#the drawers I haven't touched in months ^.^;

[firespirited]

undid two yarn reroots I didn't like. Yellow eyeshadow had already been rerooted and patched up - probably too fragile for any more.

Blue eyeshadow used a thick chenille yarn but a 2-minute boil fixed the holes.

Other reroot work before I put it away in a drawer and forget it exists for ages (✿◡‿◡)

-Lagoona pinky pinky: a matte bright near neon pink, needs at least another line as it's translucent. Then to decide on a back colour.

-Teresa trendy and bendy in teal kiwi: a little thin despite the dense rooting pattern. I'm stumped for now.

-Daya in candy apple red nylon and custom dyed gradient pink (taken from a $5 RH Amaya head to harvest the hair and experiment).

[kaikamahine]

.

[spikedfearn]

As if It’s Heaven’s Gate

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.

wc: 8.5k

a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.

warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)

I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!

The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.

The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.

It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.

The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.

A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.

No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.

They were still staring.

A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.

Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”

You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.

A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.

He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.

You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.

Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.

And there it was.

The house.

Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.

The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.

The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.

“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”

You waited for more.

He didn’t offer it.

He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.

The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.

And then…the front door groaned open.

The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.

You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.

You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.

The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.

Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.

Then you saw him.

He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.

Remmick.

And he was…nothing like you expected.

Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—

Broad.

His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.

His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.

You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.

But even so, you felt it.

Something inhuman. Something primordial.

You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.

He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.

His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.

His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.

“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”

There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.

You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.

It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.

“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.

He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.

There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.

You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Haunted.

Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.

“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.

He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”

“How long?” you asked.

He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:

“Too long.”

He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.

The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.

He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.

“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”

You followed him anyway.

The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.

The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.

He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.

“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”

You peered in.

Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”

He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.

He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.

You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.

He hadn’t made a sound.

Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.

He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.

The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.

You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”

He jumped.

Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.

Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”

You stepped forward anyway.

He froze. Again.

“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.

He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

You turned your head, studied him.

“Do you not like to be touched?”

A pause.

He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.

“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”

Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.

You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.

But you did know this:

He was alone.

And he had been alone for a very, very long time.

The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.

Remmick hadn’t moved.

Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.

He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.

“You live here alone?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.

“For how long?”

A beat.

“…Long.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.

You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.

“I reckon they said worse’n that.”

“They said not to let you touch me.”

That made him flinch for real.

A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.

You waited.

And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:

“Why would they say that?”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.

“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”

“Is it not true?”

His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.

“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.

That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

“Then why’d you come?”

You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”

“And you believed ‘em?”

“I believe you now.”

That silenced him.

He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.

“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”

“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”

Another pause.

He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.

“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.

He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:

“…Remmick.”

You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.

Bright. Brief. Burning.

Gone just as fast.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.

“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“Remmick.”

He stilled.

“Thank you.”

His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.

You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.

The dining room was crooked.

The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.

Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.

He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”

You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”

You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.

Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.

You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.

“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.

He hesitated. “Not for that.”

You blinked.

He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”

You let it go. For now.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.

You tried again.

“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”

He nodded. “Since before the war.”

“Which one?”

His lips twitched. “Exactly.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”

Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.

“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”

You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.

“I noticed,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.

“I’m not scared of you,” you added.

He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.

“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

The food sat cooling between you.

You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”

“Conversation. Company.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.

Then, quieter:

“I try not to. But yes.”

You sat with that for a beat.

“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”

He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”

You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.

He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”

He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.

You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”

“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.

You jumped.

Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.

“Old house,” he murmured.

“Right.”

But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.

“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.

His eyes cut to yours.

And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.

“With me?” he said.

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Always.”

The house changed at night.

It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.

You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.

The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.

He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.

He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.

Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.

And then—

You heard it.

Low. Fragile. Muffled.

A sound curling up through the floorboards.

You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.

And again, that sound.

A moan.

Male. Soft. Throaty.

Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.

You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.

The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.

“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”

(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)

The wood under your fingers thrummed.

“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”

(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)

A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.

You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.

The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.

And then—

A moan. Sharp. Broken open.

“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”

(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)

You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.

He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.

Destroyed.

Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.

“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”

(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)

The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.

Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”

But you did.

And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.

As if he'd heard you.

As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.

The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.

And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—

He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.

You didn’t sleep long.

When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.

Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—

No.

Someone had turned it on.

You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.

But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.

Remmick.

Still barefoot.

Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.

He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.

“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He stepped in.

Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.

The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.

His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”

He stiffened.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.

“You were speaking in another language.”

“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.

“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I was.”

You waited.

Then, just above a whisper:

“I was dreamin’ of you.”

The room tilted. Your breath caught.

He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.

“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stood slowly.

He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.

But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”

You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.

He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin this.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.

“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”

The air between you crackled.

And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:

“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”

(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.

Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.

Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.

You reached for him.

He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.

He let you.

Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.

You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.

“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.

His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.

You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.

“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”

His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”

You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.

“I know you will.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.

His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.

“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.

His voice was barely audible.

“Thirteen hundred years.”

You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.

“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re starved.”

He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.

“I’m starvin’.”

You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”

His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:

“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”

(My love…I’m in your hands…)

You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.

And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.

Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.

Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.

You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.

Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.

Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.

His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.

But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.

On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.

You stared.

He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.

“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.

You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.

No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.

You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.

He hissed.

You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.

The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.

A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.

You dragged your lips lower.

Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.

Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.

Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.

More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.

His voice broke apart.

“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”

You looked up at him.

Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”

You reached for his belt.

His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.

The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.

You took your time.

Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin

“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.

And then—finally—you pulled him free.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”

You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.

Just one.

Slow.

Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.

He nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.

Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.

No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.

You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”

His voice came out wrecked, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then your mouth was back on him.

You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.

His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.

You sucked harder.

He broke.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying.

Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.

He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.

He was loud.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.

“Still with me?” you asked.

He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”

He collapsed.

Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.

Boneless.

His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.

Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.

His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.

And still. Still, he tried.

One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.

“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”

You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—

“You don’t get to yet.”

His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.

“You’re gonna learn to wait.”

A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.

Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.

His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.

You smiled.

And whispered, “You were perfect.”

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.

He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:

“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”

You glanced down.

His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”

You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.

“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”

You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:

“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”

Your fingers paused at his temple.

But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”

Another pause.

“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”

He sighed again.

“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.

He let out a low, contented whine.

“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”

His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.

“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.

He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.

“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.

And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.

[dollfacefantasy]

MAKE HIM DO WHAT I SAY ♡

pairing: older bf!!logan howlett x fem!reader

summary: you and logan make a little bet. who can last longer without sex? as much as he wants to deny it, he's starting to think the answer might be you.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, brief daddy kink (one mention)

a/n: a commission for my sweet @sleepyluxe who i love so very much <33 this fic takes place after the events of dofp when things are fixed.

Seven days. One week. A quarter of a month. That's how long it had been since Logan and you had fucked.

It was brutal. Some may say he's being dramatic, but that's because they've never had the luxury of you. They couldn't understand losing a paradise they've never experienced. The past several days he's felt like a man wandering through a barren desert, the oasis in sight but never close enough to drink from. Absolute torture.

Unfortunately, this situation came about because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

You'd been getting some work done late last Sunday evening. Just a few plans for the upcoming school week. Your fingers punched away at your computer while Logan lay on the bed twirling a stray cigar between his fingers.

"How many more pages you got?" he asked, boosting his head up to glance at you.

At the sound of his voice, you spun your chair around to face him. "Not that many. Just finalizing a few details for the field trip they're taking the kids on next weekend," you said.

"You're not even going. Why're they making you do that?"

The fat stick of tobacco continued to glide between his digits. One of your legs crossed over the other as you watched him.

"I'm not going because I offered to do all the planning," you reminded him. 

Your eyes stayed on the tantalizing movements of his fingers.

"You know you can't smoke in here, so don't even think about it," you said.

He rolled his eyes and puffed air through his pursed lips as if that was an outrageous warning. Sitting up, he put the cigar back in the drawer on his side of the bed. He rose to his feet and began to cross the room in your direction.

"Maybe you should give me something else to do with my mouth then," he teased, his voice lowering to the octave that reverberated with want for you.

Then it was your turn to roll your eyes. You turned your chair back toward the desk and continued grazing your fingertips over the raised letters.

It didn't deter him though. He kept on in your direction, stopping only when he was directly behind the backing of your seat.

His hands landed on your shoulders, fingers massaging the tight muscles fanning out from your neck. He leaned forward so his head hovered beside yours. You could hear each breath he took. The smell of that cigar lingered around his form even if he hadn't lit up tonight.

"C'mon, babydoll. You've been working so hard. A little break won't hurt you," he murmured, lips pressing against your cheekbone.

"I have to have these done by tomorrow morning. Just give me a few minutes, and then I'll be done for the night and completely focused on you," you'd rebuffed him gently.

But that didn't satisfy Logan. When he wanted you, he got you. He proceeded with his tender touches and luring pecks. You remained focused on your work though. He figured he should vary his approach.

"Just let me make you feel good then, honey. Give you some extra motivation," he whispered. His dedicated hands drifted to your waist, squeezing in a way that teased the idea of lifting you up and putting you on his lap. As good as it would've felt to be full of him, you knew you had to get this done.

"You're so bad," you said with a smile, head falling back a little as his mouth moved to your neck, "You act like you haven't gotten any in decades."

"Is that your way of telling me you're getting tired of me?" he teased.

"No. I'm just saying you're insatiable. It's getting to the point where I don't think you could live without me," you responded with a tone matching his in arrogance.

His eyebrow raised, and he pulled back a little to laugh. "That so?"

"Mhm," you nodded. Your sweet eyes stared him down, begging him to disagree.

Looking back, he wishes he could travel through time again to slap any further words out of his mouth. He should've just agreed! Should've told you that you were absolutely right. That he can't live without you, can't survive this life if he doesn't get to slip inside of you at the end of each day. He should've waited the fifteen minutes it would've taken you to finish your paperwork and then gotten laid.

But he didn't do any of that. He had to keep going and dig himself into a deeper hole.

"Don't act so innocent, princess. You're just as bad as me," he'd said.

"No way," you'd huffed, smirking with amusement, "I want you a totally normal amount. You want me like every second of the day. If you could, I don't think you'd ever let me do anything. You'd probably keep me chained to the bed, yours for the taking at all times of the day.

"Like you wouldn't love that. I'm not the one pawing at you every morning, whining about how bad I need it," he taunted.

"Oh shut up, that's happened like a couple times. Every day you're right in my ear, feeling me up. You practically drag me away from what I'm doing when you wanna fuck," you fired back, "I am nowhere near as bad as you."

And then he'd spoken the three cursed words that launched him into this predicament.

"You wanna bet?"

You laughed more at that and nodded again. "Sure. Because I know I'll win."

And that unofficial vow of celibacy was why the two of you had been dancing around each other for the past week. He was starting to feel like that old love song counting the amount of time it'd been since he had you beneath him last. Fifteen hours and seven days or however it went.

You didn't make this trying time any easier for him either. That night he went to sleep with blue balls. The next morning, he woke up to you getting ready. You weren't dressed in your usual style of clothing though. Instead, you had on a dress, Logan's favorite dress of yours. You'd styled your hair real pretty too, letting it compliment your features in the best way.

As his heavy lids blinked open to consciousness, he watched you fasten a shimmering necklace over your collarbone. It sat just above the neckline of the chiffon fabric that adorned your bust.

You caught his waking eyes with your own in the reflective glass, turning to look at him with a bright smile. 

Despite his bleary vision, he could hear the light steps of you prancing over to him. The mattress dipped with your weight as you sat down and leaned in to kiss his forehead. Your fingers slid through his dark hair just the way he likes, with your nails scratching his scalp a little. Worst of all, that close, the scent of your perfume became all consuming. It hit him harder than normal. He wasn't sure if he should blame you or himself for predicting the trials of the coming days.

He hummed in acknowledgement of your presence and nuzzled into your palm.

"Hey, sleepyhead," you cooed, your voice extra soft and sweet. It was too caring to be seductive, but of course, that's where his mind went anyways.

"Hey, baby," he'd mumbled.

"I gotta go drop off that paperwork, but I'll see you later. I love you," you whispered in return before laying one more column of kisses from the tip of his nose back to his forehead.

Then you'd left, leaving him half-hard and yearning for you. A pattern that would plague him over the next week.

Each day it was some new form of torture. The day after that, you'd worked extra hard in the danger room, coming back to him at night covered in a light sheen of sweat. Your heady natural scent filled the bedroom in moments.

The following afternoon, you wanted to cuddle when you both had some free time. The fact that you draped your leg over his torso, slotting your clothed cunt right against his hip, inches away from his cock, was pure accident of course.

Over the last few days, your games have become less specific. You peppered your speech with innuendo. Looked at him with your fuck-me eyes and spoke in the tone you always used seconds before he ended up bending you over the nearest surface.

He tried to fight back, he really did. He stopped wearing a shirt in your shared room. Every time he talked to you, he made sure to rub your ass or stroke your cheek. He was so desperate he stooped to embarrassing levels of lovey-dovey when the two of you were alone. But no matter what he tried, it seemed like you'd been right. Of your pair, you had the superior restraint.

With each passing hour, his frustration grew.

Today, it reaches its zenith.

The mansion is empty because it's Sunday. All the students and other teachers are out on the trip to the observatory today. You and Logan are the only remaining residents in the school. He ended up not having to tag along with the rest of the group after volunteering to fix the sprinklers bordering the school's patio. Babysitting kids had never been his forte even with all the practice he gets at it now. Simple handiwork he could do no problem.

The two of you take the morning to sleep in. This was a rare occasion where no early meetings or classes occupied your schedules. You stay tangled up together well past sunrise.

Logan is the first to leave the warmth and comfort of your embrace. He pulls himself from the nest of pillows and blankets, stretching his limbs out as he does. He rubs the tiredness from his features before rising and heading to the wardrobe to pull on some clothes.

In addition to his normal black t-shirt and jeans, he grabs the tool belt on his way out to the lawn. He slings it around his hips before walking through the back door. Heading past the basketball court and rows of hedges, he finds the line of leaking sprinklers besides them. It would probably take him a while given that he had to first identify the source of the problem and then recalibrate all of them with the adjustment.

He sighs but gets to work. At least he'd have a distraction from the desires haunting him.

Crouching in the dewy grass next to the little faucets, he begins examining the hard plastic shells. To his surprise, scanning for breaks does attach his mind to the task and give him a brief reprieve. It's quiet outside. Besides a small chirp from a distant bird or a grunt out of him, no other sounds echo over the open space. The sun shines in the sky, but it's not beating down on him. The air tickles his skin with warmth but not to the point of being miserably humid.

All the conditions meet in the perfect middle to keep him calm. It's the most peace he's had since he agreed to this bet between the two of you.

But all that tranquility is shattered about a half hour later when he hears the patter of footsteps against the stone pathway. From around the tall thicket of green foliage, comes you. Your face breaks out into a smile the second you burst into his vision. He would look the same if not for what you'd decided to wear.

You trot over to him across the grass in a pair of tiny black shorts with lacy frills on the hems. They sway with each of your movements, highlighting the shape of your legs. A gray camisole graces your upper half; a delicate white bow sits at the center of the collar, dead center between your breasts. The fit of the garment displays the contour of your chest just right. He feels like he's gonna start drooling before you make it near.

Despite his reaction, the outfit wasn't that provocative. It wasn't like you'd strutted out in lingerie. But he was so pent up that a flash of your ankle in the proper lighting could probably get him hard.

Bounding up to him, you wrap his body in a tight hug. Every curve of your form presses up against him.

"Look at you, working so hard," you praise playfully with a kiss to his cheek.

He laughs it off, returning the hug in an attempt to be normal, so you wouldn't see how vulnerable he was right now, how this was the perfect opportunity to strike. He couldn't let you know that in this moment, he could easily become the prey.

"Were you missing me already?" he asks, rubbing his free hand up and down your spine.

"Mhm. Woke up and you were gone," you reply. You nuzzle the crook of his neck, planting a few electric kisses on his skin.

"I didn't wanna wake you. You're pretty cute when you're sleeping," he mutters.

"Well now I'm gonna be cute out here with you," you say and pull back. You peck his lips one more time before plopping down in the grass behind him.

He glances back at you to see what that means. All you're doing is sitting there. Your legs extend out in front of you, straightened for his eyes to rake over. You lean back with your palms against the moist greenery below you.

"You don't got anything better to do with your day off?" he asks.

That earns him a small pout. "If you want me to leave, I will. I just wanna spend time with you."

He can tell by your tone that your intentions aren't so innocent. You're leading him into allowing your presence. But denying his girlfriend has never been one of the wolverine's strengths so of course, he acquiesces.

"Relax. I'm not telling you to go anywhere," he says as he turns back to his work, "I just don't think this will be that interesting to you."

"Watching you do anything is interesting to me," you joke back.

He rolls his eyes and gets back to work.

At first, things are smooth as before. He continues messing with the small, bendy pipes. You're quiet behind him. Almost too quiet, but he lets it go for now since he thinks he's found the source of the malfunction.

It doesn't take long to patch up. The more difficult part is going to each individual head and fixing the tightness. His fingers twist the little knobs to the correct settings. He then turns to you when he's finally done.

The sight of you feels like a gust of fresh air filling his lungs. You're laid out where you were before, but you've reclined across the ground. One of your arms is sprawled outwards, soaking up the sunlight while the other lazily covers your eyes. Your shadow outlines your figure against the emerald blades below you.

You look luscious and ripe, like a precious fruit ready to be picked and devoured. In any other circumstance, that's exactly what he'd do. He'd spread you out further for him and take you apart piece by piece. He wanted your nectar running down his chin with each savoring lap of his tongue. He craved the feeling of your heat wrapped around him, your walls massaging his shaft during every punishing thrust.

Imagining it now only gets the blood pumping down South to his hardening length.

He runs a hand over his hair and sighs. Why didn't he do that now? What was the point of this stupid fucking contest? It's not like there was anything on the line. The only stake was his pride, which to be honest, he'd already compromised for you multiple times over the course of your relationship.

Unbuckling the leather from his waist, he discards the tool belt. Next he peels his shirt from his body and tosses it to the side.

He makes his way to you on the grass. He drops to his knees and leans forward. His muscular frame cages you in against the ground. Starting at your navel, he drags his nose up your body. He coasts over the valley between your breasts and past your collar bone. His soft exhales breeze across your throat before he finally reaches your cheek. With a gentle pull, he clears your arm from your face.

Your eyes flutter to adjust to the sunlight beaming down on them again. They take in the vision of him so close to you and the way he gazes down with adoration.

"Hey, pretty girl," he says, his voice much softer than it'd been before, "You falling asleep on me?"

His thumb rubs over your jawline while the other strokes the crown of your head. A smile blooms across your lips. You can't help it with how he's behaving.

"No... well, maybe a little. I think you were right. Sprinklers are pretty boring," you say.

He grins and leans in to kiss your lips. With the exchange he hopes to communicate everything he doesn't want to say. I give up. You win.

You reach up and cup his scruffy cheeks. Your tongue swipes against his lips, sensing his longing for intimacy. He allows you in, and you deepen the connection. A long breath oozes from your nostrils.

He presses you down against the ground further as your hands slide over the little white streaks in his hair. Your fingers embed themselves in his locks. You feel his hands sliding down your body. They stop at your hips and give the plush flesh a squeeze.

It's obvious what he wants, but in case there was any doubt, his digits then hook around the top of your shorts and give them a tug.

A giggle bubbles up out of you against his mouth. You pull back to look at him with smug eyes.

"Is that your way of admitting I was right?" you ask.

He grumbles and ducks his head down to start kissing your neck. "Don't get cocky or I'll change my mind."

That makes you laugh more. You yank on his hair and pull him back up to look at you. 

"No you won't," you tease and brush your noses together. Looking into his eyes again, you can see how bad he wants this. "Just say it."

"Say what?"

"Say you're giving in. And that I win. And that you can't live without me."

He gives you a blank stare. Silently, he contemplates if there's any way around this. He wonders if there's a way he can avoid utter humiliation.

"C'mon, baby. Throw an old dog a bone," he grumbles.

Giggling, you shake your head. "Nuh uh. I wanna hear you say it."

He sighs and rolls over, pulling you on top of him. You straddle his hips with learned ease. Your smile glows from this angle. The sunlight above cascades over your frame and only further accentuates your body in your tight clothes. He rubs his hands up and down your sides. His dick is already at half-mast under the denim that covers his lower body. Your heat rests right on top of it, teasing him through the barriers of cloth. It dangles what he could have if he gives you what you want right before him.

The words that challenged you and created this trap for himself came out so easy. Why couldn't these be the same?

To coax him along, you grind down the slightest bit. The pressure's so light and gentle, a mere graze of your mound on the outline of his growing bulge. He hisses at the feeling.

"Just admit it," you say, planting your palms on his chest, "Just say I was right and you were wrong."

He watches you above him, knowing you're not going to drop this. If he wanted this self-invoked dry spell to end, he'd have to make it happen.

You roll your hips down with more force, impatient to hear him comply with your request. A small whimper leaks out of you. He can tell from that sound alone that you're getting worked up. That arousal is beginning to collect between your thighs.

The thought of it makes his need for you almost biological. His hands clamp around your waist and press you down harder. He rocks his up a little to meet your own movements.

"I need you so bad, princess," he sighs, his eyes shutting as he takes in the dull pleasure of you on top of him.

"Then you can say what I told you," you tease.

"What was it again?" he asks as he continues dragging your covered pussy back and forth along his now fully hard shaft.

"Say you're giving in. That I win. And that you can't live without me," you remind him, visibly proud of your victory.

With a sigh, he repeats, "I'm giving in. You win. I can't live without you."

You smile and laugh as if it was the best thing you'd ever heard. Your head falls back with glee before coming up so you can see his face again.

"Actually, can you say that again? I'm gonna grab my phone. That way I can film it this time. I just wanna have a record-" you continue to tease, but you're cut off by your own squeal when he grabs you and flips you back over onto your back. He keeps you quiet by smashing his lips against yours as your back thuds against the grass.

This kiss burns hotter than the last one. His mouth moves with bruising passion as he pulls your shorts down your legs for real. You help him by kicking them loose. His hands roam around over your smooth skin.

He glances down and finds what he thought he felt. No panties.

Eyes flitting back up to you, he shakes his head. "You were gonna give in anyways," he accuses.

"Yeah, but you gave in first," you giggle.

A small growl rumbles in his chest, but he still leans in to pull your tank top up. He brings it across your stomach, letting your breasts fall free as he bunches the material above them. He cups the plump flesh, taking a look at the beauty he holds in his palms. You watch him in the fleeting interval in which you're forced to separate.

"So... since I win, what do I get?" you continue to gloat.

"My dick inside you," he answers as his fingers yank his zipper open and shove down his pants in a similar fashion to your shorts.

"But I'm gonna get that anyways. I think I should get a real prize," you say, aiming to stoke the flames higher.

Your hips get hauled closer across the grass, so fast that you're in danger of having green smeared across your skin.

"I don't think you'll be complaining in a few minutes, ya little brat," he mumbles.

His fist pumps over his cock as he lines it up between your legs. The leaky tip smears some precum over your folds before he slides inside. He groans as he sinks in, cherishing the feeling after the week of its absence.

You're quick to adjust to the stretch. With a sharp breath, your back arches off the grass. He had already snapped back and slammed in again. You knew he wouldn't be patient after being deprived of this. Watching him above you, your eyes study how his chest puffs in and out with harsh breaths. His strong arms extend down on either side of your head, his fists holding clumps of grass between them. 

It's a gorgeous view, but you know it can't beat the feeling.

"Closer..." you whine and grab at his shoulders, pulling him down so he's right on you and smothering your body against the turf, "Missed you, old man."

"How many times have I told you to quit it with that?" he asks as his pelvis begins setting a rhythm.

"Enough to know that I'm never gonna," you say. It's the last thing you can get out before moans shatter your plans to speak.

His warm flesh pounds against yours over and over. Your body rocks with the bounce of him on top of you. It feels so good. The world feels bright again, like you'd transitioned from an existence of black and white to living in color. It was so open out here but also so empty. Like you and him were the only two people on earth.

Your voice tapers off. Words become second to whimpers of pleasure. His hands grope the swell of your ass before returning to your sides for steady leverage.

"We'll have to work on that then," he grunts, "If you're not gonna stop, I'll just have to make sure you can't speak at all."

You preen at the idea, clutching at his muscular shoulders and back. He pants right next to your ear. Each stroke drives deep into you, brushing a spot that had ached for him to touch it again.

"Never wanna go that long again," you babble around whines.

"Me neither, baby. Think you were right. Not being able to feel this pretty little pussy every day almost killed me," he says.

A rush of euphoria flows through you upon hearing that. Your moans become more breathy, more full of need for him. You grab one of his wrists and tug his hand off your hip, pushing it in between your legs.

He knows what you want. His fingers apply some pressure and rub at your swollen bundle of nerves. Immediately, he's rewarded with a whine out of you and a buck from your hips.

"Impatient," he huffs between a set of deep thrusts.

"I won," you retort, "I get to do what I want."

Even in the heat of the moment, he chuckles at your petulant tone. His hips keep rutting against you on the grass. He's sure his next task of yard-work will be covering the mysterious indents in the soil out here.

"I needa cum, Logan," you whine several seconds later, "So close."

"Yeah? You need it, sweetheart? Need to let it out after keeping it from me for so long?"

Your head bobs up and down in an enthusiastic nod. "Please, please, please."

"Well, it's like you said. You won. So I think you can finish when you're ready."

"Mmmm- o- ok..." you whimper out.

Your hips roll up and down to reciprocate the fast pace of his own. He's battering right up against that special spot inside you that makes your mind blank and your eyes gloss up.

With a handful of whimpers, you cum. Your face scrunches as your cunt tightens around him. His fingers keep up the same rhythm on your clit, swirling around the little bud through your pleasure high.

"That's my girl," he praises, "Let it all out for daddy."

Your body seizes up at that command. Every cell of your being somehow knows to obey. You stumble over words and let them leave your lips half formed.

He keeps driving into you as you're coming down, chasing his own release. You're well into the territory of overstimulation now, all parts of you fizzling like a lit sparkler.  Your thighs quiver against his sides violently. They lock around his waist when you finally feel him slam in and drain himself.

A loud groan erupts from him. He makes no effort to restrain it given that only the two of you are here to hear it. He fucks it into you, ricocheting himself against your center a couple more times and letting every last drop pour into your dripping hole.

When he feels sated, at least for the moment, he reluctantly pulls out. He takes a couple deep breaths as he watches a bit of his cum ooze out of you. It didn't matter though. That wouldn't be the last load you took today.

His body topples over next to yours on the natural ground. You both lie there for a few moments catching your breath before you roll onto your side to look at him.

You just stare for a few moments. Your eyes roam along the shape of his face to the slope of his jaw and the curve of his chest. Leaning in, you kiss the space below his ear.

He responds to the touch by curling his arm around your waist and pulling you to his side.

His head turns to meet your loving gaze.

"I think we have some more time to make up for," he says.

You respond with an eager nod and hop up to your feet. Both of you pull on the basics of the clothes you'd been wearing before and rush back into the mansion, giggling as you stumble through the halls like a couple of lovesick teenagers.

The door to your room stays shut for the rest of the day. You spend the remaining hours you have enmeshed in each other; intertwined with him enough to recover from the lack you'd put yourself through.

Logan doesn't venture beyond the barrier of your shared sanctuary until the sun has gone down and darkness coats the halls of the mansion.  He walks quietly, taking his steps carefully to ensure none of the wooden planks beneath him creak.

All he had to do was go downstairs and grab you some water. In and out. Five minutes. But as he rounds the turn into the room, Scott's already there, looking through the fridge. He freezes and stands there awkwardly in his black tank top and loose sweatpants.

Having heard the sounds of his footsteps, the other man glances over at him. 

"There you are. Didn't see you around when I got back," he says simply.

Logan shrugs, trying to play it casual. He walks across the room toward the cupboard that holds the glasses. The other man's eyes follow him. He can feel that even through the scarlet shades on his face.

"Haven't seen your other half either," Scott continues.

Logan can tell from the tone of his voice where this is going. 

"Don't call her that," he scoffs, forever downplaying his attachment to you, "She's tired. She's upstairs sleeping."

"On her day off? I wonder what would have her so drained," Scott replies. His tone is flat in contrast to the little smirk on his face.

"Don't start," Logan says. He goes to the fridge to fill your cup with water. The trickle of the fluid is the only sound in the room until Scott keeps going.

"I didn't say anything," he says, raising his hands in surrender, "Only that this is the best mood you've been in all week."

"A couple hours without you around does wonders for me," Logan grumbles, wishing the liquid would pour a little faster.

"I'm sure. A couple hours with no one else around. Just the two of you after you've both been stiff the whole week," he taunts, "It's ok to admit you're whipped."

Finally, the cup is full. Logan takes it and turns away, holding one finger up as he walks from the kitchen.

"See you tomorrow, Scott."

"Yeah. Tell her if she's feeling sore, she can skip the early meeting," he says with a little laugh.

[pimpnchips]

Needed Me 2

Part 2

Natasha x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, slight smut, blow!job, slightly mean!

nat.

Summary: heated arguments with Natasha

Authors Note: I’m sorry it took me so fucking long to finish this, I'm okay! but I had major writers block and I wanted to make it good for you guys. I also wanted to put the daughter in here more.

Lena swung her head in your direction, "Mommy I want this one," she whined. The rack of stuffed animals sat on display as your daughter complained about how much she wanted the pink bunny.

"No baby, you remember what mama said."

Last night, Natasha talked to lena about behaving properly. Now that she's getting older you can't keep babying her and supplying all her wants after a tantrum or fit.

So Natasha decided on no extra things outside of the store list for a month so she can learn that you won't be able to get everything she asks for even if she decides on throwing a fit.

"Lena, no means no," scowls natasha. Carrying Mateo in his car seat with her left hand, "Pick her up detka — let's go."

You couldn't help but bite your lip at Natasha's authority

Seeing her do what she does best turned you on in so many ways you couldn't explain. You couldn't stay upset with her no matter how hard you 'tried'.

Heading to your shared bedroom last night, Natasha had a way with her words, instead of hate sex you made love.

You missed her warmth and her touch but there's nothing you miss more than how sexy she looked taking care of her family.

Yes, your wife is a lot of things but you know how deeply she cares for the three of you and if you didn't.. you wouldn't have taken her back.

-

You sighed in frustration, "I'm not trying to upset you baby"

"I never said you did," she muttered, gathering the clothes and putting them into the drawer across from you.

Which was a lie, you knew she was upset because you disagreed with her thoughts of not putting lena into school right now.

You brushed your fingers through her red hair trying your best to comfort her, "I understand there's a risk baby but I want her to have a normal child hood"

Natasha chuckles in disbelief,

"You understand nothing."

You scoff, "Natasha? She's my kid too so what don't I understand?" You started walking across the other side of the room away from her.

"Please, humor me." You sat down in the chair next to the open window, your hands slapping your knee as you sat down.

A blank stare on her face caused you to raise an eyebrow, bouncing your leg impatiently waiting for an answer.

It wasn't surprising that you and Natasha got into an argument today, it was always bound to happen. Sooner or later.

"You do shit like this all the time," she mumbles under her breath, trying to make it hard for you to hear.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Natasha?"

Your wife clutches the shirt in hand, more frustration clouding her eyes as she stares at you. She clearly didn't have an explanation, only acting on impulse.

"Am I the one who forged our divorce? If anybody does stupid shit it's you not me." You protest, rubbing your fingers on your temple.

But there's something about crawling under Natasha's skin that pumps you up. Toying with her is what got you here, having two of her kids and married to her for seven years.

She ignores your directed comment, "There's too many risks."

"She's not attending school and that's final," Natasha grumbled, her head was filled with your nagging comments.

"Nat -" you tried to reason with her.

"Don't" She growls, snapping her eyes up at you.

Your mouth clicks shut, "Sorry," you mumble. She knows how well you respond when she gets pissed off.

Sometimes you can't believe the effect Natasha has on you.

She knows your weaknesses and has no problem showing her mastery over you. Something you craved over the past few months, something a certain someone couldn't give you.

You haven't told Natasha, you figured if she ever found out a another woman came around the house, she'll probably kill the girl.

She's too possessive of you to share you with anyone else. It'll tear her ego down, make her seem like she doesn't have control anymore.

—

"What do you know about banana bread, bunny?" Natasha laughs, hearing your daughter talk about how much she loved the taste of the dessert at the dinner table.

Lena giggles with a wide smile, "Miss Maximoff always makes some for me and mommy" she grins, picking up her last nugget eating it innocently.

Fear was written across your faces as you avoided contact with your wife. Natasha furrows her eyebrows at you, mouthing something you couldn't quite pick up on.

You stood up, "Let's put you to bed baby."

Natasha stared daggers at you, continuing to watch you walk away but you tried your best to not turn around.

The anticipation of waiting for you to get back sent nat over the edge causing her to throw everything off her desk.

"Fuck!" she screamed.

You heard nat scream through the door as your hand hovered over the door nob. You took a short breath to get yourself together before entering.

The door shut behind you, Natasha turned around instantly averting all of her attention to you.

"Natasha"

Before you could finish your sentence, she already had her hand wrapped around your neck causing you to inhale shakily, "Please baby."

Your wife clenched her jaw, staring into your eyes making you feel small under her grasp.

"Did she fuck you?" For a moment you saw her eyes darken, her hands starting to grip tighter forcing you to answer her question with a quivering voice, "No"

She released her hand, slamming it on the wall beside you, "Don't fucking lie to me!"

Your eyes welled up with tears and your body shook at the sudden movement she made. You and Wanda didn't have anything special she was nice but she was too nice for you.

You needed something stronger, you wanted Natasha hence why you never went further than a kiss on the cheek. But in this moment something clicked in you.

You needed her.

You looked up at the red head, moving down onto your knees. You wanted Natasha to know that you were hers and no one else's.

"Get up," she gritted.

Ignoring her statement you unbuttoned her pants pulling it lower until her underwear came off. Her dick sprung free ready to be sucked by you.

After a long pause, she moved forward grabbing your head forcing her cock into your mouth. Your tongue sliding along her length as you bobbed your head up and down. She groaned, holding onto the wall, "She could never fill you up like this" she said between pants.

You locked eyes with your wife who was watching you with pure lust in her gaze. Natasha cleared her throat, cock twitching from her own thoughts.

"You don't deserve my cock, detka."

She smiles at the whimpers that escaped you. Her hips started to move and you moaned.

"You shouldn't be sucking dick like a slutty little whore"

Tearing your gaze away from the cock, which was dripping with pre cum, you stared straight into her piercing orbs.

"We didn't have sex, Natty." You whispered, voice mildly hoarse already.

Natasha's face was flushed, cock weeping precum still.

She hadn't realized how close she was to coming until you stopped. "I know.you wouldn't do that to me," was all she uttered as you moved to take her again.

Natasha groaned, every word dying on her lips as your mouth was back on her cock. "Oh...just like that detka... fuck your mouth takes me so well..." You glanced upwards, watching her throat bob as she tilted her head completely back. A low, husky moan left her lips as you swallowed.

The sound of your daughter's voice from down the hall made you pull back. Saliva and cum dripping down your face as Natasha groaned at the sight, painting your face with her milk-white cum.

She forced your mouth open with her hand, releasing the rest of her cum into your mouth. Seeing you drop to your knees for her and pleasing her needs without asking made her proud. It made her thirst for you more.

You quickly got off your knees in a hurry, rolling your eyes at your crazed wife for making a mess of your face while trying to get up.

"Put your dick in your pants before your daughter comes in here" you whispered by her ear, a demanding tone that surprised natasha.

Quickly walking to the bathroom to clean your face, the sound of your daughter's voice getting closer to the room startled Natasha as she buckled up her pants.

"Mama, where's mommy? I can't sleep" Her hair was all over her head, fingers rubbing her tired eyes.

You shouted from the bathroom, "Mommy's coming baby!"

You threw your face towel down, walking out of the bathroom being met with Natasha sitting on the bed with the little girl tracing her tattoos, her head on her mama's chest.

Lena looked up with a smile making your heartmelt at the sight. "Why was mama screaming earlier?" She questioned, tilting her head.

Natasha bursted into laughter, you quickly sent her a pointed look causing her to quiet down. You sighed at your daughters question, "Nothing love, I was helping her with something"

Lena was even more confused than before, it was written all over her face but she shrugged her shoulders letting it go.

Nat smiled at her confusions, leaning down to kiss the temple of her head.

You smiled at the interaction it made you realize no matter the fights or arguments you and Natasha will have she'll forever be here to love you and the kids.

And you'll always love Natasha.

Even if that meant you needed her more than she needed you.

Needed Me

Tags:

@starfire1008@viosblog112@dvrkhcld@ciao00000111 @ddreader04@twentyonetornmyheart @pancakefan7529@widowstingsposts @rosea-reginae @coxlong

[the-marshals-wife]

Refuge (Sierra Six x Reader)

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝐑𝐘𝐀𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

A/N: It's official: I'm obsessed with The Gray Man. I've watched it 3 times so far in under 2 months, and I really wanted to write something sweet for my current favorite Goose character.

Description: Sierra Six/Courtland Gentry x Fem!Reader, established (secret) relationship; flirty, steamy fluff + angst if you squint | Warnings: suggestive themes, kissing, alcohol | Setting: post-movie | Word count: 1,746

Gif credit: user magnusedom

Imagine Six returning to you, his best kept secret, and asking you to come away with him

There was only one thing in the world that could make you open the front door of your apartment after midnight. The instant you recognize the familiar, distinct sequence of knocking, you shoot upright from your slumber and scramble off of the sofa, the book on your chest flying across the floor from where you had dozed off. Having almost tripped on the rug, you release the dead bolt and frantically fumble with the chain lock. Heart pounding, you slide it loose and jerk open the door.

Waiting on the other side like an apparition was a smiling face you weren't sure you'd ever lay eyes on again.

"Sorry for the late hour, ma'am. Could I trouble you for a cup of sugar?"

"Court!"

You couldn't help it. His name, the name only you could use, escapes your lips like a cry.

"May I come in?" he gestures.

You grab his arm and usher him inside.

"Where have you been?" you asked in a hushed voice, looking over him.

"Here, there, everywhere," he answers, leaning back against the closed door. "Spent a little time in nowhere too."

"I've been so worried about you! I haven't heard from you in months. I know that's the job, but it's been so long without a sign or anything. I was afraid something happened to you. I didn't know what to think," you say all at once.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'll explain everything, I promise. Just, let me look at you first," he says, gazing on you softly, "Wow. How is that possible?"

"What?"

"How are you more beautiful than the last time I saw you?"

You feel your cheeks turn red, but it doesn't keep you from pointing a finger to his chest.

"If you think being a smoothie is going to get you out an explanation, think again, buster."

He wraps his arms around your waist.

"Fair enough," he nods, "It's still true though. You're even prettier when you're angry."

"I must be stunning then," you smirk.

He brings his hand up to lift your chin, leaning in close, "Incredibly."

The waning space between you vanishes as he captures your lips. You lean into his touch, savoring every sensation you'd missed so much. From the warm, smokiness of his scent to the gentle scratch of his beard on your skin. When he finally pulls away, you're nearly breathless.

"Why don't you make yourself at home, stranger?" you propose, composing yourself, "You want a drink?"

"I wouldn't say no to a beer," he replies.

"Coming right up," you say, turning towards the kitchen, "They feed you in 'nowhere'? I got half of a leftover sub here, and some really leftover pizza I can nuke in the microwave."

"Tempting, but I'm good for now, thanks. Just the beer," you hear him say as you grab two bottles from the fridge.

"Good call, honestly. We can just order take out or something."

He doesn't respond, and it immediately catches your attention. You grab the bottle opener from the drawer and make quick work of the caps. With a faraway look in his eye, he stands on the other side of the modest island that separates the kitchen area from the living area. You extend the bottle towards him, and even when he takes it from your grasp, he's barely shaken from his silent reverie.

Too worried to imbibe, you set your own drink down on the counter. "Court, what's wrong? I can tell something is bothering you."

He takes a drink, which is followed by a long pause.

"Do you remember Fitzroy's niece, Claire?"

You nod. "Of course. Is she alright?"

"She is now," he sighs, setting his jaw, "Fitzroy is gone."

"What?" you say, rounding the island to be at his side.

"It's a long story, but some bad people got ahold of Claire to get to him, because of something that I did. We took care of it in the end, but...he didn't make it."

He takes another hefty drink and puts down the bottle.

"Court, I'm so sorry," you say, touching his arm, "I know how much he meant to you."

He turns to face you. "He did. Now Claire has no one, except me. And that's what I came here to talk to you about."

Your pulse quickens at the seriousness in his voice.

"Her and I have been on the run the past couple weeks. Staying ahead of Carmichael and his goon squad."

"Wait, you escaped the agency?" you ask, shocked.

"Didn't have a choice after they tried to use her as leverage to get me to keep doing their dirty work. I got her out, which means I'm out too, for good," he confirms solemnly, "I've found a place for us where we might actually have a shot at a normal-ish life."

You stare at him wide-eyed.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying...I'm all she has left. She needs me. And I need you," he says, gently rubbing your upper arms, "Before, I couldn't give you the life you deserved. But this could be my second chance. I think I might have finally gotten to the top of the hill, and I want you there with me."

"Oh Court, I don't know..." you hesitate, mind reeling, "I don't know anything about raising a kid."

He grins. "Neither do I. We can figure it out together. I mean there's gotta be a manual or something, right?"

You can't help but snort at the idea. Just as more protests are forming on your tongue, he gives you a look so disarming that you forget the words entirely.

"Come away with me, Y/N."

He takes your hand in his.

"It won't be easy, and it definitely won't be perfect. I know I've got no right to ask you to leave everything behind. But I've loved you from the very beginning, and I will protect you with everything I have."

His vow brings tears to your eyes. He laid his heart bare, and in doing so, he'd banished the last of your meager doubts.

"Well, when you put it that way," you say.

You grab the collar of his jacket in your fists and pull him into a kiss. He hums in pleasant surprise and laces his fingers through your hair. After another heated moment of rediscovery, you at last loosen your grip and surface from the embrace.

"Is that a yes?" he chuckles.

"It is," you answer, your smile becoming nervous as your thoughts turn to the future, "Do you think Claire will like me?"

"Oh, don't worry, she's going to love you," he smirks, letting you go and walking over to the window. "Honestly, I'm not sure I'm going to survive you two. This was probably a bad idea."

"Now I really I can't wait to meet her," you tease.

Your amusement fades, however, as you watch him part the curtain and cautiously peer up at the surrounding rooftops.

Dread stirs in the pit of your stomach.

"How much time do we have?" you ask.

"We should probably get you packed up," he says over his shoulder.

"Really? I thought we'd at least have tonight. Are you being followed right now?"

"Not yet. No one knows about this place. But the longer I'm here, the greater the possibility that changes," he frowns, "I need to get back to Claire. I took a risk coming here. She can't be alone for long."

You mind begins to race as your gaze darts around your apartment and belongings. The framed pictures scattered across the walls of old friends and family you hardly see suddenly meant more than anything tucked away in the safe beneath your bed. But could you even take them? Would having any ties to your old life be too dangerous?

Old life. The thought makes your head spin.

"This is happening so fast," you say as you rub your temples, "I never thought I'd just leave everything. I don't even know what to take with me."

"Hey," he says, stepping back over to you, "It's alright. Listen, I know I got caught up in pouring out my dumb old heart a minute ago, but you don't have to do this, Y/N. If you want to stay, I understand."

"No, I'm coming with you," you deny, "I want to be with you, no matter where we have to go. I've never wanted anything more. You have made it to the top, Court, and I wouldn't miss the view for anything."

All this time, you had been the only refuge in the world for "Sierra Six". Now, more than ever, he was becoming yours.

He kisses your forehead softly and smiles down on you.

"How about we just start small, and go from there. Baby steps. Like, maybe a suitcase?" he suggests.

"Sounds good," you agree, "Guess I don't need to pack the kitchen sink for wherever we're going?"

He snickers, "No, we have one of those. Got one in the bathroom too. We even have a toilet."

"I wasn't expecting such luxury," you smirk.

"I mean you have to hold the handle down a little to get it to flush, but other than that," he quips.

"Well, I suppose I'll survive," you say in mock exasperation.

"We do have a TV, so that kinda makes up for it. Plus, I got queen bed all to myself. I might could be persuaded into sharing, though."

You cross your arms, eyeing his suggestive look.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, but you'll have to sleep on top of the covers. I don't wanna get your girl germs on my sheets."

"Courtland Gentry," you grunt, smacking his arm.

You take off down the hall to your room, and he follows after you laughing.

"What? What'd I say?" he asks, knowing full well.

"Why don't I just sleep on the floor?" you pose.

You bolt over to your dresser and start rummaging through your clothes, keeping your back to him.

"Okay, you're right. That was unfair of me," he concedes.

Biting your lip, you spin around with your eyebrows raised.

He stands in the doorway, pulling a stick of gum from his pocket and unwrapping it, "You can get under the comforter."

You throw a shirt at him, shaking your head.

"Shut up and help me pack."

He pops the gum in his mouth and smiles.

"Yes ma'am."

[cherrypickinns]

what's in a name?

a last late night conversation, where you confront lauren and start questioning if that's even her real name.

emily prentiss x reader words: 1.8k genre: angst cw: set in when emily was undercover as lauren, reader's role isn't mentioned, feel free to assume. lyric prompt: I will not ask you where you came from, I will not ask and neither should you. honey just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.

a/n: my submission for my beloved @mggslover 's event, lovers1kevent, again congratulations lovely. tried something different so im terrified. ill just hide out after i post don't hmu kekfjrlfk. idk if the stove and fire thingy worked out as I wanted but oh well.

Nightfall fell like a blanket around the cold winter, three steps into the kitchen with just a lamp on. Dim lights remind you of the same moment just a few months ago, hurried hands roaming through kitchen drawers, hoping for just one clue. 

You take a knife, an untoasted piece of bread laid out on a plate, not much patience to turn on the stove so you spread out jam over it. Cold to touch, just like she was before the calamity. 

The thought was scary, not very surprising, but you had your suspicions. You only hoped for them to not be true. 

A clutter shakes you awake, looking around for any intruder or perhaps Declan, maybe he had a nightmare. The sound was brief as if the intruder had only realised the sound they made but you had heard it. 

Slow and tentative footsteps, careful to never make a sound, you try to decipher the direction of the sound. It's hard, now that it's so quiet. 

But then you hear it again, the scraping of a drawer. So you take the knife left on the kitchen counter, yielded in front of you as a warning. 

Just three more steps till you find out who's here but something stops you. You only see a glance of it, but it's all too recognisable. It's her. 

Her expressions are calm but her hands tell a different story. She doesn't dare look up, her eyes glued to the file she's holding open, determined to look at every word on the paper. 

“She must have stayed over,” You think as you see Lauren hurriedly turning over pages. 

Her looking through anything in the house isn't that much strange to you, but it's the middle of the night and her breath quickens at every second that passes. You know there is nothing normal about this. 

But you rest your weapon anyway, making sure to make a sound so she can hear you coming. And as you anticipated, her body reacted instantly, the file being closed and hidden, her hands busying themselves with the water bottle on the table. 

You slowly walk in, suspicion clouding your face. You don't know yet, but she can tell. She can pick out everything you want to say just by seeing your face, but you don't know that, yet.

“Hi.” You say,

“Hey,” she chuckles, “I was just making a sandwich, do you want one?” she asks, a smile betraying her narrow escape, and perhaps even the objective of her arrival, but she doesn't know that yet.

The red color of the jam stares back at you in fluorescent lighting, eyes strained from being open for too long. 

You're not even hungry anymore.

You can sense her now, a presence too heavy to ignore. You haven't looked up in a few minutes but you could feel her staring at you, brown eyes too enticing to ever look into. 

“You should eat,” she says. 

Your eyes close heedlessly, a sharp stab of pain you desperately hoped you never felt, but it was common nature now. You look up and force a smile, not caring much to make it look natural, she can always tell anyway. Another thing that haunts you most days. 

It's very hard to hide from her, but you can never find her, always looking at a distance, never too close or too far.

You’ve told her it's unfair, she only laughs. Cruel.

“I’m not hungry anymore.” 

She smiles, amused, endeared. Cruel.

“So you were sleep cooking?”

You're grateful she can't see you smiling, you don't want to give her the satisfaction. So, so cruel of you. 

“Don't make me laugh.”

“Is that a crime now?”

The garden was more beautiful to you at night, the smell of jasmine was much more prominent but you had to stay away, if you got too close it made you dizzy. 

You hear a sound, but instead of panic a warmth causes goosebumps all over your body. 

You know how you can tell someone's footsteps apart? 

Hers are unmistakable to you, you're positive you can tell her breathing apart from a crowd of thousands. But that's not appropriate to say out loud.

You learned that pretty quick, nothing was to be said out loud, it made it too real. You can't really tell why she comes every time you call, or why you oblige to her insistences, but you do anyway. Why would she kiss you senseless then laugh and tease, why would she let you roll your eyes at her? Why was it fine by you to sleep next to her when no one was home, why did you let everything happen even if it killed you, little by little? 

You’d asked her once, her fingers tracing meaningless patterns on your face, running a line up and down your nose. 

“Memory of a goldfish. Do you know how long that is?” She asks.

“A few seconds.” You answer.

“You think we can be goldfish?”

You laugh, it's music to her ears.

“Strange way of foreplay, but sure.”

She laughs, it's music to your ears.

“Schadenfreude,” You say as you assemble another piece of bread with the jam covering only one side of it.

You turn on the stove, I don't want to eat it cold justifying your actions but you know it's not accurate. Excuses, excuses.

It's because she's talking to you, and a sick need to hear it again and again and again until it grates your ears but that moment never comes. Somehow you're always looking for reasons to extend the time, finding excuses to turn on the stove. 

“Taking pleasure in other's misfortune.” She explains and you roll your eyes, of course she knows.

“Mhm. Good job.” You bite into a separate piece of bread as you wait for the pan to warm.

“Why is that relevant right now?”

“You're a classic example.”

Her eyebrows crinkle in offense and you want to laugh but it only pesters your heart, a rope tightening around your neck. 

“I don't take pleasure in anybody's pain,” She clutches her heart, mock pain, and it's a joke for her, but it's three in the morning. And you're tired. 

“You take pleasure in my pain,” an emphasis on the word ‘my’. 

Her eyes turn knowing, pitiful and sorry and you hate it. You hate that she has the upper hand, that she can tell you're a desperate, pathetic mess. 

“I don't take pleasure in your pain, honey-”

“Don't you fucking honey me.”

You think you can hear your heart beating, you can feel it in your neck, as if it will jump out any minute. The light sound of the clock ticking fills the silence. The pan is too warm now, so you turn down the heat. You don't want to burn your sandwich. 

She knows not to push, it's a known routine now. It stays silent until you take another piece of bread when she speaks again, just like clockwork, memory of a goldfish.

“Why did you turn on the stove if you were just going to eat them like this anyway?”

“I have free will, go away.”

“Just warm them you already have the stove-”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Okay, what's going on? Why are you being so dismissive?”

“Because I can-”

“Y/n.”

You only look at her, it's too hard to string together sentences anymore. This is one of the few select times you're grateful she can read you like a book. She knows what this is about. 

“What's your name, Lauren?”

It's only the second time you've asked that question. The first time the consequences felt too real. Her eyes hold betrayal, anger and every other thing you can think of. 

She should have been confused, dumbfounded when you asked her the first, she should have brushed you off. But she was angry, the biggest mistake on her part.

“What are you asking me??”

“Your name isn't Lauren.”

“How would you know?” 

“Because you don't answer me when I call you Lauren, it's someone else. It's not the same person who responds when I call her honey, sweetheart, angel, just anything else.”

It felt like a dare, who could win the argument, who would say the harshest words, ask the hardest questions.

“You promised not to ask.” It's an accusation.

“You won't tell me your name Lauren.”

“I can't.”

Your head hangs low as you take deep breaths. Fire burns underneath the pan, small and timid like it's tired. You put the sandwich on the stove, not keen on asking anymore questions, they never get answered anyway. 

You don't notice her get up, or walk towards you. You were hoping she'd just disappear, like none of this ever happened. But her hands cup your face and force you to look up. You keep your eyes closed, too afraid you'll recognise the look on her face. 

The same one she adorned when she was looking for answers, begging you to not ask anymore. 

But you're tired.

“You don't have any secrets? What is this then?” She gestures between the two of you, and a shadow falls over your face. It's unkind of her to ask this, it's not a fair question. She knows that, but she asks anyway.

“Are you kidding me? Are you seriously saying that? You?”

“We all have our secrets. You have yours, I have mine.”

A ringing alarm sound breaks your memory. Her hands leave you, hurrying to turn off the sound, to not wake anyone up. 

She flips the sandwich over, and the other side is burnt, too dark. 

“I don't feel real,” You say. It's a quiet admission, only meant for her. You're not even sure if you yourself want to listen to it.

“You're not real, Lauren. Neither of us are.”

You take the sandwich off the pan, soothing your fingers after the hot surface touches your fingertips. 

You look at her and she looks puzzled, it's adorable. The inexplicable urge to kiss her pesters you again, you had vowed not to do it, but she's too close for you to not to, so you reach her lips anyway, just for a second. But she keeps you in place, just a few more minutes, a phrase you've heard too often when sunlight starts peeking through windows. 

You turn the stove off as she lets you go, you take her silence as an apology. You don't think you could take anymore reasonings and explanations. 

...

The everyday noise of the mornings shakes you awake, you can't even tell when you fell asleep. It's only eight am, you've definitely not gotten enough sleep, but you force yourself off the bed.

The housekeeper is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with the same knife you held last night.

You can't really tell if it was real or a dream, if you imagined a horrible goodbye or if that was it. 

But you hear Lauren giggling in the living room, and you hear Declan’s laugh accompanying hers. 

The dream was real, you know now but you don't try very hard to convince yourself that it was real. It's better off as a dream, you think.

As you look at the scene in front of. you, you think of the same sentence you've thought every morning for the past few months, Memory of a goldfish.

[moosegirl96]

Clearblue - Matt Sturniolo x Pregnant!Reader

Summary: After weeks of feeling absolutely terrible, you decided to take a pregnancy test.

Warnings: pregnancy, crying, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything!

----

It's been about a week and my symptoms haven't gotten any better. So I finally decided to pull out that pregnancy test I bought at CVS the other day. I shoved it in my bedside drawer and went to sleep, dreading waking up the next morning.

--

I opened my eyes and winced at the sun blinding me through the curtains. I turned to my left to check for the time, 8:42 a.m. then I turned to my right to look at Matt. He was laying on his stomach, sprawled out across the bed. He was shirtless, but the blankets were pulled all the way over onto him. There was some drool dribbling out of his slightly parted lips and he was quietly snoring. I smiled at the peaceful sight before sitting up carefully and tiptoeing out of bed and into the bathroom.

I took a shaky breath as I ripped open the box containing the pregnancy test. I read the directions and peed on the stick, then put the cap back on and shoving it back inside the plastic blue wrapper it came in. I washed my hands before sitting back down on the toilet seat and setting a 3 minute timer on my phone. I hugged my knees to my chest as I thought about the past few weeks, the weeks full of nothing but pain, worry, and vomit.

It's been hell. My stomach can't seem to hold down any of the food I eat, no matter how bland or gentle it is. My boobs have been sore and hard to the touch which would usually be a symptom of my period, except it's late- a month late. Everything smells so intense and gives me a headache. I've been waking up in a pool of sweat every morning, and throughout the day, I've been boiling hot. It feels like if I were to strip myself naked and lay out in the snow, it probably still couldn't cool me down enough. I feel gross and sick and just really out of it for the past month and if this doesn't explain it, I don't know what-- My thoughts were abruptly interrupted when my timer went off. I let out a deep sigh and stood up, reaching for the blue plastic that held my pregnancy test. I propped my phone up on the counter and pressed record.

"Okay, today is... December 12, 2024, 8:54 in the morning," I whispered. "Matt's still sound asleep in our bedroom, and I'm here in the bathroom. I've been feeling horrible so just a few minutes ago, I took a pregnancy test." I held up the test, still hidden in the wrapper. "Okay, here we go," I sighed, taking the test out of the wrapper with my eyes shut tight. I flipped over the test and gasped when I saw the word PREGNANT in the window of the test. A tear ran down my cheek as I stared in disbelief. I'm pregnant, I thought to myself, I'm fucking pregnant. I turned the test to show the camera and made sure there was a clear view of the screen. "Holy shit, I'm actually pregnant..." I cried softly. In a couple of seconds, I remembered that I had to tell my boyfriend, who was still asleep behind the wall.

"Hey Matt?" I called out. "Matt, honey, I need you." I stayed on the toilet lid, wondering if he heard me, until I heard the blankets fall on the floor, followed by tired footsteps and a knock on the door.

"G'morning, sweetie," Matt grunted, walking over to hug me. His tired energy quickly shifted to worry when he noticed I was crying. "Hey, what's wrong baby? Why're you crying, hm?" he asked, kneeling down to my level.

"Well I, uh, I have a surprise for you," I sniffled, handing him the pregnancy test. He looked at me confused and squinted to read the small bold letters before gasping the same way I did and throwing his free hand over his mouth.

"Baby, is this real?" He asked with a shaky voice. I nodded and a tear rolled down his face as he looked back and forth between me and the test, staring in disbelief. "Really? This is really, really real? You're not kidding?"

"Mhm," I hummed, nervously anticipating his reaction. Tears continued making their way down my face and falling on my chest, covered by thin gray cloth. "I'm sorry, I don't-" I tried to speak before I was cut off by Matt's lips crashing into mine, kissing me passionately with a sweet rhythm.

"Why are you sorry, darling? I mean- I know we've never talked about it too much but I, this is one of my biggest dreams finally coming true, and with such a strong, amazing, beautiful woman. If you're ready to, I know you will make the best mother in this entire universe, and I can't wait to be right by your side, being the best father possible right here with you, okay?" Matt smiled, rubbing my cheeks with his thumbs.

"You really feel that way?" I sniffled my lips curling into a small smile.

"Of course I do, honey," he chuckled. "If you wanna keep it," he paused to kiss my forehead, "then we can keep it. And if you're not ready yet," he paused to kiss the tip of my nose, "then we don't have to keep it. Whatever you're comfortable with and ready to do," he paused one last time to plant a tiny kiss on my lips, "I'll always be right there with you. Okay?"

"Okay. Thank you so much, love." I spoke into his chest as he pulled me in for a hug.

"Of course. And you can take all the time you need to come to a decision, y'know?" he mumbled into my hair.

"Actually," I pulled away but kept a hold of his hands, "I think I already know what I wanna do."

"Really?" he asked, "What's that?"

"I think I wanna have a baby with you." I chuckled. He smiled and pulled me back into his arms and held me close, crying a little bit in my hair.

"I'm so ready to do this with you, baby," he sniffled.

"I know, me too." I sighed.

----

Sorry guys if you couldn't tell by the date mentioned, I wanted to post this on the 12th, but I've had a killer migraine all week, along with my chronic pain and health issues. But I finally got it done! I hope you guys liked it, sorry if it was bad or rushed. Love you guys, I think I'm gonna post this series every week if I can <3

Tags: @mattssslutbby

[pileofmush]

blue raspberry, red sun ୧ ‧₊˚

ft. monkey d. luffy

hello! this is an entry for the lovely @threadbaresweater's summertime (and the livin' is easy) event! haven't written for luffy in a while but i missed him, so.

details ➸ tags: modern au, tooth-rotting fluff, no plot just vibes // cw: gn!reader, mc is implied to have cleavage // wc: 1.3k // ao3

“how can you fuck up eating a popsicle that bad?” you ask, eyes wide at the straight-up murder scene before you. your own ice cream cone sits pristine in your hands—vanilla with a waffle cone. cute, contained, simple. 

you’re sitting on a curb in the middle of who knows where. the sun is particularly vengeful today: bright, hot, loud. it chases away all the shadows and beams down on you like you called it’s mother a whore. sweat pools between your thighs; concrete digs into your ass. you’re afraid that when you stand up there’ll be a sweat-stained print on the sidewalk, free for everyone to see.

your boyfriend shrugs, messy raven hair falling over his tan, toned shoulders. “dunno,” luffy says blandly. he licks his hand in one long stripe like a heathen and hums. “it’s good—wanna taste?”

you balk at the suggestion. “no, don’t—!”

too late.

🍓 .・゜-: ✧ :-

you can catalogue the days spent with luffy during a week by the amount of damage done to your closet. 

the pretty pale pink blouse you thrifted a few months ago—the one with the lace trim that shows off the perfect amount of cleavage—tossed in the hamper with thoughts and prayers thanks to the gigantic-ass stain luffy blessed you with last wednesday. 

(you should’ve seen it coming, really, neon blue sludge dripping from his sun-speckled fingers with reckless abandon near moments before he grabbed you by the waist to bring you in for a sloppy, tart kiss. it was quick and bright, an explosion of blue raspberry, before he pulled away as quickly as he initiated the kiss. he wiped his mouth with a lazy flick of his hand, then grinned a proud, dopey grin, teeth glinting in the sunlight. 

you remember feeling dizzy and warm, baked in the sun and your love and the sheer aura your boyfriend possessed.

“tastes good, right?” he asked. 

your eyes caught his flash of tongue as he spoke, tongue stained blue. 

“yeah,” you agreed quietly, reverently. “tastes good.”)

then there was the trip to the beach a few days ago that luffy suggested, which… alright, maybe you can’t blame him for getting sand all over you at the beach.

(and really, it was a nice trip. you and the straw-hats all packed into franky’s van like a baby soccer team getting driven to their first game. windows down, luffy happily chewing on a sandwich you packed him, nami rattling off directions like it’s her day job, brook belting 2000’s pop. and then, the lot of you spilling out and ambling to the beach. sunscreen slathered on every inch of your skin. the feel of hot wind and sand in between your toes, the salty tang of the sea on your tongue, and your hand in luffy’s, always, as he drags you across the beach with glee.) 

but still. luffy brought home a slimy strand of seaweed to prank you with, and it somehow found its way into your underwear drawer. 'no, he did not put it there', let him tell it. you had to resist beating him with a slipper. gosh, he’s such a dork.

so, yeah. dating luffy definitely means more frequent loads of laundry, but it’s fine. it really is. s’not like you didn’t know what you were getting into. s’not like you mind any traces of luffy you can get. 

luffy seems the type to be born in the summer.

he’s not- he wasn’t. a spring baby through and through, to your initial surprise. and sure, there’s probably something poetic you could say about blossoms and rebirth and fresh starts, but really, luffy reminds you of the hot, everlasting summer. he’s practically the sun incarnate. could’ve been a sun god in another life, for all you know, because his touch is so hot, hot, hot, and his laugh is crude and bright, and he is the only person you know to not wilt under the full force of the sun. instead, he feeds off of it. it gives him life, vigor, sustenance. 

you used to dread the summertime. now, it’s your favorite season.

so when luffy pops over with a blanket and a basket, you don’t need to think too hard to throw in a couple of (okay, several) sandwiches and some leftover fruit.

you decide on a quaint spot at a nearby park. the two of you walk side by side underneath the orange light of the dying sun. it’s a cooler evening. the grass next to your feet bristle; trees dance in the gentle breeze. the endless drone of the cicadas meshes with luffy’s rambling about his latest outing with ace and sabo—apparently, it ended in a fire—and you sneak a few glances at him. luffy’s skin is a rich, warm gold. underneath the last few embers of day, the sky soaked in warm oranges, pinks, and a devastating purple, you find traces of its colors reflected on his skin. 

and luffy is loud, loud, loud, but he is also quiet. and underneath the weight of the sky, you feel incredibly lucky to be a part of his life. 

his hand, looped lazily around your free wrist, snakes down to intertwine with your fingers. 

“what is it?” he interrupts his spiel with a sudden question. 

your teeth sink into the plush of your bottom lip as you consider your response. “it’s nothing.” you pause. parse through your emotions and will them to become coherent thoughts. “i guess i just missed you.”

slowly, he drags the two of you to a stop. he tugs on your hand, a reminder, even as he blinks in confusion. 

“i’m right here,” he says, solemn.

“i know.”

a beat.

“you don’t have to miss me. i’m already yours.”

and, he’s right. like a sun rising above the horizon after a night plunged in the dark, he returns to you, again and again. 

“i know that.” in a stroke of luffy-branded honesty, you admit to him with a shrug, “but i don’t think i’ll ever stop missing you.”  

it is not a bad thing. not a bad thing at all. just another way to say i love you. perhaps the only way you can say it, right now.

luffy stares at you for a while and then releases an uncharacteristic sigh. he takes the picnic basket out of your hands and lets it drop in the grass, along with the blanket he was carrying. then, without warning, your boyfriend tackles you to the ground.

you barely even register it, he breaks your fall so gently, and then he’s clambering over you, long arms pressing you into the soil, long tendrils of grass tickling your skin, and you’re thinking about the dirt undoubtedly ruining yet another shirt of yours as he clumsily lowers his mouth to yours. he smells like grass and sunscreen and maybe a little bit of sweat, and tastes a bit like koolaid. but all you can register is him, the ever-present heat radiating off his body, the nimble fingers digging into your skin almost brutally, the clink of his teeth against yours. hot and sloppy and luffy, luffy, luffy.

you kiss until you can’t breathe, until you breathe fire, until your head is spinning and you can think no more.

then, he rolls off of you. the two of you pant: you, content to remain a puddle on the ground, him, leaning back on his arms. still close, though. still above you, dark eyes roaming over your form intently, tracking your every flutter. 

it’s quiet, save for the cicadas. soundtrack of the summer. 

you sit up and try to pat yourself off. it’s probably useless. you know there’ll be nasty grass stains on your back when you get back home. ah, well. can't be helped.

“i get it,” luffy says, eventually. after you’ve both caught your breath. he runs a finger down your leg, tracing inexplicable patterns into your skin. “i miss you too.” 

oh, how silly it is, to be in love.

“i know,” you say, cheekily. 

he relaxes. “good.” luffy reaches up to pat your head. 

you bat his hand away.

he tosses you a toothy smile.

you catch it.

this was v fun to write. hope u liked reading it <3

[nightravenxd]

AAAAAND I wanna write a IDW Tarn short story

I'm bored, so why not? I hope my skills haven't gotten rusty- yes they did, and I also have a fanfic that I haven't touched in 3 months >ж<

But ANYWAYS

IDW!Tarn x Seeker

!!NSFW!! YOU HUNGRY BEASTS 🤺

۪ ࣪ ִ ◟ ͜ ⠀◞ 𓏵 ˙ ₊ ͜ ˙ ۪ ࣪ ִ ₊◟ ͜ ⠀◞ ۪ ࣪ ִ

"Taaaaaaaaaarn!"

Your voice ran out to the halls of the Peaceful Tyranny. Usually he'd answer with "quiet down" or "no need to yell". But all you were only met with silence, suspicious.

You decided to go to his chambers, you already checked everywhere, and that was the only place you haven't been, or ever been to be exact.

When you made it to his door, you knocked so loudly that probably even the ever so busy Nickel heard you.

Silence, yet again, how welcoming...

Somehow you didn't think that the door probably wasn't locked, and that resulted in you, falling face flat like a pancake in a pan on the floor because you rammed yourself into the door like a goat.

But you immediately got up, looking around to see if anyone saw you doing that stupid act. But when you realized that Tarn was not in his chamber -or at least this part of it- you let out a sigh, keeping at least some of your seeker pride you still had left.

You decided to look for him, or that's just your excuse to see the layout of his chamber and what's in it, if it even has anything in it.

When you looked at the wall by his door, you saw that the whole wall was displaying all his iconic Decepticon symbol masks. Each one was damaged in its own way, shredded, cut, blown up, dented... You name it.

You started wondering how he even survived when all those masks look like they've been through nine circles if Hell.

When you approached the wall, you found a drawer under the display, and it was full of brand new masks. Being intrigued, you took one and hid it in one of your many compartments. Before walking away to the rest of the rooms.

You looked in his recharge chamber, but no sign of him on his berth. Only when you entered another room you found him lounging by a table while reading through a datapad and drinking.

The sound of the door opening made him look up, you stared at each other for a good minute before he spoke. "And why are you in my chambers, exactly?" You scoffed and rolled your eyes, a thing which you picked up from Starscream.

"I was looking for yo-" "Black mark." You stared at him, how fraging dare he-

"The frag? I was concerned. Do you have any idea how loudly I was yelling for you-?"

"Two black marks." You lifted up your hands. "Fine, I don't need another one, I'm already at my second warning..."

"Third black mark for stealing one of my masks." You blinked at him a couple of times, how did he know? No way he has, oh Primus he has cameras in his room. Ah, carrier fraging sparkling of a glitch-

He put his drink and datapad slowly onto the table before standing up and walking towards me. "That was a third written warning, dear." You felt him lift up your helm to look up at him, you felt your racing spark slow slightly at his voice. "Don't use your voice killing powers on me, Tarn." You crossed your arms.

You suddenly screeched like Starscream when he grabbed you effortlessly by your arm and brought you to his recharging chamber. You let out an "oof" when he threw you onto his berth. "What are you-" You immediately shut up once he climbed over you and took off his mask.

Damn, he got scars... But honestly what did you expect? Seeing all those damaged masks he was bound to have scars.

"Staring is not polite." He almost purred into your audials. "Oh, but throwing someone onto your berth is?" He only smirked, the smirk you swore was under his mask when he tortured bots.

Before you could rant more to his ugly face you felt his scarred dermas crash into yours. Every insult and complaint vanished from your processor and straight into your cooling systems as you realized what was going on.

"Frag you, you dysfunctional killing machine." His clawed servos snaked up to your neck, his claws digging into it slightly. "The first part is what I will do to you, the second part is a nice compliment."

You grumbled slightly, trying to hide your flustered state. But when you felt his servo trail down your frame down to your interface panel, you immediately buried your head into his chest.

You hated feeling like this, vulnerable, weak, bashful and turned the frag on. One thing you said to yourself that you would never let him see you this vulnerable, but here you were, trapped right under him.

He realized this and hummed, he grabbed your helm and tilted it back. When you finally looked up into his eyes you saw him putting his mask on your face.

The mask actually fits nicely, and it certainly gives you a confidence boost, knowing that he couldn't see your flustered face. But that confidence immediately crumbled like the USSR when you felt his clawed servos press against your interface panel.

You arched into him, your wings scraping against the berth. You felt embarrassed that your panel opened with such ease with him basically not doing anything... But you had to thank his mask for at least keeping a sliver of your dignity.

You moaned into his mask as two digits entered your dripping valve, he then almost pulled them out before agonizingly slowly pushed back in that made you want to stuff his fusion cannon down his throat.

He repeated that a couple of times before suddenly slamming in three digits. You saw stars up close in your lifetime, but these stars were something waaaay different, way warmer than real ones.

He didn't give you time for those stars to leave your vision before he rammed his spike right into you, leaving you a loud, moaning, weak mess.

His free servo slithered to your lower back, encouraging you to arch your back even further. He sped up, slowed down, was rough and hard, then gentle, damn was he bipolar or something?

"Come on, darling... Your whines and moans don't help me to figure out how you'd like me to go." That bastard... He knows you can barely use your words.

You panted, your processor more focused on the intense feelings and the cooling fans. "Rough... Fast..." You gruffed out through his thrusts. He intentionally slowed down. "Really? Do you want me to go all out?"

Well that, that made you focus on his words immediately. "Yes!" Your optics shot open behind his mask, gripping onto his armour tightly. "Your wish, my command." He buried his face into your neck cables, biting harshly in sync with his hard thrusts.

Your dermas instinctively opened to get more air to cool down, but his mask limits your supply, causing you to start slightly overheating. But that thrill and desperation for air and to cool down only aroused you more, that feeling of desperation excites you in ways you shouldn't feel excited, you shouldn't want to feel that feeling, but you wanted it, you craved it.

You gripped his helm and pushed his face into your neck. "Bite me, bite me more!" You screamed into his audials. You knew you were already bleeding, but still you wanted more.

He groaned and slammed your head back onto the berth, your neck was still like an empty canvas waiting, begging to be painted. He groaned and sank his dentas into the untouched parts of your neck.

The pain and pleasure from your neck only amplifies your impending overload. He started thrusting into you so hard he pushed you up on the berth, then he pulled you back again.

You screamed enough that your voice box gave out, the overload hitting you harder than Megatron's blows to Optimus.

He didn't leave you to rest, instead he put you in an awkward position -but clearly a great position for him- and overloaded inside you. It felt like someone blasted you through your valve, but in a good way.

Clearly he wasn't done since he started to scratch and scrape his claws along your frame, then started biting you in other places, all while he was still inside your sticky valve.

It was almost like he was cherishing you, but almost in a destructive way. By the time he was finished, your frame was littered with bites, scratches and scrapes. And if you wanted to get rid of them, either you had to buff it off, which you couldn't do, or change every single plating on your frame, which also you weren't going to do. So now you are stuck like this, you look like you went through Tesarus' blades, and it was also in full display for the others to see... Great.

He finally got off you and laid down next to you, not before he took off his mask from your face and put it on his. You finally managed to get a good whiff of air to cool your blaring senors and processor off.

"Did you lick my mask?" The question caught you off guard, but you only shrugged, too tired to form words, but also because you genuinely didn't know if you actually did stick your glossa out, which you clearly probably did.

Matter of fact he's probably licking some of it off, and leaving some to dry so that he can always smell your mouth in his mask. Weird, yes, but it definitely seems like something he would do.

"You can also keep the mask that you stole from me." Frankly, you forgot about it, but you were also glad he let you keep it.

You closed your optics and fell into recharge, not before you put your hand over his chassis, of course.

Somehow, the next day Tarn was sitting and lounging with the others while you felt like absolute scrap, not to mention how much it hurt to walk. You sat down on an empty seat and saw Nickel approach you. "No, I'm fine. I don't need you to rant into my audials when I'm barely functioning properly." You gripped your helm in your servos.

"I was about to ask what happened." She crossed her arms. "He happened!" You sat up and pointed at Tarn, you were angry, but couldn't really be that angry at him after such a good fragging...

He smirked, you knew he was smirking under that ugly shade of purple mask, well it's actually a really pretty purple shade... But that's beside the point!

Nickel just stared at you two before turning around and leaving, not wanting to know any details of what happened, and you couldn't blame her, it was intense.

But seriously, you had to get your down there checked up since his spike was brutal...

[goatcheesecak3]

Adam's Post Trap Coping Mechanisms Headcanons

Adam Faulkner-Stanheight x GN!Reader

Fic type: hcs, fluff

Warnings: brief mention of bullet wound

Caring for Adam involves a LOT of physical touch, he needs to be held, almost urgently, while he cries, feeling you rub his back and gently shushing him

He's hates his bullet wound, it reminds him of the worst day of life and he so desperately wishes it wasn't there. Every night you carefully rub ointment onto it to help reduce the scarring, all while reminding him how brave he is, and how proud you are of him.

He can't fall asleep in silence at all, in fact he's terrified of dark quiet rooms. You sleep with a small lamp on, and talk to him until he falls asleep every night. Sometimes you make up a story for him, which at first he thought was childish and silly, but he's come to find it comforting. His favourite is stories are about aliens and spaceships, he's a big sci fi nerd

Something else that he once found juvenile and immature but now loves, is stuffed animals. You bought him a cuddly monkey, since that was his favourite animal when he was a child, and now he can't sleep without it.

His comfort film is Alien, not the typical comforting film, but Adam isn't the typical guy. He loves to snuggle up under a blanket and fall asleep to the reassuring sounds of evil beasts being slaughtered - maybe it's cathartic for him.

If Adam's had a rough day, the best way to make sure he doesn't spiral is to really baby him, make his favourite food (pancakes with lots of chocolate sauce), put on his favourite film, and make him an Irish coffee with LOTS of cream and sugar.

When his panic attacks get bad, he loves to be held while you call him soothing nicknames. Just to name a few of his favourites,"my sweet boy," "honeybunny," "baby boy," and "sweetpea"

When he goes through really rough patches, he struggles with washing himself, being in a bathroom is just too scary for him. It helps a great deal if you run him a bath and stay with him, washing his hair and kissing his cheek the whole time.

Helping him with his laundry means so much to him, especially if he's had a particularly hard day. You set out a clean tshirt and pj bottoms for him, and even get him a pair of fuzzy slippers. He looks so sweet in his pjs, you can't help but smother him with kisses.

Another thing that he originally deemed as "too childish" for him, were fidget toys. He's still too embarrassed to take one out in public, but in the evenings, keeping his hands occupied with a stress ball or a rubber animal stuffed with orbeez really seems to soothe him. There's a drawer in his bedside table filled with different types of fidget toys for him to grab whenever he feels like it.

A/n hello!! Sorry I haven't written in a while, my joint issues have been flaring up more than usual for the last month, and typing has just been far too painful :^( on the plus side, I've got a physiotherapy appointment in the next few days, so if all goes well I'll be able to use my limbs properly soon!! I hope everyone is doing well :^))))

[cosmichorrorsarestillnicerthanme]

Go, Touch Some Grass-Kokonoe Mercury X Reader

I think this is the single longest thing I have written for this blog. I might also make a part two to this later but I doubt I will.

Anywho, sorry for the inactivity as of late. I just haven't really had the energy to write and because of that I've probably gotten very rusty so this is more than likely not up to my usual standards. My apologies for that.

With all of that aside, I hope you enjoy!

Kokonoe Mercury was absolutely furious.

“Where’s Tager?” Kokonoe growled out as she stomped down the halls, glaring holes through any unfortunate researcher who crossed her path.

“Miss Litchi sent him on a wild goose chase to ensure you didn’t use him to bust into your office.” you responded as you walked behind the irate woman.

Kokonoe attempted to further clench her hands into fists but, due to the bone crushing amount of force she had already used when she learned of what Litchi had done, it was an exercise in futility.

Kokonoe wheeled around the corner and nearly barreled over some poor janitor in the process.

“Sorry about that.” was all you had time to say to the janitor before you had to leave him and break into a jog to catch up with Kokonoe who was nearing her target.

Kokonoe practically bust the door down as she stormed into Litchi’s office.

“Ah! What brings you her-” Litchi began with a smile before she was interrupted by the furious pink haired woman before her.

“Save it! Why the hell can’t I get into my office! Or the labs! Or the storage closets!” Kokonoe snapped at Litchi.

“Oh my! I have no idea! What makes you think I would have any idea what would cause that?” Litchi responded with a voice dripping with false shock and a smirk on her face as she placed her head in her hand.

Kokonoe promptly reached into her lab coat and pulled out a piece of paper that she then slammed onto the table.

The piece of paper read “Go, Touch Some Grass!” with a drawing of Litchi’s winking face in chibi form.

You had to bite your tongue to keep yourself from saying “I don’t think Miss Kokonoe knows what grass is, seeing as she never leaves the lab.”

“Hmm… This is a very flattering drawing of me, don’t you think?” Litchi asked, causing Kokonoe to let out a scream of primal rage and launch herself at the woman.

Or, she tried to at least, she only got halfway before you grabbed her by the back of her collar.

“Let me go dammit! Let me at her! I’ll show her who needs to go touch grass!” Kokonoe hissed as she thrashed and writhed in mid air.

She was concerningly light, barely feeling like she weighed more than one of the boxes of microscopes that needed to be ordered every time an explosion occurred in the lab.

“Before you do that, can you tell me this, how long has it been since you ate a meal?” Litchi asked as Kokonoe continued to thrash around.

“I had-” Kokonoe began before being cut off.

“Meal replacement bars and shakes don’t count. Neither does candy.” Litchi clarified, making Kokonoe go still and quiet as she racked her brain for the answer to Litchi’s question.

“It was… the 15th!” Kokonoe declared, seeming proud of herself.

Litchi proceed to point at the calendar, showing that the current date was the 7th.

Kokonoe scowled in response to this and crossed her arms in irritation.

“What do you want out of me?” Kokonoe grumbled.

“I want you to go to your apartment, and grow something from one of these seeds.” Litchi declared while opening one of her drawers before tossing a pack of mixed seeds onto the table.

Kokonoe looked at the seeds for a solid minute before saying “I could do that in thirty minutes in the lab.”

“I know you could, but, until you learn how to take better care of yourself, you won’t be doing anything in the lab.” Litchi declared.

Kokonoe’s face began to turn red from rage before she took in a deep breath that she held in before letting out.

“How long will all of this take?” Kokonoe grumbled.

“In all honesty? I don’t expect you to be back for about two months.” Litchi declared, making Kokonoe gasp before yelling.

“ARE YOU CRAZY!? TWO MONTHS!?”

“You could prove me wrong, but as I can say with certainty, you and nature do not get along.” Litchi responded.

Kokonoe ground her teeth together, trying to concoct a way out of this predicament.

Unfortunately, Kokonoe was pushed onto the back foot by Litchi Faye Ling.

That means no amount of death stares or threats will move her opponent.

And people had the audacity to call Kokonoe stubborn.

Kokonoe went limp, accepting defeat.

“Fine. But I’m taking your best assistant as collateral!” Kokonoe declared, hoping that this would, somehow, force Litchi into re-considering her demands.

“We have a deal!” Litchi declared before turning her attention to you and spoke.

“You can put her down now. Be sure to pack up everything you need before leaving!”

You promptly lowered Kokonoe onto the ground and began to walk out the door before being stopped by Kokonoe.

“Hey! I said your best assistant! Not MY best assistant!” the pink hair woman exclaimed.

“That is my assistant. I let you borrow them for an extra set of eyes during an experiment while Tager was off on errands and you never gave them back.” Litchi explained with a smile that held a small amount of venom.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

You and Kokonoe sat next to one another as the tram followed its course down to the residential area.

The two of you stuck out like sore thumbs with the pure white lab coats the two of you wore, the scowl on Kokonoe’s face, and your relatively calm expression.

You had long since gotten accustomed to the pink haired scientist and her… ornery moods.

In fact, due to your constant exposure to her, you had the nebulous honor of being one of the few who were unaffected by her temper when it boiled over.

Speaking of the devil herself, you turned your attention to the woman as she reached into the sleeve of her coat and pulled out a piece of her iconic silvervine candy.

“I’ve got a question for ya.” the woman grumbled.

“I will attempt to answer it to the best of my abilities.” you replied.

Kokonoe grunted before twisting her head to the side with the back of her hand, causing a series of cracks to enter your ears.

“If you’re one of Litchi’s assistants, why’d you stick around to work with me?” Kokonoe asked with a suspicious tone to her voice.

“Curiosity. You have quite the reputation as a slave driving monster around the water cooler.” was all you said in response.

This forced a wheezing cackle from Kokonoe’s chest.

“You aren’t the type to mince words are you? Remind me to take you off of Litchi’s hands when we get back!” Kokonoe exclaimed as she continued her cackling.

“I will keep that in mind.” you declared as you waited for Kokone to regain her composure.

Kokonoe continued to laugh for a few more moments before claming down.

“So, did the stories do me justice?” Kokonoe asked with a smirk.

You were quiet for a moment before responding.

“You have high but, for the most part, not unreasonable expectations of those that work under you. There is no inherent problem with that as it serves as a point to strive for and to exceed. However, for many the bar set is too high. That is my assessment. So, in my opinion, no, the stories are not entirely accurate.”

“Well, can’t say I was expecting a response like that. I was asking for your opinion, not a report on an experiment.” Kokonoe declared as she put her head in the palm of her hand.

“To be fair Miss Kokonoe, I am still on the clock. Technically.” was all you said in defense to your position.

The rest of the ride in the tram was spent in a relative, semi-comfortable, silence.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

By the time Kokonoe remembered where her apartment was, night had fallen.

Despite this, you continued to carry both your and Kokonoe’s suitcases as the two of you walked up the stairs and Kokonoe mumbled to herself about keys as she struggled to recall which one of the many on her key ring was the one for her apartment.

Soon, the two of you reached the apartment that belonged to Kokonoe, though it took a while for the door to be opened due to Kokonoe being forced to play trial and error with her myriad of keys.

As soon as the door was pushed open, a robotic voice greeted the two of you.

“Good. Evening. Miss. Kokonoe. Welcome. Home. You. Have. Been. Gone. For. Ninety. Days. Fifteen. Hours. And. Thirty. Minutes. Is. There. Anything. You. Require?” a small robot roughly the height and width of a garbage can with a duster in one hand and a vacuum in the other asked as it stood at attention in the entryway.

“No. Don’t worry about the guest either. They're with me.”

The robot promptly did a small bow before turning in place and walking off.

You were then led into the living room which, in all honesty, looked as if it was ready to be shown off and sold to the next potential buyer by a real estate agent.

In other words, it looked clean, clinical, and completely uninhabited.

“Welcome to my home away from home.” Kokonoe declared as she grabbed her suitcase from you, walked down the hall, and into a room, before slamming the door behind her and leaving you standing alone.

You clicked your tongue before muttering to yourself.

“This design of this place is very… human.”

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Kokonoe did not have any clocks in her apartment.

Mostly because if she was at her apartment, that meant one of two things.

The lab had exploded and was in the process of being fixed. She was practically on her deathbed from sickness.

As such, she fully expected to not wake up until her body declared she needed to.

To be fair, that expectation was filled, just not in the way she thought it would be when the smell of freshly cooked food entered her nose and roused her from her sleep.

“Ugh… What the hell is that smell?” Kokonoe grumbled as she rolled over and towards the window to gauge the time based off of the sun.

Based on the light entering her room, it was around ten-ish.

Kokonoe let out a sigh as she threw the covers off of her and trudged towards her door, kicking her discarded lab coat, and other articles of clothing to the side in the process.

Kokonoe yawned as she reached for the door’s handle before pulling it open.

This revealed you, your hand raised to knock on the door.

“Ah. I’ve made lu-” you began to say before cutting yourself off as you went red in the face.

You proceeded to grab the handle opposite from the one Kokonoe was holding and slammed the door shut, leaving the pink haired scientist deeply confused.

It took a few seconds for the still groggy and half asleep Kokonoe to remember that, before she went to sleep, she removed all of her clothes.

“Oh right. Most people care that other people wear clothes.” Kokonoe said to herself aloud before scratching the side of her head and turning on her heel to find something to cover herself with.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Kokonoe walked into the kitchen, wearing a t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and a pair of slippers with a fresh lab coat over it all alongside the expression of a person who was completely unbothered by the previous event.

That expression did not stay long as she noticed something had gone missing from the kitchen.

“Where the hell is my fridge?” Kokonoe asked, trying her best and failing spectacularly to keep her voice even.

You sat at the table, your head in your hands over a bowl of soup.

“Its contents were the wrong amount of alive.” was all you said in response, a tint of red still on your face as you tried to force the memory of Kokonoe minus her clothes out of your mind.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Kokonoe demanded before the conversation was interrupted by screams.

“HOLY SHIT! LARRY!!! GET THE FLAMETHROWER!!!”

“WHY DOES IT HAVE EYES!!!!”

“It means that.” you muttered before shuddering, composing yourself, and then gesturing to the pot on the stove.

“I have made soup.” you declared.

“Is it any good?” Kokonoe asked, crossing her arms.

“I give you no guarantees.” was your response.

“Meh, good enough for me.” the pink haired scientist declared with a shrug of her shoulders.

Lunch passed in silence save for the sounds of battle outside.

However, lunch did not last long and soon the two of you were getting down to brass tacks.

“Right, we need to go to the store, don’t we?” Kokonoe asked as she put her dishes in the sink.

“Correct. We require a replacement fridge, food, and material for you to grow a plant. I will cover a quarter of the cost for the fridge.” You responded as you put your own dishes into their place.

“A quarter? Aren’t you the one who threw it out?” Kokonoe asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I was not the one who let that godless creature be born. Also, I live on an assistant's salary.” Was your retort and your defense to Kokonoe’s reasoning.

“Fine. Just know I’m not happy about this.” the half beastkin woman declared.

“Duly noted.” was your response.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

After the plan had been decided, the two of you set out and onto the town.

Much like most things involving Kokonoe V.S. The Outside World, as you were coming to find, it became an all day debacle.

Especially with what happened with Kokonoe and that poor appliance salesman.

He made the very reasonable assumption that, due to the two of you coming in at the same time and looking at the fridges on display together, you and Kokonoe were a couple.

You thought Kokonoe was going to tear his head clean off when the words left his mouth. Thankfully, she only skinned him alive with her words and not any of the knives from the kitchen sets that were nearby.

Still, the day remained profitable despite the hiccup, and by the time night fell, the new fridge was installed and stocked with food.

Soon after that, the two of you fell into a rhythm.

Kokonoe would obsess over the plant, you would double check her measurements to ensure everything was going smoothly, then you would begin the most torturous task you had even inflicted upon yourself.

Teaching Kokonoe Mercury how to take care of herself.

First, you started with the basics in Laundry which was easy enough since most of her clothes could be sorted into whites and reds.

Of course, that came with her grumbling about how she could build a robot or get Taeger to do this for the entire time, still, it was progress.

But, then came cooking.

Foolishly, you thought that she would do well in cooking since it was as much science as it was art.

This was a very, very idiotic thought to have.

In five minutes she managed to turn a bag of rice into ash.

It took her ten to completely immolate a fish down to its bones.

After this disaster, you decided to put off trying to teach her how to cook until you had a fire extinguisher on hand.

Still, cooking related mishaps aside, everything was going well in forcing Kokonoe to learn that, no matter how hard she wished or how many drugs she put into her silvervine candy, she still had a body of flesh and blood.

She was, of course, filled with enough rage to burn the world to ash due to this, but that was something you expected when you were co-opted into this debacle.

What you didn’t expect however, was your side of the emotional coin.

Specifically, your growing admiration and care for her.

This isn’t to say you didn’t admire her before this, but more so to say that before this your admiration for her was only professional.

Now though, you were admiring her as a person.

You always knew she was a stubborn person, it was par for the course in the field of science.

Now though, you saw that her stubbornness was something she applied in all facets of her life.

And as you continued to spend time with her, you also saw that her stubbornness and her care were one in the same.

Still, you knew it was better to keep all of that to yourself.

She was your boss and you were her assistant.

It would be better and far simpler for both you and her to keep it that way.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Kokonoe Mercury, for the first time in a very, very long time, didn’t feel like absolute crap.

Was this the power of three square meals a day, water, and regular doses of sunlight?

If it was, Kokonoe would be… inclined to not kill Litchi the second she got back her lab access.

Just ever so slightly.

The fact she stole you to be her assistant was also helping out.

It was also causing her an immense amount of headache as, against her better judgement, Kokonoe was getting ever so slightly attached to you.

She knew she shouldn’t based on past data.

Everyone she had ever made a bond with had left her, died, or worse.

It was a quantifiable metric.

And yet, here Kokonoe was, thinking of a way to try and even the score.

As loath as she was to admit it, you had taught her things.

To her, knowledge in all its forms was something invaluable.

Sure, she never felt the need to repay someone for teaching her something before but that's unimportant.

What was important now, was finding something worth what you taught her.

Maybe she could invite you to be her research partner?

No, no, no, she already had you as her assistant, that was almost the same thing wasn’t it?

She couldn’t up your salary either since the budget for the year had already been decided.

“Wait, that’s it!” Kokonoe exclaimed, a mad grin making itself known on her face.

Sure, she couldn’t raise your salary, but she could give you a way to take some strain off your budget.

She could just invite you to live with her.

Yes, that would be perfect! It would allow for the symbiotic relationship the two of you had to continue, and it would let Kokonoe continue to operate at maximum efficiency.

Why hadn’t she thought of this sooner?

It was a foolproof plan that benefitted both you and her!

Truly, the genius of Kokonoe Mercury is unparalleled.

If only she was this smart when it came to her emotions and other people.

[mollymoon-er]

My brain is stuck on 'In Memoriam'

Okay the In Memoriam brain rot is real. I haven't stopped thinking about this book still, so I need to pour out my thoughts. I've made a collection of some of my favourite call-backs between chapters.

Page 6 "Ellwood rubbed a small flat spot on his nose with one finger. He often did that. Gaunt wondered if Ellwood resented that he had punched it there."

Page 119 "whenever Ellwood touched the flat spot Gaunt had punched into his nose, he remembered: there was something inside the fortress."

Gaunt thinking Ellwood resents him for marking his nose because of his vanity, but really Ellwood touches it when Guant's being particularly stubborn to remind himself that one time he was able to break through Gaunt's walls.

Page 8 "I haven't had a compliment from you in about three months. I know, because I always write them down and put them in a drawer."

Page 43 "You will say I am dramatising, but I wrote it all down. I write everything down."

The first quote being said in jest and a fleeting thing. But then Ellwood doubles down on the fact he does indeed write everything down, and you really do believe that he's got a drawer full of written down compliments from Gaunt.

Page 53 "I never call him by his Christian name. (How could I? Call him Sidney, as his wife will one day)

"Gaunt never called that, I don't think he felt close enough to me"

"My Dearest, Darling Sidney" "I promised myself long ago that I should never call you that unless I was sure I could keep you" "'Sydney,' said Gaunt, so quickly as if he had been waiting years to say it."

As if he had been waiting years. YEARS guys. And HE HAS been. The wreck that I was after reading "My Dearest, Darling Sidney."

"I know you're fine Gaunt, but are you alright?"

Page 9 "Whereas Gaunt, [...] feared that ugliness was too important to ignore."

"The loss of his eye had been what guaranteed his life and so, to Gaunt, it was beautiful."

Gaunt just being the thoughtful soul that he is and seeing beyond the objectiveness of beauty.

Also, Ellwood reciting every bit of poetry at Gaunt to tell him that he loves him, and Gaunt basically being like I can't understand what you're saying. Just spit it out in real words. Only for Ellwood to lose all the verses from his head to then end their story with, "I—I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.'" And Gaunt finally, finally just KNOWS.

[lfcgirlie8]

Ok so I've had a fic sitting half written in my phone for like almost a year at this point, and I haven't finished it because I know it's too cringy 😂 but I thought I'd post the first little bit of it and if you guys like it then I'll force myself to finish it 🤭

Pairing: Trent Alexander-Arnold x Dominik Szoboszlai x Reader

(she was originally my own character but I've removed a lot of that and tried to make it more open)

As I slowly wake up, the first thing I notice is the warmth radiating from the body in front of me and the coolness on my other side. Huh. Weird.

Still half asleep, I reach an arm out behind me, finding nothing but the cool sheets. With a groan, I force my eyes open to confirm that someone definitely is missing from our bed. Well, there's two people missing really, since more often than not our daughter, Anasztaizia, will also find her way in here at some point during the night. I'm by no means alone here now, though, because on my other side is Dominik, still fast asleep but with one of his hands resting protectively over the belly of our six month old son who sleeps soundly between us.

They are too perfect to be real, I swear. Even after the years we've been together, I still expect to wake up one day and for this to have all been a dream. Ordinary girls from Liverpool don't get happy endings, do they? For some of us, poverty and dysfunctional relationships are all we'll ever know. Maybe a few get lucky; they find an out and stop the cycle from repeating. But I didn't ever think that one of those girls would be me.

I'm no princess, but somehow my life has become a fairytale. Except, instead of one prince, I found two, and they just so happen to love each other as well.

Although I'm still sleepy, the urge to keep watching Domi as he sleeps is stronger, so I take full advantage of being able to see him so relaxed and soft. He's beautiful like this, in the rare moments when he's completely free from the heavy weight of the footballing world's expectations resting on his shoulders.

The temptation to reach out and touch him is too strong to resist. My fingers thread into his fluffy hair, brushing soft curls back from his forehead like I have done a million times before. Even in sleep, he instinctively leans into my touch, emitting a soft hum from the back of his throat. It's not my intention to wake him up, but when he blinks his eyes open a few minutes later, I'm definitely not complaining.

"Five more minutes, baba." He murmurs, pressing his face as deeply into the pillow as he can to block out the morning light. As usual, his Hungarian accent so much thicker when he wakes up and it causes warmth to curl in my belly at the sound of it.

Normally, I would be more than happy to crawl into his arms and stay with him for as long as the day would allow, but not wanting to disturb the little baby between us, I settle for pressing a kiss to his forehead and leaving them to it. Knowing Domi, it definitely won't just be five extra minutes he sleeps for.

Going through to the bathroom, I quickly brush my teeth and try to tame the wild lengths of my hair before heading downstairs. Getting dressed is something I really can't be arsed doing right now, but I grab a pair of Trent's Calvin Klein boxers from the drawer and pull them on under the oversized t-shirt of his that I'd already been wearing to sleep in. What can I say? They're just more comfy. And teasing Trent by wearing them is an added bonus.

On my way downstairs, music and notes of laughter filter out of the kitchen, only making me more eager to get down there and see the other two people who own my heart.

🫣🫣 Please let me know if you want to read more

Love Ally xx

[xoxoamyas]

Alone Without You (But I'm Still Here)

rating : hurt/comfort, petnames used on reader [ love + sunshine ]

wilbur x gn!reader [ use of you/yours, no use of y/n ]

☆ wilbur finally comes home from touring after you have had a long few months day. <3

masterlist [ ☆ ]

note : n/a [ enjoy ! ]

⋆˙⟡

It had been a long day, and you were ready to curl up into your bed. Getting home was hard enough for you because you had to go through the motions you went through every day.

You didn't bother with flicking the lights switch to the living room, just walking about almost automatically till you reached your horribly empty bedroom. Fighting back tears as you flicked only that switch up, standing in the threshold to your bedroom, staring at the messy and unmade bed.

Usually, you'd have someone to share it with, someone to kiss away the bad and ugly terrors of the harsh day. But your love had been gone for nearly two full months now, having been on tour with his band.

You were proud of him, him being Wilbur. You texted him good morning, and I love you. As consistently as possible, anyway. You usually got a response, whether it was right away or delayed. Today had been a no response day, a day he was meant to go out on stage.

You don't know how long you stood there for, but eventually, you managed to move your heavy feet towards Wilbur's dresser. Pulling the top drawer out and picking one of Wilbur's sweaters you had seen him wear before, pushing the drawer closed after and trying not to stumble over to your bed as you tried to take your clothes from the day off. Now sporting the sweater and, eventually, some soft shorts to rest in.

You almost forgot about the light, trying not to cry over how overwhelmed you already were from the events of the day. You didn't want to walk all the way back over to the light switch, the idea of it all making you feel worse than you initially did.

After a long internal debate and disagreement, you found it better to turn the light off, seeing as that would make resting much easier. You were quick to find yourself in the bed on Wilbur's side right after, curling up around one of the two pillows Wilbur usually used to sleep with.

Just a couple more weeks, you tell yourself.

It's difficult, though, especially with how lonely it's gotten. You haven't been the same since he started touring. You tried hard to stay in contact with at least your own friends, and you tried talking to them about stuff you would usually discuss with Wilbur. Yet it all felt wrong. It felt out of place.

Wilbur was your best friend as much as he was your lover. He meant the world to you, and you wanted to stay by his side throughout it all. But you loved him to an unsurprising fault. You wanted him happy, and if that happiness for him was singing his heart out on stage for fans rather than being in bed with you after a long day? Then you supported it.

Sometimes, like right now, as tears silently trail down your face and against the pillows you used, you wonder what would've happened if you told him honestly how you felt about the touring. It was breaking you, tearing you apart at the heart.

You fall asleep, swarmed with the negative thoughts and the feeling of longing for a lover that's not where he could've been. You're asleep long before the front door opens.

Wilbur had been at the airport, seeing the notification for an "I love you" from his favourite person, yet he's distracted before he gets the chance to respond. The gates to his flight had been announced, meaning he had to rush and get to his plane with the rest of his band and crew.

It's long, longer than Wilbur would have liked, but they eventually had finished the process of everything. Boarding the plane and sitting for what felt like forever before it finally touched ground once more.

Tiredly, each individual took their respective rides to their own homes. It was nearly four in the morning by now, and Wilbur was definitely struggling with jet lag, yet that didn't deter his own growing excitement.

He was headed home to his beloved, happy to finally get to hold you in his arms once more. Wilbur was silly, yes, but he knew you'd be long asleep. That's why he remains silent when he finally makes it home, not daring to utter a single word as he clicks the front door shut behind him. Taking a deep breath of the welcoming air before letting out a sigh of relief and thanks.

Wilbur takes his time, knowing that he's likely to stay up until later into the evening. His first stop after abandoning his shoes by the front door is your shared room. He hadn't bothered to knock, not wanting to awaken your slumber as he slipped into the room. His heart melted as his gaze landed on you in the dark room, able to tell that your form rested in his usual spot, clutching a pillow in your grasp.

Momentarily, he had to stop and remind himself it was a pillow. He would not be jealous of a pillow.

Wilbur steps closer after a moment of basking in the atmosphere. He has to strain his eyes, but he can tell from anywhere that you had gone to sleep upset. Gently, he presses his hand to your cheek and can feel the old tears dried on your face. His heart breaks for you as he momentarily notices that you're wearing his sweater.

For the time being, he carefully removes the pillow from your hold. Not bothering to change out of his own clothes, the idea on the back of his mind more than anything. His arms effortlessly slotted around your waist after sliding you both closer towards your side of the bed.

“I'm home,” He hummed out softly, knowing you weren't conscious to hear him but that at least your subconscious and body would pick up on his presence. He hoped he could ease you more than you already were, if you even were.

When you wake up, it's not an alarm that wakes you. Something you had forgotten to set in the midst of getting caught up with your feelings the night before. You wake up to a foreign yet familiar warmth surrounding you, an arm around your waist and a hand combing through your hair gingerly.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to realize Wilbur was in your bed holding you. However, it does take a minute to realize that your tears have started up again.

“You're alright, love, I'm right here.” Wilbur gently hushes you as he moves his hand in your hair to gently cup the back of your head. Successfully, he pulls you closer so that you're comfortably pressed against him, head against his chest as his chin rests atop your head.

“I thought you weren't coming home anytime soon?” You manage to mutter, the words muffled. It takes a minute for Wilbur to process the words in full, but he softly sighs when he realizes what you've said.

“I know, sunshine, and I'm so sorry. But I'm home now, I'm safe, you're safe.” His reassurances help you even just slightly.

You can't bring yourself to say anything, none of the words you want to say are going beyond your thoughts. The thoughts that circle you like vultures waiting for their snack.

You just sigh, letting your body relax as your arms move to hug and curl around his back. Holding him just as close and tight without hesitation. You've been without him for too long, and you think the hold is enough to start with for the moment.

Though Wilbur can tell there's more that needs to be said, he leaves it be. He knows you'll talk to him when you're ready.

For now, he's holding you as close and tight as he possibly can. Pressing a sweet kiss to the top of your head as he lets himself properly relax with you.

[russellsppttemplates]

could i request some more fluff with daniel? even better if it’s with a pregnant reader!

the way you write everyone is IMMACULATE xx

– 🪼

Tw: pregnancy

"Do you have anything planned for the rest of the day?", Daniel said as you both walked on the trail. Even though you were not planning on becoming an athlete anytime soon, much less now that you were pregnant, you made an effort to keep active as it helped you feel better and meaning you had a reason to get fresh hair everyday.

"No, it's my day off", you smiled, "and I was planning to relax and sort some things out in the nursery, "I haven't folded he last load of washing I did, and I have just thrown all of the things into the drawers, and not actually organised them", you blushed, "sounds like a plan, then", Daniel said, his hand rubbing your bump softly.

By the time you got home, Daniel prepared a snack for you and brought it to the nursery, "no, you sit here", he grabbed the big comfy chair and positioned it near the chest of drawers, "I sit on the floor", he said, helping you sit and kissing the top of your head, "just tell me what to do and I'll get whatever you need", he smiled charmingly, sitting criss cross on top of the fluffy rug, "I need the onesies, please", you said, seeing your husband split the pile in two so you could both fold them.

"It's so weird to think she's going to be this small", he expressed, holding up one of the full body onesies your sister in law advised you to get for sleeping, "check the size on that, and please, don't say weird, don't call our daughter weird", you noted back, "Oh, this is 2-3 months", Daniel gulped, "she's going to be even smaller then? Oh my goodness", he whispered, looking up at your bump, lifting his hand to stroke the skin, "hey babygirl, mummy and daddy can't want to meet you, but you should stay in there and cook properly, because you're going to be little enough", he continued even though you interrupted him, "she better be, I'm the one pushing her out of m-".

"And you're going to have all of these outfits, this one has a bow in it, daddy just folded one with a racing car, I think grandma embroidered that one", he continued as you nodded, "and look at these little socks, they're so cute. And there's a cardigan, you'll look like a little old lady, so cosy and cute", he said, noticing your wide eyes at the mess he was creating, "and now mummy is looking at me with very big, wide eyes, so I have to clean up this mess I made before she goes all dragon like on me", he giggled, making you smile even though his observation was right. After all those years together, his laughter still made you feel butterflies, and it did so to your baby, too, since she started kicking the minute he talked to her, "she's having a dance party, I think".

Daniel scooched closer to you, laying his head on your thighs and facing your bump, rubbing his nose in your bellybutton, "babygirl, you're so loved, your mummy's so loved", he gasped softly, "goodness, I think ill run out of space for all the love I have for you two", he blinked away a tear, "our love was so big that it became her", you whispered, touching Daniel's cheek softly.

"So that's what we are going to tell her whenever she asks? Not me and mummy on the bed do-", he teased, stopping sentence when you put your hand on his mouth, "sush, Daniel".

(Thank you for submitting an ask 🤍)