#if she does i might write a sequel

[eternalchaoschocolaterain]

Right?! It's my fave too 😁 she's hilarious

It’s amusing to me too aberforth

Seeing merula be bad at her jobs is one of my fav parts of beyond

[spikedfearn]

Under the Blood Moon

Part II

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: A year has passed since he took you—since the chapel became your prison, then your home. You love him now. You kiss him back. You call him husband. But when vampire hunters break in to “save” you, they’re not met with gratitude—they’re met with claws, fangs, and a wrath that leaves blood on the altar. In the aftermath, with his hands still stained and your body trembling in his arms, a quiet truth surfaces: you might be carrying something more than love.

wc: 7.1k

a/n: UTBM 2 has easily been my most heavily requested sequel, so I'm here to finally make good on that promise!! While this wraps the immediate arc, I do plan to write another part at some point, exploring what comes next now that something new is growing between them!!

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance, somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly), gore, murder, body horror, emotional manipulation, pregnancy themes, psychological conditioning, trauma bonding, devotion through violence, canon-typical Remmick unhingery, homegrown cult wife aesthetics

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! Please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

M I N D T H E T A G S

Part II: And Lead Her Down the Rocky Road

The air hangs thick tonight—slow and wet and warm, the kind of heat that slicks your skin and clings to your lungs. Somewhere in the trees, a bullfrog sings loud and stupid into the night, and cicadas thrum so hard it feels like your bones vibrate with them.

You sit in Remmick’s lap like you’ve done a hundred times before—knees bracketing his thighs, your bare feet tucked against the curve of his calves. The ruined chapel has long since become home, no longer rotting but reclaimed—patched with pelts and scavenged velvet, dried herbs and bones hung over the windows to keep out things meaner than him.

His hands are on you. They always are.

One wide palm rests heavy at your hip, the other dragging idle circles across the base of your spine—not guiding, not restraining, just touching. Claiming. Reminding.

You’re in one of his shirts, faded and worn, the collar stretched from him tugging it down to bite at your shoulder earlier. Your thighs are bare, still sticky from the last time he touched you there.

He hasn’t spoken in a while. Just watches you.

You’ve learned he does that when something is brewing. When the heat inside him is less hunger and more...something else. Something quieter. Not softer. Just deeper.

You glance down at him. His head tilts.

"What?" you ask—barely above a murmur, throat tacky with wine and swamp air.

Remmick smiles. That slow, amused pull of his lips, eyes red in the candlelight.

"Nothin'," he drawls. "Just sittin here lookin' at my lil’ missus, wonderin' when she got so soft on me."

Your stomach does something awful and warm. You roll your eyes.

"Don’t call me that," you mutter.

He just chuckles. The sound wraps around your spine and pulls.

"Y'ain’t denyin’ it."

You scowl—but your hands are still on his shoulders. Your body hasn’t moved.

He leans forward just enough to nuzzle your jaw, the scruff of his face scraping your skin. When he presses his mouth just under your ear, you feel his grin against you.

"Used to flinch every time I touched ya," he murmurs. "Now look atcha. Ridin' me like a lil' house cat in heat."

You hate how hot it makes you—how your thighs clench over his hips, how you can feel your cunt ache at the sound of his voice.

"Shut up," you mutter, cheeks burning.

"Ain't lyin'," he says, voice slow and fond. "My good girl. My lil’ missus. All tamed now."

Your heart does something messy.

You stare at him.

He stares right back.

His mouth is right there. Still curved into that shit-eating grin.

You don't think about it. You don’t let yourself.

You just lean in—

and kiss him.

Your lips press to his before you realize you’ve done it.

It isn't hesitant. It’s not chased. Isn't a panicked, trembling attempt to appease him.

It’s real.

Your mouth touches his slow and soft—nothing performative, nothing pulled from fear. No trembling. Just a kiss. One that you gave.

And Remmick goes still.

Like a corpse.

Like something ancient that’s forgotten how to breathe.

The smirk dies on his mouth. His hands, always so sure and cocky and possessive, still against your waist. His body stiffens beneath you like a hound that just caught the scent of something delectable.

His eyes don’t close.

They just widen—red and round, stunned and wild.

You pull back only a breath—just enough to see him. His face. That quiet, wrecked look.

Like you reached into his chest and touched something he thought had long since rotted away.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t move.

He just looks at you like you’ve undone him.

And for once, that silence doesn’t scare you.

You blink at him. “...You okay?”

The laugh that leaves him isn’t a real laugh.

It breaks.

Cracks.

Comes out wet and hoarse and unbelieving.

"You kissed me," he says, voice low and stunned.

You swallow. Nod. “Yeah. I did.”

His hands find your waist again—trembling now. Gripping you tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you down.

"You kissed me," he repeats, slower this time. Voice barely a breath. "My girl. My lil’ missus. Kissed me like she meant it."

You nod again. More careful this time.

"I did."

His head drops forward. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath gone ragged.

You feel the whole of him shake beneath you.

Then—He laughs again.

But this one’s real.

Low, cracked, joyful. Terrifying.

"Fuckin’ hell," he mutters, arms crushing you to his chest. “Ain’t no goin’ back now.”

And then he’s kissing you back—hard, open-mouthed, greedy.

It’s not like before. Not punishment. Not proof. Not a game of control.

It’s desperation.

His hands grip your face like it might disappear. His tongue pushes into your mouth like he’s starving, like it’s not enough, like he’s trying to crawl into you. His body shakes under yours with something almost childlike—frantic and raw and overflowing.

When he finally pulls back, he stares at you like he can’t believe you're real.

“You ain’t ever kissed nobody like that before,” he says, voice quiet. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Not even that boy y’was courtin’ b’fore me.”

You shake your head. “Didn’t love him.”

Remmick goes still again. Not stiff like before—but hunted.

You feel the air shift.

“You love me?”

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

He exhales—slow, sharp, wrecked.

Then he leans in.

Not to kiss you. To whisper.

“Lay down f’me,” he says, voice trembling. “Right now, lil’ missus.”

He stands with you still in his arms—like nothing weighs more than you—and carries you toward the bed at the back of the chapel.

Not the mattress on the ground where he first claimed you. Not the one you bled on.

This one’s new—lifted off the floor, carved from salvaged cypress wood and lashed with thick rope. Still crude, still heavy, still his. But cleaner now. Softer. Dressed in scavenged sheets that smell like ash, sweat, and a little crushed lavender from the bundle you laid beside it last week.

He sets you down like you’ll break.

Then he just looks at you.

Like he doesn’t know if this is real.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed now, legs parted slightly from where you were straddling his lap, the hem of his shirt barely covering your thighs. Your breath comes in quiet bursts. Your lips are swollen from his. Your heartbeat is racing, and you don’t try to hide it.

You don’t look afraid.

Remmick notices.

His mouth parts like he wants to speak, but instead, he sinks to his knees in front of you. His hands find your thighs—warm, big, shaking—and he presses his forehead to the space between them. He breathes in deep, like he’s been holding his breath for a year.

"Say it again," he rasps. "Please, lil’ missus. Just once more."

You run your fingers through his wild hair—slow, uncertain, but not shy.

"I love you."

He shudders.

One of his hands slides higher, under the hem of his shirt, dragging up the curve of your thigh, over your hip. He doesn’t rush it. His other hand moves to the center of your chest, resting right over your heartbeat like he needs proof.

"Lay back," he whispers. "Let me have ya proper."

You do.

You crawl backward until you’re stretched out across the bed, the worn shirt hiked up around your hips now, your legs still parted for him, your arms loose at your sides. Your eyes never leave his.

He pulls his shirt over his head—tossing it aside—and follows you onto the bed on his knees. Then over you.

He presses a kiss to your ankle.

Your shin.

Your knee.

Up, up, up.

"You don’t even know what you’ve done to me," he murmurs. "Kissin’ me like that. Sayin’ that shit."

He kisses your hip, your stomach, the edge of your ribs, dragging the hem of the shirt up as he goes.

"Been callin’ you my lil’ missus since the day you stopped cryin’ when I touched you," he says softly. "But now you callin’ me husband. Runnin’ your hands through my hair like you like me. Like you want me. Like you need me."

You lift your hips so he can pull the shirt the rest of the way off.

He stares.

He’s seen you bare a hundred times. Tied down, bleeding, begging.

But this is different. You’re open without restraint. Soft without fear.

"My Gods," he whispers.

You reach for him.

He moves over you like a prayer.

One hand comes to cradle your cheek. The other wraps around the back of your thigh, guiding it up, over his hip, opening you further.

He leans in.

"I love you," he says, voice low and steady this time.

He doesn’t say it like a confession.

He says it like a curse.

Then he pushes inside you.

Slow.

Not teasing. Not punishing.

Just deep.

He doesn’t stop until he’s seated fully, cock thick and hot inside your cunt, the stretch pushing your breath out in a trembling gasp.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders. Your legs wrap around his waist.

And Remmick breaks.

He buries his face in your neck and fucks you slow, deep, reverent.

Not hard. Not fast.

But like it matters. Like every thrust means something. Like he’s trying to etch this into your bones.

"You love me," he pants against your skin. "Fuck. You love me."

Your hand curls at the nape of his neck, fingernails dragging through his hair, and you whisper it again.

"I love you."

He groans—a wounded, desperate sound—and picks up the pace, still smooth, still slow, but hungrier now. His cock drags over that aching, tender spot inside you, again and again, until you’re writhing beneath him.

He reaches between your bodies, hand flat over your belly.

"Gonna fill ya up, sweet girl. Gonna give ya every drop I’ve got."

"Remmick—"

His thumb presses to your clit—tight, steady circles—and your back arches off the bed.

"You cum when I say it," he growls against your throat. "You cum when I tell you what you are."

You whimper, so close it burns.

"You’re mine," he whispers.

"You’re my lil’ missus."

"You’re my forever girl."

"I love you."

And you fall apart.

Your orgasm hasn’t even finished before he starts again.

Remmick doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t slow down.

He just keeps fucking you through it—grinding deep, thumb still on your clit, your body twitching and jerking beneath him like you can’t take another second.

But he knows you can.

"You’re doin’ so good, lil’ missus," he groans, voice breaking, sweat dripping down his temple to yours. "Came real sweet for me. So fuckin’ sweet."

You can barely breathe. Your body is tight and shaking and soaked with him—his sweat, your slick, the blood-warm mess of your own release. And he’s still so deep inside you, cock grinding against every swollen, tender spot like he’s memorizing the shape of your cunt from the inside out.

Remmick lifts his head.

His red eyes burn into yours.

"You know what I’m gon’ do now, don’tcha?"

You shake your head, but he grins—that filthy, feral thing—and presses his palm flat over your lower belly again, right where you feel him the deepest.

"Gon’ breed ya, baby."

You choke on a gasp. He fucks you deeper, slower, like he’s savoring it.

"Gon’ pump you full till you leak, till you’re heavy with me. Gotta make sure it takes."

You whimper—not from fear. From heat.

"You want that?" he breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth. "Tell me you want it."

"Remmick—"

"Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me you want me t’knock you up. Tell me you want t’carry what I give you."

Your voice cracks. "I—I want it."

He groans, cock twitching deep inside you. "That’s it. That’s my good girl."

"You gonna look so fuckin’ pretty, belly all round from me. Walkin’ 'round the chapel drippin’ with my spend. Gonna chain you up in my bed and feed ya on your back so nothin’ spills out."

You cry out—overwhelmed, overstimulated, aching—but your hips roll up to meet him.

"You want my babies?" he growls, voice gone hoarse. "Huh? You want what a man can’t give you?"

"Yes," you sob.

"You want what a demon puts in you?"

"Yes—Remmick, please—"

"Then fuckin’ take it, lil’ missus."

His pace breaks—sloppy now, brutal, grinding—as his cock swells inside you.

"You feel that? That’s my spend comin’. That’s what’s gonna stick."

You’re crying now, fingers clawing at his back, mouth open on a silent scream.

"Gon’ fuck a child into you," he pants, his forehead pressed hard to yours. "Gon’ breed my mark into your belly, into your fuckin’ bones."

You’re still coming—your cunt fluttering violently around him, trying to pull him deeper.

And then—

Remmick slams into you one last time and groans—a low, broken sound that shudders through his whole body as he spills inside you.

You feel it.

Hot, heavy, endless.

Spurt after thick, messy spurt flooding your cunt so full it aches. So full it starts to spill out around his cock and down your thighs.

You feel it run into the sheets beneath you, feel his hips grinding through the aftershocks like he wants to brand you from the inside.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just breathes.

Your head is tilted back, mouth parted, body limp—completely, irrevocably wrecked.

And Remmick just smiles.

He strokes your stomach with the flat of his palm.

"You feel that?" he whispers. "That’s what forever tastes like."

You blink at him through the haze.

He leans in—kisses you soft and slow.

Then murmurs against your lips:

"Ain’t even turned you yet, lil’ missus. But when I do? You ain’t ever gonna stop wantin’ me."

The fire in the hearth has burned low, but the warmth lingers in the walls.

A damp heat clings to everything in the chapel—sweet with smoke, salt, and the scent of what he left in you the night before.

You’re still sore when you wake.

Your thighs ache. Your cunt throbs. Your belly feels full, even empty as you are now.

Remmick’s arm is slung heavy over your waist, his breath warm at the base of your neck, one thigh wedged possessively between yours. His cock rests thick against your lower back—soft but heavy, twitching every now and then as he dreams.

You don’t move. Not because you’re afraid. Because it’s comfortable.

The air outside is still tinted blue—just before dawn—the hour when the mists are thickest and the swamp holds its breath. No frogsong, no wind through the trees. Just the distant moan of the river and the creak of the chapel roof.

You stare at the rafters, eyes half-lidded, body loose under his.

You could stay like this forever.

You’ve said it before. He never believed you. Not really.

But last night, when you kissed him…when you called him your husband…

You felt it in the way his whole body locked up. You felt the worship behind every inch he gave you.

"Y’awake, lil’ missus?" his voice rumbles behind you—soft, sleep-rough, fond.

"Yeah," you whisper.

His nose nudges your shoulder. A kiss pressed there, lazy and warm.

"Still full of me?"

Your cheeks go hot. You don’t answer.

His hand slides down your belly, cupping over the spot he always touches when he’s fucking you slow—like he’s holding the future there. Like he’s trying to coax something into bloom.

You squirm beneath him. He chuckles.

"I gotta step out t’night," he says, voice a low murmur against your skin. "Won’t be long."

You tense. Just a little. Just enough that he notices.

He shifts you gently onto your back and leans over you, bracing himself on his forearm. His hair hangs loose around his face, dark and tangled, still smelling like sweat and the cedarwood oil you rubbed into his scalp last night.

You trace his jaw with your fingers.

"How long?" you ask.

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip.

"Not long," he promises. "Just need to bring back some fresh meat. Maybe a jug of kerosene. I’ll be back ‘fore sunrise."

You nod. Swallow down the ache that rises in your chest at the thought of him leaving—even under cover of night, even just for a few hours.

His hand strokes your side, palm dragging from your ribs down to your hip.

"You stay inside," he says, not unkind. "Door stays locked. You hear anything that ain’t me, you hide under the bed like I taught you."

You nod again. Your hand grips his forearm.

He kisses you slow—not hungry, not teasing. Just soft.

"Say it again," he murmurs.

"I love you."

He shudders.

"That’s my girl."

When he gets up, you watch him dress—first the faded black jeans, then the shirt he ripped open two nights ago, which he tucks into a belt slung with knives. He moves with ease, humming some old hymn under his breath as he rakes his fingers through his hair to push it back from his face.

Before he leaves, he cups your face in his hands and kisses your forehead, your lips, your belly.

"I’ll be back soon, lil’ missus."

You nod. Smile faintly.

"Bring something sweet," you murmur.

He grins—that sharp, animal smile—and slips out into the dark before the light can touch him.

You don’t know then that you’ll be screaming his name before the sun even finishes rising.

The fire has long gone out.

You wake again sometime later, not to Remmick’s weight or voice—but to silence.

A silence that feels wrong.

The kind that presses up against your skin like a cold hand. Like breath held too long. The kind of silence the swamp never makes unless something is watching.

You sit up slowly, the sheet clinging to your sweat-damp thighs. Your body still aches, still sore and swollen from how he touched you last night—how he filled you. It should be comforting, the memory. But something about the air is…off.

The mists outside the chapel windows have turned a strange, milky grey. Not the usual pearl-colored haze that comes with dawn, but something thicker. Heavier. It creeps low across the floorboards where the chapel door doesn’t quite seal, curling like fingers.

You reach for the old cotton slip you usually wear and pull it over your head, ignoring the ache in your legs. The blood between your thighs is dry, flaked, a bruise on your inner thigh shaped like a mouth.

You tiptoe barefoot to the door.

You don’t open it. Just press your ear against the old wood and listen.

Nothing.

No birdsong. No frogs. No breeze.

Just a faint crunch of gravel—like someone stepping where they shouldn’t.

Your heart thuds.

One beat.

Two.

Three.

Not him.

You know the sound of his boots. The way the ground knows to hold still when he passes.

This is wrong.

You back away from the door, and that’s when you hear it—

A voice.

A man’s voice. Not Remmick’s.

"—up there. That’s the place. Just like she said."

Another voice, gruff, tight with tension. "You sure she’s in there?"

"Yeah. She ain’t left in weeks. He never lets her leave."

The blood drains from your face. Your knees nearly give.

You stagger backward. Your pulse bangs against your throat.

Two shadows flicker past the windows. Armed. Human. You see the glint of metal—rifles, stakes, something glassy and glowing blue like a warded bottle.

Your breath stutters out of your chest.

You try not to panic. Try to do what Remmick always says.

“You hear anything that ain’t me, you hide under the bed.”

You run.

The chapel floor groans beneath your feet as you scramble to the cot, lifting the faded quilt and sliding beneath the frame just as—

The door crashes open.

You don’t scream.

Not yet.

The sound of boots, cautious but fast. Voices hissing orders. Wood creaking. A blade drawn.

"She’s here. I smell her."

"You sure he ain’t still inside?"

"No blood in the bed. Just hers."

They’re inside.

And they’re not speaking like men trying to hurt you.

They’re speaking like they’ve come to save you.

You clamp both hands over your mouth. Try to be small. Try to be still.

A voice crouches close to the ground. Gentle. Too gentle.

"Hey. Hey, it’s alright. We ain’t gonna hurt you, I swear. We’re here to help."

You tremble.

Another voice: "We know what he did. What he made you say. You’re not in love with him. He fed on you, didn’t he? That’s what they do. They trick you."

Your body goes rigid. A sob builds in your throat, but it’s not from relief. It’s fear.

They don’t understand.

They think he’s the monster.

They don’t understand what it means that you love him.

That you chose to stay.

That he’s the only one who ever made you feel safe.

They lift the quilt.

Light floods in.

You gasp. Curl away from their hands.

One of them grabs your arm—"Come on, sweetheart. You’re okay. We got you—"

You scream.

"Remmick!"

Your voice cracks. High. Wild.

"Remmick, please—!"

You flail. Sob. Try to twist free. One of them tries to pin your arms and you bite him—hard enough to draw blood.

"Shit! Fuck, she bit me!"

They hesitate.

Stunned.

"Jesus, what the fuck—?"

You sob harder. Choking. Screaming his name again like a prayer.

"Remmick—Remmick—don’t let them take me—!"

Your voice rips itself out of your throat like a wild animal trying to claw its way free. Raw, high, panicked. You twist and scream and thrash in the stranger’s grip, your limbs flailing with reckless force, fingernails scraping down the length of his forearm.

"Please don’t take me—please, he’ll come back, he’ll—"

Your lungs burn with the effort. The sound of your own sobbing drowns everything out—your cries sharp and shuddering, chest hitching with each broken breath.

The man holding you—young, broad-shouldered, barely older than you—grunts, trying not to hurt you but clearly stunned by the ferocity behind your fight.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "She’s gone. She really thinks—"

"I told you," comes a deeper voice from somewhere near the chapel door. Older, rougher. Controlled, but taut with fear. "They charm ‘em. They feed, and they…root in. It ain’t love. It’s thrall."

"It is love," you gasp, voice high and wet with tears. "You don’t understand—I chose him, he didn’t make me—he’s not like that, he’s not—"

The younger man releases you too quickly—his hands shaking, guilt flickering across his face—and you stumble to the floor with a harsh slap of bare knees against wood. But you barely feel the pain. You scramble back like a cornered creature, breath hitching in your throat as you flee toward the altar, dragging yourself by trembling arms.

Your slip is twisted around your hips, nearly transparent in the gray morning light filtering through the warped stained glass. Your legs are streaked with dried blood, bruises shaped like fingerprints, like fangs, like teeth.

You press your spine against the altar, trying to make yourself small. Trying to make them listen.

"Please," you whisper, your voice cracked and bleeding at the edges. "You don’t know what you’re doing."

The younger one hesitates, uncertain now. You see it in the way his hand hovers near the shotgun slung across his back—how his eyes flicker not with certainty, but doubt.

He’s not cruel. He’s just scared. Maybe more scared of you than of what waits outside.

He crouches a little, hands raised in surrender. "Look, we���ve…we’ve seen this before. Stockholm. Blood compulsion. We know how real it feels, but it’s not. He’s not who you think he is."

You flinch as he takes a step forward. The floor creaks beneath his boot.

"He probably made you say all that," he continues, gentler now. "They get in your head. They make you want it. That’s what they do. When’s the last time you saw your family? Your friends? Anyone else but him?"

The words feel like broken glass in your ears.

Your throat works uselessly. You open your mouth. Try to speak.

But no words come out.

Because you don’t remember the last time you saw anyone else.

Because you don’t want to.

Because that’s not your life anymore.

Your life is candlelight and rough linens. Blood-warm baths and hands in your hair. Laughter at midnight. The taste of copper and salt. The press of his voice in your chest when he calls you his lil’ missus.

"This is my home," you say at last.

The boy flinches.

The older man curses under his breath. Scarred, hard-eyed, weathered from too many winters and too many dead. His voice is tight with judgment.

"She’s gone. He’s dug in deep. We’re not reasoning with her."

You start shaking again. Your fingernails dig into the altar behind you.

"I’m not gone," you whisper. "He takes care of me."

He watches you with cold pity, then looks back to the blond.

"You gag her if she bites again. We get her out, now. We don’t have time."

Your stomach turns over.

You know what’s coming. The shift in the wind. The scent.

You try again, louder now—desperate.

"No. No, please. He’s coming back. You have to go. You don’t understand what he’ll do if—"

The younger one takes another step toward you, reaching. "We’re not gonna hurt you—"

"Don’t touch me!" you scream, the words sharp enough to cut your own throat.

The air in the chapel stills.

Not like silence.

Like a warning.

Like the earth pulling back its breath.

The candles flicker on their wicks—twitching like they’re afraid.

The light filtering through the stained glass warps. Turns muddy, dark.

You freeze.

So do they.

Even the younger one—brave enough to touch you—is suddenly stiff. Alert. His eyes dart to the door.

"You feel that?" he whispers.

The older man slowly lifts a hand toward the shotgun strapped over his shoulder.

"...Yeah."

And then—

A sound.

Low. Guttural. Distant but unmistakable.

Movement.

Heavy. Cracking. Deliberate.

Branches shattering.

Undergrowth being trampled.

Something moving with purpose.

And not like a man.

Like a storm.

The younger man’s voice cracks.

"You said we had time—he only feeds once a week, you said—"

"I don’t know why he’s back," the older man hisses, yanking a bottle from his coat—something thick and glowing faintly blue. "He shouldn’t be—"

The chapel door slams shut behind them with an earsplitting crack.

They both spin.

It wasn’t wind.

It wasn’t you.

It wasn’t anything living.

The candles extinguish in perfect, unnatural unison. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling like serpents.

You’re on the floor, curled in on yourself, fists pressed to your mouth, rocking.

He’s here.

You don’t know how, but you know it like blood knows the vein. You know it the way prey knows the shape of the predator’s teeth.

He’s not outside anymore.

He’s in the walls. The roof. The shadows.

Watching.

Waiting.

And you, sobbing now, choke out the only prayer you know how to offer.

"Please," you whisper to the darkness. "Please don’t hurt them."

A shape flickers in the rafters.

A breath exhales through the chimney.

A shadow slides across the stained glass.

The younger one raises his gun.

"What the fuck was that—?"

You crawl backward, until your spine presses flush to the altar again. The wood is cold. Wet with dew.

Your mouth trembles open. You feel something inside you crack.

"He’s already here," you whisper.

But they’re not listening anymore.

They came to save you.

But Remmick doesn’t believe in salvation.

The silence inside the chapel is absolute.

Thick, pulsing. A silence that breathes—that lives in the walls, under the floor, inside your chest. You feel it like pressure in your skull. Like hands wrapping slow around your throat. Like the air itself has gone still in anticipation of something terrible.

You’re still on the floor, knees scraped and raw against the splintering boards, curled beneath the altar like an offering left to rot. The hem of your slip is bunched around your thighs, soaked with sweat, blood, and the stink of fear. You’re trembling so hard your teeth chatter, and your fingers are clenched so tight into the floor that your knuckles have gone white.

You don’t dare move.

The two men stand over you, their shadows long in the half-light—cut sharp by the flickering candles and the red wash of dawn bleeding through the stained-glass windows.

The blonde’s rifle is trembling in his grip. The older man is muttering prayers, his voice a tremor beneath his breath, lips pale and slick with spit.

"Do you see anything?" the blonde whispers, his voice cracking down the middle.

The older man doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the ceiling, at the rafters above the altar, eyes darting like a hunted animal. He knows something’s wrong. Something worse than you.

Because it’s already here.

You feel it first.

A shift. A drop in the pressure of the room, like the whole world just tilted.

Then—a thud. Somewhere above.

A dull, slow weight pressing onto the roof beams, creaking old wood. Like something enormous settling onto the bones of the chapel. Then another. Heavier. Closer. You see dust fall from the rafters. Feel the subtle vibration of something pacing above you—slow, deliberate. Stalking.

Your pulse hammers between your ribs.

And then—silence.

Not the silence from before.

This one is alive.

You open your mouth to speak. To beg. To warn.

But you’re too late.

The far window explodes inward in a blossom of jagged glass and roaring wind.

A screech rips through the chapel—like metal tearing, like a body dragged screaming across stone. Glass knives whirl past your face, biting into your arms, your shoulders. Candlelight goes out all at once, sucked into the vacuum of sudden chaos.

You scream. So does the blonde.

The chapel howls with air and motion—and then—

He’s there.

He doesn’t walk through the door.

He drops from above.

Remmick.

Not as you saw him last—soft, grinning, warm from sleep, still smelling of cedar and skin and sweat.

This is something else.

He crashes to the chapel floor like a thunderclap, knees bent, back arched. The earth groans beneath the weight of him. His body rises—slow and fluid, as if gravity doesn’t dare claim him. Like something born of the storm.

You see only pieces of him at first:

His fingers, long and curved, clicking softly as they flex against the floor.

His eyes—glowing red, not with light but heat, like coals packed deep inside his skull.

The twisted stretch of his mouth, pulled open too wide, baring a forest of crooked fangs, each one glistening wet, too many to count.

His skin is slick with sweat and blood—some of it his, some of it not. Veins pulsing beneath the surface, throbbing like live vipers inside of him.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

He looks at them.

The blonde screams again, jerking his rifle up toward his shoulder—but his hands are shaking too badly. His finger slips off the trigger.

He never gets the chance to fire.

Remmick moves.

Not like a man.

Not like anything living.

He doesn’t run.

He lifts—off the ground, silent and sudden, gliding forward like a shadow unbound by bone or gravity, and in one impossible blink, he’s across the room.

He crashes into the blonde with enough force to crack bone. They slam into the side pew, wood exploding in a spray of splinters.

The boy coughs once—blood wet on his lips.

Remmick doesn’t speak. He grabs the boy by the throat—lifts him clean off the ground—his claws puncturing his skin. The boy chokes, legs kicking. His face turns red, then purple.

You watch through your tears, sobbing, crawling on your belly toward them.

"Remmick—Remmick, please—don’t kill them, please, please—"

He doesn’t look at you.

He leans in, face inches from the boy’s. Eyes glowing brighter now. Fangs fully bared.

"Put your hands on my wife," he says, voice low and burning, like hot coals smoldering in his throat. "One. More. Time."

The boy gurgles something. Maybe a plea. Maybe a prayer.

Remmick snarls—and throws him.

Not to the floor. Not to mercy.

He hurls him through the stained-glass window behind the altar. Glass explodes outward in a cacophony of shards and light. The boy screams all the way down. You hear his body crash against the stones outside.

Silence.

Then—

"Christ," the older man gasps, stumbling back, drawing a long, silver blade from beneath his coat. His hand trembles, but his grip is firm.

He lunges.

You scream. "No—don’t—!"

Remmick turns before the blade touches him. Catches it mid-strike.

The metal hisses where it meets his skin.

It smokes. Sizzles.

But he doesn’t scream.

He grins.

Mouth stretched too wide, eyes burning bright enough to illuminate the whole chapel.

"You think that’s gonna save you?"

He closes his fist around the blade and bends it like it’s made of wire. The metal groans, squeals—and snaps.

The man stumbles back in horror, clutching what’s left of the hilt.

Remmick steps forward—slow, deliberate. Claws dragging down the wall. Gouging deep trenches into the wood.

"You step foot in my chapel," he murmurs, voice low, laced with something almost reverent. "You touch what’s mine."

He takes another step. You see his fangs dripping. His chest heaving.

"You make her cry."

The man raises a warding charm—crosses himself, muttering something desperate, barely audible.

Remmick stops inches away.

"You break into my home—my home—and you call me the monster?"

The man doesn’t answer.

He just trembles.

Remmick tilts his head. His face is inches from the man’s. He inhales slowly through his nose.

And then, softly—almost lovingly—he whispers:

"No. Preacher."

A long pause.

"You came lookin’ for the devil."

He smiles.

And it is awful.

"Now you found him."

The older man stares up into Remmick’s face—shaking, gasping, eyes wide in bone-deep terror.

He’s close enough to smell the blood on his breath. Not just your blood. Fresh blood.

And still, Remmick smiles.

"Now why’d ya go ‘n do that?" he drawls, low and slow like molasses poured over gravel. His voice is almost gentle. Almost sad. "Come stompin’ through my house, bustin’ up my door, layin’ your filthy hands on my wife."

His hand darts out—too fast—grabbing the man by the wrist. The preacher gasps, blade hilt clattering to the floor.

Remmick pulls him in close, chest to chest. His mouth brushes the man’s ear, intimate and monstrous.

"You know what I do to men who try ‘n take what’s mine?"

The preacher doesn’t answer. He’s frozen. The prayer charm slips from his fingers, hissing uselessly on the floor.

Remmick tilts his head, still smiling. The edge of his fang grazes the man’s cheek.

"Don’t worry. I ain’t gon’ kill ya fast."

He lifts the man off the ground like he weighs nothing. The old wood beneath his boots creaks. His legs kick, scraping the altar.

You’re still on the floor, arms wrapped around your knees, watching through a veil of tears.

You don’t look away.

Remmick drives his claws into the man’s gut—slow, deliberate.

There’s a wet, splitting sound—like raw meat tearing open.

The man screams. A high, raw, human sound.

Remmick doesn’t flinch.

He watches him writhe with a kind of fascination, his head cocked like he’s admiring his own work. His eyes never blink.

"You ever gut a pig, preacher?" he murmurs. "Takes a real steady hand. Gotta be careful not t’ nick the bile, else it ruins the meat."

The man sags, blood pouring down his chest in thick, syrupy ropes. It stains Remmick’s forearm, drips off the curve of his elbow.

"You bleed easy," Remmick says, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Almost like you was meant for it."

He turns, still holding the man aloft, and throws him onto the chapel floor. The man lands hard, coughing blood, body twitching. One of his legs is bent wrong. His hands scrabble at the floor, reaching for anything.

Remmick stalks after him, slow and silent, bare feet stained with blood. His claws gleam. His coat fans behind him like something half-alive.

"You thought she needed savin’," he says, voice honey-thick with mockery. "Thought I musta had her bewitched. Is that it? Thought I cast some foul spell on that sweet little heart o’ hers?"

He crouches beside the man’s broken body.

"You ain’t never seen a woman loved proper."

His clawed hand slides beneath the man’s jaw, lifting his blood-soaked face.

"That girl chose me. Every damn time. An’ I’d burn the whole world for her. Tear out the throats of every fool that looks at her sideways. You understand me?"

The man gurgles. Tries to speak. Can’t.

Remmick leans in close. His glowing eyes narrow.

"You came t’ my door askin’ for the devil."

His smile is all fang and blood.

"Well, preacher...now you found him."

And then—

He rips out the man’s throat.

Claws tear clean through. A spray of blood paints the altar. Hot. Metallic. Wet.

You choke on a gasp. Cover your mouth. Your whole body shakes.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just lets the man drop to the floor like garbage. Stands over him, chest heaving, glowing eyes still lit like hellfire. Blood drips from his hands. From his jaw. From the tips of his claws.

And then—he turns to you.

That wild, monstrous thing in him dims. Not gone. Just…quieted.

"Sweet pea?" he murmurs, voice hoarse, eyes softening the moment they fall on you. "You alright, lil’ missus? He didn’t touch ya, did he?"

You shake your head, tears spilling fast.

He kneels beside you, lowering himself slow, careful like he’s afraid you’ll flinch.

His claws are still slick with blood. But his touch is tender—he cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, wiping away the tears.

"Shhh," he whispers. "You’re safe now, sugar. I got you."

His blood-wet forehead presses to yours. His breath is hot, sharp with copper.

You clutch his coat, fingers digging in like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. You can’t speak. You just cry.

"I’m here," he murmurs again, voice melting. "Ain’t nobody gon’ take you from me. Never again."

He pulls you into his arms—bloody, trembling, still half-naked—and gathers you to his chest like you’re made of bone china.

Outside, the swamp begins to stir again.

The birds return.

The wind shifts.

The sun climbs high over the trees.

But inside the chapel, all is still.

Blood pools beneath the altar. Flies begin to gather.

And Remmick, fanged and filthy, kisses your hair.

"That’s my lil missus," he whispers.

The bodies are still warm.

One lies broken just outside the chapel doors, face-up in the mud, eyes gone glassy, throat opened like a second mouth. The other is in pieces on the altar floor, still twitching—his blood soaking into the same boards where Remmick fucked you slow just nights ago.

The chapel stinks of death.

But you don’t move.

You don’t cover your face. You don’t flinch.

You sit in his lap, straddling him on the blood-stained floor, arms wrapped around his neck, your cheek pressed to the curve of his shoulder. His claws still long, his eyes still glowing like hot coal.

His heartbeat pounds slow beneath your ear—steady. Calm.

Not like someone who just committed murder.

Like someone who came home from work. Like someone who took the trash out.

He strokes your hair with one blood-wet hand, the other resting low over your belly.

Not possessive. Not lustful.

Protective.

He hasn’t spoken since you stopped crying. He doesn’t need to. The silence between you is thick with something reverent, something that glows warm beneath your ribs.

His mouth finds your temple. Kisses you soft.

"Still shakin’, lil’ missus," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a slow, Southern hush. "Ain’t nothin’ out there gon’ touch ya. You hear me? Nothin’."

You nod, but you don’t lift your head. You stay pressed to him, soaking in his scent—sweat, cedar oil, and the sharp copper of blood that’s not yours.

The chapel is dark again. The wind no longer screams through the windows. Even the swamp has quieted, as if the trees themselves are holding their breath.

You don’t ask what he did with the blonde boy’s body.

You don’t ask if anyone else is coming.

Instead, you find your voice—small, hoarse, buried in his neck.

"Remmick?"

"Mhm?"

You pull back just enough to look at him. His red eyes glow dimmer now. His fangs have withdrawn, but the blood still stains his mouth.

You touch his cheek with trembling fingers.

"What happens if I really am pregnant?"

The words hang in the air.

He stills.

His expression doesn’t change—not at first.

But his hands tighten around your waist, then smooth across your hips like he’s grounding himself there. You watch his throat bob. Watch the flame flicker behind his eyes.

"Say it again," he breathes.

You swallow. Nod.

"I think I’m pregnant."

His breath leaves him in a long, shaking exhale.

"Shit, darlin’," he says, voice thick, low, reverent. "You mean t’ tell me that pretty little womb of yours held on? Even after all the times I—"

You nod again, cheeks warm. Your lip trembles.

"I—I’m late. My body feels…different. I don’t know how else to explain it. I just…I know."

He groans. Presses his forehead to your collarbone, breath catching.

His arms crush you to him.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You gone and gave me a reason t’ stay alive forever."

You laugh, but it breaks into a sob. Not from fear. Not anymore.

You feel it now—settling in your chest like a seed in soil.

This is your life.

This monster. This chapel. This love.

And now…maybe something more.

He draws back slowly, hands cradling your face like he’s holding divinity.

"I’ll build you a nursery, sweet pea. A whole room just for 'em. We’ll paint the walls. You’ll pick the colors, I’ll do the rest."

You laugh again, and this time it sticks.

"I want yellow," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He grins—wide and feral, but tender.

"Yellow it is."

The candlelight flickers as the wind shifts again.

You know you’ll have to bury the bodies. Maybe move the chapel. Maybe seal the doors.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he picks you up in his arms, cradling you like a bride, and carries you to the bed like something holy.

The world can wait.

Because in this place, under this roof, beneath the blood-washed moon—

You are not lost.

You are not stolen.

You are his.

And when he lays you down, his voice curls around you like a prayer.

"You keep that lil’ belly warm f’r me, ya hear?"

Outside, the dawn breaks over the swamp in soft gold and red—

but the only thing growing here now is you.

[joeloverture]

HOOK 'EM PT. 2

hook 'em hot stuff | coach!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | series masterlist | notifs blog | on palestine pairing: college football coach!joel x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] old habits die hard, so they say. you never understood why, but here you are, breaking into coach joel miller's house for a taste of what he's been keeping from you. warnings: (18+ mdni) reader is a bad example (a REALLY bad example), joel is so nonchalant that it's almost crackfic material, getting a semi when a pretty girl attempts a break-in, guilty joel attempts to keep his morals intact (and promptly fails), age gap (22/52), could be considered dubcon by way of power imbalance but consent is enthusiastic, undernegotiated kink for sake of storyline but don't follow this example, explicit content, pussy pronouns, daddy kink, brat tamer!joel, degradation, praise, meanish!joel, pussy slapping, belting/spanking with a belt, body writing, m!masturbation, cumplay/eating, panty play(?), face slapping, orgasm denialish (you'll see) [no use of y/n] word count: 7k (wtf) a/n: howdy. real cowboys never die so i'm back to continue what i started *checks watch* 11 months ago. (i also promised that if they won the game, i'd write this.) again, all of this is for entertainment parody, and any college implied here is incredibly fictionalized. coach!joel captured all of our hearts and he's here in this incredibly out of pocket (so out of pocket it's right) sequel. enjoy 💋

“This is head Coach Miller at Austin. I can’t get to the phone right now, but you can leave a text or a voicemail and I’ll be sure to get back to you–”

The answering message, as it plays through the tinny speakers of your phone, is dry, lackluster. As if Joel hadn’t wanted to record it at all, had said fuck it after the first take. It sounds nothing like the voice that had talked you through two of the best orgasms of your life.

You’d tried to rationalize it at first – he’s busy, a coach at one of the biggest college football programs in the United States, it’s approaching the playoffs, maybe he’s out of state recruiting some shithead high schooler – but after four missed phone calls and two unanswered texts spread out through the course of the week, you figure that’s that.

He’d been so tender with you after fucking your brains out. Dragging a wet rag along the seam of your thighs, redressing you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He’d even refused to let you walk to your dorm alone so late in the night, his guarding, protective arm hanging around your waist as he’d escorted you to the shitty building. Now you’re leaving clingy voicemails in his inbox, staring at a ceiling that’s probably full of asbestos as you try to make peace with the fact that Coach Miller didn’t give a shit about you – only your pussy. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. 

You were probably just some dumb college girl to him, close enough to graduating that he didn’t lose sleep at night over hitting it, but too far from adulthood to complement his crows feet and successful career.

Conclusion: even if it was the best sex of your life, you should’ve hightailed it out of there the second he’d offered to take you over his knee.

Again – you’re not known for making the best decisions.

You roll over on your stomach, burying your head in your arms and shutting your phone off.

The worst part about it all is that you’re fucking horny. Unbearably so. Even just sitting there, you can hear Joel’s filthy words carouseling through your head, that initial groan when he sank all the way inside of you. Your persistent horniness isn’t the only problem, either. Lately, your roommate never seems to leave the dorm, and when she does, you find that Joel has ruined your vibrator for you. Your pussy might just shrivel up if it doesn’t get the loving it deserves. He’d lit a permanent goddamn bonfire in your stomach, and it just so happened that he was the only one with a fire extinguisher. 

But the same guy probably wants nothing to do with you. Probably came to his senses enough to know that everything about fucking his star player’s ex girlfriend is a recipe for bad news in the making.

There’s a version of yourself that doesn’t know when to stop. That’s the version that must be controlling you as you reach for your phone, opening up a new search. ‘Where does joel miller live?’ And, theoretically, you could stop right there, press the tempting little ‘x’ at the top of the screen and pretend that your mind hadn’t even gotten that far, that desperate. Instead, you click on the first article that appears: Miller’s new $1,000,000 Tarrytown home.

You could even stop there. Tarrytown isn’t a place for someone like you, waist-deep in student loans that need paying off. Tarrytown is wealthy and upscale, pretentious and genteel. In fact, you’d only passed through there once, almost blackout drunk in the backseat of your only sober friend’s car. You’d nearly jumped out of your goddamn skin upon seeing a roaming peacock with its feathers all spread, clucking through the street in search of a mate. She’s teased you about it ever since, but with what you have in mind, you’re about to be impersonating that peacock. 

Knowing that the bastard lives in Tarrytown would usually be enough to put you off — if it were anyone else. Your ‘eat the rich’ values apparently stutter when there’s a chance of getting your pussy eaten.

Curiosity kills the cat, and so you poke around Zillow for recent sales in Tarrytown. Lucky for you, only one fits the description in the article. It’s multi-story, built on a half acre behind a centuries-old oak tree. And going for the hefty price of $1,002,358.

Nine minutes away. A good commute. Gated, and probably for good reason, considering what you’re about to do.

You throw on a nice, lacy set underneath your black clothes and top it all off with a black baseball cap. You’re pretty sure it’s Lucas’s, your shitty ex’s that had technically started this whole mess, but you can’t be too sure.

You don’t tell your roommate where you’re going, just that if everything goes well, you won’t be back until tomorrow morning.

You chain your bike to a lamppost, and it sticks out like a sore thumb on the cobblestone sidewalk. Even though you’ve already seen the pictures, Joel’s house is hardly even a house. It’s a fucking palace with windows for walls and a vaulted roof. Everything is stacked on top of each other, and the oak tree mentioned in the listing casts a shadow along the structure. The gas lamps adorning the gated limestone archway are on, and the flames wince across the concrete path leading into the home. They aren’t bright enough to blow your cover if Joel happens to peek through the many, many windows, but you steer clear of them regardless.

The gate really isn’t that tall, only about eight feet off the ground. A nearby sturdy tree gives you a good place to prop yourself up as you haul yourself over it and into a well-kept patch of ferns. You roll into the dirt, grunting as you almost fall flat on your ass. Your elbows catch you at the last second, and you take a few deep breaths.

You dust yourself off, squinting through the front of the house in hopes of catching a glimpse at him. He’s definitely home, and probably away, too, judging by the amount of lights that are on. Still, no sign of him. All football coaches have to be a workaholic. You wouldn’t be surprised at all if he was in his home office with his feet propped up, watching tapes of his opponents to prepare for the next game.

Good. Less chance of him seeing you right away.

Joel seems like the type of guy to subscribe to the ‘fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,’ philosophy, so it makes sense that both of his garages are closed. You half-crawl, half-crouch your way through the front yard, careful not to crush any more of his plants as you creep your way up the front steps. You give his front door a shot. Locked, too.

“Shit,” you mumble to yourself. You inch through the brush, turning the corner of the house and taking cover behind his rumbling air conditioning unit so you can scan the back patio.

Of course Joel Miller has a pool. And you’d bet good money that he never uses it. There’s an unlit fire pit surrounded by a sunken seating area nearby, and you slink through the area to make your way over to the terrace. Your hand reaches out for the doorknob, but it doesn’t even get there before you’re eating shit for the second time that night.

A body slams into yours as you hit the ground with a cry, your shoulder taking the brunt of the impact as concrete scrapes at your palms. Even though it’s dark and everything feels like you’re trapped in a kaleidoscope, you’d have to be an idiot not to recognize the familiar weight pressing into you. Strong thighs wrap around yours. Calloused hands grab at your wrists, effortlessly pinning them over your head. You squirm, trying and failing to knee at the small of his back.

You should be scared, terrified, maybe, of what he could do to you. Push you into the pool and tell you to fuck right off at best, call the cops and have you arrested for two counts of trespassing at worst. But instead, all you can think about is the insistent press of his bulge between your legs, his broad shoulders hanging over your torso, his long fingers twisted around your hands. All of it renders your heart racing and your body motionless. You look up at him, unable to stop yourself from eye fucking him. Loungewear is a good look on him, gray sweatpants low on his waist and a tattered longhorns t-shirt. He has his reading glasses on, and fuck, if it doesn’t do something to you.

A tiny whimper slips out, and, naturally, that’s when Joel’s dark eyes flash with recognition.

Joel mutters your name, surprise thick in his tired voice. “What the hell are you doin’ in my backyard?” He goes back on his haunches and lets go of your hands. You rub at the sore spots he’d left in his wake.

You don’t answer, opting to look away to hide the shame that’s plain as day on your face. This was stupid. You’re so fucking stupid.

“Are you always tryna catch a charge?” Joel asks. He shakes his head at you, forehead wrinkling as he furrows his brows. All you can do is nod in response. “Un-fuckin’-believable.”

He finally lifts off of you, groaning as something in his back pops when he stands upright. He reaches down at you, and, stubbornly, you ignore his hand in favor of picking yourself up. You dust yourself off again, winching as you brush against a patch of skin that’s sure to bruise later.

“C’mon,” Joel says, nudging the back door open. You step inside and pause to wipe your shoes on the rug beyond the threshold.

The interior is also just as fancy as the Zillow photos had suggested. You find yourself in a lounge with a vaulted ceiling, surprised to find just how Joel the space is. There’s sports magazines on the coffee table and a half-empty longhorns tumbler filled with black coffee. The TV on the mantle of the fireplace is playing a rerun of a Dallas Cowboys game, surrounded by memorabilia like an unmarked high school football helmet, probably a souvenir from his varsity career.

“Now, what’s got your panties in a twist?”

“You didn’t answer my texts,” you say, albeit a little dumbly. You rub at one of your elbows to try to shake off the embarrassment.

Okay, aloud, it does sound just a teensy bit like an overreaction.

Joel blinks at you. Takes off his reading glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. Then, releases a long, winded sigh. “Shit – hun, I’m so sorry–”

“Save your sorries,” you spit back, suddenly angry of all things. Angry that he has you wrapped right around the same fingers that had been inside of you, angry that he hadn’t answered your calls, your texts, your voicemails, angry that he has the audacity to ask what happened. “All that talk about treating me right and you can’t even pick up the fucking phone. I’ll leave right now if you’re not interested, but the least you could do is let me know.” Your lower lip quivers.

He goes quiet, toeing at the ground. His hands land on his hips. “Darlin’–”

“He cheated on me and you trampled all over my emotional vulnerability so you could get your dick wet. How the fuck does that make you any better than the boys you promised to be better than? You’re just like them. Fucking your way through half of the campus and nothing to show for it.” You’re breathing heavily as your eyes burn more and more by the second. You keep thinking you’ll have more to say, but you don’t. Everything in your body feels like lead, and time moves like molasses. Only silence meets you. Of course, it’d end like this. You, humiliated, and him, held all but unaccountable for his actions.

You squeeze your eyes shut before turning around on your heel to leave the way you’d come. His hand, soft and guiding as opposed to the last time he’d touched you, wraps around your forearm. You plant your feet in the ground, but still don’t turn around to face him. “You’re right,” Joel says, voice acquiescent. “It wasn’t fair to you. But ‘s part of why I didn’t pick up. Ain’t right, you ‘n me. I took advantage of you. Practically coerced you.” You swallow, but it’s like swallowing needles. “You shoulda reported me the second you got back to your dorm. For… for violating you like that.” He damn near spits the word out like it’s poisonous. Violating.

If that’s what’s holding him back…

You shift, facing him. He scratches the back of his neck. His flush bleeds down to his chest. “Joel, the absolute last thing you did was violate me. I wanted it. Haven’t stopped fucking thinking about it. That’s why it hurt so bad when you left me hanging.” A frown pinches your lips. “You could’ve at least let me know, Joel.”

“You needa quit thinkin’ about it. Ain’t gonna do either of us any good.” He exhales. “Besides. Even if I wanted to reach out, I’ve been workin’ 17 hour days in prep for next week’s game. This is the first day I’ve had peace ‘n quiet since we…” He trails off, cheeks somehow reddening even more. 

“How often do you do that?” you can’t stop yourself from asking.

“Do what?” he asks, his own lips falling into a frown. He looks a little bit like a kicked puppy, being on the receiving end of your confrontation.

“Take girls half your age over your knee at the workplace. Let them call you ‘daddy’ while they squirm in your lap. Fuck them?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and hisses. You can almost see the memories flashing behind his eyelids. “Gotta stop talkin’ like that, hun.”

“No,” you say, voice quiet. “Really. How often?”

“Never,” he says, and he sounds sincere. “Been over a year since I was last with someone. Been a whole lot longer since it… felt that good.”

You take a step closer to him, tongue slipping out to lick your lips. “Felt good for me, too.”

He shakes his head, still denying what you’re laying out so plainly for him. “Just ‘cause it feels good don’t make it right.”

“Doesn’t it?” you ask. You cock your head, brows brought together and eyes round with want.

He takes a slow, unsteady breath. But he doesn’t step away.

“I’m an adult Joel.” You reach out to him. Again, he doesn’t step away. Your hand flattens against his shoulder.

“Not one of your brutish, sweaty players who only thinks in frat vocab.” You drag your palm down from his shoulder, across his chest, fluttering along his stomach.

His eyes close as your thumb snags the waistband of his sweatpants. Still, he doesn’t intervene. “I’m a grown woman with a future ahead of myself. It’s not in the handbook that you’re forbidden from engaging in this sort of thing with a student, so long as they’re not one of your players.”

“Yeah, yeah, I read the handbook, kid—”

When you palm at his bulge, he’s already hard.

You hitch a brow at him. A snide remark sits on your tongue.

“Shut the fuck up,” he grouses, and then shoves you back on his couch. Your impact knocks a tacky, tasseled throw pillow out of the way. You yank off the cap you stole from Lucas and toss it over your shoulder.

“Beggin’ for a dickin’ down,” he says. “Trespassing on my fucking property for it like some lunatic. That’s how bad you need this cock?”

You nod like you’ve forgotten how to do anything else. With how you act when you think of Joel, that’s… probably the case. “Joel, plea–”

He slaps you across the face. Your vision pixelates and your head rings, but the handprint blooming on your cheek translates to slick blooming in your panties. “Nuh uh,” he says. “You know my name, smartass.” You moan, hips jerking to meet his.

“Daddy,” you whine. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about.” It is. No silicone toy or plastic cock nestled in your bedroom drawer compared to the man in front of you — and you’d know. You tried them all.  

“Ain’t a surprise there,” Joel says. “Bet you’ve been rubbin’ yourself silly thinking of your daddy, mm?”

“Yes!” you damn near squeal out as Joel roughly palms at your tits. You get stuck in the labyrinth of your shirt as you fumble out of it, arms finding all the wrong holes. Finally, you toss the thoroughly wrinkled scrap of fabric over the couch. “Every day, sometimes more,” you admit, because it’s the embarrassing truth. When it comes to him, you’re loopy, off-kilter, teetering with desire and want.

“Dirty girl, aren’t you?” he says, unclasping your bra. He lures your arms out of the straps. His throat bobs as he eyes you up. Based on how you look in the reflection of his dark eyes, he’s been thinking of this. Because for all his virtuosity, Coach Miller crumbles at the thought of defiling you. And he damns himself for it.

He says, “Came allllll the way over here to get fucked in this little number. Why, ‘cause your fingers ain’t enough anymore? Buzzing buddies not doin’ it for ya? Can’t make yourself come without me, hm?” 

“No, no, I can’t—” you exhale at him, desperately arching your back to push your tits into his sports-calloused hands. He gives you nipples a squeeze and twist, and it’s electricity straight into your clit. Your squirm, legs kicking helplessly beneath him. “Daddy.”

He pouts at you. “Damn shame. Creamy, drippy little pussy like this…” You hadn’t noticed his hand lowering until he cups a hand around your clothed mound. Your hips jerk. “Bet she’s squeezing real good ‘round nothing, isn’t she? Wants to take daddy nice ‘n deep.”

“Please, daddy, I want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. Your head lolls back as his thumb presses over your clothed clit, the friction from your panties amplifying the sensation as he rubs you in tight, successive circles.

“Yeah, well that’s what you want. What you’ve earned is a belting. Hell, maybe even a paddling for a repeat offender like yourself. Gotta stop getting into scenarios where I needa spank you right. Clearly didn’t whack ya hard enough last time, girl.”

You pout at him, and he only rolls his eyes. “Really. First you had some revenge syndrome, and now you have dick disease. Have to make you earn it, sweetie. ‘Specially when you keep on diggin’ your own grave.”

“You spanked me last time we did this,” you mumble.

“Oh yeah? And I remember you leakin’ everywhere like a goddamn busted pipe. So shut your trap and bend over for me, mhm? I know this pussy likes when I’m rough with ‘er. Know you like it.”

You cross your arms. Consider leaving chin-up with your pride intact — not out of lack of interest, but out of stubbornness. But you can already feel your wetness smearing across your thighs. Not only did you come all this way hoping for this exact thing, but you can imagine just how uncomfortable the bike ride back to your dorm will be with the seat of your bike pressed into your crotch.

You bite the bullet and toss a pillow to the floor. You fold yourself over the couch.

It feels distinctly familiar and indistinctly unfamiliar. Just a few days ago, he’d hauled you over his knee for the same reason. Attraction lit like a match, and discipline served properly.

You hear Joel shimmying around in the vicinity and tilt your head to look at him. First, you’re captured by the broadness of him, how he can easily manhandle you with his stature. But it’s hard not to be distracted by how his house, for all of its grandeur, is little more than a fifty-year-olds bachelor pad.

The walls are mostly bare apart from the occasional art that looks like he snagged from Homegoods. Everything is so modern and brutalistic, all sharp-edged and cubed. “You need to hire an interior designer with that batshit crazy salary of yours,” you tell him.

He huffs out a half-laugh, and returns to your side with a belt he pulled from the table. You squint at the buckle. It’s a pewter longhorn. Of course. It’s like they have a longhorn fetish. They just can’t shake the obsession with the cattle.

“Gonna spank me with your livestock whip?” you snort. 

Joel stares you down, unimpressed. “You think you’re funny,” he says. He sits next to where your cheek rests on the couch and gently rubs a circle into your back. His face turns serious for a moment. “I know I didn’t verbally establish this last time — and that’s on me — but you can ask me to stop any time. I hope you know that.”

You give him what feels like a bit of a dopey look. “I know, daddy. I know my limits, too.”

“Attagirl,” he says, patting you on the back. He gives you a look, seeking permission, and you nod. He tugs your pants down. They slump to your folded knees. You tap your fingers against the soft material of the couch. Joel reaches over you and under the gusset of your panties, swiping a long, thick finger through your weeping cunt. Your hips rock, chasing the sensation, and as if reprimanding you, Joel gives a swift tug to the back of your panties, lodging them deep within your cheeks. You squeak in surprise and stop your squirming. He chuckles breathlessly above you.

“Still got this… calligraphy… ‘a mine all over your ass.” He traces his thumb along each letter of the trophy he’d left you. The w, the h, the o, the r, the e. When you left the stadium that night, it was with a reminder of exactly what Joel thinks of you. “‘S like you’re tryna make it last, mmm? You like knowing you’re my whore?” 

A tiny whimper splits from your mouth, forehead tilting into the crook of your shoulder as to hide your face. You manage a nod.

“Nuh uh,” Joel says. He reaches for your wrists and pins them behind your back. “Thought you’d knew better than to be repeatin’ the same song and dance. I know you can behave, slutty girl. Just gotta give you a nudge in the right direction.” He palms your ass cheek the same way he’d palmed your tit, and a chill travels along your skin at the perceived feeling of him being so close to your cunt.

He’d ravaged and ruined you, and you walked right back in to let him do it all over again.

Joel folds the belt in half, the gaudy buckle clanking as he turns his day-to-day belt into the perfect implement to administer your punishment. You muffle one of your noises as he drags the leather along your skin, raising gooseflesh in his trail. You can tell he’s tracing the letters, stretched and faded to near-obscurity, along your ass.

You expect him to bring it down across your ass, but instead, he teases it between your legs. Your breath stumbles over your teeth as the leather streaks along your clothed clit. Your hips chase the passing sensation, and the bastard snorts at you. In spite of Joel’s grasp around your wrists, your fingers twirl in anticipation.

“Pathetic ‘lil pussy. Dripping and squeezing even if you’ve got a thrashing comin’ up. Maybe it’s because you’ve got a thrashing coming up. Masochistic mess over here.”

You scoff, “Yeah, and a hot mess, if ‘Lil Joel is any indicator.”

The first hit takes you by surprise. Leather erupts across your ass cheeks, and your fingers scramble for purchase — impossible to find, with how Joel grips your wrists. You make a surprised noise, head tipping to knock your forehead into his thigh. “Shit, were you the quarterback? Packing a punch this time, Coa— mmph.” Your trailing, pathetic sound is muffled by the abrupt splat of his belt back on your exposed ass.

“Had enough ‘a your sass, baby. Can’t be giving me lip when your other set is salivatin’ all over my floor.”

You grunt, squeezing your eyes shut so you don’t glare at him. Dick. Fever licks up your spine. It wraps around your neck, making you lightheaded and nebulous with want. Arousal leaks down your inner thighs. When you press them together in hopes for relief and that Joel’s old man eyes will sabotage him, you’re not shocked by the next thwack of leather against your skin. It still makes you jolt.

“Not gettin’ away with that, sweetheart. Better not see ya ruttin’ against this couch either. Already had to scrub down the one in the locker room since you sprayed your pussy juices all over it like a sprinkler.”

“Yes, daddy,” you grumble. He raises a brow at you, face stern and hard.

You make up for it not verbally, but by arching your back and wiggling your hips. A willing participant in your own demise. It’s only a matter of time before the anaphora of Joel’s belt whacking against your ass has you keening for his cock. You’ve already begged for it every night this week — just with your own hand fishing between your legs for an orgasm you can’t seem to catch, and with his name glued to your pillowcase with your drool.  

“See? That’s more like it.” You press back into him as his hand lets go of your wrists. It’s a brief respite, and you cling to the edge of the couch as his hand traces down your back, cupping your ass. Your eyes roll back as his finger slips past your panties and prods at your entrance, barely half of a knuckle.

“Daddy,” you pout.

“Sweet… as…” You look up through lidded eyes at him. Watch as your slick stretches hammocks between his fingers. Watch him slide them into his mouth, sucking them clean with an audible pop. You cunt clenches, demanding something that he doesn’t seem eager to dish out. “sugar.” he finishes. His fingers glisten.

“Daddy,” you say again. Needier this time. Longing. Wanting.

“Bet you could come untouched from this shit, couldn’t ya?”

The thought makes you shiver, but you shake your head back and forth fast enough to give you whiplash. You want — need him to touch you.

“Aww, poor little thing wants to come?” he all but coos at you. This time, you nod fast enough to take your own head off. “Too bad.”

You squeal as he brings the belt down again, toes wriggling as if they can run away from how electrified your body is. “W-what?” you choke out.  

“You want daddy to let you come?”

Your hands fist into the couch cushion. “The fuck do you think?”

You don’t even see him move before you feel the belt, ripping like lightning along your inflamed skin. “After you snuck into my stadium?”

“After you vandalized one ‘a our new uniforms?”

You’ve tensed this time in preparation, but it’s not enough. The next swing of his arm has you crying out. Your pussy clenches and more wetness gushes from you. “Ungh, Daddy!”

“After you came snoopin’ around like the Pink Panther?” Two lashings, for that. Both in rapid succession, crackling flames along your hypersensitive skin. You don’t even have time to give him snark. You wail, and half of it jerks out of you in a ragged moan.

He’s too quick at giving your ass another lash. “After being a cock hungry temptress who’d do anything to get that drippy ‘lil hole between her legs stuffed?”

If you were sore after your first encounter with the man, you fear for your capability to sit after this one. “I’m sorry!” You sniffle a little, and while your eyes may be watering, you squeeze your eyes shut so not to cry. It’s embarrassing enough to be laid out in front of him like this, quivering with juices weeping down your legs.

“Cute,” Joel snorts. “Sorry for what, exactly? Bet you got a laundry list of misdeeds. Risqué little girl like you, so quick to put her ass up in the air and take a beating insteada owin’ up to her mistakes.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out. “F-For breaking in.” You frown. “...Twice.”

“Coulda had you in the slammer by now, girl. But no. You just want me, dontcha? All up in your guts…” He grabs your ass cheek and squeezes, kneading the flesh there and leaving it with a shrill slap. You whimper. “Whallopin’ this pretty little peach. Sortin’ you out. Bein’ your daddy.” He grips the inside of your thigh, nudging your legs further apart. His hand, large and ridged with callouses, travels up your knee, over your thigh, down to your core. You shudder.

“Daddy…” you plead. You tilt your head and look up at him properly. How he looms over you, his free hand wrapped around your opposite shoulder so he can hold your side against his thigh. A tiny smirk quirks his lips, and his nose crinkles. There’s a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. “Please.” Your voice comes out as a lust-thickened whisper, bittersweet like molasses.

You think he might throw you a bone. Might thrust a finger or two into your dripping heat, which throbs and has a heartbeat of its own whenever he’s around. Instead, he slaps your mound. Your clit twitches, and you stream slick onto his hand. “Ah! Daddy!”

“Drippin’ like a busted pipe, baby. All from bein’ tossed around a bit.”

You’re floating, now. Or perhaps a more apt way to describe it would be that you’re firmly planted on the ground — just facedown while the room spins and spins and spins.

“Honestly, I didn’t know this elite university admitted little sluts like yourself. Bet you hold yourself all prim and proper while you’re all academic during the day. Then you get home and, what, rub yourself silly? Spank yourself because you know you deserve it? You wanna get split open on this cock, roughed up, talked down to.”

“I do, Daddy, I do!” you whine. “I told you — I’m sorry! For all of it. Please, I want whatever you’ll give me. A-Anything.” You feel as if your bones are matches, each one lit up in a chain reaction all the way to your core, which melts and melts down the insides of your thighs. “I’ll do—”

“Anything, baby?”

You nod eagerly, your moistened lower lip jutting out.

“Alright, alright,” he says. His voice is calmer now. Steady. He pats you on the ass softer this time and taps the couch next to him. You scramble up on the cushions, kicking off your shoes and pants in the process, and lay back. Your fingers twitch with the desire to just touch him. From this angle, you can see the definition of his bulge in his sweats. You remember how all of him felt inside of you, as if your entire body had to reshape itself around him, had to make room for the amount of space he occupies. He tosses his belt onto the coffee table.

Your cunt is a kickdrum between your legs. Juices dribble down the creases of your thighs, and for a moment, you fear that you’re actually ruining another couch of his. If you are, he doesn’t say. Just hitches his waistbands down and —

You audibly moan.

“Slutty ‘lil whore,” he says as he takes his fat cock in hand. Precum beads at the tip, and you find yourself licking your lips. You salivate at the sight of him. The heavy balls hanging low beneath his cock, his girth, and the taut, tan skin of his thighs. He’s enrapturing.

“You’re cute, baby,” he says, but the words are condescending. That’s probably why it makes you drip. “You look real good with them ‘fuck me daddy’ eyes. Maybe they’re jus’ that glossy ‘cause your ass is still stingin’. But you deserve it, dontcha? For wanting it?”

“Yes sir…” His eyes flash with something narrowly close to possession. Your teeth dig into your lower lip. With his free hand, he reaches up to your lips, pulling down your bottom lip and running his tongue along the seam of it. You take it upon yourself to suckle on his thumb, tongue swirling around the rough pad of his fingertip. Your tiny moan buzzes around the digit. “Mmph.”

Joel’s eyes, dark and dilated, trail up your exposed form. “I’d shove my cock down that tight throat of yours, but you ain’t earned it.” His hand drags down your chest, tugging and groping at bare skin. His wet thumb plucks at your nipple. Your hips hitch, grinding against thin air. Joel tuts. “Thought I whipped some sense into ya. Or some goddamn manners, at least.” His hand leaves your chest and pins one of your thighs to the couch. You squirm.

“Daddy,” you mewl. “I need – something.”

“Daddy,” Joel mocks in a high-pitched, imitated whine of your plea. “You stay right still. You’re fortunate enough I’m letting you watch.”

It’s then that you realize what he’s planning to do. Deprive you by jerking himself off all over you.

“No, no, please– I promise I’ll be good! I’ll be good, please, I n-need your co–”

Joel slaps you across the face. Again. This time, it’s harder, enough for your head to roll to the side and your eyes to roll back. Your cunt throbs. Your hearing clangs like windchimes. “Do not whine at me like a petulant child. You’re a damn lucky duck that I ain’t knocked you on your ass for all the shit you been pullin’. So you’ll sit there, and if I see you raise so much as a fuckin’ hair on your head to touch yourself, I ain’t afraid to spank that pussy raw, too. Bet you wouldn’t be touchin’ it if it was all sore and achy.”

You look down and give a small, half-nod.

“Go on. Be a good girl and ask for it,” Joel says, brow hitched. Self-righteous bastard.

You mumble something faintly under your breath.

“Wanna repeat that, baby?”

“Jerk your cock off on my pussy, daddy,” you whimper out, hips still squirming on the couch.

“Mmm, that’s more like it.”

Joel taps his cock against your clothed clit. A warning, almost. “Ngh, daddy, I–”

“Don’t start,” he scowls and inches back a bit. Then, he wraps his hand around his cock and gives himself a languid pump. He groans, eyes going lidded as he starts up at a steady pace. 

“I was going to say… I want you to come on me.” You take heavy, labored breaths, matching the rapid rise and fall of Joel’s chest. Sweat is darkening the creases of his shirt as he works himself. 

“Yeah? Ain’t a surprise, there. Filthy slut wants daddy’s come all over her pussy? Gonna walk back to your dorm with it dryin’ on your undies?” You’ll make fun of him for that later. But now, all you can do is nod at him. “Or maybe I’ll stuff ‘em in your smart mouth. See how ya feel when you can taste how much of a whore you are.”

You gasp, back arching even though there’s no pleasure for you to chase. He gets off on this. On denying you. Degrading you. It’s a high like nothing else. “Please, I– I want you to stuff them in my mouth–”

Joel hisses. You see his cock twitch in his fist. “Make you walk home all leaky and wanting, just like a hussy should? For all those fits you’ve been pitchin’?” He grunts as his hips roll to meet each wet thrust of his fist. His lips are parted, head hung while he stares at your soaked pussy. How your panties cling to your folds. He moans, thumb brushing over his tip. More precum drips from the head, trailing down his wrist. His back curves inwards as he leans closer to you.

He squeezes the hand he’s got wrapped around your leg. “Daddy, daddy!” He’s close, you can tell. Each breath he takes is short and rasping. Each thrust gets clumsier. You think you could come from this alone. The image of him, huffing and red-faced while he fucks his fist right in front of you and calls you names. “Come on me, please, I want to be covered in you–”

He moans, and his cock jolts in his tight grip. “I’m comin’, baby, I’m comin’.”

Ropes of his cum sprays on the gusset of your panties, once, twice, but before the third spirit, he wraps his hand through the leg holes of your panties and tugs up. You make a choked, frazzled moan, and maybe it’s the way the fabric pinches your clit, maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you as if you were made to be devoured. Maybe it’s just how pent up you are.

You tense and then shatter in one go, your orgasm gushing into your panties. Seizing, your back arches up off of the couch as one of your palms clambers for purchase over his. “Fuck, daddy,” you moan pathetically, hips thudding against the couch while you rock into the taut fabric. You fall back, limp and reeling. 

“Fuck,” Joel says, breathless. He stares at where your white-stained panties steep in your convulsing cunt, how more juice seeps out of them with each clench of your wrecked pussy. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his palm. “Really are a nasty girl. A little pain slut, aren’t ya baby?” His eyes glitter while he looks at you, and you imagine he must be close enough to getting hard again that he can’t come through on his promises of anger.

“Roll over for me,” he says, tapping your thigh. 

“Mmph?” You say, arm thrown over your forehead. Your eyes squeeze shut while the aftershocks hurdle through your muscles. “Oh, yeah.” You fumble, and your sweat-slick skin sticks to the couch as you turn yourself over. 

You hear a little pop, and can’t help but look over your shoulder. Of course. A Sharpie. This time, it’s gold.

“Gonna get a reputation, Miller,” you smirk at him, kicking your feet while he situates himself between your knees. He tugs your soiled panties off, and, as promised, guides the gusset to your mouth. You suck on it, eyes fluttering as you savor the conjoined musk of your mingling juices. It’s tart, but a little sweet. You feel the marker tugging at your ass, and hiss a little when he traces over a particularly sore spot.

“Yeah, well you already got one. I’m just makin’ sure you don’t forget.” He gives your ass another smack when he’s done, and you squeak. The couch stops slumping, and he pads across the room.

You stay there, head rested into your elbows and panties hanging out of your mouth while he rummages around in the vicinity. He comes back with some aloe gel. Gentle, he removes your panties from your tongue and tosses them on the table. You lick your lips, giving him a knowing look. He only rolls his eyes as he massages it into your bruised skin.

“Went a little hard on you this time, darlin’,” he says after a few moments of comfortable silence.

“I liked it,” you say.

“Yeah, I noticed.” He pats you dry. “If you got any ice packs back in your minifridge, wait a while before you ice that. Gotta let the skin repair for a day or so.”

“Aye-aye,” you say before rolling over to face him again. He’s tugged his sweats back on, but he’s golden with a post-sex glaze, a glow of sweat and contentedness. 

“‘M sorry,” he says again.

Your brows pucker. “I already told you, I lik-”

“No, for how I treated ya. Ain’t right to promise you somethin’ I can’t give ya.”

“You just gave it to me. Quite well, might I add,” you tease with a cloying grin.

“I can’t take you out,” he says. Your grin slips. He drags a hand down his face. “Everyone in this fuckin’ state, everyone in the goddamn south, even, knows who I am. Imagine the shit they’d say. Lucas–”

“Is a dick,” you say.

“Is a dick, but is also my kid. My mentee. The future of this team and my career, too. And even though he might be an asshole, he’s a good throw. Not to mention the three decades b’tween us. Not a good look, ‘specially for you. You got a whole world ahead ‘a ya. I can’t take that from you just ‘cause we have good sex.”

“So let’s just keep having good sex,” you say. “It’s the simplest thing in the world.”

“Yeah,” Joel says with a roll of his eyes. “Simple.” But then he seems to look like he’s thinking about it. Properly. He swallows. Crosses his arms over his broad chest. “Fine.”

“Really?” You say, brows raised. You’re surprised that worked.

“Want me to take it back?”

“No,” you say.

He simpers. “Thought so. Now c’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.” He beckons you down the hallway after him, and you scoop your long-abandoned clothes off the floor. 

A smarter version of yourself would agree with him. But this version of yourself, the version that hopped his fence tonight, wants nothing more than to run back to the throttle of his hand and the loosening of his belt.

That version of yourself is the one who follows him down the hall.

[claymoresword]

We Bleed The Same | Part: 1

Cersei Lannister x Stark Fem!Reader 🐺

Summary: On the road from Winterfell to King's Landing, Cersei and y/n find themselves reconciling with both old and new feelings as fate seems determined to tear them apart.

Sequel to 'Where's My Love'.

Wordcount: 4k

Pairing: Cersei x Reader

Warnings: smut, g!p reader, mentions of sexual violence & domestic abuse, breeding kink, blowjob/deep throating, unprotected sex, dubious consent, co-dependency, y/n & cersei are soulmates argue with the wall

Note: This was actually a lot of fun, I already can't wait to put out the second part! Anyway, hope you enjoy this one as much as i enjoyed writing it (smut after asterisks)

You have been on the road for what feels like an eternity, the children are growing restless, and so are you, but King's Landing is still weeks away. Your next destination being Castle Darry, by order of the king.

Robert Baratheon is rather fond of his pit stops, and you have half a mind to strangle him for that.

What is meant to be a few weeks on the road has turned into months of long-winded journey.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat for the hundredth time, leaning back against the cushions.

You are certainly looking forward to sleeping in a proper bed, whenever that might be.

Just as you start to grow somewhat comfortable, the litter jerks to an abrupt halt, forcing you to lean forward.

Ned places a firm arm in front of his girls to prevent them from falling forward the same way you had.

“Why have we stopped?” You ask, exasperated. Subsequently, pulling aside the curtain next to you to look out the window, only to be greeted with darkness.

You hadn't realized it was already nightfall.

As you squint, you only manage to make out an open field– the scenery does look beautiful, but this isn't the castle.

“Maybe the king needed a piss again.” Arya remarks, trying her best to look over your shoulder.

You narrow your gaze at your niece, and her inability to keep her thoughts to herself. Although there is full possibility that the girl was correct.

The king had delayed the possession half a dozen times today to relieve himself.

“No..” Sansa utters. “He's being sick.” She observes, and it is swiftly followed by the sound of Robert dry heaving.

You grimace at the noise, no longer concealing your annoyance.

Robert has stopped the journey half a dozen times to do that as well.

“Perhaps if he didn't drink so much..” You start, although your brother interjects before you can say anything else.

“Be quiet, the lot of you.” Ned scolds, and you have to bite back a retort as you petulantly glance out through the curtains again.

Eventually, the litter resumes movement, and you rest your back once more, allowing your mind to wander.

Cersei is no doubt feeling as miserable as you are, if not more.

Had you been given leave to ride with her, perhaps this journey would not be half as excruciating.

You missed her, you crave to hear her voice, to touch her, kiss her.

If you fail to reach Castle Darry by tonight, you aim to find a way inside the queen's litter. Robert is certain to be too drunk to notice anyway.

The journey continues on for several more hours, the repetitive movement of the carriage begins to lull you, you could only fight it for so long before a deep and dreamless slumber manages to take over.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

“Y/n.” You stir to Ned's voice, his hand on your shoulder is like a jolt to your system; you sit up abruptly.

As you come to your senses, you notice that the litter has stopped, Arya and Sansa are no longer beside you.

“We're moving into the castle, I need your help carrying in the food crates.” Ned explains, pulling open the curtains next to you.

“What hour is it?” You ask groggily, still trying to rub the sleep from your eyes.

“I don't know.” Ned responds truthfully. “but I reckon we'll see first light soon.” He finishes, yet you fail to move.

“Come on, you've been asleep for hours.” Your brother insists, he grabs ahold of your hand, forcibly hoisting you up.

As he tugs on your arm, you stumble out of the litter, leaning your weight on Ned as you attempt to find your footing.

You shove him away after you do, scowling at your brother, and his very successful attempt at manhandling you.

“When we get back on the road I am riding on horseback. I'm sick of sitting in that damned thing.” You grumble, gesturing to the carriage behind you before smoothing out your cloak and running your fingers through your hair.

“As you wish, but I refuse to listen to you whine about saddle sores.” Ned says, approaching the stack of crates.

“I am a woman grown, I do not whine.” You contend defensively.

Ned does not heed your remark, nodding towards the large crate impatiently, he braces his hands on the underside of it. “Come, help me.”

═══════════════════════════════════════════

Castle Darry sits atop of a hill in the Riverlands, the climb was steep enough to knock the wind out of you.

By the time you enter through its doors, your chest is heaving. “Seven hells–” You mutter under your breath, although you are quickly distracted by the interior of the palace.

Darry had decently high ceilings, the castle is larger on the inside as it appeared on the outside. Somehow modest and grand all at once.

The stairs, large and winding, are set at the center of the main hall leading up to the bedchambers.

Robert picked a decent place this time around, you'll give him that much.

You stroll past the stairs towards the castle's great hall, observing as Ned approaches the table in the far right, next to a window that overlooks a view of the river.

You spot your nieces and nephews enjoying an early breakfast. Next to them are Cersei's youngest children, Myrcella and Tommen.

Sansa and Myrcella appear caught up in conversation, whilst Arya and Tommen are on their knees, busy feeding Nymeria pieces of charred meat.

Joffrey is nowhere to be seen. This doesn't surprise anyone, in truth. The prince along with his sworn guard often wander about on their own. The boy was always eager to find trouble where he can, that much is evident.

You begin scanning the rest of the hall, you notice the kingsguard along with the queen's men, but no sight of the king or queen themselves.

You can't help the disappointment that settles in your belly, you were hoping to get at least a glimpse of Cersei before heading to bed.

“Where is the queen?” You ask as you take a seat next to Robb and his half-brother, Jon.

You reach for the flagon of spiced wine, pouring it into a cup as you await a response.

Robb merely shrugs as he stuffed a piece of bacon into his mouth, and your other nephew decides to opt for a smart answer.

“With the king, I presume?” Jon remarks, insolent and juvenile.

You quickly wipe the smirk off his face by placing a firm smack against the back of his head.

Jon yelps, reaching up to rub the same spot you had just struck him. “What was that for?”

“I meant, which room is she in?” You rephrase, unamused before lifting the rim of your cup to your lips, taking a large drink.

A burst of nutmeg and cinnamon coats your tongue, when accompanied with the warm, bitter taste of wine, it manages to soothe you.

“I saw her enter the one upstairs, at the end of the hall.” Sansa chimes in, making sure to swallow her food first before addressing you.

You turn your attention towards your niece, a look of gratitude paints your features. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“Hopeless, the both of you.” You remark, reaching out to mess up Robb's head of auburn hair.

You relished the way both boys scowled at you as you left the dining area.

-

You trudge up the steep stairs leading to the bedchambers. Glancing at the row of rooms to your left, and then to your right.

You mentally curse yourself for failing to clarify with Sansa exactly which room the queen had taken as her own.

After a moment of deliberating, you decide to take a risk, approaching the room on the far left, one hidden behind a large pillar.

You knock twice before resting your hand on the pommel of your sword.

A beat passes and no one answers, though just as you move to walk away, the door opens, and a golden-haired beauty emerges from the dark room.

Your smile happens involuntarily as you pale greys catch Cersei's emerald gaze. Though the queen doesn't reciprocate, instead she pulls you in for a sudden hug.

After a fleeting moment of confusion, you embrace her in return. Your hand rests on the small of her back, the other gently threads through her golden curls.

As your gaze wanders, it is only then you notice a tear in her robe. The silk material fails to cover the bruising on Cersei's arm; the sight makes you stiffen.

The queen fails to speak, so you decide to break the silence first.

“Is everything alright?” You ask, expecting the answer, but Cersei does not grace you with a verbal reply, merely hugging you tighter.

“Do you want me to stay here tonight?” You whisper instead, your lips brush against the shell of the other woman's ear.

Cersei remains quiet for a while, as though considering your request. She pulls back slightly to look at you, her gaze softens as she traces your features with her thumb.

“You can't, Robert's in my bed.” She finally says, and your brows furrow at the prospect.

That old brute laid his hands on her again.

You open your mouth to protest, but as if expecting it, Cersei places her hand over your mouth, stopping you. “Don't– do not say anything, just kiss me.”

With that, the queen leans in, capturing your mouth with her own. The kiss is desperate, and anguished. Cersei moans softly into your mouth as your tongues make contact.

She tastes like lemon and arbor red, and you are content to feel her like this, for all eternity, although the way your lungs burn for air proves your desire to be an impossible one to uphold.

You break away first, tilting your head to kiss her neck. Cersei gasps at the sensation, her fingers clenched tightly around your hair as your mouth finds the base of her jaw.

“I want–” The queen starts, her voice trembling ever so slightly as your mouth continues to move along her tender flesh.

Eventually, Cersei finds the strength to tug on your hair, guiding your face to her own.

“I want to name you my sworn protector, when we get to King's Landing.” The older woman says suddenly. “I will declare it to the council myself.” Cersei adds, and she simply rakes her fingers through your hair at your lack of response.

“Then you'll have reason to be in my quarters.. in my company.. elsewise people will talk.” She explains, and finally, you nod.

The queen's sworn protector. Like you intended to be all those years ago, before things went wrong between the two of you.

“As you wish.. I am your servant.” You conclude, and for the first time tonight a smile covers Cersei's enchanting features.

Striking, delicate and so damned breathtaking.

“Good.” She says, pulling you in for another lingering kiss.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

--

The following week at Darry had been at best, quiet and uneventful. You spent most of your days with your brother and his children and nights waiting for everyone to fall asleep just so you could visit the queen.

Although, you did not have the privilege of seeing her last night. After a long day of hunting with Ned and Robert, you don't recall how you got back to the castle, only that you had awoken this morning with a pounding head.

Not exactly fond of hunting, you did so mainly out of courtesy– as to not give the king cause to be upset.

Robert is as unpleasant on a hunt as he is on any other day, if not more.

Naturally, you drank to dull the ache his company caused, as well as pass the time.

In truth, all you wanted to do is spend your days and nights in bed with Cersei. You had managed to steal moments here and there, but nothing enough to satiate your need for her.

All the more reason to look forward to King's Landing. Once you get to the city you'll be allowed to spend time in the queen's bedchambers under the guise of guarding her from harm.

Then, you'll finally be allowed to do whatever you desire with each other without the danger of being seen.

-

Tonight, in a welcomed change of pace, you find yourself in the Godswood with Ser Jory Cassel, dull blades in hand.

He is a capable sparring partner, however predictable he might be.

You remind yourself once more that he is a knight, he fights clean like most of them.

Most knights are predictable.

“I cannot be out here for much longer, M'lady. Lord Eddard has tasked me to watch over his daughters tonight.” Ser Jory says as he resumes his stance, lifting his blade.

You shrug, doing the same.

“I understand, Ser. I only mean to fight you until I grow bored.. which shouldn't take long at all.” You jest, and it manages to hit a nerve, as the knight takes a large swing at you.

You deflect the blow before swiftly maneuvering your body away with one foot, causing the knight to stumble forward.

Ser Jory recovers quickly, this time you strike first, and your dull blades kiss with a large clash.

You take the opportunity to get out of the position by flicking your wrist, as a result your sword is released from the blade lock. You twist the blade in your hand once before pointing it at the knight's neck.

The quickest win yet.

Ser Jory sighs, lifting his arms in surrender. “I yield.”

You lower your blade with a grin. Though the man yields quickly, far too easily.

Suddenly, you find yourself hoping the knight isn't letting you win on purpose, or perhaps he is just eager to get inside and resume his post.

Either way, you are not yet satisfied.

As you are just about to request for another round, voices in the distance steal your attention.

You glance over to see men from the kingsguard standing under the Weirwood, gossiping– albeit not very discreetly.

“They were arguing again, the king and queen..”

Ser Jory has since set aside his sparring blade. He walks over to a wooden bench in the corner of the Godswood to fetch his sword belt, fastening it onto his person.

“See you inside, m'lady.” Jory announces as he rushes back into the castle. Although you hardly hear him at all as you inch closer to the pair of knights standing under the Weirwood tree.

You remain partially hidden by the darkness as you listen to their conversation whilst pretending to focus your attention elsewhere.

“I heard she broke his nose.” The kingsguard says.

“He broke hers more like. That's why she sent her handmaids to fetch her a cold compress.” The other knight chimes in, and his words send an unpleasant shiver down your spine.

You turn away, thoughtlessly discarding the practice blade you were holding before grabbing your own sword.

You slip past the main doors of the castle before sprinting up the stairs. You pushed past the pair of guards at the foot of it as they took a moment too long to step aside.

As you reach Cersei's bedchambers you notice that her door is left ajar. You push it open, stepping inside in a panic frenzy, only to nearly trip over Robert's large frame.

The king lays motionless by the door, on a beautifully crafted Myrish carpet. His large belly spilling out of his tunic.

A compelling sight.

You look up to find Cersei standing by the window, a goblet of wine in hand. She smiles as your eyes meet.

Her hair is unkempt, her robe falling off one shoulder, but there is no blood anywhere on her, in fact she appears entirely unharmed.

You turn to shut the door, wincing as it accidentally slams into place. Yet, Robert remains on the floor, unfazed.

“Is he dead?” You quip, circling the king's motionless body and it earns a bitter chuckle from Cersei.

“No, just passed out from drinking too much, I'm afraid.” The queen responds, her own voice slurred.

The queen is drunk.

“Pity.” You remark, as a large noise erupts from the king. The boisterous and grating snore continues every time he breathes.

You tilt your head at the sight of him, Robert Baratheon is a beast, and the worst kind.

You sigh at the thought before turning around, only to find Cersei standing right behind you.

She reaches up instinctively, wrapping her arms around the back of your neck.

“Did he hurt you?” You ask softly, your own hands finding her waist.

Your jaw tenses as Cersei nodded in response.

A blind rage overcomes you then, the sound of Robert snoring agitates you beyond belief, fueling your resentment.

“I could kill him.” You mutter through gritted teeth, and Cersei merely re-focuses her gaze on you, an amused smile playing on her lips.

“You are so adorable.” She whispers, almost mockingly, her lips then meet your neck.

The feeling of her kisses upon your skin slowly causes your anger to dissipate, you find yourself conflicted.

“Cersei–” You attempt, but the queen's mouth against the shell of your ear causes your words to die in your throat.

**

“Take me to bed..” She says, the scent of lavender in her hair invades your senses, and you find it nearly impossible to think. You are urged to do as she asks, but logic and reason forces you to consider otherwise.

“What?” You ask, and you feel Cersei's teeth graze your ear, she bites your earlobe before pulling back slightly to look at you.

“I want you to fuck me– you do it so well.” She pleads, in a tone that nearly makes your knees buckle.

Cersei runs her fingers through your hair, uninterested in hearing you protest any further.

She escapes your embrace, though not letting go of your hand as she steps over Robert.

The king continues to snore loudly, you are beginning to think the man will not wake for anything at all. He might as well be dead.

“Come.” Cersei coaxes sweetly, tugging on your arm.

You let her guide you without a moment's thought, stepping over the king to follow the queen to her bed.

Cersei lets go of your hand to unlace her robe, she shrugs it off, allowing it to fall on the floor, leaving her as naked as her nameday.

The queen watches you disapprovingly as you stand frozen in place. You observed the way her hips swayed languidly as she approached you.

She reaches south to unfasten your sword belt, gripping your blade by its scabbard before placing it on the floor.

“You are not naked enough.” Cersei points out, with a slight pout. The way she continues to slur her words causes your heart to constrict in your chest.

Even like this, she is breathtaking.

Beautiful.. and so utterly twisted.

You are so in love with her.

Cersei sets her bottom lip in between her teeth with palpable excitement as you obliged her. Unclasping your dark grey doublet, tossing it aside before lifting your tunic over your head.

The queen decides to assist you with your bottom half. Brazenly palming your cock through your breeches, her shoulder slumps in disappointment, unsatisfied with the current flaccid state of your shaft.

“What's wrong?” Cersei asks, her hands move up your body to cup your breast before resting on the nape of your neck once more.

You are unsure of how to respond, you remain overtly aware of the fact that Cersei's husband remained asleep only a few feet away.

You turn to glance at the man but the queen is quick to force your head in place. “Don't look at him.” She scolds before leaning in to capture your lips with her own for a long kiss.

As you aim to slip your tongue inside of her mouth, Cersei pulls away with a demand. “Take off your breeches, come here.”

You observed as Cersei climbed onto the bed, settling on her knees at the edge of it.

The sight admittedly manages to excite you; you feel your cock begin to stir.

You remove your breeches in haste, ridding them heedlessly as you approach the golden haired woman.

Now you stand in front of the bed and Cersei remains in a kneeling position on the edge as she grips the base of your semi-erect shaft. Bringing it up to her lips, she kisses the tip, all while maintaining eye contact.

“Fuck–” You groan aloud as Cersei finally takes you into her mouth, her tongue flat against your cock as she begins to suck.

You let out an unsteady breath, reaching down to grip a fistful of her hair, wary of not grabbing too tightly as you allowed Cersei to set her own pace.

The queen continues bobbing her head, taking your cock inside of her mouth in its entirety.

You feel her breathe out through her nose as she takes you in even deeper, pulling another groan from you as the tip of your shaft meets her throat.

You gasp as Cersei keeps going, you notice as tears begin to well up in her eyes before they flutter shut as she takes you further in.

The feeling of her swallowing around your cock makes you see stars, and it nearly causes you to finish right then and there.

“Gods above, Cersei–” You curse incoherently.

The queen chokes on your girth before leaning back to let your cock lay flat against her tongue once more.

She continues to suck dutifully, and you grunt, this time gripping her hair harshly to pull her head back.

You needed to take her, now.

“Enough, come here.” You state, and Cersei lets your cock fall out of her mouth.

She makes a noise of surprise as you harshly met her lips. Cersei kisses you passionately in return, pulling you down on top of her.

As the queen parted her legs for you, you don't give her much warning before reaching in between both of your bodies.

You line the tip of your shaft up to her entrance, and with one swift thrust, you enter her completely, filling Cersei to the hilt.

The older woman lets out a guttural noise at the sensation, followed shortly after by a whimper.

Cersei's nails dig into your back as her entire body trembles uncontrollably.

You turn to check if the king had perhaps awoken at the sound, but again, Cersei does not give you the chance, pulling you in for another kiss.

You decide not to heed caution any longer, you begin moving your hips, steadily increasing the pace.

If the king wakes, you will kill him.

Cersei mewls into your mouth as your cock hits the perfect spot within her, again and again.

Soon, you brace your hands against the bedding on either side of her head as you begin to rut into her wildly.

Cersei lets out a series of broken gasps and moans, followed by a louder whine when she suddenly reaches her peak around your cock.

You observed as the queen writhed underneath you with every thrust afterwards, she wraps her arms around your back weakly, pulling you in even closer.

You steal at the opportunity to take Cersei’s breasts into your mouth. Licking and sucking at them greedily.

She gasps at the feeling, and you soon earn another whine as you maintain your slow thrusts.

“Please..” The queen pleads, and the sound of her desperation alone makes you drunk.

“Fill me with your seed,” Cersei utters against your ear, her legs wrapped around your waist as though not allowing you the opportunity to disobey her.

“I want to feel it quicken inside me. I want to bear your children, your heirs. Only yours.” She continues, deliberately clenching her walls around your girth.

That does it.

Your release comes just as sudden, it is violent and unyielding.

Before you can even think of pulling out, your seed spills out in ropes, thick and warm, filling Cersei's womb, just as she wanted.

[zepskies]

Hey could I request angsty and fluffy headcanons for Dean having a crush on reader but he thinks she has a crush on Sam but she actually has a crush on Dean back

Hey lovely!

So I kiiiind of already did this type of prompt with "Dean gives you an impossible choice" and its sequel, "Choosing Him."

But I'll do another imagine in this vein for you! ❤️

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 1,000 Tags/Warnings: Fluff, angst(ish), fear of unrequited love, mutual pining

Imagine: Dean reads you wrong.

When Dean falls for someone, it's "slow and steady wins the race."

But the spark. That spark is instant.

He feels it with you.

Your pretty smile. Your "get it done" attitude that mirrors his. The way you know all of his references, whether it's movies or TV or music — you grew up learning how to tell time from what was on TV, just like him.

It's the way you laugh with him, share quiet moments of contemplation with him, and even moments of grief with him. Even when it's his grief, you always come. Whether it's to sit beside him, or share a drink with him, or make him something you know he likes, or get him to take a drive with you.

But realistically, you have more in common with Sam.

Both of you are bookish (nerds). You two get into heated discussions about Dante's Inferno and proper Latin translations. (You always accuse Sam of his pronunciations being off, while Sam argues, "At least I remember the whole exorcism. You think the damn demon cares if my vowels are off?")

You and Sam bicker. You playfully tease him, bring smiles to his face just as often as you bring them to Dean's. You're comfortable with him, playfully jabbing his arm or his chest when you mess with him.

Sam takes it with a smile, or a slight roll of his eyes, but always with fondness.

Dean can't help the churning in his stomach. Every time he thinks he has a read on you. Every time he thinks it's safe to maybe, one day, after a hunt, after an episode of Dr. Sexy, after you get out of the shower, after he's made you a home-cooked meal, after you sit with him and talk about everything and nothing while he works on his car — he thinks he might have a shot if he asked you out.

But he always falters, because he just can't fucking tell. He thinks you and Sam have something.

And Dean...he likes you. A lot.

More than he's ever willingly expressed.

But despite his reputation with women, he's never, and will never, step on his brother's toes.

Until he can't help himself.

It's your birthday. Sam got you a series of books he recommended to you last month. (Again, fucking nerds.) Dean got the booze and made the food to celebrate.

But you're surprised, and even a little teary when he brings out the cake he bought at an honest-to-God bakery. He even stood in line, waited 30 minutes to have them write your name on it, with little balloons. The frosting letters are drawn in your favorite color.

"Happy Birthday, sweetheart," Dean tells you. His tone is a little too soft. It's because he sees your unshed tears, and his heart clenches.

It's just a fucking cake.

Does it really matter that much to you?

But he still feels a well of warmth and pride in his chest. He turns to his brother with a smirk. "I win."

It's meant to be playful, but he kind of means it. Sam just eyes him knowingly.

"Sure," Sam laughs.

What the hell does that mean? Dean nearly frowns. But he's soon distracted — by you leaning in close to kiss him on the cheek.

He turns just in time (with slightly wider eyes) to see you blush.

That smile tells him something.

"Thanks, guys," you say to both of them. But your hand lingers on Dean's wrist, squeezing a bit.

At the end of the night, Sam turns in early. You stick around to help Dean clean up.

"Aw, stop. You're the birthday girl. I got this," Dean says, waving you off. You join him at the kitchen counter and lay a hand on his arm.

"Dean," you say softly. It earns his attention. You look a little nervous, your eyes falling from his, then meeting them again.

"What's the matter?" he asks. His brows furrow. He's thinking of your lips on his cheek. Unconsciously he glances down at your pretty mouth.

"Was wondering if you could help me with a birthday wish," you said.

A smile begins to tug at your lips, and Dean can't help but smile back. Intrigue, and a small tremor of something triggers up his spine.

"Oh yeah? What's that?" he asks.

You bite your lip. "Okay...I'm going to ask you this once. Yes or no. And if it's no...then we won't talk about it ever again and you'll have to wipe it out of your memory, because I don't want to make things weird or make you uncomfortable and I don't want to have to do something drastic, like leave the Bunker—"

Dean's smile falls as his brows raise in slight alarm. He also raises placating hands to stop your verbal flapping.

"Whoa, hey. What? What the hell kinda birthday question is this?"

You close your eyes and take a breath. "Okay."

Your eyes open, and as what happens far too often, Dean's captured by them.

"Close your eyes for me," you request.

"My eyes need to be closed to answer a damn question?"

"Damn it, Dean. Just do it, please!"

He lets out a slightly peeved breath, but he obliges you, shutting his lids. He really doesn't know what the hell is going on...until you lay a bracing hand on his chest and press a soft kiss to his lips.

For a moment, he freezes.

He inhales deeply through his nose as the surprise fades.

Relief floods in its wake.

A smile reaches his face.

But soon enough, before you can pull away, he grasps your upper arms to hold you in place. He dips his head down to kiss you in earnest. His lips find yours, gentle at first, and then gaining in passion.

He learns quickly the pattern of your lips, and the heady feeling of that knowing travels straight to his brain, stronger than the whiskey he drank earlier.

It's like you two were made to move together. To end up just like this.

You both are breathless by the time your eyes slide open and meet one another.

Dean's lips curve into a smirk. "How's that answer for ya?"

Your smile is beaming bright.

"Yeah, that works."

Chuckling, he pulls you in closer and tugs a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your blush-warmed cheek.

And he answers you again.

AN: Ugh, I'm sappy as hell. 😂 Hope you liked this! Let me know what you think. 😉

Read Sam’s version: “Sam reads you wrong.”

Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Dean W. Tag List:

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @sanscas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420

[voxslays]

Hi i loved your Hazbin Men as Dads Writing! Maybe you could write the same for the Hazbin Woman x reader as parents if the Idea intrests you ;-) ?

OMG OFC!!! I was thinking of doing a sequel lol but I wasn’t sure if I should. Now I definitely will though! <3

HAZBIN WOMEN AS MOTHERS

Featuring >>> Charlie, Carmilla, Rosie, Sera, Velvette, & Vaggie x Reader as mothers!

Rosie:

Let’s be honest, your child is going to be a cannibal. Assuming the three of you live in cannibal town together as a family, (which is very likely), this may happen sooner…like before your baby turns a year old…BUT ANYWAYS-!

Your child will grow up surrounded by Rosie’s loyal subjects. Nobody in cannibal town would dare lay a hand on your precious child, but for the few outsiders who try…let’s just say they pasta way. Their ashes may or may not end up in Rosie’s spice cabinet, and then on your dinner plate…but rosie is such a good cook!

Rosie would be such a good mom. Sure, she is a very busy woman, but she would always make time for her little (demonic) spawn! Overall, 10/10 parenting.

Carmilla:

Carmilla is already a mother, she has lots of experience. Having two or three daughters, (I can’t remember how many she has in the show lol), she has seen it all. She knows all the tricks. She is strict…but loving!!!

She is shown being protective and willing to anything to save her daughters, so it would be the same for your child, if not more. She would not let the poor kid out of her sight for the first few months. She knows hell is a dangerous place, and will teach your child how to defend themselves from a young age.

Like I mentioned with Valentino in my other post, Carmilla would likely have your child learning Spanish young. It is very important your child is well educated both in language (and fighting). But then again, she’s already portrayed to be a good mother in the show, so what did you expect?

Velvette:

Oh lord. With her there is no way your child isn’t a mistake. Velvette would be ‘way too busy’ to deal with a child. She is one of the Vees and the top designer in pride! What did you expect!? She doesn’t have time for some random child!

Velvette is literally an adult screenager, so like Valentino I don’t think she would be very responsible with your baby. Velvette would leave your child unsupervised, or under the supervision of one of her models who wasn’t busy at the moment, while she does fittings and preps her models for the next big fashion show.

While in public she puts up a front of being too busy, in private I think she would genuinely feel guilty. Overtime I think she would grow to care for the child, teaching them all about fashion and social media. She is totally the type of mom to show your child off on social media or just create an account from scratch. Its safe to say your child is already a star.

Charlie:

BEST MOM EVER??? I mean first of all, she is the princess of hell, and with her personality, that basically means your child is going to be spoiled rotten! Your child has all the (mostly duck themed toys, brought to you by Lucifer) they could ever dream of. This child is royalty, and will be treated as such.

She would NEVER yell at your child, god forbid the poor kid cries…she might start crying too! Charlie is also always up for playing with your child. Whether it’s arts and crafts, dress up, dollies, etc. she will drop whatever she’s doing—or finish it up quickly—and play.

Grandpa Luci is also around very frequently. He has just reconciled with his daughter after all, and his daughter has a daughter??? If Charlie wasn’t spoiling your child enough, Lucifer is doing ten times more. Every time he visits he brings your child a trinket, like one of his ducks, a duck themed onesie, or just a sugary treat.

Vaggie:

Literally a carbon copy of Carmilla but like ten times more protective. I mean how could she not be? Her precious child is living under the same roof as the radio demon! (Let’s just say that if Alastor steps within even ten feet of your baby he is getting threatened with a spear to the neck.

I feel like she would be a boy mom. Not in the tiktok boy mom sense, but I just generally feel like she would get along better with a son than a daughter. No matter which one you have though, she will love them unconditionally.

Supportive of her children’s dreams in the same way she supports Charlie’s. She is always very supportive, but can sometimes be a little doubtful. However, to balance that out, she always brings good advice to the table. I can also see her keeping secrets, like the fact she was an exterminator from her child until they get older.

Sera:

She’s like Carmilla but more angelic. Sera is very strict and by the book, and would expect her child(ren) to be the same. She can be hard on others, especially her children, but in reality she just wants the best for them.

If the two of you had a child, I feel they would be a mix of Emily and Lucifer. Kind, energetic, and a dreamer. This worries Sera a lot. She lived with Lucifer in heaven, she saw his dreams. Sera watched him fall for the dreams he tried to make a reality. Therefore, she would try to stop your child from turning into a dreamer.

Overtime, I think she would realize that your child’s dreams are nothing like Lucifer’s, and would become more supportive. Overall, Sera is very overprotective, strict, and hard on others, but she is truly looking out for their well-being.

[leafostuff]

No Strings Attached [Ft. Billlie's Sheon and Tsuki]

Author's Note: Im out of Hiatus!!!

And finally the continuation of No Names Needed, fun fact - this idea of a sequel with both Tsuki and Sheon was in my brain for a long time, i only now found the inspiration, time and energy to write it.

By the time this will come out, it will be 2025 so happy new year everyone, hope yall thought about your resolutions and had the a blast for 2024, Soon also my writerversary will come as well (Feb 5th) so that is hype as well.

Lastly, just want to thank @defmaybe for helping with beta reading the fic, it kinda is quite a mess when it comes to plot but i honestly enjoyed writing this so much.

And without further ado, hope yall have a fun read

================================================

So after that entire situation at the club’s bathroom with the mysterious girl, a couple of questions are now stuck in your head:

Firstly, how did she manage to convince you for a second round at her place so easily?, It’s not like you were in the right headspace for any reason considering you just reviewed the best head of your life and you were excited to see more of her but still.

Second, what are the odds that just as you were ready to take off your shirt, her roommate just so happened to arrive from her shift? Having to sit quietly on their couch listening to the awkward argument of having to leave the dorm for tonight so her roommate could sleep in peace after a long shift.

And lastly: why are they now making out on the bed with their underwear only?

“Nghh…Sheon…” is the only her roommate (which you are still not sure about

Her name) can mutter between kisses, her voice is sweet on the ears, especially when she moans with how her partner latches her luscious lips (which you can vouch for by experience) latch on a particular spot on her neck, “so good…”

“Yes unnie, it is so good” it's the way Sheon elongates the last two words which raises the sexual tension inside the room, and her hands are not left idle, rubbing her right thigh back and forth. 

“And look, he is so hard for us right now” she adds before slightly tilting her roommate's face toward your naked erection, everything happened so fast you don't even remember when you took off your pants. “What do you say, oppa, ready for round two?”

“Fuck, as long you tell me your cute roommate's name,” you finally respond, already inching closer to them with impatience and lust. However, it seems like Sheon has other plans.

“That’s not how it works” Sheon lets out a disappointed sigh, “You can't just get a girl’s name like that, first you need to let her suck your cock.” To any other person, Sheon’s response would be fucked up, but to you and the two girls? For some reason, it just makes sense. “But before all of that, let me get unnie to show her tits to us”.

Words quickly turn into actions as Sheon unclasped her roommate's bra, letting it fall onto the sheets, giving her mounds the full view they desperately needed. It's hard to pinpoint exactly her size, especially with how Sheon is not wasting a second by slowly pushing her friend’s face lower to face the tip of your hardness.

The last stretch though, she does by herself and honestly? Those two girls might as well be sisters since like Sheon, as soon as her lips wrap around the tip of your cock a switch flips in her head, immediately starting with slow and steady bobbing movement toward the base of your cock.

She even has the same deadly stare Sheon has when she looks up, seeing your eyes closed while biting your lips every time she gets your cock deeper inside her, letting out a soft mumble resembling a chuckle before increasing the pace and the passion she uses to drain you.

And it drives you fucking insane.

“Oh my god unnie, you suck his cock so fucking amazing” Sheon is shocked at the oral assault her roommate expertly does. “Let me just get naked and then I will start sucking his balls, okay, unnie?” Even with the immense pleasure you receive you can still see how Sheon quickly takes off her bra to reveal her rather small mounds before diving downward, facing your cock with a hungry gaze.

She shifts around to find a comfortable position near her roommate and then, without leaving you a place to get used to it, she immediately reaches her tongue forward, giving it a teasing lick that sends shivers to your brain never felt before.

The only thing you can do is grip the mattress of the bed, trying to find some semblance of control over your body while two professional arsonists set your body aflame with pleasure that can only be described as messy and the sounds they make doesn't help your situation.

“Mm shewon-” the black-haired girl muffles with your cock still inside her mouth, “he is swo hawrd-nghh…” she manages to say to her friend, who seems to get excited with each moment seeing her friend being fucked.

“I know, right? I bet he really likes it when girls like us suck his big, thick cock,” Sheon responds while her hands go to her roommate's hair, moving it from her face to give more space, then she turns to you. “What about you, oppa, getting close for my unnie?”.

You can only nod in response, as any other will take too much energy from you. “That's great oppa,” Sheon adds, taking a look sideways and see how into the feeling the other girl, you could bet she’s not even hearing a word of your conversation as her entire soundscape consistent of licking, slurping and moaning, all which gets you closer to what they have been waiting.

But then, Sheon rises from her position, moving herself from near her roommate to now sitting behind you. You can feel how one of her hands snakes up from behind, gliding across your naked chest before leaning her mouth to your right ears, whispering the magic you didn't know even existed.

“Fill her”

And all hell breaks loose. This simple request is enough to send you into overdrive, as you quickly put each of your hands on the black-haired girl’s head for control before releasing your first shot of your load into her mouth.

And it just doesn't stop, your mind is all hazy only focusing on that request, each buck of your hips forward gets you reaching the back of her mouth with your cock and then unloading another round of cum down her throat, getting the both of you to release a moan.

Sheon? She’s ecstatic, jumping up and down behind you frantically. Each pump of yours gets her giggling and smiling wider. “Yes, yes, yes!!, fill her oppa, fill my Tsuki unnie, she's such a slut for your big cock, let her have all of it” As if she knew all of your sweet spots, she reached her lips to your ear, giving it a loving kiss which gets you hornier.

Below you, Tsuki lets out tears from the pleasure overtaking her entire body, each drop of cum getting inside her gets her moaning while her hands gripping your thighs to not faint, meanwhile managing to mutter a slutty, needy “more” every time she takes her lips out to catch her breath, before taking you in further.

Your last drops of your white load eventually gets swallowed by Tsuki’s, pulling her lips out of your cock and letting you fall onto the bed, pleasure blurs every bit of your vision, finally having time to catch your breath for the first time of the night and your heartbeat to slow down.

“Fuck…you two…are insane” is the only thing you manage to say between heavy breaths.

“And the best part, oppa? We're not over yet,” Sheon says, her voice still seductive, you manage to raise your head and see the two girls as you suddenly notice something: their panties are off.

In front of you are now two girls, fully naked, presenting themselves to you in their full glory, Sheon with a slutty smile and a bite on her lower lip while Tsuki demeanor is more reserved however her eyes share the same curiosity and excitement as her roommate. Immediately, this gets you up and running once again.

“That's right Oppa, you still didn't have the chance to cum on Tsuki unnie's thighs…or inside my ass, and especially…” She then goes behind Tsuki, quickly inserting two digits into her pussy while her other hand goes to grope one of her tits, getting Tsuki to gasp in surprise from the surprising touch over her body.

 “You didn't get to cum inside our tight little pussies, Oppa,” she adds, now you're fully immersed in the show in front of you.

“Who knows, maybe a round or two later we could hear your name, right?”

It’s that question that guarantees both to them and to you that tonight's gonna be unlike any other night you ever had in your life.

[always-just-red]

Hi! Hope you're having a good day!

Just found your blog yesterday and read Onychinus' Finest. I've been STARVED of Kieran and Luke fics, not enough people appreciate them, so I come with a request! (Most of what I'll say is totally optional. I believe in the author's creative vision overall so if something doesn't fit feel free to change and adapt whatever you'd like.)

Either hunter or assassin MC, where they're at a mission, and they're ambushed. One of the twins gets hurt protecting her, maybe even taken, and she just goes on a rampage to get him back. They've never quite seen her so protective and yet so vengeful. She might go by herself? When Sylus wants to plan ahead properly since his own miscalculations lead them to get attacked in the first place. The twins are loyal to him, the other brother won't go without his permission despise his brother being missing or hurt. I'm just picturing her finding a broken mask, half of it missing (she's never seen their faces before.)

Happy ending. 🥺 Just fluffy you know? I want the twins melting into her, one with gratitude for finding his brother and the other just with disbelief and affection that she's do all this for him.

Special mention to any heads on her lap like overgrown puppies, just holding her close. They're sweet boys I think, especially if their guard and masks are finally down.

You can take this as platonic or romantic, she could be with Sylus and still have grown to really care and look out for the twins, or she could love them. (I don't know which ones angstier)

Thank you for even considering this even if you decide it's not worth your time!

AAAAAAA HEY!! You had such a vision for this and it was so fun to work with-- I hope it's everything you imagined! You've always been so so so supportive and kind, so I low-key went all-out on this, that's half the reason it took so long. 😭😭 Think this is my longest fic so far oh my gosh? Love it though, all the action scenes took me RIGHT back to my Assassin's Creed fanfic writing days haha Anyway! This is set in the same canon as the last fic because I loved that dynamic ngl. Not a direct sequel though!

Beneath The Mask

Luke and Kieran x Reader 🎭

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: Sylus and Kieran are useless, as always, so you take matters into your own hands

Genre: angst + fluff + ACTION!! *karate chops*

Warnings/Additional tags: f!reader, nonMC!reader, platonic Sylus x reader, swearing, descriptions of violence, injury, broken bones, killing (don't @ reader, she wants her man back!!), but also some humour 😌

| Word count: 4.6k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Sometimes, you think you’re the only member of Onychinus who isn’t completely out of their mind.

You’d think it was Sylus, your indomitable leader. Smiles-with-a-knife-at-his-throat Sylus. Has-the-situation-completely-in-hand Sylus. It used to inspire you: that crimson gaze of his, always alight with a fire that’s never, ever, quite out of control.

How does he do it? You’d wonder in awe, like a wide-eyed child enthralled by a magic trick.

How does he do it? You’re wiser, now. You know it’s a lie, now, but you still can’t see through it. It’s driving you mad.

You watch as the man works away at a large, glass monitor, his fingers gliding across the screen with their usual grace. You get glimpses: names, faces, contacts. He’s testing the cords of his network— an intricate web— and he’s hoping someone’s caught something he can sink his teeth into.

He’s been at this for two hours, ever since you dragged yourselves back here with your tails between your legs. There’s a gash on his forehead that hasn’t yet healed, and the blood is still drying, dark on his face. Has he thought to heal it? Or— there’s a smudge on his finger— does he like his guilt a little warmer to the touch?

“We need an order, boss,” you seethe, because you’re tired of standing beside him, unacknowledged.

“You have your order.” He types out a message. Dismisses another. “Wait.”

“I meant an order that isn’t complete bullshit.”

He shoots you a glance, his eyes embers of warning. “Careful, sweetie. You forget yourself.”

Your fists ball. “Oh, spare me.”

“What would you have me do?” he mutters, gaze returning to the screen. He isn’t rising to the challenge, or should you say— stooping to it. He’s so goddamn noble.

“They have Luke, Sylus.”

“I know.”

“So let’s fucking do something! Let’s go back, let’s get him. They caught us off-guard last time, that’s all. They got their hands on some Ever tech, so what? We know that, now. They don’t stand a chance if we just—”

“Charge in there, guns blazing?” Sylus finishes for you, lips curled in derision.

It sounds stupid out loud, and he wants you to hear it. You do; you don’t care. “We don’t need all of this,” you beseech, your hand waving over the monitor. “We have you, boss.”

“Me?” he chuckles, and it’s so, so bitter.

Is that the guilt you’ve been looking for? It isn’t enough. His eyes are still pools of calm— spilt blood, unreciprocated. How does he do it?

“We have to do something,” you say limply. “Please, I can’t… I can’t do this, Sylus. All this nothing. Tell me what to do. I’ll go back alone if I have to. Just say the word and I’ll—”

“Look at this,” he interrupts, stepping away from the screen so that you can take his place before it.

It’s an order, even if it isn’t the one you want. You roll your eyes as you obey, and you begin to scour the intel he’s gathered. Eyewitness accounts, rumours, surveillance footage— some courtesy of Mephisto— and it’s all centred around two things. One: the aspiring new gang you’d set out to dismantle earlier, and two: a link to Ever. A solid link to Ever. 

“They didn’t steal Ever’s tech,” you release on a sigh of understanding. “They’re working together.”

“Mmm.” Sylus’s hand clears the screen before you. “We should have known. I should have known.”

Your mind is so caught-up by the revelation that you almost miss the confession.

“This was my mistake,” he continues, watching you. “And you are all my responsibility. Believe me…” He taps the screen and live surveillance footage springs up: an outside view of the compound you’d raided earlier. “I want to burn that place to the ground as much as you do.”

But… “No collateral damage,” you murmur, eyeing the guards on patrol.

“No collateral damage,” Sylus nods. “Do you trust me?”

“I trust you, boss.”

And maybe he is burning with just as much anger. Maybe the fear is making his heart drum, and the guilt making his skin crawl. It’s the same, old trick, isn’t it? Done to death:

The mask without a mask— just where does he hide all that?

Maybe he doesn’t.

There’s only so much faith you can have in something you can’t see.

…

Clink.

You slot a bullet into the magazine of your pistol, then follow it up with another. Clink. Then another. Clink. You’ve never relished this quiet— not like Sylus does. To him it’s an art. To you: a chore. You glance about the armoury, and you’ve never resented your shelves of options quite like this before. Antiques. Prototypes. So many means of dealing death.

You’ve never seen the beauty in it, but a shot through the heart means something different to Sylus than it does to the rest of you. It can be intimate. Symbolic. He can die for something, someone, and he can do it over, and over, and over again. How poetic.

You holster your loaded weapon, then reach for another.

“What’re you doing?”

The voice makes you jump. “Gods, Kieran. You want a bullet through your head?”

“No.” He misses the meaning of your words. “Why— wanna shoot me?”

“Right now?” you ask cynically.  

He laughs like he hasn’t got a care in the world. Liar. You’ve finished loading the second gun so you slide it across the table to him wordlessly. The beak of his mask lowers as he regards it; he doesn’t pick it up.

“You’re being weird,” he says after a moment. “It’s cool. I like it.”

You roll your eyes, wandering over to a rack of weapon attachments. There are different sights. Silencers. (Is that how you want to play this? Quiet?) “I’m going back for Luke,” you state as you muse it over. “You want in, or not?”

The rest is implied: Sylus doesn’t know. He isn’t coming. All of that’s evident from the fact that you’re here, rifling through his precious collection, and not ensnared in the tendrils of his Evol somewhere. A toddler could connect the dots. Kieran will get there. Give him a minute.

It takes half a minute. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. An ambiguous apology.

“It’s fine, Kieran.” He was never going to come with you. “I can do this alone. I can—”

A weight lands on you, tackling you into the weapons rack, and you land on the floor amongst the attachments you’d just been perusing so calmly. The weight stays on you, pinning you: hands are on your wrists, twisting you around. “Kieran!” you protest.

The man pulls away, leaving you slumped in your new, uncomfortable seat.

“Wha—” You try to stand up but you’re jolted back; your wrist is fixed to something. You turn your head, eyes widening as they fall on the pair of handcuffs you’ve been restrained with. They’re padded— lined with a soft, velvety material. “Where the hell did you get these?”

“Boss’s room. Luke and I had a bet,” Kieran shrugs, now towering over you.

“You win?”

“Heh. Yeah.”

You’re still trying to squeeze your hand out of the cuffs. You pry at them. Twist and wriggle your fingers— none of it’s any use. You glance up at Kieran, admitting defeat with a sigh. He brushes his hands together in a ‘job well done’ sort of gesture, his eyes fixed on you, well— you have to imagine they are.

Instead of windows to the soul you’re faced with red-glass imitations, impossible to read, and you’re tired of all the guessing.  

“How do you do it?” you ask with a quiet desperation. “How do you act like everything’s fine?”

“Boss will come up with a plan,” the twin says simply, like he hasn’t really thought about it.

“And what if it takes too long? What if we’re too late? I mean… think of all the shit he knows, Kieran. Everything about us, about boss— it’s priceless. Do you really think they’re holding back?”

Kieran huffs. “You worried he’ll snitch or something?”

“I’m worried they’re hurting him!” you snap. “What the hell is wrong with you!? He’s your brother! He could be dead and you’re acting like, like..”

Your voice trails off as you gaze up at him hopelessly. There’s nothing to see— no tension in his body, no harsher rise and fall to his chest, betraying a nervous, racing heart. All the usual signs are missing. He isn’t shifting on his feet like he does when he’s anxious. Is he that good at pretending, or…

Does he really not care?

You shake your head, looking down at the floor; you’re so sick of red eyes. He’s crazy. Sylus is crazy.

There’s nothing for it, then.

“You know what?” you chuckle dryly, under your breath. “Maybe you’re right. This isn’t all bad, I mean… when’s the last time you and I had any one-to-one time, huh?”

Kieran is silent. He lowers himself slowly until he’s crouched before you— forearms resting on his knees. His head tilts inquisitively: Go on.

“Maybe,” you lilt, “this is an opportunity.” You’re practically whispering, and the man leans in, not wanting to miss a word. Your free hand reaches for a horn of his hood and you use it to pull him closer; he doesn’t even resist. “How about we…” you speak into his ear, “go look through Luke’s stuff?”

Kieran draws back, those false eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes you think, for a second, that you’ve gone too far.

“You’re the best,” he breathes out, suddenly fiddling with the handcuffs, slotting the key into the lock. “Just… the absolute best.”  

Got him.

The cuff springs open and you’re on top of him, tackling him to the ground and pinning his arms by the side of his head before he can think to stop you. “Oh,” he grumbles, going still beneath you, and it sounds like his eyes are narrowing, “you’re not the best. You’re sneaky.”

His compliance lasts all of a second, and then he’s fighting back— using his strength to throw you off balance and wrench his wrists free. He rolls on top of you, trapping you just as effectively as you’d done him, and he laughs like a child, having ever so much fun.

With a grunt of effort, you manage to push him aside. You turn onto your stomach, scrabbling away as you look for space, opportunity, and— if you’re being honest— something you can throw at him. A hand connects with your shoulder and you thrust your elbow backwards on instinct. It hits something hard.

“Ah, shit! Wait, wait, wait… time out.”

You freeze instantly.

Kieran’s voice is different; it’s acquired a clarity that tells you his mask his away from his face. Don’t move. You stare down at the floor with a patience that’s almost sacred. He’s taking a while, though…

“You ok?” you ask.

“Yeah.” His voice is different again, like he’s holding his nose. “Nosebleed.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

You sit up with your legs crossed while you wait, but your eyes are still trained downwards. You can hear Kieran’s breath, a little ways behind you— so much clearer without the mask— and the intimacy is always sobering. Realising he’s vulnerable, knowable, and all you have to do is turn around. 

He doesn’t rush, though: doesn’t scramble to pull the mask back down, or insist you keep looking away. The silence, the stillness— all of it is trust.

There’s movement in the corner of your eye; he’s set the mask down on the ground while he bleeds.

“I’m worried too,” he admits softly, and you’re not sure what’s more foreign: his voice, unhindered, or the honesty it carries. You don’t want to scare either away, so you do nothing. There’s more: “I can’t leave boss, though. Who else has he got?”

“The hunter?”

“Nah,” he dismisses. “She’s hot stuff, y’know? A lot of players in that game.” He taps at his mask idly. “Heard one of them’s a doctor.”

You’re quiet again. Thinking.

“Boss always has our back,” Kieran asserts. “We have to look out for him too… That’s the job, right?”

He’s not really asking you; you came to this late, after all. It was their job long before it was yours.

You’ve nothing to do but look at your hands and listen, biding your time. The passing seconds are still restless, useless, but the sensation slips when you feel hands on your waist, pulling you back. Kieran’s arms wrap around you. His chin settles on your shoulder, and you close your eyes.

“Stay,” he says. “Please?”

His pain is harder to sit with than your own. Minutes ago, this was something you wanted. Now it’s just another wound you don’t know how to stitch up; too deep, too late.

You let your head rest against his, but you don’t say a word.

…

This was easier when you were relying on Mephisto’s guidance and not hazy, disjointed memories. The last time you were here you were running, Kieran at your side and Sylus not far ahead. You weren’t thinking about what corners you turned or what directions you travelled; you were thinking about everything behind you. Shouts. Gunshots. The subtler rush of your leader’s Evol, still crackling, still faltering, courtesy of whatever technology your attackers had managed to appropriate.

It all happened so quickly.

Every corridor feels longer, now. Each moment— slow. Your body is aching. You’ve lost count of how many encounters you’ve had, but there’s a new bruise or scrape for every body in your wake. None of it has been easy. You ran out of bullets just getting inside this damn place, and the rest has been messier: up-close and personal.

You’re catching your breath, so you toe the rifle of your last adversary, lying a short way from their limp, open hand. They never got a chance to use it, and you were lucky; it would have been loud. Every guard in this run-down labyrinth is looking for you. The last thing you need is to send out a homing beacon.

Glance around. Try to work out your bearings.

This was once a police station. Old-world. Eroded beyond recognition, almost. These places were the first to fall victim to the backwards evolution of the N109 Zone. The bones are the same, but the skin is different. Every wall is scrawled with anti-Association sentiments.

It makes you smile, despite everything.

Your footsteps are deliberately quiet as you carry on down the corridor, turning into the next room— you’ve been tackling them one-by-one. There’s a narrower corridor before the room opens out, and then…

Cells.

A short line of them— five in total. Your heart wants to beat faster with hope, but your mind is holding it back: insisting this is wrong. It seems abandoned. Forgotten. You walk by the first cell, and then the second. Nothing. The third. Nothing.

There’s a sound behind you, and you almost don’t hear it. You spin, only to find a hand wrapped around your throat, tight and unforgiving. A guard thrusts you up against the red-brick column that divides two cells, and you’d cry out in pain, but there’s no breath to carry it. Your eyes water. You try to prise the hand away, and it’s desperation that possesses you— not skill or experience.

You kick out and hit nothing, but the second time, you catch the man’s shin. He shouts, his grip failing just enough for you to slip your fingers beneath his. A few seconds of advantage. You grasp his wrist, using your other hand to wrench his forefinger backwards— crack. He staggers with a cry and then you’re dodging his frenzied attempts to recapture you: weaving behind him, seizing the back of his neck. Your foot trips his. He’s teetering, off-balance, and you use the momentum to crash his head against a bar of the cell.

Metal rings out. Flesh splits.

The guard crumples at your feet and you almost go down with him. Your lungs are pulling for so much air that it makes your throat sting. Adrenaline laps your limbs, celebrating in sheer, ecstatic disbelief; you’re alive.

Someone wolf-whistles and you swear you feel everything stop.

Your gaze shoots up, lit by hope, but it’s quickly snuffed out. A young man is watching you from the fourth cell, his arms threaded through the bars. There’s a shameless grin as his eyes flit over you. All of you.

“Fuck off,” you sneer as you step over the guard. You turn to leave.

“Rude.”

Your eyes go wide. You spin back. “Luke?”

The man cocks his head like you’ve asked a trick question. “... Yeah?” It takes a drawn-out moment of you staring at him, motionless, for him to recognise your confusion. “Oh, right. Here—” he draws up his hood and the horns are missing, so he emulates them with pointed fingers— “this help?”

You lunge forwards, trapping him in a hug through the bars of his cell; you barely notice the separation. He chuckles as he hugs you back: “Miss me?”

“Yeah,” you exhale in relief, even though he was definitely setting you up for a joke. You break away from him, forcing yourself to look at anything but his face. Gods, his face. Pretend you don’t already want to look again. “Are you hurt?” you ask. “Did they—”

“Nope!” he interrupts with what sounds like a smile. “I told them everything.”

You glance up; you can’t help it.

He winks at you. “I lied. Glad you got here before they figured that out, though. Sheesh, that would not have been fun.” His hands wrap around the bars. “Can you get me out of here?” He tugs at them. “Pleeease?”

Right. “Yeah.” You glance around. You just need to find the—

“Key’s with the dead guy,” Luke says. “What a jerk, huh?”

It still feels like there are hands on your throat. “Totally.” You wander over to the body, bending down to rummage through the man’s pockets. After a brief search, you produce the key.

Luke slow claps. “My hero.”

You laugh softly as you return to the cell, unlocking the door and pushing it open. The twin strides through, giving a little bow as he passes, then stretches his arms like he’s just been set free from a much smaller cage.

“So…” He speaks in a sing-song sort of voice, sniffing the air like it’s sweeter. “Where’re boss and Kieran?”

“Um. Home?”

Luke narrows his eyes at you— vaguely resembling the slits of his missing mask. “You went rogue?”

You wince. “I did go rogue.”

You’re still being studied warily. Luke has raised an eyebrow and it’s so starkly expressive; is this a look he gives you often? You have a feeling it is. Then he shrugs and it’s gone. “That’s hot,” he quips. He crouches down beside the dead guard, lifting the body and puppeteering one of the arms to wave at you. “Look— this is gonna be you when boss finds out.”

You cross your arms. Luke laughs, dropping the man back down with a thud. “Just you and me then?” he clarifies, holding a hand out to you.

Are you supposed to know what to do with it? “You and me,” you confirm. Your hand goes out too.  

Luke slaps it gently one way, then another. He entangles your fingers. Pulls back. Does a few more slaps in sporadic directions, and— is this a secret handshake? You don’t have a secret handshake.

“Nice,” he beams once the ritual is complete. “Let’s go, let's go!”

…

Luke is hanging close to the wall across from you, waiting— listening— as you both brace yourselves behind the turn of yet another corridor of the rival base. He sneaks glances around the corner.

“Anyone there?” you whisper.

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t press on, either, because it’s odd; you’d both thought you’d heard something. This isn’t your usual strategy— playing it safe. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Luke err on the side of caution, but he’s concentrating, even closing his eyes so he can listen harder.

You take advantage of the moment in a way you shouldn’t: letting your gaze linger on his face. Even with his hood up— shadows lowered like a veil— he’s still a stranger to you. You want to know him; you know him already. He’s been smiling at your jokes forever, but tell him one now, and it’ll be the first time.

His eyes open, meeting yours. Could he sense you watching? He grins, poking his tongue out at you.

“Stop it.”

“You stop it,” he retorts. The coast must be clear, for he comes away from the wall and rounds the corner with a spring in his gait.

You sigh as you stand to follow him. One less-enthusiastic step forward, and something snakes around your ankle. Your gaze drops like a stone, but it isn’t fast enough. You’re hauled into the air, voice failing, vision swimming as the world flips upside-down and you’re strung up from the ceiling. “Luke!” you manage in warning.

Are those his footsteps, coming back? You’re facing the wrong way and you try to lift the lower half of your body so you can reach for your ankle, but you’re already exhausted. Your muscles burn. After a few, futile inches, you give up, going limp.

There are footsteps behind you. “Oh, hey boss!” Luke exclaims.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

An unwitting pendulum: you can’t keep your body from turning, ever so slowly, until you’re staring the right way down the corridor. You can’t see much of it, though.

Sylus is in front of you, so close that you can almost feel the heat of his eyes.

“Hey, boss,” you echo reluctantly.

He says nothing, and behind him, Luke slides a gloating finger across his own throat: you’re dead! And you’re turning, still. Sylus lifts a hand to the top of your head and swivels you back to him. “What happened to that trust of yours, sweetie? Hmm?”

You half-laugh, nervous. He doesn’t seem quite as amused.

Releasing your head, he steps back with a huff of disappointment as you start a slow rotation once more. He taps a finger to his chin pensively, like you’re a masterpiece he’s convinced might be a forgery, now that he’s looking more closely. “Reckless little thing, aren’t you?” he tuts.

There’s maybe a smile, but it’s short-lived; the dark rope around your ankle whips you into the air. You shriek with shock as you lose all bearings, all vision, all sense of reality. You’re falling.

Someone catches you.

“My reckless little thing,” Luke grins, jostling you into a more secure position in his arms. “Mine.”

You want to protest, but your breath is gone.

“You can’t afford her,” Sylus speaks over his shoulder; he’s already taken the lead in guiding you out of here. Mephisto squawks somewhere up ahead, appearing in a cloud of smoke and feathers.

Luke gives a defensive hmph as he holds you tighter. Then he smiles down at you, and though it’s new, you know it’s far from the first time, and even further from the last.

…

“Are we really doing this?” you ask Sylus sceptically.

“Lighten up, sweetie.” He clicks his fingers.

Not far from you, currently oblivious to your presence, Kieran stands at the door of your leader’s study, still waiting for an order. The air above him changes: it swirls with a dark, scarlet mist. Luke drops out of it, landing straight on his twin’s back.

“What the—” Kieran splutters, but his brother’s arms are over his shoulders, around his neck. “Get off!” he squeaks out.

“No way. I was a prisoner,” Luke chortles. “You have to be super nice to me. Carry me everywhere. Boss said so.”

“He did not!”

And with those words, Kieran flips his other half the rest of the way over his shoulder; Luke lands on the ground with an unceremonious splat. All four limbs are sprawled. “Ow!” he whines.

Sylus has already strode the rest of the way into the room. “Play nice,” he scolds as he steps over Luke, then passes by Kieran.

“Yes, boss!” they chime, stilling obediently as the older man disappears into his study. The moment the doors close behind him, Kieran throws himself down. He wrestles with Luke, both of them laughing and rolling around as they try to hurt each-other.

It makes you think of those old, vintage cartoons you used to see on TV. You can just picture the cloud of dust, the colourful stars and shapes flying with every traded punch. Idiots.

You leave them to it, slinging yourself down on a couch and closing your eyes. Gods, you want to sleep. There’s blood dried to your hands and face, but you’ll shower later. There are grazes and cuts still bleeding, but you’ll tend to them later. Everything can wait.

The room has gone quiet. Too quiet; you open your eyes.

Luke and Kieran stand in front of you ominously, their figures symmetrical. The illusion of reflection is broken by Luke’s absent mask, but his eyes are just as unreadable.

“What?” you cave.

“You went rogue,” Kieran states, and his brother is nodding gravely, like this is a very serious infraction.

You smile. “I did go rogue.” More shameless than last time. “I got a free pass, though. Luke said it was hot.”

Kieran’s mask turns to face his twin, slow and resentful. Luke shrugs. “What? It was.”

There’s an impasse: long enough to make you think they’re having some kind of secret discussion. Both twins look at you. You smile sheepishly. You don’t think you’ll ever really know the entirety of what goes on in those heads, but it’s for the best. You value your sanity.

“You went rogue,” Kieran carries on, as if his speech had never been interrupted, and his authority not just completely undercut. He moves closer, slinking down beside you, and Luke plays the part of his mirror image. “There will have to be a… punishment.”

The word is elongated for effect, and it’s remarkably similar to Kieran’s ‘ghost voice’— which you know, thanks to the time he roped you into that ‘the base is haunted!’ prank. (Sylus did not, in fact, fall for it.)

“Bring it,” you murmur, closing your eyes again. “I just stormed a whole enemy base single-handed. I think I can handle the two of—”

Your voice meanders to a stop as Kieran nuzzles against you. His mask is off; you feel the soft of his face and the bridge of his nose. His breath is light on your neck. You smile, slipping deeper into your seat and then his embrace as his arms go around you. He’s warm. Really warm.

There’s a weight— Luke’s head on your lap— and he hugs you too, arms lower around your waist. His breath tickles your stomach. You hum in contentment, running your hands through his hair. 

He's safe. You're all safe.

They were never going to say thank you; it’s not in their nature. Their language isn't superficial. It isn’t words spoken aloud or feelings worn on the face— it can’t be. A smile is too easily read by the rest of the world, but a smile behind a mask? It’s private. Reserved only for those who’ve learnt to hear it in your voice, or see it in the way your body relaxes when you hold someone you care for.

A language of tiny, intimate details.

Kieran has never nestled his face quite so closely against you. You don’t think you’ve ever known Luke go so long without talking.

[livwritesstuff]

Eddie is holed up in the office of his and Steve’s home working on some writing when he notices an odd kind of commotion coming from upstairs.

Now, he and Steve have three daughters under the age of ten, so commotion is pretty much a baseline for them, but it’s odd because it sounds like Steve might actually be involved this time, and that makes it especially weird because Eddie was pretty sure that Steve was taking the kids to see a movie to give Eddie a few hours to maybe hit that word count goal (he probably won't, but whatever).

It's just about odd enough for Eddie to go investigate further and, indeed, he finds a very much ticked-off Steve standing outside of their middle daughter Robbie’s closed bedroom door.

“What the hell is going on?” Eddie asks.

Steve rounds on him. 

“She’s driving me insane,” Steve says, “That kid is you in a seven-year-old’s body, and I’m going insane.”

“Wait, can you…” Ed shook his head, “What’s happening?”

“I thought it would be fun to take the girls to that new Nanny McPhee movie because they liked the first one, right?” he starts

“Sure.”

“The second – the second – I suggested it, Robbie starts ranting and raving. Ed, do you know what she said to me? 

“Oh god,” Eddie said warily, “What’d she say?”

“She said sequels aren’t passion projects, Papa. They’re just for money. Who the fuck do you think she learned that one from, Ed?”

And yeah, shit, that might be Eddie’s bad.

“Whatever,” Steve says before Eddie has a chance to respond, “So she doesn’t wanna go – that’s fine – but, shocker, the other two still want to go, and just as we’re walking out the door, Robbie demands that we wait for her because she actually does want to come and now,” Steve pauses to hold in a laugh as Robbie scutters out of her room in the direction of the bathroom, one shoe on and an earring half-in, “Now we’re gonna be so fuckin’ late because this one can’t just throw on a sweatshirt and get in the car.”

Eddie knows for a fact that Robbie had spent the entire weekend in the same pajamas she’d worn to bed on Friday night, but now she’s donned a denim dress with a red t-shirt and black tights underneath. She’s got black combat boots on her feet (just one at the moment, actually), and she’s wearing the leather jacket Eddie had found at a thrift shop in New York to complete the ensemble.

“Look at this kid,” Steve says, following Robbie into the bathroom and watching as she tried to fix her earring with one hand and her hair with the other, “Robbie, it’s August. It’s almost ninety degrees outside. Maybe think about ditching the leather.”

“I don’t care,” she fires back, “It’s about the look, Papa.”

“We’re going to a movie theater. It’ll be pitch black. Nobody will be looking at anything other than the movie. Let’s go.”

But Robbie is already pushing past him with a belligerent, “Outta my way. I gotta get another necklace.”

Steve manages to snag Robbie by the back of her jacket and swing her up into his arms.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” he says as Robbie furiously tries to squirm out of his grip to no avail, “Oh, I’m Robbie and I’m four feet tall and I get up-in-arms about everything and I’m gonna wear a leather jacket in August even though I once got heat exhaustion at the mall and gave my dad a fuckin’ heart attack.”

Robbie is in giggling hysterics by the time Steve ends his onslaught of mockery and puts her down.

“What do you think?” Steve asks, “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” she says, and then she asks, “Can you help me find my other shoe?”

“And now she’s asking me for shit,” Steve comments in disbelief as Robbie ducks back into her room. He looks at Eddie, “Seriously, you need to call Wayne and apologize for everything you must have put him through.”

“Alright.”

[skreel-the-red-thing]

OKAY time for a review. I was… midly convinced by the sequel. In my opinion it’s a not so bad movie plagued by a not so good writing. I’m going to be vulgar at some point, don’t mind me that’s my way of coping. Let’s dive.

MIND THE SPOILERS OFC

What’s bad :

- Let’s adress the elephant in the room to get rid of it : « Nile can remove immortality » is bullshit. It's so stupid, it means that if by mistake she hurts Joe or Nicky in training then paf ! RIP gay people. I don’t buy it and I don’t think anybody here does. I understand they needed a threat for the gang, but why not just threaten them to lock them up in iron coffins, Quynh’s style ? Like, you established the worst fate for an immortal in  the first movie, why not use it again ?

- Speaking of Quynh. My girl is out of water with no trauma, speaking perfect english (language of those who locked her up. Mh.) and not insane ? Eh, a bit disappointing.

- No enough labrys in my opinion.

- Booker. Booker, Booker, Booker. He's my favorite character so I'm very pissed off *spit a bullet*. Ngl, I expected him to die and it didn't seem like such a bad idea. BUT THE EXECUTION WAS TERRIBLE. My man deserved so much better, he has almost no development, no redemption arc and he dies like shit, mostly out of selfishness: he knew Andy was as tired of life as he was, but he preferred to die and hand her the hot potato without asking her opinion. Erf. Also they both could have walked through that door, the “sacrifice” doesn't make any sense I'M GOING TO BREAK SOMETHING

- JoeNicky try not be captured challenge.

- Also Joe and Nicky had an argument at the beginning of the movie about Booker and Joe lying, and they made up while talking about something entirely different LIKE HELLO? The conflict isn't resolved here. It was cute tho, we like declaration and foreheads touch.

- HOWEVER. Nicky saying "ti amo" and Joe not responding ? DO YOU WANT ME TO GO TO THERAPY ?? Joe, when your husband says "ti amo", even if you feel guilty because you're lying to him, you say "ti amo" back.

- Do I need to point out what a flat character Discord is? I couldn't care less about her. Even pharma bro in the first film was more menacing.

- WHERE'S COPLEY? Like at the end, the guy might be dead, we don't know. Schrödinger's Copley.

- Tuah is... here. He has potential, but he's underdeveloped, so I don't have much to say. From my point of view, he's a bit of cannon fodder for the next film, to sacrifice his immortality to Quynh.

- Shall we talk about the dreams  stuff ? Well, it never really made any sense, either in the first film or in the comics. Like Nile dreams about Quyhn but Booker don’t ? Weird. And now ? Oh boy. Tuah dreaming about all the others but they don’t. And Discord ? Seriously, when you set up a mythology, you've got to make it logical, otherwise how are we suppose to write coherent fanfictions afterwards?

- I fucking HATE cliffhangers. Especially since  we've waited 5 years for this movie, and knowing Netflix's cancellation policy. At any point, Joe, Nicky, Nile and Tuah remain in a vacuum packing for eternity because we won't get a third movie.

NOW WHAT’S GOOD !

- Okay. I complain a lot, but I was super happy to see the sequel and to get to see again these characters that I love so much. I'm waiting for third movie to bring them all back to me. Yes, even you Booker. I'm delulu about him.

- I liked the vibe a lot ! It was less dark than the first movie, with more moments to breathe and appreciate the atmosphere between the characters. Special mention to the dinner scene after the first mission, I'm delighted to know that drunk Nicky snores like a boar.

- The film was more beautiful and colorful than the first one, and direction was better in my opinion, especially the fight scenes and choreography.

- NILE IS COOL! Her McGuffin role sucks, but it's not her fault, and besides that every time she was on screen I was like “damn, what a gigantic charisma she got!” . My girl is so stunning it hurts. Also the double spear ? Made for her.

- I still like Booker more than anything. I still like the fact that he jumped the second he had the opportunity to end himself. I just think it could have been handled better.

- « Has she spoken of me ? » « She never stopped. » MAYBE I DIED THERE.

- I'm relieved to finally have the answer to the question “If they cut off a limb, how does it heal?” and for that I thank Joe's thumb and Booker's head in the maze.

- I didn't get any sapphic kiss and that’s a shame, but the AndyQuynh relationship was cool anyway. Special mention to the whole reunion sequence, with Andy passing through the eras with the team in background, it was the most beautiful part of the movie.

- The soundtrack was better handled than in the first film. It doesn't look like much, but for me it was a major flaw, so I'm glad they've sorted it out.

IN CONCLUSION it was... okay. Now let's go another five years of waiting.

[princesa-querida]

¡Feliz Cumpleaños Nanami!

A sequel to this fic.

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Latina Fem! Reader

WC: 3.3K

CW: Fluff, angst, light smut. Mentions of Jujutsu sorcery.

Notes: I wanted to keep writing for this type of reader. I know that being Latina/Latinx has many layers and components, so I kept some details vague. I hope that you can connect with this in some way. Also I don’t use accents lmao

Tags: @pixelcafe-network, thank you for the beta-read @lazyjellyfish300, @haithyums

Timing wasn't on your side the last time. You met a wonderful man who swept you off your feet before you departed back home. For an impromptu date, he took you to the small corners of Tokyo; you remember he took you to his favourite bakery. He didn't show a lot of emotion when he bought you his favourite pastry, a buttery croissant. You told him that butter croissants make your stomach hurt, so he quickly rectified it with a pastry of your choice. All you wanted from him was to tell you about the croissants.

Every passing moment with him made you wish you didn't have to go home. You wanted to stay with him. The way he held your hand a little tighter when you walked together told you that he must've felt the same. The day turned to night.

"Did you pack everything before your flight?" You nodded. You didn't say much because if you did, you didn't want him to see you cry. He understood the silence between you and pulled you gently into his arms.

"Could we stay in touch?" The only words that left your mouth as a few stray tears fell.

"Of course, who knows. I might be in your city at some point."

You look up, and he plants the softest kiss on your lips. You ignored that you had to step on your tippy-toes to be able to reach his lips. With that, you exchanged information before he left another kiss. It was a shadow from the last one, but you knew then you'd never want to kiss another pair of lips again.

The plane ride home left a hollow hole in your heart. You cried on and off, eventually letting the exhaustion wash over you. Your most ardent wish was that he'd never forget about you; you'd never forget about him, even through the chaos of your day-to-day. When you arrived back home, your dad came to pick you up from the airport. He observed that there was a sadness in you, but he couldn't pinpoint what was causing it. He pats your hand; he's just trying to tell you that he missed you at home. You live with your parents, and you don't want to tell them about the most wonderful man you've met. Your mom is in bed when you arrive late in the evening; she fell asleep watching a novela. You go to your room and just let the tears come again. You send Nanami a message.

[You:] I'm home. Thank you for the most wonderful last day.

[Nanami:] I'm glad to hear it. I'll let you know when I visit. As you said, let's stay in touch.

You smile and don't respond to his message. You're a million miles away from him. Would he feel the same way you do right now?

Back in his apartment, he wonders when he's supposed to go on this business trip. It's always work and money on his mind. It's better than the alternative of being a Jujutsu sorcerer, but nothing is rewarding about his job as a salaryman. He does get to travel, but it's all for work. He glances at his phone and looks back at the picture that you took together.

"I'd do anything to see that smile on her face again," his lips curl up slightly. He finds your message thread and types a message, sending it. There's no anxiety; he's confident that you'll be excited to hear from him. In the meantime, he scrolls through his contacts and highlights a name. He is reluctant to reach out to Satoru Gojo.

The following morning, you find your phone in the palm of your hand. You don't know when you fell asleep, but you see a text message from Nanami.

[Nanami:] I have set aside some time to visit in early July. I'd love to spend more time with you then, at your convenience. I hope you'll say yes and pick up from where we left off.

You're smiling ear to ear; It hurts so much. You want to say "yes, yes, a million times yes." However, this isn't a marriage proposal. He isn't a man who would do something impulsively either. You meet your parents for breakfast; they ask you about your adventures in Japan and if it was everything you dreamed of. You tell them that it was, and your smile conceals a truth that you're afraid to share with them: you met someone. You don't want to tell them because then they become overprotective.

"¿Conociste a alguien?" Did you meet someone? Your mom asks.

"No, why? You look at her.

"Estas media rara." You're being weird. Taking a bite of bread with some beans on it.

"No, no paso nada." No, nothing happened. Your smile fades, confirming your fears to tell them about him.

"Well, you're back, so there's a long list of things you need to do. I know you have to find work tomorrow, but that doesn't matter to me."

You sigh, acknowledging that your trip is over. You're back to the reality of living with your parents, which at times feels like you have no peace.

"I need you to do this for me. Could you drive me here, please? Don't you have anything better to do than just lie there?"

You never thought your life would turn upside down from meeting him, but you count down the days until he arrives. It's already June, so what's a couple more weeks until July?

You and Nanami go back and forth for the rest of the month. You share with him your joys: you found a job where you'll work with underprivileged youth. You tell him how you grew up with very little and how you've always wanted to give back to your community. You never want to abandon the place that you grew up in, but you feel a little nagging voice in your head telling you that you're meant to see more.

The low being that you live at home with your overbearing parents. The trip to Japan was your escape from them. You share how much you love them, but you also share that you can't simply do anything without them knowing where you are and who you're with.

"I told them I met someone." There's a silence on the other side of the line.

He's glad that you told them, but he can hear the hesitancy in your voice.

"What did they say?"

You pause. You know what they said, but you can't find it in your heart to tell him.

"Darling? You can tell me."

"They…said…" You sigh. "That loving from far is for fools."

He knows that you're something significant at this point in his life. He can't describe it to you either. You both know that it's not love, but you want the room to explore it.

"I can't wait to see you soon. I should probably mention, my birthday is on July 3rd."

"Oh! Why did you tell me?!" Your excitement radiates from the other end of the line. "Do you understand how much we have to do now?"

"I don't see the need why. It's not a big deal."

"It is to me!" You tell him firmly. The change in your voice tells Nanami that there is no reason to fight this. He's seen you at your most determined; there's no point in stopping you. He's going to spend his birthday with someone who's becoming less and less of a stranger every day, taking hold of his heart.

He omitted telling you that he arrives on his birthday. You scolded him briefly, but then you knew that you'd do anything to make anything special. On the day you pick him from the airport, you stop yourself from running into his arms. Instead, you wave at him. It hasn't been that long since he last saw you, but he notes how the sun has given your skin warmth, contrasting with your hair. The weather differs here from Japan, but he welcomes the dry July heat when he exits the airport. He takes your hand as you cross the street together. You ask him where he's staying, and he tells you the directions.

You turn on the car radio, observing that you are listening to Spanish music. "What's this?"

"Oh, this is one of my favourite bands, Caifanes. They're kind of like the Cure, but in Spanish. I like them a lot."

He notes the melancholy tone, but it differs from the way you sing along to the songs. A giant grin appears as you're driving out of the airport, unfazed by the wave of cars.

"No dejes que nos coma el diablo amor, que se trague tu calor…" You sway in your car seat, thrilled to show him where you're from. It'll be different from Japan, but you're hopeful that he'll see the beauty of it, too. When you arrive at the hotel, you wait in the lobby, not trying to worry about how the day will go. You play with the hem of your dress, impatiently waiting for him.

"The room is adequate to my liking. I'm ready when you are." You nod and lead him back to your car. You're a distance away from the first location you had in mind. Nanami quietly observes how the neighbourhoods change; city landscapes staying in the background for more active sidewalks with vendors and pedestrians. When you arrive, you take his hand and tell him about being a patron on this block for a variety of different eats. You tell him what pupusas, atole, and the various snacks you can find here. For today's blistering heat, you choose to get him a mango cut like a rose. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened, and in awe of the creation you hand to him.

"It'll be a little messy, but I think this will help you stay hydrated."

You giggle, blushing as you watch him try to eat the mango delicately.

"You don't have to be neat about it. It's mango, it's meant to be messy."

He grumbles a little, but lets himself go as he gets mango all over his lips. You hand him a napkin, enjoying seeing him let go, little by little. During your phone calls, he would laugh when you would tell him about yourself and the happenings of your day; you only hope that you can see that in person.

He's annoyed at how messy mango is to eat, but seeing your smile makes this embarrassing moment worthwhile. When he's finished, you take his hand, ignoring that it's sticky, guiding him to a bakery. The bakery has a variety of pan dulce; you grab a tray and tongs, selecting the breads that Nanami should try. You went with the empanadas de manjar and the conchas. He's a man of few words, when he takes a bite of the concha he feels the warmth fill his body. The empanada's colour intimidates him at first, but you explain it's done with achiote, but then the custard filling reminds him that he needs to get out of his comfort zone and appreciate the various pastries of the world.

"This won't be the only sweets you'll have for the rest of the day." You assure him, your smile never fading away. "We still have plenty to do and see, but I hope you're hungry."

"You know I'm here for a week, right?"

"Yeah, but there's no reason why we shouldn't have the best day ever. It's your birthday!"

He can't deny you. He doesn't care that much about his birthday, but you do. You are going out of your way to show him everything about you; he's grateful. He wants to tell you about his former life, but he's afraid. "Will this end whatever this is?" He thinks to himself.

"Everything okay? Oh, am I pushing you too hard? I'm sorry!"

He takes your hand and kisses your palm. "I assure you, I'm alright. Show me what else we're going to do next."

You show him the other neighbourhoods that you frequented often. You take him to a record store, and he feels like he's been transported back in time. He remembers his days as a teenager buying CDs, but the popularity of vinyl is intriguing to him. You show him the world section to show him the variety of artists that he's never heard of, and find a few treasures for yourself. He thinks about how much he's been missing out as a salaryman, but how much more he'll miss when he returns to life as Jujutsu sorcerer. Your conversation about giving back struck a few chords in his heart. "She'll understand, but there's no good time to tell her. Today isn't the day."

You observe the shift in his facial expressions; he was becoming more relaxed, but his stance was more rigid. "Are you sure you're okay? We can have dinner and then go back to your hotel?"

"I think it's just exhaustion from the flight." You keep moving along the aisles of records, but you feel something pull you back. He's pulling you back and resting his hands on your arms. "You really don't have to do all of this for me, but I'm so glad that we can spend time together."

"Si tu solo supieras cuanto te quiero." You smile and nod. He's unsure what you said, but he'll ask you later to clarify what you meant.

For dinner, you chose to take him to one of the oldest Mexican restaurants in your city. You tell him how it's been around for nearly 100 years, and how they've been able to expand due to popularity. You select a combination plate with a chile relleno and a chicken enchilada. To become too full, you order the same. Nanami is in awe of how expressive you are when you talk to the servers. He watches your demeanour when you say something to the server and chooses to point at Nanami. You give him a slight wink and return your attention to Nanami.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That wink."

"Oh, it was nothing." Your voice betrays you.

"You're up to something."

"No, I'm not."

"Mija" You recognize that voice. Oh, not tonight. You turn around and it's your parents. You want the Earth to swallow you whole. Of all the times to run into your parents, you run into them here.

"Nanami Kento, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"¿Estas en una cita?"

Your palm rests on your face and nod.

"Nanami, these are my parents." You signal to your parents who he is so they can make proper introductions.

"¡Esta guapo!"

"Please stop talking." You beg your mom.

"Bueno te dejo. Adios." Your dad scowls at Nanami, but you know it's him being protective.

There's a smirk on his face. "What did she say?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"What does guapo mean? Your face turns into a shade of scarlet, but the dark lighting in the room makes it hard to see.

"I'll just have to find out another way if you won't tell me."

"She said that you're handsome. Please stop." You release a nervous laugh.

"Oh? Would you agree with that assessment?" He's teasing you.

"I think a lot of people would agree with that assessment," you take a sip out of your drink. "Haven't you noticed people have been staring at you all day?"

"I'm not paying attention to others when I have my attention on someone else."

A comfortable silence ensues between the two of you. You know that there's something that Nanami is hiding, but his charm disarms any doubt that you have. He wants to tell you everything, but he wants to enjoy the peace that exists now.

Out of nowhere, the server comes with a slice of Tres Leches cake and a candle that is lit candle. There are no servers to sing him a happy birthday, just the intimacy of the moment between you and Nanami.

"Feliz cumpleaños a ti, feliz cumpleaños a ti, feliz cumpleaños querido Kento, feliz cumpleaños a ti. Ya queremos pastel, ya queremos pastel aunque sea un pedacito, pero queremos pastel."

In this moment, he wants to say, forget the cake and kiss you here in front of everyone. However, he knows your parents are in the vicinity. He blows on the candle to make his wish.

"I hope your dream comes true." You say quietly.

"I think it will."

He hands you a fork to share the cake. He covers the bill, he insisted. When you take him back to his hotel, you're just waiting for him to bid you farewell until tomorrow.

"Do you want to come up?"

You're taken aback, but there's no time like the present. You nod.

When you're in his room, he sits down on the edge of the bed. He pats it for you to join him. You sit, with a small distance between you.

"What did you tell me at the record store earlier?"

You know exactly what you said, but you're scared, trying to use your primary language to conceal what you're really feeling.

"Darling, you can tell me."

The term of endearment helps you muster the strength to tell him what you said. You grip the sheets of the bed tightly. "I said that you have no idea how much I like you." You're telling him a half-truth, not telling him the real meaning. In a sudden move, he moves closer to you, tilting your chin. "Is that what you meant?"

You nod, the words stuck in your throat. "Are you sure, darling?"

"I…" you sigh as his lips ghost yours. "I'm afraid to tell you the real meaning."

"There's so much going on between us, but I just want to tell you that this birthday is so special. I never know if it's going to be my last."

"I hope it's not your last…" His lips graze the corner of your mouth.

"There's so much to tell you, but…tonight, I just want to be here with you." His lips find yours, sweet and tender, just like him. You lose yourself as he lays you down on the bed. His weight on you isn't suffocating. Each shared kiss, growing hungrier, undressing you and him. When he gives himself to you, you feel yourself holding on to him like an anchor. You cry out his name in pleasure. "Te amo…pero es muy pronto."

"Shh, darling…" He consumes every word with a promise that he won't go anywhere.

When he holds you against his chest, peppering your beautiful skin with kisses, placing his arm around your curves, he wonders if you'll run away from him.

"Nothing you say or do can scare me away," you close your eyes, beginning to drift off.

He kisses your forehead. "I'm glad. Are you still awake?"

When he gazes at your face, your peaceful smile indicates that you won't hear him. He holds you just a little tighter, sighing, releasing whatever anxiety may be brewing.

"I'm a Jujutsu sorcerer…it's dangerous, and every day my life will be on the line. Birthdays are a milestone for many. My only wish is to keep sharing my birthday with you. I'll do my best to always come back for you."

You didn't hear him, but you're dreaming of the day that you'll grow old together.

[siriuslyobsessedwithfiction]

People are foaming at the mouths yelling how sotr is a cash grab as if majority of YA isn't cash grab right now. As if everyone isn't writing the same mediocre books over and over again. If Suzanne Collins writing one book once every few years is such a travesty, what do we call the authors who are releasing new books almost every year or unnecessary spinoffs? Why don't we bash other YA authors for that? What are the Fourth Wing's sequels, the inheritance games and its spinoffs, King of Scars duology, the Heavenly Tyrant, Chloe Gong's, SJM's, Holly Black's books? But how dare Suzanne Collins name-drop her characters from another book, it's unheard of 😱. Get a grip. 🙏 Everybody does it, and not just in YA.

Suzanne Collins writes when she sees the need to say something. She isn't even advertising her books as much as others are. At least her works still carry meaningful and relevant messages, especially considering recent events in the world.

Suzanne Collins is one of the few good YA authors left that are still popular. I'm grateful she's still writing.

Edit: I have made peace with the fact that none of the prequels will be as good as the original trilogy. I'm glad she tells us other characters' stories. Are there better YA books out there than sotr? Sure. But it's still better than the majority, and while I recognize the criticisms people who make fun of mediocre YA books (like me) might have because we hold Suzanne Collins to a higher standard, hearing it from people who eat up mediocre ya books but turn into literally critics about sotr is just pure hypocrisy.

[jd-loves-fiction]

Hey, just read your latest Boothill oneshot. The one with ftm reader.

And that you don't have any smut requests.

Well there might be an idea for sequel ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ

Boothill comes back home after really tiring bounty hunt. By home I mean reader's home. His presence isn't really a surprise, he does just show up every now and then. Conveniently, Julia is having a sleepover at her friend's, so the house is empty. So Boothill takes this as an opportunity to release his tension and to finally make love again like when everything was normal back on their home planet.

…I am kinda ace so my mind isn't getting very creative after this but *please* let there be body worship. Let the mc have stretch marks from having a child, top surgery scars and perhaps something theoretically feminine that makes him insecure like idk wide hips. Good luck getting

Freaky

🌑SMUT TIME FINALLYYYYY!!! I'm telling you, the moment this fell in my inbox I had to hold myself back from writing it right away cuz it's first come first served around here :)

⚠️: AFAB!reader with top surgery but no bottom surgery, explicit oral sex (reader receiving), slight gender dysphoria, reader is referred to by male nicknames, too soft for words LAWD (once again remember that i am agender and therefore could be wrong/disrespectful without meaning to so please feel free to correct me)

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 / 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 2

For Boothill exhaustion is more so a mental ailment than a physical one, but it weighs on his soul regardless. If only the target hadn't been so quick, if only they’d made a mistake a little sooner, he would’ve caught them without breaking a sweat. Sadly, lady luck was not on his side tonight.

The cowboy’s heart aches for you, for the comfort that just your presence provides, but he wonders to himself if it’d be alright to show up at your house nearly at nightfall with no warning. Things between you had been progressing steadily, he’d been at your house various times – even slept over when Julia had begged him to. But without invitation? Would that be too much?

In the end, he figures he might as well stop by and ask, perfectly content with walking himself back to his base if you refuse – he just needs to see you.

“I– Boothill? What are you doing here at this hour?” You ask him as you open the door at his knocking. He almost expects to see Julia peek around your legs as she always does every time he’s over, “I uhm, I had a mission, see? It dragged on longer than I’d expected so I… I don't know, I just… missed ya.”

The stuttering definitely isn't helping his case, Boothill thinks to himself. But you don't seem to mind, smiling kindly at him before wordlessly inviting him in. The nostalgia of it all almost has him taking off his boots, before he remembers they’re attached to him. Things aren't as they always were, for both of you, and you’re still getting used to it.

“Did you want something to drink?”

“Oh, uh, no, thank y’darling.” Your eyes linger on him for just long enough to have him swallowing down his nervousness, clearly noticing the tiredness that shows on the last human part of him, “What’s wrong, hun?”

Eyes drifting over his shoulder slightly have him realising you didn't mean to call him that old nickname and knowing he’s not the only one scrambling with your new dynamic brings Boothill some comfort. 

He sighs, hands on his rigid hips with his head low, “I just… missed ya. Honest.” his voice hasn't sounded quite so soft in many months, even with you being back – too many things have held him back from that degree of vulnerability but now? His metal skin seems to itch with the yearning to feel you close.

“Well, Julia’s over at a friend’s house… so,” You scratch at the back of your neck, turning away as your face warms at this new, undoubtedly endearing, side of his.

The cyborg cowboy clears his throat despite not needing to at all, “A friend’s house, huh? She’s adapting well then, I take it?”

“Yeah… you being here… I think it helps.” Your gentle, open smile coaxes a smile of his own to reveal itself under your patient gaze.

“I guess settling down don't sound too bad–” The moment the words are out of his mouth you both freeze, staring awkwardly at each other like the lovesick teens you once were, stumbling through love confessions while knowing very little of what love actually is.

“Aah, I guess I ain't too good at pretending… Not with you, anyway.” He admits, gauging your reactions as he steps closer to where you stand, “So I guess there's no use trying anymore, wouldn't ya say?” his wide grin is somewhat clumsy as his hands inch their way up your arms, slow enough to pull away if need be.

You sigh in agreement, “You’re right. This whole song and dance is getting a little tiring.”

Staring at each other silently, only the crickets outside, brings you back to simpler days –  the startling nostalgia of the scene pulling your eyes from his to his lips, parted for needless breathing.

“My feelings for ya haven't changed, sweetheart. But I wouldn't blame ya if yours did.”

“Silly cowboy,” your hand seems to move itself through Boothill’s silky locks without your permission, “you’re still you, where it counts.”

A dizzying moment passes as you stand in the middle of your kitchen, alone and staring longingly at each other, each waiting for the other to move first.

You do, leaning into him as you’ve done so many times, lips seeking chapped lips with more desperation than ever before. He meets you halfway, just as eager to skip this awkward, hesitant stage in your relationship and get right back to where you left off.

The deep sigh that leaves you is entirely unavoidable, melting into Boothill’s metal body as his familiar lips move over yours with the usual ease. Aeons, you’ve missed him, and if the way his arms lock around your middle is any indication, so has he.

Upon parting to take in air only you need, you find him panting with a cute flush to his sun kissed cheeks and decide you’ve both waited long enough. He struggles to keep up as you pull him along to the barely decorated master bedroom – your mind’s just been elsewhere lately.

The moment you step past the threshold, the wind is taken straight out of your sails. Suddenly the sound of his heavy metal steps is far too long, your hands are too sweaty, your hair too long– everything just feels so wrong. All the insecurities you’ve been ignoring come back crawling up your legs, hoping to take you down with them.

Would he still feel attracted to you? What would he say about the scars on your chest? Or the stretch marks on your thighs? What about the weight you put on around your hips and stomach? Would he– would he–

“Hey, hey there darlin’. You alright?” His hands lay on your shoulders, light as feathers and yet heavy enough to break you out of your spiral. This Boothill – the man who once, as a lovesick teenager laying upon a grass field by your side, promised you all the stars and even more. Deep down, you doubt he’d care about those details.

You nod, turning to look into his wide, heartfelt eyes, “Things have changed… I just, want you to be aware of that.”

He seems to deflate in response, shoulders falling as a kind smile takes over his features, “That’s what I was expecting but, don't worry about that. I just want… you, is all.”

Laying on your back before the cyborg, you can't keep your hands from gripping the sheets in something between trepidation and preparation, squirming as his eyes, sharp as knives, reacquaint themselves with the image of you like this after so long, “Now don't be nervous, sweetheart. It’s just like old times, right?”

“Except it’s not,” the bed dips as he holds himself over you, “aren't you nervous?”

“Sure am, but uh… my construction doesn’t do a great job of showing it. Plus I can't be actin’ like a bumbling idiot in front of my favorite boy, can I ?” the whisper of a kiss he places on the warm tip of your nose contrasts against his deliciously husky tone.

“How’s this even going to work, I mean…”

“Well, I don't quite have the parts anymore,” he looks off to the side, uncharacteristically sheepish, “I’m sure I could get them but, that's a conversation for another time.”

You feel an incredible warmth down to your chest as your mind runs wild in response to his words, endlessly intrigued by the possibilities. He speaks again before you can truly lose yourself to your lust, “That dudn’t matter right now. I got all I need to make you feel good.”

“But you–”

“I’ll be fine, sweetheart. We can figure it out later.”

Worries slowly melt away from your mind as Boothill delivers sharp little nips to the soft skin between your neck and shoulders, cold metal hands petting your arms into releasing all their tension.

After so long apart, so long wondering if you'd see him again and taking care of Julia on top of that, it feels beyond strange to let yourself be taken care of. But despite his reputation, your cowboy has a way to make you let go even if just for tonight.

His dexterous fingers pause at the buttons on your shirt, silently waiting for your permission and only moving once you give him your verbal consent, pulling each button through their hole slow enough for you to realize he’s doing it to tease you into relaxing even further.

“Boothill…” you whisper, hands clenching at your sides. He responds with a devious grin, entirely unchanged from how it looked in the past, sending shivers down your spine and stoking the fire burning between your legs. “My bad, sweetheart.”

When the fabric finally falls away from your body, you have to look away, fearful of what look he might give you at the scars over your chest. He proves your insecurities wrong once again as he brushes his soft lips over the rough skin without a word. Your heart seems to jump straight out of your chest with pure fondness.

Suddenly, he takes a deep, steadying breath, hands clenching by your sides, “‘m sorry, sweetheart. I wanted to take this nice and slow but… you’re just… I just need you so bad.” the confession leaves him like a wave crashing against the shore on a stormy day, before his hands raise to hover over the hemline of your pants, eyes begging.

You finally muster up the courage to settle your hand in his luscious locks, petting him softly while smiling, “You haven't changed much, have you?”

“Guess I haven't. Not when it comes to you, at least.”

Once he has your consent, he starts peeling away all the clothing left on your bottom half, so focused on his task he doesn't see the sweat dripping down your neck and chest. 

Aeons, you feel like a virgin.

“Perfect,” he mutters, more to himself as all of you if finally revealed – soft and already wet. His hands bracket your hips, covered in the marks left from the pregnancy. He moves himself away slightly to just… stare, in a way that quickly has you squirming. A dark look takes over his features, a swirling storm of unknowable thoughts in his robotic eyes as they trail over every detail.

Boothill, now built for killing more than loving, gently brushes his thumb over the marks, letting the finger press down just slightly to watch the skin stretch, “I don't blame ya if you don't believe me but, you shouldn't hafta go through something like this alone. And you won't again, if I have anythin’ to say about it.”

Your hands dips from his hair to his cheek, warmer than you’d expect from a cyborg, tears stinging your eyes at the possibility, “Please, don't leave again.”

“Never.” Boothill seals his promise with a kiss against your lower lips, sending a jolt through your body – seems he’s still just as capable of catching you off guard as always. Upon noting your reaction, he licks his lips in preparation before closing them around your clit as you pant and whimper, thoughts of any kind shot straight out of your brain.

He’s forced to hold your squirming legs down after your knee nearly knocks against his head (an action that would no doubt hurt you more than him), “Come on. You can be a good boy and stay still for me, can’tcha? Promise I'll make you feel real good if you do.”

You grit your teeth while willing your legs to stay glued to the bed. Satisfied, Boothill dives back in, gently running his tongue along the length of your center before slowly shoving it inside your dripping hole. His grip on your thighs starts slipping from the sweat building over your skin before he adjusts it, unbending fingers pressing firmly into the soft flesh as he doubles his efforts. 

Always careful to keep his sharp teeth away from your core, he moves his tongue so precisely it makes you wonder if it’s still his human tongue at all, hooking and twisting inside you in a way that quickly has you seeing stars as air struggles to leave your lungs from the onslaught of concentrated pleasure that leaves your legs completely boneless.

Just as you think you can't get any higher, Boothill takes one of his hands off you to rub a slender, now warm, unyielding finger over your swollen clit and light flashes behind your eyes so brightly you fear lightning might’ve struck outside.

“Come on, sweet boy, cum for me.” How could you possibly resist such a request? The sound that leaves you nothing like you’d expect, the little you hear of it anyway, before the ringing in your ears completely takes over as you’re lost in the height of your pleasure.

Time passes by without your knowledge – when your senses come back to you, Boothill is leaning over you while caressing your head. His eyes hold no secrets nor reservations, just soft, open love, “You–”

“Don’cha worry about any of that now. We have plenty of time now.”

[moosewinchester]

sam fic rec list

i have read an incredible amount of fanfiction in the past few months, and it seems only right to share some of my recent favorites in honor of sam's birthday! everything on the list is completed, i've only recced one fic or series per author (though i highly recommend checking out these authors' other fics), and i've kept the list to fics with under 500 kudos, because i'd really like to shout out some lesser-known works.

there's so much more wonderful fic out there that i've read in recent months that i'm going to be kicking myself for not thinking to include tomorrow. but here are a twelve that i've either read or reread recently! i've got a small variety going on here, but many of the fics i've listed are focused on either sam's cage trauma or his psychic abilities! i've never done a fic rec list before, but i hope people enjoy taking a peek at some great fics <3

Forged by @withthekeyisking-writer 21,225 words | mature, gen

Tim and Reggie said they'd be back, and it wasn't an idle threat. This time, they won't give Sam a chance to say "no".

i love everything i've read from this author, but this might be my favorite. it's gotten multiple rereads from me, and while the whole fic is great, i think my favorite part has to be the moment at the end once sam's been found. i could read a 200k epic taking place after the fic looking at its consequences. i'm so fascinated and i love it so much

Like a Little Splinter Buried in Your Skin by lemenday 7,007 words | not rated, gen

Sam and Dean successfully take out a witch while on a case, but not before she curses them to swap bodies. Now Sam’s hungover, Dean can’t handle being freakishly tall, and it doesn’t help that weird things keep happening all around them. To top it all off, Sam’s clearly hiding something.

i haven't read many body swap fics, but i'm so glad i read this one. i love the look into how sam's powers and blood might affect what that could look like. i love dean's hypocrisy about the psychic abilities here, because it's so funny. genuinely a hilarious take on the premise!

To Mend a Broken Heart by daydreaming-scribe 74,970 words | teen, Max Banes/Sam Winchester

Jody and Donna call Sam up for help on a case in Iowa. He jumps at the opportunity, ready to get out of the stifling atmosphere of the Bunker. Once he gets there, however, he makes a surprising discovery. Set right after The Scorpion and the Frog.

such a stunning series that hits on so many of my favorite things to see in fic: an exploration of sam's trauma in regards to intimacy, a look into his autonomy issues in regards to dean, the return of his psychic powers, and a really great rarepair! i'm not tagging the author's tumblr as it doesn't look like they're in the fandom anymore, but i wholeheartedly recommend these fics.

The Voice by @broken-cinders 37,702 words | general audiences, gen

It's supposed to be a witch. It's supposed to be easy. Sam and Dean shouldn't have to do more than help burn the body. But, when Sam and Dean are faced with an unknown monster, the consequences will be life-altering for all the Winchesters. Will they be able to fix the problem, or will Sam have to learn to adapt to the newest challenge in his life?

the first fic is really good, but i think the sequel of little shapshots from later in the timeline is my favorite. the first fic does a great job of exploring how sam losing his ability to speak might more metaphorically affect how much of a voice he has within his family. and i love that there's no easy fix. the scene with the little girl in the airport and the snapshot with mary in the sequel are so incredibly good. i love sam using asl <3

sink your teeth in 'cause now i gotta feel it by @songsforskyline 13,482 words | mature, gen

There’s ten seconds of nothing before everything goes to hell.

i am slightly obsessed with everything ad_castra writes, and if it weren't for my self-imposed rules for this rec list, there are so many other fics by them i would be considering including! but i do particularly love this one. 10x03 fics that do something interesting with demon dean my beloved. the exploration here of the idea of dean possessing sam is so good.

You Can Always Go Home by safiyabat 29,656 words | f/m, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester + Josie Sands/Henry Winchester

When Henry Winchester casts his time travel spell as seen in 8.12, it brings him to Stanford University in 2005. More specifically, it brings him to the apartment of young psychic Sam Winchester and his witch fiancee, Jess Moore. Abaddon follows. Can Sam, Jess and the Men of Letters reconnect with the hunters in their family in time to stop a bloody rampage? And what about the Yellow-Eyed Demon? How will his plans be affected by the sudden appearance of a Knight of Hell?

i had to highlight this one because i think it's absolutely criminal that there isn't more fic with henry and sam. as a sam fan, this is just some wish fulfillment-y fun. sam gets to be psychic, and everyone gets to live, including henry, and including jess.

bad faith by sheepishlion 5,851 words | not rated, gen

Jimmy glances around the room, eyes darting, and Sam feels almost nauseous watching him. Something that’s not Castiel is in Castiel’s body, Sam’s mind supplies in a panic, but another part of him corrects that thought: Castiel is the something. The body is back in its proper state. The story of Jimmy Novak is Sam's worst nightmare, which is something he didn't fully consider until he was left alone in a room with the guy for an hour. Sam thinks it could've gone worse. It definitely could've gone better.

i am so incredibly normal about this fic and its concept. i love how this explores the horror of being a vessel. sam and jimmy novak just having to sit there and talk to each other long after jimmy has died is so good. so horrible for them both and i love it.

Nothing's Safe by @rockstarsatan 26,070 words | mature, Castiel/Sam Winchester

In which the only way for Cas to save Sam in the Born Again Identity is to possess him. Sam, however, does not know what is going on, and sees him as Lucifer. -- "It was funny. Of course, the thoughts came in flashes, and they were somewhat bland in flavour, like the world was still in colour but the synapses in his brain were all turning through a disconnected filter. He remembers wanting to ask Cas about if his brain was alright. He remembers the first time Cas healed him, and how he felt like he could think clearer than he had in years. He remembers looking at Cas and making sense of everything including him through new comprehension. He remembers seeing nothing but love. It’s all so funny. Because with one touch, Cas also destroyed him."

another author whose fics i am always excited to see posted or updated! i really love this one and the way it explores cas and sam's relationship as well as sam's autonomy issues. such a good combination of things (including cas and sam, into one body)!

Vital Signs by @ambersock 42,905 words | teen, gen

With shaking hands he stabs at the buttons, missing once, twice, and he has to force himself to take several deep breaths to subdue the panic. A very deliberate, controlled motion lets him pop up the contact details of the text with the intention of auto-dialing the number, and he does a double-take because the number associated with the text isn’t Amelia’s. But he does know whose number it is. An AU where Sam doesn't fall for Dean's fake text and confronts Benny instead.

once again, it's difficult to choose a favorite ambersock fic, but i really enjoyed following this one along as it reached its end. sam and benny absolutely deserved to become friends, and this is such a good take on them and on sam in season 8.

we were never gonna make it out alive (we're still barely getting by) by Duck_Life 12,144 words | teen, gen

Lucifer walks the Earth, determined to track down Kelly Kline and his unborn son. He's wearing a familiar face.

genuinely flabbergasted that this only has 58 kudos. lucifer possessing jess in season 13 and everything that concept entails is so fascinating. we also get to see apocalypse world jess!

Saving Grace by @cas---2y5 37,139 words | explicit, Gabriel/Sam Winchester

There were a few things Sam couldn’t quite figure out: why was a prince of hell baiting him, who the hell was Samael, and why could he all of a sudden sense grace? Lucifer’s free, the apocalypse is looming, and Sam feels…off. Is something changing, or is it just finally clawing its way out? Sam finds his answers in Gabriel, and will have to make the hard choice between who he is and who he’s supposed to be. Even with Gabriel’s help, will it be enough to stop the apocalypse and save the world?

in the best way, this is the type of story that i would fall asleep thinking of where my favorite character gets super cool super op powers. one of the tags is "i wrote this for me but you can read it too," and that is exactly the energy it exudes. a super fun read for op power wish fulfillment purposes!

Regrettable Situations in Storage Room 3 by @bradycore 6,198 words | general audiences, Castiel & Sam Winchester or Castiel/Sam Winchester

It’s not easy to get to the Farmers Market in the middle of a pandemic, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Sam would do anything to get some fresh air and sunlight, Cas really, really wants his organic honey, and most importantly, Dean’s not home to stop them.

cas and sam just. share a body for a bit! for fun, and for healing, and for the farmer's market. i once again just highly recommend occasionally_always' fics in general, because they do a really great job of exploring sam concepts that i don't think i see as often but am so happy to have the chance to read.

[thebunnednun]

MHA Guidance Counselor AU Masterlist

Did you ever have a fuck ass guidance counselor or therapist that didn't do shit for you?

Don't worry, we're gonna fic that.

With your favorite mha characters!!

(Puns, but in all seriousness, I am sorry about what you went through and hope that you get the help you deserve. I can't 'fix' things but a silly little fic does wonders.)

What’s this about Angie?

You’ve been dealing with enough stress—academics, family expectations, shitty job, maybe a chaotic personal life—and you need help. A guidance counselor or therapist sounds like the right answer, but we’re not exactly talking about your typical "supportive and competent" staff here.

In this world, you’re dealing with a range of questionable advice, from well-meaning to completely off-base guidance, and advice that might just make you want to scream into a pillow.

At least you're not alone...sort of.

How It Works:

Each guidance counselor or therapist here takes a different approach to “helping.”

Some might be sarcastic, others way too eager, and a few might just be downright unqualified but somehow...well, still helpful? It’s a rollercoaster of chaos and sometimes even a bit of healing, if you can trust the process.

You’ll get to see the types of support each offers (or doesn’t), and maybe, just maybe, you’ll walk away with some real insight. If you’re lucky.

Rules:

You get to choose which counselor you want to go to. It's like a buffet of options! Every counselor has their own style—be prepared for anything.

Feel free to request a specific counselor or approach. Want a very professional, no-nonsense counselor? Or maybe one who's way too into "mindfulness" and could you please just leave me alone? Let me know. All characters are on the table.

No one is perfect. The counselors might mess up. A lot. But the key is they try, and sometimes that’s what counts. Also as your author I myself am only human so please have grace with me.

This is your fic. Your rules. You can ask for any vibe you need, comfort, angst, but we also lean into the humor. After all, we’re in control here... aren't we?

All my readers are gender neutral, but again, if you request something specific I can change that. Fresh soup.

While I don't find myself writing smut I do consider this blog to be 18+ because of the story themes. I do not want minors on my posts because I care about your mental health and sometimes reading certain fics can be damaging and permanently alter you. I don't want that. Your brain chemistry is important. YOU ARE IMPORTANT. So you have been warned. No ageless blogs!

Okay so the fic's are going to start as goes:

Midnight

30 Minutes --- Nemuris only got 30 minutes to work with her favorite stinker, and she's gonna make them count. You just wish you could stop thinking of her as a mom.

32 Minutes --- The sequel of how your life is going since that last visit.

Aizawa

In their shoes --- Aizawa's best and brightest troublemaker by far. The only difference is that you don't talk. Ever. Getting you to open up is like trying to bring back the dead. So what can he do?

Take you on a walk outside. Maybe you'll talk, maybe you won't. But he's going to try and make you feel better by the end of it. Even if it's just a tiny bit.

Yamada

Stuck on Mute ---- Mic's gotta figure out how to get his soft spoken new assignment to open up in spite of his loud nature. And it does work! After a near death incident...

Enji

Family Jewels --- Enji comes across a student that's much more like himself than they initially let on. Maybe he's right for the job after all.

Fat Gum

Knock out --- Taishiro swaps assignments with Rumi and finds himself at odds with a student that has anger issues.

Mirko

Respawn? --- Rumi fucked up with her first student and now has a... very shy, kiddo to put it nicely. No idea how to communicate with them. So she hands up her gym bag and picks up a controller.

Hawks

Nap time --- Keigo can't get his new unimpressed spooky student with PTSD to open up after their recent villian attack until he gets personal.

All Might

NOT MY GRANPA --- Yagi finds himself assigned to a student that is every old mans worst fear: A modern trendy alternative teenager. But PLOT TWIST, you have social anxiety. Just like him. Good news, you and Toshinori click instantly and he adores you. You love time with your grandpa figure!

Bad news, you're a fighter and get into a bad situation after a nasty brawl...

More to come soon.

I've got some fic's in the workshop but please request some. If you do request please see my rules page or just DM me and ask.

Overall, this should be a safe space for everyone to enjoy and have fun while reading.

I also have a ko-fi now if you'd like to support me. :3 Not mandatory but always appreciated.

Pssst, my ao3 is alive and open for all readers.

See you soon!

-Angie

[aowyn]

Hi there!! Thank you so much for your and your team’s incredibly hard work! I have a translation question about Reunion chapter 1b —

In 9th Avenue’s translation of the original novels, they referred to Inukashi using ‘he/him’ pronouns. In your translation of Reunion, you’ve opted to use ‘they/them’. I’m curious if this is the product of two translators differently interpreting nebulous pronoun usage in the original text, or if the JP text itself had made some kind of new distinction between how Inukashi used to be referred in the originals and how they’re referred to now in the sequels. As it’s becoming clearer and clearer in the text that Inukashi is AFAB, have the characters changed how they refer to them? Additionally, has Inukashi’s personal pronoun usage changed, (boku, ore, watashi, etc)?

I’ve always been interested in and somewhat invested in Inukashi’s gender identity, so this was a noteworthy change for me! Thanks for humoring my inquiry :)

Hi there, thanks for your question. This is going to be a long answer that gets into Japanese language structure, so apologies in advance!

The translator for the original series chose to use he/him for Inukashi for the following reasons:

Since Japanese pronouns have no gender, in the novel it's never clear whether Inukashi is a boy or a girl. Since most of the novel is from Shion's point of view and he thinks Inukashi is a boy (for most of the time), I opted to use 'he'. I couldn't find a good place to make the pronoun change, so for the sake of consistency it will remain masculine. (9th Ave)

My reasoning follows similar paths but ultimately comes to a different conclusion.

While the Japanese language has gendered third-person pronouns and speakers use them frequently, they are not required, and it's common to eliminate any explicit reference to the subject entirely when it's known through context who is being spoken about. This means that when Inukashi is referred to in the text, it's either by their name or not at all. For example, note the use of proper nouns and pronouns this paragraph from the latter half of Chapter 1. I have put any phrases not in the original Japanese in brackets:

イヌカシが口をつぐむ。つぐんだまま横を向く。イヌカシがネズミの名を口にしたのは、久々だ。ネズミがさってから初めてかもしれない。口にしたことを悔いているように、イヌカシの唇は固く結ばれた。 Inukashi promptly shut [their] mouth. Without opening it again, [they] looked away. It had been a long time since [Shion had last heard] Inukashi say Nezumi’s name. This might even have been the first time ever since Nezumi had left. Inukashi’s lips were pressed together as if [they] regretted letting it slip.

You can see how Inukashi is referred to by name half of the time. The other half of the time, the reader knows that Inukashi is the subject and thus they are not mentioned at all.

Additionally, it's not typical for Japanese speakers who identify as female to speak in the rough, masculine way that Inukashi does—Inukashi speaks like a shonen manga protagonist. Inukashi also presents androgynously. Shion can't discern their gender when he meets them for the first time in No.6 volume 2. No.6 hints that Inukashi is AFAB, and No.6 Reunion makes that even more clear, but that doesn't change Inukashi's behavior or presentation, nor how other characters refer to or think internally of them.

Ultimately, I chose to use they/them pronouns for Inukashi. I would have liked using no pronouns for Inukashi, but that would have required more deviation from the original structure of Asano's writing than I was comfortable with. I didn't want to use he/him because the text places more emphasis on Inukashi's nonconforming gender presentation than their masculinity, and she/her felt like too much of a leap of extrapolation. Using they/them felt like a good compromise and true to Asano's intentions.

To answer the second half of your question—"Have the characters changed how they refer to them? Additionally, has Inukashi’s personal pronoun usage changed, (boku, ore, watashi, etc)?"—the answer is that nothing has changed. Inukashi has always used 俺 ore and very masculine way of speaking, and continues to do so in volume one of No.6 Reunion. The narrative voice, other characters, and Inukashi themself continue to avoid using gendered language when referring to Inukashi, outside of Inukashi being called "mama" or "mother" sometimes in the context of them raising baby Shion.

Please let me know if you have any questions!