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tteotlma · 2 months ago

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Whiskey and Wishful Thinking

-- unrequited love and misplaced desires

Logan/Wolverine x Reader 6.2kw(😵‍💫)

a/n: this idea has been in my head for a while now and i didn’t really edit —

TW: 18+ MDNI AFAB!Reader, alcohol abuse/intoxication, sexual content (explicit), Emotional manipulation, unrequited love, mild violence (Logan crashing into things), infidelity (emotional), sexual encounter under the influence, emotional distress/angst, mild language, p in v

—

The quiet whirring of the air conditioner filled the cavernous space of the library, its cool breeze a stark contrast to the sweltering August heat outside. You circled the poster board laid out on the worn wooden table in front of you, your fingertips ghosting over the glossy photos and carefully cut-out newspaper clippings. Your chin rested on your hand as you examined the display closely, brow furrowed in concentration.

The new semester at Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters was starting in a week, and you were determined to be prepared. This wasn't just about having a visually engaging classroom; it was about proving yourself. Your second year as a teacher here was right around the corner, and you still had people to impress—or maybe overshadow. The pressure to live up to the legacy of the school's illustrious faculty weighed heavily on your shoulders.

You were in the middle of rearranging a faded photo of Richard Nixon next to a more vibrant one of Mystique—a stark visual representation of the complex history you were trying to convey—when something caught your eye. A small tear in the corner of the Mystique photo made you frown. It was barely noticeable, but you knew it was there. Much like the small imperfections in your own mutation that you tried so hard to hide.

As you reached for the tape to add more photos, a thunderous crash erupted from the direction of the front door, reverberating off the mahogany bookshelves and causing the chandeliers to tinkle ominously. You startled, your elbow catching the edge of the poster board and sending a cascade of photos fluttering to the floor like autumn leaves.

"Dammit," you muttered under your breath, dropping to your knees to gather the scattered images. Each one represented hours of research and careful curation. There was Erik Lehnsherr in his prime, Charles Xavier before the wheelchair, headlines about the Mutant Registration Act—pieces of a puzzle you were trying to fit together for your students.

As you collected the last of the photos, another crash followed, accompanied by a string of muffled colorful curses that could only belong to one person: Logan.

You rose to your feet, brushing dust from your knees and straightening your top. A part of you wanted to ignore the disturbance and return to your work. After all, you weren't one of the X-Men, just a history teacher trying to make a difference in your own small way. But another part, the part that had brought you to this school in the first place, urged you to investigate.

With a last, longing look at your unfinished project, you began to walk down the corridor, your footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. The warm wood paneling and lush carpets couldn't quite muffle Logan's gruff voice, slurred and aggravated.

"Who the hell locked the damn door?" he growled loud enough to be heard through the mahogany, followed by another thud that sounded suspiciously like a body hitting solid wood.

You rounded the corner just in time to hear Logan slam against the door again. Sighing, you approached, your hand hovering over the ornate brass doorknob.

"Logan?" you called out, trying to keep your voice steady. "The door's always locked after midnight. You know that."

There was a moment of silence, then a muffled grunt. "Oh. Right." You heard him fumbling on the other side, likely searching for keys he didn't have. "Must've... must've forgot."

You leaned closer to the door, lowering your voice. "Did you lose your keys again?"

"Didn't lose 'em," Logan grumbled, his words slurring together. "Just... misplaced 'em. Temporarily."

Rolling your eyes, you turned the lock. "I'm letting you in. But please, try to keep it down. Some of us are trying to work."

As you swung the heavy door open, the full impact of Logan's state hit you like a wave. He was leaning heavily against the doorframe, more disheveled than you'd ever seen him.

His usually wild hair was a mess, matted in places as if he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly. His leather jacket was askew, one sleeve pushed up to the elbow while the other hung loosely at his wrist. The strong scent of whiskey wafted from him, mixed with something earthier – had he been in the woods?

His eyes, usually sharp and alert, were unfocused as they landed on you. For a moment, they seemed to look through you rather than at you.

"Work?" he scoffed, stumbling slightly as he entered. "It's summer, kid. Live a little."

The irony of his statement, given his current condition, wasn't lost on you. But as he brushed past, the scent of alcohol growing stronger, you couldn't help but wonder what had driven him to drink so heavily tonight. Logan had his demons, sure, but this seemed excessive even for him.

"Logan," you said softly, reaching out to steady him as he swayed. "What happened? Are you okay?"

He paused, turning to look at you. For a brief moment, his tough exterior seemed to crack, revealing a glimpse of raw pain underneath. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by his usual gruff demeanor.

"I'm fine," Logan grunted, his voice rough as gravel. He shrugged off your hand with a forceful jerk that nearly threw him off balance. "Just need to sleep it off."

As he stumbled towards the stairs, you stood frozen in the foyer, a war of emotions raging within you. Frustration at the interruption of your work battled with genuine concern for your colleague. The sound of his heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway, each thud against the hardwood punctuated by a slight scuff - clear signs of his unsteady gait.

BAM

The sound reverberated through your chest, jolting you into action. "Oh my- Logan!" The twisting knot in your stomach unraveled, replaced by a surge of adrenaline as you found yourself on your knees beside the fallen giant. The polished wood floor was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Logan's body.

"Are you okay?!" Your voice came out higher than intended, tinged with worry. You gently turned his body, your hands careful but insistent. Logan's face came into view, his rugged features slack, eyes roving aimlessly. They passed over your face without a flicker of recognition, unfocused and glassy.

"Clearly not," you muttered, answering your own question. The words tasted bitter on your tongue, worry and frustration mingling in equal measure. You patted his stubbled cheek, the coarse hair rough against your fingers. The familiar texture grounded you, a tactile reminder of the man beneath this drunken exterior.

"Come on, you big lug." Your fingers curled around his jacket collar, the worn leather an old friend under your grip. You could smell the years of use on it – a mixture of tobacco, whiskey, and that indescribable scent that was purely Logan. You tugged, your muscles straining against his dead weight. It was like trying to move a mountain, and you felt a bead of sweat trickle down your back with the effort. "I can't get you up those stairs, but we can try to find something else."

Logan stirred under your hands, a low groan rumbling from deep in his chest. You could feel the vibration of it through your palms, like the purr of some great, dangerous cat. Keeping a steadying hand on his arm, you helped as he struggled to his feet. His muscles were taut under your touch, coiled with a strength that, even in his inebriated state, was intimidating.

The scent of whiskey hung heavy in the air around you both, an almost visible miasma. It mingled with the earthy smell of his leather jacket and something so distinctly Logan – a heady mix of cigar smoke and pine that usually brought a sense of comfort and safety. Now, it just emphasized the bitter truth that in trying to distance himself from his pain, Logan had simultaneously distanced himself from the man you once knew.

He was mumbling, disconnected words tumbling from his lips like scattered puzzle pieces. You caught fragments – "Jean" and "Summers" among them – each name landing like a small stone in the pit of your stomach. But you weren't really trying to piece it together, not now. Your mind was already racing ahead, calculating the logistics of moving him, wondering if you could manage to get him to the nearby study with its comfortable couch. And, if you were being honest with yourself, a small part of you was wondering how soon you could get him out of your sight and return to the normalcy of your work.

You watched, as if in slow motion, as Logan threw a heavy arm around you. The sudden shift in weight knocked you off balance, causing your body to shove even closer to Logan's as you struggled to support his swaying form.

You closed your eyes, trying to distract itself with thoughts of your discarded project in the library. You tried to reimagine your pre-arranged photos and timelines, hearing them calling to you like a siren song of productivity and purpose. But it was hard to focus on that, not with the heat radiating off of Logan's body making your skin feel like it was sizzling, every point of contact between you a livewire of sensation.

You could feel every hard plane of his body pressed against you, the heat of him searing through your clothes. The closeness was both thrilling and terrifying, and you quickly shook your head, pushing the confusing thoughts away. Right now, Logan needed a friend, whether he (or you) realized it or not.

"Alright, big guy," you said, your voice sounding strained even to your own ears as you adjusted your grip on his arm. Your fingers dug into the solid muscle there, seeking purchase. "Let's get you somewhere you can lay down before you fall again and cause some damage." You began to guide him, every step a careful negotiation between his unsteady feet and your determined support. It was like trying to direct a landslide – Logan's bulk and uncoordinated movements making each step a precarious balancing act.

"I-I'm fine," he slurred, his words thick and syrupy. His head bobbed with each trudging step, reminding you of those drinking bird toys. "Jus' needed a break." The words were punctuated by a hiccup that shook his whole frame, and by extension, yours.

"A break from what?" You grunted, the words coming out breathless as you strained to keep him walking in something resembling a straight line. The carpet runner in the hallway bunched under your feet with each step, creating small obstacles you had to navigate around. "It's the last week of summer."

The reminder seemed to hit Logan like a physical blow. He let out a loud groan, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours where you were pressed against him. Suddenly, his body went limp, all semblance of cooperation vanishing in an instant. He stumbled again, but this time, anchored to you as he was, he dragged you with him.

"No, no Logan," you gasped, your muscles screaming as you struggled to keep both of you upright. Your feet scrambled for purchase on the polished wood floor, sliding dangerously. For a heart-stopping moment, you thought you were both going down, but somehow – through sheer determination or dumb luck – you managed to keep moving.

With a final, herculean effort, you maneuvered Logan's bulk towards the library. The giant sofa loomed before you like an oasis in a desert, promising relief from your burden. And of course, because the universe seemed to have a twisted sense of humor tonight, it was right next to your craft table. The carefully arranged materials – your planned escape from this chaos – now stood as silent witnesses to your struggle.

As you finally deposited Logan onto the couch, the leather creaking under his weight, you couldn't help but wonder how this night had spiraled so far from your quiet plans. The Logan-shaped imprint of heat on your body slowly began to fade, leaving you feeling oddly bereft despite your earlier desire to be free of him. You stood there, catching your breath, watching the rise and fall of Logan's chest as he settled into the couch, already half-asleep.

As you finally deposited Logan onto the couch, the aged leather creaked in protest under his substantial weight. You couldn't help but marvel at how drastically this night had veered from your meticulously laid plans. The Logan-shaped imprint of heat on your body slowly began to fade, leaving behind a peculiar sense of absence. It was a feeling that caught you off guard, considering your earlier desperation to be free of his burdensome presence.

For a moment, you stood there, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. Your eyes traced the rise and fall of Logan's broad chest as he settled into the couch, his features already softening with the onset of sleep. The furrows in his brow, usually so pronounced, began to smooth out, giving him an almost peaceful appearance that seemed at odds with the tumultuous events of the night.

Shaking your head, you turned back to your project, eager to lose yourself in the familiar comfort of organization and creativity. Each piece fell into place with a satisfying click, the world narrowing down to the careful arrangement of photos and timelines. Time seemed to slip away as you worked, the rhythmic sound of Logan's breathing fading into white noise.

Despite the rhythmic process you had created, your mind managed to stray to the man beside you. Logan's presence, even in his unconscious state, was impossible to ignore. Your eyes drifted from your work to his sleeping form, tracing the rugged lines of his face that you'd memorized long ago.

A familiar ache bloomed in your chest, a bittersweet mixture of longing and resignation. How many days and nights had you spent like this, stealing glances at Logan when he wasn't aware, allowing yourself to imagine a reality where his eyes would light up at the sight of you? But that was a fantasy, and you knew it.

Your fingers absently toyed with a photo of Jean Grey that had fallen from your timeline. Even in this candid shot, her beauty was undeniable. Logan's voice, slurred with alcohol, echoed in your mind: "Jean." Of course, it always came back to Jean.

You couldn't blame him, not really. Jean was everything - brilliant, powerful, compassionate. And you? You were just... you. The history teacher who helped patch him up after missions, who listened to his rare moments of vulnerability, who silently loved him from afar.

A soft murmur from the couch drew your attention. Logan's face had contorted, his lips moving soundlessly. Was he dreaming of her even now? The thought sent a pang through your heart.

"She's with Scott, Logan." You shook your head.

The words tasted bitter on your tongue. Because that was the cruel irony, wasn't it? Jean was utterly devoted to Scott Summers. Her love for him was as clear as day to everyone - everyone except Logan. He clung to hope like a drowning man to driftwood, blind to the fact that Jean's heart belonged to another. Just as he was blind to your feelings for him.

You turned back to your work, trying to lose yourself once more in the familiar task. But your eyes kept drifting to the leather jacket draped over a nearby chair - Logan's jacket. How many times had you imagined him placing it around your shoulders on a cold night? How many times had you dreamed of being the one he looked at with that intensity, that raw need?

But those were just dreams. Reality was this: Logan, passed out on the couch beside you, murmuring another woman's name in his sleep. A woman who would never return his feelings. And you, silently loving a man who would never see you as anything more than a friend.

The spell was abruptly broken by a loud, guttural grunt from the couch. Startled, you whirled around, your heart leaping into your throat. Logan's peaceful demeanor had vanished, replaced by a mask of distress. His forehead was creased, beads of sweat forming at his hairline. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling as if grasping for something just out of reach.

The realization hit you like a splash of cold water: he was having a nightmare.

Pushing your chair into the table with a soft scrape, you rose to your feet. Your movements were slow, deliberate, as you approached Logan. Years of living in a school full of mutants with varying degrees of control had taught you the value of caution, especially when dealing with someone as potentially dangerous as Logan in a vulnerable state.

You positioned yourself at the head of the couch, carefully staying out of range of his arms - and more importantly, his claws. Your eyes flicked nervously to his hands, half-expecting to see the glint of adamantium at any moment. Swallowing hard, you steeled yourself and reached out, your hand hovering uncertain over his forehead.

For a heartbeat, you hesitated. The man before you was a far cry from the intimidating, gruff Logan you knew. In sleep, trapped in the throes of a nightmare, he looked almost... vulnerable. It was a side of him you'd never seen, never even imagined existed.

Taking a deep breath, you gently placed your fingertips on his temple. The skin there was hot to the touch, almost feverish. You could feel the rapid pulse of his temporal artery beneath your fingers, a testament to the intensity of whatever visions were plaguing him.

"Logan," you whispered, your voice barely audible even in the quiet of the library. "It's okay. You're safe." He let out a soft moan. Your fingers comb through his unruly hair, something you had never dared to do before. His usual gruffness is stripped away, and what remains is raw, untethered vulnerability—both his and yours.

His breath is uneven as he shifts under your touch, but your movements remain steady, soothing him. The weight of unspoken feelings that have built up over the years presses down on you. The sight of Logan up close so troubled and lost pulls at your heartstrings in a way you can’t ignore anymore.

"Logan," you whisper again, this time more firmly, urging him back to reality. His eyes flutter open, hazy and disoriented. For a moment, they lock onto yours. There's no Jean, no Scott, no X-Men—just the two of you in this quiet, dimly lit room, the air thick with unspoken tension.

His hand moves up to catch yours as it rests on his hair, his grip surprisingly gentle despite the strength behind it. "Why... why are you here?" he mumbles, voice still hoarse and thick with sleep, but there’s something else beneath the surface.

"I'm here because you needed me," you reply softly, the words feeling far too loaded but still true. The tension in his grip tightens, and for a split second, you wonder if you're imagining the way his eyes darken, the hint of desperation and something else swirling within them.

"Don't you have someone else to take care of? I'm not worth the trouble..." His words are a mixture of bitterness and regret, and it cuts deep. You shake your head slowly, heart pounding in your chest.

"You are worth it, Logan," you whisper, barely able to believe the words have left your mouth. Maybe it’s the weight of the years you’ve spent suppressing your feelings, or the heavy air filled with alcohol and desperation, but something shifts between you two in that moment.

Without thinking, Logan sits up, his grip on you tightening as he pulls you closer to sit beside him, bodies pressed together. The sudden movement leaves you breathless, your body leaning against his, faces only inches apart. His breath is warm and carries the sharp, smoky scent of whiskey, but beneath it lingers something else—something raw, unspoken, and heavy between you. The proximity feels electric, the tension between you simmering just beneath the surface.

For a split second, neither of you moves. You can feel the thrum of Logan’s pulse where his chest presses against yours, and his eyes, dark and stormy, search your face for something—maybe reassurance, maybe an answer to a question neither of you has dared to ask aloud. The weight of unrequited love hangs between you, an invisible thread that pulls you closer even as you hesitate. You've both been running from this, denying it, but now it feels inevitable.

Logan's hand lingers on your arm, his rough fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sends shivers down your spine. His jaw clenches, and you can see the battle raging inside him, the unspoken words on his lips threatening to spill out. "I—" he starts, his voice rough and hesitant, like he's about to confess something too heavy to bear, but you don’t let him finish. You can't, not when you're both teetering on this razor's edge.

You lean in and kiss him, your lips meeting his in a soft, tentative press. For a heartbeat, Logan freezes, his body going rigid with surprise, but then something in him snaps. His right hand snakes down your left side pulling you even closer, as his other hand cups the back of your neck, and he pulls you deeper into the kiss, his lips urgent, almost desperate. It's not gentle—it’s raw, filled with the intensity of everything he's never said. The kiss is a release of all the years spent pining for someone else, all the nights spent wishing for what he could never have.

You know this isn’t love, not the kind either of you have been hoping for. It’s about filling the hollow space left by the people who’ll never look at you the way you want them to. You’re both seeking something that’s just out of reach, using each other to drown out the ache of unrequited love that’s settled deep in your bones. Jean's name might as well be carved into the air between you, but tonight, that pain is dulled, replaced by the heat and urgency of the moment.

His grip on you tightens as the kiss deepens, a silent understanding passing between you. This isn’t about forever. It’s about right now—two people grasping for something real, even if it’s fleeting, even if it doesn’t fill the spaces you need it to. You know that come morning, things will be different, but for now, you both allow yourselves this escape.

Logan’s tongue licks tentatively at your lips, you give him the permission he’s silently seeking as your lips part. You feel lightheaded as his tongue slides into your mouth, and your groin feels hot as Logan lets out the filthiest groan into your mouth.

You let out a soft whine as you grab at his shirt, his muscles hot and firm under the fabric. As Logan continues to indulge in the taste of you, fingers trail down the front of his shirt all the way to and under the hem. Your fingers lightly drag across the thin sliver of skin and you feel Logan’s hip twitch, and he pulls away sighing lightly into your mouth.

He adorned the sexiest look on his smug face. Granted he still looked inebriated but this time instead of being drunk on whiskey.. he was drunk on you. Mother of all that is good and well, you know you should say something, be reasonable, smart, but dammit if there’s one thing you will stick by it’s that you will always help a friend in need…

You bring him close, hands clasping behind his neck and pulling him in as you swing your leg over his lap straddling him. His hands immediately meet the small of your back, and he leans in to kiss you again pulling you flush to his chest.

Now its your turn to take control in the kiss, Logan pliant as you lap at his mouth. He lets you think your in charge until he takes you by surprise and uses one hand to grab the hair at the back of your head. You lose your rhythm for a second and he takes the opportunity to push his tongue along yours, saliva pooling in your mouths and melting in the middle. He begins to suck on the slick pink muscle and you give in.

Whatever ounce of worry, hesitation, anxiety, any reservation whatsoever you could have had left your body and you gave in to desire. That bitch, that deliciously sinful demon had got her way as the muscles in your legs gave in and you relax onto Logans lap. He continues to slurp at your mouth, and you mewl. Never in your life had anyone done this to you before. Not only was it filthy, it was incredibly hot.

The heat in your groin burned your insides leaving you with an ache you needed to relieve. Your hips buck reflexively as you feel a wetness pool on the fabric of your underwear. You let a moan slip out of your mouth, and Logan let out a deep and throaty chuckle. His fingers go back beneath the waistline of your pants, fingers gripping the flesh of your hips and grinding you down against his pelvis.

You threw your head into the crook of Logan’s neck as he began to buck his hips into yours at a steady rhythm. His fingers digging harder into your skin, as he applied more pressure. You could feel the thin fabrics of your underwear and sleep shorts soak the more you rubbed against Logan. You began to gyrate your hips in tighter circles.

“Ah, fuck.” You breathed out as you pressed your forehead to the brute of a man beneath you. “Logan, Logan, come on, stop teasing.” You panted between breaths. Logan shifted a bit beneath you causing your neglected clit to get caught during your motions. Your head lolled to the side and then back as a whimper turned into a full cry of frustration. God, you wanted this pain, this ache you were feeling to go away and you’d do anything to make it stop.

Logan’s grip tightened on your hips, as he stilled your body for a second.

“What the fuck,” You hissed, trying to slide your wet heat on Logans definite show-er and grower but the man loved to tease. Logan continued to hold your hips and you began to grow frustrated. The feeling of his smirk against your neck causing tears to come to your eyes.

“Logan, please.” You whimpered, your voice shaking. You feel him freeze and you mentally shoot yourself in the foot— You didn’t want this to be a thing with emotions, it was bad enough that the first time you’re having sex with the man you’ve loved for five years is as a one night fling. You didn’t want to have to think about the emotional repercussions before having what you’re pretty sure is going to be the best orgasm of your life.

In a moment of panic, and wanting to shift the focus you lean forward, and your hands find the button of Logan’s pants. You unbuckle the belt, and he peppers kisses along your shoulders, your fingers fumble with the button, and he noses your jaw, you slide down the zipper and he pecks your neck. All of a sudden the intimacy becomes too much so you trail your hands at the band of his underwear and you begin to pull the fabric down. Coarse hair grazes your fingers, and before you can stop yourself your hand runs up his stomach, and down back to his groin— his breath shudders against the nape of your neck as he begins to nip at your skin.

Before you can fully expose the man he grabs your hand and puts it on his shoulder as if saying to let him do the work. You obey and lift your hips to give him space. Next thing you know your being guided back close to him, hovering over his groin.

While you hadn’t seen his dick fully yet, you knew the mutant was big. You could tell regardless of the scenario. The way he walks, the way he sits— legs spread so wide it’s like he’s constantly inviting you to kneel between them. Missing the opportunity this time didn’t make you think any different though, this man was massive. The heat within your body was already painful enough, but now the heat you feel outside your cunt was unbearable.

Your right hand slid between your bodies as you reached for Logan's thick dick. He let out a low growl as your fingers wrapped around his shaft. Logan's fingers reached for the fabric between your thighs, moving the soaked cloth to the side urging you to put his cock inside.

You guide the tip to your entrance and you can feel your cunt clench around nothing in anticipation. You feel heat rise to your cheeks in embarrassment, but the aggression in Logan’s breathing gives you relief that you’re not the only one desperate. But for who it was is a different story.

Logan got impatient and lifted his hips to push the tip past, and your mouth fell open as a silent moan possessed your body. God, you were right. He was so thick, the stretch was borderline unbearable but before you could fully adjust Logan began to thrust up even further. His dick going so deep, the tip hit the spongy part.

He let out a strangled grunt as he held your hips down, and you squirmed.

“You needa stop that.” He barked, as he rolled his head back against the couch rest, trying to control himself as he felt your hole clench around him.

“I’m sorry,” You sob, trying to adjust but the pain and pleasure were too overwhelming you could feel yourself losing focus.

“I just–” He shushes you by cradling you against his shoulder, arms enveloping you in a tight hug, and just when you think you’ve calmed down he devours you like you’re his last meal. He wraps his arms around you and lifts you from his lap before he brings you down and he thrusts up.

A sob escapes your lips as his hips fire off like a pistol, thrusting in and out, brutal but so worth it as your desires are finally being satiated. He’s holding onto you like if he let go you’d float away. A string of curses fill the air as he continues to pump into you.

“Fuck, fuck, Logan.” You mumble, words slowly leaving your mouth.

“Awe,” Logan tuts as his hips fall into a normal pace, his hand coming to caress the back of your hair. “Don’t tell me this pussy is lightweight, we’ve only just started and you’re already acting like this?” You don’t respond, and instead let out soft moans as he continues to fuck into your abused cunt. Logan uses the opportunity to pull you back by your hair (again) to examine your face. It’s flushed red, glowing with perspiration, your chest panting as you try to catch your breath.

“No baby that won’t do.” He caresses the hair out of your face and nuzzles his face against yours. His facial hair prickling your skin. He places a kiss on your forehead before he pounds into you faster, deeper than before. You can barely keep your eyes open and all the sounds that leave your lips are just pathetic little whimpers and sobs.

"M'close." He grunts and you can't help but agree. "You gonna come, sweetheart?" You can't find the words and nod, pliant like a ragdoll in his arms. He groans.

"C'mon. You can do better than that, can't ya? Tell me."

"Fuck yes," you pant, your voice barely audible between gasps. You writhe beneath him, desperate for something to anchor yourself to, but with his hands pinning your wrists, the only thing you manage to grab is the rough hair on his lower abdomen, the friction of it grounding you as much as the heat and slap of his body. "Please… don’t stop."

His grip tightens on your wrists, the pressure pushing you to the edge as he moves faster, his breath hot against your skin. Each thrust sends a jolt through your body, every nerve alight with anticipation and need.

"That's it," he growls, voice thick with control as he watches you fall apart beneath him. "Let go."

You can feel it building, the tension coiling in your core, and with one final snap of his hips, you shatter—your body arching, toes curling, a strangled cry escaping your lips. The world blurs, everything outside this moment fading as you hit your peak, wave after wave crashing over you.

But even through the haze, you feel him reaching his own release. His pace becomes erratic, his muscles tensing, and as he finally falls over the edge, his body tight against yours, he groans—a low, guttural sound—before the name slips out.

"Jean—"

The word cuts through the air like a knife, your euphoria draining in an instant, replaced by a sharp, hollow ache in your chest.

Your heart plummets, and the warmth of his body that moments ago felt so consuming now feels like ice against your skin. The name he whispered isn’t yours. It echoes in your head, louder than the pounding of your pulse, louder than the ragged breaths you're both still catching. You feel like you’ve been struck, yet somehow, you’re not surprised. You always knew this wasn’t really about you. But it doesn’t stop the ache spreading through your chest.

You close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat as the reality of it all comes crashing down. This was always going to hurt.

For a few seconds, neither of you moves. The weight of the moment lingers, heavy and unbearable. His body relaxes, but the guilt etched into his expression is unmistakable, and you can feel the shift in the air. The intimacy that just moments ago had been raw and consuming has evaporated, leaving behind only an awkward silence and a sense of regret so thick it’s suffocating.

You disentangle yourself from him slowly, the warmth of his skin now foreign, a reminder of what you never really had. You sit up, your body still trembling, trying to piece together your scattered thoughts. The room feels stifling now, every breath you take thick with the weight of everything left unsaid.

Logan’s eyes open, still clouded with the haze of pleasure, but they widen when he realizes what he’s done—what he’s said. Panic flashes across his face, but it’s too late. You’ve heard it, and you can’t unhear it.

“Shit…” he mutters under his breath, his hand reaching out as if to apologize, but you’re already pulling away, slipping out of his grasp like sand between his fingers.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper, though the crack in it betrays you. You force yourself to keep moving, pulling your clothes back into place, each motion slow and deliberate, as if trying to hold yourself together with every button and clasp.

He doesn’t say anything, and for once, you’re grateful. You don’t want to hear an apology, you don’t want to hear him stumble over words of regret. You don’t want to hear him say her name again.

You stand up, back turned to him, your chest heaving not from passion, but from the pain you can’t quite swallow down. Your hands are shaking as you adjust your clothes, but you refuse to let him see it. You knew this was a mistake. You knew this wasn’t love.

“This was never meant to fix anything,” you finally say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I was just… trying to help.” The words taste bitter, but they’re true. You’d gotten caught up, you’d let yourself believe—if only for a moment—that maybe it could be more. But it never was.

Logan sits up, running a hand through his hair, looking at you with something that could almost be remorse. But it doesn’t matter anymore. He made his choice long before tonight.

With one last glance over your shoulder, you meet his gaze. His eyes are still shadowed by the weight of his unrequited love, and you can see it all too clearly now. You were never the one he needed. You never stood a chance.

“I’ll be fine,” you lie, turning back to the door, your footsteps heavy as you leave the room, abandoning the project you had started earlier that night, each step pulling you farther away from the moment that should’ve never happened.

But even as you walk away, you can’t shake the feeling that for a second, despite knowing better, you let yourself believe it was real.

———

a/n: i thrive off of feedback and criticism.

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winedarkthoughts · 2 months ago

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house of addams (7)

— 🌖 pairing: ot7 x fem.reader

— 🕷️ genre: mystery, angst + fluff + smut

— 🗝️ word count: 7.3k

— 🍄 summary: you’re invited for a night at the Addams house.

— ☕ content warnings: mentions of (mutual) stalking and taking photos without consent, smoking, weapons + firearms

— 🕸️ a/n: ok listen, i am a sucker for tropes.

previous chapter ← series m.list → next chapter

chpt. 7: the dinner party

october 30, 2004

The gates of the Addams house greet you with open iron rails, swinging open, just like before, without any kind of assistance. It only makes you hesitate for a moment, because you figure you're in for more of a shock once you get inside.

The Addams house looms tall and intimidating from atop the hill. The sun has nearly completed its descent past the treetops into the darkening wilderness, and the windows of the house are aglow with warm light. It makes it look more like a place fit for habitation.

The image of all of them cozied up at the dinner table, ready to share a meal together like a little family, pops into your mind. But it is very quickly shooed away, because it hurts a little to think of happy families.

A few old lamposts illuminate your way up the path. When you get a little closer, you can see shadows moving through the dirty glass windows.

Even in the darkness, you can see the overgrown weeds and crumbling stone that makes up the exterior of the house, and it makes you even more curious to see what it looks like inside.

Standing on the front landing, you check your watch. Five fifty-five p.m. The invitation said six sharp, so you figure it won't hurt to arrive a few minutes early.

The iron knocker is in the image of a black cat's head, with a mouse dangling by its tail as the handle. You grasp the mouse and rap it against the door three times.

A few moments pass before the old wood is creaking open.

You're half expecting the door to open by itself like the gate, but no. Jungkook stands there, dressed in a dark pinstripe suit with his hair in slick curls. The warm lamplight crawls across his face, but his strange paleness still startles you a little.

"Good evening," he greets you, opening the door wider to beckon you inside.

You're glad you're dressed adequately. The formal dress code was a little intimidating. You opted for slacks, a white button-up, tie, leather vest (even with a silver pocket watch chain for extra flare), and an oversized suit jacket. All with the leather coat you purchased at the bookshop thrown overtop to combat the cold.

Wearing a dress isn't ideal in any situation other than for looks, especially when you're carrying items that are meant to remain concealed, so you opted for a more practical outfit.

You're expecting the inside of the house to be just as decrepit as the outside, but this isn't the case. The long, elegant hallway is lined with framed oil paintings and sconces holding lit candles, flickering in the slight draft, an air that feels a little ghostly.

You follow Jungkook into a large foyer with polished floors and a tall domed ceiling overhead. A grand staircase that branches in two directions leads up to the balconied second floor.

You can't help stopping for a moment to admire the grandeur of the place. Every curve, every corner, is embellished with carved wood or shining brass accents. It isn't even dusty, let alone decrepit.

"Come," Jungkook says softly. "He's waiting for you in the lounge."

He leads you through more labyrinthine hallways, all aglow with candlelight, gesturing you through an oak door.

The room inside is dimly lit with soft lamps, a fully-stocked bar tucked into one corner, the remaining walls lined with full bookshelves. There's plenty of seating options, from plush-looking armchairs to curving sofas.

"I'll see where he's gone off to. Wait here, please," Jungkook blurts out, sounding nervous, and closes the door without waiting for a reply.

You take the opportunity to look around a bit.

Lush ferns decorate almost every potential empty space, probably thanks to Yoongi. There's a table in the center of the circle of seating options, crowded with appetizers. Oysters on the half shell, perfectly pink shrimp and cocktail sauce, chunks of fresh salmon with lemon wedges, all resting on giant slabs of ice.

You walk over to the ledge of the bar, examining all the fancy bottles and crystal decanters. Some of them have little tags hanging from their glass necks, labelling them. Blackberry vodka, silver rum, 0.3% cyanide, hemlock syrup.

It's just as you're ducking your head under to examine the hidden shelves behind the bar counter when a light voice interjects,

"Nosy little thing, aren't you?"

You turn to find the head of the house himself standing there in the doorway, though you didn't hear it open or him enter.

You've never seen him this close before. And what a vision he is. Dressed in all black, skin showing through the deep cut V in his shirt, hair slicked back, and a grin that's just as slick to match.

"Yes," you quip back, unapologetic. "I've made a career out of it."

His smile only widens, as if to say I'm well aware.

"Drink?"

"Please," you reply.

His smile, which is much brighter and lighthearted than you anticipated, remains as he crosses the room and stands behind the bar.

"Any preference?" he asks.

"Whatever you recommend," you answer, plopping down on the velvet green Chesterfield sofa, digging in your bag for your notes. At this point, it's less of a bag and more of a giant mess of papers and folders and photographs held together by a few pieces of straining fabric.

Hoseok plucks a perfect sphere of ice out of a silver dish, dropping it into a martini shaker. He grabs the decanter of blackberry vodka, and a few other bottles and mixers.

"Very thorough, aren't you?" he asks as he pours shots and drizzles into the shaker.

"That's right," you respond, spreading out the near-endless stream of documents according to the map in your head.

You can hear the clack of the shaker, the sound of its contents being poured. A moment later, a martini glass filled with near pitch-dark liquid, garnished with a blackberry, is placed by your side.

"Thank you," you say, grabbing the glass and taking a sip. There's the hint of flavored vodka, a berry tartness, and some other taste that you can't quite name.

Hoseok sinks down in the chair across from you with a matching glass in his hand, crossing one slim leg over the other.

"So," he begins, and you don't have to look at him to feel his eyes scanning you up and down. "You're the one she settled on to sort out this mess."

You pause your obsessive shuffling.

"She?"

In the middle of taking a sip from his drink, he looks at you like he's a little confused.

"The mayor? She is the one who hired you, isn't she?" he asks.

"Yes," you admit. "What of it?"

A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I admire your suspicion, ______," Hoseok says, and hearing your name from his mouth is strangely thrilling. "But you must trust me when I say that me and my family have done nothing to cause the deaths and disappearances, at least to our knowledge."

"Then you better start telling me what you know," you reply sharply, fixing him with a strict gaze, and he doesn't break it.

"That is why you invited me here, isn't it?" you ask. "To tell me what you know?"

Hoseok considers it for a moment.

"Of sorts, yes," he replies, cryptidly.

You suppress the slight annoyance that wants to creep into your expression, focusing back on your documents. Spreading out a map littered with red circles and connecting lines, you point to one of the marked indicators.

"This is the Addams House, correct?" you ask, instinctively using your interrogation voice without realizing it.

It makes Hoseok chuckle internally.

"Correct," he replies cooly.

"And these," you point to several of the red circles. "Are the last known locations of the five missing persons. Remarkably close, hmm?"

"Come now, ______," Hoseok says in a playfully chiding voice. "Location may be suggestive, but it isn't incriminating."

"I never said it was," you bite back. "I'm merely suggesting that this house, as well as the surrounding area, displays some very strange qualities. And I can't leave any stone unturned."

Hoseok nods, almost appreciatively.

“I’d expect nothing less,” he says, smiling that same radiant smile.

“You’ve done your job well, haven’t you?” he inquires, setting his glass down and rising from his seat, beginning to circle around the couch.

“I should hope so,” you reply a little hesitantly.

He passes by the bar and picks up the discarded martini shaker, fiddling with it, the ice inside clanking.

“How far-reaching are your investigative powers, I wonder?” he says.

He’s at your right-hand side, and suddenly he tosses the shaker halfway across the room in a perfect arc. It lands in the small sink at the bar counter with a loud clang.

Your head whips toward the sound, focus ripped away from the sea of papers.

When you look back at him, he’s adjusting his jacket lapels, sauntering back over to his seat.

“Far enough to get the job done, I suppose," you reply, trying to uphold a neutral yet strict tone of voice.

"Hmm," Hoseok says, raising a brow. "Far enough to constitute stalking?"

The back of your neck prickles.

"What makes you say that?" you ask, though both of you know well enough that you're playing dumb.

"Ever heard the expression "walls have ears?" Well, trees have eyes, and they've told me all about you."

He's back in his seat, but you still feel like he's circling around you. Not many people make you nervous, let alone intimidate you, but Hoseok is apparently one of the exceptions.

"You should know that I am very protective over my family," he says, the tone of his voice dipping a little deeper. "Naturally, I keep an eye on them."

With that, he reaches into his inside jacket and pulls out several files. Flipping open to specific pages, he throws them down on the coffee table between the two of you with a papery slap!

Staring up at you are several photos, and it takes you a second to recognize them as ones from your own camera.

Jimin, walking to class, his hand frozen in time while brushing through his hair. Taehyung, hands in his coat pockets, meandering through town on his way to the police station. Jin, leaning against the garden wall, cradling a coffee cup in his hands.

It takes you another few seconds to realize that the file is from the pile of folders you brought with you. He must've slipped it from you when he tossed the shaker into the sink, a diversion to make you turn your head.

A crooked grin, slick voice, and sticky fingers apparently.

"I admire the dedication even more than the suspicion," Hoseok says, reaching into his jacket again, but this time he pulls out a silver cigarette case.

He holds it towards you with a questioning tilt of his head, offering you one, but you shake your head. He takes one out, puts it to his lips and lights it with the flick of a lighter.

It doesn't smell like tobacco though, more like cloves and pennyroyal buds.

"Technically," you begin. "Stalking includes inducing fear in the victim; intimidation, threats, and the like."

The subtext is clear: good luck taking me to court for this.

A smile breaks out on his face.

"No harm done," he says. "They were quite flattered, actually."

You don't really know what to do with that statement. It must show on your face, because Hoseok smirks with an exhale of fragrant smoke.

"Don't worry about it, detective," he says, sounding amused. "We're all sinners here. What's a little felony charge here and there?"

You watch the ghosts of smoke twist from the end of the cigarette between his slim fingers. Something about the way the smoke moves is unusual, like it doesn't quite obey the laws of physics that normal smoke would.

"In fact," he says, reaching into his other jacket pocket. "I must admit that I'm a little guilty myself."

He takes out another folder, opens it, and lets it fall on the table. It's a mass of photos, and they're all of you. Sitting in the cafe through the window, walking through town, collecting samples at in the woods.

Now you know where that I'm being watched feeling was coming from. If you were normal, you might've been creeped out by it. But this isn't the first time you've been trailed and you doubt it will be the last.

"I'm curious, though," he starts. "What exactly made them worthy of stalking in the first place?"

You look down at the spread of appetizers like you're contemplating reaching for one. You're not going to mention how you've been trying to distract yourself from what you saw at the lake, or the fact that you find all the inhabitants of the Addams House to be a little too compelling.

"I knew that all of them were cagey if not outright lying about living here, and given this place's reputation, I found it necessary to dig deeper," you answer in a leveled voice.

"And you figured that this place might be connected to the disturbances?" Hoseok replies, though it doesn't sound like a question.

You set him with a firm gaze.

"I never ignore patterns."

He stares right back.

"Words? Yes. Actions? Sometimes. But never patterns."

He's really staring at you, like he's trying to find the answer to some unspoken question in his head. The look in his eyes is somewhere between inquisitive and impressed, maybe even—

"I think you have darker thoughts than you realize, detective," he says. The smoke tendrils from his last drag hang, mesmerizing, between the two of you.

"If you truly want to know what's strange about this place, I can show you."

He's leaning forward slightly in his chair, and but before you even have time to think about what that means, the loud clang of a bell is sounding through the air.

"Ah," Hoseok says, taking one last puff from his cigarette before stubbing it out in the crystal ashtray on the coffee table. "That's Jin calling us to dinner."

He rises to a stand and straightens his jacket lapels.

"Once you're done with your cocktail, we'll head into the dining room."

You haphazardly gather your notes, down the rest of your drink, and follow him out of the room.

He leads you through the ornate hallways, quickly darkening with the setting of the sun. The sound of clinking dishes and pleasant chatter grows steadily louder.

When you emerge into what you presume is the kitchen, you're almost struck speechless.

It's a humongous, grand, high-ceilinged room, and nearly everything is in shades of green and gold. The dark marble floors are flecked with gold veins, the dark wood cupboards and drawers are fixed with gold handles, even the smell in the air has a rich, golden warmth to it.

The countertops are a deep jade quartz, and the floor to ceiling stained glass windows are in patterns of emerald and amber. More plants decorate the space, though these are taller and more lush.

The huge stove is crowded with copper pots and pans, all sizzling and bubbling and hissing with their savory aroma.

There's someone standing over the stove, wearing a crisp white button-up and black apron, a small saucepan in one hand, swirling sauce on a plate in fancy shapes. There's a whole line of plates before him, making him look like a master chef plating up a dish for a hoard of diners.

"Oh, hello _______," the man says cheerfully when he notices you, and you realize that it's Jin (though you guessed as much from his ridiculously broad shoulders).

The next second he's squirting something into a different pan, sending up a surge of sweet-smelling flames, though he doesn't even turn his head from you.

"Hello," you manage to greet him, captivated by how he expertly juggles everything. There's sauteing vegetables, sizzling meats, a bubbling broth, not to mention something that you can't see in the oven.

The sound of shattering glass sounds from the next room.

Hoseok suppresses an eye roll.

"Please excuse me, detective," he says, sounding like a slightly annoyed parent. "If you wouldn't mind lingering in the kitchen while I sort this out. Jin so likes the company."

Jin flicks a spurt of hot oil over one shoulder, missing Hoseok by an inch, but he only bursts into laughter while sliding out of the room.

Jin doesn't seem to mind as you curiously look around the gigantic room, he just continues his work in comfortable silence.

That's a common theme with Jin. He's charismatic and perfectly capable of carrying a conversation, but he appears to enjoy your company despite how quiet and reserved you are. He merely glances your way every few moments, like he's reassuring himself that you're still there.

You like how he doesn't push you for conversation. It seems like he enjoys observing you just as much as you enjoy observing your surroundings (though you do enjoy observing him when he's not looking).

"Very impressive," you can't help but say as you watch him out of the corner of your eye.

"Thank you," he replies happily, and then adds playfully, "Feel free to mention that at the table."

Your eyes scan over the variety of coffee contraptions, no doubt because of Jin the cafe owner. Then you reach the refrigerator, black with gold handles, but instead of plastic magnets there are little antique picture frames with photos of all if the house's inhabitants. Because of course even the fridge has to align with the aesthetic.

"Looking for something?" Jin quips, clearly amused.

It's then that you wonder what exactly you'd find inside the fridge. Jin knows you've been watching him. Does he know what you suspect he is?

"What would I possibly be looking for?" you reply nonchalantly.

Jin lets out a chuckle that would dissolve even the thickest tension.

"If you're looking for blood bags and raw meat, you won't find them here."

He says it so jokingly, that you start to think maybe you were wrong about him. Maybe is he just some normal man with normal tendencies, the only reason for his nocturnal lifestyle attributed to him owning a 24 hour coffee shop.

Maybe you don't have to imagine him standing among a rack of blood bags at the local hospital, stealing them for his own benefit while leaving others without the vital resource.

Because if that's the case, then you have no reason to suspect he has anything to do with the deaths and disappearances. Maybe you could even—

"I don't keep them in that fridge," he says.

Your amused expression drops.

The timer on the oven beeps.

"Almost ready. If you wouldn't mind moving into the dining room and taking your seat," Jin says, focusing back on plating each dish.

You take the hint, leaving him in his element.

Another grand room, but with much higher ceilings, almost like a dark cathedral. There are the same stained glass windows and marble floors, and a massive crystal chandelier lit by tapering candles hangs overhead, though you have no idea how anyone could get so high up in order to light them.

Though the thing that demands the most attention is the long table in the center of the room. More dripping candles, some more like piles of wax with a lit wick, and bouquets of dried flowers serve as centerpieces. A black lace tablecloth, glinting silverware, dishes with images of crows and insects.

You don't even notice the people standing around the table until a small projectile is hurtling past you. Head whipping around, you see Jimin standing there with a slingshot held up to his face, and that face painted with a smirk.

From the way he's looking at you, it's not outrageous to assume that he was aiming at you. That is, until you hear a crash from behind you.

"Hey! Don't hit my azaleas!"

You immediately recognize the voice as Yoongi's, but your eyes are locked on Jimin. This is the first time you've seen him without a mask.

Uncovered by a hat, his silver hair falls across his forehead, and his eyes, unobscured by sunglasses, shine a strange blue-gray.

Something about his face is dangerous, it makes you want to see how close you can get before that danger becomes a real threat.

"You missed," you say, even though the smirk on his face is not one that belongs to someone who's missed their shot.

He just smiles on, and his teeth are sharp. Unnaturally sharp, as if every tooth beyond the front two have been filed down to fine points.

"If I wanted to hit you, I would've hit you," Jimin replies.

Hoseok approaches the two of you, ready to unleash another lethal roll of his eyes. He holds out his hand, and Jimin gives up the slingshot with a little huff.

"We have a no weapons at the table policy," Hoseok explains as Jimin pushes past him. You move to follow, but Hoseok stops you too.

"I'm afraid we also have a no recording devices at the table policy," he says with a knowing look.

You stare at him in slight disbelief, but he appears to be serious.

You want them to trust you, if only for the sake of the investigation. If they know something, you can't seem like a threat.

So you start to empty your pockets.

There's the microcassette recorder in your coat pocket, the digital recorder in your pants pocket, the flash drive recorder in your other pants pocket, the pen recorder in your inner jacket pocket.

You make a show of straightening your clothes before trying to slide past him, but he blocks you again with a raise of an eyebrow.

How the fuck...? Ugh, fine. You suppose you can actually be trustworthy instead of just pretending to be.

You take out the spare digital recorder in your left jacket pocket, the mini microphone in your shirt pocket, the flashlight with the secret button clipped to your belt. And the fake lapel pin. And the video camera in your bag. And the smaller backup camera in the hidden pocket inside your bag.

When you look up, you see that everyone in the room has stopped to watch you, all with expressions of slight shock.

Remembering one last thing, you hold up a finger, fishing out the micro nine pistol from the holster at the back of your waistband, setting it down at the top of the pile of contraband. As well as the extra magazine.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and you think that maybe you shouldn’t have revealed the fact that you usually bring your gun to unfamiliar situations. But then you hear Jimin chuckle.

“Well,” he says from across the room with nothing but amusement in his tone. “It’s definitely a party now.”

Now that everyone is properly de-weaponed and de-deviced, everyone moves to take a seat, with Hoseok at one head of the table and Yoongi at the other in a tall peacock chair.

Your place is between Jimin and Taehyung, with Jungkook and Namjoon sitting across the table.

You should’ve guessed that Namjoon would be here, live here. As a P.I., you’re kicking yourself that you didn’t guess as much earlier.

Jin is still in the kitchen, dishes clanking. And what you perceive as awkward silence hangs in the air. To them, it simply feels like impatience being soothed.

You wait, wait for one of them to acknowledge the situation. Why have you been invited here?

“Did you enjoy the appetizers, _____?” Jimin asks.

You sneak a glance at him. He’s dressed in a silk shirt that billows around his form, his pale hair now pushed back from his forehead, transforming his face from relatively innocent to dangerously attractive. He watches you eagerly, waiting for your reply. He caught all of the seafood himself, after all.

You just nod in response, but Jimin flashes you a pleased smile all the same.

“We weren’t allowed to have any, of course,” Taehyung remarks, giving Hoseok a pointed look.

“Guests eat first, Taehyung, you know that,” he replies swiftly, but from the little grin on both their faces, it’s clear they’re only teasing.

You wonder how often they have guests in a place like this.

Another silence falls, you sneaking glances at everyone around the table. Except when you dare glance at Hoseok, he’s already looking. He must sense your discomfort, because then he’s saying, “My apologies, detective. We haven’t had proper introductions yet.”

He starts with the person to his left.

“This is Taehyung, our resident coroner. He runs the morgue downstairs.”

This is the first time you’ve made eye contact with Taehyung since you arrived in the house, and he doesn’t seem like the same man you met in the morgue. This man is at ease in his own home, a man who isn’t bound by professional constraints. He’s looking at you now less like a private investigator and more like a stranger that he doesn’t want to remain a stranger.

You’re not sure which you prefer.

“This is Jimin, he’s currently studying chemistry and marine biology at the university.”

Jimin meets your gaze when you glance at him, cocking his head back slightly and flashing a hint of those sharp teeth again.

“Yoongi, our genius little green thumb. He’s the one who keeps the place nice and lush,” Hoseok gushes, and Yoongi gives a little wave and straight-lipped smile, blushing only slightly.

“Namjoon, our favorite bookworm. And brilliant scholar! About to publish his third book.” Namjoon nods his head towards you with a small smile.

“And this is Jungkook, the youngest problem in the bunch,” Hoseok says, gesturing towards the young man in the pinstripe suit. Jungkook acknowledges you still somewhat nervously.

“Forgotten someone?” A voice calls.

Jin saunters into the room, having abandoned his apron for a lace jacket with sewn-on fabric flowers. He takes the empty seat to Hoseok’s right, straightening his hair. But it doesn’t like he’s been slaving in the kitchen this whole time at all. Not one stain on his clothes, not one dew drop of sweat.

“Could never forget you, darling,” Hoseok replies. “And this is Jin, our lovely chef who keeps us all so well fed.”

Jin gives a tiny little bow in your direction, along with one of his charming smiles.

There’s another pause, as if they’re waiting for you to say something. All you can think of is that they already know you, there’s no need for you to introduce yourself. So you say the first adjacent thing to come to your head:

“Glad to have met all of you.”

And you barely notice it, already looking down at your empty plate, but they simultaneously stifle the flutter in their gut.

“Alright,” Jin announces, clapping his hands together. “Let’s eat!”

Everyone but you, in near perfect synchronicity, grabs the silver cloche set before each of their table settings, and places it over their plate. Jimin gestures for you to do the same, so you obey.

When you remove it again, after everyone else does the same, the former empty plate is suddenly full. A thick and creamy soup, speckled with spices, steaming in a bread bowl crusted with garlic and herbs.

And of course no one bats an eye at the casual error in the law of physics, too busy passing around a bowl of greens to garnish and a bottle of red wine to fill their glasses. You don’t object when Taehyung holds the bottle over your own glass with a questioning raise of his eyebrow.

And by God, is it delicious. The cream base of the soup melts perfectly with hints of herbs and the peppery bite of truffle shavings. And of course, the best part is being able to break off a bit of flavored bread and dip it into the pot of gold before you.

“This is delicious,” you can’t help but blurt out, saying it like an aggressively objective fact.

“Thank you,” Jin replies, smiling wide like a child that was just complimented on their most recent art project. Except you can’t display a bowl of soup on the fridge, but you would if you could.

“Yoongi helped me forage the mushrooms,” Jin adds.

Mushrooms? Now that you think of it, the soup does have a distinct earthy taste.

“Do you forage often?” you ask, looking at Yoongi.

“Not as often as I’d like,” he replies.

“Why is that?” you ask, and a small smile tugs at Yoongi’s mouth. There’s a shared chuckle from around the table.

“What?” you blurt out, almost certain that they are making fun of you or know something that you don’t, probably both.

“You’re doing your interrogator voice,” Jimin says, but it doesn’t sound malicious, more like…endeared?

A look around the table, and everyone’s face matches the tone of his voice. He says it as if the two of you have known each other for years, as if you’re friends. It puts a strange, almost sickly feeling in your stomach. You set down your spoon.

Soon the air is filled with pleasant dinner-time chatter. They keep trying to bring you into the conversation, like you’re somehow one of them. But you’re here to get a job done.

It becomes exceedingly more difficult to concentrate solely on the case when the main course comes out. Again, due only to the covering and uncovering of your plates with the silver cloches, the remains of your soup disappearing.

A choice cut steak, generously seasoned, drizzled with a red wine sauce, a heap of garlic and herb mashed potatoes, and more mushrooms grilled to tenderness. You’re not normally fond of mushrooms, but these are surprisingly flavorful in a way you wouldn’t expect from a vegetable, let alone a fungus.

“They’re Pepperwood caps,” Jin says, as if reading your thoughts. “Yoongi grows them on the grounds.”

In all your research, you’ve never heard of Pepperwood caps.

“Hoseok isn’t eating them,” you say pointedly. “Neither is Jungkook,” you continue. There are no Pepperwood caps on either of their plates. Instead, a small pile of white capped mushrooms with brown spots.

“To my knowledge, those are Deadly Dapperlings, yes?”

They all look at each other.

“You don’t miss anything, do you detective?” Hoseok says with a little grin.

Your research on fungi has made you a novice at recognizing the lethal ones.

“Jungkook and I find that the poisonous ones have a particularly robust flavor,” Hoseok continues.

You watch him as he says it, waiting for him to elaborate, but he never does. So you return your attention to your perfectly cooked steak.

“I imagine you’re curious about what precisely the fuck we all are,” Jin interjects the silence, and your fork stops halfway to your mouth.

“Really all that needs to be said is that whatever you’ve already deduced is probably true.” He has his hands clasped together, his shirtsleeve riding up to expose the crescent-shaped bite mark on the inside of his wrist. He smiles when he notices you staring.

“Don’t worry,” he says, sounding amused. “I can be trusted around exposed neck flesh.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“So there’ll be no biting over the course of the evening?” you quip, only half joking.

Jin maintains his level gaze.

“Only if you want it desperately,” he replies.

You mold your face into a hard mask of indifference before you say something stupid.

“I must admit,” Taehyung begins. “I'm a little older than I look."

You stare at him like you’re trying to read a book. It’s true, he doesn’t look a day over thirty.

Jimin clears his throat.

"I'm not exactly...from here," he says, and when you look at him you swear you see something shift underneath his shirt.

The man in the peacock chair shifts.

"I'm a little more tuned into nature than most people," Yoongi adds. It’s only then that you notice that the dried flowers in their vases are leaning towards him like he’s the sun.

Jungkook is fidgeting in his chair, avoiding your gaze. But you can gather as much from the pallor of his skin and the deep-set dark circles under his eyes, both of which become clearer and easier to see the more times you look at him.

He has a ghostly air about him, like a whisper in the wind.

You look at Namjoon, and he smiles with a shrug.

"I just run a bookshop," he says.

A shared laugh sounds around the table. Namjoon rolls his eyes.

"Okay, maybe I've made a few blood pacts, but I'm a folklorist for Christ's sake!"

You genuinely can’t tell if he’s joking, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. Though, judging by what you’ve seen tonight, he’s probably telling nothing but the truth.

Finally, you turn to Hoseok.

“I’m…not all there,” he says, and you wait patiently for more.

He scratches the back of his head, looking like he’s trying to find the right words.

“You can see me sitting here, but it’s only half of me. You can touch me and hear my voice, but it’s not actually me. I need to be…contained.”

Now you’re staring at him in confusion.

“You ever read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?” Namjoon asks.

Before you can answer, another loud clang of the bell is sounding. Everyone else merely looks at the clock, but you flinch violently at the skull-rattling volume of the noise.

Jin wipes the corner of his mouth with his cloth napkin and pushes his chair back. Everyone else does the same, covering their now empty plates with the silver cloches.

Hoseok rises to a stand.

“Would you like to join us for coffee and cocktails in the library? Dessert should be ready shortly,” Hoseok says, though it doesn’t sound much like question when he heads down the hallway without waiting for an answer. And apparently it didn’t sound like a question to anyone else either, because Jimin and Taehyung are soon pulling you up from your chair and leading you out of the room, with Jimin even wrapping one arm around yours as Taehyung presses himself to your side.

The library is a dark room, no less grand than the rest of the house, with the same candlelit chandelier and sconces. Floor to ceiling bookshelves wrap themselves around the entirety of the room, complete with a wooden ladder on a sliding rail. There’s a roaring fire in the fireplace, and plenty of leather chairs and couches gathered around it.

Jimin lets you go when the door is shut securely behind you.

“Who wants a drink?” Jin asks, heading over to the bar cart in the corner, but you’re more drawn to the tea set on the low table by the fireplace. It’s all black and gold, with little images of ravens on the cups and saucers.

You pour yourself a cup with cream and sugar, taking a languid sip and relishing in its perfect richness.

Jin distributes the drinks as he prepares them without having to ask anyone what they want. A glass of white wine for Taehyung, something sparkling and slightly radioactive looking for Jimin, that same blackberry concoction for Hoseok, hot toddies for Namjoon and Jungkook, and a glass of some citrusy cordial for Yoongi. When you get a closer look at his glass you notice that Jin even took the time to carve a little jack-o-lantern face into half a tangerine as a garnish.

Jin makes himself the dirtiest martini you've ever seen, with only half the glass with liquid in it, the top half being a copious pile of olives.

“So, detective,” Hoseok says, leaning against one of the bookshelves. “How can we be of service?”

Your eyebrows raise.

“You want to help?” you ask, still incredulous. Because to be honest, you’re not quite sure what the purpose of this evening is supposed to be. To intimidate you? Confuse you? Judging by the fact that you stalked them because they fell under your radar of suspicion. You figured that if they were going to offer to help they could’ve done it with an email.

“Of course,” Taehyung says from his seat on one of the couches. “The last thing I want is more bodies on my autopsy table due to deaths that could’ve been avoided.”

“And something is harming the wildlife,” Yoongi adds.

You set down your cup and saucer, digging in your bag to start spreading papers all around you.

“What’s the deal with the mayor?” you ask.

“She's...unpopular with the general population," Namjoon offers. "A little too different."

"She won the election, didn't she?" you counter.

"By the skin of her teeth," Jimin replies. "Minority vote kicked in at the last second. And a lot of people aren't happy about it."

"Different, huh?" you say. The implication is clear.

"Or at least, her ancestors were, and I think her daughter is too. Tends to run in the family, stuff like that," Taehyung adds.

"She looks out for those like us," Yoongi says. "When she can, that is. It's gotten a little harder these days."

"Why is that?" you ask.

Yoongi shrugs.

"That's just how it goes. Some times are harder than others."

"Is that why the mayor wanted everything off the record? Why there's hardly been any media coverage?" you ask.

"That's what I'm guessing," Yoongi replies.

"She's paying me out of pocket," you inform them.

"That doesn't surprise me much," Namjoon adds. "She's always been too generous for her own good. I imagine she cares more about this strange case than most of her colleagues."

"So she knows about all of your…proclivities? That’s why she sent me your way?” you ask.

“I’d be surprised if she didn’t,” Yoongi replies. “Normal people tend to think we’re weirdos, but those who are like us know when they’re looking in a mirror.”

"What about the paper?" you ask.

Their expressions cloud with confusion.

“Uh, what about it?”

Ah, have you finally breached the topic of something they want to hide?

“Several people have claimed to have negative experiences with the press, but the main publishers have barely commented on any of the cases.”

“Oh, you mean the Periscope Press,” Taehyung supplies.

Hmm, maybe they don’t have anything to hide after all. But that doesn’t mean you trust them yet.

“It’s an underground newspaper, independently published, geared towards folks like us. Though it’s mostly full of garbage these days, we don’t have a subscription,” Taehyung explains.

“We can get you copies of the last few editions, though,” Jungkook adds, startling you a little since you haven’t heard him speak much tonight. He suddenly looks down at his shoes like he just realized the fact too.

“If you want,” he says, this time in nearly a whisper.

“That would be great, thank you,” you reply graciously, though he continues to avoid your gaze.

“So, detective,” Hoseok begins, and with the drink his voice is a touch more gravelly. “What’s your next move?”

They’re all looking at you now, curious and waiting.

You look down at your notes and fight the urge to clench your fist, because to honest, you’re not sure.

“I’m sure our little sleuth has a plan,” Jimin quips from his place sprawled out across one of the couches.

“I’d like to get access to Bradley’s reports and records, and wear down Mrs. Bradley if at all possible,” you begin, forming a list in your head. “I’d like to continue fieldwork around the woods and the lake, maybe see if anyone at the university can do some tests on those unusual mushrooms. I’ll be continuing my rounds around town to see if any civilians have anything to offer. Hopefully I can get some more information on the ones still missing.”

“And the lake?” Jimin asks.

You don’t want to talk about the lake. Thinking about it puts a sinking feeling in your gut, the stench of hot poisoned salt water filling your nose.

You don’t want to talk about what you saw. In your line of work, simply seeing isn’t enough. All that matters is hard evidence. So that’s what you’re gonna get.

Downing the dregs of your coffee cup, you start to gather up your notes.

“You’re leaving?” Jimin says, sounding wounded. “Before dessert?”

“I’m afraid there’s some things I wanted to get done tonight,” you say, ready to retreat back into your hole and dive back into the distraction of your work, where there aren’t several pairs of sultry dark eyes watching your every move.

“I suppose it is getting late,” Hoseok says. Though he doesn’t mention that many of them either don’t need to sleep or simply prefer to be active into the darkest hours of the morning.

“Let us send you home with some goodies, hm?” Hoseok nods to his housemates.

Jin cuts you slice of blue velvet cake, packing it up in a little bento box container.

You object at first, saying you don’t want to take a container as nice as this one, but Jin just retorts with a wink, saying that you’ll just have to come back sometime to return it.

Yoongi takes some cuttings from one of the dining room table centerpieces, adding some clippings from plants around the house as fillers, and wraps the bouquet in brown paper tied neatly with a bow. He hands it to you with a shy expression.

Namjoon gifts you a small stack of books, bound together by a leather strap, with The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde at the top of the pile. He gives you a smile when you notice.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Jungkook says when they lead you through the dark halls to the front door, which you didn’t expect.

He carries your gifts as the two of you travers first the cobblestone path and then the small hill down to where you parked your car.

“Sorry we’re so strange. And vague. I imagine it’s frustrating,” he says suddenly.

The walk up to this point has been completely silent, so the sound of his voice startles you just a bit.

“Yes, you’re all very weird,” you say, and Jungkook’s face sinks.

“If any of you ever change I’ll be very disappointed,” you finish, and that puts a full smile on his face, full enough that you can see the bunny-like jut of his front teeth.

A few moments of silence, the wind singing a low song.

“You’re very cynical, you know,” he says.

That makes you look at him, but his face is that same neutral expression, dark eyes wide like a young doe’s. He says it like a simple observation, not with the judgmental you’re used to hearing.

“Am I?” you reply, unable to choke back the little sarcastic bite to your tone.

He nods.

“You think no one could ever believe you just for the sake of believing you. You think you need to prove yourself.”

You stare at him, long and hard enough to miss the fact that the two of you have reached your car.

He opens the door for you, and you’re glad that you’re heading to the safety of your home because all these kind gestures are starting to make you feel weird.

After you start the engine, Jungkook leans down to look at you through the open window.

“Try not to worry about the case so much,” he says softly. “Trust your instincts, you’ll figure it out.”

There’s a moment of silence where you stare at him some more, wondering how a man who’s been so quiet and shy for the duration of the evening can shock you dumb with just a handful of words.

“Thank you, Jungkook,” you manage after a while. “And thank the others for a lovely meal.”

He nods and smiles, backing up to let you drive off down the hill.

Back at home, you make a fresh pot of coffee and tuck into that slice of cake while you draft an email to the mayor detailing your most recent findings.

Then you look through all the books you have on mushrooms, even go to the internet, but you find absolutely nothing on Pepperwood caps. To the rest of the world, they don’t exist.

You fall asleep with The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde lying open in your hand.

~~~

a/n: thanks for your patience! :)

#bts ot7 #bts x reader #ot7 x reader #bts series #bts x fem!reader #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts mystery #bts angst #bts poly au

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yoonkinii · 3 months ago

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Jealous Y♡u

Warning(s): cursing, jealousy, flirting with a taken man, hints to having sex (no smut though), anger, extreme kissing :3 Requests open (only for this AU) Masterlist (check for more AU content!) note: Sorry it's short! I couldn't get this idea out of my head and had to write it.

No matter how extravagant the restaurant was, your mood remained sour - a shame, really.

Nestles in the heart of the city’s glittering downtown, the restaurant gleamed like a polished gem beneath the soft glow of its artfully arranged lighting. The entrance, framed by lush greenery and a discreet brass plaque, hinted at the understated elegance within. The sounds of lively conversations mingled with the gentle clinking of fine china and crystals, creating an atmosphere of refined luxury.

Inside, the restaurant was a harmonious blend of contemporary design and classic sophistication, while the walls, dressed in muted shades of ivory and taupe, provided a serene backdrop. Large, abstract paintings added splashes of vibrant color - mesmerizing, but now only contributed to your growing headache.

You couldn’t sit still at your designated table, too restless and irritated to remain in one place. The business party was still in full swing, with unfamiliar faces chattering about topics you didn’t understand. When Sukuna invited you to his yearly business event, you were excited. It was a formality he dreaded but had to attend to maintain business relationships. But now, surrounded by strangers and trapped in your own thoughts, the excitement had long faded, leaving you adrift in a sea of discontent.

A burst of laughter causes you to drag your eyes away from the expansive window, where the cityscape below had tried and failed to distract you as you sipped on your champagne. The laughter of the very person responsible for your agitation was hard to ignore. Your anger had been simmering for the past hour, and it was about to reach a boiling point. Perhaps it was the alcohol buzzing through your system, fraying your patience more than usual. Maybe it was a combination of everything. Either way, you were livid.

Your eyes lock onto the two figures who have you clenching your glass a little too tightly, a tight-lipped grimace playing on your mouth as you watch them for what feels like the umpteenth time. You don’t know who she is or what her name is, but at this moment, you don’t care. To you, she’s simply that woman.

She was pretty, very pretty, and she knew it. It was evident in her choice of attire - a brown bodycon dress that hugged her figure, accentuating her curves and leaving little to the imagination. You had noticed her the moment you walked into the restaurant. She had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, with a smile a little too wide as she greeted your boyfriend. Normally, you wouldn’t have minded; it’s not like you’re the jealous type. But after her backhanded comment, something inside you snaps.

“Oh! I totally expected you to be with someone else.”

From that moment, everything went downhill. She completely disregarded the seating arrangements, forcing someone else to take her original spot so she could sit on the other side of Sukuna. Her behavior escalated from a harmless crush on your boyfriend to blatantly throwing herself at a taken man. It started with seemingly innocent compliments before progressing into something worse.

“I like your hair today.”

“That shirt looks great on you.”

“Your piercings suit you.”

And poor Sukuna, completely oblivious to this woman’s intentions, responded to her words with a simple hum, not truly paying attention to her at all. To his credit, Sukuna was focused on one thing - you. His hand rested on your thigh, the pads of his fingers massaging the delicate skin of your inner thigh absentmindedly. Throughout the main course, Sukuna leaned into your ear, whispering who was who or making sly comments about others, relishing in the way your soft laughter danced in the air.

Sukuna remains oblivious to the woman’s intentions, his mind filled with thoughts of you, and only you. He doesn’t notice the way she inches closer, or the way her laughter seems to cling to his every word. His focus is entirely on you, but you don’t see it that way. You don’t see the way his gaze softens whenever you meet his eyes. Dressed in a cream-colored dress with a square neckline that leaves your collar bones on display, you’re the picture of elegance. Sukuna is sure that anyone who cared to notice would definitely see how his expression changes when he looks at you.

But she doesn’t give up easily. Even after the meal, her persistence lingers like an unwanted shadow. She laughs at everything Sukuna says, her hands constantly finding its way to his biceps, her body icing closer with each passing minute. Even as Sukuna excuses himself with a kiss on your cheek to speak with a close business partner, she follows, as if tethered to him.

And so, you find yourself in your current state, scowling as you watch her from across the room. Her laughter is loud and shrill, cutting through the fin of conversations around you. A server passes by, and you force a strained smile as you exchange your empty glass for a full one. The rim of the glass soon bears the stain of your red lipsticks as you hover it near your lips.

Then, it happens in slow motion. Sukuna’s lips move as he speaks, a faint smile gracing his face as he talks with an older gentleman. But her reaction is out of place; she laughs far too heartily for something that isn’t even remotely funny. As her shoulders shake with her exaggerated laughter, she wraps her arms around Sukuna’s arm, pressing her chest firmly against him.

Before Sukuna can even register what’s happening, you’re already by his side. Your champagne glass is abandoned on a nearby table as you wedge yourself between them, forcing her to disentangle herself from him. She stares at you, wide-eyed, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to whip that look of confusion off her face with your fist.

With barley concealed sarcasm, you address her, your voice dripping with venomous politeness. “Sorry, I need to borrow my boyfriend. Is that alright with you?”

She’s visibly taken aback, her pout deepening as she glances at Sukuna, as if expecting him to rescue her from this situation. But Sukuna, feeling the tug on his arm, follows you as you lead him away, guiding him to a secluded area- the restroom.

The restroom is dimly lit, with warm hanging bulbs casting a soft glow. The black wooden floors and walls accentuate the golden accents of the large, well-lit vanity. A few potted plants sit in the corners, adding a touch of life to the otherwise moody atmosphere.

Sukuna barely has time to react before you push him into the restroom, the door clicking shut behind you as you turn your back on him, your breaks deep and uneven in an attempt to calm your rising anger. But it’s not working. The fury simmering inside you is only growing hotter.

“I’m going to fucking kill her,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

“Jealous, are we?” His voice laced with amusement.

You whirl around, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. Sukuna’s lips curve into a smile, clearly entertained by your fiery demeanor. It’s not often he sees you this worked up, and he can’t help but find it endearing, even if the pout on your lips is more adorable than intimidating.

“I am not jealous,” you retort, though your words come out less convincing than you intended.

“Oh?” His brow arches in mock surprise, arms crossing over his broad chest. The fabric of his dress shirt strains against his muscles, the buttons barely holding on, as if threatening to pop off at any moment if he breathes too deeply.

Damn him for looking so good. Damn him for those tattoos that decorate his skin. Damn his piercings, and the new one on his lip. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

Before he can tease you further, you grab him by the collar, pulling him down as you rise on your toes. Sukuna grunts in surprise as your lips crash into his. His hands instinctively slide down your back, finding their place on the curve of your ass, where he gives a gentle squeeze, encouraging you.

“I hate her.” You mumble against his lips.

Sukuna smirks, ready to make a playful comment, but it does on his lips the moment your mouth moves to his neck. Your kisses are wicked, nipping, and sucking at his skin, leaving a trail of red marks in their wake. He shudders, feeling the sting of each possessive kiss, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.

You both stumble in the small space of the restroom, Sukuna pushing you back until your spine meets the cool surface of the locked door. A breathy exhale escapes him as he tilts his head, granting you better access to his neck. The sensation of your lips painting his skin with red blooms sends a shiver down his spine.

“Shit.” He mummers, his legs slotting in between yours, pressing himself impossibly closer to you.

Your brows knit together as you guide his face lower, your fingers firm on his chin. Sukuna feels like he’s burning up from the inside, his eyes darkening with desire as he takes in the intensity of your gaze. The sight of your smudged lipstick only adds fuel to the fire, tightening his grip on you and stirring something primal in him.

You cup his cheeks, your lips leaving no inch of his face untouched - his cheeks, his forehead, the corners of his mouth. Everywhere. When you finally try to pull away, his reaction is swift. One of his hands that had been resting on your ass shoots up to the nape of your neck, pulling you back into a fierce kiss.

A soft breath escapes your lips, and Sukuna seizes the opportunity, deepening the kiss as he explores your mouth with a fervor that sends a shiver down your spine. A needy whine escapes you as his hands rove across your body, squeezing and caressing with a possessive hunger. Every touch, every press of his fingers, feels like he’s staking his claim on you, and it only intensifies the fire within him. He wants more. No, he needs more. How dare you make him feel this way- jealous of him, when every fiber in his being is devoted to you? How dare you kiss him with such need when he’s been restraining himself, battling the urge to ravage you every waking moment.

A sudden knock on the door startles you, causing you to jerk back so sharply that your head smacks against the wood. A hiss of pain slips from your lips, and Sukuna’s deep laugh rumbles through his chest, the sound vibrating against your body.

“Um, excuse me, you've been in there for a while and-”

“Leave before I kill you with my bare hands,” Sukuna growls, his eyes never leaving yours, even as you shy away, your cheeks burning with embarrassment at being interrupted.

Silence follows as the unwelcome intruder quickly retreats, leaving the two of you alone once more.

Sukuna exhales, the tension in his body still palpable, but now there’s a look of pride in your eyes as you take in his disheveled appearance. His lips are swollen, his hair a tousled mess from your hands, and his skin is covered in red marks left by your lipstick - a masterpiece of your own making. His body is a canvas, and you’ve painted it with your passion.

He forces himself to step back, muscles taut with restraint. He wants nothing more than to take you here and not, but duty calls, and he knows he must stay for the remainder of the party. If not for that, he would have dragged you out of the restaurant to finish what you started in the privacy of his home. If he could even make it that far.

“Leave,” he orders, his voice tight with the effort it takes to say the words. It’s the last thing he wants, but if you stay, neither of you will be leaving the restroom anytime soon.

You smile softly at him, noting the frustration in the slight downturn of his lips.

“Don’t take it off,” you reply, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you turn to leave.

Sukua gives you a confused look before glancing at the mirror. His breath catches in his throat when he sees the array of kiss marks you’ve left on his skin. He turns back, but you’re already gone.

You are not a jealous person. That’s what you tell yourself as you cast a knowing glance at the woman who had dared to overstep her bounds. It’s not jealousy that fuels you as you reclaim your seat, your once-discarded champagne glass now back in hand. It’s not jealousy that brings a surge of satisfaction when you see the disheartened look on her face as Sukuna emerges from the restroom, his skin marked with the evidence of your affection. It’s not jealousy that makes you giddy as he resumes his conversations with business partners, completely unbothered by his less-than-ideal appearance.

No, you are not a jealous person.

Taglist (open): @kalulakunundrum , @fushipurro , @sad-darksoul , @cupcaketeddybehr

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eatmangoesnekkid · 3 months ago

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No matter what I always choose beauty. What comes with choosing beauty is more intention and alignment. Intentional living.

Thinking about how there is nothing more beautiful than cooking with a lover while dancing and kissing and sipping on a cocktail. If you are like me and don’t really drink, you sip when the mood feels rightfully beautiful.

No matter what I always choose beauty. Like Saidiya Hartman wrote, "beauty is not a luxury."

Beauty is nutrition.But beauty requires something more from us in exchange for its nutrients.

Beauty is not something this world gives to us and there is no guarantee that we will be ready, available, or present enough to really receive it.

Beauty is something that we have to be willing to claim, to pause and take notice of, to shut the fuck up and listen to, or to put in time and effort into feeling.

A beautiful sunset will just pass on by if you don't look up from your phone at the right time.

The effort it takes to put on a nice-fitting dress while home for no reason at all other than it feels beautiful on your skin or to take time to plate your home-cooked food in an artful way is something only you can give to yourself.

A beautiful bouquet of wildflowers brought home will be meaningless if you don't take time to contemplate and notice them.

I always choose beauty in the mess, in the ugly, in art, in meal prep, in lighting a candle, and in the shapes my female body makes.

I am on a partial road trip and packed two small ghee lamps. Even with a packed suitcase, I managed to squeeze in two brass ghee lamps, these little works of art and spirit. Ghee lighting symbolizes purity, peace and love and I light one every night in the kitchen and bedroom in lieu of artificial light and witness how the shadows dance prettily along the walls as I deepen into my night stretch.

I always choose beauty, glass jars tinctures I make by hand and take with me to spa. I could simply pack them into plastic bottles but then chemicals from the plastic would leech into the concoctions and change the molecular structure of the contents. I could just go to the store and buy whatever is available in plastic but it would lack quality. It would be easier to put the concoctions in plastic or just buy something similar instead of making them. I wouldn’t have to be extra careful to not break any bottles or have to take so much time getting ready for the spa, but I choose beauty.

Beauty is less about possession of it as conditioned and more about contemplation, awe, and wonder, witnessing natural light shine prisms through large bay windows.

One personal secret of the universe about me is that I quietly wear pink fuzzy kitten mule house shoes with a 1/2 inch maximum heel height indoors because they feel beautiful and sexy and work cutely with the shape of my body.

Beauty gives us feeling. It gives us height and it gifts us fire. It can turn us on and make us come fully alive.

Beauty can also set us free.

Because when we choose beauty, beauty naturally chooses us back.

--India Ame'ye, Author, From The Melody of Love, Opening Pages to Natural Beauty Chapter (unedited)

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muddyorbsblr · 1 year ago

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feels like mine pt1

See my full list of works here!

Summary: You wake up in a bed that isn't your own, living a life that seems to be pulled straight out of your wildest dreams

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: 18+ | mentions of death; slight gaslighting (?) [let me know if I missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: everything is not what it seems; twist at the end

Your eyes squinted to adjust to the brightness of your bedroom awash with the morning sun. Looks like Mother Nature chose to be a little too chipper this morning and tried to blind you with its rays shining straight into your room.

You rose from your bed, your hands flopping on to the ultra soft comforter that sunk beneath the pressure.

Weird, you thought to yourself. I don't remember checking in to a hotel, and God knows my bed isn't this soft. You slowly sat up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and alarm bells immediately ringing loud in your head when you looked down at the pristine white sheets.

"This isn't my bed," you said aloud, hopping down from the mattress and assessing your body, ensuring that you were free to move and your limbs weren't tied down in some capacity keeping you captive in what would have been a bizarrely cozy looking prison. You assessed your clothes next; mainly to see if you were even wearing any, your brows shooting to your hairline when your hands touched a lush satiny fabric covering your curves. "These aren't my clothes."

You rushed over to a mirror situated on a door that you assumed was a closet, your confusion growing by the second when you saw that the reflection looking back at you was…yourself. Exactly as you were last night before you went to bed, only clad in a navy blue nightie that looked like it cost over a week's pay. And wearing a ring that probably cost your soul.

The items on the nightstand by the side of the bed you'd woken up on raised even more questions. A black leather-bound journal with a gold 'H' pressed on the spine, a fountain pen, a laptop, a tablet, and a Kindle Oasis. An almost exact match to the items on the nightstand that you knew by heart, but each item was a more luxurious variant. For one, you wouldn't in your right mind ever buy yourself a Kindle Oasis. Or an S.T. Duponte fountain pen.

On the opposite nightstand were a stack of papers bound together with brass fasteners and a pair of reading glasses with a grade that moderately blurred your vision when you held it close to your eyes. You decided against looking at the contents of the book-bound papers in case there was anything confidential you weren't meant to glimpse in its contents.

You checked on the door next, seeing if it was locked from the outside. It wasn't.

You stepped out of the bedroom, assessing your surroundings to find any semblance of information that would tell you where you were and why you were here, only to grumble out of sheer frustration, "This isn't my apartment." To start with, apartments didn't have stairs. And your place didn't have nearly this much windows.

"Did I…shift?" Your voice softly echoed off the walls, staring in disbelief at the framed picture before you. Your hair and makeup impeccably done, a flower tiara delicately put in place at the top of your head, clad in a downright whimsical wedding dress and smiling brilliantly at the groom whose back was turned to the camera, your only hint at who he was being broad shoulders and brown slightly curly hair.

The unmistakable sound of vegetables being cut led you down the stairs and into the kitchen, desperately hoping it would lead you to who your mystery husband was and maybe start making some sense of this downright crazy predicament.

But catching a glimpse of the well over 6-foot lean frame dressed a white button-down shirt tucked into black dress pants that put a way too familiar butt on proud display had you itching to wake up because this was most definitely a concerningly vivid dream.

That is definitely not my husband.

No way on God's green Earth were you married to Tom Hiddleston. This just went from bizarre to downright impossible.

"Good morning, sweetheart," he greeted you in that low timbre that had your knees buckling, setting aside his task at hand and removing his apron before walking over to you.

"Hi…" you answered him, voice wavering. Before you could speak another word, he framed your face in his hands, thumbs softly running across your cheekbones, and then pressing a delicate kiss to your lips. "What're you--"

"We finished filming early," he answered, words murmured against your lips. "I caught an earlier flight so I could see you sooner. Oh I've missed you so much." He pressed his lips to yours again. "My darling wife."

Okay, I definitely shifted. This body you may have woken up in had your face, and probably your maiden name…but this wasn't your life. You were occupying space meant for someone else. Another Y/N.

"Tom, I think I have to--"

"Whatever it is can wait." He kissed you again, this time he pressed against you a little harder, your heart beating wildly in your chest when you felt a light, tentative lick to your bottom lip. "Just let me hold you a little while longer." He wrapped his arm around the small of your back, cradling your head with his other hand as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, sighing in contentment.

You knew you were seconds away from abandoning all your plans to try and get him to listen when he started pressing numerous open-mouthed kisses along your neck, your whole body growing weak when he started nipping and licking at the skin. "Please it's important. I don't think I'm supposed to be--"

The feel of him groaning into your skin made your knees give out, making him hold you tighter against him. He walked you backwards until your back pressed against the wall, your breathing labored as he kissed along the expanse of skin exposed to him by your negligee.

When his kisses started traveling south and he pressed his lips to the swell of your breast, you knew you had to get your words out before you gave in and let him have his way with you, however far that may be. "I'm not supposed to be here," you blurted out, pressing your palms to his shoulders and inwardly cursing at yourself for making him stop. "I know that I might sound like I'm not making any sense but…I think I shifted realities…? It's bizarre to me because I never actually succeeded until now but the point is--"

"Sweetheart, slow down." He began to rub his hands up and down your arms, calming you down some within seconds and once again making you question this reality. And how he knew what to do when you began to ramble and spiral in your own thoughts. "You say you're not supposed to be here. Where do you think you should be? Tell me what you know and perhaps I can help from there."

"My name is Y/N Y/L/N, and I'm a software engineer in the middle of a career shift. Last night I went to sleep in a one bedroom apartment in Anaheim. I was no one to you. At most a faceless name that sings your praises online. Definitely not…" You waved your hand in a sweeping gesture across your surroundings. "This," you finished, your breath hitching in the back of your throat when you caught sight of his expression, eyes shining with tears that were seconds away from falling down his cheeks.

"What a bleak life," he breathed out, pressing his lips to your forehead as he pulled you into an embrace. "I can't imagine having to live in a world where I didn't know you. Didn't love you." He kissed your temple. "Thank God it was just a dream."

"A dr--A dream?" you sputtered, confusion overcoming your thoughts. Surely it wasn't that simple. That easily explained. You could remember in vivid detail the code you worked on last night, the bumpy bus ride on the way back to your apartment. The last story you read written by your friends online before you finally laid your head on your pillow and succumbed to an exhausted slumber.

Something about Tom's character on The Hollow Crown and barn sex before he was to face off against the Dauphin of France.

"Yes, my love. Nothing but an awful vivid dream," he reassured you, soothing you with the low velvety tone of his voice, partnered with the kisses he was softly peppering all over your face before stopping at the corner of your mouth. "Your name is Y/N Hiddleston. We've been together for five years, and you gave me the unique honor of becoming your husband less than a year ago. You were a software engineer amidst a career change when I met you all those years ago, and you've come so far since then. You have amazed me at every turn, and it's been a privilege to witness all that you've done. And all that you will continue to do." He captured your lips in a tender kiss, making you melt into his arms as you crossed your hands behind his neck, allowing him to pull you closer. "You just need a few minutes to readjust after waking up. Everything will come back to you soon enough. And any details that don't return to you I'll happily fill those blanks in."

It was almost like the protests that remained in your mind got muffled at his assurances. He spoke about you with such conviction and fondness and love that it made it sound beyond reproach. All that remained was the faintest murmur of doubt that you quickly recognized as those few hours of disbelief you would go through after waking up from a particularly vivid dream, much like those ones you had back in college where you mourned the loss of your best friend and you internally panicked for hours until he walked into the classroom looking every bit as alive as he had the day before.

"Just a dream…" You tested the words on your tongue, the explanation steadily becoming more and more palatable than your initial theory of successfully shifting. Your eyes met Tom's again. "Sorry I…kinda freaked out back there--"

He pressed a delicate kiss to your lips to stop you. "There's no need for apologies, sweetheart. You were disoriented, and I'm grateful you confided in me that you were instead of holding it all in." He brushed the tip of his nose against yours, the gesture bringing a smile to your face and causing a small giggle to escape your lips. "How about you head back upstairs and get ready for the day, and I'll finish whipping up breakfast?"

"That…sounds like a good idea," you agreed, unable to keep the smile off your face even as he kissed you again. "I'll go take a shower and then…I'll be back down here in twenty minutes?"

Tom loosened his hold on you, hands smoothing down your sides before he took a step back so you could make your way up the stairs. Before you passed him, he took your hand in his to call your attention again, bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss to each of your knuckles. "I love you," he whispered against your skin.

"I love you, too," you said back, biting your lip as you gave him a smile before heading back up the stairs, your doubts calmed and your panic from earlier subsiding, allowing you to simply look around the house and appreciate the beauty and joy that your life granted you in stark contrast to last night's dream.

Just as you stepped on to the top landing of the stairs, a flash of green glinted at the corner of Tom's eye, diverting his attention to the visitor in the kitchen.

"She is a perceptive one, your mortal," Loki mused, staring down at the ingredients on the cutting board. "A part of her recognizes that she is no longer within her universe. That part could linger…fester, even. Are you truly certain you wish to continue down this path? To risk her finding out the truth and resenting you from stealing her away from her life--"

"What's the alternative, then?" Tom snapped, gripping the countertop so hard his knuckles were going white, hot tears finally falling from his eyes. "Go on the rest of my days without my wife? Let her go back to a world where she said it herself, she's no one to me?"

Loki let out a sigh, taking a few steps towards the door to the patio, the tension and frustration evident in his stance. "She did not deserve the life she was designed for, on that I do agree. But it will take time for her to fully acclimate to this new universe, if you truly wish to keep her here. And you must accept that no matter what you do, she may never fully fill the space that your late wife left behind."

Tom's eyes burned with more tears, indignation and grief making his heart ache even worse at the memory of you -- that is, the you that he lost not even three days ago. "I know that," he said through gritted teeth. "What of the people who heard news of her passing? The people on set who saw me when I got the call? They're going to ask her questions when they see her alive and well. Questions she won't be able to answer."

The god simply waved a hand dismissively. "Simple memory spell. Their recollection of events will simply be altered wherein they recall you receiving a call and you needed to leave and halt production to ensure her safety, not see to her funeral. Her record at the hospital has been expunged. Any and all evidence that suggests that the Y/N Hiddleston of his universe is no longer with us has ceased to exist."

"Thank you," he choked out, walking up to the god and extending a hand.

"Of course. You deserved not the life you'd planned with your wife taken so violently." Loki took your husband's hand in a firm shake. "Now, I know it may not be my place to tell you what you should be doing at this moment. But from where I stand, you have just been reunited with your wife. If you're open to suggestions, I would recommend putting the apron down, going upstairs, and simply enjoying the life that has been returned to you. Breakfast can wait."

With those words, Loki disappeared in a flash of green right as Tom turned around and headed up the stairs in your direction, heeding the god's advice.

A/N: Something tells me that when I told y'all there's a Centrum Ad Hiddles story coming your way, y'all probably didn't expect this…and to be honest I didn't think I was even gonna make a Centrum Ad Hiddles story, let alone one that took this direction. 😳👀 I hope you like it though, slightly dark twist and all 😅💖

‘everything’ taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @unlucky-number-13 @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @vickie5446 @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @evelyn-kingsley @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @peaches1958 @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @mygfloki @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th @lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @lokidokieokie @superficialdomina @anukulee @kmc1989

Hiddles taglist: @spooky1980

#tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston x female reader #tom hiddleston fanfic #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston imagine #muddyorbs writes

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milliesfishes · 2 months ago

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omg you write angst so well😭😭😭 literally been sobbing while reading your latest works 😭😭😭😭😭 anyways here’s an idea: billy finally settles down with you and the two of you start a family and have a little daughter together (girl dad! billy agenda never ends!!) and right before he almost thinks he has it all the world takes you from him :(

⋆౨ৎI Can Go Anywhere I Want, Just Not Home⋆౨ৎ

[fem reader] contains: death, grief, illness, *angst* pairing: billy the kid x fem reader summary: you were the center of billy's world, and the center faded away author’s note: offering my apologies once again <3 tagging @phantomamor because they helped me come up with some of the content <3 Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

Everything was bright, the day an endless dawn that rested its rosy cheek on the glass that covered the earth and touched the spot between reality and dreams.

You felt the stirrings of that feeling as you leaned on the porch railing, hair falling over one shoulder and tickling your wrist. The wood was grainy and smooth under your palm, and you shifted from one foot to the other, dulling the ache brought on by the activities of the day. It was a happy thing, borne of the many joys present in your life.

Off in the distance, by the oak tree that sprouted thick and wide, with leaves that blocked the sun on summer afternoons, your daughter sat among the knotted roots, playing quietly by herself. You had always said Annie was born content, evident in the way she minded herself, preferring long daylight hours spent alone. It was a touching thing, how comfortable she was within the confines of her imagination.

Bootsteps thumped on the wood of the porch, the boards creaking under Billy's weight, and then a pair of warm hands were creeping around your waist like the vines that crawled up the walls of the house, pulling you in. You smiled, leaning back and finding his body less than a breath away. He ducked his head and pressed a kiss to your cheek, the gentle prickling of love lingering long after. "How's my wife?"

Five years you'd been married, and still you could hear the way he relished the word like a sweet melting on his tongue. Billy wore his ring proudly, brandishing it for all the world to see. The gunslinger feared far and wide across the south was tied down, and he was happy for it.

You had been pleasantly surprised by how well he took to domesticity after so long on the run. He'd built this house for the two of you, every nail hammered in establishing permanence. It had been a rare luxury for him before, even when you'd met. But he'd proudly given you the brass key to your new house, sweeping you into his arms to carry you over the threshold even though you'd been married for a year at that point.

Now, standing on the porch built with your husband's own hands, sheathed in his arms, you could practically feel the love he'd siphoned into every board, every wall. Billy hadn't only built you a house, he'd built a life. All those nights holding him, promising him he wasn't ruining yours had come to fruition. It had been clear when your belly had begun to swell with his child, a promise of tomorrow. And it was clear now, as you watched that little girl hum to herself under the tree that had been a mere sapling when you'd first moved in.

The first breaths of spring were opening the world up again, sunshine kissing your skin and whispering about new beginnings. It instilled a sense of hope in you, something beautiful brimming with joy. This was your favorite time of year.

"I'm good," you responded to Billy, holding one of his hands against your stomach. "Really good."

He kissed the top of your head, swaying the two of you back and forth. "Should we go inside?" Billy nosed at your neck. "Think you need a little lovin'..."

You laughed, turning around in his arms and pressing your cheek to his chest. "With Annie out here?"

"Aw, she won't come inside 'till it's past dark and we make her." You could hear his smile in his words, and you lifted your chin, tilting your head and letting your hair brush his hands on your waist.

"Hm, maybe you're right," you murmured, reaching up and playing with his collar, straightening it out.

Billy ducked his head to catch your lips in a brief, tender kiss. He pecked your lips once after. "Just make sure to be quiet."

"I'm not the one who-oh-!" Suddenly you were being hauled up, lifted to hang over his shoulder like a sack of flour. He laughed quietly, not wanting to disturb Annie out in the distance, carrying you through the door of the house and shutting it gently. Your hair obstructed your view, and you parted the silky curtain when he bent, setting you down on your feet and grabbing your hand.

"C'mon, pretty-" Billy paused, looking at you and squeezing your palm. "Baby? You okay?"

You were frozen, eyes wide with a sudden realization of the happenings within you. Your skin was icy hot, a blizzard and a wildfire blended into a raging storm that ravaged at your chest. It tore into your bones, filled them with a cloud of dread. Something's wrong.

Billy came closer, blue eyes struck with concern as he searched yours. "Sweetheart...what-?"

Your knees buckled, weakness spreading in a swarm that enveloped your body. Now you were tumbling, poised to hit the ground before Billy's arms caught you, his voice speaking your name over and over like a prayer. "Honey...what's wrong?"

No words found you, only blackness.

The doctor was summoned quicker than Billy thought possible, and he thanked the heavens above for the man's swiftness. You insisted he stay with Annie while you were being examined, and he suspected it was for his own sake as well as your daughter's.

Annie was quiet, staring at the door you were behind. It felt ominous in that moment, and he tore his eyes from the sight. His knee was bouncing, heel of his boot tapping the floor over and over. The voices in your room were muffled, and Billy wished he hadn't listened to you.

The sun was setting now, smearing a palette of color across the sky and shadowing the clouds in hues of orange and pink. He ran a tired hand through his hair, weary already from whatever news awaited.

He reached wordlessly for his daughter, and she crawled into his lap, head resting against his chest. Billy didn't know what to say to her, and so he chose silence. He was grateful for her old-soul tendencies, but also wished she was still naive enough that she was oblivious. More than anything he wanted Annie to be able to be a kid, to be able to forget her mother's distress and go out to play.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting. The way you had collapsed so suddenly worried him beyond belief. That was the way it had all started with his mother. And now she was no more than a shadow, a memory haunting him.

When the door opened, he shooed those thoughts from his mind, standing and lifting Annie to sit on his hip. The doctor appeared, bag in hand, expression grim. He nodded once at Billy, gesturing to the room. "We'll talk in a minute."

Billy offered half a nod before rushing in to you, Annie in his arms. The sight of you nearly stopped him in his tracks. Paler than a ghost, nearly the color of the sheets you laid atop.

When you noticed them, a sweet smile brightened your face, and you reached out, beckoning. "Annie."

He set his daughter down, and she ran to you, burying her face in your chest. You hugged her tight, kissing the top of her head. "Sweet girl. Are you okay?"

Annie mumbled something Billy couldn't make out. He was still, like a statue caught in time's grip.

Nothing was going to be the same. He had that thought over and over in the next few weeks.

It was a symphony of the same scenes over and over again. Your illness took hold of you, settled into your bones and became all that had been you. That version of you was replaced with a feverish imposter, weaker than a newborn foal. You still laughed often, but it was a dull, raspy sound that panged at Billy's heart.

He clung to hope that somehow you would pull out of it. That by the grace of a miracle one day he would wake up, and you'd be looking back at him, saying you felt better.

The opposite persisted. Every time you awoke in the throes of a fever, tossing and turning until he wound his arms around you, he felt you slipping away. It pounded at his chest, an awful realization he ignored in the hopes that it would prove wrong. He shut it out, hiding his face in your hair, holding on tight and wishing, praying, pleading.

You seemed oblivious to it, though you were feeble and listless most days. Still, you smiled, hugged your daughter, kissed him. You were bedridden, but still your spirits were high as the heavens. Even now, as you read quietly beside him, thumbing through the little book with the red cover you so adored, he swore he saw glimpses of you before the sickness that had eaten away at your being.

Billy was absentmindedly stroking your side, lost in thought. He kissed your temple. "Why don'tcha rest for a bit, sweetheart? You can read more when you're better."

He reached his hand out for the book, and you waited a moment before handing it over, letting him set it on your nightstand beside the vase of dried flowers, petals withering away. They had been a gift from Annie, picked in the field not too far from the oak tree.

You settled limply against his chest, fingers rubbing up and down his stomach softly. Your quiet spoke magnitudes, things Billy wasn't sure he was ready to hear.

"I'm not going to get better," you whispered, though the quiet did nothing to dull the sting your words ensued. He felt a tide of panic begin to crash, and immediately ran the other way.

"Shh, don't say that," he murmured, squeezing your shoulder. "You'll be better in no time. Just needa rest, baby."

"Billy-" you sat up, lifting your head from his chest. He tried to pull you back down, but you shook your head. "We need to talk about this."

"No. No." Billy looked away, dread crawling over his insides. He felt as though he were in the middle of an ocean, waiting for it to swallow him up. "You have to get better. I need you-"

"You're going to be okay," you promised, taking his face in your hands and turning it back to you. "It's gonna be okay."

He was struggling for air. "It can't...I can't...how am I supposed to do a damn thing without you? I can't..." Tears were pricking at his eyes, threatening to spill over. "Baby..."

"I need you to be there for Annie. She'll have questions," you murmured, making sure he was looking at you. "She's gonna need you."

"I need you," he whispered, arms tightening around you. "I can't do this without you. I can't raise her. I-" Billy swallowed thickly. "I can't live without you."

"You still have me," you said softly, and he could see tears in your own eyes now. "You have Annie. She is me. She's got all the good parts of both of us, none of the bad."

"There were never any bad parts of you," Billy breathed, and you took in a breath, smiling in a bittersweet way.

"Promise me you'll be there for her," you said, voice firm despite your gentle hold. "Please."

"I promise," he managed, biting the side of his cheek. "Baby-" An unborn cry cut him off, and he looked down, squeezing his eyes shut. Everything he'd tried to avoid had him pinned down now, shaking his shoulders and screaming at him to wake up.

You took in a breath, pulling him closer, down so his head was on your chest. He clung to you, feeling like a child. Your fingers stroked his hair, delicately roving through his curls in an attempt to soothe. Billy only let himself cry then, tears soaking the front of your nightdress. You breathed, "Oh, Billy," and he fisted your bodice, trying not to imagine what things would be like if you were no longer here.

When you were no longer here.

He wasn't ready. How can anybody ever be ready?

Grief hunted him down, made him miss you before he was gone. It stripped the skin from his bones, buried itself into his being and filled the spot where you were. He couldn't remember how it had felt before.

You were slipping away too quickly, and he was grasping for you, milking every second he was allowed. This was a familiar notion- he'd known it before, so he'd thought. But it was different now. You were a new love, one he'd embraced wholeheartedly. He'd given up everything to be with you and done it gladly. You were the center of the life he'd built so far from the land of outlaws and wanted posters. You were epitome of everything good and pure in the world.

Had his sins truly been so unforgivable that you were now being taken from him? Was he so far from absolvable? Billy had repented with every second since he'd met you, knowing that men who kept doing bad things didn't get to keep women like you. It had all been for naught now, because you were turning into memory.

"Give Daddy extra love, okay?" you whispered to Annie, holding her in a tight hug despite your growing weakness. "He's gonna be sad for a while. Can you give him love for me?"

Annie nodded, and you kissed her forehead, squeezing her to your side one last time. You said one last soft thing to her, and she nodded, leaving your side and shutting the door behind her when she went into the other room.

When she was gone, you gave him a tired smile, one that told him everything he needed to know. Billy crawled in beside you, pulling you to lean against his chest. He felt tears wet his shirt, unsure if they were yours or his.

"I don't want to die," you whispered, the pain in your voice making him want to sink into the earth.

Billy squeezed you, tears raining into your hair. "I know. I know, angel."

"I don't want to leave you." Your hand found his, winding fingers together and clenching.

He felt the lonely rise of grief's dull ache seize him again. "I know, angel." Billy's lips parted, something he both wanted and didn't want to say lingering between them. It escaped before he could think further. "Just rest. We're...we're gonna be okay. You can sleep now. I'll hold you the whole time."

"Billy-" you were grasping, breathing faint. He could see life draining from you, your body growing heavy.

"Shh," he whispered, tears like rivers down his cheeks. He brushed them aside, sitting up and pulling you into his lap, so your head was resting against his shoulder. He was still in one piece, strong for you as he rocked you steadily, holding you tight. Love...that was what you needed right now. To know you were loved.

He wouldn't fall apart yet. Not when you were still here for now, clinging to him and holding on for every moment you could squeeze out. Billy leaned down and kissed you tenderly, trying to convey every bit of what had always been yours. His heart. "I love you."

Your body relaxed, and sunbeams spotlit the floor through the windows. He could hear birds outside, singing their merry tunes. It was the birth of summer, the sister of spring. Your essence alone existed in these few months, and it would echo at him for the rest of his days.

Billy held you close as your expression grew peaceful. The veil separating life and death was thin, and you were answering its call. He whispered over and over like a mantra. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

Your body went still.

And now he fell apart.

#billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid fanfiction #billy the kid x you #william h bonney x reader #billy the kid 2022 #william h bonney fanfiction #william h bonney x you #billy bonney #billy the kid imagine #billy the kid fic #billy the kid fluff #tom blyth x reader #william h bonney #william h bonney imagine #william bonney #tom blyth #milliesfishes billy

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badger-tales · 10 days ago

Text

Fire and Honey//F.W x reader

🚨WARNING: SMUT MINORS DNI, use of potion and unprotected sex🚨

a/n: Guys you have no idea how much I love Fred and I genuinely think this is one of my most favourite fics I’ve written!!! Again I’m not too good at writing smut imo but I gave it a solid shot!!! Also I want to put it out there that I’ve never had sex so all my knowledge is strictly from literature!! And for the anon that requested this it’s not super kinky I do apologise but there is potion use!!!

request: Fred Weasley x reader PLEASEEEEEE (afab/maybe plus size reader if that’s not too much to ask but not necessary). Preferably smut, BUT I’ll take anything (literally anything cuz I love some good angst/fluff). I just can’t find any kind of content ab him that fits my preferences since it’s been 4 years since hp blew up and he’s my current obsession 😩😩 btw if it’s smut, plsplspls make it kinky - anal, potions/spell use, toys, crazy positions, etc and maybe whatever you’d like to add!

word count: 8.3k

The chime of the small brass bell above the door to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes rang out, its cheerful trill slicing through the animated hum that permeated the air inside. You stepped over the threshold, and immediately, the shop’s warmth enfolded you like an embrace, the familiar swirl of chaos and laughter welcoming you back into its fold. The heady scent of sugar mingled with an unmistakable tang of smoke and the subtle, sparkly edge of enchantment. It was a symphony of sensations that spoke of mischievous pranks and the gleeful pandemonium that could only be found in the heart of Diagon Alley.

Everywhere you looked, the shop was alive with movement and color. Shelves crammed with whirring, clinking, and chattering objects towered around you, each vying for attention with dazzling, enchanted displays. A child’s giggle rang out as a pocket-sized dragon made of candy belched tiny, harmless flames, and the sudden puff of orange smoke lingered in the air, leaving behind the faint aroma of caramelized sugar.

George Weasley, with his signature ginger hair gleaming like a flame, stood at the front counter. He was leaning forward, animatedly explaining the finer points of Fanged Frisbees and Decoy Detonators to a group of wide-eyed students, their expressions torn between wonder and awe. His booming laughter filled the room, bouncing off the polished wood and sparking even more joy around him. His eyes crinkled in genuine amusement as he gestured with both hands, exaggerating some tale or another.

But the moment he spotted you making your way past a small, precariously teetering pile of Puking Pastilles, his face split into a grin that spoke of shared memories and easy camaraderie. “(Y/N)! Haven’t seen you in ages!” His voice was as warm and bright as a summer afternoon, pulling a smile to your own lips despite yourself.

You opened your mouth to respond, navigating carefully around the pastilles that seemed ready to topple with the slightest provocation, when a voice cut in from behind a towering stack of multicolored boxes. It was a voice you knew well—velvet and mischief, with a lilt that never failed to send a flutter through your chest.

“Oi, careful there, wouldn’t want you to trip and fall for me again, now would we?” Fred’s words were drenched in playful sarcasm, his grin appearing just a moment before the rest of him did. He leaned into view, half-hidden by the chaos of exploding novelty fireworks in their bright, gaudy packaging, his hair a riot of red that caught the soft glow of the shop’s enchanted lamps. That grin—half-cocked, knowing, and absolutely infuriating—sparked a memory that made your face warm. Third year, a muddy Quidditch pitch, and the storm that had turned the game into a comedy of slips and scrambles.

You narrowed your eyes at him, arms crossing over your chest in mock indignation. “If I recall correctly, Weasley, it was you who went down first,” you countered, a smirk lifting one corner of your mouth as the memory played out between you like a well-worn scene from an old play.

Fred stepped out from behind the boxes, closing the distance between you in two strides. He looked as he always did—untamed, a perpetual storm of energy. His hair was slightly mussed, evidence of a day spent in relentless activity, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, exposing freckled forearms streaked with faint smudges of flour and the blue-black smears of enchanted ink. You couldn’t help the small, appreciative flicker in your chest at the sight, at the easy way he carried himself as if the world were one big joke he hadn’t quite finished telling.

“Details, details,” he said, waving off your accusation with a casual flourish. But there was something in the way his eyes, dark with amusement, swept over your face, taking you in with a look so familiar it made your heart skip. The glimmer in his gaze was electric, playful, and it sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“But I’m glad to see you’re back,” he continued, and the note of sincerity hidden in the teasing made your stomach flip. “Here to help George, or have you finally decided to give in and help me test some of our newest products?” His voice dropped, dipping into a conspiratorial tone that made the space between you feel smaller, the air charged with a hundred unsaid things. He leaned in, just a touch, enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him and catch the faint, woody scent of broom polish and something uniquely Fred.

The room seemed to blur at the edges, the rest of the shop and its noise fading into a distant hum. It was just him, and the lingering pause where both of you waited to see who would break the moment first.

You chuckled, the sound light and familiar as it filled the small space between you, a warmth unfurling in your chest at Fred’s nearness. It was the kind of warmth that seeped into your bones and made your skin tingle, a secret heat reserved for moments like this—unexpected, charged, and sweetly unsettling. “George roped me in,” you said, the corners of your mouth lifting as you bit your lower lip, a teasing gesture that did not go unnoticed. “But I’m fairly certain that testing any of your experiments would have me checking in at St. Mungo’s faster than you could say ‘Fainting Fancies.’”

Fred’s smirk deepened, eyes glinting like molten copper beneath the shop’s enchanted lamps. The shadows played across his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the hint of a dimple that only appeared when he was especially pleased with himself. “Can’t argue with that,” he said, voice dropping into that husky, conspiratorial tone that always made your pulse dance. The slight wink he tossed in your direction was almost too much, a playful punctuation that left the air crackling between you.

For a moment, the world around you seemed to dim, the noise and bustle of the shop fading into a muffled backdrop. The energy between you hummed, an invisible thread that had connected you both for years—woven from quick-witted exchanges that left your hearts thumping, subtle brushes of hands that lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary, and stolen glances that spoke in a language neither of you dared put to words. This was how it always was: a dance, a game, an endless conversation that teetered on the edge of something more.

Before either of you could break the silence, George’s voice pierced the moment, booming from across the shop where he stood surrounded by boxes and half-finished contraptions. “Fred, if you’re done trying to charm (Y/N), I could use your help with the Skiving Snackboxes!” His tone was loud and mock-exasperated, but it carried a fondness that only a brother could manage.

Fred’s eyes rolled dramatically, but a reluctant smile tugged at his lips as he turned to glare at George. The momentary interruption broke the spell, but not the tension. His gaze swung back to you, the spark in it now softened to something almost tender, almost shy. “Duty calls,” he said, but his voice dipped, wrapping around the words as if they were meant only for you. “But don’t go anywhere, yeah?” It wasn’t a question so much as a quiet request, laced with a sincerity that sent your heart stumbling over its next beat.

A blush rose to your cheeks, warm and unbidden, and you nodded, unable to keep the smile from breaking across your face. “Not planning on it,” you answered, the words feeling like a promise, light but solid.

As Fred turned away, the spell wasn’t completely broken. His movements, usually quick and purposeful, seemed to linger as if he, too, felt the weight of what had passed between you. Your eyes followed him as he crossed the shop, and though the chaos of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes buzzed around you—shelves bursting with colorful, enchanted goods and the soft puffs of smoke from a forgotten trick candle—it wasn’t the spark of magic that captured your attention.

It was him. The subtle shift of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the way he glanced back at you just once, his eyes holding yours for a heartbeat before he turned away. The look was fleeting, but it spoke volumes: anticipation, unsaid words, and the easy familiarity of someone who knew you better than most. It settled between you like a shared secret, leaving the room feeling both too small and brimming with possibilities.

The laughter of a nearby child and the sudden pop of a Decoy Detonator brought you back to the present, but the lingering warmth of Fred’s gaze refused to fade. It stayed with you, a whisper of promise and a question left unanswered, weaving itself into the fabric of the moment and making your chest ache with a kind of happy, hopeful longing.

The last dregs of sunlight bathed Diagon Alley in a honeyed glow, casting long, golden streaks that stretched through the tall front windows of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. The shop, usually a riot of chatter and clatter, had fallen into an almost sacred silence. The laughter and footsteps that had filled the space earlier were gone, leaving only the occasional creak of wood and the soft rustle of your breath. You sat perched on a stool behind the counter, its surface polished smooth by years of bustling activity. The warm glow of the enchanted lamps flickered around you, casting playful shadows that made the shelves seem to dance, each jar and trinket catching the light and shimmering like captured stars.

George had finished his closing routine hours ago, with a grin and a cheerful comment about meeting Angelina before disappearing into the night, the final echo of the door’s bell trailing after him like a sigh. Now, it was just you and Fred, and the quiet of the shop seemed deeper, filled with an undercurrent that made your skin prickle.

Fred stood a few paces away, leaning against the counter with a kind of effortless grace that drew your eyes. The soft, amber light spilled over him, highlighting the tousled red of his hair and the way it caught on the line of his jaw. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing freckled forearms that spoke of summer days spent under the sun and long hours tinkering with inventions. The freckles, scattered like a constellation, followed the gentle curve of his muscles, a detail that held your attention a moment too long.

His eyes met yours, glancing up from the rows of small, glittering bottles he was carefully aligning. They flicked back to the task at hand, but not before you caught the glint of mischief that had become as familiar to you as your own heartbeat. The silence between you was thick with the unspoken—shared jokes, stolen glances, moments that had tiptoed to the edge of something deeper but never quite crossed.

“So, (Y/N),” Fred finally said, breaking the stillness with that voice that always seemed to balance somewhere between playful and daring. There was a spark in his tone that made your fingers tighten against the counter’s edge. “Ever wonder what happens when the shop closes?”

A smirk pulled at your lips as you tilted your head, raising an eyebrow. “I’d hazard a guess that it involves you and George setting off fireworks or testing things that’ll inevitably get you on the Ministry’s bad side.” Your voice was steady, teasing, but there was a thrum in your chest that spoke of anticipation.

Fred’s chuckle was low, warm, and impossibly magnetic. It rippled through the quiet, settling in your bones and sending a pleasant shiver racing down your spine. He straightened, pushing away from the counter with a languid ease and crossing the distance between you in a few strides. When he stopped, he was close enough that you had to tip your chin up to meet his gaze, the small space between you charged with a current that seemed to hum just beneath your skin.

“Well, tonight, you’re in luck,” he murmured, eyes crinkling at the corners as they locked onto yours. The way he looked at you—like he was memorizing the curve of your lips and the light in your eyes—made your breath catch. He lifted one hand, and in it, a small vial glimmered, the liquid inside a mesmerizing swirl of gold that reflected the light like liquid sun.

Your pulse quickened, thrumming against your ribs like a wild drumbeat. Fred’s expression softened, watching you with a kind of quiet intensity as if this moment were something rare. “And what exactly is that?” you asked, trying to keep your voice from betraying the way your heart raced. You could feel it—a flutter of nerves mixed with the sharp spike of excitement. The question hung between you, heavy with curiosity and the promise of the unexpected.

His gaze dipped to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes, a knowing smile curving his mouth. “Something special,” he said, voice lowering to a near whisper, sending warmth cascading through you. The words seemed to tangle in the air between you, waiting, tempting, as the moment stretched like a taut string, ready to snap.

“A little something we’ve been working on. Enhances your senses,” Fred said, his voice dipping to a softer, almost velvet tone that seemed to wrap around you like a whisper in the dark. The shop, with its kaleidoscope of bright colors and enchanted trinkets, suddenly seemed dimmer, the space between you charged with a heat that made the air feel thick. “Every touch, every sound, everything becomes sharper,” he continued, the promise in his words igniting a spark low in your belly.

You swallowed hard, the room shrinking until it felt as if the walls were pressing in, leaving just the two of you caught in this magnetic pull. Fred leaned in closer, the subtle scent of him—a mix of cedar, smoke, and something uniquely Fred—enveloping you. His proximity was dizzying, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips, even as your pulse quickened. “Fred, is this one of those things where I end up with purple hair for a week?” you asked, aiming for humor to steady yourself, though your voice came out shakier than intended.

“No side effects,” he said, his grin widening into a playful smirk, eyes glinting with a mix of sincerity and that irresistible touch of mischief that always seemed to dance there. He leaned in, his breath brushing against your cheek, close enough that you felt the warmth of it. “I swear on my broomstick. Trust me, love?”

The question settled between you, weighted and electric, the words hanging like a challenge. The way he looked at you then—eyes dark, mouth barely a breath away from yours—made the room tilt. You felt the question reverberate in the thrum of your heart, in the way your skin seemed to hum under the golden glow of the lamps. Slowly, you nodded, the playful tension that had danced between you all evening sparking into something deeper, something more.

Fred’s smile shifted, a flicker of warmth softening the sharp edge of his grin as he uncorked the vial, the sound of it popping open far louder than it should have been. The glimmering gold liquid caught the light, refracting tiny prisms that seemed to shimmer with possibility. His eyes never left yours as he handed you the vial, fingers brushing yours—a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of warmth up your arm, lingering like an echo.

You lifted the vial to your lips, the cool glass pressing against your skin before the liquid slid over your tongue. It tasted like citrus and starlight, bright and unfamiliar. The heat that followed was immediate, blooming in your chest and spreading outwards, tendrils of fire igniting each nerve ending one by one. You shivered, the sensation both strange and addictive, making the room feel brighter, sharper.

Fred’s eyes darkened as he watched you, his gaze tracing the flush that spread across your cheeks, the way your lashes fluttered as the magic coursed through you. His expression was unreadable for a moment, a blend of fascination and something deeper, almost reverent. “Feel anything yet?” he asked, the words almost a murmur, and as he stepped closer, the space between you seemed to sizzle.

“Yeah,” you whispered, the simple word catching in your throat as your fingertips tingled and your heartbeat drummed loud and insistent in your ears. The room felt alive, each creak of the floorboards, each distant whir of a clock in the corner, amplified. But none of that mattered. It was Fred’s gaze holding you captive, the slow way he reached out and let a single calloused finger trace the line of your jaw, the touch so feather-light it made your breath hitch.

The trail of his touch left a path of fire in its wake, and he leaned in further, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, lingering as if testing the waters. His eyes searched yours, an unspoken question there, an invitation. The charged silence stretched, and the only thing you could hear was the erratic pounding of your pulse. Your breath shuddered as you felt the weight of the moment shift, tipping past the point of return.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice a rich, molten sound that seemed to sink into your skin and light up every nerve. The way he said it was more than a word—it was a promise, dark and thrilling. His fingers cupped your face, the rough pads of his thumb brushing over your cheek in a touch that was somehow both tender and possessive. The warmth of his other arm slipped around your waist, drawing you flush against him until there was no space left, only the intoxicating press of his body, solid and fiercely real.

The heat radiating from him seeped into you, chasing any coherent thought away as his lips found yours. The kiss was not gentle; it was fierce and unapologetic, as if he had waited for this moment longer than he’d admit, a hunger finally given release. His mouth moved over yours with a fervor that left you breathless, a perfect blend of heat and urgency. You responded in kind, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, nails digging in enough to make him draw a sharp breath that vibrated between your lips.

The potion’s effects rippled through you, amplifying each shift of his lips, each slide of his tongue, until it felt as though the world itself spun around you. The warmth that had ignited in your chest spread in hot waves, coiling lower, making everything sharper, more vivid. You were dimly aware of the way his hands tightened on you, the flex of his muscles under your touch, before you realized he’d lifted you effortlessly onto the counter. The hard edge bit into the backs of your thighs, grounding you for a moment in the storm of sensation.

Fred’s eyes met yours as he pulled back, his pupils blown wide, dark and smoldering as they roamed over your face. His breath came in ragged pulls, chest heaving with the same urgency you felt. “If this is too much—” he started, voice rough, words catching as if even the question cost him effort.

You shook your head quickly, fingers curling tighter around the back of his neck, tugging him close. “Don’t you dare stop,” you whispered, your voice a low tremble that barely contained the ache surging through you.

His grin was immediate, wicked and laced with satisfaction, a look that made your pulse race faster. “As you wish, love,” he whispered against your lips before claiming them again, deeper this time, with a focus that bordered on worshipful. His hand remained firm at your hip, anchoring you while the other moved, skimming up the curve of your waist. Each brush of his fingers left a trail of heat that made you shiver, anticipation twisting and coiling low in your belly.

His touch dipped to the hem of your skirt, fingers finding purchase and dragging it upward, the scrape of fabric against your skin only adding to the fire building between you. The feel of him, so close, so intent, was a heady mix of desire and reassurance. His hand squeezed your thigh, the pressure enough to make your breath hitch and your heartbeat drum wildly in your chest.

Every moment stretched and blurred, each sensation heightened to a fever pitch. The low rasp of his voice, the press of his hips against yours, and the way his body seemed to fit perfectly against yours made it impossible to think beyond this—beyond him. The world outside the shop dissolved into the background, leaving only the soft glow of the lamps and the charged silence, broken only by shared, breathless gasps.

The anticipation crackled between you, hot and relentless, as Fred’s eyes met yours once more, a silent question and a spark of mischief that promised there was still more to come.

“Stay still,” he commanded softly, the words grazing your ear like the whisper of silk, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips barely brushed the delicate skin just below your earlobe, and the warmth of his breath curled around you, making it hard to hold back the tremor that threatened to break your composure. The command was gentle but unyielding, more than a simple request—it was a promise, binding the air between you with an intensity that made your heart stutter and sent heat pooling deep in your core. Your chest rose and fell in rapid succession as you nodded, eyes closing against the wave of sensation.

Fred’s mouth curved into a satisfied smirk, even as he leaned in, his lips tracing a slow path along the curve of your jaw and down the side of your neck. He moved deliberately, finding the sensitive spots that made your breath catch, each kiss igniting sparks that fanned out like wildfire beneath your skin. The room seemed to narrow to just this—just the heat of him pressed close, the tantalizing brush of his mouth, and the way his stubble grazed your skin with a delicious roughness that made you gasp.

Your back arched involuntarily, the motion instinctive, a silent plea to close the almost unbearable distance between your bodies. Fred’s arm tightened around your waist in response, holding you firm, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The pressure of his body against yours was intoxicating, and the room spun with the heady mix of desire and the faint crackle of magic that pulsed in the air. Somewhere behind you, a trinket sputtered to life with a faint whir and spark, but the noise barely registered in the haze that enveloped you both.

The only sounds that mattered were the mingling of your breaths, ragged and uneven, and the low hum that resonated in Fred’s throat as he took his time, worshiping the line of your neck with practiced ease. His lips moved lower, tasting and teasing, each deliberate kiss making your skin flush hot under the warm glow of the shop’s lamps. The light wrapped around you like a golden shroud, highlighting the slight sheen on your skin and casting shadows that flickered with the movement of his head as he explored.

Each moment felt sharper, more defined, as if time itself had slowed to savor every detail. The pressure of his arm anchored you, while his other hand found its way up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head just enough to give him better access. The simple touch was possessive, reverent, and it made a new surge of heat coil in your stomach. Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out everything but the slick, intoxicating symphony of heartbeats, breath, and the low murmurs that slipped between his lips.

Every second crackled with unspoken possibilities, each heartbeat a testament to the space you occupied together. The rest of the world could have fallen away, leaving just you and Fred and the uncharted territories mapped between skin and whispered commands. Nothing else mattered—not the ticking of clocks, not the fading light outside the shop’s windows, not the lingering echoes of laughter that had once filled the room. All that existed was the tightrope of anticipation that stretched between you and Fred, sparking like embers, daring one of you to push it further.

And as he drew back, just enough for his eyes to find yours, dark and laced with mischief, you knew that this moment was just the beginning.

The shop was bathed in a hush, shadows pooling in the corners and stretching languidly across the floor, broken only by the flickering glow of the enchanted lamps that cast pools of golden light. The world outside was a distant memory; in this space, only the two of you existed, tangled in a moment that defied the ticking of the clock. Your heart thudded hard in your chest, each beat reverberating through your body like a drum, as Fred’s eyes swept over you—dark, intense, brimming with a hunger that made your pulse stutter.

His fingers, warm and roughened from years of crafting jokes and pranks, brushed up the length of your thighs, the touch slow and deliberate. The soft rustle of fabric as he pushed your skirt higher made the air thicken, pressing down on you with a palpable weight. Each breath you drew felt laden, each tiny shift magnified by the lingering effects of the potion coursing through your veins. It was as if every whisper of movement, every brush of skin, sent a jolt of electricity sparking through you, setting your nerves ablaze.

“You’re stunning, you know that?” Fred’s voice was low, a gravelly rumble that seemed to seep into your very skin. The sincerity that threaded through the heat in his tone made something inside you tighten, warmth blooming in your chest and spreading outward until you felt both rooted in place and light as air. The words stole your response before it could form, leaving only the shallow, uneven rise and fall of your breath.

Before you could regain your composure, his lips captured yours again. The kiss was insistent, demanding, and it tasted of longing that had been simmering far too long. It was the kind of kiss that claimed and gave in equal measure, pulling you under so completely that the world around you seemed to blur at the edges. His hand slid behind you, fingers pressing into the small of your back as he drew you even closer, so close that you felt every heartbeat, every tremor, aligned perfectly with his.

“Fred,” you gasped, the name slipping out unbidden as he left your lips to trail a path down your neck. His mouth was hot, each kiss open and searing as it met the sensitive skin, igniting a chain reaction that sent shivers racing over your skin. When he paused at the curve of your collarbone, the faint scrape of his teeth grazing just enough to make your body tense and then melt, a soft sound escaped you, half-whisper, half-sigh.

He lifted his head, eyes meeting yours with a spark of mischief that never fully left him, even in moments like this. “Hmm?” he murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he spoke. His fingers, which had settled on your thigh, began tracing lazy, teasing circles just above your knee, the touch feather-light but potent enough to make your skin hum with the promise of more.

The potion thrummed through you, amplifying everything—the press of his fingertips, the rush of your blood beneath your skin, the heat of his breath as it fanned across your flushed cheeks. The slight rasp of his stubble as it grazed your neck added another layer of sensation, a delicious contrast to the warmth of his lips and the firmness of his hands. Every nerve in your body seemed to wake at once, straining toward his touch, savoring the way he moved, the way he watched you as though memorizing each reaction.

Time was meaningless, measured only by the whispered touches and the silent, shared anticipation that coiled tighter and tighter, leaving you breathless and aching for whatever would come next.

“Stop teasing,” you managed, though the words barely made it past your lips, breathless and edged with desperation. The response came not as mercy but as the sound of Fred’s chuckle, rich and low, vibrating against your skin where his mouth lingered. The sensation rippled through you, sending a shiver racing down your spine, making you clench your thighs in a futile attempt to steady yourself.

“As you wish,” he murmured, the velvet tone a contrast to the glint in his eyes. It was a promise and a challenge all at once, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk that told you he had no intentions of making this easy. With a confident grace that set your heart pounding, he drew back, hands warm and sure as they gripped your hips, guiding you to the edge of the counter. The cool surface pressed into the backs of your thighs, grounding you as anticipation twisted in your chest.

The room around you seemed to dissolve, swallowed by the soft, golden glow of the enchanted lamps. The only thing that existed was Fred, now dropping to his knees before you, eyes fixed on yours with a look so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. The heat in his gaze, dark and unwavering, sent another rush of warmth through you, coiling low in your belly and spreading out until you felt liquid, pliant under his touch.

He leaned in, and your breath hitched as his mouth skimmed up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The first brush of his lips was gentle, almost reverent, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Each kiss grew firmer, more insistent, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. The potion’s magic coursed through you, sharpening every sensation until the world narrowed to the points of contact where his skin met yours. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and it made stillness impossible.

Your fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the unruly, fire-kissed strands and tugging slightly. The low groan that rumbled in his chest resonated through you, sparking a fresh wave of heat that settled low, tight, and wanting. The sound made your pulse race, a quick, erratic drumbeat that echoed in your ears as he paused, lifting his head just enough for his eyes to meet yours.

“Patience,” he said, the single word dripping with a teasing command that both frustrated and thrilled you. His grin was wicked, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief even now, as if this moment was just another game he planned to win. Before you could respond, before you could even draw a proper breath, his head dipped again, and the distance between want and fulfillment disappeared.

When his mouth finally met the place where you ached for him most, the sensation crashed over you like a wave, making you gasp, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. The heat of him, relentless and skilled, combined with the amplified edge of the potion, sent jolts of pleasure singing through your veins. It was impossible to think, to focus on anything but the way he made you feel. Your hands tightened in his hair, the counter digging into your palms as you gripped its edge for stability, a lifeline as your body responded to every deliberate movement.

The soft hum of the shop, the distant clatter of a forgotten gadget sparking in the background, was lost to the rush of your heartbeat and the erratic pattern of your breathing. The tension that had coiled so tightly within you threatened to snap, leaving you trembling, the world around you blurred with the force of sensation. Fred’s hands, firm against your thighs, anchored you, guiding you through the storm, until every nerve in your body sang with the fire only he could ignite.

Fred’s movements were deliberate, each calculated touch and flick designed to strip away your composure piece by trembling piece. His hands, strong and commanding, pressed into your thighs, keeping you open, exposed, and utterly at his mercy. The heat of his palms seared into your skin, grounding you as his mouth worked its magic, tongue tracing intricate, maddening patterns that sent shocks of pleasure racing through your veins. The potion’s effects heightened every sensation, turning each delicate flick and press into a jolt that made your breath stutter, your voice splinter into gasps that broke on his name like a whispered prayer.

Every moment was an exquisite torment, the pressure inside you building relentlessly, coiling tighter and tighter until it bordered on unbearable. The only sounds that reached your ears were the ragged pulls of your breath, the soft rustle of fabric under your quivering fingers, and Fred’s occasional hum of satisfaction, the vibration adding another layer to the storm within you.

“You taste incredible,” he murmured between kisses, his voice rough, the words rolling out like smoke and sparking a new wave of heat that set your nerves alight. His eyes, dark and dilated, flicked up to meet yours, the connection sending a thrill down your spine. Your response was nothing more than a broken moan, caught and lost somewhere between a plea and surrender, as he pushed you closer to that impossible, breathtaking edge. The world around you shrank, fading into a blur until only Fred remained—the feel of him, the taste, the scent—consuming every sense, every thought.

The tension that had been building, wound tight enough to snap, finally did. The release came in a rush, pleasure crashing over you in relentless waves that left you arching against him, your fingers digging into the counter behind you in a desperate bid for stability. The sensation was overwhelming, blinding, a burst of warmth and light that seared through you, leaving you trembling and boneless. Fred stayed with you through it, his hold on your thighs tightening, anchoring you as the tremors rippled out, slowly ebbing into a soft, residual hum that left you dazed and breathless.

You drew in a shaky breath, the rise and fall of your chest erratic as Fred’s strong arms wrapped around you. With an ease that made your pulse quicken, he lifted you off the counter, guiding you towards one of the plush chairs nestled in the corner of the shop. The room felt charged, the remnants of your shared heat thickening the air. The faint glow of the lamps cast shifting pools of light, flickering shadows playing across the walls as if echoing the intensity between you. His eyes never left yours, the dark gleam within them hinting at a promise unfinished, a desire yet to be sated.

Fred sat down, his posture relaxed yet predatory, and pulled you onto his lap in a fluid motion that left you straddling him, knees pressed into the soft cushion on either side of his hips. His hands slid up your sides, the touch roughened by work and warm against your skin, taking the hem of your shirt with them. The anticipation crackled between you, sparking with every inch of fabric that lifted away, baring more of you to the dim light and his admiring gaze.

He paused once the fabric reached your shoulders, his eyes searching yours with a look so intense it stole your breath. The unspoken question in his gaze was met with your nod, your heartbeat drumming out a wild, impatient rhythm. With a final tug, he pulled the shirt over your head and let it fall to the floor, leaving you exposed and vulnerable to the cool air and his unwavering attention.

“You’re perfect,” he said, the words weighted and reverent, resonating deep within you and scattering any lingering doubts or insecurities. His voice was low, a soft rumble that seemed to travel straight through you, making your skin flush anew. The way he looked at you—eyes wide, full of wonder and hunger—made you feel cherished, seen in a way that transcended the physical.

His hands roamed over your curves, fingers tracing the gentle slopes and hollows with a touch that was both possessive and tender. Each pass of his palm over your skin was a silent declaration, a way of mapping you with touch alone, as though committing every line and contour to memory. The feeling was overwhelming, raw and intimate, and it left you teetering between the need to close your eyes and simply feel and the compulsion to watch him as he worshipped you.

His lips found yours again, this time softer, imbued with a depth that made your heart ache even as it stoked the embers of desire still burning in your veins. The kiss was less hurried, more deliberate—a dance of tongues and parted lips that spoke of affection as much as it did want. You shifted on his lap, your thighs tightening as the solid press of him beneath you stirred a fresh wave of anticipation that curled low and hot in your belly.

Fred’s hands slid to your hips, fingers flexing as he guided you, helping you find a rhythm that sent sparks of pleasure skittering through both of you. The friction built slowly, deliciously, each movement drawing gasps and shallow breaths from your lips that mingled with his own. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, mouth parting as a sound escaped him—a sound that told you he was as undone as you were, as lost in the sensations and the moment.

The room seemed to hum with the energy between you, each shift, each press of your bodies against one another igniting the space with unspoken promises. The quiet groans, the soft hitch of breath, the subtle creak of the chair beneath you—all of it blurred together into a symphony that only the two of you could hear, drowning out everything else. The world outside the shop, the flicker of the lamps, even the magic that hummed faintly in the air—all of it faded to the background, leaving only the two of you and the consuming heat that bound you together.

The room around you seemed to dissolve into a hazy blur as your bodies moved in perfect sync, each movement stoking the embers of shared desire. The air was thick with heat, each breath labored, mingling with whispered names that passed between your lips like sacred incantations. The quiet hum of magic that surrounded the shop, usually a background comfort, now pulsed like a heartbeat, adding to the electric charge that threaded through the space.

Fred’s eyes remained locked on yours, their usual mischief replaced with an intensity that made your breath catch. Even as the rhythm between you grew faster, more desperate, his gaze didn’t waver. It spoke volumes, a silent conversation that said more than any words could: that this was real, that it was shared, and that he was wholly here with you. His hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with a possessive strength that anchored you, holding you steady as the storm between you built to a fever pitch.

When release finally claimed you, it came in a rush that seemed to pull the air from your lungs, the tension unraveling in a white-hot wave that left you shuddering. Fred’s grip tightened, a deep groan rumbling from his chest as he followed you into that blissful abyss, the two of you caught in a moment that felt suspended in time. The echo of it hummed in your bones, and your body collapsed against his, muscles trembling as you both struggled to catch your breath.

His arms wrapped around you, strong and reassuring, drawing you close until your cheek rested against the rapid thud of his heartbeat. The aftershocks coursed through you both, little tremors that left you breathless and weak, a soft sigh slipping from your lips as the world began to right itself. The shop, with its dimly flickering lamps and quiet creaks, seemed almost reverent in its silence, as though even the lingering magic respected this moment between you.

Fred pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips warm and lingering, the gesture a blend of tenderness and exhaustion. The subtle scent of him—woodsmoke and spice—wrapped around you, grounding you further in the here and now. His fingers, now gentle, traced lazy patterns along your back, the touch soothing and intimate, a silent promise that this wasn’t just a fleeting moment.

“I think we might need to test more of that potion,” he said, the corners of his lips curling into a tired, contented grin that made your heart squeeze with affection.

A chuckle bubbled up, soft and genuine, and you tilted your head to press a kiss to the sharp edge of his jaw, where the faint stubble rasped pleasantly against your lips. “I’d say it passed,” you murmured, the words punctuated by the faint crackle of the lamps, which flickered as if in agreement.

The shop settled into a comfortable stillness, the warmth of your bodies pressed close, the steady rise and fall of your breaths intertwining. It felt like a secret kept in the glow of the lamps and the quiet hum of magic—a secret that was yours, wrapped in the soft aftermath and the shared, unspoken promise of more moments like this to come.

Soft, golden rays of morning sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains, painting warm stripes that danced across the wooden floor and climbed the walls. The room was hushed, a stark contrast to the usual cacophony of chatter, laughter, and bursts of magic that filled it during the day. The early dawn seemed to hold its breath, embracing the quiet as if it were something sacred. Your eyes blinked open slowly, the remnants of sleep falling away as the memories of last night washed over you in gentle waves—snippets of laughter that had bubbled between kisses, heated whispers exchanged in the dim glow, the unguarded moments that left a soft, lingering warmth in your chest.

The air carried a calm stillness, and as you shifted slightly, the comforting weight of Fred’s arm draped over your waist became more pronounced. His breath was steady and warm against your shoulder, each exhale a gentle reassurance that anchored you in place. The plush bed beneath you, worn in from years of shared stories and stolen moments, creaked softly as you turned to face him. The sound blended with the muffled stirrings of the early morning outside, where the world was only just waking up.

Fred’s face was softened by sleep, the perpetual mischief that usually sparked in his eyes momentarily at rest. A hint of a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth, as if even in dreams, he found reasons to be amused. Freckles, scattered like constellations, stood out on his nose and cheeks, illuminated by the tender light that spilled over both of you. You reached out instinctively, tracing one of those freckles with a touch so light it was almost reverent. The skin beneath your fingertips was warm, the gesture small but filled with a quiet affection that made your chest tighten.

At your touch, Fred’s eyes fluttered open, the soft brown depths catching the light and pulling it in, making them glow with a gentle warmth. It took a heartbeat for his gaze to sharpen, to focus on you, and when it did, a slow, lazy grin spread across his face. “Morning, love,” he murmured, the words wrapped in the rough, gravelly timbre of sleep. The sound was enough to send a pleasant shiver down your spine, sparking a contented hum low in your throat.

“Morning,” you replied, voice softer than a whisper, fingers moving to toy with the tousled strands of his hair. The auburn mess caught the morning light, shifting between shades of flame and copper. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, elastic and forgiving, holding the two of you in a golden sliver of stillness where the rest of the world didn’t matter. It was just the two of you, suspended between the night and the coming day, wrapped in the fragile, perfect quiet.

But as the silence between you lingered, a shadow of doubt crept in, coiling at the edges of your thoughts. The serenity of the morning, as beautiful as it was, seemed almost too delicate, too transient. You wondered if this moment could hold, if the world outside the shop’s walls—filled with noise, expectation, and the relentless march of reality—could ever understand the tenderness that had bloomed here. The uncertainty prickled at the back of your mind, threatening to mar the peace you’d found.

Fred’s eyes, observant even when softened by sleep, seemed to catch the shift in your expression. His hand slid up your back in a slow, reassuring gesture, fingers tracing lazy patterns that said without words that he was here, that this was real. And as the first bird outside began to sing, tentative and sweet, the room seemed to exhale with you, the morning holding its breath just a moment longer.

The memories of last night felt almost too vivid, too tender, to be real. They shimmered in your mind like the remnants of a dream, leaving behind an ache of doubt that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts. What if this was just a fleeting moment, a beautiful spark that would fade in the light of day? The question tightened in your chest, pressing against your ribs as you shifted slightly, breaking the comfortable cocoon of warmth the two of you had shared through the night.

“Fred, about last night…” you began, the words catching in your throat as you sat up, the morning light painting soft golden stripes across your bare skin. The quiet vulnerability in your voice was enough to make him stir, his brow furrowing as he sensed the hesitation lacing your tone. His expression softened, the mischievous glint usually dancing in his eyes replaced by something deeper, more serious. His hand, warm and reassuring, tightened slightly on your hip, a silent tether that held you both in the moment.

“Hey,” he interrupted gently, the word wrapped in a softness that calmed the storm brewing in your chest. He pushed himself up to sit beside you, the creak of the chair beneath shifting with him. His eyes met yours, earnest and open, their familiar warmth now tinged with an intensity that made your heart stumble. He searched your face as if he could read every unspoken fear and soothe them with his gaze alone.

“If you’re worried that it didn’t mean anything, don’t be,” he said, his voice steady, each syllable weighted with conviction.

The pad of his thumb brushed your cheek, the touch so tender it sent a shiver down your spine. It was grounding, pulling you back from the precipice of doubt. The quiet sincerity in his eyes, the way his brows knitted slightly as if willing you to believe him, made the room seem smaller, cozier, as if it held only the two of you and this fragile moment.

“Last night wasn’t just… a one-off thing, (Y/N). Not for me,” he continued, and his voice dropped to a near whisper, as if saying it any louder would break the spell. The confession hung between you, heavy and achingly real, chasing away the shadow that had lingered in your mind.

A warmth unfurled inside you, starting at the center of your chest and spreading outward, tinged with relief and something deeper that made your eyes prickle. You felt the corners of your mouth lift in a soft, genuine smile, a quiet laugh bubbling up as you leaned into his touch, pressing your cheek into his palm. The gesture was simple but filled with trust, and the vulnerability that had scared you before now felt shared, lighter.

“Good,” you whispered, the single word carrying more weight than you intended, your fingers finding their way to the back of his neck, tracing the edge of his hair. Your eyes, which had momentarily drifted to the curve of his lips, met his again, steady and clear.

“Because I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want this—didn’t want you.”

Fred’s eyes softened further, a slow, contented grin spreading across his face, crinkling the skin around his eyes in that way that always made your heart flutter. The morning light caught the red in his hair, turning it into a halo of copper and gold, and you felt a sense of peace settle over you, deeper than anything you’d known. The silence that followed was no longer heavy with doubt, but warm, alive with the unspoken promise of more mornings like this one, shared in the quiet stillness before the world stirred.

With a small, almost imperceptible nod, Fred leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling in the small space between.

“Then we’re on the same page, love,” he murmured, voice barely more than a sigh, before capturing your lips in a kiss that spoke of assurance, affection, and the certainty that this—you and him—was something worth holding onto.

Fred’s grin turned playful, and with it, the last tendrils of tension unraveling, replaced by the lightness of the moment. His fingers found their way to the curve of your smile, tracing it with a touch that sent a subtle warmth trickling through you. “Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it? Because I plan to make this a regular occurrence,” he said, his tone rich with mock-seriousness and a hint of mischief that made your heart skip. He gestured around the cluttered room, jars and enchanted trinkets glinting in the morning light. “Might even clear a shelf for you here,” he added, the twinkle in his eyes daring you to laugh.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, the playful exasperation bubbling over as a laugh escaped your lips, bright and unburdened. The sound filled the room, resonating against the stacks of spell ingredients and rows of joke products that lined the shelves, creating an echo that seemed to amplify the warmth between you. In that moment, the world outside of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes ceased to exist—no bustling shoppers, no clamor of Diagon Alley—just the two of you in the cocoon of your shared laughter.

Fred’s embrace was quick and effortless, pulling you close until you could feel the steady beat of his heart against yours, his chin resting atop your head for a moment. It was grounding, solid, and you sank into it, letting the familiar scent of him—woodsmoke, cinnamon, and the faintest trace of parchment—wrap around you like a second skin.

He tilted his head down, pressing a kiss to the crown of your hair, his lips lingering as he spoke, voice dropping into that familiar, teasing drawl that made your stomach flutter. “I’ll make breakfast. Well, I’ll attempt it. No promises on how edible it’ll be,” he said, the smile in his tone unmistakable.

“Considering I saw you burn water once, I’m prepared for the worst,” you retorted, a grin splitting your face as you looked up at him. The laughter that followed was soft, shared, and it drew a playful nudge from Fred as he released you, eyes twinkling with the kind of joy that seemed inexhaustible.

He pushed himself up, stretching his arms high over his head, muscles shifting under the thin fabric of his sleep-rumpled shirt. The motion revealed a strip of skin, toned and freckled, catching the sunlight in a way that made your breath hitch and a blush creep up your neck. Fred noticed, his gaze snapping to yours just as your teeth caught your lower lip. The smirk that spread across his face was pure mischief, eyes narrowing slightly as if he’d just caught you red-handed.

“If you keep looking at me like that, breakfast might have to wait,” he warned, the playful lilt in his voice sending a new spark of heat through you. His eyes danced with that familiar challenge, the kind that made your heart skip and your pulse drum a little faster.

You laughed, the sound a little breathier than you intended, but didn’t look away. The quiet intimacy of the moment wrapped around you both, filling the shop with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sunlight streaming through the window. For now, there was no rush, no outside world knocking on the door—just Fred, you, and the golden glow of the morning, full of unspoken promises and the sense that moments like this would soon become part of the everyday tapestry of your life together.

#marauders #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley smut #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley x you

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stoopidpigeonxx · 17 hours ago

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⋆˚｡⋆୨✧୧˚ 𝑶 𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏, 𝒎𝒚 𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏. ˚୨✧୧⋆｡˚⋆ (PT. 2)

OKOKOK I MADE THE PART TWO PLS STOP YELLING AT MEEEE

NSFW under the cut. MDNI.

Characters/fandoms: Captain Curly, Mouthwashing Content warnings: Smut, obvi, p in v whatt, curly being a SLOPPYYYYY eater, praise (from you and him), boobs, tits even, curly being 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂, alot of dirty talking, etc. Our boy curlys a bit of perv.

-Manners? What manners?

Curly is a, what do you kids call it... a munch? Yes. If he goes down on you, and he most likely will, he will be SLOPPY with it. I'm talking drooling all over your cunt, licking it from top to bottom, shaking his head side to side and pressing wet kisses to your clit. It's ironic, really, since he's so polite in and out of bed, but he doesn't really care about a mess if it means pleasuring you. What's a little mess? Sheets can be washed.

"Sorry *kiss* about the mess, sweetheart.. *kiss* can't *kiss* help myself."

-Beautiful tits. And rack. Love it.

When asked the question 'ass, tits or thighs,' he's gonna pick tits. He's a titty guy. Sure, your ass and thighs are nice too, and he gives them an equal amount of love, but nothing can beat the feeling of shoving his face into your boobs when he's thrusting in and out of you. It has something to do with hearing your heartbeat and how fast it is, but mostly he just likes suffocating between your twins. And if he's particularly stressed, he'll just set you on his desk and lift your shirt up and go to town. Sucking, squeezing, rubbing, all that. His favorite stress balls. And god forbid the day you get nipple piercings... He's mindlessly playing with the metal with his teeth, enjoying the feeling of the cold brass on his tongue. You'll have to wear bandaids. (which he'll apply, apologizing profusely.)

-Praise me for sin.

Call this man a good boy and he's whining and shaking. It goes both ways with him. He loves getting praised, and he loves praising. A few of his favorites.. "You're doing such a good job." "Look at you, taking everything like a champ." "God, you're gorgeous." "Good girl." "You're so pretty, baby.." "Atta-fuckin-girl." He knows you fold every time for that kind of talk, so he makes sure to say at least one while you're getting naughty. On the other hand, some of his favorites to hear.. "That's a good boy." "Thank you." (Manners.) "I love you so much." "You're too good." "Fuck, that's good." Hearing how good of a job he's doing is only fuel for him to keep going, and gets him hard as a rock. So, use that mouth. (Unless its occupied, wink wink.)

-He babbles when he comes.

When he's right on that edge, he goes a bit dumb. You feel so warm and good, and he's so fucking close, and his brain just loses all ability to form coherent thoughts. So he just mumbles whatever comes out of his mouth in that adorable whiny subby voice. (You know the one.) "Fuuuuck too good too good too good.. baby.. g'na make me come, coming, coming." Or just a chorus of 'yes' over and over. Its really cute because he tries to be quiet with it, but his brain is so broken that he can't control his volume too well. He has to shove his face into your shoulder or a pillow to muffle himself so the crew doesn't overhear.

-Can't stop, won't stop.

Will not give up until you come, no matter how sore his cock is or how cramped his legs are. He wants you to come as many times as possible before the night is over, and he's willing to overwork himself to achieve that. You've told him its okay, but he doesn't really care. Feeling you clench around him and ride out your orgasm is the best thing he's ever felt, so he's gonna have you coming at least 3 times each session. Unless, of course, you're begging him to stop since its too much. He'd never want to hurt you. He'd pull out and lay with you for a while and let your body calm down before starting up again. "Take it easy, angel. I'm right here. It's okay, you're doing so well." (Why does his dirty talk sound like him coaching you through birth?? 😭)

#captain curly smut #mouthwashing #curly mouthwashing #smut #curly x reader #curly x reader smut #headcannons #we love our boy

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pinkbunny268 · 8 months ago

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Hi!

Could I request Lucifer x angel! F! Reader?

Reader died and went to heaven, but is very curious about hell, so she sneaks out every now and again to hell to explore it. Reader makes herself look like a sinner, and visits hotel regularly since she knows its a safe place, also wants to support charlie and the idea of redemption. So she meets Lucifer there and is fascinated with him, since he isn't at all what he was described at both in heaven and on earth.

And during the hotel fight, she reveals herself while protecting the hotel as an angel and goes against adam

Omg !! Thank you so much for the request ! Absolutely, I love this idea so much <333 I took the time to set the scene so it’ll be a bit until you actually meet Luci !! Also don’t be afraid to request anything either <333

To be honest, I didn’t think I’d end up in heaven. In my eyes, I don’t think I did anything ‘heaven worthy’ I can’t remember how or why I died but when I opened my eyes I was immediately blinded by this bright light. I squint as I try to look around and see someone walking towards me. Their silhouette making me question my vision.

Wings and a halo? Oh boy, I’m actually dead.

The mystery guy revealed himself to be Adam. THE Adam. The first man. The first anything for that matter. And he’s… not what I thought he’d be. Hes proves himself to be very arrogant and cocky. As well as crude and brass. Not exactly what you think would be on the checklist of characteristics to have to get into heaven. But, clearly, God has favorites. Oh, and top of it he flirts constantly, calling me such honestly degrading nicknames.

“Alright, sugar tits, that’s it for the tour or whatever. Got a problem, you can call me~ I’ll make time for you when I can. Im a busy guy, y’know, being the first man an’ all.”

I fight back the urge to roll my eyes.

“Uh huh… I do have a question.” I reply, ignoring his obvious attempts at flirting.

“Don’t be shy, doll face, I can answer whatever question ya got! I am THE man.” He exclaims, chest puffed out and head held high.

“So… if we’re in heaven does that mean hell also exists?” He blinks at me.

“Dumb fucking question because obviously?” He scoffs, his posture slumped. My eyes sparkle at the thought. I may not be able to remember how I died, but I know that when I was still alive I had been fascinated with hell. Just the thought of different time periods of the world’s worst people all clumped in one place. Just imagine how chaotic that would be. And Lucifer. He’s the worst of them all.

As the weeks turned into months, I had gotten closer to Adam. To the point where I learned about the exterminations one night when Adam got drunk when he had stumbled to my home for comfort. Of course, I was sworn to secrecy.

Adam taught me the spell to cast to make a portal to hell and, of course in Adam fashion, we’d occasionally go down there and I’d watched as Adam would make fun of the sinners and hellborn that lived. I’d merely chuckle at his remarks but secretly I felt bad.

But id never tell Adam that.

So began my secret trips to hell alone. I’d tuck away my wings and halo and used body paint to make myself look like a sinner. Though I was contained in the pride ring I was content seeing hell this way.

I’d get a closer look at those who died and ended up here myself and I’d get to see the rest of hell with the protection of Adam.

During one of my lone visits I was walking around town when I found myself in a bit of a situation.

“Hello sweetheart~ wanna come back to my place and have some fun?” I had heard behind me and turned around to see a sinner backing someone else to a wall. The girl looked uncomfortable and didn’t chance a chance against the guy that had cornered her.

“No, I’m good.” She said shortly and went to leave. But the guy wasn’t having it as he grabbed her arm to pull her against him. My body acted before my mind could think and I found myself standing before the guy, fist clenched with blood on it as the man was on the ground. The girl had disappeared without a word. And I was suddenly hit with this Deja Vu feeling. Like, I’d been in this situation before.

Suddenly, I felt afraid. I went to go but the man I grabbed my ankle causing me to fall. I felt fear as I heard the man speak but I didn’t register what he said. All I knew was that I had to leave before I either got hurt or exposed.

As my very limited options raced through my mind, the man had let go. I looked over at him only to see two women standing in his place.

One was a blonde girl who had knelt down to my level, her eyes filled with concern as she gently placed a hand on top of mine.

“Are you ok?” She asked as she pulled me to my feet.

“We should go before that asshole comes back.” The other girl said, her voice low. The blonde girl looked to me her eyes pleading.

“Come with us, you’ll be save I promise.” I just nodded and allowed them both to lead me to what was a hotel. We entered and the blonde sat me on a couch. “Are you hurt? How’s your ankle? That man had quite the hold on you.”

“I’m fine…” I mumbled. “Thank you, by the way. For saving me.” The blonde smiled.

“Of course! I’m Charlie by the way and the other girl is my girlfriend, Vaggie. We saw how you rushed in to defend that girl. You were amazing!” She praised, stars in her eyes with a big smile. I give her a crooked one in return.

“Anyone would have done that I’m not-“

“No, they wouldn’t.” Vaggie interjected. “Not only because people down here suck but also because it’s not their business. Also, no one else was around. You’re lucky we were or else you could’ve ended up hurt.” Charlie let out a nervous chuckle.

“What she means is you were super brave but should be careful… people aren’t as nice as you.” She gives me a soft smile before getting up and walking over to Vaggie and drags her to a different room. They spoke in hushed whispers before I hear Vaggie sigh and Charlie let out an excited squeal. She races back to me and with a big smile asks me, “How do you feel about sinners being redeemed? Do you think it’s possible?”

“Um… possibly? I mean, if there’s any as nice as you two then I do.”

And that’s where it truly started. I had met the rest of the people who lived in that hotel and I can honestly say they are some of the best people I’ve met. Some were a bit odd like their housekeeper Nifty. But she’s a cutie. They acted nothing like how those made as sinners were supposed to. And him.

Lucifer.

He puzzled me most of all. When I had heard that he was coming to the hotel to possibly help out I felt frightened. He was a fallen Angel, there’s no way he wouldn’t be able to sniff me out. And on top of that, it’s Lucifer! Ruler of Hell which holds all of Earths worst people! But again, like the others he wasn’t what I was told he was like at all.

Adam had described him as “The absolute fucking worst!” Though, I’d say Adam’s a little biased, for good reason, but still.

I found him to be sweet and a little awkward. He was easy to talk to as he made an effort to get to know not only Charlie, which I found out was his daughter, but also the rest of us. And I found myself enjoying his company. Any time I had to go back to Heaven I felt sad. I missed everyone at the hotel. I missed him. Everytime I was at the hotel I was practically glued to Lucifer’s side. I found him so fascinating. He was nothing like I had imagined.

As you can expect, we had gotten close as the Extermination date was drawing near and I was happy yet scared for what was to come. Adam’s fucking attitude towards it all made it hard to keep quiet but I somehow found the patience.

Lucifer even showed me around the Pride Ring and all that it had to offer in terms of fun one day. Just the two of us… alone.

“You know… you’re a lot of fun.” He said randomly as we walked back to the hotel.

“Oh, yeah?” I said with a nervous tone. “Thanks…”

“You’re not like the other sinners…” He replied in a deep tone before his eyes widen. “I-I mean that, you’re like, uh pretty cool! Very nice! Good person to hang around!” He says quickly with a nervous chuckle, he cheeks redder than usual.

“Oh, um, thank you, sir. You’re pretty cool yourself…” with an awkward smile, I playfully punch his shoulder. As I’m retracting my hand, he grabs my wrist and keeps it close to him. His sudden grip on my wrist brings me down to his level.

“Please… don’t call me sir. Just call me Lucifer.” He says breathlessly, as if he’s begging for me to refer to him as Lucifer, not just a request. His cheeks were slightly pink and he looked at me through half-lidded eyes. He looked so soft.

And here I thought I couldn’t get anymore fascinated with him. I could replay that moment forever… well, until an annoying voice ruined it and pulled me out of the fond memory.

“All right bitches! Time to fuck shit up!” Adam yelled as the portal to hell opened and they all dove in. Spears, battle axes and whatever else they used to kill those souls in hand. Before it had closed I rushed in and flew straight to the hotel, not that I had to go far since the portal was opened beside the hotel.

I quickly flew down near some rubble to hide and watched as the Angels attacked before a barrier was put up around the hotel. I could hear Adam screaming at (presumably) Lute that he obviously can’t see the giant fucking forcefield in front of them, which made me chuckle.

I stayed hidden for the majority of the fight, as I wasn’t equipped to really do anything and I was afraid to get in the way. At some point, the barrier had been taken down by Adam. However, when I saw Adam pick Charlie up by her throat I knew I had to act.

Taking off my disguise and letting my wing’s stretch as well as allowing my halo to show itself once more, I fly over to Adam and Charlie and snatch Charlie from Adam’s grasp. I fly her a good enough distance from Adam, still in the air and in my arms.

“Y/n..? You’re an.. angel?” Charlie says in awe, her eyes wide. I give her a sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to-“

“You fucking traitor!” Adam yells as he collects himself. “Fuckers like you aren’t ever allowed back into heaven you fucking bitch!” He declares as he flies back up and heads straight at us, his axe gripped tight in his hand.

My eyes widen in surprise and fear as turn my body, shielding Charlie with my body as i prepare for impact. But it never came. Instead, I hear Adam struggle before turning my head, Charlie still in my arms as I watch Lucifer throw Adam into the sign on top of the building.

“Dad!” Charlie yells as Lucifer flies down closer to us. He smiles at Charlie.

“Sorry I was late, sweetie.” His eyes flicker up to mine, a look of surprise and awe held in them as he stares at me. I feel myself blush slightly.

“Oh my… you’re…”

“An angel, I know I’m sorry-“

“Beautiful.” He finishes, eyes still staring at me with such a look of admiration I almost dropped Charlie. Out the corner of my eye I see Adam picking himself back up, half of his mask torn apart showing off his really face.

He goes on into a rant about how we should be worshipping him, he’s the first man, blah blah blah. Until a knife is plugged into his back and out of his stomach. He falls to the ground and Lute rushes to his aid, screaming his name.

My eyes tear up at the sight of Adam dying in Lutes arm. Lucifer gently grabs my hand and I quietly cry into his shoulder. After a few moments, he practically kicks the Exterminators out. Many of them hurt or wounded in some way and Lute grabs Adam’s halo and flies off, the portal closing behind them.

For the time being after that was spent rebuilding the hotel and mourning the loss of those who died. Once the hotel had been built I again found myself with Lucifer. We sat beside each other, his hand on top of mine. I looked at him, my eyes soft as I studied his face.

He was still as fascinating to me as when I first met him. And I’m so happy that I get to learn more about him now that I’m permanently staying in hell.

I hope you like this! It didn’t really go in the direction I wanted it to and I thought about rewriting it a few times but I think I turned out pretty alright! Forgive me if anything you wanted was left out, it’s been a while since I’ve done a request <333

#hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin fanfic #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin husk #hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar x reader #hazbin lucifer #lucifer x reader #x reader #fluff #hazbin adam #hazbin lute #hazbin niffty #lucifer morningstar #requested #request

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