birdstreesandfallenleaves

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

I neeed soft dom!schlatt

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * sit. stay. snuggle. ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: you’ve been following schlatt around all day like a kicked puppy. he finally decides to treat you like one. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: a short one for the pouty babies!! the ones who want attention now. the ones who would crawl for it <3

warnings: soft dom!schlatt, subby/pouty reader, light D/s dynamics, puppyplay undertones (no gear), teasing, praise, brat-taming energy, reader listens a little too well

enjoy! (🐶´ ∀ `🐶)

✧✧✧

you’ve been circling him all day.

not in a needy, obnoxious way. no. you’d never do that.

…you’ve just happened to exist very, very near him while he worked. on the floor by his chair while he edited. draped over the couch while he filmed a quick bit. wrapped up in a blanket, dramatically sighing every time he passed by for another cup of coffee.

he noticed. of course he noticed. he gave you little forehead kisses, muttered “sweet girl” under his breath, even scratched gently at your scalp with his free hand while his other clicked away at the mouse.

but it wasn’t enough.

not when his full attention wasn’t on you.

not when the words “just give me a few more minutes, baby” had turned into a few hours in the dim, blue-glow hush of his office.

so by the time the sun’s fully down and his fourth mug is empty, you’re on your hands and knees, curled up at the foot of his desk like a particularly tragic pet store display. your head’s against your arm. you haven’t spoken in twenty minutes. and when he finally closes his laptop with a satisfied little click and looks down—

you’re staring at him like he abandoned you in a kennel.

he tilts his head. “you good?”

you don’t answer. you just blink up at him, wide-eyed, lip slightly puffed out in a pout you are definitely not doing on purpose.

he sighs and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms overhead with a low groan.

then he levels you with a look. “you know,” he says, slow and deliberate, “if you’re gonna act like a kicked puppy all day, i might as well start treating you like one.”

your head pops up. “excuse me?”

he pats his thigh. “c’mere, pup.”

your breath catches. you know he’s joking. probably.

but you also know that look on his face. that half-smile that means “you gonna make me say it again?”

you hesitate, heat blooming in your cheeks. you don't move. not until he raises an eyebrow, just once.

and then, wordlessly, crawl forward on your hands and knees.

he hums, clearly pleased. “that’s a good girl.”

you bite your lip.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, patting his thigh again. “closer.”

you crawl until your knees brush against his shoes. he leans down, cupping your cheek in one warm, calloused hand.

“awfully quiet now,” he murmurs, his voice dropping. “what happened to that little pout? you leave it behind on the way over?”

you shift slightly, still avoiding his gaze.

he tsks. “sit.”

you blink. “what—?”

“sit pretty,” he says, tapping your thighs. “on your knees. hands on your legs. chin up.”

you obey. slowly. the rug presses into your shins, and you feel your whole body flush under his gaze.

he smiles like you just did something impressive. “there she is.”

your stomach flips. there’s no collar. no leash. just his voice. just his hands and the look in his eyes and the soft heat curling in your chest when he murmurs “good girl” like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

“bet this is all you wanted, huh?” he says, brushing his thumb across your lip. “not attention. not even cuddles. just me, looking at you like this. talking to you like this.”

you nod, breath stuttering out of your lungs.

“thought so.”

he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, slow and deliberate. his voice dips, quieter now. “been actin’ like a sad little stray all day. trailin’ after me. whining. begging for scraps.”

you inhale sharply, your knees shifting on the rug.

he leans in close, the grin spreading slowly. “should’ve figured… my puppy just really wanted her owner. she just really wanted to follow some orders today, huh?”

your whole body trembles.

“good girl,” he says again, pulling you up into his lap like it’s the easiest thing he’s done all day. “knew you’d come when i called.”

you bury your face into his neck, warm all over, the ache of being ignored replaced with a much sweeter, deeper kind of satisfaction. he strokes your back, slow and steady, like you really are some tired little thing that needed tending to.

the silence stretches long and warm. when he speaks again, it’s half a chuckle against your hair.

“…y’know, if i did get you a collar, i think you’d wear it.”

you groan into his shirt. “shut up.”

he laughs. “we could get it custom...your favorite color?”

“you’re the worst.”

“sit. stay. snuggle,” he recites, already kissing the side of your head. “you’re not foolin’ anyone. you love being told what to do.”

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

hi !! I'm having trouble sleeping again (yes I read your tips im going to try them text time I pinky promise🙏)and I saw a picture of schlatt putting on chapstick and I was wondering if you thought he'd steal his partners chapstick or purposely kiss them after they put on their chapstick/lipgloss

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * flavor of the night ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ imagine: every dinner ends with a kiss. every kiss ends in competition. ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

﹒₊✦ a/n: to the anon who asked—he’s got his own chapstick he’s perfectly happy using. but if your flavor’s better? hellz yeah, he’s gonna kiss you just to get a taste.

warnings: fluff, bickering, kiss battle escalation

enjoy! ( 〃￣︶￣)人(￣︶￣〃 )

✧✧✧

the restaurant glows amber and low—one of those too-warm little bistros with chalkboard menus and wine racks lining the walls, quiet except for the hum of conversation and silverware. your booth’s in the corner, half-lit by a hanging edison bulb. you’re curled up on the bench across from him in a slinky black dress, legs crossed at the ankle, heels kicked off under the table.

schlatt’s in a navy button-up and his usual chain, sleeves rolled to the elbow. his curls are a little messy—tugged at throughout the night—but he’s flushed with wine and smiling like you hung the moon. the top two buttons are undone. you’ve been looking all evening.

he reaches across the table now, tapping the side of your dessert ramekin with his fork. “one last bite.”

“you said that three bites ago.”

“i lied.”

you snort, still sliding your spoon into the shared crème brûlée and offering it to him. “last one.”

he leans forward, dramatically taking the bite straight off the spoon. “mm. mmmmmm. oh, yeah.”

you squint. “good?”

he nods, licking his lips obnoxiously. “creamy. sugary. a little pretentious.”

you flick a napkin at him. “you’re the worst.”

he smiles lazily, voice going soft as he gestures to your lips. “you’ve got some—”

his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, slow and warm. then he pauses.

“yep. definitely something,” he mutters, glancing down at the little smear of crème brûlée on his fingertip. “you messy girl.”

you’re already leaning in when you catch the look in his eye—half challenge, half tease.

“gimme,” you say.

and he does.

he presses his thumb gently to your lips, and you take it into your mouth with a little hum—slow, deliberate, eyes locked on his. your tongue brushes over the pad of his thumb as you suck the taste clean.

his breath hitches—just barely—but his whole body goes still.

your teeth graze the pad of his thumb before you let go, and it slips from your mouth with a quiet, glossy pop.

he watches you like he’s forgotten how to blink. like you just rewrote the laws of physics using nothing but your tongue and a little sugar.

his voice comes quiet. hoarse.

“…hot.”

you’re about to say something equally flirty—when the waiter arrives with the check, dropping it off with a polite smile. schlatt barely spares it a glance, already pulling out his wallet.

but your hand is also moving.

and that’s when he notices.

his head turns—slow. sharp. suspicious.

you don’t even look up.

but you feel it.

the air goes still. charged. like the moment right before lightning strikes.

his voice cuts across the table, low and accusing.

“what are you doing.”

you blink. “getting my card.”

his eyes narrow. “don’t lie to me.”

your fingers freeze just inside your purse.

he leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper like this is classified intel.

“you brought one, didn’t you.”

you glance at him, eyes gleaming. “brought what.”

“don’t play dumb.”

you smile—slow, devilish—and pull out your newest lip gloss like you’re drawing a weapon.

he squints immediately. “what the hell is that.”

you say nothing. just uncap it, slow and smooth.

he watches you like you're rigging explosives.

“that’s not a regular one,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “where’s the label?”

“custom job,” you say softly.

he blinks. “you had lip gloss made?”

“no comment.”

his mouth opens like he’s going to protest—but then he catches himself. shuts it. shifts in his seat. narrows his eyes again like he’s trying to recalculate the threat level.

“doesn’t matter,” he mutters after a beat, already reaching into his jacket. “you’re not gonna win. not tonight.”

your teasing confidence flickers. just a bit.

because you see it before he says it—see the smug glint in his eye, the red-and-white cap peeking out of his pocket.

“schlatt,” you whisper.

he slams the chapstick down like a lawyer presenting Exhibit A. “candy cane. undefeated.”

your jaw drops. “you brought that one?”

“damn right.”

“you know what that does to me.”

“mmhmm,” he hums, rolling it up like it’s ritual. “figured i’d give you something nice to cry about after you lose.”

you hesitate, fingers faltering on your compact mirror.

because, yeah. you love that one. unfairly love that one. the stupid minty burn, the way it lingers, the nostalgia. how it tastes when he kisses you a little too deep.

you click your gloss shut. lift your chin. “fine.”

“fine?”

“fine,” you repeat, lifting your mirror like a shield. “but don’t get cocky. this one’s dangerous.”

he snorts, but there’s a flicker of unease in his eyes—barely-there, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. like he knows he’s entering uncharted flavor territory and doesn’t want to admit he’s shaken.

you lean in slightly, voice dropping. “we doing the same rules?”

his jaw ticks. “first one to moan at the taste of the other loses.”

“uh-huh.”

he holds your gaze. “no fake-outs. no distractions. flavor alone.”

“pure combat.”

“chapstick only.”

“no tongue until round two.”

you both pause. blink at each other.

“…there’s a round two?”

“there’s always a round two,” you murmur.

he raises an eyebrow. “then i guess i’ve been using tongue in round one.”

your mouth drops open. “what?”

he just shrugs, all false innocence and glossy lips. “maybe that’s why you keep losing, baby.”

you narrow your eyes, the spark of competition reigniting like a match struck too close to your teeth. “you’re gonna pay for that.”

“hope you brought something better than cherry cola this time."

you grin, leaning forward just enough that your knees knock into his under the table. “then come on, peppermint prince. let’s settle this like adults.”

“you mean by making out in the parking lot?”

“obviously.”

he groans, standing and grabbing the check. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“if my plan goes successfully…yes. you will be dead by the end of the night.”

he tosses a few bills on the table, grabs your hand, and practically drags you toward the door—muttering the whole way.

outside, the air’s balmy and golden with the last light of evening. the sidewalk’s quiet. your heels dangle from your fingers, dress brushing the backs of your legs. schlatt pulls you behind the corner of the building like a man on a mission.

you press a hand to his chest, breath catching as your back hits the brick wall, warm from the summer heat. he's already crowding into your space—one hand on your waist, the other braced beside your head like he’s trying to trap you and surrender all at once.

his eyes flick to your mouth. “last chance. tell me what the hell you’re wearing.”

“never,” you whisper.

he exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “fine. you brought this on yourself.”

his hand trails from your waist to your jaw, tilting your face up with practiced ease. his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slow, like he's trying to feel out the gloss before he even tastes it.

“smells sweet,” he mutters. “what the fuck are you wearing, baby?”

you don’t answer. you just smirk—gloss gleaming, breath steady. unshaken.

he leans in, lips a breath from yours. “i’m not gonna go easy on you.”

“you never do.”

and then he kisses you.

not sweet. not soft. it’s immediate—like he’s trying to win something, tongue teasing at the seam of your mouth, lips moving hot and sure over yours.

but the second he tastes it—really tastes it—he falters.

a tiny sound catches in his throat. barely there.

you smile against his mouth. “was that a moan?”

“shut up,” he groans. “you bitch.”

you laugh into his mouth. “you like it?”

he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, scandalized. “maple?”

“mmmhm.”

he dives back in immediately—hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to keep you still while he devours you. his mouth moves over yours with purpose now, hungry and molten and maple-drunk.

you squeak against his lips when he tilts your chin up with two fingers, licking into your mouth with a kind of reverence and vengeance all at once.

“you’re evil,” he mutters, breath hot against your cheek. “you’re sick in the head.”

you hum, biting his lip gently. “and you’re obsessed with me.”

“unfortunately.”

he grins against your mouth, open and dangerous. “i should’ve known. no label on that gloss. custom-made maple bullshit. you played dirty.”

“and you played cocky,” you murmur. “should’ve switched up your stupid seasonal toothpaste.”

he groans, nudging his forehead against yours like he needs to physically recover from the taste. “god, i hate how good it is.”

you lick your lips—slow, deliberate. “want another hit, loser?”

he doesn’t answer.

he just kisses you again—messier this time. more teeth, more tongue, like he’s trying to overwhelm the flavor. drown it out. reclaim the lead.

but he can’t.

and you both know it.

kisses continue, deeper, slower, more syrup-slick and satisfying. he kisses like he’s starving—like he’s been waiting for this all night. which, judging by the way he growls low in his throat and presses you harder into the wall, he absolutely has.

you wind your arms around his neck, tugging him closer. his hands slide down to your hips, then your thighs, then back up again like he can’t decide what to hold onto first.

he pulls back just enough to catch his breath, lips pink and swollen, pupils blown. he looks wrecked—hair mussed, shirt askew, mouth slick with gloss and defeat.

“this is psychological warfare,” he mutters, breathless. “you’re waging war with breakfast.”

“mm,” you hum, dragging your nails lightly along the back of his neck. “and winning.”

he huffs, but it’s not a real protest. not with the way his hands are already sliding under the hem of your dress, not with the way his eyes keep darting to your lips like he’s seconds from diving back in.

“you could’ve picked anything,” he groans. “strawberry. vanilla. hell, even bomb pop.”

“but then you wouldn’t have moaned.”

he glares at you. “i did not moan.”

“i picked maple. your favorite flavor,” you shrug. "i had to beat candy cane."

he scowls like you’ve just insulted his bloodline. “you didn’t beat it. you ambushed it. ambushed me.”

you grin, all wicked teeth and faux sympathy. “poor baby. outmatched by a pancake topping.”

“don’t push me,” he mutters, crowding closer again. “i’ll carry your smug ass to the car.”

“you always carry me to the car.”

“yeah, but this time it’s punishment.”

before you can reply, he ducks down and hauls you up—arms hooked under your thighs, your startled laugh muffled against his shoulder as he lifts you like it’s nothing.

“schlatt—!”

“quiet,” he snaps, not unkindly. “lipgloss assassin.”

you wrap your arms around his neck as he marches you across the parking lot. “you’re just mad you moaned.”

“i didn’t moan.”

“you whimpered.”

“i was surprised.”

he sets you down in the passenger seat, slamming the door dramatically before circling to his side. he gets in with a sigh, tossing his head back like he’s just survived battle.

then—he glances at you. squints.

“…buttered popcorn.”

you blink. “what?”

“your favorite flavor. that’s what you said, right?”

your lips twitch. “you remembered.”

“course i remembered.” he buckles his seatbelt, jaw ticking. “salty, a little sweet. nostalgic. can’t be too buttery.”

“or too fake,” you add, leaning into your seat. “it’s gotta linger.”

he nods, almost grimly. “balance is everything.”

you glance at him, amused. “are you… scheming?”

he starts the car. “i’m creating.”

“schlatt.”

“no. no. this isn’t over.” he shoots you a look, eyes narrowed, voice dead serious. “i’m going to make it. if it doesn’t exist, i will invent it. and when i do? you’re done. i’m taking back the crown.”

you hum, smug. “until then…”

you lean over and tap his lip with your finger.

“…you’ll just have to keep losing to maple.”

he groans like it physically hurts. “i’m in love with a war criminal.”

you smile sweetly. “and you taste like toothpaste.”

his hand finds yours on the console again—warm, familiar, and already plotting.

and so...the war rages on.

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

literally absolutely NOTHING about Ted gives me sub vibes so i don’t know why i just had this thought but like….???

warnings: NSFW. sub!Ted x dom!Reader. fem!Reader. PiV. creampie. praise kink. barely proofread.

────୨ৎ────

it’s been an hour, a full 60 minutes. Ted is sprawled out underneath you on your shared, plush bed. he’s a writhing mess. his pretty brown hair is nearly cemented to his forehead with sweat and his hazel eyes are currently clamped shut.

“O-Oh my g-od!” he moans out, unbelievably frustrated bust still overwhelmed with pleasure. you’ve switched from your hand, to your mouth and now you’re slowly sinking your cunt down his very sensitive cock.

he lifts his head up for a brief moment before slamming it back down into the pillow, the copper colored satin ribbons tying his hands to the bed frame creak when he attempts to grab at you. “Let me- Let me please!” he sounded so pathetic. his usual deep voice was slightly higher than normal and the octave change was causing lots of cracks and hoarseness. but that could be the sexual frustration too.

“Absolutely not, Theo. You thought it’d be funny to underestimate me.” you correct him in a stern voice as you bottom out. admittedly it was incredibly difficult to keep your composure when his cock was buried inside of you, but you had to prove him wrong.

a few hours earlier he laughed in your face when you said you had a dominant side. jokes on him though, he’s the one who’s already cried from orgasm denial and you were barely halfway through what you wanted to do to him. you have to save that for another day though because the way he feels inside you and the way he sounds already have you half way to cumming yourself.

“Fuck! I’m so-sorry!” || “You were right!” || “Please let me cum.. Please!” || “I..I’ll be a good boy, I swear!”

you had held your composure for this long, but the sound of him calling himself a ‘good boy’ made you let out a moan as you rocked your hips onto him. it’s like he remembered he had the ability to thrust up into you right then and there, as best as he could he started to bounce you on his cock using only his hips.

“See! I’m a good boy!” || “Can make you feel soooo good! Make you cum so hard!” || “I’ll fuck however you want!” || “M-my cock is your toy!”

god fucking damn it, you were close to cumming already. you didn’t even have to force him to say all these things, they just tumbled from his lips like the whiny little whore he was destined to be.

“Make me cum, and I’ll consider letting you cum too.” your voice wavered. that flipped a switch in him and suddenly he was thrusting up into you in perfect rhythm with you slamming your hips down onto his. the head of his cock rubbing that spot inside of your just right with every thrust.

“Ah! Fuck, Teddy!” you toss your head back as you get dangerously close. “Be a good boy and cum with me. Only chance to cum.” you threatened.

“Hah- Fuck yes! ‘m a good boy-“ his voice broke as he came, moaning loudly with every last, untimed and stuttering thrust.

you collapse onto his chest, reaching just far enough to untie his hands from the ribbon. his hands flew up to you, wrapping his arms tightly around you. both of you were panting and sweaty messes.

“I wanna do that again.” he chuckled, he deep voice returning. you rolled your eyes playfully and laughed, holding him in your arms. you placed a gentle kiss on his temple. “Anything for you, good boy.”

────୨ৎ────

okay but subby ted????? yeahhhh im drooling.

~bunnie

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

Desperate

Ted Nivison x AFAB!reader Smut Summary: Drunken, desperate sex with your boyfriend Warning: Intoxicated sex, fem. rec. oral, piv sex, basic smut stuff A/N: this one has very little dialogue, i don't really know why but I hope you enjoy! Based on this request

The sounds of your giggles ring through the stairwell of your apartment building, bouncing around in loud echoes as Ted desperately shushes you, lips pressed sloppily against your temple as he holds you to his side, fumbling to shut the door behind him.

You're bundled up in your coat and scarf, heels wobbling dangerously under you as you cling to Ted's jacket, pulling him down towards you as his lips find you in a frantic kiss. His lips are chapped from the cold air, cold against yours as the taste of smoke invades your mouth, the taste of liquor invading his. He tries to walk you backwards, wincing as you squeak and stumble, pulling you back up to him as he flails in his attempt to keep you standing in your drunken state.

"Can you walk?" he murmurs, deep and desperate against your lips as he pushes them back against yours in a sloppy kiss. You just whimper against his lips as you melt against his body, pulling him against you by the lapels of his jacket.

He walks with you again back towards the stairs, slower this time, before hoisting you up into his arms. You audibly moan this time as your arms find their way around his neck, holding him close as you feel his large fingers dig into your soft thighs, as he pulls your legs to wrap around his waist. Without missing a beat, he ascends the stairs, lips never leaving yours as he takes them two at a time until he gets to your shared apartment door, pushing you up against the wall, he pulls away finally to fumble with the key.

Your lips find his neck, leaving wet kisses along the expanse as you feel him shudder, your pussy clenching at the deep groan that escapes his lips as he finally manages to push the door open. He shuts it behind him, blindly latching the deadbolt as he sets you down, shrugging off his jacket as he tilts his head back in bliss when your lips stay attached to his skin.

A giggle erupts from your throat when you feel his hands begin to work your coat and scarf off, letting go of him to chase his hands as they card through your hair gently to smooth it out, "let's go to bed," you murmur breathlessly, eyes fluttering shut as you let your body move where he guides you down the hall to your bedroom.

He pushes you gently back onto the bed when your legs meet fabric, following you closely as you lay down, wrapping his arms around you as he lies next to you on the bed, tongue tracing your bottom lip.

You hook your leg over his hip as you part your lip, pulling him towards you so he's kneeling between your parted legs, the taste of him in your mouth invading your senses. You fumble with the buttons of his shirt, mind hazy with alcohol and the all encompassing feeling of your boyfriend over you - trying desperately to get them undone before giving up and just pulling it open, listening to him begin to whine above you before your hands are finding his bare torso and the whine turns into an almost desperate whimper.

"Teddy, please," you murmur against his lips, moaning when you hear him curse under his breath as his hands find your thighs. working their way up your dress, his hands push the fabric up as his mouth leaves yours, working their way down your body as they connect to any bare skin they can; your jaw, neck, collarbone, breasts, stomach, nipping and scuking and groaning against your skin as his hands rub firmly up your sides.

"Gonna eat you out," he drawls as his lips find your thigh, rough hands pulling your panties to the side as the cold air hits you now bare, dripping pussy. His mouth immediately latches onto you, wasting no time in teasing you as his tongue immediately parts your fold and begins running along you in long, firm, flat strokes.

The moan that breaks from your lips is pornographic as you shudder, folding in on yourself as you grip his hair, attempting to ground yourself in the desperate movements of his tongue as he works you open. He moans against you, murmuring something you can't make out about how good you taste as he pushes your hips up off the bed to give himself a better angle as he works his tongue into your hole.

His movments are sloppy and frantic, driven only by a desperat need to taste you as you cum on his tongue, unable to really get his baring and focus on how you're reacting. The moans are pouring from your lips, and that's all he cares about as he devours you. He's sloppy, barely focusing on your clit, not even attempting to finger you, as he just licks at you anywhere he can. He's eager and desperate and it's making you so fucking wet.

"Fuck Teddy," you gasp out as you arch your back, pressing your shoulderblades into the bed, "I'm gonna fucking cum."

"Come on gorgeous please," he begs, panting and breathless, sounding on the verge of tears as if his life depends on making you cum in this moment, "need to make you cum."

And you do, hips thrashing widely against his face as you cum, your release trickling down your thighs as ted's tongue relentlessly works against yours, taking in every drop he can get as his hands grip your thighs painfully.

His face is dripping when he comes up from between your thighs, panting as his wet mouth finds your stomach again, and your chest, lips connecting to every part of your body as he kneels between your legs again, finally pulling your dress off fully and dropping it unceremoniously to the floor.

You just pant as you slump back in bed, watching him move through hazy eyes as he licks and nips at every spot of skin he can, hands fumbling with his belt as he tries to not lose his focus from making you feel good.

You press a hand to his chest and push him back to the bed, watching him as he slumps back against the pillows, lazily pulling you up into his lap with a satisfied grin as you settle your ass on his still clothed cock.

Your hips move on their own acord, head dropping back in pleasure as your sensitive, wet cunt rutts against the fabric of his slacks, chest heaving as you hear his breath hitch under you as he watches you move.

He has a dazed look in his eyes, hands firmly on your hips as he watches you, eyes glossed over - with lust or thc you can't tell - mouth parted as his breath gets heavier, watching you move in awe above him.

Your eyes meet his again, hair falling around your face as you gaze down into his eyes, neither of you saying anything as the room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing as you stare lovingly at each other. You move down against him, almost pull down magnetically into him as your tits press against his chest, lips connecting to his in another messy, sloppy kiss as his arms wrap tightly around your back.

He holds you close, desperately clinging to you as your hands slide down his body again, feeling his stomach clench under you as your hands move down to meet the button of his slacks. You fumble for a while, trying not to break his nice pair of pants like you did his shirt until eventually you pop the button open and pull the zipper down, hand immediately pushing past the fabric to grasp his cock through his briefs.

Ted moans, low and strained as his hips buck up into your hand, kicking off his slacks as he pushes himself to sit up more on the bed, back against the headboard. His hands work their way around your back to unlatch your bra, mouth immediately finding your nipples as you continue to work his length through the fabric.

He moans your name as his hand finds yours, large hand grasping your wrist as he pushes it into the fabric of his briefs, breath stuttering against your collarbone when you finally wrap your hand around his cock. He's rock hard against you, pulsing as you begin to stroke him, lazy and unfocused as his tongue circles your nipple.

"Come on honey please," he groans into your skin, panting against the wet saliva soaked patches he's left on your chest as his hands circle around you to grip your ass, pushing youcloser to him as your pyssy slides against his cock. You burry your head in his shoulder as you collapse against him, nodding against him as you feel one of his hands leave your ass to guide his cock through your folds.

You bite back a whimper as his tip nudges your sensitive clit, shifting to help him as he blindly aims his cock. His thick, tip nudges against your entrance, leaking down your thighs, and you push back, settling yourself on your knees as you straddle him, allowing him to sink further into your went cunt.

He pushes you gently away from his chest, large hands around your waist, holding you up as he leans his head back into the headboard, as a long, drawn-out moan rips from his mouth. His eyes screw shut as hips lips part, deep, needy moans pouring from his mouth as he guides you down on his cock until you're flush against his lap, thick length stretching you out despite how wet you are.

You still for a second, catching your breath as you let yourself adjust to the feeling of him inside you, your clit brushing against his pelvis as you shift, whimpering as your sensitive cunt accommodates his size.

You lean back, resting your hands just above his knees behind you as you arch your back up, chest pressing out towards him as you begin to move. Your movements are sloppy, lazy and unrythmic as you focus on chasing whatever movements make that warm pressure continue to build in your stomach.

Ted's no better, hands finding your tits as he bucks up into you, his hips working at their own pace that doesn't match yours, rushed and frantic against your languide movements as he too chases his orgasm. He needs this too badly to focus on anything else.

You both work yourselves closer to the edge, using each other to chase that feeling of ecstacu you both crave, the only reminders you're there together being the heavy feeling of Ted's hands on your tits, and yours soft hands on his thighs.

You've given up bouncing on his cock, just grinding against him as he bucks up into you, moans poiyring from your lips each time you shift and his cock nudges that spot deep inside you that has your walls fluttering around him. Your thighs are aching now, struggling to hold yourself up as that pressure continues to build in your core, feeling your thighs stick to him as the pool of your arousal and sweat no doubt grows under you both.

You cum first, with a loud cry of his name as you shudder, falling forward into him as you lose all sense of rythme, thighs clenching around his as your walls squeeze him like a vice. "teddy, oh god teddy," you scream into his neck as your tongue lulls out to meet the salty, skin you've pressed yourself into.

Ted takes over, one hand wrapping itself around you as he holds you to him, cooing at you in your ear as he plants his feet on the bed and desperately fucks up into you, "perfect, fucking perfect," he groans, "so good, feels so good."

He's babbling at this point, lost in the feeling of your tight walls sucking him in as he repeatedly pounds up into you, pulling out just to be scuked back in by your wet hole. You're too lost to care, too far gone in a haze of booze and pleasure to focus on anything other than the feeling of him repeatedly nudging your cervix with bruising force.

He cums not long after, desperate pleas and moans coming from him as he grips your ass tightly, hips stilling as he presses his cock deep inside you, his hot cum painting your insides. "Fucking love you, love you so much," he murmurs through a groan as his hand finds your hair, tangling himself in it as he works himself through his orgasm, eventually slowly to a gentle, deep thrust as he fucks his cum deeper inside of you.

You both just collapse, neither of you saying a word as you lay in his chest, too exhausted to care about pulling out or cleaning up. Your body buzzes with the aftermath of your orgasm, core warm with pleasure, and the feeling of him inside you as you let yourself sink into his warm embrace.

Eventually, Ted gains the ability to function, just slightly, pulling the blanket up over both of you but making no attempt to move. He holds you close, letting himself relax when he feels your breathing begin to even out, pressing his lips to your forehead and reminding himself to get some painkillers for the hangover you'll both have tomorrow.

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

wc: 0.2k

the phone buzzes at 3:07 a.m.

you answer on instinct, heart thudding like a warning—but the moment you hear the low crackle of distant static, your chest eases.

"si?" you whisper, voice thick with sleep.

"told you i'd call."

his voice is gravel, dulled by poor signal and fatigue. but it’s him.

"you okay?"

"fine," he says. it's automatic. a soldier's answer. then quieter, "can't sleep."

you sit up against the headboard, brushing hair from your face. "where are you?"

a silence and then, his answer.

"nowhere good."

he never tells you, not really. you stopped asking a long time ago.

there's a pause. you hear him breathe.

"is she awake?" his question makes you smile for a moment.

"she had a nightmare an hour ago. i rocked her back down, but she’s been babbling since. talking to the ceiling fan, i think.” you explain softly, sitting at the bed.

he huffs something close to a laugh.

"i'll put you on speaker."

in the dim nightlight, your daughter—grace, as he was gifted to call her, lies in her crib, blanket half-kicked off, tiny fists waving at nothing.

simon listens. on the other end of the world, he's crouched in some half-shelled out building, rifle at his side, bone-weary—but when his daughter coos into the line, high and breathy and nonsense-sweet, his eyes close.

"bah-bah. da-da-da-da."

he bites down the ache.

"daa,"she says again, louder, like she knows.

his voice breaks low over the line. "that's me, sweetheart."

as the line keeps up, you smile with your eyes closed. tiny moments, as you called them. tiny moments where simon could feel happy even if he was crossing the whole world.

a/n: simon would have a daughter fight me

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

On The Rocks

A/N: Just watched Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Had some brainrot I needed to purge from my system. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve been on Tumblr so please let me know if I’m not tagging something right. Likes/Reblogs are very much appreciated! But if reblogging, I ask that you keep it in the Remmick x reader tag. I want to leave the Sinners tag for the thoughtful analyses and not clog it with depraved filth. The readers appearance is left open to interpretation but please inform me if something in my writing indicates otherwise.

Summary: You attempt to switch roles with Remmick in the bedroom. It does not go as planned.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: MDNI 18+, Dom!Remmick, Naive/Inexperienced!Reader (kinda), Biting/Blood, Dub Con/Non Con Elements regarding Overstimulation, Rough Sex, Gentle Sex, Oral Sex (m!receiving), Restraints, Feral Behavior, Corruption Kink, Attempted Switch!Reader that Remmick can only entertain for so long, A touch of Sub!Remmick, Female descriptors for reader, No Plot (haven’t seen the movie yet), Author doesn’t know vampire rules, Remmick is a manipulative asshole but reader is blinded by love, Attempted!funnyRemmick, unbeta’d, probably riddled with errors

The cold metal stings your skin as you turn the makeshift restraints over in your hands. It’s a stark contrast to the muggy, subdued atmosphere, the biting chill offering relief to restless fingers.

The textile sheaths the harshness of the biting edges; the silk fabric belonging to the previous owners of the homestead you and Remmick are currently occupying. The material wrapped around iron handcuffs you plucked from a particularly nasty lawman Remmick killed and didn’t bother to change.

“I do not need that type’a negativity in my head, darlin’.” was his only explanation, paired with an exaggerated grimace when he came back from yet another unsuccessful hunt. A hunt whose prey he never made you privy to.

All he shared with you was his desire for connection, something with which you concluded yourself early on into your...cohabitation. From your first meeting and onward, he struck you as lonely.

Despite his desperation for family, he’s been particularly choosy as of late. There are two conclusions you have drawn: that your presence and companionship serve as a balm to the ancient wound that refuses to heal, and a comment you made about not being enthused to eventually share memories and a mind with heinous individuals.

You know it’s entirely possible you’re little more than a blood bag he’s carted around, regardless of his charm and dulcet words. Ever since he seduced his way into your home- your life- you’ve served a purpose whether you were aware of it or not. That he hasn’t turned you leaves you under no illusions that he wouldn’t do so when the fancy strikes him.

Those are other assumptions you rarely entertain. That your usefulness in welcoming him into domiciles and remaining a steady source of sustenance is all he truly cares for. There’s also the chance that he’s not being truthful and has amassed a following he won’t inform you of until you’re turned and incapable of protesting.

You don’t like to dwell on those assumptions. You’ll keep your rose-colored glasses on for the time being, thank you very much.

You see it in his gaze sometimes. Feel his trembling frame against you at night, as he often does when being any kind of physical with you. As if it takes everything in him to be this gentle, and it is gentle for what Remmick is. It should scare you more than it does, his restraint a thin wire that barely holds from snapping and ripping you apart. But knowing he’s just as wrecked as you-just in another sense-always has you falling apart around him, pliant and needy.

Perhaps it’s a smitten fallacy, but you get the feeling he feels fondness for you, in his own way.

It shouldn’t fill your head with dizzying affection. Your chest shouldn’t be laden with warmth and hope that you could live out an idyllic life with him.

And yet.

You had never lain with anyone before Remmick. The reveal of his age and erotic pursuits that came with had you feeling naive and virginal. Centuries of walking the earth would indeed give someone experience, especially one as handsome and suave as he is. In the early days of your relationship, he often told you about his youthful trysts just to see you bashfully duck your head, hiding your scandalized amusement in the crook of his neck. “Did a lot of catting around when I was a young lad.” The seduction of married women, preacher’s daughters, and frolicking naked through fields was too much for your sheltered mind.

If past you saw how you lived now, you’d have dropped dead of mortification.

A few months into your relationship, you now consider yourself thoroughly exposed to carnal pleasures. Though when you voice this to Remmick, he laughs, and if he has recently fed, it’s until he’s red in the face.

That conversation usually follows with him demonstrating just how mistaken you are. Every night, you learn more about the pursuit of pleasure, and that Remmick might have a predilection for corruption.

The sky outside begins to lighten, tendrils of light threatening to pour through the askew curtains and snapping you out of your reverie. Bitter uneasiness nags at you when Remmick’s this late, though he often is. If you were to ask him about his nighttime activities, you’d get an absent non-answer. If you were to ask for a romantic night out in the town, it’d lead to a thorough distraction cutting well into the precious hours of moonlight.

The fretting and cast-aside feeling emboldens you to try a more domineering approach to get your point across. The point of how you’ve been there for him, blood, body, and soul, yet you’re not feeling like a priority anymore. If you ever were.

You make your way into the bedroom and look down at the silk-covered handcuffs, weighing your options. A brief image of a bound Remmick, fucked-out and spent sits heavily on the side of the mental scale labeled ‘pros’. On the other side sits another image, frightening but no less pretty, of the consequences that come with a wrathful vampire.

There’s also the chance that the silk will come undone, the possibility of the iron causing him harm. It would be minimal, and he’d no doubt heal after a few mouthfuls of your blood, but you’ll never want to see him hurt.

The creak of the front door interrupts your musings. Your heart rate hastens and you lunge for the headboard, slipping the restraints through the pine slats and concealing them with a rumpled pillow.

He’s home.

Through some prey instinct evolved long ago, you usually sense when Remmick is near before your eyes or ears locate him. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, every one of your senses heightened for that initial touch.

It’s no different now. Though you usually don’t jump as high when his thick forearms sling around your middle.

“Jumpy today. Up early, too.” His lips burn through the straps of your slip, trailing up until he can rest them against the spot where the rush of blood in your neck is strongest.

“And you’re back later than usual. Find another dame in need of defiling?”

It’s hard to put heat behind your words while in his unyielding hold, nose trailing down the side of your neck, suckling at your pulse. He doesn’t seem to hear your words, or more likely, is choosing to ignore them. It’s not exactly uncommon for you to taunt him about his promiscuous past.

But then he freezes, pausing his tender onslaught on your neck. His head tilts, turning ever-so-slightly toward the bed. He inhales two short, quick sniffs.

You’re not sure what he’s more likely to catch scent of: the musty, metallic odor of the cuffs or the saccharine musk of your earlier activities on the bed, when you were missing him and fantasizing about a confined Remmick.

In a quick effort of distraction, you deftly spin out of his grasp. He allows it with an appraising gaze. It locks onto the nervous bob of your throat like the predator he is.

You grab a hold of yourself for a moment to take him in. His undone suspenders hang by his hips, likely shucked off the second he got in the door. There’s no blood flaked around his mouth and while it’s possible he could’ve cleaned up before meeting you, you get the feeling he had another unsuccessful night. His face never betrays any disappointment, but he has all the patience an ancient being could have.

“Everythin’ alright?” The sing-songy slurring of this accent draws your eyes back up to his face where a preening, smug grin rests.

“Uh-huh.” You reply in an idiotic manner. You’re high-strung at the thought of getting him to where you need him before he discovers your plan. It only takes a brief moment of deliberation to capitalize on the scent he no-doubt smells on the disheveled sheets. “Would you like to have sex?”

His eyebrows damn near shoot up to his hairline. A short, startled laugh bursts from him.

“Al-right-”

He’s halfway through his answer when you hurry to light the candle by the bed as another aroma to throw him off, hand trembling in what you hope passes off as nervous anticipation. Remmick goes to assist you but you wave him off, absently instructing him to settle.

On your way back from ensuring the closed curtains were extra secure, you shuck your nightdress off. It hits the floor in a whisper of fabric and you’re left in nothing but his gold chain around your neck. His skeptical stare at your frenzied return makes you realize it’d be more alluring-and less suspicious-to put on a show for him.

Sure enough, he’s still fully clothed. And staring at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Why are you still- get naked, please.”

“Are the Sídhe pulling my leg? Or is my girl standing bare in front of me, lookin’ me in the eye?”

Your palms twitch, fighting the urge to cover yourself. There’s disbelief, sure, but you think he’s incapable of not looking at you with debauchery. Dark eyes rove over faded marks that still linger from previous love-making, past the necklace he had draped over you after. It assists your ploy of keeping him distracted and crushes that nagging bit of insecurity.

Just have to keep him occupied.

Despite his questioning, his fingers (are they trembling?) proceed to the fasteners of his button-up. You remain locked in his stare as you reach the bed, slowing your crawl over the mattress for a more sensual appearance.

You feel like a bumbling fool with your heart threatening to burst from your chest, the beat pounding in your ears. You would think your little performance would be nothing but a silly sight if the man you were settling over didn’t gaze at you with riveted awe.

“Hey, handsome.”

“Gorgeous.” He flirts back in that exaggerated southern twang, lips pulled over naturally pronounced canines.

A giddy smile brightens your face, made worse by the way his drops further in blind adoration. It’s the perfect moment to grab his hands, working your way down to his wrists as you raise them slowly above his head. Right to where you want them.

“Oh-ho. What d’we have here?”

A deep, engulfing kiss shuts that mouth of his. He gives twice as much as he gets, starved and full of longing. It’s enough of a diversion to slip those cuffs around his wrists, the ratcheting clicks securing him in place.

He goes still beneath you.

“And we will continue that,” You push yourself up from his chest, grinning like a maniac at the success, “but I wanna talk first.”

“Wha-” You see the deliberation, the flexing of his forearms as he weighed the option of letting you play. More often than not, he’s considerate about his reactions. There are a few moments in your time together when you manage to catch him off guard and elicit a truly authentic response with a drawled quip. Now is not an exception, as his head cocks slightly to glance up at the cuffs, his eyes trailing back to yours in what seems like some genuine bewilderment and a touch of amusement. “What’s this, then?”

You’re caught up at the sight that jumped right out of your depraved daydreams. It takes a moment for you to start the speech you rehearsed about ten times this morning.

“When you convinced me to leave everything behind, you promised me the moon and stars. That we’d do all the things lovers do. That we’d go out together. Dinner. Dancing.”

“Which I said verily, but you ain’t leaving this house until you don’t have two fuckin’ left feet-”

“Remmick.” You braced yourself for his jest, his usual method of distraction that’s entirely your fault because of the prospect of it working.

“Darlin’-“ His brow furrows, scrunching his eyes in a tired expression as if this wasn’t the first time you’ve hashed this out, but the tenth. He lazily turns his hands in the restraints, no doubt checking their durability and effectiveness. You watch as he manipulates his countenance into faux patience when he discovers he’s well and truly stuck, like you’re a particularly stubborn lamb he has to explain the concept of slaughter to. “Once I build our family, I’ll bring the dancin’ to ya.”

His eyes flash as a smirk pulls his face back into that familiar lascivious demeanor you’re used to dealing with. “An’ I can get my dinner right here.”

It’s tough to refute his taunts when he says it like that. Tone all sticky with honey and undercurrent scheming. Your irritation at his wants taking precedence over yours again allows you to ignore the latter statement and power through the brief ache between your thighs.

“You said that before you ate that lawman-"

“He was an uncouth, prejudiced individual, that one.” Remmick butts in with an affronted look. You snort, choosing to keep your mouth shut about the other bigoted individuals he rectified, historically. “An’ I ain’t like the way he was lookin’ at you. Killed three a’ his wives, y’know.”

You didn’t know that, but you don’t sway at the look on his face, soft eyes expectant of your usual approval. “The couple from the farm-“

“They was a bit too sacrilegious for my taste. Pretty sure they was siblings, honey.”

“And that one old woman?“

Remmick pauses, lips pursed and eyes wandering as if he’s struggling with the recollection. You see the exact moment it hits him as he nods to himself and shrugs.

“I was hungry.”

His nonchalance stokes the insecurity and spurned virulence you had pushed down from earlier. Instead of facilitating his flippant attitude as usual, you jump to vehement accusations.

“Admit that you want me all to yourself. Locked up, bored and alone day in an’ day out.”

In a breath, Remmick’s face darkens, the minute change so delicate you almost missed it. Those prey instincts of yours work overdrive to compensate for your infatuated, simple-minded decision-making. You feel a stab of worry at the idea that something you said offended him that deeply, but it’s gone at the revival of his usual easygoing demeanor.

“So this is how ya show me? By actin’ out?”

Perhaps not entirely gone.

“I’m tryin’ something new.” You tilt your head, angling your chin in what you hope conveys defiance and not clumsy inexperience.

Despite the inconvenienced air he tries to maintain, you see the mirth in his eyes. Like he’s watching you show your teeth for the first time.

“Al-right.” The leisurely drawl is at odds with the way Remmick’s eyebrows raise and lips part in exaggerated disbelief. “Don’t let me stop you, darlin’.”

Metal clacks as the cuffs grind against the bed frame halfway through a gesture of go ahead, then. The slow tilt of his head up to glare at the manacles puts the pale column of his throat on display. A brief, primitive urge of yours is to curve your hand around it, to feel him swallow under your palm in a reversal of your usual bedroom roles. You decide not to push your luck so soon into your game, instead waiting as he settles his irritated gaze back on you, brows furrowed and lips pursed.

You can’t help but smile at how put out he looks. An expressive, pouty face that exudes attitude.

You lean forward with the intention of capturing a kiss from him out of habit, but pause halfway up his chest. His eyebrows raise expectantly, head cocked and the well? is unspoken but very much heard.

“Thought better of it, actually. Best keep outta reach of those teeth.”

“Now darlin’, I am offended-” You dip your head to take a nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue in what’s probably a cheap imitation of the expertise he uses on you. Your hand goes to fondle the other one and you delight in the surprised, desperate little noises you’re able to pull from him.

“And where did you learn that-”

You reach beneath you to grab his cock, smiling at the hiss he lets out and the discovery that he’s already hard and heavy in your palm. He must have enjoyed your little display of dominance, too. Once you line him up, you rut your hips against him, dragging his length back and forth through your folds.

You continue working him with your hand and hips until an earlier nagging thought draws you back, bracing yourself on your forearms, hips lifting and hovering above his groin.

“Ah, wha- hey. That was just gettin’ good.”

“Sorry.” You smile, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. “Where’d you go tonight?”

“Where did I- fuck’s sake.” His head bounces against the pillows when he sees that you’re serious. “A speakeasy, in town but off the beaten path. Tried to get in by playin’ a tune. Sounded damn near perfect too-”

“And did you?”

Your eyebrows raise at the silence, taking it for the answer it is.

“So no one in that place was turned tonight.”

“…No.”

Your lips occupy themselves with a kiss to his abdomen to keep from chuckling. Poor thing. Not everyone found your vampire as charming as you did.

You take pity on him and continue your journey downwards, past the sparse hair of his belly to his neglected cock, red and leaking.

Your lips press against the tip of him in a chaste kiss. He shudders, hips jerking slightly. You chance an admonishing glimpse up to catch that darkened look has made a reappearance, though this one is for another reason entirely. It emboldens you to slide your hand from his hip to cup his balls, touch just a tad too light by the way he writhes in your grasp.

Remmick’s pants and hums taper off into a growl that makes you throb.

You have no choice but to ignore your aching clit. Now that you actually have him tied up, chest heaving, at your mercy, you know you’d finish embarrassingly quick.

Your tongue busies itself with the vein underneath the length of him, flattening and dragging yourself back up to the top, paying attention to what draws the sweetest sounds out of him. You’re prepared to make your descent when you notice his hands flexing in the cuffs, wood squeaking worryingly. At first, you’re concerned your handmade cushioning didn’t hold up.

“Your wrists okay?” You take a breath in, scenting the air for the smell of burnt flesh. Remmick lets out a depraved noise at the sight.

“Doin’ just well.” His voice thickening with a cadence that betrays the southern drawl he uses to integrate himself among the locals. “Wanna hold yer hair for ya, love.”

“Nice try. Let me know if you start goin’ up in smoke.”

“How fuckin’ sweet of ya.”

You cut off any further gibes by placing your mouth on him. All those nights with him down your throat have prepared you to take the majority of his length without gagging. You breathe through your nose like you practiced, cheeks hollowing, lips gliding terribly slow. Pure delight makes your heart sing at how far you’ve come, how those ruinous twitches and groans are because of you.

“Tha’s it, a little deeper, love. Go on.”

Forgetting yourself, you go to do just that. It takes an embarrassing few moments to remember your goal. You come off of him with a pop, eye twitching at the gall he has to give you orders.

And that you followed them like a dog, you little slut.

“You’re not in charge right now, mister.”

Molten anger and humiliation swirl in your chest as you listen to him chuckle. His head rests comfortably on the pillows like he’s on goddamn holiday.

“Sure, that’s you.” He pauses as you pull yourself up, hands braced on his abdomen but your stare remains burrowing into him. He hums, mouth ajar and eyes appraising. Then acquiesces. “I’m at your mercy, darlin’.”

You leverage yourself with your knees on either side of his thighs and your hands roaming his stomach, not-so-discreetly pawing at his sturdy core muscles.

You lower and resume your grinding against him. Slow, so slow until you see his jaw tick, lips curling back in a snarl.

His sweaty hair mused, mouth half open as he groans, loud and rasping. His unwavering, starving gaze boring into you. A whimper nearly escapes you at this sight of his swollen biceps, fists clenching and relaxing in delicious torment.

He looks like sin.

The swivel of your hips falter at the show he’s putting on for you.

You return it as best as you can, panting out little mewls as his cock head catches at your entrance. You’re unable to resist sliding down the length of him when he finally sinks in, closing your eyes and letting yourself have this moment. You made sure to make all the pretty sounds you know he’s fond of, sighing and gasping as you took your pleasure.

His own breath stutters, eyes glazing into that enraptured stare that borders on too much.

It’s beginning to get too daunting to look at him. The needy look in his wide eyes. Choked sounds he tries to bite back but can’t. You swore you’ve caught flashes of scarlet, and when those teeth come out, you’ll lose your nerve.

But that hasn’t happened yet.

“That’s it. Tha’s it- what in the fuck.”

He slips out of you and that brittle patience of his wears thin.

Definitely a flicker of crimson hue in those eyes. Before he can throw too much of a fit about it, you power through to your request; the goal you’ve had in mind since the start and had definitely not lost sight of.

“I was thinking we make it a weekly thing. Our date, I mean. I’d like to go back to bein’ well and properly courted-”

“Lemme go.” The chains rattle against the frame in a sharp, worrying tug.

“No.” You hum distractedly, eyes drifting closed lest you lose your nerve. “You’re not havin’ fun?”

“I’d much rather be eatin’ that cunt of yours until I can’t get the taste off my tongue. Until the thought of accusin’ me of not takin’ care of ya’ is fucked out of your head.”

It’s impossible to hide your vicious shudder, toes curling against the strewn sheets. You could’ve came right there if the savageness of his tone didn’t make the gears turn in your head. Your eyes fly open.

He- what.

What?

Is that what he’s so pissy about? An imagined blow to his male ego?

Stay focused. Stay. Focused.

“Hmm. Never got my answer.”

His hips spring up in an attempt to continue rubbing against your folds, intent on reminding you what exactly he can give.

“Ah, ah.” You scold, lifting further out of reach and giving his nipple a pull. “Be a good boy, Remmick.”

“Enough beatin’ around the bush. If you’re gonna fuck me, darlin’, fuck me.”

You’re trembling with excitement, but also uneasiness. It makes you feel like when you were a girl, doing something that you knew you’d be in trouble for if you were caught. You’re undoubtedly in hot water now, but the thought of backing down with a lenient punishment is out of the question. Not when he sounds so done in.

It also pays to run on spite and desire.

“Maybe try beggin’.”

Fangs elongate, spittle catching on his lips. Eyes a persistent glow with simmering temper.

…There's something wrong with you, isn’t there? Feeling the way you do about that look?

“You're the one that’s gonna be beggin’ me to stop when I get free a’ these.”

Well, you’re definitely not letting him loose anytime soon. Maybe after he’s nice and spent.

“S’a bit funny. Given the events of tonight.” You explain at eyes narrowed in confusion. “Can’t get in, can’t get out.” Your head tilts to motion towards the outside of the house, then to glance pointedly at the cuffs. A slow smile draws across your face, voice sultry and low. “Can’t get off.”

“Real brave a’ you. With me tied up like this.” Though a twitch of his lips betrays the severity of his tone.

You lift a shoulder, coquettishly fluttering your eyes. You’re not sure what seductive temptress climbed into you, is speaking through you, but you feel on top of the world. You don’t recognize her, but you think you like her.

It seems Remmick does, too. Past the shimmering agitation, you catch a hint of quiet approval. Pride.

That, and he’s been hard as stone since you first got him in those chains.

You go to torment him some more, the tip just barely breaching when Remmick plants his heels on the bed and thrusts up with savage strength. It strikes deep, the ache and shock of it drawing a yelp out of you as your eyes fly open. You flail briefly, having to brace yourself with palms gripping his sweat-slick shoulders, shaking thighs no longer capable of stabilizing yourself. Your breath hitches at the sight you were trying to avoid. Your wide-eyed stare lands on his vicious grin of too many teeth, drool spilling from the side of his mouth.

“Hey!” You stutter, paired with a hard slap on his chest that doesn’t even make him blink.

Fuck, you’re in over your head.

In an effort to maintain control, you scold him. The false, shaky authority nearly makes you wince. “Behave.”

His eyes glow red in the dim room, candlelight casting shadows over his face. “Oh darlin’, I am. Believe you me.”

You’re locked onto each other for a moment. A slow trail of your eyes over the spit pooling around his collar.

“Poor thing.” You coo, carefully staying out of biting distance.

Your send your hips back, dragging over his cock to settle on his thighs. His gaze tracks your breasts as your back arches, pulling your hardened nipples over his torso during your descent.

Truthfully, you’re thighs are burning. But you’re not going to allow his disobedience to go unchecked. You allow yourself a small smile at the lowered pull of his brow when you begin to turn around, your face now concealed from his predatory scrutiny.

There’s a change in the air. The life sucked out of it. Everything seems to still.

Your vampire is no longer amused.

Remmick has an almost reverential fixation with watching your face as you lay together. He’s fucked you from behind before, sure, and you felt primitive and dirty and thoroughly taken as he laid claim to you. Even then, he kept your head turned and in his view. Mouthing in some form between kisses and bites hot against your cheek, your neck. Growls and whines in your ear. The look on his face alone was enough to get you to fall apart.

Denying him this was perhaps the worst sin you could commit tonight.

Your hands find his thighs, muscles tensing and shifting underneath your palms. You continue your newfound game, hips sinking back enough to capture the head of him into your opening. You stay shallow, the thrill and tease building the warmth in your belly.

“Hey.”

You persist, swirling your hips, sighing sweetly at the sound of gnashing teeth and frustrated groans behind you.

“C’mere to me.”

It’s hard to ignore the acceleration of your heartbeat, blood pumping in your ears. It’s harder to ignore the fact that he can hear it. He’s more monster than man right now but you tune him out as you focus on sliding him through your slick folds.

A sharp, guttural call of your name. The growl behind you catches your breath. Voice distorted by fangs. You disregard it and the warning it imparts as you move with newfound urgency. Maybe he won’t be too upset. Maybe you can get to the door-

You start to cum, cresting over the precipice just as the sharp crack of splintering wood fills the air and shoots through your body like a lightening bolt.

Within the same heartbeat, still-bound hands find your upper back-chilled metal grazing your skin tauntingly-and shove hard, knocking you face-first onto the bed.

The jarring occurrence leaves you winded, enough so that you’re momentarily distracted from the sensory overload of Remmick rutting into you. Linen sheets press and stick to the sweaty skin of your forearms, your cheek. Your hips are in the air, framed by two strong hands.

”Remmi-” you begin to beg, like it will do anything but encourage him, excite his predator instincts.

You have known what kind of monster he is. That he’s capable of such brutality it would be vain to even attempt to understand it. He had been careful not to expose you to any violent depravity, and while you know what you’ve unleashed would be considered merciful in that regard, it’s unlike anything of what you’ve seen in your time together.

Through the immobilizing shock and fear, you absently feel your body coming back down from it’s high, thighs shaking and toes curling. The nerves and awareness of overstimulated skin making itself known and surpassing the score.

“Rem-remmi-fuck!” Mewls and half-formed cries fall past your lips. It takes several heaving breaths to form some semblance of coherence, to enunciate in more than fragmented pleas and whines. “Please, listen, Remmick-”

“Poor thing.” A guttural, deranged voice reverberates in your ear. “I told ya, you’ll beg me to stop. And I won’t, I won’t, not until I fuck you within an inch of yer life.”

A flash of silver crosses over your field of vision, confined hands coming to rest on your front, gripping you close as he fucks you brutally. A hand finds itself around your throat, resting, keeping you against him with a controlled amount of force. The other hand finds your breast in an aching grasp, a sound emitting from you that would have had you hiding your face in your palms a month ago, if he hadn’t fucked any and all decency out of you since then.

Just as your face begins to flush red in an old habits die hard fashion- his teeth sink into the junction between your shoulder and neck.

The initial bite is the equivalent of being doused in ice water. Your heart contracts, fighting each pull into his mouth and losing. Unlike his previous feedings, there’s a feral urgency brought on by the involuntary restraints and cruel teasing. The deprivation of blood and oxygen paired with the sedative-like component in his saliva contributes to a feeling of weightlessness.

Your body responds to his feeding in its usual betrayal. Conditioned to fall apart around the cock pulsing inside you, frenzied movements encouraged by the sustenance.

You sink into the bed. Limbs heavy, formed of the iron you trapped him with except you never were a match for it.

“I know what you like, what you need. Don’t even need to be inside your fuckin’ head for it.” He slows the pace of his hips, thrusts more punctuated but no less ruining than they were.

Remmick’s face is buried in your hair, panting, growling, whining in your ear. He noses along your cheek, breathing in the scent of you-your arousal makes your blood sing-and his own interwoven with yours. It’s enough to cause that feeling in your belly to crescendo into a steady ache.

He releases your throat in favor of barring a forearm around your neck. You gasp, a little mewl escaping you at the rigidity of him. You’re kept flush against the hard contours of his body. The reprieve of arching your back away from him made null by the force of his thrusts, rendering you unable to do anything but sit there and take it. It’s stifling. Terrifying. Your attention split between every sensation until you’re dizzy with it.

Fluid drips down between your breasts, saliva and blood blending into a pink mess. Droplets fall from his maw and stipple your shoulder blades. The scent of his sweat and yours, of sex and musk and warmth. The bedding is already ruined beneath you.

Teeth gnash against your throat, tongue laving up the trickles leaking from fresh wounds, frenetic fangs occasionally scraping them open. That tremble of restraint that’s usually there but amplified tenfold.

Your head lolls onto folded arms to try to muffle your wailing, the sensitivity becoming intermingled with pleasure until you can’t discern between the two.

There’s something about the way he channels the urge of ripping you apart into fucking you; a clemency only you could appreciate.

“Don’t, Rem’ck, don’t don’t-” Meek whimpers sound more like prayers.

“Don’ fuss. Just givin’ me lass what she asked for.” Your battered cunt sucks him in, contracting and squeezing him in a vice grip. “Greedy girl, ain’t she?”

It sneaks up on you, a pooling warmth shot down to your abdomen, through your glistening, puffy clit. Your mouth falls open in a broken gasp, body trembling as you clench around him. Tremors inch up from your core, up the column of your spine until you’re sure you’re going to shatter apart.

When you do, it’s less intense than before but no less devastating.

“That’s it, girl. Fuck, darlin’-“ Remmick draws, his cock bullying its way into your tightening cunt. His voice joins yours in a chorus of breathless moans, each as ravaged as the other.

He throws the both of you onto your sides, the arm around your throat and the sturdy body behind you protecting you from the rough jostling, like he’s the only thing allowed to cause you any discomfort.

His grip on you softens. Palms sticky with sweat and blood slide over your breasts, your hips, to find their home on your quivering thighs.

Coming down from the orgasm is catastrophic. You shift in his hold, unable to do anything but retreat into his body or his hands. The tightening of your cunt alerts you of his cock that’s still heavy inside you, rocking you gently and rejuvenated from the feeding.

He tongues the sweat off of your neck, swirling down your neck and back up until you can no longer tell where he is or isn’t. Your skin is too tight, quivering, aching to be rid of the monster that melds you against him. Your tender mind hopes he’ll keep you in his hold or else you’ll fly apart. He’s the most dangerous predator and the only one to make you feel safe.

Remmick’s making contented little noises as he mouths at you. Warm drool steadily drips on your shoulder, falls down your back. It spreads and sticks obscenely as he tugs you back to meet his chest. A warm tongue laps against your shoulder blades like he’s trying to clean you but only results in a bigger mess.

Suddenly you’re empty, bereft cunt feeling strangely vacant but it doesn’t last for long as you’re maneuvered with little resistance onto your back, face to face with something out of a nightmare.

Gleaming eyes peer down at you, bloody mouth agape and breathing hard like you’re something holy. His stare never falters, like watching you come apart is the equivalent of basking in the sunrise that’s evaded him for years.

He’s somehow still achingly hard as he slides against your clit, shushing as you sputter your mangled protests. The heft of him slipping through your throbbing folds.

The sticky mess between your thighs hinders his frenzied attempt to rock back into you, his cock catching against your opening several times before he sinks home. His hips pick up in a slow, relentless pace. A sob tears from your throat as he moves in and out, raw from the previous times he’s taken you.

“Please. Nuh-“ Your voice catches on a hiccuping sob and a plethora of broken little noises. “No more, please, Remmi-”

“Shh. S’alright. There she is.” The red glow of his eyes somehow adorns a cherishing appearance. No trace of his earlier hostility to be found. Only contentment. Fondness. Comforting the lamb so the meat tastes sweet. Sharp, jagged teeth find your ear, alternating between kissing and mouthing around it. “Me lass.”

His thrusts do not still between the shushing and cooing. Kisses pepper your face in what feels like a desperate attempt of his to cover as much skin as possible, to smother you in him so there’s no beginning or end between the two of you.

You try your best to match them, catching the corners of his lips in an attempt to placate him, show you’re willing to play along.

Mercy, please.

There was no denying him, this time. As if your brief refusal to face him kept him in ravenous desperation for years. He was going to take what he was due.

His hands find whatever softness they can reach, digging into your back, your belly, your breasts, finally landing on your ass. His forehead presses to yours, swaying gently from side to side as he continues to rock into you. Glowing eyes remain unblinking, taking his fill of you as a man starved. This is what you’re used to; the unnerving adoration he has with watching you come to ruin.

Dripping wet lips find yours and your mouth falls open on trained impulse. All you can do is take what he gives, saliva spilling past your lips, coating you inside.

An interwoven jumble of Gaelic and English is snarled into the skin of your shoulder as he empties himself inside you, hot breath imperceptible against your heated skin.

He all but collapses on top of you, reminding you that he was using some restraint when he lay melded against you.

Curly brown wisps cover your bleary eyes that refuse to focus. The events of the night hit you, and a crazed little giggle bursts from your lips. It transforms into a full-blown laugh at the raising of his still-constrained hands, jiggling pointedly in an impertinent request of removal. You absently inform him of the keys in the bedside dresser.

“You could- You could’a got free s’whole time.” You slurred, warm and sated in the grasp of his strong arms. Anxiety quieted now that you have your Remmick back.

”Aye. But you wanted to play, and I wanted to see how far you’d go before ya lost your nerve. “ A kiss landed on the side of your sweaty cheek, his body shifting in a way that caused his softening cock to pull out of you. “You surprised me.”

Reduced to nothing more than the dim-witted fool you are, you smile uncontrollably at the treasured possession of his words.

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

Thinking about Gaz trying to hit on insecure!reader at the bar, but he's oblivious to the fact that she's self-conscious until he starts talking to her. And for the first time in his life, he gets turned down...and he's never been more attracted to anyone in his life.

Maybe you were all on your own bc your friends abandoned you, or maybe you showed up on your own in an attempt to be flirted with. But once you got there you felt too insecure to look anyone in the eye, so you've kept your gaze locked on your drink since you arrived.

Maybe Gaz sees you - a pretty bird - all on your own and looking sad. It doesn't even cross his mind that you could be insecure, after all, you're gorgous. But you've never seen yourself that way.

So when he finally works up the courage and gets a bit of encouragement from his team, he slinks up next to you and turns on the charm, like he always does with women.

But it doesn't work out like he planned.

There's no blushing smiles and bashful giggles coming from you. Only a blank, surprised stare and tensed muscles. You even look around like you think he's talking to someone else.

I mean, he couldn't possibly be hitting on you, right? It must be some kind of joke, or prank, or...something. Someone that handsome would not be interested in someone like you. And your concerns are only confirmed when he glances over his shoulder and gets a thumbs-up and a wide, toothy grin from some idiot with a mohawk.

He thinks maybe he's just making you nervous, but when you flinch when he calls you 'beautiful', he knows he's done something wrong. He just doesn't know what.

Of course, it's not his fault. He doesn't know how many times you've been asked out as a joke...or a prank...or a dare. Nobody's ever made a genuine effort to be with you. And he's struck a chord in you hard enough to make you have to swallow against the lump forming in your throat.

"You think it's funny to go up to random girls and make fun of them?" Your trembling voice speaks up as you cling to your drink, trying to seem tough even as the tears build in your eyes.

"Make fun-?" He doesn't even get to finish voicing his confusion before you're standing up, staring down at his brown, puppy-dog eyes with the firmest glare you can muster despite your tears.

"You might be this...this handsome guy, but that doesn't mean you can be mean!" You stutter out as you gather up your purse clumsily, like you're desperate to get away from him...which you are...even if he is the hottest man who has ever talked to you.

"Love, I wasn't making fun of you-" He desperately tries to salvage the situation as he watches in horror as your tears begin to roll down your cheeks, but you quickly snap back. "Oh, save it! You...you asshole!" You seem to hesitate for a moment before you grip your drink tightly and splash it into his face, but he can tell by the immediate guilt lacing your features that you regret your choice.

Before either of you can say anything else, you gather your purse and practically sprint to the exit. But in your hurry, you don't realize you've left behind your wallet - which Gaz picks up once he's broken himself out of the shock you've left him in.

He returns to his table - slightly dazed and dripping with strawberry daquiri as he stares down at your I.D., completely lost in thought as he studies the small picture of your face smiling sweetly at the camera. It looks nothing like the gorgeous woman he saw sitting at the bar - you looked...different, on your license. Not ugly, per se, but you were certainly more awkward when that picture was taken. You just hadn't come into yourself quite yet, and he can already picture how people must've been treating you when you looked like that. And it finally clicks for him.

You genuinely thought he was just teasing you, like you've probably always been teased. But this time, you had enough confidence in yourself to at least tell him to fuck off, even if you did it with tears in your eyes.

Ghost's voice breaks through the barrier first, with a gruff "fuck was tha' about?"

"Aye, what'd ye say to tha poor lass?" Soap's concern quickly follows, his head craning to look out the window as he watches you scurry down the dark street with tears in your eyes. "Couldnae be good from tha' look on her bonnie face."

Their words barely register in Gaz's mind, especially when he's too focused on the way his heart is pounding against his ribs as he tears his eyes away from your picture. "I think I just met the love of my life."

"What?"

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

gaz knows he’s pretty, but he loves it even more when you tell him so.

it was a perfect saturday morning, a rare occasion where you and kyle finally got days off of your professions. so that meant sleeping in ungodly amounts of hours tangled in each other’s limbs.

it was just a quarter to 11 am when you both finally stirred. he hummed, opening his eyes to find you already looking at him. his lips split into a gentle smile. “mornin’, lovie.”

your hands reach up to frame his face in your palms, and you mirror the smile he gave you. “good morning, pretty boy,” you murmur, peppering his face in the softest of smooches.

heat rose to his cheeks and spread to the tips of his ears, a slow sigh exiting his nostrils as he accepted your affection, eyes shutting so he could only think of your kisses. “your pretty boy.”

he listens as you snicker quietly, his smile widening. “mm. my pretty boy,” you correct yourself, before pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.

nudging his forehead against yours, he inhaled a nose full of your scent, and returned your kiss with his own. “can we have waffles today?”

“of course we can, handsome.” another rush of heat to his face. he pecks your lips once more, before you both roll out of bed to start brunch together.

but of course, it’s your day to treat him. after he pulls out the bacon and lays them out in strips on the baking sheet, he turns to you. “anything else i can do, sweet’art?”

“just sit there n’ look pretty f’me, love.”

so he hops onto the counter, looking to you with heart eyes as his legs dangled and kicked like a giddy child.

gaz masterlist

© clancycatears 2025. do not copy, steal, translate, or feed my works to ai.

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

He worries about you leaving him.

He never says it, and he never will, but you see it in his eyes, in the way he holds you so tight it bruises, in the cocksure smiles he gives you that don't fool you anymore, not after all this time.

You only know so much about his past, with Remmick being as old as he is there's only so much he remembers and not enough time to tell you it all. But still, you know he's been alone for a long time, a longer time than you can comprehend. And you know he's lost and loved and lost again.

So when the night ends, and he settles next to you, ready for the sun rise, you say nothing as he pulls you close, buries his face into your neck and wraps his arms so tightly around your middle. Say nothing as he curls up around you, legs pulled close to your body and fingers clutching at your clothes. Nothing as his eyes squeeze shut.

Then they open again and you feel the tension leave his body, feel as that dangerous smile curls back onto his lips. It's only then you tell him you love him, that you ain't going no where. And he laughs, because of course he does, and tells you that you wouldn't get far if you tried. But you both know that's not true. Because he couldn't bear it if you left, so much so he wouldn't be able to follow you. He'd have to let you go. The pain would be too much.

But you don't say that. Instead you hum and run your fingers through his curls as his eyes close once more. You feel him settle again, but those fingers never stop clinging and you know that fear runs deep.

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

I AM a frank calling reader mama truther 🫡

need more domestic frankie plsssss (domestic but nasty ofc)

Yes my sweet anon!!! Yes!! I love finding more frank calling reader mama truthers, its SO domestic and SO him!! Its literal perfection!

Im also so pleased to say you've to sent this at the most perfect time bc its alllll I've been thinking about recently.. So here's a few little moments. I'd be completely open and enthusiastic to expanding on any of these moments also if you guys would like that- perhaps make it a lil series? lmk! <33

Warnings?: domestic frank!! Reader obviously refered to as mama, a lil spicy but nothing much this time round, mostly fluffy!

Frank loves calling his girl little terms of endearment- sweetheart, baby, doll, baby doll- i mean shit the list goes on to the end of time, hes old fashioned like that... but mama? Mama is just so special.

Its reserved especially for those domestic moments, always hushed and murmured low no matter where you are. The moment it hits your ears its like its just the two of you left in the world.

"Lookin so pretty today Mama.." rasped as he watches you potter around the bedroom in the morning light. Frank's bare back resting against the headboard, eyes locked on the way you pull different pieces of clothing onto your body to start the day. Always looking to him for his reactions as he sips his steaming coffee.

"Was thinkin.. You got any plans today mama? No? How bout we take a walk, head to that coffee place you like?" hummed with his lips pressed against your temple as you rest against him bleary eyed. Still warm and content from sleep on his chest, legs tangled up beneath the sheets. You nod, that did sound good.

"Nuh uh, pick that back up. Watever you want today Mama, spoilin my girl" when you go shopping and see something you like but refuse to buy for yourself. He's immediately holding onto it, pulling out his wallet from his pocket ready for the checkout. Complain all you like, he really doesnt mind. What id gorgeous girl wants, his gorgeous girl gets.

"Need any help in here mama? Smells fuckin incredible" rumbled from behind you on a stay at home date night. Franks large arms wrapping around your waist, his chin resting heavy on your shoulder- tilted just slightly to plant soft kisses on your skin. His breath brushing your ear tickishly making you giggle. All while the pan sits already sizzling on the stove as you prepare vegetables.

And when things get a little spicy.. Well, thats franks favorite time to use it. The gorgeous press of you against him making it easy for the word to slip free.

"You gotta tell me.. Cmon mama, wanna hear what you want" as your straddling his lap, lips pressing against his in passionate sloppy make outs. Hips grinding slow and methodical against his jean clad buldge, hands roaming needily, not a inch of space between you.

"Yeah.. There you go mama, taking me so good. So gorgeous like this." said between a rough groan as he takes you from behind, your front pressed to he mattress, perfect ass in the air for him. The skirt of your new sundress flipped up your back, his large form draped over it as he steals the air from your lungs.

"Shhh.. I got you mama.. I got you." when you whimper from the onslaught of pleasure as his fingers strum at your clit. Cock bullying a home inside of your tight walls, wet and so fucking warm around him. On the precipice of an orgasm that makes your head feel fuzzy the closer you get.

"Sure it wasn't too much for you mama, aint sore anywhere? No, you sure? Good.. Glad you feel good" as you relish the come down, bodies sweaty and sticky. Still pressed against his chest though this time a little differently as he lies you back against him in the warm bath tub. Fingers softly soothing your favourite soaps and lotions across your skin.

Gahhhh i need domestic frank so bad you guys, i need to cook with him. I need to make out on the couch and oh my fucking goooood i need him to get me off

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

I think it’d be super cute if reader gave Sirius a new leather jacket on some occasion or just because and had picked out patches during the year to sew on and decorate the back of the jacket with :,)

thank you for requesting!! very cute idea <3 (im saving the patches idea for longer fic in the future)

Sirius Black x reader who buys him a present... just because ✩ 800 words

cw: fluff, established relationship

“Fucking hell.” clipped and frustrated, is the first thing you hear after unlocking the door to Sirius’ flat, shopping bags in hand. The sharpness of his voice has you rushing forward in search of him. 

Rounding the corner into the living room, you find him crouched in front of the record player. His brows drawn tight, jaw clenched, and glaring like he’s been betrayed.

“You okay?” you ask softly, trying not to scare him.

But it’s too late. Sirius startles at the sound, whipping around with wide eyes. Clearly the concentration he had on burning a hole with his stare stopped him from hearing you come in.

“Shit, poppet,” he breathes, pressing a hand to his chest. “Y’trying to give me a heart attack?”

You suppress a smile. “You okay?” you repeat, glancing at the various vinyl sleeves strewn around him.

“No,” he huffs, sitting back on his heels. “This bloody thing’s decided it hates music. Keeps skipping on everything I put on.”

Stepping over the mess, you crouch beside him. “Have you tried the penny–” “Yes” he replies faux exasperated, “I’ve tried a penny on the needle.”

“Well, I’m out of ideas, then,” you say with a shrug, smiling as you lean in to inspect the turntable anyway. “Might just be sulking. Machines do that sometimes.”

 He narrows his eyes at you, disbelieving, but there’s a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Awful.” You laugh bumping your shoulder into his. “You won't want the present I've got then? Y’know, since you're so upset.” you gesture to the record player, but Sirius’ eyes are pinned on you now. 

“Never said that, doll.” he replies, raising an eyebrow, intrigued. 

Reaching into the bag set at your side you pull the gift out carefully. A black leather jacket. It's not dissimilar to the one Sirius wears like a second skin most of the time, but it's in better condition, and doesn't have an ever growing hole in the lining that he chooses to ignore.

You don’t hand it to him right away.

“I saw it in the shop, and thought you’d like it. But, if it's weird or you don't like it, it's fine. I can take it back, I think.”

His eyes drop to the jacket, and for a moment, he just stares at it. You feel a flicker of panic. Maybe it was weird. Maybe you’d overstepped. He’s never exactly been easy to shop for. You start to pull it back toward the bag.

But then he’s reaching for it gently, fingers brushing yours as he lifts it into his lap.

“You bought this… for me?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, trying not to fidget. “Yeah.”

He runs a hand down the sleeve, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. “This is… fuck, babe, this is nice. Like, expensive, nice.”

“It was on sale,” you lie.

He gives you a look. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You shrug sheepishly. “Am I not allowed to treat you?”

Sirius huffs, shaking his head as he looks down at the jacket again, like he still can’t quite believe it’s real. Then he mutters, almost bashful, “’Course you can. You shouldn’t have though.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you say flatly, giving him a look. “What kind of logic is that?”

But he doesn’t answer. Not with words, anyway.

His whole face lights up with a boyish, delighted grin and he lunges forward, cupping your face in his hands like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You ridiculous thing,” he says, and starts peppering kisses all over your face. Cheeks, nose, forehead, chin; anywhere he can reach. “Buying me things. Loving me, the nerve–”

You giggle, squirming a little under the affection. “Sirius–stop–”

“Nope. Can’t. Won’t. Too in love,” he mumbles between kisses, the corners of his mouth brushing your skin. “Completely helpless, I’m afraid.”

"You still need to try it on." You snort, trying to gently push him away.

“Right,” he says, finally pulling away with a dramatic sigh.

He stands, slinging the jacket over his shoulders and shrugging it into place. It fits like a dream, like it was made just for him. Making his way across the room to the mirror, Sirius assesses the fit and style before giving an approving nod to his reflection.

And then he turns back to you, looking like he might explode from the joy of it all. Still grinning, he crosses the room in two strides and wraps you up in a big, tight hug, lifting your heels slightly off the floor.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair before pulling back just enough to press a lingering, warm kiss to your lips.

“Of course.”

He moves his hands to rest on your cheeks again, looking at you with an unfamiliar intensity, making sure you really hear it when he says, “I mean it, thank you.”

You rest your hands over his ,a touch for a touch.

“I know,” you whisper, shy under his gaze. “You’re welcome.”

masterlist <3

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

hi!! can u write a fic with poly maurauders x shy reader where she looses like her comfort stuffed animal and freaks out? thanks!

Thanks for requesting @whotfisgiana <3

poly!marauders x shy!reader ♡ 1.4k words

You don’t think your bedroom has ever been so messy. Pillows on the floor, sheets and comforter all askew, most everything you own moved this way or that so you could see around or behind or underneath it. You’re halfway to a panic when a knock sounds on your door. 

You ignore it. It’s likely a postman leaving a package or someone who will leave a flyer taped to the door, and you have more pressing concerns to deal with. But the knock comes again, louder this time. 

You push out a sigh as you stand from where you’d been peering under your bed, trying to shake some of your unease out of your fingertips as you go to answer it. On the other side you find your roguishly handsome boyfriend, looking expectant. 

“Hey, beautiful,” says Sirius, grinning as he leans in. He takes your waist in hand, and you kiss him back somewhat slowly, caught offguard by his easy affection at the best of times but even more so when you weren’t anticipating it. 

“Hey,” you echo as he pulls back. 

“You look surprised to see me,” he observes. “Did you not remember our date?” 

You blink. Oh. Oh. God, you’re the worst. You’re supposed to be going to see a film with your boyfriends at noon—but in your frenzy, you’d completely forgotten. Is it really that late already?

“It’s alright.” Sirius seems to sense your nerves, giving you a kind squeeze. “We’ve got time, lovely, James is picking up Remus from across town and I told them we’d take the bus, is that alright? Do you need to do anything before we go?” 

Your first thought is that you can’t go—but that’s not very fair, is it? You had plans, you can’t just abandon your boyfriends because something else has come up. Something completely non-urgent, too. It will still be just as lost whether you’re at the cinema or not. You can keep looking when you get home. 

“Yeah,” you say, stepping back from the door. Sirius comes in, and you shut it behind him. “Sorry, I’m still in my pajamas. I can change fast.” 

“Don’t hurry,” he says easily. “You know how James drives. We’ll beat them there no matter what.” 

“Thanks.” You hurry into your room, Sirius trailing casually behind. “Sorry, just a second.” 

He tsks, teasing. “Stop that.” 

“Sorry,” you say instinctively, then feel your face heat when he shoots you a mock stern look. You grab some clothes and go into your bathroom, shutting the door to change. 

“Whoa,” says Sirius as he enters your room. “What happened in here?” 

You forcibly stifle another apology, laughing at yourself. “I know, it’s so bad.”

“Are you redecorating or something?” 

“No, just looking for something.” 

You step out of the bathroom in jeans and a jumper, and Sirius grins at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. You’re ready for him this time. When he steps forward, you let him put his hands on your face and kiss him back sweetly. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks. 

“Hm?” 

“You seem upset. What is it?” 

“I’m not upset.” You want for it to be true. You wish this wasn’t something that rattled you so badly. 

“Liar.” Sirius says it in the same way he calls James pest, with a fond bent to his voice. He puts a couple of inches between you, keeping your face in his hands as he traps you beneath his stare. “What is it?” 

Your shoulders climb up towards your ears. “I’m okay,” you say meekly. Sirius only looks at you, as if to say go on. “I just can’t find my rabbit.” 

His brow furrows. “Your rabbit.” 

“My stuffed rabbit,” you clarify.

“Oh.” Sirius glances to your bed, the covers half torn off from where you’ve disheveled them in your search and now trailing onto the floor. He lets his grip slip down your arms. “How did I not know about this? Seems rather important to you.” 

“I don’t need to sleep with him every night or anything,” you say, embarrassed. “I’ve just always had him, so he’s sort of…sentimental. Anyway, it’s fine. I’ll find it later.” 

“I’m not going to drag you to the cinema when you’re upset about your rabbit,” Sirius says, like the mere idea is offensive. 

“You’re not dragging me,” you argue feebly, “and I’m not upset.” 

“I’m not escorting you while you’re worried, then.” He rolls his eyes, taking out his phone. 

“Sirius,” you plead, but he only shushes you. 

“Hi,” he says a moment later. “Hey, has James gotten to you yet?” 

Remus’ voice, too quiet to make out, crackles through the line. 

Sirius hums. “Well, I’m impressed by him. Actually, though, we may have a change of plans.” 

You cover your face with your hands, mortified. Sirius puts an arm around you, rubbing your shoulder like there, there. 

“It seems our girl has misplaced her stuffed rabbit.” 

You’re close enough now to hear James say, genuine alarm in his tone, “Moo Moo?” 

There’s a pause, and you peek through your fingers to find Sirius looking at you. You nod in confirmation. 

“It’s called Moo Moo?” he asks. 

You hum quietly. 

“Why would you name your rabbit after a sound a cow makes?” 

“I don’t know,” you say sheepishly. “I was a baby.” 

Sirius rolls his eyes, kissing you on your head. “You’re fucking precious, do you know that?” 

It’s decided quickly after that. James and Remus change course, heading for your apartment while you and Sirius recommence the search. None of them will hear your protests, least of all Sirius, who threatens to decommission you from the rescue party if you continue to spend your energy arguing rather than looking. 

With two of you, you clear the bedroom quickly, moving into the formerly unconsidered parts of your home. Sirius asks you questions like a police interrogator: Where did you last see him? How big is he? How many nights has it been since you’re sure you slept with him? Did he go on holiday with you last weekend?

Your laundry bin is upturned, couch cushions removed, mementos you’ve not seen for years discovered and then quickly lost again in the rubble. 

When your boyfriends arrive, Remus takes one look at you and shepherds you away while James joins the search. He makes you tea and gives you enough of his soft, compassionate looks to melt you down to the bone. 

“I didn’t mean to make us all miss the film,” you tell him, steam warming your chin as you sit on the kitchen counter. “I was going to go, but Sirius…” 

You realize you sound like you’re tattling and stop. Remus only smiles at you indulgently, his brown eyes flickering with humor. 

“We didn’t think it was you who made that call,” he says. “But, sweetheart, no one is upset that we’re here. We wouldn’t want you to have to sit through a film while you’re upset.” 

“I’m not upset.” Your voice has the quiet weariness of a broken record. 

Remus studies you. You sip your tea to avoid it, trying not to squirm under his gaze. “You seem like you might be upset,” he says, an almost missable hint of teasing in his tone. 

“It’s stupid,” you admit. “I know he has to be here somewhere, there’s no point in worrying.” 

“I’m sure he is.” Remus rubs your leg, soothing. “You’re right, lovely, he’s probably just somewhere we haven’t—” 

“Found him!” James cries. 

You gasp, and Remus grins at your reaction. 

“Where?” Sirius bounds in from the sitting room. 

James comes from the opposite direction, holding your rabbit above his head like a trophy. He passes it to you with a flourish as you hop down from the counter. “Angel, your Moo Moo.” 

“So this is Moo Moo,” Sirius says, grinning. 

You feel suddenly defensive, bringing the grayed, ratty plushie close to your chest. “Yes.” 

“I love him.” 

“I think he’s handsome,” says Remus, also looking at him interestedly. 

“Caused a lot of trouble today, though,” Sirius tuts, “hasn’t he?” 

“Where’d you find him?” you ask James, eager to be out of the spotlight.

“He was wedged between your mattress and the wall.” Your boyfriend pouts. “Poor thing.” 

You frown. “I looked there.” 

“He was sort of in the corner.” James shrugs. “Rather easy to miss, I’m sure Sirius checked there too.” 

“Well, thank you,” you say shyly. Still holding the toy to your chest. “I might not have looked there again on my own.” 

“Seems a good thing we came over, hm?” Remus asks complacently. 

Your face heats. “Yeah.” 

“One more time, sweetness?” Sirius cocks his ear. “Not sure I heard you there.” 

“Yes,” you say again, fighting a smile. “Thank you for coming.” 

He grins at you, wrestling you into his side. “I don’t ever want to hear you arguing one of my ideas again.” 

“That seems a bit premature—” James starts to say. 

“Nope! Never again.”

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

“if i ever go to azkaban, will you still write to me?” - sirius black

pairing: bit of marauders era!sirius black x reader in the beginning, post azkaban!sirius black x reader mainly.

summary: a dumb joke he made in seventh year. you didn’t think it would become your reality. you wrote him every week anyway. he never replied. now he’s back.

warnings: none that i can think of; slight angst, hurt/comfort, soft ending.

a.n: finally write something after over a month lol had to be post azkaban!sirius.

He had said it like a joke. Of course he had.

The fire had been low that night in the Gryffindor common room, casting honey-colored flickers on his cheekbones, and he’d been bored—lazy-limbed and draped over the arm of the couch like a prince exiled from his own throne. James had been arguing about something, Remus trying to shush him with a book pressed to his chest, and Sirius—he had looked at you. That stupid, sharp-eyed grin crawling across his face.

“If I ever go to Azkaban, will you still write to me?”

You’d scoffed, not bothering to look up from your book. “Only to gloat.”

“Cruel,” he said, dramatically clutching his chest. “Heartless. I bare my soul and this is what I get.”

“You’re not baring anything. You’re being an idiot.”

He had leaned in, just a little. Close enough that you could see the mischievous glint in his grey eyes, the hint of something softer tucked beneath it—something too fragile for a boy like him to admit. “So you’re saying you would write.”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers had gone still on the page. “Don’t flatter yourself, Black.”

“You’re not denying it.”

“Goodnight, Sirius.”

“Goodnight, love.”

It was nothing. A throwaway moment between teenagers who didn’t know anything about war or loss or cages of cold iron and madness.

And yet, you remembered it.

You remembered it the morning the news broke. The headlines burned themselves into your vision:

Twelve Dead. One Man Responsible. Sirius Black Arrested. No Trial.

You remembered it when you held the letter in shaking hands, rereading it as if the words might reorder themselves into something that made sense.

You remembered it as you sat on the floor of your flat, back against the kitchen counter, and wrote your first letter with a hand that wouldn’t stop trembling.

November 2nd, 1981

Dear Sirius,

What the fuck happened?

No signature. No softness. Just raw disbelief.

You didn’t think he’d get it. You hadn’t even known if they let prisoners receive mail in Azkaban. But you sent it anyway.

And then you wrote another. And another.

Every week. Rain or shine. War or no war.

You didn’t stop.

—

By the third year, your letters had changed. Less fury. Less confusion. Just little updates. Things he wouldn’t care about. Things you needed to say.

March 18th, 1984

I saw a dog today. Big. Black. Shaggy fur. I almost thought…

Never mind.

Hope the Dementors don’t get in your head too much this week. Bastards.

You joked sometimes. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you wrote three sentences and tore up four pages before settling on the fifth.

October 31st, 1986

I lit a candle for James and Lily.

Harry looks so much like James. He’s even got the same shitty smirk when he knows he’s being clever. He has Lily’s eyes though.

Still, no response.

The owl came back empty every time. But you kept writing.

You didn’t even know why anymore.

—

Years passed.

You stopped telling people you were doing it. Remus had disappeared after the war. The Order scattered. Nobody really checked on each other anymore. You learned to make your peace with silence.

Until Dumbledore wrote to you. Until the words Sirius Black has escaped Azkaban landed in your lap like a ghost resurrected.

You didn’t know what to think. The Prophet screamed murder, but your hands didn’t shake with fear. They shook with hope.

That hope almost killed you.

And then—one night, long after the world had gone quiet again— him.

Stepping in like death incarnate. Pale. Hollow. Wild-eyed and soaked to the bone, like he’d swum through every nightmare just to knock on your door.

You didn’t speak at first. Just stared at him.

He looked like a man on the edge of disappearing.

“Sirius?”

His throat moved when he swallowed. “Hi.”

Your breath caught, and you crossed the room without thinking. Hands on his face, fingertips tracing the hollows beneath his cheekbones like you were trying to map the years that had stolen him. “You’re real.”

He laughed, soft and dry and a little broken. “Barely.”

And then you pulled him in.

You held him like he might collapse, because he might’ve. You felt the ribs through his shirt, the way his heart pounded beneath thin layers of muscle and fear and grief. He didn’t speak. Didn’t pull away. Just let himself breathe you in like it hurt.

When you finally let go, he looked at you like he was afraid to ask what came next.

“I got your letters,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You stared. “You… what?”

“They didn’t let me keep them. But they let me read them. Once a week. Maybe to mock me. I don’t know. I read every single one.”

You stepped back, blinking hard. “You never replied.”

He shook his head, eyes cast low. “Didn’t know how. Didn’t think I deserved to.”

“Sirius.”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

You laughed, bitter and breathless. “You were rotting in a cell, and you thought you were protecting me?”

He looked up. “I didn’t want you to wait for a dead man.”

Your voice cracked. “I wasn’t waiting. I was remembering.”

The silence between you stretched, full of ghosts.

“I thought about you,” he said, quietly. “All the time. More than anything else. You were… the only thing that didn’t fade.”

You didn’t say anything. Just walked over to the desk and opened a drawer.

He froze.

You pulled out a box. Set it down. Opened it.

Inside: copies of every letter you’d ever sent.

“You kept them.”

You nodded. “I didn’t want to forget what it felt like to believe in something.”

His voice wavered. “You believed in me?”

“I still do.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. You thought he might shatter.

“Tell me I’m not too late,” he whispered.

You stepped forward and placed his hand over your heart.

“Feel that?”

He nodded.

“You never left.”

And that was it. The dam broke.

He kissed you like he’d been starved of warmth for twelve years. Like you were the only thing he remembered how to want. You held him like you’d been waiting a lifetime, because you had.

You’d never meant to wait.

But you had.

And now—finally—he was here.

Not a ghost.

Not a memory.

Real.

Yours.

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

frank has never cared much about his appearance so he’s more than happy to dress himself the way you like it. long beard and hair, clean shaven and buzzed, hair product, different colors, cuts, and styles. whatever you like is what he likes.

if you’re too shy to flat out tell him how you want to see him, he might try some things out to see what you’re interested in. tank tops around the house to show off his muscles, gray sweatpants with nothing underneath, maybe he’d get a bit dressier for date night.

he’d even let you dress him like a ken doll if you wanted. frank believes his purpose is to serve and what’s the point if his looks aren’t appealing to you?

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

✶ WHEN THE STARS REFUSE TO LIE

in which... you try to break up with your fuck budy, sirius black, but he's not ready to let you go just yet.

pairing: sirius black x slytherin f!reader word count: 1.6k content warning: angst ✶ fluff ✶ some cursing, and sirius's irresistible rock star charm

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 time Sirius Black kissed you, it was behind the tapestry of the third-floor corridor. He tasted like rebellion and danger, like the cigarettes he never admitted to smoking behind the Owlery. You were just supposed to be his alibi. A pureblood Slytherin to keep his mother’s mouth shut and her claws from shredding the life he built outside of 12 Grimmauld Place.

But you wore your emerald-green gown like it was armor forged in fire. You looked every bit the darling pureblood, but your smirk had razors tucked in the corners, and your laughter mocked the polished table settings and wine-stained hypocrisy of the Black family name.

You made the room your stage. And Sirius—Sirius couldn’t look away.

He should’ve known.

From that dinner onward, you were a secret. The kind he craved more than firewhiskey and freedom. Behind the pretense of Slytherin-Gryffindor enmity, you two unraveled rules and clothes alike in broom closets and forbidden corridors. You knew how to laugh just loud enough to get away with anything. You didn’t ask for promises. He never offered any.

But you ruined him anyway.

Because you didn’t need him.

And that scared him more than anything.

Now, it’s days after the final Quidditch match of the year. Gryffindor won. Sirius sent you a single line by enchanted parchment: Meet me. Usual place. Celebrate.

But you never came.

Not to the Whomping Willow. Not to the Astronomy Tower. Not to his bed with the charmed silencing spells. You disappeared like mist when the sun rose, and when he checked the Slytherin common room on his map, your dot was gone. 

You vanished. No note. No closure. The kind of silence that says more than shouting ever could. The kind of silence that makes Sirius Black get on his flying motorbike and cross counties to stand outside your window in Wiltshire.

You hear the purr of the engine before you see him.

Then a thud. Window latch. The scent of leather and wind.

He’s inside.

He lands in your room like he owns it—like the world is tilting and he’s the only one immune. His black boots sink into your velvet rug, fingers flexing by his sides, heavy rings glinting with every twitch. His jacket is half-unzipped, revealing a threadbare Muggle band tee, the hem riding up slightly to show a sliver of skin and a sharp hipbone marked with ink.

Sirius looks like sin made tangible. Hair mussed, jaw tight, eyes lined in sleep-deprived defiance.

He looks like trouble. He looks like yours.

And he looks livid.

You’re already standing. You don’t flinch, but your fingers curl into the bedpost behind you.

“Sirius.” you cut a quick glance to your bedroom’s closed door out of the habit of this little secret of yours. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He stalks forward a step. Stops. “You’re avoiding me.”

You lift your chin. “You noticed.”

His nostrils flare. “You didn’t show.”

Your arms cross, slow and deliberate. “You’ve got options. I assumed you wouldn’t be alone long.”

That lands. His jaw ticks. “Bloody hell, you think that’s what this was?”

You shrug, casual cruelty—a perfect Slytherin deflection. “Isn’t it?”

He moves again. This time close enough that your breath catches. “I didn’t sneak around Hogwarts for months, blowing off my friends, just to toss it aside.”

You tilt your head, defiant even when your heart is hammering. “You didn’t exactly make a declaration either.”

“I didn’t think I had to.”

You laugh once. “Right. Because we both knew the rules. No strings. No mess.”

He stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your lies. “I never bloody looked at anyone else.”

You raise an eyebrow, challenging. “Not even that Ravenclaw girl who keeps trailing behind you like a stray? The one Potter keeps pushing on you for stupid double dates?”

He steps in. Too close now. His voice drops. “She’s not you, Trouble.”

Your breath hitches at the adoration with each he mumbles the nickname. He sees it, and it makes him angrier.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say, before he mentions to inch closer.

“Neither did I.”

He reaches up—like he might touch you—but stops, fisting his hand by his side instead. The restraint in him is louder than any outburst.

You take a step back toward your desk, creating space like it’s armor. “You hate everything I represent, remember?”

He follows, slowly. “Yes, I thought I did, yes.”

“Then why are you here?”

You watch Sirius’s hand run through his messy locks, his eyes burning with something between disbelief and frustration. “Because I’m not walking away just ‘cause you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you snap.

“Yes, you sure as hell are.”

Your hands tighten around the edge of the desk. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, Black.”

“Well, I’m not trying ‘cause I know what fear looks like. I see it every time I look in the mirror.” His voice falters, then steels. “But I still showed up, didn’t I?”

You swallow, voice quieter. “You think I want to be some name your mother checks off her list?” 

“You’re not her fucking list! You’re the exception.”

You laugh, bitter and hard. Your locks tingle your cheeks as you shake your head softly. “You’re too good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making girls believe they’re the only one.”

Sirius exhales sharply, then crosses the room so fast you barely register it. His hands land on either side of you, bracing the desk behind you, caging you in. He doesn’t touch you. But you feel his heat. His tension. His goddamn truth.

“I’m not playing a role. Not with you.” he dives in search of your eyes as you refuse to look at him. It takes the tip of his nose to brush yours for him to finally reel you in. “Never with you.”

Your heart aches. But your pride clings.

“I need it to stop,” you grunt.

His throat works around something raw. “No.”

“Sirius—”

He leans in, forehead touching yours. “You think this is easy for me? You think I like that you’re the one person I can’t shut out of my head?”

You close your eyes.

“I hate that you’re the one thing I never meant to want,” he breathes and the warmth of it, lingering on your lips, makes you want to melt onto him. “But here I am, Trouble… Don’t do this to me.”

Your voice breaks as you inhale as much of him as possible. “I just– I can’t do this anymore, Sirius...”

His hands drop, but he doesn’t step back. “Then tell me it didn’t matter. That it meant nothing for you.”

You open your eyes. “Don’t make me lie.”

He looks at you like the war is already lost. But he’s not leaving the battlefield.

His hand comes to your jaw as he stares deeply into your eyes, much like he’s laying down the only weapon he has left. “Then fucking be with me.” His voice is tight, rough. “I don’t get why you’re trying to end this.”

You exhale drily, trying to pry your face out of his hold. Unsuccessfully, your fingers brush instead against your temple like you can wipe the thought away. “Because I don’t want to be a fucking anecdote, for fucks sake. Some story you tell your mates later—about the time you fooled around with the Slytherin girl, the pureblood exception.”

His brow furrows, deeply, painfully. You’re not even looking at him now, eyes flicking to the window like freedom might still be out there. “I’m tired,” you say, softer now. “Of being someone’s secret. Of pretending it doesn’t sting when I see the way they all fawn over you. I can’t do that anymore.”

He stays right there in front of you like an impassive wall. His gaze burning your temple, your cheek, your mouth. “So what—you want a boyfriend, is that it?”

You look at him, jaw tight. “I don’t need the label. But if you’re with me, you’re with me. No secrets. No side comments. No ‘it’s complicated’ when someone asks.”

Sirius blinks. Then he shrugs, all defiance and affection wrapped in a guy trying not to fall apart. “Okay. I’ll be your boyfriend. What else do you need?”

You slap his chest without thinking—open-palmed, not hard, but pointed. He bends back a second before straightening his spine and lets out a surprised chuckle.

“I’m fucking serious about this!” you snap, the words cracking on emotion. “You can’t just be—whatever—about it. I’m not going to be with someone who doesn’t... like me like me.”

Sirius grins now, not smug but almost awestruck. Like he’s never seen you like this. Like he’s never seen anyone like this. “In case you haven’t noticed yet, Trouble,” he murmurs, voice thick with affection, his ringed fingers tangling with your hair, “You’ve been walking me like a dog for months, and I haven’t even complained.”

You freeze.

Then shake your head slowly, lips trembling somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah.” He dives in close again, his other hand coming to brush your cheek. Gentle. Real. “But I’m your idiot. If you’ll let me be.”

For the first time since this started, you let yourself lean into him. To feel the weight of his body, not burning, not to seek a release from it, but tenderly. 

You whisper, eyes like a warning, “If we do this... it really stops being a secret.”

“Good,” he says, voice gravel. “Let it.”

Then his mouth crashes onto yours, and your knees almost buckle if it weren’t for his damn hands anchoring you in place.

© ACHERONSOCIETY, 2025. all rights reserved. do not steal, repost, translate and/or claim these work as your own.

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

Grizzly Bear

Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Just pure sweetness, some swearing because it’s Frank.

Frank Castle was a lot of things. Soldier. Ghost. Walking warpath. And lately?

A damn bear.

The first time you noticed it, he was fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, another one in hand as he ruffled it through his longer-than-usual hair. It was curling at the ends now, thick and dark, dripping onto his shoulders. His beard had grown fuller, too—still neatly shaped, but bordering on wild.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, and something in your brain short-circuited.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said gruffly, not even glancing your way.

“Like what?” you asked innocently, eyes very much not innocent as they roamed his body. “Like you’re a damn lumberjack and I’m about to beg you to chop wood with your bare hands?”

That got his attention. He turned, one brow raised. “You’re weird.”

“And you’re hot,” you countered, completely shameless. “You’re like…a sexy grizzly bear.”

He groaned. Loudly. Dramatically. “Don’t start with that.”

But you did. And you didn’t stop.

You started calling him “Grizzly” when you handed him coffee. You scratched gently at his beard when you were curled up on the couch. You bought him a flannel shirt as a joke and nearly combusted when he actually wore it. He grumbled the whole time, muttered something about “damn woman trying to domesticate me,” but never took it off.

It became a thing.

You’d sneak up behind him while he was working at the table, running your fingers through his hair and whispering, “My big fluffy bear,” until he growled low in his throat—but never told you to stop. He liked it, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

And when you brushed his beard after a long day, sitting between his legs on the floor while he leaned back on the couch with half-lidded eyes? That man was putty.

It all came to a head one random Tuesday night.

You walked into the bathroom and caught him in front of the mirror, electric trimmer in hand.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you gasped like he’d committed a crime.

Frank froze, caught red-handed. “It’s gettin’ too long,” he muttered. “Was just gonna clean it up—”

“Clean it up?” You practically lunged forward, snatching the trimmer from his hand. “No! No way. That beard is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re not allowed to touch it.”

He stared at you, bewildered. “You serious right now?”

“Deadly,” you replied, clutching the trimmer like a weapon. “You do not rob me of the beard. Or the hair. Or the flannel. I need Grizzly Frank in my life.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, chuckling low under his breath. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re lucky I’m insane for you,” you said, tiptoeing up to kiss his jaw—soft and bristly under your lips. “You keep this up, and I’m gonna start making you growl for me.”

That earned a smirk. “Already do, sweetheart.”

You looked at him, touched his cheek gently, and sighed. “You’re beautiful like this. Soft edges. Wild. It suits you. You suit you.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked down at you with that unreadable expression that always made your heart stutter. Then, he wrapped his arms around you, lifting you slightly as he held you to his chest.

“You’re the only one who sees it,” he murmured into your hair.

“I see everything,” you whispered back. “And I love it all.”

So, he kept the hair. Kept the beard. Kept letting you call him “Grizzly Bear” in public, even though it made him blush behind the gruff act.

And every time you curled up beside him, fingers tangled in that dark, soft beard, he’d nuzzle your cheek and murmur—

“Yours.”

[birdstreesandfallenleaves]

wade wilson can be stubborn about a lot of things but in my heart of hearts i just know he's giving up and caving in when it comes to you.

you might not even realize how you've got him wrapped around your finger— especially because he's the type to say "no" and then bitch and complain while actively doing the thing you asked him to.

"sooooo demanding," he groans, grabbing your waterbottle to refill it, "so there's this thing called doing it by yourself—"

"it tastes better this way," you counter, always swearing up and down it was somehow different when he did it.

he snorts. "i'm filling this thing with tap water, just so you know. none of the yummy brita pitcher stuff. you're getting chlorine and lead and you're gonna like it."

he's joking. mainly because you don't have lead pipes in your home and he's actively picking up the pitcher to fill up your water bottle.

whatever keeps you happy. even if it is shit you can do on your own— why should you have to? you have him around now.

+ ooc as FUCKKKKK cuz i literally cant get his character voice down for shit,,, deadpool writers teach me ur ways,,, i read da comicz mainly but goodness he's still hard 2 write,,,