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tobeholyistobeempty · 28 days ago

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you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

find part two here.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”

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killerpancakeburger · 11 months ago

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Thinking about a Reader who ends up having Scary Dog Privileges with Ghost without meaning to. It just happened.

Then they have to deal with the fact that this comes with duties too.

Tags: civilian!reader, gn!reader, mostly fluff, a bit suggestive, smug!Ghost, smooth!Ghost. 800 words.

Part 2. Part 3.

When Ghost is reluctant to getting sutured in Medical after accidentally opening his stitches, grumbling he can do it himself, who does the nurse call for? Yeah, you.

She could stand her ground, after all she's used to dealing with big, whiny men, but it's much more fun to knock on your door and smile at your bewildered gaze and gaping mouth when she explains the situation in two sentences.

"Ghost's being difficult, mind taking over?" "I'm sorry, what the hell does this have to do with me?" "C'm'on, everyone on base knows he's got a soft spot for you. Don't you want to make my job easier?"

You roll your eyes and slam your hands on your desk as you get up. Groaning as you walk past her— "I'm doing this for you, nothing else, got it?"

Mumbling to yourself "you've got to be kidding me" as you barge into the sick bay. Ghost is coolly seated at the end of a bed, large as life, casual clothes as black as his mask and— oh. You weren't told the wound was on his thigh— you weren't warned that he didn’t have pants on. You can’t help it, your eyes go down, down, your lingering gaze and your flustered silence forming a confession louder than words.

A noise — a scoff or a grunt, you’re not sure — emanates from him, breaks your trance, makes you look up. The amusement in his gaze tells you he noticed your oggling— of course he did. Nothing gets past the Ghost, and you've been remarkably unsubtle. Despite the mask, you swear you can make out the smug smirk on his lips. His cockiness reignites your irritation. Annoyance making you bolder than you really are, you charge at him, crossing the distance between you two in a stride, stopping close— too close. He doesn't back off.

"What's wrong with you?" you snarl. "Nothin'," he retorts, imperturbable.

It's actually the first time you’re overlooking him. You may be enjoying it a bit too much. Nevermind the fact that you've had to wedge yourself between his parted legs to get there.

You frown, unconvinced by his answer.

“Did Soap contaminate you?”

Bargaining to be cleared out earlier was the Scotsman's trademark.

“Johnny throws a fit cos he hates feeling useless. That's not what I'm doing.”

A smirk stretches your lips.

“Oh, no? I'm sure your reasons are much more noble.”

“Doesn't matter. Got what I wanted anyway.”

He's way too self-satisfied for a man in his underwear.

You throw an unequivocal look in the direction of his injury.

“What you wanted? A still open wound?”

“You.”

He replied without missing a beat, as confident as usual. It is both alluring and aggravating.

“And your idea of wooing me is making me upset?”

You don't add “because if it is, that's really fucking stupid” out loud, but you’re sure he got the message through your tone.

“Nah. But you're more honest when you’re angry. Gutsier.”

You only realize he slipped his index and middle fingers in your trouser loops when he sharply tugs at them. Off balance, you steady yourself by catching his shoulders.

Taking advantage of the strip of bare skin between your shirt and bottoms, the pads of his thumbs idly stroke your hip bones. The contact sends electricity through you, shivers of pleasure running down your sides.

“Ghost,” you start, severe, trying not to let the effect his touch has on you show in your voice.

“Simon,” he counters, surly. “Told ya it's Simon when we're alone, didn't I?”

He did, but you didn’t think he was serious. If that's what it takes to get him to listen… you’ll play by his rules.

“Simon. What's the rest of your brilliant plan? I'm here, but I can’t stitch you up.”

“How ‘bout a deal. I'll stop resisting… for a price.”

You raise an amused eyebrow.

“What kind of price?”

“A kiss.”

You snort. You didn’t believe him capable of something so… puerile.

“With the mask on?”

He doesn't move a muscle to get rid of it.

“Take it off.”

You usually wouldn’t obey what sounds like an order so easily, but it's the first time you get to touch the skull. Slipping two fingers between skin and cloth, you slowly roll up the mask all the way under his nose.

You gently trace the scars surrounding his lips. Then, the second you feel him relax, grip on your hips slackening and intensity of his gaze waning, you grab the bottom of his mask and drag it back down vigorously, making the holes for the eyes land way too low for him to see anything.

“If you thought you'd get a reward for acting out, you've got another think coming.”

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matrixfangs · 2 months ago

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cradle and all

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You can't keep any blood that you drink down, and that leads to a shocking realization. based off this request!

word count: 3k

warnings: pregnancy, blood, vampire baby

tags: @moobell55, @eternalstrigoii, @wpdarlingpan, @manyimaginativemuses, @boywivlove, @zatarias-pandora, @herccfs, @depressed-and-horror-obsessed, @jakesullyswhore, @resurrectionist3, @minaxcarter <<3 (i forgot to add the taglist until after i posted it, so sorry if you've already seen the fic!)

a/n: hello, hello! i would first and foremost like to thank all the people that helped me write this oneshot when I was getting terrible writer's block!! @spikedfearn, @eternalstrigoii, @hyoscyxmine, and everyone else in our cutesy little discord! rosie specifically gave me the "shootin' blanks" line which I giggled at for a long time, and the idea of reader craving things like blood mixed with grape jelly. they were especially such a huge help to me! cheers to the anon who requested this! i hope you enjoy!

Sick.

In your twenty years of being undead, you’d never felt sick before.

Your latest victim sat in the corner of the alleyway you’d followed him into, hand pressed into the bite wound on his neck. The small remainder of his blood trickled through his fingers and into the white collar of his shirt. He was half dead, his dull eyes drifting to things that weren’t there.

And you were hunched over in the other corner, hands pressed against a brick wall as his blood came back up, and splattered onto the dirty pavement. The intoxicating taste of his life was gone, and all that was left was a coppery burn in your throat. You pressed your forehead against the wall as you spat the last of it out.

You knew bad blood, tainted with disease or substances. It was bitter and thin, it didn’t fill you up. This blood had been as pure as all other mortals, sweet and full of memories. Children’s laughter, a sunny day perched on a dock, clear skies. But your body was rejecting it, and if you couldn’t feed, you couldn’t live. Your body was wracked with shivers as you left your victim.

Remmick was reading when you got home that night, the edges of him all soft and pliant in your bed. His eyes brightened when you walked in, the book immediately forgotten in his lap.

“You smell hungry, sweet thing.” He held out his arms, his hands making grabbing motions for you. The lamplight next to him caught the light of the gold ring around his finger, the one matching yours. “C’mere.”

It took no time for you to kick off your wet boots and crawl on top of the sheets and quilted blankets older than your immortality, your head finding solace on Remmick’s lap. You pressed your face into him, breathed in his scent. Something much older than you, but familiar and warm.

“Thought you went out to feed.” Remmick hummed, drawing shapes into your scalp with his fingers. “But you still feel cold.”

“I tried.” You huffed, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of his touch. “I couldn’t keep it down.”

Remmick’s hand stilled, and he grabbed your head gently, turning your face to look at him. The muddied, ancient red of his eyes made him look so devastatingly pretty in the low light. You resisted the urge to rub out the crease between his eyebrows. Instead, you found the gold chain that rested under his white t-shirt, the one he’d had since before you knew him. Your fingertips ran over its indent.

“Couldn’t keep it down?” He looked into your eyes like he was examining you, his thumbs running over your cheekbones. His lips parted, and his teeth elongated and sharpened in his mouth. “Let me taste you. I’ll find out what’s wrong.”

You nodded, allowing Remmick to brush your hair from your neck. The pain of his fangs puncturing your skin was nearly nonexistent from how many times he’d done it before. His tongue licked over the wounds - tasting, not drinking. He hummed, pulling back with red-stained teeth.

“Nothin’ is wrong, sweetheart, but…” He leaned down again, tongue lapping up more of the blood that’d trickled down the expanse of your neck. “It’s off. Thinner, like somethin’ is draining you from the inside.”

Remmick’s tongue, long and serpent-like, ran over his lips. His hand splayed over your body, rubbing your skin like he was trying to feel what was underneath it.

“Rem,” Your cold hand covered his, rings clinking together. “You’re making me nervous.”

He hummed low in his throat, hands continuing their exploration. Squeezing your thighs, running across your sternum, and ghosting over your chest. When his large palm reached your stomach, he paused, his face an expressionless mask.

“Remmick,” You said, a bit firmer.

He looked at you then, and his eyes had turned a brighter red. “Impossible.” He said quietly, his accent twisting into something older. “It looks like I ain’t shootin’ blanks after all, darlin’.”

Your eyebrows raised. “Remmick, what the fuck are you talking about?”

His hand moved to your heart, undead and unbeating for the past two decades. “No heartbeat.” His hand slid back down to your stomach, pressing gently. “One heartbeat.”

You fell silent. You didn’t have to think about what he was saying, it made complete sense. But it couldn’t be real, not with how long you’d been dead. And Remmick, he was centuries old. How could the two of you create life?

“A baby.” He confirmed, his lip curling. “Our baby.”

“Our baby,” You repeated, the words a ghost on your lips. Your hands found his on your belly. “How are we going to have a baby?”

“Same way anyone else does, I reckon.” His lips pressed to the top of your head, his nose nuzzling into your hair. He wouldn’t move his hands from your stomach, his fingertips feeling the steady, tiny heartbeat underneath your skin. He’d made that heartbeat. He thought he’d never have a family, and here one was growing right in front of him.

You slept in the same coffin that morning, Remmick’s arms tight around your stomach, legs intertwined with each other like long begonia vines.

—

Your hand tightened in Remmick’s grip as you looked over the small, decrepit cottage. The wood was rotted and coated in moss, a big willow tree hung over the collapsed roof. Your hand instinctively found the barely perceptible, 17-week-old bump of your stomach. You felt the small heartbeat, and it calmed you.

“Where’d you hear about this place again?” You asked nervously, looking to Remmick. The moon cast shadows over his face, coating his sharp features in a gray haze that made him look all soft around the edges.

He lifted your hand, kissing the knuckles. “Oh, I’ve known Mother Dierdre since before your time, belonged to a coven I was in for a time. She’s old, older than me.” His eyes slid down your body, over your stomach. He smiled, prideful. “A midwife, before she was one of us.”

Your nose crinkled as you looked at the cottage again, nestled in between a swamp and an ancient forest a few miles away, with branches that twisted out like they were reaching to grab you. “Doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”

Remmick’s hand untangled from yours to find purchase on your hip instead. He pulled you along, nestled into his side, as you walked down the long path that led to the cottage’s door. He didn’t knock, just twisted the moss-covered doorknob.

The inside, surprisingly clean and cozy, smelled like something older than time itself - clove and cinnamon and moldy leather. A hearth held a crackling fire inside of it, and the rest of the cottage was lined with herbs hanging on hooks, books with pages falling apart, and old furniture that looked like it’d collapse if one person sat on it.

“Dierdre?” Remmick called, accent shifting into something more native to his being. “Cá bhfuil tú?”

A breeze blew through the thin walls of the cottage, brushing your hair against your shoulders. The door behind you closed, and when you turned, an old woman stood there. She was beautiful in her old age. Cascading gray hair, dark eyes, wrinkles carved into her olive skin that only prolonged her beauty and made her look wise.

“Remmick,” Her voice was sweet and airy, like butterscotch candy on your tongue. “I was wondering when you’d bring her to me.”

Remmick’s thumb rubbed up and down the sliver of skin between your jeans and shirt. “Dierdre, this is-”

“I know who she is, darling.” Deirdre laughed, and it sounded like bells ringing. “Just didn’t think it’d be this soon.”

She stepped forward, hands reaching out with long, transparent nails that looked like glass on her fingers. She looked between your stomach and you with permission, and you nodded. The trust in her was something inherent in your chest, something you couldn’t explain.

Her hands were gentle on your stomach, pressing with only the slightest pressure. She nodded, eyes gleaming, moving back and forth as if she were listening to someone speak.

“How lovely it is,” She whispered, looking at your stomach as if it were a miracle unfolding before her. “To create something so lovely out of such a horror.” She looked up at you, raising an abnormally long finger. “You hunger all the time now, don’t you?”

Your stomach nearly growled at the mention of it, your body growing feverish at the thought of hot blood running down your throat. “Yes,” You nodded, swallowing the drool that threatened to spill over your lips. “But I can’t keep any of it down.”

Deirdre nodded, lifting her hands from your belly. She looked at Remmick and pulled something from the pocket of her tattered, faded dress. A small blade, gleaming in the darkness of the cottage.

“Your hand, Remmick.”

Something protective flooded your senses, your body moving to shield Remmick from her view. Your teeth felt longer in your mouth. “You’re not touching him.”

“I only try to help, dear.”

Remmick’s hand was gentle where it landed on your shoulder, fingertips grazing the skin at your neck. “Let her help.”

Your eyes remained narrowed at the old woman as you stepped away, watching her grab Remmick’s hand. There was no flinching or hissing as she ran the blade over his palm, deep enough to create a small pool of blood in his cupped hand. As the smell lingered, you felt the hair on your body begin to stand up.

“The child,” Deirdre hummed, raising the blade coated in Remmick’s blood.

The speed of your hand was inhuman, snatching it from her. Your hands trembled as you raised it to your tongue to taste the sweet, coppery essence of your partner.

“Needs its father’s blood to survive. As well as the mother’s. Not just any mortal blood will do.” Deirdre continued, watching you like a lion slaughtering a gazelle. She nodded to Remmick, wrinkled hand pushing his own toward you. “It’s alright. Feed your child.”

Something animalistic had taken over you as you cleaned Remmick’s hand entirely, until all that was left was the small cut, fresh blood beading at the edges. Remmick was smiling, watching the color return to your skin. Watching your face become fuller before his very eyes.

“She’ll need more as the child grows,” Deirdre said, patting Remmick on the shoulder and kissing his cheek like a grandmother would her grandson. You had released his hand, licking at the remnants of his blood at the corner of your mouth.

“Will it survive on its own?” You asked, voice raspy and thick from the blood. “The baby…”

Deirdre hummed, crossing the cottage floor to peer out of the cottage window.

That, my dear,” She replied, eyes glowing when they moved back to look at you. “Depends entirely on the horrors you’re willing to commit for it.”

—

By the five-month mark, Remmick had obsessively warmed up to the baby more than you had. There wasn’t a night that passed where he wasn’t kissing the bump, talking to it, pressing his ear to your skin to hear the tiny heartbeat.

But your body, that had been dead and unchanging for twenty years, was now growing at a rapid rate. Your feet were swollen, elevated on a chair in your humble living room. Remmick had just gotten home from feeding, his lips stained red in that irresistible way that made something stir in your chest.

He kneeled, pressing his cheek to your stomach.

“What’s that lil’ terror want, huh?” He pressed his ear against you as if the baby could talk back. “What’s she craving?”

You smiled, fingers coming up to brush the dark hair from his forehead. “She?”

Remmick’s eyes closed at your touch, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Just a feeling, mama.”

“Mm,” Your fingers left his hair, and Remmick’s eyes opened to look at you. “Well, this little terror is craving something bloody and sweet.” Your smile widened. “Do we still have that grape jelly?” Remmick’s nose crinkled, his body rearing back in disgust. “You can’t be serious. I was hoping that was a one-time thing.”

“It isn’t so bad.” You pouted, reaching for his hand. “And it’s for me,” You pulled his palm back to the growing bump of your stomach. “And for her.”

“For her, huh?” He asked, lips stretching into a smile, showing off his pointed white teeth.

“Just a feeling, Rem.” You said, echoing his words. Referring to him as a father always made him giddy, and he stood, walking to the kitchen with a grin that threatened to split his face in two.

—

Warm water trickled over your hair, Remmick’s hand against your forehead to shield your eyes. At eight months pregnant, your belly couldn’t even be fully submerged in the steaming bath water that he’d prepared for you. Rose petals floated around your naked form, the only light provided being a few candles that Remmick had perched on the edge of the tub. You watched his flickering shadow on the wall, his hands gently moving to take care of you.

“You look so beautiful like this.” He hummed, setting down the pitcher he used to rinse your hair. His voice was sweet molasses falling from a spoon, slow and heavy. “Round with our lil’ terror, glowing…” The washrag in his hands found your shoulder. He moved it gently down your arm, quiet and worshipful. “Ain’t nothin’ more beautiful than seeing you carry my child.”

Despite the warm water surrounding you, your body shivered at his words. You tilted your head, the damp skin of your forehead finding his arm. “Nothin’ more beautiful than seeing you become a father, I’d say.”

Remmick’s lip twitched, his soft eyes crinkling with a faint smile. “It’s been twenty centuries since I had a family of my own…” He lifted his hand, pressing the rag to the back of your neck. The warm water trickled down your spine, tickling your skin. “To have one with you, if I had to - I’d wait twenty centuries more. Longer, even.”

The candle flames flickered, and in the low light, you saw it - something shining in the corner of his eye. A small, bloody tear, falling down the side of his perfectly sculpted nose. It was all his immortal body could produce, but it was there. Your chest ached at the sight of your monster, crying by your side. In the two decades you’d been by Remmick’s side, hunting and killing and running - you’d never seen him weep before. Not when he talked about where he’d come from, not when he sang songs that he’d learnt as a boy.

Your hand left the bath, coming up to cradle his face. He didn’t care that your skin was wet and clammy; he nuzzled into your touch anyway, cheek finding your slick palm as he closed his eyes.

“Didn’t think I could cry anymore.” He chuckled, eyelashes fluttering against your skin. “Certainly not over somethin’ good happening to me for a change.”

—

The baby slept, her little body nestled in a small, rocking bassinet that Remmick had carved a few weeks before her birth. She was so small, so impossibly fragile. You watched her little chest rise and fall, her little hands opening in closing as if she were dreaming.

And though Remmick liked to say that she looked like her mama, you were happy to disagree. She had Remmick’s nose, his little curling, mischievous lip, his goofy, big ears that peeked out from dark hair.

Her name was Sorcha. Light. Brightness. A name chosen in defiance to any danger that dared to come near her.

You turned to look at Remmick’s sleeping form on your bed, his arms crossed against his chest as he lay on his side. He’d promised he’d only sleep for twenty minutes - you’d let him sleep longer.

When you had met Remmick, he’d been so weary. Mourning for a time long lost, ghosts pulling him down and making him drag every footstep. His eyes held the grief of every person he’d lost, or who’d left him. He’d been like that for a long time, a figment of his past.

Now, he was entirely his own.

When you awoke later that morning, curtains drawn to shield the cruel sun, you could hear wood creaking. You opened one eye, senses coming to life as you readjusted in bed. Remmick was no longer beside you, but instead across the room in an old rocking chair, cradling your child in his arms. His long legs stretched out before him, in knitted, mismatched socks, no less.

His hands, so capable of violence and destruction, held her like he’d burn down the world for daring to hurt her.

And then - his voice, lighter than you’d ever heard it. He was singing, low and smooth. His voice was quiet, so as not to wake you.

“I will build my love a bower, by yon cool and crystal fountain… and on it I will pile all the flowers of the mountain. Will ye go, lassie, go? And we’ll all go together to pull wild mountain thyme all around the bloomin’ heather… will ye go, lassie go?”

You remained still, not wanting to interrupt the moment. But your heart flooded with warmth as you watched them, your little family that you’d never expected to have. Sorcha was different, something not quite human, and not quite vampire. She craved blood already, in such a small body. Not just any person’s, but yours and Remmick’s. It brewed something ancient in her, something dangerous.

Remmick’s voice drifted off as his eyes met yours. You smiled at him, sitting up in bed. “I’m sorry,” You stood, crossing over to him in bare feet. One hand found his shoulder, the other cradled your child’s head. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“She was cryin’...” Remmick said in a hushed tone. “Just got her back to sleep.”

Your pointer finger found Sorcha’s hand, and she instinctively squeezed it, little fingers wrapping around yours. You could feel her - her contentment in her father’s arms. Her full belly. Her strong nature.

Your little Sorcha. Your light in the dark.

------

Irish Gaelic translations:

Cá bhfuil tú? - where are you?

#sinners remmick #remmick x reader #remmick #remmick sinners #remmick imagine #sinners au #remmick x fem!reader #jack o'connell #remmickoneshot

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albycnyu · 4 months ago

Note

I've been summoned. 😅😂😁😆

I hope you don't mind if I jump in since I'm aware that in the beginning of their migration to the Sims community some (maybe most) were/kinda still are partnered with Bergedorfverse (as seen in their bio) and they tend to collab with each other too.

From what I remember there's:

- SkinCCreator (“CC is a luxury”)

- Klubb(?)

- Paré (dunno if they’re still active here)

- Pox (dunno if they’re still active here)

- Dahlia (I think they’re partnered w/Bergdorfverse and Cowbuild)

- Dustbunny (iirc there was a rumor of some sort at one point in time that they allegedly cease and desisted people who criticized their stuff and pointed out the very strong similarities their stuff had to ClutterQueen’s but I never looked into all of it)

- Mogul

- Off-Line

- Havoc

- David Heather (not sure if they’re still active here, I remember liking a couple of their sets)

- Jacobs(?) Pretty sure they’re not active here anymore I think they made like 2 (maybe 3) items last time i saw ‘em (didn’t like any of ‘em)

- Decayed (i actually like most of their male frame cc and that could be due to how scarce it is at times so I grab errything and anything I can when I can 😅)

- BoatAom

- Merch

- Poppin

- Vibamp

- Vyxen

- Brior

- Doux (saw them on ModCo)

- G Star(?)

- Casanova

*thinks a bit more and checks lil notebook*

Those’re all i got. I do wanna add that although I’ve seen them do a few collabs with SL creators, I don’t think Satanshubby is an actual SL creator themselves. If there’re more than the ones I’ve listed above, I don’t know, but Saruin is 1000% correct in the fact they do “samples” (and a paywalled goody bag or two) and that the majority of their preview pics’re exactly the same. I recommend checking their following list too because, again, there’re times they follow and/or collab with each other.

Hope this helps!

So hopefully this ask isn't unwelcome and won't cause any backlash against you, but I was wondering which cc creators originally came from Second Life? It seems to be a bit taboo so even though I do know about the "CC is a luxury" creator, I don't know any others.

If you'd rather not answer, that's obviously fine, and I wish you a lovely day!

(And also, can I just say I love your sims? Bubby is so cute)

Thank you 🩷🩷 Bubby is one of my treasures

Funny thing is second Life creators are really easy to find since they all have the same preview editing styles. They're also alpha creators and tend to collab with each other. Their stuff, most if not all, is permanently paywalled, some will have blender only content and my favorite little gimmick that started popping up: examples or "freebies" where they'll take an item from a set that's permanently paywalled and offer it with one or two swatches for free.

I would love to make a whole list of names of these people but I don't have time and so many more pop up every day, it's exhausting, I just block them. The good thing is once you've seen one, you've seen them all because literally they all look the same.

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cronicspotifyuser · 2 years ago

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Ngl I'm bored and got nothin else to do so would y'all want a room tour?

#idk what to tag this as #I really got nothin else to do #transformers #Hoping at least someone votes cause it's gonna be embarrassing if nobody dose ngl 😭🙏

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ridingreeves · 23 days ago

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𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁*𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾*𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗑 𝖡𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－dropping off your son at your ex’s place, and Stack taking the opportunity to taunt you about your boyfriend

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌－Harsh language, N-word usage, toxic ex dynamics. Stack & Smoke are being arrogant, petty assholes.

A/N: I watched Sinners for the first time and loved it. I’m pretty sure I’m a Smoke girlie, so here’s a little story.

It was a hot afternoon when you pulled up to Smoke’s house—well, your old house, if we’re being technical. Your son was in the back seat babbling about Roblox and fries, kicking the passenger seat every few seconds like he knew your nerves were already hanging on by a thread.

You adjusted your sunglasses, took a deep breath, and walked your baby to the front door like you hadn’t just been arguing with your new man ten minutes ago about “boundaries” with your ex.

But the second the door opened?

Trouble.

And that’s exactly what stood on the other side of the front door when it opened

Elijah “Smoke” Moore.

Your ex-husband.

Your baby’s father.

The man who ruined you for everybody else.

Smoke was leaned against the doorway shirtless, tattoos gleaming, chain swinging just enough to catch the light. His usual low-eyed expression flipped to a grin the moment he saw you—and then his eyes dropped to your outfit.

“Mmh,” he hummed, already staring too long. “You showin’ up in them tight-ass leggings like that for me or for him?” he nodded down at your son. “’Cause either way, I appreciate it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Ain’t startin’ nothin’ but missin’ what used to be mine,” he muttered, stepping aside to let y’all in.

Your son took off toward the living room while you stayed back to hand over his backpack. That’s when you heard it

“Damn, she came by lookin’ like that you sure she don’t want you back?” came Stack’s voice—from the kitchen.

You froze. “Oh lord, not both of y’all here today.”

You gave him a tight smile. “Hey, Stack.”

Smoke smirked as Stack walked in with a paper plate of wings, wearing a gold chain and a devilish smirk. “What’s up, baby mama?” Stack grinned, licking his fingers. “Or should I say baby mama who downgraded to a nigga who work at T-Mobile?”

You squinted. “Y’all are ridiculous.”

“Nah,” Smoke said, closing the front door behind you. “He ridiculous. Walkin’ ‘round thinkin’ he competition. Heard he wear them little loafers with no socks.”

“He don’t,” you muttered, lying.

“Bet he say ‘grand rising’ too,” Stack added with a snort. “That’s not a man. That’s a therapist with a fade.”

“I’m not doin’ this today,” you said, putting the backpack down hard. “He treats me right.”

“‘Treats you right’ but don’t know how to fight?” Smoke stepped in, arms folded across his broad chest. “You lettin’ a soft nigga be around my son? C’mon, mama. He ain’t even built for this life. If somethin’ popped off, he’d hide behind you.”

“Nigga probably cry when he get pulled over,” Stack added, cracking open a Sprite. “Talkin’ about, ‘I pay my taxes!’”

You wanted to be mad. You did. But their tag-team was relentless—and funny.

You groaned.

“He look like he cry after sex. Probably moans with his eyes closed and say, ‘Am I pleasuring you?’”

“Y’all done?” you asked flatly.

Smoke shook his head. “Nah, not until you answer one question.”

You tilted your chin. “What?”

He looked you dead in the face.

“When shit hit the fan, and you need somebody who’s gon’ slide, gon’ ride—you really think that cornball you got now gon’ stand ten toes behind you and our kid? Or you gon’ end up callin’ me?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The silence in the room got loud.

Stack laughed from the kitchen. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Smoke stepped up close, all low voice and heavy heat. “Keep playin’ house with that nigga. But when you tired of fake peace and yoga-ass sex, you know where I’m at.”

You scoffed and turned to leave—but not before Stack called out, “Tell him next time he come pick you up, to park on the other side of the street. My neighbors allergic to bitch-ass energy.”

You stood frozen in the doorway for a long second before your son called from the back, “Mama? You leavin’?”

“Yeah, baby,” you said, voice thick. “Mama’s leavin’.”

But even as you walked away, the way Smoke watched you—hungry, smug, dangerous—you knew you’d be back.

And that’s what scared you the most.

Smoke leaned against the doorway again, smiling like a man who knew he still had it. “Later, mama.”

You didn’t look back. But your heart? Yeah—it stayed right there in that damn house.

And worse?

Smoke knew it.

You made it halfway down the steps before you heard the door open again behind you.

“Wait.”

You stopped, hand on your car door, not turning around. Just… waiting. Breathing.

“What?” you asked, already tired, already knowing whatever he had to say was gonna make things worse.

Smoke’s voice dropped. “You leavin’ like that, and we not gon’ talk for another week? You cool with that?”

You slowly turned, face blank, lips tight.

“We don’t need to talk,” you said. “You got him for the weekend. I’ll pick him up Sunday.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

Your fingers tightened on the car door.

Stack was still inside, but quiet now—too quiet. You could feel the weight of both their eyes on you.

Smoke walked toward you slow, steady. Like he had nowhere to be but here. Like he didn’t give a damn about the new man, or the way your jaw clenched when he got too close.

“Y’know what I think?” he said, voice low and gritty. “I think you tryna prove somethin’—to yourself. Not to me. Not to him. You tired of this life, tired of the mess, so you went and found the safest man you could. Somethin’ neat. Predictable.”

He stepped in close enough that you could see the gold in his grill glinting when he spoke.

“But safe don’t mean happy.”

You blinked at him, your throat tightening before you could stop it. “I am happy.”

Smoke raised an eyebrow. “That why your hands shakin’ right now?”

You glanced down—and cursed under your breath when you saw he was right. Fingers trembling around your car keys.

“I’m fine.”

“Fine ain’t love. Fine ain’t joy. Fine is what people say when they tryna convince themselves they ain’t settlin’.”

Your breath hitched.

“You got me twisted if you think I want to come back here and be played with,” you snapped. “I left for a reason.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But you came back for one too.”

“You forget who the fuck you built all this with?” he asked, voice low and ragged. “Who kept you safe?Who put money in your mama pocket and never said a word?”

You opened your mouth to argue—but the words didn’t come. Because he wasn’t wrong. And you hated that he wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t just about your son. It wasn’t just about co-parenting.

It was about the way this house felt like it knew you. Like you’d left parts of yourself here that your new man never even touched. It was about the way Smoke looked at you like you were still his, even after all this time. And the worst part? You didn’t even fight it anymore. You just buried it. Swallowed it.

“I gotta go,” you whispered, finally unlocking your door.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back. “Go ahead. But you know where the real is.”

“Next time you come over here wit’ his scent on your skin, I’m fuckin’ it off you”

You slid behind the wheel, started the engine.

And just as you reached to shift gears, Stack leaned out the front door with his usual smug grin. “Hey!”

You looked up.

“If little man’s stepdaddy ever wanna learn how to change a tire, tell him we do classes now. Free for lames.”

You flipped him off through the windshield. He just laughed.

Smoke leaned in, one last time, one hand on your car door. “He can’t protect what he can’t handle. And you?” His voice dropped. “You too much woman for half a man.”

You didn’t say anything. You just drove off, pretending you didn’t see the way your hands still trembled on the wheel.

But later that night?

When your son was already asleep in his Spider-Man sheets, and your man was still out at some networking dinner that didn’t include a plus-one, your phone lit up.

Smoke:

“He ever fix that weak-ass handshake? Felt like I was dappin’ a wet napkin.”

You stared.

Cutting your phone off you turned over when you got a call from smoke.

Groaning you answered

@enchanthings

#smoke x reader #elijah smoke moore #smoke moore #smoke x black reader #micheal b jordan #elijah x reader #smoke x stack #micheal b jordan sinners #sinners x black reader #sinners x reader

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2knightt · 7 months ago

Text

— YOU SHOWED ME LOVE .

—IN WHICH, the greasers realize they’re truly, and honestly, in love.

tags/warnings: gn!reader possible OOC, story-focused rather than comedic headcanons, fluff and nothing else(lie), comforting steve, swearing, soda’s part is rushed cuz i ran out of ideas.

ೃauthor notes⁀➷ wow shocker i leave for awhile and come back with a new theme. anyways, hi angels! i love you all sm and i forgot how much i loved being here🥹..! i missed u guys so much!

—

Johnny Cade

cars zoomed by the lot at concerning speeds, the sound of wind being broken up by the obnoxious cop sirens or a drunkard yelling down the street.

though, to you and johnny, all of that fell to deaf ears. it was like the world didn’t matter to you—as long as johnny sat beside you.

the stars seemed to only shine above you two, twinkling and gleaming in ways that you’d never seen before. the moon was your sunlight, with johnny giving you the warmth.

his head rested on top of yours that was against his shoulder, his arm draped loosely around your waist. your thigh was pressed against his, making him more than a little nervous.

sitting in the lot with you made him nervous, despite you and him dating for a long while now. you made him..giddy. that’s the word.

you made him feel like a child again; the child he never got to be.

johnny had his head tilted upward toward the stars and the sky, matching what you were doing so he didn’t look like a clueless idiot.

your hand left your lap, your eyes flickering downward for just a moment that went unnoticed to johnny. you gently grabbed his scarred hand, holding his hand in yours. you held him like he was glass.

johnny felt his face get hot. like, really hot. you were so gentle with him, the type of gentle that he had never been treated with.

he looked down at you, your head still on his shoulder. your hair was so shiny, you were so beautiful and such a perfect fit for him with the way your body mended with his in a time like this.

perfect.

his lips were quickly pressed against the crown of your head, pulling away before he got too nervous to talk.

“i love you, y’know.”

Dallas Winston

“you’ll be fine.”

“i feel like ‘m bleedin’ out.”

dallas complained as he sat on your couch, his legs spread so that you could properly stand between them. you continued to dab the wet cloth against his cheek to get the dried blood off.

there seemed to be just as much of dried blood as there was fresh, his arms and hands coverer in gauze and bandaids.

you gently held his chin to turn his head every which way you needed, because he allowed you to. he liked you so much, he allowed you to move him around like a doll.

though, he liked slyvia a lot, too and she couldn’t do stuff like that. stuff like this with slyvia was weird, even if he did like her.

so, why was it different with you? what made you, of all people, so special?

his eyes were locked onto yours, taking extra note to how focused you look on cleaning his face up. you were pretty. like, real pretty.

dallas was quick to avert his eyes when he realized just how sappy his internal monologue sounded.

“what?”

you asked, taking note to how hyper-aware dallas suddenly looked. his jaw was clenched slightly as he seemingly refused to look at you.

how you always knew when something was up with him, he may never know.

“nothin’. the cuts jus’ hurt,”

he lied right out of his teeth.

dallas’ eyes met yours once more, trying to act tough once again. he asked himself once more, what made you so different?

“are you sure?”

you dropped the wet cloth slightly, the rag no longer against his cheek. you looked worried, and you sounded just as nervous.

you cared.

you cared for dallas winston. that’s what made you different.

dallas knew you were different from his other flings.

he liked his other flings. he loved you. he loved that you cared for him, genuinely.

he extended his hands out, grabbing your waist to pull you closer with a firm tug, your knee supporting you up as it was pressed against the edge of the couch.

“oh, ‘m real sure, pretty.”

“dally, please.”

“please, what?”

“don’t start with me now, winston.”

Ponyboy Curtis

you were golden.

completely and utterly golden. the sunset reflected off your skin like you were an angel, your eyes shimmering like the stars above, the flush across your face making you look beyond innocent.

ponyboy was the one to drag you out into the cold oklahoma winter in the first place. he just wanted to watch the sunset with you, the person he liked.

he protested against your arguments of, ‘it’s so cold out, though! it’s so warm inside, pony. don’t make me go out there!’ with, ‘it’s just a sunset. it’ll be for a few minutes! i jus’ wanna watch it with you. please, y/n?’

‘watch the sunset,’ his ass. he looked at the setting sun maybe twice in the span of 3 minutes. you were too beautiful to not look at.

of course, and thankfully, you were oblivious to his staring.

“it’s really pretty,”

you muttered. your eyes were locked onto the horizon, and his were locked onto his future.

his future.

the more he thought about it, he really liked you. like, to the point where whenever he envisioned a mile stone in his life, you were always there.

when he imagined graduating, you’d be there. when he imagined going to college, you’d be there. when he imagined getting married, you’d be standing at the alter with him.

he loved his future.

he loved you.

“real pretty.”

ponyboy agreed, but for a different reason.

Sodapop Curtis

the moonlight seeped through the curtains of his room, illuminating the lines that it managed to sneak it’s way through. the midnight sky was bright, yet the moon seemed to be the only focus for the stars.

soda held you in his arms loosely, your head resting gently on his chest. he traced imaginary shapes on the lower part of your back.

the sound of his fan whirling rang out through his room, your breathing falling into a rhythm as you drifted off to sleep.

soda always seemed to notice when you were about to fall asleep, and you didn’t know how he did. you were starting to suspect he might be a wizard.

he pressed a kiss against the top of your head, letting his lips linger there for a moment.

his life was hectic. it really was. he was a dropout who works a full time job to help his older brother keep a roof over their head, and he worked as a middle man in arguments.

but you, you were a breath of fresh air.

he needed you like he needed water.

he needs you.

he loves needing something, and he loves needing you.

he loves you. soda loves you so, so, so much.

“good night, baby. i love you.”

Darry Curtis

“oh, y/n,”

darry sighed as he entered the kitchen. the smell of freshly cooked dinner wafted through the air, leaving a comforting taste in everyone’s mouth.

he walked up behind you, your back turned to him as your focus was on scrubbing the last bit of dishes. his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling himself closer to you as if he needed to be as close as possible.

he rested his chin on your shoulder, his eyes looking down at your hands in the sink. you turned your head to look back at him, your faces a mere centimetres away.

you couldn’t necessarily help the smile that tugged on the corners of your lips at seeing darry look so grateful.

darry was a busy, hardworking man. that's who he was, and who he will always be as long as he lives. he provides with no one to provide for him.

until you came into the photo.

darry was cooking dinner out of fear that soda'd burn the roasted potatoes he said he'd make, and ponyboy was just..not that good with anything other than eggs.

he was cooking, cleaning, and working. he had no time to himself, it seemed. but you, the angel you are, takes it off his hands. maybe it was to just have him all to yourself after work, he didn’t care.

you were the angel that he prayed for day and night.

and god knows how darry loves angels.

you ruffed his hair, not bothering to dry off the water that stuck to your skin. darry chuckled, lightly shaking his head in a poor attempt to dry his loose curls.

in his own retaliation, he pulls you impossibly close, attacking your face with as many kisses he could. giggles filled the room as you attempted to push yourself away from him, only for his grip to tighten.

he pulled away at his expense, pressing one last kiss on the crown of your head.

“love you, doll. i really do,”

Steve Randle

“you’re always welcomed here, steve. you know that,”

you lightly scolded him as he sat on the edge of your bed. he’d been couch hopping before he came to you, a broken and embarrassed man.

you were rummaging around in your closest for another old blanket he could use, since from prior experience, you learned that steve has a tendency to hog the blanket you two shared.

“i know, i know.”

he begrudgingly grumbled, hurriedly avoiding eye contact with you with his head down, looking at his hands on his lap.

you looked over your shoulder, seeing just how embarrassed he looked asking for help tugged on your heart strings a little.

steve was never one to ask for help, no. he thought he was too prideful, too good, for help. he thought that he was superman with the way he thought he could help himself 24/7.

you sighed, taking a few steps toward him. you squatted down in front of him, lightly grabbing his hand and holding in it yours. he finally looked back at you with lowered brows, his eyes making him look way more innocent than he actually is.

“i hope you aren’t lying to me.”

“what?”

“do you actually know that i’m always here for you, or are you sayin’ that to shut me up?”

you questioned, allowing yourself to be straightforward since it seemed like that was the only language he knew.

steve shifted his eyes away from yours for a moment, a small huff leaving his lips.

“maybe.”

“steve,”

you started, the disappointment emanate in your tone. you stood up, letting go of his rough hand to cup his face. you forced him to look back at you.

“you know you aren’t ever a burden. i love having you around. i love you, okay? i wouldn’t ever push you away.”

you stated in the most soothing voice you could muster, looking him right in the eyes to really drive your point forward.

steve took awhile to react. he just looked back at you, letting your words process in his head. after a moment, he wrapped his arms around your torso, pulling you close.

he buried his face in the nape of your neck, his breaths coming out shaky as he tried to calm himself.

he loved home, he really did.

and, look, steve isn’t stupid. he’s heard and understood the saying that, ‘home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.’ but he always thought it was stupid.

how do you feel at home?

well, now he gets it.

with you in his arms, you comforting him and talking to him like he was a human, and he’s never felt more at home.

and holy shit, he loves this feeling.

“love you. love you so, so, so much.”

Two-Bit Mathews

laughter rang out through your empty living room, the television being completely drowned out.

you gasped for more air as you and two-bit laughed at an inside joke that seemed to only make sense to you two. you hand your hand on his shoulder, the other on your stomach. two-bit was leaning toward you unconsciously.

“holy hell, two-bit! that’s so messed up!”

you feigned innocence, pretending like you didn’t play into the jokes that slipped off his tongue.

“well, shit! then i guess we’re both messed up since you were jus’ talkin’ about-“

“hey, wait!”

you were quick to cut him off, leaning toward him to cover his mouth with your hand.

“don’t go snitchin’ on me!”

two-bit snickered to the best of his ability, grabbing your wrist lightly to pull you toward him closer. you stumbled toward him, two-bit catching you by putting his hands firmly on your hips.

looking back at you with a sloppy smile across your face, your eyes having a certain mischievous shine to them made it hard for two-bit to look away.

you were so beautiful when you were happy. you were always beautiful.

how someone like you was able to understand his type of humour is beyond him. he just knows that he’s lucky, and that he’d be a fool to let you slip through his fingers.

he didn’t want to lose this moment, ever.

he loved moments like this.

though, he only ever experienced these moments with you. so, is it weird to say that he only loves moments that involve you? does that mean something?

does he love you?

yes, yes he does.

he’d let the whole world know that, too.

“god, i love you, pretty.”

#2knightt #i make myself giggle #I FUCKING HATE TUMBLR #I WROTE OUT SODA’S WHOLE PART AND IT DIDN’T SAVE #LIKE ONG #the outsiders #the outsiders x reader #dallas winston x reader #johnny cade x reader #ponyboy curtis x reader #ponyboy x reader #sodapop curtis x reader #sodapop x reader #darry curtis x reader #steve randle x reader #two bit mathews x reader #two bit x reader

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cinnxmxngxrl · 22 days ago

Note

Pleeease can you write something where reader takes care of Alfie's psoriasis?? Like he's trying to act super macho about it, like it doesn't bother him but then gets super soft when she starts treating it 🥺

“Loving you”

Alfie Solomons x Wife!Reader

Alfie’s Masterlist

Summary: Alfie can’t help but let his guard down — and his softer side show — when you tend to the skin condition he usually keeps hidden.

WC: 5.1k

Tags/Warnings: smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, dirty talk.

The cold air filtered through the open windows of the Solomons’ home. The moonlight painted the room in hues of pale blue, casting long shadows over the heavy wooden furniture and the worn rug underfoot.

Alfie trudged into the sitting room, his broad shoulders seemed to sag slightly, the day’s weight visible in the furrow of his brow. But you noticed something else too, the way his hands flexed at his sides, the subtle shift in his stance. He was uncomfortable, you could see it clear as the day, and you could also see the irritated skin on his neck, raw and red, flaking with scales that trailed down along his flesh.

“Let me guess,” you began, tilting your head to appraise him. “It’s acting up again.”

He stopped short, his face an unreadable mask. “Dunno what you’re on about, woman.” His voice was gruff and dismissive. “I’m bloody fine, ain’t I?”

“Alfred Solomons,” you said, standing to meet him, hands on your hips. “You’ve been scratching yourself like a dog with fleas for days. Let me see.”

“Look,” he began, throwing up his hands defensively, “this ain’t a bloody—what’s the word—interrogation, yeah? Just got home, haven’t I? Thought we’d sit down, have a nice supper, maybe a drop o’ rum after, yeah? Not get a bloody inquisition.”

“Come on, Alfie,” you said gently, breaking the silence. “Sit down.”

He turned to look at you, his brows furrowing. “I told ya, love, it’s nothin’. Just a bit o’ skin, right? Nothin’ to fuss over. I’ve lived with it this long, ain’t I?”

You sighed, folding your arms across your chest. “Yes, you have, and you’ve done a fine job of ignoring it, but it’s bothering you, I can see that. Now, sit down and let me help.”

Alfie’s lips pressed into a firm line, his pride warring with the truth of your words. You’d seen him win fights with men twice his size, talk his way out of impossible situations, but here he was, hesitating like a child caught misbehaving. It was almost endearing if you ignored the fact that he was internally suffering.

Alfie stared at you, his jaw twitching as he weighed his options, he could refuse—he was, after all, Alfie Solomons, a man who answered to no one— but there was only one person who always made Alfie give in, and that was you, his wife. With a grumble under his breath, he lowered himself onto the armchair, sprawling out like a man whose kingdom had just fallen.

“Woman, you’re bloody relentless,” he muttered under his breath, the way he said it lacked any real heat; it was more a gruff acknowledgment of defeat.

“Take off your shirt,” you said softly.

Alfie cocked his head, as a smirk began to slowly form on his lips.

“Right, well, love, if you fancied seein’ me bollock naked, yeah? You could’ve just said so, straight up. Saved us all the fuckin’ theatrics. I’d have you up against that fuckin’ wall by now, makin’ a goddamn mess of things.”

You didn’t even blink, you knew how Alfie’s defense mechanism had always been humor, he’d crack a joke to avoid taking things too seriously. But you knew that behind every laugh, every sarcastic remark, there was a man scared to take a hit to his pride by asking for help. After all, he was forced to carry every burden on his own all his life, that until he met you.

“I’m serious, Alfie.” Voice flat, no smile this time. “Take the shirt off.”

Alfie huffed, his fingers working at the buttons of his shirt with deliberate slowness. “You’d think I was some feeble old man the way you’re carryin’ on,” he grumbled. “I don’t need lookin’ after, love. I’m a bloody force of nature, yeah?”

“Yes, you’re a force of nature,” you agreed with a smile, “but even storms need a bit of care sometimes.”

His shoulders stiffened, but he said nothing, his shirt finally coming off and landing in a crumpled heap beside him. You bit your lip as your eyes roamed over his body, the patches of red, inflamed skin were stark against his otherwise light complexion. Some areas were cracked and dry, while others looked painfully raw.

“Alfie,” you murmured, your voice tinged with concern. “It’s worse than last time.”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply, his tone rough. “Don’t you bloody start, right? I know what it looks like. Just a bit of dry skin, that’s all.”

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I’m not starting anything. I just want to help. Dry skin doesn’t look like this.”

He relaxed under your touch, though he still looked straight ahead, his jaw set stubbornly. “Fine, then. Do your worst.”

You knelt in front of him, settling between his legs as he sat back in the worn armchair, the lamplight cast a soft glow over his battered chest, the heat radiating from his skin palpable before you even touched him. He’d ignored it, neglected it for so long that it was the worst you’d ever seen it, and it must be hurting him so much, those angry red patches that bloomed across his torso and shoulders, the edges raw with peeling skin, irritated and roughened by days of stubbornness.

Your fingers moved carefully, barely grazing his side at first, his muscles tensed beneath the contact, a knee-jerk flinch more from instinct than actual pain, as if he was used to bracing for something harsher.

“Not so bad, you said?” you teased, glancing up at him.

He grunted. “I’ve had worse.”

“That why you haven’t even taken your shirt off when we fuck?” you asked, eyes locked on him. “’Cause you didn’t want me to see how bad it got?”

There was a pause, a flicker behind his eyes, something he tried to smother with a scoff. You knew you’d hit a sensitive topic by saying that.

“Well, aren’t you a fuckin’ detective now, eh? Bloody Sherlock Holmes,” he let out a dry, sharp laugh. “Didn’t think you needed to see it. S’not pretty. Nothin’ romantic about it.”

"You shouldn’t feel insecure about it," you said.

"Pfff, insecure? Bollocks, that is," he scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Men like me—we don't do insecure, right? That's for… for poets and posh lads with too much time on their hands."

But you saw the truth behind his eyes, that split-second crack in the armor, Alfie would never admit to feeling insecure about the way he looked, not even to you, his biggest confidant. And so you decided not to push the subject, you knew better than to fight a war you couldn’t win with words, besides, you had better ways of proving how handsome he was to you, like worshipping him with your mouth, or cunt.

“It must be driving you mad.”

He shrugged, his lips twitching into a semblance of a smirk. “Got more important things to worry about than a bit o’ itching.”

But you weren’t fooled, beneath his bravado, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched as though resisting the urge to scratch.

“Stay still,” you instructed, scooping a dollop of ointment onto your fingers.

He flinched as you began to apply the salve, his usual boldness faltering. “Bloody cold, that is,” he muttered.

“It’s supposed to be soothing,” you said, your voice low, patient. You leaned in, working the ointment into his skin with slow, deliberate movements.

His skin was hot to the touch, the irritation beneath your fingertips angry and inflamed. You moved with care, smoothing the salve in small circles, avoiding the worst of the raw spots. Alfie exhaled through his nose, his body twitching beneath your hands before slowly relaxing, like he couldn’t help but lean into your touch once the sting eased, giving way to relief.

“That stuff smells awful,” he said, wrinkling his nose. There it was that stubbornness again, like accepting help, or letting you soothe the ache, meant weakness. You found it amusing, how in so many ways, this big and dangerous man reminded you of a little boy.

“Doesn’t matter how it smells. It’ll help,” you replied, working your way across his chest, thumbs grazing the curve of his collarbones, tracing along the tender edges with a gentleness that made his throat bob in a tight swallow.

“Still feels like I’m being fuckin’ punished,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to where your hands moved over his ribs.

“You’re not,” you murmured, catching his gaze briefly. “You’re being looked after. Big difference.”

For a moment, the room was silent save for the crackling of the fire. Alfie’s eyes were fixed on a point just above your head, his jaw tight as though willing himself not to react. As you spread the ointment slowly over the worst of the irritation, you felt it happen, the first shift in his breathing, from shallow and tense to something deeper. The slow drop of his shoulders, no longer braced against the tenderness. The subtle release of his clenched fists, his fingers unfurling where they’d been pressed into his thighs.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said quietly, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Of course I do,” you replied without hesitation. “You’re my husband.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. “Yeah, well. Don’t reckon you signed up for all this, did you? A husband with bad skin and worse manners.”

“Maybe not,” you admitted, smiling up at him. “But I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

“You’re good at this,” he mumbled after a moment, his voice softer than usual.

“Good at what?”

“Lookin’ after me. Puttin’ up with me. All of it, really.”

He was so stubborn sometimes, too caught up in his own worries to realize that you didn’t do this out of obligation, you did it because you loved him, because giving him this kind of comfort was something you’d gladly offer every single time he needed it.

You paused, your hands stilling for a moment before you resumed. “It’s not putting up with you, Alfie. It’s loving you.”

He turned his head fully this time, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours. For a moment, the vulnerability in his gaze took your breath away. “You’ve got a heart too big for your own good, woman,” he said quietly.

“And you’ve got a heart you try too hard to hide,” you replied, leaning forward to kiss his temple.

He closed his eyes at the touch, letting out a deep breath. “Don’t tell anyone about this, yeah? Got a reputation to maintain.”

“All your secrets are safe with me,” you promised with a smile.

For the next hour, you worked diligently, your fingers gentle as they massaged the ointment into his skin. Alfie, for his part, remained unusually quiet, his usual stream of sharp wit replaced by a rare, unguarded vulnerability.

When you were finished, you sat back on your heels, surveying your work, the redness had diminished slightly, the skin looking less angry.

“There,” you said, capping the tin. “That should help.”

He looked down at his chest, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he reached out, his large hand cupping your cheek.

“You’re a good woman,” he said gruffly, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Don’t reckon I tell you that enough.”

“You don’t,” you agreed, leaning into his touch.

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head, eh?”

The tin of ointment clattered softly against the wood floor as Alfie pulled you up into his lap, the gruff tenderness in his hands making your breath hitch. He didn’t bother with words, not at first, he simply held you there, his rough palms trailing up and down your back, grounding you both in a moment of rare softness.

“Come here, pet,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, a low rumble in the space between you.

You settled on top of him, your knees bracketing his thighs. His beard scratched softly against your cheek as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in the faint lavender oil you always dabbed behind your ears before bed.

He buried his head against your chest, breathing deep like he needed to memorize the scent of you to survive. He made a sound low in his throat, something between a sigh and a purr, like a satisfied cat curling up in a patch of sunlight. There were only a handful of moments in his life where Alfie Solomons had let the world slip far enough to be this soft, and all of them had been with you, the only person he trusted enough to see this side of him.

“You smell good,” he said, the words muffled against your skin. Relaxing moments like this always softened the sharp lines of his face, making him look younger, almost boyish. You reached up, brushing your fingers along the edge of his beard, and he sighed, the sound deep and contented.

He shifted beneath you, his hands tightening on your hips as though anchoring himself. “Dunno what I’ve done to deserve you,” he said, the words heavy with sincerity.

“I don’t like when you say that. You’re not bad, Alf” you replied with a small smile. “Under all that grumbling and growling, you’re a good man.”

It was the truth. Yes, maybe he’d done bad things, things he couldn’t forget, things that haunted him every time he looked at his reflection in the mirror. But you saw more, so much more. You saw a man who had raised himself from nothing, who’d survived when the world tried to break him, who’d watched his friends die in trenches and still found the strength to carry on. You saw a man who’d opened his heart to you, who’d bought you your dream house and treated you like a queen in her own palace. Who had only ever been gentle with you, patient, kind, giving, even when he didn’t know how to be those things with himself.

His laugh was soft, almost self-deprecating. “Not sure half the blokes around here would agree with that one, love.”

“Don't care what they think, they're not my husband,” you said simply. “You are.”

That seemed to strike something deep in him. His eyes softened, and his hands moved to cradle your face, his touch reverent. “Yeah,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “I am, ain’t I?”

Before you could reply, he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both gentle and demanding at the same time. He kissed you like a man who knew how fleeting happiness and peace could be, who understood the weight of a moment like this.

The kiss deepened, his hands moving with more urgency now as they traced over your body, making you melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“Christ, woman,” he muttered against your lips, his voice thick with need. “You make me feel the same way you did all those years ago.”

You laughed softly, a low, sultry sound that seemed to vibrate right through your chest when he leaned to capture his lips into another kiss. It was still slow, languid, the kind of kiss that made time crawl, your tongues sliding together with unhurried precision. His hands kept wandering, greedy and possessive roaming all over your body, gripping the small of your waist to ground you, kneading the soft flesh of your ass, tracing the dip of your spine, splaying wide across your lower back as if trying to brand you to him.

The hard length of him beneath you was impossible to ignore, thick and insistent against the thin barrier of your underwear, and when you shifted again, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, dragging your cunt over him with maddening friction, he let out a raw, broken sound that made your core clench.

“Gonna ride you,” you murmured, voice thick with hunger. Alfie was a man who thrived on control, sure, but when it came to you, he had no problem handing over the reins now and then. In fact, he loved it. Watching his missus bounce on top of him, taking every bit of pleasure she deserved? That was a big, fat yes for Alfie.

You grinned at his reaction, emboldened by the crack in his usually composed demeanor, the way his eyes had gone half-lidded, pupils blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. You reached between your bodies to undo the fastening of his trousers, unable to wait one second more than necessary.

He chuckled low and hungry. “Yeah? Right, well—fuckin’ hell, woman—’course you wanna ride it.” He spread his hands, leaned back like he was bartering with God. “I’m all yours, ain’t I? Go on then, fuckin’ take what’s yours. Ruin me proper.”

He watched you, eyes locked on your hands, on how they were working his pants open, making his chest rise and fall with deep, shaky breaths. His hands didn’t stay behind, his rough fingers were roaming over your ribs, up your sides, then down again to knead your thighs, your ass, as if he truly didn’t know where to land next.

“You’re too bloody good at this,” he muttered, voice all hoarse and reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck, how he’d landed such a beautiful woman, convinced her to marry him, and now had her on top of him eager to please him.

"It's the experience, been riding you dumb for ten years," you said with a smirk.

"Mhm," he huffed. "And you get better every fuckin' time, pet."

He loved this, especially on those days when he was bone-tired, when his skin was on fire, his back ached, his knees throbbed, his hips screamed, or the days when he had to deal with “fucking cunts,” as he’d put it. Nothing would make him happier than leaning back, letting go, and having a damn good orgasm by doing absolutely nothing, just watching you take control and do all the work for him.

You’d barely gotten his trousers down before his cock sprang free, slapping against his belly, so thick, so heavy, flushed and glistening at the tip like he’d been waiting all fucking day for this moment. The second your fingers wrapped around him, firm and instinctive, he gasped and his hips jerked like he didn’t give a toss about dignity anymore.

“You’re too bloody impatient,” you shot back with a teasing smirk, stroking him slowly, twisting your wrist just enough to make him curse under his breath.

You shifted your weight, lining yourself up, your thighs bracketing his hips as you positioned yourself over him. His hands flew to your hips, holding you steady, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, as the head of his cock brushed against your slick heat. Your breath hitched at the contact, at how easily your soaked folds parted to welcome him, at how swollen and desperate you already were.

“Impatient?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “Love, you’ve been teasin’ me for the past ten minutes. If anyone’s impatient, it’s you.”

You rocked your hips just enough to let his head catch at your entrance, not yet taking him, not fully, just dragging your wetness over him, back and forth, until he growled.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he snapped, his hips jerking up, desperate for more friction, to be buried inside you. “You tryin’ to kill me? Playin' this bloody games with your poor 'ol husband? My fuckin' heart can't take this teasin', It's delicate, It is.”

“But it's too fun to tease you,” you whispered, lowering yourself an inch more. The stretch made you gasp, thick and delicious as always, and you swore you could feel every ridge and every vein of him.

He was watching your face now, intently, like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen, but you could see how hard he was fighting the urge to slam up into you. “Don’t fuckin’ tease,” he growled. “Be a good girl and sit on it proper.”

You obliged, how could you not when he talked like that? You sank down in one slow, torturous motion, your walls clenching around him inch by inch. The sound he made was filthy, a half groan half praise, guttural and deep. His head fell back, teeth gritted, chest rising with labored breaths as you took every last inch of him, seated fully, snug and wet around him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he rasped. “That’s it. That’s my pet. Perfect fuckin' cunt, still as tight as the day I first filled her up, yeah?"

You moaned, rolling your hips in a slow circle, grinding down with a filthy little twist at the end that made his cock drive right up into that sweet, aching spot inside you. Your breath caught sharp in your throat, eyes going hazy, Alfie groaned low like the wind had been knocked clean out of him, his hands clutched at your hips, guiding you with a kind of reverence, like you were something holy and he was the lucky bastard who got to worship at the altar.

He was trying hard to let you do your thing, let you take your time and move at your own pace, riding him how you wanted, but God, you were squeezing him so tight and dripping all over his cock, that it was almost imppossible to stop himself from thrusting up into you like a beast.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice frayed and reverent. “Ridin’ me like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

“Maybe I was,” you shot back, voice breathless, your lips brushing his ear as you leaned in.

Alfie met your movements with thrusts of his own, rolling his hips up hard, deep, making you bounce in his lap with every needy grind. His hands gripped your hips, firm but never too harsh, thumbs pressing into your flesh like he needed to memorize every curve, every quake of your body under his. The coarse trail of hair beneath his navel rubbed right up against your clit with every thrust, each drag of his body with that maddening friction made you jolt and shudder.

"Ohh, Alfie... feels so good," you moaned gasping into his mouth, clawing at his shoulders like you couldn’t get close enough. "Please don't stop, don't stop fucking me like that."

“Not stoppin'. Can’t stop when you’re so bloody perfect,” he rasped, his eyes dropping to where your soaked cunt was swallowing him again and again, wet sounds filling the air with each slap of skin against skin. “Perfect cunt. Perfect tits. Perfect wife.”

His head snapped forward so he could bite at your throat, not hard, just enough to make you whimper. His hands slid up your sides, pushing your slip up with urgency, bunching it around your waist until the fabric was out of his way and he could have a better view of everything, from your body glistening with sweat, your thighs shaking, to the way your soaked pussy kept taking his cock like you needed it.

That was the thing with Alfie, he never knew where the fuck to look, it was all too good. Your supple breasts, so soft and perfect, jiggling with every thrust, just begging to be grabbed. Your face, fuck, your face was so hot, those little pouts you made, the way your eyes fluttered shut when he hit a good spot deep inside you. And the way his thick cock slid in your cunt, coming out so wet and slick, your juices coating his navel and trickling down to coat his balls.

“Jesus Christ, love,” he rasped, voice thick. “You’re grippin’ me so tight—fuckin’ hell…”

You leaned forward, your hands braced against his chest, hair falling around your face as you found the perfect rhythm, grinding down in slow, greedy strokes that made both of you moan. His cock filled you perfectly, thick and hot and stretching you with every thrust of his hips.

Alfie’s attention was drifting, his eyes moved from the place where you two were connected, to the soft bounce of your breasts with every motion, your nipples peeking through the thin, rumpled slip. He licked his lips, rough hands sliding up your waist, over your ribs, until they cupped your breasts and gave them a slow squeeze.

“Look at these fuckin’ things,” he muttered. “Drivin’ me mad, the way they bounce when you ride me like that…”

Then he surged forward, mouth latching onto one of your nipples through the damp fabric, the hot drag of his tongue and the sudden suck of his mouth made you cry out, your hips stuttering as the pleasure hit you like a jolt.

“Alfie—” you gasped, hands flying to his shoulders as he pulled the slip down, baring your chest fully. He didn’t hesitate, he wrapped his mouth around your nipple and sucked hard, filthy sounds filling the air as he groaned against your skin. His tongue flicked over the stiff peak, then he moved to the other breast, biting down just enough to make your back arch.

"I'd kill a man for your left tit," he mumbled, voice muffled, barely undertandable with his mouth still sucking around your nipple. "And then I'd kill another for the right one. Fuckin' perfect things."

“Shit—Alfie—Feels... so good… so full.” you moaned, grinding harder now, the added stimulation on your nipples sending you spiraling, and if that wasn’t good enough, you felt your clit catching on his pelvis with every thrust down, making your walls clench even tighter around him.

“Fuckin’ ride it—show me how needy you are. You like me suckin’ on your tits while you fuck yourself on my cock, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, you were so drunk in the pleasure he was giving you that it was impossible to articulate words, you just let that intense pleasure ripple through you.

“You are mine. Mine, yeah? All fuckin’ mine.”

“Yours,” you choked out, your voice breaking on a moan as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you so perfectly that your body jolted, eyes fluttering shut, vision blurring with pleasure.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “That’s my good wife. So sweet and tight for me, drippin’ on me lap.”

The praise hit you like a shockwave, heat coiling in your gut, your body was desperately trying to chase your high. Just like as if he’d read your mind, sensing what you needed, his hands gripped your hips with force, lifting you up and slamming you down on his cock over and over again at the same time he thrusted up to meet you with rough, almost desperate violence. You weren't riding him anymore, he was fucking you through it.

“That’s it, love,” he muttered, his voice rough and unraveling. “Take it, my filthy little missus. Show me how good I make you feel. Ride it like you mean it.”

You cried out, the pleasure now becoming unbearable, forcing your body to clench hard around him, making your thighs tremble, the slick sound of your cunt milking him was louder now, filthier, wetter with every thrust. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and hot and perfectly angled to build your orgasm.

“Cum for your husband. Let me know I’m the only bastard who can make you feel like this. Just me. Just your fuckin' man.”

You snapped. Your head fell back, your mouth dropped open in a cry of pure ecstasy as you came hard. Your cunt spasmed around him, soaking him in a rush that made him curse and grip you tighter.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s it, pet,” he groaned, voice strangled. “Milk it. Milk my cock just like that. Gonna leave that pretty cunt drippin’ my cum for for weeks. Fuckin’ ruined.”

Alfie followed you just a couple of thrusts later, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips jerked up one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. He came with a low, shuddering groan, his cock pulsing inside you, flooding you with his cum as he clutched you tight, holding you in place like he couldn’t bear the thought of you ever pulling away.

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat and sex, his release leaking out of you slowly as his softening cock stayed inside. His hand stroked lazily up and down your back, while his lips pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Ahhh—fuckin’ hell, yeah—that’s what a man needs, innit?” he groaned, voice thick and slurred like he was drunk on you. “To come home after a long day of dealin’ with cunts and madness, yeah, and have his sweet little wife sittin' pretty on his cock—riding him like it’s her god-given job.”

"Glad to hear I'm good at my job," you teased, voice raspy, still trying to catch your breath.

"Ohhh, you're the fuckin' best, pet. Not one fuckin' soul like you," he muttered, still breathless. "God broke the mould when he made you, thank fuckin' Christ he did."

His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, slowing little by little as his breathing evened out. For a long moment, there was just the sound of your shared breaths, the creak of the armchair as he adjusted to hold you closer, with his nose buried in your hair.

Then, softly, quieter than you were used to hearing him, he spoke.

“Thanks for takin' care of me,” he said, a little raw. “Proper, like no one ever has. Not just the shaggin’, love, though—don’t get me wrong, yeah, that’s… exceptional.” He smirked faintly, and you laughed. “But it’s the other things. All the little things you do for me.”

Your throat tightened as he continued, getting to hear this sweet side of him was something you’d never get used to, not because it was rare, he gave it to you more often than he probably even realized, but because it always felt like a little secret, meant only for you.

“I’m not easy, right? I know that. I’m rough and moody and loud as hell. And yet you—you’re always there. Calm. Warm. Always fuckin’ takin’ care of me.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “So I just wanted to say thank you. For stayin’ even after all these years. For seein’ the worst of me and lovin’ me anyway.”

You kissed him then, slow and tender, the kind of kiss that spoke louder than words could ever manage, and when you pulled back, your voice was thick with emotion.

“You’re not the worst, Alf. You never were.”

He huffed a soft laugh, pulling you tighter against him. Looking at you with eyes that said “I love you. I’d be lost without you by my side.” You felt it in your chest, in your bones. He made you feel like the most loved woman in the world.

“Well, I’ll tell you what you are,” he murmured. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

AN: Thank you so much for your request!! You gave me the perfect opportunity to write this cause I’ve actually been thinking for a while about a fic where the reader takes care of Alfie’s sciatica, but I absolutely loved your idea🩷🫶🏻

I hope that you and everyone else enjoyed this. Your support means the world to me!!

One more Alfie fic to go and then I’m officially done with requests heheh😮‍💨

@ficthots

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

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rqnarok · 10 months ago

Text

old man!logan fucking you with his glasses still on.

cw/tags: smut, mdni! old man!logan. pet names (sweetheart, sugar, etc). slight dumbification. logan calls himself ‘old man’. unprotected p in v. what else? not proofread…

Logan says it’s not his fault.

It’s not him who walks in wearing a new skimpy short sundress while he’s reading today’s newspaper. He isn’t the one who did the teasing by bending over the counter to show him the plump of your ass while you are trying to reach for some ‘ingredients.’

It’s you who pretends to be innocent by humming tunes of your favorite song as you stroll around him with no fucking bra or panties. Casually asking him, “What d’ya want for dinner, Lo?” as if he couldn’t see your peaking nipples through the thin material of the cloth.

Hell, he did not even understand why you were wearing a sundress at this late hour. No particular reason other than to taunt him—you know that he knows this.

Only takes him a few minutes before he’s latching to you, still wearing his glasses while bending your upper body onto the kitchen counter, “Little fuckin’ tease. All this shit just f’me, huh?”

You huff, rolling your eyes to the back of your skull in pleasure when you let yourself be manhandled to the position he wants—spread open; his cock filling your insides so heavenly.

He hums a throaty sound in your ear, eyes locking to your face to catch your desperate and fucked out expression, “C’mon, princess. Y’were just so confident a minute ago when ya’ teased me.”

The reminder makes you let out a hiccup, and suddenly feel shy at the intensity of his gaze. Your floral-themed sundress is still on, only hiked up—he wouldn’t let you take it off. After all, its existence is the reason why his large chest is pressed on your back.

“Such a shy doll, arentcha’?” He straightened himself after you tilted your head to the other side—curses when he felt you squeezing your walls tighter around his girth.

Every drag of his cock back into your pussy pushes more and more high-pitched whines from you. Logan rumbles in a pleased groan as he lurks forward again—leaving open-mouthed kisses on your jaw—scratching his scruffy beard on your skin, “Such a good girl. Nothin’ else could make me cum, baby. Nothin’ else but this fuck- tight pussy. What did I do to get so lucky, huh?”

“Ah- Logan!” Your nails scratch the cold marble tile as you feel the world around you change into a warm, fuzzy state. All you could feel was him surrounding you, fastening his already cruel pace.

Your mewls mingle with the thwap-thwap-thwap sounds of skin slappings, its noise radiates obscenity along with the scene it shows.

“Makes me feel guilty as an old man,” Logan shivers, hissing at the warm heat he’s got himself all in, “Fuckin’ a sweet, beautiful thing like ya’.”

Logan slides one of his large palms on the globes of your ass before grabbing them and delivering a soft spank to your skin. Like a wake-up call, you twist your head back slightly to look at the sight of him.

His blue shirt is unbuttoned to down, his eyes closing and brows furrowed as he chases yours and his own ecstasy. You wonder how his glasses still rest on the tip of his nose after everything.

Maybe because you’re the one moving, not him. His hands grip your waist as he moves you back and forth on his cock. Shifting you around like a flashlight, never pulling out his flaccid member as his cockhead breaches deep into your velvet walls you never knew was even possible, “Jus’ wan’ me to use you around, ‘s that it?”

You ramble a string of yesyesyes’s as a reply to Logan’s taunts, your head empty and unable to form any thought except of him. “Y-yeah, sugar. I know. I know.”

As you feel your orgasm getting closer and closer, your hands skulk backward to reach him, to feel him and bring him closer, “Ah- Gimme kiss, pleas—” You squeak after the lingering ah-ah-ahs.

Good Lord. Logan lets out a dry chuckle to mock at your utter eagerness for him–but in the end, he gives in too. He always gives in.

His mouth is on yours in a wet kiss, all filthy as he eats up all your whimpers and moans, “Dirty girl. Makin’ me feel s’good.”

Your legs barely touch the floor as he continues to elevate you up and down in hard thrusts, hitting your sensitive spots, “Shit. Want me to come in you, petal?” His voice a cadence deeper, “Let ya’ feel me for days?”

You can only reply in erratic nods before shutting your eyes to embrace your own pleasure building, peaking, and—

“F-fuck, sweetheart.” Thick ropes of Logan’s cum are pumped into you as you squirt around him shamelessly—his cock thrusting and thrusting, letting you feel his warmth.

He begins to slow down his movements as you milk him dry. You whine at the feel of yours and his cum all mixed up, gushing out of your dripping hole. A filthy image.

“L-Logan...” You can only call out his name after your feet touch the floor, out of breath and still needy.

As if he understands, Logan rests his head on your neck and leans half of his body weight onto yours out of tiredness, “Mhm. Yeah, gonna fuck you again, sweet girl.”

His lips locked into yours in urgency, then breaking it just to smile at you while readjusting his glasses, “Let your old man catch his breath first, alright?”

You bob up in down in excitement.

Logan chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief. He knows what he’s getting himself into ever since he knew you—that he has to keep up with your endless immature teasing and your remarkably high stamina.

Even with his muscles weakening and body aching the next day, he thinks it’s all worth it.

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #old man logan #old man logan x reader #old man!logan #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut #deadpool and wolverine #logan by nina <3

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alaiasole · 1 month ago

Text

♡ welcome back to solè’s bar ♡

tonight’s special: connie springer, paris nights, & a ring that changed everything.

→ connie springer x black!reader

→ fluff | proposal | modern au | anniversary under the eiffel tower

→ tags: f!reader,fluff,connie being in love(as he should)

──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

so connie’s planning to propose. yeah, i know crazy. you guys have been together for three years, going on four, and he knows you’re his person. his soulmate. his everything. and he doesn’t see forever with anybody else but you.

he had this all planned out. the whole thing. months in the making. he bought the ring custom nothing off the shelf, because nothing basic could ever sit on your hand. and of course, he asked your parents for their blessing. told them he was ready to make you his wife. he meant every word.

he’s taking you to france paris, to be exact. the city of love. and like… what better place to ask the biggest question of his life?

he’s acting weird one night. pacing a little. scrolling through his phone like he’s checking something over and over. then he looks at you, all soft-eyed and fidgety.

“baby,” he says.

you glance up from the couch. “yeah?”

he scratches the back of his neck. “you know how our anniversary’s coming up?”

you nod, eyes narrowing a little. “uh huh…?”

he breathes out through his nose, like he’s trying not to grin too hard. “we’re going to paris.”

“CONNIE—YOU BEING SERIOUS??”

he laughs. “yup.”

“oh my god, i need to pack. i don’t got nothing ready. nothing cute enough for paris. oh my god.”

“baby—relax,” he chuckles.

“what you mean relax?! i need to pack right now.” you’re already halfway to the bedroom, suitcase under your arm like your flight leaves in an hour.

he just stands there in the living room, watching you with this look like he’s in awe. like he still can’t believe you’re his. and in a few days, he’s gonna be on one knee in front of you, in the middle of paris, asking the only question that’s ever really mattered to him.

obviously, you booked all your appointments for this trip you needed to look cute. anniversary in paris? yeah, no way you were going over there looking regular. but what you didn’t know… was that connie had already hit up all your people. your nail tech, your hairstylist, your lash tech, your esthetician even your tailor. he told them everything. that he was proposing. that it needed to be perfect. that you had to feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

first stop? nails.

you showed your tech a simple nude set you were thinking about.

“mm,” she blinked at the picture. “cute, but no.”

you looked up. “huh?”

“girl you’re going to paris. for your anniversary. this don’t say ‘romance.’ this say ‘routine.’”

you blink. “okay but i don’t want nothin’ crazy.”

she smirked. “trust me. i got somethin’ that screams luxe. this for the soft girls in love. lemme cook.”

and honestly? you let her. and she ate. you were staring at your hands like, damn, these look expensive as hell.

next was lashes.

you laid back on the bed and showed her your usual inspo pic.

“mm,” she goes. “no, we switching it up today.”

“what? why?”

she giggles, brushing your lashes. “’cause it’s your anniversary, duh. and you about to be in france. we doing a wispy hybrid. long and flirty. like you blinkin’ in slow motion.”

you raise a brow. “you tryna get me snatched by a parisian man.”

she laughs. “nah. just tryna make sure your man don’t take his eyes off you.”

hairstylist next.

you told her you wanted to keep it simple.

“…simple?” she frowned. “girl, no. we doing body. we doing volume. luxury. this a city-of-love hairstyle.”

you side-eye her. “okay, but you snappin’ a little too hard.”

she shrugs. “you tell me. i’m just making sure you look expensive.”

the esthetician?

girl. you walk in for your usual facial and she pulls out four different treatments.

you sit up like, “what are you doing to me?”

she goes, “girl, it’s your anniversary. and it’s paris. i need you glowing in every light. french sun? sparkling. hotel mirror? flawless.”

you just lay back, blushing. “y’all really tryna make me the finest one over there.”

she smirks. “you already are. i’m just enhancing.”

but the real moment?

your tailor. you asked her to make you something special for your anniversary dinner. nothing too extra, just a cute little something to wear while y’all ate under the lights.

you walk into her studio, and your jaw dropped.

“…what is this?”

she grinned. “your dress.”

you blinked, stepping closer. “yeah but like… damn.”

she giggled. “girl. you need to look good. okay?”

you’re staring at the silk, the details, the way it shimmers in the light. “you didn’t have to go this hard.”

she shook her head. “yes i did.”

“…why?”

she just smiled. “because i love you. now go try it on.”

when you got home and started packing, you were sitting on your bed like okay. why is everybody being so extra? all your appointments felt like something out of a movie. the upgrades, the glam, the little smirks and compliments.

but honestly? you didn’t think too hard about it.

it was your anniversary. in paris. of course they wanted you to look right.

and if this was how they were treating you now? you already knew this trip was about to be everything.

bags packed. passport ready.

you were about to be that girl in france.

you guys wake up early that morning sun barely peeking over the skyline, bags by the door, passports ready. connie keeps looking at you like he can’t believe this is real. y’all are really going to paris.

the flight is smooth. he’s knocked out for most of it, but you stay up watching movies and glancing over at him with his hoodie half-off his head, lips parted a little. he’s cute even when he drools.

when the plane lands, everything feels dreamy. you grab your bags, head through the airport, and hop in the car connie booked for y’all. paris is just… different.

there’s flowers on balconies. gold trim on the buildings. cobblestone streets. little cafés on every corner. everything looks like a movie.

you get to the hotel super luxury, obviously and connie helps you check in. the lobby smells expensive. like roses and bergamot.

when you get to the room, your jaw drops. there’s floor-to ceiling windows, a balcony with a view of the eiffel tower, and a massive bed with crisp white sheets. you both unpack, shower, throw on something cozy, and curl up in bed together. he’s warm, he smells good, and he falls asleep rubbing your back.

the next morning is the morning. your anniversary. the big day.

you both wake up early, bodies wrapped around each other, light pouring in from the windows. connie kisses your cheek. “happy anniversary, baby.”

you smile, sleepy-eyed. “happy anniversary, con.”

he already has the whole day planned. he orders breakfast up to the room croissants, fresh fruit, little coffee cups with foam hearts on top. you sit on the balcony, barefoot in robes, giggling and eating while watching the city wake up.

after that? it’s time to explore.

first stop: pont des arts — the love lock bridge.

you and connie stroll across the bridge, fingers laced together. people from all over the world are there, writing names on locks and clicking them onto the railings before tossing the key into the seine river below.

“we gotta do one,” connie says, already pulling out a lock from his pocket.

you blink. “you brought one?”

he shrugs, grinning. “of course.”

you write both your names on it connie + [your name] with a little heart next to it and lock it in place.

he wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your forehead before you toss the key into the water.

next stop: louvre museum.

you walk hand in hand through the louvre, getting lost in all the paintings and sculptures. connie pretends to analyze the art like he’s deep.

“you see the way her eyes follow you? it’s symbolism. she in love with me.”

you roll your eyes. “boy, that’s the mona lisa.”

“exactly. she got taste.”

he makes you laugh the entire time. y’all take pictures, kiss under marble archways, and spend way too long trying to pronounce the french captions out loud.

next: picnic in the jardin des tuileries.

connie surprises you with a little picnic in one of the most beautiful gardens in paris. he picked up pastries and drinks from a nearby café and lays them out on a blanket in the grass.

you both sit together, leaning against each other, watching the people pass by. the trees sway, the sun warms your skin, and everything just feels perfect.

then: shopping in le marais.

he takes you to le marais one of the chicest little shopping districts. boutiques, bookstores, vintage perfume shops.

he lets you pick out whatever you want. tells you to try things on, keeps saying “you look so damn good” under his breath while you do.

he buys you a necklace from a little jewelry store and puts it on for you, clasping it at the back and kissing your neck.

final stop before dinner: sunset boat ride on the seine river.

right before dinner, y’all get on a private boat and float along the river while the sun sets. the whole city glows pink and gold. he wraps his arm around your shoulder and you lean into him.

you see the notre dame, the eiffel tower, and the bridges glowing in the dusk light. everything is still.

it’s quiet. beautiful. intimate.

“best anniversary yet,” you whisper.

he smiles. “just wait.”

you just think he’s talking about the food.

you’re back in the hotel room, soft music playing in the background as the sun begins to set behind the parisian skyline. your ivory gown hangs from the closet door, and the glow from the golden hour light spills across the fabric like honey. you step into the dress slowly, smoothing it down your hips, your breath catching at how it hugs you in all the right places. your hair’s laid, lashes fluttering, skin glowing and for a moment, you just stare at yourself in the mirror. damn. you look… breathtaking.

the door opens behind you.

“baby,” connie’s voice is low, warm, in awe. you turn around and he’s standing there in a custom suit, dark and sharp, gold accents on the cufflinks that match your jewelry. his mouth is slightly open, like he lost his words the second he saw you.

“you look beautiful,” he says, walking closer. “fuck. you really mine?”

you smile, cheeks warming. “you clean up good too, mr. springer.”

he wraps his arms around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple. “you ready?”

“yeah. let’s go.”

the restaurant is luxury. gold chandeliers, soft candlelight, smooth jazz from a live band in the corner. the view from the rooftop is unreal the eiffel tower peeking in the distance, glittering like it’s in on the secret. you and connie are tucked in a private booth, the entire vibe drenched in elegance.

he doesn’t take his eyes off you all dinner. you order the most expensive wine, a truffle pasta, and some fancy little desserts you can’t pronounce. he keeps his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles as you laugh about memories from your first date, your second anniversary, the time y’all got lost in the city and ended up finding the best food truck ever.

“you know,” connie says between sips of wine, his eyes soft, “i still can’t believe it’s been four years.”

you smile. “me either.”

“you changed my whole life.”

your breath hitches just slightly, his voice is that sincere.

he leans closer. “i’m serious. you gave me something real. something solid. i look at you, and i see home.”

your heart thuds. “you’re gonna make me cry,” you say, laughing a little, but he just shakes his head.

“you deserve to hear it. every day.”

a waitress approaches the table and says, “excuse me, sir. we need you to come sort something out real quick.”

connie stands, kisses your cheek. “i’ll be right back, baby.”

you blink. “is everything okay?”

he squeezes your hand. “yeah. just something minor, i think. don’t worry.”

he disappears with the waitress, and you’re left sipping your wine, candlelight flickering across your glass. you glance at your phone, glance at the sky. you’re wondering what’s going on when the waitress returns.

“hi, ma’am,” she says with a smile. “your partner’s ready for you now.”

you blink. “ready for me?”

she nods, still smiling. “if you’ll follow me.”

you stand, butterflies fluttering hard in your stomach. not scared, just… thrown off. you follow her through the restaurant, down a narrow hallway, and out a back exit that opens to a private courtyard.

it’s quiet.

your heels click softly against the cobblestone as she leads you down a small path framed by trees wrapped in fairy lights. you’re confused, still, trying to understand what’s happening. but then… the music starts.

soft.

familiar.

get you by daniel caesar and h.e.r.

your heart stutters.

you round the corner and your breath leaves your body completely.

because there, under the glowing paris night, the eiffel tower standing proud and lit behind him, is connie.

there’s a soft carpet of rose petals leading to him. an archway draped in white chiffon. candles glowing in tall glass vases. a live string quartet off to the side, their music swelling through the air. and him.

he’s standing in the middle of it all, hands clasped in front of him, watching you walk toward him like you’re the only thing he’s ever loved.

you stop, frozen.

“connie…”

he holds his hand out. “come here, baby.”

you walk slowly, heart hammering. when you reach him, he takes both of your hands in his.

his palms are shaking.

you look up at him and his eyes are already glassy. your vision is starting to blur too.

he drops to one knee.

you gasp, both hands covering your mouth. “oh my god…”

he takes a small box from his pocket velvet, deep navyand opens it to reveal a radiant custom ring, catching the light.

he looks up at you. voice trembling.

“my love,” he begins. “i don’t even know where to start. i’ve been thinking about this moment for months and somehow, standing here in front of you, all the words feel too small. nothing feels big enough to describe how i feel about you.”

“you are the most beautiful person i’ve ever known. inside and out. you’re the calm in my chaos. the soft place i land. you’ve held my hand through every high and low. you’ve celebrated me. challenged me. loved me when i didn’t even know how to love myself. and that? that’s not something i take for granted. not for a second.”

“i remember the first time you laughed at something i said like, genuinely laughed and i swear , i knew in that moment i was already gone. i didn’t know how, but i knew i was gonna love you for a long, long time. and baby… here we are.”

“you’ve shown me a kind of love that makes everything make sense. when the world doesn’t feel safe, you are. when things feel too heavy, you carry them with me. you’re strong and soft at the same time. you’re my peace. my favorite everything. you are what home feels like.”

“i wake up every day more in love with you than the last. i look at you and i see my future. and it’s not just the big things it’s the little ones, too. the way you scrunch your nose when you’re trying not to laugh. the way you say my name when you’re sleepy. the way you just… get me. without me saying a word.”

“you’ve made me better. made me whole. and i don’t ever want to do life without you.”

“so, i’m standing here… in paris, under this damn tower that everybody puts on postcards, trying not to cry too hard, just to ask you one thing.”

he breathes, heart in his throat.

“will you marry me?”

you don’t even hesitate.

“yes,” you whisper, nodding fast. “yes, yes, yes.”

he slides the ring onto your finger, hands still trembling, and stands up just in time for you to throw your arms around his neck. he holds you like he’ll never let go. kisses you like you’re the only thing that matters in the world.

the music swells.

paris glows behind you.

and in that moment, it’s just you and him.

forever.

#solè’s bar ☆#connie springer x black reader #aot x black reader #aot #attack on titan #anime x black!reader #anime x reader #x black fem reader #connie springer #aot x reader #connie x black reader #connie x reader #aot connie #aot fluff

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tobeholyistobeempty · 20 days ago

Text

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

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