Without his evol suppressor, you learn something new about Xavier in the bedroom. | CW: crack, smut, his dick glows in the dark, 18+ MDNI
Maybe you would have noticed it sooner if Xavier wasn't fucking you so good. Once he folded your legs against your chest and bottomed out, your eyes squeezed shut and didn't open again until something kept flashing repeatedly behind them.
"What the fuck?" You gawk.
Xavier's stops, cock still sheathed inside you, with a sheepish look.
Where the two of you are joined, a light seems to emanate from your cunt. Even your lower belly is somehow lit from the inside. It's almost alien like to see your flesh glow unnaturally.
"It'll go away," Xavier says, laying his hand over the glowing spot.
"I'm glowing!" You practically shriek, pushing his hand away. In your panic, your walls clamp down on his cock and somehow you start to glow even brighter. "What the f-"
He winces, and grabs your hands to stop you from flailing. "It's not you."
Slowly, Xavier slips himself out, taking all the light with him. His dick almost looks like something out of a censored manga with how bright it is.
"Xavier, why is it glowing."
"It always glows." He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. "It's just a little bit brighter without the suppressor."
A little bit is an understatement. What is normally a flickering warm glow is now a bright, florescent light that almost hurts to look at directly.
You reach out to run your fingers along his shaft which is warmer than usual. You grimace and glance up at him. "Are you okay though? Does it hurt?"
"I'm fine." When your thumb brushes over the head of his cock, his hips push into it and he moans, "just let me keep fucking you, and it'll go away."
As he helps you back into position, a thought pops into your head. "Do you think your cum will glow too?"
He chuckles, spreading your legs open to let his cock prod your entrance. "Why don't we find out?"
A/N — dedicated to everyone who commented on this post and this post <3 I rlly wonder if it's possible for smth like that to glow inside your belly... umm I will not be testing that theory bc I am NOT sticking a flashlight up my coochie to find out lmao ANYWAY let me know what you thought and reblogs always appreciated! thanks for reading! (つ≧▽≦)つ♡
oh ur mc...... so gorgeous.... caleb u look so bad next to them omg.... caleb get outta the FRAMMEEEEEEEE this is so good the rendering i need it lemme eat it plz and ty
You're not as scared as you should be the first time it happens.
Maybe it's because your mind is still swimming into consciousness when you hear a faint whisper of movement. Maybe it's because you don't actually care if the weight sinking into the bed might be the cause of your death.
Maybe it's because the warmth at your back belongs to a phantom body that feels more familiar to you than your own.
All you know is that the morning – with its proof that none of it was real – scares you far more than any creature in the night ever could.
By the sixth visit, you start to wonder if this is how you process grief.
That you're so used to the shape of his body wrapping around yours when you're at your lowest, locking yourself behind the wall of sleep with a ghost is what your mind needs to move on.
So you let the cold metal that presses into the nape of your neck brand into you like a key. Let the arm that's curling around you throw it away.
Because when you wake up, this room will be gone.
That's why you don't turn around when you feel hot breath and hotter lips press into the space behind your ear.
That's why you don't open your eyes when a palm claims your leg and makes its way up your hip, beneath your shorts, between your thighs.
That's why you're not ashamed when they part to make room for wandering hands, soothing knuckles, and determined fingers that part the very seam of you. Stitching you up with strings of pleasure, threads of tears, and strands of, "Caleb."
By the fifteenth visit, you've decided you're lucid dreaming.
You'd never thought you had the imagination for it, but as the tip of a nose traces your neck, you realize that maybe it doesn't take creativity or imagination.
Sometimes it's as simple as wanting someone so viscerally, you can conjure them back into existence.
You let yourself stop resisting.
When the mattress dips, you roll over without hesitation, pressing the unsteady thud of your heart against his, letting your hands fist the fabric of his shirt, unwilling to let any piece of him slip through your fingers again.
“Finally,” you sigh softly, mouthing the word into the silken skin of a throat that meets your lips on a swallow.
There's no answer. There never is. Just a shaky stream of exhales that pour warmth over your temple, thawing the words frozen in your mind enough to rasp, "Don't leave me again."
An arm, cool to the touch, slides beneath your neck, its palm pressing against the small of your back until you're front-to-front. No room for anything but the rapid rise and fall of a chest and a searing hardness between you.
Lucid dreams are cruel tricks hearts use to pray on the weak, you decide under the barren glow of the morning light.
The covers slide down your body and a warm hand lands on the small of your back.
You know if you open your eyes it'll be dark, the world painted in shades and silhouettes that hide each corner of your life while illuminating every specter of longing. But you've started to find yourself gladly entering that world of sadness and pain each night.
It's the only world he visits you in.
His weight dips the bed, the musculature of his body slotting into each contour of yours. His palm barely applies pressure to your abdomen before you obey his silent demand, your fingers tracing the scar over the top of his hand until they settle on the next best evidence of his existence: the flutter of his pulse.
You open your eyes and mouth with no intentions — sometimes you praise him, sometimes you scold him, sometimes you just whisper his name over and over again until he soothes you with his lips on your forehead — but for the first time since you've dreamt up these midnight visits, he speaks first.
"Close your eyes." The command is murmured into the crown of your head, each breath dampening the skin brushing his lips. "You haven't been sleepin'."
"Hmph." Your tired, traitorous eyes close, and your tired, traitorous body melts into his despite your mumble of admonishment. "Who's fault is that? You left me."
A small noise, a kaleidoscope of love, pain, and resignation, escapes into the space between you as unconsciousness starts to nudge you.
"Never." The single word is followed by a squeeze of your back and a rebuke. "You know I'd never leave you."
As the power of this fantasy, or dream, or memory — or maybe, it's just the power of his voice — submerges your body and mind into a pool of calm and peace, your callous, greedy heart can't help but demand more. "Promise?"
"I…" A breath, a hesitation. "I'm never far away," the words are noisless, wisps of breath that wrap around you and pull you into the arms of hurt and hope and home.
"I'm never as far away as I should be."
In the morning, the bed is empty, but when you open your eyes, for the first time since you lost him, you smile.
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