hi and welcome to my page<3 this is a fun little creative outlet for me where i mostly write smut lol. guilty!
anyways, thank you for all the support; send requests, i’m down for anything;) also pls check out my fics on wattpad—if i’m inactive here that’s where i am!
note: in spirit (or perhaps solidarity) of ao3 being down, here’s the prologue to the hobbit fanfic i had planned to post today…🤧🤗
introducing: Second Seed
to sum it up quite briefly: this fic will be a fix-it au with Bagginshield, ofc, and an oc for Fili cause that poor boy deserves some love.
There was no ceremony when Bilbo Baggins planted the acorn. He was the only one in attendance at what felt like another funeral, and that would be the only sentiment he’d allow himself after such a long journey – and such a long debacle reclaiming his mother’s silver.
Home, at last.
Yet he could hardly recognize it.
There he was, on Shire hills where lush green cushioned the tough soles of his feet. Here were his people. His kin. His fine garden. Even so, everything he once prided was more estranged to him than any night sky he had slept under out on the road.
Over fourteen months had passed, and his mind was starting to slip from one bittersweet memory to another, though the faces he’d come to know in the meantime now blurred – that or his vision. The tired hobbit sensed he was forgetting very important details as grief and darkness wore him down. The journey itself felt as though it did more harm than good, most days anyhow.
Surely there would be songs to remind him as he grew old. Balin had thought so. There’d be hymns to sing of what Bilbo left behind and what had been regained with an ease he had done nothing to earn. But there was only silence as his hands – no longer soft from idle comforts he had known – pressed the acorn into land that had never seen the ruin he or the wee nut had.
However uneasy it made the halfling, it was nice in some ways. The way simple things often were. It was a feeling he hadn't had since he first abandoned home on a whim and a wizard’s insistence. And yet, as dirt gathered at the center of his palm, the small act seemed almost as defiant as the life he led beyond his wooden gates. A quiet one at least.
It still felt like an oath of sorts, just as he intended it to be before everything went south. It was as if the acorn, tucked into the shallow breast of Middle-earth as gently as he could muster, might take root and restore what he'd lost out there.
Fancy that…
In the garden’s gentle curve, a hobbit’s foot from his locked gate, Bilbo found himself thinking of these green hills, round doors, and future mornings in Bag End where he might be free of the nightmares he’d been suffering through ever since blood spilled upon snow.
As he brushed soil back into place, he forced himself not to think anything more of wizards, dwarves, or elves and orcs alike – and especially not the golden band weighing down his pocket and his heart.
He refused to name the burden that had followed him home, far too large for someone like him to carry.
He tried his best not to wonder whether circumstances might have been different if he had done something different. More.
Then he rubbed his dirtied palms along his breeches that already needed a good scrub, and rose from his aching knees with a heavy sigh.
Unbeknownst to the hobbit, his memories truly had begun to fray; however, it wasn’t because some ring was tightening its hold over him. Bilbo's grip on reality swayed the moment the seed settled into the ground.
For memory is not as rigid as we so pretend. As is fate.
Like any living thing, fate may yet be guided while it’s a tender bud waiting to grow.
You see, the acorn promised Bilbo more than it let on. It promised a return. It promised new beginnings rather than his years pressing in hundreds, where harsh, clouded eyes would look to Rivendell before a bittersweet end.
Instead, Bilbo would wake up in his bed, his limbs unburdened by loss or age, on the very morn sunlight fell across his sleeping face and he chose to take his pipe to his favourite bench.
His unlikely tale would begin again, not as it had been sung, but as it might yet be... more.
For, far beyond Erebor’s shadow, there would be a girl born with silver hair, like the canopy of pale leaves hanging overhead on her first name-day. She did not cry in King Thranduil’s arms as he cradled her head for a time – until time went on, of course. Until her mother, his wife, would croak.
Like her brother, the elvish girl would slip just as quietly from his grasp, as though she belonged less to this lifetime than she did the first time around.
She had her mother’s soft eyes after all. Perhaps that was why Thranduil feared how easily they could one day close.
Their similarities were enough to make her loved. But also enough to make her unbearable.
Nevertheless, Anneth, daughter of the Elvenking, Princess of the Woodland Realm, would rise like all great oaks did: from seeds no larger than a fingertip – quiet and overlooked till she was in full bloom.
It was not affection that watered her, but the glow from distant stories, filtered through a light unlike the one that touched her kingdom. And so she bent toward it against her father’s discretion.
She was drawn to Dwarven tales. To the books buried deep within Thranduil’s library that spoke of stone kings, perched on gold mountains with a reigning bloodline that endured war and dragonfire.
And far across the realm, in a Shire untouched by flame, Bilbo Baggins packed the last of his Old Toby and struck a match, not yet given cause to wonder whether the destiny of friends whom he had yet to meet might ever be changed.
For something had answered just in time, eager to meddle with the destiny that would soon be carved into the Baggins’ freshly painted door.
Could you please write more klaus!! 🙏 SPELLBOUND WAS EXTRAORDINARY
The Wolf At Your Door 𓃦
pairing: niklaus mikaelson x you
warnings: mindor dni, smut, violence/death, strong language, yandere klaus, jealousy, oral, male!receiving, penetration, fingering, spanking, biting/marking, slight/not voyeurism, fluff...?, and a sprinkle of angst (not really idk lol).
summary: From the moment you met Klaus, you were infatuated with him. But according to the Mystic Falls gang, you were supposed to be mortal enemies. So, one thing led to another, you two started seeing each other secretly—casually—until the police found the guy your friends tried to set you up with, cold… and very much dead.
a/n: thank you so so much for the love bewitched (formally called spellbound) received!!! make sure to check out my klaus ff on wattpad! anywho, happy reading <3
word count: 2.8k
The television hums, its muted blue glow flickering across your dull apartment walls. You’re not really watching, though—just zoning out, the way you usually do when you suddenly realize you're in way over your head.
The words on the screen finally register in your disassociating mind, slicing through the fog of disbelief, stuttering all logic and movement into suspension.
"Authorities have identified the victim as—"
Your fingers tighten around the ceramic mug in your hands, the coffee’s warmth searing into your skin. The name means nothing at first, a tasteless sound drowned beneath the anchorman’s cold delivery. But then an image flashes across the screen—a grainy, too-bright photo of a boy whose face you didn't expect to recognize.
But you do recognize him.
Your breath lurches in your throat. The mug clinks against the glass table as you set it down, too carefully, like you’re afraid your trembling hands might shatter it. Like you’re afraid you’ll shatter.
Because that’s the guy.
The guy Caroline had introduced you to at the Grill last week, nudging you toward him with an all-too-eager smile. The guy that Damon had insisted was “nice enough” after a few drinks. The guy you had laughed more at than with, with his bad jokes, wandering hands, and over-confident eyes. It was an uncomfortable encounter you experienced just to appease your friends, to get them off your back so they wouldn't find out the secret you've been hiding for months.
And now that guy is dead.
So dead, the police report said they had struggled to ID him.
Your stomach churns, face twisting in horror.
Death wasn’t anything new in Mystic Falls, but…
“Police say it’s another animal attack—”
You know what they’ll think. You know what they’ll say.
And worse—far worse—you know exactly who did it.
Because Niklaus Mikaelson has never been subtle when it comes to you.
He’s the not-so-subtle secret stitched into the delicate lining of your life. The shadow behind your smile, the blood beneath your perfume, embedded in your veins. A truth too dangerous to name, but too intoxicating to bury.
Not when his eyes, like a winter's morning, carried a wave of heat like an August sun. Not when he spoke your name like a claim of ownership, with an undertone that imitated a vow-like sacrament. Not with the look he gave that guy as he observed you both from across the bar—casual, but brimming with a certain kind of stillness that felt... murderous.
It was addictive seeing him smile when you laughed, falling only when he noticed who you were laughing with (again, more at than "with"—but Klaus didn't know that). He had smiled at you, and you alone. And you had seen how that smile warped as he grew tired of watching from afar.
But you had seen it—how that smile bent, frayed at the edges. The typical amusement he held had curdled into something more callous, sharper. Like a switch flipped in the pit of a typhoon. His face fell not with rage, but with a neurtality more terrifying. You could pinpoint it, like the moment a ball slips from your fingers. You knew, with gut-sick certainty, if it wasn't going to shatter you, it would shatter something. Or someone.
Klaus didn’t stay to sulk or smoulder.
He left with the quiet gravity that something dreadful had been set in motion—a fuse already lit, a noose already swinging. No parting glance. No dramatic flourish. Just the absence of him, and the suspicion that followed like a second skin.
You flinch when the phone abruptly rings, the shrill sound slicing through the tense quiet like a jagged knife. You leap from the couch to answer it.
“Hello?”
“You saw the news?”
It’s Bonnie. Her voice is pulled tight, exhausted, yet unfazed. Who could blame her?
You say nothing. Though silence is louder than any 'yes.'
Bonnie sighs heavily, her tone low and demanding. “Do you know anything?”
Another silence. Another answer. Speak now or forever hold your peace. . . And of course, you bite your tongue. No peace came.
“…Right,” she mutters.
(Coward, Bonnie's pause seemed to say.)
“I figured as much.”
The weight of judgment hangs in the air like cigarette smoke, spiralling into every corner of your silence, nullifying the real emotions behind your vacant stare. Like ash, doubt follows the smoke, disseminating over your tender flesh, your clothes, your conscience—impossible to wash out, though you've tried before.
Bonnie rambles on, her voice thin and urgent, a desperate sort of weaving. You picture her as the feeble spider somewhere in your apartment, the one you’ve noticed but neglected to sweep away in days. She spins her thread with good intentions, cladding each word around you like silk. Then, your gaze drifts toward that exact corner, where the real spider dangles upside-down in the dim glow of a lamp, silently cocooning something small and helpless.
You wonder if it’s dead yet. Or if it still twitches inside the threads.
You haven’t had the energy to deal with it, to kill the insect, not since your mind has been consumed—sipped bone-dry by the memories of his hands, his mouth, and the unhealthy, inevitable certainty that someone would find out about your unruly affair.
Paranoia echoes in your ears like the ringing after a gunshot.
Now someone knows. They have to.
“You know Matt's telling the sheriff,” Bonnie adds. “We’re going after him. Tonight.”
Your chest hollows out, like Bonnie had just reached down your throat and robbed the air from your lungs.
“I mean… good riddance,” you compel yourself to say, voice flat and utterly wrong, almost foreign. “He was a creep, anyway,” you chuckle, and the sound is like live wire on your tongue.
Bonnie doesn’t respond, even though your humour was so clearly forced.
Regardless, the call ends. And you’re already out the door.
. . .
The rain is relentless, sluicing down in silver curtains as you drive too fast and park too recklessly on the Mikaelson drive. Security had let you through the gates without a second thought, as they always did. It was almost too easy. It would be too easy for you to betray him. Didn't he know that? With centuries of experience, was he so self-assured to underestimate you? Why did he let his security stay indifferent towards you?
Each thought makes you falter, nearly falling into the ankle-deep puddles your shoes splashed through as you sprint to the grand door. You don’t even knock, not politely anyway. Your fist beats into the antique wood. The door swings open with practiced ease.
And there he is.
Klaus Mikaelson.
King of ruin. Author of every terrible thing you can’t seem to stop craving. He’s halfway through a smirk when he sees you. One hand on the door, the other resting on his hip like a your average-joe exhausted from a day at work. His relaxed demeanour makes your skin crawl.
To think... he could hear you, probably even smell you before you got close. And to think, he just killed an innocent man for flirting with you, and couldn't care less.
“Back for more already—”
He stops cold.
You are rain-drenched. Shivering. Breathless. Agitated, obviously. Your eyes were wild with something between grief and rage, already mourning something he couldn't begin to understand.
(Sin, sin, sin.)
Your soaked clothes stick to your slick frame in a way that makes Klaus lick his lips, and also stare like he’s witnessing a ghost.
“Love,” Klaus murmurs, the word breaking open in his throat. His expression grows serious in that disarming way of his. But his sincerity is short-lived, as he tilts his head and just about pouts at the sight of you. “You poor thing.”
He steps forward, taking the hand off his hip to touch you, to pull you into the cradle of his warmth, but, to his surprising, you shove him, hard, your own chest heaving as your frustration finally boils to the surface.
“You killed him!” you shout. "What were you thinking?!" The words fracture inside you, breaking down on your tongue, slithering through your gritted teeth, painfully desperate to take shape.
Klaus doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t flinch, or so much as to blink. But you can see something registering in his head, gears turning when his eyes obscure past you, looking into the dreary sky.
He nods to himself. “That does not matter,” he says, voice low, thunder under glass, barely restrained. “What matters is you need to leave. Now. I suspect that your friends will be here any minute.” His eyes darken, and when he speaks again, it’s rather subdued, yet more unstable. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he huffs, with the bitter curve of a scorned lover. “To warn the man they all want dead. The man they call the devil. The monster under their beds.”
Your brows furrow and you pick at your cuticles, fidgeting, unsure of what to do with yourself as he steps closer, gaze locked onto yours like a flame to flimsy paper.
“The man your friends loathe... and the man you share a bed with. Again and again.” His jaw flexes. “The man you kiss like salvation the night before, and come dawn? Running as if this," he motioned between you two, "were vice.”
He exhales, slow and recessed. Nerves pump through you like adrenaline, and thoughtlessly, your teeth chew into your inner cheek.
“I’m the worst thing that’s ever happened to you,” his voice cracks around the truth. “And still, you came.” When you don't speak, he shakes his head, looking over his shoulder as if he were bored with the conversation. Then, when he looks back, his eyes are cold and his mouth sneers like you were no more than strangers, adversaries. "You need to leave," he concludes.
You shake your head, every breath like fire scorching your windpipe. You're not surprised that he figured your friends were coming, but the knowledge still rattles your heart, him dismissing you most of all.
“I need to leave?" You snap, "You arrogant, psychotic—what did you think would happen?! You think you could just—just eliminate someone I go with, and that shit would go unnoticed? Acting like my own personal executioner?”
He raises his voice, that growl curling around your ribs. “That fool didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you, let alone live.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind!”
“Yes, yes, I am. But as I said, here you are," his voice sounds breathless, his stoicism crumbling momentarily under your harsh regard. "You always come back to me."
That stops you. It took saying it twice for it to sink in, to startle you. He sees it. Feels the pause like a double-sided blade between you both.
You've been caught red-handed, and you expect him to make the usual taunting remarks, but they don't come. You're the first to look away.
“You know you’re not safe here,” you whisper slowly, “So why stay in Mystic Falls when everyone wants you dead?"
"Everyone?" He mutters so quietly you almost miss it, but you choose to ignore it anyway, though you can’t ignore the pang in your chest.
"They're going to kill you one day, Klaus.”
“They may try,” he chimes without the slightest interest, his concentration never straying from the space between you both, imagining the small steps it would take to close that distance. His presence seems to suck all the air from the sizeable room. “Let them come.”
You want to roll your eyes, but you can't. “Fuck." You curse under your breath, blinking away sudden tears. You peer down at the floor, seeing the rainfall that had drunched your clothes, now pooling at your feet. "I—I can’t do this anymore,” you hiccup, breath catching.
You don’t even see it happen.
You just feel it—the force of him yanking you inside, slamming the door behind you, and pinning you against the wall, sudden as the crack of lightning. One hand slams beside your head, cracking through the plaster hallway, while the other catches the back of your skull so you don’t break on impact.
He’s breathing hard. So are you.
Rain streaks your cheeks like the unshed tears, and you can't seem to look away from his piercing stare.
“Say it,” he growls, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “Say you don’t want this. That you don’t want me.”
Your bottom lip wobbles, chin trembling, voice ready to concede.
"Say it and I'll leave. I swear to you, you'll never see my wrenched face again."
His mouth hovers above yours, mere inches from wrecking you.
“I hate you,” you whisper, but you can't begin to imagine seeing him go. Never.
He smirks familiarly, but there's something softer, more temperate that flashes in his gaze.
“Haven't I told you to lie better?" he teases without a hint of vanity.
And then he catches his breath on your tongue.
Klaus kisses you. No, devours you.
It’s not affection, it’s a firestorm. A cathedral collapsing. A need that tastes like destruction. Fucking damnation, guised as a blonde with blue eyes and a blood-draining smile.
His lips bruise yours as your nails rake across his chest, pulling down the neckline of his Henley. He rips the wet clothes from your body after the slightest struggle to peel them off your skin. The second you're bare, his lips leave yours to latch onto your neck, teeth teasing the thin flesh, intimidating possible rupture, and yet you feel entirely safe, pressed between his body and the hard wall. Trapped, but oh-so free.
You break the kiss long enough to fall to your knees. He watches, eyes blown wide, pupils dilated, hands instantly gripping the ends of your soaked hair, liberating your nape from the sweltering strands.
The moment feels ancient. Worship and surrender and defiance, all in one.
You give in.
“We shouldn’t do this,” you mumble more to yourself as you unzip his fly with shaking hands. It's almost laughable how contrary your words are to your actions, but truthfully, you really do wish you could stop yourself, but alas.
You pull his briefs down along with his pants, moving without reservations or hesitation.
Klaus groans darkly, the sound torn from his throat when you quickly take him into your mouth, slow and reverent, like you’ve been starved, deprived of such pleasure all your life. He mutters your name like it were blasphemy.
(Perhaps it was.)
As you take him to the depths of your throat, he growls your name, and you feel his thighs tense. He's getting close. Your tongue speeds up, but before you can finish him off, Klaus pulls you back up by your hair, unafraid of hurting you. And he doesn’t speak. He claims.
His mouth crashes into yours again as he lifts you upright, effortlessly.
“Tell me again that they’re coming,” he pants into your mouth before moving back to your neck. Your knees nearly buckle. It felt dirty, the idea that your friends could see you both at any moment. Caroline, Elena, Bonnie, Stefan. Who knows. But still, you refused to stop.
“They're going to catch us,” you gasp, trying futilely to push him off of you. Klaus scoffs when you jump to wrap your legs around his waist. His palms fly to the bottom of your thighs, squeezing his digits into their plushness, eager to mark them.
“Good,” he snarls, kissing down your throat. “Let them see exactly who you belong to. Who you always come crawling back to. Who pleases you better than any man—immortal, before.”
You rip his shirt open. Buttons fly. His teeth graze your collarbone, your nipple, and his hand moves to knead your breast. Your spine hits the wall over and over, and you arch into him, over and over. You're not sure whether it's pleasure or fury that has you crying out. And when you cry out his name, you know it's both.
The only time Klaus slows down is to look you in the eye when he reaches in between you both to touch your clit, rubbing circles into you just before pulling aside your drench underwear, to slide into you. The intrusion is sudden. But it's also warm, tight, and filthy. Home.
“Still want to run?” he groans brazenly.
Your answer is a sob and a fervent shake of your head.
"I won't be gentle," he tells you once, and only once, as his voice seems to give out, hoarse and shaky when his tip reaches your hilt.
Oh.
Oh, holy fuck.
You're surprised you have any time to breathe, let alone scream when he suddenly pulls out just to slam full-force into you, rattling the furniture and paintings nearby as he sheathes himself through your slick heat. His cold body feels warm, flush against your damp body. You're burning alive, and maybe it’s a precursor to the hell you'll surely face if you both got caught now.
But to hell with that. Why care about what cane next when Klaus is buried so deep inside you, hips striking your hips, pounding you senseless.
You mewl and whine into the crook of his neck, feeling his grin just before he bites your ear, hard enough to draw a pearl of blood, to which he licks away with one flick of his scalding tongue.
He takes you, hard, rough, right there against the wall, only a few steps away from the front door, before stumbling through the dark to carry you toward the kitchen island. He doesn’t care about the table or the floor—just the nearest surface to unravel you.
His thrusts are consistent as he lowers you down till you lie flat on top of his expensive marble counter like a meal he's eager to feast on.
Your limbs tangled, your body trembling, your voice breaking. It’s primal. Furious. Possessive.
Outside, the storm rages. Inside, you are the eye of it.
Every drive of his hips is an argument, every moan a surrender. You keep telling him to leave. He keeps whispering that he won’t in between kisses. That he’d burn the world first. He pulls you against him until there’s no space between your skin and his madness.
As you say no, your body betrays you—your hips rising to meet him, your nails scratching down his back, hoping to engrave a mark so deep, it'd rival the mark he has left in you. Your breath hitches every time he hits that same spot that makes you forget your own damn name.
“You’re not leaving me,” he snarls.
“Klaus! This is wrong,” you whimper nonsensically, disagreeing just to disagree. Then you yelp when he promptly spanks your ass for daring to suggest such a thing, spanking you so hard, the tingling there feels like its own pulse.
“Then let it be wrong.”
Soon, the kitchen smells like sex and rain and fever.
He uses your body as a counterweight to buck into, and you'd probably be screaming if you could still breathe normally. Now, unable to even inhale, his groans seem that much louder, and you hear him shuffle closer every time you try to slither away to catch your breath. Somehow, he manages to draw you closer to drill into you harder.
You're sobbing uncontrollably as the pressure in your core builds. Your end blazes through you like wildfire, and his hands anchor your hips, feeling your climax as you clench around him. Then, he suddenly decides to angle himself differently, leering down at you like the king he is, hitting a spot you've never even felt before and—
You come undone instantaneously, eyes fluttering closed, squeezing any remaining tears out. Tremors rake through you as Klaus starts to focus on his own high, his pleasure, using your spent body till he cums. And he cums hard, pulling out to finish on your stomach, painting your body as he would a canvas until he's satisfied, whispering how he would kill anyone who would dare take this from him, and how he cannot comprehend what he did to deserve this. Each remark makes you want to cry, moan, though you have no more tears to weep or a voice left to cry-out.
Klaus then collapses onto you, slowly pressing his cock back into your warmth while his breath steadies itself. You whimper at the hurried penetration, but make no real protests. You're ruined and aching, tears lost in the sweat on your cheek. He kisses your temple, and it almost feels tender.
Almost.
Worry settles on your chest once more, heavy and suffocating, and, as if Klaus can read your mind, he smiles sweetly against your skin, repeating his earlier remark.
“Let them, my love.”
The rain stops hours later. But the storm? The real one? It’s only just beginning. And you’re not sure which side you’re on anymore.
Only that Klaus Mikaelson has no intention of ever letting you go.
And maybe, somewhere deep and broken, you don't want him to.
Summary: You're a hunter, familiar with Sam and Dean's work —and that wasn't a good thing. So, it took no time at all for you to bump heads with the youngest brother, though it becomes difficult to ignore the underlying attraction there.
Word Count: 2k
...
You crouched low behind the thick underbrush, breathing steadily as you surveyed the clearing ahead. The late afternoon sun painted the scene in golden hues, illuminating the blurry figures of two men, struggling against a group of snarling demons. Your heart raced—not from fear, but from that familiar adrenaline. You had been trained for this, to hunt the monsters that lurked in the shadows, and protect those in need.
Just as you braced yourself for a fight, unexpectedly, you recognized one of them. Sam Winchester... The hunter who had opened the gates of Hell, fed on demon blood, and dismantled every hunter's code in a hungry pursuit for power. He and his companion matched their descriptions spot on, and a swell of anger surged within you, merging with the adrenaline.
The Winchesters were the last people you wanted to help, rumoured as selfish and pathetic, yet there they were, fighting valiantly to save a young girl caught in a demon’s grasp.
Against your better judgment, you emerged from your hiding spot. You rushed into the fray, taking down one demon with a swift slice of your charmed blade. It felt surreal; to combat alongside a man you despised by name. As you worked together, you couldn’t deny the rhythm that formed between you, each of you covering the other’s blind spots.
When the last demon fell, silence enveloped the clearing. You stood panting, blood pumping violently through your veins. You then narrowed your gaze onto Sam and an unfamiliar warmth bloomed in your chest. He was dishevelled and dirty, but even covered in grime, you could see the strength in his handsome features.
But that warmth twisted into disdain as you recalled why you hated him. “You’re lucky I don’t bleed you out myself Winchester,” you spit hostility, using your sleeve to wipe your blade clean as you turned away. You felt his heated stare bore into your back. It was a mix of confusion and something deeper, but you didn’t allow yourself to dwell on it.
“Right,” he snapped rather sarcastically, voice low, clearly stung. “Thanks for the help, I guess," he uttered, followed by a mumble of, "Whoever you are."
You rolled your eyes. His wounded pride brought you a sense of satisfaction. You liked not having bothered with the usual pleasantries between fellow hunters, or even an introduction. However, you couldn't shake how painfully aware you were of how attractive he looked. Your mind warred with your heart, anger battling lure.
Months passed since then, and fate had an unsettling way of pulling you deeper into the web of chaos that surrounded the Winchesters. One evening, on a cool January night, after a particularly gruelling encounter with a demon, you found yourself in the same motel room as Sam. You both got soaked by an abrupt tidal of rain, and though you changed into some of the boy's spare clothes, Sam made no effort to switch out of his drenched attire.
He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, head in his hands. A heavy, uncomfortable silence filled the air, dense with the weight of loss and failure. Another causality was had, and it seemed to affect Sam in a different way than you and his brother, who have grown disturbingly desensitized to death.
You observed Sam, and something inside you softened as you recalled the stories you’d heard—how he had lost so much, which later led to all the Hellfire and bloodshed. The vexation you carried for him began to fade, replaced by a deep-seated empathy. Your instincts kicked in, and without thinking, you approached him.
“Sam?” You called softly. He didn’t respond, the shadows of despair looming over him like a shroud. Disturbed by his silence, you knelt beside him, uncertain yet compelled to bridge the gap between you two. With a tentative hand, you rested it lightly on his back, which tensed, muscles tautening under your cool touch.
When he finally looked up, his eyes were glassy, filled with unshed tears, though they held you with such an acute regard. Without a word, you sat down beside him, the side of your thigh flush against his when you embraced him. It was an impulsive act, a comfort that transcended what defined your strange relationship. Surprisingly, he melted into you, his body shaking with silent sobs. He clearly was desperate for someone to lean on, especially with his brother still outside tracking the monster that attacked you all.
Minutes passed in that quiet cocoon of shared grief before he pulled back and peered down at you with a vulnerability so scalding, that you nearly shied away. His gaze was disarming and it had a glint of something you had only seen momentarily, on the day you met.
Then his eyes darkened, demeanour shifting. You inhaled sharply and held that breath. The warmth of his presence, so close, burned your skin like a fever —and then he kissed you. The world stilled and the only sensation you felt was the soft, tentative flesh pressing against your lips. It was more of a question rather than a demand; It was gentle —just like you'd grown to understand Sam was.
After a second of hesitance, you shoved his buff chest away with both hands. “No,” you spoke firmly, heart stuttering. “You’re just… you need comfort right now. This isn’t fair," you expressed, though you were unsure of who it was 'unfair' to.
Sam's brows furrowed, daze soon morphing into frustration. “You think I’m just looking for comfort?” He asked before sighing your name, his voice hoarse, thick with disbelief and pure frustration. You shuddered at the depths of his tone. “I want you. I'm tired of pretending that I don’t.”
His words hung in the air, laden with a truth that veered your perspective entirely. The walls you had built began to crumble, and all the reasons you had for hating him felt hollow. You couldn't even look into his puppy-dog eyes, as they surveyed every emotion that flickered across your face.
“Sam,” you whispered, grappling with the surge of feelings you had been filing away, that was now threatening to overwhelm you. “I—”
But he leaned in again, capturing your lips with his, leaving no room for doubt. This time, you didn’t retract into yourself. Instead, you thawed against him, eagerly allowing his larger frame to envelop yours.
The kiss grew frantic and you clawed at his thin, wet shirt as you wrapped around him. He then threw you onto his lap so you straddled his stocky thighs. Sam groaned into your mouth and you swallowed it with a pleasant hum. He cupped your head and pulled you deeper into his pressing kiss as if time were against you both.
Your hands roamed down his spine, keen to remove his clothes. You reached the hem of his shirt and lifted it. Sam instantly convulsed against your body and gasped away from your mouth. He let go of you, hands hovering beside your face as he paused, lost in a trance. Suddenly, his stupor cut short and he swiftly refocused on your body, eyes tracing your torso. He gulped before flipping you both. You land on your back, bouncing slightly on the mattress, releasing a yelp of surprise before Sam kneeled above you, mouth agape as he tore off his shirt, throwing it across the room. He then lowered his face to yours, frantic to taste your mouth again. You whimpered when his cold hands moved under your shirt and unclipped your bra.
After he worked off most of your clothes, leaving you in just your undergarments, your hands zipped to his belt, unbuckling it. He grunted before he began an assault on your neck, sucking it, likely leaving numerous hickeys in his wake. “Sam,” you whined, weaving your fingers into his silky hair. “Sam, I need more,” you whined some more, losing the strength in your body while he caged you in, holding you firm against him.
“More?” He questioned, mouth releasing your skin to peer up at you. His dilated pupils surveyed you, brow arching. “Yes,” you whispered airily. Biting your lip, your gaze darted to his undone buckle, hoping he would finish the job. Understanding your wordless request, he rose to tear off the rest of his clothes. You suck in a terse breath at the sight of his naked body, wetting your lips. He was big in every way and you were desperate to feel his weight atop you again.
“Come here,” you whispered seductively, stretching your arms out to him. He promptly accepted your embrace and dropped down to your level. You both sighed into one another, recognizing that this was what you both needed all along. “Jesus, how long have I been waiting for you?” He asked, murmuring to himself. Before you got the chance to respond, the head of his cock pressed against your clit, slowly sliding to your entrance.
You held eye contact with Sam, mouth wide open as he pushed into you, bottoming out in one motion. The air fled your lungs in a single exhale and you're left gasping for breath. You felt Sam watching, observing your bare chest as it rose and fell before kissing you hungrily. His tongue slipped into your mouth, memorizing every square inch.
You moaned loudly when he finally moved. It didn’t take long for him to build up a rhythm. Suddenly, he disregarded that tempo and pulled away from your kiss to straighten up. He then took one of your thighs and threw it over top of your other leg, positioning you on your side. His palms cupped your hip and you groaned at the change-up.
Sam eyed you, visibly pleased by the new angle. He then started pounding, roughly ramming into you, skin smacking against your lower half. The collision was loud and the room was crowded by your sobs and Sam’s grunts.
When you reached your gut-churning orgasm, clenching around him, he hoisted up the leg he had flipped, tossing it over his shoulder, gaining more access to you. You shouted and whimpered but he didn’t relent, letting out a week's worth of frustration, toward you, and the universe. He growled your name once, and with that, he carelessly came inside you.
“Fuck,” he rumbled, head tilting down in pure exhaustion. Your eyes fluttered shut as his warmth filled your core, making your body quake. Then he removed his hefty build from your limp one, rising to fall back down to your side. Sam hissed as he left your center, huffing as he dropped onto the soft cushion.
You watched him as he took the time to catch his breath, eyes closed. He was so vulnerable in front of a woman who had threatened him, several times, and it was an alarming sight. To have Sam simply breathe you in, and take you savagely, as if you were his first meal in decades.
Your mouth practically watered at the view of him after sex, tousled hair and sweat glistening across his forehead. Biting your inner cheek, your hands slowly glided towards Sam’s cock. His eyes shot open —wild and stunned— before they squeezed shut again when you applied pressure. You fisted his length, stroking him till you felt cum leak from his tip.
You rubbed him a few times, listening intently to every breath and groan that left his throat. It didn’t take long for him to cum a second time. He just about whimpered your name, weak to your touch, liquefying further into the bed. His hands quickly gripped your wrists when you continued to stroke him even after his orgasm. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, almost in exasperation, though you knew that was his usual play with sarcasm.
“You're killing me here,” he murmured breathlessly, to which you grinned smugly, whispering into his ear, “Don’t tempt me Winchester.”
hii can you do some dean smut, maybe he and reader meet in a dive bar or sum?? <3
a/n: sure thing, i hope u like 😉😘
Mind Games
Warnings: Minors dni; Smut, v!penetration (protection used), language, fingering, some fluff, some jealousy
Pairing: Dean Winchester x you
Summary: You and Sam go way back. You and Dean as well, though he has no recollection of it, and for that, you make him pay.
Word Count: 4.1 k
...
The night had been long already when Sam texted you—“Hey, I'm in town. Drinks at Murphy's?”—but you didn’t hesitate to answer yes. It had been quite some time since you’d last seen him, and life had a funny way of pulling people apart after high school, though you and Sam tried to stay in touch here and there.
It hurt when he unexpectedly dropped out of school without explaining why, but thankfully he reconnected down the line, and the rest was history. He was just an easy friend, a good one you could pick up things with even after years of silence.
A dive bar wasn’t exactly your first choice. You preferred places with brighter lighting and cleaner, less sticky floors, without an old jukebox playing songs that were a hit, long before any patrons could remember. But Sam seemed to have a soft spot for them. It suited him, really—the unpretentious atmosphere, the cheap drinks.
As you stepped past the creaky door, the scent of stale beer and cigarettes hit you like a wave of nostalgia. It reminded you of late nights sneaking into bars with Sam when you were underage, laughing too loud, worrying too little. The memory still made you smile.
You quickly spotted Sam, his broad frame hunched over a small booth in the corner, beer in hand. He looked up, eyes twinkling when he saw you, enthusiastically calling your name. Mid-wave, you froze and your heart skipped a beat after noticing who was sitting across from him —Dean. Sam’s older brother.
Dean leaned back in his chair, lazily nursing a beer and his signature, cocky smirk as his eyes coasted his surroundings. He looked exactly the same, though his face was a little more rugged, and perhaps a little worn from life.
You’d had a ridiculous crush on Dean back in school. Your best friend's older brother. The guy who could make anyone laugh, who strode around like the world was his oyster. But he never noticed you. Not back then. Dean was too busy sleeping around, charming his way through the female student body, and leaving an abundance of broken hearts in his wake. The few times you were around him, he rarely glanced in your direction. And that was fine. Especially now, since you’ve grown up and moved on…
'Of course he's here,' you thought with an internal roll of your eyes, trying to steel yourself for the sudden rush of old, pitiful memories of unrequited love. You should've guessed he'd be here since Sam told you they'd hit the road together.
With a deep breath, you straightened out your shoulders and paced over, mustering all your strength to fix a calm smile onto your face as you greeted Sam, and his brother, who most likely wouldn’t really know you. "Long time no see," Sam remarked, standing to give you a bear hug, which you immediately returned. “Missed you."
"Missed you too," you replied with a pleased sigh. Your eyes then flickered to Dean for the briefest moment. He hadn’t moved, still reclined in his seat, watching you both with that curious tilt of his head. His silence stretched on long enough that it was clear—he didn’t recognize you.
'Typical,' you thought, and your smile tightened into a thin line as you slid into the booth. Ignoring the way Dean’s gaze dwindled, you decided two could play this game. It might be fun, even.
"Dean, you remember her now, don't you?" Sam asked, oblivious to the tension looming in the air as he gestured to you, hoping the in-person image would jog his memory.
Dean’s brows furrowed, and for a second, you swore you saw something flash behind his forest-coloured eyes. Then, as if he’d decided it wasn’t worth pretending, he shook his head, offering you a half-smile. You dismissed the swarming butterflies in your stomach, realizing this might just be the first time he's truly looked at you. And you’ve seen that look countless times from afar —it was the one he showed to the next girl he'd pick up.
"Sorry," Dean huffed dramatically, feigning disappointment having not remembered you. His voice was a low rumble that made your pulse quicken against your will. "Can’t say I do."
And there it was. Just as you expected. You’d spent countless afternoons back in high school, hanging out with Sam, romanticizing his older brother from the sidelines, praying he’d eventually give you the time of day. But Dean Winchester has always been… Well, Dean Winchester. And he always will be.
You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms with a smirk of your own, mimicking his relaxed demeanour. "Don’t worry about it. It’s been a while." Dean’s eyes narrowed momentarily, like he knew he’d missed something important, but had no clue what. Sam, ever the peacemaker, cut in with a laugh.
“Well, now that that's settled, drinks are on us. Let’s catch up.” Sam pushed a beer towards you and you downed nearly half, already determined to show that tonight, you weren't gonna be that quiet, shy, unnoticeable girl you were in school. If Dean noticed you now, he was in for one hell of a ride…
You and Sam probably spoke for less than an hour, because, unfortunately for Sam, he could barely get a word in with all of Dean's shameless flirting, which you somewhat entertained. Undoubtedly, neglecting him only egged him on more.
Throughout the night, after Sam gave up and wandered elsewhere, drunk and confused, Dean would make bold throwaway comments, steal lingering glances, and release that low chuckle every time you defiantly teased him. At first, it was satisfying—this was the guy you used to dream about noticing you, and now he couldn’t take his eyes off you. But as the hours ticked by, you recalled all too well who Dean really was: a player. A guy who’d probably seen countless women come and go without a second thought. However, now, with him slowly inching towards you, it was becoming increasingly difficult to disregard the urge to go home with him to spare your dignity.
The second the ragged surface of his jeans started grazing your thigh, you excused yourself to get another drink. Strutting over to the bar, you felt his eyes bore into your backside and a shiver racked down your spine. Rather dizzyly, you ordered another drink but were surprised when a tall stranger offered to pay for it. Despite the unwanted attention, with Dean eyeing you both, you selected to make this stranger an outlet for a potential mistake.
So just for show, you leaned in a little too close, laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, ambling with your drink as if you were reluctant to return to Dean. His gaze was burning holes into the man's head the entire time, and you knew this was doing wonders to Dean's inflated ego.
Then you heard a loud thud behind you, and just as you turned around, Dean was already there, standing close by, staring daggers into the stranger you ironically couldn't remember the name of. Dean then glanced down at you, wordlessly demanding eye contact, and you're rooted to the floor when his hand brazenly brushes across your lower back, to rest comfortably on your hip. "Hey," he smiled as his gaze softened, marking the smooth return of his playboy facade.
"How about we get outta here?" Dean whispered into your ear while his nose skimmed your hair. Subtly taking a deep breath, you seductively beam up at him and note how his grip tightened on your side as if he had to brace himself. "Exactly what I was thinking," you whispered back and Dean's eyes fluttered, and you're so close he likely thinks you're about to kiss, but you have other plans.
"Wanna go?" You asked the man you nearly forgot about, who seems almost as stunned as you sense Dean is. He takes a sharp intake of breath at his rejection, virtually staggering back from you, and the moment his hand lifts from your hot flesh, you slip away and grab the stranger's forearm, swiftly hauling him outside with you, without looking back. As you left, you waved goodbye to Sam. "I'll call you tomorrow," you said with an energetic wink, unable to conceal how giddy you were.
After your dramatic exit, you made it clear to the poor stranger that you had no intention of taking things any further than a walk to your car. But Dean didn’t know that.
…
The very next day, you made more plans with Sam to make up for yesterday's turn of events, but Dean was relentless. For that whole week in fact. He obviously forced Sam to give him your number, and since then, there have been numerous texts, calls, and unexpected visits. Each time he found you, his approach became more serious, more focused, and still, you’d reject him every time, in a rather absentminded way, which drove him mad. You grew to love the way it made him squirm.
Today was one of those days, at a quiet little bar far from the one you met at, the conversation quickly turned south from the usual banter.
He’d barely sat down before that trademark smirk was back. His green eyes glinted as he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table between you, his fingers grazing yours. The touch was subtle, but deliberate—like he was testing the waters. You pulled your hand back just a fraction, enough for him to notice but not enough to discourage him. You were growing unsure of who you were punishing at this point.
"Missed me?" Dean's voice was deep, smooth, and far too confident for someone who’d been chasing you all week and failing miserably. You rolled your eyes playfully and took a sip of your drink. "Don’t flatter yourself. I just wanted to get a quiet drink," you quipped. Dean chuckled, undeterred, shaking his head. "Right, right. That’s why you agreed to meet me here. For a ‘quiet' drink." His voice dripped with mischievous sarcasm, and an undertone of sexual frustration.
You couldn’t help but grin. "Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better." You crossed your legs and kicked out one, lightly touching Dean's, and he tensed. He then closed in, his fingers gently touching the back of your hand, this time pausing just long enough to send a quake up your arm. "You like to keep me guessing, don’t you?" He wet his lips, eyes darting to yours, which were shrivelling up with anticipation.
"Maybe," you admitted with a sheepish grin. "Or maybe I just like taking you down a few pegs." Dean laughed, a deep, throaty sound that sounded a bit like a scoff and sent a rush of heat through you. He didn’t pull away, and the teasing glow in his eyes eased for just a moment as he studied you.
"You drive me crazy, you know that?" His voice dropped a notch, and his regard danced across your skin. "Ever since that night at Murphy's… I haven’t stopped thinking about you."
Though your pulse was racing, you shifted away, pretending to be unimpressed. "I'm sure you say that to all the ladies," you taunted with a roll of your eyes. Dean shook his head, his smile fading a little. "This isn't like that."
You raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief. "Oh Please. Not even a little?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I know I didn’t remember you from school. But Sam and I've moved around so much; I never bothered to remember anyone." He winced, as if admitting it aloud stung a little. "Though I have no idea how I don't remember you. I wish I did," he expressed, and he sounded so sincere that you nearly swooned.
"But things are different now. This is different," he proclaimed, eyes wild with a fiery determination. You arched an eyebrow, scooting forward. "So, what’s this been about then?" Though you question Dean, you give him no time to respond, pressing on. "You're just upset that I didn’t fall into your lap like all the others?"
Dean’s eyes were ablaze, and he didn't retract into his seat. If anything, he dipped in closer. "Sorry I hurt your ego," you added, half-sarcastic, half-challenging. He shook his head and his jaw clenched. "Maybe it started out that way," he acknowledged, but his tone held not a trace of his usual humour. "But really, it isn’t like that anymore."
You tilted your head, intrigued by the sincerity in his voice, but confused by his articulation. You’d expected him to laugh it off, throw out a line, but this? This felt… as he said, different. Not to mention the way he was looking at you—like he was seeing you, really seeing you—made your heart skip a beat.
"Oooohhh, okay then," you mocked slowly, drawing out the words. "Tell me, what’s it like Dean?" If you weren't paying such close attention to him, you might have missed how his breath hitched and how his eyes darkened while he inched closer to you. The impish atmosphere between you two had suddenly altered, the circulating tension becoming thick and electric. His hand moved to your thigh under the table, his touch scalding, steady, while his other hand weaved through your fingers.
"It’s like…" He trailed off, his voice a whisper now, his lips brushing your ear. "Every time I see you, I have to resist the urge to…" He paused, cutting himself short as he moved back slightly. His breath was warm on your skin and he peered down at your lips once again, however this time, he appeared vulnerable.
"To what?" You whispered, barely able to get the words out as your heart pounded against your ribs. Dean’s eyes flicked back up to meet yours, his hand tautening on your leg, his thumb slowly rubbing your inner thigh. "To kiss you."
Before you could respond he closed the gap, his lips crashing into yours with a sudden, heated intensity that took your breath away. You melted into the kiss. All the teasing, the banter, the back-and-forth disappeared as you instinctively tangled your fingers into his hair, drawing him in.
Dean groaned softly against your lips, pleased by your instant reaction. His hand moved from yours to cup your cheek, his thumb gently gliding over your flushed skin as the kiss deepened. It was slow at first, then building, and heat swarmed your core when the hand gripping your thigh slid upwards. You felt the pent-up tension you'd been feeling all week, and since the moment you saw him, spill into your actions. He pressed flush against you, leaving no space, and you laid your legs overtop of his lap. His tongue licked your lips surface, grazing your teeth and you gasped, pulling away as much as he allowed.
Breathless and panting, Dean rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That’s what it’s like," he rasped airily, his voice hoarse. And for the first time, you believed him. Things may really be different.
As you got lost in your thoughts, he began to chant your name with that same smile widening. Both his hands then seized your upper arms, shaking you tenderly as he repeated your name. "Tell me what you're thinking," he more or less pleaded.
"I'm thinking that, if I find out you're lying to get in my pants, I'll kill you," you smirked devilishly, peering up at him through hooded eyes. His eyes morphed into a darker shade of black, turned on by your threat. You giggled, lightly shaking your head. "I can't fake this baby," Dean sweet talks, and you note how his manner seems looser now that he's gotten how he feels off his chest.
He pecks your cheek. "You know, I was pretty hurt when you left with that guy the other night," he huffed like the memory still haunted him. You stifled your laugh. "Uh-huh?" His eyes narrowed at your teasing response, though his smile hardly wavered. "You think that's funny?"
"Yeah," you replied immediately with a shrug. "Especially since I was deliberately messing with you." Dean's brows shot into his forehead, creasing it in utter disbelief and bafflement. "I didn't sleep with him Dean," your tone lowers wantonly, "like I said, I wanted to take you down a few pegs."
His wide eyes crinkled as he erupted with laughter, stammering "touché" in between chuckles. You laughed along, admiring how carefree he was at that moment. When his stream of laughter died out, you gulped at the strange look he suddenly showed. "It's a shame," he stated cryptically. Your face twisted with puzzlement, which made Dean's dreamlike expression grow, apparently in deep contemplation. "What?" You snapped jokingly.
"Oh nothing," he sighed while his palms skated down to your torso, cupping your ribcage as he looked to the distance sadly. You smacked his side which made a snort escape him. "Oh, just... If only you left with me that night," he remarked dolefully, unable to hide that glint of lust-fueled wit. "If only," you reiterated with a strained sound, also unable to hide your looping thoughts, which were clouded by desire. "How about we make that happen?" He kissed your other cheek. His lips lingered there and his breath fanned your skin. "How about it?" You responded airily and Dean laughed at your consistent repetition, clearly trying to push his buttons in a way he's grown to love.
Without another word, he slides out of the booth and gently ushers you out, onto your feet, holding your hand firmly in his. With his spare hand, he drops some cash on the table and pulls you to his hip. He walked you both outside, leading you towards his car and you shuddered at the sight. It reminded you of the countless times he'd pick up Sam from school and you'd watch him from afar. The number of fantasies you had of him and that car made your body surge with a fierce, intoxicating need.
He opened his passenger seat and propped you inside, and you obediently admired his every move until he sat behind the wheel. One glimpse of his profile darting from you to the windscreen pushed you off the edge.
"Fuck," you quickly murmured, catching Dean off guard when you abruptly pounced on him, straddling his thighs. You cupped his dome, tugging on his short locks while his hands shot to your waist, dragging you downwards so he could grind into you. You both moaned into the messy kiss, so close to satisfaction, yet so far. He groaned your name when your lips moved to his neck, desperate to leave a mark. He reluctantly tried to halt your attack, but your need overpowered all logic. "I can't wait," he grunted when he wretched your face from his neck. Dean's head thumped against the seat's leather headrest and his eyes were glossy with a sort of determination.
"Get in the back," is all he ordered before he hastily assisted you onto the backseat. He climbed on top of you after grabbing a condom from the glove compartment, following your mouth eagerly, and pecking it a few times as he laid you down. "God you're sexy," he groaned. He then yanked off his jacket and shirt in two swift motions before that familiar smug expression consumed his features. "You're unbelievable," you scoffed and his smirk grew.
"I get that a lot," he commented jokingly and you smacked his side harder than before, displaying your exasperation. He laughed and you threaded your fingers into his hair again to shut him up. His mouth collided with yours, and his hands frantically removed both of your clothes. He sweared loudly when you bucked your hips up and rub his bulge —now covered by his boxers alone. His deep voice let out a surprising whimper when you did it again, this time using your hands to drag him down, clutching his defined hips.
You then had a sudden craving to admit to him how much you longed for this moment, but you opted for: "fuck me." Dean growled into your ear before kissing you rather harshly as he took himself out of his briefs. He cupped your bare breast, which is still partially hidden by your bra since he was too transfixed elsewhere to remove it completely.
When his cock hit your abdomen and he slid on the condom, you hummed a moan, biting your bottom lip in anticipation. "Jesus," he mumbled under his breath when his tip breached your slit. He smoothly glided inside, as if you were two puzzle pieces melding together. Your heart panged and you gasped, while Dean muttered nonsensically. He reared back to look into your eyes once he bottomed out. When he pulled away, his very breath abandoned his lungs as if his soul was now connected to your lips, and you'd be keeping it with you now and forever. For once, he actually felt like putty in someone's hands, and he didn't hate it. Not when you felt like Heaven, after years of experiencing Hellfire.
Underneath him, you remarked on how it felt to finally be touched by Dean... Addictive. Unhurriedly, he guided both your arms above your head, stretching out your spine, and holding your wrists in place with a single hand. The air stilled and you listened to his rapid heartbeats. The tension was palpable as his mouth descended onto yours —quickly going from slow and passionate, to needy and frenzied. Dean suddenly thrust and you yelped, which made him cease his movements immediately. He attempted to pull away from your mouth but you raised your head to pull him back down, unable to do anything else, not with your arms still hoisted above you. You rolled your hips into him and he released a lengthy grunt of approval, clearly understanding that you wanted him to resume his pounding.
He sped up his thrusting and you could barely hold back your cries, loving his strength and weight caging you in, and taking you roughly. Even though his lower half was aggressive, it was still Dean writhing into you, looking down at you with such tenderness, and kissing you in ways that made you hopelessly expect more. At this point, you'd take whatever he'd give you and thank him for it.
"Don't stop," you nearly shouted when your legs begun to shake. He released an animalistic sound, his strokes becoming increasingly choppy. Dean heaves your name, muttering, "You're some kind of fantasy, you know that?" Before you could respond he captured your lips, moaning into your mouth while his fingers slipped between you two. Suddenly his digits rubbed circles onto your clit and you gasped loudly, whining into his all-consuming kiss. You wrapped your legs around his waist and felt Dean smirk, but you couldn’t bring yourself to reprimand him when he makes you reach your climax, which rushes over you like a tidal wave, crashing into shore with a loud sob.
"Fuck," Dean's hips stuttered into you, and his eyes squeezed shut as he came, letting go of your wrists to prop himself up in a plank. He breathed in and out slowly, eyelids eventually fluttering open to witness you already surveying him, entranced by his face when it's full of ecstasy. "That was... Fucking amazing," he panted as he monitored your reddened complexion. You nodded, though you shied away from his gaze, feeling all too vulnerable, afraid that history was repeating itself, and you were already head-over-heels for Dean Winchester.
As your mind wandered into a dark place, Dean's calloused finger pads grabbed your attention when they caressed your jaw, swiping your cheek. "I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did," he chuckled airily to himself before continuing, "and give me a chance to do that again—many, many times."
Now it's his turn to seem sheepish and you laugh, partially in shock. "No strings attached?" You arched a brow as you questioned what you were, despite having not gone on an actual date yet. He displayed a genuine smile as he shook his head no. "I'm already tangled up in them," he confessed with a shrug.
Your heart flipped and you fought to remain stoic. You then lifted your index finger above your nose, right in his eye line. "I'm givin' you one chance... To do that, over and over again," you whispered sensually, biting back your shit-eating grin. A giddy, boyish look took over Dean's face and your laughter burst through, making your core clench around him and he sucked in a sharp breath.
"How about we start that 'one chance' right now?" You purred, smirking at the way his eyes playfully narrowed. "Gladly."
a/n: heyyy!! if y’all liked this check out my ff “to be hunted” on wp!
Warnings: Smut, M!receiving, penetration (w protection), language, enemies (ish) to lovers
Pairing: Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x reader
Summary: After "Beef's" rebranding as "The Bear," business at your cafe has declined, which left you furious, and that anger only worsened after meeting the restaurant's owner.
Word count: 3.4k
...
Ever since I was young, I've always had this unnecessary, aggressive competitiveness, which has only grown since its opening; The Bear, formerly known as "Beef," has become Chicago's newest hit. Its success has been so impactful, that it's driven away numerous customers, including regulars from my spot, just across the street.
My cafe has been open for years. Its income has been steady from the get-go, and the presence of a certain sandwich shop has never deterred that. Not until said sandwich place suddenly turned into a high-end restaurant. It crossed my mind that it simply shut down due to its infamous unpopularity, but Richie was still waltzing into my cafe to order coffee, as per usual.
So, being curious enough about what had happened to "The Beef," I go visit, expecting to be greeted by the "ever-so-pleasant" owner, Michael. But instead—
"Uh, he died," Neil mutters rather awkwardly, fidgeting with his fingers. My eyes expand in complete shock.
"Oh my god, sorry, I had no idea." I grimace at my lack of sensitivity. "It's alright." He shakes his head.
Silence envelops us both before I speak again. "So, um, how come you're still here? If you don't mind me asking?" I grimace again at my poor choice of words, saying, "I swear I'm not trying to be rude." Neil tilts his head in confusion. "Whatta mean?"
"I just assumed you wouldn't be, here, since...?"
"Ah, yeah, Mike left the place to his little bro, Carmy." He waves his arms around, gesturing to the restaurant's interior. "And he did all this, sick right?"
"Yeah... Sick." I mumble with a pout, failing to hide my contempt, but my sour mood goes right over his head.
"Fak!" A man's loud, demanding voice, quiets my rearing thoughts. "Fak! What the fuck are you doing? I need you in here." The voice grows stronger as the chef it belongs to pushes through the kitchen doors. I just about hold my breath at the sight of him. In his all-white get-up, his deep blue eyes have yet to notice me, as he addresses Neil angrily. "The fucking toilet's still broken." He throws his arm up in frustration, "So would you please, get off your ass and fix it!" He commands Neil, and I jump at his dangerous tone. My brows furrow. There was no need for him to shout so rudely, not to mention that it was really bothering me, how he had yet to acknowledge my presence even once. Not only was he stealing my business, but he didn't give a rats-ass about it.
"Shit! Yeah, on it! I was just talking to—"
"Y/n." I announce my name roughly, and his eyes bounce from Neil to me instantly. Appearing startled, he hesitates to extend his palm for a handshake. "Carmy, sorry about him—" Just as he begins waving off Fak, apologizing for his behaviour, I snap.
"No, he was the perfect gentleman, as always," I protest, "I just came to check on the competition." Carmy's brows knit together, and I can feel the vein in my forehead pop out. "I own the cafe across the street," I state plainly, and he slowly nods in recognition. "It was nice to see you, have a great day," I commend with a smile, directed only to Neil. With that, I spin out the door, stomping vigorously towards my shop.
...
The next time I saw Carmy was nearly a month later, on garbage day. He happened to be taking the trash out that evening, exactly when I was. I sigh at how little he struggles to lift several trash bags. Looking away, I huff as I throw the plastic sacks into the massive tin container. After finishing, I stretch out my back, rubbing my hands together. Shortly rolling my head back, I observe the evening sky. I exhale, releasing a breath of cool air from my lips.
My skin pricks as I feel someone watching me and shift my gaze towards "The Bear." I instantly identify the sapphire eyes latched onto me. When I catch Carmy, his eyes fly in every which direction, clearly embarrassed. 'The hell? Okay dickhead, hello to you too.' I think, shaking my head as I go inside, once again, feeling the heat of his stare as I do.
An hour later, I complete the last of my chores before locking up the cafe. Removing the key from the door, I pivot towards my car. However, I stumble when a figure standing not far behind me approaches, causing me to unleash a horrid scream from the depths of my throat. Carmy's eyes widen, evidently apologetic and equally terrified. "Uh sorry! I didn't mean—"
"What the actual fuck, is your problem?" I practically hiss.
"Sorry, I was thinking about saying something before you turned around. But then I second-guessed myself and just did nothing," Carmy blabbers, "I'm really really sorry."
"Okay okay." I put up my hands in surrender to stop his rambling. It's rather disarming, after our first meeting, hearing how he sounds so... Timid. "Sorry." He mumbles once more, head hung low.
"You're good," I reassure him with a sigh, to cover up an unexpected giggle. "Um, so what're you doing, here?"
"Oh!" He jolts upright and his eyes shoot from the ground to mine. "I just wanted to uh, talk."
"You 'wanted to talk'?" I question, a brow arching in disbelief.
"Uh, yeah," Carmy replies with uncertainty.
Folding my arms, I sigh, "About?"
"Oh, um, just about, how I acted when we met," Carmy scowls at the memory. "I should've introduced myself way sooner, and not in such a—"
"Rude way," I interject, which seems to be a common occurrence between us.
"Heard." He huffs out what sounds like a laugh, "Exactly that." I then shift uncomfortably under his intense watch. "It's alright, I didn't exactly intend to be gracious myself," I utter, returning a similar, shy smile.
"No, no." His smile widens, "You were..." He and his gaze trail off, lowering to the concrete. "'Were'?" I repeat, imploring him to continue.
"Great." Carmy finishes, peering up again. His eyes appear somewhat different, and I feel an unfamiliar chill slide down my spine. "Wow." My eyebrows rise. "'Great,' that's a, really, kind of you," I splutter with a chuckle. Carmy joins in, laughing at himself.
After a beat of silence and a few stolen glances at one another, Carmy speaks up. "I know I should've said it a while ago, but I'd like to be on good terms, rather than 'competition'." My sight hones in on his active hands as they switch between fiddling with his back pockets and shaking. "I'd like that too," I murmur, scratching the back of my head. "If only you'd stop stealing my customers," I smirk.
"Oh?" He smiles playfully and tilts his head, "So that's how it's gonna be," he jests, laughing again.
"Hmmm," I hum in confirmation, slightly troubled by how flirtatious I'm being. But damn, the way he's always looking at me —it's throwing me off...
Flushed, I conclude our conversation, "I'll see you around," then walk to my car. He almost, absentmindedly, wanders alongside me. "Yeah, see you."
While I unlock my car, Carmy's already one step ahead of me, hauling the car door open. I thank him in a whisper as I bend into the front seat, brushing past him, and he tenses. He then mumbles my name with a "Goodnight," and I sit in silence, long after he leaves, breathless.
...
The next day, I feel giddy at the prospect of seeing Carmy. It's ridiculous, considering he was my neighbour, and I was bound to see him. Though I've actually had to refrain from seeking him out.
However, that afternoon, through the glass of both our eateries, we see one another, pause, smile slowly, and head back to work.
From that point on, that sort of thing became a routine. Every day that week, I saw him for at least 50 seconds. It was even better knowing he was a chef, so the likelihood of him seeing him out front was low, but still, each time he'd be there.
Come Sunday, I couldn't delay things any longer. It was a little disheartening that he hadn't come over himself or even thought to come and ask for my number.
Thus, I knew I had to be the one to make a move. So, after closing earlier than usual, I saunter across the street. Inside, Neil greets me with an ample smile. "Hey Neil," I wave. He virtually shouts my name in return. "Hey! What you in for?" He asks cheerfully.
"I was hoping for some dinner," I chuckle. My heart hammers against my ribcage, and the anticipation is killing me. While Neil leads me to a table, my eyes don't leave the kitchen's entrance.
Neil takes my order, and my ears attentively listen for those few moments, when the restaurant's crowd temporarily quiets down, and I hear his assertive voice filter through the walls.
...
As delicious as my meal is, I can't stop my anxiety from getting the best of me. It's plausible Neil didn't bother letting Carmy know that I was here. But I'm nearly vibrating with dread, waiting for him to materialize.
Eventually, it's closing time and the herd of patrons leave. I take the opportunity to call Neil over. "Hey, I was just wondering if Carmy was in? Just wanna say hello, be neighbourly and all," I beam innocently.
"Course!" He winks but doesn't move to get Carmy. So, after a long beat staring into Fak's clueless eyes (bless him), I come up with something dicey. "Could you let him know that my food's uncooked, and I'm very, very upset," I express sharply, biting back a grin.
"O-okay?" Neil stutters, confusion and distress written across his features. I suppress my laugh with my palm.
Five minutes later, I hear a loud and hostile "what" seep through the walls. My attempts to muffle my laughter are stumped when Carmy abruptly bursts through the doors. He freezes when he sees me, and I watch the doors rapidly swing behind him. I awkwardly raise my hand in hello, and I swear he gulps.
"I was joking, Carmy." Now growing nervous, I tear my eyes away from him, onto my clear plate and see him move towards me from my peripheral. "It was, pretty good actually," I remark, downplaying the truth.
As I open my mouth to fill the silence, I peek up to see Carmy sitting right in front of me, and I lose my train of thought. It's as though we're on a date, and that's the most normal thing in the world, something we've done countless times before.
"I was planning on coming to see you after work." His sheepish, yet deep timbre makes me shudder.
"Beat you to it then?" I smirk smugly.
"Didn't we say this wasn't a rivalry?" He smirks back, and my stomach forms knots. "Nothing wrong with some friendly competition," I retort, and his reply is a simple, pleasant smile.
"Well Chef, I'm sorry to hear you're closing soon," I sigh. Still smiling, he raises his brows, "Because?"
"Because the food was decent, but I'm still quite hungry." I proclaim teasingly, shrugging. He chuckles lowly, "We can't have that."
...
Now sitting on Carmy's kitchen stool while he cooks me an omelet on his stove, I inspect his backside. The muscles tense and shift as he moves expertly through the room.
"I hope this suits your refined palette," Carmy remarks with a certain ease that he didn't have before. He pushes a plate towards me, and I reel at how domestic this all feels. I lick my lips in excitement as the delicious, potent smell of the dish consumes my senses.
Taking a bite, I withhold a moan, and close my eyes so he doesn't catch them rolling to the back of my head. Swallowing, I open my lids to see Carmy's eyes studying me, expectingly awaiting a reaction. "It's alright," I state monotonously.
Eyes and mouth expanding, he smacks his hands on his chest, overlapping them over top of his heart, like he's been shot, and a laugh escapes me. "I make it better," I contest.
"I don't doubt that," he responds without a hint of condescension, and I gape at him before giggling nervously, eyeing my omelette.
"So, what would satisfy your elite tastes?" His words may be rather suggestive, but his tone is short and reserved. Glancing up at his expression, I note the way he sluggishly runs his tongue over his bottom lip. His view then trains over my features, lingering on my lips...
Not giving him a chance to refocus on anything but my mouth, I lunge at his. Capturing his lips with mine, I hear a fumble of noises leave him pitifully. The sounds morph into a mixture of bewilderment and a cavernous groan. His hesitancy is brief as one of his hands curves behind my head, into my hair, while the other gropes my waist, bunching up my shirt in a tight fist. His groaning becomes more brazen, and I devour every single one.
Our tongues fight each other, and our hips wrestle with the kitchen island that separates us. Determined to feel more of him, I pull away from his wretched kiss. He instinctively chases after me, but my hands firmly press against his chest, which seems to bring his attention to my eyes. He more or less whines to himself.
I lick my swollen lips, holding eye contact in hopes it would help him understand what I wanted.
His grasp moves from my torso, to hold my hand, tugging me towards what I assume is his bedroom. As he maneuvers around the counter, I decide that I just can't wait. So, when we pass his living room area, I drag him back, and to his surprise, shove him onto his couch.
His back hits the cushions and he releases a grunt. Immediately, I straddle his hips and he makes haste to grip my hips, pressing me further onto his crotch. I whimper nosily, and it's his turn to hum back. "You're so..."
"Great?" I quip.
"Beautiful, is what I was gonna say— should've said." His baby blues melt me to my core. The intimacy of his look and words, somehow mean so much more, than everything we've just done.
After a short break of just breathing in each other, I press my lips to his gently, pecking them. This seems to snap him out of whatever trance he's under, as a peck is clearly not enough.
His hefty grip on my hips increases and encourages me to lean closer. His mouth dictates my every move and sound, and I wriggle above him. "Carmy," I whine desperately, begging for more.
He lets go of me to strip, sitting upright to remove his white-collar shirt. I moan at the sight, before copying him, working my shirt off. When I struggle, he rips the cotton over my head, throwing it to the floor in one swift motion. His mouth quickly draws me back in, nibbling my bottom lip.
Breaking away, I whisper, "As good as you taste, this isn't enough to satisfy me, Chef." Peering up at me through hooded eyes, he looks dazed but nods nonetheless.
My breath hitches as Carmy rears me onto my back, moving us so that his larger frame hovers over my smaller one. He unbuckles his belt clumsily and glides his jeans down his stocky thighs. I chew my lip as I gawk at the impressive bulge tucked into his black briefs. When he reaches for my bra clip, he freezes. "Shit," he exclaims airily, shoving a hand into his curly locks. I flinch, stammering, "W-what?"
"Condom," he states flatly.
"You ran out?" I joke, brows lifting.
"No, I don't do this often," he discloses, ears reddening. Silence eats up the space, and allows us to register what Carmy so bluntly, admitted. Not that I minded at all.
"I have had sex before—"
"I know," I squeal, guffawing at his prompt confession. "I think I have some in my purse." I soothe, encircling his bicep with my index finger. He lets out a sigh of relief, and I giggle like a schoolgirl when he springs to his feet, racing towards my bag.
Carmy's footsteps thud against the floorboards as he races away, half-naked. I fasten my lips together to prevent an extensive grin. When he reenters the room, I lift my body weight onto my forearms for support, cruising my eyes over his body, spying the condom between his dense fingers.
When he straddles my legs, meaning to resume where he left off, an impulse consumes my thoughts. Wordlessly, I place my palms on his thighs, spreading my digits atop his sturdy legs, to push him back. Then, kneeling on the floor in front of Carmy, I smile devilishly. I feel him trembling and the whole scene feels so erotic.
Looking up, I catch his gaze, as it adorns me, in a sort of awe. "There's something I have been craving, Chef," I murmur whilst running my tongue over my teeth. Carmy shudders as my fingers weave into his waistband, tugging them down.
While he's undressing, his briefs hanging on his chaves, I admire how his eyes flutter shut, and he mumbles nonsense to himself.
His cock engulfs my sight and brushes my cheek a bit. Carmy sucks in a sharp breath, tilting his head to watch me. Despite being taken aback by his size, I begin to stoke him. He gasps and his stomach constricts immediately.
Picking up my pace after a few pumps, I kiss his tip and his thighs shake. "Christ," he mewls. I take his noisy reaction as an encouragement to surge forward, wrapping my tongue and lips over him, and driving his cock to the back of my throat. "Fuck!" Carmy shouts.
As he gets closer to the edge, his words of appraisal jumble together in fits of, "yes, like that," "faster," and some "perfect" comments, among many other things I can't comprehend anymore. I'm lost in his touch, which tangles my hair, clasping it tightly. Before Carmy finishes, he cups my face and yanks himself out of my mouth.
Eyes shut and face twisted in both euphoria and frustration, he grumbles, "Fuck, I said I didn't wanna cum yet."
I simply smack my lips together, savouring his taste. Carmy appears stunned as holds my face. I smirk wickedly and a short puff of air abandons him.
"Can I fuck you?" He asks, and his jagged voice makes his question sound like an order, and I love it. "Please," I pant and he kisses my forehead before dragging me back on the sofa, underneath him again.
Positioning himself, Carmy rips open the condom with his teeth and rolls it over himself. He sucks in a coarse breath as he pushes into my entrance, and I do the same. He moans my name and I choke on a sob as he bottoms out, in one, mind-numbing jolt. His hands tighten on my hips, pressing me into the couch as I arch upwards. We both moan nonsensically, adoring the friction and how seamlessly we fit together.
Moving synchronously, we fight for our highs, grinding into a rhythm that makes us gasp in pleasure. With my name on his lips, they seize mine, and his tongue laps every corner of my mouth, as he slowly takes control. I writhe under him and he thrusts harder, hitting all the right places. Shortly, my body grows almost limp, unable to keep up with the tide of desire above, bucking into me.
As I reach my end, he keeps going, simultaneously kissing and nipping my neck, surely leaving numerous marks, but I don't care. He just feels too good, deep inside, strong and brutal.
I cry out as core contracts, clamping down on him, and making his untamed movements stutter. I cum hard, gasping as tremors rack through me. Soon after, Carmy whimpers, craning his neck back as cums inside. With a lengthy sigh that eases into a loud moan, he holds us still. He dips his sweat-covered forehead into the crook of my neck and hums in satisfaction.
After a few minutes of catching our breath, and enjoying the weight of his body over top of mine, he heaves himself up to kiss my mouth once more.
"Go out with me, please," he urges politely as if he isn't still inside of me. I laugh lightly, then tense in surprise when my core clenches over his cock, and he winces as well.
Summary: Orphaned in her youth, Dakota Greene found peace in the quiet rhythms of her uncle's farm, embracing its solitude and honing skills passed down by her Marine father. Yet, her idyllic existence is abruptly fractured when a frantic sheriff, stained with blood, cradling a dying child, races across their golden fields.
Story warnings: Violence/gore, death, slowburn, language, sexual content/acts
PROLOGUE: SUNDOWN
_____
13 Years Before the Outbreak
Glancing at the rearview mirror, Annette's curious, yet sullen eyes appear. They scrutinize through the glass with an intensity that makes my body taut. Shifting to the window, I press further behind the driver's seat, hidden from her probing gaze.
I knew very little about Annette, only that she was my uncle's new bride after Josephine passed away. Notwithstanding the initial awkwardness, I thoroughly appreciated her respectful manner. She never pried or pushed for more than a simple greeting, gracefully accepting silence as we drove through Georgia.
Allowing my Walkman to envelop all senses, I close my eyes and bear its comforting weight in my hand. The soulful vocals of Stevie Nicks flow past the cushioning of the headphones. She gently transports me back, to just six weeks prior. To that precious phone call, when my Dad was still alive and we had our last conversation...
"Okay, ready?" My father Donald asks with sheer enthusiasm and anticipation coaxing his tone. "Honey, you're gonna love this one."
"Okay, okay I got it," giggling, I mock exasperation. "I'm ready."
"Right. On three," he instructs, counting down "...2, 1—Go!"
Swiftly, I press play on the Walkman he recently sent me, from wherever he's currently based.
The sound of Fleetwood Mac's song "Sara" resonates and Dad instinctively starts humming, droning along to the buoyant tune, his efforts to keep pace with Stevie sadly failing. I burst into laughter and he chimes in, "It's good, huh?" I can almost see his brilliant, unique grin. Even though he can't see me, I nod energetically, "Yeah it is. I love it, Dad."
Pure, genuine delight rushes in, leaving me almost breathless, words lumping in my throat. Just the sound of my Dad speaking sends a tide of emotion crashing through, tightening my chest.
"Knew you would, Ace," he utters with that familiar warmth, and tears well up, blurring my vision, threatening to spill.
Lying in the stillness of my bedroom, I remark on how that name of endearment still upholds its profound effect, while reminding me that he's not really here.
"Hey, Dad?" My voice comes out in a soft, whispering tone, quivering slightly.
"Yeah?" His voice is strong and assertive, a stark contrast to mine. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, evidence of the anxiety knotting in my stomach. "When are you coming home?"
There's a long pause on the other end of the line. The silence is leaden, like it's the weight of the world, plummeting down on me. It's almost audible, that crushing force, widening the space between us. The quiet stretches on, each second feeling like an eternity, amplifying the tension. My heart pounds thunderously, and a cold wave of fear washes over.
"Any day now, Ace..." Though he tries to sound reassuring, his voice carries its typical bundle of uncertainty. The clutch on my phone grows rigid as my mind races with images of him in his Marine uniform, standing tall and proud, regardless of his constant danger.
"Promise?" I urge, murmuring with a glint of vulnerability.
"I promise," he says, and again, I can hear the effort he's making to sound reliable, to give some semblance of comfort. "Stay strong for me, okay? Just a little longer."
"I will Dad. I miss you."
"I miss you too, Ace. More than you can imagine," he sighs, "I'll be home soon."
I squeeze my eyelids shut, holding onto his words like a lifeline, hoping and praying that this time, soon, actually means soon.
"We've arrived, sweetheart," Annette's voice breaks through my melodic remembrance, forcefully yanking me from the depths of a vivid memory.
I blink rapidly, eyes darting around, adjusting to the scenery flashing outside the car windows. The landscape sprawls endlessly, a panorama I've only seen in daydreams. In my mind, I often imagined the Greene family someday, all together. Nevertheless, I didn't anticipate that meeting my estranged relatives would come at the cost of losing the only family I've known. Or maybe I did.
I suspire heavily, lungs expanding with an unnerving distress as I bite my inner cheek. Suddenly, I spot two young girls, one fairly taller than the other, playing, carefree in the lush greenery. Their laughter echoes through the stained glass, like a juxtaposition of the turmoil gripping my gut.
Then, the vehicle leisurely rounds the bend, rolling onto the gravel leading to their home. The green and white farmhouse emerges from behind several big, lively trees. Its quaint charm is disturbingly undeniable, with a porch adorned by hanging baskets of colourful flowers and chimes, glimmering as the descending sun casts a mellow glow across the wooden house. Just beyond the yard-framing fence, there's a weathered, murky windmill, spinning lazily with the faint breeze.
As we come closer, maneuvering to park, a kind-looking older man steps onto the deck. His faded denim overalls cover a checkered shirt, and his silver hair peeks out from under a straw hat. His face lights up with a gentle smile as he recognizes his truck, waving at us passionately. His eyes crinkle at their corners, displaying his years of contentment and wisdom.
Quickly, it registers that this must be my uncle, Hershel, as his features reflect my Dad's —the same gentle eyes and sharp nose, that scrunched whenever he saw something for the first time.
Seeing Hershel brought a poignant, surreal mixture of torment and ease. It was like encountering my Dad's missing piece.
When the car clips to a stop, Annette turns her head over her dainty shoulder, peering at me with a smile, a guise for support. I miss the chance to return it as she slips out of the truck.
Gulping, I jerk the door handle, opening it to set my sneakers on the pebble terrain. I observe as a boy joins Annette, helping her unload my bags, and my brows shoot to my forehead, creasing in discomfort. Pulling one side of my headphones off, my wary voice shakes, "Uh— you don't have to— I can manage." Against my apprehension, they ignore me with a pleasant smile. "Don't worry, we got it," the boy reassures. "I'm Shawn by the way," he mentions, dropping a bag to shake my hand. I take it and his cheer falters, so I jolt my hand out of his grasp. "Sorry," he laughs at my surprise, picking up my bag to resume his work. "You have an impressive grip is all," Shawn praises, completely unfeigned. I try again to mimic a smile but he walks off, entering the house alongside Annette.
"How was the journey?" Hershel queries as he approaches. His brow quirks, upholding yet another smile. I internally grimace at the abundance of niceties.
"I hope Annette didn't talk your ear off." At his joke, I remove my headphones entirely, a slight smirk tugging the edge of my mouth. "No," I admit and he huffs a short chuckle. "We didn't talk much, sorry."
His head tilts and it's vaguely reminiscent of how Dad would look at me whenever I missed a shot during our father-daughter, gun range visit. It mirrored his playfulness when he didn't take me seriously or thought whatever I'd done was "adorable" —his words, not mine.
"There's nothing to be sorry for. I'm sure that was what you needed," he clarifies softly. My tense frame loosens, his words skimming some of the burden off my shoulders. His right hand then glides steadily onto my bicep, a comforting touch in the otherwise chilly air. "Let's head inside," he proposes, gentle and reassuring, "I'm sure you're hungry." When his palm moves, the momentary warmth it brings fades.
Hershel wordlessly ushers me forward, guiding me up the porch, before he quickens his speed to open the door. However, a glimpse of the horizon captures my attention, freezing me to place.
A dazzling sunset stretches across the sky. Its radiant hues of ocher and pink ensnare me. With each passing second, the beautiful sinking sun tells me that by nightfall, my old life will be nothing more than a distant thought.
I swallow harshly and release a trembling breath. "Dakota?" My name, spoken quietly, pulls me away from the brink, and I snap my eyes to Hershel, seeing his warm smile, striving to mask a flicker of pain. His gaze, though kind, cannot hide our shared mourning—his little brother, my father. That second, the strength of our shared sorrow passes between us. It's an unspoken acknowledgement that our lives have been altered. Hershel's smile is strained as it offers a silent vow of devotion and care. Together, we stand on his porch, at the threshold of the unknown, bound by the recollection of the impactful man we loved.
"Don had been talking about bringing you here, for quite some time," Hershel broaches, barely above a whisper. The delicate way he mentions Dad makes my lungs constrict. I nod in response, knowing my voice will give out.
Though my Dad never explicitly said it, I knew he despised leaving me with my deadbeat mother's, younger sister. Her place, full of neglect and broken promises, was a poor substitute for a home. But sending me here, to his brother Hershel, came with a sacrifice. Meaning that the few moments we had together would likely be narrowed down to none, or one if we were lucky. Every reunion with my Dad had been great, but brief —a fleeting portrayal of the life I yearned for.
Now, the reality of our separation settles like a heavy fog.
Hershel stands square to me, and I feel my stirring pain intermingle with the sight of a healthier future, past the horizon. A bittersweet ache adheres to my heart.
"So," a sincere grin, at last, graces my face. "What's for dinner?"
(continue reading this on wattpad @ shrenvents, I hope u enjoyed!)
It's been several days since our heated argument, and neither of us has reached out to reconcile, and I can't say I blame Alex.
Since he flew to London, lately, I've been imagining myself there, across the Atlantic. If only I had the balls to go. Instead, I'm in the middle of nowhere with Maggie, going along with her grand plan to get me to rethink my decisions. As if taking me to her family cottage by the coast, would make my situation any easier, or simpler
Sitting on her cottage deck, I view my swinging legs, kicking back and forth as I recline onto my elbows, aiming to unwind. Every so often, I quiver when my big toe grazes the frigid lake, flicking up droplets and sending steady ripples through the water.
"I brought you breakfast, " Maggie utters behind me. My torso contorts to see her cautious approach, holding out a plate of eggs, bacon, and avocado toast. I take a whiff and instantly salivate. "Thanks, but you didn't have to," I mutter lamely, undermining my real appreciation.
"If I didn't, you would've skipped breaky," she states, grinning dolefully. I grimace at her truth, hastily taking the plate from her grasp.
"Careful—" Maggie blurts, immediately silenced when I snatch the food from her. However, once the plate reaches my palm, the steaming ceramic burns its flesh, displaying what Maggie tried to warn.
"Hot!" I exclaim, crassly dropping the plate beside me, making it clamour loudly against the planks. Thankfully, the food remains unscathed.
"Watch it! That's my Gramy's china."
A beat of silence passes and we make eye contact, laughing at one another.
As our laughter disperses, a frown graces my features. "You didn't need to bring me out here, to tell me I'm an idiot," sighing, "I knew the second I walked out his door."
"Wow, I'm surprised you admitted it aloud," she huffs a moderate smirk then shadows my exasperation. "But you know what they say," I peer at her skeptically, "the coastal air helps a girl reflect," she muses as she lays back on the murky deck, hanging her legs off the edge, mirroring me.
"You come out here often?" I ask curiously, somewhat attempting to sway the direction of the conversation.
"Any chance I get really," Maggie closes her eyes, soaking in the scorching sun. "Should've brought you here sooner."
"I wish you did, it's beautiful," I comment, lying back again. "Then maybe I wouldn't have fucked up so bad," I quietly chuckle, clearly having difficulty not hinting at Turner.
"Yeah, you would," my head shifts at Mag's counter, and so does hers, connecting our gazes. "Eventually," she finishes. I smack her stomach making her wheeze slightly.
"Okay, love you too," sarcasm embellishes my tone. Maggie chuckles but doesn't say anything more. I pause, stammering, "What do ya mean?"
Maggie breaks away from my eyeline and sits up. I follow shortly after, straightening my spine. "Maggie," I mumble a plea.
"Do I have to spell it out for you?" She observes the still scenery. My silence gives her my answer. "You've been on the fence with this guy forever, with any guy really." I stay soundless, letting her continue. "Though, you lasted way longer with Alex." I flinch at his name.
"What are you getting at?" I grumble, growing more bashful by the second.
Maggie's head tilts. "You never give them a chance."
"A chance to what?" I deadpan.
"To hurt you," she looks at me, glumly. "You never give them a chance to hurt you, meaning you never give them a chance, period." She looks back to the water. "And you didn't give Alex a chance to prove you wrong."
Tears prick my eyes, and I swallow loudly, astonished by my unbeknownst grief. "What would he have proved 'wrong'?" I ask, trying to hang on to ignorance, dismissing the obvious reason.
"That not all men are like Chris," she suspires and I sniffle.
"I don't think that," I croak, heart plummeting at the mention of his name.
"No one would blame you if you did." Maggie places her hand on my shoulder, pulling me out from my retreat. "You knew him since you were kids, and still he went and hurt you." I stare at her through tearful eyes.
"You've created this cycle, because you've never addressed him." Maggie's voice grows louder as she gets angry for me. "There's a lot of shitty men out there, and Chris is the fucking poster boy for all of them," she groans, heaving a lengthy exhale. "But Alex, is not,him," she stresses.
"You don't know that," I choke, now fully crying. She shakes her head, but I continue before she can speak. "I knew Chris forever, but still, I didn't truly know him," my sobbing increases. "He had two sides to him, one that cheated and stole, while the other took the time to buy flowers." Maggie embraces my shaking frame. "He appeared as the perfect guy, but he wasn't," I weep lowly into the crook of her neck.
"I know, I know, " Maggie simply repeats, holding me tighter. I band my arms around her. "But not every guy, is Chris." She jerks away slightly to look at my face. "You'll never know what men are thinking, and you have to learn to live with that," tears fill her eyes now. "I can't guarantee anything for you, and I'm sorry."
Maggie shakes her head, "But I want to have faith in Alex, and I want you too as well." A few tears drip down her cheeks. "He makes you happy, and shit, of course you make him fucking happy."
We both snivel and Maggie whispers, "You have to try again, J."
Holding each other tightly for nearly thirty minutes, we remain entwined until the crying finally subsides. As I sluggishly pull back, peeling myself from the damp cotton of Maggie's top, I can't help but notice how it's soaked through, on account of my relentless weeping. With a sniffle, I manage to mumble, "Sorry, I ruined your shirt." My voice trembles slightly with the weight of my apology, going beyond just the state of her shirt, knowing that my eyes reflect the lingering sadness that has only just begun to ebb away.
"Sorry, I ruined yours too," she giggles, apparently looking at a wet patch on my blouse, lifting my mood instantaneously.
"You bitch," I quip in mock astonishment, joining in her prompt laughter.
Maggie's giggle shortly trails off. "Well then," she moves away entirely, running her hands along her thighs, collecting herself. She wordlessly watches the waves hit the deck, and I find tranquillity in the sound of the tide, crashing against the wooden raft, skimming my toes.
"Eat your damn food so we can go swimming," Maggie orders as she stands, leaving me to my thoughts.
...
After a long swim and surviving Maggie, basically trying to waterboard me, I sit on the stool of her kitchen island, watching her cook dinner.
"Faster woman, I'm starving," I joke, poking the bear.
Maggie snaps her head from the pasta, over to me, giving me her signature stank-eye. "Let, me, cook," she practically shouts and I guffaw, before standing to go to the bathroom.
When I return, she's turned on the music, and I whine in protest at the song choices. It starts with "I will survive," then "I'm holding out for a hero," and once it hits "Independent Woman, Part 1," I withdraw her music privileges.
"Hey, no, one last song!" Maggie begs, outstretching her spare hand for her phone, a wooden spoon in the other.
"Fine," I cave, "but no more break-up songs." She raises a brow at me but says nothing, and I snort. But, my humour gets cut short when "Snap out of It" by the Arctic Monkeys blares, echoing through the tiny hut.
Of course...
Maggie takes a spin around the sunlit living room, motioning an invitation with her hands, charming me into joining.
My best friend, for the thousandth time, encourages a surge of hope to manifest inside me. Melodies permeate the atmosphere, matching the rhythm of my heart, that's beat finds itself, buoyed by a newfound spirit, that radiates a glow, transforming every movement and twirl into a celebration.
Equally swept up in the moment, I match her step for step, our laughter mingling with the music as we rotate harmoniously. Every step is lighter, and every sway is a testament to resilience, and the unwavering support Maggie always incites.
After an amicable display, I catch a sudden whiff of something in the air—a faint, slightly acrid scent that wasn't there moments ago. My senses sharpen as I glance back at the stovetop, perceiving a thin wisp of white smoke beginning to curl up from the edges of the pot. Initially, it's subtle, almost like a gentle warning sign, but it grows more pronounced with each passing second.
I roll my eyes, with a faint smirk tugging at my lips as I look at Maggie again, feeling almost sad that I have to deter her pleasant dance.
"The pasta M," I assert, reminding her.
"Crap!" She darts to the smoky stove, quickly turning down the heat and grabbing the wooden spoon to stir the pasta.
As she frantically fusses with the iron pot, I swivel outdoors towards her porch.
Getting comfortable on the leather couch outside, I slowly breathe in the pristine air. Closing my eyes, I feel that unfamiliar twinge of hope, as the music grows significantly louder, and my mind grows significantly clearer, hearing Alex himself inform me:
"I'll be here, waitin' ever so patiently for you to, snap out of it..."
A/N: Everyone ik has been breaking up recently and always, it's been cause the guy is actual caca, so this was for them 😙 need me an Alex Turner irl 🙏 I wish he was real
Hi love, you have an amazing imagination, and I love your writing style. I was wondering if you could maybe do some more with Wolverine. I'm in that x men stage again. And I loved you last piece of work on him. Maybe you could do a continuation of it or think of something completely new. Anyway, dont feel pressured ❤️
A/N: ur actually so sweet, thank uu! I'm also rlly shocked but appreciative of all the love Professor Howlett received, so u don't even have to ask twice for more, it's my pleasure ;)
Summary: Things were going well with you and Logan, until he suddenly put distance between you both, acting strangely. On top of that, you catch him threatening one of your fellow classmates and have no choice, but to face your issues, head-on.
Word count: 2.6k
…
Any small moment together, Logan and I chased. The little highs we could derive from our busy schedules, we eagerly pursued.
From a quickie in the janitor's closet, a make-out session after class, or a passionate sleepover, Logan consumed every inch of my life. He was consuming every bit of my mind, and slowly, there was an ominous trepidation trailing behind him like a shadow.
The more I saw him, the greedier I became. Desperate to see and feel more of him—beyond the surface. So, it was no surprise, that I soon desired something more from our casual relationship.
With graduation just around the corner, I was almost home free. Free to outwardly tell him what I yearned for.
But the concern that racked my brain constantly, that trepidation, was whether he wanted the same.
As I was getting to know him, it was clear there were parts of him I had yet to discover, parts he seemed reluctant to reveal. Sometimes he would be open, close by my side. The next second, he would shut down.
What made matters worse, was that recently, he hadn't sought me out. It's felt as though he's no longer hungry for those small moments, that I still very much craved.
Now I'm on edge and have no clue what he's thinking, or what he thinks of us.
...
The day started like any other. I went to each class, exhausted and disinterested, till that afternoon. Something caught my eye, and the eyes of the school's populace: Logan pinning a male student to the wall of the vast, oak wood hallway.
They speak in hushed tones to one another, and the boy looks beyond frightened, while Logan looks ready to tear his head from his scrawny neck.
It takes only a moment for my alarm to pass, and for me to note, that this boy sits next to me in history.
A sharp intake of breath hitches in my throat.
His name's Mikey, and he has been a nuisance to Logan from the get-go, long before our intimate affair. Labelled as the class clown, Mikey uses his obnoxious voice and meddling powers to disturb Logan's lessons, daily. To top it off, Mikey consistently bothers me, mimicking what I say, and staring at my profile, for far too long.
Just when Logan dips his head closer to Mikey, perhaps to rip out his jugular, like the predator he is, Scott interjects.
"Logan! Drop him!" When Scott's unnerved voice orders Logan, my eyes snap to Mikey's feet, which are spraddled in the air, dangling for dear life.
I guess a few days apart made me forget just how strong he is. Maybe he's just too gentle with me to remember.
As his feet slowly lower to the floor, gasps and murmurs flood the halls, and my head frantically shoots around, surprised by the crowd of avid onlookers.
Eyes anxiously surveying the students, I hone in on Logan again, flinching when seeing his pupils, already fixed on me.
He releases Mikey immediately, retracting from him while Scott grabs his bicep, heatedly whispering into his ear, and Mikey scrambles away.
Logan's eyes shy from mine and my mouth gaps. He almost looks, embarrassed. 'Huh?'
Soon, other teachers arrive to intervene, shooing students from the crime scene.
So, aimlessly wandering outside, into the courtyard, hoping to clear my head, I think back on our classes together. Every time Mikey acted up, Logan seemingly couldn’t care less, looking more spent overall, than unsettled by his brazen jokes.
It was kind of funny, seeing Mikey quaking in his boots at the older male. It was only yesterday, that he spoke to me with such forwardness, and to Logan with such rudeness, carrying that typical smug expression -it was nice to see it wiped clean.
I laugh to myself, disbelieving what just transpired. I can only imagine what errand Professor Xavier will make Logan do to atone, or what bonding exercise he and Mikey may perform...
While I trudge down the stone steps, onto the vivid green field, I spot the devil himself, Mikey. He sits under the shade of a grand willow tree, dome hung between his bent knees.
Feeling rather empathetic, I stroll towards him, stopping in front of his feet. Evidently noticing my bright attire, his head pops up, and his dewy eyes widen.
"You alright?" I ask warily and his bottom lip trembles. He sniffs once, toughening up before responding, "I'm good." I nod, then look at the endless landscape to my right. "Whatever you did must've really been something, Mr. Howlett's rarely that peeved."
"You're telling me," he huffs sarcastically, sounding pained. Shifting, I sit beside him, maintaining some space. "If you don't mind me asking, what was that about?" Mikey pauses, thinking hard.
"No clue," he mumbles pitifully. I gawk at him, brows creasing. He peers at me and copies my appearance. "I'm not lying," he exclaims defensively. "There's no way," I retort, scoffing.
"If you don't fucking believe me, why ask," Mikey spits, mumbling "bitch" as he shoots to stomp off.
Suspiring, my crown gingerly falls onto the tree's trunk. Finding comfort in its rugged bark, I calmly savour the crisp air.
I close my eyes, for what feels like a few minutes until a fierce call of my name grips my consciousness. Eyelids cracking open, my vision focuses on Mr. Howlett himself, standing in all his glory, glaring down at me with a brooding look.
"If it isn't the man of the hour," I giggle humourlessly, straightening my spine, but choosing not to stand and seem intimidated, like he evidently wishes me to be.
"You have a nice chat?" Logan questions with an irked tone, obviously remarking on my 'chat' with Mikey. 'Was he watching us?'
I tilt my head defiantly. "I'm not picking sides," I raise both hands in surrender, smiling from ear to ear. His eye faintly twitches, and I nearly gulp. He grumbles incomprehensible nonsense, then chooses to stay relatively quiet, which is unlike him.
"Do you have something to say? Or are you just gonna stand there?" I inquire venomously.
Clearly dispising my attitude, he concentrates on my face, scowling. His features have rage written all over them, but I refuse to bow out of this impending feud.
He grumbles under his breath again, and I break.
"Speak up!" I shout, swiftly bringing my gaze to our surroundings, making sure we're alone -which is something Logan clearly isn't worried about.
"What the fuck do you two have to talk about?" He just about growls and I tense, stunned. My face contorts with perplexity. "Me and Mikey?" I question, and his eyebrows nearly conjoin in response. "Not much, just discussing you're outburst," heaving, I continue, "though he didn't have much to say on the topic," sighing, "you?"
His nostrils flare slightly, and I do my best to appear composed. "What else have you talked about?" He grunts, and I roll my eyes, rising to my feet, bored with our conversation. "What's it to you?" I ask rhetorically, internally referring to the distance he'd been building between us.
Moving elsewhere, I roughly brush past his shoulder. He doesn't immediately reply, but trails after me as I march further into the courtyard.
"The fuck you on about?" Logan vulgarly rumbles, and I forget to speak.
My pace then staggers when he delicately wraps his digits over my forearm, tugging me, almost cautiously, backward.
Square to him, I discern his thumb tracing my skin lightly, before finally looking at him. He examines his finger as it sweeps across my flesh. "Logan?" I carefully utter, and his eyes stay glued to where our bodies meet.
"Why do you talk to him," he pauses, snarling with emphasis on 'talk,' yet again. Then he murmurs, "-When you have me?" He’s so quiet, that the words are barely audible. My features instantly soften. “Are you,” I hesitate, “Jealous?”
When he doesn’t answer, I gasp so loud, that my palm slaps over my mouth. He looks around, avoiding eye contact as I grasp the situation. “Did you threaten Mikey 'cause he yaps to me in class?”
Logan scorned the very idea of jealousy, cruising his head in a circle, to showcase his exasperation. I smirk uncontrollably and he snits. "Don't flatter yourself Princess," he remarks blatantly. My smirk only expands. "I can't believe you," I laugh hysterically and he motions like he's going to walk away, but he stays put, and I know I've won.
"Don't pull that face," he complains, gesturing to my proud look.
"What face?" I ask, playing naive, faintly swinging my body side to side. "Just stop talking to him, he's a bad influence," he grunts, peering off to the horizon. I giggle, "Or what? Do you intend to beat every boy who speaks to me?" I counter, and he struggles to fight a smile.
"What if I do," Logan more or less declares.
Shaking my head, "You've got some nerve," I huff, "seeing as you've been avoiding me lately."
"I haven't been avoiding you-"
I interrupt, "Oh yes, you have," playfully punching his gut with a grin, which drops the second my knuckles practically grow a heartbeat. "Ow," I breathe and at last, he laughs.
When Logan's laugh dims, he looks almost sullen. "Didn't think you'd notice," he mumbles and I quirk my chin in confusion. "You seem preoccupied." Gapping at him once more, he rolls his eyes, showing his teeth. "Don't gimme that damn look girl," he heaves, "you're young and, and-"
"And what?"
"Attractive," he sighs heavily, "you don't need an old man weighing you down."
I still, catching his genuine displeasure and defeat. It's like he's disappointed I may seek romance from someone else, but accepts it regardless, for my sake, my happiness.
My heart thumps irregularly and I feel like jumping his bones. I release a lengthy sigh, with a smile twinkling. His brow rises questioningly, seeming anxious about a reaction to his masked insecurity.
"What?" He bites.
"I'm relieved," his confusion visibly progresses. "I thought you were tired of me." As his mouth opens, to probably insult my intelligence, I cut in. "I wanna go steady with you, if that wasn't obvious already." My smile grows sheepish, then taunting, "I like you Lo, and clearly you must love me."
Like he's been holding his breath, a loud puff of air escapes his chapped lips, and I shamelessly watch as he wets them.
"You've gotta be the strangest girl I've ever met," he utters with a smirk forming, and I return one, interpreting his words as a declaration of love.
"Woman," I correct, then babble jokingly, "refined Lady." He confidently strides closer. "Mistress-"
The air leaves my lungs as his solid arms devour me, squeezing tightly.
"You best realize what you're committing to," Logan comments, lightly lifting strands of my hair with his fingertips, to kiss my neck. "That means, no more talking to boys," he grunts, humour coaxing his tone. "Especially ones so far out of your league," he pulls his head back, to peer at my expectant face, "It's not even funny," he finishes with a grin.
I laugh, unable to contain my joy, quickly hiding my wild smile in his chest. A pleased hum rumbles in tune with his heavy breathing, and I listen to his heartbeat's fairly, rapid pace.
For a while, we stay present in each other's arms, with fulfillment and ease consuming our beings, synchronously. Logan's fingers drift across my lower back, leisurely tracing my curves.
"I like you, so much," I whisper airly because the words couldn't be repressed, and had escaped. His hands gradually slow to a halt, till he abruptly draws back. He looks at me, with such intense seriousness, that I shudder.
Then, he pulls away entirely, taking my hand in his larger one, to drag me deeper into the field -into the overgrown areas, looted with massive trees and bushes.
"Logan?" My whisper transforms into a squeak when I'm hauled behind various, untrimmed hedges. His palms grope my hips, stilling me before he drops to his knees. I ogle his smug face as it bores into me, before he wrestles with my pink, low-waisted, jean shorts, impatiently dragging them down my plump thighs. He mumbles, "Ridiculous" when his eyeline levels with my purple, close-to-sheer underwear.
Like my shorts, he yanks them down to my ankles, then swiftly encloses his mouth over my cunt, swiping the folds with his tongue. I throw the back of my hand over my incoming yelp, biting down to muffle it.
"Is this you tryna to deflect admitting you really like me?" I joke meekly as my mouth parts from my hand, but I quickly chomp down again, when he licks me, with a long flick of his tongue. I gasp and whimper, using my spare hand to claw at his scalp for leverage, as he hungrily laps my pussy, sucking on its nub.
A tremor racks my insides, eliciting spasms while he builds up a powerful, but excruciatingly relaxed pace. His bulky digits move to relentlessly rub my clit, applying a rhythmic pressure that makes me sob.
Logan shushes me, mouth still buried in my folds. The buzz of his voice sends shivers through my core, and the strength of his action grows, acknowledging my imminent finish.
“Eyes on me,” Logan basically growls, before diving back into my cunt.
I muffle a cry of his name with a fist now, biting my knuckles. Then, I look from the heavens, back down to the one hand I still have, clenching his silky locks.
My knees begin to buckle and his sizeable palms relocate to support my hips, with his fingertips bordering my ass, kneading it. "I'm close," I gasp, barely audible through my hand. He hums again, and when it elicits another shiver, and shake of my frame, I tumble over his back, wrecked by my climax.
Now hunched over him, with my hands splayed down his torso, I tremble furiously, coming down from my high. I can't help but whine when Logan continuously licks me. He tastes every inch of me like I'm the meal of a lifetime, like I'm oxygen itself.
"Enough," I choke, as my arousal becomes too much. His response is simply plunging further into me, to lick all the way from my ass, to clit.
Steam floods my stomach, lighting me on fire. A raging flame consumes my very being, and I relish in how dirty and dangerous this encounter is -in public on his knees for me, Logan made it known that I'm his, and he let me know, that he couldn't care less who heard us, because I was his.
"You're disturbed," I breathe, and his chuckle resonates louder when he separates from my damp skin. "You love it," he states with a smirk and an arch of his brow. He then runs his tongue over his soaked lips, and I bite back a groan, sighing, "I do."
Lifting, moving my palms to his shoulders, I capture his top lip, sucking on it as a thank you. I grin, and as if he can hear my jest coming from a mile away, he scoffs and turns to hide his smirk.
"And you must lovveee me," I repeat my earlier comment with even more enthusiasm, and he shakes his head.
He rises and I do the same. Logan then goes in for a kiss to shut me up, but just as he does, I catch his mumble of "I do."
I gasp into his mouth, eyelids stretching.
My lids briskly flutter shut when he deepens the kiss, dipping my figure, rather romantically, and we both smile.
Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, implied (small) age gap, survivors guilt etc
Pairing: Rick Grimes x reader
Summary: Negan’s aftermath served as the last straw to instill in you, the belief that nothing lasts forever.
Word count: 1k
...
The conversation rings in the back of my mind, and your face dominates my thoughts. That despairing, lost expression still makes me wonder whether I crossed the line.
Life is moving too fast, and the overwhelming concept of inevitable death, and her vivid memory haunt me.
The idea, that you may see her in my eyes...
Things fall apart, and I'll never be her.
I knew Lori for no more than a week before she died. And now I've known you for several years, yet she hasn't left my side. Has she left yours?
Your wife and I couldn't be more different.
A troubled, younger girl, who can't help how unloveable she feels. How vulnerable I am. How susceptible I am to doubt. Versus the mother of your child. Your woman before the fall.
How can I compare? How can you love me? After this tragedy and loss, how can I return your love?
Maybe these are all the things I should’ve conveyed, but the moments gone, and I’ll never get you back Rick.
…
"If ya sigh one more time girl, I'll smack you," Daryl intimidates passively, and I snap my obscure stare at him below my post. Then, looking at the world outside these metal walls, one last time, I turn to the ladder. "Call Rosita, I'm tired."
"Nuh-uh, if I'm here all night, so are ya," He challenges, catching my gaze. He holds it before scoffing in defeat, obviously feeling guilty, after viewing my sorrowful appearance.
As I pass him, he grips my forearm. "I know things are bad right now, but yer a survivor," he murmurs, full of pity. "And if ya ain't gonna believe in yerself, believe in Rick." He trails off, and I nod to make him loosen his grip, so I may walk away.
Things just blew over with the Saviours, now that Negan is behind bars. But regardless, death plagues my conscience. How can I think my happiness is important, or everlasting when my survival is just dumb luck?
Ending things with Rick rang so much truth to that.
Now lonely and isolated, I only have myself to blame. Since confusion and indecision left my bed empty, my head is full of profuse distress.
To this day, after weeks, I'm still unsure of what I was trying to achieve -what I was running from, and why was it him?
No, I know...
I feel it again, her looming behind me. Lori. Whispering stories of their pleasant life together before Walkers existed.
Her ghost regularly tells me how life would be different if it wasn't the end times. She remarks how Rick wouldn't look my way if I wasn't his only option.
My rapid imagination slows to silence when I pass his house. I picture Carl on his porch bouncing Judith to sleep, and misery brutally latches onto me, forcing me to remember what is lost.
'You left him when he needed you the most...' Lori breathes.
Tears prick my eyes, and I bite my bottom lip to reduce its trembling. Then, a call of my name drags me out of the dark, and I seek out its source.
"Rick?" I reply, swallowing my cry and straightening my back. Blinking frantically, I assess him as he marches towards me, seeing concern playing across his features.
'Good things aren't meant to last...'
"How are you?" I croak.
"Fine," he stammers slightly, "you?"
"I'm well," I lie pathetically, and even though he clearly doesn't believe me, he accepts my response nonetheless.
"Shouldn't you be patrolling the wall?" He questions hesitantly.
"Yeah, but Rosita offered to take over, to let me rest you know?" I murmur with a shrug like I'm asking him to confirm my lies. He nods again, seeming just as awkward. "Need me to walk you back?" Rick proposes, motioning his pointer in the direction of my place. "No," I utter flatly, far too fast. He gulps, unable to hide his dejected manner.
A beat later I wordlessly amble away, but he hollers my name again, and I freeze, whirling around, brows furrowing. "Can I walk you back?" He urges this time, and his dilated pupils hold such fervour and desperation, that I give in. "Okay," muttering, I look to the ground as he jogs to my side.
Walking closely together, we're uncomfortably quiet. I peer at him and see his eyes squeezed shut as he inhales, expanding his chest to its limit.
"Rick?" I mumble. His eyelids pop open, and he swivels his head to mine, brows raised.
"Why are you," exhaling, "forcing yourself to-" I cut myself short, and he grasps my meaning. "I'm not forcing myself to do anything," Rick rasps. "If anything, I'm forcing you, to be with me," he drops my befuddled stare. "I'm sorry," he grunts.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," I splutter as a wave of grief, racks through me. "I'm the one with problems," my meek voice gets choppy.
The pace of his legs falter. "Problems," he echoes, puffing a soundless laugh in disbelief. "Problems I want to hear," he more or less pleads. I faintly shake my head.
When I stagger, Rick stops moving completely, and captures my hand, yanking me squarely to him. I take in how alarmed his features appear and again, wish I was alone so I could cry.
"C'mon beautiful, talk to me," he begs, cupping my hand in both his palms, and when he utters my name of endearment, I finally break.
Liquid flows down my cheeks, and Rick, with his thumbs, hopelessly tries to sweep them aside. But the more his rough pads graze my skin, and he pulls me closer, adorning me with such affection, the more tears stream.
He wraps his sturdy arms around my smaller frame, tugging me tightly to his chest, and I collapse into him. He holds me upright when my knees buckle, and simply lets me cry.
"I broke up with you, why on Earth are you consoling me?" I sob, words escaping my mouth in messy bundles.
Sighing, "Because I love you," Rick's voice grows rocky, "and I hate to break it to you," he chokes up, "that isn't gonna change, just 'cause ya don't feel the same."
His statement makes a louder cry erupt. But, I struggle to muster the courage to dispel, the third lie told tonight.
Of course I love him.
"I'm here, always," he soothes, nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck, and I feel water drip onto my nape.
As my arms encase his shaking body, Lori materializes behind me.
Warning: minors dni, fluff, smut, fingering, penetration, no protection, language
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x you
Summary: You and Daryl have started seeing each other, but not much has changed between you two. Yet, all you can think about is how much you need it to —need him to touch you, but he hasn’t made a move. Thus, you take charge.
Word count: 1.6k
…
Though it hasn't been said, flat out, you and Daryl are dating. And although nothing about your dynamic has altered, you’re still fairly certain, you're dating now.
But, the routine is just the same. You go somewhere, Daryl follows. However, nowadays you talk regularly, and he's visibly more comfortable. The others even started to notice your relationship and the changes in Daryl as well. One of which is, according to Eugene, is he seems happier, lighter, like a weight has lifted from his shoulders.
So, how is it that you feel something missing? You guessed a relationship with Daryl would be nothing less than this. But deep down, you expected him to at least touch you. And all you really wanted, was a kiss.
Sometimes, when he's close enough, you feel his warmth radiate over your very being. Sometimes, you sense his touch from when he grabbed your wrist, and held you in his arms weeks ago.
It left you craving more. Perhaps it did for him too...
Various times you swore his hand would hover over your skin, debating whether to reach out to you or not. Other times, he follows you to your house, but never steps foot inside, not since that day. He continuously stops short at your front deck, giving you a prolonged nod for a goodbye.
You’re shy in many ways, as is he, so if things were to change, you figure you have to be the one to take the reins. After all, he did admit to "wanting" you, so what did you have to lose?
…
Sighing, you open your door, squinting to welcome the blazing sun.
As of late, your mornings consist of this smouldering summer shine, and a mouthwatering, sleeveless Daryl Dixon, leaning against the pillar upholding your porch, waiting for you to wake.
"Morning!" You greet cheerfully. Daryl looks at you, and his scowl instantly softens. "I'm thinking we should do something today, together," you boast, trudging off the porch. "You know, switch up our usual routine somehow." Pausing thoughtfully, you notice how patiently Daryl observes you, waiting for your word, without any interruptions. It almost shocks you how docile he truly is, beneath that dim, tough exterior.
Your eyes explore Alexandria's landscape, catching areas with dull greenery. Your mouth opens in 'ah!'
Daryl appears disquiet and you holler, "Gardening!"
"No," he contradicts, quickly shutting down your idea. You huff, hindering a small smile. "Oh please, it would be fun!" You persuade, "This place needs more character, it's too-" desperately searching for a word, you make Daryl smirk a bit. "Colourless right now," you proclaim.
"And adding some flowers, will make this place look less like a 'dump'?" He mocks plainly.
"I don't think it's a 'dump,' it just needs some," once more, you seek the appropriate word, and Daryl expels a breathy chuckle. "Sprucing," you finish, and he nods with a tiny shake in disbelief. "Let's go!" You shout, heading to a plain field of grass.
"Yes ma'am," Daryl grumbles behind you, and you giggle.
...
The both of you spend hours outside, digging up weeds, replanting flowers, and spreading plant seeds across the lot. The whole ordeal left you both filthy, decorated in dirt. Though it's nothing new for Daryl, you feel pretty disgusting, not to mention 'hideous.'
Engrossed in your obsessive thoughts, you miss the way Daryl longingly watches you. That’s until you feel a plant stem, tuck your hair behind your ear. You spy Daryl’s calloused fingers, gently placing a pink flower there. His pinkie lightly coasts down your locks, to your shoulder.
You peer into his eyes, struck by his tenderness. His dilated pupils hold so much depth, that you get lost in them. So absentmindedly, you shift closer to Daryl.
His eyes roam your face, down to your lips, focusing on them.
A short breath escapes you, heart dropping, and he stands up. Now on his feet, Daryl brushes the grime on his hands in a clap, then lends one out to you. “You’re covered in dirt,” his throat bobs, “Let’s call it a day,” he heaves you upright, “take a shower.” You nod in agreement, kind of discombobulated.
Hand in hand, you silently walk to your house. Once you get there, he retracts his palm from yours and scratches his crown awkwardly. “You’re not coming?” You mumble shyly, and his wide eyes shoot to yours.
You fight to remain calm, staring at him. He licks his lips, once again, looking at your parted ones. “Separate showers, or...?” He asks airily.
“Whatever you want,” replying in a whisper, you slowly back up your steps, intently watching him. He refuses to break eye contact as he follows you inside.
When the door clicks shut, the only audible sound is his breathing, which is more like panting.
“You sure about…?” He trails off, delicately admiring your face. When you faintly mouth a 'yes,' his eyes train to your figure. You leisurely stride towards him.
“You’re so,” before he finishes, you peck his lips. He jerks his jaw moderately, and his gaze struggles to decide, whether to look at your eyes, or your body.
“Touch me,” you practically beg, nudging his abdomen with your knuckles. His sharp breath fans your face, and his expression distorts right before he instinctively, crashes his mouth into yours. Tongues mingling together, he grunts quietly, and you hum a whine in return.
Bodies pressing hard against each other, his hands tangle into your tresses, cupping your head. He rolls his hips rather harshly and you whine louder.
Breaking away with his name on your tongue, you clutch his hand and haul him upstairs.
Reaching the top of the staircase, he hugs you from behind and buries his face into your neck, breathing in like you're his lifeline.
“Daryl,” you sigh then gasp when he suddenly lifts you up. Your toes drag on the floorboards while he sucks on your nape. “Bathroom,” he rasps.
“To your left,” you huff in response, pushing your backside atop his crotch. Daryl just about growls, hastily carrying you into the bathroom.
Putting you down nicely, he forcibly tugs the shower curtain to the side. You spin to look at him and see him surveying you, staring down at your frame like he's in heat. You bite your lip, raising a hand to push away the black hair blocking his eyes.
“Can I?” He asks politely, gesturing to your clothes.
“Yes,” you nearly moan.
Together, you remove each other’s garments, one by one, piece by piece. Eyes equally wandering, to every newly revealed section of flesh. Daryl adorns your naked body and his lip tilts. You lean towards him to turn the shower knob.
The shower head roars, and Daryl tenses when the tips of your breasts graze his chest. “God,” he groans then takes your dome in his hands again, yanking your mouth upwards.
Your fronts fix together, and he palms your ass, reddening the skin there. His hard-on rubs your cunt, and he ambles you both under the flowing stream of water.
“Fuck,” you moan wildly when your spine hits the cool wall.
“Ya feel amazing,” he resounds into your ear, kissing it with a swipe of his tongue. You grind onto him. “Like that baby, again,” he instructs hoarsely, almost pained.
Moving in sync with each other, his cock continuously moves over your clit. You whine his name over and over, scratching your nails across his biceps. You moan out appraisals and smooch a trail from his chin to chest.
His hushed tone chants your name, trying to get your attention. But, when he gets tired of you ignoring him, his digits abruptly slip into you. You instantly cry out, then move in rhythm with his fingers, riding them. He begins to elicit an orgasm, so you pull away from his aggressive kiss. “Wait, I’m gonna cum,” you whimper.
“Good,” he groans with a smirk, trying to capture your mouth again.
“No, no, I wanna cum with you,” you plea, whispering, "on you," barely coherent. His fingers immediately slow and withdraw, at once, replaced by his girthy cock.
You scream a yelp and Daryl releases a lengthy, unreserved, animalistic groan. “So, tight,” his dark voice grates your ears. He cups your breast, playing with its nipple, and you sob while he mutters how badly he needs this.
After a moment of adjusting, Daryl starts thrusting. "Harder!" You express, and his hips lunge into you, untamed and vigorous.
Though his bottom half ruthlessly takes you, his hands and mouth are kind and attentive. His palms glide over your torso, holding you securely, and he kisses your features.
“Daryl, I love it,” you exclaim, then repeat yourself.
“Y-yeah?” He stammers, pinning his forehead to the side of your skull, and you grip his muscular biceps. “Yes, you’re so good.”
He growls your name, pumping even faster, evidently getting closer to his climax.
His hands move to squeeze and spread your ass, and ever-so-slightly, his finger sweeps across your unfilled hole, circling it. You squeal and huddle into him, and he murmurs something so quietly, that you can hardly hear it.
“What?” You gasp, craning your neck back.
“-fucking love you,” Daryl moans roughly, hoisting up your leg by its thigh. “Shit.” Pushing into you one last time, he pulls out to cum on your stomach.
Daryl's confession strikes such a cord, that you also cum when he removes himself.
Blanking, you aimlessly watch him stroke himself, and he grits his teeth at the sight of you flushed and wet.
Eventually, his meaty arms embrace your trembling form, snaking around your curves firmly. And after a short while, you hug him too, burying your face in his sternum.
“Can you, say that again?” You ask meekly, and as if he can hear your smile, he chuckles. “Later,” he pauses to kiss your scalp, “Lemme catch my breath first baby.”
Warnings: Part one of two (is smut), stalkerish lol, fluff, mentions of death, mutual pining
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x you
Summary: Set after joining Alexandria, Daryl's overtly having issues settling in, and even more problems leaving you alone.
Word count: 1.8k
...
You and Daryl have known each other for years. Through thick and thin, your found-family has each other's backs. But your group has been wearing thin. From Beth to Tyreese, now in Alexandria, a strange and new environment— it's safe to say, Daryl’s been on edge. He was losing his nerve, and that somehow entailed keeping you close, very close.
Every and any second you're alone, he appears, determined to invade your space, and it's becoming difficult to keep your feelings at bay, because you’ve been in love with him since your time at the prison. Even then, when shit hit the fan, he raced to get you out. Though you feared your affections for him made such a delusion — one that posed he would think to save you first— his recent clingy behaviour has made you believe in said delusion.
Today, he's back at it. You’re alone gathering food for dinner, for less than 10 minutes, before he marches into the garage. Bearing in mind that he has no reason to be here, and spent most of his time hidden from the locals, his appearance would be considered unusual.
You let Daryl silently stand there, patrolling the entrance for a few seconds, till your heart gives out.
“Is something the matter?” You utter, shifting your eyes to his dark ones, and they snap to you, slightly taken aback. “Nothin,” is all he grumbles before looking outwards to your surroundings, observing and scanning like the hunter he is.
“Daryl, we’ve been here for weeks," huffing, "we’re alive, and well,” you state, swallowing quietly. “You can relax you know.” You turn to lift a basket of supplies. When heading for the exit, Daryl swiftly steps in front of you.
“I ain’t doin' nothin' but standing,” he rumbles defensively.
“Standing in front of me, might I add,” you retort, smiling, trying to ease the strange tension, but his face remains stoic. Daryl stares directly into you, and a shiver rolls down your spine. His intense gaze doesn’t last long, as he chooses to walk off without a goodbye. Your shoulders instantly deflate, and you exhale, closing your eyes.
“Now what was that?” Sasha’s voice makes you flinch, popping your eyes open to peer at her. “You tell me,” you sigh and she laughs.
“I’ll be damned if I ever try to read that caveman's mind,” she grins, “You're better off leaving that question for Carol.” Her smirk tells a different story, one that says she knows something more, and you can’t help the second shiver that racks through your body.
...
Desperate to figure out Dixon, you go to Carol’s, asking for her assistance with dinner as a cover.
As you both cook, it takes little time for her to notice your incessant gawking. She pronounces your name, and your eyes snap back to the sizzling food. “Cmon, you can talk to me,” she assures.
When you decidedly stay hushed, she releases a sigh that eases into a snicker. “You should speak soon before Daryl finds us, or you, rather,” she mentions, attempting to contain her humour. You spin to face her. “What do you mean by that?” You question far too quickly, that the words practically jumble together. “Exactly what it seems,” she smiles pleasantly, ignoring your eager tone. “You’ve got yourself a lifelong, loyal guard dog.”
“Why? I mean, Daryl’s protective of everybody? But why does he only follow me?” You ramble, “Doesn’t he trust me to not end up dead, in a friendly, gated community?” You pout and Carol laughs again.
“That isn’t quite why,” she dwindles.
“Please just spell it out for me, I can't take it anymore.” Now square to her, you drop the stirring utensil, and tug your apron over your head. She watches you move, absorbed in her thoughts, as you jump to sit on the edge of the kitchen island. “He’s making you uncomfortable?” She asks warily.
“Yes,” you pause, “and no.” Your head lowers in embarrassment.
After a moment, you look at Carol, while she refocuses on adding more ingredients, to the dish you abandoned. “Why does he do it?”
Her moving actions falter, and she pivots to face you. “It isn’t for me to say, but being around you, knowing you’re safe, clearly calms him." Though you don’t truly get it, you nod slowly so Carol goes back to finishing the meal.
Just as she puts meat in the oven, Daryl waltzes through the door, without so much as knocking or giving some sort of warning. You yelp when you spot him. When you lock eyes, you refuse to hold it, so you turn your head over your shoulder quickly, with a grimace, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Daryl.
“What? Somethin' happen?” His hoarse voice sounds almost panicked. As you swivel your neck to soothe Daryl’s unnecessary worry with a "No," he suddenly grips your wrist, far too roughly. You squeak as he grabs your full attention.
You assess how he stands motionless in front of your knees, eyes widened, regarding his hand as it holds your wrist. He looks kind of appalled, as if he couldn’t believe he touched you. He then briskly lets go of your arm, like it burned him, retracing into himself.
You gulp and your bottom lip trembles. 'Was he disgusted? Did he see you as a child? What had you done to warrant this behaviour?' You think anxiously.
You look between Carol and Daryl now, as they share a lengthy stare. You swear under your breath, then push Daryl's chest with your fists, shocking both of them.
“I’m leaving, do not, follow me.” You order, with a vexed, yet hurt look. His mouth gaps with a soundless word, and you leave.
...
Sitting alone in your home, your empty stomach growls, and you start to seriously regret what you did earlier, which left you too ashamed to stay for dinner.
As your thoughts run wild, a quiet knock at the door diminishes them. You stay still, almost wondering if the noise is no more than a tree branch, moved by wind, but he bellows your name.
"Daryl?" You respond, and his voice simply calls your name again, almost like a plea. You turn the lock and knob, opening to find Daryl, fidgeting on his feet uncomfortably at your doorstep. "Um, come in?" You allow meekly, and he enters, faintly brushing your side.
Picking up his musky, pine scent, you bite your lip examining him, slowly leaning back on the closing door. He looks around agitatedly, seeming completely out of place, and somewhat flustered.
Growing stiff, you can't bear the awkward silence for much longer.
"I'm sorry," you mumble an apology for something, you're not sure what, and clearly, neither is he. He whirls towards you, stepping into your space. "For what?"
"I was rude earlier and-"
"Not rude, just, confusing." He interjects, brows furrowing in tune with his sentence. You scowl, "Well, if I'm being honest, I wouldn't say I'm the 'confusing' one here." Your remark reminds you of your previous feelings, and they bubble to the surface.
When he says nothing, you continue. "I'm safe here Daryl, and pretty happy, all things considered," you breathe out in exasperation. "Is there some danger that I should know of? Is someone here out to get me?"
"No-"
"So why do you keep chasing me around?" You just about shout, interrupting him. Daryl flinches and looks as though he wants to be anywhere but here, with you. He fixates on the door behind you. "I ain't doin' nothin-"
"Daryl! Please just," you cut yourself short as your voice escalates. "Please be honest with me, after everything we've been through, you owe me that," you beg.
His tense frame withers in defeat. "I just can't leave your side," he grumbles, his words barely understandable. "Why?"
"Don't wanna lose ya," Daryl's voice trails off as his head wheels to the side. "You won't, and I can take care of myself, just like the others, who you don't follow around." You fail to hide your ignominy, visibly disappointed that he believes you need special attention, over the rest of the group. "Can't," he mumbles.
"'Can't' what?" You inquire, now stepping into his space, voice rising.
"I can't, 'cause I don' wanna lose you," he exclaims again in a burst. Your face twists further in ignorance. "Christ woman," he runs his hand down his tormented expression. "Daryl, please stop dancing around what you mean." You cry out, "'Lose me?' Tell me what you mea-"
Abruptly, he grips your shoulders. "I want ya." He states, baring his teeth as if it were a threat. "I want you, I want you to live."
"You 'want' me... To live...?" You ask slowly and his eyes roll back in frustration. "No, not just to live-"
"Because I love you," you blurt and immediately try to pry your shoulders from his clutch. He stills with you firmly in his grasp, so close that his nose nearly grazes yours. His hold increases its strength, and he shakes his head to himself, seemingly battling his own thoughts. "Daryl?" You whisper.
"How can you?" He utters so quietly it's barely audible, so quiet you don't think he expected to say it out loud.
While his eyes squeeze shut, you snake your arms around his waist, and his entire build clamps up. Now afraid of a possible rejection, you loosen your embrace. But his hands move from your shoulders to your upper back, arms drawing you to him, fully caging you in. You take in his broad chest as it presses against your less impressive one. Your fingers seize his leather vest, aching to know how it feels in your palms.
His heavy breathing fans your nape, and you swear he sniffs your hair, as his nose and scruff tickle the skin behind your ear. His fingertips tease the ends of your hair, and you take this as an opportunity to breathe him in. Just as you do, he pulls away, moving you to an arm's length. You blush.
"Sorry," he mutters and your brows crease. "I smell bad, I know," he murmurs and goes fairly red himself. "I don't mind," you say sweetly with a smile, ignoring the urge to tell him you like it.
Finally getting a chance to gaze into his eyes properly. You virtually melt when his pupils appear glassy. You've only seen him cry once, after losing Beth. 'So would he really be brought to tears over a confession? From you no less?'
"Daryl?" He peeks up from behind his fringe. "Do you 'want' me, or like me, like I like you?" You ask, trying to minimize the pressure he may feel to admit any feelings, but you so desperately want to know —how desperately you want him to hold you again.
"Both," he rasps.
You nod and smile sheepishly, "I can work with that."
When a comfortable silence envelops the room, your stomach growls loudly. A modest smile takes shape on Daryl's face. "I put some food aside for you, back at Carol's." He emits, gesturing to the door behind you, wordlessly asking you to go over there, with him. You nod a yes and your heart pounds, swooning at his thoughtfulness. "Thank you."
You reach your hand out, and he very hesitantly holds it, after wiping his twice down his thigh. You beam, heading out the door.
Like most mornings, as of late, I wake to find Jennie clinging to my body. Her pleasant, sleeping expression does little to soothe the dreams —or nightmares rather— of her attachment to me being no more than a thin, dangling thread, that will eventually be snipped away.
It's quite pathetic honestly. It's been almost two months since I've begun seeing Jennie, but I'm just as certain about things, as I was when we first met. It's as though I'm walking on eggshells with this woman. Like anything that may remotely remind her of "exclusivity" or, "let's make it official," will set her off. I can't shake it, that feeling that she's always out of reach, no matter how far or long I chase. It's jarring, and I've seen this film before, in fact, I've lived it, and I'm not sure I'll be able to bear its ending again, not this time.
As I attempt to pry away from her, she grunts and I have to stifle my laugh, as she grips me tighter. I would find it charming if her proximity didn't remind me of our lack of intimacy. Though she was in my bed, she was fully clothed (in my clothes), and our encounter was strictly pg-13, much to my dismay. She was torturing me both mentally and physically, and I thanked her for it with a goodnight kiss.
Lost to lust, I hover above her gorgeous figure, allowing my eyes to roam the barely visible sliver of her stomach. I lightly kiss her cheek, making her nose twitch. I stifle another chuckle.
My mouth traces further down her body, kissing any inch of revealed skin, from her bicep to her collarbone, then her inviting tummy. She squirms a little, and I move to blow on her earlobe. "Jennie darling," I whisper airily. She twines but slowly stretches her limbs, opening her eyelids. "Morning," I smile sluggishly, and she smirks.
"Morning," she replies cheerfully, though she's a little groggy. As I begin to lift, to give her space, she stiffly grabs both my forearms. "No, please, continue," Jennie remarks suggestively. I laugh and shake my head. "You don't know what you're starting love."
"Oh?" She says daringly. Before I can react, she pounces, pushing me helplessly onto my back, and straddling my hips. "I don't know what I'm doing?"
I casually take in her placement, observing where our bodies intersect. "No, dear, that you do," I grin wildly, "We've been here before." I lightly gesture towards our position. Her eyes widen partially, and I know she's grasped my meaning. "Assface," she comments while abruptly getting off of me. My mouth gaps. "Assface?" I laugh loudly, shocked by her insult in every way imaginable. "You heard me," Jennie hides her smile with the back of her hand, turning.
I grunt in affirmation and clutch her wrist before she escapes to the bathroom, dragging her down, and pulling her underneath me. Before she can make another snarky comment, I capture her lips. She moans into my mouth, and I echo it.
Getting ahead of myself, my hands seize her frame, holding her torso, marking her porcelain stomach, pink. She bunches up the fabric covering my chest into her fists, drawing me in deeper. My thigh slides between her legs, grazing her core, then applying more pressure. I feel how wet she is, and I groan, firmly cupping my hard-on with my spare hand. She whimpers and breaks away from my mouth. "Oh god," Jennie simply breathes, and I nod along. She yanks me back down to her mouth by my shirt, demanding my lips, and I can't help but smile into the kiss.
Unfortunately, we're interrupted by the ringing of my phone. "Fuck," we say in unison after separating. "Get it," Jennie instructs, seeing my hesitation. Hauling myself away from her, I sit on the edge of my bed, bringing my phone from my bedside table to my ear.
"Alex, good morning!" A familiar, perky voice blaringly announces.
"Amy?" I question, still breathless from my tussle with Red.
"Sorry, to call so early, but I have the most wonderful news!" She boasts.
After an awkward pause, feeling the itching gaze spearing my back, I mumble, "Well?"
"BBC radio would like you to fly over to perform one new song, for a live audience, next week!"
"They want us in London?" My shoulders tense, and I use my arm to hold my creasing forehead. "I know this is pretty short notice-"
"Short notice? We aren't even done the album yet," I groase.
"I know, but you have a few songs at the ready."
"Amy, you don't understand, we've only just wrapped up a few songs, none of which have been properly rehearsed," I grumble as I feel Jennie's presence slip away. I turn to stare at her back, as she locks herself in the bathroom. "I do understand Alex, but you're a professional, and this is a great opportunity to begin promoting the new album," she utters enthusiastically. "And, in my opinion, you have plenty of time to get ready."
After a long moment of thought, I finally respond. "I hear you, if the rest of the band is on board, I'm there."
...
Jennie's POV
I clutch my shaking hands together and take a deep breath. "Jennie?" I hear Alex call from behind the door, and my teeth cut into my lip. Exhaling, I open the door. "Hey, you alright?" He asks warily, and I nearly cringe.
"Fine, just needed to piss," I say, slightly defensive, more or less rolling my eyes. Though, Alex doesn't seem to notice my passive-aggressive tone. I walk past him. "So, you heard I'll be leaving for London before the end of this week, it doesn't leave us a lot of time but-"
"But what? A week or more is nothing, have fun." I proclaim, turning away in a march. Alex trails after me, into the kitchen.
"Jennie? Wait, are you leaving?" He asks, sounding a little panicked, and very confused.
"Yeah?" I answer as if it was obvious.
"Why?" He inquires, seemingly, becoming impatient.
"Do I need a reason?" I state with a scoff.
"What? Jennie, I-" He cuts himself short, the words getting strangled in his throat, and I almost give in to look into those big, brown, puppy-dog eyes. "Just wait a bit, I was thinking you could come along?" With that, I finally snap my eyes at him, and his sullen face makes my heart pump even faster.
"To London?" I take a sharp breath. "Like I said Alex, I have a life, a job, remember?" I shake my head, dismissing my own bullshit excuses, throwing on my coat and crouching to put on my shoes. "Of course, I know that, but it won't be long, just me and you-"
"It won't be just me and you." I huff in frustration, feeling as though I'm fighting for air. "It'll be you, your band, your loud adoring fans," I ramble nonsensically, "And Amy, there's no need for me to be there," I finish pathetically.
"Amy? I told you, me and her aren't-"
"I got it! Jesus!" I exclaim, heat rising in my face, as well as my chest.
I could die of embarrassment, shame, guilt —all of the above, but that doesn't mean I'll bite my tongue.
"I don't think that, because, we aren't dating, and I don't care!" I clamour, then gasp quietly at my outburst, hiding my face in my tangled hair. "You don't care?" He repeats after a short silence, and I wait for it.
"How can you not care?" His voice progressively rises, "It's not as if we haven't been seeing each other, for the past couple of months?" He shouts, sounding both perplexed and furious. "Or have we? I'm not sure, and I suppose I'm not allowed to ask!"
I shift to face him again, matching his angry appearance. "What does that mean?" I bark.
"You know what it means," Alex challenges.
"Every time I take a step forward, you take two steps back, time, and time again," he bellows. "What are you so damn afraid of?" His words make me shudder, and shut down.
"Fuck you!" I yell unyieldedly.
"Fuck me?" He smiles painfully, shocked as well as he was... Repulsed.
As expected, I was despised, and I wanted to cry, needed to —and needed to get out of here.
Gathering all my things, I make straight for the door. "Jennie, just stop for a moment --bloody hell, we were fine just a moment earlier." He huffs, "Listen-"
As I feel him reach out for me, I dodge his hand, looking into his uneasy gaze. "No, go to London, sing your fucking music, and leave me out of it."
Warnings: Minors dni, smut, no protection, fingering, vaginal, doggy, pet names, squirting, age gap (legal!), first person
Pairing: Logan Howlett/Wolverine x Student (Mutant) reader
Summary: Your history professor always seemed uninterested in you—well, that was until you missed his class.
Word count: 2.7k
…
Throughout high school I’ve always kind of stood out. To be honest, I only have myself to blame. But, you see, bright colours and statement pieces are just so much more appealing than wearing something bland. And unfortunately, I did more than just “stand out” that day, just three weeks away from senior graduation. That fateful day… I was so close to the finish line when my stupid ex-boyfriend discovered my secret and outed it to the entire student body.
Truth is, i’m a mutant…
That’s what led me across the coast for most of the past year, running from god knows what. I had heard the stories of mutants being hunted and missing, and I didn’t intend to stick around long enough to be next on someone’s hit-list. I prayed I’d at least make it to my 20th birthday.
But then, my days of swindling folks for cash and food came to a stop, when I spotted a man with red-tinted glasses watching me. His invested gaze observed my every movement, so, I quickly grabbed all my shit, and the last bit of petty change I managed to get, and sprinted into the crowd.
Just when I thought I was in the clear, my face collided with a broad, firm chest. I pressed the heels of my palms into it, and felt the cotton of his white shirt, and the rough, yet smooth texture of his worn leather jacket.
Logan Howlett—or should I say, Mr. Howlett, my history Professor...
After he and Scott captured me, I was dragged by the ankles to their school for the “gifted.” I still remember cringing when they told me where we were headed. But once we arrived, and I saw all the kids who were like me, going about their lives freely, I knew everything would be more than okay.
And one thing I knew for sure, is that I wouldn’t mind attending Mr. Howlett’s class. Did I know jack-shit about history, yes. But I’ve always had a thing for the older guy, and from what I’ve heard, he’s more than enough in that department.
...
This morning, racing out of my room, I swore profusely at the time... Just my luck. The one day of the week I get to see and listen to Logan talk for an hour straight, my alarm malfunctions.
Multitasking between attempting to put on my hot-pink heels, wrapping my sparkly bag over my shoulder, and locking my door, I missed the approaching figure behind me.
“It’s past 11, where do you think you’re headed?” I swivel on my toes, spinning to face Storm.
“Class?” I sound meekly, like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“The only class you have left today is at four. You’ve already managed to miss the rest,” she scolds plainly.
“Noooo,” I fake astonishment and defeat, as I slowly back away from Storm's scrutinizing stare.
She calls my name after I’ve taken at least two large steps backward. “Logan wants to see you,” she states, visibly exasperated.
“Oh?” I straighten my spine, stopping my next step short. “Ok!” I exclaim, a little too perky. She huffs a faint smirk and walks off, and I take flight, zooming to Logan’s class room where he’s most likely waiting, dozing off in his chair.
Lo and behold, after knocking once and receiving no response, I open the door to see him snoring. With his legs fully extended, and feet resting on his desk, I bask in his lengthy physic. Then I giggle, moving towards him.
“Mr. Howlett?” I call politely before clearing my throat rather loudly. He grunts in his sleep and I smile. “Mr. Howlett?” I repeat even sweeter. A second later, I swear he mumbles my name and my heart stutters, and yet, he’s still sleeping.
I move in closer to his ear. “Logan,” I announce rigidly, and the change in tone makes him flinch, legs falling off the table, eyes popping open.
He rasps my name, his voice echoing throughout the classroom. I refused to move away from where I stood, despite the closeness. I wanted to seem unaffected by him, though in truth, I was anything but.
With his lazy eyes roaming over my skin, my heart thrashes wildly, beating against the cage I call my ribs. Logan then clears his throat, and rolls his eyes to look away from my attire, as he usually does—giving me a once-over before hauling his focus back to his lecture.
“You missed class. ‘sn’t like you,” he notes, almost to himself.
“Yes, and I’m sorry-“
“I hope it wasn’t cause you were too busy picking that outfit.” Logan scoffs and my eyes widen.
He’s always made snarky comments, and this wasn’t anything new, but every damn time he does, I still can’t help the boiling feeling in my lungs that makes me rise to defend myself.
“No, maybe I just felt like sleeping in?” I declare. A short-lived chuckle escapes him.
“And you’re just gonna admit that?” He smirks as he faces me. “I don’t like kids skipping my class.”
“First off, I’m an adult, second, you don’t care when kids skip your class,” I retort with a grin that beams across my face. His smile drops the second mine comes into full form.
He’s never seemed fond of my smile, or maybe it’s just me…
“You don’t skip my class.” He states once again, and my head quirks in confusion.
“Um, I’m sorry?” I try to compromise, “It won’t happen again.”
“It better not,” He remarks dangerously.
My brows furrow. “Okay…? I don’t get why it matters so much to you Mr. Howlett.” I place my hands on my hips, gazing down at him in his chair like I'm reprimanding a child. Which he is not akin to, especially given the fact that he’s the teacher, not me.
Logan lifts off his chair, standing up, leather heels hitting the wooden floor. I almost gasp when he towers over me, clearly trying to intimidate. “Watch your tone, or I’ll fail ya,” he counters, fighting a smirk.
“What?” I yelp, and his smirk breaks through his stoicism. My jaw goes slack. “Mr. Howlett, that’s not funny!”
“What isn’t funny, is you pretending like calling me 'Mr. Howlett,' doesn’t turn you on.”
I freeze, suddenly drowning in disbelief.
Was this one of my daydreams? Am I really awake right now?
“You heard me— you damn highlighter,” he asserts, eyes flickering to my outfit again. “Call me Logan for fucks sake, if you’re really an adult.” His gravelly voice loses all its humour, and I stay glued to the spot. “Get outta here, would ya,” Logan then orders before he leisurely retakes his seat, getting comfortable for his next nap.
Unable to drag myself away, my eyes refocus on the subject of my desires. A wave of urgency takes over. “Why do I have such a thing for assholes.”
Before Logan can respond to the insult with some more hostility, I sit on his lap, dropping my purse to straddle his hips. I then cup his perplexed face and crash our mouths together. He grunts in surprise, as if he didn’t expect me to retaliate, as if he didn’t expect that I would actually want him this way.
He really is all bark.
Half-heartedly, Logan tries to pull away in between kisses, whispering my name as a small protest, but he immediately gets muffled by my lips. When I grind on his lap, his objections quickly turn into a fierce groan.
Logan then takes my hips into his large hands, tightly gripping my flesh to push me back onto his desk. I whimper as his crotch stays stuck to my core, even as he manhandles me. One hand then moves from my hip to my neck, holding it, then it slowly sliding to my jaw, grasping it to give me a hungry, pressing kiss. His tongue laps my mouth, completely dominating the kiss. I struggle to breathe.
Just as I’m about to pull away to comment on how eager he seems, his other hand flips me over with ease. My stomach is now on top of his desk, his crotch, like iron against my ass, and his hands trace down from my shoulder blades, to my bum. With my head hung over the desk, I pant, practically drooling.
“You’re asking for detention pinky,” he mutters, and I respond by pushing back into his hard cock.
“I'm a sucker for extra attention, teach,” I breath out as sensually as I can muster. He chuckles lowly, and I shudder. The pressure of his crotch doesn’t change, and his hands continue their unhurried venture of me.
“You like attention?” Logan asks, his tone becoming surprisingly soft. His voice makes me shiver and whimper, yet again.
“I like yours.”
“Just mine?” He questions darkly, telling me exactly what he wants to hear.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His voice drops an octave when he swears, rolling his hips into me once more. I moan loudly. “Shhhh princess, you tryna alert the entire building?” He asks with amusement evident. I shake my head, no, and he just dips his head to laugh by my ear. “Good, because I don’t like sharing your attention,” he says passively, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “And I’d like to be the only ‘asshole,’ that gets to see what’s under these ridiculous clothes.”
“Hey!” I object weakly, and feel his smile before he leans back. I turn my head over my shoulder to catch him peering down at where our bodies meet.
“You probably want me to fuck you on this desk.” He speaks as though I’m not here to hear him. “Ya probably want to be taken right here, so that every time you’re sitting in my class, you can imagine me inside you.” He trails off as his hand pushes up my shirt, touching my lower back. “But we can’t do that,” he sighs hoarsely.
“Why?” My reply is so quick that I have to grimace.
He chuckles without humour. “Because… if we did, I’d get hard every time I’m in this fucking room, and that ain’t the smartest idea.” I moan at his crudeness and gasp when he suddenly pecks my naked spine, just below the clip of my bra. “Christ—even your lingerie is pink huh?” His chuckle sounds like silk. “Imagined it would be.”
My legs rub together at his words.
“You imagined it?”
He pauses. “Hell yeah I did, though I tried to fight it,” he muses in between a groan. “It didn’t take me long to figure you wanted this too, princess,” he murmurs almost proudly.
After a long beat of silence, and a little grinding, I speak up again. “So now what? If you’re not going to make love to me here.”
He slowly pushes the hair over my face, behind my ear, tilting my head to face him just a bit. He then leans down and kisses me on the cheek.
“I’ll come to you,” is all Logan says as he reluctantly wrenches himself from me, just after giving my ass a mellow slap. I gasp and nearly pout at the loss of touch. We then hold eye contact as he backs away. “Get going, otherwise you’ll be late for class,” he teases airily, and the edge of his lips twitch upwards. I nod and rush out the room with a grin plastered on my face—which stayed on my face for the rest of the day.
...
After a long, vigorous day, I finally collapse onto my plush bed with a hefty sigh.
“Took you long enough,” a dark voice rings out. There’s a hint of a familiar sass that makes me jolt upright. I spot Logan leaning on my wardrobe. His tight shirt strains against his chest when his arms cross. “Been waiting to ‘make love' to ya all day,” he claims with a goading tone, repeating my earlier remark.
(My best guess is that he assumes I’m a virgin from that sentence alone.)
In an attempt to remedy my reputation and sexual appeal, I sit up on my bed, elbows bracing my body upright, and I slowly spread my bent legs. Biting my bottom lip, I feel his eyes shift down and blacken. “Get on with it then, Logan.” His name rolls off my tongue. The challenge makes his head jerk in an almost feral manner, and I gulp.
“You’re asking for it,” is all he mumbles before pouncing on me. Our limbs tangle and I moan as his leg presses into my clothed clit.
“Please,” I just about sob, to which he responds with an aggressive kiss and another crushing rub of his thigh.
I moan louder, and he grunts, “You like that?” I shove my hands into his hair, running my fingers through the thick strands. He lets out a coarse groan.
Loving how vocal he is, I decide to encourage him by groping his cock over his rugged jeans. “Fuck, baby,” he groans out when his mouth leaves mine. He then runs his tongue over my neck and collar, soon nibbling on my earlobe. His thigh continues to make work of me, and I match his pace, grinding against his jeans. “You're so dirty,” he grins while his nose brushes my rosy cheek, and then he's kissing me. “I love it,” he professes with amusement, and something more gentle.
Just as I begin to undo his belt, he flips me over onto my stomach just like before. Then, when I'm lying flat underneath him, he grabs my hips to lift them towards his crotch as he kneels above me. “That thong better be pink,” he jokes as he strips me bare. He groans in satisfaction when I’m left in just my underwear, tailored for his viewing. “Unreal,” Logan practically purrs.
I wiggle my ass playfully, and he growls and smacks it harder than he did in his classroom. I squeal into my pillow, immediately going quiet when I hear his belt being ripped from the loops of his denim. Leaving my underwear in place, he runs his digits over the lace, making me whine, "Logan."
With his name on my tongue, it shortly turns into a cry as the lace covering my clit gets moved to the side, and two meaty fingers dive into me. "Shit, princess," he rasps. "How am I gonna fit?" He asks rhetorically, and I choke a sob, as he wastes no time building up an energetic pace, with his fingers.
He swiftly tears an orgasm from my trembling body, still holding my hips up with one hand. When his fingers leave, I hear his mouth clean them, and I swing my head to face him hastily, but he shoves my head back into my pillow. "So eager," he more or less snickers.
"Very," my smothered voice emits, barely audible.
I nearly shriek when his tip swipes my wet slit. Logan, without notice, suddenly pushes himself inside me, with an agonizing slowness, but I quietly persist. "Atta girl, that's it," he lazily groans out encouragements. My hands pathetically slide onto his thighs, unsure if I'm urging him for more, or begging for discretion.
At once, he shoves himself in all the way, and I let out an extensive sigh. His palm, which was just holding down my head, joins his other hand on my abandoned hip. He lets out various curses, along with my name, and begins to move, in and out. Soon enough, he's pounding into me at a savage rate, completely untamed. As well, it seems purposeful, how he simultaneously bends down to growl and moan in my ear, still thrusting.
He stirs another orgasm, still notably, not experiencing his own. "You look real pretty like this princess," he begins to ramble. "Gonna do this every fucking day." The rest of what he says gets lost in translation, as I grow overwhelmed and overstimulated.
Thoughtlessly, I try to crawl away while he still has my lower half hoisted up. Once Logan realizes what I'm up to, my pitiful effort has him laughing. "Where ya going?"
"Lo, it's too much-"
"Lo? Call me that again, it's cute," he hums.
"No more," I whimper, ignoring him.
"Just one more baby," Logan coos, while somehow increasing his pace, making me cum instantly, squirting a little. His moan rumbles in his chest, and he doesn't stop hammering into me. I grip my headboard, and one of his arms stretches alongside mine, to do the same.
When he cums, his grip snaps the wood, breaking a part of the headboard, making me shout in between sobs. He seems to not notice the damage, too busy finishing on my backside.
After a long minute, he slumps his large frame beside me. One of his arms stays drifting across my skin as his eyes intently coast over my features. "Maybe consider skipping my class more often," Logan expresses as his lips slightly tip upward. He presses his lips onto my shoulder.
I smile, giggling, "Why?"
"Cause it doesn’t matter where I fuck you, there's nowhere I won't get hard looking at that pretty face," he smiles dreamily, "And you're impractical wardrobe.”
I giggle, "You have a way with words," I pause and smirk, "Mr. Howlett."
He rises onto his elbow with a devilish grin, "Now you're just begging for it princess."
It’s still ablaze, even if it’s some way to feel connected to you. This sensation you give me radiates from where you once stood, despite our distance. I still have yet to see what you look like, these days I wonder if I even want to know. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to rid myself of your face, when simply thinking of you now sets me on fire. Just that burn, do you feel it too? I do, that’s why I lie in bed, dreaming of you. Day in and day out, thoughts of you crowd my mind.
Every two or so weeks, you’re here. Your masked expression is barely visible in the shadows and dim moonlight, and you always sit in my vacant living room, consuming its space, observing every little movement I make. I clean your wounds, stitch you up, and then you leave, and I just can’t do it anymore --pretend I don’t burn for you, even though I don’t know your name.
Summary: You're a witch with a specific skill set, one that has intrigued a certain hybrid.
Word count: 2.7k
...
Voodoo. Magic. Impulse. Obsession.
She was his newest fascination.
Klaus heard her laughter cracking through the walls of the barren bar before it cut short. He observed the sunlight blazing across her poorly parked car. His lips slanted in mild amusement. He told himself, that’s all it was, all she was. Mild amusement for an immortal. Though, something felt different.
He strutted into the place, head hung high as he scanned the bare vicinity. His eyes halted on a man behind the bar, rinsing glass cups. The bartender's eyes adverted from Klaus, the second he caught his stare. The man's nerves were duly noted as Klaus approached him.
“I’ll have a glass of your finest red,” Klaus spoke artfully, with a fake smile plastered on his face. The worker shuddered. “Ug- we’re not serving right now.”
“No worries mate,” his mellifluous voice paused. “The red I fancy isn’t something I’d find on your menu.” The man's gaze shot up to Klaus’s. His lips trembled as Klaus continued his jest. “Unless you intend to provide me with a bite, I suggest you tell me where she’s hidden.” Klaus’s threat echoed through the building, till silence took its place.
Suddenly, the sound of a back door, opening and slamming shut jolted Klaus away from the bartender. He instantly raced to the door, ripping it open. He watched as her frame scattered into her rusted car. He growled. There was no way he'd let her escape once again...
Your body was convulsing with anxiety. Who were you to know a little magic truce with the “other side,” would have a certain hybrid on your front doorstep. It didn’t help when you levitated everything in your apartment at him, including your freshly made spaghetti with bolognese. It was to be expected, that would piss him off...
Yanking the car door shut, you forced the key in and started the engine.
“Where are we headed this time darling?”
“Ahhh!” You screamed, snapping your head to the uninvited passenger. Klaus sat leisurely beside you, and you swear your life flashed before your eyes. “I must say, I enjoyed our time in Chicago. Perhaps San Fran may be the next best thing, love.” His smug face adorned your features, absorbing the way your face contorted in both fear and frustration.
“Jesus,” you huff, and Klaus’s smirk grows. “As much as I love the idea, somehow becoming your personal chauffeur isn’t that appealing.” Klaus chuckles lowly, leaning in, more and more.
“Well, if you hadn’t decided to run off, you crafty little thing," he drawls sweetly, "We wouldn’t have the pleasure.”
“If you weren’t trying to kill me, maybe I’d stick around.” Klaus’s brows twist like he's appalled by your words. “Who said I was interested in killing you?”
“You- I- then, what do you want?” You stammer. Klaus went quiet. You watched as his expression goes blank, before he acts as though he was in deep thought. Then, his mouth gaped in 'awe,' as if the answer suddenly came to him. “Your talents of course.”
“My talents.” You repeat, baffled.
“Yes, do keep up, my dear.”
“Why? You could have any witch at your disposal, at a moment's notice.”
The corner of his lips elevate once more. “I’m flattered.”
He’s become so close now, you feel his breath, and you try not to shiver as it grazes your neck. He, on the other hand, basks in your scent.
“But, unlike my other witches, you have a gift,” he muses. “Your connection with the dead is something to behold, and something I crave.”
After a prolonged silence, you speak. “If I help you with whatever," you move further into your seat, "When it comes to an end, you’ll let me walk away, unscathed?” Your brow quirks, and with every fibre of your being, you manage to maintain eye contact. “Yes, you have my word.” Klaus’s expression went stoic, holding an unflinching seriousness that made your heart rate stutter. And strangely, you knew you could trust him.
That's how you ended up as his lackey. For the past 5 weeks, you were at his beck and call as he tormented humans, werewolves, and vampires alike.
Like any other day, your conscious is eating away at you, as you call upon another ancestor of those he plagues. Today though, you finally broke. He had been cruelly punishing a guy for hours, as you questioned his late brother through the veil.
“That’s enough!” Klaus’s eyes dart to yours, and his angry appearance softens. Instinctively, he grips your forearm and drags you out of the motel room.
“Love, what’s wrong?”
“What's wrong is that I’m tired, and his brother is telling me jack shit about those ‘hunters.’” You huff, closing your eyes.
Klaus firmly presses himself stock-still, resisting every urge that wishes to devour you, as you naively allow him to hold you so close, let your guard down, and close your eyes. Such an urge that has only worsened, and become insatiable since you started your venture together…
“Love, why don’t you grab a bite from the cafe across the street, while I fill up the car's tank?” He says heartfeltly, "That way we both can have a break."
Your eyes flutter open, and you nearly tremble at the gentle look that flickers in his gaze. However, his body language, which clutches you tightly, suggests he is anything but. “Okay.”
After five minutes alone in a booth, you gather up the last of the courage you were trying to dispel. Now, heading back to the rented room, to release the hostage. Stupid, very stupid, you think. But you can’t help it.
When you enter the room, the door slowly creaks shut, and shadows engulf you. It’s too quiet, and you can’t see the hostage. Unease fills your system, and you begin to regret this decision. That impending regret soon became alarms going off, when the captive grabs your torso, roughly caging your arms. His grip is inescapable, and when you try to scream, his free hand covers your mouth.
“You fucking bitch,” he murmurs with disgust, and you wince. “How about I leave you bleeding out here, all laid out for you bloodthirsty master.” The man crackles with humourless laughter. “I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”
While his venomous words made you cower, you relentlessly struggle against him, fighting with all that you could muster. Unfortunately, your captor was a werewolf, and far too strong for you to at least break free, to cast a spell.
He muffles Klaus’s name with his palm, and tears prick your eyes. Even after the numerous times you’d bicker and argue, he was still the first person who came to mind, who you hopelessly called out to.
The man began lifting your body towards the door, urgently turning the knob. Just as the outside light cuts into your vision, you're wrenched from him, pulled into a powerful embrace. With ease, Klaus’s arms carry you away, swiftly placing you in the backseat of your car, locked safely inside.
His figure then disappears just as quickly, and you hear your aggressor's voice wail in pain. Shaking, you curl over yourself, covering both ears pathetically.
After what feels like an eternity, two large hands cup your tear-stained cheeks, bringing you out of your shell. He quiets you, as he slides inside the vehicle, smoothly pulling you onto his lap. One of his arms supports your back, while the other strokes your hair. Calming you down, he mutters things like: 'Everything’s fine now love,' 'I’m here,' 'I’ll take care of you...'
“I’ve never felt so helpless,” you mumble.
He shakes his head. “There’s nothing you could've done to stop a werewolf, especially when a full moon draws near,” he soothes. You press your cheek further into his broad chest. “Though, I wish you would’ve just listened to me for once, and stayed put.”
You shoot your head up, adjusting to face him, close enough that your noses nearly meet. “If I listened to you, I’d probably be dead by now.”
“Oh really?” He grins, eyes creasing, “How so?”
“Well, for one, that time you ordered me to question that vampire chick's dead boyfriend about his affair, right in front of her.” Klaus guffaws. “You're laughing, but she would've bit my head off.”
“She wouldn’t have,” he denies, still chuckling.
“Yes, she would have Klaus.” You start to laugh too.
“You know, I wouldn’t have let her.” His face deadpans, “Like I didn’t let our were-friend hurt you," he voices, airily. "I gave you my word.”
“Yes, of course, your word.” You giggle nervously, glancing at the hand currently bracing your thigh, gliding its thumb back and forth. “It’s not all that I’ve given you.”
You look up and are met with a mysterious look this time. Your brows furrow in confusion. He smiles dreamily, “Your skills as a witch truly know no bounds.”
“The hell are you talking about now?” You retort, making Klaus laugh loudly.
“I’m talking about your spell," he whispers. "The one that has bewitched me.”
You freeze, heart dropping.
“You don’t mean that...” Your sentence trails off as Klaus stares through you.
He’s so unpredictable, that a part of you believes he's most likely playing some sick game. But, there was also a possibility that he meant it, and all the hidden desires, for your unconventional boss, were about to bubble to the surface.
“I've meant every word, from the moment I met you, when you got the better of me.” He smirks, breath fanning your face. “Witchcraft.”
Then his lips take yours, slow at first, but the entanglement shortly turns desperate. Slightly hesitant, you grind on him, eager to pull him closer. He groans, and his hands enthusiastically roam your waist and back, beckoning you nearer.
Moving in a frenzy, as your fingers tangle in his locks, you swing your leg to straddle him. He moans your name in between kisses, and palms your ass.
Continuously rolling your body into him, makes you feel his arousal, causing a whine to escape. When your lips break apart, his mouth runs down your jaw, to your neck. You gasp, but you don’t stop him. He audibly tells you how much he’s enjoying himself, and you squeeze your thighs over his.
“I can only imagine how sinful you taste here darling.” He remarks as his hand slides over your core, and you whimper. “How about you let me try?” He hums politely. “You know you want me to.”
“No,” you huff.
“No?” His voice rises questioningly, and a hand gropes your chest, while the other grips your chin, tilting your head down to peer into his eyes. “Not here,” you finish, and he smirks wildly.
“Then, I’ll just have to get us a private room?” He purrs seductively into you ear, making you shiver. “One that is, unoccupied,” he rolls his tongue, and you shiver again at the double meaning behind his words. You don’t even want to think about what he did to your assailant…
“Please,” you sigh into a kiss, pecking his lips, which seems to surprise Klaus momentarily. His surprise briskly turns into a beaming smile. “To be continued,” he utters before shifting you off him, and rushing out the car.
Not long after, Klaus reappears with that same childlike cheer gracing his features. Jerking the door open, he outstretches his hand like a gentleman. You accept it, and his palm completely envelops yours. He tugs you to his hip, and nibbles on your earlobe while you walk to a random room.
As soon as the door locks behind you, he presses himself against your backside. “Now, how about that taste?” He mutters while lifting your hair to kiss your nape, and rubbing himself against you. You press closer, before spinning around to enclose your mouth on his again. He groans into your mouth approvingly, backing your body toward the queen-size bed.
His lips free yours when your back legs hit the edge, and you fall backwards with a yelp. His hands soon make work of your lower half, removing your clothes as he kneels infront of your cunt. You inhale deeply, as cool air hits your bare body.
He goes silent, so you raise your head to peek at him. Klaus ogles you heatedly, like the predator he is. “Lovely,” he sing-songs.
He abruptly grips your thighs and heaves your core to his mouth, so close, his breath warms your skin. “K-Klaus.”
“Hmmm,” he hums shortly, before delving into you. You sob a cry of shock. His tongue expertly runs over your folds, sucking the nub with such a slow deliberation, like he can’t decide how he wishes to take you at first, as if he’s imagined every which way he could.
You whine, motioning him to make his choice, bucking up, feeling his stubble scratch you. Then he grows aggressive, hungrily lapping your clit, over and over, until he ushers out your orgasm.
When your lengthy climax finishes, he moves to sigh pleasantly into the crook of your neck. “You’re incredible,” he emits with a chant of your name, thoroughly relaxing your shaking form.
“Fuck, take off your clothes,” you beg. He immediately abides by your command, tearing off his shirt and pants. You grab his necklaces to haul his lips to yours. You savour every inch of yourself on his tongue, and he relishes in how dirty the act is.
“There’s only so much I can do before dawn, and it won't nearly be enough to satisfy my hunger for you.” His poetic words erupt something within. You exhale, “It seems you’re going to break your promise then.”
He stills at your words, befuddled. You elaborate, “There’s no way I’m coming out of this unscathed.” A timid smile spreads across your face, and he almost nods in understanding, feeling a strange quiver in his chest.
Wordlessly, he pulls himself from his slacks, and you take off the last of your clothes. Suddenly feeling a little out of body, you decide to take back some control of the situation. So, you flip your positions, once again, surprising Klaus, though he allows it.
You straddle him, and lower yourself onto his thick cock. You whimper the second the tip enters, and he growls, pressing his fingertips into your hips, definitely leaving bruises.
“You’re too big,” you gasp.
“You can handle it, sweetheart,” he states mindlessly. He wraps his arms around your waist and arms, pulling you down onto him. His hips press completely into you, pushing himself inside to the hilt. A wheeze leaves your lungs as he grounds into you. “Klaus, it’s too-“
“It’s perfect,” he finishes for you. You barely have any time to adapt to his size before he begins pounding. Pleasure wracks through you, and he takes whatever control you had away. His pace is unnerving, and you utter incoherent words, while his fangs graze your neck.
“Tell me,” he groans through his panting. “Tell me you want me.” He demands, though it almost sounds like he’s begging for it. “I-I want you.” The words stumble out as his thrusts reach your center.
“More,” he just about whines.
“I want you Klaus,” you shout. “You feel so good- fuck I’ve always wanted this, you.” You ramble, egged on by him. He loves it, and you feel it in his strength. He holds you tighter, and the air abandons your body.
Feeling his leg tremble, you know he’s close. “Bite me.” His clamped-shut eyelids pop open, and his dark pupils bore into yours. You kiss him, and take his bottom lip between your teeth. “Bite me while you cum,” you command.
He gulps before taking his last few pumps into you. He moans into your neck as his teeth puncture your flesh. You cry out at the mixture of pain and pleasure that shatters you both.
After almost 10 minutes, he releases you from his firm caress and kisses the holes in your neck.
Still inside, he turns you both on your sides. You catch your breath. “How are you still hard?” You sigh in exasperation, and he chuckles breezily. “I told you, you’ve bewitched my very soul darling.” He smirks.
“This is only the beginning.”
if u liked this, check out my fic adaptation, "spellbound," on wp @ floralpools 🫶
"Last night got a hold of me, I can't wrestle free from my head."
"Sunlight banging on the wall, begging me for more."
"Jesus man, at least give us a name of the miracle worker behind these lyrics." Zach boasts and I scoff.
"Leave him be mate," Miles lightly reprimands, smiling from ear to ear. I shake my head at both of them and Miles smacks my back. His hand remains where it hit as he leans towards my ear. "But really, give her our thanks," Miles whispers suggestively and I instantly recoil. He guffaws.
I slide the guitar strap from my shoulder and stroll into the studio's break room.
Truthfully, I can't blame the boys for prying. Considering that the music we've been producing as of late has been some of my best. Something about it is just different, and it's becoming rather ominous...
As I sip on my coffee, I contemplate all the ways I could've said goodnight to Jennie yesterday, that would've been far more charming than snogging at her doorstep.
"Mr. Turner!" A perky voice interrupts my obsessive thoughts. I shift towards the voice, which belongs to a fairly tall woman. "Hello?"
"Sorry," she giggles softly, raising her hand apologetically, then extending it to me for a handshake, which I awkwardly accept. "Amy Winslow, I'm one of the owners of this establishment." My mouth opens in an 'ah,' and I nod in acknowledgement.
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Winslow."
"No, please call me Amy." She smiles brightly and I squint at her overlined, hot-pink lipstick.
She continues, "Zach let me in to hear your work, I'm very impressed!" She claps her hands, "It must be difficult for you to write a bad song." I quirk my head slightly at her comment, befuddled. "Oh! That was a compliment, Alex." My mouth makes another 'ah,' and I choose to ignore her suddenly addressing me by my first name.
"Ah, sorry," I shake my head, "I'm a little out of it today."
"That's alright," she says beaming. "I was hoping we could discuss your new record over lunch?" My gaze moves from my mug back to her. "Of course, the others were invited, but they resigned to continue working," Amy exclaims without a hint of sadness, pausing momentarily in thought. "But I believe their lead should take a well-deserved break," she announces decidedly, leaving no room for disagreement. Reluctantly, I respond, "Um, where to?"
...
Jennie's POV
"Jennie! Hoe!"
"Excuse me?" My brows furrow and I rise from my desk. As I open my bedroom door, Maggie appears, front and center. "What the fuck," she states flatly, and my brow knit together.
"What now Magpie?" I sigh, "Whatever it is, I gotta do the itinerary for-"
Being cut off by Maggie is nothing new, but the picture she shoves in my face certainly is. "What the fuck." I snatch her phone with both hands, bringing it so close to my eyes that it nearly presses against my nose.
There he is, side by side with a tall, in my opinion, flashy, blond woman. "Was he not with you, like, yesterday?" Maggie practically shouts in her confusion.
"He's not with her, with her -- is he?" I ask, betraying my typical nonchalantness.
Analyzing the paparazzi photo, I relax slightly when I see the distance between them, and their lack of physical contact.
"No way!" Maggie shouts again, "I read your texts, he's way too into you."
"You read our texts?"
Maggie ignores my question as she begins to pace. "Oh, but you know how rockstars are man..."
"Maggie." I huff and she whirls around the room, mumbling nonsense. "Maggie!"
"There's no way! But god! Look at the caption."
I scroll up and read aloud, "Frontman Alex Turner seen out on a date with beautiful philanthropist, Amy Winslow."
"ORGGDH!" Maggie's overly dramatic gags are the last straw, and I whip her phone at her. "Owie!" She whimpers, then grumbles, "I'm just saying girl, 'beautiful' is a stretch."
I shake my head disapprovingly, "Just shut it, Mag's. It doesn't matter." I turn away to hide my visible disappointment. "It was one date, and it's not like we're exclusive."
"Doesn't matter?" She huffs. "Doesn't matter?!"
I compose myself before spinning to look at Maggie. Her wild eyes carry both anger and pity, and I hate it.
"We have to call him."
"What?" Now it's my turn to shout.
"Just ask him if they're-"
"No way!" I practically whine like a kid.
"Oh come on Jen! Communication is key babes!"
I know she's right, and I know she can tell exactly what I'm thinking. How vulnerable it would be to ask him, what I would be admitting to him by doing so, and how that's something I would never do.
"Where's your phone." Maggie's deadpan makes my blood run cold.
"No." Disregarding my reply, she begins moving around my room, slowly building an aggressive search for my phone. "M, stop! Oh my god, you psycho!" I holler, completely panicked.
"I'm not letting you fuck this up!" Maggie yells hysterically, "You like him Jen!"
"I barely know him!"
"Don't give me that bullshit, Jennie, give me the damn phone, for fucks sake." Her eyes trail away from my heated stare, and I follow as they focus on my bedside table, regarding the black object underneath my book. Her eyes then pop back to mine, and we freeze in unison, unmoving.
After a beat, we both leap at my bedside table, flopping on my bed, tossing around, fighting one another, trying to stop each other from reaching my phone.
"Mag's, I swear to god!"
"Ah HA!" She takes hold of it, whilst making my pillows, and my books go flying. As she scrambles as far away from me as possible, tapping on my phone, I fall flat on my back.
Then she abruptly goes immobile, face dropping in horror.
"Shit."
"What? What!" I scatter to my feet, dread filling my entire being.
"I accidentally sent..."
"Sent what Mag's?" Voicelessly, she looks up while turning the phone screen towards me. I nearly scream.
Maggie accidentally sent the paparazzi photo of Alex and the blond, to him.
"What the actual fuckkkk!" I shout, "How do you just accidentally do that?"
"I know, I know, I can fix it!" Maggie exclaims, with her fake, optimistic smile, not quite meeting her eyes. "I'll just unsend the message!" She pauses, "Except, he's already seen it."
"What?"
"Just now, he saw it." Maggie states flatly. "I'm sorry Jen, I'm such an idiot."
I look away from her, observing my blank wall. "Well, it's done now." I yell as adrenaline racks through my body, shifting to look at her sorrowful expression again. Her shaky hands clasp onto the phone again. "He's typing."
I shove my palms into my knotted hair, almost ripping it out at the roots. "Anything yet?" I ask after a moment. "N-not yet." Maggie stammers.
"Not yet?" I next to growl. Grabbing the phone from her hands, I watch those three dots taunt me. Maggie moves to my side in the meantime. "What's taking him so long." She mumbles, still seemingly afraid of the potential repercussions of her actions.
7:47 p.m. Alex Alexander: She's the owner of the studio I'm recording at. She asked to grab lunch to discuss work.That's all. I swear it.
Maggie lets out a hefty breath of relief, but I continue to read his message over and over.
Suddenly my phone lets out a ring and buzzes in my hands, which makes me and Maggie jump. We gasp at Alex's caller ID as it consumes my screen. "Are you gonna answer the call?" Maggie mutters, eyes training on me.
"I don't know." I bite my lip. "Why's he calling anyways, I saw the damn message."
"Cause you haven't responded, and it's been almost ten minutes since he's sent it." Maggie watches me intently. "Jen, are you good?"
I shrug her concern away, "I'm fine. I just..."
"Like him, and that's okay." She finishes, "He couldn't wait a second longer for you to respond, because he likes you too." My eyes shoot to Maggie's. "Pick it up, take a chance."
Though her words are vague, I know what she's trying to say.
"But, you know my pattern M. It won't end well."
"In my book, patterns are meant to be broken," is all she says before leaving my room.
8:02 p.m. Alex Alexander: Believe me Jennie. I'm not seeing anybody else, and I don't want to see anyone but you. Please talk to me.
I inhale deeply before clicking the call button. He instantly picks up and my heart pounds.
"Jennie?" I listen to his irregular intake of breath. "Jennie, love, say something."
"I'm not jealous," is all I can muster, and I wanna die. He sighs.
"Of course, I would never assume you were."
"Course." Silence envelops the call, and I almost draw blood from my bottom lip.
"Jennie, if you were jealous - as amazing as that would be - I still wouldn't want that, because there is absolutely nothing to be jealous of. We just met today and-"
"Well, I'm not so -- whatever," I snap.
"Good," He mutters, and his dark tone so close to my ear makes me shudder. I look to the ceiling as I take a seat on the edge of my bed. "Good." A low chuckle echoes through the speaker. "Welp, I'm hanging up now," I declare.
"Wait don't!" Alex stammers out while my finger hovers over the red button.
"Why?"
"Why?" He quietly laughs again, "Because Red, I want to talk to you."
"What?" He lets out an exasperated chuckle.
"Don't sound so alarmed, darling. I had a lovely time yesterday."
"Hmm, I'm sure you did." I grin, "Player."
"Wow, I'm a player now?" I can hear his smile through the phone now. "I do prefer that statement, than the reality where I'm a blabbering fool."
"That makes one of us." I retort. Shit.
"Oh really? You like it when I'm all over you huh?"
"Duh." Double shit.
The line goes quiet, and my body floats backwards, dissolving into my mattress.
"Jennie... Can I come over?"
I jolt upright. "No! Manwhore!" My fingers slam down on my phone, ending the call. I gasp at my hasty action, dropping my phone, and clasping my right hand over my gaping mouth.
A familiar buzz makes me release my lips and peer down to see Alex's caller ID. "Hello?" I say nervously as I answer the call. "Darling, may I come see you." After a long beat of silence, I exhale loudly, "Sure, but we aren't sleeping together."
