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holdinggrudges · 1 day ago

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what's my flavor?

pairing: sam winchester x reader

content: EXPLICIT 18+, oral (fem!receiving), vampire!sam, blood drinking, bloodplay (surprisingly little though tbh), fem!reader (afab anatomy + the word girl used in reference like three times or so), feeding being explicitly referred to as similar to drugs/getting high, mentions of serious illness (made up for plot reasons but still)

word count: 10.5K

summary: Working your way through college, you find a secretary job with great pay and more than enough downtime on the clock to get your coursework done. The only downside is that it leaves you with no choice but to attend night classes. But it's not so bad, especially with Mysterious Hot Guy attending them as well. Oh, and there's been blood bags going missing, but you're pretty sure that's not going to be relevant to your life any time soon.

notes: this was supposed to be pwp. it was also supposed to be posted on halloween. clearly, neither of those things happened. but fuck it, we ball.

crossposted on ao3

You don’t understand how anyone could get through college without a job. You hear about people surviving off scholarships all the time, and you try your first year, you really do. But, God, something has to change. You can’t imagine working your way through school could be any more stressful than the budgeting, and the skipping meals, and the cards declining at the grocery store.

So you get a job. A good one, too; a secretary job at an office ten minutes away from your apartment, and only twenty minutes away from campus. The job is easy, with plenty of downtime for you to work on your coursework, and the pay is good. Better than good, even. The only problem is the hours; 9-5 is great, generally, but not very convenient when setting up a college schedule. You’re relegated almost exclusively to night classes. Which is fine. Not ideal, but fine.

You take four classes, two a night, and it leaves your Fridays wide open after work. It would truly be a perfect schedule if it didn’t mean you were on campus until 11 o’clock most nights. But the classes are relatively empty and none of your professors are total hardasses, so it’s not so bad. Actually, you start to really enjoy it.

You make a little game out of studying the other students, trying to figure them out. The woman who sits in front of you in your statistics class is a stay-at-home mom, you think. The older man a few rows down in english is retired military. It’s interesting, and it gives you a reason to actually make it to class everyday. Well, that and Mysterious Hot Guy.

Mysterious Hot Guy (or MHG, for short) is in two of your classes: your 6 o’clock political science class on Mondays and Wednesdays sitting a row down from you, and sitting beside you in your 8:30 biology class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He first caught your eye because, frankly, he looks more like he should be on a movie set than night classes at a dinky community college. He’s drop dead gorgeous, and that’s putting it lightly. Even so, that’s not what has you so intrigued. Something about him is off somehow, strange in such a way that it has you completely captivated. Alluring in a way you can’t quite put your finger on, even outside his appearance.

MHG hardly ever speaks. You’re pretty sure he’s only said one word to you the entire four weeks of the semester so far, and he sits literally a foot away from you every other day. He’s also, apparently, a genius. He never takes notes, never writes a single thing down, he never asks questions and never answers them either, for that matter. Still, you happened to catch a glimpse of his grade on the test your biology professor handed back last week, and he got a perfect score.

He also doesn’t have a car. Or, rather, he doesn’t have a car of his own. Every Tuesday and Thursday as you’re walking back to your own car at almost 11 PM, he’s climbing into the passenger seat of an absolutely gorgeous vintage Chevrolet Impala that makes you simultaneously green with envy and desperate for him to push you up against the side of it. Or push you down against the backseat. Or the front seat, which you find out is a bench seat after some minor googling. Car like that, you’re not exactly gonna be picky about where.

Still, even after all your observing, you don’t learn a single useful piece of information about MHG until six weeks into the semester—two weeks out from midterms—when your biology professor announces that you will be choosing your partners for the midterm project. You barely even let the words leave his mouth before you’re turning to your right, pouncing with what you hope is a normal amount of enthusiasm, although you’re so damn intrigued by this guy that all you can do is pray you don’t come across as a total stalker. “Hey. Would you wanna partner up?”

MHG turns to you, his eyes wide in a way that leaves you a lot less hopeful about how normal your greeting was. “Uh. Me?” he asks, and his voice is…warm in a way you weren’t expecting. He could do audiobooks, or a podcast, or something—he has a nice voice is what you’re getting at.

You laugh. You’re almost a little starstruck—it makes sense; you’ve definitely turned this guy into your own personal celebrity. “Who else?” you respond, holding out your hand for him to shake. “I’m ____.”

He eyes you for a moment before he clasps your hand and gives it a shake. Jesus, this guy must have anemia or something because his hand is fucking freezing. “Sam. Uh, Winchester. Sam Winchester.” His touch lingers for a moment before he tugs his hand back. “And…yeah. Yeah, we can…partner up.”

Sam Winchester. Finally, a name to put to the face. No more thinking of him as Mysterious Hot Guy for you; you and MHG are on a first name basis now. “Awesome,” you say softly, and you really, desperately hope your smile looks less manic than it feels. “So. Sam. Would you mind giving me your number or something so we can set up a time and place to meet up?”

He hesitates, but he does scribble a number down on the corner of his empty notebook page. “I, uh. I can’t do…daytime,” he tells you as he slides it over.

Okay. Weird way to phrase that, but you assume he’s like you, he works during the day or something. So you shrug and take the proffered paper. “Me neither. I have work.” You pinch it between your fingers with a grin. “We’ll make it work.”

He smiles at you, a shy sort of thing that makes your chest ache to draw out more. “Yeah. Okay.”

You plug the number in your phone almost as soon as you get home, but it takes you almost an hour to actually text him. You go through probably a hundred different drafts before you finally land on: ‘hey!! it’s ____. does friday work for you? my only day without classes lol’

Once you press send, you figure you’ll probably have at least five minutes to freak out and overthink. Sam doesn’t really seem the type to be glued to his phone. Which is why, you suppose, that you nearly have a heart attack when your phone buzzes with a response no more than 30 seconds later. ‘Friday works. 7 at the library?’

‘see you then :)’ You debate over the smiley face for a solid minute and a half before finally sending it and then violently throwing your phone across the couch and screaming into your throw pillow.

When you do finally work up the courage to pick your phone up again, he’s sent two texts back. ‘See you then.’ And then another one, a small bubble containing two characters: ‘:)’ Embarrassingly, you giggle alone in your living room. Oh, this guy is going to be the death of you.

You spend the rest of the night googling Sam Winchester and coming up with absolutely nothing. He seems to have absolutely no social media presence at all, not even an old MySpace or a private Facebook account. The only reference you can find to his name at all has it listed as one of two sons of some random serial killer from, like, the 1800s, which is obviously useless.

You give up your fruitless search with a sigh, closing your laptop and shoving it aside. Your tv is playing on some local news station—doesn’t matter which one, they’ve all been reporting the same story for weeks. You click it off, 100% disinterested in hearing about the blood bags going missing from local clinics for the millionth time this month.

You go to bed and dream of brown hair and eyes that you just can’t quite place the color of, but you can swear you see them flash red.

Friday finds you at the library almost a full hour early. You’d agonized over your outfit all day yesterday, and for another half an hour after work to boot. In the end, you’d decided to go casual. After all, it is just a study date—and actually, not a date at all! A study meet-up. A study hangout, at best. The fact that you did your make-up and your hair for it is entirely irrelevant.

It’s 6:45 when a cough draws your attention up from your phone. Sam is standing in front of you with another one of those shy smiles, and two coffee cups in his hands. Coffee cups from your favorite cafe. He shoves one in your direction. “Uh. I’ve noticed that you have drinks from here pretty often. And- I hope you don’t mind, but I…I read one of the cups? So. This is for you.”

Your eyes flick over him, your heartbeat practically pounding out of your chest. So he’s been watching you too. Or—Jesus, not watching, that makes it sound creepy. Observing is a better word for it. He noticed a pattern in your coffee cups. He read one to find out what it was you were drinking. “Thanks,” you tell him, taking the cup from his hand. Turning it to read the writing, you find he’d gotten it right. Maybe you should find it creepy, actually. As it is, you’re sort of having a hard time not swooning. You beam at him. “I’ll…have to return the favor.”

For some reason, that makes Sam laugh as he sits down across from you. “Sure.” He opens his backpack and takes out his laptop. “So, this project.”

Sam, as it turns out, is a genius. Or at least exceptionally smart. A project that would’ve taken you hours on your own is done in record time with him, which leaves the two of you there at 7:30 with a fully completed midterm project and half-empty coffee cups. You don’t want to leave, and it seems Sam doesn’t either, as he closes his laptop and asks, “Why are you taking night classes?” like he’s really, genuinely curious.

So you tell him. You tell him about trying to get through college on your own, deciding you needed a full time job, how it’s probably the best job you’ve ever had. You ask him the same question, and he tells you about his brother, who is, apparently, the one who drives that fucking awesome car. He drops Sam off at classes, and pretty much anywhere else he needs to go.

The two of you chat for an hour and a half before Sam gets a text that says his brother is literally going to leave him there if he doesn’t shag ass and get in the car pronto. So Sam walks you out of the library.

“You know,” you blurt out before you can lose your nerve, “I feel like our classes would be a lot easier if we put our heads together like this. You know, regularly. Like, every Friday, maybe.”

He ducks his head, smiling that same shy smile he’d had when he gave you the coffee. “Sure. Every Friday. Sounds…helpful.”

You don’t realize until you get home that he never actually told you why he takes night classes. It turns out to be a pattern for him, as the two of you meet up week after week. You simultaneously feel like you know everything and nothing about him, and every week you like him more and more for it. Well, for that and the coffee that he gets you every time.

It takes a week before he moves seats in your political science class. The Monday after the second Friday you meet up with him, you almost sit in the wrong seat because you’re so used to him sitting two rows ahead of you. Of course, when you realize what’s happened, Sam’s staring at you with an amused grin on his face, like he’s trying really hard not to laugh at you. So, you decide, you are friends, at least. And as far as friends go, Sam’s a pretty good one.

You and Sam text, constantly. Despite seeming relatively unplugged, he responds to you instantly almost every time. You hate to get your hopes up, but by the time finals roll around, you’re starting to really like him. You’re starting to think he really likes you too.

He finishes his biology final on the last Thursday of classes long before you, but when you leave the classroom, you see him leaning against the wall, waiting. Again, you don’t want to get your hopes up, but when he lifts his head and sees you approaching him, you swear to God, you see his whole face light up. He looks a little pale, maybe. But it also might just be the fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“How do you think you did?” he asks, falling into step beside you.

And, you think, it’s now or never, now, isn’t it? Classes are over. You may never see Sam again (although, you like to think the two of you are close enough now that you would at least remain friends outside of having classes together, but still, the sentiment remains). So you change the subject and ask, “Would you wanna get dinner with me on Saturday?”

He pauses, freezes in place pretty much, and you stop to match him. “Dinner, like…dinner?” he asks, as if that question makes any sense.

You laugh, a little awkward, and adjust your backpack straps. “Uh, yeah. Like, dinner.” You don’t want to explicitly mention it being a date. You feel like he likes you, you really do, but if you’re wrong…that rejection is going to sting. So you don’t say it, not explicitly.

But still, Sam’s face lights up with a grin. “Yeah. I’d…really love to get dinner with you, actually. I’ll have to—I’ll text you. But…yes, yeah. I’d love to.”

You’re pretty sure the smile on your face matches his. “Okay. Then, I’ll see you on Saturday. And you’ll text me.”

“I’ll text you,” he agrees.

The two of you linger for a moment before parting, and you have never been more excited to say goodbye to someone in your entire fucking life.

When you get home, you have a text message. ‘I’ll pick you up. Does 7 work for you?’

You have to take a moment to squeal into your pillow before answering that yes, 7 does work for you, and you’re excited to see him then. And then, as an afterthought, your address.

God, you need to find something to wear.

Saturday comes around, and you’re fully ready by 6. Sam’s almost always shown up early, after all. Your TV plays news footage, stating that the clinics have taken to putting up extra security around their blood banks to no avail. You couldn’t care less, too giddy and girlishly excited to even think about the stolen blood bags.

6:45 rolls around. Sam isn’t there. That’s…fine. He’s not obligated to show up early. You set up a time to pick you up for a reason, right? There’s no reason for the sinking feeling in your gut.

7:00. No sign of Sam. But that’s no reason to worry. Maybe he got stuck in traffic. People are late sometimes, and you don’t need to panic just because Sam’s never been late before.

At 7:30, you shoot Sam a text. ‘are you okay? don’t tell me you forgot about me :( lol’ You don’t get a response.

You don’t change back into lounge clothes until 8, and you don’t take off your makeup until 8:30, and that’s only because you’re pretty sure you’re about to start crying and ruin it anyway.

The real kicker is that you thought Sam, at the very least, considered you a friend. Or at least friendly enough to let you down easy rather than agree to a date and then stand you up. Clearly, you severely misread the entire situation. You entirely misunderstood Sam in general, if he’s really the type of person to do this sort of thing.

Wiping hot tears off your face, you cork open your expensive bottle of wine. Desperate times, right?

Two hours and half a wine bottle later, you’ve swung from devastated to angry. How dare he stand you up? You’re a catch! You’re gorgeous, you’re funny, you’ve ignored all of his weird quirks and red flags, and for what? To cry into a glass or five of overpriced wine on a Saturday night? Screw that. You should call him and give him a piece of your mind.

Or…no, you’re pretty drunk, actually, so you probably shouldn’t call him. But you could text him. Yeah. You fumble for your phone, furiously typing out a text and hitting send without a second thought. ‘if u werent interested in me u cldve just said so. didnt have 2 ghost me’

Next thing you know, you’re opening your eyes the next morning with a killer headache, a damn near empty bottle of wine, and no response from Sam. While you’re curled over the toilet, the alcohol isn’t the only thing turning your stomach. There’s a worry brewing there too.

Because the more you think about it, the more that this really just doesn’t feel like Sam. Now that you’re further out from it, you can acknowledge that much. When you ask yourself if you truly believe that the guy who bought you your favorite drink every time you met up, the guy who remembered every single thing you ever told him, the guy whose face totally lit up when you asked him to dinner—when you ask yourself if that guy would stand you up, you truly, honestly don’t believe he would. So the real question is: why did he?

You fight through the worry until about halfway through your shift on Monday when you realize that with finals over, you have absolutely no idea when, or even if you’ll see Sam again. You call him. It rings all the way through until you get his voicemail, and you wish the sound of his voice could calm you, but it only reminds you that he’s not answering. You don’t leave a message, sending him a text instead. ‘seriously, are you okay? please at least let me know you’re not dead.’ You’re not surprised to find you haven’t gotten a response the next time you check your phone, walking to your car at the end of the day. Desperately, heart-clenchingly worried, but not surprised.

You open your laptop the second you get home, furiously searching anything you can think of. You search for his name again, hoping to find anything that could point you towards family or friends, to the brother he mentioned. You search local obituaries, John Does, anyone who might even bear the slightest resemblance to Sam, but there’s nothing. Nothing, until you accidentally click on one of the articles about the blood theft. There, in a blurry screenshot of footage from the new security cameras one of the blood banks had installed, you see it. You recognize his brother’s gorgeous fucking car.

Your eyes go wide. Holy shit, you’ve been flirting with a criminal. You scroll up through the article, reading furiously, but it doesn’t even mention the car, focusing instead on the blurry, shrouded figure entering the doors. Is this why Sam went missing? Laying low until he can be sure no one will connect the footage of the car to him or his brother? Why the fuck is he stealing blood bags in the first place? Needless to say, the discovery leaves you with more questions than it does answers.

The world, unfortunately, does not stop with this revelation. You go to bed. You get up, you go to work, you come home. You think about Sam. You have no idea what you’re supposed to do in this situation. Should you go to the police? It’s not like he’s killing people but…it’s still illegal to steal blood bags. Also morally wrong, probably. Plus, you now have information that could help forward an ongoing police investigation. You’re not entirely sure what counts as aiding and abetting, but you’re not exactly itching to find out where the line is.

On the other hand, Sam never seemed particularly…criminal-like to you. Strange, sure, but he was nice. Kind, even. You never in a million years would’ve pegged him as some sort of criminal mastermind. That’s got to count for something. Right? At the very least, you think it allows him the benefit of the doubt. So…late Tuesday night, you send him another text, the last one you’ll ever send him. Probably. ‘hey so keep ignoring me if im wrong but are you the one stealing blood from the clinics?’

He doesn’t text you back, and you pretend that means you’re wrong. That you can clear your conscience and go to sleep. That you can go to work and stop worrying about vintage cars in blurry security footage.

Then the sun goes down on Wednesday, and someone knocks on your door.

The man on the other side of it is unfamiliar to you. He’s wearing a leather jacket, an amulet hanging off his neck. There’s absolutely no reason you should recognize him as quickly as you do. Except that he has this quality about him, something unreal or maybe inhuman, and you’ve seen it before. You can’t quite tell what color his eyes are.

He smiles at you, and confirms it. “You’re ____, right? Sam’s told me all about you.” This is Sam’s brother, the one with the car. The car that you recognized in the blood bank footage. “I’m Dean. Can I come in?”

You keep your hand on the edge of the door, ready to slam it in his face if need be. “How’d you get my address?” you ask, instead of answering the question. This man could be dangerous. You trust Sam, mostly, but his brother…that’s a different story.

“Sammy had it. Remember? For your little date.” Dean says, taking a step towards the threshold. You take a step back. “Can I come in now?”

You ignore the fear raging down your spine, the urge to turn tail and run away. Sam carries himself differently than Dean, presents himself in such a way that instead of cowering away from him, you want to keep looking. His strangeness is intriguing, not off-putting. Dean, though, he takes those same qualities and twists them on their head. Dean looks at you, and your entire body screams Danger! Like he’s some sort of predator. “Why are you here?”

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” he snaps. He takes another step forward, but stays notably on the other side of the door. Just barely. “Sam needs help. Are you gonna invite me in, or not?”

He could be lying. He could be manipulating the affection you already have for his brother to get you to let him in so he can off you, maybe the only person who’s connected him to his crimes. But, if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have just forced his way in? And also, why the fuck would he go that far just to cover up some stolen blood bags? “What’s wrong with Sam?” you ask, stepping back from the door to allow him inside. When in Rome, right?

His lips press together, like he’s irritated, though you can’t imagine why. You’re letting him in, which is what he wanted. He stares at you for a moment before sighing, world weary, like he’s holding the weight of a hundred lifetimes of idiocy on his shoulders. Jesus, this guy’s dramatic. “You have to invite me,” he grits out.

Your confusion only grows, but you oblige anyway. “Okay…come in, then.”

Dean steps into the apartment almost as soon as you’ve said it, like you’ve only just now opened the door. You back up a few steps further.

“Just so you know,” you say, standing up taller and trying to act less terrified than you feel, “I have a gun. So don’t- don’t try anything ‘cause I’ll shoot you.” You’re completely bluffing, of course, but there’s no way Dean could know that.

“No, you don’t,” Dean says, like he definitely knows you were bluffing. Well, great. “Besides, I’m not here to hurt you. My brother needs help, you think I’m gonna kill the only person who can help him?”

He doesn’t look like he’s lying. Then again, you’re pretty sure this man is a criminal, so maybe he’s just a really good liar. “Yeah, you said that before. If he needs my help so bad, why didn’t he just tell me himself?” It’s not like you slammed the door in Sam’s face and told him to leave you alone. You’ve sent him four texts and a phone call since he dropped off the face of the earth last week. He’s had every opportunity to ask for your help.

“Cause he’s sick,” Dean tells you. He lifts his hands before he approaches you, like you’re some sort of wild animal that he doesn’t want to spook. Embarrassingly, it works. “Really sick.”

You shake your head, bemused. “I don’t understand—what does that have to do with me? If he’s sick, he needs a doctor. Not…a random college student.”

Dean nods. “Yeah, he would. But he’s got…it’s complicated.” He pauses in his approach and nods his head toward you. “Can I come closer, or are you gonna shoot me, tough girl?”

You roll your eyes, but gesture him closer. “Be my guest, so long as it means you’re gonna tell me something that actually makes sense.” You’re tired of the riddles, frankly. If he doesn’t give you real answers soon, you don’t care how terrifying he is, you’re gonna have to do something drastic.

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, I can see why Sam likes you,” he mutters, shaking his head. “See, me and Sam…we’re not exactly normal. If I took him to a doctor, not only would they not be able to fix him, they’d probably kill him.” He stops beside you, forcing you to look up at him as he speaks. He cuts an intimidating figure, even without the air of a predator about him. You really, really wish you actually owned a gun.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, voice quiet in the face of this hunter. “That you’re not normal?”

He grins, big and sharp and toothy. And then his illusion drops. Your eyes seem to fail you, like someone’s dropped the floor out from under you and then told you the floor was never real in the first place. His eyes catch your attention first, blood red and striking. And then, of course, you see his teeth—no, his fangs. Two long, sharp, killer fangs where his canines used to be. “Welcome to the night of the living dead, sweetheart.”

Vampires are real. There’s a monster in your fucking living room. This is crazy. You should be screaming. You should shove this man out the door and lock it behind him and maybe never leave your apartment again. Instead, you blurt out, “So that’s why you were stealing blood bags.” Honestly, a lot of things are starting to make way more sense now. You’re almost embarrassed you didn’t think of it before.

Dean laughs. “Right on the money.” You flinch as he claps you on the shoulder, and he laughs at you again.

“So…I’m guessing Sam doesn’t just have a regular old stomach bug, then?” You really feel like you should be having a more extreme reaction to this situation. You just found out that not only are vampires real, but you’ve been actively flirting with one. You think maybe you’re in shock. “This is some sort of weird…vampire virus, or something?”

“Smart girl,” he says, pointing at you approvingly. “Though it’s not exactly a virus, more like…food poisoning. Actually, we call it blood poisoning. Comes from drinking stale blood—bagged blood, for example—rather than fresh from the source.”

You frown. “Why drink bagged blood, then, if it makes you sick?”

“Why do people go vegan even though they need protein?” Dean counters. “Harm reduction. Plus, it doesn’t always make us sick. It’s pretty rare, actually. More common now than, you know, the olden times, but it happened back then too. Storing blood in vials, bottles, anything can make blood go stale, but it means you don’t have to hurt as many people getting it. Some things are worth the risk.”

That much, at least, you can understand. “So this…this stale blood, whatever—it makes you sick,” you repeat, that same worry for Sam from before roiling in your stomach again. “How sick?”

Dean grimaces, so whatever it is is clearly not good news. “It can kill us. Pretty easily, too. I have to tell you, I don’t know exactly how it works. Sam’s way better at this sort of thing.” He taps his fingers against your coffee table. “But I do know how to fix it.”

It’s pretty easy to guess. Dean’s here, despite the fact his brother is apparently dying, and there’s really only one thing you have that they don’t. “He needs blood,” you say quietly, beating Dean to the punch. “Fresh blood.”

He nods and shoots you a stilted smile. “Quick on the draw, huh?” The two of you stare at each other for a moment before he sighs, shaking his head. “Sam hates what he is. Doesn’t matter that he’ll die without it, he won’t hurt anyone. He just won’t.”

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly uncomfortable with Dean’s intense stare, like he can see straight into your soul. “So- so, what am I supposed to do about it?” you ask, your shoulders shrugging helplessly. “I’m still a person. I can’t force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.”

Dean takes a step toward you, and this time you don’t step back or shrink away. He’s dangerous, sure, but not to you. Not as long as you’re the only thing standing between his brother and certain death. “Look, Sam really likes you. If he knew I was here right now, and he wasn’t on his deathbed, he’d kill me. But I just—I’ve tried. It’s been a week, and I’ve tried so hard—” He ducks his head as he cuts off, his jaw working over clenched teeth. “I know that you care about him, right? I mean, I saw the texts; I know—I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. I can’t just sit around and watch my little brother die. I had to try. I have to try.”

Seeing him now, you almost can’t believe you were afraid of him. He looks almost terrified himself. And despite the uncertainty you feel, the fear, well…there’s a clear answer here. Yes, there’s a chance Sam refuses to feed from you, but there’s also a chance to save him. You can’t just stand back and let him die because you’re scared. “Okay.”

Dean’s eyes snap to yours again. They sparkle with hope, and even though the illusion is dropped, even though his eyes are red and his teeth are viciously sharp, for the first time since you first saw him, he looks human. “Okay?”

“Take me to him,” you tell him, moving past him to grab your coat off the hanger by your door. “Let me try to save him.”

Dean gives you the key to the apartment and a wish good luck, but stays in the car (which, yes, is just as nice as you imagined, though you wish you’d gotten to experience it under different circumstances). He tells you as you climb out the passenger door, “If this goes the way I hope it does, you two aren’t gonna want me there. Trust me.”

Apprehension keeps you rooted outside the locked door, biting a hole through your bottom lip. There’s a lot of ways this could go. Quite a few of them could end up with you dead, and you’d be a fool not to acknowledge that. Then again, you’d also be a fool not to acknowledge what you know about Sam, what Dean’s told you about him today. Kind, gentle Sam, who is sick and dying, but apparently still refuses to hurt anyone. Who drinks from blood bags, despite the risk, simply because it means he can live without harming others. He doesn’t deserve to die.

You take a deep breath, and unlock the door.

The apartment is…Well, it’s a little dingy, but it’s cozy. Homey. There’s clutter and trinkets on every shelf, books that look so old that you fear they’d disintegrate if you touched them. It occurs to you, then, that you don’t know how old Sam actually is. A memory flashes in your mind of his name mentioned in records from the 1800s. Holy shit.

“Dean?” You recognize Sam’s voice, but it’s thin and croaky. Weak. Really sick, Dean had said. “Are you home?”

You follow the sound of his voice into a bedroom, and the stale smell of illness almost makes you stumble back from the doorway. It doesn’t smell bad, necessarily, so much as still and wrong. Sam’s been in this room, wallowing in sickness, for a week. Your heart aches for him. “Not Dean,” you say quietly, hoping not to spook him. You approach the bed, and only just keep from gasping at the state of the man curled up in it. Sam is pale and sunken, visibly weak and malnourished. He’s trembling, shaking all over with chills, maybe, or just tremors in general.

His face changes when he hears your voice, his brows furrowed in confusion. He opens his eyes and peers up at you over his cocoon of blankets. His eyes, like Dean’s, are red, but unlike Dean’s, they’re glassy and tired, his eyelids fluttering like he’s struggling to keep them open. “____? What…what’re you doing here?” He pushes himself up to sit, and you can see the effort it takes him to do even that, his arms shaking under his own weight.

You sit gingerly on the edge of the bed beside him. “Dean sent me,” you tell him, ratting Dean out immediately.

Sam groans, rubbing his hands over his eyes. The veins in his hands are standing out, ugly, mottled red under pale skin. As if the blood really had poisoned him. “I’m gonna kill him.” Wow, Dean hadn’t even exaggerated, huh?

“Not like this, you’re not,” you mutter, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “Jesus, Sam…” He’s ice cold to the touch like he’s been out in the snow for hours. You curl your hands around his, trying to warm him.

His gaze flicks to them, your hands barely covering his. “Sorry I missed our date,” he says, mournful like he really is repentant, like standing you up is the worst sin he could’ve possibly committed. “It…was a date, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it—I meant for it to be.” You huff out a laugh, sympathetic as you smile at him. “And, you know, somehow I can’t find it in myself to hold it against you.”

Sam laughs, and for the first time, you catch a glimpse of his fangs. They’re just as viciously sharp as Dean’s, but they somehow look less dangerous on Sam. You’d worry you’d been charmed or something (isn’t that supposed to be something vampires can do? You have to admit, you’re a little out of the loop of vampire lore), if you weren’t certain that Sam would never do something like that. No, not charmed, not in any sort of magical sense. “I’ll die happy then.”

Wow, you see the dramatics run in the family. “You’re not going to die,” you say firmly, releasing Sam’s hand to brush his bangs out of his face. He’s freezing all over. It makes you want to wrap him up in your arms, make sure he never goes cold again. You settle for pressing your palm against his cheek, your fingers cupping around his jaw.

“I am, though,” he shoots back, like he’s arguing about who’s answer on the homework is right, not about his actual, literal life. “I’m going to die. But that’s—it’s okay. It’s been a week, so I’ve sort of come to terms with it.”

“Screw that.” You turn more firmly towards him, pulling your legs under you to kneel on the bed. “Seriously, screw that. I can help you. If you think I’m just gonna- what, stand aside and let you die, then you really don’t know me at all.”

“Sure. And you’re just gonna fix me, huh?” He shakes his head, turning it away from you with a huff. “All sunshine and rainbows after that. Not like I’ll have to bleed you to get better, right? Oh, wait.” Oh, he’s such a fucking diva, even on his deathbed, apparently.

“Oh, my God—yeah! I sort of figured it wouldn’t exactly be pleasant.” You didn’t spend all that time hesitating at the door because you thought it would be a walk in the park. “But if the choice is between that and letting you die, there’s no contest. I don’t understand why you’re so set on it when I’m sitting here offering you a solution!”

“Maybe I don’t want to be saved!” His outburst silences you, especially because it seems to take a lot of energy from him to snap at you like that. He stares you down, red eyes meeting yours, and you…you don’t know what to say to that.

You can lead a horse to water, but… “Sam—”

He cuts you off with another shake of his head. “Dean…he used to tell me that what we are doesn't make us monsters, it’s what we do. And I really wish I believed that, but the thing is, I…am going to die if I don’t feed from someone, like- like a fucking parasite. What is that if not monstrous?”

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” you tell him. Slowly, cautiously, you reach for his face and replace your hand on his cheek, turning his gaze to meet yours. “I actually happen to think you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I don’t know what kind of monster would’ve apologized for getting deathly ill and accidentally standing me up.”

His eyes flick over your face, like he’s searching for something. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” His voice, thin and mournful, is heartbreaking. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know—I’ve never been sick like this before. It’s possible I won’t have a lot of control if I feed on you like this.”

That’s sort of what you were afraid of. But that’s the benefit of him feeding from you, rather than some random person off the street, right? You know what’s going on. “I won’t let you go too far,” you assure him. “Sam, please. I want to do this for you. Let me…let me help you.”

His eyes meet yours, and he seems to find what he’s looking for. He lifts his hand and brushes your hair back off your neck. “If I do this—if—it’ll hurt, at first,” he tells you, placing his hand on your shoulder. Just resting there. It sends sparks down your spine all the same. “But not for long. It’ll start to feel good, kind of like getting high. But if I—I’m not going to bite you if I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop me if I take too much.”

“I’ll stop you. If I have to.” You trust him, mostly. But you’re also aware that he hasn’t fed in a week, so you’re prepared to have to at least alert him to your blood loss.

His fingers trail along your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. His eyes follow the path of his touch, and his hands may be hesitant, but you can see the hunger in his eyes. Maybe you can make the horse drink, after all. “Are you sure?” he asks, and his hand moves to the back of your head. Bracing.

“I told you—” you say, your voice coming out almost as quiet as a breath— “I want to do this for you.”

“Okay.” He leans forward until you can feel his breath on your neck. It’s almost cold, unnaturally so. “Tilt your head a little more, that way—there you go,” he instructs, and that tone in his voice is…yeah. You are definitely glad Dean didn’t come in with you. His lips brush your skin when he speaks next, “Ready?”

“Yes.” You’re not sure how you manage to get your voice to come out as stable as it does. You bring your hands up to brace on his shoulders, and your grip goes a bit tighter when you feel his fangs press, just barely, against your skin. “Yeah, I’m—go ahead.”

You’ve never been bitten by a vampire before. You have no frame of reference of whether this is what it’s like every time, or if it’s just a Sam thing. Or if it’s just a you and Sam thing. But the whole process is intensely intimate in a way you weren’t expecting. Even when he first sinks his fangs in and it stings, makes you draw in a sharp breath. He’s a little uncoordinated, you think, and maybe goes in at a weird angle, because he draws his teeth out to sink them in again, but not before his tongue flicks out to catch the blood that drips down the side of your neck. The gasp that escapes you this time is not just from the pain.

He was right, of course. It does hurt at first. But the pain is offset by his hand on your head, his fingers curling just so to grip your hair. You swear you can feel in real time as he gets his strength back. As your blood flushes the sickness out of him. You’re not sure there is anything more intimate than that.

You think maybe you expected a transition between pain and euphoria, but there is no slow fade. In between one blink and the next, the pain disappears, replaced with a floaty, echoing pleasure that has your fingers clutching at Sam’s shirt. Everything around you goes a little unfocused, fuzzy, except for everywhere Sam touches, where you swear your nerves are lighting up with sparks and ecstasy. You might be making noises. It’s a little hard to tell, your senses dampened as they are.

“Sam…” You shove a little at his shoulders when you notice your hands start to shake. He hums, and you feel it on your skin. You can see, now, why he likened this feeling to getting high, although you’re not sure it’s the feeding that you can see yourself getting addicted to. You shove him a little harder. “Gettin’ dizzy here.”

He pulls back from your neck, and your senses return to you in a rush of sound and a pinprick sort of ache where his teeth had sunk into your skin. You watch, full focused vision returned, as Sam wipes at his mouth and then drags his tongue over his hand, now free of mottled veins, to catch the blood that had, you assumed, spilled as he drank from you. Like he can’t bear to waste a single drop. You swallow thickly, your mouth suddenly very dry.

“You taste like…” He trails off, and then his mouth is on you again, but not biting. No, his tongue drags up your throat, and it occurs to you—vaguely, through the fog of earth-shattering, soul-bending lust that settles over you—that if blood had spilled down his mouth, then it stands to reason that it had made a mess of your neck as well. Not that you’re complaining, if this is the result of a little mess. He makes a soft noise against your skin, his breath hot now in a way it hadn’t been before. “Taste like…” His voice peters off again, distracted or just unable to find the words to describe it.

Yeah, screw this. “Let me find out for myself,” you murmur, your hands moving from his shoulders to his face—and his skin, too, is warmer now, almost the temperature you would generally expect it would be—until you can drag him into a kiss. The answer, as it turns out, is blood. You taste like blood, although you sort of assume it tastes different to him. Strangely, the flavor isn’t as off-putting as you would assume, especially not when he groans and uses his grip on your hair to tilt your head, kiss you deeper. !You lick into his mouth, tasting your actual, literal blood on his tongue, and you…don’t have the words to describe how absurdly hot it is.

He’s not careful with his fangs, not really, lets them catch on your bottom lip and draw out pinpricks of blood that he soothes with his tongue. It makes the whole thing a little messy; he’s got blood smeared over his lips when you pull back to breathe. Your eyes track his tongue as he licks it up.

His hand, the one that’s not braced on the back of your head, brushes against the skin of your waist under the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly, still so close that you can feel the words on your lips.

Is this okay? You almost have to laugh at the question. As if you hadn’t wanted him since the first moment you saw him. “Yeah,” you tell him, a little smile tugging at your lips. “It is so absolutely more than okay.”

At your confirmation, he smiles too, and his hand rests more firmly on your waist, almost grounding. “Well, I didn’t buy you dinner first. Wouldn’t want you to think I was ungentlemanly,” he says, drawing a soft laugh from you.

“Aw, well. You did try.” You press forward, leaving a short kiss on his lips as your hand shifts from his face to tangle your fingers through his hair. “Plus, I mean…technically, I—”

Sam cuts you off with a kiss, but you can feel his grin against your mouth. “That does not count,” he protests.

“I dunno,” you say, a little sing-song in your voice as you grin at him. “I did quite literally just save your life. I think we might be a little past dinner.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at you. He’s not annoyed though. You can tell, because his fingers flex on your waist and then move, brushing up your side. “Uh-huh. Sounds to me like I’m slacking.” He ducks his head and presses two short, soft kisses to your neck, right on top of the pinprick aches. “I’ll have to repay you. You did just save my life, after all.”

Almost subconsciously, your fingers tighten in his hair. Anticipation settles in the small space between you, a space that grows even smaller when his hand presses against the small of your back and tugs your closer. “I did just save your life,” you repeat, your voice significantly breathier than it was before.

He laughs, a little puff of breath against your skin, and his lips drag down your throat in a line of open mouthed kisses until it lands at your pulse point. You swear to God, time slows down as he breathes in, slow and deep like he’s smelling your blood beneath your skin, and then presses his teeth to it until you can feel the points of them, precarious like water pooled on top of a penny. He doesn’t bite down, doesn’t break the skin, but fuck, you almost want him to. It seems like he wants to, too, as he closes his mouth with a snap. “Fuck…” He pulls back and lifts his eyes to yours. “Can I taste you? Please?”

It takes you a second to understand what, exactly, he means. He’d already tasted you; if he wanted more blood, he could’ve just bitten you again. Then, it clicks, and you…well, what are you supposed to say to that? Sam Winchester, all big, cow eyes and mouth smeared with your blood, so politely asking to eat you out, like you’d be giving him a gift. How could you possibly turn that down? “Yeah. Yeah, fuck, that’s—yeah.”

You only see his answering smile for half a second before his lips are on yours again, kissing, biting, while his hand caresses over the bare skin of your stomach. His kiss, his touch, is almost overwhelming, doesn’t leave you much room to think about anything else but him. Not that you really want to. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, pulls back just far enough from you to speak, and even then you can feel his lips move against yours as he asks, “Can I take this off?”

You really do laugh this time, drawing your hands down his neck and over his shoulders. “I appreciate the whole gentleman thing, I really do, but Sam, baby, I’ve wanted you since before I even knew your name. So let’s just assume that whatever you wanna do, I really fuckin’ want it, too.”

His eyes flick over your face, and you can literally feel the cocky ass grin he gets at that. It is, unfortunately, like everything else he does, ridiculously sexy. “That long, huh?” He’s such a dick. You want him more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your entire life. He tugs back and drags his gaze down your torso, his hand leaving your hair to join the other in toying with the hem of your shirt. “Guess I shouldn’t keep you waiting any longer, then.” His hands brush against the skin of your stomach as he pulls your shirt up and over your head before tossing it aside, not caring where it lands. You’ll find it later. Or you won’t.

His eyes lave over your newly bare skin, his hands following shortly behind. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing his palms flat against your stomach and dragging them up your ribs. “Can you lay back for me, darling?” he asks, even as his hands press you back against the mattress before you can respond.

You go easily, not in the least because the name knocks the breath out of you. “Darling?” you echo, shifting until you’re resting comfortably against the nest of pillows at the head of the bed.

Sam climbs over you, his knee nudging yours until you spread your legs to make room for his hips to settle between your thighs. “Is that alright?” he asks, ducking his head to press his lips to the hinge of your jaw.

More than alright, if the fluttering in your stomach is anything to go by. “It’s fine,” you say, playing it cool. Then, because his hands are rubbing up and down the bare skin of your sides and his teeth (the blunt ones, not the fangs, because he has much more self control than you do) are nipping at the skin of your neck, you play it decidedly uncool and continue, “Darling.”

You feel his answering smile against the skin of your collarbone as he and his kisses and his teeth travel down the line of your neck and chest, pausing at the edge of your bra. He lifts his eyes to meet yours through his lashes as his lips press the softest of kisses there. “‘M gonna take this off, now,” he tells you, his voice deep and rumbling. His hands move up your back, and you arch your spine to allow him room to do so. He undoes your bra clasp without removing his lips from your chest, tugs the garment down your arms and tosses it vaguely in the same direction as your shirt without a second thought.

“I thought about this, you know,” he says, softly, against the skin in the valley of your breasts. “Getting my mouth on you. How it would feel.” He shifts his attention, his lips closing over your nipple while his hand palms your other breast. It draws a soft gasp from your lips, your fingers twisting in his hair. “How you’d sound,” he continues, his voice a little cocky now.

“Sam…” His name falls from your lips on an exhale, like you’re breathing him in, like he’s pumping through your veins the same way you’re now pumping through his.

He smirks. If you thought he was cocky before… “Yeah, pretty much—” He presses that smirk against one nipple and brushes his thumb over the other, and while your head is dropping back onto the pillows with a moan, he laves his tongue over it to make you moan even louder— “just like that.” He's got you so distracted, you almost don't notice his free hand trailing down your stomach, brushing along the waistband of your jeans, not until his fingers undo the button with practiced ease.

“Oh, God, you are so unfairly hot.” You lift your head to watch as he kisses his way down your stomach until he finally reaches your waistband with his mouth, too, and leaves a nippy little bite there.

He laughs, glances up at you with that fucking smirk as he drags your jeans down your hips. “Unfair to who? You?” The two of you maneuver a bit until he can tug your pants off your ankles and toss them aside, another clothing casualty lost to the war on your sanity led by the swooping in your gut whenever Sam looks at you like that.

“Not me,” you elaborate, although it’s hard to do so when Sam’s hands are settling on your hips and his thumbs are rubbing slow circles on your skin and dipping just so under the elastic of your panties on every other pass. “But, like, every other guy. How is anyone supposed to compete with…this?”

This being Sam motherfucking Winchester, who had spent months shyly testing the waters and cautiously flirting so subtly that you were terrified you’d read him wrong, suddenly suave and confident and practically begging to eat you out. Oh, and also being, objectively, the hottest monster. This man has been terrorizing the dating pool for maybe centuries. You shudder to think how many women’s standards he has completely obliterated.

Continuing the streak of obliterating your standards, he ducks his head, that shy smile on his lips again. “I mean, I should hope no one is competing with me in this particular instance,” he says, voice hesitant as if there’s a chance on Earth you’d ever turn him down.

You shake your head, and honestly, you can’t help but laugh because a literal vampire is about to go down on you, and somehow the most unbelievable part of this situation is that he thinks he has an ounce of competition. “Are you actually asking me if I want to be exclusive right now?” you ask, drawing a hand up and through his hair, brushing his fringe off his forehead. “Because I feel like I made it so obvious how much I like you. Obviously, there is no competition.”

You have the honor of watching Sam blush for the first time, and knowing that you made it possible. Your blood flushes his cheeks, makes his face go the prettiest shade of pink you’ve ever seen.

“Obviously,” he echoes, his words brushing against the skin just above your panties. His hands brush down your thighs, and he pulls one of your legs up and over his shoulder so your heel rests against his back. He turns his head, and with your thigh now bracketing his head, it’s easy for him to press an open-mouthed kiss there, and then another, and then another until he’s brought you back practically to panting again.

“‘M gonna make you see stars,” he tells you, his lips pressed against the crease where your thigh meets your hip. “And then, because I am a gentleman, I’m going to buy you dinner. And I’m gonna be thinking about this—” He nips at your skin, bares his fangs this time and draws a well of blood and a gasp from you simultaneously— “The way you taste; the way you feel—I’m gonna be thinking about it the whole time.” He draws his hands back up to your hips just to tuck his fingers under the elastic of your panties, lifting his eyes to yours as he tugs on it. “Can I take these off?”

You think you might die if he doesn’t. “Please.”

His fangs seem to glint in the light when he grins, but he ducks his head before you can look again, a sort of hyperfocus to his posture as he shifts your hips and legs until he can pull your underwear off your ankles, and finally, finally, leaves you bare to him. He doesn’t waste a second, his hands dragging up your thighs and then spreading them further, his eyes roving over you like you’re the most beautiful work of art he’s ever seen. “Gorgeous.” His voice, breathy and sweet, washing over you is the only warning you get before his lips press against you in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

Your lungs expand on a gasp, and then deflate on a moan as he laves his tongue between your folds, the muscle pressed flat and soft like a tease. Or a preview. You’re not totally sure you’re going to survive this actually. You might die with Sam’s tongue licking over your pussy, and honestly, what a fucking way to go.

“Taste so good all over, huh?” Oh, holy fuck, he’s still talking. His lips brush over your skin and make you whine, and you’re pretty sure you can feel the vibrations of his voice better than you can hear him. “Feel like I should thank you. Letting me feed from you, and now this?” He makes it sound like it’s some sacrifice to let him go down on you, like you’re not gripping his hair so tight you’re surprised you’re not pulling it out. “You’re perfect.”

“Oh, my God,” your voice comes out high and tight as he closes his lips over your clit and sucks. Your back arches off the bed, but as your hips shift to press up against his mouth, you find his hand pressed low on your stomach, pinning you down. “Sam—oh, my God.”

You can feel as much as hear the soft, contented hums he’s making, like he’s never wanted to be anywhere more than with his head between your legs and his tongue drawing circles over your clit. His fangs, sharp and dangerous, are almost artfully pressed against your skin, just barely enough to feel the points of them. His free hand, the one not pressing you down against the mattress, keeps trailing up and down the outside of your thigh, making you shiver and press your heel into his back. And it’s so obvious he’s loving this maybe even as much as you are, his whole body shifting as he grinds down against the mattress, and God, that feels almost as good as his mouth on your cunt does. He’s getting off on the taste of you, on making you squirm and whine and moan.

It’s over the second he presses his tongue against your entrance and his nose smushes against your clit—everything after that is a jumble of sensation. The feeling of his tongue fucking in and out, his nose rubbing against you with every movement of his mouth, his hand grabbing at your thigh and holding your legs open when your muscles go tense and tight and anticipatory.

He draws his tongue out of you with an obscene slurping sound that just has you hurtling even faster towards the edge, your hands grabbing at his hair for dear fucking life, white knuckled. “Are you gonna come?” he asks, his voice low and gruff and almost fucked out. You squeeze your eyes shut, nodding as if it wasn’t obvious from the constant stream of noises spilling from your lips. “Yeah? Go on, come on my tongue. Give it to me, darling, let me taste it.”

How could you resist that? His words and his stupidly talented mouth draw you over the edge, your pussy spasming as you do exactly as he asked and come on his tongue. True to his word, he does, in fact, make you see stars, lights sparking behind your eyelids. His mouth works you through it until you’re whining and using your grip on his hair to tug him away, oversensitive as you come down from an explosive fucking orgasm.

He presses kisses on your inner thigh as he shifts it off his shoulder, your body loose and pliant now. “There you go, good girl.” The words make your cunt give a valiant twitch, even as he draws himself up your body until he’s laying beside you and pressing kisses over your face. “Was that good?”

You peek one eye open to look at him, incredulous. “Was that good—you’re so ridiculous, c’mere.” You turn your head to draw him into a slow, lingering kiss. Much like the taste of your blood in his mouth, the taste of your pussy on his tongue is, frankly, life-changing. You’re addicted already.

He draws back with a soft laugh, his eyes traveling over your face with such obvious fondness that you have to press another quick kiss against his lips. “Okay, understood.” He brings his hand up to brush over your face, soft and gentle and such a contrast to the obscene pleasure he’d taken in going down on you that it makes your cheeks go warm. “So when can I buy you that dinner?”

The question gives you pauses, and your eyes flick down his body, curious. “Did you not want me to…”

You watch your blood, again, flood his cheeks as he laughs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s not—I really like giving head,” he explains, as if that is not literally the hottest thing he could’ve possibly said.

Fuck dinner, you wanna go five rounds with him back to back right now. “Okay,” you say, because he’s very sweet and he wants to be a gentleman and who are you to take that from him? “You can take me to dinner, if you swear you’ll let me suck you off when we get back. Deal?”

The way his face lights up is worth having to wait. “Deal.”

“And,” you continue, your hand smoothing over his hair where your grip had mussed it up, “next time you need blood, let’s just skip the whole ‘I’m a monster’ thing. I am more than willing to supply you; I have a vested interest in keeping you around.”

He rolls his eyes, but the way he kisses you, fangs and all, tells you he gets it.

#sammy.txt #grudges_writes.txt #grudges_nsfw.txt #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #x reader #sam winchester #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #vampire smut #sam munchester love of my life #smut #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 link #alternate universe #vampires

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halfwayhearted · 1 day ago

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Hi girl i love your work sm,

would you be able to do one with marc bernal and he’s really touchy with the reader and he’s just obsessed with her and has to be near her all the time

tysm xxx

For Lovers — Marc Bernal.

Pairing: Marc Bernal x Fem!Reader

Summary: Marc won’t leave you alone, you don’t really mind.

Word Count: 700+

Disclaimer/s — Just tooth-rotting fluff, uh. Freak yeah.

A/N: Thank you so much!!! I love you and I loved this request. BOOOOM SHAKALAKA. YES GAAAAWD. I’M SICK.

The night was going smoothly. You’d invited Marc over for a night in, something you two often liked to do. With him having to practice and travel, you would take whatever time with him you could get.

Lifting your head up and off his chest, you’re met with a disappointed groan. “What’s wrong now?”

“You’re moving. Why’re you moving?” He asked.

“You’re not bored?” Your tone was confused. All you guys were doing was watching movies. How was he not at all bored? “Let’s make some food?”

Food. Okay, he could eat. “Yeah, let’s do that.” And with that, he reluctantly releases his hold on you and moves to stand, his hands not wanting to be off you for long. When he helps you to your feet, his hand rests on the small of your back for whatever reason. This was your house; he didn’t necessarily need to guide you, well, anywhere.

Once you both enter your kitchen, you open your refrigerator and glance at whatever ingredients you spot first, hoping that the second you lay your eyes on something, a recommendation will pop into your mind. That’s what you always did.

Thankfully, it does! It’s simple, but it could work. “So! How does a quesadilla sound? Is that good?”

“Mhm,” Marc hums, his gaze trained on yours like he was following your every move. It makes you nervous. You know you should be used to it by now, although you don’t think you ever could be.

Taking out everything needed, you switch on the stove, your body turning to face him while you wait for it to heat up. “What’s next on our list? We could start a show and only watch it when we’re together. I have a bunch that we could start.”

The boy tilts his head. “Yeah? Tell me about them, then we can choose,” he says, leaning against the counter. Again with the eye contact. Oh… okay.

“Well—” you found yourself unable to even start under the intensity of his gaze, and you swallow. “Can you, uh, can you grab the cheese for me?”

He doesn’t answer you, but he follows through with your request. That’s when you start to speak. “Oh, wait! We can watch ‘Outer Banks’! Have you heard of it? About the treasure and all that?”

Yes, he has. You seem excited to talk about it, so he finds himself shaking his head no. Setting the cheese down next to the stove, he’s already by your side, his hand finding yours on the countertop, fingers drawing shapes. The first being a heart. Then, he flickers his gaze to yours, watching how you talk about how the show has been on your ‘must watch’ list for a year, you just never had the chance to go through with it.

“Marc? Are you even listening to me?” You laugh.

That’s when he blinks. How long have you been finished explaining? “Yeah. Yes. Let’s watch.”

“Perfect! Just give me, like, ten minutes. You can go sit down if you want. What drink would you want? Look in the fridge and let me know, ‘Kay?”

“I’ll wait. I can wait for you,” he shrugs. “Tell me more about the show. Or is that all you know?”

“That’s all I know. We can talk theories about it?”

The sound of his laugh is like music to your ears, tugging the corners of your lips into a soft smile. You don’t know why he’s laughing. “How can we talk theories if neither of us have watched it?”

Your eyebrows pull together at that, and suddenly you’re frowning. “Fine. Let’s talk predictions?”

“Let’s talk predictions. How about you start," Marc suggests. Of course, he’d want you to start. You just never really know why. Not that you were complaining or anything, though.

To him, it was just so he could hear your voice. Yes, he listened. He always listened. The fact that he could listen to you ramble on and on for probably hours and still be able to repeat and ask questions made you want to do nothing but tell him how deeply in love with him you were.

And he’d want nothing more than to do the same.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated ^_^.

DT(s) — @planetpedri + @spidybaby + @sakashq ! ౨ৎ

#marc bernal #marc bernal x reader #marc bernal x fem!reader #marc bernal x you #marc bernal x y/n #marc bernal fluff #marc bernal comfort #marc bernal blurb #marc bernal imagine #marc bernal oneshot #request #jilval #for lovers - lamp

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areyouwell · 1 day ago

Note

Hii I love your Phobophobia series so much, can you do a little one shot of flashback from the relating series? Something like a day in their life back when they're still in that gateway forest cabin house.

They spend quite some time there, I remember a brief scene where Logan made a DIY gift for the reader's birthday and it was the CUTEST thing ever, or the framed picture of him reader's put on the counter. I just need to get know more of what happened like a reality tv show lmaoo. When it's only the two of them most of the time, isolated. Surely there'd be time where they'd get sick of each other, but they couldn't ask for more, and they wouldn't ask for more, they only have each other.

i have no restraint when it comes to these two... as much as i wanna focus on my new long series i just can't quit them

'Prisoner of My Past' – A Phobophobia Oneshot

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Mutant!F!Reader

Warnings: MDNI

Word Count: 8.1K

A/N: if y'all keep requesting them, y'all are gonna get em. here's another firefly and logan oneshot, taking place after 5.5 and before 6. smut, angst, fluff, what else could a girl need?

Taglist: @badbishsblog @reidsworld @idioticstar @toogaytofunctiondangit @ghostyv @wolviesgirl @over-bi-the-wayside @justice4billiam @holyhumorliteraturelight @cxptainbuck @sseleniaa @sadslasher13 @yallgotkik @whyamistillontumbler @maddiedinosaur @bethexo07 @pwpwppeepeoor @y08h

The slightest breeze kicked up the light, sheer curtains of the cabin window, the approaching autumn heavy in the air as your brows furrowed instinctively. Pulling the covers closer around your neck and burrowing further into the furnace warmth of Logan’s chest, a croaky groan of disapproval rumbled from your throat.

Too early. Once again you’d woken up too early.

A soft smile of adoration pulled at Logan’s lips as he tightened his hold around your body, already knowing you’d woken up in an irritable mood because you had indeed woken up before ten in the morning. He didn’t say anything, knowing you’d rather attempt to gaslight yourself into believing you were still asleep for a few more minutes before you’d finally accept that you were conscious. Still, he pressed a light kiss to the crown of your head, his way of telling you he was awake too. Whilst you didn’t quite have the same appreciation for mornings that he had, there was still no other way he’d rather spend his time. Curled up with you beneath the plush duvet and various quilted blankets with the window cracked open, just the way you liked it. The only downside was the sun. And oh boy was it making a bright debut this morning

You shifted again, pressing your nose into the hollow of his throat as if you could simply assimilate yourself into his body and escape the reality of having to open your eyes. But you weren’t that kind of mutant, unfortunately. At least, not that you were aware of…

“Ready yet?” He murmured into your hair, voice thick and scratchy with sleep in a way that made you shiver slightly. Smug bastard knew the effect his voice had on you, and had, on more than one occasion, used it to borderline seduce you out of bed. Not that you hadn’t turned the tables, and seduced him into bed. But this was different. This was unfair. Because it was happening to you. It was fine when you did it…

You answered with another long groan of malcontent and a huff of resignation, before finally removing your head from the comfort of his neck, blinking away the remnants of the sleep you so sorely wished to return to.

“Hey.” He grinned with a raised brow. After the first few times of you reminding him that the concept of a ‘good morning’ didn’t exist and was stupid, he decided to drop the whole ‘mornin’ thing altogether, despite being content to lie back and listen to you rant about it for the next twenty minutes.

“Time?” You asked gruffly, not having the energy to lean up a fraction and look past him to the bedside clock.

“You really wanna know?”

“Good news or bad news?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

You huffed again, your forehead falling forward to rest back into his chest. “So that’s bad news then.”

A deep chuckle rumbled from where your forehead rested, and you almost thought waking up this early was worth it just to hear that. Almost.

“It’s before ten.” You could hear his shit-eating grin, clearly thrilled you were up earlier than the goddamn worm before it’s eaten by the bird.

“How long before ten? There’s a difference between five minutes and fifty.”

“Then you definitely don’t wanna know.”

You looked up from his chest with a deep, irritated scowl, before mustering up the courage, and the energy, to prop yourself up on your elbow to look at the digital clock by his bedside.

You almost fainted.

“Three minutes past nine? Three minutes past nine?! Times like this shouldn’t fucking exist. There was a reason I scheduled all of my damn classes in the afternoon. What do people even do this early in the morning? Sit around and wait for the day to start?” You lamented, flopping back onto the pillows before Logan could take advantage of your change in position and remove his arm from beneath your body. It’s fine, he didn’t need to feel his hand anyway…

“Hate to break it to ya Firefly, but most people would be at work by now.”

“Disgusting heathens.”

Logan snorted a laugh, shifting himself to lie atop you, blanketing you with his own body. You found it comforting, like the world’s warmest weighted blanket that could also double up at a stress toy when your hands needed something to knead into. You savoured the way he’d almost purr when your fingers dug into the hard muscles of his shoulders or back, working through stiff knots until he melted into your chest. But this time your deft fingers wove through his hair, simply playing with the soft brown strands as you slowly woke yourself up, the scruff on his jaw scratching against the skin of your collar. Your nails scratched lightly against his scalp and you felt the telltale, purring sigh dust your chest where he’d turned his head to listen to your heart.

“Ya know…” he began, his voice taking on a different gravelly tone to the one he woke up with, and you could already sense where this was going. “There are ways to make mornin’s like this worth wakin’ up for,” he turned his head to rest his chin on your breastbone, heated desire swirling in his dark gaze.

‘Mhm? That so? And how, may I ask, could waking up this early be so worthy?” You loved these little games you played together, the rhythms you danced. Logan pushed himself up on his elbows to barely hover over you, and you didn’t miss the way his arms flexed slightly as he worked his way back up to your neck, tracing his lips up from between your breasts, over your collarbone and to the side of your throat, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. Your body slowly smouldered to life, your fingers still tangled in his hair as he littered the side of your neck with little nibbles and sharp bites, smoothing over the small hurts with his tongue. Your breath hitched in your throat as he sucked a light bruise against the scar on your pulse point, his hands braced either side of your head.

“I could start from here…” he murmured against the lobe of your ear before pulling it with his teeth, revelling in the way he could smell your sweet arousal building between your thighs. He went back to suckling deep purple blossoms into the skin of your throat, leaving the side of your head tingling deliciously from the attention. “‘N work my way down…” he did as he said, indeed working his way down from the side of your jaw to your collar, grinning against the bone as you shivered a quiet gasp when his hand skirted from aside your head to brace against your waist, his thumb smoothing soft circles against your skin.

Your eyes fluttered closed, breasts aching for him to finally claim what was his and seal his mouth over your peaked nipples, but he did nothing but tease you, tongue darting out to lap between where you needed him most. Well, not most, but you knew when he was in this kind of a mood, it was going to take a while before he was where you needed him more than anywhere else, the apex of your thighs already slick and ready for him.

Logan looked up at you through dark lashes, committing to memory the way your brows pinched when he neared the peak of your breast, only to furrow again when he moved away to work up the other as if he couldn’t decide which he wanted to take first. He knew it was cruel for him to tease you this way, and he knew you could give it just as much as you got, maybe even more, but at this moment, he truly didn’t care. If you decided later to bring him to the edge only to leave him high and dry, he knew it would be worth seeing you like this. Submissive. Impatient. Yearning. Desperate.

Your chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, lips sandwiched between teeth when his tongue circled the tip of your breast, and you could only arch your back so far before he took pity on you and enveloped your sensitive pebble with his warm, wet mouth. You keened, head falling back onto the pillows as your fingers in his hair encouraged his movements, a disobedient whine flying from your gated lips as he sucked gently, his tongue flicking over and over the perked bud.

A low groan rumbled from his throat, heightening the soft sparks of pleasure he delivered with his mouth, already feeling his need for you throbbing against your thigh, his hips grinding against your soft skin. But he wanted to take his time. After all, you’d woken up much earlier than normal, and things like that should be rewarded. Drawing in a deep, slightly shaky breath, he nipped across your plush chest, scraping his teeth over where he knew you were most sensitive before settling his mouth over your neglected nipple, drawing another breathy whine from your lips.

“Logan…” you sighed, squeezing your thighs together and unknowingly providing more for his pulsing cock to grind against. His eyes fluttered closed as muted ecstasy fogged his mind from doing nothing but grazing his tip along your inner thigh, his teeth clamping down lightly on your hard bud. You gasped airly, and Logan wished he could capture the sound in a bottle.

Descending further, he took his time kissing and lavishing the various scars across your stomach, making sure to run his tongue along each one at least once, even as your body quivered with wanton anticipation and your hips rose needily into his chest.

“All the way down to here.” You’d completely forgotten he was explaining what he could do to make the morning worth it until his gravelly, lust-laced voice rose from between your thighs, his hands now braced against your hips to hold you still. Your scent wrapped around his addled brain, pulling him closer to your slicked cunt and your teeth sank into your lower lip just as he moved to swerve your heat altogether, his lips attaching to the needle-point scar to the left of your inner thigh.

Frustration kindled in your chest despite the tickling pleasure of his mouth, the rough surface of his bears scratching deliciously against your velvet skin, sending a mixture of feelings through your scalding blood. Your fingers twirled through the strands of his hair, pulling harshly in an attempt to shift him to where you truly needed him most, but it resulted in nothing but a huffed groan and a sharp nip as if he was reminding you to behave. You tensed your jaw hard enough to hear your teeth grinding together, the ache between your thighs becoming almost unbearable, that needy pulsing of your walls begging for attention.

It was taking all of Logan’s self-control to ignore the call of your sweet arousal, to push down his instincts to devour you and continue on with his constant, lengthy teasing. Until you tugged on his hair again, a shiver running down his spine as he grinned wickedly against your thigh, his leaky cock jumping with equal need.

You cried out the moment his nose nudged your clit as he practically nuzzled into your throbbing pussy, his tongue finally darting out to lap up the honeydew nectar dripping from your heat. And the moment he tasted you, he couldn’t hold back. Lewd groans and wet smacks filled the air as he devoured your aching cunt, lashes of pleasure struck your body with each desperate suck of your clit.

“Fuck…! Logan… Logan!” You gasped his name through harsh pants and airy moans, your voice unrestrained as he dragged you closer and closer to that edge after working you up for so long. Your spine arched, hips undulating against his waiting tongue, and he loosened his grip on your waist to allow you to ride his face, relishing the desperation of your movements. His lips latched onto your throbbing pearl, freeing one hand and teasing his fingers around your entrance, inhaling sharply as your nails scratched up the sides of his neck.

Achingly slowly, he gifted you the ecstasy of his fingers, your velvet walls instantly clamping down on the sudden, welcome instruction. Fuck he could feel you pulsing around him as his digits curled inside you, and he burned to feel you around his cock. With steady, careful ministrations, he heard your voice crack slightly, a telltale sign of you getting teasingly close to achieving your high.

Your head snapped back as the pads of his fingers grazed that little bundle of pure lightning deep within your cunt, your entire body shaking as you teetered on the precipice of euphoria. “Th-there! Don’t stop… Fuck yes, Logan ‘m so– so close!” You trembled, subconsciously proud of yourself for even being able to form a coherent sentence with your mind so blissfully blank with pleasure.

He growled in affirmation, pulsing his fingers against the rapturous key to your release until he felt your thighs clamp around his head and breathing became almost impossible. A broken wail stuttered from your lips as he finally pushed you over the edge, fractured gasps cried into the ceiling as warmth flooded your senses, feeling nothing but the unbearable ecstasy of his tongue and fingers.

Your hips ground senselessly against his mouth, wave after delectable wave of release coursing through your nerves, your sharp nails sinking into the sinewy muscles of his shoulders as you clung to him for dear life, every fibre of your being set alight by his wicked ministrations. And in true Logan fashion, he didn’t stop, and it wasn’t long before sharp spikes of sensitivity shocked your system that had you frantically pushing him away, giving yourself a moment to recover.

You hissed a curse as you floated back into your trembling body, dark chuckles fanning up your body as his slick mouth crawled back up to your neck and you were barely able to shift your boneless arms up with him.

“Worth it yet?” He asked, voice husky from groaning into your cunt, and you managed a crooked grin, chest still heaving with the intensity of your orgasm. You didn’t quite know how to articulate that, even if he hadn’t just sent you to nirvana and back, just waking up by his side and seeing his face makes early mornings worth it.

“Mmm, not quite, but it will be.” You hummed, your fingers leaving the tangled mess of his hair to ghost down his chest, dancing across the prominent vein at his naval before dipping lower to gently grip his cock, feeling it hot and heavy in your hand. Logan’s features slackened, eyes fluttering shut as you slowly dragged your palm up and down his shaft, circling his sensitive tip and using the copious pre-spend as a natural lubricant. His jaw fell open with heavy breaths, abs flexing as he thrust into your grip and you could see the muscles in his shoulders tense with restraint.

Wrapping your still slightly shaky thighs around his waist, you gave his member a small squeeze before swiping his tip between your soaking folds, clamping your lips together to silence your oversensitive whimpers when he nudged the hood of your clit. Slowly rolling his hips, Logan breached your heat, loosening a low groan into the side of your neck as you welcomed him eagerly. There were few moments he’d feel more at peace than when he did buried deep inside your cunt, wrapped in the clenching velvety walls at the apex of your thighs.

And he could feel the way you deliberately tensed around him, gripping him like a vice as he drew back. Clenching his teeth, he could already feel himself wanting to fill you, wanting to claim you as his own here and now, despite having done just that countless times before. His fingers gripped the sheet on either side of your head as he managed to find a steady rhythm, almost teasing himself with the promise of the earth-shattering release he knew he’d find. He always did when it came to you.

“Always feel so good, sweetheart. S–! So fucking good.” He stuttered, a shock of ecstasy catching him off-guard as you sank your nails into his shoulders. The gentle roughness of your scratches always sent his mind reeling with the paradox, and in response he circled his hips slightly, grinding into that spot only he could reach. You’d confessed once that you’d never managed to make yourself cum like that, and it inflated his ego tenfold knowing that only he was able to bring you that kind of brain-numbing pleasure.

“‘M yours, Logan…” you whispered like a secret, sending a shiver down his spine and a pulse to his cock. His hips stuttered into yours, losing control of himself briefly before he found himself having to still completely, lest he came before you did. You sent him a knowing grin, tensing around him as if to seduce him back into the rhythm he’d previously set.

“Say that again.” He almost pleaded, and your brows pinched as your efforts proved successful, only this time there was a primal brutality to the way he started to thrust into you, his back arching with the slicing pain of his claws sliding through the skin of his knuckles, providing more pleasure than hurt.

“I’m yours. Belong– Fuck! Belong to you…” Your voice hitched slightly, head pitching back as your second release of the morning bubbled just below the surface. Logan growled into the side of your neck, carefully freeing his hand from the tangle of sheets and mattress filling to wrap around your thigh, lifting it higher to sit at his rips, nicking his own flesh with his claws as he did. An involuntary gasp sailed from his lips, another strike of lightning igniting his blood as he felt you tremble around him, your high so fucking close.

“Mine.” He snarled, catching your earlobe between his teeth as he shoved his claws back into the padding of the mattress, your nails sinking deeper into his shoulders as you canted your hips onto his pistoning cock, your moans climbing higher in pitch before getting caught in your throat altogether. There was the briefest moment of silence before you tipped over the edge, back into the ocean of pleasure you’d just crawled out of.

Logan sank his teeth into the space between your neck and shoulder as you shuddered uncontrollably around him, your entire body spasming with utter bliss as you rode him through your second orgasm, your nails dragging from his shoulders to his back, down over the tense muscles running down either side of his arching spine. How he managed to hold out whilst you soared through inconceivable ecstasy was a testament to his self-control, and only when you were coming back down did he continue, now chasing nothing but his own release.

“Yours… ‘m yours.” You repeated almost like a mantra as your mind blurred for a moment, before returning with a clarity you hadn’t felt since waking up that morning. “All yours, Logan…” you whispered with renewed intentions. Leaning up slightly, you clenched around him once again, dragging a low, desperate moan from the depths of his chest before you murmured something that sent him flying over the edge. “And you are mine.”

Logan’s eyes screwed shut as you sank your teeth deep into the side of his neck, his jaw locking open as he stuttered a roaring gasp of your name, his cock jolting and pulsing as he shot rope after thick rope inside you, a firestorm of pure, unadulterated pleasure coursing through his system. He could feel the warm trail of blood trickling down his shoulder from where you’d bitten into him, the sharp sting only causing him to lose control of himself completely, his hips bucking wildly into your cunt before he stilled inside you, chest heaving, mind hazing, cock throbbing.

The coppery tang of blood invaded your mouth and you were worried for a moment that you’d gone too far, but the way he sagged onto you, uncaring of his weight, told you otherwise, and you watched the wound stitch back together with the same fascination you felt when seeing it for the first time.

He was dead. He must be. There was no way he could have come back from that. Everytime you fucked, he swore it just kept getting better, and he reached a new height with each release. Cracking his eyes open, he could see the three deep veins in the mattress left behind by the slashing of his claws, stuffing and fluff scattered across the floor and the bed. He knew he should move. Knew he should probably roll off you and let you breathe, but if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t think he could. It was rare the Wolverine felt little to know strength, and every single time he did it was little after spilling into your welcoming cunt.

With a soft hum, you thumbed away the little trickle of blood down his neck before your fingers wove through his soft strands of sweat-damp hair, chuckling lightly as he groaned in exhaustion. You knew it wouldn’t last long, and if you continued, he’d be hard again in a matter of minutes, but you couldn’t stop the yearning to soothe his pretty head.

“Almost tore your throat out… sorry.” Though, from the sounds of it, you didn’t sound sorry at all. If anything, you sounded almost proud of yourself. Logan breathed a sigh into the side of your neck, feeling too heavy to do much other than shift slightly, pulling himself from your heat.

“‘N they say I’m the animal,” you giggled wickedly at his words, though your expression softened almost instantly as he looked up at you, eyes full of nothing but sheer, pure devotion. “Christ, I love you.” He murmured, before finding the willpower to raise up onto his forearms and roll onto his side, tucking you in tight and taking you with him, his lips sealed to yours in a passionate, languid kiss.

“I love you too.” You responded, your tone hushed as you basked in the afterglow of the morning. “Definitely worth waking up for.”

Logan scoffed, but the sound warmed your heart because his little, disobedient smile meant everything to you. He meant everything to you. You sincerely hoped he knew that. With everything that was going on. Kreva, Jade, the file, your past… you hoped he knew that, despite all of that, he was what mattered most to you.

And something shining in his eyes told you he did.

It was early afternoon by the time you and Logan managed to peel yourselves away from each other for longer than two minutes to hop into the shower, as dismayed as he was for you to wash his scent from your body. He made sure to hold you the entire time, from the moment you stepped in the shower all the way to heading down the stairs and starting breakfast. Or brunch. Or whatever the equivalent of an afternoon fry-up was.

Logan set his chin atop your head as you shimmied the pan of bacon, his arms wrapped snugly around your waist as he swayed the both of you to silent music, pulling a small chuckle from your lips.

“If I burn myself I’m blaming you.” You murmured, leaning further back into his embrace as you carefully set down the pan.

“I’ll kiss it better, don’t worry.” He responded lowly, doing just that to the various deep purple blossoms across the side of your neck, a delicious reminder of thirty minutes ago when he was pulling you to the edge of insanity. You never reprimanded him for the marks he left behind, never scolded him for the bruises he sucked into your skin because truthfully, it drove you crazy. His animalistic instinct to mark and claim you called to your desperation to be claimed. To belong. And you’d be lying if you said you would refrain from disappearing into the shadows for a good long while after.

You breathed a contented sigh, wondering just how at peace you were feeling considering your circumstances. You’d been here for around a month at this point, falling into a steady routine. A few days of the week Logan would head out to handle little jobs for extra cash, from fixing up old cars with the local mechanic Todd, to removing trees and branches for the locals in the next little town. And he’d always come home with whatever provisions the two of you needed. Running out of milk? He’d come back with a few long-life cartons. Needed more flour? He’d come through the door with another two bags of all-purpose, or self-rising if you were baking bread that day.

And you loved it. You truly did. However, there were some days you couldn’t help the cabin fever. You needed to get out. You needed air, a change of scenery, anything. It was a conversation you’d had a few days after you’d arrived, and he insisted you didn’t need to leave for any reason. But you’d failed to mention that maybe you wanted to.

“We’re running out of eggs…” you tried to keep your tone as nonchalant as you could, glancing over to the tray of a dozen empty little egg cups, the remaining two about to be cracked and fried along with the bacon.

Logan hummed thoughtfully, his chin dipping into the top of your head as he nodded. “I’ll pick some up tomorrow, Mrs Whitethorn wants some firewood for the colder months so I can grab some on the trip and– what?” He’d sensed something was up the moment you opened your mouth, knowing you better than the back of his own hand at this point. And when you sighed slightly at his resolution, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I just… maybe I could grab some? Ya know, we’ve been here for a month now and nothing’s happened so–”

“No.”

You clenched your teeth together, flicking off the gas to the stove and stepping to the side so you could turn and face him. “Logan, we’re safe here. Nobody knows where we are. Not even the Professor. You said it yourself. What’s going to happen on a quick trip to the shops? Because that’s all it would be. A quick in and out. No faffing, no lingering, just a change of pace.”

“We’ve already had this discussion.” He responded, his voice taking on a hard edge.

“Yeah, well, I want to have it again.” You mirrored his change in demeanour, folding your arms across your chest defensively.

“And what coulda possibly changed in the last month? They’re still lookin’ for ya, an’ people talk. Ya think nobody’s gonna whisper that there’s a new girl in town? That’s how things get outta hand. That’s how he’ll find you.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but terrified frustration was starting to make it impossible. He didn’t want to argue about this. He didn’t want to fight about this. This was the safest option and he wasn’t going to budge.

“It’s a tiny fucking town in the middle of nowhere, who’re they gonna tell? Their neighbours? You’re right, we’re fucked if Mrs Whitethorn finds out you’re living with someone,” you spat sarcastically, the lonely days he was away feeding your claustrophobic irritation. “They don’t even know I’m a mutant! I’m fairly certain they don’t know you’re a mutant.” The shadows in the room started to grow and twist, silhouettes exaggerated, disproportionate to the casting furniture. But Logan didn’t back down. He was used to it by now, the way the leash on your mutation would slip whenever you were experiencing heightened emotion.

“Look, Charles asked me to keep you hidden and safe, so–”

“Oh, that’s why you’re here? Because Charles asked you to be here? Well, excuse me for thinking you did this out of any kind of concern for me. I should have known Charles would just get his fucking guard dog to deal with the situation. Shoulda been here two years ago, maybe you coulda accompanied me when he sent me away! Made sure I didn’t murder anyone else in cold blood.”

“You’re insane.”

“And this shocks you? You say that like you didn’t know this already, Logan. Newsflash, I was always insane! But that’s what you fell in love with! Insane ol’ me, running around, scaring the kids, endangering her team. Yep, that’s me!”

“Why’re you bein’ like this? You’re behaving like a fuckin’ mo–” Logan stopped himself, a flash of hurt whipping your features before your eyes turned hard, jaw clenching.

“Go on. Say it.” You hissed, daring him to finish his sentence. But he kept his silence, simply returning your venomous glare. “Like a monster, right? That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? You’ve read the file, Logan, you know just how much of a monster I really fucking am.”

Logan snarled, tearing his glare from your daggers and snatching his coat from the hook. He couldn’t be here right now. He couldn’t be around you right now. You both needed to cool off, and there was no chance of that happening whilst you were both in the same house.

“And just where do you think you’re doing?” You spat accusingly, eyes narrowing.

“Out.”

“Must be nice to be able to leave whenever you want. Send me a postcard, will you? I’ll be here because apparently I’m on fucking house arrest!” You shouted as he slammed the door behind him, the only confirmation you had of him actually leaving was the rumble of the truck’s engine and crunching of gravel as he drove off. You screamed in frustration, the shadows around the house whipping and lashing out in similar rage. The shattering of glass tore you from your anger, raising your head from the cradle you’d made with your hands to glance over to the mantlepiece.

Your heart shattered along with the glass.

“Shit…” you whispered, rounding the sofa and sinking to your knees on the rug, your fingers trembling as you debated trying to salvage the picture you’d broken in your outburst. It was one you hadn’t taken that long ago, and you only surprised him with it last week. He’d rolled his eyes at your beaming grin, remembering distinctly the moment you’d wrapped the scarf around his neck and snapped a quick picture before he could do so much as protest. And oh did he protest, the moment you took the picture you had to run back inside and hide beneath the bed. Even then he dragged you out.

You loved that picture.

And now you’d broken it.

You ignored the sharp sting of pain as you picked up the shattered glass, blood leaking onto the warm rug, crimson fingerprints staining the frame. You exhaled a shaky breath, sniffing back the tears lining your eyes as you fought to fix the pieces back together, almost frantically jamming the sharp edges against one another.

By the time you gave up with an angry shout, your hands were covered in blood, and there was a stain in the carpet you knew would likely never wash out. You could theoretically just dissolve your hand in shadow and heal up, but you savoured the sting on your fingertips, the welling of blood on your palms. As twisted as it was, it not only reminded you that you were alive, but it kept you grounded, kept you from getting caught up in the tidal wave of grief and rage and guilt. You didn’t mean to say all those things to him, you just wanted him to listen and he wasn’t hearing you.

You watched as a trail of scarlet dripped from a cut from your fingertip down to the centre of your palm, pooling around the stains, merging with other little brooks of sanguine. Closing your hand, you winced slightly as the slices barked in pain, blood oozing from your clenched fist before you stood from the ground, grabbed your coat, and slammed the door behind you in an extremely similar fashion.

He didn’t even know where he was going. Didn’t even know where he needed to go. He just knew he needed to get out. Did you really think he was here just because Charles asked him to be here? Did you not understand just how unbelievably dangerous it was for you to venture off on your own? He knew you valued freedom, but did you value freedom over your own life? Over his grief? Did you not understand how completely and utterly broken he would be if he lost you? It was too much of a risk. How couldn’t you understand that?

And how could he be so fucking stupid as to think you’d just let him keep you hidden away? How could he let himself get comfortable with the fact you’d never want to leave the house? How had he almost called you the one thing you were so terrified of being? Christ he was such a fucking idiot sometimes. That flash of hurt played over and over in his head. The way your features shifted from fury to pain so damn quickly, before it was back to fury. He’d cut you. Deeply. Deeper than even his claws could cut you. He should turn around. Try and explain without raising his voice why he had to keep you safe. Why he was begging you not to drive off on your own. But it was so damn difficult when you kept arguing with him constantly and not letting him finish his goddamn sentences.

He should turn around.

And it was with a harsh smack of the steering wheel and a savagely muttered curse that he did, flipping the indicator and pulling into a layby, swinging the truck around and tracing the road he’d just taken, only the opposite way, back to the cabin. Back to you. How could he be so damn stubborn? How could you be so damn stubborn? Fuck, he loved everything about you, from your hotheaded rants about mildly irritating things to your little head tilts when you’re reading a particularly good book but Christ alive were you stubborn.

And he loved that about you too.

And this was what he was focussing on when he pulled back into the drive, the gravel crunching beneath the wheels. The lights were still on, which, under normal circumstances, would mean you were still awake. But something didn’t sit right. The door to the cabin was left slightly ajar, and he could have sworn it clicked shut earlier when he slammed it. Maybe he’d slammed it a little too hard and it had bounced back open? But surely you would have closed it. You were always complaining about it being too cold in the north. He was certain you could have closed it.

His heart started to beat a little faster, and he begged his mind not to get ahead of itself. He needed to keep steady if he was walking back into the swirling storm of your justified rage. But as he stepped out of the car, not even the calming breeze could soothe his pulse. The cabin was far too quiet. He half expected you to be anger-cooking, something you were known to do once or twice. But nothing. And not the relieving kind of nothing. The incredibly concerning kind of nothing.

The copper scent of blood hit him like a ton of bricks. The interior reeked of it. Fresh as well. Freshly spilt blood. In his cabin. In his cabin he shared with you. In his cabin he’d left you in. Now panic started to well in his chest, gripping his heart in a clawed fist. Pushing open the door, he called out your name. He couldn’t smell you over the scent of freshly minted coins, but he couldn’t hear you either. Not your breathing, not your heartbeat, not even your angrily pacing footsteps. You weren’t here.

Fuck.

You weren’t here.

Logan raced up the stairs, still calling your name. He had to be sure. He had to be certain you weren’t here before he let himself go crazy. Before he let himself completely lose composure. And just as he suspected, nothing had changed since that morning. The bed still wasn’t made, the lamp was still knocked over from your morning tryst, and you still weren’t there. He took a breath, willing himself to think rationally before he completely lost his shit and tore down the whole forest looking for you. Racing back down the stairs, he quickly scanned the living space for any kind of clues, before his eyes fell to the rug. And the shattered glass surrounding your treasured picture frame.

A crack of guilt splintered his heart as he crossed the room, bending to one knee and gingerly picking the picture from the scattering of sharp shards, removing the paper from the frame altogether. His thumb wiped clean your scarlet fingerprint from your beaming smile, forever captured. He wished he could go back to that moment and ask you to take it again. Take another where he didn’t look so mildly irritated to be in it. But you adored it. Said it captured the two of you perfectly.

A large part of him couldn’t disagree.

Logan spun around as the door flew open, heavy boots trudging through the doorway. And he knew things were extremely wrong when you didn’t pause to remove them, instead tracking mud and leaves through the kitchen. You hated it when he did that. When he didn’t remove his shoes before entry. He would always receive a sharp look of disapproval and a deep huff before you’d all but push him back to the doormat. It used to be a game, where you’d stand and wait to see how long it would take for him to roll his eyes and cave. It never took long.

He inhaled deeply, carefully setting the photograph back on the mantlepiece as you wordlessly strode past him. “Look, I–”

“Don’t.” You cut him off instantly, not even bothering to cast a glance his way as you trudged up the stairs, pine needles and soil dusting each step with the force of your stomping. And all he could do was close his eyes against his slight wince when the door to the bathroom slammed shut, the sound of the shower humming from inside accompanying his guilt. After everything you’d been through, he went and called you the one thing you were so afraid of being.

How fucking insensitive could he be?

It felt empty. The room felt empty. The bed felt empty. Your heart felt empty. This wasn’t right. As much as you wanted it to be right now, and holy shit did you want this to feel right, it simply didn’t. You tossed and turned, having far too much space than you were used to having. You could spread your legs without obstruction, starfish to your heart’s content. Except your heart wasn’t content. Your heart was anything but content.

With a heavy, defeated sigh, you rolled onto your back, looking at the space beside you, the permanent dip in the mattress that you both knew would never fade now. Your chest felt hollow, a pit of longing opening up in your gut. But you couldn’t give in. You were mad at him. And he was mad at you. You were mad at each other. You wished he would hear you, just listen for one damn sentence before he immediately got lost in a tirade of his own and drowned you out. It was infuriating. It was irritating.

But it was Logan.

And it was that thought that had you throwing the duvet off your legs with an exaggerated huff, as if gaslighting yourself to be annoyed about the situation. Bare feet touched the cold, wooden floorboards as you crossed the upstairs bedroom and over to the stairs, dragging the woollen blanket with you. It was larger than the one on the sofa, and you knew that one would barely be long enough to cover his legs, let alone his entire body.

The boards creaked beneath your footsteps as you padded down, ignoring Logan as he immediately sat up from his admittedly uncomfortable-looking position on the sofa. You knew he was awake. Just like he knew you were awake. This wasn’t your first fight, not by a long shot, but it was the first fight you’d had as a couple, and honestly you didn’t much care for it. Neither did he.

Wordlessly, you crossed the living room, savouring the warm rug beneath your toes, a nice contrast between the cool floorboards. And there was no argument the two of you could ever have that would stop Logan from opening his arms for you, the comically small blanket falling from his body. There was no way he was about to admit it out loud, especially being in the throes of a heated argument, but he missed you. Fuck, he didn’t hold you for one night, less than, and his entire body burned to be near you. To pull you into his chest and murmur just how sorry he was.

But neither of you said anything as you clambered onto the sofa next to him, lying with your back against his chest, his arm caging you against him as you settled the blanket over the two of you, fluffing up the cushion by his head before laying down. It was precarious, and you knew you could return to the bed if you both wanted to, but there was something too soothing about this to even consider that option.

“I’m still mad at you.” You muttered as he buried his nose in the back of your head, inhaling the smell of your shampoo.

“I know,” he responded, voice thick with exhaustion.

You nodded firmly in affirmation before regret gnawed at your insides.

“But I still love you.” The soft admission wove its way into his heart, and he couldn’t help the slight smile pulling at his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your head.

“I know.”

Your eyes glowed with the reflection of the dying embers. No matter the season, it always seemed to be fucking freezing here, and you were eternally grateful for the constantly burning hearth Logan kept up for the both of you. Sparks popped from the charred wood, rising up the chimney and into the night above, and you watched them go, too much on your mind for sleep to find you a reasonable candidate.

“I don’t want to be a prisoner of my past.” You whispered, trying in vain to stop the harsh sting of tears from falling down your cheeks. You knew he could smell the salt, and you didn’t want to give the wrong impression. You didn’t want him to think you were too vulnerable, or too weak, to leave the damn house.

But you could tell it was futile when his arms wrapped around you tighter, holding you with the solid surety you’d craved since you’d first started fighting, and you both hated and adored the comfort that settled in your chest. He’d still be here. He’d always be here. You knew you were grasping at straws when you said he was only here as a favour for Charles, and everything he’d done for you, was still doing for you, screamed otherwise. Logan wasn’t a liar by nature. When he said he loved you, he meant it.

Logan screwed his eyes shut, opening his heart and allowing himself to hurt the way you were. He knew this was his doing, but he just didn’t know how to explain it to you. “I don’t know how to keep you safe…” he uttered, feeling your body tense a little with the admission, before you were shifting in his arms, twisting awkwardly until you were facing him, nose to nose, on the tiny sofa barely big enough for him alone. You stayed silent, letting him take his time in finding the right words. You knew it was a lot for him to say that, to admit he didn’t know what he was doing. You wouldn’t press. You wouldn’t push. You were content to wait for him.

And the depth of his gratitude could never be spoken aloud, for the failure of those very same words he was trying to find. “Kreva found you in the last place he’d ever think to look. He said so himself. I can’t– I can’t run that risk. I can’t let him find you again. Because if I lose you– Firefly, if I lose you–”

“I know,” you did. Truly, you did. Because if you lost him. If Kreva found you, and you lost him, you knew it wasn’t something you’d ever recover from. Pressing your forehead against his, your hand slowly found its way to the side of his jaw, your nails scratching ever so lightly through his beard. “I’m sorry. I– I know you’re not here just because Charles asked you to be. I was angry and upset and honestly? Kinda just looking for something to justify it,” you apologised quietly, and he breathed a soft smile against your chin. “And you were right. I was behaving like–”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he interjected, pulling back from you slightly. “I was an asshole. I have read some of the file, an’ there was nothin’ to even suggest that. There were plenty of monsters I read about, but you weren’t one’ve ‘em, alright?” He implored, his eyes slightly reflective in the low light. You nodded faintly, a hefty weight lifting from your shoulders and chest, your breath looser in your lungs as you drew in an easy breath despite the cramped space.

“Okay…”

Logan pressed a delicate kiss to the side of your mouth, sighing as you reciprocated, shifting so you could capture his lips wholly.

“I love you.” You whispered, a secret shared for only the two of you in the bubble of security you’d created for yourselves.

“I know.” He repeated, and your brows furrowed, your lips pulling in a disobedient, reluctant smile.

“Say it back, asshole.” You couldn’t help but laugh as his mouth split into a grin, a hearty chuckle rumbling from the depths of his chest as you slapped his bicep lightly.

“I love you too, Firefly.” He hummed, tucking you cosily beneath his chin and holding you tight, both for emotional and practical reasons. He really didn’t want you to fall off the sofa and ruin the moment.

As hilarious as that would be.

Logan let the silence settle for a minute whilst his mind started to wander. Neither of you had really come up with a solution to the issue, and whilst yes, it was nice to be speaking to you again and holding you again, he was worried that this was only temporary until the problem reared it’s ugly head a few weeks down the line. That was when it struck him. Christ he really could be fucking stupid sometimes. This was such an obvious answer and you’d both just had a ridiculously heated argument over it.

“Come with me. Tomorrow, when I head to Mrs Whitethorn’s. Come with me.”

Your head shot up from the crook of his neck, and even in the darkness, he could see how they danced with disbelieving hope. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious. I’m no good at talkin’ to these people. I just show up, do the job and leave. Reckon she’d want some friendly company for once.” He shrugged, trying to play off just how much your excitement was rubbing off on him. In truth, he wanted you to meet the people he did odd jobs for. He wanted people to see the woman who’d stolen his heart. His soul. And to be callous about it, he wanted to show you off a little. Especially to Todd.

“Even if she’s a secret spy for an underground mutant experimentation project?” You provoked lightly, raising a crooked brow.

“I think I’ll take that chance.” He murmured, loosening his grip so you could get comfortable again before he secured you flush against his chest. This was what he’d craved since the beginning. Since setting eyes on you that first time when welcoming you home. He just wanted you safe. Preferably with him. Actually, that was also a requirement. But he never wanted you to feel like a prisoner of your past.

Not now. Not ever.

#wolverine x reader #logan x reader #logan howlett x reader #logan smut #logan howlett smut #logan howlett #x men logan #wolverine x you #x men wolverine #wolverine smut #the wolverine #logan x reader smut #logan x you #the wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlet x reader #logan howlet smut

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hexlenx · 3 days ago

Text

TANGERINE — hp, bt [ crossover ]

Part 1.

Tangerine and Lemon were offered a contract. Save the White Death's son and recover a silver briefcase with a ransom money in it and give it to the White Death. Bara-bing bara-boom, they get the ten mil. Sounds easy, innit?

note: I do not own Harry Potter nor Bullet train, this is made purely for entertainment purposes. English is also not my language so apologies for typos as well as wrong grammar.

warnings!!: violence, vulgar language, r-rated content, lethal weapons and gore.

__________________

"What the fu—do you mind?" Tangerine said in annoyance as the man passing by bumped into him while said man also bumped into the woman employee pushing a cart full of food and drinks.

"Fuckin' blind or something?" He continued before his eyes landed on a snack from the cart and subconsciously took it before he knew what he was doing. Making the dark skinned man in front of him roll his eyes at his antics.

"Oh Tangerine—oh man stop it." Lemon said to his brother when he saw him stealing a small snack from the cart. Said brother looked at the snack in his hand frowning as if he was scolding his own hand for doing such a thing before putting it in one of his chest pockets inside his suit.

"Why did I do that? It's like I got fucking compulsion or something, I have to take it if I see it. " Tangerine said as he then fixed his suit. "Goldfish biscuits, I don't—i don't understand." He continues before fixing his composure along with his brother Lemon when the Japanese woman employee passed by them, greeting them.

"You alright, love?" Lemon asked the woman who only nodded with a lovely smile.

"Ye' fuckin' arsehole, am I right?" Tangerine said to the woman as well before exchanging blank looks with his brother when the woman left.

Tangerine's phone rang making him take it out of his chest pocket, smiling when he saw the caller's id. Clearing his throat, he then answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Hey, I'm about to board the train. In the second VIP car, so unfortunately it's the only thing available last minute." A woman's melodic voice spoke out of his phone's speaker making Tangerine relax in his seat. Oh, how he loved just hearing his wife's voice. Call him whipped but this is his wife we're talking about.

"That Poppet?" Lemon asked his brother when he noticed him smile making said brother nod.

"'s long as you're here, love. Sorry we had to tell you abruptly, I know you don't like being rushed but we also know you wouldn't want us to leave you behind." Tangerine said to his wife, he knew his wife didn't like the rush since it's going to be a hassle to get things done on such short notice. It's why he also likes to be early but this job was dangerous, more dangerous than the Bolivia job and he didn't want to put his wife in that kind of danger. But he also knew if he didn't tell her and also left her behind. He'll be sleeping outside for two weeks, and a happy wife means a happy life.

"It's fine, Hon'. I have to keep an eye on both of you before you do something stupid like in Johannesburg." The woman chuckled in the call making Tangerine groan at the mention of that place.

"It was one time, love. One fucking time!"

"Still doesn't excuse you for doing something stupid for the second time."

"Ye' but you know what I'll do for the second time today?" Tangerine lowered his voice in a husky manner making Lemon, who was in front of him frown in disgust.

"What?" His wife breathed out from the call making Tangerine sigh from the tone of her voice. Fuck, this woman is going to be the death of him.

"Why don't I come there and let you find out?"

Silence.

Suddenly Tangerine's phone got taken by his brother. Lemon who now has his phone out it on his ear and began to talk to the woman.

"Hey there, Dolly! Everything good on your side?"

"Oh Lemon! Yes, everything's good I just got back from stashing my luggage. Other than that everything's fine!" She said enthusiastically as Tangerine glared at his brother in annoyance who only silently chuckled at him smugly.

"Ye' well we got to go now. We'll watch the kid and the case over here, so don't worry 'bout it for now 'cuz it's safe." Lemon reassured his sister-in-law before bidding her goodbye and ending the call.

"You gotta stop talking with your dick, mate. We're on a mission." Lemon grumbled towards his brother who only rolled his eyes nonchalantly.

"Ye' well technically I'm talking using my mouth so it ain't my dick now, is it?"

"So why am I Lemon?" Lemon asked his brother who immediately responded.

"'cuz you're sour and nobody likes lemons."

"That's bullocks, mate. Everyone likes lemons. Lemonade, lemon drops—"

"—you got a sore throat?"

"Lemon meringue pie."

"When was the last time you ate a meringue pie?"

"Last week when Doll made it for me and lemons don't bleed." This made Tangerine snap his head towards his brother when he heard his wife's codename.

"You made my wife bake you a pie?"

"Then why are you Tangerine?"

"Because it's sophisticated, like me."

Lemon groaned out in annoyance. Tangerine was about to chuckle in amusement before his brows furrowed noticing something red on his brother's shirt.

"Oh, Lemon."

"Tangerine."

"You're bleeding, mate." Tangerine pointed out to Lemon who looked on himself before cursing when he did saw a couple of red spots on the right side of his shirt.

"What—oh fuck. Oh shit, mate! Who the fuck did I kill?"

"Get a wet one on it or something." Tangerine said to his brother, worried that he got injured without him knowing.

"Oh nah, man. It's not mine."

"It's not yours?"

"Nah, man. I don't bleed."

"Ye' well in that case leave your jacket open, so everyone can see."

"Oh ye' I want everyone to see my yellow tie—" Lemon agreed as he slowly went to open his jacket more.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Cover that shit up before anyone sees that!" Tangerine cut him off making his brother frown.

A groan stopped their bickering making them look at the twenty years old man on the seat across them.

"Well looks like sleeping beauty has woken up." Tangerine mockingly said as he and his brother looked at the man.

"Wakey wakey." Lemon playfully said with tangerine following his statement.

"Eggs and bakey."

With a deep sigh, a woman with blonde shoulder-length could be seen looking at her phone fondly. This woman was known as Sophia Potter neé Von Clairé, codename Doll. Yes, she was now Mrs. Potter after marrying her husband James Potter at twenty-one. There wasn't really a wedding when they married, they only signed a contract for it since they wanted it to be in secret knowing their identities in both the muggle and wizarding world would be in shambles if it was publicized.

Why the codename though? Well you see both her and her husband are contractors. Assassin contractors. Something they've hidden very securely in their time in Hogwarts. Seeing as there is no news about them in the Daily Prophet, it's safe to say that no one knew about their secret other than their brother, Lemon.

Right now, they were in a mission well it was the brother's mission and she was just a backup as well as a plus one since she knew if she wasn't here with them, they'll fuck up and her intuition is never wrong. Retouching her makeup, she noticed a man in a brown jacket, a white bucket hat, black trousers and a big black reading glasses on his face was walking rather suspiciously as he passed by her car.

It looked like he was hiding something until he took out something big from his jacket. The silver briefcase with a blue train sticker on the handle as well as to it's sides. Shit. The case is safe my ass, Doll internally rolled her eyes before snapping close her makeup powder that had a mirror on its cover.

Puckering up her lips, she stood up and patted down her long blue coat, courtesy of matching with her husband, and left her seat with her bag on it before following the suspicious man discreetly.

The man stopped in front of the Train's door that now opened when it stopped on the station letting in and out some people as they reached their destinations.

Doll stopped in the space in between the cars as she had a feeling something was going to happen to the man so she decided to wait. And boy was she right.

The whole fight baffled her as she watched the blonde man dodged and try to save himself. It also baffles her that no one ever bothered to take a look at the car next to them when the way their fighting was quite loud. Becoming even more baffled when she saw that the blonde man killed the other just by luck itself. That is going to be a problem, she thought.

After watching the man clean the whole car and decided sit himself in front of the dead man she decided it was time to reveal herself. Stepping into the car, the man was startled before straightening himself up.

"Oh, excuse me I was only on my way to grab a few drinks and snacks." Doll casually said, completely fooling the blonde man who only chuckled sheepishly at her.

"Oh yea, sure. Was just here looking out for my friend, he kinda drank too much." The man explained before continuing to eat his wasabi crackers.

"Oh that's fine, had a rough day huh?" She said as she went towards behind the counter grabbing a bottle of whiskey before pouring one in a shot glass. The smell of it reminded her of her husband which made her sigh fondly.

The blonde man continued to watch her awkwardly while glancing at the dead body beside him occasionally. Before observing her once more, that's where he noticed a glint on her finger.

"Married?" He asked the woman who hummed in question before chuckling when she noticed him looking at her hand with a ring on it.

"Yea, been for eight years now." Doll chuckled softly realizing it's been a long time in her marriage.

"Must be a very great partner to be able to last that long." The man said before grimacing when he realized it sounded a bit rude. "Sorry, sorry that was kinda rude of me—"

"Oh no that's fine, it's not that common for marriage to last that long these days now and I'm just one of the few that's been lucky, I guess." Which was true, some married couples get a divorce after two or three years or even shorter than that so she doesn't blame him for thinking that. But she and her husband would have to die first to even think of divorcing.

"So are you just going to leave the dead body there?" Doll said making the man silently stare at her in shock with his man agape.

"I'm sorry—what now?"

"I would also like to take the briefcase, if you don't mind. You see, my husband's mission is to recover the briefcase with the client's son and give it to his client. Since you stole it, I would like to take it back." She said in a casual tone as she took a sip on her drink while eating a goldfish biscuit. She hummed as she looked at the food in thought, this is quite good her husband might like it.

"I'm sorry—but how did you.."

"Know that man is dead? You weren't quite silent with the fighting so I came to check and lo' and behold! Accidentally killing the man. Now, the briefcase please." Doll explained giving the man a charming smile.

"Look lady, I don't know who you are but that case is kinda my mission. If I don't get it back, I'll be dead." The blonde man said as he hugged the case closer to himself.

"Well that case is for the White Death so either way, you'll be dead." Doll said while keeping her smile knowing she got him in checkmate. No matter how hard he'd try to deny it, she was right. It's the White Death, the man that basically controlled the whole underworld of the whole planet so either way he chooses he's dead.

"Ugh, fine." He sighed before giving her the case which she happily took before walking out of the car with a wave of her hand.

"Fucking shit fuck." The man cursed.

Getting back in her seat, she then took out her phone to text her husband who was in the train.

My wife: I have the case, you idiots.

#aaron taylor johnson #aaron taylor johnson x reader #bullet train #harry potter #james potter #james potter x reader #lemon #original character #tangerine #tangerine x reader

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maybe-im-dark · 7 hours ago

Text

Half the boyfriend, half the fun

The first thing Wade felt was cold. Not the gentle coolness of an autumn breeze or the refreshing chill of freshly fallen snow. No, this was a biting, numbing cold. His vision was blurry and his body felt...off. he tried to move but nothing happened. As he blinked away the fog in his brain and looked down at himself the realization hit him like a punch in the gut —his legs were gone.

"Crap!", he muttered in a raspy voice.

Slowly the memories returned. He and Logan had been on a mission, targeting a group of small-time criminals, who had holed up in the woods. Get there, take them out, get the cash, done. But apparently something had gone horribly wrong.

"Logan?", he called out.

No answer.

Panic flared as he looked around the wooded area. Using his arms, he began to crawl foward, twigs and pine needles digging into his stomach. Not caring for the blood trail he left behind. A few yards away he spotted Logan and the sight made his heart skip a beat. Logan looked just as bad, if not worse. Instead of being cut, his body was ripped off at one of the vulnerable intervertebral discs, that were not adamantium, torn apart brutally. One half of his metal spine was sticking out of his torso, glinting against the bloodied mess of torn skin, flesh and tendons.

"Oh, no, no, no!" Wade mumbled, dragging himself as quickly to Logan's side, as his upper half would allow. "Come on, peanut, don't do this to me!"

Logan's healing factor was strong, but unlike Wade, he couldn't regrow limbs. They needed to be attached to his body, for the wounds to start closing. Unfortunately Logan's lower half was nowhere in sight. Wade's mind raced. His belt was nearby, scattered in a pile of dried leaves. Wade rolled onto his side, grabbing it. Thankfully his Hello Kitty fliphone —small enough to fit into one of the tiny pockets— was in there for emergencies.

His fingers shook so badly that it was difficult to press the small buttons. As he went through the contact list, the adrenaline started to wear off and the pain set in. Today was really turning out to be a shit day.

The phone barely rang twice, before Dopinder picked up.

"Hey, Mr. Pool, what can i do for you on this fine day?", the cab driver's familiar thick indian accent greeted him.

"Cut the chit-chat, Dopinder! Shit has hit the fan and it's flying everywhere! Get to the coordinates i'm sending, stat!"

He hung up, quickly typing in their location and hitting send twice in agitation.

It didn't take long. Ten minutes later, Wade heard the distant screech of tires as Dopinder slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop. Dopinder hurried over, as fast as he could on the uneven ground. When he saw Wade and Logan, he looked as though he was about to puke, pressing a hand over his mouth.

"Yeah, i know! America's next topmodel isn't in our future anytime soon! Now pull yourself together for fuck's sake!", Wade yelled. "You need to help me find Logan's legs. They're around here somewhere."

Dopinder nodded, his legs wobbling, as he searched the area. A moment later he returned, cradling Logan's legs to his chest like a baby. They were still inside the yellow pants and blue boots. And why would they have undressed him? Surely nobody was that sick. Wade pushed the distracting thoughts aside.

"Alright Dopinder", he instructed, trying his best to sound calm. "Attach them to his torso. He'll up on his own."

Dopinder followed the instructions, carefully pressing Logan's lower half against his upper body. Nothing happened. Logan's wounds remained open, his body still split in two.

"Maybe...maybe he's already dead?" Dopinder suggested, looking uneasy at Logan's unconscious form.

"No, he's just passed out", Wade said. Then quietly to himself: "I hope he stays that way. I'd rather he didn't have to see this sight himself."

The wheels inside Wade's brain turned as he wracked his brain for what to do next. "We need to prevent his body parts from dying off! Ice! We need ice! Dopinder get us to a gas station, quick!"

Wade grabbed Logan's legs and Dopinder hoisted him under one arm and Logan's torso under the other, rushing back to the car. Wade maneuvered himself onto the passenger's seat as Dopinder carefully laid Logan's halves on the backseat.

Then he sped off, ignoring speed limits, though to Wade the drive still felt far too slow. Every red light cost them precious minutes. Finally they pulled up to the first gas station and Dopinder sprinted inside.

Desperately Wade turned to look at Logan. His skin was ashen with deep shadows under his eyes, that hadn't been there before.

"Hold on, honey", Wade whispered, reaching out to gently stroke Logan's disheveled dark brown hair.

A tingling sensation ran through Wade, as he realized, with some relief, that small stumps were beginning to form below his hips. His own legs were regenerating, at last. At least something was working as it should.

Dopinder returned, carrying two large plastic containers and several bags of crushed ice. He filled both containers two the brim with ice, carefully placing Logan's upper half in one and his lower half in the other.

"This is sick! Just sick!" Dopinder murmured as he took in the sight.

"Quit whining and drive to the mansion!" Wade barked.

Dopinder swallowed. But...shouldn't he be in a hospital?"

Wade rolled his eyes. "Yeah and what are you going to tell the doctors? 'Oh the guy in pieces here is actually a mutant with self healing powers, that aren't working right now. If you could fix him up, please!' Newsflash: Most people aren't too fond of mutants! These anti-mutant-propaganda-posters all over the city aren't just for show!"

Dopinder opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, nodding stiffly. He got behind the wheel and drove off. On one hand Wade felt guilty for going off on him. It wasn't fair. But on the other hand, he didn't give a fuck. Right now Logan's wellbeing wad all that mattered, everything else could wait.

"The gate's closed!" Dopinder said as they approached the mansion.

The school was an imposing building from the 19th century made of grey stones, its turrets and bay windows making it look more like a castle.

"Should we...announce ourselves?"

Wade shook his head. "Just drive right through!"

Dopinder floored it, crashing through the gate. The metal wings bend inward, scraping the sides of the car with a horrible screech as a shower of sparks flew across the windshield. Whatever. The professor could cover the damage; the old fart was loaded.

Dopinder parked, leaping out of the car. Wade wadled behind him on his tiny stumps.

"Help!" Dopinder screamed, pounding on the entrance door. "We need help!"

"Yeah, we have a medical emergency! Screw what Professor Egghead says, come out here!" Wade joined in.

The door swung open revealing Hank McCoy in a white lab coat over a beige cable-knit sweater and corduroy pants.

"Mr Wilson, i believe we made it clear, that you are not welcome here! And to have the audacity to insult the professor..."

"Come off it, cookie monster! Logan's badly injured and he won't heal!" Wade cut him off.

Hank adjusted his glasses, irritated. "Yes, yes. I'll take a look at him right away."

"Oh my stars and garters!", he exclaimed as he saw Logan's body halves in the ice-filled containers.

"Holy crap!"

Jean Grey had joined them, without Wade noticing. Not exactly ladylike to curse like that. Did Cyclops know his fiancée used such language?

Using telekinesis, Jean carefully levitated Logan's body parts, guiding them as she and Hank rushed back to the mansion. Wade followed as quickly as his stubby legs would allow.

"What are you gonna do? Will he be okay? Why...?"

The door slammed shut in his face.

Outraged, he turned to Dopinder. "Really? They're just leaving the readers with a cliffhanger like that? Well, to be continued i guess."

#wolverine #hugh jackman #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool #ryan reynolds #poolverine #deadclaws #fanfiction #fanart #arists on tumblr #they're gonna put up a sign on the door of the mansion with his face that says not welcome

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cierraonline · 13 hours ago

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Missing the podcast real baddddd

EP 1 - No Mean Girl References! Does Billie Like Her Gf's Family? Kimora Has Short Term Memory! You Are The Asshole!

Chapter one : podcast episode #1

Warning: none

Masterlist | next chapter

"Hey you!" Kimora points to the camera, "Were you bored scrolling on TikTok, ended up on YouTube, and realized you have a 'TikTok bird ass brain' that can’t focus on one thing for more than ten seconds? Did you see this thumbnail and think, 'Oh, there’s that Kardashian girl; let’s stare at her face for ten minutes and theorize what plastic surgery she's had'? If so, you’ve come to the right place." Kimora stands straight, looking at the camera with a smile, giving her best five-star hospitality attitude. "Hi, I’m Kimora West, daughter of Kim Kardashian and Kanye West—but you may know them as ‘Culture Vulture Gold Digger’ and ‘That once-good producer before he went... you know, crazy.' I now have a podcast with my girlfriend of four years, Billie Eilish." Billie slides into view and does jazz hands.

"Hi, I’m Billie Eilish, singer, songwriter, and more importantly, her girlfriend," the now-brunette says her short n' sweet line.

"We hope you guys enjoy," Kimora smiles, tilting her head to the side. "Or don’t—we still get paid either way, thanks to YouTube."

XXX

"Sup,kisses and hugs! It’s Kimora, and today is Wednesday, so of course, we’re wearing pink," Kimora says, showing off her baby pink tee and hot pink textured sweatpants. "And over there we have Janis..." The camera slowly slides to the right, revealing Billie in an oversized black shirt and oversized jean jorts.

"Billie," Billie smiles, then turns to her girlfriend. "I thought we agreed on no 'Mean Girls' references."

"Asking me not to make 'Mean Girls' references is like asking me not to be me," Kimora states, before looking back at the camera. "First on the list, a fan question for Billie. Billie, your fan, billiecanslutmeout, wants to know: ‘Do you like the Kardashian family outside of Kimora?'"

"Skip," Billie shakes her head, not wanting to answer because she feels it’s confrontational and doesn’t want to risk upsetting her partner or attracting hate from the 'Kar-Jenner' fanbase.

"Nope," Kimora emphasizes the last syllable. "Answer."

"We’ve talked about this before," Billie begins, but Kimora cuts her off, giving a direct answer.

"She doesn’t like them and is currently in her head trying to find a way to sugarcoat it."

"I didn’t say that," Billie throws her head back, laughing.

"You literally made a song about it—'Overheated,'" Kimora squints her eyes.

"I... I love you and every luxury pink baggage that comes with you. I have love for your family because you’re a product of them. And you are my favorite person in the whole world," Billie says sincerely. "But as someone who promotes body positivity, I don’t support the negative body-image messaging that is part of your family's brand, and there's the constant need for relevancy and exposure, which I’ve developed my own opinions on from behind-the-scenes stories you’ve told me about filming for the TV show."

"Smart answer," Kimora nods. "Now, what about my dad?"

"I honestly think your dad hates me," Billie shakes her head.

"He doesn’t hate you," Kimora insists, knowing deep down that her father actually appreciates Billie’s positive influence on her.

"He literally posted on Instagram that if I didn’t apologize to Travis Scott, he’d cancel his Coachella performance, which led his fans to flood my accounts with hate. I never even mentioned Travis—I was just helping a fan at my concert!" Billie exclaims, eyes wide.

"Yeah, he did do that," Kimora nods awkwardly, acknowledging that her father had actually done it without provocation, putting both girls in a difficult position. For Billie, it was a choice between saying what she truly felt and risking being bullied off the internet by his fans—or staying silent to avoid hurting Kimora. For Kimora, it was about deciding who would get hurt: Billie or her father. "Sorry."

"It was hurtful, but I think you handled it well, especially since it happened in our first year of really being together," Billie reassured her. "Like, as soon as you found out what was going on, you called me while you were driving over with my favorite food to make sure I was okay and could sleep that night."

"I just didn’t want you to feel like…like you and your mental health weren’t a priority for me," Kimora struggled with her words, trying to explain her motivations. "Because I know how my dad can get, and at the time, he’d been spiraling for a few days already. So for me, you were the top priority on my list. I didn’t want to just do nothing and make it seem like his actions were acceptable—because they weren't. I-I-I guess what I’m trying to say is that I wanted you to know I’d be there for you, even if it meant going against my family."

"Yeah," Billie smiled at her with ocean-clear blue eyes meeting warm chocolate brown, speckled with caramel, filled with love and adoration. "Even though we didn’t say it out loud at that time, that was one of those moments when I knew I was in love with you. You stayed with me that whole week, making sure I was okay and taken care of…and even called your dad to apologize to me and ask him to take down the post."

“Aww, you loved me only three weeks in?” Kimora gushed, leaning forward to offer a kiss. Billie smiled and leaned in as well, their breaths mingling in the close space between them. Gently, Billie lifted her left hand, tucking a stray strand of hair behind Kimora’s ear before tracing her fingers softly along Kimora’s cheek, savoring the velvet-like feel of her skin. With a delicate motion, she moved her fingers from cheek to chin, then closed the distance and softly pressed her lips to her girlfriend’s.

“I love you,” Billie whispered, her eyes still closed, their faces barely a centimeter apart.

“I love you, too,” Kimora replied with a smile, then leaned in for one more tender kiss.

"Do you remember how we met?" Billie asks after the ad, now reclined on the couch with Kimora laying across her, leg draped over her waist.

"We met through a reference from Justin, because he would always say we absolutely had to meet. Hailey was like, 'You two would be perfect for each other if you were to date, because you're opposites with a cohesive middle ground,'" Kimora recalls, remembering her conversation with the Biebers. They were very persistent about wanting the two young, popular stars to either befriend each other—or, in some cases, get married immediately.

"So when did we officially meet?" Billie smiles, playing with Kimora's curls.

"In the Met Gala bathroom," Kimora answers with a smile. "I was coming out of the stall, and you were staring at yourself deeply in the mirror. I told you, 'You don’t have to worry about your appearance anymore. By now, everyone is probably drunk off their rockers because the food sucks, so you could be butt naked and no one would even notice.'"

"I’m surprised you remember that," Billie kisses her forehead. "You’re terrible at remembering things."

"No, I’m not," Kimora pouts, playfully slapping Billie’s thigh.

"You literally forgot we were filming today and almost went to work, even though you scheduled the day off," Billie laughs.

"I have a good memory," Kimora insists. "I’m just busy with the new Skims launch, aka Skims by Kimora." Kimora sits up, looking directly at the camera. "Get your favorite new set for 40% off with code 'GirlsInPink,' no purchase minimum."

"During lockdown, we got hooked on Reddit’s 'Am I the Asshole' stories," Billie smiles, back in their original positions on the burnt orange velvet couch.

"I don’t have blood pressure issues, but these stories drive me nuts. Like, why even ask if you're the asshole when it’s so obvious?" Kimora frowns. "For our first Reddit submission, please welcome Georgina!" Billie holds up a pink square remote, and clapping noises fill the room.

"Heyyy!" Kimora pouts at the remote in Billie’s hand. "I was supposed to be Sam in this podcast."

"Well, now you’re Carly," Billie teases, sticking out her tongue.

"No fair," Kimora crosses her arms, playfully sulking.

"You’re acting like a baby," Billie rolls her eyes with a grin.

"Ok, and?" Kimora glared. "If anything, I'm a cute baby..." She turned her head away from her girlfriend and looked to the right, making eye contact with her best friend, Georgina Miller.

"Alright, first Reddit submission is...‘I am a mother of five, 3 bio-Brooke 22, Will 18 and Iris 16 and 2 bonus sons-Sam 26 and Jack 23. All of my kids are currently living at home with me and my husband for various reasons. Sam's girlfriend Tori 21 and Will's girlfriend Mary 18 also lives with us full time, and Jack GF stays over a lot.

We have a pretty good relationship with all the kids, we don't charge them rent but everyone contribute to the household. We have a couple basic rules-input on utilities, maintain the common areas, etc but one of the rules is no babies, we don't expect our kids to celibate. But we do expect them to be careful.

On Friday, I found a receipt and saw someone brought a pregnancy test. I immediately took a picture of the receipt and put in the family group chat, I figured the culprit would out themselves. No one confessed, so I said that all girls that live in or visited are taking a pregnancy test because I suspect someone is pregnant. They pretty much lost their minds and told me no and messaged that I was being weird and invasive.

That is when I got upset and said that if anyone refused a test, they would have to move out. Everyone freaked out and told me that I'm being emotional and crazy. They decide no one would take a test. I think they assume I will not kick everyone out, but I will because I feel like I'm being gaslit. My youngest Iris is the only one I don't suspect because she is gay, not openly, but I know. I have

given everyone the entire weekend to calm down because everyone has been avoiding me and giving me the cold shoulder. I have tried to discuss the situation repeatedly but I have been ignored in person and over phone.

At this point, I am ready to evict everyone because someone is blatantly lying and all of the others are backing a lie while living stress free in my house. My husband thinks I should let it go for now because the test might have been negative and if someone is pregnant we will know soon. But I feel it a larger issue now of my kids disrespecting me by lying to me. Am I being the asshole?”

“Yes,” Billie answered right when Georgina was done with reading the submission.

“You’re not an asshole… but you are,” Kimora answers. “I can see the problem from both points of view.”

“Same, but I think what makes her an asshole is how she’s handling the situation now that she didn’t get the answers she wanted,” Billie explains why she thinks the writer is indeed an asshole.

“Yeah,” Kimora agrees. “Like, I get it, you’re upset because your boundaries were stepped on, and that’s unfair to you. But at the same time, you can’t force someone to take a pregnancy test just because you want answers right now.”

“Exactly. Even though it was negative, that person probably needed time to think and process the results. They could’ve been reevaluating what to do better to prevent another scare,” Billie adds.

“Oh my God!” A thought hits Kimora's brain full force. “I have another day off—remind me to register to vote.”

“Baby,” Billie looks at her with concern. “You registered last week at the same time as me when my mom was doing hers and asked if we wanted to come do ours.”

“Ohhh.”

“We’re gonna work on your memory, don’t worry,” Billie rubs Kimora’s thigh with sincerity.

“Anyways,” Kimora brushes off the awkward moment. “At the end of the day, you own the house, and if you feel gaslit and your boundaries were crossed, then kick them out, I guess. Just be prepared for the consequences that come with that action. Because at the end of the day… you literally said you don’t care if your kids are having sex, as long as they’re protected. And the pregnancy test was negative. I just feel like you can be protected and still have scares. I mean, Billie and I use a fake penis, and we still get scares. It comes with the territory.”

“They didn’t need to know that!” Billie looks at Kimora with wide eyes, shocked by her girlfriend’s impulsive thoughts.

“They were probably already thinking it,” Kimora shrugs. “You’ve literally done an interview talking about masturbation. Me saying we use a dildo isn’t anything new or shocking.”

“Just end the video,” Billie covers her face with her hands in embarrassment. “Now, please.”

“Hi, it’s me again,” Kimora awkwardly waves her hand. “Did your TikTok bird ass brain develop and actually let you stay to watch the whole video? Did you like what you saw or heard… or both, for the privileged? If you nodded your head yes or weirdly answered talking to a screen, then you should subscribe to this channel. We update every Wednesday and Saturday, so don’t worry if you don’t have actual friends to hang out with. Instead, come watch me and my girlfriend, Billie, talk about useless shit, vent, and argue about things we’ve done in the past with a couple of inappropriate touches that you shouldn’t be seeing, but our editor is too blind and lazy to take out. We love you, Lisa,” Kimora shouts out her editor at the end. “Bye!”

taglist @billiesrighthand @bilswildflower @bilsluckyheart @billiesgoodgirll @billsvip @billieshrry @dandelions4us @factsbybriggs @rhearipley-69 @cierraonline @amberg1998 @crystalblue88 @mercurylvd @saffsblog @ihavenoideayimhere @umadirectioner @harajukub4rb1e @sun81rise @jamiemundy7773 @cyberdreamlanddeer @steampunkprincess147 @zendayasredbottoms @efemerous @lady0ftheflowers

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kadentherabbit · 2 days ago

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Can you do Tate Langdon jealousy sex? Like someone came over and they were being flirty??

The only friend you’ll ever need.

Divider by @/enchanthings

i am back 😈😈 but i am still rusty so be nice to me.

this fic IS proofread!!!!! This fic includes Tate thinking about murder, Tate is in fact dead in this, very small amounts of dialouge, uhhhh sex, ass slapping, no aftercare, and a very lazy ending :(.

Tate watched as that stupid guy friend of yours finally left, he had to resist the urge to just snap that guy's neck when he was leaving your room, it wouldn't matter either way because Tate would never let him in the house ever again, over his living body would you ever speak to him again. He didn't understand how you were so oblivious to the guy's flirting, his hand would slide over your thigh a little too close to your crotch, or the way he would deepen his voice just to answer a simple question. Tate saw through the whole act, that he wasn't just trying to impress you, he was trying to get into your pants.

Tate stood in your doorframe, watching as you brushed out your hair and focused on the small amount of essay you had left to write, putting down the brush and replacing its empty spot in your hands with the pencil so you could jot down the ideas that had came to your head. He stood there for a few seconds longer without you noticing before taking a few steps closer, his feet made no noise against the creaky floorboards, ones that would alert you of anyone's presence if they weren't in fact dead and weightless like Tate was.

You felt his cold and slender fingers drag along your shoulders first, not staying there for long before moving up to play with your hair, twirling the soft strands around his fingers before pulling his hand away with a sigh, his eyes meeting yours in the vanity's mirror. The same cold and lifeless look he always had, yet, it had a slight hint of anger that you could pick up on. Your eyebrows furrowed slightly, waiting a second to speak to see if you could find out what was angering him this time before saying anything.

"What...?" You asked in a confused tone, turning around in your seat to face Tate. His eyes only moving down so he could stare at you more and just look angrier for no specific reason...well, no specific reason yet. "Whats wrong with you?" your tone switched to a more teasing one, head gently tilting to the side, Tate's hands once again tugging up from his sides to squeeze your cheek with a small amount of force.

small....tiny tiny time skip because I can't think of Tate dialogue....

You couldn't think, Tate thrusting into you harder than you swear he'd ever done before, his mindless mumbling and growling filling your ears. He was pissed and his actions showed it. You were ontop of him, hands trying to grasp onto anything you could but the moment you were able to reach him or his hair, he'd just smack your hand away. All he wanted to do was prove to you that he was the only friend you'd ever need.

Tate grabbed at the flesh of your ass, holding onto it gently for a few seconds as he continued fucking into your abused and leaking hole. Even if you werent able to touch him, he on the other hand, was able to grab at and smack at you however he wanted. I supppose that was another part of his revenge plot, Tates grumbling finally turned into words, you had almost expected some types of praise to counter just how rough he was aggressive he was being with you.

"He's not better than me is he? He can't fuck you like i can, can he?"

He almost sounded insecure with the way he whimpered at the end of his words but before you could answer his questions, he was cumming inside of you for the second time in about ten minutes. Tate's teeth gently dug into the soft skin of your neck and eventually your shoulder while he pushed himself further into you so he could really fill you up. More small whimpers flooding from the ghosts mouth as he emptied himself into you and your finger nails dug into the cold skin of his back.

You clenched around him as your orgasm finally took you over, shaking slighlty as your nails left cresant shaped marks in his skin. The two of you almost stuck together due to the large amount of sweat that had started to pool over your bodies. Tate only started to pull out of you when he noticed your shaking had stopped, not wanting to overstimualte you or hurt you in any way.

He looked down at you, with the same cold eyes that glared at you with anger earlier that day, the anger now completly gone. Tilting his head as he looked over your fucked out body, he wouldve stared at you for the rest of the day if he didnt hear the sound of the main door being knocked on. The sound of that stupid friend of yours yelling about leaving his phone in your room, low and behold, his phone sat on your night stand. Prompting Tate to give you a parting kiss, and eventually leaving you alone in your bed, sweaty, fucked out and naked, oh and that guy yelling about his phone, fun.

#x reader #x male reader #x female reader #x reader smut #evan peters #ahs smut #tate langdon smut #tate langdon x reader #tate langdon x y/n #tate langdon ahs

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leavemetrappedinacage · 6 hours ago

Text

EVERYTHING WAS A MISTAKE — prologue.

Sumary: A fateful meeting with someone from your past brings painful revelations.

⤷ pairing: yandere!satoru gojo x fem!vampire!reader.

⤷ warnings: dubcon (kiss only), attempted suicide, description of blood, injury, threats, slight stalking (Satoru is chasing the reader around).

⤷ more information about story: here.

⤷ notes: this is my first time posting a fic and I'm a bit scared, I hope you enjoy it, I also decided to make each chapter a different color, the synopsis for example is pink, while this one is a pale green, almost yellow, I hope you don't mind. Have a great day!

⤷ word count: 3288.

Life is like a butterfly, ephemeral, beautiful, and above all, fragile. You watch people stumble on the pavement, your face reflects subtly in the glass of the window, fortunately people aren't able to see you from the outside, you'd like to warn them about a small incline in the pavement, you yourself have stumbled there many times before realising, you close your eyes and laugh until your cheeks hurt, not out of mockery, but out of shame at imagining how many people have seen you stumble.

The shop manager snaps her fingers in front of your face to get your attention, you cough and pull yourself together, you see a gleam of curiosity light up in her hazel eyes, you smile at her and tilt your head to the side subtly, she understands the signal and watches a wanderer trip and fall, she covers her mouth with both hands to stifle her outrageous laughter.

You stop yourself from laughing along with her, she has a contagious laugh, sometimes you can't help it, you turn and walk away and leave her amused at the window, you take the cloth off your shoulder and scrub the counter and the till. You've been working in the flower store as a general service assistant for eight months, you weren't looking for a job, but Gloria, the manager and owner of the store, needed a handyman to help her, you were passing by and stopped to look at the flowers, she asked if you were new in town and if you didn't have a job yet, you even thought about tricking her and saying you didn't need a job, but you were honest and when you answered her, she grabbed your arm and dragged you inside, since then you've been working for her.

You're not used to spending a lot of time in one place, there's a huge target on your back, so you're always leaving without looking back, but after getting to know Gloria and the city better, you couldn't leave. You went behind the counter and leaned your arms on it and laid your face in the palm of your hand, you pulled up the sleeve of your blouse and looked at your wristwatch to check the time, in a few minutes Gloria's children would arrive from school and you would be alone in the store.

Tonight you're going to accompany Gloria to an art exhibition, she's shouting from across the store so that you don't forget the promise you made her, if you accompany her, she'll buy you that expensive perfume from her sister's perfumery, you couldn't let that opportunity slip away. You hummed, you haven't been on dates since you were young, before your life turned into the hell it is, you used to go on dates with your old boyfriend, in the past you arranged a date with him and then it all happened, you couldn't make it because of the circumstances and he was furious. Thinking about it makes you uncomfortable.

You shake your head to clear away the painful memories, you haven't seen or heard from your boyfriend for ten years, you don't even consider him your boyfriend anymore, after all, years have passed, he could be engaged to someone else by now. You tap your nails on the counter when you imagine him with someone else. Your bad mood disappears when Gloria comes in to excuse you from work. She announces to you that she'll be leaving early so that you can both get ready to go to the exhibition.

"So... see you later."

Your expression changes from water to wine, your face becomes brighter, the strange thoughts that were running through your head disappear completely. You give Gloria a tight hug and say goodbye, you've arranged to meet her in front of the store at 20:00hrs, you check the time on your wristwatch, it's 17:30, you have enough time to get ready. You go skipping down the street, but the tension in the air makes you stop abruptly, you feel like you're being watched, but when you analyze your surroundings, there's no threat around.

You're always on the alert, not least because your clan has been hunting you like an animal for years. However, paranoia has already made you make mistakes, and you don't want to make mistakes tonight, you have a date! You shake your body and slap your cheeks to dispel this feeling, you tell yourself that nothing bad is going to happen tonight. For a moment you look up at the dazzling late afternoon sky, there are no clouds covering the stars and the setting sun because it's summer in Brazil, but there are a few puddles of water in the street because it rained in the morning, the weather is really crazy here, you can experience all the seasons in a single day.

You greet some familiar faces along the way, the children in the street come to greet you and you offer them warm hugs, you tell them to wait for you, whenever you can you bring bread and sweets for the children, because there is no adult to look after them. Your house is in the middle of a dirt road, not far from the city, but far enough away that if anything happens you'll be able to hide your tracks, the house is old and small, but it's much better than some places you've lived.

You walk for about fifteen minutes until you reach the house, the feeling of being watched comes again, you pass through the gate of the house and look back and to the sides, there's nothing there, but when you reach the door of the house you freeze when you don't hear the characteristic click of the lock. The door is open. You frown and swallow, whoever is behind this door is skilled enough to escape your enhanced senses. You're not human, so whoever is watching you is skilled enough to bypass your vampire sense of smell.

You open the door slowly, there are lots of weapons scattered around the house at strategic points, you just need to pick one of them up. You close the door behind you and look for clues in the hallway, there are no signs of a break-in, no footprints or even traces of someone having been there, but you're not convinced yet. You take off your shoes and grab a dagger hidden inside the umbrella holder, walking on tiptoe and sneaking around the walls, you look from side to side and change position several times.

You search the whole house twice as a precaution, there's nothing, and you're beginning to think that your paranoia is getting the better of you. Yet something tells you not to drop the dagger. You never go against your sixth sense, because most of the time you're right, you close your eyes and stand facing the bedside table in the living room, you take a deep breath and wait, if there was someone there, surely that person would appear. But to your surprise no one has appeared. You feel frustrated and relieved at the same time, you go up the stairs and into the bathroom with the dagger still in your hand, you start getting ready for the meeting, you promised yourself you wouldn't be late and you're going to keep that promise.

You've chosen the best outfit you have, it's nothing fancy, but it's the most beautiful dress in your small closet, it's long with short cream-colored sleeves, there are some birds embroidered in blue on the chest, you've put a checkered belt around your waist as an extra accessory, because the only jewel you have is the reliquary you carry around your neck. You don't normally wear heels because it's difficult to run in them, but today you made an exception. You look at your watch and it's almost time to leave.

You go downstairs excitedly, singing and twirling around, you go to the kitchen and fill a basket with bread and some sweets you've ordered, in your haste you forget your dagger on the counter. Suddenly, a strange presence hovers around the house, you stop abruptly in the middle of the corridor and wait for the other person to attack first, you spin on your heels ready to punch the intruder, but you are blocked by an invisible wall and the basket of bread falls with the impact. Your eyes glaze over in a mixture of surprise and confusion, you know that not many people know your weaknesses, but there was a certain someone who was highly capable of doing it: Satoru Gojo was the name of that person.

"Hello, Y/N." He greets you with a cynical smile. "Long time no see."

"YOU!" You vociferate with your jaw locked.

You're very close to each other. However, before he can speak, you take a glass of acid from your pocket and throw it at the barrier, it's useless, but it gives you enough time and space to get away from him and think clearly, you take a wooden dagger from behind a painting on the wall, a gun would come in handy now, but you were too far from the sofa to pick it up. You can't defeat the great Satoru Gojo, you don't have the power to do it, even if you are good at the art of killing, the Six Eyes are the real stone in your shoe. No matter how skilled you are, you can't escape those eyes.

"How the hell did you find me here?"

"Glad to see you too." He keeps his attitude unassuming and calm, but he's not happy that you've become so strong and skilled, the last time he saw you, you wouldn't have even noticed his presence. "Aren't you going to say hello?"

"Why are you here?" You remain impassive.

"You really don't know?" He raises an eyebrow, as if you've asked a rhetorical question. "You gave the elders of the four clans, including mine, a lot of headaches, so the old men finally gave me permission to come after you."

You wrinkle your nose, this man has come all this way to kill you, you just don't know when or how, you turn your gaze to his face, he's so serious wearing that pair of blue glasses with square lenses, it's ridiculous, but you can't judge him, since you hid the pair of custom-made sunglasses he used to wear, back then you harbored deep feelings for him and decided to keep that pair of glasses with you as a souvenir. It's funny that people who are very close can go from people who know each other to people who don't know each other anymore. A lump forms in your throat and it's hard to breathe, despair takes hold of you, like a spark falling on a pile of straw. You don't want to go back, you like it here, your new life, without curses or evil sorcerers, but you also don't want to be hated by the people you love.

"It's no use trying to run away." He warns you, and it's amazing how his every word sounds like a veiled threat, he takes a step forward and you step back. "But I'm not going to kill you."

"Not now..." You mumble, laughing scornfully, you don't believe him, it's in your face, you step back and take a good look at him, he's wearing expensive clothes, but too simple for his taste, he's also aged in recent years, he turns his face away when he feels the weight of your gaze, strangely uncomfortable. "If you're not going to kill me, what have you come here for?"

"To take you, of course." He sounds as if he's stating the obvious.

"Of course." You shake your head in agreement, you're still laughing. "Of course..." You lean on the wall of the house and laugh until your stomach hurts.

"Is this some kind of joke to you?"

"Of course!" You repeated again with false enthusiasm. "I'm not going back with you, not over my dead body. But you wouldn't kill me even if I hurt you, right? The merciful Satoru Gojo, the man who doesn't get his hands dirty, not even when faced with a murderer." You sneer at him, and he doesn't like it one bit, the last few years have turned you into a cynical and suspicious person, maybe he was telling the truth, but he didn't say anything about hurting you. You hold the dagger steady and point it at his face. "Only one of us is getting out of here today."

You'd kill him without hesitation if you could, he knows it, but you're not interested in a fight, if you knew how much his power has grown while you've been away, you wouldn't be pointing that knife at him. You're also aware that it's a losing battle, you can't win even if there are ten of you, so you decide to use the only card up your sleeve, your own life, you point the dagger at your neck, it's a risky move, but if he still has feelings for you, he'll let you go.

"You wouldn't do that, you're bluffing." He doesn't seem very confident that you're going to kill yourself, after all you value your life so much that you've been running away for years, so you've pierced your neck superficially, but enough to make it bleed. "You crazy suicidal bitch, don't you dare!"

His reaction gives you a little confidence.

"LET ME GO!" You shout.

"I CAN'T, OKAY? PLEASE STOP THIS SHIT." He runs his hand over his face and then through his hair, making it messier than usual, he tries to get closer, but you push the blade even deeper into his neck, he grunts and bites his lower lip. "Stop it, please, I just want to talk." He stutters, his voice laced with tears.

The last time you met, he was so angry that you couldn't recognize him, yet now he looks much more like the boyfriend who loved you deeply than a hunter. You shake your head in agreement and take the dagger out of your neck, blood spurts everywhere and ruins your dress, but it's not serious, you're not stupid, you would never hit a vital point, you just wanted to scare him a bit so you could get away. Satoru suddenly approached you and put pressure on your neck to stop the bleeding, you barely feel any pain, you're used to getting hurt. You're not a sorcerer to use RCT, but you were able to heal yourself, you'd like to remind him of that, but this is the first time you're interacting with him after so long, and he was being so careful that you didn't want to stop him. You watched him throughout, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth slightly curved into a pout, he was so sexy.

You frown, strange (and obscene) thoughts come to mind, without realizing that he's watching you make these faces and mouths, the next thing you know, he's got his face very close to yours, so close that you can feel his uneven breathing touch the skin of your cheek, he looks at your lips and then into your eyes, you get goose bumps, feelings that you've repressed all these years burst through the door of your heart like an avalanche, you stagger backwards with your face turned to the floor.

Your mind is in chaos, you're distracted for a second or two, but long enough for Satoru to seal his soft lips to yours, the sweet, calm feeling of a chill in your belly, your first kiss after ten years apart. His fingers tangle in your hair and close in an inviting grip that has served to bring the two of you even closer together. He forces you to give in and make room for the real kiss to begin, he explores every corner of your mouth and rubs his tongue against yours in an obscene way, he leads the kiss in a way that you can barely follow. Before breaking the kiss completely, he runs his tongue over your lips as if to show you that he's close enough to invade your mouth again.

You choke on your breath and feel feverish, you were willing to risk your own life to get away from him a few minutes ago, but now you're here in his arms, at the mercy of his desires.

"Stop." Your throat is burning. "Please stop."

He doesn't comply with your request and advances again, so you block his lips with your free hand, he smiles and licks the back of your hand, your face turns red up to your ears, it's humiliating how he's able to mess with you and how your body simply doesn't obey you when it comes to him. However, it's so cute for him to see you so shy (resistant), it reminds him of the first time he fucked you, you were so innocent and vulnerable. Satoru wonders if he could repeat the same feat if he pushed you a little harder.

"I TOLD YOU TO STOP." You push his face away from yours, leaving him at a safe distance, you lower your head and face your feet, luckily your hair is long enough to cover your reddened face. "Say what you want and let's get it over with."

Satoru finally accepts that you're not going to give in anymore, so he takes the dagger from you and throws it a considerable distance away, he's afraid you'll hurt yourself again, you stand in an awkward silence for a while, until your heartbeat normalizes and you come to your senses. With great difficulty you look at him again, but instead of that seductive look, he's slumped and playing with his fingers, a clear sign of anxiety.

"You didn't come to kill me." You feel the air get heavy and his face turns grim after you come to this conclusion, you've never seen him like this before, only when Toji killed Amanai, you frown and hold his blouse with both hands. "Something's happened, hasn't it?" You click your tongue on the roof of your mouth. "What's wrong? Why are you here?" He laughs nervously, you've always been very clever. "Don't be quiet, you were very talkative just now."

His body is shaking, but it's not the cold that bothers him, whatever he's hiding from you affects him to the extent that it makes him shut up, and Satoru Gojo never shuts up, not even when his life was in danger did he stop laughing and babbling about how strong he is. But now he seems like a different person, completely different from the idiot you've lived with for years, and an idiot like him doesn't change so easily, he just becomes more arrogant over time. He turns his face to the floor and bites his lower lip, hesitant to tell you the truth, his heart races in anguish and you shake him, ripping his glasses off his face, at which point you see dark circles under his eyes and watery eyes. You become anxious, but before you could shout at him, he opened his mouth to answer you and you didn't know how to react, because it wasn't the answer you were expecting.

"I didn't come here because of the elders or whatever nonsense is going through your head right now, I came here because... I'm so sorry, Y/N, your sister... she disappeared."

Life really is a butterfly.

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