too tight until bone protests. Overhead, a serpentine glass coil throbs with luminous emerald fluid; it pulses lazily, a counterfeit heartbeat. Zola twists a brass valve, and the liquid siphons through tubing into a syringe longer than your hand.

He leans close enough that you smell pickled onions on his breath. “The Red Skull teaches that pain is the crucible of revelation. Endure, and perhaps you will witness history rather than feed it.”

The needle descends.

The first puncture blooms cold—a glacial spear sliding under skin—then detonates into molten copper. Fire stampedes along every nerve, igniting spinal fuses, blistering behind your eyes. Your back arches; shackles screech. Sound rips out of you, a roar ragged enough to strip your throat raw, but the cell walls swallow it whole.

Memories burst like flares against the agony:

Steve’s grin as the Cyclone crested at Coney Island, freckles bright under salt wind.

Bucky cackling, shoving a mustard-slathered hot dog into your hand because “you’re wasting away, pal.”

Their bodies braided with yours beneath summer sheets, salt-slick and fearless.

Stars fracture across your vision. Your skeleton feels elastic, bones warping as if kneaded by invisible hands. Organs twist, lungs seize, blood hammers so violently you swear you can hear it—a kettledrum in your ears. You taste metal, then ozone. If begging would help, you would bite through your own tongue to do it, but words melt under the heat.

Zola watches, entranced, fountain pen twitching notes onto a clipboard. “Fascinating,” he murmurs when your skin silvers with sweat and your screams gutter to hitching gasps. “Schmidt will be pleased.”

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farmerstarter · 1 year ago

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Hi!! Could you do Sam HCs? It can be literally anything. I just love him so much :)

ʚ🛹ɞ ˚ · . Random Sam Headcanons

Tags: Sam from SDV x gn! reader

Hi! I'm so sorry for the super super super late response. Life has been pretty busy for the past few months and I haven't had the time to get on Tumblr. But, I'm slowly coming back to it! Anyway, likes and reblogs are appreciated. Hope you enjoy, loves! 🌷🫶

🎸 He was absolutely thrilled when you asked him to teach you how to skateboard. He immediately came knocking on your door the first thing in the morning the day after you brought it up, carrying his skateboard and some gear. You two spent the whole day going over the basics, with Sam holding your hands and trying not to laugh when you would scream over the tiniest things (“I’m going to die, Sam!” “It’s just a pebble!”). A cute add-on: Vincent and your pet would tag along sometimes, and they took it upon themselves to be your personal cheerleaders. After some time and a few bumps and bruises, you and Sam would often skateboard all around the town, trying to impress each other with tricks. Sam has your name etched on his skateboard, and you have his name on yours.

🎸 Personal HC where Sam and Vincent stumbled inside the fruit bat cave while they were visiting. Sam got bit by a bat, nothing too serious. Vincent is horrified, and Sam decided to mess with him by pretending to be a vampire. Suspiciously, you find yourself missing a jar of your homemade jam. Turns out, Sam “borrowed” it (And by that, I mean he scribbled a little note on the place where your jam used to be), and covered it all over his face pretending it’s blood. He got a big scolding from Jodi right after though.

🎸 Sam and Krobus friendship, Sam and Krobus friendship, Sam and Krobus friendship! It all started when Sam looked into the sewer to show Vincent that no, there is no monster in the sewage canal. He was soon face to face with a shadow man and it was over. Krobus has a knack for beating the hard levels on Sam's video game and their friendship budded from there. Sometimes, Sam would disguise Krobus with his clothes so they can watch movies in the cinema together. You found out about them when you walked in on Sam trying to teach Krobus how to play the drums in the greenhouse.

🎸 Sam asked Jodi to teach him how to bake after he had the bright idea to ask you out on a picnic when you two started dating. It all started when Penny showed him those fancy little cakes that she ordered from Zuzu City as a treat for Vincent after the kid passed his math exam. Penny mentioned how you saw those cakes when she bumped into you by the bus stop and thought they were cute. Cue a light bulb in Sam’s head. Sam’s not the best cook, but he’s got the enthusiasm. He ended up with a lopsided two-tier cake with a little blob of fondant on top of it (Vincent’s lips pursed, “What’s with the brown rock?” Sam sputtered while Jodi’s laughter chittered in the air close by. “It’s a chicken!”). Sam would make up for it years later when he would remake the same cake for your wedding anniversary.

🎸 Sam would randomly call you in the middle of a rainy day and just play guitar riffs. No words exchanged. When he’s done, he will just hang up.

🎸 Sam gives you pretty seashells that he and Vincent dig up on the beach (sometimes with a little help from Elliott and Willy) instead of flower bouquets. He doesn’t want to risk sneezing all over you when the pollen would inevitably make his nose red.

🎸 Sam had a whole phase of wearing a cowboy hat when he’s working on the farm for the first few months.

#stardew valley #stardew valley x reader #sdv sam x reader #sdv sam x farmer #sdv sam #stardew valley sam #sdv headcanons #🌱 writing :: sam

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schemmentigfs · 7 months ago

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Sweetening The Deal. (part 8.)

Summary: you officially move in to Melissa Schemmenti’s penthouse while waiting for your shared escape to Italy. Meanwhile, the redhead has a important conversation with a special someone.

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @greencurlyhair @dopenightmaretyphoon @schmentisgf @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7.

The movers came right at noon, their hulking figures unloading the truck’s contents with practiced efficiency. Melissa Schemmenti stood near the entrance of her sleek penthouse, arms crossed and directing them like a general. Her dark, tailored pantsuit, sunglasses, ponytail and sharp heels added to the commanding air she carried so effortlessly. You trailed behind her, still adjusting to the surreal situation of moving into her home—her penthouse, no less. This wasn’t just a new address; it was a new life entirely.

Boxes of your belongings, marked with hasty scribbles in black marker, were placed carefully inside the massive space. It felt strange seeing your old things—a worn lamp, a stack of books with peeling covers, and even that rickety little chair you refused to part with—scattered against the pristine marble floors and towering glass windows that framed the Philadelphian city skyline.

As much as you were trying to hide your uneasiness and fear, the older woman noticed your distant gaze and turned to you, frowning slightly worried if anything seemed out of order or bothering you. “What’s wrong? Something is worrying you?”

You jumped and hid your hands behind your back, trying to find the right words. “It’s just… it’s weird seeing all my stuff here. Like it doesn’t actually belong to this world.”

Sharp features softened, green eyes meeting yours. “It belongs because you belong here, Y/N,” she said simply, as if that explained everything.

“I guess,” you couldn’t argue with her—not when she looked at you like that, her confidence in her decision was so unshakable. The movers worked efficiently, but one of them accidentally bumped a white vase with flowers that Melissa had on a side table—a gift from her Nonna before she passed away years ago. She hissed under her breath, muttering something in Italian that you didn’t quite catch, but it sounded pissed.

“You know,” she said suddenly, turning to you as if struck by an idea. “We should go back to your old place. Make sure we didn’t forget anything.”

“My crappy apartment? Schemmenti, we didn’t forget anything. That place doesn’t exactly scream sentimental value.”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “Even so. Let’s make sure.”

The apartment complex felt smaller than you remembered. The once spacious rooms now seemed tight and suffocating, the walls closing in as you walked through the space. The wallpaper was peeling in large, uneven patches, revealing the dull plaster underneath. It looked tired, worn-out—just like the rest of the apartment. The once bright paint had faded over time, and the broken, flickering light bulbs did little to push back the shadows that seemed to cling to every corner. A faint, persistent smell of mildew filled the air, a reminder that the place had been left to deteriorate for far too long.

The kitchen, though small, had once been full of life, but now the counters were cluttered with stale crumbs and old dishes. The floor had been scuffed by years of use, and the cabinets creaked in protest when you opened them. The apartment was a shell of what it had been, a far cry from the airy, modern luxury of Melissa’s place.

And still, she wasn’t fazed. She had already been here with you months ago, before the move was decided, before your life had started to shift. She had seen the cracks in the walls, the way the apartment had become a haven for forgotten things, the place where you’d lived alone after everything had fallen apart. Still, it was as if this was the last step in the process—one more goodbye before she could take you to where you truly belonged.

You didn’t need to say it aloud; she had seen it, too. The emptiness here. The way it felt smaller and smaller every time you came back. Still, she didn’t complain. She never did. Her olive eyes, sharp as ever, scanned the space with a strange combination of detachment and intent, as though she were inspecting a crime scene. You followed her through the living room and into the kitchen, where the dull hum of the fridge was the only sound filling the air.

She was already moving with purpose, as though the place were nothing but a task to be handled, a box to check off. When she reached the counter, her hand stopped on a half-eaten piece of pizza, still on the table from the last time you’d lived here and had a poor meal before a day at work. It had clearly been forgotten, the cheese now hardened and the crust brittle, a sad reminder of meals that hadn’t been finished.

You watched as the older woman picked it up, her face scrunching up in mild disgust. “Uh, you should have some manners, doll. Leave the mess behind. You won’t be eating like this in my home,” she muttered under her breath before tossing the pizza into the trash can. The sound of it hitting the bottom was almost jarring in the silence.

As she stood there for a moment, wiping her hands on her pants, you couldn’t help but notice how out of place she looked in this run-down apartment. She was a woman of sharp edges, of clean lines, and this space—this was not her world. Still, she didn’t flinch, didn’t complain. She simply moved on, moving through the space with a cool, controlled presence, trying her best to ignore how everything around her seemed to scream of a time when you hadn’t been with her yet.

The movers had arrived, and their footsteps echoed throughout the space as they began to carefully carry out what was left of your precious belongings. Their eyes darted toward Melissa from time to time, taking in her sharp presence, the way she stood at the center of everything, so sure of herself, of what she was doing. A few of them smiled shyly, though they quickly looked away when they saw her catching their gaze. She didn’t need to say a word for them to know they had overstepped.

The redheaded woman rolled her eyes, a quick, annoyed gesture that revealed just a flicker of the jealousy from you she couldn’t fully hide. The workers may have been just doing their job, but in her mind, they were eyeing what was hers—what she was taking from this place.

You noticed the way she stiffened, just for a second, as the movers continued with their work. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but you could see it—the subtle twitch of her jaw, the way her gaze flickered to the men as they worked. She didn’t want to let it show, but you knew. You knew how she felt, how protective she could be when it came to you.

Trying to focus on anything else, Melissa made her way to the bedroom, where a few old pieces of furniture remained. She didn’t even look at you as she moved, her attention fully absorbed by the task at hand. You followed her, a mix of apprehension and sorrow bubbling up in your chest as the space grew emptier with every passing minute.

In the bedroom, you caught sight of her rifling through a drawer, her fingers pausing on an old photograph—a relic from your past. It was a picture of you and an old friend from years ago. The friend had moved across the country long before you and Melissa Schemmenti had met, but the photo had stayed. You hadn’t been able to part with it, not yet.

Her gaze softened, but only for a moment. She held up the picture, her eyes scanning it as though deciding what to do with it. “This,” she said, her voice low but firm, “shouldn’t stay here.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “It’s just a stupid photo,” you whispered, though you could tell it wasn’t just a photo. It was a piece of your past, a reminder of someone you used to be.

Eyebrows were raised, a small but knowing smirk tugging at pink lips. “It’s your photo, mia amore. That makes it important.”

Melissa folded it up carefully and slipped it into her bag, her fingers brushing the edge of the picture one last time before she put it away. Her actions were so final, so deliberate, that it almost felt like she was closing a door on something you hadn’t been ready to let go of.

The poor movers, oblivious to the emotional undercurrent, continued to haul your things out of the apartment. You could hear the hum of their voices as they worked, but everything felt distant. The room was growing emptier, and you were reminded of how much you were leaving behind. It was more than just stuff, and you knew it, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to admit it.

“It’s just stuff,” you murmured under your breath, as though saying the words could somehow make them true.

But of course, your lover—if that was an appropriate title to call her and define the dynamic between you, caught the muttered words. She always did. Without hesitation, she rested her manicured hand on your shoulder, her touch firm and grounding. “It’s more than stuff,” she started, quieter, gentler. “But you don’t have to look back, cara mia. From now on, you’re with me.”

You didn’t need to say anything in response. The weight of her words, the certainty in her touch, was enough. You were leaving this place behind, but you weren’t leaving it alone.

The day had been exhausting, and by the time the two of you returned to Melissa Schemmenti’s penthouse, the weight of moving and memories had left a heavy quiet between you. Later that night, the faint aroma of freshly baked lasagna filled the minimalist kitchen that was two times larger than your old home. Melissa had insisted on cooking something decent on her own—she said it was her way of celebrating the move, of grounding you in your new home. You didn’t argue. After hours of packing, moving, and unpacking, you were too tired to do anything but sit back and let her take over. There were still a lot of things that needed packaging and organization but you didn't care about it now.

The lasagna, rich and comforting, was just the way you liked it—savory and hearty, with layers of cheese that melted perfectly against the meat sauce. It was a familiar dish, one of the first things your sugar mommy had ever made for you, and it brought with it a sense of home that was hard to ignore.

You took a bite, savoring the flavor as you leaned back in your chair, your legs stretched out lazily underneath the table. The beer bottles from the celebratory moment earlier sat empty on the counter, the buzz from the alcohol still humming in your veins. It was a bittersweet kind of celebration, both of excitement for the future and the sorrow of saying goodbye to so much of the past.

She sat across from you, her gaze sharp but soft, watching you intently. She had been unusually quiet, focused on you, on the way your lips curved with each bite of food, as though trying to keep you in the present moment, away from the ghosts of the past.

Speaking of her, Melissa was stunning tonight, though she didn’t seem to notice. Her auburn hair was swept back in a loose bun, strands escaping to frame her sharp features. She wore a casual button-up shirt, the top few buttons undone, revealing just a hint of skin that you tried not to stare at too much. But the more you tried not to look, the harder it became.

Green eyes lingered on you as you took another bite, her fork paused mid-air like she’d forgotten about her own meal. There was a softness in her eyes, a kind of raw intensity that made your cheeks flush even in the dim light.

“What?” you asked, smiling nervously, the beer loosening your tongue.

Melissa set her fork down and leaned forward, her lips curling into that half-smirk that always made your stomach flip. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ how good you look tonight.”

You felt the heat rise to your face, and suddenly, the room felt too small, too warm. You reached for your glass, taking a sip to distract yourself, but her eyes stayed on you, unyielding and full of something deeper than admiration.

As the meal wound down, the silence between bites stretched into something heavier, something charged. At one point, you reached for your beer just as the older woman reached for her wine, your hands brushing briefly. It was nothing, just a simple touch, but it sent a spark through your veins, and you both froze for a moment, locked in place as if the whole air had been sucked out of the room.

“Uh. Lasagna’s good,” you said finally, your voice a little too loud, a little too shaky.

“Glad you think so. Made it special tonight.”

“For me?” you teased, but your voice came out softer, more vulnerable than you intended.

“For you,” she confirmed, her tone dropping just enough to make your pulse quicken.

And then, as if by some invisible force pulling you both together, she leaned over the table, her hand brushing against yours, her lips hovering just a breath away. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until she closed the distance, her mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was as soft as it was consuming.

The world melted away for a moment, the taste of her white wine and your beer mingling as her lips moved against yours, slow and hungry. There was a hesitation, though—an unspoken restraint that neither of you dared to break. She moaned softly when you bit her lower lip and in that fleeting second, something shifted in you. The desire swelled, overwhelming, but you held back, knowing how much you wanted this—needed this connection.

Your pulse raced, and you couldn't help but think how badly you wanted to make love to Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti right now, to let go of every lingering doubt, every hesitation. To feel her body pressed against yours in the way only she could make you feel—alive, consumed. But there was something else in the air tonight, something delicate that begged for patience, for a gentler pace.

Still, you couldn’t deny it. You wanted her. More than you could put into words.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, your eyes searching hers for some kind of confirmation, some kind of permission to let go of the tension that had been building all night.

But the redheaded woman cleared her throat, her cheeks flushed, and reached for her napkin. “You’re drunk,” she signed, steadier than she felt.

“I’m not that drunk,” you protested, though the heat in your cheeks and the slight slur in your words betrayed you.

Instead, Melissa laughed, but it was tight, her sharp fingernails drumming lightly on the table as if trying to distract herself. “We still have a lot to do tomorrow. Don’t get ahead of yourself, hon.”

You smiled, but there was something in her tone, something in the way her gaze flickered away from yours, that made you realize she was fighting the same urge you were. The desire hung heavy between you, unspoken but clear, and it took every ounce of willpower for both of you to let it lie, untouched, for now.

Later, as she helped you to the spare bedroom, your steps unsteady from the beer, she caught you looking at her with that same heated gaze, the one that had been following her all night. She shook her head, more to herself than to you, and muttered. “You’re a pain in my fuckin’ ass, you know that?”

“A pain in the ass in a good way?” you quip, your voice sleepy but still playful.

Melissa didn’t answer, just pulled the covers over you and brushed a strand of hair from your face, her fingers lingering for a moment too long. “Sleep. We’ve got a long day tomorrow, baby.”

But as she lay beside you later that night for comfort, her thoughts refused to quiet. The kiss lingered in her mind, the taste of you, the feel of you so close but still just out of reach. She loved you—she was certain of that—but the weight of that realization was almost too much to bear.

Her heart raced as she stared at the ceiling, panic rising in her chest like a wave threatening to pull her under. Without thinking, she slipped out of bed, grabbing her coat and keys. She needed air. She needed clarity.

It wasn’t long before the Italian found herself standing outside Barbara Howard’s door, her hand hesitating before knocking. The quiet neighborhood seemed to hold its breath as she finally rapped her knuckles against the wood.

When her long time friend and confidant opened the wooden door, her kind eyes immediately softened. “Melissa?” she asked, gentle but curious. “It’s midnight. What on earth are you—”

“I—” She began, her voice cracking slightly. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I need to talk to you, B. I’m losing my freakin’ mind over here.”

Barb stepped aside, motioning for her to come in. “Come on, then. Let’s figure this out, sweetheart.”

Melissa stepped inside, the weight of the night finally catching up to her as she sat down, her head in her hands. “I think I’m in over my head.” She sat on the worn but comfortable couch, her fingers gripping the edge of her coat. The familiar scent of lavender from Barbara’s diffuser filled the room, grounding her just enough to speak, though her voice came out strained and heavy.

“I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, running a hand through her hair, which was messier than usual from the anxiety of the night.

Barbara, seated in her armchair with her legs crossed, leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped together. Her face was the picture of calm, a quiet invitation for her dear friend to take her time.

“I’m... I’m in this thing,” Melissa started, gesturing vaguely. “It started as a sugar mommy deal—an arrangement. She needed the money, I had the money. Simple, clean, no strings attached. But...” She paused, her throat tightening as she thought of your sweet, innocent face.

The brunette raised an eyebrow, her lips pursing slightly. “But?”

“But it didn’t stay that way. I thought I could keep it professional, y’know? Keep it about the money. But she’s... different. She’s smart, she’s funny, and she’s so damn stubborn sometimes it drives me nuts, but I can’t stop thinking about her. And suddenly I’m sitting, watching her eat lasagna, looking at me like I hung the moon, and I’m thinking, what the fuck am I doing?”

Barb let out a soft hum, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Melissa Schemmenti, I can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve got a soft heart under all that bravado. What’s really bothering you?”

Melissa swallowed hard, her fingers tightening their grip on her coat. “It’s not just her. It’s everything. My family, the business... my ma. She’s getting worse.”

“Teresa?” the tone shifted, laced with quiet concern.

The redhead nodded, her jaw tightening. “Yeah. The dementia’s really setting in. Some days, she doesn’t even know who I am. And when she does, it’s not good, B. She’s mean, like always, but it’s different now. She’s confused, and it’s like... she’s still trying to control everything, even when she can’t remember why.”

“That must be hard, dear. For all of you.”

“It is,” Melissa admitted, breaking slightly. “And then there’s the rest of the family. You know the Schemmentis—always in each other’s business, always about the food, the reputation, the legacy. They act like I owe them something just because I’m the one who’s ‘made it.’” She threw up her hands in frustration. “And now, with Ma the way she is, they’re all looking at me like I’m supposed to fix everything. Like I’m the one who has to hold it all together.”

The eldest sighed deeply, her head shaking slowly. “Mel, that’s a lot to carry on your own.”

“That’s the thing, Barb. I’m not sure I can carry it. I’ve been trying to keep it together for so long, but it’s like... it’s all slipping through my fingers. And then there’s her—” Melissa stopped, her voice catching as she thought of you. “I promised her an escape. Lake Como, Italy. She’s never been, and I thought... I thought maybe if I could just get us out of here, away from all this mess, we could start over. Maybe I could have a life that’s just ours. But now, I don’t know if I can even make it happen. The family’s got their claws in everything. They’re watching my every move. I can’t breathe without them knowing.”

Barbara sat back in her chair, her lips pursed as she absorbed everything. “Melissa,” she said finally, her tone even but firm, “it sounds like you’re trying to be everything to everyone. That’s not sustainable.”

“I don’t have a choice!” she shot back, her voice sharper than she intended. She immediately softened, sighing heavily. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to... It’s just—she’s the one good thing I’ve got right now, hun. And I’m terrified I’m gonna screw it up, just like everything else.”

The brunette leaned forward, resting a gentle hand on the poor woman’s knee. “You’re not screwing anything up. You’re human. But you can’t pour from an empty cup. If you’re going to make this work—with her, with your family, with yourself—you need to let someone help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Melissa stared at her for a long moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not good at asking for help,” she sighed quietly.

“No, you’re not. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Red lips twitched into a reluctant smile, though her olive eyes were still heavy with emotion. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Barbara squeezed her knee gently before standing. “Let me make you some tea. You’re staying here tonight. You can’t fix everything in one night, sweetheart. But you can start by getting some rest.”

The redhead opened her mouth to protest, but her friend shot her a look that silenced her immediately. She leaned back into the couch with a sigh, letting the weight of the night settle as Barb moved to the kitchen. For the first time in a long time, she felt like maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to carry it all on her own.

Back to the penthouse as the first light of dawn streamed through the curtains, painting the room in hues of pale orange and gold, you stirred awake, groggy from the beers you’d indulged in the night before, your head heavy but your thoughts immediately searching for the precious redhead woman.

Rolling over in the massive bed, you frowned when you realized her side was empty. The sheets were cool to the touch, and a pang of unease prickled in your chest.

“Mel?” you called out, your voice raspy from sleep. No response.

Pulling yourself out of bed, you padded barefoot across the plush carpet, glancing around the penthouse. The space was quiet, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. You made your way to the living room just as the elevator chimed softly, and the doors slid open.

Melissa stepped out, still in the same coat she’d left in last night, her red hair slightly disheveled and dark circles under her eyes. She stopped short when she saw you standing there, her expression shifting into something tender.

“Hey, what are you doin’ up?” she askedp as she dropped her keys on the console table.

You crossed the room without hesitation, wrapping your arms around her tightly. She froze for a second, surprised by the intensity of your hug, before her arms came around you, pulling you close. Her hands rested firmly against your back, her cheek pressed against the top of your head.

“I woke up, and you weren’t here,” you whispered, muffled against her coat.

“I’m here now,” your sugar mommy said softly, her hand moving to stroke your messy hair. “Had some stuff to clear my head. That’s all.”

You pulled back just enough to look at her, your brows furrowed in concern. “Schemmenti..”

She silenced you with a small smile, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’m fine. Promise. But how ‘bout we do somethin’ to start the day off right? What d’ya say we hit the pool?”

The suggestion made your lips curl into a faint smile. “The pool? Now?”

“Why not?” the older woman said, smirking slightly. “Sun’s comin’ up. It’s quiet. We’ll have it all to ourselves.”

The idea of floating in the serene water with her sounded perfect, so you nodded. “Okay. Let me grab my bikini.”

As you turned to head upstairs, Melissa’s hand casually drifted down to rest on your lower back. She let it slide lower as you walked ahead, her fingers deliberately brushing against your ass.

You gasped, glancing over your shoulder at her with a deadly glare. “Really?”

She shrugged, her smirk growing. “Just checkin’ the goods. What? I’m your sugar mommy, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you hurried upstairs to change. Behind you, the redhead stood there for a moment, shaking her head with a grin she couldn’t suppress.

“Impossible,” she muttered fondly to herself before heading to the kitchen to grab towels for the two of you.

The pool glistened under the mid-morning sunlight, its surface a tranquil expanse of blue. You were sprawled out on a large inflatable float, lazily drifting across the water with a paperback in hand. The cover read The Price of Salt— the same book Melissa Schemmenti made fly on the floor like it was nothing and your voice carried softly across the quiet space as you read aloud.

“They were looking at each other, and it was as if someone had pulled a curtain back...” you trailed off, biting your lip as you processed the passage.

Melissa, lounging nearby with a glass of iced tea in hand, raised an eyebrow at you. “Let me guess,” she said dryly, “you’re gonna tell me this is like us.”

You smirked, lowering the book just enough to meet her gaze. “It is like us. Carol is sophisticated, gorgeous, a little intimidating... and Therese? She’s young, creative, figuring her life out. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

The forty-five year old snorted, taking a sip of her drink. “Yeah, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?” you asked, already knowing she had some jab lined up.

“Therese probably knows how to swim.”

You scowled, sitting up slightly on the float. “I can swim. Kind of.”

Melissa rolled her eyes, setting her glass down and standing. She sauntered over to the edge of the pool, her hands on her hips as she looked down at you. “You can’t even dog paddle, bambi. What’re you gonna do in Lake Como? Sit in the boat lookin’ pretty while I do all the work?”

Your cheeks flushed, but you refused to back down. “Maybe I’ll just stay on the shore. Ever think of that?”

“Not a chance. I’m not takin’ you all the way to Italy just for you to stay dry.” She stepped down into the water, wading over to you with a determined glint in her eye.

“What are you doing?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as she reached you.

“Teachin’ you how to float,” the redhead woman said simply, placing her hands on the float to steady it.

You groaned, setting your book aside. “Lis, I’m fine like this.”

“Nope. You’re not gettin’ outta this one,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. With a swift motion, she tipped the float just enough to slide you gently into the water. You shrieked, splashing as you flailed instinctively.

“What the—Fuck?! This is insane!” you screamed, your grip on the float tightening as your heart pounded faster. The unfamiliar sensation of the water surrounding you made your chest tighten with anxiety. “I swear, I’m gonna die from this. I’ll drown, and it’ll be your fault.”

“Relax!” Melissa was surprisingly calm, her hands immediately finding your waist to steady you. “I got you.”

You glared at her, water dripping down your face. “You tipped me on purpose!”

“Yeah, and you’re fine,” she said, her lips quirking into a smirk. “Now lean back.”

You hesitated, your body tense, but Melissa’s hands remained firm and reassuring on your waist. Slowly, you let her guide you, your back arching as you tried to relax against the water.

“There you go. See? The water’s holdin’ you up. Nothin’ to be scared of.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your body finally starting to trust the water. The woman’s hands lingered, one slipping to the small of your back while the other rested just beneath your shoulders.

“Good girl.”

The tension between you shifted, growing heavier as you became acutely aware of how close she was. Her hands, her gaze, the way her lips parted slightly as she watched you—it was overwhelming.

“You’re really close,” you whispered, though you made no move to pull away.

The smirk returned, softer this time. “I am.”

Before you could respond, she leaned in, her lips capturing yours in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world. The coolness of the water contrasted with the heat of her mouth, sending a shiver down your spine. You reached up, your fingers tangling in her wet hair as you kissed her back, the float forgotten as you lost yourself in her touch.

The kiss lingered for a moment longer, your breaths mingling in the warm air above the cool water. When Melissa finally pulled back, you couldn’t help but let your eyes wander as you floated there, still half-cradled in her arms. The wet fabric of her sleek black one-piece clung to her in all the right places, leaving very little to the imagination.

It wasn’t until your gaze traveled upward that you noticed the way her nipples had hardened beneath the thin material, the chill of the water making itself known.

You bit your lip, your cheeks flushing despite the casual intimacy you shared with her. “You, uh…”

Melissa raised a brow, clearly catching your drift as her eyes followed yours downward. A subtle smirk crept across her face. “You starin’, principessa?”

You sputtered, turning your head away as a nervous laugh bubbled out of you. “No! I wasn’t—well, maybe a little. But it’s your fault for looking like that!”

She chuckles. “Oh, looking like that, huh? What’re you gonna do about it?”

You glanced back at her, your face warm but your bratty instincts kicking in. “Well, maybe I won’t let you teach me to swim after all,” you said with mock defiance, crossing your arms over your chest as best you could while floating.

Melissa’s dark expression deepened, her grip on your waist tightening just enough to pull you closer. “Oh, you’re not gettin’ outta this,” she murmured, her voice dipping into a husky tone that sent a warm sensation down your legs. “And don’t think I didn’t notice where your eyes were. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You laughed, your body relaxing in her hold despite the flutter of nerves and desire that coursed through you. “You’re the bitch teasing me,” you muttered, though your tone lacked any real annoyance.

“Teasing you?” she repeated, her lips brushing against your ear as she spoke. “I think you’ve got it backward, sweetheart.”

The way her voice dropped sent heat pooling low in your belly, and you had to fight the urge to wrap yourself around her right there in the water. But as her hands slid over your waist again, steadying you, you couldn’t help the way your body leaned into hers.

The tension between you crackled, but Melissa finally let out a soft sigh, pressing one last kiss to your temple. “Alright, brat. Let’s focus. Lake Como isn’t gonna wait forever, and I’m not lettin’ you drown when we get there.”

Her words brought you back to reality, though the warmth of her touch lingered. You nodded, trying to steady yourself, even as your heart raced. “Fine. But if I get this right, you owe me.”

“Trust me, you’ll get your reward soon enough.”

(Next Chapter.)

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x y/n #lisa ann walter #melissa schemmenti #abbott elementary #abbott elementary fanfiction

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onlygirlaliveinnyc · 1 month ago

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slide away 𐙚 ˚ ⋆｡˚ ᡣ𐭩

pairing: 1993ish!noel gallagher x reader words: 1217 genre: fluff, soft!noel warnings: mention of him being a bit tipsy? none really :p summary: noel comes home late from the pub—tipsy, tired. you’re half-asleep in his shirt, the flat warm with the echo of him, and he just wants to be close. post roadie but pre oasis blowin up ! a/n: ty anon for the req i have no idea why i decided to do it slide away based but i thought it was cute <3; not timeline accurate cause we are all just yearners on this page. ++ listened to this version of slide away when writing so yall should too ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

he was still a bit drunk when he left the pub. coat unbuttoned, collar turned up against the cold, head full of lager and smoke and you.

bonehead had said something about staying for one more—some shite about “good vibes” and “potential birdwatching,” whatever that meant—but noel had waved him off. didn’t feel like sitting there without you beside him. didn’t feel like laughing if it wasn’t your thigh pressed to his, your voice in his ear saying something stupid just to make him grin into his pint.

he had a set of lyrics folded up in his coat pocket. scrawled earlier on a napkin between a small studio visit and a piss-poor meal deal. he’d been tweaking them all night, scribbling bits in the margins, muttering fragments into his pint. the lads had started calling him moz again just to take the piss. here he goes again, the tortured poet of manchester, bone had teased, but noel hadn’t minded. not really. not when the words were coming. not when they were about you.

his shoes thudded soft against the wet pavement, soles damp and worn. the air smelled like rain on brick, stale chip fat, car exhaust—somewhere between miserable and familiar. the wind tugged at his collar and numbed the tips of his fingers. still, he didn’t rush. hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched, head bowed slightly as he walked. he was thinking. humming. lyrics drifting in and out of his skull like smoke.

you’d been in his head all day.

he thought about the way you’d looked that morning—tangled in the duvet, bare legs wrapped around his under the sheets, wearing one of his old shirts with the hem just below your ass. the telly was playing some old Bowie video while you drank coffee out of a chipped mug and told him to please get that out-of-tune guitar off the bed before i chuck it out the window.

he’d laughed, but he’d also reached for his pen the second you turned your back.

he nearly tripped on the curb just thinking about it.

“fuck’s sake,” he muttered, not even annoyed—just dazed. tipsy. maybe a little smitten. maybe a lot.

—

he found the right key after a few tries and slipped into the flat as quiet as he could. the hallway light was out again, bulb probably gone for days. the front room was cluttered with the usual—guitar cases stacked two-deep against the wall, cables coiled like snakes on the floor, battered notebooks on every flat surface. someone’s half-broken amp sat in the corner, humming faintly even though it wasn’t plugged in.

he tripped on the corner of the skirting board and let out a low “fucking hell” that echoed louder than he wanted it to.

“wall’s a fuckin’ prick,” he muttered.

he shrugged off his coat and let it fall over the arm of the couch. kicked off his shoes with a muffled thump. the flat smelled faintly of cigarette ash and your shampoo—something soft and floral and warm, the kind of scent that stuck to his pillowcases and made him want to bury his face there in the mornings.

he padded soft down the hall, the floor cold beneath his socks. the radiator clanked faintly from the front room, like it was trying its best. the bedroom door creaked as he pushed it open.

and there you were. curled beneath the duvet, one arm flung over the pillow he’d been sleeping on before the last gig run. your breathing was slow, steady, the kind of rhythm that made him want to stay awake just to listen. you wore his shirt again—the one with fraying cuffs and a hole near the hem. the fabric had stretched slightly at the shoulders from being tugged off him too many times. the sight of you in it, soft and half-lit by the glow of the streetlamp outside, made his chest ache in that specific, familiar way.

you stirred when the door clicked shut.

“love?” his voice came out rough. soft.

you hummed, barely awake.

he crossed the room in a few quiet steps and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning down over you with a sigh. his hair was a mess from the wind, cheeks flushed pink from the cold and the drink. his breath smelled of Guinness and smoke and spearmint gum he’d bought hours ago and forgotten to chew. his eyes traced over your face like he was still catching up to being home. like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked.

“wasn’t,” you mumbled, “’til you started swearin’ at the lamp.”

“that lamp had it comin’,” he muttered. then leaned down and kissed your cheek. his lips were warm, and the kiss lingered a second longer than necessary. he kissed your jaw next, then the corner of your mouth. “missed you.”

you rolled onto your back as he shifted, half-climbing into bed, limbs heavy and warm. he exhaled deeply as he settled—his head dropping to your chest like he’d been waiting all day to do exactly that. one arm wrapped around your waist. his other hand slipped beneath the hem of the shirt on you, thumb tracing slow circles into the soft heat of your skin. not wanting. just needing.

you curled your fingers into his hair, soft under your hands. “you alright?”

“had some lyrics,” he mumbled. “wanted to show you.”

“yeah?”

he nodded, breath fanning warm against your collarbone. “wrote it before the pub. couldn’t get it out my head after.”

“let me hear, then.”

he propped himself up on one elbow, the bedsprings creaking faintly beneath him. cheeks pink. eyes bright in that way he got when he was just back from a gig—still half there, adrenaline not quite worn off. he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the napkin, unfolded it with the same care he might give to something breakable. sacred.

but he didn’t read from it. just looked at you. something soft, almost shy, flickering in his expression.

“i dream of you,” he said quietly. “’n all the things you say.”

his voice cracked a little on the next line. “i wonder where you are now.”

you thumbed over his jaw. he leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed like a cat in a sunbeam.

“pretty,” you whispered.

“it’s not done,” he muttered. “just words. no chords yet. just hums in my head.”

“then hum it,” you said. “i’ll remember it for you.”

he let his forehead drop to yours and closed his eyes. for a moment, everything went quiet. then he hummed. low and unsure, more breath than sound. a handful of chords, soft and clumsy, tumbling around in his chest. shaped by a shitty pint and a crowded pub and the way you looked that morning with sunlight in your hair.

he trailed off after a few seconds. let out a long, shaky breath. like he’d let go of something he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

you kissed his temple. “i think you’re a genius.”

“nah,” he mumbled. “just broke and obsessed.”

his hand found your hip again, thumb drawing lazy circles. grounding himself. his calluses were rough, fingertips slightly cold, but the touch was featherlight. reverent.

you smiled against his shoulder. “you’re warm.”

“you’re better,” he whispered.

#oasis #oasis fanfiction #britpop #britpop fanfiction #noel gallagher #noel gallagher x reader #noel gallagher/you #noel gallagher/reader #noel gallagher x you #noel gallagher fanfiction

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