#how to make hand tufted rugs

[globalfloor]

We are manufacturers of high quality hand-tufted rugs and carpets in India. Email us at info@surekasgroup.com or whats ap at +91-9839141651 for more.

[emiliaoleary]

Hooking rugs that look like dogs

Here's how I do it:

The process I use is called rug hooking (not latch hook or punch needle or tufting, though it is the forerunner of the latter two techniques). Rugs are hooked by pulling loops of fabric strips or yarn through the holes of a base fabric with a coarse open weave, like burlap, or linen, or rug warp. The loops are pulled through the fabric with a squat-handled hook whose business end is shaped like a crochet hook.  There are no knots and the loops aren't sewed down in any way.  The whole thing stays put just by the tension of all those loops packed together in the weave of the foundation fabric.

This isn't a true detailed tutorial but a walk-through of my particular process. The same information is on my web page, emilyoleary.com .

I hook with yarn, rather than with cut strips of wool fabric, which is what many rug hookers use.  I can get a looser, more organic distribution of loops with yarn than I could with wool strips, which are hooked in neat lines. 

Mostly I use wool yarn. In terms of yarn weight, I can use DK, worsted, or Aran.  If I'm using thicker yarn, I leave more holes un-hooked; if I'm using finer yarn, I hook more densely or double up lengths of it.  I particularly like using single ply yarns (like Brown Sheep Lamb's Pride or Malabrigo Worsted).  I don't keep count, but I think I usually use around two dozen types and colors of yarn per dog.  

This is my yarn wall in my apartment. Mostly brown and gray yarn!

I start from a small drawing in my sketchbook, then I head to FedEx office to use a copy machine, blowing up the drawing repeatedly and experimenting with how big the dog rug should be. 

After transferring the image onto my linen, I immediately go over it with Sharpie, because the Saral is really difficult to see and really easy to rub off.

The rug is held taut by a PVC quilting frame that I set on my lap.

I push my hook down through the fabric with my right hand and my left hand stays below the fabric and guides the yarn while I pull it up and through with the hook. Not every hole in the fabric is hooked. Hooking every hole would make the rug too dense. I do hook pretty densely, though-- If you pick up one of my rugs you’ll see they have a slight curl to them, which is because they’re hooked pretty tight. I'm using all different weights and types of yarn, so it's a challenge to keep the overall tension even.

I hook my loops at varying heights to create a very low relief. Sometimes I trim the loops to make them fluffier or wispier or to shape a particular part. I look at a reference photo while I work and pull out and redo sections a lot.

My q-snap frame can accommodate the growing dog rug. I have extenders to make it bigger and I can clamp around my hooking.

The back of a rug looks like lines of little stitches. The lines are little worm trails snaking around because lines of hooking are not supposed to cross over each other. It's important to start a new length of yarn rather than cross over a stitch you already made! I read this when I first started and took it to heart. It makes it much easier to undo and redo hooking if you have to (and I redo sections A Lot). It also keeps the back from getting too bulky and resulting in uneven wear on the back of a functional rug that gets floor use.

When I’m done hooking everything I turn the rug over and brush watered-down Sobo glue on the edges of the dog, making sure to get one or two of the outermost lines of hooking. I do a couple coats of this thinned out glue. I'm careful not to use so much that it seeps to the front of the rug. When the glue is dry I cut the rug out, but I don't cut so close that the loops don't have any linen to keep them in.

​ It generally takes me at least several months to finish one dog rug. My hooking frame and yarn bag are very portable (though bulky) so I can hook out and about at coffee shops or the library or a brewery if there's enough space and light.

Hooking in the wild makes me an ambassador for making things in general and rug hooking in particular. I answer people's questions and always emphasize how relatively easy it is to get started hooking. Sometimes I get anxious that other people will hook rugs that look like mine but better, but I think that working in a traditional medium means you should share your knowledge for the good of the craft.

[celestiamour]

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ giving you a piggyback ride after a date┊0.4k words

contains: fluff, established relationship, mentioned age gap & size difference

➤ author's note: a little short one before i finish the longer ones ^^

he’s gonna huff about how he told you to wear comfortable shoes and will roll his eyes when you insist that the heels you chose match better with your outfit, but he secretly loves it when you climb on his back and allow him to carry you home. maybe you’ll tease him about being unenthusiastic because you’ll hurt his back like the old man he is, giggling in surprise when he bounces you up a few times acting like he’ll throw you off if you misbehave.  

with your strappy black heels in one hand and his barefoot lover on top of him, he’ll attract quite a few looks walking down the street (or at least, more than usual since it’s difficult not to notice him). it gives him a strange sort of pride. he frequently questions if he’s doing enough as your boyfriend when he struggles to express himself and has a long history of trauma that still hasn’t been fully exposed to keep you safe from the horror, but he knows for a fact that he’s doing this correctly, making sure that you don’t need to walk down the street limping from pain and discomfort and being strong enough to have you rest in his grasp. 

if you weren’t blabbering on about whatever topic occupying your mind (he only grunts in response, but trust me that he’s listening to every word), fiddling with his swoopy hair tufts, and placing a gentle kiss anywhere that your lips could reach, he could have forgotten you were there since he barely feels your weight on him. perks of having an adamantium skeleton and being ripped as hell, but he does need to check in on you every now and then to ensure that you haven’t fallen off or something (it has happened once and he still hasn’t forgiven himself since then).

sure, he kinda looked like a scary guard dog with his rugged appearance, towering bulky frame, and general intimidating aura, but it just signals to everyone with eyes that you were taken and tells anyone who has the thought of having you as their own to ‘fuck off’. 

the only thing about it that he hates is being unable to see your sparkling smile while you gawk at how different everything looks while at a higher height, yet the vision of it in his head makes his heart warm with adoration and affection.

[nymphoniah]

2 words.

logan. boobkink.

I need logan to be absolutely obsessed with my titts. doesn't even have to be sexual but I just want him to do everything to my titts that give him comfort.

would be amazing if you write about this thanks love<3

omg!!??!! like logan is basically like a lil’ cat. not only is it the claws, but he’s got the tufts of hair to prove it. and like any other cat, he loves to paw at you! (also written with origins logan in mind just bc he gives off super domestic vibes :3)

content/warnings: fluff, afab!reader, femme pronouns used

lazy mornings with logan consists of him spooning you, his bulky arms wrapping you in a tight embrace. his hands start to wander, making their way up your chest, resting them on your soft mounds, kneading the flesh with his fingers.

“my own lil’ stress balls,” he’d joke, letting out a hearty laugh as you squirm at his touch.

you try to curl into a ball, bringing your legs to your chest to stop his ticklish assault on your breasts, but it’s no use. one hand stays squishing your breast, while the other pushes your legs back down.

“nuh-uh, you’re all mine today,” he whispered, his tone low, voice still riddled with the morning drowsiness he faced. “we never get time for this,”

he isn’t wrong. when you’re finally back home from work, it’s 11pm. and by the time you settle in bed, logan’s already sleeping. and by the time you wake up, logan’s already out the door getting ready to cut some wood with a group of douchebags.

it’s moments like these where he absolutely turns soft. though logan seem like a grouchy, rugged old man, he’s actually a complete softie. for a man who’s lived for 200 years, he knows exactly how rough life can get—which is why he cherishes these moments with you.

“my sweet girl,” logan coos, continuing to knead at the soft skin of your breast. “let’s just stay like this a little longer, please?”

[reddesires]

Magnetic

Logan Howlett x Mutant Reader

Summary: There's only one way of satisfying your undying curiosity of finding out whether or not those fridge magnets will stick to the one and only Wolverine, who just happens to have an adamantium skeleton.

A/N: There may or may not be a continuation of this, idk yet.

It first started off as mere curiosity, the fact of knowing Logan's skeleton was enveloped by pure metal on the forefront of your brain.

Your eyes would constantly wander to the fridge that was decorated by various colorful magnets by the students, the cat and and the multicolored alphabet letters, especially catching your attention.

The growing need to know if those magnets would stick to Logan or not was just too irresistible to refuse as you snatch the grumpy cat magnet from the fridge door, examining the narrowed green eyes on the face of black feline. Yeah, it reminded you very much of the rugged mean mugging man who was all too unaware of your devious intentions.

Logan was used to your teasing antics of playing with his tufts of hair whenever you got the chance or somehow discovering all the new hiding places he hides his beer in, just to hide them elsewhere (he thinks it's your sixth sense at this point). He feels as if he's always on his toes when it comes to you, your mutation aiding you in somehow bypassing his enhanced senses, you find great joy in sneaking up on him when he least expects it.

So when you casually walk in the room that he's in with your hands behind your back with a feign, innocent look on your face, his eyes narrow suspiciously. “Oh hey Lo! Didn't expect to see you here!” The lilt in your voice and the sway of your body as you walk over only cause him to tense as he sits up straight, his eyebrow raising in question.

“You know I usually sit here,” his voice trails off as his eyes trail up and down, analyzing your body movement. “You're up to something.” You grin immediately, a laugh bubbling up as you round the table as if you're trying to corner him, and he doesn't waste time standing and quickly rounding the table from you.

“Hey, don't make me spill my beer,” He says warily, holding his beer up by the neck of the bottle. You smile deviously as you slowly trail along the side of the table, still holding the mystery item behind your back and he doesn't like how you're looking at him as he mimics your movements ready to bolt to the exit any second. “Okay, we're playing that game.”

He exhales exasperatedly as he immediately swerves and runs out the door, holding his beer securely as he hears you run after him. “Logan! Get back here!” The laugh in your voice is mischievous and he doesn't trust you as the two of you run past Jean and Ororo, they look after the both of you surprised as they never expected Logan to run away from you of all people.

“Get em, girl!” Ororo cheers as they watch you round the corner after Logan, he's trying to lose you by running in front of innocent students and taking unexpected turns and it isn't long for you to have him cornered.

“Aye, have mercy.” He says your name with defeat as he clutches his beer to his chest, he somehow managed to save it from even spilling a drop during the chase and it makes you giggle as you step forward building the anticipation before getting to him, and he only watches with a close eye as you do. Only when you're within an inch from him, your face almost intimately close to his, do you notice his adam's apple bob up and down with trepidation, his eyes fluttering slightly as he's aware of how close you are to him.

You slap the magnet onto his face.

He blinks once then twice as the magnet sticks securely on to his cheek. You gasp with unadulterated joy, a cheer pulled out of you as your curiosity has finally been fulfilled.

“It does stick! Oh, this is gonna be so fun!” His face falls as he realizes what this concurs. He's become your magnetic plaything as he remembers the millions of magnets that are currently adorned on the fridge door.

“No, don't you think about it.” He grumbles as he pulls the magnet off his cheek, the crabby cat image only intensifying his dismay for your new upcoming hobby. “Oh Wolvie, it's all I can think about.” You tease as you gently squeeze his cheek, walking away feeling rejuvenated.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

(C'mon, baby) light my fire

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 2

Prompt: Fireplace

Rated: T

Tags: Getting together; Flirting; Sexual tension; Eddie is a horny shit; He also has a competency kink

Eddie’s eyes are stinging.

There’s tears streaming down his cheeks and soot on his face and ash in his hair. He’s pretty damn sure he singed his bangs. He takes a desperate inhale, breath rattling in burning lungs, and blows out another stream of air. 

“C’mon,” he wheezes. “Shit, c’mon, please.”

The log crackles and gleams red-orange, and his heart soars- … and then it turns gray again. 

“Motherfucker!” Eddie swears, flopping down into the stupidly soft, white sheepskin rug. He probably got ash on that, too. 

He wastes a few seconds staring morosely at the dark fireplace. 

When Steve suggested this little retreat to his parents’ log cabin (of course the Harringtons own a private fucking log cabin, he doesn't know why he was even surprised), he thought he'd spend a relaxed few days. Chug a few beers, smoke a blunt or two, ogle Steve in his stupid, cozy sweaters while the firelight danced on his skin. Indulge his silly crush a little. 

And then the others all canceled. Something about Robin needing to take care of a sick aunt, and Nancy being offered an important internship, and Argyle and Jonathan… well, he isn't sure what they're up to. He stopped listening by the time Steve asked if he would be fine with it being just the two of them. 

Surely, this was a sign. The universe telling him to finally make a move. An opportunity too good to pass up on. 

So he agreed.

They drove out in the Beemer, Steve obnoxiously singing along to Wham and Eddie pretending he was anything but enamored by his smiling face against the backdrop of the snowy landscape flying by. They arrived and unpacked their stuff, and Steve insisted Eddie take the master bedroom, like the perfect sweetheart he is. Then, he took Eddie outside and made him sit down while he chopped firewood. 

Dear God, he chopped firewood. 

Eddie thinks the image of Steve swinging that ax, getting progressively more flushed and sweaty, breath fogging around him in the winter air, is gonna stay ingrained in his memory for the rest of his life. Not that he's complaining. 

When they came back inside, Steve excused himself to have a shower. And maybe it’s because an idiot, or maybe it’s because half of his brain was occupied watching the tiny bead of sweat clinging to the tendon on the side of Steve’s neck, but Eddie told him to take his time, he’d get the fireplace going in the meantime. In his mind’s eye, he was already picturing the two of them on the fuzzy sheepskin rug, huddled together under one of the knitted afghans. Laughing, talking, and munching on s’mores, soft music playing in the background. Slipping his hand into Steve’s, watching a whole different kind of blush spread on that handsome face as he leaned closer to finally, finally show him exactly how he feels. 

It sounded like a great fucking plan. 

Except for the part where he obviously can’t light a fire to save his goddamn life.

He’s just wondering if maybe he should call Wayne and ask for help when the bathroom door clicks shut behind him. 

“Oh hey,” Eddie rasps, voice all hoarse and scratchy from inhaling too much smoke, “Fire’s almost-” 

And then he freezes. 

Steve stares back at him, eyes wide with concern, brows almost disappearing under the swoop of his wet, disheveled fringe. He’s wearing the same light-wash jeans from earlier, and a towel around his shoulders. 

That’s all. 

“Eddie?” he asks. Like he’s surprised to see him here. Or maybe like he isn’t sure it’s him at all. He’s probably hard to recognize with all the soot on his face. “What are you- … What the hell happened?” 

“Nothing,” Eddie says. There’s tiny droplets of water hanging off the tips of Steve’s hair, running down his collarbone, catching in those glorious tufts of chest hair. He must be cold. Eddie should pull him down in front of the crackling flames, tell him he knows just the thing to warm him back up. Except he can’t get the goddamn fire lit. “Fire won’t start. Your wood must be soggy or something.” 

Steve’s eyebrows, impossibly, climb higher. His mouth twitches into a grin. 

“Hey now,” he says. “I didn't invite you here to have my wood insulted.”

Eddie thinks that maybe he should hurl himself into the fireplace, ignite the damn log with the force of his blush. While he’s still busy sputtering and wrecking his brain for a witty reply, Steve huffs a soft laugh and pads over on naked feet.

“Here, let me,” he says, snatching the pack of matches from Eddie’s limp fingers. He fiddles around for a bit - the specifics of what he does are admittedly lost on Eddie, who is too transfixed watching the way Steve’s ass strains against the confines of his jeans. Seconds later, the room is filled by the light of a small fire merrily crackling away. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie wheezes, tugging a strand of hair in front of his face to hide behind. It’s littered in gray flakes of ash. Steve smiles and reaches out to brush them away. 

“One thing after the other,” he says, and maybe it's the heat of the fire, but Eddie imagines the blush makes a reappearance. “For now, how about you finally kiss me?” 

“I'd love to,” Eddie says. “Except I probably taste like charco- oooh, wait, whoa, hold on a sec, what the fuck do you mean?” 

“I mean,” Steve says, leaning closer and bracketing his hands on Eddie’s thighs, “that I went through all the trouble of arranging this, telling the others to stay away, putting on that little show with the ax … You'd think I deserve a reward, right?” 

More holiday drabbles

Turns out he was wrong, Eddie thinks as their lips brush and they topple down into the fuzzy rug. Someone has definitely been sending him signals - it just wasn't the universe. 

[lorelune]

(continuation of this piece. part ii of regency au with jing yuan)

"he needs to stop doing this."

you tell lord luocha this as you stumble out of your one room cottage, desperately attempting to smooth down your day gown. your palms shake as you do and you shoot your patron an angry look.

lord luocha looks perfectly passive, painfully neutral with a hint of mirth. the bastard. "i think it's quite appropriate for the general to call upon you this hour of the day. i thought you would be prepared."

"i am not an 'eligible lady' as i am so often reminded," you shake your head. "i cannot constantly be ready to take his company, just because it's before supper. be reasonable, my lord. speak with him about this."

"perhaps," luocha tilts his head with the barest hint of a smile. "i'll consider it. for now, why don't you go greet our guest? i'll have some refreshments sent in."

"fine." you say. your voice wavers.

this is not the first time the retired general, Jing Yuan, has called upon you. it's more like the fifth. maybe sixth. it is more frightening to keep count of his increasingly frequently visits (as they clearly indicate some type of explicit interest), so you stopped counting them recently. peace of mind and all.

you enter the drawing with and bow to the general without thinking, "good afternoon, general."

"likewise," he says easily, voice so deep and rich; it makes your insides feel wobbly.

jing yuan sits on one of the loveseats, legs tastefully spread and in some amount of regalia. well-dressed, certainly. his hair is half-tied up as he so favors, and his face has a healthy amount of blush. a crisp jaw. bulging forearms and thighs beneath his various dressings. a broad chest. it is hard not to ogle him overtly. you train your gaze on the hand-tufted rug before rising and daintily (as you can) sit across from him on the other side of the loveseat. you tuck your legs to the side, barely remembering to not fully fold them under yourself. decorum and all.

(it feels foolish. jing yuan hardly seem to care. lord luocha thinks your bumbling is amusing.)

"i apologize for the intrusion," he says. he squeezes his hands into loose fists. you don't miss the action. "will you indulge me for a time?"

"i'm already here, aren't i?" you quip back, tone light. easy. "i don't mind the company."

there's more you could say—

("general, i think you are so very kind and thoughtful. thank you for spending your spare time with me.")

("general, i am sorry i can't attend any of the balls and festivities as anything more than a performer. i would not mind being on your arm, if circumstances were different, and you desired it so".)

("general, how much longer will you entertain this? are you intending to steal my heart, only to break it?"

instead, you remain quiet, picking at your nailbeds. jing yuan watches you with a hum. flexes his hands.

"are you working on any new pieces?" he asks.

"a few, actually." you reply. "the muses have been kind to me."

"oh?" he smiles. he tilts his head cutely, almost boyish, despite his age. "may i ask the subject matter?"

"ah—" you feel your face heat. "a number of things. subject matters. a varying themes."

truthfully, you have started four new paintings in the last week. all of which were started in moments of such deep inspirations, they had you painting and laying base colors from sunrise until sunset. it just so happens that these... works have. a clear theme. that of the general.

(during his second visit, he commented on the blooming azaleas. you've been obsessed with perfecting the shape of their petals. his third visit, you sat on the same seat as him. you were so much closer then, and found yourself lost in the honey color of his eyes. the punch of purple underneath them, an accumulation of sleepless nights. another is of a lion, like that of his crest. the final is a portrait of him that has you committing every bit of him to memory. perhaps you'll be able to capture his likeness with your memory if the muses continue to favor you.)

"you're quite the varied artist." he leans his jaw on his fist. "your dedication to your craft is most admirable."

"i cannot help the ways in which inspiration forces me to act," or, to thirst over the man in front of you. god forbid a parched man be given drink so fine. you shake your head. "i have had... some amount of increased, enjoyable, new interactions over the past while. i suppose i'm feeling invigored."

"oh?" jing yuan looks smitten. his eyes go half-lidded. "may i guess the source of your inspiration?"

"if you do, you'll only embarrass me."

"so, you think i will be right in my guess then?"

"i know so." you roll your eyes, sheepish. "i am not foolish enough to think i could hide face and play games with the Divine Foresight and win."

"you underestimate yourself."

"hardly. have you... met yourself, general?"

"often, frequently." he nods to himself. he catches your gaze. it's piercing. "i find myself in the mirror, often, these days. i tell myself that i am spry enough and have retained enough charm through my years to properly court and woo the recluse, genius artist i have been stealing time from. i meet the man in my mirror and think that he is quite clever, but tends to underestimate you as well."

your breath is caught in your chest. you scrunch the skirt of your dress up in your palms and swallow.

"the general speaks freely and foolishly."

"and yet, i do not lie."

"... you are brazen."

"do you not require such treatment?" jing yuan laughs sweetly. "if i were any more gentle with you, you would've already retreated far into your lord's gardens. i wouldn't hope to see you again. you will need to forgive me for my shamelessness."

"... i could perhaps be convinced." you scoot closer on the love seat. you should. create space away from him. before you do something stupid and unbecoming. but you find yourself drawn closer. "the general is a kind man. good-hearted."

"such a charitable assessment."

"i know it to be true." you do know. the man keeps his own gardens, tends them himself. he pays his servants good wages and left war and bloodshed behind sometime ago. "i would like to get to know his good heart more."

jing yuan steels himself then. you watch it happen. his spine straightens, his throat bobs. sweat beads at his temples, you now notice. his keeps his hands in his lap, wringing them together.

"then we are in agreement?"

"... only if the general treats me well." you stumble over your words. "only if you treat me well, general."

"jing yuan, please."

"fine. jing yuan, then." it takes everything in you not to reach for his hands. your last threads of civility barely remaining. "will you treat me well, jing yuan?"

he breathes. you feel the warm exhale of it fan over your cheeks. your gaze drops to the softness of his bottom lip.

"only the best, for you."

"so, you're smitten with me?"

"simply struck." he gulps. you need him, you decide, decorum be damned. you lean forward, just as he does. you can hear the tremor of your breath in time with his—

the door the drawing room opens, suddenly, with a resounding thud. you jump away from the general, a hand over your heart. you attempt to not noticeably pant, though you perhaps fail. lord luocha raises a knowing eyebrow as a few of his staff bring in a platter of a small treats and bubbly drinks in fluted glasses.

"forgive the intrusion," luocha places a hand on jing yuan's shoulder. the general straightens up. "i figured that you two must be in need some of refreshments. may i suggest a walk in the garden, later? perhaps, you could show him your herb patches, [name]."

lord luocha shoots you a knowing look.

(said patch of herbs is just outside of your cottage. a good distance away from the main estate.)

"i'd love to." you swallow and shake your head. "if the general will deign to spend a bit more time with me."

jing yuan looks at you, really looks at you, and smiles. it is an honest, genuine thing. you are glad luocha is at his back, so only you can see the earnest of it. it is something special, you think, just for you.

"as much as you will allow me."

and you will give him as much as you can muster.

[domesticgoddess22]

wish upon a cowboy

prologue

pairing: raider!joel miller x fem!reader

Summary: A rugged raider takes you under his wing after hunters leave you for dead. The two of you form a team and you quickly grow attached to him–mumbling, grumbling, protective Joel Miller. When you divulge your wishes to experience life before the outbreak, Joel decides to make them come true. All of them.

warnings: age gap (early 20s/mid 40s), praise kink, breeding kink, daddy kink, unplanned pregnancy, unprotected piv, canon-typical violence, light choking, dom!Joel, angst word count: 22k+ in progress (prologue 1.8k) rating: 18+ explicit MDNI masterlist here

Late September in Texas was more like summer than it was fall. It’s a whopping 90 degrees outside, or so you guess since a thermometer wasn’t on your list of important things to haul around. You just have an inkling that it’s a sunburn passed 89 with the way the Austin sun scorches your skin. 

You’re gradually making your way across the farmlands out west, one cornfield and run-down farmhouse at a time. All of this walking is making your feet get all blistered and bruised and it was beginning to sour your mood. 

Joel notices.

“‘S wrong?” Joel grumbles over his shoulder. 

“Feet are killin’ me. Can we stop or are we gonna hit every farmhouse in Texas first?”

He mumbles something under his breath before coming to an abrupt stop. You slam into his backpack and he swings around, giving you his full attention. 

“Five minutes,” he says, a deep voice scraping the ground. His face is glistening with sweat and his shirt is half unbuttoned so you can see the tufts of hair poking out from his chest. “Then we need to get movin’.”

It makes sense why he’s in a hurry. Neither of you have much food to last more than a day or two, so Joel was very keen on frequent scavenging, grabbing medicine you might need for later, and sustenance.

“Always in such a rush,” you tease, finding a spot to sit on the dirt road. There’s a subtle smirk on your face that’s quickly wiped away when you rub the soles of your feet, careful not to touch your open sores. You hiss at the odd mixture of relief and pain as you knead into your skin.

Joel chews his cheek in thought and then digs through the front pocket of his pack. He leans down so he’s eye level with you, resting his left hand on his knee as he hands you an aged bottle of Neosporin. “Here. Put this on.” 

You notice how his brown eyes shine gold with the way the sun is angled on his face. The salt and pepper threads of his beard are more defined up close. He’s probably in his mid-late forties. You wish you knew, but he never told you anything about himself. Said it was better that way. 

“Thanks.” 

There’s really so much more you want to know about the man you’ve been shacking up with for the last few weeks. You guys didn't even have a label for what you two were to each other–a team? Partners? You didn’t dare entertain anything beyond that, but a label would guarantee that your relationship was something more permanent and you wouldn’t end up alone in this fucked up world. Again.

You hated that about yourself too–your need to latch on to anyone who showed you a sliver of kindness. Sure, Dad always said that building a network of people you can rely on is a survival instinct. There’s some truth to that nowadays. You knew you wouldn’t make it far without someone strong and sturdy like Joel.

Unfortunately, you’re starting to think this little attachment of yours isn't just about survival.

“Guess you’re not so bad after all?” you say, kicking away your inner thoughts and dotting your sores with nearly dried out cream.

“Ain’t all that bad, huh? What about when I saved your life, kid?” There’s a playful lilt to his tone that you pick up on. He’s normally grumbly and annoyed with you, so it’s as loud as a blaring horn if he’s showing you emotion other than grumpiness.

“Hmmm, I guess I can give you credit for that one.” 

He’s still looking at you, a smirk creeping up on his lips as his shoulders jerk in laughter. You remember meeting Joel like it was yesterday. He found you, a month and some change ago, rotting on the side of the road with a bullet planted in your thigh. Pain dug its nasty claws into the wound, twisting it so it spread down to your knees and up to your groin. Death was coming for you, but you clung to life like you were hanging onto the edge of a cliff, sweaty fingers slipping one by one.

“Ain’t lookin’ good for you, darlin’.” 

“Fuckin’ hunters,” you said, grinding your teeth. You’d curse them with your last breath if you had to. 

“Yeah…” 

“You gonna put my lights out? Put me outta my misery?” Sweat stuck to your upper lip and the world looked all fuzzy and white.

There was a quietness as he stared at you, turning your words over a few times behind his dark brown eyes. And then he said, “Naw, kid. I ain’t gonna do that.”

The only thing that kept you tied to this earth was standing right in front of you now, flannel shirt, rugged exterior, a charming Southern accent, and a smolder that lit a flame in your heart.

It’s possible you caught feelings for him simply because he saved your life. Stopped your bleeding, took you to a doc friend of his and had your bullet removed, and he checked in on you on the daily with a simple how you feelin’, darlin’? Ya need anythin’? And when you asked him to stay with you while you slept one night to keep the night terrors at bay, he did. Even though he didn’t know you, and had no obligation to you, he stayed by your side.

Always loyal, reliable–albeit a little grumpy–Joel. 

You healed up in about a week and a half. Then Joel said he was heading west and asked if you wanted to tag along and you said yes, a little too eagerly at that.

Maybe he was lonely and liked having you around. Didn’t look like he had anyone else. You were a talker afterall, always had something to say to fill the dead space. He’d never say much back, he’d just mumble something here or there and you were convinced that you were just talking to the fields at one point.

Now here you are, sores on your feet from traveling twenty miles with him as he hands you Neosporin. Maybe he did care about you in more than a partner sense. It was a false spark of hope that little crush wasn’t all just a fantasy in your head about an older guy who didn’t seem to reciprocate your feelings whatsoever. 

“Looks like there might be a cornershop down the road there, think you can make it to one last stop before we call it for the night?” Joel drawls, standing back up from his crouching position, groaning as his knees pop from the postural shift.

You cock a brow. “Are you gonna make it?”

“Don’t worry about me, darlin’. I’ll be fine.” 

“Uhuh.”

After a few minutes of rest, you and Joel head down to the old corner shop. If you were lucky, maybe you’d find peanut butter or something to curb your cravings. Joel’s palette for scavenged goods was a little more complex: coffee, whiskey, and canned meats. 

The two of you had a system of operation already. Joel would scout the inside, make sure there weren’t any infected in there, and then when the coast was clear he’d wave you in. It was better this way since you weren’t a pro at dealing with infected just yet.

Through the dusty, broken glass shards of the window, you watch Joel pace up and down the aisles with a steady grip on his shotgun. Shoulders tense, brows furrowed, eyes focused. Hunting.

A few moments later, he waves you in.

You find a box of cereal and granola bars in the breakfast aisle. A smirk peels across your face when you find a 14 oz jar of instant coffee. There was a small sense of accomplishment that bubbled within you whenever you found any of his favorite items.

“Can I interest you in Nescafe?” You pronounce the word like Nescoffee, wiggling your brows and feeling proud that you found something he likes. 

“It’s cafe,”  he lectures and you roll your eyes.

“You’re supposed to say thank you!” you hiss. 

“Mmm,” he hums, stepping towards you, his boots thudding on the old, cracked concrete. “Wasn’t even the good stuff back then, but hell, it feels like it's worth an arm ‘n a leg now.”

“Hmmm. I wouldn’t know the difference.” 

It was true, you were five when it all went down, far too young to remember much from the old world, which felt like a blessing at times since that meant you can't miss what you never really had. 

“‘S probably for the best.”

“Sometimes. But other times I think I would have loved to see the world–all this,” you sweep your hand across the shop, “filled with lights. And life. I wanna taste a fresh cup of coffee from a cafe, wanna eat pie at a diner, learn how to drive a car so I can pass my driver’s test, go to school, work. Go on a date.”

You sigh wistfully. “And then maybe get married, have kids…” there’s an image of before that you’ve pieced in your mind based on stories you’ve read, pictures you’ve come across, and what little memory your five year old self retained. “But… none of that can happen now.”

“Damn, you really thought a lotta ‘bout life from before. They ain’t keepin’ you busy back in the QZ.”

“You got to do all that. Even though it’s gone now, at least you had the chance to feel what it was like to really live.”

A flicker of recognition shines in Joel’s eyes, something you could only assume was memories of his past that he was now forced to reflect on. 

“I’m curious to know how old you are now. Did ya get to do all those things?” You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, gaze flitting up to Joel. He shifts his focus to the faded Nescafe label, feeling the old sticker with the pad of his thumb. 

The glimmer of nostalgia–of warm memories–recedes as Joel’s eyes go dark. 

You suck your teeth and then smile sarcastically. “I’m gonna guess you’re old enough to be my daddy.” Teasing Joel was becoming a pastime of yours, and you couldn’t help but flirt a little.

He stiffens for a minute, mouth still permanently sculpted into a frown as he tucks the instant coffee into his backpack. “You gonna look for som’ we can eat or ya just gonna stand there lookin’ pretty?” he growls, and you swear you see his eyes flit to your breasts before stomping away.

You purse your lips together, eyes fixed on his broad shoulders before he disappears behind one of the shelves. You snatch a few cans of tuna and peas, muttering grumpy old man under your breath while you do.

“Think I saw a place down the road where we can stay for the night,” the low timbre of his voice echoes from across the shop. 

Your cheeks burn. You loved sleeping near Joel every night. Made you feel protected–safe.

A small, desperate voice in your head silently wishes you’d be sleeping in his arms this time and not across a campfire.

Maybe this time you’ll finally get to feel the heat of his skin against yours.

~~~

Thank you for reading the prologue! I have about 6 chapters out on Ao3 right now for this story.

[silaslich]

Smoked out, only seeing

Simon “Ghost” Riley x afab!reader

Wc - 3.2k

Summary - you take yourself to a local pub randomly one night and have a chance encounter with a stranger. You find yourself waiting for him.

Cw - 18+, smut, car sex

Solace isn’t something you usually seek to find at the bottom of a bottle.

Yet, you run your thumb over the glass where it’s held in your grasp, watching as the streak of condensation falls into droplets that cascade downward. Leaving a rim of water that sits beneath your drink and wobbles with each passing set of footsteps from patrons as they trudge past your booth.

It’s unclear how you’ve found yourself here, your routine is usually so set in stone; never differentiating from the daytime hours spent pouring over a laptop screen and the blurry nights spent nursing a spliff before inevitably falling asleep on the sofa. It’s a comfortable enough way to live, not many worries other then the typical spiral that comes around once in a while, usually brought on by hormones or a particularly lonely few days when you’re off work or too deep in your own head.

You’ve passed this particular pub so many times on the route home, never sparing it more than a passing glance, the sign that swings from the twisted metal bracket reads an un-unique name - The Red Lion.

It’s unassuming in it’s appearance and it’s aura; chunky white bricks and dark Tudor beams, nestled on the corner of a quiet street that sees little to no nightlife bar the odd retired miner that needs some quiet time out of the house or the rare university pub crawl that marks this place on the route only to discover how unwelcome they actually are. Not directly unwelcome, no, but the vibe is enough to have them swivelling on their heels to take their antics elsewhere, this place is definitely something more tame that’s suited better to the locals.

Suppose that included you. Bunched with the demographic, nursing a cider on an otherwise calm Thursday night, listening to the rugby that’s playing in the background-it’s a catch up from Sunday. Sat enjoying the odd sense of peace that sits in the air between the smell of stale salted crisps and tap beer.

You don’t particularly believe in fate or divine intervention, not the whole spiel of ‘everything happens for a reason’ either - you’d always been somewhat of a pessimist. A realistic expectation of life and it’s events, simply guided by your own actions and intentions; fully accepting of what might occur on the journey and the implications that might have on you.

It wasn’t fate that brought you here, no, something else entirely perhaps. A feeling - a magnetic pull in your chest that you could neither explain nor argue against.

That’s a realisation you come to when you meet eyes with him.

Even from across the shabby dimly-lit pub you can see the full depth in his eyes. The shape of him is a blur of dark tones and a large hulking frame, yet, his eyes almost glow in the tinted-yellow light. Hickory brown, illuminated amber when the light catches them briefly - almost matching the deep-rich colour of the whiskey that sloshes in his tumbler when he moves his hand.

The staring isn’t intentional. You might have felt embarrassed for being caught looking, a lingering glance that drags on into a stare - but he had been looking right at you first. The stranger doesn’t make any move to look away, nor is his gaze uneasy, you’ve felt it many times before - felt like someone is watching, only to turn your head and see a grubby middle aged man staring at you like you’re nothing more then a slab hanging from a butchers meat hook.

He’s different, in a way you’re not sure you’d be able to explain away if someone asked you.

From the distance between the two of you, it’s clear he’s a handsome man. Rough around the edges, from the rugged tufts of dirty blonde hair that curl across his forehead to the clear indent of a silvery-pink scar that cuts through his lips and curves up over his right cheek bone. His features are angular and sharp, a cut throat man if you’ve ever seen one. Still it’s his eyes; the way they look right at you, their path intentional when they roam to your chest and back up again, so dark and yet so inviting. Like a predator. Shark like.

It’s you who breaks the contact first. Not really willing to but doing it nonetheless, a heat sinking from your throat to your stomach; one that isn’t from the booze.

The ice in your drink has melted by the time you go to take a sip, rendering it a watery and lukewarm disappointment. It’s not as late as you hope it is, scanning your eyes over your phone screen to see it’s barely nine o’clock, it feels like you’ve been here so much longer. When you scan your eyes back across the pub, the man is gone, from your seat you can see that his glass is empty - a wrinkled ten pound note sitting under it.

You’d never admit it; would hate to have to admit it, but the slim chance that you might see the stranger again is what keeps bringing you back again. Eyes wandering, fingers tapping against your glass, neck craning in the direction of the door every time you hear it creak - it’s never him.

Perhaps he’s not local, just passing through the town, a pit stop for a thumb of shit whiskey before he’s on his way again. You’re not sure what’s so intriguing, maybe it’s his eyes, the fact his stare didn’t make you as uncomfortable as it should have done. Bizarre really; thinking about it, coming out of your way for the slight chance you might catch a glimpse of this rugged stranger.

The clock ticks. The speakers above the wood-framed head of the bar fizzle out into static background noise, the idle hum of locals chattering drifts and the evenings drones on and on until it’s just you and a few other stragglers. It’s another Thursday, still as quiet as usual, and even the street outside is as dead as dust.

Wet earth fogs the air. The cobbled streets reflect the light from the street lamps and the wind drifts with the smell of the freshly ploughed fields from over the hill. A small town in an even smaller county, a back burner place that’s not really somewhere - the space between leaving and arriving. Some come here to retire, others come here to hide, you’ll never know which. There’s a varied diversity of people here, families with small children and old biddies that have always lived in the same house since they were just a tot; others came here searching for peace but most come to simply get away.

Which one are you?

It’s always the stars that catch your eye. Sitting pretty up against the backdrop of the midnight sky, bleeding tones of navy blue and inky black- fading together. It’s a vast plain that stretches further than the eye can reach, yet you try, always - fascinated.

“Never understood the appeal”

The voice startles you, if only slightly, you thought you were the only one out here. Your neck cranes to the source of the voice, as you stand just past the doorway of the pub you can see the same hulking figure from before.

He seems even taller out here. No longer slumped into an old bar chair that’s probably as old as you are, out here he’s able to move freely. The stranger is partially hidden in the dim light, the street lamps are on the other side of the street - sparing the both of you from their balmy amber light.

“Maybe you need to look up once in a while” you raise a brow, unsure if he can even see it, you don’t move to step closer.

The stranger grumbles some form of amusement, lifting a cigarette to his mouth before lighting it, only when he takes a long-heavy drag are you able to see more of his face. It’s not as clear of view as it had been inside the pub, but it’s more than you’ve seen in weeks. Dangerous intrigue.

“Not much to look at most of the time” he exhales heavily, smoke carrying from his lips, it’s involuntary the way you watch the plush of his lips move. It’s involuntary the way your feet seem to carry you closer to him, just a step at a time, shuffling along like you’re afraid he’ll startle like a stray cat and scurry off.

“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough” his eyes drift to you, rake up your body as you near closer, they’re lazier then before - perhaps he’d had more to drink then the last time you’d seen him.

His lips tip up at one side. “Oh yeah? Might look old but my eyes aren’t shot just yet, sweetheart” his eyes never leave yours when he takes another heavy drag of his cigarette, exhaling through his nostrils and out of his mouth in your direction. You can’t seem to break away from his eyes, they’re even prettier up close, camouflaging the worn scars and the signs of age that eat their way at his features.

“Not as old as you look then? Pity, I like a man that knows his way around” he’d offered his cigarette to you, and you’d taken it gladly, heaving a lungful of bitter smoke from your chest as you watch his eyes narrow at your words. “Cheeky thing” his chest rumbles, smoke and gravel in his tone. You smile. “Think so?” Your tone carries the questions and you can read the way his mind must be weighing up his options, seems his mind is made up more then quickly.

He tastes of whiskey and nicotine; perhaps the nicotine is partly you too.

His palms are rough but his lips are anything but, it’s a marrying contrast that’s more than welcome, you’re probably just too desperate to care at this point. He’d tugged you to his car, perhaps with full intentions of driving to your place or his, yet your mind is mush - too needy. You’re not one to make a habit of this. Never out seeking an arrangement like this, but he’d fell into your lap, too intriguing to pass up. Dangerous intrigue.

It’s an uncomfortable fit, the backseat of his truck is only so big, still too desperate to care that your thighs are already aching and that he’s having to contort his spine to an awkward angle just for the both of you to fit. You’re straddling his lap, nails biting into the jacket covering his shoulders, grinding yourself down on anything - needy needy needy.

He smirks, let’s his hand trail up over your stomach and chest before he’s wrapping his fingers around your throat, a light grip that warns you to still - it makes you look him in the eye. A panting desperate mess already; for a man you don’t know in a town you’re yet to call home.

You swallow against his palm, jaw slack as you meet his eyes, watching the way his eyes map out your face. He leans in and uses his leverage on your throat to bring you the rest of the way towards him, rough hands and gentle kisses. A dream. His tongue isn’t shy. He delves into your mouth, a filthy kiss that makes your toes curl in your shoes, spine nothing but liquid at that point. When he breaks away, you’re a heaving mess, desperate unsteady breaths that dart from your chest.

He strokes this thumb over your neck. “D’you want me to fuck you?” His words are sharp, stabbing you right in the gut, feeding that heat that boils and swirls in your core. Your response is wordless. Your eyes lull in your head when your body shivers at his words, “fucking hell” you whisper- more to yourself. He squeezes your neck. “Need words, sweetheart” he’s serious. You crane you neck, meeting his eye again, “yes- please fuck me” your smile is drunker then he is, you’d been on the soft drinks tonight, not even an ounce of liquid courage is coursing through your veins to help you along here.

His grip on your neck tightens, just slightly, and you lean in to kiss him again - sucking his tongue into your mouth. You lean closer, closing your chest to his, hands gripping his shoulders, you bring your lips to his ear and whisper- “Maybe you can cum in me too, yeah? I’m on the pill” He grumbles in his chest again, like something carnal slips out of place within himself, finally letting go. His teeth bruise your lip, kissing with a fever that’s reached boiling point, tipping over the edges of the pot.

He fumbles at his zips and his belt, leading you to do the same. A rush of grabbing hands and harsh shoves, needing to strip away the layers, shoving everything out of the way. Any teasing or foreplay is thrown out; too wound up, needing this too much. Needy needy needy.

You spit in your palm, he groans at the visual, watching intently as you pull him free of his briefs, slicking his cock with your own spit as you take the length of him in your hand. He returns all favours, sucks two fingers into his mouth and presses them against your panties, pushing them aside with big deft fingers as he pushes them through your folds. So wet already, perverted maybe, had been wet for him since that first night you saw him.

Would have never admitted it, would hate to have to admit that just a passing look from this stranger had you crossing your legs under the table - trying to quell the ache between your thighs.

“Oh fuck” your teeth worry your bottom lip, digging in hard. He watches, takes note of the way your eyelids flutter when he plunges his fingers through your wetness, he takes note of it all. He raises his hand, loops it around the back of your neck and pulls you closer, kissing you again as you rile each other up, slick noises of each others spit against each others skin. Bliss. He chuckles against your mouth and you lean back to tilt your head at him, a bemused look etching your features. “Never even asked your name, sweetheart” Didn’t suppose it mattered? You smile to yourself. “Not sure you need to know” you run your thumb over his slit as you speak and he visibly shivers, his unoccupied hand leaving marks on your thigh from how tight he grips it. “I gotta work for it?” He asks, a flash of teeth when you meet his eyes again. “Always” you lean forward to kiss him again and he obliges.

He wraps his arm around your back and tugs you closer, chests flush and breaths twined. With one slight push of his hips upwards the head of his cock teases through your folds, the sensation makes you gasp. “Fuck” you pant.

You reach between the two of you, guiding his cock between your folds and pressing yourself down, feeling as he stretches you open impossibly wide. It’s a stinging sensation that borders the pain and the pleasure, it’s uncertain which one outweighs the other. He’s patient. Doesn’t move until you do, watches again as your face plays out the bliss zipping it’s way up your spine like electricity. You mould your mouth to his, pressing your palms against the headrest of the seat behind him, watching as the windows fog around you.

The visual is too much, but the feeling of the way his cock pistons in and out of you is worlds apart. He’s stretching you open, spearing you on his cock until tears prickle your eyes. It’s too much, yet you keep going, needing to feel this twang of pain as he fucks you.

“So pretty” he mumbles, pussy-drunk, words slurring out the side of his mouth as he watches where the two of you join. Watching the creamy white of your pussy oozing around him, so wet and sloppy and perfect. His praises punch out of him with almost every thrust, telling you how pretty and perfect and just how fucking good you feel.

You toss your head back, squealing when he fits his teeth against your jugular, grunting - he’s close. He chases it. Slips his arm away from where he’d held you close, now he fits his hand between the two of you, thumbing your clit until he can feel the way your thighs tremor around his. “Cum for me pretty thing, come on now” his voice softens, and it doesn’t sound at all like him, it’s as gentle as the way his tongue soothe the marks his teeth have left on you.

Sweat slicks your skin and you feel it bead at your forehead, messing your hair, you fit your fingers into the hair at the back of his head - the strands are barely long enough to tug.

You bite your tongue, you’re so close. “You wanna cum in me? Hmm?” Your tone drifts and you can barely look him in the face, too focused on the way he throbs inside of you and the way he thumbs at your clit like it’s his one and only purpose on this earth. “Fuck” he rasps, eyes screwing shut, “you want that?” His question seems genuine, despite the way it’s masked with the way he almost whines it. “Yes baby” you hum “need it” you don’t even sound like yourself. Not at this point. “Fuck” he fucks up into you, more grit to the way he moves and it’s all it takes before you’re both chasing one another.

It rocks through you first, a tight coil in your thighs that makes them burn like hot rubber, seizing through your core until you’re plucked from the edge and drowned in a wave of bliss that seems to go on and on and on. It’s the way your cunt squeezes around him that forces him to cum, he can’t hold it back, can’t deny himself of spilling inside of your pretty pussy. Much like you, it seems to go on and on and on.

He grunts heavy in his chest, you’re both a mess of pants and moans and whines as you cum. Drifting down slowly as the sweat drips and the mugginess inside of his truck grows heavy in the air.

You sag into him, chest to chest as you pant against his mouth, fingers gripping at his jacket like he’s a lifeline.

“Jesus Christ” is the first thing out of your mouth. He hums. “And all this time I thought it was the stars you were looking for back there” You smile and flick his cheek, settling when he shuffles himself lower in the seat, bringing you with him in a much more comfortable position. “Not funny” you mutter and he simply hums back.

It’s a brief silence that settles with the afterglow, the come down of a good fuck. You tell him your name. It’s a bluntly said piece of information that you watch him digest. He nods. “My name’s Simon”.

[readerstories]

Cigarettes and Cigars - Worst Wolverine x male!reader

This man I swear....... (AO3)

Warnings/tags: male reader, first meetings, strangers to lovers, smut, oral/blowjobs, handjobs, coming in pants

Wordcount: 4369

Summary: Honestly, you hadn't had any specific plans when going to the bar that night. A few drinks, a few smokes, and that was about it.

And then he arrives, and you suddenly you know more specifically how you want your night to end.

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

You’re on your last drags of your cigarette in the smoking area of this shitty bar you’ve found yourself in when he arrives.

He’s handsome, brown hair with mutton chops, wearing jeans, a black top, and a brown leather jacket. He sits down in a chair, placing what looks like a very full whiskey glass on the table in front of him. One hand fishes down in a pocket of his jacket, coming out with a cigar and lighter.

Your cigarette burns your fingers then, down to just the filter, and you curse silently as you stomp it out in the ashtray, snapping up a new one from your pack on the table to have an excuse to not go inside just yet. Without thinking you make a little flame from your thumb to light your smoke, not bothering to hide with the lighter.

By the time you look up, Mr. Handsome has his cigar lit, smoke cloud surrounding his head. He strokes a hand through his hair, seemingly lost in thought as he fixates on a spot on the neighboring building’s wall. His hair is styled so there’s little tufts sticking out to the side, almost like ears. It’s a cute little detail to his otherwise rugged look, you can’t help but wonder if he does it on purpose or not.

He looks strong, rugged, like a man that could handle just about anything life throws at him. 

You wonder if he can throw you.

In a fun way, and not in a “get the fuck away from me” way.

God, you hope he does. Strong thighs and long legs under that table, and you would guess the arms match. You want to take a look under that jacket, or rather, a look under all of it.

You know you are staring, not at all subtle, so you’re not surprised when he catches you looking. He raises a brow, tilting his head as he takes a slow drag of his cigar. The look goes straight to your cock, but you pretend it doesn’t, raising your glass in a cheer. He looks away, but at least he doesn’t grimace or anything else horrible, so you count that as a win.

So you keep looking as your cigarette burns down, taking drags between sips of your drink and looking at the handsome stranger.

You wonder how his hair would feel between your fingers, if you could mess it up enough so those little tufts would disappear. How it would feel for him to have his hands in your hands, tugging and guiding you as you kneel for him- And you have to stop that train of thought short, or else you will have an obvious bulge, even in your loose pants.

But it’s hard, pun intended, when such a perfect looking man is sitting close to you. Not close enough though.

So, when he catches your eyes a second time, this time with a slight scowl on his face, you down the rest of your drink, throwing the stump of your smoke in the ashtray and grabbing your smokes before making your way over to him.

“This seat taken?” You gesture to the other chair around his table, and he shrugs.

“Knock yourself out.” You sit down, fishing out a cigarette from its pack with your teeth, lighting it with your lighter this time instead of a flame of your own making. Normally you don’t smoke this many in a row, but it’s really the only excuse you have to sit down near him like this.

When you look up again, you find him watching you through a dissipating cloud of cigar smoke. He’s looking all over you, taking you in, assessing you. It makes something tingle in your spine before it settles low in your gut.

“What do you want?” The question is blunt, and so is his tone. His eyes bore into yours, you keep the eye contact as you take a drag of your cigarette. You lick your lips, trying to keep your face neutral as his eyes dip down to your lips.

One indication this hasn’t gone to shit already.

“What, can’t a guy sit down next to a devilishly handsome man just for a smoke with no ulterior motive?”

“You seemed to be doing fine on your own over there.” Mr Handsome grabs his drink, taking a good swig of it, you can’t help but watch his throat as he swallows.

“Ah, yes, but that was boring and alone, plus I would feel like a creep if I kept staring without saying hi and introducing myself.”

“Which you still haven’t done.” He got you there, so you offer him your name with a smile.

“And yours?” He scans you again, clearly debating whether to give you his name, or to leave and give you nothing.

“Logan. And no ulterior motives?”

“Well, other than trying to get into your pants, no.” Logan chokes on his drink, making you grin, but you hide it as quickly as you can.

“Whoops sorry.” You offer, but Logan gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you as he tries to wipe his chin with the sleeve of his jacket. Which doesn’t really work with the leather, still leaving a good amount of moisture behind on his chin.

“Let me offer you another drink, as compensation for ruining the last of that one.” A beat. “Or better yet, I have several bottles at home you can choose from, instead of whatever mid-tier shit they sell here.”

“You offering me booze to get in my pants? What do you think I am, some kind of cheap whore?”

“The offer is on the table whether I get in your pants or not, it’s just an offer. You can even tell me to fuck off later. Or now if you want. I’ve learned to do what I can with what I get, and if that means only looking, that’s fine by me.” Logan shakes his head

“You are a strange one.”

“Hope that’s a good thing.”

“Haven’t decided yet, depends on what you have.” You grin. 

Got him. 

You stand up pocketing your smokes, and offer him a hand to help him up.

“Come on, my apartment is just a ten minute walk from here.” Logan glances at your hand, a barely there frown passing over his face, but he takes it. His hand is solid and strong in yours, and you feel that strength, but also the weight of him as he gets up.

“Lead the way.” His voice is low and gruff, making your stomach tighten. He puts out the stump of his cigar and you put out your cigarette at the same time, making your knuckles brush against each other. It’s a barely there touch, but still it builds onto the anticipation you feel. 

He follows you out of the bar, just steps behind you. You’re kinda sad about not being able to look at his ass as you leave, but you hope he’s looking at yours instead.

Which it turns out he is, as you catch him looking when you check that he follows you when you turn away from the bar.

You don’t comment on it, but it definitely fuels your confidence as you walk. Logan is half a step behind you, walking silently until you are at the door to your apartment building, which you don’t mind at all.

“You got roommates?” He asks as you fish your keys out of your pocket.

“No, I got the whole place to myself. What about you?” You open the door for him, and he steps inside.

“I do.” You’re surprised, you wouldn’t have guessed that about him.

“That sucks.” He shrugs, following you as you step into the elevator, pushing the button for your floor.

“Life got…. Complicated. I don’t mind.” Neither of you say anything else in the short ride to your floor. You find the silence oddly comfortable.

Stepping inside your apartment, you toss your keys in the bowl on the console table next to your door, and put your jacket up on a hook.

“It’s not much, but it’s home.” You walk into your combined kitchen and living room, going straight for the upper cabinet where you keep your liquor. Opening it, you’re glad you didn’t completely misremember, a few whiskey bottles greeting you all the way in the front, some mid-tier, one of them a higher tier brand.

“Here you go.” You intend to step aside and turn around so Logan can look, but before you can do so, there’s a solid body pressed against your back. Your breath hitches as muscled arms stretch out on either side of you, palms down on your kitchen counter.

“I can take whatever?” Logan speaks low right next to your ear, and you can’t help the shiver that runs through you as his breath dances over your skin.

“Yeah.” The words barely manage to fumble its way out of your mouth. You can feel your pulse quickening already, which is not helped as Logan reaches up, pressing his body into you more, and you further into the counter as he grabs the most expensive bottle.

As he brings it down, he steps back, just far enough that he’s not touching you anymore and gives you room to turn around. He’s still close, and seeing his handsome face this close, as he watches you, is making your mouth dry, and blood rush somewhere other than your face.

“Jesus fucking Christ Logan, you are handsome.” He snorts, uncorking the bottle, taking two deep swigs. Fuck, that is hot, a lot hotter than it should be watching his throat bob. When he brings it down, he licks a drop that escaped from the corner of his lips, a motion which you also follow with your eyes. He offers you the bottle and cork, which you take, but put on the counter behind you.

“I’ve redecided.” He tilts his head ever so slightly, watching you with a strange intensity. 

“About what?”

“Each drink is gonna cost you a kiss.” He snorts.

“And here I thought you said you were happy with just looking.”

“Can you blame a guy for hoping?” You look him up and down appreciatively, happily noting that his arms look just as good and muscular as you thought they would. The rest of him looks good too, but it’s hidden behind clothes you hope and pray won’t stay on forever. 

“I guess not.” He crowds you against the counter again, and you grab it, breath hitching again as one thumb rests on your chin, the rest of his fingers resting under it so he can easily angle you for the kiss.

It’s short, just a press of slightly chapped lips against  yours, but it ignites a want, no, a need, for more.

“You’re very warm.” He notes absentmindedly as he leans back.

“You took two swigs.” You’re quick to say, ignoring his very familiar comment. He huffs out something that is awfully close to a laugh, but leans in again. This one is better, deeper, his lips moving against yours, which you are quick to meet. Your hands move, grabbing onto his waist, while Logan’s rest one against your ribs and one in your hair. You wonder if he can feel the way your heart is beating against your ribcage, thundering even though all he has done is press against you and kiss you.

He pulls away again, not far, but it takes some willpower from you to keep back the whine that threatens to escape your throat.

“I definitely want more than just two.” You’re not entirely sure if he’s talking about the whiskey or the kisses, but it doesn’t matter as he leans close again, using his hold on your hair to guide you. Not that he needs to, you are more than willing, your fingers pushing his t-shirt up just enough so you can get your fingers in his belt loops and pull him towards you.

He’s kissing you like he wants to devour you, hungry and desperate. You feel his hardening cock press against your own through your pants, making the both of you shudder in delight. 

You moan against his lips, which gives him the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. You let him explore, trying to meet him with equal fervor. He tastes of whiskey and cigars, but also of cinnamon.

The hand on your ribs slides down to palm at your ass, pressing you against him even more. Logan is all muscle, and his cock feels like heaven pressed against your own. It feels big too, which you confirm to be true as you slip one hand down to his front and squeeze him through his jeans. 

He breaks the kiss; the moan he lets out is low and growly, going straight to your cock.

“Bedroom.” You let go of his cock to push at his chest with both hands, but Logan doesn’t budge an inch, moving down to nose at your neck.

“I can hear your heart, it’s going like a rabbit.” He kisses your shoulder, before taking a deep sniff. “And you smell like a campfire.”

“Yeah, and so what?”

“You’re sure you don’t have any ulterior motives?” 

“What the fuck are you on about? My powers have nothing to do with wanting to get in your pants. Or you wanting to get into mine.” You squeeze Logan’s cock again, which makes him groan and his hips to pump forward.

“No it doesn’t, but I like knowing what I’m getting into.” 

“I got fire powers, pretty much made of the stuff and can make it wherever I like. Happy?” You grab his jaw, which makes him look at you, if only of his own surprise and will, because you now know you can’t move him an inch unless he wants you to. “Also, I am very warm on the inside, just not the outside.” You let the words sink in, grinning as his eyes slip down to your lips and he licks his own.

“You were saying something about the bedroom?” Instead of an answer, you push at him again. This time he moves, so you grab his hand and drag him towards the bedroom door.

As soon as you’re inside, you find yourself lifted and thrown on the bed, answering your question from way earlier in the night. You scramble up on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you go.

“So what about you?” Logan pauses as he’s getting his boots off, while you pull your socks off.

“What about me?” 

“Strength and better senses?” You lick your lips as his shirt is the next to go, revealing a muscular chest that you can hardly wait to feel.

“Something like that.” Logan kneels on the edge of the bed, your mattress dipping enough that you feel your body start to roll towards him. You start to take your shirt off, but he lets out a noise that is very close to a growl.

“Keep it on.” You send him a confused look, but you do as he says as he moves up on the bed, pushing your thighs apart and kneeling between them. His hands move over your knees and then your thighs, making your cock jump in anticipation.

His hands find the hem of your t-shirt, pushing it up just enough to expose your stomach, placing feather light kisses over it. You sigh, a very happy one, threading fingers through Logan’s hair.

His kisses move up, and so does your t-shirt. His beard tickles a little as he moves over your skin, but it’s a pleasant sensation. His mouth closes around a nipple, your hips try to move up against him, but he holds them in place with one hand. You whine, and Logan chuckles, another noise that goes straight to your already leaking cock.

“God damn tease.” You grumble and Logan hums, the bastard, licking over the stiffening bud in his mouth. Your other nipple gets attention from his hand, a thumb stroking over it in similar patterns that his tongue is making. 

It feels so good, making you let out these desperate little noises as pleasure flows through you from the attention of his hands and tongue.

Logan switches sides, though you try to tug him up so you can kiss him. But no, instead he pinches the nipple that was just in the wet heat of his mouth. His grip on your hip keeps you from bucking up, and you huff, displeasure not lasting long as his talented tongue and fingers on your chest makes pleasure pool in your gut.

Finally your shirt is peeled off, which makes you let go of his hair, which you can’t grab again as he leans too far back. His hand shifts from your chest to your crotch, palming your cock through your pants. You moan, and this time he lets you buck up.

“And I thought I was going to get my mouth on you.” Logan hums.

“Later.” His eyes are filled with pure sin and dirty promises, if you weren’t already rock hard you would have been in seconds.

“Okay, yeah.” Logan leans down, mouthing over your neck as he slides your pants and underwear down and off, lifting you with ease again. One hand quickly wraps around your cock, giving it a few strokes. You moan loudly, grabbing onto his hair again. 

He chuckles against your shoulder, though you can also feel him rock forward onto the bed even though his crotch is not pressed against your own. His teeth dance over your shoulder and neck, feeling sharp, but not biting down.

“You can bite me, just don’t break skin, I would rather not take you to the ER with burns on the inside of your mouth.”

“I will heal.” 

“Yeah, eventually, but-”

“Not eventually, quickly.” A few seconds as he places kisses over your clavicle. 

Oh.

“Okay, yeah, filing that information away for later, but still don’t want you to burn your fucking mouth.”

“How considerate.” 

“Something li- Fuck!” You exclaim as Logan bites down, pain and pleasure mixing perfectly as his hand keeps moving over your cock. He thumbs the head as he licks over the bitemark he just made, making you moan and buck your hips up.

Logan shifts, going just a little further down so he can bite your pec instead, growling low as he does so. It all goes straight to your dick, and you can feel yourself leak over his hand.

He’s all passion and no finesse as he keeps jerking you off, biting and kissing your skin. You know your chest will be covered in marks in the morning, but you don’t mind at all with how the pain of it mixes with the zips of pleasure his hand and mouth give. 

You tug at Logan’s hair, dig your fingers into his shoulders. You buck into his hand, feeling so good with how he drags it up and down, squeezing tight around your leaking cock. He pushes his own hips into the bed, rubbing against it, chasing his own pleasure it seems. You’re not sure if he’s even very aware he’s doing it, as his efforts seem mostly to be focused on making you come. 

Which holy hell, is fucking hot, like everything about this man.

Logan is pushing you closer and closer to the edge with every second, all you can do is moan his name in warning as that familiar heat starts to curl in your gut and near its crescendo.

“Logan, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Logan grunts, speeding up his hand even more, and with a final suck on your nipple and a press of his thumb to the tip of your cock, you come. You moan loudly as you do so, back arching up as you spill all over his hand and your front.

You tug at his hair, trying to drag him up again, making Logan grunt against your skin as he wipes his hand on his pants.

“Come up here, I fuckin need to kiss you strong motherfucker.” He goes, and as soon as his mouth is within reach, your lips are on his. 

It’s messy, needy, and oh so fucking hot. You lick into his mouth, which he very easily and willingly opens up. One of your hands shifts downwards, finding his belt and opening it. Quick enough that Logan can’t manage to warn you about the mess you find, though it’s still surrounding a very hard cock.

You break the kiss to look down.

“Did you-”

“Yeah, but a perk of my healing is a short refractory period.”

“Fucking fantastic, cause I need my mouth on that cock right now.” Logan is very on board with that idea, as he moves from between your knees to sit with his back against your headboard, somehow managing to get his pants off as he moves. You quickly follow suit, settling on your stomach between his open legs.

Taking Logan in one hand, you spread some of his come from his earlier orgasm over his cock, slicking it up. It’s big, just like you thought he would be. There’s no way you are going to be able to take all of him, but you are definitely going to get him to come on your tongue.

You lean forward, licking over his tip with small kitten licks. A hand comes to rest in your hair and you look up, finding Logan watching you with a slightly open mouth. You put your mouth around his tip, sucking hard, just to see his head fall back with a thud.

“Fuck.” If you had a healing factor like Logan’s you’re sure you would be hard again just by that alone. But sadly you don’t, so instead, you focus on him.

Your mouth leaves the head of his cock, but it’s only to give long licks up and down his shaft, occasionally slipping down to his balls. He groans, and you can feel his hips twitch, and his thighs press into your shoulders.

His tip back in your mouth, you let spit pool in your mouth before letting it spill down over his cock, following the spit down with your mouth as far down as you can go. He twitches in your mouth, pre-come filling your mouth even more with the heavy and musky taste of him.

You swallow around him once, before pulling back up. The hand on his cock follows your mouth as you bob your head up and down, hollowing your cheeks and sucking them in to create the perfect amount of suction.

“Fucking hell, your mouth is warm.” You hum around Logan, which makes him groan and tug on your hair. Your hand not on his cock scratches as good as it can down the inside of his thigh. You feel the muscles there jump as he moans, more pre-come leaking into your mouth.

You can tell Logan is holding himself back from thrusting up into your mouth, his hips and thighs shaking. He’s breathing heavily as your warm mouth works over his cock, your hand slipping down to play with his balls as you sink your mouth down as far as it will go. 

You swallow around him twice, deliberate and slow, and that's all it takes for him to spill into you. You groan around him, which just makes him do the same, and you also hear an unfamiliar sound that sounds a lot like “schnikt”. Almost forgotten instantly though as your name mixes with his groans.

It’s one of the best things you have heard in ages, swallowing all of what you can fit down your throat as you revel in it.

Eventually Logan pulls you off with a firm grip on your hair, and you’re sure you look like a wreck, if the way Logan’s eyes dances all over your face is anything to go by.

“Fuck.” It’s a low muttering from him, the smug smile on your face is just half-ruined by how spent you feel.

“That was the idea, yeah.” He snorts, and it’s then you notice the knives, or rather claws coming from his hand that is just resting on the bed. 

His eyes follow your gaze, stiffening as he notices his hand. In seconds the knives are gone, disappearing into his hand.

“Hot.” You climb into his lap, and he lets you. “Any more secret powers now?”

“No.” His hands settle on your hips, careful and light. “Sorry.”

“About what?”

“Could have hurt you.”

“My body would just have turned into flames around them. If anything, I would have hurt you.” You take one of his hands in yours, bringing it up to your face. The skin is whole, not a trace of the claws. 

“Not a scratch.” You kiss between his knuckles, and he gives you a look you can’t even begin to decipher, so you don’t comment on it. “So are you a cuddler or?”

“Sometimes.” He hesitantly admits.

“Great! If you stay the night I can even wash your pants. And make you breakfast if you don’t have anywhere to be super early.”

“I don’t.” 

“Great, let's take a shower, cause even as hot as this all is, I prefer to go to bed without drying cum on my stomach.” Logan looks down, hums, and before you can even react, you find yourself manhandled onto your back, Logan’s tongue licking over your stomach. 

“Logan!” One hand tugs at his hair, the other fists the sheets, but he doesn’t move away until every drop of your come is gone from your stomach. You cock tries to announce it interest, but sadly it’s still a little too soon for you.

“That was fucking hot as hell, but I still want that shower.” Logan grins, placing a single kiss right over your navel before getting up off the bed, and offering you a hand to help you up. You take it, being pulled into strong arms who maneuvers you so he can kiss you again.

Which you don’t mind at all. Not in the slightest.

[ginnysgraffiti]

not sure if you're taking requests at the moment, but i think a fic about reader helping lee dye his hair would be rlly cute!

@m00nkissedlover heyyy! i’m always taking everyone’s amazing requests, i’ve just been endlessly busy with school :,)

thank you so much for the idea! <33

anyway, happy christmas eve to everyone!

&. LEE x reader

“babyyyy!”

you had barely woken up, and yet lee was already complaining at eight o’clock of a saturday morning.

you groaned in response, but his voice kept coming loud and clear from the bathroom.

“okay, okay! i’m coming!” you rubbed your eyes twice and got your feet into your slippers, making your way down the corridor.

“lee…it’s early…” you reminded him with your voice deep and hoarse from the night. your eyes were still closed, but when you opened them you found your boyfriend standing by the sink, contemplating his reflection in the mirror. he was wearing boxers only, the ones you preferred, like usual, but his eyebrows were so corrugated that they almost joined in a thin only line. you couldn’t figure out whatever looked off to him, so you stepped closer to investigate.

“what is it, baby?”

he finally turned around, his puppy sleepy eyes spending a few minutes to take in your sleeping tank top and shorts, as if he had never seen you look so gorgeous before.

“just…do you like my hair?”

now you were the one who was confused. why would he ever be asking that?

“sure baby, i love your curls.”

“no, it’s not that…” he said, his words rolling weakly down his tongue as a small cute pout formed on his lips. he was facing the mirror again, his bony fingers moving and messing up his hair indecisively.

“…the color.” admitted he.

“the color? what’s wrong?”

“it’s…pink. it’s supposed to be red.”

the realization finally sunk in. the red dye had obviously worn out and now his curls were a gentle fade of angel pink. they looked so pretty that you almost didn’t notice. the red dye made your boyfriend look more rebel, more wild, and maybe that was why he liked it.

now that you thought about it, you had never seen lee dying his hair. you would cut it from time to time, whenever he asked, but the color never revealed to be an issue.

“oh boy, it’s okay! i love it anyway!” you immediately reassured him, your hands cupping the sides of his face. he didn’t look convinced.

“okay…let’s do something. i’ll buy red dye and it will be red again, mh? how does it sound?”

his face lit up like a boy who had just received his stuffed animal. “you would…do that?”

“you kidding? of course! come on, i’ll go out and buy some.”

by 10am you were already back, two bottles of professional bright red hair dye.

maybe it was something he had grown with, you reasoned, and lee got affectionate to his red curls.

maybe he liked himself more that way.

whatever the answer was, the boy was sat right on the fluffy rug of the living room. he had put a bathroom towel on his shoulder, a bowl to put the hair dye in and a brush to apply it. he looked incredibly excited, waiting like a puppy dog.

you spent one whole hour applying it. meticulously, you spread the dye under each tuft, on each tip. you wanted it to be just as good, and lee would often throw his head back to look at you or receive a childish kiss.

“so? how does it look??” you asked with a smile, standing proudly behind him with a hand on your hip as lee finished drying his hair with the towel.

“it’s amazing baby! even better than before!!”

[globalfloor]

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[wroteclassicaly]

Fallin’ For His Darlin’

(Gator Tillman x Female Reader)

Word count: 1,062

Pairings: Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Language, mentions of trauma, wounds, pain, anxiety, and depression, vaginal sex, fluff, hurt/comfort, vaginal fingering, kind of dark!Gator, kind of soft/anxious too, etc.

A/N: So inspired tonight, listened to some mood music, feeling that fall vibe, haha! Hope y’all enjoy? I’m pretty happy with this one! And I can’t wait to see our boy in action 😭 P.S, forgive my shitty graphic making, I’m not good at that!

You’re not sure what time it is. Maybe midnight? You aren’t positive, because when his headlights find your garage door, floating in through your window like his own personal spotlight, his tires skid across the gravel of your lane, his car door heavily thudding closed, his boots crunching heavily over rough ground, signaling him closer… closer — time ceases to matter much. You’re meeting him eagerly over the threshold, his back slammed against the beat up wood, boots falling beside your sneakers on the entryway rug. Nothing can find you here, can harm you here, and what has lifelong permission to touch you, it’s always-only… him.

He smells as good as always. Spicy cologne and cigarettes, powdered sugar from the donuts he’d eaten for dinner (you are always on him to eat more), leftovers from your shared favorite diner — Angelica’s, still pressed into his crisp black t-shirt, as if he’d forgotten a napkin. His hair is usually in its less than pristine condition by the time he arrives at yours in the night hours. Doesn’t matter anyways, not with how you end up carrying on in front of your old fireplace (Gator’s a fan of your new cream rug, intricate floral patterns woven into it, loved by owners before, thrifted, and now yours), or on your couch. You’d never really gone to your bed, learning how those times nearly caused lines to be crossed, one ending with Gator falling asleep on your naked breasts, (the calmest he’s been in years, and you just watching him as the sun came up and cast a glow on his youthful head. he was lost, broken, beaten down).

Sticking to this, here in your living room, it’s safer, saner. But it’s not what you want. However, you’ll have him whichever way he offers. He’s Gator and you’re his sweet darlin’.

~*~

Your legs fall open, one wrapped up in his camouflage pant clad thighs. His fingers press deeper inside of you, thumb circling your curls, smearing the cream around in them, watching how it bubbles. You’re kissing him again, lips so soft on his chest, fingernails scraping through the thick tufts that rest on his chest, occasionally flicking his gold and silver chain overlays. You’d gotten him the gold pendant, something he could wear, a symbol for faith that Gator could attach his own meaning to, not having to wear because it meant what his father wanted it to. But it was safe enough that Roy wouldn’t question its meaning.

Your lips find that patch of skin by his left nipple, sucking it between your lips, before you bite down. Gator throbs in his pants, his spare hand squeezing your neck’s nape. Despite his fascination, he’s still a million miles away. “Why do you let me do this to you?”

It’s a default question, an answer you both know already. Why you let him love you like this, it’s so simple…

“These hands, what I do with them before I come here. I’m bad. And I could hurt you, you know?” He adds a little pressure that travels up your scalp in electric prickles.

You spread yourself wider for him, a third finger stretching you in a welcomed, boundary pushing burn. Your eyes meet the midnight murk that’s woven over his mossy pupils like a blanket to mask, face leaving that cove of his chest. Your finger reaches to rub along his lower lip, his tongue licking out to taste skin.

“You wouldn’t, Gator. You won’t...” Is your answer. As if you believe it more than you believe in any god or higher power.

He’s pushing, as he often does…

“And if I do?”

“Then I’d let you.” It’s plain and simple, your fingers leaving his mouth to wrap around his wrist and correct him to a deeper rhythm. This is not enough tonight. More. Fuck, you want him to swallow you whole, capture you, trap, and hurt you in the ways you welcome — how he can, ever so softly, but painfully blissful, like a fire to your fingertips, flames licking the skin, enough to sting, but never to take away in harm.

He’s fully hard, swollen, and he’s turning towards you, forcing you to him by your nape. Your noses bump into a brushing nudge, his hand leaving your cunt and pressing wet, calloused fingers to your jaw as he brings you into his mouth. He’s so warm, plush, his stubble has a scratching effect. He tastes like sweet sugar and Marlboros. He’s been smoking menthol, you note — what he switches to in the colder seasons.

He’s panting his next declaration over your mouth in a fragile concentration. “Would you let me put it inside of you, darlin’?”

Your thighs tighten together, pussy clicking noisily. You’ve never had penetrative sex with him yet, something so close for two childhood friends. But you’re ready to leap if he is, reaching for his hand on your jaw and squeezing over his knuckles. “What do you think I’ve been waiting for, Gator?”

~*~

Approaching Autumn glides in on the cool September rain of Sunday, leaves and earth filling your room with the harsh scent of two bodies connecting. Your blush curtains blow against the chipped, open window frames. Your nipples have hardened from the cool air, from dragging repeatedly across Gator’s chest hair, his necklaces dipping into your collar bones and the valley of your tits. He’s got your legs held around his waist, your hands pulling in his hair to mess it up, his nose finding yours, foreheads sticking with perspiration. The box of condoms lay abandoned at your bedside, a gamble in you, of which Gator is only ever willing to trust.

Your eyes tighten and close, his size making you feel as if you’ve never been touched or fucked before in your lifetime. Everything aches, everything is too much, all at once.

“Should I stop? You hurtin’?” He’s speaking to you in a way that makes tears gather in your lash line. He brushes them away with a rough thumb, then a trigger finger, almost immediately.

His hands let your legs drop to take your fingers in his own, directing one to his shoulder and the other around his waist. “Hold onto me?”

“I’ll never stop.” And you’re surging in for a kiss.

The rain hasn’t stopped when the sun begins to come up the next morning. And your boy sleeps soundly on your chest, uncaring. And that funny thing called time? Well, it still ceases to exist.

// Eat me paragraph //

[rockingrobin69]

Honourable Defeat

Harry bumped his hip into the chest of drawers in the usual place he normally bumped it. The corridor was narrow, but that wasn’t the problem: from this spot you could see into the living room, and on the rug was a sight so fucking impossible Harry normally lost a bit of, er. Focus. No, he had to focus, because he was carrying two cups of very-very hot tea (Draco doesn’t take it unless it can seriously damage his tongue). Had to focus, because this would be happening a lot now, every day even. Grinning, buzzing with all this giddy—excitement—bumping into the cabinet too, whatever, breathlessly spilling into the room.

“Hello there,” said a voice so soft that Harry had to spit out, “Malfoy. Malfoys.”

To the lump on the rug, wrapped in blue, sticky-smile smeared all across his face and a tuft of blond hair in his fist.

“Darling,” Draco said, half a laugh and half a cry, and Harry didn’t know if he meant him or the baby before, “sweetheart, that rather hurts. Ow. Please, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Scorpius must have minded, because all he did was giggle. Looked up at Harry, sharing the incredulity, probably, the absolute gob-smacking heart-crushing delight at seeing Draco like this. Sprawled on the floor in his crisp trousers and vest still buttoned, his face soft with laughter. Harry—erm. Was, erm. Not invincible.

“What?” Draco cried, or demanded, looking up at Harry now with that terrible smile, “not you, too? I was looking forward to having a conversation with at least one intelligent adult today.”

“The meeting,” Harry groaned. “They didn’t approve your request?”

Draco sighed, rolled so he lay on his back, hair still caught in Scorp’s fist. “No. It seems that adding a nursery is simply not feasible for the company at this time. The board suggested I gave up my position.”

“And?”

He snorted. “And nothing. I spent the afternoon trying to teach Scorpius how to curse. Nothing severe, maybe just jelly-legs, or, calling our CEO a bloody wanker would be nice.”

“Draco!” dropping to his elbows, helplessly drawn closer, “is that the kind of language—”

“Oh come on, Potter, he’s not even one. He doesn’t know what the word means.”

He smelled like Scorp’s lavender shampoo. His eyes, when they landed on Harry, grey and warm. “What?” Harry asked, voice thick with a smile, and Draco shook his head, then winced.

“Ow—Merlin’s sake, Scorp, you have the grip of a giant. Hey, maybe he’d end up a Catcher.” Turning back to Harry, the tiniest movement, “I thought you went to make tea?”

The cups were cooling on the table. “Forget tea, we’re not rooting for our son ending up a Catcher.”

“Any position in a Quidditch team,” Draco said in his dry tone, but his whole face lit up like a spark, making Harry hear what he actually said, making him—choke on something in his throat. “It’s the game that matters, Harry.”

“The game,” he agreed nonsensically. “Draco—”

“We’ll have to find a solution, of course. For the nursery situation. Now that my bloody wanker of a boss made taking Scorp to work impossible.”

Scorpius made a bright sound, something like laughter, and both of them turned to him, this little lump of a smiling face. “Well done, my love,” Draco cooed, and Harry—erm—didn’t cry or anything, but he did make a sort of sniffling sound, “Smith is a bloody wanker, hmm?”

“Draco!” Harry squealed, and he looked back with a devilish grin.

“Apologies. I wouldn’t want to teach… our son such language.”

They lay just lay there for a moment. Draco’s chest going with Harry’s rhythm, up, down, and this thing on his face, uncertain and—happy. Harry took his hand.

“Exactly. I’d expect you on your best behaviour from now on, Malfoy.”

“Of course,” with a flutter of those endless lashes. Scooting a touch closer on the rug. It carried the table, the one with the tea, another possible future disaster: Harry didn’t care about this either.

“Come here,” hand behind Draco’s head, another hand coming to cup his cheek. “You gorgeous, silly thing.”

“Harry,” half a moan, half a whisper, and his eyes closing, delicate lashes on Harry’s face, mouth coming up for a kiss. “Ha—ow!” and then started laughing, hysterical waves of it, loud in Harry’s ear: “Scorp, love, you have to let go, ha ha, ow, that really does, ha, hurt, you scoundrel,” and Harry was laughing too, was weak, in fact, in the centre of his core was weak for this, was defeated.

“You two,” he mumbled, swallowed, are my whole heart, a little frightened and deliriously overjoyed. On the rug, Scorp continued making nonsensical sounds, and Harry and Draco kept laughing.

(Flufftober day 17. Find the soft AO3 collection here).

[suzyq31]

Another @jilymicrofics for team Gryffindor! Can easily be a continuation of my previous one. Prompts used: pride and joy.

===

The first thing that alerted Lily that things were amiss was the cat racing through the kitchen, ginger tail puffed and making disgruntled yowls. The next was the sound of clattering, and heavy footsteps over the record she had playing softly.

She summoned a towel and dried her hands, moving swiftly towards the direction that Mitsy had come from. Fleetwood Mac faded and the sound of laughter reached her next, easing some of the tension from her shoulders as she rounded the corner into the living room. 

James was chasing after Harry who careened around the sofa astride his toddler broom. The one she had banned from inside use over a month ago. There was also a broken picture frame and glass littering the hardwood floor. Much too close to her son’s socked feet. 

“James!”

Her husband’s head snapped up, a flash of guilt in his eyes. Harry spotted her and the sheer delight on his small face was enough to bring her back from the edge of panic. James was right behind him beaming and waving away the jagged edges of glass with his wand.

Lily crossed her arms. 

“I thought we agreed that the broom would be outdoors only.”

He tugged at his hair, Harry already taking off around the sofa again. “I know…but It’s been raining for days. Poor lad needs an outlet.”

As if in agreement Harry gave a loud shriek of happiness and James’ grin widened. Lily glanced around the sitting room now in complete disarray; tufted cushions on the ground, records spilling out of the cabinet that had clearly been collided with and the last of her summer flowers now strewn across the rug. Last time Harry had knocked over a vase–one of the many Potter heirlooms that filled their home, and Lily had put a stop to the insanity, insisting that brooms were never meant for indoors, no matter how low to the ground they flew.

James’ hands on her waist drew her attention back from the mess and her small child who was still laughing with joy. 

“I’ll clean it up. I promise.”

Her answer was cut off by Harry, who noticed the lack of attention and came barreling towards them. Luckily James' reflexes were quick and with a wave his broom halted right near Lily’s shin. Harry slid forward on the broom, green eyes wide and mouth gaping open. Lily scooped him up before he could fall off and once safe in her arms he gave her a toothy grin. 

“I see you’re inheriting your fathers gift for trouble.”

Harry laughed and said “Da.” 

James smiled proudly, ruffling the matching dark mop of hair that their son had also inherited. “Admit it. You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“He’s likely to shave years off my life,” she sighed, before kissing her son’s pudgy cheek, and tilting her head up towards James. “But you’re right.”

[beatinginavoid]

You guys wanted fics so... here you go! This was actually a gift for someone, but I'll share it here now.

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The scenery was beautiful in a faintly nostalgic way. Rugged rocks and patches of bare mountainside presented themselves in shades of grey, brown, and rusty red. Dirt and grass switched interchangeably in swathes and patches, various species of flowers reached proudly into the air and swayed gently each time a breeze blew softly by.

Soft, wispy white clouds drifted lazily in their high up ocean of light blue. The sun was a little too warm to be strictly comfortable, but the intermittent breeze afforded some amount of respite from the heat. Some, but not enough for one of the two people currently traversing the mountain.

Tifa frowned, huffed, and stared at the spiky tufts of blond hair on the back of Cloud’s head as she walked behind him. Did he not feel the heat? Was it a SOLDIER thing? She would be jealous of his abilities if she didn’t know the toll that acquiring them had left on her childhood friend.

She wasn’t even sure why they were making their way up the mountain in the first place. Something about an herb or a flower? Some kind of plant at least. One that only grew inconveniently at the summit of a couple of the nearby mountains.

“Are we high enough yet?” she asked.

Cloud raised an eyebrow, unseen by Tifa, at the possible context of her words. He chose to ignore it and take the words at face value, gazing upward and trying to gauge distances.

“No.”

A blunt and to the point answer, just like this version of Cloud that she had stumbled across, miraculously back from the dead. Red eyes narrowed at his back for a moment before she closed her eyes and sighed. Her friend was physically here, but sometimes she wondered if her friend was truly alive in that body.

“What are we looking for again?” she asked casually, hoping for more conversation.

“An herb.”

She waited. And waited. No more words were forthcoming.

“And this herb looks like…?” she prompted.

Cloud absently kicked away a loose rock. “Shiny leaves, waxy feeling, with a stem covered in stinging hairs.”

Tifa pulled a face at that, momentarily glad that Cloud couldn’t see her face. “Sounds lovely,” she said, tone sarcastic.

The gradient of their chosen path steepened until they were climbing more than walking. Tifa watched him carefully, putting her hands and feet in the same places he did, secure in the knowledge that they were tested and safe. As a native of Nibelheim, and especially considering her past, she knew intimately just how treacherous mountain terrain could be.

The last thing either of them needed was an accident to occur.

Things were quiet aside from the scraping of boots on rock. Not even the chirping of birds was audible up here and it was disquieting. She was a little tired, her breathing a bit heavier. From what she could see of Cloud, he looked like he was unaffected and could keep going for hours.

The SOLDIER had planned to go on this mission by himself, but Tifa didn’t like the idea of any of them going off alone, so she immediately volunteered to go with him. He was perfectly capable on his own, though something in her heart quivered and refused to settle until she was by his side. She knew the likelihood of him vanishing for another several years was low, but still…

She had no plans to lose him now that she had him back.

Some areas were steep enough to turn their progress into an almost sheer vertical climb. Tifa admired his athletic form before grumbling under her breath and reaching for the nearest handhold. She was almost to the top when her boot slipped. She gasped, red eyes blowing wide as her hands and fingers suddenly took on the task of supporting her entire body weight. Her boots scrabbled against the sheer rock, desperately searching for a foothold.

“Tifa!”

A hand wearing a glove wrapped around her right wrist. His grip was firm, and a little on the tight side, and he grunted softly as he heaved, lifting her up carefully. She tried to help as best she could, hauling herself up and over the edge the moment she could. Once every part of her body was no longer dangling in danger, she took a moment to catch her breath and looked at Cloud.

His eyes were locked on her, his usually impassive face held a small, worried frown. The Mako glow of his eyes was faint in the daylight, but his gaze was intense enough without it. She saw him looking at her up and down in assessment. Tifa knew Cloud was not checking her out, he was searching for injuries. 

She wasn’t sure if she should feel any disappointment about that.

It certainly didn’t help that Cloud was as dense as a box of rocks about girls and romance. Tifa and Aerith, and even Yuffie, had discussed it more than once. It had been the reason for many girlish giggles between them.

“I’m okay,” she assured him. Tifa let herself close her eyes as she laid there, processing what just happened.

A breath hitched. It wasn’t hers.

Her eyes flew open and she looked over to see Cloud holding his head in pain. Oh no, not again. Her poor friend had these weird episodes that left him tired, drained, and off-kilter. He always went to lay down when they ended, needing to sleep them off. For one to hit now was the worst possible timing.

Tifa scrambled over to him and covered his hands with her own. “Cloud? Cloud, can you hear me?”

His teeth were clenched and his breathing was a bit haggard, a frown etched on his face. He shook his head, sending blond locks swinging, and grunted in pain, giving no indication that he could hear her.

“It’s me, Cloud, it’s Tifa. I’m here, I’m with you, I’ve got you. Let me know if you can hear me, Cloud, come on!”

“No, Tifa!” he said breathlessly.

He slumped forward and the martial artist braced against the weight.

“No, no, no…” he muttered. “Not again. Not again!”

Tifa had no idea what he was talking about but she knew whatever he was experiencing wasn’t good. She did her best to wrap the fingers of her left hand around his, while her right hand sifted down through his hair to cup his cheek. Her thumb gently rubbed over the apple of his cheek and he froze.

“No!” he cried out. Cloud got up and lunged, right arm outstretched, and dove over the edge, sweeping his childhood friend along with him.

She gasped and instinctively clung to him, hoping the landing didn’t hurt too much. Cloud’s arms wrapped around her and he twisted in the air, putting himself beneath her to absorb the damage.

“I won’t let you fall alone again,” he whispered just above her head.

There was a loud THUD and Tifa slammed into Cloud, bouncing back up as far as his grasp would allow, then falling back onto him. His breath was knocked out of his lungs by her weight and he arched his back up slightly as she bounced. They both settled and all that could be heard was shaky breathing from her and shallow breathing from him.

Tifa was curled into his chest, unwilling or unable to move. She could feel his ribs rise and fall and there was a drumming beneath her right ear.

Bathumpbathumpbathumpbathumpbathumpbathumpbathumpbathump-

Cloud’s heart was racing, probably fueled by fear and adrenaline, much like her own. She focused on the sound, strong and steady despite the pace. It was undeniable proof that he was alive and still with her.

“Cloud?” she asked softly. Her red eyes opened and she tilted her head up to look at his face.

He moaned and turned his head fractionally, eyelids fluttering for a moment but staying shut. It took a lot to knock down a SOLDIER, enhanced as they were. She was sure the episode he had just suffered was the main reason he was unconscious. She carefully moved off of him, mindful of injuries, and quickly checked him over.

There was a small bleeding wound on the back of his head, and some inconsequential cuts and scrapes on his arms. His back was going to be a mass of nasty bruises, but nothing seemed broken at least. She turned him on his side and wrangled the massive sword off his back, setting it aside and letting him lay flat again.

She was anxious and fidgety, bitterly wishing she had a potion or Cure materia. It only took seconds before Tifa rested her head on his chest again, on his left pectoral. She couldn’t shake this niggling feeling that he would somehow disappear on her again. His heart had slowed, unlike hers, and she listened to it attentively – the only thing completely reassuring her that he was still with her.

Ba-thump…ba-thump…ba-thump…ba-thumpathump……ba-thump…ba-thump…

What was that? Did she need to be concerned? Had her weight on him when they landed done damage she couldn’t see? She bit her lip and brought her left hand up to her face, placing her palm flat on his sternum with splayed fingers.

Tifa could feel the faint impacts of his heart against his ribs and sternum in time with the thumping in her ear. The rhythm was mostly steady with the occasional hiccup. His face didn’t register any pain and his breathing was unaffected, so she eventually decided it was harmless. It might even be normal for him, she simply didn’t know.

Time passed and Tifa found herself lulled into a near doze by the heart thumping steadily, for the most part, in Cloud’s chest. Despite any irregularities, the strength behind each beat was undeniable. No matter what the blond had gone through he had lived through it, life pumping in his body with a fierce strength she couldn’t help but admire.

Ba-thump…ba-thumpathump……ba-thump…ba-thump…ba-thump…ba-thump…ba-thump..ba-thump..ba-thumpathump...ba-thump..ba-thump..ba-thump…

The rate increased slightly and her eyes opened immediately, finding his face. He was frowning and his blue eyes cracked open. Tifa sucked in a breath and gently patted his sternum. She couldn’t quite bring herself to move away from that oh so reassuring sound just yet.

Cloud groaned, the sound low as it vibrated through his chest. “T’fa?” he mumbled.

“I’m here, Cloud,” she said clearly. The patting turned into rubbing as she tried to give him some warmth and a sensation he could ground himself with.

He tightened his grip on her absently. “You fell,” he stated.

Something clicked in Tifa’s mind. “No, no, no, that was years ago, remember? We were just kids.”

He shook his head. “N-no. Not then. You fell,” he insisted.

Tifa really didn’t want to tell him the truth – that he had jumped and taken her with him. She sincerely doubted that he would take it well. “I’m fine,” she said gently but firmly. “I’m right here, with you, safe and sound. You can see, hear, and feel me, can’t you?”

The blond made a non-committal noise. His grip tightened fractionally and he took a slow, deep breath, blue locked onto red.

The thumping beneath her hand and head slowed slightly as he took in her words and her presence. The rhythm was steady, no more odd skips or stumbles, as he calmed. The tension bled out of her as he relaxed. His impromptu hug became more protective than restraining and the pair didn’t move or speak.

He looked up at the sky and she took the opportunity to scrutinise him. The faintest tinge of pink dusted his cheeks and she smiled, feeling accomplished for no particular reason she could discern.

“Do you have a potion?” Tifa suddenly asked.

Cloud blinked and looked down again. “What? You said you were fine,” he said, his voice holding a tiny sting of betrayal.

She rolled her eyes. “I am fine. The back of your head is bleeding.”

One of his arms moved from around her and his hand ran through his hair. His gloved fingers snagged and he tugged them loose with a tiny wince, bringing them around to take a look. His lips turned down at the ends at the smears and flakes of red on his gloves.

“Oh.”

They went back to laying there in silence, though Cloud’s arm didn’t wrap around her again. It was a bit disappointing, but Tifa was inordinately pleased that he was allowing her to remain on his chest.

The pair returned much later, herbs in hand.