#I can't even remember where exactly I was but this was under a glass on display with other tiles

[inkedinshadows]

The Morning After

Pairing: Tamlin x f!reader

Summary: After a wild night at Summer Solstice and one too many drinks, you wake up in the bed of the High Lord of the Spring Court with no memories of how you got there.

Warnings: hangover, allusions to sex

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: I normally write in past tense, but I realized after a few paragraphs that I was writing this one in the present tense. Since it came so natural, I decided to leave it that way bc I was too lazy to change it all lol

Main Masterlist | Week Masterlist | Tamlin Masterlist | AO3

@sjmxreaderweek

You wake up to a constant, throbbing pain in the back of your head.

The first thing you notice when you open your eyes with a groan is the blinding sunlight streaming in through the open curtains.

Who leaves their curtains open before going to bed? Especially in the Spring Court, where the sun shines brightly most days. How can anyone sleep like this?

Once you adjust to it, blinking several times, you finally take in your surroundings.

The room is decorated in shades of verdant green and golden yellow, with high-end furniture far more expensive than you could ever dream of. There’s even a fireplace on the opposite wall.

Whoever you went home with last night must be really rich to afford a place like this.

Your head throbs, as if reminding you exactly why you can't remember who you went home with.

Maybe you shouldn't have drunk all that wine. You knew you couldn't hold your liquor.

You can hear someone breathe softly on the other side of the bed and, hoping you have at least made a good choice and picked a good-looking guy, you turn around.

Unbound blonde hair, slightly tousled from sleep, frames a handsome, tanned face you recognize instantly.

You went home with the High Lord himself.

And the worst part? You can’t remember a thing.

You remember the celebration in the vast rose garden facing his manor and how you stopped to admire its roses and their beauty when you first arrived. You remember drinking the first glass of wine to relax and enjoy the Solstice, even among all the faeries gathered there. You never liked big crowds.

After the second glass, you were dancing freely. Tamlin played the fiddle alongside the other musicians, and your eyes had been drawn to him from the start. He just looked so good in his elegant, bright green tunic, long hair tied in a braid that fell over his shoulder. You couldn’t stop glancing at him every so often.

The third glass came after you imagined—for the tenth time—that his gaze had lingered on you while you danced.

Thinking back on it now, maybe it wasn’t just your imagination after all.

But as much as you try to recollect, you can’t remember why you drank a fourth glass or what happened after that. The pounding headache doesn’t help, and you’re left wondering how much more you drank for your memory to be gone.

Tamlin sighs softly in his sleep, and you freeze.

If he wakes up, what are you supposed to do? You can’t tell him you have no idea what happened. You don’t even know if you slept with him.

You’re wearing the thin camisole you had on under your dress, and you catch a glimpse of his shirt as he shifts under the cream-colored sheets. So neither of you is naked. And you’re on opposite sides of the bed, which is large enough for at least four people. You wouldn't be able to touch him even if you fully extended your arm toward him.

So maybe nothing happened.

But then why are you in his bed?

You can’t face him like this. A pounding headache, no memories… not exactly the proper way to meet your High Lord. What if he considers it rude? You wouldn’t be able to live with the shame.

Slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible, you rise from the bed. Maybe leaving before he wakes up is also rude—especially if you did sleep with him—but it’s something you can live with. You can slip out of his room, find your way out of the massive mansion, and never have to face him again.

As soon as you stand up, you have to brace yourself against the wall. The room spins around you, and it takes blinking a few times for it to finally stop. Once you’re sure you won’t stumble and fall, you pick up your pale yellow dress from the chair next to the bed.

Someone—probably not you, if you had to guess—took the time to neatly fold it before draping it over the back of the chair. The fabric barely has a crease when you put it on.

Fortunately, the rustle of clothes doesn’t seem to bother Tamlin. His eyes remain close, his breathing steady.

To avoid making unnecessary noise, you pick up your shoes and tiptoe toward the door, praying it won’t creak when you open it.

“You're not staying for breakfast?”

For a moment, you don’t move. You just stand there—back rigid, one hand on the door handle, shoes held in the other.

Maybe if you don’t move, if you don’t speak or even breathe, he’ll forget about you and go back to sleep.

But you can feel his eyes on you, piercing and curious, and eventually, you turn around.

He is breathtaking.

His hair is molten gold in the morning sunlight, falling over his shoulders in soft waves. A hint of amusement dances in his green eyes as he studies you.

Forcing the words out, you stutter, “I’m… I’m sorry, my Lord. I was—”

“My Lord?” Tamlin repeats. “You sleep in my bed, and now you go back to calling me by my title?”

His voice is still laced with drowsiness, yet it carries a note of playful teasing.

A deadly mix.

At least he’s not annoyed.

“I don’t…” you begin, but you don’t really know what to say. Should you apologize? Tell him the truth about just how drunk you were last night? Or should you start by asking him for explanations?

Before you can make up your mind, he speaks again.

“How’s your head?”

At your confused frown, he adds, “You drank a lot last night. I’m assuming you have a hangover?”

Your hand finally falls away from the handle, but you don’t step away from the door. Keeping your distance seems like the safest, least embarrassing option right now.

“A little,” you admit reluctantly. “I was just about to…”

Your voice fades. Slipping out while he was sleeping is one thing, but now that he’s awake, maybe you should ask him about last night. You can’t just leave without knowing what happened. He’s the High Lord, after all. If something happened between you two, you need—and want—to know.

“About to leave without saying ‘good morning’?” he teases, brows raised.

Taking a deep breath, you prepare yourself for the dreaded question, hoping you won’t embarrass yourself any more than you already have. You already wish you could simply disappear.

“Yes,” you answer, then immediately add, “No! I mean, yes, but it’s just because I… I don’t really remember what happened…”

The beat of silence that follows is deafening, and you brace yourself for his judgment.

But Tamlin only chuckles.

“It’s that kind of hangover, then,” he comments, shaking his head as if disappointed. But rather than at you, he seems disappointed in himself. After a moment, he mumbles under his breath, “I should have seen it coming.”

At last, you take a step forward, your shoes still clutched in your hand.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

He runs a hand through his hair, the golden strands tangling between his fingers. Your eyes follow the movement before settling back on his face again.

“When you approached me last night,” he explains, meeting your gaze, “you seemed only slightly tipsy. I didn’t think too much of it. You just looked a little… overexcited.”

You hold back your groan. Of course you looked overexcited. That’s what alcohol does to you, and you can’t blame him for not realizing you were far beyond ‘slightly tipsy’. Your problem with drinking isn’t your behavior while drunk—it’s the morning after. Though it has never been so bad that you couldn’t remember things before.

“We talked for a while,” Tamlin continues. “And when the celebration was over, we came back here. But as soon as you saw the bed, you jumped on it and collapsed.” He flashes you an amused smile. “You fell asleep in seconds.”

You look down at your bare feet, fingers tightening around your shoes. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t be,” he reassures you. “You looked quite adorable, to be honest.”

His tone is gentle enough that you dare to glance at him again.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, that smirk still playing on his lips.

Adorable.

Drunk and passed out on his bed, and he still thought you were adorable. You refuse to think about how your face must look right now—or your hair.

Not knowing how to respond to his compliment, you change the topic instead.

“You took off my dress.”

You don’t know why you said that. It’s obvious it was him. And as you watch Tamlin’s smile fade, you worry that your words came out more like an accusation than a simple statement.

“I did,” he replies quietly. “I’m sorry if I overstepped. It didn’t look comfortable to sleep in.”

Something flutters in your chest at his thoughtfulness. He has a point—it probably wouldn’t have been comfortable. Not that you would have noticed with all that alcohol in your veins.

“No, it’s alright,” you assure him with a small smile. “Thank you.”

Tamlin relaxes again, then he finally stands and pads closer, barefoot like you.

Has he always been this tall? You have never been so close to him before. Well, not that you remember, at least. His earthy scent floods your senses, reminding you of cut grass and fresh mint, soothing the dull pain lingering in the back of your head.

You can’t tear your eyes away from him as he stares down at you, and even though a racing heart doesn’t exactly get along with a headache, you feel too drawn to him to care.

Needing a distraction from his intense gaze, you decide to speak again.

“So we didn’t…?”

You leave the question hanging, unsure how to properly ask him. A part of you hopes the floor will open up and swallow you whole rather than face this topic.

Tamlin raises an eyebrow, and you can’t tell whether he’s waiting for you to finish the sentence or if he’s genuinely surprised by the question.

“No, we didn’t,” he answers eventually. His lips curl up at the corners. “I’d be very offended if we did and you didn’t remember it.”

Now you really wish the floor would swallow you.

You already assumed the answer was going to be no, so why couldn’t you just keep your mouth shut? Why did you have to make it even more awkward for yourself?

“I slept on the bed just because there’s enough space.” Tamlin shrugs, glancing back at the oversized bed before turning back to you. “I figured it wouldn’t be a problem.”

You shake your head and regret it a moment later. Stupid hangover.

Tamlin’s gaze softens as he notices your slight wince, speaking before you can tell him you didn’t mind sharing the bed.

“Will you stay for breakfast?” he asks gently. Seeing your hesitation, he adds, “We can get you an infusion to help with your headache.”

You’re not sure it’s a smart idea. What if you say something else that makes things weird and awkward? Yet Tamlin doesn’t seem uncomfortable at all. Quite the opposite, actually. And maybe if you stay, if you get the chance to talk with him a little longer, you might find out what else you did last night. If he was so struck by you that he took care of you—and your dress—then your drunk self must have done something right. Hopefully, he won’t be disappointed by your sober self.

“Alright,” you agree with a shy smile. “I can stay for breakfast.”

Tamlin’s smile widens. He takes the shoes from your hand and sets them back on the floor, then offers you his hand.

“Shall we go, then?”

When you accept, his fingers are warm as they envelop yours. He gives them a gentle squeeze before leading you toward the door.

The long hallway outside is less colorful than his bedroom, but just as elegant. Pale green carpets—soft and plush under your bare feet—cover the white marble floor. A few paintings hang on the walls, and pots of small plants and pink flowers line the path to the staircase.

As you walk, Tamlin glances at you. “You know,” he begins with a smirk, “we might not have slept together last night, but we did kiss, though.”

You gasp, almost stopping in your tracks to gape at him. “We did?”

He nods. “Oh, yeah,” he replies, sounding way too pleased with himself. “Too bad you don’t remember that either.”

You are at a loss for words.

You kissed him. Tamlin.

You kissed the High Lord.

It makes sense, you suppose. If you went back to his room together, the intention was obvious. You would have slept together if you hadn’t fallen asleep immediately. Of course you had kissed before that.

You only wish you could remember. It would be nice to know how it feels, to know what his lips taste like.

But maybe… maybe you will.

After all, he invited you to stay for breakfast. Your shoes are still in his room, so you’ll have to go get them before leaving. He is leading you downstairs, his hand warm and steady in yours, his eyes still on you as he smiles softly.

Hopefully, you’ll find out.

“Yeah,” you echo in a murmur. “Too bad indeed.”

*lovely divider by @slytherin-pen

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34 @yesiamthatwierd @lreadsstuff @littlest-w01f

[1000-rat-corpses]

[whoevenisjavier]

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

summary: Your thesis said, “analyze male behavior.” Joel said, “come sit on it.”

a/n: this is the 2nd part, which can't be read alone. i mean, you can read it without going through the first part (read it here), but you won't understand shit

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. porn actor joel miller/javier peña. dirty talk. car sex. fingering. oral sex f! receiving.

wc: 6.5k

Out of shame, you avoid Joel the following week.

You dodge aisles when you see him at the supermarket, time your exits minute by minute to avoid running into him, and lock yourself in your bedroom like an emo teenager when your parents invite him over for dinner.

Because now, whenever you see him, all you can remember is his voice saying obscenities, his hands on women’s skin — and some men’s too. You remember yourself, in the privacy of your room, doing what you swore you would never do.

You even look up if there’s such a thing as a permanent fertile period, because none of this feels normal.

And of course, Joel confronts you about it.

On your father’s birthday night, he invites a few close friends over for a small cocktail party, followed by dinner. When you walk down the stairs, Joel is there, sitting in the living room armchair with a glass of whiskey in his right hand.

He’s listening to something your father is saying but glances at you. You immediately turn your back and head into the kitchen to see if your mother needs help.

Yesterday, you found a movie where Joel played a DEA agent rescuing a drug lord’s wife. He said so many filthy things to her while fucking her inside a police car that the words stuck in your head like Play-Doh in hair.

And maybe the area between your legs feels a little more sensitive too, which only makes you feel worse.

After the cocktail and dinner, spent tensely avoiding Joel’s gaze, you slip out into the backyard with a glass of wine in one hand and your Kindle in the other.

Inside, the party goes on, your father having opened another bottle of whiskey, and you can hear them from here. You need to stay out of your bedroom to keep yourself from typing "Javier Peña" into that damn search bar again, so for the next few minutes, you sip your wine and read.

“Finally, a place where you can’t hide behind the toilet paper aisle.”

Joel sits down on the chair next to you, holding his own whiskey glass. You lose your words because, yes, you actually did hide in the personal hygiene aisle yesterday when you saw him.

You play dumb.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. You went all puritanical after you found out what you found out.”

“I told you it’s weird.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t need your approval. My life and career are my own. I said I would help you with your thesis, and I will, but if you keep running from me, someone’s going to think there’s something wrong between us.”

You take another sip of wine in silence, staring at the lawn like it’s salvation. Joel’s gaze burns into the side of your face before he asks:

“Have you watched any more?”

“For the thesis.” A lie.

“May I ask which one?”

“The DEA one.”

“Hmm.”

He finds your eyes as he sips his whiskey. He’s sitting with his legs spread, making his jeans stretch tight over his groin and thick thighs. And you know exactly what’s under those jeans.

You can’t resist your curiosity:

“Do you miss acting?”

“My ego does,” he says, like he’s thought about it a thousand times. “Not gonna lie, there’s a certain masculine pride in being a porn actor. It’s easier for men. But personally? No. Especially because of Sarah.”

“She knows?”

He shakes his head.

“She does. I told her when she turned fifteen because I’d rather she hear it from me than stumble across it online.”

“How did she react?”

“Well, I guess.”

You shake your head and cover your face with your free hand, groaning a little.

“I can’t stop wondering if my mom knows about you.”

“I hate to break it to you—”

You cut him off. “Shhh.”

His laugh is low but genuine. Your eyes meet again, and this time, you could swear his gaze dips a little lower, to the neckline of your dress, where a bit of flushed skin is showing thanks to the wine.

But he disguises it and gestures toward your Kindle:

“What are you reading?”

“Some articles to help with my research.”

“Have my films led you to any conclusions?”

“Um, definitely,” you say, staring at the lawn. “You cussed a lot. And you seem very interested in my opinion of your movies.”

“I'm curious.”

You internally roll your eyes. Men.

“You want a performance review? Aren’t the comments on XVideos enough?”

“I want yours.”

You ignore him, because your evaluation of his performance was made perfectly clear when you got yourself off twice in a row thinking about his voice.

Instead, you ask:

“Did the DEA girl really come? Because it looked real.”

Joel stays quiet for a while. When you glance at him, you notice a small smirk playing on his lips as he taps his fingers against his glass. His whiskey’s almost gone.

“Do you really want to get into that?”

“Why not?”

A few more seconds of silence. Then he seems to say "fuck it" internally and answers:

“I liked making the other actresses come. Some directors didn’t like it because it took longer, and ‘who cares if they actually orgasm if they can fake it,’” he says, making air quotes. “But I liked it. Not all of them, of course, and sometimes they’d tell me they were fine without it, but it was a preference of mine.”

“And the DEA girl?” you press.

“Was that your favorite?”

You shake your head.

“Which one was?”

You shake your head again, indicating you won’t tell him.

“The DEA girl was my ex-girlfriend,” he says.

“So it was real.”

Joel shrugs, and that's all the answer you need. The porch light behind you highlights his graying beard and the glint of whiskey on his lips. Your throat goes dry.

“How did you get into the industry?”

Joel clicks his tongue.

“Very personal question.”

“Okay, what made you leave?”

He glances at your wine glass and ignores the question, asking another instead:

“What wine is that?”

You consider not answering out of petty revenge, but your parents raised you better.

“Barefoot. I know it’s cheap, but I like it,” you swirl the red wine in your glass. “Even though I know I’ll wake up with a headache tomorrow.”

Joel rolls his eyes and stands, leaving his whiskey glass behind.

“Come on, bring your glass. I’ll give you some real wine.”

He starts walking toward the gate between your houses, and you have no choice but to follow, leaving your Kindle and the party behind. Joel’s broad shoulders guide you around the side of his house and into the kitchen.

It’s silent and dark, except for a single hallway light. Quietly, because Sarah is probably asleep, you pass through the kitchen and head to a door leading to the garage, where the lighting is dim at best. His truck takes up almost all the space.

Unsure of what to do, you hover at the door, watching as he enters a small room off the garage. It’s a little wine cellar, concrete walls lined with slanted mahogany shelves.

Joel comes back out with a bottle in hand. You recognize the label and freeze.

“You’re not about to open a Rockford Flaxman.”

“I am,” he says, brushing past you just enough to close the door behind you, locking the two of you in the garage. His scent hits you, and you fight the urge to bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Just closing the door so Sarah doesn’t wake up. Hand me your glass.”

“Joel, that bottle’s expensive.”

“Hand me your glass,” he repeats.

You give it to him. Joel pulls a corkscrew from a drawer you hadn’t noticed and pops the bottle open effortlessly. He fills your glass halfway and, as he hands it back to you, asks:

“Mind if we share the glass?”

You shake your head.

From another drawer, he grabs his truck keys, disables the alarm, and turns on a tiny, terrible-quality radio. Duran Duran starts playing.

Joel gestures toward the truck:

“Come on. We can sit inside.”

Heart pounding a little faster, palms sweating, you climb into the passenger side. You settle into the leather seat and finally take a sip of the good wine.

It tastes fruity and oaky, almost sweet on your tongue. You let out a long, contented hum.

“Really good,” you say after swallowing. “Best way to end the night.”

His fingers brush yours as he takes the glass. You watch him savor a sip before handing it back.

He speaks as he does:

“I left the industry because the doubts about real consent started eating at me,” he says, answering the question you asked earlier. Joel leans back in the seat, legs spread, head resting against the headrest, eyes closed. “And I’m not just talking about explicit consent. I mean about the people who were there because they had no other choice.”

“I can’t imagine anyone doing porn unless they had to,” you murmur.

“I get it, but some people genuinely like it,” he meets your gaze as you sip more wine. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious.”

“Maybe for men...”

“It’s more common among men, true.”

You offer him the glass. He drinks and gives it back.

“The agency that managed my films didn’t like it when I started giving interviews about that stuff. They gave me fewer scenes or scripts I���d never agree to do, and I had to start turning them down. When they began sabotaging me, I left.”

“Scripts you wouldn’t accept?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” you accept the short answer. “No other agency made you an offer?”

“They did, but when I left, I didn’t want to go back.”

“And yet, you defend the industry.”

“I don’t defend the industry—I defend the work I did, because I know how it was done. I don’t like when you generalize.”

“You know that sounds like ‘not all men,’ right? Of course not everyone was bad, but the industry itself is terrible. So when I criticize it, it’s the majority I’m talking about. And you were exploited too.”

He exhales deeply. There’s more you want to say, but you sense it’s a sensitive topic, so you change the subject:

“Can I ask what you do now?”

“I invest,” he says simply. “I made a lot of money back then and wasn’t stupid enough to blow it on parties and drugs. I invested in public and private construction companies, and now they pay me back.”

“Didn’t expect that.”

Joel gives you a look.

“Male privilege. I got into a lot of good deals just because I was Javier Peña.”

“That wouldn’t happen to an actress,” you guess, and he nods. “So now you just live off your investments.”

“Pretty much.”

The wine in your glass runs out. Joel notices, grabs the bottle, and this time drinks straight from it. You mimic him, putting the glass in the back seat.

“How was it, being an actor?”

“Fun. Lots of parties, admiration, glamor, L.A., and sex all the time,” he says. “The downside was the strict diet, weekly waxing, and almost daily health tests. I probably have a permanent hole in my vein.”

“Did you only date people in the industry?”

“Not a rule, but it was easier, so mostly.”

“Sarah’s mom—”

“No, she wasn’t in it. She was a friend.”

You figure she’s not around anymore, considering you’ve never heard Sarah mention her.

“If someone offered you two million dollars today,” you start, trying to lighten the mood, and his face softens, “for a solo film. Just you, just masturbation. Would you do it?”

“No, because of Sarah. Okay, my old films are still out there, but they existed before she was born. It’s different.” Another sip of wine. Joel continues: “I don’t think I’d even know how to behave in front of a camera anymore.”

“That’s not the spirit of the Longest Cumshot Award winner.”

Joel’s eyes widen in shock, and you burst out laughing at yourself, raising both of your hands.

“I didn’t look it up, I swear. It’s just one of the first pictures that comes up when you search your name.”

“Tell me your favorite film,” he insists.

You think about refusing again, but the wine is warming your face and your throat, and the atmosphere is too cozy.

“The title is ridiculous,” you start, and he grunts for you to hurry up. “Something like ‘Lust Lives Next Door.’”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Where he’s the neighbor?”

Keeping a neutral expression, you sip more wine, feeling his gaze fixed on you.

“Why?” Joel asks.

“It felt so real. You looked so...”

You lose the words. He prompts you:

“So...?”

“I don’t know. You looked like you really wanted her. Sure, you always looked like that—you were an actor—but with her, it was different. At least to me.”

Joel studies you a moment longer. Then asks, seriously:

“Did you touch yourself watching it?”

Your cheeks burn.

“It’s normal,” you defend. “Inevitable.”

“Only with that one?”

“Joel.”

He exhales long and slow.

“If you’re uncomfortable, we’ll stop. I’ll walk you home.”

You open your mouth to joke about how ridiculous it is for him to walk you home when you’re literally neighbors, but the seriousness of his question leaves you speechless.

“I’m not a porn actress. I’m not used to this,” you murmur.

“Then just nod,” he suggests seriously. Your silence is taken as agreement.

He asks:

“Did you touch yourself to any other of my films?”

A pause, then...

You nod.

He breathes deeply.

“Did you watch my films only because of the thesis?”

You shake your head no.

“Do you imagine me doing those things to you?”

You feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff. One step back, and you’ll be safe, intact but with a pounding heart. One step forward, and you’ll fall, jump, dive into whatever awaits below.

The blood in your ears almost drowns out the start of “Glory Box” by Portishead playing from that shitty little radio.

You take a step forward.

You nod.

Before he can ask anything else, you’re the one who speaks:

“Do you want to see?” you ask, fueled by all the liquid courage from the wine. You clarify, “How I touched myself.”

The answer comes immediately:

“Of course I do.”

You glance at the garage door, then at him, hardly believing you’re about to do this. Before shyness can take over, you close the passenger door, slip off your sandals, and adjust yourself on the seat so your back rests against the door and your legs stretch across the console. You place your feet in Joel’s lap, and you can’t help but notice the hard bulge pressing against his jeans—you have to fight the urge to abandon everything and just beg him to take you to his room and do whatever he wants with you.

Okay. You take a slow, steadying breath to calm your racing heart. Joel’s hand settles around your ankle, his thumb brushing the bone there, and that small point of contact anchors you.

The dress you’re wearing is short, so it only takes a small tug for the fabric to bunch around your waist. With bare legs, goosebumped skin, and heavy breaths, you hand him the wine bottle.

Joel accepts it without taking his eyes off you.

“I’m not as confident as your porn actresses,” you say, but to your own ears your voice sounds pathetically breathless.

His touch trails up to your shin and back down, his hand wrapping around your left foot. He says:

“If you knew how many times I imagined myself between your legs, you wouldn’t feel insecure right now.”

Your breasts ache against the thin fabric of your dress as you spread your legs. You slide your hand into your panties, and Joel doesn’t look directly at it—he watches your face instead. He studies your reaction when your lips part at the feeling of your fingers touching the sensitive, wet spot between your thighs.

The knowledge that he’s wanted this just as badly as you makes you bolder.

You tilt your head back, resting it against the car window, and look at the ceiling while you speed up your fingers. Everything feels so sensitive that you have to bite your lower lip to keep any sound from escaping.

“Fuck...” Joel murmurs, his touch sliding up your thigh. “I can hear how wet you are.”

“Give me your hand.”

Joel takes one last sip of wine and sets the bottle on the ground outside the truck before offering his hand to you. You barely manage to meet his eyes as you pull your panties aside and guide his rough fingers between your legs.

His fingers glide easily over your clit, so wet that it’s almost slippery, and the feeling is so good—his fingers are larger, different textured than your own—and he lets you use them like a toy.

Joel’s gaze finally drops to where your bodies meet. With his free hand, he palms himself through his jeans, starting to rub.

It’s too much for your mind to process.

You squeeze your eyes shut again, using both your hands to guide his and spreading your legs wider. You have to breathe through parted lips to stop yourself from moaning as he rubs that almost painfully sensitive spot over and over.

“Does it feel good using my fingers like that?” he asks, voice hoarse. You nod. “Then let me fuck you with them.”

You whisper your agreement, guiding his fingers lower after making sure they’re slick enough. You press down gently, and his middle finger sinks inside you with a wet sound.

“Joel…”

“Hearing you moan like that and it’s not even my cock yet,” he mutters, fucking you slowly with his middle finger. “Let me add another one.”

You nod. He adds another finger, and you barely manage to hold in the moan, especially when he starts moving them in a slow, delicious rhythm, dragging the strokes out rather than speeding up.

It all happens so fast. One second Joel is pulling you lower, sliding your ass almost onto the console, and the next, he’s bending down and putting his mouth on you—his tongue tracing a quick, hot path from your entrance to your clit.

You clap a hand over your mouth and grab his hair with the other, the graying strands slipping through your fingers. The position can’t be comfortable for him, half off the driver’s seat and bent over you, but he doesn’t seem to care. His lips close over your clit, sucking and licking, while his fingers keep fucking you. His beard scrapes the sensitive skin of your thighs and the slick heat between your legs—and somehow, that only makes you hotter.

You tug his hair harder, pulling him closer into you, and you swear he’s smiling against you, his mouth opening over your clit.

The third finger teases your entrance, and just that promise is enough—you come with a muffled gasp, both hands buried in Joel’s hair as you ride his face. His beard will definitely leave marks on your skin.

Joel waits patiently until your body stops pulsing around his fingers, even though his occasional licks don’t exactly help. Then he pulls his mouth away and sits back in the driver’s seat, wiping his beard with his hand to clear the mess you left behind.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he grabs you with one hand and, steadying your hips with both, pulls you straight onto his lap.

“Hi,” you whisper, still breathless.

“Hi,” he says back.

“You kiss?”

“What?” He smiles, brushing a lock of hair off your forehead. “You asking if I know how to kiss?”

“I’m asking if you have any rules against it, because I really, really want to kiss you.”

“You do?” His thumb brushes over your lower lip, the crease between his brows soft and nearly invisible. “I’m all yours.”

With that permission, you wrap your arms around his neck and move closer, trying to control your ragged breathing. You keep your eyes locked on his as you kiss his bottom lip, then his top, tracing them with the tip of your tongue, pressing your thumbs under his jaw to coax his mouth open.

You run your tongue across the opening, and Joel fists your hair at the nape of your neck, finally taking the lead and kissing you back.

You’re consumed by the taste of expensive wine, a kiss you’d only ever imagined through a computer screen—and you realize the actresses hadn’t been faking their moans, because when Joel sucks your tongue into his mouth for the first time, the sensation ripples right through the core of you, and you whimper softly into his mouth.

“Take off your panties,” he murmurs against your lips as he trails kisses along your chin, your jaw, and down your neck. You move with him, adapting to the pace and hunger of his kisses.

As he reaches your collarbones, Joel tugs the thin straps of your dress down and pushes the fabric until it bunches at your waist. Your breasts are exposed to the cool garage air—and to his hungry mouth.

“Joel…”

His tongue laps at your nipple, and he grows impatient. He slides a hand between your thighs and yanks your panties down with little care. You hear the lace tear but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when seconds later Joel is maneuvering you onto your knees so he can pull the ruined panties off completely.

Then he balls the fabric in his left hand and brings it to his nose.

It should feel ridiculous—like some cheap porno move—but it doesn’t.

He isn’t doing it for show.

He’s doing it because—

Joel grabs your hair again, keeping you firmly in place, and lifts the panties to your own nose. His mouth hovers at your ear as he says:

“See?” Joel’s lips skim down your neck. You catch the unmistakable scent of your own arousal, and your cheeks burn. “You’ve been dripping wet since the moment you walked into this garage.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, pressing his arm to press the panties harder against your nose. You inhale loud enough for him to hear and murmur, “I’ve been wet since the moment you sat next to me in the backyard.”

Joel looks at you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stuffs the panties into the front pocket of his worn jeans before unbuttoning and pushing them down along with his boxers.

You probably stare at his cock like an idiot, because seeing it on a screen was one thing, but seeing it now—right in front of you, the subtle changes from age only making it better—hits you hard.

“You’re smiling. What, is my dick funny?” Joel asks.

You shake your head.

“Your dick is practically a shrine to me.”

Joel rolls his eyes, wiping the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“I’m real fucking close to come just looking at you,” he mutters, and you feel a flicker of disappointment, but it seems to be true, especially given how hard he is.

Joel shifts you into place on his lap, adjusting you like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He leans back against the seat, partially reclining, and grips his cock with one hand.

“Come here,” he says lowly, pulling you by your thighs. When his thick cock nestles between your legs, you realize what he wants.

You brace yourself on his shoulders, biting your lip to keep any sounds from escaping as you lift onto your knees just enough to start sliding yourself against him.

The slickness between your legs makes it easy—wet and slippery—and Joel groans, tipping his head back against the seat.

God.

He looks huge beneath you, between your thighs, in the way his hands grip your hips and travel along your waist and back up. The rigid heat of him rubs directly over your clit with every glide, and you wrap your hand around the base of his cock to press him even harder against you as you move.

Joel’s hands grip your hips so hard you wonder if you’ll have bruises tomorrow. He glances down between you, where your wetness has coated him, and mutters a filthy curse between his clenched teeth.

“These tits…” he growls, lowering his mouth back to your breasts, drawing you even closer. “Can you come like this?”

You nod, tugging his curls at the nape of his neck, moving faster when he sucks a nipple into his mouth, leaving a trail of wet heat on your skin.

“Turn around,” Joel orders, licking the corner of your mouth. “I want to come on your ass.”

You obey instantly.

He helps you twist around so your knees stay on the seat but your back is pressed against his chest.

Joel runs his cock through your soaked folds, nudging your clit with the head.

He gathers your hair in one hand, pulling it aside so he can kiss the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.

“Rub yourself on it,” he says, voice rough. Your only support is the steering wheel in front of you, which you cling to as you rock your hips back and forth, grinding down along his shaft.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me doing exactly what I tell you,” he mutters against your ear.

“I like when you tell me what to do,” you whisper, barely able to form the words with the way that familiar tension is building fast in your stomach.

“Yeah, baby, I can tell by how soaked you are.”

You don’t answer, focusing only on your own pleasure now, shifting so the thick length of him is perfectly aligned against your clit.

Your leg trembles, your mind blanking with the focus on your orgasm, and you have to bite down on your sweaty arm to keep from crying out his name.

“Feels good?” you ask, panting.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart,” Joel rasps, his hand tightening around your throat just enough to tilt your face toward his so he can kiss your jaw, your cheek. The slick sounds of your bodies are filthy, but it only pushes you closer. “Been holding back this whole time not to fucking come inside that sweet pussy.”

And that’s all it takes.

You come with a silent scream, clinging to the steering wheel, shuddering against him as your orgasm rips through you.

“Get up,” Joel says urgently, and, trembling, you lift yourself on wobbly knees.

He pushes your dress up your back, squeezes your ass—and you know exactly what he wants.

You brace yourself against the steering wheel, arching your back for him, and Joel lets out a rough, desperate sound.

Between heavy breaths, you hear the slick noises of him jerking himself off, and it only takes a few seconds before you feel it—hot spurts of cum hitting your ass, dripping down the backs of your thighs.

After what feels like forever, Joel slaps your ass gently and wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you against his chest.

You let yourself collapse into him, feeling his heart pounding just as hard as yours.

You stay there for a moment, quiet, your lips dry when you finally whisper:

“Good wine.”

He laughs.

“Knew you’d like it.”

You close your eyes, tangling your fingers with his over your waist.

When you wake up the next morning, it’s to persistent knocking on the door.

Startled, heart racing, you open your eyes. At first, you don’t recognize the room you’re in, but then you feel Joel’s arm draped over your hips and everything from last night comes rushing back.

You two had cleaned up the garage as best you could, wiped down the seats of his truck, and then gone upstairs to his bedroom to shower together. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave, and he asked you to stay, so you texted your parents saying Joel needed you to sleep over (not a lie) because of Sarah, since he had to rush out for an emergency (a complete lie).

“Dad,” Sarah knocks again, and you have to replay last night’s events to make sure Joel actually locked the door before you both passed out. “Daaaad.”

He opens his eyes, still half-asleep, and pulls you closer against him. Sarah knocks again, and Joel grunts softly before calling out:

“Is the house on fire?”

She laughs.

“No, but you must be sick if you’re not up yet. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just got in late last night.”

Quietly, you trace your fingers over his beard. He meets your gaze and catches your hand, kissing your knuckles before hugging you closer, and you’re reminded that you’re both still naked under the covers—every inch of his warm body pressed against yours.

“Hangover?” Sarah asks.

“Sort of.”

“I left you breakfast. The school bus is about to get here.”

You watch his expression soften.

“Thanks, baby girl. Have a good day. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, Dad.”

You hear her footsteps fading down the stairs, and you smile at Joel.

“That was so sweet,” you murmur sincerely. “You call her ‘baby girl��.”

“She used to hate it when she was younger, but she gave up fighting me on it,” he says, his voice raspy from sleep, making something in your stomach flip. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” you whisper back.

Joel brushes his thumb over your cheek and temple, then asks:

“Do you regret it?” You frown, not understanding right away. He clarifies: “Last night.”

“Of course not. Are you crazy?”

“You fucked a porn actor,” he says conspiratorially.

“An ex–porn actor,” you correct. “And we haven’t even fucked yet. Why would I regret that?”

Joel shrugs.

“Aren’t you the one who hates them?”

“Joooel,” you groan, flopping onto your back. “We already talked about this. I hate the industry. I could never hate you.”

“If you say so.”

You turn your face toward him when you feel his hand sliding over your stomach, your hip, your breast…

“Well, now I have a very subjective perspective for my thesis,” you tease.

Joel smiles, raising an eyebrow.

“Imagine explaining that when someone asks how you gathered your results—you’ll have to say Javier Peña showed you personally.”

You barely manage to suppress the shiver that runs down your spine.

“Our little adventure would make a good movie,” you say, but instantly regret it, shaking your head. “Forget it. Just the thought of any image of me out there makes me sick.”

Joel stays silent, but there’s a stupid little smile on his lips as he props himself up on his elbow, lying sideways. His other hand, which was resting on your belly, slides lower. Past your hip, past your thigh, and back up again.

“What’s with that smirk?” you ask.

He licks his bottom lip.

“Remember when you asked me what my favorite kind of movie was?”

That’s the sentence that leads, twenty minutes later, to you lying on your side, your back pressed against Joel’s chest, the morning light streaming through the thick curtains.

He holds you firmly as you reach between your legs, guiding his cock inside you. You almost melt in his arms, feeling the thick veins pulse against your fingers.

“A little more,” Joel murmurs into your ear, sliding an arm under your thigh and adjusting your position to help you take him. You reach behind you, grabbing his hip. Inch by inch, he fills you.

You look down between your legs, watching the way you stretch around him, and it feels like the bed is dissolving under the weight of it.

“Joel.”

“I’m right here, baby,” he says. You see him licking three fingers before reaching down to your clit, just as he starts moving his hips.

The next few days in Lake Placid pass exactly like that.

Some nights, you sneak across your backyard to Joel’s house, and he usually meets you halfway, catching you on the stairs with a kiss before carrying you to bed.

Other times, he sneaks into your house and fucks you on your bedroom floor, because your bed makes too much noise.

You keep working on your thesis and stop watching Javier Peña’s old movies. You don’t need them anymore—not when Joel Miller is texting you saying he needs you in his bed.

On your last few days at home, your parents throw a barbecue. Among the guests are Joel and Sarah.

It’s Joel who finds you in the kitchen as you’re finishing seasoning the potato salad.

He leans against the counter across from you, holding a can of beer. You glance up from the potatoes to meet his gaze, and flashes of last night hit you—when you two had sex in a ridiculous roadside motel because Sarah was having a sleepover with her friends at home.

“And when you go back to New York?” he asks, and you immediately understand what he means.

You shrug.

“I’m not going to pressure you into a long-distance relationship. We don’t have a relationship anyway. And I don’t want a long-distance thing.”

“But I want you.”

You stab a piece of potato with your fork and bring it to his mouth. He accepts it, chewing slowly while waiting for your answer.

“I want you too,” you confess. “But I know you have other priorities.”

“So do you.”

You nod. “So do I.”

Somehow, it feels like a goodbye.

Two months later, back in New York, you type the final period on the last sentence of your thesis.

You stretch your arms over your head like you just won a marathon and then slowly slide to the floor, lying flat on your back like a starfish.

Your spine cracks, your wrists protest after three straight hours of typing, but you can’t wipe the huge, satisfied smile off your face—you’re free.

You grab your phone and text your friends:

“Thesis done. Beer to celebrate?”

You end up doing a full bar crawl, treating it like a birthday or something equally ridiculous.

All it takes is a low-cut top showing off your cleavage, a sweet voice, and the line “Do I get a prize for finishing my thesis?” to score free drinks all night.

You flirt with a few guys, but none of them make you want to drag them home. None of them have a Texas drawl, a graying beard, and the smirk of a retired porn star.

Actually…

You open your chat with Joel.

The last message from him, sent yesterday, is a photo of the same wine bottle you two opened that night in the garage. You had texted back “wish I was there,” and he’d replied with a kiss emoji.

He’d mentioned he was attending some adult film award ceremony as a presenter or something, but he didn’t say where.

He must have been busy all day.

Tonight, you type:

“went out drinking with some friends to celebrate finishing my thesis and can’t stop thinking about you. swear if you were here, i’d be blowing you under one of the bar tables.”

You put your phone away.

You down a tequila shot and laugh when your friend toasts to the end of grad school.

At three in the morning, you still haven’t gotten a reply from Joel.

You call an Uber after making sure your friends are safe, pulling your leather jacket tight around your body. The ride sobers you up just enough to make you crave a whole bottle of water.

That’s exactly what you do when you get home.

You peel off your pleated skirt and jacket, leaving yourself in just a wool turtleneck sweater, and you’re about to jump into the shower when your intercom buzzes.

You glance at the microwave clock: 3:54 AM.

You answer.

“Hello?”

“Delivery from Javier Peña.”

You gasp and immediately buzz him in.

Your heart is already racing as you open your apartment door, standing half-hidden behind it since you’re not wearing any pants.

You practically bounce with anticipation at the same time you convince yourself you’re not dreaming.

When Joel appears at the top of the stairs, it’s like all the blood in your body rushes to your head. He’s wearing glasses and has that stupid, cocky smile, dressed in a black T-shirt with two simple words printed across the front: adult content.

“I can’t believe you’re actually wearing that shirt.”

“The name of the studio that sponsored the awards ceremony,” he says, stopping in front of you.

He smells so good it makes you a little self-conscious about the sweat clinging to your neck from the night out.

“Heard someone finished their thesis,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Figured I should congratulate you properly.”

[coquettefrancaise]

rock 'n' roll star

by Oasis

pair: Azriel x reader ~ 1.9k

warnings: excessive drinking, nothing else really

summary: tall, dark, and, handsome, Azriel was a wet dream incarnate… which is only intensified when you notice his newest accessory

author's note: why, yes, Drew Starkey was on my mind the entire time I wrote this. also, I'm considering whipping up a small continuation that's a little less fluffy 😋

"You're drunk, baby."

"No I'm not Azzy. You are."

Azriel reeled as your breath hit him. "You smell flammable.”

Normally, your girls nights consisted of going out to dinner and gossiping. Only on occasion would you and the other females from the inner circle decide to hit Rita’s and club. And tonight was one of those occasions… with a whole bunch of alcohol.

“What in the Mother do they put in those drinks?” Azriel snorted as he carried you into your shared bedroom.

“First rule of the secret menu: don’t ask questions.” You giggled, body heavy in Azriel’s arms as exhaustion pulled at your limbs.

He had been enjoying a glass of wine with his brothers when Feyre had reached out to Rhys that backup was needed. At least the high lady had the decency to drink under her weight.

You weren't the type who knocked back drinks on a whim- you weren't even a casual drinker! So it came as a surprise when Azriel felt your inhibitions dull through the bond.

When the three Illyrian’s arrived, it had been like trying to wrangle sugar-induced toddlers. You and Nesta attempted to return to the bar for ‘one more drink’ and then Mor was grinding against the nearest fae as they practically dragged her out.

Azriel set you down on the bed, running a hand through his hair as you snuggled into yourself and closed your eyes. “Don’t you want to get ready for bed?”

You grunted.

"Come along, my little drunkard, I just cleaned your favorite night-shirt this morning."

That had your eyes blinking open, fingers inching across the duvet, near where he was standing. After years of dating, he understood what you were asking. So he picked you up once more and began undressing you.

With every layer taken off, you swayed, his shadows supporting your torso to help keep you upright. They had been taken with you from the get-go, racing to greet you first, or be the one to make sure you got inside your apartment safely.

"Azzy," you mumbled as he fitted the raggedy, old t-shirt he'd had crumpled in the bottom of his drawer, over your head. You had found it after your first night spent together and hadn't let go since. Even though he'd attempted to throw it away time and again.

"Hmm?"

You looked up at him, adorably bleary-eyed. "D'you know what would be sooooo sexy?"

He chuckled softly as he leaned you back against the pillows. "What, baby?"

"An earring!"

That made him pause in wetting a rag. An earring? What kind of nonsense was Mor whispering in your ear all night? He sat beside you and began wiping the makeup off your face. "Why do you say that?"

You shrugged.

He patted your cheek softly to wake you up. How much did you have to drink tonight exactly?

An annoyed sound rumbled deep in your chest. "You can't just tell me to pierce my ears and then drift off into sleep."

"Dunno. Thought it'd be-"

"Sexy," he huffed amusedly.

You eyed him suspiciously. "What are you laughing at? You're like the sexiest man in all of Prythian."

He pulled you into his chest, smoothing a hand over your hair, committing the silkiness of it to memory. "Oh no. I would never dare make fun of your sexy mate. Not when I know what those claws of yours are capable of. I was only laughing because I was remembering something that happened earlier."

No response came from you, only a soft snore and Azriel knew you hadn't even heard him. And when you woke up in the morning, annoyed that he let you go to bed without having completed your skincare, he would only hug you tighter to him and smother you with kisses until you couldn't think over your giggles.

He didn't mind having to take care of you. In fact, it solidified the notion that someone needed him. That he was someone's first choice. And what better way to show you how much he loved you than to give into your dreamy desires. After all, words spoken under the influence were words of truth, weren't they?

So he pulled the comforter over you both and turned off the faelights, thinking more about your suggestion.

There had been too many behaviors today. First the kid who threw a tantrum when his friend claimed the only blue crayon first, and then the little girl who threw a box of blocks when told to put them away. It seemed that those two incidents set the rest of the day up for disaster.

Not to mention that you spaced the dinner with the inner circle you had tonight.

When you had walked into your apartment, a shadow awaited you, pulling you along to the calendar on the wall. And then you had to walk yourself because Azriel had closed the bond well over a couple hours before for whatever reason. You hadn't been able to concern over it when you had been hit in the back by a toy.

So you sped over to the restaurant, the dark wisp trailing behind you as your companion. A small comfort in itself.

As soon as the hostess showed you to the reserved table, you were pulled into hug after hug, before being able to sit and decompress, the tightness of your shoulders still present.

Cassian slung and arm over the back of your chair, sighing as if he'd been the one who'd dealt with a dozen four-year-old's. "Where's your bodyguard?"

"I was under the impression he was with you or Rhys. He hasn't answered any of my calls down the bond."

"The bastard is probably brooding somewhere," he clicked his tongue. "And you know something? You don't have to put up with that guy. You're young, hot, brilliant; you deserve someone far better. I can always ask Nes if she'd be willing to share our bed."

You snorted out a laugh, Nesta peering around her mate. "I wouldn't wish Cassian upon anyone."

His face pulled down in a hurt frown. "What's that mean?"

Before Nesta could answer, a chair scraped along the tiled ground, and Mor sat down across from you. And behind her-

Your own chair clattered to the ground before your face was smashed into Azriel's firm chest, inhaling the deep, intoxicating scent of night you believed was the closest thing to heaven.

Long fingers slip to the nape of your neck, thumbs urging your chin up so your gaze could connect with hazel ones. "Long day?"

You let your forehead fall onto his pec in answer.

You could feel the low vibrations of his quiet chuckle and then he was moving you backwards, sitting in the chair you left behind- now upright thanks to a disgruntled Cassian -and set you on his lap as his hands ran soothingly over your arms and back.

"I didn't realize my offer would upset her that bad," Cassian defended.

The both of you ignored him, the rest of the room blurring into insignificance as you had the only thing that mattered holding, and waiting patiently for you to give him the spiel.

"Later," you promised. "For now: why'd you close the bond? Is everything alright? Are you alright?"

He only ever closed the bond whenever he was sent away on some secret spy errands or after a particularly rough tumble in the training ring that ended with him in the infirmary.

Guilt creased his brow, his thumb pressing into your chin. "It's nothing concerning. I was just..." his eyes flickered behind you, "Nothing bad."

You peered over your shoulder to find Mor, who was smirking feline-like into the rim of her drink. You'd never seen the resemblance between her and Rhys so clearly until then.

You turned back to Azriel, confused.

His face softened, reassurance flowing down the string that bound your souls together. "I'm serious, baby. I only feel bad because it probably worried you to not be able to reach me and you've obviously had a shit day already. If anything, the reason for why I went MIA will, hopefully, excite you. Promise."

Long ago, when you were in the unfortunate habit of dating douche bags and lowlifes, you believed that you would never find a man worthy of you. Now, after having met Azriel, you hardly believed you deserved him.

You leaned in to kiss him when you saw a silver glint at his ear. Curious, you brushed back his midnight hair and your eyes widened.

The corner of Azriel's lip quirked and you could hear a snicker from Mor.

Pierced through his earlobe sat a thin silver hoop. You cupped his jaw, turning his face from side to side, taking in every angle with hungry eyes.

"When? How? Where?"

His eyes glinted with proud male satisfaction. "After training this morning and by Mor at the House of Wind. Do you like it?"

Did you like it? Does Cassian admire himself in the mirror? "Y-yes!" you stammered, fighting off the abrupt desire to nip at it, when realization dawned. "You didn't want me to feel the pain of the piercing."

He shook his head, knocking his hair back over his newest improvement. You were quick to push it back.

"I take it you like it?"

"Like it? I love it. It's so-"

"Sexy?" he supplied.

That word sparked a vague memory; one with drinking, being carried home...

"How did you-"

"That night you got drunk off your ass at Rita's-" your cheeks burned as you recalled- somewhat -of what had happened a little over a week ago. "-you told me in your drunken haze that I would look 'sexy' with an earring."

Embarrassment colored your cheeks but he was quick to say, "It was adorable."

You rolled your eyes. "Calling a female who is over two centuries old 'adorable' isn't comforting when she, tipsily!, spilled a lifelong secret!"

"And yet, it resulted in me learning about your lifelong secret and making it come true. Which will then be beneficial for us both." His eyes darkened with the implication and you had to stop yourself from begging him to take you home right then and there.

But he did have a valid point. For some strange reason, you had always been attracted to males with piercings. And even though Azriel was a practical sex god without one, it only intensified his appeal.

You gingerly thumbed over the hoop, knowing how sensitive it must be. "Do you like it?"

"I would do anything to make your dreams come true." He captured your wrist, smoothing a kiss over your fluttering pulse. Somehow, he knew how to make you feel like a young, naive fae in love.

“I have to admit, it makes my bad day a whole lot better.”

“Oh?”

“I previously thought that just being smashed by your muscles would be enough to get me over my stress but this has proved to work tenfold.”

A teasing nip at the heel of your palm. “I’m at your service, always.”

"Azzy?" you peered up at him beneath your lashes.

He didn't need you to say the words out loud as he stood abruptly, you in his arms, and said to the family, "We'll see you all next week." And began out of the restaurant.

You heard Mor explain amongst all the confused chatter, "Let's just say Azriel's become even hotter." Which was followed with Cassian's and Rhys' groans.

[mashtatosworld]

to be loved

summary: summer is approaching and Jiyong is teaching your girls how to swim

warnings: discussions of bodies

a/n: hi, just wanted to add a little note to say that this work includes discussions on body weight and mental health. If you feel uncomfortable please feel free to message me for a summary instead but I feel it's important to represent the struggles of real life. Body image is something I've struggled with myself and all bodies deserve to be listened to, loved, and seen.

Love always,

Mash xxx

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

It was supposed to be a quiet, easy summer afternoon. But quiet didn’t exist anymore - not with two little girls and one very persistent husband.

Jiyong was waist-deep in the pool, cradling baby Angel in her red inflatable ring.

She floated with that soft, milk-drunk expression babies got when they were just happy to exist, a little sun hat covering her dark hair and chubby legs lazily kicking. Her little arms waved now and then, making tiny ripples in the water.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” Jiyong cooed, carefully gliding her across the shallow end like she was made of glass. “Just like your big sister did. Remember that, Jagi? She used to float just like this.”

You smiled faintly from the comfort of your lounger, parked under the umbrella.

You remembered.

You remembered the first time Diva was this small, this round-cheeked, with Jiyong just as eager to teach her everything - even when she was too little to understand.

He was patient, careful, endlessly tender.

Just like now.

But your body shifted uncomfortably as you adjusted your dress over your thighs again.

The warmth wasn’t helping.

You were roasting beneath the fabric and it clung to your body as the heat continued to rise.

A loud giggle broke the silence and then -

“Jia, don’t - !”

SPLASH.

Too late.

Water exploded around the pool like a mini tsunami, soaking Jiyong’s face, hair, and half of the inflatable ring where Angel sat, blinking in startled silence.

Jiyong sighed, flicking droplets off his Chanel sunglasses. “Yah! I told you no jumping near your sister!”

Diva popped back up with a grin that had mischief written all over it, her bright pink armbands bobbing as she paddled like a wild little duckling.

“She liked it!” she chirped, splashing her baby sister gently, who gurgled something halfway between a giggle and a hiccup.

“Appa did not.” Jiyong wiped his face again, then carefully adjusted the strap of Angel's hat. “Aish, your sister is a menace today.”

You smiled and sipped your iced tea.

“Jagiya - ” Jiyong called, dragging out the syllables in his playful, singsong whine. “Come swim with your husband. You love me, remember?”

You raised a brow. “Can't I love you from here?”

He pouted dramatically at your words. “I need backup over here, okay?”

“I think you're doing a great job.”

“Exactly,” he grinned, adjusting the brim of his bucket hat. “Father of the year. Come give me my reward.”

You tilted your sunglasses down, eyes gleaming despite the smile you forced. “My reward is sitting right here, remaining dry and unbothered.”

He started drifting toward the edge of the pool, one arm gently guiding Angel's float as he swam. “Come on, Jagi. You’re so hot when you’re wet.”

Your brows shot up at his statement. “Jiyong.”

He grinned innocently. “What? I’m just telling the truth. I’ve seen you in less than a swimsuit. Don’t act like I haven’t.”

Your fingers curled tighter around your glass.

Underneath the loose sundress was a swimsuit, yes.

One you used to feel good in.

But your body still didn’t feel like yours anymore.

Clothes clung a little differently now, certain parts felt softer, wider, newer.

And you could feel Jiyong’s eyes on you sometimes and would worry - even though you knew better - that maybe this time, they lingered a second longer in surprise, not in desire.

With Diva, it had been easier.

You’d bounced back so fast, because you had to - your tour rehearsals started just months after she was born, and your body had no choice but to fall in line.

But with Angel, you weren’t rushing back.

You were slower.

Still healing, inside and out.

And still trying to like the person in the mirror again.

But Jiyong didn’t know that.

Because he still looked at you like you hung the stars. Because to him, you did.

Knowing that didn’t stop the feeling.

You turned away before he could say anything else, setting your glass down and pretending to scroll your phone.

Jiyong frowned.

He noticed the shift - subtle, but there.

Still, he didn’t push.

Not yet.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Eventually, lunchtime rolled around.

You snacked on sandwiches under the shaded pergola, little plates with fruit slices and juice boxes.

Angel was passed out in her stroller with one arm flopped over the side. Diva chattered endlessly about swimming like a mermaid, her wet hair stuck to her face.

You were standing over her, towel-drying her arms, gently patting her skin before rubbing in suncream again when Jiyong came behind you, fingers brushing at the hem of your dress like he could just sneak it off you.

“You must be boiling in all this,” he murmured, low and teasing, gently tugging you backwards and into his wet body. “Why don’t we get back in the pool while they rest? Just us, hmm?”

You tensed - subtle, but he felt it.

He grinned, fingers hooking gently in the hem of your dress. “Come on. I want you in the water with me.”

Your heart stuttered. “Jiyong, don’t - ”

His hands tugged a little more insistently.

“Jiyong - ” your voice came out sharper than you meant.

He paused.

“I said don’t,” you snapped, more forcefully this time, grabbing his wrist and stepping out of his touch.

There was a beat of silence. His brows furrowed, eyes wide - confused and slightly hurt.

Diva looked between you both, then went back to her grapes.

You kept your gaze down, shifting back over to your daughter intent on finishing applying her sunscreen.

“You can get back in the pool in twenty minutes,” you said softly, smoothing the protective spray across her shoulders. “Let your food go down and the suncream dry.”

“Nooo,” Diva groaned, flopping dramatically in her seat.

You smiled at her performance, but Jiyong was still standing behind you, silent now, his hands falling to his sides.

He didn’t understand - not the full picture - but something in your voice told him this wasn’t just about the pool.

And when you didn’t meet his gaze he quietly moved over to the stroller, occupying his hands with adjusting the sunshade instead, making sure it was protecting his baby from the sun.

He didn’t say anything else.

But his mind was already racing.

Because something was hurting his girl - and he didn’t let hurt linger in this family.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Diva, now armed with a neon water gun nearly as long as her leg, had taken to watering the windows, although you were suspicious she was really aiming for the birds.

Angel was once again snoozing peacefully in the shade, chubby cheeks flushed with warmth and comfort.

You had settled back on the sun lounger, your sunglasses back in place, but your body still tense.

You were quietly berating yourself for snapping at him, for the sharp edge to your voice when he was just - being him. Playful. Flirty. Trying to bring you into the moment.

You didn’t hear his approach at first. The quiet pad of wet feet.

But then his shadow fell across your recliner and you looked up to find Jiyong standing there, towel draped over his shoulders, his expression gentler now.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t smile.

He just sat down on the edge of your lounger, still damp, still glistening in the heat, and looked at you with warm, steady eyes. “You okay?”

You glanced at him, lips pursed. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier I just..."

You weren’t sure how to say it without sounding silly or vain.

Jiyong leaned in, his hand brushing gently against your bare ankle, thumb stroking a slow line up your skin.

He shook his head. “Don’t apologise. Just tell me what’s going on.” His voice was soft.

You hesitated.

It wasn’t something you said out loud often. Maybe not even to yourself.

“I… haven’t been feeling good. About myself. About my body.”

Jiyong blinked, stunned. “What?” He tilted his head, brow furrowing.

You nodded, embarrassed. “It’s stupid. After Jia, everything just snapped back. But now, I’m - tired. And it’s harder. It’s not going away like before.”

Jiyong was quiet for a moment. Then his hand moved up, cradling your calf, warm and grounding.

“You gave me two daughters,” he said, voice thick with sincerity. “y/n, you’ve never looked more beautiful to me. Every curve, every line. You’re everything.”

Your eyes burned suddenly. You blinked hard behind your sunglasses.

He leaned forward, brushing a kiss just above your knee. “It’s just us here. Me and our girls. You don’t need to hide from us.”

You nodded slowly, your chest loosening.

He leaned in, grip on your leg tightening. “Besides,” he whispered, grinning now, “you don’t have to take off your clothes to go in the pool.”

You squinted at him suspiciously. “Wait. What are you - ?”

But by then, he was already moving, pulling you up into his arms with surprising ease.

“Jiyong! Don’t you dare!”

“I absolutely dare,” he grinned, holding you like a bride as he padded toward the edge of the pool.

You shrieked, half-laughing, half-serious. “I swear to God if you throw me in - ”

“I’m not throwing you,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’re jumping.”

And before you could protest again, he launched the two of you into the pool, landing with a tremendous splash that sent water flying in all directions.

You came up sputtering, soaked and blinking water from your lashes, but Jiyong was still holding you tightly, laughing like a kid.

You were laughing too, your dress clinging to your skin, but you felt cooler now.

Lighter.

There was something freeing about the absurdity of it, the way he looked at you like you were still that girl he’d fallen in love with - only more.

He leaned in, kissed your temple, your cheek, then your lips, soft and warm and unhurried. You curled your fingers into his shoulder and let yourself melt into him, finally - truly - in the moment.

But of course, peace didn’t last long.

A smaller body rocketed into the water beside you.

“EOMMA!” Diva called, bobbing up with glee, her little legs kicking as she paddled toward you with no armbands on, completely fearless.

You gasped, meeting her half way. “Jia, you swam to me!”

She threw her arms around your neck, squealing with pride. You beamed, holding her close. “So proud of you, baby.”

But Jiyong was already frowning, wading closer. “Hey, hey, hey - where are your armbands? And we just did suncream!”

Diva blinked innocently at him - then lifted one tiny hand and splashed water right into his face.

“YAH!” Jiyong gasped, dramatically wiping his face.

“Swim away, Eomma! QUICK!” Diva shrieked in excitement, and you burst out laughing as she kicked her little legs, trying to propel both to safety.

Jiyong narrowed his eyes. “You’re both in trouble now.”

But he was smiling. Soft and full of something warm and grateful.

You darted backward with Diva clinging to you, her giggles carrying through the afternoon air, Jiyong play-chasing you both as the sun glinted on the pool water and the world shrank down to only the sounds of splashing and laughter and home.

And somewhere in between his splashing and your laughter, the heaviness in your chest lifted just a little.

You weren’t just seen.

You were loved - completely.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

The house was finally quiet.

Diva had passed out with her arms flung over her head, still mumbling about mermaids. Angel was snoozing in her crib, lips puckered around her pacifier. You and Jiyong had tiptoed out, holding your breaths until the door closed behind you.

Back in your bedroom, you dropped onto the mattress in one of his oversized shirts, letting your head fall back with a groan. “My back is wrecked from carrying the girls around. Jia is getting so big. How do you do it everyday, old man?”

Jiyong leaned against the door, watching you - quiet, sharp-eyed, shirt half-buttoned and undone from the top. His gaze dragged down your legs, up the hem of his shirt, lingering.

“Do you want a massage?”

You huffed a laugh. “Does it include a happy ending?"

“Of course,” he said, pushing off the door and walking toward you slow, like he had all night. “I can't resist my wife. In my shirt. Legs bare. Hair still wet. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You shifted slightly, eyes catching his. “I was trying to survive bedtime, not seduce you.”

He leaned down over you, one hand sliding up your thigh as he braced the other on the mattress. “You’re doing both.”

You bit your lip as he kissed along your jaw, his mouth hot and deliberate, making a lazy trail to your ear.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmured, his voice rough against your skin. “The way you looked in the pool… your legs wrapped around me.”

You tilted your head, letting him in closer, your fingers threading into his hair. “So you were distracted.”

“Completely.”

You smirked. “Must’ve been hard, being a responsible dad and a desperate husband at the same time.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark. “Do you have any idea how badly I want you?”

Your breath caught as he pushed the shirt higher, his hands sliding slow up your thighs. “Show me, then.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He moved over you, mouth finding yours in a kiss. Deep, unhurried, like he wanted to taste you first before anything else.

And just like that, the stress of the day disappeared.

His hands, his body, the weight of him pressing you down - it was the only thing that existed.

You weren’t tired anymore.

You were alive under him.

And the night was just getting started.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

💛

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen , @heartubeatusalon

[loganficsonly]

Logan smut where y/n and logan are basically insomniacs and hang out together in each others rooms in the middle of the night until one night they decide to break some tension👀 I’m talking friends to lovers and some rough kinky stuff

can't sleep love

trilogy!logan x f!reader, 5k WARNINGS/TAGS: SMUT MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT!!!, alcohol consumption, spanking, piv, creampie, public sex, mentions of reader's hair, friends to fuck-buddies to lovers (?), reader hasn't done it in a while, reader is a teacher with unspecified powers, slight grumpy x sunshine themes as i am wont to do... it's a reflex at this point, slight corruption?? like it's not even a kink lmao it's just FREAKYYY, a lot of logan's pov as usual, not proofread we die like senator kelly AUTHOR'S NOTE: you cooked with this ask, anon. i had to tweak it a little, hope you don't mind. also lowkey tipsy while writing this ehe

He didn’t realize this when he first got to the mansion. The moment he wasn’t snarling at every extended hand, he could see things more clearly. 

Ororo’s generosity and compassion. The unseen temper under Jean’s skin. How Scott is harder on himself than he is on others.

And then there’s you.

How everyone likes you. The softness in your gaze, the general ease about you, as if you weren’t also a mutant that people cast away. As if you never got hurt.

You are the opposite of him, and that’s what makes things awkward.

His face is nearly locked in a permanent scowl, while you smile at people effortlessly. Breeziness to his petulance. Clean cut to his rough edges. He feels like he shouldn’t be around you at all—like stepping into a prairie with bloodied boots on, afraid of crushing the daisies under his step and turning them red.

But proximity means he can’t not acknowledge you. What started out as polite nods in the hallway and short small talk when exchanging classrooms shifted into something more genuine.

As he finds safety within the mansion walls, he lowers his own. 

When exactly you became friends, he’s not quite sure. That would be akin to asking him on which day of the month spring turns to summer. You make it seem so natural, friendly as you are. Always warm—not the kind that is cloying or irritating, but one that’s ready to oblige, whether it’s sharing a pot of coffee for breakfast or staring off into the distance in the backyard.

Or training together, despite knowing you’d instantly have your back against the mat in a physical no-powers spar against him. God, you were so game, and he remembers how fun it was—something he hasn’t had in a long time. 

How the two of you laughed, yours louder than his, when an easy maneuver from him caused you to miss him and fall. He got you to yield multiple times after that first blunder, but you put up better fights with each round.

In the end, though, he got you breathless, sweat dripping down your brow. You were flushed.

“You got me,” you said with a smile, your tone airy and tired as you pushed your hair back. That was when he realized the color of your cheeks, and wished that he’d given you that rosy blush some other way.

…Okay, maybe he doesn’t know when exactly you became friends.

But that February day he trained with you, he realized he was looking at you the way friends didn’t.

You can’t sleep.

Resigning yourself to this fact, you sit up in bed. The past two hours or so of lying in it—counting sheep, doing breathing exercises, visualizing a still lake in the middle of nowhere—is evidence that tonight is going to be a restless one.

Trying not to be annoyed (that’s only going to make it harder to fall asleep), you slip out of your bedroom, not bothering to change out of your old T-shirt and shorts.

It’s warm, you think to yourself as you walk silently in the hallway. May is around the corner, but it feels like the temperature is hiking up more than it should for spring, especially at night. Maybe a glass of ice cold water is what you need. The thought of it makes you aware of the dryness of your throat.

A glow at the end of the hallway where the kitchen is. Someone’s up, too. You can feel your heart rate picking up as a little voice in your head hopes to find a certain someone who’s prone to being awake at this hour…

“Hey Logan,” you call, alerting him of your presence. His back is towards you, but you don’t need to know it’s him. You’re acquainted with how he fills up that gray tank top. He turns to look, not appearing the slightest bit surprised, heightened senses probably alerting him way before you arrived.

“Hey,” he replies, voice low and quiet, “why’re you up?” 

You move next to him, trying to get a glass from the top shelf. “Just can’t sleep.”

“Join the club,” he says, sipping on his drink.

Narrow eyes look at him while you fill your glass with water. He doesn’t reek, but there’s a sharp scent in the air. “Is that alcohol?”

A rogue smile from behind the rim. “Depends. You gonna snitch?”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head as you take a seat at the island, staring into a bowl of tropical fruits. This man and his contrabands.

“Not if you share your stash with me.”

He slides up to sit across the way. “Getting naughty, aren’tcha?”

You give him an unimpressed look that has him smirking, as if he won something. Gaze softening, your eyes roam his face, catching the paleness of his face and the slight dimness in his eyes. He looks tired.

“Another nightmare?” You venture quietly, not wanting to cross a line.

Logan’s expression hardens—you can tell from his jaw—and for a second you think he’s going to brush it off, or worse, leave.

A small nod as he downs more of the stuff in his opaque mug. You press your lips into a thin line, relieved he isn’t evading but displeased at the truth.

Having to helplessly hear your friend down the hall groaning in nightly terror is akin to torture. The Professor did a great job working on restoring his memories, and so did recent events at Alkali Lake, but the nightmares seem to remain. A stubborn remnant of the past.

When you first confronted him about it, he sternly demanded you to leave him be, fearing a replay of what he accidentally did to Rogue. You remember how terrified he was at the accident. 

“They’re not as bad now,” Logan's murmur cut the silence. He’s not meeting your gaze. You nod, quietly acknowledging his words, not knowing what else to do. 

You choose to place your hand over his, thumb stroking his knuckles. He feels a touch too cold.

Something flashes in his eyes. You don’t catch it, preoccupied with unmarred skin where claws would come out. He has nice hands.

“You gonna go back to sleep?” He asks.

Your answer is a noncommittal shrug as you make eye contact again. “You?”

His answer is a grunt. Something to the effect of unlikely, according to your Logan dictionary—a language you learned when he started opening up to you.

A string of words bubble in your throat. Maybe it’s a stroke of loneliness, but you think it’s mostly because it’s him who’s sitting in front of you.

It's him you want to spend time with.

“Want to hang out?”

Hazel eyes on yours make you feel more awake than ever. What you're asking is certainly pushing the boundaries of your relationship: keeping each other company past midnight, fresh off a bout of bad dreams and sleeplessness. You're not just being friendly to a colleague anymore.

When he doesn’t answer immediately, you add, not wanting to scare him away.

“You don’t have to talk about it. Your nightmare, I mean.”

He gets up. Your eyes are glued on his figure as he circles the island, and you’re still not sure what he’s doing until he gestures with his chin for you to come with, mug of alcohol still in hand. Biting the inside of your cheek, you follow.

That was the first time. The two of you sat on the living room couches for a while before Jones wandered in. The very young technopath is often sleepless as well. In this school for Gifted Youngsters, you’re not the only night owls around.

He had the cheek to ask if the two of you were having some kind of secret rendezvous.

“Who taught you that word?” Logan retorted, but the two of you dispersed anyway, feeling strangely like trespassers in the presence of little Jones as he flicked through the television channels silently.

You seek refuge in the backyard, but after a while, the bugs got much too annoying. The balcony wasn’t that much of a difference.

That’s how you ended up in his room for the first time. 

It was very simple on his part. “Want to go to my room?" He asked. Equally simple for you to say yes.

And that’s how he ended up in your room the next night.

The night after that, you're in his room again.

The two of you seek solace in each other’s quarters, escaping sleeplessness by talking to each other. Despite being in private, the conversation is hushed, like you’re afraid somebody could hear. Once there’s nothing left to talk about, you’d say good night and return to your rooms.

He occasionally brings his poison into these meet-ups, sharing some with you, until eventually he keeps part of his stash in your room. 

“You’re complicit now,” he teased.

It started out with the two of you sitting on the rug next to the bed, head tipped against the plush surface as you talk about all sorts of nonsense except for the reason you’re awake. Now, the two of you are comfortable enough to be in each other’s beds—platonically, of course.

Logan recalls the night you gave up being on the floor. You climbed into his bed, sitting languidly with your head propped above your hand like you were some kind of painting.

“Do you mind?” You asked that night, citing the need for relief in your back. He shook his head, eyes darkening at the sight of you on his bedsheets.

The things you wear to go to sleep. Lord, help him. As summer begins to inch closer, Logan notices how your pajamas begin to shrink. T-shirts become tank tops. Shorts turned into short shorts, your legs on full display. Logan remembers a time you opened the door to your room, wearing a baby blue pair that looked so soft and a tank top that betrays the curves of your chest—he felt his mouth water.

It’s damn near impossible to separate the comfort of your company from the carnal want in his adamantium bones. He doesn’t mean to defile your so-far-wholesome nightly conversations, but he can’t help it. And he has a feeling that you’re not entirely oblivious to the tension, either, what with the way he catches your gaze dropping to his exposed biceps every now and then.

Like tonight. You’re sipping on some Tennessee whiskey from his stash, lovely eyes dropping to his hand enclosed over a mug before expertly meeting his hazel ones in the low light of your room.

Maybe you don’t realize you’re looking at him. Maybe you do, and you don’t realize he’s fully aware of your gaze. 

Either way, it’s taking a lot not to pull you into him and take a bite out of you.

He fights the urge with every fiber of decency in him. Yes, he’s the Wolverine, animal mutation intertwined with his own DNA, but he wouldn’t be here if not for your shared trust and vulnerability. You’re probably his closest friend at the Institute. Maybe ever, a little voice whispers. 

Tonight, the two of you are in bed. Your bed, to be precise. He’s come to memorize the scent of you, all the notes of it, and even after paying many visits to this sacred place, he still finds it intoxicating. You started playing a boozy version of ‘never have I ever’ about ten minutes ago, despite his initial complaints—the two of you have long drained deep conversations and are left with the dregs, it seems.

He doesn’t like the game, but credits it for what it’s worth. It lets him see glimpses of you he hasn’t seen before, while making you drink with stupid statements like “never have I ever worn a dress”.

“Your turn,” he says. He’s lying next to you, stealing a glance at you while you look up at the ceiling.

You hum, thinking. A sentence brews in your head. Hopefully this one wouldn’t be too weird? The two of you ventured quickly into sexual territory almost as soon as the game started, but it was mostly trying to get each other to drink with cheap shots.

You try to think of something less… risqué, but it’s too late. The thought is stuck.

He looks at you expectantly. You look into your cup. It’s nearly empty, but you feel strangely sober. You gather your voice—the last thing you want is to sound pathetic.

“Never have I ever… had an orgasm by someone other than myself.”

He’s supposed to drink, but you delivered that semi-truck of a sentence with the stability of a weatherman declaring all sun and shine for the entire week.

When you look over at him, he looks almost mad that you’re afraid you’d offended him somehow.

“You should drink—”

“No one’s ever made you come?” 

The weight of his question hit you, and the way he worded it makes you flush a little. Was it too weird to say that after all, in a ‘never have I ever’? You shake your head as a wordless answer. 

“Jesus, what kind of assholes did you hook up with?” He asks, face contorting, eyes glued to yours. You stop breathing for the second you see a simmering anger. He really was mad.

“I… didn’t hook up a lot,” you offer tentatively, though you aren’t lying. Life was largely unpredictable, especially as a mutant. Exploring your sexuality with another person becomes a privilege, a luxury that was fundamentally inaccessible when it’s already difficult to find people to trust. By the time you arrived at Xavier’s, your time was devoted to serving and educating others.

There is a single moment of quiet as you see Logan appearing to calm down, though the intensity of his stare doesn’t let up. 

In a smooth movement, he places his cup by the nightstand before taking yours out of your hands, doing the same, not breaking eye contact. You don’t exactly know how he got on top of you, his large palm on your jaw making sure you look up at him. Darkening eyes flicker down to your lips, a thumb pressing down and parting them ever so slightly. Your heart nearly stops.

“Want me to show you?” He asks, voice deep as he hovers over you. He can’t stop himself. How could he, when he knows he can take you to heights unimaginable—when he wants to, so badly? The things he wants to do to you, the thoughts that plague him as a sinful substitute to his nightmares, they all flash in his mind’s eye for half a second. 

His sense of control frays to a single thread.

You look up at him with half-lidded eyes. The hazy warmth clouding you might be just the whiskey’s doing, but that's a lie. This is something else that’s been brewing for a while. Perhaps since that time in the kitchen when you put your hand on top of his.

Perhaps even before that.

Steeling yourself, you nod at his question. He groans, lips against your ear. That alone makes you shiver.

“Ah—”

He says your name sternly. “Words. Tell me you want this.”

He doesn’t part, can't. He takes your earlobe in his mouth. You let out a soft moan. 

“Logan, want you…”

It’s enough for him to snap, his lips pulling away from your ear before crashing against yours in a wild kiss. Your breath hitches, hands flying to his shoulders as he devours you, teeth almost clashing in a storm of desperation. You’re dizzy as he latches onto your neck, hands traversing your body like he’ll die if he doesn’t feel you. 

To a certain degree he feels like he’ll die either way. The outline of your chest over your light tank top, the plump flesh of your thighs, they’ve occupied too much of his mind for him to act like this is just some other conquest. With every brush of his hand against your skin, he stokes the primal part of him, the beast purring, pleased but wanting more. 

Meanwhile, a fog takes over you, lowers your inhibitions as Logan continues to touch and grope, moving you against some pillows until you’re sitting up slightly. A quiet noise escapes you when you feel his teeth sink into your neck, leaving the first of many marks as a hand moves up under your tank top. Dancing past ribs, reaching your chest.

“Oh, God,” you sigh as calloused fingers pinch your nipple. Pulling. Circling. He growls against your skin, letting go so he can watch the outline of his hand under the fabric of your top.

“When was the last time someone touched you, sweetheart?”

You look back at him, the nickname making your head spin as you attempt to find the right answer.

“I don’t know, a while,” you pant.

“Yeah, can tell,” he rasps as he paws at your shirt. “Need to take this off.”

When he does, you shiver, both at the initial hit of cool air on your skin as well as the way he stares at your bare, heaving chest. He’s studying you, the way your nipples harden as he brushes a finger against it. His other hand keeps yours above your head, a loose grip on both your wrists.

“So fucking pretty…” He murmurs, sitting between your legs as he watches your face while his fingers toy with your chest. The measured movements are nearly criminal. You bite your lip, trying not to make so much noise at this dead of night, but it’s hard when he’s looking at you like a man starved.

Like he’s wanted this for a while.

He lets go of your wrists to prop himself up over you, lips descending to your collarbone, then sternum. Then, slowly, as if to give you space to say no, his warm breath is over your chest, and your hands are flying to his shoulders. A wordless response, telling him you want this just as much.

His eyes are already pinned on your face when he latches his mouth to your nipple. A sound of pleasure escapes you.

“Ha-ah—Logan,” you pant, unable to take your eyes off him.

Tongue works on a hardened peak, sucking and nibbling with just an edge of roughness to distract from the hand snaking down your body while his mouth switches to your other breast. Your eyes widen, feeling him cup you through your shorts before fingers easily find their way in, circling your dampening panties.

A hum around your nipple when his hand is fully underneath your shorts. You arch, eyelids fluttering close as his thumb brush against your clothed clit.

“God, you’re so wet, sweetheart. For me, hmm?" He leaves a languid stroke over the gusset of your underwear, groaning at the feel of your cunt, the way the fabric sticking to your flesh accentuating the shape of you.

It doesn’t take long till he has you completely naked under him, sleeping clothes forgotten somewhere on the bedroom floor while he’s two fingers deep in your pussy, his other hand on your thigh, keeping you open. You cling onto his back as he pumps steadily into you, drinking in every single shift in your expression.

When he hits a spongy spot in you, somewhere your fingers could never reach, you cry out, forgetting your attempts to maintain the quiet of the night. 

He grins.

“You like it here, pretty?” 

His thick digits move in and out of you more fervently, eager to exploit your sensitive spots. He knows he’s doing a good job because your responses are becoming less verbal, unintelligible noises escaping you, eyes glossed over as they stare into his.

You’re slipping into an abyss of pleasure, the wet sounds of your juices as his fingers plunge into your core making it impossible for you to think. How did you get here? What were you doing before this? Do you really care, when Logan is whispering filthy things against your ear, your slick coating his fingers, dripping down his hand?

“You hear that?” A loud squelch as he sinks in. “That’s your pussy making that sound. Taking my fingers so damn well, sweetheart.”

Electricity zaps down your spine as he brushes a different spot, making your eyes nearly roll back. He watches, stills, then drives into it again.

Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle the cry that you can’t help but let out as he exploits your body, but his other hand shoots out quickly, caging your wrist by the side of your head. 

“Don't hide those noises,” he groans. “Wanna hear you when you come. You’re close, huh?”

“P-please—”

Hips begin to buck, a soft stream of noises escaping you as he plunges his fingers faster. Your heavy breathing tangles with his as you feel the knot in your belly threatening to unravel. Fingers try to warn him of your impending release, digging crescent moons onto his back that disappear as soon as they form.

When you come, it’s a silent scream. He watches you climax, admiring the way your body shivers and spasms, quietly growling at the sensation of your cunt squeezing him in. His ego preens, basking in the fact that he is the first man to make you orgasm.

His fingers are soaked when he pulls them out, dripping on the sheets, and he makes sure that you’re watching when he sticks them in his mouth.

One lick. They emerge clean. 

“Tastes so good,” he growls, and before long his face is between your legs, hands pushing them open for him.

He makes you come on his tongue once before putting his cock in you.

The sight of it makes your stomach churn. There’s a reason he acts so cocky, and the reason is the thing he’s pushing into your core, girthy and veiny and ready. He looks down, unable to take his eyes off the debauched scene of your cunt swallowing him whole. 

“Oh, fuck,” he sputters, feeling your plush walls suck him in, voice wavering just a touch. “So fucking tight.”

You mewl, gripping his biceps as his hands hold onto your hips, making sure you stay still. It’s a little while until he’s all the way in. You feel so incredibly full, as if he’s up against your stomach, big and pulsing with heat. It’s overwhelming. Almost painful. Would be, if he didn’t prepare you as much—considering how long it’s been for you, it’s a wonder he even fit.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, just need to… get used to you,” you whisper, hands on his shoulders.

He looks down at you, eyes boring into yours. His jaw is set with restraint, face contorted with pleasure as he feels you cling to him. Chest heaving, you take deep breaths. Not long after, the immense stretch of his cock stirs a want within you, enough for you to tell him.

“Can you move?” You ask softly. He lets out a strained laugh.

“Can I?” He growls. “Been dying to, baby.”

The first time he pulls away slightly, only to slide back into your heat, the two of you moan. 

“Oh my God,” you gasp, the friction making your head tip back. His eyes flash with wanton determination, arms by the sides of your head, bracing before he moves his hips. Slowly at first, thrusts shallow. 

Your hands snake up his arms, caressing his shoulders and moving down to his chest. His heart is hammering under your palm, the very pulse that you feel in your core from his thick length. He gradually moves out of you more before sheathing all the way back in.

It’s like he’s trying to get you to memorize the shape of him.

And you do—your body does, cunt swallowing him easily. He looks down where you’re joined, licking his lips at the way you’re absolutely drenching him.

“More?” He asks, slightly breathless. You nod.

He shifts. You move your arms to wrap around his neck, anticipation coiling at the bottom of your gut.

Then he fucks you, slow but harder at first, faster and wilder afterwards, pounding your brains out. You’re a moaning mess, fingers scratching down his back. He thrusts, filling you up completely to make you a vessel for only pleasure—pleasure he’s giving you. Sounds of flesh slapping against flesh echo in the room, a constant staccato over his grunts and your whines.

You come with a gasp of his name not long after he places your legs on his shoulders, plundering the deepest parts of you. He follows soon after, hot spurts of release on your stomach, oozing out of him almost endlessly. It slowly drips down to your mound, as if marking you his.

A sight he’s not going to forget anytime soon.

If Charles so much as brushes your minds with his powers, the two of you would be fired on the spot for indecency.

That first time did nothing to quench your shared hunger. It worsened it. And not just because the two of you always had the best sleep after sex.

Both he and you find it difficult to exercise restraint. It was mainly you who tried, wanting to be decent in an environment filled with children, but you soon gave up thanks to his diligent temptations. You don’t understand how a simple look from him can be so full of explicit promises. 

As for Logan, he thoroughly enjoys stripping you of your steadfast propriety with every visit he pays to your bedroom, taking you in all of the ways he imagines. He thanks whatever God is out there for the fact that there are empty rooms between your quarters and the next occupied one, and that no one gets to hear the beautiful cries that escape you. Your little “ah, yes,”es and “Logan, please”s are for him alone. 

It’s dangerous, is what it is. You occupy every nook and cranny of his brain like some kind of drug. Smoking his cigar in the backyard of the mansion between classes, his mind easily turns to you.

In particular, the bounce of your breasts as you rode him, face red and thoroughly fucked out, a bit of drool escaping the side of your lips as his large hands on your waist helped you move up and down his cock. 

“Logan, so big,” you whimpered, head lolling to one side. He called you his good girl then for taking him so well, one hand moving to tuck your hair behind your ear.

He grunts, feeling the obvious discomfort in his jeans. Seven minutes to kill that boner before his next class.

Neither of you remember how it began, but your surreptitious activities spilled outside the privacy of the night and into broad daylight. He starts to take you in the mornings, too, gentle and slow, basking in how husky your voice sounds after a night of doing the same deed. How could you resist, when you wake up in his arms under the sheets, warm and comfortable? 

And then it slowly seeps outside of the bedroom.

The brush of his hand down your arm when you pass each other in the hallway. Your lips innocently pressed against his knuckle. A kiss that’s a second too long. 

Seemingly chaste encounters quickly turn into wicked ones.

Once, most of the children are out for a day of sports under a blue sky. Logan dragged you into an empty classroom and bent you over the teacher’s desk, hand shoved up your sundress. He pulled your lace panties to one side, making you wet with his fingers. 

“Look so good like this,” he rasped into your ear as he finally took you from behind, a hand against your mouth to muffle your moans, smearing your lip gloss, the other gripping the flesh of your ass. A resounding smack and a moan follows—yours, as you feel your skin burn pleasurably from his hand.

At this point you’ve been doing it so much that you started taking the pill—something he’s eternally grateful for, because it lets him spill his cum inside of you, filling you up to the brim. He loved watching it leak out of you, only to use his finger to push it back in, plugging you full before pulling your panties up.  

“Want you to think of me all day, pretty,” he pressed a kiss on your temple as you slowed down your breathing, “want you to remember who’s got you filled up. Whose cum is it inside you, princess?”  

“Yours, Logan,” you mewled weakly in response, knees shaking.

It’s not like the others don’t know that there’s something between the two of you—they just don’t know the extent of it. How much of your bodies are intertwined.

How he owns you, and you him.

Evidenced by the way you still talk like you used to. Yes, most of the talking has been replaced with fucking, but sentiments of friendship remain. It remains in the way he’ll save coffee from the pot for you in the morning, in the way you’ll sit with him in the backyard and stare into the distance.

Things you did in the very beginning. 

And when he catches a glimpse of you in the hallway after class, saying something to your students that makes them laugh out loud, a different feeling emerges in his chest. It’s tight, like a string wrapped around his heart and pulled taut for a second or two. A feeling that makes him weak in the knees.

A feeling he knows can be spelled out with four letters.

He exhales a shaky breath, feet frozen in place with realization, though it’s not a surprise.

If anything, it feels like it’s been there the entire time, waiting for the right moment to ensnare his reality with the finality of it. As his gaze softens, watching you give high-fives to your younger students, he knows there’s no escape.

What started as a cure to one condition is turning into another of a much deadlier caliber. 

This one, he doesn’t mind being sick with.

Maybe he’ll tell you tonight, before bed.

i spent so long working on this it's not even funnyyy lol

divider by cafekitsune. thank you!

[yv0nn1e]

"we were born to a world with dead ends."

gravity — rafayel

summary: to be betrayed in one timeline, to find out the truth in another, and now, to seek revenge in the current.

pairing: rafayel x non!mc fem!reader

cw/tw: angst? mean reader, some twists from the myths and the actual lore itself.

note: an alternate version of my backburner rafayel fic where instead of falling in love with rafayel, reader gets angry when she realizes lemuria's fall is actually because of rafayel.

word count: 2k+

non!mc reader who remembers the excruciating pain of losing her life in every single timeline where rafayel was involved.

non!mc reader who, in the current timeline and at eleven years old, starts to get flashbacks of her past lives, not knowing what they were until the memories fill each other in as she matures. the older she gets, the more refined those visions become, until she reaches the age of fifteen where a rough vision of rafayel, her beloved, gives up his heart, and lemuria for this strange yet certainly unforgettable girl. non!mc reader who, realizes that she might have died at rafayel's hands— that lemuria fell under rafayel's sacrifice and love.

non!mc reader who, at fifteen, decides to walk away from the sea and from her dearest friend who, she now knows, had betrayed their people in their past lives. she goes to land with her aunt, finding solace in her passion for acting and the dramatics. rafayel had tried to stop her, or at least, get him to accompany her yet he could never forget the underlying anger that had filtered her eyes.

"you're really leaving? but why?" rafayel asked. he wasn't sad, not exactly. perhaps just a tad bit melancholy at the thought of his truest friend walking away, leaving him all alone to face the pressure of the sands and seas all by himself.

"i can't achieve anything here." she replies, the duality of the meaning behind her words floating above rafayel's head. she can't achieve anything if she stays right where she had always been after all these years, after all these lives: right next to rafayel. she will be bound to the same ending if she stayed any longer.

they bid each other goodbye, and non!mc reader was more than ready to start a new life. perhaps, if she stayed away from rafayel, if she had stayed away from lemuria, then she cannot befall the same painful fate that she would during her previous lives.

non!mc reader who physically and internally experiences the actual pain of the lemurians' sufferings in her past lives whenever she would get a vision despite the fact that she had already stirred far far away from the sea.

talia looks at her worryingly as non!mc reader sits on the plush of the luxurious couch, her hand in her chest as she took in deep breathes— each and every inhale activating that painful tightening in her chest, the same sensation of internal stabbing.

"did you get another vision?" talia asks, her soft and delicate fingers rubbing non!mc reader's back. the girl could only nod as she takes one last deep breath before slumping her back towards the headboard of the couch.

"how much longer will i have to endure this? do you even get visions like mine too?" non!mc reader chokes out as she takes a glass of water. her aunt talia visited her on set today. it had been long since non!mc reader had decided to live above water and join the humans. she's an adult now, in her twenties, and a successful young actress at that.

"dearest, you know i don't. we've spoken about this. you're— you're different." talia says in a hesitant tone. these two have tried to figure out the root of non!mc reader's visions, how do they happen, and why they're happening in the first place. but nothing. they have nothing. the only thing they were certain about was the fact that the visions are highly implied to be true. the tales and myths about lemuria align with the visons and flashes.

"perhaps, there is a reason that you, out of everyone, has been bestowed such gift." talia comforts, a gentle pat glides over non!mc reader's shoulder blades.

she could only scoff. "this is no gift. this is a curse."

non!mc reader who falls into shock as she stumbles upon a familiar purple set of hair on a tall figure during a banquet. could it really be— "yn!" her name rolls off his tongue so softly, gently. all so familiar and nostalgic that for a second, non!mc reader forgets that the man whom her love transcended one life over another for had been the cause of her impending doom.

"rafayel?" she minds his presence. he looked a lot older than she'd last seen him. he was a lot taller, his lean figure built stronger with grown muscles, his aura being more elegant and confident. and yet, she questions whether or not he had changed. "what are you— why are you here?"

he tells her that he's settling in linkon for a while. he says that he's got a lot of business advocates and opportunities to stumble upon the city as he pursues his artist career. he then reveals to her that he too had left the sea not long after she had gone, saying something about how the sea's weight felt a little too heavy under ground.

"does it really get easier up above the water?" she throws the question out rhetorically as they find themselves in a secluded seating area of the banquet.

rafayel wasn't dumb. surely, he felt the venomous tone in her voice or the unwelcoming glare from her gaze. he wishes it would be his mind playing tricks on him but the more he stares deeply into her eyes, the more he feels as though something was not right between him and his dearest friend.

"i don't really think so." he replies to her rhetorical question.

one thing about non!mc reader is that she isn't entirely certain that her snarky remark wasn't applicable to her. over the years, she often doubts whether or not trying to escape her home was better for her.

the both of them stare at each other. one pair of eyes gazing at the other's figure filled with confusion and nostalgia. wondering where he went wrong or if he had done something wrong. the other set of eyes staring in regret, unsure of whether or not joy or anger should control her thinking as of the moment.

the silence was louder than ever, until it was interrupted with that even louder ringing in non!mc reader's ears, that stabbing pain becoming stronger— probably the strongest she's ever felt as every fiber of her being was aching.

and yet she was too stubborn to let a slither of her vulnerability and truth slip past the cracks of her facade.

"i have to go." she tries to say confidently or rather, in a more composed way as she stood up, grabbing her purse and clenching her chest with her free hand which earned her a concerned and confused gaze in rafayel's face.

"are you okay? i can take you—"

"im fine, rafayel." she insists, pushing past him as he stood up to reach her.

"it was certainly something to see you again." she coughs out a fake scoff as she takes one step forward, only for a gasp to slip past her lips when her ankles bend, cause her whole body to not only pulse in excruciating pain, but to fall.

she feels the pain take her away from consciousness, a flash of white turning into a silhouette of a younger boy, his hair the same shade of violet as rafayel's, his voice more playful, as the image of her childhood in the prosperous kingdom of lemuria in a previous life takes place in her mind for a while, but the realization did not go unnoticed.

no, it does not get easier above water. as long as gravity exists, the weight of the world will always pull you down to the ground where one must acknowledge the truth.

non!mc reader who realizes that the pain she feels whenever she gets visions started when she left the sea.

she finds herself waking up in a bed of soft silk and fluffy pillows. this wasn't her home, the ambiance was rather softer and cleaner as the sun's rays painted dawn against the windows.

"you're finally awake." she gets taken out of her trance as she turns her head to the doorway, a smiling rafayel leans against the frame of the door. "you good now? maybe next time, don't insist that you're fine when you're not."

"what?" she's confused. she's never passed out from a vision before. sure, at first the pain was unbearable, but years of endurance has built her some kind of immunity or rather, suppressants that makes the ache less painful.

"you had a really high fever last night. what's worse is that, the tides weren't even low. we don't usually get that sick but i guess you're just a bit helpless without me, yeah?" rafayel teases as he brings her a tray of food and medicine. she stares at him in awe, that buried affection for him attempting to break past the cracks, but she does not let it go.

non!mc reader starts to see clearer visions now that rafayel is back in her life. with the added age and maturity, the flashes are longer and less vague. so when the moment a full vision of what happened during the sea god's ceremony played, anger resurfaces her mind.

non!mc reader who swore to avenger herself and lemuria, her beloved land. which is why, when rafayel introduces his new bodyguard, she immediately knew that she was the sea god's bride. that rafayel's miss bodyguard had his heart. literally.

and if it was what's needed to restore lemuria, she would stop at nothing to have it in her hands.

non!mc reader who is staring as the main lead in a new linkon tv series that depicts a tale about an ancient underwater civilization called lemuria. she could only laugh hysterically at her role. was she really playing the role of the sea god's bride? the sole thing she could never be in whatever universe or timeline she was in? oh how destiny loved to mock her.

non!mc reader who asks rafayel for help, feigning vulnerability and saying that she needed his bodyguard too, saying something about her old bodyguard going away for a while, even offering to pay double what rafayel was paying her.

non!mc reader who takes this chance to let her suppressed anger over the centuries and lifetimes that have passed out. it started with complicated coffee orders to fetch then upgraded to delivering her wardrobe, only to accuse miss bodyguard of practically sullying the dress with her reckless actions. in general, just treating her like the worst. miss bodyguard could quit whenever she wanted but rafayel had asked her so persuasively to induldge in non!mc reader's request since she was one of his closest friends.

non!mc reader who gets attacked by one of her visions, the pain stronger than what she assumed was the strongest attack when she met rafayel in that banquet before. what's more severe was that she could practically feel and hear the screams in her more recent visions.

non!mc reader who is sick and tired of suffering the regrets of the past, tired of carrying the weight of a future that is clearly telling her to take responsibility. so, one day, she flat out says to rafayel to do something about lemuria. to take his heart back, to end his people's sufferings. and yet, rafayel, like in all those visions she would see and remember, only replied with the same thing: that there would be other ways.

non!mc reader who damns it all, never stopping at one ask to convince rafayel to take his heart back. every chance she could, she would try to bring it up with rafayel which results into the man questioning his bestfriend's eagerness. she wasn't usually like this. she was never this insistent. despite the rejections, non!mc reader is thankful that rafayel was asked to be an illustrator in her new project because it makes it easier for her to bother him to own up to his responsibilities.

yn lets out an exhausted sigh as she looks at herself in the mirror. this costume was ridiculous, she thinks, as she analyzes the decor of the dress— the director said it would be a close-to-accurate replica of lemurian bridal attires. her top, a delicate yet structured piece, bared her midriff, emphasizing her poise, while bands of gilded accents traced the contours of her shoulders and arms. a flowing sash, transparent like morning mist, hung from her waist, its shimmering fabric embellished with ornate patterns that mirrored ancient symbols of wisdom.

fuck, they were right. it was close to accurate. so much so that non!mc reader starts to pity herself, thinking that the only moment she would have gotten to dress up like a true lemurian bride would be in a show, a fictional, unrealistic series that depicts the story of her beloved and the other woman he had chosen and would choose in every other life.

she steps out of the dressing room, the staffs getting the scene ready as the director yelled out orders. rafayel was with his bodyguard in a corner, discussing with the other illustrators what to do or add into the scene to make it more vibrant.

"it's a wedding scene, it's supposed to be colorful." he rolls his eyes, his bodyguard chuckling in amusement at his sulking. non!mc reader wonders how the producers even got the rafayel to agree to being part of the project. initially, she would've thought that rafayel thinks they would sully the lemurian culture and tale itself and yet, here he was, ever so passionate in the intricate coloring of the set.

"honestly, these people look like they're trying to disrespect the lemurian legacy—" rafayel stops speaking as he turns around, only to be met with non!mc reader in that traditional wedding gown. she looked certainly beautiful in it, he could not deny that. in fact, it looked rather fitting on her, as if she was meant to wear it.

she was currently distracted, practicing her lines with her partner in the show so rafayel's gaze goes unnoticed.

non!mc reader who has to poorly go through a physical and actual demonstration of how the end of lemuria was met because of this stupid show that somehow, got every detail accurately correct.

the way her limbs trembled at the set, the lines, and the impending remembrance of what was to happen after the ceremonial scene in the story. her terror was so obvious that her stutter and shaking figure immediately warned the director and everyone else that something was wrong.

the recreating of the scene in a different perspective terrified her so much, the trauma of reliving that kind of pain and watching it replaying in her mind. the fear was strong enough to trigger another vision, clearer than ever.

"excuse me. i'll be back." she manages to speak, immediately running back to her dressing room to handle the pain all by herself.

non!mc reader who has never told rafayel about the visions. the only person who knew about them were talia and herself. so one could only imagine the feeling brewing in rafayel's guts when rushes to open the door of her dressing room, only to see the actual pain his yn has to go through. all alone. all by herself.

it only then hits him. this must be why she had been so insistent on taking his heart back. this must be why she had left. why she had been so distant— why she acted the way she did.

she was angry at him. albeit, she was literally hurting because of the actions, the bond, the devotion he had sacrificed and given away.

his beloved yn was suffering because of him.

in every universe, he would give his heart to his love, causing him the loss of his kingdom and his entire being. in every universe, non!mc reader has to endure the physical manifestation of the regressing feeling of neglect and abandonment from the one true person that holds her protection in his hands.

in every universe, they were always bound to be met with dead ends.

[captain-huggy-bear]

congrats on 1000!! your writing is so cozy and inclusive and it’s such a breath of fresh air 🥹 ((i feel obligated to mention once again you’ve turned me into a fellow clay girlie🤧))

for the celly - what about “can’t sleep.” “i tried absolute everything but nothing.” pulling you even closer as they say “you haven’t tried everything, i think i can get you to fall asleep” + clay?

I did this in my own way so it's not exactly like the request but I wanted some freedom to work with, I hope you like it anyway <3 1000 Followers Celly Finished Requests are currently closed while I work through current ones <3 Writing Masterlist

You don't make a habit of phoning Clay at 1am when he's sleeping, more often than not overly considerate of his sleep schedule and time. Even when he's told you that you can wake him for anything, even when he's told you it's not a bother, that he wants to be there for you. It doesn't bother him when his phone wakes him up, your contact one of the few that can get through to him past 11pm.

"Wha's wrong, baby?" His voice is gravelly, rough from sleep, blinking into the dark of his bedroom, eyes adjusting to land on Lucky. Lucky who's snoring in his bed by the door, legs in the air, feet kicking.

“Can’t sleep.” You sound frustrated, close to tears like you've hit your breaking point. “I tried absolute everything but nothing is working... I just want to sleep.” You're so tired...frustrated, upset. You'd put your pillows at the foot of the bed, you'd tried white noise and music, you'd tried a warm shower...if you could think of it then you'd tried it.

“Baby, it's okay..." Clay can tell you're maybe one wrong move from bursting into tears and it doesn't help that you're miles away for work, a school trip to Washington DC of all places, in an unfamiliar place and somewhere he can't reach you. An unfamiliar place where you've got the weight of responsibility on your shoulders, trying not to lose a single child each day. All the while there's no way for him to drive to you, wrap you up in his arms like he normally would...his hands are tied almost entirely.

"I'm so tired, Clay...and I have to get up in 5 hours to take the kids to the Smithsonian" Your voice is growing thick with tears, choked as you grow even more frustrated, leg bouncing up and down where you're sat on the edge of the hotel bed. Your forehead pressed into your palm like you could force your brain to start working better.

"I know, I know, hey, you haven’t tried everything, I think I can get you to fall asleep.” His voice is a soothing rumble, the rustle of sheets coming down the line as he sits himself up in bed and turns on the bedside lamp. Your side is cold, empty. Your book gone, your usual glass of water not there. God, he misses you...

"Clay..."

"I'm serious, trust me...get comfy, lie back, head on the pillow...." There's a moment before you move, shifting and rustling the bedsheets as you slide under and into your preferred sleeping position, pillow under your cheek, "You comfy?"

"...Yeah," You don't want to doubt him, but you feel helpless, like nothing is going to get you to sleep...no matter what.

"Okay, close your eyes, sweet girl."

"Clay...."

"Close your eyes, baby." His voice is quieter, a low rumble, just loud enough for you to hear but purposefully quiet. Soothing rather than disruptive. "Closed?" You hum in the affirmative, focusing on his voice, the rasp to the undertone of it, the rumble in his chest, the warmth. Cosy, sweet.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" Your hum is enough for him, he doesn't want you talking anyway, just listening to the steady rhythm he sets his voice to, something calming. "I came to your school with the team for some event...I can't even remember what it was for, but I saw you first..."

Your breath quietens at each word, he can hear it, the way you start to relax more on the other end of the line like his voice is a lullaby.

"You were stood in your classroom doorway, it was hot out so you had the windows open and it made your hair blow like you were in some sort of commercial...you were so beautiful...are so beautiful. I couldn't stop staring at you...every time you were in the room my eyes kept going to you and I just...I knew."

Your breath hitches just enough, just the tiniest amount that he knows you're still awake and listening to him ramble on, because really he's started now and he just can't stop.

"I knew you were it, that I had to speak to you...and I...I couldn't stop stumbling over my words when I finally did...walked away and nearly didn't ask to give you my number...had to run back into the school, do you remember that?"

"Mmm,"

"I'm glad I did..." And Clay just keeps talking, and talking and talking...even when he can hear in your breath that you're asleep. He talks until he can't keep his own eyes open, falls asleep without ending the call until you both wake in the morning to the call still going, 5 hours and 23 minutes long.

You're the best thing that ever happened to him and if helping you sleep means talking till the wee hours of the morning? Until he can barely keep his eyes open at practice the next day? Then that's okay because it's you.

[nigtmarcz]

⎯⎯ Unspoken Tension

hamzah x reader

summary: hamzah and y/n can't stand each other and the tension between them grows. leaving hamzah questioning if there's more beneath their rivalry.

wc: 1.2k

a/n: i'm on my writing grind!! hope u like it >.<

-

There’s something about her that gets under my skin.

It’s not just that she has this effortlessly perfect, almost ethereal beauty. Petite, with hair that shines like silk and lips so full they seem almost too perfect to be real. It’s the way she doesn’t try to stand out, yet still manages to do so without lifting a finger. There’s a quiet confidence in the way she moves, calm and collected, as if she’s always in control of everything around her—except when it comes to me.

I can’t stand it.

y/n’s been friends with Mandy and Martin for as long as I can remember, which means I’ve had plenty of chances to get to know her and, unfortunately, she’s the only one who can’t stand me. It doesn’t matter what I do—smile at her, compliment her, even just say something simple. She rolls her eyes, huffs, or worst of all, ignores me completely.

I’ve made it my mission to make her notice me.

Tonight, we’re at mandy and martin’s place. My eyes drawn to her as she talks to them. Her laugh rings through the room, light and effortless, like the sweetest melody. She looks as stunning as ever—her hair cascading down her back, her lips curling into that perfect, radiant smile that seems to light up the entire room.

And yet, she’s completely oblivious to me.

The thought makes me growl under my breath.

I know she’s not exactly the most friendly when it comes to me. In fact, I can tell she actively avoids me. But tonight? I’m not letting that slide.

I walk over to where she’s standing, her back to me as she grabs a glass of water from the counter. She doesn’t notice me at first, but as I get closer, I make sure my presence is known.

“Hey, y/n,” I called.

She turns around, eyes narrowing the moment they meet mine. The usual irritation flashes in her expression, and I feel a small thrill run through me. I love how she can’t stand me.

“What do you want, hamzah?” she snaps, not even bothering with pleasantries.

“Oh, I just thought I’d come over and say hi,” I say with a grin, leaning casually against the counter beside her. “You know, make sure you’re not too bored without me here.”

She rolls her eyes, but this time there’s something else in her expression. Something... hesitant.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she says stiffly, taking a step back.

Before I can say anything else, Martin chimes in from across the room, grinning. “You two are like fireworks—always about to explode.”

I glance at martin, then back at y/n, and for a split second, I catch her looking at me differently. Not with hatred, but with... curiosity? It’s only for a second, but it’s enough to make me pause.

“Just wait,” martin continues, clearly loving every second of the tension between us. “I bet you’ll be laughing at each other’s jokes soon enough.”

I scoff, crossing my arms. “That’s never going to happen. y/n and I are practically opposites. I’m the fun, charismatic one, and she’s... well, she’s got that cold, standoffish thing going for her.”

y/n glares at me, but there’s something in her eyes that makes me pause. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s there. Something that’s pulling me in, even though I know I should stop.

“You’re full of yourself,” she mutters, almost to herself, but loud enough for me to hear.

“I’m not full of myself,” I shoot back, stepping a little closer. “I’m just confident.”

She looks at me for a long moment, almost like she’s sizing me up. Then, unexpectedly, her lips twitch upward in the smallest smile.

“Good luck with that,” she says under her breath, before turning to walk away.

-

I hate how much hamzah annoys me.

He’s tall, muscular, tan... and everything about him screams “attention-grabbing.” But it’s not just his physical appearance that bothers me. It’s the fact that he knows exactly what to say to get under my skin. His jokes, his arrogance, his damn smile—all of it makes my blood boil.

And yet... there's something about him that I can't seem to shake.

He’s always in my face, always making those stupid comments and pushing me to my limits. There’s no escaping it, not with mandy and martin always dragging us into the same social circles. It doesn’t help that he’s impossibly good-looking, and everyone else seems to fall for his charm.

But not me. Never me.

Tonight, I’m just trying to get through this evening without throwing a drink in his face, when of course, he has to ruin it.

“Hey, y/n,” his voice floats over, smooth and teasing as usual.

I try to ignore him, but before I know it, he’s standing next to me. I can feel the heat of his presence, the way he leans in, taking up space in a way only he can.

“What do you want, hamzah?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, but there’s a flicker of something in me that’s unsettled.

“I just thought I’d come over and say hi,” he replies, leaning too close for comfort. “You know, make sure you’re not too bored without me here.”

I roll my eyes, doing everything in my power not to react to the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. This is what he does. He gets close, makes everything about him, and then watches me squirm. I hate it.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say curtly, taking a small step back, but of course, he doesn’t move.

And then, there’s martin, always instigating. “You two are like fireworks—always about to explode.”

I glance at martin, then back at hamzah. For a second, I almost feel something else. A tension that’s different. He’s never looked at me quite like that before. Like he’s not just teasing me. Like he’s actually trying to understand me?

I shake the thought away. Focus, y/n. He’s the same jackass he’s always been.

But then, I hear him say something that almost makes me laugh. “I’m not full of myself,” he says, almost defensively. “I’m just confident.”

I blink, caught off guard by how genuinely annoyed he sounds, like he's not used to anyone challenging his confidence.

“You’re full of yourself,” I mutter under my breath.

He leans in closer, his smile widening. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

I don’t know why I do it, but I can’t help but let a tiny smile slip out. It’s the first time he’s caught me off guard like that. His smile falters for a second, before he turns away, leaving me wondering if maybe I'm not the only one who feels the tension between us.

-

I can’t stop thinking about y/n.

She’s impossible to ignore, and the more I try, the more it feels like she’s pulling me in. Every little interaction, every quick exchange of words. It's like there’s this invisible line between us, and I can’t figure out if I want to pull away or get closer.

Maybe martin’s right. Maybe we’re just too stubborn to admit that we’re not as different as we pretend.

One thing’s for sure: the game is changing, and for the first time, I’m not sure if I’m the one in control or if it’s her who’s slowly pulling me in.

[evilminji]

You know what's my JAM?

Extremes being treated as the Serious Dangers they ARE, even when they aren't "oooh its a spooky Grey morality and BADness!" Extreme.

Like? No, people. ALL of them are bad. They are ALL face melting dangerous. The void may crush your soul, but look upon the Face Of GOD? Not gonna be having a fun time! Doesn't MATTER if he's a cool dude! Face melting!

We are creatures of BALANCE. Tiny, fragile, little motes of dust. That can only exsist in the careful, blended, dances of territories and powers that be. We squishy.

Ghosts? Less squishy.

Poor impulse control, too. Especially ones with Fenton genetics. ABSOLUTELY ones with Fenton genetics and a trauma based aversion to therapy. That one? Pretty hardy. Made pretty tough, what with being Fates third favorite chew toy. But? Still gets the Sads, you know? The slightly longer then just seasonal depression.

Would medicine and some therapy help? Oh like a dream!

If medicine WORKED on his Ectoplasmicly contaminated ass. And he TRUSTED therapists.

But... surely, Danny thinks, as he sits grossly in his Depression sweatpants and eats suspect pizza on the floor of his moldering shoebox of an apartment, there must be SOME way to address his Depression? He should... he should DO something about it. Take a break maybe. Look up some ghost doctors or something.

.....

Oooooooooor..... >.>

He could break out that OMENIOUS af, bound in suspect leather, Big Book Of Forbidden Knowledge(TM) that he got from Pariah's.... what, fourth? Fifth? Library? Fuck that Lair is huge. He's STILL cleaning it out and it's been over half a decade. He swears it spawns more floors just to mock him. Bastard. Don't know HOW a building can be a Bastard, but it sure found A WAY.

Anyway!

Book it is! *horrifying Eldritch light as he opens it* huh. Neat. Comes with its own visual effects. *another bite of suspect pizza* Funky.

And so! Danny, the depressed King Of The Zone... fucks of to go cheer himself up in the Fields Of Bliss(TM), an area of Absolute Bliss. Which! Sounds GREAT in theory, now don't it? Lovely even.

Remember that little comment about extremes?

You can ENTER those fields. But no one leaves. No one CAN. The deeper you go? The more doomed you become. Less will to do anything at all. Eat, talk, move. So much as think. Like ALL extreme "Goods", it sounds lovely, but the reality is no gentle little thing.

It's a glue trap.

But how could Danny have known? Honestly, who would have TAUGHT him? Textbooks can only go so far, after all. And placing blame will not rescue the young monarch.

I imagine it's one of his helpers that pieces together what's happened. Come for further clarification on WHERE exactly he wants certain statues moved. Only? Your Majesty? Your Majesty...? Where ever could he BE? Oh? He's left out some of his books. Well, I'll just assist by putting them away for-.....

Oh.

OH ANCIENTS, NO.

But! What can the poor man DO? Ghosts are Beings of Will, Emotion, and Obsession. Were it some sort of Holy Blade or Sentient Tree, you know, something INDIVIDUAL with a will they could FIGHT? Oh no problem. But an area of effect? Especially an EMOTIONAL area of effect!? Ooooooh, this is bad. The Zone can't AFFORD to lose ANOTHER King!

We JUST GOT THIS ONE!!!

Wait. He's heard that there's an organization for this! That loudly cursing fellow who got violently thrown back into the Zone. "Ruined his fun" and all that! Perfect! He'll just hire THEM!

Smashcut? To a nice, peaceful, everybody's screaming Justice League Meeting. John's cursing life, extremely hungover. Zatana still has three cracked ribs. Wonder Woman is enjoying the new sword she... liberated... mid battle. Truely stunning craftsmanship. When?

Knock Knock!

Heads swivel. There... is a glowing green... accountant? Dandy? Dandy accountant. With an equally radioactive day glow green Actual Pirate's Chest Of Treasures, floating next to him. In the void of space; Just beyond the glass. What, the, fuuuuuu-

He seems to be under the impression they are some sort of Heroic mercenaries. And has come to request the retrieve-

"NNNNNOPE! Pariah can SHOVE it!" Snarls a suddenly very awake John Constantine, sitting up straight for the first time in hours. The rest of Dark grimly nod in agreement. Let the fucker rot. It's a kinder fate then he deserves.

No, no, NO! King PHANTOM! Pariah's SUCCESSOR by right of combat! They are not, and were never, allied in any way!

Well, all right then. Road trip to save a young idiot then.

@the-witchhunter @hdgnj @hypewinter @lolottes @mutable-manifestation @nerdpoe

[itsnesss]

𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲 | minho (xo,kitty) × fem!reader

summary | it's valentine's day, and this year is special because you're with minho. he has prepared a romantic surprise

warnings | fluff, romance, slight tension

word count | 2.3 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

It's Valentine's Day. A day that would normally seem like any other, but this year, it's different. This year, it's special because you're with Minho.

Since you started dating, everything has changed for you. Before, Valentine's Day was just a day you passed through without much emotion, but now, every detail feels new, exciting, full of promises.

You're waiting in front of your dorm, nerves running through your veins. You know Minho has something planned for today, but you have no idea what. The only thing he's told you is that you shouldn't make any plans, that he would surprise you. The uncertainty makes you anxious, but in a good way. With him, everything is different.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps approaching and see him. Minho. He walks toward you with a charming smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

"Hi," he says with his usual smoothness, but today there's something more in his voice, something that makes you blush. "Are you ready for your surprise?"

"I'm always ready for whatever you plan," you reply, smiling warmly. "Although, I have to admit, you've got me pretty intrigued."

Minho looks at you with an expression that could be described as satisfied, like he's very sure of what he's planned. He extends his hand to you, and without thinking, you take it.

"Let's go," he says, guiding you out of the building. He doesn't talk much, but there's something in his gaze that tells you he's excited, and that makes you feel even more excited too.

The campus is quiet, as if everyone has decided to give Valentine's Day a break. The streetlights glow softly under the dark sky, and the cold February air brushes against your face as you walk beside Minho. You don’t need words to know you're exactly where you want to be. You're with him, and that’s all that matters.

Minho takes you to a nearby park, a secluded corner of the campus that you've never noticed before. It's small, tucked away, but perfectly lit, as if it's a secret hideaway just for the two of you. In the center of the park, there's a table surrounded by candles and rose petals scattered across the ground. Everything looks like it’s straight out of a romantic movie, and you can't help but smile at the beauty of the gesture.

"Minho..." you whisper, surprised by what you see. "It's... incredible."

He shrugs, but the smile on his face tells you he's proud of what he's done.

"I wanted it to be something you'd remember," he says, looking at the place with a mix of pride and modesty. "Something that makes you know how important you are to me."

You don't know how to respond. Emotion floods you, but instead of words, what comes out is a hug. You move toward him, wrapping your arms around him. Minho doesn't hesitate to respond, holding you tightly, as if he needs this moment just as much as you do.

"Thank you," you say into his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. "Really, thank you."

"It’s the least you deserve," he murmurs, kissing your hair. "I don’t want you to ever forget what you mean to me."

When you pull away slightly, he looks at you with those dark eyes that always seem to know what you're thinking, what you're feeling.

"Would you like to sit down?" he asks, pointing to the table, and you nod, still blushing from his sincerity.

Minho pulls out a bottle of wine and two glasses that he'd hidden in his backpack, and starts to pour it with a calm smile. There's something about his tranquility that soothes you, something in his presence that makes you feel at home, right here, with him.

"This wine is from the first time we went to that restaurant together," he says as he pours. "I wanted us to have something that would remind us of that moment."

You look at him, surprised. You didn’t know that night, so casual at the time, meant so much to him.

"Minho, you didn’t have to do all this."

"I didn’t want it to be just any Valentine’s Day," he says. "I wanted to do something for you, something that was ours."

The wine has a smooth, sweet taste, but nothing compares to the feeling of having him there, sitting across from you, smiling as if everything is perfect. And it is. Somehow, everything in this moment feels like it's in place.

After a while, he stands up and extends his hand to you.

"Shall we dance?" he asks, and the request is as unexpected as it is perfect.

"To dance?" you ask, laughing nervously. "But we don’t have any music."

Minho smiles with that quiet confidence you adore.

"We have everything," he says, and with an unexpected move, he pulls out his phone and plays a soft song in the background, a calm melody that seems to embrace the night.

You take his hands, letting him guide you through the movements. The world fades away around you as you dance together, under the stars, in the silence of the park. The light from the candles flickers gently around you, and all you can feel is the softness of his touch, the warmth of his closeness.

In that moment, everything feels simple and perfect. The two of you, in the middle of a cold night, creating memories you’ll never forget. Every step you take with him makes you feel closer, more connected to something you can't even describe with words.

"I love you," Minho whispers, his voice soft but full of meaning.

Your heart leaps at hearing it, and for a second, the world stops. You don’t need to respond, because in your eyes, he can see the same. But you do anyway.

"I love you."

The final embrace you share, in the middle of the small, lit park, is all you need to know that this Valentine’s Day will be one you’ll never forget. Because it’s not just another day. It’s the day everything became more real, deeper, more yours and his.

[negansfavlucille01]

THE NEW WIFE

Negan × f!reader

Summary: Negan and the reader were having a "romantic" dinner in his office, leading to Negan's bedroom

Warnings: Spanking, Unprotected p in v, choking, rough sex, swearing, creampie, squirting, shitty smut, negan missing reader's birthday

Word count: 1,5K

After the lineup, Negan took Y/N with him back to the Sanctuary with the intention of making her his wife. He knew she was young, of course, but she wasn't a kid anymore. Wanting to make it easier on the group, she went with him, even tho she hated his guts. Well, of course, who wouldn't after what he did? It took a few weeks to get her to relax and open up. Still hesitant, she always backed away when he got too close. Anyhow, slowly, she started developing feelings for him. It was wrong. She knew that. But he was so handsome and charming. And he knew that, so he used it against her.

Finally, she gave in and became his wife. At first, it was weird. She was still backing away and not letting him touch her. But he wanted her so bad. So bad that he was willing to wait for her to come around. He often invited her to dinners in his room or just something to do to get her to lose up. Sometimes, she refused, and sometimes, more rarely, she accepted.

"So, how old? Exactly." He asked as he ate from his spaghetti.

They were sitting in his office, on the big table. Negan made sure to get the best wine on his last supply run, so here they were, eating the spaghetti he made and drinking the wine. She was sitting on the opposite of him, looking at her plate. Then, she lifted her head. "Your mom never taught you that you should never fucking ask women for their age?"

"She did. But, cmon..." He grinned, sipping from his glass.

"Turned 20 yesterday."

He choked on the wine, his eyes widening. Slowly reaching for the tissue placed next to his plate and wiping his face, he spoke lowly. "You didn't tell me. Why? I didn't wanna fucking miss it!"

"Well, I thought you'd know your wife's birthday..." She laughed, clearly teasing him. "But when you got so many wives, you probably can't keep up."

He gave her an arrogant smile, setting his glass back on the table. "Wow, I didn't know you were this funny!"

"Why, thank you. But for real, maybe if you were focusing on what I was telling you instead of always staring at my tits and looking for a way to get me in your bed, you would've known." She shrugged.

His eye narrowed, and he looked away for a second. He adjusted in his seat. "I listened to every damn word you said, Y/N. And I know you never told me your birthday."

"Right... And did you remember it?"

"Uh-huh. Your dad left when you were 3, and your mom died the first day of the apocalypse. You were left with Daryl and Merle. I know what school you went to. I know your best friend's name. I know whatever you told me. And it's bad to assume I'm in just for the sex."

"You're telling me what's bad?"

"Yes, I am. I thought we were over this."

"Fine.." She crossed her arms and looked at her lap as he scoffed. "So.. how old are you?"

"47."

"You look older." She laughed.

He glared at her, then kicked her under the table. Y/N bit her lip to not make any noises. "Thank you. And you look 6. Act like it, too..."

"Fuck you." She spat at him, her eyes narrowing.

Negan stayed quiet, wondering if he should say what came to his mind. He licked his lips, and spoke after a short moment. "You wanna?"

"... Maybe." She mumbled under her nose. Negan stood up and walked around the table, getting to her. When he did, he ran his fingertips on her bare shoulder in the dress she was wearing. He leaned down, whispering in her ear.

"You should've just said so..." He kissed gently under her ear and chuckled. "Let's go."

She turned around in the chair, facing him. "Where?"

"WhErE?" He mocked her and chuckled. Taking her hand, he urged her to stand up. "My room, of course..."

She followed, his hand in hers. They walked out of the meeting room and down the hallway until Negan opened his room's door. The room was decent. Luxury for the apocalypse. King-sized bed and two leather couches, in between them a table.

"Should've known..." She smiled at him. "That you have all the luxury..."

"Yeah, well, what can I say..." He grinned as he wrapped his hand around her waist and pulled her close. His eyes wandered on hers for a minute before he pressed his lips on hers. Soft moans escaped her mouth as his tongue slipped in her mouth. Suddenly, she felt her feet leaving the ground and she quickly wrapped her legs around his waist. His groin pressed against her wetness and they both groaned. Negan crawled on the bed with her and laid her down. He stood on his knees and reached to remove his boots. "You have no idea what you got yourself in.."

Y/N kicked off her heels as Negan threw his leather jacked on the floor. He then leaned over her again and grabbed her jaw, kissing her roughly. Her hand slid down his body until it reached his erection and squeezed it gently. He grunted in her mouth and pulled away, smirking. "Just curious..."

"Right..." Negan pulled the dress off with one quick motion. He licked his lip as he stared at her body in the white lace bra with blue flowers on it, which matched with her panties. "That's just fucking slutty, baby.."

"Shut up."

“Never.” He mumbles against her neck between kisses, his hands trailing over her breast over the bra, feeling the warmth of her body against him. He moves his mouth back up to hers and kisses her passionately again, nipping gently on her bottom lip with his teeth.

"You're an ass." He smiles before his lips leave her mouth and move to her stomach, planting kisses up and down it, his soft lips on her skin, his beard tickling her occasionally as well. He moves back up to her face and smiles down at her and rests his hands on her ass, gently rubbing it with his thumbs. "No, please, I need you."

Her desperate whines sent him over the edge and he quickly unbuckled his belt, sliding down his pants along with his boxers. It was big. Huge, even. Her mouth dropped open and she drooled. It was super hard, the tip red and swollen. Thick veins running down his shaft. "Wow.."

"Surprised?"

"I always knew you were packing, but.." He chuckled as she started stroking it. Her touch was all he needed for the pre-cum to drip out. He grabbed her harshly and turned her over, settling her on all fours. Without a warning, he slammed in her, making her scream out.

"What, that feel good?" He smirked arrogantly and started pounding her from behind. His balls slapped against her clit as she moaned. Reaching out, Negan wrapped his fingers around her throat, gripping hard. Y/N's eyes filled with tears when she couldn't take a breath. With each thrust, there was a groan coming from Negan and a scream from Y/N. A harsh slap landed on her right butt cheek. "I asked you a question."

"Yes! God, yes.. It does feel good...!" She whined. Negan's thrusts didn't slow down, if anything, they got faster. "Negan... I can't.. breathe.."

He released her, showing some mercy. Her walls clenched around his cock, making him lose his mind. The feeling of her was spongy and tight like no other pussy. Reaching over, he rubbed her clit roughly with his thumb while his middle and ring finger went to her pussy, adding to his cock like it wasn't big enough. "You're gonna cum all over my cock like a good little fuckin whore?"

"Yes." She whined.

"Say it." He grunted, keeping up his fast pounding. He looked down, seeing her ass juggle and bounce with each move he made. It was already red, put he decided to add another smack just for his pleasure.

"I'm gonna cum all over you cock like a good little fuckin slut.." She barely managed to finish before squirting all over his cock and fingers. He started moving his fingers in rhythm with his cock even after she came. His cock throbbed hard and he couldn't hold back anymore. His hot seed burst into her dripping cunt, make it his. She looked over her shoulder, seeing him with his head thrown back, his mouth slightly open and his eyes shut. The moans coming from his mouth were the hottest she'd ever heard.

He dropped beside her, breathing heavily as she barely managed to turn on her back. "Goddamn, that pussy is my new favorite.."

"Bet you say that to all of your wives." She stared at the ceiling.

"You'd be surprised then.." Negan took her chin in his hand and made her look at him. "You see... I was thinking about dropping them for you..."

[nomoreusername]

Smile

Newt x gender neutral reader

Summary:When Newt notices you hiding your smile he quickly makes everything better again.

I looked into the little piece of broken glass as I thought about what they said. It was only meant to be a joke. I wasn't supposed to actually believe them.

But I did. I've been looking at my reflection and seeing what it looks like when I smile. Despite not caring about their words at first it seemed to be nothing short of true now.

My smile was ugly. It was far too toothy, too wide, too much. I've been trying to find a way to fix it, trying to change it, but nothing was working. It was still so hateable.

That left me with one desperate option. Avoid smiling as much as possible. If I do I try to hide it behind my hand. It looks ridiculous, but apparently so do I when I grin.

"Hey,"Newt said, walking in. I shoved the piece of glass under my bed.

"Don't you know how to knock?"I snapped, feeling my face flush with embarrassment.

"Not with you,"He pointed out. That was true, but right now I can't stand anyone seeing me. Practicing how to smile is a hard thing to explain. Especially, to him.

"Out,"I instructed, pointing at the door. He was visibly confused as he left. I guess I would be too.

"I wish I could fix this,"I sighed, pulling out the broken glass one last time. If only.

♡ - - - ♡

I nodded my head as Minho kept telling his story. It was admittedly kind of funny. I felt myself start to smile but managed to stop it just in time. I covered my mouth with my hand just in case it happened again.

"Are you alright, love?"Newt whispered in my ear.

"Yeah,"I shrugged, leaning back. He didn't look convinced. If anything he looked more concerned. He can't be though, right? I technically haven't done anything bad or wrong.

"Hey. Follow me real quick,"He whispered again, standing up. We slipped away from everyone without a word. Nobody seemed to notice.

"Where exactly are we going?"I asked as we walked away from the others.

"Just trust me. It'll only take a minute,"He promised. I wasn't sure if I believed him but didn't stop walking.

Eventually, he turned by the cliff and sat. He looked back at me expectantly. I joined him.

"It's pretty, isn't it?"He asked, looking at the sunset.

"Extremely,"I agreed.

"It's enough to make anyone smile,"He added. I didn't say anything this time.

"It always made you smile. How come you aren't?"He questioned. I fixated on the ocean below me to avoid looking at him.

"Y/N, how come you don't smile anymore?

"I do,"I mumbled.

"Barely, and anytime you do it's not yours. I want to see you smile from ear to ear."

"Why?"I asked before I could stop myself. I cringed at my words and wished I could take the back.

"Why? What do you mean why?"

"Why do you want to see me smile?"I whispered.

"Because I like seeing you happy, and I know you're happy when you wear that bright, perfect grin."

The only sound for a while was the crashing of waves against rocks. What was there to say?

"You don't think your smile is perfect, do you?"He asked quietly. I didn't say anything which was an answer in itself.

"Y/N, do you remember how we met?"He asked out of the blue.

"Of course I do. You were the third person up in the Glade. I helped you out of the box and showed you around,"I reminessed.

"And do you remember how scared I was at first?"

"Yeah. Alby and I were worried you were never going to leave the box."

"And I might not have. There was one thing though, that told me everything was going to be okay,"He stated, pausing so I was left with a burning curiosity.

"What was it?"I wondered.

"You. You held out your hand and flashed me that brilliant smile. Suddenly, everything was okay because you were there. I didn't even know my name, but that if someone could have such a genuine smile I would be okay,"He admitted.

I looked at him and searched his face for any sign of a fib. Then, I realized who I was sitting with. Newt's a lot of things, practically all of them incredible, but a liar is not on the list.

"See? There's that contagious smile,"He remarked, making me recognize that I was practically beaming. It's so hard not to when I'm around him.

"Now don't you ever hide that amazing smile again. Good that?"He checked.

"As long as I have you then yeah. Good that,"I agreed.

"Good. Do you want to go back to everyone else?"He offered.

I didn't say anything as I placed my head on his shoulder which was another silent answer.

Right there I was perfectly content in that one simple moment. It was just the sunset, me, and the one person who never fails to make me smile.

[heretyc]

Cat and Mouse [Franco Barbi x Reader] [SMUT/NSFW] [18+]

Plot: You take far too many antipsychotics and suffer the consequences. Those consequences? Franco Barbi taking you for himself. [Female reader character.] This is porn with plot.

Warnings: 18+ content ahead. Obsessive Barbi. Lactation kink, mommy kink, breastfucking, missionary sex and MC death [you respawn anyway lol]. This shit is so filthy I had to take a shower. [Just kidding I was like a pig in mud lmfao]

TW: Somewhat dubious consent. You don't give verbal consent and you're high. You're...kinda not bothered, if that makes sense? Even through the drugs. You also get shot by Lupara. I kinda based this off of the hatefucking! AU where you were in Havana the day he started the shootout and you basically become enemies to lovers.

Also mentions of non-con birth control usage, as he rawdogs you. He is literally the embodiment of the "raw, next question" meme.

Setting: The docks map. [I can't find a good picture, but inside of the red room on the ship where Barbi shoots the glass and pursues you.]

It's doneeeee! Enjoy. I'm not exactly confident in my smut writing skills so I hope this is still enjoyable. Under the cut due to NSFW content ahead. Why do I always turn my fics poetic?? Ugh. This fic was a ROLLER COASTER.

A hiss, a cry, a grunt and a groan; that was the array of noises that escaped your throat as you tried to roam and plunder the shithole that was the docks, your nipples swollen and making you want to rip them off.

The nurse was nice enough to give you a maternity bra. Truly, she was; coming to her with your little issue, she was more than understanding.

"Oh dear," Barlow had clicked her tongue as a gloved hand squeezed at your breast, her expression showing concern, "I was afraid this would happen." She was gentle as she swabbed some milk from your nipple, shoving the soaked swab into a test tube.

Her smile was friendly yet forced, full of pity in typical Barlow, "I'll get you some maternity wear for the time being...for now. Refrain from taking those antipsychosis medications for a while, okay?"

As if that was easy; she was bullshitting you, this you knew. It wasn't like you could stop taking them, and therefore, you had to suffer the consequences.

"I'll make sure it isn't pus," she dawdled, getting up from her seat and gently taking your hand, her free one holding the tube. "From now on, please rest in the sleep room." She looked...mortified for you. "Just...rest for today. Easterman's a wonderful man, dear...I'm sure he'll let you."

Trials were hard enough as it was. Constant fear. Your brain was fried, no doubt. But now you had to worry about breast pain, of all things.

She then cursed under her breath, "You have that...Franco Barbi trial tomorrow, don't you?"

Oh.

Fuck.

She was hesitant to send you away, but off you went back into the room that was assigned to you.

And now you were here, after spending all day yesterday moping and dreading the day, and the maternity bra you were given had been ripped off, because the material was too. fucking. rough.

Why was that, you wondered as you roamed the docks, shoving the bags of poisoned medicine into your pockets. Why was the material so shit?

But then again, why did they have maternity bras.

You silenced your train of thought after that.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ ───

Fucking Franco Barbi. That was what you were doing. Literally, fucking Franco Barbi.

You didn't think you'd be fucking the man who started that little gunfight in Cuba that one faithful day. You remember it fondly, actually; you killed a man for trying to rob you, and minutes later, you heard gunfire, sirens, and "spider eye lamb". All of which lead to the events which are now occurring. Well...and the constant trials against this fucker, who became obsessed with you the moment he saw you shove a knife through a man's gullet.

Barbi's hands were rough on your breasts, the gloves' material rubbing against your nipples as his tongue invaded your mouth. His saliva, thick and tasting of amaretto and almond milk, was shoved down your throat, his slimy pink tentacle-like appendage rushing to call your mouth his own. It felt disgusting and yet so arousing.

"Fuck yes, sweetness," He slurred after he pulled away, your shirt and pants gone and your back against the hard mattress he shoved you onto. "FUCK you smell divine." Your feet were planted against the floor, your toes almost gripping the wood with urgency.

The baggies of poisoned medicine were null, now; not like they mattered anymore, your pants in the corner of the red room. Much like his own, as you heard his belt buckle be toyed with.

"Gonna fuck ya," Barbi licked his lips, Lupara laying beside your head. Almost like a silent threat. Move and you die. "Gonna fuck ya tits, ya cunt...fuck- everything. FUCK. I've always wanted to do this shit, ever since that fuckin' day in Cuba."

He was eager, this you could tell, even through the haze of the antipsychotic he shoved down your throat. All you could think is, "Sorry Nurse Barlow".

But knowing her, she wouldn't hold it against you. She never did. These past couple of days, her false care seemed to dwindle and she actually seemed more...human, instead of fake. Maybe this place was getting to her.

Your tits were squeezed together, making you hiss; small trails of white essence began to stream down into the valley of your breasts, and before you knew it, a pink cockhead poked through, looking blurry to your vision.

You had never thought you'd see this fucker naked, let alone have his tongue shoved so deep down your fucking throat you thought he'd lap up your stomach acid like a desperate mutt.

Knowing him? He would. Oh, he'd mix it with amaretto and drink it like it's the blood of Christ himself.

His strange obsession for you was not at all kept subtle. Just weeks ago, when you two had first come to Sinyala - like a package deal! - he made it clear he wanted to pursue his affections, if his kissy noises were any indicator. You've lost some hair since coming here; maybe he put that shit on his wall, smelling it every night before bed. Maybe he kept some of your blood on his suit from when he killed you last Friday.

You never know with him. One day he's crying about how "you're fuckin' up my suit!", and the next he's googly eyed, begging you to spit on him. Weirdo.

Barbi's head was thrown back in pleasure as he began to thrust, his precum and the milk making it easy as pie for him to use your tits as a fleshlight, the cockhead close to pressing against your lips every time he thrust. "Fuckin' slut...that's what you are," he panted, now looking down at you with a pleased smirk. Sweat dripped down his head, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. "My fuckin' slut..."

Mutt. Bambino. Dog. Lupara.

"Gonna...gonna fuckin' cum. You want that, mommy?" He leaned down slightly, his voice a murmur, "Want me to empty my fuckin' balls on these tits? That face? God, that tongue lickin' up my spunk...FUCK!"

His dirty talk did nothing but arouse him even more, as cum shot out of his eager cockhead and onto anything of yours that it could reach; your lips, your cheeks, your chest, your neck. Your body had more semen on it than it did clothing.

"Fucking...shit..." Barbi's voice was breathy, his cock retrieved from the valley between your tits. "You're a masterpiece, you know that? Fuckin' hell." He stroked the softening organ, clearly not intending to end this anytime soon; ohhh no, not when you're at his mercy, with your tits ballooned in size full of cream.

The presence of his cum didn't assauge him from forcefully pulling you up, now fully laying you back on the bed as opposed to just your bottom half hanging off. Now you, at least, had a pillow under your head.

It makes it harder to bash your head, though. To give yourself an exit, to avoid whatever the fuck he wants to do with you. Maybe you could smother yourself.

"I told ya sweetness," Barbi rasped, straddling your hips as he ground his hardening cock into your stomach. "You get caught with ya hand in the cookie jar..." He shed his trousers and shoes, now fully nude from the waist down. Lupara had fallen off after he positioned you, and his bandolier was on the floor, clearly abandoned in favour of making sure your fucking was unbothered.

"You get fucked sideways to Hell," he took your breasts into his gloved hands once more, leaning down to suckle on a swollen nipple; a banshee would be jealous, had she heard the screams that exited through your lips, your teeth gritting in pain. This didn't quell him — your screams rivaled his moans, his eyes clenched shut as his audible sucks were all that you heard. You wanted to kick him.

"Fucking shit," his voice was muffled around your breast one second, and within the next one, he was looking you in the face, his eyes lidded in pleasure.

"I knew you were fuckin' special...you know that? I knew you were," Barbi growled out, leaned down until your noses were close to touching, "Nobody's ever been able to handle me," he rasped, "they die too fuckin' quick. Where's the challenge in that?" He huffed a laugh, breathless as he tried to regain some control. "But you...fuck no, you just...you fuck everything up in my face, and you win. Fucking...insane, to me." He pushed himself up, pushing his hair back with a shaky hand; he was eager, his body didn't lie.

"I suppose this is both a reward...and a punishment, dollface," Barbi licked his lips, moving down to shove a gloved finger into your cunt; you were wet...wait, what?

Did this really arouse you? Maybe it did. Something in you liked being a little dominated, even if your dominator was a batshit insane mafia don who whined constantly about sluts, and whores, and drugs, and "wahhh be my mommy".

God, you were fucked in the head. But that's what Sinyala does to a mind...there's no denying that.

"You get fucked by a Barbi...and you get your shit fucked in for being a business ruining cunt," he sneered, pulling out of your pussy with roughness. If your traitorous cunt wasn't throbbing with need, you're sure it would have hurt. It throbbed even more as he began to lick at his slick fingers, purring like a maine coone drinking milk from its prized bowl.

"Try me," you found yourself able to force out; those stupid fucking drugs made your throat all fuzzy, but even rage itself can overpower anything. "I poisoned your drugs...nothing else you can do to me that's worse than being smacked around by the grunts outside."

Barbi and anger were often allied; he looked down at you with a glare, his teeth biting into his bottom lip. It took him a moment before he clenched his hand into a fist, a smirk slow to invade his lips. "Oh...you'll regret saying that, sweetness. I bet on that shit. But for now..."

He positioned himself between your legs, your calves sitting on his shoulders; his head turned to peck one of them as he lined his cock against your weeping folds, slowly thrusting his hips to get his organ wet and ready.

"Fuuuuck, you're a goddess...it's like we were made for each other," He muttered, his body quivering with glee, "You're mine, and I'm yours, it's meant to fuckin' be..." He gripped your knees, his gloves slightly warm against your skin as he thrust forward...

...completely missing your entrance.

You raised a brow, the drug slowly leaving your system, "Mmm...do all Barbi's miss?"

He looked flustered, maybe even embarrassed, but he barked a "Shaddup!" before he tried again.

And missed.

"Is this how you were made? Papa Barbi forgot to pull out? Are you all that fucking clumsy?"

The look on his face screamed "I'm gonna fuck you up", and the rage that followed your question seem to assist in his attempts to penetrate you; with a roar he thrust forward, finally sliding into your entrance until your skin smacked against each other, his cock hilted within your silken walls. Third time's the charm, they say.

It wasn't painful, you were much too slick for this to be painful, but a choked scream exited through your lips, "Fuck-"

He was surprisingly big. He didn't look like the type to be packing...but then again, why did you bet on his dick to be regular sized? Why were you thinking about his dick at all?

Oh, god. What has become of you?

"That's the fuckin' ticket!" He began to piston his hips, loud moans beginning to trail from him like a whore; god, he really was a whore, wasn't he? He sure sounded like one. You gripped onto the sheets below, his head thrown back in ecstacy as he refused to slow. The pace remained consistent, time feeling like it was just flying by. A social construct, your ass. Your body experienced pleasure like never before - why does he know what he's doing? Didn't his file say he's impotent? - but your mind began to wander. "Fuuuck, be my mommy...fuckfuckfuck, pleaseee..."

He has the hips of a rabbit. He calls you rabbit all the time. What does that make him? A mutt; you've already established this. Mutts usually eat rabbits.

Maybe he'll eat you, later. Maybe he'll tire of your little game of cat and mouse.

"Fuckfuckfuck-" He growled through his breathy moans, his balls slamming against your backside with each aggressively fast thrust, "That sight of you covered in blood, FUCK, that's all I can fuckin' think about, I love ya, fuck-"

Barbi leaned down, his lips smashing onto yours; teeth gnashed against teeth, the kiss being more violent than loving as he moaned into your mouth, his hips continuing their assault. Was he even capable of love? He loved bloodshed, and drugs, and Lupara. You were next on that list.

His teeth bit into your bottom lip, pulling it with him as he pulled away, his eyes clenching shut as he let his head fall, "Gonna fucking cum, you sexy bitch," He breathed, "Gonna paint that womb white, gonna...fuck," He cared not for your own pleasure - your clit would smack him right about now, poor thing - as his pace, almost scarily grew faster.

He was a true whore as he screamed in pleasure, his hips stuttering before hilting inside once more, his balls pulsing as they emptied his essence deep within you.

His pants were heavy as he let your calves fall from his shoulders. "Fucking hell, sweetness..."

"Back at ya," you forced out once more, your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your head lolled to the side. Despite him being a selfish son of a bitch, it was still pleasurable for you. He just snickered at your comment.

"Oh, sweetness?"

"Yeah?" You turned to look, only to see a barrel.

Lupara.

"I told ya you'd regret sayin' things you surely don't mean."

And before you knew it, you heard it fire. Thankfully, you felt nothing. The world faded to black, and the last thing you felt was a kiss onto your cheek. Sloppy, and full of your milk.

Maybe pumping that antidote in you was a blessing more than it was a milk-fueled curse.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ ───

"She was found in the cabin," muttered a doctor to Nurse Barlow, his face full of disgust, "With Bambino's semen. He's been in his...chambers, since the shooting."

Barlow sighed, pinching the flesh between her brows, "I see."

"Put her on an indefinite dose of Levora immediately, Aviane if you see fit. God only knows this'll be a common occurence." He huffed, shaking his head, "Hendrick's an idiot for supporting that little shit's infatuation."

"...Understood," the blonde nurse muttered, clearly distressed; she knew Easterman sending you into that trial was a big mistake. He knows of Barbi's little...crush...on you, which had made his decision much more alarming.

She had scoffed when Easterman used the pathetically tame term. It was moreso an objectification. "An obsession," she had corrected within seconds after his declaration.

Barlow looked down at you with pity, your face peaceful. The doctor walked out, shaking in displeasure. With a sigh she turned around, grabbing a small cup of water, and two packets of pills.

Popping them from the package, she whistled lowly to herself, waiting on your awakened state to take the small batch of medication.

God help you, she thought.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ ───

Welp. You never thought Hell had floors to it. Aviane - or was it Levora? - was known for causing breast pain. Adding onto your lactation problem, you felt like shit.

You laid in bed, your breasts throbbing like mad as your hair wet the pillow below you. You were fresh out of a shower, feeling dirty after your little encounter.

Maybe, this time, you could take a break-

"Reagent [Name], please make your way to the shuttle."

Oh, great. With the roll of your eyes, you got up and made your way downstairs, the other Reagents participating in chess, arm wresltling, or simply standing, waiting for their demise.

Sinyala's effect on people was strange; Reagents either became obedient Murkoff-owned lap dogs, eager for every trial - sorry...therapy - or partythrowers who didn't let Big Bad Murkoff ruin their hedonistic lifestyles. Hell, one of them even made toilet wine and served it around the night you and Barbi were welcomed [how was that even possible?].

One nodded at you as you walked past, and looking up at the shuttle, it simply read;

Downtown.

...Here we go again.

[celestialprincesse]

𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧 𝐆𝐨 - 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

I'm so so sorry this took so long to get out! It's here now!

as usual, slight nsfw 💕 mdni please

Your dinner date comes in the form of a candlelit booth in the darkest corner of one of the nicest restaurants in town. Even in all your giddy, feet swinging, cheek hurting beaming, you can't miss the way Nikto's hands shake as he withdraws a pair of thick framed glasses from the inner pocket of his jacket before turning away from you to remove the black material of his mask.

"I'm not going to judge you." The sound of your soft admission has his shoulders bunching with a deep breath to slow the thundering of his heart. "I do not wish to frighten you." He murmurs lowly, sliding his glasses over his nose before turning back in his seat to face you.

There's a split second where you just stare, clenching your teeth until they creak in protest as you attempt not to gape over at him. You want to reach out and touch him - to run your fingers over the dipping craters and lines of raised, pale skin, to trace over the constellations of suffering etched into the face of the man sitting so self consciously before you. You don't, but god you want to. Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable. You've never felt so safe.

Instead of saying anything, you simply reach for his hand across the clean white tablecloth, an encouraging squeeze given before you return to peering at the menu you've set out before you. "I've never had lobster bisque before." You hum, absently chewing at the pink paint of your nails, realising how very out of your depths you are when most of the items on the menu don't spark any sort of recognition in the depths of your mind. What the fuck is a fregotto?

"Do you like shellfish?" Nikto clearly sees your suffering, your wide eyed gaze as you stare down at the menu, and manages to pull himself from his thoughts in order to rescue you from your own. "I guess." You shrug, chewing on your glossy bottom lip nervously.

You've always subconsciously known that the man next door has money - not that he's the ostentatious type - but the neighbourhood is expensive, and the car in his garage, from what you can tell at least, is new and shiny. The watch around his wrist, though functional at first glance, is clearly expensive too. The only reason you live next door is because you'd inherited your little house from some aunt you'd barely remembered. You're not exactly struggling, but you don't fit in all too well either.

"The wagyu here is excellent." He continues, noticing the way you bounce your leg and fiddle with your pretty little hoop earrings, eyes darting across the off-white card of the menu pages. Your attempt at nonchalance is obvious as you rest your cheek in the crook of your palm, looking over at your date. "I can order for you, if you would like." Nikto shoots you a look he hopes comes off as considerate, practically praying that his actions are helpful, as opposed to controlling. He's never been too god with women. "Yes. Please." You sigh, the weight on your shoulders suddenly disappearing as your eyes flit to the drinks menu, relief evident when you gaze down to the 'house' cocktail menu, immediately settling on the fruitiest thing there.

After the waitress has come and taken the order of the odd pair in the corner, you and Nikto sit in a strangely comforting - albeit awkward - silence. "You look beautiful tonight." His voice is the first to carry through the quiet, drawing you back to him as your eyes glaze over, coming out in a way he's seen you do countless times before. "Thank you." The candlelight does little to hide the way you blush under his obvious, piercing admiration of you.

In your panicked browsing of the menu, you'd not even noticed the lack of pricing. The last time you'd been somewhere as fancy as this had been to celebrate your graduation, where you and your family had shared appetisers and some artistically crafted dessert, before promptly heading to the nearest gas station to stock up on chips and sodas which you'd sat eating in front of the TV. What Nikto knows, and you don't, is that places like this tend to provide the priced menus to the men, and he'd ordered you just about the most expensive thing on there. To him, you're nothing short of a princess, and it's only right that he should treat you as such.

He knows he's made the right decision when you take the first bite of your meal, which leaves your lashes fluttering and your eyes rolling back with a hum of appreciation. He hopes that one day maybe he'll see the same sight under him as he fucks you. "You like it?" He inquires, not even bothering to hide his obvious admiration for you and your animated reactions. "I don't even know what it is. But it's delicious." You breathe, taking another bite, savouring the way every flavour melts on your palate.

Dessert comes and goes, and you feel so blissfully full and happy by the time the waitress comes with a small leather folio, containing the bill. "Oh!" You chirp, rooting around in your inconveniently tiny purse to try and find your card. "Sorry, two seconds." Again, you're blushing with obvious embarrassment as you empty tubes of lipgloss and bubble gum packets out onto the table, your card nowhere to be found. "We are not splitting the bill." Nikto states firmly, removing a card from his wallet, before handing the folio back to the waitress, who promptly disappears to scan his card. "But-" "No. I invited you for dinner. I do not expect you to pay."

Nikto even walks you home, stands there on your porch as you fumble with your purse again, trying to find your keys. "Would you - uh - would you like to come in?" The hope in your eyes makes his gut wrench, but he holds firm. "Maybe another time."

You feel like a fool, some kind of a slut inviting him upstairs after the first date. He probably thinks you're some overzealous little girl as you stand there gawking. The kiss he gives you, tilting your chin up to capture your lips with his, soon fixes this perception. You melt into him just as he pulls away, using his thumb to wipe away some errant gloss on your chin. "When I fuck you, princess, I will do it properly. Yes?" You nod, utterly gormless at his words, at his reciprocation of your feelings made clear. "Goodnight, princess. Sleep well."

You don't sleep well that night. Not in the slightest. You toss and turn under the white silk of your sheets, pyjamas tossed to the floor as you desperately fuck your fingers to the thought of him. He does the same.

Finally here !!! I'm sorry for the wait!!!! I hope you enjoyed !!! Mwah!!!!!!!! Also, tell me you like my new badge🤭

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Lazarus Rising | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader ( :0 ?? )

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, allusion to a sexual assault, allusion to torture, mentions of kidnapping/missing persons

Word Count: 3831

A/N: Things are gettin' crazy. As a special treat, a chapter from (mostly) Dean's perspective!!!

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Dean’s first thought had been of you. When he woke up in that shoddily-fashioned coffin, he’d thought of you. Before he met you, he would’ve grimaced at how “pussy-whipped” he was. And now, the thought didn’t even cross his mind. 

His mind had become overrun in his walk to the gas station down the road from where he’d crawled out of the earth with thoughts of you, Sam, Bobby, and everything he’d endured in Hell. Dean was surprised to find the station abandoned— along with everything else in the town— but that was just another thing to add to the long list of “weird” things going on. 

Trying to clear his head, he splashed some cold water on his face. When he shook his hands dry, he remembered the wounds he’d sustained from the Hellhounds’ attack. He quickly brought his shirt up to inspect his stomach but was surprised to see no gashes.

And then, he noticed what appeared to be a burn mark poking out from under his sleeve. Dean pulled it up to reveal a bright red handprint. As if the situation couldn’t get any stranger, loud static filled the room and the windows shattered inward. 

Startled and scratched by the shards of glass, Dean got up from his curled-up position on the ground. 

****

Bobby was shocked by Dean’s return, to say the least. “But... how did you bust out?”

Dean shook his head. “I don't know. I just, uh, I just woke up in a pine box—” 

Suddenly, Bobby splashed water in Dean’s face. The man’s eyes closed to avoid the splash, and he spit out the water that invaded his mouth. “I'm not a demon either, you know.”

Bobby shrugged apologetically. “Sorry. Can't be too careful.” He handed a towel to the younger man and headed further into his home. “But... that don't make a lick of sense.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, you're preachin' to the choir.”

Bobby turned back to Dean. “Your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop. And you've been buried four months. Even if you could slip out of hell and back into your meat suit—” 

“I know, I should look like a Thriller video reject,” Dean nodded. “What do you remember?” 

Of course, Dean lied. “Not much. I remember I was a Hellhound's chew toy, and then... lights out. Then, I come to six feet under, and that was it. Sam's number's not working. He's, uh... he's not—” 

Bobby understood what Dean was getting at. “Oh, he's alive. As far as I know.”

“Good— wait, what do you mean, as far as you know?” The pitch in Dean’s voice rose in concern. 

“I haven't talked to him for months,” Bobby explained. 

Dean scoffed. “You're kidding, you just let him go off by himself?” He began to approach Bobby angrily. 

“He was dead set on it,” the older man argued. 

“Bobby, you should've been looking after him!”

“I tried!” Bobby responded. “For both of ‘em! These last months haven't been exactly easy, y’know. We had to bury you.” 

Dean looked at the floor. “Why did you bury me, anyway?” 

“I wanted you salted and burned. Usual drill. But (Y/N) and Sam wouldn’t stand for it,” Bobby answered. 

“Oh, god, (Y/N),” Dean breathed out. “Is she—?”

Bobby shook his head. “Haven’t heard from her, either.”

“Jesus.” Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Both of ‘em just… up and left?”

The older man nodded solemnly. “Last I heard from either of ‘em, Sam said you'd need a body when he got you back home somehow. That's about all he said.” He sighed. “He was quiet. Real quiet. And then, he just took off. Wouldn't return my calls. I tried to find him, but he didn't want to be found.”

“And (Y/N)?” Dean asked, anxiety clawing at his throat. 

“You weren’t in the ground ten minutes before she was gone; long before Sam. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t tell us where she was going. She’s gone dark, too.”

“Oh, dammit,” Dean sighed, shaking his head. 

“What?” Bobby questioned, on the edge of his seat. 

“Oh, one of ‘em got me home, alright. But whatever they did, it’s bad mojo.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Dean explained what happened to Bobby and showed him the handprint on his arm. “It was like a demon just yanked me out. Or rode me out.” 

It was the first time Dean had seen Bobby truly rattled. “But why?”

The older Winchester brother searched for the words, shrugging, “To hold up their end of the bargain.”

“You think one of ‘em made a deal,” Bobby said as more of a statement than a question. 

“It’s what I would’ve done.”

****

Dean managed to track Sam down to a motel in Pontiac. The two brothers went through the same tearful reunion Dean had with Bobby, and the woman Sam was accompanied by stood awkwardly in the corner. She soon left, seeming dejected, leaving the Winchesters alone with Bobby.

 Dean glared at his younger brother, arms crossed. “So, tell me, what'd it cost?”

Sam grinned. “The girl? I don't pay, Dean.”

Dean remained stern. “That's not funny, Sam. To bring me back. What'd it cost? Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?”

“You think I made a deal?” Sam scoffed.

Bobby chimed in harshly, “That's exactly what we think.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

Dean’s gaze hardened further. “Don't lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

The older brother advanced on Sam. “So, what now, I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy? I didn't want to be saved like this.”

Sam stood to face his brother. “Look, Dean, I wish I had done it, alright?”

“There’s no other way this could’ve gone down,” Dean roared, grabbing Sam’s shirt. “Now tell the truth!”

Sam broke out of Dean’s grip. “I tried everything! That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, alright? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, alright? Dean, I'm sorry.”

Noticing Sam was growing quite emotional, Dean finally let off. “It's okay, Sammy. You don't have to apologize, I believe you.”

“Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that Sam's soul remains intact,” Bobby said, “but it does raise a sticky question.”

“If he didn't pull me out, then what did?” A horrible realization crossed Dean’s mind. “It must’ve been (Y/N). Dammit! Where is she?!” He turned and ran a hand through his hair.

Dean looked to Bobby frantically, and Bobby shook his head. “Sorry, kid. I wish I knew where to tell ya to start lookin’. Nobody’s seen her.”

“So… So she could be dead for all we know,” Dean worried. 

Sam nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

****

But you weren’t dead, you were very much alive; physically, anyway. Dean figured that out a few days later when he was watching the news. 

“Authorities are searching for this woman—” a grainy image of you looking over your shoulder wearing a wig, a hood, and jeans appeared on screen, and he supposed it’d been caught on CCTV— “whose identity is unknown, but she has been potentially connected to at least seven missing persons cases over the past four months; all of well-respected, family-oriented men across multiple state lines. She is considered to be armed and dangerous, and if you have any information, please call—”

Dean’s mind ran a mile a minute. His anxiety raced at the idea that you may be possessed or possibly even turned while he was in Hell.

“Sammy!” Dean called from Bobby’s couch.

Sam appeared moments later and looked at the television in front of his brother. “Holy crap,” he breathed out. 

“Yeah, man, this is bad,” Dean stood and ran a hand through his hair while he paced. “Whatever’s wearin’ her face is gettin’ her in a ton of trouble. We gotta—”

“Wait, Dean, slow down,” Sam said. “She has the tattoo. There’s nothing gettin’ in her.”

“Yeah, well, maybe something scratched it off,” Dean continued. “Maybe a shapeshifter got a hold of her—”

“Or maybe that’s just (Y/N),” Bobby stated, causing the two boys to turn to him. 

“What?” they asked in unison. 

“A demon wouldn’t be concerned about hiding (Y/N)’s identity, and a shifter wouldn’t keep one meat suit for that long,” Bobby continued. 

“And her eyes didn’t flash,” Sam murmured. 

A heavy silence fell over the room before Bobby gathered the courage to speak again. “Boys, I think that’s just her.”

****

In between flashes of the terror he went through in Hell and trying to help Bobby and Sam discover what had pulled him out, Dean was trying not to go insane in search of you. But he was furious with himself. He couldn’t find you anywhere. It was almost like you were actively avoiding him. 

All three men couldn’t believe what you were accused of, or that you were even capable of doing so. None of them knew you to be that way. Then again, they hadn’t truly known you in months; a lot had changed. 

Bobby stared at the news for hours looking for any new sightings of you. He put his contacts on your trail, and Sam spent his free time scrolling through Facebook pages dedicated to finding the woman responsible for potentially taking the lives of the seven men. And Dean? Dean was such a mess of anxiety and wrath that he couldn’t focus on helping to find you properly for too long.

Bobby said there was a psychic Dean should see about his resurrection. Although hesitant to do anything aside from look for you, he agreed when Bobby suggested she could help find you, too.

Sam could tell Dean was incredibly thankful to be back with his car, his brother, and their surrogate father, but there was something missing: you. Even he was puzzled as to where you could be. 

“There's still one thing that's bothering me,” Dean broke the silence as he cruised behind Bobby down a darkened road. 

“Aside from (Y/N)?” Sam tried to jest. 

Dean just glared in response. “The night that I bit it— or, got bit— how’d you two make it out? I thought Lilith was gonna kill you.” Sam nodded. “Well, she tried. She couldn't.”

That caught Dean off-guard. “What do you mean, she couldn't?”

“She fired this, like, burning light at us,” Sam explained, “I put (Y/N) behind me, and Lilith just couldn’t leave a scratch. Like we were immune or something.”

“Immune?” Dean repeated. 

“Yeah. I don't know who was more surprised, her or me,” the brunet snorted. “She left pretty fast after that.”

“Huh.” Dean considered his next words carefully. “What about Ruby, where is she?”

Of course, Sam lied. “Dead, for now.” He lied again when his older brother asked about his use of his psychic powers. Sam sat brooding for a few more minutes before he dared to break the silence again. “What are we gonna do about (Y/N), man.”

Dean sighed. 

Sam didn’t give him a chance to answer before he continued. “I mean, she definitely doesn’t wanna be found. By anybody.” “Yeah, I know that, man,” Dean replied. 

“Shouldn’t she have been in Pontiac?” Sam suggested. “I mean, even if she wasn’t hunting Lilith, any other demon would’ve led her to it.”

Dean huffed. “I don’t know, Sammy. But maybe not if she’s off ganking random dudes.”

“All I’m sayin’ is,” Sam began, slowing his mind down, “it’s weird.”

“What isn’t weird right now, Sam?” Dean snorted. “I don’t think she’s purposefully hiding from us.”

“No, no,” Sam shook his head. “That’s not what I’m saying. Maybe, she just… quit hunting. Maybe she’s off doin’ hits for someone, or something.”

“What, like a bounty hunter?” Dean scoffed.

Sam nodded hesitantly. 

The older brother refused to believe that. “No. That’s not her.”

“How do you even know you know her, Dean?” Sam argued. “She’s clearly not who any of us thought she was.”

“Well, whatever she’s doing, she must’ve had a good reason for it!” Dean roared, clearly not enjoying what Sam was insinuating. 

Sam shook his head. “Dean, I talked to the victims’ families. None of them were monsters. None of them were possessed. She took out regular people.”

“How do you know for sure? You seen the bodies? ‘Cause nobody else has, either,” the older brother grunted. “She’s not like that, Sam.” Sam shrank in his seat, irritated. 

“Now, drop it,” Dean grumbled. 

****

Before you, Dean would’ve gone right for Pamela. She was attractive, alluring, and had a good sense of humor with a hint of eccentrism. Now, that didn’t even cross his mind. All he wanted her for was finding out what happened to you. 

“So, you hear anything?” Bobby asked. 

“Well, I Ouija'd my way through a dozen spirits. No one seems to know who broke your boy out, or why,” the psychic responded. “I think we’ll do a séance next. See if we can see who did the deed.”

“Any word on (Y/N)?” Dean asked. 

Pamela seemed hesitant to respond. 

“Tell me,” Dean pleaded. 

The psychic sighed. “She knows you’re alive. Someone saw her rummaging around that town you popped up in.”

Dean was completely floored. All he could do was breathe out, “What?”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Pamela said softly.

“Anything else?” Sam prompted. 

The psychic nodded, turning her focus to him. “She’s workin’ with something. Nobody really knows what. Or, at least, they won’t say.”

“Why not?” Bobby questioned. 

“It’s like they’re scared of it,” Pamela responded. “And her.”

Dean found his words again. “Has she— Has she killed anybody?” 

“One person,” the woman answered. “But it seems she did the world a bit of a favor.”

“What makes you say that?” he continued to press. He was both relieved and confused by the fact that you hadn’t killed most of the people you were suspected of killing. 

“The guy had a bit of a track record,” Pamela replied, seeming uncomfortable. “With women, specifically.”

Dean understood at that moment. “The guard,” he said.

Sam turned to his brother. 

“From Deacon’s case. The guy that—” Dean couldn’t push the words out. 

Sam and Bobby both nodded in grave understanding. 

“What about the other seven, though?” Bobby questioned. “What’d she do with them?” 

“Again, the spirits were too scared to say,” she said, shaking her head. 

Dean’s stomach had remained upset throughout this conversation, but he knew he had to figure out what had pulled him out of Hell, too. “So, séance?” he gulped, trying to steel his courage. 

Bobby was clearly still shaken from the last bit of the conversation. “You're not gonna... summon the damn thing here.”

Pamela shook her head. “No. I just want to get a sneak peek at it. Like a crystal ball without the crystal.”

Dean tried his best to smirk. “I’m game.”

****

The day was by no means going as anyone had planned. Pamela had summoned the creature, and her eyes consequently were burned out of their sockets. 

Sam and Dean stopped for some lunch while Bobby went with Pamela to the hospital. She was stable and out of the intensive care unit, thankfully, but the boys felt bad for the poor woman. While Dean thought of possible places you could be or what you could be doing, Sam was busy trying to remember where he’d heard the name “Castiel” before: that was the name of the creature Pamela had given to them. 

“You look like you’re suckin’ on a lemon,” Dean commented, shaking his brother out of his thoughts. “What’s up?”

“I’ve heard of ‘Castiel’ before,” Sam explained. “I’m just tryin’ to figure out where.”

“Well, maybe with the right mumbo-jumbo we could summon him; bring him right to us,” Dean suggested. 

Sam scoffed. “Absolutely not. Pam took a peek at him and her eyes burned out of her skull, and you want to have a face to face?”

“You got a better idea?” Dean argued. 

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. I followed some demons to town, right?” Sam responded. “So, we go find them. Someone's gotta know something about something.”

The waitress reappeared with the two plates of pie Dean ordered and pulled up a chair to the end of the table. 

Dean looked at her, confused. “You angling for a tip?”

The waitress smirked. “I'm sorry. Thought you were looking for us.” She blinked to reveal her inky black eyes. Several other demons revealed themselves and locked the brothers in the diner with them. 

The waitress blinked again. “Dean. To Hell and back. Aren't you a lucky duck?”

Dean smirked, tight-lipped. “That’s me.”

“So you get to just stroll out of the Pit, huh? Tell me, what makes you so special?”

Ever the cocky bastard, Dean hummed, “ I like to think it's because of my perky nipples. I don't know. Wasn't my doing; I don't know who pulled me out.”

The demon scoffed. “Right. You don’t. Lying's a sin, you know.”

“I'm not lying. But I'd like to find out, so if you wouldn't mind enlightening me, Flo—” Dean trailed off, having read the name off her tag. 

She snarled, “Mind your tone with me, boy. I'll drag you back to Hell myself.”

Sam tried to rush her, but Dean held a hand up for him to stop. “No, you won’t,” Dean asserted. 

The waitress laughed. “No?”

“No. Because if you were, you would’ve done it already.” His eyes bore daggers into the demon. “Fact is, you don't know who cut me loose, and you're just as spooked as we are. And you're looking for answers. Well, maybe it was some turbo-charged spirit, or, uh, Godzilla, or some big bad boss demon. I'm guessing at your pay grade that they don't tell you squat. Because whoever it was, they want me out, and they're a lot stronger than you. So go ahead. Send me back. But don't come crawling to me when they show up on your front doorstep with some Vaseline and a fire hose.”

“I'm going to reach down your throat and rip out your lungs.”

Dean leaned forward, almost daring her to do so. With a wicked smirk, he tossed a mean right hook at her face. She took it— albeit, angrily— but did not retaliate. He threw a second one. WIth his voice barely above a whisper, he growled, “That's what I thought. Let's go, Sam.”

Dean dropped a ten dollar bill on the table, almost like an insult. “For the pie.”

****

Once again, the creature caused a ringing in Dean’s ears and glass to come crashing down around him. If anything, it was becoming more of an annoyance than feeling like an actual threat. Sam, however, was nowhere to be found. Although irritated with his brother for taking his car, Dean went with Bobby to summon Castiel. 

Dean wiped the blood from his face given to him by the creature. 

“How you doin', kid?” Bobby asked. 

“Well, my girlfriend’s at large, and there’s church bells ringin’ in my head. So, peachy,” Dean deadpanned. 

After a brief conversation with Sam where he told him a story that Dean wasn’t quite sure he believed, he helped Bobby set up the warehouse they’d gone to to summon Castiel. 

Every wall was covered in protection sigils and traps while Dean laid out every weapon imaginable on folding tables. 

“This is still a bad idea,” Bobby sighed. 

“Yeah, Bobby, I heard you the first ten times. What do you say we ring the dinner bell?” Dean smirked while the older man nodded reluctantly. Bobby followed the instructions for the ritual, and all they could do after that was wait. 

Suddenly, a loud rattling shook the tin roof. Dean grabbed a knife and a shotgun while Bobby grabbed a crow bar. 

“Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind,” Dean suggested. 

The door burst open at that moment to reveal a beautiful man in a business suit and trenchcoat. 

Dean’s eyes widened in surprise, but he did his best to maintain a brave face. “Who are you?” he demanded. 

Castiel’s eyes and smile were kind, contrary to what Dean assumed he would be. “I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah. Thanks for that.” He plunged the demon knife into Castiel’s chest that had absolutely zero effect on him. 

Castiel looked down, unfazed, and removed the knife. Bobby tried to charge him but was promptly put to sleep. The older man crumpled to the floor in a heap.

“We need to talk, Dean. Alone,” Castiel stated, his voice deep and rumbling. 

Dean checked Bobby’s pulse, glaring up at Castiel. 

“Your friend is alive,” the creature insisted. 

“Who are you?”

“Castiel.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I figured that much. I mean, what are you?”

“I’m an angel of the lord,” the man replied.

Dean’s heart dropped. “Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing.”

“This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith,” Castiel responded. He caused lightning to flash and allowed his massive wings to unfurl.

Dean finally started to believe, but that only made him angrier. “Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman's eyes.”

“I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be... overwhelming to humans, and so can my real voice. But you already knew that,” Castiel explained. 

“You mean the gas station and the motel,” Dean realized. “Buddy, next time, lower the volume.”

“That was my mistake. Certain people— special people— can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong,” the angel admitted. 

“And what visage are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?”

Castiel looked down at himself. “This? This is... a vessel.”

Dean’s brows furrowed. “You're possessing some poor bastard?”

“He's a devout man; he actually prayed for this.”

“Uh-huh. Y'know, it might've been easier to show up like this the first time instead of all the burning bush crap,” Dean scoffed. 

“Finding a human vessel durable enough to contain me; it's not easy,” the angel said. 

Dean smirked. “I have that same problem with women.”

Castiel’s expression remained unchanging. “Apparently, not anymore.” The hunter’s eyebrows furrowed again. “What do you mean?”

“I know about (Y/N), Dean,” Castiel explained.

“How?”

“I know everything about you,” he responded. “And I know everything about her.”

“What makes us so special?” Dean challenged. “Why would an angel rescue me from Hell? Why would you be so concerned with (Y/N)? Do you know where she is?”

“Good things do happen, Dean,” the angel insisted. 

Dean’s gaze remained hard despite his quieting voice. “Not in my experience.”

Castiel tilted his head. “What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved?”

“Why'd you do it?” Dean questioned. 

“Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”

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