#WEIGH 3 EGGS

[jupitercl0uds]

I NEED TO BAKE A CAKE RAAAAAAAAA

[thrandilf]

viren: id die in your place harrow: not your fucking self importance kink at a time like this

[starvingcl0wn]

got a little 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 and ate 262.5 more cals than i intended to

[battlevann]

Sometimes it's hard for me to tell if she likes me because im so used to father giving me things and being nice before suddenly switching up ang going back to normal

[evilgwrl]

TF 141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: Three

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 series (MDNI)

CW: Suggestive themes (smut is coming I promise)

I literally wrote a whole chapter and it deleted </3

Masterlist

You woke up, body slumped against the door as you groaned. The soft strum of pain vibrated through your lower back, the dull ache sending a small zap through you as you stood up.

Groggy eyes drifted to the stained window, the barely visible streak of sun peaking over the forest as you sighed, feet padding against the floors as soft creaks spoke back to you.

You stared in the mirror, dull eyes staring back. You rubbed your face, small streaks of sticky sleep dragging across your palms as you picked them off.

Mortification is all you could feel. Not only are four men in your house, but you touched yourself to one, and another walked in on you. MID ORGASM. You silently prayed they had packed up their stuff and left. Or maybe it never happened and Ghost hadn’t seen anything. Or maybe- fuck it. There wasn’t much use denying.

The chill of the water woke you up as you scrubbed vigorously, almost as if you could wash away the embarrassment you felt.

You dressed yourself before heading to the barn, the acreage becoming more and more visible by the minute as you fed the animals, collecting any eggs in your makeshift apron, before letting the horses roam in the paddock

You took note of the overcast, thick smog of clouds littering across the barely visible sky. You needed the rain, but you also knew it would make it harder for them to leave if it did.

Conjuring that it would make things easier if they woke up and you were gone, you cooked yourself breakfast before heading out, planning to target a small set of shops you were yet to raid, tucked away on a more secluded part of the area. In fear of waking them up, you rolled out the rusting bike from the garage, a small woven basket adorned with half broken flowers as you rolled the worn wheels onto the gravel road.

You didn’t take much with you. Only a bottle of water, a pistol (incase you magically needed it) and two apples as well the large backpack stitched on your back.

The trail was mostly flat, a few rocks causing you to wobble from time to time, but for the most part it was an enjoyable ride. The soft flicker of the sun stretched through the adorned trees, the heaviness of the clouds beginning to weigh on you as you peddled faster.

It was an hour or two trek, you believed, the roaring ache of your thighs begging for the needed break as you pulled into the abandoned town. Sometimes you expect people to run out, waving you down in celebration, but it never came.

You could hear the soft groans of nearby dead, wobbling their rotting limbs towards the bike before turning around. The tinkle of the rusted bell greeted you as you ducked through the aisles. It was a small store, only supplying anything for a couple hundred, most items expired now anyway, but it was worth a look.

You held your bag open, dumping a few cans of tinned vegetables in as well as a bag of sugar, a pack of razors and some long-life cartons of skim milk. With achy thighs, you jumped over the counter, mess everywhere, register half open with nothing inside. It was funny, even during an apocalypse people found the time for money.

You rattled at the metal knob on the staff door, growing frustrated when it wouldn’t budge before you began to kick, slamming your boots against it repeatedly before it eventually swung open. It might have taken you 15 minutes, but it was sure worth it as you snatched up the golden sweetness many would refer to as whiskey.

You headed off with a few other things, half open stock boxes tipped everywhere as your hands grabbed for anything that hadn’t expire, or was about to. With a heavier bag, and a smug smile on your face, you peddled your way home.

“Y’ think she got scared and buggered off?” Soap quipped, mouth half full with an apple, juices spurting across the room as Ghost glared back.

“If it wasn’t for him,” Gaz interjected, thumb pointing towards the masked-man, “she probably would have let us stay.”

Ghost rolled his eyes, replaying the scene in his head for the hundredth time. Sure, he should’ve knocked but he’s glad he didn’t. Half of him wanted her to ask him to stay, to fully satisfy her, to fully satisfy him.

“She wouldn’t have just packed up and left- put far too much effort into all this place to leave,” Price said, voice deeper than usual as he took a swig of water. Time ticked slowly as they waited around, searching every crevice of the house before they landed on a bow and arrow.

Soap snatched it, veiny hands clawing at the weapon as if it was gold. “What’dya say, LT? Fancy hunting some deer?”

“I ain’t hunting for anybody if I ain’t staying-“

“Go hunt a f’cking deer,” Price huffed.

The two me disappeared into the forest as Gaz stepped outside, bottom plonked in the barely comfortable porch chair. The Captain knew you would probably bitch them out, but a sick part of him wanted you to let them stay, wanted you to realise they were what you needed, that they magically landed on your farm for some Godforsaken purpose.

He would make you realise. He knew he would.

You felt like vomiting now, your bones burning as if they had clawed through your flesh, attempting to escape the treacherous journey that you forced yourself to endure.

You almost felt lost. Why did it feel so much longer on the way back?

You smiled to yourself softly as you passed the tree you marked a few months ago, the unmistakable smiley face almost greeting you. Your smile quickly faded when you felt a spit land on your cheek. And then another. And another. Until you were peddling faster as wet pellets hit the ground.

Slippery hands clutched the leather handles as you neared the entrance of the farm. You were drenched now, hair matted to your neck and face as you flicked it behind you, annoyed that you neglected your clip.

Your boots squelched against the ground as you slammed the garage door shut, weak arms clutching your bag as you swung it around your shoulder, weaving in and out of trees as you stumbled up the front steps.

Tumbling inside, you took note of the cleaner house, a small wrapped bowl of vegetables and a bowl of tomato soup (that was probably cold now) greeting you as you kicked off your boots. You stood over the sink as you scrunched your hair out, the trickle of water tapping as you shrugged off your coat, fumbling outside to hang it on the underground clothes line.

For a minute you thought they had left, no manly faces greeting you until you heard the soft clearing of a throat. “Made you some lunch,” he said.

“Thank you… Gaz, isn’t it?” Clammy hands gripped the bowls as you sat down on the couch, the lukewarm mixture sliding down your oesophagus.

“That’s right,” he replied, gentle smile adorning his face as he watched you, trying to observe you, almost as if you were a war criminal he wanted to break in. Military men, you thought.

You sat in silence, yet didn’t find it to be uncomfortable. Though Gaz was incredibly handsome, and well built, you almost felt comfortable in his presence and you couldn’t quite place why.

“Where did you go?” He asked, almost as if he was hesitant to speak. Your eyes flickered to his lap, hands gently rubbing together before rubbing against his denim-covered thighs. He has nice thighs.

“Uh, I went into a town.. bout two hours from here. Got a few things and I also just wanted to.. get out, I guess.”

He nodded.

Once you finished up, you braced yourself as you ran outside, yet found no horses frolicking frightened in the paddock. Fear ran through you as you sprinted to the barn, heavy footsteps slapping against the mud as you took in the closed door.

You let out a shaky sigh, relieved, when you saw two large, longer heads staring at you from inside, the gentle squawks of hens sounding across the room.

“I hope you don’t mind that I put them inside, figured you would hav’ done that anyway when you got back.” You jumped at the voice, body jolting as you snapped your head.

Price stood there, rough hands clutching a wooden broom as he swept, a beanie now plonked on his head instead of the hat he greeted you with.

“Uh- thanks. Yeah, they’re afraid of the rain.”

“Y’r a good owner, picking up the slack after they were abandoned.”

“I guess so,” you conceded. You looked at him, taking in the way his eyes flickered down your drenched frame, a cerulean blue darkening into a navy.

“Y’r wet.” His tone was sharp, even while stating the obvious, a visible clench of his jaw causing you to tense as you wobbled, suddenly nervous under his gaze.

“Well, I was out in the rain,” you said, almost like it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world. You looked away but could feel him walking closer to you.

“Y’r gonna catch a cold if you don’t change.”

“I’ll survive,” you replied, your voice now dropping to a low whisper. You looked at him, his stare heavy, almost like it was weighting you down. He smiled at you, a hand reaching out before it landed on the flesh of your waist, squeezing as you felt the familiar heat you encountered last night, prickling through you again.

Your breathing was shallow, an occasional hick passing through you as his hand lingered. “Pretty thing, hm?” He gestured, nodding towards your chest as you noticed the faint outline of the rose-coloured brassiere you chose today. You blushed and you were sure you looked silly, a red hue across your face as you barely stuttered a reply.

You turned, almost feeling like you were about to choke. Feeling betrayed by your own body, you pressed your thighs together and you were sure he noticed.

“Y’n need any help staying warm,” he began, “just tell me, sweetheart.”

[rafey-baby]

hidden 5

outlaw!rafe x pogue!reader

c/w: mentions of murder & violence, barry making an appearance, closure on the hostage/stockholm syndrome situation, slightly suggestive, 18+ mdni!

wc: 3.3k

sooo this is the actual last part! (might write some blurbs for them at some point idk) thanks for reading love u <3

also him getting jealous was inspired by this ask

series masterlist

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Consciousness drags her out of the comfort of her slumber, forcing her to blink her leaden eyelids open to Rafe’s heavy and very much naked body weighing her down against the couch cushions.

She can feel his chest expanding with each lethargic inhale he takes and she’s momentarily disconcerted while her entangled thoughts desperately try to make sense of her current situation.

However, all too soon, the memories of last night cause her to let out a tired groan. What on earth was she thinking? Why would she let Rafe of all people fuck her? And more than once. She can’t even recall how many times she— 

Suddenly, she’s reminded of the reason she stirred from her state of dormancy in the first place when she feels Rafe’s sturdy abdomen pressing down on her bladder. 

“Ugh,” she lets the back of her head hit the armrest before trying to pry him off, albeit to no avail. “Rafe? Can you...” she shoves at his shoulder once more. However, he merely takes in another sleepy breath.  

“Rafe, wake up,” she tries again, this time pushing at his face that’s resting comfortably in the crook of her neck, which causes him to let out a drowsy hum before he’s pasting a palm over her lips to make her go quiet. 

“Shh.” he silences her and she feels like slapping him because she’s about to pee on her couch and he’s hushing her.

Therefore, she has no choice but to wrap her fingers around his limp wrist and yank it away from her mouth with a huff. “I need to pee, can you get off me, please?”  

He lets out a dozy grunt before groggily raising his head to look at her—squinting due to the daffodil-colored rays of sunshine peeking from the windows and appearing just as foggy as her a few minutes ago. Then, he rubs a hand over his face while mumbling something incoherent under his breath before finally removing his limbs from restraining her capability to move.  

She merely mutters a quick thank you before getting up and scurrying off to the bathroom—hearing him slump back down immediately after.  

- - - - - - - - - - -

After rinsing off the stickiness of last night in the steaming shower and changing into something comfortable, she realizes she’s starving. Hunger is eating away at her insides and along with the graphic recollections of her and Rafe’s late-night activities vividly jumping around her skull, she can already feel a headache lurking around the corner. 

She’s in the process of cracking eggs on a pan when she hears Rafe entering the shower—the pitter patter of water droplets hitting the tiled floor following soon after. She then begins to cut up some tomatoes to add into the mixture, when all of a sudden, the doorbell rings.  

She doesn’t think Rafe hears it since the water is still running in the bathroom, which is why she’s not entirely sure what she’s supposed to do. She figures that if it’s the police again, it would seem suspicious if it took her longer than normal to open it twice in a row now. Therefore, she turns off the stove and takes tentative steps towards the door.  

Fleetingly, she wonders if she should simply act as if no one’s home since opening doors for strangers was what got her into this mess in the first place. However, at this point she doesn’t necessarily have the mental capacity to care.

She gingerly unlocks the door with her lip worried between her teeth and behind it, stands a guy with dark hair and eyes as brown as coffee beans. 

“Where’s Rafe?”

And he doesn’t seem like a cop. But wouldn’t Rafe have told her if he was expecting someone?  

“I don’t…I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s, um, he’s not here,” she decides to play it safe, the lie clumsily rolling off her tongue. She can tell he’s not buying it. 

“You sure? You, uh, you tellin’ me he gave me the wrong address then?” he wonders with a lazy furrow of his brows.  

“Um, I don’t—” 

“Told you to call before you get here Barry,” Rafe’s low rumble suddenly interrupts her—making a shiver trickle down her spine because him being right behind her, freshly showered, reminds her a little too much of his first night here.  

“Country club! Was sure they got your ass already, good to see you not in jail,” Barry exclaims loudly and takes the liberty of inviting himself in as if her home has turned into a public building free for anyone to just come and go as they please. At least he had the courtesy to close the door.

He greets Rafe with a heartfelt pat on the back and she’s momentarily stunned when Rafe’s mouth twists into a smile that would be considered warm and genuine; something she’s never had the luxury of receiving. 

“Why you didn’t tell me you were stayin’ with a princess?” Barry pushes at his chest playfully. 

“Leave her alone, man,” Rafe rolls his eyes in annoyance.  

“I didn’t do nothin’ just stating the obvious here,” Barry raises his hands up in defense and the unexpected compliment makes her suppress a smile. 

“Whatever, jus’ get your ass here, I need your help,” Rafe grumbles while walking towards her bedroom—not even asking if they can go there because why would he? 

“Ain’t nothin’ new about that,” Barry chuckles, revealing a golden tooth that glints under the light when he grins at her. And the familiarity in which they interact makes her figure they’ve known each other for a long time.

“We have to, uh, talk about some shit. So, go do somethin’ else, yeah?” Rafe looks over his shoulder at her.

“Right, um, okay,” she mumbles before turning around to return to the safety of her kitchen.  

“Damn, Rafe. That how you talk to her even though she’s lettin’ you hide here?” Barry questions as he follows after him. 

“Shit, man, can you just— let’s jus’ get this over with, alright? Don’t have all day,” Rafe merely mutters in response. 

“Well someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, huh?” Barry’s humorous tone is the last thing she hears before the door closes—leaving her to continue preparing her breakfast with a weary sigh.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

A few days later, she hears Rafe’s voice from the living room while she’s thoughtlessly reorganizing her closet; folding shirts and pants and taking out clothes she no longer wears, since he still doesn’t allow for her to leave the house without him. 

“Hey, come watch this for a second?” his tone sounds almost excited when she pads over to stand next to him before looking over to him for an explanation. However, he merely nods towards the television screen and turns the volume higher.  

“And then onto some more interesting news. The charges for Rafe Cameron, owner of Cameron Development, have been dropped due to no significant evidence found to prove him guilty. However, the investigation is still open and the police are doing everything they can in order to find the criminal behind the devastating murder that has shaken up the entire island for weeks now. In order to ensure everyone’s safety, we hope that you keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary and…” 

Everything after that turns into muffled background noise when her jaw drops.

“You’re lookin’ at a free man, puppy,” he turns to face her with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“How did you even…” she’s momentarily stunned, words withering away while she blinks up at him in surprise. 

“Don’t want you t’worry about it, alright?” he’s quick to dismiss her before clicking off the TV. 

“I’m, uh, happy for you…even though you did kill the guy and—” 

“Already told you, he wasn’t a good person ‘n an even shittier cop, remember? And m’gonna need you to never mention that shit again, you think you can do that?” he turns serious all of a sudden; looking into her eyes with a warning.  

“Y— yes,” her voice falters when he steps closer.   

“Cause if you can’t, I’m gon’ have to do somethin’ you won’t like, you understand?” he gazes at her with such intensity, she can’t do anything but nod with tense shoulders.  

“You sure? Cause you’re kinda my only loose end here ‘n we wouldn’t want anythin’ to happen to you, now would we?” his tall frame hovers over her when he leans down to mutter out the words, causing her to flinch.  

“No, I promise. M’not gonna say anything,” she squeaks out and means it.  

Who would even believe her? After all, she doesn’t have any actual proof and even if she did, she thinks Rafe could easily just pay himself out of it—and she’s not particularly keen on finding out how far he’s willing to take his vengeance.  

“Good,” he seems to relax some but a sense of dread washes over her anyway.  

“But what if…someone threatens me or something?”

“Tha’s not gonna happen. You always worry so much, just chill out for a bit, yeah?” he shrugs it off with an air of indifference she wishes she could possess.

“But it’s a possibility. How do you know someone didn’t see us together when people were looking for you?” she asks with caution.

“Listen, if someone threatens you…you come to me ‘n I’ll fuckin’ kill them for you, okay?” he says with complete seriousness.  

“What? No! That’s not what I meant at all. I don’t want you to—” 

However, she’s interrupted by amused laughter bubbling from his chest. “M’joking. Stop being an annoyin’ pogue for one second, yeah? Think we should go out for dinner, hm? Let me, uh, thank you for your hospitality ‘n shit,” he says, smoothing a palm over his buzzed hair. 

“Like at a restaurant? You and me?” at the notion of them spending time together outside all this, confusion tangles up her thoughts—making her forget all about her previous concerns.  

“You’re so fuckin’ weird. Yes, you ‘n me. Who else? Can get whatever expensive shit you want too, how’s that sound?” he coaxes her to agree with the mellow tone he adds.

“Um, okay…sounds great?” she can’t really grasp onto his motives in the headspace she’s currently in, merely assumes he wants to be on her good side so she wouldn’t change her mind about opening her mouth.  

“Great. Need to, uh, take care of some things over at Figure Eight first, but be ready at seven,” he almost makes it sound like a threat, even if he’s not trying to scare her with a gun anymore.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

She doesn’t think she’s ever been at a restaurant this high-end, everything on the menu more than she could ever afford. Rafe practically demands her to not pay attention to the price and get anything she wants, however, it’s proving to be quite challenging while she scans over the list of dishes in front of her.

“You ready?” he asks with a hint of impatience.

“No, I can’t decide. There’s so many options and I don’t even know what half of them mean,” she mumbles out in distress. 

“I’ll just, uh, order for you, yeah?” he suggests with a raise of his brows.

“Okay, thanks,” she graces him with a grateful smile, feeling out of place with rich Kooks all around nearly suffocating her.  

Being here with Rafe, of all people, still feels strange. Not even a day ago, she was still practically held captive by him, even if the leash of his strict rules around her throat had loosened up considerably, and his overly aggressive tendencies had dwindled down to grumpy mutters and displeased glares over the course of the few weeks they’d known each other. Now, she’s only bound to him by this muddy, grimy secret that she’ll probably take down to her grave.  

And despite everything he’s done to her, in some peculiar way, she’s beginning to understand him. Because against all her morals, in a killer, someone who other people would consider a monster, she sees someone simply trying to survive in the harsh world with the crumpled cards life has dealt with him. And she isn’t all too sure how far her feelings of care towards the man branch out but what she does know, is that she doesn’t want him to go to prison. No matter what he’s done. 

And she’s never even met Rafe’s father, but she has this feeling that to be so violent and hostile, has to be learned from someone. Because no one is born evil, even if she wouldn’t necessarily describe him as that. In Rafe, she sees a boy who was forced to grow up too quick—someone with the burden of his father’s legacy weighing down on his shoulders with every breath he takes. Therefore, she can’t find it in herself to be entirely too upset with him for the way he treated her, thinks she can live with it, even if it was wrong.

“Are you guys ready to order?” the server’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts and makes her look up at a familiar face slightly covered by sand-colored curls.  

“Y/N? Long time no talk! How you doing?” Lucas, a guy she had a fling with last year meets her eyes with his surprised ones. 

“Oh, hi. I’m good. What a crazy coincidence, didn’t even know you worked here,” she forces out a strained laugh because had she known, she would’ve asked Rafe to pick another place.

“Actually, just started a few weeks ago. But since when do you eat on this side of the island?” he gives her a curious look.  

“I don’t. Just a…special occasion and stuff,“ she steals a glance at Rafe who’s quietly observing their interaction with narrowed eyes.  

And him talking to her right now feels entirely too humiliating because when she told Rafe about him, she assumed the two of them would never meet.  

“Right…anyway, haven’t seen you at the surf shop in a while, you still work there or?” Lucas continues with an enthusiasm she can’t quite reciprocate.  

It’s not like they ended up on bad terms—they weren’t even officially together to begin with—she just sort of withdrew from him because despite being an overall nice guy, she kept feeling like there was something missing.

“Yeah, yeah, I do, just had a little, um…family emergency and it was this whole thing, you don’t even wanna know the details,” she lies through her teeth, picking at the corner of her napkin as a distraction.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. Is everything okay now?” his jade eyes are sympathetic as he peers down at her.  

“Yes, everything’s good. Think I’ll be able to return next Monday,” she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and tries to appear nonchalant.  

“Cool…hey, I was actually wondering if you’d wanna catch up some time?” he scratches at the back of his head; seemingly nervous about her answer. 

She blinks. “Oh, um—” 

“You gon’ take our orders at some point or jus’ flirt with her for the next hour?” Rafe invites himself into the conversation with a scoff, tilting his head in intrigue.  

And at that, Lucas finally turns towards him. “Wait a second, weren’t you just suspected for murder?” he asks with slightly wide eyes.  

“Nah, they dropped the charges cause they were tweaking, I didn’t do shit,” Rafe huffs out, the lie rolling off his tongue far too easily.  

“Oh, right, right. That must, um, suck.”

“Yeah, yeah, it does,” Rafe mutters, and him clearly trying to fight off a roll of his eyes doesn’t go unnoticed by her, even if she’s not entirely sure why his mood has suddenly turned sour.  

Lucas is quick to fill in the silence that follows. “Right, so, what would you two like to eat?”

And after he’s left with their orders, Rafe turns to look at her with an annoying smirk crossing his features. “That the guy who couldn’t make you come?” 

“Rafe! He can still hear you,” she hisses and looks over her shoulder; relieved to discover he’s already out of earshot.  

“Don’t really care. That shit’s just embarrassin’ for him. What’d you see in him anyway? Seems like an ass,” he furrows his brows at her.  

“You’re talking as if you’re any better?”  

“At least made you come, no? Multiple times, may I add. Or you need a reminder?” he nudges her foot under the table—the self-satisfied smirk plastered on his face making her subtly kick him back. However, he merely wraps his fingers around her ankle, ceasing her futile attempt at bruising his leg with a chuckle. “You seriously jus’ tried to kick me? Didn’t seem to be complainin’ when you were beggin’ me to—”  

“Rafe! Why are you talking so loud?” she whines, trying to release her foot from where he’s captured it. However, his grip is strong and she’s not getting free until he decides she is.  

“Calm down, no one here cares. You pogues never know how to relax, do you?” 

“I am relaxed!” 

“Yeah, I can see that,” he taunts before finally letting her go.  

- - - - - - - - - - - -

“Can I ask you something?” she swallows something akin to sand in her throat—disrupting the sound of the silverware clinking against the ceramic plates while they fill up their bellies.  

“Yeah?” his eyes flicker over to meet hers. 

“After this, um, are we just gonna go back to our sides of the island and never talk again?”

“Tha’s what you want?” he raises his brows and she blinks; slightly taken aback by him not immediately answering with a yes.  

“Um, I don’t…know. What would we even do?” she takes a sip of water to appear indifferent. However, she’s failing miserably. 

“I mean, could think of a couple of things…” he trails off with a smug grin, causing her to huff out a soft laugh. 

“Thought you didn’t hang out with pogues?” she narrows her eyes, trying to figure out if he’s even taking this seriously. 

“Yeah, well, guess I could make an exception. After all, you did help a kook, so you’re not really a pogue anymore, are you?”  

“Okay first of all, that makes zero sense and I only helped you, cause you were gonna kill me,” she states, lowering her tone towards the end.  

“Stop saying that shit,” he hisses, looking around to ensure no one heard her. “Wasn’t gonna kill you, jus’ needed you to listen, alright?”  

“Well, you could’ve been a bit more polite about it,” she rests her elbows on the table, tone accusatory.  

“Listen, m’sorry, okay? That what you want me to say? A lot was goin’ on ‘n I wasn’t thinkin’ clearly. Sometimes it’s, uh, hard for me to control my anger ‘n shit,” he mutters out the last part, as if it’s difficult for him to admit.

“Yeah, I figured,” she’s smiling now, her attempt at making him feel guilty going down the drain because him trying to defend his behavior for once, is sort of entertaining. 

A scowl covers his face at the realization that she’s merely trying to make him sweat for her own enjoyment. “You know, I still think I should’ve picked another house,” he grants her a lighthearted glare.  

“Yeah, me too,” she nods in agreement.  

And at the sight of her barely contained grin, he can’t stop his mouth from curling up as well—both of them quietly giggling at the entirely too bizarre of a situation, that for some reason, feels far too much like a first date. It’s almost as if they’re meeting for the first time all over again.

[vestaignis]

Удивительные черные лебеди с птенцами.

Чёрный лебедь (лат. Cygnus atratus) — водоплавающая перелётная  птица из рода лебедей (Cygnus) семейства  утиных  (Anatidae). Он обитает повсеместно на  территории Австралии и острове Тасмания, хорошо акклиматизировался и в Новой Зеландии. В отличие от других собратьев черный лебедь не является перелетной птицей.

 Черный лебедь имеет средние среди лебедей размеры. Птицы могут весить от 5 до 9 кг, рост может достигать полутора метров, размах крыльев   до 2-х метров, самцы обычно крупнее самок. Основной цвет оперения черный с муаровым отливом, перья на краях крыльев слегка кудрявятся. Шея самая длинная среди всех лебедей, клюв ярко-красный с белым кольцом на конце.

 Длинная шея помогает лебедю доставать корм со дна водоема. Он не умеет нырять, поэтому кормится на мелководье или на берегу. Питается он преимущественно водными растениями и их корневищами, а также растениями, растущими по берегам водоемов травой, листьями и молодыми побегами кустарников и деревьев. Легенда о лебединой верности в полной мере отражает и взаимодействие в паре черных лебедей: пары у этих птиц складываются на всю жизнь.

 Внутри группы лебедей выстраиваются очень близкие отношения. И кормиться летают все вместе, и гнезда строят, и птенцов выводят очень близко друг от друга. Самец и  самка строят гнездо совместно, время насиживания они тоже разделяют друг с другом. Для строительства гнезда они  выбирают, как правило, неглубокий водоем с пресной водой, где делают из веток и другого растительного материала высокое и широкое, диаметром до 1 метра, гнездо. Со стороны оно похоже на небольшой островок, который иногда может дрейфовать по водоему. Cамка откладывает от 3 до 8 яиц. Птенцы вылупляются по очереди в течение 2х–3х дней. 

 Продолжительность жизни черных лебедей в природе около 20 лет, в неволе – значительно дольше. 

Amazing black swans with chicks.

The black swan (lat. Cygnus atratus) is a waterfowl migratory bird from the genus of swans (Cygnus) of the duck family (Anatidae). It lives throughout Australia and the island of Tasmania, and has acclimatized well in New Zealand. Unlike its other relatives, the black swan is not a migratory bird.

The black swan is of average size among swans. Birds can weigh from 5 to 9 kg, their height can reach one and a half meters, their wingspan is up to 2 meters, males are usually larger than females. The main color of the plumage is black with a moire sheen, the feathers on the edges of the wings are slightly curled. The neck is the longest among all swans, the beak is bright red with a white ring at the end.

The long neck helps the swan to get food from the bottom of the reservoir. It cannot dive, so it feeds in shallow water or on the shore. It feeds mainly on aquatic plants and their rhizomes, as well as plants growing along the banks of reservoirs - grass, leaves and young shoots of bushes and trees. The legend of swan fidelity fully reflects the interaction in a pair of black swans: pairs of these birds are for life.

A very close relationship is built within a group of swans. They all fly to feed together, build nests, and hatch chicks very close to each other. The male and female build the nest together, and they also share the incubation time. To build the nest, they usually choose a shallow body of fresh water, where they make a high and wide nest, up to 1 meter in diameter, from branches and other plant material. From the side, it looks like a small island, which can sometimes drift around the reservoir. The female lays from 3 to 8 eggs. The chicks hatch one after another within 2-3 days. The lifespan of black swans in the wild is about 20 years, in captivity - much longer.

Источник://t.me/+fxNu20lM26MwYzhi,/poknok.art/12535-chernyj-lebed-ptenec.html, //ru.wikiquote.org/wiki/Чёрный_лебедь, //www.zoopark-rostov.ru/index.php/zhivotnye/pticy/240-chernyj-lebed

[realdramalove69]

Imagine being pregnant back to back to back to back….

Anna sighed heavily, each footstep painful as she made her way down the stairs. Her back ached, her baby filled belly constantly moving and weighing her down. Her large maternity dress barely covered her belly, the bottom of it only inches off the ground. At only twenty three years old she was already on her fifth pregnancy and this litter was her biggest yet.

She walked into the kitchen and began the task of preparing breakfast for her many children and her husband. She herself was starving, but she ate last. Her family took priority. Bacon, eggs, toast, pancakes, and bottles of milk for her many smaller babies.

As the sound of sizzling bacon wafted through the house her older children began to stir, making their way into the kitchen. Her oldest, a set of quints, helped get the younger children in their seats, setting the table for their gravid mother.

Anna looked at her children, not quite believing she already had so many. When she was eighteen her and her boyfriend, Dave, had sex for the first time, resulting in the quints. They were shocked to find out they were having so many but the doctor couldn’t explain it. Anna was just very fertile. Ever since then Dave kept her pregnant, not wanting her womb to be empty for even a second. Another set of quints and octuplets shortly followed and her last litter, a set of ten, was still sleeping soundly upstairs in their cribs.

Anna rubbed her belly. She was nearing her due date with the baker’s dozen now residing inside of her and she was eager to finally get them out. Anna was tired of having babies. She didn’t want to be pregnant anymore. Instead she wanted to spend time with the many children she already had; another part of her also wanted to just be a kid herself, enjoying the perks of being nearly twenty one.

“Morning,” Anna’s husband, Dave, said as he entered the kitchen. He lovingly stroked her belly, feeling the large babies beneath the skin. “How are my babies doing today?”

“They’re restless, that's for sure,” Anna replied.

“Well they only have a few more weeks in there.” Dave kissed her belly button, making her moan lowly as he rubbed her sensitive skin, pushing up her large maternity shirt to show off her gravid curves.

Anna tried to push him away but her belly was too big. She couldn’t reach him past her stretched womb. She instead handed Dave a plate and watched him sit down. She served the rest of her children before making herself a large plate, her cravings always getting the best of her.

Dave quickly ate. “I’ve got to get to the office. But you all be good for mommy today!” He kissed the heads of his children and left, leaving Anna to get the kids ready for the day all by herself.

It was a tough task taking care of her twenty eight children all by herself. Dave believed in traditional husband and wife roles: he would work and get to come home and relax while she took care of the house. All while giving him even more babies. She got the two sets of quints dressed for pre-school and loaded them into the large minivan, her mom stopping by to help drive them to school. Anna had lost the ability to drive months ago when her belly wouldn’t fit behind the wheel anymore.

“Good morning,” Anna’s mom, Crystal, said. “How are my grandbabies today?”

“Good!” the kids shouted.

Crystal patted her daughter’s belly and smiled. “How blessed your family is. So many babies and more to come.”

Anna forced a smile. “Yeah, I can't quite believe it sometimes. Can you pick them up at around 3 for me?”

“Of course! Anything for you. And I’ll be by after I drop them off to help with the little little ones.”

Crystal drove off with the ten kids leaving Anna alone to take care of the other 18. She grunted as she walked back up the stairs, needing to feed the babies. She had to go up the stairs sideways, her stomach squished between her and the railing. She sat heavily in the rocking chair and heaved her large breasts out of her shirt before beginning the long task of feeding ten fat and hungry babies.

Anna couldn’t help but resent her husband's lack of help. She was tired all the time, especially with thirteen more babies on the way. And she wanted a break from all of it. She knew getting pregnant again would only make her bigger and she dreaded the fact that one of these pregnancies would make her immobile. She rubbed her belly as the babies finished eating, concerned about how to even broach this topic with her baby crazy husband.

The end of the day finally came, her children were in bed, and Anna was able to take her gravid body to her own bedroom where she laid down heavily, the frame creaking under her weight. Dave rubbed her near full term belly. He couldn’t get enough of her pregnant form, demanding sex almost nightly. Anna would oblige, letting her husband pound away at her while she laid there, wondering how she could convince him to stop having babies.

After Dave busted in her he laid back next to her, panting heavily.

“How much longer until I can put another batch in you,” he said.

“I wanted to talk about that, actually,” Anna said. She pushed herself into a seated position, rubbing her belly to calm her babies. “I don’t want to get pregnant again.”

Dave frowned. “At all?”

Anna nodded. “I’m tired all the time. There's so many babies to take care of already and it's hard to do with this sticking out of me. I need a break.”

“You’re my wife. You’re supposed to give me a family.”

“I have given you a family. I’m telling you now, I’m starting birth control the minute these babies are born. Or you're getting a vasectomy. Got it?”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this?”

“Because, Dave, this isn’t exactly what I thought my life would be.”

Dave nodded. “Alright. If it’s what you want. I will respect it.”

“Thank you. Goodnight.”

Anna turned on her side to try and get some sleep, surprised at how well that conversation went.

Dave, however, was not about to let his wife be without child. He laid awake, coming up with ways to convince Anna to get pregnant again. He even googled fertility drugs, wondering if there was a way he could replace the birth control with them instead.

The next morning Dave hopped out of bed and left the house quickly, leaving Anna alone with the sleeping children. He needed a plan. He went to his place of work, a science lab dedicated to advancing humans faster than ever before. While Dave may have been young, he was incredibly smart and worked through the ranks quickly, learning all that he could.

Dave went to his lab and looked around. He was the first one there, just as he hoped. He opened his locked drawer and pulled out a notebook labeled “Fertility”. He had been studying his wife’s extreme fertility for awhile now, all in secret. He had wanted to create a way for even the most barren of women to be able to conceive but now he wanted something that would make even those who hated kids want to do nothing but breed. He studied his previous concoctions and set to work creating a small bottle of what looked like perfume.

“This better work,” he muttered to himself. He grabbed the small bottle and pocketed it before locking away his secrets once again.

-------

A month later and Anna found her stomach flat once again as the 13 new babies laid crying around her. She had given birth on time, per usual, and all her babies were large and healthy. Dave smiled as he picked up the two week old babies, looking at his wife who seemed less than eager about the task ahead of her.

“How many miracles we have made,” Dave said.

“I know. But I’m not sure how I will be able to take care of them all myself.”

“You’re a wonderful mother. You will find a way.”

Dave kissed her but he could sense Anna’s resentment. He set the babies down and decided this was the right time.

“I have a gift for you,” Dave said. “Come with me.”

Anna followed her husband to their bedroom. A gift from him was rare and Anna was confused as to what the occasion was.

“Did I forget an anniversary?” Anna asked.

“No! I just wanted to show my wife how much I appreciate her.”

Dave handed her a neatly wrapped box. Anna took it and unwrapped it, revealing the small glass bottle.

“It’s perfume,” Dave said. “The lady said it smelled like lemons and honey which I know is your favorite.”

Anna smiled. “Thank you! This is actually very thoughtful.”

“Why don’t you try it out?”

Anna obliged, taking the perfume and spritzing it on her wrists and neck. It smelled amazing, making her close her eyes and breathe it in deeply.

“Wow,” Anna whispered. “That’s amazing.”

When she opened her eyes she looked her husband up and down and licked her lips. She was suddenly feeling very...horny. Anna rubbed her flat stomach, feeling how empty it was and how full she needed it to be.

What is wrong with me? She thought to herself. Get a hold of yourself!

But the drug was more powerful than Anna’s own mind. Dave walked closer to her, pressing her body against his as he grabbed her plump rear, making her squeak.

“You want more babies?” Dave asked. “I know how empty you must feel.”

"No," Anna whimpered. "We said...no more..." But she felt her thighs rubbing together and her pussy growing wet at the thought of growing even bigger.

Dave grabbed her and picked her up, taking her to the bed and laying her on her back. She moaned in protest, but she couldn't fight the intense hormones now raging through her.

Dave wasted no time ripping off her yoga pants and thrusting himself into her, his cock filling her tight pussy. He gripped her leaking breasts and pumped faster, eager to fill her before the perfume wore off.

Anna couldn't help but moan and groan as he hit all her sensitive areas. She could hear the voice of reason in the back of her mind screaming at her to stop, knowing she would only get more pregnant, but she laid helpless on the bed, cumming over and over as Dave gripped her thighs.

"I'm gonna fill you until you burst!" Dave groaned as he felt his cock growing hotter.

Before Anna could get him out of her, he shot ropes of hot cum into her waiting vagina. He held himself against her, not wanting any of the precious seed to leak out.

Anna came again, rubbing her flat stomach, her senses returning to her as Dave leaned on top of her, sucking on her ripe tits.

"What did you do?!" Anna screamed.

"Gave you what you wanted," Dave replied. He pulled out of her and left her laying on the bed, cum still leaking from her.

Anna rubbed her stomach and started to cry, knowing what the next ten months would bring.

-------

Four months in and Anna was already huge. She rubbed her quintuplet sized belly, groaning as she tried to heave herself out of bed to tend to her crying newborns. Dave slept soundly beside her, not even attempting to help care for his kids.

Anna finally got herself standing, her hands pushing into her lower back. She waddled heavily to the nursery, her tits already leaking through her maternity nightgown.

"Shh shh," she cooed as she began to nurse the 13 new babies. Her previous ten began to stir as well, wanting their mother’s precious milk.

"Oh, there's too many," Anna said as she tried to soothe the babies she couldn't feed right away.

It took hours but finally all the babies were fed and asleep and Anna could take her tired body back to bed. She laid back down on her side, her belly hanging off the side of the mattress. Dave rolled over and rubbed her tummy, feeling the stretched skin. He kissed her neck, making her groan.

"You're so big already," he moaned. "I want you bigger."

“I can't get bigger. I'll burst!"

"You'll grow beautifully my gravid wife."

Dave pulled down her underwear and pushed his aching member into her pussy. She groaned as he pumped in and out of her, making the bed creak under her gravid weight. He grabbed the bottle of perfume and spritzed it on her neck, seeing her eyelids close gently as the extra hormones took over her.

Anna wanted to protest but she couldn't help but moan lustfully as Dave hit all her sensitive spots. This pregnancy was already so heavy and it made her hornier than ever before. She could feel all the weight of her tummy pushing on her hips and vagina as Dave rolled her onto her back, pressing his muscular torso against the underside of her belly. He gripped the sides of her belly as he thrust in and out of her, making her cry out.

“Oooohhh,” Anna moaned. “Oh fill me up! I’m already so full but I need more!”

“And I’ll give you more!” Dave grunted. He sucked on her belly button, his tongue pressing the flat flesh back into her stretched skin.

“Dave! I’m gonna cum!” Anna shrieked.

“Get ready for my babies!”

Dave thrust once more before busting inside of her. Anna groaned as she felt her own orgasm go through her, making her legs go limp. He pressed against her, shoving his cum into her, urging her to grow bigger and bigger.

“Oh,” Anna groaned as Dave pulled out of her and got her back on her side. “Oh it’s so big already.”

“Just how I like it,” Dave moaned. He rubbed her belly as she struggled to get comfortable, eager to know just how pregnant he had gotten her this time.

[urdreamydoodles]

Hi!!!

May I request something a little angsty to sweet?? 😈

An X-men x teen!reader with that one trope where it’s like:

“You’re not my dad/mom!”

“I know that, do you?”

With characters: Scott Summers, Logan Howlett, Storm, Beast, Magneto, and gambit

X-Men x Teen!Reader

You tell them that they are not your dad/mom during an argument

In the heat of the argument, the words slip out—sharp, hurtful. Their faces fall, stunned and wounded, but there’s a quiet pain in your own heart too, because you know the truth. Later, in the stillness, you find yourself beside them, whispering apologies, and they hold you as if to say: family isn’t only blood, it’s chosen.

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr, Hank McCoy, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Wade Wilson

Ooh, you little evil spawn... I love this prompt, and I hope I have reached your expectations <3

Logan Howlett aka. Wolverine

- Logan’s temper is legendary, but he’s always managed to keep it in check around you, knowing you need stability. However, the moment you shout “You’re not my dad!” during a heated argument, he feels a pang of anger and hurt. He’s spent years looking after you, guiding you in his gruff way, and in that second, it stings. Without missing a beat, he snaps back, “I know that, kid. Do you?”

- There’s a cold silence afterward, and Logan storms off, muttering under his breath. He knows he’s not technically your father, but you’re family to him. As he sits alone, drinking and stewing over the argument, he wonders if maybe he’s failed you somehow. He thinks back to the times he’d pulled you out of trouble or taught you some hard-won survival lessons, realizing just how deeply he cares.

- That night, the silence weighs heavy, and you feel a growing sense of regret. Logan has been the one constant in your life, a steady (if rough) presence who’s always had your back. You think about all the times he’s risked himself for you, the moments he’s tried to be there in his quiet, sometimes awkward way. It dawns on you that, without Logan, your life would be far lonelier—and that he truly has become a father figure.

- The next morning, Logan’s in the kitchen, frying eggs and bacon, trying to act like everything’s normal. When you finally muster up the courage to apologize, he doesn’t make it easy. He just grunts, flipping the eggs with a rough edge to his voice, not looking up. But he listens. After you tell him how much he means to you, he lets out a long sigh, and with a gruff but softer voice, he tells you, “Kid, you drive me crazy, but you’re family. You know that?”

- Later, you notice Logan starts going a little easier on you, keeping the snark to a minimum and checking in a bit more often. The bond between you grows even stronger, and while he’ll never be openly affectionate, you sense the quiet pride he has in you. If anyone tries to mess with you, Logan’s first in line to make sure they regret it.

- From then on, whenever you call him “Logan” instead of “Dad,” he just smirks and raises an eyebrow, as if daring you to say what you really feel. In his own way, he’s let you know that titles don’t matter—he’ll always be there, watching your back like only a true family member would.

Remy LeBeau aka. Gambit

- Remy isn’t exactly the “strict parent” type, so when you start an argument with him, you’re used to his laid-back attitude. But this time, he gets serious, which shocks you enough to yell, “You’re not my dad!” Remy’s face goes still for a moment, then he raises an eyebrow with his usual calm demeanor, saying softly, “I know, cher. Do you?”

- Remy’s response hangs in the air, and he turns on his heel, leaving you to stew in the aftermath. You’re left alone, staring after him and feeling a pang of guilt. Remy has always treated you like family, his warmth and charm making you feel safe and wanted. You remember the countless times he’s been there for you, offering wisdom and laughter, even when you’ve messed up.

- That night, you can’t shake the look on his face—calm, yes, but with a hint of sadness. Remy’s always seemed so self-assured, but in that moment, it felt like he genuinely wondered if he’d overstepped. You begin to realize just how much he’s done to make you feel like you belong, without ever asking anything in return.

- The next day, you find Remy in the Danger Room, practicing. Nervously, you walk up to him and mumble an apology, explaining that you didn’t mean what you said. He turns to you, an understanding smile softening his gaze. “S’alright, kiddo. I know you got fire in you. Just remember—blood don’t make family.”

- After that, Remy’s even more of a constant presence, always ready to talk, laugh, or lend a hand. He starts making a point to remind you of your strengths, pushing you to see the best in yourself. Whenever he sees you slipping into self-doubt, he’ll casually throw in a story of one of his own mistakes, just to remind you that he’s been there too—and that he’ll always be there for you.

- Over time, you come to see Remy not just as a mentor, but as family, someone who chose to be in your life. He might not have the official title of “dad,” but there’s no question about the bond between you two. Remy’s heart is as big as his charm, and he’s shown you that family is something you build, piece by piece.

Kurt Wagner aka. Nightcrawler

- Kurt’s patience seems endless, so when you yell, “You’re not my dad!” in the heat of an argument, the words shock you as much as they shock him. He’s silent for a moment, then replies gently, “I know, but are you sure?” He’s hurt but gives you a sad, understanding look before stepping away, giving you space to cool off.

- Afterward, the guilt eats away at you. Kurt has been nothing but kind and supportive, teaching you about acceptance and resilience, even when things are tough. His faith and positivity have been a guiding light in your life, and the thought of hurting him like this twists at your heart.

- You remember moments when he went out of his way to include you, especially when you felt like an outsider among mutants. Kurt has always been there, understanding what it’s like to be different and offering comfort when you needed it most. It hits you that, despite not being your biological father, he’s filled that role with all the love and patience he has.

- The next day, you find Kurt alone in the library, reading. You approach him, nervous but sincere, and apologize for what you said. He listens quietly, and when you’re done, he gives you a warm smile, saying, “It’s alright, mein freund. I will always be here, no matter what.” His forgiveness is immediate, his kindness knowing no limits.

- After that, Kurt becomes even more of a confidant, someone you know you can turn to for wisdom and understanding. He makes a point of reminding you that love is a choice, and he’s chosen you as family. Whenever you’re down, he’ll tell you stories of his own struggles, showing you that strength comes from within, even when life gets hard.

- The bond between you two only deepens, and Kurt’s gentle presence is something you come to cherish. He may not be your dad by blood, but he’s family through and through. Kurt’s unwavering faith in you becomes a source of comfort, a reminder that you’re never truly alone as long as he’s around.

Scott Summers aka. Cyclops

- Scott is used to being responsible and disciplined, so when you snap, “You’re not my dad!” during a heated disagreement, he doesn’t take it lightly. He stands there, tense and quiet, then responds, “I know. But do you?” before walking away, clearly hurt but too proud to let it show.

- That night, you can’t stop replaying the argument in your head. Scott may be strict, but he’s always had your best interests at heart. He’s spent countless hours training and guiding you, doing everything in his power to prepare you for the dangers of the world. As you think back, you start to feel the weight of what you said, realizing how much you’ve taken him for granted.

- You begin to understand that, in his own quiet way, Scott has been a father figure to you, even if he doesn’t say it outright. Every stern lecture, every training session—it was his way of protecting you, showing he cared. The guilt eats at you, and you know you need to make things right.

- The next morning, you approach him in the War Room, nervous but determined. You tell him how much his guidance means to you, how you didn’t mean what you said. Scott listens carefully, his expression softening as he nods. “We’re a team, and that means we’re family,” he says firmly. “I’m here for you, always.”

- From then on, Scott’s support becomes even more evident. He may not be the most openly affectionate, but he makes it clear that he’s in your corner, no matter what. He starts opening up to you more, sharing his own struggles with responsibility, letting you see the weight he carries as a leader and mentor.

- Over time, you come to appreciate Scott’s steady presence, realizing how lucky you are to have him as a father figure. He may be tough, but his loyalty is unwavering, and he’ll always have your back. In Scott, you find a kind of steadfast strength that reminds you every day that family isn’t defined by blood—it’s built on respect, care, and unwavering support.

Jean Grey aka. Marvel Girl / Phoenix

- Jean’s kindness is boundless, so when you shout, “You’re not my mom!” during an argument, her expression drops, a mix of shock and sadness. She takes a deep breath, her voice calm but strained, and says, “I know, but I care about you just the same. Do you know that?” With that, she steps back, giving you space to cool down, but the sadness in her eyes lingers.

- In the quiet that follows, you feel a pang of regret. Jean has always been there for you, her gentle support unwavering, guiding you with both warmth and patience. You remember the countless times she’s been there to comfort you, a soothing presence who never hesitated to make you feel loved. The memory of her expression, the way her shoulders slumped, makes you feel worse.

- That night, you find yourself replaying the argument over and over. You begin to realize how much Jean’s presence has shaped your life, that she’s been more than just a mentor or friend—she’s been like a mother, even if neither of you ever said it out loud. Each memory fills you with gratitude and a growing need to make things right.

- The next day, you find Jean in the garden, tending to the flowers with her usual care. Tentatively, you approach her, stumbling over an apology. She listens, her eyes soft as she pulls you into a gentle embrace. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “I know these things aren’t easy. I’m here for you, no matter what.” Her forgiveness is instant, her hug comforting, as if she understands all you can’t say.

- After that, Jean becomes even more of a mother figure, offering a patient ear and a shoulder to lean on whenever you need. Her kindness is a quiet strength that you come to lean on more and more. You notice she checks in on you more often, making sure you know she’s there, even when words don’t need to be said.

- Over time, you come to cherish her presence even more, recognizing her as your found family. With Jean, you feel safe, loved, and valued, and her quiet guidance reminds you every day that family doesn’t have to be by blood. It’s in the love you choose to share, and Jean’s love is as steady as the rising sun.

Ororo Munroe aka. Storm

- Ororo’s calm strength is like a force of nature, but when you yell, “You’re not my mom!” it’s as if a storm has passed through her eyes. She doesn’t lash out, doesn’t even raise her voice, but she looks at you with a steady gaze and says, “I know that, little one. Do you?” Her words are gentle but piercing, and she leaves you to ponder them.

- That night, as the weight of your words sinks in, guilt gnaws at you. Ororo has always treated you with kindness and respect, guiding you through life’s challenges with wisdom and care. She’s been your rock, the person who’s grounded you, and you feel ashamed for taking her love and protection for granted.

- You think back to all the moments Ororo has been there for you: teaching you about the world, sharing her culture, and encouraging you to be true to yourself. You realize that she’s been more than a mentor—she’s been family. Her quiet strength and unwavering love have been like the rain, nourishing you and helping you grow.

- The next day, you find Ororo on the rooftop, gazing at the horizon. Gathering your courage, you apologize, explaining how much she means to you. She listens, her gaze as steady and calm as ever, before she gently places a hand on your shoulder. “I forgive you,” she says with a small smile. “Family isn’t always about blood. It’s about the bonds we choose.” Her words bring you a comfort you hadn’t realized you needed.

- After that, Ororo takes on an even more motherly role, gently guiding you and always offering wisdom when you need it most. You start spending more time together, finding solace in her presence and strength in her words. She reminds you of your own resilience, always making you feel capable and valued.

- Ororo’s love becomes a source of strength, and you come to see her as family in the truest sense. Her support is unwavering, her guidance is steady, and with her, you find the sense of belonging and family you never realized you craved. She’s a mother figure, not by title but by choice, and her love fills a space in your heart you hadn’t known was empty.

Charles Xavier aka. Professor X

- Charles rarely shows disappointment, but when you yell, “You’re not my dad!” during an argument, there’s a flash of hurt in his eyes. He looks at you thoughtfully, his calm, composed demeanor intact, and simply says, “I know that, but are you sure?” before quietly excusing himself. His voice is soft, but the weight of his words lingers.

- As the reality of your words hits you, a wave of guilt follows. Charles has dedicated himself to making you feel safe, offering guidance, structure, and endless patience. He’s been more than just a mentor—he’s been a father figure, the one who’s always there to listen and guide you without judgment.

- You begin to reflect on all the small gestures he’s made to show he cares, from teaching you with kindness to offering you advice when life felt overwhelming. Charles has seen potential in you from the start, treating you with respect and compassion, and the thought of hurting him leaves a knot in your chest.

- The next day, you approach his study, nervous but determined to apologize. Charles listens, his usual calm presence enveloping you in a sense of safety. He smiles gently, nodding as you express your regrets, and simply says, “I understand, and I forgive you.” His forgiveness feels like a weight lifted, and he reminds you that love and family are choices, not just obligations.

- After that, you feel even closer to Charles, and he continues to be your steadfast supporter. He encourages you to pursue your strengths, guiding you with wisdom and patience, and you start to see him as a father figure you can truly depend on. His calm understanding becomes a source of comfort, a reminder that family can be chosen and built on mutual respect.

- Charles’s influence becomes a grounding force in your life, his guidance always there to lift you up. With him, you find a sense of belonging and love that goes beyond mere words. He may not be your biological father, but he’s family in every way that matters, and his unwavering belief in you becomes a constant source of strength.

Erik Lehnsherr aka. Magneto

- Erik is not known for his patience, so when you yell, “You’re not my dad!” it’s like a slap to the face. His eyes harden, his voice cold as he responds, “I know, but perhaps you don’t.” With that, he turns away, his pride wounded but his expression betraying a flicker of sadness. For Erik, family is sacred, and your words cut deep.

- That night, guilt starts to creep in. Erik has been harsh, yes, but he’s always shown you the value of strength, resilience, and conviction. He’s taught you to be bold, to stand up for yourself, and though his methods are tough, he’s been there for you in ways that no one else has. You begin to realize how much you owe to his guidance.

- Memories flood back of times when Erik’s fierce loyalty protected you, his dedication ensuring you never felt alone. He’s been like a father to you, albeit a strict one, and as the guilt weighs on you, you see that his rough edges have been his way of showing love, even if he doesn’t say it outright.

- The next day, you approach him with an apology, your voice shaky but sincere. Erik listens, his piercing gaze softened by something like understanding. He accepts your apology, and in his own stern way, he reminds you that strength is born of struggle. His words are harsh, but his forgiveness is there, hidden beneath his rough demeanor.

- From that moment on, Erik’s presence becomes even more of a steady force in your life. He challenges you to be your best, pushing you to embrace your potential, and though he rarely shows open affection, his actions speak louder than words. He’ll protect you fiercely, his bond with you deepening as he takes on the role of a mentor and protector.

- Erik’s influence makes you feel strong and capable, and while he’s a difficult figure to love, you know that he’s chosen you as family. His pride and determination inspire you to believe in yourself, and even if he’ll never say it directly, his loyalty is proof that you’re family to him, forged through fire and unbreakable.

Hank McCoy aka. Beast

- Hank is rarely one to raise his voice, but when you blurt out, “You’re not my dad!” in the heat of an argument, he freezes. For a moment, he’s quiet, his face clouded with hurt before he gives you a calm but serious look. “I’m aware of that. But I’ve always tried to be here for you, haven’t I?” His voice is gentle, yet his words sting in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Without another word, he leaves, giving you the space you both clearly need.

- As you cool down from the argument, guilt quickly sets in. Hank has been nothing but patient and caring, always offering you understanding and support when you needed it most. His gentle presence has been a source of comfort, and the memory of the sadness in his eyes makes you realize how deeply you’ve hurt him.

- Reflecting on all the times Hank has been there for you, you remember how he would stay up late to help you with your studies, his voice soft and encouraging as he shared his vast knowledge. His kindness was never forced; he genuinely cared, and you start to see that he’s been like a father figure all along, even if neither of you ever put a name to it.

- The next day, you find Hank in the lab, engrossed in his work as usual. Hesitantly, you apologize, struggling to find the right words. Hank stops what he’s doing, looking at you with that familiar, gentle expression. “I appreciate your apology,” he says, his tone warm and forgiving. He doesn’t need to say much to make you feel better; his soft smile is enough to lift the weight from your shoulders.

- After that, Hank is still there for you, but the bond between you feels stronger. He seems to make an effort to check in on you more often, even gently guiding you through life’s challenges with his usual wisdom and warmth. You realize how much you’ve come to rely on him as a steady presence in your life.

- Hank’s compassion and patience become pillars of support as you grow, and he becomes more than just a mentor—he’s family. His encouragement and gentle guidance make you feel valued, and you start to understand that family isn’t just about blood; it’s about those who choose to stand by you, even when things get tough. With Hank, you’ve found a father figure in the truest sense.

Wanda Maximoff aka. The Scarlet Witch

- When you yell, “You’re not my mom!” in a heated moment, Wanda’s eyes flash with pain. She takes a deep breath, her voice steady but laced with hurt as she responds, “I know I’m not. But I’ve always tried to be there for you, haven’t I?” Her voice is soft, a mix of sadness and disappointment that lingers in the air as she turns away, giving you the space you clearly need.

- Guilt settles over you like a weight as you recall everything Wanda has done for you. She’s been a constant source of love and protection, going out of her way to create a safe space for you in a chaotic world. Her kindness has been unwavering, and the memory of her hurt expression leaves you feeling remorseful.

- You begin to remember all the times Wanda has comforted you, her gentle presence like a soothing balm when the world felt overwhelming. She’s always known what to say, her intuition guiding her as she wrapped you in warmth and reassurance. You realize how much her presence means to you, that she’s been a mother figure even if you never said it.

- The next day, you approach Wanda, the words of an apology on your lips. She listens, her eyes softening as you explain how sorry you are. She pulls you into a gentle hug, murmuring, “It’s okay. I understand.” Her forgiveness is immediate, her embrace warm and reassuring, and you feel the weight of your guilt lift as you lean into her.

- After that, Wanda continues to be there for you, her love as constant and unwavering as ever. She’s more protective, always ensuring you know you’re loved and valued. Her presence feels like home, a reminder that family is more than just titles; it’s the bond you share and the love that endures even through difficult moments.

- Over time, Wanda becomes even more of a mother figure, her guidance and love anchoring you as you grow. With her, you find a sense of belonging, a family built on mutual care and understanding. Wanda’s love becomes a source of strength, and you come to see her as family in the truest sense.

Pietro Maximoff aka. Quicksilver

- Pietro has always been quick to defend you, so when you shout, “You’re not my dad!” during an argument, his face falls, his usual bravado replaced by a flicker of hurt. He hesitates, then responds with a hint of vulnerability, “I know I’m not. But I care about you, and that’s not going to change.” He doesn’t say much more, leaving with a hint of frustration and sadness.

- Your heart aches almost immediately after the words leave your mouth. Pietro has always been a constant in your life, fiercely protective and ready to do anything to keep you safe. His loyalty has been unwavering, and the memory of his hurt expression weighs on you, leaving you feeling guilty.

- As the regret settles in, you begin to think back to all the moments Pietro has been there for you, his fast-paced life slowing down whenever you needed him. His protectiveness might come off as overbearing, but it’s always been rooted in love. You realize how much you mean to him, that he’s been like a father figure, even if neither of you put it into words.

- The next day, you find him in the training room, going through a series of drills. Nervously, you approach him with an apology. Pietro pauses, listening intently, and his usual cocky grin returns as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, saying, “Don’t worry, kid. Family fights sometimes.” His words are light, but there’s a warmth in his tone that makes you feel forgiven.

- From then on, Pietro is still as protective as ever, though he seems to make an extra effort to remind you that he’s there for you. He includes you in his adventures, always finding ways to bring laughter and excitement into your life. His loyalty is fierce, and you find comfort in the way he’s chosen to stand by you.

- Pietro’s support becomes a source of strength, and over time, you come to see him as family. He’s there for you in ways that matter, his love loud and unfiltered. With him, you’ve found a father figure who’s more than willing to face the world at your side, his loyalty a constant reminder that family is chosen as much as it is given.

Wade Wilson aka. Deadpool

- Wade’s never been the most conventional parental figure, but when you snap, “You’re not my dad!” he goes silent. It’s rare to see him at a loss for words, but the hurt that flickers across his face is hard to miss. After a pause, he says, “Hey, I know that, but... I kinda thought we had something here, y’know?” He tries to play it off, but the sadness in his voice lingers as he gives you space.

- Almost immediately, regret starts to settle in. Wade has been your protector, your friend, and even if he’s unconventional, he’s always made sure you’re safe. He’s taught you to laugh, to find humor even in dark situations, and the thought of hurting him leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

- You think back to all the times Wade has made you feel cared for, his offbeat sense of humor a constant source of comfort. He’s been like a father in his own chaotic way, always finding unique ways to show he cares. The memory of his hurt expression haunts you, and you feel a strong need to make things right.

- Finding Wade isn’t hard; he’s at the usual hangout, cracking jokes to mask whatever he’s feeling. You approach him, offering an apology, and he listens, his face breaking into a goofy grin. “Oh, kid, you can’t get rid of me that easy!” he teases, pulling you into a bear hug that’s both ridiculous and comforting.

- After that, Wade goes back to being his usual chaotic self, but he’s even more protective, throwing around jokes about being your “self-appointed, totally unofficial, slightly psychotic dad.” His antics make you laugh, and you come to appreciate his unique way of showing love, realizing he’s been there for you all along.

- Wade’s love may be unorthodox, but it’s real, and over time, you come to see him as family. He’s the loud, unpredictable presence you didn’t know you needed, his humor and loyalty bringing you a sense of belonging. With Wade, you’ve found a father figure who’ll stand by you, his love chaotic and unconditional in every way that matters.

[charred-slime]

clingy

summary:

It makes no sense for the moment to be so gloomy. You’ll be back in two weeks, and you’ve gone longer without seeing Charlie due to his oftentimes wonky schedule with his job, but there’s just something in the air that weighs heavily on you both. Charlie’s arms stay loosely wrapped around you, and it pains you to pull away. “I’ll call you once I arrive, yeah?” You reassure him. He nods, and before you know it, you’re on the road, driving away from home. Or, reader goes away for a couple weeks, and Charlie's a clingy bastard about it

pairing: charlie x gn!reader

word count: 1.4k

a/n: this is reeeally cheesy, but i hope that works out and makes it overall better! i really enjoyed writing this one^^ (time to get to the other requests-)

ao3 link, if you prefer. otherwise, the story's under the readmore!

It was early morning. Way too early morning. The reason you’d gotten up so early was that you were going to visit some family a couple states over. The way there would either be a long drive or a short flight, and you decided the extra expense of the flight was worth it. What you hadn’t realized was that the flight was at 7 in the damn morning.

Charlie’s place was a decently short drive to the airport, so you’d decided to stay the night there instead. You’d woken in your partner’s bed to the sound of your alarm by your head, reading 3 A.M. Luckily he hadn’t roused to it, because he could sleep through an atomic bomb, and stayed tightly wrapped around your form. Everything about him was tempting. Comfortable. His light snores, his warmer than hell body heat, his expensive ass mattress—but you managed to resist. 

With some experienced wriggling, you get out of his grasp and head to the kitchen. 

All of your stuff was packed and by the front door, ready for leaving at any moment. All there was left to do was get ready and head out. 

After washing up and changing into some semi-presentable clothes, you get to frying a couple eggs while the coffee brewed. A playlist plays softly in the background, nothing loud enough to wake Charlie (you’d know from much experience waking before him), so you’re shocked when you feel vibrations of walking headed your way. 

Soon enough, there are familiar arms wrapped around your waist, and a familiar weight placed on your shoulder. His messy hair flops forward and tickles your cheek, especially when he nuzzles his head like a cat. 

“Why’re you ‘wake?” He grumbles, barely audible with the combination of being muffled by your shoulder and his gravelly morning voice. 

“Visiting my family, remember?” You answer, getting to plate your freshly fried eggs then turning the fire off. There’s no telling how this interaction would end, and you’d rather not burn the building down by accident. 

You feel his head tilt to one side, as if considering this oh so new information (you’d told him a week ago, and he was the one who suggested sleeping over the night before), then his grip around your waist tightens. 

“Nuh uh. Gotta stay here with me.” His hands go to yours and unarms it of the spatula before immediately going back to holding you. “Come back t’bed.” He clumsily pulls at you in the general direction of the bedroom, and you roll your eyes fondly before turning around in his arms. 

You push him until he’s leaning against the kitchen island and take in the glory that is post-sleep Charlie. His eyes are a little swollen and barely open, covered even more by the rat's nest he calls a bedhead. His entire demeanor is loose, muscles lacking the usual extreme energy found in his videos, leaning forward more into you than the island. And of course, he’s pouting. 

With a fond sigh, you comb your fingers through his hair a little until it’s out of his eyes, though no less messy. He leans into the touch, and juts his bottom lip out even more when you take your hand away. 

“I can't back out of this one, sweetheart. You know I would if I could.” You whisper, hand caressing the side of his face and thumb lightly running over the apple of his cheek. He leans into that too. You could've sworn he had golden retriever energy, but he seems to become cat-like when he's sleepy with all of his clinginess. 

“I wanna be mad but I can't be mad when you call me that,” he whines, as if he doesn't absolutely adore it when you use pet names. 

“I know, baby, that's why I said it.” When his pout gets deeper (how was that even possible?), you lean in for a quick peck on the lips. When you pull back, his eyes are already more awake, and his bottom lip has retracted to a more reasonable level of grump. 

He leans back in for another kiss, and who are you to deny him? Your lips meet in a chaste kiss, both of you far too tired to bring anything more into it. The surrounding air is cold in the way that homes are at dawn, but kissing Charlie warms you from inside that no heater could ever accomplish. Cheesy, but undoubtedly true considering the sparks that continue to fly so far into your relationship. 

This time, as you pull away, Charlie’s pout has fully transformed into a familiar goofy grin. So easy to please. 

“Think you can let me go now?” As much as you’d like to stay there forever (or, even better, crawl back into bed as Charlie suggested), the digital clock on his wall already read 3:57 AM, and you needed to get going to ensure that you wouldn’t be late. 

He groans dramatically, pulling you closer into another hug. Everything about it screams “do you really have to go?” and the way you pat his back says “I don’t like it any more than you do” in response. 

Eventually, his brain apparently comes around to the idea, albeit reluctantly, because he asks, “how long’re you gonna be gone for?” 

“Just two weeks.”

“Two whole weeks?” Charlie groans again, although this one was evidently more for show than anything. You give him a soft laugh in response, nudging his shoulder. 

“Alright, big guy. Enough with the act.” 

You turn back to the kitchen counter and start packing a couple things to bring with you. Protein bars and fruits for a light breakfast since you won’t have time to finish your eggs, a tumbler for your coffee, and a roll of the eyes for extra measure when Charlie won’t let go of his contact with you throughout all of it. 

At the door, once all of your stuff is on your back and in your hands, you turn back to him for one final kiss goodbye. He wraps you in another hug like the koala of a man he is, and the touch lingers even after you pull back. 

It makes no sense for the moment to be so gloomy. You’ll be back in two weeks, and you’ve gone longer without seeing Charlie due to his oftentimes wonky schedule with his job, but there’s just something in the air that weighs heavily on you both. Charlie’s arms stay loosely wrapped around you, and it pains you to pull away. 

“I’ll call you once I arrive, yeah?” You reassure him. 

He nods, and before you know it, you’re on the road, driving away from home. 

________

Beyond the visit to family, travelling a little was nice. You treated yourself to some desserts you might not usually allow yourself to have, got some alone time during later hours, and even met some old friends from your hometown. All in all, it was quite the successful trip.

None of that mattered in your mind as you drove back home from the airport. Two weeks of only seeing Charlie on a screen. Only hearing his voice through the crappy tinny speakers of your phone. Not being able to touch him. 

You’d poked fun at him for being so dramatic about the duration of your trip, but you quickly ate your words. 

Once your car is parked safely and your luggage is jammed into your arms (you’d rather break them than take more than one trip to take stuff in), you’re rushing to Charlie’s door. You didn’t expect him to be available immediately, because you knew it was a streaming day, but wanted to be inside as soon as possible. 

You’re fumbling with your keys when the door suddenly opens in your face, and your feet are no longer touching the floor. You yelp as Charlie picks you up, dropping everything to wrap your arms around him as he swings you around in a big circle. 

“Charlie! What the fuck?!” You scream, but can’t help the laugh of absolute glee that escapes you. The wind whips in your hair, and you’re only put down when you have a few too many close calls with the doorway. 

Even after you’re placed back on the ground, you’re at a loss for air as Charlie immediately pulls you back into a lung-puncturing bear hug. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, one band going to the back of your head to cradle it closer. You’ve never felt so welcome in your whole life. 

“I missed you,” he whispers.

You hum in response and lean into the hug more, patting his back as affirmation. 

For the rest of the day, Charlie doesn’t let go of you. He claims it’s necessary to “charge his boyfriend battery,” whatever that means, but you’re just happy to be by his side. 

[leclerc-hs]

fille stupide pt. 3 - cl16

Pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader / max verstappen x fem!reader Summary: in which you now kind of know French and a not so stranger is still here Warnings: smut, oral (f-receiving), angstyyyy (?), cheating (again, i'm sorry), 18+!, not proofread!!, bad French (correct me please!!), bad Dutch (correct me please!!) Word Count: 1985 Author's Note: ok so I think we'll end fille stupide here 🤭 I absolutely loved writing this (if you couldn't tell by how fast i was able to write it lmaooo). I honestly WOULD NOT mind writing more scenarios for them in the future. Like if I ever write mean dom charles, my mind will automatically come back to them. please don't forget to leave feedback! love y'all french edited by @shewantsvengeance!!! dutch edited by @deanlovescassie!!!

PART 1 PART 2

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

STARTLED BY A loud bang in the kitchen, you jolt awake. The bright sun streaming through your windows blinds you as you try to make sense of the abrupt awakening and your surroundings. You were no longer naked; a large plain white t-shirt enveloped your body. A t-shirt you don’t remember even putting on or falling asleep in. A t-shirt, that’s not even yours.

Caution gripped you as you inched towards the kitchen, moving slowly down the hall. The muffled sounds persisted, their meaning elusive, while the clattering of cabinets continued. As you finally reached the corner of the hallway, you were met with the sight of a partially naked Charles in the kitchen, an array of food on the stove top cooked. The aroma of bacon and eggs wafted through the kitchen, prompting your stomach to audibly grumble in response. You leaned against the countertop across from him, just watching the muscles of his back flex with each deliberate movement. He stayed?

You let out a breath of air in relief at the sight of him. Not just because he was there and stayed, but because it wasn’t somebody breaking in.

He didn’t even turn around before saying, “Où ranges-tu tes assiettes?” Where do you keep your plates? “Oh, I found them!” He didn’t have to turn around to sense your presence; all his senses seemed attuned to your proximity. Your body called to him, like it demanded his attention. As if your cells were able to alert his own, screaming for them to merge with yours.

You felt a swirl of need form in your stomach at the sight of your scratch marks on his back. As if he was marked for your territory only. You also felt a surge of panic form in your throat as the memories of last night came flooding back. 

Tell me who your body belongs to.

Je t’appartiens, Charles.

A sensation of unease churned in your stomach as thoughts of Max’s face crossed your mind. The guilt weighed heavily, and you felt on the verge of nausea for what you had done to him. How was it possible that something so bad felt so good? It was as if Charles held complete control over you, rendering you senseless and devoid of rational thoughts and actions. Tears prick at your eyes as you observe the bruises on the insides of your legs and felt the welts on your neck. Your body looks and feels both used and abused. Nothing about this situation is okay. Last night, you both had been remarkably careless. 

The panic began to subside only when Charles turned around and met your gaze. His eyes, an unusually light shade of green, captured your attention. His disheveled hair hinted at just having woken up not too long ago.

“I didn’t know you stayed,” you began, confusion laced in your voice. “I heard the door shut last night.”

“Fille stupide,” Stupid girl. A smile crept on his face, carrying a mocking undertone that seemed directed at you.  “I went to store to get you a pill last night. Je suis revenu.” I came back.

You despised how profoundly his words impacted you, how his return stirred a need for you to rationalize both your actions and his, even when there was no justification for what had transpired. Anxious, your fingers fidgeted with the end of the T-shirt that rested at the middle of your thighs. He advanced towards you, trapping you between him and the counter – a familiar position whenever you find yourself in his presence. His hands find their way to your face, their size enough to envelope majority of it. His fingers sprawl on your jawline, and his thumbs rest on your cheekbones as he looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every inch of your face. Like you’re a textbook and he has a test to study for. 

“Tu es tellement belle,” You’re so beautiful. Despite his sweet words, a sinister gleam in his eyes followed the contours of your body, his hands firmly gripping your hips as he pressed himself to you, “I meant what I said last night.”

Mine, you’re fucking mine.

The ache in between your legs was growing with each passing second. He was too close, his smell and warmth surrounding you, creating a sense of intoxication. You felt the need to press your thighs together, but Charles stood between them, smirking down at you like he knew. 

Words fail you as you gaze up at him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He stands there patiently, waiting as you study the furrow of his eyebrow. He stands there patiently, waiting as your eyes delve into his, memorizing every shade of color within them. He stands there patiently, waiting as your gaze fixates on his lips.

It was almost as if you didn’t have a choice. Like he was a pre-determined answer to your life. A definition to your word.

“Guess I didn’t give it to you hard enough last night, hm?” It wasn’t until your hands settle on his biceps that he realizes you’ve given him consent. Suddenly, his hands are everywhere. Roaming your body like an unexplored map; squeezing your waist, pinching your nipples, squeezing your butt. He just can’t get enough of you. “Need me to take the ache away?”

A moan escapes your lips as you yield, unable to resist him. Your body, seemingly under his command, surrenders to its desires. 

His tongue presses against yours, never losing contact. He quickly flips the both of you around, pushing you until your back met the countertop of the island. With determination, he lifts you onto it, shoving anything that finds solace there, to the floor. His hands push you down, so you now lay sprawled on the counter in the center of the kitchen. You replacing the breakfast Charles had made.

“Mon dieu,” My God. He growls at the sight of your legs spread and bare for him. “Je pourrais mourir heureux.” I could die happy. You have no idea what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. Especially when his tongue met your clit, licking you as if you were the last meal on Earth and he was starving.

His two fingers slid into your heated core, curling them to brush your g-spot with every stroke. “Tellement bon,” So fucking good. He’s moaning into your pussy, sending you into oblivion. 

“Putain de salope.” Fucking dirty slut. He manages to mumble in between your legs, the vibration of his words pushing you closer to the edge.

Around his fingers, you clench. You revel in the feeling of him in you, no matter what or how it’s done. Your fingers clench in his hair, it’s longer than the first time you met, tugging to anchor yourself. His hands on you are equivalent to an out of body experience. You could never tire of it. 

“You like that?” Yes! You wanted to yell. You more than liked it. You loved it.

It wasn’t until his other hand, the one not inside of you, groped one of your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers, that you went flying over the edge, relishing in the waves of pleasure as he continues to thrust his fingers in you – coaxing you through the orgasm. 

His mouth is hot on you, swallowing anything you’ll give him. Your legs shake, his mouth on you becoming too much as you squirm until he stops and looks at you, his lips glossy and coated.

“Tellement foutrement doux,” So fucking sweet. He murmured as he pulled you up, holding you in an upright position to look at him. You still don’t know what he’s saying, but you didn’t care. Your ears were ringing as you came down from your high, feeling limp against the hands of Charles.

You shut your eyes as you began to feel the panic surge. You gave in, again.  He peppered small kisses to your neck, almost too softly, a stark contrast from how he treats you in the midst of sex. He was soft with you now -- tender. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to stop. As if sensing your panic, Charles tips your chin to look at him.

“Cherie, you are made for me.” You feel the panic claw at your throat, constricting you, and the tears begin to spill from your eyes. “Don’t you see?”

You did see it. You could see it clear as day. After all, there wasn’t a day that he wasn’t on your mind since the first encounter. You don’t understand what’s happening to you. How could you betray Max like this? He didn’t deserve it, and you didn’t deserve him. It feels like there’s no choice when it comes to Charles. It’s as if your body responds instantly to his mere gaze. He’s the batteries, and you’re the remote control. Completely useless without its batteries.

You knew you had to tell Max. You couldn’t bear to hurt him any further. You observed Charles begin to furrow his eyebrows in frustration as he sensed you withdrawing from him. The sight pained him, and it hurt to witness.

“I need to tell Max,” You started, but were quickly cut off by a voice.

“Tell Max what?” 

You felt your heart stop and face flush red, as none other than Max stood just a few feet away in the entry way of your home, holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand and a spare key to your apartment in the other. Time seemed to slow down as you observed Max’s eyes darting between the proximity of you and Charles. There you were, perched on the counter, with Charles standing between your legs. Your cheeks flushed red as you sat with nothing but Charles t-shirt on your body. The kitchen island was wiped clean, everything scattered on the floor. The air hung heavy with an unspoken tension.

He didn’t even speak. He simply dropped the flowers and spare key on the entry way table and turned around, heading for the door. You shoved Charles out of the way, running towards the door. Running towards Max.

“Please, I can explain,” you were shouting. Completely panicked. But really, there was nothing to explain. It was clear as day, all cards laid out on the table in front of Max’s eyes.

“You don’t need to explain.” He scoffed, his jaw clenched in anger, as his eyes bounced from you, standing in front of him, to Charles, who remained planted in the kitchen. “Ik ben er klaar mee.” I’m done. He spoke in his native tongue, knowing you understood.

“Ik walg van je.” You disgust me. His words were sharp, stabbing you where it hurt most. He couldn’t even look you in the eye as he stepped out of the apartment as fast as he could.

You convince yourself that something has to be wrong with you. You were so mad that you did this. So mad that you hurt Max. But still, despite it all, everything with Charles feels so right.

Tears spilled hotly from your eyes, falling to the floor as you sobbed into your hands. Charles hurried over, lifting you to your feet and cradling you in his arms. Swiftly, he carried you to your bed, gently placing you on the covers. Pulling you into his chest, he held you tightly, providing comfort and solace.

“Je te protégerai.” I’ll keep you safe. Charles mutters into the nape of your neck, rubbing your back soothingly as you cry into him. “Tu es faite pour moi.” You’re meant for me.

You cried for what felt like hours. Charles only continued to whisper sweet nothings to you as he held you. You cried until you were limp with exhaustion, eyes closing, surrounded in the warmth of Charles. You didn’t deserve it.

“I will be here when you wake up, Cherie.” ----------- sorry max, you need to lose something 🤭

[s3rg34nt-sl9t]

Being pregnant, but with the young of your monster lover headcanons. <3

Werewolves can breed an average of 5 pups into you, so that’ll be a lot of kicking. Your breasts will naturally be swell up with ample milk for your pups, which is a natural change that some mates of werewolves aren’t prepared for. Also, be prepared to be knotted again and again throughout your pregnancy. There’s something about a pregnant mate that makes werewolves horny…

Tentacle monsters will deposit 50 to 100 eggs into you, but they’re usually small and jelly-like, so it’ll be easier when it comes to laying them. Your belly will slosh around with every step, and it’s common for a tentacle monster’s significant other to expel gelatinous material from their hole throughout the pregnancy. This is normal, as sometimes tentacle monster semen can’t escape the womb due to the eggs blocking the exit.

Dragon eggs are much harder to lay, unfortunately. They’re big, hard, and will hurt when being pushed out. It’s usually easier to have some sort of lubricant before laying dragon eggs (whether it be the knot of your dragon lover, or your own juices) Even then, however, they’ll tease you by crowning, only to drift back up into your womb. At least dragon mates usually only lay an average of 3 eggs…

Slime eggs commonly glow. You get to see you how they emit light out of your swollen belly, watching your bioluminescent young swirl around. Though gelatinous, they’re roughly the same size as dragon eggs and are linked together, so laying them can be mildly difficult. To help, slimes that have the ability to emit aphrodisiac pheromones will try to relax you, so that your walls can loosen up and push out the long chain of eggs. Roughly 10 to 15 eggs per pregnancy, though the numbers can increase depending on how many times your bred by your slime lover.

Minotaur/cow calves are huge. And I mean huge. Despite only averaging 1 calf each pregnancy, it feels like you have at least 10 inside of your womb. It’ll be almost impossible to sit up, let alone walk. And it doesn’t help that your breasts will be supple with sweet milk, weighing you down even more. It helps to be milked to get rid of that extra weight, though it’ll only provide a couple of days of relief before your breasts are ready for milking again. Birthing will be painful, but at least you were prepped a bit by a giant bull cock.

Any other thoughts? <3

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I Never Missed You 3/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 6.4 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. Angst and smut and fluff (the holy trinity!) in this last part.

Part 1 Part 2

Juice spills all over the table from the oranges you press, but you don't mind. There has been a soft smile on your face all morning.

Simon's still sleeping, and you want to surprise him with a special breakfast today: scrambled eggs, freshly pressed orange juice, berries, and…

"You took my shirt."

You flinch when you hear his familiar rumble not a few feet away. The staircase wailed like a widow last night, but obviously, this man has learned to avoid the creaky spots when he wants. A goddamn heavyweight ninja...

"I'm sorry." You lick your fingers from the juice and try to feign innocence. The sleeves of his black tee reach your elbows, but you're not sorry. Nor do you feel bad about seeing him in your kitchen without a shirt.

"It was not an accusation," he says, the corner of his mouth curving a little, the dark eyes that made love to you last night giving you an approving once-over.

You approach him with a glass full of sun, but it's you he grabs in his hold. Your fingers find the scars on his back as you two embrace, and you feel an odd churn in your stomach.

"What's this…?"

Your hand floats across the embossed, white ridges that crisscross his back. The collection forms an entire mountain range, and it's chilling because you've only brushed the space between his shoulder blades.

"A reminder. To trust no one."

"No one…?"

"No one."

You remain a coward and refrain from asking for more details. You doubt he would even share them.

"I made you breakfast," you lower your gaze to the colorful palette you've gathered on the plates. Is it some sort of an instinct to want to feed a man after they've fucked you so good?

"So I see," he says, ever more approvingly. Then you're lifted on the table, next to the plates, like you're the breakfast.

Soon you're only wearing his shirt and your tiny socks, which Simon decides to leave on, too busy with getting his face between your legs. 

No one has done anything like that before… No one has chosen you over breakfast; an entire abundance of delicacies laid out. 

He licks you until your legs are trembling on that tortured back. You're pure, you're untouched by evil, and he carries your naivety on his shoulders like it weighs nothing. He flattens his tongue on you, sucks your flesh, tortures you on that table and doesn't even mind his teeth all too much. The peak stubble he hasn't yet shaved stings and burns as he moves across your folds. 

Saying that the coarse chin on your silk feels good would be an understatement. You come undone next to the breakfast, clad in golden light shining through the small window left uncovered.

You feel alive, and raw, and stellar. A shooting star, a comet high above the sky, although the space through which you ignite consists of golden rays of sunlight and the scent of orange juice. 

He takes the shirt back after he's done. After you're done and try your best to return back to earth with shaking legs. The only thing you're wearing is your socks, but you feel completely naked before him, dopey and dumb before the day has even started. Simon only licks his lips, throws that shirt on, and grabs his plate.

He dares to comment that there's no hot water. You put the kettle on with a wobble, feeling hotness on your cheeks while he sits down to eat his second breakfast like it's the most natural thing in the world: to wreck you first thing in the morning.

…............................

Simon.

He fixes the door on your fridge. He helps you clean your garage and fucks you on the table. Oily, dusty, filthy table. You go to shower after, together. You're giggling; he's smiling. Fully, now.

You want to ask him, Is this free of charge too…? Not just his cock... But his smiles. His assistance and support. The looks he grants you when you come out of the shower, ready to be licked to ruin.

He calls you his Princess to tease you just right. To get you in a state where your eyes flash with half-rage, half-lust, just before he slips inside you. He knows exactly which strings to pull – and then calls you love just when you're about to give him a piece of your mind.

You end up on the table, on the counter, on the floor. He takes you while your jaw slowly falls open from his audacity and his cock, splitting you apart with slow love. The first time he takes you in a missionary, you squirt. It's like his cock was made for you. And he dares to tease you about that, too.

"Did ya just squirt all over my cock?"

You have tears in your eyes, shame on your cheeks, and he's wetter than a wet dog down there… then he makes you squirt again, high on the lewd, obscene praise you just gave him with your pussy. 

Your cunt can't lie; he knows it by now. So it's futile to keep your lips sealed either.

Kiss me. 

That's what you would've usually ordered. But after an exceptionally quiet and passionate and desperate fuck that leaves you both catching your breath, leaves him hovering only inches from your sweaty upper lip, you whisper…

"I want to kiss you."

You expect him to laugh or mock you, at least crack a stupid joke or two. But he doesn't. Instead, his eyes drop to your lips, and he swallows with a heavy roll, then closes the gap between you two. Covers your mouth with his, uses that strong jaw to open you for devouring.

The kiss lasts long enough for you to begin breathing through your nose. Your inner walls grip him, still buried deep inside, and the gusts of exhales passing through his nostrils hit your face with pure bliss. He’s a little breathless when he parts – withdraws just enough to look into your eyes.

“Will that do...?”

There is a drunken vigor in his eyes of crushed amber, but to your shock, you hear your own question laid out before you. The one you asked when you were going to that party.

Will I do…?

Your hands find his jaw and cup his face from both sides, drawing him back to your lips.

“Yes." 

You will more than just do. 

And then you say… 

"I want more.”

He chuckles a soft scoff on your face. 

"Greedy little thing." 

Then he swallows you again. You kiss for a good few minutes while he grows half-hard inside you. It's the most romantic kiss you have shared with anyone, ever. He tells you how spoiled you are between the breaths you both catch, then spoils you some more with his mouth and tongue and cock. 

You start to curl together in the evening. Just to watch a comedy. He massages your feet and smiles more every day. It's kind of domestic, how he wrinkles his nose at your fine white wine and asks what it is in that decanter you have in your study. When you say it's just some old bourbon, he goes and gets himself a glass like he's finally made himself at home. 

It makes your heart grow thick from love. You almost forget why he's here in the first place.

When you ask him about the plan, he explains it to you in detail while kissing his way down your ribs and navel. He takes his sweet time while doing it, kissing the inside of your thigh, the hollow place below the knee, the tender skin under the knee. He kisses your calf and the ankle bone while holding your leg up for his lips with just one hand. Then he does the same to your other leg, but this time, kisses his way from ankle to thigh until he reaches…

You.

You've forgotten half the plan by then because you realize Simon hasn't looked at you like you're a steak or garbage in a long, long time. 

He looks at you like you're a queen. You could say he worships you, but the thought alone makes your heart flutter with the anxiety of a fragile hummingbird. 

Simon gets you your groceries and gets himself only a beer as a reward. You would happily offer him a case if you knew it would make him happy.

But you don't really know what would make him happy. You don't know anything about this man. You know he likes it when you're dolled up and angry. He likes you when you're sleepy, without makeup, wearing only his shirt. He likes to fuck you from behind and hold you close after. He likes to give you a wash, likes it when you wash him. He likes to watch the two tall trees outside the window sway when there's a strong wind. 

"What makes you happy?" You ask one night after you've had him in your mouth.

"Blowjobs," he answers with a straight face, and you shove him in the shoulder. Nicely. Softly.

"No, for real."

"I dunno." He sighs and turns to stare at your ceiling with a bothered look. It's a tricky question, perhaps. Or weapons, not willingly gifted. 

"Dogs," he shrugs after a while. "A day of silence. Good whiskey."

He doesn't grant you weapons. You get some rope, but not enough to choke him with it. He trusts no one.

"Why don't you like missionary…?" You continue roasting him while curling your fingers around the pale hair on his chest.

"I never said I didn't like it."

"Don't avoid the question, Mr. Doggystyle."

You prop yourself up on your elbow and place your palm flat over his heart. His stare slowly drifts from the ceiling back to you.

"Simon. Why do you always fuck me from behind?" 

He raises his eyebrows like he's innocent of the crime he's being accused of. "Not always."

"Seriously, Simon."

The smug look returns; it gives his eyes a delightful little spark and tugs at the corner of that kissable mouth.

"I like your ass."

"But not my eyes?"

The smile dies, and he gulps down a short surprise, caught between truth and dare. But then his eyes settle like the calming sea under a full moon. Stern, but not remorseless. Bold, but not heartless. If anything, he's naked and bare.

"Darlin'. Love your eyes the most."

Your heart does a backflip. You've been a fool because what else has he done but search for your eyes first thing in the morning? Given you flashes of mischief over breakfast, made love to you with those eyes as you cum around his cock? That liquid fire and smoke hasn't left you since he stepped inside this house.

You breathe together; you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. There was a time when you thought this man was incapable of love, but now you fear he has never been allowed to love enough.

"We never talked, you know," you whisper. His heart swells underneath your palm like a sail.

"What'ya wanna talk about?"

"Us."

"So talk."

Walls are raised so quickly you feel them knocking the warmth out of your body. It's cold, it's Antarctic, the technique he uses to withdraw. Your room turns into a kingdom of ice from the cruel, emotionless indifference he emits. 

You've been a fool, yes... And a child.

"You're making it hard," you say, noticing how the man starts to tense up under your fingertips. This is not the way, but you're not smart enough to stop your rampage.

"What happens when you've done your job?"

He doesn't sigh. He doesn't even think twice before giving his answer.

"I go back to the base."

You know now why he's called a ghost. You wonder if he was ever even here. Simon becomes a reminder for you, a reminder to trust no one.

"...Right." You pull your hand away slowly. As if it somehow helps with the pain to pretend you haven't just touched a hot stove and ended up getting your fingers burned.

He notices how you tense up far more than he. The arm around your waist goes tight, and you wonder if you've always been a bloodied steak to this brute, a stupid little princess with your wines, sighs, and wet eyes. He just doesn't want to let go of the last bites of his fine, delicious meat.

"I never thought you wanted a relationship," he says with a hollow voice, and the red rage nearly blinds your sight. You're too riled up to even yell at him.

"Love…" he tries for the last time.

"Get out of my bed."

…............................

His musk still clings to you as you descend the stairs the next morning.

He's sitting at the end of the steps with hunched shoulders and a tense back, exiled into the man he was the first day you met him. Your heart bleeds from the sight, wondering whether Simon has waited there the whole night after you kicked him out of your bedroom. But the boiling bile in your stomach forces you to lift your chin and draw your shoulders back as you walk down those steps with an audible clatter as your heels clack across the parquet.

He must've heard you before you make a racket fitting for an angered queen, but rises only after you've made it halfway through the staircase. You won't allow yourself to even look his way as he draws a deep breath.

"Love. Sweetheart."

But with that, you flash the man a stare full of despise as you walk past him.

"Don't."

"Let me–"

"Don't say a word," you take a sharp turn and raise a hand to shield you from whatever brutality he would like to stain you with. "You don't talk to me. You just do your job. Ok?"

His chest swells with another deep breath, but otherwise, this man is still as a statue again.

"Ma'am."

It takes you a while to notice he has regressed back to that term again, and you tilt your head. The movement is that of a warrior who swings her sword to a guard before a fight. He crosses his hands over his crotch as if to shield the most vulnerable parts from a low blow, but his eyes are full of hateful hurt as he gives you his most pretentious, mocking tone.

"Miss."

Your heart skips a beat – Simon becomes the thing you miss. 

A hit and run.

You have to resist the urge to grimace at the pure venom in his voice - it doesn't matter what he calls you because that tone seeps straight through your skin like lye. It hurts; it burns to see him even more withdrawn to his shell than when you first met. He retreats far beyond the front line, he goes further than the rear, and it's a bitter defeat for both of you. 

This man has rubbed your feet while you've laughed at a stupid joke in a sitcom. The same man has been inside you – night after night after night. It rips your heart to see a distant, perfectly blank expression on his face after you've seen him give you a plentitude of relaxed and wicked little smiles. 

You share the breakfast in funeral-like silence. You wish you could pay him to stay home so that you can go through your day filled with terror and longing without Simon Riley following you around.

"I've been meaning to update you on new intel about the target," he breaks the silence, and your heart feels like it's being put through a wringer. Simon hasn't even touched his breakfast. "Turns out he received training in a sniper unit."

"So?"

"There's a high chance he might prefer to use long-range weapons."

He's professional, curt, clinical. Even more so than when you first shook hands with him. And all the while, those eyes burn you; they examine you like you're the most challenging puzzle he's ever tried to solve. He's cold as ice with his words and hot as hell with that stare. Those eyes seem to pierce your clothes, they even reach under your skin.

"Right," you say without giving him a single look back.

"We have to update our protocol asap."

Our…

We.

"The protocol…" you whisper and finally look up at him. His lips draw into a thin line as he sees how your walls crumble; they didn't last even half a day.

"Simon, I can't do this," you say, your voice breaking. The tears are only seconds away. They blur your sight, but as he rises from the table slowly and takes a hesitant step towards you, you turn your head back to your toast with a snap.

"I want to change bodyguards."

From the corner of your blurred vision, you see how he raises a hand. If you didn't know any better, you could say that he's at his weakest. But the hand falls straight back and gives a twitch by his side. You wonder why he even bothers to disguise the spasm so lousily as a stretch. It's as if he wants you to see that he's in tumult too.

"I'll stay until–"

"No. Get out."

"Miss. I'll just get my things," he says, and you nod briefly. No exchange of gazes is probably the best policy after informing him you no longer need his services. It's better to rip the band-aid off with one yank than try to pretend that this relationship was something more than sexual. 

You know he came to your house with minimal belongings, a duffel bag full of spare clothes and a large case which you supposed was a container for different weapons. That is why you notice he takes a surprisingly long time to get those things and leave your house.

When he finally emerges from his room – no, not his room, but the guest room, you remind yourself – he places the luggage in the hallway and comes back to you, probably to say his polite farewells.

"You won't let me speak to you, so I wrote you a fuckin' letter."

You turn to solid stone as he places an envelope between your water glass and cup of coffee. You sit with your heart thumping in your chest as he picks up his things, walks to the door, walks out of it and out of your life.

It's one of those moments you wish you could freeze and rewind. Do everything differently so that it wouldn't have to come to this. Instead, you listen how the front door clunks shut.

Then you send your trembling fingers up from your lap and onto the pure white thing that holds his secrets. You pry it open and find yourself reading the lines, scribbled with surprisingly sophisticated handwriting, through a round of hot tears.

They cloud your vision, but they don't cloud his words.

You skim through the letter in a frenzied hurry once, then again with more control, and try to remember how to breathe.

He shares shrivels from his past, ugly, horrid things which make your breakfast nearly push up your throat. He tells you he stopped dating eleven years ago for a reason. He writes that he would rather be tortured again than make you suffer from his past and incapacities.

There are certain lines that enter your heart like a thief with the most delicate crowbar. Lines like I'm not good with words and You must know by now that I'm a broken man.

Lines like I'm not a fucking poet but I'll miss your warmth even under the desert sun.

Some lines make you want to tear the letter to pieces. Lines such as Don't throw your diamonds in the dust and I can't give you what you deserve.

He thinks you can't take his darkness, so he shelters you from it. He says he would come back to you if he could. You don't know what the hell he means by that. 

If he could? 

What the fuck prevents him?

You sit inside your empty, lonely house, confident of the fact that it is not you who prevents it. It was not you who just sent him out that door. Who commanded him to leave because you didn't need his services anymore.

The letter makes you cry, and then it makes you boil.

Such sweet words, and so many empty sentences. If only, if I wasn't, if I could.

You get the feeling that he's mocking you again. If only you weren't a princess and a spoiled brat, then perhaps he could reconsider this relationship.

You leave the letter there; you leave your coffee and your breakfast. You almost wish someone would shoot you and put you out of your misery as you call a taxi and go to the heart of the city.

You're completely numb as your fingertips brush silk and linen and all the newest designs. They curl around tiny bottles of bright nail polish and touch the perfumes made from the last free wildflowers of a burning world, but you feel nothing stir inside.

You're emptier than the echo that rings through the malls and corridors of stone; you feel poorer than all the beggars on the street. Shopping always makes you feel better. But now you want to burn all your money, throw your jewels out the window, torch all the fucking stores like some bloody anarchist. You leave every store without buying a thing and try to remember what it was to have lunch without drowning in tears that can't be cried in public.

"I can't give you what you deserve."

That's the line that scalds you most. You know what he meant when he wrote those words, seemingly humble. But your bleeding heart twists that sentence until his words are a testimony of pure rejection.

You have money, so you don't deserve love, is that it?

You want to find him and shake him. It's not about what you deserve or what he deserves. It's not about what anyone deserves. And if the bloody man thinks he doesn't deserve love only because he's made his home in suffering, then he's the last person who should be allowed to decide who deserves what.

You walk through the crowds and streets like a small whirlwind, on the verge of yelling your heart and loneliness out in the air until your vocal cords are raw. You're so riled your mind doesn't even register the gunshot.

The only thing you hear is a glass shattering next to you just before an entire boulder hits you.

His scent envelops you like a safe, warm blanket, even if that blanket weighs a ton and causes your jeans to grate and tear as you two hit the asphalt. Simon gives you bruises, scrapes and burns all across your left side as your body grinds through the dirt. 

Another shot is fired; this time, a car's glass is shattered above you, and the body surrounding you tenses until you worry your bodyguard has been hit. The bodyguard you fired this morning, who's still doing his job, who never even left you…

People are screaming and running in different directions all around and above you, but time comes to a halt as Simon rises only an inch or two.

"Stay down," he gruffs in your ear. "Don't move. Don't you fucking move, ok?"

The whole world could've gone silent from the way you only hear his voice. His words. His distress. You remain still as a stone and look up at him – your lips part because he's looking at you with impatience that's not just pressing; it's demanding.

"Yes," you stutter, "yes, of course."

Someone's pissed because a third shot sends him right back over you, and only then do you notice you're clinging to him, to his jacket and his shirt, like he's a human shield. Then the human shield speaks again, and the words that come out only make you grip him tighter.

"He has to change the magazine soon. You stay right here, ok? I'm going in."

"No, don't," your fingers curl around his clothes and try to keep him on top of you. "Don't go. I'm afraid."

I'll get you a dog. 

A day of silence. 

I'll buy you some good whiskey. I promise…

"I'll be right back," he murmurs, more softly now. "I promise." 

Then he rips himself off you. Your body misses his heat like the desert sand must miss the sun, and you realize you've ruined everything as you finally get to watch him in his element. He's agile and beautiful as he reaches for his gun, takes it out, and prepares it in a few seconds to fire death upon your faceless enemy. You've ruined everything because if Simon goes in, he might get killed – he's a human, not a shield, he's not even a weapon – and all the things you never said will haunt you for the rest of your life.

"Don't leave me," you want to reach for him, but don't dare disobey his orders. It should send you laughing: that you're finally doing precisely as he says. You finally trust your life with him, just before he leaves you, leaves you, leaves you. 

"Simon–"

"Sweetheart. I never left you."

He looks straight into your eyes. You gulp the tears now.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, and someone is screaming; everythings a buzz, cars whir by as you tell him all the things you meant to say weeks ago. "I never wanted you to go. I always liked you. I– I think I love–"

"Shh. Don't you do this to me now."

The words are so soft you have to struggle to hear what he's saying under his breath. It's like he's talking to himself, and you realize you're an asshole, saying things like that to him when he's trying to concentrate on his mission and his job. But you just can't help yourself sometimes. No one in your life compares to him. No one has caused such a ruckus, such turmoil, such devastation and such love.

"Do what?" you whimper there, motionless on the ground as he gives you a last, painful look before his stare fixes on the piece of glass still unshattered, the dim, transient mirror of a store window he uses to locate movement in one of the buildings. 

Then he takes a peek over the car, and you hold your breath – he's the bait now, and ducks his head immediately as two more shots are fired. You don't even have the strength to scream; your whole body simply shudders from the echoing sound of pure fear – how can he play tag with death like that? 

And then he leaves. 

He rounds the car and darts for the building and the sniper; he disappears from your vision so quickly you wonder if these past weeks have been but a dream.

A hit and run.

"Do what…" you repeat on the ground and curl into yourself even though he said you shouldn't move. You figure it's not that big of a crime to go into a fetal position when you don't know if he's ever coming back to scold you for breaking the rules.

You want to close your ears from the sounds that follow – you fear you'll jinx something if you listen too closely to what happens in that building. You try to concentrate on your breaths, slowly bringing you back to your body. You haven't even noticed that there's blood running down your arm.

It's funny how you only notice the pain after seeing the flowing crimson that makes small rivers around your fingers. You don't want to look at your burning shoulder because the shock is already here. 

The searing pulse gets worse as you hear another shot, then another shot. Those sounds pound inside your shoulder and send more fire down your arm. Minutes or hours pass and you think how strange it is that everything's completely still, how bizarre it is that there are no sirens, no cars, no screaming. They've finally closed off the roads.

You only start to cry when you see that he's alive.

You try to rise from the ground to meet him – a bleeding princess, waking from her beauty sleep and realizing everything's just been a bad dream, greeting her knight in a black pair of fitted tactical pants and a pistol on his waist. Diamonds and darkness…

He rushes to you in what seems like desperation. You find it oddly beautiful that he's not only relieved to see his client is still alive and well, he's also relieved to know you're still there. That his princess has waited for him.

He falls on his knees and prevents you from rising. You're quickly wrapped in his arms, feeling so happy and safe that you don't even bother to tell him you're injured. It's just a scratch anyway. Even if your leg was blown off, you wouldn't complain about being picked up in his lap like this. 

"Shh. I got you. I got you."

He's cradling you like a child while tears stream down your face, but there's no audible sounds of crying. You weep a whole river of tears and your nose is clogged, forcing you to breathe through your mouth, but there's no wailing, no screaming, no bawling. The first words that roll off your tongue are a child's moody complaint.

"You left me," you mope as he caresses your head.

"Only for a little while."

"You came back."

"I said I would."

More tears flow, and this time you sniffle and sob. He rocks you gently back and forth as you cry in his embrace. Simon would make a good father.

"Is he…?" You whisper, then look up at him. He just nods and gives you a quick scan, drawing a sharp breath when he notices the wound on your arm. 

You're placed back on the ground as he inspects your shoulder and tells you the bullet managed to scrape some skin but has mostly just ruined your jacket. You're almost sorry that the wound is not as severe as it feels. You thought the burning sensation meant shattered bones and scarred flesh, but the scratch is no deeper than if you had accidentally cut yourself with a kitchen knife.

"No, I don't want… No hospital," you beg as he offers to take you to ER. You're not spending the rest of the day in a frigid treatment room where tired medical personnel only clean the wound and put a big plaster on it. 

"Just take me home," you plead like you're his daughter who doesn't want to go to school today. "Please?"

"Sure. Whatever ya want."

He makes a few phone calls, arranges things with the local police or something. You don't want to know anything about it. You don't want to know who got shot in that building and how.

It's not a taxi that drives you back this time. You don't know where he got a car and a driver, but the vehicle is big and black, and your head is in Simon's lap when you lie in the backseat. There's a panel between the driver's seat and the rear, so you don't even know who's driving, but you're only grateful for the privacy after the crazy morning followed by a murder attempt. You look up at Simon, who looks back at you for the first time while you're in a car together.

"Why did you become a soldier?" You ask, not knowing why you're whispering. He's holding your hand – a simple, wholesome thing to do, but his grip on you is solid and warm and feels equally as intimate as the times this man has been inside you. 

"I wanted to help people." 

"By killing them?"

"By saving those I can."

He keeps a hand on your cheek too. Simon has spoken softly ever since you were fired at, has been humane and caring and tender, and you realize… This man is naked before you; he's stripped bare from all pretenses. 

And he's not darkness. He's not a skeleton or a dead man or even a soldier.

He's a beacon in the night.

"You did a good job," you squeeze his hand softly.

The last glass-like veil in his eyes shatters, but far more softly than those windows shot at with a rifle.

"I live to serve, Ma'am...–Miss."

"Don’t… Simon, please don’t call me a–"

He descends. He doesn't need that hand to lift your chin up to meet him in a kiss. It's not a hungry devouring this time, but a soft promise, a lover's seal. You feel the rest of the shock leave your body in his embrace. There's no more coldness, only a fragile burning.

"You never look me in the eyes," you whisper as a tear escapes from the corner of your eye. It's a silly thing to say when he looks at you with all the love in the world.

"Yes I do," he gives you a soft brush of a thumb across your cheek. His lips are right there, an inch away from yours. "How could you have missed that?"

He's right, as always. The dark love almost swallows the brown of his eyes as he looks at you, shining light on you as he has shined for days, for weeks now. How could you have missed that, indeed? You raise a hand to cup his cheek, not caring about the pain, not even mourning that your blood stains his chin. He doesn't seem to mind at all, so why would you?

When you arrive at your house, he drives away the loneliness, sorrow, everything a rich girl can fear by carrying you in his arms, stepping over the threshold with you like you two are married now.

He peels your jacket off with affection and tenderness, tends to your wound and wipes away the blood that has caked dry all over your arm. The gash has bled a lot for such a small wound, and you purse your lips from how accurately it reflects your feelings for him.

He ties the wound, checks at least two times he's not tying it too tight. His care breaks your heart, because you don't know whether he will leave you after this. There's nothing that keeps him here anymore – there's no way you can keep Simon Riley to yourself. So you abandon him first for the second time, ascend the stairs to your lonely domain while he cleans up the small mess in the bathroom.

It's a small miracle that he follows you. He opens the door to your room without knocking – not because he's entitled to your privacy, but because there are no more barriers between you two. You're gathered in a stout embrace for the second time this afternoon, and you wrap your arms around him to hold him closer.

"You'll leave me soon," you speak to the wall before you, to the man behind you, holding you so gently against his chest. "I'll miss you."

"Love," he murmurs behind you, you feel the words against your back as a warm rumble. "I'll come back. If you want me, I'll come back to you."

"You will…?"

"I promise."

You have no more tears to cry, so you settle for examining the stab inside your heart, the wound that will bleed you dry if no one ties it tightly enough. 

"I don't believe you."

"It's not a matter of whether you believe me."

He turns you around and lets you bathe in his warmth again, the same golden light that came through the window when he placed his mouth on you in the kitchen. It's almost frightening to know that there's nothing that can keep him from you. Nothing, except you. The only thing that has stood between you was only and ever pride.

"Simon," you breathe, a soft attempt to introduce him to mercy. "It's not a matter of what we deserve."

He blinks a few times, the chest against your side collapses a little. It's a hard reset. The corner of his mouth tugs, a beautiful betrayal of his surrender, a sign of being hit by a boulder – your boulder, finally bringing the rest of those walls down.

"You think so...?"

"Yes. I think so."

He brushes his knuckles across your sternum – a familiar motion that always manages to lift your heart. You used to think it was foreplay when it was in truth, an attempt to touch the organ said to be the house of love.

You think about the times his harsh breaths have hit you just before he cums, the urgent praise he's peppered you with merely seconds before you've cried from pleasure. Can't get enough of you pet, you’re fucking perfect, 'm gonna make you cum, sing for me, just like that... 

You always thought it was a catalogue of shallow lust when it was an offering of naked devotion. 

He was as vulnerable as you when you drifted through space together, when you drowned in his stunning midnight sea. He was catching fire and burning too, again and again until you were both satisfied and sweaty. He always held you close after, panted desperate love on your skin, planted kisses on your collarbones and neck before resting his head on your heart. Settling there, over your pulse, like he had finally found his way home…

The hand glides between your breasts and molds itself over your waist. It fits there like a second skin. You're relatively sure his hands were made for holding you. 

"You asked what makes me happy," he says, completely naked and bare. The heavy love surrounds you with warm safety; your breath flows freely as you await his confession, the last secret revealed. "I think you know, love."

You know. It has finally dawned on you. What you didn't know was that tears of hope could feel like fire too. You've never been more eager to burn.

"Now keep those pretty eyes on me."

[blogforfauna]

Proteles cristata

Throughout history, there have been two types of hyenas: bone-crushing hyenas, and dog-like ones. Spotted, striped, and brown hyenas are the bone-crushing type. Of the dog-like hyenas, the aardwolf is the only species left.

Aardwolf means "Earthwolf" in Afrikaans, a language spoken in Southern Africa. Their use of burrows is what earned them the "earth" part of their name. Although wolf is also in its name and it looks very dog-like, aardwolves are not canines. They are the smallest of four hyena species, weighing around 20 pounds (9.07 kg).

Unlike the other hyena species that eat carrion, aardwolves eat insects. If they really need to they can also eat eggs, small mammals, and vegetation, but insects are preferred. Their main insect prey is termites, and they can eat up to 300,000 of them in one night using their long tongues. Their tongues are very sticky as well, with large papillae (those little tongue bumps) and sticky saliva.

Since they behave differently and are much smaller than other hyena species, scientists used to think aardwolves were not part of the hyena family. With their striped coats, researchers thought they might have even been mimicking the striped hyena.

Aardwolves are found in arid plains of eastern and southern Africa, where they live in burrows dug by aardvarks, springhares, or porcupines. Some dig their own burrows, but taking over an abandoned one is much easier. They sleep in these burrows during the day, coming out at night to hunt for insects and to hang out with friends or whatever.

I rate the Aardwolf 15/10. Little cuties :,)

Photo Credits:

(1) Catherine Withers-Clarke (2) Hennie van Heerden (3) H. van den Berg (4) Scott Roberts (5) Klaus Rudloff

[queer-coffee]

simple words | pt. 1

Part 2 | Part 3 | Read on Ao3

Sanji sparks a light, just as the rising sun sends a beam of light through his tiny kitchen porthole.

Really, he wants to ask Franky if he can do something about that. Sanji’s favorite part of the day, and he can’t properly enjoy it through just a tiny porthole what with croissants that need an egg wash before the dough gets too warm, and bacon cooking alongside a maple glaze that will burn the sugar if it gets too hot, and weighing out the proper mix of five different tea leaves that he knows makes Zoro smile into his cup when he thinks no one is looking, and all the other things that must be done in a precise order, perfectly timed, so that breakfast is ready, but with a welcoming sort of ease fit for first thing in the morning, as his crewmates start to stumble in after a late night to enjoy it.

Not to mention, he needs more airflow in here. Sanji pauses as the sunray reflects off the ceramic of his stovetop to open the porthole. He exhales in its direction and ashes his cigarette after, so nothing disrupts the flavor of this meal.

But Franky worked so hard on this ship, and Sanji knows how much thought was put into every other aspect of his kitchen, his wine cellar, his aquarium with the freshest and most delicious fish he can find, that he can’t bring himself to critique something so trivial.

A crisp gust of wind blows the smoke back in his face, and into his kitchen.

Sanji sighs.

It’s so trivial.

But he can’t get it out of his head, what that stupid moss brain said to him last night.

And he knows it wasn’t personal, or intentional, or even really meant as an insult at all.

In fact, it was one of those rare moments that Sanji loves, when they catch each other in just the right mood, both just drunk enough, both alone.

Their crewmates were all laughing and yelling and drinking in the room over, oblivious to what was happening to Sanji just a stone’s throw away.

Sanji was returning with a few favorite picks from the wine cellar. A red blend for Robin, a sweet orange for Nami, whole milk for Luffy he grabbed from the kitchen, and whatever table wine for the rest, except for a small bottle of the finest sake he could get his hands on at that last island.

And the Sunny hit a swell. And Sanji, normally used to these unexpected changes in his center of gravity from being on a ship his whole stinking life, was too distracted polishing a smudge off the sake bottle to react in time, and lost his balance.

Sanji was ready to go down, unable to break his fall with his arms so full of precious cargo. He held on tight and braced for impact, but that impact never came.

Because the next thing he knew, strong arms were wrapped around him, and his nose was buried in someone’s musky shoulder. He caught his breath, inhaling sharply.

It didn’t take him but a second to place that warm scent, and Sanji’s heart pounded hard. He could feel the sweat on Zoro’s neck from the warm, muggy night, and still smell the sweet rum of that cocktail Usopp spilled on him.

“Hey shit cook, watch where you’re going” Zoro barked, pushing Sanji away from his chest, “You can hold your liquor better than that. How drunk are you?”

Sanji gripped his liquor bottles tighter, realizing that, while he was no longer buried in Zoro’s chest, Zoro still hadn’t let go of his shoulders, his grip fierce.

“Not drunk enough to be getting manhandled by you.” Sanji retorted, enjoying that spark a suggestive comment always put into Zoro’s eye.

But that spark was a little different tonight.

Zoro took a step in. Instead of muttering something insulting back, like the swordsman usually would, he pulled Sanji in closer. “It’s a good thing I don’t like women anyway,” he said.

Sanji’s heart fell.

“Lucky me,” Sanji muttered back. He pushed by Zoro, suddenly resenting all touch.

He took a few pounding steps, but stopped.

Sanji turned around. Zoro was frozen where he left him.

“This is for you,” Sanji said, holding out the bottle of sake. Zoro turned and stared at it, for a moment. Then he took it.

Sanji left before Zoro said anything else.

I don’t like women anyway.

The words replay in his head for the thousandth time that morning, like a knife twisting. He takes a small sip of coffee, a new habit he picked up since his brief stay on Whole Cake Island, and opens the oven door to put the croissants in. A gust of hot air blows his hair back, taking him aback.

He cut it short recently, too short to tie back, and he still isn’t used to having it loose rather than up when cooking.

Nami said she loved short hair like that on girls, while she was cutting it, but that it would make him look like a boy. Sanji didn’t tell her that was kind of the whole point.

It’s hard to tell everyone that he is finally coming to terms with the fact that he isn’t a woman, like they all think. That he’s never been, and it wasn’t until his time with Iva-sama that he finally realized it. That he learned what all those feelings he had meant, and that there were other people like him who also felt those things.

At the time he rejected it so horribly, terrified that he was also like that. He saw how difficult life was for those people, and he didn’t want his life to be any harder than it had been. He worked so hard to press those negative memories back. His childhood. He never wanted anything to be so hard again.

But then he trained alongside them. He talked to them. He cooked for them. And laughed with them. And he learned more about what being queer really was. It was hard, he was right about that, but it was also free. And all he ever wanted was to be free. Free like them.

It would just be hard first.

And he is just finally accepting that. Ever since he nearly lost everything that ever meant anything to him on Whole Cake Island, he is craving that freedom even more now. He thinks it’s finally time to go get it.

It will just be hard first.

Sanji inhales on his cigarette, allowing the nicotine and caffeine to gently wash over him, as he repeats it to himself, still in awe of how good it feels to not only know, but to accept. I am a transgender man.

Sanji exhales out the porthole, and closes the oven gently, letting that good feeling go.

He thinks of Zoro.

And wonders how on earth he’ll tell his friends.

Part 2

[bethanythebogwitch]

Wet Beast Wednesday: common carp

Welcome to the first WBW of fresh-uary. All my Wet Beast Wednesday posts this month will be about freshwater species. And where better to start than one of the most prolific and invasive freshwater fish, the common carp. Introduced worldwide as a food species, the common carp population has exploded due to them being masters of survival. Lets see how they have become so prevalent.

(Image: a common carp seen from the front and side. It is a large fish with a pointed head ending in a downward-pointing mouth with short barbels at the sides. The scales are large and orangeish. End ID)

The common carp, Cyprinus carpio, also known as the European carp or Eurasian carp is a large bony fish with a robust body and large, yellow-brown scales. Common carp have a downturned mouth with two pairs of short barbels, one emerging from the sides of the mouth and one from the lower lip. There are distinct wild and domesticated forms, with the wild ones being longer and slimmer. Most wild type common carp reach an average of 40-80 cm (16-31 in) long and 2-14 kg (4.5-31 lbs), but under the right conditions, they can get much larger. The largest common carp on record weighed 45.59 kg (100.5 lbs). Domesticated common carp can get much larger than wild ones and grow at almost twice the rate. Common carp have also been selectively bred into additional morphs, the most common of which is the mirror carp, so named for its much larger scales. Carp that are missing some or all of their scales are called leather carp and they often lose their scales as the result of a mutation. Mirror carp are especially prone to losing scales. The Amur carp, Cyprinus rubrofuscus, was previously considered to be a subspecies of the common carp before being reclassified as a closely related species. The two species are capable of hybridizing. They can also hybridize with goldfish.

(Image: a common carp seen from the side. From this angle, it is easier to see a small hump behind the head where the back begins. End ID)

Common carp are native to southern Europe and west Asia, particularly in the Danube river basin. Their preferred habitat is warm, still or slow water, but they are notorious for their ability to survive fairly extreme conditions. Carp can live in a wide range of temperatures, in highly polluted water, in more salty water than most freshwater fish, and in low-oxygen water (by gulping air at the surface). They also tolerate very shallow water for their size. I've personally pulled 2-foot long carp out of ankle-deep water. Carp are bottom-feeding omnivores that feed by rooting around in soft sediment. Food includes aquatic plants, algae, fish eggs, worms, small invertebrates like crayfish, and small fish. Carp feeding kicks a lot of sediment into the water, which can reduce water quality and encourage eutrophication. They will pick up sediment in their mouths and pass it back and fourth, using their gill rakers to filter out edible material. They have a set of pharyngeal teeth used to grind up food. Carp can be found solitary, but prefer to swim in small schools.

(Image: a common carp feeding. It has its head to the bottom sucking in corn kernels that the photographer has scattered around to attract them. This one has large, irregular scales, indicating it may be a mirror carp)

Carp reproduce in spring, often triggered by seasonal flooding. They will spawn multiple times during a season, with an average female able to produce over a million eggs per year. Females lay their eggs in shallow water, where they stick to vegetation. Carp in non-vegetated areas will make seasonal migrations to more suitable habitat for spawning. Juvenile carp are vulnerable to predators and rely on vegetation to hide. They feed on plankton until they grow large enough to root around in the sediment. Males reach sexual maturity between ages 3 and 5 and females between ages 4 and 6, with those living in warmer water maturing faster. Carp can live for decades, with the oldest one on record being 64 at the time of death.

(Image: a group of 10 common carp swimming at the surface of the water. Some of them have their mouths sticking out. End ID)

Carp have been raised for food for millennia, with the oldest record of them being farmed being Roman times. This is likely also when the domesticated variety diverged from the wild type. Carp is a major food source throughout Europe and Asia, but is unpopular as food in North America because of how bony they are. The wide use of carp in food has contributed to them being spread across the world. Common carp can now be found on every continent except Antarctica and in every region except for polar ones that are too cold for them. Common carp are one of the most invasive of all fish species and tend to be highly destructive to habitats they are introduced to. Their feeding tends to uproot and destroy aquatic vegetation and native fish eggs while outcompeting native species with similar niches. Carp feeding kicks up lots of sediment in the water and can radically change the conditions of waters they are introduced into. Various carp control methods have been introduced to try to keep their numbers down. These include barricades to prevent them from reaching spawning grounds, capture and kill programs, and the use of poison. In many places carp have been introduced to, fishing for food and sport helps control their numbers. One of the problems with carp in North America is that there isn't a food market for them and many anglers don't target them. Environmentalists have been working on encouraging carp fishing and telling anglers to kill carp they catch to help control their numbers. Carp aquaculture has become a major industry. China produces more carp by weight yearly than all other fish from aquaculture worldwide. Ironically, despite their invasive nature and survivability, wild common carp in their native range are considered threatened due to habitat loss.

(Image: three excited-looking people holding up a giant common carp. The fish is so big that even with all three people standing shoulder to shoulder, the fish extends across all of them. End ID)