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RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

 It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity. 

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony. 

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place. 

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it. 

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had  always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it. 

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way. 

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway.  Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes. 

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything. 

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness. 

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention.  The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark. 

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would. 

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter? 

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness. 

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement. 

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him? 

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is. 

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago. 

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet. 

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine. 

It doesn’t. 

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot. 

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it. 

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all. 

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating. 

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you,  arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you. 

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline. 

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure. 

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees. 

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

 “Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug. 

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants.  “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes. 

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before.  “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs. 

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you. 

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.” 

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.  

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering.  “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him. 

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.” 

You could slap him. 

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts,  “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

 “Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long. 

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before  shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder,  caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure. 

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you. 

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to  “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own. 

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

 “Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment. 

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls.. 

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried. 

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house. 

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

Honey

Evan “Buck” Buckley x fem!shy!probie!reader

summary: Buck helps you make cookies for the rest of the 118 and you both get distracted

word count: 2k

cw: make out session

part one part two part four part five

Your heart raced as you mixed the dough in front of you as you thought about the fact that Buck would be there any second. The two of you had been…well, you didn’t exactly know what you were, but what you did know was you were having fun. You had been spending any spare second you had together, but he still hadn’t seen your apartment and that made you nervous. 

Where someone lived said a lot about them and you wondered what he was going to think about it. It was much more decorated than his place with artwork taking over the walls and funky furniture pieces and little trinkets taking over practically every spare inch of the place. 

You didn’t know why you were so nervous. You were comfortable with Buck now and he certainly wouldn’t have judged the way your apartment looked. In fact, you were sure that he would have loved to look at every single one of your belongings, asking questions to let you know how interested he was in it all. If Evan Buckley loved one thing, it was hearing you talk. 

He loved that you had gotten more comfortable around him to the point of yapping all the time. And he’d listen with so much interest. You could have read a phone book and he would have sat there and listened intently, hanging onto every word. It had gotten to the point where he would ask you to read to him when you were in the firehouse waiting to respond to a call. He’d lay his head in your lap and close his eyes while you ran your fingers through his hair, reading aloud to him. 

There was a knock on the door that pulled you out of your thoughts and heat rushed to your cheeks as you wiped the flour off of your apron. You raced to the door and opened it, Buck on the other side with a bottle of white wine. He had on a bright smile that always only seemed to be reserved for you as you let him inside and he pressed a peck to your lips before closing the door behind him and making his way over to the island. 

He set the bottle down then turned to you, his arms circling your waist as he pulled you in for another kiss, this time, slotting his lips between yours, his lips moving against yours slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. You pulled away before he was ready and turned to grab some glasses for the beverage, Buck hot on your heels, grabbing hold of your waist and peppering your cheek with kisses, loving to hear the giggles fall from your lips before letting you go. 

“So do I get an apron?” He asked as he leaned against the counter next to you as you grabbed the glasses, barely reaching them. 

“They’re over there,” you pointed to the hook that was on the wall to the left of him. Your hand barely brushed the bottom of the glass and Buck stood behind you, resting his hand on your waist, reaching for the glass you couldn’t get to with ease while also grabbing a second glass with one of his other fingers. He then set the glasses on the counter in front of you and you turned around, a shy smile playing on your lips. 

“Thank you,” you looked up into his pretty blue eyes, feeling like you could fall into them just like every time you looked into them for too long. They were hypnotizing. Almost like a siren luring a sailor to his death, and you supposed that was a way you wouldn’t mind dying. 

“Of course,” he nodded. “Anytime.” 

“So…wine?” You asked and Buck turned around, reaching for the bottle while simultaneously looking for a corkscrew. You seemed to know exactly what he wanted and grabbed the thing from one of the drawers behind you before handing it to him. 

He pulled the cork out with ease and poured the wine before handing a glass to you. You clinked them together and you each took a sip before setting the glasses down on the counter. 

“So what’s first?” He asked, rubbing his hands together. 

“Wash your hands. That’s arguably the most important step.” Buck nodded and removed his hoodie and you didn’t miss the way the shirt he was wearing underneath rode up, giving you a perfect view of his happy trail. You looked a little too long then turned away, your cheeks heating. 

To distract yourself, you turned to the oven and put it on the right temperature before heading back to your dough that you had been working on. Buck admired you while you threw some chocolate chips into the dough, loving the idea of doing domestic things with you. He wanted to help you wash dishes and fold laundry and straighten up the place before you had guests over. 

He was falling hard and fast and the thing was, he didn’t even care. He would have usually proceeded with caution considering his relationship history, but for once, he wasn’t scared. People were always leaving him, and for once, he didn’t feel that way. He had a feeling you’d stay with him until your very last breath. 

You were nothing if not loyal, always sticking by people even if they didn’t deserve it. But Buck? Buck deserved it more than anyone you knew. He was the sweetest, most caring man you had ever known and you couldn’t believe that you had actually thought that he hated you.

Buck tied his apron and washed his hands thoroughly before waiting patiently for your instruction. You finished folding the chips into the dough then set it aside before grabbing the cookie sheet and putting some parchment paper on top of it. 

“Are you gonna let me help?” He asked. “That is why you asked me over, right?” Truthfully, you had asked Buck over just because you wanted to see him. You were too shy to admit it to him initially, so you just made up the whole cookie thing. You hadn’t even planned on making them. 

“Can I be honest?” You asked, suddenly feeling very embarrassed about your silly lie. 

“Of course,” he nodded, reaching up to give your shoulder a squeeze. You knew he wouldn’t judge or laugh, but you couldn’t seem to choke down your fear. 

“I lied,” you admitted, turning away from him. “I didn’t actually need your help, I just-” you cut yourself off, not sure if you should come clean. You turned away, staring at the time that was displayed on the oven. 

“You just what?” He asked softly, grabbing you by your chin and turning your head to face him, but you still wouldn’t look him in the eyes, yours staring down at the apron he was wearing. It was red and white gingham with little ruffles at the bottom. 

“I just wanted to see you.” Your voice was so soft that it was barely audible, but Buck could always somehow hear you despite that. 

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he chuckled, tilting your chin up and you finally looked him in the eyes. “I wanted to see you too.” 

“You did?” He couldn’t believe you were even asking that. He wanted to see you all the time. Even if he had just been with you, he was always desperate for more of your company. 

“Let me put it this way,” he stepped closer to you, grabbing hold of your waist and pulling you to him, leaning down so that your face was only inches from his. “I was going to invite you over before I got your text. I don’t like being away from you. When I get home from working a twelve hour shift with you, I have to force myself not to knock on your door or call you.” 

Your heart warmed at his confession. From his words, it had seemed like Buck was completely and utterly obsessed with you and you felt the exact same way about him. In a split second decision, you moved away from him and he followed you, unsure of what you were doing. Had he been too vulnerable? Had he shared too much?

You reached into the little bowl that was on the table that was by the door and grabbed hold of a key before turning to Buck and holding it out to him. His eyes widened as he stared down at it, the little thing between your fingers saying so much. He had hoped that the two of you would have gotten to that stage eventually, just not this quick. 

“Honey-” he paused, trying to get his thoughts together. “Are you-are you sure?”

“Positive,” you nodded with a smile. “I want you to have it so you can come over whenever you want. Even after work. Especially after work. We can unwind together and have dinner and go to bed.” The way you were describing it made then whole thing sound so inviting and Buck was very into the idea.

“Deal,” he nodded, grabbing the key from you and pocketing it before pulling you into a kiss, smiling against your lips and you did the same, laughing into his mouth because of how happy you were. The whole thing was messy with your teeth clinking together, but you eventually figured it out, your bodies pressed together, melting as one. His tongue swiped along your bottom lip as he tilted your head back so he had more access. You opened up and his tongue slid inside, swirling it around as his hands slid down, grabbing the backs of your thighs and he lifted. 

You jumped and he caught you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he carried you over to the counter. He set you down on the edge and he pushed down on your chin to open your mouth wider so he could taste every inch of your mouth. You tasted like cookie dough and the wine you had a little sip of and Buck couldn’t get enough. You just tasted so good and he wanted to devour you. 

The oven went off, the loud beep catching the both of you off guard. You broke apart in surprise and Buck hurried the oven to turn it off, chuckling to himself at the fact that you broke apart so quickly as if what you had been doing was wrong. And if kissing you was wrong, he certainly didn’t want to be right. 

Once the oven was off, he made his way back over to you and you spread your legs, giving him space to stand between them. He reached behind you and untied your apron while you did his. He lifted the strap over your head and had to stop himself from looking down at your tank top that dipped very low, giving him a perfect view of your cleavage. 

He got his own apron off then set them both next to you before leaning towards you, putting a hand on each side of you, caging you in. He leaned forward even more and just when your lips were about to meet, he grabbed his wine glass and took a sip, causing a very adorable pout to form on your lips. 

“Oh, did you want something, honey?” He asked, taking another sip from his glass, trying his best to not laugh. “Because if you want something, you’re going to have to speak up.”

“I want a kiss.” 

“Sorry.” He set his glass down. “I think those are in short supply tonight.” You knew he was pulling your leg and you were going to play along.

“Even for me?” You bat your eyelashes, knowing that that would always get him to give you whatever you wanted. 

“Even for you,” he replied with a nod of his head. “But I supposed that I could spare one…but you have to give me something in return.” Now you weren’t even sure if you wanted him to kiss you anymore since he was being so difficult about it.

“Like what?” You crossed your arms over your chest and glared at him and never thought that something being angry would be so goddamn adorable.

“You have to read to me.”

“I was going to do that anyway.”

“You’re right,” he nodded. “Well, I guess I just give you one for free, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Forget it,” you scoffed, hopping off of the counter and headed to the stairs of your loft. Buck was hot on your heels, trying to reach out for you, but you were moving too fast. 

You collapsed onto the bed and Buck was quick to lay on top of you, burying his face in your neck, peppering the spot with kisses as his hands reached up and he interlocked his fingers with yours.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he apologized against your skin. “I’ll give you all the kisses you want, just please don’t be mad at me.”

“I could never be mad at you, Buckley,” you said, pulling his head away from his neck so he’d look you in the eyes. He pressed a few quick pecks to your lips then buried his face in your neck again, his arms moving to circle your waist. Your hands moved up and down his back and eventually, the both of you fell asleep like that, thinking that the only place either of you ever wanted to be was wrapped up in each other’s arms.

Oooo, I'm excited for your celebration!!! Congratulations!

Clone: Commander Wolffe

List: NSFW 🔞

Prompts: D17 with S20

Proof of age: I saw Jedi in the theater when it released in 1983. The Rancor will always be my fave creature in the SW universe.

Congrats again! Can't wait to see what you come up with!!

@dreamie411

Make Up Your Mind*** 🌊

🫧 Pairings: Commander Wolffe X Female!Reader

word count: 3k

Prompts:

• “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’re going to forget that other guys name.”

• “Stars, you're so much better than the last person I was with."

When Wolffe finally had enough of letting you slip into hands that weren’t his own, he makes sure to remind you who you really belong to.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ only, explicit sexual content and language, mutual pining, minor alcohol consumption, flirting, reader is implied to have done hook-ups before, rough kissing, nudity, fingering, vaginal sex, dom!Wolffe, creampie, confessions of feelings, friends to lovers, tender aftercare.

Authors Note: Sorry for the wait @dreamie411, hope this is okay. 🩵

As you stand behind the bar at 79’s, wiping down the surface, you hear a gravelly voice that you recognise all too well. One would assume it was any of the Clones, but there was something different about the Commander that you just could tell the difference with.

You glance up, locking eyes with the man who has spent far too much time lingering around this bar, and a smirk tugs at your lips. Commander Wolffe is eyeing you with the same intensity he always does, though there’s something unmistakably different in the way he’s watching you now.

“What did you get up to last night?” he asks, voice low but edged with curiosity—or maybe something more.

You raise an eyebrow, already knowing that he’s fully aware of what you were up to. After all, he’d spent the better part of the night silently fuming as you entertained the advances of a flirtatious patron, someone who might’ve turned into a one-night fling if the mood had struck you. You’ve always been casual about these things—no strings attached, just a bit of fun. But judging by Wolffe’s barely-concealed irritation, it’s clear he wasn’t thrilled watching you entertain someone else.

“Just this… and that,” you answer with a cheeky grin, moving away briefly to serve a trooper from the 212th. When you return, Wolffe is still leaning against the bar, his eyes following your every move. You tilt your head, feigning nonchalance. “Why do you ask?”

He swirls the ice in his empty glass, the tension in his shoulders visible even in the dim strobe lights. “Can’t a man be curious?”

Your gaze sharpens with mischief. “Depends. Not many men are curious about my sex life unless it’s for a reason.”

His jaw clenches ever so slightly, and you relish the way your words get under his skin. There’s a charge in the air between you, a tension that neither of you has been willing to break. “Care for a refill?” you ask, the words slipping out smoothly.

Before he can respond, you reach for his glass, brushing your fingers against his just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin. It’s a fleeting touch, but it sends a ripple through you that’s hard to ignore.

Admitted, you have thought about the idea of being with Wolffe before—how could you not? He’s rugged, disciplined, and there’s an undeniable magnetism in his reserved demeanor. And utterly sexy.

Yet, despite his clear jealousy, he’s never made a move. Maybe it’s the restraint that comes with his rank or the weight of his responsibilities, but it leaves you wondering if it’s just that what holds him back.

You pour him his usual drink, sliding it back across the bar before he can even reach for his credits. As he starts to pay, you place your hand over his, stopping him. “It’s on me, Commander,” you say with a wink.

Wolffe’s voice drops a notch, almost a murmur. “I want to give you something. You deserve it.”

You hum softly, leaning closer across the bar, teasing him with a slow, deliberate gaze that traces from his furrowed brow down to the scar that cuts across his eye, finally resting on his tense, but oh-so-inviting lips. “And what do you think I deserve, hmm?” Your voice is a playful whisper, laced with just enough suggestion to make him falter.

For a brief moment, it’s as if time stops. Wolffe’s attention is locked entirely on your lips, on the way your breath gently fans against his face. The lights of the club dance across your features, casting you in a soft, almost hypnotic glow.

He’s caught, just for a second, torn between giving in to whatever’s been simmering between you two and holding himself back. But as much as he wants to close that distance, something pulls him away.

He takes his drink, your fingers slipping away from his as he steps back, eyes soft with something left unspoken. You watch him walk away, a sigh slipping from your lips.

When 79’s finally closes for the night, the hum of laughter and music fades into silence as you finish tidying up. The bar is empty, save for the clinking of glasses you swiped from tables and the faint buzz of neon lights overhead. You wave goodnight to the other workers as they exit through the back door, their voices echoing faintly down the corridor. With a tired but satisfied sigh, you begin locking up for the night, turning toward the entrance when you feel the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze.

A knowing smirk pulls at your lips. You don’t need to turn around to recognise who it is. “We’re closed, you know,” you call out, your voice playful.

But when you finally do turn, you find Wolffe leaning against the bar, his back to you, shoulders tense. He doesn’t move at first, the muscles in his back taut under his armor as he collects his thoughts. Something about his posture is different tonight—more guarded, more intense. You step closer, curiosity mingling. “What is it, Commander?” you ask as you lean against the counter beside him.

He straightens up slightly, turning his head just enough for you to catch the edge of his stormy gaze. “I need to talk to you.”

There’s no hint of teasing in his tone, and the seriousness in his eyes causes your flirty retort to falter. You’ve never seen him this conflicted, this on edge and your smirk fades. “What’s going on?” you ask softly, cautious.

For a moment, he just stares at you, a battle clearly raging behind those eyes. And then, with a voice rougher than you’ve ever heard, he speaks. “You drive me mad, you know that?” frustration lacing every word. “Watching you, knowing you’re letting others close when all I can think about is how badly I want you. How I’ve wanted you for longer than I care to admit.”

Your breath catches, pulse quickening at the raw intensity of his confession. Wolffe steps closer, closing the distance between you in one stride, his eyes locking onto yours with a hunger that sends a shiver down your spine. “I’m done holding back,” he says, voice dark and laced with that possessiveness you’ve always suspected simmered beneath. “You want to know what I’ve been thinking about? About having you, in every way. About making sure you never forget it’s me you should belong to.”

The heat in his words draws something deep and electric from within you. “Wolffe…” you whisper, but it’s lost as he crowds you against the bar, his body radiating a warmth that sends your senses into overdrive. The look in his eyes is almost feral, desire mixed with a longing that makes your head spin.

His lips are on yours in an instant, rough and claiming, as though he’s been holding back for too long and can’t bear it any longer. You respond in kind, meeting his intensity, hands grasping at his armor as he presses you into the counter. The kiss is a clash of need and frustration, every pent-up emotion pouring into the way his mouth moves against yours. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, begging for entry which you allow, your fingers tugging in his textured hair as his tongue dominates your own.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard, your lips swollen from the fervour of it. “I’ll give you everything,” he whispers on your lips, voice a low rumble that reverberates through your chest.

There’s no hesitation in you now. You’ve wanted this just as much as he has, and the fact that he’s finally lost control is exhilarating. “Then show me, Commander,” you challenge.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. In a blur, he lifts you onto the bar, hands sliding possessively over your hips as he steps between your legs. The kiss that follows is deeper, more desperate, fueled by weeks—maybe months—of tension. His hands grip your waist with enough strength to leave marks, as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go.

Wolffe’s lips leave a trail down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he moans, “You’re mine tonight. No one else. Just me.”

Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, drawing him closer and with a swift, practiced motion, he begins unbuckling his armour, peeling it off piece by piece while his gaze stays fixed on yours, dark with intent. There’s no room for hesitation, only pure, unfiltered desire.

You barely have time to catch your breath before his hands are on you again, yanking your workshirt over your head, fingers deftly working at your waistband before he slides your pants down and panties. The tension is almost unbearable as his calloused hands slide up your thighs, parting them with authority. His lips land on yours again, hungrier than before, biting gently on your lip as he frees himself from the confines of his uniform. When he finally pulls away, both of you are breathless, the air thick with want.

“Been thinking about this for a long time,” he mutters, voice low as his fingers slowly dip between your folds after getting your consent, finding you already slick with need. “You’re dripping for me already. You really want this, don’t you?”

You can’t help but moan softly as his fingers tease you, brushing over your clit before plunging inside. “I’ve wanted this as much as you have,” you manage to gasp, leaning back on your hands for support as his fingers begin to pump into you with a steady, ruthless rhythm.

“Good,” he groans, leaning in close, his breath hot against your ear. “Because you’re about to get exactly what you’ve been craving.” His thumb presses against your clit in tight circles as his fingers curl just right, hitting that spot that makes you shudder and arch against him.

You bite your lip, stifling the cry that threatens to spill out as your hips rock into his touch. The intensity of his gaze, the way he watches your every reaction—it’s overwhelming. “How’s that feel?” he taunts, voice thick with a mix of pride and lust. “Am I as good as you imagined?”

A wicked grin spreads across your face as you look down at him, voice dripping with teasing satisfaction. “Stars, you’re so much better than the last person I was with.”

That earns a deep, possessive moan from him, and his pace quickens, fingers plunging deeper, harder. “You think I’m going to let you go to anyone else after this? Not a chance,” he hisses, clearly spurred on by your words. “I’m going to make sure I’m the only one you think about from now on.” His gaze is locked on your cunt as his fingers curl inside you

Your response is lost in a choked gasp as he withdraws his fingers suddenly, leaving you momentarily empty. You whine at him for stopping but your words are caught in your mouth as you watch him pull his cock free, only for him to then line himself up against you. At first he teases your sentence pearl with his aching tip, feeling you shudder against him. Then, with one fluid thrust, he buries himself inside you, filling you completely.

The stretch is intense, and you can’t help the cry that escapes your lips. He feels perfect—thick and unyielding, just what you’ve been aching for. He groans, hips stuttering as he buries his face into your neck. Then he pulls back and cups your jaw with his hand, making sure every word he’s about to say sinks in; “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll forget that other guy’s name.”

The need between you both is primal, each thrust deep and purposeful as he claims you in the way he’s been fantasising about for far too long. His hands grip your hips with bruising force as he drives into you, the wet sound of your bodies moving together mingling with the breathless moans that spill from your lips.

“Tell me how good it is,” he commands, voice rough as his pace picks up, your legs tightening around him. “Tell me how much you like the way I fuck you.”

You don’t hold back, your voice a breathy moan. “It’s so good, Wolffe. So much better than anyone else. You’re the only one who can give it to me like this.”

That spurs him on, his movements becoming almost punishing as he growls your name, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. “You’re mine tonight,” he breathes against your neck, the words possessive yet laced with something deeper. “No one else is ever going to touch you like this again.”

Your body tightens around him, every ridge of his cock brushing against your walls. Pleasure builds within you until it’s impossible to hold back any longer. “Fuck,” he groans, head tipping back briefly before his eyes lock onto yours again. “You feel incredible.”

When your release finally crashes over you, it’s intense, your vision going white as your muscles clench around him, drawing a guttural moan from his throat. He doesn’t let up, riding you through your orgasm, praising you, until he’s right there with you, thrusts growing erratic until he spills into you with a deep groan, his forehead resting against yours as he tries to catch his breath.

For a moment, the only sounds are the heavy breathing and the faint hum of the bar’s lights. Wolffe’s hands remain firm on your hips, almost as if he’s still afraid to let go. When he finally pulls back, there’s a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.

Before you can ask, Wolffe’s hands gently cup your face, his thumbs brushing tenderly along your cheeks. There’s a softness in his gaze now, something you’ve never seen before. His fierce determination melts away, replaced by something far more vulnerable.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. His thumbs continue to trace delicate patterns on your skin as if memorising every contour of your face. “I’ve watched you for so long; how you smile, how you laugh. How you take care of people, even when you think no one notices. You’re not just beautiful—you’re kind, too. And it drives me crazy because you deserve more than just a quick fling. You deserve someone who sees you for all that you are.”

His words hit you harder than any of the passion you’ve shared so far. Your heart stutters at the sincerity in his voice, the way his eyes soften as he holds your gaze. For a moment, the world outside fades, leaving only the two of you in this small, quiet moment. You’ve seen Wolffe as a soldier, a leader, but now, you see him as a man—a man who’s been holding back something real, something deep.

“Wolffe,” you breathe out, touched by his unexpected confession. “I—”

He doesn’t let you finish, leaning in to kiss you with a gentleness that contrasts the rough desire you shared moments before. The kiss is slow, unhurried, a silent acknowledgment of what’s blooming between you. His lips move against yours with reverence, taking his time as if savoring each moment.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours in the stillness. “You’re not just someone I want in passing,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want you for more than just tonight.”

Your chest tightens with warmth, a rare vulnerability breaking through your usual confidence. You reach up, running your fingers through his hair, grounding him in this moment. “I’ve wanted you too, more than you know. Not just for what we have now, but for what we could be.”

He studies your face for a moment, as if committing your every feature to memory, then smiles—a small, genuine curve of his lips. “I’m done hiding how I feel,” he says quietly. “You’re mine, but I’ll also be yours, in every way that matters.”

With that, he kisses you again, this time with a perfect balance of passion and tenderness, his need still evident but tempered by something deeper, more meaningful.

It’s not long until a second round of passion ensues, this time him stripping himself completely bare as he lifts you and moves you towards one of the booths for a more comfier setting. He lays you down, crawling over the top of you as his erection firms and pushes into you once again.

“Tell me how it feels,” he moans softly in your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

You can’t help but smile, the words slipping out between moans. “Beautiful… perfect. Nobody has ever made me feel this way.” You whimper, the sound of his cock sliding in and out of your already dampened and filled pussy stirring your crazy.

That longing glint returns to his eyes, but this time, it’s mixed with the affection he just bared to you. “Good,” he murmurs, his pace picking up slightly, his hands never leaving your skin. “Because I’m going to make damn sure you never want anyone else.”

The rhythm between you builds again, the intensity returning as his movements grow more insistent, more determined to claim you in every way possible. But there’s a new layer to it now.

His touch was something deeper, more profound, and it’s shown in the way his lips brush against your skin, the way his hands hold you like you’re something precious. Like a porcelain doll.

As you both approach that edge again, the tension coils tight, your bodies perfectly in sync. The pleasure mounts higher and higher until it crests, a shared release that leaves you both trembling and breathless. You collapse into him, clinging to his shoulders as he holds you steady, his own breath coming out in ragged pants. “Mesh’la,” he breathes, kissing your forehead gently.

For a while, neither of you move, caught in the afterglow. But then, Wolffe gently lifts your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I want you,” he says again, “No games, no hiding. I want us—for real, whatever it takes.”

You smile, reaching up to cup his face, thumb brushing over the scar near his eye. “Then we’ll make it real. But… What about your status? You’ll be reprimanded.”

“Status be damned,” he growls at the thought of the GAR taking you away from him.

You’ve crossed a line, and there’s no going back. But for once, neither of you care.

🌊 Masterlist is Pinned 🌊

Tags: @littlefeatherr r @kaitou2417 7 @eyecandyeoz z @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @pb-jellybeans s @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @lamiliani @tech-aficionado @whore4rex @imperialclaw801 @temple-elder @mysticalgalaxysalad @yunggoblin @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @thesith @raevulsix @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot @lulalovez

𝒗𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆 — ⋆

༓ 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒌𝒂 𝒓𝒚𝒖𝒖𝒏𝒐𝒔𝒖𝒌𝒆

↬f!reader, slight angst but also fluff-ish, one-sided crush (?), we’ll never know because i genuinely don’t even know, was part of a ficlet compilation on my old blog now edited and reposted, 587 wc

(𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕)

Tap! Tap! 

Your dry and tired eyes lift from your textbook at the sound of knocking on the entry door to your fourman dorm. Despite needing the break, you groan. Probably one of your roommates forgot their key card again. You sigh as you pick yourself off the couch and open the door without checking the peephole.

“Oh, Ryuu!” You say as you’re greeted with a bright sharky grin. Your heart thuds in your chest at the unexpected visitor. Well, perhaps not so unexpected since it’s well known across campus that he’s hopelessly head over heels for your roommate, Kiyoko. You’re not even entirely sure on the ‘hopelessly’ part of that. You find him funny and cute, and his earnest persistence to woo the same girl is admirable - surely anyone who was around him long enough would feel the same. You just wish you could be the girl. However, somehow you ended up more of a friend and wingman to the man in the doorway. 

“Here, I came to drop these off,” he declares as he piles a stuffed bear, a bouquet of flowers, and a heart-shaped box of chocolates in your arms. Ah, of course. You almost forgot it’s Valentine’s Day.

“Cool, I’ll put these in Kiyoko’s room for you,” you say as you start to back up, hoping you don’t sound as sour as you feel. The thought of all these cute little tokens of affection leaving your possession instills a black cloud looming over your head. 

“Hm? Oh, no, they’re for you!” Ryuu exclaims with a smile that squeezes your heart every time you see it.

“Y- H- Wha-?” You sputter dumbly as you feel every pore on your skin start to prickle. Did you hear that correctly?

“You, uh, mentioned a while back that you’ve never gotten chocolate or flowers on Valentine’s Day, so I thought I’d be the first,” he explains as he rubs the back of his head, a bit nervous under your unreadable shocked stare. 

Your eyes sting, but hopefully he doesn’t notice. You told him that last year, pretending not to care and that you were above such gestures, and really, you had convinced yourself of that. But it would be nice- No. It is nice.

You thank him with a wobbly smile and he looks more than pleased to catch you so off guard. Your eyes hold onto his for a moment, searching for an elaboration, but he’s quick to wave his hand casually and send himself off with that sharp grin that makes you want to incinerate any apprehensions about love. 

“I’ll see you in class tomorrow! Happy Valentine’s Day!”

You give a tiny wave goodbye to him, and as soon as you close the door, you sink to the ground and hug your gifts tight to your chest while your heartbeat goes wild. After taking a few deep breaths, you make your way to your room. You place the cute brown bear on your bed, stick the flowers in a smoothie blender cup (because what college kid has a vase in their dorm), and hide the chocolates away in your desk drawer.

Maybe it’s because his crush on Kiyoko is so widely known, you feel the need not to draw any attention to the gifts. However, you still would send him newspaper style reviews of each chocolate as you ate them, and a picture of the flowers in their make-shift vase that makes him laugh. You really didn’t think you held a candle to Kiyoko, but maybe…. just maybe….

(𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕)

Omi omi

sorry, wrong number! — tanaka ryuunosuke. chapter two; GOATED

content ; smau. profanity. ooc! characters. kuroo being called a predator AS A JOKE. reader & tanaka bonding over getting bad grades and being grounded often.

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taglist ; @sahrii @kameyyy @cherrysurf @standcom @44twentytwo @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @mayyhaps @mimi3lover @evilari111 @s6rine @taefanclub @3stela @wakeupmaddie @suvakrpa @autlantic

I cooked so hard with this one, am really proud of it!!! All the Bad Batch Lads <33

tagging my Girlie @decembermidnight bc she asked <3

Bonus Goggle-less Tech!

bed chem ━━━ iwaizumi hajime

01. who the hell is iwaizumi

cw. kys jokes

masterlist. profiles i | next

summary. when an unfortunate incident kicks you out of your university and risks your reputation as one of the top figures skater in the country, you find your place in sendai. but when you discover they only have one rink, designated to their a-league hockey team, your chance at a comeback slips from your grasp. your only in is with the captain of the hockey team. the issue with that? he couldn’t care less who you are.

taglist (25/50). @standcom @thoughtswithbbg @aboutkiyoomi @angtopia @yunavx @celestialm1nd @surfeitstar @xiaoquanquans @istann @aldebrana @mdmraz @loveyislost @softpia @less-chaotic-brain @wakashudou @mo072806 @90s-belladonna @wave2mia @rrosiitas @suuunarin @chaotic-neutral-ig @nanasrkives @hrithi11 @hantas-left-eyebrow @itsdragonius

501st boys reacting to Fem!reader being drunk part 1 of ?

I'm sure @moonlightwarriorqueen and @sunshinesdaydream will recognize a lot that's going on here because this was actually Moonlight's idea, and we all kind of built on it so. Here ya go.

warnings: drunk reader. Fluff.

Fives:

Fives is just as drunk as you are.

You both end up at home from separate events, each of you dropped off by a considerably more sober friend.

He's happy to see you though and wants all of the cuddles.

You're watching some shitty night show on the holo and laughing at the worst jokes that Fives has ever heard.

After a few minutes of shifting around, the two of you fall asleep as a properly tangled mess of limbs on the couch.

And that's exactly how it is when you both wake up with a hell of a hangover.

Hardcase:

You had sent a message to Hardcase asking for him to "buy some motherfuckin' limes, baby. Love you bunches!"

So he kind of has his suspicions before he walks through the door.

“‘CASE!” you screech, barreling at him, and nearly falling on your face

“C’mon Mesh’la.” He laughs, catching you in his arms and kissing your temple. “Why don’t we get you to bed.”

You light up at the prospect of going to bed with him.

However you end up passing out as soon as you lay down, cuddled against his chest.

Rex:

He’s…he’s really not sure what to do with the situation

One minute you’re giggling and draped all over him as he walks in

Then, in a somewhat stern voice he asks what’s going on and the giggling stops

Your lip quivers and tears gather in your eyes as you shrink away, and he instantly regrets it, realizing that you’re most likely tipsy.

“No, no Mesh’la, I’m not mad, I’m sorry”

Forehead kisses

He makes up for it with a little bit of ice cream and cuddles for the rest of the night

sorry, wrong number! — tanaka ryuunosuke. taglist ; open.

★ contents ; smau mixed w/ traditional. set in third year of high school. ooc! tanaka + everyone else, probably. kuroo’s sister! reader. rival schools! au. profanity. tanaka has braces for some reason.

syn ; after leaving a rather obscene voicemail for who she thinks is her older brother, she learns that school rivalry’s are stupid—like she thought—and, huh, maybe, buzz cuts aren’t so bad?

playlist / moodboard / contact list.

Edit Greeting

Voicemails

CHAPTER ONE 1/26/25 6 AM practice 00:14

CHAPTER TWO 1/27/25 GOATED 00:11

CHAPTER THREE 1/29/25 crazy crazy 00:15

CHAPTER FOUR 1/31/25 stalker 00:11

CHAPTER FIVE 2/01/25 you’re obsessed 00:13

CHAPTER SIX 2/03/25 no faith 00:10