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flowersforbucky · 6 months ago

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diet pepsi

logan howlett x reader - 2.8k words

summary: old!logan x reader limousine sex. inspired by the song diet pepsi by addison rae

author's note: i recently rewatched logan and haven't been able to stop thinking about what it would be like to have him in the backseat of that limousine. then i heard this song a few days ago and knew exactly what i had to write.

warnings/tags: smut, porn with plot, unprotected p in v, oral (m&f receiving), pet names (princess, honey), reader has kinda longish hair (nothing too specific), a little angsty but mostly fluffy? happy ending, reader is afab, no use of of y/n, 18+ only mdni

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when we drive in your car, i'm your baby

losing all my innocence in the backseat

say you love, say you love, say you love me

losing all my innocence in the backseat

The cab of the limousine reeks of leather and smoke - both stale and fresh, from the cigars he has chain smoked over the last few days and two thousand miles - give or take a few.

It's a scent you've grown surprisingly fond of. You know that no matter how long this thing between the two of you lasts, you'll forever associate the smoky sweet aroma of tobacco with him.

You've been laying down across the backseat for the last few hours, trying and failing to get some sleep at Logan's request, as he drives from Reno back to Mexico. The two of you had left the familiar comfort of the abandoned smelting plant three days ago in search of a bulk supply of Charles’ medications - a search that led you to Nevada and yielded a six month supply of injections and pills.

You sit up in the middle of the seat, meeting Logan's gaze in the rearview mirror.

He's exhausted. He’d never admit it to you, but you know him better than he likely realizes. He's hanging on by a thread.

The digital clock on the dashboard reads it's just past noon. Another four hours and some change to go.

Asking him to pull over and rest for his own sake would be a fruitless waste of time, this much you know from the drive to Reno. What was supposed to be at least a seventeen hour drive turned into a fifteen hour drive as he sped the whole way and only stopped for the absolutely necessary food, bathroom, and gas breaks. Only after obtaining the crates of medicine did he allow himself the simple luxury of a few hours sleep.

“What's that look for, princess?” he asks as he breaks his stare, his eyes snapping back to the endless expanse of the blazing asphalt in front of you.

“I'm hungry,” you shrug with a sly grin. “And I need some coffee. And I miss you.”

He lets out a low laugh, a smirk forming across his features in the reflection of the glass. You don't miss the way his fingers grip the cracked leather of the steering wheel tighter at the words I miss you.

“We'll stop for something to eat soon, I promise.”

You hum in response, moving from your position on the further bench seat to the one that rests against the driver’s and front passenger’s seat, directly behind him. You lean your chest against the backrest, dangling one arm across the seat so that you can bring your hand to stroke the prominent stubble across his jaw.

“And what about the last thing?” you murmur, running your thumb along his bottom lip as you stare at him. He tenses beneath your touch but doesn't take his eyes off of the road before him.

“I'm right here, princess. Don't gotta miss me.”

“You know what I mean.”

He's barely touched you since you had first left Mexico three days ago - and you understand why, truly. He's been focused on getting to Reno, getting the medication, and getting the fuck back home before the last few days worth of Charles’ injections and pills are gone. Even when you stopped at a random motel for a few hours of shut eye, you were both too exhausted to do anything other than sleep.

In fact, it was the first time that you've slept in a bed together without him being between your legs. You didn't mind it all - the simplicity and the intimacy of just sleeping curled into each other was something you'd always cherish from this trip.

But you’d be lying if you tried to convince yourself that you weren’t aching to have him in all of the ways that you’re so used to having him.

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” he sighs, kissing the side of your thumb that still rests along his bottom lip. It's pathetic how the small act has you ready to crawl over the seat and straddle him. “We're almost home, though. Don't you want me to shower first?” he teases.

You know that both of you have to smell something foul - the motel you'd stayed in didn't even have a functioning shower, and the western United States heat is no joke this time of year. You both did the best you could with the bathroom sink and some baby wipes that you snagged from the gas station across the road, but whore's baths and deodorant just don't quite cut it in ninety-five degree weather.

“No, I don't,” you admit - you can't even bring yourself to care if it's pathetic. You bring your face closer to his, your nose nuzzling just under his ear. “I want you to pull over, get in the back of this car, and let me ride you until we both come.”

He hisses when your lips lock around the tender flesh of his earlobe, causing him to swerve and quickly correct back into the right lane.

“Fuckin hell,” he grunts, knuckles gripping the wheel so tight that they start to turn white. “Can't be saying that shit when I'm driving. Gonna make me wreck this thing.”

You laugh into the side of his neck, trailing wet kisses along his skin. “I'd suggest pulling over, then.”

He sighs again, all but melting into your touch now. You know you're getting your way when he flips on the turn signal and looks over his shoulder before merging right and then pulling off on the side of the desolate highway.

“You know that you've got me wrapped around your little finger, don't you?” He asks as he unbuckles his seatbelt and hops out of the limousine, slamming the driver's door behind him before you can respond. You move back to your original position on the back bench seat as he crawls in with you, pulling a spare key from his pocket to lock the still-running vehicle.

“Wrapped around my little finger is exactly where I intend to keep you.” He smiles - the first real smile you've seen from him in days and you melt a little inside. He kneels on the felt carpet before you, splaying his hands on your inner thighs and pushing them apart.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he murmurs into the flesh of your thighs, his facial hair tickling the bare skin. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of both your shorts and panties and you raise off the seat a few inches, giving him the clearance to tug them down past your ankles. You're left in nothing but a thin cotton tank top, your nipples pebbling from the way he's looking up at you.

“Cause that's exactly where I like to be.”

It's a rare occurrence that the two of you exchange such sweet sentiments - he usually only goes as far as whispering my girl in your ear as he sheaths himself inside you after late nights at work, when he comes home with lips that taste like single malt whiskey.

He loops his arms around the backs of your legs and tugs you forward on the seat, bringing your cunt directly to his mouth. Any sense of hesitation he initially had about hooking up on the side of the highway goes out the window as soon as his tongue licks a thick strip from your hole and up to your clit. You hiss, digging the fingernails of one hand into the old, weathered leather of the seat and bringing your other to lace your fingers through the salt and pepper colored locks of his hair.

As tired as he is from days of driving and very little sleep, you would never be able to tell with the fervency of his tongue lapping your folds. He always eats you like it’s the last time he ever will - and knowing Logan as well as you do, there’s always that chance that it very well could be.

So, you grab his hair and pull him as close to you as he can possibly be and revel in every lick, every kiss, every tug of his lips around your clit as he makes you believe that the two of you could have a lifetime of these moments together.

You can already feel that tell-tale warmth blooming in the pit of your abdomen when he brings a singular finger to your hole and plunges it inside you. Your walls constrict around the digit and he groans against your clit, the vibration spurring you closer to the edge of your climax. You grind yourself into his mouth as he sinks his tongue inside you, your back arching off of the seat and your eyes rolling into your head.

He pulls his tongue from inside you and moves his mouth up to your clit once more, locking his lips around the nub and pulling away with a wet pop that sends you over the edge. You ride out your orgasm on his face, writhing until he pulls his finger out of you. You’re still seeing rainbows of colors and stars when he brings the wet finger to your mouth and shoves it past your lips, swirling the sweet tang of your juices around in your mouth.

“You taste that?” he murmurs, pulling his finger out of your mouth and inserting it in his own. He takes his time, cleaning the last remnants of your slick from the digit. “That’s how you’ve got me so wrapped around your finger.” His words make your head spin, like you’ve had one too many shots of his favorite bourbon that he always keeps a steady supply of.

“Your turn.” Your words even sound slurred as you bring your fists to his chest, urging him backwards onto the seat opposite of you. You take his place on the floor of the limousine, crawling towards where he’s now lounging with his large thighs already spread wide for you.

You’re about to reach for the button of his jeans when he leans forward, grabbing the tail-end of your tank top and quickly tugging it over your head. You’re left bare before him and you’re hit with a wave of relief that these windows are tinted beyond what’s legal in the state of New Mexico.

His eyes travel from your thighs and up your stomach as he sweeps your hair over your shoulders, giving him an unhindered view of your breasts.

“My girl,” he hums, not taking his eyes off of you as he pops the button at the top of his pants and tugs down the zipper. “My pretty girl.”

“Yours,” you agree, butterflies mixing with arousal in your gut as you help him pull the restrictive fabric of his jeans and boxers down until they bunch around his ankles. His cock springs free, hard and leaking pre-cum down around the head.

You feel saliva pool in your mouth at the sight. As many times as you've had his impressive length inside you, you don't think it'll ever not make your mouth water.

You take the base of him in one hand, languidly pumping him as you lean forward, gathering all of the spit in your mouth and releasing it over the tip of his cock. You continue to stroke him, smearing the wetness down his length.

He groans, deep and guttural as he throws his head back against the seat. You can't see, but you know that his eyes have snapped shut at the pleasure.

When you've got him fully lubricated, you ease the tip of him into your mouth and swirl your tongue around his head. He brings a hand to the back of your head and pulls you forward, cramming more of himself into your mouth. You open wider to accommodate his length as it juts against the back of your throat.

“Fuck, honey,” he grunts when you pause to adjust to the stretch that you're feeling in your jaws. “You always take me so well. Never had anyone make me feel as good as you do.”

You moan around his dick at the praise, feeling your own arousal budding again in your lower belly. You pull back until only half of him is left inside your mouth, and then slowly begin to bob up and down, the tip of him repeatedly jabbing against the back of your throat. What little of his length that you can't take at one time, you continue to stroke in your hand. Your free hand comes to cup his balls, massaging them in rhythm with the thrusts of your mouth on his cock. You can feel tears begin to leak out of the corners of your eyes and down your cheeks from the lack of oxygen.

Right when you feel him begin to twitch against your tongue, he threads his fingers through your hair and yanks you off of him.

“You said you wanted to ride me until we both came, yeah?” He wraps his hands around the tops of your arms, pulling you upwards and onto his lap. You're too light headed to speak so you just nod quickly, adjusting your position across his lap. His cock is pressed against his lower stomach, lodged between the wet lips of your cunt and his happy trail.

“I want you to do just that.” He grabs you by the hips, pulling you forward along his shaft. You raise up on the balls of your feet as he takes himself in his fist, running his tip through your folds to lubricate himself with your juices before stopping at your hole. He juts his hips upwards at the same time that you sink down, causing the entirety of his length to be sheathed inside you at once.

“Oh my god,” you groan as you adjust to the sheer size of him. He always stretches you so painfully sweet. You steady yourself with your hands on his broad shoulders, realizing that he’s still in a two day old t-shirt. He reads your mind and yanks the fabric over his head. You take in the sight before you - all of the defined planes of his chest, his body hair that you love to run your fingers through when you’re riding him, that one vein that bulges on his bicep that you just want to trace with your tongue -

You raise up again, until he’s almost all the way out of you and only the head of his cock remains inside you before you sink back down all at once, earning an animalistic growl from him. You repeat the ministrations until you have acclimated to his size. You begin to increase your speed, the sound of your ass bouncing off of his thighs echoing around the limited space of the limosuine’s cab.

“So goddamn tight,” he spits through gritted teeth, one hand coming to plant a firm grasp on your asscheek. He digs his fingers into the meat with enough force to leave bruises but it only spurs on your movements. You liked it - the idea of being marked by him, even if it wasn’t something that anyone else would ever be able to see. “Always feel like you were made for me.”

You let out a pathetic whimper at his words, not knowing what to say or do to convey your emotions in that moment other than to lower your lips to his. He immediately opens his mouth to you, letting your tongue inside to merge with his. His taste was so comforting and familiar to you - tobacco and peppermint and something uniquely Logan. You didn’t think you’d find a flavor quite like it in anyone else, and you never wanted to test that theory.

“I was,” you whine breathlessly when you finally pull away. “Was made for you.”

He begins to meet your bounces with thrusts of his own, hitting the sweet spot of your cervix just right with each movement.

“Say it,” he grunts - you can tell he’s close by his movements growing erratic beneath you. “Wanna hear you say that you’re mine.”

You can feel your second orgasm building with every word that he says. He brings his free hand in between your bodies, finding your clit right away. He massages you with his thumb and you come around his cock with a cry of his name.

“I am,” you pant through your orgasm as he continues to thrust up into you. “I am yours, I’ve been yours, just yours.” Your admission sends him over the edge and he spills into you from below, both of his arms wrapping around your lower back and pulling your bare chest against his.

“You mean that?” he murmurs against the sweat-coated skin of your collarbone. You lean back enough to look down at him, cradling his jawline in the palm of your hand.

“I do,” you tell him, your voice barely above a whisper. “But only if you’re mine, too,” you add with a small, nervous laugh.

“I've been yours since the day we met, princess. Just had a hard time believing you could want me in the same way.”

You snort a laugh at the confession that sounds so ridiculous to you, and then bring your lips to his once more to show him just how badly you absolutely do want to be his.

thanks for reading! comments and reblogs are always very appreciated 💕

other logan works by me: straight to my head • claw kink drabble • dog tag drabble

#logan howlett x reader #logan x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett x you #logan x you #old!logan x reader #old!logan #logan howlett smut #logan smut #wolverine x you #wolverine smut #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett oneshot #logan howlett one-shot #logan howlett one shot #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine fanfiction #wolverine imagine

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girlsoutlate · 3 months ago

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thunking thoughts of nikto realising he can cope more effectively through your touch or being soothed by it idk i just need to post this bloody thing and stop obssessing over every detail

mention of mental issues of niktos, tension but not between nikto and reader, super duper brief light angst with resolution

it wasn't acceptable to let such a hostile creature in to your home and heart. niktos demeanour had changed over the last few days. you were both unaware of it until you flinched at his words one too many times. or how you shrank away at his bulking figure that stalked through the house. you did plan to ask him tomorrow, both of you were too exhuasted from demanding days at work to talk about it that evening. nikto had his.. odd ways of coping. yet he hadn't discovered the most effective thing: your touch.

nikto discovered this power over him completely by accident on one of his first nights staying with you.

at one point late in to the night you awoke to find his side of the bed empty, cold. abandoned long ago. the first time it happened you went back to sleep, thinking he went to the bathroom. however, when you woke again half an hour later and the bed was still empty you began to worry. as you stumbled in to your slippers you searched the chair next to the bed for one of niktos jumpers. it was embued with his scent: musk, tobacco and a faint smell of gunpowder that never left. with bleary eyes you treaded along the dark landing towards a dim light emanating downstairs. just as you were about to descend a loud thump splintered the still air of your house. you jumped out of your skin, heart thudding in your ears. was andrei okay?

creeping down the stairs your ears perked up at the sound of a voice. hoarse and and slightly breathy, like some wild animal being strangled. a wooden chair scraped across the tiled floor, echoing amongst the emptiness of the ground floor and up the stairs. avoiding the creaky step you finished descending the stairs. the light from kitchen cut out a sharp shape on the shadows of the hallway. as you stood shrouded in darkness your heard the gravelly growl of the voice you knew to be niktos. he was muttering to himself in russian, however he sounded so frustrated it was more like gibberish.

as you peeked in to the kitchen, slightly blinded by the light you saw a figure hunched over in a chair by the table. that strange strangled voice escaped again. another thump- it was his fist on the table. he shot up and started pacing around the kitchen, hands gesturing wildly. you could tell nikto was angry, voice getting more gruff each sentence. abruptly he stopped moving, muscles in his back showing through the thin tight material of his top. leaning on the kitchen counter with his back to you, he ran his calloused hands through his black hair. he kept his head down, the growl of a mutter growing harsher with each passing second. words flew out his mouth at an alarming pace getting louder and louder, knuckles turning white as he gripped the side. just before it seemed he was going to shout your cautious voice cut him off.

'nikto, are you okay?' you meekly asked. he span around, pale eyes wild. pinpoint irises locked on to your shivering form. he drank in the curve of your body, barely hidden by your sleep shorts and his jumper. the deep colour of your eyes emphasised by the weak light. his girl always looks so gorgeous. and then he noticed how your wrung your hands even though they were swallowed by the sleeves of his jumper. or the gentle furrow of your brow at his behaviour. some of your hair stuck up at odd angles from your tossing and turning at his absence during the night. he made you worry.

his heaving chest faltered and then deflated, eyes dropping to the floor in embarrassment. 'we are sorry we woke you dorogaya' he replied, voice hoarse from talking 'we were ah- talking'. a beat passed, you blinked at his response. to see a creature go from such a hostile to a guilty state was alarming to say the least. but you could still see he was on edge. his eyes flicked about the dim room while his thick fingers began to fidget with the hem of his threadbare shirt. just as his breathing quickened pace you steadied yourself and took a step forward. 'come' you commanded.

as nikto lumbered forwards his usual calm and calculated demeanour completely dissipated. the moment your lidded eyes landed upon him his mind was racing. were you angry with him for waking you up? did he scare you? how dare he wake you up make you worry. were you angry? nikto could deal with anger, it had always been a part of his life. but worry he couldn't. no one had worried over him, not like you did. to the forces he just needed to survive to the next mission, nothing but a valuable machine. to his friends, well, it can be questioned if they should have that title. but you were a glimmer of hope that he kept closely guarded to his rotten heart. your presence in his life transformed in to a steady glow, seeping under his mange-ridden skin. before he could realise, this light had ignited a blaze that consumed his heart and ravaged across his mangled skin. the heat was painful- to let someone so close to him. yet he writhed in ecstasy in your presence. the thought of that being dampened- potentially by him- made icy dread shoot up his spine.

he kept his gaze down, raking over your legs covered in goosebumps. his lips, raw from nibbling, parted in a shaky breath. just as another apology left his mouth, you threw your arms around him, burying your head in his solid chest. although your arms could barely reach around his burly form, he could feel the tightness of your embrace. niktos arms, corded equally with muscles and scars, hung by his sides. momentarily, he was taken aback. how could you still love this thing after witnessing its strange, violent ways? nikto didn't deserve a forgiving person like you. but he wasn't going to push away the one true good thing this godforsaken world had blessed him with.

niktos heart was pounding, blood rushing through his ears. one calloused hand rose up to the softness of your neck. his thumb brushed over your bobbing adams apple. gently, to not get carried away, he pressed harder just on the side of your neck. your steady pulse thrummed under his fingertips, warmth seeping from you to him. slowly but surely, nikto wrapped his arms around you. one brushed against your shoulder blades, while the other cradled your head closer to his chest. he buried his misshapen nose in to your hair deeply breathing in your scent. the warmth of your plush body washed over andrei. experimenting, his paw-like hand slid over the curve of your waist, stopping to squeeze the fat of your hip. you breathed out a short gasp. andrei's rough fingertips grazed against your stretchmarks, each raised ridge inching him closer to the realisation he was here with you. you were safe and he was with you, everything else could wait. the crackle of tension in the air had dissipated the second your melodic voice had cut through it. now, the cold kitchen lights didn't gleam unnaturally bright. he was enraptured in the faint glow of your skin.

the voices were still there, but far, far away. andrei was blanketed in your love, which grew stronger each time you ran your hand along the expanse of his back. "lets go back to bed, da?" he rasped. holding on to your hand, he followed you back to bed. stairs creaked under his bulky form as he padded after you in the dark. you climbed in to bed that had grown cold in both your absence, gesturing andrei to join. he wrapped his arms under your shirt, soft skin gliding against his scars. your legs tangled together, wanting to be as close as possible. burying his face in to the crook of your neck, he let the sounds of your heartbeat lull him to sleep. as your ran your nails through his overgrown buzzcut a grumble of content reverberated throughout the room. soon you both drifted off to sleep, never letting go throughout the night.

from that day andrei held on to you, for his own sake. how could you deny him that?

thankyou for reading, i hope you enjoyed it!! let me know if you want another installment of this and any ideas you might have. this has been lurking in my drafts since last week and i just need to get it out. my boyfriend has gone on a break with me so ive been pretty distracted this week, sorry its a little later and thanks for being patient :)))

#call of duty #nikto x reader #cod nikto #cod x reader #cod #nikto cod #call of duty nikto #light angst #nikto cod x reader #mwii nikto #nikto call of duty #nikto #call of duty angst

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likesomeoneinlovee · 5 months ago

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𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐓𝐇

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader.

Edit: Holy hell first fic I ever wrote 😅, (very tempted to delete this.)

Summary: You and Arthur had just got back from a hunting trip in the harsh weather and decided there might just be a better way to warm up than a fire. Warnings: WC: 1k-ish. NSFW, Quickie, PIV sex, pull out, no proof read, rushed lowkey (yea, we can tell) female reader.

Colter felt like hell on earth if hell had froze over.

Even in the run-down houses still left in the old mining camp the cold air was blistering. You and Arthur stood just outside one of the house’s log frame with your backs against it. The two of you kept your cigarettes between your lips, puffing on them as you smoked together. You and Arthur had been hunting for some deer for Pearson so no one would be left hungry as well as cold, those two didn’t mix well.

Your foot tapped against the snow as you took the cigarette between your fingers. “You’d think it’s the dead of winter when it’s meant to be spring.” You spoke so the gusts of wind drove by the blizzard wouldn’t be the only sound against the silence.

“That’s what we get for goin’ up the mountains. Damnit.” He complained, rightfully so. After Blackwater it was the gang’s only choice I suppose, and finding a place not already swarming with people who we’d have to kill just for a place to live, now that was a damn near blessing. If you could even believe in those anymore. Your thoughts were quickly cut off by his words.

“I’d do anything for some goddamn warmth.”

Oh, now he’d do anything. You’d quickly push the idea out of your head before it could fully form, he was your friend anyway, definitely not your lover.

But then again what’s so wrong with a quick fuck to get warmed up?

Dutch and Hosea were currently inside the cabin you two were leaned against starting a fire. Though it seemed like a simple quick task that could be done quickly by them, your body ached for warmth, you wouldn’t dare to wait that long. Waiting felt like an absurdity to you and you were beginning to realize why, maybe your body didn’t ache for the comfortable warmth of a fire, maybe it was just dying to get it’s hands on Arthur—

He inhaled his cigarette one last time, savoring the tase of burning tobacco before flicking it into the snow onto the ground. His muscles tense from the cold. He could see your eyes burning into the side of his head, tracing his jawline, he huffed before turning to face you. “You ain’t waitin’ for that fire either, are ya?”

He read you like an open book, or maybe that wasn’t it. He could’ve been thinking the same as you this entire time.

That was the truth of it.

“No, I ain’t, Morgan.” You let the words slip out, of course just thinking about the bulk of his muscles against you could warm you up all in itself. The heavy breaths coming from his parted lips told you enough. He pushed himself from the wall to stand in-front of you, his large hands now on your shoulders, guiding you so your back could press tighter against the cabin, leaving no room between. It was too easy to go so unspoken, as if you two had been waiting for any excuse to do this that it only took few words to convince each other. Guess now that turned into a fact. “You’re gonna let me touch you?”

“Am I-“ Your words caught your throat before you could repeat his sentence, you couldn’t act like how you felt before you yelp a quick and excited ‘Yes!’ at his whisper. “For a minute.” Your voice a tad muffled by the cigarette hanging from your plump lips, tinted red from the cold, along with your cheeks. His hands slipped to your forearms, pressing himself against you. He threw his hat off into the snow, frustrated it was getting in the way as he tried to press your foreheads together, discarding just like his cigarette. The tips of your noses brushing against each other. “Christ you’re warm.”

He’d move one of his hands to take the cigarette from your lips before it could burn his chin, he already had enough scars there. Your eyes completely fixed on his lips with no excuse, feeling his breath fan your face, silently praying that no one would come around the corner.

“Shit, y’know I just lit that? You said regarding your cigarette, this was hit with a quick, nearly harsh “I don’t care.” from him. He couldn’t stand the cold anymore. Taking you into a deep, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue quickly pushing into your mouth. It was like a war on your body had now begun; his hips snapped against yours once before ripping his lips from yours with a deep growl ripping from his throat, he quickly grew needy, bunching up your layers of skirt before his hands quickly moved to pick you up. Your thighs instinctively wrapped tight around his waist as he pressed you against that same wall. He moved one of his hands down where his belt would be if his goddamn coat weren’t so long, his face pressed against your shoulder as he tried to work around it.

“Fuck.” He’d grunt, his fingers working at the belt once found, with gloved hands this was even more frustratingly difficult on his part, but as he did always, he managed to undo it, tugging his pants down to his thighs. You on the other hand were less patient, your hand has been under your skirt, and instead of taking off your panties you had ripped them completely, Arthur noticed when you threw the torn piece of lace onto the matching white snow.

He’d guide himself under your skirt, his hand wrapped around his cock as he circled your sopping cunt with his head, surprised to say the least when he felt how soaked you were in such a short amount of time, now he’d wonder what you were thinking about to get you like this. He wouldn’t vocalize what he was thinking, instead focusing on doing this quick and fast. In and out.

He took his first thrust into you, stretching you to fit around his thick shaft. Though it put you into pure ecstasy. You knew better not to be loud, the thudding of your back hitting the log wall with every pound into your pussy was enough to peak someone’s curiosity. Your hand was tight over your mouth to suppress your moans. Arthur not wearing his hat gave you a perfect excuse to tangle your fingers in his sandy locks, tugging at them almost to silently say ‘Hurry up.’

Though you’d prefer this to last, you’d know every single one of his delicious, deep thrusts will only live on in your head for the next century. His pace got even rougher, more sloppy than before as he pumped himself faster. Pulling all the way out just to slam his cock back in.

“Goddamn you’re tight, princess- fuckin’ makin’ me lose control.” He’d rasp right into your ear. His words broke you down into even more of a shaking mess than you were. The combination of his words and his tip hitting your g-spot over, and over, and over again sent you over the edge, your cunt clenched around him, now he didn’t want you to alert nobody, of course. His mouth took yours into — once again — a deep, messy kiss, feeling your moan vibrate down his throat. He’d grip your thigh with one hand, keeping you against the wall as he used his other to help himself out of you, spitting into his palm to add extra slickness to his already cum-covered cock, tightening his grip around it to mimic your pussy, though he couldn’t get it that right. With a few more pumps from his hand he’d cum over his fist, with a low drawn out “Fuccccckkkkk…”

You marveled at the sight, seeing Morgan’s O-face wasn’t something you could ever imagine not even in your sick mind, seeing his eyebrows furrowed together as his jaw slacked, it was something else to say the least. Your words were stolen from you after everything that had happen, somehow now hot even standing in the cold snow with your skirt hitched around your hips.

When you heard the door creek open in the distance you two hastily got yourself out of that position, adjusting your coats as you quickly tugged your layered skirt down to your boots once again. A small pant almost of relief came from you as you saw it was Dutch leaving the cabin, of course he walked straight, if he’d only have turned a bit he could’ve saw the sight of you and Arthur standing there with flushed faces, various things scattered the snow around you — including your panties.

You picked the ripped fabric off of the ground, still a bit shocked it had even come to this. “This might’ve been my only pair.” The silence was broken by your words, at the least you got a weak chuckle from Arthur, your cheeks flushing at the sound. You two were completely spent.

Later into the night you two were actually in the cabin this time; sitting in two separate chairs by the now lit fireplace, Arthur smoked as your hands reached in front of you to feel the warmth. The fire casting a warm light over the both of you in the otherwise dark cabin.

“You know, that was nice.” That may have been the first you had mentioned the events from hours ago since. His eyes flicked towards you, a smirk tugged at his lips.

“You’re a beautiful girl.” He’d reply, flattering, very much. “It’s gettin’ late. ‘Stead of walkin’ to the girl’s cabin why don’t you just stay in my bed.” He offered, and that offer you couldn’t refuse.

“I’d like that.” You’d smile at him, the both of you getting up as his took your hand into his leading you to his small bedroom.

And as you could — probably — imagine, you two didn’t exactly sleep that night. The creeks and whines of Arthur’s cot that could be heard from the other rooms told anyone with ears that.

#Arthur Morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption community #red dead fandom #john marston #javier escuella #dutch van der linde #short reads #fanfic #ao3 #x reader #one shot

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springsylph · 10 months ago

Text

bodyguard.

[bodyguard!john price x rookie actress!reader]

extension of this blurb. || minors, do not interact.

read on ao3

this was supposed to be a one-off thing but uh. my hand slipped? had to cut down the "price wouldn't do that" monster with my "i can do what i want" sword, and we got 3k of an unedited brain dump that i typed on my phone at six in the morning. also my first time writing something for price! woo!

He pulls out the crown on his watch, begins to twist and twist so that the dials can begin their inevitable rotation. “You know what time it is?"

Yelling secures you your first big project.

You can’t pay those bills until I land a job. A real job.

You’re almost certain your agent thinks you’re throwing a tantrum, and it leaves a coarse grit in your molars. You don’t like to pick fights. Hate it, really. But pushes are usually succeeded by shoves, and you can’t afford to get knocked out of the ring this time around.

The worst they can do is say no, right?

Thankfully, one yes is all you need to beg for. Your chariot arrives in the shape of a surprisingly low-budget rom-com, in simple terms. You and your C-list costar (flanked by a squeaky clean track record, thank god) are swept up in a soundless spiral of table reads and filming and wrapping before you can really, truly process.

But a warden stands guard at the eye of your perfect storm. John Price, assigned to you through your agency without so much as a proper word.

(“Squeaky clean,” apparently, didn’t take a history of overzealous stalkers into account.)

The peephole to your dilapidated apartment can barely contain him. blocks him—or attempts to do so—like a child might shield their sandcastle from the pulsing tide. Only, you think the tide might be more forgiving. He’s rooted in place, made harsher under the cracked fluorescent bulbs out in the hallway. They hum along with him. Faint, unless your breathing stills.

You’d feel a little more at ease if he were actually ex-military; the scraps of information you’ve been fed tell you that he’s been discharged, but you don’t believe it. Not for a second. You hadn’t been given much else apart from that and a face, but you could put together that he was disgustingly overqualified—not that you were complaining, though. Not yet.

You watch as John Price—Price?—gazes with a deceiving sort of apathy toward the end of the hall, then to the other, and back to the other end in three smooth seconds.

You think he’s seeing things till the apartment two doors down produces a tenant from its depths and price is turning, warding the disturbance off with an easy mornin’ and a wave of a large hand. He says nothing when they shuffle off awkwardly without a response, and the slow crawl of his opposite hand away from a flash of metal at his hip draws your pupil like a magnet.

It’s then that you note the suspiciously white shirt—rolled up to his elbows, tucked neatly into dark denim. hands tucked into pockets. Beard trimmed. Everything not protected by the skin on his body squared away just so, with just enough of his bulk on display to prompt that second spike of wariness.

A meticulous problem, then.

You peel yourself away from the door after an inhale and swing it open regardless.

The smell of tobacco and cologne hits your nose like a hammer the moment the door hits the bolt behind you, but you recover the feeling in your knees quickly. The fisheye lens doesn’t quite do him justice—you have to look up a bit to take another quick scan, cheeks cramping with the sudden momentum of your smile.

“I don’t see a bible or a pamphlet, so I’m assuming you’re not here to preach?”

The joke doesn’t fall flat, but it does sail into one of the weaker bulbs before it shuts off with a buzz.

“…Captain Price, right?”

His eyes crinkle with a hint of what might be a grin. Under different circumstances, maybe. “Right on the mark. A pleasure to finally meet you, Ma’am.” But that thrum of irritation is there, as is the narrowing of his eyes when you extend your hand in greeting. “Just Price’ll do though.”

Hm.

He reaches up to fix his beanie just above his brow before giving your hand a firm shake. Definitely military. And hot as a furnace. You’re more than a little dizzy when he pulls back to check his watch, the inside of your wrist now raw from the grazing of a fingernail.

You can feel the skin he’s taken with him when he looks you in the eyes. Assessing. You don’t know why, but think you’ve won until he’s looking back down at his wrist.

He pulls out the crown on his watch, begins to twist and twist so that the dials can begin their inevitable rotation. “You know what time it is?”

Nine in the morning.

Or, at least it was thirty minutes ago.

“I—yeah. Lost track of time, sorry.” You scratch just under the collar of your shirt, straighten it out when the itch turns into a tingle you’re willing to overlook. You realize after an embarrassing beat that he’s probably asking for the actual time. “I sleep like a rock,” you add anyway. Your agency had actually given you three things, not two: a poorly put together profile, a face, and a meeting time.

It dawns on you now that a thirty minute “test of patience” with your back pressed to the door may not have been the way to go.

Price looks up, finally. Rolls his shoulders back as if to shed the pileup of gravity that’s compressed his spine in the half hour you’ve kept him waiting—and somehow, someway, seems to double the amount of space he takes up.

“That so,” he questions. Low in his throat, and a tad exasperated, because you’ve studied exasperation. Went into debt to have that understanding feel like a second skin. Which is why you observe, perplexed, as he gestures to the entryway. You think you feel your head nod, and he brushes past you to push through the door. “‘Nother habit we’ll have to kick.”

Any objections you might’ve had are killed in your throat the moment his prowl begins, and your socks catch on the scuffed linoleum as you flounder in after him.

The door slams back against the bolt while Price’s boots press the air out of your hardwood floors, squeals escaping with each heavy step. You squeak out a feeble excuse me alongside them once or twice, but to no avail. He can’t hear you, too intent on following some internal rhythm that takes him to the open window, the dusty cabinets, slipping fingers into the creases of a space you’re barely acquainted with yourself.

Something like nausea begins to bubble. You planned this. You’d planned out your introduction. Picked out your clothes, your shoes, where you’d grab coffee so you could build up your integrity and explain to him that you’re not looking to be coddled, he’d just get in the way. And now you’re wringing your hands, abject unease burning in a dense knot between your eyes while you figure out how to melt into the poorly hidden pile of dirty laundry.

There’s a delay in your processing, and you don’t start to catch up until Price finally slows down enough for you to realize he’s been talking.

He’s stooping over your dining room table, swiping a finger over his tongue before using it to card through old mail. “Real sorry ‘bout this, Ma’am. Not the most ideal introduction, I know, but we’re on a bit of a time crunch. Standard protocol—’m sure you know how it is, yeah?”

Price moves to turn over a stack of magazines on your dining table, and you wonder: were you supposed to know? You’re sure his question is rhetorical, and you’re certainly not inclined to answer. But something about the way it hits the water stains on your ceiling justifies the way he turns to look at you over his shoulder.

Concern. An uncut gem, plucked from some cavernous fissure that might be closer in proximity to hell than your own flesh and blood.

The crease between his brows deepens. “You have had security before, haven’t you?”

“Don’t get out much. I do my work, come right home.” You shrug, but your shoulders can’t seem to come back down. Perhaps this was why they’d put him on leave—he couldn’t do math.

You shuffle a bit in place, kick aside a ratty tennis ball left behind from one of your pet sitting stints. It hits your refrigerator and he’s still looking down at your feet, so you look with him.

—at the last two toes sticking out of your sock.

You rush to cover it with your other foot while Price sucks his teeth. He doesn’t move, hands still planted on the table, but each time he blinks his eyes are trained on something different.

Price lets out a sigh before he finally stands upright, perching his hands on his hips. “I'm surprised your people waited this long to call someone in. Right idiots they are, I’ll tell you that.”

Your people. You wrap your arms around your middle, pinch the fabric of your shirt between your fingers.

“I can't really blame them,” you say after a moment. Tip your chin up, a last ditch attempt at salvaging what little of your farce is left to cover yourself with.

Price tuts, strangely unconvinced for someone you’d only known for around ten minutes. “You’d be smart to blame them.”

“Don’t think I can do that when I'm working for them, Price.”

“Can’t you? S’clear they’ve done fuck all to look out for you.”

And you could. Should. Want to. So, so desperately need to. But you’re already saddled with enough things to hate. Hope of catharsis is an outbound ship, a blip on the horizon that you don’t have the funds to board.

“…I don't follow.”

Price doesn’t flinch when the table rocks without the weight of the magazines to keep it steady, and neither do you.

“You don’t follow,” he repeats. Like a crucial detail has been lost in translation.

You shake your head.

“Well, that’s no good.”

Cigar smoke snakes its way into your headspace again when he strides past you to put his hand up against the door, muscles in his forearms flexing when he pulls at the doorknob. He beckons you closer, and you’re pulled out of orbit when you skirt close enough for him to reach, guiding your hand to the cool metal while he stands just behind you.

“Here,” he mutters. Your chest is a cushion, and the rumble in his chest is a bright red pin.

(Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if the crackle of a walkie-talkie might bury how frighteningly human he sounds.)

“What am I looking for?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

He takes his hand off once you’ve stopped throwing glances at him, and your knuckles sizzle in his absence. What was he looking for? Nothing…looks different.

You can’t focus. His eyes are on your neck, and you can’t focus.

And suddenly, you don’t like how close he is. You’re reminded of how he’d shoved his way into your apartment. Barely spoken to you before driving a stake through the bubble put together with your blood sweat and tears. Made you feel ashamed in your own home.

Righteous indignation flares up, and you’re spewing words you’re certain you believe in until they tumble out.

“If you’re just here to poke fun, I’m not—”

Pop.

You look down. The keyhole pokes just out of the doorknob and you look to Price, his face remarkably passive.

“Lock’s been tampered with.” He runs a thumb over the offending protrusion, watches as it slots back into place. “You should see some scratches on the other side of it. Thought I noticed something when the door first slammed, but I didn't want to startle you in case my eyes were playing tricks. Can’t quite see like I used to.”

Why not get glasses?

“I would’ve put up less of a fuss if you’d told me up front.”

He looks at you, eyes a perfect congruence of something just beyond what your fingertips can touch. But he smiles, and you think you can understand. Maybe mash the pieces together. A distending warmth. Nepenthe sinking into every orifice until you’re expelling your woes through your nostrils.

Your axis tilts when Price puts a solid hand on your shoulder.

“It’s not good to lie, mm? Not to me.”

Not good to lie.

When you slide out from under his palm, his callouses snag on the exposed seam of your shirt. You toss him a grin, a bone. “Noted.”

Insecure seconds pass, but not without movement.

It begins like this: Price walks away from the door, and you’re almost grateful for the squealing underneath his feet to fill the silence. He takes your stack of mail and magazines, sets them exactly as they had been before he’d entered. The table is righted, and he works in reverse from that point on.

Closing cabinet doors. Angling that picture frame you’ve been meaning to adjust for weeks. He’s putting things into their proper place, like setting bones before they’re enclosed in a stiff cast.

You, though, are still standing awkwardly by the door.

“You really don’t need to—”

He holds out a hand. “Relax. ‘M just having a second go around.”

You bristle, but your decision to pad over to the couch is of your own volition. It caves in when you sit, and you wiggle to get the cushions to realign with your hips. Your hands feel around blindly for the remote to your TV before remembering you’d dropped it out of the window in a fit of anger some weeks ago, so you sit back, spine hitting the hard frame of the couch. Price’s noises pair well, somehow, with the wind sliding over the glass and the neighbors downstairs.

Until you feel his presence at the back of the couch, and a thought smacks you right across your forehead.

You shoot up, heart rate suddenly inflamed by panic. “Price?”

The movement stops, and you turn around, peer over to find Price prepped to duck his head under the couch. “Hm?”

“Uh.” You hesitate. Shit, think—

“H-how much are they paying you, anyways?” Good save. Maybe a little less than good.

You feel a little bad that you’d stopped Price mid-crouch; you can’t quite remember how old he is, but you know he’s old enough for knee pain to be a concern. He looks up as if crunching the numbers in his head. Hums. “Enough.”

“What’re you looking for?”

“Saw the picked lock, didn’t you?”

“Were you really discharged?”

“Depends. There something under this couch you don’t want me seeing?”

Looks like you can knock “interrogation skills” off of your list of special skills on your resume.

Your jaw snapping shut is enough to send his arm sliding under, and you can only watch in horror as his clutched hand emerges holding a scrap of thin blue fabric. He pushes himself up off of his knees. Takes his sweet time wringing out his back while your eyes track his hand like he’s got a thumb over the button of a detonator.

If he had any shred of decency—

“Another thing I caught on my way in,” he huffs. He holds out his hand and allows the blue fabric to uncurl. A flag, hung full mast right between your eyes. Another one of his tests.

“Price.”

“C’mon, now. Take it from me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice; your arm shoots out and you win it back in one go. Stuff your lacy underwear into the pocket of your pants and wait for your ceiling to collapse in on you.

“Can’t leave pretty things like that layin’ around.” And Price stops, watches as you curl in on yourself. Voice like the push of velvet shifting underneath your palms. “Likely to rip if you’re not careful.”

You pull your head into your shirt and curl your knees into your chest. It’s a shock when you find yourself face to face with your heartbeat, the skin over your left breast jumping underneath your nose. “I think we’re done here.”

Price makes that sucking noise again with his teeth—agitation, you think it’s agitation—and you trace the hazy shadow of him through your shirt as he steps around the couch to walk to the window. He snaps twice, and you’re beginning to entertain the thought of what might happen if you had enough strength to push him out.

“What now,” you croak.

“Eyes up.”

Slowly, you muster up enough spite to bring your head just above the collar of your shirt. Military men and their incessant need for…whatever the hell this was.

“You’ve gotten better at this. Quick study,” Price remarks.

“Better at what.”

“Listening. That’s good, real good. That’ll make this a whole lot easier,” he says, a note of appreciation that you haven’t heard yet stirring that tiny pool of filth just underneath your navel. You hum.

Price crosses his arms. Flicks his stupid eyes toward the fluttering curtains. “How often d’you leave this open?”

Your face pinches. “I mean—pretty often? It’s hot, Price. And in case you haven’t noticed,” you wave your hand to the general state of disrepair, “I don’t exactly have good circulation in here.”

This gives him pause. Whatever plan he’s recalibrating, you want no part of it. You do notice that he hasn’t put his hands in his pockets since he showed up on your doorstep, instead favoring the use of his left hand to rub his chin.

“Come over here and close the window.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. “...Close the window? Price, you can’t be serious.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Can’t…can’t you close it?”

“It’s not my window. Can’t do everythin’ for you.”

He stares at you expectantly. Your tailbone is beginning to throb, and for some damning reason, that note still ringing bright in the back of your skull. That’s good. Good, good, good.

Price catches that eager glint the moment it surfaces.

“Go on then, love.” He tips his head. “Close it.”

The rest of you surfaces slowly. You look back for a moment at the indent left on the couch, think about how long that imprint will be there until you feel inclined to fluff out those cushions again.

(Later. You’ll get to it later.)

Shutting the window doesn’t take much effort, but the swampy temperature is noticeable. You turn around a little too quickly, so you hold an arm out to the now sealed vault in an exaggerated show of bravado. I did it, see?

Price slides past you to look outside. He purses his lips when he finds what he’s looking for, and you can almost see the note being stashed into some faraway file.

He turns to you. “Keep this window closed till further notice,” and a hand reaches out to tug the curtains shut, and yellow from the lamp you’d left on last night washes over the room instantly.

“Price.”

“I take my work seriously. You take yours seriously, you’ll need me.”

It feels like a slap in the face. “I do, but that doesn’t mean—”

“My job,” and he points to himself, then to you, “is to keep you out of harm's way. Can’t do this if you don’t trust me.”

“You’re asking a lot for someone who hasn’t—”

You go silent as he reaches a hand into a back pocket, pulls out his hand and you count one, two, three square devices around the size of a nail.

“Busted lock, three faulty cameras, all outside. You’re lucky these people are idiots.” He shoves them back into his pocket before returning his focus to you. “You need me.”

You blink.

Price smiles, raises his eyebrows as if the conversation is already over. “Hungry?”

You stumble back. “But what about—what about the apartment?”

“S’fine,” he says. He checks his watch. “I know a couple guys, you’re in good hands.”

#i literally didn't plan for any of this to happen #THERE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SCENE IN A CAR AND NOW I HAVE TO WAIT #but who am i to deny price #captain john price #john price #john price x reader #call of duty #cod #bodyguard!price

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liveyun · 2 years ago

Text

m i d n i g h t s | kth (m)

p a i r i n g. taehyung x female reader

g e n r e. friends to lovers + smut + fluff + angst

w. (M) plot? no plot? don't know? smoking + alcohol, mentions of parent death + parent negligency, mentions of abuse , corny stupid jokes + dom!taehyung, kissing, grinding, taehyung and his tongue and taeconda oof , so much of licking + consent because that's the most important thing + don't @ at me for the ending

w c. 5.5k +

m l i s t .

“ Seriously, Taehyung? ”

“ Hm? ”

You narrow your eyes as you watch the half naked man fiddle with his phone, almost looking like he's pretty drunk, but you know it's all for the camera.

“ People you know, call it thirst trap snaps. . ” The shit eating grin on his face is back, and you can't really help but scoff at the smirking man infront of you.

“ In this lighting, I fear your audience would be even able to make out the difference between your hair and the surroundings, for the sake of god. . ” You tap in the cigarette trapped between your pointer and your middle finger, the smoke is gentle and calm: making its way to higher altitudes.

“ That's what it is. When you can barely figure out anything, there's the real fun. ”

“ Aren't you a big time sadist? ” This isn't a question, almost as if you're teasing him. When he speaks next, you feel that stupid smirk on his face,

“ No shit. ”

There as along, it was. You inhale slowly the stick of tobacco within your grasp, and even if you feel your throat burn dry, you can't help it.

It felt relaxing. The dull throb in your head stops pounding slowly as you retreat back to lean on the headboard, watching the man infront of you again fiddle with his phone in his hands. At times you feel like laughing to see how even his phone feels to be tiny when in grasp within his huge ass palms, and sometimes you can't help but wonder…what if.

Anyway.

“ Who're your target audience, by the way? ” Curiosity gets the best of you and you know you're speaking the words even before you know you're speaking, and you internally feel like smacking yourself for asking such a silly question. You do know that Taehyung has a good following base on his socials, one that he's that fucking famous as that when you know that millions of people watch his Instagram stories within a flash of second.

The man only smirks. He runs his tongue on the seam of his bottom lips, slightly running his fingers through his hair. And suddenly, your vision drops down to his grey sweatpants, which is hanging dangerously low on his waist, showing you more skin than you can handle, a very deadly sharp glance of his vline. The smooth and bulked plains of his toned stomach and the tanned, golden skin.

Fuck him.

“ Do you want to ask if I'm secretly a pornstar or some sort of shit? ”

“ You're calling porn shit? ”

No sardonic reply comes back, except that he only turns at you, tonguing his inner cheek and a nearly unreadable expression on his face, holding his snifter within the rim and strides over to the stool nearest to the dresser and your the king sized bed, and takes a seat. Sandalwood and vanilla with a hint of ginger. The scent is so him, so him in a way that even if at times the scent alone ghosts you and you definitely feel like you hallucinate, because it's just so alluring, but also comforting in a way you can't just. . .explain. A lazy smile tugs on the corner of his lips.

“ ’m not so qualified to do so, please. ”

“ ’s not ’bout you being qualified, shithead. ”

“ hm, who knows. maybe I do post quality content on my only fans page. . ”

You can only roll your eyes as a response, dragging another shot of the burning smoke in your lungs, and he laughs, filling his glass with the malt whisky on the dresser, and helps himself with a few icecubes.

“ Yeah, good for them. ”

Silence, a comfortable silence blankets over the room; but you don't fail to notice his lips quirking ever so slightly up at your lame remark.

Evenings like this with your best friend are rare; both being responsible adults you've all never nearly got to enjoy the time after school, which is supposed to be enjoyable, they said. Though you're satisfied with what you do and aren't complaining, the thing which stings you is just to know that you and your friend have been drifting apart in the course of time.

Just sitting in silence, healing.

You can only watch his features, partially visible from the lamp light falling in the half of his profile, leaving the chin and mouth in shadow. His focus is set on his glass and the drink. The drink, though alcoholic, is so dark that you can barely make out anything as he lifts the glass to his lips and the sound of the icecubes crinkle the surface of the glass is all what you hear, and oh. The light, oily amber swirls even confirms the nature of the drink, dark.

For a moment it hits you that this evening has been a bit too silent for how it usually is.

You both have the mutual share of the silence which passes whenever you two meet up. There's nothing in your way : just you two, his drinks and your cigar, and you two basking in eachother’s company. No comments, no words. The thick silence is what you both glow in, silently comforting eachother’s soul with silently shared words. No words are really necessary, it's just your presence which makes everything, complete, whole, if that makes sense.

The silence isn't uncomfortable now, though. Just as if an ounce of you feels as if maybe it just you who's thinking this way, but your doubts are solidified when you see a muscle near his left eye, twitch slightly, and in the same time you see his tongue poking his inner cheek.

Something is wrong, you easily can say. The air in the room feels disturbed, and you mentally argue if you should be asking any of it to him. He knows and you do too, that whatever happens, his shit, your shit, your shit, his shit.

From wild teenagers failing together at maths class and laughing your asses off, to those same teenagers who left home in the ghosts of the nights with hands in hands and wide toothy grins, to adults graduating in different majors, moving in different directions to feel the weight of your wings come to action. Life has taken rowdy turns and upturns, like a wave, but with his hand in yours and his presence with you, it has been going on. Even if time has passed, hopefully, there haven't been cracks in between your relationship and his.

Your fingers itch to reach out to his messy bangs falling over his forehead and brush them off, but rather your fingers reach to your own glass of whisky, and you take a sip. You don't really know how many times you've forbidden yourself for your heart to yearn for him, to desire him. A part of you doesn't understand why are you doing this, and another part of you understands that you're doing it for a reason; for why he's too precious to let go.

“ You want to say something. ” You're rather surprised that it's Taehyung who's speaking about this, even if his focus still is stoic on his drink, head dunk down but however, his eyes are now on your glass clad hands. His shoulders hunch down slightly, almost as if he's itching to..hold you, too?

“ What's wrong, Tae? ” your eyes never leave his figure, and as soon as the question leaves your lips, he sighs.

“ Guess we both know eachother too well, eh? ” He tries to lighten off the mood for a while, but it won't work with you. Putting down your cigar and drink on the dresser, you reach forward to hold his shoulders firmly, and give a shake.

“ No, Tae. Let me know what's eating you. ”

Another sigh. This time, it feels like he's leaning onto your touch, closing his eyes. The faint smell of alcohol still roams within, but you do know that both of you don't really have that little resistance to alcohol. You don't rush anymore; you let him think and carry out his words slowly and steadily. His shoulders fall even more, and this time his exhale is shaky.

“ My father passed away a week ago. ”

Oh.

Though you yourself grew up in your foster house and weren't particularly close to your either alcoholic parents, who either were always drowned in alcohol, or when not, to insult you in every way possible. But about Taehyung, he was the eldest child of his parents, and though if the relationship with his parents was strained, you know Taehyung loves his parents, for why he always got back to Daegu atleast once a year, even after both of you ran away from your homes. He cares for his younger siblings, and you'd guess he wasn't particularly close to his father. Even as a child, he used to be the one sitting alone in a corner, with a pout on his face and red nose evident that he sobbed, each time during the event of father's day celebrated in the local farmhouse.

That's when you found him, and hit off instantly as his friend.

And since then, he rarely opens up about his father.

He finally looks up at you, a pained expression settled on his face.

“ I swear I didn't mean to hide anything from you. . ” your name falls from his lips as a silent apology, eyebrows pinched together. “ It's just. . ”

Before he can finish, you're pulling him close to your chest, wrapping your arms around his cold figure. He leans in, and melts completely in your arms, shaking slightly. You feel that pain in your chest blooming slowly in.

“ Fuck, ___. I don't even know who the hell am I becoming nowadays? We weren't close, not even close to that. He just drowned in his own world of becoming the superior, while my mother worked hard to raise all of us up. He thought, that just the money is enough for the upbringing of a family, and became the most distant he could be, from us. .”

“. .I don't even know, I didn't even see his face in years, but shit, why do I miss him this much? Almost as if. . ”

Taehyung, as he grew up, turned exactly what opposite of what he used to be. From a giggly, shy but bubbly boy who'd share his heart out after he has throughly warmed himself up with you (not that you were complaining, you always had enjoyed him beside you, you loved hearing him out. . .) and now, he barely spoke anything which can be considered as to be shared. You dont blame him; life happened and you love your Taehyung as ever your best friend he was, and forever will be. He never needs to explain himself to you. As ever, the moments of silence is all what tugs you to the realm of comfort in the silent winds, sailing in with the warm gushes of warmth.

“ It's alright, Tae. . ” you slowly stroke his hair and his back in sooting motions, cuddling him close to your chest. Smoke and vanilla.

You felt his figure shake and tremble, and soon, you felt the wetness seeping down on your collarbone, and his chest heaved heavily for breaths to catch.

You understand what Taehyung means. Having a parent in your life but still feeling their existence to be non existent, maybe you knew this part too well. Taehyung yearned for that missing love, now impossible to reach, but you hope that he knows it might linger around, right with him.

You hope.

Moments linger off like that, the slow jazz music softly playing in the background as Taehyung cries his heart off to you,sobbing. Holding you so tight that you almost feel breathless. It's rare to see him cry, for you always have felt that he's the one who feels reaching out to feelings difficult, for how he's gonna have the unhealthy habits as his companions to cope up with the empty cracks of his life. Or maybe you, who'd understand him like a puzzle’s respective part.

Maybe if the human nature wasn't that rigid outside, you can only imagine. Had been his father too, proud of his son? Had he too been happy to see Taehyung?

You can only imagine. The happiness Taehyung would've felt if his father would've spent a bit more time with him. The possibility of maybe. . .

After what long, heartfelt moments, you feel him pulling away. Though, he doesn't shoot you off completely: the scent of mild sandalwood and vanilla still lingers around you, and he just pulls out of your chest, to find his flushed face and red nose, shiny cheeks damp with tears which you reach out to gently wipe off. His strong, masculine scent lingers by within. Your heart clenches at the sight, to see him so heartbroken with his messy and fluffy hair sticking to his forehead, all sweaty and eyes nearly swollen and red. He can only sniff, and that's when you feel a large, sweaty palm of his cup your own face, gently.

A soft expression is written on his face, a one which you cannot quite decipher yourself. It's maybe not the first time being so close to him, but each time you get a chance, a sight, he never fails to take your breath away.

“ Thank you….” He weakly mutters, and you nod, once to let him know it's fine, always.

He's so insanely handsome, so unfairly beautiful, the bridge of his nose to his monolidded, warm brown eyes, to his thick eyebrows, to his plush lips, and chiseled face, you never miss even a freckle on his nose which, when you had first met, instantly booped at causing the young Taehyung 's eyes to wide and cheeks go a shade of rose.

So you still do, remembering all the times you've seen him laugh, the contagious hearty laugh with that box like smile and warm hugs he engulfs you in. You lightly flick on his mole, and you don't miss the way his face lights up, the familiar box like toothy grin returning to his face.

Adorable.

He's so adorable, so much, that it almost makes you squirm in your sheets. His eyes never leave your own ones, and you swear you feel him boring holes in your soul. Eye contact with him hasn't been hard, but particularly at moments like these, you don't know what creeps up and you feel breathless, your stupid heart picks up the pace, and you again feel like squirming in your sheets, because, damn this fucking man!

The urge to kiss this handsome man keeps on roaming around your head, at some point, maybe always. . just a rudimentary thought, no, but at this point you can't help but get a urge to taste those pink, damp lips which are tempting you. .

You might as well drop a bomb to your heart (oh no.) that you've been in love with this stupidly handsome guy, always denying of the inevitable truth. The longer you were away from him, you felt your sanity being snatched away with the smell of the faint smell of sandalwood and vanilla, and your head began spinning. Nights of imagining yourself,you're too guilty to even admit, but guess what. . .maybe the longing for this man has went to such a high altitude, that despite knowing it, you cannot admit it out loud. What the fuck, and how the fuck are you even supposed to?

those desparate nights, when you saw yourself beneath him, writhing with pleasure, that dammned shit eating grin omnipresent on that face as he pleasures you, whispering—

“ What's going inside that pretty head of yours? ” And there you see it. His lips are curled to that fucking smirk, which makes you feel like he knows everything which goes inside your head, and he knows that he has you fucking wrapped around his fingers and you're crazy for him.

So what. But you really and seriously cannot deny the way heat creeps up to your neck and cheeks, and the urge to look at anywhere but him is delightful. The wall looks pretty, because you can't look at hi—

“ Answer with words, dear. ” His hands cup your cheeks again, making you look at him. His eyes..are soft, but at the same time so smug that you again feel like snatching and throwing away that pompous vibes from them. You snort, and he smirks.

“ If you don't tell me, would it be mutual? ” You nearly scoff, hating the way you still find him adorable, another lazy smile stretched on his handsome face. ( read : stupid ).

“ Do I make you say it out loud, my dear? ”

Fuck.

It was undeniable, the way you felt your stomach churn with fluttering butterflies. You absolutely don't wish to find the meaning of what actually he means, but for some reasons or other, your blush deepens and you feel a small smile of your own afloat even without you realising that.

“ You're way too handsome. ” Oh no. There it will be again, with that cocky grin and that motherfucking smirk which would make you pounce on him. For sure, he was very much aware of his godly looks, and you knew he won't shut up on this, when you subconsciously utter out those dammned praises. You shouldn't absolutely have done that.

Instead, what you didn't expect in the least is, his smile. Not the cocky, complacent smirk, but an almost soft smile. Almost as if he's happy to hear the words coming out of you. And to worsen that, you feel his hands now gently reach the scalp behind your ears, messaging the skin with those nimble fingers, the smile still plastered on his face.

It sort of shocked you, but it also didn't. Because when you see his eyes flicking down to your lips and back to your eyes, almost dragging them from within at it, you feel like you'd stop breathing this instant.

And this isn't the last time he does it; his gaze keeps on roaming from your lips to your eyes, almost as if he's asking you for permission, and you really try your way hardest to not look at his own lips. You try, but fail.

“ Can I kiss you,dear? ” He asks you, his eyes holding yours, and you visibly gulp. The fluttering in your tummy won't cease..and you feel anything but your heart pounding in your chest, so loud, that it almost makes you question, can he hear it too?

The question which you've resisted to urge for years, the feeling which you've denied for years. He's right infront of you, looking just so adorable and kissable that you almost want to give in. Denial has been grave of your heart, but now enough of it. Why not, because this life is short, and now that.. it already happened, you say fuck it, and nod, slowly.

But rather, he smirks. His voice is saccharine sweet when he speaks,

“ Words, darling ”

Fuck this asshole.

Without a single word, you pull him closer by his neck, kissing him with fervour. Your teeth clash together, and you feel his nose slightly bump into yours, but nevertheless you mould his damp lips to yours, a flavour of the strong alcohol’s residue evident as the taste. He tastes so sweet, so sweet that it almost makes you melt, but you feel his lips stop.

And he pulls away.

His eyes narrow mischievously, almost as if he's challenging you. His brows are pinched together almost as if he's mad, and panic instantly burns your veins; did you do anything wrong?

What you don't expect is, that now his arms snake down to your nightgown clad waist, and his another arm reaches for both of your wrists, and pushes you down to the soft bed. You audibly gasp, feeling his strength on your wrists, but he's sure that he's not hurting you. And pins your arms above your head, lips curled in a snarl which almost makes you shiver, and you shiver, a delicious shiver running up your spine.

And his eyes now hold a carnal rage, brown eyes now almost black.

And you resist the urge to arch your back off the bed, feeling breathless all of a sudden. This side of Taehyung is completely new to you, and a part of you is equally astonished as well as fascinated.

His gaze is so fucking strong, you know he's boring holes into your skull, and you dare to squirm underneath him, your stomach twisting as you feel the heat pool in your lower belly.

“ Stop fucking squirming. ” That's not a plea. That's a fucking command, and you nearly feel like disobeying him again, just to coax out more reactions out of him. But much to your dismay, his grip on your waist and palms tightens, and you see his pupils dilate a bit more.

“ Hadn't I told you to use your words, darling? ” Darling. The new nickname sets a fire inside your veins, and equally as you feel heat travel to cheeks, you feel his lips slowly curl to a smirk, but the look he gives you through his eyes, you cannot tell what is he thinking of.

He knows his effect on you too well.

You were you. You were his best friend, the only one who offered him his croissant on that chilly, cold day when his eyes felt puffy and his nose was runny, and everyone seemed to be celebrating. Everyone was happy, everyone had their hands clasped in their fathers, cheering with sing songs and chorus, which made him feel sad. The ten year old him couldn't digest the fact that he wasn't close to his father, and he was the only one who was without a companion, without his father.

Where was his father, back then? No wonder, back to his office, burying his head in those scary looking papers, scribbling his pen on them, busy apparently.

The younger Taehyung felt angry on his dad. So angry, that the anger flushed to tears, to the extent when his loneliness altogether made him cry like crazy in public. The younger Taehyung didn't have friends, for why he was known as the weird one, liking hamburgers and video games more when boys of his age liked soccer and camping. He liked art and talking to the peonies and daises more than he liked talking to others, and maybe he liked his art more than he liked his studies.

His mother, though, loved him. She loved him more than she could express, because having to manage two little children, marely babies and Taehyung who was the oldest, he wwas often the victim of the missed pages while fast turning, often the one left alone with some paper money and a letter on the desk written for him to grab some hamburgers, alone at the day as the bay passed away. All alone, he could only stare gloomily at the walls, whitewashed and faded.

At times he didn't know if he was even wanted by his parents.

But there was you. You too, were without a companion, and even if the little Taehyung saw a pair of bright, doe eyes looking at him, but each time he remembers the memory, he always remember the loneliness, the poignance behind those two, big pupils. You had offered the sobbing boy your own croissant, which he supposed that he missed when getting distributed. A bright smile, and soon you disappeared, much to the confusion and even disappointment, but again he saw the same pair of yellow sandals and painted toenails, and upon raising his head, saw your head and those warm, doe eyes again, with your head tiltled at him. You were holding two cups within yoir tiny palms, and the little Taehyung almost got his cheeks painted a rosy shade of red when he realises that you were beautiful, and his little heart skipped some beats at your cute appearance, slightly shorter than him.

And since then, he doesn't remembers when have you been out of his thoughts since that night.

And now, caged between his arms underneath him, so cutely writhing with desire, your cute eyes shutting close and lips slightly trembling, hands wriggling in his hold. You were now grown up, but still so smaller and cuter, and Taehyung felt every second of hell whenever he had to let go of the thoughts to pick you up and kiss you till you forget your name, and he felt himself growing bitter at the thoughts. So he, let go of everything, and finally let that out, and somehow is releived that he doesn't have to regret that. He felt his heart race; you were always beside him, and this evening was not a surprise.

He wasn't mad at you. He just wanted the first time, the most awaited kiss he'd give you, to be special, not a kiss which almost made your teeth clash together, but he didn't mind. He liked seeing you so precious underneath him, and has dreamt of it since how long, only he knows.

He smiled when he heard your voice again.

“ Just kiss me, Taehyung, a thousand times, yes. ”

He felt his smile growing as he leaned down to brush a stray strand falling on your cheekbone, grazing it carefully to tug it behind your ears. He loves seeing you so small, so precious like this, and he sort of feels like he should pause this moment, and just stamp on you inside his head forever, as if you weren't already.

But however, it suddenly dawned onto him that there's no going back from this. His heart thumps wildly in his chest because this is the moment he has craved for years, and now when finally this has floated to the surface, to reality, the worst of his fears too, cling on. He knows that you're not that type of person who'll leave him without any reasons and with a miscommunication, but is he really willing to take the risk? To take it all and then, lose you?

You visibly see Taehyung move a bit back, his lips drawn in a small pout. He's overthinking, and you often know that this stubborn fella wouldn't let you know a single thought about his, but now the tension is so high that maybe the thoughts which bubble in your head, matches with his.

He too is thinking if this, your bond would be shattered because of the growing desires, hidden affection for eachother since years which finally are coming true.

You cup his warm cheek in your smaller palms, tugging him out of his reverie. His eyes are shine softly, the brown of them sparkling in the golden lamp light.

“ It's okay, Taehyung. We're together in this. ” you flash him a grin, hoping to soothe his nerves a bit, and you're relieved because of the box like grin which stretches on his lips, too.

“ So, may I kiss you, now? ” his voice is gentle as he nears your mouth, hands back to your hips, fingers tracing careless circles into your skin. It tingles wherever he touches and you wriggle a bit, nodding desparately.

His lips inch closer to yours own, till the extent you feel his alcohol mixed breath mingle with your own, his hands feeling warmer as each second passes by. The stupid, small kiss had you reeling in your head, and now as you feel his hair touching your cheekbone, you're sure that if you don't kiss him, you'd die right there and then. His lips felt so soft, so sweet against your own, that to feel them once more had you whining quietly as you clutch his shoulders, feeling the tough muscles ripple at your touch.

Feeling impatient, you connect your lips to his. You sigh, and he grins. You could feel his smile in the kiss as his hands roam up to your hips from your waist, the silk of your nightgown feeling fluffy under his touch as your mouths move with a certain tenderness which you know only if for you. He tastes faintly like alcohol and more like chocolate, and you wonder if it's because of the candy he popped in while he was talking to you. Your hands find his ruffled raven hair, caressing the roots. You're slightly surpirsed when Taehyung purrs in the kiss, and now it's your turn to smile.

But the sweet, tender moment seems to have been burnt when Taehyung pushes his tongue inside your mouth, licking your own. His tongue reaches back to lick the seam of your lips, and that's when you realise that how slowly his hands are advancing towards your stomach, his touch leaving behind sparks of fire. You crack open your eyes to find his eyes hungrily watching you, and you shiver. With the anticipation and the feeling of the shameless heat in his eyes which is melting down your self resistance in all the ways. His fingers dance on the skin of your tummy, all the while licking your lips as you pant, his touch furious as a whimper makes its way up your throat, and Taehyung smirks. You're adding more to his ego and you're totally helpless, not when this man's touch feels so so good.

When his lips touch the junction of your neck, right on the curve where your shoulder meets, you let out a moan. His kisses are drizzled with his warm, wet tongue on your skin and there's a pit of desire bubbling in your stomach, already. The moan urges him to continue, watching you with hooded eyes as you lose it all, the ache in between your legs growing rapidly with each swipe of his tongue on your skin. His hands travel up to your tits, brushing them slightly— and your hips buck up, finding relief for the growing desires inside you. But he takes none of that, and one of his hands fly down to grip your hips, refraining you from any moment and you whine.

“ Taehyung, please.. ”

“ Please what, baby? ” his voice has never been so sultry, so seductive as it is now, and you do not think the meaning behind his words, to take them for another gesture; and you squirm again.

“ ____, if I don't hear it from you, I'm not touching you. I need you to say it. ” His voice is strong, and you nod furiously, letting out a shaky yes, please touch me.

And that's what he needed to hear from you.

His head dips down to the seam of your nightgown, right on your cleavage, licking a long stripe from the seam to where your nipples are, already hardened and pert from his teasing. You gasp, and your back arches, and he repeats the same ministration again, this time taking the pert, aching bud in his warm mouth right above your nightgown, swirling his tongue around it. The sensation goes right down to your clit, your cunt clenching around thin air and you whimper. His other hand fondles with the soft flesh. You wonder if he knows how sensitive your boobs are, because the right amount of pressure serves you the pleasure, travelling throughout your veins in a buzzing pleasure.

He had enough of it, right when he tears off your wet nightgown from you. You're torn away from the daze, when you see the torn piece of cloth in his huge hands, eyes widening on the sudden action. He scoffs at the cloth, and smirks at you, plunging down immediately to capture a nipple into his mouth, nibbling over it and licking all over the same, his other hand pressing and rolling the other bud with his pointer and thumb, occasionally kneading the flesh. Moans fall off your lips like a prayer, hips bucking amd thighs rubbing together in an attempt to releive the ache, because you feel your slick oozing down your hole to the curve of your ass. He's totally ignoring your pussy, and you feel like giving him the taste of what he has done.

He's busy with your tits, while your hand sneaks down to his waist, suddenly grabbing his cock confined in his pants, which seems already so hard and throbbing, and so..thick. He gasps, suddenly looking at you and removing your hand, his pupils blown out with the lust. He grabs both of your wrists and pins them above your head, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple, and you're suddenly met with his cock on your clothed core, grinding slowly. You close your eyes at the sensation, his sweatpants being too thin to hide his cock, and each time his cock grinds on your clit, you feel like you're ascending to heaven. Your jaw drops, and suddenly there's nothing.

You almost feel like crying. But he's smirking, reaching down to press his lips on your neck, and you shiver when you hear him whispering.

“ You need to earn this cock if you want this so badly, dear. ”

#bts fics #taehyung fics #taehyung smut #taehyung x reader #taehyung angst #taehyung fluff #bts x reader #bts fanfic #taehyung fanfic

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soup-of-the-daisies · 1 year ago

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thinking about sirius entering grimmauld place, abandoned, horrible, cold, another prison in his torn and paper-thin prison robes, unearthing a wand from somewhere in the house, and just thinking. fuck. i need some decent clothing. but his own wardrobe has been ransacked, and regulus’ robes are all too short, and he’s not gonna wear anything his mother would’ve worn and so. what options does he even have at this point?

he leads buckbeak into his mother’s bedroom and lets the hippogriff go wild in destroying everything within it, then leaves for the master’s suite. kreacher is following him, cursing at his ankles and deftly avoiding every swift kick sirius sends his way, snarling and grumbling as sirius sifts through the wardrobe of a man he still hates after all this time. he never had the chance to develop apathy. the closet holds a variety of beautiful, functional fabrics that smell of dust and a bit of rot; linen shirts and coats of firm, double-lined velvet, woollen trousers and barely-worn boots made of expensive dragonhide, thick outer robes all a decade or two out of date.

he takes the most muggle-looking set in the collection and leaves for the nearest bathroom. washes himself to the best of his ability—he’s got half a mind to stay unwashed out of sheer spite, but the ones who the spite would be aimed towards wouldn’t care are dead, so what purpose would that serve? the water sputters rust-coloured and smelly out of the creaking taps, so he cleans the bathtub with a scourgify and then fills it with an aguamenti; the soap is probably expired, but it lathers well enough. body first, layers of filth falling off his skin and darkening the water, then his hair, long and matted with blood and sweat and sand. the water is a muddy brown by the time he vanishes it and refills the bathtub again. it takes at least two more full-body washes before the water stays clear and his skin doesn’t feel like it’s covered in a film of oil.

he cuts the bulk of his hair somewhat blindly, uncaring if the severing spell nicks his skin. it may be clean, but it’s beyond saving: a thick mat hangs particularly heavy at the nape of his neck, soaking wet, and locks of his hair cluster together in unsightly, tangled clumps. it’s a representation of his lack of control in his own life. it hurts. it’s off. molly will probably help him cut it into something resembling decent later, when she and her family arrive.

sirius, truly clean for the first time in thirteen years, shakes out the clothing his father may have used for his rare trips into the muggle parts of the continent and wrinkles his nose. cleans them with a refreshment charm; a cloud of dust and dead insects rise up out of the fabrics, coalescing into a tiny ball of dirt. putting the clothing on his body is easier than he expected and there’s a hint of muscle memory as he does up the buttons, fastens the waistband.

the clothes smell, in spite of the refreshment charm, still like the stench of rot that permeates the entirety of number twelve. they also smell vaguely of a familiar cologne, of burnt pipe tobacco, of alcohol. they smell like disappointed speeches and expressionless faces. they smell of dispensable memories.

sirius takes one look at himself in the dirty mirror and sees dead eyes and a bitter, arrogant tilt to his mouth and grooves of worry and discontent in his face someone he doesn’t want to see. someone who’s been dead for fifteen years. and he goes off in search of something to numb himself with.

#don’t know where i’m going with this but something something you have your father’s face and you hate it #sirius orion black #sirius black #i just think it would’ve been awful to go back to a place you hated #and i also wonder where the hell sirius got his clothes from (if it was explained let’s ignore that)#also sirius reverting to the same habits his father used to numb himself 🥰🥰 delightful continuation of the family legacy ngl

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leohtttbriar · 5 months ago

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to this great stage of fools

“B’Elanna,” said Harry. “Can you please explain why you’ve suddenly gone a bit obsessive with the pulldowns?” B’Elanna ignored him.

Harry helps B'Elanna to forgive a short reach. (B'Elanna's version of a "Deadlock" coda)

Written for trektober 2024: Day 12 gym bros

“You’ll never bulk up if you keep using the same weight,” said Harry.

B’Elanna said, “Hm.”

Harry tried again.

B’Elanna said, “I don’t want to bulk up.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he sat on the bench next to her with a thump.

“Okay,” he said. “It’s just…you’ve been at it for awhile, now.”

“I’m not done with my reps.”

“You’ve been hogging the lat pulldown machine all afternoon.”

“If people want to use it,” she huffed. “They are welcome to ask.”

“B’Elanna,” said Harry. “Can you please explain why you’ve suddenly gone a bit obsessive with the pulldowns?”

B’Elanna ignored him.

“Maybe you don’t have a reason,” continued Harry. “It’s okay, I get it. Sometimes you just get in the mood. I get that way on the stair-steppers. It just feels so good sometimes to move your ankle that much. Normally I’m always locked up, you know, standing at my station on the bridge. And then Tom always needs me at the pool table and I’m never allowed to sit down on it while he thinks about his shot, which is a sort of ridiculous amount of formality for a game I’ve only ever played in holo-bars that somehow still smell like tobacco.”

B’Elanna ignored him some more.

“I think you might have a reason, though, because I normally never see you at any weight machines. It’s seems like a sudden interest. So, you know, if you want to tell me, that’d be good.”

B’Elanna said nothing. She was still counting.

A warm hand landed on her thigh. She looked down at it and suddenly realized she was shaking.

“B’Elanna,” said Harry, quietly.

B’Elanna released the bar with a loud clang and her arms turned to cold noodles, hot noodles, and then cold noodles again in the space of two seconds. She dropped them to her sides with a tiny whine and closed her eyes.

“Please, B’Elanna.”

“You can make your arms longer,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Without surgery, even. Just by stretching. And spending time in zero gravity.”

Harry’s hand disappeared from her thigh. She almost sobbed, if she was capable of sobbing out loud about this. But then the hand reappeared, this time with all of Harry. He sat behind her on the bench and pulled her into his chest. Her shoulders ached at the touch and pressure. Her sweat was chilling her rapidly and his warm arms felt nearly hot because of it. She kept her eyes closed but otherwise let herself be pulled in.

“I’m not going to convince you to forget about it,” he said, sounding both lighthearted and sincere. “I can’t forget about it, myself. But I do feel like it’d be good to say out loud that it’s not your fault the other me died.”

B’Elanna was now shivering. The world was filtering back in, with all its sensations, now that her workout tunnel vision had been interrupted: the smell of Harry’s deodorant, the sound of treadmills rolling and feet thudding, the clacking of weights, the distant laughter. She opened her eyes and glanced up, catching her gaze on the window and the stars beyond. She shuddered.

“We shouldn’t even be here,” she said, still unable to speak louder than a barely-voiced whisper. “It’s ridiculous that we’re here.”

“The delta quadrant isn’t that bad,” said Harry, trying for some humor. “Not everyone is trying to kill us.”

“I mean we shouldn’t be in space,” said B’Elanna, frowning into the line of Harry’s shoulder. “What are we doing here?” She closed her eyes again. “You probably—you probably suffocated, you were probably blasted with radiation, your saliva was probably boiling—we shouldn’t be here. You’re human. You belong on Earth. You belong on the thing that made you.”

Harry’s arm around her grew heavier.

“You’re sort of right,” he said. “None of us belong here. But also, you’re sort of wrong. Because all of us are fine, not getting radiated in the vacuum of space. This might sound obvious, but”—he nudged her a little—“that’s what the spaceship is for. For us to belong in.”

“What if it’s not enough?” B’Elanna asked, the fear beneath the question tasting like acid.

“What if it is?” said Harry. “What if this world you’re carrying is doing enough?”

B’Elanna wanted to roll her eyes and cry at the same time. She settled on neither. “I’m not the one”—

“Shut up,” said Harry. “Seriously, B’Elanna. You can try to make your arms longer, you can sit up at night worrying about whether or not you��re doing everything you can for all of us, you can workout until you’re bleeding: it won’t change anything. I’m here. And we’re all safe inside this spaceship. That’s it. We belong here. And some of that credit goes to you.”

“Okay,” said B’Elanna, who really just wanted Harry to stop talking now, embarrassed.

“Earth may have made my body, but we made this spaceship for everyone, right? We can belong in space. I think we’re allowed to belong here. So long as we have a good chief engineer.”

“Okay,” said B’Elanna, pleased, embarrassed, reluctantly agreeing she’d overthought her fears in this one instance. But still, she was scared. And it was good to have a physical reminder that Harry was still here.

“And if you try to repent for anything ever again,” said Harry. “I’ll be very annoyed.”

“Oh no,” said B’Elanna, sarcastically. “You’ll be annoyed! Terrifying.”

“It is,” said Harry, squeezing her closer. “I’ll spot you at the gym every single time you come and be really overbearing about hydration.”

“Horrific.”

Harry laughed. Then he added, quieter, “But seriously, B’Elanna. No repenting. Not about who you are. Please.”

B’Elanna looked at the stars again and then breathed out. “Okay,” she agreed. “Okay.”

#had this drafted and fully forgot to post it #shortest one yet! proud of myself #mostly dialogue yay #star trek #voyager #trektober 2024

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flowersforbucky · 5 months ago

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Idk if you take requests but I love the way you write older logan so I'd love it if you wrote older logan coming home after a long shift of driving the limousine to find reader wearing his flannel and how he reacts <3

old man!logan x reader - 740 ish words

thanks so much for this! i have such a soft spot for older logan 🤧💕 18+ only mdni

warnings/tags: logan refers to himself as your old man, reader can wear logan's flannel but no specific physical descriptions, not explicit but there's suggestiveness/implied smut

Tonight, you find yourself especially grateful that Caliban stays with Charles in the water tower during the night. You're always grateful for this, of course. You don't know what any of you would do without his help.

But tonight, you're even more thankful than usual.

Having picked up a few extra shifts at the diner you work at this week, you've barely had time to do anything except sleep when you've been off the clock. Therefore, dishes have piled up and you desperately need to catch up on some laundry on your day off tomorrow.

In the meantime, you wear nothing but one of Logan's old flannels that hangs low enough to cover the curve of your ass - barely.

As if that isn't reason enough to be glad for the privacy, you can't seem to stop yourself from smelling the collar of the shirt every so often, inhaling the familiar and comforting scent of Irish Spring soap and old tobacco.

You'd received a text from him stating he is on his way home almost half an hour ago, so you decided to stay awake until he gets home. In actuality, you'd seen him before you left for work this morning, but it feels like it has been days since you'd been able to do anything other than bid each other quick goodbyes as one of you comes or the other goes.

You stand in the makeshift kitchen of the abandoned smelting plant that you've come to call home, reheating the food that you brought home with you from work earlier. It's dark except for the old TV that stays on near constantly for the comfort of background noise.

You see the limousine headlights flash through the thin curtains that you'd hung up throughout the factory, and you breathe a sigh of relief that he's home as the microwave begins to ding.

He enters a few moments later, locking the door behind him before noticing you leaning against the edge of the kitchen table, next to the food that you have ready for him.

“What exactly did I do to deserve coming home to this?” His voice is tired but still teasing.

“I brought home some leftovers from the diner earlier,” you shrug, nodding towards the plate beside you. “I figured you didn't eat before you left for work.”

He shrugs out of his work jacket, unsnapping the top buttons of his white button down as he slowly walks over to you. His gaze trails from your bare legs and up to your face.

“You'd be right about that,” he admits with a short, low chuckle. “But I'm talking about you wearing this.”

He stands directly in front of you, his hands lightly tugging on the hem of his flannel that graces your thighs.

“This old thing?” You run the palms of your hands up his chest, feeling the hard bulk of his muscles from beneath the smooth material of his button down shirt. When your hands reach his throat, you clasp them around the back of his neck and pull his face closer to yours. “Need to catch up on laundry real bad, it's the only clean thing I could find.”

He hums in consideration, unable to conceal the smirk that forms on his lips in the glow of the TV light. His hands move to your lower back, pulling you flush against him before bunching the loose fabric in his fists.

“I don't think this is clean,” he murmurs against your mouth, the thick scruff of his beard tickling your jaw and sending goosebumps down your spine. You can smell the familiar hint of whiskey on his breath. “In fact, I slept in it just the other night. I'm thinking you just missed your old man.”

“Two things can be true at the same time,” you retort. You did miss him - you always miss him when work and other priorities have to take precedence over time spent together.

“Oh yeah?” He lifts you up the slightest bit by the backs of your thighs, plopping you down on the kitchen table. He nudges your knees open with his own, spreading your legs enough to wedge his body between your thighs. “How about you lay down on this table and let me show you how much I've been missing you, then?”

You glance down at the forgotten plate of food that you'd made for him - it can be reheated again later, you suppose.

••••••

thank you for reading 💕💕

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shads-shipposts · 2 months ago

Text

Another small fight scene before Trevor once again gives Shadow a migraine. He really enjoys being a plot device as it gives him free rein to be a menace, honestly. But at least I got to wrestle with Allan a bit, as mutual ass-kicking really is a bonding activity for me lol. Also, at this point (2019) I wasn't aware of my gender dysphoria so there are red flags all over the place, plus its the reason I'm still going by she/her while in later books I go by they/them.

If Tintin and Sakharine seem a bit shallow, there's actually an in-universe explanation. Given this story technically takes place in my fic universe, where I didn't even think about Sakharine and Tintin yet or even Haddock, they are pretty "basic" as far as characterizations go. The sailors are really the only ones that get complexity. As someone from my story discord put it, the sailors are origami while the other "main" movie characters are cardboard cutouts. But the main characters (Ivan, Haddock, and Tintin) have plenty of fics focused on them, so its all good.

Hope you enjoyed, and as always leave a comment/like if you did!

Beginning: Here Previous: Here Next: Here Ao3: Here Masterlist: Here

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A hiss and explosion of smoke thankfully disproved Neil’s initial theory, but it still left us all with sore throats and watery eyes.

Not that it stopped one sailor.

A shoulder slammed into my stomach, driving me back into the wall. I brought my elbow down, hitting the tender spot between the shoulder blade and neck, but the man grabbed me as he fell and we both went down. Arms tightened around my middle, whoever it was trying to pin me to the ground.

Allan, judging by the feel of rolled up sleeves.

He brought his full weight down, nearly knocking the breath from me and almost causing my arms to buckle. The man was heavy!

I said refrigerator as a joke!

I didn’t expect him to actually be as heavy as one!

The hell you eat?!

A hand grabbed one elbow, yanking it back, and down I went. I rolled as I fell, teeth aimed for his shoulder. I missed the bulk of it, but managed to at least catch the cloth.

Tasted and smelled heavily like tobacco and what I assumed was some time of smokey yet sweet alcohol. Bourbon, maybe?

Writer brain off, Fighter brain on!

“Damn it, kid, quit bitin’!” came the raspy yell, but I couldn’t tell if it was anger or smoke that caused his tone.

“Nien!” I growled through a mouthful of shirt.

He rolled us both out of the alley onto the sidewalk, out of the smoke. I ended up on top as we came to a stop right by the curb, but before I could strike, a hand snatched my arm and wrenched me away from Allan.

“Time to go, Shadow!”

“Trevor?!” I demanded, trying to look behind me. “Get off-!”

“Let’s go, let’s go, no time for slow!” Trevor sang, yanking me to my feet before turning to Allan. The hair all along my body stood on end just before Trevor hit him square in the chest with a small blast of lightning.

It sent Allan back to the sidewalk, and damn near sent me into shock.

“Trevor, are you tryin’ to fuckin’ kill him?!” I screamed, frozen as Allan laid groaning on the ground.

“Relax, he’s fine!” Trevor yanked me down the road, away from the alley and the docks. “C’mon!”

I still hesitated, not wanting to wake up with a hollow pit in my stomach after Allan died due to Trevor’s shenanigans.

“Ok!” Trevor chirped. “Plan B!”

“What are you- Trevor!” I screamed as he scooped me up and threw me over his shoulder.

“Roll out!”

No amount of wriggling or punching the back of his thick skull did any good, but thankfully I could see Allan get up, albeit slowly, before Trevor turned a corner and I lost sight of him.

I couldn’t see where Trevor was going, but with his random corner turns I wondered if he even had an end destination in mind.

At one turn, I saw the edge of the marketplace from the movie and filed it away for later as Trevor continued on.

Gotta admit, his runnin’ form is very smooth. Unless he’s just glidin’ across things like a glitched character model?

I looked down.

Nope, he’s running.

Eventually, he unceremoniously dumped me onto the sidewalk then stood proudly with his hands on his hips as he flashed me a grin.

“Ta da!”

I immediately jumped to my feet and slammed him against the wall. “You could have killed Allan!”

“But I didn’t! It was just a little zap, people in Star Wars survive that all the time!”

“We ain’t in Star Wars!”

“Eh, technically we are since your fanfiction did overlap fandoms.”

“Cut the shit!” I spat, slamming him against the wall again.

“I thought you wanted to get away from ‘em!”

“Not if it involved shootin’ lightnin’ at Allan! Trevor, that kills people!”

“He’s fine! Not the first time he survived gettin’ struck by lightning anyway.”

Wait, Allan’s been hit by lightning before?

That wasn’t in my fanfiction.

Guess that’s dream liberties.

I’ll have to use that though, and research any lasting effects of bein’ struck by lightnin’ because there’s gotta be some.

“That doesn’t mean you can just zap him!”

“We had to keep this plot rollin’ somehow!”

“Trevor, I swear to fuck-!”

The door opened to the store beside me and it was then I noticed the writing on the door, thankfully in English: Police.

Piss.

I let go of Trevor as a man with light skin in his mid forties stuck his head out the door.

“Is… everythin’ alright?”

I groaned. “Yeah, just a minor argument.”

He looked even more concerned, bushy eyebrows furrowing as he stepped outside with me. “Argument with…?”

“Trev-” I turned and found myself alone. “Or.” I inhaled deeply, letting it out through gritted teeth. “Of course he’d split.”

Why can he phase in and out of scenes? I should be able to do the same, it’s my head!

“Was there someone else here, son?”

“Son?” I glanced at my chest. “I know I’m flat but c’mon.”

His brows shifted up, and I found myself reminded of the fisherman dad from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. “Oh, sorry, ma’am.”

I waved him off. “Eh, ain’t the first and won’t be the last. Besides, it’s deliberate. Attracts less trouble.”

“Speaking of trouble.”

Oh boy.

“Did you come from the docks, per chance?”

I stiffened. “Why?”

“Because I just received a report from a man that he nearly struck two dockworkers. One matched your…” His eyes drifted to my hair. “Description.”

I do like the color purple, but perhaps it gives me too strong of main character energy. At least I don’t have a tragic backstory. Just the typical emotional hangups that come from military parents who hail from the deep hills of Appalachia where mental illness like anxiety and ADD don’t exist and people would rather die than actually address their emotions.

“So the fucker can drag his fancy ass down ‘ere but can’t stop to say “sorry” when he almost runs someone over?” I scoffed. “What’s the world comin’ to?”

“What was a young lady such as yourself doin’ at the docks? It can be very dangerous there.”

“I was…”

Think think! Can’t get them in trouble, dream or not.

“Meetin’ some old friends.”

“Old friends?” he asked, frowning. “How does that lead to you being in the street?” He peered closer, brows shifting up again at the cut on the underside of my forearm. “And you’re cut?”

“Eh, we like to wrestle. Mutual asskickin’ is how I show affection.” I wiped my arm on my pants. “This is my bad, don’t worry about it.”

His frown shifted into a puzzled but amused smile. “Certainly unusual for a young lady, but not unheard of.”

Oh thank goodness this man ain’t sexist. Well, he kinda is, but for this time period I suppose he’s got a point.

“I take it you don’t want to file a report yourself, then?”

I quickly shook my head. “No no no, that isn’t necessary. It was just me and some old friends, that’s all.”

“Ah. In the future, I suggest keepin’ it at the docks. People get the wrong idea pretty easily, and I wouldn’t want a report filed if it doesn’t need to be.”

I’ll file that away for the next dream.

“I’ll keep it in mind. If that’s all, can I…?” I jerked my thumb down the street. “Go?”

He nodded. “As you were. I’ll take it off the books, miss…?”

“Call me Shadow.”

“Miss Shadow-“

“Just Shadow,” I corrected. “I don’t really like gendered terms, ya know?”

“Very well, Shadow. I’ll file it as resolved.”

I headed past him, back towards the marketplace. “Thanks!” I called over my shoulder before focusing forward again. As I walked away from the station, a frown dug into the corners of my mouth and my salt level rose.

First Trevor spooks me, then I smack poor Neil, then I had to leg it after making Allan all types of suspicious, then I got into a backalley brawl, and then I get stopped by a very persistent cop whom I have to lie to about the fight.

Reaching the edge of the marketplace and wading into the sea of people and knick-knacks, my irritation only grew.

And now I got fucking sensory overload!

“Some days it don’t pay to get outta bed,” I muttered through gritted teeth, trying to get through the crowded marketplace to Tintin before he and Sakharine split.

Because, maybe if I tempted Sakharine, he’d invite me to Marlinspike and I’d get to see the sailors again. For whatever reason, this dream hadn’t shifted yet and an inkling of hope had sparked in me that I still could get myself on that ship.

What the hell are we doing? We just escaped the sailors, why are we trying to worm our way back to them?

Because we didn’t willingly escape, Trevor dragged us away.

We were in the middle of fighting them!

Yes, and it’s the most fun I’ve had in a dream in forever.

What I’d say, I had no idea. Where they were, I had no idea. How I’d get a ticket to Marlinspike, I had no idea.

Why I was acting like a dumbass moth to flame, I had no idea.

But it’d been a long time since I had a dream this good of the boys. Perhaps most would be distraught at having to physically fight their favorite characters, but it wouldn’t be the first time my enjoyable dreams of characters involved throwing hands. Or wrestling. Or a good ol’ chase.

Mutual asskicking really was how I showed affection, and that was just the way the cookie crumbled when you grew up with mostly guy best friends.

Concern had started to gnaw at me, admittedly, the longer this dream continued in a linear fashion. Dreams… they didn’t flow this smoothly.

Ever.

Not for me at least.

By now I would either be on the ship, or the ship would have turned into a literal submarine like that one time, or Allan and co would have accepted me into their motley crew, or I’d be on some random ass adventure with Allan and Tom, or the bunch would have morphed into different characters entirely.

Or a convoluted mix of all of the above.

My dreams were just like that.

The alternative of course was I had literally, body and soul, been yeeted across realities and found myself in the actual middle of one of my earliest fanfiction timelines with the crew and was now stuck here.

Which just wasn’t possible.

Wasn’t probable.

Wasn’t comprehensible.

It’s inconceivable, and I’m pretty damn sure that word is used correctly in this case!

Luckily, I had a few saving graces that kept me grounded in the reality that it was just a very, very vivid dream.

The first of course was the utter lack of pain. Real life, even in other realities, had pain. Granted the movie had somewhat slapstick physics at times, but still. I should have felt something as I tumbled down those crates.

Trevor phasing in and out of existence like a glitchy Skyrim character on my old Xbox360 also banished any chance of this being my fanfiction. Because that was not something that happened in any sort of reality, and certainly not in Tintin’s canon or my alternate timelines.

Sure there were aliens, but this was… something else.

The third of course was the fact the sailors knew Scarlett. She was my creation through and through, and while I didn’t know exactly how they knew her, the fact they did at all convinced me this was a dream.

And so I calmed my nerves and focused on completing my task before I woke up, weaving through the markets and trying to play a demented game of geoguesser with the buildings and the near perfect memory I had of the movie.

Were it a VHS, I’d have worn it out with how much I watched it.

No questions asked.

VHS? Ugh, now I feel old too. I shouldn’t feel this old at 19.

Tell that to our sixty year old back pain.

We sit like a shrimp and sleep like one of those Family Guy fall animations. Of course we got back pain.

Finally, I spotted my target.

Good timing, too, for Tintin had the ship in hand and was squaring off against Sakharine.

I stopped a little ways away.

Am I really gonna throw myself at this Ruskie for the chance to grapple with the sailors again?

Tintin looked ready to march away, his grip tightening on the model ship.

Of course I am!

“Hey!” I called, cursing when my accent drew the attention of some market-goers.

Quitchyer gawkin’. What’s the matter, ain’t heard the result of Kentucky parents and a southern upbringing?

“Tintin, there you are!” I said, jogging up to him and Sakharine.

Tintin turned to face me, surprise in his blue eyes.

Why does everyone in this movie have blue eyes? Just like why the hell is everyone in this movie so aggressively British? Sakharine is supposed to be a Ruskie! Mister Ivan Ivanovic Sakharine, can’t get more Russian with that.

What do you have against Russians? Our first and only hardcore reader for years was Russian, she even sent you pictures of her snowy backyard.

Oh I got nothing against ‘em. I’m just an equal opportunity irritant. Like Looney Tunes. Everyone catching these verbal hands, I don’t discriminate.

“Shadow!” he exclaimed. “Where have you been?”

He knows us?

We had that info dump courtesy of Trevor this morning, of course he knows us.

Tintin looked me up and down as Snowy came close and circled me, sniffing at my leg.. “What happened?”

I looked down, frowning at the muddy hems of my pants, a ripped patch at the knee, my bloody forearm, and a streak of what must have been a mix of mud and oil up the side of my shirt.

“Hell, look like I’ve been to war,” I muttered. “No wonder the cop stopped me.”

Aside from me yelling at air.

“You were stopped by police?” Tintin asked. “What ever were you doing?”

“May or may not have run into some buds at the docks. And you know me!” I think. “It’s not a hello without a friendly bodyslam. We got a bit carried away and caused some issues for a driver that apparently tattled to the cops.” I shook my head. “But I’m fine!”

“Are you certain?”

“Aye, I’m good!” I gave him two thumbs up. “Fit as a fiddle!”

His brows furrowed. “What does that even mean?”

“Ya know, I ain’t sure.” I turned to Sakharine. “Sorry to interrupt.” Not. “But wanted to catch Tintin ‘fore he left.”

Sakharine looked me up and down, a noticeable twitch at the corners of his mouth like he wanted to frown distastefully but also wanted to save face. “You are quite brave, getting into scraps with dockworkers. Those types of men can be quite vulgar and dangerous to young ladies.”

Oh, you’re one of those aristocrats. Grand.

“Maybe ‘round ‘ere, but in the states we Tomboys are quite common,” I said with a shrug, then turned my attention to the model ship. “Oh, neat! Looks like the Unicorn from that old pirate tale.”

Both Tintin and Sakharine looked at me with more interest. Especially Sakharine.

“You know of this ship?” Tintin asked.

“Aye! Pirate and sailor nerd, remember?”

“I was just about to go to the library to research it. Could I borrow your notes instead?”

“Ah, sorry mate. It’s more of just passin’ stuff I know, ain’t got the main source.” I couldn’t help myself as Snowy yipped questioningly, and I knelt down to rub the little terrier’s ears. “The library’s a good start,” I said as Snowy leaned into my hand, his stubby tail wagging like mad.

Man you’re adorable and cute for a menace.

“Would you like to accompany me?” Tintin asked.

“Ah, actually think imma wander ‘round the market for a bit.”

“Are you certain?”

“Aye,” I said, watching Snowy scamped off in pursuit of something in the marketplace. I stood, smiling at Tintin. “I’ll catch up later!”

It didn’t take long after he left for Sakharine to clear his throat. “You said you knew of the Unicorn?”

I turned to him. “That I do. Bit of a tragedy, if not an interestin’ one. Pirates, fatal clashes, hidden treasures. Sounds like something out of an old comic book, don’t it?”

Should we really be teasing this man? He had a guy killed for getting too involved.

Yeah, but what’s the worst that could happen? We’re dreamin’. Gunfights, rabid monsters, apocalyptic fallouts. We’ve survived it all.

“You know of the treasure then?”

“Heard rumors, aye. Talk about fascinatin’! Reckoned there may be something at Marlinspike, it was the old estate of the Haddocks, but don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to rummage ‘round there.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What use would you have for such an archaic tale?”

“Writer stuff.”

His gaze sharpened. “You are a reporter?”

I shook my head. “I don’t like people nearly enough for that mess. Nah, I’m just a fiction writer. Pirates are my jam.” At his blank look, I added, “I have a few characters who are pirates. They’re just interestin’, and the sea? Man, what I wouldn’t give for a chance to get out there on the water.”

Take the bait. Take the bait. Take the bait. Take the bait.

The suspicion turned to a look of false friendliness. “Why, if it is Marlinspike you desire, might I offer a tour?”

I straightened up.

Fool, you fell victim to one of the classic blunders!

“You know the guy who owns it now?”

He smiled, but it was far from comforting. It was amiable, sure, but given I knew the intent behind it I wanted to scrub myself with a wire-brush and bleach. Or maybe even Drano.

Allan’s sly smile brought out a sly smile of my own, but Sakharine’s made me want to square up. After, of course, I fed the toilet like a mama bird.

“I myself do. Purchased it some time ago, my dear.”

It took everything in me to not grimace at the term.

Ew. No. Nah. Don’t like that. That shit will be dealt with as soon as I get to Marlinspike. You’re lucky I need you right now.

“Well, shoot! If you’re offerin’, I’ll take it!” I gestured behind me with a thumb. “Mind if I get a sketchbook and grab a bite to eat? I can meet you back ‘ere in about thirty minutes.”

Odd I feel hungry in a dream. Eh, it should pass.

“I myself have a matter to attend to, so perhaps three pm this evening would work better? It is about an hour’s drive.”

You’re gonna go get your boys to come along and yoink me, ain’t you? Fine by me. I could do with another tussle.

“See you back in a few,” I replied with a smile. “What’s your name, by the way?”

Wait, did he ever tell Tintin his name? Or did Tintin just know it? Because if so, plot hole???

“Mister Sakharine.”

“Well, Mister Sakharine.” I gave him a mock salute. “I’ll see you in a few.”

#karaboudjan #tintin 2011 #neil karaboudjan #oc_shadow #allan thompson #the adventures of tintin #tintin #ivan ivanovitch sakharine #oc_Trevor #anachronism fic

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