My name's Betty! I'm a college student using tumblr as a form of escapism and procrastination!
I mostly just reblog stuff, but I'm starting to post my own writing too!
Please keep any sort of comments or interactions kind and respectful. I absolutely do not tolerate bigotry and will not hesitate to block someone who makes me uncomfortable on my own blog!
Here's my (so far pretty short) masterlist!
Also requests are open if anyone has story ideas! Here are the fandoms I write for/request guidelines
it truly frightens me the level that ai can write fiction / fanfiction. it’s getting insanely hard to notice. sometimes when i’m reading something i just pray that the person has made the right choice
Husband!Nanami who wakes you up by peppering your face, neck, and shoulder with kisses until your eyes open.
Husband!Nanami who always makes you breakfast because he knows you're not a morning person and you absolutely dread making a full meal when your body feels so heavy with sleep.
Husband!Nanami who never leaves without kissing you goodbye, even when you're arguing.
Husband!Nanami who never raises his voice at you, always keeping his voice steady. When you're arguing, his voice never goes an octave above even if you're yelling at him (he secretly loves it when you yell at him, but that's neither here nor there teehee)
Husband!Nanami who helps you bathe or shower when you're tired because he loves taking care of you.
Husband!Nanami who loves to kiss your ring, especially in bed. Something about seeing a symbol of your devotion to each other really gets him going.
Husband!Nanami who carries you to bed whenever you fall asleep on the couch and tucks you in.
Husband!Nanami who always offers a bite of his food before you can ask.
Husband!Nanami who always orders the other option whenever you're indecisive and can't choose what to order so that you can get the best of both worlds. He always switches if you like his better.
Husband!Nanami who loves it when you refer to him as your husband. He can't help but sense a bit of pride at the fact that he gets to be your husband.
Husband!Nanami who can read your emotions just by your body language and habits. Even if you tell him you're fine, he can tell when you're not.
Husband!Nanami who memorizes your schedule and routines and helps make things efficient. Your work clothes? consider them cleaned and ironed the day before. Your lunch? packed with a note. Your makeup? organized. Your bed? made.
Husband!Nanami who loves to do anything and everything for you not because you can't, but because he wants show his love for you by doting on you.
A/N: this is getting way too long, part 2 may be coming soon bc i love this man.
Hi love your work. I was wondering if you could do a role reversal of the bombshell!reader under anesthesia? One where Aaron woke up and has forgotten he's married to reader so is shocked at her affection (not in a bad way), he just can't believe this beautiful woman is flirting with snd comforting him?
thank you for requesting! fem
Aaron is woken by a soft, displeased hum.
He pries sticky eyes apart to peek at the source, a woman his junior with a tray table wheeled in front of her. You have neat hands, clipped nails painted softest pink, a ring on your marriage finger, and a little pearl necklace that’s fallen free of your collar to swing as you pen a letter. No, not a letter. A case file.
You’re a police officer?
He turns the other way, hoping for a more familiar face, but the only inhabitants of the room are you, him, and his pounding headache. A groan slips past his lips unbidden, Aaron watching in real time as you look up like he’s shocked you. You turn sympathetic and softer, somehow, your face plucking a weird string in his chest. It’s almost like deja vu, but Aaron would remember being looked at like this.
“You okay?” you ask quietly.
He clears his throat. “What happened?” he asks hoarsely. Clearing his throat a second time proves more successful. “What happened?”
“You were struck hard in the back of the head with a rifle. A few times, actually. Luckily nothing broke, but you have a cut and a bruise like nobody’s business. Try not to touch.”
“What about the team?”
He realises with a start that he can’t remember who he means. Were the team actually with him? Dave had been there, right? Derek?
“Reid sprained his wrist. Everyone else is fine.”
Reid, you said, and not Dr. Reid. Aaron frowns deeply, the headache a full, eye-deep pain that worsens when he props himself up on his elbows.
You watch him carefully. After a moment, you push the table away from you and get up, turning to sit on his bed. He doesn’t let his eyes widen, not even as you place your hand on his stomach, imploring in your gentleness, leaning in to see him better. In that moment, you might be the most beautiful woman Aaron has ever seen; his heart does a great whirl, picking up its pace. He has just enough capacity to recognise how lucky he is to be detached from any observational tech.
“What’s worrying you, Aaron?” you ask, thumb rubbing a line into the skin just below his stomach. A butterfly like a hawk beats behind your touch. “You have that strange pinch between your eyebrows.” You draw a line up his stomach, showing him how they’re pulled up. He must look near tears as you go. “You only get that when you’re scared, but everyone’s fine, I promise.”
He must know you. You clearly know him, your tone alone settling his heart while his mind races.
“You won’t be out of the field long, and you know I can do it for you while you’re gone. I’m capable,” you say.
“You are,” he says. He’s telling the truth, though he doesn’t know how.
You shuffle further up the bed. Aaron sits properly, forcing your hand to fall. You clasp his thigh on instinct, and that tumultuous zing of deja vu washes over him again.
“You have the worst luck, handsome,” you murmur, rubbing at his leg, soothing him without thinking.
“I…” He trails off as he catches sight of your wedding band. Silver-gold, a pear-shaped 3.00ct diamond. He chose it on a whim. Aaron nearly swallows his own tongue as he looks up, the memory of it not quite connecting to you. You.
“What?” you ask.
“You’re being so quiet,” he asks.
“Well, you gave me a bad scare,” you say, leaning in further, unafraid to breathe his air. “I thought I lost you. It was terrifying.”
The breathlessness in your confession is a barb. He grabs your hand where it lays and squeezes accordingly. “That won’t happen,” he promises.
You turn your hand into his, slotting your fingers together deftly. “Do you remember me now, Hotchner?” you ask.
He looks you straight in the eye. He doesn’t remember you, not really. But he remembers the size of your fingers threaded through his, and he remembers how nervous he’d tried not to be when he bought that ring, and he remembers your hand warming his thigh in the car every morning.
“Almost,” he says. His breath catches. “You’re beautiful,” he says.
“You said something similar the first time you woke up. I blamed the morphine for your puppy-eyes, but…” You smile at him fondly. “I don’t think you’re drugged enough to say it and not mean it, now.”
“I mean it,” he says, nodding. “Of course I mean it.”
“I know.” You kiss his cheek.
“Will you tell me your name?” he asks.
You do, and Aaron falls in love with you all over again.
thank you ao3 for being an archive and not an algorithm. thank you for letting me like things without consequences, thank you for being free with no ads, thank you for having lawyers to defend our freedom of speech. thank you tag wranglers. thank you to all authors and thank you ao3
The first rule of fandom is have fun. The second rule of fandom is find an enabler and become an enabler. Yes you should write that fic. What if it was even hornier? What if it was angstier? What if you wrote it just for me?
Summary: Bucky is ready to take the next step in your relationship. Which means buying a ring, and talking to your father, which are almost equally terrifying ventures.
Word Count: 3k
Content: fluff, smut (18+ MDNI) - floor sex, riding, unprotected p in v (don’t do that); nervous bucky, bratty reader
A/N: Presenting part 4 in my mafia!bucky series! I think this dynamic is so fun, so I couldn’t resist one more addition to the story.
The last time Bucky was in a jewelry store, he was robbing it under cover of night. Being here in the daytime, in an official capacity, ready to purchase something feels like wearing someone else’s skin. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the staff to realize that he doesn’t belong here and escort him out.
The sales associate sits across from him, clean and pressed and patiently waiting while Bucky fumbles to pull up the notes he typed up on his phone.
He awkwardly clears his throat. “Uh… three carat, elongated cushion cut, pave setting, thin white gold band. Natural, no lab grown.” He doesn’t know what half the words mean, but he knows they’re important.
The sales associate raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised.
“She was very specific,” Bucky adds, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously.
“A woman who knows what she wants,” she remarks, typing and clicking away on her computer. “That’s good. We can make that happen. Assembly is four to eight weeks for custom rings. Does that timeline work for you?”
Bucky nods. A month or two will give him the time he needs to figure out how the hell he is even going to ask. Bucky is not a words guy by any means, and he’s a little terrified of saying something stupid or cliche or—
“This is a model of what the ring will look like,” the sales associate says as she turns the monitor towards him, “based on her specifications.”
Every thought in Bucky's head flies out the window. The image on the monitor slowly rotates, showing every sparkling angle. It’s very… you. His chest tightens with some nebulous emotion hovering between adoration and excitement and abject terror.
This is really happening.
“Wow,” he mutters under his breath.
“What do we think? Will this meet her exacting standards?” the associate asks, somewhat playfully.
Bucky finds his voice after a moment, clearing his throat again. “Yeah. Looks good.”
She smiles professionally. “Let me print you out an estimate.” There’s more clacking away at the keyboard, followed by the mechanical complaints of a printer whirring in the air.
The associate slides a piece of paper towards Bucky, tapping different figures with her pen as she speaks. “There is a deposit, that’s the amount you see here. Covers materials and design time.”
Even the number listed for the initial deposit makes Bucky wince internally. Steve had joked a couple weeks back, “You know what they say — three month’s salary or he doesn’t love you!” Bucky doesn’t have a regular salary, but if he did, this would be more than three months.
“When the ring is ready, you can pay the rest in full,” she continues. Perhaps sensing his hesitation, she adds, “Or we have certain financing options available, if you’re interested.”
Bucky straightens up in his chair. He had promised himself that he would handle the ring above board — that way if the fuzz ever came knocking, god forbid, they would have no claim to it in any kind of investigation. Shoes and furs and purses are one thing — perks of the job, but just things at the end of the day. This is more than that.
It’s a symbol of the promises he wants to make. Of his devotion, his protection, of the life he wants to build with you.
When it comes to you, anything less than exactly what you want isn’t good enough, as far as Bucky is concerned. He's got savings. He can pick up more jobs in the next couple months. It'll be a little bit of a stretch, but… it’s doable.
“If all this is all agreeable to you, you can sign there, and we will get you started,” the associate says.
Bucky nods emphatically. “All right. Let's do it.”
It's nearly a perfect evening. Bucky is home for dinner at a reasonable hour, for the first time in at least a week. A glass of wine, an episode of Real Housewives, and a foot rub later, you and Bucky are intertwined on the couch, making out like teenagers. Nothing to worry about but the lazy grind of his hips into yours, and the decadent stroke of your tongue against his.
But then you feel him pull away. You feel it energetically, before he even takes his hands off you.
Your hands grip his shirt, trying in vain to drag him closer. "Don't go,” you murmur against his mouth.
“I gotta work, baby.” He kisses underneath your jaw in apology, then sits up and reaches for his shoes. “Family stuff.”
That earns him a sigh. You kneel behind him on the couch and knead his shoulders, your mouth at the nape of his neck.
“You been workin’ so much lately, I feel like I never see you.” You try not to whine, but it comes out that way anyway.
“There's a lot of irons in the fire right now,” he replies vaguely.
“I miss you.” You say it because it’s true. You miss falling asleep in his arms. You miss his hands, his mouth, his steady demeanor, his teasing exasperation with you. In the last few weeks, it feels like you only ever get pieces of him.
With his shoes on, he stands to face you, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You can see the apology in his eyes, how much he wishes he could stay. “I know, baby,” he mumbles, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “I miss you, too. This is just temporary.”
You can tell he means it, but it doesn’t make you feel better. In a last ditch effort to get your way, you turn on the eyes, begging silently for even twenty more minutes of his attention.
For a moment, you think he just might cave.
“Tell you what.” Bucky takes your hands and coaxes you off the couch to stand. As he speaks, his lips drag across your neck, kisses and nips interspersed between his words. “Tomorrow you’re gonna sleep in, go get your nails done, put on somethin’ pretty, and when I'm done with work, I'll come home and let you put on a show for me.”
Pure manipulation. Nevertheless, you feel a bit like a puppy hearing all your favorite words.
“Promise?” you ask, with a hint of a pout.
“I promise.” His mouth finds yours again for a goodbye, a sweet but fleeting brush.
“Mmm. I love you,” you surrender, releasing him from your hold.
“I love you.” One final press of his lips to your forehead, and he’s headed for the door.
“Be safe,” you call after him, flopping down onto the couch again with a huff.
“Always am,” he calls back, and without the jingle of a set of keys and the click of the door, he’s gone.
“So. You want to marry my daughter.”
Bucky freezes to the spot. “I…”
Your father leans back in his desk chair, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
When Bucky had requested this meeting, he hadn’t thought he’d been quite so obvious about his intentions. But your father is quite the people-reader, and Bucky supposes that this conversation has been expected for some time.
“I, uh… yes, sir,” he stammers.
“I trust you’ve discussed this with her before coming to me. It's the twenty-first century, after all.”
Bucky nods, making a concerted effort not to fidget under your father’s stare. “Yes, sir. She said I didn't need to ask permission. It still seemed like good manners to ask.”
“Good answer.” Your father gestures to the seat on the other side of the desk. “Sit down.”
His uneasiness gradually fading, Bucky follows the order and settles down into the chair.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” your father begins, folding his hands on the desk. “You know I already consider you part of this family. If you marry her, that makes you as good as blood. There’s duty that comes along with that. You sure you’re ready?”
“Positive, sir,” Bucky replies, resolute.
“Then consider my permission granted.” He smiles, somehow fond and terrifying at the same time. Bucky smiles back, relieved and grateful and still so nervous that sweat beads on the back of his neck.
“You buy a ring already?” your father asks.
“I’m working on it.”
He gets to his feet, reaching into his pocket for a wad of cash, large fingers counting out more bills than Bucky is comfortable taking. “Make sure to buy her something classy.”
Bucky starts to protest, “Sir—“
But he won’t hear it, pressing the folded stack of bills into Bucky's palm. “Take it. I want my little girl to have something special.”
It would be bad manners to reject the money after an insistence like that, so Bucky concedes and gingerly slips the cash into his jacket pocket. “Thank you, sir,” he says, quietly but sincerely.
You’re beginning to suspect that something is afoot.
To make up for all Bucky's late nights and long days, he suggests going down to Rockaway Beach on his day off. A little unusual, but not completely out of character. and the weather is warm enough that you think nothing of the idea at first.
But as the day progresses, it becomes all too clear that something’s up.
For one thing, Bucky is suspiciously… twitchy. While you try to relax on the beach, stretched out on a blanket, he fidgets beside you, his shoulders closer to his ears than normal. Every time you crack an eye open to glance at him, he glances away, caught.
That's another thing. Bucky won’t stop looking at you. You feel his eyes clinging to you all day long. It can't be the bikini doing the work, because obviously he’s seen it before. And it's not that kind of attention, either. You can tell the difference in that regard.
He insists on staying for sunset, and the crowds thankfully begin to thin slightly after the four p.m. mark. When he takes your hand and suggests a walk down by the water, the request is so uncharacteristic of him that alarm bells start going off in your brain.
Is this (finally) the moment?
As the sun sinks low in the sky and turns the clouds vibrant oranges and reds, you try to act casual, just in case. You don’t want to hedge your bets and then find out that this is just another date. You don’t want to go home disappointed.
As you walk, his hand squeezes yours to get your attention. You turn to him expectantly, and he makes an effort to meet your eyes, his spine military straight.
“Baby, hold on a minute. I got somethin’ I wanna say to you.”
He pauses as if to gather his thoughts, and you’re positive that this is the moment. Unable to contain your excitement, you blurt out, “Oh my god, I knew it!”
Bucky sighs and scrubs hand over face as the spontaneity of the moment dissipates.
“You went through Natasha, didn’t you? I knew it was weird she wanted to reschedule!” Your mouth is a runaway train, babbling away. “We always get our nails done on Sundays! You thought you were being soooo sneaky—“
“Are you gonna let me say this or not?” he grumbles, his ears turning bright pink.
You settle down and try unsuccessfully to repress a smile. “Go ahead. Let's hear the speech.”
Bucky kneels right there in the sand, and you have to hold yourself back from throwing yourself into his arms. Taking a deep breath, he locks his eyes into yours, nerves and doubts visibly dissolving.
“You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met in my life.”
That catches you so off-guard that you half-snort a laugh, your hand flying to your mouth.
He laughs too, a rich and rumbling sound. “You're spoiled, and hot-headed, and extremely annoying on occasion. And I have been head over heels for you pretty much from the moment we met.”
As he reaches into his pocket, your heart pounds like it’s trying to stage a breakout from your chest. His hand re-emerges, closed around a small box.
“You are compassionate, and fierce, and funny, and you love me better than I ever hoped I was gonna get. And I just wanna hurry up and marry you already.”
The box opens. Nestled inside, a diamond ring straight out of your dreams, that glints in the light of the setting sun. You choke back a gasp, your hand still pressed to your mouth, your eyes sparkling in delight.
“Whaddaya say, princess?” he asks, his smile crooked and sheepish and eager all at once.
Your happiness bubbles over like an overfilled champagne flute, and you exclaim, “Yes! Of course, yes!”
In your excitement, you pull him off his knees and into your arms, your lips crashing messily into his. There’s a smattering of applause and a few distant hoots from the remaining beachgoers in the vicinity, but it all fades to the background when his arms surround you, pulling your body flush against his.
“That —,” you mumble between kisses, “was the most romantic thing — I've ever heard in my life.”
When you pull back far enough to look at him, he’s grinning down at you like you’re a trophy or a winning lottery ticket, giddy with pride.
“And if you ever call me annoying again,” you warn him playfully, “you’re gettin’ slapped upside the head.”
He rolls his eyes and gives you a squeeze before releasing you. “Just put on the ring.”
You bounce on the balls of your feet as Bucky frees the ring from the velvet box and slips it onto your finger. The glint of the stone almost blinds you with its beauty.
“Bucky…” you whisper, momentarily speechless.
“Did I do all right?” he asks, though the satisfaction in his expression says he already knows the answer.
“You did. It's beautiful.” As you spend a moment admiring the boulder on your hand, Bucky leans in to kiss your cheek, victorious.
He looks so incandescently happy that you can’t resist teasing him one more time. “Are you sure this is three carat?” you muse aloud, raising a discerning eyebrow. “It looks more like two-point-five…”
That earns you another squeeze, and a temporary loss of gravity as Bucky lifts you off your feet. “You are such a brat,” he growls through your breathless giggles.
“I love it,” you concede. “I love you.” Your legs hook around his waist, and you kiss him again — longer, deeper, verging on a little too intimate for a public setting. “You are getting the ride of your life when we get home.”
Bucky sets you down with a smirk.
“Promise?”
You don’t make it to the bed. You don’t make it to the couch, either. The two of you barely make it past the front door. As soon as it shuts behind you, you’re kissing him and tugging at his clothes, taking him down to the floor in your urgency.
As you grind down on the already hard length of his cock, your hands on his chiseled chest, you can’t help but admire the glint of your ring on your hand, set against his tan skin.
You kiss him, deep and filthy and totally in love. Your fiancé. You love that you get to call him that now.
Peeling off your coverup and pulling the gusset of your bikini bottoms to the side, you shift to fit him at your entrance and purr, “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you.” Bucky grips your hips, his eyes dark and his grin sinfully crooked. “So fuckin’ much.”
You moan softly as you sink down onto him, already wound up halfway to heaven. Once you’re fully seated on his cock, you take a beat to adjust and then move, riding him at a steady pace.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he mutters, already shifting his hips up pn every stroke to meet you. “My pretty girl. My fuckin’ wife.”
A sound escapes you that’s half-giggle, half-moan. “Not yet.”
“Details.” He groans and pulls you close before rolling over and trapping you beneath him, picking up your rhythm exactly where you left off.
“Gonna give you everything you want.” His voice is wrecked, his thrusts sloppy and deep. “Gonna give you the whole damn world, princess. You name it, it’s yours.”
“Bucky,” you whine and arch into him, your climax already fast approaching listening to your fiancé talk about the future. Your future, together.
“Baby, I'm close,” he rasps. With one arm braced by your head, Bucky reaches his other hand between your bodies to find your clit.
The first contact steals your breath, each little circle against the bundle of nerves sending you careening towards the edge. “Inside,” you beg breathlessly. “Wanna feel all of you.”
Bucky curses, rutting messily into you, just managing to hold out until your pleasure crests before he loses control. Warmth coats your insides as you feel every pulse and twitch of his cock, as your cunt clenches almost gratefully to take every drop of him.
The two of you stay on the floor, wrapped around each other, the hardwood gradually cooling down your sweaty, overheated bodies. Bucky doesn’t even bother to pull out yet, just nuzzles into your neck and mutters in a blissed out voice,
