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abbessofflesh · 2 days ago

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On The Rocks

A/N: Just watched Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Had some brainrot I needed to purge from my system. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve been on Tumblr so please let me know if I’m not tagging something right. Likes/Reblogs are very much appreciated! But if reblogging, I ask that you keep it in the Remmick x reader tag. I want to leave the Sinners tag for the thoughtful analyses and not clog it with depraved filth. The readers appearance is left open to interpretation but please inform me if something in my writing indicates otherwise.

Summary: You attempt to switch roles with Remmick in the bedroom. It does not go as planned.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: MDNI 18+, Dom!Remmick, Naive/Inexperienced!Reader (kinda), Biting/Blood, Dub Con/Non Con Elements regarding Overstimulation, Rough Sex, Gentle Sex, Oral Sex (m!receiving), Restraints, Feral Behavior, Corruption Kink, Attempted Switch!Reader that Remmick can only entertain for so long, A touch of Sub!Remmick, Female descriptors for reader, No Plot (haven’t seen the movie yet), Author doesn’t know vampire rules, Remmick is a manipulative asshole but reader is blinded by love, Attempted!funnyRemmick, unbeta’d, probably riddled with errors

The cold metal stings your skin as you turn the makeshift restraints over in your hands. It’s a stark contrast to the muggy, subdued atmosphere, the biting chill offering relief to restless fingers.

The textile sheaths the harshness of the biting edges; the silk fabric belonging to the previous owners of the homestead you and Remmick are currently occupying. The material wrapped around iron handcuffs you plucked from a particularly nasty lawman Remmick killed and didn’t bother to change.

“I do not need that type’a negativity in my head, darlin’.” was his only explanation, paired with an exaggerated grimace when he came back from yet another unsuccessful hunt. A hunt whose prey he never made you privy to.

All he shared with you was his desire for connection, something with which you concluded yourself early on into your...cohabitation. From your first meeting and onward, he struck you as lonely.

Despite his desperation for family, he’s been particularly choosy as of late. There are two conclusions you have drawn: that your presence and companionship serve as a balm to the ancient wound that refuses to heal, and a comment you made about not being enthused to eventually share memories and a mind with heinous individuals.

You know it’s entirely possible you’re little more than a blood bag he’s carted around, regardless of his charm and dulcet words. Ever since he seduced his way into your home- your life- you’ve served a purpose whether you were aware of it or not. That he hasn’t turned you leaves you under no illusions that he wouldn’t do so when the fancy strikes him.

Those are other assumptions you rarely entertain. That your usefulness in welcoming him into domiciles and remaining a steady source of sustenance is all he truly cares for. There’s also the chance that he’s not being truthful and has amassed a following he won’t inform you of until you’re turned and incapable of protesting.

You don’t like to dwell on those assumptions. You’ll keep your rose-colored glasses on for the time being, thank you very much.

You see it in his gaze sometimes. Feel his trembling frame against you at night, as he often does when being any kind of physical with you. As if it takes everything in him to be this gentle, and it is gentle for what Remmick is. It should scare you more than it does, his restraint a thin wire that barely holds from snapping and ripping you apart. But knowing he’s just as wrecked as you-just in another sense-always has you falling apart around him, pliant and needy.

Perhaps it’s a smitten fallacy, but you get the feeling he feels fondness for you, in his own way.

It shouldn’t fill your head with dizzying affection. Your chest shouldn’t be laden with warmth and hope that you could live out an idyllic life with him.

And yet.

You had never lain with anyone before Remmick. The reveal of his age and erotic pursuits that came with had you feeling naive and virginal. Centuries of walking the earth would indeed give someone experience, especially one as handsome and suave as he is. In the early days of your relationship, he often told you about his youthful trysts just to see you bashfully duck your head, hiding your scandalized amusement in the crook of his neck. “Did a lot of catting around when I was a young lad.” The seduction of married women, preacher’s daughters, and frolicking naked through fields was too much for your sheltered mind.

If past you saw how you lived now, you’d have dropped dead of mortification.

A few months into your relationship, you now consider yourself thoroughly exposed to carnal pleasures. Though when you voice this to Remmick, he laughs, and if he has recently fed, it’s until he’s red in the face.

That conversation usually follows with him demonstrating just how mistaken you are. Every night, you learn more about the pursuit of pleasure, and that Remmick might have a predilection for corruption.

The sky outside begins to lighten, tendrils of light threatening to pour through the askew curtains and snapping you out of your reverie. Bitter uneasiness nags at you when Remmick’s this late, though he often is. If you were to ask him about his nighttime activities, you’d get an absent non-answer. If you were to ask for a romantic night out in the town, it’d lead to a thorough distraction cutting well into the precious hours of moonlight.

The fretting and cast-aside feeling emboldens you to try a more domineering approach to get your point across. The point of how you’ve been there for him, blood, body, and soul, yet you’re not feeling like a priority anymore. If you ever were.

You make your way into the bedroom and look down at the silk-covered handcuffs, weighing your options. A brief image of a bound Remmick, fucked-out and spent sits heavily on the side of the mental scale labeled ‘pros’. On the other side sits another image, frightening but no less pretty, of the consequences that come with a wrathful vampire.

There’s also the chance that the silk will come undone, the possibility of the iron causing him harm. It would be minimal, and he’d no doubt heal after a few mouthfuls of your blood, but you’ll never want to see him hurt.

The creak of the front door interrupts your musings. Your heart rate hastens and you lunge for the headboard, slipping the restraints through the pine slats and concealing them with a rumpled pillow.

He’s home.

Through some prey instinct evolved long ago, you usually sense when Remmick is near before your eyes or ears locate him. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, every one of your senses heightened for that initial touch.

It’s no different now. Though you usually don’t jump as high when his thick forearms sling around your middle.

“Jumpy today. Up early, too.” His lips burn through the straps of your slip, trailing up until he can rest them against the spot where the rush of blood in your neck is strongest.

“And you’re back later than usual. Find another dame in need of defiling?”

It’s hard to put heat behind your words while in his unyielding hold, nose trailing down the side of your neck, suckling at your pulse. He doesn’t seem to hear your words, or more likely, is choosing to ignore them. It’s not exactly uncommon for you to taunt him about his promiscuous past.

But then he freezes, pausing his tender onslaught on your neck. His head tilts, turning ever-so-slightly toward the bed. He inhales two short, quick sniffs.

You’re not sure what he’s more likely to catch scent of: the musty, metallic odor of the cuffs or the saccharine musk of your earlier activities on the bed, when you were missing him and fantasizing about a confined Remmick.

In a quick effort of distraction, you deftly spin out of his grasp. He allows it with an appraising gaze. It locks onto the nervous bob of your throat like the predator he is.

You grab a hold of yourself for a moment to take him in. His undone suspenders hang by his hips, likely shucked off the second he got in the door. There’s no blood flaked around his mouth and while it’s possible he could’ve cleaned up before meeting you, you get the feeling he had another unsuccessful night. His face never betrays any disappointment, but he has all the patience an ancient being could have.

“Everythin’ alright?” The sing-songy slurring of this accent draws your eyes back up to his face where a preening, smug grin rests.

“Uh-huh.” You reply in an idiotic manner. You’re high-strung at the thought of getting him to where you need him before he discovers your plan. It only takes a brief moment of deliberation to capitalize on the scent he no-doubt smells on the disheveled sheets. “Would you like to have sex?”

His eyebrows damn near shoot up to his hairline. A short, startled laugh bursts from him.

“Al-right-”

He’s halfway through his answer when you hurry to light the candle by the bed as another aroma to throw him off, hand trembling in what you hope passes off as nervous anticipation. Remmick goes to assist you but you wave him off, absently instructing him to settle.

On your way back from ensuring the closed curtains were extra secure, you shuck your nightdress off. It hits the floor in a whisper of fabric and you’re left in nothing but his gold chain around your neck. His skeptical stare at your frenzied return makes you realize it’d be more alluring-and less suspicious-to put on a show for him.

Sure enough, he’s still fully clothed. And staring at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Why are you still- get naked, please.”

“Are the Sídhe pulling my leg? Or is my girl standing bare in front of me, lookin’ me in the eye?”

Your palms twitch, fighting the urge to cover yourself. There’s disbelief, sure, but you think he’s incapable of not looking at you with debauchery. Dark eyes rove over faded marks that still linger from previous love-making, past the necklace he had draped over you after. It assists your ploy of keeping him distracted and crushes that nagging bit of insecurity.

Just have to keep him occupied.

Despite his questioning, his fingers (are they trembling?) proceed to the fasteners of his button-up. You remain locked in his stare as you reach the bed, slowing your crawl over the mattress for a more sensual appearance.

You feel like a bumbling fool with your heart threatening to burst from your chest, the beat pounding in your ears. You would think your little performance would be nothing but a silly sight if the man you were settling over didn’t gaze at you with riveted awe.

“Hey, handsome.”

“Gorgeous.” He flirts back in that exaggerated southern twang, lips pulled over naturally pronounced canines.

A giddy smile brightens your face, made worse by the way his drops further in blind adoration. It’s the perfect moment to grab his hands, working your way down to his wrists as you raise them slowly above his head. Right to where you want them.

“Oh-ho. What d’we have here?”

A deep, engulfing kiss shuts that mouth of his. He gives twice as much as he gets, starved and full of longing. It’s enough of a diversion to slip those cuffs around his wrists, the ratcheting clicks securing him in place.

He goes still beneath you.

“And we will continue that,” You push yourself up from his chest, grinning like a maniac at the success, “but I wanna talk first.”

“Wha-” You see the deliberation, the flexing of his forearms as he weighed the option of letting you play. More often than not, he’s considerate about his reactions. There are a few moments in your time together when you manage to catch him off guard and elicit a truly authentic response with a drawled quip. Now is not an exception, as his head cocks slightly to glance up at the cuffs, his eyes trailing back to yours in what seems like some genuine bewilderment and a touch of amusement. “What’s this, then?”

You’re caught up at the sight that jumped right out of your depraved daydreams. It takes a moment for you to start the speech you rehearsed about ten times this morning.

“When you convinced me to leave everything behind, you promised me the moon and stars. That we’d do all the things lovers do. That we’d go out together. Dinner. Dancing.”

“Which I said verily, but you ain’t leaving this house until you don’t have two fuckin’ left feet-”

“Remmick.” You braced yourself for his jest, his usual method of distraction that’s entirely your fault because of the prospect of it working.

“Darlin’-“ His brow furrows, scrunching his eyes in a tired expression as if this wasn’t the first time you’ve hashed this out, but the tenth. He lazily turns his hands in the restraints, no doubt checking their durability and effectiveness. You watch as he manipulates his countenance into faux patience when he discovers he’s well and truly stuck, like you’re a particularly stubborn lamb he has to explain the concept of slaughter to. “Once I build our family, I’ll bring the dancin’ to ya.”

His eyes flash as a smirk pulls his face back into that familiar lascivious demeanor you’re used to dealing with. “An’ I can get my dinner right here.”

It’s tough to refute his taunts when he says it like that. Tone all sticky with honey and undercurrent scheming. Your irritation at his wants taking precedence over yours again allows you to ignore the latter statement and power through the brief ache between your thighs.

“You said that before you ate that lawman-"

“He was an uncouth, prejudiced individual, that one.” Remmick butts in with an affronted look. You snort, choosing to keep your mouth shut about the other bigoted individuals he rectified, historically. “An’ I ain’t like the way he was lookin’ at you. Killed three a’ his wives, y’know.”

You didn’t know that, but you don’t sway at the look on his face, soft eyes expectant of your usual approval. “The couple from the farm-“

“They was a bit too sacrilegious for my taste. Pretty sure they was siblings, honey.”

“And that one old woman?“

Remmick pauses, lips pursed and eyes wandering as if he’s struggling with the recollection. You see the exact moment it hits him as he nods to himself and shrugs.

“I was hungry.”

His nonchalance stokes the insecurity and spurned virulence you had pushed down from earlier. Instead of facilitating his flippant attitude as usual, you jump to vehement accusations.

“Admit that you want me all to yourself. Locked up, bored and alone day in an’ day out.”

In a breath, Remmick’s face darkens, the minute change so delicate you almost missed it. Those prey instincts of yours work overdrive to compensate for your infatuated, simple-minded decision-making. You feel a stab of worry at the idea that something you said offended him that deeply, but it’s gone at the revival of his usual easygoing demeanor.

“So this is how ya show me? By actin’ out?”

Perhaps not entirely gone.

“I’m tryin’ something new.” You tilt your head, angling your chin in what you hope conveys defiance and not clumsy inexperience.

Despite the inconvenienced air he tries to maintain, you see the mirth in his eyes. Like he’s watching you show your teeth for the first time.

“Al-right.” The leisurely drawl is at odds with the way Remmick’s eyebrows raise and lips part in exaggerated disbelief. “Don’t let me stop you, darlin’.”

Metal clacks as the cuffs grind against the bed frame halfway through a gesture of go ahead, then. The slow tilt of his head up to glare at the manacles puts the pale column of his throat on display. A brief, primitive urge of yours is to curve your hand around it, to feel him swallow under your palm in a reversal of your usual bedroom roles. You decide not to push your luck so soon into your game, instead waiting as he settles his irritated gaze back on you, brows furrowed and lips pursed.

You can’t help but smile at how put out he looks. An expressive, pouty face that exudes attitude.

You lean forward with the intention of capturing a kiss from him out of habit, but pause halfway up his chest. His eyebrows raise expectantly, head cocked and the well? is unspoken but very much heard.

“Thought better of it, actually. Best keep outta reach of those teeth.”

“Now darlin’, I am offended-” You dip your head to take a nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue in what’s probably a cheap imitation of the expertise he uses on you. Your hand goes to fondle the other one and you delight in the surprised, desperate little noises you’re able to pull from him.

“And where did you learn that-”

You reach beneath you to grab his cock, smiling at the hiss he lets out and the discovery that he’s already hard and heavy in your palm. He must have enjoyed your little display of dominance, too. Once you line him up, you rut your hips against him, dragging his length back and forth through your folds.

You continue working him with your hand and hips until an earlier nagging thought draws you back, bracing yourself on your forearms, hips lifting and hovering above his groin.

“Ah, wha- hey. That was just gettin’ good.”

“Sorry.” You smile, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. “Where’d you go tonight?”

“Where did I- fuck’s sake.” His head bounces against the pillows when he sees that you’re serious. “A speakeasy, in town but off the beaten path. Tried to get in by playin’ a tune. Sounded damn near perfect too-”

“And did you?”

Your eyebrows raise at the silence, taking it for the answer it is.

“So no one in that place was turned tonight.”

“…No.”

Your lips occupy themselves with a kiss to his abdomen to keep from chuckling. Poor thing. Not everyone found your vampire as charming as you did.

You take pity on him and continue your journey downwards, past the sparse hair of his belly to his neglected cock, red and leaking.

Your lips press against the tip of him in a chaste kiss. He shudders, hips jerking slightly. You chance an admonishing glimpse up to catch that darkened look has made a reappearance, though this one is for another reason entirely. It emboldens you to slide your hand from his hip to cup his balls, touch just a tad too light by the way he writhes in your grasp.

Remmick’s pants and hums taper off into a growl that makes you throb.

You have no choice but to ignore your aching clit. Now that you actually have him tied up, chest heaving, at your mercy, you know you’d finish embarrassingly quick.

Your tongue busies itself with the vein underneath the length of him, flattening and dragging yourself back up to the top, paying attention to what draws the sweetest sounds out of him. You’re prepared to make your descent when you notice his hands flexing in the cuffs, wood squeaking worryingly. At first, you’re concerned your handmade cushioning didn’t hold up.

“Your wrists okay?” You take a breath in, scenting the air for the smell of burnt flesh. Remmick lets out a depraved noise at the sight.

“Doin’ just well.” His voice thickening with a cadence that betrays the southern drawl he uses to integrate himself among the locals. “Wanna hold yer hair for ya, love.”

“Nice try. Let me know if you start goin’ up in smoke.”

“How fuckin’ sweet of ya.”

You cut off any further gibes by placing your mouth on him. All those nights with him down your throat have prepared you to take the majority of his length without gagging. You breathe through your nose like you practiced, cheeks hollowing, lips gliding terribly slow. Pure delight makes your heart sing at how far you’ve come, how those ruinous twitches and groans are because of you.

“Tha’s it, a little deeper, love. Go on.”

Forgetting yourself, you go to do just that. It takes an embarrassing few moments to remember your goal. You come off of him with a pop, eye twitching at the gall he has to give you orders.

And that you followed them like a dog, you little slut.

“You’re not in charge right now, mister.”

Molten anger and humiliation swirl in your chest as you listen to him chuckle. His head rests comfortably on the pillows like he’s on goddamn holiday.

“Sure, that’s you.” He pauses as you pull yourself up, hands braced on his abdomen but your stare remains burrowing into him. He hums, mouth ajar and eyes appraising. Then acquiesces. “I’m at your mercy, darlin’.”

You leverage yourself with your knees on either side of his thighs and your hands roaming his stomach, not-so-discreetly pawing at his sturdy core muscles.

You lower and resume your grinding against him. Slow, so slow until you see his jaw tick, lips curling back in a snarl.

His sweaty hair mused, mouth half open as he groans, loud and rasping. His unwavering, starving gaze boring into you. A whimper nearly escapes you at this sight of his swollen biceps, fists clenching and relaxing in delicious torment.

He looks like sin.

The swivel of your hips falter at the show he’s putting on for you.

You return it as best as you can, panting out little mewls as his cock head catches at your entrance. You’re unable to resist sliding down the length of him when he finally sinks in, closing your eyes and letting yourself have this moment. You made sure to make all the pretty sounds you know he’s fond of, sighing and gasping as you took your pleasure.

His own breath stutters, eyes glazing into that enraptured stare that borders on too much.

It’s beginning to get too daunting to look at him. The needy look in his wide eyes. Choked sounds he tries to bite back but can’t. You swore you’ve caught flashes of scarlet, and when those teeth come out, you’ll lose your nerve.

But that hasn’t happened yet.

“That’s it. Tha’s it- what in the fuck.”

He slips out of you and that brittle patience of his wears thin.

Definitely a flicker of crimson hue in those eyes. Before he can throw too much of a fit about it, you power through to your request; the goal you’ve had in mind since the start and had definitely not lost sight of.

“I was thinking we make it a weekly thing. Our date, I mean. I’d like to go back to bein’ well and properly courted-”

“Lemme go.” The chains rattle against the frame in a sharp, worrying tug.

“No.” You hum distractedly, eyes drifting closed lest you lose your nerve. “You’re not havin’ fun?”

“I’d much rather be eatin’ that cunt of yours until I can’t get the taste off my tongue. Until the thought of accusin’ me of not takin’ care of ya’ is fucked out of your head.”

It’s impossible to hide your vicious shudder, toes curling against the strewn sheets. You could’ve came right there if the savageness of his tone didn’t make the gears turn in your head. Your eyes fly open.

He- what.

What?

Is that what he’s so pissy about? An imagined blow to his male ego?

Stay focused. Stay. Focused.

“Hmm. Never got my answer.”

His hips spring up in an attempt to continue rubbing against your folds, intent on reminding you what exactly he can give.

“Ah, ah.” You scold, lifting further out of reach and giving his nipple a pull. “Be a good boy, Remmick.”

“Enough beatin’ around the bush. If you’re gonna fuck me, darlin’, fuck me.”

You’re trembling with excitement, but also uneasiness. It makes you feel like when you were a girl, doing something that you knew you’d be in trouble for if you were caught. You’re undoubtedly in hot water now, but the thought of backing down with a lenient punishment is out of the question. Not when he sounds so done in.

It also pays to run on spite and desire.

“Maybe try beggin’.”

Fangs elongate, spittle catching on his lips. Eyes a persistent glow with simmering temper.

…There's something wrong with you, isn’t there? Feeling the way you do about that look?

“You're the one that’s gonna be beggin’ me to stop when I get free a’ these.”

Well, you’re definitely not letting him loose anytime soon. Maybe after he’s nice and spent.

“S’a bit funny. Given the events of tonight.” You explain at eyes narrowed in confusion. “Can’t get in, can’t get out.” Your head tilts to motion towards the outside of the house, then to glance pointedly at the cuffs. A slow smile draws across your face, voice sultry and low. “Can’t get off.”

“Real brave a’ you. With me tied up like this.” Though a twitch of his lips betrays the severity of his tone.

You lift a shoulder, coquettishly fluttering your eyes. You’re not sure what seductive temptress climbed into you, is speaking through you, but you feel on top of the world. You don’t recognize her, but you think you like her.

It seems Remmick does, too. Past the shimmering agitation, you catch a hint of quiet approval. Pride.

That, and he’s been hard as stone since you first got him in those chains.

You go to torment him some more, the tip just barely breaching when Remmick plants his heels on the bed and thrusts up with savage strength. It strikes deep, the ache and shock of it drawing a yelp out of you as your eyes fly open. You flail briefly, having to brace yourself with palms gripping his sweat-slick shoulders, shaking thighs no longer capable of stabilizing yourself. Your breath hitches at the sight you were trying to avoid. Your wide-eyed stare lands on his vicious grin of too many teeth, drool spilling from the side of his mouth.

“Hey!” You stutter, paired with a hard slap on his chest that doesn’t even make him blink.

Fuck, you’re in over your head.

In an effort to maintain control, you scold him. The false, shaky authority nearly makes you wince. “Behave.”

His eyes glow red in the dim room, candlelight casting shadows over his face. “Oh darlin’, I am. Believe you me.”

You’re locked onto each other for a moment. A slow trail of your eyes over the spit pooling around his collar.

“Poor thing.” You coo, carefully staying out of biting distance.

Your send your hips back, dragging over his cock to settle on his thighs. His gaze tracks your breasts as your back arches, pulling your hardened nipples over his torso during your descent.

Truthfully, you’re thighs are burning. But you’re not going to allow his disobedience to go unchecked. You allow yourself a small smile at the lowered pull of his brow when you begin to turn around, your face now concealed from his predatory scrutiny.

There’s a change in the air. The life sucked out of it. Everything seems to still.

Your vampire is no longer amused.

Remmick has an almost reverential fixation with watching your face as you lay together. He’s fucked you from behind before, sure, and you felt primitive and dirty and thoroughly taken as he laid claim to you. Even then, he kept your head turned and in his view. Mouthing in some form between kisses and bites hot against your cheek, your neck. Growls and whines in your ear. The look on his face alone was enough to get you to fall apart.

Denying him this was perhaps the worst sin you could commit tonight.

Your hands find his thighs, muscles tensing and shifting underneath your palms. You continue your newfound game, hips sinking back enough to capture the head of him into your opening. You stay shallow, the thrill and tease building the warmth in your belly.

“Hey.”

You persist, swirling your hips, sighing sweetly at the sound of gnashing teeth and frustrated groans behind you.

“C’mere to me.”

It’s hard to ignore the acceleration of your heartbeat, blood pumping in your ears. It’s harder to ignore the fact that he can hear it. He’s more monster than man right now but you tune him out as you focus on sliding him through your slick folds.

A sharp, guttural call of your name. The growl behind you catches your breath. Voice distorted by fangs. You disregard it and the warning it imparts as you move with newfound urgency. Maybe he won’t be too upset. Maybe you can get to the door-

You start to cum, cresting over the precipice just as the sharp crack of splintering wood fills the air and shoots through your body like a lightening bolt.

Within the same heartbeat, still-bound hands find your upper back-chilled metal grazing your skin tauntingly-and shove hard, knocking you face-first onto the bed.

The jarring occurrence leaves you winded, enough so that you’re momentarily distracted from the sensory overload of Remmick rutting into you. Linen sheets press and stick to the sweaty skin of your forearms, your cheek. Your hips are in the air, framed by two strong hands.

”Remmi-” you begin to beg, like it will do anything but encourage him, excite his predator instincts.

You have known what kind of monster he is. That he’s capable of such brutality it would be vain to even attempt to understand it. He had been careful not to expose you to any violent depravity, and while you know what you’ve unleashed would be considered merciful in that regard, it’s unlike anything of what you’ve seen in your time together.

Through the immobilizing shock and fear, you absently feel your body coming back down from it’s high, thighs shaking and toes curling. The nerves and awareness of overstimulated skin making itself known and surpassing the score.

“Rem-remmi-fuck!” Mewls and half-formed cries fall past your lips. It takes several heaving breaths to form some semblance of coherence, to enunciate in more than fragmented pleas and whines. “Please, listen, Remmick-”

“Poor thing.” A guttural, deranged voice reverberates in your ear. “I told ya, you’ll beg me to stop. And I won’t, I won’t, not until I fuck you within an inch of yer life.”

A flash of silver crosses over your field of vision, confined hands coming to rest on your front, gripping you close as he fucks you brutally. A hand finds itself around your throat, resting, keeping you against him with a controlled amount of force. The other hand finds your breast in an aching grasp, a sound emitting from you that would have had you hiding your face in your palms a month ago, if he hadn’t fucked any and all decency out of you since then.

Just as your face begins to flush red in an old habits die hard fashion- his teeth sink into the junction between your shoulder and neck.

The initial bite is the equivalent of being doused in ice water. Your heart contracts, fighting each pull into his mouth and losing. Unlike his previous feedings, there’s a feral urgency brought on by the involuntary restraints and cruel teasing. The deprivation of blood and oxygen paired with the sedative-like component in his saliva contributes to a feeling of weightlessness.

Your body responds to his feeding in its usual betrayal. Conditioned to fall apart around the cock pulsing inside you, frenzied movements encouraged by the sustenance.

You sink into the bed. Limbs heavy, formed of the iron you trapped him with except you never were a match for it.

“I know what you like, what you need. Don’t even need to be inside your fuckin’ head for it.” He slows the pace of his hips, thrusts more punctuated but no less ruining than they were.

Remmick’s face is buried in your hair, panting, growling, whining in your ear. He noses along your cheek, breathing in the scent of you-your arousal makes your blood sing-and his own interwoven with yours. It’s enough to cause that feeling in your belly to crescendo into a steady ache.

He releases your throat in favor of barring a forearm around your neck. You gasp, a little mewl escaping you at the rigidity of him. You’re kept flush against the hard contours of his body. The reprieve of arching your back away from him made null by the force of his thrusts, rendering you unable to do anything but sit there and take it. It’s stifling. Terrifying. Your attention split between every sensation until you’re dizzy with it.

Fluid drips down between your breasts, saliva and blood blending into a pink mess. Droplets fall from his maw and stipple your shoulder blades. The scent of his sweat and yours, of sex and musk and warmth. The bedding is already ruined beneath you.

Teeth gnash against your throat, tongue laving up the trickles leaking from fresh wounds, frenetic fangs occasionally scraping them open. That tremble of restraint that’s usually there but amplified tenfold.

Your head lolls onto folded arms to try to muffle your wailing, the sensitivity becoming intermingled with pleasure until you can’t discern between the two.

There’s something about the way he channels the urge of ripping you apart into fucking you; a clemency only you could appreciate.

“Don’t, Rem’ck, don’t don’t-” Meek whimpers sound more like prayers.

“Don’ fuss. Just givin’ me lass what she asked for.” Your battered cunt sucks him in, contracting and squeezing him in a vice grip. “Greedy girl, ain’t she?”

It sneaks up on you, a pooling warmth shot down to your abdomen, through your glistening, puffy clit. Your mouth falls open in a broken gasp, body trembling as you clench around him. Tremors inch up from your core, up the column of your spine until you’re sure you’re going to shatter apart.

When you do, it’s less intense than before but no less devastating.

“That’s it, girl. Fuck, darlin’-“ Remmick draws, his cock bullying its way into your tightening cunt. His voice joins yours in a chorus of breathless moans, each as ravaged as the other.

He throws the both of you onto your sides, the arm around your throat and the sturdy body behind you protecting you from the rough jostling, like he’s the only thing allowed to cause you any discomfort.

His grip on you softens. Palms sticky with sweat and blood slide over your breasts, your hips, to find their home on your quivering thighs.

Coming down from the orgasm is catastrophic. You shift in his hold, unable to do anything but retreat into his body or his hands. The tightening of your cunt alerts you of his cock that’s still heavy inside you, rocking you gently and rejuvenated from the feeding.

He tongues the sweat off of your neck, swirling down your neck and back up until you can no longer tell where he is or isn’t. Your skin is too tight, quivering, aching to be rid of the monster that melds you against him. Your tender mind hopes he’ll keep you in his hold or else you’ll fly apart. He’s the most dangerous predator and the only one to make you feel safe.

Remmick’s making contented little noises as he mouths at you. Warm drool steadily drips on your shoulder, falls down your back. It spreads and sticks obscenely as he tugs you back to meet his chest. A warm tongue laps against your shoulder blades like he’s trying to clean you but only results in a bigger mess.

Suddenly you’re empty, bereft cunt feeling strangely vacant but it doesn’t last for long as you’re maneuvered with little resistance onto your back, face to face with something out of a nightmare.

Gleaming eyes peer down at you, bloody mouth agape and breathing hard like you’re something holy. His stare never falters, like watching you come apart is the equivalent of basking in the sunrise that’s evaded him for years.

He’s somehow still achingly hard as he slides against your clit, shushing as you sputter your mangled protests. The heft of him slipping through your throbbing folds.

The sticky mess between your thighs hinders his frenzied attempt to rock back into you, his cock catching against your opening several times before he sinks home. His hips pick up in a slow, relentless pace. A sob tears from your throat as he moves in and out, raw from the previous times he’s taken you.

“Please. Nuh-“ Your voice catches on a hiccuping sob and a plethora of broken little noises. “No more, please, Remmi-”

“Shh. S’alright. There she is.” The red glow of his eyes somehow adorns a cherishing appearance. No trace of his earlier hostility to be found. Only contentment. Fondness. Comforting the lamb so the meat tastes sweet. Sharp, jagged teeth find your ear, alternating between kissing and mouthing around it. “Me lass.”

His thrusts do not still between the shushing and cooing. Kisses pepper your face in what feels like a desperate attempt of his to cover as much skin as possible, to smother you in him so there’s no beginning or end between the two of you.

You try your best to match them, catching the corners of his lips in an attempt to placate him, show you’re willing to play along.

Mercy, please.

There was no denying him, this time. As if your brief refusal to face him kept him in ravenous desperation for years. He was going to take what he was due.

His hands find whatever softness they can reach, digging into your back, your belly, your breasts, finally landing on your ass. His forehead presses to yours, swaying gently from side to side as he continues to rock into you. Glowing eyes remain unblinking, taking his fill of you as a man starved. This is what you’re used to; the unnerving adoration he has with watching you come to ruin.

Dripping wet lips find yours and your mouth falls open on trained impulse. All you can do is take what he gives, saliva spilling past your lips, coating you inside.

An interwoven jumble of Gaelic and English is snarled into the skin of your shoulder as he empties himself inside you, hot breath imperceptible against your heated skin.

He all but collapses on top of you, reminding you that he was using some restraint when he lay melded against you.

Curly brown wisps cover your bleary eyes that refuse to focus. The events of the night hit you, and a crazed little giggle bursts from your lips. It transforms into a full-blown laugh at the raising of his still-constrained hands, jiggling pointedly in an impertinent request of removal. You absently inform him of the keys in the bedside dresser.

“You could- You could’a got free s’whole time.” You slurred, warm and sated in the grasp of his strong arms. Anxiety quieted now that you have your Remmick back.

”Aye. But you wanted to play, and I wanted to see how far you’d go before ya lost your nerve. “ A kiss landed on the side of your sweaty cheek, his body shifting in a way that caused his softening cock to pull out of you. “You surprised me.”

Reduced to nothing more than the dim-witted fool you are, you smile uncontrollably at the treasured possession of his words.

#remmick imagine #remmick x you #remmick x reader

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trainer-from-unova · 2 days ago

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contagious

english ao3 Ⓢ spanish ao3 Ⓢ masterlist Ⓢ 𝄞

ship: robert reynolds x oxe nurse afab!reader

summary: bob will not hurt anyone if you stay at his side, so you stay with him even if you don't want to. "nurse then a servant, just an appendage live to attend him so that he never lifts a finger"

au: canon divergence, oxe experimented on bob inside the vault, bob is a superhero, bob obeys val, sentry living homelander's life but without a team

c/w: the dove is alive and you can eat it but have in mind that there's a dove, horrible day at work for poor y/n, kidnapping and stockholm syndrome but not really but the vibes are there, you're his trophy ...and maybe much more, forced bonding and relationship, nurse/patient, boss/assistant, minor character death, light angst, mentions of mental illness and instability, open happy ending, humor, consensual sex, piv sex, unsafe sex, semi-public/bathroom quickie

a/n: his hair isn't described so you can imagine him blond or brunette, and english isn't my first language so sorry if something's weird expressed and even if you read it here please leave a kudo in ao3!

word count: 4169

It had probably been the craziest and most intense night of her life, and she was sure it had been the craziest and most intense night of the others, especially the military she was assisting. She had hardly slept, eaten or drank — but at least she wasn't hurt, she was just too busy ...and worried. Not for her in particular, but for all the people who had been injured, and those who might be injured in the future by him and 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

She was checking the wounds of a serviceman when she heard a commotion that caught her attention, a crowd of able-bodied servicemen heading towards her. For a moment she thought maybe they were going to bring her more patients, ask about the condition of their comrades or something like that. She didn't expect them to come after her, leaving her no time to react and try to resist, handcuffing her feet, hands and even a muzzle like Loki after the famous battle in New York.

It's as if her mind had been read, because while she was wondering what was going on and why she was being treated like that, Mel appeared and approached her to inform her, not very enthusiastically:

"He* wants you... I'm sorry."

She wished she could have slept on the helicopter flight to New York, but it was so short and she was so confused, nervous and scared that it was impossible. All that was compounded when she arrived at her apparent destination: The Watchtower.

When they helped her off the helicopter they made her walk across the helipad to the inside of the penthouse. To her surprise there was Valentina, and next to her was Bob, completely changed — he looked like someone else. The place was turned upside down, with broken glass on the floor, broken furniture, bullets and some traces of blood. She guessed what had happened, and all the aforementioned sensations were further aggravated. She looked worriedly at Bob as he slowly approached her, reaching up to remove all the handcuffs and muzzle with his telekinetic powers, causing them to fall to the ground.

She had the option to speak now, and she had many questions on her mind — so many that she didn't dare ask any of them out loud, as she didn't know where to start.

"It's time for you to go," he said raising his arm, looking at the soldiers behind her and to her sides.

"No!" she said worriedly, stepping forward. "Please don't hurt them."

"Yeah, listen to her and behave yourself," said Valentina a few metres away from them, in front of her and behind him. She looked at her, just as she looked at Mel standing next to her. "That was the deal."

At first she thought it was Valentina who wanted her, but now she was seeing that she was completely wrong. She looked back at his arm, which was still raised, but now, instead of being in attacking form towards the soldiers, he was holding out his hand for her to approach him and merge with him in a grip.

"What do you want from me?" she asked with bated breath.

"Everything," he answered, very sure of his answer. She had never seen him so sure.

Being a nurse she'd had enough of a run-in with him, you could say they'd grown fond of each other (even though she knew she shouldn't feel that way about him for many reasons) and had a good bond. It shouldn't surprise her that someone as traumatised, disturbed and lonely as he was had fallen in love with her when he was under her care. She knew of many cases of patients falling in love with nurses and viceversa, it was like Stockholm Syndrome.

"You won't hurt anyone?"

"If you're next to me."

She wasn't thrilled with the idea, but did she have any other choice...? He was out of control, mentally unstable, and her freedom had to be the sacrifice. Maybe she couldn't change him, but she could control him so that he wouldn't hurt anyone.

"...Then so be it," she said as she approached him and accepted his hand, causing him to smile sweetly and shyly at her. She knew herself well and always knew she was very helpful, but she never imagined she would be so helpful. That's why she became a nurse — it was vocational, she always wanted to help.

"And I now pronounce you man and wife," said Valentina rolling her eyes. "But the honeymoon has to wait, the press is waiting downstairs," she said pointing behind her, turning to head for the lift with Mel.

"There's a bed upstairs, take a rest, okay?" he reported as he stroked her hand with his thumb, before releasing it and going to the other two women's side.

She couldn't, or rather, shouldn't be surprised at such a change of mood. She nodded doubtfully and watched him walk away as she listened to Mel inform Valentina that the cleaning service was on its way to clean up the mess. She stood there, processing it all and feeling his eyes on her until the lift doors closed. The military stood there, and wanting to be alone and rest (if only physically) she took Bob's advice, going upstairs and into the bedroom there. She knew that, military or not, she had no way to escape, and if she did she would probably make the situation worse and not be able to run far.

The decor was sparse and the lighting horrible, but there was a television, so she turned it on to watch even a little of the press conference while she looked around the bedroom, full of hairdressing tools and fashion designs. She browsed the hangers on the dressers and the papers she found while occasionally glancing up to look at the screen, but always paying attention to what was being said. When there was nothing more to look at she lay back on the bed, watching Bob on the screen.

If he didn't excuse himself then she would excuse him: she knew that all this wasn't his fault, that he was only a victim of his circumstances, just as she was now. He was alone and needed company, and above all love. She didn't have the feeling that he was going to treat her badly in any way, but she was shocked and nervous about how her life was going to change from that moment on, so she couldn't help crying. That was the straw that broke the camel's back, exhausting her further and causing her to fall asleep.

Maybe to say that she was kidnapped was too strong a word, but she was very limited and watched over by Bob, Valentina and her employees. And unfortunately no one missed her, as she had no family left and the few friends she had could be counted on the fingers of one hand, apart from the fact that for work and personal reasons she had lost contact and trust with them. They were the typical friends who only met every few months to catch up over a drink.

So much studying nursing for nothing... But she was still getting a salary, a good one. Now her job was to live with Bob, and as unstable as he was it was sometimes difficult, but she always tried to be loving and put on her best face. She had to raise his self-esteem when it was too low and lower it when it was too high. She had to calm his delusions of grandeur, reminding him why he took the serum to convince him to do good and not to kill anyone, especially Valentina. She always wanted ______ to be present whenever she met with him, even for boring marketing meetings.

But she was a heroine, in her own way. Part of her felt useful and satisfied to know that by being by his side she saved many, and apparently himself as well. She couldn't help but begin to feel special that she was so loved by a God, however prefabricated and mentally unstable. Besides, he told her she was a Goddess — his Goddess.

Luckily it wasn't all bad. Now she lived for free in the penthouse of a skyscraper with incredible views of Manhattan, she had maid and kitchen service that did everything for them, and Bob didn't force her to do anything that made her uncomfortable — he just wanted to hold hands, hug her, cuddle with her, have her stroke his hair... At most he dared to kiss her on the cheek and look at her lips too much.

But touch makes affection. As time went on, and in the moments when he was mentally stable and cheerful, she couldn't help but begin to find him adorable. Nothing was a lie anymore, nothing was forced anymore: the hugs, the cuddling... Even holding his hand was now natural, and she had even started to kiss him on the cheek as well. The first time she dared to do so, she couldn't help but laugh when she saw his surprised face, and how shy and blushing he became. She also blushed when he dared to compliment her, and the instinct to protect him intensified.

At first she had told him to go on dates as an excuse to get out of the tower, now it was because she really enjoyed his company. And to be honest, she didn't feel so lonely anymore. Bob had filled a big void in her life, and she even missed him when she was away from home on a mission. She used to go to museums and other places alone, now she went with him, holding his hand.

"It's beautiful," he whispered looking at the painting in front of them, a romantic scene between a couple from several centuries ago.

"You know," she said in the same tone, catching his attention. "When I was a kid I thought people in the past were very serious, because they posed like that in pictures in Victorian times. Then I found out that they posed like that because they had to stand still for a long time to get the picture right, and seeing pictures like this you realise that they actually loved just like we do, which makes sense, because we're all alive because two people loved each other."

"It's a very romantic way of looking at things," he said looking at her with a touch of tenderness. One of the many things he liked about her was her way of looking at life. Knowing her he understood the meaning of the word "kind".

"Yeah, well," she said, blushing slightly, "I suppose."

"Excuse me," said a female voice behind them, and they both thought it was some fan asking for a photo, since he was a public figure. They both turned and saw a girl, teenager or young adult, with a small sheet of paper in her hand, offering it to them. In the other hand she was holding a small notebook. "I've drawn you," she said shyly.

"Oh my God!" she said, taking it. They both stared at it, amazed and touched. The drawing was done in charcoal pencil and showed them with their backs to each other, holding hands in front of a vertical rectangle that symbolised a painting. "It's the most beautiful thing I've seen here today," she said, and both he and the girl laughed.

"No way," said the girl, blushing.

"It's beautiful, really!" said Bob. "Thank you very much."

"Can we keep it?" she asked, curious and hoping for a positive answer.

"Yeah, of course!" replied the girl.

"Thank you," smiled Bob.

"You haven't credited it," she said, turning the paper over to see if there were any credit behind it, "don't you have an art account?"

"Oh, yeah," she said shyly, "but..." She shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, you should. Could I follow you on Instagram, if you have one?" she asked, handing the picture to Bob to hold while she pulled her mobile phone out of a pocket.

She said yes and told her her Instagram art account. She followed her and then the girl asked if she could take a picture with him, just him. She laughed, because of course she wanted a photo with him. She didn't take it badly, she understood her because if she came across a celebrity with its partner she obviously wouldn't want to take a photo with the partner in it. She took a picture of them together with her mobile phone and the girl left the room where they were. The picture ended up on the fridge in the attic with a magnet.

But was she his partner? For most people, yeah. She wasn't a public figure, but she went everywhere with him so everyone, from press of all kinds to internet users and other workers in the tower, assumed she was his assistant or his partner or both. For Valentina she was, for Mel she was, she had told her few friends that she was (because the truth was too embarrassing and complicated and she didn't want any trouble)... Even for him it was, and even if she didn't have a choice and there were couple things they didn't do (yet) she also started to consider herself as such. She knew she shouldn't feel that way after all she had been through and sometimes she felt annoyed with herself and even with him inside herself, and although she tried to curb that feeling in the end she let it flow, knowing that it was probably the best option whether or not it was a defence mechanism in her brain. With him she discovered that Stockholm Syndrome was contagious.

"You'll be fine," she reminded him, holding his hands to keep him still and comfort him minutes before an interview, waiting for the press to finish setting up. He kept pacing back and forth and adjusting his suit wristbands.

"I'm tired of so many interviews," he said, annoyed and weary.

"People want to meet you, it's only natural..." She shrugged her shoulders. "Show them the man I love," she said, smiling sweetly as he tightened her grip on his hands.

"...What?" he asked confused and surprised. In this relationship he was the only one who said such things to the other, until now. At first he knew she didn't love him in the same way he did, but he knew she was fond of him and trusted that she would love him back in time. He couldn't have imagined it would happen so soon, it had barely been three months since their relationship began. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. "Really?" he said looking at her lips for a microsecond.

"Really," she said still smiling in the same way, releasing him and placing a hand on one of his shoulders and the other on one of his cheeks as she stood on her tiptoes, removing what little distance there was between them and fusing their lips together once and for all.

It was hard for him to react at first, but in the end, as expected, he kissed her back slowly to make the moment last as long as possible while holding her by the waist. He had to pull away from her, but not for lack of air.

"I've waited a long time for this..." He said in a whisper, his breath hitching as his gaze went from her eyes to her lips and from her lips to her eyes, over and over again. "But now really is the worst time because I'm going to get an erection."

"Fuck- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" she said, surprised and blushing but trying not to laugh, putting a hand to her mouth. "I just wanted to cheer you up, but yeah, I should have thought of that," she said embarrassed, "sorry."

"No no, don't worry, it was wonderful," he said as he shook his head, still holding her close to him.

"Cross your legs or use the cape as a blanket, I'll deal with it later."

"Really?" he asked again in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, you'd better fuck me later," she said in a whisper, so light that if she had lowered her voice any further he would have had to read her lips. She looked at him seriously but smiling, trying to make him see that she was sure and that she wanted it as much as he did.

"I could do it right now," he said, his voice deeper and his eyes hungrier. "Fuck the interview," he said trying to pull her closer to him if possible, to make her feel how impatient he was, but even though she was looking forward to it as much as he was, she had to be the voice of reason.

"No honey," she said with a laugh. "It's too late to cancel, and you must do it. The sooner you finish it the sooner we can... Okay?"

"All right," he said as annoyed as a small child, which again made her laugh.

They parted but only briefly, for he took her by the hand to go with her to where the interview was to take place, so that, as usual, she would be present behind the cameras. And the interview was hilarious — she couldn't help but laugh every time she saw him settling into the seat where he was sitting, closing his legs, covering himself with his hands as discreetly as possible, trying to use his cloak as a blanket as she had advised... You could see how nervous he was in his hands and eyes, and she didn't know if it was because of the interview or because of what had just happened and what was going to happen soon or both, but it made the situation worse when their gazes connected in the moments when he wasn't looking at the interviewer. At those moments they both couldn't help but blush and had to try to hold in their laughter, even though it was an interview that wasn't being broadcast live.

"Excuse me, where's the bathroom?" he asked a worker as soon as the interview was over. "It's urgent," he clarified, and as soon as he was answered he went straight in her direction to take her hand again, leaving and going to where he had been told as quickly as possible.

"You should be more discreet," she said embarrassed but at the same time laughing as she slung her bag over her shoulder. The situation was surreal.

"I can't be in this outfit!" he replied, just as her.

And when they reached the bathroom he had to restrain himself from blowing the door off with his powers. A man standing there, pissing into a chamber pot, was startled to see them enter because the door burst open, because it was him (and looking like that) entering the place, and accompanied by a woman, who shouldn't be there as it was a male bathroom.

"Uh- Sorry!" she replied embarrassed. "It's just that I have to help him get undressed..." she laughed nervously as they walked towards a cubicle at the end of the room, but she wasn't really lying and just by looking at him you could tell it wasn't an easy suit to put on or take off.

As soon as they were locked in the cubicle he had chosen he put her against the wall, leaning over to kiss her passionately with tongue included while she tried to make as little noise as possible by holding her moans in her throat and taking her purse off her shoulder. Luckily the toilet seat was down and she was able to drop it on the lid, almost throwing it over it. Then she tried to pull his cloak away from his back with her sense of touch in search of the zip on his back. Also luckily that man was soon gone, but Bob's phone, which was in her bag, rang. They both ignored it.

"See why I hate this suit?" he said as they parted, to let her breathe. She nodded anxiously as he reached down to her trousers to pull them down, including her panties. And then her mobile rang, in her pocket. You didn't have to be very smart to know who it was. They both looked at each other annoyed by the situation, but she decided to pick it up, not to answer but to ask not to be disturbed any more as he tried to remove his bracelets.

"Where are you!?" said Mel, stressed as she grabbed them from him and put them in her bag with her free hand. "Val-"

"Too busy!" She said annoyed, motioning for him to turn around to help him unzip his back. "Honeymoon! Give us ten minutes!"

"Ugh-" and they both hung up at the same time.

If they had ten minutes, five were to help him get out of his suit, and he couldn't even get it all off. As soon as he was able to undress his crotch, revealing his muscular pecs and arms (and more parts of his body), they stopped trying to undress him. Good thing he wasn't wearing boxer shorts (because they would wrinkle and show too much, according to the fashion department better to just show off his pack). The top of the suit fell in front of his legs, on the floor.

They would have preferred to do it sitting down or with him holding her buttocks and legs against the wall, but the quickest option was to do it from behind, with one of her knees on the toilet seat and holding on to the cistern while he grabbed her hips.

They would both have liked the situation to be more romantic, comfortable, slow and intimate, but Bob wanted to make her completely his once and for all, he couldn't wait any longer, he'd had enough patience for months and the amorous confession and kiss earlier had provoked him too much, so he grabbed the tip of his cock and brushed her wet lips to make his way in without much decorum.

They both tried to choke their moans in their throats as he filled the void inside her, and she tried to hold on tighter. Instead Bob's hands gripped her waist to ram her, back and forth, watching victoriously as his cock disappeared inside her. He had daydreamed about it many times, in the company of his dominant hand.

He rammed her hard and fast, and she rested her forehead on her hands as she bit her lip, making a great effort not to moan, more and more. But she couldn't help moaning as her orgasm came, arching her back and spasming, but he gripped her tightly to keep her still and from slipping away, feeling her throbbing insides clinging to him.

That he was invincible and powerful meant he couldn't get tired, but it didn't mean he could hold back his orgasm if he was too aroused. Instantly he had to pull out of her, cumming on one of her buttocks as he groaned. He would have preferred inside, but he loved the sight of her bare buttocks with his semen as she tried to catch her breath and craned her neck to look up at him with narrowed eyes and flushed cheeks.

He reached out to grab toilet paper from the dispenser to wipe her and himself, but when he noticed the cardboard cartridge with no paper at all he panicked.

"There's no paper," he said nervously in a whisper.

"Wait..." she said opening her bag between the back of the toilet and her knee to find a small packet of wet wipes. She handed it to him and he opened it, wiping her first and then him. "Thank you."

When she got up from the toilet she pulled up her panties as she turned around, pulled up her trousers and then helped him get dressed. When they were ready to leave the cubicle she grabbed her bag to put it on her shoulder again, but suddenly he hugged her. She was so taken by surprise by the gesture that she laughed quietly, but she also returned the gesture with a smile on her face as she stood on her tiptoes to catch him, resting her chin on one of his shoulders.

"I know this hasn't been the most romantic first time, but... I'll make it up to you," he whispered in her ear.

"Tonight?" she asked in his ear, tossing out the idea.

"Tonight?" he asked surprised but pleased with the idea as he pulled away from her to watch her facial expression. She laughed, put her hand on his cheek to stand on her tiptoes again and give him a quick kiss on the lips as they both grinned from ear to ear.

* I imagined and wrote this originally in Spanish and in Spanish that phrase doesn't indicate the gender of the person who wants her... Hence the mystery and the revelation later.

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l8rhader · 37 minutes ago

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Once upon a time, it was easy for students to write a six-hundred-word essay in M.L.A. format, double-spaced in twelve-point Times New Roman font. Worse than that, back in my day, it wasn’t actually word count. It was page count. In those instances, you’d be stuck making it up as you went until you got to the point where you thought you were comfortably close to the end, and then pop into print preview to ensure that you were at your end point because Microsoft Word didn’t always have page counts, either. We had a habit of reading the source material as assigned, or in some instances not reading it and bullshitting our way through the paper. Often, if you were me, you would wait until 11 pm the night before to start the essay portion. You’d sit down at your computer in your family’s kitchen and hammer away, hoping that it made some sort of sense. By the time you were a senior in high school, you got pretty good at adding in some purple prose to stretch it if necessary, usually knowing where transitional words, examples, and multi-word phrases were eligible for swaps for a much more neat and concise answer. If you were really good at it, or particularly driven, you knew that you could make your thesis long enough to get you to a solid seventy-five to one hundred words. If your basic essay structure called for a thesis, four body paragraphs, and a conclusion, that meant that each section needed to be about one hundred words long and you were off to the races. But wait! You’d get to the end of your essay and find that you were off by about a quarter of the page, so you’d go back through your work and add things. It could be as small and silly as 3 sentences to each paragraph, with a small bit you remembered or even loosely restating. Now, here’s the thing. Your bullshitting skills were a badge of honor. In a world where school started at seven fifteen am and you didn’t get to leave until ten pm because of afterschool activities or work- and God forbid you had the unfortunate lifestyle to have a before-school activity as well- that usually meant that you had about hours to eat dinner, do homework, shower, and have any sort of fun, job, or social life with your friends or family… And also sleep. So, you learned how to do it all. That’s fine, right? Just do what you need to. Before you knew it, you were rocking out useless information like it was your job because it was, and it was, supposedly, all in the name of preparing us for the real world. Even to this day, I can recall bullshitting an essay about homoerotic subtext in The Great Gatsby at 1 am because, in truth, I’d only read about a third of the book and hated every god forsaken second of it. In those instances, you skimmed websites, you crowd-sourced, you skimmed, and you made it up. And if you were really good, you’d land pretty close. All of these are skills that you, too, can hone if you don’t use AI as a crutch and let your brain atrophy into disuse. The thing that kills me about the use of AI in these ways, even past the particularly and personally stinging plagiarism issues, is that these are skills that are important for navigating the real world- the news, instructions, recipes, travel directions. Even if you choose, like me, to never pursue higher education for whatever reason, you still NEED to be able to dissect information and discern what is useful. The people who are relying on AI for all of their academic needs are doing themselves a huge disservice and shooting themselves in the foot. You don’t have to be able to stomach Animal Farm as a piece. But you HAVE to be able to get your own information.

There. 669-word opinion-based essay written in about 12 minutes. You're welcome.

im still losing it over the "how did high schoolers write 600 word essays before chatgpt" post. 600 words. that is nothing. that is so few words what do you mean you can't write 600 words. 600 words. this post right here is 45 words.

#Ai is instant but at what fucking cost.

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devilish-cherry · 2 days ago

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nanami relationship headcanons ♡

ᨳ♡₊➳ nanami x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ my other works

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: this post is just me projecting my need for someone emotionally mature and capable through nanami. please clap. 🙂‍↕️

₊⊹. nanami unironically has reminders set for relationship milestones. not because he's forgetful, but because he's practical. he'll deadpan tell you, "it's our anniversary tomorrow. expect a dinner that's slightly nicer than usual, but please keep your expectations reasonable."

₊⊹. you bought him novelty socks once. he said they were "childish." he now wears them every friday. they have little croissants on them. he doesn't talk about it. but when you pointed it out, he just said, "i was low on clean socks. coincidence." lies.

₊⊹. you once complained about him texting like a customer service chatbot. now, you'll get messages like "Dinner at 7. 👍" and after questioning him, he'll calmly explain, "i thought the thumbs up would indicate enthusiasm."

₊⊹. he respects your weird little hobbies like it's a full-time religion. you told him you liked collecting novelty erasers and now he's like, "i found this one shaped like a sushi roll. seemed appropriate. it's from a limited set." you don't even know where he finds these.

₊⊹. you once texted nanami "u up?" at 10:42 p.m. he responded at 6:00 a.m. the next day with, "I was asleep. As all sane adults should be." you then received a forwarded link to a sleep hygiene article and a reminder to hydrate. the man loves you, but sleep comes first. always.

₊⊹. on a particularly rough day, you find him staring dramatically out the window, murmuring, "this world continues to test my patience." when you ask what's wrong, he answers solemnly, "they discontinued my preferred rye bread."

₊⊹. he might complain about meaningless small talk, yet he listens patiently and intently whenever you excitedly ramble about your latest hyperfixation. later, you catch him quietly googling random obscure facts just so he can casually drop information into future conversations. "did you know," he'll begin flatly at dinner, "the specific species of salamander you adore has regenerative capabilities?" this is peak romance for him.

₊⊹. nanami keeps a grocery list in his notes app. it is secretly 80% just things you casually mentioned once.

₊⊹. if you have long hair, you notice he starts wearing your hair ties on his wrist. he vehemently denies sentimentality, claiming instead that it's practical, in case of "unexpected wind conditions."

₊⊹. he never says he misses you outright but texts random things like, "The house seems unnecessarily spacious today." you translate these awkwardly formal messages as "i miss you." and tease him relentlessly for it.

₊⊹. nanami looks so intimidatingly polished at all times, people assume he's naturally graceful. in reality, you've seen him bang his shin on the coffee table at least twice a week. each time he just quietly, painfully mutters, "fantastic."

₊⊹. the first time you suggest watching a cheesy romantic drama together, he provided dry commentary on unrealistic plot developments, muttering things like, "yes, because sprinting in heels through an airport is totally practical." with such seriousness you almost choke on your popcorn laughing.

₊⊹. despite being cool and collected, he's hilariously competitive at random things. he's calm until someone mentions board games. monopoly nights at home become overly serious. he mutters under his breath about property taxes, income inequality, and irresponsible fiscal policies as you nervously remind him, "nanami, it's fake money." he glares softly, "principles aren't fictional."

₊⊹. if you oversleep and panic, he watches calmly as you sprint around. when you complain, he sips his coffee and deadpans, "it’s simple: wake up earlier, or master teleportation."

₊⊹. nanami calls you by your name 95% of the time. once he called you "dear" and gojo materialized from the drywall like a poltergeist to scream about it. nanami now refuses to say anything remotely affectionate within a five-mile radius of gojo.

₊⊹. he is 100% the boyfriend who texts "Can you talk?" and immediately stresses you out, only to call and calmly ask, "which type of cereal did you want again?"

₊⊹. despite being generally indifferent towards animals, nanami somehow attracts stray cats. you regularly catch him sternly lecturing a cat, saying flatly, "i’m not feeding you again," while simultaneously sliding food toward it discreetly.

₊⊹. he openly claims he doesn’t nap. he merely "rests his eyes aggressively" on weekends, fully clothed on the couch, for precisely forty five minutes exactly.

₊⊹. he secretly enjoys watching documentaries about marine life but insists he's doing "important retirement research."

₊⊹. even though he seems eternally composed, when you get sick, nanami panics silently. he googles symptoms discreetly, sighs, then calmly states, "according to the internet, you either have a mild cold or twenty four hours left to live. please let me know which one so i can adjust my schedule accordingly."

₊⊹. he hates pda in theory, claiming it’s "inappropriate and disruptive," yet has zero hesitation holding your hand tightly when crossing busy streets, rationalizing it as "accident prevention."

₊⊹. nanami tries his absolute hardest to hate all forms of modern slang and phrases. until one day he overhears you calling gojo "a walking red flag" and suddenly he's very supportive.

₊⊹. you catch him watching cooking competition shows with intense seriousness, critiquing plating skills and muttering, "no self-respecting chef serves food smeared randomly like abstract art. are we dining or painting?"

₊⊹. despite his stoic demeanor, you catch glimpses of softness: like the slightly awkward way he offers his coat when you're cold, muttering, "don’t make a fuss, just wear it." or how he carefully holds the umbrella slightly more over you in the rain, grumbling about your poor planning yet never failing to protect you from a single raindrop.

₊⊹. he walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. holds doors for you even if it means awkwardly power-walking to get ahead. refills your water without being asked. the kind of love that’s low-volume but high-resolution.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #nanami #nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #nanami x reader #jjk crack #jjk fluff #jjk imagines #jjk scenarios #jjk headcanons #jjk hcs #nanami hcs

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so-i-did-this-thing · 1 day ago

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you may have already answered a question like this, but do you do anything with steampunk ? or even renaissance faires ? what is your opinion on steampunk, I feel like it would be right up your alley ! you'd make a dapper af steampunk costume, I have no doubt ♡ (also hi, love your vibes, hope you're hydrating)

Hmmmm. HMMMM.

I have some very complicated thoughts about Steampunk. Overall, the aesthetic is fun, but I get burnt out on seeing the same persona and visual tropes. One also really has to tread carefully with how they navigate the colonialism and capitalism of the source material, things that are baked into a lot of the design shorthand that's become popular over the years. (I think about this issue a lot as a polar exploration fan.)

I actually did think up a steampunk persona once upon a time, and it'd probably surprise folks -- not posh at all, nor really overlapping with my tweedy style. I'd be a black market information broker - think mobile card catalog and ticker tape machine - just a feral little man dealing in secrets of any kind. Sort of my pushback against all the gentleman explorers and airship captains.

Wrt rennfaires -- my partner is usually cast for 1 or more. Faires are more entertainment than education, but I have plans to do some historically inspired shitpost costumes at some point or another, ranging from a marginalia-sona to landsknecht in the extreme hotpants:

Because *someone* has gotta counterbalance all the cis dudes in their sandlars, trousers, and pirate hats.

I also want to do an accurate plague doctor, this kind of mask:

As you may be guessing now: when I stray out of my niche fandoms into something more mainstream, I tend to either to do my own thing, or do the popular thing, but go off-road.

I am partly like this because I don't like being compared to other cosplayers/costumers. So, you'll rarely find me in any "popular" fandom/subculture.

I hope that wasn't too disappointing an answer! My commitment to The Bit drives most of my approach to costume work, and I am very picky about what kind of Bit I do.

#chit chat #the irony is my partner was big in steampunk for a hot minute

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tocappuccinosintheclouds · 17 hours ago

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wHY do we not talk about the fact that Neal voluntarily spent two months in prison just so he could go BACK TO PETER all the time? Why is this not constantly being discussed????!! His girlfriend!!! Was murdered!!! Extremely brutally in front of him!!!!! And he decides to wait in prison to go back to his deal?!?!

And he already spent two weeks, TWO. WEEKS., waiting for Peter’s hearing, fully under the belief. Oh my god I’m gonna cry. Okay. He spends two weeks in prison waiting, under the belief that this is essentially only until Peter gets his badge back. He doesn’t understand, at that moment, the huge scope of this situation. I just, fuck, I can imagine how he felt going through that. Counting down the days because as soon as Peter gets his badge back, the second he’s no longer suspended, Neal gets to go home, right? Right?

Neal: “Then why am I still here? …They think I blew up the plane?”

Peter: “They don't know what to think.”

Neal: “What do they suspect?”

Peter: “You were trying to escape.”

Neal: “Esca—”

No! Neal’s not only a suspect in his girlfriend’s murder but the completely legal deal he was granted has been twisted against him into making him a flight risk.

Look at this reaction. To me this is not the reaction someone who had considered this as a possibility before, that he was going to be accused of running when he thought he had legitimate paperwork. He’s processing this information, mulling it over, it’s meaning. He's realizing this isn't just waiting for Peter to get his badge back, it's an indefinite amount of time he's back in prison until Peter can argue his case again, until Peter can prove that he's safe to be back on the streets. Hopefully, that is.

And Mozzie comes in immediately after this with the ability to get Neal out. Neal's just been deeply betrayed by the FBI (more than he even realizes, but) with OPR covering up Fowler's deal with him, accusing him of forging them instead. So his options are get out now or ...trust that Peter can get him out?? That Peter can argue his case, prove that he shouldn't be a suspect for the murder of his girlfriend, that he didn't forge FBI paperwork, that he didn't cut his anklet and try to run???

and Neal sure does!! He not only has enough trust in Peter that he could do that, but he has enough love for the life working with Peter to wait those extra two months in prison while experiencing the worst grief possible!!!

#white collar #neal caffrey #yapping about wc #this isn’t even getting into being sent back to prison after working with the FBI #and all the potential consequences that come from that

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frostedpuffs · 1 day ago

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Chat Noir took pride in his ability to read Ladybug like an open book, even when she hadn’t spoken a word. After a decade of fighting side by side, they’d become so attuned to each other’s expressions and body language that deciphering her thoughts was second nature.

A scrunched nose could mean she was either disgusted or stifling a laugh. A polite smile for reporters, though outwardly friendly, sometimes carried the subtle tension at the corners of her mouth that revealed she wasn’t in the mood to talk. And during battles, the sharp gestures of her hands were all he needed to understand exactly what she wanted him to do, or where she wanted him to go.

And, of course, she knew him just as well—so well that a simple smirk could prompt her to preemptively groan at a pun he hadn’t even uttered yet.

But now that she was well into her second trimester, understanding her thoughts had grown more challenging. Pregnancy brought a new layer of complexity that Chat Noir wasn’t equipped to navigate, exposing just how little he knew about it.

However, not one to back down from a challenge, he’d dedicated most of his free time to researching pregnancy through books and the internet. While some websites offered a plethora of information, they all stressed that each person's pregnancy was different. Therefore, he couldn’t rely on the web as a foolproof guide to Ladybug's feelings or what exactly she was going through.

(And, wow, some of the things he’d read were downright scary. What the hell was preeclampsia? Frequent nosebleeds were normal? Holy shit, a uterus could expand to the size of a watermelon!?)

Still, he was determined to be as valuable to Ladybug as he could. He’d been studying her facial expressions and body language more often. Sometimes, she’d catch him staring. Not that that was unusual. He'd always had a hard time taking his eyes off her.

“What is it?” she’d ask. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Just beauty," he'd say.

And she’d scoff and smile, in the same way she always did; the way he always loved.

Occasionally, her eyes widened, and then she placed a hand on her stomach, which rounded out more day by day, before a smile appeared. When he asked, he learned she did that whenever her baby was “quickening.”

Flutters in her stomach as the life inside her moved.

(He wondered… if he gently placed his palms on her stomach, would he feel it, too?)

She'd been complaining of back pain as of late, and Chat Noir was more than happy for the opportunity to practice his masseuse skills by massaging her shoulders. Getting to be close to her was a small pleasure on its own; to touch her, ease her pain, and breathe in her familiar scent, which always twirled through his senses like a well-worn song and dance. Easy to remember, hard to forget.

"Thank you for this," Ladybug said as he soothed the knots in her shoulders. "Sorry I keep asking for it."

He smiled. "You say that like I mind."

"Well, I've been needy."

"You can be as needy as you want," he chuckled, careful not to poke her with his claws while his hands worked. "You're growing a person. I'm willing to do whatever I can to make that a little easier for you."

She didn't respond, but she leaned a little closer. Just slightly.

When she arrived to patrol one night wistfully reminiscing about a soup her late grandmother used to make, there was no doubt in Chat Noir’s mind—he had to try making it for her.

"Describe it for me," he said.

"It tastes like home," she replied.

Continue reading on ao3! ➡️

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #miraculous lb #miraculous au #fanfiction #ml fanfiction #ml fanfic #ml fic #ladynoir #lovesquare #love square #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #miraculous fanart

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daosies · 17 hours ago

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everything, really, comes back to you

this piece is part of the spring & swag event!!

You're always going on long missions, wondering how Rafayel deals with your absence back at home.

warnings: established relationship, reader is the protagonist but gender neutral, allusions to rafayel's myth lore

notes: rafayel my glorious boyfailure

You’ve always wondered how Rafayel would deal with your absence.

Here’s how: he doesn’t.

“You’re leaving me?” Rafayel asks, blocking the door. “Me? Your beautiful boyfriend? Your cutie patootie? You’re leaving me? Again? Alone!? What if you never see this face again, what if—”

“Rafayel,” you interrupt, “I’m coming back in a week.”

“A week!” Rafayel gasps. “A week?! A whole, entire week?! Do you know just how long that is? That’s seven whole days, days! Fine, I get it! You just don’t care, huh? Once I return, maybe this place will be different, maybe my studio will have been lost to the sands of time, maybe I’ll just be a rotting corpse and—”

“Rafayel,” you interrupt, again. “You’ll survive. I’ll bring back souvenirs.”

“Yeah, right.” Rafayel crosses his arms, scoffing indignantly, his figure never once straying from his position in front of the door. “I’ll survive. Hah! How do you know that, hm? Just you watch—you’ll come back and I’ll be surrounded by fruit flies and you’ll fall to your knees in agony! Agony, I say!”

“It’s my job!” you exclaim. “It’s not like I’m vacationing off to the beach without you. This is for a mission.”

Rafayel wags his index finger in front of you tauntingly. “What about your job as my bodyguard? Hm? Hm? Did you think about that?”

“Nope,” you reply, quicker than you can even think, “not at all.”

Rafayel collapses to the floor. You step over his body.

“See you soon, Raf!”

The door closes behind him, and Rafayel is still where you left him. On the floor. His bottom lip is jutted out into a pronounced frown, his brows furrowed as the silence devours him.

Frankly, he thought you’d come back and fall to your knees, smothering his face with kisses before telling him that it was all just some sick social experiment. Then, Rafayel would push you away and let you know that he’s not such an easy fish; but he is, because after pushing you away he would come back and ask for more kisses. So it goes.

But it’s not a sick social experiment. After ten minutes of marinating on the floor, Rafayel stands up, dusting the fabric of his pants before staring at the closed door, offended. You’re not there.

He should be used to this by now.

Because when it comes to you—because, really, everything returns to you—Rafayel feels something stir, a little glow, a little pulse, previously dormant and satiated, now awakened and primal. When it comes to you, Rafayel becomes unlike himself, or maybe—no, that’s not right; when it comes to you, Rafayel becomes himself. Wholly.

He becomes cruel. Cruel, like all lovers are. Because only lovers would forfeit the sea, because only lovers would forsake the world, because only lovers would fathom a life in a desert when all they have ever known was water.

He’s cruel, sure, but Rafayel thinks that you’re even more so.

Still, he’s used to it.

Rafayel has learned how to adapt to your reliable brutality; his coping mechanism takes the form of checking your location twenty-four seven, of spamming your phone with unmistakable messages of his pervading existence, just in case you ever forgot what’s waiting for you (a fine fish!) back home.

And sometimes, maybe sometimes—Rafayel’s phone rings, he picks up—he has other methods of coping.

“The information has been sent over,” the voice on the other end states. Rafayel clicks his tongue, not even bothering to respond before ending the call.

“To think they’d call me just to say that,” Rafayel mutters, running a hand through his hair, exasperated.

After finding a comfortable seat, Rafayel exhales a hefty sigh, swirling a glass of water in between his fingertips as if it were fine wine, one leg crossed over the other. Searching through his inbox, Rafayel clicks on a file, opening it to reveal a report.

Wordlessly, he scrolls. After a couple minutes of reading and rereading, Rafayel’s stupor is interrupted by another ring, purple-pink eyes snapping in the direction of his screen, his fingers reaching from the screen of his tablet to his phone. Your name flashes across the screen, unaware of the way it’s been repeated a thousand times over on the report he’s been reading.

Because, really, everything returns to you.

“Hello?” Rafayel drawls. “Who’s this, again?”

You huff, oblivious to the way Rafayel grins a cheesy grin.

“I’m just kidding, cutie. Where are you right now?” Rafayel asks, despite already knowing the answer.

“I’m at a seaside cafe!” you exclaim. “Tara was supposed to meet up with me a couple minutes ago,”—A couple minutes? Rafayel thinks, Sounds like you’ve been there for twenty minutes alone.—“but she’s running a little late. I think it’s been around fifteen minutes?”

Rafayel hums. “Well, I think it’s been a little longer, cutie.”

Laughing, you reply, “Yeah? How do you know that, Raf?”

It’s so obvious, Rafayel thinks, because it’s in the tone of your words, the heavy exhaustion which lingers at the end of your sentences, the pauses you take before responding to him when usually, you wouldn’t hesitate at all. But Rafayel is used to waiting; if you won’t tell him now, then he’ll wait for you to tell him what he already knows: Tara is unbelievably late! You’re tired! You want to go home and rest!

Ugh—Rafayel knows that, if he were there, you wouldn’t have to lie. He’ll wait for the day where you do tell him, where you call him and ask him to pick you up and elope romantically into the sunset together (of course, not without him complaining and giving you a run for your money because he’s in such high demand, really). He’ll wait. He’s done that a lot.

“Just a hunch.”

A pause.

“Cutie, can you just ditch the cafe and come home?” he asks, pathetically. Just because he’s waited a plethora of times before doesn’t mean that he’s good at it.

“Raf, what are you even talking about? I’m like four hours away from you. By plane.”

Comically, Rafayel clenches his fist, lowering it to his side as he mulls over all of the wrongings in his life: you leaving him, you stepping over his fallen body, you rejecting his desperate plea, you—

“Oh, Tara!” you suddenly say, your voice drifting further from the phone (he’s adding that to the list of all the times you’ve wronged him: you interrupted him for Tara, who made you wait. Rafayel is used to waiting—he thinks you should never have to).

Instinctively, Rafayel latches on—like a remora, trailing after your existence, finding sustenance and satiation from the mere fibers of your skin—bringing the phone closer to his ear, as if the proximity will compensate for the silence, as if it’ll be enough for you to become tangible. And yet, you remain as you are: unaware.

It comes naturally to him, picking out your voice amongst a myriad of others, fixating on the timbre, the tone, the mirth. It comes naturally to him: waiting.

His ear presses against his phone like a seashell, projecting back to him nothing but the sound of his own blood as it courses throughout his veins, searching for you. You say something. Your voice resonates, throughout the seashell, throughout his blood, throughout the ocean, throughout the world! You—you!

Because, really, everything comes back to you.

“Sorry, Raf! I’ll call you back soon. I’ll let you know how it goes!”

“Hah! So that’s what I am to you, huh?! Just a little side piece? A little leech that you have to update later?!”

You ignore him. “Love you!”

He responds quicker than he can think, his tone begrudging despite the giddiness which stretches across his face, “Love you, too. I guess.”

You end the call. Staring at the blank screen, Rafayel furrows his brows, mumbling, “Clearly not enough.”

You’ve always wondered how Rafayel would deal with your absence.

The truth is: he doesn’t.

Still, he’ll wait. Only for you.

(Because, after all, everything comes back to you.)

#lads rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #rafayel x reader #rafayel love and deepspace #lads rafayel #love and deepspace x reader

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fiamat12 · 2 days ago

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Legal Anon checking in. Fia asked that I give a short reminder about what may be at stake, from a legal perspective. The theme of Round Two has been "good faith effort". Had I been on Antonia's side, I could have argued that Luke and Nicola undermined Antonia being seen as Luke's girlfriend and therefore she was unable to get the promised publicity. Had the nose- scratching pap pictures happened prior to renegotiations, one could argue that it's internet culture not Lukola but, alas, prior to that Antonia had several examples of accounts and content that may be considered bullying on her side. In my opinion this last push, from Lukola's side, is about Lukola proving they are not the problem. They are doing everything in their power this time around to make sure they don't give the wrong impression so that she doesn't have another attempt at renegotiation.

Why go to all of this trouble? I would assume that Antonia has information that could be damaging to both Luke and Nicola's careers. Whilst one may look at the PR moves as being ill conceived, I see a selfless partnership of necessary evils. Luke is doing what he has been doing from the start to protect Nicola, and vice versa and I believe that both have suffered for the other in different ways. Luke has had to put some career moves on hold to withstand the backlash whilst he's let Nicola shine and now Nicola is letting her moment take a back seat for Luke so they can get this done. All of this is my opinion, naturally, but Lukola is a microcosm of how I've seen other legal negotiations unfold. No one really wins, it's all a compromise.

As I've also mentioned, I do not believe contract stipulations would revolve around metrics outside of Luke's control such as how many people follow Antonia, how many people believe she is the girlfriend or how much work she gets from it. There could have been a specific item about Luke getting her x amount of jobs but I would have avoided that as a negotiation point since Luke is not an employer. In all likelihood there a set number of appearances and promised social media activity that was agreed upon, like a predetermined checklist.

To wrap this up, again, my firm opinion is that this is about good faith effort and about them demonstrating that to the best of their ability. If that means Nicola appearing with another man and removing her ring, Luke sacrificing a Lukola event and giving her a photo spread of relationship coded pictures and blocking people who would contradict the narrative, that's what they will do. It's a means to an end and they are hoping that fans will be forgiving on the back end, once this has all been put to rest.

TY, Legal! Obviously you put it more eloquently than I, but this isn't about us, it's about them and protecting each other & their family. The less personally shippers take this, the better. (Easier said than done).

Lukola didn't expect us not to notice their love and we're not being punished for doing so... seems that they are doing what they have to do and asking for forgiveness later. So let's give them grace, as it seems to have become more messy than they may have thought it would be...

#all in time time will reveal

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frflyavenue · 1 day ago

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Under Your Touch - Chapter 3

Pairing: poly!Ateez x makeup artist!Reader (fem!Reader)

Warnings: Eating and appetite, money is tight, (romantic?) tension, alcohol consumption, getting tipsy/drunk, reader gets overwhelmed, hints at trauma (reader), anxiety, casual swearing, flinching >>This chapter introduces some of Y/N’s traumatic responses, but doesn’t go into any specific trauma for now. All important to the story, I assure you :)

Author’s Note: LONG overdue update of Under Your Touch! Quick note I wanna make on this chapter—first, be aware that my knowledge of Korean is like… not good. That said, I’m a French woman who moved to America permanently to study, and for one year of my University program I studied abroad in the Mapo-gu district in South Korea. My Korean isn’t at all fluent, but I know enough to accurately use honorifics, add cultural details, and some vocab as I see it fit for the story. Also, I have NO CLUE how to romanize Korean, so feel free to correct me lol. Love you guys lots!!

Join me on ao3 @frflyavenue

Chapter 1

Previous Chapter

WC: 6.3k

Chapter 3: Coats and Soju

“Shit-” You whimper, immediately putting the pricked pad of your thumb in your mouth, carefully setting the traitorous sewing needle down on the table in front of you.

There’s really no reason you should be so stressed about this stupid dinner party. Part of you knows that, of course. But the other part of you knows that this party is in celebration for the team hiring a new makeup artist (you) and that it’s purpose is to introduce her to the rest of the team (Ateez and their managers and also everybody else).

So yeah, you’re freaking out.

Your first thought when Hyerin called you this morning to inform you about the dinner party was what to wear. It’s Wednesday, meaning your first day is tomorrow. Cool, you still have no money. And subsequently, nothing to wear. You aren’t the type to go partying, and the only potential party outfits you could think of aren’t exactly formal enough for a work dinner. You could show up in jeans, but you aren’t sure if that’s a good idea for your first professional impression on the team. So, panicked, you went first thing in the morning to a nearby thrift store. On your desperate search to find something decent amongst the mostly ugly options, you managed to find a plain black turtleneck shirt, a cute black alternative style belt, and some men’s cargo shorts you hoped you could do something with.

At home, you began the desperate preparation to put something together. You grabbed your sewing kit, thankful to your past self for bringing your sewing machine with you to Korea, some craft scissors, your jewelry making stuff, and crossed fingers. You put on an Ateez ultimate playlist, deciding to listen to it just in case somebody asked you about their music at the party (you’re definitely going to be prepared, if nothing else), and you got to work.

It’s now an hour before you have to leave, and you’ve finally put together a presentable outfit. You cut the odd turtleneck into an off the shoulder top you managed to adjust to be skin-tight, but still modest. That part was easy. The hard part was the pants. You cut the legs of the cargo pants and sewed them together to resemble a skirt, before trimming the length to look nice on your figure. It was a painstaking process, but the result was a cute cargo skirt that went well with the black belt and the top. To top it off you quickly threw together some silver drop earrings and made a necklace charm to match, lazily disassembling one of your previous necklaces to make the process faster.

Now, you just need to get ready. You take potentially the fastest shower of your life and pull your hair half-up into a cute spiky style in a silver claw clip, braiding thin face-framing pieces to pull to the front. You spend a little more time on your makeup, deciding it should be good enough to prove to the team that you know what you’re doing. You end up with a cute smoky cat-eye liner, a dusty pink blush, and a very minimal base, deciding to let your skin breathe for the evening. You realize that, subconsciously, you went with a more alternative style to match the outfit, and you internally thank whoever gave you the strength to pull it together so last minute.

The outfit really pulled it together, and looking at yourself one last time in the body mirror before you left, you sigh in relief. You look at least half decent—better than what you had hoped, at least. Modest but still cute, and while your look was slightly more alternative style, you still looked cute and unintimidating, thankfully. You grab your purse, throwing on your one pair of boots and running out the door.

——————

By the time you get to the restaurant, you’re absolutely freezing.

God, Y/N, you really are stupid.

You try your hardest to stop the chattering of your teeth as you open your phone to call Hyerin.

In your panic to get out the door with a nice outfit, you completely forgot to grab a jacket. Wearing a skirt was stupid to begin with, but to not even bring a jacket…did you want to get sick?

You push the thought aside, ringing Hyerin’s number. “Unnie? I’m outside of the restaurant!”

Hyerin lets out an excited noise and hangs up, and you only have a few moments to feel confused before she emerges from the door.

Seeing her, your face lights up in a smile, and you rush to hug her. She squeezes you tight, holding onto your shoulders as she greets you.

“Y/N-ah, you’re early!” She exclaims, smiling bright. You nod excitedly up at her.

”Yeah! I wanted to get here before everybody else did so I could settle in a bit.” You admit, and she pinches your cheek affectionately.

The two of you head inside, and she brings you to the private, sectioned off room in the back of the pub that has been reserved for your party. Hyerin sits with you in a booth in the corner, pulling up her phone and clearing her throat.

“Okay, we have a party of 13. All eight of the Ateez members, whom I’m sure you know of?” You nod affirmatively. “Good. There’s the main manager for the members, Li Dohyun-nim. He’s really friendly, but kind of shy, so don’t be intimidated if he keeps to himself. Then there’s Kim Ara-nim, the manager and main stylist in the Ateez stylist team. She’s also really sweet. You actually remind me a lot of her. The only other person that will be here besides you and I is Yoon Sohee-nim, the KQ planner that takes care of everybody’s scheduling. She’s really good at her job, but she isn’t too social, so don’t feel hurt if she doesn’t really talk to you outside of work.” You hum, repeating their names to commit them to memory.

After a while of just chatting with Hyerin and sipping on beer, you check the time. It’s 18:30, meaning the rest of the group should join you and Hyerin any minute now. You bounce your leg nervously.

While it’s comforting knowing that Hyerin, Wooyoung, Jongho, and Hongjoong would all be there as familiar faces, you still feel as if your heart is in your throat. To your surprise, you hardly feel worried about meeting the managers. It’s the thought of meeting the remaining members that’s currently making your stomach turn. Five new men roughly your age… why are you so nervous? Your mind wanders. It’s just a bunch of… guys. Men. Plus, the other three will be there too. You like them. You smile in spite of yourself, pursing your lips together as you take another sip of beer. Wooyoung’s hands… Jongho’s little deer… Hongjoong’s eyes…

You choke suddenly, feeling your face go red. Hyerin, alarmed, pats your back, but you brush off her concern and catch your breath.

What the hell were you just thinking about, Y/N?

You press your cold beer to your cheek, hoping to cool down the raging blush there, when suddenly the door to your private room creaks open.

The Ateez manager you saw during your initial consultation, Li Dohyun-nim, you realize, enters first. You quickly stand up, bowing politely in greeting, which he reciprocates. Then enters a string of new faces—two women and a few unfamiliar, handsome men. You respectively greet them each as they file in, hoping your blush from before isn’t noticeable. When Jongho comes into view, smiling at you, you feel yourself relax a bit, giving him a more casual hello. Just behind him, Wooyoung enters holding the hand of an unfamiliar, muscular man with a stony expression, though you don’t have time to feel intimidated as Wooyoung lets go of him and rushes towards you, making you flinch in surprise. Noticing your discomfort, he opts for excitedly grabbing your hands instead of hugging you, a huge grin plastered on his face. The stone-faced man he was with suddenly giggles, his smile immediately warming up his face into an adorable one as he tugs Wooyoung off of you, shaking his head.

”Wooyoung-ah, control yourself!” He scolds through giggles, playfully hitting Wooyoung’s back. He turns to you, bowing in greeting with a smile still on his face. “Hi, I’m Choi San. I hear we’re the same age, so please refer to me casually.”

You smile sweetly at him, finding him adorable from this impression alone. “Nice to meet you, San-ah. I’m Y/N.” He nods and casually pats your shoulder before moving to take a seat.

The last two to enter the room are Hongjoong and a taller man with a face prettier than most women’s. You clench your jaw to keep it from dropping, not sure if you’re attracted to him or jealous. He smiles elegantly, bowing and offering you his hand to shake. “Hello! I’m Park Seonghwa. Hongjoong-ah has told me a lot about you.” You feel your cheeks warm up slightly at that, glancing in surprise over at Hongjoong who also seems a bit flustered to be called out.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Park Seonghwa-ssi.” You turn to address Hongjoong, smiling. “It’s nice to see you again, Hongjoong-oppa.”

All thirteen of you settle down, finding your seats around the barbecue. You end up sitting between Wooyoung and Hyerin, both of which you begged with your eyes to join you, while a waitress brings your table a few meats to grill. Barbecue. It’s been too long since you’ve had it. Your mouth waters.

“…Y/N?”

“Huh?” You come back to, snapping your head over to Hyerin, realizing you must have zoned out.

She smiles, tilting her head in concern. “I was asking if you wanted to introduce yourself?”

You gasp, suddenly embarrassed as you clumsily stand up and give them all a bow. “I apologize. Good evening everybody, my name is Y/LN Y/N, and I’m going to be working as the new permanent artist on the Ateez makeup team. I’ve already spoken with a few of your members, and I thank you all for being so welcoming to me so far. I look forward to getting to know you all!”

You jump as they all suddenly cheer out their own welcomes, their excitement far more than you expected. While most coworkers may welcome you and pretend to really care, it seems that the eight men all sitting together are genuinely excited. You smile, taking it as a good sign.

Taking your seat back next to Wooyoung, you frown as Hyerin stands up and walks over to speak with another woman pouring drinks at the other end of the table. She’s rather tall, with cateye liner and probably the coolest alternative style you’ve ever seen. You’re almost intimidated, but her smile as Hyerin-unnie greets her, and the way she tucks her hair—dyed orange—back behind her ear they talk helps you connect the dots. Kim Ara-nim.

You look away in time to see the tallest man in the room approach you, and you stand up to bow politely.

“I’m Jeong Yunho,” he offers, his voice enthusiastic but calm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You look up at him, not sure whether to be more intimidated by the fact that he’s almost a foot taller than you or by the fact that he’s one of the most handsome men you’ve ever laid your eyes on. You clear your throat, offering him a shy smile. “Nice to meet you,” you manage to squeak out, keeping your voice steady.

Wooyoung laughs amusedly beside you, but Yunho just crinkles his eyes in understanding. He gestures to the now empty spot beside you on the booth. “Mind if I sit?”

You clear your throat, smiling affirmatively and sitting with him, scooting over to give him room. Wooyoung playfully nudges your arm with his elbow, and you simply flash him a playful eye roll. All the while, Hongjoong watches from across the table with fond eyes, and while you feel them on you, you consciously avoid them for the sake of your pounding heart. Instead, you focus on the quickly settling party.

The members are all sitting close together around the table, joking casually and bumping shoulders. They’re all remarkably close, you notice, leaning against each other or draping arms over each other's shoulders. You’re surprised at how casual everyone seems for a work dinner, but you actually find the group dynamic reassuring. Hyerin has settled next to Ara-nim, interlocking arms with her and seeming more at ease and playful than you’ve ever seen her. Noting the light blush dusting your historically tough friend’s cheeks, you make a mental note to ask her about their relationship on a later date. Dohyun-nim, Ateez’s main manager, stays relaxed with the members, laying an arm around Hongjoong and ordering some meats to start off the table. The only outlier among the group is Yoon Sohee-nim, who remains stiff with a perfectly straight posture and an unreadable expression. Her eyes are trained on you from where she sits on the other end of the table, and unlike the warm feeling you got from the Captain’s, her eyes cut through you as cold as ice.

You shift uncomfortably under her stare, another shiver shooting up your bare legs. You run your hands over your goosebump-riddled thighs, but give up when you find your fingers just as cold.

In hopes of keeping your mind off of your discomfort, you glance to your left over at Wooyoung, discreetly trying to decipher his dynamic with the built man he’s clinging onto—San-ssi. They’re practically on top of each other, interlocking hands and so close their thighs are overlapping. Wooyoung giggles at one of San’s comments you can’t quite decipher, and leans forward to kiss his cheek. …Are they dating? You’ll have to ask Hyerin about it later.

The sensation of fabric draping over your thighs brings you back to the present, and you glance down in confusion before following the responsible large hands up to the man to your right. “You should’ve said something if you were cold.” He whispers, and you realize it's his coat that he’s tucking around your legs, still warm from his body heat. You meet his gaze again with wide eyes, unable to mask your surprise.

“Oh my- You didn’t have to! Are you sure?”

He shakes his head definitively. “No, I’m wearing a sweater under this anyway.” You try to refute, but he’s quick to stop you. “Please. I’d feel worse knowing my hoobae was uncomfortable all night.”

Touched by his thoughtfulness, a genuine smile graces your expression. In the midst of bustling conversations and nerve-wracking introductions, it’s the most relaxed smile you’ve given since arriving. “Thank you, Yunho-ssi.”

He returns a shy smile, rubbing the back of his neck and silently offering a nod in return. You almost think you see his ears turn pink, but with the dim atmosphere of the room, it could easily be a trick of the light.

You don’t have time to dwell on the sudden bashfulness of the man beside you, as Wooyoung is quick to grab your attention again.

“Y/N, you should tell us all a little bit about yourself!” He calls out, and conversations around the table die down. Feeling everybody’s eyes on you, you feel your heart quicken, suppressing your discomfort with a swallow.

You let out a slow breath to calm your nerves, giving the room a shy smile. “Ah, I suppose I should. Uhm…” You meet Jongho’s eyes, and he doesn’t hesitate to give you an encouraging nod. “Well, my name’s Y/N, and I moved to Korea about eight months ago. I’m still trying to learn Korean, so forgive me if I’m difficult to understand.” There’s a collective shaking of heads from around the table, and you bow your head gratefully. After that, you’re stuck, unsure of what else to say.

Hyerin, noticing your nerves, speaks up. “How’d you get into makeup, Y/N?”

Ah, right. Hyerin-Unnie to the rescue.

“Oh, apologies! Well, I grew up loving to draw. I’ve always been the artistic type, so ever since I was young I would find crafty things to do to pass the time. Doodling, painting, sewing… you name it. I may not have been a spectacular student, but art was the only thing that mattered to me. My first love.” You smile to yourself, reminiscing. “When I became a teenager, I started doing my own makeup. It was one of the only forms of art I hadn’t tried yet, and I loved it. While I mostly just followed tutorials and made up random designs in my bedroom every night, I still loved it, and I got pretty good at doing it on myself after a while. When I moved to Korea, it was still just a hobby to me, something I just did for fun. I found them really pretty, so I experimented with Korean makeup styles, found what I liked, and integrated it into my own style.” You gesture to your face as a simple demonstration.

“One day I went to the market near my apartment, not bothering to take of my makeup since I went for a more natural style earlier that day. That’s when I bumped into Hyerin-unnie.” You smile and look over at her. “And the rest is history.”

Yeosang, who had been relatively quiet throughout the evening thus far, clears his throat. “Can we see your art?”

Your smile falters for a moment with the tightening in your stomach, but you’re quick to recover. You mentally curse out your thundering heart and force yourself to sound peppy. “Sorry, I don’t have any on me at the moment. Another time.”

Yeosang shrugs, seeming only slightly disappointed.

Wooyoung tilts his head at you, but thankfully Seonghwa interrupts him before he can question you.

“It makes sense that you’re an artist,” the elegant man remarks. “It explains why you have such good style.”

You give a shy laugh, shaking your head humbly. “As do you. I’ve wanted to compliment you on your outfit since you got here.” You reply honestly. Conversations around the table have resumed, so you feel more comfortable now that you aren’t put on the spot.

He chuckles, his smile a beautiful sight. You can’t help but stare, purely out of admiration. “Ah, thank you! But seriously, I really do like your outfit. Where’d you get your jewelry from, I would love to get a pair of similar earrings.”

You let out a breathy laugh, bashful. “Ah, sorry, but I actually made these myself earlier today. I’m happy to hear that you like them though—I’d be glad to make you a pair!”

Seonghwa’s eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise, leaning forward to try to see them better from his position on the other side of Yunho. “You made these?”

Yunho turns his head as well, and you feel your cheeks warm up when he gently tucks your hair back, wanting to get a clearer view.

The two of them both let out a long, drawn out exclamation of surprise, and Seonghwa compliments you again in genuine appreciation.

“Phew, I’m glad you like it. Honestly, I was worried the outfit wouldn’t come together. I didn’t have much time to finish up the skirt, but I think the length turned out oka-“

”Wait, you made the skirt too?” Seonghwa exclaims, his voice a bit louder.

You pause and shift uncomfortably at the attention, suddenly wishing you hadn’t said anything in the first place. You never were very good at showing other people your art.

“Ah.. yeah. Honestly, I had to make the whole outfit from whatever I could find at the thrift store earlier today, since I couldn’t find anything appropriate to wear for tonight.” You glance around. “Though I’m glad to learn that everyone is a bit more casual than I anticipated. Next time I won’t stress so much.”

Yunho lets out a low whistle of appreciation, and you feel warm from both sets of eyes skimming over your body, even if you know it’s just to observe your clothes.

“Are you sure you’re a makeup artist and not a stylist?” Seonghwa teases lightheartedly, drawing a surprised sound from your lips while you defensively shake your head.

Yunho smiles at your expression, finding it endearing. He casually leans closer so you can hear him better, his voice friendly. “Seonghwa-hyung is really into fashion," he explains. “You should ask him about it sometime, I’m sure he’d love to exchange ideas.”

You flash him a grateful grin, still a bit tentative but gradually feeling the tension in your shoulders dissipate.

From the sparkle in his eyes, you get the suspicion that he notices. “We’re the same age, right? Shall we drop the honorifics?” He suddenly requests, his voice smooth like honey.

You nod comfortably, your sweet expression sending warmth to his cheeks. “Thank you for your kindness, Yunho-yah.”

——————

By the time drinks come around, you’ve eaten your fill of countless different kinds of grilled meats. You aren’t sure why, but the members kept putting meat on your plate without you asking, simply saying they didn’t want your plate to be empty. San even airplane-fed you some pork from his own chopsticks, and while you were confused, you happily accepted, not the type to deny good food. Too absorbed in the yummy meal, you missed the admiring eyes from everyone at the table, not even hearing their coos and the chorus of “cute”s anytime your cheeks were full.

Now you’re leaning comfortably against the back of the booth while you fondly watch Jongho and Mingi bicker back and forth across the table. Hongjoong sighs and shakes his head in disappointment, and you can’t help but giggle when he pleads with his eyes to Seonghwa for the pretty man to put an end to it. Tipsy on a few shots of soju, Seonghwa simply sends him a silly wink and pours himself another.

You still haven’t finished a single beer, nursing the same bottle with small sips as you converse casually with Wooyoung and San to your left. The two of them really do bounce off of each other well. San is half way through telling you about a story from the Ateez dorms, already pretty tipsy, when Jongho clears his throat, raising his voice for the table to hear.

“I think it’s about time for a drinking game, yeah?”

Ateez’s maknae, you’ve learned, is an excellent drinker. An alcoholic, Wooyoung had jokingly dubbed him, watching him crack open his third beer of the night. You, on the other hand, hate getting drunk; you haven’t told this to your puppy-like coworkers, of course, but the idea of a drinking game makes your stomach tighten for the second time this evening. So, in spite of yourself, you agree, earning a cheer from around the table.

You take a quick trip to the restroom, returning to find soju shots lined up around each person’s place at the table. Now wearing Yunho’s coat around your shoulders, he glances at you from across the table, but quickly looks away to avoid your eyes. Before you get the chance to ask him about it, Jongho calls you over to sit beside him. Since the table order shuffled around, you squeeze between Jongho and Hongjoong, thanking the younger man when he slides an empty shot glass over to you.

“Okay, everyone’s here?”

The members all grunt affirmatively, and the captain smiles. “Okay—what should we play?”

A few different names are thrown around, and you swallow, leaning over to whisper to Hongjoong. “Oppa? I don’t know any of these games..”

His eyes widen just slightly. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t even think about that!” He admits, laughing awkwardly. He hums thoughtfully.

Sensing the opportunity, you clear your throat. “Ah, I’ll just watch you guys, don’t worry about it!”

Surprisingly, Mingi, who you haven’t even spoken with yet, pouts. “We would be happy to teach you an easy one~”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to drink too much anyways, I have work tomorrow.”

Mingi nearly argues, too tipsy to pick up on your cues, but Seonghwa is quick to hush him. “No, we’ll just play a game between the rest of us. If our Y/N doesn’t want to play, she doesn’t have to play.”

You exhale a breath of relief, smiling gratefully over at the older man.

San, bright red and drunk off his ass, pouts. “Aww, that’s no fair! You guys made me drink~” He whines, clumsily leaning onto Mingi.

You sigh. The poor guy had been peer pressured a little bit, it seems… though the first couple of shots were completely his own doing. Decidedly, you suddenly reach for an opened bottle of soju, pouring yourself a shot and tossing it back. Hyerin lets out a surprised squeak, and a few of the members cheer.

Yup. Definitely just men.

You cough, managing to choke it down. “There,” you rasp out, throat burning. “Compensation.”

Hyerin looks like she’s having a crisis, staring at you with genuine shock while Ara laughs next to her, patting her back. Jongho is laughing so hard you think he might piss himself, a sound you haven’t heard before but one you happen to find quite pleasant. You can’t help but grin, proud.

“Alright, Y/N-ah proved herself well,” Hongjoong laughs, hitting your back supportively while you cough on the scratchiness in your throat.

“Cute,” Yunho whispers, suddenly sliding you another full shot. “One more and I’ll accept your compensation.”

You shoot him a look of betrayal before glancing nervously down at the shot. While you managed to gather up the courage to take one shot, the thought of another makes your heart quicken.

If you get drunk, you could turn into him.

Bile rises up in the back of your throat, and you’re quick to swallow it back down.

What if you end up like him?

You snap out of your thoughts as Jongho nonchalantly slides the shot towards himself before tipping his head back and downing it, not saying a word. “Yah, be nice.” He scolds, his voice completely unaffected by the burn of alcohol.

“Pfft, what a tank,” somebody teases, but nobody protests his gentlemanly gesture.

You can only blink at him with wide doe eyes, completely caught off guard and undoubtedly relieved. He just casually shoots you a quick close-lipped smile before turning back to the table and starting up a chant, presumably the start of a drinking game.

——————

Korean drinking games are really fun, you’ve decided. You’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching everybody, even the stiff-postured Yoon Sohee, slowly unwind with each shot of alcohol, the sounds of giggling increasing every round of whatever game they’re playing.

Now it’s getting later, roughly 21:00, and while the managers all decided to opt out of the game (along with San, though the poor guy was forcibly removed from the game for his own sake), the members are all still competing. Your stomach happily digesting the good food and your mind buzzing from alcohol, you’ve quietly brought our knees to your chest, curled up in the booth with Yunho’s jacket draped back over your legs.

Jongho lets out a particularly loud shout of defeat, and you jump from the noise. Suddenly brought back to where you are, you glance around at everyone around the table—how members double over in unrestrained laughter and shouts of victory or defeat; how Hyerin is asleep next to Ara, who is somehow seemingly sober despite drinking more than most of the boys; how Dohyun-nim is smiling fondly at the sight of his boys having fun; how San is cuddling comfortably with Yeosang, who subtly plays with his hair to keep him calm.

But amidst the warmth, you also can’t help but notice everything else—the sharp clink of glasses on the table; how the booth sticks uncomfortably to your bare thighs whenever you try to shift in your seat; the air conditioning trained directly onto you, occasionally blowing your hair into your lipgloss; Yoon Sohee’s eyes unwavering as they bare into you from her seat with the other managers, unreadable. Even the giggles and playful banter between the members, the same ones which had been warming your chest all evening, suddenly feel too loud.

You jump yet again when Jongho rests a firm hand on your shoulder, flinching from the unexpected contact.

“Ah, sorry Y/N-ssi,” he whispers, dropping his hand back down to his lap. “Are you alright?”

You shake your head at his apology, plastering on a small smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just a little hot in here…I think I’m gonna go step out to get some fresh air.”

He nods, not calling you out on the fact that you’re literally right under the air conditioning and obviously using Yunho’s coat for warmth. “Okay. Do you want me to come with you?”

He’s too precious. “That’s alright, Jongho-yah,” you reassure him, not even realizing you switched to informal speaking. “I’ll be right back.”

He nods, letting you out of the booth and gesturing toward the back door to the secluded patio. “Let me know if you need anything, Noona.”

——————

The chill of the winter night cuts through you like a knife, and you welcome the feeling, taking a deep inhale of the fresh air. You take a seat on the edge of the downward staircase, taking in the view of the city lights. You push your hair back out of your face, failing to suppress your frustration when it disobediently falls back down. You groan, unnecessarily peeved.

God, Y/N. You really are stupid.

It’s the second time today you’ve thought that very thing, and you sigh bitterly, deciding it must be true.

You squeeze your eyes shut, curling up forward into yourself and clinging onto the thick borrowed coat. You run your fingers over the fabric, breathing deeply to steady your poor heart.

You don’t move at the soft thumps of footsteps approaching. Nor do you sit up when a tall, warm presence settles beside you on the top step, letting out a short hum to tell you that he’s there.

“…Hey, Yunho-yah.”

“Hey.”

You finally sit up, your expression failing to hide your tiredness. “…Sorry for leaving you guys without saying anything. I just got a bit warm.”

He shakes his head, his eyes understanding. “No need to be sorry. It’s understandable to get overwhelmed—we’re a chaotic bunch.”

Your gaze flicks between his warm eyes and easy smile, surprised he could read you so easily. You swallow and glance down, eyes landing on his coat. “Oh—I should probably return this, huh?”

He laughs quietly. “We’ll be working together for a long time, so return it another day.” You part your lips to protest, but he shakes his head. “No. Right now you need it more than I do. Keep it.”

You’re temporarily stunned, but hesitantly nod, hugging it to your chest again. “Thank you.” He simply hums, and the two of you fall into a temporary silence.

After a moment, he glances back over at you, eyes training on the way you’re hugging the jacket instead of using it to cover your shivering legs. “Y/N-ah, why…” He stops himself. “Are you cold?”

You bite your lip. “Yeah. But I really like the feeling of this jacket.” His eyes flick to your fingers, which are slowly stroking the soft, tactile fabric.

He nods slowly, thinking to himself. He isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol buzzing through his system that’s making him bold or his quiet concern overturning his logic, but he lowers his voice to a quiet murmur. “Hm… then would you let me warm your legs a little bit?”

You tilt your head at him, and he rubs his hands together, warming them in silent explanation. You can’t stop your cheeks from flushing, stumbling over your words. “Y-you would do that?”

He nods, his face innocent and genuine, though not overbearingly so. Experimentally, he lowers his hand to rest on your knee, slow as if petting a scared puppy. It’s exactly what you needed, though, as you don’t flinch at the touch, relaxing at how predictable he is. He watches you closely for any signs of discomfort, and, sensing none, he begins rubbing slow patterns up and down your thigh, careful to keep his placement respectful. You shiver pleasantly at the warmth, closing your eyes and releasing a content sigh.

If you were to look over at him, you would’ve seen the pink blush staining his own cheeks, gentle eyes darting around to look anywhere but you.

The silence lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable—just the kind that lingers between two people who don’t feel the need to fill it. The warmth of Yunho’s hand, the muffled laughter through the door, the pleasing texture of the coat held tight to your chest—it’s enough to bring you back to where you are.

But then he exhales, slow and soft. “We should probably head back soon. I think they’re wrapping up.”

You nod, pouting when he removes his hand and stands up, instead reaching it out to you to help you up. You take it gratefully, groaning from your achy knees.

He chuckles. “You okay now, saseum?”

You nod, smiling warmly up at him. “Yeah, much better.” You pause. “Saseum?”

His neck, warm from alcohol, gets impossibly redder. “Ah, sorry. I must be drunk.” He laughs. “That’s what Jongho-yah has been calling you—he said you look like an amsaseum."

You don’t know what the word means—a new one to add to your vocabulary—but you nod your head anyway. “Thank you for your company, Yunho-yah.” You flash a pretty, wobbly smile up to him. “You’re very sweet.”

He swallows, too flustered to dwell on it as he starts walking you back to the glowing door. “Anytime.”

——————

As Yunho suspected, the dinner wrapped up pretty quickly after you returned. Too tired to stay, you wished them all well, thanked them for the dinner, and left before them.

Now halfway through your walk home, you thank the universe that you weren’t forced to drink a lot—that would’ve made this trek way more difficult. Between general tiredness, the sleepiness that comes par for the course with pleasant tipsiness, the dimly lit streets, and the icy chill of the night air, you don’t think the added handicap of drunkenness would be a good sign.

Wrapped in Yunho’s coat, (which you’ve noticed now that you’re away from alcohol, smells like a pleasant combination of spices from whatever cologne he must wear), you hurry home, paranoid from the darkness and too cold to savor the walk. It only takes you ten minutes to get back inside your apartment, kicking off your shoes and shrugging off the comically oversized jacket, hanging it by the door.

It takes you less than fifteen minutes to hop in the shower, take off your makeup, brush your teeth, and plop onto the bed in fresh pajamas (which is really just a baggy t-shirt, because who the hell can afford pajamas?). It’s only then when the events of the night hit you.

Despite your little moment towards the end of the night, you had a fantastic couple of hours. You ate good food, talked and laughed with a bunch of ridiculously good-looking men, exchanged numbers with a few of your new coworkers (most of which also happen to fall under the category of ridiculously good-looking men), and all the while managed to stay mostly sober.

Even during your little break outside, it wasn’t all too bad. It could’ve been, of course—most of the time, your episodes of overwhelmedness last much longer and leave you much worse off—but this time you had Yunho there with you.

Yunho.

You turn your head, finally able to let out a little squeal. Is he even real? Tall, handsome, AND one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met?

And is he fucking insane? Who in their right mind lends their jacket and sensually rubs their hands over a girl's thighs knowing they look like THAT? How could a girl NOT panic?

You huff into your pillow. It’s been a while since a man has been able to make you feel like a teenager with a crush.

Saseum.

Oh right, that word.

You roll over onto your side and open your phone, pulling up your translating app. “Damn my language skills…” you sigh, trying to type it in with your poor knowledge of Korean characters.

‘사슴’

Reading the translation once again, your ears turn red.

‘Deer.’

——————

EXTRA—

The quiet rush of the road is the loudest sound in Dohyun-nim’s car, half of the Ateez members whispering amongst themselves in the backseat, the other four hitching a ride with Ara-nim. Hongjoong sits in the passenger seat, busy doing something on his phone. Meanwhile, Yunho and Wooyoung sit in the back with a passed-out San, who sleeps with his mouth agape between the two. It’s quiet for a while, all of the most riled-up members of the evening exiled to the ‘loud car’—until Yunho, a little drunk, breaks the silence.

“I really like her.”

Hongjoong chokes suddenly, whipping his head around to look at him with shock. Wooyoung shakes his head.

“No, no, Joongie-hyung. Don’t act like you weren’t also crushing over her after you first met.”

Hongjoong immediately shuts his mouth, effectively silenced. He turns back around in his seat.

Wooyoung giggles proudly, turning his attention back to the big puppy of a man next to him. “I like her too. She’s adorable, isn’t she?”

“She is.” He pauses. “You should’ve seen the way she smiled at me.”

UYT Taglist: @obsessed-withthe-stressed @psychosupernatural @ateezswonderland @herpoetryprincess @nkryuki @thuyting @rosegracewood09 @latisthegenderfluidwannabealone @queenofdumbfuckery @bbokarismeow @vtyb23 @soso59love-blog @mira-inlove @lover-ofallthingspretty

This Fic belongs to @frflyavenue and nobody else—please do not steal this work or any other works by this author <3

Chapter 4: In progress

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uniquethingtastemaker · 2 days ago

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Ok, question. I’m not a huge fan of the MC in Love and Deepspace. Does anyone feel the same way? Her personality is so off putting that I haven’t gotten that far into the main story line because of that. Considering all that. I want to create a few fanfics with an MC with a different and cooler personality. Her position would be the same though.

I’ll cite my evidence for why I dislike her so much (Disclaimer: I’ve seen spoilers and some of Rafayel’s cards):

We’ll start with Xavier. Poor Xavier. He’s one of my favorites. Unproblematic sleepy boi for the most part. How the MC treats him grates me, especially at the beginning.

The second time they meet (Chapter 3), they’re in an active danger zone. MC gets a sprained ankle and Xavier patches her up. Then, he takes out a ton of Wanders to clear the path for her. That’s very thoughtful. Afterward, MC starts to grill him on his identity. I’m not really sure why. I can only assume it’s a mix between him being mysterious about his identity and his insane skill (it’s called being private, but MC didn’t get the memo). She proceeds to go through a lengthy interrogation, only to come up empty.

This confuses me for multiple reasons. First, they’re in the middle of a danger zone. The priority should be getting out or clearing Wanderers, not figuring out his identity. She can ask her boss later. If she’s wary of Xavier because he’s not apart of UNICORN, then she should focus on getting out of there. She doesn’t fear him though. MC doesn’t focus on getting out, and she goes as far as sassing him later for not giving her more information. If you provoke an unpredictable and dangerous entity, there’s a good chance they’ll harm you. Consider all this, MC doesn’t fear him. Therefore, his identity doesn’t matter for her to survive. This means she wants private information from someone who clearly doesn’t want to give it. That’s rude af, especially considering he’s been helping her since he saw her. Her verbiage also rubs me the wrong way. It feels like she thinks she’s entitled to his private information. It’s ridiculous. MC has met him twice. Of course he’s not going to tell her sensitive intel. I wouldn’t either if someone acted like that toward me.

The next thing for poor Xavier was a text conversation. MC basically called him emotionless. I had to take a second to process that one. Everyone has feelings even if they don’t express them very much. I’m baffled that she insinuated that when she knows Zayne. MC has never said that about Zayne as far as I know, and he’s way less expressive than Xavier. It’s rude, insensitive, and immature to say that to someone.

Again with Xavier. There was a part where MC was given a proposal to help in obtaining some information in the main story. It was dangerous. Xavier stayed behind after her boss left. There were a few choices you could respond with. Obviously, I chose those favorable to Xavier. I click on “I want you as my hunting partner.” He was genuinely excited and happy that you wanted to work with him. Then MC adds that she views him as a tool. She’s objectifying him. That’s unacceptable and disrespectful to do to anybody, but to do it to someone with good intentions and has your best interest at heart is beyond upsetting. It was painful to watch the excited, happy expression on his face drop into one of dejection.

Let’s talk about Zayne. I’m baffled by how MC treats him. She goes against her doctor’s orders despite having a specific medical condition. She brushes him off and refuses to listen to him. It’s frustrating to witness. It makes my brain hurt. She has a job that requires extensive physical and dangerous activity. It’s important to take care of her health so she’s competent and safe. If something happens on the battlefield because MC didn’t take care of herself, she’s putting more people in danger. Instead of her teammates only having to worry just about themselves, they’ll have another burden to deal with. It seems extremely irresponsible.

Now, Rafayel… again, the MC baffles me. During the second meeting, she is incredibly aggressive. It’s the coral stone incident with his painting driving someone mad. She accuses Rafayel of malicious intent without any concrete evidence from what I understood. Although MC was right, she didn’t have any proof. As far as she knew, he doesn’t have a motive. That’s a huge issue for me. Most people don’t kill another without a reason. Also if the substance he used as paint was tainted, how should he know? He doesn’t specialize or deal with Wanderers everyday. It could very well be an accident. I find her actions and belief of immediately assuming the absolute worst and being aggressive about it as ineffective and off putting.

Next is when she finds out Rafayel is a Lemurian. Oh boy, I was in a tizzy about this scene. Now, I don’t particularly like how she treated him when he clearly felt awful. Her bedside manner was terrible, but it wasn’t a big deal. However, when the scales appear, MC touches them without permission. Rafayel is in a vulnerable state and has accidentally revealed a huge weakness that puts him in danger if others found out. When our merman boy wakes up, he tells her not to touch him. MC disregards that and continues to basically assault him. I understand that some people might find touching his cheek not a big deal, but it’s the consent that matters. He didn’t consent to her touch and she did it anyway. He was clearly uncomfortable and upset. Rafayel also had little way to fight back because of his weakened state. People might argue, “he wanted it.” That is a dangerous mindset to have. If it was applied to a real world case, then that could be making an excuse for a potential rapist. No means no. Even if he did desire it, she needs explicit consent.

Then she makes a… threat? comment? about how she could kidnap him and sell him to the highest bidder. That is not cool. Even if it’s a joke, it’s not funny. That is a real threat and danger to Rafayel, and she says it without hesitation. MC has no regard for his feelings about the situation. She says “I would never do that to you” at the end, but that doesn’t cancel out what she said earlier. MC proved she wasn’t safe emotionally. No wonder Rafayel has the sentiment of “all humans are greedy.” If I was faced with MC and the people who hound him to buy his art, I might be convinced too.

Overall, I have huge problems with the MC. Does anyone feel the same? I tend to specialize in write canon-based fanfics with twists and whatnot. Would anyone be interested? (I’ll probably do it anyway, but feedback is always appreciated) If I do, I’m changing MC’s personality 100%

#love and deepspace #lads mc #lads #lads rafayel #lads zayne #rafayel love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #lads xavier #xavier love and deepspace #character study #evidence #my argument #does anyone relate #do you agree #I don’t like her #I will create fanfics #mc love and deepspace

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burrowkit · 1 day ago

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I feared the day would come to this. Unfortunately, my father fell too gravely ill last night and passed away. That means... that means the kingdom is mine. Queendom now, technically.

Since a child, I knew there was something wrong with me. I've never been able to put my finger on it, but my father... he always ensured I had the best of tutors. Not to say he would have done it any other way anyways but... there seemed to be some sort of maniac determination for me to succeed.

I hope I do.

At every coronation, the would-be monarch drops a single drop of blood into The Goblet of Divine Rights.

If it stays red? Peace.

But if it turns black... the would-be monarch is killed. This is because every time it turned black, the monarch became a tyrant. Destroying the kingdom with everything they could possess.

I know with every drop of blood in my body, the blood will turn black.

Not because I want it to, but because I know it will.

Something's wrong with me. I know it.

The trumpets sound, counting off my entrance. I'm forced to make my way to the door.

"Your Majesty," the guards great, bowing at me.

I want to yell at them, remind them that that was my father. I'm Your Highness. The Princess.

It won't do me any good, now.

I force my feet to keep moving, until I reach the Hall of Chaos and Fate. There, I can't seem to step over the threshold.

One of the guards grabs my arm, as if escorting me, gently pulling me over the line. We make it to the end of the Hall.

"Your Majesty," the ancient priestess greets. Stories have been written about her for centuries. How she exists without time and death. "Your hand, if you please," she motions, extending her hand, palm up. Her other hand holds the single pin that'll be used to withdraw my blood.

I want to fight it.

I want to run away, to scream.

"Your Majesty, I promise, nothing will happen to you," she informs me, voice quiet.

My mother passed away a few years ago. And this priestess, although she refuses to don a name, was one of my main tutors. Guiding me on how to further my education.

To help make me great.

Tentatively, I offer her my hand. I hiss in pain as the jams the pin into my index finger. Not that I have much choice.

She grips my wrist, gently dropping a single drop into the Goblet, and pressing a towel to my finger. I hear her whisper a few words, and the stinging instantly stops.

I close my eyes, terrified of what will come of my blood.

It's only when the priestess curses do my eyes snap open.

Her eyes are wide, terrified. It takes her a moment for relief to spread over her face, she grins wide.

"Thank you all, for attending. I have wondrous news," she announces, those beautiful eyes that seem to change colour by every second, seemingly staring into my soul. "The blood did not turn black," she announces first.

My heart speeds up. Why did she curse? Does she want my blood to mark me as a tyrant?

Her grin widens, as if hearing my thoughts. "It's not red, either."

Suddenly, the hall is chattering. Everyone has an opinion on this.

"SILENCE!" She demands, her voice ringing around the space. It's probably the loudest I've ever heard her talk. "We simply have forgotten a time when the blood would turn a different colour. Gold, Queen Rain produced the colour gold."

Absolute silence.

Oh, I'm sure everyone wants to discuss what gold means.

I stare into those multi-coloured eyes, a constant shift. Somehow, I feel at peace, despite my pounding heart.

She nods at me. "Queen Rain has been chosen by the divine to be gifted by wonderful abilities. These abilities will help ensure the kingdom, nay, queendom, exist for a long time. In peace. In prosperity. She is our purest choice."

I stare at her, shocked.

"You are all dismissed," she waves a hand.

Technically, as the now-almost-Queen, I should be the one dismissing. And yet, this Hall has always been a place for the priestesses. They hold court here over the monarchy.

Everyone files out, quickly. Gossip already spreading quickly.

"Darling child," she whispers quickly, hand still on mine, clinging to mine. "Your road will be long and tragic. One day, you may have to step aside," with her other hand, she cups my face, staring into my eyes. Into my face. "Do you understand me, child? One day, you will be asked to step aside and serve as a priestess. You will help ensure our world never falls to evil or pain or suffering ever again, is this understood?"

My eyes widen as I stare at her.

Our ancient priestess.

Bound without time and death.

Ensure the queendom exists for a long time.

"But-"

"I know, child, I know," she pulls me into a hug, stroking my hair gently. "You are not alone, by greatest of grandchildren. You will never walk this road alone. Ever you find yourself truly alone, just know, someday, somehow, another like us will surface. And it will one day be your duty to ensure the world continues to be full of peace."

At Every Coronation, Each Would-Be Monarch Is To Provide A Single Drop of Blood For The Goblet Of Divine Rights. If The Blood Stays Red, Their Reign Will Be Peaceful. If The Drop Turns Black, They Will Bring Tyranny And Ruin To The Kingdom…What Does It Mean When Your Blood Turns Gold?

#happy sad #golden blood #writing prompt answered #my e and h keys hate me

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lucabyte · 2 days ago

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I dunno if you’ve seen what’s in the isat artbook yet but there’s a mention in there of id5’s support of she/her Loop which made me think of that great post you made a while ago on Loop gender!!! Just thought I’d let ya know since that post was absolutely foundational to my personal Loop thoughts lol!

ok goofs aside lol hi. first of all: really funny that more than one of you thought of me for this. my powers. and second of all: okay ill actually give my thoughts.

alright so for the uninitiated (THIS POST) (+bonus link to it with extra additions i like) is what these two anons are talking about. It's about 8k words on my like, puzzled-out hard textual read of what i think is up with Siffrin/Loop's gender.

So, re: the artbook content (READMORE ON ACCOUNT OF ME GETTING LONGWINDED AGAIN)

The relevant passages here are pages 113, 38 and 39 (with a sidebar i want to bring up on 89).

I'm going to crop it down to only what is necessary to get to my point because adrienne doesn't want big chunks or full pages posting, so here's my little collage.

113: The page is primarily about finding ways to disguise Loop's true identity, and that's what most of the visuals on the page are about. The note I've cropped [Loop using she/her...] is on the most siffrin looking of these images, just being them sans cloak, eyepatch and hat.

This, to me, reads like the intent at the time was what eventually evolved into Loop's "Royal We" joke misdirect and their they/them only status. Consideration of, 'would just showing off a character nigh identical to sif but with "opposite" pronouns be enough to throw people off the trail?' that I would imagine evolved into just dropping the he/him, since that's more than enough to do so when you also change their appearence to be more ethereal.

*But* ArtbookCommentary!Adrienne is the one saying "She/her Loop is an incredible idea." owing to some level of affinity toward the concept in retrospect. Lends it some creator-branded 'cool points', which aren't worth *much* in terms of Quality of Textual Evidence, but certainly lends it points against being a *bad* read.

So I read this as like, while on it's own, not much more than conjecture when it comes to supporting the idea of transfemme loop-- I think as another arrow in the overall quiver it strengthens that idea that Siffrin is sticking by their he/hims as a like... side effect of how he was born/raised and sees change as something they can't do. It's less a point in support, and more a point *against* it being wrong. (It's like how in science you try to falsify things in order to prove them, y'know? Evidence *against* it being false is different to evidence *for* it being true, but it's almost better that way, sometimes??) Speaks to the idea that Loop would see those pronouns as a Disguise in some way, which to me, when paired with pages 38-39 and the dress* gives the implication that femininity is an untapped well for them. That it's new, and not something they'd do without a plausibly deniable excuse. Which continues to feed into my readings of Siffrin being amab and uncomfortable with change, even if (especially if) they want it in some way. It kind of has to be forced onto them to allow them to try it, because then it's not their choice, now is it?

*The dress is absolutely in reference to the prologue line, isn't it? it being grafted to their skin unlike the other considerations for clothes shown on the page too, aligns with this idea of Loop's body being informed by their wants/feelings about themselves in some way (distinctly inhuman, no need to eat, no need to smile anymore, yet still blind). But where canon!loop has no gendered traits to hold them down anymore, dress!loop would be more of a giveaway of their desires to at least express *some* femininity. (See: my prior essay for further thoughts on how i think that manifests, and my thoughts on it being a somewhat doylist read of the game's themes that i stand by)

(god buddy. you get deeper into the timeloop and it makes you . forget everything . about fucking everything . but the want that bubbles to the surface harder is this? loop. christ im repeating myself again go read my previously linked essay if you arent these two anons i go into way more detail.)

BUT YEAH. yeah.

I think it's a stretch to say things that aren't literally in game, and are still at most discarded exploration of character really count as Evidence for in-game reads, as they are paratext at best-- But. buttttttt buttttttt they do offer a good insight into the intent with which some things were most likely approached. like i say, it's not evidence /for/ my theory, just evidence /against/ me being on the wrong track. But yes i do feel pretty vindicated that this aligns so well with my amab nb siffrin/transfem loop trutherism. Which makes sense, given that the Whole Point of that read was to try and sleuth out the authorial intent, rather than anything else.

Like, i was following a framework in specific of (posts wikipedia screenshot for 'authorial intent')

as opposed to the equally valid Reader-Response framework (under which death of the author also falls)

which is why in that thing i stress so hard that i'm trying to abstain from my own bias (whether or not i succeed? idk. i do break my own rule for a second when pointing out how hard siffrin's fear of change resembles transfem repression in specific as i relate it to my friends and wider observations). but yeah. it was very nice that the artbook aligned so nicely since pairing my readings against the author's own literal words was always going to be the Ultimate Test™ for an authorial-intent based reading.

... oh ! and the sidebar i said i'd have.

Page 89:

get forcibly changed idiot. fucking themes lol (this was also vindicating as a 'loop stays as a star' truther which is something i tie into my themes of gender/sif not accepting change until its forced upon them. but it's not the mostest relevant to the convo without that context. but whee!)

#this is more of a victory lap ramble than a coherent theorypost but i deserve it so wahoo yippieee #isat artbook spoilers #isat spoilers #lucabytetalks #lucabytewrites #isat loop #i had several other theories and reads i dont think ive expounded upon (AND ALSO A NOHATS THING...) that felt like they were vindicated by #the artbook in this same way of like. confirming that what i was speculating was Most Likely the author's intent.#authorial intent is my like. favourite framework bc its the most fun to compare and contrast with my other favourite which #is obviously death of the author. saying this aloud is like admitting my favourite drink is fucking tap water. philistine behaviour.#(... anyway. i do have at least one drawing cooking that came from thinking about this. don't worry. or do.)

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sweetverine · 3 days ago

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top tier subscriber | logan howlett

warnings : 18+ content (MDNI), smut, porn with some plot, reader has an of account, no use of y/n, afab reader, pet names (princess, sweetheart, dolly and angel), oral f! receiving, handjob, p in v, no use of protection, pulling out)?, filming a porn video.

a/n : hii :3 i wrote this because i was tempted by the idea of playing an old man!logan recording a porno ok.. originally, i planned for them to never meet, but oh well, i guess that's it. english isn't my first language, so if there's anything strange, please lmk! pt 1

How did Logan get there? Simple. A small election you made among your most loyal—and well-funded—followers. Whoever put up the most money would get a night with you, oh, and Logan? he wouldn't miss it for anything in the world. The large letters on his phone indicated the indications for participating, 'a night with me, recorded. only for true fans (only available for premium)'.

Without much further ado and with a lot of help from Google, he created a document, sending his application, you know, basic information, name, age, and phone number. He didn't think you'd accept him; subconsciously, he knew he was too old for you. Plus, you probably received many more applications, why choose an old man like him? But to his surprise, He was the damn winner. Was he fantasizing when you contacted him?

you two chatted about the location and payment of the motel and exchanged a few words in a phone call. You still didn't know who this man was except for the information he gave you and his deep voice, which made itself known during the call. You almost didn't accept it, to be honest. He was old... but? He was always the one who usually paid you the most, spending on you more and more. If you could stretch his pocket as far as you could, maybe you could make ends meet more comfortably.

The day arrived, and he hated to admit he was excited about it. What would you wear for him tonight? What would he have to take off? Would you look at him in disgust? These questions ran through his mind over and over again, insecurely, he wasn't like that... insecure. Even so he made sure to trim and tidy up his appearance a bit, he didn't want you to think he was a musty old man, still he wasn't the Logan he used to be, the handsome, young Logan. But he would do his best to try to be him again, for you.

He could feel his cock getting harder as he walked towards hotel room 277. It was really happening, he was going to shoot a porn video, with a pretty thing young enough to be his grandchild, it was embarrassing in many ways he couldn't quite describe. His fist knocked on the door twice, wiping the sweat from his hands on his pants as he waited impatiently.

As agreed, twice touches and it would be James.

You walked towards the door, a little nervous too, almost hesitant to open it. You put your thoughts aside, gathering your courage and finally doing it once and for all. You met an older man, tall and, you could say, somewhat muscular above his clothes. His eyes were definitely mesmerizing, he looked you up and down, it seemed like he was eating you alive. A prominent nose along with a salt and pepper beard. Hmm... James has awakened a new taste in men.

“You must be James.” You said, looking at him with a sly smile, still somewhat shy at the intimidating man in front of you.

Logan swallowed. For a second, he stared at you without responding, his eyes trailing over your figure as if he wanted to memorize every part of you, that cute little outfit you choose, god, he can't wait to take it off you.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice deep, a little raspy. “James… though I don’t usually use that name.”

He ran a hand down the back of his neck, uncomfortable, but unable to take his gaze off you. “You can call me Logan.”

You nodded, biting your bottom lip, leaning against the door. It was getting a little awkward. “Please come in.. we can start.” You moved inside, letting Logan pass to close the door behind you.

Your shoes clicked against the floor as you approached the bed, adjusting the camera and lights. Silence seemed to reign in the room. Nobody said anything yet until you decided to speak.

“We'll start recording, okay? Remember the limits?” you mumbled as you adjusted the camera.

“Yeah– I remember them.” Logan says, looking at you, to then look away as a small light illuminates the bed.

“Ready, Logan?” your finger about to press the button to start recording.

He simply nodded, looking away, still nervous about it. The camera started recording, the small red flash there as you walked away and started walking in his direction. Appearing in the shot, Logan and you in the foreground, your hands resting on his chest to move up and caress his shoulders as his big hands pull you closer to him with a strong grip on your waist.

You didn't say anything, just looked up with a mischievous smile, licking your lips. Logan understood immediately, moving down a little towards your height to meet your lips for the first time. A simple kiss that slowly heated up. Your hands are buried in his gray hair while your tongue intertwines with his in a desperate manner. His nose brushed against yours sometimes when he rearranged his head.

“So pretty f'me, angel.” He whispered, guiding you to the bed as his lips went to attack your neck, giving some wet kisses on your skin.

Your back rests on the bed as Logan begins to undress you, leaving you only in your underwear. A cute lace lingerie that looked great on you, that colour just does something to him, looking at your chest, he couldn't help but gently squeeze both of your tits over the bra, Admiring how you look. The lace feels so good on his hands, hypnotized by your body, Remember that you really are real. It's not just one of his fantasies.

Your hands reach out and take off your bra, Leaving your chest bare in front of him, getting more comfortable, his lips wrap around one of your nipples, sucking and gently biting, while with his remaining hand he squeezes the other. You feel yourself melting and starting to do some sounds of pleasure, Enjoying it more than you should. You looked into his eyes as he began to kiss your abdomen, slowly moving down until he reached your panties.

He kissed your clit over the thin fabric before placing his nose on your clothed pussy, inhaling just a little bit of you, oh god, he's so pathetic.

“Are you enjoying your prize?” You whispered, blushing a bit as your panties were quickly removed, leaving you exposed to his deep gaze.

“hell yes, princess.” he whispered, not breaking eye contact as his tongue gave a testing lick on your slit, watching you squirm and moan softly.

“so wet, this turns you on, doesn't it? dirty girl.” Logan rasped, much more confident as he saw how you were slowly melting under his touch. His mouth begins to work on you, slowly licking your folds with the tip of his tongue. Your hand tugged at his hair, trying to keep him there. He lowered his face a little further, his nose level with your clitoris as his slippery tongue delved into your warmth.

“Logan—oh, fuck!” you moaned, arching your back. Throwing your head back, you were really surprised by this situation. You thought Logan would care about his own pleasure, like any other man would, you were so wrong.

It was so good, you had completely forgotten about the camera. Logan's hands were on your thighs, squeezing the tender flesh of them, while he continued to eat you with pleasure. His beard was rasping in the most delicious way, a perfect mixed feeling of burn and pleasure.

You began to feel pressure on your lower abdomen, You were close. Really close. Your hand held Logan there as he began to breathe heavily, your hips rising, rubbing against Logan's face in a way that was inevitable. You could hear him groan as you used his face. Littles pleads escaping from your lips as you move desperately. Hmm, he seemed to know you so well. Helping you reach your peak, your body tensed and your thighs clamped down on his face, holding him there as you rubbed your pussy over his face a few more times.

somewhat sensitive and you slowly came down from your climax, opening your legs and letting it go, completely satisfied about your experience —not yet finished— with Logan. He licked his lips, he could feel his beard a little wet from your fluids but god, they were worth it, and even more so when you tasted as sweet as candy.

“Are you tired already sweetheart? You last much longer in your videos." He teased, starting to remove his clothes. You didn't even notice he was still fully dressed, still very pleased with your recent orgasm.

You were surprised to see his cock, hard and thick, the tip dripping with precum. All for you. You sat down on the bed somewhat languidly, taking it gently in your hands to jerk it slowly as you looked up at him. Oh it wasn't anything like his hand. yours was so soft and warm.

he couldn't help but groan. “You're worth every penny, dolly.” Logan looks down, watching you kiss the tip playfully. You spit on his cock, making everything more sticky and easier to move your hand.

You then pulled away, laying on your back with your legs open. Logan, somewhat impatient, positioned himself between your thighs. He couldn't wait to be inside you, to make his fantasies come true. He took his shaft, passing it through your sensitive and wet folds, stealing a few pleased hums from you.

“Can you take it all for me, princess? Hmm?”he whispered in your ear, earning you to nod your head. slowly, he put his tip inside, pushing his whole cock into you little by little. He couldn't help but throw his head back when he reached the end, you were hugging him so warmly he could cum right now. You moaned at the feeling of it all inside, your legs wrapped around his waist, holding him close. His lips find yours again, kissing for a little bit, letting you get used to it.

Logan started to move after a while, his hips meeting yours as he picked a slow pace, trying not to cum, not yet. the sound of skin clashing and your sweet moans fill the room. He was moving hard, his thrusts more erratic now, his breathing ragged against your neck. Your legs were still tangled around his waist, your body sensitive, and sweating, trembling beneath him.

You didn't have the breath left to beg him not to stop, and you didn't need to. He didn't want it to end either.

But finally, he let out a deep, guttural groan that vibrated against your skin as he pulled out of you just in time, pumping his thick member over your abdomen. The warmth of his cum spread across your tummy The warmth of his cum lays across your skin as his body tensed completely, panting and trembling slightly as he collapsed beside you, exhausted.

Both of you were breathing heavily, not saying a word at first. Your eyes looked up at the ceiling, then back at him. He had his eyes closed, still recovering, his chest rising and falling heavily. with a disheveled appearance, disheveled hair and a wet beard.

You remained silent for a few more seconds, letting your frantic heartbeat calm down. Then you smiled, softly.

Maybe... just maybe, you thought as you stared at the still-recording lens, Logan could be more than just a client. Maybe... a new regular collaborator

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine one shot #logan 2017 #old man!logan #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett smut #logan howlett fic #jo writes 💌#this is kind of nasty might delets later

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