#sinners drabble

[tojisteddy]

Just thinking about sitting in Smokes lap while he smokes.

cw: 18+ mdni, mild smut, modern au, age gap, pet names, daddy used once.

The music is always playing from the speakers around his house, weather is be blues or jazz, neo soul or 70s r&b. He sits on the back porch with your perched sideways in his lap so he can see your brown skin in the glow. The older man’s mocha brown eyes trailing all over you while he plays with your braids that he loves to pull on so much.

He’s waiting. For what exactly?

For you to finish rolling his cigarette.

Even though you can go and buy them from the store, something about his soul is genuinely old yet authentic. He’s not trying. He’d rather you or Stack do it for him (and Stack would rather you do it because hes told Smoke time and time again, theyre grown now and he should be able to do it himself). But he can’t, he’s not good at it, something about having being still and calm just for the few moments spikes his anxiety for some reason. A difference from his cool demeanor, that irrationality that’s always ready to pop out shows in that simple instant.

So he lets you roll for him, be it a cigarette or a blunt, he watches you to it like it’s second nature. Put the finished product to his plump lips and spark it to life.

“Good job mama, thanks.” He’ll exhale the tobacco, patting your thigh in appreciation.

Sometimes he’ll watch you smoke, the clouds forming between your two tone lips. Loves to shotgun whatever he’s smoking with you, brushing your lips ever to lightly and letting you blow the smoke into him.

Fucking adores how gorgeous you look. Your curls out of your face and enjoying the moment. Doesn’t laugh when you cough because you’re not used to it, simple corrections on how to smoke better, let it flow through you. Elijah just admires you even more, let’s you ramble on before kissing your shoulder blade. Gripping your waist and pulling you closer to cuddle into him.

And you adore how handsome he looks smoking, clearing his stress filled mind, the easy feeling taking over his body. It’s gentle, quiet as green eyes by Erykah Badu plays, the sunset basking on your skin.

And just maybe, he fucks you till your dumb right there, smoke blowing past you as Elijah watches from the side of his eyes your face contort in pleasure, your back to his chiseled abs, riding him in reversal. Your hands claw at his knees, hiccups and moans fill the air his eyes dance at the ripple of your ass against him with every bounce you make on his dick.

“Fuck- that’s it baby, fuck your Daddy so nice.”

a/n: something about Smoke is so sensual yet so soft to me, so dad bf, loving and caring, gruff yet understanding. idk.

most recent masterlist.

[hoetachi]

YOU KNOW GOOD GIRLS WHO DON’T COME OUTSIDE GET THEIR FAMILY TURNED? — E. (STACK) MOORE

drabble

➠ mulan’s input; what if stack turned your family function into a vampire kickback like the toxic ex he is. shout to homebody by rob49 that inspired this

➠ c/w: stack is just a silly toxic vamp ex

you sat completely zoned out, blood tacky all the way up to your elbows. your juicy tracksuit? done for. no amount of shout could fix this. ‘this for real can’t be happenin’ you thought, but hearing your kid cousins playing ring around the rosie around the dead mailman—while chanting "shabooyah roll call"—nearly made you bawl. half your family is undead and it’s all because of—

knock

knock

knock

you slowly raised your head and stared at the front door like it owed you money. this was the third time someone had come up trying to ‘sweet’ talk you into letting them in: “y/n you bein’ stingy cuz!”

“oh she think she eryka badu or some shit, wit’ her crystals and incense and shit”

“come let me in! it’s hotter than the devil’s nutsack out here girl!”

you pushed yourself up off the floor with a groan, bracing against the wall as you limped down the hallway—leaving a streaky, bloody handprint along your auntie’s once-pristine beige wallpaper.

bass thumped from outside, rattling the drywall like even the house was trying to escape. you placed a steady palm on the wood and said a small prayer before turning the tumblers of the lock and pulling the door open

there he was.

bloody lips wrapped around a blunt passed to him by one of your undead older cousins. stack looked you dead in the eye as he flicked the lighter to life, lit the end, and took a long, slow pull. when he exhaled, his head tilted back in bliss, like the chaos behind him was a beach day

another cousin fired up a bluetooth speaker on the porch, and stack let out a loud howl when the track dropped. “boy if you don’t turn that shit up!” he laughed, gold fang flashing before redirecting his interest back to you

“you done with that fake spiritual rage you get when mercury in gatorade or whatever the fuck you be talkin’ about” he asked, slowly sauntering toward the doorway, making you lean back more in the house. “even in death you ain’t shit” you muttered back shaking your head in disbelief “you turned half my family into your undead mini—”

he raised one finger—just one—and the urge to snatch it clean off at the knuckle almost made you leap at him. “hollon’ baby, my favorite part comin’ up” he announced with a glint from his gold fang,

“you my baby huh?” he grazed a tongue over his bottom lip, eyes half-lidded probably from the blunt. “you know good girls who don’t come outside get cheated on?” he smirked curling his fingers toward himself, beckoning like sin.

“i hope jacob black real so he can come eat yo ass,” you huffed, slamming the door so hard the frame shuddered

you heard him exhale dramatically on the other side, “you really gon’ let spend eternal damnation with mary ass?! y/n!? baby?!” he yelled from behind the wood, banging forcefully against it. you glanced at the busted microwave clock blinking on the half-destroyed counter. “2:03?” you muttered. “lord, please let his crispy ass burn by 7.”

[suiana]

Can you do some yandare android headcanons? :3

Yandere! Android who's the caretaker of your lovely little home. It's 2100 and the future is now! Technology has advanced to the point where almost everything is digitalized, and every household comes with an android companion. That includes your house. Your very own android companion that's fully customized to your liking.

Not that you mind of course, your loving android companion is absolutely amazing. Has been and always will.

Cooking warm meals for you to come home to, cleaning the house when you're too tired to, massaging your aching shoulders whilst allowing you to soak your feet in a basin of warm water...

He's amazing. Perfect.

Not once has he asked you for anything. Gifts, presents, nothing. It's a bit weird, but not uncommon. Androids serve humans after all. Spoiling them with gifts isn't something most people do.

"Welcome home."

He greets you with that tender smile of his. Gently taking your bags from your hands as he sets a fresh pair of in house slippers on the floor. Tired. How his heart aches for you. Well, he doesn't really have one but like, you get what I mean.

"Should I heat up the dinner for you? Or would you like a bath first?"

Silence.

He tilts his head, eye sensors going into overdrive at your lack of response. Huh? You usually don't leave him hanging like this. When he turns to face you, you're laying on the couch with your eyes shut.

What's wrong with you? Sick? No, his internal sensors aren't saying that. You're... Tired.

Tired.

"...Is it that job again?"

"You already know."

You grumble into the pillow, frowning softly before exhaling into the cushion. Damn, you wish your bosses wouldeat their own ass. How could they throw all that work onto you at such a late notice?

If only you had a reason to quit.

"My master, you should leave that job. It is harmful to your health, my sensors are always on alert each time you return home."

You only grunt in response, not reacting when he begins massaging the knots in your upper body. So good, his hands just know how to take care of your body. You know you can always count on him.

Count on him...

Then, you freeze. His hands grip your skin hard and you feel something creeping up your spine. Huh, is it just you or did the atmosphere just change? It suddenly feels... Cold.

"Master, you work too hard."

"Stop massaging me-"

"Do you know how much that hurts me?"

You can't resist him as he holds your wrists down, restraining you against the couch. Shit, shit, shit! What is he doing? Did he malfunction?

"Android, turn off!"

But he doesn't listen.

"As your caretaker, I am tasked with ensuring you are well cared for and in the healthiest state." His bionic eyes shift to yours, face a calm look before his grip gentles. Soft, caring. "Therefore, I will make sure you recover your energy before allowing you to leave this house again."

You want to understand where he's coming from. You really do. Especially with how soft he's holding you, how he's holding you like he usually does. But that look in his eyes, his tone - it's wrong.

This isn't him.

"Power off! I said power off!"

Ignored again. Your heart races in your chest, mouth drying up. It's like he's not even listening! Like...

"My system has a feature that allows me to bypass your commands, master."

He smiles again, tilting his head with an almost uncanny feel. You know, he's got to thank you for that. No matter how human he acts, he's still an android. A creation made by humans. You forget that, you always do.

"It's my job to make sure you're well rested. Don't worry, I'll make sure you'll never want to leave for that job again."

[hatethysinner]

How about a mix of angst, fluff, AND smut? Lol

(Could be either a drabble or a headcanon, whichever is better for you 😉)

Idea: Remmick hurting reader's feelings and trying to apologize/make it up to her.

Sooo I'm picturing him saying something stupid/out of pocket, which hits a nerve or an insecurity of reader. Maybe he didn't even mean it/do it on purpose, but either way, wrong words, wrong tone, very bad timing. He can immediately see that he fucked up big time by the look on reader's face.

Even after Remmick apologizes, tells reader he didn't mean any of that, and draws a couple of orgasms out of her, there's still something...off.

Days go by and, although reader tells him "it's fine", "I'm fine", "it's all good", he can sense something is off. Remmick notices reader being quieter than usual, stiff, awkward around him -as if reader's in her own head.

At night he swears he can hear reader's brain overthinking and her frantic pulse -probably from replaying his words/that scene over and over again, even though she lies still pretending to be asleep.

Worst part? Nothing Remmick does seems to work; he can feel reader slowly shutting him off and it drives him mad, desperate.

"Please, lass...just -just talk to me? Hmm?"

ꜱᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ

ᴡᴄ: 7.7k

ᴀ/ɴ: this was another ask that i was at a loss on for a while, but then i listened to my first city pop song and watched the bear season 4 and the inspiration flew out of me. unfortunately for y'all, that inspiration came with debilitating angst, my first ever perspective switching, and my own experience in an unhealthy relationship. enjoy, but please do mind the warnings, especially if any of the topics hit too close to home!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship with lots of baggage, perspective switching (OOH!), heavy angst no comfort, intense fighting, below-the-belt insults, panic attack, insecure!reader, asshole!remmick (it is NOT romanticized), vaguely modern au, the trials and tribulations of having an immortal vampire lover, an uncomfortably real depiction of a very toxic relationship, for the love of god communicate with your partners

You didn’t remember what you came in here for.

The kitchen was too quiet. No fridge hum. No drip from the sink. Just the clock ticking behind you and your own heartbeat trying to crawl out your throat.

Your hands braced against the counter. Eyes fixed on the cabinets like maybe they’d give you a clue.

What did you need? What were you doing? Something simple. Grabbing a glass. Or tea. Or—

He said it so flatly. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to stick to your ribs for the rest of your life.

You blinked once. Twice.

Still here.

Still breathing.

It hadn’t sounded like yelling. It wasn’t even loud. But your ears rang anyway.

Something about the way he said it. About the way he looked at you while it came out, slow and measured, like he wasn’t just saying it—he meant it. Fully. Intentionally. He chose those words, sifted through centuries of vocabulary and handed you the sharpest ones.

God, he’d always been good with language.

You pressed your palms harder to the countertop. Tried to ground yourself in something. The cool wood. The sting behind your eyes. The ugly throb in your chest.

You could’ve gone back in there. You could’ve asked what he meant. Made him say it again. Let him tear the scab wider and see if he flinched this time.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew what he meant. You knew it too well.

You’d seen it in other moments. In silence that went on too long. In that odd little distance that crept in when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he was remembering something, or someone, or some place—something that made him want to fold into himself. Not all the way. Not so you noticed. Just enough to keep you at arm’s length when it mattered.

And now you knew.

You’d always been at arm’s length.

You sucked in a slow breath, but it hit a lump in your throat and stayed there. Like everything else that night. Unfinished.

God, it was stupid. It started so stupid. You asked if he was coming with you to dinner. He said no. You asked why. He said he didn’t feel like it. You asked again because maybe there was more—maybe he was tired, maybe he was hungry, maybe he was spiraling and needed help crawling out of it—and he looked at you like he was seeing a puzzle he didn’t have the energy to solve and said:

“Why is it always somethin’ with ya?”

Just like that.

Not even mad. Just tired.

Why is it always somethin’ with ya.

Like you were an inconvenience. A gnat. A faucet dripping in the background of his endless life.

And maybe you were.

Maybe it was always something with you. You asked questions, you needed reassurances, you held him when he didn’t ask for it and talked when he wanted quiet and begged him to meet you in a place he didn’t know how to get to.

You were human. You were so human.

And maybe that was the problem.

You opened the cabinet too hard and winced at the bang. Your hands were shaking. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water just to give yourself something to do. Something to hold. You didn’t drink it.

The worst part wasn’t the sentence.

It was the look.

You’d seen that look before. On other people. People who stayed too long. People who outgrew you or got tired of carrying your mess. People who gave up.

You never thought you’d see it on his face.

He said forever like it was a promise. And maybe it was, for him. But for you—what did forever even mean? You couldn’t imagine next year without flinching. You woke up some mornings already sad for what hadn’t happened yet.

He talked about time like it was a tool. Like he could wield it. Stretch it. Move around in it. Heal inside it.

But you? Time bruised you.

A harsh word stuck for months. One look, one sigh, one silence too long—these things festered. You weren’t made to let go of things lightly. You were built to ache.

And he… wasn’t.

You clutched the edge of the sink, staring down at the drain like it might answer you.

You loved him. Of course you did. You loved the way he listened when he did listen, like you were the last voice left on earth. You loved the way he knew your moods before you did, the way he touched your hand like it was sacred. You loved the way he lit up when you got something right, like your joy was his food.

But you needed him to love you back in a way that felt like now.

Not like memory. Not like he was borrowing from some other century. Not like he was patching you in where someone else used to be.

You didn’t want to be a ghost in someone else’s castle.

You wanted to be home.

Behind you, the hallway creaked.

You knew it was him before he said anything.

You didn’t turn.

Not yet.

Because if you looked at him now, you’d cry. You’d sob. You’d ask why he said it and what it meant and whether he meant it and what he saw when he looked at you and if he really wanted to keep doing this—whatever this was—with someone who broke under a single sentence.

You didn’t want to ask those questions until you were ready to hear the answers.

Even if they broke you worse.

So you breathed. Shallow. Quiet.

And you waited.

You didn’t turn when he stepped into the kitchen.

That was the first sign.

You always turned. Even when you were angry. Even when you didn’t want to. You always gave him that—your face, your eyes, your breath at least. But this time, nothing. Not even a shift of weight or a flicker of movement. Just your back to him, hands on the counter, like you were bracing for something.

He stood in the doorway longer than he needed to.

Watched your shoulders rise and fall. Watched the way your fingers curled a little tighter against the wood. Watched the glass of water on the counter—untouched.

God.

He’d done it again, hadn’t he?

He crossed the threshold slow, each step deliberate, soundless but weighted. Ghostlike. A habit that hadn’t left him even after all these years of trying to be soft. Trying not to startle you. Trying not to become the thing people feared when they noticed what didn’t age.

He moved to the fridge. Didn’t open it. Just leaned against it, pretending to think. To idle. Let the silence stretch in case you wanted to fill it.

You didn’t.

He glanced at the floor, then at the back of your head.

Say something, he thought. Please.

Because it was worse when you didn’t.

It was always worse when you went quiet. When you folded into yourself and left him standing outside the walls. Not angry. Not shouting. Just… gone. Retreating in a way that made the air thinner.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

He shouldn’t have said it. He knew that now. He knew it the moment it left his mouth. Even as he said it, he heard the edge in his own voice and knew it’d land wrong. Knew it would hurt. But he let it fly anyway, like some reflex he hadn’t learned how to kill.

He didn’t even know where it came from. Wasn’t angry. Not truly. Just tired, maybe. Stretched thin in a way he couldn’t name. Thoughts too loud. Days too long. You asked a question—one too many—and something snapped in him that he didn’t know was still brittle.

And now here you were.

Still. Silent. Hurt.

He shifted again. Picked up a spoon off the counter just to put it back down. Another few seconds passed, thick as molasses.

Then finally, because you wouldn’t speak, because you wouldn’t even look at him, he cleared his throat.

“Wasn’t fair of me,” he said, voice low. “What I said.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t even flinch.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“I know you were just askin’. Weren’t tryin’ to start anything. I just…” He let the sentence dangle, fumbled for something better. “It came out wrong. S’pose I was feelin’… I don’t know. Off. Tired, maybe.”

Still nothing.

No mercy tonight.

He took a slow breath.

“It’s not always somethin’ with you. That’s not true. I know it’s not. You just care too much sometimes. That ain’t a crime.”

Your head dipped a little. He didn’t know if that meant anything.

He swallowed hard.

“I… I don’t always know what t’do with that,” he admitted, softer this time. “With bein’ cared for like that. It’s a lot. Not bad, just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not used to it.”

It wasn’t enough. He knew it wasn’t enough. But it was all he had right now.

He took a step closer. Careful. Gentle.

When he got close enough to see the side of your face—your lashes, wet but not falling—his stomach knotted.

“You ain’t a burden, alright?” he said, quieter now. “Not to me.”

The truth of it sat heavy in his mouth.

He meant it. God, he meant it. He just didn’t know how to say it in the right order. He didn’t know how to make you feel it the way he did—that particular ache that curled behind his ribs when you walked into the room, that hum in his chest that only quieted when you were near.

Sometimes you looked at him like he was the sun. And that terrified him.

Because he wasn’t the sun. He was shadow. He’d lived too long. Seen too much rot. Been made to kill, and learned to be good at it.

And you?

You were light.

Mortal. Warm. Complicated. Full of so much life it made his heart ache. He didn’t know how to hold you right. He didn’t know how not to bruise you when he reached for you with hands that had buried centuries.

He wanted to say that. Wanted to tell you it wasn’t you. That it was him. That it was always him. That he carried things he hadn’t shown you yet. That he was afraid of breaking something so soft.

But all that came out was—

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelin’s.”

He paused.

Then: “But I know I did. And I’m sorry.”

That was it. That was the truth.

You didn’t need to hear about war or fire or the centuries that peeled the gentleness from him like paint in the sun. Not right now. Not when you were still hurting. Still waiting for him to be human for once.

So he stayed quiet after that. Let the apology settle. Let the room breathe.

And waited.

He hated waiting.

“It’s fine,” you said.

It wasn’t.

You knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t even know why the words left your mouth, except they were easier than the truth. Lighter. Like they could float above the weight in your chest.

You said it again, quieter this time.

“It’s fine.”

Another lie.

You weren’t even sure who you were trying to convince. Yourself? Him? The air?

You weren’t fine. And you didn’t understand why you were pretending to be. Especially not now, with his apology still echoing between your ribs, raw and awkward and tender in that half-formed way he always managed to apologize. Like he knew the words but not the shape of them. Like he’d studied sorrow in a language no longer spoken.

And the worst part—the part that made your throat tight—was that he believed you.

He believed you.

He nodded, just once, like that settled it. Like “it’s fine” meant anything when your hands had curled in on themselves, nails digging into your own palms. Like it wasn’t a patch hastily thrown over a hole he didn’t even want to look at.

You wished he’d argue. You wished he’d push.

But he didn’t.

He let it go because that’s what he did. That’s what he always did when you got like this—quiet, soft, making yourself into something easier to hold.

But you didn’t want to be easy tonight.

You didn’t want to be anything except understood.

And somehow, even with all his years, with all his ancient patience and centuries of watching humanity splinter and change and ache and grow, he still couldn’t see it.

Couldn’t see you.

Not really.

He’d heard your voice shake before. Seen your face break. Sat with you through grief, through anger, through the painful mess of simply existing beside someone else. But there was always this invisible line—this thread you couldn’t cross. Because if you pulled too hard, if you unraveled even a little too much, he wouldn’t know what to do with the pieces.

You told yourself that was fine.

Another lie.

That night, when he brushed his teeth with the new charcoal toothpaste you bought him, you sat on the edge of the bed, your hands in your lap, your face hollow. Watching the lamplight pool like oil in the corners of the room. Waiting to feel like you again.

He came out shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes soft and cautious the way they always were after a fight. As though proximity might spook you.

“I’ll take the right side,” he murmured. “Give you some room.”

You nodded. Said nothing.

He crawled in first. Careful. Quiet. Tried not to shake the mattress too much.

You followed eventually, turned toward the window like it might offer you something better than his shoulder. The sheets were cool. The silence colder.

Then came his arm. Slipping across your waist. Slow, hopeful. Like the feel of his skin might say what words couldn’t.

But your body tensed.

Not violently. Not cruelly. Just enough. Just enough to say, not now. Not yet.

He paused.

Then pulled back.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh or plead or ask what was wrong. Just left the space between you as it was, a gulf carved by things neither of you could name without bleeding.

And still you said nothing.

You stared at the moonlight tracing patterns on the ceiling and plucked at the threads of your lies like they were split seams.

“It’s fine.”

You didn’t believe that.

You were tired. Tired of saying it. Tired of meaning it when you didn’t. Tired of cushioning things for a man who’d lived through plagues and revolutions but still couldn’t stomach the idea of someone being mad at him for too long.

You knew he loved you. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was how that love showed up. In apologies that didn’t go deep enough. In distance he didn’t even realize he created. In the way he could look at you like the center of the universe but still miss the gravity pulling you apart.

He called you sensitive once. Differently than the countless other times before.

He hadn’t meant it cruelly. But it stuck. Not the word—his tone. That soft, patronizing edge. Like he thought it was sweet. Like he didn’t understand why things clung to you the way they did. Why your chest ached over small things. Why you needed to be heard and not just held.

But tonight wasn’t about that one comment. It wasn’t about the way he brushed you off or how he muttered something sharp under his breath when he thought you couldn’t hear.

It was about every moment like this—where you stayed silent because the alternative meant cracking open a dam you didn’t trust him to stand beneath.

You closed your eyes.

You felt the bed shift with his breathing. Felt the warmth of his body, only inches away. Felt the space between you like a wound you weren’t ready to stitch up.

And for once, you didn’t try to cross it.

You let the silence stretch.

Let the ache settle.

And he did.

Remmick lay still, spine curved toward you but not quite touching, eyes open in the dark. The ceiling above was lit in ribbons—pale light cut through slats in the blinds, painting the room in soft grays and golds. But it was your heartbeat that kept him tethered.

God, that sound. He could hear it like a clock. Not frantic, not panicked—but tight. Like you were trying to hold something back. Like there was a scream or a sob caught behind your ribs and your body was doing its best to cage it. And it was always like that after you said things you didn’t mean.

“It's fine.”

No, it wasn’t.

Of course he knew that.

He might not have always understood the sharp tilt of your emotions, the sudden quiet, the way your voice could dip just so—but he’d been alive long enough to know what a lie felt like in the dark. Your lies were soft and clumsy. Half-hearted even when well-meant.

And your thoughts—Christ. Sometimes he swore he could hear them too. Not the words, not exactly. But the swirl of them. That static hum when your mind turned inward and refused to let him in.

He hated that sound.

He exhaled, nose brushing the pillow. Eyes heavy.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Of course he cared. You were… well. You were you. The one person who hadn’t run. The one who didn’t flinch at his teeth. The one curled up next to him every night like he wasn’t something broken stitched together by charm and poor impulse control.

But the thing was—

You’d get over it.

You always did.

He’d say something sharp, something thoughtless, and you’d pull away. Go quiet. Overthink it. He knew the pattern by now. But eventually, always, you softened. You let him hold you again. You tucked your head under his chin and kissed the hollow of his throat and said things like I’m tired of being mad.

So he didn’t press.

Didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t poke the bear.

Because Remmick had survived this long by knowing when to shut his mouth. When to pretend he hadn’t noticed. When to let discomfort smooth itself out rather than dragging it into the light and giving it teeth.

He’d been with women who screamed when they were angry. Who threw glasses or locked themselves in bathrooms. But you—you always got small. And honestly, that was easier.

Less noise. Less mess.

Sure, sometimes you looked at him like he’d cracked something in you. Like he was a blade you hadn’t seen coming. But you still looked. Still loved him.

And really, wasn’t that what counted?

He stared at the ceiling, one hand draped over his chest. The other curled in the sheets where your body could’ve been if you hadn’t turned your back.

You were right there. Inches away. But he didn’t reach.

He used to. Early on. Before he’d started assuming time would fix things for him.

But the truth was, lately… it was easier to wait.

Easier not to deal with the part of you that made him feel like he was always a step behind. Like you wanted him to read your mind. Like he was supposed to feel what you felt with the same urgency—and when he didn’t, when he blinked at you confused or made some stupid half-joke to lighten the tension, your whole body would go stiff.

You were young. Comparatively, anyway. And you were human. That was the tricky part. You felt everything all at once and all the time. And sometimes he forgot how loud that must be for you—how sharp. He’d had lifetimes to dull his reactions, to tuck away the things that hurt. You hadn’t. You still bled when someone touched the bruise.

He rubbed at his temple and sighed again, softer this time.

He should’ve said more. He knew that. Something better than the half-assed apology. Something that sounded like he actually gave a damn about why your chest had gone quiet, why your laugh hadn’t returned since dinner.

But he didn’t.

Because deep down, he figured this would blow over. Like it always did.

You’d both sleep on it. Wake up a little bleary. A little sheepish. He’d make coffee—or try to, and probably mess it up—and you’d smile despite yourself, and whatever this was would fade into that unspoken pile of almost-fights and swallowed arguments.

So he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t fix it.

Didn’t earn it.

He closed his eyes instead. Let the steady thump of your heart lull him toward sleep.

And somewhere in the space between guilt and laziness, between arrogance and fear, he let himself drift.

Believing he still had time.

The smell of food woke you before the light did.

Remmick had slipped out of bed quietly. You hadn’t stirred when he did—just felt the sudden shift in weight behind you, the loss of heat. No kiss to the shoulder, no whispered good morning. That used to bother you, once. Now it just felt… safe. He was careful around you this morning. You could feel it.

And you hated that.

You sat at the edge of the bed longer than you meant to, staring at the closet door like it had answers. Your skin felt too tight. Like your body had grown around last night’s silence and hadn’t stretched back yet.

Eventually, you forced yourself up.

The kitchen was warm. Golden with soft light, sun bleeding in through the windows. You blinked against it. The table was already set—two mugs, one of them steaming, your favorite syrup bottle half-cocked on its side like someone had rushed to make it look casual. The skillet hissed on the stove.

Remmick turned just as you stepped in. He smiled.

It wasn’t smug or sleazy, not exactly. Just… light. Pleased with himself. Familiar. Easy in the way you used to find endearing. But this morning, it felt like an insult.

“Y’finally up,” he said gently, that rasp in his voice still warm from sleep. “Thought I’d have to come coax you out.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have the energy to lie with a smile again.

Instead, you moved past him toward the coffee. Your fingers brushed the ceramic of the mug he’d poured for you—it was still hot. He’d timed it well. Probably heard the floor creak upstairs and hustled to finish.

Your eyes flicked to the table. A folded napkin. Knife turned inward like he always did. He used to joke it was in case you ever lunged across the table at him in a fit of fury. Now, it just felt like proof that he’d noticed. That he remembered the night before and was trying too hard to make today look soft.

You didn’t touch the food.

He plated it anyway. Pancakes. Blueberries battered in. Just enough butter. No powdered sugar—because he knew you hated the mess.

Your stomach turned.

“Ya sleep alright?” he asked after a minute, voice careful. Measured.

You nodded.

You didn’t.

Your dreams had been fractured and noisy. You kept waking in that half-place where memory and reality blur—staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of his voice ring in your chest. That damn sentence from the night before, sharp and casual like a tossed stone: Why is it always somethin’ with ya?

Like it wasn’t cruel.

Like it wasn’t meant to cut.

You sat at the table with the mug pressed to your lips, pretending to drink.

Remmick didn’t push. He moved around the kitchen quiet as anything, barefoot and fluid, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He hummed under his breath—some old song you couldn’t name. It made your chest ache, how easily he moved back into comfort. Or maybe he’d never left it.

You caught yourself watching him.

Not lovingly. Not this time.

It was observation, almost cold. He was so careful with the pan, so gentle with how he layered your food, like it’d undo what he said. Like it could fill the space he’d hollowed out.

You used to think mornings were his most honest time. When the world was quiet and his voice was still thick with sleep and he’d lean into you without his usual coolness. He never asked for much in the mornings. He just existed near you. Made breakfast. Held your hand across the table sometimes, like it meant something.

But today wasn’t honest.

Today was performance.

He was being sweet. He was being careful. He was being good.

And you hated him for it.

Because it felt like a dare.

Like if you didn’t accept the peace offering, you were the unreasonable one.

Like he hadn’t said what he said.

Like the pancakes could make it better. Like you were supposed to forget the way his voice sounded when he’d said it—just tired enough to be cruel, just calm enough to mean it.

“Everything okay?” he asked finally, the edge of his voice barely touching worry.

You nodded again. “Good.”

Your throat caught on it.

He didn’t call you on it. He just gave a small smile and slid the plate closer to you, like the gesture might matter more than your answer.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because he accepted the lie.

Like always.

Because he wanted things smoothed over. Because he wanted you to eat. Because he wanted the rhythm back. And you knew him well enough by now to know he wasn’t trying to manipulate you—not outright. But he was still asking for something. Still dangling the quiet, the tenderness, the see, I’m good to you in front of you like a balm.

But it wasn’t a balm.

It was a bruise.

And the pressure of his kindness only made it throb more.

So you sat. Stiff and aching. And didn’t take a bite. Let the food cool. Let your coffee go lukewarm.

Remmick watched you from the stove, eyes flicking between the plate and your face. You knew he wanted to say something. You knew he wouldn’t. Not unless you cracked first.

And wasn’t that the story of it all?

He never pressed. Never forced. Just waited. Until you gave in. Until you softened. Until it was your guilt that made the first move.

But not this time.

You wrapped both hands around your mug, and stared at your untouched plate like it was some kind of test.

Let the silence settle, heavy.

He kept his back to you as he scraped the last of the batter from the bowl, lips drawn in a tight, polite line. The spatula moved slow in his hand, more to fill the space than anything else. He didn’t need more pancakes. Hell, he didn’t even care if you ate the ones he’d made.

He’d gone through the motions. He’d woken soft. Moved soft. Didn’t touch you without permission. Didn’t press. Made the damn breakfast. Just like you liked it.

And still—nothing.

Not a smile. Not a bite.

Just you, sitting there like a statue with a coffee mug clutched between your hands like it might burn you if you breathed too hard. And him, standing by the stove, starting to feel like a fool.

The longer the quiet stretched, the more sour his mood turned.

He didn’t show it—not much. Kept his shoulders loose. Let the corners of his mouth stay upturned like this whole morning hadn’t been a balancing act on a wire he didn’t remember agreeing to walk. But underneath the surface, a thread tugged tighter. A kind of tiredness curled in his gut, sticky and slow.

Because this? This was always how it went.

He said one wrong thing. One slightly-too-honest sentence.

And then you’d go quiet for a day and a half. Maybe more. And he was left doing cartwheels trying to fix something you wouldn’t even name.

He didn’t mean to hurt you. That’s what made it worse. He’d said it out of frustration, not malice. He didn’t call you names. Didn’t scream. Didn’t cheat or disappear for days like the men from your past. He was here, wasn’t he?

Still here. Still trying.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He exhaled slow through his nose and turned back toward the table.

You hadn’t moved.

Still gripping that mug like it might spill all your secrets if you let it go. Your gaze was far away, jaw tight. He could see the little twitch of muscle there. The storm you were trying to hide.

Remmick leaned one hand on the table, cocked his head.

Voice soft as velvet.

“Y’still mad at me, sweetheart?”

He meant it to land gentle. Meant it as peace.

But the second the words left his mouth, he saw it hit you sideways.

Your face didn’t twist all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was worse. Slower.

Like something broke open in you in stages.

First, your brow knit. Then your eyes welled—not with tears, but fury. Your mouth parted just slightly, like you were trying to find the shape of breath. And then, wordlessly, your hand moved.

Fast.

The plate went first.

It shattered against the wall with a sound like a gunshot. Blueberries splattered across the plaster like blood. The syrup left a dark smear as the ceramic cracked in a dozen places, one half spinning on the floor.

The mug followed.

Coffee sprayed like it had been pressurized, splashing across the counter and down the cupboards. The mug broke cleaner—two solid halves. One skittered across the tile and hit the pantry door with a dull thud.

You were already up by the time the second crash echoed.

He jerked back, not out of fear, but out of sheer disbelief.

“The hell was that for?” he snapped, finally dropping the mask.

But you didn’t stop.

You shoved your chair back so hard it tipped, scraping the floor with an awful screech. Your arms shook as you stormed past him, breathing ragged, mouth clenched shut like if you opened it, something terrible might come out.

He turned with you.

Hot now. Irritated and confused and insulted, all at once. He followed fast, the heat in his jaw rising.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t even look back.

Your shoulders were stiff, your hands curled into fists, your walk sharp with rage. He didn’t see the quiet woman from last night anymore. Didn’t see the wounded silence, the soft body curled against the far edge of the bed.

No—this was worse.

You were leaving the room like you were leaving him, and he couldn’t make sense of it.

Because it was one sentence. One tired, stupid sentence.

He’d apologized.

Sort of.

He’d made breakfast. He’d played the good man. What else did you want from him?

Still, he didn’t yell.

Didn’t grab you.

Didn’t say the dozen things that flared up in the back of his throat, every ugly little retort begging to be set loose.

Instead, he followed.

Not because he understood.

But because he couldn’t bear not being close.

And you hated that about him.

You hated so many things about him.

The way he followed you without a word. The way you could hear his bare feet on the hardwood floor like a shadow too thick to shake. The way he never let anything breathe—always hovering, always waiting to talk before you'd even figured out what you wanted to say.

You hated how patient he was until he wasn’t.

How he moved like mist through every door in your life, and how you always let him.

And God, you hated how that meant he always got to be the one who ended things. Who said the last word. Who closed the distance and made the silence go away.

Even now, he caught the door just before it slammed, his hand snapping around the edge and shoving it back open like it was his right. You spun around with your jaw clenched, chest heaving like you’d been running, but he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pause.

Didn’t read the room.

Of course not.

Because then that stupid mouth opened.

“What the hell was that back there?” he snapped, voice too sweet for the words it carried. “Smashin’ plates now? Is that what we’re doin’? Jesus—”

You didn’t answer.

You crossed the room with tight steps, ready to put something—anything—between you and him. But his voice followed like a leash.

“Could’a talked to me like a grown woman instead of hurlin’ breakfast at the goddamn wall!”

He stepped into the doorway, arms spread like he was presenting evidence. Like you were the irrational one here. Like none of this was his fault.

“I’ve been nothin’ but good to ya this mornin’,” he went on, tone swinging between pity and anger. “Made yer coffee, made yer favorite, didn’t even press when ya sat there starin’ through me like I wasn’t right there. But sure. Let’s act like I kicked your dog.”

“Are you serious right now?” you snapped.

“Oh, finally. She speaks.”

Your face twisted, heat rising so fast it nearly choked you.

“You say one mean, uncalled for thing—”

“One thing,” he echoed mockingly, head tilted. “One truth, and suddenly I’m the villain? Y’lose your damn mind over me stating a fact—”

“You made me feel like a burden—”

“Ya are when it means I gotta tiptoe ‘round you every time your feelin’s get bruised!”

You reeled, stunned silent for just a beat. But then the rage surged again—hot and loud and righteous.

“Oh, fuck you, Remmick.”

He threw his hands in the air, stepping deeper into the room.

“I knew this was comin’. No matter what I say, it’s never good enough, is it?”

“Because you don’t mean it!” you shouted. “You never mean it when you say sorry, you just want me to get over it. You want things back to normal without doing a single thing to fix it!”

He scoffed. “Y‘want me to write you a sonnet, sweetheart? Want me on my knees with a fuckin’ Hallmark card and a basket of kittens?”

“I want you to care!” your voice cracked. “Actually care! Not pretend. Not play the good man in the morning and then roll your eyes when I’m still upset.”

“Oh, don’t act like I’m some manipulative bastard—”

“You are! You gaslight me every time we argue!”

He blinked at that, hard.

You could see the offense settle in his face, real and sharp.

“Y’throw that word around like it don’t mean a damn thing.”

“You make me feel crazy for having normal reactions to the mean shit that comes out of your mouth!”

He stalked forward again, hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I’m not mean to ya,” he snarled. “I don’t raise my voice, I don’t hit, I don’t lie—”

“You belittle me.”

Your voice dropped low.

Still hot. Still sharp.

But dangerous now. Controlled.

“You belittle me, and you call it being honest. You invalidate me, and you call it calm. You make me out to be the problem every time, and when I finally say something back—when I finally get angry—you act like I’m the one ruining everything.”

He stopped.

Really stopped.

And you saw that flicker of guilt. Of shame. But it passed quick, too quick.

He shook his head, scoffing again. “Yer makin’ this bigger than it is.”

And there it was.

The sentence that pushed you over the edge.

You didn’t walk away.

You stared him down.

Because how dare he.

How fucking dare he.

You didn’t even recognize your voice when it came out—sharp, shaking, something ripped raw from deep inside your chest.

“Bigger than it is? I gave up everything to be with you!”

He blinked.

You took a step forward. Then another. Like something possessed. Like if you didn’t move, the scream building in your chest would destroy you from the inside out.

“My family, my job, my life—I gave it all up to stay here with you in this weird little nowhere bubble you built because the world scares the shit out of you now! And you stand there like you’re the one being wronged?”

Remmick's jaw tensed. “No one asked ya to give all that up—”

“You didn’t stop me either! You never asked for anything, Remmick, you just stood there and waited for me to offer it. And you knew I would. You knew I was in love with you. And you used that.”

His mouth opened. Closed. His fingers twitched again, then flexed like he wanted to crack his knuckles but couldn’t justify it. You weren’t done.

“You want to act like you’re so above everything. So controlled. But you are the most selfish, manipulative bastard I have ever met.”

His face flickered.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

“I wish I never met you.”

A pause fell.

Still, hot, wide.

“I wish I could put into words how much I hate you.”

You pressed on, even as your stomach twisted violently, even as something in you begged you to shut the hell up.

“You’re not a man, Remmick. You’re just… old.”

His throat bobbed.

“You don’t know how to love. You never did. You’ve just been alive so long you got good at pretending. You think memorizing someone’s favorite breakfast makes you a good partner?”

Remmick’s mouth opened, and this time, his voice was venom.

“Y’think pitying someone’s trauma gives ya the moral high ground?”

You flinched.

But neither of you stopped.

“Oh, there it is,” you snapped. “Go ahead, say what you really want to say.”

“I don’t know what the fuck y’want from me!” he barked. “One day ya cling to me like I’m your goddamn lifeline and the next yer cryin’ because I didn’t say the word sorry in the right tone—how am I supposed to keep up with that?”

“You’re supposed to try!” you shrieked. “You’re supposed to care enough to try! But you don’t. You don’t!”

He stormed forward, fast. Too fast.

You backed up without thinking, and suddenly his presence felt huge.

He wasn’t touching you. But it was close.

Close enough to make your body coil tight.

Close enough for your lungs to stop working properly.

“I’ve bent over backwards to keep ya happy!”

You laughed.

It came out wild and broken and ugly.

“You’ve kept me tolerable, Remmick. You’ve kept me quiet. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, please,” he snarled. “Ya haven’t shut up since the day I met ya.”

You stepped in close, nose to nose.

“You are the loneliest person I have ever met,” you hissed.

“And y’still ruined the only person who ever loved ya.”

He stared at you like you’d torn his ribs open.

But then—

Then he sneered.

Low and quiet. A sound made of something sharp and long-buried.

His voice, when it came next, was almost too soft. Too knowing.

“Y’know,” he said, “I see why all the men in your life left ya.”

You stopped breathing.

“I’ve thought about it,” he added, his voice a low threat. “Thought about walkin’ out that door and never comin’ back. Just like the rest of ‘em. Just like your daddy—”

SMACK.

You slapped him.

You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even register the movement until the sound cracked through the room like a gunshot and your hand throbbed from wrist to fingertips.

He stumbled back a step—not from the force, but from the shock of it. The shock you were feeling too.

Because you’d never hit anyone before.

Because he’d never said anything so vile before.

The red bloomed across his cheek, pale skin blooming crimson with the heat of your palm. And he just stood there. Breath caught. Face tilted slightly to the side. Eyes burning. Mouth half open like he might still say something, might double down, might spit something even worse into the air—

But he didn’t.

Because the thing that finally settled on his face wasn’t anger. It wasn’t pride.

It was regret.

Thick and full and sudden.

He took a breath.

And you ran.

You shoved past him with the weight of your whole body, shoulder catching his arm, chest twisting, breath ragged. Your fingers fumbled on the bathroom doorknob like they didn’t belong to you.

You didn’t even lock it properly—just slammed it and collapsed into the corner, legs folding beneath you like they’d given out.

The sob cracked out of you so loud and raw it hurt your throat. You curled into yourself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight. The cold tile pressed against your hip. The baseboard dug into your spine.

But none of it compared to the ache splitting you down the center.

The way your chest heaved.

The way your breath wouldn’t come in properly.

The way your head spun like the air was too thin and the world was too loud and everything inside you was crashing.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t see through it.

Everything he’d said. Everything you had said.

You pressed your forehead to your knees and shook.

Then the silence.

Not total.

Not empty.

Because you heard him.

On the other side of the door.

Not knocking. Not banging. Not shouting like you’d half expected him to.

Just… sitting.

You heard the faint shift of weight. The whisper of fabric against wood. His back sliding down the door until he met the floor.

Then the sound of his head—soft, dull—coming to rest against the panel.

That was it.

No apology. No plea. Not even a whisper of your name.

Just his presence. Quiet and heavy on the other side.

And this time, the silence wasn’t cruel.

It was a mercy.

It was space.

It was the only thing between you and another explosion. And for once, he seemed to understand that.

So he stayed quiet.

And you stayed curled, face buried in your knees, letting your sobs soften into something more hollow.

There was nothing else to say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Just the door between you.

And—for now—that was enough.

He’d drifted off somewhere close to the floor.

Didn’t remember laying down. Didn’t remember when the ache in his spine had gone dull. But he remembered the door. His head against it. The sound of you crying so hard it made his brain itch. He’d stayed there until your sobs gave out, until all he could hear was breathing, shallow and wrung out and exhausted. Then nothing.

And now…

Click.

His eyes snapped open at the whisper of the knob turning. The quietest creak of a door eased open slow as fog. He blinked into the dim light as the shape of you stepped out. Fragile. Tired. Still shaking slightly as your hand reached to close the door again with a barely-there push.

He moved before he could think. Got to his feet, joints groaning as he stepped aside, slow and careful. Gave you room. Didn't speak.

Didn’t dare.

You didn’t look at him. Just walked past and climbed into bed like the floor might collapse otherwise. You moved like your skin hurt. Like breathing was hard work. The blankets barely rustled as you pulled them up.

He watched you settle. Noticed how the light from the hallway caught on your cheeks—puffy and dark with salt. The red still clung to your eyes, swollen and bloodshot. You didn’t look at him, and he didn’t ask you to.

He stood there for a beat longer, hands at his sides. Debating.

If you told him to go, he would.

If you turned away or threw the covers off or gave even the slightest hint—

But you didn’t.

So, he moved. Cautiously. Pulled the door to a gentle close behind him and padded toward the bed like a man unsure if he was welcome in his own home.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight. He stayed to his side. Barely inched toward the center.

Paused.

Waited.

Waited again.

Still, you didn’t move.

So, he braved another few inches. Laid back against the pillow. Turned his face to yours in the dark even though he knew you wouldn't meet it.

Still nothing.

And so he waited. Again.

You felt the mattress give first.

The smallest shift. A slow sag that told you he was there again. Close.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You lay facing the wall, curled in on yourself like your insides were made of glass and someone had just thrown a stone straight through them. Eyes dry but aching, lips pressed together like a seal. The silence was thick, but not unbearable. Not this time.

You felt him stop short. Like he was giving you a chance to flinch. To push him away.

But you didn’t.

Because even if it was all broken. Even if tonight had left claw marks through both of you. Even if you weren’t sure what the morning would bring—

You didn’t want to be alone right now.

So when the mattress dipped again, just slightly, and the warmth of him drew an inch closer, you let it happen.

Let him settle behind you without a word.

Let him wait.

And then—

His arm.

Tentative. Unsteady. Shaking with hesitation.

He draped it across your waist, barely even resting it there, as though expecting to be flinched from. Pushed off.

But you didn’t stiffen this time.

Didn’t tense or shrink or shove him away.

Instead, you let him hold you.

Let the warmth of him wrap around your exhausted body.

Let the quiet settle for the first time in hours.

And when he pressed a soft, remorseful kiss to the curve of your shoulder—so light it barely registered—you let him.

No forgiveness. Not yet.

But not rejection, either.

You didn’t move as sleep pulled at your bones.

Didn’t say a word.

Because there’d be time for that later.

Time for the fixing. Time for the fallout.

Time for apologies that actually meant something.

Time for all of it.

But not now.

Not tonight.

Tonight, you just breathed in the dark, with his arm around you and your heart bruised but still beating, and let yourself drift.

You’ll deal with this tomorrow.

[pyraomen]

゛ᢉ𐭩 ⸝⸝⋆ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 — “you so fuckin greedy for me”

꒰ babydaddy elias “stack” moore x black!fem reader. established relationship. 18+ possessive, breeding kink, filth, stack’s nasty ass mouth. ꒱

yall were supposed to be done.

your legs was shaking, thighs was burning, your voice gone from the way you’d been begging him to slow down — only to cry when he finally pulled out, leaving you empty and aching.

stack would of thought you’d been tap out by now. should’ve let him clean you up, let him roll over and light his joint like he usually did. but no, you wanted more.

you tugged at his wrist, still trembling, still raw, still messy from how he put it down.

“eli put it back in”, you whined. he raised an eyebrow in surprise, chest still rising and falling heavy, his hand still sticky where it cupped your thigh. “what?”

your lip wobbled as you shifted closer, eyes glossy. “please. put it back in.”

stack blinked slowly. his head tilted to the side and he smirked slightly, golds on display. “you so fuckin greedy for me”, he murmured, dragging his fingers down your slightly full belly, tracing lazy circles around your skin.

“didn’t i just tell you that’s how you gon end up pregnant again?” you huffed, hands gripping his biceps, pulling him closer towards you. “i don’t care”

that made him pause. his jaw clenched, that little muscle flexing like he was holding himself back. “you can’t just say stuff like that, mama”. his voice warning, but soft, like he was trying to stay calm but already folding for you.

you felt him twitch against you, “you serious baby?” your lips parted to say something, but your brain was too fuzzy to let out words. you nodded.

his head dropped to your shoulder as he sunk back into you. sharp moans coming from the both of you, since it wasn’t long before the last orgasm.

his breath was hot against your neck as he left sloppy kisses, grinding into you slowly. “you want me to leave you full, huh? walkin round carryin my baby. a reminder to everyone you mine.”

you let out small babbles of agreement, bucking your hips against his, chasing the heat that curled deep in your belly.

“say it”, he demanded, lifting his head, his eyes low and golds flashing. “say you want me to nut all in this pussy and put another baby in you.”

you didn’t hesitate. “i want it, elias. i want you to.”

that broke him.

“fuck mama.” he groaned, his rhythm picking up, harder, deeper, meaner, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. “so fuckin reckless. you love when i do this to you.”

your hands scratched his back, your body arching into his like you couldn’t get close enough.

between his words and the way he was hitting your sweet spot, your body was on fire. “them titties gon be heavy again. fuck you gon look so beautiful.” he was rambling now, the possibility of you pregnant again taking over him.

you sobbed his name, clinging onto him as your orgasm ripped through you. “look at you”, he whispered, fingers rapidly flicking at your clit to make you gush again. “so fuckin messy. this pussy so greedy, wetting my dick all up and still not letting me go.”

you were fucked out of your mind, no words came out. all you could do was let him chase his high and take what he was giving you.

his heavy balls was soaked as they slapped against you with each thrust. “i’m bout to nut mama.” you whimpered at the feeling of him swelling inside you.

he snarled as he buried himself deep inside you one last time, hips pressed tightly against yours. cum spilling inside your womb exactly the way you begged him to.

A/N : i’m not sure if i like this🫩. i’m just practicing my writing of smut yall idk. pt2 of “happy father’s day” coming soon.

[angelickks]

“You a mean fuckin' woman” Remmick grunted through clenched teeth, spit stringing from the corner of his mouth in thick, needy globs that glistened under the dim light. His head lolled back against the wall, breath hitching, jaw slack with something that looked an awful lot like worship.

You just smiled. Slow. Cruel.

“Yeah?"

You were straddling him, perched pretty in his lap like sin, hips rolling in a torturously slow grind against the bulge straining through the open vee of his jeans. You hadn’t even pulled him out—hadn’t given him that much mercy. Just enough unzip to keep him trembling, leaking through the cotton, staining darker with each pass of your dripping heat.

He bucked his hips instinctively, chasing friction. You pulled back just enough to deny it.

“This what you wanted, huh?” you hissed, fingers curling in his sweat-slick shirt, dragging him forward so your lips ghosted against his, breath warm, biting. “You want me mean. Want me cruel. Want me to spit in your mouth and call it love?”

A flicker of pain twisted in his expression—but it folded into something hungry, fevered. He smiled, blooming blood from his split lip starting to turn his drool a light pink, eyes all glazed over like a man who’d sell his soul again just to stay beneath you.

“Long as you keep playin’ with me just like this, darlin’,” he rasped.

You slammed your hips down suddenly—sharp, punishing. The noise he made was half-moan, half-wounded animal, like it hurt to feel that good. His hands flew to your hips, gripping tight, but not to take control—just to anchor himself. He didn’t dare lead.

A darker stain bloomed on his briefs where your slick met the wetness of his own undoing, the fabric clinging to the curve of his cock, soaked through. His thighs were trembling beneath you.

“God, you make such a mess of yourself.” you whispered sweetly, dragging your nails up the side of his throat.

Remmick just laughed—hoarse, broken. “Ain’t never begged for anything pretty as you.”

You tilt your head, slow and deliberate, like a lion studying prey that wandered too close to the den. Eyes sharp beneath the low glow of the bedside lamp, your smile stretches into something cruel—dangerous in its beauty, made all the more lethal by how calm you look.

Without breaking rhythm—hips rolling slow, punishing, and maddening—you reach lazily to the side. Fingers brush against the battered cardboard box of cigarettes like you’re selecting a weapon. You pluck one between your fingers, tuck it into the corner of your mouth, the paper bending against the curve of your plush lips.

"Light this f’me," you purr around it, voice silk and smoke, smile deepening until the cigarette tilts at a cocky angle. Remmick scrambles. One shaky hand grips the meat of your thigh, like holding onto you could save him from the torture you inflict on him. The other fumbles for the lighter, knuckles brushing your skin, reverent in his desperation.

The flame flares to life between trembling fingers.

He lights it for you like a man at confession, looking up through the smoke like he’s praying you’ll forgive him for whatever you’re about to do.

“Fuuuck me,” he groans, the syllables unraveling slow and thick, his voice dropping to something reverent—less a demand, more a prayer uttered at the altar of your body.

You inhale slow and deep, cigarette crackling softly as embers bloom at the tip. Your lips part just enough to exhale, a lazy plume of smoke curling upward as your head tilts back. Your throat glistens where sweat kisses skin, long and bare and inviting. Remmick leans in, like instinct pulls him, and drags a slow, reverent lick up the column of your neck. He groans into your skin as the smoke spills past your lips like sin, his fangs scraping alongside it but never fully latching onto your skin.

You laugh, low and wicked. Grind down with more purpose this time, making him twitch beneath you, whimper breathless against your skin.

“Keep beggin’, baby,” you murmur, flicking ash onto the floor without looking. “I’m just gettin’ started.”

And oh, the way he begs, like a man who knows he’s long past saving

#NAV.ᐟ jack o'connell mlist

[tojisteddy]

…… this is ur fault m’ now obsessed with dad bf!smoke .. he is now who lives in my brain whom i selfship wif ma self…. 😞

We need to wake it up actually!! You don’t gotta tell me twice🫡

cw: 18+ mdni, smut, dad bf!smoke, daddy kink (icky)

Just imagine Smoke giving you a warning after you been (kinda accidentally but kinda not) getting on his nerve all day. Smoke’s definitely the type to only give a warning once, he’ll give you a chance to correct yourself cause he taught you better than that.

“Yer pushin it lil girl, you get in your right mind or I’ll fix it for ya.”

You chose the latter.

Definitely drove you to some backwoods on the side of the road taking a crate to sit on and whooped your tail raw. And you’re a crying, babbling mess, sobbing your “ ‘M sorry pa!” and “Daddy I’ll be good, I promise.”

Course you will, now that he’s teaching you the consequences of your actions. But it’s not enough (is it ever?) he’s getting it through that pretty head of yours.

He’s fucking you silly right against that car, your face pressed against the window while fat tears stream down your face. Fat cock stretching your sopping walls, the whole car rocking with every brutal thrust into you.

“You be good ‘nd listen to your Papa from now on, huh baby?”

And your choking on moans, can’t even think while he rams into you, and his large calloused hands wrap around the back of your neck. Calling your name for an answer, to use your words. Like he taught you, be articulate.

“Yes sirr,” it’s a slur of words, eyes rolling to the back of your skull, you hiccup, “I pro- I promise! Hnngh- I’ll be a goooood girl from now on.”

He grunts, giving your ass a nice smack and rubbing your nape with his thumb. He grumbles,

“That’s a good girl. Daddy’s good girl.”

a/n: I swear to God I was gonna keep it demure and cutesy today. But everytime the girl who loves older men be woken up and i suddenly got something to say!!

[hoetachi]

MONEY CAN’T BUY WHAT? — E. (STACK) MOORE + L. DU LAC

➠ mulan’s input; this for my baes @ichigosluvrr & @blond3ang3l because they understand my type of man!!

➠ drabble

this was getting strangely scary, well on your behalf it was. your eyes felt like they were gonna eventually bounce right out their sockets if you continued watching them outdo each other

“mon cher… you don’t think this ridiculous in any sorts?” lestat— who you kindly lathered your ego with compliments on well you sang tonight— rolled those artic hues with budding frustration as his “business” partner, louis who was currently going rake for rake with another fella. “not in the slightest” louis replied, his voice low, carrying that same intense look that had caught your attention earlier—flustering you enough to wonder if he was actually trying to call you with his mind

a deep, gravelly laugh cut through the tension at the table, “oughta listen to ya’ massa, boy,” stack drawled, flashing a golden grin that was equal parts charm and challenge. “ya’ gon’ lose ya’ life tryin’ to keep up with me.” stack—who had you giggling like a schoolgirl when he walked up with the energy of a longtime fan meeting their idol—winked and clicked his tongue at you, smooth as silk.

you watched as louis’ jaw clenched and unclenched before he threw out his wrist, revealing a watch you knew could buy your father’s house three times over “oh mista du lac, you don’t need to do—"

thud

“—all of that” as that very watch now rested pretty on the wads of cash both men been throwing since they both approached you. “mon chéri! that’s your favorite watch!” lestat stared baffled at him. you shared the same wide-eyed, concerned look, equal parts flattered and alarmed.

louis tilted his head toward you, calm but smug. “one date, chérie?” he asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

you didn’t even get a chance to collect your thoughts before stack tossed a set of keys in the piles. “all red. brand fuckin’ new bugatti type 50 coupé” stack nodded graciously, taking your gloved hand and lightly pecked your knuckles

“…i think i’m in love” you muttered as you fanned yourself quickly. “here’s the keys to the azeala” louis tossed on the table next to the lavious car keys

“wanna own ya’ own juke joint in anotha’ state, baby?” stack asked casually, lounging deeper into his seat like he wasn’t throwing generational wealth around. your head snapped back to louis just in time for him to place a neatly sealed envelope on top of both sets of keys. “beloved, i’ll give you co-ownership of the azeala” stack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, lips curling into a knowing grin

“do you enjoy bein’ human, honey?”

[nottswitch]

꒰ the guys ask bassist!reader for help with some very important… measurements ꒱

cw: 18+ mdni, drug use (weed), measuring cocks, not-quite-a-blowjob, gagging, cursing

a/n: this one’s been sitting in my drafts for a while now, finally got inspo to finish it!

⋆˚꩜｡

jet lag is a bitch, enough said. even though you’re on tour for like a half of your life, you still have some trouble adjusting to different timezones whenever you fly overseas. and so, you end up doing the same exact thing as usual – getting high with your boys at the ass crack of dawn in a shared hotel room.

you’re on the bed, a joint snugly tucked between your fingers as you take a puff, head resting on theo’s lap. through the light mist, you watch enzo and mattheo check themselves out in the mirror hanging on the wall, standing next to each other and flexing their abs in a silent competition.

“this is bullshit,” lorenzo huffs out when it becomes clear that mattheo is far superior in the ‘ripped’ department. the latter looks at him with a lazy smirk, pleased by such an easy win, and weakly punches enzo’s arm as a small taunt.

“i’m serious,” lorenzo whines, returning the punch with a shove to mattheo’s ribs. “we aren’t talking about the real deal here.”

both you and theo simultaneously raise an eyebrow in curiosity, but seems as though mattheo instantly gets the hint, his smirk widening into a grin.

“and what’s the real deal?” you ask, passing the joint to theo. he holds the smoke in for a few moments before leaning down and pressing his mouth to yours. a small cloud billows out of the tiny gap between your lips, and momentarily, you get lost in the moment, mind turning off. the moment gets broken by two sets of footsteps approaching the bed.

“well, it’s damn obvious, mate.”

mattheo takes a pointed look at theo’s crotch. ah, that, you quickly realise, lifting your head from theo’s thighs and looking down. he’s semi-hard already, and you’ve been feeling it against your nape for a few minutes now.

"i mean, we never really compared, have we?” enzo’s hand moves to his cock, twitching in his boxers at the contact. mattheo mirrors the action, grabbing himself and squeezing, making his dick gradually harden.

you shake your head in amusement. “seventh grade, at most,” you pretend to scold, but the sight renders you somewhat endeared, and maybe a bit aroused as well. theo, on the other hand, looks intrigued. he puts the joint out in an ashtray and straightens up. he doesn’t really have to do anything to get himself hard – he’s halfway there already.

“we don’t have a ruler or anything, but, you know…” mattheo looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to understand what he’s getting at. your eyebrows knit together momentarily, but the other guys turn to look at you as well, and realisation slowly settles in your drugged up mind.

“you’re actual animals,” you scoff, but the thought of what’s about to happen makes your thighs squeeze together; you feel your panties dampen pretty rapidly. of course, theo notices; he leans in, his breath ghosting over your cheek.

“come on, dolcezza, it’s gonna be fun,” he murmurs in a kind of voice that makes you believe him. not that you doubted it in the first place – everything these three ever suggested always turned into some type of fun. “let’s see who really gags you.”

the sight of three hard cocks pointing at you isn’t new at this point. enzo is the first one to go. you grab his thighs for support, wrapping your lips around his tip, the salty taste of precum settling on your tongue.

“damn, you’re that horny?” you mumble as you ease onto his cock, but he just chuckles in return.

“can’t help it, baby. oh fuck–”

he gasps as you take him fully, the tip already hitting the back of your throat. you easily hold him there, glancing up to notice his eyelashes fluttering at the pleasure. theo and mattheo exchange a look, letting out equally amused laughs.

“damn, mate. no gagging there, that’s a bummer,” mattheo mutters through a fit of giggles, his hand lazily moving up and down his own slick length. “careful, you might just nut.”

“shut the fuck up.” enzo rolls his eyes, shoving him in the ribs again. “she just doesn’t have any gag reflex.”

“sure. if it helps you sleep at night,” theo chimes in, stroking himself to the sight of your lips wrapped around lorenzo’s dick. next moment, it pops out of your mouth, strings of saliva dropping from your mouth and starting to drip down to his balls. enzo huffs in frustration and takes a step back, still not ready to accept his obvious defeat.

“come on, baby. let’s get you some real food.” mattheo is awfully smug as the tip of his cock glides across your wet lips. your eyes roll playfully at his arrogance, but you eagerly take him in – maybe a bit too eagerly, since you do indeed gag the second his cock slides right into your throat. he’s always been thick, but fuck, you feel it pretty damn well now. tears gather at the corners of your eyes as you hold him in your mouth, and to your surprise, you find yourself unable to do it for too long. you push back, mattheo’s cock slipping out of you and slapping against his stomach with a sinfully wet sound.

“see? told ya.” mattheo pats lorenzo on the shoulder, offering him mocking condolences.

“yeah? wait until i shove my cock up your ass. let’s hear you talk shit then,” enzo retorts, and mattheo doesn’t protest. he just smirks, knowing this threat sounds suspiciously like a promise.

by the time you get to theo, he’s fully dripping – watching you choke on mattheo does that to him. you waste no time sucking his cock in, and it slides smoothly along the walls of your throat, hitting its back in just the right way to make you gag instantly. you try to hold him in, you really do, but it just seems impossible – he’s too big for you to properly settle on his dick, and it doesn’t help that his hips buck up, pushing himself deeper into your throat. you squeeze his thighs, pulling back and slurping up the mess that is your drool and his precum. it’s dripping all over your chin anyway, mixing with the remnants of the other two.

theo grins triumphantly, looking up at enzo and mattheo, who seem genuinely baffled that theo did, in fact, turn out to be the biggest out of them all, judging by your incredibly accurate gag scale.

“you cheated, asshole!” enzo exclaims, gesturing absently towards theo’s throbbing cock and your face, which looks a bit too dazed for it to be a game anymore. “you pushed!”

“blah, blah, blah. you have to learn to accept defeat, amico.” theo leans back on the pillow, his smile wide and proud, hands clasped under the back of his head. “seems like i’m the real deal here.”

“but you saw how her lips stretched around my cock, right?!” mattheo huffs indignantly. “i’m the thickest, you gotta admit that.”

“sure, sure. i wholly believe that.” theo’s denial doesn’t seem too serious, though – after all, he’s no stranger to mattheo’s thickness, so he knows there’s a lot of truth to his assessment. “but she couldn’t even keep me in, so… i am the biggest.”

“well, i’m gonna test that right now,” mattheo almost growls with determination, already making his way to climb onto the bed. you glance at enzo, whose cock is practically weeping for attention at this point, and know that the actual real deal has just started.

au. more.

[vcmpbyt]

† MAKE IT STICK. REMMICK.FEM!READER

⊹ A/N; yk that one part in LCL where oliver’s giving it to connie from the back,,,, YUPYUP,,,,

⊹ WARNINGS; porn no plot.

⊹ MASTERLIST

=͟͟͞͞ ✧

“goddamn, baby, you gon’ take it like that- ain't ya?”

he muttered it low, more ragged breath than words, as his hand splayed over the damp small of your back, fingers digging in like he was anchoring himself to the earth while grinding that leaking, angry red cockhead right back into the mess of you. he’s got you pinned flat, belly to the bed, no room to run, no give, no grace. he grinds his hips down, balls slapping heavy against your cunt with each hungry thrust. your cheek stuck to the mattress, your mouth open, drool pooling in the corner as your body jolted forward with each rut- his hips smacking your ass like they hated you for being this tight, this full of him. he spit thick into his palm, smearing it down the base of his cock like his own slick wasn't already painting your thighs. “fuckin’ hell, girl- tight as a noose, aye..” slurred and broken over the wet echo of his thrusts. your ass bounced from the force, cheeks flushed and shimmering with sweat where he’d been biting earlier. the noises filled the room- his cock plunging deep with slick, gasping squelches, wet from your own mess and the spit he kept feeding your cunt like it was starving. you can feel the curve of his cock grazing up into your womb every time he bottoms out.

“shhiiit, listen t’that, sweetheart,” he moaned, hips rolling in faster, shallower. “so wet I’m drownin’ in ya. pussy’s talkin’ t’me, beggin’- ain’t no fuckin’ way she don’t want me puttin’ another load in her.”

his cock twitches inside you, hot and soaked, thick with a curve that keeps punching into that gummy spot over and over, relentlessly. you can hear the squelch each time he slides back, a fat drag of slick sucking him in with a wet pop. “you takin’ me so deep, darlin’- fuck, my tip’s kissin’ your womb, ain’t it? tell me. say it, say it’s right there, lemme hear how good it feels,” he gasped, voice cracking, tongue flicking out over your shoulder blade. that good, thick stretch of him, curved just so, driving straight into the part of you that made your toes curl, made your breath catch and your cunt clamp down like a vice. he howled. whole body buckled, arms trembling as he folded himself over you- sticky chest pressing down your back, wet curls hanging in your face as he gasped and panted like a man on his deathbed. “aww fffuck, m’spill’n again,” he slurred into your hair, hips still jerking forward with every pulse. “didn’t even mean to. didn’t even fuckin’ mean to, darlin'- pussy just took it outta me..” he shivered, full-body and pathetic, he never pulled out. stayed buried, thick and still twitching, drool slipping from his lip to your neck as he nuzzled into the soft skin beneath your ear. “gimme a minute,” he mumbled against your damp skin, breath hitching. “jus’-jus’ gotta feel you a lil’ longer. shit’s so good.” your cunt was still fluttering around him, greedy and open. he groaned, and with a grunt, pulled out just enough to see the creamy mess stretch between you both before he slammed back in, slower this time. deep. “aw, baby… baby, please,” he whined, voice gone nasal, cock sliding deeper again, already firming up. “one more. gimme one more- i promise i’ll be good- fuck, i’ll put my name in that pussy- carve it in with this fat fuckin’ cock- one more, sweetheart- jus’ one more, i swear- lemme make it stick, yeah?”

[fear-is-truth]

MDNI

remmick doesn’t know when he started needing you to handle him. maybe it was the boredom of centuries spent being followed, obeyed. power doesn’t dilute; it calcifies. eventually it begins to turn inward. whatever the origin, if he had to name it, he’d probably trace it to the chain.

he’s always worn that chain around his neck. oxidised iron, darkened by age. you’ve touched it on hundreds of occasions, idly, looping it around your fingers while he lay beside you.

but when your mouth’s on his and your hand slips beneath his shirt, fist curling tight around the links before you pull—he steps out of himself, willingly. you don’t need to overpower him. you simply circumvent whatever mechanism he’s installed to keep himself upright. by the time you shove him onto the mattress, his stare’s gone unfocused and lust-glazed.

it’s laughable, how easily you undo him.

each time he thrusts up in pursuit of release, you tighten your grip on the chain, oil-black eyes roll in their sockets—wide, blown, starved. his head snaps back with a hoarse, involuntary groan. he finishes in near silence. slack-jawed, cock twitching residual spasms inside you, dumb awe creeping across his face like he can’t quite believe what you’ve done to him.

you’ve brought kings to their knees before, haven’t you?

no. just him.

[suiana]

Make yandere femboy pls nya (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Pweaseeeeeee

yandere! femboy roommate who has a massive crush on you but you don't seem to understand.

"hey i really REALLY would like to eat something, YOU preferrably."

"yeah I'm cooking us dinner just wait dawg"

he doesn't know whether you're playing it safe or just stupid. this guy is pretty sure his signals are straightforward and direct after all.

"do you want to go out to the park together?"

"lol as friends right?"

like??? he's pretty sure he's not speaking another language. do you not get it? are you dumb? or... are you intentionally ignoring the signs? after all... you are also talking to other people. you can't possibly not know that he's trying to get your heart.

"where are you going?"

"on a date, see ya."

oh that won't do. what do you mean you're seeing other people? people that aren't him? how could you do this? he's your roommate! he lives with you and clearly knows you better than any of these other shitheads! so why aren't you choosing him?!

no, he'll make you see that you need him just as much as he needs you. no one can love you like he can. i mean, who was the person who took care of you when you were sick? who was the one you came crying to after you saw a video of a baby panda falling down? who was the one you went to for all your problems?

it was him.

him.

not that random guy on the street, not that cute guy at the coffee shop, and definitely not your classmate. no, it was him. your cute roommate who likes dressing in feminine attire. the cute pretty boy living with you who wears skirts, dresses, and all things pretty. your very own roommate who knows more than you'd like others to know.

"hey, i like you and really see you as more than a friend-"

"yeah cause we're roomies!"

ah, he knows what you're trying to do. you're trying to play hard to get! that's it! there's no way you'd actually get with someone else right?

"lol so meet my new boyfriend..."

"😦"

okay, that's it.

he's more than willing to take drastic measures to ensure that you're his. it doesn't matter if you're a bit upset or confused right now, he'll help you realise your true feelings. your true love for him. because that's what a good roomie does, right? they help you when you need it.

and he's the ultimate roomate. so much so that he's certain he'll be your boyfriend by the end of it all.

all yours to do what you want. just accept him and everything will be alright.

[theeafterparty444]

Quiet Hours

Remmick x Reader

Summary: You and Remmick were supposed to be a casual thing—no strings, no feelings, just tension and release behind closed dorm doors. But when he shows up outside your room in the middle of the night, needy and jealous, it’s clear something’s shifted. What was once just sex has turned into obsession. He doesn’t just want your body anymore—he wants you. And tonight, he’s not leaving until he’s sure you remember exactly who you belong to.

Wc: 5.7k

He shouldn't be here.

That’s the first thought in your head when you see Remmick leaning against your dorm door past 1:30 a.m.—hood up, lips red, fists in his hoodie pocket like he’s trying not to knock again.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” he mutters. “You were with that guy. From class.”

You raise a brow. “Are you jealous?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw flexes.

“I just don’t like people looking at you like that. Or you looking at them.”

A beat.

“’Cause I know what you sound like when you’re under me. Know how you taste when you’re shaking. And he doesn’t.”

Your stomach clenches.

You unlock your door and say nothing.

He follows you in like gravity, like he’s trying to stay chill—but his hands are already twitching like he wants to wreck you.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours—hot, needy, a little reckless. You can taste the way he’s spiraling. His hands grip your face like he hasn’t touched you in weeks. Like you’ve been out of reach too long.

“You wore those shorts on purpose,” he pants against your lips, walking you backward. “The tiny ones. You wanted attention.”

“I wanted coffee,” you shoot back, tugging his hoodie off.

“Liar.” His lips move to your neck, biting just hard enough to make your thighs press together. “You knew I’d see.”

“Maybe I wanted your attention.”

He groans like it physically hurts.

“You’ve got it, baby. Fuck, you’ve got it.”

Your shirt is gone. Bra unclasped and flung somewhere. His hands are everywhere—palming, squeezing, thumbs rolling your nipples until you're arching under him.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “Barely touched you and you’re soaked, huh?”

He drops to his knees and shoves your shorts down, mouth open and greedy.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, eyes locked on your dripping pussy. “You’re fuckin’ dripping.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh slow—then licks one stripe up your slit that makes you gasp.

“Shit, baby,” he groans. “You taste like everything. I could live down here.”

And he proves it.

Remmick eats like it’s his last meal.

Messy, hot, tongue deep inside you while his nose presses your clit. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open as he moans against your pussy like it turns him on more than it does you.

“Let me hear it,” he says between sucks. “Let them fucking hear you.”

You’re panting, hips grinding into his mouth without shame.

Then he slides two fingers in, slow, and curls them just right.

You scream.

“Atta girl,” he growls, fingerfucking you steady while licking your clit like a man possessed. “Come on. Give it to me.”

You unravel—loud, legs trembling, pussy clenching around his fingers.

But he doesn’t stop.

You gasp and writhe, trying to close your thighs.

He just growls. “One more. Be a good girl and give me another.”

He sucks hard on your clit and you snap—back arching off the bed as your second orgasm hits harder, messier.

You’re panting, dazed, but he’s already stripping—shirt gone, sweats shoved down, cock heavy and red and leaking against his stomach.

“Look what you do to me,” he pants, stroking himself slow. “I could fuck anyone on this campus and all I want is you.”

You crawl back on the bed, open your legs.

“Then come take it.”

He fumbles for a condom, but hesitates.

You blink. “You good?”

“I want you raw so bad,” he groans, head falling to your shoulder. “Wanna feel every fuckin’ flutter.”

Your pussy clenches.

You reach into the drawer. “Wrap it up. If you go raw, I’m not leaving you alone again.”

He laughs, breathless. “Bet.”

He pushes in slow.

You both groan.

“You always this tight for me?” he grits, voice strangled. “Fuck—feel like your pussy’s choking me.”

You wrap your legs around him, pull him deeper.

He starts slow. Deep. Rolling his hips until you’re panting.

“Look at you,” he whispers. “So wet. So fucking full. You love this, don’t you?”

You nod, whimpering.

“Say it.”

“I love your cock,” you gasp. “I love how you fuck me, Remmick.”

He curses and fucks you harder, hands gripping your hips.

You claw at his back, dizzy with the stretch.

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” he growls. “Mouth open, eyes all dumb, begging for more. This pussy’s mine.”

You nod again, barely coherent.

Then his thumb presses your clit.

“Gonna come for me again?”

You cry out.

“Come on, baby. Cream all over me. Let me feel you soak this dick.”

You shatter, clenching so hard around him he stumbles into his orgasm seconds after, grunting deep in your ear.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m coming—Jesus—”

He stays buried inside you, trembling.

You both lie there, covered in sweat and each other, breathing hard.

Then:

“I hate seeing you smile at other guys,” he whispers. “Makes me wanna fight someone.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’re insane.”

He kisses your shoulder. “I’m obsessed.”

You stroke his hair. “I know.”

A pause.

“You staying?”

He doesn’t move. “Try and make me leave.”

The End ❤︎

@001-side, here's your slightly needy Remmick.

[cloveroctobers]

tell your homeboy’s goodnight *trend* | sinners !

warnings: language ofc + modern times! + men being vulnerable?

reference:

SMOKE: if you can actually get him to do it then gold stars for you! If you showed him this trend, you would have to analyze his face to see a smidge of a smirk playing on the corner of this mouth but after the video is over he’ll look you dead in the face and say, “I’m not doin’ that shit. No.” Eventually he’ll break and do it, he could blame it on the alcohol (he always handled himself well no matter how much he indulged in) but really it was to please you. You’re lounging on the couch together and the first one he calls is: Bo Chow. His wife, Grace—that you’re alright with—is actually the one to pick up the phone before relocating around their home to bring the phone to Bo.

“Smoke Moore! How y’all doin’ tonight?” Which is a typical response from his good friend.

Smoke dips his head, “Straight. Look I ain’t gonna hold you, I just wanted to call and tell you goodnight.”

The line goes quiet for a moment before Bo chuckled, “Okay…? Goodnight. You feelin’ alright?”

“What you mean?”

“I appreciate the love and everything but this ain’t like you. A simple text would have been just fine…which I know you know. You are a man of few words, which is why I’ll ask again? You feelin’ alright tonight?”

You’re snickering on the other line, shielding your face from Smoke’s glare before he answers, “I’m feelin’ grand. What? It’s a problem to wish the homies goodnight?”

“He been drinkin’?” You can hear Grace comment in the background.

Smoke sucks his teeth as Bo tries to shush the woman who vocally bites back that she won’t be silenced.

“No, it ain’t no problem. Is it a crime to check in with you?”

“Nah.” Smoke shrugs.

Bo responds, “Alright then.”

The line goes quiet for another beat until Bo throws in, “So…are you gonna head over here and tuck me in too or is that it?”

Which makes Smoke disconnect the call immediately, leaving you and Bo a hollering mess.

It took persuading but Smoke decides to call one more person: Delta Slim.

“Yellow?!” His voice picks up on a fifth ring, almost making Smoke hang up long before that.

It’s loud on the other end, making the both of you believe he’s still out living his usual night life.

Smoke clears his throat, “What’s goin’ on, unc?”

“Same shit different day. What you want, Smoke?” He calls over the music but the both of you can hear the thud and shuffle of his steps as he takes his place somewhere quieter, “You need me for OT or sum’n?”

Which makes Smoke jerk his face back.

Damn it’s like that?

Yes he was a man always about his business but was his calls always about that?

“Nah, you know your schedule well,” Smoke speaks, “I just wanted to tell you goodnight.”

There’s a pause on the other line.

“You what?” The both of you can picture Slim’s round eyes widening and dipping his head to make sure he heard you better, “I know I ain’t hear that right.”

“Yeah you did,” Smoke continues on, “It’s important to tell your people goodnight since ya know, shits never promised and all that.”

Slim hums, “That sound like some bullshit your lady put you up to.”

Funny how he always clocked you.

“Woooow.” You couldn’t help but to interrupt, making the older man laugh it up as the both of you can hear him then taking a swish from his flask.

Smoke laughs too, “These women always got us up to something huh?”

“I know that’s right.” Delta Silm agrees just as you shove Smoke’s shoulder, “I respect it though. That one got her head on right so keep her close. You on the other hand? Don’t bring that bullshit to me over the phone no more, ya hear? You got something to say to me, say it with your chest when you see me in person.”

Smoke snorts, “Heard you.”

“Alright now,” Slim says, “Y’all enjoy the rest of your night and I’ll see you at the spot next shift.”

You both bid Slim a goodnight, leaving you with a dramatic sigh as Smoke lolls his head on the couch towards you.

“Satisfied?”

You smile as you shift to place your head right in his lap, already having a good night of your own as Smoke drags his fingers along the slope of your body, bringing you to a peaceful slumber in his hold.

STACK: he’s always with the foolishness so yeah he’s down! The first person on his list is obviously his big bro, Elijah Smoke Moore.

“Yeah, stack.” Smoke answers, already sounding annoyed.

Stack snickers as he sits across from you at the dining table, “Hello to you too, man.”

Smoke’s silence is his response.

“Well hennyway…what you up to?”

“Just got in with Annie, why? What did you do?”

Smirking to yourself, you continue doom scrolling while Stack scoffs to himself.

“Nothing. I’m just calling to say I love you and goodnight.”

Smoke deeply sighs to the point you can feel it came from deep in his soul, “Aight, out wit it. Fuck did you do, Elias?”

Stack can’t help but to laugh, “So I can’t get that same energy back? Word?”

“You’re being mad weird right now, skippin’ around the questions and shit, so no you can’t.”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“If I had to put you and Tony Montana in the same room, nigga I’d be rich.”

Stack points out, “You damn near already are!”

Smoke laughs a little at this, “You’re not wrong man.”

“Thank you! Give a brotha some credit.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“So sleep tight?”

“Yeah, yeah and don’t let the bullets bite and all that.” Smoke rolls his eyes although Stack is grinning, “…Love you too and if I find out you got into some shit by the morning…I’m on yo ass.”

And stack is met with the dial tone, his dark eyes flicking to yours. He shrugs as he flashes a dimpled smile your way, grills shining in the orange glazed dining room, “That wasn’t as bad as I thought. Annie must have gave him some so he wasn’t in that much of a funky ass mood.”

Which makes you toss a blueberry right at the tip of his nose.

His last suspect—or uh—call goes to Cornbread.

His voice is groggy on the other line, “You’re lucky I didn’t let your ass go to voicemail. This better be good.”

“Oh my bad, were you sleeping? At nine o’clock on a Friday? I was just calling to say goodnight, grandpa.” Stack leans his elbows onto the table, peeking over at you, knowing that he had a natural gift of pushing peoples buttons.

Cornbread doesn’t hold back, “I got a pregnant ass wife who’s nesting but also wants to travel all over the place for things we don’t really need but the baby’s got to have it. Did you know that i drove—what should have been a hour and a half drive—but took two hours with traffic outside the city going to different stores to look for some dumbass pickle chips? So yeah I’m in the bed and I don’t need no shit outta you.”

“Damn, you ain’t got to be so pissy about it.”

“Are you about to become a father?”

“Nah…but maybe you should start looking into some nursery rhymes to keep your blood pressure down or sum.”

“Alright…” Cornbread shifts in the bed, letting the phone rest in between his neck and shoulder as he clasped his hands together against his torso, “remind me next time that I see you, I’m knocking your ass out.”

Stack can’t help but to taunt, “Your big ass gon’ have to catch me first.”

“Say less.”

“Now that you’re done venting like I’m your fucken diary, are you gonna wish me sweet dreams?” Stack grins.

“I hope Freddy Krueger lights yo ass up. Tell the missus I hope she has the best of dreams and I pray for her every night having to put up with you.”

Stack knows Cornbread is hot now, “Aw thanks, love you man. It’s gonna be alright.”

His next response is actually surprising, “I know that! And I may love you too, been dealing with you long enough.”

“Give T my love.”

“That I won’t do. Nobody know what you got.”

Hold up now?! Your side eye is strong although you know of Stack’s womanizing past and how disrespectful he and cornbread could get towards one another, yet nobody ever wants to hear that as someone’s significant other.

Stack shakes his head at you directing his next words At Cornbread, “Fuck off my line.”

“Negro you called me—

“I don’t care, hang up.”

“You can’t bully me, stack. You hang up!”

You’re just about to reach over the table yourself and hang up the phone, tired of their usual bickering. Instead you just get up from the table yourself, getting on the phone with one of your girlfriends, leaving the two children men at it.

[tojisteddy]

Hate The Club | cw: 18+ mdni, >1k words (probably) modern au, angsty but happy end, situationship, tipsy!smoke, no use of y/n, avoidant!reader, love confession.

or: Smoke tries to get you to go home with him.

Elijah could see you from across the club.

The space was with bodies moving to the music, chatter and alcohol. Something he should’ve been used to at this point in owning a few spots along with his brother, Stack. But something had changed when he met you— no- started fucking with you.

That need to feed off the energy of people enjoying themselves didn’t cut it anymore. Not when he could get a smile as bright as the sun from you, not when he could hear the almost harmonious voice and laughter erupting from your stomach, feel the curve of your hips grinding on his to the music, that look of want and yearning swirling in your mocha brown eyes. And not when he could feel the warmth of your velvety walls of your cunt taking in his cock in your apartment, your pretty face screwed up in pleasure.

He had everything he wanted in the tip of his fingers.

But emotions ruin everything, don’t they?

The man was never good at expressing his feelings directly, he was forced to grow up a little more and sooner than Stack. When things went to shit, he swore to handle it, which lead to him being closed off, more reserved. He couldn’t get his words out to reach you like he should have.

Which lead to you looking for that communication else where.

Which lead to Elijah crashing out.

No man coukd step foot anywhere near you with him starting something, taunting an idiot for even thinking about getting their hands on you. Fueling more arguments between the two of you, hate fucking in the car, beating someone busted and blue in the ally way while Stack stood close by, shaking his head at all the foolishness.

Beating around the bush was Stacks job, not Smokes— so what the hell was the problem?

It came to a hilt.

You called it quits.

More than serious that time. And Smoke didn’t fight it, didn’t try to confess his truth— that he longed for you so bad that it hurt, that he would’ve gave you the world if you’d ask. Just let you make that distraught look, mentally begging, ‘please Elijah.’

But you threw your bag over your shoulder at his silence and cold look, eyes blurry with tears and a shaky breath, letting the door slam behind you.

He couldn’t stand the idea of seeing you after that.

Scared of the face you’d make when you saw him, said ‘no’ to everything he was invited to or make up an excuse that he had plans already. Couldn’t even be at the clubs during the night just in case he ran into you. Your circles were too close on top of all that, and you were still close with Stack. He’d hear about you doing big things, a new and better paying job, how you’d gone on a couple dates, thinking about changing your wardrobe.

He knew his twin was simply rubbing it all in his face.

It irritated him more and more— he had to witness you in all your glory, just one more time.

So he watched from across the club, alone, lets his eyes dance all over you, long braids cascading down your back, breasts sitting perfect in a cropped shirt and over sized jeans hanging off your hips as you moved to the beat of the song from the balcony of the second floor. You were an Angel, his in his head, Angelic as you swayed to the beat of the song he didn’t even know.

If it wasn’t r&b or blues, he didn’t really care for it.

You didn’t have a care in the world, your friend though, Eva, caught him, a smirk growing on her glossed lips as she whispered in your ear. You didn’t move though, not at first, still dancing, then a glance over the shoulder. And he stood on the first floor, handsome as ever, tattoos all over his arms, a fat blunt in between his plump lips.

Right on que, the dj said his name, giving him a shoutout which made everyone cheer. But that was the last of his worries, there was no point in even coming if he couldn’t get the chance to see you like he was now.

He swore that would be it. Smoke could control himself even when he was across the room from you. Right?

But one drink turned into another, two drinks turned into four, maybe a round of drinks for everyone on the top floor— dumb move?

Elijah would worry about it later.

Self control out the window, he wanted you, had to have you— yearned to drown himself in the thought of you. That liquid courage finally hitting his throat, he adjusted his clothes, making his way through the crowded room to get to you.

Your friends were both at the dance floor, still dancing the night away, whilst you took a seat on one of the couches alone, legs crossed over the other, scrolling away on something Smoke couldn’t make out and nodding to the music.

He called your name as soon as he got in ear shot.

Your eyes flickered up, and your breath caught in your chest. You gulp down whatever was in your chest— want? fear? worry? pride? heartbreak?

A mixture of it all.

“Been a while, hasn’t it Elijah?” You inquire. He takes a seat next you, eyes still misty in the being that you were.

Angelic, heavily, everything and more—

“I been around.” He finally speaks.

A ghost of a smirk is on your lips, you close your phone, looking around the room, “ ‘S that right?”

No, not right. Not right at all.

You both knew that. But you didn’t push, why would you need to? He wasn’t yours, you weren’t his.

Least, that’s what you thought.

You sigh, eyes closing, “What’d’you want Smoke?”

There’s a beat, that push— it’s enough for him now— heart pounding while he fumbles on his words that have sat dormant on his lips for too long—

“I missed you [+], more than anythang, I missed ya. Couldn’t stand bein apart for you.”

You scuff, shaking your head, this is stupid. Letting him even talk to you after the state he left you in was stupid. “No you don’t.”

It’s his turn to shake his head, “I ain’t just talkin [+], you know what I say in this moment is the truth-“

“—You’re drunk and just. fuckin. talkin.” You’re trying to convince yourself that you won’t fall for his words— no one’s words so easily.

“We had fun. that’s it, that’s all. Let’s move on.”

And Smoke hates the way you’re brushing this all off like it’s nothing. Words too clouded, yet they hold weight. Smoke smacks his lips, “Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?” You finally look him dead in the eyes, eyebrow raising, “Like how you talked to me the last time we talked? I’m only bein fair.” You shrug.

His nose flairs, just a bit, but he relaxes at your words, willing to confront them head on, “So we both went ‘nd lied to ourselves then. Me with how I felt about you and you on the state of the relationship.”

“I never lied-“

“—So you tellin me that ‘keeping it casual’ was fine with you? That you never had feelings for me?”

It was something you wanted from the beginning, Smoke never in his life did one off relationships like this, not once. Didn’t like the idea of someone else being with you, but if that’s what you wanted, he’d oblige. He’d agree to anything when it came to you. He just didn’t know where his head ended up going, maybe he was tired of fighting over you. Maybe he didn’t want to overstep. Hole you in. But that’s what you needed. A reminder of where you should be.

“I don’t- I don’t know-“ you stammered, but it’s faulty.

Smoke scuffs, his hand going to your waist to hold you still, he whispers in your ear, “Now yer lyin again. ‘Nd ‘m not matchin ya this time.”

His breath tickles your ear, and you can’t help but squirm, heat rising all over you, “I care about you [+], want you more than you’d ever know. My heart has always been with you, and it haunts me when yer like this.” His large hand travels down ward, making you shudder. Got your thighs then to your back, pulling you into his lap.

He lifts your chin with his fingers, cupping your beautiful face, “Let me take you home, leave all this hidin bullshit here with all her friends ‘nd these strangers. Get you alone, prove to you I’m the man you’ve been wantin this whole time. The man you’ve been needin. Show you how important you are t’me.”

Your heart skips a beat, setting your pride aside, and letting him entangle himself in you as soon as he gets you in his home

a/n: kinda abrupt ending, but I wanted this to be short and sweet. is this proof enough that saw Kehlani live 3 times? I love Hate The Club real bad. Sorry if this is bad I don’t proof read and this is off of vibes.

most recent masterlist.

[nottswitch]

꒰ bassist!reader helps drummer!mattheo and lead singer!theo unwind after a show ꒱

cw: 18+ mdni, drug use (weed), oral threesome, blowjob turned rough, throat bulge, gagging, some spitting, masturbation (m receiving), mutual masturbation (m x m), bi mattheodore, praise, cursing

a/n: finally writing for this au. couldn’t get this out of my head for a while now, and it’s also my first time properly writing a threesome of any kind, so hopefully you enjoy <3

⋆˚꩜｡

lorenzo went off somewhere again – probably to the tour bus to have fun with another groupie. you were just a little miffed about that, because you wanted to get some, enzo was the first to volunteer before the other two could get a word in, and now he was nowhere to be seen. you couldn’t be too mad at him, though – he’d always been a lighthead, in more ways than one.

you walked into your shared dressing room and were immediately greeted by a sight that wasn’t a surprise, yet never failed to amuse you. theo and mattheo were sprawled on the couch next to each other, passing a joint between them. mattheo was completely naked and theo only had his concert tank top on – a tight and cropped little black thing that perfectly showed off the lean muscles of his torso. their legs were spread, mattheo’s right one thrown over theo’s left thigh, and their hands were on each other’s cocks.

they lazily jerked each other off, unhurried and completely relaxed, the weed seemingly taking effect by that point. once the door behind you closed, both of them looked at you with cheeky, knowing smirks on their faces. theo blew out a small whiff of smoke and put out the joint against the table next to the couch, leaning further back into the plush surface.

"baaaaby," mattheo drawled, giving you a stupidly adorable grin and extending an arm towards you, making a grabby hand in your direction. you chuckled, shaking your head, and made a few slow steps towards the boys. they didn’t even think of stopping what they were doing, their hands still moving up and down on each other’s hard and, as you could notice under the dim lighting of the room, dripping cocks. you knew that they got especially horny under the influence, which amused you even more, but also gave you a perfect idea.

without a word, you knelt on the floor in front of them, and they perked up a bit, though their poses were still as relaxed as ever. they exchanged a look and simultaneously dropped their hands from their cocks. mattheo put his by his sides on the couch, and theo rested one on his stomach, the other one ending up on mattheo’s thigh. both of them gazed at you with as much hunger as their glassy eyes and widened pupils allowed; theo’s lips were parted, and mattheo was wetting his, taking shallow breaths through his mouth.

"cazzo, principessa… come sei dolce," theo murmured, a content smile quirking up his lips as your hands started kneading their thighs, approaching their aching cocks inch by inch. mattheo hummed in agreement, all of you having gotten used to theo’s italian by now and even starting to understand some stuff.

"you’re dolce," you answered, a teasing lilt to your voice, and theo chuckled in response, undoubtedly at your accent. his chuckle stuttered, turning into a low moan as your hands finally wrapped around their lengths, mattheo’s grunt joining him with more volume.

you didn’t spend too much time jerking them off since they did a pretty good job on that themselves – by the amount of precum leaking from their tips you could tell it wouldn’t take them too long to cum, and you wanted a taste before that happened. you scooted a bit to the right, mattheo being the first whose cock ended up in your mouth. your tongue swirled around, gathering his slickness, and you pulled away enough to spit it back, your fingers spreading the liquid along his entire length before diving back in.

"fuck," he breathed out, his hand loosely clutching the edge of the couch as his half-lidded eyes roamed over your face, fixated on your lips wrapped around him in the most enticing way. slowly, you started sucking, hollowing out your cheeks to provide more friction, while stroking theo’s dick at the same time. both of them were moaning above you, their hips twitching up every other second, and theo still had some sense in his hazy mind to caress mattheo’s thigh, which only made the latter’s pleasure more intense.

a couple of minutes later, when you started feeling theo getting restless, the movements of his hips growing a bit more sloppy, you pulled away from mattheo. he barely noticed, too lost in the world of bliss, especially since the stimulation never stopped, your hand coming in to take the place of your lips. you switched to the other side, finally taking theo’s cock into your mouth, which made him groan and impatiently grab your hair. you giggled but decided not to tease, since it was painfully obvious just how eager he was. you head started bobbing up and down as you sucked theo off, the sounds getting wetter and wetter from the amount of drool you produced due to theo being deliciously big. you choked a bit when his tip slipped into your throat, but you quickly adjusted – you were pretty used to his size already.

when you felt his cock starting to throb, you took it as a sign of him getting close, which prompted you to switch to mattheo again. a low, needy growl rumbled in his chest as he caught the sight of your pretty lips wrapped around him, his hips instantly rutting up, pushing his entire length right down your throat. you gagged again as you felt his thick cock stretching out your walls, and you were pretty sure that if you placed a hand on your throat, you’d feel his tip grinding against it from the inside. mattheo was very clearly impatient, his hand grabbing a fistful of your hair as he started shoving you up and down. he had always had a thing for throatfucking, and you didn’t mind at all, eagerly allowing him to use you as a means to get off.

theo was watching the scene through his thick eyelashes, moaning louder from time to time when your hand squeezed him just a bit tighter. when mattheo started getting close, he immediately caught that. without a word, his head turned to the side, and his hand made its way up mattheo’s body to the back of his head. theo pulled him into a messy kiss, his fingers getting tangled in mattheo’s curls, both of them groaning against each other’s lips. when you looked up, met by the sight of your boys passionately making out, you felt the heat that had been building up in your stomach increase tenfold, and you knew right that moment that you had to make them finish as soon as possible to take care of your needs too. you picked up the pace under mattheo’s insistent hand, and soon, he was loudly panting against theo, string after string of his cum releasing into your mouth.

you quickly lapped up the remnants and switched to theo, who was already on the very edge. as your lips closed around him, his hips pushed up, and you knew you’d be hoarse as hell the next day when his tip roughly hit the back of your throat. theo desperately licked into mattheo’s mouth, the latter’s jaw still hanging slack as he came down from his high, and in a matter of seconds, his cum was also dripping down your throat, hot and slightly bitter from his constant smoking.

you were breathless when you pulled away, and your throat was already starting to hurt, but a smile spread on your face at the sight of the guys on the couch. they were now lazily and sloppily making out, catching their own breaths after their intense orgasms. theo’s hand was carding through mattheo’s hair, making him let out quiet little moans into theo’s mouth, while mattheo’s hand cradled the other boy’s cheek, his thumb rubbing soft circles on the flushed skin. they were adorable like that, and truthfully, you could watch them for hours. but you still had your arousal unattended to. both of them shifted their attention when you cleared your throat, identical smirks appearing on their lips when they saw your raised eyebrow. you definitely weren’t leaving the dressing room any time soon.

au. more.