#i was writing it and then I needed to draw it

[jobean12-blog]

Midnight Confessions

Light SPOILERS ahead!!!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 2.5K

Summary: A late night gives you the opportunity to flirt with Bucky and the next night he comes right back for more.

Author's Note: There are some Thunderbolts spoilers here- none really story related so much but more character driven. So reader BEWARE :D I had fun writing all the ridiculous dialogue in the beginning and it's a bit chaotic but I hope it makes you smile! Thank you so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: fun and fluff, flirtiness, tension, sweetness

You set the timer and place it on the counter, leaning back with a sigh. While it seems everyone else in the tower is asleep, you’re as wide awake as the bustling city below. This is the second batch of cookies you’ve made this week, but no one seems to be complaining.

After contemplating something on the TV you decide instead to read, hoping it will make you sleepy.

No such luck and just as you’re starting the next chapter you see a dark shadow at the entrance of the kitchen, you’re body stiffening.

“It’s just me doll.”

At the sound of Bucky’s voice, you instantly relax.

“Jeez you’re quiet,” you whisper.

He chuckles lightly and steps into the kitchen. His hair is slightly mussed as if he’s been running a hand through it and his tee shirt clings to the broad lines of his chest and toned biceps. With a hard swallow you let your eyes drop lower, to the way his pants sit low on his waist but still hug his thighs.

“Can’t sleep?” you squeak out, dragging your gaze back to his face.

He shakes his head no and moves closer, revealing a surprise. The guinea pig Yelena rescued from the lab sits atop his left shoulder, tucked close to his neck and partially hidden by his hair.

You sit up with a gasp and rush over to him, cooing quietly and without a word plucking the piglet from his shoulder.

“What are you doing up?” you ask the guinea pig in a sweet voice.

“I probably should have let him sleep but as soon as I made noise he started squeakin’.”

You look up at Bucky and notice his soft expression as he watches you with the guinea pig.

“It’s a boy?” you ask.

“Actually, I don’t know,” he replies.

“Hmm,” you say as you pet it’s soft fur. “I bet it’s a girl.”

“That works too,” he smiles. “Are you making cookies?”

“I am…they should be out…,” and you walk over to the timer, “in three minutes.”

“Great doll. I could use a snack!” He slowly rubs his stomach as he stretches, revealing the dark trail of hair that disappears enticingly into his sweats.

The guinea pig squeaks and draws your attention away before he catches you staring.

“She needs a name,” you state as you cradle her in your arm.

Bucky is silent for a moment before he blurts out, “Cookie.”

“That’s cute,” you giggle, “but I think you’re just hungry.”

He doesn’t disagree and keeps thinking.

“She’s brown and white so…BACON!”

You stop petting the piglet and narrow your eyes at Bucky.

He holds his hands up in surrender, but you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners as he tries to hold back a smile.

“Are you going to wash the dishes?”

Bob’s voice is so low you almost don’t hear it but Bucky spins around at the sound.

“Bob!” both you and Bucky exclaim.

“What’s going on in here?” Bob asks as he looks between you and Bucky.

“We can’t sleep, and I made cookies,” you explain.

“And we’re trying to give the guinea pig a name,” Bucky adds.

“Ok,” Bob says. “I’m going to wash the dishes.”

“Do you want help?” you ask him. “I can dry the bowls.”

“Sure,” Bob says.

You hand the guinea pig back to Bucky. “Don’t get comfy. I want her back when I’m done.”

“Anything you want doll,” he says with a wink.

“How about Piglet?” Bob chimes from the sink.

“Like in Winnie the Pooh?” you ask as you slide up next to him and take the first bowl to dry it.

“Yeah…she’s kinda tiny…,” Bob says.

“So, you think she’s a girl too!” you say happily. “Bucky was calling it a he.”

“Not because I don’t think it could be a girl…I just…said he first.”

“It’s a girl,” Yelena says as she walks in.

“See! I knew it!” you sing song.

“What is going on here?” Yelena asks.

“None of us could sleep,” Bob answers. “So, we’re making cookies, washing dishes and naming the guinea pig.”

“Are the cookies ready yet?” Yelena asks, eyeing the oven.

“Just about,” you answer.

“Bob suggested Piglet…but I like Bacon,” Bucky says to fill Yelena in.

“Of course you would say Bacon,” she tsks. “I like Piglet.”

“Do I smell cookies?”

Walker strides in and heads straight for the oven.

“HEY Walker,” you whisper shout. “They’ll be out in a minute.”

He stops and plops himself down on a stool at the island with a huff.

“Why didn’t anyone invite me to the party?” he says.

“Because you’re an asshole,” but you and Yelena chime simultaneously but not without a smile pulling at each of your mouths.

“Can I least have some cookies,” Walker asks.

“Of course,” you tell him.

“Why don’t you name the pig, Hamlet,” Walker adds.

Everyone is quiet for a minute and tries to hide their smiles. “Actually, that’s cute,” you say, “but we’ve decided it’s a girl so maybe something…more…girly.”

Walker rests his chin in his hands but remains silent.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Ava says, appearing from the other side of the wall.

Bob startles at the sink and Walker rolls his eyes.

“No one can sleep, we are about to eat cookies, and we need a name for our girl guinea pig,” Yelena sums up quickly before opening the oven just as the timer dings.

“Pipsqueak,” Ava says flatly.

Yelena smiles. “I like that. She does squeak…a lot.”

“But she’s brave,” Bob says. “She survived the lab. I wouldn’t call her a pipsqueak.”

“But Piglet is scared of everything isn’t he?” Bucky muses. “So that wouldn’t work either.”

“Oh,” Bob sighs. “Yeah, he is.”

“Still like Bacon,” Bucky mumbles to himself.

“WHO SAID BACON?” Alexei booms when he walks in. “We eat?”

Yelena hangs her head with a sigh and Ava rolls her eyes.

“No bacon,” Bucky says sadly. “But we have cookies.”

“Hm, that will do,” Alexei says as he walks over to Yelena and pulls out the hot tray with his hand.

“You should let them cool,” you say to Alexei as he goes to grab for one.

“No, no…I like them all gooey and melted and messy…” He pops half the cookie in his mouth and hums happily.

Bucky slides over; the guinea pig nestled in the crook of his metal arm as he grabs for a cookie.

Walker reaches over the island to grab his own.

“They’re still hot guys!” you scold but give up with a sigh when half the tray is gone in under a minute. “You better grab one,” you whisper to Bob.

He turns from the sink and wipes his hand, reaching for a cookie and placing it on a napkin near him. “I’ll let mine cool,” he says with a small smile.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence and lots of mumbled praises over the cookies, you ask, “so what are we naming the guinea pig?”

Alexei yells out, “ALEXEI!”

Everyone answers with a determined, “NO!”

Alexei deflates and takes another cookie.

“So far we ruled out all the suggestions,” you say, leaning back on the counter next to Bucky.

Without prompting he hands you the guinea pig. You gently hold her up and look her over.

“I have so many ideas but none of them seem to fit,” you huff.

“All mine are related to food,” Bucky shrugs.

“I still like Alexei,” Alexei grumbles.

“Hamlet isn’t girly enough,” Walker says.

“Piglet and Pipsqueak make her sound too timid,” Ava adds.

Finally, Yelena says, “what about Nat?”

All eyes turn to her, soft with unspoken words.

“That’s perfect,” you say quietly and everyone agrees.

Once the few remaining cookies are packed away and the kitchen is clean you walk over to Bucky who’s leaning against the wall, Nat once again cradled against his chest in the crook of his metal arm.

“She likes that spot,” you say quietly as you gently stroke her back.

“Yeah, maybe because it’s cool,” he says and then softly touches her nose as it twitches.

You watch him for a moment, so sweet and gentle with the little furball.

“You’re so cute,” you say softly.

“She is right,” Bucky agrees.

“She meant you super soldier,” Alexei chuckles from behind you. “Not pig.”

“She’s a guinea pig Dad,” Yelena dead pans.

Alexei waves his had dismissively. “All same.”

Your eyes meet Bucky’s, and you see the tops of his cheeks, just above all the dark stubble lining them, turn light pink.

“You meant little Nat right?” he asks.

“She definitely meant the guinea pig,” Walker says with a yawn as he walks by. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

Ava follows close behind him. “Me too. And she meant you Barnes.”

Alexei slaps Bucky hard on the back, jostling Nat in his arms and Bucky glares.

“Oh. Right, sorry,” Alexei mumbles then smiles wide. “She thinks you are cute.”

He walks away rubbing his stomach.

Only Yelena and Bob remain, Yelena with a smirk lifting her lips and Bob with wide eyes.

Your eyes stay on Bucky, and you lean in closer, still petting Nat. “No. I meant you. You’re really cute. Especially with her. It’s sweet.”

“She said he’s cute,” Bob whispers to Yelena who’s full on smiling now.

“Da,” Yelena nods, grabbing Bob’s arm to pull him down the hall.

“Does she like him?” Bob asks as he passes by you and Bucky.

Yelena laughs but doesn’t answer and keeps tugging him away.

The two of you are now alone and you watch Bucky’s gaze quickly drop to your lips before he says a quiet, “thanks.”

“Hope you can get some sleep,” you tell him then kiss his cheek. “Night.”

“Night, doll,” he whispers as he watches you walk to your room.

The next night when you’re still awake after midnight you head to the common room but when you don’t see a sign of anyone else you decide to go watch a movie until you fall asleep. The light knock on your door an hour later surprises you and when you open it to find Bucky on the other side you’re even more surprised.

“I didn’t wake you did I doll?” he asks in a rush.

“No, don’t worry. I was watching a movie.”

“I thought I saw light under the door so I figured you might still be up.”

“Did you want more cookies? The leftovers are in the cabinet.”

“Actually…Alexei ate them all. I checked…”

You snort laugh and grab Bucky’s hand, pulling him through the doorway.

“Of course he did,” you say as you plop down on the small couch.

Bucky follows and then stands there as if he’s unsure what to do next.

“You can sit,” you tell him.

He does.

“Are you watching The Goonies?”

“I am!” you say excitedly. “I’m so glad you’ve seen it.”

“Classic 80s.”

“Exactly,” you agree.

You settle back into the cushions and let your shoulder brush his. As the movie continues your body relaxes against him and he lifts his arm to rest it along the back of the couch. His fingers brush your shoulder and when he feels your skin pebble beneath his touch he does it again. Your breath catches in your throat and you audibly swallow.

The movie ends and you’re still pressed against him, his arm now circling your shoulders as his fingertips ghost over your skin.

“That’s one of my favorites,” you say and turn to meet his eyes.

“Mine too,” he whispers, curling his fingers around your arm so you turn your body into his.

His eyes wander over your face, their soft reverence only sharpened when they stop on your lips.

“Doll…I…”

Whatever he wants to say is lost in the moment and he presses his mouth to yours, softly at first, but when you slide your fingers into his hair and tug him closer, he hums low in his chest and deepens it, parting your lips.

His knuckles skim down your arm before splaying at your back and pulling you into his lap. His hand slips under your shirt, every caress of his fingertips slow and teasing as if he’s savoring every moment and committing it to memory. His kisses are sweet and languid and the hair lining his face scratches the soft column of your neck as his lips trail downward to your hammering pulse.

A deep and satisfied hum rumbles through his chest and you press yourself closer, feeling the hard lines of his muscle beneath his shirt.

“Bucky,” you whimper.

He lifts his head to stare at you, his breathing fast. His metal thumb lifts to trace your swollen bottom lip before he slides it behind your neck and brings your lips back to his, nibbling the same spot then soothing it with his tongue.

You moan into his mouth and the sound snaps what little control he’s holding on to and suddenly you’re flipped to your back, your wrists in his metal hand and pinned above your head. His eyes teasingly trail over your body, and you go pliant in his hold, your legs falling open as he settles between them.

He leans down, dipping his head to run his nose along your neck, breathing you in before his lips are on yours again.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, his hand releasing your wrists and sliding lower to stroke your curves. “I knew you would be.”

“You’ve thought about it?” you ask as you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, licking his lips. “I came over here with the intention to ask you out on a date…”

“Is this not…?”

He cuts you off. “This is exactly what I want…you’re what I want. I’m just…trying to be a gentleman.”

Your lips form an O shape, and he kisses you again.

“I’ll go on a date with you Bucky,” you murmur between kisses.

“Good, that’s good,” he says, his warm hands continuing their exploration of your body while his lips trail down your neck.

You arch into him and slide your hands from his hair down his back, scraping lightly with your nails.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

When his eyes lift to yours he wears a pained expression.

“A gentleman,” he repeats.

“Right. A date,” you say.

“Fuck,” he mutters again but doesn’t move an inch.

You stare at each other, the tension building in the small space between you before he dips his head and kisses you again. His lips find the spot just below your ear and he whispers, “if you don’t tell me to go now…”

“I don’t want you to go Bucky. I want you to stay. I want you.”

[jinx-xxed]

Silver Chains

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; I’ve already watched Sinners 4 times and became obsessed so I fear it’s necessary for me to write a fic for Remmick at least once 🤕 this is my first time writing vampires and blood like this so please forgive me if it sucks 🙏 also if I’ve written anything in relation to the movie incorrectly please tell me so I can fix it! I have some other ideas brewing that I might write as well so I hope you enjoy :P!

Summary; A hunt gone awry leaves you caught by vampire hunters with the threat of the sun looming over you.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, vampire reader, vampirism, vampire hunters, blood and injury, death, feral behavior, you almost die, protective/possessive Remmick, very dependent relationship, bloodsucking, blood eating as kink, a lot of drool, he comes with it what can I say, feeding off Remmick, putting those claws and teeth to good use, eating out, fingering, piv sex, multiple orgasms, little bit of aftercare, soft Remmick

Wc; 7.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

The stench of blood assaults your nose.

It’s not the tantalizing, mouth-watering scent of someone else’s, no, it’s your own. It smells all sorts of wrong, impure and old with decay only to a thing like you.

Your blood runs down your skin in rivulets, staining it a deep, shiny red. Droplets fling from your body as you thrash and jerk against the heavy, silver chains that bind you to a thick and sturdy tree. The pain of the bark digging into your back is nothing compared to the agony of the chains burning your flesh away, steam rising from your injuries like you’d been placed on burning coals. It makes you wild, desperate to get away but with nowhere to go.

There’s no chance of you escaping the chains that sit against your neck, arms, waist, and legs in sets of two, even despite your struggling and the way you try to launch yourself from the tree with the slight leeway you have with your feet. Your unnerving eyes gleam in the moonlight, wide and frantic with fear, your bloodstained, jagged teeth showing in your open mouth. You feel as far from human as you possibly could be, snarling like an animal and chained just like one too.

The men watching you seem to think the same thing.

There’s five of them, two sit on their horses while the other three steadily pace the small clearing they have you in. God damn vampire hunters, armed to the teeth with everything they need to kill the likes of you. Silver bullets, silver chains, garlic and holy water, wooden stakes on their belts. It’s like they’re surrounded by a bubble of protection that you can’t penetrate, that’ll hurt you if they get too close—which isn’t that far off.

You curse yourself over and over. You and Remmick made damn sure to stay away from Choctaw land and yet here you are, caught and beaten. This is a new type of hunter, one you’d never had the misfortune of coming across before. They hunt in the dead of night, they enjoy watching you thrash and suffer, and their methods are cruel, meant to draw out your punishment.

You’ve never heard or seen a lick of them prior to tonight when you’d been ambushed and chased through the woods.

A gunshot had pierced your shoulder, one that brought more pain than your typical lead bullet. It had left you stumbling with a choked yell, steam rising from the hole in your shoulder blade. Then you’d heard the rustling in the underbrush, the hoots and hollers of men with a different kind of bloodlust than what you’re used to. Oh you’d ran, you’d ran as fast as your legs could carry you through the rough terrain of the forest, clearing fallen logs and scraping your bare arms on branches and thorns.

They’d caught you with another bullet to your thigh and a rope around your legs, pulling snug as soon as you tried to take another step and sending you thudding onto the hard ground. They’d wrapped you in silver soon after, seemingly experts on how to maneuver around you to avoid your snapping teeth and deadly nails. The first touch of the silver made your skin bubble and burn, a scream tearing out of your throat against your will. They’d dragged you crying for you don’t know how long behind their horses, all the way to the edge of the forest that overlooks a field that’s flat for as far as the eye can see.

You don’t know where they came from, they’re clearly unrelated to any other group or tribe of hunters, instead being just a gaggle of men who have dedicated their lives to eradicating yours. The history of your kind isn’t widely known, isn’t readily available to the public, so in your pain-addled brain you still wonder where they heard your tales, still wonder what else you might have to worry about if the knowledge is growing.

Your head thumps back, your breath coming ragged through your lungs. You shut your eyes tight for just a moment, trying to force away any more tears and clear your head. You haven’t felt pain like this in a long, long time, especially because Remmick has always been there to keep an eye on you, to keep you out of harms way. But not this time, not when you strayed too far and got too distracted to be vigilant about your surroundings. You’d been stupid and you know that, so part of you thinks you deserve this.

“Just stake me and be done.” You groan, ultimately defeated as the silver chains bite through your skin to the bone. It’s not like you want to die necessarily, you just want to be released from your own agony. You hate the way they’re toying with you, watching like wolves as you writhe and bleed.

One man shakes his head, his face shadowed by the cowboy hat he wears. “Nah, we like to watch y’all burn.” He looks to his watch and then up at the sky. “Ain’t gon’ be much longer now.”

You can’t help looking as well, your eyes finding the ever lightening night sky. The stars have been chased away, the moon laying itself to rest on the other side of the earth. You can feel the threat of the sun as the air steadily warms, as time tick, tick, ticks away. If you had to guess, you have about thirty minutes left at most before yellow rays peak over the horizon line.

You force a swallow down your torn throat, your breathing stutters as panic kicks up in your chest. You figure seeing the sun in your final moments won’t be the worst thing, it has been seven years after all, but nobody wants to be burned alive. You don’t want to feel your skin cook and be engulfed by flames, you don’t want your last memory to be pain. Tears fall down your bloodstained cheeks without you realizing, dripping to the forest floor as your head hangs.

Then there’s a rustle in the trees beyond that makes your attention snap back up. That’s when you sense it, when the tiny hairs on the back of your neck rise. It’s like a blanket of eerie quiet was laid over the clearing, quieting any crickets or frogs or birds and leaving just the whispers of an old wind through the trees. There’s a flash of red, the familiar smell of ancient blood and earth hitting your nostrils. It’s an instant comfort.

Your own reaction has caused the hunters to become alert, clutching their guns a little tighter and looking into the trees. They don’t even realize what’s happening before the screams start.

The first man goes down—the first is always the easiest. The horses startle in turn, rearing up with loud, shrill whinnies that make the men on their backs shout. One falls off his beast while the other gets dragged from the saddle with a yell. The horses shake their heads and shriek before crashing into the forest, leaving their riders behind to get their throats torn open.

You could sob in relief at seeing Remmick, his claws extended and his fangs bared. He looks feral, his hair wild and his eyes wide and gleaming bright red. Blood coats his chin and his neck, staining the collar of his button up as he rips into his victims as messily as he pleases. The two men left got enough of their senses to try and fire their guns, to use the weapons they so carefully prepared. One wields a wooden stake and runs at Remmick who grabs the man’s wrists to prevent the stake from being buried into his heart.

They grapple briefly before the man is being slammed onto the ground with a terrifying ease, something within his body cracking. Claws are raked across his neck in a quick slash, urgency spurred by the cock of a gun, the sound of the shot being fired making you flinch as it rings through the clearing. It misses its target by just a hair and it’s unable to reload fast enough to prevent Remmick from jumping on the final hunter. The man goes down with a choked scream and you hear the familiar sounds of flesh being devoured and blood being drained. There’s only a sickly silence that follows.

All of the spilled blood has thick strings of drool dripping from the corners of your mouth, your hunger flaring up from the lack of food you’d gotten tonight and the exhaustion of struggling against the hunters. You lean forward instinctively, desperate for a taste, before the silver chains binding your body remind you of where you are. You jolt back with a whimper, pain biting into you tenfold.

Remmick’s head snaps up, those sinister red eyes finding you as the bloodlust and blind rage fades, as he seems to remember you. He’s up in an instant, hurrying over and flinching away with a snarl when he realizes what’s wrapped around your body. “Shit.” He spits angrily, doing it again when he looks to the horizon and sees the slow infiltration of the oranges and yellows of morning into the purples and blues of night. Ten minutes left.

“Rem- Remmick- please, please get me out- it hurts, Remmick, please.” You beg, your babbling words warbling with pain and emotion. You don’t want to be left behind, not again, not by him. It’d hurt more than the searing kiss of the sun.

“I ain’t leavin’ you, darlin’.” He says with finality through gritted teeth, even as every instinctual thing inside him whispers to leave you here to die, to save himself and let you be engulfed in the flames of your mistake. He circles behind you, taking a deep breath before beginning to tug at the chains, hissing as they burn the calloused skin on his hands. Despite the pain, they steadily come undone, dropping to the ground around you so you can finally take in a gasping breath.

“I told you to stay with me, didn’t I? Would it kill ya to listen for once?” Remmick snaps as he undoes the last of the chains around your legs, leaving you to stumble forward. You’re charred and covered in wounds, but now your body can finally begin to regenerate. You look a mess and you feel like one too, tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you struggle just to stay standing.

Before you can even get out an apology, he’s grabbing your wrist and tugging you with him. His own blood smears on your skin, the smell threatening to cloud your mind. “C’mon, or else we’ll both be fried.” His tone is low and angry and focused, telling you to save whatever you need to say for later.

You eagerly follow him, doing your best to keep up as you both run to outrace the rising warmth of morning. Panic hangs heavy around you, knowing how quickly those final minutes tick by, feeling the heat licking at your heels. Your skin threatens to begin sizzling again, sweat gleaming on your forms.

But by the grace of some cursed god, it turns out the hunters had dragged you not too far from where you and Remmick have made your home in a tiny little house hidden in the trees. It’s temporary, of course, and you’ll no doubt be moving again after tonight, but in the moment it’s like finding a blessed sanctuary in the midst of damnation. You both fly up the porch steps and burst into your home just as the sun clears the horizon line, its beams filtering through the trees while you slam the door in its face.

You fall to your knees instantly, panting and heaving like a dog as your deep injuries throb and ooze. Your whole body is shaking, weak from a pain and hunger you haven’t experienced before. You can feel the ache in your teeth, the drool that still runs down your chin despite how many times you’ve wiped it away.

Remmick is less fazed, simply shrugging off his sweat and blood soaked button up and tossing it aside, his suspenders falling loose around his hips and leaving him in his once white tank. The thin gold chain around his neck glints in the dim lighting, a twin to the gold band on his ring finger. He’s cut it close enough times in his long past that he’s familiar with the sensation of the sun at his back, but he’s been more careful with you. He makes sure to have you both fed and back with time to spare, but everything seemed to go wrong tonight. Though, he supposes the scare was probably good for you. Teach you not to wander off again.

He looks idly at his hands, at the blisters that are already beginning to fade. He’s always healed pretty fast, while you on the other hand aren’t as fortunate. The scent of your blood fills his nose, fills the room of the house. You’re both lucky his hunger was satiated earlier, otherwise he’d be on you like a leech. Even after he turned you, your blood stayed just as mouthwatering, just as delicious to something twisted inside of him. It proved to him that you were something different, something he’d been searching for without really knowing it.

“Are you upset with me?” You sniffle, quite pathetic really. But it’s been a long while since you’ve felt this much shame and embarrassment, and your body doesn’t quite know what to do with it besides force it out through tears.

Remmick stands in silence with his thoughts for a moment more before he sighs, defeated. “I ain’t angry with ya, sugar. Just worried, is all.” He turns, his steps marked by the too-soft thud of boots against hardwood. You see the toes of his shoes in your vision, but you still can’t make yourself lift your head, to look at him—so he does it for you. He crouches down, taking your face in his hand, making you meet his eyes. “Fuck, darlin’, they almost killed you.”

You can see the concern etched onto his eternally young face, the memory of seeing you chained in silver and presented like a sacrifice to the morning sun. You can’t even begin to understand the fear he’d felt; hearing all the commotion far off in the woods, hearing your screams and hoping he ran fast enough to reach you. He could smell the way your blood poured from your body, the way it burned under your confines. He’d sensed your terror too, your emotions sitting just behind his own like a second pair, locked together by a bond too ancient to be understood. You’d called out to him without your voice and he answered without a second thought.

Oh, how he’d raged seeing you against that tree, begging your captors for a quick death. Your face was covered in tears and blood, you’d looked to the horizon with a mixture of acceptance and panic, something he’s seen plenty of times before. He never should have let it happen, should have known to keep you closer, should have known you were still too young into this and got too excited over fresh meat. Hell, he didn’t even know how you managed to sneak off but he’d looked away for one damn minute and then you were gone. He’d been a fool to trust that you’d come back before a gunshot rang through the forest.

Killing those men was one of the easier things he’s done. Remmick barely even registered their deaths, the only thought in his mind being eliminating any threats to you and getting some food out of it as well. Their wards and stakes and silver bullets did nothing to deter him, they were weak and weightless—the opposite of the other hunters he’s come across, the ones with real strength. No, those men were new and ultimately inexperienced, and yet still stupidly dangerous.

He’d worry about them later. They’re dead and gone while you’re still bleeding and sniffling in front of him.

You lean into his touch like a cat, desperate for comfort. “Yer starvin’, ain’t ‘cha?” He murmurs, running his thumb along your cheek. He can see it clear as day in your gleaming eyes, the drool that won’t stop, and the way your wounds are refusing to close because you don’t have enough sustenance. You nod sadly, your head bowed while tears of frustration burn behind your eyelids. Remmick is quick to wipe them away. “Shh, don’t cry, sugar. You’ll be alright. You got food right here.”

You look at him with confusion before seeing the way he’s presented his thick forearm to you, underside up. Your eyes widen and you almost jump immediately at the opportunity, your teeth aching painfully and hunger howling within you. He nods his head towards his arm. “Go on, darlin’. You know I wouldn’t let ya go hungry.”

You sit up, acting on autopilot as you grip his arm in both of your hands, your drool dripping onto his skin before your teeth sink in. Blood immediately comes to the surface of the puncture wounds, and you take every drop you’re offered. The iron-sweet tang on your tongue instantly brings out your hunger tenfold, your fangs digging even deeper into the soft skin. Remmick makes a low noise, something between a groan and a grunt, watching with satisfaction as you take from him.

It’s rare when he lets you do this. Typically there’s enough food for the both of you, enough to keep you happily satiated until the next time that primordial hunger comes knocking. But sometimes there’s nights when the hunt fails, nights like tonight when the need to feast is bad enough to kill you if it’s left too long, when you need to rely on your last resort. However, no matter what, Remmick will never let his lady go hungry.

The age of Remmick’s blood blooms in your mouth, rich with an aftertaste of ancient iron and old, hidden stories. Only people like you would know how much you can learn from someone’s blood, from the life force of their body. The whispers of the lives they led running along your tongue as you feast, the emotions they held within hopes and dreams. It’s fascinating, and it was something Remmick was eager to show you when you were first turned, teaching you the crimson stained wonders of being what he is.

You relish the feeling of his blood flowing through you, working to heal the wounds littering your body. His other hand rests firmly on the back of your neck, his fingers occasionally squeezing and letting you feel the pricks of his claws that have begun to slide from their sheaths. He keeps you there, encouraging you to take and take and take.

You eventually pull back, twisting out of his hold on you and releasing his bloody arm with a pop. Your breath comes as pants through your open mouth, blood staining your lips and teeth, the gleam having returned to your eyes. Your bites have always been cleaner than Remmick’s, less gruesome and destructive, leaving his forearm with tiny wounds that will heal quickly. The sight of red beading from them still makes you salivate but it’s easier to reel yourself in now, dragging your hunger back by a leash around its neck to keep it from going rabid. It allows your fangs and claws to be more willing to retract, your mind no longer running in restless, desperate circles around the concept of food.

You notice the way Remmick has been looking at you, full of some type of reverence mixed with relief, you think. Relief at the fact you’re not a sniveling, bleeding mess on the floor anymore, your usual shine quickly coming back. Your wounds have stitched themselves back together, bone no longer showing and just the outermost layers still being torn and burnt. It makes you feel like you can breathe again, every movement free of the horrible agony.

“C’mere.” Remmick says, voice dropping a few levels as he continues staring at your blood stained mouth. He pulls you in before you even have the chance to sit up properly, your lips meeting in a clash of tongues and teeth. He groans when he tastes his own blood on you, practically taking it from you with the way he licks you. You gasp against him as he fully invades your space, your back hitting the wooden door so that there’s nowhere else to go, his body effectively caging you in. His hands easily roam over your form, knowing every inch and detail with the precision of a man who’s explored them a hundred times before.

Hands come to rest on your waist and before you know it, you’re being hoisted up with a startled noise that Remmick quickly swallows with a kiss. His muscled biceps flex as he easily holds you against him, your legs coming to wrap around his hips and your hands gripping at his shoulders for purchase. You’re carried upstairs with a newfound urgency, Remmick kicking open the bedroom door and roughly laying you onto the soft sheets of a bed that used to belong to somebody else—before you two took over, of course.

Blood, sweat, and dirt immediately stain the covers beneath you, smearing across the fabric as you move. It’s nothing new, this happens just about every time you return from an exhilarating hunt. You both barely ever have the foresight to wash off first before climbing into bed together. Remmick follows after you, your hands resting on either side of his face to draw him in, never wanting to be apart for too long. His fingers pull at the shirt that was tucked into your pants that are too big on you, the ones you always wear on a hunt that are now ruined by the burn marks of silver chains.

His touch is always just on the side of too cold, a consequence of being undead, the same one that you suffer from. It’s something you were quick to grow used to, along with the way his temperature fluctuates depending on how much fresh blood he has coursing through him. His ring bites like ice beneath your shirt as he eases it up and over your body, tossing it somewhere into a corner to be picked up later.

“Mm, Remmick..” you mumble, your hands coming up to run through his short black hair, his bangs plastered to his forehead with sweat. His bloody chain dangles from his sternum, hanging just above you like a taunt.

“I know, sugar.” He responds, feeling the way your legs rub together beneath him, your body quivering with anticipation. His kisses trail from your lips to your jaw, then to your neck, past the spot where he bit you all those years ago. He licks away stains of the dried blood remaining from your sealed injuries, groaning like an animal at the taste that leaves him drooling.

Saliva smears across your skin on his way down your body, stopping briefly at your breasts. He takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling it against his tongue and teasing it between his thankfully normal teeth as you arch into him, little breathy moans and gasps tumbling out of you. He envelops the other breast in his calloused hand, squeezing and rolling the soft flesh between his fingers. “So beautiful… so good fer me, sugar.” He murmurs against you, his nose nudging at the space between your breasts where more blood has dried. It doesn’t take long for him to clean it off.

He makes quick work of your pants, undoing the buttons deftly and lifting your hips to tug them free. His hands run along your thighs lovingly, goosebumps rising in his wake. He straightens, red eyes roving over your now exposed body with appreciation. Drool beads at the corners of his lips, steadily building and running down his chin while you smile at him.

“Pretty thing, all fer me.” Remmick says it like a confirmation and a vow, even though he needs none. There’s nothing that could separate you two besides a stake through the heart or the sun’s warmth. You gave yourself to him completely the day you let him bite you, let him take your life and forge it into something new, something unholy and damned.

“All yours.” You agree, stretching your arms above your head like a cat. You give him a sly grin. “Now stop teasing.”

His eyebrows shoot up, a deep chuckle leaving him, even as he hooks his fingers beneath your underwear and tugs it off. “Always impatient, huh?”

You hum as he kneels, his strong arms coming up to wrap around your thighs and settle them nicely on his wide shoulders. “I just know how good you feel. Can’t a girl be excited?”

Remmick smirks, huffing a laugh. “Shoot, I don’t see why not.”

His breath fans across your cunt, already wet and glistening with your arousal. The red in his eyes smolders like coals, burning brighter with his desire as he looks at you like you’re his next meal. He leans in, that first connection acting like lightning shooting through you, your body arching and mouth falling open. His tongue licks between your folds, collecting your slick and dragging it up to your clit where he toys with the bud, circling it with little flicks and pecks while you moan above him.

Remmick sucks your clit into his mouth, the rest of you immediately responding in turn as you jolt from the pleasure. He knows how to play you like his banjo, how to keep you easy and pliant while he works you to climax. He knows your body like it’s his own, the bond you share allowing him to hold a presence within you, to tell your emotions and thoughts. Most of all, he knows how you like to be licked, his tongue dipping into your hole as your noises raise a pitch.

“Remmick.. fuck-“ You moan, hands coming down to run through his hair, tugging after a particularly harsh kiss to your clit. He groans into your pussy, the sound reverberating through you as he swallows down your arousal with an eagerness he doesn’t even display during feedings. His drool makes your cunt shine, mixing with your slick to the point you don’t know where he ends and you begin.

He practically buries himself into your cunt, licking and kissing and taking whatever you have to offer. His hands are like vices on your thighs, the unmistakable tips of his claws occasionally pricking your skin as they again slide from their nail beds with his excitement. You can feel the way pleasure courses through you, tightening your muscles and creating a familiar knot in your lower abdomen that will steadily build until it’s ready to come loose. It won’t be long with the way Remmick eats you like he hasn’t had a meal in years.

His nose nudges at your clit, his tongue circling your hole before slipping inside, collecting the wetness you continually drip for him. You whine loudly, pulling harder at the black strands of his hair, your thighs attempting to clench around his head. “Shit- feels so good Rem, fuck-“ You curse, falling back against the pillows, chest heaving.

You writhe under his ministrations, his hands having to move up to your hips just to keep you still, his biceps flexing against your legs. He knows how close you are so he ramps it up, licking from your center to your clit and drawing it into his mouth, his brows furrowed in concentration. Your moans and whimpers are music to his ears, listening to the way you call his name with a breathy gasp as he makes you cum.

It crashes over you like a wave, that knot coming undone and pleasure wracking your body. Remmick drinks it all, not letting a single drop of it go to waste as his eyes burn red. He’s quick to slip a hand between your legs, two fingers sinking into the plush heat of your pussy, his claws sheathed just for now. He pumps them in and out while you ride through your orgasm, scissoring your gummy walls to stretch you even further. He doesn’t let up, even as you grab at him to try and get him off, the attention bordering on overstimulation. He continues to kiss at your clit all the while, his fingers and his mouth bringing you straight into another orgasm that has you seeing white.

Every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire, overly sensitive and leaving your legs twitching. Remmick licks you clean with as much care and diligence a man like him can muster, his fanged teeth occasionally scraping against you and making you shudder. His fingers slip out of your warmth covered in your cum, your walls fluttering and aching at the emptiness that you know won’t last long.

He finally releases your thighs, letting them fall from his shoulders as he lifts himself from between your legs. The lower half of his face is covered in a shiny mixture of drool, cum, and blood, making him look all sorts of a mess. You couldn’t care less, knowing that no matter what he does, it’s going to be a little messy—and you love that about him.

He slowly makes his way back up your body, kissing from your clavicle to your ribs, to your breasts, and then up the column of your neck before at last reaching your lips. You’re eager to kiss him, hands tugging at his shoulders to pull him in, keeping him as close as possible. You taste yourself on his tongue, along with a familiar iron tang that has your hunger flaring again. You pull away only to lick along his chin, eagerly collecting the bloody mixture until there’s none left. Your fangs released without you even realizing.

“Yer still hungry.” He says it as a statement rather than a question, seeing the blatant craving in your dazed eyes, feeling it within himself as if it was his own. You’ve tried to subdue it all this time, not wanting to take more than you’re allowed, but it still makes your stomach clench, your teeth ache. Your body is too weak to resist the pangs, still too busy patching up whatever damage can’t be seen externally. Remmick coos at you, “c’mon, s’okay. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

You begin to protest, your more human sensibility allowing guilt to take charge. “You already gave me-“

He shakes his head, silencing you. “Sugar, ya won’t last long if yer starvin’. I think I ate enough for the both of us anyhow.” You think back to all those dead hunters in that clearing, their bodies strewn along the forest floor and their blood splattered on the grass like paint. You can still smell their foreign iron-laced scents on Remmick, and it only serves to make you crave more. Drool falls down your chin, and he just smiles knowingly. His head tilts, the skin on his neck becoming taut as he bares it to you. “C’mon now.”

There’s a singular moment of hesitation, where you look into those red gleaming eyes of his for a type of confirmation, and all you find is that he’s just watching you expectantly. Well, if a meal’s going to be served to you on a silver platter like this, you’d do good to take it.

Your jaw goes slack, your teeth sharp and ready, before your body lunges up to latch onto his neck. As the first drops hit your tongue, he grunts, his form falling over yours while he wraps an arm swiftly around your waist so you can both fall back onto the bed. His other hand slams down next to your head while his blood fills your mouth and you gulp it down like there won’t be a tomorrow.

Being fed on is always jarring for Remmick, his body still not used to it after the centuries of him being the only one to feast. His neck is so much different than his arm, he realizes, something dangerous being set off within him this time as a result. But it turns out he’d do just about anything for you, so he makes himself ease into the sensation, even as his claws dig into the bedsheets and his fanged teeth grind together hard enough to shatter, the primal part of him fearing that, for once, he’s being preyed on.

“That’s it, sugar.” He says with a husky laugh. “Shit.”

Past the initial shock, it’s easy for the pain to shift into pleasure. It is quite erotic, really, the way he can feel his own blood coursing through your body. The little noises you make while you feed on him, the trickles of blood mixing with spit on your chin, your strength returning all because of him. It fills him with a twisted sense of pride, knowing that he’s the one satiating that bone deep hunger, knowing his blood is mixing with yours and becoming one inside you. “Take it all, darlin’, suck me dry.” He groans, the tips of his claws making little pinpricks in your sides as he holds onto you.

It’s almost involuntary, the way his hips rut against you, his cock straining in his pants and demanding attention. It has his hands fumbling between your bodies, eager to undo the thick buckle of his belt with a clink, the buttons of his trousers following after. You nearly choke on his blood when you feel his shaft rubbing between your folds, coating himself in the mixture of your cum and his drool. He does a few slow, experimental thrusts, not sinking in just yet but simply feeling you instead. It has you groaning against his neck, your teeth digging in deeper and greedily drinking at the ambrosia that is Remmick’s blood while he pants above you.

You release him with a sharp gasp when the head of his cock catches your entrance, at last pressing in with slippery ease. His moan is throaty and guttural, a shiver running through him at the way your walls draw him in, enveloping him in plush warmth. He sheathes himself completely and he stays with his hips flush to yours for just a moment, allowing himself to enjoy the initial pleasure. It amazes you how he never gets tired of it, even after his centuries of being alive and his years of fucking you.

You pull him back down with hands on either side of his face, encouraging him to kiss you. He does, of course, his mouth enveloping yours just as he begins to thrust, drawing almost completely from your cunt before slamming back in. His tongue roves over yours, licking away any remnants of his blood and swallowing down your moans. He pulls away with his chest heaving, a sharp groan falling from his open mouth, fangs on full display just beneath his lips.

There’s a sudden wetness against your collarbones that makes you jolt, looking down to see blood from Remmick’s neck splattered along your skin. The wound you’d bitten into him is still bleeding, droplets coming loose with his thrusts and the way he’s bent over you. He smirks, taking two fingers and drawing them over the bite marks, collecting the blood smeared there. “Clean up yer mess, sugar.” He tells you between breathy pants, bringing his fingers to your mouth.

You take them eagerly, swirling the pads against your tongue, licking off every bit of blood and enjoying the earthly, metal taste. He watches you in awe, his eyes burning bright red in the dim lighting, full of adoration and reverence and desire. Your spit coats his fingers generously, leaving them shiny when you let go with a wet smack. He buries his head into the side of your neck with a disbelieving chuckle that quickly morphs into a moan, his hot breath fanning across your skin as your hands clutch at his bloodied white tank.

You take the opportunity to mouth at the bite on his throat like an animal, like a cat grooming its mate. You whine suddenly when he hits that spot at the top of your core, the one that has you keening and pleasure sparking like lightning beneath your skin. “Fu-fuck, Remmick-“ You mewl, claws digging into the expanse of his back, even through the tank. He growls appreciatively at the pain, at the red, angry lines undoubtedly rising along his skin and beading with blood.

Remmick nips hungrily at your neck, his hands digging harshly into your sides. He’s practically laid over top of you while he thrusts his cock deep into your throbbing pussy, keeping you as close as possible. There’s something possessive and raw about it, about the way he breathes you in, clutching at you desperately, biting you as if to prove you’re there.

“Ain’t never lettin’ you out of my sight again. Nearly fuckin’ lost ya.” He snarls with a groan, his claws digging in a little deeper at the memories of what happened just hours prior. Though your body no longer holds proof of it, he won’t forget anytime soon. He’ll chain you to him if he has to, just to make sure you’re safe.

“I- I know- I’m sorry-“ You say, moans stuttering with the way his hips slam into you, fueled by his declaration and the feral desires that howl a constant song within him. It’s not often that Remmick reveals any kind of vulnerability to you, instead letting you guess at it based on what you can gather from the bond you share. But it seems the very real idea of you bound in silver and burning brought it out of him, even if only a little.

You’re both nearing release, the pleasure burning in your core while his movements grow choppy and uneven. The noises he makes change, becoming breathy at the edges as his brows furrow, his nose nudging at your jaw. “Rem- Remmick- shit-“ You whine, feeling the way you’re so close to tumbling off the edge.

“I got ‘cha, sugar.” He says, voice rumbling right next to your ear. One hand comes between you, his calloused fingers finding your clit and swirling it in hurried circles, your mouth falling open and your eyes pinching shut as your muscles tense. His response is near instant, his free hand pinching your chin like a reminder, “nuh-uh, look at me, darlin’.”

You have no choice but to oblige him, meeting his gaze through tear stained lashes. You learned quickly how obsessed he is with seeing your face, seeing your eyes. No matter what position you’re in, he’ll make sure he can still see you or else you’ll find yourself flipped around to rectify it. You think he does it as a way to ground himself, a near impossible feat in an immortal body that’s hundreds of years old. You let him use you as an anchor, keeping him tethered here with you, two lonely souls finding company in one another.

It feels like all the breath gets knocked from your lungs as your third orgasm overtakes you. You whimper and whine and moan Remmick’s name, your hands scrabbling at him desperately. The way your cunt spasms around him makes him quick to follow after you with a loud curse, his cum hot as it paints your walls white, filling you to the brim with him. He rides out his high, emptying every last drop into you with small jerks of his hips and soft words, encouraging you to take it all.

“Fuck, sugar, yer somethin’ else.” Remmick pants, muscled chest heaving, straightening just a little to look at you in your fucked-out state. Hair wild, skin flushed, looking almost human if it weren’t for the unholy gleam in your eyes. There’s sticky trails of blood and spit all along your forms, remnants of both the hunt and your copulation. It’s made a further mess of the sheets below you, but quite frankly, you’re too tired to care.

He slowly pulls out with a groan, cum dribbling from your abused hole with his cock no longer there to keep you plugged full. You wince at the feeling, your energy spent and your body rightfully exhausted. As much as Remmick would love to keep you ruined with the reminders of what he did to you, he knows how you hate sleeping while sticky—and he needs you to be able to rest. He gently pries himself from you, even as you continuously try to wrap your arms around him again. “I’ll be right back, darlin’.” He promises, finally getting free despite your grumbling.

He gets a washcloth from the bathroom, wetting it with warm water before returning. Your arms are open for him, welcoming him back into your embrace so you can feel him against you, so you can feel complete. He holds you like something precious, cleans you like you’re made of delicate glass. He wipes the blood off with no issue, his appetite blissfully satiated for now, and he’s gentle between your legs, this routine so familiar that he could do it with his eyes closed. You go limp from his touch, your body pliant beneath him. He kisses you more than once, unable to help himself when you bask so nicely in the afterglow.

When he’s finished, Remmick tosses the cloth absently into a corner somewhere, followed by his bloody tank that joins his button up on the floor to be washed later. He then settles into a non-soiled part of the bed, sitting back against the headboard and easily pulling you on top of him. You simply follow wherever his hands want you to go, more than happy to relax in his lap with your head pressed to his bare chest and his thick arms enveloping you. His scent floods your nose—sweat, iron, dirt, and old leather, making you hum appreciatively.

“My sweet girl,” Remmick murmurs against your hair, his hand running along your back in soothing lines. He pulls one of the spare quilts free and wraps it around you and you nestle into its comfort, the heavy material soft against your bare skin. You nuzzle against Remmick, too tired to resist fully giving in to those base desires for warmth and safety, knowing he’ll give you exactly that. There’s a kiss pressed to your forehead. “Rest. Y’need it.”

“You’ll still be here?” You mumble, barely able to muster a sentence, eyes already beginning to shut. Sometimes there’s days when you need that extra confirmation, his promise that he won’t leave you behind, that he’ll still be waiting for you by the time you wake up. You feel his grip on you tighten, just for a moment.

“‘Course I will, sugar. I ain’t ever leavin’.”

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

Tags; @vesnaragast

[szatears]

inked all over, stack.

summary: stack comes back to you with a new surprise, one that you must say suits him a little too well.

pairing: modernau!stack x blackfem!reader

warnings: smut, oral (fem receiving), p in v, use of the n word, descriptions of reader.

notes: modernau!stack has finally arrived! ever since i made that post about smoke and stack w tattoos i couldn't get it out of my head so here we are! also switched up the pov to third person for this one. ignore any errors, did not proofread at all. smoke version coming soon :)

"Goddamn, you said how long?!" Stack's eyes widened as he leaned back in the tattoo chair, sat opposite his tattoo artist, Deuce.

"We're looking at 'bout six hours?" Deuce laughed seeing the expression on his client's face.

Stack was always at Deuce's parlour when he wanted a piece done on his body, he didn't trust anyone else to do it for him. Same with his brother. Today, he walked in wanting to get something he had on his mind for months.

"Six hours? Nigga, I'ma need you to cut it down to like, two and a half. My lady already pissed I ain't wake her up with a kiss this morning," he blew out a breath, thinking about the messages his wife had left him a few hours ago.

He'd been up since the early hours, and it was almost 4 o'clock now. He was only meant to be out running a few errands with Smoke and some by himself, but he just couldn't get the tattoo out of his mind.

Deuce laughed, nodding his head as he placed the drawing of what Stack wanted on his forearm. "This good for you?"

Stack looked down at the placement, a faint smile on his lips. He couldn't wait to see her reaction to this. "Yeah, it's good."

He knew how the process would go, he just hoped he'd be back home at a reasonable time to not get his ass chewed out. Mrs. Moore didn't play like that.

He made himself comfortable, his arm out on the extendable part of the bed to allow Deuce to do his work. Many Men by 50 Cent played through the speakers, and Stack pulled his phone out of his pockets before Deuce started tattooing.

He already had a few tattoos, but he still wasn't too used to the pain. Smoke on the other hand? Stack would say "you could tattoo that nigga's eyeball and he won't even flinch."

Stack had put a lot of thought into this piece. It would be the beginning of a sleeve he hoped to complete later on, but to him, this was the most important part of it. It had the typical designs of a sleeve ─── shaded clouds with the sun peeking through, cursive writing with some red for that pop. But it was what was written that held the most meaning to him.

With time, Stack came to realise that one of his wife's favourite ways of expressing her love to him was through words. It could be something simple, like telling him she was proud of him or that he was doing well with everything. Or it would be more, like a note in the morning before she left to go somewhere, or one of the many texts she sent him throughout the day.

One of these letters stuck with him the most. In it, she wrote about how he'd become such an important part of her life, the tie that held them together growing stronger each day. The exact words he was getting tattooed on his arm were "you're my favourite person and my forever person, i got you always," something she never failed to mention to him.

It was obvious how in love the two were. You rarely saw them without the other, and even if they were, it wouldn't take long for either to mention the other.

Along with the words, Stack added her lipstick print that she always signed her letters off with. He knew he'd be making a joke soon enough about how her lips were always gonna be on him now.

The rest of the piece had some other smaller yet intricate designs, he told Deuce he could freehand whatever, he trusted him like that.

-

Surprisingly, Deuce actually managed to cut his estimated time in half, finishing the tattoo almost three hours later. As Deuce finished taking pictures and wrapping Stack's arm, his phone rang, looking down at the caller id to see his wife's name with a heart next to it. He accepted the facetime, smiling at the mug on her face.

"Why are you smiling? You must like playing with your life..." she mumbled, fixing her hair in the camera frame.

"I can't be happy to see you no more?" He chuckled, watching her fight back a small smile. "You look good."

"I know," she leaned her face closer to her camera. "Where are you? Come home already."

"I'ma be home in a minute, mama, I'm at the shop with Deuce," Stack turned his camera to face the man who was tidying up his supplies as he held up a peace sign.

"Hey, Deuce. So you're the reason my man's out til these hours when he said he'd only be gone for two tops?" Her head tilted as Deuce laughed.

"It ain't my fault he picks the tricky designs."

"Design─── Baby, you got a new piece?" All of a sudden the frown on her face was wiped off, replaced with a smile.

"Yeah, I did. Look at you, smilin' over there," Stack laughed as he got up from the bed, reaching into his pocket to pull out a stack of 50s, handing it to Deuce.

Before he could even complain about being given too much money, Stack gave him a look. "You really gon' make me argue with my lady on the phone?"

"No, sir," Deuce smiled, putting the money away.

"Aight, til next time Deuce."

He grabbed his coat and left the shop, opening the door to his car that was parked right at the front. "You need me to bring anything, baby?" he looked down at his phone as he put on his seatbelt, seeing his wife already staring at him. The smile that graced his face was just his natural reaction to seeing her; he couldn't get enough of her,

"Could you get some more fruit from Mama Glo's corner? If she's still open."

"Yeah. You gon' stay on the phone?"

"No, I'm gonna take a shower real quick. But I'll see you soon, handsome. I love you," she kissed the camera.

"I love you too."

-

Stack came back with a brown paper bag containing the fruit his wife had asked for, closing the front door with his foot. He slipped his trainers off, walking to the kitchen and placing the fruit on the counter. When he didn't hear the sound of footsteps coming down to greet him, he tilted his head, making his way up the stairs.

He found her lying on their bed, dressed only in a bra and a small pair of shorts. She turned her head to the door when she heard the floorboards creak, a smile on her face as she set her phone down on the bedside table.

Stack smiled at her smile, his hands resting on her waist as she stood in front of him. His frame slightly towered over hers, his head dipping down a little to kiss her lips.

"Nice of you to come home, Elias," she hummed into the kiss.

"You know I could never be away from you for too long." His words were like music to her eyes as she used the hands that were around his neck to softly run her fingers over his skin.

"I got your fruit," he told her, tapping her hip twice so she'd let him go briefly, letting him take off his shirt. It was only when he took off the black muscle t-shirt that he wore, that she let her eyes run over the tattoos that adorned his chest and back before she remembered the reason he went out.

She let her eyes wander over him whilst he put his phone on charge, finally spotting the wrapped part of his right arm. Stack glanced at her, noticing how quiet she'd gotten. "You wanna see it?" he laughed at how eagerly she nodded in response to his question.

He stepped closer to her, taking a seat on the edge of the bed as she stood between his legs. He slowly took off the wrapping of the tattoo, much to his wife's impatience. When he finally revealed the finished work of art, the look on her face made his impulse decision ten times worth it.

He let her gently run her hands over the ink, waiting for to notice what made it even more special. He watched her face closely as her eyes flickered over his forearm, holding it with so much care. It wasn't until she turned his hand over so his palm was facing her, that she saw the writing.

"Elias..." she whispered, a pout on her face as she ran over the words and the copy of her lips.

"You like it?" he smiled at her, flashing his gold caps.

"Like it? Baby, I'm in love with it, oh my God," she couldn't tear her eyes off it. Throughout their relationship, Stack would always say something along the lines of "I'ma get your name tatted on my face," but this was far more meaningful.

"Good, 'cause it hurt like a bitch," he mumbled, pulling her into his lap. He kissed the side of her face as she held onto his arm. "I love you more than life itself."

"I love you endlessly," she took his face in both her hands, kissing him.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

He turned his head into the kiss, letting his lips leave hers to kiss down her neck to her collar. He flipped them over, bringing her to lay back down in the middle of the bed.

Her hands ran down his toned arms, massaging his broad shoulders. She let her fingers trace over the inked parts of his skin that she could reach, having memorised where every part was.

Stack used his knee to nudge her legs apart, letting him slot in between them as he kissed her. His tongue danced with hers whilst she held him closer to her face by the back of his neck. Her soft moans only encouraged him more, as did the growing friction her hips created against his.

"Yeah, you gon' have to come up outta these," he mumbled against her lips as his hands fumbled down to her shorts, pulling them down her legs.

"Elias..." she whispered, tugging at his belt. She was almost naked whilst he was still half clothed.

He smiled at her, pulling away from her lips to kiss a trail down to her pelvis. "Hold on, baby. I wanna make you feel good first." He kissed her clit over the lacy underwear she wore, and she shuddered, leaning back further into the pillows.

Stack used his thumb to rub her clothed clit, watching how her legs started to close around his hand. "Baby, please," she whined, and it didn't take long for him to give in to her pleas, taking off her underwear.

Just as quick as he had done that, his head lowered closer to her core, his mouth latching onto her creaming opening. His tongue licked up and down, his hand holding either side of her hips as he ate her out. She let out a loud moan, her hands gripping the back of his head.

"Fuck, baby, just like that," she breathed out, her eyes fluttering with pleasure.

"Yeah?" he mumbled against her, the vibrations just adding to the feeling.

Stack lapped at her for all she was worth, the unholy sounds emitting from her lips and his work. He used his thumb to rub her clit as he continued to work her away with his tongue. She writhed underneath him, feeling that familiar coil inside of her begin to surface.

"Why you moving away, huh? You can take it mama, I know you can," he assured her, replacing his tongue with his fingers as he briefly looked up at her. The sight alone almost made her cum right there; his mustache and goatee coated in her fluids.

She couldn't keep it in, especially when he went back to her with his tongue, his two fingers pumping in and out just as fast. "Shit, I'm gonna─── Oh, my God," her moans aligned with her release, all over his mouth.

Stack continued to eat her out through her high, her hips grinding into his face as he sought more. "Baby let up," she groaned, trying to push his face away.

"One more, baby. For me?" How could she say no when he was making feel that good?

It wasn't long before she came again, her body letting up as Stack cleaned her up. Only he could make her tap out like that.

He finally moved his head from between her legs, hovering over her as she grabbed his face, pulling him down for a messy kiss. She licked over his lips, moaning at the taste of her on him. His hand travelled to her throat, the same arm that was newly inked now right in front of her.

Stack's tattoos were such a turn on, it was almost impossible to describe. If he wanted to make her orgasm fast, all he had to do was talk her through it, or have her analyse his tattoos. Easy.

"You not tapping out on me, are you?" he smirked, as she gave him a lazy smile. She could feel his dick through his pants at her entrance. Shaking her head, she let go of him to take his belt off, eyes on him as she pulled him out of his boxers.

He briefly got up to take them off all the way, before he settled back between her legs, hiking them up his hips. She let her arms rest over his shoulders as he pushed in, both of them groaning.

He fit so perfectly with her, and he made her feel that way every time, through sex or not. The sound of skin slapping soon took over the room, as did their moans.

Stack ground his hips into hers, his head resting in the crook of her neck, leaving small love bites where he could.

"You're doing me so good, E," she whispered lowly in his ear which only spurred him on. He picked up his pace, finding that spot of hers that had her arching into him.

"Like that, baby? Hm?" he asked as she could only not in reply, too far into it to speak actual words. Stack fucked her so good, without fail every time.

He looked down at where they connected briefly, fascinated by her precious pussy taking him in so well. "You're doing so good for me, pretty." he told her, his eyes back on hers.

She managed to keep the contact for a few moments before he had her eyes rolling at the back of her head, her muscled walls clenching around his dick.

He grunted at that, feeling himself close to unravelling. But like he always did, he wanted her to come first.

"I'm almost there, E, keep going─── Yeahhhh, just like that," she moaned, whining even as she felt herself about to come for the third time. She held his head to her face as he kissed her, groaning as she reached closer and closer to her climax.

"Fuck!" she screamed as he cum coated his dick, spilling out as he fucked her through it.

"You got it baby, shit, I'm gonna cum too, hold on," his words trailed off to a whisper as he came in her, her eyes fluttering shut as she adjusted to the overbearing amount of pleasure only her man could give her.

Stack's thrusts slowed down as he pushed his seed back in her, a lazy smirk on her face as she watched him do so. He pulled out slowly, gently laying on top of her. She brought her legs around his waist, kissing his temple as they caught their breath.

"Damn," Stack sighed happily. "Might have to get my whole body tatted up now."

taglist. @childishgambinaax @abriefnirvana @blackisy2k @chrisevansmentee @siasoup @amethyst09 @heauxtales @skywalker0809 @thelightknight21 @klssngss @atomicearthquakemusic7 @oc3anbxbyxoxo @honestlyurslol @simpingfor-wakasa @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @favoritten

[bloomseishiro]

Hi! Can I request some BLLK drabbles (with whichever BLLK characters you like) where the boys see the reader in tight clothes for the first time? Like, the reader usually wears baggy clothing or stuff that hides their curves/body figure, so it’s a total surprise! It doesn’t have to be a dress—tight shorts and crop tops work too!

Anyways, I love you and your fics! You’re doing amazing, hunny! 💕 Keep doing what you’re doing—your stories make me smile and feel the thrill!! 💓🩷💗

what a surprise — he sees you in tight clothes for the first time

౨ৎ ft. nagi seishiro, itoshi sae, itoshi rin

a/n. THANK YOU SWEET ANON FOR THE REQUEST!! i had sm fun writing this and ur kind words def made my day ^-^ i chose the three characters i’m most comfy with heh one day i will expand!! >.>

contents. fluff, pre-relationship, timeskip/pro soccer player bllk boys, reader wears a tight dress for rin and nagi’s + crop top/short shorts for sae’s, these are suggestive so rated 16+ pls ! 

NAGI SEISHIRO

Nagi isn’t one to go to parties often. But this one was for Reo’s birthday and you were begging him to go. 

He thought it would be less of a hassle to simply agree with you and make an appearance. Besides, he could always bring his phone and hide in the corner of the room, if needed. 

But when Nagi sees the dress you’re wearing to the party, he decides maybe agreeing to come wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

“Does this dress make my butt look big?” you ask from his room, popping your head out of the doorframe. 

The two of you are getting ready at Nagi’s apartment, mainly so he can’t flake at the last minute, and he had stepped out earlier to give you privacy while changing. 

At your question, Nagi looks around lazily before his eyes widen slightly at the sight of you. The dress on your body is short and tight, leaving nothing to the imagination when it comes to the shape of your waist and hips. 

Nagi swallows with uncertainty. It’s different from your usual attire, that much even he could recognize. 

“Yes,” he manages to answer your question honestly. 

You beam as if that's just the response you’re looking for. “Great! I was going to wear my usual clothes, but Reo said we should dress nice since his family invited some celebrities.”

Nagi nods in acknowledgment. “Your dress is nice. But your usual clothes are nice, too.”

Hiding a giggle, you tug the dress down so it covers more of your thighs. Nagi can’t help but notice how shiny and supple your skin looks there. 

“Do you like one more than the other?” you ask playfully. 

He shakes his head hesitantly and he feels heat rise to his cheeks. “I like…both.”

“I’ll make sure to mix it up sometimes, then.”

ITOSHI SAE

Sae isn’t a saint. He’s never claimed nor pretended to be. While his focus has always been on soccer, he wasn’t one to turn down one night stands so long as they were conveniently timed for him. 

All that to say, he’s seen plenty of minimally-clad bodies before. But he’s never felt the dryness in his throat that he does now. All from seeing you in those denim booty shorts and cropped baby tee. 

Of course, the ridiculous shirt has, “Make Men Cry” written across your chest, only accentuating the curves you normally kept hidden even more. You may very well be able to reach that goal if you keep walking around like that. 

His face is neutral; only Sae himself feels the slight clench of his jaw as his eyes trail across your figure. 

“Do I look bad?” you blurt hesitantly, tugging at the hem of your shirt that landed just above your belly-button. Your fidgeting only serves to draw more attention to the exposed, soft skin on your stomach. 

Sae blinks slowly. “No. Who said that?”

“No one, but you just keep staring at me…” 

“Not because you look bad,” he corrects. “It’s because you look hot.”

“You think?” you ask shyly, peering up at him through your lashes. “My friend and I went on a shopping spree and I wanted to change up my wardrobe. Just sometimes, at least.”

Sae makes a mental note to thank your friend. “Well, if you need more clothes, you can use my card.”

“I’ll make sure to get more of these cropped tops. Since you seem to like it so much,” you tease.

“For whatever reason, only on you.”

ITOSHI RIN

Awestruck doesn’t begin to describe how Rin feels when he sees you in a silk dress that gracefully falls against all your curves. 

Galas are a pain, a stupid event he would skip if not for his PR team’s incessant prodding, but at least he managed to drag you along with him for this one. 

He didn’t, however, actually expect you to dress the part. He would’ve been fine if you had shown up in the oversized shirts and baggy pants you typically wore, but he was completely caught off guard at the sight of you now.

“Can you help me tighten the back?” you ask bashfully, turning around to reveal the almost-backless dress that held itself together by a few measly strings. “I don’t want it to fall off at the gala…”

Rin’s ears heat up and he mentally slaps himself for picturing that. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You aren’t one to wear revealing clothes often, and this is the most skin he’s seen since he ever met you. His fingers ghost the back of your spine as he fastens the strings into a little bow. His fingers jerk as he skims the softness of your skin and he clears his throat to distract himself. 

“Is this good?” he asks hoarsely. 

You tug at the straps to make sure it’s secure and nod brightly. “Yep! Thanks, Rin. Do you need help with anything? I can tie your tie in return!”

Panicked, he shakes his head and quickly fastens his tie himself. It’s the fastest Rin has ever gotten it done. Once finished, he catches you staring at him with a funny look. 

“You’re acting silly,” you say, sticking your tongue out.

“Sorry. I know. I’m just not used to you looking like that.”

Your gaze meets the floor as you shuffle your weight from foot to foot. “Is it weird?”

“It’s unfamiliar. But you look…” he trails off, cheeks a bright pink. “You look really pretty.”

You blink in surprise and an equally embarrassed look graces your features. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he coughs. “Not that you’re not always pretty. Just…it’s different.”

“Yeah,” you repeat, giggling through the shyness. “Well, if you want to see me like this more often, I guess you have to invite me as your plus one to more of these events.”

“Do you want to attend more of these with me?” asks Rin in surprise. 

“Not particularly,” you admit and Rin scoffs. “But maybe it’s worth it to see your cute reactions.”

His face heats up once more. “Shut up.” 

You laugh at him, placing your hand on your hips and only drawing more attention to your curves. Maybe Rin doesn’t hate galas, after all.

[midniqhtt]

james buchanan ‘bucky’ barnes

masterlist • marvel • 05/13/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs six

one I two I three I four I five

𑣲 friendly banter I @wwinterwitch

sam asks for your help on a mission. you're reunited with him, Joaquín and Bucky. the last one really likes to banter. you think it's just a friendly exchange. it's actually a bit more than that

𑣲 friendly introductions I @/wwinterwitch

bucky unexpectedly shows up at your apartment, and he's brought a few people with him

𑣲 a place for yelena I @eufezco

after disappearing for weeks, consumed by her own darkness, yelena shows up in your house unexpectedly and decides to reach out to you and bucky, her best friends, just to find out that you're pregnant and you wanted her in your baby's life.

𑣲 in the middle I @ama3003

Being caught in the middle is always hard.

𑣲 everything’s just perfect I @/ama3003

You're Bucky's ex-wife and you always seem to be there whenever he needs you.

𑣲 thunderbolts? I @ang3ltine

An unexpected surprise awaits you when Bucky shows up at your house with a group of strangers

𑣲 alone in this shitty world I @starktonyx

After Yelena’s sudden outburst, the group scatters around the streets of New York. And, as if this wasn’t already the weirdest day of your life, you find yourself reaching to comfort the last person you ever thought you'd feel sorry for, John Walker. And Bucky is as confused as you are.

𑣲 small circles I @aquaticmercy

Bucky Barnes is still getting used to modern dating… and hates that you have to work with your exes.

𑣲 interstate love song I @/aquaticmercy

Bucky tells the team he saw his Hydra days in The Void. You are the only one who knows him well enough to know he is lying.

𑣲 meet me halfway I @/aquaticmercy

Bucky has to recruit the love of his life to save New York from the void. He doesn't know if she wants to ever see him again, though.

𑣲 not exactly a secret I @navybrat817

You and Bucky are really good teammates... and more.

𑣲 don’t look or touch I @/navybrat817

Bucky isn't having a good day and John suffers the consequences.

𑣲 hit to the head I @/navybrat817

Bucky doesn't think he needs medical attention after a hit to the head, but he's glad he met you.

𑣲 for better or for worse I @helaintoloki

You want a divorce, but Bucky needs your help for one last mission. Luckily, marriage is all about compromise

𑣲 grumpy!bucky I @lovebugism

the one where bucky wants to kiss you but the rest of the thunderbolts won't seem to let him

𑣲 in the suit?! I @delicatebarness

𑣲 you or nothing I @feathersandferns

when the Thunderbolts enter the void, Bucky goes missing. You take it upon yourself to find him, venturing into his deepest pockets of his shame.

𑣲 midnight confessions I @jobean12-blog

A late night gives you the opportunity to flirt with Bucky and the next night he comes right back for more.

𑣲 drawing the line I @fireinmoonshot

Bucky Barnes has messed up big time ... he just doesn't know it until he sees you and realises he really should've checked his texts.

𑣲 super soldier domesticated I @writingcroissant

Domestic scenes with Bucky Barnes, because Bucky Barnes deserves to be happy.

𑣲 the one that got away I @writing-for-marvel

When Bucky enters the void, he expects his memories as The Winter Soldier to haunt him, or perhaps even death itself, instead, he finds himself face to face with you the night you broke up.

[gay-tomcat]

🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏just stop life for TWO DAYS PLEASE GOD, just let me idle in my room for two days at 10:40 pm at night for 48 hours where nothing else life happens so I can just CREATE. It's all I NEEEEED, ideally I'd love to have this happen like once a year but once in my lifetime is good enough I NEED TO WRITE AND DRAW AND BUILD LEGO AND JUST CHILLLL PLEASSSEEEEE

wishing I could freeze time so fanfic writers could write all of their slow-burn enemies to lovers and gay porn and fix-it fics and all of their WIPs and prompts without having to worry about life and other responsibilities

[woolying]

my things for tetro pink art collabs !!!! wada is from the graduation collab and the rest are from the surprise photo collab teehee

im so glad i got to be part of these! even if i couldnt do as much as i wanted to (school😭) im happy to have done something to celebrate the end of pink <3 and im extremely happy i got to do something with other artists its so great i love working with you guys

and most of all THANK YOU VON AND TETRO PINK TEAM !!!!! tetro is VERY GOOD all the characters are so excellent and the plot is magnificent and the humor is sublime and the voice acting is marvelous and the EMOTIONAL MOMENTSSS theyre so splendid tremendous brilliant (shout out thesaurus dot com) i cant believe pink was only the start i really am so excited to see what comes next!!

Please go check out the full projects! they are soo great:

photo collab gdrive link (pls download...look at our canvas in all its glory...yogurt worked so hard putting it together sob)

grad collab link + other half that im not in

as a treat have my few idea thumbnails i didnt have time to finish for photo collab (theyre messy and probably incoherent tho) vv

[mintyys-blog]

PLEAAAASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE WRITE MORE VILTRUMITE MARK god im STARVED of that man i could put someone in a chokehold over him 😭💔

anyway i was hoping that maybe just maybe you’d write about a slightly more gentle nsfw of viltrumite mark, headcanons or a fic idm, but basically i was hoping you’d make a gentler version of him after he’s like. I DONT KNWO HOW TO EXPLAIN im so sorry i hope you understand 😞😞

— 🦭.

JUST FOR YOU | viltrumite mark x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: gentle domination, emotional sex, aftercare, soft!Viltrumite Mark, praise, slow grinding, slight overstimulation, size kink vibes.

You never thought he could touch like this. Mark—emperor of ash, reaper of worlds, the man who made entire fleets kneel—was trembling under your hands. Not in fear. Not in pain.

But from need.

“Lie back,” he murmured, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet.

You obeyed, your body already warm from the heat in his eyes. It wasn’t the hunger of a conqueror tonight—it was something deeper. Something fragile, buried beneath all that fire and fury. Like this moment was the only thing keeping him sane.

He crawled over you slowly, his huge form caging yours in, but not to overpower. To protect. Like you were something rare. Something that mattered.

His mouth met yours again, deeper now, his tongue slow and searching. You whimpered when he kissed down your throat, lingering at every pulse point like he was memorizing them.

“I think about you more than I should,” he rasped against your skin. “Even when I’m covered in blood. Even when I’m burning things to the ground. You’re always there.”

Your hands slid down his chest, feeling muscle under your palms. The tension in him—the restraint—it was aching. You could tell he was holding back.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “You won’t break me.”

He growled at that—but it wasn’t angry. It was desperate. Worshipful.

“You think I don’t want to devour you?” he breathed, pushing your thighs open with his knee. “You think I don’t want to bury myself so deep you forget your own name?”

He lined himself up, thick and heavy against your entrance. But even now, he didn’t slam into you.

He eased in. Inch by inch. Watching your face like he was listening for the faintest sound of discomfort.

You gasped, back arching. He was… bigger than usual tonight. Or maybe it just felt that way because of how slow he was going. The stretch was toe-curling, the pressure delicious.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “Take it. Doing so good for me.”

Once he was fully seated inside you, he stilled, breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours.

“Fuck,” he exhaled. “You feel like peace.”

Then he started to move.

Slow, deep strokes. Like he wasn’t trying to fuck the breath out of you—but imprint himself inside you. Every roll of his hips hit something unbearable, every thrust left you clenching around him.

You whimpered. He smiled—but it was soft. Pained.

“You gonna come for me like this?” he murmured. “Just from me being gentle?”

You nodded, clinging to him. “I’m close already—Mark, please—”

He shushed you with kisses, sliding one hand between your legs to rub slow circles against your clit. His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Come for me,” he whispered, voice thick. “Let me feel it. Let me give you this.”

You shattered.

Your body arched beneath him, your moan caught between his lips as he kissed you through it. He didn’t stop. Just kept grinding into you, drawing out your orgasm until tears welled in your eyes.

You were so sensitive—but he was still moving. Gentle, but insistent. Still needing.

“Again,” he groaned. “Give me another. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You sobbed, overwhelmed in the best way. “Mark—I can’t—!”

“Yes, you can. You will.”

He angled his hips, grinding into that perfect spot until your second orgasm slammed into you like a wave. Your nails dug into his back, legs trembling, mouth falling open in a silent cry.

This time, he came with you.

He groaned your name like a prayer, cock twitching deep inside you as he spilled into your warmth. His whole body shuddered, and then—he collapsed.

Not fully. He caught himself, still cradling your face, still buried inside you.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

And when he finally pulled out, he didn’t move far. Just laid beside you, pulling you onto his chest, stroking your hair in silence.

“…You make me feel like I’m still human,” he said, voice barely audible.

You kissed the scar just above his heart. “You are, Mark. With me, you always will be.” The light was golden again.

Not harsh like fire, not dim like dusk. Just warm—gentle—and streaming in across your bare legs tangled in the sheets. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of a ship’s engines and the slow, even breathing of the Viltrumite beside you.

Mark was already awake.

He hadn’t moved much. One arm was draped lazily over your hip, his body behind yours like a heat source, impossibly solid. You could feel his chest rise and fall against your back, steady and grounded in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. Not as a ruler. Not as a weapon.

But here, now, with you?

He wasn’t anything but a man holding the only softness he had left in the universe.

You shifted slightly, and his grip instinctively tightened—just a little. Not to trap you. Not to warn. Just to feel that you were still here.

“…Don’t go yet,” he mumbled, voice husky with sleep and sex.

You turned in his arms, facing him. His eyes cracked open, still heavy-lidded, dark lashes brushing against his cheeks. The light kissed his skin, golden on gold, and he blinked like he wasn’t used to you being this close after a night like that.

“I wasn’t going far,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “Just to stretch.”

He exhaled. One hand cupped your jaw. “Stay anyway.”

His thumb stroked your cheek. Then your lips. Then slid down your throat, pausing at the faint red mark where his mouth had lingered last night.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

You shook your head. “You were… gentle.”

That word made something crack behind his eyes. Like it meant more to him than it should have. Like being gentle wasn’t something he believed he deserved.

Mark kissed your collarbone.

Then your shoulder.

Then your stomach, dipping under the sheet like he was nuzzling a prayer into your skin.

“You stayed,” he murmured. It wasn’t an accusation. Just disbelief.

Your fingers combed through his hair as he lay there, breathing you in. “Of course I did. Where else would I go?”

“I’ve never let anyone see me like that,” he said, almost to himself. “I’ve fucked. I’ve claimed. I’ve conquered. But last night…” His voice caught. “I didn’t want to own you.”

You waited. “I just wanted to feel you.” Your heart ached in your chest.

Mark sat up slowly, the blanket falling to his waist. You saw the way he rubbed his temples—like he was trying to ground himself, like something about this scared him more than battle. He stood, all golden muscle and long limbs, and grabbed a fruit ration from the desk nearby.

Then he came back.

He sat beside you and held out a piece of fruit.

You blinked. “You’re… feeding me?”

“Last night used up your strength. You need it back.” He placed the fruit against your lips and arched a brow. “Open.”

You bit into it.

He watched you chew like it was the most intimate thing he’d ever witnessed.

“Still sore?” he asked, voice a little darker now.

You didn’t answer. Just pulled the sheet up higher, which told him everything he needed.

Mark grinned. Slowly. That dangerous, wicked mouth twitching upward—but his eyes were still soft.

“You begged so sweet,” he murmured. “Every time I went slow, you begged me to go faster.”

You flushed. “Shut up.”

He leaned in. “Make me.”

But he didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

Instead, he laid back down, pulled you against his chest again, and closed his eyes. His fingers tangled with yours, resting on your stomach.

He didn’t say anything else for a long time.

You almost thought he’d fallen back asleep—until you heard him murmur, barely audible:

“I could’ve broken you. But you trusted me not to.”

You held him tighter. “You didn’t break me. You made me feel safe.”

Silence.

Then, softly:

“I want to feel that again.”

You kissed his chest and whispered, “Then stay.”

And this time, he did.

[libraryofbronze]

That's basically how it is. It's funny how people like to justify what they like as highbrow somehow. A lot of the stuff we'd call ''classical'' and ''erotic'' and so forth was just plain porn in its time. There is no serious difference mechanically when it comes to what is porn or what is erotica. It's justification all the way down.

When I first started writing, I was told there was a difference. That erotica was more defined, dignified and subtle . But really, if I had to draw a line in the sand between the two, it would be pretension.

A story that regards itself as erotica and not porn is probably not going to commit whole heartedly. its author is lying to themselves on some level, trying to justify something they shouldn't have to justify at all. Their delivery will be flawed because they're wrestling with themselves.

Porn which embraces its nature and embraces what it is will give you what you want because it has no pretensions or lies. It doesn't need to put on high airs, or pretend that it's some classical work and justify itself based on that. You're there for the fucking. It knows you're there for the fucking. It knows to give you what you want.

A work that embraces itself will always be more powerful, fundamentally, than one which shies away from what it is. This isn't to say you can't have good works that consider themselves erotica, but I'd bet real money that works which are upfront and unashamed about being porn will deliver quality more often, and that even applies to the non-lewd sections.

Plot, characters and interactions will all always be stronger if they're not constantly trying to twist away from the core of the work! If you're spending time justifying, you're not spending time, you know, actually writing a story that's fun to read!

sorry for the rare non-lewd post, lol. I am a writer with genuine passion for the art that we all do, and one of my most fundamental guiding principals is ''never be ashamed of what you create.''

every time I see someone distinguishing between "erotic" and "pornographic" it basically just seems like they're saying "the stuff I like is erotic and the stuff other dumb peasants like is pornographic"

we added a wine tasting affectation to your porn, so you can jerk yourself off while you jerk yourself off

[elodieunderglass]

Idk why we're talking about cursive but anyway I wondered for ages why American children were forced to learn calligraphy and it turns out that in fact they were just talking about normal joined up writing.

There is a joke among mathematicians that you can tell if they were minimum or maximum by how many dots there are over the drawing of a snake.

Thank you very much for this. I am going to need to let the joke marinate a bit, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love it conceptually. It’s very sexy of you to tell me this

[ghoulishhx]

love your work, you write frankie so well it always has a tear run down my leg 🤭💖

i saw you post the smut prompt list. how about frankie with number 8, however you’d like to have it happen

thank you 💖💖💖

8.) open your legs for me baby, i wanna see you

aa thank you for your kind words!! i've been working on this on and off throughout the day so if seems weird or paced odd, i do apologise. once again im VERY self conscious (what's new) but like i need this and i need him

18+ MDNI !!

My Masterlist!

──── ୨୧ ────

Pairing: Frank Castle x Fem!Reader

Content Warning: semi-public sex, oral (f!recieving), one night stand type vibes, unprotected pinv sex (wrap it before you tap it), dom!frank, use of restraints, creampie, dirty talk, praise, mutual pining, choking

Wordcount: 2.3k

──── ୨୧ ────

✦ strangers

You don’t usually make the habit of fucking strangers you’ve known for one conversation, in the dingy bathroom of the dive bar you chose to drown your sorrows in, but fuck it. Tonight you’ve earned it, earned a well needed distraction.

You don’t know what came over you, deciding to take the gruff man, who bought you a rum and coke, by the hand and dragging him with you into the small tiled room and locking the door shut behind you both. This is the same man who minutes ago was listening to you venting about your fucked family issues, your stuck up boss who loves to put you through hell. He offered you nods of mutual understanding and a lingering hand on yours, the warmth of his large calloused fingers tracing small comforting circles across your knuckles made your breath hitch. Before you know it, you’re whispering you need him in his ear and gesturing to the bathroom behind him. 

You tell yourself it’s his eyes that drew you in, those dark chocolate eyes baring directly into your soul, mixed emotions swirled within the colours of his iris’, drawing you in and subconsciously telling you he gets it, gets you. You find solace in the little to no communication. 

“Oh, what’s your name by the way?” you softly speak into his ear as you enter the bathroom together.

“Huh? Oh, yeah it’s uh, it’s Frank.” he looks at you inquisitively, wondering why you chose this moment to finally ask him. You pick up on this and answer his question before he can even ask.

“Just wanna know what to scream when you make me cum.” you bite your lower lip, this newfound confidence is definitely the booze talking, you go to look away as you feel embarrassed blush travel up your neck however you’re brought back to earth with the sound of a dark chuckle that comes from Frank’s mouth.

“That right? Well ya can’t be too loud darlin’, don’t wanna get caught now do we?”

The realisation of the riskiness of the situation floods your panties with arousal as he pushes you against the door, lifting your thigh from behind and wrapping it around his waist as he tastes the inside of your mouth with his tongue. You moan into his mouth, his own subduing the noises and capturing them as he bites down on your lower lip softly, before softening the sting with his tongue. The kiss you share is nothing short of desperate, passionate, raw. It’s as if he needed this just as much as you, needing to release whatever pent up emotions he has kept locked within himself for god knows how long. 

You trail down your hands down his button up shirt, prying the fabric apart with shaky hands as quickly as you can, needing to see him, feel him. The groan Frank makes when you run your nails down his now exposed chest makes you clench around nothing, feeling the firm muscles beneath the pads of your fingers as your nails softly scratch at him makes his jaw tick, his mouth moving to your neck as he bites down, sucking purple bruises into the sensitive skin below your ear before softening the sting with his tongue. He curses as your hand lands on his bulge, straining against the confines of his jeans and he cannot help but buck his hips into your touch, neediness for any amount of friction he can get taking over him.

“Y'so fuckin’ gorgeous doll” he mumbles into your ear as he lifts you effortlessly, you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you over to the counter below the dirty, graffiti coated mirror. Frank continues the relentless assault of kisses along your neck, trailing his lips down your exposed chest, your tits perfectly accentuated by the tight black dress you decided to wear tonight. His tongue travels between the valley of your chest as he reaches down and lifts your dress up above your hips, his hands gripping at the meat of your thighs, thumbs dangerously close to where you need him most as you arch your back into his touch, craving more. 

“Open your legs f’me baby, I wanna see ya..” 

Frank groans as you comply with his request, exposing your soaked panties. He reaches out and brushes his digit along the stain of arousal in your underwear, lowly whistling under his breath as you shudder at his touch. “Shit, girl.. all f'me? Fuckin’ soaked doll, lemme take care of it for ya, yeah?”

With any other lover, you'd usually make them work for it, beg for you, but your desperation possesses you as you wildly nod, throbbing around nothing as you move your hips closer to him. 

“Use y'words sweet girl,” Frank teases as he flashes you a shit eating grin, fully aware of the effect he has over you as he crouches down, his eyes now level with your cunt. “Want me to taste ya, hmm? Make ya feel good?”

“Fuck.. please. Please taste me Frank, I need yo-” your begs are cut off as he latches his lips around your clit through your panties. The fabric rubs deliciously across your swollen bud as he pulls it further up you, your folds peaking around the edges as more slick coats your underwear. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you throw your head back onto the glass behind you, not hard enough to cause damage. He chuckles at your body's reactions and peels the garment from your soaked core, shoving your panties in his back jean pocket before he feasts on you properly. 

You can't help but grind yourself into his face as best you can, wrapping your fingers in his hair and tugging before he removes your hands and pins them down by your side, disallowing any movements. You whine, trying to escape the vice grip he has on your wrists, itching to touch him, feel him with your fingers as he devours you. 

Frank moans into your entrance, licking stripes up your pussy to your clit before trailing back down and fucking you on his tongue. He feels his cock twitch as your walls clench around him, already making his boxers damp with precum. 

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet, babydoll. Could stay between y'legs forever.” The words echo through your body, the vibrations of his words making you buck into his touch. Your clit rubs deliciously along his large nose, the sensation reeling you closer and closer to your much needed release. 

“Frank- don't stop pleasepleaseplease.. I-I'm so close..” you whimper, biting down on your lip. Only now he lets go of your hands, allowing you to wrap yourself in his curls, grounding you as your orgasm threatens to spill. 

“Yeah? Let go doll, cum f'me. Lemme have it girl, thaaaat’s it pretty girl, make a mess of m'face.” his consent for you to let go allows you to do just that. Your whines fill the room along with chants of his name with strings of curse words as you gush all over his nose and mouth. Frank swallows every drop up gratefully, humming into your core as his pace continues its relentless speed, lapping up your folds like it’s the last meal he will ever have. His pace only falters when you squirm beneath him and physically pull his face from your core, the overstimulation overwhelming you.

Frank slowly stands, eyes never leaving yours for a second as he begins to unbuckle his belt. Without thinking you thrust your wrists towards him,

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he darkly chuckles, accepting your request and wrapping the leather around you, pulling the belt tight before raising it above your head, pushing your hands against the glass. “Be a doll and keep ‘em there, yeah?” You nod as he pushes his thumb between your lips, you instantly swirl your tongue around his digit. He groans at the view, firmly tapping your cheek with his free fingers. “Attagirl, tell me if it’s too tight, alright?”

Frank removes his hands from you and unbuttons his jeans, unzipping them so they rest across his thighs along with his boxers. Your breath hitches as your eyes land on his cock, thick, long and leaking before you. Frank can’t help but smirk at your fascination with his cock, and as if he read your mind once more.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, it’ll fit. I’ll make it fit.” you blush at his dirty words, jaw going slack as he begins pushing himself into your entrance. 

“That‘s it girl, tight stretch, attagirl takin’ it so well,” he coos as he guides his length inside of you, your whines like music to his ears before he captures them in his mouth, placing wet kisses across your already kiss-swollen lips, nibbling on your lower lip as he pushes himself fully inside of you. Frank sighs with pleasure as he fills you to the hilt, his pubic bone resting on your spent clit.

His hands rest on your hips as he begins thrusting slowly in and out of you, fully removing himself from your entrance before thrusting himself back inside fully once more. The repetitive motion makes your eyes roll to the back of your head, already cock drunk from him and how he feels.

“M-more, please Frank.. Faster.. Need you” you whimper between broken sobs as his pace quickens, just as passionate as before, just faster. Frank’s lips trail across your chest, using his teeth to pull your dress down further to expose your chest to the cool of the bathroom. Your nipples instantly harden with the change of temperature and Frank can’t help but wrap his lips around the pebbled bud, sucking harshly before nibbling and soothing the sting. Your back arches into his touch, slightly regretting wanting him to bound you with his belt, you’d give anything to feel him, run your hands through his hair, leave scratches along his back to make sure he remembers this night just as much as you will. 

“Still so fuckin’ tight babygirl, feel so good like ya were made f’me.” he grunts into your body, hands resting on your ass now as he harshly grips at the flesh bruisingly, sure to leave purple marks that will no douby turn you on whenever you see them. The familiar coil twists in your stomach, hyper aware that another orgasm was approaching and fast. “Ya gonna cum, huh? Feel ya clenchin’ me, that’s it doll give it t’me. Make a mess of my cock.” 

Within seconds your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, impossibly stronger than the one before. Frank’s hand wraps around your throat, squeezing slightly only to elevate the sensation as you shudder in his hold. His name is moaned between broken sobs, fulfilling the promise you told him prior about screaming his name. Neither of you care about the noise anymore, so lost in each other and the pleasure it’s not even a thought anymore. Frank’s grunts increase, you know he’s close as he groans, resting his sweaty forehead on yours. You can’t stop yourself from bringing your arms down from the glass, placing each one on each shoulder as you trap him closer to you, craving him. He doesn’t seem to mind your defiance and allows you to pull him closer into your lips, instantly plunging his tongue into your mouth.

“Cum inside me, please Frank. Wanna feel you for days.” you whine into his mouth as you wrap your tongue around his own. One, two, three more thrusts and he’s spilling himself inside of you, painting your walls white with his hot, sticky release. 

Frank moans into your mouth, wrapping his arms around the small of your back and resting his hands on your ass once again as he pulls you as close to him as humanly possible, trailing kisses along your jawline as he emptied himself inside of you. You let out a soft giggle into his ear, the realisation of what just happens making you quiver. He joins you in a hearty chuckle as he reaches up and pulls your arms from around his neck and places them back into your lap before removing the belt bounding you, wrapping it around his jeans once more.

You whimper as he unsheathes himself from you, the loss of his length inside of you makes you hiss as you feel the stretch of where he once was. After tucking himself back into his pants, you place your hands back on his shoulders as you play with the stray curls of his slightly overgrown hair as he lifts you from the sink onto wobbly knees, catching you before you topple over onto the ground.

“Want ya to know, uh, I don't do that very often.” he begins, arm still wrapped around your waist as he places a kiss on the top of your head, smirking into your hair.

‘Me either,” you chuckle as you turn to face him. “Don’t know what came over me, asking you to come in here and, uhm, do that..”

“Year? Well I’m glad ya did sweetheart.” he hums as he pulls you into his chest. “But next time, when I tell ya to keep y’arms there, listen to me.”

“Next time?” you tilt your head up and rest it on his chest.

“Yeah next time, if that’s something you’d want..?”

“Yeah it is.. I’d like that very much.”

──── ୨୧ ────

a/n: once again, pleaseee lemme know if you liked this. struggling a lot rn with my confidence with writing lmao. sorry to be so annoying and ask a lot

my inbox is open!

[allthetropes]

This utter breakdown in true literacy is becoming more and more obvious in even the comment section of AO3.

I'll be the first bitch on the block to admit, Dickens requires a degree of focus. I've a funny idea he was paid by the word. Mans goes on (and on, and on, and on). And some of the paragraphs are just WALL OF TEXT. I can see how you would struggle to concentrate on it.

But not understand? I was in uni studying to become an English Teacher in 2015. Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages (cause I live in the Netherlands, though I'm a native speaker of English). We did Great Expectations in Lit1. While I reckon most of my class skipped most of the flowery, descriptive language, everybody who actually read the book understood it just fine. At the same time, native English speakers, raised in English Speaking Countries, couldn't do the same?

How many times have I seen comments on AO3 asking "what happened to x" when it was stated, very clearly in the text, what happened to x? How many times have I seen "I don't understand how we got from A to B" even though the journey from A to B was clearly marked in the text. And if it were just my fics, I'd think i was the problem, but I'm seeing it on some of the driest, most clear-cut fics in the world.

"Where did XYZ character go?" He's on holiday. Do you remember? In paragraph two, characters MNO and PQR were discussing the holiday pictures he sent from Barbados? From that you were supposed to infer XYZ was on holiday in Barbados. Not to mention 2 chapters ago, when the other characters waved him off at the airport, though I'd forgive you if you said you just forgot that bit.

"Wait, at the start of the chapter they were in the city, and then at the end they're in a cabin in the woods! You're a bad writer for your inconsistency and continuity problems!" Well you see, between the start of the chapter and the end of the chapter, the characters travelled from the city to the woods. Did you. Did you miss that? It was like 4 paragraphs about the train being late, and how the scenery changed as they got into the countryside, and the anticipation of the cabin in the woods. From that you were supposed to infer that the characters were travelling from the city to the woods. So that when they arrived in the bloody woods, you wouldn't be surprised. Because we spent time travelling there.

If a sentence reads, "The drive was long, and by the time he stepped out, the driver had time-weary lines across his forehead as he dragged himself towards the front door and put himself down on the pillow," this means nothing to them.

What they expect is, "The man stopped driving. The man was tired. The tired man got out of the car. The tired man went into the house. The tired man lay down on the bed." If they don't get the information laid out like that, their brain either skips over the information, or they can't make sense of it otherwise.

Which is how you can tell at exaaaactly what level books they stopped reading, be it because their parents stopped reading to them/enforcing them, or because they got access to electronics, or for some other reason. I remember going from picture books to short bedtime stories to Enid Blyton - but a lot of kids aren't getting to the Enid Blyton stage anymore. I know when my older brother got a PlayStation 1, the concept of reading (or art, or crafts, or drawing, or writing) went out the window for the rest of eternity, and all the Enid Blyton books he had went dusty on the shelves. Now he can't even sign his name with a pen if he doesn't practice a few times first, and 99.9% of his reading is video games and substack (and he's a huge conspiracy theorist and aspie supremacist but that may only be loosely related).

I know. English teachers are super annoying about it. "you need to read books, you need to read books" I know, you're tired hearing about it. I am begging you - begging you on my knees - to make "reading books" just a normal part of your day. I have peers who can't read anything longer than a stop sign. Do you think people who can't read more than six consecutive words are making wise financial, political, social, and health decisions?

If not for the children's sake, then for the sake of the rapidly diminishing quality of AO3 fics that have to cater to decreasing literacy rates, (...she said, knowing full well that the sanctity of AO3 will get people hauled off their asses to do anything) please keep reading.

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

[coralquill]

I read your witch mc headcannon and lemme say, I love it. I have anotheR supernatural request if you don't mind. I wanted to request a vampire MC who drinks blood of others except the boy's bc she doesn't want to hurt them and what they're reaction would be to that and maybe how they'd ask her to drink theirs. KEEP UP THE AMAZING WORK 👏

ahoy, thank you for requesting! thank you for the kind words and im glad you enjoyed the witch reader hcs! this was also a fun piece to write i love writing requests out of what im used to. hope you enjoy!

pairings: xavier x reader || zayne x reader || rafayel x reader || sylus x reader || caleb x reader

contents: vampire reader, blood mention, biting, comedy, suggestive || wc.1221

— XAVIER

It was well known that Xavier cooks, (ahem, cough,) and he used garlic in most of his dishes to enhance the flavors. So after hours of slaving at the stove, he'd invite you to have a late lunch with him, and you accepted. Though on the table, you'd avoid eating anything garlic, having just the salad, the appetizers, and the fresh juices.

From his observations later on, he discovered you were a vampire—no garlic, avoiding silver and the sun, and a shifted sleep schedule.

Xavier would make adjustments to accommodate you, from banning garlic from his apartment to throwing away all silverware, making you feel more welcome in his world. Though, whenever the two of you shared a meal together, he always wondered, do vampires not need to drink blood to keep them alive and going? Human meals surely didn't fill up your daily energy quota, and he never saw you draw any blood from any source.

On finding out you fed on other people, he'd straddle you, keeping you in place and demanding you to feed on him, and only him.

And you could only accept, as the angry pout he had was working against you and making it hard to refuse.

— ZAYNE

Zayne would notice that something was up with you with how you were acting around certain shiny metal and certain aromatic dishes whenever he went out with you. His theories about you being a vampire were soon confirmed when you came to him late at night with a nasty burn on your hand.

You affirmed that you were indeed a vampire and were in dire need of immediate medical attention, and Zayne would tend to your burn at the best of his medical knowledge—at least, as much as it could apply to vampires.

Zayne wouldn't prefer you drinking blood from strangers as it could hold diseases and illnesses. He'd offer his blood to you, and he'd make sure he always stayed clean of anything, keeping his blood healthy.

Zayne would suggest packing you a fresh pint of his blood whenever you needed to part ways for a while. "Here take this with you." He slipped the bag into your backpack. He added ice cubes from his Evol to keep it cool and fresh for longer. "Drink it when you need to."

The smell of his blood wafted in the air, and it smelled so good. Your pupils dilated, grinning cheekily, "You think I could resist drinking your blood in the first hours of my trip?"

Zayne smiled and leaned in for a kiss, but you leaned in further to kiss the mark you had left on his neck.

— RAFAYEL

The first thing Rafayel would notice was that you didn't have reflections whenever you passed the mirrors of the studio—was it a Wanderer's curse? An Evol's effect perhaps?

He then noticed that whenever he got papercuts or small cuts from using sharp tools, your head would whip around, eyes zeroing in on the cut every, single time—okay, you were definitely a blood-sucking creature.

"So you're a vampire." He'd point out casually, hands busy with the tools he crafted with.

You nodded. "I am."

"You never asked me to drink my blood. Kind of rude." He pouted. "How did you survive?"

"I went after random others. Didn't want to hurt you."

Rafayel scoffed, clearly offended that you drank blood from strangers rather than him.

Rafayel would make it his mission to seduce you by wearing wide, open collar shirts and sitting under open windows, allowing the sun to hit his skin in the most enticing angles—and it was working.

He was a temptation like no other.

You pounced and sank your canines into his neck.

Rafayel grinned at first, happy to be the victor in this little game he played, but moments after, his expression faltered at the delicious sting he felt.

"Oh."

You needed to be careful with your intakes as Lemurian blood was addicting, and you wouldn't want your little fishy to dry up!

— SYLUS

Sylus hoards shiny things. Gems, gold, and silver. Most of his kitchenware and utensils were made of silver: the water goblets he drank from, the plates he ate from, and the forks he took bites with. But when you told him you couldn't eat from them because you were a vampire and they'd burn you, he'd taken them out and locked them in a vault away from you to ensure you never crossed paths with what hurts you.

Sylus would keep you company at night, both of you having a common enemy—The Sun. Sylus and you would go on late night escapades and spread mischief in your wakes; brooding atop the tallest skyscrapers at the end of a well-spent night was a must.

Upon learning that you satiate your quench for blood by drinking from others, he wouldn't allow it again.

"But I don't want to hurt you," you said, worry clouding your eyes.

Sylus's eyes softened. "You don't have to worry about that." He reassured you he could self-heal and that whatever skin rips and marks you'd leave on him, he'd patch them up with his Evol.

Sylus would pull you into his lap and offer his neck, silently inviting you to drink as much as you needed.

After you were done drinking, all the blood that dripped would dissipate with swirls of his energy Evol, but the two canine punctures stayed. You had left your mark on him, and he was proudly wearing it.

— CALEB

[Notes: Things Pip-squeak avoids:]

No silver—check.

Caleb would get rid of all silver tools in his house when he saw you avoid touching them.

No garlic—check.

Once Caleb noticed a recurring pattern of you not eating garlic-flavored meals, he substituted all the garlic spices and stopped cooking recipes centered around garlic altogether.

No sunlight—check.

Caleb would cover the windows of his house with films to block the sun but were translucent enough to allow the light to brighten the rooms. He'd hang umbrellas next to all the doors for you to use whenever you left the house.

With days passing, Caleb would notice more unusual things you avoided or did. He noted your shift in sleep schedule. You usually slept through daylight and woke up in the late hours of the night. So naturally, Caleb opened up his notes app to add this tidbit about you.

Shifted sleep schedule—check.

Caleb read through the points he had written over time, and, oh—those weren't just points about quirks specific to you, but rather Caleb's accidental discovery that you were a vampire.

He'd obliquely market his blood to you, indirectly telling you to feed on him. He cooked his own meals, ate healthy, trained regularly, and was active most of the days of the week, and that was enough to keep his body pumping healthy blood.

But if that wasn't enough to get you to drink from his blood, he'd tell you flat out that he wanted you to need him and use him for your bloody needs. The mark you'd leave on him would be on the left side of his neck where his good arm was to ensure there'd be the most blood flow for you, (and he wanted to feel your bite every time.)

likes and reblogs will always be appreciated ♡ let me know what you think!

— until next tide, thanks for docking by ｡𖦹°‧𓇼

© coralquill 2025 – do not copy, steal, or translate my work.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hello dear author, hope your day is going well. This is my first time requesting, so please bear with me. I was wondering if you can perhaps write about bob with a reader who likes to paint/draw. It can be like general headcanons or an actual fic where the reader likes to draw him because she likes him but is scared of rejection so she resorts to admiring from afar, until he comes across an opened sketchbook and he can’t help but glance at it and freezes when he sees himself and a whole lot of fluffy cuteness ensues. Sorry if it’s too specific, you can do whatever you want with this. I love your writing and hope you have a nice rest of your day :D

Art was a talent you had honed out when your mind got too loud, you drew or painted things or people that brought you joy or you felt a companionship with, which was why your walls were littlered in skteches of cute puppies and kittens along with drawings of your fellow teammates: John on his phone, Yelena with Fanny and her guinea pig Houdini, Ava phasing through a wall, Alexei and his 'Avengerz' outfit in responce to Sam's copyright claim.

but the one person you seemingly skteched the most was Bob Reynolds, the man you seemingly felt the need to capture every single movement as though you'll never see him read a book, wash the dishes or just do domestic tasks within the Watchtower. He was at peace when doing all these things, his brow wasn't furrowed, his bottom lip wasn't bitten to death, his hands weren't raw from his wringing of them.

you even drew his messy mop of hair as it falls infront of his eyes, his small smiles as he watched the rest of your team squable over who's turn it was for movie night. You even drew his interactions with the stray kittens and alleyway dogs that he often feed and kept hydrated whenever they were at the doorstep of the Watchtower. His heart was kind and knew no end of it either as no matter what Bob was presented with, he was gentle and kind with it.

He was so beautiful that you feared that you could only ever view such a beauty like him from afar, he was a sacred treasure that should be seen but never touched. You couldn't help yourself when you fell for him, he was light and warmth within invinsible but very human skin, he was like a gentle breeze that ruffled your clothes and the tops of trees, the birdsong that woke you up every morning with his sweet voice greeting you as you walked into the kitchen only to see him there with two mugs already prepared.

He had remembered how you took your drink, how you like your sandwhitches cut and which bowl you prefered to eat ceral out of. It seemed as though his mind was a massive memory bank of small things that he had taken notice about everyone and kept it within himself to honour those small thing he noticed about everyone on the team.

so you dedicated an entire sketchbook to him, every single last page was filled to the brim with him falling asleep in his book nook chair, him sat at the very end of the sofa during movie nights, hands on his lap as though he didn't want to intrude on anyone else's personal space amongst many more. Bob was and is your muse who you could never stop drawing and or painting as you felt it would be a dishonour to him for he was the man who should have sketches and stories made about him.

at least you thought so but you were someone that saw through the eyes of an artist and Bob oh so happened to be the apple of your eye. It was as though your heart was telling you to immortalise this man however you could and make him look the most beautiful man in existance, which you thought was impossible inicially as in your eyes Bob was already the most beautiful man you've ever met.

if anything Bob ruined all men for you for they could never compare to a man who only wanted to be more, to be useful in whatever way he could. They could never compare to a man who's smile warmed you immeditely, who's voice brought a sense of calm to your mind and who's presence was enough to reassure you that everything was okay.

The man was made to have art of him drawn even he might not think so, you couldn't confess your feelings to him in fear of putting him in an situation he wasn't ready for, and instead channel your feelings for Bob by drawing him as the man you saw daily; a gentle man who had immense strength that could easily crush anything with ease, yet he chose to be soft with everyone and everything. He would carfeully dog ear his books, put away the plates, cups and bowls with such cautiousness as though he feared the sound of ceraminc would disturb everyone in the tower.

you felt as though you could easily describe Bob within a few sentences or less, yet also feel as though that those very same sentences wouldn't do much justice for the man he actually was, he was everything you wish you could have and everything you knew you might never have as your feelings might not be reciprocated and you didn't want to disctract him when he was getting himself back on track.

so you kept silence and kept your heart drawn out on the pages of your sketchbook when your feelings became stronger, finding the blonde that lingered at the ends of Bob's hair just as beautiful as the rest of him as they glowed like gold in the light. Even when he fiddles with it between his fingers it looked like he was toying with strands of gold, looking at them with indifference and a sence of regret. You wish you could tell him how you saw him, but felt as though you were overstepping a line somehow, so once again you remained silent.

You thought you had concealed your feelings well enough with your drawings, yet when you went out of the room to grab something to eat and drink after realising how long you've went without. Yet what you didn't know was that Bob had come to your room to do just that, having noticed your absense for a good majority of the day and having grown concerned when he remembered just how little you had to eat since this morning.

you both missed each other by at least a millisecond, like two shooting stars with totally different locations to be, barely getting to see one another by anything other then a short lived glance.

By the time Bob got to your room it was clear to him that he had missed you somewhere, but something told him to still go into your room as he gazed at the sketches, drawings and paintings that littered your walls, giving your room life and an insight to your creativity as he admired each one of your works, wishing he could have as much talent as you did.

there were sketches of john, Ava, Alexei, Yelena doing their own thing but what caught Bob's attention the most was the sketchbook that lied upon your bed, open to an unfinshed sketch of...him? Bob didn't mean to pry into your personal belongings but he didn't think he was worth being drawn, being immortalised by your hands and the closer he got to the book, the feeling of becoming breathless worsened within his chest as he got to glimpse at what you saw when you looked at him.

there were sketches of him reading in his book nook, caring for the strays that came to the tower, just Bob doing Bob things but the way you made him seem ehtreal, like there was no possible way that he could exist in a life so shitty. you made him look at peace, at calm and so normal, you made him with the intention of drawing him as just Bob, not sentry nor void but just bob and only bob.

Bob wondered how long you've been drawing him for to know about the whole feeding the strays thing, but the further he looked into the book, the anwser became clearer, you've always known as there were drawings for when after the void inncident months ago, his hair blonde in some parts but mainly his natural brown nonetheless. you made a man like him look like both a god and yet have the manerisms of a simple man, you made him look as though he held all the light in existance within his very being.

You made him look nothing like who he saw himself as, nothing like the person he despised when looking in the mirror every day, you made him look like someone who was proud and happy to get to be alive and to be the embodiment of something he never really thought of himself as. It made Bob wonder if this is truly how you saw him, seeing as he always second guessed himself and lacking confidence in some aspects of life, so seeing someone like you view him the way you did through an artists standpoint as though you couldn’t stop drawing him no matter what he did, as if you would rather waste every single bit of paper drawing him in his baggy sweater and lounge pants a million times over then ever leave it empty.

You’d rather have a filled sketchbook of him then an empty and devoid of life one, always feeling the need to keep reminding yourself that he existed and he was seeing joy the perfect muse for you, seeing as there were more sketches of him then the rest of the team combined and that was enough to have his cheeks flushed and his heart rate a little elevated. Bob might not see himself the way you do just yet but by god he hopes he does because the way you see him makes him feel beautiful, seen and heard in a multitude of ways.

He had read how people wished they were the muse to an artist as it meant being immortalised by them, to be seen in a light that they never could, and Bob didn’t know he needed the same thing until he saw your drawings of him taking care of Fanny and Houdini when Yelena was off on a mission, putting away dishes, bowls and cutlery, or even when he had found himself fighting sleep with the way you’ve captured him teetering between sleep and staying awake. Bob now understood why being seeing as a muse, seen by an artist was something so heavily desired because now he got to be the muse, he got to have what others always wanted and he genuinely didn’t want you to stop even if his emote body felt like it was on fire but in the best way, the only way he ever wanted.

He felt wanted, he felt needed and most of all he felt loved by every single sketch you’ve drew of him.

He alters thought you didn’t like him like that, at least not that he could tell seeing as you were seemingly always drawing whenever he was near, now he knew that wasn’t true. For even if he was just simply standing there you’d draw him with the light shining his body in a way that he would’ve never taken notice to before, you’d draw him with a halo and angel wings for all he cared and still he’d felt like his heart was somehow getting even faster then before as his hands eagerly flipped to the next sketch of him as the dark thoughts within his head dissipated.

If you saw him like this then you must like him, there’s no other explanation to it, but Bob didn’t want to pressure you into confessing nor did he want to admit that he went through your things without permission, yet he couldn’t help the way the sketchbook called to him into having a nosy, into having a look until he was practically absorbing everything the sketchbook had to offer. Bob had a little book of his own that he wrote things in, whether it’d be his thoughts or how his day went or his general views on the likes of Yelena -whom he saw as a surrogate sister- Ava, John and Alexei. Yet when it came to you Bob could write paragraph after paragraph of words and still feel like it wasn’t enough to describe you and how you made him feel.

So looking at your sketches made him realise there was a common ground between the two of you, both indulgence in the art of expression through different mediums, both having a good chunk of a book dedicated to the other as if you’ll die if you stopped, destined to only ever keep the other on your mind and no body else. Bob didn’t think his writing was all that good, most of it was how he felt during that time so there was scribbles and rushed writing that looked unintelligible, almost as if he was on a time limit but in reality he was unable to properly write down or formulate coherent sentences whenever you were the subject. He couldn’t help it and from the looks of your sketchbook you couldn’t help it either.

So when Bob heard that you were heading back to your room, he was quick to put the sketchbook where he found it and leave as quickly as he could in hopes of preventing you from getting skeptical that someone had rummaged through your room, looking through your things like a lovesick puppy wanting to know if his crush felt the same or not. He would find the strength to tell you one day but it was clear that wasn’t today.

When you got back to your room, you knew something was amiss for your sketchbook looked about as though it was hastily put back in place, like whoever or whatever was in here didn’t want you to know about their escapades.

And not only that but one of your sketches of Bob was taken, the sketch where you had drew him when the light from the massive glass windows hit his back, making him take your breath away upon gazing at him never less looking at him fully.

You knew you would soon find out who did it, because you didn’t know what you’d do if you were to find out that it might’ve been bob, even though you highly didn’t think he’d ever do such a thing as he was respectful and didn’t cross any boundaries much as he didn’t want anyone to cross his. You’ll get your answer soon enough, even if it means interrogating the group to find out who had taken your sketch.

Meanwhile Bob in his room was staring at the aforementioned sketch, holding it to his chest as a weight lifted from his chest, glad to know that the person who he liked liked him just as much back, but he knew you’d knew soon enough and come looking but he wasn’t exactly going to hide. No. He wasn’t going to as he was going to wait until you figured it out that it was indeed him who took the sketch and finally get what he’s been wanting to say off of his chest once and for all.

[cap-winter-barnes]

One Day (Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader)

Okay, so I saw Thunderbolts* last week and Bob has reawakened the fangirl within me and I just HAVE to write for him. So please, get sending in those requests!!

Warnings: slight mentions of depression & anxiety, mention of children

The long days of press are tedious, especially when there so many interviews and television appearances for the "New Avengers". But the family press days were always the ones that took the most toll on the whole team. Despite them being a day of making children and their families happy, they were exhausting. Especially when cameras are shoved in your face for the entire duration.

It's one of those days and you are counting down every second until the cameras and families go home. As you say goodbye to a young family that have just welcomed a new addition, you catch Bob watching you in the corner of your eye, sitting patiently cross-legged on the floor. Family press days mean that Bob is to watch from afar, by order of Valentina. Your heart breaks as you see the lost expression on his face as he watches his found family interact with so many adoring and grateful fans. You hand back the sleeping infant to his mother and politely make your leave, heading straight for Bob who is anxiously wringing his hands together.

"Hey, baby." You keep your voice down as you sit next to him on the ground, gently leaning your head against his shoulder before taking one of his hands in your own. With your thumb you softly begin to draw patterns, a habit that you know calms Bob down, grounding him when he needs your comfort. "You ready for home?" With an agreeing nod, you chuckle. "Yeah, me too." It's in these moments that you find yourself admiring the man you so dearly love. A man who has fought so hard to take care of himself since the New York incident all that time ago.

"Hey, Y/N?" Bob's grip on your hand tightens and relaxes repeatedly as he works out what to say next. You daren't interrupt his train of thought or his determination, so you wait patiently for him to continue. You notice his gaze shift back over to where Bucky is having photographs taken with a family with two small children, before his eyes flicker back to you and your hands. "Do y-" there's a tremor in his voice as he calms himself. "Sorry."

He breathes out a laugh as he focuses his attention solely on you. "Do you ever think about that?"

"Hmm? Think about what my love?"

"Do you ever think about having kids?"

The question shocks you but you soften the expression on your face as you take a glance again at the family saying their farewells to the rest of the team.

"One day, hopefully." A delicate smile passes across your face as an unreadable look moves across Bob's. "What ab-"

"Would you want kids with me?" The interruption has you breathless for a moment. Of course you'd thought about having children with Bob - but you've never mentioned the idea to him, too scared that the expectation and pressure would be too much at the time.

An unexpected hesitation settles on your tongue as you try to find the right words without scaring him. Yet those minute seconds have a wave of fear passing over Bob's face as he moves back from your hold. Immediately anticipating his need to retreat, your hold on him tightens, fingers wrapped carefully yet firmly around his own hand.

"Of course I have, but only when you're ready." An invisible weight seems to lift from his shoulders as he crashes into an embrace in your arms. "There's no rush, baby. Okay?" You place a kiss on his forehead as you both hold each other, taking a moment to show him how much you have come to adore him. "We have all the time in the world."

[wittyno]

It's a difficult thing to parse because you need to define what "wealthy" means. Sure, there are authors who will never have to work again no matter what happens to them. They are obviously wealthy but what about those who are doing well enough to make a living but not enough to stop working. What if some terrible illness befalls them or a family member? They can't keep writing and aren't getting the pay they used to because of piracy. So they have to keep working even while dealing with horrific circumstances. How do you measure? Because there isn't a numerical value. I also get the emotional component. This is a thing you made. You want to be paid for your art. You want your art to remain yours.

It's also not really about lawyers and their "weight-classes". You can have Atticus Finch representing you and still lose if you don't have enough money. Lawsuits are expensive and they are time-intensive. The publishing houses of the world have just way more resources than IA. It's not that the lawyers are better. It's that they have more of them. Harper Collins and co. Can outspend IA on legal fees for decades probably. Which is why this was such a bad idea. It's also the reason that Ao3 clamps down hard on links. Because they don't want you linking to your Kofi or Patreon. Because they don't want to draw the attention of some big corporation who can outspend them in legal fees.

The upsetting thing about the Internet Archive situation is that they decided to bet everything - their credibility, the crucial work of preservation they've done on the net, the accessibility of materials that otherwise be legitimate lost media - on a truly idiotic proposition for the sake of either "changing bad law" or martyring themselves to it.

And now they're getting martyred for it.

And it's their own goddamn fault.

And we're still going to pay for it, as a society, either paying for their dumbfuck legal pirouette, with the loss of all the material that they claimed to be custodians of but instead endangered recklessly, or realistically, both.

It's fucking maddening.