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remmickrealgf · 3 days ago

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Part Two

Pretty Little Thing

Tags & Warnings: Chicago au, non-canon events, mafia au, Smoke and Stack are in a gang, Remmick is in an Irish mafia gang, alcohol, age gaps, Everyone is up north, long fanfic, eventual smut, dub-con, Black Female Reader, Reader is 22, MDI

Synopsis: At the twins new night club in Chicago, you give an opening performance and among the crowd of onlookers a certain Irish man from the other side of the southside eyes linger a little too long on you.

A/N: fyi 13 dollars is like 200-300 something dollars in the 1930s!!!

Word Count: 2k

Reblogs, Likes and Comments are appreciated

“How much do I owe you?” Your tiny fear stricken voice squeaks.

“Thirteen dollars and fifty cents.”

Your mouth gaps at the way he casually says the price as if the smuggled Canadian Whisky doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.

You nervously laugh. “But I’ve only got fifty cents to my name, sir!”

Remmick rises from the red couch, hands buried deep in his black slacks. “That’s an easy fix.”

Hearing enough, Smoke intrudes in your one on one conversation with the strange man who overflows with a sense of danger around him. Dangerously close to Remmick eye to eye, blocking you from the other man’s view. “Or we can arrange shit right here, right now and leave my little cousin out of this,” He says. “After all you came here for business, not my family.” His eyes gleam with venom.

As much as you, everyone on the southside ran by the twins, and even Stack himself feared Smoke at times like this, Remmick on the other hand is unfazed. The Irish man almost looks bored as your older cousin looms over him, ready to make bullets rain.

The younger twin is quick at his brother’s side. “Easy, Smoke.” He puts a calming hand on the older twin’s tensed shoulder.

“I don’t like repeating myself, Moore. I want the little birdie to pay me what she owes me.” He lazily walks to the bar near you.

Too close for your liking. It makes your stomach flip and stir the booze you drank earlier.

He pours himself a drink and gulps it all down without flinching at the bitter, throat burning poison as if it’s water. “Not to mention you’re in no position to be callin’ shots. Wasn’t it your boys caught causing trouble on my turf?” He playfully tilts his head like a fox. A mocking smile dances on his handsome face.

Smoke and Stack look like someone took a sharp butcher knife and chopped their ego and pride to pieces as shame rises on their faces. They hate being reminded of the bloody turf dispute that occurred a few weeks ago on the behalf of their own men. Especially since it puts them at the mercy of the other gang, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

“Don’t rub it in,” Stack says, annoyed.

Remmick throws his hands up at his shoulders. Two shiny golden signet rings decorate each index finger. “No, no! Just a friendly little reminder!”

If it wasn’t for your mere presence in the room and now tangled in their web of business, Smoke would’ve shot the cocky bastard right where he stands, though he knows it wouldn’t do much harm. Silver bullets only do so much damage to a freak of nature like Remmick.

The longer you stay in the room with these three men the more the air gets deadlier and toxic to inhale. So you force yourself to speak up, wanting out now. “Listen, sir,” you say and their eyes all flick at you. “I don’t have all the money right now, but I’ll have it for you in a week or two, so–”

“No, you see that won’t do, Sweetheart.” He shakes his head.

“What? Why not?”

“Cause I need my dough now and on my terms.”

Smoke’s hands are quick to aim a pistol at Remmick. Wild Flames burn and dance behind his cinnamon brown eyes. “Fuck that. Fuck the turfs. I don’t give a shit bout that no more. I ain’t giving up my flesh and blood to the enemy, I know what you’re playing at, fool.” Smoke is a man of family and he would kill anyone posing a threat to his kin.

Your heart hitches in your throat seeing the sudden flash of a gun. Whenever situations involving the twin’s crew hit the fan you always made sure to never be around to see it unravel, but now you’re caught between the crossfire. And you don’t like that. You don’t want to see blood spill.

“S-Stack, he’s not gonna shoot him, is he?” You stammer, eyes anxiously bouncing between Remmick and Smoke.

Your question goes unanswered and unheard as Stack pulls his guns out as well. They both surround the Irish man, faces made of stone and steel. But Remmick remains unmoved, casually leaning on the bar’s table. In your eyes he’s got a death wish the way he still manages to smile in their faces.

“Y/n, you get on outta the way,” Smoke begins.

“We finna blow this motherfucka to pieces,” Stacks says, finishing the sentence.

No hesitation, in a flash you're away from the bar and far behind the twins. You know better than to disobey them.

“So, it’s a war you want?”

His words make the twins' fingers waver on the triggers. It wouldn’t be the first time they witnessed a war in the underworld of Chicago. When Smoke and Stack first arrived in the Windy city and got sucked into the hellish world of gangs and violence they saw it all first hand. How innocent life fell victim to unjust muruder all because a man controlling a group of men couldn’t get along with another man leading his own group of men from different sides of the city. The twins both swore they would never let a turf war break out on their watch as long as they’re in charge. Yet here they are, guns aimed at a man with the power to crush their community with the lift of a finger.

Remmick knows it and the twins know too, this won’t end well. No, it will end in cold blood.

Smoke shoots his pistol. The gunshot rings in your ears, making your body jolt, covering your ears. When your eyes open you expect to see the white man drowning in his own blood on the black marble floor. Instead, glass is sprinkled across the floor and bar table. Tiny shards mix together with whisky from the bottle you opened. You blink, surprised and a little traumatized now.

“Fuck!” Smoke growls, slinging the pistol somewhere on the floor. He paces and pinches the bridge of his nose. “We can’t afford no damn war.”

Stack sighs. Relief floods his features and he retreats the gun back in his hip holster. “Damn, Smoke, why you gotta go making messes and shit.”

The backroom’s door slams open. Sammy and Bo rush into the room.

“What the hell’s going on back here?” Bo demands. He’s alert and slightly confused with a gun loaded in his hand. His face drops seeing the spilled liquor mixed with glass. “The fuck ya’ll got going on back here?”

“Nothin’, just a deal gone south!” Stack shines a smile at Bo and Sammy.

Sammy and Bo scramble from the room back to the front and the tense aura pours into the room again. You shift awkwardly in your spot, waiting and wondering what’s next.

“What’s the terms, Irishman?” Smoke exhales, eyes burning with fury tangled with defeat.

A sinister smile pulls at Remmick’s lips.

—--------------

At the end of the night you ended up with an invisible debt stamped on your body that only you, the twins and Remmick knew about. In hindsight it didn’t seem horrible and in fact you thought nothing of it. All you have to do is sing in the Irish man’s nightclub in his side of town–easy peasy. Well, at least that’s how you felt until now.

The Irish nightclub on the other side of town is nothing like the one you performed in on your side town. Here, the eyes of people who look nothing like you stare. It doesn’t even take a child to understand the look in their eyes as it’s crystal clear. Some look at you with pure hatred like you’re the spawn of satan while others look at you like you’re some lost puppy in a world of danger. Regardless, all of their eyes make your skin crawl uncomfortably. You wanna go home back where people are welcoming and look exactly like you. If this is a punishment from the Irish man he sure did a splendid job because you hate every bit of this.

In the women’s dressing room, tears burn in your eyes, begging to fall, but you refuse to let them. Whatever sick gag this man, Remmick is pulling, you won’t let get to you. No, at least not in his very domain.

“You okay, honey?” A soft voice says nearby.

You look to find empty chairs in front of the lit up mirrors with multiple glowy bulbs. Seeing no one in any of the chairs next to you makes you think you’re already going insane until the voice comes again.

“I’m right here, hun.”

There behind you in one of the pale pink couches, is an older lady with chocolate brown locks neatly styled. Her face is battered in perfect makeup which compliments her features well.

“Oh, hello there…” You voice trails off. “Didn’t see y’a there on the way in here.”

“I actually just came in,” She admits. In seconds the older woman occupies a seat next to you. “Don’t worry, honey, no one here will hurt you.”

Your brow cocks at her odd sincerity towards you, a complete stranger. Maybe she’s one of the ones who feel bad for your being here. It nearly makes you roll your eyes at her. Of course you somewhat do appreciate it, but it still rubs you the wrong way.

The soft smile stops reaching her eyes as she gazes at you. “Why you looking at me like that?”

You blink, not knowing what to say. Being outright rude wouldn’t cut it even though what you’d say isn’t meant that way. But you’re positive she would probably take it that way, wounding her pride. Last thing you need is an enemy here in the enemy's home. You just stare, lost for words.

She sighs, fingers playing with the pearls draped around her neck. “It’s me, Mary.”

It doesn’t ring any bells as confusion twists your face in knots. “Who?” Your eyes squint at her.

She sighs again, astonished. “Stacks old lady, Mary! Wait, has he never mentioned me?”

Relief fills you at the mention of Stack. Meaning they haven’t completely thrown you to the sharks afterall. Her guess is correct. Stack nor Smoke in fact never mentioned a white passing black woman ever, or at least not to you. She explains the twins sent her to ensure your safety while you’re paying off your debt to Remmick until an urgent knock at the door ends the small safe space you built with Mary in a short span of time. It was time for your performance, in other words humiliation for all non kin skin folk to behold.

A tall man leads you to your destination. As you follow behind you notice he isn’t taking you to the main stage, but somewhere else. Through halls that turn, twist and a set of stairs, he finally yields at a door.

He knocks and says, “she’s here, boss.”

Boss? He definitely means that cocky, evil, pale man Remmick.

The door clicks open swiftly to a room filled with dimly lit soft golden lights. Similarly to the twin’s backroom, Red and black paints the space. Centered in the room is a mini stage inches away from the only sitting area of a round small table encircled by a spiral obsidian leather couch. There is no bar and there are no other areas. Only the stage and couch as if created for the sole purpose of a small audience. Your throat dries and heart trembles as the man who guided you here leaves. A clicking sound signals the door is sealed off from the public and makes your dread awfully cold, nailing goosebumps over your exposed brown skin.

“Don’t be shy, Sweetheart. Come on in,” a deep familiar voice says, hidden behind the cherry red silk curtains around the circular couch.

Perform for him. Get the money. Pay him. Never see him again. You remind yourself, dragging your sharp heels on the extravagant carpeted floor.

“Hurry now. I don’t like to be left waiting.” The tone of his voice is darkly commanding yet light. As if he doesn’t wish to invoke too much fear in you.

You make your way on the stage and reside at its center. Protectively your arms wrap around your frame, trying to cover your overly exposed skin. Though it doesn’t matter anyways with what he prepared for you tonight to wear. An embezzled shiny snow bra with baby blue beads merely covers your top and high waist sequin panties matching your top hug the bottom of your body.

His hungry gaze roams every inch of your body, stringing a chill shiver through you. The beautiful chandelier hung above the couch, highlights his alluring features. Today unlike yesterday, he dons a dark striped vest, white rolled sleeves and black slacks.

“Well, what’re you waiting for? Give me a show, doll.” His Irish accent is thicker than yesterday.

Sensual music begins to flood the room as Remmick intensely watches, itching to do more than simply watch. No, he told himself he would be patient with you. Take his time peeling every layer you had to offer. Even if you act up or invoke him to punish you, he would find a way around it. He’s had plenty of dolls. Some boring, others fun. You, however, seem like fun all around. A cheeky little mouth, a tinge sprinkle of naivety to the cruel world around her and a certain pureness. Not the type of purity in which the apple is untouched, no, the type that is inexperienced with a real man like him in every aspect.

It’s true. You’ve only ever had one man you loved in your life and gave to him your virginity at the ripe age of twenty. People say it’s important who you give it to and afterwards you’re tainted. Or at least that’s what some odd church folk say. You didn’t care that he was the one who got it nor was it regretful. What you regretted was being naive to the point of stupidity for that man. After him you swore to yourself to never love a man that way again. But of course this Irish man doesn’t know that. Yet.

Your body slowly follows the waves of the rhythm, like riding a sea wave at the beach. His eyes eat every movement you make on the stage. Clouds of cigar smoke float around him, adding to his ominous presence. When the music stops, your heart drums in your ears and the saliva you gulp barely soothes your dry throat. The music played for so long you lost track of time and dancing felt like forever.

“That was satisfying,” He lowly hums. Remmick leans back deep in the leather cushion and pats his lap. “Won’tcha join me over here, Sweetheart.”

You freeze on stage. Eyes blinking frantically. “I don’t think I will, Mr. Remmick. That wasn’t part of our deal. I’m here to perform on a stage, not entertain in such a way,” You state, finality in every word.

He shifts on the couch, lips in a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, really?” The tone of his voice is unreadable.

“Yes, now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be taking my leave now.” Off the stage and at the exit, you twist the handle. The knob fails to budge flaring sirens in your brain. “Let me out of here!”

He takes one last drag of the cigar before digging it in a crystalline ashtray. Idly he stands off the couch and saunters to you. The way Remmick moves is predatory like a calm animal who knows its prey isn’t going anywhere. Time appears to slow as he looms closer and with each passing millisecond every ounce of icy confidence melts away until his tall frame hovers you. Mini goosebumps prickle at your skin as his palm slams on the door above your head. Your heart screams in your chest as terror paralyzes you.

“What’s the matter? I thought you were leaving, Sweetheart?” The light once ringing in his voice is no more, instead it’s lower and cold. “Hmm? You’ve nothing to say?” His head tilts, almost mockingly.

You don’t say anything. Can’t say anything because your mind and body won’t allow it. In one swift blur you’re thrown over his firm shoulder then on the black leather couch. He pulls at his collar, popping a few buttons. “It seems no one has taught you any lesson about authority.” Remmick runs a hand through brunette locks. “Allow me to be the first, Sweetheart.”

#remmick x reader #remmick #remmick x you #jack o'connell #remmick smut #remmick x female reader #remmick x black!reader #sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners au #sinners fanfiction #female reader #sinners fandom #black reader #black female reader #black female writers

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laswells-ashtray · 9 days ago

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Alejandro almost misses the quiet murmur of Russian from beside him, distracted by the sights in front of him and the desire to keep the whisky in his glass while using his free hand to pull his cock free from the confine fo his jeans.

While Russian isn't a language he's fluent in, he'd recognise a prayer a mile away, and Nikolai isn't the only one asking God to be merciful.

He wonders faintly if he's taken a bullet between the eyes and been granted an eternity in ecstasy because it's the only way to explain the affair his gaze is glued to.

John's hands are large, calloused and scarred. They're also shameless, planted on Rudy's ass and he gropes and kneads at the other man's rear end, encouraging the sly role of his hips as Rudy nips and bites at his lips like hge's intent on swallowing John whole.

John isn't any better, moaning shamelessly with swollen, spit-slickened lips as the sergeant major grinds down on the buldge of his cock in his pants. All too content to cum in his pants with a lap full of vaquero and a tongue in his mouth that doesn't belong to his partner.

Alejandro knows from experience that John will be able to taste the spiced rum on Rudy's tongue, and the Brit is brazen about how much he appreciates the taste of cinnamon when it's being thrust into his mouth.

He's shamelessly stroking himself as he admires the view, teasing the head of his cock with his thumb as he wtaches Rudy's thighs tense, desperate for any friction that John can offer him. He doesn't falter under Nikolai's gaze as the Russian leans over, the smell of vodka on his breath.

"On his back next time?"

Alejandro isn't sure which man they're talking about, but he's enthusiastic to agree.

#i think john and rudy should make out sloppy style because i said so #captain john price #john price #cod nikolai #nikprice #rodolfo rudy parra #alejandro vargas #rodolfo parra #alerudy

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n1ght0f-nyx · 1 month ago

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whiskey and wanting

john 'soap' mactavish x fem reader smut

tags/warnings- the scottish, Public Teasing / Exhibitionism, power play, praise kink (good girl), dirty talk, light degradation, clothed sex, public sex, gentle dom, sub reader, inspired by art i saw on twitter

Johnny teases you all night at the pub by wearing a kilt with nothing underneath

word count- 2273 words

The pub was warm in the way only old wood and whisky could make a place feel. It buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of an off-key cover band attempting in the corner. You sat in a cozy booth near the back, sipping from a glass of cider, the amber drink kissed with cinnamon.

And Johnny MacTavish was up to no good.

You knew it the second he walked in.

The door swung open and a rush of autumn air blew in with him—along with the unmistakable cocky strut of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

He was wearing a damn kilt.

A proper one. Dark tartan, pleated, crisp. His broad chest filled out a tight charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed up to show the veins in his forearms. His undercut was styled just messy enough to look casual, but you knew the effort he put into it. The cheeky glint in his blue eyes was aimed straight at you.

And you? You already felt warm before your second sip.

When he reached your booth, he didn’t sit down right away. No, that would’ve been too easy. Instead, he leaned forward, resting one thick forearm on the table while the other casually adjusted the fall of the kilt at his thigh. The movement was subtle… calculated.

Your eyes flicked downward—just for a second. Just a second too long.

No boxers. No briefs. Just thigh and shadow.

Your breath caught, and Johnny’s lips curved into a smug, knowing grin. He leaned in closer, voice low and warm against your ear.

“Catch a peek, lass?”

You sipped your drink to hide the way your thighs pressed together beneath the table. “Didn’t realize it was that kind of party.”

“Oh aye,” he said with a wink, finally sliding into the booth across from you. “Told Gaz I was goin’ regimental. He nearly choked on his pint.”

You shook your head, cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you love me.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Especially not with the way his hand found your knee under the table a moment later, fingers trailing just a little higher than polite.

For the next hour, Johnny was relentless.

He played the part of the doting boyfriend to a T—getting your drinks, pulling your chair closer, wrapping his arm around you possessively. But beneath the charm and the light flirting was something more wicked. A smirk just a bit too sharp. A hand that lingered on your lower back, fingertips dipping just beneath the waistband of your jeans. Whispered words in your ear like, “You keep starin’ at my legs like that and I’ll bend you over this booth, love.”

He was playing with fire. And you were happy to burn.

At one point, he stood to grab another round, and purposefully dropped his napkin. He bent to retrieve it, turning ever-so-slightly in your direction.

Your jaw nearly hit the goddamn table.

Firm. Bare. Glimpses of toned skin between pleats. You saw just enough to know he was being very bold tonight.

When he returned, he slid your drink toward you and gave you a smug look. “Enjoy the view, sweetheart?”

“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered through clenched teeth, though the heat blooming between your thighs told a different story.

“You’d miss me too much.”

He wasn’t wrong. The man was a menace—but he was your menace.

The band switched to something slow and sultry. Johnny took a sip of his whisky, then leaned over with a wicked smile. “Come dance with me.”

You gave him a look. “You hate slow dancing.”

“I hate bad slow dancing,” he corrected, tugging you gently to your feet. “But I like holdin’ you.”

That line might’ve melted your panties if they weren’t already halfway there from the visual buffet he’d been serving all night.

He pulled you to the open floor near the band, one hand warm and wide on your lower back, the other twined through your fingers. The smell of smoke and wood and whisky clung to him like a second skin. You let him sway you gently to the rhythm, leaning into his chest as he pressed closer, hips flush.

The kilt brushed your bare legs.

You felt everything underneath.

“Johnny…” you hissed quietly, glancing around the bar.

“What?” he whispered back, breath tickling the shell of your ear. “No one else knows but you. S’naughty, isn’t it? Bein’ the only one who knows I’m bare beneath.”

Your thighs clenched involuntarily. He felt it. Smirked.

“I could lift it right now. Show you again. Just a peek.”

You gritted your teeth. “I swear—”

“Say the word,” he murmured, guiding your hand just a little lower. “I’ll take you into that storeroom in the back. Bet I could have you whimperin’ on a stack of crates in five minutes.”

Your knees almost gave out.

He knew it, too.

You were this close to dragging Johnny into that storeroom yourself.

Every brush of his kilt sent your thoughts spiraling. The smug bastard didn’t just know what he was doing—he was thriving on the control he had over you. He spun you slow on the dancefloor, holding you close like you were just another couple lost in the music.

But there was nothing innocent about the way he pressed against your hip. Nothing casual about the growl in his voice when he leaned in and whispered:

“Tell me, bonnie—are you wet for me already?”

Your nails dug into his shoulder through the fabric of his sweater. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet here you are, dancin’ with a man in a kilt with nothin’ underneath.” His hand slipped down to the small of your back. “Risky, love. Tempting. I could bend you over that bar and everyone would hear how sweet you sound for me.”

Your breath hitched. You hated how much his words got to you—and you loved it even more.

He let his hand trail lower, fingers dragging just along the top curve of your ass, the hem of your jeans like a dare. You had to force yourself not to moan when he dipped his mouth to your ear again.

“I want you squirming in that booth, sweetheart. I want you beggin’ under the table. You like watchin’ me flash you? How about this—”

He took your hand and placed it against his hip beneath the kilt, dragging it slowly inward.

No barrier. No fabric.

Just skin. Heat. Him.

Your palm brushed the thick length of him, already half-hard and twitching under your fingers.

Your eyes flew wide.

“Johnny—!”

But he caught your gasp with his mouth, kissing you deep and slow, right there on the dancefloor. His tongue slid past your lips with a practiced ease, tasting like whisky and sin. His other hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he kissed you like he wanted the whole bar to know you were his.

When he pulled back, your heart was racing. He smirked.

“I’m gonna break you tonight, lass.”

Back at the booth, you could barely sit still.

Every time Johnny adjusted himself or spread his legs, you knew what was underneath. And worse, he made sure you saw it—lifting the hem of his kilt just enough when the waitress walked by, shooting you that wicked grin like, “Oops, did you catch a peek again?”

He nursed his drink while you squirmed in your seat.

At one point, he reached under the table and slipped his hand between your thighs.

No warning. No pretense.

Just firm, warm fingers against the seam of your jeans.

Your gasp caught in your throat as you clenched your legs around his hand. You looked around—no one was paying attention. Everyone too drunk or distracted.

“Already soaked, aren’t you?” he murmured, stroking you slow through the denim. “Jesus, love. You get off on this, huh? Knowin’ I’ve been free all night. Just waitin’ for you.”

You nodded before your brain could stop you.

His smirk darkened. “Good girl.”

Your pulse throbbed in your ears. You were dangerously close to losing your composure in the middle of a crowded pub. But Johnny didn’t care.

“You want more?” he asked, voice gravel-low. “Say it.”

“Y-Yes,” you whispered.

“What do you want, baby?”

“I want you.”

“That all?” His hand slid higher, fingers teasing the button of your jeans. “Want me to take you right here? On this table? Let everyone hear the noises you make when I slide inside you?”

You bit your lip, hard. “You’re evil.”

“I’m devoted,” he said, dipping a finger just behind the waistband. “To making you lose it.”

You stared at him, breath heavy, eyes pleading.

He leaned closer and nipped your lip with his teeth. “Get your arse in that storeroom. Now.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

The back hallway was quiet—dimly lit, tucked behind the kitchen and lined with crates of supplies. You barely had time to step inside the storeroom before Johnny closed the door behind you and pinned you against it.

His mouth was on you instantly—hot, claiming, teeth scraping your neck as his hands yanked at your jeans. The sound of your zipper filled the room, followed by the brush of cool air against your thighs.

“Been teasing you all bloody night,” he muttered, lips dragging along your throat. “Want to feel what I’ve done to you.”

You whimpered as his hand found your soaked panties, pushing them aside.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.” His fingers slid between your folds, slow and savoring. “This all for me?”

“Y-Yes—shit, Johnny—”

He pressed two fingers into you and you arched, head hitting the door with a dull thud. He moved slow at first, curling them with precision, his palm grinding against your clit just right.

“You wearin’ those tight jeans just for me, huh?” he asked, curling his fingers again. “Knew I’d tease you into a mess.”

You tried to answer but your voice caught in your throat.

His free hand slid up under your shirt, palming your breast through your bra. “Gonna make you come just like this,” he growled. “Back pressed to the door, dripping all over my fuckin’ hand.”

The pace of his fingers quickened, scissoring inside you, and your knees buckled. He held you firm, mouth finding yours again. The kiss was filthy, tongue deep and possessive, matching the rhythm of his fingers.

You were so close. The tension curled tight in your belly, your hips grinding into his palm.

“Come for me,” he said, voice rough and low. “Be a good girl and come.”

Your climax hit hard.

Your back arched off the door, a cry ripped from your throat as your body shook around his fingers. He caught you, braced you, held you through it—his name a prayer on your lips.

When your vision cleared, he was licking his fingers clean.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

You stared at him, chest heaving, legs barely holding.

“You’re insane,” you said breathlessly.

“You love it.”

You did.

You really, really did.

He didn’t stop there.

He pushed you further into the storeroom, toward a stack of crates covered with an old linen cloth. He turned you around, bent you forward over them.

“Still need more,” he said, lifting his kilt.

You heard the rustle of fabric, the clink of his belt.

Felt the blunt heat of him against your entrance.

“Say it,” he growled, hand gripping your hip. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it, Johnny. Please.”

He didn’t wait.

He pushed in with one long, steady thrust, filling you to the hilt. You moaned—loud, unfiltered—as the stretch stole the air from your lungs. He groaned behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other braced on the crate beside you.

“Fucking hell, love,” he hissed, hips rolling slow. “Tight little cunt wrapped around me like this—been dreamin’ about it all fuckin’ night.”

He set a brutal rhythm, hips snapping against you as the crates creaked beneath your weight. His kilt brushed your thighs with every thrust, the soft fabric a filthy reminder of how this all started.

“Wanted to fuck you senseless the second I saw you sittin’ pretty in that booth,” he growled. “You look so sweet when you’re flustered. So fuckin’ wreckable.”

You were already halfway there.

Every thrust knocked the breath from your lungs. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on the crates, legs trembling, core clenching hard around him.

His hand reached around, fingers finding your clit again, stroking you in time with his thrusts. “Come again for me, baby. Want to feel you squeeze me. Wanna fuck you through it.”

You didn’t stand a chance.

Your second orgasm hit harder than the first. Your vision blurred, pulse pounding in your ears, body shaking under his relentless rhythm. You cried out his name, voice cracked and desperate.

“That’s it,” Johnny groaned. “Fuck, that’s my girl.”

A few more thrusts and he was right behind you—grunting, cursing, spilling deep inside with a low, guttural moan. He didn’t pull out right away—just stayed there, pressed against your back, breath heavy and warm on your neck.

“Jesus,” he muttered, finally pulling out, careful as he did.

You both stood there a moment—sweaty, wrecked, panting.

And then you both started laughing.

The kind of breathless, post-orgasm giggle that made your knees shake all over again.

He kissed the back of your neck, arms wrapping around you from behind.

“Best bar night I’ve ever had,” he mumbled.

You turned in his arms and kissed him—slow, lazy, completely content. “You’re still insane.”

“Aye,” he grinned, kissing your nose. “But I’m yours.”

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bettystonewell · 2 months ago

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TO YOU I BELONG: CHAPTER 6

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn't looking for a mate, and the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain't real. He still has free will, and saving you is just another part of the job. Except, monsters aren't the only things you need saving from... 18+ only MDNI

Chapter Word Count: 4.5k words

Chapter Warnings: language, fluff, smut implied

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The Men of Letters bunker was full of many wondrous and wacky things. From weapons to ancient texts, to objects that looked like they’d been pulled right out of a sci-fi movie.

Some were dangerous, plenty were extremely so, and others, Dean wouldn’t touch even if he was wearing a lead-lined radioactive safety suit. Screw ten-feet poles.

Sam would say the same about the vast collection of handwritten reports and records the place had, too, but he would be wrong. Dean did, in fact, read on occasion. And it wasn’t just in times of researching for cases or when he had the mark.

Sometimes he simply got bored.

It’s how he’d stumbled on one particular document regarding mated pairs from another world and learned that not all of Chuck’s creations had heats, ruts and knots like they assumed. Although he should’ve known that without reading it in a file. He always knew there was something funny about the doppelgangers in the Fiat besides the other Sammy’s man-bun.

Douchebuggery aside, somewhere in God’s vast universe, there were humans who weren’t categorised by secondary gender and thus alpha males who didn’t have bulbous muscles at the base of their dicks.

Yup. There was at least one Dean Winchester whose junk was the same width the whole way along, except for the tip. That perv Sinclair, who’d written on the subject the most, had actually drawn a picture of one. Not his, per se, but some random guy’s. Dean hoped.

There were also no marks or claims. No soulmate’s even. Just straight up male and female pairs, shacking up together, sometimes casual, but when serious, showing off their unions with rings and a piece of paper.

This world and its marriage thing sounded so much simpler in some ways. No marking meant no biting, and no knotting meant you could fuck off once you were done. That had to be convenient for one-night stands.

Who’d complain about that?

But this society had another thing Dean remembered, and it was something that seemed to fit what the past two weeks had been like for him and you.

The honey-days period.

At least, that sounded about right. He wasn’t about to reread the file again because the dick pick had scarred him for life.

Whatever the name was, after meeting four weeks prior, that was the stage he was at in his relationship with you, minus the swanky hotel and room service.

Every moment you had been together had been spent well, together. And Dean hadn’t had enough.

Was he whipped? Maybe. Obsessed? If that label satisfied Sammy, then sure. But as he looked down at you, lying satiated on top of him, he didn’t care, because the word that came to mind for him was happy. And the happiest he’d been in his life to date that he could recall.

He’d slept like a baby last night, and your wake-up call earlier had been awesome. Exactly what he needed after another long hunt away.

His arms wrapped tighter around you, basking in the afterglow of your latest romp in the sheets. Not that they were anywhere nearby. One half had ended up tangled in his ankles, while the other was on the floor.

He nuzzled his chin into your hair. The smell of cinnamon, a touch of apple and a nip of whisky from his lips, reminded him of his favourite dessert, and his mouth twitched. Those movies had gotten it right. If only his stomach wasn’t rumbling beneath you like a crazed animal, he might have gone in for a second helping.

He was starving. Wasting away to nothing and needing to do something about it real soon.

“What do you say I make us a big breakfast once we’ve cleaned up?” he asked. It wouldn’t be as fancy as room service, but he’d put in the extra effort for you. He knew how to whip up pancakes, bacon and eggs and would even add some fruit in it for you if it’s what you wanted.

But who was he kidding? What he had in mind wasn’t for your benefit at all.

Still, he hoped you’d agree to it. While not heavy, your hips were pressing into his bladder, and taking a leak was fast becoming the top thing to do on his imaginary list.

“I think you mean lunch,” you mumbled.

Dean strained his neck to look at the alarm clock on his bedside. Fuck. It was close to twelve. No wonder he was feeling pangs from both organs. Normally, he’d be up and about by now. “I haven’t slept this late in a long time,” he said.

“Last I recall, you weren’t sleeping.” You chuckled and raised your head up to meet his eyes. The cool morning air rushed straight to his nipples, nipping at them, and yours, sending signals to his still deflating knot.

Damn bunker was always cold.

There must’ve been a few drops left of his release because he definitely felt a pulse at the root of his shaft and you quirked your brow.

“I just spent three days without you, sweetheart.” He shrugged.

He’d missed you every second of them, too. Though, unlike the case in New Mexico, his insecurities had become more lax.

You now had an anti-possession tattoo, and you knew how to shoot a pistol and shotgun, sort of.

The revolver he kept under the war room table was a start. It was loaded, cocked and ready to use, which yes, he was well aware went against every piece of gun training his father and Bobby had ever taught him, but precaution was key. He needed to protect you, even when he wasn’t there to do so.

“You just got home,” you said, finding a sudden interest in his own ink. “And you’ve been working a lot. How about you let me make something for you?”

His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking the strands behind your ear that had fallen down. “Last I recall,” he said smugly, “you were working, too.”

“What? Reading text books. You and Sam had it all figured out.”

You pushed away from the mattress and crawled back to sit upright. But his hands found your hips, and he stopped you from moving any further. He didn’t like your tone or the way you frowned.

“We didn’t know we had to light it up,” he said, hoping praise was what you needed to hear.

It was the truth, and he and Sam had been grateful. They could’ve spent longer away from home if you hadn’t found the solution. The damn thing, that still had no name, had similarities with vamps, but it still wouldn’t stay put, even after a machete to the neck and the rounds of lead and silver they blasted into its torso.

But you scoffed. “How often do you guys burn things?”

Without hesitation, he opened his mouth to speak. Only you had him stumped. His brain had no words to counter with.

They burned shit all the time, vengeful spirit or not. If they were ever in need of disposing of a body real quick, it was digging a hole and lighting her up, or finding a wood chipper. And it wasn’t like he had one floating around in Baby’s trunk.

That answer wouldn’t help him or you, though, and there was more to this than you being upset about the method they’d used to get the job done.

He saw the pout, the subtle nod that you’d made your point, and the way your fingers continued to trace the lines of the pentagram on his chest. Any idiot could tell that something was wrong. He just needed to know what.

You were his mate after all, with or without his claim, and his current bodily function issues aside, it was his duty to look out for your welfare, both emotional and physical. Yet, he was hesitant to open up whatever rabbit hole he was about to.

Luckily, his inner Sammy was having a conniption. ‘Talk to her,’ it said. ‘Don’t jump to conclusions like you always do.’

And for once, rather than saying something stupid, he listened. “Is everything okay?”

“I just—” You bit your lip.

His stomach had decided it was the perfect time to gurgle in protest.

“You know what, nevermind.” You patted him gently. “We should clean up. You haven’t eaten yet.” And you swung your leg off of him and moved to the edge of the bed.

Fuck. Guilt crept in on him. Something was bothering you, but things were getting desperate for his stomach and his plumbing, and the last thing he wanted to do was wet the bed, so ultimately, his own predicament won out.

He sat up, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you down onto your back, catching you by surprise. Your squeal of delight telling him distraction was key.

Dean captured your lips with his, placing all of his feelings into it to soothe whatever was troubling you. Promising himself that he would work on fixing things as soon as the horde rumbling in his insides had ebbed.

Sam had been busy himself that morning.

So far, he’d searched the web for anything resembling a case, and found nothing. He’d also gone for a run, taken a shower, and was finishing up in the bathroom when he received the text.

Where are you? It read.

He didn’t think much of the message. Why would he?

It wasn’t unusual for Dean to use his phone rather than look for him. The bunker was large, after all. Three levels, multiple halls and passageways, and those were just the areas they’d discovered. Who knew how expansive a place could be when it had a giant telescope and a shooting range amongst other rooms?

While he found some interest in that stuff, Sam still prioritised cataloguing the library. Something he hoped to get you on board with, because Dean never helped him, and you had some experience with your former job.

He sighed as he picked up his phone to type out his response - My room. At least he would be when his brother arrived at his bedroom door. It wasn’t far away and Dean liked to go slow on rest days. Especially now with you around.

Unfortunately for Sam, however, he had misunderstood Dean’s intentions, and dawdling by account was the last thing he should’ve done.

He took his time, putting his boots on, getting the socks into position so that the seams didn’t annoy his toes in the corners. He threw his dirty clothes in the hamper, making sure each piece was turned the right way out and separated. Finally, he returned his damp towel to the metal rung he kept it on, folding it just so that the edges lined up, and stepped out into the corridor with a wave of steam close behind him.

Swivelling on his feet, he strolled back towards his room, continuing with his leisurely pace.

He had not a care in the world.

That was until he rounded the curve and found himself in front of his brother, carrying you over his shoulder, and he did a double take.

“Sammy?”

“Dude! What the hell.”

Unlike Dean, you had some shame and scrambled to make sure the sheet you’d been wrapped in covered your body, though you had done a fair job of that before Sam had run into you both, and he appreciated it.

He liked you. You seemed kind and sweet. Too good for Dean if he was honest, but he respected the soulmate thing and knew that for whatever reason, even if it was unknown, you already had a profound bond.

With Dean, however, he’d rather not have shared as much as what he was seeing. It was bad enough he’d heard things the past two weeks since returning from New Mexico, but this? “Please tell me you’re wearing something.” He sighed.

“Why’d you think I sent that message for?” Dean grinned, and Sam shook his head.

“Because you were looking for me?”

“No.” His voice was higher than usual. “I wanted to know where you were. There’s a difference.”

Fucking hell. He may have been awake for a good six hours now, but it was still far too early for semantics, especially with Dean. “Well, here I am,” Sam said, his arms and chest jerking forward in frustration.

“This ain’t your room.”

Sam stared at his brother in disbelief. Why did he bother? It was days like these he wished he’d stayed at Stanford. Or left Dean alone to succumb to that djinn in Illinois. Either way, he would’ve saved himself some crap. “I was headed there!”

“Well, keep heading there. I gotta take a leak,” Dean said as he sped past. Your hands reached down, doing their best to cover the parts of him Sam didn’t want to see.

“Sorry,” you mouthed, and he shook his head in return.

He knew he liked you. He just wasn’t sure how he was going to handle his brother with you around. Especially if what he’d just witnessed was about to become a regular occurrence.

Dean jiggled, flushed and flipped the lid. He was a courteous guy. And just maybe, had learnt his lesson a long time ago while living at Lisa’s.

You were already in the shower waiting for him when he padded across the tiled floor to wash his hands.

You’d been quiet ever since he’d mentioned their recent case in Iowa. Quieter still when he’d made a joke about Sammy, having the personality of the Mountain despite being younger after he’d lied about where he was, and Dean was growing concerned. You normally laughed along with him about this stuff, and sure, it had been only four weeks of knowing you, but this was different to how you usually were around him.

Were you really upset that they’d ganked the last d-bag by lighting ‘em up in flames? Had you wanted to help more on the case? Did you want to, Chuck forbid, hunt with them?

Over his dead body.

There was no way you’d ever take up that life. The guns and tattoo were only there as a precaution, nothing more, so he hoped there was another explanation.

But what else?

Your heat was due soon.

Maybe this change in mood was a sign it was starting?

‘You ain’t asking that,' he chuckled silently to himself. He didn’t have a death wish. Though he was screwed if this was going to become daily life for him.

He pushed those thoughts to the side. He was being a douchebag just thinking of them, and that wasn’t him.

That belonged with man-bun Sammy and the version of him that wore dress shirts without a suit and tie. The guy was one good looking fella, he’d give him that, but Dean didn’t need a fancy-ass shirt to pull off the same amount of charm with you, or anyone else. He was like Swayze. Better with age.

He glanced over the reflection of his torso in the mirror, catching your silhouette behind the glass screen sitting just above his shoulder.

The room was quiet besides the shower and splashing noises made as you washed. There was no sound of tears or smell of them, and he took that as a good sign. Great, when you smiled warmly at him as he entered the cubicle with you.

“Better?” You squinted through the stream.

“I am now,” he said as he stepped closer to steal the warm water from you, earning himself a wet slap and you a cheeky grin.

His hardened chest pressed against your soft one, leaving barely any room for the spray to flow.

There was something sexy about slippery skin. There was something sexy about your skin. Who was he kidding?

Still feeling playful, Dean’s hand moved to perch on your hip. He leaned in as if he were about to plant a kiss on your lips, but swooped behind you last second, reaching for his body wash on the inbuilt shelf.

That earned him a firmer smack. One he revelled in. Violence was never the answer. He’d made that clear when he screwed with Dick. It told him his shenanigans were working, though.

That, and you hit like a girl.

He caught your arm and poured a generous amount of soap into your palm, proceeding to use your hand to wash himself.

“I need to teach you how to throw a punch,” he said as he draped your fingers around his neck first, then down over both shoulders and pectorals. All guided by him, and his even bigger grin.

“Why? I’m not a hunter.” You scoffed.

You weren’t interested in being one, either, by the sounds of it, thank fuck.

Your hand pulled against his movements. “You thought I wanted to be?”

How did you do that? “I was worried you might.”

“What made you think that?”

Now that he was being asked, he didn’t have the answer. “I, ah… I dunno. Something’s bothering you ‘bout the last hunt.”

You took a step back and hit the wall with a soft slap, looking at him as if he’d just told you werewolves weren’t real, even though you very much knew they were. He’d ganked one in between the witches and their most recent case.

“So you thought I wanted to join you? It…” You shook your head. “I thought you were hungry?”

You would be wrong. He had lost his stomach minutes ago and now had Famine banging around in there instead. But he didn’t tell you that. You’d think he was crazier than you already did if he started bringing up the apocalypse. That was a discussion for another time when he brought up their not so straightforward relationships with God and the King of Hell.

“I am.” He laced his fingers between yours and pulled you back to the centre of the shower, watching as the spray hit your shoulders. “But it can wait. There’s something you’re not telling me here, and I need you to tell me.”

Your head lowered, drawing him down, too.

Bad move. The water now ran over your breasts to your pert nipples, the curves creating tiny waterfalls that captivated his attention with the way droplets pooled at the edges. He had to swallow hard.

“I want to make you breakfast,” you said.

Uh… The statement would’ve made him revert back to eye level, but when you bounced on the heels of your feet, it didn’t help his resolve. The words, though. What? “You wanna cook?” You cooked all the time.

“No.” You shot back up. “Well, yeah. That came out wrong… I want to…help more…around the bunker. You know, earn my keep.”

Earn your keep.

Do more?

“You do plenty around here.” You’d been cooking for them almost every meal since you’d moved in. Organised the kitchen and kept on top of the use by dates in the fridge. He hadn’t drunk off-milk or been in the laundry room in over a month. Maybe even two for the latter. But he wasn’t about to admit that.

“No, I don’t.” You shook your head. “Not enough. I know hunting doesn’t exactly pay the bills, but you and Sam go out there and save people, and here I am, making the occasional meal for you guys when you get home.”

Your hand came up to his stomach and smoothed over the creases that highlighted where his muscles lay beneath. “I wanna help more,” you said. “Dick took all my—”

Dean smirked at your usage of your ex’s nickname. That was his ‘endearment,’ not yours.

“Don’t do that.” You swatted him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking about it. I felt you smile.”

You did? Well, that was new. But he didn’t question you. He had no heart to. Your mind was on a one-way ticket to that spark he knew.

“…Ritchie took everything I have, and now I don’t have a job to help pay my way.” You reached for the soap and squeezed out another dollop onto your palm and started running it over his body once more. “I can’t even help you with your cases. I just…don’t want you to think I’m mooching off of you guys.”

So that’s what was wrong.

Dean had forgotten all about that dickbag bleeding you dry. Too happy and lost in the life he’d been building with you to realise that your baggage was still weighing you down.

“It ain’t mooching if there’s nothing to mooch, sweetheart,” he said, pulling you back against his chest and wrapping an arm around your waist while his hand came up to cradle your head.

“But I’m used to working. Contributing. And I’m going stir crazy not doing that.”

Dean sighed. There was that guilt again, only now he had cause for it. He and Sam always had each other, but they were leaving you here for days at a time, with no transport, no respite, no purpose, while only his phone calls kept you company.

It’s no wonder you were struggling.

This place must’ve felt like a prison to you, compared to the life you’d had, even with that abusive fucktard. It was still cold in the warmer months. Creepy, as you’d complained about when they were in New Mexico, and you had no nest here, or space to call your own so you could make one.

Dean could relate to all of that if he was honest, minus the nesting thing. There’d been times in his life when he felt frustrated because he couldn’t do jack. A broken leg. Heart problems because of some crazy-ass ghost. Sammy in hell. Okay, that was a little out of the present perspective… All in all, though, he didn’t know what to do to help you.

That was until you said, “How about you let me make you breakfast?” with a smile, and while he was perplexed once again by how the fuck you’d done that, he kissed you on your forehead, and smiled against your skin in return.

“We’ll do it together,” he whispered. And then grabbed your hand and moved it to wash his ass cheek.

Dean fumbled through the contents of the fridge. His fingers and ears were now at risk of frostbite on account of how long he’d been searching in there for. "Where’d you say it was?”

“Top shelf,” you said over the sizzling of bacon in the pan.

He’d looked there already and there was no fucking butter.

He raised his head and pushed past the milk, juice and whatever the hell vegetable Sam had blended into liquid this time. If smoothies weren’t meant to be green, they probably weren’t meant to be brown either.

Yes, it could’ve been melted chocolate…

But it wasn’t.

Cocoa, or anything else associated with its candy form, did not smell like the contents of his stomach after cheap whiskey. Nor did it have lumps. Or take on that specific colour.

Gross.

And no closer to finding the damn butter.

He shut the fridge with a sigh louder than the metal doors creaking and went to the pantry. Oil would have to do. Surely they had some of that lying round the bunker. The kind he used for Baby’s engine was a no go, obviously, but he wouldn’t say no to blessed pancakes if he got desperate enough to take the holy stuff from her trunk.

“What’re you doing?” you asked as he scoured the open shelving.

“Wasn’t any.” There was, however, canola or olive oil, and he picked them up and turned around to show them to you. “Which—”

Your hands were already on your hips.

You scrunched your nose and channelled your inner Samantha before spinning on your heels, searching for the ingredient yourself.

It was no surprise you found it straight away, but in his defence, Dean hadn’t expected it to be in the container Jody had ‘leant’ them a few months ago. The last time he’d seen the thing, there was gravy inside that was definitely gravy and not something he questioned as chocolate.

“Where’d you find that?”

“In the fridge. Top shelf.” You deadpanned.

“Smart ass.” He grinned, but pulled you close anyway when he stepped up next to you. “I didn’t know you’d put it in that.”

His chin dipped down to your shoulder and nuzzled his initials hidden beneath the fabric. The hiss you made between your teeth brought a smirk to his lips and a familiar pang to his own body.

“It keeps better. Though I had to clean it out first. I dunno what was in there, but it wasn’t edible.”

He moved to your mating gland and chuckled into your skin, peppering kisses over the sensitive flesh. “And you thought you weren’t helping ‘round here.”

“Cleaning out Tupperware with a living ecosystem growing inside of it does not make up for a nine to five,” you stated.

Though he heard you, his mind focused on the change in your pulse that had taken on a life of its own. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was pulling his into a similar rhythm.

Your skin was hot to touch, warming the surrounding air, and everything started to make sense. “How much longer till your heat, ‘mega?” (And here he swore he wouldn’t be a douchebag.)

Your “Hmm?” was distant, and he grazed his front teeth over your neck, drawing away to find lust filled eyes turning to meet him.

“Do I need to stop takin’ the suppressants?” His brows wagged, hopeful and just as driven as you had been lost in his attentions.

“It might be a good idea,” you said, patting his cheek. “Probably best to think about your poor brother too…shit.” Your focus returned to the bacon that was fast becoming a little too crispy even for him. When it spat back at you, you flinched. “Well, excuse me for not letting you burn,” you directed to the pan.

He rubbed a placating hand over your rear, then got to work whipping up a batch of pancakes. It was now past noon and while he may have been hungry before, he was close to eating the raw ingredients he churned the spoon through.

‘Sammy?’ his mind repeated. He’d rather not. But Dean recognised you had a point after this morning.

If things were reversed, there’s no way he’d be sticking around during your first heat. It was surprising Sam hadn’t lost his cool with him earlier, and he wondered if he should send his brother on a fake milk run. All he needed to do was find a suspicious enough murder a few states over. Maybe get Donna or Jody involved and…

Dean looked down at the butter in the container. Another wider grin spread across his face.

“What?” you asked. Not moving an inch.

“How many days do you think we got?”

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Ahhhhh - any guesses what's happening next?

I started to gain a rather large interest in the concept of nesting as I worked through this story, and the first little signs of it are coming up next chapter (it's in the preview below). As someone who's made a career in retail, it was only natural that my sales brain came up with stores having nesting departments, and it will feature again if you catch my drift.

I won't give too much away, but I'm on the edge of my own seat waiting to give you guys the next chapter to the point I’m considering uploading it earlier! Are you guys ready for him to claim her?

Until then ❤️

Chapter 7: Honeydayimg 04/04

“Are you sure we need all this stuff?” he asked as you passed another couple with only half the things you had.

“This coming from the guy who had two slices of pie on top of his burger at lunch?”

Point taken, he supposed, but you’d eaten just as much. You’d had more than him, come to think of it. Lunch, breakfast, the night before. So when you patted his stomach, and he looked down at you grinning at him, he couldn’t help but return a knowing smile.

“You’ll thank me later,” you said.

He knew he would. In more ways than one.

Still on your way to the front, you passed the nesting department located opposite the cash registers. Of course, it was just another convenient ploy to gain some extra impulse buys from naïve omegas who hadn’t realised they needed that new blanket or another stuffy until they saw the giant pile of fluff.

To Dean’s distaste, you were also won over by the gimmick and he was pulled along for the ride.

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dorkbajirchronicles · 7 months ago

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I'm throwing an Animorphs-themed party in a couple weeks, mainly as an excuse to make themed snacks and cocktails. Here are my ideas so far:

- the Cube: a mojito with a large blue ice cube (Andalites)

- bark spritz: some sort of gin-cinnamon stick-maple syrup combo (Hork-Bajir) I've found luck in Christmas vibe drinks with apple cider added as well

- kandrona shot: cinnamon whisky and coke with a piece of cinnamon gum inside (Yeerks)

- thermal sunset: orange juice, rum, vodka, sprite, with a bit of grenadine (Animorphs)

#animorphs #cocktails

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noeulha · 1 month ago

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How did we end up here?

Caleb x You

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Implied emotional distress/self-destructive behavior, Mentions of existential themes, Strong tension (emotional & physical), Implied intimacy

Plot : After one too many drinks, you find yourself drowning in the weight of your past, seeking oblivion in a dimly lit bar at the edge of the galaxy. But when a mysterious stranger with knowing eyes and a dangerous smile takes an interest, the night takes an unexpected turn—one that might just change everything.

The low hum of the bar’s chatter blurred into the background as you raised your glass, your mind spinning in circles. The last hour, maybe even the last five minutes, was a haze of whiskey and broken thoughts. All you knew was that the weight of the universe felt too heavy, and the only thing that could dull the ache was the burn of alcohol—more of it. All of it.

You weren’t even sure how many shots you’d had by now, but the bartender had stopped counting. The warmth was seeping into your limbs, the world tilting just slightly, the glow of the overhead lights too bright for your eyes to focus.

You glanced over, catching the bartender’s eye. He wasn’t judging, but the way he was wiping the glass—a quiet, knowing gesture—told you he was keeping an eye on you. His silence was the only thing that kept you from turning around and confronting the other patrons, their eyes boring into your back. You didn’t want anyone’s sympathy. You didn’t want anyone’s pity. All you wanted was to sink into the oblivion of alcohol and forget… forget everything.

A fresh shot slid across the counter, the amber liquid swaying with the bartender’s fluid motion. He didn’t even ask. Just set it there.

You stared at it for a second before your fingers curled around the glass. “I didn’t—”

“I know,” the bartender said, his voice calm, almost understanding, as a soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “But you’re looking a little worse for wear. Thought this might help.”

You were about to protest, but the words fizzled out. You were too tired to argue. You just needed to drown out the thoughts that kept circling, gnawing at your brain.

“No offense,” you muttered, swirling the shot in your hand. “But I’m not sure anything can help right now.”

He didn’t respond immediately, instead giving you a patient look, something deep and steady in his eyes. The kind of look that felt like it could pierce through all the bullshit. “Well, if you’ve got a death wish, there are better ways to go about it.”

You stiffened at his words, your chest tightening. “What makes you think I’ve got a death wish?”

He didn’t reply directly, but his gaze flickered to your shot glass before glancing back at you. You felt the intensity of it—an almost magnetic pull between you—and the silence in the bar thickened, the air charged.

Without thinking, you downed the shot, the spicy heat of cinnamon whisky washing over your tongue. It burned, but in a strangely comforting way. Your face flushed, your body tingled, and for a moment, the edges of your reality softened.

“Good?” the bartender asked, his voice low and steady, a hint of something unspoken in his tone.

You blinked, a slight smile tugging at your lips, more from the warmth spreading through you than from any humor. “Yeah. Actually, it’s good.”

He nodded, almost to himself, before turning his attention back to the other patrons.

The silence between you and the bartender stretched, but it was peaceful, like the calm before a storm. The alcohol was dulling the sharpness of your thoughts. Maybe… maybe you didn’t need to remember. Maybe you could just be here, in this moment. Safe. For now.

And then, a thud beside you broke your thoughts. You didn’t turn to look, just took another slow sip of water, letting the coolness calm the heat spreading through you.

“Scotch. On the rocks,” a voice murmured, smooth, like velvet. The accent was familiar, but you weren’t in the mood to focus on it.

“Coming right up,” the bartender replied, not missing a beat.

A long pause followed, and then the voice spoke again. It was teasing now, almost amused.

“You look a little out of it.”

You finally turned, meeting the sharp, dark eyes of Caleb, the Colonel. -Of all people, of course it had to be the Colonel. Your damn luck.- He leaned against the bar, his posture casual, but the intensity of his gaze didn’t match. It was like he could see straight through you. He cradled his glass lazily, the dim light catching the edge of his jaw, highlighting the faint scar running down his cheek. There was something predatory in the way he smiled—a thin curve that didn’t reach his eyes, but it wasn’t threatening. It was something else. A challenge, maybe.

“What?” you asked, trying to focus, to really see him.

“Just thought I’d say hi,” Caleb said, his voice low and smooth. “Not often we get newcomers in here. Name’s Caleb, by the way.”

You let out a small laugh, more of a huff, and took another sip of your water. “Right. Nice to meet you.”

His lips quirked as though he was amused by something you hadn’t said. “What’s your name, then?”

You told him, but you weren’t sure why. It didn’t matter. You didn’t expect him to remember it, or even care.

“Huh. Never heard that one before.” His tone was nonchalant, but there was an edge to his curiosity. It made you uneasy, but you didn’t feel like getting into it. Not tonight.

The bartender slid Caleb’s drink across the counter, and he took it with a soft thanks, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something magnetic about his gaze, something that held you there, even as you tried to pull away.

“So, what’s your story? What brings you to this little corner of Skyhaven?”

You stared at him for a moment, the alcohol giving you a bit of bravery. “Drinking.”

“Obviously,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But what else?”

You glanced at your shot glass, and for a second, you wondered if it would be easier to just say nothing. But your mouth moved before you could stop it.

“Honestly? Just trying to forget.”

Caleb’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Forget what?”

“Everything,” you muttered, slumping a little against the counter, trying to will the weight of your thoughts away. The room seemed to spin a little, but you didn’t care.

There was a beat of silence, just long enough for you to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his stare. He took a sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass, and then leaned in just slightly, his breath warm against your ear.

“Can I ask why?”

You snorted, the bitter edge of your laugh not hiding the pain you were feeling. “Not sure I want to tell you.”

His gaze didn’t waver, though, didn’t flinch. “I get it,” he said, his voice softer now, more sincere than before. “But sometimes, talking can be the best way to forget.”

“Maybe,” you muttered, but you didn’t really believe it. You weren’t sure you even wanted to believe it.

“Yeah, it’s complicated, isn’t it?” Caleb said, his voice low, almost contemplative. “Everyone’s got their demons. But there’s always a way forward. That’s what I like to believe, at least.”

You raised an eyebrow, finally looking him directly in the eye. “Is that so? And what if it’s one bad thing that changes everything?”

He didn’t flinch at your words, just considered them for a moment before responding, his voice steady, measured. “Then you learn from it, and you move on. Because there’s always something more out there. Something better.”

“Is there, though?” The bitterness slipped into your voice, sharp and raw. “Sometimes one bad thing is enough to ruin it all. You can’t just forget that.”

“I suppose,” he said quietly, but the intensity in his eyes remained. “But if you let it consume you, it’ll swallow you whole.”

For a second, you didn’t know what to say to that. His words hung in the air like an anchor, keeping you tethered to the present. The weight of them felt too much to shake off, even if you tried. Caleb turned the glass in his hands, his fingers curling around the cool edges, and his gaze softened, thoughtful. “You ever feel like you’re searching for something? Something bigger than all of this?”

The question threw you off balance. Your heart skipped a beat, and before you could stop it, the words slipped out of your mouth.

“Yeah. I want to believe there’s something else. Something more.”

Caleb’s lips quirked into that same small, predatory smile. “And do you think you’ll find it?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered, your throat tightening. “But I have to try.”

“Yeah,” he said, almost as if to himself. “Sometimes the universe has a way of showing us what we need, when we least expect it.”

“And sometimes it doesn’t,” you added, barely above a whisper.

The air between you felt charged now, thick with something unspoken. Caleb’s eyes softened, his gaze shifting from intensity to something else, something almost warm.

“Then we make our own way,” he said quietly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stared at him for a moment, the weight of his words settling in your chest. “I don’t know if I’m capable of that.”

“Maybe you don’t have to be,” he replied, his voice steady. “Not when you’ve got someone who believes in you.”

The words hung there for a moment, heavy, suffocating in their truth. You swallowed hard, staring into the depths of your empty glass, the last traces of whiskey clinging to the edges like a memory that refused to fade.

“But I don’t have anyone who believes in me,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. The admission scraped against your throat, raw and bitter, and you hated how vulnerable it made you sound.

Caleb didn’t answer right away. He just watched you, his dark eyes unreadable, but there was something steady in his gaze—something that didn’t waver, didn’t judge. Then, after a moment, he set his drink down with a quiet clink and leaned in just slightly, enough that the warmth of his presence pushed through the cold emptiness gnawing at you.

“You do now,” he said, his voice low and sure, like an undeniable truth.

Your breath caught, and for a second, you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or the weight of his words making your head spin. You wanted to believe him. You really did. But doubt curled in your chest like smoke, refusing to clear.

Caleb must have seen it in your expression, because his lips quirked—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, but something in between, something softer. He lifted his glass again, his fingers brushing against yours as he nudged it toward you.

“Here’s to proving you wrong,” he murmured. “One way or another.”

You hesitated, then—almost reluctantly—lifted your glass to meet his. The cool burn of whiskey filled your throat, but it was nothing compared to the slow, smoldering warmth in Caleb’s gaze. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you wondered if maybe, just maybe… you weren’t completely alone.

—————

The next thing you knew, the dim lights of the bar were long behind you. The night had taken on a different energy as you and Caleb found yourselves standing at the door to your place. You couldn’t remember exactly how you’d gotten here, only that somewhere between the shared drinks and easy conversation, the tension in the air had shifted.

One moment, it was the warm buzz of alcohol and laughter, and the next, there was a pull between you that you couldn’t explain. Something about his eyes, the way his gaze never left yours, made your heart beat a little faster. The heat between you had been building all night, and now, in the quiet of your apartment, it felt like it was about to ignite.

You had barely stepped inside when his hand found yours, pulling you closer. His lips were suddenly on yours, soft at first, then urgent. Your pulse quickened as you responded, your body instinctively leaning into him, the space between you narrowing until there was nothing left but the taste of whiskey on his tongue and the heat of his chest against yours.

You didn’t know who made the first move—it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the pressure of his lips, the way his fingers gripped your waist as if he needed to hold onto you. The kiss deepened, more intense, more desperate, until the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you.

His hand slid up your spine, pulling you closer still, and in that moment, everything felt impossibly right. Like you were finally in the place you were meant to be. His body pressed against yours, the heat between you crackling, and you felt something shift in the air—an undeniable pull, like two pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place.

You stumbled backward, never breaking the kiss, and before you knew it, you were pressed against the wall of your hallway, your hands threading through his hair, tugging him closer. He groaned softly, a sound that sent a rush of heat through your veins, and you responded, matching his urgency.

Everything else disappeared—no past, no questions, just this. Just the raw, electric connection that had taken hold between you. The weight of the night, of the loneliness, of the questions and the fear—it all melted away in the heat of his touch.

Somehow, in the chaos of the moment, you’d both found yourselves here—together. And neither of you was ready to pull back.

How did we end up here…?

#love and deepspace #caleb x reader #caleb x non!mc reader #lads #lads caleb #lads x reader #lads smut #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #caleb x you #caleb imagine #caleb #caleb x y/n

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delirious-donna · 11 months ago

Text

The Cat Who Got The Cream [Kuroo Tetsuro]

an: Kuroo deserves to be rewarded for everything he does to make you feel special, and nothing will stop you from worshipping him (there isn't a thing I wouldn't do for this man tbf)

pairing: Kuroo Tetsuro x female reader

warnings: oral sex, hand humping, just pure smut

Masterlist

He tasted annoyingly good. Smoky whisky notes mixed perfectly with the slight cinnamon spice from the dessert you had not long shared. His taste tingled your tastebuds, your mouth salivating in anticipation whilst your patience was shredded down to bare threads.

Your mouth slanted in want and Kuroo deepened the kiss in retaliation. He licked at the swell of your bottom lip in a faux act of requesting permission, he knew from the way you squirmed against him that you were just as needy as he was. With a breathless chuckle, the wet muscle curled past your teeth to invade your mouth, stroking your tongue in slow, languid movements that had you moaning into the shared space.

The quiet of your bedroom room was broken only by the sinful mewls that crawled from your throat, matched in urgency by deep groans from Kuroo’s strong chest. Your fingers danced over the space covering his heart, delighting in how it was racing beneath your fingertips, in how he was flexing and pressing into your touch wherever he could reach. It made you smile against his mouth, the hot lust evident in the air that thickened overhead.

This was far from the first time you had been intimate, but it felt somehow different tonight, charged with electric potency of an animalistic breed. It was hotter than a bubbling spring and your skin reacted with the steady march of goosebumps as if a spider walked down your spine.

“Tetsu…” You whimpered, breaking for air and trembling from the lick of his tongue against the roof of your mouth which left a thin webbing of saliva connecting your lips.

“Mm. Need something, pretty girl?”

Long dextrous fingers roamed the plush of your thighs, pressing against your denim jeans and you could tell that he was close to laying you atop the cool unrumpled sheets, close to pinning you beneath his strong body and taking matters into his own hands. You could feel the thick length of his erection, the outline hot and heavy against his thigh. Deliberately, your hips undulated to allow your pelvis to meet it.

Kuroo bit back a hiss, warm hazel eyes flaring with crackling sparks when the seam of your zipper caught against him. The seat of your underwear was sticky with arousal, melding to the heat of your labia and the way you let his clothed cock press against you felt practically criminal. You needed him fiercely—so fierce that you felt the first tickle of tears build behind your eyes. Except… he was always taking care of you and your needs.

You had never met a man like the one holding you right now. Protective, caring, handsome as hell, and funny. A perfect package, and you counted your blessings every day that he had fallen into your life. Memories of breakfasts in bed, unexpected flowers delivered to your workplace and those sweet, lingering kisses placed longing against your forehead whenever he left for work rose like surging tides. They brought with them, a swell of confidence.

Tetsuro watched you with curiosity, you’d swear his ears would twitch like a cat if they could. Those pretty hazel eyes studied your expression with a shy smile, one that you were unaccustomed to. Along with the pink blush creeping slowly up the sides of his neck and dusting the tops of his cheeks, you purred at his reaction.

“Wanna make you feel good. You’ll let me, won’t you, baby? Gonna stretch out and let me show you my appreciation for once,” you cooed, ghosting your lips against the cut of his jaw. You fisted the front of his crisp shirt, pleading with wide eyes although you knew he would give you the world right now.

Kuroo looked divine laid out on your bed, an arm tucked behind his messy raven hair and the other reached out to pet at you. He watched you with hunger burning in his gaze. Long black lashes fanned against the apples of his cheeks, fluttering shut only to snap open again. He didn’t want to miss a second of your smaller hand wrapped so perfectly around his leaking cock. With each eager pump of your fist, the foreskin rolled back to reveal a hot red tip slick with precum dribbling out to cover your fingers and his aching shaft.

His mouth gaped when your tongue peeked out—pink and perfect—to drag from the weeping tip to the very base and up again on the other side. Intrigued by every little twitch, the quiver of his toned abdomen and the way the tendons in his neck strained, you wriggled in the space between his thighs. Stripped down to your underwear, a hand pressed to your sex to relieve the need for friction. Not only were you teasing him with candy licks, but you also worked yourself into a frenzy with messy strokes against your swollen clit.

A wet slurp rang out, clear and lewd. Saliva pooled in your mouth as you fed him deeper, drool lubricated his dick and clung to the stark veins that you tongued playfully, chest filling up with a puff of pride when he clutched your hair into a makeshift grip. Kuroo’s breathing fast became erratic, the rise and fall of his chest uneven and laboured but that only spurred you on you.

“Oh, fuck—kitten. Slow… slow down,” he cried out, sounding out of breath and feverish.

Whilst you heard the concern lacing his request, born from his worry about you and your poor throat that you were slowly abusing with every inch you swallowed down, you refused to listen. You were simply addicted to the taste of him, drunk on his cock and drooling around him without a care. Where his mouth was warm and spicy, the heavy skin of his cock was musky with a tang of salt, uniquely masculine and you willingly gagged on him over and over.

His eyebrows pinched, a crinkle above his nose and he threw his head back against the pillows. It was impossible to keep his hips still, they rose unbidden to fuck your perfect little mouth. Slurring his words in between moans at the wet slick of your lips wrapped around him. The sight was heaven, lust-glazed eyes met yours as you lost yourself in the feel of him.

“Goddamn, sweetheart. Mm… taking me like a fuckin’ champ. That’s it, keep doing that!”

You cupped his heavy balls in your palm, huffing through your nose when he whimpered softly. Black spikes of hair fell into his eyes, perfectly dishevelled and coming apart by your mouth and hand. It sent pulses of pleasure shooting straight through your clit, explorative fingers jerking to a stop when you rutted shamelessly against your hand.

His orgasm was fast approaching, the swollen balls you rolled between fingers and thumb drawing tight to the base of his cock whilst the warm drip of pleasure built at the base of his spine. Kuroo gritted his teeth, determined not to spill down your throat yet. He had a request, one final thing he wanted to see again before he shot his creamy load into your mouth.

“Kitten, open up for me. Lemme see you swallow me down once more. Fuck… yeah, gonna turn that pink tongue of yours white.”

Your jaw slackened, releasing his cock and marvelling at the webbed saliva that strung between him and you. Licking through the mess, you grinned and pressed a wet slurping kiss to the salty pearls still escaping his slit.

“Fuck my mouth, Tetsuro… make me choke,” you begged hoarsely.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Kuroo guided you back to where he needed you most, a groan vibrating from his chest until it escaped through parted lips as you took him into the paradise of your mouth. The heat curled around him, tongue lolling out when he lodged into the soft tissue of your throat. Drool seeped over the seam of his tight balls, the mess dripping to the sheets below moments before he lost himself to the suction and swallow of the muscles around his cock.

Hot ropes of cum painted the length of your throat, and you joined him in his orgasm. You fucked the ridge of your hand, wet moans gurgling around him, and he pulled you off enough to see the remaining spend collect on your tongue. A rough thumb wiped at the cum trying to escape your lips, moving it back inside whilst you blinked through blissed-out eyes.

“Uh uh. Swallow it all, baby. Can’t let it go to waste,” he chided affectionately.

“Gotta stop smiling like that, kitten. You look like the cat who got all the cream…”

How right he was.

#delirious writes #kuroo tetsuro #kuroo x reader #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsuro x reader #haikyu smut #haikyu x reader #hq smut #hq x reader #kuroo tetsurou

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