#joint filter tips

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU pt 66

part 1 | part 65 | ao3

cw: i don’t do drugs, dad, it’s only marijuana

“Uh,” Steve splutters, choking on his own spit. “Is that wise?”

It’s a question Eddie gives zero fucks about, apparently, because he’s already lighting a joint — cherry bright, shadows sharp, chin held aloft as he hollows his cheeks. “Extremely,” he croaks, blowing smoke out in a thick ring.

Steve’s mouth flattens to a frown. “Literally how?” he begs to know. “I thought we were supposed to be, like, fortifying our defenses. Building our mind shields or whatever the fuck.”

“Au contraire, mon frère.” Eddie takes a hit and holds it. “We are fighting a psychic wizard. Therefore…” Another toke, another trail of perfect smoke rings, ducklings lined up big to small. “It stands to reason that we should trash his battlefield.”

It stands to reason we should what?

“…Ohhhhhh,” Steve nods when he gets it. He reaches up to take the joint, tipping his chin in thanks when Eddie slots it into the V of his fingers, and squints as he sips in a quick puff; adds a French inhale at the end of a second huge hit. Eddie’s not the only one who knows how to do cool tricks. “So this is like the time we let a bunch of cows loose on Thompson’s field the night before the homecoming game.”

“Yeah, exactly— well- well, no, actually, not like that, what in the Indiana bumpkin fuck—? Never mind.” Eddie tosses his hair and rocks on his heels, and Steve can’t help but snort as he watches him shake himself clear like a little Eddie Etch-A-Sketch. “Important things only,” Eddie mumbles to himself. “Essentials,” he’s saying, “Essentials. What are essentials?”

And meanwhile Steve is saying: “Eddie-A-Sketch.”

Eddie hollers a startled cackle as he whips his head around, his face all squiggly with confusion, brows pinched, nostrils flared. “Steve, what the hell?”

Steve giggles uncontrollably. “Etch-A-Skeddie? No—”

“Holy shit.” He scrubs his hands down his face and laughs weakly at the ceiling. “How much weed did you just smoke?”

From anyone else it would sound like scolding, but Eddie just pulls out a few more joints, sticks three in his mouth at once, and mumbles good-naturedly, “Lemme catch up, I guess. Christ.”

While Eddie smokes enough weed to briefly hotbox a room with a hole in the floor, Steve watches the water ripple, spellbound by shimmering shapes in the dark for what feels like decades until he remembers all at once that it fucking sucks in here. It’s cold, and he’s starving, and his back is kinda stiff. “Hey…”

He looks over his shoulder, rolling into the stretch. Eddie’s doing some weird noodly shit in a corner, bent at the waist with his arms pretzeled overhead, swinging side to side, the ends of his hair sweeping the dusty, splintered planks. “Hey! Eddie.”

“Hmm?”

“Weren’t we supposed to be finding supplies?”

“Oh, shit.” Eddie swings himself upright; starts pacing back and forth. “Shit, yeah. What did we need?”

“Besides food and water?”

“Booze!” He steps onto a pile of boxes just to hop back down again. “Booze, music, more drugs…”

More drugs. Great idea.

Steve plucks the stubby remnant of a joint up off the floor; Eddie spins around on tiptoe to peer out the boathouse window, and when he looks back at Steve he’s got a Cheshire cat grin. “Say, Steve-o. Stevie boy. Svennie—”

“I’ll kill you,” Steve coughs around a mouthful of smoke.

“Since I’m pretty sure we’re one hundred percent going to jail for, uh. All of this…” He waves his arms around at their whole situation, then gestures invitingly to the house at the top of the hill. “Whaddaya say we add breaking and entering to the list?”

—

part 67

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[oralmisery]

Stiff by Day, Stiffer at Night

written for @steddiesmuttyseptember

[ complete fic on ao3 ]

Rating: E | WC: 7,007 | Tags: Smut, Humor, Lingerie, Blow jobs, Hand jobs, Brat Steve Harrington, Bathing/Washing, Light Dom/Sub undertones

Week three prompt: Lingerie

Steve is a mannequin that comes alive at night. 

Eddie occasionally dumpster dives at Starcourt Mall. 

The corroded coffin boys break in Eddie’s new find like teenage boys do–with mischief and vandalism. The not so lifeless Steve holds Eddie accountable and makes him clean up the mess he and his friends made.

Eddie knew Starcourt Mall was a corporate parasite draining the economic and cultural vitality of Hawkins; practically stealing customers from local businesses–the mom and pop stores that are generational legacies. However, being that the local businesses’ version of economy and culture consist of sneering at Eddie's crumpled single bills and following him around their stores like he was going to walk away with their entire inventory in his pockets, he wasn't remorseful in the least for being a patron of the new mall. Besides, there was a record store Eddie could browse while Jeff dared Gareth to steal panties from Victoria's secret. It had an actual metal section, small but existent.

The mall also had some of the most unique dumpster finds, not that Eddie made it a habit, he just looked from time to time.

“Why did you-mphf , even take this thing?”, Gareth said. He and Eddie were finding it difficult to maneuver Eddie's latest find through the trailer's small doorway.

“Same reason-push man-you and Jeff stole frilly underwear-oof ”, Eddie said, knocking his elbow into the wall and almost losing his footing. “I saw something, I wanted it, and no one stopped me, besides my acquisition was free”.

“Can't believe you went dumpster diving for a mannequin” Gareth said, finally angling the mannequin's legs right so they could get inside the trailer. They started down the hallway to Eddie's room.

The mannequin was a masculine one, tall and fit with defined musculature that was somehow supposed to represent the average man. It was bare when Eddie found it and the smooth white plastic body proved slippery to hold. The sculpted hair on the head pressed into Eddie's stomach when Gareth gave an impatient push.

“Slander , I didn't go into the dumpster, it was just right outside of it, mint condition” Eddie said, hands grappling with the mannequins shoulders as they tipped it up to stand in the middle of his room. “Ya know this thing will actually get use, which is more than I can say for the lingerie y’all pilfered. Who are you going to give it to? I don't think I’ve even seen you talk to a girl”.

Gareth's face scrunched up and he opened his mouth to argue but was cut off by Jeff, “we can give them to Gareth's mom”. Gareth’s outrage turned to a new target and he swiped one of Eddie's pillows to whack a laughing Jeff.

Jeff dodged, “What are you going to use the mannequin for?” he asked Eddie, holding a swinging Gareth back with his superior arm length.

Eddie turned the mannequin a couple inches to the right, looking over its plastic figure with roving eyes, “So many applications Jeff, imagine! a prop for our sessions, a corroded coffin mascot, a model for new t-shirts”. Eddie turned and smiled, wide and mischievous, “also I'm gonna scare the shit out of Wayne with it”.

Eddie wiggled his fingers at the others, "now get comfy, we are not parting ways until we get our setlist right, I'm going to roll a joint and grab some beer” he bounded from the room.

Eddie plopped down at the small kitchen table and opened his lunchbox to roll a joint. He twisted the filter paper with ease and sealed it with a quick swipe of tongue. With the joint tucked behind an ear, he grabbed a six pack from the fridge and headed back to his room.

“Okay boys, so I think we- what the fuck ?”.

The mannequin was now wearing a pale baby-blue, lace lingerie set. 

“I think he looks really good, right Eddie?” Gareth said as Jeff cackled.

Eddie bit his tongue. It did look good. The light blue bra stretched tight around perfectly sculpted pecs. The cups of the bra were completely transparent, the only opaque elements were delicately embroidered flowers and petals. Eddie could easily imagine pink nipples, bruising the sheer blue purple between the floral adornments. The same sheer fabric curtained around the bottom of the bra, creating an hourglass figure on a chiseled torso. Dainty straps enhanced broad shoulders. The whole piece stretched into a shape vastly different from the curves expected of it on a feminine figure. The paradox had Eddie's mouth watering. 

The most modest part of the ensemble was the front of the panties. There was a wide triangle of opaque blue cloth, then the rest was just as sheer and flower adorned as the bra. Even though the mannequin’s groin was smooth and flat, the square muscular cut of the hips sparked the image of blue cloth pulling obscenely over a bulge. Eddie swallowed thickly. Unlike Jeff and Gareth, humor wasn't at all the emotion Eddie was experiencing right now. He didn't want them to know what he was actually feeling, lest they stop being his friends.

Eddie laughed, loud and performative “I'd prefer if the top was more filled out” he said. He might as well have spoken absolute gibberish for how meaningless those words were, but he wasn't going to expose himself. He was a goddamn dungeon master and he knows how to put on an act, how to control a room–reveal information only when he's ready to. 

When players are a little too close to unraveling the mystery you give them a distraction, a side quest.

A misdirection.

Eddie swirled around and grabbed a marker from his desk, he uncapped it and flourished it in the air. He grinned at Gareth and Jeff, then nodded at the scantily clad mannequin.

“I think it needs some ink”

—----

Eddie woke up to something jabbing his ribs. He shifted with growing annoyance, wondering what was digging into his side. Then he recalled, not long before Gareth and Jeff left, that Jeff had pulled off the mannequin's arm and they took turns brandishing it like a sword. Eddie dimly remembered the arm next to him in bed when he passed out in a tipsy haze. He rolled over and started to sink back into sleep.

Something wiggled along his spine.

Eddie jerked upright and to the side with a strangled gasp. He moved so fast that his spine made an odd popping noise and by some miracle he didn't end up on the floor. Something was alive in his bed.

“Is that my fucking arm?”.

Eddie screeched and whirled towards the voice that just spoke. There was a man in his fucking room. It was too dark to see anything more than a silhouette, backlit with meager moonlight from the small window.

“W-what th- H-holy shit , I don't have any money man!”, Eddie said, frantic and garbled. He felt light headed; his heartbeat a rapid pulse in his ears. So at odds with the sluggish ebb of his thoughts and the sleep still encumbering his limbs. 

“I dont want fucking money, give me my arm asshole”, the voice said. 

“Wha -I don't know what that means, l-look just take whatever and go”.

The voice groaned like the home invader was the one inconvenienced.

“Like I want to be here? You're the one that kidnapped me from the mall, then stole my arm! now give it back”, the man said, a slight whine edging into his vexed tone. 

Eddie wasn't convinced they were having the same conversation. His body moved on autopilot, trying to appease the man’s commands as he mentally debated if this was all a vivid dream. He patted his person as if he had anything on him besides a worn t-shirt and boxers.

“Next to you, Jesus”

Eddie blinked, still processing, “Kidnap ? The fuck-I never, how ev-, I-I took a mannequ-” he said, dazed, his hands reaching out blindly on the bed sheet next to him. His left hand bumped into something warm and smooth.

There was a click. The darkness was cut through with the bright glow of his bedside lamp. 

Eddie noticed first that the man in his room wasn't wearing clothes. Mostly. He looked around Eddie’s age and was just miles of smooth tan skin and toned lines that were not at all hindered by a pale blue lingerie set. Indecent was not a word Eddie used often, the term usually directed at him, but the current display had him clutching his metaphorical pearls. Also, there were crude scrawlings of black marker all over the man’s face, like the first person to fall asleep at a truly vicious sleepover. He had uneven sketchy glasses, a stupid french villain mustache and a crooked goatee. 

The second thing Eddie noticed was his searching hand was resting on a hairy forearm. There was a severed arm in his bed.

“WHAT THE FUC-” Eddie leaped up and away, tripping over the blankets wrapped around his legs and falling straight into the almost naked burglar. The man grabbed Eddie (third thing Eddie noticed is the guy only had one arm) trying to keep vertical but they both went down in a tangle of limbs.

“Ow! fuck, Dude ”, the stranger groaned.

“Oh my god, what the fuck, there’s a fucking arm in my be-,” Eddie’s words muffled into incomprehensible noises when the other rolled them sideways, pinning Eddie under him as he sat up. The man didn't respond to Eddie's alarmed yelp. Instead, he reached over to grab the arm on the bed spread.

“Ew , don't touch i-”

The man ignored him and Eddie noticed that for all the separation of limbs going on there was remarkably little blood. None. No gore, exposed bones or flaps of skin. The place where the mans’ shoulder ended was fuzzy–like TV static. The end of the arm was the same way, like Eddie couldn't focus properly on what he was seeing.

The man hoisted up the arm and with a quick motion, snapped it back into place. He shook it out and started moving both shoulders in circles. Like a seasoned athlete warming up for a game.

Eddie watched speechless, mouth hung open. He wanted drugs to be the explanation, but he was unfortunately familiar enough with being high that he knew what stone cold sober felt like. Eddie's eyes lowered. There were more doodles and words scrawled on the man's chest and stomach. Eddie paused on a hand-drawn devil face, horns and everything–Hellfire’s club logo, right above the man’s belly button. Eddie remembered drawing it, and cursing when he made the second horn too big cause the marker skidded across a plastic ab.

With a dread thick in his gut, Eddie turned his head slowly and glanced at the corner of the room where they had left the defaced, barely-clothed mannequin.

The corner was empty.

“Where am I? This is not the GAP”

Eddie looked back at the man still sitting on him, now with two arms, crossed across his chest. His handsome face was carved with a scowl, bordering a pout. Eddie absentmindedly observed that the guy was hot . Like, probably the hottest man Eddie had seen in real life. And it wasn't the sexy underwear–the same pale blue combo that Gareth had stolen. The man was so attractive, he made a dying marker look good. He had brown swoopy hair, expressive eyebrows, pink lips and moles everywhere .

“You-you're the mannequin ?” Eddie asked. The question feels stupid–obvious but also absurd. Like asking if the moon was real and if it was made of cheese in the same breath.  

“Yes, duh ” the man rolled his eyes, “also it’s Steve, now why am I here? Did you rob the GAP or something?”, Steve said, eyeing Eddie's room like it was tainted.

Eddie blinked, dazed. The mannequin had a name. And it was rude as hell.

“Hellooo, do you have ears? Why did you rob the GAP and take me? Where's the new summer collection, huh? I was in The All-american Polo with a contrast collar, slim fit and the #5 khakis, size 32", Steve said. His chin tilted up as he stared at Eddie down his nose.

“I didn't rob anywhere, are you talking about the GAP in the mall ? Starcourt mall?" Eddie asked.

The annoyance disappeared from Steve's face, leaving it cold and intimidating–anger sunk under the surface to fester. His eyes narrowed, “are you always this slow?” he asked, voice tight. 

Eddie opened and closed his mouth. The manne- Steve’s glare was making his skin feel hot and itchy. He’s had unrealistic dreams start like this before, unfortunately the way those usually end is not a likely outcome in this situation.

“I didn’t know you're from the GAP, you were out by the dumpsters, man”

“The dumpster?!” Steve looked affronted. He jumped up and off Eddie to start pacing the room ranting. 

“The fucking dumpster ? They were going to throw me away? I'm supposed to be displaying hot new summer looks at reasonable prices. I’m the frontline of fashion, dammit! I don’t deserve to-to model a fucking trash bag ”. He abruptly stopped and whirled around on Eddie who was sitting up, trying to drag himself back on the bed.

“Why am I in this ”, Steve asked, plucking at the lacy bra on his chest, “also fucking marker? Are you serious, you guys 8 years old or something?”. Steve waved an angry hand from his face to down his body. He planted his other hand on a jutted hip.

Eddie's eyes followed Steve’s wave as if it was an invitation. His eyes slid down Steve's figure, marker and all. Eddie swallowed, the bulge wrapped in baby-blue was bigger than the one he had imagined.

“Are you going to answer any of my questions or just keep staring at my crotch?” Steve asked. Both hands on his hips now, unashamed, almost presenting in contrast to his sharp words.

Eddie's eyes flew up, his cheeks hot. 

“Uh yeah, or…no, I’m 20 not 8 years old”, Eddie said. Steve’s glare was volatile. Eddie put up his hands in surrender, “sorry , we were being stupid, just messing around. I'm so sorry, we didn't know you were, uh, alive …do, ah, all mannequins come to life?”

“As far as I know, Just me” Steve answered, preoccupied, looking off into the distance. He ran a hand through his hair and pursed his lips, “Ugh , can't believe they threw me out, I'm the best male sport model they have, I'm the only one that does the athletic stance”. He demonstrates with a pose that Eddie assumed was flawless but he's a little distracted with how the lingerie stretched around Steve’s spread thighs, leaving a little less of his crotch to imagination.

“Uh, well that's great…I mean the pose not the being… fired ? not sure why they threw you out but, um, I can drive you back-" Eddie hiccupped when he was roughly pulled up by the front of his T-shirt. Steve leaned in close and snarled.

“Absolutely not, you're gonna clean up what you did” Steve said. His face inches from Eddie’s.

“What?” Eddie asked, wrong-footed. They were so close, he could see flashes of the inside of Steve's mouth.

Steve furrowed his brow and shook Eddie, “all the marker, you're gonna wash it off”.

[ continue reading ]

[bettyfrommars]

invisibleMan!eddie x fem!reader

I had a smut request from the dear @strangerfreak for invisible!eddie and reader having sex in front of a mirror as a blurb, but it's 1.8k, so, close enough. I mean, why not add Invisible Man Eddie to our list of fuckable Universal Monsters.

18+ONLY, smut, boyfriend!eddie, mechanic!eddie, use of baby as a pet name, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, sex in front of a mirror, mention of using an experimental drug. No use of y/n or she/her.

author's note: so much love to those who sent smut requests in already, and I'm always happy to receive them. The two in this lil fic are very much in love and they very quickly turned into favorites of mine. This was not proofread, be gentle.

-----

“How long will it last?” You asked, staring into the space that you guessed was your boyfriend, but all you could see was the open door to the hallway.

When he moved, you caught glimpses of what looked like water ripples in the air, but otherwise, your eyes danced over the space, unsure of where to land.

Eddie lifted his hand up in front of his face, kind of loving the way he couldn’t see himself—it was cool as hell.  

“Only 24 hours, according to them,” he sat down on the bed next to you, and the only reason you knew that was because the mattress sank down and you could see the indentation where his butt was.  “I hope it wears off by Monday, because I don’t know if the customers at work will take to it.”

The thought made you giggle.  “Imagine wrenches and tire irons floating through the bay, seemingly unattended…”

“...an oil filter changing itself,” Eddie continued, finishing your sentence.  Now, you were both laughing, and Eddie gave a little snort.  You could feel him lean against you, could feel his calloused hand wrap around the back of your neck, and then you melted a little when he kissed the shell of your ear.

Money had been tight lately, and Eddie took the initiative to become a human guinea pig for a research facility specializing in supernatural powers.  The pay was phenomenal, but there were obviously some major risks.  He hadn’t told you he was going there after work, so you lost your mind a bit when you saw his van rolling up the road with no one behind the wheel.  

“Oh wait, baby, watch this,” you felt him get up off the bed, and then you followed the imprints of his feet that appeared in the carpet to where his service coat hung on the door.  A pack of smokes appeared in the air, and you watched in awe as a lighter lit a cigarette. It was as if you were in the presence of some animated Disney film.

Eddie inhaled and the tip glowed; you could see the smoke enter his lungs, and then puff out his nostrils when he gave another snort.  “This is wild,” he returned to his seat next to you on the bed. You could tell he was giddy with that schoolboy enthusiasm.  “I gotta get over to Steve’s later tonight and mess with him somehow.”

“I think this is the first time I’m actually grateful for your nicotine addiction,” you cupped your hand where you knew his jaw was to feel his warm flesh that your eyes kept telling you was not there.  “I can tell where your face is now.”

The cigarette bounced in the air. “Do you wanna get high and have sex with your invisible boyfriend?”

—-----

It was your idea to do it in front of the huge closet mirror, and Eddie loved you even more in that moment for suggesting it.  

It was dark, and you lit a few candles while Eddie rolled the two of you a fresh joint.  You could tell he was licking the side of it without seeing his tongue; you knew his rituals by heart.  

He took a big drag, and once you brought it to your lips, you watched his vest and shirt fly onto the bed, and then you felt two warm, rough hands come up your sides to ease your shirt off.  With your back against the bed, your legs were wide in front of the mirror, and Eddie kissed your stomach, up your chest, and along your neck, making a needy mew erupt from your throat, urging him on.  

“Yeah?” He whispered in your ear as he unhooked your bra, allowing his thumbs to graze the tender nubs of your nipples.  “Is it better when you can’t see me?”

“I hate it,” you found his mouth and kissed him deep. Your pussy thumped with an aching need as he rubbed you there over your jeans. “I miss my beautiful boy.”

“Here, gimme this,” he took the joint from you and smiled against your mouth.  “Before you drop it and burn the place down.”

You palmed him over his jeans, mouth watering at how hard he was.  “You wanna watch your cum fill me up, don’t you?”

“Oh fuck,” he breathed, and then he grabbed the back of your head and pulled you close, kissing you so that your tongues wrestled together as if they were fucking.  

You watched invisible hands pull your jeans off, and then the rest of his clothes, including his boxers, clumped to the floor, heavy with wallet and chain.  You knew his cock was bobbing in the air somewhere near, but thankfully you didn’t have to wonder for too long because his mouth was on you again.

When his two fingers sank into your hole, you whimpered and clenched around him.

“Fuck, I love you,” he murmured against your throat, and then you felt his head turn to look at what you could see in the reflection.  Even though he was situated between you and the mirror, he could see you open for him, straining around the thickness of his digits.  He could see your arousal trickling down, soaking wet to the carpet.  

You found his curved length and twisted your hand around the head.  “Let me taste your invisible cock,” you said with a hungry purr.  You were both paying attention to the mirror show as he sank a third finger in, and Eddie bucked his hips against you at the sight.

“Wait, wait,” he gasped. “Let me try something.”

Your face was in his hair and you ran a few scratches down his back, imagining him there as clear as day.

He scissored his fingers inside you to watch it spread. “God, you’re so beautiful, I can’t believe you’re mine.”

You grabbed his face for another long, hard kiss while his fingers fucked into you.  Eddie dove his cock into your grip over and over and you spit on the C-shape your hand was making to give it more slip.  

He backed off and put his forehead to yours, breathing heavy, bringing his soaked fingers out to draw lazy circles on your clit.  “I’m gonna cum like this if we’re not careful.”

“Mmmmh,” you hummed, stroking your thumb over his swollen, leaking tip.  “I think it’s time we see what this monster can do in real time.”

He couldn’t get into position fast enough.  Since you were on the floor, he yanked two pillows down off the bed to put behind your head and at your lower back.  He held your legs up by your knees, but then checked the angle in the mirror and put your leg down, asking you to move your hips slightly.

“Maybe I should be invisible next time,” you joked.

“Please baby, don’t say that,” he brushed his lips over your knee.  “I always want to be able to see you.”

From where he was, he didn’t have to turn his head too far to get a glimpse of the action, and you could see everything.  In the reflection, you watched the way he wet the head of his cock in your folds, spreading them open, making your glistening lips flutter.

If not for his hissed curses and sounds of pleasure, you would’ve thought you were having a wet dream or being made love to by a ghost.  

“So this is what it would be like to have sex with a ghost,” you mused aloud, feeling the weed hit you as Eddie sank deeper.

He grunted.  “It’s good practice, in case I die first, I’m gonna haunt the fuck out of you.”

“Impale me with that ghost cock, baby,” you wiggled your tongue at him.

And, so he did.

He buried himself to the base with a groan, followed by your whimpers that coaxed him to swivel his hips.

“Holy shit,” Eddie turned his head and marveled at the way your hole expanded and he could see inside of you.  The mix of your arousals began to foam a bit from the friction and Eddie’s hips moved faster.

You swiped your fingers over your clit, imagining Eddie’s hair hanging down his shoulders and his guitar pick necklace hitting against his chest with every thrust.  

He eased back with a huff, pacing himself.  "I’m so close,” you could hear him suck in his bottom lip.  

“Don’t stop,” you hushed with a hitch in your breath and Eddie noticed you working your clit in a certain way—-you were close too.

“Oh, shit, okay,” he continued, glancing in the mirror only once more while he set a steady pace.  

Your walls clenched and throbbed on him like a fist, making him mumble incoherently.

“I’m gonna cum so hard baby fuck—are  you watching?” his thrusts stuttered and your eyes were glued to the mirror as you witnessed his seed coat your walls and drip down your ass as he pumped it in.

“Eddie!” The sight of it sent you into orbit and your walls milked him aggressively as the orgasm rolled through you like velvet firecrackers. 

Eddie liked to watch your face when you came, but as the pleasure subsided, he turned to see what you could see.

“Fuckkk, that’s insane,” he mumbled, working his length in and out so he could watch the cum spill out and then get stuffed back in. “I’m so fucking in love with you.”

When he was done watching the show, he dropped his head to your shoulder and let himself slip out of your warm heaven.  You found his hair and brushed your fingers through it, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to pull him closer until your bodies met and he let you have his weight.  

“Baby, look,” you nudged him to notice the reflection again, and when he did, he saw you on the ground with your arms curled around nothing, like you were trying to hug the air.  “Now you can go down on me in a public place and no one would know.”

He lifted his head up, and you tried to decide where his eyes were.  “Can we try that tomorrow before this wears off?” He asked.

You leaned forward to kiss his mouth, but ended up kissing his nose.  “Meet you at a table in front of the Sbarro in the food court tomorrow at 11. I’ll be sure to wear a skirt.”

“Damn, that reminds me,” he got to his feet abruptly and you felt drips of his release land on your stomach. “I need to go over and show this to Steve.  So much to do before I lose my superpower.”

“I’ll drive, how about that?”

“Deal.”

[the-scandalorian]

like a moth to the flame, part IV

Pairing: monster!Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: E, 18+ Word Count: 11.1k Content Warnings: dark!Din, predatory/obsessive/possessive behavior, body horror/painful physical transformations, injury/gore, blood and hunting and monstery shit, oral (m-receiving), p-in-v Note: Endlessly grateful to both @frannyzooey and @ezrasbirdie for lending me their big beautiful brains xx

DIN Din had woken, disoriented and hurting, that morning after he’d found the Armorer on Glavis.

He came-to curled in the fetal position on the hard metal floor of his tiny compartment on the humming public transport. Before he’d even opened his eyes, he knew his body felt wrong. Uncomfortable and unwieldy, heavy and strange.

When he did open his eyes to the harsh, artificial light, the first thing he noticed was the sharp clarity of his vision. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, but it felt like he was looking through one of the strongest filters of his visor. He blinked hard. No change.

He unfolded his arms and studied his hands, splaying too-long fingers, and his thoughts tangled and snagged as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. 

The glint of cruel silver claws. 

In his periphery, he caught the movement of a dark shape over his shoulder.

He tried to scramble away from it. It followed, a shadow.

Wings.

The word felt absurd. But it was…right. Silver that matched the half-moons of those claws, a structure of bone sprouted from both of his shoulder blades, a hooked joint forming the apex of each inky black, bat-like wing. Colossal and dark.

Piece by piece, in a haze of disbelief, he discovered new parts of himself.

The sheer size of this body, the power coiled in his changed muscles. 

He ran a finger along the edge of his teeth, catching the pad on an elongated canine. Blood welled.

The wound on his thigh, where he'd burned himself with the saber the night before, was largely healed. There was only a trace of it, a fading pink scar.

Din stopped there. He couldn’t bring himself to look in a mirror, to see himself like this. He wasn’t ready for it to be real, to know if his face was still his own.

Instead, he picked up his chest plate to start collecting his armor, and his claws bit gently into the perfectly smooth surface. He was stunned.

What scratches beskar?

Beskar.

Of course.

The silver of his claws, of his wing joints was beskar. Virtually indestructible.

Din sank back to the floor and closed his eyes. He sat against the cold metal wall with his clenched fists pressed against his eyelids, the tips of those talons cutting into his palms. He wanted to escape the prison of this body, of this new reality; to wake from this nightmare; to blink himself out of existence altogether. 

He forced himself to slow his breathing, holding it at the top of each inhale, until some of the tension in his chest eased. He let his thoughts go, focused on the cadence of his breath. Preparing himself as he did before a fight.

A slow, creeping sense of relief spread through him gradually, growing so palpable it turned physical. Like a cool wash of water over his aching muscles, a full-body shiver racked him. The tremble and quake of his broad frame was fleeting but intense. A release. His bones shifted in a pinch of discomfort. His mind drifted.

And then, stillness.

He’d opened his eyes minutes later, and his vision was blessedly, beautifully blurred—just barely. As it always was. As it was supposed to be.

Sitting there, staring at his hands and his blunt, human nails, Din might have been able to convince himself he’d imagined all of it. A fever dream. A delusion. An exhaustion-fueled moment of insanity, his mind addled by the fight and the pain and the life-altering dismissal from his covert. 

Except, etched into his chest plate…those damning marks.

A mechanical voice announced the imminent arrival of the transport, interrupting his moment of existential crisis. Tatooine. The local time and weather blared through the speaker.

Tatooine. He couldn’t go back there. Not like this.

He made a choice. He dressed and readied himself, deboarded and found his way to the baggage claim. A droid unlocked his case, and Din methodically reattached each of his weapons. He reached for the dark saber last. The metal hilt felt hot, even through the thick leather of his glove. Nothing else had—not his blaster or his charges. Just the saber, warm under his touch. Warm like something alive. Like something warm-blooded, something with a thrumming pulse. Like something pleased to be back in his grip.

Like it knew.

He clipped it to his belt and let it drop, relieved to not have it in his hand.

Din turned, looking for the closest screen of departures, and scanned the list for the least populated destination.

*** Now, months later, he wakes to a fantasy.

He hadn’t meant to sleep. He didn’t want to risk it, even in the armor—not after he felt his body start to shift under his beskar last night. He didn’t think that was possible. Then he’d sucked your taste off his fingers, and his head had snapped to the side, his spine straightening. He’d felt the pop of vertebra and the sudden tightness of the skin across his back, the warm tension in his muscles straining for the change, but he’d managed to stave it off. 

Just barely.

No, he hadn’t meant to sleep last night, but he had. And he wakes now, well rested, to the feeling of your warm body curled into his side, your head nuzzled into his neck, your breathing slow and deep. Watery morning light, as light as this dark forest ever gets, is visible through the trees outside the window.

He’d tried to move away from you during the night, to give you space, sure that you’d be more comfortable without the hard edges of beskar digging into your soft body, but every time he’d started to extract himself gently, you’d grumbled and tightened your fingers wherever they happened to be—caught in the folds of his duraweave, gripped around armor, tangled with his own. The leg you had hooked over his thigh had tensed too, your foot tucking itself under his other knee. You twined yourself around him, like a tenacious little climbing vine, and refused to let go.  

He likes it. You’re possessive too.

The realization hurts a soft spot under his ribs—you want what he wants. To belong to someone. To claim and be claimed. To know that closeness. Skin-to-skin, joined and sweaty, without all these fucking layers between you. That hopeless, dangerous thing he can never give you.

That thought is unbearable when you’re asleep on his chest, your hand still curled over the top of his chest plate, fingers clinging to the sharp cut of metal. When he can smell the faint tang of your blood as it pumps idly through your veins, detectable even under the layer of your delicate floral scent, even from beneath his helmet.

His mouth waters.

It’s the catalyst that finally gets him moving. He carefully but forcefully unfastens your hand, inches your leg off his, and slips out of bed. You readjust but don’t wake.

As soon as he’s standing, looking down at you, he regrets it. The space between your bodies is intolerable, and he has nothing to do but wait for you to wake. So he waits. He waits, and he seethes.

He thinks about the mistakes he’s made.

*** He’d spent yesterday angry at himself, fuming at his own idiocy. He’d ruminated on how to proceed, how to scare you off again after he’d all but courted you the previous night when he’d given you a com link. Had invited you to use it. Fucking encouraged it. He’d been drunk on you—on your presence, on your forgiveness, on your smile. On the headiness of your scent as you’d stood so close to him outside your house. And it had messed with his fucking head, made him do stupid things. Dangerous things.

He’d worked through the steps of his drills while he thought, slashing the saber through the air as he’d tried to decide what to do. How to retract his offer of the com. He didn’t think he could bring himself to be cruel to you, to reject you outright. He’d imagined your face, imagined the hurt there, and he’d just…known he couldn’t do it. He’d have to leave. He wouldn’t let himself see you again. He'd jam the frequency of the com link. A clean break.

It was the only option.

He’d decided he’d let himself change early then, before the sun had dipped below the green horizon. One last hunt before he found a way off this planet. 

He’d been minutes away from letting himself shift, minutes away from heading out completely uninhibited, when he’d caught your scent. You were close. The timing of it had made him want to break something. That was exactly the problem with all of this: one misstep, one instance of bad timing…and you could end up dead.

Why hadn’t he thought about you finding the bodies? How had that not occurred to him? 

He’d left a perfect trail from your house to his. His animal brain had thought protect and nothing else. He’d gotten sloppy, comfortable. Maybe some part of him had wanted you to find it, to follow.

This was how it would end, then, he’d thought as he waited for you. Not in the easy way he’d planned, not a quiet exit—a coward’s exit. He’d have to face you, to turn you away and tell you he was leaving. 

Then you were in front of him, and all of that was gone—the struggle and the resolve, the determination and decency. He’d fought to get it back for a few minutes, scrabbled against his own desire. Had tried to deny himself—to deny you. It was futile.

You’d asked him if he thought you were weak, if all of this was somehow your fault. And that was it.

He’d refused to punish you for his sins. 

*** And now you’re in his bed. Warm and soft under his comforter, your head pressed into his pillow. A dream. Something he could wake up to tomorrow and the next day, if he wanted. A string of perfect, untouchable days stretching before him like a beckoning temptress.

He can’t let himself think like that.

Your life, he reminds himself. Your life is what matters most. Keeping you here wouldn’t just be selfish, wouldn’t just be a temporary balm, it would be a gamble. Your life pitted against his own self-restraint. Your life pitted against the self-restraint of a monster he doesn’t trust.

If he can just get you out—out of his bed, out of his house, out of his head—he’ll be able to think straight, and then he can go.

He watches you stir, aware suddenly that a fully armored Mandalorian looming over you might not be the most comforting sight for you to wake to. But you crack open sleepy eyes before he can move, and a lazy smile spreads across your face. His heartbeat stumbles.

“Morning,” you yawn, stretching your arms over your head.

“Morning,” he replies, clipped as he tries to expedite this process.

“It’s early,” you muse, your gaze trailing to the window. “I think you should come back to bed.”

Din’s thoughts stall immediately. You look so cozy, so comfortable snuggled in his bed. In his bed.

“Please?”

Din’s helmet follows the path of your hand as it begins to wander: as it slides languidly down the column of your neck, molds over the swell of your breast, lingers along your waist. You know you’ve snared him right away. You always know.

He just stands there, silent and yielding, as you kick the blankets away and shimmy out of your clothes. He wants to tell you to stop, but his mouth isn’t responding to his brain, his jaw dropped open slightly behind the helmet as he surveys the bare lines of your body. He didn’t get to enjoy this yesterday, didn’t get to luxuriate in the view, to drink in every detail. To commit it to memory.

His visor catches where your fingers stroke the curve of your hip.

“I can’t—” he starts.

You slip your hand between your legs, run your fingers through the soft hair there.

He was going to get you out. To regroup. That was his intention.

One of your fingers slips lower, dips into the seam of your sex. His cock responds.

He barely knows his own name, let alone any sense of reason when you’re looking at him like that—touching yourself like that. Begging him to touch you. His nervous system jolts from freeze directly into overdrive, and immediately he can feel himself brushing up against some physical limit, teetering on the edge of his control.

He watches you drop your knees open, and a low, pained sound passes through the modulator when you use two fingers to part yourself, putting yourself on display for him. You roll the pad of one finger over your clit, and your head drops back onto the pillow, your eyes closing in pleasure. Need claws at the inside of him. 

“Stop,” he commands, but there’s no bite in it, his mouth watering at the sight of your stroking fingers.

You smile and widen the spread of your thighs, moving your hand lower.

He tries to sound firm, but his words come out like a plea: “Don’t—”

“I wouldn’t have to touch myself if you’d do it for me.”

You keep your eyes on his visor as you press two fingers inside yourself, frictionless as they sink inside the warm clutch of your body. He’s fixated on the flex of your wrist as you fuck yourself gently—his rapt attention suddenly a shivering, living thing throbbing under his skin. When you ease them out, he can see the shine of your arousal coating your skin up to the knuckle, a clear thread strung between your fingers for a brief moment when you slowly separate them.

“Your fingers feel so much better,” you breathe.

His blood pulses loudly in his ears, a too-slow beat. He knows what you feel like, clenched around his thick fingers—how slick, how hot. He knows what you taste like, licked off his own skin. Din would like to say that some greater primal force takes over, hijacks his body, that the monster in him doesn’t give him a choice, but that would be a lie.

He decides to let go.

Without changing forms, Din silences the part of his mind that’s protesting. He lets the animal of his hindbrain take control, a predator submitting to the call of its prey drive. It feels good to give in—a rush of blissful quiet overtakes him. He looks at you, and it’s simple. He wants you.

Time slows, but his hands move quickly—going to his belt buckle. The weapon-heavy leather thuds when it hits the ground at his feet.

You watch him disarm himself, poised like a willing sacrifice on his bed with your hand caught between your open legs, a naked eagerness on your face that pleases the possessive, hungry thing in his chest. His vision is tinged red, the severed thread of his control a distant memory as he thinks of all the things he wants to do with you.

To you.

He condemned himself to this the moment he let himself touch you. There’s no going back. He’s going to taste your nectar from the source. He’s going to fuck you with his tongue and gently suckle your clit between his lips until you sob. He’s going to eat you out until you come on his face, your hands tangled in his hair.

And then he’s going to do it again.

He tries not to think about how much easier that would be with his other tongue, his tongue when he’s transformed—long and dextrous as it is. He could get so deep inside you like that. Taste you from the inside out.

Later. He appeases himself with the promise of later. The promise of tomorrow and more more more.

His gaze settles on your mouth. There’s something else he wants now.

He approaches the bed and stands at its side, waiting patiently. That desperate sense of urgency drops away, and his shoulders relax. He can decide to have all the time in the world with you if he only lets himself. 

When he hunts, when Din really truly hunts these days, he finds that he likes to draw out the indulgence of it. The tease and the chase. The kick of adrenaline before the slaughter. He understands why a predator plays with its prey before it makes the kill. 

Because it can.

Because it feels good.

You’re expecting him to join you on the bed. He can see it in your expectant gaze.

“You want it so bad?” he asks, dipping his helmet down. “Come here.”

A wicked look flashes across your face at the change in his voice, at the invitation. There’s a beat of anticipation as you decide to play along, and then you crawl to the edge of the bed on your hands and knees. He watches, an imperious tilt to his helmet.

You perch on the edge, looking up. Waiting.

“Go ahead,” he nods. “Take it out.”

Your hands move to the button on his pants, but you don’t pop it open right away. You let your hand mold to the hard bulge there, feeling the heft of him.

He tilts his helmet the other direction, impatient, and you go for the zipper. 

Before you’ve even pulled his cock out, before you’ve even touched him, Din thinks the sensation of your hot breath on the expanse of skin exposed by his open fly might be the most erotic thing he’s ever experienced. 

He rips his gloves off and locks a hand around the nape of your neck. 

He thinks for a fleeting moment how obvious it must be—his obsession with your mouth. The edge of mania he’s shoved toward when you let your tongue drag up his hip bone. That he’d slit his wrists at the altar of your perfect lips if you asked.

Your eyes drag upward slowly as you lick across his skin, gaze catching on the armored lines of his body before it meets his visor. You peer up at him as you inch the fabric of his pants down just far enough. And then your eyes flick down to watch a pearly bead of precum slip down the length of his shaft at your closeness.

“You want it?” he rasps. “Open your mouth.”

He grunts in satisfaction when your lips part immediately. Again when your hand curls around the base of him and your tongue darts out to circle his head, a touch so infuriatingly delicate that it makes him want to hold you down and fuck your throat raw.

He doesn’t, of course. He lets you set the pace even though your teasing lick across the underside of his cock and another over his slit feel as much like torture as they do like pleasure. 

Finally, finally, you take him fully into the heat of your mouth. You start up a steady rhythm, and he’s more than satisfied to let you take the reins. 

You’re less satisfied with that though—you settle a hand over his on your neck and press down, your eyes skirting upward as you nod subtly, your other hand urging his hips forward, urging him to fuck your mouth. 

Use me. 

He wishes you could see his face in this moment, what you do to him. Din’s eyelashes flutter shut at the perfection of your request. But immediately, he snaps them open again, needing to see.

He thrusts forward, and you whine in approval, your fingers tightening on his hip—taking him deep again and again, until he watches a line of saliva slide down your chin. Until your lashes grow wet, eyes watering at the effort of taking him over and over. 

It’s too much. It’s too good. 

The tight, hot constriction of your throat as you swallow around the head of him, the hard suck of your cheeks hollowing out around his shaft. His helmet rocks back, and a growl reverberates through his chest. But he’s not about to let himself come without knowing what it feels like to fuck you.

His hand drops away from the back of your neck; he forces his hips to still. “Enough,” he grits.

When you surge forward again, taking him deep, he closes a hand gently around your throat and eases you backward, off him.

“I said stop.” He thinks the words would be menacing if the fractured restraint in his voice weren’t so apparent. If you couldn’t see the steady leak of precum from his cock, the drizzle of opaque liquid on his dark pants. He’s teetering right on the painful edge of orgasm, and you know it. 

“Need to fuck you,” he says, his hand still settled over your throat.

“Then fuck me,” you reply, your voice hoarse as you shift backward on the bed. 

“You want my fingers first?” he asks, his hand drifting down the inside of your thigh. “You want to cum on my hand again?”

“No,” you say, catching his wrist and pulling him onto the bed, over you. 

“No?” he says. “You want it to hurt?”

“Yes.”

His fingers tighten on your thigh. Too hard. “Turn around.”

You flip over and settle on your knees in front of him, and Din can see how much you enjoyed sucking his cock in the glossy spread of your cunt. 

He catches a drop of your arousal with two caressing fingers. “You want to be fucked hard? Is that what you want, you greedy little thing?”

You press your hips back, rubbing yourself into the cup of his hand. And for a moment, his mind buzzes with blankness—with the thought that he could be tasting you instead of just touching you. He satisfies himself for now by lining up his cock with the soft heat of your pussy, by pressing his sensitive head against your arousal-slick flesh. 

But when you whine and start to shift backward into him, he waits. Savors. “You need my cock that bad, huh?”

“Please, I need it. I want it—”

It’s that thing he fantasizes about—the daydream he strokes himself to in the shower after he hunts, when he’s sticky with blood and the leash on his desire has long been snapped. Your whined plea for him, your need so stark and bright that he couldn’t ever possibly deny you. Your need for him so heightened it threatens to match his for you.

“Take it then,” he pants. “Take what you asked for.”

He sinks his cock into the welcoming heat of your body, pressing slowly against the tight resistance of little preparation—hears the soft, drawn-out oh of your pleasure—and he knows there’s no coming back from this.

*** So he doesn’t fight it. He keeps you.

Days turn into a week. Into two. You bring life and sound to this desolate place—the creak of your steps on the hardwood floor, the sound of your humming, the quiet clanks of your movements around the kitchen in the early morning light. The quiet, steady tick of your heartbeat. All those pretty little noises you make when he has you in his bed—the moans and the whimpers and the pleas. His pillow smells like mellow spring flowers, and there are rose colored skirts and silky blue pajamas in his dresser.

He likes it.

He likes the noise and the tightness of the space and the company.

When he heads outside to chop wood for the fireplace, you follow to watch him roll up the duraweave sleeves of his flight suit and swing the ax—again and again until a thick log splits down the middle with a crack—and the attention pleases him. 

The weeks stack up, and there is a bar of soap speckled with lavender flowers in his shower. There are sweet strawberry preserves lined up in his cupboard, a colorful wool throw blanket tossed over the back of the couch that you insist is a necessity. For sitting in front of the fire, of course. You poke fun at his ascetic choices, at the lack of coziness in his house, but you don’t seem mad at all to be the one to provide it. 

He thinks you know instinctively that home isn’t a place or a concept he’s familiar with. He thinks you love being the one to show him what it could mean. 

He can tell you don’t mind that you have to face opposite directions when you eat. He thinks you like the sound of his voice even more when it’s not passed through the modulator. You draw out every meal with questions. He draws them out with his answers.

He tells you about the little green bounty that changed his life, the soup his mother made for him when he was sick, being adopted by the Mandalorians, the fact that he used to love swimming as a child. That sometimes he thinks about how good it would feel to strip off his armor and swim now. You tell him about your dreams, your childhood, your plans, everything.

When he slips his helmet on again and you turn to face him, he can see that the gulf between what he does tell you and the whole truth is obvious, though.

There is a question—are many questions—swimming in your eyes. The intention to get answers too. He’s not sure which exactly questions they are: Why the armor? The helmet? The Creed? Why this place? Where is he going next? When? What happened to him? What is he? Why the isolation and the fear and the hesitation and mile-high walls and why why why?

What the fuck happened to the wall of the shower?

Valid questions, every one. Many are things he asks himself regularly. All are questions he doesn’t know how to answer without shattering this perfect moment, without ruining the lovely domesticity you’re cultivating together. So when he sees that look and your lips part, Din speaks before you can. He’s not ready, yet, to go there. He reaches for your hand or strokes a gloved finger over your cheek and deflects. 

Just a little longer, he thinks, please. And you’re not fooled—he knows that. You understand the request and allow it for now, and he’ll take what he can.

“You want to learn how to shoot?” he asks instead. 

Your eyes light up.

He helps you pick a blaster from his collection—“How many blasters does one man need, Mando?”—that’s well suited to you, that fits your grip. He sets up targets outside, scattered on trees at varying distances, and stands close behind you, a solid wall against your back. He adjusts your stance and the placement of your hands, letting his touch linger on your waist in a way that makes your heart rate readout on his helmet spike. 

“Are you going to let me focus or not?” you quip, peering at him over your shoulder. “I thought you were trying to teach me something here.”

He raises innocent hands and steps back. “I didn’t realize I was distracting you.”

You smile slyly at him. “Sure.”

He lets himself enjoy it, the ease between you, the way you can read him even through the armor. Standing a short distance behind you, he talks you through the process: how to aim and shoot, how to breathe.

Hand-to-hand, next, he thinks to himself as he watches you practice. Then blades. Tracking.

He’ll teach you anything and everything that will protect you.

For when he’s no longer here to do it for you, he doesn’t let himself think. 

He watches you practice each day, watches you focus on the target, your lip caught between your teeth in concentration, until you nail the bullseye. You run to the tree where the target is hanging—a hole singed through the middle—letting out a triumphant cry, and he follows.

“Look,” you grin, so proud it makes his heart trip. You point at the perfectly placed burn mark. 

“Good,” he praises. “Do it again.” 

You roll your eyes, but you do. You return dutifully to the line he’d drawn in the pine needle strewn ground and shoot until you get the hang of it, until a miss is rare. And then he fucks you up against that tree, your dress bunched up around your hips, the blaster abandoned somewhere by your feet. 

You leave for a day, maybe two, here and there to check on things at home, that little fawn you love. As soon as you’re gone, he spends a couple hours getting as far in the opposite direction as he can, changing, hunting whatever he can find in the shortest time, and then after he’s washed every trace of blood away and donned his armor, he waits for you to come back. He tells himself it’s a perfectly workable arrangement.

It’s fine. It’s safe. Safe enough.

With his attention elsewhere, it takes him a few weeks to notice that those prints, the ones he’d been tracking so obsessively, have started to show up closer to his house, to yours. They mark a quiet, slow encroachment into his territory—inching just barely past that boundary he’d been so careful to hold until recently. Their bravery is returning, their local numbers rebounding, because he hasn’t been pushing them back by culling their pack with regularity.

He makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on things, reassured by the fact that there are miles of buffer between their progress and you. And, more importantly, that more often than not, he’s by your side these days—like the times you ask him to come with you when you leave. He’s not going to say no to you.

Every night, he gets to undress you and pull you into his bed. To touch you and fuck you and make you come. He gets to learn what makes you cry, what makes you scream, what makes you beg.

All in the armor, still. In the beskar prison that keeps you safe from him. That line he manages, somehow, to maintain. The monster in him hasn’t wrested it from him yet, and he clings to that last safety net, that final border between risky and reckless. 

He wonders every day when you’ll hit your threshold. When it’ll all become too much—the secrets and the questions and the armor. Every day you don’t ask or push or leave, he breathes a sigh of relief, knowing full well it just means the next day is more likely. That worry is so dwarfed by the pleasure of having you that he barely notices it, though.

It helps, too, that he’s well rested for the first time in a long time.

Din doesn’t dream when you’re in his bed, isn’t haunted by the nightmares. He slips into sleep, and it doesn’t fight him like it usually does. He sleeps soundly with your warm, soft form tucked against his side, your face pressed into his cowl. Your presence, your touch, your scent—they soothe him.

He’s always known—even before he admitted it to himself—that there would be no halfway with this. No measured approach to having you. And he was right, of course. Here you are, living with him… and happy, he thinks. He doesn’t like to think about what would happen if that changed, if you left. What he'd do. What he'd have to stop himself from doing.

Din loves hard, with teeth, and all of his are sunk deep in you. If he really thinks about it, though, the opposite is true. Yours, sunk deep in him. You have a bone-deep hold on him, a fatal bite that severed something vital upon first contact. If you decided to let go, he’d bleed out.

And he feels lighter than he has in months. Maybe years.

It scares him so much he doesn’t want to think about it.

So he doesn’t.

YOU

It’s not intentional. You don’t sit down together and make a decision, but you don’t want to leave and he doesn’t want you to go. So you just…don’t.

Slowly, with time, your most essential things migrate from your place to his. You bring a bag of clothes here and your favorite blanket another time. Your shampoo comes along with other bathroom essentials, and some kitchen supplies find their way into his drawers and cabinets.

Within a few weeks, you all but live with him.

You know instinctively that the opposite arrangement—staying together at your house—isn’t possible. Whether or not it’s actually necessary, Mando takes his self-imposed exile seriously. It’s another of the many things you don’t push him on.

Yet.

You visit home on a regular basis, of course, to keep an eye on things. Town, too, for supplies. You make the long walk alone—or sometimes together when you can convince him to put off whatever mysterious, imperative thing he has to do when you’re gone, and it feels shorter then. He’s not so hard to persuade.

You check on Luna, who is happy and well fed in the warmth of the barn, kept company by the chickens and the handful of braying goats. 

You find that she’s terrified of other people—or at least of Mando. You’ve never brought anyone else around so it’s hard to know if it’s something about him specifically. Maybe it’s the armor or his size. The first time she sees him, she goes rigid, the picture of freeze, and it takes twenty minutes to calm her down after you nudge Mando back out of the barn and close the door behind him. Even after several visits, she remains wary of him, barely willing to tolerate his presence.

A detail, like so many others, you file away for later.

It's one of many that you don't mention—anything that might prompt impossible conversations. Instead of souring the moment, instead of asking the hundreds of questions that are piling up in your head, you tacitly agree to avoid those things, skirting around any topics that elicit unanswerable questions or suggest an expiration date. Again and again. For weeks.

Then months.

It’s easy enough to rationalize. Might as well make the short time you have together pain free. Only good.

And, fuck, is it good.

You wake in his bed each morning and fall back into it each night. You wait for your lust for him to abate, for the initial need to be sated. Two months in, though, it hasn’t so much as begun to subside. If anything, it’s grown. It’s fed, you think, by the fact that you still don’t get all of him—what you do get just makes you want more. 

You get his hands, his cock, the expanse of his lower abdomen and upper thighs when he unbuckles his belt and fucks you. The sound of his unfiltered voice when you eat together. The sight of his thick, veined forearms when he chops wood. Snatches of golden skin dusted in dark hair.

Never his mouth, his eyes, his chest, the rest of him—his face. His face, that you think you might already love without having ever seen.

The why of it all—of the pace, of his nature—doesn’t feel so urgent any more, now that you’ve had the opportunity to soak him in, in more than just brief interactions. You can sense the why on him when you start to appreciate the weight of his past and his creed. There’s a layer of pain and loss calcified under his armor: you can all but feel it when your fingers work past an edge of beskar. He starts to tell you about it, too; he starts to untangle the complicated knot that is Mando. It’s usually during a meal when you’re faced away from each other and you get to hear his real voice that he starts to open up. You untease his past question by question, answer by answer.

When you do almost slip, almost ask a question that is too present, he helps you put it back. Offers a distraction that you gladly accept. An unspoken agreement of not yet.

He just needs time. You just need more time together.

You try not to think about the fact that you might not have time. No, you package that thought up with that list of forbidden questions, the ones that would threaten to crack the ice you’re standing on together, and tuck them all away. 

You take the things that he does offer, accept his baffling limits. You satisfy yourself with the reminder of progress. If you think back to a few months ago and draw a line from those cordial interactions at the Saturday market to the current reality of living with him—to watching him welcome all the ways you insinuate yourself into his space, to witnessing the way he seems to soften for you—you can’t help but feel hopeful about what the next few months will hold.

*** Winter comes early this year, sneaking in on quiet feet. It descends around you slowly—in brisk mornings and frozen dew drops strung along twigs like pearls—and then it comes all at once in a sudden blanket of white. You wake up to a thick layer of snow on the ground, the tree limbs and roof frosted and glittering.

He teaches you how to protect yourself—how to shoot and fight and track. You think there’s a part of him that’s certain if he only teaches you enough, you’ll always be safe. You can feel it in his palpable sense of relief when you master a new skill. As if he has a mental list of things to impart on you before he runs out of time.

When you’re consistently nailing the center of his targets again and again, Mando outfits you with a blaster of your own, tells you to keep it on you at all times—that it’s yours. That day, he drops to one knee in front of you. 

“Lean,” he says, patting his pauldron.

You listen without really thinking about it, bracing a hand on his shoulder.

“Up,” he says, gesturing to your foot and offering his armored thigh.

You comply, and he slips two loops of leather up your leg, the fabric of your skirt catching on his forearm as he inches them up, until the tips of his fingers brush your inner thigh. A holster. A holster he made for you.

He tightens the straps and then slips the small silver blaster into the leather sheath. 

You graduate to hand-to-hand combat next—well, not so much graduate as add it to the schedule. He’s visibly pleased when he discovers that you already have some skills with a knife, when you know how to disarm him of his vibroblade in certain holds, how to make an attacker bleed freely with one well-placed slash. How to sever a tendon or an artery. But he finds plenty of ways to stump you, ways to overpower you, and you practice those until you know how to get out of them too. 

A few weeks in, you’re more than satisfied with your skill level, ready to move on. Mando, on the other hand, is ever insistent on more. He holds you with your back against his chest, caught and pinned, a purring vibroblade at your throat. 

You’re exhausted, sweaty and sore from breaking out of his grasp again and again. You’re supposed to be doing it once more right now. But you’re limp in his hold.

“Go on,” he grunts.

“I’m actually fine with this,” you decide, letting your weight go even more leaden in his arms.

He scoffs low in his throat. “Is that right.”

“That’s right. I surrender. Do with me what you will.” You drop your head back, looking up at his impassive visor.

He considers. “Anything?”

The word slithers up your spine. “Anything,” you repeat, letting your eyes go heavy-lidded.

He closes the blade and tosses it away, releasing his hold on you. When you lurch forward at the unexpected freedom, your knees buckling slightly, he catches your waist to steady you. 

You spin to face him, pointing a finger at the diamond-like center of his chestplate, staying far enough away that he can’t encircle you in his arms again. “Technically that counts as me getting out of that hold.”

He plants a hand on his hip. “Disagree.”

“Emotional manipulation is a weapon. You’re just mad I’m better at it than you are. Maybe I should give you lessons. You know what, yeah, I think it’s only fair that we also start practicing scenarios where I’m the one in control.”

He cocks his head suggestively. “Are we still talking about training?” 

“Yes.”

He stares at you silently, adjusting his weight from one foot to the other. It speaks volumes.

You scoff. “Are you implying that I could never have the upper hand in a fight? That there’s no chance in the galaxy of that ever happening?”

A damning beat of silence and then: “No.”

“You are!”

He gestures at his chest, shrugs. “Beskar.”

You roll your eyes. “I’d just need to catch you at the right moment—sleeping or showering—and take you by surprise. Or have the right weapon. Like poison. I know plenty of plants that would kill you—plenty of plants I could find out here or maybe…yeah…those.” 

You gesture at the row of detonators lined up on the side of his belt as he reattaches it around his middle. He always takes it off before you practice hand-to-hand, along with the vambrace that apparently emits flame.

“Yeah, they’d be effective,” he admits, clipping the buckle together. “The problem is you don’t have any.”

“You don’t like me enough to share your detonators with me?”

“To kill me? No.”

“How about this one?” you ask, reaching toward the mysterious hilt that’s always clipped next to them.

He steps out of reach before you can touch it.

“What is it? Can I see it?”

“I don’t use it,” he says. You know him well enough now to read the lie in his level voice.

“Then why do you always carry it?”

“It’s…a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” you press, curious.

He looks away. “I can’t.”

And you realize it isn’t just stubbornness or stoicism. It’s pain. A bruise he isn’t ready to address, and you’re prodding it.

You wonder how many secrets can simmer between you before they boil over.

“Alright, come on,” you say, grabbing his hand and turning for the house. “I’m starving.”

*** It’s deep winter when Mando starts to take you into the woods, away from his house, to teach you the basics of tracking. Each time, when the forest lightens around you and you can hear the titter of birds overhead, he tells you to pick the tracks of a deer or a fox to follow. It’s easier now that the snow is thick on the ground, a continuous blanket of white.

He instructs you, as he always does, to disregard the larger prints—the clawed ones—that you come upon occasionally. Too often for comfort.

“I’ll take care of those,” he says, unconcerned. 

Each time, you think back to that bloody trail and know he’s more than capable. And then you wonder when he’s away from you long enough to actually do that. 

Never, it turns out.

You’re on the tail of a stag when he holds out an arm unexpectedly, stopping you in your tracks.

“What is it?”

He turns his head slowly, scanning the quiet forest. Listening, waiting. You can’t hear a thing—not a rustle of leaves or whisper of wind. The stag isn’t close.

“They’re coming.”

“The sta—?”

Mando drops his arm and grabs your hand, hauling you back in the direction of home. You follow on instinct when he breaks into a jog with you in tow, heavy boots crunching through the snow. He twitches as he moves; he groans and presses his shoulders back, rolling his neck, his hand too tight around yours.

He’s in pain.

“Mando—” you say, trying to slow him down, to understand.

“Run,” he interrupts, pushing you ahead of him, urging you toward the house. “I can’t stop it."

You halt in front of him, a hand raised to his chest plate. “I can’t— I won’t—”

He growls when you hesitate, the sound not entirely human. His hands are shaking.

“I can help—” you start, not even entirely sure what you’re offering.

“I won’t risk you.”

“But—”

A gloved hand settles over your mouth, the other gripped tightly around your bicep. “We don’t have time for this. I won’t let you—I can’t—just go home and lock the door. And promise me you’ll stay there until I come back.”

He drops his hand and starts stripping off his gloves and vambraces. “What are you—?” The pieces click together belatedly in your head. Those colossal prints, the clawed ones.

They’re coming.

“Promise me,” he says, forcing them into your hands. “Take this too.”

He reaches for his helmet and rips it off his head, pushing it into your arms. Your jaw drops open in surprise. You don’t even have time—or the free hands—to cover your eyes or the sense to shut them tight.

“It’s okay,” he says, responding to the fear in your eyes. “I wanted to—been wanting to.”

You only have a moment to take him in. He’s just as handsome as you imagined—maybe, impossibly, more. His dark hair is wavy and tousled, falling across his forehead. His eyes are brown and wild with fear, his sharp jaw peppered with gray-flecked stubble. His perfect lips are set in a half-smile. He looks a little bashful for a moment, a little boyish as you study him.

He holds your face between his warm hands. “Promise you won’t leave the house until I come back.”

You nod.

“Say it,” he prompts, his dark eyes serious. He knows you didn’t really mean it the first time.

“I won’t leave the house until you come back,” you repeat, a little dazed.

You’re looking into his eyes. Your brain is struggling to process it.

There's fear there that doesn't just belong to the threat to your safety. It's more: the fear of being seen. Wholly.

You’re waiting for more words to come to you—something that will express the feeling that’s blooming in your chest without relying on words it’s too early to say.

“Be careful.” It’s the best you can manage.

He presses his lips to yours in a quick kiss. It’s too fast, not enough. If your arms weren’t full of beskar, you’d grab him to keep him close, to kiss him deeper. Instead, he’s pulling back and turning you on the spot with an iron grip.

“Go.”

He urges you forward with a gentle push, and you break into a jog, glancing over your shoulder as often as possible without running face-first into a tree or slipping in the powdery snow underfoot. He’s stripping off his chest plate, his pauldrons, his thigh guards. Leaving them haphazardly on the forest floor.

The last time you look back, his back is to you, and several pairs of yellow eyes are emerging in the dark spaces between the trees.

One, two, four—too many to count.

You’re tempted to stop. To turn back. To bring him the rest of his beskar. It feels so wrong to leave him out here, alone and unarmored. He’s stripping down from metal to man, and it feels unbearably vulnerable. Maybe you could help—

But just as you’re thinking that, Mando turns his head and bellows, “Go!”

You’re far from him—too far to truly make out the details—but you swear, even across the vast distance, that the whites of his eyes look black.

*** You drop the pile of beskar onto the kitchen table, unholster your blaster, and drag a chair to the window. You study the intricate line work of ice on the frosted pane, tracing cold veins with the pad of your finger. You fidget and shift, but you don’t dare leave your spot.

You stare at the place between the trees where you emerged, straining to hear any sound, knuckles white where they’re wrapped around the edge of your seat.

It’s silent.

Minutes pass like molasses—they stretch and sprawl, leisurely and unhurried, while you wait.

You steal glances at the clock on the wall. You swear it’s been hours since you slid the dead bolt shut behind you, but the clock tells you you’ve been sitting here for eight minutes.

Ten.

Twelve.

Seventeen.

He’s out there, outnumbered and alone.

Fuck it.

You get to your feet.

You wrench open the front door, but before you can break into a run, you catch a subtle movement between the trees. The blaster slips out of your hand. He’s staggering back to you—stripped and injured. His flight suit is unzipped to his waist, the sleeves tied around his hips. One hand is gripping his ribs, the other trapping pieces of his armor against his side. He’s barefoot and limping through the snow.

You run to him.

His hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, and there’s blood on his face—so much blood—coating his lips, smeared across one flushed cheek. Lines running down his neck. It covers his hands, forearms. It’s splattered across his muscled chest. When his lips part in a pained grimace, you can see the inside of his mouth is bloody too, red lining his white teeth. 

You don’t have time to process it, to think about what it means because he’s hurt.

He must see the terror on your face when you register the state of him because he shakes his head and says, “Not mine. Just this,” jerking his chin down to gesture at his side. 

A row of deep lacerations is seeping blood down his ribs, over his tense fingers and down his stomach, where it’s soaking into the dark fabric bunched at his hips. You shudder at the sight of it—even through his spread fingers, you can see that his flesh is torn open in a way that makes your stomach pitch.

Behind him, there’s a sporadic trail between the trees, red dripped on virgin snow.

You want to hold him, to pull him into your arms, and, most of all, to fix him and put him back together. You start by taking the pile of armor from him and slipping under the arm of his uninjured side, pulling it over your shoulders to support his weight. He accepts the help wordlessly, leaning on you as you stumble forward together.

“They’re gone,” he pants. “Dead. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you scoff. “Are you?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

He grunts.

You limp the rest of the distance to the house together and pull open the front door, kicking it shut behind you as you help him inside. He reaches behind you to lock it, his shoulders dropping in relief when it clicks.

You drop his beskar on the floor as gently as you can while you’re half holding him up. It clatters.

“We need to get these closed up,” you say, gesturing toward a kitchen chair. “You need bacta. Sit down.”

When he doesn’t move to sit, you look up at his face, and he’s staring at you with an intensity—a soft, quiet intensity of creased brows and bright brown eyes—that takes your breath away. 

“I’m fine,” he protests, gently gripping your shoulders and pushing you back in the direction of the bed instead. He fumbles with the hem of your shirt, trembling fingers slipping under the fabric to caress your skin. “I’ll heal. Just let me touch you.”

His hands are hot on your waist.

"You’re not okay,” you protest, trying and failing to redirect him. “You won’t heal if you bleed out.”

“I just need to hold you.” His words are starting to slur, running together. The blood loss is tipping him into delirium.

“After—just let me—”

He ignores you and curls himself around you, crushing you against his body, a heavy hand holding your head to his chest, the other arm locking yours to your sides.

“Mando, please—I really need to stop the bleeding—”

“Din,” he says, nestling his face against your neck sweetly. His forehead is sweaty and feverish. He brushes gentle lips over your fluttering pulse. “My name is Din.”

You’re speechless.

“I want you to call me that,” he says. “Please.” There’s a heartbreaking vulnerability behind his words, like he’s worried you won’t accept the offering of something so precious.

“Of course. Of course, I will.” His grip slackens, and you wrap your arms around his middle reflexively. The heat of his throbbing wound and the hot slip of blood against your forearm make you recoil.

“Shit—sorry—”

But Din doesn’t react to the pain.

“Din—hey—”

You try to pull back, to extricate yourself from his hold and get a better look at him, but the arms draped over your shoulders go leaden, and he sways on his feet, forcing you backward a couple faltering steps. The backs of your calves hit the bed.

“Din—” You try to steady him, but he’s getting heavier by the second, his weight shifting unexpectedly as he tries to keep his balance, half-conscious and fading.

Your knees threaten to buckle when he grunts and goes completely boneless, slumping against you.

“Fuck—”

You’re just barely able to angle your body so that you can gently—and awkwardly—use his momentum to guide him face-first onto the bed. It’s a miracle you both don’t end up in a crumpled pile on the floor. You hoist his legs up too. It takes all your strength to haul his dead weight over to flip him onto his back so you can access the slashes across his ribs.

Your heart jumps into your throat when you see how rapidly a crimson stain is spreading on the comforter underneath him. You run for the med kit, dumping it on the bed beside his prone form and digging out all the necessities.

He doesn’t flinch when you clean, close, and dress the wounds. Not even when you prick him with a bacta shot. You work as quickly and carefully as you can, keeping tabs on his breathing all the while. Any time you have a free hand, you rest it on his chest, soothed by the shallow but steady rise and fall. 

The whole time, you think about all those questions, those details, those secrets. You turn them over again and again in your head in a feverish loop—all those things you’ve been stacking on top of one another all this time, a teetering pile of essential pieces of him, ready to topple with a gentle nudge. Kept at bay by distractions and diversions and half-truths. All the ways you’ve both been keeping your relationship in stasis to postpone…what? Loss? Something that’s inevitable, something no one can ever truly prevent. It feels undeniable when your hands are covered in his blood. When you almost lost him anyway.

It seems obvious now. Obvious that in the end, it will be more painful to have only stayed in this place with him than to have at least tried to give yourself wholly to whatever this is.

Before you secure the final bandage over the wounds, you check your work once, twice—terrified the simple expansion of his ribcage as he breathes will force them open again. You press edges of the bandage down and watch closely, dreading the red seep of blood on clean white. It doesn’t come. You breathe a sigh of relief.

You clean him up with a moist towel, wiping the blood from his skin, his face, his rumpled hair. 

If he hadn’t chosen to take his helmet off before any of this, you’d feel like you were invading his privacy by being able to see so much of him. It still feels that way, just a little, as you admire the taut lines of his biceps, the broad spread of his shoulders, and thick muscles of his pectorals. As you gently swipe over the soft expanse of his middle, feel the hard abdominals underneath. As you study the slope of his nose and the grays threaded through his stubble, his long eyelashes fanned over his cheeks. The soft pink of his lips. 

You rinse that stained-red towel until the water runs clear, until there’s no trace of blood left on him. 

The bloodied sheets and blanket and pillow underneath him will have to wait; it doesn’t even occur to you to be bothered by them when you climb in next to him, when you sweep his damp hair back off his forehead and press your lips to his warm skin and settle against his non-injured side.

You fall asleep like that, your head on his sternum, the subtle rise and fall sweeter than a lullaby.

*** He’s healed by the morning.

He’s healed.

When you wake after a fitful sleep, you scramble out of bed to pull back his bandages and find that the wounds slashed across his ribs look like they’ve had several weeks to mend, the skin knitted back together seamlessly. You run your fingers gingerly over the tender flesh in wonder, in relief.

Another one of his secrets. Something else to ask.

He rouses at your touch, starting as he blinks open bleary eyes. He must be immediately aware of the absence of his helmet because his whole body tenses as he recoils, his eyes panicked as he tries to decide to attack or to flee, jerking away from your hand on his arm. 

“It’s okay,” you say, holding up your hands in placation. “It’s me, Din. It’s just me. You’re safe—you’re home.”

He calms somewhat as he meets your gaze, as he registers your face and his surroundings, settling his head back against the pillow. The tension in his body remains.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, resisting the urge to reach up and brush his tousled hair off his forehead. Touch, you think, is his to initiate in this moment.

“Fine,” he croaks. He’s visibly uncomfortable like this, still not used to being so unguarded around someone else. Holding eye contact for longer than a moment seems almost unbearable for him, his eyes shifting around the room so they don’t have to stay settled on yours. 

You hand him a glass of water, and he sits up against the headboard to drink it. He winces a little as he maneuvers, his jaw ticking. He’s sore.

“You’re the worst patient, you know,” you gripe, trying to lighten the mood, to give him something to focus on. 

He scoffs, lifting an eyebrow over the rim of the glass.

You give him an unimpressed glare. “I couldn’t take care of you until you fainted from blood loss.”

He has the audacity to shrug a little.

You blow out an exasperated breath, distracted, maybe, by the movement of his throat as he swallows. By every detail of his face that you can’t seem to memorize quickly enough—a privilege you’re more than willing to relinquish if it means easing the tension in his shoulders, the wrinkle of concern etched between his brows.

When he sets the glass down on the bedside table, you retrieve his helmet and offer it to him wordlessly, a show of nonjudgmental understanding, a willingness to back-pedal if that’s what he needs right now. His eyes soften when he takes it.

The urge to say something before he disappears behind beskar jumps up your throat.

“I was scared, so scared,” you admit quietly. “Din, I thought—I thought you…”

He sets his helmet beside him on the bed and jerks his chin. “Come here.”

You make to settle next to him, but he pulls you onto his lap instead, guiding you until you’re straddling his thighs. 

You try to wriggle away. “I’m going to hurt you like this—just let me—”

“Shhh,” he breathes, hands locking down on your hips. “I’m fine, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He hesitates for the briefest moment before he leans forward and presses his mouth to yours.

His lips are soft, tentative. His first, you realize. Of course.

Your mind snags on the way he tends to be in bed—directive, commanding, sure—and holds the two up side by side. This hesitation, the halting press of his lips, has something in your chest going soft. Between your legs going molten.

You cup his jaw and lick into his mouth when his lips part—an it’s okay, I want you to take—and his breath goes ragged against yours. He leans into you, an arm slung low around your back to keep you close as he starts to tip you backward.

“Don’t move,” you say, attempting to ease him back gently.

He ignores the command, responding to your open mouth with the slip of his tongue.

“Or I’ll stop,” you threaten.

He sits back, chastened, a subtle pout to his lower lip. It disappears when you lean back in. 

He makes a low noise of protest when you don’t meet his lips, but it turns into something pleased when you move your attention to his neck. You lick over his thrumming pulse, across the faint saltiness of his flushed skin. Your hands roam the planes of his chest, over his pounding heart, and down the swells of his muscled arms—greedy for so much warm skin, for so much of him you’ve never seen or touched or tasted.

Even with the helmet set beside you, the fear that you’ll have to go back—to concede gained ground—that he’ll revert back to full armor again, rankles at the back of your mind. You dig your nails lightly into his shoulders, and he growls.

You can tell it’s taking all his restraint not to move, to keep totally still aside from his wandering hands. You know he’s hard underneath you, that he’s aching to wrest control from your hands, to put you on your back and fuck you like this, with no layers between you. And he knows you won’t let him when he’s still healing.

You try not to let it escalate, to keep things from getting out of hand. But then his mouth is on yours again, your lip caught gently between his teeth, his hand locked possessively around the nape of your neck, and you can’t help the quiet moan or the subtle grind of your hips in his lap.

Din jerks back, hands braced on your shoulders to keep distance between your bodies, his head tipped back against the headboard and eyes closed as his panted breath gradually slows.

And you know it’s not just the injury. He isn’t humoring you or in too much pain. He’s fighting it—the transformation, the change that keeps him in his beskar. What he wouldn't let you see in the forest.

“It doesn’t bother me,” you say—quiet, serious. 

He pauses, understanding despite the sharp turn. The energy in the room shifts as he waits for you to continue.

“Your…you—?” you stumble over the words, struggling to find the right ones. It comes out badly. “What you…are.”

His eyes are downcast, fixed on the silver shine of his helmet.

He doesn’t ask how. Of course you know—it’s an open secret between you, has been for months.

“I want to see,” you press. An honest plea. “To know. Just let it happen.”

A tight, subtle shake of his head. No.

“Please, Din,” you say, laying a hand on his chest. “Show me.”

He looks away, his eyes full of some unnameable emotion, something soft and fragile, a sharp edge that might be anger. He slips away so easily, even without the helmet.

“Please,” you beg, framing his face with your hands to guide his gaze gently back to yours.

He still won’t meet your eyes.

Suddenly, you know this was a mistake. That this is the thing that’s going to break what’s between you. He’s given you his face, his name—they should be enough. Yet, here you are, pushing him for more. There’s no coming back from it, no swallowing the words, though. You find you don’t want to anymore, even when you can feel him slipping out of your hands.

“It’s not safe,” he says.

“How? It’s you.”

“No,” he says, “it’s not.”

“I don’t understand, Din,” you say, a hint of desperation laced between your words. “And I need to. I need to understand. We can’t avoid it any more—look at what happened. I just—I can’t do this when I know I don’t have all of you. I can’t do this anymore. All these walls, all these secrets between us.”

His head snaps to you, a flicker of panic kindling in his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it, the skirting and avoidance, the game you’ve both been so willing to play. His eyes settle on your joined hands. 

“I want all of you. I need all of you. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice low, and the panic in his eyes is swallowed by a deep, hollow want—a yawning blackness that expands and disappears so quickly you think you must have imagined it. “I do understand that.”

“Then let me see you.”

His brown eyes flick upward to meet yours, and he nods.

[saintmurd0ck]

all up in smoke

masterlist

pairing: frank castle x f!reader

summary: based on the prompt: 'sit on my lap and let's smoke a joint'

warnings: alcohol, weed (rolling a joint, smoking, shotgunning), frank being a cute little whore, heavy petting/teasing but no sex, high epiphanies (mostly fluff!)

a/n: happy late birthday to the ever lovely @chelseasdagger , this one is for you babeyyyyy 💗

Home is a solace on your lips as you step inside, your keys joining the others in the bowl by the front door. Despite the events of your day, still fresh in your mind, you feel the knotted tension in your body begin to dissipate, the pressure easing in your temples. The few lights that have been left on are dimmed, filling the house with the kind of ambient coziness you’ve been longing for all day. 

You round the corner, and there he is on the couch: feet kicked up on the coffee table, immersed in a hardcover book you swore he’d never touch. A pang of emotion stirs in your stomach — a cross between yearning and consolation; something you just can’t place, but are grateful for nevertheless. 

“Hi, Frankie,” you smile, drawing the curtains open, letting the cool night air filter into the living room. 

He lifts an eyebrow, glancing up at you from behind the book. “Hey, sweetheart. Long day?”

You stretch your arms over your head, nevermind that his voice stirs something in you, and set your bag up on the kitchen counter. “Mmhm. Glad to be home.”

Frank leans forwards, fingers closing around the drink he’s left on the coffee table. His eyes flick to yours as he takes a sip, caring not to break contact, before jerking his chin at the bottle of scotch next to your bag. “You want some of that?”

He points at you, clicking his tongue as you move to pick the bottle up. “Don’t move. Stay right there.” Setting his book aside, the pages splayed face-down onto the table, he makes his way over, utterly impervious to your flurried attempts in getting him to remain where he is.

“D’ya really think I’d let you pour your own drink?” Frank says, looking affronted, but a furtive smile spreads along his face as you shake your head.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let me take care of ‘ya,” he adds, delicately.

Carting you gently to the side, he digs around in the freezer, reaching for a couple of ice cubes that clink mellifluously in the glass. You watch intently as they bob in line with the whiskey streaming in, and then as he inspects the amber liquid closely, as if to examine its quality. 

When he’s satisfied, he turns to you, and raises the rim of the glass to your mouth. “Here,” Frank murmurs, condensation collecting around his fingertips. “Drink up.”

You shudder as the whiskey cascades hotly through your veins — each note of pepper, caramel and nutmeg lingering on the surface of your tongue like molten honey. You swallow another mouthful before pushing the glass away, not taking your eyes off of him for a second as he sets it down.

Frank runs his tongue over his teeth, raking his eyes across your face. He focuses on a stray drop of whiskey at the corner of your mouth, using a knuckle to brush it away. Your heart thunders at his calloused touch; as he pauses to swipe his broad thumb over your bottom lip. There’s a faint throbbing within you — a wild drumbeat steering you towards nothing but desire — so you flick your tongue out, circling his fingertip, relishing in his taste of salt, earth and whiskey.   

He lets out a soft groan, mumbling something that sounds like your name; maybe even a plea to slow down. You’re attentive, knowing he doesn’t want this night over yet, that he wants to wait before taking you to bed. 

It’s a good thing then, that you have something planned. 

You inch forwards, swallowing as Frank’s hand sweeps over the contours of your face, coming to rest at a spot near your ear. He tips your chin upwards, letting his ragged breathing fan over you. He stalls, allowing his dark eyes to bore into yours, and for a moment you forget where you are, the stressors of the day long gone.

All you know is him. 

His beard prickles your skin as he captures your mouth with his own, but you lean into the kiss, savouring his ardent warmth. He moves with you, deepening the kiss as you slide a hand into his hair, curling your fingers at the nape. Your thighs squeeze together as he pivots you around, pushing you against the counter while his tongue melts against yours. Using his leg to knock your knees apart, you arch into his touch, gasping as the bulge in his jeans settles where you need him the most. 

You won’t be able to stop if you don’t pull away now.

“Frank,” you whisper. “Frank.”

He looks at you, placing a small kiss to your jaw. “Mm?” 

“Before… uh,” you start, lightheaded and fuzzy, unable to comprehend anything but the heady weight of the whiskey and the ache between your legs. “I've got something for us. A little surprise. And I think,” you indicate, wagging a finger from him to you, “we should save this for later.”

He arches his eyebrows, smiling inquisitively. “Yeah? And what’s that?” 

You step aside to rummage through your bag, taking only a few seconds for you to find what it is you’re looking for. You hold up a clear plastic container, giving it a little shake in front of Frank’s face. His eyes widen in comprehension.

“God, I love you.” 

“Hey,” you smirk, “not God. Just me.” 

He chokes on his own laughter, draining the last of your whiskey. “You got it, sweet girl.”

You bite down on your growing smile. “Anyway, I was thinking the plan could go something like… get a little high, have some fun. You know what I mean, right?”

“S’that right?”

“We both deserve it.”

“You need some help with that?” he asks, pointing at the rolling papers you’ve set down on the counter. 

“Nope. Walk away.” 

You’re an image of rapt focus with your tongue between your teeth, cautiously grinding the weed before packing it into the rolling paper. You slip a filter on one end of the joint, and using your thumb and forefingers, you roll it into place. Bringing the free edge of rolling paper up to your mouth, you skirt your tongue along the narrow strip of glue, quickly moving to seal the joint. 

You shoot Frank a resolute look of determination. “Not bad, huh?” 

He folds his arms over his chest, leaning back into the couch. Almost hidden in the tangle of his beard, the corners of his mouth tick upwards. You can’t quite tell if he’s astonished, impressed, or a mixture of everything in between, but the expression on his face is a priceless ego boost. “Attagirl.”

“Mmhm,” you reply drily, admiring your handiwork from up close.

“Baby?” Frank calls, breaking your tethered focus. A glimmer of a smile in your periphery catches your eye.

“Yeah?” 

There’s a sound of rustling fabric as Frank spreads his legs, motioning you over to him by patting his thigh. “C’mere.”

Your gaze softens at his request. “That sounds good, Frankie. Let me grab my lighter.”

“Got it right here,” Frank chuckles, holding it up and thumbing it open.

Twirling the joint in your fingers, you meander over to his spot on the couch, watching the tiny orange flame dance in his eyes as he holds down the lighter button. 

He’s a solid comfort under you as you sit down on his lap, shuffling back until the side of your body is angled to his chest, using the armrest as additional support. His scent is a blissful, pacifying force – distilling in you where it matters. 

Frank wrests the joint from your grip, assiduous in the way he places it between your lips, then as he lights it for you. The lit end glows as the papered edges begin to burn, flickering in its reflection in the window ahead. You take a drag, letting the smoke fill your mouth before inhaling it into your lungs. Maybe it’s in your head, but your body feels lighter already; even more so as you exhale. 

The grey-tinged smoke remains opaque for only a second, vanishing into the air as soon as you pass the joint to Frank. You breathe out again, more deeply this time, allowing the grassy, herbal scent of the weed wash over you in waves of tranquil calm.

You cock your head to the side, studying the normally terse man before you leisurely smoking the joint, taking two drags instead of one. Gratitude forms a lump in your throat — nights like these are rare, and to see him so carefree, his mind unoccupied by the workings of the larger world, is a luxury you’ll never get tired of. 

After tapping the gathering ashes into his empty whiskey glass, Frank hands the joint back to you, closing his eyes while he waits for your next pass. As the weed-induced euphoria starts to take effect, you wrench one of Frank’s hands from its spot on your thigh, interlacing your fingers together. You take your time in mapping his knuckles, tracing over every crease, scar and perfect imperfection. 

You tap on Frank’s shoulder, wanting him as a credible witness for a successful smoke ring, but like all your past attempts, it morphs back into a cloud, hanging there in contempt. 

He laughs softly, putting you right to shame with a series of flawless rings that fall forwards in an arc towards the coffee table. 

You giggle, jabbing him in the chest with an expertly-placed elbow. “Don’t get too cocky now, Castle.”

His mouth quirks to the side. “Yeah? What are you gonna do, hm?”

“I’ll…” you search around the room for something to say. “I’ll withhold sex!” 

He gasps, feigning an expression of outrageous offense. “That’s cruel, darlin’.”

Laughing, you reassure him you wouldn’t, really, but he takes the opportunity to soar through the cracks of your defense, hauling you backwards until his face is flush with the shell of your ear. “Really think you could resist it? Not havin' sex?” 

The retorts crumble away as he tells you to ‘open up, sweetheart’, lifting the joint back to his lips. He breathes in deeply, turning his head to then exhale the smoke into your parted mouth. Your eyes roll back as he seals it with a kiss, and it catches you a little by surprise, but you run with it, inhaling as much as you can.

Not quite ready to let go of your earlier comments, Frank does it again, shotgunning into your mouth until you're left with nothing but a dreamy expression and no thoughts left in your mind.

You let out a contented sigh as the weed goes to your head, absentmindedly rubbing the spot where his beard scratched your lip. 

Eyes drooping, Frank wraps his arms tightly around you, holding you as close as he can, trailing kisses along your shoulder blades, down your arm, whispering sweet nothings and notes of ‘I love you’ until you slacken in his grip. You touch your lips to his forehead, now resting in the crook of your neck, his steady breathing keeping you anchored to your reality.

The next hour passes by in a haze — you’re mildly aware that there was another joint rolled in that time, courtesy of Frank, probably, but your memory retains the best parts: the giddy, high epiphanies, the smoke-filled kisses, the long-drawn-out touches… the fact that his skin has never felt so soft.

Exceptionally and utterly stoned, you move, draping your legs over his lap, clinging onto his neck so you can bury your face in his shirt – so spaced out that you barely register him talking. 

“...Who the fuck is “Drake” anyway?” 

“What?!” you sputter, snickering as if it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. “He’s a rapper, Frankie.” 

“He’s off limits, so don’t even try” — you stumble over your words — “enacting your justice or… whatever.”

Frank frowns at you, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

And then he bursts into laughter. Unequivocal, heaving sobs of hysterical laughter. And it might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard. 

“Enacting my justice? That what you think it is?” he howls, bringing his fist down onto the couch. “You really think I’ve got nothin’ better to do than hunt down rappers?!”

“A little bit,” you sniffle, wiping away the tears of joy streaming down your face. “You know who’d love this conversation?” 

He shakes his head as you continue. “Micro.”

“Micro,” he nods, affirming your point. “Bet he’d know more about “Drake” than me.”

You chortle at his aggressive hand gestures. “You don’t need air-quotations every time you say Drake, you know.”

He waves a hand in the air. “Ahh, I know.”

“Frank Castle,” you say, kissing his cheek once, then twice, “I think this is the wisest you’ve ever been.”

“Oh, c’mon. Really?”

You gesture at the stub of your second joint, floating in the bottom of his whiskey glass. “Yep. You might have to do this more.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

“Better me than what’s out there. Right, Frank?” you croon, batting your eyes at him.

“S’right, darlin’. That’s right.”

tags {x} @darlingshane @castlesnchurches @reborn-rekall @marvelswh0re @itwasthereaminuteago @simple-lovebot @chvoswxtch @pedrito-friskito @chellestrash @theradioactivespidergwen @twilightbarnes @splendiferous-bitch @bl4ckpr1ncess @kaybeeboop @kdogreads @swearwolf13 @rqgnarok @qu1etwolf @honeyedheartss @runa-falls @whistle1whistle @awkwardalie

[remersgf]

hazy

doug remer x fem!reader

4.1k words

cw: weed, smut, oral sex (f & m receiving), fingering (f receiving), unprotected p in v sex, cum eating (🙁)

enjoy!

a smoky haze filled the messy living room that you and remer set up camp in. coop was out for the night.. probably messing around with that chick who helps dying kids or something.. whatever. what was important now was the fact that you had the house to yourselves. 

you were sprawled out on the couch, legs resting on remer’s lap. interview with the vampire (which you had to beg him to watch with you) slowly faded out to the credits.

“i can’t believe you like that movie. it’s shit!”

“shut up! you know how i feel about sexy vampires. i can’t resist myself..” you feign a serious attitude before lightly kicking remer in the side. 

he made a face and furrowed his brows at you, which made you crack up instantly. he never failed to make you laugh, high off your ass or not. he picked up your ankles with one hand and moved your legs off of his lap, getting up to select a new movie. 

“how ‘bout pulp fiction?” he asked, carefully eyeing up the stack of vhs on the coffee table. 

“sure. do you wanna roll up again?” 

“absolutely.”

as you began to roll another joint, remer set up the movie. he plopped down next to you, bumping you a bit and making you fumble with the rolling paper. your nimble fingers gently packed the weed into the paper, putting the filter in and rolling it up carefully.

“quit staring.” you run the tip of your tongue along the finished blunt, ignoring the burning hole remer is staring into you. 

“you look sexy when you roll! it’s just natural, i can’t help it,” he said, voice floating down to a slightly lower octave.

you put the end of the blunt in your mouth, looking around hastily for a lighter. remer pulls one from the pocket in his hoodie and waves it in front of your eyes, “looking for this?” he smiles playfully before sparking it up and lighting the tightly-rolled blunt for you. inches away from your face, he gazes at you like you’re unreal. for a second, he thinks about how insane it is that you chose him, out of all people. when the blunt finally hits, he pulls the lighter away and you nearly cough out a lung. 

“damn, y/n! baby lungs! now, pass me that shit.” he laughs, taking the weed from you and hitting it himself. 

this goes on for a little bit while two robbers parade on the screen. remer’s arm is lazily slung around you, passing the weed back and forth. he pulls one last hit and inhales it before grazing your cheek with his hand and making you face him.

“c’mere..” he murmurs, leaning in closer and staring at your lips. 

your jaw falls open slightly as he exhales the smoke into your own mouth. as you pull away, you lock eyes with him, tension filling the room faster than smoke did. still boring into his eyes, you exhale. in a quick second, he leans over to the ashtray sitting on the coffee table to stub it out. needing you, craving you, he immediately rushes back and kisses you hard. his tongue teases over your lips, gently inviting himself in. his lips move along yours leisurely, the weed in your systems proving there’s no need to rush. your fingers card through his thick, curly hair; deliberately tugging at his roots to pull a soft groan from him. 

you feel remer tapping at your thigh, signaling you to get on top. you stop kissing momentarily to crawl onto him, straddling his hips and gripping his shoulders. you stare into him with half-lidded eyes, his own bloodshot ones staring back at you. he is so fucking beautiful. his lips are red and becoming a bit swollen, and he’s gazing at you with that look he only saves for moments like these. his hands are gripping your thighs now, and he squeezes them tenderly.

“i’m so high..” you murmur, a big lazy grin decorating your face in bliss.

“well.. duh.” he giggles back, hand coming up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear before returning to the top of your thigh. his thumb subconsciously rubs circles into your plush skin, sometimes using his nail to scratch you slightly. he presses a soft kiss upon your lips.

his kisses travel from your mouth to your jaw, to the special spot behind your ear that makes you squirm. he licks and sucks over it, nipping it before moving to a different spot. you’re trembling above him, and he takes note of this. remer slips off your tank top over your head and his hands find your bare breasts, kneading them gently. you throw your head back and subconsciously start grinding your crotch against his. his thumbs swirl over your hard nipples.

“so fucking beautiful..” remer mumbles to himself, and it looks like he’s trying hard to save a mental image of his big hands grabbing at your tits. 

“want more, baby..” you whine, a small plea for him to continue.

“patience, hon.. shhh..” he presses his hand against your mouth to shut you up, which nearly covers your whole face due to its size.

all you can do now is whimper and let out muted gasps: he’s really taking his time with your tits. licking one nipple, pinching the other, and switching between them frequently. and it feels so. fucking. good. he continues lethargically, burying his face in between your boobs and licking a long stripe in the middle of them. as he does this you can’t help but notice how hard he’s getting. you grind down harder shamelessly, ripping a quiet, high-pitched moan from him. his hand falls from your mouth to your waist, gently guiding your hips back and forth down on him. the friction and heat from both of your clothed centers were mouthwatering. he rested his head on your chest as his jaw hung open, watching you press yourself against him.

‘we need to do this again next time he wears jeans.’ you think to yourself; because if his sweatpants feel this good against you, could you imagine how good it’d feel with a material like that?

your back arches and involuntarily presses his head further into your chest. he looks up at you with big eyes, the lower half of his face covered up by you. 

“i like when you press your tits up against me. makes me feel smothered.. s’hot.” you hear him mumble into you.

“you into that, remer?

“yeah, but let’s not try with a pillow or anything. don’t want you going crazy hospice nurse on me.” he jokes and starts kissing up your chest once again.

he leaves gentle pecks on your neck, and how you wish you could stay in this moment forever. your bodies radiate warmth, and time seems as if it’s stopped. he’s kissing at that spot again, the one behind your ear, and moves up slightly to whisper, “lay down for me..” 

you do as he says, obviously. how could you not? he practically owns you at this point. you crawl off him and lay down with your elbows holding you up, the couch enveloping you in a warm, cushiony hug. he’s on his knees before you, sitting up on his feet and squeezing the plush of your thighs harshly. you watch him as shaky breaths slip out of your mouth. remer hooks his fingers into the band of your shorts, pulling them off and leaving you in nothing but your panties. 

“oh, y/n, you’re soaked…” he hums as he brings his thumb to the wet splotch adorning the fabric. “how’d you get his wet, huh? who got you this wet?” that stupid cocky tone coming out to make you writhe. 

“shut upmpphmmm..” you began, before getting interrupted by the feeling of his thumb moving up and circling your clit. he chuckles quietly to himself as you fully lay back, hands already gripping the brown cushions under you. he slowly takes off your panties, admiring you like a goddess. 

“so fuckin’ wet. filthy thing, your panties are just clinging to you…” he observes with wide eyes, you have no idea just how much this is turning him on.

he tosses your panties to the side blindly. his hands make their way back up to your thighs, kneading them as he oggles at your weeping pussy. every sense in you is heightened. you’re fully exposed, your boyfriend still completely dressed, and a swirly haze dances around your head. but you need more. you lift your hips up at him with the sweetest eyes you could possibly conjure, silently begging him to fucking touch you. he takes off his t-shirt in one quick motion and lowers his head to kiss down your stomach. he pulls your legs over his shoulders and secures your thighs in place with his hands. he presses a quick peck to your clit, causing you to jolt.

“i could die right here and be happy, i think.” remer smiles at you, giggling a little bit and lightly biting the inside of your thigh.

he looks lovely, unreal. you squeeze your thighs around his head in response.

“okay, okay! don’t rush me woman…” he laughs again before finally burying his face in you.

a wail leaves your lips, sounding almost pornographic when his mouth latches onto your cunt. his tongue licks flat against your pussy, meeting your clit at the top and circling it. he pulls your clit into his mouth and starts sucking at it mercilessly, swirling his tongue around the bud. he’s eating you out like a starved man, and he might as well be: we didn’t get more snacks after we finished the blunt. he groans into you, sending vibrations flying within your body. he surrounds you, and all that consumes your mind is him. remer, remer, remer. you tug at the roots of his hair and you can vaguely see his eyes rolling back. you let out throaty, synchronized moans as his tongue starts to thrust itself into you. he’s the one moaning now, thighs squeezing impossibly tight around his head and his hair being pulled in the most delicious way. not to mention your pretty moans and how exquisite you look. the most delicate sounds spill from him and muffle into your core, exploring and licking inside of you. you can’t help but press your crotch against his mouth, nearly riding his tongue. he pulls you in closer by your thighs, one hand reaching up to grab your right tit. 

“fuuuuckkk, remer. so- so fuckin’ good at this, baby.” you moan, back arching and legs lightly shaking.

he moans into you in agreement, confidently knowing how easily he can make you fall apart with his tongue. he travels back up to suck at your clit again, hand leaving your boob to tease his ring and middle finger at your opening. he dips the tips of his fingers inside, gathering your slick and coating his digits with it. the second he’s inside of you, you lurch at the sensation and clench around his slender fingers. he really is good at this. he prods his fingertips around, searching and searching for the heavenly spot inside you that makes you squeal. and he found it very easily. a whiny moan rips from your chest, back arching even further up. you crush your thighs around his head, the hot sensation in your lower belly becoming harder to ignore. you panted, moans becoming higher pitched and louder; but who cares, it’s not like anyone is home to hear them. 

“right there? that’s the spot?” he pulls his mouth off you to tease, fingers still massaging delectably at your g-spot.

“youfuckingknowthatsthespot, fuck, remer!” you gasp out, eyes squeezing shut at how amazing he feels. 

he kisses at your clit one last time before taking his fingers out of you. you whined, loud, and sat up to see why he stopped. he stared into you deeply, face glistening with your own arousal. he licks his lips slowly, and your confusion is short-lived as he brings his fingers into his mouth. his eyes roll to the back of his head when he tastes you again, swirling his tongue around to make sure he swallows every last drop of you. you gaze at him dumbfounded, totally and completely enchanted by him. doug remer must be the most perfect person you’ve ever seen. you lick a stripe up his face, tasting yourself on his skin. he tilts his head back and his hands find the back of your head, caressing your hair carefully. you kiss down his cheek and jaw before pulling away to face him.

“i wanna suck you off.” you whisper, only a few inches away from his face.

“well, i’m not stopping you.” he whispers back with a smug grin.

your clit aches at his response, his words go into your ears and straight to your cunt. without saying another word, you slowly kiss down his chest. you stop briefly to lick his left nipple, a soft moan slipping out of him in the process. you sink down to your knees in front of the couch. he sits above you, sweatpant-clad legs spread wide and his arms going up to rest on the couch’s back cushions. he gulps when he looks down at you; and even though he looks incredibly dominant right now, you already know he’s about to be putty in your hands. time stops momentarily when he strokes your cheek and presses his thumb against your mouth. your lips part to welcome him in, and you suck it softly. you gaze back at him with innocent eyes as you start to palm his impossibly hard erection. he pulls his thumb from your mouth and pulls his pants off impatiently, his cock smacking against his stomach as he did. wow. it presented itself before you, thick and pulsing desperately. the sight made you drip. his dick, nestled in a thick bush of curly hair, looked edible; and you were eager to have it in your mouth.

 you place kisses along his lower stomach, making him writhe. you lick down his happy trail before finally wrapping your lips around the tip, licking it slowly with a flat tongue. you stare at him through your eyelashes as your tongue ripples against his head, watching his jaw clench and hands grab at the cushions. you come off him with a pop!, licking a warm, wet stripe up the side of it. you continue like this for a little while, enjoying teasing him and seeing him twitch and squirm. 

“c’mon..” he whimpers, bucking his hips at you. 

mercifully, you swallow him down. his tip nudges the back of your throat and you squint at the impact. an angelic moan rolls through him as you begin to slide your lips up and down his length. slow at first, you suck him down and come back up drawing patterns on him with your tongue. tears threaten to drop as you keep him deep in your mouth. 

“what? too big for you, baby?” he chuckles, followed by a gasp when you bring your hand up to massage his balls. 

remer wipes your tear-ridden cheeks with one thumb and when he’s finished, interlocks your hand with his. he squeezes it lovingly as you continue sucking him off. a soft, barely noticeable rhythm of hip thrusts arise, forcing himself deeper into your throat. you look up at him, nodding around him to let him know it’s okay to be harder. staring you in the eye, he lets out a pitchy moan without blinking. fuck. you whimper around him and he groans in satisfaction. your tongue lays flat against him as he thrusts into your mouth, leaning his head back in pleasure. still holding your hand with his, the other pulls back your hair into a makeshift ponytail; using it to guide your mouth along with his thrusts. 

“fuck! ah- shit! fuckin.. jesus…” he babbles, gripping your hand with such a strong force it hurts a little. 

not holding back anymore, you’re completely at his will. he’s pushing his cock in your mouth, his thrusts and head pushing combined. his moans become high-pitched, soundly nearly feminine. you know he’s getting close when you feel his stomach tense wildly and his hips stutter. much like how he did to you, you pull off him before he came in your mouth. he looks fucked out and gorgeous. a pink glow tints his skin, his chest heaving, precum leaking from his swollen tip; you think you’d die if you didn’t have him, now. you stand up before him, everything fully on display. he smiles, looking up at you. he runs his hands up your thighs and grasps your waist, pulling you in closer before kissing your stomach. he closes his eyes, breathing you in while resting his forehead on your belly. he stands up slowly to continue kissing up your torso, towering over you as he stands up fully. you bring your mouth to him and kiss sweetly, and remer thinks it’s precious you have to stand up on your toes to reach him. you hold his hands in yours and pull him back onto the couch with you. you both giggle at the clumsy movement, clambering longways on the brown, worn cushions. he pins your hands above your head, dipping down to suck at your neck. you arch your back towards him, enjoying his suckling before jolting up when he blows a raspberry against your pulse point.

“remer.” you say in a tone that’s deadly serious.

“sorry!” he giggles, and you know he really isn’t. 

he trails his two fingers back down to the space between your thighs, which now have a coating of slick covering the inside of them. he smiles to himself at this, staring between your bodies to look at your cunt with excitement and a twinge of curiosity. he slams his fingers back into you and starts pumping them at a ruthless pace. 

“can’t wait to be in here, so fuckin’ hard for you, y/n.” he grins cutely, giggling with a thrust against your thigh to prove it. 

“do it, then.” you murmur, a quiet whine slipping from you.

he locks eyes with you, an evil glint appearing as he pulls his fingers from you; a moan dying in the back of your throat. he adjusts himself so his tip can grind against your clit.

“fuck, hon, you want it? c’mon, tell me.” he huffs.

“please..” you tell him, breathlessly, throwing your head back. 

with that, he sinks fully into you and bottoms out with ease. moans and little ‘fuck’s and ‘shit!’s escape both of your lips, remer settling his tip close to your cervix. he sits above you, panting and trying to get a hold of himself before he moves and cums too soon. 

“not gonna last long-“ he gasps as he slowly pulls halfway out of you before snapping his hips back in. 

“me- me neither” you’re already a mess.

he fucks you hard, both of your moans filling the room and bouncing off the walls. you take your free hand, the one that isn’t still pinned above your head, and grab the back of his head to draw him in closer. his curly hair tickles your chin when he brings his head down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. his dick twitched inside you while his hips began to stutter, fucking into you deeper and deeper with each thrust. and, fuck. he reached that place deep within you, the place only he could find; despite you having your fair share of lovers in your lifetime. 

your vision goes out and you see stars, pulling harshly at his hair (which you’re surprised hasn’t ripped out yet). you’re so far gone you’re not even really moaning anymore, your jaw just hangs wide open as you overflow with pleasure. no matter how many times he fucks you, you’ll always be shocked at what he can do to you. it takes you a moment to realize because of the daze you’ve been sucked into, but when you did you nearly cried. 

“babe.. put it back, i wan’ it..” you babbled; unable to form coherent thoughts, much less try to speak.

“ride me.” he breathes and lets your hand go. 

in record time you scramble on top of him, not even letting a second pass before you sit down on him. you’re straddling him, and he pulls your thighs apart as far as they can go. you scratch down his chest, rocking yourself back and forth on his length. he throws his head back against the cushions, grabbing at your skin with a vice-grip. he moans kinda like a girl, one of your favorite attributes of him, and it makes you rock against him faster. 

“baby- baby, ah! im c-cumming, shit!” he stutters, fucking you back with a gentle rock of his hips. 

“do it, do it inside, remer.” 

his hands are now gripping your waist, and you wonder if you’ll have bruises later. you feel him fill you up, his body going limp underneath you. you slow down your movements, but not completely stopping. his face, how he looks a mess, makes your core squeeze around him as he starts to squirm from overstimulation. 

“y/n… fuck..” he sighs heavily, closing his eyes and bringing the palm of his hand to rub his forehead. 

you give him a lazy smile as you slither off him, tiny whimpers escaping you both from the feeling. you rest on his thighs as he sits up, hugging you and gently stroking your back as he continues to recover. 

“i came so hard..” he giggles, pecking your cheek.

“i can tell.” you giggle back, instinctively starting to grind yourself against his thigh. 

“i’m sorry, though.. kinda wanted you to cum first. lemme taste you, lay back.”

you lay down on the couch once again, remer immediately attaching his mouth to your sweet cunt before you knew what was happening. he suctions his lips on your clit, sucking and flitting his tongue against it. his tongue slinks down to your opening, pushing it in and gathering your fluids on it. he taps your waist, signaling you to look at him. he brings his head up and sticks his tongue out, covered in your clear slick, but mostly his cum. he grins and puts it back in his mouth, gulping and moaning theatrically. you’re rendered speechless. your eyes widen, pupils blown, and you swear you could cum just from watching him. he brings his head back to you, slurping and licking along your folds. you push his head into your crotch, grinding on his face and moaning every time you feel his nose poke your clit. he eats it messily, wet sounds from your core flying and reverberating around you. you squeeze your thighs around his head as he swirls his perfect tongue around your clit. without warning, you’re cumming hard; writhing and moaning underneath him. he kitten licks you through it, bringing you down easily instead of sucking you until you’re whimpering like he usually does. he gazes up at you, totally enamored and mesmerized. 

he wipes his face with the back of his hand, humming, “good?”, you nod in agreement, still too flustered to speak.

he stands up and pulls his sweatpants back on, murmuring ‘stay here, i’ll be right back’ before disappearing into the dark hallway. he comes back promptly, one of his huge (only on you) t-shirts in one hand, and a damp washcloth in the other. 

he sits on the edge of the couch as you spread your legs meekly, allowing him to clean you up. as he does, he jokes about how good pulp fiction was, knowing you barely made it past the intro. when he’s finished, you sit up and pull on his t-shirt. he smiles at you with love and appreciation in his eyes, he’s always this mushy after sex. he holds your hand and helps you up, your legs wobbly as he guides you to his room. he pulls back his comforter, nudging you to crawl in. when you settle, he tosses a pair of panties you had left here once at your face. 

“thanks, dickwad” you giggle.

“yeah, it’s really no problem, y/n. i’m generous like that.” he flaunts and jokes, sounding snooty as hell. 

he joins you under the covers and pulls you in from the back, holding you close and breathing you in.

“i love you,” he whispers, a sentiment for you and only for you to hear.

you whisper it back, softly slipping into unconsciousness.

—

coop fumbles with his key, stumbling in when he finally gets it. he steps into the house, a look of disgust painted on his face when he fully enters and closes the door behind him.

“man, it smells like sex in here!”

[letsnotperceive]

Thinking about Simon Riley on leave.

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He's got a bit of property out in the countryside with a little house sitting on top of it. There is something too suffocating about sharing walls with strangers in the city, toe to toe on the sidewalks and windows facing the uncomfortable civilian normalcy that runs outside. Especially for someone who is off-put by unnecessary social interaction, not looking for the unwanted small talk and advances of others.

It's a bit of a fixer-upper that he hasn't accomplished a lot of repairing to, at least, not on the outside. Who does he have to impress? It's got running water and electricity, the means to keep out the elements, and a king-sized mattress in the bedroom. Simon Riley is satisfied with the simplistic, bare minimum of survival and doesn't need much outside of that. (Yes, that king-sized mattress should be considered the bare minimum of survival for a man his size, thank you very much.)

 

His house isn't some farmhouse with a white picket fence and wrap-around porch, finished with a wife and 2.5 kids. Those kinds of luxuries stay far out of his reach, away from the contamination that his sickened soul brings and the destruction that seems to trail in his footsteps. So, who cares if it's covered in a thick layer of dust and grime when he finds time to step foot into it, the air heavy and stale without a window opened in months? The refrigerator is barren and defrosted, yet when he searches for the drawer with a couple of haphazardly stored cigarette cartons he’s rewarded for the effort. A little gift from his past self to the present in anticipation of the unsettled nerves that occur here.

 

He takes the filter of one between his slightly off-kilter teeth and lets the heavy coating of smoke stain his lungs and fill the void. The flame that flickers from his lighter illuminates the tips of his fingers as he pulls the cigarette back. For a moment, he could swear he saw the stain of red under his nails, despite how hard he scrubs his hands under water. Maybe he needs something a little more holy to cleanse away what lies beneath the surface of the calluses and scars embellishing his skin. He runs a hand through his cropped hair, swearing under his breath and making disingenuous mental declarations that he will at least plug that damned fridge back in tomorrow. However, there is no haste in him stepping foot back into town to fill it up.

 

There is an appreciation for the controlled environment that this seclusion brings, but not necessarily the silence. It's jarring when his ears constantly ring from the consistent cacophony that surrounds the line of work he's a part of. Maybe he constantly has music playing or the TV running—anything to deplete the quietude enveloping him. His joints and muscles ache from the shitty military accommodations coupled with the nearly innumerable old injuries from circumstances long ago: old fractures and breaks, bullet wounds that leave tender sites, and the consequences of several concussions that tail you. It's only after the sun sets and the sky starts to bleed into an inky emptiness that he tries to stretch his legs and breathe anything other than nicotine mixed with the stagnant must of an unexploited house.

 

It's not that he necessarily needs the curtain of darkness to conceal his incognito here in the middle of nowhere at all, but he has come to be accustomed to it. The dirt and gravel road under his boots don't deter the unexpected lightness and stealth of his gait, though the smoldering red cherry of his next addition to the chain-smoking he is performing pulls focus to his looming silhouette.

 

He draws the attention of a mangy little creature, half-limping near the desolate road. It comes darting out of a nearby field, and his hand instinctively moves towards a holster no longer strapped to him. But it’s just a dog, one that is certainly not much of a sight compared to the dutifully designed Malinois K-9s he’s been around. It’s likely got fleas, with a lingering stench that’s far from pleasant, yet it marches up to him with an air of certainty as if it’s a prideful show dog. Simon eyes it with a glare that’s withering in his best attempt, but the animal is unfazed by his unapproachable nature, not afraid of his marred face.

 

“Scram, ya’ filthy mutt.”

 

His voice is raspy and raw with the disuse it faces off base, from the stretching silence he spends mostly in his head. It just barks back at him in return, a reflection of his own persistent nature. Somehow, the damned thing thinks it’s a good idea to trot along home with him. And somehow, Simon just lets it happen. He hoses him down on the side of the house with a less-than-enthusiastic expression but still throws down a pile of old blankets so that it can rest its weary head. He’s not a fan of having something that’s completely reliant on him- a fragile being that requires a nurturing hand he doesn’t believe he has. The best he can extend is the bare minimum of survival he grants himself currently.

 

The dog can’t stay forever, like most things in his unpredictable existence. A fleeting reminder of the way that more often than not he’s surrounded by death rather than life. He is more familiar with how to take than to give; his fingers cocked ‘round a trigger. But perhaps he will make that venture out to town tomorrow, the dog hanging its head out the passenger window of his truck. He’ll get something to fill his fridge and something to fill the dog's bowl, the solitude will be a little less consuming.

 

For now, he scrubs under his nails a little harder.

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First Tumblr post disclaimer. ^^

Well, a re-upload of it with some editing. Hope this is a bit better.

[miasmaghoul]

anything little dick mountain.... PLEEEEASE

anything you say?

okay.

how about little dick mountain and nonbinary intersex mist getting stoned and fuckin around in the woods?

thats something.

"This is nice," Mountain murmurs, twirling a lock of fine silver hair between two fingers.

"Always is," Mist lilts in reply, plucking the half-burned joint from Mountain's other hand. They offer him a slow wink, and Mountain grins.

They've been here for a while now, naked and sprawled out beside Mist's favorite stream deep in the woods. It's a tranquil place, serene and nearly silent. The babble of the water soothes something deep in Mountain's core, as does the late spring sun filtering through the boughs above. The warm light dapples Mist's pale skin, washes them in an ethereal glow, and stoned as he is Mountain can't help but touch.

Mist hums on an inhale as a large hand caresses their shoulder, rough fingers tracing the intricate lines of the tattoo there - a sea serpent with fangs sharp enough that even the ink threatens to cut. Mountain could study it for hours, could spend an age gliding his fingertips along every curve. From the tip of the tongue that sits just above the barely-there swell of Mist's chest to the tail that ends at the small of their back.

Mist's slight hand rests on Mountain's chest, delicate fingers fiddling with his chest hair, and he takes a moment to admire them.

They look exquisite; silver-blue eyes reddened and heavy, hollow cheeks crested with pink, gills rippling as heady smoke flows from them in entracing waves. Mountain lowers his head to drink it down, his hand sliding around to rest between Mist's shoulders while he noses at their throat.

"Greedy," they tease, voice light. Mountain chuffs, dragging the tip of his tongue along their jaw. Mist sighs, tilting their head and taking another deep pull, burning the joint to its end. Mountain feels their lungs fill under his touch, and something about it makes him throb.

"Can you blame me when you taste so good?" Another lick, and Mist trills, amused.

"Not even a little."

Another plume escapes Mist's gills and Mountain sucks it down, holds it in. He pulls away with a curl to his lips and finds Mist peering up at him expectantly, the tip of their tongue poking out between needle-sharp fangs. Mountain threads long fingers into soft hair, grips gently, and when their lips join it's in a cloud of sweet smoke.

It's slow. Languid. A relaxed meeting of tongues, an exchange of breath and saliva alike. Mountain's hand glides down the length of their spine, a brief journey that ends with his palm on Mist's sharp hip, fingers dimpling the subtle curve of their ass. They shift a bit, hook a leg over his thigh, and Mountain chuckles at the almost imperceptible weight of it. He smiles against their lips.

"I always forget how small you are," he murmurs, and Mist rewards him with a sharp tug to his chest hair. He gives them a hiss, one that fades into a pleased hum when cool, bony fingers drift down over his stomach.

"No you don't," they say, clearly amused. Mountain pulls back just enough to catch the sparkle in their eyes, a glint of brilliant sapphire in those pale irises.

They're right, of course. It's impossible to forget how tiny Mist is in comparison to him, how seemingly frail. Elegant limbs, bony joints, slender from head to toe. He has a solid two feet on them, and who knows how much weight, but on the rare occasion Mist hunts him down for these trysts it's never them that seems to feel small.

That wandering hand vanishes between their bodies, and Mountain lets his own hand travel down the creamy thigh over his hip, squeezing along the way. Mist licks their lips, gives him a sharp smile.

"But I could say the same about you, big guy."

They punctuate that statement by wrapping deft fingers around his cock, and Mountain groans as he feels them engulf him completely. The one place where he is decidedly not big.

"Oh, someone's excited," Mist sing-songs, giving his little stiffy a nice squeeze. He shivers with it, hips rolling already.

Mountain can't deny it - truth be told he's been chubby since Mist caught him on his way back to the abbey, arms full of freshly snipped roses that Primo had requested for his chambers. He'd pawned that task off on a nearby sibling, content to follow his dick and the stunning ghoul before him instead. Mist thumbs over his sticky head and Mountain huffs out a tight sigh.

"Sensitive as ever," Mist taunts, loosening their grip and giving him a couple of soft little pumps that have Mountain's eyes rolling back. "Planning to blame the weed?"

He always does, but they both know better.

"I can if you want," he rumbles, hitching Mist's leg higher on his hip. "But it's easier to blame you."

Mist laughs, loud and bright in the surrounding silence. They shift closer, close enough that Mountain can feel the brush of their pebbled nipples against his chest, their piercings pressing chilly into his overwarm skin. Mountain drags blunt nails up their thigh, relishing the goosebumps that appear in his wake. He slips his own hand between their bodies, and Mist smiles. They wrap a spindly arm around his neck, arch their back, and with a loose rock of their hips Mountain feels the firm length of their dick press into his thigh

"Looking to return the favor, sycamore?"

Mountain doesn't try to hide his whine, there's no point. He always gets noisy when they do this, and all the high does is make him more willing to let it out. He wraps an eager hand around Mist's already slick length, and they reward him with a tighter grip on his own. Mountain groans deep in his chest, leaning down to knock their horns together.

"You're really hard," he murmurs, the hand in Mist's hair drifting down to settle at the back of their neck, angling their lovely, handsome face towards his own. "Gonna blame that on the weed?"

Mist doesn't deign to answer, getting a nice handful of his hair and licking a wide stripe over his stubbled cheek instead. Mountain feels himself throb in their hand, feels Mist leak over his knuckles, and as they catch him in a decidedly more hungry kiss Mountain lets himself be overwhelmed.

It's easy to do. The smooth swipe of their tongue along his own and behind his fangs drags him further and further down. The slowly tightening channel of Mist's hand pulls pearl after pearl of pre from his firm little cock, the slick sound of both of their hands filling his head with static. Mist's nails rake over his scalp, just sharp enough to provide the hint of a sting, and Mountain doesn't even try to hold back his moan.

It's nice like this. No rushing, no frantic urgency, no pleading for more. No need for it. They both know Mist controls the pace of these stolen moments, and Mountain has absolutely no problem with it. He lets himself enjoy the kiss, the taste of Mist filling his mouth. Fresh and clean with a specific sort of bitterness Mountain has come to crave, all of it accentuated by the herbal flavor of their shared smokable. It's intoxicating, and before Mountain knows it he's panting into their mouth, starved for more.

He pauses on a downstroke, wraps a finger and thumb around the base of Mist's twitching length and slips two fingers back between their legs. He moans out a curse at the slick heat he finds there, swiping his digits through their folds. He dips just one inside, and the tightness he finds there has his stomach swooping.

Mist purrs into the kiss when he swirls it inside, abandoning their grip on his short length in favor of grabbing his wrist. Mountain doesn't fight when they pull his slippery hand from their body, maneuvering it instead to hold the both of them together.

Mountain has to pull back then, chest heaving and eyes glassy as Mist guides him to stroke. The feel of it is exquisite - his large palm is rough, callused, but Mist leaks so much that it eases the glide in moments. The sensation wrings a pained gurgle from him, and Mountain can't keep himself from rocking his hips. From letting his tip kiss the underside of Mist's, every drag of their cocks against one another sending his head spinning and forcing heat to swirl through his belly.

"Fuck," he breathes, long and low. "Mist, fuck -"

"Feeling good, aren't you?" Mist sounds entirely too calm, as they always do, but the way they pulse in his hand betrays them. "Think the little guy's ready for me yet?"

They rock their hips just as Mountain does, ruts their cocks together, and Mountain makes the most embarrassing sound. He gives a quick nod, sucking his lower lip between his fangs, and before he can do anything more Mist is rolling him onto his back. Straddling his hips. Moving him like he isn't at least twice their size everywhere except where it counts.

"That's better," Mist says on a sigh. They settle on their knees, palms flat on his chest, and Mountain gazes up at them with what can only be called unabashed adoration. Mist smiles down at him, tossing the silver curtain of their hair over their shoulder. Mountain rests his hands on their waist, loving the way his thumbs overlap just below their navel. "Don't you think?"

Mountain offers up a dumb little sound of confirmation, too busy visually feasting on the little ghoul above him. Soaking in every angle and curve, every ridge of their gills, the sparkle of their nipple rings and the shimmering black scales decorating their collarbones and the vee of their hips. His gaze halts there, caught completely on the way their shiny pink cock sticks straight out between their skinny thighs.

Mist doesn't miss it, their lips curling into a positively cheshire smile while they scoot forward. While they settle themselves over his own aching length where it lays on his stomach, leaking pre into the smattering of hair there. Mountain chokes on a moan when they shift just enough to drag their dripping cunt over his little cock, and it's a miracle he doesn't cum right then and there.

Not that Mist would allow that, of course. He knows better.

"So warm," they murmur, moving their hips in gentle circles that have Mountain's thighs quivering. "How badly does he want it, hmm?"

"Bad," Mountain rasps, doing his absolute best not to hump up against Mist's inviting body. "He wants in so bad."

Mist trills, a deeply pleased sound. They raise up just enough for Mountain to see the thick trail of slick that connects their bodies, and his cock kicks so hard he grunts.

"Looks like it," Mist chuckles, gripping him again and giving a slow stroke. A blurt of pre leaks over their fingers, and Mountain's balls ache. "Little thing's drooling all over."

Mist is one to talk, their own dick dribbling a nearly constant stream of sticky fluid that pools in Mountain's belly button. He can't get his breath under control as they raise up, pointing his needy little cock up into the air while they line up.

Mountain isn't sure which of them moans louder when Mist sinks down onto him, impossibly tight and so, so slick. He grips them tight, fingertips digging firm into their back, their stomach. He watches the flat plane of it tense when they bottom out, taking his few inches with an ease that leaves his toes curling.

"There we go," Mist coos, narrow chest flushed pink as their leaking tip. They pluck at their nipples, rolling the stiff buds between their fingers and sighing. "You always fill me just right, don't you?" Mountain nods furtively, not trusting his voice when Mist clenches around him. "A perfect little cuntful."

Mountain lets his head thud back against the warm earth, swallows hard, and when Mist starts riding in an achingly slow rhythm he swears the world tilts.

"Be a good boy and make me cum," they say, low and sultry, peeling one of his hands from their waist and moving it to their swaying cock. "If you do well enough I'll even let you eat your load out of me."

Mountain whimpers, starts to stroke, and silently adores the way Mist laughs at him when he drools.

[justmeinatree]

What We Shouldn’t Do

Summary : alcohol makes you horny. weed doesn’t help.

TW : smut, drugs (weed & alcohol), sex in public setting

Word Count : 2k

“louis,” you hum right into his ear, body pressed into his side, in an attempt to be heard over the loud music.

his arm wraps itself effortlessly around your waist, fingers digging into your hip. louis pulls you in front of him, head leaning down to speak into your ear, “what is it, love ?”

a small shiver runs down your spine, gripping into his shirt, over his chest, pressing yourself to him. you’ve lost count of the amount of shots you’ve had at the club tonight. the quick touches, small hip grinds, and drunken buzz running through your veins, making you incredibly horny.

“wanna go have a smoke,” you hum against his ear, your hand reaching up to tangle its self in his hair, basking in the feel of louis’ breath on your neck.

“mhmm,” he nods, hands settling on your hips, leaving a soft trail of kisses on your skin, licking and sucking momentarily in the spot just under your ear, before pulling away.

louis turns you around, hands still on your hips, as he leads you through the sea of people to the back doors, ushering you through to the outside.

the back alley was completely empty. most people used the front of the building to smoke, the back always feeling a bit sketchy with the severe lack of lighting. louis preferred it though, having a quiet spot away from others. liked the privacy it offered. 

you leaned against the wall, louis pulling a joint out of his half empty cigarette pack, lighting the tip as he brings it to his lips, inhaling.

you watched him attentively, a bit of brightness coming from the almost full moon. your body was already buzzing hard from the alcohol, and the insatiable urge to jump your boyfriend’s bones, every time you drink. the weed will not be helping that at all.

you clench your thighs together, searching for any kind of relief. and louis notices. knows you well enough by now, that he absolutely expects it. 

he takes slow calculated steps in your direction, putting the joint to your lips, holding it for you as you inhale, stepping right up to you. his other hand settles on your hip, pulling your waist flush to his, eyes growing heavy, as he looks down at you.

he gives you a few puffs, eyes trained on you. your fluttering eyes, your lips around the filter, your sunken cheeks as you inhale, the puff of your chest, arch in your back so your hips are planted firm against his.

once louis decides he’s had enough waiting, he pulls the joint from your lips, keeping it tucked between his fingers, placing his hand flat against the brick wall, high up so as not to burn either of you.

with this position, he’s got you locked in, pressed between his body and the wall, his arms stretched on either side of you. your heart rate picked up significantly, louis’ forehead rested on yours, nose dragging against your own in a little dance, the anticipation absolutely killing you.

louis’ lips dip down to a tentative peck, the soft drag of his plush bottom lip peeling you off the wall in an effort to chase his mouth. but he’s much quicker than you are, shaking his head with a knowing smirk, “gotta finish this smoke love, can’t let it go to waste.”

a small groan works its way out of your chest, head leaning back against the wall, watching louis bring the joint to his lips, taking a few puffs, and passing it back to you.

your resolve was wearing thin, you wanted him back in the club, but since the weed has entered your lungs in this alleyway, your want turned to need mighty quick. 

“last puff, love, you want it ?” louis hums, offering the filter to your lips. you were so buzzed, so stoned, so drunk, so fucking horny. your mouth wraps itself around louis’ finger instead, eyes closing in bliss, as you suck on his finger.

he pulls his hand away from you, making you whimper loudly, louis tutting, as he shakes his head, “fuckin needy tonight aren’t you ? more than usual too. gonna share this with me, by the way,” he adds, nodding towards the joint, bringing it to his lips.

you loved the playful attitude that louis exuded when he was stoned. it was even present during sex, with a side of dominance. it boosted his confidence, stopped him from overthinking. he let himself go completely, and you loved that side of him. the real, no walls, louis.

once louis inhaled the last of the joint, he flicks it off into the distance, his hand coming down on your jaw, forcing your mouth open, lips ghosting yours, as he exhales the smoke into your lungs.

you inhale all he has to offer, the lingering vodka on his mouth mixing with the weed. your head was swimming, all you could focus on was louis’ touch. and the growing wet patch on your panties.

with your mouth still open, louis’ quick to spit on your tongue, watching you attentively as you roll your hips into his, whimpering.

“swallow,” he murmurs, watching your mouth close, your throat working to swallow down the saliva, exhaling your puff at the same time.

“kiss me please,” you moan, louis’ lips crashing onto yours, sucking your mouth into a bruising kiss. 

you couldn’t tell up from down, your entire body warm and buzzing. all you knew is that you needed him. so you reach down between your bodies, hand palming over louis’ clothed member.

he was hard, almost painfully so, pressed up behind the zipper of his jeans, and your hand was offering the most delicious relief. on instinct, louis presses himself into your palm, both of his hands cupping your jaw, as he deepens the kiss.

“gonna let me suck you off in an alleyway ?” you murmur against louis’ lips, gripping his cock harder.

“fuck,” louis moans, biting his lip. “shouldn’t. but christ, m’dying to see you on your knees for me.”

you smile, smirking at him, as you give a good push off the wall, turning you both so louis’ back is pressed against the wall, quickly dropping to your knees.

you mouth over his clothed cock, creating a bit of a wet patch, watching louis go absolutely feral above you. fingertips digging into the brick, head rolled back, chest raising quickly.

you’re quick to undo his pants, pulling his prick free from its confines, watching it bob up against louis’ stomach. you bite your lip, looking over him, reaching forward to kitten lick his leaking tip.

louis puffs out a sigh, rolling his head forward to watch you, gathering your hair in his fist, as you waste no time, sliding his member down your throat.

“fuckin christ, you’re too good at that,” he moans, hips bucking further into your mouth, his cock colliding with the back of your throat. you instantly gag around him, pulling back a bit to catch your breath, your tongue working over his spit covered length.

“love your cock in my mouth,” you hum almost dreamily, your brain so far gone with all the substances taking over your blood stream.

“know you do, love. take care of me so well dont you ?” he also knows you love the praise. as buzzed as louis may be at the moment, he knows exactly what you like. can’t forget it, it’s ingrained on his brain.

you hum, nodding, mouth sinking down again, working him further into your throat, slowly this time to keep from choking, swallowing around his prick.

louis moans loudly, fingers gripping into your hair, legs trembling, as he pulls you off his dick, “fuck, i dont wanna cum down your throat. not tonight, love.”

he hears your whimper in response, knowing that the weed has something to do with that reaction, chuckling. “think i know you well enough to know you’d rather my cum in your cunt, wouldn’t you pretty girl ?”

you moan, standing up, pressing yourself into louis’ body, kissing him sloppily. with too much tongue, too much suction, and clashing teeth. you were both just so fucking needy. louis presses you back into the wall, fingers digging into your thigh to hook your leg over his hip.

“can’t keep my hands off you,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands reaching for any bit of you warm skin that he can reach. 

with your hands gripped into the collar of his shirt, keeping him from being able to pull away, his kisses get needier, working his way to suck the soft skin of your neck.

your back is pressed almost painfully into the brick, pulling louis harder against you in an effort to get impossibly closer. you were a moaning mess, so lost in the touch of your boyfriend.

“please louis, your cock is right there, jus’slide it in,” you moan, your skin prickling with want. 

you can feel louis’ fingers brushing against your clothed pussy, pushing your underwear to the side, thanking whatever force in the universe that had you wear a skirt today.

as soon as your panties are out of the way, you can feel the head of louis’ cock gliding through your folds,” fuckin- holy hell love, you’re fuckin soaked. bet you i could slide right in.”

“yes, yes, please, please,” you babble, your body already going limp against the wall, and he hasn’t really dont anything yet. you were so fucking lost for this man.

so he does, his cock slips into you effortlessly, both of you moaning loudly, louis trying to cover your mouth with his to stifle some of the noises. “knew you could take me. always so good, just letting my prick use you.”

you whine, all of a sudden so incredibly full, your pussy stretched deliciously over louis’ length. the angle was a bit awkward, the wall blistering bits of your skin, but you couldn’t care one bit. 

louis starts working a quick rhythm, already starting to get close to the edge, thanks to your lovely, earlier mouth skills. he wastes no time, having one hand dipping down, fingertips flicking and rolling over your clit.

you moan louder, your legs trembling a bit. you were so horny, so worked up, so high, at this point, any little touch could be the touch to send you over the edge.

“need it to be quick, love,” louis groans, feeling the flutter of your cunt around his cock with every flick of his fingers. “need you to cum, pretty girl. wanna fill you up, get me totally empty. get you home and fill you up again.”

he can’t fathom this being it tonight. he wants this to be quick, dirty, take the edge off. this way he can last longer, later, when it counts. but for now, in a dark alleyway, where literally anyone could walk by, he knew he was already pushing it. you’d already been here so long, he couldn’t risk this dragging on.

“c’mon sweet girl, give me your cum,” louis moans, circling your clit faster, thrusting into you harder, chasing your orgasm just as much as you. and you were too blitzed out to argue. your body giving into his demand just as quickly as he could ask.

you were throbbing around him with every pulse of your orgasm, gasping for breath, holding louis as close as possible, feeling him empty himself inside you. your mouth had done such wonders working him up, he’s even surprised he lasted as long as he did. 

as he comes down from his high, he whispers soft praises into your skin, “such a good cunt for me. so fuckin pretty when you cum. can’t wait to do it again.”

you hum breathily, smiling at him, “so you wanna go home and fill me up again ?”

“right fuckin now,” louis laughs, carefully pulling out of you. “we’re getting in an uber, and doing this properly at home.”

……

Masterlist

[monsterfloofs]

Ary (Female Reptilian Alien) x Anonymous Reader (Sfw)

(Writing some cuteness about two beings out in space >:3 Platonic luff or romantic luff, I am leaving it up to you, dear reader. )

Space is cold. That's the first thing that gets drilled into your skull once you become a spacefarer. The glittering sky may look beautiful from afar, but it is a vacuum after all. Unprotected, Your blood would boil, your lungs would collapse and ultimately, your body would freeze over from the cold.

With all the technology at the galaxy's disposal, none is more precious, more imperative than the suit you wear and the metal transport that keeps its crew cradled below its multitude of decks.

With heat being so important, some places within the ship needed it more than others. Vegetation that couldn't grow without expensive artificial sunbeams taking precedence over other areas of the ship. Food was a necessity, and some comfort had to be given up for that precious resource. The crew's cabins were, unfortunately, one of those places where a little heat had to be forfeit for the greater good. While these areas of the ship could be on the chillier side, intelligent ingenuity would find a way to make it work.

And make it work, we did.

Chilled fingers fumbled with the controls of heating blankets before you duck your head and sneak back under the covers.

"Whew, okay, done and done."

You catch the glint of the eerie shine of an eye under the blankets before toasty fingers wrap around your own. Ary was your cabin mate, and the two of you had bonded thick as thieves due to the cold climate onboard. They were a reptilian with cold green blood and a sensitive disposition to climate change. They were one of the agriculturists, working in the hot and humid biosphere on deck five. Quick on their feet and witty in the warm sunshine. Yet, outside of that environment the cold took a toll on her. She became sluggish and tired, never without a cup of something hot, with a special biosuit that helped regulate their temperature.

The two of you huddled closer together underneath the makeshift tent. Flexing your fingers as heat returned and a dull ache settled in the joints.

"Is it just me or are the sleep cycles the coldest?" Ary's voice whispers next to you.

You laugh, "I was thinking the same thing!" You shudder and the two of you huddle closer together. You tap your watch and hold it out, dim orange light filtering into the space.

"We left off on. . ."

"Episode 6," Ary supplied eagerly, learning their head against yours. "It's where Lord Zenra discovers a stowaway on his regency ship, who is in fact Princess Ezie, who went into hiding because her homeworld was under attack and now she attempts to plead with the Lord to help save her home."

You glanced up at Ary's wide eyes, "Did you skip ahead?"

"No!" Slitted pupils flared round, "But I am pretty sure I have rewatched each episode about five times! Hit the play button already, you're killing me!" You cackle, and the two of you relax back, watching the holographic screen flicker with action until sleep comes.

You wake up nose to nose with Ary, giving a small smile, before pulling back the covers. The reptilian hisses and grumbles, pulling the blanket nest tighter around them to keep away the sudden chill.

"Are you going to get up and have breakfast with me?"

You laugh as you see the tip of her snoot peek out of the blankets.

"Do I have to?"

"If you want breakfast!" You check your com, "It'll be over in an hour or so, so we got some time still but. . ."

You could already see the snoot slowly receding back into the blankets.

"Don't need it. Need bed more."

As much as you agreed with that sentiment, someone had to be the voice of reason, "The faster you get out of bed and get breakfast, that faster you can get into the biosphere~"

Ary grumbled again, "Five more minutes, save a tray for me."

Well, that was that. You give yourself a moment to reflect on how good of a friend you are, for coercing your roommate to leave a toasty bed for a nutritious meal of something that looked somewhat edible. “That’s a pat on the back for me,” you mumble before your body decides that this is the perfect moment to do a full out shudder. You shake your head, and pick up the pace to the mess hall. The faster you can grab a cuppa something warm, the sooner you can stop shivering. You grab two plates and build up two different diet routines. One more on the heavily protein side with different kinds of dried meat and some purplish nut that you have lovingly deemed “almost almonds,” the other plate is a more varied kind, with hot rod red leafy greens, and fruit that is so grey and wrinkled, it looks as if it can’t decide if it wants to break out in mold, or if it’s too shriveled to care. It tastes a lot better than it looks. Thank goodness.

You balance the trays to a table, before you scamper back to get two piping hot mugs of something the troop calls “Space Sludge,” some beings onboard think it tastes terrible, as for you yourself, you aren’t sure if your taste buds have adapted enough to pick up what some beings abhor about the drink. It tastes like a very nutty tasting tea, as if someone threw in a whole spoonful and a half of peanut butter into it. A little odd, but it’s warm, and that’s what matters. You heard from Ary that the drink is one of those close to universal beverages. She would know, she’s part of the team working towards life sustainability on the ship. You can’t imagine what that job would be like. Referencing and re-referencing the crew to make sure that one being on board wouldn’t get poisoned by what some folks could eat a truck load of without batting an eye. It sounded terrifying.

Thinking of Ary must have summoned Ary, for you feel hands hug you from behind.

”It’s too cold out here,” She pulls you closer, nose pressed against the back of your neck which makes you start. “Cosmic creepers, your nose is an ice cube!” You wriggle to try and get away. “Stop, stop, I was just warming up!” She giggles and feigns a wide eyed snuffle as you squint at her. You do another one of the blasted full body shudders and you wriggle uncomfortably. “Brrrrrrr! You’re terrible!”

Ary sticks her purple tongue out and slides across the table to sit across from you. “At least I don’t stick my cold feet on your legs in the middle of the night.”

You grin, one shoulder raising and tilt your head, having your own evil giggle. “Ehehehehe, that was so funny though-“

“Funny for you! I woke up thinking something was grabbing my legs!”

”I can’t help it, I was asleep!” You try to explain yourself while you laugh. It was an age old conversation that the two of you ran through. This shared memory was something you would never live down. It was one of the first times the two of you had pushed your bunks together and shared a bed to keep warm. You had fallen asleep and hadn’t realized you had moved. You had been so cold it apparently woke Ary up squealing, and you had woken up in a groggy stupor. It was absolute chaos, and yet, after that you had been inseparable.

You pick at the food on your plate, pressing your lips together tightly to stop from giggling. Ary drinking from their mug. It was times like these when you two were together that the whole place fell away. It was just you and her, existing together, and nothing else seemed to really matter. The cold wasn’t a problem anymore, together the both of you seemed to diminish the effect of things. Struggles became merely challenges, something to puzzle through as a team. You wondered if she knew that, how much her presence brightened up your whole existence.

Enjoy what I write? I have a tip jar! I also take writing and art commissions on kofi! ヽ(*ᵔ▿ᵔ)ﾉ

[theseshipsshallsail]

Happy Birthday, Armie Hammer ❤️ May your day (and car) be filled with love, laughter, and the joy of things to come.

He’s precisely where Armie hoped he would be: perched on the low, circular wall at the centre of Luca’s Renaissance garden. 

Long legs crossed at his Conversed ankles. 

Gimlet eyes closed in obvious contentment. 

A thin halo of cigarette smoke gilding his chestnut curls. 

Just like always, the gently sloping lawn masks his unhurried approach, but Tim’s smiling all the same when he brushes aside the tumbling wisteria; turning his face towards him as if fully expecting he’d seek him out. 

As if his company is a given.

Because here they are - two days shy of wrapping their Italian idyll - and they both know that it is.

“I thought you’d quit?” Armie teases, scooping up the familiar carton of Marlboro Golds.

A joint resolution, to be fair, but Tim merely shrugs as he takes another drag: arching his spine in a decadent stretch. “What is it they say?” he murmurs, gesturing for him to sit. “The road to hell is paved with drunk intentions?”

Armie scoffs. “Something like that, yeah.”

They’ve each made an effort to curb the tongue-loosening vino , too.

Nevertheless, he’s so close there’s barely a sliver of breeze between them, and the next time Tim lifts that slender hand he snags his arm mid-movement: autopilot fingers forming a pinion bracelet over the thin blue veins at his wrist. 

The thrum of anticipation is immediate: a subtle, head-to-toe tension born from the effort of staying still. Armie leans in - Tim’s body an extension of his own - and angling the filter he commits the slide of bone and tendon to memory: thoroughly enraptured by the staccato drumbeat beneath his sweeping thumb. 

Self-preservation falls by the wayside, and with no further thought he slots the pilfered cigarette between his waiting lips, relishing the shallow dip in the orange paper from the other man’s teeth: the enticing hint of surrogate dampness as he breathes in deep, invoking the acrid sting at the back of his throat.

“Careful, Hammer…” Tim says softly, fumbling a China demitasse from the ledge of an ornate water feature to ash the smouldering tip. “Just ‘cause you’ve ditched the Giorgio Armani, don't make it any safer to play with fire.” 

His words hold an insight that can’t be dismissed, and Armie exhales slowly; a fresh wreath of silvery-grey blooming like the courtyard’s fragrant azaleas as he tempers his awkward grip. “The last thing I’d want is to see you get burned.” 

“No,” Tim mutters, insouciance personified. “With that martyr complex your sporting, you’d set yourself alight before the flame dared touch me.” 

As accusations go, it’s terrifyingly honest. 

“Some habits die hard, you little asshole.”

“Some habits need to,” Tim counters, discarding the butt in the dregs of his espresso as the rumbling crunch of tyres on gravel issues from the nearby driveway. 

It’s a powerful magic: the element of suspense. Especially when paired with such raw inevitability. There’s so much more Armie longs to tell him - promises and declarations he’s not quite ready to voice - yet braced for the Hollywood falsehoods ahead he settles into the liminal silence: cradling Tim’s hand under the burnished kiss of dawn.

[fanta2y]

Inherently Worthy Pt. Two

part twoo yalll !! i hope you guys enjoyyy, thank you for all the likes on the first part <3

cw: talk of death, mentions of loss of weight and sleep, talk of injuries not very descriptive

word count: 2.1k

part three

The first thing you notice when you come back to is the throbbing that seems to cascade through your entire body. The second thing that filters through your dull senses is the low murmuring you can’t make out. It's like a gentle hum in the back of your mind, the voices are familiar but your head is swimming and the only thing it can seem to focus on is the aching pain in your joints. 

You felt your eyebrows pinch and a groan leaving your lips before your consciousness really caught up with your actions. You attempted to shift, willing your eyes to open but the bright lights that shone through your eyelids made your body not cooperate. 

A hand rested on your shoulder and gently pushed you back down, the voice said something. But it felt like your head was still swimming in the cotton, you remembered the mission. The curse, the wound, the blood. You remember feeling like you were going to die, you remember thinking you were going to die.

But everything else was hazy shades of black, you remember bits and pieces of movement and voices. Something deep in your chest telling you you're forgetting something, someone. Your brain is too focused on everything else to pay the weeping of your heart much attention. 

A confused noise left your lips, your eyes still not wanting to open. 

“Brat, stay still. Your gonna hurt yourself again.” 

Ryo. 

That got your eyes open, practically shooting up into a sitting position on the bed. The flare of pain you felt radiating from your side made you regret the decision fairly quickly. Hunching in on yourself, whimpering. 

“See… you are so stubborn, woman.” He groaned, shaking his head at your antics. He shuffled around your bed, his hands softly putting you in a more comfortable sitting position. Doing a quick glance over your wound to make sure you haven’t reopened the freshly healed wound. 

Your eyes never left his face, you're not sure why you felt so emotional seeing him after everything. It's not like he was the one who almost died. But something stirred in your chest, and you just couldn’t force your eyes away from him. 

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it!” Gojo said cheerily, breaking you out of your trance. A blush crept up your neck, turning your ears a light shade of pink. Sukuna choked on his spit, coughing into his hand and you're sure you saw his cheeks turning pink too.

But your mind must be playing tricks on you. 

Gojo ruffled your hair as he walked past the bed you were in, still being monitored in Shoko’s office. A genuine smile on his face, one you return in earnest. As he leaves the door, going to shut it behind him. 

“Don’t go to crazy, she’s still recovering.” 

Were his last words before the door closes behind him. 

It took a second for the words to register before your cheeks were flushed bright red, hiding your face within your hands. You wanted to throw something at him. 

“I’m going to kill that bastard,” Sukuna muttered, shaking his head. As you looked up at him, you saw it again. The light pink that dusted his cheeks, the tips of his ears matching. The sides of his lips quirked up in an almost smile, one that was infectious and made you smile too. 

You wondered if that was just your imagination too.

“How long was I out?” You asked, moving your vision down to the hands that sat in your lap. Fiddling with the bandaids that covered them, the IV that stuck out on the backside of one. If you had to guess, a day maybe two? You didn’t think the wound was anything remarkably bad. Jujustu Sorcerers get hurt like this all the time, it came with the job. 

But the silence that followed your question had you thinking things might have been worse than you originally thought.

Your eyes looked up from where they were fixated. Confusion sunk into you. But as you looked at him, the longer the silence stretched on. You began to notice things. 

He had dark purple bags under his eyes, he looked tired. His shirt was uncharacteristically baggy. He was heavy on his feet, his eyes had never been particularly bright but these eyes were almost dead-looking. The more you noticed how awful he looked, the more you grew concerned. 

How long were you out?

“Ryo?” You called, hoping to get his attention. His eyes looked forward unseeing, like he was lost somewhere. You almost got scared that you weren't going to be able to find him. 

Hearing his name from your lips seemed to pull him out of his haze, he clears his throat. His eyes fluttering close and he takes a deep breath. 

“2 weeks.” 

Two Weeks?!

That was crazy, impossible even. The wound had been bad, sure, you lost a lot of blood, sure. But two weeks? With Shoko’s RCT and all the medical supplies this school had in its back pocket. You were confused as to why it had been two weeks. You felt like you were missing something, something important. 

“What do you remember?” He finally turns to you, his eyes still abysmally dim.

You allow yourself to think for a moment. 

It was just like any ordinary mission really. Gojo had given you the rundown of what to expect, grade level, how many curses all that. It was simple enough, a few grade 4 and 3s, and a single first grade. Something you had handled before. 

You remember Ryo’s incessant nagging about letting him come along, but you were adamant that you could handle this. That it wasn’t anything crazy and you would be back sometime tonight. 

He had always been a worrier, you teased him by calling him a worrywart a lot. It was met with sheepish grumbles that never failed to make you giggle. But this time he was more serious about coming with you, which you couldn’t quite place how it made you feel.

A part of you felt warm and gooey inside that he cared enough to want to put himself where he could protect you, another part of you felt almost offended. Did he not think you were strong enough to complete missions without his help? 

The thought grated against your ego and caused the hard push back. You had something to prove now, and look at where that got you. 

After getting there, the old mall was just that, an old mall. You could feel the dark energy of the cursed spirits, but nothing suffocating. It felt like every other mission. You exorcised the lower-grade curses and moved to find the grade one. You had found it with a practiced ease, being a second-year Jujustu student meant you had plenty of experience exorcising curses. 

You remember fighting with it, it being a bit stronger than you had anticipated. But you still weren’t worried. You were more than confident in your abilities to take this ugly fucker out. Until it sliced you. All the confidence oozing out of you along with the still warm blood now pooling on the floor. After that, you went into autopilot and exorcised it as quickly as possible. The memory of how exactly you did it was hazy with the blood loss. 

Recounting all these memories to him, he listened intently. He stared unnervingly quiet as you continued on and on about how relatively normal the mission was. Nothing out of the ordinary besides your nearly life-threatening wound, well you guess it wasn't nearly now.

“How was I out for so long? I don't understand.” You asked, and once again he stilled.

Something was wrong, you could feel it in the way he was acting, in his body language in the way he was talking to you. 

Suddenly he sighed, pulling the chair you assumed he was once sitting on closer to the bed. He sat down, placing his head in his hands. 

“You died.” 

Everything stopped, it felt as if time itself stood still. Died? That's impossible, if I died then how the hell are you sitting right here in front of him. Carrying on conversation, your heart beating peacefully in your ribcage. Your lungs expanding and deflating just like everyone else's. 

Theres no way you actually died. 

Not giving you a chance to respond, or even fully process his words. He continued, 

“When I got to you, you were barely alive.” He takes a deep breath, attempting to stop the onslaught of memories. Feeling the blood seeping through his fingers, watching your skin lose its color. 

Inhale. Exhale. 

“Gojo warped us back here, but something with the warp and your wound. It made you worse, and you died,” He sounds choked, you swear you can see the tears glistening in his eyes, “you died in my arms.” 

The last part was barely a whisper, if you weren't already listening so intently you would've missed it.

You stay silent, shocked into the state. You felt almost numb, hearing the recounting of your own death. Knowing he had to experience this made your heart clench, guilt pooling in your belly. You were the one too stubborn to let him come along, you were the one hellbent on proving yourself worthy. 

Worthy of him. 

He didn’t look at you as he recounted, he couldnt bare it. Everytime he saw your face all he could see were the wide, dead eyes. He sometimes could still see the red staining his hands, even after the countless times he scrubbed at them. Scrapped under each fingernail to rid himself of the remnants of you. 

“So how did I..?” You trailed off, confusion still poking at the back of your head. Swimming its way through all of the other emotions you were experiencing at the moment. 

If you really had died, something you still find hard to actually believe, how did you end up not dead? You didn’t think revival was possible. Unless Gojo had some secret cursed technique he wasn’t telling anyone about. But with that ego of his, something made you doubt that that was the case. 

“Even though you were dead, Shoko continued to do her RCT on you. She healed your wounds and continued to pump cursed energy into you. It was a long shot, but since you hadn’t been dead that long, it somehow got your heart pumping again. And then it was just a waiting game to see when....if you were going to wake up.” 

At the end of his talking, he finally turned to face you. You really got a good look on how hed been doing these past weeks. The bags you saw were much worse, deep purple. They almost looked like bruises, his eyes were bloodshot. Whether that be from crying or lack of sleep it was hard to tell. 

In all the time you knew Ryomen, in all the years of ‘friendship’. You had never seen him like this. He was a rough around the edges type of guy. He had a nasty temper and an even nastier mouth. And when he was angry he was sure to make it everyones problem. 

He said some mean things and done some mean things. Many would consider him heartless, or cold. But, ever since you had first met him something told you he was different. You noticed the way his eyes shined when his little brother, Yuuji, rambled on about some new manga he was reading. Or when Fushiguro would be able to land a hit on him during training. 

How his lips would curve up ever so slightly when on the receiving end of one of Panda’s and Inumaki’s pranks before swiftly chasing them out with harsh words and loud screams. You noticed that his center, his heart, was gooey. It was soft with the care of those he deemed worthy of his love. And that was a hard battle to win within itself. 

But seeing him completely debauched and destroyed, only made the guilt grow and fester. It began boiling in your gut, you willed yourself not to focus on it. Not right now, you didn’t need to worry him any more than he clearly already was. 

Silently, you moved forward on the bed. He opened his mouth to reprimand you but was stopped by your frail hands making contact with his cheek. You cupped it there, and he had to will every bone in his body to freeze, to stop himself from nuzzling into your palm. 

“I’m here now, I’m okay. You don’t have to worry anymore.” 

Your voice was barely above a whisper, trying so hard to push aside your struggling emotions to comfort him. To be there for him. All of this pain and suffering was your fault, you had overestimated yourself, and had been too prideful. And this was the consequence of it. 

His hand shakily grabbed onto your wrist, closing his eyes with a deep breath. 

“I know.” 

authors note: I LOVE THIS PART !! i really love the way it turned out and i think it sets up for the rest of the story really nicely :)) with the whole RCT thing, dont come for me if its not accurate this is an AU so it works cause i say it does LOL but anyway, thanks so much for reading !! I hope you guys enjoy :))

[sweetiecutie]

Ok, but hEAR ME OUT:

Stoner!Remus Lupin teaching his significant other to roll joints and making fun of her every time she chokes or gets a little too high.

WELL??? What do ya think??? 😏

A/n: do you read my mind???? Bc I was thinking about stoner Remus just today!!!

Pairing: Remus Lupin x fem! Reader

Warnings: drug use but overall pretty harmless<3

- No, baby, you’re doing it wrong, - Remus chided softly, putting one of his huge hands on top of yours, stopping your movements. You whipped your head towards him, pouting in frustration - no matter how hard you tried, you just never succeeded to roll a joint, not even a crooked one. You always ended up spilling all of the weed out of the smoking paper, not even halfway through rolling.

He let out a small chuckle, taking a thin paper with dried leaves in the center of it, carefully out of your hands. Remus scooted closer to you on the couch so that your hips here pressed flush against each other; his torso slightly turned towards you, so that you got a full view of his actions.

- Look, you gotta roll it, not just smear weed all over the paper. You have to get the grip of the small line, wrap it into a tube, or whatever, and not flatten it all over the paper, - he said, his voice a bit deeper than usual, calming you better than any weed existing. His long finger worked diligently, yet slowly, to show you what he meant. Both his thumbs moved up and down, rolling herb up into a neat joint. He brought an almost ready cigarette towards your lips. - Lick.

You leaned in closer, bending slightly to drag the tip of your tongue over the free edge of the paper, wetting it with your saliva. Remus only hummed in approval, rolling the joint completely, sealing the paper. He put a joint in between his chapped lips, making quick job of retrieving a lighter from within the pocket of his huge baggy jeans and lighting the tip, inhaling deeply a few times to properly light it up.

Remus held bitter smoke in his lungs for a few second before exhaling slowly, his eyes watching grey smoke swirl intricate designs in the air. His bloodshot eyes darted towards you, smiling slyly. Lupin nodded his head towards the coffee table standing in front of you, where a small bag of weed along with thin cigarette papers and filters laid.

- Come on, princess. Try one more time, - he said, taking another deep drag of his joint.

You hesitated for a moment, before reaching out for a thin paper, taking a small amont of weed, placing it on the paper in a small line. You poked your tongue out in concentration, trying to follow Remus’ instructions - roll, not smear.

Remus couldn’t help but lean in closer - his face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your sweet scent deeply. He placed open-mouthed kisses all over the side of your neck, distracting you from your task.

- Remus, you’re not helping, - you whined, placing your cheek against his head, nuzzling it slightly. He just murmured something unintelligibly, but stopping nevertheless, just resting his head on your shoulder.

- Sorry, luv, - she said, brown eyes glued to your small pretty hands, working on the joint. After a whole minute of struggling, you did manage to roll a joint - far from perfect, but a solid joint nevertheless. You smiled triumphantly, licking the edge of the paper, sealing it securely.

- Ha! - you exclaimed proudly, holding out a rolled up joint towards Remus, smile wide on your pretty face.

- I’m proud of you, luv, - Lupin said, lifting his head from your shoulder, placing a warm kiss on your temple, than taking another hit of his own joint. He handed you his lighter; you grabbed it, lighting up your joint, taking a puff. A coughing fit shook through your body, eyes watering as you could hear Remus laughing slightly, his head coming back to rest on your shoulder. - Easy, don’t want you to faint.

Your eyes rolled at his teasing, taking another - this time smaller - hit of your joint. You reclined against the backrest of Remus’s comfy couch, wrapping free arm around his lanky figure. You placed a chaste kiss on top of his head, feeling him nuzzle deeper into your neck.

- Shut up. Or I’ll tell Sirius that it’s his weed we’re smoking right now, - you said, earning a mock gasp of shock out of Remus. You closed your eyes, feeling the drug already kicking in, relaxing your muscles and hazing up your mind.

You sat like this for a few minutes, occasionally taking a drag of your joints before you heard a front door opening and closing soon, Sirius’ w voice calling out “I’m home!”. Remus shoot up, gaping at you with wide panicked eyes.

- Oh shit-

Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! Feedback is very important for writers, give us some love and appreciation<3

[mollywog]

for the au game:

coffee shop au where katniss is the barista and completely messes up peeta's order. like i'm talking forgets what he ordered and gives him burnt filter coffee in a panic

Yesss! Love it!

Katniss works at Cornucopia Coffee, a massive chain coffee joint, selling over priced caffeinated concoctions to trendy Capitalites- it’s her third and least favorite job.

Having rejected her manager’s advances, Seneca is now out to find any cause to fire her, making her already miserable job that much worse.

Her phone is buzzing like crazy in her pocket, she peeks and it’s Prim ‘SOS!’, she needs to read those messages to make sure her sister is okay, but can’t risk Seneca catching her on her phone. He finally heads to the back and she checks to discover her sister’s frenzied messages are over a not-quiet-dead bird that Buttercup delivered to their doorstep. 🙄

Seneca returns and she panics, shoving the phone in her pocket and pouring a cup from the closest pot to hand to the waiting customer: it’s the dregs of a past due pot.

Seneca snatches the cup from her to deliver personally. Her heart sinks as she realizes the drink is going to the man who just ordered London Fog with sugar free lavender syrup - she’ll never forget that order again.

The man accepts the cup, takes a sip and winces. Seneca asks if everything is to his liking and Katniss braces herself to be berated and fired, but instead, the stranger smiles, his kind blue eyes flitting to Katniss’s panic stricken one’s, praising the drink and even leaving a tip.

As the broad shouldered man with the ashy blond hair leaves, she hopes he’ll return someday so she can thank him.

Ask game

[winniethewife]

You knew I wanted just to hold you (Cecil Dennis x reader)

Warnings: Drug use, Weed, making out,

A/n: Requested by @summonthesoups Hope you love it! Takes place in the same universe as “Drunk on Christmas”

Words:639

She stood on the Porch, leaning on the railing, a joint in her hand. It was five in the morning and after hours of tossing and turning she had given up on the night. She took a drag of the joint between her fingers and breaths deeply, closing her eyes as she inhales, letting the smoke fill her lungs, a comforting feeling. As she exhales she opens her eyes, she is face to face with her Fiancé Cecil. He looks half asleep and groggy, a slight pout on his face. She lazily offers him the joint and he reaches for it, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. He takes a drag as he moves to lean next to her.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asks, his soft warm eyes on hers as he takes another drag.

“No. Fucking insomnia.” She takes the joint back from him and takes another long drag. He tilts his head and looks at her like a sweet confused puppy.

“Why didn’t you wake me up? You didn’t have to be alone.” His voice whiny and slightly sad, like a kid who wasn’t invited to a birthday party.

“Just because I can’t sleep doesn’t mean you have to lose sleep too.” She smiles softly at him. Cecil’s response is to wrap his arms around her and pull her in closer nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck and he makes a soft whimpering sound.

“Still, I don’t like waking up without you. I get Lonely.” He softly whines. She smiles at him. Cecil was so touchy and needy it was one of the things she loved about him. She hardly ever gets touch-starved with him around. She takes another drag of her Joint before holding it out for Cecil to take the last couple drags. He obliges gladly before tossing the filter out. They both wander back inside, Cecil practically dragging her to the bed. He pulls her under the covers, wrapping himself around her, his nose pressed to her neck his hot breath on her shoulder as he keeps her close. As the weed starts to take effect she lets out a soft giggle, Cecil chuckles, and soon they are a puddle of giggles and laughs, arms and legs tangled together, foreheads pressed together as they stare into each other’s eyes.

“You’re eyes…they’re so pretty, Like, whoa.” He mumbles as he brushes her hair out of her face.

“Yeah? You think?” She chuckles, running her fingers along the stubble on his chin and along his neck.

“Yeah, I think…I think you’re pretty, like…so pretty” he continues, his eyes flutter open and closed, like he was struggling to stay awake, the combination of being tangled up cozy and the marijuana making it hard to keep conscious. She was finally also starting to feel the pull of sleep. She presses her lips to his skin, his forehead, the tip of his nose, finally landing on his lips. He snorts in laughter as he kisses her back, he takes her top lip in-between his teeth and pulls gently, teasing. She laughs.

“What are you doing?” She giggles

“Kissing you! What do you think I’m doing?”

“Being a goofball, that’s what I think you’re doing” She says with a laugh. He looks at her in mock offence.

“Well! Excuse me for being affectionate with my fiancée!” he playfully huffed.

“I’m so sorry honey, how can I convince you to forgive me?” She played along, looking at her with a sweet facial expression. He smiles at her, pulling her close and sloppily kisses her on the jaw.

“I think… I know… how you can… convince me.” He says between kisses, his hands dragging his hands along her body holding her closer and closer. “I want to hold you Babe…please.” He bites at her neck softly she shutters.

“Of course Cecil…I’m yours.”

~

Masterlist

[billythenightguard]

Run Away: Detention (2011) & FNAF Movie Crossover - Chapter One

Masterlist

Mentions: weed, running away

Word Count: 781

Warnings: slightly angsty

Older!Clapton/Mike x GN!Reader

“You have to believe us!” You screeched at the cops, eyes wide, Clapton at your side talking alongside you.

“He might kill more people! Is that what you want?” He asked, his hand holding yours, a way to ground you both so you wouldn’t lose it any further. You didn’t have time to appreciate how his hand perfectly fit yours. How with his chest puffed up in defiance, he seemed truly taller than you by more than just a few inches.

“Look, kids, I don’t know what kind of drugs your on, but stop with this fairytale bullshit, Cinderhella isn’t real.”

“Ugh!!” You cried out, Clapton pulling you back against his chest as you tried to make him let go so you could take a swing at the officer.

“It’s not worth it,” he whispered, “they won’t believe us…” you could tell it was truly bothering him, so you slumped down, nodding to him. Once the cops left, Clapton put you on his skateboard, instructing you when to lean for a turn as he pushed you two forward. He didn’t know how to tell you that he was leaving the lame town of Grizzly Lake, so he took the coward’s way and decided he wouldn’t.

“This is bullshit!” You yelled once you were in his basement, sitting on the couch and crossing your arms. “Sanders is still out there!”

“I know,” he said, digging around and humming triumphantly when he found the little baggie he needed. He wanted to ask you to run away with him, but he couldn’t. You were just 14, hell, your friendship was already a questionable age gap once he turned 18 last October. But you had been neighbors and best friends since you were born as both of your parents liked to say. His parents would say that Clapton would beg to be your babysitter at five years old, how he’d always want to keep you safe. And your parents would say that he was the only person capable of soothing your cries, that you could be throwing a tantrum but the second he ran in, you cheered up. Destined to be best friends for life.

“Come on, little firecracker,” he smiled, sitting beside you and passing you a joint. Making you gasp in excitement, Clapton never let you smoke with him, he said he wanted to keep you as innocent as possible.

“Really?!”

“Yes really, now put the filter between your lips before I change my mind.” He chuckled, watching as you eagerly took the blunt to your lips like you’d seen him do numerous times. “Inhale when the tip starts to smoke a little okay?” He instructed, bringing his cheesy gas station lighter up and flicking the flame on, igniting the tip. You inhaled a little too much and too hard, smoke filling your mouth and lungs, making you quickly pull the blunt away as you coughed, Clapton couldn’t help but to laugh as he rubbed your back.

“Sorry, kiddo, I forgot to warn you. Consider it a rite of passage.”

“Asshole-” you gasped out, wheezing for air as you laughed and tried to clear the smoke out of your lungs. He smiled at the nickname, knowing you meant no harm behind it as he plucked the blunt from your fingers and took his hit, leaning back on the couch.

He hated it, you had fallen asleep on his chest, the blunt long gone hours before, his hand resting on your back and his lips on the top of your head as he fought back tears. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me, please… know that if I could, you’d come with me. I’ll leave a note for your parents, telling them to leave this shitty town. Oh god, I’m gonna miss you so much…” he carefully got himself up, laying you on the couch and putting his flannel shirt over you, and then a blanket on top to really keep you warm. “I’m sorry, I have to go… I’m scared… please be safe, find me again okay? Best friends for life.” He softly kissed your cheek one more time before going upstairs to his room, grabbing his emergency bag and leaving in the night.

“So, I only have the day shift available, but it’s 7 days a week, 5:30AM to 6:30PM, I give a thirty minute shift change for you and the other guard to get your things settled.” Steve Raglan spoke, your career counselor since moving to Louisiana three months ago.

“I’ll take it.” You said simply, dressed in your Sunday best, determined to start a new life. One without Clapton Davis on your mind.

Mike stirred awake as he swore he heard a door open and slam, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he saw the time, 5:30 in the morning. He stood up and stretched, his shirt lifting above his stomach lightly before he heard the security room door open. He whipped around quickly and stared at you, his eyes widening as he recognized you instantly.

“You must be the night shift.” His world shattered at that simple statement, you didn’t recognize him.

“Uh, yeah,” he stammered, almost desperate to use the name he abandoned ten years ago. “Mike, Mike Schmidt.” His heart pounding in his chest as he heard your name, it really was you. Your hair was a touch shorter than he remembered, your eyes seemed to lack their spark, but he felt his eyes linger as he recognized his old red flannel.

“When Will You Come, the Wavves.” Mike stated, hearing the music through your earbuds. Instantly he remembered it as the song he had left playing in the basement that night.

“Oh, yeah,” you chuckled, setting your things into the locker. “My best friend used to love this song.”

“Still do…” he murmured, making sure you didn’t hear him.

“God, I’m supposed to forget him, and I still bring him up.” It was clear you hadn’t meant for him to hear that, he felt his chest tighten as he looked at you.

“Forget him?” He pressed, what did you mean, did you hate him now?

“It’s… it’s silly.” You sighed and shook your head. “He left ten years ago, no warning or anything. I think I should have known something was up when he finally let me smoke with him.” You seemed sad, Mike wanted nothing more than to hug you, to confess everything, but if he confessed, he risked you quitting and moving away. He couldn’t handle that, not when life brought you two back together. So for now, he’d keep quiet, whatever it took to keep you in his life. “I’m sorry for dumping all of that on you, we just met but I don’t know… I feel like I could talk to you all day.”

“Don’t apologize,” he smiled, knowing your subconscious was recognizing him. “We all need someone to lean on, I don’t mind listening to you.”

“Well then, the same goes for you Mike.” You smiled at him, the extra security vest over your clothes and his flannel. “Just tell me if there’s anything I can do to help, I just moved here, so I don’t exactly have friends or anything occupying my time.”

Mike softly groaned as he laid down on his bed, Abby was driven to school, luckily having eaten some cereal with Max. You were back, you were finally back, but you wanted to forget him… you moved to forget him. He let out a frustrated groan into the empty house. He knew he should have texted, or sent letters, or something. But he was scared, cowardly.

Sander had said something to him that day, something Mike never told you. “I’ll find you first, and I’ll make her watch as you die.” He didn’t want that, he didn’t want you to watch him get killed. Truly if he died, then so be it, he supposed. Just as long as you didn’t watch. “I’m sorry, Firecracker, I have to lie to you just a little longer… I’m selfish like that.” He murmured as he rolled over on his stomach, getting comfortable to have some proper sleep.

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