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saintmurd0ck · 10 months

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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

#frank castle x reader #frank castle #frank castle smut #frank castle fluff #frank castle fanfic #the punisher #the punisher x reader #the punisher fanfic #frank castle fanfiction #x reader #rhi writes 💻#tw weed #cw drugs

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italianlegolas · 2 months

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(The Nutmeg of Consolation by Patrick O'Brian)

#they're so funny #aubreyad

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bizbat · 9 months

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I Know a Place ~ 1

~ Spiderverse x Fem!Spider!Reader

~ Reader is shorter than Miles, Pav, and Hobie, but appearance is otherwise not mentioned

~ Possible love interest include: Miles Morales, Hobie Brown, Gwen Stacy, Pavitr Prabhakar, Earth 42 Miles, and Margo Kess.

~ Reader is a newer spider, who, after losing a fight against an anomaly that found its way into her universe, is consoled by her friends.

~ Wc: 1.9k

~ You can find more of my works here

~ Contents include: Fluff, Romance, Mostly platonic as of now, Slight angst, Comfort, Horror, Mentions of blood, Intimate non sexual touch, Slight Yearning.

Somewhere, in New York . . .

A group of teenagers clad in brightly colored spandex suits, sit in a booth at a small cafe. The cafe itself is a cozy, little hole-in-the-wall, known only to those lucky enough to live nearby. The teenagers rest their tired bodies, allowing their muscles to melt into the soft leather seats, as they're embraced by the warm aroma of nutmeg, cinnamon, vanilla, and cocoa.

The calming scents swirled in the air, providing the teenagers a much needed sense of comfort and relief. They chatted amongst themselves, some excited from the battle they had just won, some wearily listening and occasionally providing their own input. All engaging in the conversation one way or another. All except for one.

One of the teenagers sat silently staring into her drink. Her mind, like her peers, was still on the fight the had just walked away from, though unlike them, she wasn't exactly satisfied with the outcome. She tried to focus her gaze on the hot beverage clasped between her hands, and not on the dirt and blood splattered on her gloved fingers.

Everytime she closed her eyes she could still see it.

Horror starts here -

Previously . . .

He was an anomaly, a horrifying variant of the criminal Rhino. He was a massive man with stocky , tree trunk-like stubs for legs. He had huge, muscular arms, his fingers were thick nubs, a solid plate of keratin from his first knuckle to the tip of his fingers. Despite his giant stature, his bodybuilder physique, and his inhuman limbs which were covered in tough, dark grey skin, the characteristic that most caught the teenager's attention was his face. Two massive tusks sprouted from his skull, piercing his flesh, and causing dark blood to leak over his head, face and shoulders.

He was clearly in pain, screaming as he flung any and everything he could lift over his head. Cars, fire hydrants, chunks of sidewalk. Nothing was safe from him in his rampage. He spared no mercy as he threw objects towards innocent civilians. Thankfully, by the time Y/n had gotten there, most of the bystanders had already fled the scene, and the few that remained were quickly moved to safety. The teenager turned her attention back to the rhino-man as soon as the last citizen was safe and secure.

"You really do live up to the n-"

Y/n could barely get a word out before she was flung into the side of a building. She slowly rose to her elbows, her head spinning as broken glass clattered onto the ground around her. She felt something warm and wet run down on cool on her face beneath her mask. She hobbled to her feet the minute the loud, incessant pounding in her head stopped, another quip already on her lips, only to be interrupted once again by a whack to the face. She felt like she'd been hit with a wrecking ball as she flew through the air.

Horror ends here -

She crashed into the pavement, her head smacking the ground that cracked around her, before slowly rolling to a halt. She tried to push herself back up, with what felt like boneless arms. Her arms weakly trembled before collapsing beneath her weight. Fear rushed through her veins as the sound of thunderous footsteps approached her weakened body.

Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, her fists clenched and her breathing quickened as she braced herself, preparing her body to take more abuse. She felt dread embalm her entirely, her sweat cold on her skin, as the Rhino rose his arms above his head.

But before the Rhino could bring his clubbed fists down upon Y/n's crumpled body, the loud riff of an electric guitar rang through the air.

Her eyes remained closed, as bright yellows, purples, and blues flashed across the sky in blinding geometric shapes. Y/n's stiff body ironically relaxed at the sound of fighting and music, her body and mind fully exhausted. She only began to open her eyes when she heard a familiar voice softly calling her name, gently coaxing her to rise to her feet.

Currently . . .

Y/n sat near the window, strictly gazing into the mug between her hands. She had been so focused on her own moping she hadn't noticed the conversation around her had begun to lull.

"Y/n, you alright there, bruv?"

Her head snapped up, her attention suddenly placed on the british man seated across from her.

"Huh!?" Y/n's gaze drifted to the other teenagers sitting with her, unintentionally now the center of their attention. "What do you mean? I'm fine. I'm okay."

The teenagers around her exchanged glances before turning back to her. "Y'know, it's okay if you aren't okay, though," Gwen, the blonde sitting beside her replied, her voice had been the one to pull Y/n from her pained stupor. Gwen gently placed her cup of hot cocoa onto the table in front of her, before lightly stroking Y/n's forearm with her thumb.

"I know, I'm okay. Really. . . I am." Y/n dropped her gaze back to the hot, sweet smelling beverage in her hands. The cafe the teenagers took refuge in had some of the best food and drinks any of the spider's had ever had. It was a family business, run by an older couple and tended to by their granddaughter. It had been a place of comfort for Y/n since she had come across it while chasing a pickpocket down an alley.

Unconvinced, the rest of the teens sat quietly. "Is it about the fight cause if it is you got nothing to worry about" said miles, a chocolatey ring on his top lip. "When I was 'bout a month into being Spider-man, I had to fight Scorpion." Miles shook his head. "Lost so bad, it was on the news. My mom heard about it."

"Really?" Hobie questioned, taking a bite of his pastry, "That bad, huh", he followed earning a glare from Miles.

"Oh please, that's nothing! When I first became Spider-Woman, I got absolutely wrecked by Doc Oc! I got publically laughed at for two weeks!" Countered Gwen, her hands moving as she spoke. "I couldn't go out without hearing someone laugh about it."

Hobie chuckled, causing Gwen to toss a large marshmallow in his direction, "And what of you, Pav?"

"First of all, what about you, Hobie? You've never lost a fight?" Said Pavitr, flustered at the sudden attention. "Oi we'll get there when we get there, yeah? Your turn."

Pavitr sat back in the booth, his hand raised to his chin as he thought of his most embarrassing loss. "One time I . . . got . . . a got a bloody nose through my mask?"

"Yeah, but did you lose?" Asked Miles.

". . .no. But it was on TV!" Pavitr raised both hands in defence after earning a playful groan from the whole table, "Of course not", and "No surprise there" flying from his friend's mouths. "I'm sure mine will happen sooner or later!" Pav turned to face Hobie once again. "Okay, okay, your turn, Hobie. Tell us your most embarrassing story." Hobie sniffed, leaning back and putting his arms behind his head. "What's there to talk about, mate? I never lose."

"Right." It was the first thing Y/n had said with a smile on her face. Hobie glanced over at her, a soft smile replacing the frown she wore earlier. Hobie straightened in his seat, "Well-I mean- I-This one time right," Y/n laughed at his sudden disposition, "I was just off holiday, y'know, so of course I'm gonna be a bit rusty, a little out of it, y'know," the table began to giggle at his frantic excuses.

"But yeah, I'd just come off holiday, I start to swing around, warm up, got my blood flowing again, out of nowhere, this-this airship comes flying my way, absolutely massive, comes outta nowhere," "Oh it came at you, did it?" Pavitr asked between laughs. "Yeah," Hobie claimed, a faux irritation coating his words "It came at me, Pav man, you even listening? So it comes at me," he continued.

"I'm looking down, hundreds of adoring fans below, all lookin' back up at me, my senses kick in, little too late, yeah, but they do," Miles wheezes at Hobie's erratic retelling, his fist lightly pounding the table, as gwen writhes in her seat with her head thrown back. Y/n and Pavitr exchange glances with tears in their eyes whenever Hobie stumbles over his words or repeats himself.

"I look up at just the right time for the universe to take it out on me, i guess, and then WHAM! I smack into the aircraft, face first, all my fans still watching me as I plumet to certain death, just laughing, like I don't protect them everyday from the cold, greedy hands of a power-abusing, capitalistic, autocratic, and bigoted nightmare!"

By now every teen at the table is in hysterics, laughing so loud the table shakes with all their food and drink. Hobie and Miles have taken the slapping each others arms, as they cackle at Hobie, as Gwen has visible tears pouring down her face.

After being yelled at for being to loud and calming down, the group sits in a pleasant silence. Y/n sighed, yeah, today could've gone better for her, but in the end, she was thankful she had the kind of friends willing to embarass themselves to make her feel better. "Thank you, guys," Y/n mumbled out, a happy yet somber expression on her face, as they began to meander out of the cafe. "For tonight, and for . . . earlier."

"Aye, no problem, Y/n," Miles said, slipping an arm over her shoulder and looking into her eyes, a warm grin spread across his dimpled cheeks. "Any time." Pavitr gently stroked her knuckles with his thumb as he held her hand. The teens took off in the direction of Y/n's home, joking all the way. They saw her safely to her door.

Noticing the time, Gwen turned to Y/n and wrapped her arms tightly around her shoulders. "I'm sorry, I gotta get going," she saldy muttered as she squeezed Y/n. She pulled slightly from their embrace. "But I'll see you tomorrow?" Gwen stared into her face for confirmation, a playful smirk rising to her face as her cheeks heated up. "Bye Gwen, I'll see you tomorrow." Y/n felt her own cheeks grow warm, a little dismayed when Gwen fully pulled her arms from her.

Pavitr swallowed her form in his own muscular arms from behind, resting his cheek on her head. "I have to leave too," He groaned. Y/n giggled as he complained, a playfully sad look on his face. "I'll see you tomorrow too, Pav." Y/n laughed again as Hobie had to physically pull Pavitr away from her, before squeezing her shoulder himself and winking as he stepped through the portal.

Miles was the last to leave, he always was. He wanted to make sure Y/n was okay, having been no stranger to messing up himself. "You good?" Y/n sighed again, but this time it was filled with much less sorrow. She looked up at Miles and felt a warm smile rise to her lips. "I'm good Miles . . . Thank you. Really." Miles shrugged his shoulders as he beamed at Y/n before hugging her goodbye like the others. He lingered, just a bit, before letting his arms slip from her shoulders.

Miles stepped towards the portal, turning to grin at Y/n for the last time that night.

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aurumacadicus · 7 months

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Stony and something with apple cider/pumpkin spice?

Love spices <3

Steve was hit with cinnamon as soon as he walked into the apartment. He took a moment to just stand there, eyes fluttering closed, letting the warmth of the spices just sink in. Cinnamon, of course, on top--but there were also cloves, and ginger, and nutmeg. Something else, too, a little sweeter? He couldn't quite put a name to the scent.

Under it all was apples. He wondered if Tony had baked an apple pie. He liked to tease him with them, sometimes--an American icon for The American Icon, he'd always chortle. It was charming, enough that Steve had never had the heart to tell him that his favorite pie was actually strawberry rhubarb. He inhaled deeply one last time, but he couldn't catch a whiff of baked pastry.

Cider, he realized, eyes flying open, and charged into the kitchen.

"Hey!" Tony exclaimed, slapping his hand away from the crock pot. He hid it with his body as Steve backed off. "That's for tonight."

"Aw," Steve complained, then frowned, brows furrowing together. "What's tonight?"

Tony raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed, and crossed his arms over his chest as he slowly reminded him, "We're having that Autumn-themed movie night to celebrate the first crisp day of Fall? You said you'd make old-fashioned popcorn balls."

Steve blinked, then quickly turned to look at the clock. Popcorn balls didn't take a long time, but they could be a little tedious. "Fuck, I forgot that was today. I need to shower after that mission."

"I already popped the popcorn," Tony offered, glancing at the clock as well. "I put it in the oven on low because the recipe I found said it needed to stay warm. If you tell me how to make them into balls, I can do that while you take your shower."

Steve immediately started rolling up his sleeves. Popping the popcorn was the most tedious part. He could make the syrup and get the balls started to show Tony how big they needed to be. "Did you get the candy thermometer?"

"Yeah," Tony answered, pulling it from the utensil drawer for him.

"Great. I don't need the syrup to get that hot, so this'll be quick, if you don't mind finishing for me once I show you what to do."

"Always," Tony answered, going up on his toes to press a kiss to his cheek. "Just for that, I'll get you a cup of cider."

Steve turned, catching Tony's chin in his hands. "No need," he said, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips before Tony could question him. He ran his tongue over Tony's bottom lip, urging him a little closer, and Tony obediently let his mouth fall open with a moan.

He tasted like apples, and cinnamon, and a little bit of caramel. He liked to line the rim of his cups with it like a margarita, dip it into a cinnamon-sugar mix. When the hot cider ran over it, it added an extra depth of flavor and sweetness to it. It added an extra depth of flavor and sweetness to Tony's mouth, too.

Tony carefully grabbed his shoulders and eased him away, eyes fluttering at his own reluctance to stop. "We should get the popcorn balls finished," he said, frowning at the pot still in Steve's other hand.

"If we work together, we can finish quickly, and then we can shower together to save time," Steve offered.

"You're cute," Tony teased, leaning up for one last, quick kiss. "Natasha threatened to rip the seams on one of my suits and I'd only know which one when it fell off me if she found us getting handsy again."

"It's our fucking home," Steve complained, but Tony laughed, walking over to ladle out a cup of cider as consolation.

#aurumacadicus answers #stony #autumn meme

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the-dog-watch · 11 months

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I've had to stop reading these books at night before bed because occasionally I will read a passage and it will make me feel like I just downed a cup of espresso and I need to pace around my house for a lil bit. When I realized the person doing the "convulsive trembling" wasn't Padeen. 😭 "I KNEW YOU WOULD COME" shut the fuck up!!!!!!!!!!

#liveblog tag #the nutmeg of consolation #aubreyad #stephen maturin #padeen colman #the other moments that made me do this: self-surgery in hms surprise #jack looking after stephen post self-surgery in hms surprise #the pillory scene ofc #i could go on #anyway thankfully i read this in the middle of the day on a sunday but now im like #man you expect me to just EAT LUNCH after all of that??#im supposed to just go to the DMV and renew my tabs like love isnt real and around us every day????

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azulera · 10 months

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The Experiment

Pairing: Emile Smith Rowe x Black Reader

Summary: Emile's kisses require scientific investigation.

Notes: Scavenged this out of my drafts in honor of u21s winning euros 🎉 if only the 1st team could do the same, anyways can u tell how badly i wanna give ESR a k*ss … my yardie … arsepool is real

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the first kiss, in the morning, his lips were still tingly, and you could taste the traces of cool mint toothpaste. He’d rolled from bed before you, up early for treatment, which may have sabotaged things from the start.

“You changed it?”

“Changed what?” He asked from the wardrobe, pulling his training kit top overhead.

“The toothpaste. It was cinnamon before, now it’s mint.”

“We were runnin out.” He shrugged. “But I didn’t mean to wake you. Be back around three later.”

You nodded, trying to shake the sleep from your body. “I probably won’t get out from the lab until six. So may I have another kiss, please? A proper one.”

“Needy girl” Emile tutted, but leaned down to meet you anyway, trying not to smile. You held on, turning his one soft peck into two more, and then holding your mouth to his, muffling his sound of surprise.

“I’ve gotta go, bab— baby, mm–”

“I know, just one — more.” You pulled back, with a deep sigh and Emile’s hand somehow tangled in the back of your sleep scarf. “There. Have a good day.”

When he stepped out the door, gently touching his mouth, you flopped back down on the bed. Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you opened the notes app, and typed away.

~~~

The drive from the lab to Colney was a quick one, and you caught Emile just before lunch finished. He sat in the passenger seat with a smoothie in hand and questions in his eyes.

“What? I wanted to see you. Ain’t that allowed?”

His face was still frost-bitten from the cold, and his lips were redder than ever as they split around a smirk.

“Yeah. Just weren’t expecting you, is all.”

“Well, here I am. How’s the day going?”

You turned toward him in the seat, tuned in as he began the story of how he'd nutmegged Bukayo twice in the same rondo and then got him again later during five aside. You wrapped a hand behind the back of his neck, rubbing into the tendons as he mentioned his lack of playing time, and the frustrating conversations he’d had with the coaching staff concerning it. The hand moved around to cup his chin, thumb moving over his bottom lip when he’d finished speaking.

“Your lips are still so cold, Emi. Let me warm them up.”

“What?” You had leaned over the center console, bringing your other hand to catch along his cheek. “What do you mean?”

“I’m saying can I kiss you?”

“I mean,” Emile licked his lips, eyes darting around the empty training lot. “I mean, yeah.”

You grinned and leaned in, bringing your mouths together gently. A few brushes of tongue later, things were not so gentle, and you hummed when his hands came to grip around your waist, pulling you towards his lap.

“Hold on, this is mad,” He breathed. “Feel like I’m back in year 11.”

“You were snogging girls in the car in year 11?”

“Nah, no,” He kissed your cheek once, fingers still pressed into your hip. “Never. Was straight on football.”

“Right, whatever you say.” You had released him, and settled back into your seat. “How much time until you need to be back?”

“Like 15 minutes. But under 18s will be on that field right there in like five.”

“Okay,” You snuck one more kiss to the corner of his mouth, then revisited the notes app, while Emile checked his cheeks for lip gloss marks, and tried to regulate his breathing. “Tell me about the nutmeg again?”

~~~

By the time Emile disentangled himself from the final kiss, the fifth of the last five minutes, the twentieth of the day, he had developed some concerns. But they didn’t stop his chest from thumping, or blood from spreading warm through his veins, coloring his cheeks a rose tint that matched his lips. He licked over them once, and your eyes tracked the movement.

“Are you alright, babes? You’re mad … affectionate, today.”

“What you mean?” You questioned, halfhearted, already arcing back in towards his mouth. The wood of the dining chair creaked beneath your combined weight, finished dinner plates catching the overhead light.

“It’s just—“ He took a deep breath, trying to repress the tingles shooting down his spine from your nails along his collarbone. “You been sort of – all over me, innit. All day.”

“It’s a problem, then?” You frowned, your chests still pressed together, and noticing your own face was hot, around your ears and down through to your chest.

“Nah! No! Not at all, I’m just,” You pressed your lips to a spot just under his ear, and then his chin. “I was just sayin. An observation, you know.”

“Well, if you must know, it’s–” Your mind whirred, searching for some explanation beyond ‘I’m kind of obsessed with your lips’ or ‘I might be addicted to kissing you’. “It’s for science. Yeah, it’s all purely empirical. Wanted to know … when the best time to kiss you is– in the morning, afternoon, or night.”

You trailed a line of them along his jaw while you spoke, and felt him shiver.

“For science” he echoed, distracted but thinking back through the events of the day, and your generally nerdy tendencies, and saw how it made sense.

He didn’t, however, answer beyond that, as he was caught up again in the warm slide of your mouth. When he could, he cursed, and let out a shaky breath.

“S’like an experiment, innit.”

“Precisely.”

“So what’s the results?”

“Huh?” You asked, thoughts gone hazy, and bordering on annoyed at the continued gap between your mouth and his.

“The results of your experiment. When’s the best time?”

“Oh, um …” You bit your lip, not wanting to break the heated embrace to find your phone. The answer was simple anyway - all the day’s data pointed to one conclusion. “All the time. It’s always a good time to kiss you.”

Emile laughed, blushing an even darker pink, and sliding his hands up your thighs, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But what do you think?”

He met your eyes, his baby blues full of amusement, and love, and something more. Then he stood up from the chair, carrying you along with him.

“Think I’ve got an idea for experiment number two.”

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